TITLE: Tindomerel’s Bane 
AUTHOR: Elfwine 
RATING: PG 
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Chapter 4 
* * * 
Anon, the gates were opened. 
Very skilled were the Men of Gondor in mind-work, whence from came the ancient 
scrolls and detailed writings of the Edain, for Minas Tirith was rich in lore and 
wisdom; and thus this Man was learned, not merely in the swift art of war-making 
but in steely resolve. Sternly he looked with a cursory eye upon all who shrank from 
his proud step; indeed his power went before him, greater than the petulant wrath of 
Wormtongue. His companions hastened like dogs at their heels, unwillingly yet 
obediently respectful of the master that wields an unseen whip. Not without renown 
came Ramas son of Raleth to the Mark. 
Wormtongue himself was true to his word. He had not the temper for compromising, 
and his tone was none too gentle.  
"Once before the king," he said, "no word shall you utter unless permitted to do so. 
There will be ample lodging for your horses, but only for a given time. This is no 
board-house." 
"You have already done me a courtesy," answered the Man.  
Their paces were unmatched, though equally swift. The counsellor's awkward gait 
was yet two steps behind that of Ramas, and he hastened to a trot until shoulder-to-
shoulder with the Man's resolute stride. He jostled unintentionally and Ramas 
glanced at him, smiling. 
"The White City has no greenery like the blooming of Rohan's grasslands," he said. 
"Too barren, some of my kinsmen say, though I am not of a mind to comment." 
"I do not love the Barrowfield," said Grima. "My business is within the City, and I 
have little desire for it to stray." 
The houses opened out, the roof of the Golden Hall rising like a ship out of the mists 
of a dark sea. A strange country this was indeed, thought the Man; so bright a relic 
painted amidst the solemn canvas of the stern sons of Eorl. It shone like a burnished 
coin, catching the sunlight and reflecting it back, almost blinding in its undimmed 
potency. There seemed four towers, coiling out of the corners of the house, dark 
green and mighty withstanding as they reached like heralds to the sky. Ramas 
followed the steady climb of the nearest turret with his eyes, twining upwards like a 
spike of emerald. His breath caught. A window flashed. 
Perhaps the sunlight cheated his eyes, caught in a moment of uncertainty, for the 
window flickered and shone like a white flame, and for an instant he imagined that 
he beheld a woman standing there. Very tall and slender she seemed, clad in a gown 
of silver, and her long hair hung like the woven dreams of night about her shoulders. 
He could not see her face... 
Again the sun caught against the glass and the window blazed. Ramas blinked, the 
image scorched upon the insides of his eyelids.  
When he looked back up at the window, the woman was gone. 
Unhappily, the shrill tone of Grima's voice broke through his consciousness. They had 
come to a halt at the foot of the stair. 
"You will wait here upon my lord's summons," the counsellor said. "It is customary 
that the Doorward speak with you ere you come before the king." 
"Whatever your lord desires," replied Ramas, although he scarce heard his own 
words. His mind was elsewhere, far away with the strange apparition conjured by the 
sunlight. "A king shall have his way in his own hall." 
"Verily," said Grima. "Indeed." 
High above, the window sparked like a star. 
* * * 
"My lady?" 
The girl's shadow flickered hesitantly in the doorway. Her young face was mild and 
gentle, passive as the upturned visage of a cornflower, the full cheeks scorched with 
sunburn and the freckled brow framed by downy flaxen locks. Waveringly, she rested 
a slight hand on the wall and half-turned, looking behind and back down the corridor 
from whence she had come, as though undecided whether to stay or leave.  
From within the chamber, Elen felt the needle against her thumb, the sharp 
pressure, and then a quick pain as the skin was pierced. She clenched her fist, 
looking down at the embroidery in her lap, and then turned her face towards the 
door. 
"Iowen," she said. "What is it? Come here." 
With the relief of a child who has escaped a scolding, the girl came, her skirts 
whispering as she crossed the room.  
"I did not mean to disturb you, Lady," she said. "But you seemed so sad, sitting here 
in the dark, and I thought to lay a fire, or so, and that it may brighten the room. 
Your window does not look eastward," she finished softly. 
Elen put aside her needlework. Too many dropped stitches had disheartened her, 
and she had little hope of matching the delicate skill of the seamstresses of the 
Mark. "I am clumsy," she told Iowen. "This woman's work is too fine for my hand. I 
wonder why I began." 
Iowen carefully lifted the pattern, holding it between reverent fingers like a precious 
wisp of silk. "It is not so terrible," she remarked in the manner of one pronouncing a 
death rite. 
"It is so." Elen took back the embroidery and folded it. A loose thread unravelled 
slowly, trailing on the floor in a gleaming spiral like a fine, pale suggestion of gold. 
She plucked at it absently. 
"I may yet lay a fire to kindle," said Iowen, turning away. "If that is what you wish, 
my lady." Her voice was achingly gentle, mindfully unobtrusive, and Elen schooled 
her features into a smile, gathering the frayed tatters of her patience which had been 
scattered in the tumultuous winds of the last few days. In her mind she saw herself 
shatter and the pieces shower through the air like the explosion of a chestnut cloven 
amidst the seething embers of a fire, tinkling like glass as each one struck the 
ground. She imagined people coming to sweep her up so they could painstakingly re-
assemble her -- Iowen with her fluttering hands and softly coaxing voice; but shards 
of her were left behind, unnoticed in the shadows, hidden by a chair or cupboard. 
Patience. Ah, patience. She could not despise this silly, timorous child. There was 
naught but milky kindness in her round, doe-eyed face, the naive concern of a little 
girl desperate to please. Tonight, she would gather her shawl about her birdlike 
shoulders and go home to Mother, and be at once a babe of the family, not a 
voiceless, inconsequential handmaid, stooped under the weight of servitude.  
"I'm sorry," said Elen, and as she spoke them the words seemed cheap and devoid of 
meaning. "Of course. A fire. Yes." Her voice was heavy in her throat, thick as honey 
and sticking in her mouth as each word clumsily formed. She wondered at the 
hotness behind her eyes. 
Iowen visibly relaxed, obviously glad for something to do. She went quickly to the 
cold, ash-stained hearth, going down on one knee and gathering dry, flaying sticks of 
timber taken from the wicker-woven basket, heaping them precariously on top of the 
deserted coals. Elen watched the girl's deft, slender hands; each movement a 
calculated art, duly exercising a task that was to be endured and completed with the 
utmost satisfaction.  
The little room seemed bleak and unkind, drawn inwards by the dark panelling, 
overcome by the harsh solidity of the bed. Indeed it was secluded; one of four 
chambers built into the northernmost towers of the house -- one for Theoden, one 
for the prince Theodred, and two for Elen and Eowyn, in whose defence the strategic 
placing of the chambers had been chiefly interested. This solitude mattered little; 
Elen was used to it. Often she relished it. Not today; the lady felt that the walls were 
closing in on her, shrinking into a steel-barred cage to trammel her like an animal, 
cloistering, suffocating, and without relent. She would not claw at the trappings like 
a wild thing, although her bower seemed to cave further inwards with each shallow, 
hitching breath. 
Elen found herself rising from the stiff-backed chair, pushing away the folds of her 
skirts which bunched awkwardly about her legs. The girl stooping at the hearth 
seemed startled by the movement; she paused uncertainly, glancing over her 
shoulder with nervous, tawny eyes.  
"My -- " 
"Be quiet!" In her fright the girl's fingers loosed a dense faggot of kindling; it 
dropped with a crack and rolled noisily away from the hearth. Iowen watched it 
stupidly. 
"You will say nothing," Elen continued, loathing the quiver in her voice. "Do what is 
required of you and then take your leave." 
Iowen trembled like a frail-stemmed lily, her eyes bright in her white face. 
"Lady, what have I done?" she whispered. 
She was too much like a rabbit, cowering there on the floor, her baffled, devastated 
face upturned in pleading, and for a moment Elen hated her. Iowen gave a small, 
choking gasp and a tear started its pathetic, glistening trail down her cheek. 
Elen put a hand to her middle, pressed flat against her stomach as if to hold 
something in. She found her breath unsteady, ridiculously, ludicrously unsteady, and 
concentrated on cooling the flush she felt in her face. 
"Stop crying," she said to the puling child. "You have done nothing. There is nothing 
for you to cry for." 
Iowen fought a sob, rallying her nerve as she forced herself to look her mistress in 
the eye. 
"Lady, if I have wronged -- forgive me -- " She faltered as her control abandoned 
her, her voice dying to a whimper. She blinked. Elen let her breath out. 
"Lay the fire, as you will," she said. "There is nothing to forgive." 
"But -- " The word dwindled and melted on the air as it left the girl's tongue. Her lips 
moved soundlessly, seeking speech, and then, perhaps thinking better of it, she 
looked down into her lap, drawing a sleeve across nose and eyes, reddened with 
weeping. 
Elen turned away, fingernails biting into her palm. The silver weave of her gown 
seemed close against her skin, unusually rough and binding like a shroud. She went 
to the window, almost stumbling, and rested a hand against the hinge of the 
casement. The sunlight fell in a gleaming pool at her feet. 
They were passing like an ungainly host down below, and she saw the glint of the 
man's eyes as he looked up. Whether he saw her the lady did not know, but a 
sudden chill like the fall of a shadow across a sunlit glade made the length of her 
back prickle in unknown dread. The archaic poetry of Westernesse ran through her 
mind, this time woven to a new and altogether alien song.  
Behind her, Iowen stood up. 
"My lady?" 
She could smell sea-salt on the air. 
* * * 
((In the next chapter: family ties, and the stirrings of evil.))