A/N: As you may have guessed this chapter deals in large part with the decline and death of Finduilas, so if you do not wish to read of it, please wait for the next.
As midsummer passed and the sun-bleached days made the ramparts of Minas Tirith shimmer, Finduilas left the White City for her childhood home by the bay. Some, noting how pale and drawn she had become, wondered aloud if she missed the sea. Others, seeing her husband's unceasing work on Gondor's defenses, wondered if she was afraid, dismayed by the shadow gathering in the east. In truth, it was far more simple: they were hardly speaking. She, the daughter of Dol Amroth, her dreams at night of peace, was by day filled with dread and a growing fatigue. He, who in his quiet way loved her more than any other, was too bewildered, too proud to speak. The man of Numenor fabled for his Sight, could no longer see into his wife's now guarded heart.
The freshening breeze sent clouds scudding across the blue, as Finduilas walked along the sand, below the high sea-cliffs. Kittiwakes wheeled and cried, diving into the waves to fish, or flitted back and forth to nests on the rocks above. Carelessly, she carried her shoes in one hand, her skirts in the other, the hems soaked by errant waves of the rising tide. "Bear!" she called, "No so far!" Her son was also barefoot, running along the strand, chasing the retreating waves and shrieking as they came back to catch him. He was sun-kissed and sandy and quite happily ignoring her. "Boromir" she called louder, "that is far enough!" His given name betokening her seriousness, he changed direction and the game began anew, back towards her.
Looking up, she smiled to see Nera, their nurse, walking down the cliff path with the baby in her arms. As the young woman drew close, Finduilas reached out eagerly and gathered Faramir in her arms, his solid warmth sending a feeling of relief flooding through her anxious limbs. Safe with me again. "He just woke up, my lady" explained Nera, her sandy hair waving in the breeze, "and is of course hungry. Will you and your son, come up for the meal? The Prince is asking." She would not speak of their hasty ride out from the city nor ask when they would return. She too felt relieved to be away from the brooding silences.
"Yes we will, in just a few more minutes." I want some time alone, Finduilas thought, before the questions come. She thanked the woman, who turned away and started to ascend once more.
For an idle few minutes, keeping always a watchful eye over her firstborn, Finduilas played with the baby. Wading in, her skirts soaked to the knees, she held him under the arms and swung him high over the waves, again and again dipping back down to touch his feet in the water. He squealed in surprise at the cold and she laughed at the furious expression on his face. Back on the strand, she set Faramir down, and he, delighted at the warmth, crawled eagerly, trying his skill on a new surface. Gaining speed and focused on the task, he bumped in surprise against a pair of sturdy legs. "Ha, I've got you." grinned his big brother, jumping sideways and back to block the little one's path.
Finduilas sighed, knowing she could no longer put off the day. She scooped up a protesting Faramir. "Let us go, Bear, you must be hungry." "Yes!" came the happy reply and he darted off toward the path "Grandfather always has sweets!"
As she make her way up the steep and stony path she had climbed so many times as a girl, Finduilas felt the weight of her sodden skirts drag at her. I should not have got so wet. A few feet higher still, she had to stop and rest, dizzy and breathless. She held a hand to the pain in her side. Twice more on the trip to the cliff top, she paused so, panting and tired. Nera, holding tight to Boromir's hand as he leaned carelessly over the edge, frowned in concern at the sight below. "My lady, are you unwell?" she called.
Finduilas shook her head quickly. "No, no I am fine, just a little winded. Walking here will get me back in shape again." With relief she reached the top and found she walk with ease along the flat, slowly back to the palace.
The lunch table was set in the garden and quite conspicuously laden with her favourite foods and sweet treats for her son. They are spoiling me, Finduilas thought as she sat between her siblings. Imrahil had come straight from a morning's ride, smelling of hay and horse. Ivriniel, usually so full of questions, was carefully and quietly cutting up pieces of fruit for the baby to wave in the air and mush. Their father, Prince Adrahil, his clear grey eyes missing nothing, sat thoughtfully at the head of the table and let the talk relax into easy questions about the palace and the town. He watched his middle daughter all the while. She was beautiful still, with her fine dark hair and delicate face, but now he found she looked pale and pinched, and did not laugh. No, he thought, this is not her.
Rising after the servants had cleared their places, the Prince stretched out his hand. "My daughter, come walk at whiles with me." Finduilas knew it was a summons. All had been arranged, her loving, if determined, family conferring late last night after she arrived. Imrahil took Boromir off to find a pony to ride, while her ever competent big sister announced she would take the baby for a walk. Finduilas gave herself up to the inevitable.
As they strolled arm in arm along the formal garden path, Adrahil reflected on how best to start. His gentle daughter seemed skittish and tense, lines of care around her eyes and a line across her forehead. He remembered it from tantrums of old. He placed his hand upon hers and gave it a gentle squeeze. "Fin, we are as ever thrilled to see you and the boys. This is a welcome surprise, indeed. But quite the surprise. You arrived before your letter."
Finduilas did not meet his gaze, pretending to inspect the fruit on an apple tree nearby. She was tired; tired of the angry silences, tired of the strain, tired of the fear. "I needed to get away, papa. Things have become…difficult."
"With your lord?" he asked gently, as his heart clenched. Lalith always feared they would be unsuited.
"Yes", she admitted, the line across her forehead more pronounced. "We had a quarrel."
Adrahil tried and failed to imagine what simple quarrel would bring his sensitive but brave middle daughter fleeing from her home and the man he knew she loved. "Has he hit you?" Surely not. Denethor would never lose control so. He would be mortified.
Swiftly she turned. "No, papa. He shouted at me. I would not do as he asked." Her fingers plucked in agitation at the folds of her skirts, now drying in the sun. "He listens too much to that wizard. It frightens me."
The Prince paused, certain there must be more and lifted her pale face up to him. Dark smudges marked the creamy skin below grey eyes so alike to his own. "Have you Seen something?"
Finduilas shook her head. "No, my dreams are full of light and hope. I have Seen the boys well grown in manhood, triumphant, happy." She paused, afraid to give him too much hope. "And I saw a king, a healer, a Dunadan." She could not bring herself to say his name aloud. "But I know not if it is a fever dream of hope or True, it was not clear."
Adrahil breathed a silent prayer. Lórien, Master of Dreams make it so. "Then whence comes your fear, my daughter?"
"It is the reason of my waking mind. I cannot dispel the fear that Saruman wishes Faramir harm." A trembling hand brushed strands of black from out of her eyes. She is truly afraid. Her father clasped it, hoping to quiet both their fears. "What do you think?"
"That I must keep him safe, as any mother should. I am not starting at shadows!"
"Surely your husband can allay your fears, Fin? Ask him to send this wizard away?" Would he really do it? she wondered, remembering the fury and the vial. "He thinks I merely cross him. He does not understand"
The Prince drew a parchment from inside his tunic. Her heart sank as he showed her seal of the Steward. "I had a letter by rider late this morning. He must have set out directly as you left. Ecthelion asks after you and the children and how long you intend to 'holiday' with us."
His daughter could not bring herself to answer nor would she read the words. How very angry must her husband must be, forced to swallow his pride and have her father-in-law write.
"My dear, you know you must be reconciled in time. Denethor will never let you take his heir and you will not be parted from either boy." His eyes were full of pity, but too long the Prince of Dol Amroth had watched the House of Hurin rule the kingdom. He knew it would not be otherwise. "Talk to him. Help him to understand your fears. As you are, there can be no understanding."
"Not yet. I need time." He saw the lines upon her face and her fists clenched and thought, They are both stubborn.
"I am tired, father. May we go in?" The Prince acquiesced with a heavy heart, hoping time and tide would bring an answer.
Saruman the White came with the bitter north wind as the leaves lay brown on the slopes of Mindolluin. Whispered words of scandal had reached even his ears at Isengard, as they had most inns on the Great North road. The Steward of Gondor has been deserted by his young and beautiful wife. A new play had opened upon the board and he was intent to make best its use.
He found the Steward, grim-faced and brooding, upon his seat in the Great Hall. Lost in pride and misery, he did not look up as the wizard's steps rang across the stone slabs of the hall.
Perfect, thought Saruman, as he struck his staff upon the ground, the ringing tones at last brought up the Steward's gaze. "Good morrow, Lord Denethor, I am come in your time of need, with counsel to ease your heart and your mind"
The grey eyes flashed in sudden anger. "I should not have thought, Saruman the Wise, that you listened to fishwives tales." Careful….careful. The wizard had misjudged his tolerance. His pride is wounded too.
"I do not need to listen to prattling and idle chatter, Lord Steward, to know well what happens in Middle-Earth. I have seen that your lady's seat is empty. Since it grieves you so, I thought it would ease your heart to see her, to see your sons"
Denethor's face was a mask, grim and grey. "I do think I would be welcome to Dol Amroth at this time. There is no point."
"Ah, but there you are wrong, my lord. There is a way to see from afar, kept still and waiting here in the City. You alone have the key." The wizard leaned upon his staff, waiting for his poisoned words to seed.
The Steward, his heart heavy and his need great, slowly nodded once. He remembered then there was a high tower room, long locked and dark.
Saruman led the younger man up through the seventh circle and at the Tower of the first Ecthelion the two ascended the many stairs in hushed and pregnant silence. At the topmost stair there was a narrow wooden door, bound in iron, rusted and unpolished. Denethor slipped in the one great key long unused, alone of those given with his office. The lock was stiff, not turned in centuries. No warden had watched the tower-room since Earnur rode off to Minas Morgul. At last the door was opened and they entered.
The room was round and deeply shrouded, myriad grey motes of dust deepening the gloom. There were no adornments, no furnishings such as a great king would have, the walls were bare. The white stones of the tower itself gave off the only light; a pale, unearthly glow. A tall round pedestal of black marble stood in the very centre of the room. It was carved about the top and plinth, the runes too faint to read, their message lost to time. Heavy and smooth, a great black orb, two handspans width, lay within a shallow bowl upon its top. Ungoverned by a directing mind, about its circumference the visions lay; wayward and haphazard, images diminishing forever in the distance, blurred and distorted.
Saruman walked around the palantir, his gaze intent upon the ever-changing images. His voice, when he spoke, echoed in the gloom, thrumming with power.
"As a learned man, you know the rhyme of Elendil, Denethor. Seven stars and seven stones the Faithful brought from the wreck of Numenor. The Stones of Annuminas and Amon Sul are sunk beneath the waves, shipwrecked with Arvedui when the North Kingdom fell. The Great Stone of Osgiliath was lost in Anduin. Emyn Beraid looks only west to Elvenhome that was. This, this is the Anor-stone, once twinned with its brethren in Orthanc and Minas Ithil. The Ithil-stone surely was destroyed, ere the city fell to the Enemy. The Stone of Orthanc yet lives and I have used it…its visions clear as when Elendil first set foot out of the west." He looked up and caught his quarry's gaze.
Denethor's face did not raise from the orb, faint hope and fear both vying to break the grey mask. "The palantir."
"Just so. Will you take up what is yours by right, son of Hurin? It is your destiny to lead the people at this time. You are the Ruling Steward. It will be amenable to your will. With it you can look to see events great and small. From the palace of Dol Amroth to the Orc-ridden glades of Ithilien, think of the advantage you would have, the knowledge you could gain."
The wizard beckoned to the younger man and walked around the stone to the north-north east. He looked through it then, back along a line to the south-southwest; his will intent upon a farther shore. The tumbling images disappeared and in their place towards his gaze there appeared a city, small figures moving to and fro about its streets.
"Concentrate my lord, focus on the people, bring them closer, closer with your will." Denethor turned his eyes upon the image and instantly it sharpened…the stone recognized its rightful master. With a deep sigh of need he bent his head and the people enlarged, the image shifting through the streets as he sought the vision he most desired. There she was, holding Boromir's hand, walking through the market stalls. Oh my love. Oh my son.
The wizard's now velvet voice came low beside his ear."Focus more, you can see if she wears her rings." Trembling with the effort, Denethor willed the image to enlarge the more. There on his wife's hand he made out their wedding ring. He heaved a great sigh, as relief and fatigue both overtook his limbs.
Thus it was that the Steward who so greatly loved Gondor and its people, first turned to his will the tool he hoped would help the defend the kingdom. As they locked the door again and began to descend, Saruman played out the final move, before a new game was to begin. "Be careful Denethor. Never gaze toward Minas Morgul. The Ithil-stone was paired with yours and so would see its twin quite easily. It has been long thought lost, but we know not for sure. Best to not tempt fate, however great ones will."
In the years that followed, an uneasy peace settled over the Steward's palace and all within it. Finduilas rarely let her youngest out of her sight and her lord pretended not to notice. Consulting quietly far and wide, all told him to give his lady rest and time and humour her. He did and if they spoke little, at least they spoke and the air was less fraught, although saddened in time by Ecthelion's passing. With the old Steward gone, Mithrandir came then little to Minas Tirith and there was none to check the pride and counsel of the Steward. Denethor came to see that the less he mentioned of Saruman, the less Finduilas fretted. She did not care that her husband spent many nights alone and never dreamed that the wizard saw into the very heart of the great white Tower.
If Denethor ignored her obsession with the boy, he could not ignore her slowly worsening health. At first she was merely tired and breathless climbing stairs. Soon, she wheezed after lifting the smallest item and was often dizzy. The Healers told them it was a weakness of her heart, perhaps long dormant from childhood, perhaps brought on by the difficult birth. Tinctures and medicines were tried, but little helped. He told himself it was weak of him to blame a mere child, but in his heart of hearts a tendril of resentment grew. He has taken her love from me. What else can be taken?
With a gasping cry, the little boy awoke. Only slowly did his body realize he was not truly drowning, not robbed of breath, enveloped by the roiling green waves of water. It was the summer of his fifth year and Faramir was terrified. He knew his eyes were open yet it seemed to him the dream was still so bright he could see it before his waking eyes. A great wave moved heartlessly over the green land, over the grey stone of the city, sweeping ships and people and animals all before it. Unstoppable it was, and in its wake a great brooding darkness arose, silent save for the cries of the eagles and the keen of the wind. Darkness Inescapable. He shivered, unable to let the image door to his small bedroom opened. A welcome sliver of light fell across his face, and she came in. He could hear Finduilas' wheezing breath from the short walk. Laying a light down on the windowsill, she nestled down beside him. As her breath slowed and steadied she stroked his damp hair and hugged him close.
"What did you dream, my love?" she asked, when finally she could speak.
Low and halting he described the wave, the green, the fear and sense of devastation. She nodded all the while. He is a child of Westernesse after all.
"I have that dream, dear one, as does your grandfather. You dream of Numenor, brought low by Manwe in ages past, the High Kings lost their way. Do not fear the sea, it will not harm you. The Valar raised it up for their purpose in that time to teach the Fallen the error of their pride. In their pride and folly the Fallen tried to challenge the gift of the One to Men. Pride ever drives kings and kingdoms, men and crofts alike, to their fall."
Faramir frowned, thinking sleepily that sometimes he was proud of his reading. "How can we have the same dream?"
"Do you remember the rhyme of Elendil?" He nodded and recited it by heart.
"Tall kings and tall ships
Three times three
What brought they from the foundered land
Over the flowing sea?
Seven star and seven stones
And one white tree."
Finduilas thought of a great mural in the palace showing a ship sailing into the haven of the bay. "The houses of Dol Amroth and Hurin both come east in those ships, bringing gifts that the Valar gave to the Faithful of Numenor. It is the gift of your father's family to read the minds of men and so to speak. It is the gift of my family to Dream True, to See." Could you have both? Would your father tell me, if he knew it?
A line of worry appeared on his forehead, a mirror of her own. "How do I know if the dream is true? Are they always true?" He thought anxiously of Wargs and Orcs and scoldings half-remembered from other disturbed nights.
"No, not all are true. You will know. A true dream stays in your mind's eye as if etched. It is bright and sharp and does not fade. Most often it is just a picture, a moment, not great events, but little things that seem to not have meaning. If you can read the scene you can understand what it foretells."
The worry line grew only deeper. He is little for this, she thought, but I have no time.
"Let me tell you one of mine." She smiled in the dimness. My dearest dream and it is True, praise Lórien. "I see a tall man in his prime kneel beside a tree with golden leaves. He is smiling and he has your eyes. Two blond and sturdy boys race up and tackle him together. They wrestle and he lets them pin him to the grass. They are laughing. A little girl, dark and with our eyes, leaps upon them all. It is just that scene but I know you are that man and they are my grandchildren, and you will be happy." If naught changes the music of Arda. Eru hear my prayer. She hugged him hard again.
'Did you dream of Boromir, also?' he asked, wanting his brother to be happy too.
"Oh yes love, I have. I see him stand on the heights of Osgiliath, a great sword in his hand and the standard of the Stewards fluttering in the breeze. All around the troops are shouting his name. There has been a great battle and he is victorious. He looks like King Earnur of old; broad and tall and strong. I see his pride and love for the people and our land. I know it is a day he remembers as one of his happiest."
"He would like that, Mama."
"Oh yes," Finduilas waited, hoping he would not ask more. He did not. With relief, she tucked him in and began the slow, labored walk back to her room. That night, as she lay down again and could not catch her breath at all for many minutes, she knew. It has begun.
The winter of his fifth year, Faramir was confused. The Steward's palace was full of people, but there was no laughter and no one seemed to celebrate. All was hushed, silent as the snow dusting the city and seemed just as quietly waiting. Grandfather had arrived, and Uncle Imrahil and his pretty new wife, and Aunt Ivriniel. 'Is it for Mettare?,' he asked Nera for the second time, who now simply shook her head, her eyes swollen and red. Boromir did not want to play and seemed angry when he asked. He did not understand why.
They were taken to see their mother in the morning, the room close and stuffy, smelling oddly sweet. Finduilas sat in the great chair, as she had for months, propped up on many pillows. Faramir knew she slept at night that way, unable to breathe save in that pose. Her wheezing was slow and labored, her face gaunt, her body wasted. Every now and then she coughed with a terrible force and the healer gently wiped the bloody froth from her lips. She was too weak to lift her hands.
Boromir went first to her and he hugged her hard, his nose was running and his eyes were red. He was so very angry that he shook as he held her hand. She tried to soothe him with what voice she had left. "I will love you always, my Bear. Remember me when you laugh, for your laugh has always brought me joy. Be brave and strong and follow your heart. Protect your brother for me and keep him safe. Will you promise?" Her grey and sunken eyes pleaded. "I promise." he vowed to her cold but sweating brow as he kissed her. Her hand squeezed his for a moment and the tears began to fall.
Nera had then brought Faramir forward and he stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheek and hug her carefully, straining to hear her murmured words of love. 'You are the light of my life, Fara. I will love you always. Be true and remember my dream." She had not said goodbye. She had little breath left.
He dreamed that night of her, walking lightly through a shrouded hall, its walls lined with golden tapestries. She did not wheeze and her eyes were bright, her head held high. Remember me, little one. I will await you here.
In the morning, everything had changed again.
As was the custom on the third day, the Steward and his sons; the Princes and Princess of Dol Amroth walked slowly behind the bier as they wove their way through the City to the gate of the Silent Street. Despite the cold the streets were thronged with mourners. Many wept openly, for the wife of the Steward had been gentle and gracious; dearly loved and taken untimely. Flowers lay on the stones beneath their feet; the winter rose and mistletoe, white and frosted.
Faramir walked as long as he could, remembering his father's words to be straight and steady and not to cry. Imrahil was the first the spy the little head droop and his nephew's steps slow; angered again that his brother-in-law, unbending and proud, made one so young walk with them. He was about to break the line and help, when Boromir grasped his little brother around the waist and lifted him up. So they walked, for some few yards. He was determined, although the path was still long, and his brother heavy. Then, when he worried he could not continue but must put his burden down, strong arms lifted them both together. High in their father's arms, the sons of the Steward went through the gate together: to a white and silent tomb that one day would ring with the sounds of battle and be blackened by despair.
Late that night a little boy walked shivering in his nightshirt down a silent corridor. Too young to truly understand, he was frightened: by the sadness, the hushed voices, and most of all, his brother's unceasing tears as they tried to sleep. Unheard, Faramir entered his father's room and padded softly to the fireside. There his father sat, carved in stone, unmoving, grey, his face to the flames. Like stone, there were now a myriad tiny fractures within, inflicted by the hammer blow of her loss. His hands on the arms of the chair were so locked his knuckles were white, as if with force alone he could hold the fault planes together. He did not notice his small son. Faramir, looking up, was frightened all the more when he saw the firelight flicker in wet tracks upon his father's face. The Steward did not cry. Climbing up onto the great lap, he rested his head on his father's chest, feeling the soft damp of the black tunic on his face. Thinking he understood what upset his father so, he sought for words of comfort.
"Mama will be able to breathe, papa." he insisted, "They will know she must sit up. Eru knows how to take care of someone who is sick." With an anguished cry, the Steward's hands at last let go the chair. He hugged his son fiercely, whispering "I love you." into the damp straight locks. Cruel fate decreed the boy would be too young to remember what he most desired to hear, the last time it was spoken.