Chapter 3 Classical Poetry

Usual disclaimer applies.

And he called to her, and she came down, and they walked on the grass or sat under a green tree together, now in silence, now in speech. And each day after they did likewise.(Return of the King: The Steward and the King).

I sit in the garden, a book of poetry on my lap. I have never really been one for poetry. And I must have read the stanza in front of me at least three times, without actually taking in any of it. My eyes simply slide over the text, sightlessly. I sigh, then look around the garden instead. Down a narrow path between the low hedges of hornbeam which edge beds of herbs, I see the tall figure of the Steward approaching. He walks slowly, as one who has still not quite shaken off the injuries that have confined him to these houses. Under his arm, he carries a book. He halts beside my resting place.

"May I join you, my Lady?"

"By all means, my Lord," I reply, and move up the stone bench to make room for him. He sits at the other end, half turned towards me.

"What are you reading?" he asks, with a polite smile.

"The Pastorals of Atanatar Alcarin. In translation, obviously. Though I must admit, it is more a case of what I am not reading. I am finding it hard to concentrate."

His smile broadens. "Alcarin is not the most exciting of reads at the best of times, and these are far from being the best of times. I remember struggling through them with my tutor as a young boy. As an adult, it always struck me as ironic that one of the most decadent of Gondor's rulers should choose to write poetry celebrating the lives of simple country folk. Or at least, his imagined version of the lives of simple country folk. Later chroniclers wrote of the excesses of his reign: 'precious stones are pebbles in Gondor for children to play with.'"

I am not quite sure how to respond to this. Coming from another man this speech would sound like that of a pompous windbag showing off his knowledge. But the open, friendly look on Lord Faramir's face suggests that he is simply interested in my opinion on the matter, assuming me to be as well versed in the subject as he is. A slightly awkward silence ensues. Although King Théoden saw to it that my brother and I were well educated by the standards of our people, I feel neither able nor particularly inclined to converse about the minutiae of Gondorian history. I take a sidelong glance at the book he holds.

"Ecthelion's Art of War," I say. "Now there is a book that is appropriate to times like these. Have you found any helpful strategies in there? I seem to remember him discussing the relative sizes of one's own and the opposing force, saying 'If equally matched, we can offer battle; if slightly inferior in numbers, we can avoid the enemy; if quite unequal in every way, we can flee from him.' Not an encouraging thought: without doubt the hordes of Mordor outnumber our forces many tens if not hundreds to one. And yet Lord Aragorn has led our armies into a direct engagement with them."

"An apposite quotation, my Lady, and, sadly, one which does not offer much hope. However, I have been considering this passage." He begins to read, pausing at each sentence while he construes a translation, for the text is in the original Sindarin. "'All warfare is based on deception. Hence, when able to attack, we must seem unable; when using our forces, we must seem inactive; when we are near, we must make the enemy believe we are far away; when far away, we must make him believe we are near. Hold out baits to entice the enemy. Feign disorder, and crush him.'

"This, in a nutshell, is Lord Aragorn's strategy. He hopes to lead attention away from the quest, conducted by stealth, which enters the borders of Mordor unnoticed, by leading a desperate and doomed frontal attack on the Black Gates."

His words take me by surprise. I know of the quest he refers to, from conversations with Merry. But I had no idea that he would know of it. My amazement must show on my face, for he continues, rather contritely.

"Your pardon, Madam, I see your surprise that I should talk of this openly, and indeed you are right to be cautious. Suffice it to say that it is not common knowledge, nor would I discuss it were it not for the fact that Master Meriadoc told me you already knew of this quest. I encountered his comrades, two Periannath travelling through Ithilien with the intent of climbing the stairs of Cirith Ungol. Frodo himself told me of their goal."

"If you have met Frodo, then you probably know more of this matter than I."

"Possibly. I know of the immense burden he bears, a burden which led to the death of my brother, Boromir," Faramir says, his face grave.

"I am sorry to hear that you lost your brother," I say, unsure what comfort I can offer.

"This war takes that which is best and most noble from both our countries, and, if what Merry has told me, from both our lives. I have lost my brother and my father, you, your uncle and cousin."

"Alas for Théoden and Théodred," I say. "They were as a father and a brother to me."

"And we have also both been subject to the black breath," says Faramir.

"You have, I think, been told my story," I say, "But how did you come to find yourself in tourney against a Nazgûl?"

Faramir is silent. I fear that I have asked about something the memory of which pains him deeply. "I am sorry," I continue, "For I know, only too well, how fearsome they are. I relive the horror every night in my dreams. I should not ask you to relive it in the telling."

"No, the real pain is elsewhere, in the circumstances of our doomed attempt to re-take Osgiliath. But I will not talk of it here."

"Then let us walk for a while in the gardens, and talk of things other than war and loss," I suggest. And so we walk in the winter sunshine. I am amazed at how many things grow here, even flowering, at this time of year, and we discuss the difference that a few hundred leagues makes to the ferocity of the winter. North of the mountains, in my home, the thick snows of winter still will not have melted on the higher pastures.

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In the afternoon, I meet Merry. It is good to see him. Finally, I feel as though I can completely relax. The Steward, while clearly well-meaning and a thoughtful, humane man, is not exactly easy to talk to. Merry walks towards me, and I stoop and throw my good arm around him. He hugs me back, as best he can, for he too can only use one arm properly.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

"A lot better, though still assaulted by waves of extreme tiredness. And my sword arm, well, as you see, it is still out of commission," he says. We sit down by the fountain in the middle of the gardens, on a stone bench. Merry's feet do not touch the ground, and he swings them idly as he talks. "So, you have met the new Steward. What do you think of him? Pippin seemed to think very highly of him. I think he would have followed him into the wastes of Mordor and back. In fact, Pippin saved his life, I gather."

"Saved his life? You must tell me the tale. As for what I think, I suppose it is neither here nor there. He seems a kindly man, but noble and grave and beyond my sphere. I am but a rough shieldmaiden of the north; my company must seem strange and crude to him, I think."

"Speak not thus of yourself, my Lady. You are the bravest, most noble person I know," says Merry. He watches as I blush, and, seeing me open my mouth to protest, continues with a chuckle, "But I suppose, lest I make your head swell with compliments, perhaps I had best answer your questions. It is indeed a sad tale. As far as I can piece together, Lord Faramir's father, the Lord Denethor, always favoured his elder brother, Boromir, and was utterly cast down by news of Boromir's death. Nothing Faramir could do was ever good enough by comparison. When Faramir came back and reported his meeting with Frodo, Denethor was incensed that he had not brought the ring back to Minas Tirith as a trophy of war. He sent Faramir on what was effectively a suicide mission. Somehow, against all odds, Faramir held the river at Osgiliath for just long enough to buy much needed time before the start of the battle. His efforts meant that the Rohirrim were able to come to Gondor's aid before Minas Tirth fell. It was a close call, though: the enemy had already broken through the main gate when we arrived. Faramir also protected his troops to the best of his ability on the retreat. It is not for nothing his men follow him into battle even when it seems a lost cause. Eventually, as they galloped across the plains, he was hit by a dart fired from the air by one of the Nazgûl, and was brought into the city near death.

"Denethor seems to have lost his grip on sanity at this point. Unknown even to Gandalf, he had a Palantir, one of the seeing stones of ancient Numenor. The Dark Lord was able to send him visions of the death of those he held dear and the destruction of the entire world, and Denethor thought they were truly what the future held. He fell into despair and went completely mad. He had his soldiers carry Faramir, unconscious and fevered, to the catacombs, where he had a funeral pyre built for both of them, although they yet lived. It was only through the intervention of Pippin and a soldier loyal to Faramir that Gandalf was able to save him. He came too late to help Denethor, though. He burnt to death upon the pyre, clutching the Palantir in his hands."

I feel bile rising in my throat. The thought of the old Steward burning himself to death in his madness makes me shiver with fear, not least because it so nearly parallels my own experience. I thank the Valar that Gandalf was able to return Théoden to his rightful mind. This could so easily have been Théoden's fate. And the thought that Faramir so nearly died too makes my stomach churn. I realise why Faramir was reluctant to talk of it earlier, and I am suddenly hit with a wave of guilt that I have become privy to something so private, so horrific. Somehow, simply bt listening to Merry's tale, I feel I have intruded.

"Merry..." I begin, my voice cracking, then can continue no longer. I take his hand in mine, and we sit there in silence for a long while.

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I sleep fitfully again. For once, my dreams have not involved either groping hands or the horrors of battle. But they have not been any the more pleasant. Instead, I have dreamed of flames licking round the body of the young Steward, as he tosses in his fever. In my dreams, it is his dying screams I have heard. I wake, soaked in sweat and sick to the pit of my stomach.

The maid brings me the usual meagre breakfast, and helps me to dress. I make my way to the same woman who talked to me a couple of days earlier.

"Madam, I have a boon to ask of you," I say. "I cannot lie idle. Enforced rest is giving me too much time to fret, and lack of a useful occupation means that I go to bed insufficiently tired to sleep. Please give me something to do. I may not be a healer, but there must be some chores that can be done one-handed."

The woman smiles at me, and says, "Many of your countrymen lie wounded, some recovering from amputations. It would help them to have someone who could talk to them in their own language, fetch them water, bathe their foreheads." She pauses, as if assessing what sort of woman I am. "And, if it does not offend your dignity, bring them bedpans."

I smile back at her. "It does not offend my dignity. I am a shieldmaiden, not a shrinking violet." The healer introduces me to a young woman of about the same age as me, Lady Lothíriel, who is similarly employed in bearing water and bedpans. She is able to show me where the tools of our new menial trade are kept, and I set to work. It comforts me to speak my own language, and makes me ashamed of my self pity, when I see the wounds and hurts of so many of my brave countrymen.

Thus, I spend the morning gainfully employed, before sharing Merry's company as we both eat a bowl of unappetising stew for lunch. Having eaten, I make enquiries as to the location of the stables.

Author's note. The quotations from TheArt of War are taken from the real work of the same name, by Sun Tzu. I've followed Lialathuveril's lead in attributing it to Ecthelion, one of the early Stewards of Gondor. I had already intended to use The Art of War in one of the initial conversations in this story when I discovered she had used a similar idea in "Black Eyes" (her use of it is much wittier than mine, however – you can find her story in my list of favourites). The quotation about precious stones being like pebbles is taken from Appendix A of the Lord of the Rings.

Thank you for the reviews. To the guest reviewer (since I can't PM you), PTSD was exactly the effect I was aiming for, so I am very heartened by your review to find that I've managed to convey this.

I'm sorry for the long delay between chapters. It turns out that this story is more complicated to write than I'd thought, and I needed to rough out quite a lot of the later material to make sure all the pieces fitted together. I originally intended this as a 'gap filler', but my original conception may change and head somewhat out of canon. I hope this doesn't offend any of my readers.