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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.
"People of Gondor and friends from distant lands..." Folk seated beside the royal box glanced toward Na'Man and Sufyan at that. "Queen Arwen and I are most glad to welcome you to yet another Harvest Festival!"
A cheer went up from the crowd, loud and enthusiastic enough to echo even in the spacious arena. Aragorn let it go on for a brief space before raising a hand to continue.
"For thirty years now, we have shared in the rewards of peace, and for that and our world's many other blessings, let us give thanks. With that being said, I greatly suspect that many of you came here to cheer for our valiant knights, and would just as soon not be subjected to long-winded speeches."
An appreciative swell of laughter rippled through the crowd, and Túrien grinned when she saw Queen Lothíriel playfully nudge Éomer beside her. Éomer had once accused Gondorians of being long-winded and "overmuch fond of hearing themselves talk" after attending the first meeting of the Great Council. Faramir and Lothíriel had responded by re-enacting the Oath of Eorl over dinner the next evening, with Rohan's oath being nearly twice as lengthy as the response by Gondor. The theatrical performance by the two cousins - with a great deal of dramatic embellishment and crude Rohirric inflection added for flair - had reduced nearly everyone present to tears of mirth, including Éomer. Less than a season later Éomer and Lothíriel had been betrothed, and the story now lived on as a family legend. Túrien personally was just as pleased as anyone to cut to the chase. The Harvest Festival tournament had only been the talk of the city for the last month, and if she had to wait another minute to watch lances splinter she might just go and get on a horse herself.
"And so without further ado, we present to you the champions of Gondor, of Rohan, and for the first time ever present at the Harvest Festival, come all the way from the steppes of Erebor, Prince Hakon of Dale and his men!"
A roar of applause went up from the crowd as, through the gate at the southern end of the tourney field, mounted knights came pouring through into a long, lively parade. Sure enough, the banner of Dale - A black arrow and bow rampant on a field of yellow - flew aloft beside the banners of Dol Amroth, Ithilien, Rohan and many others. This was merely a chance to greet the crowd, and no one wore their helmets, allowing Túrien to get a glimpse of every man as they cantered past the royal box. There was Bergil of Ithilien, one of Faramir's most favoured guards. Following him with their golden heads gleaming in the autumn sun were Fulthain and Fasthelm, two Riders of Rohan whom had accompanied Éomer on the campaign to the Sea of Rhûn. The twins bookended Elfwine, who waved widely to the stands as he rode past. Túrien had to smother a laugh when Eldarion and Elboron both provoked delighted shrieking from the young women of Gondor upon their arrival. If only those maidens could have seen Eldarion trying to wrestle Elfwine in the training yards yesterday and getting a licked finger in his ear for his trouble. Still, the three of them did look the part of noble princelings in their fine armour and heraldic surcoats. Greyhame and Baneth were both brushed to a glossy sheen and looked just as eager as their riders for the games.
Some of the champions peeled away from the procession as they rounded the field, seeking out their chosen ladies where they sat in the stands. Most if not all of the women were only too happy to oblige in providing their valiant admirers with a token to tie about their arms. Unfortunately, there were far more ladies brandishing ribbons than there were knights to request them. When Eldarion in particular rode past, young women everywhere sprang to their feet. They rushed the wooden rails, eyes bright with the hope of catching their prince's eye. Eldarion's course was set though, and he reined Greyhame to a stop right in front of where Arwen and Aragorn sat.
"Naneth, may I have your favour to wear for the tournament?" Eldarion grinned up at them, dark hair tousled from wind and riding.
With a smile Arwen undid a ribbon from the sleeve of her gown. Standing, she leaned far enough forward over the railing for Eldarion to catch hold of the slender length of blue satin.
"You always have my favour, ion-nin."
Eldarion bowed his head, a hand laid to his breastplate. With a wink Aragorn sent him on his way, and he rejoined the throng of knights circling the field. Elboron likewise eschewed the entreaties of the crowd to arrive in front of Éowyn, who passed him down a length of embroidered cloth and last-minute advice regarding the melee. Elfwine however had slightly different plans. Although he dipped his chin respectfully to his mother and father, it was to where Túrien and Almárëa were sitting that he rode. Rising up in the stirrups, the prince of Rohan called out loudly enough for all nearby to hear.
"Princess Almárëa, would you do me the honour of giving me your favour today?"
Almárëa's mouth - previously occupied with the task of licking all the sugar off a candied apple - fell open in surprise. Then her eyes lit up with pure delight, and she giggled aloud before answering.
"Of course I will Elfwine! Here, let me just...oh bother...Túrien, could you help me with this?"
Smiling so widely that it threatened to split her cheeks, Túrien helped Amárëa unlace a green ribbon from the sleeve of her dress. The moment it was free, Almárëa leapt to her feet and rushed to try to hand it to Elfwine. It was a long reach down, and Aragorn had to stealthily grip the back of Almárëa's belt to ensure she did not risk falling. With an extra stretch in the stirrups Elfwine was able to catch hold of the favour though. Holding Almárëa's ribbon aloft, he rode off among the other champions. Almárëa was just about beside herself when she returned to her seat, and Túrien suspected that Minas Tirith's gossip mill would be fantasizing about future alliances between Gondor and Rohan until Yuletide. Thank the Valar that their parents did not believe in political marriages, Túrien thought, although there were worse fates than someone like Elfwine. Goodness only knew, half the lords of Gondor had had their eyes on her and Eruthiawen for their sons since the day they were born. Túrien wordlessly wrinkled her nose before putting aside such thoughts.
When all of the knights had had their chance to ride a circuit of the field, they arrayed themselves before the royal booth and waited. The Prince of Dale - a great bear of a man with a full black beard astride a white stallion - struck Túrien as being a formidable contender. The six riders who had accompanied him on his journey south were likewise fit and hardy creatures. All of the Dalish men's armour bore the clear signs of influence from their dwarvish neighbours in the Lonely Mountain.
A low voice rumbled next to Túrien's ear from behind. "Five silver coins on that there Barding in the melee."
"You don't think Eldarion could take him?" whispered Túrien to Gimli as Aragorn was wishing the champions luck.
Gimli chuckled. "Yer brother is fast on his feet I'll grant, but I know a born and bred fighter when I see one."
"Alright, five coins it is. And twice that on Elfwine to win the joust."
"Those are generous stakes," said Gimli. "Even for a rider like Éomer's lad!"
Túrien tried to keep her voice down when Arwen gave the two of them a pointed look. Gambling was decidedly not in their parents' realm of approval, but the Harvest Festival tournament was the one day in a year when a blind eye might be turned to a little betting between family. "He's won the last two years in a row, I would sooner bet on history repeating itself now that Elfwine's grown even older and stronger."
"Alright then, I'll take you to task on that lassie! Two-to-one odds that Elfwine wins above anyone else in the joust. I hope you brought your coin purse."
Túrien sincerely hoped that Elfwine lived up to his rapidly growing reputation, elsewise she intended to tax him the value of her losses today. She and Gimli shook hands on their wagering, and the dwarf settled back in his seat next to Legolas. His leg still stuck stiffly out in front of him and his cane lay across his lap, but otherwise his misfortune in Rhûn had done no lasting damage to the old dwarf. And that was a very thankful thing, because Almárëa was ready and waiting to tug on Gimli's sleeve and place her own bets. So far Almárëa had never before had to pay up, owing entirely to her near-eerie ability to bet on the winner each and every year.
"First to take the field, our champions for the melee!" A herald announced, his sonorous voice filling the stadium. "This year, Queen Arwen Evenstar will perform the honour of starting the game. If a man is struck on the helmet or the breastplate, he must retire from the field at once. The last man remaining shall be declared the Champion of the Melee, and receive his honours from the fair hand of Princess Eruthiawen. Your Grace, if you will."
With a soft rustle of skirts, Arwen rose from her seat in the viewing box. She held aloft a weighted pennant; when it dropped, all of the barely contained chaos in the stadium would break loose. The five-and-forty knights entered in the melee stood waiting, their squires having taken out the horses and given them their helmets and weapons. All weapons used in the tourney had been guarded against injury: sword edges were blocked and maces wrapped in leather to blunt the impact. Even so the melee was a thrilling sight, and everyone held their breath. Túrien could see Eldarion, Elboron, and Elfwine all standing together to one side. She had come across the three of them plotting together behind the Merethrond last night, and if they didn't have some manner of strategy then Túrien was a Hobbit. That didn't make the thrill of anticipation as they all sat waiting for Arwen to drop the pennant any less. The white cloth fluttered...and the men on the field exploded into action.
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