Warrior of the White Tree

The Zig-Zag Path

I should have slept as soundly as a tick drunk on a soldier's ale-soaked blood. In Thorongil's quarters the bed cradles me softly. A herbal scent clings to my skin. I am still unsure whether I had been in actual need of a bath. But the spread sent from the Steward's kitchens had certainly lifted my spirits. At first I had felt certain, pity had moved the Dunadan's heart. One last meal before the thief would be sent to prison. Throughout the feast I had waited for the summons of guards, for the sight of bare steel and stern eyes. Beset by despair I had stuffed my mouth full of roast game, grilled mushrooms, cheeses, buttered bread and berry tart. Milk had slaked my thirst while I had imagined the sound of heavy steps upon polished wood floors.

But the order had never left the Dunadan's lips. He and Arvellon had leaned back on leather-bound couches and conversed quietly. At long last the drone of their voices had overcome my resistance. My head had rested against comfortable pillows. Warmth had woven an enticing web around my body. Sleep had dragged at my eyelids. Unsure how I had found the strength to finally totter to bed, I now find myself tucked beneath blankets, rubbing gritty eyes. If I had slipped into sleep, the respite had proven all too brief.

Moonlight casts its pale light across my bed and witnesses my restless wriggles. I know I find myself in the green-cloaked warrior's private quarters, an abode built into Minas Tirith's very wall.

I know I am no longer hungry.

I know the guards have not dragged me to the dungeons ... yet. 

I know I will not be fooled by the Dunadan's generosity nor his elven friend's words of reassurance. Lolling about in bed might seal my doom.

I know I need to find a route to escape.

Thus I slip from its warmth and pad towards the door. Unlocked! Surprise mingles with curiosity. A swift glance reassures me: a long corridor stretches ahead, empty of life. If I am to escape, then I must familiarize myself with Thorongil's home. Boldly I decide to investigate. Surely the Steward's favored warrior's abode should be studded with grandly sculpted statues, fine paintings, silken rugs ... yet Thorongil's quarters' only distinction comes from rows upon rows of books, maps and charts. I espy them as I pass the slightly askance door to the reception room. His words abruptly halt my progress, "What should be done about the boy, Arvellon?"

"Name, place of birth and a spitted retort as to my question about his parents? Obstreperous prisoners of war have provided me with more information than Eriston. He gave much of his attention to silencing a growling belly. But I dare say, this was not the only reason why information about his past refused to come forth."

I dare to catch a peek at the Elf who lifts a wine goblet to his lips. "First of all, we must find his parents, I suppose, and inform them that they should keep a tighter rein on their son. If he had chosen to relieve a more tempestuous individual of his coin pouch, it might have gone ill for Eriston."

"Parents ..." The Dunadan stretches the word as if he is chewing and testing its taste. "Has the thought not occurred to you, he might be an orphan? The state of Eriston seems living evidence to me. Not all of us are as blessed as you, mellon nin. Parents are bestowed upon us by Eru. However, not all of us are able to hold them close in this world."

Silence rules for a while. I am certain the pounding of my heart must alert the males to my presence.

"If Eriston should prove to be an orphan, then we will find a family to take him in."

The Elda's words cause cold sweat to break out and bead my brow. Anything but this! Never again will I bow to a foster father! Never again will I beg to be noticed, beg for food, beg for clothes, beg for a blanket at night. Never again will I crash to my knees and pray for the sun to set swiftly so my torment might end. Finger nails dig into my palms. Arvellon's words have hardened my resolve. At first light I shall slip away from these quarters. Somehow I must get to the lower levels and hide until the Elf has left Minas Tirith and the Dunadan returned to his duties.