[4]

That evening, after supper, they sat on the steps of the terrace, overlooking the garden. He was polishing his boots. As he worked, he recounted his meeting with Húrin and, as he talked, she watched his hands, moving around in a small quick circular motion: practiced, precise, and very economical. She wondered why he was doing this – surely there was someone to do this for him? – and listened to the end of his tale with mounting alarm. "He didn't answer? He evaded your question?"

"I hardly got the chance to ask—"

"Worse." Reaching down, she picked up his other boot. His hand stopped dead for a second and his eyes, fixed on the boot, narrowed. She did not put it back down. Eventually, he went back to work.

"Love," he said, "I understand why you might be suspicious, but I cannot believe such a thing of Húrin. He has known me since I was a boy. He was kind to us, when Mama died…"

She reached for the polish. He sighed. "One day he took us around, Boromir and me, and showed us all the secret ways of the city."

Well, she thought, had the darkness come sooner, there might well have come a time when they would need to know these in order to escape the hordes. His face was closed; it was clear the thought had occurred to him too, long ago. Still, it was a point in the man's favour that he had sought to protect two boys in this way.

She picked up another rag, twisting it around her index and middle finger in the way he had done. She began to rub, slowly at first, then gathering pace. Circular, round and round; soothing. She could see why he did this for himself. "Who else was as near your father, then?" she said. "Who else had ready access?"

He was watching her hands. She was copying his action very closely. "I could ask the servants, I suppose," he said. "They would have seen a great deal. They might know something."

It took her a moment to grasp who exactly he meant. Sometimes he was too elusive.

"When you say his servants—?" Six men, Denethor had summoned to his bonfire, to carry the bier of his still-living son.

"It's not a meeting I've been eager to have. But I suppose it must be done."

Her hand stopped dead. "Surely they are not on your staff!"

"What? No, by no means! I must confess I have no idea where they are. I haven't cared to ask. Húrin will know."

Indeed, it seemed Húrin knew everything. He reached over to set her hand in motion again, and dutifully, she went back to work. "He had a spy in the company, you know," he said, almost conversationally. "Amongst the Rangers."

"Húrin did?"

"No, Father, of course! Who else? One of my lieutenants. He wrote to him monthly, reporting on my actions. For the whole of my captaincy. Thirteen years. Fair reports, on the whole, I think. There was little to fault. At least, I would like to think so. Although Father did have a knack for finding fault."

Spying on his own son. She rubbed a little harder. "When did you find out?"

"Early on. I'm not a fool. And he was right to mistrust me. Yours to command, I would say to him. I wasn't, in the end. And he knew that years ago, long before I did. I was not his to command. I see now that this was the root of all our troubles." He stopped work. He looked over what he had done, nodded in satisfaction, and put the boot down beside him.

"I also ignored orders," she said. "To stay in Dunharrow."

He reached across, stilling her hand. She offered him the boot. He took it, and put it down beside the other, twitching them slightly until they were perfectly aligned. "I am not sorry," he said.

"Neither am I."

[5]

He had arranged to meet Húrin down on the first circle the next morning, where a small dispute was holding up the clearing work near the Gate. At the very least, he was keen to have the square behind the Gate look presentable for the King's entrance. The back streets could take care of themselves for a while. The simple presence of the Steward, eyes sharp, nodding at their complaints, went some way to ameliorate the situation, and work began again without him having to promise more than that he would consider their requests. Sometimes, he thought, people simply want to be heard. As he left, he heard one of them say: You'd never have seen his father down here.

He walked with Húrin back up the levels. The sound of sawing and hammering was everywhere. Every so often they would detour from the main path to check on some particular area, badly hit by fire, perhaps, or by the blows from the Enemy's war machines. The damage in places was grievous, and the work seemed agonisingly slow. They were short of everything, but particularly of labour. He longed to offer to the King a city fair and shimmering, to be able to say, Look how well we Stewards kept our oath. But he knew, in his heart, that the wonder was that there was a city to give back at all, and that one day, with work and patience, she would flower again. He was a patient man, and he was willing to work.

One could not escape the racket of the repairs. Most of the men were fresh from the Houses from Healing, had barely been standing a week ago, but had taken up the tasks full willing. He saw many of his Rangers, and others of those who had fought the retreat back from the river and not been able to march for the Morannon. He often stopped to talk, or saluted them as he passed. There were women and children returning too, more heartening sounds of life, and some of these called out to him: Captain! Captain Faramir! One woman ran out of her home to embrace him, weeping into his shoulder, and he said quiet words of comfort.

Their progress upwards was slow, although both men knew the worth of each meeting and conversation. Húrin, he was sure, would be glad to see the effect on morale. So it was some time before they were somewhere quiet enough for him to say, "Where are they now? The men who carried me to Father's pyre?"

Húrin gave him a narrow look. "Don't you have enough to keep you busy?"

"I'd like to know. Six of them, weren't there? Where are they now?"

"Two died at Beregond's hand. One…"

"Go on."

"One hanged himself, the same morning."

He stopped in his tracks, bent over, put his hands on his knees, and sucked in air. When the world stopped spinning, he stood up again. "Go on," he said, more grimly.

"A fourth died on the Pelennor. The other two I moved away from the White Tower – I assumed you wouldn't want them on your staff."

"No." They walked on. "Two then. I'd like to speak to them."

Húrin, placing his hand upon his upper arm, moved him towards a quiet corner near the walls. They stood close together. He dropped his voice to a whisper. "What is this all about, Faramir?"

"I have questions—"

"You should try to put this behind you. It was a terrible time. By the grace of the Valar we have come through. I know who these men are. I know where they are. When the King comes, we can hear their case – like Beregond's – and let him pass judgement. Hand this on. You do not have to punish yourself this way."

For himself, he had no desire ever to look these men in the face. But if there was something they knew, or had seen, something that could inform him… Who was our Gríma?

"I'd like to speak to them," he said again. He saw the look in Húrin's face: Stubborn, like your father.

"Very well, my lord Steward," he said.

They parted company in the Court of the Fountain, but he did not return immediately to the White Tower. Instead, he went home and lay on his bed. His head was hammering. He fell at once into a deep sleep, and he dreamed, unambiguously, of fire, and of his father, withering. He rose at once and returned to work, immersing himself completely until the hour came when he could go to the Houses, and take her arm.

[6]

She was regretting, slightly, that she had started him on this line of enquiry. When he came to find her, she saw, for the first time in many days, shadow-smudges beneath his eyes, and he stopped first by the Warden of the House to ask for a sleeping draught.

They walked home. She leaned into him; he sighed softly, in relief. At supper, he picked at his food – his appetite was usually a thing to behold – and when they stood up, she quietly asked the servant to send some plates to the library. They would be in there tonight, she thought. He retreated there, she had noticed, when his spirits were low.

They walked around the garden first. The evening was cool, and she was sure of rain. When they went indoors again it was indeed to the library, warm and snug, although untidier than the last time she had been here. He pointed to a stack of books on the floor. "I've been reordering them."

"Oh yes?"

"I want the poetry together."

"Where is it now?"

"Dispersed. Father shelved everything according to who was ruling at the time. Accounts of their reign first. Cases of law next. Then everything else. Customs, lore, lays, and so on."

"Functional."

"At least it means I'll never forget a date. But I want the poetry all together."

"Functional and beautiful."

"All the best things are."

She surveyed the chaos he had created. "Very well. We should begin."

Not much later in life, she would know that this urge to reorder his books came over him every so often. He would empty whole shelves at a time, stacking them up, and hours later she would come past and find him sitting on the floor, reading. She would soon learn that the point was not to put the books in any order, but simply to be amongst them, and she would leave him to it. But this – this was the first time, and she threw herself into the task, as she did every task that came her way. Under her direction, some order was quickly restored.

"I had a nightmare earlier," he said, as if speaking about the weather. "Fire."

She pushed the book she was holding into place, and turned him. "My love?"

He was standing stock still, rigid, a big black book held closed between his hands. "I am starting to see enemies everywhere. The cook. I find myself looking at the cook and thinking – did you give him something that addled his mind?"

"I ate well at supper," she said. "To no ill effect."

"Some poisons take years."

She removed the book from his hand, and put it on the pile. She led him over to the couch, where she made him eat what had been laid out, and she watched every single mouthful go in until he was done. She made him drink some wine. "Perhaps you should stop these enquiries."

"Húrin has asked me to leave be. But no. I am going to meet the servants tomorrow – or the ones that are still living. Two out of the six that aided him."

"Where?"

"In my office at the White Tower."

Was that neutral territory? She was not entirely sure. "I will be with you."

"Please," he said, with relief.

Faintly, from across the Court, they heard the Tower bell begin to sound the eleventh hour. Well past time for her to leave. He would walk her back, and come home, and take the Warden's draught, and he would sleep, yes, but the dreams would not go away. They would simply bide their time.

The last bell rang. In its wake, he reached across to place his hand against her face. She leaned into his touch. Gently, he stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I wish," he said, "that you could—"

"I will stay here tonight," she said.

"Please," he said.

[TBC...]