Note: Well, this chapter didn't take as long as I thought – so you all get two in a week! I thought I'd better get moving with Eomund, since several of you are wishing him severely punished for his behavior towards his father. So, here we go – don't worry – it will get worse for him before it gets better…
Chapter 4 – A Demand
Eomund looked up at the great white keel of stone that stood above him and smiled. It was good to be home. He loved the green fields of Ithilien, of course, and now that he made his home there, the squalid busy-ness of Pelargir pleased him, but nothing ever came close to making his heart soar like the blinding white walls of Minas Tirith. This morning the Tower of Ecthelion pierced the sky like a spike, the first dim rays of sunlight washing across in pale rosy-pink as it crept from behind the eastern mountains
He rode through the quiet streets, his horse's hooves echoing on the white stone beneath them as he made his way up through the seven levels of the city. A few people were awake with the dawn, but most still slept or if awake were not yet ready to face the day. Eomund had left Osgiliath last night, as soon as his ship had docked, even though he knew he would have to spend the night on the Pelennor. But the King's message had said "with all possible haste," so he had departed the city, ridden until the darkness had finally been too much, then taken only a few hours sleep, wrapped in his blanket, before saddling the horse again and heading for the city before dawn broke. His happiness over the sunrise helped dispel the foul mood caused by the necessity of sleeping out in the open and having to rent another poor horse from that crooked liveryman in Osgiliath. Eomund liked neither sleeping out nor horses, and his three years in the army had done nothing to change his mind. He had been more than ready to resign his commission at the end of his tour of duty when the King's offer of a position in the fledgling Royal Navy had convinced him otherwise. Now he loved every minute he spent with the small fleet in Pelargir and had the added satisfaction of knowing he was helping Gondor stay safe and strong and that the King trusted and depended on him.
"With all possible haste." The King's message had been cryptic and slightly ominous and Eomund felt a twinge of worry. The courier who had handed him the message had been unable to offer any further information, only that he was accompany Eomund back to Minas Tirith and even now he rode in silence beside him. Eomund let his mind return to seeking the reason he had been called back. He had gone over all his dispatches and reports in his mind as he traveled, trying to think of any omissions or errors, but nothing had been apparent, even to his analytical mind. As he approached the Citadel he took a deep breath, trying to prepare himself for a meeting with the King. And his father. It was sure to be uncomfortable.
Eomund's anger had cooled in the months since Barahir's funeral, and a part of him knew he had hurt his father deeply. It had been a shot in the dark, his harsh words of accusation and had had more of an effect than he had ever imagined. Eomund knew little about the relationship between his father and grandfather. Nothing much was ever said at home, and even when he grew older and began asking questions Faramir would usually give him short answers that satisfied none of his curiosity and his mother would only sigh and shake her head. "They did not get along, I have been told," was all she would say.
It was not until his eighteenth year, when he joined the army and was assigned to his platoon that he began to hear the whispers, the hushed remarks that were quickly smothered as he approached. His Sergeant, a gruff, loud-voiced man who constantly and affectionately cursed his charges, would cuff the whisperers into silence and urge Eomund to take no mind of the rumors and gossip of lesser folk, which only increased his desire to hear more.
He finally got the whole story out of another new man, a raw-boned recruit newly arrived from a small village on the Pelennor, who did not recognize the Steward's son and happily spilled the entire sordid tale of his grandfather's last hours to a horrified Eomund one night as they shared picket duty, embellishing the tale with several falsehoods although he did not know them to be such.
Eomund had gone into the bushes afterward and vomited, feeling sick and unsteady even as he returned to his post and his thoughts had worried and picked at the ghastly information for days afterward. He had sought out others who were more than willing to add their own details, each more alarming than the last, until Eomund was obsessed with finding out which, if any, of the numerous versions of Denethor's last day was true.
By the time he had been given his first leave to visit home he had been ready to approach his father, find out the truth, and had mentioned as much to Elboron, who looked at him with horror. "No, E'mun," he said in a firm voice as they stood in the stable unsaddling their horses. He had ridden home with his younger brother, having asked that their leave time be together and his green eyes looked at Eomund worriedly. "Leave it alone. It hurts him to speak of it."
"But have you heard – "
"I've heard. And you'll hear worse, believe me." Elboron picked up a brush and began currying his horse's back distractedly.
"Is it true?" Eomund stopped brushing his own horse, waited for his older brother to reassure him the terrible accounts were nothing but vicious rumors, but the silence stretched out, broken only by the soft sound of bristles moving through horsehair. "Bron? Is it true?" He was surprised to see Elboron's face grow pale as he brushed the horse vigorously.
"Much of it, so far as I can tell," he said in an unsteady voice. He looked at Eomund. "I was like you, E'mun. I heard the stories my first year. I made the mistake of asking." His mouth thinned and he ran the brush harder across the sweaty back of the horse. "It hurt him, I could see it in his eyes." Eomund believed him, knew his brother had inherited his father's ability to easily know another's thoughts, and he stood still, waiting for Elboron to continue.
"Well, what did he say?"
Elboron kept grooming the horse and the minutes passed, and at last he stopped, twisted his fingers through the coarse hair of the horse's mane and sighed.
"He said he did not remember much, that he had been wounded, and the time between the fighting on the Pelennor and when he woke up in the Houses of Healing was hazy. He said he and grandfather were not close and he always regretted that. He said he would rather not speak of it." Elboron stared at the horsehair as he wrapped and unwrapped it around his fingers, remembering the look on his father's face when he had spoken, the way his pulse had been suddenly visible in his neck, the quickening of his breathing, the odd look of wary sorrow in his eyes and he looked at Eomund. "I never mentioned it again. I asked Mother and Uncle, even the King, they told me a little, not much. I got most of what I know to be true from Beregond."
"Beregond? The old Captain of the White Company?"
Elboron nodded and took his horse by the halter, led it into the stall, slid the door shut behind it before he turned to Eomund. "He was there in the city, the day of the Battle on the Pelennor, and he helped save Father's life…from grandfather." He watched Eomund's blue eyes widen and took him by the arm. "I'll tell you what he told me, just as I told Theoden when he came home the first time after he joined the army. Just as I suppose I'll have to tell Bara and Sam one day. But," his eyes held Eomund's, drilling into him intensely. "Don't ask Father. Promise me." Such serious words had subdued Eomund, who had readily agreed and he followed Elboron back to the other horse and listened in growing shock and outrage as Elboron told what he knew in the quiet confines of the stable, the horse stamping contentedly beneath the brothers hands as he talked. When he finished Elboron looked at his little brother over the horse's tall back. "I think that is why he has always tried so hard with all of us," he said quietly. "Always tried to have time, to make sure he was there for all the important things; I think it is why he makes sure he tells us he loves us."
Eomund, who had always been slightly annoyed and embarrassed by his father's affection, nodded, and when Elboron moved past the horse to put his hand on his shoulder and give him a rough hug, he had returned it awkwardly.
"Don't listen to any of the stories, E'mun," Elboron told him. "Most of them are cruel, and untrue. The true ones," he heaved a sigh. "There is nothing you can do about it, and it hurts Father. Let it go."
Now, riding through the empty streets Eomund thought again of his last visit, the vicious and spiteful words he had spoken to his father. He regretted them, knew they had been unfair, undeserved and deeply wounding. He had not expected the site of the body beneath the white silk to hurt him so much and had lashed out in anger and sorrow even as he knew Bara's death had nothing to do with his army duties. But the anger was comforting, reassuring, convincing him that someone was to blame, that his little brother could not be gone just by chance, and so he had nurtured and cultivated it in the days that followed, reminding himself each time he looked at his father that there was the man responsible for Bara being gone, and silencing the small voice of reason within him.
In Ithilien, at the burial, he had carried his brother's body into the tomb, and left a piece of his heart there with him when the door was closed, and it was not possible that someone was not at fault, that someone could not be punished for his loss, and when he had at last found the opportunity to release some of the grief and anger, he had taken a chance, suspecting that invoking his grandfather's memory would hurt his father, not caring at that moment and had been oddly pleased at the slight jerk his father gave and the way the color had gone from his face when he had spoken of that long ago day.
The twisted pleasure had lasted no longer than it took for him to gallop away on his horse and even as he rode toward Osgiliath to find a ship bound for Pelargir he was sorry for his outburst and briefly considered turning back. But his vanity was strong and he did not, and the months had passed. Even after the shock had worn off and his grief been smoothed over with time's passing, even then he had not been able to force himself to write, or visit. Pride, his mother would call it, and make a rude remark about the stubbornness of the Hurin line, and she would be right. Eomund knew his father, with infinite patience, would not push him, would wait for him to make the first move and even though he knew it was childish he had not been ready to do that.
The King's summons had solved the dilemma. He had been called to Minas Tirith and since his father was always involved in any meetings concerning the military, Eomund was certain he would be there for this one. It would be awkward in the beginning, but each of them would be forced to speak to one another during the meeting and when it was over they could move on to personal matters and Eomund would be spared making his apology. He didn't want to apologize, for that matter. He still believed his father had been wrong to force Barahir into the army but that difference of opinion would probably never be resolved, he realized. And deep down he knew Bara's death had been nothing but a tragic accident, and that by refusing to let him leave the army, his father had only done, as always, what he believed to be best for Gondor. Eomund wondered for a moment if he was jealous, envious of the land that held his father's first allegiance. He sighed and pulled the horse to a stop, the Citadel before him.
With a grunt he slid down from the horse's back and unbuckled the leather satchel behind his saddle that held any records he could think the King might wish to see. Dismissing the courier he approached the great bronze doors but to his surprise the two guards there, resplendent in their black and silver uniforms and winged helmets, crashed their spears together and denied him entrance.
"I have been called by the King," he protested, stepping forward. "Let me pass."
The courier, who had not budged following Eomund's preemptory dismissal, now approached and bowed his head fractionally. "My lord, I have been instructed to have you wait here." He gestured toward the stone bench that sat beneath the White Tree. "I will return shortly," he said and walked away, leaving Eomund standing by the bench in confusion. "With all possible haste," he muttered. "With all possible haste, to wait?" He shook his head slightly and sat down, looking up into the pale branches of the tree. It had been there all his life and he had sat beneath its branches a thousand times. He had heard his father tell of the joy in the city when the King had brought the small sapling down from the mountainside and had the old tree pulled up and planted the young one in its place. With a faint smile he reached down toward the bottom of the trunk and felt carefully, his fingers soon finding the initials carved into the root. "B" and "E". There they were, still in the smooth bark of the tree and his smile grew into a grin.
It had been a dare. He had urged Barahir to try out his new birthday gift, taunting that the shiny knife was not that sharp, not like his older brother's. Bara had been furious, and to prove the knife was every bit as lethal as Eomund's, he had quickly incised the letters into the wood, the razored edge marking the tree easily. Afterward they had stood horrified, appalled at their recklessness, and Bara had cried, quieting only when Eomund had sworn if the carving were ever discovered he would take the blame, and then Bara had looked up at his older brother with tear-filled blue eyes. "But E'mun," he said quietly. "That would be a lie."
Eomund's grin faded and he felt the familiar ache. They had been eight and eleven that summer, and inseparable. His fingers brushed against the healed scars on the tree again. No one had ever mentioned them. Now only he knew they were there.
"My lord?"
Eomund jerked around, caught in his reverie, to find the courier had reappeared. He quickly rose and followed him past the now welcoming guards at the entrance and through the enormous doors. The courier bowed once more and then left Eomund in the throne room. Inside, the majesty of the king's hall overwhelmed him for a moment, as it always did. The massive windows, the tall statues of past kings, the shining marble floor; Eomund always felt the glory of Gondor was most tangible in that huge, ornate room. He started across the floor, looking to the far end and his earlier twinge of worry suddenly increased. The King, who would usually be standing on the first, lowest step of the dais ready to greet him with a smile, was instead seated on the great carved throne. On his head was the winged crown, and across his knees lay the scepter of Annuminas, while the long scabbard that held the legendary sword Anduril was buckled about his hips. His face was cold and grave and Eomund felt a sudden rush of fear. This was no ordinary meeting. As he forced his feet to carry him across the polished floor he shifted his gaze to the Steward's chair at the foot of the platform, hoping his father would be able to give him some clue as to what the meeting was about, and his steps faltered.
His father was not seated in the Steward's chair. In his place, grasping the white rod of the Steward's office and watching him through inscrutable green eyes was his brother Elboron. Eomund felt his heart move up into his throat as something close to panic suddenly blossomed inside him and he swallowed hard as he approached them, the last few feet seeming to take hours to cover, and swiftly dropped down on one knee before the King. His heart was thundering in his ears as he bowed his head. "Sire," he said, his voice the merest whisper.
A long moment passed as he knelt there in silence and the questions raced wildly through his head and all thoughts about his navy paperwork disappeared as he tried to find an explanation for the King's formal reception, his father's absence, and Elboron's presence in the Steward's chair. The minutes passed but he dared not look up until bidden to do so, so Eomund waited, his knee beginning to ache where it pressed into the marble beneath him. At last the King spoke.
"Lord Eomund, son of Faramir." Eomund raised his head and started to stand, suddenly realized he had not been instructed to rise and sank back down onto his knee as he looked up into the King's face.
The coldness in Aragorn's expression shocked Eomund. It was as though the king had never seen him before in his life. There was no recognition, no warmth, no acknowledgement that the King of Gondor had ever met Eomund. Nothing but an impassive mask that chilled Eomund's blood. He had known the King all his life but he had never had to face his displeasure, let alone his wrath, and he was suddenly very, very afraid.
"My lord?" He could hear the nervous quiver in his voice.
The King regarded him coldly for a moment. "I sent word for you to come to Minas Tirith with all possible haste, did I not?"
"Yes, my lord, you did."
"That was ten days ago, Lieutenant Eomund." The King used his military rank and spoke in short, clipped tones. "The journey from Pelargir should not take more than three days. Why did you not arrive sooner?"
"I'm sorry, sire," Eomund said hastily. "I was not in Pelargir, my lord, but aboard a ship coming back from Belfalas. I did not arrive in Pelargir until just three days ago." The King's grey eyes seemed to bore into him as he spoke and Eomund lowered his head again and concentrated on the floor before him. "Forgive me, my lord."
Another long moment of silence and the pain in Eomund's knee was forgotten as he knelt anxiously before the King and waited for the next question.
"You did not stop in Ithilien on your way, to visit your family?"
Eomund shook his head. "No, Sire." Even if the message had not demanded his immediate arrival, he was sure the King already knew he had not been home for months but he said nothing else, unsure of the purpose of the questioning, hoping things would become clearer soon.
"So you are unaware that your sister Estel has disappeared? Run away from her home?"
With a jerk Eomund's head came up and he stared at the King. "What? No, I didn't - When? Why?" He risked a quick glance over to his brother, saw Elboron watching him but could not read the expression on his face. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, feeling the panicky sensation increase as the King continued.
"Apparently she was upset; things have not been well at the Prince of Ithilien's home lately."
Eomund could feel the sweat trickling down his back and sides. Sticky nervous sweat as he listened to the King's words. The Prince of Ithilien, he said. Not the Steward of Gondor. Had his father stepped down as Steward? Was that why Elboron was here? And where was Estel? What had happened in just a few months? He felt a sour roiling in his stomach as his nerves reacted to both the information and the lack of it and he swallowed down the queasiness. Hearing the sound of rustling material and metal scraping on stone he looked up again to find the King standing, advancing toward him. He had still not been ordered to rise and he remained balanced on his knee even as it trembled with strain. Finally the King stood before him, but Eomund put his head down and fixed his eye on the black fur that trimmed the King's mantle. He could feel the authority that radiated from the King, along with a cold anger carefully held in check.
"Can you think of any reason why there would be unhappiness in the Prince's household, Lieutenant?" The King's voice was soft, dangerously soft and silky, and Eomund felt his mouth go dry as he nodded.
"Yes, my lord."
"Ah, pray, tell me, Lieutenant."
"My-" Eomund's voice cracked and he had to stop and swallow, try again. "My brother's death, my lord, has made it difficult, I'm sure." He ventured a glance up at the King.
"Hmm." The King looked thoughtful, flicked his gaze to Elboron. "Is that true, my Lord Steward, has the death of the Prince's son made for a difficult time in Ithilien?"
"I am certain it has, my lord." Elboron spoke in a dry, emotionless tone, as though the matter had nothing to do with him.
"Is that all?" Aragorn's voice was deceptively nonchalant. Receiving no answer he turned back to Eomund. "Is that all, Lieutenant?"
Eomund shook his head miserably. The King had called Elboron the Steward, so his father must have given up his position, although why he would do such a thing was beyond Eomund's understanding, and where was Estel, and what about his mother and Alasse? He felt his stomach clench again, was suddenly fearful he might throw up and had to force himself to answer the King's question. "No, Sire," he said in a low voice.
"No?"
"No." Eomund said wretchedly. "I – " he drew a shuddering breath. "I have not – my father and I have not – " The sound of a sword being pulled from the scabbard halted his words and he waited, wondering wildly for a moment if the King was going to kill him. Instead the tip of the sword rose before him, brushed against his chest, stayed there. He raised his eyes to meet those of the King and the wintery gaze there caused them to drop again.
"I know about you and your father, Lieutenant." The King's voice was icy. "I was there at your last visit, do you remember?" Eomund had no reply, could only give a quick nod of his head. Aragorn could see the effect of his words and manner on Eomund, knew the young man had never expected to be summoned before an angry sovereign, given bad news and treated so harshly, but he called up in his mind the picture of Faramir as he had mounted the horse to leave for Rivendell, empty grey eyes in a pinched white face, and he continued mercilessly, keeping his voice tightly controlled. "Lieutenant Eomund, you are relieved of your duties with the Royal Navy. You will not return to Pelargir." The King spoke the words slowly, each syllable like a blow to Eomund. "From this moment on, you have but one duty and one duty only. Find your sister. The army of Gondor has done some of your work for you and searched Osgiliath, with no result. We did learn that she apparently purchased a ticket on a ship leaving for Dol Amroth, so I suggest you start there. That is now your charge and your duty, Lieutenant. Find her."
"Yes, Sire." Eomund nodded, leaned forward to press his forehead against the cold blade of the huge sword, formally acknowledging his charge. He waited, realized there was nothing more and drew back. The sword was withdrawn, scraped back into the scabbard and the King stepped back. Looking up, Eomund saw him walking away, heading toward a doorway and frantically he rose to his feet and took a step toward him. "My lord?"
Aragorn turned, the look in his eyes freezing Eomund and causing him to instantly sink to his knee again. He waited, however, and Eomund took a chance. "Where is my father? Is he also searching for my sister?"
The King's eyes rested on him and Eomund felt as if Aragorn could strip all his defenses away and peer into his soul. He forced himself to meet the King's gaze, saw nothing there to reassure him. "Your father is ill and has left the city," said Aragorn, then turned and left the throne room without another word.
Eomund stayed kneeling on the floor in stunned silence. Ill? How ill? Left the city? And gone where? He felt a strong hand grasp his arm and pull him to his feet and looked into his brother's green eyes.
"Bron? What is happening? What's wrong with Father? Where on earth is Estel?"
Elboron shook his head. "I'm only supposed to speak to you as the Steward, E'mun, I'm sorry." He gestured toward the bronze doors at the front of the hall. "Come, I have a horse and supplies ready for you."
"But-" Eomund allowed his brother to pull him along in the direction of the doors as he continued with his questions. "Where is Father? Is Mother all right? What happened?" Elboron only shook his head again and finally Eomund planted his feet and refused to move any farther. "What HAPPENED, Bron? You must tell me."
Elboron faced him and sighed. "I know very little, E'mun. I only arrived in the city a day ago." He crossed his arms before him as he faced his brother. "Apparently Estel ran away because things were so bad at home."
"Bad? What do you mean bad?"
"Father is not well. After the funeral he stopped eating, lost weight, couldn't sleep," he hesitated, searching for the correct words. "Was not himself. Estel could not bear it."
"Who told you this?"
"Mother, mostly. Alasse. A little from the King but not much that Mother had not already told me. Theoden said when saw him a month ago he looked terrible." Elboron met his brother's eyes and Eomund could see he was troubled. "The King called me back from my company, asked me to take Father's place, until he is recovered."
"Where is he, at home?"
Elboron looked down at his feet, sighed and shook his head. "No."
"Where?"
"I don't know."
Eomund stared at his brother. "You don't know?"
Elboron raised his head and Eomund could see the hurt in his eyes. "I don't know. No one does, except the King and Queen, and Mother, and they won't tell us, any of us."
"But, why?" Eomund could feel his temper unraveling.
Elboron sighed again, rubbed at a pale scar that ran along his hairline, the healed gash from when he had jumped into the Anduin after Barahir, Eomund suddenly realized. "He is not well at all, E'mun." There were the faintest beginnings of worry lines around his eyes. "Alasse said he stayed locked in the library for days, until she thinks Mother sent for the King." He hesitated, scrubbed his hand across his mouth. "She said he and the King argued, that he - he struck the King."
Eomund felt his world suddenly lurch violently and could only look at his brother in disbelief. He tried to imagine his father seeking to harm the King in any way but the image would not come. "Father would never – I cannot… Is it true? Did you ask Mother?"
"She will not answer me." Elboron's voice cracked when he replied and Eomund knew why. If Eowyn refused to answer the question, it was only because it was true. The two brothers stood in horrified silence until Eomund spoke.
"The King thinks it is my fault, doesn't he?"
"He did not say that." Elboron's answer was guarded, and his brother heard the unspoken words.
"But-"
The elder brother met the younger's gaze. "He loves Father very, very much."
Eomund bit his lip, looked away for a moment. When he looked back, he was suddenly the little brother again, needing reassurance from the older. "Do you think it is my fault, Bron?"
Elboron opened his mouth, reconsidered, closed it, finally held Eomund in his steady gaze, looking uncannily like their father, Eomund thought, despite the difference in hair and eye color. "You said some terrible things to him, Eomund. You hurt him, and he was already hurt because of Bara. Then with Estel going…"
Eomund stared at the ground, his hands clenching into fists and Elboron saw him give a little shake, as if to prepare himself. When he looked up his face was tight. "I'll find her, Bron."
"I know you will." They stepped outside and a guard was waiting with a large brown Rohirric horse, a bundle of supplies strapped behind the saddle. Eomund took the reins from the guard and turned to face his brother. "I guess I'll head to Dol Amroth first, since that is where she was going." He sighed. "I should stop and see Mother…" his voice petered out as he saw his brother shaking his head. "What?"
"You are not permitted." Elboron spoke painfully. "The King specifically said so. He said - " The young Steward stopped and had to force the words out. "He said that you had not cared enough to come home for three months and you were not to go home now." Sympathetic green eyes met blue ones. Eomund dipped his head slowly in understanding.
"All right." He mounted the horse and gathered the reins. "I'll find her, Bron, I promise."
Elboron nodded, held onto the horse's bridle for a moment. "You're to send updates when you can through the local governor's offices." Eomund gave a short nod in affirmation, started to turn the horse away. Elboron caught at his stirrup and he looked down.
"Good luck, E'mun." Elboron reached up, clasped his brother's hand, and Eomund gripped it hard in return.
"Thank you. I'll bring her back. If -" Eomund looked down at their joined hands and continued awkwardly. "If you find out anything about Father, try to let me know." Elboron gave him a small, sad smile and released his brother's hand, then stood watching as Eomund rode away.
From his private chamber window Aragorn watched them part and the horse and rider begin to make their way down through the circles of the city. Arwen came to stand beside him, slid her arms around his waist as he rested his head back against her shoulder and sighed heavily.
"Was it difficult?" she asked softly.
"One of the hardest things I've ever done," he said. "I hope it is the right thing."
"He has to grow up," she said. "It's time he learned that words and actions can be weapons, too, and leave even worse wounds than swords or arrows."
Aragorn looked at her in surprise. "You are suddenly full of wisdom."
Arwen frowned, watched the figure on horseback ride through the Sixth Gate. "Faramir is a good, kind, decent man," she said crossly, and Aragorn was taken aback at the anger in her usual gentle voice. "He does not deserve to suffer as he has, nor as he is now, nor to have his own son treat him so."
"Eomund does not realize how easy it is to hurt the ones who love us most," he said in a placating voice. "He is young."
"Not so young," she argued. "When you were twenty-three you shouldered a man's responsibilities, as did his father."
"Times were different." He looked at his wife again, saw her dubious look and gave her a slight smile. "Well, perhaps not."
"Times are always 'different'", Arwen said brusquely, arching her eyebrow as if to remind her husband she knew far more than he about 'time'. "There is never the right time for disrespect and arrogance and deliberately hurting someone who loves you."
They stood together at the window for a moment. "He's going to Dol Amroth?" Arwen asked. Aragorn shrugged. "That's where the ticket agent said she went." He pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. "I hope he finds her. No one else has and I cannot imagine where she has gone." Arwen reached up to rub her hands along his arms. "You look tired," she said softly, and she studied him closely, saw the creased lines around his eyes. "You looked for her in the palantir, didn't you?" Aragorn gave a slight nod.
"Just before I met with him. I thought if I could at least have an idea of where he should go…"
"And did you see anything?" Arwen knew he had not, he would have told her immediately if he had. He sighed and shook his head. "Nothing. Nothing that makes any sense to me." He looked worried. "I promised Faramir we would find her."
Arwen hugged him to her and pointed her chin towards Eomund's departing figure. "He will. He's got all of Faramir AND Eowyn's stubbornness combined."
Aragorn grimaced. "Yes, he does. But it's mixed up with Denethor's pride and the natural selfishness of all Men."
"Then you are doing him a service by sifting them out," she said. "Refining him."
Her husband shook his head. "It's a painful process. I don't envy him."
Arwen took his hand and led him away from the window. "Come and eat. You have set the wheel in motion, there is nothing more you can do." They sat down to their breakfast as the brown horse trotted out of the last gate and the sun slid over the horizon to flood the Pelennor with golden light.
To Be Continued.....
Thanks to Princess Faz and Clairon for Beta'ing, and Cressida for always helpful information regarding palantir usage! Also to Raksha and Catherine Maria for keeping me on track!