Mean What You Say 7
Faramir spent the rest of the day, after emerging from his hiding place, attending to what duties there were, that he could perform without entering the palace. There was no shortage of them, after spending a week in Ithilien, where he had been making the arrangements for the construction of the new village and his great house within, re-ordering the Rangers of Ithilien into his personal guard, and so forth.
Now he was mostly seeing to the routine aspects of the running of Minas Tirith, if anything about the recovery from the War of the Ring and the re-establishment of the monarchy could be said to be routine. But eventually he ran out of pressing work. Work that could be done without consulting the King or some member of his court, that is; Aragorn had inherited his courtiers, like his rooms and furnishings, from Denethor, and many of them held near-absolute power in the little fiefdoms they had carved for themselves, in various aspects of the government of the city and the realm. He could get nothing done in the reconstruction of the city without the cooperation of the leader of the Stonemasons' Guild, for example.
Now Faramir was on his way back up to the highest circle of the city. He could have put off speaking to the King for another day, but that would only leave him spending a restless night, tossing and turning and having nightmares. Faramir knew all too well how dread could churn within him until going to battle was a relief. There was no longer any combat available into which to siphon off his anxiety. He had never thought he would miss the war; he loved Minas Tirith, and would not see the city in peril if he could at all prevent it, but he had grown used to channeling all the fear, all the hate, the anger, the jealousy, the sense of personal injustice into his city's defense. And he had not even been aware that he was doing so, until the Enemy was defeated and Faramir suddenly found he had gotten all his childhood wishes—for peace, for the restoration of the glory of Gondor, for the King to return, for Faramir to have time to hold interesting discussions with Mithrandir without having to watch over his shoulder for his father, for elves to walk the beloved streets of the White City, for a beautiful princess to love him, for his father to die like a dog and leave him alone—and it unbalanced him.
He stalked across the courtyard like a man going to his doom. Faramir spared a glance for the White Tree, withered and barren, still being guarded in the Court of the Fountain. The King had returned, but Gondor was not blossoming under his leadership. Faramir shook his head to clear away the fruitless thought.
He entered the throne room, spied the King standing near the foot of the high throne, speaking with Mithrandir, and made his way toward them through the press of courtiers. Faramir dropped to one knee before his King.
"Your Majesty, I apologize for my appalling lapse of manners this morning. I submit myself to—"
Aragorn held up a hand to stop his speech, and Faramir froze, visibly trembling, as if expecting to be clouted about the head right then and there.
"No, Faramir, it was perfectly understandable. That tableau was not meant for your eyes," Aragorn said softly. After a moment, he continued more sharply, "Oh, get up, Faramir."
Faramir rose to his feet. He felt his face heat with a blush; that tone had been a rebuke, and Faramir remembered too late that his King had told him to dispense with the kneeling and ring-kissing. How annoyed was the King with his slow-learning servant? Would there be an additional penalty?
Aragorn moved close and whispered, "Did Pippin speak with you?"
"No, my lord," Faramir replied, cautiously.
"He went to look for you, to explain… I need to speak with you in private, my good Steward."
Faramir's gaze drifted to the door behind the throne, which gave into the study, and that desk. He blanched, and swallowed hard.
Aragorn followed his look. "Is there someplace else we could go? Out of earshot?"
"There is the Tower of Ecthelion, my lord." Faramir gestured toward the entrance, mid way back behind the columns.
"Good. Let us go there."
Faramir and Aragorn passed between rustling fabrics and the buzz of rumor, then between stone statuary, and finally through the door and up the steep stair. They emerged in the round room which was the highest point in Minas Tirith. The windows looked onto blue sky. There were scrolls scattered everywhere, and a small table, set up like an altar with a cloth of gold over it, in the center of the room. There was a circular clean spot in the dust of the wrinkled altar cloth where something had been removed, and a carved chair overturned beside it.
"The Palantir must have rested there," said Aragorn. "So this was Denethor's private sanctum. I've never been up here. Neither, obviously, has the cleaning woman."
Faramir did not acknowledge Aragorn's attempt to lighten the mood. He found his own fear damped down in response to the awe of finally seeing this room. There was a gravity about this place, a thick, syrupy sense of old menace that somehow felt piteous rather than frightening. "This was the place where my father lost his reason."
"I should not have brought you here," Aragorn said. "Not now, at least, when I was trying to find a place to talk where his specter would not overshadow our converse. This whole city is full of the ghost of Lord Denethor. I cannot go anywhere that does not vibrate to his footsteps. Except the throne, and I hate that thing."
Faramir turned, startled. "You hate your throne?"
"I cannot hold a decent conversation with anybody up there. I can either address the whole room or nobody at all."
"I think that's the idea, my lord," Faramir said, diverted. "You are supposed to make pronouncements from on high."
A corner of Aragorn's mouth quirked up, briefly. "I am not used to my words having this terrible weight. Strider the Ranger could say anything he wanted to the trees and the stones. Usually there was no one around for a hundred leagues. And when I did have companions on my travels, even the ones who knew my true identity usually responded to me as a friend rather than a liege-lord. Indeed, only to other Rangers was I a liege-lord. The sons of Elrond kowtow to no Man, and Gandalf is possibly the least subservient being in Middle Earth."
Faramir had to agree with that assessment of Mithrandir. He found himself strangely moved by being made privy to his King's confidential thoughts. His fear was slipping away.
Aragorn said softly, "That regrettable scene you happened upon this morning was the result of an error on my part. Ill-considered words, which I did not expect to have consequences. I did not intend Pippin to be beaten. Once it had already happened, I decided to take advantage of it to impress Ambassador Oortowe, for whose ears my careless words had been intended. I have done my best to ease Pippin's pain and treat his injuries to prevent infection. I am sorry you had to see the tableau we staged. I realize what a personal nightmare it must have been for you."
Faramir looked down. "My lord…" he trailed off. He could not decide what to say.
"Faramir," Aragorn continued, a little louder and more urgently, "I need someone to be a check on me, when I act unwisely. Gandalf tries, but his task is over and he is readying himself to depart these shores. This is a matter for Men. I know you fear me, Faramir. But I also know you have a far better understanding of exactly what kind of power I wield as the ruler of Gondor than I do. You have spent your life observing your father and how people reacted to him, while I avoided Minas Tirith like the plague during his entire reign, for fear he might recognize me as Thorongil, and realize what my lack of aging must mean. You have the ideal background to become my closest advisor as well as my Steward. I want your help, Faramir. You know far better than I, how my words and actions will be interpreted by the people around me. I never want what happened today to happen again, for my accustomed manner of dealing with people as if I were still Strider the Ranger to bring unintended harm to my friends. Or my people, or my realm, or Middle-Earth. Can you do this?"
"I can but try, my lord." It came out querulous, and his nostrils flared as he suppressed a momentary pang. Faramir took a deep breath to steady his voice. "Yes."
Aragorn smiled. "Good. Now there are a few minor things on which I could use your advice, before we rejoin the thundering horde in the throne room."
"I shall endeavor to advise you well, my lord."
End of Part 7