Seeds of the White Tree

Chapter 29 - Mother

"Come here, lawikê. Your battoulah is crooked." 

Túrien patiently bent forward and allowed Sawda to straighten the arched, falcon-like leather mask that framed her eyes. Today they were gathered for the annual Feast of Warriors, a somber occasion to honour the Mûmakil and their riders who perished in the Battle of Pelennor Fields. To show respect, all women wore the goat-leather masks, and likewise all men regardless of clan painted their faces in grey lines and used black cloth to tie their headwraps. 

It had been strange for Túrien, the first time she ever attended the Feast of Warriors. It was at the hands of her countrymen that the Haradrim had been defeated, so many years ago. Unsurprisingly, her presence had drawn more than a few disapproving gazes that first year. After nearly three and a half years in Harmindon and her marriage to Sufyan though, most everyone was used to Túrien's presence at Sawda's left hand (the Haradrim were generally left-handed as a rule). Time would tell; without any daughters of her own flesh and blood, Sawda had all but publicly declared Túrien her heir in placing her thus. Never did the future Ramyah of Harmindon feel more acutely aware of her Gondorian blood though than during the Feast of Warriors. 

"Better?" Túrien asked, straightening once Sawda's weathered hands drew back. 

"Much. Sufyan, you would not know how it is that your wife's mask came to be out of place, hmmm?" 

Sufyan for his part managed to keep an admirably straight face. "Perhaps a sudden gust of wind? The desert can be an unpredictable place." 

"Psshaa! To your places, both of you! Remember that today is a day of mourning! One would think that the pair of you were still newly-wed. And yet still for some reason I have yet to see any grandchildren...?" 

Mercifully, Na'Man was quick to the rescue. "The ceremony will be beginning soon, min hez. We must take our places as well." 

He offered his hand to Sawda, and the ramyah and chieftain of Harmindon disappeared into the citadel's round feasting hall. Túrien did not miss the conspiratorial wink her father-in-law threw back over his shoulder though. 

The moment they were alone, Túrien delivered a smart pinch to Sufyan's side. "I told you we did not have time for such things!" she scolded.

Sufyan danced away from Túrien's seeking fingers with nimble ease. His black eyes shone with mirth even as he quickly stilled himself when a pair of wealthy officials and their husbands appeared around the corner. 

"Very well, you were right," he said. "But I still have no regrets whatsoever." 

Túrien wrinkled her nose beneath the heavily beaded battoulah. "I am not even Haradrim, and I still have more decorum at my command today than you it seems. Whatever has gotten into you, Sufyan?" 

With a polite nod to the passing dignitaries and a sweep of his arm, Sufyan offered the path into the feasting hall to Túrien. His grey facepaint was slightly smudged around the chin, Túrien noticed. Too late to do anything about it though.

"I will tell you later, hezkirî. For now, we have a formal event to attend. The long-dead war heroes of the past require our utmost respect and attention in the here and now, wouldn't you agree?" 

"Sufyan, if you've been at the gîhabejî with Ikrâm and the others before the Feast of Warriors, not even the Mûmakil will be able to save you..."

At that Sufyan laughed aloud, provoking a disapproving scowl from a matronly old woman in maroon shawls on her way into the hall. The scowl was directed more at Túrien than Sufyan though; no doubt Túrien, as the foreigner-princess, was responsible for leading Harmindon's future chieftain into unseemly displays of mirth on a national day of mourning. Túrien - after ensuring that no one else was around to see - stuck the tip of her tongue out at old Dilnaz. The look of sheer offense on Dilnaz's face just about justified the off chance that she might tell Sawda. It wouldn't be the first time Sawda had had to scold Túrien, but now that Túrien was, by Haradrim standards, a woman grown at twenty-one, there was only so much she could get in trouble for.