Faramir Fiction Archive

Out of Memory and Time (PG-13)

Written by Shireling

30 March 2008 | 58682 words

Chapter 6 – The Scales of Justice

Dariel, son of Darlon, was an old man; an old soldier who had devoted his life to the defence of Gondor. From drummer boy to Watch Commander at Henneth Annûn to Commandant of the Military Academy, his service to the state and his allegiance to the House of Húrin was one of selfless duty, his record unblemished. Even when he reached the age of honourable retirement he refused to be pensioned off and continued to train each new cohort of Cadets to face the growing threat of the forces of Mordor.

During the siege of Minas Tirith he was there to witness the desperate retreat of the out companies from Osgiliath, led by Lord Faramir, had witnessed the attack of the Nazgûl and had cheered the Swan Knights of Dol Amroth as they rode out in support of the retreating Gondorian forces. To those watching it had seemed like a small victory until they realised with horror that Prince Imrahil was carrying the lifeless form of Lord Faramir before him as the exhausted troops streamed though the gates. Dariel was still there upon the walls when the forces of the east were pounding on the very gates of the city with their mighty fire-spewing battering ram; he was up upon the ramparts of the first circle rallying and encouraging the troops.

Dariel had felt something break inside him to see his Lord and protégé limp and unconscious in his Uncle’s arms as the Prince urged his mount up towards the Citadel. The old soldier threw himself into the battle with almost reckless abandon. As the Enemy approached within striking distance he loosed quiver after quiver of arrows into their ranks until all the available arrows were spent. It was as he stood in the courtyard waiting for the gates to give way before the force of the attackers that rumour reached the defending troops that the Steward was dead and his son also. With all hope gone, Dariel vowed to make his last stand at the gate defending the city he had served all his life. He knew he would die and he pledged his life freely; he had no fear of dying and he made it his intention to take as many of the enemy as he could with him. He fought like a man possessed, his sword slashing and hacking with a vigour that belied his age. Even the infirmity of the old battle injury that had taken him from active duty in Ithilien to service in the Academy seemed not to hinder him as he left a trail of lifeless enemy corpses in his wake. But at last he was felled, not by an enemy sword but by falling masonry as a building in the second level imploded under the impact of a missile, showering huge chunks of stone onto the combatants below. As the world about him went black his final words, croaked through gritted teeth were ‘For Gondor’.

It was hours before he was found and transported to the Houses of Healing. He didn’t stir when they tended to his numerous wounds nor when the exhausted surgeon finished the job started by the lump of masonry and amputated his mangled left leg above the knee. Two days later when he reluctantly awoke, disgusted to find himself still amongst the living, he turned his face to the wall and passively resisted every attempt by the healers to keep him alive.

Dariel was fading fast and it was only by chance that another inmate of the Healing Houses overheard the ward staff discussing him. Lord Faramir lost no time in seeking out the Warden to enquire about the old soldier. He was shocked to discover the extent of Dariel’s physical injuries but even more distressed to hear that his old friend and mentor had lost the will to live. When next the nurse approached Dariel with medicines and sustenance she did not go alone; Lord Faramir accompanied her and between them they coaxed and bullied the old man into accepting their care. Everyday from then on Lord Faramir visited with Dariel, sometimes only for a few minutes, sometimes, especially at night, for hours. As the overcrowding in the wards eased Dariel was moved to a single cubicle and there the two friends spoke together and slowly they both began to recover. It was Lord Faramir who offered Dariel a new role to fulfil now that age and infirmity had robbed him of his entitlement to a billet in the barracks, the only home he had known since the age of ten.

By the time the King and the Host returned from Cormallen for the Coronation Lord Faramir had established a refuge in the city for those made destitute by the conflict; the homeless, the orphans, the widows and incapacitated veterans who could no longer support themselves. He commandeered a large villa and warehouse complex in the third circle and set about transforming it to his use. To begin with it only offered basic necessities: food, shelter, a warm bed and a place of safety, but Lord Faramir realised that as time passed the refuge would need to offer more if it were to become self sufficient and not drain the cities already depleted coffers.

With Dariel appointed ‘Father’ of the refuge and Idoreen, the industrious and practical widow of a farmer as ‘Mother’, the refuge was soon transformed into a hive of industry and learning. All the adults were expected to share their expertise; cooks, carpenters, seamstresses, teachers, farmers, weavers. All of the children received a basic schooling and the adolescents were taught practical skills or set up with apprenticeships. The residents transformed the long neglected ornamental gardens into allotments and pens were built to house chickens, pigs and goats. As the first months of the King’s reign sped past the refuge flourished. Barely a week went past without Prince Faramir visiting the now thriving community. He saw to it that Dariel and Idoreen had the supplies and equipment they needed, shamelessly diverting the stonemasons and artisans from other repair task when work needed completing to accommodate the ever-increasing numbers of the desperate who sought sanctuary and relief. The refuge ‘parents’ ruled their domain with firm, fair hands and the refuge and its Community thrived

And so it was a great shock to the community when word spread to the refuge that Lord Faramir’s troop was missing. With they city celebrating the King’s recovery, the Prince’s absence put a dampener on the peoples relief. Dariel himself gave thanks for the King’s recovery but his greater concern was for his Prince, for while the King had his allegiance and his duty, Faramir had his friendship and respect. Desperate for news, Dariel had one of the young lads push his wheeled chair up through the levels of the city to the sixth circle and there each day he waited in the stable courtyard for news. After several days his patience was rewarded though the news could not have been worse. Prince Imrahil himself came down to meet one of the returning messengers and from a distance Dariel noted from the Princes reaction that the news was bad.

It was from Dariel that Prince Imrahil and, thereafter the King, learned of Prince Faramir’s personal involvement in and support of the refuge, a responsibility that the Prince agreed to accept in honour of his missing Nephew’s name. As the weeks and months passed with no word of the Prince’s fate gradually all hope of his return faded. Dariel was invited to attend the memorial ceremonies to honour the three warriors of the House of Húrin who had given their lives so selflessly to the protection of Gondor.

But fate had yet one final duty for Dariel to offer his fallen Prince.

One evening early in the New Year, almost a year to the day from when the Prince had ridden away from the city on what would be his final patrol; Dariel was sitting in an inn in the second circle reminiscing with old comrades over a jug of ale. The Inn, a favourite haunt of both serving troops and veterans for its cheap ale and plain but hearty victuals, also drew a fair share of other, more disreputable clients, its many dingy nooks and crannies an ideal venue for illicit trades and conversations. Raised voices were the first indication of the trouble to come and within minutes a dispute between two hooded figures and a trader well known to the city authorities turned violent. All too soon the brawl had escalated into a near riot. Hampered by his disability Dariel could only observe the melee, ducking and knocking away the flying debris that headed his way. Thankfully the Sheriffs and the Duty Guard were soon on the scene, the combatants rounded up and disarmed before being marched under escort to the gaol to sleep off their drunkenness and await the morning assizes.

Dariel could hardly believe his eyes, he recognised the dagger at first glance, lying as it was amongst the inferior weapons confiscated by the sheriffs. When the sheriff had finished taking a statement from the landlord he was surprised to see the old crippled veteran cradling the jewel-handled dagger in his cupped palm.

“Send for Prince Imrahil,” Dariel croaked before the Sheriff had a chance to speak.

“It was just a brawl, no need to disturb the First Minister at this hour. The Magistrate will deal with the matter in the morning.”

“Do as I say!” Dariel ordered, anger sharpening his voice to one countless scores of cadets had learned to disregard to their cost.

“But, Sir…” the sheriff held out his hand to take the weapon.

“Fool! Don’t you understand? Send for the Prince… I know this weapon.” For the first time the sheriff looked closely at the dagger and his eyes widened as he recognised the crest engraved on the blade.

“Now do you understand?” Dariel whispered as he turned the familiar blade over and over in his hand. “I was there when this was presented. It was Lord Denethor’s gift to his son, Lord Faramir, when he graduated… It had a doeskin sheath and Lord Faramir always carried it within his boot.”

“Lord… Lord Faramir.”

“Yes, Lord Faramir. Who did you take it from tonight?”

“One of the two cloaked men, the taller one, I think. The Landlord said they were strangers but that they seemed to know who they were waiting to meet. Apparently the taller one was the one to throw the first punch.”

Word of the trial quickly spread through the city and such was the public interest in attending that the King and Prince Imrahil agreed a plan with the city authorities to allow as wide a cross section of the populace as possible the opportunity to attend. Each ward of the city, each guild, each military company were allocated a number of places, to be selected by ballot. Even so, on the morning of the trial the Great Hall was filled to capacity, as was the courtyard beyond.

The King himself was sitting in judgement with Èomer King and Prince Imrahil at his side. Despite both Kings’ misgivings, Princess Èowyn was also in attendance. Of those present only Prince Imrahil had prior knowledge of the details that were likely to revealed, having himself presided over the interrogation of the two accused.

The prisoners shuffled into the court under heavy escort, their hands and feet shackled. Both men were dressed alike in grey prison garb, their heads shaved. Both men’s faces showed sign of ill-use though most of their bruises, sustained during the brawl, were healing. Only the smaller of the two men had sign of more recent abuse, his right eye swollen and red and his split lip still oozing and leaving a bloody smear on his chin.

“Mathlong, Ex-trooper of the Fourth Company and Gothrick of Rohan, you are charged with High Treason, in that you organised and participated in the attack upon the King’s Company and in the attempted assassination of the King. How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Sir,” Gothrick, the smaller of the two accused whispered.

“Not guilty,” Mathlong spat.

“You are also charged with the torture and murder of Prince Faramir and the twelve soldiers of his troop. How do you plead?”

“Guilty, Sir,” Gothrick muttered, cowed by the ferocity of the King’s countenance and by the outraged mutterings from the crowd. Mathlong remained silent, smirking at the audience.

“Sire, with you permission, the other charges of banditry and theft and desertion have been held in abeyance until these more serious matters have been dealt with,” the court recorder announced. The King nodded his assent and bent over to whisper an aside to Èomer King who then arose and stood before his disgraced subject.

“Gothrick we will hear in due course how you came to find yourself in this dire predicament. But first I would ask you if you have been miss-treated while in custody.”

“No, Sire.” The man would have fallen to his knees before his Sovereign Lord but his bonds prevented him from moving.

“How then do you account for your present injuries?” The prisoner shot his compatriot a fear-filled glance but remained silent.

“Speak man!” Èomer ordered but the cowed man was silent. Mathlong grinned.

The captain of the escort guard stepped forward and requested permission to speak. “Sire, the two prisoners have been held separately since their arrest. They were both examined and treated for the injuries they sustained during the brawl in the tavern. I regret that when preparing the prisoners for court, Mathlong managed to break away from the guard and attacked Gothrick. He also threatened to kill him, Sire.”

“Gothrick,” King Elessar addressed the man directly. “You have pleaded guilty to these crimes. Did you give your confession of your own accord?”

“Yes, Sire.”

“It was not given under duress?”

“No Sire.”

“Were you offered anything in return for your co-operation?” Gothrick glanced at Prince Imrahil who sat impassively at the King’s side. With some reluctance he turned back to the King and nodded.

“And what was the nature of this offer?”

“A quick death, Sire, in the manner of my own people.”

“And that would be?” King Elessar asked the King of Rohan for the benefit of the audience.

“A firing squad of six archers,” Èomer confirmed.

“Oh, well, that is a comforting thought!” Mathlong sneered.

“Better that than to die at the stake!” Gothrick shot back.

For a moment Mathlong was silenced but then bravado got the upper hand. “There is no such punishment in Gondor; that barbaric practice was outlawed centuries ago. They hang ‘um in Gondor and that is a quicker death than your flight of arrows.”

“It is true that death by fire has not been enacted during the rule of the Stewards,” Prince Imrahil confirmed, “ but that is because with no King there was no possibility of committing High Treason. However the Statutes clearly state that for attempts upon the life of the King or any member of the Royal family the penalty is death by fire,” Imrahil explained. Mathlong panicked at this pronouncement, shouting and struggling against his bonds but his thrashings were ineffectual and when he continued to yell and scream the King ordered him to be gagged.

“We are getting ahead of ourselves” the King stated, “details of sentencing and punishment must wait until we have heard the evidence. Gothrick, you have pleaded guilty to these crimes. We would now hear your testimony before the court.”

Flashback

Faramir’s troop waited only long enough to assist Damrod in getting the injured and the dead onto the spare mounts before forming up behind their Captain.

For Faramir every moments delay dragged on his impatience to begin the pursuit. Every time he closed his eyes, every time he blinked the vision of Estel falling from Roheryn with the enemy’s arrow protruding from his shoulder played over in his mind. He could feel the weight of the King’s lifeless body in his arms; feel his hands slick with blood.

‘My fault. My Fault. My fault…’ the inner dialogue taunted, cutting deeper with every repetition.

None of the troops with him knew the Captain well; most too recently drawn from other Companies or too recently gazetteered to know him except by reputation. He signalled them forward, leading from the front through familiar territory.

The passage of the enemy was easy to read in the soil, the mud and the broken down vegetation but the fugitives had the advantage of a head start and, from their tracks, it appeared that they were moving with purpose rather than fleeing heedlessly.

Faramir pushed his troop hard, only stopping for the care of the horses and for his men to take essential rest. He chaffed for every seconds delay, restlessly pacing while the men saw to the needs of themselves and their mounts. He never spoke except to issue orders; his rigid control over his emotions the only defence he could muster against the overwhelming weight of guilt and shame.

They pushed forward until darkness halted their progress, the fear of missing the trail weighed against the urgency of their mission. In those brief hours of darkness the men snatched some rest. Unable to sleep, Faramir spent the night staring up at the stars and willing the night to end. In the grey light of dawn, long before sunrise the troop once again set forth moving now into territory that was unfamiliar to even their Captain. Southeast they rode through southern Ithilien, the mountains of Ephel Dùath looming ever larger as their trail led them up into the foothills. It was harder to follow the tracks over the scree of the lower slopes but as they came to a stream they once again picked up the fugitives trail and turned up-stream to follow the watercourse.

The enemy encampment was deserted and no attempt had been made to erase signs of its presence. From the evidence it was clear that the thieves’ main target was horses and though it appeared many had been recently corralled in the makeshift pens, not a single one remained, the camp apparently abandoned in haste.

The enemy’s tracks led off in two different directions; the greatest disturbance caused by the passage of the stolen horses led further up the pass towards the ruin of Mordor. Instinct prompted Faramir to follow the smaller, less encumbered group whose trail doubled back in a south westerly direction towards southern Ithilien and the River Anduin. After instructing his men to scavenge what food they could find, Faramir allowed his men to rest briefly before continuing their pursuit.

They stumbled right into the ambush at dusk, just as they were anticipation halting for the night. A small stand of trees concealed the blind ravine ahead. With weight of numbers and the element of surprise the bandits surrounded the weary troops, felling two of their horses in the first moments of the engagement. The troops quickly went to the aid of their fallen Captain. The fighting was desperate and bloody. Faramir quickly realised that they were done for but he never faltered, rallying his troops time and again. He was felled when an unseen assailant manoeuvred behind him and struck him on the back of the head. As his knees buckled and his sight went black he knew that he had failed.

Awareness crept over him slowly, his hearing returning before he could force his eyes open. He could hear voices arguing in a foreign but not unfamiliar tongue and in the background he could hear the hushed whimpers of a man in pain. As his other senses returned he became conscious of his own predicament; he was strung up by his wrists, his naked feet barely touching the ground; his arms and shoulders strained and agonised from the extremity of his position. He raised his head just enough that he could spy out his surroundings without alerting his captors. His men were lined up facing him on the other side of the clearing, their desperate faces caught by the flickering light of the campfire. They were all kneeling and bound hands to feet and roped together; two were keening with pain from unbound wounds and were only held upright by the support of their fellows. The bandit guarding them walked up and down the line striking out at random with a stolen horsewhip, all the time laughing at their terror. With horror Faramir realised that this man was not from Harad or Khand, he had the looks of a man of Rohan and he was abusing his captives in Westron.

“Well, well, well, Boys. We have us a fine prize here!” The scared and brutish man standing over Faramir was dressed in a miss-matched set of garb but the emblem of the White Tree was still discernable on his stained and battered tunic, and his accent was undoubtedly that of Gondor.

“Release my men!” Faramir ordered but the man just grinned and casually back-handed him across the face.

“You are in no position to give orders here, Little Prince,” the man sneered.

“Reinforcements are on their way. You will not escape. The King’s troop will hunt down every last one of you,” Faramir promised.

“I think not… your precious King is dead or as good as… our friends from the south have a subtle hand with poisons and if he survived the arrow itself he will not escape its taint… he will die in agony, pleading for death.”

Hope died in Faramir’s soul at the pronouncement. He did not doubt the man. Frequent contact with the enemy in Ithilien had taught Faramir by bitter experience that the wounds inflicted by their weapons were often fatally tainted with poison.

“But we do have a predicament,” the man continued as though unaware of his captives turmoil, “we have too many witnesses to our activities and our trade is too lucrative to wind it up and move in to another area.”

“Why do you do this? Why do you violate the pledge you made to Gondor? You still bear the insignia of the White Tree. What has led you to this?”

“Your Brother!” the man spat.

“What has my brother to do with this?”

“I was a Corporal in his Company at Cair Andros. He had me flogged and demoted to the ranks…”

“Then he must have had good reason. The Captain General was an honourable man.”

“He called me a corpse robber… I was merely retrieving personal belongings from my fallen comrades to give back to their grieving relatives.”

“Yeah, right! Amazing how many of them you was related to!” The Rohirrim cackled.

“Shut it, Gothrick. You weren’t there.”

“Aye. But you bragged about it often enough. ‘A nice little side-line’, isn’t that how you described it?”

“Aye, it was too… until our dear Captain General got wind of it… too squeamish by half… trinkets are no use to dead men.”

“Lord Boromir was a man of honour… a concept about which you clearly have no understanding.”

“Maybe, but I understand about debts and you are going to pay his debt to me in blood. I’m going to make you dance Little Prince,” the assailant promised.

The Man brandished Faramir’s own blade, pressing it against his cheek and drawing it slowly down to his throat and round to beneath his ear, leaving a shallow trail of fire in its wake. He moved behind his helpless captive, tantalising quaking flesh with the threat of the blade. Faramir felt a tug at his back and heard the whisper of the blade as it sliced through the length of his shirt.

“Your hair is getting in my way, Your Highness,” Mathlong taunted, grabbing hold of a fistful and forcing Faramir’s head back. “I think you need a haircut! Allow me to offer you my services as barber.” By this time the rest of the bandits had finished quarrelling over their spoils and were crowding around the fire to observe. Mathlong hacked off the first clump of red-gold hair and held it out for them all to see. To the accompaniment of jeers and taunts Mathlong continued to shear off handfuls of hair until only jagged stubble remained. “Not so elegant now, are you, Little Hurin?”

Faramir said not a word. He had no hope of rescue or survival and an all too vivid imagination as to the fate that awaited him at the hands of these fiends. He could only hope to die with his honour and dignity intact, though he had no hope of either; Mathlong was a brute without conscience or compassion and he was set on revenge. Faramir tried to distance himself from what was happening, blocking out the sights and sounds and the pain by focussing his thoughts on happier times. His detachment only enraged Mathlong further. Faramir experienced a further heightening of fear when the last of his clothes were cut away leaving him exposed and naked. Despite the chill night air he could feel the slow trickle of sweat along his spine. Mathlong, egged on by the jeers of his compatriots, continued to taunt his captive with the blade, leaving shallow cuts to torment him. And still Faramir refused to capitulate.

“Your men have seen you humbled and humiliated, Little Prince, and I had thought to allow them the privilege of seeing you suffer and die, Mathlong taunted, “But I have a better idea…” he walked across the clearing and whispered instructions to Gothrick. The smaller man grinned and nodded and moved around to stand behind the bound troopers.

“How prettily will you beg for the lives of your men, Captain?” Mathlong whispered to Faramir.

“I will keep my honour as will my men. We will die with ‘Gondor’ on our lips. Do what you will. I am honoured to die for my King and my land. In this life or the next, you will have to atone for your crimes. I pity you, Hope has returned to this land and you will not benefit from the days of peace and prosperity…” Faramir’s next words were cut of by a trio of stinging blows to across the face.

“Enough!” Mathlong yelled. “Gothrick, in your own time.”

One by one Gothrick moved along the line of captives. He wasted no time, grabbing a handful of hair as an anchor and slicing through each neck from ear to ear. Faramir held the gaze of each man and blessed them as they fell: ‘For Gondor’ the victims cried until only Faramir’s voice remained.

Before the last body had ceased twitching Faramir was cut down and manhandled to the ground in the center of the clearing and tied face down to pegs driven into the soil.

“Let me introduce you to Khalman, Little Prince. He has said he has long wanted to meet you,” Mathlong said, squatting down beside his captive. “Khalman spent much time in Ithilien during the conflict… his brother was killed by your Rangers… he vowed to make you pay! He has a special talent for wielding a lash… can keep a man alive and in agony for hours… it is quite an art. Have you any last wishes? Any last pleas?”

Faramir remained silent, inwardly pleading with the Valar to grant him the courage to face his fate and looking forward to being reunited with his loved ones beyond the veil.

“You will sing to my tune before you die, Little Prince… you will beg for death…”

End of Flashback

The silence in the courtroom was broken only by the stifled weeping of Èowyn. Èomer attempted to escort her away but she refused to go.

Gothrick’s account had been brief but graphic.

“What did you do with Lord Faramir’s body?” the King demanded.

“Mathlong ordered us to dispose of it in the river, Sire.”

“And you are sure he was dead?” Prince Imrahil questioned.

“He endured much, Sire, but a body can only take so much. When Khalman had done with him there was no life left. Mathlong struck him hard on the back of the skull, just to make sure… then we threw the body in the river.”

“Why not leave his body with the rest of his men?” Imrahil asked. “Why dispose of him separately?”

Gothrick again glanced at his still gagged compatriot before replying. “Mathlong knew that it wouldn’t be long before our ambush was discovered. He wanted to add to the confusion. With no body, on one would know for sure what had happened to the Prince; whether he was alive or dead, hostage or slave!” Gothrick explained.

“And how did you get away?”

“We swam the horses down river to the ferry; we had an arrangement with the ferryman’s son. We hid until nightfall and he carried me and Mathlong across the river, where we disappeared into the port of Poros.”

“And the others? The men of the south?”

“We split from them and they made their way back to their own lands. We were all to lay low until the furore over the Prince died down and then we planned to recommence our operation.”

“So what happened? Why did you return to Minas Tirith?”

“The patrols in Ithilien and southern Gondor made it impossible for us. We were running low on funds and Mathlong knew a man in the city who would help us dispose of a few ‘trinkets’”

“Like Lord Faramir’s dagger and ring and cloak clasp?”

“No. Mathlong never intended to part with those… those were trophies… he’d take those out and gloat over them,” Gothrick explained.

Before sentencing the two men, the King ordered the Mathlong’s gag be removed. “Do you still deny the charges levelled against you?” he asked the accused.

“No. I don’t deny any of it… it was worth it to hear the little coward beg and squeal!”

“That’s a lie, Sire” Gothrick sprang to his feet. “The Prince died bravely. He screamed, yes, so would any man put to such torment… but he never begged or pleaded, not once, Sire. ‘For Gondor’ were his only words right up until the end and then… and then…”

“Then, what?”

“He kept whispering… I couldn’t make out what he was saying at first, his voice was all but gone, but I think he was saying ‘forgive me’, ‘forgive me’ over and over… those were his last words, Sire.”

Dariel was amongst those to witness the trial but he did not live long enough to see the sentence of the Court carried out. He died in his sleep on the night the trial ended. He was buried with full honours and the King himself presided over the internment rites, commissioning a marble plaque to commemorate the faithful soldier’s long and illustrious service.

At the end of another trial, this time in Dol Amroth, the Captain led his young ward out into the courtyard of the assizes. Young Tat was greatly distressed at having to relive the details of Talhir’s attack upon him. Even hearing the severe sentence passed down by the magistrate did little to ease his upset. Cardolan settled the lad in the shade of an olive tree and fetched him a drink from one of the street vendors. It was while uncle and nephew were settled thus that the older man was hailed by a familiar figure.

“Captain Cardolan. What a pleasant surprise. I did not expect to see you here in Dol Amroth.”

“My Lord Prince,” Cardolan returned the greeting, bowing respectfully to his Prince and patron. “It is I who am honoured, Sire. I had heard you now resided in the White City?”

“Much has changed. I saw you come from the courthouse, is everything alright?” Prince Imrahil asked. Cardolan gestured for Tat to remain where he was as he ushered the Prince away from the boy’s hearing.

“An unpleasant business, Sire. My Nephew was attacked by a sailor, a serious assault, only prevented by the quick actions of another of my crew.”

“And the assailant?”

“He will not be bothering other vulnerable youngsters again! He claimed the boy was willing…” Cardolan spat.

“And his sentence?”

“Castration plus twenty years hard labour,” Cardolan explained. “It seems the magistrate has little tolerance for predatory degenerates!”

“And how is the boy?”

“He is well enough, though the assault shook him badly. I have found an apprenticeship for him here in the city. The boy shows the inclination and aptitude to be a Healer.”

“He is apprenticed to the Court Physician?” Imrahil asked.

“No Sire, unfortunately there were no positions available but the senior Healer recommended a man new to the city. He spoke very highly of his skills and I have reason to have a high regard for the healing knowledge of our friends to the south.”

“He is from Harad?”

“I understand he is the son of a slave. His Mother was of Gondor and was captured in a raid and carried off to that land. She was more fortunate than most captives in where she was bonded and her Master took an interest in his ‘son’s’ education. He is a free man and greatly skilled.”

“And you trust him?”

“I trust your senior Healer, Sire. He has promised to keep an eye on the Lad.”

“That is good enough for me.”

“Ah, you may meet him for yourself, Sire,” Cardolan explained, indicating the robed figure approaching them. “ I had arranged to meet him here so that he may take Tat to his new lodgings.”

The new-comer was tall and dressed from head to toe in black silk robes. His face was swarthy and his features favoured that of the Haradrim but his grey eyes and lighter hair spoke of an inheritance more akin to Gondor. The man’s rather severe demeanour was softened by the serenity of his expression. He greeted the Prince and the Captain with a bow. The Prince stepped aside to allow the Captain to conclude his business with the Healer.

“With your permission, Sir, I will take young Tat to his new quarters and get him settled.” He handed the Captain a roll of parchment. “These are the Articles of Apprenticeship; they contain details of the terms of service and the roles and responsibilities of the Master and the apprentice. I have also included details of the boy’s lodgings, which are adjacent to mine. I would be honoured if you would join us for supper one evening before you sail.”

“Thank you, it will ease my mind to see Tat safely settled before I leave.”

He hugged the boy briefly and handed him a small purse of coins. “If you have need to contact me, leave word with the Prince’s Agent. I will endeavour to put into port here at least twice a year.” The boy nodded tearfully and, hefting his rucksack over his shoulder, he allowed his new master to lead him away.

Cardolan turned back to the Prince. “And what brings you to the city, My Lord. I saw the Royal Swan dock last evening… it seemed there was quite an entourage on board.”

“I too had family matters to attend to. My daughter Lothiriel is to be married to King Èomer of Rohan; the betrothal ceremony takes place tonight and will be followed by three days of celebrations. The Royal delegation accompanied me aboard the Royal Swan.

“Would it not have been easier for the Royal party to come directly from Rohan now that the pass under the mountain is open?” Cardolan enquired.

“In future it will be but King Èomer was already in Minas Tirith for the trial of Prince Faramir’s assassins,” the Prince explained. “With that matter concluded it seemed sensible to come here directly. King Elessar and King Èomer both thought it prudent to get Princess Èowyn away from the sad associations of Gondor for a while. She has suffered greatly since we had confirmation of Prince Faramir’s death.”

“Aye. It was a sad business. You have my condolences.”

“Thank you. To lose him in such a manner after all he endured during the war… it seems the Valar have forsaken the House of Hurin,” the Prince said bitterly.

A tolling of the noontide bell alerted Cardolan to the passage of time and reminded him of his appointment at the Agents office. When he explained, Prince Imrahil announced he would join him, keen to see how his business dealings had progressed.

“We have had a good year,” Cardolan explained as they made their way to the dockside. “”The ending of hostilities has been very good for trade.”

On arrival Cardolan was surprised to find the agent already perusing the ledgers while the Bosun looked on. “Where is Min? I left specific instructions that he was to be present.”

“Beg pardon, Sir, but Min is indisposed.” The Bosun’s manner alerted the Captain that whatever had occurred to his missing crewman was more than just a surfeit of sleeping draught.

“Explain!” he demanded

“We were set to deliver the coffers… he got as far as the dock, Sir… he had that look about him, Sir. It was one of his attacks, a bad one, if I’m any judge…” the Bosun explained. “I alerted the crew, so they could look after him and then came here… I hope I did right, Sir.”

“Is there a problem?” Prince Imrahil asked. “May I be of assistance… Do you have sickness on board?”

“No fear of contagion, Sire,” the Captain reassured him. “One of my crewmen has an ongoing affliction which manifests itself as seizures. We are used to dealing with his incapacity, though it is some while since his last attack.”

“You allow such a man aboard? Is that not a risk, especially given how superstitious sailors can be? I’m surprised they tolerate a comrade with such an infirmity.”

“Min is well liked and respected. His instincts have saved more than just my nephew from injury or death. It is his work you see before you,” Cardolan explained, pointing to the ledger. “Min can turn his hand to many skills and it is him you have to thank for the upturn in our profits.”

“If he is so skilled, why does he waste his talents as a sailor? Surely he would prosper in the city?”

“Min is an enigma, Sire. He was at death’s door when we rescued him. If not for the skills of a wise woman in Harad he would not have survived. He remembers nothing of his past and because of his incapacity he finds communication a trial,” Cardolan explained.

“From his obvious skill with numbers he is clearly not simple.”

“No Sire, his difficulties are compounded by a physical incapacity… Min is deaf!”

“You risk much with such a liability aboard!”

“We minimise the risk. Min is not allowed aloft, more on account of his fits than because of his deafness. Being disadvantaged by his loss of hearing he rarely goes ashore but it was his quick thinking and actions in Tolfalas that saved Tat; he put aside his own fears to search for the boy… for that reason alone he will always be welcome on my ship.”

“I am intrigued. I would like to meet this paragon of virtue,” Imrahil paused to flick through the rest of the ledger and pulled the loose leaves from the back. He examined them with some surprise before handing them to the Captain. “Is this his handiwork too?” Imrahil asked. The sketches and doodles were smudged but the quality of the images was unmistakable; birds, fish, scenes from the ship, even a portrait of the Captain at the wheel.

“He is quite an artist…. such a talent!”

“I was not aware that he could draw. I have seen his carving but this…!”

“I would like to meet your artist friend. Would you bring him to the Palace when he is recovered from his current indisposition?”

“I will, of course, convey your request, Sire, but I fear he would not be comfortable away from the ship.”

“Then I will visit him aboard the Grey Swan. Send me word when he is recovered enough to receive visitors. Tell him that I am prepared to offer him my patronage.”

“I am sure he will be honoured, Sire.”

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