Chapter XV – Not Forgotten
I wake up with a jolt and fumble for the small book which always lies beneath my pillow while I sleep. Groping in the dark, I cannot find it, and a moment of panic clutches my heart before I remember that I gave the memoir to Nimhiril.
My sister's face still haunts me even now, the pain and the guilt. She was here while I was away in Nurn, caring for our father as he grew old and dotard. She saw what it was that slowly ate away at him, draining him of the vitality and health that filled him for so long. She knew that it was my fault that our father fell into decay.
Had I apologized and made peace with him before I left for Mordor, would things be different now? Would Faramir still live, the healthy Steward of Gondor? Would Barahir have remained here, safe? Would the shadow that lingers in Elessar's eyes have never come? Would my heart be satisfied?
As I lie in bed, awaiting the rise of the new day, I remember the very last entry I read before handing the book over to Nimhiril. It was one of several that Faramir wrote concerning the death of his Ranger companion, Aerandir. A close friend of mine in the service had an uncle by the name of Aerandir. I cannot help but wonder now if it was the same man that my father watched die within Henneth Annûn. I may never know, as my friend now lies buried beneath the ashen clouds of Mordor.
Faramir's guilt is so potent even in reading a retelling of the story that while my eyes passed swiftly over the words I felt my heart ache with my father's pain. I have been accustomed to warfare since before I can easily remember, yet I recall my first battle clearly. It was not a difficult victory, and though our side suffered casualties, my friends and I emerged unscathed. My Uncle Boromir's opinion of battle closely mimics my own: you fight because you must, and you fight because it is the right thing to do. It is strange to read about him in my father's recollections, as he died long before I was born.
I, much like my uncle, love battle. Faramir hated it, and the further I read into this memoir the more I come to understand…that he hated himself. Everything that my grandfather said to him was a biting reprimand or a cool dismissal, as if Faramir was not worth the effort. Through his words I can see how it wore him down, pushing him beyond his limitations. Denethor expected too much of him, just as I have expected too much of my son.
I wonder now if Faramir ever truly forgave himself for Aerandir's death. Everyone knows that when he was older, Faramir became the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers. History proves that he became the very thing that he swears in his memoir never to become. He became a soldier. He fought not only orcs, but men: Haradrim and Easterlings. With each kill, did he see a reflection of Aerandir? Did he wonder whose child he had slain? Did he feel the weight of the responsibility, the utter, crushing knowledge that he lived while his friend died?
I wonder if he ever found forgiveness with Aerandir's family. I wonder if he could have found it in his heart to forgive me for what I have done. Had he lived…what would have happened? Would I go on hating him? Would I insist upon sending my only son to the battlefront? Or would we have finally found some peace with each other and with ourselves?
I rise from bed and splash cold water on my face. The sun is beginning to rise in my window now, and somewhere below in the city a cock crows. My servants soon enter to bathe me and dress me, and I allow my mind to wander as they tend to their duties. The worst emotion for a soldier to allow himself to experience is self-pity, yet now it overwhelms me. I hate what I did to him. I hate how I behave. More than anything else, I hate being the Steward of Gondor. Already the stress has been enough to bring on bouts of headaches and illness, and I have not yet even attended my first official Council as the King's Steward. How did he manage it, my father? How did he live with this monotony, this dull drone of life? Did he not long for adventure or excitement? For fresh air and swift horses and freedom? I am caged here, like a bird with clipped wings. I am caged.
"My Lord Elboron," says one of the servants suddenly, bobbing his head respectfully. "Which would you prefer to wear to the King's Council?" Two other servants hold up long velvet tunics, one blue and one black, both extremely stuffy and equally ugly. I choose the black one, as much for the reason that it seems to match my spirits as that it has a slightly less repulsive collar. Besides this, I am still obliged to wear mourning for my father's death. It seems a century has passed since the funeral, but it has truly been only a few short weeks, perhaps a month.
"Pardon my intrusion, Prince." I look to see that one of the Steward's officers slipped in while the servants were grooming me. "I have taken the liberty of drawing up your schedule for the day, my Lord, taking into consideration the weeks you have been absent from Minas Tirith…" I take one glance at the schedule that the officer offers to me on a piece of parchment, and I nearly cry out in surprise. How can they find so much for one simple man to do in twenty-four hours?
"As you see, the Ministers of Internal Affairs wish to speak with you as soon as you are available, my Lord. Also, it is written here that you have five appointments in the early afternoon, but I added another to accommodate the work you have to catch up on… The guild leaders of Minas Tirith would enjoy your company for tea, and I have scheduled you for an early dinner with the envoy from Harad. They have desired to meet you since your father's passing… Oh, I have forgotten to mention here the entreaty of the clock workers for your attention for some trivial matter concerning yearly time conservations. Too few days in a year, I suppose. Well, they wished to speak with the King, but I could not trouble His Majesty for such an affair… Furthermore, your meeting with the Captains of the Tower has been moved to an hour prior to noon. Some scheduling confusion or whatnot. I am afraid, therefore, that the petition of the schoolmasters will need to be cut short. The Council Meeting, of course, is scheduled first thing, and Their Majesties have requested a private breakfast with you afterwards. That is all I must address, I believe, and the rest is clear on your schedule. Good day to you, my Lord."
The officer bows and vanishes, leaving the piece of parchment in my hands. Sweet Eru, save me! And Laurelindë wants more children?
"If you don't mind my saying so, m'Lord," one of the servants murmurs. "The cooks have also been meaning to have an audience with your Lordship. Jus' thought I'd mention it…"
I would like to tell that servant that I will be lucky if I can get everything on this schedule finished before nightfall, but I hold my tongue and struggle not to think about the trying day ahead. So, this is what it means to be the Steward…
The first task upon my schedule is the most trying of all: the Council of Gondor. Once my servants are satisfied with my appearance, I weave my way down winding staircases and emerge at last before the Council Chambers. The doors are thrown wide, but the other lords have not yet arrived. The King is sitting by himself at the head of the table, and he beckons me to him silently.
"Good morn, my liege," I say, bowing politely. Elessar smiles.
"Good morn, Elboron. Early again, I see. Perhaps you are more like your father than you believe."
"I doubt it, Sire."
"Here." The King gestures to the seat on his right hand, and slowly I approach the chair. "This was your father's place upon my Council, and now it is yours." I can see the reluctance behind his eyes, the pain of letting go of Faramir. I sit in my place and try to imagine myself as my father, always so sure of himself, of what to do. The exact opposite of myself.
"How are you?" asks the King gently.
"I was fine until I saw my schedule for the day," I grumble.
Elessar smiles again. "I am sorry to hear that, but that is not what I meant. You insist that you are prepared to take up your duties, yet still you are sad of eye and quiet of heart. It is not my wish for you to rush anything, Elboron."
"I am fine," I say, irritated somewhat by the fatherly tone in Elessar's voice. "I am ready for this. It cannot wait any longer."
"Have you made peace with your father's death, then?"
I hesitate to answer, but I know that Elessar's eyes are fixed on me. "Yes," I lie swiftly.
The King sighs. "I wish that I could say the same," he says quietly. "When he grew so weak that he could not get out of bed in the morning without help… I offered to help ease his pain, but he would not have it. You get some of your stubbornness from him, you know." Elessar laughed, but his eyes soon grew grave again. "I knew that his time had come, but it has not made his passing any easier for me to accept."
"Nothing ever can."
"Indeed." Elessar pauses, then moves on quickly to lighter subjects. "I hope you will not hesitate to ask questions if you are unsure of anything," he says. "I know that this is your first Council, and I believe you only came to one with your father once when you were a child."
I smile. "Very boring, as I recall."
"It is no less boring now," the King assures me dryly. "But it is necessary nonetheless. I have confidence that you will not struggle to catch on. You have your mother's fire and your father's persistence."
Both now gone. My mother died when I was only a boy, long before her time. It was an unfair and cruel end to so warm and caring a mother. I loved her dearly. I was always told that my mother's heritage was evident in me, not only in my blonde hair and blue eyes but in my temper, my thirst for adventure, and my love of riding horses. My cousin Elfwine is King of Rohan, the son of my mother's brother and my father's cousin. He says that I would make a fine Rohirric warrior, if I ever fancied to become a Rider of the Mark. Now, of course, it is too late. My age will soon begin to catch up with me.
The lords begin to arrive quickly, and I try to remember who each of them is as Elessar introduces them.
Lord Boromir is the brother of the Prince of Dol Amroth, acting as his substitute while he is away in Harad. My Cousin Elphir, now also passed, named his younger son for my uncle, whom it is said he fought beside during the War of the Ring.
Lord Damrod is the chief of Morthond, now in his dotage and beginning to lose his eyesight and his wits. He is the son of the late Lord Duinhir, the man who beat my father in his childhood as I read in the memoir. He is a scoundrel of a lord, malevolent in character but subtle and crafty. One can read it in his eyes.
Lord Forlong II still rules over Lossarnach, but he, too, is beginning to feel the tightening of age. He is without wife or heirs, and much dispute has raged over the inheritance of his lordship when he finally passes.
Suddenly I realize why the King has twelve children. If anything should happen to him or the Queen, Eru forbid it, there must be an heir to the throne. True, Eldarion is the King's only son, but it is said that queens once reigned in ancient Númenor, and so why should they not in Gondor and Arnor? With eleven daughters, along with their many sons including my son Barahir, the throne of Gondor will never be left heirless. Eldarion has spoken to me often of the pressure he feels of trying to find a bride, though he does not wish for an arranged marriage full of meaningless promises and bonds. Arranged marriages are not always so emotionless, I tell him. My marriage to Laurelindë began as an arranged marriage and grew into so much more.
"The Council of Gondor is now in session," says Elessar calmly. "With us today for the first time is the Lord Steward Elboron. I ask you to welcome him warmly into our Council after so long away on matters of war. Moving on to business, we have several topics for discussion today…" Elessar mentions each of the affairs to be addressed, most of them boring and full of details that I know I shan't remember.
One matter, however, is concerned most closely with myself. The meeting begins with a debate over the establishment of a Steward of Arnor independent from the Steward of Gondor. It is an affair which is directly related to myself and my lordship, but I say little in the heated argument that ensues. The King adamantly refuses such a defiance of tradition, but the other lords insist it is for the best.
"My liege, who will rule in your absence when you are either here or in Arnor if there is but one Steward?" says Lord Damrod in a hoarse, whiny voice.
"A well-spoken point," said Lord Forlong, plucking at his white beard.
"I will not allow it," says Elessar sternly. "Who would you choose as the second Steward? Lord Elboron's son is not yet grown to manhood!"
"Then choose one from another line, Sire," says Damrod.
"Never," says Elessar, taken aback. "I promised Faramir that the line of the Stewards would remain with his children and his children's children for as long as the generations continue. I will not revoke my word."
"Perhaps if Lord Elboron were willing to permit such an appointment, it would not go ill with your promise," suggested Damrod slyly.
All eyes turn to me, and I struggle with my first real test as Steward. On one hand, I would support my King's decision and agree with him, but on the other I would not have the lords grow spiteful towards me so soon after my succession as Steward.
Something my father once said returns to me now, a memory that I was not even aware I possessed. 'Elboron,' he had said, 'when you come of age to inherit the Stewardship of Gondor, you will be asked to make decisions that do not always have a clear answer. There is no way to know what you are doing at all times. In moments like those, it is more important than anything in the world that you follow your instinct and do what you judge to be right. Regardless of what others say, this is what you must do. That is the legacy of the Stewards, to bear the protection and the safekeeping of Gondor and her people. Remember this, Elboron, above all that I have taught you.'
What do I judge to be right? And how can I be sure that my judgment is true? How could my father have entrusted this task to me? Was he so confident that I would know the right thing to do when the time came? Do I, after all, understand the difference between right and wrong? Is there right and wrong, or merely one side and the other?
Suddenly I feel a…a movement within me. A whisper of a thing. A ghost of the past. In the blink of an eye, it vanishes again, but in that flicker of a second, I understood what the right decision was.
"The King's promise cannot be broken," I say quietly, uncertainly. "Yet the people of Arnor deserve the security of a ruling presence. I suggest not that a second Steward be appointed, but that a governor be placed in each province of Arnor, to provide stability and consistency of rulings within each province in the King's absence. Thereby the inhabitants of Arnor will receive noticeable direction and His Majesty's promise shall be honored still."
The silence of shock muffles the room for a moment, and then the King smiles.
"A wise judgment," he says softly. "You have spoken as Faramir would have done. Does anyone find Lord Elboron's ruling to be unjust? No one? Then I proclaim the judgment law, and tomorrow this Council will elect the officials who will rule the provinces of Arnor in my stead." He leans closer to me and whispers, "Faramir's spirit has not left us yet. He is not forgotten." It is so quiet that I almost do not believe what I hear, and the next moment Elessar has straightened in his seat once more and is addressing the Council again. "Moving directly on to other affairs, the mines of Khand require attention…"
For a brief moment, the shadowy flicker of life stirs within me again and fades away once more. It is like the gentle caress of a hand upon a shoulder, a hand I have known well, yet cannot rightly place in my mind.
My father's spirit has not left me yet.
I have not forgotten him.