Chapter VI – Ghost Vows

All in the room rise and turn towards the West in reverence. My hand flutters briefly to my heart, and I utter in soft intonations a quiet prayer to the Valar—a prayer for strength. Never have I been a particularly pious man, but it seems proper now to murmur such pleas while we observe the Standing Silence. I am in great need of the Valar's blessing now.

I sink heavily into my seat at the head table and nod ever so slightly to acknowledge the polite good-morrows of the various dignitaries. It isn't long before the servants are bustling in with flourishes and bows, setting piping hot loaves upon the table beside the sunniest butter and the freshest of the apples from the gardens and good cheese and clean white cakes, all spread over the table on platters of silver. With these stuffs come flagons and pewter goblets of ale and shallow dishes of cream for dipping bread. As delectable as it all looks, I have no appetite this morning.

"Good morn, my Lord," says Laurelindë, seating herself with elven grace in the seat beside me. "You did not come to bed last night," she whispers in Sindarin. "Have you had no sleep?"

"I fell asleep for a brief time on top of the tower, but the cold woke me again," I reply likewise in Elvish. "I cannot sleep…" Laurelindë's eyes search me concernedly, but I look away and am grateful when one of my officials approaches me from the other side.

"Ernil," he says, "The Guard has spotted a small company bearing Prince Eldarion's standard approaching Imeryn. He will reach the city in a short while. Will you go to meet him?"

"Is my son with him?" I ask automatically, before I realize that the official cannot possibly have the answer.

"I do not know, my Lord," he answers gently. "Shall I prepare the way for you to greet him at the gate, or would you have me say that you are not well enough to meet with him today?"

"No, no—I am well," I insist, rising from my seat in all eagerness. "I am quite well. I shall meet him at the gate immediately!" The official bows and rushes off, and though Laurelindë begins to stand, I tenderly nudge her back into her seat. "Please," I whisper in Elvish. "Give me time alone with him." She hesitates, caution flickering in her eyes, but gives in and nods. I kiss the top of her head and quite near sprint from the room to catch up to the official.

"Call up the heralds," he is instructing one of my guards. "Have them announce the Lord Elboron's passage to the city gates. Summon his professional handler, and order him to ready my Lord's finest steed—the white stallion perhaps? Well, whichever he sees fit, in any case. Also, tell Captain Eryndil of—"

"No, no, no," I cut him off firmly. "This is to be a private, personal meeting between myself, Prince Eldarion, and one or two of his entourage if I choose." A part of me prays that the entourage includes my son. "No heralds, no horse, and please don't bother Eryndil. He already has enough to fill his plate just keeping me protected, don't you think?" I manage a distracted smile for the official and the guard, then sweep past them quickly into the open courtyard. The courtiers who try to stop me to offer their greetings and well-wishes probably wonder at my rudeness as I ignore them and hurry straight past. I will ask their forgiveness at another time, when my heart isn't thumping wildly in my throat.

Outside the castle, Imeryn is bustling with morning life, the change of the guards, the airing of laundry, the baking of bread—common things that I can almost wish on a morning like this I had time to appreciate. Two of the guards standing at the castle gateway insist on accompanying me through the city, and I allow it although it is just another disruption to the purpose that drives me forward.

Trumpets outside the city herald Eldarion's arrival, and the gates have only just begun to open as my guards and I reach them. If the Valar are indeed willing to listen, now would be the opportune moment for them to grant my prayer for strength. There is no doubt in my mind that Eldarion's stop here is his last before he marches to war in Nurn, bringing my fifteen-year-old son Barahir with him. This is my very last chance to make peace with my son before he is thrust into the cruel, violent reality of battle.

My eyes seek Eldarion first, proud on his horse of silver-grey and bedecked in a regal costume well suited for the heir of the King. Behind him rides his banner, followed by a small group of soldiers selected to act as Eldarion's bodyguard within the city. The first is too old, the second bearded, the third scarred beneath his left eye, the fourth too tall, the fifth too ugly… As each soldier enters through the gates, I desperate search for the one bearing my resemblance—my first and only son.

"Elboron!" cried Eldarion happily, dismounting gracefully from his saddle and moving to embrace me warmly. My return embrace is half-hearted, and still I look over his shoulder for the only soldier who mattered to me. The eighth is too grey-faced, the ninth too arrogant… "The guards outside the gate told me that you wouldn't be coming…"

"Eldarion…" I begin weakly. "Where is my son?"

A very rare expression passes across Eldarion's face—guilt. "I'm sorry, Elboron. I knew you'd want to see him before we head for the battlefront, but…he refused to come with my bodyguard. I am sorry."

The blow dealt by Eldarion's words cuts deeper than any enemy blade has ever done. "He…refused," I repeat, stunned. Eldarion's hand falls on my shoulder, consolingly, but I pull away. "Very well, then," I reply, trying to mask my grief. "I hope then that you will give him my farewell."

Eldarion nods, then turns to look at his guards and mine and shoos them away with a flick of his fingers. They bow, recognizing a dismissal, and continue onward towards my castle to enjoy the comforts of the morning meal. "Come," he whispers, steering me through the crowd that has gathered to behold the Prince of Gondor. "Let us find a place where we can talk as we were wont of old." He guides me out of the city gate through which he just entered and begins to walk along the old, worn path that follows the western wall until it passes into the hills of Emyn Arnen. The children chase after us for a little while, but their parents quickly call them back to their duties. Finally we are left alone in the broad, sweeping expanse of green spring and fresh grass as far as we can see ahead, the great stone wall to our right.

A moist rain has made the air solemn and grey, leaving muddy puddles on our path that reflect the shadows of tall grasses, glistening with dew, that brush at our legs. My heart, too, seems to reflect the rain and the clouds. Barahir refused to accompany Eldarion into the city. There can no longer be any doubt in my mind—my only son, my only child, loathes me with such passion that he could not even bear to see my face one final time before he rides to war. What have I done? I have destroyed his hopes, his dreams, maybe even his ability to love me. I have crippled our relationship irreparably. I have shattered any chance of earning my son's respect and loyalty. If ever I needed proof of my failure as a father, I need it no longer.

"Elboron." I turn my face to look at Eldarion, but my thoughts are still elsewhere. "Elboron, your eyes are glazed over. Pay attention." Hesitantly, I focus on him instead of my private contemplations. Eldarion pauses, then continues softly, "Do you love and trust me as a friend, Elboron?"

"Of course," I answer automatically. "There is no friend I love so much as you, Eldarion."

"And you trust me?"

"Yes, Eldarion, I trust you."

"Then listen carefully to me when I tell you this." His voice is grave and concerned, and suddenly I feel a jolt of alarm. Has something happened to Barahir that he would not tell me about in front of the crowds? "Your people worry for you. The guardsmen told me that you have taken to locking yourself up in your study and reading for long hours, often deep into the middle of the night. You scarcely eat as you should, and you dismiss your healers' concerns as inconsequential. What have you been doing, Elboron? Why do you look so thin and so haunted?"

I laugh, but it is a laugh of self-ridicule and not of mirth. "Haunted? Eldarion, ever have you read me too well. I am haunted, indeed. Yes, I am haunted…" A spatter of raindrops falls from the wall above onto my face, and I shiver. "Eldarion…do you remember the chest that I showed you? The one marked with my father's initial with nothing inside of it?"

"Yes. What of it?"

"I found them, Eldarion." A crooked smile makes its way across my lips. "I found the parchments that should have been in that chest. There were here, in Imeryn castle. I found them."

"That's wonderful!" exclaimed Eldarion, throwing his arm across my shoulders. "My father will want to know immediately!"

I shake my head wearily, and the smile falls away. "No."

Eldarion's surprise is obvious, and he carefully pulls his arm back away. Eyeing me suspiciously, he asks, "Why not? You said that you saw how hopeful he was that they would contain something of Faramir's past."

"He also told me when he gave me the chest that the protection of a man's past is the duty of his sons, and that I was not to reveal anything to anyone—not even to him—unless I deemed it to be the right thing to do."

"And do you not?"

"Eldarion…" I stop walking suddenly and lean on the wall with my back against it. "They…they are not what I expected. They are stories from his past, from his childhood. I cannot share them. Perhaps it is only selfish reason that makes me say this, but…it feels as if they were written for me. Everything makes so much sense now, but I can't—" My frustration forces me to cut myself off before I begin to shout at Eldarion. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the damp stone. "My world is falling apart. Everything that I knew to be truth was a falsehood."

"How so?" asked Eldarion, but I do not answer. "Please, mellon nin. Tell me what haunts your mind. Have I changed so greatly that you cannot now speak to me of yourself? There was a time when we shared our deepest fears with one another. If you do indeed trust and love me, you will prove it. Speak to me!"

"Oh, Eldarion, you cannot know!" I begin to weep silently into my hands, covering my face. "I am too ashamed to speak to you of it! Would that you were less bold of a friend, that you would cease to chastise me so by your words and your looks!"

"Elboron, I do not chastise you!" says Eldarion angrily. "You speak of things I have not done! How could I chastise you when I do not know what you have done?"

"It is merely by your presence that you sear fire into my conscience!" I shout back. "Everything you say, every move you make, every glance of your eyes! They are your father's eyes, along with all their disapproval and disappointment! The hatred of my son, whom you have seen reject me! The sorrow of my father, who—!" More than anything, I abhor the tears that roll down my cheeks, marking me as a child whose fairytale dream was shattered by the brutal blow of reality upon the illusion.

"Elboron…" Eldarion once again places his comforting hands upon my shoulders, staring me straight in the eye. "Seek and ye shall find. Ask and ye shall receive. Did I not say that I am here for you, if you need anything? If you needed a friend so badly, why did you not seek and ask?"

"There is nothing you can do." Again, as before, I do not meet his eyes. "I must wrestle my own demons, as must we all."

"Then you would have no help from a willing friend?"

"You march to war, Eldarion. If I judge rightly, you ought not even to have stopped here on your long road. If you can work a miracle in a brief hour, aye, you may help me. Since I know that you cannot, please do not make promises that you cannot fulfill."

Eldarion is silent for a long time, and we stand like this—as two brothers at odds might—until he speaks again. "One thing I can do: I can order Barahir to meet with you before we leave. Perhaps if you need only a short while to clear your conscience and make your peace…"

"Nay, order him not," I reply sadly, almost wishing that I could agree with him and take the easy way out. "It must be by his own free will or not at all. Never again shall I force my son to do or be anything that he does not desire to do or be—with you as my witness, Eldarion."

He nods, slowly. He is unsure, I think, of what I truly mean by my statement. "As your witness before the Valar," he swears solemnly.

I pause, breathing raggedly, listening to the rapid sound of my own heartbeat. "Would you swear such a thing by my father's name, Eldarion?" I ask him softly. Though my words do not betray it, I am begging, and he sees it in my eyes.

"For what purpose?" he asks, clearly afraid of my intention. "Will you still not tell me what councils you have held with your conscience?"

"Eldarion, son of Elessar." With that formal address, I catch his attention. "Will you swear it by the name of my father, Faramir? Will you attest to this vow of mine before the memory of his spirit?" He falters, and my heart is wrenched in agony. "Eldarion…please…"

A glimmer of sadness and pity sparks and fades in Eldarion's eyes. "Yes, Elboron. Yes, I will swear." There is a slight pause, and then he begins, "I, Eldarion—son of Elessar the King—do swear on this day with purpose to attest to Lord Elboron's vow that he shall never again force Barahir his son to be or do that which he does not wish to be or do. This I witness by the name of Prince and Steward Faramir, and before the memory of his spirit do I swear." Eldarion hesitates again. "Is that it, Elboron? Is that what you wanted?"

I smile weakly, clap his shoulder in gratitude, and nod. "Yes, my friend. Thank you." We both turn back towards the gates of Imeryn and walk in silence back down the muddy pathway. If I have frightened Eldarion or made him nervous with my superstition, he does not show it. A true friend is he, Prince Eldarion. There are few others I know who would have contented my request so quickly and so well.

Would that ghosts could hear vows.

mellon nin

(my friend)