Chapter XIII – Our Secret
Silver trumpets break the air, heralding my arrival at the White City. My passage throughout Gondor seems to be scrutinized from all angles now. It is bothersome to me, if only because I can go nowhere without being declared as the Steward. Even as a captain-general I was given more freedom than this! Now it is as though I am the pet of Gondor, like a favorite child who is constantly watched due to the smothering love of his parents.
"Greetings, my Lord," says the guard at the Gate, bowing low. My horse stamps impatiently, mirroring my own emotions. "His Majesty awaits you in the Tower. Welcome to Minas Tirith." With another bow, he beckons me forward into the city. I keep my horse checked at a quick trot. As eager as I am to reach the Citadel, I know that it would be unfitting for the Steward of Gondor to charge up the seven levels like a whirlwind.
My heart is pounding like a drum in my ears. The council in Ithilien is but an honorary function of the Steward. This is the true home of my new duty: Minas Tirith, City of Kings. Here I will meet with the Council of Gondor, the ruling legislative body of the kingdom. I shall be the frequent guest of honor at the table of King Elessar and Queen Evenstar, and here will I be buried when the time of my death finally comes, as my father was buried here. This city is forever. Built upon the side of the mountain as if carved there in some ancient time long past, perhaps hewn out of the rock itself. Minas Tirith will never fade, though kings and stewards may come and go. It is a lasting legacy, a testament to the undiminished power of Gondor.
It is, at this moment, a monument that strikes fear into my heart. I am not ready for this. I should not have been born Faramir's son. Adrahil, his first son, should have lived. It would have been better even if Nimhiril had been born the eldest, and I perhaps the younger. Surely they would have accepted a Stewardess instead of a Steward? Nimhiril is a true scholar, just as our father was. She would have done well in my place.
Suddenly I realize that I have not seen my sister since our father's funeral. Sequestered in Ithilien, I have kept only to myself and thought of no one but myself for weeks, perhaps even a month by now. How selfish I have been! I am the older brother. I am supposed to protect my baby sister, and yet I have only wallowed in self-pity over my father's memoir and my failings with my son! My guilt is only made worse by the realization that on top of everything else, I have also been neglecting my sister.
My herald rides before me, bearing the white standard of the Steward. Folk turn to stare at me as I ride past, still unable, I think, to imagine me in my father's stead. The grief of Minas Tirith is still fresh, despite the month that has passed since the funeral. To these people, Faramir must have been more than a politician. Somehow he was their cause for hope, their hero when the sky ahead was dark, their guide through shadowed times. They idolized him as most societies revere their war heroes, yet my father was not a war hero as far as I know. A soldier, yes; I know that he fought in the War of the Ring. But he could not have been a hero. He despised war too much for that.
I, however, am a war hero, renowned for my military record throughout Gondor. And yet, their admiration does not extend to me. I am not held in the same high esteem as my father was. They do not behold me with the half-worshiping gazes with which they beheld my father. What did my father have that made him immortal in their eyes? What could have wrought such pure and loyal love from his people? Even my soldiers do not look to me with the same veneration as these folk looked to my father. He captured the hearts of all. Can I do the same? I doubt it.
A stable hand waits in the Citadel to take my horse, and I dismount quickly. My herald hesitates, unsure, but I wave him off.
"You may be dismissed until I summon you," I say. "I have no further need of you for the moment. Enjoy yourself in the city as you will." He nods and about-faces on his horse to ride back to the lower levels of the city where there is food and drink and merriment to be found. I thank the stable hand and walk solemnly across the cobblestones of the courtyard towards the Tower of Ecthelion where the King awaits me.
The White Tree is in full bloom now that it is spring. The flowers are pale blue in the center surrounded by pristine white petals. The courtyard is strewn with the flowers, and the Fountain Guards still keep watch over the beloved Tree of Gondor. I have a memory from childhood of my father promising my mother that when it bloomed he would weave the blossoms into her cascading blonde hair so that her beauty could shine by comparison with the dazzling flowers. My mother died decades before the Tree began to bloom. It was a promise my father never kept. I wonder bitterly if he even remembered the promise, if he even paused to grieve over the fallen petals that would never adorn her hair.
More guards bow as they open the doors of the Tower for me, but I have grown accustomed to ignoring their customary obeisance. The King's office is higher up in the Tower, and I climb what feels like hundreds of stairs before I reach the proper level. The joints in my knees begin to ache with the pressure; old age seems to be starting to catch up with me at last. I feel a twist of pain in my heart. Perhaps I will never ride to battle again. Perhaps soon I will even be unable to wield a sword gracefully. The human body can only withstand so much abuse in a lifetime, it would seem.
I knock. I hear a few soft footsteps, and then the King opens the door. He is smiling, and I manage to return the pleasantry.
"Elboron." He clasps me firmly about my shoulders, and a sprinkle of grim laughter escapes my lips. "Elboron. It is so good to see you again."
"Likewise, Elessar." I meet his eyes, but only barely. In the back of my minds lurks the memory of the memoir that rests in my robe pocket, seemingly burning a hole in my flesh. I should tell him. He was Faramir's closest friend. He has a right to know. But…I cannot. I cannot open up my heart and everything that has been tormenting me over the last month and reveal it to the King! Everything has become too…personal to me. These stories…they aren't merely stories. They represent, somehow, a connection between me and my father, the only connection I have left and the only chance I have for forgiveness. I cannot explain how, but they do.
"I was not expecting you until morning," Elessar continues with a smile. "You have an appreciation for being early, I see. Like your father."
"I did not know that he liked being early," I say quickly, although I know it is a lie. Elessar of all people cannot gain the impression of me that I am like my father. The king relies upon his steward too heavily to work under false pretenses. "I merely prefer riding while the sunlight lasts, rather than through the night."
"Ah. Of course." Elessar glances around the room absently, apparently thinking wistfully of Faramir. The pain that lingers in his heart is like an echo to my own. What must it be like for him to be suddenly forced to adjust to a new Steward, after working with Faramir for more than seventy years? To suffer through such an abrupt change after losing a dear friend? Will he ever trust me the way he trusted my father? Is it even possible for such a bond to be established now, when I am already in my eighth decade and will probably not outlive my father's age of one hundred and twenty?
"I have not forgotten the chest I gave to you," he says suddenly. "I hope you found what you were searching for."
My heart leaps fearfully into my throat, and I swallow hard to tame its wild beating. "I-I found nothing in the chest," I say limply. It is not a lie, but neither is it the whole truth. "It was empty when I opened it."
Elessar closes his eyes and looks away again. Immediately I regret lying to him, but I do not wish to share with him what I found.
"It was only to be expected," says Elessar with a sigh. His tone is consoling, but whether it is aimed towards me or towards himself I cannot say. He gives me a thin smile. "I suppose that Faramir took the secrets of his past with him to the grave. How I wish that we had spoken more…" Now there is a sense of pain and melancholy regret in his voice. I believe I know what he is thinking: He should not have taken his time with Faramir for granted. There had always seemed to be enough time, but now it is gone forever.
It is a feeling with which I can easily sympathize. Ever was I angry with my father concerning one trivial matter or another, yet I always expected to have time to exchange apologies and return to civil terms with him. When I left for Nurn six years ago…I never expected…I could not have known…that it would be the very last time I would ever see my father before his death. He asked for forgiveness, and I granted it to him. It did not occur to me in those final moments to beg for his forgiveness in return. More painful than this is the dark knowledge that vexes my heart the most, the knowledge that I killed him. By leaving without an apology, without a farewell, headed for the battlefront, I killed my father. There is no forgiveness great enough to overturn the sickly guilt I feel in the pit of my stomach.
"If you find anything, please, let me know," says Elessar finally, breaking the silence. "There may be things hidden away in Imeryn somewhere that have remained in the shadows for years now."
"Yes, but I have no time to look. I was forced to burn many of his old things, merely for the lack of space to keep them in and time to spend looking through them." Again, it is only a half-truth. True, I burned many of my father's old things, but not his memoir.
"I understand." Elessar puts a gentle hand on my shoulder. "I am sorry that I could not do more for you, my son."
"It is unimportant," I say hastily. "I do not dwell on it, and I wish that you would not either, my liege."
"Very well. Let us not dwell on the past." He motioned to a seat. "Will you sit and talk with me for a time, at least? How is my daughter? I hope the two of you are seriously considering giving me more grandchildren."
Surprisingly, I am still able to blush at eighty-one years of age. "Laurelindë has hoped for more children, Elessar," I admit. "We are only worried that with my new responsibilities…"
Elessar laughs. "Nonsense! I am King, and look at how many children I have! A son and no less than eleven daughters! Not to mention twenty-two grandchildren and one on the way."
"You and the Queen are certainly…" I pause to find the right word. "…energetic, my liege." Elessar laughs again. "I would like to stay and share conversation with you, Elessar, but I promised myself that I would visit Nimhiril while I am in the city. I feel as though I have been neglecting her of late."
Elessar nods. "By all means, go to your sister. I shall see you in the morning for the Council."
We say our parting words and I turn to leave, but I pause before I reach the door. "Elessar," I say haltingly, "have you…have you any news from Eldarion?"
Elessar's face suddenly becomes very grave. "Yes. He sends letters almost weekly. He is healthy and strong, as always, but he fears the war is going badly."
I feel a strong urge to curse loudly, but I restrain myself in the King's presence. "Has he said anything of my son Barahir?"
The King pauses just long enough to send fear shooting through my heart.
"Whatever it is, tell me, please," I beg him. "I would hear it rather than remain in the dark!"
"Barahir is well," says Elessar slowly. "He fights easily and intelligently, but… Elboron, you must promise me that you will not be distraught by what Eldarion has said of your son in his letters."
"I promise you," I say hastily. "Please, tell me what it is, whatever it is."
"He is fighting well, but Eldarion says that he is afraid, or at least homesick. He keeps apart from the other soldiers, often finding places where he can be alone and weeping for hours. Eldarion worries that it is too much too soon for him."
Oh, Eru, what have I done?
I bow. "Thank you, my liege. I will see you in the morning."
What have I done?
I creep slowly into the room in the Houses of Healing where I am told my sister can be found. She seems to be hard at work, and she does not notice me when I slip behind her.
"Nimhiril?"
"I'm busy, Elboron."
Surprised, I do not know what to say. Nimhiril only gets like this when something is bothering her, eating away at her inside. It is the way she has always been, since our childhood together. It is the little part of her that is like our mother and not our father, getting angry and irritable when she is upset instead of sharing the pain with her friends and family.
"Nimhiril…"
She pretends not to hear me, absorbed in the tedious work of re-labeling and re-shelving the various tonics and draughts and medicines that lie before her on the table. I place my hand tenderly over hers, but she jerks it away cruelly.
"If I have done something wrong, I would have you tell me what it is," I insist, trying desperately to get her to speak. I hear a soft choking sound, and only now do I realize that she is crying. "Oh, Nimhiril… Please, do not weep. Speak to me, as you did when we were children? Do you remember how we would talk for hours, playing games in the gardens and tormenting the old gardeners?"
Nimhiril shakes her head. "Elboron, please. I wish to be alone."
"The other healers tell me that you have become reclusive." I struggle to make my voice gentler still, but it still sounds gruff even to my own ears. "That is not the Nimhiril I know. Why are you so angry?"
She does not answer.
"Nimhiril, honestly."
Still nothing.
"I have just come from Eltarma. They are planning to build a new library there." Still no response. Nimhiril is definitely not herself. Normally such news would make her quite nearly leap for joy, and she would demand to be included in the project.
"What good are libraries?" she mutters, practically flinging a newly labeled bottle onto the nearest shelf. "They harbor old, dusty books, like memories out of a past no one remembers and no one cares about."
Shock spreads across my face. "I never thought I would hear you repeat my opinion of libraries," I tease. Again she is silent. "Nimhiril, speak with me! I will order you, if I must! I am the Steward now!"
"Yes, but you are still my brother, and I can still tell you you're a foolish little boy if I choose. In any case, I'm still just a foolish little girl."
I remain silent for once, because I can tell that she is about to tell me what I want to know. I know my sister too well.
"I should have been there." Her head falls pathetically between her shoulders. "I should have been there to help him. I could have saved him. I knew just the herbs he needed, just the medicine that could have made him live. If I had only been there!"
Gently, I pull her into an embrace. "Nimhiril, you were not there, and you cannot change that now."
"I had been helping him for weeks in Minas Tirith!" Her tears are at the verge of spilling over. "Do you know how old he became while you were gone, Elboron? He was in constant pain, and he began struggling to do even the most mundane tasks! He needed help to get out of bed, to find his way to the feast hall, to take care of himself! He was as if he stopped caring!" With the final word, she slams another bottle down, and this time it breaks open, spilling the oozing contents all over the table.
For the hundredth time, my guilt flares painfully. "Nimhiril…that was my fault…not yours…"
"That's not the point!" she cries. "I was going to come to Ithilien with him, to help him! I told him that I would be there up till the very end! I promised him that I would not leave him alone when he left us!"
"He was not alone," I remind her with difficulty. "I held his hand as he faded from this world. He was not alone."
"Yes, but I could have saved him! Even if I could not have saved him, I could have at least eased his pain!" A heavy sob forces itself past Nimhiril's lips. "Is it not enough that with he lost Mother because of my birth? Why must I have failed him at the last, just as I have always failed him?"
"You know he never blamed you for that," I say harshly. "There was never a moment of his life when he blamed you for Mother's death! If anything he blamed himself!"
Nimhiril shakes her head. "I must give up healing, Elboron. I cannot force myself to heal others when I could not save the ones I love the most! I'm giving it up. I'm giving it up. I've already decided."
I close my eyes slowly. The tale of Aerandir's death from my father's memoir springs to mind automatically, as if summoned from a pocket in my mind. "You cannot give up, Nimhiril. If you give up on who you are…then what will you be? Nothing? No, you cannot be nothing. You must find the person you truly are. For you, that is healing. For Father, it was scholarship. He searched to find who he was, and he wrote…" I pause, reluctant to share my long-kept secret with someone else, even my own sister. "…he wrote his own story. His life story. I-I have it, Nimhiril. I have his story." I slide the battered book from within my robe. "They are only vignettes, really. Glimpses of moments in his life that he believed were important. I…I have already learned more about him than I learned while he was alive." Tenderly, I press the faded book into my sister's hands. "Here. Read it. Then return to me, and we can talk. This is our father, Nimhiril. And…it can be us, too. Our secret."
Nimhiril's gaze is fixed in awe upon the little book, unable to take her eyes off of it. "This is truly his story?" Her voice is shaking. "This is…him?" She opens to the first page and reads the first few lines:
26 Girithron, T.A. 3000
I am Faramir, son of Denethor…
"Dear Eru…" Tears start to well in her eyes, and she hugs it close to her. "It…it really is his!"
"Yes. I have been reading it for weeks now. It is all that we have left of him, Nimhiril. I swear, I have been learning so much since I began reading it. Everything that I have believed until this point…" I shake my head. "All of it has been such nonsense. I have made so many mistakes. I have put everything out of perspective. This is what has taught me that I was at fault, not Father! This is what has taught me that I should never have forced Barahir into the army! This is what has been haunting my thoughts day and night for the past month! Nimhiril…" I laugh weakly. "Oh, Nimhiril. Once you read it, you will understand. Everything makes so much sense now. If only I had known…"
"If you really believe that you have come to a new understanding of your life, at least now you can fix it," says Nimhiril gently.
"Yes. And now you can fix your life. Starting now." I put my hands on her shoulders. "Nimhiril, don't give up healing. Please. It would be like me giving up soldiering. I wouldn't do it. I couldn't do it, not in my heart. I would always be clinging to the memory of what I once had, and so will you if you go through with this."
Nimhiril eyes me strangely for a moment, then laughs. "Why, Elboron!" she exclaims. "How wise you have grown!"
A crooked smile creeps across my lips. "I try."