Note: Sorry! I tried to get this up before Thanksgiving, but between school and life and the shenanigans at fanfic, it just didn't happen! BUT, finally all seems well, so we are moving on...
Chapter 9 – A Determination:
It was Eowyn's third night at Rivendell before the nightmare came. The other nights, after sitting and talking, they had gone to bed and Faramir had slept soundly, his arms wrapped lovingly around Eowyn. But the third night the dream came once more, bolting him upright in the darkness, frightened, disoriented and gasping for air. He usually woke from the dream in a cold sweat, the images fresh in his mind, but without much noise or thrashing about, only the awful jerk that brought him back to consciousness. That night however, whether because he had let down his guard during the weeks of sleeping alone and cried out, or Eowyn was sleeping lighter because she was in strange place; whatever the reason, when he finally was awake enough to get his bearings she was sitting up in bed beside him, holding him by the shoulder with her hand along his face. "Faramir! Faramir! Wake up!" She shook his shoulder gently. "Wake up."
He stared at her with wide, unseeing eyes for a moment, feeling the sweat on his face, feeling his heart racing in his chest. "It's a dream," she said softly, putting her arms around him and holding him close. "A dream."
Faramir shuddered and leaned against her, let her stroke his back and shoulders gently, murmuring soft words of assurance, then went to swing his legs out of bed, but Eowyn held him back. "Don't go. Please. Stay here with me."
He shook his head. "I – I don't want to disturb you. I'll just go outside." He quickly headed for the balcony and stood there, clutching at the railing and taking deep breaths, feeling sick and dizzy. He jumped when her arms stole around him from behind.
"I won't let you start this again," she said firmly. "I won't let you go off by yourself." Gently she turned him until he was facing her. "I love you, Faramir. I've loved you for over half of my life. Don't close yourself away from me. Let me help you through this."
He could barely see her face in the dark, but he could picture the determined expression he knew so well. "It's just a bad dream," he said, wincing at the shakiness of his voice.
"Tell me."
"It's not important – "
"Tell me." Eowyn's voice wasn't demanding, just persistent, and she laid her head on his chest, hoping he would be more inclined to speak if he didn't have to look at her. His arms went around her in response and they stood quietly on the balcony. Eowyn could hear a nightingale quietly singing in the forest nearby and the far away murmur of the Bruinen in the valley. They stood there and the moments passed and Eowyn vowed to herself she would stand there until morning if it took that long. Finally, Faramir began to speak.
"It always starts the same," he said in a quiet voice. "I'm in the throne room and I have to give a report to Father. I'm young, twenty, twenty-five, and no matter what I say it's not right and he's angry, and I don't know what to do to please him." Eowyn felt a tear slip from her eyes at the fact that Denethor still cast such a long shadow on his son. "He's unhappy with me, for whatever reason," he continued, "and then it changes. Usually it's Boromir, sometimes it's Eomund or Barahir. Sometimes men from the Rangers, men killed long ago. Once it was even my uncle, Imrahil." She felt him tremble, and tightened her grip around him as he went on. "Whoever it is tells me I'm a murderer, a killer, that I'm – " his voice broke and he stopped a moment to collect himself. "Eowyn, you don't want to hear this, it's not – "
Her hand on his lips stopped him and he looked down, barely able to discern her outline in the darkness. "Faramir, my love, tell me. Let me share this burden with you, as we have shared so many others. Together we can overcome this." She wanted him close to her, to listen to and believe her words, so she sat down on one of the balcony chairs and pulled on his hand, urging him to follow, and he surprised her by lowering himself to the floor in front of her so that he sat between her knees where he could wrap his arms around her leg and rest his head against her. Since his mother's death and his father's favoritism of his older brother had denied Faramir affectionate physical touches as a child and young man, he had always treasured Eowyn's caresses, sought them eagerly and she had happily complied. He might hold himself aloof from most people, but his wife knew the hunger in him for a loving touch was never quite quenched, and now, understanding what he was seeking, she circled one arm around him and began to stroke his dark hair with the other.
Faramir let his head rest against her for a moment and exalted in the contact, letting the touch of her hand slowly loosen his taut muscles before he took a deep breath and went on. "Whoever it is, they say I'm a murderer, I'm responsible, it's my fault."
"What is your fault?" she asked and felt him shake his head in frustration.
"I don't know! I can't understand what they are telling me, only that it's because of some failure of mine, and they hate me and they say I'm just like him."
"Just like him?"
"Father. They say I'm just like Father. No matter who it is in the dream or where I go or how hard I try to get away, they're always there, saying it. Just like him. You're just like him." His voice mimicked those he heard in his dreams and Eowyn shivered at the hatred in the tone. "I can't get away. I try. I run, I look for a horse, but," he shook his head in defeat. "They're always there."
The soft sounds of the night drifted around them as he talked quietly, telling her of the dream, the fear, the terror that he knew in his waking hours was unreal yet still haunted him each night and she felt him shaking against her. He told her how the dream came to him nearly every night in only slightly different form, how it had started in Ithilien not long after the funeral, and how he had, in desperation, begun to avoid sleep in an effort to keep the nightmare at bay, without success, for the words and the images, once set in motion, then were able to disturb his days as well.
Eowyn could only keep her arms tight around him and listen as he spoke of the men haunting him, father, brother, son, and their words of accusation and disappointment as they released him into the clutches of the Anduin each night. "And then the water pulls me down, and I wake up, like this." he finished tonelessly and Eowyn felt him give a little shiver, then another, and she gently moved her hands across him, letting her touch calm him.
She stayed quiet for a while, thinking of the terrible strain he had been living under, the weight of guilt and sorrow he had been carrying and she waited until she felt able to speak without her voice breaking. "It is only a dream, my love," she said at last. "Just a dream caused by everything that has happened." She waited, knowing there was something more, something unsaid.
He shook his head. "I don't know. The only other dreams I've ever had like this, this real, this often, are when I dream of the fall of Numenor and when I dreamed of the One Ring."
Sudden understanding came to her, a revelation and she looked down at him, her face glowing in the dim light of a sliver of moon that had gradually appeared from behind a cloud. "You think this is the same kind of dream as that of the Ring, don't you? A true dream, perhaps foretelling of things yet to come? And that frightens you."
He didn't answer and she knew she had guessed correctly. She shook her head emphatically. "It's not that kind of dream, Faramir."
He gave her an uncertain look. "How do you know?"
"Because." She could see the hunger for reassurance in his eyes and she leaned down and kissed his cheek softly. "Because the other dreams are different. Numenor truly happened, while the other was full of things you had never heard of, yes? Imladris, Halflings, tokens. It spoke of places and deeds you knew nothing about. None of it meant anything to you. It was truly a dream to guide you, to speak to you." She brushed her lips across his head. "This dream is everything you know, your father, your brother, your sons. It is made up of the fears, disappointments and tragedies of your life, the worst moments, that you would give anything to change and cannot." Her hand moved through his hair, gently stroking, gently brushing it back and letting it fall again. "It is sprung from sadness and sorrow, and that is all, Faramir."
He sighed and she could feel him settle against her a bit and she kept moving her hand tenderly through his hair, murmuring soft words. "It will pass, my love. Fear not. It is only a dream, nothing more, and it will pass. The only power it has is what you give it."
"How do you know?" he asked again, without looking up, and Eowyn hugged him again and could hear the slightest bit of hope in his voice.
"Because you have told me, now. And we will talk about it, and bad dreams lose their power when you talk about them." It was what she had always told her children and the fact that it had calmed childish nightmares made it no less true for her husband's in her mind. She leaned down and kissed him again, knew he had given her a great gift by telling her, trusting her with this horror that wore at him constantly. "I wish I would have known before."
"I didn't want to tell you," he said, his voice softly distant. "I didn't want you to worry."
She smiled to herself. He would not tell her the dreams to spare her worry, apparently not realizing she would worry about her husband not sleeping or wandering around the house at all hours of the night. How she wished now she had pushed open the library door that night when she first heard him weeping and confronted him. Perhaps they would have been spared all these last months had brought. But she immediately realized it would not have helped, it would have been as she had imagined, Faramir defensive and horrified at her intrusion, more harsh words, more wounds. No, things must move at their own pace, and he had had to come to her in his own time. In her arms Faramir settled against her and sighed.
"I don't want to become my father, Eowyn." He spoke quietly, and she hugged him, stroked his hair once again.
"You won't. You aren't." She reassured him. She knew she spoke the truth, knew he had almost destroyed himself these last few months as he fought despair and sadness, refusing to give in until it overwhelmed him.
"But Bara is dead," he said, his voice hushed. "Perhaps Eomund was right. If I had allowed him to leave the Army..."
Eowyn held him and shook her head. "No, Faramir. Bara's death had nothing to do with being in the Army, you know that. It was an accident, a stupid, useless, meaningless accident that was no one's fault." She kept up her gentle stroking. "Like young women dying in childbirth. Like that man in Eomer's court who choked to death on a piece of meat. Stupid, stupid things that just happen in life, and no one is to blame." Faramir felt her hands on him, smoothing away the fear and worries, silencing the accusations that filled his mind constantly, and he let himself relax into her embrace.
"You are not your father, my love," she said firmly. "You did not send your son out knowing he would probably die. You have not injured your children with harsh words and unattainable expectations. You have not lavished your love on one and withheld it from another. You are not Denethor of Gondor." She held him close. "You know who you are," she said softly. "And so do I. Trust in that person."
"Aragorn said that," he murmured. "The day I left, that I knew who I was, and he did, too."
"He is a wise man," Eowyn said, her hand brushed back his hair from his face where it lay against her and she caressed him lovingly, her fingers moving slowly from his temple to his jaw and back again. "He loves you, Faramir, as do I, and we know the man you are, and you are not your father." Her voice was low and she kept up her gentle touch, tracing her fingers along his face. "You are a good man, noble, wise, caring, and I love you." He nestled against her and they stayed that way for a long time, motionless except for the slow, even motion of her hand. She could feel him growing heavier, his weight pressing against her, and knew he was drifting back to sleep and she roused him gently, "Faramir, come to bed," and he rose and followed her sleepily and lay down beside her, gathering her into his arms so that her back was against his chest, and they fell asleep together.
He woke her in the dim half-light before dawn with soft, sweet kisses and she smiled and turned to face him and held him in her arms as he pressed his body close to hers. They had not made love since the day Barahir had died, and the frenzied, frantic coupling they had pursued that night had been more a desperate search for something to blot out the pain and try to drown the sorrow than an act of love. Then, in the days afterward, grief and the nightmares and the black weight of depression had first driven and then kept them apart. But as the sun began its climb over the horizon it turned the sky to gold and the birds awoke and warbled their small songs of joy, and Faramir and Eowyn loved each other slowly and tenderly, and another piece of Faramir's heart was healed.
Eowyn and Celeborn sat together on the long porch of the Last Homely House, watching the odd twosome walking along the stone bridge and Celeborn glanced over at her.
"I thought perhaps once you arrived he might spend less time with Pippin," he said.
"Oh no, I want him to talk to him." Eowyn looked horrified at the idea that her presence might keep Faramir and Pippin apart. "As much as he wants," she said. "Somehow Pippin can get him to speak of things that he will not with any other person, the dark places that he always tries to keep hidden."
Celeborn smiled and gave her an approving nod. "Faramir needs to be unneeded," he said cryptically, his smile widening at her puzzled frown. "His entire life has been one of duty. Duties he has often welcomed," he hastened to say, seeing Eowyn's frown deepen. "He loves you, and your children, and has no greater joy than being a husband and a father, while serving Gondor is not only what he was bred for but what he excels at and enjoys. But," The Elf Lord set his cup on the table and crossed his hands before him. "Duties, no matter how much you love and enjoy them, wear on a person." He motioned toward Faramir and Pippin, now walking back toward the house. "Pippin demands nothing of Faramir. He simply talks and listens."
"I tried to get him to talk, you don't know how hard I tried!"
Celeborn shook his head and retrieved his cup of tea. "But you had suffered the same loss as he. He did not want to add to your grief with his."
"It would not have added!"
Celeborn gave Eowyn a sympathetic smile, had seen soon after her arrival the depth of her love for Faramir. "I know that. And I think he knows it now, Eowyn. But when we are grief-stricken, we often do not think clearly or logically." He sipped his tea and watched the Man and the hobbit stop to examine a patch of dark orange flowers in the grass. "If you could have seen when Pippin arrived," the Elf smiled at the memory and he looked at Eowyn. "He arrived talking and just seemed to carry Faramir along with him." His face grew thoughtful. "Pippin needed nothing from Faramir. In fact, he was giving Faramir something, demands that were easily met; come here, eat this, lie down. Nothing to think about or decide. Nothing to be responsible for."
Eowyn sipped her own tea and looked pensively at the tablecloth. "But when I tried that at home, he was angry with me." Celeborn could hear the bewilderment in her voice and he tried to explain.
"You are his wife. You love him and he loves you. But this was a time when he needed someone who loved him in a different way, someone whose love was not important to him." He could see Eowyn thought he was being quite harsh and he sighed, wishing he were better at expressing what he knew to be true. "I do not mean he does not love Pippin, he does, as Pippin loves him. But they have a different relationship than you do with him, and you should be thankful for it. It was not anything I or you or Aragorn did to reach him in that dark place. Pippin drew him out."
"I know," said Eowyn quietly, a sob catching in her throat. "And I am thankful, Celeborn. I can see the change, and I know now he will be all right." She raised teary eyes to the Elf. "I was not sure a few months ago."
Celeborn nodded and finished his tea. As he set his cup on the table he looked at Eowyn curiously. "Is he still having the nightmares?"
"How did you know about those?" Her green eyes showed her surprise and the Elf saw she was hesitant to speak of the dreams that disturbed Faramir's sleep so many nights.
His mouth quirked. "He mentioned them once to Pippin weeks ago, but would say nothing more. I wondered if they had stopped yet." He was almost sure they had not. There were still days when Faramir refused to have breakfast with the Elf or Pippin. Sometimes Eowyn joined them, sometimes she did not, but often when she did Celeborn could see the shadow of fatigue on her face and knew she had lost sleep that night.
Eowyn returned her own cup to the table and shook her head. "No, he still has them. Perhaps not quite as often." She gazed at Faramir and Pippin as they resumed their stroll toward the porch. "He never told me about them at home, but here, now, when he wakes up, he tells me." Turning to Celeborn she shuddered. "Always the same thing, awful, horrible, hateful dreams." She closed her eyes and her lips trembled as she thought of the hate-filled visions that troubled her husband's sleep, and she looked at Celeborn hesitantly. "I have told him they will eventually stop…do you think I am right?"
"Yes, I believe so." The Elf had pursed his lips thoughtfully. "Now that you are here, and he is sharing them with you, they will, in time, fade."
"I hope you are right," Eowyn said, smiling as her husband approached the porch. "I will not let him return to Ithilien until they are gone," she said quietly to the Elf as she rose from her chair to greet him. "He must stay until he is free of them."
Faramir and Eowyn walked with Pippin to the stone bridge, holding hands, and stood waiting while he climbed upon the pony's back. They had made their goodbyes at the house and there had been hugs and kisses, but as he prepared to leave them, Pippin suddenly flung himself down from the saddle and ran to embrace them both once again. Eowyn laughed as she bent to put her arms around him, holding him tightly and planting a soft kiss on his small pointed ear. "Thank you, Pippin, for all you have done," she whispered. He reddened with pleasure and embarrassment and grinned as he pulled away from her.
She had thanked him over and over these last few weeks whenever they had a few moments alone. Thanked him for coming to Rivendell and the time spent with Faramir, even as he had protested he had done nothing special, nothing except be a friend, and Eowyn had smiled a bit wistfully and explained that while her husband had numerous acquaintances, he had few friends. She did not know what Elvish wisdom had caused Celeborn to send Legolas to the Shire, and she did not care. Faramir was better, and the Elf Lord had assured her, and she could see for herself, the hobbit had been directly responsible, and she made sure to let him know of her gratitude whenever she could.
Now Pippin drew back and kissed her on the cheek. "It has been so lovely to see you, my lady. You are as beautiful as ever." Eowyn laughed again at his cheekiness and held out a disparaging handful of hair, gazing at the grey strands mixed among the gold.
"You are a liar, Pippin."
"He always speaks true," said Faramir behind her and he smiled down at the hobbit. "And for that I am truly grateful." He knelt down and Pippin loosened his hold on Eowyn to press close to the Man, winding his arms around his neck as Faramir gently hugged him. "Truly grateful, Pippin," he said softly and gave him a squeeze that Pippin returned fervently.
"Oh, I must go," he said sadly, pulling away from Faramir. "I want to go home, but I hate to leave!" He turned and once more mounted the pony, gathered the reins resolutely into his small hands. "I'll write as soon as I get home," he promised. "You write too. Let me know how everyone is! Let me know about the new baby! Send me an invitation to the wedding!" Eowyn frowned and rolled her eyes and he laughed happily. The pony clattered across the bridge and they watched until he was only a tiny shape on the horizon. He disappeared from view at the top of the valley cliff and they turned back toward the house.
"I shall miss him," said Eowyn. "He makes me laugh."
Faramir stared at the empty sky for a moment. "He saved my life, again." Eowyn squeezed his hand and cuddled close, laid her head against his shoulder. They walked along in silence, listening to the sound of the river and she could tell he was thinking and she waited. At last they stopped, along the path in the trees, and Faramir faced her.
"I am like Pippin," he said softly. "I want to go home, but I don't want to leave Rivendell." He looked away. "I am afraid."
"Then wait a little longer," said Eowyn. "Wait until you aren't afraid anymore." Her head was resting on his chest and she looked up at him. "Wait until the nightmares have gone," she suggested, saw him draw back a little and his eyes shift as he considered the suggestion. "Wait until you have gone a month with no bad dreams."
His grey eyes grew distant and she could see him thinking. "I need to get back to Minas Tirith," he said quietly. "I am sure there is so much that needs done, things the King needs taken care of…"
"Faramir." She shook her head. "Aragorn wants you well. That is his most important need. He would not want you going back before you are ready."
"I know. It's not just that. I miss…" He stared at the nearby trees and she knew he was missing the children, wanting to talk to Elboron, see how Sam was faring, meet Estel's beau, and most of all, talk to Eomund, work things out between them. At last he heaved a sigh. "What if it is a long time?"
"Then it is a long time," she replied, leaning against him once more. "I told you, I will do whatever I must to make sure you are well and stay well. If we must stay in Rivendell for a year, I will do it. Because – " she smiled up at him. "I love you, and I don't want to ever see you so sad again." He returned her smile with a slow one of his own and then leaned down to kiss her. They started toward the house again, their arms linked together.
"I do not want you to think I did not speak of things because I did not trust you, or think you would understand." He looked down at their clasped hands and turned hers palm up, grazed his fingers across it. "I did not want to burden you with my problems. But Pippin…" He shrugged, looked up at her with an apologetic and somewhat confused expression. "He is …just Pippin, and he just showed up, and stayed." His eyes were searching her face, hopeful that she understood. "And we would talk, and I would find myself telling him things…"
"My love." Eowyn shook her head. He had told her the same thing several times since her arrival, and she had always answered the same way. "I am glad Pippin came. I am glad you talked to him. And I shall always be indebted to him." She reached up to trail her fingers across his face. "He found you in a place where none of the rest of us could, and helped you find your way out." She stroked his cheek with her fingers and he stopped walking and closed his eyes and covered her hand with his, drawing it to his lips to kiss the palm and fingers gently and Eowyn let her hand rest against his face. "I will never able to thank Pippin enough for helping you find yourself again, my love."
"I was so lost," he whispered. He put his arms around her and pulled her close, rubbing his cheek against hers. "In that dark place and I hurt so much, all I wanted was for it to stop. I didn't care how, if it would only go away." He kissed her softly on the hair and hugged her tighter.
Eowyn twined her fingers through his dark hair and held him against her. "You are found, now, my love. You are nearly through that dark place. Nearly through."
He nodded and they stood quietly on the path, listening to the faint trill of a bird in a nearby tree and the quiet murmur of the river and Faramir kissed her again. "It is so peaceful here." The small noises of the woods rustled around them as they stood there holding each other. At last Faramir buried his face in Eowyn's neck. "I still miss Bara," he whispered in a hushed voice, and Eowyn felt a tremor through her own heart.
"I know," she said softly. "I do, too." And they held each other and although she was grieving, Eowyn was glad to share her grief with her husband rather than have him lost and alone.
Eomund tried to stay out of trouble, and he succeeded. He kept his head down, never once trying to catch the captain's dark eyes. He kept his mouth shut, offering nothing more than a "yes, sir", or "no, sir" whenever he was addressed by an officer of the crew. He did his duties quickly, efficiently, and then volunteered afterward for anything extra. And four weeks passed without him being sent to the mast. His back healed, the ship moved through the water and stopped at the various ports on her circuitous route, and Mal grinned at him, told him he was proud of him, and Eomund was pleased.
They talked, as they worked, and in their bunks at night, and along the deck in their off hours, and Eomund told the old man of his home and his family, and he admitted to both Mal and himself how much he missed them, and one day he realized he knew what he would do. He would go home, as soon as he could, and do as Mal had said. Go to the King, take whatever punishment was given, and then go find his father, and ask for forgiveness. He even invited Mal to come with him, but the old man just laughed. "I've shipped with the captain for fourteen years now. This is a good life for me, I've no need to set eyes on the White City. You go, boy. Go home to your family." And Eomund smiled and agreed and set his mind on reaching the day when the Crescent Moon would dock in Umbar and he would be given his freedom.
They had expected to reach Pelargir again the day before, but a squall that night had blown them off course just enough that they were running behind and then in the evening the wind had died to a bare whisper that moved the ship along so slowly Eomund could have sworn they were moving backward. He had been on his best behavior, knowing that the Captain's eyes were on him, fearing a repeat of his last time in Pelargir, and Eomund was determined not to give it to him. Now he stood along the deck in the dusk and watched as the various goods to be delivered to the city were winched, carried and hauled from below decks or sorted from the jumbled piles tied down tightly on the main deck and made ready for unloading in the morning.
He had checked the ropes, as was his duty, just last night before the storm. Checked them all, the huge ones coiled on the deck to be used by the winch, the smaller, smoother ones that would tighten or loosen the sails and the thick ones that fastened the cargo safely to the deck and kept it from rolling dangerously along the wooden floor of the ship. Eomund had checked them all and found nothing amiss. But sometime during the night, after the rain had ended, a mouse had chewed, nibbled away enough of the fiber to line her miniscule nest. A tiny amount, the merest gnawing away at the cord, but it was enough. Enough that when two crewmen had shoved several of the wooden crates together and wrapped the rope around them, it stretched a bit, unraveling the bitten-off ends of the cord even further, and that was enough that when the winch tightened and lifted the crates from the deck, raising them higher than a man's head so that they could clear the cargo hatch, the rope snapped.
It made a sound like a whip striking, a sharp crack that turned the head of every man in the crew to search for the source and try to escape any danger. Eomund heard it and saw the crates tilt simultaneously, saw the rope snapping through the air, whipping about as if it were a living thing, and then the crates began to fall to the deck. He shouted for the men below to move, get out of the way, and some, most did, but two were caught off guard, and crushed to the deck as the crates fell upon them, the sound echoing across the water and the deck of the ship. After the horrible thunder of tumbling, smashing wood ended there was silence as the crew stood about in shock, until Eomund's voice pierced their fog. "Get them out! Move those things! Hurry!" He shouted at them, and shoved them toward the pile of splintered wood and leaking boxes even as he waded in among them and started heaving the crates out of his way.
The first man they found had been lucky. The boxes had fallen haphazardly and one had landed on its side at just the perfect angle, shielding him from the others, so that he was lifted from the deck with only a broken finger and a bruised head. He laughed shakily as the others pulled him to his feet, his nervous laughter dying in his throat as the second man was reached. This other man had not been as fortunate. The heavy crates had smashed down upon him, crushing him into the deck, breaking bones and flattening his body so that it lay at a frightening, unnatural angle. Blood seeped from a dozen places and he gave a tortured moan when Eomund knelt on the deck and lifted his head into his arms. "Mal! Mal!" He cradled the old man's head against him and the pale blue eyes cracked open.
"Eomund," he whispered, blood dribbling from his mouth. "Didn't move fast enough. Guess I'm getting old. Don't cry, boy." He had seen the tears on Eomund's cheeks.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," said Eomund, his voice strained and rough. "The rope snapped, it's my fault, I should have checked them again. I never thought - it's my fault. I'm sorry."
The aged sailor gave him a weak smile, shook his head slightly and coughed up a mouthful of blood that Eomund gently wiped away. Mal reached up a broken, blood-covered hand and touched the younger man's face. "Not your fault, lad. Things happen. I told you that. Things you never planned on." He stiffened and gave a soft cry as the pain sharpened within him, and raised his eyes to Eomund again. "Promise me, Eomund. Promise me you'll go home."
"I promise." Eomund said softly, and held the old man close against him, as if he could hold the life in him. "I promise." Mal nodded in satisfaction and let his eyes close, took a gasping breath and was still. Eomund clutched the ruined body to him and felt the tears slide from his eyes into the black hair as the rest of the crew stood around him uncertainly, shifting on their feet and looking at each other. They all stepped back as the first mate pushed his way into their midst.
"What happened?" He looked at the scene before him.
"Rope broke," a crewman said timidly, pointing to the empty rope dangling from the winch. "The crates fell."
Bothlan crossed the deck and grabbed the rope, looked over the edges, inspected the rest of the apparatus, then turned back to the crew, still bunched around Eomund where he sat on the deck holding Mal's dead body. "Who inspected the rope?" He glanced around the men. "Whose duty was it?"
"Mine." Eomund loosened his grip and carefully placed Mal's body on the deck and got to his feet. He looked at Bothlan with wet eyes, the depths dark with remorse. "It was my duty." Bothlan looked at him, considering. He knew that Eomund was one of the most skilled men on board, that ropes sometimes snapped regardless of how many times they had been checked, and what had happened was nothing more than a terrible mishap, no one's fault and certainly not deliberate.
"Bothlan!" The Captain's voice came from the upper deck and the huge first mate raised his head to see hard black eyes fixed on Eomund. "Number Seven. You know the punishment," said the Captain in a harsh voice and the first mate nodded, turned to the younger man, whose eyes dropped to the deck as he gave an unconscious shudder and Bothlan knew Eomund, one of the few men on board who could read, had read the Ship's Rules posted at the bottom of the steps that led into the crew's quarters, the rules that set down requirements, expectations and punishments. Knew he had read Rule Number Seven: 'Causing the death of a fellow crewman. – 100 stripes.'
That rule was understood to mean fights, private matters that got out of hand or carefully planned murders, not the kind of tragedy that had happened here. It was written as a deterrent; with every man knowing one hundred stripes was a death sentence and because of its horrible promise, was rarely needed. The first mate had seen the friendship growing between the old man and the younger one, and knew that what had happened had been unintended even if Eomund was already blaming and inwardly punishing himself for Mal's death and he looked again at the Captain. "Sir?" Hoped he might relent this time, might take into account the Gondorian's dramatic turn around and his evident affection for the old sailor and excuse what was clearly an accident. The dark eyes never wavered. "Get on with it." Bothlan nodded and from the corner of his vision saw the Gondorian close his eyes and swallow.
The first mate reached out a huge hand to grasp him but Eomund shook it off and walked voluntarily across the deck and leaned against the main mast, his scarred back exposed, and pressed his face into the wood. He knew he would not leave the ship alive and at that moment, staring behind him at Mal's body as it lay on the blood-stained deck, it seemed of little importance.
Bothlan tied his hands with rope, keeping his own eyes locked on Eomund's as he did so. The rest of the crew gathered silently around them, most of them uneasy at the punishment, recognizing the accident for what it was, and convinced Eomund would not survive. The Captain looked down at them again. "Get to work," he growled, his quiet voice still able to send them scurrying back to their duties. "Clean up the deck. And throw the body overboard." He caught Bothlan's eye, saw the disapproval. "Do it," he said savagely before he turned away. The first mate finished tying the knots and then unexpectedly reached over and gripped Eomund's shoulder, a tiny gesture of regret and sympathy, and the Gondorian looked at him, nodded his understanding. Eomund knew Bothlan could not disobey his Captain, did not expect him to do so. What's more, he felt he deserved this punishment, if for no other reason than he had allowed Mal to die. That there was nothing he could have done was no comfort to him, and as he waited for the first stroke he understood how his father had felt about Barahir, the utter helplessness and yet the guilt and he thought again of his cruel words and he ground his face against the rough wood of the mast and silently begged for his father's forgiveness, knowing he would never make it home to ask for it now. The crew went about their duties without a sound, and Bothlan took the rod from its place above the cabin door, raised it above his head, and began. "One."
To Be Continued…
Again - Thanks to Catherine Maria for the last minute Beta, even if I didn't get it on fanfic then!! And to Clairon for all her encouragement and help. And all you great reviewers - kiss kiss - thank you!