Four Candles
Written by Kaliedescopecat (aka sarasrati34) for the Faramir Exchange LJ Community, Winter Round 1
Disclaimer: Lord of the Rings and associated characters belongs to JRR Tolkien.
Éowyn frowned at the windowsill, where four candles burned merrily in the twilight gloom. In the darkness beyond, tiny pinpoints of light winked from other windows as well, far away on the lower circles. If not for those she would have thought her husband taken by a sudden fit of madness—but apparently the affliction extended throughout the whole of Minas Tirith tonight. She bent to blow the flickering flames out, but stopped when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
"What are the candles for, love?" she asked as Faramir swept her up into his arms. His grey eyes glittered in the candlelight.
"Do you not have such a custom in Rohan, dear heart?" he asked, drawing her close. "On the shortest day of the year, we put a light in the window for those dear to us who have gone on." He glanced at the candles on their own sill and then out at the circles below. "There are too many this year. Most burn for those who died during the War, and in some houses there are not even enough people left to light them."
"Should things have gone differently, there would have been no one to light them at all," said Éowyn softly. "It is a lovely way to remember those who have gone before. Many have gone, but they are not truly vanished as long as some memory remains. And these here are your mother, Boromir, your father... but who is the fourth?"
His hand, running gently through the waterfall of hair cascading down her back, slowed and stopped. "It belongs to one who died a very long time ago," he said. "I do not think that I have ever told you of Luthíel, have I?"
"No," replied Éowyn, "but I feel that it is a sad story from the way you say her name."
"It was a tragic day," said Faramir, with a faraway look in his eye. "There are few left now that know of it. I fear I should have told you of her before, but it was a long time ago and an old sorrow. You see, Luthíel was my first love."
Boromir of Gondor, Captain-General and Heir to the Stewardship, kicked off his boots, breathed in the salt air, and flopped down on the beach with a great "Ahhh!" I followed him a split second later, shedding tunic and shirt in a flurry of sand. For a long moment my brother and I simply baked in the warm sun, long months of duty and tension melting away in the wind and waves of the seacoast at Dol Amroth.
'"It has been too long since we were here, Faramir," Boromir said at last, eyes closed. "A pity the errand is not more pleasant."
"Only you would consider finding a bride unpleasant," I laughed. "Scores of willing women in Minas Tirith from all corners of Gondor, and we must come all the way here to find you a wife to give you an heir!"
"Ah, but that is precisely the part I do not like," said Boromir.
"What, the getting of an heir?" I could not help but ask, winking.
"No, dunceling, the so-called willing women! That's the problem, they are all too ready to be married to me for the sake of position and status, and care nothing for me, Boromir as I am, at all. But if I cannot find someone who will actually be at least tolerable for the rest of my life, I would rather not be married at all, hang the getting of an heir," Boromir sighed. "And I would not take one of the women of Dol Amroth from her home and have her languish in the sight of the dark cloud of Mordor, ever wishing for the sunlight and the seashore."
"I thought not," I replied, and remembered long silences on Father's part. "I wondered if you had thought of that, when we made preparations to come here."
"I saw Father's face when I asked to go," said Boromir. "He will say nothing—you know he never speaks of Mother—but for a moment and no more the ice cracked. It has been near on fifteen years now and still he cannot forget."
"Ah, but you wouldn't want to forget, would you?" I mused, shading my eyes as I stared upwards at the racing clouds. "I do not remember much of her, but I cherish the little I do have."
"It is not the love he needs to forget, it is the pain," said Boromir. "He cannot remember the happiness without also remembering the hurt, and the hurt overwhelms all else. As much as I would not have what happened to Mother happen to another woman of Dol Amroth, so too I am afraid to have what happened to Father happen to me. I am not strong enough to withstand it."
"And so this journey—what purpose is served here, then?" I asked. "There is much to be done at home."
"I admit it is a selfish thing. It is a statement to Father to let me alone in the matter of a wife. It is cruel, it is underhanded, and it is the only thing I can think of that will make him listen," replied Boromir, sighing. "I can defend Gondor, but it takes all of me to do it. Where would I fit a wife into all of this? I can hardly fit a brother."
For a long moment I could think of no reply, for it was true that we had hardly seen each other over the last few years, little snatches here and there much less than either of us would have liked. "Then, Boromir, I will do my best to make sure these few weeks in Dol Amroth are relaxing and free of clinging women," I finally said, clapping my brother on the shoulder as he sat up. "And that a brother will fit into everything. You have my promise." He shook the sand from his hair and with a running leap, splashed into the warm waves of the sea with a freedom not felt in many months. I was not far behind, and for a little while we were children again, with all the worry of adulthood fallen away.
But my promise, earnestly made, was not so easily kept. Though I had thought it a matter of privacy between Father and Boromir as to the purpose of the journey to my uncle's land, somehow the news had gotten out that the heir to the Stewardship was searching for a bride of his own. Lords and ladies flocked to the city on the sea, bringing daughters of marriageable age, and court life flourished in all its tiresome glory.
As the sons of the Steward our uncle required of us a certain duty to the court, putting in our time during the dances and dinners before escaping to our own pursuits without all attention on us. In Minas Tirith, Boromir and I learned the courtly arts with little opportunity to practice them—the White City was no longer a city of peace, and so all its attentions were focused on the making of war. Long had it been since the Lord Denethor allowed a dance within his halls, or any music save perhaps a short nightly song to inspire his captains to brave deeds and patriotism.
But Dol Amroth was far from Mordor and the Shadow, and so it could be forgotten here. Boromir danced out of duty, but I found that I enjoyed it greatly—and in this enjoyment I could distract the status seekers and the clingers from him for a time, as they often used me to get to him. A fruitless endeavor, really, for even if I liked them, and might recommend them, I had promised Boromir his freedom. And Boromir mattered more than anyone I might meet in passing.
In truth, not many were as shallow as we made them out to be in our private gossip, nor as clinging—they were young women doing as they were dictated to do, and I think too that few of them really wanted it any more than he did. Whether they desired to be married or not, they were brought by older kin and pushed into the way of the Steward's elder son during his time at Dol Amroth.
And one of these was Luthíel, the daughter of a lord from the northern shores of Belfalas, Mennedhas, who kept trading posts all along the coast for a hundred miles north and south. She came with her mother, whose hopes were pinned on her winning the heart of the elusive Heir of Gondor, but she herself wanted no part of manipulation and intrigue. It was a night of clear skies and warm breezes when I first saw her, standing on the terrace outside to escape the hot ballroom, just as I myself had. For once no one followed me, and we were alone in the night air.
I did not speak, but she came over to me with a shy smile.
"Do you think the stars are as lovely anywhere else in the world as on the shore?" she said to me, and though by another her words might have been spoken with guile, in Luthíel they were simply pure, free of plot or scheme. "I cannot imagine they would look so very clear over land, somehow."
"I think you are right," I said, "for I have been to many parts of Gondor and nowhere are they so very bright as here. Nearer the White City they are veiled, for often the darkness reaches out from across the river to cover them up." And inwardly I wondered why I had spoken so frankly to an innocent mind with no idea of the shadow, but she merely nodded and looked thoughtful, without a trace of apprehension.
"I expect that there are other charms of the White City that make up for its lack of starlight," said she, brushing a strand of black hair from her face. "I have heard that the walls are brilliant when the sun shines upon them."
"At sunrise the light comes from the east and turns them all sorts of colors, red and orange and pink and purple, and it warms the heart of all who see it," I told her, remembering summons that I had ridden all night to meet and being gladdened by the loveliness. "And at night when the moon is out the walls seem almost to glow themselves."
"For that charm then I may forgive Minas Tirith its cloudier skies, as long as sometimes the moon may show through," she said, and gave a little curtsy to me. "I am Luthíel, and I suppose you think me quite silly for standing out here avoiding the ball, my lord Faramir."
"I fear 'my lord Faramir' is too grand a title for me," I said, "and I do not think it is silly in the slightest. Should you like to walk in the garden with me? I must admit I came out for the air myself, as it can become rather cloying at times."
"Oh, indeed," she said, with a wicked laugh. "All that perfume, so that a Steward's son might sniff and fall hopelessly in love, and they both run for the simple night air instead! I saw your brother run for it more than an hour ago!"
I laughed, and took her arm. We never returned to the ball that night at all.
By the time I returned to my own rooms I felt as though I were walking on a cloud, full of thoughts of Luthíel and nothing else. For the next few weeks, we were inseparable—and almost as often we recruited Boromir as chaperone, to serve the purpose of keeping my promise and rescuing him from the social climbers. Her mother loved the intrigues of court and so forced Luthíel into attending ball after ball, but Luthíel herself hated them, and took a particular pleasure in helping us thwart our father's unwanted plans.
She was kind and gentle, but had a mischievous streak that ran through all she said. She loved music and listened with an educated ear, though she herself played nothing; she knew much about her father's trading posts and how they were run; she loved dogs and had several at home, and regaled us with tales of their tricks and troubles. I could think of nothing else but she—I was twenty years old and I was blind to everything except love—but I should have paid more attention to what else was going on in the court.
The blow came at the end of the third week, only a few days before we were to depart for Minas Tirith. I found Boromir sitting in our chambers with a letter crumpled in his hand, his face hard as stone.
"I tell you now, Faramir, I had no part in this!" he cried when I came in, and held out the letter for me to read.
" 'My dear Boromir,'" I read out loud, " 'I am pleased that your attentions have finally settled on a young lady of sufficient quality. Your uncle writes that you have spent a great deal of time in the company of one Luthíel of Belfalas, whose mother has told her that the girl is smitten with you. I have sent a marriage contract to Mennedhas, and we have agreed that the two of you shall be wed. I commend you on your choice, as reports of the girl indicate that she is capable of managing a household and strong in body and mind.'" I could not go on; could not read him describing my Luthíel with no more kindness than if he were buying a pair of shoes.
Boromir simply looked at me, shaking his head. "He's turned the trick against me," he said in disbelief. "He's taken something Uncle said and twisted it around to use for his own devices. He knew I wasn't going to find anyone—so he's forcing me into it."
"A trick against you?" I cried. "You are going to be married to the one I love! Who is apparently smitten with you!"
"I will not do it, Faramir," he said. "I will find some way out of it!"
"How can she be smitten with you?" I could not get the line of out my head. I sank to the floor.
"Faramir!" cried Boromir, taking my face in his hands. "I have seen the way she looks at you, brother, I have been your chaperone for weeks and heard how she speaks your name. There is love there—there is nothing but friendship for me. I would not lie to you!"
"I believe you," I said at last, my head whirling. It seemed a dream that I could not wake from—a cruel trick played on us by my father. "I love her, Boromir! I would be betrothed to her!"
"Would you?" he said with a strange tone in his voice. "Would you take her back to Minas Tirith and have her long for the sea? Would you see your sons bereft of a mother too weak to withstand the Shadow?"
I stared, robbed of speech. "I would do no such thing," I said finally. "But Boromir, it is her choice to make!"
"And so it was Mother's," said Boromir.
"You cannot think I would keep her in Minas Tirith against her will," I said. "Am I so cruel? Boromir! You know me!"
"You were too young to remember it," he said, his voice distant. "Father would not let her go home until it was too late. She might have been stronger here, might have escaped it. He would not let her go."
"Boromir, I swear to you that I will never do such a thing—she may live wherever she likes, if it means I will not lose her!"
Our eyes met, and at last he nodded. "It is my turn to believe you, little brother," he said. "I will help you. We will get you your love."
"I must go to her and tell her that we will fix this," I said.
"Yes, go," said Boromir, "and I will try to find Uncle Imrahil and see what he can tell me about this rotten business, and something can be done about it. I am sure that he misunderstood Luthíel's mother. I am sure it can be all cleared up with his help." He clapped me on the back and waved me towards the door.
When I found Luthíel, her mother was sitting with her on a windowsill, one of her daughter's hands clenched in her own, speaking in low, urgent tones. "We have gotten a letter from the Steward," she was saying. Luthíel's face had gone white, and when she looked at me my heart skipped in pain.
"Mother, it is the Steward's son," she said as I entered. Her mother looked up sharply, hopeful for a moment, but her mouth curled in disgust when she saw which Steward's son it was. Luthíel wrenched her hands from her mother's clutches and flew to me; I caught her and glared over the top of her head at the spiteful creature that was her mother.
"Luthíel never told you anything at all about Boromir, did she?" I spat. "You lied to my uncle, told him they were in love, when you knew he was only a chaperone for us and nothing but a dear friend to my lady!"
"Why pursue the spare when the heir is free?" said her mother, and I felt Luthíel's hands clench hard against mine. "She could have Boromir if she wanted, if she hadn't fallen in love with you. The silly child can still have him, and will. I simply helped the matter along by telling the Prince what I knew the Steward wanted to hear, and if they are blind enough to believe me, so much the better."
"I do not want Boromir!" cried Luthíel, eyes wild. "I love Faramir and not his brother! I will not be forced into a marriage through trickery! We will tell the Steward and we will be free of it."
"The contract is signed and sealed, my daughter, and the announcements will be made soon both here and in Minas Tirith. There is nothing you can do about it but become a good wife for the Heir of the Steward and secure all our fortunes!" hissed her mother, face flushing.
"How can you use your own daughter this way?" I asked, aghast. "Would you not be happy if she were married happily, no matter to whom?"
"I will be happy to see her married to the Heir," she snarled. "And you, boy, will not stand in the way of our family's fortunes! Do you not know what a prize is to be won, daughter? Fool! Simply tell the lie, and have everything!"
"Everything but what I truly want!" she cried, and with that, Luthíel fled, dragging me after her. Her mother screamed, "Run away from me now and you will be sorry!"
But she did not turn back; we ran through corridors and doorways until we found ourselves in the gardens, and tumbled out of sight beneath an arbor of white roses in full bloom. I let my legs give way beneath me, and she fell into my lap, weeping.
"I am sorry about her, Faramir, I am sorry," cried Luthíel. "I never told her anything at all." I held her as she wept, shaking myself at the treachery of her mother and my own father—it may have been directed at Boromir and not myself for once, but I cannot think he would have been displeased in knowing of it. Had my mother been alive, I thought, she would never have allowed this—but then a great many things would be different, and perhaps my father and brother would not need to trick each other in the matters of marriage.
"What shall we do, Faramir?" she whispered at length.
"We must explain to my uncle, for he at least will listen to reason," I said, "and he will not like the way your mother tricked him one bit. Boromir has already gone to talk to him."
"That is good," said Luthíel. "And my father will listen to me against my mother. Perhaps I can go to him and escape for a time."
"Then it will be all right. We will be together, and nothing will matter," I said happily, holding her close. "It will be all—" A crash at the other end of the garden cut me off, and a shout echoed through the trees, a harsh voice calling Luthíel's name.
We peeked out and saw men crashing through the garden, sweeping aside pots of flowers and bushes as they searched. "Find them!" screeched Luthíel's mother, following close behind. "She ran away with that wretch Faramir—I heard the jealousy in his voice! I heard him plotting to steal what should be his brother's and take it for his own! I heard his vengeful words, his threats towards my Luthíel! Find him! Kill him!"
"Aye, milady," came the answer from the men. "We will not let him take your daughter's honor!" Someone else, closer to us, murmured with a chuckle, "We'll do whatever you like for the price you paid us!"
In shock we stared at each other, hidden beneath the white roses. "She cannot possibly think that Boromir would marry me if her own guards killed you!" cried Luthíel softly.
"I don't think they are her own guards," I whispered back. "They wear no livery. They are paid men, ruffians who will do anything for a heavy purse. We must get out of here." I took her hand and we snuck away from the rose arbor, making for the hedge at the very edge of the garden. A shout went up as we fought our way through the dense branches, and a flurry of pounding feet came after us as we scurried across the lane outside the gardens and out into the rocky hills near the shore.
"This way!" I cried, dragging Luthíel down a slope of sand. Our pursuers thundered after us; I thought only of the boat I knew was kept tied on the dock near the beach. I could sail us away from them—we would return later when they had gone—the thoughts spun through my head as we scrambled over the boulders in a dizzying whirl, and the men came ever closer.
"How can she do this!" choked Luthíel, gasping for breath. Something thudded into the rock next to us, sending a stinging cloud of debris into our eyes. Arrows! We climbed faster, trying to reach the top of the hill and cover.
As I reached the crest, pulling Luthíel after me, a blaze of pain erupted in my side like fire from the mouth of Orodruin itself. I cried out and fell to the ground, Luthíel's screams echoing in my ears. "Faramir!" With a groan I made it up, somehow, and she led me along the crest of the dune, each step an agony. In the back of my mind Ranger training screamed at me to get out of sight, to hide, but I could not make the words reach my lips to tell her. Luthíel did not know; she took the fastest course; and below us her mother's ruffians tracked us easily.
Voices echoed over the water—could that be Boromir? My uncle?—and I could not make sense of their shouts. My vision blurred as we ran—and suddenly we were falling, tumbling down the rocks—I heard Luthíel screaming—and then her voice was cut off as we stopped with a jerk at the bottom of the hill.
I could not look away from her eyes, staring wide and glassy, all the light gone out of them. I forgot the pain of the arrow, forgot the pursuit, forgot everything but the blank face before me where once there had shone my Luthíel's spirit, ebbed out in a rush of blood through the gash in her temple and the arrow in her heart. Beyond us, voices raged, footsteps pounded over the rock and sand—Boromir was there, suddenly, his face white—my uncle shouted orders—my brother lifted me from the ground, shouting, "He is hurt!" and the world flooded away in a rush of darkness.
When I awoke Boromir was asleep next to me, head pillowed on an arm in the bed and the rest of him perched precariously in a chair. Why was I here? I could not remember; I turned it over and over again in my mind. I tried to shift in the bed, and as a stab of pain lanced through my side the memories flooded back.
"Luthíel..." I whispered, and I could not keep the tears at bay. Boromir came awake with a jolt and gripped my hand.
"Faramir! By the Valar, you are awake," and I saw that his face was pale, his eyes shadowed. He poured a cup of water from the pitcher at the bedside and held it to my lips, wiping the tears from my cheeks with his other hand. "When I saw you fall, my heart stopped. You both lay so still—" His voice broke. "I am sorry, Faramir, I should have been quicker. We heard the shouts in the garden, and Uncle called for the guards, but we were too far behind. We saw the arrow hit you, saw you run, but we did not catch up to them until it was too late. One last shot flew off, Luthíel pushed you out of the way, and you both fell."
I closed my eyes and wept, Boromir's hands on mine. "I am sorry, brother, I am sorry. I never wanted a wife, and now my heart breaks that you who found one lost her," he wept. "I am so sorry."
"You must not be," I whispered. "For it was the fault of her mother, determined to gain something she could not have. And it is her fault that my heart is broken and my love dead and any chance of happiness with her..." I could not speak. Boromir drew back, eyes wide.
"No, Faramir!" he cried. "You sound like Father. You cannot let yourself be like Father! It will hurt, and there is nothing you can do about it except let it hurt—but you must move on. Remember what I told you? Remember what I said Father must do?"
"That he must forget the pain and remember the happiness," I murmured.
"And so must you," he said. "There will be love for you again, Faramir, I know it. I promise it. You must make me a promise too—you must not let it overwhelm you like Father—remember her with happiness and let the sorrow pass away."
"I promise you," I said, and wept in my brother's arms.
"And I have kept that promise," said Faramir. "I light the candle for her, and think of the short time we had together, and the cruel tricks played on us by schemers and glory-seekers." He kissed the tears from Éowyn's cheeks.
"What happened to Luthíel's mother?" Éowyn asked, sniffling. "And Boromir—he never married?"
"Nay," Faramir replied. "He did not. And Father, seeing the trouble that had been wrought, did not press the issue of an heir any longer. Luthíel's mother was exiled to the North, sent with a caravan past Rohan—I know not what happened to her there."
"What a tragedy it is," Éowyn said. "I hope things will be more sensible in the days to come."
Faramir smiled, and touched the last candle. "I think that with us at Aragorn's side, they will be. I wish that Boromir knew it, that he spoke true—there is love for me again. For a very long time I believed there would not be, despite his promise, and when he died I thought to die myself but for love of Gondor."
"I think that he knows," said Éowyn, "and he and Luthíel would be very glad to see you happy once more. Are you happy, love?"
"I am very happy indeed," said Faramir, with a kiss to her cheek, and together they stood at the window, watching the twinkling lights and remembering fondly those who had gone before.