Then, as so many other nights, it was thoughts of Boromir that first stole into the moments of silence and reflection.
Crystal and clear, pure as the water that had filled the little boat, memories of his smile poured past: the boy, pudgy cheeked and proud, reading a bedtime story when momma was too ill; the youth, breathless and grinning wide as the river's plain, excited for his first command; the man, strong and fearless, head thrown back and a palm across his chest, nearly crying with mirth at word of his brother's irreverence.
The ghosts of needed sleep reached out.
Valar no. This time he would not let them win. He must not let them take his precious memories, twist and sully them, drag him down to swim in fathomless pools of grief.
He fought the lingering heaviness as long as he could but soon his body's own need and the drug's relentless grip took hold. Sharp grasping fingers reached out and hooked a warm smile triumphantly. At their cackles of ill-hidden glee, he stilled, knowing what was to come.
Cherished, painful, the last smile from before his brother went away, dissolved.
The air around became close and green. He had walked far and it had taken all his breath, but this time, blessedly, he flew quickly past the field of nightmare, past the mist where he could not see what was battle and what was subterfuge.
Each time he was surprised to find not stiff grey plate but his leather jerkin on his back.
Then as now he walked; he and many, many men, though it was no longer the retreat. Some turned back quickly, afraid of the world that lay ahead. Some move swiftly on, driven by fear or pain or even hope. He wanted to weep at the blessed certainty shining in those eyes and wondered fleetingly what another would see upon his face? Fatigue? Resignation? Or purely relief to have simply given up?
The Road beneath his feet was a path through a forest glade and he kept his eyes upon the loam, hoping to trace his brother's steps. As he strode, the trees thinned and the land grew more impermanent, the road paled and became whiter with every league.
Something cool trickled down his face. He reached up and muddied fingers came away stained in black. Ah, this was the turning point. He no longer bled hope or innocence but hard and bitten experience.
The shore ahead became a haze of white and with an effort he forced his legs to move.
At the steps to the marble hall, he eagerly raised each battered boot. Beside, the wide avenue was thronged with steel and hide and battered skin, the feet of many others, some in rapture and some in trepidation. One man, with petals of spring flowers of the Pelennor crushed upon his back, had turned back and knelt at the haven's shore, washed the blood from off his hands. Faramir had followed suit. He knew not joy or grief but something of them both, each footfall gained in steadiness what it lacked in permanence.
He turned and mounted to the topmost step.
There was a crepuscular light inside the Halls and above a vault of glittering stars. He felt that his heart could burst at the beauty all around. Those he loved he knew would be waiting below the shining ivory arch. At first the faces were indistinct but then they cleared as if a veil had been drawn back. Boromir, hale and whole, at peace and untroubled by any shadow, smiled and laid a upon their mother's shoulder. Finduilas, young and fresh, clear-eyed and blooming, stood by his side wrapped in a mantle of Dol Amroth blue. Denethor was not there and that was good. His father was safe, had survived the assault upon the city.
His mother stretched out her hands, beaconing, tears of shining crystal upon her flushed and lovely cheeks. They dropped as rain to the step of stone that shone whiter than his path. The rock received them and he rejoiced. Now they could be together at long last.
His own hands reached…
"Faramir!"
The voice of command cracked like a whip. "Do not! This is not right…None of this is real."
He staggered back, stepped down from the brink and in the shredded leather of his boot a crystal tear embedded.
It cut. Sharper than any blade it bit into his flesh and from the wound a storm-grey mist began to seep.
The air dissolved. Pain spun and swirled, billowing like wood smoke before devouring eagerly the bright scene of happiness before. He coughed, sputtering and choking with the weight of it, desperately dragging at his tunic collar but he could not catch his breath.
The world he knew turned to ashes in his mouth.
"Faramir. Faramir!"
The young man started up out of his dream, heart hammering in fear and pale face lined with sweat. It felt as if the centre could not hold. He choked and coughed, the lingering scent and grit of ash was so intense he felt surely that he must suffocate.
"Na ú erui. Na ú erui." Murmured words of soft Sindarin broke through his tumbling thoughts. "You are not alone. You are not alone…"
Was he not? But no, as the room became the real he realized there was someone there. A healer perhaps? The blessedly solid weight of a pewter cup was pressed to his parched lips.
"Drink."
He obeyed and sipped slowly at the cool clear water. A callused gentle hand steadied his shaking fingers and another braced him at his back. Faramir was shaking like a leaf and the blankets around lay twisted and in disarray.
His back was stroked slowly back and forth as one would gentle a frightened horse. "Easy now." He took a deep shuddering breath and then another. At last the dregs of nightmare began to lose their hold.
Praise Lorien. It was nightmare and not some flash of foresight.
"Thank you," he said thickly when words untangled from his tongue. "Can you please tell me … what is the time?" It would be a blessing if he had slept a little longer before the ill dreams had taken hold. He could not see the sandglass or his helper through the veil of tears that blurred his pained grey eyes.
"Early. Not yet dawn." The deep, yet achingly familiar voice held the barest note of amusement. He moved to raise a hand and clear his sight but found his left, his sword hand, was held tightly in a sling. His wound. How could he possibly forget that?
The man reached and obligingly took away the cup, set it down nearby before helping him to sit straighter up.
Weary fingers at last rubbed away the lingering mist. The sight he found made his tripping heart nearly burst from his chest.
"Sire!? Forgive me…."
A wry half-smile quirked sideways. "There is nothing to forgive. I was afraid to disturb your rest but perhaps it was just as well."
It was indeed early. No light from the window made strips of bright and shade across the floor and a half-shuttered torch burned low beside the door.
The King, despite the hour, was already clad for battle. His tunic and light trews held the telltale wear from a gambeson and a heavy sword in its belt and sheath stood upright by the door. The Enemy must still await and yet his liege was spending time with an invalid shaking in the aftermath of nightmare?
Faramir flushed and tried to stammer out another apology but the coughing took hold again. The King rose, retrieved and refilled the cup before placing it in easy reach. Faramir drank and this time felt some of the rawness that coated his throat like tar ease off. The torchlight sputtered briefly brighter as the air stirred within the room.
"Thank you."
"You are welcome." The King hooked a worn boot around one chair leg, pulled it closer and sat back down. He studied Faramir intently before a swift shadow passed across his handsome face. "We do not yet know each other well but I marvel. You are so very like him."
There could be only one him. Faramir nodded. He did indeed favour his brother in his looks, both of them were stamped by brow and nose as sons of Denethor. It did not surprise him to be recognized. Nor did it to know the face of the one who sat with easy grace beside the bed. His King was just as familiar from the long years of hopeful dreams.
"Excuse my weakness, Sire. I am not yet…. quite whole. Do not let me take you from your duties."
The dark head shook slowly. "Nothing now is more important to me than to be here. I have some time. We leave at midday and there are a few hands to help." Long legs were tucked back below the wooden chair as he leaned forward and offered a broad hand to shake. "We did not have the chance for a proper introduction. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Chieftain of the Dúnedain of the North. Aragorn will do." He smiled. "I am not King. Not officially, quite yet."
Not King?! When Faramir himself had felt the warmth of healing flow from the very selfsame hand? When a long awaited six-pointed star glinted from its purchase on a long grey cloak? "But Sire!?" he protested, so shocked by the statement he forget to take his hand.
A dark eyebrow raised sardonically. "No buts. There will be time enough for that. If we are so lucky." Aragorn gestured to the bandage across his chest. "Indulge me. Professional curiosity. May I see?"
"Of course."
Faramir lay back against the pillows and let deft fingers probe lightly at the wound. It pained, but only dully, and he tried to answer the few questions as honestly as he could.
After an encouraging survey the King…no Aragorn… reached out and tilted his patient's face toward the light, frowning slightly at what he found.
"Your skin is shrunken still. You are dehydrated from the fever. I expect they have told you drink more. "
"Yes, my Lord," he sighed, "and to eat. Although, I am afraid I have little appetite."
Aragorn pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Those who suffer under the Shadow are often taken so. Have they let you have any air at all?"
Faramir shook his head, brightening at the thought. "No, the healers have not let me up."
"If Rangers of Gondor are at all like those of my acquaintance being out of doors helps them to more quickly heal." Aragorn arose, grasped his sword and cloak and took a spare robe from a hook upon the wall. "Fresh air helps with appetite. This is a need we most certainly can remedy."
They were going to go out? "Now?" he asked, bewildered and amazed at his good fortune.
"Indeed."
Before too long Faramir found himself clad and supported by a strong arm. He was helped down the still dim hall to a low flight of steps and out into the healing garden. Beyond the white stone walls the sun was only the barest flush below blue-grey dark: the dawn bell had yet to ring but already a few grey-clad assistants were scuttling to and fro.
If any recognized who it was that aided the day's first halting patient they did not let it show.
Faramir sank down gratefully when they reached the first stone bench. He drooped his head a little and tried to rub the muscles of one shaking thigh with his hand. It was frustrating to have so little stamina. They had barely made to the central fountain but after three days of blazing fever his legs felt as if they had turned to mush. How long before he would be fit to fight again?
As if he understood the young man's anxiety, Aragorn settled himself to lend a shoulder for support. "Do not fret. I marvel at the speed of your recovery."
"Truly?" Faramir looked up. Ioreth and Varan the Houses' Master Healer had both mentioned several times their admiration for King's skills as a healer. If this was his informed assessment of swift Valar protect them for he was nowhere near able to dress himself much less lift a sword! He touched to the bandage at his shoulder. "But the wound was not so very great."
Dark brows narrowed thoughtfully. "Not all wounds are of the flesh. You and your company were under Shadow long before Osgiliath. A man would be a fool to not recognize your strength."
Faramir flushed. Praise, particularly from his superior, was an unfamiliar experience of late. "Strength my Lord? Some would call it stubbornness."
The wry smile quirked again. "I expect that serves you just as well."
After that the two men sat companionably and watched as the first signs of morn gathered slowly all about. The King seemed content to simply pause and Gondor's young Captain needed time to rest. The dew came down to grace the garden beds and the white flowers glowed ghostly in the barest bit of light. No birds yet sang but there was an expectant hush and sense of waiting that Faramir could feel. In the slowly dawning light the shapes of shrubs and flowers came back again and it made him smile for although this was not his garden favourite garden in the city (that honour belonged to his mother's oasis of vivid Dol Amroth showiness) it was a green and restful space.
His eye roved over the gravel paths, amazed that a harried servant had found time to rake them out. Beside another nearby bench a tiny flash of yellow caught his eye. A miniature spire of tiny stars peeked out from a tuft of longer grass.
"Asphodel? Here and out of season?" he said, wonderingly. "It is as if the very land resists…"
Aragorn gave him a sharp look and a long slow nod. "You see it also? We had the wind at our backs all the way up to Harlond."
He did, all the company of Ithilien had noted the uncommon signs of spring despite the dark winds coming from the east. It had been of things to give them heart. "There are already lilacs blooming near Anduin's far shore."
"Then we shall look for them as we pass." Aragorn's smile faded as he turned his gaze toward the east. Away in the distance the fence of Ephel Duath brooded below a long roiling mass of cloud. "We ride today with seven thousands, scarce the vanguard of the army in its days of power. But still it must be enough."
"I should be there." Though the tone was bitter, Aragorn did not chide him or do him the disservice of misunderstanding what he meant. When one's men are asked to make another sacrifice it sits ill to not partake in the risk.
"You have done enough, young Steward," he commented firmly. "You kept the City standing until we could come to her aid. And you may yet do your part. It is a bitter thing to be left behind but you must and when you are well rule the City come what may. Should our venture come to ill your steady hand will be needed here."
Faramir winced, pricked by both the title and the vision. Aragorn was not the first to use that address but it felt sharper somehow this morn. "Please… I am not yet Steward. I am still a simple Captain."
"Turn about is fair play is it not?"
Faramir groaned as he realized what he had said. For a moment he worried he had offended the other man but then Aragorn chuckled and shook his good shoulder gently. "I hope that I may tease you just a little."
Faramir nodded shyly. Of course he could, it was just slightly expected from a King. He sighed deeply and tilted his face up to first rays of warming sun. Oh yes, simplicity was a good thing right now when too much had changed too quickly. Both of them knew it could not last but it felt right to hold on a little more.
Aragorn sighed. "Faramir I can do no more to help you heal in body but I- I find I cannot go without leaving you what little comfort I have to give."
The younger man closed his eyes. He knew instinctively of what Aragorn wished to speak- the moment he had been torn from his moorings, the moment of his brother's death. To know more from one who had been there would be a gift beyond all price and yet it pierced, swift and fine like glass, like a bright light from which one cannot look away.
He yearned for its sharpness even as he shuddered at the thought.
"Please…"
The sun rose higher and while its glow warmed the shadowed snows of Mindolluin's face, Aragorn told his tale.
At first his words were all of steadfastness on the journey, of strength and wit and a great, big-hearted laugh; of bravery and many, many Orcs. He did not speak of pride or suspicion or claims unproven. Of those Faramir could guess and all too soon they passed from Gandalf's fall to Lorien and his brother's troubles there.
"It was then that I began to understand what I had not seen before." Aragorn noted sadly. "That his hope had been long failing. That he feared to fail your father and his people both. He stumbled in that darkness and finally succumbed to the Ring's insidious voice. It was have been a steady torment though what it promised him I know not."
"I would know."
He did. And how much more did it make him yearn to have argued harder with Denethor. At Aragorn's questioning look Faramir drew breath and tried once to explain.
"Ease. Eloquence. A gift of tongues and memory for points of rule and lore. To lift a burden and have Gondor shining proud and fertile once again and he its lauded Steward."
The dark head shook sadly. "I regret that I came to him too late. He did reject it Faramir. He did and begged forgiveness. His end was not long nor was it very hard; his breath was robbed quite swiftly. Though he had not words or time for all that was in his heart, I saw and he knew. I promised him to do my best for his people and the kingdom. And his 'little one'." He was very used to looking out for a little brother, was he not?"
Faramir reached up and clasped the Captain-General's ring that still hung on a chain around his neck. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. He had spent many sleepless nights wondering what more he could have done. If he had done enough to be worthy of that boundless love. "I know some of what came to pass. That he found hope. That you honoured his sacrifice. It was a grace I think he did not expect. I thank you for it."
Aragorn seemed quite unsurprised to find how he much knew. He clasped a hand to Faramir's knee and at once the tightness that had built within his chest released. "Then that is well and I am content. I am sorry for your loss."
Faramir nodded and when the tears glimmered but did not fall Aragorn continued on. "May I ask a question?"
"Of course."
"How were they? Sam and Frodo when you saw them?"
It occurred to Faramir that it would have been many weeks since Aragorn had seen his friends. "Exhausted. Worried. But determined still. We gave them such respite as we could. I have great faith in Sam," he added, guessing that the older man was concerned about their quest. The young hobbit's unflappable nature and devotion to his Master would serve them well.
Aragorn let a small smile half quirk. He also understood economy of expression.
"With Sam at his side Frodo can venture anywhere."
It seemed then that man was lost in thought, fingers tracing the pattern of veining in the polished marble of the bench. When he spoke again it was a wholly unexpected question.
"Was it hard to refuse the Ring?"
Ah. He thought he understood. The King was seeking a measure of his future servant, wished to unravel an enigma. How it was he, an unassuming Ranger, had done what no other had. "I did not trust myself."
Faramir laughed painfully and a little wildly. What could he say? How to explain? In the quiet space the short hard burst was startling. His voice was raw with little use.
"No. I had made my promise. I would keep it. I knew my life was forfeit. Though I could not see the ripples left by dear bought fish upon the Forbidden Pool. Or know exactly how I should be made to pay."
Aragorn shook his head in sadness. "Nay, do think so. Your father's fate was scribed upon time's groove long ere you made that choice Faramir. The moment he looked eastward in the Palantir I should think that he was lost."
The older Ranger studied his face thoughtfully again. "Did the Ring not whisper to you in the dark? Did it not promise your every heart's desire in return? I expected its pull and lure would grow stronger the closer it came to Barad-dûr. That it would call to Frodo in greater earnest."
"No. It did not try." The dark cascade of raven hair that had fallen to shroud Faramir's face now parted in startled understanding. "It was but days since my brother fell. Even the Enemy could not promise me the only thing I wished. Nothing in Middle Earth had the power to give me my brother back."
"Then Boromir's sacrifice is even more steeped in honour if it aided you at the moment all our fates were intertwined." At last the long fought tears tracked silently down his cheeks. Aragorn squeezed a thin and now shivering shoulder. "Only when the heart has grieved over what is has lost can then the spirit rejoice over what it has left. It is hard to accept that those who wiped our tears and healed our hurts are gone."
Faramir silently wiped at the tears with a corner of his sleeve. It was Boromir who had done that for him. Been brother and mother both.
"I know what it is to lose them all Faramir," continued Aragorn. "My father died so very young, my mother I lost as young man. I love my foster father and brothers dearly but it is not exactly the same thing. Give yourself the time to grieve. " He shifted and for a moment Faramir's gaze flickered to the cloak that now lay now across his lap. Its rough wool smelled heavy with musk and sweat but above was a bright and wholeness greenness that he could not place. The scent and the heartfelt words eased his heart a little bit.
Faramir found himself rubbing at aching eyes. "We should get back, " Aragorn sighed. The first bell of morning had not yet rung from the Tower of Ecthelion but noon would come soon enough. "You are tiring and I sadly have much to do."
Aragorn stood and as Faramir looked up time blurred. He was once again kneeling before his lord, his father, speaking ancient words of fealty. "I have no sword to give my oath."
The noble face that had forged an everlasting bond in a single bright moment of pure light looked down. "There is no need of an oath. I know you recognize your king."
He did. How could any man not recognize the worthiness held in strong sinew and steel will? With a pang of grief he remembered well that one man not accepted this Dunadan for what he was.
Aragorn picked up his cloak and fingered the many-point star. Understanding glimmered in his eyes. "I think you know the Eagle of the Star." He nodded. He did. That Thorongil might be the kingdom's hope was a dream that had long sustained a princess and her son. "I grieve for you and your father both. That one so learned, so steadfast against the dark could fail. We were never easy with each other, Faramir, but there are good memories I would share of him and your lady mother too."
For not the first time that morn Faramir had the uncanny feeling that Aragorn had read his thoughts. It was oddly comforting. He was tired, swaying now after many candlemarks of sitting up, forming words was becoming difficult, but there were none who had spoken of his father in the days just past. He needed to. If nothing less than to touch the memories before they faded like a falling star.
"I pray that we will see each other once again." Aragorn avowed when he had placed a hand below the young man's elbow and helped him to rise up. Faramir grimaced. They had to pause before walking on. It took some effort to find his feet. "I cannot replace the memories your brother or your father held but I knew your mother well. She taught a rough young man the dances of this land."
"You will come back Sire."
The words were said with utmost certainly. Aragorn looked over surprised by the words and their vehemence. In his urgency to speak Faramir had found some forgotten reserve of strength. The younger man's grip on his forearm was so hard it was almost painful. "How can you know that?"
"You will. My mother. Finduilas. She saw you. She saw us. At your coronation."
.
~~~000~~~
.
After his unexpected and tiring dawn adventure Faramir found the King's assessment was quite true. Between the fresh air and exercise he was fatigued enough to sleep, closed his eyes and soon dropped off again. For once Faramir slept peacefully and without dreams.
A servant bearing an amply (and rather ambitiously) laden breakfast tray woke him at the second bell, and after a hasty and admittedly desultory effort at eating at least a scone his respite proved short-lived.
There came (to use Bergil's term) 'a whole parade" of visitors.
First to visit come were the Prince of Dol Amroth and both his sons. They bid goodbye with fierce quick hugs and words of hopefulness, steadfastly ignoring the look of wistfulness on their kinsman's face and entreating him to keep an eye on Lothiriel.
"There are still a few thousand Rohirrim about." Elphir remarked with a growl but Faramir merely laughed and shook his head. "Have you seen your sister recently? Thiri can more than mind herself."
Next came Pippin and Beregond. The young hobbit could barely contain his excitement at having a chance to "do his bit". He was clad in a short mail coat and black livery of the Tower with his Barrow-blade slung at his hip. Its red and gold inlaid detail received such extravagant compliments that the young hobbit almost knocked a candlestick from the dresser in his exuberance to show its worth.
After all was set to rights Faramir gravely thanked the squire for his faithful service to his father and out of the corner of his eye he caught a swift glance from the hobbit to the guard. If he detected something in their manner that told of words withheld he did not let it show. In another time and space he might have tried to understand but fatigue and an inexplicable apprehension held him back. Better to stay cocooned in ignorance for a little while.
Next, to his great delight, Renil bashfully poked his head around the door and looked surprised and pleased to find his Captain sitting up in bed.
"Ren! Come in, come in." Faramir beckoned and when the medic hesitated, he sighed and made a face. "Honestly. It is well. Word of my demise was premature."
The young Ranger grinned and gingerly took a seat. "I promise to not keep you long Captain. I came yesterday after rounds but you were still asleep and I am afraid now there is little time."
"And much to do for a newly minted Captain?" he teased. Word of the young man's bravery had already made rounds. With the host mustering Faramir could well imagine the tasks that had yet had to be accomplished.
Renil blushed to the roots of his dark hair. "Anborn told on me."
"Can you doubt it?" asked Faramir, incredulous. Their usually silent marksman was also a denizen of the wards. It was he who had chosen to give Faramir what he termed the 'important news' and his Captain was still marveled at how the boredom of captivity had affected the man's need for speech. "His shoulder was injured not his tongue. They are all very proud of what you accomplished on the field."
"Sir I…" Renil began, but his words trailed off. He had, of course, disobeyed an order and could well expect a ticking off. Faramir sighed and shook his head. Who was he to criticize his friend when he too had ignored direction he had been given?
"Anborn told me how you tried to save poor Damrod, may he rest well."
Renil rubbed a hand anxiously along his thigh. "Mablung is beyond heartbroken, Sir."
Faramir looked down, thinking sadly of the old lieutenant's canny eye for Orcs and his canny nose for a bet. Of course his partner would be crushed. They had served together for so long, in the wilds and with little chance to visit hearth and kin, men who otherwise would never get along became brothers more in truth. "They bickered like a pair of old fishwives at times but underneath they were the best of friends. We will all miss him terribly."
That brought a hesitant nod from Renil and a swiftly stilled look of pain. "There were too many of them."
Dark brows furrowed into deeper line. "Tell me."
Renil's protest was automatic. He looked chagrined that he had said anything at all. "No. You are just recovering from…."
"A wound and yet another loss." Faramir finished quietly. "Yes, but I need to know. I wish no more surprises. I find I cannot face the idea of daily finding that another friend and comrade is gone."
The Ranger paled and rubbed nervously at his brow. "Well Anborn's shoulder was near cleaved in half. Eldrin's hand is smashed. Loic has a broken nose."
"Ren." Faramir's flat look made the young man sigh. Mournfully he began to recite a list of names.
"Damrod you know. Will. Torgil. Hallan." He bit his lip and looked away. "Madril. Toric saw him fall…"
Faramir gasped. "Not Madril…" He closed his eyes against the aching pain. All of them were keenly felt but Madril had been his lieutenant almost from the first. The intensity of the hurt near took away his breath. "I must write Annwn, " he murmured when he could speak again.
"Sir, surely that can wait."
He shook his head. "I will have time, captive in these Houses, while the rest of you go to Cormallen. It is the least that I can do." With an effort he turned his thoughts back to the living men. "Who commands the Rangers now?" he asked, worriedly. None of the regular command save Mablung were set to go. Anborn had been promoted to lieutenant on the field but was confined. Loic's status sounded unclear at best. Renil would be needed more for his medical skills than ability with a sword.
"Eradan," Renil nodded at his commander's shocked expression. "Though we all feel it will not the same without you, the men were that pleased to see at least a familiar face they forgot to tease him about his snow-white mane. I heard him grumble that if he heard any comment about his age he'd have them repeat it to the Prince's face."
Faramir smiled grimly. He could imagine his former Captain taking no guff from any of them, especially the young recruits. He shook his head, wondering if Imrahil had had a say in the assignment, shuddering at the thought of a formally trained Swan Knight trying to corral such an independent lot. At least Eradan understood how Rangers think. "I should be there. It seems unfair to ask a man who served so long to come out of well-earned retirement."
"But saving yourself Sir there is none other they could want more and they know that they cannot have. You are the Lord Steward now. They know you are no longer theirs…"
Faramir grey eyes darkened sadly. "There you are wrong, my friend. I am theirs, first and always. I will always be a Ranger in my heart. As for other, it is not real. Not yet. Allow me the illusion for yet a while."
After that there was too much to be said, too many memories of brave men to share and precious little time to speak. Soon enough the next bell sounded and Renil had to take his leave.
The two men clasped arms and Faramir gripped the young man's shoulder tightly as he could. "Take good care of yourself and them."
"I will, my Lord. " At the threshold Renil hesitated before raising his right hand to his chest. It was a curiously archaic gesture but suited the gravity of the day. "Valar guard and guide you."
"And you."
Faramir saluted smartly back. He forebore to note that nothing would ever be the same again.
.
~~~000~~~
.
With Beregond's imminent departure Faramir soon found he had a new self-appointed guard: Anborn. The young lieutenant was not fit to ride out of course, but he, like his Captain, was used to daily activity. The enforced idleness was already driving him a little mad andThe healers had been notably unsuccessful in keeping him in bed.
"Captain, "the younger man suggested cheerily when the first fanfare to assemble had been blown, "what do you say we try to find a better view of the host? It may be too much to go down to the gate but the view from just below the 6th should be clear enough."
Faramir, who had just been feeling a little despondent after the excitement of the morn, perked up a bit. "I should like that very much! If we take breaks as we go I think I should manage to get that far."
Neither of them saw fit to ask if they should be up at all. Moving quietly and with as much stealth as can be accomplished on less than steady legs, they had made it almost to the Houses' central door when a familiar high pitched voice stopped them in their tracks.
."Bless me, where do you gentlemen think that you are going?"
Dame Ioreth stood just inside the door, arms akimbo and glaring at the miscreants.
Anborn stood a little straighter while an embarrassed flush crossed his bearded face. "Just to the sixth gate, Mistress. I thought as how the Captain'd be climbing the walls right now. He needs to see the Men head off." He was supporting Faramir on his right side and trying to keep his own splinted arm from jostling.
"Needs to see…?!" Ioreth sputtered with indignation. "The Lord Steward is but two days back from death's door! And Lieutenant with your shoulder you should not be supporting anyone. That arm was nearly ripped from off your body. Este, Master Varan warned me to watch the Rangers especially carefully and Valar know he's had enough experience of them. 'They have more guts sometimes than sense and seemingly no capacity for rest.' I am sure he said and here is the living proof! "
Faramir began to make apologies but Anborn hurriedly changed position, used his arm to support Faramir's and not the main weight of his upper chest. "There, is that better Mistress? It just so happens we have one good arm on each side. Between us we have full wings.
Ioreth was not mollified. "No that is not better. I will not have the Lord Steward collapsing when the King himself taxed his strength to bring him back."
An appropriately abashed hopefulness was plastered to the young man's face. "But the Captain must go down. I am quite certain he will take a bad turn if he does not."
The Captain in question nearly choked with laughter at the blatant attempt at manipulation. He watched with well-hidden glee as Ioreth snorted skeptically and put a work-worn finger to her lips. She looked up and down the hall.
"Where is Bergil to help? We have so few lads to run errands these busy days. I am sure I do not know how we are managing to cope at all. There are few souls to spare and help with a chair."
"He is seeing his father off, " explained Faramir, eyes crinkling with amusement. He and Anborn could both sense victory was at hand despite the frown on the good-wife's face. "Lord Hurin has given Beregond leave to go to Cormallen."
"And I can still push a rolling chair, " Anborn volunteered. "My left side is strong enough. And I understand the Perian Meriadoc has been allowed up."
At Ioreth's huff of indignation Faramir was unsure if the Lieutenant's observation had hurt or helped. "That's as may be, young man, but they are an unusually tough folk. Hardier than you, by all accounts." The older woman pointed to the direction of the Masters' room. "If either of you came to ill and the Master knew I had let you out I would never hear the end of it."
"Beginning your pardon Mistress, "Anborn cheekily replied, "it all depends on what you put in your report."
"Well I nev…" The men were then treated to a rare and wondrous sight: the normally garrulous Dame Ioreth reduced to speechlessness.
"Stay there!" she finally ordered before ducking into a storage room just down the hall.
A moment later Ioreth had returned and sat Faramir down in one of the Houses' rolling chairs. "Go," she said, fixing Anborn with a glare, "but mind you find somewhere to sit yourself. And both of you will have to wait until an assistant is free to bring you back." Thanking the woman profusely and assuring her of their willingness to wait, Anborn pushed his Captain quickly out into the courtyard before there was time for her to change her mind.
Once past the Healing Houses' lane they found the windy colonnade of the sixth was quite empty. All those who could were down by the Great Gate, all those who could not were otherwise occupied. The lieutenant steered them to a spot just before the next level's tiered worn steps. The carved creamy stone of the high archway sparkled in the bright sun that hung overhead. It faced southeast, just enough that they could see the Pelennor below and the ranks of men and horse that stood ready to depart.
True to Anborn's words Faramir found it lightened his heart to see the bright pennants and steady carriage of his men. Much of the Tower Guard had been held back to defend the City. Their black and silver lined the final avenue before the Gate and just beyond massed thousands of mounted Rohirrim. Faramir, starved for reports, had asked Anborn to find out how they did and the enterprising young lieutenant had promptly quizzed every Westron-speaking Rider in the ward. It was good news. Marshal Elfhelm had been victorious; Anorien was secure but the threat to the City still remained and so underneath the bright green field with its white horse Rohan's young King assembled with just half his force. Beside them Imrahil's blue and white swan fluttered gaily in the breeze and above all flew the King's White Tree. It made a wondrous sight- sunlight glinting from snow-white jewels and threads of mithril. He found himself wishing even more that he was well enough go.
Anborn, sensing his Captain's turn of mood, tried to revive his smile by using his eagle-tracking eyes to point out friends and fellows that they knew. Amerith of course stood out by the colour of her hair. She was dressed richly once again, bidding farewell to her cousin Forlong who led the footman from Lossarnach. The Rangers were arrayed under their temporary Captain in front of the main mass of Gondor's troops. They would be called upon to secure the route ahead: already the Host knew that the way to the Crossroads of the King was clear but there a force of Enemy lay in wait. An ambush would ambush them and the then army would head farther north.
There would fall the harder test.
Anborn elbowed Faramir and pointed to a tiny figure standing forlornly beside the Gate. Sure enough Meriadoc was there in Bergil's company. As they heard the orders passed along the lines they also noted several laden horses out beyond the City Gate. One mount appeared to have two passengers. The other carried a man in the green cloak and leather of a Ranger of Ithilien.
"Who is that?" Faramir asked, confused, for even at this distance he thought the man's chestnut horse looked familiar.
Anborn squinted and shook his head. "'Tis young Eldrin. Now there is a good bit of gossip. Loran told me that he tried to head out with the Company. Said his body was hale and fine for all that his one hand is nearly smashed. Claimed he could still swing a sword with his left. Now Rilla is a fine beast but apparently even she knew not to take him. Balked at the tremor on the reins to all accounts. Prince Imrahil himself ordered him out of the line. More enthusiasm than sense, eh Sir?"
"I don't blame him. I know exactly how he feels," remarked Faramir, grimly. Part of his heart also wished to mount up and ride away, join the desperate feint and ignore the weakness that his body felt. It was a futile but seductive fantasy. He sighed. Already he was growing tired and the wound on his shoulder pained him fiercely once again.
The ringing peal of silver trumpets sounded from the Tower's height. Cries of 'Gondor!" and "Eorlingas!" rang out and the main mass of the host began to move in earnest. Sun glinted on spears and helms and swords: the bright ribbon of light and joyous noise began to snake across the mud towards grey bulk of once-fair Osgiliath in the distance. It was a glorious and stirring sight and yet Faramir found it a little sobering. He had Seen and he had hope, but they were so few. How could they prevail?
The two men waited solemnly, hearts heavy, as troop after troop and company after company marched out. The host may not have been the strength of old but still it took many minutes for them to pass off to the east. By the time last wagon brought up the rear Faramir was drooping and Anborn had sat unceremoniously on the carved seat of the sentry box. It was only after the orderly, Bran, had hustled down, (full of apologies and an energy that made Faramir yearn for his bed) that the Captain turned for one last look. What he hoped to see he did not know: the host had quickly become but a smudge of indigo and grey against the muddied greens of the ruined Townlands. Here and there the sunlight caught the errant tip of a spear but these flashes were few and indistinct. All too soon even they were gone.
With a last shake of his raven head, Faramir nodded to Bran and braced his hands upon the chair. The strong man grasped the handles and gave a heavy push. He felt ridiculous but such was the price of short-lived parole. He must resign himself to healing well and steadily, help Hurin and Marshal Elfhelm ready the City for possibly another wave of battle. The thought was dispiriting but then he shook himself. How selfish. He was surely not the only person left behind who wished to follow the glorious host.
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~~~000~~~
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Eowyn of Rohan stood, tall and proud before Minas Tirith's shattered gate and silently ground her teeth.
She could hardly hear Eomer's last orders to his Marshal for all the restless whinnying of horses and muttering of impatient Riders. The host was ready, anxious to head out. All were assembled: the three thousand foot and horse of Eomer-King's command in neat columns on the road; the several thousands of travel-stained and weary Riders of Elfhelm's command making up the honour guard. She was proud of them-the Eored had been victorious in Anorien but the day before- and mindful of their sacrifice she kept the frown that better suited her present mood from off her face.
It was not easy. They were leaving her behind again.
By custom and by courtesy, it was her role to hold the parting cup for the King. Varan,the Houses' senior healer had been most unwilling to let her leave. She was supposed to be ten days yet a abed but it was important to the men to see portents for good fortune upheld. Elfhelm (who may have met his in Varan's stubborn resolution) had argued long and without success until Princess Ivriniel, most anxious to avoid a diplomatic scene, had sensibly proffered a solution. The Prince of Dol Amroth had kept a litter in the city for his wife, Princess Leylin. It was unused now and could be carried by six strong men. The perfect solution or so she thought.
"Do you still wish to go?" Elfhelm had asked, brows rising skeptically as Eowyn regarded the padded and pillowed interior with a jaundiced eye. It was painted a rather startling shade of peacock blue. "Having put you in danger I am charged with keeping you safe from all things now. Including…" he gestured to one gilded sconce. "ridiculous Gondorian contraptions."
Eowyn thanked Bema Ivriniel had not seen fit to see them off. The six Riders from Elfhelm's own Eored judiciously held their smirks.
"If this is the price of my attendance. So be it." She shrugged and entered with her head held high, holding the rather cumbersome overskirts of her borrowed dress awkwardly in her undamaged hand. Marrit, the Houses more than efficient housekeeper had kindly found her something other to wear than the standard issue grey healing robes. To her chagrin Gondorian women prized layer after layer of ornament and detail: both the chemise of fine lawn and kirtle of creamy silk were embroidered with heavy matching threads; the gown of pale grass green had sleeves so sheer she could not imagine what task one could accomplish without tearing them apart; the bodice and overskirt were of dark green velvet and silver lace, tied by dark green cord. Eowyn wondered if the colour was purely happenstance.
After an uncomfortable and bumpy trip she alighted and found herself waiting for her chance to bid farewell. Eomer sat Firefoot looking rested and ready for a fight. The bruises and dark circles of the several days before were mostly gone. He was clad in clean armour and silvered helm, his loyal mount was white and mostly spotless-only one poulticed gash attested to the battle they had fought.
The bright horsetail on the new King's helm swept back and forth as Eomer turned and shouted orders to the Marshals and commanders of each Eored.
Eowyn steadied the silver cup with its dark red wine and tilted her head proudly up. She swayed only the slightest bit. It was taking longer to get to her part than she had hoped but nothing in Arda could induce her to sit down in the chair her brother had so thoughtfully provided. The deep fluted cup was heavy but not overly awkward for her to hold. Her splinted arm did not hurt. Her right was tiring a little but not too much. She was the King's sister, a Shieldmaiden and proud daughter of Eomund.
She would not show any outward sign of weakness. When at last Elfhelm dropped back to stand beside, Eomer wheeled Firefoot in place with a clatter of hooves on the cobblestones.
"'Wyn…" Her brother's smile was bright and suspiciously a little broad. The use of her childhood name she knew was meant to cajol-he looked hopeful but yet uncertain that she would not make a scene.
They had already quarreled once that early morn.
She bit her lip, remembering to keep her temper firmly in check. Eomer had tried to apologize again, to set all to rights, but though she loved him dearly for it it did not change the fact that he was mounted and she was not. Eowyn had (foolishly and hopelessly she now realized) thought that with her energy much improved she might at least be allowed to ride out if not to fight.
Eomer had gently but firmly pointed out her limitations. That they would ride for hours at a time. That they could be overrun and her safety be in doubt. That she was his heir and needed to be kept secure at all costs. None of it was wrong but in the privacy of her chamber she had not spared him the frustration that had bubbled up.
"So I, the brood mare, get to exchange a cage of timber for one made of stone?"
At least Eomer had had the grace to flush at that.
As calmly as she could Eowyn drew breath and raised her voice so those thronged nearby could hear. '"'Ferthu Eomer hál!' Receive now this cup and drink . Good fortune and victory ride with thee at thy going and thy coming!'
Her brother's shoulders droped slightly with relief. Eomer took the cup that she lifted steadily into his hand and raising the flagon high, drained it in one long draught. "Good fortune bide with thee, sister dear. May the days pass swiftly til all return."
Eowyn flushed angrily at his formal words. Was he trying to rub salt into her wounds? Pass swiftly?! No indeed that they would not. Resentment made her open her mouth to bite back but before the words tumbled out she looked up into his face-it was pained, brows knitted hopefully. She held her tongue. He was, after all just trying to buoy her up.
She blew out a long steadying breath.
The cup was placed back in her hands and Eomer bent low from the saddle, preparing to give her the formal farewell kiss.
A capricious need to show her frustration one last time made her step back a pace.
"Wyn." She watched, guilt pricking at her thumbs, as his handsome face fell a little bit and Firefoot shifted nervously below. "I thought we had spoken of all this before…"
They had but what did he expect? That she would be a lapdog and accept the misfortune of her state without feeling dismay again? That she would swallow bile and not feel the injustice of his decree? There were other Riders in the line about with splinted broken arms. She and any of the men could ride a horse and fight one-handed. She deserved to ride to war, to victory or at least to an honourable death. But because he had no wife she was forced to stay behind?
Eowyn held her head high as her heart battered mercilessly at her ribs. Anger and frustration rose up again but then a flash of real unease moved across her brother's face. The same grief and hope that she remembered on first awakening was plainly there for all to see.
It quenched her anger more swiftly than one of Irensaga's icy waterfalls.
She must not speak words of woe to a man about to face the dripping jaws of an impenetrable foe. It would be the most unpardonable ill luck.
"Nay brother," she said in tones pitched just for them to hear. "I know of no disagreements between us. All is well as you can see." She tilted her chin and turned her other cheek, vowing his time when he tried to kiss her she would not make a scene.
Eomer's tight grip on the reins eased up. Blue-grey eyes cast down, pained and thoughtful, and clearly worried despite her soothing words. He had always fretted when they did not agree, had been on the receiving end of her snap enough times to know that this studied quiet was more serious than spleen.
He seemed to be silently weigh the wisdom of another word when he shifted the pressure subtly on his offside leg and Firefoot sidled near.
Eowyn sighed and braced herself but what happened next took her completely unawares.
The King thrust his spear into the hands of his startled squire and bent low again, placed a pair of broad strong hands on either side of her waist and lifted her straight up. Eomer set her, startled, billowing skirts and all, before him on the saddle, mindful of her arm and steadying her carefully.
"Eomer!" What was he doing?
"Hold tight," he whispered and encircled one muscled arm about her waist. Firefoot wheeled around and faced eastward through the gate. The throng had hushed. They stood watching, rapt, to see what would happen next.
Eomer dropped his rein and raised his arm.
"Riders of the Riddermark," he cried, voice carrying far in the quiet hush. "you see before me the Lady Eowyn, slayer of the Dwimmerlaik, bane of the Witch-King, brave warrior who defended Theoden-King almost unto death. Stand and do her honour now. Cry her name, loud as Valaróma so that Bema shall know her name and the Enemy shall quake with fear."
With those words Eomer urged the great war-horse forward to a gallop. Down past the Gate and the long line of Elfhelm's honour guard they rode, past the cheering Riders and out onto the Pelennor. At the rear of Rohan's host the companies began to part before them like a wave, man after man moving aside to let them through, chanting the name of the woman they honoured with their song.
Beside her flushed and wind-blown cheek she could feel her brother's smile. "Can you doubt it 'Wyn? Can you still doubt that our house, your name and your deeds will be honoured long after this day?"
The wind was whipping her hair around them like little flames. Her heart was racing and it felt wondrous to be moving once again. All at once they thundered to a stop and the sounds of "E-o-wyn" faded into a quiet din.
He stood there- Aragorn- surrounded by Dol Amroth's Prince, Mithrandir and noble Shadowfax and Legolas with Gimli on their faithful steed, looking, if anything, more noble in that moment, a star bound to his brow and a great green stone shining upon his chest, then when they had first met.
Aragorn bowed low from the saddle and the Lords assembled followed suit.
"Great lady, your deeds have made this day possible. We all owe you every honour and wish you nothing but good fortune and good health." Eowyn breathed, ready to feel a stab of pain but found oddly there was no sting within his words.
She swallowed and boldly held his gaze. "My Lord, I thank you for all that you have done."
Aragorn inclined his head and at the gesture Eomer saluted and turned Firefoot away.
Elfhelm, grinning and chest bursting with ill-hidden pride, stood waiting on his stallion just behind.
Eomer stilled Firefoot with the slightest touch and raised up a mailed hand to brush her cheek. "It pains me so to leave you here, sister-dear. But I must and you must stay. At least now you have ridden with us a ways and received the honour that you are due. Can you go back and rest and think a little fondly of your sometimes thick-headed, stubborn brother?"
"Yea…." she replied, heart in mouth and throat too thick with sudden tears to speak. It was a very lordly thing to do. She loved him for it but how could she explain that this helped but for all too short a time?
Eomer smiled and gently kissed her where he had just touched. "Be well, little one."
Swiftly pressing a kiss of luck to the tanned skin above his blond beard, Eowyn nodded and turned. Elfhelm rode close and she steadied herself as his great hands plucked her lightly as a feather from off her brother's seat. The sea of Riders parted once more and before long Elfhelm had stopped them beside the high vault of the City's gate. The honour guard turned and faced toward the east. Trumpets sounded and the Host of the West began its long journey to the Morannon.
Eowyn waited, watching them go, her heart still heavy and yet lighter than in many days. Firefoot's dabbled grey stood out far along the lines. She sighed and clutched her fingers in her heavy skirts. It was a gesture worthy of a King and a loving brother both. Just not exactly the one that she would choose.
As the last sounds of the host died away Elfhelm turned his great bay stallion and they began the long slow walk on cobblestones up through the City streets.
"You are well?" Elfhelm asked quietly, as they wended their way past the ruined streets toward the southern second gate.
"As I can be," she replied, twisting in the saddle to look at his craggy face. It was not entirely a lie. She knew that Elfhelm had worried too. Blamed himself more than he should for her malady and wound. "Thank you."
He nodded and a high flush stained his weatherbeaten cheek. "Thank your brother. All I did was try to follow when he abruptly decided to lead you in a dance."
She looked up to the southward walls. A pair of swooping kestrels had caught her eye and she followed their dizzying flight, up and up until they hovered above a lone patch of green amidst the walls' blinding white. The colour drew her. It was the new green of the fields of Rohan before the wheat ripened in the summer sun, the soft gentleness of the laurel woods that graced the Mountains' shoulders. She squinted. It was a garden and a greensward with soaring trees, the only such place that she could see on the south side the City. Near the Healing Houses se thought but from their angle she was unsure.
There she must be something that she could do to ease the ache of idleness.
Perhaps upon the morrow she would ask to be taken there.
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Thank you so so much to earthdragon for her lovely comments on the last chapter. Once again I am delighted to find so many of you enjoying this. Hugs to a9112001 for favouriting this past month and to Dsturg and lightsofkezil for following.
A few different threads have been coming together. The vision of Aragorn was first introduced in detail in Chapter 13-Adrahil's funeral. For another view of Finduilas' vision of Aragorn see my 100 drabble-plants. A pregnant Finduilas sits on May Day eve in Dol Amroth's garden and a lonely Thorongil keeps her company.
I am sad to say that Madril did pay a price for Eldrin as was alluded to. Never fear, Faramir will find out Najir's (and Goran's) fate..just not quite yet.
Thank you to my friends at the Garden of Ithilien and particularly Wheelrider, Thanwen, Artura and Annafan who provided comments and critters this month. They saved Mablung from a possibly unfortunate fate :)
