Chapter III – If Only
"The healers don't know what killed him." I press my palm hard to my forehead, forcing back a headache. "It all happened so fast… They say it might have had something to do with his heart. He'd been pushing himself harder, too hard—ever since I left, they say." I swallow down the guilt with a swill of ale. "It was foolish of him. He was one hundred and twenty years old…"
"I am so sorry, mellon nin," says Eldarion. "If I had known, I would not have tarried on my return from Lossarnach. Why don't you and I take a trip to Rohan to visit your cousin, Elfwine? It may help you to get your mind off of this…"
"I cannot afford to leave Gondor for that long anymore," I reply, a tinge of irritation creeping into my tone at Eldarion's ignorance of my new duties. "I am now the Steward and the rightful Prince of Ithilien, and with that comes heavy responsibility to the King. Elessar has given me leave for this past fortnight, and I am grateful, but I cannot take any more time." Eldarion says nothing, but he releases his breath and sends a puff of smoke from his pipe curling through the air.
"Please understand… It is not as though I do not wish to accompany you to Edoras. But I must return to Emyn Arnen, today. I have a meeting with Legolas and the Elven Council of Ithilien, and…" I falter only briefly, caught by a sudden surge of unexpected emotion. "…I must go through…everything…of his…"
Eldarion tries to meet my eyes, but I look away, loathe for him to see my weakness. "I understand," he murmurs. "Know that I am here for you, if you need anything at all."
"You won't be here for long," I tell him mournfully. "Elessar will send you to Nurn in my place, no doubt. We have not spoken of it, but I can see the conflict behind his eyes, and the Captains whisper, and the Queen grows quiet at supper."
Stunned, Eldarion falls silent again for many minutes. I can see the surprise behind his eyes—surprise, and then acceptance.
"It is to be expected," he says at last. "There is none other to lead the army, save perhaps the Prince of Dol Amroth, and he is away with the delegation in Harad."
"My son will go with you."
"Barahir?"
"Yes."
"He is a strong for a boy his age, and as skilled as his father. He will be an asset to Gondor in Nurn."
"You will watch over him for me, won't you?"
"Of course, mellon nin."
Again, the inevitable silence takes hold of us. I am proud to have my son fighting for Gondor, but I cannot grasp the fact that I will not be returning to my men. They were my family when I was hundreds of leagues from Minas Tirith. They were by my side through fever and wounds. They were always willing to do ten times more than I dared ask of them.
"Are you all right?" Eldarion asks, leaning forward to peer into my face with his searching gaze.
"Yes," I answer him immediately, wiping a hand across my tired eyes. "Yes…and no. Battle has been my life for so long…and I liked it that way. I have grown accustomed to the sight of black mountains and ash-choked sky…" My fingers curl into a tense knot. "I am not suited for such politics and scholarly work. It is terrible, but… A secret corner of my heart wishes that I could surrender the Princedom and the Stewardship, and return to Mordor where I could forget…"
"Forget what, Elboron?"
My gut contracts painfully, and though I gave Elessar my word that I would be careful, surely nothing can be wrong with telling the King's son and my dearest friend…
"Eldarion, I must speak of it to someone." He looks at me curiously, and I lean down to pull the black chest from under my desk where I left it. "Elessar gave this to me the day after my father's funeral. He said he found it in the Anduin and saw my father's initial on it. He said it might contain some of my father's possessions—personal items that might give me some clue about his past. And I looked, but…" Eldarion holds out his hands for the chest, frowning slightly, and I hand it over to him. He flicks open the latch, lifts the lid, and glances down.
"There's nothing here," he observes quietly.
"I should have known before!" I rise from my seat and pace back and forth across the room. "I should have known that my father would have burned anything before he tossed the chest in the Anduin. It just seemed… I don't know. It seemed like a chance, a hope that I might learn something about him. But to expect secrets from an age-old chest was, perhaps, in hindsight, expecting too much." I stop pacing, facing away from Eldarion. "I doubt now that I will ever know my father…"
"So you would rather forget about him?"
"Yes!" I snap, slamming my fist down hard onto the desk. An inkwell jumps and spills all over one of the parchments spread across the surface, and I curse loudly. That was the message from Legolas Greenleaf of Ithilien, giving his condolences—and his sincerest apology for being unable to attend the funeral—and requesting an audience with myself as soon as I am able. I right the bottle and snatch a cloth to clean the mess, but Eldarion catches my arm and stops me.
"Elboron, peace!" I pull away from him and continue to mop up the inky puddle. "Stop, I say! As the lawful Prince of Gondor, I charge thee: Stop!"
I pause, wipe my blackened fingers on the cloth, and throw it onto the floor disgustedly. Eldarion is my closest confidant, and he will one day inherit the throne of Gondor and Arnor, but I despise him when he uses his authority to sway me as a friend.
"What do you want from me?" I demand, taking a step away from him. "I am trying to deal with everything at once, and you are getting in my way!" I hesitate and add as an unkind afterthought, "Your Highness."
"If I am getting in your way, it is only because you are trying to avoid me, my friend." Eldarion levels a look on me that is, in many ways, as intimidating as his father's. "We have known each other since we were both tots. Have you forgotten how well I know you? You are trying to pretend that you have everything under control, but you don't. I will not stand by and watch you feign that you are cool and collected when underneath I can see the roiling confusion you feel."
My face reddens with embarrassment and shame. How can everyone see exactly the thing that I am trying to hide from them? Am I so weak now that I cannot conceal my own thoughts? Are my feelings so openly read, as if my heart were a book?
"I will speak with my father," Eldarion continues, softer. "He will give you leave from duty for another week at the least. You will return to Emyn Arnen, but you will not meet with the Elven Council. You will do nothing but deal with your emotions until you find some way to reconcile yourself with your father's memory."
"My office as Steward is highly essential to the peaceful governing of Gondor," I tell him stiffly. "My position in the Councils of Ithilien and Minas Tirith is not easily neglected. Elessar and the other lords rely on the Steward's presence. The Steward is the odd number, so there will never be a tied vote."
"You will not be neglecting your duties. You will be taking care of something more important." The pity in his eyes is nearly enough to choke me. "I will sit on my father's council as the odd number until you are able to return to your responsibilities. Elboron, you should not be ashamed to need time to reflect after the death of a loved one. This is what friends are for."
It is not the death of a loved one that requires my reflection, I long to say. It is the death of one whom I should have loved but did not. I cannot get the image out of my head of my father's panicked eyes…the desperate need for my forgiveness. It was not his fault! screams my heart. Not his, but mine!
"And Elboron, I think you should tell my father that you found nothing in the chest. He would want to know," Eldarion advises me.
"I could not bear to see his disappointment." I shake my head wearily. "He seemed so hopeful when he gave it to me."
I wonder now how long Elessar has held that hope, or even if I simply imagined it. Perhaps he knew that the chest was empty. Could there have been a secret lesson behind the presentation?
Yet there was sincerity in his eyes, also—the sincerity in asking me to guard my father's secrets as he had for so long. If only more secrets had been found…
If only…
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
At the crest of the wooded hillock, Eryndil brings us to a halt. Laurelindë and I rein in our proud horses beside him and look down at the city of stone that lies nestled in the dell between two green knolls. Each hill is crowned with a ring of trees. It is the city Imeryn—the dwelling place of the Steward of Gondor, Lord of Emyn Arnen, and Prince of Ithilien.
"Welcome home, my Prince," says Eryndil softly.
I gaze upon my city and cannot remember the last time I called it my home. It must have been in the distant past, long before my marriage and Barahir's birth. Thinking of my son reminds me painfully of his silent farewell when Laurelindë and I departed from Minas Tirith. I kissed him on his forehead and blessed him, but he spoke not a word. Was that to be the last time I saw him before he was sent to war? Was it to be the last time I ever saw him? Death seems so close a thing to me now that I cannot seem to escape it.
We ride down into the dell, and the gates of Imeryn are thrown wide to the chorusing trumpets that herald the arrival of the Prince and Princess of Ithilien. Children scatter flowers in front of my path before skipping back to their parents, blushing with self-accomplishment as only innocent babes can. I watch each mother smile down upon her child's sweet expression and each father swing his son or daughter up into his loving arms so the child can see the procession better.
Was there such a moment from my childhood that I could not now recall? Were there moments of tenderness between my father and I, or was there always such animosity? Was I once a young boy startled as my father swept me up into his strong arms?
There is a hesitance, either real or imagined, in the eyes of my people—a reluctance to accept me as their new Steward, Lord, and Prince because of the attachment that grew from seventy years of my father's lordship. There is an entire generation here that has never known a Steward other than my father. These people have not seen me in over forty years, for until recently I have not been to this place since childhood.
Yet they cheer, and they laugh, and they sing. Eryndil leads the White Company proudly forward, and Laurelindë and I follow behind the pure white standard of the House of the Stewards. I acknowledge the crowd politely but can muster little more than a few half-hearted waves of my hand. I would rather have faced a large band of starving Variags than the stretch of paved street between me and the great domed bastion where Laurelindë and I will live.
One young man steps forward in front of my guard, and Eryndil raises his hand to stop us. The man falls to one knee before my horse, places both hands over his breast, and turns his face up to me.
"Ernil," he says, drawing his sword and raising it up to me. "I desire to swear fealty to thee. Please, accept me as one of thy noble guardians."
My eyes flicker first to Laurelindë's smiling face, then to Eryndil's impassive one, and finally back to the young man kneeling before me. I can feel the eyes of hundreds of people fixed solely on me, and I wonder what my father would have done in this situation. Is that what they are expecting of me? To do as my father would have?
"What is your name?" I ask the young man, suppressing the fear within me that I will not be accepted by my people.
"Elfin, son of Elemir, " he answers me, hope shining in his eyes.
I dismount and take his sword in my hands. He places his hand on the hilt. "Elfin son of Elemir, speak after me."
As I speak the words of the ancient vow, the young man repeats: "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord, Prince, and Steward of this land, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world shall end. So say I, Elfin son of Elemir of Ithilien of the men of Gondor."
In reply, I say my own part: "And this do I hear, Elboron son of Faramir, Lord of Emyn Arnen, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance." I hand his sword back to him. "Rise, Elfin son of Elemir, and join the White Company of Emyn Arnen."
The watching crowd bursts into raucous applause and outcries, and I can see the approval on Eryndil's face. I mount my horse, and we continue on the march down the streets to my new home, this time with Elfin walking at my side.
"Well done," whispers Laurelindë softly.
I say nothing in reply. I did only as my heart directed, and I believe that my father would have done the same.
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
The castle of Imeryn seems empty now and cold; for the attendants are silent, and the healers avoid me. It is as if the spirit of this place has been drained with the passing of my father, as if the brightness of his home died with him. I never before realized just how much of his being my father gave to his job and his home. I was blind—I could only see the man I thought had been denying me, when really it was I who denied him.
The servants bustle about their duties, rearranging the furniture in my father's room to suit my tastes, carefully stashing all of his formal ceremonial robes in a corner of my closet, and sorting through neat piles of old letters my father exchanged with various nobles. As I watch it, I can almost feel the presence of my father dissipating with each slight change. There is going to be nothing left of him when Laurelindë and I move into these quarters.
"My Lord Elboron." I turn towards the door as another servant enters, this one clutching a small, dusty, leather-bound book in his hands. "My Lord, you asked us to clean out the attics. This was found beside the upstairs fireplace, along with a stack of old scrolls, covered in soot but mostly unharmed except by dust."
"Old correspondences, surely," I say dismissively, and I sigh. I could read through all of his notes, searching for some morsel of knowledge to glean from them, but I haven't the time or the energy, and I doubt that I would find anything. My father seems to have been exceptionally careful with any mementos that revealed his true past "I have no use for them. I told your overseer to dispose of all such things."
"We were about to, Prince, but then…I looked inside, and…" The servant hesitates uncertainly, then holds the old book out to me. I take it from him and peruse the first few lines.
All of my blood seems to rush away from my head, and I reel dizzily on my feet, gasping in disbelief. The servant steps quickly forward to help guide me into a seat, where I lay back weakly and grasp the book with shaking hands, my heartbeat quickening.
"There is more, you said?" I ask breathlessly. "There are scrolls?"
"Yes, Prince Elboron."
"Bring them to me, immediately." The servant turns and leaves me with a bow. Trembling, I flip open the cover once more and scan the page. Tears trickle down my cheek, and for once I do not try to stop them. The workers give me strange glances from the corners of their eyes and whisper amongst themselves. Unable to contain my ecstasy and joy, I read the first lines again.
26 Girithron, T.A. 3000
I am Faramir, son of Denethor, and stories have been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Mithrandir, my faithful mentor, has taught me the art of the Elvish language and given to me as many books as I can devour. When last we spoke, he said this to me: "Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life." It is with this purpose in mind that I now compose a story of my own—my story.
mellon nin
(my friend)
Ernil
(Prince)
Girithron
(December)