In which the white pawn moves and the black king plans to take it
A small worn patch appeared to be starting in the carpet where the nervous young esquire paced that bright Lothron morning. The weather was unusually warm and windy. Khand winds people called them: hot and dusty and fey. Perhaps they were the trigger of the young man's mood, perhaps it was an unaccustomed case of nerves. Both had conspired to make that morning's practice far longer than either the esquire or his brother hoped.
The gentle baritone started again, just a shade too fast. "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let…, to let …." Faramir bit back a groan of frustration; words that should flow smoothly were caught again. He ran his fingers through his long black hair, as if the motion could soothe his nerves and his quickly beating heart. Starting again the ancient oath, he tried to be slow and measured, pacing all the while.
"to do and to let be, to come and to go, in peace or war." Once again he halted, the sequence wasn't right. "Valar, no!... it is need or plenty first!" The young Dunadan threw himself down upon the bench, hands raised in supplication, the very picture of dejection. "Boromir why can't I get this?!"
The older man eyed his brother with amusement. "Frankly little brother I am at a loss. You seem able to remember every piece of Elven doggerel written back to the Second Age so why not this?" Boromir sat with his arms crossed over his chest, an ill-concealed smirk upon his handsome face. Beside him his brother's leg vibrated with equally ill-concealed tension. He found it highly entertaining. His famously cool and composed younger brother was unnerved by such simple ceremony.
"And what did you do when you took your oath, oh mighty Captain mush-for-brains. Memorizing things for Ivanduil used to make you pee your pants. You can't get a stores order straight without a list." Faramir's unusual vehemence only made his brother's grin wider.
"Had a drink!" the captain admitted, glancing sidelong and gauging the reaction. The younger man smiled ruefully and shook his head. Of course you did.
"Relax! You are thinking too hard, as usual." The leg shook faster as Faramir nervously ran his sweaty palms across the tops of his thighs. Boromir's amusement began to trip over to concern. His brother, known for being dry after sparring matches or hikes halfway up Mindolluin, was sweating visibly. Now this was getting serious. Reaching into his tunic, he pulled out a small silver flask and silently offered it over.
Black hair waved as Faramir slowly shook his head. "That won't help." A long slow breath let out. "What time is it?"
Putting the flask away, Boromir settled for draping an arm across the tense shoulders and giving his brother a swift hug of reassurance. "A bell after the last time you asked. Why are you so worried about the time?"
"I don't want to be late." You don't want to disappoint Father, more like. He gave the young man's shoulders a little shake, willing him to settle. "I won't let you be late! Relax!"
The line of worry only deepened. Gods, thought Boromir it wasn't like this for me. But then Anor shines out of my arse as far as Father is concerned. 'Tis not fair.
He looked over to the tense and worried face he knew so well and wished again that his attempts to pierce their father's grief, to shine the light of reason on its dark and twisted heart, had been successful. All that had changed was Faramir, grown ever more reserved with each unkind word, until here he sat, fighting the very oath that would bind him to the father he both loved and averred. How unfair andhow perverse it seemed that his brother with the gift for law and learning but no love for soldiering would be forced by this act to fight while he, with a gift for soldiering, no patience for diplomacy and even less for governance would be forced by fate to rule. Not fair indeed.
Faramir sighed and rested his head against his brother's broad shoulder beside for a moment. It helped a bit, as it always did, but not enough it seemed for this auspicious day. He had checked his tunic twice and his boots twice more, fixed the unruly hair that had been wild from his restless night. Now all the remained was to memorize the oath. Just for once I want him to be proud.
A gentle knock came at the study door and two voices chorused "Come in"
Adrahil, the Prince of Dol Amroth entered with a flourish, his blue cape flowing and his grey eyes merry beneath the famous mane of snow white hair. "We made it, lads, let the party begin!" Still tall and hale despite his 83 years, he smiled upon his eldest grandsons with pride, accepting gratefully with open arms the bows and hugs of welcome.
"Grandfather! You have come just in time, we were starting to worry a bit."
A bit?! Boromir's snort beside was faintly audile. Faramir kissed his grandfather's cheek in greeting, surprised to find he had to stoop.
"Indeed dear boy, the winds beat hard against us across the bay, but we made double time to Harlond. I think your aunt would have taken an oar herself if she thought it would have made a difference." They all chuckled. The determination of Ivriniel, his eldest daughter, was a thing of legend within the family.
Waving off offers of refreshment, Adrahil sat himself just a little stiffly in a chair beside the hearth, unlit in the unseasonable warmth. "We are all that pleased to be here for your oath-taking Fara…and on this day. Imagine. Did your father arrange it so?"
"No, Grandfather," Borormir replied. "He picked the day to suit the captains and we realized after it was Faramir's birthday." The two young men exchanged a look that the Prince wisely chose to ignore.
"Only once do you come of age, so we have all the more celebrate this day." Adhrahil, beamed upon them, hoping the mood would catch. He could feel the tension in the room. "Leylin is just settling the children for a bit, and later we will all be at the hall. Your cousins are so excited we may have to tie them to their seats." He paused a moment, shifting the package he had concealed within his cape. "Now, for the reason I have come." What is a grandfather for, but to spoil the grandsons their parent tries to sternly guide?
From beneath his cloak the Prince drew a sword, sheathed within a scabbard of faded leather. Old and worn it was, but age could not erase the beauty of the workmanship, the tengwar stamped in silver, a iolite cut in trilliant upon the belt. He held it across both hands, presenting it as if in tribute.
"As is right, Ecthelion's sword is yours Boromir, but that does not mean Fara, you should take your oath with any blade to hand." The Prince hugged him hard. "Happy birthday, dear boy. Now you have something fine to pass on to your sons in due time." Faramir's eyes were wide with surprise and his cheeks were ruddy, as a flush of surprise and pleasure crept up his face. Adrahil nodded and smiled his encouragement as his grandson hesitantly reached out to grasp the scabbard.
"Grandfather..it is… beautiful." Holding the scabbard in one hand, Faramir pulled lightly on the hilt and the blade slid out with a sigh. Another stone was set within the pommel and a swan was engraved below the tang. Examining it closely he could see knicks upon the guard and stains upon the grip, attesting to long use. The blade was as bright and sharp as the morning light that flashed silver along its length.
"I do not know well its lineage" Adrahil admitted "but it is as old as the city, made in Nogrod we think like the other swords of our house. It last belonged to your great-uncle Aglamir." Where has the time gone? he wondered, thinking of his dashing, footloose youngest brother, dead now these thirty years.
"But is there no one of his family to claim it?" asked Faramir, not wanting to deprive anyone of such a precious heirloom. He felt chagrined that he knew so little of his mother's wider family. He had been too young to remember the tales she told to them at the fireside.
"Nay lad. For my brother the sea was his wife and mistress both. Well favoured he was to die within his bed of fever, despite the raids he led and pirates he put down. It would tickle him to know that a son of Finduillas' has it now."
Boromir examined closely the runes and the detail upon the scabbard, while beside him his brother swung the sword with practiced ease, testing its weight and balance. Finding he could not read the runes and wondering about the design he asked. "What is the stone, Grandfather? Do you know?"
"Indeed I do, do you not recognize it? It is the same as in my circlet. Iolite it is, from the old worn mountains of Dor-En-Ernil. Mariners have long used it as a compass to guide their way at sea. It has different colours in the northern or southern skies and is a seeing stone, much prized within our house. I do not know if will guide you on the land Faramir, but it is a good talisman ne'er the less."
The young man took back the proffered scabbard and slid the sword back in, examining the stones that shimmered sapphire and violet in the sun. Faramir hugged the Prince again, murmuring words of thanks. Looking back he caught his brother's gaze. "If only the stones could help me see the words I need to speak. If I cannot get the oath out, the sword will be for naught!"
"How so?" Adrahil gazed intently upon his grandson. His words were clearly half in jest, but the sudden tension in the young man's face was very real.
"He is having trouble with the order of the oath, Grandfather." Boromir explained quietly. There he goes again. Happy distraction over, Faramir had begun to pace again.
"Truly?!" His grandson's wit and scholastic abilities were well known, but as Adrahil regarded the nervous young man he thought he knew the cause. To swear an oath before his stern and demanding son-in-law would discomfit anyone. For his grandson to do so knowing every imperfection would be criticized was harder still.
"You would not be the first esquire to need help upon this day! Has no one taught you the trick we use? All the Swan Knights learn it before their big day." Both men shook their heads in puzzlement and so Adrahil rose and drew himself up to his full height. How could it be he had first said them nearly seventy years ago? "Speak before doing; come before need, peace before living. If you get that sequence all the rest comes easily." A look of grateful happiness now graced both his grandson's faces. He smiled, pleased to find at least in this he could help.
As the Prince took his leave he waved away their thanks. In his wake the anxious pacing began anew, but just perhaps with somewhat less agitation.
The Great Hall in Minas Tirith was alight with sun and happy sounds early that same afternoon as families, supporters, captains and recruits all gathered for the season's solemn oath-taking. Parchments, papers, and hands were all pressed into service, those gathered fanning themselves in the already rising heat. The recruits stood loosely in a haze of nerves at the back of the hall, a dozen immaculate dress uniforms neatly pressed but already stained with damp, allowed the illusion it was due to warmth. The audience sat in rows of chairs before the Steward's dias, while on either side the Captains stood as honour guard. There was still some time. The Steward, ever punctual, was not due for several candlemarks.
Faramir could not remember the last time his entire family had been together, much less in Minas Tirith, grateful again that the Prince had made the journey just for this day. Looking upon the entire row of seats taken up by his Dol Amroth relatives, he was amazed. The Prince, his aunt Ivriniel, Imrahil and Leylin all sat expectantly. His uncle, as if feeling his nephew's gaze, turned around and winked.
The three youngest princes tried their best to behave, already threatened once by pain of removal For Elphir and Erchirion, thirteen and ten, it was not so much a hardship, but for Amrothos, six, it was a trial. He darted out repeatedly as Leylin tried vainly to keep her son in place. Baby Lothiriel, just one, behaved perfectly and slept peacefully upon her mother's lap.
The Princess gave Boromir a grateful smile as he broke ranks and scooped up his little cousin. Having effortlessly pinned the wriggling miscreant with one hand, the captain looked back to the line of recruits and saw a pale face. "Come see this." he exclaimed with a sudden flash of inspiration. Over his retreating back a childish tongue wagged at two older brothers. Boromir walked half way down the hall along the frieze of ancient kings, each visage as stern and aquiline as the last. He stopped below one distinctive statue, its hook nose and slighter height infamous amongst the tall and handsome scions of Numenor. Pointing to the lofty heights above, Boromir held a giggling Amrothos upside down. Elphir and Erchirion, unwilling to be left out, had gathered under the watchful eye of their father.
Aware he had an audience, their adored older cousin looked up. "Do you know which king this is?" he asked.
"Castamir the Usurper!" Erchirion chimed excitedly.
"Correct! Can you guess what Faramir and I did when we were your age? " Wide-eyed, the boys shook their heads solemnly.
"It was Yule and very cold and we had to play inside. I boosted Faramir up and he climbed to the top of the king."
"Up there!?" The three boys shivered with excitement, while their father looked up to the height with unease. Up there?! Valar, don't give them any ideas.
"I had a rope." added Faramir quietly, having joined them as his brother knew he would.
Trust his younger nephew to be precise on the details, thought Imrahil, relieved there had been some thought for safety if not for the priceless art. It seemed to him to epitomize how his nephews worked together. Boromir had the impetuous ideas and Faramir thought them through and put them into practice. No wonder their father considered it wise to assign them to different units.
"He put…" began Boromir. "We put…" corrected Faramir.
"a helmet and mistletoe upon King Castamir's head. " His cousins burst into laughter at the thought and even Imrahil smiled. "The lords and ladies had a quite a surprise when they gathered for the evening service." Across three dark, young heads the Steward's sons grinned at each other, remembering the boys they were, face down upon their bunks and backsides raw. They had been helpless with laughter, both at their prank and the look on Lady Castamir's face.
Catching a hurried gesture from the front, Boromir guided Amrothos back to his seat and took his place. Mission accomplished, he thought, looking back at the recruits and noting the smile upon his brother's face yet lingered for a while. At last a trumpet sounded and their father entered.
The solemn service soon began and into the hushed silence each new recruit in turn walked up the aisle and knelt before the Steward, reciting the oath and receiving the Steward's blessing.
Imrahil watched anxiously for a sign of welcome to light his brother-in-law's face as his own son, the last to take the oath, walked steadily to the dias. How could he fail to glimpse the worry lines between Faramir's eyes and the stiff set of his shoulders?
Leylin caught her husband's glance sidelong and they both thought back three years before, when they suddenly had Faramir to stay, recovering from his broken wrist. The boy had arrived so unlike himself; sullen and withdrawn, barely speaking even to Imrahil himself. His sword arm injured, he could not write or train for months. At first it was natural to assume his mood was mere frustration. As time went on it seemed there was something else. Leylin quickly noticed that the letters arriving dutifully from his father went unread while Boromir's were devoured in an instant.
"Do you think?..." she had asked one evening as they sat together, all their charges put to bed. "Surely not," he had replied, uncertain if he was reassuring his wife or his own self. Imrahil began to watch the boy more closely and he noted that Faramir was now wary in a way others his age were not. Something it seemed had made him grow up in hurry.
In truth, the Heir of Dol Amroth had never liked his brother-in-law but had managed a friendly civility for his sister's sake. Knowing it must be hard to raise two sons alone he had offered many times to host the boys for longer periods, always to be rebuffed. Their styles of parenting, just like their personalities, were completely opposite, he and the Steward: one stern and demanding; the other indulgent but fair. This time, however, instinct told him to keep the boy close and so he had suggested that Faramir finish his training in Dol Amroth. He was surprised to find the offer accepted. In the two years that followed his nephew had become such a part of the family the boys soon forgot to call him cousin. Faramir clearly relished being in a loud and happy home, especially with Boromir gone so often from the City. In time his easy nature returned, if more reserved than before. They had missed him terribly when time came for him to return to Minas Tirith.
Faramir at last reached the Steward's chair and knelt down, looking up into the stern and commanding face he knew so well. Denethor nodded slowly, waiting for his son to begin. The sword was pulled from its scabbard and the shining blade laid across his outstretched palms. As the young man placed his hands upon the hilt, he licked lips gone suddenly dry as the morning's winds, and took a deep breath. Loud and steady, for the first time that day the words flowed freely from his tongue.
"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me, or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Faramir son of Denethor, of Gondor."
Only his son before him could hear the faint rush of air as if the Steward had been holding his breath. As he had many times that afternoon the Lord looked upon the kneeling supplicant and raised his voice to carry in the hall.
"This I do hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King. I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valour with honour, oath-breaking with vengeance.'
He lifted back the sword to his son, and heard the hiss as it slid home in the scabbard. His hand was offered. Faramir closed his eyes and touched his lips to the great ring, its surface as cool as the one who wore it. To him it seemed it should have burned, despising in his heart the article and the gesture.
As he rose he felt his father's hand upon his elbow and two pairs of eyes, one clear; the other stormy grey met. It felt almost painful to stand so close, as if the unspoken gulf between them became compressed.
"Make me proud, my son." The kindest words that Denethor could find, they felt to Faramir both a benediction and a sentence. It is done. Duty would bind him now more surely than the battered love he felt.
"I will try Father." came the low reply. Relief and resignation washed over him like a wave, so strong that for a moment he was unsure how long his legs could hold him up.
Applause rang out around the hall, now the last oath was heard and witnessed. As the captains came forward to meet their new recruits, Boromir clasped his brother's shoulder first, thinking 'protocol be damned'. As he turned away, he avoided the Steward's gaze and returned his brother's nod of thanks.
Faramir's new captain was Eldacar, one of the canniest and more experienced of Gondor's officers. Middle-aged, with greying fair hair and an ugly scar aside one eye, he walked over and shook his new lieutenant's hand, offering his congratulations. A shorter, green-eyed, mountain-man of Nimrais, he known to be was spare with words and praise but scrupulously fair. His men adored him.
"Come down to the barrack in a day or so. We go to Anorien and the Druadan. Need to get you organized and soon." A shrewd and practised gaze looked him up and down. "I have two other lieutenants, so you'll help me until you know the lay of the land and the company. Won't hurt to keep your eyes and ears open for a while."
"Yes sir" came the quick response. "I will be happy to do whatever is needed." Eldacar grunted his approval, pleased to find he didn't have some lordling expecting to be issuing orders.
"Good lad," The captain nodded. Eyeing Faramir for a moment, he tried and failed to reconcile the bright but reserved young man before him with the undisciplined youth the Steward had described. "Do not let him get away with anything." had been his order. Well, well, he thought, Anorien was a long way off and reports would be slow in reaching Minas Tirith. The craggy face lightened for a minute and an eyebrow raised in query "Your brother told me that you play?"
"The feadan sir.."
"Good." came the gruff answer. "Bring it along. The men are surely tired of my fiddle." With a wink, he departed, leaving a surprised and hopeful Faramir to his Dol Amroth relatives, to be wrapped in many smiles and hugs.
Dinner that night was a noisy and happy affair, held just as the sunset drew streaks of pink and gold across Mindolluin's upper slopes. Leylin and Ivriniel had conspired with the cook and housekeeper to hold the party in the garden, knowing that the guest of honour was happiest there; in the green and restful space that his mother too had loved.
A long table was laid for all the family and another to one side held presents. Faramir was last to arrive and shook his head in wonder at the sight of the family gathered around. The space seemed to sparkle with light and laughter: the many candles and torches scattered all around reflected off the silver and crystal that graced the table.
He had bowed to the older members of the family and accepted wishes from them all. Seated at the centre, Faramir was enchanted to have upon his lap a wide awake Lothiriel, whom he had only met once before. Babies and horses, reflected Boromir to himself, both seemed to find his brother's quiet warmth reassuring.
Everyone seemed intent to get along. Denethor, Ivriniel, and Adrahil conducted a lively and long discussion about trade tariffs amongst the southern fiefs. Boromir and Imrahil compared the merits of various captains they had served under. Leylin expertly mediated a three-way argument amongst her sons, while describing to Faramir a new book she had recently acquired.
As the first of several courses were served, Erchirion eyed suspiciously a liver pate and asked if it was the same as in Dol Amroth, the birthday boy got to pick his favourite foods for dinner. It was Boromir who answered when the laughter died down. "No 'Chirion the cook had to choose, with Faramir his favourite food is anything in reach." They laughed again and he ducked in jest as his younger brother reached over and tried to cuff him.
After the meal came the presents; the younger cousins only too happy to help in this. From his Aunt Rini came a book of his favourite Sindarin poems, printed upon oilcloth and bound in treated leather, made especially to weather a campaign. From his brother he received a new bow and quiver, the latter of black leather and stamped with the silver tree of Gondor. From the three young cousins he received a fine new bridle, bought on their own after a week of chores under Ivriniel's direction.
He had already that afternoon received a present from his father and uncle and aunt. Blindfolded at their request, all three young boys had excitedly pulled him toward the stables, not realizing he could tell exactly where they were bound by the sound and scent.
There in a stall stood a tall but lithe Dol Amroth war stallion. Grey with dappled flanks, a darker mane and tail and deep dark eyes, he was of the line of mounts favoured by Adrahil's Swan Knights. Boromir had whistled, exclaiming at his beauty, but was the first to laugh when Elphir explained to Faramir "Grandfather said you could have a gray because you aren't as big as cousin Boromir."
"His name is Mithros" Erchirion explained and Faramir nodded, patting the small, proud head and murmuring low in Sindarin, as the great animal trembled slightly under his unfamiliar touch. The Prince advised his grandson to give Mithros time to adjust before taking him out to ride and train. "He had the hardest crossing of us all. Mind you give him some days yet to get his land legs back." Overwhelmed by the generous gift, Faramir had hugged Imrahil and Leylin tightly. His father had offered his hand to shake.
Now in the twilight, surrounded by the happy noise of the whole family, Faramir realized this was what he missed most about his mother's childhood home. Not the sound of the sea or the view but the laughter and teasing and easy banter. Not for the first time he regretted turning down Grandfather's offer to commission as a Swan Knight. But really that had been only a fantasy. His father would never have allowed it. With a heartfelt sigh, he settled back to enjoy the precious evening while it lasted.
The White Kine in the third circle was a favourite haunt of the Steward's young heir and his first choice of destination late that starlight night, the new lieutenant in tow. As they entered, Geran the barkeep nodded a solemn greeting, and for a moment inclined his head in question. The Captain shook his head just slightly. At the Kine they made no fuss, not for the heir of the Steward, an outland merchant, or the local cutpurse. That was in truth its attraction, everyone kept themself to themself. All that mattered was to keep ones peace, ignore ones neighbour and tip Nell heartily when she brought the drinks.
As they grabbed an empty table by the window, Faramir looked around. The ceiling was low and its beams were covered in knicks from knives and the smoke of years. The seats felt as worn as the flagstones, polished smooth by generations of serious drinkers. The room was dim, the few windows set deep and the white stone was a dusky grey, smoke and shoulders having stained the walls. The Kine was not noted for its ambience, but it was known for its ale, which was not watered, and its wine, which was even better.
The low hum of conversation all about suddenly stilled in anticipation, as a panelled door Faramir had not noticed opened in the wall beside the bar. The White Kine was also famous for its gaming. Not officially famous of course, being against the City laws, but well known amongst the serious gamblers none the less. Light and laughter spilled out from a back room beyond and an expectant pause arose. Nearby a knot of men stood and were escorted through to the tables. As he watched their procession, Boromir's fingers fairly itched to get in the game. Not tonight, he thought. Tonight was for serious drinking.
The buxom, fair-haired lady of the house put down a pair overflowing tankards with a wink. "Young lord, good to see you back. Your guest is?" Nell would not normally ask, but Faramir was just of age and to his chagrin looked younger still. Geran was very careful to have an outward sense of propriety. It would not do to have the Tower Guard feel the need to investigate.
"My brother Faramir, seventeen today, Nell." Boromir quietly introduced them. The barmaid apprised the young man with a practised eye for subterfuge, noting the resemblance and the uniform. He would do. "Welcome to the White Kine, my lord." Faramir murmured his thanks, surprised to find himself enjoying the sense of freedom. A freedom that came responsibility he realized: there now being more establishments from which he could carry his brother home.
Boromir eyed the foaming head with relish and raised the tankard in a toast. "Happy birthday little brother." He drank and gave a satisfied sigh. "Aah now that is the stuff. What do you think?" Faramir sampled his own, and with an appreciative look sampled some more. " This really good."
"Best in the City" Boromir agreed, quaffing half the tankard in one go. "Drink up! You said you would keep up tonight. My turn to escort you home, tonight of all nights."
Faramir, shook his head and eyed his brother's cup warily. I'll never keep up if he keeps going like this. Contrary to Boromir's oft-repeated impression, Faramir did not dislike drinking, he simply found it pointless to drink too fast or too much. Neither made any difference to the final effect as far as he could tell, inexplicably mostly sober at the end of the night no matter what he did. Boromir seemed to think that if he really set his mind to it the outcome would be different. Rather reluctantly he had agreed for once to try.
They talked long that evening of the day and all its enjoyments, skirting around the serious, knowing that time spent together would be all the more precious very soon. When Boromir had refilled their tankards from a new pitcher for a second time, he judged the moment right. Leaning forward, resting his chin upon one solid fist, he gazed steadily and seriously across the table. 'Have you done yet what I suggested?" he asked pointedly.
The younger man could not help the groan that escaped his lips, nor the embarrassed flush that crept up his face. Sitting deeper back within his chair, he examined the beam overhead for a moment and waited out the intemperate response upon his lips. He knew his brother meant well, but at times he could be as single-minded as the tavern's namesake. "Boromir, stop pushing." The unusually frigid tone would have stopped most people in their tracks, let alone the flinty look. In equal measures obstinate and oblivious, his brother was undeterred.
"I can tell by your face you haven't. Brother mine, this is serious. I have told you how the conversations will go. You will be blooded in battle soon and after the talk will turn to other things. First blood always leads to talk of other firsts. You can't lie worth a orc's arse. A lieutenant who is a virgin, and hardly drinks. They will make mincemeat of you in the ranks."
"Keep your voice down!" the flush intensified, as did the look of annoyance. Faramir scanned the room. Their fellow patrons were thankfully busy with their drinks. He really is not going to leave this alone, he thought with growing dismay.
"I still don't get why you walked out on that girl I bought you last year." Boromir lowered his voice, his expression one of genuine puzzlement. "The girls at the Mallos Blossom are experienced and discreet, they will do anything."
The last thing Faramir wanted was to be reminded of that unhappy night, the events and the excruciating discussion with his brother afterward. Anger faded but the grey eyes remained troubled. "I am not like you. Bedding just any girl that breathes does not interest me."
"They need to do more than breathe, little brother." Boromir's wicked smile stilled at the dirty look he received. Surprised to find his tankard empty again, he reached and refilled both their cups. This time Faramir's had been hardly touched. "Has there been no serving maid in the kitchens who struck your fancy?"
"You know Father would flay me if word got back. There is no point in even trying." Allowing his brother had a point, Boromir regarded him closely for a moment.
"You don't fancy men do you?"
"Boromir!" The look on his brother's face was priceless. Equal parts shock, offence, and exasperation. Good, he thought, chuckling at the reaction. Maybe it would goad him into action. "No I thought not. Then for the love of all that is holy, what is the problem?"
I don't know! thought Faramir unappily. He picked up his tankard and drained it, hoping for once that oblivion would lie at the bottom of the cup. Holding it a moment, he thought of what to say. He means well but does not realize I lie better than he thinks when pressed. Looking at the expectant face before him, he cleared his throat. "I just need more time to find the right girl in the right house. You need to leave me be to sort it out myself."
Seemingly satisfied with the response, a grin spread across the Captain's face. He sat back and raised his tankard in salute. "Good. Now we've settled that problem, let's work on your tolerance for drink. Order another round! See if you can keep up this time!"
Faramir awoke the next morning at the third bell after sunrise, fully expecting to be hungover. As his senses adjusted to the half light, he heard the sound of the palace stirring from without the hall. Lying still upon his bed, the sheets tossed and twisted around him, he carefully took stock. His mouth was certainly dry and his limbs felt tired, but that could simply be the lack of sleep. What time had they returned? He remembered a cock crowing as they walked back up through the quiet City. When he found his bed at last, sleep had been long coming, agonized as he was about his brother's advice.
He turned his head experimentally against the pillow. It was fine, no headache at all. He groaned. How many pitchers had they gone through? How many had he had himself? Two, he thought, and felt nothing at all. He really didn't understand it. Another night of partying and he was stone cold sober. It was getting tiresome.
Rising quickly before his courage failed him, Faramir washed away the smell of stale ale and hearth smoke and dressed in a fresh tunic and breeches. Next he pulled on his boots, gave them a swipe with a cloth and dragged a comb through his hair. It wouldn't do to look unkempt this morning, determined as he was to launch the plan devised the night before. As he headed out into the palace halls, he paused and listened at Boromir's door nearby. A faint sound of snoring could be heard, cresting and falling in time to his brother's deep breathing. Good. He would sleep for hours more, the coast was clear.
Grabbing a bite of breakfast from the kitchen he went out into the city, nervous but resolute as he walked quickly down, thinking once again of their conversation at the Kine. The issue was making him crazy and he too wanted it settled before they mustered out. It seemed he had to find a willing partner who wasn't in the Steward's palace and wasn't from the houses. A tall order, and one that needed discretion to orchestrate.
He stopped in the 6th circle before the elegant townhouse of the Duchess of Lossarnach and hesitantly knocked. They knew each other well, having met countless times at council meetings, festivals and dinners. Famous for her discretion about her reputedly numerous indiscretions, his instinct said the duchess could be trusted and might be sympathetic. She was, in truth, one of the few adults in the City Faramir felt he could to really talk to. His brother just didn't seem to understand and his uncle was leaving soon. The idea of confiding in his father simply didn't bear considering.
The door was answered by an elderly gentleman in the formal livery of Lebenin. Having ascertained that the Duchess was home, he was shown in and led to a bright and colourful salon, the very antithesis of the dark and neglected rooms of the Steward's palace.
After several minutes of anxious waiting on Faramir's part, Amerith, the Lady of Lossarnach and Lebinin strode gracefully into the room. She was tall and elegant, with auburn hair and green eyes, dressed as always at the height of fashion. Hers was a sad tale, he knew. Married at sixteen and widowed by twenty, a dozen years later she had still not remarried after her young husband had been killed in battle. Heir to both Lossarnach in her own right and the rich fields of Lebenin through her marriage, she had not been content to sit and pine. The wealthiest noble in Gondor after the Prince of Dol Amroth, she used her position and power on Council to both aid and influence his father. He knew the Steward was by turns both pleased and frustrated at her efforts.
The lady was most surprised, but not displeased, to find the handsome young second son of the Steward in her salon. Green eyes examined him appraisingly, as a captain would a new recruit. Tall he had always been but now the young man had filled out quite a bit, lean muscle added to his narrow frame after months of training. With his black hair falling in waves down to his shoulders and his clear grey eyes she thought he looked even more noticeably like his mother. He also, she noted curiously, looked extremely nervous.
With pleasure she accepted the impeccably correct bow and friendly peck upon her cheek. "Lord Faramir, welcome. Please take a seat." She gestured to a nearby couch, and seated herself, her skirts arrayed around in regal precision, In the months since they had seen each other last he had grown so much she found she had to look up to him, perched hesistantly on the edge of a green and gold settee. "To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit? Your father is well?" she asked, opening with the formalities.
"Indeed, he is, Lady Amerith, as always." The reply was steady, belying the faint tremor in his long fingers where they lay against brocade seat.
"And your brother? I hear his captaincy is a great success." She smiled broadly for his benefit, but inwardly she sighed, remembering the twittering girls swooning over Boromir at the last ball. Predictably and tediously his marriage prospects were the dominant topic of conversation this season. Really, she thought, anyone with a half a brain could see the Steward's heir was not the least bit interested in the ladies of the court. Looking on the fair and sensitive face before her, she thought it might only be a season or two before it was Faramir's turn to be hunted.
"Yes, my Lady, he is doing well." The response was rather spare and conventional. Although quiet and reserved in a group, she had never found Faramir to lack in conversation, particularly one on one. She eyed the young man thoughtfully, wondering at the reason for his reticence.
"Are you here on an errand for your father?" Could that explain it? Something Denethor didn't want to do or say himself? That would be like the man, she knew, sending others out to do the dirty work.
The object of her scrutiny shook his head and had to swallow hard to get the words out. "No lady. I….I have a personal problem that I thought perhaps you might advise on."
Surprised, the duchess sat back with a quiet rustle of silk and stifled a smile. So that was it. Today appears to be rather more interesting than I expected. She quite liked to be surprised. Noticing his gaze strayed repeatedly to her servant, she thought she should take pity upon her guest, now plucking unconsciously at the trim on his cuff.
"May I offer you some refreshment?" Beckoning the older man forward, she thought quickly of what the young man might like. "Willen, please bring us some cider and the last of the honeycakes."
"Right away, my lady." The gentleman glided away soundlessly and Amerith turned back. Smoothing an invisible crease in her gown, she gave Faramir a moment to collect himself. When it seemed the set of his shoulders had relaxed a fraction, she gestured for him to begin again.
"You know I will join the army in some weeks for my first campaign?" The clear grey eyes at last met hers.
"Congratulations. I have heard you will be under Eldacar. He is a fine officer, the men seem to respect and like him well" Seeing Faramir's nod, she tested the waters a little. "You are… happy about the commission are you not?" She was well aware of the dysfunction in the Steward's family. Little that passed within the City or the kingdom escaped Amerith's notice or her network.
Now settled with a glass of cider, Faramir fidgeted, turning the glass within his hands and trying to think of what to say. The duchess waited patiently, amused to recognize Denethor's habit when he too was thinking hard.
"Yes…It is just, my brother is concerned because of my, umm, status." A flush began to creep up his creeks. "He thinks it would be ill advised to enter the ranks inexperienced." The final words game out in a rush, as if the speed might lessen the discomfort.
Auburn eyebrows raised in surprise. This was unusual. Most young men of his age at court had long past discovered the delights of the female sex. "And you thought I could help advise you on this…problem?"
"Yes my Lady…" The embarrassed flush had now reached the tips of his ears and headed to his hairline.
"Amerith, please. Surely we are well past titles today?" How unfortunate it was that this gentle young man was caught between two extremes; a brash brother as different from him as chalk and cheese, and a cold, distracted, demanding father. Was it any wonder that they were the ones having this rather awkward conversation?
"Amerith, Father would flog me if I sought someone in the palace." It seemed hardly possible but his cheeks flamed all the redder. The cup twirled but did not shake. "I thought…I thought you might know how I could meet a girl from another family, that might be interested." Amerith bit back a laugh. This was too absurd. Did he realize what he was asking? She looked at the fair face lined with worry and the agonized grey eyes. Yes it seemed so, and although she did not doubt that there were girls who would be very interested in the second son of the Steward, it seemed quite odd that he would think it the obvious solution.
"And what about the ladies of the houses?" she asked "That is where most young men of your position go. Surely that is simpler?"
'I know," he admitted quietly. "I have tried." The words came out somewhat strangled. He looked down and examined the bottom of the glass minutely. "It is not that I'm not interested..but I just… can't.' Embarrassment and misery were plain upon his face. Not without sympathy, she offered the best advice she knew.
"Faramir, you are young, you are over thinking this. This anxiety sets up in a young man's mind. That is usually the problem, not the particular girl. Go down to one of the better houses and drink a little more. You will be less anxious and your problem will a settle itself quite naturally."
Instead of helping, she had seemingly touched a nerve. He bolted up and turned away, a stricken look upon his face. "That won't help, I can't seem to get drunk either!" Walking quickly to the door, he turned back to meet her gaze, rubbing a hand across the back of his neck. How mistaken his plan had been. "I am sorry Amerith, I am making a mess of this. My apologies for disturbing you." Startled by the intensity of emotion upon his face, she rose and meant to stop him going, but already his back was turned, heading for the hallway.
Unable to get drunk, his body burning every source of energy like wildfire. Unable to bed the ladies of the houses. Realization dawned. An image flashed briefly in her mind. Another young and virgin, miserable, grey-eyed, son of Numenor, this time upon their wedding night. Oh Taras. Of course, she thought, he is his father's son in this. He has the gift of Hurin.
"Faramir" quickly she sent out the thought, unsure what training he would have had.
He stopped short and whirled around, a looked of shocked surprise upon his face. No, she was not wrong.
" Amerith, I..I heard you?…" He hardly knew what to say, utterly startled by the intrusion.
"Yes, yes you did Faramir. As you can tell, the House of Hurin is not the only noble house of ancient lineage to preserve the blood of Westernesse. I have the gift as well, as did my husband. Some few of us do." She looked up into the wide grey eyes and spoke gently.
"Did you never think that this was the root of your problem? Of course you cannot bed a head-blind woman who does not love you. No man with the gift can. It is why your own father married late, why he waited twenty years until he found your mother."
Total bewilderment met her statement. "What is head-blind?" he asked.
It was Amerith's turn to be shocked. Was it possible he had not been taught? "Your father has spoken to you about your gift has he not? You have been trained to shield yourself?"
He shook his head in confusion. "No. It was my mother who told me a little of the dreams. Sometimes I hear or see things, but I have never thought it was something to direct, just a type of waking dream." Faramir bit his lip, thinking suddenly of the conversation with Mithrandir that he would never divulge. He said I read him too, is this what he meant?
Amerith was stunned. Sweet merciful Yavane, he has no idea. A sickening thought followed and a sliver of fear touched her heart. They are sending him off to fight, untrained and unguarded. Reaching out, she placed a hand upon his arm and led him over to a seat. As they both sat down, she sought for words of explanation.
"Head-blind is an old term for those who cannot see into others hearts and minds, as we do. Faramir your father knows all about this, he himself has been trained. Your grandfather lacked the gift, it does sometimes skip generations, but he understood the need. I believe he sent your father to Lorien to be tutored as a boy."
"Father? He has never said. I didn't know." A flicker of pain moved behind his eyes. "We talk very little these days."
The revelation had clearly shocked him, his paleness all the more stark after the flush he had carried some minutes before. She rose and walked over to an elaborately inlaid table, poured a large glass of brandy for each of them. Holding out the glass she ordered him "Drink it all, very fast and it just might work a little."
He considered the glass for a moment and then did as bidden, throwing most of it back, choking as the fiery liquid burned its way down. After a moment he was surprised to find he felt a little steadier. "This is very good."
"It should be." she said matter of factly. "I won it off your uncle in a card game." A ghost of a smile lit his features and a bit of colour returned to his cheeks.
That is better. Taking several sips of her own, she turned back to the matter at hand. "Faramir, you have an ability to read other men's minds, to see and speak in a different way. It is a skill that needs training, both in the sending and receiving. Most important is to know how to shield yourself. There are also manners and rules, codes of conduct as go along with any skill. You do not just walk into another person's mind unannounced. In point of fact what I just did amongst the Eldar would be considered the height of rudeness, if one did not know the other person had the gift." She smiled ruefully. "I do apologize, Faramir, but I needed to know."
Pursing her lips in concentration for a moment, she made a quick decision. "When do you ship out?
"In two weeks. Why?"
"Well then, young Dunadan, you came looking for an education and you shall have it, although not what you had thought. I think I will need to clear my schedule. Two weeks will have to suffice for the basics. As for your other goal, I expect that will sort itself after we have dealt with your needed education." And, she thought silently to herself after I have dealt with your father.
When the Lady of Lossarnach was admitted that very eve to the Steward of Gondor's study, a single glance was all it took for her to know this was bound to be an unpleasant encounter. Denethor, stern and unyielding at the best of times, now carried a look of strain about his eyes and mouth that bespoke a bone deep fatigue. She wondered, yet again, what it was he did for the hours he spent alone in the tower of his forefather? It did not seem to help his temper or his demeanor.
The Steward looked up wearily. The duchess was the last person he felt minded to engage after a long and tiring evening gathering knowledge. He would have to be on his toes. "My Lady, this is an unusual hour. Can our business not wait until the morrow? Or have you learned of something amiss that needs my attention now? "
"Not with the kingdom, my Lord Steward." Tightly shielded, only her gaze and her voice belied some of anger she was feeling. "Can you guess how I spent my morning? " There was just a touch of acid in her tone.
"Indeed not my lady, you have so many pastimes, I am long past count." Undeterred by his impatience at the intrusion, her sense of urgency and alarm would not let the matter rest.
"Your younger son was in my salon."
Grey eyes widened at this news. His mouth twisted, the scorn seemed automatic.
"So that is where the boy got too. Boromir was looking for him." His tone and expression only served to irk her more.
"Denethor do you ever actually speak to your son? How is it that he is come of age and you have not talked to him of his gift? And more importantly its implications. I cannot believe you haven't recognized it. The poor boy has had to discover for himself how it can unman him."
"Has he indeed?" A black eyebrow raised, his face showed no sympathy at all. "How do you know this, Amerith? Has Faramir become the latest toy you dally with in your quest to forget Taras? They seem to be getting younger."
The mental slap rang in his skull, stinging just as surely as if she had been close enough to hand to reach him. Stunned by its force, in its wake the tension drained out of him like water. Fatigue had made him careless. He dared not push her too far. "That was uncivil of me." he murmured by way of apology.
"Indeed it was and speaks volumes about what you think of your own son." Green eyes flashed but the apology was accepted. "No he is not my toy, and he is assuredly your responsibility. It is unconscionable what you doing by your negligence. Some day soon he will be on a field of battle, one filled with the agonies of dying, stricken, terrified men and he has not been taught to shield!?"
The Steward at least had the grace to look abashed. "He has some natural shields., Amerith…he can shield from me at times." She gave him a long and level stare…And what does that say about you, she thought, that he naturally blocks out the one he should love the most?
'Oh and you think that sufficient to stand up on a field of war? Already the crossings are thick with Southron parties, orc raids grow in number every day." They both knew the details in the dispatches, the likelihood of battle soon. "I will not stand by and let another young man suffer as Taras did. You were his captain Denethor. You saw what it did to him. It nearly broke his reason. At least his family could claim true ignorance as their excuse. Would you not lift a finger to spare your own son that torment?"
"That is why I am sending him to Druadan" said Denethor mildly. "I am not a monster, Amerith whatever you might think."
"No, not yet, but you are getting perilously close through sheer neglect." Two pairs of grey and angered eyes spit fire at each other for a moment. The Steward was the first to look away.
"It seems I must do what you cannot and train him now before he leaves. It will have to suffice. But in exchange you will accept my one demand."
"Which is?"
"Do for him what your father did for you when he found you had the gift. Give him the freedom to choose a woman he loves to marry and the time to wait until it happens."
Denethor waved a hand in acquiescence. "Granted. Boromir is the heir. The greatest advantage to gain lies in alliance with him. Soon it will matter little. I am close to having arranged his marriage."
The duchess was startled by the news. Not word had come to her. "Does he know?" From the look in his father's eyes, she could tell the young captain did not.
Amerith shook her head. Was he really so blind to both his sons? "Denethor, you spend so much time in thought upon the kingdom you miss what is under your nose. Boromir will not thank you for not consulting him on this." Already set upon the road, she chose to continue whatever the effect. "Have you not noticed that he drinks too much? Have you never thought to wonder what it is that he does not want, what it is he seeks to escape while he can? Be careful lest your constant demands over weigh what even his great heart can give."
Fury fairly crackled in the air. "How dare you? Lady it seems I have allowed you overmuch liberty, despite our long association. I am doing all I can every moment of the day to sustain Gondor, though I have no mother for my sons and no wife to stand beside me. Do not criticize that which you do not understand."
Too late Denethor realized what he had said. Amerith had gone very pale. When she spoke it was as if her words turned to frost upon the air.
"Lord Steward you are not the only person in this kingdom to have lost your spouse untimely. At the least you are fortunate to have something of her left. You have two beautiful and well-grown sons, both as much of her as you. I have nothing. Nothing but my memories and his estates to run. Think on that, as you swim in your selfish, self-indulgent grief. You are close to squandering what you have." She turned on her heel and strode from the room without his leave, wishing the truth for once would usually too proud to hear it.
The Steward shook out his tired shoulders and bent again to his ever present work. For some long minutes he did not concentrate on the task before him, his gaze returned again and again to the door the duchess had departed through.
The short and swarthy Southron man in stained and ragged cloak stood quietly in the shadows, happy to be ignored for the moment, as a tempest of fury swirled around the tower room. Saruman was not pleased with his captain's report. The Uruk party had failed again to capture their prize and the wizard was getting impatient.
"What does one yellow-hair matter over another, master? The black and dirty Uruk was confused. "Master said 'bring me the yellow-hair alive". I have brought two, and they are alive. Will they not do?" Silently he hoped they were still alive. They had been when he had left. The troop was hungry, but perhaps not that hungry quite as yet.
"No they will not" the wizard snapped. "I need the one I asked for." Realizing further discussion with this dim-witted first breed was probably pointless, he thought carefully for a moment. "Are they whole?" The black head nodded. "Give them to the breeding pits. I have no other need for them. Now get out and think more carefully next time." The Uruk captain grovelled at the show of mercy. Weak-kneed with relief he scuttled out.
Saruman beckoned forward to the spy, it was his turn. In his low and rasping speech he described much of what he'd seen in his months upon the road. Doings of the Shire and Bree, the northern roads, were all carefully relayed. He had an excellent memory, such was his worth to this chancy and uncertain master.
When he turned to what to him was a mere curiosity, the wizard sat up in startlement, his gaze intent and asking for every detail. The birthday party for the Baggins had been a lavish affair, many many guests and presents, the food and drink had freely flowed. He described the finale of the old man's fireworks, a large red-gold dragon flying out of a mountain, breathing fire and circling over the Hobbits' heads. He described the Baggin's speech, "I like less than half of you half as well as you deserve." and the bewildered looks upon the guests as he said goodbye and promptly vanished. The wizard thoughtfully stroked his beard as he handed a large purse across, well pleased with the report.
Saruman, once alone again with just his plots, thought back to his council with the Steward the day before. His sons were grown to manhood, both now sent out to fight. He did not yet know for certain what tool the hobbit had, but he had vanished. And Mithrandir it seemed had ages of time to spend with the little people. Why? He is not addled, he not yet Radagast, the wizard thought. There could only be one reason that made sense. A finger of fear twined with desire and snaked up his immortal spine. The Ring. It had to be. It was time. It was time to take another pawn.
a/n: The line of Bilbo's speech is from 'The Fellowship of the Ring" by J.R.R. Tolkien and his is ...etc. etc. Thanks to Borys for discussion on matters military and sorry for the long delay...busy time. I will be going away shortly for work for a month with no access to internet or fanfic (Eeep!). Promise to post when I am back..likely late July-early August. Happy summer everyone