Out of the Weeds

Harlond, 22 F.A.

Spring was turning towards summer before the Prince of Ithilien emerged once more from the bosom of his family into the wider world. Another book had been written, this one about his time in the South. Morwen and Léof had assisted once again. This time the hunger for adventure had been clear in Léof's eyes, and Faramir knew it would not be long now before the boy was on his way. His father did not intend to travel again for a long time, not beyond the familiar.

When he reached the inn at the Harlond, Strider was already there, wreathed in smoke. They sat together peacefully, quietly, as they had done many times, watching the river.

"I enjoyed the account of your travels," said the King, at last.

"Thank you. I know you know the region well."

The King gave his pipe a dismissive wave. "Oh, that was all a very long time ago. I'm sure a great deal has changed. Still, I thought your selection of material was… judicious, to say the least."

Faramir drank some wine. He had naturally chosen his material carefully. He was hardly going to give away state secrets.

"Did you not smoke out there?" said the King.

"Smoke? No."

"Really?

"Of course not. You know I think it's—"

"A filthy habit, yes."

The King carried on smoking; the Steward carried on drinking. They both watched the silver ripples of the river.

"I heard a great number of stories while I was out there," said the Steward.

"Oh yes?"

"In Khôm."

"I enjoyed my time in Khôm."

Faramir shuddered. He had not, particularly.

"What were the stories about?" said the King. "I recall a very good one about a snake caught by its own riddles—"

"Not legends."

"No?"

"No. These were stories about the visitor from the White City. The tarkil who liked to smoke." He eyed his companion. "He had a flinty look about him, they said, and did not lose at games of cards and dice. Also, he liked to smoke. Whatever was on offer, he would try."

"He sounds a very dubious character."

"I thought so," said the Steward.

"When was this, as a matter of interest?"

"In the 'sixties, they said."

Strider smiled. "Round about the time I was in Meduseld. I did not visit Khôm until much later."

"Oh." The Steward frowned down into his glass.

"Of course," the King went on, conversationally, "your father was there for a while in his youth. Shortly after your grandsire became Steward. We often talked about his time there. Did you ever read his journals in the end, Faramir?"

"No," said Faramir faintly. "I never did."

Altariel, 23rd April 2019