Interlude. .
(This bit involves Ahmo/Laicamirill. I aleady have enough LA accounts so these pickaback on extant ones.)
Attired in a bright white linen tunic, Laicamiril reclined on a quilted pillow covered marble bench upon the green lawn of the palatial Martinus estate where the cloying sweet scent of carnation competed with the stiff formality of roses and a note of lemon blossom from the grove beyond the laurel hedge added a spicy note to the dense symphony that played upon the crisp mountain air. She had been studying a folio of poems and meditations upon death attributed to Tar Ancalimon. She became aware of the approach of her host as usual, through the rising tones of some melody he was humming to himself and the steady padding of his kid boots. A tune recently made popular by a traveling minstrel from the vale of Rimmon, the lyrics usually associated with the song dealt with the piety of a shepherd whose dedication to the safety of his flock mirrored that of the steward Denethor. But when sung in the brothels and seedier taverns of Gondor, transposed the subject matter to the shepherd's unrequited lust for the merchant's hazel eyed daughter. Which set of lyrics were in the approaching nobleman's mind now she could easily guess, for as he set his fashionably pointed supple leather shoes at last on the trimmed grass of the lawn, his pale blue eyes crept upward from her lingering over her bare legs to her eyes before at last offering his usual cheery greeting.
“Good morning, dear lady. I trust your breakfast was to your taste?” Lord Hadiron of the House Martinus obviously found the subject of her enjoyment of his cook's fare the easiest opening conversational gambit. It also seemed his way to distract her attention from his roving eye. He was tall and broad shouldered. The sapphire eyes of the old Island Empire glittered brightly under his light brow. Hadiron was long-lived as were all of the pure-blooded Numenorean Faithful and youth was still in his melodious voice and confidence and power in his sure step.
“As always. Your family has upheld the traditions of hospitality to our people for two millennia now and It has never been said that any of us were less than marvelously fed,” she joked. Rather lamely, she thought to herself.
“It brings me joy that you are at ease in the house of my family. So few of your folk now visit Minas Tirith, the other great houses have nearly forgot our role in the ancient friendship. Our prestige rests now entirely upon our family's martial tradition.”
“Rhavanielle...” Ahmo began.
“That was so long ago,” Hadiron interjected. “Is she well?”
“She makes her abode now in Imladris,” Ahmo answered. She was loath to reveal much, though Hadiron knew the ancient Umanyari well enough to guess that she was of too restless a nature to remain long enough in one place to call it an 'abode'.
“And Hrangach?”
“My old comrade? He has rejoined his King in the north. As he ought, I suppose. He will be needed. And soon.”'
“So things go ill in the north? I thought the old dragon was slain,” Hadiron went on, still pressing for news that might profit him and his family.”
“Things have not gone well since the time the darkness spread from Erebor in the north and Dol Duldur in the south. The old forest is a place of fear and suspicion.”
“Why has not the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood not put forth their power?”
“Well you might ask,” the elf rejoined, smoothing her tunic over her bare knees self consciously. “A surfeit of caution,” she said.
“With Gondor and the elves united as we ought to be, we can do much good.”
“Good? Good luck with that idea. They're all so set on leaving, they don't care what happens to you. Those who do care are frozen in indecision,” Ahmo's voice took on a bitter iciness.
“But you. You are here! Thranduil's people aided the dwarves. So much was accomplished.
“Much. Yes. But they still face all the orcs of Gundabad. That keeps them occupied. And for reasons I never quite understood, they have little congress with Lothlorien. The Lord and Lady shut out even their own kindred.”
“I don't understand this,” Hadiron went on, encouraged in his line of inquiry. He would have much to tell the Steward. Denethor's son had gone off to Imladris on some errand he would not speak openly of, and he was glad to receive visitors with news to distract him.
“If I understood it, I'd be of some use to someone,” she grumbled.
Hadiron sat beside her now on the bench with a sigh. “I understand your anger,” he went on. “Boromir, my friend, was eager to adopt my idea of an expedition to retake Umbar. But then that catastrophe by Amon Din happened and we lost our commander.”
“Find another. Gondor has a number of skilled naval commanders,” she answered, brow raised in sudden interest. Now she was getting information.
“When Therion was lost and Boromir gone, Denethor farbade any further discussion of pre-emptive assaults. Now we endure their constant raiding. Bands of southrons burn and rape from Andrasr to Harithilien. And Denethor will do nothing.”
“The Prince of Dol Amroth has been active. I've been there. He's mobilized all the manor holders.”
“Yet still towns burn. Folk are carried off to fates worse than death. And Ithilien is beset by troops of orcs sweeping down from their maggot holes in the mountains.” Hadiron's face grew pink with anger, his middle-age now suddenly manifest.
“I can't say I disagree with your position. Waiting behind the battered walls of Osgiliath is not a teneble strategy. But the steward's mind is made up, 'twould seem.”
Hadiron grunted noncimitally. “Will you be joining us at the reception for Lord Stannis' wife?”
“I wouldn't miss it.” Ahmo chirped back. In truth, the endless parties, salons and receptions she had attended had bored Rhavanielle, but Ahmo, who enjoyed the chance to exercise her wit, happily attended them all. The Executor of the Hounds' wife had at last recovered from a bad fall from a saddle and a lavish party was being thrown in honor of her being able to dance once again. By all accounts her favorite pastime. Ahmo had immediately seized upon it as a chance to collect information about the Hounds.
“That is good. And you will honor me by attending as my lady?”
“Oh of course. Though I should get dressed...” Hadiron's wife, a sweet natured woman a decade his elder had died a decade past, birthing the couple's fourth child. So attending these functions in her place had endeared Ahmo to the man and given to poor lonely fellow an opportunity to appear at court and society functions with an acknowledged beauty on his arm.
Hadiron's face suddenly grew taut. He spoke pensively, “There is one other thing. That may interest you.”
“Yes?”
“Your friend. The lady of Rohan?”
“Addiela.”
“The same.”
“She's coming?”
“I rather doubt it,” he replied.
“A shame. Can you arrange it? I haven't seen her for a fortnight or more.”
“I doubt it.” he said again. In the same dry crackers tone.
“Then why bring her up?” Ahmo asked drinking the last of her lemonade.
“She's been the..subject of...gossip, my friend,” he said, tilting his head a bit, rubbing the back of his neck.
“She's known for not leaving the appropriate gratuity in taverns. I know.”
“It's nothing like that.”
“Then what's it like?”
“She's practically camped out in the archive. Some of the librarians are becoming annoyed.
“Not my department, I'm afraid,” said Ahmo, almost apologetically. “Have they tried asking her to move?”
“They don't usually trouble scholars, but she's snarling at anyone who gets too close.”
Ahmo considered this with an indifferent smile. She crossed her arms, grasped the hem of the linen shift and pulled it over her head and off.
“I guess she wouldn't be much fun even if she came to the reception, then,” she said and wandered into the house to get ready.
