Chapter 12 In the Silence of the Night
(This Chapter written by ET. Thanks, Eleanor Tremayne!)
Silently, Garad slid out of his hammock, reluctant to leave the warmth provided by his blankets and the iron box filled with coals sitting beneath it. He couldn't sleep. The presence of the One Ring was like sharp rocks on hard ground, making it impossible to find comfort.
The guards were awake and alert, the storeroom where Sam and Frodo were quartered secure and undisturbed. The Thing should be happy with the current circumstances, with only two Halfings between It and the return to its Master. The only hope Garad had for the future, was that Sauron's anger would be so great he would sweep Gondor and its peoples into death in one swift rage. He knew it was a forlorn hope, like all their hopes of late, but it still gave him some comfort in the darkness of his private fears.
He was not the only one awake this night. Damrod sat by the hearth, fingers moving a shuttle in and out of a broken net, mending it for the next trespasser it would snare. The hands of the Fisherman's son moved like they had their own eyes, for Damrod's attention was on the curtained doorway of their Captain's chamber.
Ciran crouched beside the older Ranger, looking up at Garad as he kept the thin, tough strand of rope free of knotting tangles. A moment later, Damrod's gaze had turned to him as well. Around him, the swing of hammocks whispered as his fellows turned to him in expectation.
They were aware of the danger, could feel It, even if they did not know Its name. They knew It hunted their Captain, and looked to Garad to do what they could not. For one, they would not presume upon the prerogative of the members of Faramir's Square, and for the second and perhaps stronger reason, they did not wish to wake him, if he had managed to find sleep through the pain of one of his headaches. However silent they were, Garad was the only one who could approach Faramir without waking him, besides his brother, of course. No matter how much of a racket Boromir made, Faramir somehow managed to sleep through it, though normally a gnat's fart would have him on his feet with a sword in his hand.
His luck held again, for Faramir did not stir when he crept into the private room created by the stubborn affection of his Men. It was not usually the way of Rangers to humor the conceit of separating officers from Men, but as Faramir was offered little respect elsewhere, they had gone to extremes to extend it to him here, where they and they alone held sway.
Garad had to stand and wait for his eyes to adjust from seeing darkness to dimness, the light of the hearth fire so much brighter than that thrown by the candle lantern on the stone shelf above Faramir's bed, its gleam blunted by the thinnest screens of horn. It gave just enough light to allow a waking Man not to be taken unawares, but not enough that the thick bed hangings could not block it out when necessary, like tonight.
He had to risk pulling back the thick, midnight blue wool to see Faramir. His Captain's back was to him, the younger Man's legs bent, his head and shoulders supported and held stationary by pillows filled with buckwheat and lavender. He'd buttressed them with rolls of rough fabric to ensure nothing would move. A blanket rode low on his arm, and Garad had to steel himself against the urge to pull it higher onto Faramir's shoulder. He wouldn't risk waking him.
Carefully, he pulled the edge of the hanging he held over of its counterpart, reaching up to gently tug the fabric loops from which they hung along the polished wooden rod, making sure there was no gap in them for the entire length of the tall frame. No metal rings here to rattle or shine where such were not wanted. The canopy was held aloft by independent poles, to let the cool air in and keep unwanted light and occasional bat or bug out.
The frame was Damrod's design, the temporary answer to the as yet unsolved dilemma of how to safely smuggle the great carved poles that went with the heavy head and foot boards of the bed into Henneth Annun without damaging them, or giving their hideout away in the process.
Tall saplings and woven willow wands, peeled and polished and carried in piece by piece stood in for the missing frame. The thick wool fabric had been spun and woven in plain sight on the upright beam looms in their "great hall" from wool expertly died to match the silk hangings in Faramir's rooms at Osgiliath. They'd made up some lie that the fabric was to trade with freebooters for supplies Minas Tirith was no longer able to supply Ithilien, as it struggled with the shortages the loss of Osgiliath's bridge and harbors had caused.
His fingers lingered on the drape, stroking back and forth over the small bumps scattered across it in the patterns of the constellations of the night skies. It had been Damrod's idea to tie the knots of white silk thread through the thick wool, imitating the silver spangles and shimmering crystals embroidered on the original hangings. It had been Garad's job to smuggle the canopy out of Ithilien, to include the ones who did not wear Ranger green in the gift. Many a fair hand had bent to the task, stitching a loop of thread and tying it tightly before finishing it with a kiss.
Boromir had not kissed his knots, instead pulling the tiny things together with a ferocity of concentration that had moved Garad as much as it had amused him. Orome had been his choice to record, the great hunter with his horn who summoned forth summer from the winter desolation. It had been a good choice, as the constellation held seven stars, and they were each to tie seven stars. Damrod had insisted on seven, to remind the Valar and any guardian spirits who might still care that a Prince of Numenor slumbered beneath these man-made heavens.
Garad didn't know if Eärendil or Elendil or even Anárion gave a damn about Gondor, but many a Man now dead guarded their Captain in the watches of the night, willingly bound by their seven knots. He could feel them, on nights like this, though whether their presence was a trick of his memory or something else he chose not to pursue. He would know when he joined their number, and that was likely to be soon enough.
A laugh whispered in his mind, cruel and mocking. It reminded him of Denethor, and that was where it made its mistake.
'Fuck you!' he told the Ring, letting his anger grow, feeling the ghosts around him rally to his side. 'We broke your master once, with you on his hand! We know your tricks now, you little bastard. You didn't win last time, and you fucking well won't win now!"
He felt it try to push back against him, to punish Faramir for the insolence Garad had offered it, but for once, it was over-matched and retreated, seething.
Suddenly unsteady, Garad fought to catch his breath and mopped cold sweat from his brow. Quickly, quietly, he checked on Faramir. Finding him undisturbed, he left him to the watch of his silent guardians, returning to the brightness of the hearth and the company of the living.
His place was waiting by the fire beside Damrod, across from Ciran, but he didn't sit, standing there instead, his hands on his hips as he stared at the flames.
"Everything all right?" Ciran asked quietly.
Garad nodded even as he struggled to balance out his swinging emotions.
'Bravado,' he chided himself. He had an uncomfortable feeling he had been a child taunting a giant, but when faced with a giant, what other recourse did a child have, except to beg? Why do that, when you would wind up just as dead or just as used? Perhaps bravado was the last grace they had....
Abruptly, he turned and headed for his hammock. Ducking under its headstall where it was anchored with bolts into the solid rock of the cavern roof, he dropped to his knees in front of the first of a series of shelves carved deep into the rock wall. Careful of the still hot warming box, he reached in for his supply bag and his tool chest with its sturdy handle of leather-wrapped wrought iron.
Without him having to ask, Damrod shifted to make more room for him closer to the fire, and Ciran added fuel and poked it up to brightness. Slinging the supplies bag down on his right, he put the heavy chest on the ground to his left, next to Damrod.
"Cir, I need some of your spirits. The strongest you've got."
Damrod's eyebrows rose, but he said nothing as the youngest of their Square moved off at speed to answer the request. Letting deed be his explanation, Garad left the hearth. He did not need to see to follow the contours of the floor to where Boromir's shield sat waiting for the return of its Master.
Damrod's eyebrows nearly disappeared into the height of his hairline when he returned carrying the heavy round-shield, but still he kept his silence.
"She's dried out now," Garad said, pleased to see it was true. Boromir was the only Man he knew who referred to his shield as a "she", but who was he to argue? Any thought of teasing him for it had fled before Faramir's frown, and died completely the first time Garad had seen the Woman Boromir called wife wearing high against her throat the perfect silver copy of the shield he had helped her husband make.
"Here," Ciran said, his blue eyes alive with curiosity as he looked from the shield to Garad.
"These arrowheads, they're probably poisoned," he explained. Nodding, Ciran handed over the distilled spirits far too lethal to drink in their pure state.
With a grunt to indicate his understanding and approval, Darmod set aside his shuttle and the man-trap. Turning to the shelves of their hearth supplies, he found a plain, unglazed clay bowl. It was big enough for the arrow heads but small enough to break and bury where any trace of the poison that might survive Ciran's brew could harm none.
"How are you going to fix the divots?" Damrod asked, opening the lid of the chest and pulling its staired shelves out and up, ready to play the Smith's assistant.
"The wood is strong. We will mix hardwood sawdust with fletching glue, paint it, waterproof it, and then...." He tapped a careful finger next to the metal triangle of the arrowhead sunk into the shield. "We'll use these to cover the patch, and strengthen the join of the planking."
"Trophies," Ciran grinned. "He'll like that."
"If you shape them a little," Damrod said, considering the shield while scratching his chin. "You could lay them so...."
Brushing grey ash from the edge of hearth with a quick hand, the oldest of their four drew conjoined triangles into a star.
"So I was thinking. Have you counted them?"
They had, of course. Over and over again, bringing themselves to hope and despair and back to hope again, but now these two parts of his soul counted to different purpose. Damrod saw it first, his superstitious heart cheered beyond all measure. A few moments later, Ciran, too understood, lighting up the room with his gasp of delight.
"There's just enough for seven stars!" he cried.
"Do you think it will please him?" Garad asked, thinking it would please Frodo and Sam, if he could have the thing done before the Halflings had to leave them.
"It will please Faramir," Damrod replied, and that answered yes in itself.
"Right, best get started, then. Cir, I'll need a bar of beeswax, and do a whip-round for any silver to spare. We won't need much."
"Silver?" Damrod asked.
"Her companion must match her," Garad reminded them. "We can't give Boromir this one, without making the smaller to go with it."
"Point," Ciran agreed, unhooking the silver hoop from his ear and tossing it to Garad before going to pretend to wake up their comrades. Damrod had already set out the small jeweler's crucible to melt the silver, and was now unpacking the fine carving tools he would need to make a replica of the shield in the wax.
"Work is the best way to shorten a long night," Damrod told him. "I'll get some food started."
"What are you doing?"
Though thick with sleep, Faramir's voice was strong, and Garad grinned at his Captain.
"How's your head?"
"Still attached," Faramir answered through a yawn, pulling the hem of the blanket he had wrapped around him above his hips as he took his place at the hearth between Garad and Ciran. "What the hell are you up to?"
Even as he repeated his question, he reached out to the shield sitting in the center of their circled Square, gently testing the dried patches of the fill for the divots. The faintest of smiles touched his face, like the thinnest sliver of a new moon on a dark horizon.
"Needs sanding," he said, through another yawn.
Garad caught the hand reaching toward the supplies bag. "Food first."
The look Faramir sent his way was sharp enough to use as a cutting edge, but no words followed it. Was it possible his Captain was actually hungry?
Damrod had a mug of tea in Faramir's hand a moment later, matching Faramir's frown with one of his own, daring the younger man to complain about the waste of sugar that had gone into its sweetening. Wonder of wonders, Faramir didn't, closing his eyes in happiness with his first sip.
"Our guests?" he asked after the second, equally savored mouthful.
"Still sleeping well," Ciran answered. "Just as well, they won't be journeying today. It's coming down like horse-piss out there, and the lightening is bad enough we've pulled the perimeter guards in."
Faramir nodded. "This storm is not of our Enemy," he murmured, his eyes growing unfocused and distant. Ciran ever so casually elbowed their Captain in his closest arm, making Faramir come back into the moment to save his syrup from sloshing out of its cup.
"It explains what woke me, at least," Faramir grumbled, switching his mug to his other hand before elbowing Ciran back. "I thought Garad had gone hammer-happy again."
Damrod and Ciran threw him to the wolves without hesitation, their heads turning to where the flattened, slightly re-shaped arrow heads lay on the hearth, gleaming in their neatly arranged pattern of stars.
"Oh," Faramir breathed, a grin bulling its way into being on his tired face as he realized their plan. "He will love that!"
It was Damrod's turn to be the nudge, and with a little reluctance, Garad obeyed the prompt. The miniature shield of beeswax he'd spent the night carving rested on the bottom of an upturned bucket on a square of linen in the cool spot of air from a ventilation shaft, well away from the heat of the fire. Using both hands to pick the cloth up by its corners, he carefully conveyed it to rest on the open palm Faramir held out to him.
"He will like this more," Faramir murmured, studying the detail Garad had labored over until his eyes had crossed in cramp. With great care, his Captain handed the delicate thing back to him, and Garad returned it to its protected spot with a vast sense of relief.
When he turned back to Faramir, the other Man was looking at the pad of chamois in front of Ciran, where the lad had arranged all the silver he had caged and then cleaned for the crucible.
There was plenty and to spare, but it didn't stop Faramir from frowning as he realized his inability to contribute. Any silver that came his way went into their bellies or for their boots, and his brother was as bad. It was a vicious irony that while Denethor ate off plates of gold, his sons were the two poorest Men in Gondor.
"Ow!" Faramir exclaimed suddenly, his retaliatory swat landing solidly against Ciran's blocking arm. Completely unrepentant, the lad held up a long strand of light-colored hair he had plucked from their Captain's unsuspecting skull, displaying it proudly before laying it carefully with the other "silver" he had collected.
Laughing along with Garad, Damrod lifted his chin in the direction of the storeroom, drawing their attention to the signal that the Halflings were about to join their company.
Ciran kept Faramir sitting when he would he would have risen, through the simple expedient of using his Captain as the means to climb to his own feet. Faramir got his own back with a snake-strike hand to the youth's ankle, almost but not quite pulling him to the floor as he staggered past, reminding the cub he was the Big Dog in this pack.
Ciran shepherded the two Hobbits ahead of him, steering them with a hand on each of their shoulders. They looked like they could use the guidance, as if a night's sleep had served only to reveal how truly weary they were. He saw Frodo frown in curiosity as his gaze fell on the upturned bucket. He stopped next to it, bending over it stiffly. Sam stopped with him, picking the bucket up carefully, to let Frodo see the tiny wax carving at his ease. He exclaimed softly in delight, not quite touching the wax with an extended finger.
Sam saw the real shield first, tapping Frodo with a much gentler elbow than Ciran had employed to draw his Master's attention to it. A slow smile blossomed on Frodo's face, until it matched the grin on Sam's.
"You fixed it," Frodo said.
"Working on it," Garad admitted.
Faramir gestured an invitation for the Halflings to come and sit with them. Frodo waited for Sam to carefully replace the bucket where he had found it before accepting. They all shifted, making their move to allow their guests to have the best seats by the fire look like they were merely spreading out.
"Now then," Damrod said by way of good morning. "Would you like some tea?"
"Tea?" Frodo echoed wistfully. "I can't remember when we last had a proper cup of tea…."
"It weren't that long ago," Sam told him, and Garad well understood the concern showing in the Halfling's expression for his friend. It was so easy to lose yourself in never-ending fear and strife, to forget the terribly important, commonplace things once taken for granted. Old soldiers like Damrod knew that, and so the tough, deadly Man knew how to brew a cup of tea and coddle an egg or make a burnt sugar or honey custard just like a lord's nurse or a farmer's granny. It was Damrod who remembered their birthdays and hoarded treasures all year to make Yule special, regardless of how evil the days were surrounding it.
"Thank you," Frodo said, accepting his over-sized mug. He blew on the tea, falling back into old, pleasant routine before taking a sip of the hot brew. His sigh of satisfaction was both reward and spur for Damrod, who produced a broad platter of small cakes and sweet breads he had been coaxing from the coals while he and Ciran had worked over the shields. Frodo didn't waste time on manners before diving into the offered treats with a gratifying greed, Sam right behind him.
They all helped themselves to some, so that their guests would not hesitate to take the lion's share. Garad had no worries that they would lose room for the proper breakfast Damrod was preparing. Let them eat themselves into a stupor, while they had the chance.
Munching on a tea cake with another waiting in one hand, Frodo reached out his other to touch the surface of the round-shield.
"Needs sanding," he said, with only a slight spray of crumbs. "Have you got a file, Sam?"
"After we eat," Sam replied. "I don't fancy chewing on grit with my griddle cakes!"
Frodo laughed, nodding in agreement.
"What's the little shield for?" Sam asked, between bites.
It was a difficult question to answer, mired in the customs of courtesy and the necessities of politics, and Garad as well as Frodo turned to Faramir.
"Every Beren must have his Luthien," his Captain replied, with a gentle smile.
Frodo laughed, Sam snorted, Faramir frowned, and Garad tensed. It was never a good idea to rouse the protective instinct his Captain harbored for his older brother.
"The Steward's family is descended from Luthien and Beren," Ciran said, a neat effort to both warn and mollify that failed as Sam rolled his eyes and Faramir's mouth grew tight.
"We heard," Sam said, with a long-suffering air that made Frodo laugh again.
"Certain similarities were remarked upon when Boromir was in Imladris," Frodo quickly explained as he saw Faramir's frown deepen, but his attempt at smoothing things over was marred by his amusement.
"The loremasters of Imladris compared Boromir to Beren?' Faramir demanded. "Why?"
"They saw him try to shoot an arrow," Sam answered, when Frodo tried to buy time to frame his answer through recourse to another tea cake.
Ciran gave a low whistle of dismay, perfectly expressing Garad's opinion of anyone fool enough to hand Boromir a bow, especially with arrows to go with it.
"Luthien was the archer," Faramir said quietly, torn between his loyalty to his brother and his essential honesty.
"Aye," Sam agreed. "We heard that, too!"
It was Garad's turn to laugh. They'd all heard that before, though hopefully Boromir had put it in more circumspect terms in Imladris. It was one thing to call Garad a pussy, but quite another to inform some bow-wielding Elf lord of the Ancient Days he was.
"How many bows did he break?" Ciran demanded, ignoring Damrod's reproving look.
"Two," Sam answered. "Then they wouldn't let him try any more."
"Nor would we," Garad agreed. "Not while he was sober, anyway."
The Halflings gawped at him.
"He thinks about it too much," Faramir said, still frowning. "All else comes so naturally to him, but the bow is not easy in his hand."
"Unless he's drunk," Garad amended. "Then he can shoot the eye out of a fly."
"He gets in his own way," Faramir said. "He knows it, and yet still he tries too hard. He need not, not when he can carry the day in any other combat!"
"Hope springs eternal," Ciran grinned.
"He should not be mocked," Faramir snapped.
"Dangerous, that," Frodo agreed, his expression solemn despite the twinkle in his eyes.
Sam snorted. "Nor patronize him, neither!"
Faramir's anger turned to worry, his fingers flexing on his mug.
"What…" he started, then thought better of his initial question. "How… did my brother… carry… himself among the Elves?"
Frodo and Sam looked at each other, Frodo shrugging mutely.
"He were Boromir," Sam finally said.
"Oh," Faramir sighed, and then it was quiet for a little, as they all contemplated the implications of that statement.
"I've learned that Elves are much like Men or Hobbits," Frodo told them after another cake or two, and Garad had the impression he was choosing his words with care. "Each one is different in their manner and temperament. Some of them liked Boromir very much…."
"And others did not," Faramir finished.
"I think they found him… difficult," Frodo corrected with his own smile. "They expected one thing, and got quite another!"
Faramir drew his lower lip between his teeth as he considered what Frodo had said – and what he hadn't. It brought his likeness to his older brother sharply to the fore, and Garad saw Frodo's smile fade as his gaze shifted to the round-shield drying by the fire.
"Now don't you go worryin' none about Mr. Boromir and the Elves," Sam said, more for Frodo's benefit than Faramir's, Garad suspected. "Why, he and Glorfindel were like two tweenagers let away from the apron strings for the first time!"
"Glorfindel?" Faramir repeated, his eyebrows hitting his hairline.
"The Balrog slayer," Frodo added, his smile coming back as Faramir blinked at him.
"Glorfindel the Demon Slayer is a Firstborn Eldar," Faramir said slowly, seeking solace for his consternation in his tea.
"And a right nice lad, too," Sam assured him cheerfully. "It were a right treat to see some of the faces when he and Boromir got up to callin' each other "Long Ears" and "Round Ears" and seeing who could beat who in what!"
Faramir choked, spitting out a spray of tea to dew his beard and bead his covering blanket.
"Just like that," Frodo grinned as Ciran whacked their coughing Captain on the back helpfully. "
"That's our Captain-General," Garad chuckled. "First in war, last in diplomacy!"
"I don't know," Frodo said. "He does all right, if you ask me. There's something about him, some kind of honesty…. He makes you find things inside, things you never knew you had until you met him."
"He has a great heart," Faramir murmured. "Big enough to hold all of Gondor."
"And more besides," Frodo agreed, sobering once again. "I think his shoulders are strong enough and broad enough to carry the whole world, if we'd let him try."
Despite himself, Garad's mind returned to the memory of Boromir's shade coming toward them. He shivered with the remembered cold of the Anduin, and he thought of the story Frodo had told them, of Boromir dying in the River, with all their hope safe upon his shoulders….
"Breakfast," Damrod said briskly, bringing them both back to the moment by handing Frodo the first plate full of griddle cakes dripping with butter, venison sausage, and fried eggs with golden yolks and firm whites speckled with fresh ground black pepper. It was impossible for Frodo not to be swept back to happiness by it. The burden he carried was silent and light for once, their foe perhaps cunning enough to allow the rest that would enable the Halflings to go on.
"Butter and eggs!" Sam gasped in delight as his own plate was handed to him. "You've got a cow and chickens in here?!"
"Crocks," Garad explained. "Eggs and butter stored in brine for the most special of occasions!"
"Damrod guards them as fiercely as a dragon does his gold," Faramir said, wheezing a little. It was the last thing said for a long time, the only sound being that of chewing and the scraping of forks against the metal plates on their wooden trenchers. The two Halfings were the last to set theirs aside.
"Ohhh," Sam sighed, rubbing his full belly with both hands. "I'm starting to feel like a Hobbit again!"
"What would complete the transformation?" Damrod asked him with a smile.
"A hot bath," Sam answered promptly. "And another meal or three like that!"
"You shall have all of them before you leave here," Faramir promised.
"If you only had some pipeweed…." Sam sighed.
It was Faramir's turn to ply an elbow on Ciran, who popped up immediately, trotting off to where their Captain kept his personal store of herbs and healing supplies.
"You don't mean…" Frodo began, his eyes widening. "But Boromir said the Men of the South don't use it!"
"We do not smoke it," Faramir corrected. "We cannot support its growth here in such quantity, not and feed ourselves, nor am I convinced that it is a healthy habit to learn. But we do grow a small amount, for it is a virtuous herb in other respects." Faramir adjusted his blanket, tapping the air in front of him in the direction of the Hobbits. "In cases of nettle rash – "
A gale of laughter from the Halflings stopped Faramir in mid-sentence. Only the reappearance of Ciran with a thick twist of dried brown leaves stopped their mirth.
"You will like Aragorn," Frodo said, using his little fingers to blot the corner of his eye-lashes free of tears.
"Does he like to lecture on the virtuous nature of herbs?" Ciran asked, obeying Faramir's nodded command to hand the pipe-weed to Frodo.
"Only when he's addled," Sam replied cheerfully, accepting Ciran's assistance to gain his feet with a happy groan. "I'll just fetch our pipes, Mr. Frodo, and we'll have us a proper coze before elevenses!"
"Elevenses?" Damrod asked quietly, gesturing for Frodo's mug to refill.
"A snack," Frodo answered. "Something to fortify us until lunch!"
It was Faramir's turn to laugh. Grinning, Garad reached into his tool box, and found the file for Faramir, confident that Sam would be returning with more than a pipe. Sure enough, Sam returned with an armload, and had weighed Ciran down in the bargain.
"Did you bring an entire blacksmith's kit with you?" Garad asked as files, picks, hammers, all Hobbit-sized, were put on the ground between Frodo and Sam. The pipes were in Sam breast pocket, Garad noted, as something far too precious to risk dropping.
"You never know what will come in handy," Sam replied. "Now bring that shield over here, if you can lift the great thing…."
