Chapter 8: A pawn retreats and a strategy unfolds
"Valar," exclaimed the young lieutenant as the cup tipped and spilled its green and viscous contents across his lap. The coverlet upon the bed was soaked and tinged a sickly hue. He sighed; he was supposed to drink the tonic, not wash himself in it. It seemed it would be a long day. Already he was dropping things; his hands still shook and even Beruthiel, the new kitten eying hopefully his breakfast, had more energy than he.
He swallowed the dregs within the cup and made a face. Aunt Ivriniel of course had insisted that her latest mixture, just as sinister-looking and bitter as the last, was essential to thicken his blood. Beruthiel started and shook her head when she stuck out her tongue and licked delicately at the spill.
Faramir was at the moment unusually rather frustrated. He had been home in Minas Tirith for two weeks. Released the day before from the Houses of Healing to recuperate at home, he did feel somewhat better. His leg no longer pained him constantly so long as he kept it up enough. He could even move a little on his own, shuffling one foot across the floor, though he was not to put weight upon his injured leg. Unused to being ill in any way, to be so needy was trying his legendary patience. Ivriniel had already scolded him soundly once when he tried to reach the privy on his own. Asked when his patient could start training once again, Varan had quietly shook his head and replied succinctly 'Months'. Faramir's heart had fallen into his stomach at the news. He sighed resignedly, thinking of Armsmaster Belegon's off repeated dictate: There was no point in wasting arrows for just the pleasure of drawing the bow.
Ivriniel bustled that very moment, taking in her nephew's frown, his shaking fingers and the cup upon the bed. Without a word she lifted off the tray. Faramir lay back against the pillows, his pale face framed an apologetic smile. "Sorry Aunt Rini" he mumbled.
"For what?" Ivriniel, efficient and always on move, quickly wiped up the mess and refilled the cup from a pitcher laid nearby. With a grimace, but holding carefully with both hands this time, he drank down the entire cup.
"Being a bother. I can't seem to do anything for myself."
Gray eyes alike to his own looked sternly down. "Funny, young man, I never took you for one to feel sorry for yourself." Ivriniel softened the comment with a smile. "I know this is frustrating, but you must strive to be a bit more patient. Come, we need to clean up bed and you. Starting with this thing" She lifted the housecat off the bed, a moue of distaste upon her face. Ivriniel, organized and tidy almost to a fault, considered pets an unnecessary mess. Beruthiel, insulted, ran to sit upon the window seat and groomed haughtily one flank.
Faramir carefully swung his legs over the edge of the bed and found that just to sit straight up made him dizzy. Embarrassed, he had to cling to his tiny birdlike aunt as she helped him shuffle to the chair bedside the bed. It was a welcome change to be upright but his leg began to throb as soon as it rested straight down, his foot upon the floor.
A serving girl came and left a steaming basin of hot water within reach and Ivriniel held out a washcloth for him. "We will change the bed while you wash what you can reach." she said practically, waiting patiently for him to pull off his nightshirt.
He hated this. Hated needing help to wash and dress and do everything he would rather do himself. When he hesitated, the Princess of Dol Amroth gave him a withering and impatient look. "Faramir I changed your breechclout when you were a baby and bathed you as a child. I daresay I have seen parts of your skin you have never looked directly on yourself. Enough of this. Let me know when you need help with your back." She turned away and gestured to Mallina to take one end of the coverlet, as they both began stripping and remaking the soiled bed.
It appeared that with his liberation from the Houses came a new nurse. Aunt Rini, a competent healer in her own right, was caring, formidably efficient and famously determined. No wonder the Dol Amroth men were rarely ill.
He watched fondly for a moment as Ivriniel moved around the room. His memories were dim of the time after his mother's death, but the brightest of them was his aunt, come to live with them in Minas Tirith. The frightened little boy had clung to her. Amongst everything that changed so much, she looked and smelled so like his mother: the same dark hair and fine-boned build, the clear gray eyes, the same perfume. A celebrated herbalist, Ivriniel made her own scent and shared it with her sister, distilled from a white sweet flower from far off Khand that grew in the grand gardens at the seaside palace. He could picture Finduilas sitting on a bench, one of the trumpet-shaped blooms tucked behind her ear, her beautiful ebony hair loose about her shoulders, lifted gently by the sea breeze. He was not wholly sure it was his memory or something Boromir had told him of. Even now he smiled as a whiff of the fragrance came to him from across the room.
Reluctantly he pulled his wet nightshirt over his head. Quickly then, loathe to receive another look of censure, he washed everything he could reach while the women's backs were turned. He watched Ivriniel as he did so; the bed had been changed and now she moved restlessly about the room, straightening up, tidying, opening the window to let sun and air in. Perhaps, he mused, there was something of Dol Amroth about his wholly Hurin brother. His Aunt, it seemed, also could not stand still for long. It made him tired just watching her.
Ivriniel fluffed and resettled the pillows upon the bed, eying sidelong her nephew as he stood and grimaced, struggling to pull a fresh pair of breeches up over his hips, standing on one foot. She waited until he sheepishly asked for help and stood quietly pulling up the waistband as he balanced with one hand upon her shoulder. A quick swipe of the cloth finished the washing and she handed him a shirt. By the white set of his lips and restless shifting in the chair it was likely time put him back to bed.
A delicate black eyebrow was raised in query. "Is your leg bothering you or is the headache back?"
"Both." Standing she was almost level with his gaze, as Faramir answered miserably, running his hand absently through his tangled hair.
"Varan said there would be headaches, it is common if you have lost too much blood. Do you want something for it? "
"No, I am tired of sleeping."
Arms crossed across her chest, Ivriniel had a rather pointed look upon her face. "There is no sedative, it is just for the pain. Fighting pain increases fatigue, fatigue interferes with healing." Faramir shut his mouth, deciding against what he had been going to say. He knew the tone that had crept into her voice. Silently then she mixed and handed him a mug of steaming herbs.
He sipped and made a face. "It tastes awful." Ivriniel hid a smile while she waited for him to finish the drink. It was not like her young nephew to complain or be grumpy. She glanced up to the bright sun flooding through the window. "What will you do this morning? We could go out to the garden for a while?"
"I suppose so. At least it is better than being inside all the time." Without comment but with alacrity the Princess reached for the shaking cup and set it down. "My days have a certain predictability." Faramir's mouth twisted wryly, replicating exactly an expression his mother had often worn.
Startled by the intensity of the memory, Ivriniel spoke more sternly than she intended. "Are you saying young man that you are bored?"
Aghast that she might feel he was not grateful for the company and the help, her nephew's natural courtesy reasserted itself "No, no of course not, Aunt Rini."
Ivriniel, with her long experience of nursing the Dol Amroth brood, assorted esquires and knights, was not fooled. That was exactly what he was. Trying to reassure him she smiled gently, but behind it was a great relief. If he is bored he is on the mend. He remembered little, not the attack, his time at Cair Andros nor the journey home by boat along the river. With a silent prayer of thanks, she shook away the memory of the pale and drawn sleeping face she first spied upon the quay. Denethor had looked gray and haggard himself as he stepped down from the river boat. Their eyes had met, a look of entreaty turned to her, begging she not acknowledge how near a thing his son's recovery had been. Too near.
Settled once more upon the bed, Faramir laid his head back upon the pillows. Beruthiel jumped lightly down and crossed the floor, taking up again her watch upon the bed. Ivriniel, with a huff of displeasure, strode over to the sideboard, picked up packet of letters that lay forgotten in her haste to clean the mess. "I forgot to pass you these, Faramir, they came for you at the townhouse the past few days. " Pleased that she could cheer him up a bit, she handed him the letters that Imrahil's butler had received.
Excitedly Faramir tore open the first envelope and held the letter in one hand as he idly stroked Beruthiel with the other. He scanned quickly the scrawling pages from his cousins, the lines of sheet music enclosed. "'Rothos and Erchirion have sent the Lay of Falas!" he explained. The first smile of genuine happiness she had seen lit up his pale face. "Now we can play together." Her youngest nephew was already showing signs of being the gifted musician in the family. Denethor's son would say he played with more enthusiasm than skill.
Trip to the garden momentarily forgotten, Faramir reached to the bedside and picked up his feadan from where it always lay. He worked through the fingering of the old tune, trying several of the more difficult passages, stopping and restarting each time he missed a note. Beruthiel helpfully tried to bat at the end of the feadan as it moved.
"Come." They both called, as a knock sounded on the door. Amerith, Duchess of Lossarnach, breezed into the room, wreathed as always in perfume and lilac silk.
"Are you decent darling? Or have I missed all the fun?" Reaching down, she kissed Ivriniel on both cheeks in greeting, ignoring completely the disapproving look upon the older woman's face as she brushed past. The Princess of Dol Amroth thought the Duchess frivolous and self-centred; the Duchess found the Princess humourless and bossy. Neither was exactly wrong, and knowing this, they strove for polite tolerance. Both were equally devoted to the young man upon the bed.
"Princess, you are the very soul of patience with this impossible young man. I heard from Denethor yesterday that he had positively sulked at being confined to bed. Faramir sulking! So out of character. How delightful. Such a novelty. I had to see it for myself. "
Amerith glided across the floor to stand beside the bed, her mouth twitching with amusement. Faramir raised his cheek to be kissed, grinning back. Trust Amerith to lift his spirits. The day seemed suddenly much brighter. "No my Lady, I am just restless."
"And bored," added his aunt acerbically, refusing to be mollified by the extravagant flattery. She turned wary gray eyes upon her rival. Something was up and experience told her she would not like it.
"Well, I think I have a solution for that." Hands clasped, the Duchess turned her widest smile of expectant agreement upon them all. "I have a surprise for you, dear. It is a glorious day and your father has made the necessary arrangements. You are going on a picnic." Amerith, looking entirely too pleased with herself, turning from Faramir to Ivriniel. An eyebrow raised, she inclined her head. "With the Princess' permission of course."
Seeing the look of hope her nephew turned her way, obviously outmanoeuvred, Ivriniel could only grind her teeth in frustration. It did not take her legendary wit to guess that she was not invited.
~~~000~~~
The guards that now accompanied the young lieutenant everywhere set the litter down gently upon the grassy slope. "Thank you Amrod.," said Faramir, as one of them helped him up. Pausing to settle his balance, one hand on the young man's shoulder, he looked up to find the snows of Mindolluin sparkling in the sun. The breeze lifted gently his dark hair as he turned. Below them the walls of the City shone. It felt so much better to be outside.
Amerith walked forward to speak with her seneschal. Willen had achieved a minor miracle and stood proudly before the fruit of his morning's labours. The tableau spread out in the meadow was perfect in every way. Blankets were laid down upon the grass, cushions pilled up just so to support back and legs, buckets filled with snow and cool drinks, plates and food enough to feed a small army. Faramir was stunned and looked upon his friend in amazement. "You arranged all this for me?"
The Duchess smiled, pleased that the line upon his forehead had vanished for the moment. "Yes indeed my dear, it is high time you got out of doors. I plan to make this a weekly expedition. It is more than doable. Ivriniel has agreed, so long as we obey a few rules. I am quaking in my stays thought of the tongue-lashing I would receive if you did not elevate your leg, hence this perfect replica of Mindolluin made of cushions."
She directed Amrod to help Faramir over to the blankets. Once settled, propped against the pillows, leg up, he raised his face to the sun. The breeze wafted lightly the scent of anemones from the grass beside. He looked down upon the White tower of his forefather gleaming in the sun. It was wondrous.
The Duchess of Lossarnach had thought of everything. She passed a smaller basket to the guards. Two sat and picnicked while to Faramir's dismay two stood at attention nearby. They really were quite seriously standing guard, even here. His father was not taking any chances.
Amerith, noting the direction of his gaze and obvious discomfort with all the fuss, tapped his shoulder and passed her young friend a cup. "I would treble them if I were Denethor. Don't go doing that again darling, I quite disliked having to fear for you. So tiresome, a waste of energy and concentration. And frowning makes my wrinkles worse. I shall curse you every time I am passed up at the Midsummer Ball in future."
He shook his head ruefully, allowed himself a small half-smile at her jest. He knew her frivolous banter was a front, deployed at council to her advantage but also to hide uncomfortable emotion. She did not like being vulnerable. Ever.
Amerith opened a basket beside and his eyes widened in anticipation. Real food! She caught his look of anticipation and smiled. "I expect Ivriniel has begun giving you her famous tonics. I don't know what is in them but Imrahil tells me they are vile. Quite an incentive to stay healthy at the palace I should imagine." Faramir blushed, they were his sentiments exactly but he did not want to criticize his aunt.
Amerith began to lift out the bounty, laying it beside them on the blanket. "There is a good duck liver pate to start. Cold venison and game pie. Tea and milk. Berries and custard tart and ginger cakes for dessert. Your body can handle a few more pounds."
"What, no wine?" he could not resist a little teasing, as she judiciously poured him only half a cup of milk.
"No. It would be quite rude of me to drink when you should not. Nothing that will thin your blood, I have my orders."
They ate in companionable quiet for a while, enjoying the sun and the view. The pie was rich and the berries tart. He felt better than he had in weeks. A fat little sparrow darted forward to try to grab a crumb of pastry.
Laying aside her plate and shooing off the bold little creature, Amerith sat back and sipped her tea. "Now tell me what you have been doing besides resting. I should have thought for you this is a sort of windfall. The time and leisure to read everything in the library?"
Faramir frowned and heaved a rather theatrical sigh. "If only that were true. I cannot concentrate to read. I read a sentence and then find I read it again, twice and thrice more. And I am truly tired of being on my back."
"Are you quite done moping?" She looked at him expectantly. "I wouldn't want a sour disposition to ruin the taste of this food. The berries have been brought straight from the fields." He flushed. He knew he was being crabby but it was hard not to chafe at the restrictions. Boromir was the one who was always hurting himself, throwing himself headlong into life. Faramir, the more careful of the two, had never so much as sprained a wrist, even as a child.
"Well then," Amerith continued lightly, "you will just have to cultivate the art of conversation. It could come in handy next season, as you are beating off the debutantes."
"I would rather not engage them in the sport!" he replied. The wry grin was back but the flush remained. His pallor was less pronounced for the moment against his long black hair. "Have not you arranged for musicians even here? You are slipping."
"That is next week dear..today we are in pastoral mode. Think Alcarin."
He laughed out loud at that. "Really? You hate Alcarin, despite the beauty of his words."
"Yes he is pompous, overblown and thoughtless, but appreciated a sunny day." She stood and went to check in with the guardsmen. When she returned he was tracing a pattern on the blanket, lost in thought. She sat down and waited for the question to come.
As they had many times in the past few weeks, his thoughts had turned to the brother who had saved his life. He had no more insight than anyone about the events upon the field but he remembered with dismay the look of utter agony and tortured hope upon Boromir's face as he awoke. He had not realized how much his brother had come to depend upon him, how lost he would be without his 'little one'. It was meant to be the other way around was it not?
"Have you heard about the broken engagement?" he asked eventually. "I expected you, of all people, might have." His eyes were worried and she nodded slowly.
"Yes, Ysabet is a whey-faced little thing. Whatever was your father thinking? She would have fainted on the spot the moment his great hands touched her. And then died of embarrassment to find he cannot keep them to himself."
Faramir looked at her sharply. She shrugged and nibbled delicately at a ginger cake. "Do you deny it?" Would he ever stay faithful to one woman?"
"No." he admitted to the blanket, fingers tracing the threads within the weave. She could sense that he was worried and wanted to understand.
"It is all of piece you know Faramir." He looked intently up. "The gaming, the drinking, endless conquests both on and off the battlefield. He is quite simply addicted to risk. It makes him feel alive. It is as if something inside him is not quite right, although what that is I do not know."
"I think sometimes I do." Faramir replied quietly.
Surprised, Amerith glanced sidelong. The line of worry had reappeared between his brows. He was too young to have such a constant mark. She imagined reaching out and smoothing it with her fingers.
Her young friend took a hesitant breath, afraid that to speak aloud his thoughts would make them right. "I watch him sometimes in the council meetings. He has trouble reading and retaining all the endless facts and figures. All the details that shift from one minute to the next and have nothing to do with soldiering. They just are not his strength. I think he is terrified of people knowing and too proud to ask for help. Father is a lot to live up to. He is afraid to let him down, let Gondor down. Sometimes I wonder what he would do to avoid becoming Steward."
Amerith digested this for a moment. It rang true, but was hardly insurmountable. "Then you must support him in every way. Help him to understand that a leader need not be all things. A wise man surrounds himself with good people that complement his strengths. Surely he realizes that."
Lost in thought Faramir plucked a stalk of grass from beside the blanket's fringe. He tried to blow it, but still slightly short of breath could only manage a quiet squawk. "Amerith, have you ever thought of marrying again? "
Taken aback, unsure of where this was going, the Duchess took refuge banter once again. "Why are you proposing? Has your conscience got the better of you now that the rumor of our supposed dalliance is all over the realm?"
He groaned, running a hand over his eyes and laying his head back upon the pillow. "You have heard!"
"Come come, don't be silly. Of course I have heard." The green eyes were sparkling with amusement.
"I thought you might be wroth." Her bell-like laugh floated up beside.
"Well you are handsome enough that no one would think my standards are slipping."
He flushed with embarrassment and appreciation. It was not often that he was complimented. "No, but I have a brother who right now is desperate and would gladly propose. Especially to a lady who would promise to let him be himself in exchange for her own freedom. "
Amerith turned sharply away to hide her surprise. She had not thought of this. It would never work. For moment she stared rapt at the antics of the little birds beside the meadow, searching for words to let him down gently.
"We would be throwing dishes at each other in a sen-night, Faramir. We are each far too used to organizing life our own way. Besides to be thought simply dallying with a son of the Steward suits me much better. Let them think what they will. It is useful. People will tell me things if they think we simply share a pillow that they would never say if I were the wife of the Steward's heir."
At his look of consternation she chided. "Faramir, don't pretend to be so naïve as to think I do not collect information. You know that is one of my roles. The rumor is actually quite helpful in its way. In fact we should really make it look as if it is true." He turned a slightly horrified look upon her.
"My dear, this really is all about Gondor. I shall flirt with you in public…"
"You do that anyway, with everyone." he interjected.
"Not outrageously dear, just wait. This is the perfect cover. You shall have to stay overnight at the townhouse. I will arrange for Willen to open you a suite of rooms. This is perfect, you can attend a few of my scintillating dinners." Faramir, dismayed at how fast this was unfolding, could almost see the wheels clicking in her brain as she plotted out the path their subterfuge would take.
"I will have to buy you a bauble or tunic or three. Be seen to be indulging the young man with whom I am in love. Something in that latest blue of the season to minimize your pallor. What it called? 'A peacock's passion' or some such ridiculousness."
"A Peacock's passion, truly?" He laughed. She really was not serious. "Hypochondriac's veins, have they got that?"
Happy to see a smile upon his face even if he was laughing at her, Amerith nevertheless had the bit in her teeth and would not turn. "You should probably arrange to send something to me. Selected in the fourth level. More of court would see you there. Buy something and have it sent to me at the townhouse. Oh yes, the handsome and wounded son, struggles out of his sickbed to buy a present for his lady love. They will titter like finches."
"Amerith, do I have any say in this…ruining of my reputation?"
"Ruining? Certainly not…I am making your reputation."
"What do I get out of it?" A black eyebrow raised. He felt the need to protest, at least a little, from some odd sense of his own honor.
"The company of the most witty and celebrated…"
"and shameless…" A manicured hand waved slightly in acceptance.
"And shameless woman in Gondor. The respect and wonder of your troops. And somewhere to go of an evening that isn't the Steward's palace."
"Well, you have me there." he allowed. Faramir shifted just slightly against the cushions, uncomfortable, although whether with her perceptiveness or his injury he was unsure. Shrewd green eyes did not let it pass unnoticed.
"I thought so." She did not bask, but wanted him to understand. "You will be well fed, entertained, spoiled just a little, and have complete freedom. Just delicious."
He complained then but not too heatedly, just enough to let her know it hurt a bit to be manipulated. He had his pride. "Am I to like it that you don't take me too seriously? That I am a game?"
Amerith started to speak, but wisely stopped. The cool green gaze became pained for just a moment. There had been other picnics. She too was a creature who loved the out of doors. If she blurred her sight just a little she could imagine him slightly heavier, at little older, bearded. Doomed. The crickets droned in the sun for what seemed an age. Time, she thought, shaking her head, timeruns both ways and chance makes a game of all our lives.
The mask had slipped and Faramir was startled to see the pain that lay behind. He did her now the courtesy of pretending not to notice. Grateful, against her better judgement she reached out and brushed the hair out of his eyes.
"I take you far too seriously and care for you far too much to make of you a favourite, Faramir. They come and they go. We, as friends, will endure. One day I will be the wicked friend who embarrasses you to your bride. Yavanna knows Ivriniel is too proper for it. I will spoil your children with too many honeycakes. I shall look forward to it."
"Oh well, now that you have my entire life mapped out I feel much better." He frowned and shifted painfully yet again. "I am relieved to find that you picture me surviving whatever is to come."
She was not sure she liked this air of melancholy that kept pervading his rejoinders. Was it just the pain and fatigue or the boredom? That might be understandable, Loathe to speak before the guards she sent the thought out lightly. "Have you Seen something?"
Gray eyes found her hers. "No, no, quite the opposite..Mother said she saw me settled. I have always trusted in her visions. But now, somehow, the world feels off." He tried to send the image to her, the dream Finduilas had shared. He focused, intending to broadcast narrowly just to her but had not the strength or training to complete his goal.
Laughter suddenly reverberated in the quiet. The guards looked quickly up. "Lorien, that was sloppy. It was the mental equivalent of a baby spitting up." Amerith chuckled and he joined her. He knew the truth when he heard it.
She noticed him shift uncomfortably once again. He was getting tired and stiff from lying in the same position. She pushed him slightly upright, massaging his shoulders for a moment.
'You are still too fatigued for lessons. In some weeks when you are better we will work again upon your gift."
Soon it would be time to go. She shifted, thinking there would be opportunities enough in the days to come to discover what dreams were troubling him. She sat back against the cushions, his dark head now cradled in her lap. Between the warmth of the sun and the drone of the bees he drifted off. She watched contentedly a while his pale and peaceful face. Sometimes, she thought, the life we are allowed is just enough.
~~~000~~~
The fat sparrow, a berry in its beak, moved not far way upon a branch, head cocked as if it too had been interested in their banter. Amrod, ever a keen observer of the wildlife near the City, wondered for the second time that day why a sparrow hadn't headed already to the warm and sunny plains of Rohan.
~~~000~~~
Ithil had long risen and the city lay in peaceful slumber as her Lord and Steward turned the great key within the tower door and descended the tower of pearl and silver. His steps upon the stairs of stone were hesitant, body stiff from fatigue and hours of too little movement, his arm aching as he held the torch for light. It would not do now to fall. At the bottom he nodded briefly to the guards and at his signal, young Beregond fell in step behind.
Despite the lateness of the hour he did not turn towards his bed. Cold fear focused his mind as much as need or want he found, perhaps better. This was a threat. He needed to follow the thread now before he lost its course. Slowly he left behind the many images, discarded them as pebbles on the strand, his mind sifted through to.
At the door of the archive he left Beregond standing watch, slipped inside and took a lamp and lit it. Despite the dim his steps were sure, unerring. Like his younger son, he too had spent many hours learning all he could of the lore preserved in this fair city, the last of the men of Numenor. They each thirsted for the wisdom housed honourably in her walls, but thirsted differently. His son craved the sheer joy of the pursuit, the wonder of touching places and peoples of the past. He, Gondor's Steward through every sinew and drop of ancient blood, craved every crumb and grain of knowledge that would gain their upper hand.
Past cases and tomes and statues thick with dust he walked, pulling an arm within his heavy robe, intent to ease the cold and ache of his evening's labours. The fires had long gone out and the room he sought was never used. It would be cool. Beside an oaken door dark with wax and soot he paused, fumbling a little for the key. It turned but the metal moving in the lock shrieked its age.
This room held the oldest works within the archive: tome upon tome piled high and holding all there was of lore and languages, early ages of Middle-Earth and the making of Arda. Two books he sought: the room but little changed from his younger days he found them quickly.
The first he opened was a compendium of the fouler tongues of Middle Earth. The cracked leather flaked as he turned open the cover. The parchment whispered as he lifted the page. I, Belechthor, in the rule of Eradan, second Steward of the High King of Gondor, archivist of the City, do humbly submit this work at the request of Herion, Captain-General. May it, in recompense of the foul nature it entails, bring to our fair kingdom advantage in understanding. It was divided into Orcish, Goblin, and Black Speech sections and within each the words were grouped by subject in the Sindarin tongue. Candlemarks passed before at last he found the word.."Karl: Mithrin" Fluent in Sindarin he did not need to translate more. Karl was the colour gray. Murg was horse. The Orcs at Druadan had sought a man upon a gray horse.
As Eldacar had feared, it was not happenstance. His heart clenched, it did not make him happy to be right. The moreso that it raised another fear. A rarity, all knew the Dol Amroth grays, they were famous through the land. Who knew and how so that Faramir rode Mithros?
The Second work he pulled forward then was far more ancient, the vellum cracked and yellowed, the tengwar faded with age. Not without some slow and halting effort could he read the work, the Lord of Gondor knew Quenya but less well. He had touched that very book some 70 years before, doubted others had touched it since, there had been little need in those times to dwell on ages past. In these lesser, latter days the scholars considered the near history of the realm and her founding suitable for research, not the distant, fading past, kept and remembered by the undying ones who had turned away from Men.
Valaquenta: An account of the Valar and Maiar according to the lore of the Eldar.
Perhaps borne of instinct or a faint echo of long discarded memory he scanned the painted plates in the elegant work in turn, searching each in detail for the symbol.
Manwe, Lord of Air: robed in blue, a sceptre of sapphire in his hands and a sapphire upon his brow. Around him rose the great eagles and scudding clouds of Arda.
Next Ulmo, Lord of Waters: fearsome of mien and wreathed by a giant wave and glittering green armour. He held close great horns of pearl and watched the closest the Children of Illuvatar.
Aulë, smith and master of craft, Lord of Arda's substance: A giant, his body banded in muscle as strong as very stones he himself had fashioned, his white hand was upraised and he wept, prepared to smite his children.
A white hand upraised. This was an image from the depths of time, Denethor knew. Like Melkor, delighted by craft and the making of artful things, Aulë had been impatient with the unfolding of the Music. In his folly he created the Dwarves as his own children before the Firstborn of Illuvatar had come. Ashamed, anxious to not foment unrest, he had been prepared to destroy what he had created. Illuvatar stayed him, bade the Dwarf fathers sleep until the Eldar had awakened within Arda.
The Steward read farther on, bringing clear again such lore as he knew now of the Maiar: the servants and helpers of the Valar.
Mairon was the most powerful of the Maiar who looked to Aulë. Mairon, who when he fell, became Sauron and among the Eldar, Aulëndil the devotee of Aulë. Master of shadows, Sauron misshaped and twisted the very bones of Arda, its earth and metal so beloved of his first mentor.
Next in might to Mairon was Curumo, the skillful one, knowledgeable also in works of craft and metal.
At this Denethor placed a shaking hand upon the plate. The White Hand would not be the symbol of Sauron, that was the Eye. But could another pledged to Aulë choose to use it? The only other named of note was Curumo. Could it be that both Maiar of Aulë were corrupted by Melkor and his servants? Both fallen? It seemed it could not be true and yet with craft and skill such as Aulë governed came power. Those that lust for power can be corrupted if they are weaker willed. Machines of skill turned to another darker purpose.
The Lord of Gondor thought then on the chiefest prize and craft in Arda: the Silmarils. The greatest pupil of Aulë among the Firstborn had been Feanor, their maker. He who was the mightiest of the children of Illuvatar in body and in craft. Prideful and powerful, his works had unwittingly turned to ill. A deep foreboding settled on Denethor at the thought. It seemed it could be far too easy to turn those with Aulë's skill and power to ill if they lacked his great compassion.
A cold sweat of fear broke out upon his brow. The Istari. Like the Maiar the Istari were said to come out of the utter west. One, in the language of the Eldar was called Curunir, also greatly skilled and filled with industry. He that in Westron was called Saruman the White. Possessed of another craft of Feanor, a palantir, with which to see events. Isengard loomed over Rohan, in that the puzzle made more sense. Sauron had no need of Eorlingas for men.
Yet did it not defy reason that the head of the council could be set against them? It made little and all too perfect sense.
Weary in body, mind and heart, Denethor returned the works and shut the room once more. Woe betide Gondor if she faced another enemy from Orthanc. He would watch more intently now, be wary and gather such evidence as he could. He needed to be certain, but could do no more this night.
Deep in thought he dismissed the guard and paced slowly back to the palace. He sought his bed but paused at one door on sudden impulse. The soft carpet muffled his footfalls as he walked slowly to stand beside the bed. Beruthiel looked up at his approach and yawned and stretched. This was no threat. She stood and purred and rubbed her face against the hand the cupped her master's cheek, its pallor noticeably less after the sunny afternoon.
Gray eyes looked down as a grim smile stole across a proud and noble face. Fate, ever the hunter, listened too as the father made a promise to the close and silken dark.
I will never let them take my son.
.
A/N: Thank you to Annafan, Thanwen and Gythja for helpful suggestions and critters