Secret (PG) 
Written by Bubbles05 February 2006 | 52192 words
Title: Secret
Author: Bubbles (modernist1970@yahoo.ca)
Pairing: Faramir / Aragorn
Rating: PG
Warnings: AU; discipline
Disclaimer: The following fan fiction utilizes characters, locations, and plot
elements that remain the sole property of the Tolkien estate and other vested
parties. The author of this work has received, and will receive, no monetary
or material compensation.
~You spoke a name earlier, as though it had meaning. Tell me why~
~I owe you naught!~
~Need I remind you of who I —~
~Nay. I know all too well~
~The truth, then~
~You are foul and you will wish this gone~
~The truth!~
~He is... ~
Aragorn woke, his heart beating a strange staccato rhythm against his ribs. Groggy for a moment, he sucked in a breath and shook his head. He rose, swayed, and padded to the window, pointedly ignoring Arwen’s side of the bed. She visited her Lórien kin; he begrudged her not the time but found the sheets barren without her.
The sun was about to lumber up over the horizon, its first glance heatless and full of promise. It held false promise, though, for winter still owned Gondor and occasionally liked to shake it the way a child shakes a beloved toy. The winds would come; the snows would come. The sun could do little but smile toothlessly.
Below his towering citadel, Minas Tirith was stirring. The streets did not buzz with merchants and messengers; no horses’ hooves clattered over stone. But light shone warmly through frosted shop windows and down the way, in front of the stables, the boys prepared buckets of steaming mash for their charges. Smoke rose from the smithy, where old Deninghil was doubtless already hours into a long day. Aragorn ran his eyes down the lanes. There were no children about, yet.
Turning from the window, he drew another deep breath, drawing King Elessar back into his lungs and his heart. Night was a strange and unfettered time: he could cocoon himself in the king’s bed yet be a ranger once more. His dreams could run across the plains and drag him into battle against orcs, uruk-hai, dragons with shining green armour and fiery breath. His dreams could climb into the lonely hills and let him breathe of solitude.
And then the morning would come, as it did. Naught could stop it. He would rise, pad naked to the rimy glass, gaze out over that which they claimed was his, and he would at once feel love and loathing. He loved the people of Gondor — his people, part of the great future of Middle Earth. They stared at him through eyes mortal like his own. They knew he thought strange elven thoughts and dreamed strange elven dreams, but they still looked to him with hope. They were the truer promise, though, despite what all the voices said. They hurried to work, to mate, to be born and to grow. Even to die. Their lives were immediate, immanent, infused with purpose. When he watched them his breast swelled at the sight. Aye, love them he did. But he loathed the endless diplomatic dances and the curried favours that accompanied his station, and how in the streets even the oldest men bowed their skeletal frames to hard labour. The midwifery of it all, the pulling of rocks from the cradling earth, the straining and pushing and pain, belonged to every citizen of the White City. Rebuilding was a monumental task; none who could work was spared. Often the king had stopped, though, upon seeing some aged wisp of a soul struggling to lever heavy stone, and had stepped up to assist.
They were always so reluctant to let him toil.
He sighed and drifted out into the sitting room, his feet soundless against luxuriant rugs. In the adjacent bathing chamber the stone hearth had been lit, and over dancing flames a pot of water boiled. Aragorn emptied it carefully into the cooler water of the tub, then lowered himself in. His day stretched ahead, heavy with meetings. His mind was firmly in the past.
“Sire?”
Elessar blinked and met Faramir’s gaze. The young steward — brother to dead Boromir, son of... Denethor — regarded him curiously. He’d drifted off again, lost focus, and now a pair of sensitive blue-grey eyes was watching his every move. “Aye, Captain,” he returned carefully. “What is it?”
“I was to discuss the guard reports with you?”
“Indeed. Continue.” He watched as Faramir nodded and looked to said reports. The young man’s long fingers held the papers loosely; Elessar found himself staring at those hands. They seemed so soft, yet they belonged to a warrior of great courage and skill and nobility. The fellowship had known naught of him, early on, but for Boromir’s occasional mentions. The love in their friend’s voice had spoken to them, though. It had convinced them: when Faramir had finally come to fight by their side, Boromir’s pride had hacked down all the obstacles to their trust. And now there were surely few who did not feel that same sense of pride, who did not know the Steward of Gondor to be a most honourable and valuable soul.
“ ... thus, it would seem that a transfer is in order for the good of the unit. Would you agree, Sire?”
Faramir was watching him again, waiting. “Aye,” Elessar replied. “Whatever you think is best. Thank you.” He watched as Faramir nodded again and bowed. Light curls fell in front of those sharp eyes — those ranger eyes. Faramir swept the locks absently aside and turned to leave.
Alone, Aragorn edged back in. He stared at the door through which young Faramir had gone, and he listened to the lonely sparrows outside his study window. The citadel was suffocating this day. He rose and moved around the desk. One of his guards would be receiving notice of a transfer — he had no idea who or why, or to where.
The air outside welcomed him, and he moved into the gardens. The streets were filled with people who knew his face and wished to clamour. The main paths around the citadel were walked by servants and guards who knew his face and wished to serve. The gardens were quiet and asked naught. He settled on a stone bench and breathed of the greenery, of the snow’s clear bite and of cold itself, such cold that it could turn grass into crystalline spears and shiver in frosted leaves. He ran his eyes over trees that sparkled, over ground that seemed laid with innumerable jewels, up toward a high gasp of blue sky. He listened to the silence of the stream, frozen in its bed, and recalled how the water had trickled over smooth pebbles. Legolas had once told him that the sound was a form of laughter, and that if one listened to it closely enough one could hear the voices of Middle Earth. But Middle Earth had fallen into what seemed an eternal quiet. ‘twas as though every wild thing, every green thing held its breath, closed its eyes against the bitter wind, huddled like green shoots in hard soil and waited. All of Middle Earth waited for the coming of life, for the sun’s kindness and the rain that would stir dull roots, for the vanquishing of ice. Aragorn sat muted, and felt the deadness of it all.
Legolas was gone back to South Ithilien. Back to Lord Legolas, ruler, rebuilder. Back to elven court and council, back to trade agreements and alliances and the delicate languages of peace. Aye, the ranger mused, his friend was about as content as he within diplomacy’s gilded halls. A sudden ache overtook him and he slid down to kneel by the bench, breathless. They were gone; they were all gone. The elf back to deep soft forests still tinged with Sauron’s black. The dwarf back to glittering caves. Gandalf off to the high lonely plains, somewhere. Merry and Pippin to visit Frodo and Sam in distant Hobbiton. His mate, not due back for several weeks. He was alone, all alone, and now this.
Legolas and Gimli were a mere day’s ride away. Both would come at speed if he called. He needed not suffer to be alone. But... Nay. Nay he was not quite alone. Faramir—
Staggering to his feet, one palm cold against the bench, Aragorn squeezed his eyes shut and recalled the trip his fellows had encouraged him to take. Ensconced in the deep comfortable chairs of his den, warmed by a crackling fire and contemplating their drinks, they had told him to go...
“Estel! You have worked yourself into exhaustion with the rebuilding and preparations for the Winter Festival. I understood your diligence, but the Festival is all done now. Your men can handle things for a couple of weeks while you rest!”
Aragorn smiled at the elf. “I do trust my people implicitly, Mellon-nin,” he conceded. “But my duties here remain.”
“So?” Gimli took a swig of ale and placed the heavy tankard on a nearby table. “Your meetings can as easily be attended by an elf with leadership experience as they can by you!”
“An elf, you say!” Legolas laughed. “What about a dwarf with leadership experience? I do not fail to notice how you volunteer me first, Elvellon.”
“I was just being helpful.”
“Indeed.” Legolas sobered and turned to Aragorn once more. “Gimli is right, Estel. I can easily attend your meetings. The trade negotiations have been completed, so what remains requires simple day-to-day diplomacy. And you will agree that I — if not Gimli — do possess that?”
Aragorn nigh dissolved back into laughter at the glare with which Gimli speared Legolas, but found himself nodding instead. “I am weary to the bone,” he sighed, “and I trust the both of you with everything that is of value to me. With any task or trouble. If this is not too great a burden... ”
“Nonsense!” Gimli interrupted. “Although we each face great trials in our realms, your White City’s rebuilding has been naught short of monumental! I have reserves, as does our pointy-eared friend. Aglarond can do with one less dwarf for a spell.”
“As can South Ithilien. Do with one less dwarf, that is.” Legolas smirked at Gimli, then turned to wink at Aragorn. Will you heed our advice?”
“Aye,” Aragorn smiled, feeling like he’d finally arrived home and shrugged off a burdensome cloak. “I shall take myself out to the lonely reaches of Gondor, spend my days hunting and riding, my nights gazing at the stars and breathing of fresh air. I wish that you both could be there with me, though.”
“We will be,” Legolas asserted quietly. “Of course we will, as you will be here with us.”
Elessar opened his eyes, the garden coalescing around him. Minas Tirith, the familiar stone walls to which he had returned. And the one therein, the person he had never known...
Sighing, he turned back toward the citadel. His office waited, smug in the knowledge that he would always return to it if it sat and expected him long enough. There were reports to read and meetings to attend, things to fill his day that he not think.
Faramir would be there.
Captain Faramir strode to the main guard post on the lowest level. The great gates of the White City towered above him, testament to months of struggle. Those gates had been sundered, lying in twisted impotence on the hard ground. One had, it seemed, been literally flung so that it lay some fifty paces outside the city wall. And the housings had themselves been so badly damaged as to be irreparable. Minas Tirith had stood with a gaping hole in her, a ragged wound of war. But dozens of engineers and builders — men and dwarves and often a single elf as well — had set their minds and bodies to the task, and victory had been gained. Now the gates hung with dignity, their arrogance restored along with their shape. They sighted, sorted, accepted or rejected according to their city’s codes. Aye, they were slaves, but they were slaves with a definite purpose, and in that purpose they found their power. Faramir eyed them.
“My lord,” the master guard greeted.
Faramir nodded. “Well met, Master Lendimir. I have viewed your report on the sighting.”
“Aye, Captain. ‘twas most interesting to see a single uruk-hai, and so close to the city as well. Many of the younger lads had no idea what it was, at first.”
“Did you spy evidence that indicated it might not have been alone?” Faramir let his eyes wander toward the gates as he spoke. He knew that that beyond them Gondor stretched away, flat and snow-wombed, until it met with the nearby Anduin, and from there cloaked itself with trees. Perfect haven for any manner of fell beast.
“Nay, my lord, I saw none,” the guard replied. But I shall shortly ride out there and see if the creature’s tracks tell a different tale.”
Faramir nodded. “And I shall ride with you and your men.” As the guard began to form what he assumed was a protest, he raised his hand. “Master Guard, I insist.” He turned on one heel and headed for the palace stables. “We depart in a quarter hour!” he called over his shoulder. “And we shall see what the tracks tell us!”
And the uruk-hai had indeed been alone, at least when ‘twas spied by the city guard. With the Anduin a muted roar behind him, Faramir crouched to peer at seemingly aimless spoor. The beast had been digging, perhaps seeking food. Voles and other small animals were common in the region, although they would be deep in their warm nests for a time yet. “It must be fairly bad off,” he mused.
“My lord?”
Faramir glanced up at Lendimir’s voice. “The uruk-hai. They do not normally dig for food — such is more the habit of orcs, and desperate ones at that. Uruks typically hunt, skilfully. If this one is reduced to digging like a wild boar digs for tubers, it must be without weapon to do otherwise.”
“Shall we track it, Captain, or leave it and return to the city?”
“I am curious,” Faramir replied, noting what might have been disapproval in the guards’ eyes. Accustomed, he mounted his steed and turned to the others. “We shall ride but a short distance into the wood, far enough only to assure ourselves that it is not lingering nearby. If it is near and if it has company, we shall soon find evidence of such. The king will need sufficient information before deciding whether or not to dispatch a troop.”
“Aye, Captain,” Lendimir replied, then urged his mount forward to take the lead. He did not have to look back to know that his men would position themselves on either side of the young steward.
The trees closed mutely about them, and they rode in sombre pairs. The path narrowed quickly, sugared with snow and still showing the uruk-hai’s sign plain upon it, and they rode single-file. The snow disappeared and twilight advanced, mocking the day that they knew still shone brightly outside — even mere paces into a forest the light could go and the shadows could seem bottomless. The air was chill, but tinged faintly with musk.
When the gates of hell opened, the riders had just fanned out upon entering a small clearing. Faramir’s steed, ever trustworthy, had been ill-at-ease since reaching the wood; now the animal snorted and laid its ears back, pawing at black soil. Its brethren reacted in similar fashion; Faramir and the guards hesitated but an instant before turning to retreat, and what had been nigh preternatural silence shattered into noise. A dozen uruk-hai charged from the nearby brush. Orcs followed, black and snarling.
The horses were of warrior stock, well versed in combat, and stood their ground as men battled beasts. The clearing became a whirling, flashing, blood-spattered arena, swords clanging one against another. The beasts fell; the men fell from their horses and lay still or moaned dreadfully and tried to drag themselves out from under tramping hooves; the shouts and snarls rang forth as both sides took their toll—
Faramir felled another orc and the uruk that came lunging behind it. He swung ‘round and his faithful mount followed, but even as he felled yet another beast he felt a blow to his upper back and was thrown forward. Above him, suddenly, was Callee, grey hide and hair and hooves that struck the ground to either side of his body. The horse kicked, downed a club-wielding uruk, then stood splay-legged over his fallen master. Faramir resisted the pull of darkness long enough to breathe his thanks, and faintly heard a whickered reply.
“Well, I believe ‘tis most important to set such regulation!”
“Bah! ‘tis but a chain.”
“A chain? Sauron was a chain! This is merely a law!”
“Councillors,” Elessar soothed, his voice belying none of the pounding in his head. “I believe that we can calmly discuss this proposed ‘law’ and come to an equitable decision.” He eyed the two combatants, who risked one final scowl at each other before yielding the floor. “Now,” he continued, “shall we weigh the benefits and drawbacks of such a measure?” Silencing the rest of the council with a look, he motioned to Garamar, initiator of the controversy, to speak.
“Well, Sire,” Garamar began, “this law would ensure that horses do not startle in the streets, by preventing... ”
The king strained to focus on the councillor’s words, but they were slippery and kept sliding away. Around him the chamber faded until he was no longer in Minas Tirith but in a small town, a small dusty stretch of leaning houses and shops and a single inn with its requisite tavern. He glanced up the street...
“Can I take your horse, m’lord?”
Aragorn smiled down at a young boy, perhaps twelve years of age. “Indeed you may, with my thanks.” He dismounted, feeling a muscle pull in his lower back, and unburdened Hasufel of his pack before handing the reins to the lad, who offered a quick grin and a jerky bow and then turned toward the stables.
Stretching, he turned in the other direction, toward the inn. His evenings had been spent as planned, under the stars, with only the whispers of night creatures to keep him company, but this night he longed for a cold ale and a softer bed. Three weeks had passed as though only a few hours. With the sunrise he would head for home and relieve his beloved friends of their toil. He smiled at the setting sun and stepped into the tavern’s dimness.
“An ale?” the innkeeper greeted. Small eyes peered out from between folds of quivering flesh, measuring him.
“Aye, and a room.” Aragorn let his gaze wander over tables laden with drink, surrounded by locals. Smoke drifted lazily; every corner held a deep shadow and within each shadow there could be seen the occasional movement, a hand reaching out for a tankard, the glow of a freshly lit pipe.
“Right ye are. I’ll ‘ave the wife show ye there.”
Aragorn nodded his thanks and tossed a coin onto the bar. Faster than most eyes could likely follow, a meaty paw rose to catch it as it bounced, and it disappeared into the innkeeper’s pocket.
The ale was cool and welcome and he took his time with it, leaning on the bar’s worn edge. Another? Nay, he would seek his rest and be off early. He rose and turned.
“You!”
Aragorn startled. Before him stood a tiny, bent man, not much more than a collection of bones with papery skin hung over them. Rheumy eyes that had likely once been ice-blue narrowed as they looked him over. A beak-like nose wrinkled at him, revealing tufts of steel-grey hair that peeked from each nostril; thin lips curled into a damp scowl. Aragorn held his tongue, feeling strangely opened up, his private thoughts and words all spilled out onto the tables to be sifted, sorted, judged.
“I see ye have naught to say, after all this time,” the relic hissed.
“My apologies,” Aragorn replied, recovering himself. “I did not run into you... ”
“Nay, but ye wouldn’t have cared if ye did, would ye? That’s yer way — run roughshod over folks and then forget all about them.”
Aragorn’s temper rose, forcing his unease out of its way. “I beg your pardon, Sir,” he said quietly, “but I am certain I have no idea of what you speak. And your slander offends me.” He made to leave the tavern, to find the fat innkeeper’s wife and be shown to his room.
“Don’t ye now?” the man pressed. “I thought ye were too young to be losing yer facilities, Thorongil.”
“What did you say?” His steps halted, Aragorn wheeled to study his accuser. Something did seem... aye — something was definitely familiar. He peered at the wizened face, catching a gleam of what could have been triumph in its vitreous stare. Aye... “Ferenhil,” he breathed. “Old Ferenhil, servant of Denethor. I remember you.”
“So ye do,” Ferenhil sneered. “Ye also remember the Lady of the house, and her two sons, I am sure.”
“Aye,” Aragorn replied. “Boromir and—”
“Faramir. That’s his name.”
Aragorn blinked. “I know full well his name, and his brother’s. I travelled many miles with Boromir, and Faramir is now my steward.”
Ferenhil uttered a short, sharp bark of a laugh. “Yer steward! Ha! Vile creature, ye are.” Without another word, he spun and hobbled from the tavern.
For several moments, Aragorn stared at the door through which the old servant had gone. Ferenhil. Indeed, the young Ferenhil had gazed at the world through crystal-blue eyes, had raised an indignant brow at every perceived impropriety, had guarded Denethor’s house well. Or reasonably so. The laugh and the last words still ringing in his ears, the faint unease finding its balance once more, he turned again toward the stairs...
“Sire, my apologies!” A young page, flushed and panting, hurried into the chamber. “I was told to alert you without delay.”
The king stiffened as his council materialized around him. “What is it?” he asked, turning to the page.
“A troop of the guards was attacked while patrolling in the nearby wood, my lord.”
“Attacked?”
“By uruk-hai and orcs. The guards and Captain Faramir were out—”
Aragorn was on his feet then, feeling a band tighten around his chest. “Gentlemen,” he breathed, “this meeting is at an end.” He moved past the startled youngster and was out the door before another word could reach his ears.
“I do swear it, my lord: you’re a determined one!”
Aragorn heard the words of Illewyn, the aged nurse, as he approached the House of Healing. Something told him those words were directed toward—
“I assure you, Dear Lady, that I am well. And my duties yet wait.”
Indeed. Aragorn rounded the corner, strode into the sharp-aired chamber with its attentive stone walls and the beds, now filled, which lined them. His eyes raced — skipped — over the still forms of soldiers, bereft of their weapons and their pride, and came to rest on his steward. His Faramir. The young man was upright, at least, and ‘twas a good sign. But not that good. “I suggest you listen to your nurse, Captain,” he advised, noting how Faramir startled slightly at his voice.
“Sire,” Faramir replied, straightening. “I — I did not hear you enter.”
“Apparently. You’ve been injured, the Valar knows how, and yet here you are, quite dishevelled and muddy and seemingly intent on disobeying sound advice from the healers.”
Faramir shifted in place. “My apologies, Sire. I was simply eager to see to the horses, among other things. I am concerned for Callee’s condition: whilst shielding me from the enemy he was apparently struck a glancing blow by an uruk-hai club. And there were other injuries sustained, although none fatal. Thankfully,” he added, eyeing the row of beds, “we’ve lost not a single brave soul this day. I have been assured by the healer that they will all recover fully.”
“Thank the gods for that,” Aragorn murmured. “My Lady,” he said, turning to the nurse. “Is it your considered opinion that Captain Faramir should take to his bed for rest?”
“Aye, Sire,” Illewyn nodded, a smile dimpling her round face. Her opinion was asked oft enough and she knew it, flashing Faramir a silent ‘told ye’ before turning back to Aragorn. “He took a blow to the head, and is not quite steady on his legs as yet. He should be down for this day and this night, at least. Sleep’ll only do him good in spite o’ what he says.”
“Then it has been decided. Faramir?”
Faramir fired a glare at the nurse. “Sire, there were at least two dozen orcs, and half as many uruk-hai. I need to—”
“You need to trust in the stable hands and the city guard, and listen to your nurse,” Aragorn soothed. “If she believes that you require rest... ”
“But Sire — we did not kill all of—”
“Captain! Are you arguing with me?”
Faramir’s eyes widened a touch; a touch of colour crept across his fair cheekbones. “Nay, Sire,” he murmured. “I shall comply, of course.”
“Good.” Aragorn watched as the old woman guided her charge to the nearest bed, pulling the blankets over the way a mother will tuck in a small child. The steward frowned briefly and stared at the ceiling, and Aragorn felt the urge to go tuck those blankets just a bit more securely. There was a draft.
He could feel it.
The sky through the leaded window had sunk from light blue into dark, then down finally to black. Stars had pricked themselves awake; the trees and distant hills had become smooth and subtle, their truths hidden.
He had lain awake until that damnable tyrant-ess of a nurse had come and clucked at him. Go to sleep. Cluck cluck. You need your rest. Cluck, cluck cluck. She had bustled about, bubbling with her own importance, for within the House of Healing she was Nurse. Cluck cluck. Powerless to do more than humour her, he had closed his eyes and feigned a sleep he had not believed would come. A moment later, when he had opened his eyes to see if she’d left, he’d found the sky lightening, the sun rising triumphantly.
Now he peered about the chamber. She was nowhere to be seen, thank the gods. Even a daemonic healing assistant, it appeared, did require some rest. Faramir smirked. The old crone was probably tucked in her narrow bed dreaming of the agonies she could inflict on unfortunate invalids — well, she would not get the chance to mistreat him another day!
Rising carefully, he padded to the door and peeked out. The corridor was empty both ways. It beckoned him.
He returned to his bed and retrieved the clothing that lay neatly folded on the low shelf beside. The scent of soap clung to it; he breathed deeply as he shoved his arms into the shirtsleeves and shrugged into his tunic. ‘twas still a bit surprising to him that he could peel off dirty clothes and have them reappear later, laundered. It had not always been that way. Truthfully, he had taken some time getting used to the idea of not carrying his own clothes down to the washing rooms. But King Elessar’s servants seemed uncomfortable with that sort of behaviour, so he had forced himself to adjust. He took another deep breath, feeling strong. The day peered in at him, sun-filled, glorious. Aye, he would quit this place and be on with his duties.
At the threshold, Faramir paused and let his eyes wander over the sleeping soldiers. Colour had risen in their cheeks and they breathed easily. The king’s men were of superior stock — aye. More intensely mortal, lacking the Dunedain heritage that would extend his life, his king’s life, that had failed in its duty to extend his brother’s life, they somehow seemed to heal quickly out of an urgent sense of their own limited time. But they, like most men he knew, also seemed at ease within themselves. They did not drift as rangers so often drifted. They did not wait to live.
Down the corridor the captain slipped, nigh giddy with a sense of promise. There were days when life rose steeply, and the only thing to do was ride with it.
“I understand that, Sir. There was no way for it to be avoided.”
The head of the guard relaxed and nodded. “’twas a difficult situation, Sire.”
“Indeed. The patients are doing well.”
“Aye, I did check in on them last night, and will be again shortly.”
“I dropped by early this morn. The sun was not yet risen, so I satisfied myself with a brief look and disturbed none of them.” Elessar allowed himself a faint smile at memory of the aged nurse trundling Captain Faramir into bed as one would a toddler. He turned back to the guard. “When will you be riding out to track down the rest of the beasts?”
“In about an hour, my lord. The men are making ready their steeds as we speak. I shall be taking two dozen, and heavily armed.”
“I am more tempted than I can say.”
“Aye, Sire.” The guard offered a smile of his own. “But I would say that—”
“—that the king should not be chasing orcs.”
“I was not going to say it so bluntly, Sire.”
“Ah, but you were thinking it, Lendimir!” Turning on his heel, Aragorn chuckled at the commander’s embarrassment. “And don’t deny it,” he called, striding back toward the citadel.
Inside, his mirth fell away so quickly that he could not recall what had been funny to begin with. Aragorn intruded on Elessar once more. The ranger was stronger than the king, or at least more determined. Before him there yawned a great darkness. It was nebulous and everywhere, like a black cloud. Of what? Or of naught, for it seemed at once there and not there, filled with meaning and devoid of all. He felt a rising nausea and turned in place. Anywhere to look — away, away.
Turning again, he focussed on the solid stone wall and drifted away from his office. His mind was not on his work this day. His legs carried him he knew not where.
But of course, whatever path he might choose, he would go to the House of Healing first. Before he went anywhere else, before he allowed himself time to think, to brood, he would go look in one more time and make sure.
Even half a day away from his office had cost him. Faramir sighed at the stack of papers on his desk. As the king’s steward he dealt with details, often the most tedious of details that Elessar simply had no time to handle. He answered correspondence and scanned requests. He arranged guard leaves and transfers and accommodations for visiting dignitaries. He oversaw schedules and functions and the minutiae in which Minas Tirith humbly cloaked herself. Aye, he was a gatherer of small things, a weaver of threads into the rich tapestry of daily life.
And truly this was important work. Every little detail lent itself to the whole, giving more chance and more credence to the rebuilding. Every time a plea was granted there was another person — another family — in Minas Tirith that saw the smooth functioning of Gondor’s leadership. Even the denials, many and hard, were evidence of a new day, for people had lived too long with no clear leadership at all. And they wanted it, to be sure. Where years had passed under archaic feudal law, now citizens wanted a voice. Where years had passed under the shadows of Sauron, now they wanted light. Aragorn — King Elessar Telcontar — was that light. ‘Estel,’ the elves breathed, and meant ‘hope.’ One man’s legacy was simply that — hope for a future brighter than any they could recall envisioning. The king of Gondor would lead them into the future, like a father leads his children. He, Faramir, would do all in his power to help.
The chamber was musty, lacking the soap-sharp scent of the healing rooms. Pushing the window open, Faramir allowed himself a moment to breathe of freshness. The distant grassy plains were there in that wind. The hills that hunched like sleeping beasts under the sky. The sky itself, blue that could be tasted on the air. He withdrew, settled at his desk, lit the lamp.
He lay awake in the narrow bed, the sun rising heatless outside a grimy window. How long had he stared at the dark wood beams overhead? How long had those words echoed in him?
~Vile creature, ye are~
It pricked at him, the sense of... something. Like a wraith that whispered from beyond the bounds of his memory, it at once intrigued him and made him want to shy away. There was a thing he had missed, some piece of information that he could not see, and now ‘twas at his heels and plaguing him. What was it? With a sigh, he rose and dressed.
Downstairs, he passed the innkeeper. Nay, no time to break fast. He would needs be off. But first... first—
Did he know of the old being? Ferenhil, the name was. Aged, stooped, had been in a day prior. Made a scene, waved a bony arm about before rattling off.
He did? Where? Aye, with thanks. Aragorn passed the stolid man another coin, and in return a meaty arm pointed up the street. The lodging house at the very end. He went.
‘twas a rather sad and small wood building when viewed against memories of the house of Denethor. The castle of Denethor had been stone and parapets, balconies that overlooked gardens where ivy clashed with pink larkspur. Its moss had crept silently over willing ground, soft, pleading, green. And the walls had watched everything but never spilled a secret.
Aragorn blinked, forcing himself back to the town, the building. He paused in the meagre tavern and asked the barmaid for her say. Ferenhil was just up the stairs, aye. He ascended slowly — did he want to know what the old relic had meant? Did he want whatever answer Ferenhil had?
Aye, he wanted. A lifetime he had spent chasing justice, chasing truth. Isildur’s blood slithered through his veins, but Elrond’s teachings fired his heart and his mind. He stepped to the door, rapped on the heavy dark wood. He wanted more than aught; there was never solace to be found in not knowing. A man was not a man if he hid from his own shadows. The door opened into shadow.
“Why do ye come ‘ere?” the old man hissed. “As if I hadn’t seen enough o’ ye to last me.”
“I want to know of what you spoke yesterday, Good Sir,” Aragorn answered. He gathered the reins of his temper and held them close. “I want to know what all of that was about.”
Ferenhil sneered. “Do ye? I wonder that ye show interest now, so long after!”
“Interest in what, I ask?”
“Begone!” The wizened figure retreated and began to close the door.
“Nay!” Aragorn spat, bracing a hand against the wood. “Not until you tell me what I want to know.”
“Ha, so it’s always what YOU want, isn’t ‘t? Always what the mighty Thorongil wants, and damned be all others!”
“Let us not forget that you approached me,” Aragorn seethed, his jaw clenched so tightly it was beginning to ache. “Your obvious hatred made me suspicious from the start; your words now only confirm that you know something I should know. Give me the truth, old man.”
Ferenhil eyed him, still sneering. “I’d not think ye’d want the truth if ye knew what it were.”
Aragorn blinked and shivered as the citadel returned to him, as he returned to it. He was standing in the House of Healing, in a long stone corridor, on his way to the healing rooms. Aye, he had just come from speaking to Lendimir, just come from laughing at his discomfited head guard. Rubbing a hand over his face, feeling the echo of an ache in his jaw, he pushed away from the wall and continued. Damn — he was going back there so often. His mind never saw fit to warn him. It just closed up like a lid on a box, shut out everything in the present and took him back to that damnable little town with the damnable little lodging house. And all those damnable secrets. Why in the name of Arda had he ever—
He reached the doorway and looked in, his gaze immediately landing on Faramir’s bed. ‘twas empty. Empty? Where was Faramir? Where was the young man if not at rest as ordered? Aragorn scanned the chamber — nay, naught. The injured soldiers slept or lay quietly staring at the ceiling. A young nurse drifted from one bed to the next. She did not seem to notice — she did not seem to care about — the cot that sat abandoned, its rumpled sheets testament to the one who had lain there.
Faramir...
The requests just would not stop, Faramir decided. Should an army of giant spiders invade Minas Tirith and eat most of the citizenry, those left would still put quill to parchment and scratch out their wants. ‘I know, Sire, that your council was devoured by an arachnid yesterday morn, but could you address this ever so vital legal matter between my neighbour and me?’ And so on, and so on, and so on.
He sighed, rubbing his temple. An ache had set in. He had been to his work for only a few hours — ai. What a shame ‘twould be were he forced to admit that the abominable nurse, the stuff of children’s nightmares, was right about him needing rest. He imagined her glee, the grim happiness she hid whenever an escaped patient collapsed back into her care.
Rising, he moved to the window once more. The day shone brightly outside and called to him. Oh, to wander down curving paths in the verdant gardens, silent now with winter but still so much more alive than stone walls. Silver and green mingled out there, waiting for the sun’s gaze to become strong enough, and then all would burst forth, rush forth as though in a frenzy of motion — the shoots would push upward from their beds, the leaves uncurl to clothe naked trees. The birds, now subdued, would sing out the glory of it all. Minas Tirith, the White City, rebuilt! Her gardens replanted and grown lush again. Her weary and worn people finally at rest, at peace under their king.
The door creaked and he startled. “Sire!” he gasped, having turned quickly enough to induce a wave of vertigo. He clutched at the desk.
“Captain,” King Elessar greeted, stepping into the room. “I went to the House of Healing to check on your condition, and you were not there. ‘twas a mystery to me, as I clearly recall the esteemed nurse telling me that you needed at the very least a night’s rest.” The monarch’s gaze seemed to measure him.
“My lord,” he replied, “I did get a night’s rest. And this morning I felt so vastly improved that I rose. There were duties awaiting me.”
“The nurse let you out?”
“She was not present, my lord.”
“You did not wait for her, or seek her out to obtain permission?”
“Ah, well, my lord... nay.”
“Ah.”
Faramir resisted the urge to squirm under the king’s gaze. King Elessar truly had a gift in that countenance. The man could likely bore a hole through solid rock, given a little time. He forced himself to meet those grey eyes, steepling the fingers of his right hand on the desk and leaning on them. Just a bit.
“You are dizzy, Captain.” It did not appear to be a question.
“Aye,” Faramir conceded. “I find myself flagging somewhat more quickly than I had anticipated.”
“Then perhaps the good nurse was correct in her assessment?”
“Perhaps.” The word stung.
The king moved to Faramir’s side. “Then perhaps, Captain, we should get you back to the healing rooms.”
Faramir sighed. There would obviously be no discussion. He refused to lean too heavily on Elessar as they quit the office, but his steps dragged and he found the support reassuring.
‘My dearest friend,’ Aragorn wrote. His quill hovered over the parchment, at once eager and afraid. He mouthed the words to follow: ‘Will you come?’
Will you come tell me what I should do in the face of this? Will you, despite your inexperience, tell me how to be a—
A knock shattered his focus before he could reveal too much. “Come,” Elessar called. Ai, though the ranger fought for dominance, so easily did he slip back to king.
“Sire, I beg pardon for my interruption,” Lendimir said, bowing and closing the office door. “But ’tis a matter of security.”
“Security?”
“The orc band that Lord Faramir and my lads and I met. We had at first estimated ‘twas a small group, no more than two score of the beasts, and half that many of uruk-hai.”
Elessar stiffened. “You have reassessed?”
“Aye. Indications, tracks further into the woods, suggest that the group we battled was but a small scouting party, and that... ”
“That... ?”
“Sire, I have to admit I’ve wondered why a single uruk-hai appeared so near the city, within such easy sight of our guard. We had assumed ‘twas unarmed and grubbing for food, but those beasts in the wood were heavily equipped to hunt. And even had they not been, there were equally fertile grounds elsewhere, where the thing could have fed itself without being seen by us. I’ve come to believe that the lone uruk was probably a lure designed to bring us forth.”
“You believe they wanted to engage us? But you called that group a mere scouting party.”
“Aye, Sire. A party intended to scout our defensive abilities, to see how quickly and powerfully we might react to its presence. I am certain the battle was a testing ground, and our readiness was at issue.”
“So the survivors,” Elessar mused, “were likely reporting to a larger main group, taking word of our response.”
“I believe so, Sire. The fight lasted for but a short time, although ‘twas vicious, and then the remainder of the creatures simply fled. We had assumed they were cowardly, without heart — but if they were under orders to study our tactics and then end the battle... ”
“Aye, Master Guard,” Elessar murmured. “Then there is something far greater at work here.”
Minas Tirith had been through it before. Sauron had trained her well in those early days of darkness, back when her citizenry had been soft. They had never been soft to the harshness of life, nay. Daily they had struggled and scrabbled for their bread and shelter. They had coaxed water out of the rocky soil. They had coaxed shoots that became crops that went into their children’s bellies. Grim, they had stored their seeds for long winters, never imagining the ages of winter that loomed. Before the Tears, before the Dark Lord’s rise, they had known feuds, skirmishes, battles.
But they had not known War, and when War loped in it did so with the hungry smile of a predator. Then they knew death with each sunrise, constant crushing repression from above, the huddling of thin hungry bodies around poor fires. They knew days of unravelling hope that turned into fortnights with no progress, seasons of concession that turned into years that turned into decades, all the niceties stripped away as wild dogs will strip the flesh from a corpse. Sauron had taught them all, his marauding minions tearing at walls, at flesh. Little more than bones had come through it. The Ring finally gone, at such massive cost gone, little more than bones had rattled up to greet a new day.
Now the training showed. Minas Tirith swung easily into her own defence. The soldiery embarked on patrols, never less than a score of men. The walls were heavily guarded. Behind those walls, blacksmiths pounded out piles of armour shielding and strong, sharp swords that would cut through the enemy hordes and bring them honour. The clang of hammer and anvil, the smoke from tempering fires, could surely be seen from Valinor, from Mandos. Across Middle Earth, across Arda their battle cries would ring. Victory! Victory.
Messengers were, with caution, dispatched to South Ithilien and Aglarond, and were ordered to take shelter there once the missives had been delivered. Neither Legolas nor Gimli was to attempt the ride, for no place was so perilous as the open plain, no soul so vulnerable as the traveller. They would stay put, fortify their defences, guard their own realms, and wait.
King Elessar strode the inside wall, glancing occasionally at grey skies. Down through the seven levels had he descended, feeling like he moved ever down toward a hell. All was quiet beyond their walls. Down there, out there, something neared.
“Sire,” Lendimir greeted, trotting to meet him and sketching a cursory bow.
“Master Guard. How go the preparations?”
“Well, my lord. The lads are as ready as they’ll be, and I’ve stationed them in pairs every score of paces around the outer wall. We have sentries in each of the high towers,” he flicked a hand upward, toward the blue sky and the stone that clawed upward into it, “and archers in every gate-tower. ‘twould be nice were we to have a contingent of elves...”
Elessar smiled faintly at the guard’s pointed hint. The time had been when Lendimir, like most of the soldiery, had scoffed at the idea of elves ever aiding their ranks. Their pride had stung at the very idea, and the archers among them had redoubled training schedules in silent umbrage. No elven archer would show the men of Minas Tirith how ‘twas done! But of course, one single elven archer had done just that, and the men for all their grumbling had been also awed, also impressed, and had come to respect (love?) that elf almost as much as he did. “I agree, Master Guard,” he nodded. “But our elf is a day away and has been instructed not to come.”
“On pain of your wrath, Sire?”
“On pain of my wrath.” Elessar winked. “Prince Legolas bristles when I see fit to scold him. He is aware that if he were to come, I would — how does he put it? — ‘cluck like an old hen’ until his pointed ears were ready to fall from his head.” Flashing the guard another smile, he let his eyes wander up the high wall. ‘twas thick, solid, reassuring. And yet it blinded him — oh how he would have wished for a pair of elven eyes up in one of those towers, bolstering the sentries.
They waited. The day slowed and sank. A moon rose, thankfully, gilding the land. The nearby woods were a huddled gloom that defied the moon’s heroic attempts, and a mind could easily imagine monsters within. Cloud closed the sky shortly after, and all grew quieter. The air thickened.
Only hours until the sunrise. Two hours until dawn, and then another day they would pass in waiting. Elessar — Aragorn — nay, the king he was, the king; he waited. His guards had protested his presence, but what could they say? He waited, his sword ready. His mount nearby, ready. If the beasts came, he would fight them on city ground. If the beasts fled, he would pursue—
A signal came down from the tower. Lendimir stiffened and turned to Elessar. “They come, Sire.”
“Aye,” Elessar murmured. “I can feel them.” They were coming, the ground trembling so faintly beneath their feet, the air thickening even more. How many?
Lendimir whispered briefly with another guard. “The sentries describe them as a sea, their heads the wave crests. Hundreds, Sire. Many hundreds.” The unspoken question had at once been answered and not.
“Aye,” he muttered. Then: “We shall show them how it is done — correct, Master Guard?”
“Correct, Sire.”
In his dream, Faramir was running. He knew that he dreamed, for the world around him had no colour to it, and he had once heard that dreams are but shades of grey. Was that true? He ran, his feet skimming the grass, and chasing after him came a daemon that pounded the hard ground. It was black and massive, its breath a foetid wind. He wanted it to be gone, to be banished by a great knight, a great hero — he called over and over again for Boromir. He called for... someone! His legs failed him and he was falling as he had fallen every time before. He was staggering drunkenly, then he was going down, so endlessly down. How far was the ground that he could never reach it? How far? He risked a glance back, over his shoulder, and there it still was. Wings curled at its sides; it never flew when chasing prey (why not?), but pounded its clawed feet into grey grass, the sky grey above. Its tail flicked; its tongue flicked out and was steel, clashing steel—
He woke. The clanging followed him — ‘twas real. Voices were raised. Chaos. Battle! Wrenching himself free of the tangled sheets, he lunged for the window. Aye, below. The gates were beset by fell beasts. The walls were lined with soldiers fighting, fighting in a rain of arrows...
The healing chamber was empty but for him and a few of the more seriously injured guards. The rest had been sent to their homes. Faramir seized his clothing from the shelves, pulled on his boots. His sword? Oh, there, against the wall. Aye, he would need his sword—
He sprinted from the chamber, down the curving stone stairs and through long stone corridors until a clouded night sky replaced the ceilings and a chill wind bit at his skin. There was smoke in the air — burning arrows were being fired. Beasts!
Indeed. The soldiers were beset; they fought bravely and hard. Faramir charged into the courtyard inside the massive main gates; he saw his people straining at the enemy; he saw the enemy breaking through, violating, surging like a black tide. The gates had been breached and there was once more only a gaping wound between Minas Tirith and the evil dark things outside.
He rushed forth. A sudden bleed through the hole in their defences. Dozens more uruk-hai had entered, the vicious orcs fawning and slashing beside them. Arrows whirred overhead. His sword warm and heavy, Faramir threw himself into the mass of them. Their smell whirled about, rotted, distracting. The sound of their ragged breathing was chaos, and it added to the chaos in his mind. Their limbs were thick and everywhere. Another swing, another strike, another, another... another. They fell and Faramir staggered.
“—Fara— away!”
What? He turned, reeled, sought the source of the call. Who had shouted so? Another orc came at him and he deflected it, the sword sluggish now. His arms would not obey. He whirled, slashed at the next and the next after. ‘twas cacophony, the sound of them. Their breath was cooked meat and blood and their bodies were stale hide and leather and sweat; they weighted the air with their scent; they pressed down on him. Blood rushed in his ears.
Another came, and Faramir swung to meet its heavy advance. He clipped it with his blade, felt the shock run through him. His balance failed and the weight of his sword began to carry him over. The beast recovered quickly... too quickly—
Part 2
Aragorn cut through yielding flesh. The orc’s grin disappeared and it staggered, its neck gushing a torrent of black arterial blood. It gurgled strangely, then dropped boneless to the stone. The clatter of its sword might have been a death rattle — he could not tell for he was turning again to half-slay the next. Efficiency did that, robbed him of a job done. He rarely killed one of the beasts outright, merely maimed it, struck a grievous blow and then moved on, leaving the rest to nature. Aye, he did not finish the kills himself. Somewhere inside a voice said he should probably feel cheated. Another voice, quieter, said he should probably feel shamed. Letting even the vilest of creatures suffer so...
He swung and nigh severed another orc’s thick leg, drew back, lunged forth, his blade sliding easily between ribs. The beast lurched toward him, snarling, its rage and pain only fuelling it, and he lunged again. Again. It fell from his vision and was replaced by... Faramir! Aragorn blinked — not fifty paces away the captain stood swinging, slashing, engaging the horde. How long had they unknowingly shared the field of battle?
“Faramir!” he yelled, seeing the young man stumble and almost fall over a dead orc. “Away with you! Away!” His throat felt raw; the words clawing up through it. Had Faramir heard him? Was his steward simply disobeying his command?
Then it happened. Aragorn had to turn to meet an uruk-hai head on. He had to turn away from that place where Faramir should not have been standing, should not have been fighting, not now — he parried, desperate, wanting only to get it over with; he snarled at the thing that would have held his attention, and he raised his sword and swung and felt the impact of steel against skull, saw more black blood and viscous brain matter geyser from the wound. He left the thing to fall in its own time and turned back, seeking Faramir, his—
Elbereth. Ai, Valar! A bullish orc, dull black hide with mangy patches of course hair, like the hair that bristles from a malnourished dog. Eyes jaundice-yellow and black, gleaming, jagged yellow teeth between cracked grinning lips. Such untempered ugliness and yet such glee in its own hideous existence. It had no joy left but the joy that came from destroying beauty, and so it tore at the light, shredded all things pure and good, worried decent life like a predator worries its prey. Faramir had struck the thing a glancing blow and lost his balance, and the orc was rising as Faramir was falling, its sword being drawn back as he himself would always draw back before the fatal lunge...
He moved, heedless of the fight.
He reeled, felt the earth and sky both tilt like a child’s spinning toy. He was falling as he fell in his dreams, in all his dreams when he was seeking and not finding, seeking and not knowing from where the next monster would come. All those nights he had wakened with a jerk that left his body clenched like an angry fist, and his breath painfully thin and reedy in his lungs.
This time the earth was close, though. Faramir landed heavily on his side and rolled immediately to his knees. He still had his sword clenched in a bloody hand; he ducked, sensing an assault, and the orc’s blade sliced through the air over his head. The beast surely had its advantage, would take the next opening and drive its blade through him, and all would be done. But he, Denethor’s second son, would go out fighting. He turned, planted one foot, made to lunge upward—
Nay — another fighter was there, another soldier engaging the orc. Faramir caught a flash of wild dark hair flying, of movements so fluid and fast they must have been the natural movements of a soul, like the wild cat’s soul that naturally runs, the hawk’s soul that naturally flies. Such creatures think not of the action, the effort, but breathe it into themselves, become the thing running, the thing flying, the thing warring. Sword met sword, up—down—defend—thrust—withdraw—defend—attack. ‘twas dizzying, hypnotic. ‘twas... King Elessar. The king was fighting. For him. The king was whirling, slashing, fighting to save him.
So the combatants spun and met and parted, solid bodies for a moment, then wraiths floating through the smoke of so many burning arrows. The gods fought like that. Up on their mount in the clouds, they played out their eternal battles for good and evil and love and hate...
The orc-god lost, its grin becoming a grimace as King Elessar’s blade rent sinew, muscle, vital organ beneath. Indeed, the battles all around were turning that way; the soldiers of Minas Tirith — the man-gods — were holding their mountaintops fast, driving the enemy back into oblivion. Down with the damned those orcs and uruk-hai fled. Down with all the little creatures.
Faramir felt his strength, which had waxed so sure in the first moments of wakefulness, wane. His head throbbed; there was a shrieking in him; his body shrieked its pain into his mind; a darkness stole over the world. Vaguely, he pondered vomiting.
“Faramir! What in the name of Arda were you... Faramir?”
Oh. Better not. “Aye, Sire,” he murmured.
Aragorn watched from the doorway as healers rushed to their tasks. Sixteen soldiers were dead — fine young men, all. Their families had lost much, and would need a visit from the king. He would extol to each family its loved one’s bravery, offer his small words of solace. Could there be any solace to losing a child?
Nay. The dead, however young, had not been children. Many had been married with children of their own. With wives who were now widows, black-veiled black-eyed symbols of the cost. Those women would drift through Minas Tirith like ghosts, unable for a time to root themselves in the soil of their own lives. Their young ones would be brave for them, so painfully brave. The soldiers who had served with their husbands would become shoulders and strong arms for them. But still they would wander, empty. All those left behind would be temporal and small and sad.
So many would suffer. But of course his thoughts had run automatically to the parents.
A nurse tended Captain Faramir. THE nurse, in fact: good Illewyn clucked ceaselessly, her patient’s wishes irrelevant next to her duty and her long-held instinct to mother. After having lost sight of him once, she appeared ready to brook none of Faramir’s melodramatic sighs, and she ignored the frown that seemed nigh ready to turn into a full-blown pout. His limbs were in the way as she swiftly divested him of tunic, shirt, boots and breeches. His hands were nervous flutters that sought to preserve at least a modicum of his masculine dignity; she slapped them aside and continued.
“Sire.”
Aragorn startled at the whisper. Forcing down his reaction, he turned reluctantly out into the corridor. Lendimir stood, dishevelled and grimy. Blood crusted in trickles down one side of his grim face and clotted darkly on his armoured breast — the red blood of fallen friends. The sword he carried was coated in black blood and gore, bits of flesh and coarse hair still clinging to the blade-edge. Aragorn took in the sight before the smell wafted over him: ’twas the reek of decay, and he could imagine Lendimir eviscerating a beast and barely noticing as bile and bowel flowed over the sword, over the hand gripping it, over the arm attached to that hand. The unmistakable smell of battle — he surely smelled that way himself.
“What say you?” he asked, matching the other man’s whisper.
“Apologies for interrupting you, my lord. I come to report that there are very few enemy survivors. The lads chased after a small group of orcs that was attempting to slink away. The beasts were wounded, to a one, and could not make haste — we finished them.” There was pride in that voice.
“I want the dead seen to.”
“Aye, Sire. We’ve dragged the enemy corpses outside the walls and are preparing the fire. ‘twill burn bright enough to keep predators at bay and also provide us much light by which to guard the main level gateway.”
“How much damage was done there?”
“Repairable, the engineers say. A laborious task ‘twill be, but the gates will stand noble and strong once more.”
“Very good. I want that seen to with all due haste. They are not only our safety, but a symbol of our strength.”
“Aye, Sire.” Lendimir cast a brief glance into the healing chamber.
“My deepest apologies, Master Guard,” Aragorn murmured. “I know you have lost much this night, and that you are concerned first and foremost with your lads. Duty takes you from their side now, when you doubtlessly wish naught more than to remain there.”
Lendimir bowed. “If I can not be with them, Sire, I am still at peace knowing that you are nearby.” With another bow, the guard moved off, then halted. “Are you alright yourself, Sire?”
“I am fine, Lendimir.”
Lendimir’s brown eyes studied him for a moment, and Aragorn was ready to offer a stronger dismissal when the guard bowed once more. “I shall return to my duties, Sire.”
Nodding absently, Aragorn watched the man’s departure and then turned back toward the healing chamber. He ached to be inside it, helping, offering the skills he had learned in his long years at Lord Elrond’s side, but the staff would regard him as a patient. They would look at the blood that trickled from his arm and insist on treating him first, and he could not allow them to do that. There were hurts far worse than his few scratches. He tried to think of happenings beyond the clean bare walls, beyond the sickness he still felt inside at the memory of an orc rounding on Faramir. A massive fire would needs be built outside Minas Tirith. Flames would light the Pelennor, the grassy plain, the edge of the distant wood. Smoke would drift through the White City, carrying on it the smell of charred flesh and blood and hair; all the citizens would breathe it in. Aragorn, feeling Elessar settle back into him, wondered vaguely if that smell would seem to them like victory.
Indeed the invasion was over. The attackers had sent virtually every body and blade they had left to topple the great White City, that symbol of the triumph of men, of all free beings in Gondor. Sauron gone, the Ring gone, now there existed only fragments of a once overriding evil. The tribes of wandering orc and uruk-hai had lost their glory. They were black creatures from whom purpose had been torn, leaving them only the succour of their bitter hatred, their desire for revenge.
The gates rose like a new day. Afternoon, ‘twas, three days after the deadly night. There had been no further signs of orc activity, but the plains around were suspect and the gloomy woods more so. Caution warred with joy. The sun had turned fat and orange, but was not warm enough yet to thaw the frozen ground.
Voices rang out in the streets. Mongers hawked rough-woven cloth, potatoes clinging with black soil, chickens, leather goods and knives and herbs for tea. Laughter carried down lanes, curving around houses where women leaned out the windows to chatter with their neighbours. ‘twas release, all of it. ‘twas freedom hanging on the air.
“Excellent work,” Elessar praised. He stood watching them finish, thinking of damage done and damage prevented. Somewhere in his mind, an image of Faramir falling, slowly, heavily, played itself over and over again.
“My thanks, Sire, and the thanks of my workers,” Beloden grated, bowing. “But of course my lord did toil greatly as well.”
“As is my way,” Elessar replied. Did the head engineer’s eyes harbour a trace of disapproval? He felt a flare of amusement but could not quite smile.
“Sire!”
He turned. “Master Guard?”
Lendimir trotted to meet him. “You wished a reconnaissance report forthwith, my lord.”
“Aye, indeed. What say you?”
“The lads and I have patrolled thoroughly. We located their base, some distance into the woods. There they had several deep caves they were using for shelter. They’d camped in the spot at least a fortnight, from the looks of things.” The guard wrinkled his nose slightly.
“My sympathies, Sir,” Elessar replied. “You believe they are gone?”
“We are not entirely certain, Sire. We do know that when they made their craven attack they sent in the vast majority of their forces. And that we took the fire right out of them.”
“And they worked under their own motive?”
Lendimir pursed his lips. “There is no indication they followed any other. Perhaps they still laboured under their original orders.”
“Perhaps.” Elessar shook his head, forcing down the questions that clamoured to be asked. ‘twas not unknown for bands of orcs and uruks, even after their leader’s fall, to organize and plot, at least after a rudimentary fashion. Perhaps this had been no more than the dying thrust of a defeated enemy. “I suppose we will have to remain vigilant and await the future,” he said.
“Aye, my lord. And we will.”
“The survivors — do you have a more accurate guess as to their strength?”
“I do not believe they exceed fifty, my lord.”
“But where.”
“Indeed. We will rest the horses and ride out again at dawn. I am wary of sending any patrol in the gloaming, for those forest climes are dim even as the sun rises high.” Threats would come at night, Aragorn knew — they all knew that threats would come at night.
“I shall ride with you,” Aragorn murmured. He needed to know for sure that they were gone, and not just gone for the moment. They had to be firmly on the retreat. There were things he had to protect, now.
“Sire?”
He blinked and found the guard eyeing him. “Excuse me?”
“I suggested that my lord’s time might be wasted on what will likely be a fruitless patrol.”
“You would not be suggesting that the time is not mine to waste?”
“Nay, Sire,” Lendimir said stiffly. “We shall of course welcome your presence.”
“Alright then. I shall be ready at first light.”
Lendimir bowed briefly and strode off toward the main guard housing. The injured soldiers from the first ambushed patrol had, to a one, been released; a few were easing themselves back into full duty. But the House of Healing was filled once again and these guards, flesh torn by sword and arrow, bones smashed, blood poisoned, would not be discharged so quickly. Some, weakening despite their valiant struggles to live, would not be discharged at all. Eighteen was the toll now, and ’twould rise. More soothing words to bereaved parents, wives, children.
He would not have to hear such words himself and then drift half-alive through the grief of the aftermath — he felt a rush of fullness and joy. Relief crashed over him, buzzed in his ears, and he breathed in smoky air that had a slight sweetness to it.
He had been discharged, at long last, the morning previous. What a ridiculous sense of propriety they had, those healers! He huffed to himself. The idea of keeping a patient with such minor injuries, of devoting time, space, and care to him while grievously wounded soldiers needed it all more—
Shaking off the irritation, Faramir turned back to his desk. Indeed the stack of documents had only grown more daunting with his absence, and all of them needed his personal attention so that they not bother the king. Two local innkeepers appeared to be embroiled in a spot of drama, their pettiness exacerbating what might only have been mutual irritation between more noble souls. The first had begun the festivities by casting garbage out into the alley between their establishments, attracting vermin which had plagued the second’s kitchen. The second had responded by flinging several dead rats in through one of the open side windows of the first’s premises. The first had responded to THAT by throwing a few small rocks through one of his neighbour’s CLOSED side windows; the second had thrown a brick... at the first. Now they wished a mediator. “First thing they’ve agreed on,” Faramir sighed, “and it has to involve me.”
A knock roused him from his musing, and he welcomed the distraction. “Come,” he called, then stiffened as the door swung open. “Sire,” he greeted, rising. “I-I had not expected you!” Damn, but the office was a mess.
“I... ” Elessar gracefully sidestepped the door, then closed it. “I thought I would come to see what trouble my steward has found for himself.”
Faramir felt a smart response rise in his throat and forced it down. There seemed to be an odd glint in the king’s eyes, an odd sort of mirth playing about the regal features, and it tugged at his typically dormant wit. The king of Gondor was not a stodgy old ruler, not a Denethor, truly — but a captain yet had to mind his tongue when speaking to his sire. Distance moved between them until Faramir opted for a perfunctory nod and stepped around the desk to meet Elessar. “I trust the repairs have gone well?” he inquired, indicating two chairs and waiting while the king settled.
“Aye, it has indeed. The gates have risen again, stronger than before. Those few shacks that burned in the rain of flaming arrows are now being rebuilt. The walls have been fortified so they stand stronger and more defensible than they were before. The engineers have honoured their craft.”
“I have regretted my unfitness for work, my lord,” Faramir said quietly.
Elessar blinked at him. “I have not, Captain. Regretted, that is. You were discharged with strict instructions not to overdo things, and I am most happy to see that you have followed the healer’s advice, for once. I... did not mean to suggest that I was aught but satisfied with your conduct.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
Silence took over the chamber. The king glanced about, seemed to study the bookshelves, then nodded and rose. “I shall leave you to your duties, Captain.”
“Aye, Sire. Thank you, Sire.”
On the threshold, half in the corridor, Elessar half-turned. “Do not strain yourself, Faramir.”
Alone again, Faramir eyed the bookshelves. He eyed the chairs, the distance between them, the desk embarrassingly cluttered with texts and scrolls. He stared at the door, vaguely disturbed.
When the guards rode out at sunrise, their king rode beside and brooked no arguments. A patrol had previously ventured as far as the orc camp that formed a gangrenous patch on the forest’s skin. They had examined the trampled dirt, put up with the lingering stench that filled their nostrils, estimated the number of small animals that had died to create the piles of bleaching bones near the cave mouths. The beasts were no longer in that camp, dead embers from a dozen small cooking fires testifying to absence. But no lack of evidence could testify as to the destination or intent of the survivors — had they limped away never to return? Had they only moved a few leagues, then erected a new camp with new fires to warm them whilst their wounds healed?
Might the daemons again be fashioning weapons, recruiting new fighters from amongst the scattered roving orc groups that still plagued Gondor’s wilds?
Aragorn moved to take the lead, but Lendimir urged Settys into a trot and overtook Hasufel. The ranger sighed mutedly, schooling his features. Out wheeling over the plains with his peers, he had oft led, back when leadership had been for him a novelty to be pursued and then just as quickly rejected. Another ranger would move up as he withdrew, and so in the early days no single soul had become the permanent head of that fluid group. Out on the Quest, his ranger experiences serving him, he had indeed led. Such had not been questioned by the rest; his skills and his knowledge had been looked to by eyes both eager and seasoned.
Now Elessar existed and made demands. The king. The King. The ruler of Gondor was not a ranger any more, and could only remember. The ruler of Gondor had to be protected by those who defined their lives as less meaningful than his.
Settys halted, head up, ears pricked forward. Lendimir sat erect, listening; a moment passed before either relaxed. Not too distantly there was a cracking of undergrowth, the slow movement of something large.
“Master Guard,” Aragorn called quietly.
“Aye, Sire. ‘tis naught — likely a warg.”
“I hear it.”
“It moves away from us.”
“Aye, you are right.”
They continued. The path widened as the trees clustered about each other less determinedly, and then they were moving through semi-forest, thinning stands of evergreens separated by wildberry bushes and bare soil. The tracks were more visible, and led them.
“They head northward, Sire.”
“Aye.” The spoor did not deviate upon leaving the woods altogether, but clung rather tightly to an unseen line that traced its way north, away from Minas Tirith. “They seem purposeful.”
“Their purpose being to put distance between them and us.”
“Indeed.” He smiled. “I wonder why they did not linger to make their proper farewells.”
“Perhaps, Sire, they believed we would make a more... permanent ‘good-bye’ for them than the one they desired.”
“Perhaps.”
“‘twill be good to resume the routines of life, my lord.”
“Aye, Lendimir, it will certainly be.” Aragorn looked ahead. The track continued, a straight cut across the grassland. It faded into the distance without veering. The grass grew to conceal it; further on there emerged the rocky terrain of hills that humped up from the plain. The beasts were travelling quickly, and relatively light — there were no indications that they had met allies along the way. In all likelihood, they were heading for the deeper woods of the north, the darker wilder places where evil things could still hide and await their next chance to strike. The south of Gondor was grown too crowded, too tramped by men and elves and dwarves; settlements were blooming; trade was flourishing. Even the dark woods were losing their gloom, their trails worn by hooves and boots. ‘twas no surprise that creatures of darkness would resent such change and seek new climes.
“‘twill be good to settle down a bit,” Lendimir said.
Aragorn nodded.
“And perhaps my lord can invite a couple of his fellows from the Quest to come for a visit.”
Aragorn started to nod his agreement, then blinked. “Are you trying to say something, Master Guard?”
“Nay, Sire — I was... attempting to make conversation.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye, Sire.”
Aragorn urged Hasufel full abreast of Settys. “I am not certain that I believe you, Sir,” he said.
Lendimir glanced at the king, then sighed faintly. “Sire—” he began.
“Aye? Spit it out, man.”
“You have seemed somewhat... distracted, of late.
“Have I?”
“I meant no disrespect, my lord. I merely thought that a visit from your fellows would bring you peace. I shall not bring up the matter again, my lord.”
“Well and good — I do not wish to discuss my ‘distraction,’ or aught else, with you at this time.” Elessar motioned to the others. “We return now.”
“I told ye, I’ll not be putting up with such nonsense from an idiot!”
“Ye call ME an idiot? Ye throw rotten food out in the lane and then wonder why we both got rats? Yer mother was a stupid swine, and yer father too!”
“Gentlemen!” Faramir chided. He eyed his two guests in turn from his position at head of the conference table. From their positions on either side, the men glared each at the other. Their wine goblets remained untouched. “Gentlemen,” Faramir repeated, “I am quite certain that if we discuss this matter rationally—”
“My lord,” the rat-thrower interrupted, “I would say yer intentions are most noble but ye cannot speak ‘rationally’ to a fool! He understands orders, and that’s the whole of it!”
“Orders, ye say?” the garbage-dumper exclaimed. “What orders would those be, then? The ones that say I can put out my garbage beside my property if I like, and ye can’t do aught about it?”
“Nay! The ones that say ye can’t expect to lure rats into MY kitchen and get away with it! My lord, pray tell him!”
“I would begin by saying that both of you have legitimate complaints,” Faramir sighed. “Perhaps we could—”
“My premises, my garbage, my business!” Garbage-dumper was on his feet now.
“Not when it brings rats into MY business! And I never broke yer window, either!” Rat-thrower had a point on that one, and he knew it.
Faramir rose as the two parties drifted to the far end of the table, presumably where they could berate each other without his assistance. Garbage-dumper — nay, do not get into the habit of calling him that, not even silently — was turning an alarming shade of red, and Ra— the other — did not look much calmer. Their voices rose; the steward moved to separate them.
“Ye think throwing a brick at me isn’t as bad?”
“I wish my aim’d been a mite better — might’ve knocked some sense into yer fat ugly head!
That was it for diplomacy. The one who he would thereafter refer to simply as “the first” released an ear-shattering bellow and charged, and the one he would call “the second” assumed a fighter’s stance, ready. Faramir did not contemplate the inanity of the situation — two grown men fighting over discarded trash and flying rodents — but stepped bravely into the space between them. “Halt!” he shouted, injecting all the authority of his station into that word. He was the Captain of Minas Tirith, Steward to King Elessar Telcontar... Ranger, Warrior!
He was, it seemed, merely an obstacle to the innkeepers. The first, who Faramir currently faced, feinted right (Faramir’s left), then darted left (Faramir’s right) when the second (who Faramir had trusted just enough to turn his back on) rushed in that direction. They lunged, retreated, faked and lunged again. Faramir gave up the idea of shouting and waited for his chance: it came, and he tackled the more reasonable second, hoping to force a temporary retreat on the part of the first. As he fell with an enraged citizen beneath him, he pondered his earlier decision not to bring a guard to the meeting.
The sun was sinking heatless in a pale sky when the orc-hunters passed in through the great rebuilt gates of the White City. Behind them the plains stretched, endless. The Anduin rushed. The wind spoke of places it had seen, places where men were still loathe to go. And the guards ponderously swung the gates first open, then closed once more, shutting in the men and horses, shutting out the enemies and the things not yet tamed.
“Sire,” a stable-hand greeted, taking Elessar’s mount. The horses were due a good rub-down and a bucket each of hot mash in their warm stalls, and their steps became eager; Elessar felt a similar urge for a hot bath and a meal. He climbed from the first level, up through dying market stalls and washer-women bringing in dry sheets, his gaze on the citadel which towered overhead.
He made it as far as the main hall. Entering the familiar stone and tile, his footfalls muffled by thick rugs, his eyes relaxing round the warm tapestries and lit torches, the king would have sighed in pleasure — had he not been greeted also by the sight of two men, presumably citizens, being manhandled down the corridor by citadel guards. He could hear mumbled curses; the two appeared combative. “Hold!” he called, and waited while one guard detached himself from the group.
“What is this about?” he demanded as the young soldier bowed before him.
“Sire, my apologies for such a disturbance in your halls. Those two are innkeepers both, of neighbouring establishments. They’ve been mutually hostile, each bad as t’other, and Captain Faramir met with them in the council chamber this day, in hopes of attaining a treaty.” The guard cast a glance back at the men waiting in his fellow’s custody. “Or at least a cease-fire,” he added, turning again to the king.
“I gather the meeting was unsuccessful?” Elessar presumed. “Why were they arrested?”
“They physically attacked each other, my lord. When Captain Faramir attempted to intervene—”
“Intervene? In his condition?”
“Ah... Aye, Sire. He stepped between them.” The soldier’s eyes were wide. “H-he was trying to prevent violence... ”
“And?”
“He was struck in the melee, my lord. We do not know which—”
“Struck? Is he injured? Speak!”
“Nay, Sire! He said he felt alright but was a little tired and would retire to his apartment for the evening. He appeared well enough.”
“How was it that this happened before the guards could become involved?”
“Uh... none of us were present, Sire. Captain Faramir did not require a guard for the—”
“I would say that he most certainly DID require a guard, Sir.”
“A-aye, Sire. He did not elect to have any guards present, however, so those of us posted at the main doors only responded when we heard shouting in the conference room—”
“Alright. Dismissed.” Elessar waved a hand and the lad bowed before hastening off. He raised the hand to massage his temple, where a low throb had been demanding his attention for several hours. Two obviously hostile parties and no guard. Damn that Faramir.
Raising a hand, Faramir gingerly massaged his temple. The skin was warm, bruising; he would have quite the black eye to show for his efforts. He drifted to the window and looked out over a city that glowed gold in the last dying rays of sun. Each day grew warmer — life was returning with each icicle that melted. And Minas Tirith would shine gold and white for all of Gondor to see. ‘twas at such times that he could forget his weariness and his sense of standing still amid endless diplomatic details. Damn, but he’d wanted to go out with the patrol. King Elessar had practically hit the ceiling when he’d asked.
A quiet knock at the door, and he knew who it was. He opened it, stood aside. “Please come in, Sire” he invited, tugging discreetly at the hem of his wrinkled tunic.
“Faramir,” the king began, stepping briskly into the room and running keen eyes over him. “I hear that you were assaulted!”
“‘twas not an assault so much, Sire, as an accident. I was holding a meeting—”
“Without benefit of a guard, I am told.”
“They were just innkeepers, Sire. I did not think—”
“You did not think, Faramir. They were hostile and belligerent, with a history of mutual violence. I have heard the tale from several members of the guard, and can scarcely believe that you would be so careless!”
“My lord, the situation simply got out of hand!”
“The “situation,” as you put it, is not one into which you should have wandered, Captain.”
Wandered? “Sire,” Faramir replied tightly, “‘tis a part of my role here to MANAGE such affairs. I wandered into naught, but attended to duty as befits my position.”
“Are you arguing with me, young man?”
Faramir felt heat flooding his face. “Nay, Sire. I-I would never... ” He blinked and looked hurriedly at the floor. “I apologize, Sire, for my indiscretion. The evening has been... a strain. May I be dismissed?”
“Nay. We are not finished! You have yet failed to answer me why. After I told you not to put strain on yourself, why did you disobey me?”
“I did not disobey you, Sire! I fulfilled my duties!”
“Your duty was to recover! How could you be so careless? Do you have no sense?”
“Oh, let me alone!” Even as the words leapt from his mouth, Faramir clamped a hand over it. Oh gods, too late. “Sire,” he choked out, falling to his knees, “I’m sorry, I am sorry — I did not mean it!”
King Elessar sucked in an audible breath and moved to crouch in front of him. “Nay, Faramir,” he said, and his normally strong voice seemed to shake. “I am the one who is sorry. I regret my words and my tone. I’ve pestered you incessantly over this; I’ve harangued you when you so obviously need your rest. Peace, Faramir. Please.”
Faramir saw the king’s extended hand and grasped it, allowed himself to be helped to his feet. His head was throbbing again, worse than before. He felt a burning behind his eyes and cast them downward. “I do feel weary, my lord,” he whispered, not trusting his voice.
“Of course you do. I am sorry. I shall leave you to get some sleep.”
Nodding and executing a poor excuse for a bow, Faramir watched the king depart. At the door’s closing he exhaled an unsteady breath. Oh, to become so emotional in front of one’s sire! The shame of it, the shame of it. In his father’s house he would not have dared such an outburst — Father would have beaten him within an inch of his sorry life for it. The shame, his mind echoed. King Elessar treated him so well, and all he could do was be spiteful about it. He rubbed his eyes and sniffled.
But ‘twas it the king’s way to shout and say such things? His unease was stronger; he recalled the visit in his office, the way the monarch had seemed wont to linger, well nigh to hover. From further back came an image of King Elessar fighting an orc, wild dark hair flying like a banner of freedom between him and death. That man had given him life, truly.
‘Shame,’ his mind echoed again.
~As if I hadn’t seen enough o’ ye to last me~
~I want the truth, old man; I want the truth~
~I’d not think ye’d want it if ye knew what it were~
~Tell me. You spoke a name earlier, and it obviously had meaning. Tell me~
~Don’t ye know everything already, now? Don’t ye know how to sneak around, Thorongil, to put yerself where ye should never be?~
~I do not know what you mean...~
~Sure ye do. Sure ye did. The Lady, that is~
~What is this about? Why do you plague me now, after so long?~
~The great Thorongil expects to do what he pleases and never be questioned. Aye, because he’s the king of all Gondor, the king of all in Gondor, and he can have his pick of the lasses~
~I am wed!~
~Ye never saw marriage as an obstacle before~
~That was... different — she was so alone, so abandoned by her husband~
~Of course she was. Of course that made it alright~
~‘twas a long time ago — a lifetime ago~
~But it remains~
~What remains? They are dead~
~Not all~
~Not you, not me~
~Not all, I said~
~What do you want from me, old man?~
~Stop calling yerself noble. Stand up and take responsibility~
~For what?~
~For—
Aragorn gasped and opened his eyes. The lamps still burned; the fire had not died in the hearth. Panting, he scanned the sitting room, let his gaze land first on the flames in front of him, then on the table at his side, the candles, the empty glass, up the tapestried walls, shadows flickering over portraits of the past.
He drew a deep breath and forced himself to release it slowly. Stretching both arms over his head, he groaned as the knots in his shoulders loosened. The time had been that he could have slept all night on stone floor without feeling it; now a stuffed chair by a warm fire was not sufficient for his muscles.
Rising, Aragorn surveyed the chamber once more. ‘twas eminently comfortable, decorated not only according to his tastes but to his wife’s as well, so that masculine and feminine mingled, became a thing to please them both...
Arwen. He sighed. She would return anon to this, and he would have to tell her all. Every shameful detail of it, every bad decision (could he call the decision bad, when such a wonder had come of it?). Every mistake, past and present. His failure to tell her of any of it upon his return, the omissions, the silences, while this new truth had weighed strangely in his mind and heart. He imagined hurt in the dark oceans of her eyes, disappointment. Happiness, perhaps? Tangled in with the rest, could there be happiness for him?
The bedchamber was dim and promised more sleep. Aragorn turned away from it, so weary but unwilling to yield. Sleep promised more dreams, and he accomplished naught by reliving the old servant’s words over and over again. He reached the door, felt a sudden need to go check on Faramir, make sure the young one was sleeping well. But he could not; he could not. There would be questions, and he could not. Out into the silent grey corridor he slipped, down dim stairs to the hushed main hall, out into the night.
Master of the guard had its benefits, surely. Lendimir had earned through long service the right to spend his nights in his warm bed, his beloved Reyann at his side. He well remembered his sacrifices — and hers — through the years. All those nights deep in a dripping forest, out on a frost-tinged plain, standing by a gate, by a guard shack, by a jail cell or a closed door. All those nights she had waited for the morn, praying that he would return home to her, and then greeting him with her pale smile and her limpid eyes, and the thin arms that could warm him like no fire ever would. He had promised her, upon being selected to lead the guard, that she would spend no more nights thus, waiting for a distant dawn.
But some nights he still slipped out of her willowy embrace, left her cocooned in their bed and slipped from the home in which they had joyously raised three daughters and two sons and mourned two others dead in infancy. Some nights he felt the need for silence and solitude both, for the counsel of cool black sky and for the stars that sparkled like ice.
He nodded perfunctorily at the few guards who passed on patrol. They smiled and nodded in return, probably assuming that he came to inspect them. Their boots rang more sharply on the tiled paths as he passed, but once he was round the corner or beyond the shrubbery he could hear their steps become dull and tired once more. It did not matter how they walked, though, as long as they were awake and alert, watching for trouble.
Torches flamed, lighting the garden paths so that, even in the darkest night, visitors could still wander and see the perfect red of a winter rose, the shining green of ivy that curled up into the trees. Lendimir wandered idly down, up, across small arched bridges that traversed streams. He breathed of the air, found it sharp and familiar, and then—
Pipeweed. Aye, ‘twas pipeweed he smelled. Stepping more quickly down the path, Lendimir reached one of the small tiled clearings where walkers could rest on stone benches and be amid the greenery. Elven visitors, he had been told, found it a special comfort to linger amongst the leaves, escape for a brief time the citadel’s unremitting stone. This night, the clearing was home to King Elessar, sitting not on a bench but on the paved ground, back to a tree, smoking. The man inhaled deeply, exhaled and appeared to study the rising smoke. Lendimir watched for a moment; the king faced his direction but did not seem yet to have noticed him. He wondered what thoughts could run so deep, then consigned them to the pressures of nobility. He prepared to retreat silently from the space.
“Master Lendimir,” Aragorn called.
“Sire,” Lendimir greeted, forcing a smile. “My apologies — I did not wish to disturb you.”
“What are you doing wandering so late?”
“I cannot sleep, Sire.”
“Join me?”
The king appeared somewhat expectant. Lendimir nodded once and moved to stand near Elessar.
“Are you not going to sit?”
“Aye, Sire.” He sat on a bench, somewhat awkwardly, and waited.
“You are looking at me that way again.”
“I am sorry, my lord. And I do apologise again for my earlier indiscretion. I meant naught by it.”
“By what — oh, aye. Calling me ‘distracted.’ Well,” Elessar sighed, “I would say that you were probably correct in your assessment.”
“Aye, my lord?”
“I have had much on my mind of late.”
“Indeed, Sire. The rebuilding continues, and the attack and its aftermath have been most difficult...”
“From before that, actually. From the time of my return.”
“From your trip, Sire?”
“Aye.”
Did his king wish him to say aught more? To ask? Lendimir studied the younger man. Younger, aye, even though older in years. He himself was stout at fifty-two, stout and full of vigour. Nigh forty years older, Elessar of the Dunedain looked a good ten years younger than he with his silvering temples and the slight sag of his once clean jaw line. And at the moment Elessar looked well nigh hopeful, watching him, waiting. Indeed, the king appeared to need... a friend. “How was your trip, Sire?” he asked, plunging boldly ahead.
“Strange.”
So that was how ‘twould be. Well, he and Reyann had seen five children into adulthood. Pulling teeth was not at all new to him. “Strange in what way?” he urged, and waited for the king to speak.
“I spent the night in a small town, and there I quite unexpectedly met someone. Someone I used to know.”
“Oh?”
“A servant, he was. Back in the house of Denethor.”
“Aye, Sire, you have mentioned your time in that man’s service.”
“He recognized me right off, before I remembered him. I was Thorongil then — he knew me only as Thorongil.”
“And he was a friend of yours, this servant?”
“Nay. He despised me, as he despised most people. He held a general contempt for anyone he met: he used to wave his rank around like he was planting a flag. Everywhere, every room of that house bore his mark. And every... intruder knew that he held the steward’s ear. I imagine he wasted not a single opportunity to impart his low opinion of me to Denethor, although I wonder if he told every secret. He was not indiscreet when it came to certain matters. But he was bold in his hatred of me, and that hatred appears to have only grown since then.”
“Why would he hate you, Sire?”
“I was young, and foolish.”
“Were we not all young and foolish at one time?”
Elessar met his eyes and smiled. “In other words, I should stop dancing around the subject and tell you what is on my mind.”
“I had no intention of saying it that way, my lord.” Lendimir resisted the urge to smile at his king’s insight. “What IS on your mind, Sire?”
“While I was in the service of Denethor, I met his wife, the Lady Finduilas. She was beauteous and gentle of spirit, and when I first saw her I felt as though an arrow had pierced my heart. So sudden and intense was the feeling, I knew not what to make of it. She was isolated, Finduilas, from her powerful husband. Sadness seemed to drift about her, to shadow her eyes, and it enchanted me. She enchanted me. After I left Denethor’s service, I found myself thinking of her often. I could hardly even sleep for it. I missed her, and so I returned under pretence. I made increasingly thin excuses to spend time in the area. I made up reasons to cross her path, eternally prepared with a flower or a passage of poetry, anything that might catch her attention. And eventually she and I... had relations.”
“I see.”
“Not quite.”
“That is why the old servant hates you so?”
“That, and other things.”
“Such as?”
“Faramir.”
“Captain Faramir, Sire?”
“Aye. Captain Faramir. It seems strange, now, to think of him that way. Or not, perhaps. Has he changed at all?”
His ruler could be an infuriating conversationalist. “You have lost me, Sire,” Lendimir replied evenly.
“He is my son, Lendimir,” the king said flatly. “Faramir is my son.”
Part 3
“The servant told you this.”
“Aye.”
“You took his word as good?”
Aragorn sighed. “Why would he wish to deceive me about it? His loyalties lay with Denethor above all; he would have seen into the grave any who brought his lord to harm. That Denethor raised as his own a son born out of Finduilas’ extramarital relationship... aye, such a revelation only brings harm to the name of the house, and Ferenhil would not have concocted it. I feel somewhat strange commending such an ill-tempered ass — and that is the best way I know to describe Ferenhil — but Denethor never appreciated what he had in that man, what staunch and unwavering support.” He sighed again, studying his hands. “There were many things that Denethor failed to appreciate. But to answer your question, nay. I confess that I did not immediately believe Ferenhil. I stubbornly, vehemently denied the possibility... until he showed me the letter.”
“Letter?”
“Finduilas wrote to a close friend, a confidante. I recognized the flowing hand as hers, for ‘twas the hand I had come to know and love in her rare, precious, secretive letters to me. She was utterly certain. She knew in her very bones that the child she had just borne was not of her husband. She described his eyes, his mouth, a birthmark which I have. Which my father had as well.”
“A mother knows such things.”
“Aye. Finduilas knew. She wrote that she had sensed the babe’s parentage before his first stirrings in her belly, and that when she gazed on him all those other things — his looks, his birthmark, even his wisps of hair — were just the evidence to prove what was already, for her, truth. She loved him... you know.”
“Of course.”
“Her husband, I mean.”
Lendimir nodded. “You... did love her, Sire?”
“Aye. She was unlike any woman I had ever met. Beautiful, as though she had just risen from the mist of cold sweet lake, and perhaps was even destined to return there ere long. Graceful and quiet and discreet. She would curve her neck, tilt her head and blush if one looked at her but in passing. Kind, funny, intelligent, perceptive — oh, she could see into a heart. She could melt a heart, as well.”
“She sounds remarkable.”
“I did not want to leave her.”
“Surely not.”
“‘twas not meant to last for all eternity, Lendimir.”
“I know, Sire. I realize as much.”
“She knew I could not stay with her! Her husband, the son she already had... She told me — she bid me go—”
“Sire,” Lendimir interrupted, “I realize.”
Aragorn blinked at the captain. “Aye,” he breathed, forcing himself to calm. “I am... I apologise.” He grew aware of the ache in his forearms and looked down to see his fists clenched, the knuckles white like bleached bone. “Why am I so vehement about a love that was born, lived, and died an entire lifetime ago?” he murmured. “Why am I so angry?”
“Sire, if I may?”
“Please.”
Lendimir leaned forward on the bench. “Perhaps you are angry at her.”
“At Finduilas? Why?”
“She bore you a child. Your only child. She did not write to you in her flowing hand to tell you of this, to describe the stirrings deep inside her or the truths in her heart, to bid you stay away or come to her, speak or be silent, but instead she allowed that child — your son — to be raised by a man who abused and neglected him. She died and you knew naught of the boy, or of the boy’s suffering. You had to find out so many years later, after so much damage had been irreversibly done. And you had to find out from a servant who despises you. Aye,” he nodded. “I could see anger at that. I could see it.”
“What would be the point of it, though?” Aragorn asked. He shook his head. “Finduilas is long dead; Denethor is dead. All that was gone forever in the instant flames overtook a pyre. Faramir is alive, and here, and mine. He is MINE, Lendimir. But what do I do upon learning of him? I begin to berate him for his every indiscretion, large and small. I worry so after him, so much that I lose sleep with each new situation into which he manages himself. But can I show concern without anger, can I tell him as much? Nay — I yell at him. I ask him if he has no sense! Have I no sense?”
“You have the all too natural worry of a parent, Sire. And there are times when our children simply tax us to the bone.” Lendimir chuckled. “My eldest son is thirty-three, a man whichever way you define the word. Married, with beautiful boisterous younglings of his own. And I respect him as deeply as I can respect any man. Yet recently, when he grew careless with his mount and was nearly trampled, I had to fight the urge to take a switch to his breeches. Even the most experienced of us occasionally regrets an overly sharp tongue, wishes he had handled a situation more gently.”
“I certainly wish that.”
“The young steward does seem to possess a rare talent for manoeuvring himself into perils both petty and grave. I have heard the tales of his adventures, and have occasionally wondered whether or not he even possesses man’s instinctive desire to survive.”
“He does. I am certain that he does, or he would not have survived this long. But Denethor’s cruelty has marked him. It makes him question his own worth. And it drives his recklessness, I am sure.”
“Indeed. Which returns me to my point. The boy was mistreated because his mother did not tell you the truth. Because the man who acted as his father resented every kindness, every perceived weakness to be found in him. I saw enough to realize that much, that the steward looked upon the boy with rage and pain. And now the man grown out of that boy risks himself. He may only see his own value in heroics. He may tend to act before thinking. Either way, when your heart fists itself into a painful ball at the sight of him in danger, how could you not grow angry?”
“I think I’ve acted without thought a few times lately,” Aragorn admitted. “And in the past. I know that my Adar, my adoptive father Lord Elrond, has declared more than one night of his sleep lost due to me.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Like father, like son, I suppose. Would that not be ironic?”
Lendimir nodded, frowning. “If I may ask, how did Ferenhil come to possess the Lady’s letter?”
“He was suspicious. Of me. Of her. Of aught that moved between the walls of that draught-devilled house, to be sure. I suppose I can hardly condemn him for it, since he was right.”
“Did the steward know? That might account for... well.”
“Ferenhil would not say, although I pressed. I pray that he did not know.” Aragorn stared into the bowl of his pipe. In it, the weed smouldered gently. The smoke that curled upward into the night looked like a gentle line of her thigh. “Elbereth,” he breathed. “I pray that he did not.”
The season was changing, swiftly as was its way. No gradual warming spread out over Gondor to coax ice out of frozen ground and uncurl sleeping greenery, nay. When the cold yielded it did so in a rush, as if it needed to be somewhere else. The sun rose, a pale watching eye; the skies remained light and clear, but suddenly there was heat in the yellow air, heat that steamed on tile pavilions and in the streets and off the citadel’s grey stone.
One more time he tried to concentrate on his duties. ‘Ai,’ he thought. ‘Eternally ‘tis as though I take a single small step forward and then am knocked back a league.’ The papers were still neatly piled on his desk, but now the mass of them had grown to nigh critical height. ‘Imagine,’ his mind prattled, ‘the eulogy. “Captain Faramir of Minas Tirith, faithful steward and subject of King Elessar, was far too noble a soul to be crushed under a stack of superficial diplomatic missives and petty citizen requests. Alas, he shall be missed, for none could get through paperwork with such fearsome skill... ”’
Faramir giggled as he settled behind the desk, then sat for a moment mildly stunned. ‘twas not often that he caught himself giggling. Nigh unto never, in fact. His father would have been mortified to hear such an undignified display from him. Displays were for the worthy and for those with no one around them to embarrass. Denethor’s face popped into his mind, twisted into a look of unmitigated disgust, and he giggled again. Damn, but he was giddy.
At that he sobered. It had been a bad night, disturbing, the hours long and dark. His exhaustion had not proved sufficient to permit him sleep — not after his visit from the king. That he would be called stupid for simply holding a meeting! That he did not have his ruler’s leave to address matters of his own position within the city! King Elessar had been so angry with him, so frustrated, and so... much more. Something more had flickered strangely in the monarch’s grey eyes. Something more had tinged a normally proud and powerful voice. Nay, he could not recall ever seeing his king as aught other than strong, and yet he had looked into that rugged face and read weakness — what had seemed distressingly like weakness. He had heard what sounded like pleading in the king’s voice. Pleading? Nay — that was not the right word. Desperation? Yearning?
Fear? But of what? He gripped the quill, stared blindly at the letter in front of him. What had that all been about? What tempest had raged in the king’s mind?
He blinked, mentally shook himself. King Elessar’s words and deeds had seemed somewhat... off to him, for a time. Gondor’s king had first been a man — a ranger alongside whom they had fought. A natural leader, or at least apparently so. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had never seemed beset by circumstance or afeard of what was to come. And that had been a balm to all the weary souls of the land. They had all waited for a fearless leader, a man who could bring them the most valuable and intangible of possessions...
Aye, they had looked to Aragorn to bring them all hope, and as surely as the elves said, “Estel,” they had not been disappointed. The Dark Lord fallen, the terrible watching eye extinguished, the cursed Ring fallen and extinguished itself, and Gondor enduring through it, still green, still alive. In the aftermath of those deadly days, did the man who endured within King Elessar now find himself in need? Nay, nay — if the king were plagued by aught then the queen would see to it, and she was returning anon from her journeys. She would see to it.
‘twas certainly not a steward’s place to think about such things, nor to question his king. A sudden wash of shame tingled in his cheeks, his brow, the back of his neck, and he was grateful for his solitude so that none would see him blushing at his own thoughts. Faramir dragged his wandering mind from its musings; he felt his face grow cool again as he bowed his head to the parchment and resolved not to further irritate his sire.
There were days when it seemed he could do little else. “Just like with Father,” he murmured.
Knuckles rapped against the door. “Come,” Faramir called.
“Captain,” the young guard greeted, bowing. “I regret the need for me to interrupt your work.”
“I regret the need for you to interrupt my work, as well,” Faramir replied, but offered a reassuring grin. “What is it?”
“They’re at it again, my lord.”
“Are they?”
“Aye,” the guard nodded rapidly. “I would have informed Captain Lendimir, but as you know he departed this morn to see to a couple of the settlements; he’ll not be returning before late this evening. Of course his second is always available, but Lieutenant Mendren is out on the archery range, training with some of the newer boys, and he’s left strict orders that none interrupt him for aught but the most dire of emergencies, which I don’t really think this is. And they did mention your name, after all.”
“That’s disturbing.”
“Aye indeed! I tried my level best to calm them down, but... well — they just don’t seem interested in calming down. In fact, one of them told ME to keep my nose clear out of it! As though they hadn’t decided to start squabbling right where I could hear them, thus making it my sworn and honoured duty to intervene. And when I pointed that out to them, what do you think they did?”
“What?” Faramir asked.
“They ignored me like I wasn’t even there, Captain!”
“Most inconsiderate! Who are we talking about, by the way?”
The guard spluttered for a moment. “A-apologies, my lord. I didn’t explain myself enough. The innkeepers. From The Ramshead, and The Rolling Goat. You met with them in the council chambers the other day—”
“I recall,” Faramir sighed.
“I wasn’t at all eager to bother you with it, my lord, especially seeing as how they attacked you last time.”
“They hardly ‘attacked’ me, Anthorn. As I’ve explained — repeatedly — ‘twas a blow that I accidentally... intercepted.”
“With your face, my lord!”
“Aye, Anthorn. You need not remind me.”
“Sorry, my lord. Will you come?”
“Where are they?”
“At my post, unless of course they’ve managed to kill each other by now, which I wouldn’t altogether be surprised about. Although that might make things a bit more peaceable around here, if you ask me. Two louder and more obnoxious people I’ve not had the misfortune to meet in a goodly while. I listened to them for a bit, then left them arguing like an old married couple.”
Faramir sighed again and rose, pulling a wry face for Anthorn. “Then let us go see if we can resurrect the honeymoon.”
As the first rays of light had shafted themselves upon a willing land, Aragorn had finally abandoned his bed. He had taken there of necessity rather than desire — Captain Lendimir had retired graciously after lingering long with him in the gardens; he had bid the man go, for a fat moon was risen and a wife lay waiting, probably wondering. Having confided in Lendimir as he had confided in none, not even the friends who had become brothers to him, he had sent his confidante home. ‘You have an early morn approaching, Master Guard. I know that I have crossed every boundary with you, Master Guard, and yet I now speak to you with this formality. You know so much of my heart now — things that my adoptive brothers and my surrogate brothers and even my beloved do not know — and yet you should go and leave me here in this dark garden. Of course I shall be alright. Of course I shall.’ So Lendimir had bowed, the boundaries redrawn, re-affirmed, and had gone. And he the king had lingered down the paths until the night guards had taken to watching him curiously, and then he had known ‘twas time to take himself inside before they took it in their heads that something was amiss with their leader.
After lying awake for however long, he had felt himself begin to slip. His muscles twitching as they shut themselves down in preparation for rest, his mind had hovered on a threshold. The world had remained, but dimmer and carrying a strange quality. As though it wore a veil, and he could see just beyond it, just beyond the surface of it... into nothing. Yawning black emptiness. And for just a moment he had envisioned himself stepping off the floor, off the safe solid ground, into it. His stomach had lurched, sending bile into his throat, and he had risen and padded to the window and gazed out on a brightening dawn. The streets had been just waking, Deninghil’s smithy exhaling its sooty breath, a few merchants erecting their crates in preparation for the throngs that would soon come. No children had been out, sadly toiling alongside tired parents or more happily playing. Beyond the outer wall the land had sparkled with a frost that waited to be touched by sun. Warmth — they all needed warmth. He had thought of Faramir, his son, and felt something. Warmth?
So he had left his chamber, eschewed breakfast in the bustling dining hall, made an hour’s worth of excuses to be outside of the citadel and that positively stifling office. But now the end had come: ‘twas time for Aragorn to be Elessar again. Minas Tirith waited for no man’s personal distresses to fade, not when so many war-weary souls depended on the maintenance of a smooth routine. His council had called a morning meeting — something about tariffs. He needed no particulars to dread the endless bickering debate that would surely follow their proposals.
Well, he would not be complicating the trade issue now. South Ithilien and Aglarond were Minas Tirith’s two largest trading partners, and the lines between them had to be kept simple. Friendship already clouded things: the elves, eternally wary of treacherous men, watched their leader carefully lest Prince Legolas fail to negotiate the best possible arrangement for them; the dwarves similarly scrutinized Gimli, Son of Gloin. His own council had stopped just short of suggesting that King Elessar might permit personal sentiment to override the city’s pressing needs. Aragorn allowed himself a brief smile as he stepped through one of the inner gates: although trade negotiations were always more enjoyable when the parties trusted each other, difficulties remained. To achieve the best for Minas Tirith, he had been forced to push the tariff issue with both Legolas and Gimli, and they had each been compelled to do the same with him. But the trio had settled it after many a long evening of drink and discussion, after many a night of tedious details that he would rather have ignored.
Nay, there was no way in Arda his council was going to dig up that bone again! And if any of them was rash enough to insinuate that he had not kept Minas Tirith firmly in mind through it all—
He entered the square wherein mongers hawked silver-scaled fish and black eels from the coast, long straight bright carrots and bulbous potatoes and gleaming apples from the local farms. Dogs barked and sniffed for scraps among the carts, and children darted underfoot. Minas Tirith rounded the mountains against which she sat; the square was thus a curving area shaped vaguely like a broad-bean. Yet ‘twas known to all as the square, its outer edge brushing against one of the inner walls. Sporadic guard shacks studded the line of stone.
Raised voices caught his attention and he lingered to watch the group play. Six or seven of them, six or seven years old. Sprites in mud-speckled clothing with bright faces and hair that shone like no jewel ever would. They held hands and sang — shouted — the old words:
In my little po-cket
Hidden from your eyes
I have a little se-cret
And it’s a big surprise!
They ran, laughing. First one to the old-man elm tree bowed solemnly under the weight of “winner.” What was the secret? He did not know. Like so many of the games that had tinged his own childhood with drama and import, this game made no sense to grown eyes.
More raised voices, one of them familiar. Aye — ‘twas Faramir and a guard standing by one of the shacks, arguing with two men. Aragorn felt his jaw tighten as he recognized the pair. They radiated belligerence, leaning toward the steward, thick fists balled at their sides, heads up, chins jutting forth. Their broad, flat brows glistened in the sun; their prominent bellies were not quite usurped by their sagging breasts; their eyes were bright round little stones nigh buried above pink fleshy snouts. Small sunlit drops of saliva issued from the spongy lips of the larger one. Every angry statement was punctuated by quivering folds of neck and by that fine spray; Aragorn felt disgust rising in him as the man waved an impatient hand at Faramir, who appeared conciliatory.
His approach, silent though it was, should have been noted and acknowledged accordingly. Yet four tongues — well, three at least, since the young guard seemed to have decided silence was the best tack — continued to work. The innkeepers glared by turns at each other and at the guard, who ducked their gazes by staring at the ground. And Faramir directed his attention by turns to each of the innkeepers, occasionally glancing at the guard, who fearlessly ducked that as well. Aragorn stalked toward them and they bickered, lost in their frustration. Fragments of complaint reached his ears.
‘—not the one at fault ‘ere—’
‘—I only rose to the bait—’
‘—cannot tolerate such behaviour—’
The guard glanced up, spotted him, and rapidly paled. Aragorn ignored the young soldier and smartly covered the distance between himself and them. “HALT!” he bellowed.
They fell silent as one and stared at him. “What is going on here?” he asked quietly, resisting an urge to step between the men and Faramir.
“Sire,” Faramir hastened to explain, “we were just... negotiating a truce between these gentlemen—”
“You mean the ‘gentlemen’ who committed a violent assault against you during your last meeting with them?” Aragorn interrupted. The innkeepers had the good sense to look abashed, firing a somewhat fearful glance each at the other before electing to study their boots.
Faramir winced, then nodded. “Aye, Sire. Our last attempt at a treaty, though it saw some initial progress, did not end well, as you know. However, I felt that another opportunity might present itself—”
“Is that why they aren’t locked in adjoining cells in my dungeon, pondering their dismal futures?” Aragorn interrupted again.
“Aye, Sire. I decided—”
“YOU decided?”
“Aye, Sire. I thought that... ” Faramir’s voice trailed into silence. Blue-grey eyes met his; they were wide and bright.
Aragorn felt the blood pounding in his ears. “You, Faramir, obviously did not think at all. These two hopeless miscreants—” he waved his hand without looking at the cowed men “—should be locked in jail right now, not skulking about the streets and requiring your attention! And when you choose to actually have a guard at your side, you select the greenest and most timid of the lot! What in all the hells is wrong with you? Are you this stupid?”
Faramir flinched as though under a blow — all colour drained from his already fair face.
“Faramir, I—” Aragorn began, stepping forward.
“A-aye, Sire,” Faramir breathed. “I-I — I suppose... that I am.” Pivoting, the young man fled through the gathered crowd. The people parted, stared.
“Faramir!” Aragorn yelled. His throat closed so that not a gasp of air would pass through it; he could say naught more though so many words clawed upward from his breast. He made three strides and stopped, closing his eyes. He cursed himself silently, remembering the long halls of the House of Denethor, the echoing stone, the carpets so red they could soak up tears or blood and never show it. Finduilas arching beneath him. And those days in the man’s service, before that arching, before that wet passionate betrayal. Oft he had heard Denethor’s voice raised in anger at some failing of the servant or of the guard. He heard it still and wondered how it could ever have been aimed so viciously at them, the children, the younger child — and he wondered if that pitiful excuse for a father had ever noticed just how wide Faramir’s eyes could become.
He entered the citadel and forced himself to walk, arms at his sides, face schooled. Oft he had walked his father’s halls in such a fashion, tense, ready, his body expecting the blows that would soon land, his body aching from previous blows. But through the worst of it, never had tears stained his face. His control, hard-fought, hard-won, had become a habit, and now he slipped into it. ‘twas just as hard as it had ever been, and just as easy.
The upper halls were quiet, no staff to see him, and Faramir swallowed to force down the lump in his throat. Stupid — he was stupid now. He had been stupid then, too, and Father had never shrunk from a chance to tell him as much. Senseless. Worthless. Pathetic. A young man whose uses were all known — whose uses were few. The dedicated teacher of all lessons worth learning, Father was always ready to show him where he’d erred, or was erring, or would in the future err again. Father, with no warning, reached into him and pulled out his failings to line up against the wall. They looked like little bones with scraps of flesh clinging to them. Father pointed to them in turn. Weakness. Insolence. Cowardice. Never was gentleness mentioned: it stood on the very end, white and red, dripping on the rug. Father ticked off the wrongs but left that one unspoken. Perhaps Father was reminded too much of Mother, and could not stand to look at that wrong.
Perhaps it was the greatest wrong of all.
King Elessar obviously shared Lord Denethor’s sentiments, and now Faramir thought of the king’s face and saw also his father’s; he thought of the king’s angry voice and heard also the angry words that had clanged through his childhood.
It was not a surprise to him, such judgement. Or at least it should not have been. Father had well seen his faults, the flaws that ran through him as impurities run through stone and weaken it. Odd it was that he, the master of stoic silence, one who could stand impassively while words bit into his soul, while a belt or a pair of fists bruised his body, was the weak one. No matter how silent he had been, though, Father had never praised him for strength. The weaknesses had to run far deeper than he could demonstrate with mere words or the lack thereof — otherwise, he would have been able to prove himself, somehow. The impurities had to run along the most fundamental lines of his soul. Father had always been keen of vision and of mind; Father had always been able to see.
Boromir had been pure, carved from a buoyant and laughing child into the warrior who had embarked on a great journey and then died in the service of all that was good. But Boromir had also been the great reservoir for Father’s hopes, the symbol of a greatness for which Father had never quite been recognized. On Boromir’s strong shoulders, all of Father’s dreams had been lifted above oblivion’s reach, and would shine on long after the dreamer had passed. That Boromir had been taken first was bad, for it had left the great successes unattained; it had left the dreams unrealized. It had left Father without a pot in which to stir his grand ambitions.
Aye, pride had shone like a flame in Denethor’s eyes every time they had landed on the noble first son. Those same eyes had grown dark and distant every time they had landed on Faramir. Too studious, too quiet, too meek he had always been. His tutors had affectionately called him “book-worm,” and Father had cringed. Father had wanted a warrior, not a worm. And now the king, such a good and wise man, a man who had fought at Boromir’s side and borne witness to the ultimate sacrifice, could see as Father had seen, and agreed.
Would the king really want such a bookish man in Minas Tirith, helping to rebuild the great White City? He tasted a sudden surge of bile and felt his lips twist into a grimace. That would be the limit, getting sick like a nervous child because he didn’t like hearing the hard truth. Making a bigger mess than he already had. Shame! Shame. He forced the nausea down, swallowing so hard his jaw ached.
His chambers were a beacon, a haven into which he slipped. The door closed, all of it closed outside, he found himself suddenly struggling to draw breath. Elbereth — his lungs would not work. His eyes burned, his throat. His back pressed against the door, he let his legs slowly collapse beneath him as though one muscle at a time was being cut through, crippled. He was sitting with his knees drawn to his chin. His arms hung limp at his sides, his hands resting on the thick carpet. He raised them, wrapped them around his legs, balled himself tight. That was a habit, too.
Working with quiet efficiency, he stripped Settys of packs, saddle, bridle. He laid them aside for the stable hands to deal with. His fingers reached automatically for the large brush, curled around it as it moved through a silken mane and over a muscled body. With the lie of the short coarse hair, firmly, rhythmically. The horse blew out a relaxed sigh and he smiled. “You do enjoy your comforts, old friend,” he murmured, and smiled more broadly when a dark ear flicked toward his voice.
He thought of Reyann as he ran the brush from crested neck down strong withers, along the short straight back that bespoke noble ancestry. He imagined the feel of her lean, lithe torso, the spine that would run beneath his fingers with a staccato intensity. Her legs would wrap around his own and she would thrust herself upward, to him. Her arms would be the frame inside which he painted the colours of his passion. She had good strong arms, his beloved.
Images of her warming him, he continued with the brush. Over the rump and down each smooth chestnut hip. Down each leg in turn, down strong fetlocks. New shoes would be in order anon; he would speak with Deninghil on the morrow. For now, for two tired travellers come home, a bag of fresh oats and a bowl of thick dark stew. A bucket of water, not overly cold when the beast was still hot from travel, a tankard of ale that would indeed be cold. But while Settys would sleep standing alone in a warm stall, he, Lendimir, would enter once again that private place, the shelter of slender limbs and limpid eyes. The flower that remained so tightly closed to others, yet unfurled, sweet and hot, to his touch. His thoughts flickered briefly, turned to the king, and he blew out a sigh of his own. He never feared, when he was away, Reyann’s solitude. He never questioned her fealty. “This Denethor should have feared,” he muttered.
“Indeed. He should have.”
Lendimir pivoted to see King Elessar half drawn in shadow. How long might the man have been standing there like a spectre half-formed, melting into the darkness, breathing so quietly as to become naught more than a part of the night... “Sire,” he greeted, straightening and then executing a perfunctory bow.
“I did not mean to startle you, Master Guard,” the king said, moving to the stall door and reaching in to scratch Settys’ chin. The stallion snorted. “Your steed wishes for his supper.”
“Aye, Sire.” Lendimir retrieved the feedbag a stable boy had left, slipped the worn strap over Settys’ ears and imparted a final slap to the horse’s neck before fastening the door. The boy would be back, duly, to check the animals and remove their empty bags; Settys would undoubtedly receive a few more affectionate scratches and pats before being left to whatever dreams a captive stallion might harbour.
“I am certain you wish the same.”
The king was studying him. “Aye, Sire,” he replied frankly. “It has been an arduous day and I must confess that I do, most keenly.”
“Will you indulge me, afterward, if ‘tis not too great a burden to spend another hour separated from your lady?”
“Sire?”
“The citadel. The main hall therein.” King Elessar turned away, paused, and then turned back to him. “I... I just need to speak to someone, Lendimir. And you have proven an excellent listener.”
Lendimir nodded. “I would be happy to, Sire.” He watched the king’s even strides out of the stable, heard the light contact of boots against the moonlit tile path. He waited for silence to return before walking out himself.
They sat in the king’s den, a room of rich wood and black leather, of lamps that flamed against the walls, steeping the very air in warmth and colour. From those flame-gleaming walls there peered forth the history of Gondor — portraits painted in deference to a score of kings. Eyes probed the new king, the missing portrait. Eyes judged the visitor who settled somewhat awkwardly into a luxurious chair by the hearth. They were confident in their choice: Elessar’s face would join theirs, while the visitor would fade into obscurity.
Aragorn, once cowed in their presence, once too uncomfortable to even consider his own place among them, had eventually taken to ignoring them. Lineage could be such an inconvenient thing. He poured two goblets of wine and handed one to Lendimir, noting as the man’s gaze flitted from one sombre brushwork face to the next. “They have naught to say, Master Guard.”
“Nay, Sire?”
“Their words are the dust of tombs. Gondor moves into a bright future; all they see from their dark places is treachery and strife. They see too much evil, and wars that rise endlessly from it like the fruit of bitter seeds.”
“We have all seen too much of that, my lord.”
“Indeed.” Aragorn settled in his chair. “How was your journey?”
“Not as effective as I had hoped ‘twould be, Sire. One of the two settlements — its inhabitants have duly renamed it Karas Tuuur in honour of the victory of light over darkness — has been looted thrice, and the most obvious suspects are people from nearby Eden Aur, which itself has been attacked twice and blames the people of Karas Tuuur. Supplies have been taken each time, in the deep of night. Grain and other staples, items not easily identifiable. No soul has been injured as yet, but the hostilities are growing and I believe ‘tis only a matter of time before the people descend into outright violence. Anger fuels them. Their hatred is mutual and, sadly, rooted in an acrimonious past.”
“They have been fighting one enemy or another for so long, they do not know how to be at peace,” Aragorn murmured.
“Aye. During the War, they fought for whatever scraps they could find. Resources were terribly scarce — many towns took to battling each other.”
“What solution would you propose?”
“Diplomacy, I would think. I would hope. They are neighbours, and they have lived under common chains of darkness. They both have suffered the misfortune of being situated along a main corridor used by Sauron’s forces. That shared history alone should give them room for understanding now. They have all seen cruel death, been uprooted from their homes more often than they can say, and they are desperately weary. They that I met seemed all to be good people. They want a future, Sire, and they are tired of the fighting. But their pride hinders them: you were of course correct in your orders that I should schedule the meeting at a point halfway between the towns so that neither side feel slighted.”
“Pride is a difficult beast to tame, Lendimir,” Aragorn sighed, rolling the goblet idly between his palms. “We must find a method to convince them that they need not fight any more. They are understandably suspicious of each other, and despite their exhaustion they will not bow; they will not surrender their battle-hardness. We must lighten their burden.”
“I think you are correct, Sire.” Lendimir took a swallow of wine and considered. “I also think that you did not invite me in here to drink whilst I give you a report that you would have heard on the morrow during our customary meeting.”
“You grow comfortable. Is it the wine?”
“My apologies, Sire, if my remark presumed upon your good nature.”
“Nay, Lendimir, pray do not apologise. I have presumed upon your good nature more than once already, and you are right. I would have resisted the change in topic had it come gently.”
“Faramir, my lord.”
“Who else?”
“Have you and he spoken?”
“Oh, Lendimir.” Aragorn studied tiny ripples that shimmered on the surface of his wine, set the goblet on the low table beside his chair. He stared into the fire until the smoke and heat made his eyes burn. When he closed them, tiny spots of light hovered against the blackness.
“What has happened, Sire?”
“I think I have established, Sir, that I am possibly a worse father than Denethor ever could be.”
“You do not mean that, Sire.”
“Do I not?”
“Pray, tell me what has come about.”
“I shouted at him again today, in front of a crowd of people. I called him stupid.”
“What had he done?”
“Are you suggesting that there is any possible justification for my callousness?” Aragorn demanded, stiffening. “Perhaps when Denethor so maligned and humiliated the boy, there was justification then, too? Did Faramir, through his occasional lapses in judgment, invite it all?”
“Sire, I suggest no such thing. You know I do not suggest that.”
Aragorn leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, staring at the rug between his feet. “What should I do, Lendimir? I have stumbled and thrashed about with this knowledge, and now I have cruelly wounded the one I most do not want to hurt! I feel so many things, so many tangled emotions. I am proud of him, beyond all measure of pride. I can hardly conceive of it myself; it strains in my breast. I am afraid, for he is reckless and does not value himself, and I value him so much, so very much. I am frustrated; I am furious. I want him to recognize that I seek only to shelter him from harm. I want him to heed me. And I have yet again caused him hurt. What should I do to make this right?”
“You are struggling with this truth, my lord.”
“Aye!” Sighing, Aragorn reclined again and let his head slide back to rest against the chair. “Aye, I am. I have dreamed that meeting with Ferenhil, over and over. I see his withered old face sneering at me. Often I wake in the moment before he told me. Walking through the citadel or the city streets, focussed on a destination, I find myself back in that town. The dust and the tavern and the lodging house where the old man lived. Lives. I come back to myself and realize that I have been imagining it all, remembering it all. But my struggle is at least an answer I already have, Lendimir. Faramir is only questions to me.”
Lendimir finished his wine and set the goblet aside. “Sire, you must tell him the truth of it.”
“That I am his—” He blinked and imagined Faramir’s face blanching deathly white at such news, Faramir’s eyes widening impossibly with shock. The truth? You are my son, Faramir; you are my son and I... “Nay!” he spat, forcing the image from his mind. “I cannot do that to him. He has spent all of his years knowing his blood and his family, flawed though it may have been. I cannot do it.”
“Do what?” Lendimir demanded, leaning forward now, meeting his eye. “Tell him who he really is to you? Tell him that he has blood that flows still in Minas Tirith, that he has an enduring legacy? My lord, those things — the knowledge of his heritage, the knowledge of his lineage — are important to a man. They set him firmly in the world, give him a solid floor beneath his feet. They infuse him with pride, provide for his children when he has them. Falsehoods and ignorance can never be so solid, even though they may appear to be. Only the truth can fill a man’s heart. But more than any of that, I say to you Faramir would want to know the simple fact that he has a father. Not a dead father who treated him poorly, but a live father who worries and loses sleep and gets angry, and who thinks so very highly of the man he is. ‘twould explain so much, shed light into so much of your recent behaviour toward him. I think that Faramir must be greatly confused at present, and that he would want such answers indeed.”
“You think so.” ‘twas preposterous, the idea. Stirring up ancient ghosts, ancient crimes.
“Aye, my lord,” Lendimir confirmed. “I think so.”
Time could contract itself when it willed, shrink down into a singular point. A moment. A heartbeat wherein the heart contracted, evicting its blood, then held itself in a tight little ball, held itself empty, fisted, closed to all. He sat, back to the door, tense.
The words had silenced themselves and now there was no sound to plague him. Hours must have ticked by and taken themselves off to wherever time went when it wasn’t hanging around underfoot, but he paid them no heed. Only the silence mattered. Memories were damnably talkative things, like ghosts that just would not shut up. They could not simply linger in the back of a mind and let themselves be ignored — nay, they had to be loud and persistent and intrusive. Oh, he was grateful for silence.
And then the silence edged away too. Faramir did not move, nor did he unwind his limbs from about themselves, but at the first faint footfall and rustle of clothing he set his ears to listening. Someone had approached the door, outside in the hall, and then stood there rather still as if unsure whether or not to knock. It could have been a timid servant or page, reluctant to disturb the steward. Or perhaps Anthorn, the greenest and most timid of the guards, the one who he had been stupid to accompany. It could have been anyone in the towering stone citadel, any one of the diplomats or the soldiers or the messengers or the servants.
But he knew ‘twas the king.
He unwound himself slowly, gazing at the open window. The steps came again from out in the corridor; they retreated: the king was moving away. They halted and then resumed, growing louder: the king was returning to the door. More rustling of fabric, a fitful and fidgety sound. Faramir squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, ran a hand through his hair and rose. The rustling outside ceased. He turned, blinked a few times, pressed his fingertips against his eyelids and breathed deeply of the night air. One tug at his clothing; he opened the door.
King Elessar stood, waiting.
“Good evening, Sire,” Faramir greeted, pleased with the strength of his voice.
“Faramir,” the king said, then fell silent.
“Would you like to come in, Sire?”
“Aye — nay, nay. I do not wish to bother you.”
“‘tis of course not a bother, Sire.” Faramir stepped back and motioned smoothly into the chamber. He waited for the monarch to move, to stride confidently forth and assume command of the space. Kings did that. They took whatever place they happened to inhabit and made it unequivocally theirs. They breathed their authority into the air itself, into the walls and the floor. They claimed everything, because everything was their right. Faramir waited, but there was no such movement from the king. Faramir waited, studying the floor, studying the king’s unmoving legs and the hall beyond, a spot of dust gathered in the open door. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Sire?” he asked conversationally.
“I... ” King Elessar began, holding forth a scroll. “I have brought something for you.”
Faramir took the scroll. It felt light and fragile in his hands, old. “What is this, Sire?” he asked.
“A letter written by your mother, to a friend of hers.”
“My mother?”
“You know that I spent time, years ago, in service to the House of Denethor.”
“Aye. I just did not suppose that Thorongil would ever have been presented with opportunity to meet my mother. She lived a secluded life: my father saw to it. At her healthiest she still tired easily and spent much time resting. And after she took ill, she received no visitors at all. I would be surprised to learn that she was ever in a position to meet people outside of the servants and her court.”
“Well, she... was. And I was as well — presented with opportunity to meet her, I mean.”
Faramir did not unroll the document. “So, my lord?”
Still in the corridor, King Elessar studied him for a minute, inscrutably. “It says you are my son, Faramir.”
Part 4
He waited for the words to gain meaning in Faramir’s mind. He studied the young man’s sensitive eyes, studied the mouth that seemed frozen into a faint smile, as though in remembrance of some private jest. He was about to speak again, to move inside the chamber and shut the door (why had he hovered on the threshold for this — why had he imparted such colossal truth while standing in a doorway?). He was about to begin explaining himself when Faramir finally reacted.
Faramir laughed. The odd little half-smile twisted into a grin, and Faramir laughed, standing with one hand on the door and one hand holding the letter that gave the facts but none of the complicated explanations behind them. The laugh was more of a giggle — a spontaneous high-pitched sound that rattled Aragorn’s nerves.
“Faramir,” he said, “I am not jesting.”
The giggle petered out. “Nay, Sire?” Faramir replied. “Of all the things I thought you might say to me tonight, this was not among them.”
“I am not jesting.”
“I do not know of what you speak, my lord. My father? Of course not — Denethor was my father, Lady Finduilas my mother—”
“Nay, Faramir. Finduilas was your mother indeed, and she loved you. She loved you with her whole heart. You were her pride, her greatest joy, and she saw in you such massive potential as to outshine the very stars. She knew, from her first look at your face, that you would be destined for great things. She was proud to be your mother. But Denethor was your father in name only — not in blood. Not in truth.”
“What in the name of Arda are you talking about, Sire?”
“Read the letter.” Aragorn motioned to the scroll. “Read it.”
“Nay, Sire. If you know what it says, then tell me.”
Aragorn entered the room. He closed the door slowly and lingered beside it. Faramir had drifted to the window and was watching him. “I met your mother. I was using the name Thorongil at the time; I was in service to Denethor’s house.”
“We know this already,” Faramir said. The young man continued to stare at him, stiff-necked, lips pressing themselves into a thin bloodless line.
“I met your mother and found her enchanting, enthralling. After I left Denethor’s service, I realized that I missed her and had to return.”
“Had to?”
“Aye, at the time I felt as though my heart gave me no choice in the matter. I went back for her, met her secretly and told her of my feelings. I expected naught from her — or I do not know what I expected. Incredibly, she told me that she harboured similar feelings for me. She felt isolated, unwanted, for Denethor was increasingly concerned with the power he could wield. Boromir was 3 years old and her greatest joy, but he could not provide her with the companionship she needed. She and I... began a relationship.”
“I see,” Faramir replied flatly.
“I left after a time, but I never forgot her. Recently, exhausted from the rebuilding we have laboured over, I took myself off for several weeks to rest. Legolas and Gimli encouraged me to go.”
“I know of your journey as well.”
“I know you do. The point is that this journey changed my life in ways I could never have expected. I met someone, in a little town through which my travels took me. I met a man named Ferenhil. He was—”
“My father’s servant.”
“Aye. He remembered me most clearly, and made that apparent from our first encounter. ‘twas he who eventually told me the truth about you, and offered me the letter you hold as proof.”
Faramir unrolled the scroll, stared at it for a moment. “Proof?” he echoed. “What does any of this prove?”
“That I am your father.”
“You see that in here?” Faramir waved the parchment at him and began laughing again. “You see that? Because all I see is conjecture. Perhaps you and the Lady Finduilas did have sordid relations behind her husband’s back; perhaps she got it in her head that I looked something like you! So what? So what? If this was even written by her... ”
“I recognize the script, Faramir. ‘twas written by her, truly. And her conjecture is supported by evidence.”
“Oh — of course. I have a birthmark on my lower back, and you happen to have a similar birthmark in a similar place. Well it’s conclusive, then!”
“Faramir,” Aragorn sighed, “my father also had such a birthmark, in the same place.”
“Fascinating, Sire.” Faramir smiled at him.
“She knew the truth. She knew long before you were born. She knew it.”
The smile faded. “You are not my father.”
“I am. I know that this must be difficult for you to accept, but ‘twas every bit as difficult for me—”
“Well, that is tragic.”
“Faramir. Your mother knew it as truth, and when she looked at you she could see it most plainly.” Aragorn stilled his legs, which wanted to carry him toward the young man. Faramir’s eyes no longer registered shock but now flickered with an odd light. He had the vague sense that a wall was descending between them, that the inappropriate laughter and that disturbing little smile were growing harder, thicker, and that soon he would be unable to reach through them to touch... his son.
Faramir sighed, and the smile crept back wider than before. “You are not my father. ‘tis that simple. Perhaps, if your little letter speaks truly, you had something to do with my existence. But that is no more than the basest level of involvement. You are certainly not my father in any way that matters!”
“Faramir,” Aragorn pleaded. “Please hear me. I never knew. I never knew of you—”
“Well, THAT’S convenient, don’t you think?” Faramir laughed. “You sow your seed and then fail to consider what might sprout from it!” He furrowed his brow, cocked his head. “I wonder how many other bastards walk Middle Earth because of you.”
Aragorn took a step forward and then forced himself to halt, fists clenched at his sides. “I swear to you, Faramir,” he ground out from a clenched jaw. “I swear it to you that I did not spend my days as a ranger courting ladies wherever I went! I fell in love — once, with—”
“In love?” Faramir interrupted with another laugh. “You were ‘in love’? Oh, how heart-warming! You were in love; she was in love; you both were absolutely heartbroken when fate ripped you cruelly from each other’s arms... But wait — ‘twas not fate that destroyed your wondrous bond, was it? Hm, Sire?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you left her. I did hear you say that, correct?”
“Aye... I left her, after a time. ‘twas not going to last forever; we both knew as much—”
“Oh, in the midst of this grand ‘love’ you both knew that. I see.”
“We did,” Aragorn beseeched. “We both cherished the time we had together, but at the same time we both knew ‘twas not to be forever.”
“And he knew.”
“Who?”
“My father.” Faramir raised his brows questioningly. “You do remember him?”
“Of course I remember Denethor. Neither of us ever forgot — not even for a blessed second. But you can not be certain that he knew of us.”
“And of me, as well.”
“You can not be certain of that, Faramir. He well may have known naught.”
“Nay? The head servant knew! Perhaps all the servants knew! Would that not be funny, if for all your skulking about, everyone within twenty leagues knew what was going on between the Lady and the Ranger?” Faramir bit his lip. “Would that not be funny, Sire? Seriously — would that not make you laugh? I mean, ‘twould make ME laugh, but I suppose that I’m not quite in the same position as—”
“Faramir, please listen! Ferenhil knew, but only because he was eternally paranoid and because he stole that letter! There is no reason to believe he ever told anyone else! ‘twas not his way to divulge much of aught to any soul, even his master Denethor.”
“Oh, Father was a smart man. He saw things. The way he treated me, the way he always treated me... ” Faramir turned toward the window, then back to the king. “But I suppose ‘tis now understandable, that.”
“Never.”
“He watched his wife, his Lady, grow heavy with—”
“Do not speak of her that way.”
“She was his wife.”
“She was a woman, Faramir. She was a woman with feelings and needs—”
“Do not TELL ME ABOUT HER NEEDS! She was my mother, no matter how much she might have resembled your cheap whore!”
Aragorn’s body had reacted before his mind could reconsider. He stared at his rosy palm. When he looked up, a matching print had blossomed on Faramir’s cheek. “Faramir, I didn’t—” he began, then: “Never use such a word in the same breath as mention of your mother.”
“Aye, Sire,” Faramir murmured, his expression unreadable once more. He cast his eyes down, slipped ghostlike through the door and was gone.
“Yet you did not call on them.”
“I know. I did not wish to burden them.”
Lendimir sat across from him, gilded in morning sunshine, and did not reply.
“I did not feel that ‘twas the time for me to tell them, although part of me desperately wanted naught more than to do just that.”
“I do not know if I understand, Sire.”
“‘tis... ”
“‘tis?”
He forced it into words. “I share so much history with Legolas and Gimli both. I knew the prince for many years before the Quest. The dwarf and I became close during our travels, as does oft happen when souls undertake a long or arduous trek together.”
“Indeed.”
“And ‘twould be so easy for me to tell them of all this. I know what they would do. They would ride out here within a day — both of them. They know me; they know Faramir, and they would open their arms to us without hesitation. ‘twould be so very easy for me to impose on our friendship.”
“Ease is not what you desire.”
“Nay — ease is not what I need. This is not supposed to be easy. I know so little about forging a relationship with... a son. I know naught. But I know that it can not be easy; it should not be easy... ”
“Aye, Sire,” Lendimir said, studying him.
“And... ”
“And?”
“That history — that ease. When Legolas and Gimli are here, I fall into it. I dive into it, so comfortable and secure a place it is for me. When my fellows are here, I readily focus on them and Faramir tends to be... left out of things.”
“And he has been left out for too long.”
“Far too long. All his life, in fact.” Aragorn sighed. “I feel that this is a story for the two of us to write. Faramir and I should be composing the lines of this tale. My dear old friends will so easily lift the burden from me, and I can not allow them to do it. At some point, of course I shall call upon them, and then I pray the news I have to give is both joyous and well-received. I would like naught more than to have those I have taken as my brothers come here to meet my son.”
“They have already met Faramir, of course.”
“Aye. But not my son. That will be different. But I want things settled first; I want a chance for Faramir and I to be somewhat alone with this.”
Lendimir steepled long fingers. “But you do need to speak your thoughts.”
“Indeed,” Aragorn replied. “You have noticed how I call on you, intrude upon your time.”
“Perhaps ‘tis easier with me because the boundaries are different.”
Wise man. Aragorn nodded, running his finger idly along the edge of his desk. His mind drifted; he remembered Faramir’s nigh hysterical laughter and the unchecked rage that had followed it. Never had he seen that gentle young man so gripped by anger. He turned his right hand. The palm showed no colour, no trace of redness where it had connected with Faramir’s cheek.
What do you wish to come of this, Sire?”
“What do I wish?” Aragorn shook his head. “After last night, after his reaction to the truth, after I struck him... How could I have done that?”
“‘twas an emotional experience for you both, Sire. I wonder how well any man could have handled it.”
“That does not make me feel better. I wanted to seek him out afterward, to tell him how sorry I am, but lately it seems that I can do naught but make things worse between us. I step up to offer a kind word and instead offer an insult. I try to reach out to him and instead slap him across the face. I have crashed into his life, stumbled around in there and broken countless things. And now... now I would not be surprised if Faramir hates me. Or, worse yet, if he is afraid of me. Perhaps the best I can do is to stay away from him.”
Lendimir considered the words for a moment, considered how candid and how forward a guard might be with his king. “I know that you will have your chance to mend all of it, Sire,” he said. “But first you must decide what it is that you ultimately seek from this, for while you linger in confusion yourself you can do little to ease your son’s distress. When you think of Faramir, knowing that he is your child, what do you want? Do you regret learning the truth about him? Do you truly desire a future with him as father and son?”
Aragorn blinked. “I thought I had said that I do. I thought — but my thoughts have whirled so, Lendimir. They have been a maelstrom, a storm that has nigh carried me away. To answer your question... nay, I do not regret learning the truth. Not one second have I spent regretting the truth, although I did rail against the weight of it for a time. What I regret is all the years we’ve lost. So many years. I think of his first words and his first steps and his first loose tooth. The first time he said nay and meant it. The first time he thought through a problem to find its solution. The first girl he laid eyes on, knowing she was different and wondrous. All the things I will never see!”
“Sire,” Lendimir replied softly, “most of what you have told me about is that which pains you. Tell me of what you hope — all of it.”
“You do not believe in asking simple questions, Master Guard,” Aragorn sighed. “There are just so many things that pain me about this. But you are right — as long as I thrash about in my own anger and grief, I can do naught for Faramir. And he needs me. I know that he needs his father. And aye — I have come to realize that I do want a future as his father. I want him to turn to me with his joys and his problems. I want to spend evenings talking companionably over wine, or perhaps sitting before the hearth in comfortable silence. I want to meet his friends, the woman he chooses, his children — my grandchildren. So many things, and I want them more than I can say; I want them so keenly that it hurts me to think I might not have them... ”
“You look forward to being a parent in every sense of the word.”
“Aye. I have been thinking about it nigh ceaselessly since I finally wrung my answers from the old man’s lips. I am not even certain how to describe it, but ‘tis as though somewhere inside me there is a door. A closed door, and it has been closed for so long, closed to the laughter of children, the sight and sound and-and the smell of their hair, of their skin, the wonder in their eyes, their innocence... it has been closed as though that would never change. Even after reading Finduilas’ words and believing them, I could not see the door opening into that hidden room.”
“It is opening now, Sire.”
Aragorn nodded, leaned back in his chair and let his gaze wander out the office window. “I know it is, my friend,” he sighed. “At the least, I hope it is.”
“Captain Faramir!”
Faramir started at the voice, cursing under his breath. An entire night he had managed to wander the streets and gardens of Minas Tirith. An entire night of mindless walking, walking, walking after his quiet flight from the suite in which he had once found peace. He had ghosted curving paths under flickering torchlight; he had drifted through the moonlit orchard — at least one of the orchards. Which one? He recalled skeletal branches that would soon bud. He recalled thick grass. And he had successfully, somehow, avoided every patrol that might have asked after his welfare and perhaps, jut perhaps, reported the answers back to...
Damn. Damn! In the dark he could transform his flesh into spirit, shed the weakness and the flaws for something both less and more. No more bones with their clinging flesh. Boromir had once marvelled that he could literally become the shadows, so that few eyes could find him among them. And even in the light he could usually blend, quiet, unassuming, stepping mutedly around the edges of a room, around the margins of a life. A useful talent. But this sunrise, his meandering path past the main gate had damned him. He wanted to get away, just to get away. He turned reluctantly. “Anthorn,” he greeted. “I had no idea you would be on duty so early. Were you not on last evening?”
“Aye, my lord” Anthorn laughed, then sobered rather abruptly and seemed to look him over. “Might I ask, my lord, if you and the king mended your differences?”
Forcing a smile, Faramir nodded. “Aye, we did. ‘twas a minor disagreement about policy, no need to worry yourself. But I’m still curious as to what you’re doing out here.” The possibility hit him and he offered the young man a more genuine but rueful smile. “Prithee say you did not find trouble with your commander.”
“Oh, nay,” Anthorn exclaimed. “Naught like that. And I won’t be here for long. Naedhrin’s wife just had the baby, and he wanted to invite a few of his close mates over. They’ll all be coming back to relieve us once they’ve had a chance to see the little tyke and pat Naedhrin on the back. Naedhrin says he’ll take his post, too. Something about being ‘responsible’ now. I said I doubt it! He doesn’t have a speck of sense in his body, that one — his wife is always on him about it! Just last week he—”
Faramir had stopped listening; he could not remember at what point. “‘tis a boy, then,” he said.
“Oh — Aye. What could be better for a first-time father than to have a son? Naedhrin’s got to have his chest out to here by now!” The young man grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry for carrying on so, my lord. It’s just a big day for us all!”
“I would gather,” Faramir replied. “I shall send Naedhrin my regards.”
“If I may ask, my lord, are you alright? You look a mite pinched.”
Faramir shook his head and forced a smile. “I just have a few things on my mind of late.”
“The Ramshead and The Rolling Goat?” Anthorn regarded him solemnly. “I reckon those two’ll continue to be trouble.”
“We shall see. Do you have aught to report?”
“Not much, my lord. Although Captain Lendimir did return from his mission with a bit of unfortunate news.”
“What sort of news?” Faramir pressed, eager for a distraction.
“Bad news from the settlements he visited — Aur Tuuur and Karas Eden.”
“You mean Eden Aur and Karas Tuuur?”
“Aye, that’s them. They’ve taken to bickering, stealing each other’s supplies. Or I reckon they haven’t just taken to it now, but are keeping up their old ways. From what I hear, they’re working their way from mutual indignation into a state of outright warfare.” The young guard sighed. “Old habits are like that — don’t you think, Captain?”
Indeed. Faramir recalled the training his childhood had seen fit to impart on him. How to cover, how to hide. Oh, he needed an escape route now, that he not have to see one particular face again. “Aye,” he nodded at Anthorn. “But habits can keep one alive during the darkest of times. We are creatures that not only appreciate but depend upon a certain amount of stability. Habits create such for us, even when the larger world does not cooperate.”
“I suspect so, my lord,” Anthorn agreed. “But this fighting is a distress. The trade routes run right through that area, right between the settlements, and merchants have reported that whenever they stray within sight of one of them they find themselves being questioned about their intentions. Captain Lendimir says the townsfolk’ll be needing some ‘diplomatic assistance to resolve the pertinent issues,’ and I reckon that just means someone’ll have to go out there and tell them to stop acting like babies.”
Faramir nodded. He was ready to bid the guard good-day when it occurred to him. “In truth, Anthorn,” he said, “I have heard this particular news. Captain Lendimir and King Elessar apprised me last night. I am preparing to ride out now.”
“You are? Captain Lendimir hasn’t made mention, not to my knowing. Will he be among your escort?”
“Nay,” Faramir replied smoothly. “I shall be going alone.”
Anthorn gaped at him. “Mercy me! Did you say alone?”
“Aye, I did. ‘tis a short journey — less than half a day through well travelled territory. The diplomatic situation is troubling, and an escort may only raise tensions. King Elessar was most disappointed with the results of the last meeting. He wishes the tone of this one to be quite different.”
“The king has decreed it, then?” Anthorn asked hesitantly.
“Do you question me, young sir?” Faramir demanded.
“Nay, my lord!” the guard answered breathlessly. “I apologise, my lord!”
Faramir shook his head. “Peace, Anthorn,” he soothed. “I recognize the concern in your questions.”
“Aye, my lord. I am... concerned about it.”
“Do not be.” Faramir turned to make for the stables. He halted mid-step and turned back toward the gate. “I offer you my apologies as well, Anthorn,” he said quietly. “But there truly is no other way.”
Elessar heard Lendimir’s report on the settlement difficulties; the two men took their meeting outside after Lendimir informed him of a new arrival to the house of Naedhrin. They strode down toward the main gate, where the proud father was posted for the day, and found there a small congregation of guards, on and off duty, offering congratulations. Naedhrin, a red-headed man with freckles and a rounded face that suggested lingering boyhood, was positively bouncing as he described the bundle of joy that now slept in his exhausted wife’s arms. “Ten fingers, ten toes!” he crowed. “And one little—Oh! Sire!”
Elessar quirked an eyebrow and tried to suppress his grin. “Do not let me interrupt you, Naedhrin. You were saying?”
“I was saying, Sire, that my little boy is ‘ealthy and ‘appy and in fine form. And that ‘e’s got a great set o’ lungs on ‘im already. I reckon everyone in Minas Tirith has ‘eard ‘im by now!”
“Congratulations, Sir!” the king laughed, clasping Naedhrin’s shoulder. “‘tis a joyous day for your family indeed.”
“Aye, Sire, truly ‘tis. And thank you, Sire!”
“I suppose,” Elessar added, glancing at the assembled guards, “that you are the popular one this morn.”
“Aye, Sire,” Naedhrin beamed. “The lads’ve been terrific, all coming to offer their regards. And the commanders as well. And Captain Faramir, before ’e left.”
Aragorn blinked. “Left?”
“Aye, my lord. For the settlements. The diplomatic errand.”
“Errand? When did he leave?” Aragorn felt a hollow space fall open inside him. His thoughts clattered into it. He stared, disbelieving, at the guard.
“Must be an hour ago, Sire, at least... ” Naedhrin’s smile faltered. “I — my lord, was ‘e not scheduled to go this morn? Because ‘e told us as ‘e was, you and Captain Lendimir’d given ‘im orders. I thought ‘twas a mite unusual that ‘e should be riding out alone, but ‘e was all packed and ‘e told us that an ambassador of peace wouldn’t be needing a guard any for the trip. He said all the orcs are gone now, anyway, after the battle... Oh, Sire — should we ‘ave stopped ‘im?” The man’s freckled skin blanched a sickly white. “Sire?”
Callee tossed his head, ears pricked forward, and Faramir slackened his hold on the reins. They crossed flat plain, hard smooth ground ideal for running, and sure enough the stallion lengthened his stride. The wind was cold against Faramir’s face; he drew it into his lungs gratefully. There was no sound save the hollow rush of air, the rustle of wild grasses, the rhythmic thudding of Callee’s hooves. All of Gondor — all of Middle Earth — could have been empty but for one man and one horse, streaking across the tundra. Would that they never reach another soul and be forced to stop.
But time passed, the grasslands flying beneath them, and ahead Faramir saw the lines of a small town. Old stone walls stood scarcely taller than a man on horseback and appeared ready to crumble, hunched into a circle that embraced simple wood structures. The roofs of shacks, what looked like a dry goods store, a stable and smithy from which smoke issued. Outside there was farmland, thin plots radiating outward from the wall and connected each to the next by tramped down earthen paths and irrigation ditches that looked from a distance like little veins. The first green shoots were erupting from tilled black soil. Beyond fields tamed under the boots of men there lay commons, and scrubby wastes that extended into woodland. Less than a league down the wide forest road, hunched at the base of moss-green hills that stretched up into high barren peaks, there sat the neighbours: Karas Tuuur.
This was Eden Aur, symbol of that yet to come. In the history of the land, a history that could be read like the yellowing pages of an ever unfinished book, there came this page upon which the townspeople would write their future. ‘The new day,’ they would write. The new life, for truly life itself had been reborn after the War. The people had lived so long not living, suspended in their grief and fear and impotence like insects suspended in a spider’s web. They had lived so long crushed under Evil’s boots and black hooves, reluctant nomads ever in the path of that infernal watching eye. Now their time came; freedom spread over Gondor like the wings of a massive white bird.
Captain Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, Brother of Boromir, Son of Finduilas, scowled at the new day. Ai — he chewed his lip as shame lanced through him; he slowed Callee to a walk. A new day could be naught but a good thing for souls weary from long years of oppression. Even laced with pain and confusion, it had to be better than all the days they had known before.
“Greetings!” he called, spying farmers pulling weeds from rows of emerging greenery.
“Greetings,” came a reply, less enthusiastic. A pair of dark eyes, set like black embers in a weathered face, seemed to measure him.
Faramir dismounted and led Callee up the single road that was more beaten path than highway. The city gates were ahead, closed although men and women toiled outside them. “Allow me to announce myself,” he said, bowing to the man who approached. The eyes were still narrowed, waiting. “I am Captain Faramir, Steward of Gondor. I have come at the request of King Elessar.”
“I am Ganador, son of Gandeth, my lord. A simple farmer. Your business is important, then?”
“Aye,” Faramir confirmed. “I need to speak to your ruling council.”
Ganador snorted faintly and motioned toward the gates. “I’ll take ye, my lord. I reckon they’ll be pleased to see ye.”
Beneath him he could feel the power of a beast whose greatest nature lay in flight. Hasufel’s strides ate up the grassland. Aragorn had paused only briefly, where tracks could be seen, to determine that Faramir was not pushing Callee as he pushed his own steed. Good — he might make up some time. Vaguely he recalled another great chase, long strides carrying them toward where their captured hobbit fellows waited for rescue.
Lendimir rode to his right, Settys gamely matching Hasufel’s pace. The eight guards followed, hoof-beats echoing. Aragorn leaned down over Hasufel’s neck and breathed in the clean cool smell of mane. No fell daemons watched them from above, no eye staring as they knifed their way across the plain, and yet his heart was a tight stone in his breast.
The ride alone could be perilous, for despite Faramir’s convenient untruth bands of orc did still rove Gondor’s wild places. Though the beasts, purposeless and drifting since Sauron’s fall, generally kept to cover through the days, emerging to feed when darkness rose, they were still always about. Like all evil things, they were always waiting for their next chance. A lone rider would be such a tempting target for them — perhaps temptation enough to bring them from cover even in daylight.
But Faramir’s course crossed open plain, and ‘twas a well used route. The creatures would not be nearby. How would they have the opportunity to even see him? Nay — they would be in the woods that hunched gloom-green to the west. They would be in the hills, lurking behind jagged falls of rock, catching fitful sleep as they could. They would not spy Faramir streaking from the safety of Minas Tirith, so there would be no danger. Of course not. Of course not.
Faramir would reach the settlements without a scratch, dusty and windblown, and be gained admission through their gates. Ever the diplomat, he would speak to their elders and begin the slow process of negotiating a treaty. The townspeople would listen and heed his sage advice, for no diplomat in the land could equal the Steward of Gondor when tact and skill were at issue.
But Lendimir had apprised him of the situation there, of the tensions under which those people continued to live. So long they had existed in the path of Sauron’s Eye, in a corridor through which Sauron’s minions had oft moved. Their cries of terror and pain unheard, they had clutched thin babes to their breasts and survived as best any soul could, but over seasons and years they had hardened. Their skins had grown tough; their hearts had grown wary. Now neighbour eyed neighbour not with friendship and common purpose, but with suspicion. The towns, erstwhile partners in defence and trade, were pitted one against the other. Neither seemed willing to yield, or even to make the first steps toward an amicable future.
And there was ever the possibility that theft could turn to violence. Lendimir’s fears were sound: anger appeared to be growing in both towns, and there would come the day when one hasty word, one act, might prove the last. Though they were tragically accustomed to helplessness against Sauron’s forces, they would likely not see themselves as helpless in the presence of a single man, even a representative of the king. And they had grown to rely not on outsiders, but on their own instincts, to survive.
Would such people, hearing the counsel of a lone ambassador from the White City, hear wisdom in the words... or the arrogance of one who could not truly know what they had endured? Faramir had no guard; they would look at the young man and see him to be without ally. One misplaced word, one diplomatic error, and what had thus far been friction might explode. Aragorn leaned closer still to the sweat-slicked neck against which he lay. “We must make speed, my strong friend,” he whispered. “At the end of our journey, my son awaits us.”
“Damargon, son of Arngoth.”
“A pleasure, my lord.” Faramir bowed deeply as the last introduction was completed. Eight councillors sat around the table. He could feel their eyes on him. “This table,” he commented, “is rather interesting, my lords.”
“Aye,” Damargon replied. “Ovoid, nigh circular. We tried a more traditional rectangular table but encountered difficulties in seating. This shape is far more advantageous.”
“Indeed.” Faramir settled in his chair, watched as Damargon followed suit. ‘Difficulties in seating.’ He could imagine the arguments waged as to who would sit at the rectangular table’s head, who would sit first on either side, who would be relegated to some indistinct position along its length. And then an equally difficult set of choices for the foot of the table — or would that be considered a second head? A nigh circular table that eliminated messy issues of rank — he would have to suggest such an idea to King— “I thank you, my lords, for your hospitality,” he said, forcibly muting his wandering thoughts.
“‘tis not often,” Damargon acknowledged, “that Eden Aur sees visitors. And even less frequently that we see visitors from the White City. Yet now we have seen a troop of the royal guard and the steward within a mere two days. ‘tis... intriguing. We are of a mind to wonder when the king himself will ride out here!”
Faramir smiled although the man’s tone sent a faint unease through him. The laughter of the council at mention of Gondor’s king — ‘twas disturbing that townsfolk, even isolated as they were, would demonstrate such a casual mien toward their sovereign. He swallowed the feeling and turned his attention to answering Damargon’s tacit question: “I have the king’s assurance,” he said smoothly, “that he is aware of circumstances in both Eden Aur and Karas Tuuur”— and here he ran his gaze meaningfully over each councillor —“and that his intent lies all in common with yours... the achievement of peace between your towns.”
“May I assume, Captain,” Damargon asked, “that your choice to visit Eden Aur first is a sign of the king’s... ”awareness” of the nature of our difficulties?”
“My choice,” Faramir replied, “was a matter of convenience — pure and simple. I chose to meet with you first because you were first on my route. This is by royal decree, and I shall be conveying such to the residents of Karas Tuuur as soon as I meet with them.”
Damargon winced briefly, then nodded. “Indeed, Captain.”
“He will go to Eden Aur first, I believe. Aye, he has no choice.”
Lendimir, riding to his right, cast a glance at Aragorn’s assertion. “You are certain, Sire?”
“Utterly.” Aragorn smiled faintly. “He is attending to duty. This may be an escape from me, but he will not shirk his responsibilities as steward. He must begin negotiations between two hostile parties, and in order to do so he must first convince all involved that his interests lie in the fair resolution of their conflict. He can not show favouritism to either side, or peace will never be gained. And his choice of which town to visit first is diplomatically meaningful.”
“I do not doubt that, Sire. You did wisely avert such a problem with our last meeting here. But I am not sure I follow your reasoning now.”
“One man can not be in two places at once, Lendimir,” Aragorn replied. “Faramir will need a convincing reason why he chooses to visit one of the towns first, and the best diplomatic explanation will be that I ordered him to visit them in order of their location along his route. Men may argue issues of rank, title, age, blood, and history, but they can give little protest against the unfairness of location.”
“I see,” Lendimir nodded. “A wise tactic. When my lads and I rode out, I had plenty of them to spare, so I could send four to each settlement and wait at the point between. I did not risk even visiting either one myself, for these settlers have proven that they can fight most persistently about the real or the imagined.”
“Indeed.” Aragorn shook his head. “Faramir will not incite them further, Captain. We need not concern ourselves with such.”
“I have faith in his abilities as well, Sire.”
“Good. Because he deserves all faith we have yet invested in him, and more. I believe that he could literally talk the trunk off an oliphaunt, were he to set his mind at the task.”
“No doubt, Sire.”
“And he is determined to see peace spread over Gondor. He demonstrates that each day. The innkeepers back in Minas Tirith — they are an example of his dedication and his skill.”
“Those two are still fighting, my lord.”
Aragorn glared briefly at Lendimir, but found no mirth on the guard’s weathered face. His temper died as quickly as it had flared. “I know that, Lendimir,” he sighed.
“I see little reason why we should meet with them ever again!”
Faramir inclined his head slightly at the councillor’s outburst. The council at Minas Tirith, rowdy and heated though it occasionally became, still managed to follow certain protocols about who held the floor at any one time. This council did not seem to abide by a single rule, and so each member simply thrust his opinion out whenever there arose the chance. The loudest voice had control. Maldorn, this was? Aye — he consulted his notes, the list of names he had jotted down after the introductions. Normally he would have had a scribe at such a large meeting, one to handle all the scribbling and to aid his memory (for recalling each name indicated his concern, that he took the matter at hand with all due seriousness), but this was somewhat thrilling. No aide, no assistance, naught beyond his own wits. “Councillor Maldorn,” he acknowledged before anyone else could interrupt, “please continue. I am most interested in what you have to say.”
“That’s what I have to say!” Maldorn replied, leaning forward and resting thick arms on the table. “I do not see why Karas Tuuur should get the benefit of any doubt! They steal from us time and again! Our labour goes into their soft bellies!”
“My esteemed Councillor,” Faramir replied, “the people of Karas Tuuur may seem like your mortal enemies, but they are men and women and children just as are the people of Eden Aur. And they have levelled similar accusations of theft.”
“Which are unfounded! I would not be surprised at all to hear that one of them made the whole thing up.”
“Perhaps.”
“No ‘perhaps,’ Captain.” Maldorn sniffed and leaned back once more. “Those people have declared themselves our enemies. They have stores of their own grain, plenty to hold them until next harvest, and yet they steal bread from my boys’ mouths!” Murmurs of assent flowed around the table.
Faramir nodded, noting the significance of the man’s words. “The thefts are truly unfortunate, and must be halted at once. I shall be conveying such a message to the residents of Karas Tuuur — of this you can rest assured. However, merely stopping criminal acts will not do either of your towns as much good as peace could do you all.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Damargon interjected.
“Quite simply, Councillors, I mean that the War is over. The Dark Lord had fallen and the One Ring has been cast into its primal flame, never to return. Peace is unfolding throughout Gondor, and it is a beauteous thing. ‘tis like a rebirth of the light after so much darkness. Men are working with dwarves and elves like ne’er before, and with each other, toward a future we all share. Forests that have been tinged with darkness are turning green again. Fields, plains, rivers are forgetting the taste of blood. Gondor is becoming a land of fertility, prosperity and friendship rather than of poverty and hate. Does Eden Aur not wish for such a boon? Does Eden Aur not wish for its citizens to wander the great land outside of its gates, and be safe and welcomed in that land?”
“Of course we wish for that,” Damargon replied shortly. “But WE are not the problem!”
“I have no doubt of your sincerity, Councillor,” Faramir assured the table. “None at all. But when I meet with Karas Tuuur’s council and hear their side of all this, will I not hear much the same thing from them?”
A few low mutters passed between the councillors, and Faramir waited. Of course they knew the truth, and there was no need to inform them that Maldorn had, in mentioning Karas Tuuur, unwittingly confessed to knowledge of his own people’s thefts against the other town. ‘twas a matter of convincing them without bruising their significant pride, of manoeuvring them without making them feel trapped. A delicate line stretched toward peace, and the diplomat’s task was ever to walk it, to encourage those on both sides to follow.
And most importantly to make it look effortless.
“You probably will hear much the same,” Damargon admitted, frowning. “You probably will, at that. And I am of a mind to trust your intentions, Captain Faramir, for you speak with sense but no bluster. Not like the guards who late summoned us to a council. But regardless of your motive, you do not know half of the nonsense we put up with from them!”
“I am certain that your patience is sorely strained,” Faramir soothed. “I ask you to trust not only in my good intentions, but also in my determination to bring Karas Tuuur to accord as well. The king wishes naught more than to see every citizen of Gondor enjoy freedom, opportunity, and harmony. This is your birthright, my friends,” he said, spreading his hands. “The War is over, and peace is the inheritance of every man, woman, and child in Gondor!”
“We shall see about that, I suppose,” replied Damargon. “But I shall be watching this situation closely, Captain,” he said, aiming a finger at Faramir. “And this council will not abide any actions which impede Eden Aur’s efforts to defend herself!”
Ganador stretched his arms over his head, listening to the crackles of sinew over joint. His shoulders ached; his neck ached; his back fared not much better. Long days tending the crops, coaxing precious shoots out of land that remembered evil and didn’t want to grow things...
Only to have it stolen. What a crime, ‘twas, that their hard work went into the mouths of those thieves. What a travesty! And now, now two days had each brought messengers from the king’s White City. It could be no coincidence that these messengers closely followed yet another of Karas Tuuur’s accusations. Well, if any soul from Eden Aur HAD been over to that dusty little settlement to take supplies, ‘twas a fair bet they only took back what had been taken from them first. ‘twas only fair!
But here were the messengers, and Ganador knew bloody well why. Word had reached Minas Tirith; the king up on his gilded throne was unhappy and wanted a stop to it. And Eden Aur would be blamed, his fellows and his family, for naught more than doing what they needed to do to put food back on their tables, where it belonged.
“What’re ye getting’ into yer head, Mate?”
“Not much good,” Ganador chuckled. “Tell me, Eothen, why does the king send a troop o’ the royal guards one day, then the steward right after?”
“Wouldn’t know,” shrugged Eothen, “but I’ll bet ye tell me.”
“Don’t it seem a mite suspicious?”
“Maybe. So why?”
“The guards got us to a meeting, and now this Captain Faramir wants to be sweet o’ tongue, ride in ‘ere alone and ask ever so politely for audience with the council. ‘tis a tactic, I’d say.”
“To what end?”
Ganador shook his head, studying his friend’s lined face. “Don’t ye believe that we work our bones too hard to lose the fruits of it, over and over again, to the likes o’ them?” he hissed.
“Course! I never said aught about that. But ye talk about the steward like one’s got aught to do with t‘other.”
“Maybe it does. Maybe it does. Them coward thieves just made another complaint about us.”
“Aye.” Eothen grimaced. “Don’t see what they got to complain about. We only take back what’s ours, after all.”
“Aye, that we do! I’ll just reckon this Faramir wants to make an issue out of it. Otherwise, why come? They send the guards to let us know they got teeth — then they send HIM, to charm us out of our own.”
Eothen shifted a bit closer, squinted briefly at a sinking sun before flicking his blue eyes back to Ganador’s face. “Are ye sayin’ we got to do somethin’?”
“Maybe we do,” Ganador nodded. “Maybe we’d be wise to watch this steward. I don’t trust him a bit, and I say we should damned well be ready for whatever comes next.”
Part 5
“Eden Aur lies ahead, Sire,” Lendimir announced, pointing.
Aragorn grunted. The town rose from vast grassy plains, and for a moment he saw in it the humble beginnings of great cities, gleaming towered cities. Minas Tirith had been once just an alliance of poor houses that leaned toward each other and shook with every strong wind. No secrets had existed then; the private lives of the early townspeople had blown through cracks in rough wood. Children had played, grown, become parents, and the city had grown with them. It had hardened into stone — seven levels, walled. Great wooden gates that became the definers of good and bad. Good remained inside, sheltered. Other things — bad things — found themselves barred, condemned to be outside for eternity. From primal, organic roots the city had gone thus, thrusting itself down into stony Gondorian soil, thrusting itself outward to become the solid, safe, sparkling jewel of the land. “Would that Faramir have stayed there,” Aragorn muttered, his eyes on the approaching town.
“Sire?”
“Oh — my apologies, Lendimir.”
“Your mind wandered, Sire?”
Aragorn nodded. “I was thinking of Minas Tirith.”
“Would that he have remained within safe walls.”
“Aye.”
“I do not wish to overstep my authority, Sire,” Lendimir said.
“I think I’ve erased most of the boundaries.” Aragorn pulled his gaze from the town. They were too far from it to see details as yet; he would not be able to see any soul, no matter how his eyes strained.
“I have raised enough of my own, Sire, and I know that, even grown, there are times when they demand a parent’s utmost attention. I would say that, even if he fully believes himself to be running from you, your son is calling out for your attention now.”
“You think so?” Aragorn asked. ‘twas becoming a ritual between him and this guard who had, a few moons prior, been only a stranger to him. Lendimir gave him the answer; he still asked the question again.
“Aye, Sire,” Lendimir replied. “I think so.”
Waerynne flicked the mud from her skirts as she entered the barn. The horses whickered at her and she paused to greet each of them in turn. “Good-day, Sheeware; good-day, Lasareth; good-day, Tiny.” She giggled: Trythos, for all the godlike power of his name, was a small and fine-boned stallion whose head barely cleared the stall door. Aye, he could move, his shorter legs eating up the ground. And jump — she’d seen him clear a wall that caused many a larger stallion to balk. Ardon had told her of the time Tiny, burdened with a rider, had cleared Lasareth’s back. Was that just a story to fool a little sister and send her passively back to her waiting doll? She wanted to believe.
But it mattered not, for the horse was little and she could reach his soft nose to scratch it. She had affectionately dubbed him “Tiny” one day, and the name had stuck. Now, she had it on good authority, several of the grown-ups had taken to calling him Tiny as well!
Ignoring a (possibly) indignant snort, she strode to the end of the aisle, unlatched the door there and stepped boldly into the dark little room behind. A time there had been when she was too afeard to even throw that latch, because the Diraenes would get her. Resentful of innocence after their fall, they seized children in their birdlike claws, then ate them in an attempt to recapture a sense of purity. Oddly, they were also said to spread their great webbed wings in protection over married couples. Waerynne shook her head — monsters could be terribly fickle. But Father had said that a lass of eight was grown enough to face any daemon of the dark. And the horses did need to eat. Their needs were bigger than her worry. That was being a grown-up, Father said. She stepped inside, unrolling her canvas sack...
The oat bin was open, sitting against the wall like a gaping square mouth. Like it wanted to be, just once, the one that got fed instead of the one that fed every other thing. Nay — none of the grown-ups would have left it that way, for there were rats big as cats around Eden Aur, and supposedly they liked their oats. The little mice who could squeeze in through a hole the size of her little finger — those little souls were let alone. But the big rats and their big appetites were another story.
Waerynne moved to the bin and peered inside. Aye, there was definitely something amiss. When she had come just two days prior, the feed had reached nigh to the top, so that she only had to lay her sack on the smooth oat-hills and scoop them in with her giant oat-hill destroying hand; now there was barely enough to fill the sack. Her older brother had fed the horses last day, but he would not have used so much — and a mere three stallions would not have eaten all that! Distress fuelled her muscles and she turned to run, then as quickly stopped. Lasareth was gazing at her with his liquid brown eyes. She turned back to the bin, stood on tiptoes to stretch into it, and scraped the remaining oats into her sack. “‘tis alright, fellows,” she soothed, opening the stall doors one by one and distributing the meagre supply of feed among their pails. “I’ll go tell Father, and he’ll make this right. You’ll see.”
Her sack was empty. Waerynne checked each stall; the doors were latched. She eyed the horses sympathetically then ran from the barn. Father was working the fields, beyond the wall where she could not go, but she would go to the gate and shout, and he would hear.
The council adjourned after an hour made short by the scope of their discussion, made long by bickering and insults. Faramir rose with the others and they filed out of the oppressive little room. A few shoulders bumped going through the narrow door; Damargon fell back to walk at Faramir’s side. “I have to confess, young Steward,” he began, “that I was not hopeful about the purpose — or the potential outcome — of your visit.”
“My only intent here is to enable peace to develop,” Faramir replied quietly as they rounded the corner and moved out into the main square.
“Your words sound honest enough that I feel wont to trust in your motives. But your judgement and your capabilities both are another matter. Do you truly believe that such bitter enemies can put aside their many differences and grow together as friends?”
Faramir paused, gave the matter its due thought although he had ever known his answer to such a question. “Indeed,” he asserted. “I always have believed in our ability to make peace, for the things that make us different from one another are eternally less significant than the things which make us alike.”
“You certainly can phrase peace nicely,” Damargon commented. “And that is part of the reason I continue to listen. Although I do not know if every man here will share your— Hold! What is about?”
Several men approached, and a young girl with a pale, pinched face. “I need a word with the council,” one of the group demanded. One of the others, who Faramir recognized as Ganador the farmer, nodded.
“What is it, Eothen?” Damargon asked.
“My daughter ‘ere was in the barn, set to feed the horses.” Eothen laid a dusty hand on the girl’s thin shoulder. “She discovered another theft — all the oats are gone since just last eve! We can’t even be sure when the crime took place, because the beasts got hay to break their fast and no one was in to check the oat bin. But it must ‘ave happened in the dark of night — that’s when those craven vipers slither out of their nest!”
Faramir stiffened at the mutterings of the assembled councillors. Their anger was palpable. They stirred like bees, readying themselves to swarm. “If I may,” he interjected, “do we know as a certainty that this theft was committed by a resident of Karas Tuuur?”
Ganador rounded on him, glaring. “Of course ‘twas, ye right fool! Who else? Unless ye think the spirit of Sauron got hungry and reached into our humble little barn for a mid-night snack!” A few of the councillors chuckled in response; the rest nodded resolutely.
“I only suggest,” Faramir said, “that you wait before jumping to any conclusions. Perhaps ‘tis as you say — if it is, then I vow to you that I shall do my best to ensure that—”
“Nay, don’t ye be givin’ us any o’ yer pretty “assurances,” Steward.” Ganador snorted and took a step toward Faramir. “I don’t trust yer assurances, and I sure don’t trust YOU.”
“My good man,” Faramir reasoned, “I know that you have had years to grow so suspicious of your neighbours, and you have had reason for suspicion in the past. I do not expect to change your mind in a day. I just want the opportunity to put your fears to rest.”
“My fears?” Ganador laughed. “I fear naught. And I know what the likes o’ ye is up to ‘ere.”
“What would that be?” Damargon had held his tongue; now he raised an eyebrow and waited, expectant.
“I find it mighty convenient, councillor, that this minion of the king arrives from Minas Tirith a day after the soldiers come, and right after Karas Tuuur makes another one of its sordid accusations.”
Damargon tilted his head, and it seemed to Faramir that there was a brief tightening over the bridge of the man’s nose, a squeeze of brow. “The timing is... peculiar,” he conceded.
“I assure you, Councillor Damargon, and the rest of this esteemed council, that my arrival here has naught to do with the guards.” Faramir eyed first the council, then the other men in turn. An audience was gathering, listening. “The guards were here to arrange a meeting for the purposes of discussing security, as merchants traversing these parts have had difficulties of late. I am here to discuss not their concerns, but yours, and hopefully to assist with forming a treaty that will benefit both the towns and bring peace to you all.”
“Peace,” spat Ganador, briefly showing crooked yellow teeth. “I don’t believe a word of—”
“What’s that?” One of the councillors pointed. Through the open gates, distant over the grassland, there approached a band of riders. A pennant flew over them, dark-edged against the sky.
“They make haste,” Damargon said.
“They’re from Minas Tirith!” Eothen exclaimed.
Aragorn saw the wall ahead, and the tops of wooden structures enclosed by it. His eyes ran over tilled land, up the road that ribboned its way through open gates. Within those gates stood a small crowd.
Lendimir, at his side, peered forth. “I can not tell you if Faramir is among them, Sire.”
“Nay — I can see no more than you from this distance. But I believe one of them pointed out toward us.”
“Aye.”
As Aragorn watched, there was movement. One of the men broke from the group and ran to the gates; a second man followed suit. “What are they doing?” he murmured.
“Sire, they close the gates!”
“They must see our banner and know us to be ally! What are they—”
The town folded in on itself and he could see no more.
“Those are the king’s men!” Faramir protested. “They come only to—”
“I care not!” Ganador pivoted from the gate and strode to Damargon. “I ask this council to see the plain truth that those soldiers come with the intent o’ takin’ away our freedoms!”
Damargon looked from Ganador to his fellow councillors and saw agreement in their eyes. He glanced at Faramir, paused a beat. Then: “You!” He pointed to the farrier, whose history in battle was well known. “Arm yourself! All of you, men — if the king believes that he can simply send his guards in here and lay claim to that for which we have toiled, then he is gravely mistaken! We have all fought, one way or another.” Damargon turned, swept his gaze over the restless crowd. “We fight again this day!” he declared, and the murmurs of assent turned to shouts. Men scattered, ran for the swords they had left in homes, in the meagre armoury.
“To home with ye!” Eothen barked, unwinding Waerynne’s frightened fingers from his tunic. “To yer mother’s side, and do not leave!” The girl ran, skirts a startled flutter on the breeze.
Faramir stood helpless as the situation reeled out of his control. His stomach tightened; ai, but a diplomat ever knew that when he walked into a tense situation he could make it either better or worse. His nightmare was ever the same — taking fragile peace and kindling it into violence. “Councillors, please!” he shouted, competing with the din. “Damargon — we have spoken at length about this!”
There seemed another brief tightening of the man’s brow, but ‘twas gone then. “I am sorry, Captain,” the councillor said, “because I do believe you have a pure and just motive for being here. But Eden Aur must defend herself now. Raegnor! Cathos! Guard our guest!”
Faramir gave the young men, dirty fingers curled around tarnished swords, only a moment to turn in his direction before drawing his own blade. Two against one was never the best of circumstances, but the steward of Gondor had fought his way out of far worse.
Andurin gleamed, eager. Hasufel’s strides quickened yet more so that they were streaking, thundering across the plain. The scrubby grass yielded; the tilled black soil churned under their hooves like water made choppy by a hammering of rain.
Lendimir pulled Settys up short; the rest followed suit. The gates rose before them, but these gates were nowhere near as solid and daunting as the great main gates of Minas Tirith.
“What say you, Lendimir?” Aragorn asked, running his eyes over the wall. “It does not look impressive.”
“Nay, Sire. We should have little difficulty gaining entry.”
“But... ”
“Indeed. What awaits us, I can only guess.”
“People of Eden Aur!” Aragorn called. “I am King Elessar Telcontar, and I demand entrance!”
“I think not, Sire!” came the answering call. “We are prepared to defend ourselves!”
“Against what, I ask you! Are we not allies?”
“Aye, Sire, we would be! But we cannot call friend any man who sides with Karas Tuuur, the instigator of our problems!”
“Open your gates, by order of your king!” Lendimir bellowed.
“The people of Eden Aur recognize no king who tries to take from them their liberty in deference to a band of common thieves!”
Aragorn gritted his teeth, recalling another set of voices defiantly raised. The innkeepers had been just as intransigent, and Faramir had seen fit to wade right into the middle of their dispute. “I wish to speak to Captain Faramir, my steward!” he shouted.
Faramir, the wall at his back, listened mutely to the exchange. King Elessar was outside the wall, under the banner of the White City. King Elessar had ridden from Minas Tirith — to fetch him? To fetch him... Now the weight of it pressed down on him. He had ridden headlong into this, and the king himself was involved.
His would-be conquerors or guards, Raegnor and Cathos, stood with swords drawn but had as yet made no serious move toward him. They seemed hesitant, eyeing each other, occasionally raising a brow or a shoulder as if carrying on some silent conversation. Or an argument. He waited.
“I wish to speak to Captain Faramir, my steward!”
His eyes remaining on the two men, Faramir called back, “I am here, Sire! This is naught but a simple misunderstanding!”
“Rest assured, Captain, we shall resolve things presently!”
Faramir glanced at Damargon. The man did not catch his gaze, and he could not afford to stare when two others seemed only to be waiting for an opportunity to rush him. His head was throbbing; his neck radiated tension that hunched its way down his spine like a creeping worm and brewed a faint nausea deep in his belly. His sword was a reassuring weight, but it did not open the gates, nor bring the king’s soldiers inside. For the moment, he was alone.
“He is alright,” Aragorn breathed. Then he raised his voice again, injecting the weight of his authority into each word. “You men in there will open the gates and receive my troops, and once you have done so we will speak of your concerns. Until then, I am fully prepared to regard you all — men, women, children — as enemies in my land, and to take appropriate action!”
There was a pause. Scraps of conversation flew over the gate, under it. Voices were raised — perhaps there was dissent among the ranks. Lendimir leaned close to him. “It seems they are not all in agreement, Sire.”
“Nay,” Aragorn muttered. “I just hope that circumstances inside do not become overly confused — that is the last thing we need, with us out here and my son in there.”
One of the gates began to open, quickly, as though being dragged by a determined force. A shout ripped through: ‘—ye daft? Close that—’ The gate abruptly reversed course.
Hasufel and Settys, however, wasted not a heartbeat of time. One cluck of tongue and flick of rein set them into motion, the other soldiers following. A few strides and they were there, already carried by their momentum; Aragorn held his blade high; Lendimir held his blade high; Hasufel reached the gate first and with a clarion whinny that one stallion uses when challenging another he shouldered up against the wood, his weight, his armoured king’s weight hitting the wood, splintering the gate and forcing it open once more. And they were moving through, charging, flooding through like blood through torn skin... and into chaos.
The king’s words hit them with the force of a blow, and Faramir watched them blanch under realization. Their stubborn pride, their hubris had led them against the leader of all of Gondor — a man who had led the Nine Walkers, who Sauron and Saruman and all the forces of evil had not been able to defeat! The councillors looked helplessly at one another. They were bureaucrats and had been for a time; their days of battle were over. Would they even take a sword in hand? And what then? Die in battle? Die later under the executioner’s blade, should the king decide it? Their initial rush of patriotism cooling, now their eyes only asked questions.
Eothen broke first, running to the gates and frantically dragging one open. But Ganador as quickly rushed to intercede, two other sword-wielding men at his side. They tussled briefly with Eothen before throwing him bodily out of the way and forcing the gate closed.
That was the signal, their first apparent victory against the king’s men, and it fuelled them: the fight was still on! Faramir spun in time to counter Cathos’ sudden lunge, parrying and keeping his back to the wall. Raegnor had retreated further, but he knew enough not to assume the man would stay away. They could not be given the chance to surround him. He deftly sent Cathos’ sword flying and found himself free — and then things turned.
The gate flew open again with an almighty crack as aged wood was met by nigh a thousand minas of barrelling horse and man. The men inside, trying to bar the way, were put off their feet, and in charged a mass of pure motion, white and brown and grey. Armour and horses glistened in the sun. Faramir turned in that moment, his eye catching one rider whose wild dark hair flew like a banner of triumph and whose sword was raised high — he could not help turning even as he knew the enemy was all about — vaguely and too late he realized his error, for Raegnor was suddenly bold and fearless and moving in — he saw the dull glint of steel and raised his blade to meet it, and while he was fighting the second man, the first retrieved fallen sword and swung back toward the fight...
Faramir threw himself at Raegnor, anger fuelling him, and when he was too close to fight with his blade he swung his free fist instead, expecting any moment to feel the death stroke from Cathos. Damn them! Damn their stubborn pride and their paranoia! He landed an almighty blow to Raegnor’s jaw, watched the young man’s body fall boneless to the ground, and then halted his advance — where was Cathos? Where? He turned, but the world was chaotic; townspeople were running past him; he could not see his other foe...
As he made to turn again, he was blinded by a flash of steel. Elessar was a shadow streaking by, a dark, bright-edged spectre blowing by. Cathos had moved behind him, out of sight, and now he could see the man charging and Elessar was there. Faramir raised his sword even as he realized he would not need to use it, then he let it simply fall. Raegnor was still down, not likely hurt but at least out of the way. Cathos seemed suddenly passive and uninterested in fighting. Faramir could not tell if the man was injured, and he did not care.
Elessar was down and still, bleeding into the grey soil.
—Nay, Captain—
—I will not—
—must get to—
... ... ... —almost—
The darkness began to lift, slowly, gently. ‘twas black as eternal night, then ‘twas grey, then lighter. The weight was everything, all about him. Then the weight was not everything. Heavy, lighter... lighter. A blanket.
“Sire?”
He opened his eyes. Ai — mistake, mistake—
“Peace, Sire. Aye, ‘tis bright, but the lamps have been snuffed now. Ye can open yer eyes again. That’s better, hm?”
Aye, better. Illewyn was hovering, her old eyes dark and soft. He tried to nod, to acknowledge her, but she was floating away and his head was too massive to move. Massive, buzzing, a swarm of bees. He tasted sweetness — had they given him honey? Nay, sickly. Awful.
“I know, Sire,” Illewyn’s voice came again, washing over him. “That stuff is vile, but ‘twill make ye feel better. ‘tis early yet; ye sleep now, for a touch.”
Feel better. Sleep now. Feel...
Faramir sighed and did a thing he was not generally wont to do: he rolled from his one side onto the other, pulled the blankets up a bit higher, and relaxed into his pillow.
Nay — he had never done that, not that he could recall. Always the creeping pre-dawn light had seen him awake, anxious to rise, anxious to get on with the day. From his boyhood he had been the one who was up and dressed while the others were still stirring, blinking owlishly, fumbling for their boots. Aye, Boromir had always seemed to be up a few heartbeats after he, but it had always been after — never before.
He mused idly, snuggling deeper into his nest. Boromir, even before joining the Rangers, had always risen early out of simple impatience, the sheer desire to resume the business of living. You can sleep when you’re dead! Aye, Boromir had said that more than once to a visiting chum. Now Boromir could sleep.
The one whose uses were few had risen earlier than his brother’s enthusiasm. He had risen earliest, always, uncurling from sheets and blankets, thrusting from warmth out into the cold. Rain on the windows, wind shrieking in the trees. None of it had ever driven him back for a few moments more rest.
But his brother’s flame had never burned in him. Nay, there seemed to be no reason that he would push upward and outward from his warm private space, one cold morn after another. Perhaps he had simply desired to escape the nightmares that were so typically a part of his sleep. Perhaps he had desired to escape others, if only for that short spell of peace before they woke and joined him in the world. Nay, too simple an answer. Far too simple.
Haste. When he thought of that word it felt right, like a truth settling in his brain. A sense of urgency had always fuelled him, driven his muscles into movement. Get up early, earlier, earlier still. Get on with it; get on with it; get on with it — for he of few uses should find ways to be a little more useful; he of little wisdom should spend a little more time with books; he of no future should hasten to carve something out of the miserable present. Like an insect that lived for a few short days, he buzzed and batted himself against the walls. But the morning had never come early enough for him to prove himself worthy.
His eyes opened, and he rose.
This time the room was bright and he minded it not. He had returned to himself, remembering the urgent ride out of Minas Tirith, the hunched and introverted demeanour of Eden Aur, the cacophony of voices that had greeted his entry into the shabby town. Then flashes of steel, flashes of pain, fragments of conversation infused with an overwhelming darkness.
Where was Faramir? Aragorn let his eyes wander over the comfortable furnishings of his chamber. He lay in his own warm bed, not in the House of Healing, and no attendants lingered obviously nearby: his injury had not been serious, then. Ai — when that bloody villager had hit him, it had felt serious enough! He had felt the hilt of the raised sword connect with his skull, then glance off. A poor blow: the swordsman had obviously been unprepared for anyone to come between him and his intended target. That was lucky. Faramir... he turned his head to gaze out the window; the flag of Gondor flapped gloriously in a morning breeze, full-height. The steward’s death would have seen it lowered. He took a deep breath.
“Ah, Sire.” Illewyn, her movements silent as a shadow despite her corpulent frame, was in the open doorway. “I see we’re awakened, and not feeling so poorly as before.”
“Aye, good nurse,” Aragorn sighed, stretching past the tightness in one shoulder. “I feel much improved. But let me ask you: have you seen Captain Faramir? Is he among your patients?”
The nurse glided to his bedside. “Nay, Sire, and I’ve not seen the lad since last night. He was exhausted; Master Lendimir sent ‘im to ‘is bed after a time and I’m sure ‘e’s been there since.” She laid a hand on Aragorn’s brow. “I fretted a touch about fever, my lord. Ye passed the night in such a deep sleep that it seemed ye might never wake. When ye did, just before dawn, ye were in some pain. But we steeped a strip o’ willow bark and that seems to ‘ave done the trick. “
“The vile tea you gave me.”
“No soul ever said it had to taste good to work,” Illewyn chuckled.
“You said ‘exhausted.’”
“Sire?”
“Captain Faramir. You said he was exhausted.”
Illewyn flashed a smile that surely had years of training behind it. “Aye, Sire, and ye surely are one to worry yerself about yer men. He was weary from the long day, but otherwise fit.”
“Good,” Aragorn replied. “Good.”
“Sire, are ye up for a visitor? The master guard ‘imself has been ‘overing outside.”
“Aye. Entreat him to give me a moment, though.” At the old woman’s departure, Aragorn rose. Dizziness washed over him, but ‘twas not too bad. Not like the waves of a choppy sea — more like the fingers of water that lap at pebbles on a shore. He breathed deeply and gained his feet, then moved to the basin that graced a nearby table. A few handfuls of cool water splashed over his face, wet fingers run through his hair and beard, he felt greatly refreshed. He turned back toward the bed but rejected it nigh at once: the sitting area was more appropriate. Slipping quickly into breeches and a loose shirt, he settled there.
“Sire?” Lendimir was in the doorway.
“Aye,” Aragorn greeted. “Come in, please.”
“I apologize for interrupting your... rest, my lord.”
Aragorn heard the slight emphasis on “rest,” but decided to let pass its possible censure. “Not at all, Lendimir,” he said. “Tell me of Faramir.”
“He is fine, Sire. He was unhurt in the attack.”
“The nurse told me. Thank the gods. But where is he now? You sent him to bed, she says.”
“Aye, Sire, that I did.”
“Are you certain he remained there? If he took it into his head to try leaving again—”
“Sire,” Lendimir said, raising a hand. “I took it upon myself to post a guard at his door — just for the night, with instructions to leave come dawn. The young man seems to have difficulties securing himself adequate rest, and I knew ‘twould reassure you to have him under lock and key, at least for the meantime. I have also alerted the lads that Lord Faramir is not going to be leaving Minas Tirith without a proper escort. That is a standing order. I have not, of course, told them that they now guard the crown prince, but I have made it abundantly clear that he is not to leave this city alone — ‘diplomatic errand’ or no.”
Aragorn relaxed a bit in his chair. “I thank you,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “My first thoughts upon waking were of him — I fell and saw naught of what happened — I knew not whether he was wounded... or worse... ”
“Not a scratch on him, Sire. You were the concern, for all of us.” Lendimir regarded the king evenly. “In that chaotic time after we returned with you, he refused to leave your side. He asked a thousand questions if he asked a single one; eventually, I had to usher him from the House of Healing lest the healers themselves turn homicidal at his pestering. He convinced them, just before I saw him out of there, that you would be far more comfortable in your own bed than in a cot in the healing chamber. I took it as a victory that I was able to convince him to go sleep, himself.”
“He is loyal,” Aragorn murmured.
Lendimir quirked an eyebrow, and for a moment took on the air of ageless wisdom that rested with such apparent ease on Lord Elrond’s regal shoulders. “What I witnessed last night, Sire,” he replied, “was far more than loyalty.”
Aragorn searched the guard’s dark eyes. He stilled the question that rose in his throat.
“Eden Aur has been secured, Sire,” Lendimir continued. “The inhabitants, realizing you fallen, also realized the extent of their transgressions: many a sword-wielding man fell to his knees at that, weeping as solicitously as a maid who’s just broken the plate. I left four guards with instructions to keep general order, and I made certain the townspeople knew that I would be dispatching a full troop upon my return to Minas Tirith.”
“Were any of your men injured?”
“Nay, Sire. We were most fortunate. Although I do not in all honesty believe the settlers foresaw their actions causing bodily harm. From the looks on their faces when you were struck down, I could see. They had not thought their little rebellion through to the point wherein any of them would be forced to inflict a wound.” Lendimir snorted faintly. “Farmyard warriors, most. More comfortable with a hoe in hand than with a blade.”
“The one who struck me seemed comfortable enough.”
“Aye, but I believe his courage came from altogether a different place. He had just seen another fall at Faramir’s hand.”
“Aye.”
“As soon as you were down, my lord, the fight just seemed to drain out of him. He made for the other one’s side and remained there.”
“Fellows.”
“Perhaps more.”
“Ah. So the troop has departed?”
“Aye, led by Lieutenant Mendren. It will have arrived by now, carrying my written orders to seize all weaponry out of private hands, secure the armoury, secure the horses, and ask some very pointed questions of the town council.”
“Good.”
“Criminal charges, Sire?”
“Against the men who attacked Faramir and I, definitely. About the rest, we shall see.”
“A few of the lads expressed a desire to ride out to Aglarond and South Ithilien with the news of your injury. I told them to stand down.”
Aragorn blinked. “You did.”
“Aye, Sire. I half believed that they desired a bit of vengeance: tell Lords Legolas and Gimli of this, and Eden Aur would find itself in deeper trouble than it already faces from us. I can envision a contingent of elven archers and axe-wielding dwarves descending on the town, and I’m fairly certain that is the same vision my lads entertained.” Lendimir flashed a brief grin. “Besides, the lords would hasten to be with you, and I heard tell from a rather wise soul that you need some time alone with your son.”
“My friend,” Aragorn replied, laughing mirthlessly, “I believe that I may be coming to depend on you far too much.”
“I do not think so, Sire.”
“Nay?”
“Nay.”
Faramir bathed, dressed slowly. His chamber was sun-lit and cheery, but he left the window closed. As he pulled on his boots, he recalled the dusty ground of Eden Aur and the way King Elessar had looked lying upon it. As he fastened his belt, he recalled Lendimir’s hands — strange that he should remember such — blocky yet deft as they hastened to Hasufel’s gear. The guards had transferred to the king’s riderless stallion Settys’ minimal packs, that Settys be free to take a second burden. And they had lifted the unconscious king onto the horse, entrusted him to Lendimir’s strong arms for the ride back home.
A head wound, a deep gash that had bled alarmingly. King Elessar, leaping from Hasufel, had rushed past Faramir to engage Cathos. There had been no fight, really, just a mad sudden rush and the quiet that came after.
Cathos had been coming for him, unseen by him. The charge not of a warrior but of a raging and murderous coward, that had been. The sword had been raised high, like in the statues and paintings of the old gods fighting. Had that attack been to avenge Raegnor’s fall?
Nay, the king had not had the chance to fight on his behalf, but only time enough to separate him from danger. It had been a sacrifice, the thing a man does when there is naught else left to do. He had always known that he would have done such for Boromir, as Boromir would have done such for him. No matter the peril, no matter the futility — when a man saw his kin about to be cut viciously down...
“He had to have known he could die.” Faramir started at the voice before realizing it to be his own. Aye, the king had to have known, seeing the enemy coming like an enraged bull, that stepping into the path of such a charge could have proved lethal. And he had done it. He had done it, and there had seemed not even a moment’s hesitation.
“He did it for me,” Faramir said shakily, to the wall.
Illewyn voiced her objections, which were duly heard and overruled. Aragorn finished dressing, tucking in the shirt and slipping on a tunic, retrieving his boots. No robes this day, for his headache lingered and a council meeting — or virtually any royal business — would surely drive him mad. He needed not more politics, not more angry voices and intractable positions. He sought clean air; he sought sunshine.
He sought Faramir, first. Last. Every thought in his head wheeled around the young man (the crown prince, aye) like stars wheeling through the night sky. Tiny pricks of infinite light, each one of them singing metallically of a son, unknown and then known, gone and then returned.
Faramir had not, after allegedly hovering so close by his side the night prior, returned to him. Aragorn drifted through the citadel’s corridors like a moth, turning to the steward’s office, venturing up to the private quarters where he had released life-changing news while standing in a doorway. The rooms were empty, their secrets all told.
Out of the citadel, then. He knew that Faramir cherished solitude, indulging, in those rare duty-free moments of a day, in long walks through the gardens. Small escapes from the world. So he struck out down a path festooned with the first bold lilac blooms, with apple blossom that unfurled like butterfly wings from the cocoon, with stiff young hyacinth and creeping tangles of vine from which perfect five-petalled periwinkles would soon open. The air was green-scented, spicy. Pine, cedar, fir clawed skyward as if summoning the gods.
Aragorn wandered through the enchantment, wound down roads travelled oft with his friends and fellows. His heart fluttered weakly against his ribs, like a bird seeking escape, and the blood rushed urgently through his veins. Each step on stone echoed; each corner promised a reward that did not come.
And then did. Faramir was there, across a small clearing like the one where he had sat with Lendimir and spilled his troubles. A fountain rose between them and spilled clear water into its stone basin. The paving stones, intricately carved, parted slightly for moss to wend through, and grass edged the circular plaza and its spilling stone angel. The trees that ringed it left off once on each side — a path in, a path out. Ingress and escape.
Faramir had not seen him, and Aragorn paused at the clearing’s edge. Another doorway in which he could (should?) hover. He waited, silent, watching the young man who sat cross-legged against a tree. Faramir’s eyes rested vaguely on something up and distant, off to Aragorn’s left. Naught perhaps. Faramir’s face was slack and unlined; the small creases that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on that fair brow had faded and left only faint lines. Echoes of worry arrived and departed and returned, departed and returned again, carving themselves a place in willing skin. Light brown waves of hair spilled down to lean shoulders. There seemed a profound stillness, as though Faramir had been planted in that place along with the bench and the angel, inanimate, only looking more alive. Aragorn let his eyes linger, searching for scratches, bruises, signs of the battle. There were none, and he sighed.
Faramir’s eyes sharpened then, and emotion crept back into the passive face. Lips that had rested together in unthinking ease now pursed, thinning their fullness in reaction to him. Aragorn made no move. “We need to speak, Faramir,” he said.
Recovering the demeanour of a proper steward, Faramir scrambled to stand. Duty slipped between the two men like a sheer curtain. Or like a stone wall, father and son eternally on opposite sides. “My apologies, Sire. I did not hear you come,” the captain greeted, straightening and issuing a perfunctory nod. A proper nod, properly professional.
Aragorn hated the nod. ‘twas a careful little gesture, creeping out to the wall and poking it to make sure it was sound. “Quite alright,” he said, and crossed the plaza to where Faramir had sat. The young man might have tacitly retreated behind a barrier, but there was no reason why he could not follow. “You have doubtless had much on your mind,” he continued, taking a seat on the nearest bench and patting the spot beside him. “Come. Let us talk.”
Stiffly, it seemed, Faramir walked to the bench and complied. Long fingers twisted themselves into a tangle in his lap. A confusion. “Of what do you wish to speak, my lord?” he asked.
“I am more than certain you know,” Aragorn replied. “We have not had a chance since... that night.”
“Nay.”
“You departed on your rather sudden “diplomatic mission” to Eden Aur, and I was unable to seek you out as I so wished to do.”
“Sire—” The word emerged plaintively, something suspended between a sigh and a whimper. Faramir shook his head, lips parted as if ready to form words of explanation or of plea, but naught came.
“Nay, Faramir,” Aragorn stated evenly. “Silence will not do, this time. Explain to me: why did you leave without a word?”
“Sire, I... I have duties.”
“I know. But you neglected to answer my question, and I will hear your explanation yet.”
“I need to—”
“Nay. No more retreat, no more silence.” Aragorn turned toward Faramir. His right knee brushed the young man’s left, unthinkingly, familiarly. The way families touch like pieces of a puzzle, blind and accepting, curving to fit each other. “We must speak of this,” he said, “and we will, but first I must apologize for the greatest silence of all — the silence of a father toward his son.”
Part 6
“My lord, there is certainly no need for apology.” Faramir rose, looking suddenly anxious. He smiled shakily, bowed and stepped toward the fountain where the angel’s tilted pitcher spilled. The workmanship of dwarves married, there, the water-work of elven-kind. Rugged and delicate came together and found their fit.
Aragorn’s mind took him to Finduilas again. Her quiet walk through the stony corridors of her lord’s home. Of her lord’s heart. Her delicate skin, warm and soft as rose petals under his hands. She had always laughed when he stroked the inside of her elbows. “Faramir,” he called.
“Sire, I should really be attending to my duties. This morning has escaped me, somehow. If there is naught further you require of me?” The steward moved around the fountain toward a path. An escape route.
“I said nay, Faramir. Come back here.”
“My lord, I—”
“Faramir!” Aragorn surprised himself with the bark. Somewhere nearby, a sudden quick rustle told him he had surprised birds into flight. What he watched was Faramir: the young man did not seem to startle at his voice but halted so suddenly that ‘twas as though movement itself had died, and stood there. Aragorn could see rigid shoulders and the lines of a straight, lean, angular body. He could see the back of a tawny-maned head, long arms, long legs meant for covering ground. “Come back here,” he repeated.
Faramir turned, stepped to the bench, turned again, sat. “I have pressing matters to which I must soon attend, Sire.”
“For now we talk.”
“As you wish, Sire.”
Aragorn stilled the fingers that moved toward his throbbing temple. “Would you please relax, Faramir?” he sighed. “I feel as though I sit next to a statue.”
“My apologies, Sire.” But Faramir’s back remained straight as an elven arrow.
“Alright then. We talk, whether you are relaxed or not. Your solitary trip out to the settlement was one of the most foolish acts I have ever had the misfortune to witness. Do you realize that?”
Faramir stiffened further. “I understand that I broke with protocol, Sire,” he said.
“Protocol be damned!” Aragorn snapped. “You risked your life!” He studied Faramir, searched for any sign of understanding in the young man’s eyes, any sign that sensible Captain Faramir comprehended the gravity of the wrong — and of why it angered him so.
“‘tis my life to risk.”
The words, so quiet and direct, so utterly lacking drama or emotion, struck Aragorn. He felt the breath leave his lungs even as into his muscles seemed to bleed a shocking sense of power. Anger rose like a tide in him, choking off his rational thought. Ignoring the dull thumping in his head, he twisted ‘round, seized Faramir’s shoulders, and forcibly hauled the steward over his knees. For the space of a heartbeat or two, Faramir hung tense and motionless, and Aragorn managed to find the words that had been momentarily flattened by his rage. “YOUR life to risk?” he seethed. Faramir began struggling to rise and Aragorn leaned forward, using the weight of his upper body to hold the young man in place. “Your life?” he repeated. “Your father has a thing or two to say about that!”
He sat, but his mind rebelled. His thoughts took him out from the little plaza, out and down the paths, onto a path that was eternal. Trees closed about him from either side, and they had naught to say. Trees knew how to be quiet, and they lived long peaceful lives because of it. The sky above was a perpetual blue — not bright, not dull, but just the precise flat-plane blue that could exist forever without being noticed. The air was neither too warm nor too cold, and his footfalls were silent. He glided down the path, ever down the path, and though others were surely about, there was no other soul to—
Nay. There was King Elessar, and he was not on his blessed solitary walk but trapped on a bench. Being scrutinized. Inspected. Measured. Being engaged — he wanted to leave. Being ordered to stay, and listen, and speak.
His earlier relief had left him, bleeding out like the blood of some small creature. An arrow had pierced its heart, or a sword. It had twitched briefly as the king had commanded him to stay. And it had reminded him of the way his own heart had fluttered upon seeing Elessar so still, of the questions he had asked in the House of Healing. ‘Will he survive?’ ‘Aye, Captain, surely he will.’ ‘Will he recover fully?’ ‘Aye, Captain, I surely do hope that, as does all of Gondor.’ ‘When?’ ‘Do you ask when he will recover, Captain?’ ‘Aye, and when will he wake, and when will we know of his faculties?’ ‘That I cannot say, Captain. But you should get some rest, my lord.’ ‘Nay — my place is here, with my... ’ ‘I should call you if he awakens in the night, my lord.’ ‘Nay — I should remain.’
So he had remained, heart fluttering, until Lendimir had seen fit to usher him from the stone chamber. He had turned on the threshold and directed the healers to transport their patient to the king’s apartments. He had lingered there, half in the room, half out in the hall, until they had agreed.
The relief was gone, although it had marked him. He listened to the strength of Elessar’s voice, and a small voice inside his own mind whispered thanks. It turned bitter and whispered accusations: he had caused it. He had brought the king to that. His actions had nearly killed an entire troop of soldiers... and the king of Gondor, the most noble man... He forced himself to pay attention, to answer the king’s queries, but even as he did so he also desperately wanted to be alone for a time. Just for a time. Just for a time longer, as he had so often wished in those grey dawns when he had risen from bed before his family. Pray, just a few moments longer before Father rises and begins listing my flaws. Just a few moments longer before Boromir must shift from playful older brother to staunch defender, pain flashing in his eyes as he pleads my case to our sire—
To his sire.
Oh... Faramir felt suddenly winded, empty. Boromir, his anchor. His tether, his connection to the light. Father had shown him darkness, suspicion, hate. Boromir had put an arm over his shoulders and pointed at the sun, at snow-capped mountain peaks, at birds in flight. ‘Look, Fara, look. See the way moss grows on the shaded side of a rock. See the way the spider’s web traps dewdrops that sparkle like little gems. See the way fish fight against the river’s current to reach their breeding grounds. See, Fara.’ Fara meant “adequate.” The adequate jewel. But Boromir, the prized one, had never dismissed him as adequate. Boromir, his teacher, and only half a brother to him. Only half a tether, half a tie. The sun dimmed.
The king spoke again, angrily, of the risk to his life. What of it, next to other lives? Next to the truth about him. Indeed, what of it? ‘twas his bastard’s life to live, and his to risk. He said so.
And then the world spun, crazily. Faramir did not register the king’s movement before he had been firmly seized and hauled over Elessar’s thighs. His mind snapped back from its wanderings as the bowstring snaps back upon the arrow’s release, and he hung still for a moment, assessing his position. The ground was before his face; the king had him securely around the middle. He felt his heartbeat turn urgent and his breath quicken in his throat; he began to thrash, seeking freedom.
A weight pressed down on him, and Elessar’s voice floated down with it: “Your life? Your father has a thing or two to say about that!”
Faramir closed his eyes and forced himself to cease his struggles. He felt the world closing in around him, as he had felt the walls of his father’s — of Lord Denethor’s — study close in on him so many times. Just the sight of the man’s belt or clenched fist had always been enough to suck the air out of his lungs and sap every last reserve of will in him. But he had never fought, for it was useless to do so. There would be no freedom from such weight, from such strength levelled against him. There never had been. Soon the pain would begin, and this time ‘twould be delivered by a different hand. A different voice would call him weak and worthless, and a different pair of eyes would glare their disgust at him. But the pain — that would be as it always had been. Faramir drew a shallow breath, as quietly as he could, and found an odd bitter comfort in the consistency of pain. No matter what else changed, some things remained. “Aye, my lord,” he whispered.
Aragorn felt Faramir’s body go rigid and still, the muscles tight. The young man fairly trembled, but even that quivering was restrained as though through sheer will. He read anxiety in every line, apprehension.
Fear. Shame lanced through him at Faramir’s whispered surrender. He ran through a silent litany of Westron curses, then threw in a few Sindarin ones for good measure. Damn! Damn it all — how could one man be so stupid and callous? How could he keep frightening and wounding this damaged soul? And what in all the hells was he to do next?
Slowly, the way one moves when cradling a broken limb, he eased his torso back. His left arm lay around Faramir’s waist. He straightened until he was sitting erect, and Faramir stretched like a board over his lap. He ran his eyes from the crown of the young man’s head down a body so tense he could envision it snapping, shattering and falling in pieces onto the stone. And he had intended to strike that body in anger—
“Faramir,” he said quietly. “I am not going to hurt you.”
Faramir neither replied nor moved to escape. Silence moved into the space, and Aragorn listened to his own breathing. He could hear naught of Faramir’s, but he could feel the warm slow pulse of life against his thighs.
“Faramir,” he repeated, this time reaching down to lift the young man, “I said that I will not hurt you. You should rise.”
In response, Faramir allowed Aragorn to lift him; he eased himself back off the king’s lap and then, rather than standing, slid down to kneel before the bench. He seemed to study the ground for a moment, then raised his eyes slowly to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “S-sire,” he breathed, “I do not—I do not know what to say. You are not going to... t-to... deal with me?”
“Not like this,” Aragorn replied. He struggled against a cold viscous swell of hatred. Denethor, that supposedly noble man, had raised one son in love and respect and sent him joyously out into the world. The problem was that Denethor had been entrusted to raise not one, but two — and the second son had gone without. Without affection, without care, without even safety within his own home. Denethor had, in his wisdom, created a strong and proud warrior out of his eldest; he had reserved his praise and his esteem and his good counsel for the first son.
The noble Denethor had, for the second, reserved his pettiness, his frustration, his fury, and all the dark things that a parent should never let a child see. Aragorn struggled against his own rage lest Faramir mistake it for rage directed at a disobedient steward. He drew a breath to steady his voice. “Faramir,” he said, “I make a vow to you this day. I shall never, ever do as Denethor did. Do you understand me? I vow this to you—”
“Sire,” Faramir interrupted, “prithee stop. Do not continue, for you owe me no vow. You owe me naught. I—I have behaved reprehensibly, flouted your orders, and you have already shown me far too much mercy. I des- ... I deserve not such kindness.” The steward’s pale face had flushed slightly.
“You do.” Aragorn choked on the words; tears stung his raw throat. Again he stilled his hands: they wanted to reach out and stroke Faramir’s unruly locks. Although his eyes had filled and begun to overflow, he did not try to wipe them. “You deserve kindness and respect both, and patience whilst you adjust — whilst we both adjust — to this truth. I am your father, young one, but even were I not I would still value you — look at me, Faramir; do not shake your head. Do not look away, for I am as unguarded here as I will ever be, and I need you to see me. I need you to hear me when I say that I value you. For your sharp mind, your sensitive heart, all the things I saw in you long before I met Ferenhil and heard his story.”
Faramir held Aragorn’s gaze, his eyes unreadable. “You sound... like Boromir, Sire.”
“Boromir was wise,” Aragorn said softly. “Far wiser than many knew. He saw all that is worthy and beauteous in you — how could he not love his little brother? I feel such gratitude to him for his care of you, and I shall never be able to tell him that.”
“But you think me stupid, Sire—”
“Nay, never. Never.” Aragorn shook his head to silence Faramir’s protest. “Never, my Faramir, could I think thus. That was my worry talking, running away with me after I saw you dealing so reasonably with men who had hurt you. ‘twas my frustration with what I believed to be your carelessness. I had no idea how to speak of it to you then, for I could not reveal why I was feeling these emotions with such intensity.” He felt again the stirrings of fear, and wondered if there was aught he could say to make Faramir understand. “I still struggle to talk to you,” he admitted, finally reaching his hand out to gently tap Faramir’s temple. “Not here,” — and he lowered the hand then until it rested over Faramir’s heart, — “but here. Here is where I want my words to be heard, for here is where their meaning overcomes their crudeness.” Under his palm he felt the slow throb of a life he had helped into being. The truth of it, dizzying, washed over him. “I would sooner die a score of deaths,” he avowed, “than journey toward a place wherein you fear me, my son.” He withdrew his hand. “Go in peace,” he whispered. “Go.”
Fleet as a shadow when the torch flares, Faramir was gone.
The day rose, peaked, began to wane with the vagueness in which early spring cloaks herself. He walked the passages of the citadel, aimlessly. He walked the passages of his memory and found them cold. Stone echoed around him; it would never be soft or warm and it would never yield. Down a road he had taken himself, and if at one time he might have blamed circumstance or fate or the omissions of another, he now could blame naught but his own damned callousness and stupidity. He had a son. He had a son.
He had a son! And this son was so damaged—
Ai, Elbereth. Damn. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Aragorn rounded on the wall, swinging. His fist connected with a thud that satisfied him only until its echoes faded down the long corridor. When he pulled back his hand it was bloody. Oh gods, it had been hours. Faramir had run out of the garden hours past, a silent fleeing shape.
A ghost, one who had spent a lifetime slipping silently through the world and would have continued in such silence had he not reached out and laid a claiming hand.
He turned, squared his shoulders and sneered at the blood-smeared wall. His desire may have been silent and hidden even from him, but he had so wanted a son that when the chance arose he had charged for it. Warg-like he had chased down his prey, spouting nonsense about blood and family. Faramir’s face hovered before him, blue-grey eyes accusing. All he’d had to do was leave it alone, leave the young man to whatever bliss or torment the House of Denethor had imparted, be the king, be the strong man he supposedly was.
Nay. He sneered again and snorted. Nay, the mighty King Elessar had wanted a son, so the mighty King Elessar had gone out and claimed the son he’d never known. Of course.
Funny that the gardens had called him back to them. Faramir chose his paths seemingly at random, but a part of his mind was intent on its customary task, that task now holding as much weight as it had ever held. He chose, without choosing, the walkways quietest and least likely to take him within view of the citadel. His ears listened without his awareness, filtering sounds. Distant laughter could turn him the way it would turn a wild deer. Footfalls or the rustle of clothing could turn him.
He paused in another small stone plaza, eschewed the benches and the fountain and stood near the tile’s edge. Order gave way there to chaos, civility to wildness. But even that chaos and wildness was tame, cultured, contained. Trapped in the liminal space, neither one nor the other, indefinable. Between a bush and a tree, spanning those two worlds, a spider wove her parlour and invited guests in for tea. She seemed calm, happy enough, certainly dedicated to her duty. Leaning toward the web, Faramir blew on her — a sudden blast of wind. Startled, she ran to the centre of her creation and froze there. She had no idea of that which lay beyond. She had no want of it, and could not have reached it with all her desire to move. Faramir turned away.
The citadel, though he could not see, was still where he had left it. His office was still there, his duty waiting. King Elessar was still there, waiting.
Back toward the web. He bent and his fingers closed around a stick. Clattering it between the tree trunk and the bush, he destroyed the delicate structure. The spider clung for a moment to the quaking remnants of her home, then dropped on a single line of silk and disappeared into the undergrowth. Faramir swept the stick up and down a few times to clear away the last strands; the tree and the bush were separated again, as they should always have been. No mindless thing should have spanned those two realms, linked them, and grown fat off the exercise!
“Begone!” he yelled, throwing the stick.
“Did the branch anger you, my lord Steward?”
Faramir pivoted and looked. From the path opposite where he stood, the head of the guard nodded in greeting.
“Captain Lendimir,” he sighed. “I do not have to tell you that you startled me.”
“Nay, you do not. And I apologise, my lord.” Lendimir stepped into the plaza and circled its far edge. He seemed to keep one eye on the younger man.
Faramir drew a breath and straightened just a touch. “Is there aught that you need, Captain?” he asked.
“I was looking for the king, my lord,” Lendimir replied.
“He is not here, as you can see.”
“Aye, indeed.”
“Do you need aught further?”
“My lord?”
“A simple question, Captain.” Faramir struggled to keep irritation out of his voice. “I merely wonder at your continued presence.”
Lendimir regarded him openly for a moment. “Have I been dismissed, my lord?” he asked.
“Aye. Nay.” Faramir sighed. “My turn to apologise, Master Lendimir,” he said. “It has been a trying few days. However that is no reason to turn my temper on you.”
“I do not mind, my lord,” Lendimir replied evenly. “In fact, I was seeking out King Elessar precisely because he has endured a trying few days, as well.”
Faramir studied the guard master. “Has the king... spoken to you about his trials?”
“Somewhat,” Lendimir said. “He is a private man, not wont to divulge overmuch to any soul. And of course he is the king — I am a loyal guard, a servant. Of many years’ service, but nonetheless a servant I remain.”
“His Highness respects the soldiery,” Faramir replied absently.
“Aye, my lord. But we are his men first, before any of us may be a friend. And we are certainly not family.”
Closing his eyes for a moment, Faramir nodded. “He has been... troubled?”
“Greatly, my lord. He admits that he does not sleep well, if at all. His mind strays from duty, from the realm. He walks about in a self-assured manner, and all who see him may full believe him alright, but he is weary and heart-sore. A terrible burden he carries.”
Faramir raised his eyebrows at the guard. “Burden?” he asked.
“Aye, my lord,” Lendimir said softly. “He has found something of immense value, something he had hoped for but never allowed himself to imagine, only to lose it again. He blames himself for the loss. He curses and castigates himself viciously for his errors. He fears this precious gift will never return to him. He fears even more that it will return, and that he will prove himself unworthy of it. It has become the most important thing in his life, more important than his life... ” The captain nodded once, smartly. “May I be dismissed now, my lord?”
“Aye,” Faramir murmured, staring at the tree. “Go in peace.”
It read: “Your Most Noble Highness.” Your Most Noble... . Your Most Noble Highness.
Aragorn read the hail once more. Most Noble Highness. There were lines after that. A request for... something.
He threw the paper. It wafted over his desk to land out of sight on the floor. No matter — he’d read the damnable thing twenty times if he’d read it once, and he had yet to recall what it asked of him. Only that it asked, that it called him “Your Most Noble Highness” and then put its paper hand out. A few coins, Your Most Noble Highness. A few bags o’ grain, or a spot of ‘elp with these bothersome orcs. They keep killin’ the slower townsfolk, ye see. A soldier or two, per’aps? Your Most Noble ‘ighness?
Feeling a rush of heat in his face, he rose and circled the desk, and carefully retrieved the letter from the floor. It would be carefully read and answered. Normally the steward would take care of it—
Damn. Aragorn moved to gaze out the window. The sun was setting, shining gold off wet roofs, glittering in wet streets. Gondor was not setting but rising, no matter how heavy his thoughts might turn. She was like a bird, a great white bird whose pinions had been broken, whose wings had been smashed and had taken long to heal. She was healing now. She was readying herself for flight.
Where in Arda was Faramir? A possibility lanced through him, but Aragorn as quickly forced it from his mind. Of course the young man was still within Minas Tirith — probably in the gardens. They were cold and lonely. Just the kind of place Faramir would go.
A low knock at the door. He heard it and yet it did not immediately register as a thing that should require any response from him. Silent, he waited. He was not altogether surprised when it sounded again. “Enter,” he called, nigh overwhelmed with the sense that, whoever was on the outside of that door, he did not want to see them.
The walls had closed around him protectively, or perhaps with the cold mind of a predator: he could not be sure about their intent. Always his home had worn two faces. Solid and seemingly eternal, it reassured all within. No bad things could come in and disturb their lives. But into its stone had soaked years of raised voices and crying and loneliness that sounded like an empty hall. Sickness and death had blossomed in it, slowly, and a terminal anger had flown in on their heels. The wood and stone had seen and heard so much — how could they not have absorbed malice along with the memories?
Faramir cursed himself silently. Folly, such thoughts. The king’s office door was in front of him and he was standing there silent, pinned in place, waiting as though the gods themselves would give him a sign. Enter or leave. Enter or leave.
Advance or retreat.
He turned away, watching the corridor stretch off. Rows of closed doors stood like vanguards of the private things, and behind them were rooms where a body could disappear. He listened to the echoing silence, broken by distant clicks of boot soles, muted thumps as other bodies slipped in and out of rooms he could not see.
He reached without looking and knocked on the door. There was no answer from within. A moment passed and he pursed his lips. Walking away was the better thing to do. He knocked again and put more insistence into it.
“Enter,” the king’s voice called.
The door opened. Aragorn turned back toward his desk. Reports and requests both were always best met when the king was seated with official quill and seal at hand. Lord Elrond had spoken of decorum more than once. Apparently it was the appearance that mattered. And ‘twas unfair, he knew, to label the Lord of Imladris a slave to image, but he did not quite have the energy to disagree with himself.
“Sire?”
One word was all it took, and Aragorn’s senses pricked. The air hummed with that word. The office filled with it. Like music. Like the harmonic voices of a song. Faramir! He turned again.
Faramir bowed. “Do I intrude, Sire?” he asked.
“Nay,” Aragorn replied breathlessly. “Not at all.” He stood for a moment, silent. “Come,” he urged, then. “Come sit.”
“Aye, Sire.” Faramir moved to a chair, one on which he had perched often, at his monarch’s behest, and relayed guard reports or security concerns or administrative missives. He settled on it with as much ease as he had ever felt in the king’s office. Odd, he thought: in that place of utmost formality and protocol he found his stride. His heart slowed; a calm flowed into his blood. Out in the pretty cultured gardens, in the halls, in his own private rooms he was anxious. In the king’s office, the heart of Minas Tirith, he was entirely confined and yet he could breathe. He eyed the solid desk before him, the gulf between king and steward, father and— ‘twas no matter. Stilling his hands in his lap, he waited for King Elessar to settle.
“I am glad you came,” Aragorn said. He leaned back in the chair and let his arms rest in his lap, then he leaned forward again and crossed them on the desk. It didn’t feel right. “I have been... wondering... if you would feel like — that is if you be amenable to a talk. A talk would be productive right now, I should say. If you wish, that is. If you wish.”
Amenable? Faramir blinked at the rush of words from Elessar’s lips. “A-aye, Sire,” he replied, feeling suddenly as though he were the more composed of them. “I would welcome a chance to speak with you.”
“Good! Good.”
Faramir looked to — at — the king. He blinked, focussing. Through all that had happened, he had not really looked at this monarch. This... man. This man. His eyes started at the crown of Elessar’s head and ran down short hair that still tended toward the unruly. Over a brow traversed by little lines, little chasms of time. Down to high cheekbones, down over short well-kept whiskers. A mouth that was still at the moment, rather tight and thin. Down further to the desk, where crossed arms revealed one hand balled so that the knuckles wore a white blush. Up again, over a regal nose to grey eyes. Serious eyes, expressive eyes. More little lines etched into the skin around them. There was a vague shadow below each, as though part of the shadow the nine walkers had defeated had managed, somehow, to evade their swords and arrows and had taken up residence in plain sight, ever close to one of its mortal foes. He finished his study and began again — shoulders hunched a bit as with tension, skin on the cheeks and brow pale. Strain reached into it all. The man was knotted and bent. Faramir pondered his own strain, his responses, his decisions.
“Faramir?” Intrigued at what the young man would say next, Aragorn had held silent as Faramir had, it seemed, appraised him and mused. On what? The ways he had crowded in on the steward’s privacy, the offences of his past, the omissions and excuses of his present? His clumsy attempts to bridge the distance created by a lifetime apart? Ai, he read the look Faramir directed at him and knew that it was censorious. He had failed in so many ways.
“Aye, my lord,” Faramir replied. Meeting Elessar’s eyes once more, he took in their darkness. But not darkness, he realized, so much as lack of light. Aye, when he saw the king’s face in his mind’s eye there was always a light about it. A spark, a flame that burned in its depths. The power of a powerful ruler, but also the spirit of a spirited and noble man. The light seemed to have gone out of this man’s eyes. Like skies plagued by a storm, they had clouded over. The sun was gone, driven off by worry and weariness. A burden too heavy even for such a strong man to carry. With a dull throb in his breast Faramir realized: he had cast those clouds. He had put that burden on the man’s shoulders.
“What are you thinking?” He was afraid to know. Faramir had resumed that odd silent look that suggested study. Appraisal, consideration, judgement. Aragorn winced inwardly at the sound of his own voice. The question came out so unsure, so plaintive and needful. Had he not burdened Faramir enough?
“I... ” Faramir closed his eyes, but only for a moment. Elessar’s voice did not sound right, either. Such a strong voice was not supposed to tremble and sound weak. He sighed. “I am thinking, my lord, about... the things I have said. A-and the things I have done.”
Aragorn blinked. “Oh,” he said. “I must admit, I have been doing much of the same. I have... erred so often—”
“Nay,” Faramir interrupted, holding up a hand. “Please, my lord. You have not.”
“I have, Faramir.” Shaking his head, Aragorn tried to process the turn in conversation. Faramir was accusing him of naught, and the young man was wrong. He searched for words. “I told you such a heavy truth,” he said finally, and let the statement hang there between them.
“Aye,” Faramir nodded. “But you carried the weight of it long before you informed me. I have contemplated very little since you showed me my mother’s letter — I confess that. Although my mind has been a whirl, it has for the most run in circles. I have asked few questions, choosing instead to throw accusations and anger. I have walked about in a haze of my own making, and aye, ‘tis still that I struggle with this knowledge. But in my own suffering, it has not occurred to me that you would suffer as well.” He untangled his fingers and wrapped his hands around the arms of his chair. He studied the edge of the desk. “Indeed,” he continued more quietly, “I believe I have harboured enough anger as to enjoy any suffering I might have seen in you, my lord.”
Aragorn nodded and waited for Faramir’s eyes to creep back up to his own. “I can understand that,” he replied. “I have also been angry.”
“At me.”
“Nay. Well, Aye. I have been, but my real anger is aimed elsewhere.”
“Elsewhere... ?” Faramir gasped. “You are angry at her? Why?”
“She never told me.” Aragorn raised his hands before himself in a helpless gesture. “She told me naught. Not even when she must have known there was little time— Faramir, she-she handed you to HIM, as his son, and she knew what he was as a man. She had to know how you would be treated—”
“But Fa— Lord Denethor — did not know. I am sure of it, my lord.”
“I... hope not,” Aragorn breathed. “For then ‘twould all be my fault. Indeed it is, no matter how I might wish to avoid the truth. I cannot even be angry at your mother, for I was responsible. She was lonely — what could she do? She was married; she had a son already. She had to do as she did. The blame can only lie with me, then. My involvement with her, and my leaving. I am so sorry, Faramir. I cannot begin to say.”
Faramir gripped the arms of the chair. “Nay,” he replied evenly. He could hear Elessar’s breathing hitch and stutter, as though the man were close to letting drop that strong and stoic mask they all knew. He did not want to see behind it — not yet. “Nay, Sire” he said again. “You did not know, and as far as either of us will likely ever be able to say, neither did... Lord Denethor. You are not responsible for aught that he said or did. That belongs with him, my lord.”
Drawing a deep breath, Aragorn calmed himself. He felt suddenly fragile and exposed, and he forced his fears down. He would not lose control altogether in front of Faramir, and leave the young man to comfort him! ‘twould not happen. He met Faramir’s eyes. “I know that I could change naught of Denethor’s heart, nor of his actions,” he agreed. “However, I have no other to blame for the way I have treated you of late.”
“How have you treated me, my lord?” Faramir asked.
Aragorn shook his head. “You need me to tell you? I have treated you with callous disregard. I have questioned your skills and your judgement, and even your intelligence. More than once I have spoken to you in anger. I—”
“What, my lord?”
“I struck you. I failed to apologise. I drove you from Minas Tirith.”
“I see.” A wry smile tugged at his lips, and Faramir let it. “My lord, I see that perhaps we have both done this.”
The smile appeared genuine, and Aragorn stared, intrigued, at Faramir’s face. “Done what?” he asked.
“This,” Faramir replied, motioning between them. “Sire, you recall the words you said, and the night you slapped me. You recall ‘driving me away.’ I, in contrast, recall the words I said to you. The times I failed to exercise caution, which has always made you angry.” He reached forward and laid his palm on the desk’s smooth edge. “That night you struck me — I had just desecrated the memory of my own mother. I deserved a slap across the face! And although I was greatly burdened, the decision to leave Minas Tirith without a guard was my own, my lord. I was so eager to leave that I gave little thought to the consequences of it. But I knew—” Leaning back again, Faramir shook his head. “You came after me, Sire. You put yourself in harm’s way, and harm came to you. You did that for me after I had shouted at you and run away like a petulant boy.
“Of course I would,” Aragorn nodded. “Always. As it should be. But later, in the garden... I... ”
“You let me go, my lord. You tried to speak to me about the folly of my actions, but I was beyond listening. I was lost in my own pain, as I have been. You became angry, and rightly so, but when you realized you had frightened me you let me go. Not a word of censure or correction.” Faramir sighed. “I have behaved badly. I am struggling still with the truth that you have acted out of concern for me. As... family would act. And in my struggle I have made serious mistakes.”
“Then we both have,” Aragorn murmured. He smiled, feeling somewhat steady inside for the first time in countless days. “I am glad that we are speaking of this, Faramir. There has been too much unsaid.”
“Aye, Sire.”
“I must make another confession to you.”
“My lord?”
“I do not quite know what to do next.”
Faramir nodded. “I am at a similar loss. Perhaps... we could speak again?”
“Of course,” Aragorn replied. “Any time you wish; any time you are ready.” He studied the young man. “You look weary.”
“I am, my lord.” He searched Elessar’s face again, then. The darkness had lifted somewhat, the tension eased, but the shadows were still there. “But if I may, my lord, you look more weary than I.”
Aragorn’s smile widened. “It has been a difficult time.” He would not have wanted the conversation to end, not ever, but he could read Faramir’s fatigue. He could feel his own. “Perhaps, for now, we should both seek our rest.” Nodding once, he rose.
Rising as well, Faramir bowed and turned for the door. It was open, and he halfway out of the chamber, when he spied a pair of the guards striding away down the hall. Galinir was on the left, limping. Galinir, married and father of two, had rushed into Eden Aur and been stabbed in the thigh by a villager wielding a hunting knife. Recovery would be long and uncomfortable. Faramir stepped back into the office and closed the door. For a moment he stood grasping the handle, gazing at the rug.
“Faramir?” Aragorn said. The young man had seemed increasingly at ease during their discussion, increasingly like the steward he had long known. Quiet and reflective, aye, but also friendly. Warm, once in familiar company. Now the tension had returned, and he held his breath and waited.
Faramir raised his eyes and turned to face Elessar, fighting a sudden urge to fidget. “Sire, I must tell you... when I made for Eden Aur I knew that I was putting an already delicate diplomatic situation sorely at risk. I said earlier I did not think overmuch before leaving, and that is true. But I had hours to reflect on the way there, and I knew I was wrong to go. I was disobeying the protocols in place for our security. I had lied to the boys at the gate. Most importantly, I also knew I was putting lives at risk and doing it all out merely to ‘get away’ for a time. I did not allow myself to be honest, pretending I had little choice in the matter and needed to be away from Minas Tirith. But I did know the truth of it, and I never considered turning back.” He shook his head. “The men who were wounded taking the settlement—”
“Minor wounds,” Aragorn soothed. “As you know. A few scratches, really. Naught serious.”
“They could have been.”
“But they were not.”
“They could have been, so easily. Sire, you could have died. Because I hared off without a word.”
“Faramir, what are you saying?” Aragorn felt the anxiety flowing from Faramir’s tense body, filling the office and thickening the air.
“I... ” Faramir closed his eyes, unable to believe the turn his thoughts had taken. He recalled the garden, Elessar’s voice, the counsel he had refused to hear. “I think, my lord, that you were right earlier — when you... when you attempted to, or thought to—”
“Faramir,” Aragorn urged, “Say it. Whatever ‘tis.”
“I think you were right when you put me across y-your knee, my lord.” Sucking in a steadying breath, Faramir nodded. “I think you were absolutely right. I was beyond reason, and I deserved it. I... deserve it still.”
Aragorn felt his jaw slacken, but he stared open-mouthed at Faramir for a long minute before it occurred to him that he was staring open-mouthed at Faramir. Then he closed his mouth and pursed his lips, half turned back to the desk. Finally, his mind seemed to snap back into place, and he shook his head. “Nay,” he said simply.
“But Sire—”
“Nay, Faramir. I was about to punish you thus in the plaza, in the heat of anger. But I saw your fear.” Crossing the room, Aragorn stood before Faramir and looked the young man in the eye. “I felt your fear. And if you recall, I vowed to you then that I would never do to you what that man did. Never, Faramir, no matter how angry I may be.”
Faramir’s blue-grey eyes grew distant for a moment before focussing again, and a touch of colour appeared on the steward’s fair cheekbones. “I do not expect you to do to me what Lord Denethor did, my lord. Lord Denethor never struck me to ensure my safety, nor to see me not repeat a grave mistake. When I was in need of correction, it was usually delivered by... my nanny. Or by Boromir, or occasionally my tutor.”
“Your nanny?” Aragorn asked quietly, his curiosity transcending his urge not to press, not to pry into such a dark and painful time.
“Ayan,” Faramir nodded. “Her love for me was a thing I never had cause to question. After she had been sent away and I placed in Master Anthor’s care, he took to correcting my behaviour. He was far less affectionate than Ayan, but he was fair and just and he took no pleasure in punishing me. When I was beyond his reach, ‘twas usually the guards who took the greatest interest in my conduct. And Boromir, of course.” He smiled faintly. “I do not mean to imply, Sire, that I was perpetually in trouble. I did not earn punishment often, likely due to my reserved nature.”
Returning the smile, Aragorn quirked one eyebrow. “That would have been me, Faramir. As a boy, I seemed to possess a special talent for finding trouble. It never had to look for me: I was always on the hunt for it. My Adar used to say that I even outdid the twins.” Remembering the topic, he sobered. “You say Lord Denethor never punished you for mischief or disobedience. But he did... ?”
“Aye, my lord,” Faramir replied evenly. “When he chose to strike me, especially later in boyhood, ’twas never for a thing that I had done, but rather for a thing that I was. Or was not.”
“I do not understand.”
With a dip of the chin Faramir offered what seemed like a shrug. “I would not expect you to understand, Sire. Lord Denethor did, I am certain, believe himself my father in blood. But when he looked at me he did not see himself, a strong and tested warrior. He did not even see his older son, a strong and promising young man. He saw me. Weakness. That reserved nature I mentioned, which was tied to my shyness. A “gentle” spirit, which was indeed little more than a stomach too faint for the truths of life. Lord Denethor saw this and tried to beat it out of me.” Faramir shrugged more apparently. “He was never successful, Sire.” There showed no trace of disturbance on the young steward’s face, but a hardness had crept into his normally fluid voice.
Aragorn listened, waiting. He opened his mouth to interrupt, and fought to check his own bitter reaction to mention of that beast of a man. Finally he held up a hand. “Faramir, do you tell me that your nature, your spirit, are... do you believe Lord Denethor was correct about you? That you are weak?”
“I believe, my lord, that I—I had many lessons to learn about life.”
“As do all boys. And most men.”
“Aye.” Faramir furrowed his brow. “Perhaps that which set me counter to my apparent sire was simply the evidence of my real one.”
“Then you believe me weak,” Aragorn replied dryly.
“Nay!” Faramir exclaimed, losing the hardness and becoming, for an instant, the passionate and animated young man who had negotiated many a perilous diplomatic course. “Nay, Sire. Of course I do not believe you weak.”
Aragorn recalled his own childhood, the obvious joy Lord Elrond had taken in teaching him the healing arts. “If I told you,” he said, “that as a boy I demonstrated a love for reading in addition to my propensity for mischief, or that I used to take great pains mending the hurts of wild things, would you amend that assessment?”
Faramir shook his head. “Of course not, my lord. A love of books and a love of creatures need not be weakness. And look at the man you have become, my lord.”
“Aye,” Aragorn nodded. “I would suggest you look into a mirror yourself, Faramir, and do the same.”
“Aye, my lord,” Faramir murmured. He eyed the floor for a moment, then glanced up and met Aragorn’s eyes again. “What of my transgression, Sire?”
Aragorn laid a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, pleased that the young steward neither flinched nor attempted to withdraw. Touch had always seemed problematic for that soul. Little wonder why. He nodded again. “It shall be duly addressed, as you say.” Looking into Faramir’s blue-grey eyes, he read the flickering light there and wondered if it burned from relief or from shame, or from fear.
The king nodded at him and acquiesced, and Faramir experienced a momentary sense of satisfaction. His error would be... not erased, not undone, but dealt with so that he would at least not look upon Galinir and the other guards and feel so keenly the weight of his failing. And mayhap he would be able to evict from his memory the stillness of King Elessar’s unconscious form, in that little town filled with the angry people.
He felt apprehension flow in on the heels of the relief. What did he ask of his king? An act frightening in its closeness and in the pain it involved. Elbereth. Ayan had taken him easily in his boyhood; Boromir had never made him afraid or ashamed. His tutor and the guards had been fair, never malicious, never cruel. If he had shrunk away from Fa... from Lord Denethor, he had never withdrew from the rest of them in the same way. They had tried to reach him, to correct him; he, having made the mistake that occasionally found him in such straits, had paid them the honour of remaining. And so he would again. But his neck felt tight and warm; his stomach fluttered. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched.
His nerves were alight, and he himself had kindled them.
Part 7
Aragorn considered dismissing Faramir. The day had been long and arduous for both of them, perhaps even more difficult than the day previous, when the young steward had fled to Eden Aur and he had followed so desperately. His injury and Faramir’s distress had been trying. The day, however, had also seen them run up against each other and fly apart, then each wander in desolate solitude and finally return to try the encounter again. The day had seen Faramir open a door into dark and painful places and invite him for a look, a brief glimpse of the abyss in the human heart.
He sighed and turned back toward his desk. The distance over to it seemed massive, difficult to travel. His simple path back there seemed complex and uncertain. He had been in this position often enough, with Legolas. He had been the one to walk to that desk, pull the chair out, and summon the reluctant wayward elf for a lesson. Now he faced the same steps, the same actions, and they were strange to him.
But ‘twould happen this night, for Faramir had waited long enough already under the guilt of that crime. What he had begun and then abandoned in the garden — the way he had begun and then abandoned an eternal love with Finduilas, the way he had begun Faramir’s existence and then abandoned his own responsibility — he would finish before another moon came and went. If he were to wait for the new dawn, the dark of night would bring to him all his fears and doubts, and he would greet the sun not with certainty but with dread.
At the chair, he turned to face Faramir. “Come to me,” he called, holding out his hand.
With barely a reaction, Faramir heeded his command. Standing beside him, the young man glanced down at the chair and then met his eyes again.
“I had thought,” he said quietly, laying a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, “to have you lie over the edge of my desk. On the way from there to here I pondered it. What say you about that, Faramir?”
“I... my lord,” — and Faramir looked from the desk to the chair, back to the desk, eyes wide — “I do not know, my lord. The desk might be easier... ”
“That was my thought as well,” Aragorn agreed. “I said I had thought to do it, however. I have decided that ‘easier’ is not what either of us needs right now.”
“Nay, my lord?”
“Nay, Faramir. I believe that we both have sought our ease simply by doing what we have always done in the face of difficulty. Although I have made attempts to reach you, I have relied too heavily on my position of authority. I have relied on being the king, rather than being the man who is now a parent.” Aragorn ran his fingers over the back of the chair by which he stood. “I should have told you, Faramir. Instead I allowed you to believe that you had erred in your duty. Because I chose to remain silent, you were forced to assume on more than one occasion that you had failed your king and this city, this realm. Indeed, you had merely caused me the worry that plagues any father. These were my failings.” He sighed. “And you, Faramir... ”
“Aye, Sire,” Faramir put in. “I have been evasive and disobedient. Rather than hear you when you attempted to counsel me, I repeatedly turned away in resentment and anger. I have cast away much good sense in the doing of it, as well, indeed failing both my king and my realm. Although I did not wish to, I have. The strain I have caused you, the injuries I caused those warriors to receive... they were my failings, my lord. You might have died coming after me as you did. For the sake of an undisciplined steward a king might have died. You should not have followed—”
“Faramir, silence.” Aragorn pulled the chair back from the desk and sat. “I wish you to see your mistakes, but I will not have you reproach yourself for mine. And I will not have you question the merits of my decision to pursue you.” He shook his head. His throat felt tight; his stomach was a dull ache that he pushed from his thoughts. Ahead lay a path he would needs take. “We have both failed, Faramir,” he continued. “Much of our failing was our mutual inability to reach each other. But you take too much blame on yourself, both in suggesting that you are not worthy of my efforts and in not allowing yourself the excuse of your own strain. I have known this would be difficult for you.”
“It... has been,” Faramir admitted slowly.
Aragorn nodded. “Then come to me once again, young one. You have spent much time alone, but this day you have turned from your solitary wanderings and come to me, and I intend to honour that. I ask you to do the same.”
For a moment Faramir was silent, watching him with a look that suggested mild alarm or worry, or perhaps even a brush of sadness. ‘twas difficult to read that shifting, complex face. “I will... do my best, Sire,” the young man breathed.
“Good.” Leaning back in the chair, Aragorn met Faramir’s wide eyes and waited. He would utter no command, but trust the coming decision. Faramir’s honour required atonement, and atonement required... this. With Legolas, he would have simply reached out to grasp a soft, warm, slender wrist; the elf would have looked sorrowfully at him before surrendering to the necessary position. Yet there had been a time, he knew, when Legolas had faced him with anxiety. That time had long since passed, and now the prince could yield to him perhaps not easily, but at least not in fear.
Legolas had grown up in a very different home, though, than had Faramir. Legolas’ lessons had been of a different kind.
Time edged by. The office bathed itself in silence — Aragorn found it comfortable, at peace with itself. What did Faramir think? The young man looked anxious indeed, but not afeard. Not ready to bolt from his side. Moments move along their course and he waited. So much in life necessitated patience.
“Aye, Sire,” Faramir murmured, although no question had been posed, and became suddenly, obviously alert. The young man’s blue-grey eyes swept over his lap and up to his desk; Faramir reached out one hand to steady himself on the desk’s edge and then eased forward. With Aragorn’s hands as guides, Faramir lay himself over the waiting thighs and hung there, stiff and seemingly breathless.
Aragorn drew a shaky breath. Faramir was light, so light. Not unlike the elf – he had expected more weight. His son, though! The young man was slender of body and limb, and when he reflected on it he could not recall, of all those morning and evening meals in the dining hall, ever seeing Faramir really eat. Certainly not the way Gimli could eat. Or a hobbit, for that matter. Always a duty seemed to appear at some point. A quiet page slipping up beside the table to murmur a message to the captain. A scroll changing hands, and shortly thereafter Faramir politely excusing himself. The plate, never laden to begin with, would sit bereft, its contents growing cold, until a servant whisked it from sight.
Little wonder Faramir remained over-lean and angular whilst all around, including the king himself, had seen their angles smooth a touch into curves, their hollows fill. The health brought by plentiful meals and warm beds remained apparently elusive to Faramir, who held thinness and fatigue close at all times.
“That is good, Faramir,” he said, for want of better words. His tongue felt a need to keep moving, to soothe and explain and engage. But he wished not to alarm Faramir with talk of what would come next: the young man would know, certainly, what came next. Aragorn’s fingers crept around Faramir’s waist until they found lacings to untie. Hanging over him, Faramir did not move as he worked to loosen the breeches.
“Assist me, Faramir,” he bid. “Lift just a touch.”
“M-my lord?”
“Lift up so that I may lower your breeches, Faramir.”
Silence met his reply, then Faramir twisted to gaze at him over one shoulder. “Must I, Sire?”
Aragorn nodded. “You must,” he replied firmly. “This is how ‘tis done, always. I have had cause to address the wrongs of... others, in the past. I would address yours in like fashion.”
Faramir did not reply, but faced forward once more and eased himself slightly upward from Aragorn’s lap, allowing the king access. Aragorn worked quickly to untie the breeches and slip them midway down Faramir’s thighs; he heard what could have been a gasp from the young man but ignored it. A part of him urged delay, for given a little time he might succeed in easing Faramir’s tension. The lithe body across his lap could have been a board or a stick, and he wanted to see it relax. But another part of him screamed for action. Faramir had come to him, opened this door, and asked him to walk through it: whatever lay on its other side he would see. Raising his right hand, he brought it heavily down against the young man’s bared bottom.
The king turned away from him and walked back toward the desk. Faramir watched. His one hand still rested lightly on the door handle. Had he confessed that he was so terribly weary, that his eyes were filled with grit and his muscles wished only to relax, he would have been readily dismissed to his sleep. He said naught, however, and waited. Having walked from his garden solitude into the citadel’s very heart, right into the king’s office and the king’s life, he was loathe to walk out again with circumstances unresolved.
His own determination shook him. Only hours past he would not have been able to imagine such a moment. Such candid conversation with the king, and about such deep old things. Lord Denethor, who he had called Father out of ignorance, had stared right through him, occasionally stabbing a finger into his pride. And Lord Denethor had seen into the depths of him and read things there. But Lord Denethor had never gone quiet and tried to hear his feelings, nor studied him with interest and concern.
Now he wondered what more the king would wish to hear. His irresponsibility still rang in his own ears, and the sight of the guards pouring through the gate of Eden Aur like blood from a wound. King Elessar’s sacrifice, that might have been so much more of a sacrifice had the villager struck with just a touch more skill. Aye, he was guilty of much. Weakness and disobedience. Rashness, selfishness. Not least of his crimes was his own failure to see and hear. Like Denethor, perhaps like Denethor and oblivious to the pain he caused, he had responded to Elessar’s painful truth with anger, resentment, and a stubborn desire to turn away. Again and again this man had tried to counsel him; again and again he had politely ignored the caveats. And all the while Elessar had acted on his behalf. During the battle he should not have joined. In the town where he should never have been.
Aye, he was guilty.
The king’s grey eyes were on him. “Come to me,” Elessar called.
He crossed the room and stood beside the older man. He recounted his crimes with as much detail as he could relate. Much of his error, Elessar claimed, had come from not turning to the king, from closing himself off in isolation. Events had been somewhat stressful, but discomfort was no excuse. Elessar was sitting then, on the armless chair, and waiting for him. Lord Denethor had never really waited, had simply ordered him into place and seized him ferociously if he failed to move quickly enough. Learning, Faramir had become a swift penitent during such sessions in the steward’s study. That gruff voice had needed only hint that he should be over the desk, and he was over the desk. Reluctance to face punishment was cowardice. Cowardice only resulted in more pain.
Leaning on the desk to keep his balance, Faramir moved his body into place. ‘twas an awkward position to hold, but he held it. He was an expert at positions. Long years he had trained, his accolades appearing bruise-blue and red. He heard the king’s voice float above him, but his mind wandered down historic roads and studied the land around. What award would he come away with this time?
But the king was bidding him do something, and he knew not what. “My lord?” he asked hesitantly, cursing himself. Not paying attention — fool!
“Lift up so that I may lower your breeches, Faramir.”
Opening his mouth to reply, Faramir found himself without words. He had oft been ordered to remove his clothing before Lord Denethor, but now his mind and body both rebelled against such a possibility. Such an idea — exposing himself before the king! Shifting, he looked to the legs which supported him. King Elessar was not wont to dress the part of king unless compelled by conference or ceremony: much of the time the man wore simple shirt, breeches, and those boots that had seen their share of Middle Earth. He twisted his neck and upper body and managed to meet Elessar’s eye. “Must I, Sire?” he asked.
Aye. ‘twas required; ‘twas tradition. Apparently this was the way. Faramir looked back to the floor and then, gripping the chair’s legs, pushed his body upward. He felt hands go to work on his breeches. The breeches were gone then, pushed out of the way. He settled back down, tense. Through his mind flitted duties. There was a pile of lower-level diplomatic correspondence on his waiting desk, and he had informed the head of the guard that he would be reviewing leave schedules before day’s end. The men, faced with reports of orcs and then with the rebuilding of the city after the attack, many of them also healing from their first encounter in the forest, had rallied through Yule. Their families had seen little of them at what was supposed to be a happy and peaceful time. Now spring approached: they would have their days of ease in the warming weather.
A crack echoed through the chamber, severing him from his thoughts, and he gasped. King Elessar’s hand came down again, and this time he felt the heavy sting of it. ‘twas not especially bad, not like the bite of a cane or a whip. Hanging in place, Faramir wondered if such punishment was appropriate for one who had nigh caused the death of several brave men and a king. Lord Denethor would have seen the need for something more immediately forceful — at the very least a strap. Something that would at once have convinced the wayward son of his failings and set a suitably condemnatory tone. But the king seemed — had seemed, if he pondered it, from the beginning — to treat his crimes less like telling failures and more like simple mistakes in judgement. Of course Elessar had accused him of stupidity, but then later for that there had been both apology and retraction.
Strange. Never had Lord Denethor retracted a slur.
Faramir shook his head and forced himself back to the chamber, to what was happening. The king had vowed to remain with him and to “honour” his presence. He had agreed to do likewise for the king. Yet only moments into his correction he was allowing himself to wander away and hide within his mind! Scowling, he curled his fingers so that his short nails dug into the flesh of his palms, and he relished the little sparkle of additional pain they caused. So far Elessar’s hand had been light, although he did feel a sustained sort of burn over his hindquarters, and with each ensuing slap it grew a touch. Lord Denethor would have had him in agony long before, and would by this time have been determinedly thrashing at his deepest inadequacies so as to drive them out of him forever. And he would have been gasping, clenching his jaw and his fists not to shame himself with cries; he would have been praying for the strength to endure. He would have been escaping into the peace and beauty of his thoughts, leaving his embattled body behind.
Perhaps the king, despite having “addressed wrongs” in the past, truly did not know how ‘twas supposed to be done.
Faramir’s tension remained. Aragorn doggedly continued his work, resisting the urge to believe he had no effect whatsoever on the young man. Having elicited a single sharp intake of breath with his first blow but naught after that, he did wonder. He had covered Faramir’s lean backside with a dusky pink, had extended the colour down to the tops of the young man’s thighs, and was now focussed on the backside once more. The sound of flesh meeting flesh was a cadent and somewhat sorrowful one, alone in the chamber, striking the walls and fading out of existence. Them and the sound and naught else; even the fire seemed to have gone silent. Faramir neither shifted in place nor wriggled even a touch, nor kicked long legs when his hand landed — he might as well have been whacking the desk for all the reaction he got! Ai... by this time, Legolas would have been sniffling, helped along the road to grief by a heavy conscience that made each slap more painful. By this time, Merry or Pippin would have been wailing fit to startle the deaf. But Faramir, other than that one gasp and a subsequent clenching of fists, had shown no sign of even noticing the discipline. Did the young man’s tolerance for pain hover somewhere impossibly high above his reach, accessible only to a brute with a horsewhip? He would never injure the slight body beneath his hands, not even to teach a lesson.
The only thing to do was continue, carefully. Tilting his head, he studied the set of Faramir’s shoulders and neck. His hand rose and fell and Faramir’s skin reddened accusingly. He himself bore responsibility for this. The blows hurt his hand, as was only right. Learning the truth had stunned him, reshaped his history, cast a strange glare over the totality of his life. Reading Finduilas’ letter had sucked the air out of his lungs and the reason out of his mind. How? Why? What next...
He could only imagine, in the palest and poorest way, what such a truth would do to Faramir. A young man escaped from the grasp of a tyrant called “Father.” A young man who had learned to read the language of violence written over his own body. A young man who had managed to grow up straight and true, and who in spite of it all — or due to it all — might indeed hold family and heritage more valuable than ever, for the sheer necessity of saying, ‘It was necessary because it was my proper place and blood.’ To learn that ‘twas not his proper place and blood was to learn also, ironically, that the brutality had been but a chance, a lie, the result of silence. A mistake never aimed at him the son, for he had not been the son at all...
Oh, Faramir. Aragorn wanted to close his eyes and weep over the unflinching board across his lap. To think that all the hurt had been merely the result of Finduilas’ choice not to tell him — nay. Nay, ‘twas not fair to blame her alone, for he had left. He the ranger had come into her life, spent spare moments and hours there while advising Denethor, forged a connection, departed, and then returned and played the hunter for a time. And he had left yet again, and she had been alone with her son and her unforgiving husband and her helpless frightened staff, and the life growing in her. He had lived in relative safety and peace while Faramir had lived in pain and fear. And now Faramir had to know how meaningless it had been, life as Denethor’s son. Of course the young man would wish not to hear that a few mere words might have changed it all.
His palm hurt and he had turned Faramir’s backside a startling crimson. ‘twas about time to cease, and yet scant little acknowledgement of pain or regret from the penitent over his lap. Lifting his right knee a bit, Aragorn aimed his hand for the soft skin at the very top of Faramir’s thighs. Such a tactic was sure (in all others) to induce tears, kicking, promises of good behaviour. He set to enflaming the already heated flesh, and beneath his hands Faramir began, ever so slightly, to squirm.
Perhaps the king had an idea. Faramir struggled to remain in the chamber while his thoughts whirled and threatened to carry him away. Staying alert and focussed on the punishment was the best way — the only way — to truly demonstrate an acceptance of his guilt. Aye, as a boy in the steward’s home he had recognized his failings well enough yet still had permitted himself to escape from the painful consequences of them. He had oft enough released his mind to wander distant halls and hills while “Father” had bruised and battered his pliant body. But King Elessar had promised to stay and had asked the same of him. His word he had given.
Aye, perhaps the king had an idea indeed. Although the... paddling had begun inauspiciously, with little fanfare and even less actual discomfort, the hand against his rear had been most persistent. Every place it had landed bore a small sting from it. Every time it landed again in a place, a new sting was laid over the old one. While Faramir had pondered Elessar’s ability to inflict pain, Elessar had simply kept travelling the territory and repeating the message.
And now, he had to admit, his backside hurt. Quite a bit, in fact. The stings had come and come and come, been set down and left to hiss at him from their places on his skin. Like little fires they could be kindled with additional attention, and the king seemed intent on doing exactly that. Faramir’s breathing quickened; he concentrated on slowing it. His body became desirous of action, movement, escape; he concentrated on staying still and taking what he deserved. His legs wished at least to kick in symbolic protest; he would not let them. There was no ground for complaint when one had disobeyed the king.
Now he was angled forward, his nose closer to the floor and his lower half alarmingly higher. King Elessar stopped applying the blows at random, as had seemed to be the way, and began applying every blow to one area at the top of each of his thighs. What had been at first just a sting, then later a distinct burn, then later still a pain he had to acknowledge, became under these blows an inferno. It felt as though his skin had been flayed, branded by fire. Surely injury had been done — he would have to wait until his release to check... if he was released. A voice inside whispered spitefully that he deserved it all and more.
Unable to stop himself from squirming, Faramir squeezed his eyes shut and panted through gritted teeth. He had sworn to stay, to stay, to stay. After King Elessar had praised him for coming to the study, he had nodded and promised the king he would stay. The king had never lied to him; he would keep his promise.
Oh, ‘twas getting difficult. He knew he was shifting in place and could not stop himself. From his closed eyes, startlingly, tears leaked. The sound of King Elessar’s hand against him was sharp and disconcerting, the pain more so. But ‘twas a strange feeling he held close inside. Lord Denethor had shamed him for his weaknesses and his cowardice, but never had he felt such a tugging in his breast. It felt like... sorrow.
Sorrow, sadness. Grief.
Grief. Over what? The pain? In his thoughts the king’s face hovered, weary and drawn, plagued first by sadness and tension and then by injury. Faramir felt the tears come more hotly, more insistently though he kept his eyes tightly closed. He sniffled and drew a breath, and it hitched and stuttered in his throat. He had suffered far worse pain without unravelling so; the pain he had suffered had not torn so at him.
Ai... how? ’twas his guilt, obviously. Could aught else but guilt sink him? After all he had said and done, the king had remained. Like a friend impossible to repel even with the most vicious rejection.
Like a...
Faramir felt the moment come, and he hung his head as silent weeping wracked his body. The tears were warm and salty in his throat. His head pounded and his lungs burned like they had been pressed upon by a heavy weight. His face was hot and wet — he lifted his shaking hands to cover it. The voice whispered again, but it now whispered gentler words. Forgiven. Forgiven. He was forgiven. The thought made him cry harder.
Ayan had reduced him, on occasion, to a few childish tears. Boromir had once elicited kicks and desperate pleas for leniency after he had hidden all the forenoon in a cramped nook, forcing his older brother to crawl through half of the citadel in search of him. But the harshest beating had not brought him to such a place, nor pushed him so utterly over the threshold between reason and feeling. He had failed the king, aye, and he knew ‘twas wrong. He had wounded someone far greater and closer than the king, and his heart wept. Now he was forgiven for it all, and the tears felt as though they were carrying something dark and ugly away with them.
His heart fluttered in his breast and tears burned in his eyes. Aragorn drew a ragged breath. Faramir had sagged over him and was shaking, wracked by silent grief. The tension had seemed all at once to bleed away, and he had been relieved for only a moment before the weeping had begun. His left hand now wandered in what he hoped was a soothing path up and down Faramir’s back; his right hand throbbed at his side.
He should speak. Always with the others he had spoken. Words that would be nonsense any other time became, in the teary aftermath of such an ordeal, welcome. In his ears, though, whispered words already ran. ‘You are forgiven; you are forgiven; you are forgiven—’ He was saying the words — he had been saying the words for he knew not how long. They flowed from his lips and floated in the chamber, and Faramir, grieving, would come to hear them.
His hands moved. Leaning down and clutching the fabric, he raised Faramir’s breeches as far as he could. Carefully, carefully he reached down to grip Faramir’s upper body, and he eased the young man off his lap. Faramir, groggy and pliable, slid down to kneel beside him, and he got the breeches up and re-laced. “You are forgiven, Faramir,” he said again. “’tis finished and I wish only to know that you feel no more guilt over this. Tell me.”
The ginger-curled head remained bent for a long moment, the young captain kneeling beside his chair as though in supplication. Aragorn bent his own body, wrapped his arms around Faramir and felt a momentary stiffening in response. He did not release his hold, but leaned down so that his lips were close to Faramir’s ear. “I am your father, young one,” he murmured. “I will always act for you, as I did when you left this city. ‘tis my duty and my right to pursue you, to fight for you, to die for you if I must. Do you understand me, my son?”
Faramir did not appear to understand him, but Aragorn waited and pressed no further. He half wished for the abilities of some of the eldar, the eye that could see into another’s mind and heart. He half wished, also, never to know what Captain Faramir, son of Denethor in all ways but one, thought and felt about him. Perhaps too little time had passed for him to seek understanding — perhaps Faramir would not understand that he could feel like a parent, that he could be proud and angry and joyous and possess such a fierce frightening love toward one he barely knew.
Then Faramir lifted his head and gazed damp-eyed at him. Aragorn ventured a smile. “Do you understand me, Faramir?” he asked again, and waited. Long moments passed. Eternities passed.
“Nay, my lord,” Faramir replied. “But I am willing to try.”
It ended, and he came aware that it was over. Limp and exhausted, Faramir lay over the king’s lap and cried. His body ached from the force of it; his throat was raw as though he had been screaming forever. His face was hot as though with the gravest fever. Over it all hovered the pain, screeching down at him like a beast. He tried to control his breathing. His head hurt. His eyes hurt.
The king was speaking to him, forgiving him. He had atoned for his crimes. A hand was ranging over his back in reassuring motion. It felt gentle and kind, and he realized he was weary. So weary that he could only wait for whatever would happen next. His thoughts were scattered and flickered weakly like dying lamps.
Then, inexplicably, he was being lifted. Hands — King Elessar’s hands — were strong around his shoulders and were righting him. His head swam, the world spinning briefly. He was on his knees beside the chair. His clothing had been righted; he knew not when. And although his hindquarters blazed with the heat of a torch, his senses told him he suffered no other hurt. Not broken bone, not broken skin, not torn muscle that would impede his future movement. His body was tense and aching but unharmed. Aye, there had been those times with Ayan and Boromir, when he had come away from punishment in such good condition. The king... had not hurt him.
A question asked. Did he understand? A king who would sacrifice life for the sake of a mere steward was but a fool. At once he was ashamed of the thought. King Elessar was no fool, to be sure. But he did not understand. The king of Gondor was a man above all men, not subject to the whims of them, a man precious and to be guarded. For him this king had fought like a wild thing, put himself in harm’s way to slay an orc. For him this king had ridden from Minas Tirith into an angry little town and been injured. Finally, for him this king had committed such an act, such an intimate and seemingly caring act.
“Nay, my lord,” he said. His thoughts rattled and clashed. This king was also a man. But still ‘twas not clear how this king could be also a man, and could love him. Elessar’s arms were around him and would not let go. They felt real. He would try to understand.
The gardens had been lovingly recreated by their elf, in those exultant weeks before his wedding to Arwen. The dark twisted weeds that had grown so dense during years of neglect had been meticulously pulled; the tiles had been cleaned and polished, replaced where necessary. The streams and fountains had been tended until their waters ran clear. The trees had been trimmed so that they once more lined neat paths rather than clamoured and clawed in to choke the way. And new trees and shrubs and flowers had been added — new life to embolden the old, new blood to flow into a new future.
Now the trees hung with multi-coloured lanterns and the paths nigh glowed in torchlight. The flowerbeds were bright with blooms. And everywhere, down every path and in every small plaza, people drifted. Men, elves, dwarves. The fountains splashed merrily. Conversation and laughter floated on warm, perfumed evening air.
Aragorn walked, nodding to his guests, stopping often to share a few words, a laugh, an exchange of pleasantries. And from every guest he heard much the same message. Congratulations, Sire! You have been blessed, Sire. And Gondor has been favoured as well!
He entered the main courtyard, his eyes sweeping the throngs. Wine goblets clinked; servants wandered with trays of pastries and drink.
There — framed by lantern light. Faramir stood with Arwen, who fingered a tendril of bright trailing verbena. She smiled at something the young man had said, laughed and laid a hand gently on his arm, and Faramir smiled in return. Beside them, Legolas and Gimli also laughed, the sound barely reaching him. Merry and Pippin joined them, and Faramir beamed even more brightly at their presence. Aragorn felt a rush of warmth. His mate, his son, his best friends.
His family.
The guests had begun to eye him, smiling. ‘twas about time for the announcement, the moment when he would say it to all. Aye, they all knew, for word of the king’s son had spread throughout Gondor. To the settlements and guard outposts, through cities and towns and villages, it had flown on golden wings. Not the expected babe, held up triumphantly in its swaddling-clothes and welcomed gladly into the people’s hearts, but a grown warrior already known and respected by so many. There was joy.
Across the courtyard, Legolas grinned and winked at him, eyes sparkling. Faramir looked also, and for a moment the young captain’s gaze held the formality one assumes when looking to one’s king. But then those blue-grey eyes softened and the smile returned. Arwen glanced, knowingly, Aragorn’s way. She nodded, her face serene.
He stepped forward, wondering at the taste of tears in his throat, at the faint burning behind his dry eyes. His breath came unsteadily, then more strongly as he made his way through the crowds of well-wishers. Gondor waited to hear news of its prince.
Aye, there was joy. Crossing the stone, weaving a path through the crowds, he reached them. He bowed gently to Arwen and was met with her dazzling smile; he grinned at Legolas and Gimli and extended a warrior embrace to each; he laughed and impulsively ruffled the hobbits’ curly heads, and they grinned tolerantly in return.
He turned finally to Faramir, meeting the young man’s bright gaze. “Are we ready, my son?” he asked. Around them, the crowd stirred, stilled, waited. The servants flitted, ensuring every goblet was filled and ready to be raised. The courtyard hummed with anticipation, and Aragorn found his smile answered by a warm glow gracing his son’s features. He waited, as well.
“Aye, my lord,” Faramir said.
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