She is entirely charmed by hobbits. Harad’s library has volumes on elves and dwarves, their history and nature and lore, but hobbits are entirely new to her. (When Boromir tells her the Ringbearer was a halfling, she has to ask him what that is, if it is some tribe she has not heard of before, or perhaps some common word she is not familiar with?
He laughs, and she refuses to speak to him until he kisses her.)
One winter, Peregrin Took and Meriadoc Brandybuck come to stay at Emyn Arnen, and they are as strange and delightful to Zinat as she is to them. She tells them stories of mumakils—they call them oliphaunts, and seem to think they are monsters, which makes her laugh and tell them about the gentle giant entrusted with carrying the royal ladies when they travel. In return, they tell her about the Shire—it sounds impossibly green and peaceful, like living in a garden.
Their pipeweed is not much like the hookah she is familiar with, but it is pleasant to see the men gathered together in the evenings, smoking and speaking. It makes her think of home.
(When the sound of shouting wakes her one dark, cold night, Zinat goes to Boromir’s side—only to find it is not her husband crying out in terror. Instead it is Pippin, writhing on the bed as Merry tries to shake him awake, desperately calling, Pip, it’s just a dream, it’s a dream, wake up, wake up, Pip, Pip, come back to me—
Zinat holds Boromr and Eowyn back, at least until Pippin awakens with a gasp. Get water, she tells her husband, and clean linens, she tells Eowyn. He will have sweated through those. Go.
She waits outside the door, allowing the hobbits privacy to collect themselves. Finally, Merry emerges, looking tired. She offers him the water and clean linens, having sent Boromir and Eowyn to bed. Merry looks abjectly grateful. Thank you, lady.
Boromir is plagued by nightmares as well, she says simply.
Does he have attacks? Merry asked quietly. Pip has attacks, where he thinks he’s being watched—that terrible darkness is back, its gaze trained on him, and he locks himself in a store cupboard…I can’t tell you how many times his wife has come over in tears because he won’t come out.
Boromir will fly into rages, Zinat says. Little things…he seems always tense, always waiting…he drinks more than I would like him to. I think he is trying to forget.
They look at one another for a long moment. Good night, lady, Merry finally says. Thank you, again.
Good night, Lord Merry, she offers, withdrawing. She thinks to return to her bed, but instead she knocks at Boromir’s door, and spends the night cradled against the solid curve of his body.)
Zinat never meets the mysterious Ringbearer, though his ghost haunts wherever the Fellowship gathers together. She is told he never recovered from the darkness of the Ring, and was granted passage to the West with the Queen’s father and grandmother. She remembers him during dawn prayers each morning, that he might have found the peace so clearly no afforded him in this world.
She does not meet Samwise Gamgee until she is an old woman—he comes to Minas Tirith quietly, an old man himself. He is going West, he tells them, but he wished to have one last adventure. To see the king who looks foul, but feels fair, he says, smiling at Aragorn as though they are sharing a private joke.
He is kind to you in a way that makes you feel very young, and he and Boromir spend half the night boasting about their children.
The next morning, he is gone.
.
Zinat’s first encounter with dwarves is in Gondor, when Boromir introduces her to Gimli, Lord of the Glittering Caves—He was one of my companions, in the Fellowship, Boromir explains, But he is also a master craftsman, and now seeks to help us repair some of the damage the war wrought on the City.
Zinat greets him warmly, and offers him and his company all the hospitality of Minas Tirith—she’s not a fool, she has read what little there is to be read about dwarves. She is a little uncertain, since she’s not familiar with dwarven customs, afraid she will offend him somehow; Gimli’s natural grimness doesn’t help quiet those fears.
In truth, Gimli’s a little awestruck by Zinat. Not that he isn’t in awe of the lady queen and Eowyn—one of them is the granddaughter of the Lady Galadriel, the other struck down the Witchking—but Zinat wears all gold kundan jewelry and zardozi-stitched veils and she just drips precious metals and stones, and that’s how dwarrowdams dress, rich and Byzantine, flaunting their mastery of the craft. The fact that Zinat is knowledgeable about masonry and craftsmanship (she was patroness to a number of building projects in Harad, and needed to be certain her money was being spent wisely) only serves to make her more admirable in his eyes.
But Gimli is stiff by nature, and Zinat is uncertain, and so while they might have a great deal to talk about, neither of them are willing to begin.
However, it is a long journey to Erebor.
It is a long journey to Erebor, but Arwen desires to see the house of her grandmother and father again, and Legolas—one of the company of the Ring, Zinat learns—has offered them the hospitality of Mirkwood, and Gimli has been longing for the mountains of his people. Zinat probably ought not to leave Emyn Arnen, but she would like to see the places that have been so described to her—the mallorn thickets of Lothlorien, the last Homely House, the deep Greenwood, the vast caverns of Erebor.
Boromir tells her that if she wishes, she should go, and so she goes.
[helpful visual of Zinat’s riding gear]
Zinat hasn’t seen much of Gondor north of Ithilien, so she’s fascinated by everything—the outposts they stay at, even when they’re crumbling ruins; the old roads; the men of Rhovanion, who turn out to watch the Elven Queen and foreign princess pass, with their guard of Gondorian soldiers and a single, bristling dwarf.
She and Arwen sing songs or tell stories to pass the time—Gimli is mostly silent, except for one night, when they are gathered around the fire. Arwen is asleep already, and Zinat is soon to follow, when Gimli begins to sing under his breath. His voice is deep and gravelly, rumbling against her skin. She listens, half-drowsy, until he trails off.
That is beautiful, she says gently, trying not to startle him.
Traditionally, it is accompanied by a harper, he demurs.
Still, you do it justice. What is its meaning?
It is about Thorin Oakenshield, he says, King Under the Mountain, who slew a dragon and brought his people home. He dies at the end.
Why do we never write songs about the ones who end up fat by the fire? she asks, her eyes drifting shut. I should like to hear those stories. All things should end in a homecoming…
She feels his broad hand come to rest on the crown of her head, and then she is asleep.
Lothlorien, the Golden Wood, is beautiful and sad. It mourns the gardener, Arwen says, laying her palm against each slender trunk like reassuring a skittish animal. How long can such a place endure, when Galadriel has passed into the West?
Daernaneth, she says to the wind, like it is a blessing, or plea.
That night, the stars are brighter than Zinat has ever seen them, and she watches elves dance in a glade where each blade of grass is sharp-shadowed and real enough to cut to the bone. It is a strange place, Lorien, and Zinat leaves it the next day feeling as though she has spent too long in her cups.
But though they are bidding goodbye to her kinsmen, to their land, the Lady Queen does not cry—not until she stands in the hall of her father, each of her brothers embracing her. Silently, Zinat and Gimli depart from the hall, allowing the children of Elrond Half-Elven their grief.
It is very beautiful here, Zinat says as they walk the halls of Rivendell together. She is suddenly and bitterly homesick for sand and heat, the lush summer palace, the glittering horizon of the bay in Umbar. She finds herself even longing for Emyn Arnen, the familiar hills and the distant spire of Minas Tirith.
Gimli makes a harumph sound. It’s all Elvish craftsmanship. You’ll see when we get to Erebor—
Oh? What will I see? she asks, half teasing, expecting no answer.
But it is as though Gimli has been waiting for that precise question, for it all floods out of him—the great columns of mithril and silver at the bottom of fountains that cast shifting stars up into your eyes, the crystal gardens and light, humans always think of caves as dark but Erebor is bright, lit by torches and ancient magic and gems and prisms, and navigated by feel, by the echo of the stone, the sound of hammers, the hum of Khuzdul. Erebor sings.
There is a lake in the depths of Erebor, and silver ships with silver lanterns for those who cross it.
There is not a plain surface in all the mountain. All is carved, all is inlaid. Everything made from Erebor is beautiful, Gimli says. If it serves a purpose, it can be made beautiful as well, and then it serves two purposes. Everything from Erebor is beautiful.
Zinat does not know what to say, except to take his hand and tell him about pearl divers and mumakil ivory carvings and gold, so much gold, gold nose-rings and gold bangles and gold earrings, about mirrored rings for women to admire their reflections, about daggers with enameled sheaths and intricate stone jharokhas. She talks about Umbar, all that red sandstone and white marble inlay, about symmetry, and cypress trees—
The sun sets with them on one of Rivendell’s balconies, speaking of places they would rather be.
They leave their guard at on of Gondor’s outposts, and they travel on to Mirkwood, where Prince Legolas Greenleaf greets them. He is fairer than he has any right to be, tall and slender. For some reason Zinat had thought that male elves would not be so lovely as their female counterparts—but it is not so, and she finds herself blushing when he kisses her like a beloved sister.
The court of Mirkwood is strange, darker than she expects. It lingers in the corners, old evil slow to fade away. The king does not come to greet them, even though they have the High Queen among their party, and Legolas’ apologies for his absence are thin. The woodland elves stare at Zinat more than the people of Rhovanion did, and during the feasting, more than one child rushes up to touch her dark skin and then check their fingers for stain.
There are children, Arwen says, a touch of awe in her voice, as Zinat scolds the young ones for their rudeness, and they dart away, skirts flying.
Is that surprising? Gimli asks, as Zinat adjusts her veil. There are always children.
It is elvish custom to refrain from bringing children into a time of war, Legolas explains.There have not been any Elves born for many years now.
But if there are new lives in the Greenwood, Arwen says, smiling, then peace has truly come to Middle Earth.
It does not feel like peace, Zinat thinks, but there is time. Elves grow almost as slowly as trees, and it is not a terrible thing to be born out of hope.
Then, finally—finally—Erebor.
It is beautiful. From the moment they begin descending, crystal lamps catching alight with step, it is staggeringly, astonishingly beautiful. More than Gimli could have ever described, more than Zinat could have imagined. It is rich and bright and dark, and she stands a full foot taller than all but the tallest dwarf. She has been repeatedly confused for the Queen, since they take one look at her jewelry and gems and assume she is the woman of greater stature—even if Arwen is dressed in elven silks.
(Arwen finds it immensely amusing, and might have actually let Zinat pretend to the role, were it not for Gimli’s hurry to correct and avoid offense.)
Zinat’s chamber has been carved out of a grotto of amethyst crystals, although Gimli makes a disapproving noise when she calls them that. Aburazmergul, he teaches her to say, which is that particular hue of a field of amethyst crystals when lit only by candles. There are other words for each shade of sound of ringing hammers, for jewel cut and jewels uncut, set in gold, set in silver, set in mithril, set in stone. Gimli leads her through the great vaults beneath the earth, teaching her poetry for the underside of the world.
Zinat loves dwarven sculpture, perhaps best of all—it is not the somber figures with the long, grey faces which Gondor seems to favor, nor is the smooth-limbed women and stylized lions that line the temples in Harad. When the dwarves carve, it is to make stone breathe; more than once, Zinat apologizes for bumping into what turns out to be a granite harper, or is frighted by turning a corner and coming face to face with the bust of some long-ago hero. One of the apprentices takes a shine to her, and carves a small statuette of such a likeness that Zinat half expects it to move in her hand.
All of the dwarves are interested in the craftsmanship of the jewelry she wears, inquiring after forge temperatures, enameling techniques. They are greatly disappointed when she tells them that it is not of her own making—it is dwarven custom, she learns, to only wear the work of your hands, or your forefathers’—but she promises to write to Harad’s smiths and jewelers and make introductions, that they might study each other’s art.
The children—some small enough to pass for dolls—mistake her in all her finery for a dwarf woman, and are entranced by her lack of beard. Her height they can excuse, there were heroes of legend said to be Man-height, but no honorable dwarrowdam would walk about clean-shaven.
She tells them that among the race of Men, most women cannot grow beards. Is that why you wear your veils, they ask, eyes wide, to hide the nakedness of your chin?
Zinat can only laugh.
(Arwen does not spend many nights in Erebor, preferring the hospitality of Dale. I feel trapped there, she confides as she and Zinat wander through the market, stopping at whatever stall catches their attention. Erebor is beautiful, but it is like living in a tomb, all that stone, keeping you away from the stars…
It is perhaps the first time Zinat has seen Arwen’s elvishness in such stark contrast—that longing for the stars.)
They are coming to the end of their time in Erebor when Gimli shows her the forges. It is a sign of the ties she has founded, and King Frerin’s great respect—it is very rare for an outsider to be allowed to glimpse the working of dwarves. Upon being ushered through the doors, Zinat sees why.
The mighty forges of Umbar, which proudly boast lineages stretching back to Numenor itself, are rendered children’s playthings in the face of Erebor’s.
Gimli offers her twists of cotton to stick in her ears, so loud is the hammering—and even after fitting them in, she can feel the pulse against her skin. The craftsmen communicate mostly in hand gestures and the occasional shout, but they allow her to stop their work, ask about what they are making. Her awe must show on her face, for they quickly warm to her presence, ushering her from the forges to the workshops and preening when she compliments their creations.
You would not think that dwarven hands, so broad and roughened, would make intricate wonders, but Zinat is humbled before their skill—they shape iron like it is water, adorn it with mithril and and silver. Jeweled clocks and inlaid treasure-boxes and crystal lamps and golden bangles so fine she nearly turns green with envy. Gimli takes her to the sciptorium, where they illuminate the great histories of the dwarves with true gold, and then on to the aviary, where King Frerin himself introduces Zinat to the ravens who have nested in Erebor since the time of first King Under the Mountain.
Our mountain was taken from us, he says, as one of ravens plucks at Zinat’s earring curiously. Not so long ago, and shorter still by the reckoning of dwarves. But even after the terrible Smaug stalked these halls—when we returned, the ravens were there.
Zinat leaves Erebor weighted down with gifts, the bangles she had admired, jewelry in traditional dwarven style, half a dozen ornaments for her turbans. (Her presence in Erebor had begun a wild craze for them, particularly among the craftsmen seeking a fashionable way of keeping their hair up. In place of the peacock and egret feathers Zinat usually adorned her turbans with, the dwarves had fashioned charms and pendants—ZInat had all but begged for a few, and the smiths had been delighted to oblige.)
You were right, she tells Gimli as they set out for Dale. Everything from Erebor is beautiful.
She cannot see his mouth for the beard, but she thinks he is smiling.
They gain Arwen, then Legolas, and Mirkwood gifts them and their guard with pretty boats for the trip down the Great River. It is much faster than travel by land, and the embankments slip by each day. As magical as Erebor was, it feels good to have the sun on her face again, and Legolas and Gimli argue good-naturedly about the position of the sun and the names of plants, who killed more Orcs in the battle for Pelennor Fields.
(They do not mention Haradi soldiers, and for that, Zinat is grateful.)
At night, she and Arwen share blankets, and whisper to one another as Zinat once did with her sisters.
It is over too soon, Arwen delivered to the arms of Aragorn, who nearly knocks them both to the ground in his hurry to embrace her. Legolas and Gimli offer to take Zinat home as well—it is not so far, after all, and surely the Gondorian guards have their own homecomings to make.
Zinat, loathe to say goodbye to either of them, gratefully accepts.
The moment she sees the old stone marker, Arnen scratched out in weathered lettering, her whole being feels lighter. Boromir is waiting at the gate, and he swings her down from the horse and into his arms. Zinat breathes him in, the sweat and heavy realness of him, and thinks, yes.
(You were right, Gimli murmurs as they bid one another a warm farewell. All good tales end with a homecoming.)
Boromir slips his arm around Zinat’s waist, and they wait on the parapet until Gimli and Legolas can no longer be seen in the gathering dusk. Yes, Zinat thinks, gazing out at the green hills of Emyn Arnen.
Home.
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