"So what was the cause of the quarrel?" Boromir was sharpening a sword as they spoke; in a steady pattern, he brushed the whetstone along the edge of the blade. They had camped in a thicket near the river, and tree frogs filled the night with shrill love songs.
"The need for more men in Ithilien. Boromir, too much of the east and south goes unwatched." Faramir lay huddled on his side, with his face nearly hidden under a pile of blankets. His fever was now mingled with fits of shivering. "We could waylay their soldiers on the eastern highway, destroy their wagons and supplies. Yet since Ithilien is lost, Father says it is vain to send more men. We must defend the river instead." Faramir paused then spoke very slowly. "I do not doubt his judgment, yet dare we stand idle while our Enemy gathers his hosts?"
Boromir shook his head with a weary sigh. "The old debate." Whether to harry the foe in Ithilien or husband their strength to defend the border. How best to spend the waning might of Gondor?
When Faramir spoke again, the sound was half-muffled by the blankets. "The quarrel was my doing, for Father seemed…" He searched for the right word. "Overweary, and I pressed him when I should have stayed silent. He rose from his chair and shouted, shouted that I should go practice my bow and leave matters of strategy to proven soldiers." He drew the covers more closely over his head. "Then I turned on my heel and left without a word."
"Hmm. Not the best way to soothe our father's temper." Boromir glanced up, the whetstone held motionless above the edge of the blade. He had heard of this falling-out between father and son. It was like watching the lord steward argue with himself, the captain of the Tower Guard had said.
"I should have gone back to beg his forgiveness that night, but I was too angry." Faramir's voice fell to a hoarse whisper. "And now it may not be my fate to see our home again; I grow weaker with every league of this journey. Will you tell Father that I would take back my hasty words? In truth, I am sorry to have caused him such grief in the end."
"You may tell him yourself, Faramir, tomorrow when we reach Minas Tirith," Boromir said. Even more than the fever, his brother's low spirits filled him with unease.
"Do you promise you will tell him?" Faramir shook with a sudden chill.
"If it will set your mind at ease, I swear it. But it is a promise I will not need to keep." Boromir pushed back the covers and put a hand on Faramir's brow; his skin felt burning hot. He spread another blanket over him. Then Boromir returned to his work on the sword, the hushed rasp of the whetstone joining the song of the tree frogs.
"I am sorry, my lord. I would give you a stronger dose, but our store of brandy must last another day. I will try to work swiftly." After giving Faramir a leather strap to bite down on, Falborn drew his healer's knives from the pack where they had been hidden. To Boromir and Haldan, he said, "Try to keep him still; his strength may well surprise you."
When the ranger had finished scraping and washing the wound, Faramir was dimly aware of hands shifting him and wrapping bandages around his injured shoulder. Every sound was muffled by pain. He closed his eyes to shut out the confused blur of dark and light, and for a time, he lay very still. When the pain had lessened, he ventured to open his eyes again.
Though his face was drawn with worry, Boromir smiled. "You scholars are made of stern stuff; you endured that with hardly a murmur."
Faramir replied in a hoarse whisper, "Painless compared to the nominative case of Quenya." The other man gave a short laugh; the study of the high-elven tongue, with its endless forms of inflection, was no easy task.
Carefully, Faramir turned his head to look around the thicket. The rangers had bundled Hirluin in a warm cloak and sat him against a tree. Though he was still very pale from the loss of blood, food and rest were restoring his strength. Falborn brought the young ranger a drink of brandy to help him sleep. Hirluin said quietly, "Give it to Lord Faramir, sir; I no longer need it."
Never could I be given greater honor, Faramir thought, than the loyalty of my men. Yet he felt ashamed-for he had poorly repaid this gift, rewarding their devotion with torment and death. He had led them to ruin.
"Do as you are told," Faramir ordered. "You will not recover from your hurts without rest."
"Yes, sir," Hirluin murmured then swallowed the dose. Unused to such strong drink, he choked as the harsh brandy stung his throat. With a slight smile, Boromir handed him a cup of water. Then it was Faramir's turn, and Boromir and the ranger dosed him with more brandy and a draft of willow bark.
Exhausted by pain, he slid under the black surface of sleep without leaving a ripple. He slept unawares as the soldiers, standing watch, talked in low voices, and the branches burned down to coals. Nor did he stir when a frog splashed in the rushes at the river's edge, but still he slept a black sleep. Then, in the dead of night, he floated slowly toward waking, until he was caught and tangled in the net of a dream.
The chessboard, with its pieces of rosewood and ivory, still sat atop the cupboard, safe from the grasp of small hands. Faramir stood in the doorway, unwilling to enter without being asked, though he had been a guest in this house and had often played chess on that board.
The long table of dark wood had been rubbed with beeswax until it shone. A narrow linen cloth, embroidered with red flowers, ran down the middle. A large pewter plate had been set at either end, with two smaller plates ranged one on each side. Flowers spilled over the side of an earthenware pitcher - bloodbright poppies and dappled foxgloves and feathery stalks of grey-green wormwood. How can there be foxgloves? Faramir wondered uneasily. It is too early; they bloom in midsummer.
In a high-backed chair, the woman sat and stared at the flowers, her embroidery forgotten on her lap. She was plain rather than fair, and her brown hair was hidden under the simple linen coif of a housewife.
Children's high, thin voices drifted from the courtyard.
Captain on a black horse
climbs the hill of stone
Soldier on a grey horse
gallops to his home
Light footfalls skipped in time with the chanted words; the window was open, and golden motes of dust lingered in the sunlight. The woman turned her head slowly to look at him. Her voice was clear and low, and terrible in its calmness. "How did my husband die, Faramir?"
The poppies seemed unbearably bright against the cool, white walls; they throbbed and swayed in the stillness. He was trapped; for he could neither answer nor run. A drop of sweat slid down the side of his neck. He gasped for air, each breath caught short by the pain across his chest. Though he would sooner have died than speak, he was smothered by the weight of unsaid words.
The children in the courtyard began the verse again.
Captain on a black horse
climbs the hill of stone…
In a tangle of red silk, the embroidery slid to the floor; the woman rose with an easy grace and took a step toward him. "How did my husband die, Faramir?" she asked again.
"Faramir!" He started awake when he heard his brother's voice. "Faramir, wake up! It is just an evil dream!" Boromir leaned over him; the fire had burned down, and his face was a pale blur against the darkness
He nodded but could not speak. His breast rose quickly with each shallow breath.
"It is just an evil dream," Boromir said again, this time more quietly. Even after Faramir's breathing had slowed and his eyelids had drifted downward, his brother sat by his side, wakeful and silent.
Built during the full pride of Gondor, the pier was hewn from the same white stone as the walls of the City. Its great pillars rose from the bed of the river, five fathoms below. Green water eddied slowly against its sides, bubbles spinning in tiny whirlpools while glassy-eyed fish twisted and glided deep below.
A stone road, lined with dark laurel trees, ran westward from the Harlond for more than a league until it reached the gates of Minas Tirith. It was a long walk to the river landings, yet a great crowd had followed the steward and his escort. Both sons of Denethor were well loved, and the people wished to show Lord Faramir one last honor, to walk behind his bier as it was carried back to the City.
The crowd waited at the water's edge. Soldiers and craftsmen spoke in hushed voices. Round-eyed children tightly clasped their mothers' hands. The women's heads were covered by dark veils, though here and there a maiden's shining hair and bright ribbons peeped out.
Somber in black and silver, an honor guard stood ready to escort Lord Faramir's body to Minas Tirith. Though it was midday, four of them bore torches to hold aloft at each corner of the bier; the flames sputtered palely in the wind. Two sable horses, their coats gleaming in the sun, bore an empty litter between them; it swayed slightly as they shifted from one hoof to another. The long wait in the midst of the crowd had left the animals restless and ill at ease. The litter was draped in black velvet embroidered with silver stars.
A healer walked over and talked quietly to the horses, scratching them under their bridles. His pack of herbs and linen was slung over his shoulder. The Houses had sent several healers to see to any wounded.
Behind the guard of honor, Lord Brandir waited in silence with a small company of soldiers. He had been charged with different orders than the honor guard for the dead. Different yet scarcely less grim.
Alone at the end of the pier, the Lord Denethor did not move nor even seem to breathe. His cloak streamed out in the wind, and the heavy robe of state swung about his feet, yet the steward seemed to hold them down like a weight of stone. His bodyguards and the captains, waiting several paces behind him, could not see that his hands were clenched until they were bloodless, finger bones outlined under the white skin. Nor could they see the eagerness that was mingled with dread in his eyes.
The crowd murmured uneasily when the white sails were sighted. Indeed, tales were told of the strange foresight of their lord. Two boats skimmed past the old watch tower; their crews furled the sails and, slowing, put out oars as they neared the landing.
Shading his eyes with one hand, Denethor squinted across the glittering water. Boromir's tall figure stood in the bow, his arms waving frantically; a clear call of "Father!" drifted downwind. The crowd hailed the heir with shouts of "Boromir! Lord Boromir!" Dropping to one knee, Boromir leaned over a bundle on the deck. He got his arms underneath and around it, then he carefully raised his burden until Denethor could see it. A man with sharp features and matted dark hair, closely wrapped in a blanket, was propped against Boromir's shoulder. Boromir spoke to him, and the man tried to look toward the pier; he was so weak that he could scarcely lift his head.
Glancing down at the swirling green water, Denethor felt a surge of vertigo. It seemed to him that he stood too near to the edge. One of the captains caught his arm as he sank to his knees. Wild cheers and cries of "Faramir!" rolled out across the water.
The pier rose a dozen feet above the river so a wooden ladder was built into its side. Even before the boat was moored, Boromir had caught the lowest rung and scaled to the top. He ran the few short steps to his father, then seeing his face, he dropped to one knee and lowered his gaze.
During the ride from Minas Tirith, Denethor had planned his words of reproach. It was madness to hazard Ithilien with that small number of men. Did you not stop to think? And if you had died? Leaving your people without a defender, your father bereft of an heir? Your life is not your own to spend. But now…His hands shook as he reached out and laid them on his son's bowed head. "Get up, you fool," he snapped even as he blinked away tears. "We will speak of this later."
Boromir rose to his feet and embraced his father, nearly knocking him over. Despite his best efforts, Denethor was easily disarmed by this son with his stubborn yet openhearted ways. When he had been the steward's heir, he had earned much respect but little love; his eldest son was everything that he had not been.
Denethor strode to the edge of the pier, shouting back to his escort, "Fetch a healer!" He shrugged off his cloak and the heavy black robe; underneath, he was clothed for travel in a plain tunic, riding boots, and leggings. Ignoring the protests of his guards, he caught the side rails of the ladder and quickly slid down to the boat. The crowd cheered wildly; he glanced up and saw Boromir's stunned face.
The boat swayed as the cavalrymen scrambled to their feet. Taking care not to trip on the scattered heaps of gear, Denethor made his way to the bow. A ranger sat by Faramir, bathing his face with water; when he saw the lord steward, he rose to leave. With a curt gesture, Denethor bid him stay.
"Faramir," the steward said quietly, more to himself than to his son. He still felt dazed to find him alive. He gently laid a hand on his head; feeling the sweat and heat of fever, he frowned.
Watching him, Faramir whispered, "I am sorry, Father. I am sorry about everything. All I do has gone amiss." Weary and confused, he fought back tears. He could not have said what grieved him—whether it was the horror of captivity or the deaths of his own men or that others had died to save him.
"You are not to blame; it was not your doing," Denethor told him, though he could only guess why his son would ask for pardon. He saw the blisters and rope burns that circled Faramir's wrists. What had his captors done to him? Had he been put to questioning or tormented for sport? Denethor's heart grew heavy with dread.
Setting his pack on the deck, the healer knelt beside Faramir and took his wrist to feel his pulse. Denethor knew this man; though he served as the apothecary for the Houses of Healing, he was not unskilled in other leechcraft.
"You were ever our best student, Lord Faramir, yet I fear that perforce you must stay with us again." The healer chatted pleasantly, yet Denethor saw that his eyes narrowed as he examined his charge. He laid a hand on Faramir's brow and then pressed his fingers against the side of his throat. "Does that hurt, my lord? A little?" He asked the ranger who had tended to Faramir a few questions, nodding thoughtfully at the answers. They loosened Faramir's shirt at the neck and drew it back from the injured shoulder. When the healer had removed the bandages and dressing, Denethor nearly retched at the cloying stench of decay.
Faramir endured the probing of the wound without a sound, but when the healer started to lift the front of the shirt, he murmured in protest and pushed away his hands. Denethor sometimes forgot that his serious and scholarly son was still very young. As sick as he was, he still blushed at being unclothed in this open boat. Denethor reassured him, "Master Arador will soon be done."
After feeling for swollen glands under the arms and in the groin, the healer spread a blanket over his charge. "You are by no means well, but I have seen worse," he told Faramir. With a steady hand, he measured out a dose from a small glass bottle.
"What is this?" Faramir whispered as his father held up his head so he could drink.
"Tincture of poppies, to dull the pain. Else it will be a long ride back to Minas Tirith," the healer said as he rose to leave. "Lord Denethor, I will send for a litter."
After telling his son that he would soon return, Denethor followed him. When they had reached the ladder, the healer said in a low voice, "My lord, the morbid flesh must be removed, either cut away or burned with hot iron. That ranger was wise not to try such surgery in the field. Yet now it must be done without delay, as soon as we return to Minas Tirith."
"Is he likely to die?"
"He is young and otherwise healthy; that weighs heavily in his favor."
"Then do what is needed." They both knew that the healer had left his question unanswered.
Before the wounded could be hoisted out, the boat had to be cleared of passengers and cargo. Sitting cross-legged on the deck, the steward took Faramir's hand in his own, as if he were comforting a sick or frightened child. It seemed strange to him, after so many years. The wind rose from the south, and the boat rocked very slightly at its moorings.
Already, his son's eyes were clouded by the dose of poppies mixed with strong wine, and when he spoke, the words were slurred. "I feel so very strange, like I am floating in the sea. So warm and so peaceful, I do not ever want to move. I am glad that you are here, Father…all will be well, I do not doubt it…You are such a good and kind father. We will never quarrel, not ever again…" His voice trailed off.
"And you are a good son," Denethor said as the boat swayed gently back and forth.
The wooden frame that was used to hoist cargo had been put to work to unload the wounded. Well-practiced at this task, Eldahil shouted orders as the litter bearing Faramir was raised and lowered onto the pier.
When they were done, Faramir smiled up at his kinsman. "In truth, you are not as shiftless as you seem."
"Well, thank you. I am glad to hear it," Eldahil replied kindly. His young cousin had the dazed and happy look that came from tincture of poppies. He wondered if Faramir, ever the most reserved of men, would remember any of this later.
Boromir, Haldan, and two soldiers took up the corners of the litter. The old captain had to use his left hand; his other arm was still wrapped in bandages. Slowly, they carried Faramir through the crowd, with Denethor and the healer following behind them. Spring flowers, sweet violets and pansies, were thrown as they passed. The steward gazed at his sons as he walked; he scarcely seemed to notice the cheering people.
Faramir's weak but blissful voice drifted from the litter. "And, Boromir, you are the best and kindest brother…You came to get me, just like in Father's story. Remember when Beleg saved Turin from those orcs?… Except Beleg was slain…" Faramir paused and frowned. "I never liked that part."
Boromir nodded his head, and several pansies fell from his hair. "It did seem unfair that he died, but the old tales often end in sorrow."
They reached the horse-drawn litter that had been brought for the funeral procession, and Boromir ordered, "Set him down." Then the soldiers carefully lifted the wounded man onto the velvet cushions of the bier. Boromir peered closely at his brother's face. "How do you fare? Just one more journey, and then we are home."
Faramir stared at the sable horses and the black-draped litter then looked at Boromir. "Who died?"
As Denethor approached, Haldan and the two cavalrymen bowed to their lord then stood aside. Tiny purple flowers were tangled in the steward's iron-grey hair and snagged on the woolen cloth of his tunic. His face strained and pale, he walked swiftly to the horse-drawn litter. The edges of the black velvet pall billowed in a sudden gust of wind. As Denethor leaned over him, Faramir smiled. "Father, you are covered with violets." The dark hair had blown forward and was matted against his sweating face. Denethor gently pushed the strands aside then leaned down until his forehead touched his son's brow.
Several maidens edged toward the heir and, blushing, offered him a hastily-made wreath. With a good-natured smile, Boromir set the crown of laurel leaves on his head. Though he was weary and full of cares, how could he deny them this chance to rejoice? Their people rarely had cause to celebrate.
A maiden gently set a garland on Faramir's knees; he gave her a confused but cheerful look. With a flutter of green ribbons, a tall maid threw her arms around Haldan and placed a laurel wreath on his grey hair. With a rare smile, the old captain bowed in thanks. Eldahil watched in disbelief. This is grievously unfair. First my cousins, which is only to be expected, but Captain Haldan? That is not fair. He thought the maid was a pretty sight with her dark shining hair and green ribbons.
After the steward and his sons had departed, Haldan and Eldahil directed the soldiers as they unloaded the rest of the wounded. Though most of the crowd had followed the procession, a great press of people still watched them as they worked.
A litter swayed and bumped against the stone pillars as the cavalrymen hauled on the ropes. "Try not to look down," someone called out. Hirluin gave the crowd a wide-eyed stare then looked down at the murky water. The young ranger's eyes closed and his blond head slumped to one side as he fainted.
After Hirluin was safely lowered onto the pier, Eldahil turned him over to the care of two healers. "Do not take away his dagger," Eldahil warned them. "He is still badly shaken, and it is no wonder."
When his name was called, Eldahil looked up and was surprised to see Lord Brandir, followed by several soldiers. Despite his sore ribs, he managed a respectful bow to his commanding officer. "Good afternoon, my lord," he said in a cheerful voice.
Lord Brandir gave him a look as if he thought Eldahil were mad. "Captain Eldahil, by order of the lord steward, I must place you under arrest, and Captain Haldan as well"
For a moment, Eldahil stared at him in stunned silence. "Arrest? For what cause?"
"For deserting your command and recklessly endangering the life of the heir, and also for the theft of those boats."
"You accuse me of-What! Desertion! I was eating breakfast, and those horse soldiers kidnapped me!" Eldahil glared at his commander. "And they are the ones who stole my company's boats." As the soldiers started toward him, he stepped back warily.
"Watch your feet. The edge of the pier is two paces behind you," Haldan said quietly. He had walked over to investigate at the sound of raised voices.
"Your past record speaks against you, Captain Eldahil," Brandir continued. "This would not be the first time you have forayed to Ithilien without my leave."
"I did not have much choice. They bound my hands and dragged me into the boat."
"That is difficult to believe. Before you left Osgiliath, you sent your own men on that fool's errand to buy eels. A ruse to get them out of the way, or so it seems. And now you return, armed and at liberty. Why should I believe that you went against your will? You do not seem a close-kept prisoner. Indeed, you are clearly in command here."
"Brandir, he speaks the truth," Haldan said. "I ordered the men to seize him by force." The kidnapping had been Boromir's doing, but Haldan did not think it wise to accuse the heir of such a deed.
"The steward, not I, will be the judge of that. Now I must ask you both to lay down your arms."
"Lord Boromir will redeem your good name, Captain," Haldan assured Eldahil. "This is naught but a misunderstanding. In the meantime, we had best surrender to these men."
His face flushed red, Eldahil nodded silently. He bore no sword, but his short bow was slung over his uninjured shoulder. Shrugging free of the strap, he handed the weapon, along with his quiver, to Lord Brandir. As he held it out, he made an elegant if somewhat stiff obeisance.
With a curt nod, Haldan handed over his sword and dagger; reaching down, he drew two stilettos from his boots. Vicious weapons, their three-sided blades could punch through mail or leather like a needle through cloth. Then he pulled three more small knives from his left vambrace and carefully passed them to Brandir. Their plain hilts were weighted so they could be thrown with deadly accuracy.
"Is that all?" Eldahil asked, raising an eyebrow. "You may have overlooked one." This old warhorse is full of surprises. Sharp, deadly surprises. I wonder if he would teach me to throw those knives.
The guards waited in awkward silence. Brandir glanced at Eldahil's sling and Haldan's bandaged arm. "Put the leg irons on them, but do not bind their hands." In a low voice, he said to Haldan, "These orders by the steward's own hand and seal. He seems torn between grief and anger, and I fear it will go ill for you and this heedless captain. Why did you not prevent Lord Boromir from going?"
"He would not hear reason, and I deemed it likely he would best me in a fight," Haldan replied.
My mother and father will not take this well, Eldahil thought mournfully as the soldiers fettered his ankles. Though for once, the disgrace is through no fault of my own. He glanced at the crowd and saw the girl with the green ribbons watching him with sorrowful eyes. He bowed in greeting and gave her what he hoped was a gallant smile. Bursting into tears, she hid her face behind the edge of her veil.
A soldier knelt beside the old captain and began to fasten shackles around his ankles. Watching the gulls above the river, Haldan steadfastly ignored him.
"That is hardly needed," Eldahil told the soldier. "The captain is halt in one leg and could not outrun a chicken."
Turning his grey head, Haldan bestowed on him a withering glare.
Their prisoners secured, the company left for Minas Tirith. Flanked by a pair of guards, Eldahil was marched through the crowd, the chains on his ankles clinking with every step. This is Boromir's doing. My cousin brings me nothing but trouble.
Notes:
For this chapter, my long-suffering husband sharpened a steak knife so that I could hear the sound of a whetstone.
The "fool's errand to buy eels" is from way back in Chapter 2. Boromir told Eldahil to send his men away for a few hours, so Eldahil sent them on several errands.
