Harmindon's Finest

Chapter 25 - Waiting

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It was almost noon when I woke again, the sun shining so brightly through my window it nearly blinded me when I drew the curtains back for the second time that day.

I - along with every other person not on their deathbed, Haradrim or Gondorian, had watched the army leave before the dawn. In a strange way the sight was fascinating, the thundering of the horses' hooves surely even reaching the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion, thousand upon thousands of men strong. I had never witnessed such a thing before, even though the lone Mûmak plodding along bravely at the front provided a hint of familiarity. I'd tried to spot Malbeth among the masses of men, but it was difficult to even make out the king and his banners and heralds at the vanguard, there were so many. And so they left, waving to loved ones, cheering one another on with desperate bravery.

And then they were gone, and I went back to bed.

I presumed, as I trudged back to my tiny little bedroom, that I would not be able to sleep, from sorrow and worry and over-tiredness - but in reality, I fell asleep almost as soon as my head hit the pillow and slept for some hours.

It was a beautiful day, the sun shone and a gentle breeze blew. Nobody could have guessed that only several hours ago it was dreary and miserable, the drizzle not keeping you from going out but wet enough to soak your hair and face, and hide your tears.

Automatically, I went to my stall, but realised there was no point, really. The streets were deserted, apart from the odd person going determinedly about their daily chores as if relying on the soothing monotony of everyday life to distract them from thinking. So I went back to the Court of Tarondor, sat down on the uncomfortable well overlooking the Great Gates, and waited.

And waited.

The gates were closed, unusually enough. At this time of the day they were always open, though I was usually not around to verify that fact. Although the square was huge, it seemed very lonely and enclosed with the huge barrier seperating the city from the vast expanse of roads and fields. The few guards that had remained lined the battlements, and though I could not hear their hushed conversation, I could see their tense backs leaning to the other's as they exchanged murmurs.

I had much to think about. There had been Easterlings in Minas Tirith.... Easterlings, and dangerous, fanatical ones at that.... they had taken the most loved, guarded girl in the city from her bed with apparent ease. We had been told it was safe, they were dead, but worrying was something to pass the time.

I was just settling down for a long meditative think when I heard a shout from the battlements. The horns blew suddenly, almost deafening me, and the gates began to creak open.

I frowned. That had been quick....

People began to appear, from door- and alleyways, looking as confused as I felt. But then a woman came dashing down the street, dress billowing out behind her and hair unravelling as she ran. I jumped to my feet as I recognised Lady Túrien - of course, she would have seen approaching riders from high up at the King's House - and she didn't wait for the gates to be fully open before she pounced on the first rider. Behind him rode a standard-bearer with the banner of Ithilien.

The man dismounted, and spoke to her. By then, many people had begun to crowd the square and the surrounding streets, and a buzz of anxious talk began. I couldn't see anything anymore, everyone was so tall - and though I tried to push my way through, that didn't work either. All I saw was the tall banner of Ithilien over the many heads - and I thought I heard someone cry out.

I realised there was no point pushing my way through the crowds, so I went back to Amira's place so I could be miserable in peace.

Fairly quickly though the place started filling again, with Haradrim women who'd overheard this and that. One woman claimed she saw Túrien run from the square, hiding her face in her shawl. A woman I recognised as the one who lived next door to Amira was sure someone had told her the Mûmak Gïdjls had been overwhelmed by the sheer force of the Easterling army, which I privately thought was a rather far-fetched rumour. Another said - with a trembling, high pitched voice - that all our men had been killed, the Gondorian army had lost the battle and Minas Ithil was now overrun by Easterlings. There was an outcry at this, but I was beginning to think people were starting to lose their heads and most of these rumours were either mistranslated or exaggerated. Whatever it was, there was no peace, and the atmosphere in the large kitchen was so tense and filled with emotions that I couldn't stand it anymore.