Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 48 - Return to Me

Myriam was fussy...again. This morning though, Túrien could hardly blame her little girl. She herself had been on the brink of tears ever since Faramir had returned to Minas Tirith the night before. 

Gïdjls, dead. Sufyan, very near death, if he had not died already since Faramir left Minas Ithil. Of the seven Haradrim who had accompanied them from Harmindon - longtime friends and trusted servants all - only one survived. The Vale of the Moon had been retaken, Elboron and Eruthiawen were safe, but the price had been high enough to break Túrien's heart nearly in two. Still, she was a princess of Gondor, a ramyahani of Harmindon, and a mother. Túrien could not afford to weep any more than she already had. Her tears had been shed in the privacy of The House of the Kings, alone in the bed she and Sufyan had shared only days ago. How dearly she wished they were home, surrounded by the trickling waters, lush gardens, and sandstone walls of Harmindon. Come the dawning though, Túrien had nursed and dressed Myriam, clothed herself in her shawls and silks, and gone down into the city. News of Minas Ithil would surely have spread throughout the night, and the Haradrim in the Craftsmen's Tier would be needing the reassurance of their future ramyah. 

With only a few hours until departing for Minas Ithil with Arwen, Almárëa, and Galieth, Túrien knew she would have little time to linger. A part of her wanted to run straight to the stables of Minas Tirith now, with nothing but Myriam on her back, and ride all the way to Minas Ithil at full gallop. Sufyan's fate was in the hands of her father, the Valar, and the Golden Serpent now though. Until she could go to his side, she would tend to their people. 

Sure enough, the moment Túrien set foot inside the gate to the Third Circle, her presence was noticed. A group of children who had been quietly playing knuckle-bones at the side of the street looked up, and the lone Haradrim boy in their midst jumped to his feet. 

"Ramyahani!" he cried, and further down the street the shawls and head-wraps of several Haradrim shopkeepers could be seen turning her way. 

"Your Highness," the Gondorian crafts-folk murmured respectfully, bowing as she passed, and by the veiled sympathy in their eyes Túrien knew that word of the events at Minas Ithil had indeed spread. 

'I am not a widow yet,' she insisted firmly, even as she accepted the bows and honorifics with a wordless nod. 'Do not look at me as if I were one.'

Myriam squirmed in her wicker harness, and Túrien took a moment to reach back over one shoulder and ensure her daughter had her bracelet. Made from the wooden beads which old Yetka had given Eldarion, the bracelet was helping greatly with Myriam's teething at the moment. When Túrien looked back to where she was, a familiar face and market stall greeted her at the bend in the street. 

"Ezserê sibehê dixwazim (I wish you a good morning), ramyahani." Jeddah, the seamstress, lifted her hand - first palm inward toward her face and then outward - in the formal Haradrim greeting. 

"Rojbaş (Good morning), Jeddah," answered Túrien, using more casual phrasing for her greeting. Having repaired her own accidentally-torn wedding shawl, as well as making Eruthiawen's wedding veil on commission, Jeddah had been known to Túrien for over four years now. It was perhaps for this reason that Túrien had gone directly to her market stall without consciously realizing it. She longed for Na'Man and Sawda as well; writing to them this morning had been one of the most difficult letters she'd ever sent. 

Her dark eyes watchful, Jeddah stepped out from around the frames upon which she had been hanging her latest creations. Only a few years older than Almárëa the young seamstress may have been, but the painstaking detail of her embroidery already reflected a patience far beyond Jeddah's years.