Faramir Fiction Archive

Out of Memory and Time (PG-13)

Written by Shireling

30 March 2008 | 58682 words

Feedback: shirelinghpc@hotmail.com
Rating: PG 13 for recounting of violence
Genre: Drama/Angst
Disclaimer: I can only claim my original characters, the rest belong to the genius of JRRT.
Summary: Following the first winter of the new King’s reign, events unfold that will have devastating consequences for Gondor and for the King’s closest companions.

A/N: This story has been a long time in the making. I hope the shifts in timeline and perspective will become obvious as the story progresses. This story is dedicated to my writing friends, especially Cathleen, who have been endlessly supportive over the last year when I doubted I would ever reharness a very reluctant muse.

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Chapter 1 – Minnow

She was called The Grey Swan; to the crew she was affectionately known as the Mucky Duck or Duck for short. She was a small vessel sailing under the flag of the Swan Fleet of Dol Amroth, one of the many vessels that plied a healthy trade up and down the coast under the direction of Prince Imrahil’s agent. She was a sturdy twin-masted boat, low and wide with a shallow draught that made her ideally suited to both sea and river passage, although until recently her normal route was to shuttle between the ports of south Belfalas and the costal ports to the north.

A change had been brought about by the victory over the forces allied to Mordor and by the coronation of the King of Gondor. The rout of the Corsairs and a restoration of order had once again freed up the trade routes to the south and Master Cardolan had received permission from the Prince’s agent to pursue these new possibilities. It had proved to be a shrewd decision, Cardolan was one of the first traders from the north to brave the southern waters and the merchants of Harad and Umbar were quick to see the benefits of exploiting the new markets to the north.

For many months the Grey Swan sailed up and down the coast, bringing fine silks, casks of spices, hard woods and gold to the north. The markets of Anfalas, Dol Amroth, Tolfalas and Belfalas prospered with the influx of these exotic goods. Only with the onset of winter had this lucrative trade been put on hold as the treacherous seas south of the isle of Tolfalas were too risky for the little vessel to brave. All winter The Grey Swan was tasked with helping to supply aid to the northern lands of Gondor and Edoras. Dol Amroth was at the heart of the relief efforts and the river Anduin was busy with craft carrying essential supplies to ease the suffering left in the wake of the conflict.

It was boring and monotonous work in wet and miserable conditions but it was work in what was normally a quiet season for the fleet, only the dire need of the victorious but war-ravaged lands gave the sailors purpose and each return journey south with empty holds went against all of Cardolan’s trader instincts. But Gondor, as yet, had no goods to trade and ultimately it was Prince Imrahil’s coffers that would bear the losses.

Cardolan was a gruff but fair Master who was treated with wary respect by his crew of ten. Many of the men had been with him for several years and they worked well together, each man had his own responsibilities and provided these were performed satisfactorily Cardolan left them to it. The only new member of the crew was a youngster from the north who had joined the crew to replace a rooky who had lasted only one voyage before deciding that the sea was not for him. Young Tat was keen to learn and performed his duties with eager enthusiasm, he endured the subtle teasing of the older hands with equanimity, secure in the knowledge that the Master would not tolerate cruel or malicious treatment of any of his crew and that the older men would look out for him in the face of real threat or danger.

The Duck had completed its last run up river to Minas Tirith and, having discharged it’s cargo at the Harlond, was on the return journey back towards the coast. After passing through the empty but verdant regions of South Ithilien the Duck had put in to the recently liberated port of Pelargir where Master Cardolan had picked up a cargo of charcoal bound for the smelting works in Umbar. All hands were on look-out as they passed through the treacherous and shifting reaches of the river as it twisted and boiled between the rapids. It was the most risky part of the passage and all of the crew were alert for hidden dangers.

It was Tat who raised the alarm. From his position half way along the starboard rail his sharp eyes were drawn to the unexpected sight of a body washed up against the boulders by the river bank. His shout drew others to his side and he pointed over towards the shore. It wasn’t the first time they had come across a corpse in the river; in the first days after the great Battle on the Pelennor the river had been defiled by the many victims of the conflict and the pollution from so much corruption had poisoned the river and fermented disease and plague. By and large the river had flushed itself clean but a Royal Edict was still in force and any vessel finding a body in the river was required to retrieve it and at the first opportunity bury it or consign the remains to a funeral pyre. Some Masters ignored the Edict, not wanting the inconvenience of dealing with the funerary arrangements but Master Cardolan took his responsibilities seriously; the river was part of his livelihood and the health and wellbeing of the crew was dependant on the health of the river. Cardolan gave orders for the sails to be loosed and the anchor dropped. Moments later one of the more experienced sailors plunged into the water, a stout rope tied about his waist as the rest of the crew made the boat secure. Retrieving the body was a tricky and dangerous manoeuvre and the crew watched nervously as their comrade swam across the current. There was an anxious moment when the swimmer had to dive to avoid being hit by a large branch floating in his direction. The man surfaced, caught hold of the branch and pushed it before him as he neared his target. Using the branch for support he slipped a loop of rope around the chest of the pale lifeless body and signalled to the crew to reel them in.

They hauled the sailor and his burden up on to the deck. The Master handed responsibility for getting the vessel underway to his boson, knowing that he could trust the man to get the boat into a safer anchorage than their present perilous position. It fell to the Master and young Tat to deal with the corpse.

“Sir, he ain’t dead!” the lad cried as he turned the lifeless body onto its front and hand nearest to him twitched.

“He soon will be lad; there is nothing we can do for him, not in that state!” The Master said quietly, having taken a quick assessment of the state of the poor wretch. “The best we can hope for is to make him comfortable and help ease his passing.”

There was no further sign of life from the man. “Go and fetch a blanket and make ready my cabin, the least we can do is give him a comfortable bed,” the Captain ordered.

While the lad was away the master examined the stranger more closely and mentally catalogued the man’s numerous injuries. The Man was naked and his face so swollen as to be almost unrecognisable. There was a large wound above and behind his left ear where the skin was broken and gaped under the pressure of swelling. It was impossible to tell the colour of his eyes for his lids were swollen shut, his hair had been crudely shorn leaving only sparse wisps of indeterminate colour. There were bruises circling the wrists and ankles indicating that he had at some point been bound but worst of all was the state of his back, from shoulders all the way down buttocks, thighs and right down to the soles of his feet the man had been thrashed, the feet and back bore the heaviest damage but it was clear that this had been a prolonged and systematic beating. The man’s skin was icy cold and any blood had been washed away by long emersion in the water.

“Whoever did this to you, my friend, surely meant business? I wonder what his quarrel was with you? One thing is sure, he never meant for you to survive to report this abuse!” The sight of this poor tortured stranger touched a deep well of anger in Cardolan’s heart; there had been enough of death and cruelty in the war and to now encounter such evil in this time of peace was a travesty. Without waiting for the boy to return with a blanket, the Master picked up the stranger and carried him aft to the shelter of his cabin.

“Sir!”

“I am not giving up on him,” the Master announced through gritted teeth as he placed the stranger on his own bunk. He set the poor wretch onto his side to avoid putting pressure on his worst injuries. He layered several blankets over him and issued more instructions to Tat “We need to get him warm. Go and get some of those small sacks of grain from the kitchen stores and put them to warm in the galley oven.”

“Grain sacks, Sir?”

“Yes, not for long… just long enough for them to absorb the heat. When they are warmed we will wrap them in cloth and place them next to his body to get some warmth into him. Also, see if there is any warm broth in the galley, I’ll need a mug and some drinking water and some ground sugar loaf, quick lad! There is not a moment to lose.”

While waiting for the grain bags to warm, the Master concentrated on dribbling small trickles of warm sweetened broth into the poor wretch. It was a slow process, the injured man made no spontaneous efforts to swallow the broth and showed no signs of waking; at times he seemed to be barely breathing. It took an hour to get a cupful of fluids into him and most of the day for him to warm up enough that his flesh no longer felt like ice. As his skin lost the swollen waterlogged appearance of one who had been in water for far too long the Master and Tap attended to the worst of his injuries. They slathered a thick layer of unguent over the weeping wheals where he had been beaten and where ropes had bitten into the skin of his wrists and ankles. They could do little for the bruises over his ribs. The wound on his head was wide and deep, white bone shining through the gash; there was no apparent fracture of the bones visible and so all Cardolan could do was to pour some spirit over the wound to cleanse it and then to stitch the edges closed. Throughout these ministrations the man never moved or uttered a sound.

While the Master went off to check that the boat was secured in a safe anchorage for the night Tat replaced the now cooled bags of grain with warmed ones and gave the man another few mouthfuls of broth. The Master returned with a hammock from the storage locker and secured it to the roof beams of his cabin. He dismissed Tat for the night with his thanks and settled himself into his makeshift bed, more than half convinced that the stranger occupying his cot would be beyond all mortal aid by dawn.

Over the next three days the burden of caring for the stranger fell largely on Tat’s shoulders; morning and evening the Master would look in and assess their silent guest but there was no change in his condition, he remained deeply unconscious. Tap took care of him with surprising tenderness and spent most of the day at his side, coaxing down fluids, tending to his injuries and attending to his personal needs and changing soiled linens with quiet good humour. All the time he kept up a one-sided conversation with the man as though he were merely resting with his eyes closed and could hear every word. He told the man of their voyage, of the landscape they passed and finally of the sights and smells of the open ocean as the Duck passed out of the river estuary and turned south along the coast towards their next port of call.

Cardolan and the boson were at the helm discussing their course. The port of Cantria was still more than a week away, given favourable winds and good fortune, but these were now busy waterways and required constant vigilance. Their council was interrupted by Tat who approached carrying two mugs of hot tea.

“What is it, Lad?” Cardolan asked when the boy hesitated after handing over the drinks. Tat wasn’t normally reticent and this uncharacteristic behaviour caught the Master’s attention. “Are you tiring of your new duties?”

“No, Sir. But I was wondering if you could come and take a look at him for me.”

“Has he woken then? Or spoken?”

“No, Sir, not a word… but he seems very hot and his breathing is off…”

“What do you mean off? I take it he is still breathing!”

“Of course… it’s just, well, he seems to be struggling… like he can’t quite snatch a breath… and he’s making a funny sort of rattling noise.” The Master and Bosun exchanged a significant glance.

“You have the wheel, Bosun,” Cardolan announced, placing his untouched tea on the rail and making briskly for the cabin.

If the battle to warm the stranger had been hard won, the battle to keep him alive as he struggled to breathe was as agonising for the carers as it was for the man. With no medicines and no experience beyond common sense every minute was a victory. As the man’s temperature climbed ever upwards they did what they could to keep him comfortable. They propped him up on pillows despite the fact that this put extra pressure on his wounds, Tat bathed him in cool water and they fought a constant battle to get fluids into him, a task made more difficult by the fact that he was restless and delirious. He mumbled constantly and occasionally screamed out, his words incoherent. And still the fever refused to break.

“What else can we do, Sir?” Tat was exhausted but steadfastly refused to leave the man’s bedside.

“Prey that his God has a place for him,” the Master sighed, all but having given up any hope that the man could survive.

“And what God would that be? We don’t even know what land he hails from.”

“Does it matter as long as he believes?”

“I guess not… How long before we reach Cantria? Maybe we could find an apothecary there to help him?” Tat suggested, still hopeful.

“Five days… he wont last that long, Tat. I’m sorry.”

“But we must do something… please!”

Cardolan paced back and forth the length of the cabin, five steps over and over. With sudden decision he pulled a rolled chart from the rack and cleared his desk to unroll the parchment. His finger traced a path over the faded and much annotated data and he pulled a compass from his pocket. “Keep him alive, Lad, we’re changing course!” the Master announced as he hurried on deck, carrying the chart with him.

“We have a change of plan, Bos’n. We make for the port of Kalavir with all speed.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.” The Bosun gave the orders and the crew responded, there actions precise and well ordered. “A new cargo, Sir?” he enquired.

“No. The Lad needs a healer and we don’t have time to get him to Cantria.” They poured over the chart. “How long till we make port?”

“We should be there by nightfall. I’m not familiar with Kalavir, Sir. Anything I should be aware of?”

“I’ve only put in there once and that was many years ago, before the troubles. It is a small port but if memory serves me it has a good market; while I get some help for the Lad I will leave you to seeing to replenishing our supplies.”

“What about our cargo? How long can we delay?”

“We can spare a day or two… by then we will know one way or another.”

“And what are his chances?”

“Chances are this is a fool’s errand and he will have passed before we even get in to port… but at least if that’s the case we can see he is sent off with the proper rites.

“We don’t even know his name!”

“And we have no way of letting his kin know what befell him.”

“Sad but true… but we can see him off well, Sir. Funny how quickly his fate has wriggled under the skin of the men… they are not known for taking a liking to strangers!”

“ ‘Specially not a silent, battered one,” the Master agreed.

“Young Tat will take it hard if he goes!”

“Aye, he has a kind heart and surprisingly gentle hands… funny what you learn about a person when you throw them into a new situation. My heart tells me that lad won’t stay with us long… he needs an education, he is a born carer. I’ve a mind to see if I can find an apothecary to have him apprenticed to.”

“It’s a noble thought, Sir, but it will cost a pretty penny; the boy will never be able to afford the setting fees.”

“I’ll find a way,” the master announced.

“But why would you?”

He didn’t get an answer but from the determined glint in the Master’s eye the Bosun gathered there was something he was missing. He also knew that the Master would keep his own council: they had known each other for years but the familiarity of shared hardships and long established respect had never approached the boundary of friendship and once again Castamir had re-established the hierarchy.

The port of Kalavir was small, with the air of benign neglect common along this part of the coast. The history of piracy and conflict in the area had long ago robbed the small community of anything of value; the slave trade had vanished and there were no commodities locally to bring in the bigger trading vessels. It was a fishing port and, with a wide, sheltered, natural harbour a safe haven in bad weather for vessels plying their trade to the more prosperous ports further south.

The arrival of The Duck caused a flutter of interest until it became clear that they were here only for assistance. The urgent request for a healer threatened to sour their welcome, for the risk of bringing fever into the community was a risk the harbour master was not prepared to countenance and he insisted they pulled away from the dock and anchored in the bay until he was sure they posed no threat of contagion.

Kalavir was too small and insignificant to have its own healer and it was the harbour master himself who rowed out the small dinghy and who held the boat steady as the crew lowered a wooden seat to hoist the wise-woman aboard.

She was small, barely measuring to the Master’s shoulder and she was almost as wide as she was tall, a fact exaggerated by the jewel coloured robes that enveloped her from head to toe. Only her face and hands were visible to give testament to her origins; brown and wrinkled as a walnut with black bird-like eyes and a wide knowing smile that revealed betel stained teeth. She wriggled her ample girth free of the confines of the seat and took a moment to shake and rearrange herself before addressing Master Castamir in clear but heavily accented westron.

“You sent for me, Sir? My name is Zerbah, how may I be of assistance?”

“Welcome, good mother. One of our number is sick and it is beyond our skills to help

him. We would value any aid you may give him,” the Master explained. She dipped her head to acknowledge his courtesy and allowed him to lead her aft to his cabin.

She hissed in a sharp breath when she first glanced at her patient. “You have left it too late,” she whispered before she had even laid hands on him. “I’ll not be taking the blame when this one breathes his last!”

“You are his last hope, mother! If you cannot cure him perhaps you may at least make

his passing more peaceful.”

“You want me to ease his passing?”

“No, I want him to live but even I can see that he is in great distress, I would have him given respite from his torment; all we have to ease him is some brandy!”

“I’ll need my bag,” she nodded. “And who are you?” she demanded pointing to Tat.

“Tat, Ma’am. I’ve been looking after him,” the youngster explained, hovering protectively by his patient.

The Harbour Master who had come aboard, waited in the doorway. “Is he contagious, Zerbah?”

“No. Listen to him, this is lung fever.”

“So I can allow the boat to dock?”

“You’d better. I refuse to leave this vessel by that infernal swing contraption!”

“Did you not enjoy the experience?” She did not gift him with a reply and waved him and Castamir away. She swept the desk top clear and plonked down her capacious carpet bag.

Zerbah was thorough in her examination. She pulled down his lids and pressed down on his chin to open his mouth. She ran a finger across his pale brow and tasted the sweat against her tongue. She then moved her attentions to his torso, palpating his bruised ribs and pressing gently into his abdomen. Tucking her veil behind one ear she placed her head against his chest, moving over all areas to assess the bubbling rasp of each tortured breath.

“Too late… too late,” she whispered to herself under her breath. She now acknowledged Tat and indicated that he should help her sit the patient forward. She was about to put her ear to his back when she noticed the wheals and bruises.

“What is this!” she demanded. She removed the banked pillows from the bunk and gently laid the man down, rolling him onto his side so that she could examine him fully. She hissed at the extent of his injuries.

“Fetch the Captain. NOW!” she thundered. Tat shot to his feet and made for the door. He didn’t get far, Castamir had obviously heard her summons.

“What kind of a fool is it that beats a man to within an inch of death and then wastes my time and his own coin to save him!” she demanded, forcing Castamir backwards until he was trapped between the outraged healer and the hard edge of the desk.

“Peace, Mother. He did not suffer his injuries aboard my vessel,” Castamir explained.

She hissed in disbelief but backed off slightly. “I do not beat my crew,” the master assured her.

“It’s true, Ma’am. I’ve never known anyone mistreated aboard the Duck”, Tat was at pains to point out

“We pulled him from the water a few days ago, half drowned and cold as death. He had

these injuries when we found him. We have done what we can for him but we haven’t the skills or the medicines to help him.” The master explained, smoothing down his tunic.

“A few days! Then he should be dead. Sea water in the lungs should have killed him in hours.” Zerbah moved back to her patient without apology to the Master. She rolled her patient back and proceeded to finish her examination.

“He wasn’t in the sea. We pulled him from the river,” Tat explained, assisting her to raise the unconscious man back up against the pillows. “We don’t know anything about him; not his name or where he comes from. He had been stripped and beaten; there was nothing on him to identify his origins”

“Well, we can’t keep calling him stranger. We’ll need to give him a name until he wakes and can tell us who he is and where he belongs.” As she spoke she unwound the bandage from his head and examined the sutured wound. “That at least is healing nicely; we will leave the bandage off, it is keeping too much heat in his head.”

“What can you do for him, Mother?” Castamir asked.

“Chest first and then we must try to relieve the fever.” She called for a kettle of boiling water and a bowl. She created a tent of fabric over the man’s head and had Tat hold him upright, his face over the bowl. She poured the steaming water into the bowl and added a few drops of camphor and eucalyptus oils. Every few minutes she placed her hands on the sides of the man’s chest and shook him gently, vibrating his ribs and forcing him to breath out more deeply.

Tat was beginning to despair of the treatment when suddenly the patient was seized by a violent paroxysm of coughing. Zerbah quickly removed the bowl and tilted him over so that his chest and head were draped over the edge of the bunk. With Tat holding him secure she tapped sharply over his back. Moments later he began coughing up copious amounts of muck from his chest, gasping and wheezing as he fought to clear his throat and snatch a breath. When his coughing ceased Zerbah and Tat bathed him and coaxed some warmed broth down him. Zerbah allowed him to rest for an hour before repeating the process, by which point his chest was moving more clearly and his breathing was less laboured.

“Now for the fever,” the healer announced. Sponging the patient’s skin with cool water was having no effect and so Zerbah called for more drastic measures. There was no ice to be had in Kalavir but they did have a large body of cold water to hand. It took some organising but the Master and the Bosun removed the wooden seat from the hoist and rigged up a spare hammock to the end of the rope. The Bosun went into the water and the crew lowered the patient over the side in the hammock until he was submerged up to his neck but supported by the fabric.

The man sucked in a strangled gasp as the cold water touched his overheated skin and he struggled weakly before sinking back into a stupor. They hauled him up before he began to shiver. Just before dusk they repeated the manoeuvre and finally, just before dawn, the fever broke. Zerbah sent Tat off to his own bunk to rest and she remained to tend to the man.

When the Master and Tat appeared at first light Zerbah was preparing food for the patient, she had procured a thin porridge from the cook and she was mashing up fresh fruits into the bowl. As she started to lift a small spoonful onto his tongue, the man’s eyes fluttered open. There was no recognition in the man’s expression, just confusion. He tried to turn his face away from the spoon but Zerbah firmly but gently turned him back, smiling reassurance. Reluctantly he allowed the spoon onto his lip and flicked out his tongue to test the offering. He managed several small tastes before his eyes flickered shut and he lapsed back into oblivion.

“He seems a little better, Zerbah. Will he recover?”

“If the Gods will it and he fights to stay,” she pronounced, handing the bowl to Tat and setting out her potions to begin treating his injuries.

“We really need to get under way today, would it be best to leave him here in Kalavir under your care?” the Master asked her.

“I have no facilities to care for him. I do not have room in my home for a sick man and it would not be proper. You could pay for a room for him at the Inn and I would look in on him,” she offered.

“No. I thank you for the offer but he would be better aboard the Duck; at least we would have Tat to keep an eye on him. I mean no offence, Mother, but I have had experience of sailor’s Inns in the past and I would not feel comfortable leaving him under such circumstances.”

“Then I will leave instructions for you and the lad over how to care for him. Provided the fever does not return he should do well. He needs small regular meals; lots of fresh fruit, lightly cooked fish, eggs and cheese if you can get it. Make sure he drinks plenty and in a couple of days start sitting him out in the fresh air for an hour or so a day, though not in direct sun and as soon as he is able get him moving, just short walks to begin with but the longer he stays in bed the weaker he will become.”

“Thank you, Zerbah, you have saved his life. I will be forever in your debt,” the Master thanked her. “Is there anything I may do for you to show my appreciation for your care?” he asked, handing over a pouch of coins which she swiftly hid within her robes without bothering to examine the contents.

“Where do you make for next?”she asked

“We sail for Cantria on the next tide… if you deem he is fit for the journey.”

“He is as fit as he is likely to be. I am short of some herbs and spices. You would be doing me a great service if you would collect some for me from the merchants in Cantria… it would also give you an excuse to call here on your return journey so that I may see how young Min is doing.”

“Min?” the Master queried.

“Aye, Min. That is what Tat here has taken to calling our patient,” she explained.

“Min, Tat? Where did you come up with such a name?”

The lad blushed and fidgeted with the potion bottles Zerbah had left lined up on the desk. “Come on Lad, out with it.”

“Min… short for Minnow! …he was a poor pathetic scrap fished from the river on the end of a line,” the lad explained, “I couldn’t think of anything else and-and it seemed to fit.”

“Well let’s just hope he wakes up soon and can tell us who he is and where he belongs,” the Master said with a smile, “I would hate for him to be saddled with such a name for long.”

Chapter 2 – The Sword that was Broken

In the city of Minas Tirith, the long, miserable months of winter were nearly at an end. The winter had brought great hardship to the people of a land torn apart by long years of war. Even in the face of victory bellies still had to be filled and that was an almost impossible task given that the crops had been ruined and the farm animals killed or looted by the enemy during the last desperate weeks of conflict. Fuel, too, was in short supply, making cooking and heating damaged homes more difficult. It was the harshest winter in living memory; only as February drew to a close was the Pelennor finally free of snow, allowing the store masters to put away their sleds and bring out the bigger, heavier carts.

It seemed to the people that the Deities were still seeking to punish them for some imagined failing, visiting sickness and despair upon residents who had little resistance left to offer. Only the generosity of their allies to the south had kept the people from starvation. All winter a fleet of boats had braved the weather and the threat of ice in the river to supply essential food and supplies to Gondor and to the suffering Rohirrim further north. Prince Imrahil was the chief benefactor and the other Lords whose lands had not been overrun by the Dark Lord’s minions offered supplies from their own stores.

For the Steward of Gondor, Prince Faramir of Ithillien, those last weeks of winter had been particularly difficult.

The King and Queen had worked especially hard to ensure that within the Citadel the Yule celebrations had been memorable. Many family guests had braved the awful weather to join in the first Yule of the King’s reign; the Queen’s brothers, Prince Legolas and his dwarven friend Gimli and from Belfalas, Faramir’s only remaining family, Prince Imrahil and his three sons and one daughter. Only the absence of Éowyn had dampened Faramir’s enjoyment of the holiday season and for a few heady days of merriment and celebration Faramir was able to lock away his ever-present grief over the death of his brother.

But with the turning of the year the guests had said their farewells and returned home to their own lives, leaving the Citadel echoing to the sound of silence. Faramir threw himself into his work, taking on not only his own duties but also shouldering many of the tasks usually undertaken by the King. He hadn’t been asked to relieve the King of his burdensome duties; it was his own decision, to allow the recently married King to spend more time with his bride. With no visitors to distract him and the weather too foul to allow for journeys outside the city, the Steward felt he had perfect reason to fill his days with work and to avoid the temptation to brood over his losses.

As a strategy it was very effective, his days began before dawn and continued until long after dusk. There were endless meetings about the process of reconstruction and of re-establishing and repopulating the farmlands surrounding the city; meetings about the supply and distribution of aid, of re-housing the homeless, of homing the orphans, the cripples and the destitute. There were councils and assizes to preside over, the military to reorganise and security to oversee; the list seemed endless. Many times he worked himself to a standstill and only the thoughtful and discrete assistance of his adjutant, Tamir, kept his days from descending into chaos. Tamir saw to it that meals were provided for him and that, where possible, they were eaten, though as the days and weeks passed it was Faramir’s hounds who gained weight as the Steward began to fade.

It wasn’t that there was any deliberate neglect on the part of his friends but with Estel preoccupied, Imrahil away in Dol Amroth and Legolas and Gimli away travelling there was no one to notice what was going on.

As the weeks passed another factor began to have further impact on the wellbeing of the Steward… Boromir began to inhabit his dreams.

The first time it happened Faramir was woken from his nightmare by Tamir who had been roused by his cries. On waking he couldn’t remember the substance of the dream, only that it concerned Boromir and that it had been distressing. Faramir dismissed Tamir with his thanks and tried to order his own distress. No matter how hard he tried he could not recall the details of the dream but a few nights later the dream returned to haunt his sleep. This time he woke alone, his heart pounding and his face wet with tears; he was relieved that he had not disturbed his sharp eared adjutant, he kindled a lamp and attempted to read to distract his mind but the horror of his dream would not give him peace and he paced the floor until it was time to begin the day.

He began to dread the night time and fear these nightly visitations into his dreams. He was tired, so very, very tired and yet he could not allow himself the luxury of sleep. He had Tamir clear an hour in his schedule every afternoon so that he could retreat to his mother’s garden and doze for a while in the winter-sleepy sanctuary. It helped a little but it was not enough to negate many hours of lost sleep.

Tamir knew what was going on but there was little he could do in the face of his Lordship’s intransigent refusal to discuss the matter. For a few more days he had to stand back and hope that Lord Faramir would see sense and seek help, either from one of the healers or from the King himself. That was Tamir’s hope but he knew in his heart that it would not happen. Finally, Tamir admitted to himself that he had no choice but to intervene; he had a duty of loyalty to Lord Faramir and in this instance that meant overriding his need for autonomy; Tamir had given his word to the King that he would guard Lord Faramir’s wellbeing and he could no longer ignore his Lordship’s obvious distress.

After a particularly long and tedious session of the assizes during which Tamir had noticed the Steward struggling to maintain both his concentration and his temper he decided to act. On the pretext of delivering some documents to the King’s secretary, Tamir made his way to the Royal apartments. The over-zealous scribe promised to forward the documents to the King, but Tamir was insistent that he should hand them over personally. A battle of wills would have developed but for the fact that at that moment the King himself appeared.

“Good afternoon, Sire.” Tamir bowed.

“Tamir, welcome, it is good to see you. Is all well?”

“Lord Faramir had these reports prepared for you, Sire. I offered to deliver them.” Tamir avoided answering the King’s question and held out the pile of documents

“Are they important?”

“Matters of State Sire!” With a telling glance to the scribe Tamir held the King’s gaze, trying to signal to him a silent message. Estel caught on and ushered him through to his chamber, shutting the door to give them some privacy. The King settled at his desk and briefly perused the documents.

“Tamir, I thank you for your diligence, but these hardly seem to me to be urgent.”

“There are matters that need to be drawn to your attention, Sire.”

The King regarded the Adjutant keenly, noting his tension. “Tamir, are you trying to tell me something, without telling me what it is!” The King queried.

Tamir’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes, Sire,” he confirmed.

“So your concern has nothing to do with these papers specifically?”

“No, Sire.”

“Does Lord Faramir share your concern?”

“No Sire… he thinks my concern is unwarranted.”

“You have discussed these concerns with him?”

“Yes, Sire. He told me not to worry… that it would sort itself out.”

“And you don’t believe him.”

“I believe that he believes it, Sire… I also believe that should you learn of these concerns you would be most… most…!” Tamir seemed lost as to how to explain without breaking his Lordship’s confidence. The King regarded him with a gentle grin.

“Let me take a guess, Tamir. Over recent weeks my diary has been particularly light. Was I mistaken to think this is just a particularly quiet time of year?”

“No, Sire. The business of State has not lessened, in my humble opinion. Lord Faramir has been ‘particularly’ busy, Sire.”

“To the point of overdoing it?”

“If I might be so bold, Sire. I believe Lord Faramir could do with an evening away from his office. A social evening… perhaps even an official invitation…”

“Very perceptive of you, Tamir. I believe you might just be right. I will ask the Queen to issue a personal invitation for the Steward to join us for supper!”

“Would you like me to deliver it, Sire?”

“No, Tamir. I will send it through official channels… and I will ensure he understands that this is an official invitation, just in case he decides his other duties are too important to put aside.

“Thank you, Sire. It has been very awkward… I don’t like to go behind his back… but I don’t think he always sees his own predicament too clearly… if you take my meaning.”

“Don’t worry, Tamir. And thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Tamir saluted and took his leave, leaving Estel to ponder on what exactly his young Steward had been up to. He set out to discover just what had been happening during his unofficial, extended honeymoon. What he learned worried and saddened him.

Faramir was adept at projecting an image, a skill he had learned over a long lifetime of deflecting his father’s hostile notice. He dressed with care and even went out for a brisk walk along the walls to allow the cold wind to put some colour in his cheeks. He was dreading this evening because he knew that it would be almost impossible to hide his present state for either Estel or Arwen. He wondered if perhaps word had reached the King of his poor performance in the day’s assizes or if he had made some other error. It was with great trepidation that he approached the Royal chambers and waited to be announced.

There were no other guests and to Faramir’s surprise the food platters were all laid out on warming plates; the servants were dismissed and Arwen served them. Conversation over dinner was light-hearted and Faramir allowed himself to relax back into the welcoming presence of his friends. He had no head for alcohol so he only sipped at the strong sweet wine, hardly noticing that his glass was kept topped up as the evening progresses. With the meal over they made themselves comfortable by the fire.

Neither Arwen nor Estel were deceived by Faramir’s attempts to hide the extent of his exhaustion, they could see how his tunic hung loosely from his diminished frame and no amount of windswept glow could erase the gaunt hollow-eyed testament to weeks of overwork.

Estel hoped that given the depth of the bond and understanding they had reached in the past, Faramir would open up to them and air whatever it was that was causing him such distress. But the progress Estel had made in befriending and supporting his diffident Steward appeared to have been forgotten, buried under weeks without proper sleep and long days crammed with over zealous duties. In his desperation to avoid revealing what he saw a shameful weakness, Faramir had fallen back onto his old coping strategies, becoming insular and ruthlessly self-sufficient.

It was Arwen who played the opening gambit. “Faramir I understand I have you to thank allowing Estel and I so much time together since Yule”

“My Lady?”

“I understand that you organised for Estel’s diary to be freed up of all unnecessary duties. It was very kind of you to indulge us so thoughtfully.”

“I-I… don’t…!”

“Faramir accept our thanks as is your due,” Arwen said, taking his hands and preventing him from making his retreat. Every fibre of Faramir’s being came to alert and screamed at him to escape quickly before the full depth of his predicament was revealed to his friends.

“It was kind, though I fear both Estel and I have reason to fear that you have done too much.”

“It was my pleasure, My Lady. Your thanks are much appreciated but totally unnecessary… I was just doing my duty.” Faramir assured her, trying, unsuccessfully to extricate his hands from her grasp.

“Arwen is right, Faramir. It was a great kindness but it has been achieved at too great a cost. Why did you not tell me of your plans to take over my duties,” Estel demanded, though his words were gentled but the concern in his voice.

“I wanted you to enjoy a few weeks of peace without worrying about your duties… you have had no time to yourself since you came here… and for goodness knows how long before that… you deserved a few days of peace and quiet.” Faramir explained.

“A few days would have been a treat but this has been going on for weeks… I only realised today just what you have done… and from the looks of you it has been a few weeks too many. We have discussed in the past my feelings about you pushing yourself beyond your limits, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir confirmed miserably

“And there is more to this than just overwork, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Faramir, you look like death warmed over! Do you have a fever?”

“No, Sire. I am quite well… I have just had a lot on my mind.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“I try to catch an hour’s rest in the afternoon, Sire,” Faramir explained, defensively.

“But you didn’t answer my question, Faramir. Are you sleeping properly?”

“No, Sire.”

“And what is preventing you?”

Faramir answered with just a shrug of his shoulders. “You don’t know or you’re not prepared to say?” Estel asked. “Why did you not seek assistance? You know that tiredness is not conducive to health or concentration.”

“Have I failed you in some way, Sire… Have I failed in my duties?” he asked miserably. “Am I in trouble, Sire?”

“Faramir, your only failing is in not trusting us, in shutting us out of your troubles,” Arwen explained gently, giving Estel time to get his frustration under control.

“No, Faramir. In all fairness I cannot be angry when I am more than culpable for your predicament. I have been neglectful of my responsibilities. I should have realised what was going on; that you were shouldering far too heavy a burden. But you are on notice, Faramir. I will not tolerate you putting your health and well being at risk, not even to give me a holiday,” Estel explained, pulling the Steward to his feet and shaking him gently to emphasise his point.

“Be thankful that Legolas is not here, Faramir, I believe he would not be so lenient,” Arwen offered, wishing them both goodnight and retiring to leave them to finish their discussion.

“Perhaps not so lucky! If Legolas had been here he would never have allowed you to get into this state. I am sorry, little brother, I should have been more attentive.”

“You had other things on your mind, Estel… I was only looking out for my own interests after all… come the summer I will be the bridegroom and will be looking to you to cut me some slack!” Faramir joked, feebly.

“Come summer, you and Éowyn will be banished to Dol Amroth for your honeymoon,” the King assured him, “Imrahil has already issued the invitation!”

“Oh!”

“Oh, indeed. It was the only way to ensure that Éowyn actually gets to spend some time with you. Now, it is time for you to get some rest.” Estel retrieved a small glass vial from the mantle and poured the contents into Faramir’s glass. “This will help you to sleep!” Estel watched to ensure that Faramir drained the glass and then escorted him back to his chambers.

“Faramir, you will spend the next two days resting. I will leave word with Tamir and your staff that you are not to be disturbed… and Faramir, I will be checking up on you… do not test my resolve on this!”

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir yawned.

Whatever was in the King’s potion, it packed a formidable punch, Faramir practically fell into bed, sleeping the clock around and not waking for a full thirty six hours.

With the King once again taking the reins, the pressure on Faramir eased to a bearable level. Regular hours and the royal couples’ insistence that he take time to relax and to enjoy their company went some way to help him cope with his duties. But deep down the familiar drag of old grief’s continued to plague the Steward. He found it easier to push the grief away but it could not be banished.

And the dreams continued.

It was almost as if Boromir was trying to tell him something, but every morning when he awoke the content of his dreams evaporated, leaving him just the impression of Boromir’s voice and an overwhelming sense of distress. The harder he tried to remember the harder his head pounded, the details slipping further away.

When Beregond sent a request from the garrison at Cair Andros seeking permission to mount an expedition into South Ithillien to investigate an increase in the incidence of lawlessness, Faramir brought it to the attention of the King and petitioned to be allowed to join the White Guard in their task. He sited his own personal knowledge of the area and the fact that there were very few surviving Rangers within Beregond’s newly formed force who knew the area well. His arguments were persuasive and Estel could see that Faramir was keen to escape from the city for a while. Even more than the White City, Ithillien was the home of Faramir’s heart and the area he had chosen in which to build a home for Éowyn. Estel wasn’t entirely happy that Faramir had regained his full strength but he could see how much it meant to his Steward to travel back to the lands he had spent so long protecting and so he gave his consent, though he did suggest that it might to be wise to delay the expedition until Legolas and Gimli returned from their visit to Eryn Lasgalen. Faramir did not take well to the suggestion and in the end Estel agreed to allow him to leave with the next relief caravan. Estel’s final instructions to Faramir were a stern warning to take care and an admonition that Beregond was under orders to ensure that he did so.

When the message came back to the Citadel that Lord Faramir and his escort had arrived safely, Estel told himself to put his apprehension to one side but the persistent feeling that he was overlooking something important niggled at him. He sent word to Beregond to be especially vigilant and that he wished to be kept informed regularly of their mission.

Faramir’s first task was to travel to Emyn Arnen to oversee the progress made on his new manor house. Little building had been done over the winter but the masons and the carpenters had spent the cold months cutting and shaping wood and stone so that progress would be swift when the weather improved. The foundations had been laid out and it was possible to discern the layout. Faramir sketched both the plans and an image of what the completed building would look like and sealed them within a letter to Éowyn, giving them and a message to Estel into the care of the messenger leaving for the city.

Upon returning to Cair Andros, Faramir, Beregond and the officers of the White Guard held a council to plan their campaign. There was much to discuss. Beregond’s command had been strengthened and was now a mounted force made up of men drawn from many of the platoons decimated during the war. The few remaining Rangers of Faramir’s former command had been integrated into this new force, their expertise and knowledge of the lands of Ithilien a welcome addition to the largely inexperienced ranks. The captains poured over maps and discussed the little intelligence they had acquired of the bandits who threatened the peace and security of the region.

They talked on into the dusk and after awhile Faramir found the voices washing over him. It was stuffy in the chamber and Faramir noticed a fly buzzing and bumping against the casement. He motioned one of the men to open a window. He watched the fly’s progress as it moved closer to freedom. When the insect finally made its escape, Faramir followed its progress.

Out of the window, he took flight soaring in tight circles, ever upward until the building and the island it rested upon were as toys below him. Onward and upward he circled on a rising updraft; he could feel the wind against his face and limbs but he felt no chill. The stars were pinpricks of jewelled light above him and on the horizon the slender crescent moon peeped over the snow capped mountain. On his flight he followed the silver ribbon of the river northwards, the sky inexplicably lightening as he followed its path. He floated downward as he approached the Falls Of Rauros, their misty plume blotting out the sky. He flew through the mist until he emerged into sunlight on the other side. He saw two grey boats on the water above the falls; he recognised their elven design. From one boat he heard an elven lament and saw a ranger, an Elf and a dwarf bid farewell to a fallen comrade. He circled down, ever nearer to the other craft and settled gently on the prow.

Boromir lay in the boat, his face at peace as it had been so rarely in life. The grime and blood of battle had been cleansed for his face and his hair brushed to a golden halo about his head. His battle-scarred hands were joined across his breast securing the hilt and shards of his broken sword, his round shield lay upon his legs and the weapons of his enemy were piled at his feet.

As the funeral boat was washed ever closer to the falls the eyes of the corpse opened and the beloved face turned to regard him. ‘Brother’ he heard the word in his head but Boromir’s mouth had not moved. ‘Brother, why have you abandoned me? Why have you ignored my pleas? Have I fallen so far from grace that you would not now give me peace?’

“Boromir, My Brother. There is no disgrace, you acquitted yourself with honour. Estel has come into his legacy. The battle over evil is done. We are victorious and the King has returned. Rest in peace now, my brother. Your companions are all safe.”

“And am I forgiven, My Faramir?”

“You need no forgiveness. All is as it should be. I miss you so much, Boromir.”

“Be happy, little brother. We fought a lifetime for this day. Do not let it be spoiled by grief.”

“My Lord!”

As the little boat was swept over the falls he flew up through the mist. “My sword, little brother! Retrieve my sword that it may rest in the Hallows.” The plea faded into the roaring of the waterfall.

“My Lord! Are you unwell? Lord Faramir can you speak to me?” Beregond’s increasingly agitated call drew him back to the council chamber. His head pounded in agony. He was laying on the floor his head resting in Beregond’s thigh. He knew that if he moved he would be sick. Someone held a glass to his lips and he swallowed down a sip of sweet red wine.

“What happened, my Lord?”

“A dream… it was nothing, just a dream,” he whispered.

“No, Sir. Not just a dream. You were not asleep.”

“A memory, then. Do not fret, my friend.”

“And who were you talking to? Who visited you in your memory? You spoke of a sword?”

“Boromir. It was Boromir.” Faramir closed his eyes.

“We must get you back to the city, Sir.”

“No!”

“But we must let the King know what has occurred. He will want to know!” Beregond protested.

“You must do as you must… but we leave at first light as planned. I will not disrupt our plans on account of a memory.”

“Sir, forgive me, but I am not sure that you should even be accompanying us!”

“That is not your decision to make, Captain.”

“I could make it my business! I am under express orders to ensure your safety!”

“And how does a dream affect my safety? You are over reacting, Beregond,” Faramir wheedled, getting to his feet and brushing off his tunic. “I am quite well and will be even better to get out into the forests that I love. If you send me back to the city I surely will go mad. I need to get out, Beregond… please do not take this chance away from me.”

“Very well,” the Captain agreed, reluctantly, “but you must promise me that you will confide in me if you have any more of these dreams.”

“You worry too much, my friend.”

“I’ll have your word, Sir,” Beregond insisted, his face set in a determined expression that reminded Faramir that the King had never yet rescinded his order giving the Captain disciplinary authority over the Steward.

“Very well, Captain Beregond, I give you my word that should I be visited by any more waking dreams I will be sure to tell you.”

“Dreams, whether waking or otherwise or any other manifestations of distress, Sir!” he clarified, much to Faramir’s discomfort.

“As you wish,” Faramir nodded reluctantly.

Beregond’s missive to the King was delivered at about the same time as the unexpected but welcome signal that The Royal Swan, bearing Prince Imrahil’s personal cipher, had been sighted and was docking at the Harlond. Estel and Arwen hastened down to the city gate to welcome the Prince personally and escort him up to the Citadel.

It was a joyful reunion, all the more pleasant for being unexpected.

“And where is my Nephew hiding himself?” Imrahil asked as he took tea with the Royal couple in their private sitting room.

“I’m afraid you have missed him. He left for Cair Andros several days ago. He is leading an expedition into Ithilien,” Estel explained. “We have been receiving word of increased banditry in the areas south of the Morgul Road. Faramir is particularly keen to make the area safe so that the process of repopulating the area may proceed… it is a fertile area and we need to get the farms and homesteads re-established as quickly as possible.”

“So, he is alright then?” Imrahil asked.

“Yes, I believe so… why, do you have reason to believe otherwise?” Estel asked the Prince, his own sense of apprehension surfacing again.

“Only that his letters have been a little… subdued of late,” Imrahil explained. “What, Estel? What has he been doing? I recognise that look.”

Estel felt compelled to explain to Imrahil what had been happening with his Steward since Yule and his own part in Faramir’s recent predicament.

“And you allowed him to go on a dangerous expedition?”

“I had no reason to deny his request. He knows the lands if Ithilien better than any man alive. He is an experienced and canny commander, well versed in the type of actions required to deal with thieves and bandits. I do not doubt his abilities.”

“It is not his abilities that are in question here but his state of mind!”

“Imrahil, what is it you are so worried about?” Estel demanded.

“You said that he was having trouble sleeping and that he was troubled… preoccupied.”

“Yes, he was overworking.”

“Taking on more work than he needed to?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Why?”

“Grieving?” Imrahil questioned. “Tell me, Estel, what was happening just one year ago?”

Estel realised where the conversation was going. “Amon Hen! The anniversary of Boromir’s death! How could I not have realised!” Estel berated himself.

“And not only the anniversary of his death but the anniversary of his birth as well; they fall within a few days of each other. Little wonder my nephew has been preoccupied. Boromir must have been much on his mind of late.”

“I wish Legolas were here. I no longer feel comfortable about Faramir being out in the wilds.”

“Beregond will look out for him. He is a good man and devoted to the Steward.”

“Beregond is new to his command, the majority of his troops are inexperienced; Faramir is the expert and if he is compromised who then will lead them!” Estel paced, unable to quell his growing anxiety. “Imrahil, I must ask you a great favour.”

“What would you wish of me, Sire?”

“I am going to take a squadron to reinforce Beregond’s troops. I wish to see and assess for myself the threat to our lands… and I want to be there to rein in any foolish actions by my Steward.”

“Do you wish me to accompany you, Sire?”

“No. No, I would ask you to remain here in the city in my stead. You know the city and the councillors and they know and trust you. I do not expect to be gone long, a week or two at the most.”

“And how will you explain your actions to Faramir, Estel? He will undoubtedly judge that you do not have confidence in him?”

“He will be too busy explaining why he sought to hide his distress from me to worry about that!” Estel said grimly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his Steward’s explanation.

“I hope your ‘discussion’ with him will wait until you can find somewhere with a little privacy… it would not be wise to compromise the dignity of his office in front of his men.”

“Worry not, ‘Uncle Imrahil’, I will guard his dignity… even as I blister his stubborn eardrums,” Estel promised.

When the King’s troop finally caught up with the White Guard Company a few hours after dawn they found the campsite in some disarray. The young Corporal left in charge of the camp nervously saluted the King and took the reins as the King dismounted.

“What is going on here?” he demanded. “Where are Lord Faramir and Captain Beregond?”

“Captain Beregond is organising the search, Sire. He and Lieutenant Damrod have each taken a search party,” the youngster explained.

“What are they searching for?”

“Lord Faramir, Sire…!”

Any further questions were halted by a whistled signal from the direction of the river. Estel recognised the signal and breathed a sigh of relief, for it signalled a successful search. He deployed his troop to set up defensive positions around the camp. A few minutes later Beregond’s party returned followed a few minutes later by a messenger from Damrod.

“Sire, Captain,” the soldier saluted, “We have found Lord Faramir at the river. He is alive and unharmed but Damrod is unsure how to approach him… he seems… unwell.”

“Explain yourself, Man!”

“Lord Faramir seems unaware of his surroundings, Sire… almost like he’s in a trance or-or…”

“Take me to him!” the King demanded.

As he approached the river he spied Faramir sitting waist deep in the shallows of a still backwater. Damrod was kneeling on the bank, watchful but silent. The King signalled everyone else to move back as he moved in next to the Lieutenant.

“What is happening, Damrod?” The King whispered.

“He was like this when we found him, Sire. I called to him but he doesn’t seem to hear me… almost like he still sleeps. He is clutching something but I can’t get close enough to see what, but from the looks of it there is other wreckage in the reeds… I pulled this out, Sire,” It was an artefact Estel recognised only too well, a battered and rusty shield, it’s distinctive decorative leather-covered face dented and ripped from long emersion in the water.

“See what else you can find, Damrod. I will see to Lord Faramir,” Estel instructed. He dropped his cloak onto the bank and waded into the icy water. Faramir didn’t respond to his call nor to the King’s hand upon his shoulder. “Have my pavilion set up and build up the fire!” he called as he lifted the huddled form from the water and struggled back to the bank. Damrod wrapped the King’s cloak around the Steward as the King carried him back to the camp.

Faramir only stirred when they tried to pries his find from his grasp. He struggled violently, curling himself over to keep the artefact safe.

“Peace, Faramir. All is well. Look at me Faramir. Look at me. It is Estel. You are quite safe. Show me what you found,” Estel soothed.

“I found it… he told me where to find it. Boromir told me… The Hallows… he asked me to set it in the Hallows… I saw him! Spoke to him! Estel, I saw him…” Faramir opened his arms and clutched to his chest was the hilt of Boromir’s sword.

“Rest now, Little Brother. Let us get you out of these wet clothes and get you warm.”

“The sword!” Faramir panicked when the sword was taken from his hands.

“It will be well guarded until you are fit to take charge of it. I will give it into Beregond’s care, is that alright?” Faramir nodded and slipped into exhausted sleep.

At dusk, having escaped any detrimental effects from his night time escapade and prolonged dunking, Faramir found himself facing an interview with a very irate Monarch. The pavilion gave only the illusion of privacy so the interview was conducted quietly but Faramir was under no illusion of the King’s anger at his behaviour and disappointment that he had failed to confide in him.

“But, Sire. I found the sword… just as Bor… my dream showed me.”

“Faramir, you slipped out in the night, without guard or backup, in an area known to be infested with cut-throats and thieves!” Estel raged, quietly. “Do you think any artefact, however precious, is worth your life?” Do you think Boromir would have permitted you to take such a risk?

“But, Sire!”

“No, Faramir. If you had but confided in someone, anyone, you could still have retrieved the sword without putting your very life in danger.”

“If I had said Boromir was coming to me in dreams it would have been seen as confirmation that I am as tainted as my Father, that the madness that felled him had been passed to me!”

“Do you really have so little faith in me, Faramir,” Estel said sadly, shaking the younger man in his frustration. “I know of your bond with Boromir and of your ability to dream true… I would have supported you.”

“Forgive me, Estel. I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you will be when I get your stubborn backside back to Minas Tirith!” Estel promised. “We will leave at dawn.”

“But what about the expedition? We have reason to believe we are on the trail of a significant group of outlaws hiding out just south of here… there are cave systems in the foothills south of Minas Morgul.

“Beregond and the White Company will continue the mission. You will return with me.”

“But, Sire!”

“That is an order, Captain.”

“Yes, Sire. May I be excused, Sire. With your permission I will check the watch and then retire.”

“You will retire now. Beregond will see to the watch,” Estel ordered. Acutely conscious that he had upset and disappointed the King, Faramir offered no further objections. He lay awake long into the night contemplating how quickly he had lost the King’s good opinion.

The attack came an hour before dawn. The watch was taken by surprise and a few troops fell before the alarm was sounded. The King’s forces were swift to mount a vigorous defence and a fierce battle ensued. The attackers were heavily armed and well organised and comprised of Haradrim, Easterlings and men of Gondorian descent.

The White Company formed an outer defence and Faramir joined the King’s own guard in protecting the King. The fighting was bloody and many troops and outlaws took fatal wounds. The troops were just beginning to get the upper hand when Faramir yelled a desperate warning as one of the outlaws raised a longbow and took aim at the King. The Steward lunged forward as the arrow was loosed and time seemed to slow as the deadly dart tracked to its target. He managed to get to Estel and push him aside but he was not quick enough. The dart struck the King and he fell to the ground, the vicious arrow protruding from his back.

Faramir stood over the fallen King and called his forces to him. The attack on the King seemed to galvanise the troops to greater efforts. The outlaws were repelled and they retreated. Faramir ordered that the troops all remain and not to go after the fleeing bandits; his first and only concern for the fallen king. Faramir and Damrod held the King still as Beregond cut through the shaft of the arrow; Estel finally regained consciousness as they secured a thick pad over the wound in his shoulder. The wound was serious but the King’s life did not appear to be in immediate danger.

“We must get the King to safety. He needs to be treated back in the city. We cannot risk trying to remove the arrow out here,” Faramir said as he supported the King against his chest. From the King’s saddlebag, Beregond retrieved a satchel of healing herbs and brewed an analgesic draught.

“Estel, drink this,” Faramir coaxed.

“The men! What happened?” Estel gasped, his eyes tracking as the troops milled around dealing with their own dead and injured and dispatching the enemy wounded.

“The outlaws have retreated; we have taken losses and several injured. Our priority is getting you back to safety.”

“What about the injured.”

“Let me worry about that. I am used to dealing with situations like this,” Faramir assured him, pushing aside his own overwhelming guilt at being responsible for getting the King into the situation.

As the King succumbed to the sedative effect of the potion, Faramir, the King still cradled in his arms, called the officers to him and outlined his plans.

“Beregond, you will take the King’s mount, Roheryn; he will have no difficulty bearing you and the King. You will ride hard for Minas Tirith accompanied by the Royal Guard. I will take a small force and track the outlaws. Lieutenant Damrod, you will take command of the remainder of the troops and will return to Cair Andros with the injured. Do we have enough horses to carry the dead?”

“Our own fallen, yes, but not the bandits,” Damrod offered.

“Then we will build a pyre. It will be a warning to their compatriots of what awaits them when they are caught. There is only one punishment for treason and I will personally light the faggots under them!”

“Lord Faramir, would it not be better if you accompanied the King,” Beregond asked.

“No. I trust you with the life of the King. I am the one who knows this area better than anyone. I will track down these scum and see them punished and their stain wiped from the face of Arda!”

“My Lord, please reconsider! With the King… injured, the people will look to you for leadership. The Queen will want your support. Let me go after them. Your place is in the city.”

“I will clear up the mess I created. I am the reason the King was out here in the first place. If I had not… No! You will do as I ordered. Prince Imrahil is in the City, he will ensure that all is as it should be until… if-if… when the King recovers.”

“Faramir, you are not to blame for this,” Beregond insisted, dropping all formality in his effort to get through to his friend and Captain. “Do not take on that burden,” he pleaded but he could see that his pleas fell on deaf ears. Faramir had closed himself off to all but his guilt and what he saw as his duty.

“Mount up, Captain Beregond. The King’s very life lies in your capable hands. Do not fail your King!” Faramir pressed a final kiss of blessing to the King’s brow and lifted his unconscious form up into Beregond’s arms. “Ride hard. I will return within a week, maybe two. Tell the King… ask him to forgive me!” He slapped Roheryn hard upon the flank and the King’s mount shot forward and galloped away surrounded by the Royal Guard.

Chapter 3 – ‘Neath a southern sky

Italics denote written communication

The tides and the winds favoured the Grey Swan as she travelled south from Kalavir to Cantria to discharge her cargo of charcoal. It was an easy passage for the crew and they were in good spirits. Their brief stay in Kalavir had allowed them to refresh the supply of drinking water and restock the larders with fresh fruit and vegetables. They had even purchased a goat and several laying hens so that their ailing passenger could benefit from fresh eggs and milk, the surplus going to supplement the diet of the whole crew. Zerbah had been most insistent on what her patient would require if he were to recover; fresh fruit and vegetables, lightly cooked fresh fish and fresh milk and eggs. She told them to avoid giving Min the salted fish or pork that made up the staple of the crew’s diet, until he was fully recovered and able to eat and drink freely.

Tat was again handed the responsibility of caring for Min, a job he tackled with cheerful and dedicated enthusiasm. He had fought hard for the life of the man and he now allowed himself some hope that he would recover.

In Cantria the Duck picked up a mixed cargo; barrels of rich wine, bolts of jewel-coloured silks, bales of furs and chests of spices, all for a port even further south along the coast of Harad.

Min was only vaguely aware of the passage of time or distance. He sensed the movement of the ship as it rode the gentle swells of the open ocean but the passage of hours or days held no relevance to him. He was a biddable patient, tolerating Tat’s gentle chiding, allowing the boy to move him, care for him, feed him. He took the potions without complaint and swallowed the food Tat spooned into his mouth, only turning away from the spoon when he could take no more.

He never spoke and only rarely did he meet the eye of either Tat or Cardolan. The only time his voice was heard was at night but it was not words that they heard, just the screams of a man reliving the torments visited upon him. The dreams must have been truly terrible for they left him pale and shocked and soaked in sweat. Sometimes it took both the Captain and Tat to restrain him and prevent him from harming himself in his distress. They dosed him up with herbs for pain and the potions Zerbah had left to send him into such deep sleep that even the worst nightmares could not touch him.

Very slowly he regained his strength as his wounds healed and his body threw off the last vestiges of the lung fever that had so nearly cost him his life. Once he could sit unaided he was carried out on to the deck each afternoon. He would sit and doze and watch the crew as they moved in the rigging above him from under the protection of a tarpaulin shade. His face lost its ghostly pallor and as his hair and beard re-grew he began to look less gaunt.

The first time they tried to set him on his feet his knees buckled from the pain and they had to abandon the attempt, the open wounds from the beating were healed but the scars on the soles of his feet were still very tender. One of the crewmen who had seen the attempt approached the Captain and spoke to him quietly; the Captain grinned and nodded his approval to his suggestion. An hour later the crewman presented Min with a pair of sheepskin sandals, consisting of a shaped sole that wrapped up and around his foot, laced into place with long leather straps. The thick fleece gave just enough padding to protect his feet against the wooden planks of the deck. It was such a kind and thoughtful gesture and Min’s face lit up and he gifted the crewman with a brilliant smile, his eyes bright and full. Word passed swiftly through the crew; it was as though the sun beamed a little brighter, so glad were they that their newest comrade was finally coming out of his shell.

His recovery continued apace, each day he took a few more steps until he was able to move around unaided; not that Tat allowed his charge to escape his vigilant care. Tat was his shadow, a constant but discrete presence who made it his business to ensure that Min did not overtax his returning strength. It was to his credit that Tat was not fazed by the silence of his charge; Min remained mute but he managed to convey his gratitude to the careful solicitude extended to him.

By the time the Grey Swan returned to the small harbour at Kalavir a whole season had passed and the dusty port was sleepy under the hot summer sun. They tied up at the dock at dusk and with the Captains permission the crew took it in turns to go ashore and sample the cold brews on offer in the harbour-side inn. Min retired to his hammock in the small cabin he now shared with Tat. It was a cramped space, barely more than a cupboard, the only seat being the top of Tat’s small cabin trunk. Min had no possessions of his own to stow, even the clothes on his back had been gifted to him by members of the crew.

As this was essentially a social visit there was no cargo to load or unload; the Boson made sure the ship was re-provisioned for the long journey north towards the Isle of Tolfolas. Min showed no inclination to go ashore and explore the harbour, indeed he hadn’t stepped foot on land since his rescue. There were no chores to do and he found himself with time on his hands. He borrowed a small knife and retrieved a piece of driftwood from his cabin. He settled himself by the rail of the poop-deck under the shade. The handle of the knife was comfortable in his palm and the blade, which was only half its original length, had been honed to a fine point, its edge wickedly sharp. He pulled his wide-brimmed hat down over his forehead to block out the glare of the sun and concentrated his attention on the object taking shape under his skilful fingers.

Zerbah requested permission to come aboard and the Captain escorted her to his cabin where they could talk in private. He handed her a wooden chest, decorated and inlaid with a design of stylised flowers and birds and fastened with a polished metal band and a small decorative key. She opened the lid carefully and gasped. It was an apothecary’s chest, lined with silk and fitted out to hold measuring spoons, a finely crafted set of measuring scales and numerous vials and bottles and cork-topped canisters of herbs and spices and potions.

“This is too much, Sir. I cannot possibly afford to pay you for this,” she said, reluctantly passing the box back towards him.

“I expect no payment,” he assured her, placing it back in her hands, “This is a gift for your care of our young friend.”

“But you paid me… more than was required.”

“You saved his life. No gift is too much to thank you for that. And with this box you will be able to help many others.”

“Then you have my thanks, Sire. Would it be possible for me to see him now, or has he gone ashore?”

“No, he doesn’t venture far but he is much recovered. He seems to have regained his strength and he has started to help out around the ship… just simple chores in the galley. He has some strength in his arms and a strong grip; I think he is used to hard work,” Cardolan explained as he led her back through the hatch onto the main deck and indicated that she should precede him up the steps onto the poop-deck.

She watched Min for a while whilst his attention was focussed on his carving. She would not have recognised him as her patient. The man before her now was bare-chested, his skin tanned from exposure to the sun. He was still too thin but his well-muscled shoulders and arms confirmed Cardolan’s earlier assessment. She couldn’t see his features clearly but a healthy growth of fair whiskers caught the sun as he twisted his head from side to side as he worked. Once or twice he put a hand up to his ear and seemed to press hard and rub over the orifice as though it pained him.

“Does he do that often?” Zerbah asked as Min again shook his head.

“Aye, now you mention it, I recon he does. He doesn’t complain of pain,” he assured her.

“He has regained his speech then?”

“No, not a word! We still don’t even know what language he speaks. He and Tat seem able to communicate well enough but no, he doesn’t speak.”

“I would like to look him over, if he’s willing. Could I use your quarters… give him a little privacy?”

Min removed his hat and bowed to the healer when the captain ushered him in but there was no hint in his expression that he recognised her. He made to put on the sleeveless shirt he carried but Zerbah gently took it from his hand and indicated that he should take a seat. He was obviously self-conscious under her scrutiny but she spoke to him softly and smiled to reassure him when he finally met her gaze. To put him at ease she started by examining his feet, nodding her approval at the unique footwear that protected his scarred soles. The wheals on his back were well healed and the scars, though still raised and angry-looking were benefiting from exposure to the sun’s healing rays. When she placed an ear against his back he pulled away but she stilled his retreat and went back to listening to the sounds from his chest. Finally she ran her fingers over his skull and noted that besides a slight depression in the bone behind his ear the wound was well healed and was now hidden beneath a cap of white hair that curled against his scalp.

She handed him back his shirt and grinned at his obvious relief that the examination was over. While he redressed she moved around behind him and, keeping a close eye on his reaction, banged a heavy wooden bowl onto the table top. Min never even blinked and her resigned sigh was obvious to the Captain.

When they were again alone Cardolan challenged her for her diagnosis, though he feared he already knew what she was going to say. “Well, is he healed?”

“He is recovered from the lung fever, though he will probably always have a weak chest and a susceptibility to a recurrence.”

“And the scars? …his feet?”

“They are healing better than I expected. The sandals are a very good idea but his feet will gradually harden as he moves around more. The scars will fade with time. He has other older scars that tell of a long history of injuries, and that was not the first flogging he has suffered. I suspect he was a soldier or a sailor in the past.”

“And what of his speech? Why does he not speak?”

“He does not speak because he is deaf!” Zerbah said sadly

“Has he always been deaf?”

“Who can say? Those deaf from birth never learn to speak but if we are right to assume that he has a military background then he must have had hearing… he would never have been accepted for training with such a major handicap.”

“So was it the blow to his head that took his hearing?” Cardolan asked.

“It could have been. It was a heavy blow and he was lucky to survive it. I have known others to have been so afflicted.”

“Will his hearing ever recover… is there nothing you can do?”

“Even with this special box, I have no herbs or potions to work such a miracle. Sometimes time heals such injuries but that is in the gift of the gods.”

“I can understand that a powerful blow could affect his hearing but why would he remain mute?”

“I have no explanation, Sir. But when you consider how much he must have suffered under such protracted torment it may just be that his mind has retreated from communication to protect himself from greater harm…”

“But he is safe here. None will harm him while he is under my protection.”

“I believe you, Sir. And maybe one day he will believe it too. The more secure he feels the greater the likelihood of him recovering his faculties but there are no certainties.”

“And still we know nothing about him… and he shows no interest in discovering his past.”

“We know he is a brave man; he must be to have survived, and we know he has a tenacious hold on life. Without a past he must rebuild his life from this point onwards.”

By the time the Duck sailed into her home port on the northern coast of the Isle of Tolfalas autumn was turning to winter. Captain Cardolan gave the crew two weeks shore leave while the ship underwent repairs. The Captain spent many hours in discussions with Prince Imrahil’s agent, discussing future voyages and going over the ship’s ledgers and cargo manifests and agreeing what portion of the trading profits should be turned over to the Princes account. Bookkeeping was Cardolan’s least favourite responsibility but he was by nature an honest man and though his accounts were messy and disorganised he never worried about the tally. The agent knew and trusted the Captain and they both accepted that some discrepancies were inevitable when so many different transactions were involved.

Now fully recovered from his physical injuries, Min showed no inclination to leave the Grey Swan. He was taken on as a full member of the crew and given his own small purse of coins to kit himself out with clothing and personal items from the stalls and markets crowding the harbour. Because of his disability he was reluctant to go ashore and it took some coaxing by Tat and the Boson to persuade him to join them. He completed his purchases quickly and would have retreated straight back to the ship but the Boson guided them along a side alley away from the crowds and into a small tavern. The place was noisy and chaotic and despite finding a table in a quieter nook, Min was clearly ill at ease. There was something about the sights and smells; unwashed bodies, stale ale and the aroma of overcooked food… something familiar. Min’s anxiety turned to panic, his breathing rapid and shallow, his body chilled with icy sweat… he couldn’t get enough air. He fought his way through the crowd and out into the alley, out into the fresh air. By the time Tat and the Boson reached him he was collapsed on the ground, curled tightly, his hands fisted in his hair as he convulsed in pain. Finally after many anxious minutes he stilled, lapsing into unconscious oblivion. He slept deeply for several hours, not even stirring when they carried him back aboard. He was subdued for several days and didn’t attempt to go ashore again.

It wasn’t the only time the crew were witness to these new symptoms but they learned quickly how to deal with them when they occurred. They rarely happened at sea but they could never work out the specific trigger. In view of this uncertainty and because of Min’s existing handicap due to his deafness, Captain Cardolan ruled that whilst Min could take on all other duties on board he was not to go aloft; it was too great a risk as he couldn’t hear warnings or orders and the chances of him having one of his turns while up in the rigging would not be countenanced.

The Grey Swan continued its voyages up and down the coast from Eryn Vorn in the north to the lands of Far Harad in the south. Min had demonstrated to all the crew that he was more than capable of fulfilling his duties and responsibilities despite his handicap. They accepted his silent presence and were very protective of him. He had an instinct for sensing danger that they soon learned to trust and more than once his quick actions had saved a crew-mate from serious injury.

Another of his skills came to light when the crew were loading a new cargo in one of the busy ports of Umber. The crew were stowing the barrels in the hold when Min, who was standing beside the Captain, suddenly pointed to the ledger and then to the cargo. Unable to make the Captain understand him he took the pencil from the Captain’s hand and wrote a figure next to one of the columns and then held up five fingers. When the Captain still didn’t catch his meaning he forced himself to speak.

“Five b-b-barrels missing!”

Cardolan was so astonished to hear the scratchy whisper that for a minute he was himself speechless.

“Five barrels missing!” Min repeated with more urgency.

“You can read and count?” Cardolan exclaimed. Min didn’t respond to his question but continued to point to the cargo. The Master nodded and handed the ledger to Min while he went to speak to the shipping agent about the discrepancy.

When the cargo was finally stowed and the ship out at sea, Cardolan ushered Min into his cabin and sat beside him at the desk. He took a slate and a stylus from a drawer.

You can read? he wrote. Min nodded.

And write? Min took the stylus and wrote Yes.

Can you hear? Min shook his head.

Can you hear anything?

Min forced himself to speak. “Buzzing… constant noise… no words!”

What is your name? Min shrugged his shoulders.

You don’t know! Where are you from? What happened to you?

Don’t know Min wrote.

Don’t you remember anything?

“NO… you, the boat… Tat… nothing else!” Min was clearly distressed by this line of questioning so Cardolan changed tack.

How did you know the cargo was light?

“I saw the ledger and kept count as they were loaded… the shore workers switched some of the barrels before they were loaded,” he explained, his voice stronger.

They were deliberately cheating us?

“Yes.”

Have you noticed discrepancies before?

“Suspicious… no proof!”

Cardolan considered for a moment and then pulled the cargo manifest in front of him. He set Min several tasks; counting up totals, calculating profits and losses. He left the man alone while he went to ponder on what he had discovered. Min could read and write and handle numbers and had obviously received at least a basic education; he could also speak, though he was clearly reluctant to do so. The Captain didn’t know whether the fact that the youngster could hear buzzing was good or bad but he could sympathise that it must be distressing and it explained the habit that Zerbah had observed months before.

Cardolan was happy to turn over responsibility for the cargo manifests to Min. The youngster was neat and precise and took his new responsibilities seriously. Shipping agents up and down the coast soon learned to treat him with respect. He had an instinctive knowledge of the men he dealt with and was quick to pick up and challenge those who were less than honest in their dealings.

His ability to now communicate with the Captain was not extended to the rest of the crew as not even Tat could read or write. His interactions with his crewmates remained as they had ever been; he spoke occasionally at great need but for the most part he kept to himself, seemingly happy with his own company and council.

Chapter 4 – For whom the Bell Tolls

Every bell in the city was silenced. The very walls and stones seemed to shrink beneath the collective anxiety of a city in fearful waiting. Every citizen held their breath for the strike of the great Citadel bell that would announce the King’s fate; the slow sonorous tolling to announce his death or the wild joyful peal to herald his recovery.

Ten Days!

It had been ten days since the newly repaired city gate was opened in the middle watch of the night to allow the King’s Guard entrance with their stricken burden. They had all but killed their horses in their desperation to get the King back to the city as quickly as possible. In Captain Beregond’s arms the King lay insensible, his wits lost to fever and blood loss and pain.

The troop halted at the stables in the sixth circle but against custom, Beregond urged Roheryn up through the long lamp-lit tunnel and right up to the doors of the Citadel. Only when the Queen and Prince Imrahil and the Warden of the Healing Houses appeared would he release his burden into the Warden’s care

“My Lord Prince, I must beg your leave to enter the city. I am still under sentence of banishment… without your permission to remain I will face arrest and imprisonment.” Beregond stood to attention, kept on his feet by sheer willpower alone, so great was his exhaustion.

“You have my permission and my thanks, Captain. You will remain within the Citadel under my protection until the King is restored to health.” Beregond saluted and staggered to sit on the wide marble steps as the King was carried inside. Imrahil called for assistance and two Guardsmen helped the exhausted Captain to his feet. Imrahil gave orders for them to escort Beregond to his own quarters and bade them instruct his own valet to see to the Captain’s comfort.

“Beregond, I will need to talk to you as soon as I have seen how things go with the King. When you have bathed and eaten start making out your report. Is there anything urgent I need to know in the mean time? Is the kingdom secure?”

“Yes, Sire, The kingdom is secure. We were attacked by a band of outlaws; they were well armed and well organised but they do not pose a risk to our borders. Lord Faramir has taken a force in pursuit of them,” Beregond confirmed.

“Good. He knows the area well. Go and rest, man. I will be back shortly.”

It was several hours before the Warden emerged from the Royal Chambers to announce to the assembled councillors that they had successfully removed the arrowhead from the King’s shoulder and that the King was now resting under the influence of powerful pain-relieving medicines. The wound itself, though serious, was not judged to be life threatening but the patient was already showing symptoms that suggested that the weapon had been tainted.

With the King incapacitated and the Steward absent, Prince Imrahil continued to hold the reins of power. He was well liked and trusted by the council and he knew enough about the ordering of the city and the realm that he could keep things running smoothly. It was after dawn before he finally managed to speak to Beregond and learn the full details of what had occurred. When he finished his account Beregond took the broken sword hilt from where he had tucked it into his own sword belt for safe keeping and handed it to the Prince.

“Lord Faramir seemed most anxious that this should be kept safe, Sire.”

“It is indeed the sword gifted to Boromir by Steward Denethor on his coming of age. Faramir has so little to remember his brother by, I can understand why he was so desperate to retrieve it… though he will pay dearly for the risks he took! If the King is not fit to take him to task when he returns then I shall take the privilege.”

“I too would like to take the opportunity to express my disapproval, Sire. He deliberately kept much from me.”

“As was ever the case, my nephew did not consider his own safety in this matter… he still has much to learn.”

“And many willing to teach him, if I may make so bold ,Sire.”

“Too true, Beregond. Too true.”

“If you are done with me, Sire, I would like to request permission to return to Cair Andros as soon as possible. Lieutenant Damrod was evacuating the wounded back there and I am sure that some will require more attention than the Garrison is equipped to deal with.”

“Of course. I will arrange to have wagons sent to move them more easily. Take a healer or two with you to start treating them… I will ask the Warden to appoint those he feels most suited to the task.”

“Thank you, Sire, that will be a weight off my mind. As yet we only have medical orderlies at the Garrison and I fear some of the injuries will be beyond their skills.”

“What is your intention once the situation in Cair Andros is settled?”

“I want to send more reinforcements out after Lord Faramir. He only has a small troop with him. Damrod knows the area and would be my choice to lead a relief troop.”

“A good idea. He has also known my nephew since he joined the Rangers as a cadet… he will know how to keep the young hot-head in line,” Imrahil chuckled.

“Not for the first time, by all accounts!”

“Yes, Boromir tasked Damrod with the safety of his little brother… much to Faramir’s eternal disgust. Go then with my blessing. Send word of any news and send Faramir back to the city as soon as he returns, under escort if necessary!”

“Yes, Sire. If he resists I will escort him myself… tied over the saddle, if necessary,” Beregond assured him.

“Consider your banishment suspended until further notice. I will give you a letter of safe passage and will notify the Guard Commander that you are to report directly to me until further notice.”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you for your confidence in me, Sire.”

“You have earned it and I will make sure the King gets to hear of it as soon as he wakes.”

Beregond saluted and turned on his heal to make ready to leave.

For ten agonisingly slow days Arwen, Imrahil and the Warden stood vigil at the King’s bedside but besides keeping the ailing Monarch comfortable there was little they could do to ease his symptoms. None of their potions or poultices seemed to have any effect on the wound or the infection slowly poisoning his body. Even the Queen’s Elven heritage could not protect her from the exhaustion of such a prolonged vigil. Imrahil tried to snatch an hour’s sleep when he could between his duties to the realm and his attendance on the King.

True to his word, Beregond sent word when he reached Cair Andros; there were two more deaths and several injured troops to be transported back to the city for expert care. He also reported that Lieutenant Damrod had led a large contingent south to intercept Lord Faramir’s troop.

Hope for the King’s recovery had almost faded when a dust trail was spotted in the north. Anxious eyes watched as the three horses came into view and galloped at speed towards the newly restored gate.

Never had the Queen been more delighted and relieved to set eyes on her brothers or their companions, Prince Legolas and his friend Gimli. She wasted no time on explanations, barely giving them time to wash away the dust of the trail before ushering them into the King’s chamber.

Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Elladan requested permission from the Warden to oversee the King’s treatment, explaining that he had been trained in the healing arts by his father, Lord Elrond. His intervention came not a moment too soon as the crisis reached its peak. He bathed and reopened the wound, excising and draining a large abscess that had formed deep under the partially healed scar. With the wound cleaned out and repacked with an athelas poultice all four Elves joined hands, helping Elladan channel his healing power into his foster brother’s fevered and weakened frame, chanting Elvish blessings until, with a cry, the King awoke, his fever finally breaking.

The joyful pealing of the Citadel bell was soon taken up by ever bell in the city as the citizens rejoiced over their Monarch’s deliverance.

Later over supper Imrahil related to the Elves and Gimli all the circumstances leading up to the skirmish and explained how Estel had come to be injured. They all listened to him intently, only interrupting to clarify points in his narrative.

“And what news from Faramir?” Legolas asked at the end of Imrahil’s explanation.

“We have heard nothing from him personally. Beregond has sent a large troop under the command of Lieutenant Damrod to reinforce Faramir’s original men and to route out the bandits. From Beregond’s report it sounds as though we are dealing with a large group of outlaws whose main target seems to be horses… there is little else in Ithilien worth stealing and the supply boats on the Anduin are too well defended to make them easy prey,” Imrahil explained.

“And what of Faramir? What of his frame of mind? Surely it wasn’t sensible for him to lead the hunt for these outlaws given the strain he had been under,” Elladan questioned.

“He gave Beregond no choice. The first priority was to get the King back to the city and to evacuate the wounded. He organised that most efficiently… and he has commanded troops in that region for many years, none know the area better than he does.”

“But if I know Faramir he will hold himself responsible for the injury to Estel, especially as Estel was only there to make sure he was alright.”

“Beregond expressed the same concern but there was no time for discussion.”

“So Faramir has set off on this mission mired in guilt and fired up for revenge! I fear that is not a good combination,” Legolas made no attempt to disguise his concern. “Elrohir, what say you to a little excursion down to Ithilien?” he suggested, wanting to take some positive action to alleviate his worry.

“An excellent idea. Is that alright with you, brother?”

“Yes, I will stay and make sure Estel’s recovery proceeds swiftly… I’ll likely have to sit on him in a day or two just to keep him in bed.”

“Not a good patient, then?” Imrahil asked.

“No. The very worst… after my twin and Legolas that is. We’ve had to resort to tying them to their sickbeds before now,” Elladan confirmed

“And you are no better, brother,” Elrohir commented, cuffing his brother.

“Shall I accompany you, Laddie?” Gimli asked, keen to see some more action and unwilling to let his Elven friends go off adventuring without him. “ From the sounds of it, young Faramir is in need of a stern talking to… You have obviously been too lenient in the past.”

“Master Gimli, do you not think us capable of dealing with one errant youngling!” Elrohir asked in a tone that made his brother wince.

“Peace, Laddie. It wasn’t a criticism but it seems to me that you Elves and Aragorn have both attempted to guide him in the past, as have you, My Lord, but it seems clear that the essential message of your guidance has slipped the boy’s mind. I would look on it as an honour to offer him the ‘blessing’ of a little dwarven advice.”

“I’m sure it is a message he would not soon forget, Gimli,” Legolas remarked, “but I believe in this case it might be better if you stayed in the city to offer Arwen and Estel some support. We will be riding long and hard and we will travel swifter alone.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right; long days bumping behind you on the back of that beastie and chewing on your hair quickly lose their appeal,” Gimli groused.

“And if young Faramir is still in need of some further guidance when we get him back to the city then you may join the queue of those willing to guide him,” Elrohir offered with a grin.

The two Elves had no chance to begin their expedition at first light as they had planned. Circumstances of a devastating nature unfolded, heralded by a commotion that drew them from their rest while dawn was only a promise on the horizon.

They emerged from their respective chambers to find two weary and travel-stained soldiers waiting to be shown into Prince Imrahil’s office. The prince himself appeared not a moment later, his features still heavy with sleep, Tamir helping him to don a warm robe over his nightshirt.

The Prince’s demand for an explanation for his rude awakening died on his lips as he registered the grey, shattered expressions of the two officers. Without a word he ushered them into his chambers and summoned a page to organise refreshments while Tamir raked and stoked the fire back to life.

Beregond was shaking with shock and emotion and Damrod made no attempt to shield his swollen eyes or tear-streaked face from the Elves or the Prince. Tamir poured brandy into two small glasses and handed one each to the troopers. Allowing the spirit to fortify them and giving them a moment to compose themselves, Imrahil took the opportunity retire to his bedchamber and dress.

By the time Beregond was ready to report, the Queen and Gimli had arrived in answer to Imrahil’s summons. The Captain managed to compose himself, pulling back into the rigid formality of protocol. He drew himself to attention, facing his now very anxious audience.

“It is my duty to inform you, Sire, that Prince Faramir’s troop… that the troop sent out under the command of Prince Faramir to deal with the insurgence in Ithilien… came under-under attack…” Beregond ran out of words and he buried his face in his hands. When it was obvious that he was too distraught to continue, they all looked to Damrod for the answer to the questions they dare not voice.

“It was a rout, Sire. A massacre… the whole troop…!” However bad they had expected the news to be none of them could have contemplated the enormity of the news. Arwen was weeping, her two brothers at her side and Tamir paled so quickly that only Legolas’ swift reflexes prevented him from collapsing to the floor. Imrahil reeled with the shock.

The deafening oppressive silence of the chamber was broken only by the soft sounds of weeping and the spitfire crackling of the wet logs in the grate. Of them all Gimli maintained the illusion of composure, taking charge of pouring hot sweet tea for them all and wrapping blankets around the shoulders of the two distraught soldiers.

“You’d better tell us it all, Laddie!” Gimli said gruffly, rubbing his hand across the dampness of his cheeks, “now that we know the worst!”

“Aye, Sir,” Damrod said. “I reckon it is my tale to tell.” They all sat in stunned silence as the Lieutenant began his narration.

“We set off from Cair Andros as soon as the wounded were dealt with,” he explained. “It didn’t take us long to retrace our trail back to the river where we were first attacked. It was easy to follow the tracks of so many horses, even without the Ranger’s signs Lord Faramir left to indicate his passage. The trail moved east away from the river into the lower reaches of the hills above Emyn Arnen; we crossed the Southward Road and up into the foothills of the Èphel Duath. You have to understand, Sire, that those mountains are riven with valleys and dells that snake up into the higher slopes which are themselves riddled with caves and caverns. My knowledge of that southern area is sketchy; that part of Ithilien was abandoned to the enemy long ago… long before Captain Faramir took command of the Rangers.”

“I know, Damrod. Even Gondor’s finest couldn’t hope to hold that area given the shortage of manpower and the difficulties of supply,” Imrahil assured him.

“Well, we followed the Captain’s trail and we came across what had obviously been some sort of hideout for the bandits, the caves were provisioned and there were large corrals against the cliff walls. The place had been abandoned in a hurry but there was no sign of a fight, so I reckoned that they were expecting trouble and had shipped out. The tracks were so confused with the passage of so many hooves that it was difficult to work out which trail to follow. The enemy had split up, one group driving the horses up the valley of the River Poros into the mountains towards Mordor and the other following the river south towards the Crossing’s of Poros, where the Harad road crosses the river. We found a sign from Lord Faramir indicating that he had gone south and so we followed. The trail took us due west back towards the Anduin south of Pelargir. We rode hard, Sire and we seemed to be gaining on them… but we were too late…!”

“Go on, Damrod,” Imrahil urged.

“They rode into a trap… in a valley where the Poros and the Anduin meet… a rocky gully hidden on the approach by a thick stand of trees… there was no way out and the battle was over long before we got there, Sire.” Damrod struggled for composure; Beregond squeezed his shoulder by way of encouragement.

“They were all dead, Sire, them and two of their horses.”

“Killed in battle?” Legolas questioned desperately, more in hope than expectation, knowing how the men of the south treated prisoners.

“No, Sir. Some were badly injured from the battle but they all had their throats cut and were dumped in a pile beside the butchered carcasses of the two horses.”

“Butchered?”

“Yes, Sir. Butchered for meat… one was Lord Faramir’s Snowmane,” he sobbed.

“And the other horses?”

“No sign of them. The men’s bodies had been stripped of weapons, armour and valuables and the saddles and tack of the downed horses were also missing.”

“And Lord Faramir?” Imrahil asked quietly.

Damrod cast a quick glance towards the Queen who was still sitting, pale and quiet between her brothers.

“Do not spare me, Damrod. I would hear all you have to tell, for I will have to explain all this to the King when he is fit enough to hear it,” Arwen begged. Damrod looked to the twins for confirmation and after a brief but silent communication they both nodded their assent.

“There were twelve bodies accounted for… but no sign of Lord Faramir.”

“Then he may yet be alive,” Gimli choked.

Damrod shook his head sadly and pulled a bundle from inside his tunic. He spread the torn and bloodied garment over his knee; they could all see the emblem of the white tree embroidered over the breast of the fine linen undershirt. He then took his day-book from his pocket and extricated a handful of hair, its red-gold hue blackened with blood.

“He was put to torment! A favoured trick of the Haradrim. From what I could read of the signs he was stripped and shorn and pegged out on the ground and whipped… I suspect they also made him watch as they killed his troop one by one… but that is only a guess on my part, having seen the results of their actions before.”

“Perhaps he was taken hostage? Perhaps we may yet arrange his release?” Arwen offered, hopefully.

“No, Ma’am. I wouldn’t want to give you false hope; by the time they finished with him he would have had no value to them as a hostage and they wouldn’t burden themselves with an injured prisoner… they travel light.”

“So where is his body?” Imrahil demanded

“We did search, Sire. My men are still in the area searching, they will leave no stone unturned for their Captain, Sire. He could be buried to hide the evidence or they could have thrown his body into the water to let the river do their dirty work for them. We will keep searching… but I have no hope that we will find him.”

“And the bandits?” Legolas asked.

“Their tracks stop at the river but whether they escaped by boat or crossed the river into Lebennin I don’t know. I commandeered a passage from the Pelargir in one of the swift river boats up to Osgiliath and was fortunate enough to find Captain Beregond there. I left word with the Garrison Commander at Pelargir and he is sending out messengers to the Lords’ of Lossarnoch, Lebennin, Lamedon and Dol Amroth asking for assistance. I hope I did right, Sire?”

“Yes Damrod. And I thank you for your efforts, I know how difficult this has been for you, Lord Faramir was a good friend wasn’t he?”

“The very best, Sire… and one of the few who survived… we won’t see his like again, Sire.”

“You both need to go and get some rest,” Imrahil instructed.

“I’d like permission to return to my troop, Sire.” Damrod requested

“When you are rested. Exhaustion is no state in which to speed into dangerous territory,” Imrahil said firmly.

“But, Sire…!”

“That is an order, Lieutenant. Captain Beregond, you will remain in Command at Osgiliath and oversee operations and you will ensure that your troops do not overtax themselves or indulge in reckless actions, no matter what the provocation! I look to you to maintain the high standards of discipline Lord Faramir always insisted upon. We will not allow Gondor’s forces to sink to the level of the scum we are seeking. Because, believe me, I will not rest until they have all paid the price of their actions.”

Imrahil turned to Tamir; the shocked and pale faced Adjutant pulled himself together with great effort. “What would you wish of me, Sire?”

Kindly, the Prince gave the youngster a quick hug of reassurance. “Please see to it that Captain Beregond and the Lieutenant are shown to guest quarters and that they are made comfortable. When you have broken your own fast, I will see you back here. If you are willing, I would ask you to remain in my service until… until we have the situation here more settled.” It was the first time the Prince had allowed his own grief to show and it was Tamir who, with a disregard for protocol but a degree of compassion hugged the Prince back.

The King’s grief on hearing of the tragedy was terrible to behold; his anguished cries echoed through the unnaturally silent corridors of the Citadel. The news of the Prince’s fate soon spread throughout the city and the people mourned the loss of their beloved Prince.

As winter gave way to spring, news of the tragedy reached Edoras and Éowyn insisted on travelling to Gondor to await news, never giving up hope that each dawn would bring tidings that Faramir had been found.

For months the Elves and Gimli relentlessly marshalled the troops of Ithilien, Lebennin and Lossarnoch, combing both banks of the river in search of information. Dozens of thieves and cut-throats were picked up and taken to the city for questioning and trial. The efforts of the searchers cleared the land of outlaws but there was never any indication that those caught were involved in or knew about the Prince’s fate. The populations of the jails and the chain-gangs increased and the gallows were put to use for the worst offenders as the King meted out stern justice. As a result of the clean-up, Ithilien was once again considered safe enough for a few brave souls to stake a claim and set up homesteads and farms and Ithilien began to come back to life, though the Prince of that land was not there to witness it.

But as the year drew to a close the King and his councillors finally accepted that Gondor had lost the last scion of the House of Hurin. King Elessar refused to appoint a new Steward, instead he created a new post, that of First Minister, and begged Prince Imrahil to accept the post and support him. Imrahil, heeding the King’s request and recognising the heart-felt plea behind it, formally handed over his title and responsibilities in Dol Amroth to his Heir and took up permanent residence in Minas Tirith.

Éowyn also stayed in Gondor, though her visits to the White City were few. She made her home in Emyn Arnen, overseeing construction of the Manor Faramir had designed for them both and assisting Beregond in organising the relocation of the Garrison of the White Company to its new base close to the Manor. She insisted that Faramir’s personal Standard flew atop the roof and that a brazier be kept constantly alight on the tallest tower to light travellers home.

As Yule approached, Arwen broached the subject of a memorial to Faramir and this led to a discussion amongst those closest to the royal family about the lack of an official memorial to Denethor or to either of his sons, all of whom had sacrificed their lives in the service of Gondor. The House of the Stewards in the Hallows, rebuilt and refurbished, became the site of a ceremony to honour these three dedicated Sons of Gondor.

On the longest night of the year a great procession, led by the King and Queen, moved silently down the stairway of Rath Dinen to hold a solemn vigil. The chill and gloomy chamber was warmed by the light of many candles and the heat of a ring of braziers. Under the great dome of the House of Stewards three marble tombs lay side by side, each angled like the spokes of a wheel towards the centre of a raised circular dais. Set into the marble in the centre of the dais was a small well edged with Mithril and precious stones that held the flickering light of a perpetual flame, symbol of the unfailing loyalty and sense of duty of these three honoured Sons of Gondor.

In the centre, the tomb of Denethor, its shining marble still stained and cracked from the heat of the funeral pyre that had taken his life when the spite of the Dark Lord had finally overpowered his mind. The tomb was draped with the Standard of the Steward and placed reverently atop, his plain mithril Circlet of Office and the sword gifted to him by his father, the Steward Ecthelion, on his coming of age.

To the right of Denethor’s tomb, the tomb of Boromir, draped with the flag of the Captain of the Tower Guard and topped with the sword hilt and shield rescued from the river and the vambraces, etched with the symbol of the white tree, taken from his body with honour at Amon Hen.

Finally, to Denethor’s left, the tomb of Faramir, draped, not with his standard but with the midnight blue cloak that had once belonged to his mother and that he had gifted to Éowyn. Arwen placed a bouquet of white lilies beside the Prince’s circlet and the White Rod, symbol of the Steward’s authority. Éowyn placed a small crystal and mithril lantern inside the circlet and whispered her own silent plea into the darkness.

With the private ceremony over, the Royal party and the other dignitaries returned to the Merethrond for a formal banquet. Before the meal commenced the King drew Éowyn to her feet in front of the gathered throng and proclaimed her Princess of Ithilien, investing in her all the powers and honours formally held by Faramir.

“I will not take his place,” she hissed, even as the King placed the circlet on her brow.

“I do not ask you to take his place, My Lady. But you have proven your dedication to the land he loved above all other and who better than you to oversee his vision fulfilled?” Estel said gently.

“And what if I wish to return to Rohan or to marry, My Lord?”

“Then it will be held in trust for your children,” he assured her. “Faramir loved you and he wanted to see you settled. You may stay or go as you please but Ithilien will always be there waiting for you.”

“Did you know about this, Brother?” she spat so quietly that only those nearest could hear.

“Yes, Sister. Rohan is the land of you birth, of your past, but Ithilien is your promise of the future. Soon, if my wish is granted,” he said casting a glance to where Prince Imrahil was talking to his daughter Lothiriel, “I will have a Queen by my side…”

“You wish to be rid of me!” she accused.

“Peace, Éowyn. You are my only remaining family, of course I do not want rid of you. You will always have a special place in Rohan and in my heart, but I deem you will no longer be happy to be trapped in the Royal Cage of the Meduseld,” he explained, hugging her until her anger subsided.

“I will consider your offer, Sire,” she said, once again addressing King Elessar. “But do not think to organise my life for me like some troublesome chattel. I will nurture Ithilien as Faramir would have done and I will not take kindly to interference,” she warned him.

“And what of neighbourly guidance and support?” asked Legolas, who had plans for his own Elven settlement in northern Ithilien.

“You are a good friend, Legolas,” she said cupping a cold hand to his cheek and dropping her head forward until their foreheads touched. Finally she allowed her tears to fall, tears she had held back for so many months as she waited in vain hope for news. Arwen, seeing her distress, ushered her into a quiet chamber until the paroxysm of grief eased.

“Am I the only one to believe, to hope he is still alive, Arwen?” Èowyn pleaded.

“Why are you so sure?” Arwen asked

“I cannot explain it… but I still feel a connection to him. When Théodred was killed I knew he was gone long before the messenger came,” Èowyn explained.

“Then you must hold on to your hope. Some things cannot be explained. Our hearts love where they will and we must learn to listen,” the Elven Queen assured her.

Chapter 5 – A Close Call

The Grey Swan was plying her trade in the waters of the southern seas, shuttling between the ports of Umber and Harad. With the threat of winter storms, Cardolan planned to avoid the treacherous waters around the Bay of Belfalas for the winter months. He had to report to the Swan Fleet’s agent on Tolfalas in early spring but that was his only deadline.

Their trading was going well. The ship was known to be reliable and had no difficulties in picking up valuable cargoes; the strongboxes in Cardolan’s cabin were satisfyingly full. Min continued to prove an asset as both book-keeper and general deck hand. He had also proved adept at small innovations that improved the standard of meals on board; his adventurous use of the herbs and spices, so abundant in the markets of the south, livened up a diet that was often bland and unappetising. To new eyes, few would guess at his horrific ordeal of the previous winter, he was now strong and fit, his skin tanned to a deep bronze by the hot southern sun, his long, white hair bleached with feint highlights by the sun and the salt air. With his scars hidden there was no outward sign of his ordeal and he had become so skillful at lip-reading that many strangers failed to realise he was deaf.

His handicap became less noticeable as he and the crew evolved a method of hand signals to communicate. He was still barred from going aloft and rarely went further ashore than the immediate vicinity of the dock; the Duck was his safe haven and the bustling activity of the harbour-side left him dizzy and disorientated. He was still prone to ‘funny turns’ as his crew mates called them; most often in port but occasionally when at sea. Though he had said nothing to Cardolan or Tat, Faramir had an idea that the ‘turns’ were triggered when a sight or a smell or an action prompted some long buried memory. It was as if his conscious mind rejected the possibility of remembering, precipitating a ‘fit’, a pain in his head so excruciating that all thought was impossible and his body’s response was to shut down, throwing him into near unconsciousness.

He knew the thoughts and memories were there; his sleep was often still rent with nightmares but on waking the illusive visions and knowledge would evaporate like mist on a breeze, giving him no chance to capture them. He didn’t want to know and he didn’t want to remember. He thought himself a coward but he just didn’t want to know what foul deed he had committed to precipitate the punishment meted out to him. Cardolan’s gentle probing always resulted in another withdrawal as Min sought to distance himself from his past and in the end the Master gave up, accepting that the origins of the enigmatic stranger who had landed on his deck would likely always remain a mystery.

The Grey Swan was making its last call in Far Harad before heading north, when the accident happened. The holds had been emptied under Min’s watchful eye and the crew were cleaning out the vacant space ready to receive the next cargo of casks. One of the crewmen, climbing up the cargo net to the deck, slipped and fell. He landed heavily, striking his head and falling awkwardly on his arm, breaking his wrist. The stunned man was carried up on to the deck where his arm was splinted and the bang to his head checked. Thankfully he seemed to have escaped with only minor injuries and despite a headache was soon up and working while the new cargo was loaded.

Because the tides were not favourable the Master decided to delay departure until first light. Come dawn the crew were shocked to learn that the injured man had died in his sleep in the night, a trickle of blood from his ear the only clue to the internal haemorrhage that had slowly and inexorably claimed his life. Cardolan reported the death to the port authorities and, once assured that the death was a result of the accident, the port Magistrate gave permission for the funerary rites to go ahead.

Short of a crew member on what promised to be a long and difficult passage, Cardolan felt it necessary to take on another sailor. In a busy port there were always itinerant sailors seeking a passage. The Master liked to pick and assess his crew, not giving a man permanent crew status until he had proved himself to the Cardolan’s satisfaction. Cardolan took on a sailor who hailed from Linhir, a small fishing port in the Bay of Belfalas; his papers were in order and he appeared fit and able. Talhir accepted the Master’s terms and took over the berth of his unfortunate predecessor.

The Duck set sail, heading north for Tolfalas, on a journey that promised to last over month, if the winds and tides were favourable. The Master planned to make the journey in one hop but he retained the option of calling in to Umbar or Kelavir if the need arose. It was not a happy journey, the crew were restless and the seas temperamental. The new crewman, Talhir, worked hard both at his duties and at establishing his place within the crew. Min had little to do with the man, though instinct warned him to keep a close eye on him. Without hearing, Min struggled to isolate what it was about the man that set his teeth on edge; he was just a little too friendly, a little too ingratiating. Min was particularly conscious of Talhir’s attempts to befriend Tat. Min warned the Master and the Bosun of his concerns and though they trusted his judgement, his inability to explain where his concern stemmed from left them with little option but to be extra vigilant and Min with a determination to keep an especially close eye on the youngster.

Towards the end of the voyage the Bosun discovered Talhir poking around in the cargo hold. He confronted the man who claimed he was searching for a knife he had misplaced. Though there was no evidence that the cargo had been tampered with the incident confirmed to the Master that Talhir was not to be trusted, and would not be offered a permanent position on the crew. The man seemed resigned to the decision and when the ship finally docked at Tolfalas he accepted his purse of coins and disappeared into the crowded throng on the dockside without a backwards glance. Of the crew, only Tat seemed sad to see his new friend go but his sadness was soon forgotten with the prospect of a run ashore.

It was late when the noisy and inebriated crewmen staggered back aboard at the end of a nights carousing. Min and the crew members left on duty to guard the ship watched them with wry amusement as they staggered, weaving drunkenly to their bunks, not envying then the headaches they would surely have come morning.

Min was about to retire to his own hammock when he realised that Tat had not returned with his crew-mates. Pushing down a sudden up-swell of anxiety he went to the crew cabin and shook first one then another of the drink sodden men awake. Unable to get a sensible response from any of them, he went straight to the Master. Despite his own anxiety even Min was surprised at Cardolan’s reaction to the cabin-boy being adrift.

Cardolan gathered together all but one of the sober crewmen, leaving that one man on watch. He roped in the marshals who patrolled the waterfront as they began their search for the boy. Min ignored his own discomfort at being ashore, desperately hoping that his normal reactions to the crowded, chaotic waterfront would hold off. As was often the case when he felt under duress, the buzzing in his ears intensified and only his determination to find his missing friend kept him to his task.

While the Master and the constables checked out the Inns and bawdy-housesand the lock-up, Min and the Bosun and the rest of the crew checked the alleys and cargo sheds. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack and their fruitless search took them full circle back to where the Grey Swan was berthed. While the Bosun went back on board to check if the lad had slipped past them and returned, Min took another turn around the great stacks of cargo.

He lifted his torch to get a better look into a particularly dark corner when a brief flash of reflected light caught his eye. It was gone in an instant but without thinking Min stepped into the gloom, his torch raised. As he moved forward his torchlight illuminated a sight that made his blood freeze. Tat, his face a mask of terror, was forced forward over a bale, his hands caught and tethered behind him with the remnants of his shirt, his voice silenced by a filthy rag stuffed into his mouth, a blade at his throat. There was no doubt about the assailant’s intention. Min yelled and drew the knife from his belt; it flew through the air, sinking to the hilt into attacker’s upper arm; the man screamed and released his hold on the boy. Min’s initial cry had alerted the other searchers but he was unable to hear the sounds of their approach. He rushed forward to stand between the boy and his attacker until the constables appeared to take charge of the wounded assailant. Tat was sobbing and struggling to release his hands; Min pulled him to his chest, holding tight with one arm while he released the bonds and removed the gag with the other. He grabbed an empty sack and wrapped it around the shocked youngster.

Cardolan appeared as Min and Tat moved back towards the ship. Having assured himself that the lad was not injured, Cardolan had Min take Tat to the Master’s cabin. Only as he was leading Tat away did Min finally catch a glimpse of the assailant’s face and was shocked to realise that it was Talhir.

More than an hour passed before the Master appeared in his cabin. Min was keeping a vigil, Tat was asleep in the Captain’s bunk, the shock and a surfeit of ale had knocked him out.

How is he? Cardolan wrote on the slate.

“Lucky we found him when we did… a few more minutes and Talhir would have succeeded in his foul intent!” Faramir whispered, not wanting to disturb the sleeping boy.

Was he harmed? Cardolan wrote.

“Cuts and bruises. He has a split lip and a bruise on his cheek that will probable black his eye but fortunately nothing worse.”

He was not violated?

“No.” Min assured him, noting the Captain’s shoulders sag with relief. “What will happen to Talhir?” he asked

We will take him to Dol Amroth. He can face the Prince’s own justice! Cardolan wrote.

“Why not here?” Min queried.

Too serious. I take this personally! Cardolan wrote. As he sent Min off to rest he handed him back his knife. That was quite a throw he wrote.

“Instinct, I guess. I’ve only ever used it for carving and cutting rope,” Min shrugged.

Well you have my thanks, Friend Cardolan gripped Min’s forearm in salute and sent him on his way, pondering on yet another puzzling facet of his mysterious crewman.

On the morning after the attack Min approached the Master’s cabin with the intention of enquiring after Tat. He brought breakfast for the pair, two thick slices of bacon layered between still warm bread and two mugs of hot sweet tea. Tat was awake and sitting huddled in the Master’s bunk looking miserable and dejected. At the sight of Min the lad started weeping, his whole body shaking in delayed reaction to his ordeal.

“May I?” Min asked the Master, indicating his wish to comfort the distressed youngster. Cardolan nodded his assent and signalled that he would return when he had checked that the crew had the ship ready to sail.

As he slumped against Min’s shoulder the boy was babbling incoherently, finally giving voice to his fears and terror at what had happened. He wasn’t naïve; he had been at sea long enough to know of the wickedness in some men’s hearts but to have been betrayed by someone he had looked on as a friend had devastated him. Min didn’t need to be able to hear his words to understand what the youngster was trying to communicate; he soothed with his arms and his voice until the boy calmed enough to sip down the reviving brew Min had provided.

When the Master returned Min went back on deck to his duties as the Bosun guided the ship away from the dock and set a north-easterly course for Dol Amroth. With his duties completed and the ship well underway, Min returned to the Master’s cabin, knocking and entering as was his usual custom. The sight that met his gaze as he entered the room shocked him to a standstill. Cardolan was sitting on the edge of the bunk with a sleeping and obviously well-spanked Tat cradled in his arms, the youngster’s glowing buttocks positively radiating heat.

Faramir muttered an apology as he turned and left, closing the door behind him and taking up guard on the threshold to prevent anyone else inadvertently disturbing the private moment. As he stood in the darkness of the corridor he contemplated what he had witnessed, Cardolan and Tat were the nearest he had to a family and for some reason he was surprised but not shocked by the scene.

“Is he alright?” Min asked, when the Master finally quit the room. Cardolan put a finger to his lips and opened the door wider, Min caught a glance of the youngster, face down and fast asleep on the bunk, covered only in a light sheet.

He will be, Cardolan wrote.

“You spanked him! Hasn’t he been through enough?”

I am responsible for him. He is my sister’s son. The Master wrote by way of explanation.

If Min was surprised by the revelation he hid it well. “But a spanking after such a terrifying ordeal?”

I spanked him for drinking to excess and for not staying with the crew. Had he been a cabin boy on any other ship, he would have faced a public flogging, Cardolan wrote

“But he trusted Talhir!”

And next time he will be more cautious! Cardolan was unrepentant.

“It seems harsh.”

When we reach Dol Amroth I am going to seek another trade for him.? Cardolan wrote

“Is that what he wants… to leave you?”

He wants to be a healer. I can buy him an apprenticeship. He will be safer. Cardolan wrote

“But you are his family!”

I will still be his family. I will just arrange more voyages to the City, he wrote.

“I will miss him!” Min said with genuine distress.

The Master regarded him intently before writing on the slate, You could settle in Dol Amroth. You have skills that would be valued.

“No. The Duck is my home now. There is nothing for me in Dol Amroth. I will stay as long as you will have me.”

Whilst the Master wouldn’t allow any mistreatment of the prisoner, for Talhir life on the voyage was miserable. Rather than confine him in one of the secure cargo lockers below he was forced to sit on the deck, his hands secured around behind the main mast in full view of his former crew-mates. He was given sufficient food and water and twice a day he was released under close guard to attend to his hygiene and comfort. Cardolan and the Bosun turned a deaf ear to the taunts of the crew, though when one of the men appeared in front of the prisoner with a pail of hot tar and a wicked looking knife, speculating on the fate of predatory degenerates and offering to pre-empt the sentence he could expect in Dol Amroth the Master drew the line. As far as Min was concerned, each time he passed the man he had to restrain himself from lashing out at him, so incensed was he at what the man had done.

Physically Tat recovered quickly from his ordeal but he remained subdued and kept to his cabin when not required on deck. He stuck close to Min, seeming to find reassurance in the quiet but calm presence of the older man. To his own surprise Min suffered no ill effects following the incident; no increase in nightmares and no ‘funny turns’. He went back to his duties and, at Cardolan’s request, made sure that the ledgers and cargo manifests were up to date for an audit by the Prince’s agent in Dol Amroth. He tore out two pages of parchment, not because there were discrepancies or errors but because he had taken to doodling and sketching as a means of relaxation when the numbers and figures would not add-up. He tucked the loose pages into the back of the ledger to keep them safe and made a mental note to retrieve them when the ship docked.

The Grey Swan was delayed in passing through the narrow entrance into the great enclosed harbour of Dol Amroth; as they approached they were met by the magnificent sight of a great Galleon and they were required to give way as the mighty vessel was manoeuvred into the dock. It was the Royal Swan, flagship of the Swan Fleet, Prince Imrahil’s personal vessel; two pilot boats nudged the ship into her berth. The Grey Swan, small and insignificant by comparison and with no cargo to unload, was directed to a far berth towards the end of the harbour wall.

The Master’s first task after completing the arrival formalities was to have Talhir taken into custody by the port constables to await trial at the assizes the following morning. With Talhir unloaded, Cardolan took Tat ashore to seek out the advice of his old friend, the senior healer of the Royal household, leaving the crew to complete a list of routine maintenance and repairs.

Min was uneasy; he was grieved at the prospect of being parted from the lad he looked upon as a younger brother, but that did not seem to adequately answer for his disquiet. The great ship kept drawing his attention; her ornate figurehead, her bright gilded paintwork, her magnificent anchor, the graceful lines of her decks, the great white swan gliding on the royal blue waters of the ship’s standard as the flag snapped and fluttered in the breeze; each detail drew his eye in a way that made his throat tight and his stomach clench. He went below to work on the ledgers, though in truth they were already complete. He felt exposed, anxious as he always was when in harbour, only more so. And the city, why did the city beyond the harbour wall seem so dangerous… so familiar! He wanted to be away, to put the land so far behind him that all he could see in any direction was water. The air, the scents, the whole atmosphere of the place set his nerves jangling.

The Master and Tat had not returned by dusk and when the crew gathered in the galley to eat it was all Min could do to force down the meal, the stew was tasteless on his tongue. With no one given permission to go ashore the men settled on the deck or in their cabin to play games of chance by the light of swinging lanterns. Min excused himself and in the privacy of his cabin prepared a generous dose of the sleeping herbs he kept to hand and swallowed it down, more than happy to circumvent the nightmares that were pressing perilously close. He climbed into his hammock and wrapped himself in his blanket, willing the oblivion of the potion to take him before the terrors of his dreams could ensnare him.

The dosing cup gave Cardolan his answer when Tat was unable to rouse Min come morning. Unable to wait until the herbs released their grip on his friend, Tat had to leave without saying goodbye, gathering the last of his belongings and carefully wrapping the carving of a flying fish Min had made for him.

Cardolan left Min a message instructing him to bring the ledgers to the Agent’s office at noon. The Master confirmed the arrangements with the Bosun who had responsibility for accompanying Min and seeing that the coffers were conveyed under escort to the shipping office. With the arrangements made Cardolan and Tat made their way to the Hall’s of Justice where Talhir was to stand trial.

Just before noon Min stood at the top of the gangplank, the ledgers tucked under his arm, as he watched the coffers being loaded onto a cart flanked by an escort of six large and heavily armed soldiers all wearing the blue and white livery of Dol Amroth. Min, still sluggish from the after effects of the potion, pulled his wide-brimmed hat over his face to protect his sensitive eyes from the glare. He swallowed hard, his anxiety hadn’t abated and it took all of his willpower not to bolt when the Bosun tapped him on the shoulder and indicated that it was time to leave.

He took his place within the cordon of guards but their procession did not set off immediately. Their departure was delayed by a large entourage of dignitaries and visiting Royalty out for a promenade to the end of the harbour wall, attended by both local and visiting guard companies. The Duck’s guard detail came to attention and saluted them as they passed, the salute taken up by all the other bystanders… all except Min.. As the blond haired nobles passed by, barely noticing the Guard detail and oblivious to his distress, he stood, head bowed, under sudden assault; frozen in place, the buzzing in his ears so loud that he felt sick. He blindly thrust the ledgers into the Bosun’s hands and, forcing his way past the guards, bolted back up onto the deck, seeking safety, while he still had the capacity for conscious action. The pain in his head, a vice that blocked thought, hampered his coordination and, as he neared his cabin, finally robbed him of consciousness.

The Bosun, recognising his plight, shouted a warning to the crewmen on deck that they would know to look after their stricken comrade. He had no time to check that Min was alright. The group of visiting Royalty had passed by and he could not delay his own errand for fear he would be late for his appointment at the Agent’s office. As the escort party proceeded along the quayside he spared a moment to wonder at Min’s extreme reaction to this latest port of call and to how Master Cardolan would react to the book-keeper’s absence.

Chapter 6 – The Scales of Justice

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Lord… Lord Faramir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Not guilty,” Mathlong spat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, Sire.”

“It was not given under duress?”

“No Sire.”

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

“And what was the nature of this offer?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flashback

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your Brother!” the man spat.

“What has my brother to do with this?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

End of Flashback

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

Gothrick’s account had been brief but graphic.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And how did you get away?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Then, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“And the assailant?”

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

“And his sentence?”

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

“And how is the boy?”

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

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

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

“He is from Harad?”

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

“And you trust him?”

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

“That is good enough for me.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Explain!” he demanded

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You risk much with such a liability aboard!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 7 – The Wanderer

The Grey Swan left the port of Dol Amroth on route south with a cargo of grain. Min never got to meet the Prince, nor did he get to see any of the festivities attending upon the betrothal of Princess Lothiriel to Èomer King. He lay in the bunk of the Captain’s cabin oblivious to everything around him. Occasionally he thrashed but he never roused, not even when the southern Healer and Tat came on board to attend him. The Healer examined him closely and listened with great interest when Tat and Captain Cardolan recounted what they knew of his history. He examined the herbs and potions that Zerbah had concocted for Min, nodding his approval and suggesting a few other remedies that he thought might prove beneficial. The Healer offered to take Min into his own care in the infirmary but the Captain graciously declined.

“What is wrong with him?” Cardolan asked. “Why won’t he wake up? He has never remained insensible for this length of time since his initial recovery.”

“This is not a physical ailment. He has no fever, nor any illness that I recognise,” the Healer explained. “Your history of him recounts great trial and abuse; his body is merely doing what it can to protect itself from further hurt. He has gone deep into himself to evade further suffering.”

“But why? Where was the risk? He was safe; he barely set foot on the quay. He has always before found security aboard here with his friends.”

“But from your own report, you observed that he was not himself on the night you docked and he clearly dosed himself heavily that very night. It seems logical to assume that he was already distressed before he attempted to go ashore.”

“Did he overdose on the sleeping draught? Is that what caused this?”

“No, what he took only masked his symptoms. Instinct tells me that something physical triggered this attack: a memory, a smell, something visual; something triggered a feeling so dangerous, so powerful that his mind or his emotions simply couldn’t deal with it… he retreated physically and emotionally to the place he felt most secure. He will return in his own time, to rush him would be to risk pushing him further away,” the Healer explained.

“Then what can we do?”

“Keep him warm and comfortable. Get fluids into him and keep talking to him…”

“But he is deaf, he will not hear us.”

“But he will sense you are near. You are the only kin he can lay claim to; he needs the familiarity and security of your presence.”

“Should I stay, Sir?” Tat offered. “I cared for him before, he knows me better than anyone.”

“Thank you, Tat, but you have your new responsibilities to look to now. Your friend is in good hands and you may see him when the next the Swan comes into port.”

And when Tamir, Prince Imrahil’s adjutant, came to enquire after the sailor/artist, the Captain had to inform him that Min was too ill to receive visitors. Tamir had to report back to his Lord without ever catching a glimpse of the stricken sailor.

It seemed to the crew that that fateful sojourn to Dol Amroth marked a downturn in the ship’s fortunes. Tat’s presence was missed and the youngster taken on to replace him was slow and surly by comparison. Min’s physical recovery progressed slowly, taking weeks for him to regain his strength. He moved about the ship like a pale shadow. He worked hard, none could fault his diligence, but his indisposition had wrought profound changes to his spirits. He no longer made any effort to communicate with the crew beyond the necessity of his duties. Where before he had been companionable, now he was almost totally withdrawn. He was restless, endlessly pacing the confines of the poop deck until even the Captain’s patience was exhausted. Min could settle to nothing, not even the carving that before had given him such pleasure and he no longer dared to use the sleeping potions for fear of their effect. Peaceful sleep eluded him and the night terrors that haunted his dreams left him irritable and exhausted.

Nor was it just Min who suffered. It seemed that from the moment the Grey Swan left the port at Dol Amroth bad luck dogged their wake. The weather and tides fought them at every turn; deadlines were missed and cargos spoiled. Even the Captain’s and the Bosun’s experience was as nothing in the face of the malevolence of the Seas. It seemed inevitable that after enduring the spring and summer seasons of strife that the sea’s spite was not yet done with them. A vicious late summer storm caught the Grey Swan as she headed north for Dol Amroth. The strong winds and high seas buffeted the little ship and the Captain had no option but to bow to the dictates of the elements and run before the storm. For untold days and nights the crew battled the sea’s fury, carried far north and west by the storm’s race. In one final, vicious blow, the storm finally abated but not before leaving the battered Grey Swan with a cracked mast. The bruised and bloodied crew secured the ship as best they could while the Captain and the Bosun calculated their position and charted a course to the nearest safe harbour. The crew threw the ruined cargo overboard to lighten the load and they nursed the stricken vessel into port.

Their safe-haven was a small port with little beyond the fishing fleet and the small boat yard that serviced her. The grey Swan was the largest commission seen there for many years. On examination the damage to the mast was worse than at first thought and it was clear that the Duck would be out of service for as much as a season. The crew were laid off, each with a generous purse and a promise of a secured birth when the Duck was again seaworthy. The small port offered little in the way of entertainment or employment and so the majority of the crew hitched a passage south to Dol Amroth to wait out the weeks of idleness.

Unable to stay aboard the ship, the Captain, Bosun and Min took lodgings with the widow of a sailor who kept a smallholding on the outskirts of the port. At first the arrangement worked well enough but before long Min’s presence became a source of tension. The widow distrusted the quiet, mute stranger and despite Min’s efforts to win her good offices by his willingness to work her plot and tend her animals her antagonism grew. For the superstitious widow the final straw was a succession of nights when Min’s haunting screams echoed from the barn where he slept.

The ongoing tension fuelled the restlessness that had haunted Min’s spirit since the fateful visit to Dol Amroth. Not prepared to be the cause of unrest to the only family he could lay claim to, Min began to fashion plans to strike out on his own. No longer content to let the seas dictate his course, he turned his eyes to the hills and mountains that beckoned to the north and west.

He thought he planned in secret but in a small community nothing passed unremarked or unreported. He kitted himself with sturdy boots and warm serviceable clothing, he purchased blankets and a large oilskin groundsheet that would double as a cloak to keep out the worst of the weather’s ire. He also acquired a small hunting bow and a lightweight but serviceable sword. A coil of rope, a skinning knife, a hank of catgut line and a soft leather roll of fishing hooks and sewing needles along with small sacks of course flour, rolled oatmeal, salt and a block of sugarloaf completed his provisions.

He hoped to slip away at dawn leaving a note of explanation and regret for the Captain but in the early hours, as the light was beginning to brighten the horizon, he lifted the bar that secured the barn door only to find the Captain and the Bosun awaiting him in the yard, a gentle-faced donkey already laden with his packs plus extra panniers that he did not recognise. Min could have wept for the kindness and forbearance of the two men who had befriended him so selflessly; they offered neither criticism nor sanction for his desertion, indeed they sent him on his way with their good wishes and the promise of a safe birth whenever he had need of it. Min hugged the two men fiercely and thanked them for their kindness and swiftly took the bridle, his eyes misty with emotion. He didn’t dare to look back for fear that the enormity of his decision would overwhelm his decision to move on.

As summer faded to autumn Min and his four-legged companion travelled steadily northward. The lands between the White Mountains and the river Lefnui were largely uninhabited. Protected as they were from the prevailing easterly winds the climate was temperate and the lightly wooded hills and dales made for easy travelling. Fodder for the beast was easy to come by and Min had no trouble in scavenging and hunting for provisions for himself. His journeying wasn’t entirely solitary; he met the occasional shepherd in the hills and shared the warmth of a campfire before moving on. In one riverside settlement his arrival was greeted with wary hospitality. He stayed for a week, sheltering from the first storm of approaching winter. He helped the men to mend their nets and assisted them in repairing the thatched roofs of their huts damaged by the storm. When it was time to leave the women of the village handed him parcels of dried fish and smoked meat wrapped in leaves and the head man drew a rudimentary map in the dirt to show him the safest route to cross the mountains that now blocked his path.

Travelling was more difficult as the days shortened into winter. With the mountains behind him, his path took him further northwest across the fertile but empty plains of Enedwaith. When he came upon the river Angren he knew that the span was too wide and too fast flowing for him to cross unaided and he turned downstream and followed the riverbank until he happened upon a village where, for the cost of a copper coin, he was ferried across the low tidal flats to the far bank.

Still he travelled further north, though without knowing his course or his destination. If he recognised of himself that he had the skills and aptitude for living off the land he neither questioned nor wondered at it. He could hunt with a bow, fish with a hook or spear and fashion a snare; he seemed to know instinctively which plants and roots were safe to eat. Only once did his instincts fail him and the ensuing bout of sickness that had him laid low for two days he put down to some mushrooms he had harvested.

Spring came early where he travelled and the River Mitheithal was wild with the snow-melt of the distant Misty Mountains. Here though he was in luck and by travelling only a few leagues upstream he found a navigable bridge where the river narrowed between a high rocky ravine. North of the river the lands he passed through seemed to him full of grief and sorrow. It was a land laid waste by flood and plague in ages past; tumbled stone and ruined homesteads reclaimed by nature told the tale of a land once prosperous and fertile, now abandoned and its people forgotten. He moved on swiftly, his passage unmarked by the sheep and goats and hogs as they foraged the verdant hillsides. He wasn’t superstitious by nature and yet he felt the eyes of those long gone follow him; he called a blessing to their restless spirits and urged his donkey to speed their pace.

He had rarely felt desperate on his lonely travels but he was beyond the point of desperation as the rain hammered down for the third day in a row. He was cold and hungry and soaked to the skin and the only thing keeping him on his feet was the indefatigable donkey at his side. Long past nightfall he refused to stop for fear that should he allow himself to succumb to sleep he would never again awaken. His numbed mind wondered why he continued to fight the elements and his blighted destiny. They stumbled on into the outskirts of the great forest of Eryn Vorn, where the huge, closely-growing trees finally allowed them some measure of protection for the storm’s torment.

The path led them along the base of a sheer escarpment and it was here that they finally found a refuge. A bright flash of lightening illuminated the rock face and near to hand Min spied the coal-black entrance to a cavern. Stopping only to ascertain that they were not at risk of disturbing a wild beast in its lair, Min drew the donkey into the shelter. He relieved the beast of its burdens and stripped off his own wet clothes; wrapping himself in a blanket from his pack he slumped down onto the sandy floor of the cave and finally allowed himself the oblivion of sleep.

For a day and a night the donkey had to fend for himself as his companion slept and fretted on the edge of fever. When Min finally awoke the cave was lit by sunlight. He stumbled out into the brightness to find himself in a small meadow, edged on one side by the cliff and on the others by the forest. To one side of the glade water tumbled down the rock face to splash into a natural stone basin that overflowed into a small stream. Desperately thirsty, Min scooped handfuls of icy cold water from the rill until his thirst was quenched and then a little further downstream, dowsed his head and face in the icy flow to erase the last vestiges of sleep.

Seeing that the donkey had adequate fodder, Min set about seeing to his own needs, scavenging a meal from the trail rations in his pack. Next he sought to order his gear; he spread his wet clothing and blankets over bushes in the sun to dry and attempted to mend the rents and tears from the worst ravages of the trail. Too exhausted still to venture beyond the confines of the glade he returned to explore the cavern that had saved his life.

A cursory glance showed that the cave was no animal lair. The vault of the cave was high and smooth and the domed surface curved down to meet the sandy floor. To one side a natural rocky ledge curved against the wall at knee height. Hanging on the wall above were ancient lidded rush baskets filled with kindling and tinder, musty and old but still dry. He deduced that the cave had once been inhabited but had long since been abandoned; the physical signs of occupation had long been eradicated by the passage of countless seasons.

In the far reaches of the cave, half hidden by shadow, he discovered a heavy wooden trunk waiting to be explored. The clasp was not locked but it was so corroded that it took Min several attempts to prise it open. He thought to pull the trunk out into the light to better examine its contents but as he made a preliminary tug the handle pulled away from the wood and the side of the trunk collapsed into powdery fragments. Undeterred, Min began to empty out the contents. First to emerge was a bundle of candles and a small terracotta oil lamp. Further down were several sealed flasks of what proved to be lamp oil. Next he pulled out a stack of ceramic platters and goblets and a small metal cooking pot and a trivet. In the bottom of the trunk he found a bundle of folded woollen cloth but when he shook it out the blankets disintegrated in a choking cloud of dusty threads. He put the cloth aside to use as tinder. With these few unlooked for but welcome luxuries Min made himself at home.

The forest provided all they could require; game and fish were plentiful, the stream provided drinking water and a short distance away merged with a larger tributary that served for bathing and washing. Despite the isolation Min thought himself content. He hunted only to eat and foraged the forest for plants and roots and berries the supplement his dwindling supplies. The nightmares he could live with; there was no one for him to disturb and if his nights were disturbed he would sleep in the daytime under the shade of the forest. In the bottom of one the panniers the Captain had supplied he found a pouch of charcoal sticks and a tightly rolled sheaf of parchment wrapped in oilcloth. For the first time since that fateful visit to Dol Amroth he set about sketching the world around him and, from memory, the faces and places he had seen on his travels.

But Min was not as alone as he imagined, though he was unaware of the neighbours who shared his forest. The Old Ones were a scattered and isolated tribe, descendants of the people who had once worked the land when the region was prosperous and fertile. They had retreated to the forest and eked out a harsh and meagre living from the land. The passage of the gentle stranger and his donkey had been noted and forwarded by secret means from the fishing village where he had first been offered shelter; he posed no threat and he treated the forest with respect, taking only what he needed without causing undue damage or harm. The neighbours would have remained strangers to each other if not for the intervention of fate.

It was late at night and Min was out in the glade polishing a small wooden figure he had carved; rest eluded him and the cave seemed too claustrophobic for comfort. As they fire dwindled he was suddenly uneasy. He could see no sign of activity but as his apprehension grew he cursed his loss of hearing for increasing his vulnerability. He retrieved his bow and slipped his knife into his belt. Creeping forward, he entered the shelter of the forest and paused to allow his eyes to adjust to the deeper gloom. Following the edge of the stream he edged forward but despite his vigilance he nearly tripped over the dark form cowering in a shallow dip in the ground.

His first instinct was that it was an injured wolf and he retreated but on closer inspection he could see it was not big enough nor did it have the distinctive odour of a wolf. The animal’s coat was short and sleek and he was wearing a collar fashioned from some type of plaited fibre. The dog was clearly injured and unable to get away, though he cowered when Min tried to get close. Min could see the animal’s distress and could imagine the whimpering that his blighted ears could not hear. Despite Min’s gentle coaxing and whispered reassurance the animal snapped, catching the side of his proffered hand. Min was forced to muzzle the animal with his belt before wrapping the dog in his cloak and carrying the heavy beast back to his camp.

By the light of his rekindled fire Min discovered that the animal had several superficial cuts and gashes to his head and shoulders but what had incapacitated the animal was that his rear hip was dislocated. It distressed Min to have to cause the dog greater pain but he had to use his body to restrain the animal as he manipulated the joint back into place; he felt rather that heard when the femur snapped back into the socket. The dog was limp and lifeless when he had done and he feared pain and shock had killed the animal… but there was a heartbeat, though feint and fast.

All night Min tended the animal, offering her water and scraps of meat and oatcake and keeping the fire stoked against the cold night air. Min finally allowed himself to doze when he was sure that the dog’s condition had stabilised.

When he woke the sun was midway to noon and the glade was empty. His belt and cloak lay folded where the dog had lain. Min called out, for clearly the dog had not left unaided but he got no response. Whoever had reclaimed the animal had left without trace.

Min never glimpsed his secret neighbours, though he always kept his eyes alert for signs of them as he hunted and combed the forest but he knew they were there and that they posed him no threat. Many a morning he would wake to discover small gifts and offerings from the silent ones; a clutch of eggs, a loaf of black bread, a small round of hard cheese or a flask of goats milk. He had little he could offer in return except for the carvings he fashioned. Now he knew why he had imagined that the forest had eyes and he was comforted to know he wasn’t completely alone.

At the same time as the Grey Swan was battling that last great storm other events were unfolding in distant lands.

In the Shire Frodo Baggins had reached a decision about his own future. Grieved and broken as he felt himself to be, the Ringbearer had found neither peace nor healing, despite the best efforts of his family and friends. He was fading, a fact he could no longer conceal from his loved ones. After all that the Shire and his fellow travellers had endured he could not bear to be the cause of further grief to them. When Lord Elrond sent word that a ship was readied at the Grey Havens and that Bilbo and host of Elves were taking the journey across the sea, Frodo decided to take up the offer made to him by Arwen to take her place on the journey from which there would be no return.

Beyond the Misty Mountains another traveller received word of the ship waiting at the Havens. Long exiled from his homeland, the traveller was more than ready to give up his rootless existence and retire to the land of his birth. Long had he travelled the pathways of Middle Earth, his journeys taking him to every corner of every land. He had travelled for many ages of Men, seeking to aid and assist in his own small way. Not for him the grand cities and great Rulers of the races whose fortunes rose and fell with the passing of the years. He had no ambition to influence the mighty as his brother had done; his mission was with the lesser beings; the birds and animals and the humble folk who accepted the presence of the wanderer without question or rancour and repaid his healing and assistance with food and shelter. But he was tired and the upheavals of the great conflict had not left him untouched; the suffering of men and beasts had exhausted his already depleted reserves of strength. Not even the peace and tranquillity of his present sanctuary with Beorn on the edge of the Greenwood had been enough to restore his spirits. When the call came he was ready to go home.

It was his intention to journey directly to the Haven’s to await his fellow travellers , a long and tedious journey but one he had made so many times in his long exile that he knew the safest pathways and smoothest trails. But fate was not yet done with this faithful servant. At every turn his passage was thwarted; a flooded river blocked his way causing a long detour, a fallen bridge slowed him, a wounded beast required his aid. As the days raced past he gave up hope of reaching the quay in time to catch the sailing. He felt no anger that his plans were swept away, as a faithful servant of the Valar he trusted that they yet had a plan for him and that he still had a mission to fulfil.

As autumn turned to winter he accepted lodging in a small village and when a fever swept through the inhabitants he gave what help he could; brewing potions, cooking meals and, sadly, helping to bury those who could not be saved. He stayed till spring when word from the Old Ones brought feint whispers of another soul in need of aid. He had no details but intuition told him that this was part of the Fate’s plan for him; that this was why his journey to the Havens had been thwarted.

His journey was long and he had as yet no real idea of his destination. He travelled on foot until he came upon the Old Forest where Tom Bombadil offered his friend the hospitality of his woodland home and over the course of an unmeasured passage of time the two shared news they had of the happenings of Middle Earth and beyond. Guided by Tom he traversed the Old Forest to the High Hedge and the Gate through into the outskirts of the Shire.

Again the Old Man’s journey was delayed, this time by an invitation from the Master of Buckland who was keen to hear of the recent happenings beyond the boundaries of the Shire. It was from Meriadoc , who had travelled to the Haven’s to bid farewell to his cousins, that the traveller heard the tale of the sailing of the noble Host. Conscious of the continued grief of the Hobbits over the departure of their beloved relative, he tried to assuage their distress by reassuring them of the Ringbearer’s welcome in Valinor and of his certainty of him there finding peace and healing.

Using the Brandywine as his guide, the Old man left Buckland to travel southwest, letting nature and instinct guide his footsteps on the path the Fate’s had placed before him. The vague whispers of the Old Ones grew more insistent as he travelled onward toward the sea; messages and signs were left in his path along with offerings of food and each day took him closer to the great forest of Eryn Vorn.

He woke on his first morning under the canopy of the ancient forest to find he had company. Across the smoking embers of his campfire crouched a small swarthy man, dressed in dark wool and skins. Neither the man nor the dog at his side stirred or uttered a sound as the traveller moved slowly and carefully to rekindle the fire; there was nothing threatening about the ancient one’s presence, just an utter stillness, indeed in the grey light of dawn he could have been mistaken for a roughly cut statue, one of the Pukel men of the Firenfeld.

Their speech together would have been understood by few souls, the language and dialect so thick as to be almost unintelligible except by those of the same tribe but the traveller remembered the words, though it was many generations of men since he had last passed this way. They spoke together until the sun was high in the sky. At one point the Old Wanderer ran his hand over the dog’s coat allowing, his palm to rest over the animal’s hip and nodding to himself at the health of the joint beneath his hand.

Between one heartbeat and the next the man and his dog slipped away into the vastness of the forest, leaving only a small wooden carving to mark the place they had vacated. The traveller was left with much to ponder as he absently smoothed his fingers over the warm contours of highly polished wood; a perfect representation of a sea creature known to the Elves as a porpoise.

Chapter 8: A Safe Haven

For the residents of Bag End, the winter following Frodo’s departure was bleak. For many months friends and relatives had observed and worried as the Gamgee household floundered under the weight of their grief. Sam barely ventured out of doors; his garden was abandoned to its own devices and the wider environs of the Shire were once again bereft of his green-fingered care. From the moment he had stepped over the threshold on his return from the Havens the bright spark of his loyal and generous spirit was quashed under the suffocating burden of his grief. He tried to rouse himself for the benefit of Rosie and Elanor but his heart was broken and he had little left to offer his loved ones.

Rosie’s family, the Cottons, did what they could and Merry and Pippin channelled their own grief into helping their stricken friends to weather those turbulent and painful months. But gradually as the months passed Sam managed to forge his way clear of the melancholia that had gripped him and only then did Rosie tell him that they were expecting another baby, news she had delayed for fear that the added burden of responsibility would prove too much for her beloved Sam. And so life in the Shire for the survivors of the Fellowship once more settled into its peaceful pattern.

One of the many positive innovations to have occurred following the end of the Ring quest was the establishment of a regular messenger service between the Southern and Northern Kingdoms. Every month messages were relayed from Gondor, via Edoras, to the regions of the north, including the Shire, the Elven lands and further north to Lake Evendim, where the remaining Dúnedain were busy re-establishing a seat of power for the King under the direction of his Northern Steward, Lord Andorn.

Merry often ventured beyond the borders of the Shire to where the Greenway passed close by and there he would meet the messenger or hail the caravans of goods and workers as they travelled north to where the King’s new palace was being built. All manner of folk travelled with these caravans; men of Gondor and Rohan, Elves and many Dwarves. Ever eager for news, Merry would ride with them for a mile or two before returning to the Shire to share his news with those in the Shire who cared to hear about the goings-on in the land beyond the borders.

And so it was into Merry’s hand that the messenger placed a satchel carrying three very special scrolls, each tied with a red cord and sealed with the King’s own cipher. Merry had to quash his impatience as he saw to the comfort of the exhausted messenger, arranging care and stabling for his mount and food and lodging for the man. Only when these duties were done did Merry peep into the satchel to discover that one of the scrolls was addressed to himself, one was for Pippin and one for Sam. As well as these official communiqués were personal letters for the three written in the King’s own hand.

The scrolls were official invitations to the three travellers and their families to attend the Royal Court when the King and his entourage travelled to the Northern Kingdom in early autumn. In the personal letters Estel explained that he was making an official tour of the Northern Kingdom and would be basing his Court at the new palace near Lake Evendim until spring. He entreated his Hobbit friends to attend, explaining that there would be many familiar friends amongst the party, all of whom were looking forward to being re-united with them.

In Brandy Hall and the Great Smials the invitations caused great excitement and a flurry of activity as those invited planned for the journey. At Bag End the summons was greeted more soberly. Rosie, in the last stages of her confinement was too preoccupied to get overly excited, even going as far as to suggest that it might not be fitting for her to travel with a newborn. Sam, too, seemed strangely reluctant to commit himself to attending and only at Merry and Pippin’s insistence did he finally agree. And so the Hobbits of the Shire continued their preparations, counting off the weeks until they could expect the King’s troop to arrive at the Brandywine Bridge to escort them safely to their destination.

Ranan approached the familiar campsite from the north, leaving the river and working his way through the dense forest by tracks forged by beasts and utilised by the Old Ones. He edged towards to the top of the escarpment with care and spent some time observing the scene below. He could see the little donkey grazing placidly in the dappled shade. In a brighter, sunnier spot he spied clothing spread out over the bushes to dry and over the fire the sun reflected off the surface of a small metal pot hanging from a wide tripod of sticks. Of the occupant of the glade there was as yet no sign. The quickest route down the escarpment to the glade was difficult, especially when burdened with a heavy knapsack. The traveller was in no hurry and so he chose to take a longer easier route.

The donkey ceased its grazing and approached him without caution, nuzzling into the hand that caressed his ears. Only as he greeted the animal did he finally spy the man about whom he had heard so much, though the youngster did not see him. The old man took a moment to observe the current resident of the glade. His first impression was that he looked remarkably young, true his hair was silver but in sleep his face was unlined and carefree. It was a refined face, the sculpted cheekbones and noble brow hinting of an ancestry of ancient Númenor. There was not an ounce of spare flesh on him, indeed he was thin to the point gauntness but he had the long-limbed, broad shouldered physique that promised wiry strength. He was deeply asleep, propped up against the trunk of an ancient oak; a knife lay on the turf beside him, his hand clutched around a half fashioned carving in his lap.

The traveller made no effort to disturb the sleeping youngster; instead he topped up the cooking pot over the fire with water and with provisions from his own pack. Still the youngster slept on and he had to wonder how he had fared so well on his own given his obvious vulnerability. The traveller thought over what the Old One had told him of the youngster’s solitary travels, of the nigh time terrors that had often brought the silent neighbours to check on him, of his silence and of the horrendous scars that marred his back. The Old One has described him as tormented and yet as he slept, so oblivious to all his surroundings, he seemed so tranquil.

The aroma of the broth finally seeped into Min’s awareness and he was instantly alert and wary, though he made no move other than to slowly inch his fingers down to the handle of his blade. He opened his eyes to find himself under the intense scrutiny from an aged, brown-robed stranger. The old man made no effort to close the distance between them, indeed he settled himself more comfortably, sitting cross-legged, his voluminous robes tucked under is knees. Min could see that the old man was speaking but was prevented from lip-reading by the old man’s bushy beard and moustache. The old man continued to speak, holding his hand out in a gesture of peace. He was confused by the youngster’s reluctance to speak with him. He spoke more loudly, enunciating his words more clearly and eventually the younger man threw up his hands in frustration.

“Forgive me but I cannot hear you,” the youngster whispered, his voice rusty with lack of use.

“Ah, I see. You are deaf?” the old man said, only realising his mistake when the youngster’s puzzled expression confirmed his inability to hear his words.

Realising that communication was going to prove difficult by conventional means he moved cautiously towards the youngster with one hand extended and the other raised in a gesture of peace. As the old man approached him, Min’s instinctive reaction was to retreat but the tree at his back prevented him moving out of reach. He clutched his knife to his chest ready to lash out at need. Still the older man moved slowly toward him. Min couldn’t help but flinch away when the old man’s warm but calloused fingers came to rest just behind his ear.

“Forgive the intrusion,” the old man said, “may I share your fire for a little while?”

Min nodded and relaxed slightly, easing the grip on his knife as he sensed no malice in the stranger.

“Have you always been deaf?” the old man asked. Min could see him shaping the words but he ‘heard’ them, not with his ears but directly into his head.

“As long as I can remember” he replied aloud, not sure if the old man’s skills worked in reverse.

“And how long is that?”

“Two years,” Min explained.

“And before that?”

“There is no ‘before that’. My life as I know it began when I was rescued from the sea. They told me I was gravely injured and near death… when I recovered, I was as you see me now. I have no hearing and no past.”

“And what about the future?” the old man asked.

“This is my future. I am content here.”

“This is not a life, this is an existence. Why are you here alone? Where are the ones who rescued you? Are they not your friends?”

“They are my friends… the only friends I can claim.” Min could not suppress his rising anxiety at the stranger’s questioning

“So why are you not with them? True friends would not leave you to such lonely isolation,” the old man persisted.

“They are true friends but it was time to move on. I was becoming a burden to them.”

“Did they lay that charge on you?”

“No!” Min pulled away, breaking contact with the older man, “do not seek to judge my friends!” Min stalked away from the clearing leaving the old man to his thoughts and much to ponder. He trusted the Old Ones to ensure that no harm came to the youngster and while he awaited his return the old Man reacquainted himself with his old haunt, a refuge he had not visited in countless decades.

By the time Min returned to the glade the old man had unpacked his own belongings and set up his bedroll by the fire. He had also scouted along the lower edge of the cliff face to where the ruins of an ancient shelter lay tumbled against the rocks, half buried in brambles and saplings. He found there what he sought; though cracked and misshapen, the slate tiles would answer his purpose.

He made no further effort to make physical contact with the youngster, but offered the slate and a lump of chalkstone to him as a peace offering.

“Forgive me. It was never my intention to upset you. Let me introduce myself, I have many names but to the folk in this region I am known as Ranan,” he wrote.

“And what are you known as in other regions?” Min asked facetiously.

“Old man, Wanderer, Radagast… my brother called me Trouble!” he wrote, raising a smile from the youngster. “I prefer Ranan. .. it means Wanderer in the old tongue. And what name are you known by?”

“Min… short for Minnow. I was named by a young friend who took care of me when I was injured. It was meant as a nickname until I could tell them who I was but I couldn’t remember and so the name stuck… it is a good a name as any.”

“Hardly a fitting name for an educated man,” Ranan offered.

“Educated! Why do you think I am educated?” Min asked dismissively.

“Do you have no idea about your past life?” Ranan wrote.

“None that I would lay claim to. Trying to remember causes me to become ill… I have dreams… terrible dreams… jumbled, terrifying images of fire, of treachery… of treason… the echo of my dreams follows me when I wake and yet when awake I cannot brings those images to mind. The healer told me it is my mind protecting itself from memories too terrible to recall… so I am left with the terror without knowing the cause.”

“And is that why you sleep in the day out in the sunlight… to keep the darkness at bay?”

“It helps… a little. And now I have found a sanctuary here where my distress will disturb no one,” Min explained. Ranan was almost tempted to tell him of the vigil kept over him by the Old Ones, but realised that the knowledge would likely only distress him further.

Min felt strangely comforted by the old man’s presence and over the next few days the two men learned more about each other, though they often spent many hours in silence, both so used to their own company that they didn’t feel the need for idle communication. Min was fascinated by the way the glade was suddenly teeming with birds and small animals all seeming eager for the old man’s company and Ranan was intrigued by the effortless way Min had of living in harmony with his environment, one night as they sat by the fire he asked the younger man about it.

“Where did you learn your skills; to hunt and fish and live off the land?” he wrote.

“I don’t know. I assumed it was instinct… I feel more at home here than I did on the ship and with my handicap I found being in the company of strangers… difficult!”

Ranan was curious about something he had detected when in physical contact with the youngster. “May I ask you something?” he wrote. Min nodded his acquiescence. “When I touched your head to speak to you, I noticed a strange buzzing. Are you aware of it? Can you hear it?”

“It has been like that since I recovered from my injuries. At first it used to drive me to distraction but I suppose I have become used to it. The only time it really bothers me now is if I get worried or distressed, then it gets louder,” Min explained. It was true, he realised; he was so accustomed to the constant noise that he could usually blot it out.

“And if you could be rid of it?” Ranan wrote.

“It is not possible. The healer said the organs of hearing were damaged when I was struck on the head. I am resigned to living with it… it is a small price to pay for my life and health.”

“If it were possible to heal it, would you take that chance?”

“Are you saying it is possible?” Min asked.

“I have some small skills… I cannot claim to be able to cure the condition but I might be able to alleviate it to a degree.”

“So it could come back?”

“Possibly!”

“Then I will stay as I am. I can live with it as it is but if you stopped it, even for a short while, learning to cope with it again when it returned would be too cruel. Better to live as I am than to suffer false hope.”

Whether it was talk of the past or just coincidence, but that night Min experienced his worst nightmare in many months. Ranan was woken by the screams and pained whimpering of the younger man as he thrashed, still imprisoned by the death-grip of terror-filled sleep. Unable to wake him, he pulled Min up to sitting and got behind him, restraining his thrashings by holding him tightly against his chest. Min fought his grip but, despite his youth, he was no match for the old man’s veiled power. Using one arm to restrain the lad he used his other hand to hold Min’s head against his shoulder. He soothed with his voice, using the contact to speed his words directly into the younger man’s mind. Eventually Ranan’s ministrations paid off and Min gradually relaxed, the relief of tension leaving him slumped with exhaustion. While Min was on the cusp of sleep, Ranan used his connection to get an insight into what the boy had experienced. To himself he justified the invasion of privacy against the boy’s obvious and continued suffering.

What he saw in the youngster’s sub-conscious shocked him, for if only a portion of what was revealed to him was true then the boy’s survival was a miracle. The Old One had told him of the boy’s scars, glimpsed from a distance, but Ranan had not observed them himself, now he had an inkling of how they had been inflicted. The other images he had seen were too jumbled to make any sense. Ranan was now sure why the Valar had directed his steps to Min’s side. Using his power he nudged Min into deep, dreamless sleep and once he was sure that his young friend was settled he wondered back out into the night to seek counsel from the stars

Ranan sat on the shore of a sandy cove and watched as Min and the old sailor manoeuvred the flimsy craft through the waves. Sailing was not one of the old wanderer’s favourite modes of transport, especially not in a boat so small that one could dangle ones fingers over the side and into the water. It was little comfort to him that the sea was calm and that the boat was in shallow waters close to the shore. Still he worried for his young friend.

As he watched, the sailor tapped Min on the shoulder and directed his attention to the net. Min nodded and started hauling in the catch, expertly decanting the fish into wicker baskets and coiling the emptied net ready for another cast. But there was no need to carry on fishing as the baskets were full and dusk was fast approaching. They turned the boat towards the shore and, with Ranan’s help, hauled the vessel up beyond the tide line into the soft sand. Such a bountiful catch was greeted with joy by the villagers and they all came together to help mend and dry the nets and to unpack and clean the fish for smoking. Great bonfires were lit and the cleaned fish were threaded onto long sticks and placed in rows on square wooden frames over the fires. With the chores completed it was time for the villagers and their guests to enjoy an evening of feasting on the beach. Both Min and Ranan were dragged into the dancing and Min’s obvious enjoyment of the festivities was not spoiled when his lack of hearing and the frequent changes of tempo in the music caused him to stumble and falter. The children of the village hung on his hands, picking him up when he fell and patiently and with great humour teaching him the steps. It was a revelation to Ranan to hear Min’s joy-filled laughter ring out into the night, a sound never previously heard from the normally serious and self-contained youngster. In the firelight Ranan thought he caught a glimpse of the true nature of his young friend, a nature blighted and buried by the horrors of his past.

It had taken Ranan many weeks and a great deal of persuasion to convince Min to leave the sanctuary of the glade and travel with him on a journey northwards towards the Haven of the Elves in the Gulf of Lune. Finally Min agreed, accepting the old man’s invitation with no small degree of trepidation. One difficulty had been that the bulk of the journey was best accomplished by sea and that meant leaving the donkey behind and taking only what the two men could carry. They gifted the faithful beast to the Old Ones of the forest, the only time that Min had met his secret neighbours.

Using the Brandywine as their guide the travellers followed the river through the forest until they came upon a coastal fishing village. Ranan sought a passage north in one of the fishing vessels, a convenient though unwelcome necessity. The headman only agreed to the commission in return for the travellers’ labours for a month; Min assisted with the fishing and Ranan worked the land. The villagers obviously knew of Ranan by reputation, though none were still living who had been alive when he had last passed through the region. To begin with Min was treated with more caution, his ignorance of the local language and his deafness rendering him totally unable to communicate with their hosts expect by rudimentary hand signals. But his industry and skills of sea craft soon endeared him to the fisher folk and a glimpse of his scars as he worked elicited compassion rather than the scorn he had expected. He spent most of his free time surrounded by the children; he watched their carefree games and joined in when he could, fashioning trinkets from driftwood or drawing pictures for them in the sand with sticks. With the tolerance of childhood they accepted him as he was, caring nothing for his deafness, nor his scars nor for the disturbance of his night-terrors, disturbances that not even Ranan’s ministrations could suppress. Each time the youngster was so stricken Ranan caught another glimpse of his past and each revelation convinced him of the urgency of getting Min to one who could offer him the possibility of healing.

With their month of toil at an end, Ranan, Min and Sasael, the fisherman boarded the largest vessel in the village’s small fleet; a single masted, open decked tub of a boat, much too small and flimsy for Ranan’s comfort or peace of mind. The passage north to the Gulf of Lune was a journey of many days, the wind aiding their speed if not their comfort. Sasael was an experienced sailor who knew the waters well and knew when to put a greater distance between their flimsy craft and the treacherous rocks that hugged the coast.

“You are late! Nearly a year too late to be exact!” The Lord Cirdan chided as he greeted Ranan’s first thankful steps onto solid ground.

“My Lord Cirdan, to paraphrase my ‘brother’ ‘a wizard is never late’” Ranan replied, bowing low to the Elder, a good friend of long acquaintance. The Elf Lord laughed and hugged his visitor before continuing in a more sombre tone.

“I am afraid there is no boat ready to take you hither, Radagast, my old friend. It will be many years before you may now go home,” Cirdan explained sadly.

“What are a few more years? It seems that my task is not yet done,” Ranan explained, turning Cirdan towards where Min was helping Sasael to secure the boat.

“What is this? You have taken another stray under your wing! I take it he is the reason for your tardy arrival.” Cirdan took the opportunity to observe the youngster as he worked.

“A stray indeed … and one much troubled by great suffering.”

“His features tell of a noble heritage… of Númenor and the First born. Tell me, who is he and what is his story?” Cirdan asked.

“He names himself Min but he has no knowledge of his past nor his heritage. He considers himself an outcast… he has suffered greatly!”

“He seems hearty enough.” Closer observation of the two in the boat drew the Elf Lord’s attention to the fact that they were not speaking but were communicating with hand signs and gestures. “He is hurt? You have brought him here for healing?” Cirdan asked.

“Aye, deafness is just one of the consequences of the trials of his past. Cirdan, he needs greater skills than I possess to offer him any hope of healing. I have not even begun to help him.” Ranan explained sadly.

“Perhaps you should introduce us,” Cirdan suggested, noticing that the youngster was now standing uncertainly on the quayside, two oilcloth wrapped packs at his feet.

“My Lord Cirdan, may I introduce my friend, Min,” Ranan spoke the words slowly and clearly, facing Min rather than the Elf Lord.

“It is an honour and a pleasure to meet you, My Lord,” Min replied, bowing low, his right hand pressed to his breast.

If Cirdan was surprised by the cultured tone or the innate elegance of the gesture he gave no outward sign. He smiled. “The pleasure is all mine. You are most welcome.” Cirdan beckoned over a much younger looking elf and turned back to Min.

“Thorian will show you both to our guest quarters where you may take rest and refreshment. Please make yourselves at home and do not hesitate to let us know if there is anything we may do to ease your stay.”

As Thorian led a slightly stunned-looking Min away Cirdan detained Ranan for a moment.

“An enigma indeed!”

“Aye, There is much trapped within his mind that he has suppressed. I will say no more, I think it best that you make your own judgement about my young friend,” Ranan explained, “but I fear that, despite outward appearance, he is fragile still.”

“I see great hurt and grief within his countenance,” Cirdan observed to his old friend.

“His mind is troubled but he is a good man, I think; one of great courage, if what I have glimpsed of his past is any indication.”

Over the next few days Cirdan observed his young guest as he settled into the Elven colony. Min was quiet and unassuming, spending many hours in the suite allocated to his use. He was clearly shy and yet had an obvious admiration for the art and architecture of his surroundings. He was captivated by the Elves of the Havens and he once again regretted his loss of hearing. He longed to be able to hear the voices and songs of the Elves. He had little difficulty in understanding their speech in individual conversations, for all the Elves he met seemed to understand his disability and endeavoured to speak in such a manner as he could understand them, but in communal situations, such as meal times or the evening gathering he struggled and he turned his frustration inwards, avoiding those situations that caused his distress.

The rooms allocate to him were bright and elegant with a wide view of the Haven’s and the sea beyond. To begin with he felt overwhelmed by the opulence, accustomed as he was to the spartan and crowded life aboard ship or the harsh realities of his life in the wilds. To sleep in a comfortable bed with soft linens and to have available basins of hot water and fine soaps to wash in were luxuries indeed. His hosts even provided him with new attire fashioned from fine linen and wool: leggings and long tunics in the style of their own attire.

When the Elves discovered his interest in art and his skill at carving and drawing they showed him to a studio where the artisans worked and offered him the use of whatever equipment he required. Amongst his many other works Min laboured for long hours on a charcoal drawing of a fortified sea side castle and harbour viewed from the land. When Ranan saw the sketch he recognised the view immediately and hurried to bring the picture and its import to Lord Cirdan.

Cirdan noted much about his young guest and Ranan supplied what information he could. His council explained one aspect of Min’s behaviour that puzzled the Elder; Min often retired early for the night but would than rise when the rest of the community were asleep to spend hours in the studio working or would wrap himself in a cloak and steal to the far edge of the harbour to sit and watch the stars and waves through the long hours of the night. And often he would disappear in the daytime for hours at a time. Cirdan knew where he went, as he knew everything that occurred within his realm and he knew when it was time to confront the youngster.

One evening when Min excused himself at the end of the evening meal, Cirdan and Ranan escorted him from the Hall.

“My Lords!” Min queried, clearly disconcerted by this sudden attention. Cirdan smiled to offer reassurance and ushered Min to his chamber. Min noticed that during his absence an extra easy chair had been placed in his room and his apprehension grew. He flinched when the Elf Lord gently but firmly pressed him down into the middle of the three chairs.

“Peace, Min. All will be well,” Ranan assured him, his hand just touching the youngster’s ear to speak directly to him.

“May I?” Cirdan requested, extending his own hand but waiting for Min’s nod of acquiescence before proceeding to place his hand on the side of his head. For several moments the Elf Lord was silent though Min could feel a warm thrum of energy pass into his mind. He at once felt not only a lessening of the maddening buzzing in his ears but a profound sense of peace washing over him. As time passed he experiences an overwhelming up swell of emotion and he focussed his attention and all the willpower he possessed to force back the urge to weep, though he had no notion as to what he had to weep for. His eyes and throat burned with the effort to remain in control and he gasped against the crushing pressure in his chest.

“Do not hold back your tears… let go, Min… allow yourself the relief of tears.” He sensed the Elf Lord’s gentle compassion and he could no longer resist the urge to give his emotions free rein. He curled over until his forehead rested on his knees and he allowed his tears to flow. The two Elders maintained their contact to him, each using their free hand to gentle and soothe the distraught youngster in their care. Their eyes met above his huddled form and they shared a look of relief mixed with sorrow, for none could be unmoved by the young man’s suffering.

It took a long time before Min was calm enough to talk.

“Forgive me,” he whispered. Ranan disappeared into Min’s bathing chamber and returned with a cool damp cloth and gently sponged away the tracks of his distress.

“Why do you ask for forgiveness? What is your offence?” Cirdan asked gently.

“For being a burden… for being weak!”

“I see no burden nor do I see weakness. I see only one who has suffered and who deserves peace.” Cirdan assured him As the youngster further calmed the Elf lord continued, “May I ask you something, Min? Why did you accompany Ranan here?”

“He persuaded me that if I came here I would find companionship and peace. I had been travelling alone for a long time and I found I no longer wished to be alone. He said that there was one here who might offer me sanctuary.”

“And what do you seek?”

“It seems you have already accomplished it. You have quietened the torment in my ears. If it lasts you will have given me all the healing I can hope for.”

“That is a meagre measure of hope!… and if this improvement persists what would be your wish? What are your plans?”

“I have no plans. I would be happy to stay here if I may find some useful occupation so that I may contribute and not be a burden…”

“I have said before that you are no burden and you are welcome to find sanctuary here for as long as you wish… but I believe you have other hurts that need addressing!” Cirdan prompted.

“I assure you I have no other injuries.”

“I spoke not of injuries but of hurts… tell me of your night time wanderings and daytime sojourns.” There was a sternness and a compassion in the Elf Lord’s manner that allowed no room for dissembling and despite his reluctance Min felt compelled to answer.

“I do not sleep well, even with the comfort of my chambers. I find comfort under the stars…”

“And you do not risk alerting or alarming others with the distress of your dreams?”

“I do not wish to trouble others with my wea… !”

“Do not say it!” Cirdan admonished, sharply. “Min, I am reckoned by my people to be a good judge of character and I tell you again that I see no weakness in you… other than your reluctance to reach out and take up the offers of healing and friendship that are offered to you. Ranan was guided to you and offered to bring you here because he saw that you were in need… and yet you deny that need!”

“What need… I seek only peace.”

“Tell me of your dreams, of your nightmares… Tell me of your past,” Cirdan urged.

“I have no past. My life began more than two years ago when I was pulled from the water, more dead than alive.”

“I do not seek to distress you but from what I have observed and from what Ranan has told me, whatever happened to you was horrific but, my friend, you cannot write off all of your previous life. There must be friends and family out there somewhere who are grieving over your loss. Why do you not seek to find them?”

“Do you think they would welcome a traitor and a felon back with open arms!” Min shouted, breaking contact with the two Elders and pacing angrily. “Do you think I would inflict that upon them? If there be anyone out there who would have grieved for me then they are well rid. I am dead to them and they can move on with their lives without me to taint their future.”

“You speak of treachery… how do you know this?” Cirdan asked, hoping that Min would read the question upon his lips.

“I cannot remember my dreams,” Min said tiredly, all anger leaching away. “I cannot remember the details, though the fear and the shame follow me into waking and those are the words that echo over and over when I wake… traitor… coward… murderer… !”

“But, my friend, dreams are a poor way to judge the past,” Cirdan explained, standing to once again reach out and make contact with the distressed youngster.

Min again shook off his hand, breaking the contact. He turned his back on his companions, pulling his tunic off over his head and baring his back to their inspection.

“Perhaps this is a better method by which to judge,” he said. If not for his deafness he would have heard the gasps of shock from the two Elders as they saw closely for the first time the full extent of the scaring that marred his back from shoulders down to the waistband of his leggings. He shuddered as he felt the Elf Lord’s hand ghost over the surface of his skin, gently mapping the puckered and angry wheals.

Cirdan turned Min to face him, cupping his cheeks and forcing him to meet his gaze. He was not surprised to see the anger or the tears coursing down the man’s cheeks.

“You scars tell nothing but that you have been terribly and viciously abused… they mark you as a victim… not a felon nor a traitor… they are not a sign of judicious chastisement!” At this pronouncement Min slumped down into the chair and shrugged on his tunic.

“Will you not allow me to help you decipher your memories?” Cirdan asked.

“I do not want to remember. In this I am a coward… I do not want to remember,” he choked.

“Would it not be better to face the past, young one?” Ranan urged.

“To what purpose. To have my transgressions ever before me.”

“Maybe you would learn that you have no transgressions to face,”

“If I decline your offer would I still be welcome to stay here?” Min asked.

“You may stay as long as you need, we place no conditions upon your residency and the offer remains open for as long as you are here. Would you at least consider letting me attempt to ease your physical hurts. I believe I may be able to lessen the scaring and I hope I may be able to further improve your hearing.”

“But you would let the past be?”

“If that is your wish.”

“Very well, I thank you for your generosity and I will accept your kind offer of hospitality .”

“I will also formulate for you a draught to assist you to sleep; you are exhausting yourself in trying to avoid your dreams.”

“I have tried potions in the past,” Min explained, “but they tend to make things worse.”

“But not ‘my’ potions. I believe I may be able to prescribe an aid to assist you to achieve restful sleep.”

“May I make a request in return, Sire?” Min asked.

“Of course, if it is within my power to grant it.”

“I have noticed that there are many empty villas on the outskirts of the harbour. I would be more at home away from the bustle of the main area,” Min explained.

“I do not think it a good idea for you to isolate yourself,” Cirdan cautioned.

“I do not seek isolation… just a little distance, so that I do not need to worry about disturbing others.”

“Will you agree to take your meals in the Great Hall with the rest of the community?”

“If that is your wish,” Min answered, echoing back to Cirdan his own words.

“You have not lost your cheek, I notice, “ Cirdan admonished with a grin and a hug.

Min chose a villa on the hillside just above the harbour wall. It was a small but cosy dwelling that was blessed with the early morning light and in the evening offered spectacular views of the sunset. Beside the villa a walled garden was ablaze with a riot of flowers and plants long ago abandoned to their own devices. Min filled his days with peaceful occupations; he drew and painted, often taking the bounty of nature as his inspiration. He pottered in the garden, not seeking to tame the abundance but only to enhance and nurture the natural order. He often had company as he worked as the Elves sought his company offering friendship and gently guiding him in his endeavours. And each evening after supper he would make his way to the Healing Halls where Cirdan or one of the other healers would massage salves into the dreadful scaring that extended from his shoulders right down to his feet. His inherent shyness made the first few treatments a trial for him as it meant baring himself for their ministrations but their consideration for his feelings and their detached and professional manner soon put him at ease. Cirdan himself treated Min’s ears, massaging warmed oils down into his ear canals to calm and heal the shattered eardrums and channelling his healing energy to the hearing pathways. In time the buzzing was completely eliminated and though the hearing in his left ear was beyond even Elven healing he did regain a degree of hearing in his right ear. He could still not hear clearly but with concentration he could make out some sounds.

Min had been settled for many weeks in the Haven’s and the glowing colours of autumn were painting the leaves with inner fire when Lord Cirdan was alerted to the imminent arrival of an unexpected but honoured guest; only as he was hurrying up the winding lanes to where the gate-ward awaited him did the significance of the date occur to him. Lord Cirdan’s face lit up with delight as he recognised his visitor and he greeted his guest warmly.

Chapter 9: Many Meetings

The safe arrival of Rosie’s baby was a source of great rejoicing within and beyond the confines of Bag End and little Frodo-Lad was just the boost that Sam needed to finally make his peace with Frodo’s absence. He grieved still for the loss of his friend but it was a grief now tempered with understanding and he vowed to honour Frodo’s legacy by taking up the reins as Master of Bag End and doing all in his power to see the Shire prosper.

With Rosie and the bairns fit to travel there was no longer any doubt that the Gamgees would accept the King’s invitation. Sam borrowed a wagon and ponies from the Cottons and set about making it a comfortable mode of transport for his family. He rigged up an awning to shade them from sun and rain and he padded the cart with straw-filled mattresses and soft quilts.

On the day appointed for the beginning of the journey to Lake Evendim, Rosie and the little ones settled in the cart but it was not Sam who took the reins and urged the ponies on the road towards Buckland, Rosie’s brother, Tom had offered to escort his sister. Two days earlier, Sam had slipped away at dawn on his own errand, a trip he took with Rosie’s blessing. Rosie had a letter from Sam to the King explaining his errand and offering his sincere apologies for his delay. While she was sure the King would understand, she was less sure of Mr Merry’s reaction and as they approached the Brandywine Bridge to meet up with the parties from Tuckborough and Brandy Hall, Frodo-Lad sensed her anxiety and began to fret.

A fretful baby and an over-excited Eleanor went a good way to deflating Merry’s obvious agitation at this unexpected turn of events. He had little choice but to accede to Tom’s request that he relieve him of his position so that he could return to the farm to help with the harvest. Merry tethered his own pony to the cart and climbed up into the driving seat. Rosie thanked her brother and busied herself with the children, enabling her to ignore Merry’s muttered grumbling.

Just beyond the Brandywine, the escort sent by the King awaited the travellers. There were so many familiar faces amongst the escort party that it took a while for order to be established. Legolas and the twin son’s of Elrond met their Shire friends with delight and amongst the Royal Guard Merry and Pippin recognised Beregond and Bergil and Damrod.

Merry and Pippin and Bergil took turns to drive Rosie’s wagon and the Elves battled good naturedly amongst themselves for the honour of carrying Frodo-Lad when the babe grew restless; they would cradle him in a sling of cloth and serenade him to restfulness with elven lullabies. Eleanor had only to smile at the elves and one would pluck her from the cart and place her before them on their tall Elven steeds; they never seemed to grow wearied by her cheerful chattering nor could they resist when she begged for stories or songs.

The journey passed swiftly and a few days saw the party approaching the new palace on the shores of the lake. Only the central hall of the palace was completed, the strong stone structure standing tall above the temporary wooden buildings that made up the rest of the palace environs. A wooden palisade and a deep moat surrounded the buildings and tall guard towers were constantly manned while the Royal party were in residence.

It was a joyfull meeting of old and dear friends and the Shire travellers were quickly ushered into the Great Hall where they were greeted warmly. Merry and Pippin were delighted to see Gimli and Èowyn again and also Èomer King and his new wife Lothiriel. The also met the two younger sons of Prince Imrahil who had accompanied their sister, while the Prince, in his capacity as First Minister, remained in Minas Tirith to represent the King in his absence. Rosie and the children were soon whisked away to the nursery by Arwen and Èowyn, while the King and his guest caught up on each others news.

Only as the company were gathered together before dinner did Rosie get the chance to speak to the King. “Please, Sire, could you spare me a moment?” Rosie asked quietly during a lull in the conversation.

“Of course, Mistress Gamgee,” The King teased gently, leading her to a quieter corner.

“Everyone calls me Rosie, Sire.”

“And my friends call me Estel,” he replied, kindly.

“What, even my Sam?”

“If I remind him often enough, though it doesn’t fall easy from dear Sam’s lips!” the King explained causing Rosie to smile and relax a little more.

“I’d imagine he’d find that difficult… even poor Frodo couldn’t persuade my Sam to stop calling him Mr, not even after all they went through together,” Rosie explained.

“You wanted to ask me something, Rosie?”

“No, Sir, just to explain. Sam sent a letter for you but he wanted me to make sure you understood why he couldn’t come here with the rest of us. He didn’t want you to think he was being disrespectful,”

“Was it Shire business that kept him away?”

“No, Sir. Sam has gone to the Haven’s,” Rosie explained.

“Oh. Oh, I see. But he plans to return… he is not seeking passage with Lord Cirdan!”

“Oh, no, Sire. Sam would never leave us, not when we need him so. No, it is the anniversary, “ Rosie said and Estel nodded in understanding.

“No, forgive me, Sam would never desert those he loves. Is he alright, Rosie? Some of the letters we received from Merry and Pippin had us worried for him… we all know of his devotion to Frodo.”

“He took Frodo’s going awful hard and for a while we all feared for him. To have survived all the difficulties and dangers of the Quest only to lose him when they got home…”

“Yes, Arwen feared that Frodo was more deeply hurt by his experiences than any of us realised.”

“I have to tell you, Sire, that for a while Sam seemed lost to reason. He cursed the Elves and Mr Gandalf and even you, Sire, for burdening Frodo with that evil and for not healing his hurts when he was done.”

“As we all cursed ourselves, Rosie. Not a day goes by that I don’t wish things could have been different. But is Sam reconciled now? Has he forgiven us?”

“Oh, yes, Sire. Now that the sharpest grief has given way to acceptance, he knows, as he always knew in his heart, that you were not to blame.”

“And this trip to the Haven’s?”

“I think he just wants to make his peace with the past… To say his farewell to Frodo until they are together again.” Rosie explained.

“He believes that?”

“Oh, yes, Sire. Lord Cirdan himself promised my Sam safe passage when the time is right. He promised him that Mr Frodo would find peace and healing and that they would be reunited at last.”

“And you can accept that possibility, Rosie?”

“I know he will not go while the children or I have need of him, “ Rosie assured him. “And when I’m gone I would like him to find peace too.”

“Sam is blessed to have you, Rosie,”

“And I am doubly blessed to have him.”

“Greeting, Master Samwise. You are most welcome.” Lord Cirdan greeted the little Hobbit with a smile and a hug.

“The honour is mine, Your Lordship. I hope you do not mind my coming unannounced?” the diffident little Hobbit asked.

“Sam, the Haven’s will always be honoured to receive one of the cherished Ring Bearers,” Cirdan assured him.

“I had to come, see,” Sam stuttered.

“Sam, you do not need to explain your reasons. Did you come alone?”

“Aye. And likely to catch it good when Mr Merry and Mr Pippin catch up with me!”

“Why, Sam?”

“I reckon they will think I shouldn’t be here… at least not now.”

“Your meaning is not clear, Sam. Why would they object to you coming here? They and you will always find a welcome under my protection.”

“Aye, but they have all gone visiting with the King and I should have gone with them. I’m sure Mr Strider will understand when my Rosie explains it to him but Mr Merry will think I have forgotten my place and disgraced the Shire by my absence when I was sent an official invitation,” Sam babbled.

“Oh, I see, but you had a more important errand?”The Elf Lord asked. Sam nodded, his face tight and pale with suddenly remembered grief.

“Peace, Sam. I am sure that The Elessar will not be upset by your choice. How long will he be staying in the Northern Kingdom.?”

“’Till the spring. He has brought a great host with him. He wanted to show his friends the northlands and to introduce his bairn to his northern kin,” Sam explained.

“Then you will have ample time to join them when you have completed your errand here,” Cirdan assured him. He helped Sam back into the saddle and led the way down to the harbour.

“Would you like to join us in the Hall for supper, Sam?” Cirdan asked the Hobbit as they approached the harbour.

“Thank you kindly, Sire, but I’m right weary and I don’t think I would be good company just now. May I be excused?”

“Of course you may, Sam. I will show you to your room and have light supper sent up to you later.”

“I don’t want to be no bother, Sire. I will be gone in a day or two… I just wanted… I needed… to… br… here!”

“I understand, Sam. There is no need to explain. You grieve still.”

“Aye, Sire. It’s been right hard, even knowing it was the only choice left to him. It’s not right and it’s not fair that my Mr Frodo should have had to suffer so. . “

“No, Sam, it isn’t. But he will find the peace he seeks and you will be reunited with him when your time comes… even now the shipwrights are starting to work on a new vessel and it will be waiting for you when the time comes.”

“Thank you, Sire. That is a great comfort to me, though I know it is a long ways off.”

“Rest now, Sam, All will be well”

At dawn, long before the rest of the household was awake, the little Hobbit slipped out of the guest house clutching a bunch of flowers. He made his way to the end of the harbour wall to where he could see the ocean glinting in the distance, between the high steep cliffs of the estuary. All day he sat alone on the edge of the harbour wall and though the Elves kept a watch upon him but did not intrude upon his silent and sorrowful vigil. As the tide turned he threw his posy of shire flowers into the waves and watched its slow progress away from him until it was lost from sight. And still he watched and waited and only when it was full dark did Lord Cirdan approach him and gently lead him back, escorting him to the Hall to rest and to eat as the Elves held their own celebration for the trial and triumphs of Frodo Baggins, the honoured Ringbearer, on the anniversary of his departure into the West.

At break of fast the next day Sam found himself as guest of honour, seated between Lord Cirdan and Ranan. The Hobbit seemed in awe of the whole company and could not keep his eyes from traversing the company, to the point that Ranan had to keep urging him to eat, so great was his distraction. To one face his eyes were repeatedly drawn, though the object of his scrutiny was seated at the far end of the Hall.

“’Scuse me, Sire, but that gentleman is no Elf, is he?” he asked, his expression puzzled.

“No, Sam. He is a fellow guest who has been staying with us for a while,” Lord Cirdan explained, exchanging a conspiratorial glance with the Maia.

“It is strange but he reminds me of someone… but that is not possible,” Sam muttered, but the uncertainty plagued at him and he couldn’t help but ask, “What is his name, Sire?”

“He is called Min,” Cirdan explained.

“Aye. Not who I thought then… anyhow it would’ve been impossible. Must just be a trick of the light.” Sam turned his attention back to his breakfast but his eyes continued to flicker towards the stranger.

Min got up at the end of the meal and with a slight bow of acknowledgement to the Lord he left without a second thought for the small guest at the top table. As the Hall emptied Cirdan and Ranan led Sam out into a quiet courtyard.

“Sam, who did Min remind you of?” Cirdan asked gently.

“A man I met on the Quest. He was a Ranger… quite an important man we learned later. He was good to us. He helped Mr Frodo and me when we travelled in Ithillien. He caught us as spies but Mr Frodo soon convinced him that we was on an important errand… even when that wretch Gollum nearly wrecked everything with his trespassing. Aye, he was an important man and a good man, one of the best.”

“And his name?”

“Oh, yes, his name. He was called Faramir. Perhaps your friend Min is related to him. I know he had relatives in South Gondor, related as he was to Prince Imrahil,” Sam explained.

“And what of Faramir? What happened to him?”

“Prince Faramir is dead. Killed by bandits in an ambush… two, nearly three years ago.”

“And how do you know this, Sam.”

“We heard it from the King himself,” Sam explained. “We exchange letters with our friends in Gondor. It grieved Mr Frodo dreadfully to hear that Mr Faramir was missing and then last year we heard that the bandits had been found and tried and executed. It was a real blow to have confirmation that he was dead ‘ cause up till then, when he was just missing, we all hoped he was alive somewhere.”

“So Min reminds you of Prince Faramir?” Ranan asked.

“Yes, ‘course the hair is the wrong colour… Mr Faramir had red-gold hair and your friend’s hair is white… and from where I was sitting he seemed thinner… Mr Faramir was tall and broad across the shoulder, being an archer,” Sam explained.

“Sam, would there be rejoicing if Prince Faramir were found?”

“What, a body, you mean?”

“No, Sam,” Cirdan said gently, “if Lord Faramir was discovered to be alive.”

“What are you saying, Sire?”

“Sam, we believe that our friend Min many be your lost Prince.”

“Why would Prince Faramir be hiding here in secret… it makes no sense, Sire?”

“Min has no recollection and no knowledge of his history, Sam. He remembers nothing of his past and his suffering was such that he believes that his past is best left a mystery… he fears that he committed some dreadful crime!”

“That’s a lie, Sire! Mr Faramir was one of the most honourable people I have ever had the privilege to meet. He could no more commit a crime than my Mr Frodo could.”

“So there was no treachery, no treason, and no lapse of duty?”

“Not by Mr Faramir… only against him, if you get my meaning,” Sam assured them. “Can I meet him, Sire?”

“He knew you well?”

“Well enough, why?”

“Confronting him with a face from his past may be very difficult for him.” Cirdan explained. “His mind has blocked all memories and he suffers greatly when those memories try to resurface.”

“But how will I know for sure it is him?”

“I think you should meet him. Min spends a lot of time in his garden, I could introduce you there. But, Sam, I would have to rely on you to let him control the encounter; see if there is any sign of recognition from him; do not drop any hint of his name or his history unless he asks directly.”

“I’m not good at untruths, Sire,” Sam warned him.

“I do not ask you to tell untruths, Sam. Just assure yourself that he is who we believe him to be and leave the rest to us.”

Min was working in the garden when a shadow fell across the patch he was weeding. He stood up to greet his visitors.

“My Lord Cirdan, Ranan, greetings,”

“Good morning, Min. Your garden is looking beautiful, we have brought a guest, a fellow gardener, to admire your handiwork,” Cirdan explained, ushering forward a small stranger. “Min, may I present Samwise Gamgee.”

“Samwise Gamgee at your service, Sir,” Sam said gravely, his eyes never leaving the man’s puzzled gaze.

“The pleasure is mine, Master Samwise,” Min stuttered glancing at the two Lords as if seeking information.

“You have a fine garden, Sir” Sam offered, though Min was clearly disturbed and didn’t answer.

“Sam, Min is hard of hearing,” Cirdan explained.

Ranan could see the man’s increasing distress and took a step closer. “Are you unwell, Min?” he asked.

Min didn’t answer, too suddenly assaulted by a fierce pain behind his eyes and an anxious knotting in his chest. He staggered, reaching out to Ranan for support to keep his balance. Sam instinctively moved away, distressed to have been the cause of such a dramatic reaction.“If you will forgive me… please excuse me…” Min all but bolted for the sanctuary of his villa but not before they had all seen the colour drain from his face.

“Is there any doubt, Sam? Is this Lord Faramir?”

“He is much altered but, aye, it is him, I’d swear to it,” Sam affirmed.

“I will attend to him,” Ranan offered following Min into the villa.

“Very well. Sam would you like to play messenger for me. I feel the message you are to deliver to Estel will negate any hard feelings over your tardy arrival to attend upon his majesty.”

“You would trust me with such an important commission, Sire?”

“Who better, Sam. I will send Thorian, a young Elf, to escort you. I will write a letter to Estel but I think it better that you impart the news to him yourself… this news is too momentous to be conveyed in a letter.”

“And what about Min… Faramir? Will he be alright?”

“I will prepare him gently. He must know the truth before he is confronted with other faces from his past.”

Min woke slowly from the sedative Ranan had administered when all other means of comforting his distress had proved ineffective.

“What happened?” he croaked, his voice hoarse with the abuse his screams had inflicted upon his vocal cords. “Where am I?”

“You are in the Healing Halls. You have been unwell.” Cirdan helped his patient to swallow a goblet of water. “What do you remember?” Cirdan asked as he pressed him back against the pillows.

“I was in the garden… you were there and Ranan… and a stranger… a little stranger,” he gasped, his breathing becoming laboured and distressed.

“Gently, Min, you are quite safe. My friend wanted to meet you. He is a Hobbit of the Shire.”

“A Hobbit?”

“Yes, A Hobbit. You have met Hobbits before, I think.”

“Yes. . No… I don’t know!”

“Gently, gently,” Cirdan soothed. “Did you recognise our guest?”

“I panicked! Why did I do that?… he looked harmless.”

“Sam is a good friend. A good and loyal friend. In your heart you recognised him but your mind still closes itself to your memories.”

“He knew me?”

“He recognised you, yes. He was surprised and delighted to see you.” Cirdan explained.

Min was clearly struggling to form a question he wasn’t sure he had the courage to utter. Finally he forced out his query. “He knows who I was?”

“Yes. He was, is your friend.”

“And he gave you my name?”

“Yes, although I already had my suspicions as to your true identity.”

“But you said nothing.”

“You were not ready to hear,” Cirdan said gently.

“I am still not!”

“Min, don’t you think it is time to face down your demons and take back control of your life?”

“NO… I am happy here…”

“You cannot hide here for ever. You have friends and family who will be overjoyed to know you are safe.”

“You have not told them! Let me up. I must get up, get away. Why did you tell them?”

It took Cirdan a few minutes to restrain the youngster’s desperate struggles to get away. “Peace, Min. Hush,” he soothed.

“Leave me! You have betrayed me. I was safe here.”

“It is no betrayal to restore you to those who love you.”

“You don’t know that! You don’t know what I did?”

“And neither do you. It is time to face up to your fears. I will help you. You do not have to this alone,” The Elf Lord assured him.

“And what if the truth is a shameful as I fear?”

“You have been more than adequately punished for any error you may have committed… and I say error not crime… I believe you to be innocent of any crime, Faramir, Son of Denethor.”

“What!”

“Faramir. That is your name; Faramir of the House of Hurin, Prince of Ithillien, Son of Denethor.” Min pressed his hands against his ears to prevent any other revelations but Cirdan would not allow it, he grasped his hands and pulled them away. “No more hiding, Faramir. In a few days you will be reunited with your kin and your King.”

“The King is dead!”

“How do you know that?”

“I have seen it, heard it, over and over and over,” Faramir said dully.

“No Faramir. King Elessar is alive and well and is desperately missing his friend and Steward.”

“I saw him fall. I had his blood on my hands…”

“It is time to sweep aside disjointed thoughts and half truths, Faramir. Estel is alive and I would have you now go back and remember what brought you to this place.”

Faramir slumped in surrender, no longer able to resist the Elf Lord’s compassionate but insistent demands. “What must I do?”

“Place your trust in me. I will take you to a state of half-sleep. You will be able to experience your dreams and share them with me. Together we will delve into the past so that you can recall what really happened.

“I’m scared!” Min whispered, as though admitting the fact was in itself shameful.

“I know. True courage comes from facing your fears. The past cannot hurt you now. You will be able to see it without the pain,” Cirdan assured him. “I can tell you now that the ones who hurt you have already paid for their foul deeds with their lives… they are gone.”

“Let us get on with this, then, before I totally lose my nerve!”

It went on for hours. Long into the night Min relived the hours leading up to the ambush. Stopping every so often, Lord Cirdan and Ranan would rouse him to let him rest and take nourishment. When the final recitation of Faramir’s torment at the hand of Mathlong and Gothric’s gang was done, Cirdan nudged him into deeper, dreamless sleep to recover his strength and spirits.

Chapter 10 – Hope Rekindled

Sam arrived at the Palace at sundown a few days after the rest of the Shire party, just as the company were coming together for the evening meal. He had only time to greet his children before getting washed and changed to join his hosts. He was greeted warmly, though Merry felt it necessary to register his disapproval at Sam’s dereliction of duty.

Sam was so keyed up with the knowledge that he held that he could barely eat. Rosie, ever attuned to his moods, watched and worried as he pushed his food around, his eyes constantly dancing from the King to Legolas and to the Lady Éowyn. At the end of the meal Rosie excused herself to attend to the baby and Sam escorted her to the nursery; without giving details, Sam reassured her and spent some time with his son before returning to the company.

By now the other guests were noticing Sam’s uncharacteristic behaviour. When he approached Éowyn, taking her hand and beaming at her bemused expression before hugging her and patting her hand, Merry was heard to enquire of Pippin if Sam had overindulged on wine during dinner. As the evening progressed the company dwindled until only Estel and Legolas and Sam remained. The King and the Elf watched Sam’s restless agitation until they could bear it no longer.

“Sam, whatever is the matter?” Legolas asked as he plucked the Hobbit from his pacing and sat him on a low stool between two fireside chairs. “I fear if you do not share your concerns soon you will explode!”

“Aye, you’re right… but now the time’s here I don’t rightly know where to begin…” Sam would have bounced up from his seat to continue pacing but for the two hands on his shoulders that kept him in place.

“Has this to do with Frodo?” Estel asked.

“Oh, no, Sire. Nothing to do with Mr Frodo.”

“Then is it to do with the Shire? With your inheritance of Bag End?”

“No! No, it is much more important than that. I love Bag End dearly, all the more so because it were Mr Frodo’s gift… but Bag End is just a building…”

“So if it is neither Bag End, nor Frodo, then your news must come from Lord Cirdan at the Havens?” Legolas prompted.

“Aye. Mr… I mean, Lord Cirdan entrusted me with a letter for you,” Sam explained, patting his waistcoat pocket.

“Would it not help if I read the letter, Master Gamgee!” Estel asked, trying to suppress his growing sense of exasperation.

“It would but Lord Cirdan and Mr Ranan…”

“You met Ranan?” Legolas interrupted.

“Who is this Ranan? Estel asked.

“You would know him as Radagast, Estel, but Ranan is one of the many names he has carried through the ages.” Legolas explained.

“Aye. It was Mr Ranan who found him, see,” Sam explained.

“Sam, you’re not making any sense. Start at the beginning and tell us your story,” Estel urged.

“Oh… Oh, right. I suppose I’m not telling this very well but it’s so incredible and Mr Ranan was concerned it would be a shock and they wanted me to try and tell you gentle like.”

“Sam! Tell us what?”

“Well, after I had done what I had to do at the harbour, Lord Cirdan invited me to break fast in the Hall with the rest of the community. Well, you can imagine, I hadn’t seen that many Elves together since Rivendell… it was a sight to make my heart sing. And I was just thinking on how Mr Frodo would have loved to see such a fine gathering when I noticed a stranger a ways off. He was dressed like the Elves and he had a high look to him but when I looked closer I realised he wasn’t an Elf at all.”

“And what was so special about him that drew your attention?” Legolas asked.

“Well, that was strange because he reminded me of someone… ’course the hair was different and the man was much thinner and a bit gaunt looking for all that his face was tanned. So I asked Lord Cirdan who he was and he named the man as Min.”

“An odd name! Did Lord Cirdan not offer his family name nor where he came from?”

“No, just Min. Seems the man was a stranger that Mr Ranan came across on his travels and who had need of Lord Cirdan’s care.”

“Radagast often gathers up waifs and strays on his travels, though they are usually four-legged or winged,” Legolas explained.

“Well, this wasn’t no animal and Lord Cirdan seemed particularly interested in my reaction to this man, Min.”

“He questioned you?”

“Aye. He pressed me on who he reminded me of but when I explained that the man was dead I thought they would let it rest. ‘Course, he could have been a relative, knowing that he had relatives in the south…”

“Sam, who did the man remind you of?” Estel asked against the sudden tightening in his chest.

“That’s why it seemed so impossible ’cause he reminded me of Captain Faramir.”

“What are you saying, Sam?” Estel demanded, his voice heavy with hurt and his face bleached of colour.

“Lord Cirdan explained that they had a suspicion that Min was from a noble background but that he had no memory of his past…”

“But was it him? Was it Faramir?” Estel was so distraught that he lifted Sam up until they were face to face.

“Aye, Sir. As I live and breath it was him, “ Sam said gently, scrambling from the King’s grasp to sit on the arm of his chair and take the King’s cold hands between his own small rough palms.

“Not dead… he’s not dead!” Estel chanted. Legolas was silent but his face was wet with tears of shock and joy.

“Not dead, Legolas. He’s not dead!”

“Yes, my friend, we are blessed indeed. I never imagined, after all this time, that our dear Little Ranger would be restored to us”

“Sire, Legolas. I haven’t finished my tale,” Sam said urgently.

“What more can there be to tell, Sam, our friend has been found!”

“No, Sire. I beg you , you must listen, please… it’s important!” Sam was becoming distressed. “There are reasons why Lord Cirdan wanted me to tell you this in person,” Sam said, concerned that in their joy over his news they had not fully understood the story. “Please, Mr Legolas, there is more I need to tell you, more you need to understand!”

With obvious effort they turned their attention back to Sam. “Forgive us, my friend; tell us the rest of your tale.”

“I did meet Captain Faramir but he didn’t recognise me,” Sam explained. “But seeing me was a real shock to him, he rushed away like he was suddenly taken ill and Mr Ranan had to go after him…”

“Go on, Sam.”

“He’s not the same, not as he was. Lord Cirdan explained some of it too me. Min… Mr Faramir had taken some really bad hurts… when Mr Ranan found him he was living alone in the wild with only a donkey for company… he was deaf and he had no memory of who he was or where he was from or what had happened to him. Oh, Sire, he so afeared he had committed some terrible treachery that he refused all offers to help him remember. He didn’t want to know his past for fear of the shame and disgrace his reappearance would bring to those who claimed kinship to him.”

“He was afraid… are we such monsters that he feared to come home,” Legolas choked.

“No Sir, you mustn’t think that, not of Lord Faramir… he doesn’t know where home is or who his family are. But Lord Cirdan was adamant that to have survived the wickedness done to him was all down to his courage and bravery.”

“They threw him in the river for dead after he had seen his whole patrol butchered before his eyes…” Estel whispered.

“Aye and he thought you were dead, Estel; his physical torment would have been as nothing to that thought.”

“Yes, and knowing Faramir he would have taken all the blame upon himself. No wonder his mind shut out such horror. Who else could have survived such torment?”

“So what now, Estel?” Legolas asked.

“Now we go and retrieve our errant Steward!”

“Please read Lord Cirdan’s letter before you make any decisions, Sire. He said he would help Lord Faramir to find his past. Please read what he has to say before you go,” Sam urged.

“Fear not, Sam. We will not rush in and risk undoing any progress Lord Cirdan has accomplished.”

“Thank you, Sire. Captain Faramir has been through so much.”

Estel read the letter and passed it to his Elven friend. “Samwise, Legolas and I will leave at dawn… yes with a small escort,” he said in an aside at his friend’s raised eyebrows. “Sam, I will explain all this to Arwen before I leave but I would ask that you help her to break the news to Éowyn, it will be a shock to her that Faramir is alive after all this time.”

If the duty Commander was surprised by the order to open the palisade gate an hour short of dawn, he concealed it well. The riders who exited the compound were the King and his Elven kin and a small guard detail. Only two others watched the departure of the King’s company; from the security of one of the wooden watchtowers the Queen and one of the noble Halflings gazed after the departing riders. When the travellers had disappeared from even keen Elvish sight the two exchange a hug.

“Sam, are you sure there is no mistake?” Arwen asked, brushing the dampness from her cheek.

Sam passed the queen a plain but spotless pocket handkerchief and squeezed her hand. “I saw him myself, My Lady. I am quite sure it was the Captain. He was much changed but I recognised him as soon as I was introduced to him.”

“Tell me, Sam. Tell me everything,” Arwen begged as they walked together towards the fenced kitchen garden. “Estel showed me Lord Cirdan’s letter but I still find it hard to comprehend. How did Faramir survive? He was thrown in the river for dead!” Arwen hadn’t been present at the trial of the two traitors but she had heard enough from Estel and Éowyn to know the broad details of Faramir’s torment at their hands.

“I don’t know much myself, My Lady. Lord Cirdan and his friend Ranan only knew snatches of what happened to him. Min, that is Lord Faramir, was rescued from the river by a ship’s crew and stayed with that same vessel when he recovered. When the ship was damaged by a storm he set out to travel the land on his own. Mr Ranan found him living in a cave by a great forest near the sea and persuaded him to leave his camp and travel to meet Lord Cirdan. From what I could tell, he had been at the Haven’s for a few months.”

“And he had no knowledge of his identity or his past?” Arwen asked.

“No, Ma’am. But Lord Cirdan was quite certain there was no artifice to his memory loss. And he was quite deaf when Mr Ranan found him… it was only Lord Cirdan’s special skills that gave him back a little hearing. He had been locked in a silent world ever since he was rescued and…”

“And what, Sam?”

“Well, Mr Cirdan explained that… well, that although Mr Faramir could recall no memory of the past he was greatly sure that he had committed some grave crime, some treachery, and that even should he remember his name or where he came from, that his return would bring only dishonour to his kin.”

“He saw Estel fall to an enemy arrow. It was by his actions and sure reflexes that Estel was saved from a fatal blow; if Faramir had not pushed Estel aside the arrow would likely have pierced his heart and not just his shoulder.”

Arwen and Sam sat together on a low wall in the herb garden, each lost in their own thoughts, each both happy and sad in equal measure at the prospect of their friend being restored to the ones who loved him; sad for the torment he had suffered and for the loneliness and anguish he had endured since he was so viciously torn from the life he had earned by duty and honour.

“Do you think he will be alright, Ma’am?” Sam asked. “Did I do right to be so quick in bringing news of him?”

“Sam, how could you have done otherwise? How could you have concealed this news, knowing how much we have all grieved over his loss?” Arwen said, gently.

“But, Ma’am, if just seeing me made him ill, how will it be when he sees someone who was so much closer and dearer to him?” Sam begged. “I know he had come to look on Legolas and Strider almost akin to brothers, as family… What if Lord Cirdan has not been able to reconcile him to his memories? What if, by my actions, I have made things worse for him?”

“Peace, Sam. I have complete faith in Lord Cirdan. He is an Elf of profound experience and wisdom. He also has his own considerable powers of healing. He will not expose Faramir to unnecessary risk. And do not forget that Estel has his own gifts; he has brought Faramir back from the brink in the past. He and Legolas did establish a special bond with Faramir when all feared that his experiences in the War and his dealings with his Father had damaged his spirits to the point that they feared he would never recover.”

“You are right, My Lady. I should not allow doubt to mar the joy at finding he is still alive. But, My Lady, I fear that Mr Strider was so excited by the news that he will be shocked when he sees what Lord Faramir is like now… he is not the same man that we all knew and loved.”

“Sam, if I have learned anything in my long life, it is that a person’s true nature will always shine through, no matter what trials they have to endure. We loved and respected Faramir for his honesty and gentleness of spirit, for his honour and wisdom, for his loyalty and courage and for his reticence and humility. He may not ever fully recover from his many ordeals but the real Faramir, our Faramir, will be restored to us… how could it be otherwise when there are so many who love him.” She said softly. “Come now, we must find Éowyn and break the news to her.”

The King and his escort pressed forward at a fast but steady pace as they galloped towards the sunrise. There was a barely concealed excitement to the King’s manner that communicated itself to the rest of the small entourage. Of the travellers only the King, Prince Legolas and the Elf who had accompanied Sam knew of their destination or purpose, even the King’s Elven brothers had no more knowledge than Captains Beregond or Damrod, but as the morning brightened their greater familiarity with the lands they now traversed gave them a clue as to their likely destination.

Not until mid morning did the party stop to rest the horses and to take refreshment. With a guard set, Estel called the Elves and the two Captains to him.

“I beg your forgiveness for pulling you from your beds at such short notice but I have received news of such import that it required nothing less than my immediate attention,” he explained.

“Estel, we can guess from our heading that we are making for the Havens…”

“You are correct, Elladan,” Estel confirmed to his brother.

“And are you going to enlighten us to the purpose of this early morning sojourn?” Elrohir asked. Beregond and Damrod had been in the company of the King and his brothers enough in the past that they were no longer shocked by the familial way in which the Elves chided their human sibling.

“How many ages of men does it take for Elves to master patience?” The King asked Legolas with a grin.

“Most of us attain that grace when we attain our majority but some…!” Legolas returned, “but, then, perhaps, it is their human heritage…!” he said, glancing at the Pedherel twins.

Ignoring the Prince’s teasing Elladan turned back to his brother. “What business can you have at the Haven’s, Estel?” The King and Legolas shared a knowing glance with the Elf who had accompanied Sam.

“Does it concern our Kin?” Elrohir asked with just a hint of apprehension in his voice. It was no secret to the Sons’ of Elrond that Lord Cirdan was gifted with the ability to communicate with Valinor, though none knew how this was accomplished. “Has he news of our Father?”

“Peace, brother. I am sure Lord Cirdan will tell us what news he has, if any, of our loved ones when we meet him,” Estel soothed, for he too grieved still for the departure of Lord Elrond and his retinue and for Gandalf and Frodo.

“Well if we are not going for news of those who have sailed, then what is the purpose of this sudden visit?”

“Does it have anything to do with Sam’s recent visit to the Haven’s?” Elladan asked.

“Yes. Sam delivered a letter from Lord Cirdan. Sam also had news for me, news of an unbelievable nature.”

“Sam seemed not to be distressed by his visit,” Elrohir offered.

“Aye. But not all shocks are unpleasant, brother,” Estel explained. “Sam encountered another visitor whilst a guest of Lord Cirdan; a visitor who had been in residence there for some time.”

“An Elf?”

“No, not an Elf, a man.”

“And what relevance has this man to you? Why was knowledge of his presence so urgent?”

“The young man had been brought to Lord Cirdan by Ranan, Gandalf’s brother wizard,” Estel explained.

“Ranan? You refer to Radagast the Brown?” Elladan queried.

“Yes, Ranan found this young man, Min, living alone in the forest of Eryn Vorn.”

“And who is this Min? What is his significance?”

“Min was a stranger, a refugee who had lost all knowledge of his past and his identity. Apparently he was named Min by the ones who rescued him. He was deaf and almost mute. Ranan learned that he had spent time following his recovery as a sailor aboard the ship of the sailors who had rescued him and had then left to travel the lands alone.”

“Estel, I beg you, get to the point!” Elrohir chided. Estel nodded to his brother but it was Legolas who moved to squat behind the two Captains, placing a hand on each of their shoulders

“Sire?” said Beregond hesitantly against the sudden knot of anxiety that had lodged in his throat.

“Beregond, Damrod, I asked specifically for you both to accompany us on this mission because of the nature of the information I have received,” The King explained. “There is no easy way to reveal this news but Sam recognised the stranger at the Haven’s.”

“And, Sire?”

“Beregond, Damrod… the man in Lord Cirdan’s care is our own Lord Faramir,” The King explained gently.

For the twins the news was a welcome surprise, but they had seen and experienced enough of life’s mysteries over the long course of their lives that they accepted the news with quiet but joyful equanimity but for the Captains it was too unexpected to be immediately recognised or reconciled. Both men had grieved long for their lost Captain and comrade. After a moment’s shocked silence Damrod staggered to his feet and lurched away. Beregond would have gone after his friend but Legolas detained him.

“Give him a moment, my friend. Give him a few moments to absorb this wonderful news; he will come to no harm.”

“Are you sure there is no mistake, Sire? Beregond asked, brushing a hand over his own damp cheeks.

“Samwise was quite certain and, in his letter, Lord Cirdan explained that Sam’s identification had only confirmed his own suspicions as to his guest’s identity.”

“How can this be, Sire? He was dead when his tormentors threw his body into the river… we all heard their testimony!”

“I do not doubt that they believed him to be dead but Faramir, in the past, has proved to have a tenacious hold on life. He surely has the favour of the Valar.”

“Well, they have an odd way of proving it,” Beregond said bitterly.

“It is not wise to question they wisdom of the Valar,” Legolas chided gently.

“You may think of them as you will, Sire. But my Lord suffered more than a man can be expected to bear before and during the war… to then have his peace and happiness snatched away in such a vile manner… excuse me, Sire, I need to check on Captain Damrod.” Beregond whirled away, his thoughts swimming. Estel and Legolas had no option but to allow the shattered Captain to follow after his comrade.

“Are we doing the right thing, Legolas? Perhaps we should have waited for further word from Lord Cirdan before we attempted this journey.”

“Could you have waited?” Legolas asked and the look in Estel’s eyes told him that he could not.

“What if he doesn’t know us?”

“Do not borrow trouble, brother,” Elladan said, “I have confidence in Lord Cirdan’s gifts… we will get the young one back even if it takes longer than you would like. He has been gone from us for nearly three years, a few more days or weeks will not matter… have faith, little brother.”

When the Royal party arrived at the gateway to the Haven’s Lord Cirdan and Ranan were there to greet them. Estel had to restrain his anxious questions while the official greetings were completed but he could not keep his eyes from searching for the figure they had waited so long to see.

“Peace, Elessar,” Cirdan coaxed. “I know you have many questions but I would ask you to rein in your curiosity a while longer. You are all weary and dusty from your journey; come forth and allow us to see to your refreshment and comfort.”

“Forgive me, My Lord. I should know better than to behave as an excited child awaiting the Yule spirit.”

“You are but a child to me and your excitement is to be expected.”

“But, Faramir… ?”

“Peace, your Steward is here and quite safe,” Cirdan assured him, gesturing that the party allow themselves to be escorted down towards the heart of the harbour.

Later, after the King’s party had washed off the dust of the trail, Estel, Legolas and the two Captains were escorted to a small audience chamber to meet with Lord Cirdan.

“Now, child, you may ask your questions,” Cirdan said to Estel.

“How is he? When may we see him?”

Cirdan sighed. “How much did Sam tell you?”

“Little beyond what was in your letter… that Faramir was here, that he remembered nothing of his past… that he is much altered,” Estel explained.

“Samwise spoke truly. Young Min has suffered greatly and I suspect his suffering has left him profoundly changed from the young man you remember.”

“Does he still not know who he is, Sire?” Damrod asked.

“He accepts that he is Faramir but he does not remember that persona nor can he yet think of himself as other than Min.”

“And his memories?” Legolas asked. “Does he remember what happened to him?”

“I have helped him to remember those last few hours but it has been a slow and very painful process for him and I dare not rush it… the mind is a fragile instrument and his has been sorely tested,” Cirdan explained.

“And what of his physical hurts, Sire?” Beregond asked. “Is he incapacitated?”

“Physically he is quite strong and able. I have had some success in helping to lessen the dreadful scaring he suffered and he now has a small degree of hearing. He has developed a surprising ability to lip-read and has some hand signals that he has been teaching us to aid our communication.”

“Aye, I can believe that, Sire,” Damrod explained, “Captain Faramir introduces a system of hand signals to the Rangers to help us pass messages without alerting the Haradrim scouts when he first took command at Henneth Annûn.

“That explains why he is so comfortable with it as a means of communication.”

“How has he survived this long on his own, My Lord?” Beregond asked. Cirdan told them all he had learned of Faramir’s life since he was rescued by the crew of the Grey Swan up until Sam’s revelations as to his identity.

“Can we see him?” Legolas asked when the Elf Lord had finished his tale.

“I’m afraid not,” the Lord said sadly.

“Bur, Sire…”

“My Lord…”

“It is not my wish to keep you from him but Min’s own request… He is not yet ready to see you.”

“But we can help.”

“I’m sure you believe so but I offered Min sanctuary here long before we knew of his identity. He has now called on that promise and I cannot, will not, betray his wishes in this matter… it would risk undermining everything we have achieved thus far.”

“Why will he not see us?”

“It is complicated and I am not sure he realises his own heart in the matter. For nearly three years he has hardened his heart against his own past, convincing himself that what he had done was so terrible that it should remain buried.”

“But we know he committed no crime or error!”

“As we have told him repeatedly but he needs longer to make his peace with the fact.”

“Surely if we tell him ourselves…” Legolas started.

“He believed he was responsible for your death, Estel,” The Elf Lord explained. “His attackers tormented him with news of your death even while they tortured him and he witnessed all his men being executed… he feels he can never atone for what he caused to happen.”

“He was not responsible for their deaths or my injury… he saved my life!”

“Sire, My Lords, may we be excused?” Beregond requested. It was clear that the two men were distressed by the Lord’s announcements and that the strain of the day’s revelations had hit the men hard, though Damrod appeared less enthusiastic about leaving the discussion than his comrade.

Beyond the door he rounded on his superior. “Why did you want to leave? Surely there is more we can yet learn!”

Beregond ushered him out towards the harbour. “Lord Cirdan will not go back on his promises to Lord Faramir and it is my belief that he will feel compelled ask us to honour the spirit of that promise!”

“And…”

“And if we had stayed we would have been bound by that oath.”

“You mean to go against the Elf Lord’s wishes?”

“Damrod, how long have you known Faramir?”

“Since he first graduated from the Academy. Commander Dariel requested that I be appointed as his mentor when he first arrived at Henneth Annûn; he was younger than was usual for new draftees to the Rangers but given his status and his exceptional skills with a bow… but he was no more than a boy… too young even to have fluff on his chin,” Damrod explained.

“Well, Lord Cirdan has known him only months and, meaning no disrespect, but the King and Prince Legolas knew him for less than a year. I watched him grow to manhood and worked closely with him with the White Company. We know him better than anyone and I think we can safely claim the right to help him as we see fit!”

“We have no authority?”

“I claim the authority of friendship.”

“We must exercise caution or we could do more harm than good,” Damrod cautioned.

“I do not propose rushing in heedlessly but I will not be marginalised if the progress is too slow.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“That we watch and wait and see how the situation progresses. It may be that knowing we are here will hasten Faramir’s recovery. But there is nothing we may do tonight, so we might as well enjoy the Lord’s hospitality.”

“I hate to think that Faramir is so close and yet still out of reach.”

“He is alive and he is safe and one way or another we will get him back!” Beregond vowed.

Lord Cirdan left his two Royal guests. His request had been met with reluctant and begrudging agreement and he recognised that Estel and Legolas needed time to accept the limitations imposed upon them. The Elf Lord’s heart was heavy as he made his way to the healing halls where Ranan was keeping Min company.

The atmosphere in the chamber was as heavy as the Elf Lord’s heart. The leaden silence had nothing to do with his patient’s deafness and everything to do with his state of mind. Min had retreated into himself, worn out by the harrowing nature of his few returned memories. As Lord Cirdan entered Min was at the window staring out into the night, though his troubled mind took in none of the views that normally brought him comfort. His posture told of the huge burden that oppressed him. His withdrawal was complete; his hand, cupping his good ear, was pressed against the casement deliberately blocking what little hearing he had.

“You have told him The Elessar has arrived?” Cirdan asked Ranan as he poured three small glasses of Miruvor.

“He saw them arrive,” Ranan explained.

“And what was his reaction?”

“As you see! He has not spoken except to insist that he doesn’t want to meet them.”

“I have explained the situation to Estel and Legolas and the two Captains.”

“And will they abide by his wishes?”

“Estel and Legolas both gave their word not to seek him out… I had no such promise from the Captains.”

“_Oh?_”

“Aye. They had already retired for the evening.”

“What are you planning, my devious friend?”

“I am planning nothing… though you know how impatient these mortals can be. I doubt if our two trusty warriors will tolerate this impasse for long.”

“You think it wise to let them interfere?”

“Their history with Faramir stretches back a long way, especially young Damrod; they served together as Rangers and Damrod is one of only a handful of survivors of that doomed brigade… they share a bond of hardship and adversity that runs deep. I believe them best placed to help Min to reconnect with his past.

“Do you doubt Estel’s influence over Faramir?” Ranan queried.

“No. I understand from Legolas that Estel had become almost a father figure to him in the first few months of their acquaintance but Faramir experienced some difficulties in seeing beyond Estel’s sovereignty… recall how Min reacted to his perceived treachery… guilt and honour and duty are bound so tightly to his nature that he has rebuilt those barriers that Legolas and Estel had worked so hard to dispel… add to that the abuse and torture he was subjected too… he no longer deems himself worthy. I begin to doubt that he will ever truly recover,” Lord Cirdan said sadly

“You will offer him permanent sanctuary here?”

“If required, yes. I hope it will not be necessary. I have not given up hope that he will return to his family and loved ones.”

“You wish to work with him now?” Ranan asked. “I am not sure that he is fit for more revelations.”

“I must. To retreat now would only make starting over even more difficult.” The Elf Lord lifted a small silver kettle from a hook over the hearth and poured hot water over a dish of crushed herbs; he stirred the concoction and strained the liquid into a dosing cup and added a measure of Miruvor. Only when the room was organised to his satisfaction did he approach the silent figure at the window, alerting the youngster to his presence with a light touch to his shoulder. When he received no response he gently turned the passive youngster around to face him. Min’s broken, haunted expression all but undid the healer’s resolve.

“No more, please,” Min begged, trying to back away, only to find retreat impossible.

“Peace, Min. Hush now, all will be well; you must trust me.”

“Please… please,” Min wept as he was swept, reluctantly, into the Elf Lord’s embrace.

“The worst is over, Young one.” Cirdan whispered against his ear.

“Why can you not let me be? You promised me!”

“Do not struggle so. You are quite safe but I am going to insist that we continue to unravel your past. You cannot continue to live this half-life.”

“I am happy here!”

“And where will you go from here when the memories again begin to plague you to rootless wandering? Will you run back to the sea or wander the Northlands alone?”

“Why would I leave here?”

“Because your heart wants answers… even if your mind yet rejects them. It is human nature; your human lives are too short and precious to squander in mystery and deceit.”

“Who am I deceiving?” Min demanded.

“Yourself, my friend. You are deceiving yourself and you are depriving your friends of a greatly missed companion.”

“If you hadn’t told them they would have continued to believe me dead. Why reopen old wounds?”

“It is done now. Fate sent you here and engineered the discovery of your identity. If you cannot trust me, then trust that the Valar had a hand in your deliverance.”

“You do not play fair, My Lord.”

“I play the hand I am given. Now drink this and let us begin.”

For two days the visitors to the Haven’s fretted against their enforced inactivity. Each day Lord Cirdan spent hours closeted in the healing halls with Min and at the end of these painful and emotionally taxing sessions he would report back to them on the progress he was making. He also quizzed them on aspects of Faramir’s history so that he could nudge and guide Min into retrieving aspects of his memories that lay so deeply buried that he would not have accessed them on his own. In this process Damrod and Beregond had the greatest insights to offer. Not all the memories were bad, but remembering his family; his mother, his father and his beloved brother brought back also the agony of their loss. The war, the decimation of his Rangers, the manner of his Father’s death, all of these had to be relived and remembered, as did his elevation to the Stewardship, his Princedom and his betrothal to Éowyn. Once the floodgates of memory were breached that past was thrust upon him in bewildering confusion.

After three years of suppressing his memories and his emotions, these revelation piled one upon the other until he could no longer contain the pain. The howls of grief, the plaintive keening, echoed around the harbour and cast a pall of grief over the residents.

Chapter 11 – At Journey’s end

He woke, still disorientated by the confusion of disjointed dreams and memories. He opened is eyes to find it still full dark but for the glowing embers of the dying fire. He took a moment to assess his surroundings; wanting to be sure he was alone. He knew that the Elf Lord’s skills usually had him sleeping till long after dawn but for whatever reason, this night, he had roused early. Next he catalogued his own condition; his eyes were sticky and swollen and his throat dry. Of a rush he recalled the last session with Lord Cirdan and Ranan and he flinched at the remembered distress.

Suddenly the room was too confining, he needed to be out, out on his own where he could allow himself to think and try to process the revelations that had washed over him like a drowning, unstoppable flood. He knew he would not be allowed to leave, that the duty healer would not wish him to venture out, even to his own villa, nor could he find his clothes or boots. He was dressed only in light sleep-pants and the only footwear he could find were the soft canvas slippers of the sickroom. Still determined to leave, he pulled the covers from his bed, he discarded the soft cream blanket and chose for a makeshift cape a gray woollen coverlet that would help him to blend into the cover of darkness. He slipped out onto the terrace and slowly and carefully made his way towards the harbour wall.

He had a destination in mind. At the far end of the harbour wall broad stone steps curved down to a small jetty where smaller boats could tie up. He went halfway down the stone flight until he had descended below the level of the upper walkway and there he settled on a step out of the wind, his cloak pulled tightly around him. Once secure in this isolated sanctuary he finally allowed his thoughts to roam free.

“If you are looking for young Faramir, you are already too late… he has already made his escape!” Beregond and Damrod stilled at the Elf Lord’s words; neither had heard his approach.

“I beg your pardon, My Lord?”

“Granted, youngling but you will not find your Steward within.”

“You knew we were coming, Sir?”

“I have been keeping watch for you. I am rather surprised that you waited so long.”

“We thought you wished us not to interfere, Sir!”

“Oh, I walk a tightrope of conflicting interests and in the first instance Faramir’s wishes had to take precedence but I believe that now he has reached a point where his ‘need’ to see you outweighs what he perceives to be his wishes… I do not doubt you both have an important role to play, as do The king and Prince Legolas but they are constrained by the pledge I was forced to lay upon them… you, however, made no such vow.”

“We waited longer than we were comfortable with. We heard his distress tonight, as did all others who reside here. We could not wait any longer,” Damrod challenged.

“You are correct. Faramir was greatly troubled by what was revealed too him. He was forced to acknowledge the deaths of many who were dear to him. His grief was profound.”

“And does he know all now, Sir, or does he have yet more grief to face?”

“I cannot tell you that for certain. It is my belief that he now remembers the essential facts and I do not think he will require my particular skills again, indeed, it would be better now if his memories came to him naturally. I do not think he will be able to hold them back any longer and it will be healthier for him to accept them as they come,” the Elf Lord explained.

“He is healed then, Sire?” Damrod asked hopefully.

“If you mean, is he as he was before, then the answer is no. We can none of us turn back time nor undo what is past. Everything he has experienced and endured of the last few years has changed him, just as you have changed and grown over that time.”

“So what happens now, Sir?”

“That depends.”

“On What?”

“On what Faramir decides to do.”

“But surely if his memory has returned and he remembers everything there is no need for him to stay away.”

“His memories have returned to him, yes, but I would not claim that he is healed… he has taken a few tentative steps on the road to recovery but he has a long way to go… I cannot wave a healing hand over him and make him whole, however much I would wish for that power.”

“So what can we do, Sir?”

“Well, to begin with I would recommend that you take a walk to the end of the harbour wall… I often find that a midnight stroll under the stars helps me to see problems more clearly and you might find the answers you seek,” The Elf lord said cryptically.

“And what of Faramir?”

“I bid you goodnight, gentlemen. I must go and appraise The Elessar as to his Stewards progress.” Lord Cirdan bowed to the two soldiers and swept away into the dark.

“Well, what do you make of that?” Damrod demanded.

“I don’t know but I do trust him, he has proven to have Faramir’s best interest at heart… even if we do not appreciate his high-handed methods. He does not make idle suggestions… perhaps we should do as he suggests, there is no point in sneaking into the Healing Halls if Faramir has already flown the coup.”

“And what if Faramir has already left the Haven’s?”

“No. I do not believe that to be the case. Lord Cirdan showed no concern as to Faramir’s whereabouts… he was too calm to be worried… I have no doubt he knows exactly where Faramir is hiding himself.”

Lord Cirdan smiled to himself. As he walked away he caught the soldier’s conversation as they emerged from the shadow to walk in the direction he had indicated. He had no doubt that with their Ranger skills they would find their quarry and he had no qualms about leaving Faramir to their care. His task now was to go and soothe Estel’s ruffled feathers and to prepare him for his reunion with Faramir.

Despite Lord Cirdan’s best intentions, the Captain’s nearly missed the shrouded figure hiding in the shadows of the wall. It was only due to good fortune that a stray gust of wind from the sea tugged the edge of the blanket and the soft fluttering caught Damrod’s eye as they stood on the upper wall. He peered over the rail and saw the huddled form below him.

“I think I now understand the Elf Lord’s instructions, my friend,” Damrod whispered as he drew his comrade to the top of the steps. They descended slowly, neither attempting to hide their approach.

Faramir didn’t stir as the two soldiers settled beside him on the stairs, Beregond two steps below him and Damrod at his side. He had his eyes closed, his head resting against the stone wall.

“If you have come to scold, My Lord, I have no apologies to offer!” he muttered, without opening his eyes. “I needed some peace and a place to empty my mind.”

“You always were a stubborn, independent beggar!” Damrod accused quietly.

Faramir’s eyes shot open at the rejoinder; he thought it was the Elf Lord who had come seeking him but the voice was familiar and produced a jolt in his chest. He looked at the two familiar faces with shock and buried his face down against his knees.

“It is too late to hide, Cub. We have found you now,” Damrod said, using the nickname the Rangers had given to the young Faramir when he had first joined their ranks.

Their first contact with him was tentative; Beregond placed his hand on a slippered foot and Damrod settled his hand upon a huddled shoulder. Both wanted more, they could feel how he trembled, but they were afraid of overwhelming him in his current state.

“Damrod…” Faramir offered tentatively. “Beregond… what are you doing here?”

“We heard a rumour that a certain errant ranger was hiding here… we came to get him back!” Damrod explained, his voice choked.

“Then you have had a wasted journey… that ranger is no more.”

“We will be the judge of that,” Beregond said firmly. “Now you are cold and you should not be out here alone.”

“If you are cold then return to your beds and leave me in peace… i do not need nursemaids!”

“You think we would abandon you now! …you have forgotten much if you think us capable of deserting our Captain.”

“I do not ask for your company.”

“But you have it whether you will or not… we have waited too long, grieved too long to walk away now. We are pledged to your service ‘until death’ and our pledge holds still.”

“Then I release you!”

“But we do not chose to be released,” Damrod insisted. There was an uncharacteristic brittleness to Faramir’s manner that made Beregond reluctant to push him but Damrod showed no such qualms; he grabbed Faramir by the shoulders and turned him, shaking him gently until the younger man met his gaze. “I will not lose you again. You are my Captain, my Prince, you are my friend!; once before you sent me away and you went to your death… you saw the King fall and you let the darkness take you. I will not let that happen again!” Damrod was weeping as he spoke and Faramir was broken again by the depth of these soldiers’ devotion.

“Forgive me,” he whispered as he found himself sandwiched between his two companions.

“There is nothing to forgive, Faramir; just come back to us.”

In time the two soldiers led their comrade back to Faramir’s villa to find that their arrival had clearly been expected; the fire was cheery and the lamps alight and a full kettle hissed over the fire. All night they talked together, reconnecting over shared reminiscences.

Neither Legolas nor Estel had found rest and Lord Cirdan’s visit had only slightly allayed their anxiety and impatience. They were relieved that the two Captains had Faramir in their care, though both had to quash their own resentment that they were not the ones to finally reintroduce him back to the ones who loved him. But they could not fault the Elf Lord’s logic in engineering the reunion; Beregond and Damrod had known Faramir longest and, as comrades, their bond with him didn’t have quite the same level of familiarity and would therefore not carry quite the same emotional intensity. It was just another demonstration of Lord Cirdan’s wisdom and understanding.

When daylight came and Estel and Legolas had broken their fast Lord Cirdan sent a messenger to them and requested their presence in the gallery.

“My Lord, you wished to see us?” Estel queried after their initial greeting.

“Yes, there is something I wished to show you.” Cirdan guided them to the far end of the gallery, not giving them time to stop and admire the many works of art on display.

“I thought you would like to see this,” Cirdan said, standing in front of a medium-sized painting. “This was one of the first works that Min completed when he first came here,” he explained.

“But this is Dol Amroth!” Legolas exclaimed.

“It is,” Cirdan confirmed. “It was this that gave us the first clue as to Min’s identity.”

“It is very accomplished; I didn’t know that Faramir was an artist,” Estel commented after examining the picture.

“He has a natural talent but maybe one he has never had the opportunity to develop before now.”

Legolas examined the painting more closely, his expression puzzled. “Why is this picture so significant?” he asked.

“Look at it closely and tell me what you see.” Cirdan requested of the Elf.

“I see Imrahil’s castle and the harbour beyond… I see the Royal Swan and many other vessels…”

“And from where is the vista viewed?”

“From the hill beyond the city…”

Lord Cirdan guided his two puzzled guests to a bench where they could sit and he continued his explanation.

“As you know, when Min came to us he could remember nothing of his origins or his past life but once he was settled here he was quite happy to tell us of his more recent travels and adventures. He was, for nearly two years, a member of the crew of a trading vessel, The Grey Swan, one of Prince Imrahil’s fleet. They traded extensively up and down the coast from their home port on Tolfolas as far south as Far Harad and Umbar… but they only made one brief visit to Dol Amroth!”

“So that is when he saw the city that inspired the painting!” Legolas offered.

“That would be the logical explanation, except that the Grey Swan was only in port for a couple of days and during that time Min was sick… he never went ashore.”

“So he could not have seen the castle and the harbour from that vantage point.”

“Exactly. The painting must have been done from memory. Only someone who was very familiar with the area could have executed such a detailed and accurate representation.”

“Did he realise what he was doing? Did he recognise what he was painting?”

“Not consciously, no. When I asked him about it he said it was just a picture.”

“But you realised he must have had close ties with Dol Amroth!”

“Yes. Of course, had he chosen to paint the White City, our task might have been much easier and we might have identified him sooner… and he was quite stubborn in refusing our aid in helping him to remember his past.”

“Aye, he has ever been of a stubborn nature.”

“Though his reluctance was for the best of intentions… he wished to spare others of the consequences of his failures,” Legolas explained.

“There were no failures,” Estel asserted firmly.

“Perhaps you should reassure him of that in person,” Lord Cirdan said gently.

Estel and Legolas turned slowly towards the entrance of the gallery to the three figures standing just inside the doorway.

The tall pale figure standing rigidly to attention was flanked by the two Captains. He was dressed in the manner of the Elves in a formal knee-length tunic, tight leggings and soft leather boots. His face though tanned showed the strain of his recent trials and his silver hair curled loosely at his shoulders but for two small braids at his temples. His expression was chillingly blank.

“Your Majesty, you wished to see me!” His voice was quiet and devoid of emotion as he saluted his Sovereign Lord. Estel and Legolas exchanged an anxious glance as they moved slowly and very carefully forward. Neither missed the further tightening of his posture at their approach nor the reassuring hands of the Captains on his shoulder.

“Faramir,” Estel said tenderly, carefully raising his hand to lift Faramir’s chin until he had no choice but to meet his gaze. “Faramir is that any way to greet a friend after all this time?” Very carefully, keeping his eyes fixed to Faramir’s he slowly raised his other hand, slowly tracing his palm from Faramir’s elbow up his arm, across his shoulder and up around to cup the back of his head, only then urging the youngster to him until their brows touched. In the flicker of a heartbeat, the barriers that Faramir held so tightly in place collapsed. He all but fell into Estel’s embrace as the Elf Lord ushered the two emotional Captains away to give the re-united friends some privacy.

There was such joy in their re-union, so many tears and explanations that they were closeted together in the gallery for most of the day. And when evening fell they chose to forgo the communal Hall and eat together privately in Faramir’s villa.

Estel and Legolas, needing the reassurance of his presence, stayed close enough to him to be in constant physical contact; a hand on his shoulder, a touch to his face or an arm across his back and Faramir seemed to drink in these touches, leaning in to the comfort being offered. But as the evening progressed his mood became more sombre.

“What is it, Little Ranger?” Legolas asked, noting his increasing disquiet.

“How can you be so kind to me? How can you be so forgiving after all I have done?”

“How would you have us behave? We are just so thankful to have you returned to us,” Legolas explained as they both moved closer, offering him the reassurance of their presence and gentling his agitation.

“But it was all my fault!”

“No, Faramir,” Estel assured him.

“Yes… yes it was!”

“Faramir do not trouble yourself with what is past,” Estel soothed.

Legolas could see that the reassurances were falling on deaf ears.“No, Estel, I think we should let him speak of this matter,” he counselled, “he has suppressed too much in the past and it has caused us all untold heartbreak. Tell us, Little Ranger. Open your heart to us so that we may know how to help you.”

“It was my fault. When first I was troubled by dreams of Boromir, I tried to deal with it on my own… I didn’t want to disturb your Honeymoon with my trivial worries,” he explained.

“And I was away and couldn’t help you,” Legolas offered.

“Yes, but I thought I could deal with it… and then at Osgiliath the vision came to me in the daytime and still I tried to hide my weakness from everyone. I knew Beregond suspected that I was compromised but I overrode his council and insisted we push on with the patrol.”

“And when Imrahil arrived and voiced out his concerns over your behaviour I rode out to intercept you.”

“And you nearly died… because of me!”

“Faramir, your actions saved my life… but for your quick actions the enemy’s arrow would have been a fatal blow,” Estel tried to assure him.

“I thought it was! I thought you were dead… and those poor boys, I led them to their deaths.”

“But you did not deal out their deaths. The patrol was overpowered by a bigger, stronger force. They fought and died bravely for their country. The fought bravely and with honour at your side.”

“But they died and I wanted to die with them… I gave in to despair!”

“Even the bravest warrior has moments of despair, Faramir. All who fight have moments when they doubt their courage or their abilities but they fight on despite their doubt… just as you fought so hard to live,” Legolas asserted. But still he could see the denial in his eyes.

“I deserve all they did to me!” It was little more than a whisper and their hearts quailed at the continued evidence of his suffering.

“Faramir, no one deserves what you suffered!” Estel assured him sternly.

“It was naught but fair retribution.” Faramir would have pulled away from them but they refused to release him.

“No, Faramir. No more now, you are overwrought. Lord Cirdan will have our hides if he sees we have brought you to this.” Legolas pulled the floundering man into his arms, holding tight against his struggles until Faramir once more yielded to the comfort being offered. “Come now, Little Ranger, you need to rest.”

“Will you stay?” he pleaded, “I am afraid my dreams will not be tranquil, my mind is too full… please will you stay?”

“We will be right here. We will not leave you alone this night,” Legolas assured him.

“Faramir, Lord Cirdan tells me that he has been treating your scars. Will you allow me the honour of doing that before you sleep?” Estel asked.

“You wish to see what was done to me?” Faramir asked defensively.

“I wish to continue the healing Lord Cirdan has accomplished,” Estel assured him.

“Trust Estel, Faramir. He has helped you in the past,” Legolas said, leading Faramir through to his bed chamber and waiting patiently until, with a sag of his shoulders, Faramir acquiesced, shrugged off his clothes and burrowed under the safety of the covers.

When Estel approached he noted two things; the first that Lord Cirdan had clearly anticipated his actions and had provided a cup of aromatic oil and a dish of fresh Athelas leaves on the nightstand, the other that Faramir was lying face down his arms clutched tightly around a pillow, his whole posture as tense as if he were expecting further punishment.

“Peace, Faramir, “ he soothed, “I cannot help you when you are so tense. Relax, I will not hurt you,” It was devastating to him that Faramir flinched away from his first touch. “Faramir, you are quite safe. Trust me, Little Ranger” he urged. When his words had no immediate effect he tried another tack.

“Turn over, Faramir… good… now look at me and listen to my voice…”Estel whispered, keeping his voice gentle and soothing. As he spoke he crushed some Athelas leaves between his fingers and as they released their soothing fragrance he dropped them to steep in a bowl of hot water. As Faramir inhaled the vapours some of the tension left him and Estel began to stroke his forehead, moving on to massaging his face and scalp as Faramir gradually relaxed into the treatment and all the time he kept up a constant hum of reassurance. Utilising the physical contact Estel channelled his healing energy but he made no attempt to follow Faramir’s spirit or thoughts, content to offer his friend comfort.

Only when Faramir was completely relaxed did Estel and Legolas gently role his boneless body onto his front so that Estel could address his scars. Faramir was deeply asleep long before Estel had finished his ministrations; he did not get to see their reactions to the evidence of his torment nor the tears they shed at his suffering.

For several days Faramir spent his time with his friends, sharing stories of his travels and learning of some of the happenings in the Kingdom during his absence. His friends were cautiously optimistic that ‘their’ Faramir was gradually re-immerging. He had no more healing sessions with Lord Cirdan but the Elf Lord and Ranan often joined in their discussions. Faramir was not immune to returning memories; his companions soon began to recognise when a fleeting thought or memory would wash over him; he would halt in his tracks and his eyes would become distant. The nature of the remembrances was obvious by the emotions that would track across his visage; the happier memories he shared freely with his companions but battle memories, the horror and the grief, he would try to hide but they never allowed it. The never allowed him to shut himself off in the past despite his reluctance to burden them.

The Royal party had been resident in the Haven’s for a week when The King reluctantly announced that he needed to consider returning to the Palace at Lake Evendim. It was the news Faramir had been dreading.

“When must you leave, Sire?”

“Tomorrow or the day after. I have left my guests there too long already.”

“They would not begrudge you this time, Estel, not when they know the reason,” Legolas assured him, only then noticing Faramir’s stricken expression. “Faramir, what is it? What troubles you?”

“I will miss you!”

“What!”

“I will miss you,” he repeated.

“You are coming with us,” Estel asserted firmly.

“No, Sire.”

“Do you think we would ride away from here without you! …No, Never again!”

“I’m afraid you must, Sire,”

“What nonsense is this, Faramir,” Estel demanded.

“I cannot go back,” Faramir insisted, “You must see that.”

“You are my steward! You must come back. You took an oath!” Estel all but shouted in frustration.

“Sire, you have no Steward. The post no longer exists and the oath… as far as Gondor believes I am a dead man… my tomb lies within the Hallows!”

“I will explain the error.”

“Sire, you cannot turn back time and unmake the past!… And what of the men executed for my ‘murder’? Can you bring them back to life?” Faramir said sadly.

“Even without their conviction for their crimes against you, they would have faced death for treason. You must not take their deaths on your conscience, Faramir.”

“Legolas, please can you not make him see that what he wishes is impossible!” Faramir pleaded.

“I do not understand, Little Ranger. I do not understand you stance in this matter. You know now where you belong. You know that your family and friends want you back, that you would be welcomed joyfully. Why do you resist?”

“I do not want to go back! Please do not make this any harder. That part of my life is over.” It was clear to all that Faramir was becoming increasingly distressed and his distress was shared by his friends.

“And if I order you?” Estel’s question echoed in the suddenly silent room.

“I do not believe you would do that, Sire. You are too honourable to force your will in this matter,” Faramir said stiffly, retreating back into his sanctuary of formality.

“Gentlemen,” Lord Cirdan interjected, “it is clear that this matter will not be resolved whilst emotions are running so high. May I suggest that we leave this discussion for now… I am sure a solution to your dilemma will present itself.”

“As you wish, My Lord,” Estel conceded reluctantly. “I will do as you suggest and let the matter rest for now.” Faramir also nodded his agreement, relieved that the moment of tension was past.

“Faramir I believe you were planning to take your friends out upon the water today; I believe the tides and winds are favourable for your excursion.”

“Yes, My Lord,”

“Legolas, could I ask you to remain, I have a commission for you,” Lord Cirdan explained.

“Certainly, My Lord. I am not sure that sailing is perhaps sensible for me,” Legolas conceded, remembering Lady Galadriel’s warnings to him.

Lord Cirdan and Legolas stood on the dock and watched the small sailboat bob out into the estuary.

“Do not worry, Faramir is an accomplished sailor. They will be quite safe.” The Elf Lord reassured him.

“You had an errand for me, Sire?”

“Lady Éowyn arrived at first light this morning; at the moment she is resting. She rode here overnight without escort. I have sent a message to Arwen to reassure her that her friend arrived safely and that Estel would be returning shortly.”

“And what would you have me do, Sire.”

“I understand that you know Éowyn quite well?”

“Yes. She has been my neighbour in Ithilien since Faramir’s disappearance. We have supported each other… she is as a sister to me,” Legolas explained.

“Before she is reunited with Faramir I would like you to explain his situation to her. There is much she will need to understand.”

“You doubt his recovery?”

“He has come a long way in the last week but he still has much healing to do. This morning’s episode was a timely reminder of all that he has lost… not least his sense of self worth.”

“Surely that is all the more reason for him to come home.”

Lord Cirdan aimed a fond but exasperated frown at the young Elf, one that reminded him much of his father. “The impatience of these mortals is rubbing off on you, Greenleaf!” he commented wryly. “He needs to be healed and to feel whole before he returns. I will council Estel to patience and I would ask you to help Lady Éowyn to fully appreciate his current state of mind. I understand that her devotion to him is undimmed but his memory of her is only recently rekindled. She must not expect too much too soon.”

When the sailors returned to the harbour, Legolas was waiting for them; he waved the men off to their quarters and led Faramir up towards his villa.

“What is it, Legolas?” Faramir asked, sensing the unusual tension in his friend’s demeanour. Legolas stopped before the garden gate.

“You have a visitor,” he said softly, turning Faramir to face the garden.

Éowyn was sitting in a shady arbour, anxiously twirling a wilting bloom between her fingers. Faramir stood transfixed. At Legolas’ urging he stumbled towards her, unable to quite comprehend the reality of her presence.

He knew her. Recognised her deep within his soul.

“Éowyn!” he gasped. “Éowyn!” he was weeping as he knelt before her, her hands clasped tightly in his. As the emotions welled up inside him he dropped his head onto her knees and, as Legolas slipped away, the only sounds to disturb the tranquillity of the garden were the anguish of his tears and the soothing litany of her endearments.

Most of the elves had long since retired for the night but in the Hall of Fire Lord Cirdan was entertaining Ranan and Faramir and Éowyn and the King’s companions as they talked softly, reminiscing by the fire. It was tranquil, without the highly charged emotions of recent days. Éowyn was just about to bid them all goodnight when they became aware that Faramirwas distracted, that he had been touched by another memory. They waited anxiously for him to be freed by this vision of the past.

“I saw you!” He whispered, grasping Éowyn’s hand with the urgency of his thoughts. “I saw you!”

“Where. .. where did you see me, Faramir?” Éowyn queried, looking to Legolas and Estel to see if they could offer any help.

“And you, Legolas, and Damrod… and… and Tamir… I saw you!”

“Gently, Faramir. Think on it calmly and tell us what you remember,” Estel soothed.

It took a few moments for him to order his racing thoughts. “In Dol Amroth… on the quayside. I was on The Swan waiting to go ashore… there were lots of soldiers, a big procession… you were there I saw you… my head hurt… I saw you!” he gasped.

“It must have been when we sailed down with Imrahil for Éomer and Lothiriel’s betrothal,” Legolas offered

“And we didn’t see you,” Damrod exclaimed sadly.

“You weren’t looking for me… I was already dead!”

“If only we had realised. You would have been restored to us a year ago,”

Ranan placed an arm around Faramir’s shoulder seeking to calm the agitation that the memory had produced. “Do not regret that which cannot be changed, My Friend. I think you needed that year. I think that you needed to be guided here where you could find peace and begin the process of healing.” Faramir relaxed and nodded his agreement.

“It is late and you all need to find your rest,” Lord Cirdan suggested, “Lady Éowyn may I escort you to your rooms?” Lord Cirdan took her arm. “Estel, I leave Faramir in your care, Good night.”

It took Faramir a while to relax enough to sleep but Estel and Legolas stayed with him until the soothing effects of the Athelas infusion finally worked their magic.

“It is a tragedy that he was so close to being found only to be carried away from us again.” Estel whispered as they watched him sleep.

“Closer than you think, my friend!” Legolas replied cryptically.

“What do you mean, Legolas?”

“Do you not remember that conversation we had with Imrahil when we re-joined you in Minas Tirith? He was explaining about meeting up with one of his Captains and of hearing about the deaf sailor who was such a talented artist! …that must have been Faramir… Imrahil came that close to being introduced to him.”

“Why did it not happen? I do not remember the details.”

“If I remember correctly, the sailor was ill and the ship sailed before the betrothal celebrations were concluded,” Legolas explained.

“Perhaps Ranan was right. It seems Faramir’s path was guided by the Valar. Perhaps he did need to come here!”

“And perhaps he needs to stay here, Estel,” Legolas offered, though he was loathed to bring up a matter that he knew would cause his friend such distress.

“No! You cannot mean that! How can we just ride away and leave him here… that cannot be for the best.”

“Estel, if you insist upon it, he will do as you wish… but before you resort to such measures, look into your own heart and make sure you are doing it for the right reasons.”

“But to leave him here… alone!”

“Who said he has to remain here alone. I will stay with him for as long as he needs me. It is not as if he is likely to disappear again; Lord Cirdan would not allow it… and just because he stays here does not mean he will be lost to you. You will be here in the Northern kingdom till the spring and when you do return to Gondor it will be no great difficulty to extend the messenger service from Lake Evendim to the Haven’s.”

“You have thought this all through!” Estel accused him.

Legolas did not allow himself to rise to the bait; with a sad smile he replied, “He is not yet ready to return, Estel. Give him your blessing to remain here and to make his peace with all that he has endured. Let him heal and be whole.”

“And what of Éowyn! She will not abandon him so lightly.”

“Éowyn has only just arrived and she is perhaps our best agent in achieving the outcome we all desire. Her love and support will likely have a deeper and more lasting impact than even our friendship could do. They need time together.”

“Does she know of these plans?”

“Lord Cirdan will have explained them to her. He is going to offer her a place here for as long as she wishes to stay.”

“Un-chaperoned!”

“She will not be un-chaperoned if I remain here and I do not fear for her honour or safety in Faramir’s hands, Do you?”

“And you think Éomer will approve of these plans?”

“He knows his sister and he wants her to be happy… and there is no reason why he cannot visit with them while they are here.”

“You have it all planned,” Estel complained.

“Estel, you are too close to this to see matters objectively.”

“I do not want to be parted from him so soon… I want to take him home!”

“He will come home, Estel. I am sure of it. Be patient my friend.”

In the New Year, Lord Cirdan officiated over their hand fasting, formalising the betrothal that had taken place four long years before in the aftermath of King Théoden’s funeral. There were only two witnesses, Legolas and Ranan, and their wedding breakfast was a simple picnic in their garden overlooking the harbour.

“How does it feel to be married to a ghost?” Faramir teased as they sat entwined together in their sheltered bower.

“Not just a ghost but a pauper too,” Éowyn giggled.

“What?”

“Your estate passed to your Uncle… he passed it all on to me!”

“So I bring nothing to this marriage but the clothes on my back, and even those are not my own! …you have made a poor deal, My Lady.”

She sobered, taking his face between her hands. “You have come back to me, beyond hope or expectation… that to me is beyond price. I would not exchange what I have now for worldly riches or honours,” She assured him earnestly, cementing her words with a passionate kiss.

“Have I told you recently that I love you, My Princess, My golden Lady?”

“Aye but I will never tire of hearing you declare it, My Princely Pauper!”

It was in the autumn when the newly refurbished Grey Swan sailed into the great harbour of Dol Amroth and was guided with honour into the premier berth below the castle wall. As the crew furled the bright new sails two Royal pennants continued to flutter and snap high over the little ship; the Prince of Dol Amroth’s insignia and the recently commissioned standard of the Prince and Princess of Ithilien.

Captain Cardolan and his crew saluted from the rail as Faramir escorted Éowyn down the gang plank to the tumultuous cheering that erupted from the large crowd who had gathered on the quayside to welcome them home. Faramir saw so many familiar faces among the throng; Éomer and Lothiriel, Legolas and Gimli and the Son’s of Elrond, Merry and Pippin and Sam and Rosie, Zerbah and Tat, his uncle and cousins and their families, Tamir and Beregond, Damrod and Bergil; so many other faces that he recognised. And in the centre, Estel and Arwen and their baby son.

Arm in arm Faramir and Éowyn stopped in front of the Royal couple to offer their obeisance.

“Sire…” Faramir faltered as the emotion of the moment washed over him. He swallowed hard, grateful for Éowyn’s calming support at his side.

“Sire, The Prince and Princess of Ithilien humbly request permission to return to your service. We also beg leave to introduce to you our Son, Elboron, that he may grow to be a friend and helpmeet to your sons and daughters and to faithfully serve your Majesties and Gondor, as we are proud to do.”

“We are proud and honoured to accept you back in our service, My Lord. Gondor is honoured by your presence,” The King said formally, “but, more importantly…” the King embraced his friend fiercely and bestowed a kiss of blessing to his brow and to each cheek “…welcome home, my beloved friend.”

The End

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