Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 7 - Stars at Dawn

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Dawn washed over the walls of Minas Tirith, bathing the city in a glow as golden as honey and as pink as spring roses. Pigeons cooed sleepily from their roosts in the bell towers, their voices echoing through the slumbering streets. The last stars of eventide lingered overhead as the sky faded from black to indigo to blue. Soon the bakers would begin their baking, filling the Circles of Minas Tirith with the scent of fresh bread. This was the time of day that Eruthiawen loved best.

With her long, glossy auburn tresses unbound and falling about her slender waist, the eldest daughter of Aragorn and Arwen stood at her balcony railing and watched the city wake up. The rising sun reflected in her grey eyes, eyes that anyone who had known Lord Elrond Half-Elven of Imladris would recognize in an instant. The coolness of the morning did not trouble Eruthiawen, clad as she was only in a cream colored night-shift. This high up in the Citadel of Minas Tirith there were few if any prying eyes to trouble a princess at leisure.

Eruthiawen took advantage of the calm to order her mind for the coming day. It was a habit she'd cultivated over time as her responsibilities gradually increased in parallel to her age. Every morning with the dawning she would arise and watch the stars fade while drawing up an unspoken schedule for herself. Today there were the usual lessons with their tutors, luncheon with visiting nobles from the harbor city of Pelargir, a quick trip to The Old Archives to search for previous copies of existing trade agreements with Dale, and finally a singing lesson to round out the day, time permitting.

Eruthiawen's pleasant daily ritual was abruptly interrupted by her chamber door swinging open without so much as a knock. There were only two people in all of Middle-Earth that would barge into her rooms in such a way. Both exasperated and pleased concurrently, Eruthiawen turned from the sunlit rooftops of Minas Tirith to greet her sisters.

"Do you never knock, Túrien?"

"Since when have you ever knocked before inviting yourself into my chambers?" Túrien parried.

As per her usual, Túrien's midnight black hair floated behind her like a cloud of ink. Only Arwen had sufficient influence to convince her middle daughter to let her brush and order her willful locks. Once Eruthiawen had been able to bully Túrien into letting her style her hair as well, but those days were long past.

Eruthiawen knew she needed only wait a moment to discover Almárëa's whereabouts. Sure enough, a bright smile beneath matching bright eyes stuck itself inside the doorway.

"May I come in, Eruthia?" Almárëa asked politely, using the nickname she and Túrien had bestowed on their elder sister in their toddling days.

"You may. You see Túrien; a child five years your junior can summon up more manners than you."

"I'm not a child." Almárëa pouted.

"You are twelve years old, which makes you a child Almárëa." Túrien said. "Even Eldarion isn't of age for another month yet, so by the reckoning of the laws he's still a child too."

Túrien flopped down onto Eruthiawen's chaise sofa, her lean arms and legs dangling over the sides. Eruthiawen knew for a fact that Túrien could present herself well, when the inclination happened to seize upon her. Those inclinations were firmly reserved only for formal settings though. One of their mother's favorite stories to retell was the evening she had found Aragorn and a nine-year-old Túrien both sprawled on the hearthrug, sound asleep like a pair of gangling hunting hounds before the fire.

"On that note, it seems both strange and somehow wrong that he and the others have gone off to war with Adar. Even the city feels unlike it did before with them gone."