Beginnings & Endings Chapter 4: The Warrior Steward and Meriadoc the Brave: Part 3
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien's
Author: Susana
Summary: Lord Steward Faramir and his party arrive back at the White City.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has left feedback on earlier chapters, and encouraged me to keep going with this series!
Quotes:
"If you don't understand how a man could both love his brother dearly and want to wring his neck at the same time, then you were probably an only child." - paraphrased from a quote by Linda Sunshine
Title: Chapter 4 Part 3: The Warrior Steward and Meriadoc the Brave
Faramir appreciated that the ride back to the city was fairly quiet. Their group was the greater by some dozen refugees, but even they were quiet. It was the dead of the night, when spirits walked and shadows ruled. To Faramir, the air practically glowed with the weight of ghosts who wandered the fields and hills near the city.
Merry was quiet, too, for the first part of the ride. Faramir was still marveling over the bravery and recklessness of hobbits, although he suspected that there was more than that, underlying Merry's choices in their last skirmish. Faramir planned to question Merry more closely if Captain Swidhund did not, but only once they had arrived back at the city. One of Faramir's most important rules for himself was to always chastise in private, and praise in public, at least as much as a given situation allowed.
But, apparently, as Gandalf had more than once warned Faramir, nothing could keep a hobbit's spirits down for long.
"Faramir?" Merry asked, when the two of them were more or less alone near the front of the column, "Your cousin Lord Hurin seemed to think it was a bad idea for you to come out here, today. If you don't mind my asking, why did you come?"
Faramir found it hard to object to the tone in which the question was asked. Merry seemed as if he was pondering his own fitness for the evening's venture, and Faramir could sympathize with that. During some of the earliest engagements in his military career, Faramir had felt himself an impediment to the men fighting beside him, who were as much looking out for Faramir's inexperienced blade as fighting their own foes.
Pondering his answer for a moment, Faramir noted that Eowyn's cousin-by-marriage, the annoying Barden, was close enough to hear whatever Faramir were to say. Faramir trusted Merry; he even trusted some of Captain Calarion's men, to a certain extent. In that he'd known them, at least by face and name, for many years. Some had served with Boromir, or with Dervorin's late cousin Gendarion. Some had, until just recently, been the men of Captain the Lord Galdoron, who was even now one of the officers coming back from the Black Gate. But Barden...Faramir did not know him enough to trust him. The man had done nothing but try to rile Faramir's temper, ever since they'd met. Faramir understood that he was not what a rider of Rohan would consider a fitting husband for a woman as fine as Eowyn, Royal and Shieldmaiden as she was. Faramir did not understand why that meant that Barden had to spend so very much of his time and energy making snide comments about Faramir, but Faramir had too much going on with keeping the city secure and the country running to worry about one cousin of Eowyn's.
So Faramir chose to answer Merry's question, even though it meant that Barden would hear the answer. Something in Faramir whispered that telling this to Eowyn's cousin as well as to Merry was the right thing to do, that some part of Barden needed to hear it as much as Merry did. Faramir internally grimaced at the thought of providing Barden with more in the way of evidence that Faramir was less brave than the ideal rider of Rohan...but Faramir hardly ever failed to listen to that whispered inner voice. It rung with an irrational, sure-as-the-tides certainty, a sureness that came to Faramir but rarely and always without rhyme or reason. Boromir had called such flights of fancy on his brother's part, "Finduilas moments." But even though Boromir complained, he usually encouraged Faramir to listen to that small voice, meanwhile preparing the both of them to deal with the fall-out from whatever Faramir would do, following where the voice led. Or at least, that's what Boromir had always done, in the past.
After a few more moments of thought, the Steward replied.
"Well, Merry," Faramir spoke, pensively, carefully, as if weighing each word, "It was, in part, that I had to see the state of the countryside myself. I love learning - my books and scrolls - far better than war. But for as long as I am Steward, I must know the state of my lands. My father and my uncle taught me that there is no substitute for seeing with your own eyes, and speaking with the people who live in a place." Faramir paused, and then confessed, "I've never liked war. Part of me was afraid, after our harrowing withdrawal from Osgiliath, that I might have lost my nerve. Part of me was glad to find that had not been the case. I liked fighting no more than I ever have," Faramir told hobbit and rider with with a wry shadow of a smile, "but I did not flinch from it, as I had half feared I might."
Then they were back at the city before Faramir had any time to worry about the results of his revelation. Faramir was busy upon their return, arranging for additional sweep patrols to protect the major routes to and from the city, to keep travelers safe from roaming orcs.
"How will they know where to go, my Lord?" One of the city guard Captains asked, pushed nearly beyond exhaustion, "At least with the regular patrols, we have the benefit of knowing when our lads will be out and about, and there's no predicting the orcs anyway."
"I can still sense the presence of the orcs, Captain." Faramir replied softly, "Not as plainly as before, but clearly enough. There are others who can, as well."
"Not enough soldiers, Captain, Sir...err, my Lord." One of Boromir's old adjutants pointed out.
Faramir paused, forcing his tired mind to think. "No, you're quite right, Sergeant. Not enough soldiers...but enough men...perhaps enough people." Pushing a tired hand through his red-gold hair, and reflecting that it, like all of him, could use a wash, Faramir commanded, "Ask for citizen volunteers who have a feel for the darkness. They only need to be able to ride well enough to keep up, and get out of the way, when they are told."
The Sergeant, Boromir's man, nodded slowly, his thoughts already turning to how that might be done, while the tired Captain objected in horror, "My Lord, you can't mean to send...young boys and women, into war?"
"Not into war," Faramir countered, speaking slowly and distinctly so that his exhaustion would be less evident, "into patrols on and around the Pelennor, under the command of seasoned officers who can see the lay of the land well enough not to engage if they don't have the numbers."
The first Captain was getting set to argue again, while Captain Calarion seemed ready to take Faramir's side.
"It is not an issue for debate, gentlemen." Faramir said softly but firmly. "I am your Lord Steward. You were all sworn to my late father the Steward Denethor, and I am his only remaining heir. Until the King returns, my word is law." Faramir hated having to pull rank like this. There was even some risk to it; Faramir wasn't Denethor. He'd been trained to the authority he now held, but he'd never expected to bear it. It had always been Boromir's place...but now his brother was gone to Mandos' Halls, and it was Faramir who must hold the city, and keep their people safe on the way in and out. Now, if only these hidebound idiots would listen to him.
Boromir's old sergeant suppressed a smile, Captain Calarion seemed satisfied, and the other officers fell into online, however unhappily. Faramir ignored the grumbling; he wasn't Denethor, and he wasn't even going to be here long. If the Captains of Gondor did as he ordered, Faramir didn't particularly care how unhappy they were about it. Faramir wouldn't have to deal with them for very long, anyway.
As soon as he had a moment's peace from his duties, a better peace found him.
"My Lord," Eowyn greeted him, her arms around him just as fast as he turned to her. No soft maid she, Faramir thought with pleased bemusement. Eowyn's body, though lithe and feminine, was as well-muscled as many-a-soldier's. Faramir clasped her back, and for a moment they just stood like that, her bright head under his chin. Man and woman, one another's strength. Then Eowyn's attention was drawn by an almost-silent conversation between Merry and Swidhund.
"My little sword-brother...," Eowyn said softly, referring to Meriadoc, "Swidhund seems torn between pride and fury with him, for whatever reason."
"The reason is clear enough," Faramir told her, torn between frustration at Merry's dangerous antics and a tired amusement, "Your little sword-brother leapt over a small river of flame to engage...ah," Faramir interrupted himself, not sure if even Eowyn would want to hear that Merry had taken offense to that particular orc because it had taken a blond scalp, so he ended, "an orc whose crimes had been particularly egregious."
Eowyn blinked in surprise, "Well that was rather...foolishly daring, of Merry. But surely discouraging orcs was your purpose...it does not sound so very bad."
Faramir snorted lightly, "Perhaps I forgot to mention the dozens of orcs who had inconsiderately placed themselves in between Merry and his quarry."
After staring at Faramir for a few moments, her eyes wide with surprised horror and belated fear for her friend and fellow, Eowyn managed a choked, "Oh, dear." Another woman might not have understood the seriousness of Merry's tactical error, but Eowyn did. She'd been raised a Shield-Maid, and had done a Rider's service and more in this last war. So had Merry, but he lacked even Eowyn's experience. Swidhund, the commander of the Rohirrim who had gone on the patrol, was not pleased with Merry, and nor should he be. "Perhaps," Eowyn suggested slowly, "it would be best if Merry were not left to Swidhund's tender mercies, this night. Swidhund prefers to be a guardian of horses and a trainer of man and beast. Commanding in the field is not to his taste, even when all of his men do exactly as they were bade."
Faramir groaned silently to himself. All he wanted to do was find a bed, any bed, and catch a few hours sleep before the morn. Not long after first light, he needed to be up and herding men once more. But Eowyn knew her Rohirrim - if she said that Swidhund was in no mood to deal with a novice's mistake, then Faramir had no doubt that Eowyn was correct. And Meriadoc was Eowyn's, her brother and comrade-in-arms, the only other being in all the world who truly understood what it had meant to face the Witch-King of Angmar over Theoden-King's dead body. To breathe in the foul stench of fear beyond hope, and keep sword in hand and strength in heart long enough to cut the enemy commander down at last.
Merry was Eowyn's brother, therefore Merry was just as much Faramir's. And even if Merry had not been Eowyn's...Faramir had seen the hobbit in action earlier that evening. Faramir recognized that upper-cut, that under-cut, that subtle understated dance to the right, to then strike at the enemy's unprotected flank. Movements with a blade that came not from any Western school of fighting, but from faraway Khand, where small men had learned to fight those of much larger stature, and win. Skills that Boromir had gone out of the way to learn, in order to teach them to his slender younger brother. Merry had been BOROMIR'S dear friend and companion, one of BOROMIR's students. One of Boromir's very last students. And that alone, even if there had been no dead Witch-King, would have made Merry Faramir's look-out. So Faramir squeezed Eowyn's upper arm gently, and walked over to put himself in between the quietly furious Swidhund, and Merry, who seemed all of shocky, defiant, abashed, and timid all at the same time. With rueful humor, Faramir wondered if he was going to end up taking a fist from a Rider of Rohan this night after all, even though Barden finally seemed to have abandoned giving Faramir the beady eye in favor of drinking mead.
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