:::Shadow of the Steward:::

Chapter One: Pictures

Two men lounged on the parapets, one of them leaning against the wall with his hood drawn over his eyes, the other carefully repairing his arrows. Between them sat a loaf of bread, which was hard as tack and had been untouched by either of them. The sun was just beginning to rise over Minas Tirith, and the chilly predawn hours just starting to evaporate; for the first time in many weeks, the oppressive gray rainclouds which had circled the White City had cleared. A feeble yellow sun peered groggily over the horizon, warming the city with a pale winter light.

Kálfr looked up from his arrows and nudged his companion. "Look, there goes the Steward's son and his shadow."

Bain didn't move. "That's the Captain and his shadow, Kálfr. Show some respect."

The younger ranger grinned at his surly companion, and slid his arrow back into his quiver. Kálfr was a young, blonde man with devilish good looks while Bain was older, his dark hair beginning to be flecked with gray. The two of them made an unlikely duo, and yet remained inseparable through the darkest times.

"You must admit it's a funny sight," Kálfr smiled, peering over the wall.

Beneath them, striding towards the stables with his boots clicking on the cobblestones, was Faramir, the youngest son of Denethor. His fair hair was tousled and he seemed bothered by something as he hurried along; however, as he turned a corner he paused and waited for his little friend to catch up.

The men had taken to calling her dúath, or 'shadow', as she always seemed to be near Faramir but was especially noticeable in the afternoon. Two weeks ago, Faramir and his rangers had discovered a destroyed village while on patrol, and the only survivor of the wreckage had been a tiny, crippled little girl named Firiel. Faramir had taken her to Minas Tirith and found a home for her there, tending to her wounds and keeping her nearby; the little girl was wary of strangers but had taken strongly to the young son of Denethor, following him every chance she had.

Firiel was a strange little child—naturally untrusting and suspicious of anyone who was not her rescuer, and seemed particularly frightened of women. The spinster healer who had taken the child in complained that at every chance she had, the girl ran away to the stables and buried herself in the hay, waiting for Faramir to return.

"Adoration is a funny sight to you?" Bain asked tiredly. "That explains a good deal."

"I know quite a bit about adoration, old man," Kálfr said teasingly, "just ask for me down at the tavern—the girls there seem to keep track of my whereabouts quite well."

"Considering you never seem to leave the tavern, I'd say you're rather easy to keep track of," Bain retorted. He stood and stretched, yawning ferociously and scraping a hand through his beard. "We should go bid him farewell, and ask if he needs any help on his journey."

Kálfr groaned. "You're like an old nursemaid," he said, but picked up his bow anyway. "The Captain can survive without your making sure he won't trip over his bootlaces. You and Beregond are like a pair of clucking mother hens, making sure their chick is safe in the nest."

A job which should be done by his father, Bain thought in his heart, but said nothing of it. The Steward's obvious favoritism was none of his business—as a soldier of Gondor and a Ranger under Faramir's command, he had no right to be forming opinions on his superiors.

The two Rangers made their way down the wall and towards the stables, drifting into a familiar, comfortable silence; the two of them, despite their differences, enjoyed the warm, pale rays of the sun overhead, listening to the city of Minas Tirith slowly coming to life around them.

Firiel sat on a bale of hay, her good leg tucked against her chest. Faramir busied himself preparing his horse, ensuring the saddle was cinched securely around its dappled gray sides. As he worked, he chatted carefully with Firiel, taking care not to mention her village or her fallen people. When he had first brought Firiel to Minas Tirith, he had tried to discuss what had happened there; the child had flown into a frustrated, tearful rage and then withdrew strangely, becoming silent and inwards. He had entrusted her to the care of a healer named Dera, and the kind woman had reported that Firiel had remained in such a state for two days. She was still in mourning, Dera said firmly. It was very important not to mention it again.

"Well now, my brave little soldier, could you assist me with brushing down Mírdan?" he asked, knowing that Firiel both loved and feared the large horse. She seemed happiest around animals, especially large ones, although she was painfully shy around other people.

She began brushing down the horse with a large, stiff brush, her tiny hand nearly lost in the leather strap. At first, Faramir had worried that causing the child to move more than necessary would put undue pain upon her twisted leg; however, the medic he had taken her to insisted that Firiel had most likely been born that way, and would never regain use of her left leg. Still, he worried.

"Where are you going, Faramir?" she asked, petting Mírdan's velvety nose uncertainly.

He hesitated. In truth, he was going back to her village and meeting with another company of Rangers who claimed to have discovered tracks. There was no doubt that the deaths there were deliberate, and it was a horrific massacre that needed to be solved.

"I am going on a short journey," he answered finally. "but I will return, and if you stay with Dera, I shall bring you back a present." He looked at Firiel to impress how important it was. "That means no coming down to the stables, little one—I fear you may be kicked by a horse with a shorter temper than Mírdan's."

"Horses won't hurt me," Firiel said quietly. It was almost under her breath, but that was how she usually spoke. Something about the way she stressed horses unsettled him.

Faramir paused, and then his mouth tightened. "That may be so, but Dera worries that you may get lost in this vast city. Please stay nearby, little warrior, for both our sakes."

She nodded, ducking her head and scuffling away from Mírdan. Faramir led his gray horse out of the stables with Firiel dragging herself behind, and squinted into the new sunlight. For days, rain had plagued them and given an overall sense of gloomy tidings; now, the weather finally broken, brighter spirits seemed to prevail. Standing outside was Bain, who Firiel had taken to, and Kálfr, whom she had not.

"Captain," Bain said, saluting. "And his Lady," he added with a bow. Firiel hid behind Mírdan and peeked out from behind the strong haunches. "We came to see if you needed any company with you on your journey."

"Nay, I shall unite with the Northern patrol and we shall carry on from there," Faramir answered. He mounted his gelding swiftly and sighed. "I hope to bring back fair tidings and more news. Firiel, stay here, my child."

The small crippled girl backed away from the horse, and Faramir urged Mírdan to speed, the two of them taking off with a clatter. Once exposed, Firiel hobbled back into the darkness and safety of the barn, hoping the other two men would take no notice of her. She had promised Faramir that she would stay with Dera, but her caretaker would be working at this time of the morning; there was no point in going back now.

She waited, listening hard for the sounds of Bain and the other man to move away. She didn't like the small, pale one and stayed away from his bright eyes and quick hands. Men didn't bother her—they tended to ignore her, which suited her fine. It was when they smiled and tried to talk that she became nervous.

Once she was confident they had left, she left the stables and followed the cobblestone street, her twisted leg scraping behind her. She had a bad feeling, a kind of queasy, stomach-fluttering feeling that was making her head hurt. This had happened once or twice before, and what followed was never good. The little girl followed the streets she had memorized until she reached a small, high, green courtyard that people were not allowed in. However, she wasn't just people—Firiel knew how to be small and quiet, and once the guard's eyes had glazed over, and she just became another part of the background, she shuffled forward into the courtyard. There was a small corner on one side, where a thick potted fern nearly touched the ground. Beneath it was a small mossy place where she could sit and listen.

The courtyard was empty now, which was nice; Firiel curled up as best she could and tried to calm her nerves. Maybe it would happen this time—there had been lots of times where she felt nauseous and the pictures hadn't come. Only once in a while had she seen the pictures, and none of them ever had Faramir in them. She took deep breaths and pulled her new dress over her knees. The dress was brown, but too stiff and too clean. The dresses she used to wear were ripped and dirty, but they felt comfortable and not itchy.

As she scratched her neck, she heard boot steps clunking on the flagstones. She drew in a breath and stayed perfectly still.

"Father," she heard a deep voice say, and she identified it as Faramir's brother, Boromir. He was all right—she liked him best when he reminded her of Faramir. Which wasn't very often. He was bigger and older and much louder, but when he was quiet she liked to watch him and see all the similarities between the brothers.

"Boromir, best of sons," Denethor said, sounding pleased. Firiel hoped they wouldn't notice her foot poking out from beneath the ferns. She couldn't twist her leg in far enough; hopefully Denethor wouldn't notice. He had dark, witchy little eyes which noticed plenty of things.

Boromir sat down on a stone bench and rubbed his eyes. "My father, there is much to discuss," he said tiredly. Denethor sat beside him with a swirl of furs. "Again, I am concerned for the welfare of the outer villages. If Faramir is correct, this may not be an isolated incident; we should double the patrols surrounding the borders, and increase troops in Osgiliath. If an attack were to come, it would land there."

"These small villages have many squabbles amongst themselves," Denethor argued. "Increasing patrols would do nothing save foster mistrust and fear that something is amiss. As for Osgiliath, you may be correct on that front—but the change must happen slowly. You would lead the men there, I trust?"

"Of course," Boromir answered. "Father, Faramir is concerned that this may be the work of Orcs. I do think it wise to perhaps send a party into the mountains to roust them out; if they are gathering in numbers, it may serve beneficial to nip them in the bud. Faramir could lead a few of his Rangers—"

Denethor snorted. "Your brother lacks the nerve to lead a charge into battle. He lacks a warrior's instinct, my dear boy, which is no slight upon him, but it is a skill greatly needed among his men. Morale will quaver if their leader lacks confidence. No, Boromir, there is naught to be done. Burning down a small village and leaving no trace behind is not the work of Orcs."

Crouched behind the ferns, Firiel felt her stomach lurch unpleasantly. They were talking about her home. Faramir had tried to talk to her about it once, but she had seen everything again—the burning and suffering and hearing her mother scream, pleading, banging against the door. She saw the flames, rising higher towards the big moon, how she had turned and fled back to the river, sliding in the icy mud; then, back in the ruins of the village, burying herself in hot ash to keep warm next to the smoldering house she used to live in.

Firiel twitched and her gorge rose; her small head fell backwards and a thick moan rose from her throat. Denethor paused and looked around for the noise, but she didn't notice; in lieu of the memories, the pictures began to flash in her mind. She gripped her head tightly and hoped it would be short.

A huge beast, almost a dragon, with black scales and teeth large and sharp as daggers, reared towards the sky. Huge leather wings unfurled and He was on its back, the one who haunted her nightmares. Fluttering robes, more smoke and mist than solid garment, swirled around him as green lightning raged across the skies. A bony hand, fleshless beneath the spiked black gloves, reached for her…

And there was Faramir, falling back, a small black arrow striking him in the heart. His face, a twisted mask of pain, and she heard his pained roar as he fell in battle, the men around him retreating in fear; the river at his feet roared and rushed as the green light around him burned ever brighter. Monsters, monsters everywhere, creeping in on the fabric of dreams and reaching out skeletal hands to drag Faramir down, down into the deep darkness, their claws tearing at his skin…

The green lightning erupted into flames, flames which consumed her village and spread to Minas Tirith, the White City crumbling to ruins. Denethor, his eyes closed, lay next to his youngest son in the midst of flames, a hard glass globe clutched in his hands; the green fire was split by black smoke which erupted from the object and poured around the flames, not extinguishing them but merely blinding her; now the flames were secret, silent, waiting…

She smacked her head against the stone wall and groaned again. Birdsong poured into her ear and she concentrated on breathing. Already the images were fading; all she remembered was green fire and blood. Tears sprang to her eyes as she tried to recall the visions—frustration bit at her when she couldn't. Someone was carrying her, carefully keeping her still; the warm sun kissed her face and Firiel let her head fall back.

It was Dera, the woman who cared for her; the healer stripped the little girl of the sweat-soaked dress and hauled water from the well for a bath. The little child had withdrawn into herself again, wide-eyed and deathly pale, her breathing shallow and slow. As the warm water turned her skin pink, Firiel seemed to come alive again, and Dera combed the thin hair away from her face.

"Firiel," Dera said soothingly, "Firiel, can you hear me?"

She turned her face towards the healer and nodded.

"A servant of the Steward's found you eavesdropping in the courtyard—my little one, you must not go to the upper levels, do you understand me?" Dera said, handing the child a cloth to dry herself with. Firiel immediately wrapped the towel around her head as if to block out her hearing, but Dera firmly removed it and set it around her shoulders.

"I like the courtyard," Firiel whispered. "It's green and quiet."

"There are green and quiet places near the House of Healing," Dera reminded her. "Tomorrow you will come with me there, and you can play with the other little children."

Firiel slowly pulled on the dress, fitting her arms through the sleeves. She didn't want to tell Dera what other children always did; back at her village she had been kept away from them, because she was strange and different and couldn't keep up. They didn't like her pictures—she didn't like them either, but there wasn't any choice. But Dera looked worried, and when grown people worried they made you stay inside. Firiel couldn't bear to stay inside the house, it was too large and too bright; with the windows open it was flooded with sunlight and she had to hide beneath the bed.

But she nodded, because she could stay away from children.

"Firiel," Dera said slowly, drawing the child onto her knee, "did something happen in the courtyard? Did someone…hurt you? You seemed so strange…"

"Pictures," Firiel said hoarsely. "That's all. Just pictures."

Dera looked at her, worried creases in her brow, her pale blonde hair spilling free of the braid; then she pressed a kiss to Firiel's hair.

Just pictures, Firiel told herself. They can't hurt anyone.

.

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This story is a continuation of the one-shot I wrote, Bury Them With Honor. I've received a good bit of attention and even a request to continue the story—for that reason, I've decided to attempt just that. Reading With Honor isn't required for this story, but it may help for background.

I'm worried about this story for several reasons. One, I've never written a "gifted" character before, and I hope I'm dealing with it correctly. (Meaning, I hope she's not a Mary Tot.) Two, this is the first story I've written that isn't a one-shot and deals with people entirely from Middle Earth. That means I have to characterize people correctly and do oodles of research about Minas Tirith and whatnot. So please, take all this with a grain of salt, as it's my first attempt.

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