A Matter of Trust

Kaleidopy

Chapter FourMinas Tirith

Dawn's pending arrival over Middle Earth was announced by pink and orange flares of color mixing with the fading dark of night. The warning horn blew alerting the city of approaching riders galloping across the Pelennor Fields.

As guards scrambled into position, preparing their weapons, sentries standing atop the great gate squinted their eyes trying to identify the flag one of the riders on horseback carried. Darkness gave way to daylight and the silver swan-prowed ship on a blue flag became clearer.

"It's the Swan Knights," a sentry shouted, recognizing the riders' flag. The visitors identified, the archers lowered their bows and relaxed their guard as the great gate opened to allow a company of the legendary Swan Knights of Dol Amroth entrance into the city.

Imrahil, heir to Prince Adrahil, led the knights through the great gate and into the large courtyard to a curious crowd gathered to witness their arrival. His horse circled the large statue in the middle of the courtyard while he waited for his men to dismount their horses. A glance at the city wall revealed nothing had changed since his last visit to Minas Tirith five years ago, and if his father hadn't been gravely ill, Imrahil wouldn't have made the trip this time.

Minas Tirith was a beautiful city, there was no mistaking the glory and prestige the city proclaimed with its giant white walls, gardens, and the citadel, but the White city could not claim the sea air and the wildlife that Dol Amroth boasted. Belfalas served two purposes; the Bay of Belfalas surrounded the fiefdom, and the distance between Dol Amroth and Minas Tirith provided Imrahil the validation he needed to maintain a peaceful existence between himself and Denethor.

As Prince Adrahil's heir, Imrahil was duty bound to act as emissary for Belfalas in his father's stead. Boorish meetings were nothing new to Imrahil, however, this time, his voice would only be one of several vying for the steward's attention and a share of Gondor's budget. Though he respected his brother-in-law, both as a kinsman and the steward of Gondor, there were times when Denethor's pride drove a wedge as wide as the River Anduin between the steward and his family at Dol Amroth.

With his men settled, and their horses stabled, Imrahil rode to the citadel determined to speak with Denethor before the morning routines had a chance to invade the steward's time. For once, Imrahil wanted Denethor on his own terms, and if the arrogant steward had to be woken to accomplish that feat, so be it.

Guards saluted him, and several nobles, surprisingly up at the early hour, bowed respectfully as he dismounted his horse. Imrahil removed his riding gloves while a man stepped forward in an attempt to escort him to his lodgings. "Inform Lord Denethor of my arrival," he said, "I wish to speak with him upon his earliest convenience."

"The Lord Steward is inside the Tower of Ecthelion with…."

"I will see him now," Imrahil said, interrupting the man. Regardless of which fiefdom lord held Denethor's counsel, his information could not wait. He climbed the stone steps, quickly acknowledging the guards as he walked inside. As a recognizable noble, and a kinsman of the steward, Imrahil never had his authority questioned.

Inside the tower hall, Imrahil heard voices in the distance. Pinpointing their location near the steward's chair, Imrahil moved in that direction. The sun had not risen high enough to shine through the windows as he made his trek to the end of the hall. Denethor's voice was easily detected, and Imrahil heard the steward issue a muttered greeting that meant the conversation had just started.

Another voice, speaking soft words with such sadness that Imrahil instantly regretted his hasty decision to enter the hall without being announced. If he had interrupted someone receiving news of a loved one's death, Imrahil would never forgive himself for his discourtesy. His brother-in-law's back faced him, and due to the lack of light inside the hall, Imrahil could not identify the other man, who was smaller in statue, who held the steward's attention.

"The situation has become critical. Blame not yourself for what has happened," Denethor said, placing his hand on the other man's shoulders. Compassion was something the steward rarely exhibited publicly. Imrahil stepped closer, believing his nephew, Boromir, the recipient of such a rarity. Denethor's favoritism towards his eldest son was well known within the family. "The council will take steps to prevent…" Denethor paused, and spun around so fast, surprising anyone who would have doubted the steward's agility. "Imrahil," he hissed, glaring at the stunned newcomer. "Have you not the courtesy to announce yourself?"

Imrahil bowed, embarrassed by the turn of events. How the steward detected his presence he did not know, but he quickly apologized for his mistake in judgment. "Lord Denethor, forgive my interruption," he said, stepping forward. "It is most urgent I speak with you. It concerns Brandir."

"Brandir?" Denethor whispered, watching Imrahil nod accordingly. Thirty-three years had passed since the steward last heard that name. The urgency in Imrahil's visit became all too clear.

"Uncle?" Faramir stepped out of the shadows and hurried to his uncle's side.

Imrahil's heart skipped a beat. As much as he loved Boromir, it was Denethor's youngest who reminded him so much of his late sister, Finduilas. Both mother and son shared the same blue eyes, and the same gentle disposition. He pulled the young man into his embrace, holding him tightly as the precious legacy Finduilas left behind.

Unexpectedly Faramir pulled out of the embrace and glanced behind Imrahil, searching for someone. Several seconds passed before realization set in. "Grandfather?" his nephew asked almost pleading for reassurance that his beloved grandfather still lived. Concern quickly turned to sorrow when Imrahil hesitated. Speculating the worst, tears formed, and regret soon followed. "I had promised to visit, but I have yet to..."

"No lad, Adrahil still lives," Imrahil answered, placing his hands on his nephew's shoulders. If he hoped the news would calm the young man, he was disappointed. Faramir shivered violently and quickly turned his head unable to face his uncle's prying eyes. Imrahil grasped the inedible. "You had another premonition."

"I had a dream," Faramir admitted, reluctant to reveal anything more when Denethor gave a disapproving stare.

"Faramir, your uncle cares not for such nonsense. Dreams are..."

"I would like to hear this dream, Lord Denethor," Imrahil said sternly. His nephew's dreams usually predicted foretelling events, but if he wanted to hear Faramir's latest dream, he had to appease the steward. He swallowed his pride and played to Denethor's ego. "My Lord, I overstepped my place. I offer my deepest apologies, and ask that you grant my request."

Denethor's angry expression softened, and with a subdued wave, he returned to the steward's chair. "Speak child. Keep us not in suspense. Time is better suited for more important duties, yet you delay unnecessary."

Why Denethor refused to accept the value of Faramir's dreams, Imrahil could not understand. The steward himself possessed the same ability, yet scorns his own son for the same gift. Imrahil shook his head in bewilderment. He placed his hands on his nephew's shoulders in a show of support.

With an appreciated nod, Faramir began explaining the foretelling dream. "Eight knights baring the breastplate of Dol Amroth carried a small boat to the seashore," the voice lowered, whispering each word as if under a hypnotic spell. "Uncle, you followed, carrying a torch in one hand and a long silver sword in the other. The sword was placed inside the boat, and the torch lowered…"

"Father's time is near," Imrahil said hastily. The dream was an omen. Faramir had described the funeral ceremony for a Prince of Dol Amroth.

Faramir turned back to his father. "My Lord," the young man called, waiting for the steward to acknowledge him. Denethor appeared troubled, staring at nothing in particular. Concerned, Faramir approached the black chair, reached out and clasped the steward's arm. "Father, are you ill?"

Denethor gasped, startled to find his son staring bewilderedly at him. He hadn't realized his thoughts had drifted to the past until Faramir touched him. Knowing his son's curious nature, Denethor had to rethink his plans. What he wanted to discuss with Imrahil had to be said in private. "We will talk later, my son. You have traveled far and at haste. Go and rest." he said, finding the perfect excuse to dismiss his son. "I must speak with your uncle on a personal matter."

"Father, I…"

"Your report can wait until council," Denethor said, intending to end the conversation once and for all. "Blame this insolence on tiredness."

"Father, I beg your indulgence," his son pleaded with urgency. "I…"

"I spoke not a request, Faramir,," Denethor warned, livid at the disrespect his own flesh and blood dared to present. Could not his son disgrace himself any further? It never failed. No matter the circumstances, Faramir always strived to antagonize him. If only his youngest possessed a fraction of Boromir's qualities then Gondor's future would be certain. Alas, it was for naught. The boy would never measure up to expectation. Denethor waved his hand, dismissing his son as one would swat at a fly. "Be gone. You have your orders."

"Father, if you care not for my report, why summon…"

"Tempt not my patience, Captain. Should you require a reduction in rank before your obedience to your lord is fulfilled?" Denethor shouted, piercing his son with a stern gaze that silenced any further disobedience. He narrowed his eyes, using the one weapon that kept his youngest in line- condemnation. "Against my counsel, Boromir championed your commission for captain. Now you stand before me, shaming your lord and your brother by your defiance. Tell me my son, was Boromir mistaken?"

At the mention of Boromir's name, Faramir's face fell. "No, my Lord," the young man answered dryly. "I meant no disrespect."

"And yet you have," Denethor rebuffed. He moved past his son, walking across the stone floor towards the northern entrance. Faramir followed obediently keeping his thoughts to himself. Guards stationed by the large double doors reached for the large round doorknobs and pulled opened the doors, expecting the steward to exit the tower.

"Those who wish my counsel will wait here until announced. Permit no disturbance until I so order," Denethor said, addressing the two guards. Both men bowed, acknowledging the order. The steward turned back to his son, his anger still apparent. "Make no mistake, Captain, this order excuses you not. As I so deemed, you and I will continue this conversation at another time."

"I await your summons, my Lord," the captain replied, turning to leave the tower but the steward grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

"Forgive your Lord's harsh words," Denethor said, quickly changing his strategy. He placed his hand on his son's shoulder ignoring the curious stares the guards gave one another. Let their tongues wag; it would not be the first time rumors circulated within the citadel, and he the recipient of such gossip. "Your counsel is urgent, this I know. Have faith in my judgment, for I realize the importance in your uncle's visit more than you. Return to me two hours after the noon bell."

Accepting the explanation without question, Faramir bowed his head in perfect reverence. Denethor watched the young man descend the steps and then the doors closed, shutting out the fresh air once again.

Denethor's mouth formed into a confident smile. Always a few kind words carefully spoken at just the right time, guaranteed Faramir's complete obedience. The boy craved approval, especially his father's, like a starving dog craved table scraps. Denethor had no doubt if the doors opened Faramir would be waiting at the bottom of the steps.

With that problem solved, Denethor returned to the throne room to handle the more urgent matter involving his brother-in-law. "Our conversation would be better suited in a more private location," he suggested, instructing Imrahil to follow him to his private study.

The two men walked the long hallway in silence. Guards stationed along the well-lit corridor followed the high ranking nobles with their eyes as the two made their way to their destination. Door sentries positioned outside the steward's private chambers bowed and opened the heavy doors.

Denethor repeated the no interruption order exemplify the repercussions if the order was disobeyed.

Imrahil entered the large chambers and walked out onto the balcony. "Perhaps Faramir…"

"Concern yourself not with Faramir, brother. He understands his duties and obeys his lord's will," Denethor said, moving along Imrahil's side. He glanced over the balcony and found the object of their conversation standing in the small courtyard. Several rangers flanked their captain, shouting words of encouragement to several boys practicing their archery.

A rare proud smile crept across Denethor's face.

Where had the time gone? His youngest, no longer the little boy who followed Boromir like a lost puppy, but a grown man who had somehow gained the respect and allocation of his people under his own terms.

His thoughts turned dark when a familiar and unwelcome figure crossed the courtyard.

Mithrandir.

"Many years has it been since I saw Gandalf last," Imrahil remarked with pride as his nephew embraced the Istari. "Faramir values his counsel as much as Father and I."

The comment received an angry scrawl from Denethor.

The Istari touched something hanging from Faramir's neck, and smiled with obvious approval.

Curious, Denethor leaned against the railing, trying to hear the conversation below, but too many voices, mixed with training sessions defeated his attempts. When Mithrandir placed an arm around Faramir's shoulders and the two walked away, Denethor realized that he would have to wait to learn what the two were discussing.

What his ears could not hear, the Plantar would reveal. He turned to leave the balcony, but Imrahil's suspicious eyes caused him to forget the Plantar. There would be time for him to use the stone later. First, he had to pacify Imrahil and then he would deal with the Istari later.

Imrahil. He seemed pleased to see the Istari, too pleased. Perhaps Imrahil's early arrival wasn't as urgent as he claimed. Could it be he knew Mithrandir was also in Minas Tirith? Was his kinsman in league with the Istari? He would learn the truth so enough. Nobody kept secrets from him long.

"Our conversation serves not the present but the past," Denethor said, sitting in the nearest chair. "Tell me what you will concerning your visit."