Homecoming
Minas Tirith, 21 F.A.
Nine months in the south taught the Prince of Ithilien a number of things. He was, for example, fluent now in two more languages, not just the high court Haradric he had studied in his youth, but also the ruder version spoken on the streets. He confirmed what he had always suspected, that the best intentions are insufficient when others are set on acting in bad faith. And he had been reminded how little can be packed when leaving a place in haste.
It was not that his mission had been unsuccessful… Well, it had been entirely unsuccessful in its stated purpose of keeping the Lord Irâz, Gondor's closest ally in the south, in favour with his Emperor. But it had been perfectly successful in its swiftly conceived secondary aim of extracting Irâz from court before his rivals could murder him, and hurrying him across the border. Irâz now sat in lonely exile in the Citadel of Minas Tirith. If any assassin reached him there, the Lords of Gondor had more to worry about than the safety of a banished man.
In a small quiet room in the White Tower, Faramir collapsed gratefully into the nearest chair. Húrin of the Keys passed him a cup of wine, which he drank to the dregs.
"You were supposed to be a safe pair of hands," said the King.
"I defy anyone to have done any better," said his Steward. "They are all quite mad."
Aragorn laughed. "I'm impressed you kept Irâz propped up as long as you did. I thought you'd be back within three months."
"I thought six," said Húrin.
Faramir frowned. "I hope you have both lost substantial amounts on this wager."
"Deservedly so," said Aragorn. "Although the Queen has gained substantially. Your wife, I should add, did not expect to see you back before a whole twelve months were up. She clearly has greater faith in your guile."
Éowyn… Faramir sighed and closed his eyes. Nine months away from her was far too long, never mind the peril. He had missed her desperately. As the months dragged past in that hostile land, he had consoled himself by buying her ever more extravagant gifts. Sweet perfumes and fine silks. Jewellery of great beauty and craft. Finely-woven carpets, and tapestries patterned with the words of their finest poet. Every last single pretty piece left behind in a sandstone town house in Khôm, which had surely by now been ransacked by his enemies. All he had to offer her was himself—
"She's here in the city," Aragorn said softly.
—himself, and a host of new curses. In retrospect, he thought this was what she would prefer.
Faramir laughed, and opened his eyes. The King was smiling at him. "Well done," said Aragorn, softly. "You are, as ever, indispensable." He looked at Húrin. "Where shall we send him next?"
Altariel, 8th April 2019