I will not wear them here or there
I will not wear them on the stair
I will not wear green robes with lace
I will not wear them anyplace!

(With thanks to my friend Neon and apologies to Dr. Seuss)

*******

A discreet cough roused Denethor from where he sat nodding over some documents at his desk. He jerked his head up and blinked at the manservant who stood respectfully before him.

"I wasn't asleep," he said quickly.

"No, sir," the servant agreed.

"I merely closed my eyes for a moment in order to consider these harvest projections more closely."

"Of course, sir."

"And I sometimes find that snoring aids my concentration."

"Snoring, sir?"

"I wasn't snoring? Er, well, perhaps I didn’t need to consider them all that closely. Ah--what did you want?"

"You wished to be informed when the tailor arrived."

"I did? I mean--yes, of course I did. Send him in."

The servant bowed and withdrew, and a few seconds later the tailor bounced into Denethor’s office with a cheery "Good morning, my lord." He was a dry, busy little man with a narrow face and thinning hair. During the spring and summer he journeyed, visiting clients in remote parts of Middle-Earth. The approach of autumn brought him back to Minas Tirith, where his first visit was always to the Steward’s family.

The tailor was followed by two servants, struggling with a huge and evidently heavy trunk. They deposited it before the Steward's desk with a loud *thud* which made Denethor shudder for the state of his inlaid floor, and then withdrew. The tailor swung back the lid to reveal a jumble of needle-cases, shears, spools of thread, measuring tape, booklets of sketches showing various fashions, and a few ready-made garments (rejected commissions for previous clients) which could be purchased on the spot if they suited the customer’s taste and size. He looped the measuring tape around his neck with a flourish, then whipped out a pen and a small memorandum book, ready for the Steward’s orders.

"My sons have both grown," Denethor began. "Boromir passed his eighth birthday recently and he's shooting up like--like a--"

"A weed?" suggested the tailor.

Denethor frowned. "I was going to say, like a young tree. Or perhaps a cornstalk. Not a weed."

"Yes, of course," the tailor agreed, unabashed.

"So he'll need a new formal surcoat--something suitable for winter. And perhaps something for play as well--something he could run about in...."

"I've got just the thing," said the tailor. He rummaged in his trunk and eventually came up with a child-sized garment, sleeveless, waist-length, with buttons down the front. "These are very popular with the little folks up north. They're both comfortable and practical."

Denethor examined the item. "So children in Rohan wear these?"

"Ah, not exactly--"

"Very well, I'll have one made for each of my sons. I'll arrange for them to see you later so that you may take their measurements."

The tailor nodded. "Two weskits, then. What color?"

Denethor considered. "Boromir's should be green, I think--to match his eyes," he decided. "And Faramir's...should be green as well. To match Boromir's eyes."

The tailor made a note on his pad.

"My wife will require a new gown," Denethor continued, "but I'll let her give you the specifications. Which leaves only myself."

The tailor looked at him pleadingly. "Please say you're not going to disappoint me again this year, my lord."

"I would like a plain black robe--"

"Couldn’t I interest you in a nice crimson-red?"

"No."

"Or purple?"

"No."

"Grey, even?"

"I have no wish to dress like that vagabond Mithrandir," said Denethor severely.

"What about blue? I've got some lovely blue wizard's robes back at my shop--special order, clients disappeared and never picked them up--"

"Black," Denethor insisted. He folded his arms.

"Yellow, now, that would be daring..."

"I said black and I meant black."

"You'd look quite dashing in green..."

"Black black black black black," Denethor chanted.

"Now, my lord, we go through this every year--"

"Yes, we do. And in the end you always give me plain black robes, just as I asked."

It was true. The tailor sighed and conceded defeat--but not for long. "Could I at least persuade you to consider some trim?" he asked hopefully. "The Rohirrim are wearing a lot of fur this year--with very high collars, look, it’s a style just made for you." He pulled out a parchment drawing and showed it to the Steward.

Denethor pursed his lips. "Very well," he said at last. "As long as it's black fur."

Pleased to have won a small victory, the tailor wrote down the specifications in his memorandum book, then snapped it shut and tucked it into his pocket. "Now, then," he said brightly, "there's just one more thing. The--ah--special item that you wanted for your wife. I think you'll like what I’ve found...."

He dug down into the very bottom of the trunk, nearly disappearing into its depths. Finally he resurfaced, triumphantly holding a thin, flat box seemingly too small to contain anything more substantial than a veil. Inscribed on the top, in flowing Tengwar script, were the words "Naughty Elven Nighties."

"I've brought a few to choose from," the tailor explained as he opened the lid. A wispy mass of sheer, iridescent fabric shimmered inside.

"I'll take them all," said Denethor eagerly.

The tailor suppressed a smile as he handed over the box.

Denethor stood, signaling that the interview was over. He rang a small bell and the manservant reappeared after a few moments. "Take him to see Finduilas and the boys now," Denethor ordered, indicating the tailor. Then, as the two men turned to go, he cleared his throat. "Also, please tell my wife that when she's finished ordering her gown, I need to...er...discuss an urgent matter with her in our bedchamber." He drummed his fingers absently on the box.

The harvest projections could wait.


 

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