Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 21 - The Harvest Tournament (Part 1)

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Autumn has always had a way of fleeting by entirely too fast, and it seemed like only days after their return from Haradwaith that the Harvest Festival was upon them. Three weeks was only a short measure of time in the wheel of the year, and Éomer had scarcely enough time to return to the Golden Hall before he and his family were once again coming to call upon Minas Tirith as guests. The King of Rohan and his Éored were not alone though; it seemed half of Gondor had descended upon the White City in preparation for the festival. Every guesthouse in the city was full, as was every stable. Some even chose to camp upon the fields of Pelennor, such as Lord Dervorin and the folk of the Vale. Flags from every province of Gondor joined the flag of the Haradrim upon the citadel wall, including the silver swan-ship of Dol Amroth and the black and white crescents of Ithilien. The Great Gate of Minas Tirith sat with its doors flung wide, and a steady stream of folk flowed back and forth between the pavilions before the walls and the city. Market stalls were piled high with the spoils of the harvest, and the scent of cinnamon and cloves filled the air. Even the country folk had come in from the fields, bringing their goods with them to sell as they gathered for the celebrations. Today was the day of the Great Tournament, and all clamoured with excitement as they made their way around the city walls to the field.

In days past, the city stadium within the lower level of Minas Tirith had served to host sporting events for the people of Gondor. As the days of peace lengthened and the numbers of people who attended the tournament grew, Faramir and Elboron had been forced to concede that the old arena simply would not suffice anymore. Instead, they had ordered the construction of a wide field, nestled between the farthest edge of the city wall and the feet of the White Mountains. Ringed by wooden fence on two sides and stone on the others, the new tourney field was large enough to hold two hundred horsemen and seat twelve hundred spectators. Faramir had plans for finishing the outer, wooden walls with white stone to match the city at a later date, but for today it would serve. It was hardly a defensible position, to have a tourney arena outside the city walls, but the White City simply did not have the ground to give inside its layered circles. If such a day should come - Faramir had reasoned - that Minas Tirith would ever again be under siege, the loss of a stadium would hardly be the chiefest of their concerns. With Na'Man and Sufyan's presence in Minas Tirith slowly progressing from being tolerated to tentative acceptance though, peace seemed unlikely to forsake Gondor anytime soon.

As Túrien took her seat in the royal viewing box with her family, she reached into the pocket of her gown and fingered the braided lock there. It had become something of a talisman, one which Túrien took care never to let any of the other young noblewomen of Gondor see. Her mother had caught her absently fiddling with the little braid the other day, and the memory of Arwen's knowing look still made Turíen's ears heat. The presence of Na'Man and Sufyan nearby in the viewing box tugged at Túrien's mind, and she let her gaze stretch to the spot behind Sufyan's ear where his thick, sandalwood scented hair no longer rested evenly along his collar. As if sensing eyes upon him, Sufyan turned and smiled at her. Every day Túrien learned more of the Haradrim tongue from him, and a word came to mind as she appreciated the dimples around Sufyan's mouth and the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled. Tenïk. It meant 'tender', and outside of the Sindarin language it was the best and most fitting way that Túrien could find to describe a man like Sufyan.

A few seats down at the front of the box, Aragorn stood and the trumpeters immediately took their cue. They filled the stadium with fanfare, turning every head and stopping conversation in its tracks. An enormous black banner with the white tree of Gondor emblazoned upon it hung from the city wall behind them, and no doubt the spectators sitting directly across from the royal box were getting a splendid picture of their king. Túrien had always struggled with the notion that her Ada and Naneth - the parents who pestered her to finish lessons for her tutors and let Almárëa win at chess even when she was down to pawns - were the mighty King and Queen of Middle-Earth's greatest kingdom. They were the Elessar and the Evenstar though, and the utter silence into which the crowd fell was testament to the depth of respect (perhaps even worship) that the people accorded them. Eruthiawen worried sometimes that it would be hard for Eldarion to follow in such enormous footsteps. Túrien was of the opinion that Eruthiawen was a professional worrier. Even she had to admit however that their father cut an impressive figure in his silver crown and cloak of midnight sable.