The white bishop checks the black; a pawn is concealed
The sky that day was the fleeting brilliant blue it can only be when the air is dry and kissed by the barest warmth, its colour not muted by the haze of summer heat. The light of the afternoon's lingering hours was golden; as burnished as the fields about the Townlands, as tawny as Dol Amroth's summer wine or Lebennin's famous ales. Within those fields the men and women worked hard and quickly. All too soon the rains would come and there would be ample time for comparing the bounty of the season; caught in liquid gold for another year.
Anor's path was changing yet again. The land readied itself for sleep and Yavanne's fruits were picked. In this city of stone, where in its lowest level a young archer made the most of the perfect light, there were few reminders of the season's change. Only where Men were careless and let cushion plants grow about the walls could you see the colour of the leaves change. Thankfully, still, this was all too rare.
For a young man like the Steward's second son, born to the City and raised on her bed of rock and duty, it was through the air that you could tell the season. Stone heated faithfully with the sun but in each season the air was different. All summer he had waited patiently for the time to pass, for the air to give up its heaviness. Restless now with anticipation, he strove through repetition to soothe his jangled nerves.
Draw, exhale, sight, release. His fingertips stung. The calluses below the pads were still too soft from months of rest but they would harden in time. Faramir brushed a lock of hair out of his eyes and ignored the sting; looked with pleasure toward the practice butts, to the white fletching of two arrows sitting exactly in the centre. It felt improbably good to be training once again. He raised his arm to notch another arrow, thankful his muscles no longer trembled with the effort. Sighting without conscious thought, his stance felt exactly right. Draw, exhale, sight, release. The arrow sped home and joined its fellows. He allowed himself a small but satisfied smile.
The sound of lazy clapping broke his concentration as he raised to fire once again. "You have not yet ruined your eyes I see, little one; passing your lazy summer in the dark and dust of the library." Faramir looked up at the familiar voice and found Boromir gesturing down the range with a mail clad hand.
Grinning crookedly to show he had heard his brother's jibe, he turned to finish his round. "Watch this." There were others waiting and the light was perfect. Draw, exhale, sight, release. A fourth arrow sped. Squeezed itself barely in between the waiting shafts. The grin widened. There were some things for which he allowed himself a little pride.
The marshall signaled clear and the Steward's younger son walked quickly forward to collect his arrows. The elder made out only the very slightest hesitation in his stride. The fluid grace was there but muscles had yet to fully balance.
Faramir returned and laid his bow carefully down. Before he had fully righted he found himself crushed against a broad and sweaty chest. Boromir smelled like horse and whetting oil; clearly he had come straight in from Osgiliath. The young man felt more than heard his brother's lips move against his hair; thanking Manwe as he had vowed in the long watch of an anxious night. This has become the ritual; practiced every time the Captain returned and felt the beat of his brother's heart against his chest. Fear can do that to a man. Make him seek for help in unaccustomed quarters.
"You are back early." He grinned up at the sight of sun chapped skin and lanky hair. A sigh brushed past his ear as they both pulled back; reluctant to let go. "What is the rush?"
"Father called us in. I suspect he intends to finally to assign you back. It has been long enough." Boromir smiled, surreptitiously squeezing hard a shoulder. It was bulkier than the last time they had met, more than a month before. Good. "I look greatly forward to it. My records are a mess, the reports are left undone. "
"That is all you need me for? A secretary?" The indignation feined, above the scowl the clear grey eyes sparkled with amusement.
"Not much good any other way are you?" Now there was real indignation in his brother's face. Reaching out, Boromir affectionately ruffled the waving raven hair. "If I have to save your hide from every simple Orc we come upon what good are you in the line? Even your vaunted dreams couldn't help you there."
Those were fighting words and Faramir would not let them rest. He wagged a long thin finger under Boromir's aquiline nose. "Not then, but just you wait. One day I will See the night your luck at the Kine will turn. I haven't decided if I will tell you yet."
His brother's laugh was loud and free. "And remind me why I thought I missed you while I was away?" He slung an arm across the slighter man's shoulders. It felt so good to be together once again. "Perhaps I should drag you out to the tables tonight. Mayhap the environment will bring the visions on."
The two men walked off the range towards a water barrel, followed at a distance by Faramir's ever present guards. He dipped the wooden scoop and took a drink. Gestured, but the older man shook his head. "The whole company is in?" His eyebrow raised once more in query. This would be welcome news.
"Yes. The men are making for the second circle and then tomorrow is the feast. I will join them tonight after I grace the Kine." Faramir raised his eyebrows even higher. His brother's itching fingers could obviously not resist the lure of the dice. Dipping the scoop once again, he took another drink and looked thoughtfully across. He decided for the moment it was prudent not to comment.
"I go now to give Father my report." Boromir explained. "What is his mood?" Faramir could not fail to notice the anxiety in his brother's face. The change of season had also chilled somewhat their father's recent warmth.
"He has been spending more time within the tower of late." Two pairs of grey eyes held each other. Both thought they knew what that portended but would never speak of it in place so public. "I have hardly seen him these last few weeks and suddenly this morning over breakfast he announced it is time to pass on some of Mother's things. He wants you to have her wedding rings, he says."
Faramir nodded at the look of shocked incredulity on his brother's face. "He is clearly changing his strategy and hopes to appeal to your sentimental side."Quickly he regretted the teasing tone. It was unfair to bait his brother so about a topic that pained him so intensely. "He has revised his will and cedes immediately to you all of Mother's dower lands. You are about to become a wealthy lord, my brother, and thus even more attractive on the market."
"Uinen's blessed tits." Boromir swore so loudly the guards nearby looked up. Clearly their father has not given up the idea of finding him a wife. Finduilas' dower lands were rich country. Adrahil had been generous to his (secret favourite) daughter. Wine and fish and trading rights were the valued coin of Dol Amroth. "What of you? What provision does he make for you?"
"Me?" Faramir shrugged and shook his head. "Emyn Arnen of course, there is nothing else outside the City. For the moment devoid of any income and about as valuable as the slopes of Ephel Duath I expect." This last, of course, was not said in bitterness. It was merely a statement of the fact.
Boromir rolled his eyes. It seemed their father reflexively slighted Faramir in even this. "He could have divided the dower lands, they are surely more than ample." His brother raised his hand to forestall any further protest.
"Leave it be, Boromir. What does it matter? I will be a Captain one day and have little need of income. So long as it is enough to keep me in quills and parchment I will be happy." As expected, that brought a smile to his brother's face. "He has given me her mantle, her winter mantle. Do you remember it?" Boromir nodded, thinking of its silver thread sparkling in the candleglow; their mother bidding them each good night and kissing each one in turn. That is right. It is a pretty thing and he, at least, will appreciate its artistry.
"I should go." said Boromir, hearing a bell toll from the Tower in the Citadel. "The sooner I report the sooner I will hear that I have my best lieutenant back." Faramir, flushing at the compliment, picked up his bow and quiver and fell in step. The guards, as ever, followed close upon his heals.
Together, the sons of the Steward walked back up through the city streets toward the Citadel. Both were determined to enjoy this unexpected furlough. Each for his own reason looked forward its end.
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~~~000~~~
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Meduseld was ablaze that eve in Haligmonað, the holy month; her fires lit, light gleaming on spear and shield, pride gleaming in her warriors' great hearts. The day had been given to the fair: animals had been bought and sold, grain and barley laid down for another year, provision made for the long winter yet to come. Now, as the moon rose and made tracks upon a sea of grass, the time had come for the symbel; a ritual born before even the Rohir came to the golden plains. Before Eorl signed an oath and before Wainriders stalked the woods of Rhovannion.
Theodred, Prince of Rohan, sat next to his father upon the dais; his dark blond hair in warrior's braids, a golden torque about his neck. He alone among the assembled men was smooth of cheek; as had been his grandsire Thengel from whom he traced his broader face and blue-grey eyes. An affectation yes, but one that pleased him greatly. He wished also to honour his grandmother Morwen, Thengel's adored and feisty wife. Over ninety and shrunk with age, still sharp in mind and gaze, the dowager Queen looked suddenly up and smiled upon her grandson, grey eyes twinkling in the light. Not for the first he wondered if she read his mind and heart.
To Theodred fell the toasts; each round an honour in itself. First Eorl's goblet, horn doubly curved and chased in silver, was filled by his aunt Theodwyn. As was right and proper she was ealu bora for the night. His toast, to victory and to power for his king, rang wide within the hall. The next in Béma's goblet, singly curved and bound in gold, he gave to peace. The last poured into Vána's silver chalice, twined in vines and flowers, he gave for good season and prosperity. About the hall men drunk long and well of the season's sweet harvest ale.
The beot came then; the warriors boast. Met always with a mocking challenge. He fingered lightly the torque upon his neck, uncertain what to say. Down the table he watched Theodywn refill her husband's cup in readiness. Eomund, as Chief Marshall, had the honour to be thyle that night. To him came the task of challenging unwelcome or unlawful toasts. Theodred watched as Theodwyn poured, bending forward past her husband's cheek. He whispered something and she blushed, swatted his shoulder as she passed. There, there was a match that he could wish for; to love as his aunt and uncle did. They were truly blessed. Vana in her favour smiled on all who flowered and flourished well.
It was not in his heart that night to boast of his renown. The challenge he wished to give would surely bring dishonour to the hall, sour its luck, force Eomund to stand. He would not do that to his uncle needlessly. Yet when the minni, the remembrance, had been drunk, the Prince thought painfully of Alfgrim, his widow and his child. The letter from Boromir had felt like a second blow, confirming only what they had thought. His sword-brother must be truly gone.
He rose and brought the men roaring to their feet, boasting that in the coming year he would find the courage to be beardless once again. It played well, but fortune demanded a serious boast. Feeling like a coward, he sat down and caught his father's eye.
Theoden-King looked levelly but with compassion upon his son; he knew the letter and his pain. The king rose and did his boasting for him, speaking of brave deeds and strength and gifts to come. Theodred sat silently by his side, burning with shame and anger hot as the hearth where turned the spitted pig.
It was Grima's miscalculation, oily as ever and enquiring, to cross paths with the Prince when he had gone to catch some air while the bragafull was drunk. "Prince Theodred, you have the look of one haunted here this evening. It is unlucky it is not, to grieve tonight outside the minni. But such a tragedy. My condolences for your loss."
Theodred saw the next moment as through a rising fog. It felt as if he stood aside and looked on to see another man react. He saw the hand that grabbed, the crack of Grima's head against the outer wall, the little man's pleading gibberish. Eomund, he remembered, Eomund had told him once this was how it felt when the red rage took control.
He saw with no little satisfaction fear and loathing fill the advisor's pale and sweating face. The voice he heard (his own?) was low and deadly earnest. "If I find you have any complicity in my sword-brother's end, my beot, I vow, shall be to rip your traitorous head from off your shoulders. No thyle would challenge me for that."
A scarred and sinewed hand descended to firmly grasp his own. "Theodred. Min æðeling. Leave him be." He looked up into his uncle's grave blue eyes, surprised to find the fiery marshall was the one counseling restraint. It made him realize how very near was the fine edge of his control.
The great blond mustache twitched into a mocking grimace. "The worm is not worth it, my friend. Go. Drink long and deep. Honour Alfgrim with your song."
Theodred looked up to the older man's eyes and nodded once. He took a shaky breath and let go his hand. Slowly and deliberately he threw his braids back across his shoulder and adjusted carefully his tunic.
Eomund smiled up at the younger man. "My honour to serve, my Prince."
The moment the Prince of Rohan turned and walked back to the blazing hall, Grima began to sidle out of reach. In one swift move, the Marshall's beefy hand had grabbed his coate and pinned him once again. Slowly and with great deliberation, the Lord of Aldburg spat upon his face. "Worm, you are not fit to walk anywhere his blessed soles touch our hallowed ground. I am thyle. I promise you I will not challenge his beot."
Later, when he had changed his soiled and sodden robe, the Wormtongue breathed his own oath silently into the waning night. "You will both pay."
With that, he walked back to the King and began to implement his master's plan.
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~~~000~~~
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'A peacock's passion' was an indigo blue that suited rather well the pale complexion and dark hair of the young lieutenant. To judge from the number of other tunics of in that shade scattered about the Great Hall that night it truly was the colour of the season. None of the other stylish lords sported a tunic quite so fine as the Steward's second son, the son favoured by a duchess and recipient of her impeccably extravagant and slightly flamboyant gift. The tunic, graced with silver thread embroidery and real sapphire buttons, finely detailed like no other he had ever worn, made Faramir feel like the colour's namesake. Eyeing him, Boromir had laughed and he had blushed. To be noticed was rather the point. He sighed inwardly. It would take some getting used to.
The Steward's son bowed deeply to his benefactress and raised her elegant fingers to his waiting lips. The Duchess of Lossarnach was particularly resplendent that eve in a gown of lapis blue and corset of blue and silver. Sapphires shimmered in her necklet and dangled from her ears. Seemingly mesmerized, the young lord looked adoringly into her emerald eyes. Slowly (for emphasis) he turned her hand and quite scandalously kissed the inside of her wrist. As was expected, a murmur rose nearby.
"Gods Amerith," he thought; grey eyes dancing with amusement, "you've made us match."
The duchess giggled, quite obviously delighted by the gesture, and did not seek to retrieve her hand. Her tinkling laugh carried quite far across the throng. "Some here are not as bright as others. They need a rod to the face to notice."
Her hair piled intricately in curls and braids, Amerith blushed prettily as she quite supposedly unconsciously fingered the ornament in her hair. Delicate and sparkling argent, made of marcasite stylized as a swan of course, it caught the light of every candle and was the envy of all the ladies in the hall. Standing rapt, fascinated by the tableau arranged before them, not a few of the young debutantes imagined the handsome young lord giving them such a lovely and delicate gift. The story had run rife about the upper circles. Wounded while gallantly defending one of his own men, saved by his heroic elder brother, the Steward's second son had been seen to limp (obviously still in pain and not yet healed!) into one of the City's better jewellers. Quiet sighs of disappointment competed with the music's gentle strains. Now all of Gondor knew where the gift had been bestowed.
The duchess's voice pitched just slightly louder to carry further. "Your gift is so unexpected and so very beautiful Lord Faramir. You are spoiling me, my darling. Here I thought you a typical oblivious young man. Immune to accoutrements of beauty."
"No one can be immune to your extravagant beauty, my Lady," Faramir drawled slowly but loudly, as the tittering intensified beyond his elbow. He leaned close to whisper into her ear (she smelled of roses, a scent he was starting to associate with subterfuge). "Actually I am a typically oblivious young man. I asked Nera to suggest something."
Faramir winced inwardly at the thought. The most constant female in his world; Nera, his former nurse and governess, had glowed with thinly veiled excitement. She truly thought he was in love.
Amerith, of course, read easily his discomfiture. "It makes her happy, my dear. Never feel guilty for making someone happy."
They were undisturbed within the crowd for quite some time; pretending to be oblivious, laughing and sharing evidently many private jests. Faramir blushed on cue and the Duchess uncharacteristically ignored the discussions swirling all about them. Blushes the young ladies assumed were from undoubtedly inappropriate conversation were actually quite genuine. Amerith indulged in a running silent monologue about the failings and proclivities of those who passed them by. The Steward's younger son was mildly appalled to find, for once, that he was actually having fun.
Between the moments of all too public flirting Faramir danced with most of the more eligible young women, fetched them drinks and treats, flattered their mothers, and engaged the Captains present in more serious discussion. Frequently he would look up from his latest dance and catch Amerith's adoring eye. In short, he behaved exactly as the young ladies present swooningly expected. They were meant, after all, to be being only slightly indiscreet.
What Faramir was actually doing was attempting to pass a test set by his rather exacting tutor. Sent out each time to read guests the duchess selected about the room; he reported back and the accuracy of his gift was compared against his teacher. The greater challenge was for he himself to broadcast narrowly or receive amidst the distraction of a dance; even hurriedly and without warning when she unexpectedly broadcast a command back to him. In this way he changed partners and discussions throughout the night; seemingly moved by his own restlessness but silently answering her commands with alacrity. Amerith was quietly pleased. She found he had made quite impressive gains in focus and control over the weeks of their concentrated study.
By the time the Duchess halted her assessment (noting at the midnight bell the first lines of genuine fatigue about his eyes) the young lieutenant had given his ever present guards a merry chase.
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~~~000~~~
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Ceridwen, Lady Langstrand, looked upon the evening's subject of scandal and speculation and debated how best to wedge the Duchess of Lossarnach from off her young admirer. Lord Faramir, she felt certain, was perfectly suited to her highly decorative, if vacuous, middle daughter. Possessed of a rare courage and determination unbecoming the typical highborn Gondorian lady, she was nothing if not determined. It was, she felt, a mother's duty to give her daughter a fighting chance.
With a majestic prow that would have done justice to Langstrand's famous schooners, she circled the hall and divided the throng, stopping as needed to acknowledge the competition as she passed. Purely out of courtesy of course, she stopped to speak to the Duchess and the Steward's son. It was important in any campaign to gauge the strength of the enemy's position.
Faramir bowed and the sapphires on his tunic flashed. His supposed lady love smiled at the sight with all the possessive satisfaction of an artist placing a detail on a canvas. Lady Langstrand grit her teeth and smiled.
"My lady, it is a pleasure indeed to see you once again." Bent over her proffered hand politely, Faramir did not actually kiss the back of it; the many rings upon her ample fingers were noticeably quite overlarge. For a moment he feared to get too close or he might do his face an injury.
Ceridwen preened to be subject of his attention. "Lord Faramir, we are all so thrilled to see you here this evening. You have been quite hiding away from court. It must have been so trying for a true warrior such as yourself to have been idle for so long. We are so relieved you are recovered fully from such a terrible wound. And gained defending another man. We are all so very grateful that the Steward's sons give so much of themselves to Gondor."
"One of them certainly does." Amerith, silently laughing to, took his arm and leaned much too close for appropriate decorum. It was always important to clearly stake out ones ground.
Sometimes, her supposed favourite thought, it was rather trying to blush so easily. Langstrand of course assumed he was embarrassed and pleased by her compliment.
A black eyebrow raised and grey eyes danced. Someone had to defend his brother. "Is that what you call it, Amerith? Giving of yourself to Gondor?"
Ignoring the duchess's momentary sputter, he answered Ceridwen with an elegant half bow. "It is my duty to serve, my Lady" he said, and as he did, clear grey eyes slid away and caught the Duchess's tiny smile. They flitted back just as he straightened up. Ceridwen, of course, did not miss the move and frowned for the barest moment.
Oh well done. Amerith's green eyes flashed. You are catching on. He was doing rather better than she expected, but still the gibe could not rest unmatched. As if pulled by an irresistible force, she quite shockingly slid her hand down his arm to rest too long upon the fingers of his sword hand. Ceridwen's eyes, as she expected, followed every move.
"As ours is to support the Steward and his house in every way." Amerith turned a wide-eyed, innocent gaze upon her rival. "Lady Langstrand, I simply have to compliment Lord Faramir on how well he is doing with his training now that his energy is coming back. His fingers have quite regained their speed and famously deft touch. His thrust is just as strong, if not stronger with all the hours of practice he has put in."
Leaving a little pause for the words to properly sink in, she savored the look of appalled fascination Lady Langtstrand could not hide. "With the bow and sword of course. So I am told."
Faramir, choking with barely concealed laughter, protested that he was not yet adept as his older brother. A fraction too late, with an inward groan, he realized Amerith was not about to stop the game.
The Duchess, exultant at the opening he had made, sailed right on through, gazing adoringly up at her young love. "Oh my dear, of course you will be. All you need is a more experienced partner and more practice."
This was too much. Throwing the Duchess a look of purest disgust, Ceridwen excused herself and sailed off into the throng.
This was clearly going to be a rather more difficult battle than she had first thought.
Sieges, unfortunately, always favoured the defender.
~~~000~~~
Somewhere after the first morning bell Boromir himself had seen and heard quite enough of their performance. Settling on a strategy, he tried a tactic that had always served him well: a full frontal assault. He waded in, armed with two full tankards of the bitter ale on offer.
"What, in the fires of cursed Angbad, is going on little brother?" He asked, as he quietly sidled up the younger man. Faramir leaned nonchalantly against a pillar; his buttons winking in the glow from the candle sconce beside. He accepted the drink but did not speak, waiting patiently to see which way the wind was blowing.
The Captain drank long and deep. "I laughed it off when the men started whispering that you were getting love letters from a duchess. I ignored them when they started to say that you were her latest favourite. But now I find you hanging off her every word and showering her with all too public compliments. I could almost believe that you were in genuinely in love. Except, I don't."
Twice. Twice Boromir had seen his little brother infatuated. Once with the scullery maid and once with their tutor's daughter. Both times, the attention was unrequited, the girls terrified by their father's grim regard. Faramir had locked himself within his room and poured out his heart in words. Mooned like a lovesick calf and hardly ate. Not this.
Faramir ducked his head to hide the embarrassment on his face, searched the tankard for a place to hide. He could never lie to his beloved brother. "What gave it away?" he finally asked.
Boromir surveyed the room as he raised his tankard once again to wet his lips. Across the hall he found Amerith dancing with the Warden of the Keys; heard her laugh floating above the music. He sincerely hoped his little brother was not in too very far over his normally guileless head. "You are paying far too much attention to the other young ladies in the room. Normally you avoid then at all costs." That much was true. Faramir nodded only slightly.
"Then what is this in aid of, hmmm?"
"You will have to ask Amerith, Boromir, the greater part of this set piece is hers. For myself, I hope to gain a little freedom. Against the event we are not always posted on campaign together. It makes a useful excuse to avoid the Citadel when I am alone. She, at least, he is unlikely to want to cross."
Boromir snorted but realized, to his chagrin, his brother likely had the right of it.
At that there was nothing for it but to find the duchess and further probe the issue.
He caught Amerith's hand as she began to leave the dance floor. She looked startled, but guessed quickly his intent, schooled her features and smiled and curtseyed. An almain began and without adieu the Captain swung her into the line, their hands overlapped and facing forward in the parade. As they glided back and forth in slow and stately time, Boromir found he had ample opportunity to focus on his interrogation.
" My Lady, I have had to change my speech this evening. I was going to warn you against toying with my brother's heart. Perhaps even threaten you with violent harm if you hurt him in any way. Now I find I have to congratulate you on improving his acting skills. Normally I would have said he was far too reticent to set foot upon a stage."
Green eyes glanced up sharply as the couple paused upon the pointe. "You are being very perceptive, Captain. My compliments." Flattery was for the easily lead. He chose to feel just slightly insulted at her comment.
"I am only stupid on Tuesdays, Amerith. Today is Thursday."
She laughed out loud at that. Revelers arrayed along the walls glanced up to see the source of the amusement. He was not easily dissuaded. "I repeat. To what do we owe this little farce?"
As one the couples spun, clasped hands again and the procession began once more along the hall. Amerith gave the slightest of sighs as he squeezed lightly her fingers for added emphasis. "I will elaborate but first you must tell me. How did you know?"
"He does not show his emotions so casually to anyone. He has had far too much experience holding them back. Life has taught him not to offer up what needs to be protected."
"And what if he were truly in love? Would he not then be more open?"
Boromir shook his head, trying to make her understand an instinct, a surety, borne of their enduring and unbreakable bond. "I would know. He would shine."
Even as he said the words, Boromir truly wondered: how should he know? He, who had never felt the need to shine, how could he be so sure? A woman, late one languid night, had asked him if his heart like his city was made of stone. Of course he had laughed it off, but deep inside it stung. No, his heart was not stone; it was tender flesh and warm bright blood as any other. The difficulty was that there was no room within it for anything but his father, his brother and his birthright. His brother's heart, on the other hand, his brother's heart he suspected could hold whole kingdoms within its expansive chambers. Faramir was naturally given to great passions; encompassed these present days by poetry and lore, languages and learning. What would he not give to see his brother's heart truly given to another? It would be, he was quite certain, a quietly breathtaking sight.
Never one to retreat, regardless of the cost, he pressed again. "You have not answered my question Amerith. What is this all in aid of?"
The emerald gaze became thoughtful; focused down the hall upon the knot of officers standing there. "I gamble the long game Boromir, you the short. It has rather chancier odds."
Three steps and they twirled about again. He had quite forgotten how tedious this was. Her chuckle sounded low. For a moment he wondered how she caught his thought.
"I have two goals Captain: stability and intelligence. Through this game I convince your father to keep your brother off the market for as long as possible. Help to rectify the damage done by your refusal. The disaffected fiefs will continue to hope for a chance at power and influence through him. Not to mention a route to sharing both Dol Amroth's and Hurin's wealth. The poorer fiefs tithe just as much in men and arms to Gondor's army, but they struggle still. That is fertile ground on which resentment can start to grow."
He was startled and not a little nonplussed. It had never struck him so. "What is so very different now than in grandfather's time? The people love the Steward. They are loyal. They know we do our duty in every way we can."
"They were loyal, Boromir. Hope. Hope is the difference. Ecthelion held peoples' hearts and minds. Your father can command only their loyalty, not their love. Since Thorongil there has been no Captain for the people to follow." He hissed at that, the urge to not speak the name aloud reflexive. Amerith rolled her eyes. "You and Faramir must become the figureheads the people look too. That the people love. In war, in time of threat, people react on instinct with their hearts. It is not in your father's nature to understand this. I work to soften that."
"No King or Steward could have worked harder for Gondor. Many worked much less…"
"Yes that is true. But think. When was the last time your father toured the country? His father did so every summer."
Absurdly, he found himself defending a man he was uncertain of himself. "We have best army of the free peoples of Middle-Earth."
"Yes and you, in time, will be its head. War is threatening, the shadow will grow. As of now we can confidently field but 10,000 men. That is scarce the size the van when last Gondor went to war."
"The fiefs would not dare fail in their support?" For the first time he began to feel queasily uncertain.
"Perhaps. And just perhaps we need to keep them on their toes. If people think we are lovers Boromir they will tell me things, hoping to influence events. Denethor keeps his own counsel far too much, relying on his not inconsiderable abilities. His mistake is thinking that others will be as logical and calculating as he is. Events could get away from him."
She looked up into his worried face and laughed low and quietly. "Oh dear one, the council is a cesspool. I am afraid I have shown you more than you want to know. But worry not, it is years yet before you need to coat the skin of even a toe in its decay."
After that they finished the measure, each caught within their thoughts. Boromir bowed as the music died away and escorted her from off the floor. Suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to be back in Osgiliath, away from the need to think around corners, from the need to peer too closely into people's hearts.
Faramir hurried over. He did not hide the frown of concern upon his face. "That seemed rather a serious conversation for a ball?"
Amerith tilted her head and gave him a wry and knowing smile. "Why gambling, gambling is always serious."
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~~~000~~~
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The gentle sound of birdsong rose in the predawn glow, yet the Steward's eldest son, the one used to sleeping deeply and undisturbed, lay still awake and restless on his bed. Even as he tossed and turned, his younger brother slept peacefully (alone) in an elegant townhouse; for once not beset by dreams of green and dying.
Boromir should have slept. Really there was no reason not too. He had done well in the gambling; very well in fact. Had treated himself on the proceeds to the best brandy he could find and the most exclusive lady in the city. This scratched an itch, but only for a while.
Now in the light of dawn he worried guiltily. Once again, his heart was left unmoved. There was no room. No room for any but those he held so close: his brother, his father, and always Gondor. All three he loved fiercely, so fiercely that that he feared to let them down. His father he knew loved Gondor too. Had loved it so long and well that he no longer knew where her needs and his were to be divided. Sometimes Boromir worried that this too would be his fate.
He believed his heart, like his father's, held no more room. Sometimes, we are given the tools to know ourselves. More rarely we are given the grace to understand we have been wrong.
It would be many years, many tankards, many women and many paths, before Boromir learned something all too precious. As he lay cradled by an ancient tree, his blood watering its roots with pain and iron, the son of the Steward was gifted a moment of exquisite clarity.
He understood, after all, he had been wrong. He had room in his heart for a king.
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~~~000~~~
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The Twenty-seventh ruling Steward, as was his custom, had excused himself early from the feast. As many would surmise, he retired to his study to make useful the later hours of the evening. In haste not to let down his lord, Cahil, his faithful butler, slipped out as well. It seemed likely the Steward would need some of the many papers of the council or reports from the company just come in. It helped, his servant found, to anticipate his lord and master's needs. In that way he was less likely to feel the heat of his master's chancy temper.
Pausing briefly at the council room, the pudgy older man adjusted his robes and mopped his brow. His lord expected proper turn out and he had indulged a little in the dancing. Most everyone, except the unlucky with the watch, would be still at the Great Hall, partaking of the merriment. He sighed. Picking up two neatly labelled stacks, he hurried along the nearly empty corridors.
At the Steward's richly paneled door the guardsman knocked and he was admitted. He found his lord not seated working at the desk as he expected, but standing by the window, gazing thoughtfully out at an ink dark sky. The stars were hard and brilliant. Fair Ithil, bright and nearly full, shone clearly through the clouds gathered above Osgiliath athwart the river.
Cahill bowed correctly as he was able with his arms full of parchment. "My Lord. Is there aught else you require? Warmed wine and bread and fruit perhaps?" The older man did not know what tired the Steward so, but it was usual for him to fortify himself before continuing. Of late, it seemed, not a night went by that his lord worked there long past the midnight bell.
"Yes...that will do. My thanks."
Cahil laid his burden down and moved towards the door. His master sounded unusually tired and distracted. Perhaps he should bring meat and cheese as well. Oft times the Lord of Gondor needed encouragement to eat.
Denethor stood once again beside the window, pondering its view of moonlit field and river, the mountains to the east already cloaked in snow. He scrubbed wearily along his jaw, his gaze hard and unyielding as the stars. Suddenly he turned back.
"Cahil?"
"My Lord?"
"There is something else that I require. Bring me my suit of mail."
If he was surprised by the unusual request the faithful servant was too well trained to let it show. "Yes, my Lord." He bowed again and swiftly left the room.
The first decision taken, alone again with his grim and troubled thoughts, Denethor turned to the issue of most pressing need. What to do about his younger son?
The evening past the Lord of Gondor had learned all he could from the wizard he once thought to trust. Higher in his forefather's shining tower he had listened to his traitorous advisor's words, sifting through the chaff for kernals of truth, wrapped as always in flattery and distraction. How are your sons? How fares your younger boy? He was wounded was he not? Innocent questions on the surface but with his knowledge they had taken on a deeper meaning. He had bidded his time, trading trivia of orc ambushes and rumours from the south. Nothing that the wizard could not have gained quite easily another way.
When he judged the moment right, he had asked a question of his own.
"Saruman, I ask a boon. I have need of your deeper knowledge of old lore."
Caught within black and shining stone, the wizard's long and somewhat mournful face, split in to a smile. "Of course, Lord Denethor. I live to serve the need of Gondor in any way within my power."
" We have found a strange device upon an orc. The one who tried to slay my son. It may help to understand why the creature bore him ill. I have searched such scrolls as I can find but can only find one image like it." Here he had taken his greatest risk. Drawing attention to his knowledge. It would not do for the Istari to think also of a plate of Curumo.
"Ah, well done, my Lord. And what is this new design?"
The voice was one of guileless interest.
"A hand upraised, traced out in white. As of Aule, the master of design and craft."
Here he chose his words and images with utmost care. The palantiri, wrought by Feanor in his youth, were made by one who loved the honesty of art and the beauty held in truth. They could not show falseness in any way. "I am… uncertain of my gleanings. But the text notes the name of one Aulendil, a devotee of Aule. Aulendil who is also the Nameless One. I wonder if it could be he." I wonder, but I do not believe.
He had trembled at the effort, his hands concealed under the black and silver flowing robes of office. The Steward marshaled then the one advantage he truly had in this chancy game. He alone was the rightful user of the Anor-stone. It would do his bidding in a way the stone under Saruman's control would not. At his thought Orthanc's highest chamber was revealed in far greater detail, its minutest sounds clear as a lark's song on quiet summer day.
"The hand upraised. Yes my Lord, I have seen it long ages past. Aule poised to smite the seven Dwarf fathers before Eru stayed his hand." Denethor had seen the barest sheen of sweat upon the wizard's brow. That was the time to press.
"Then is it Aulendil's sign Saruman? Think you the One behind the plot?"
The wizard's expression had become one of sorrow and resignation. "Yes, yes I do. Your reasoning, Denethor, is impeccable. You must look closely to your eastern borders if he is set against your sons."
Ironic were those final words. The Lord of Gondor spoke truly when he replied. "Thank you for your learned council. That is, of course, what I shall do."
He had broken the contact and slumped back within a waiting chair, panting slightly from his effort. The cost was high but to be certain was essential. Much rested now on the path that he would take.
Saruman the White, the master of deceit and lies, would never know that a Noldor's love of truth had betrayed him to his foe. The Orthanc-stone, unwilling to transmit words too close to falsehood, had shrieked, low but faintly audibly. Far away in the Tower of the Anor, the Lord of Gondor (also learned in lore of ages past) had heard and read the sign.
Now, this evening, the Lord judged the time had come to act upon the knowledge. The greatest safety lay in acting while the wizard thought he followed a false lead.
Denethor had no need of maps or diagrams to know exactly where every unit and company in his army was assigned, where every orc party had been sited, each recent skirmish had been fought. His formidable memory kept every line and detail ever at his fingertips.
He had already in his mind discarded most of the companies in the farther reaches. The risk of another focused skirmish was too great. A small part of him counseled to keep Faramir under guard in Minas Tirith, but that too had its risks. It would be always hard to protect from hidden risk in the crowds and throngs and he had little desire keep his son locked away within the Citadel. If he was honest with himself he knew they would both quickly tire of the constant contact.
He could of course, send Faramir back to second Boromir. The Captain could rely upon his younger brother while keeping him close under his watch. Knowing his eldest as he did, that would be exactly what Boromir wanted and expected. It was also most likely what others expected he would decide, and that alone made it less appealing.
There was, however, another point that the Steward mulled, one that made him more than a little hesitant. Denethor loved his eldest son. Intensely. Unreservedly. Perhaps even a little unequally. But not blindly. He was not entirely certain that Boromir had the skills and instinct to forestall another plot. It was not his eldest's style: the dagger in the dark, the poisoned dart or drink. He simply did not think like that at all and he had to to keep his brother safe. No, Osgiliath was not the place.
That left one company: Ithilien. Hidden. Safe in refuges utterly secret and built in Turin's time, designed to never to draw attention to their ways. There his son could be kept from all but the chancest harm. It was an idea that had much merit, suiting well, he thought, his youngest's natural abilities and temperament. There was, for the moment, little fighting. Scouting, knowledge gathering, denoting details to glean a greater picture, these were the company's focus. He knew Faramir was skilled at observation and had his own uncanny memory. Would notice the subtle changes in the land, the sounds and patterns that were disturbed. His younger son, lithe and lean but strong, could learn to move silently and with stealth in a harsh terrain. And he had, the father must allow, no small skill at archery. Ithilien it would be.
The decision taken to his satisfaction, Denethor partook of the wine and food that his butler had brought. Swiftly, the man returned and laid the object of his errand upon a nearby couch. Denethor dismissed him and, with an ease that would have surprised his sons (never in their memory had they seen him dressed to fight), slipped on the stained and padded doublet, adorned with the White Tree as befitted one who had been the Captain-General. The hauberk he pulled on next but left off the coif. Wrought of mithril steel, the suit was strong and light, but not too light: it was meant to be worn ahorse. Through its weight he would increase his strength and stamina. The long ride to Cair Andros had shown the need for that.
He was absurdly pleased to find how well it fit. Lean and lithe despite his seventy four years, Denethor found the padding pinched just a little on the arms. Elven-thin some would have said, but he would not have thanked them for it, this man who long ago had closed his heart to Eru's first children, pierced by the knowing gaze of a lady who had stood serenely beside a mirrored pool.
The sable and silver robes installed again, he reached for the waiting cup. The wine too, if he was honest, gave him needed strength. There was no tremor or hesitation as he drained it to the rich and spicy dregs.
He had thought long on this. It was time. He surprised himself, liking the symbolism of the act. This too would be a battle, one to test him as nothing else. He did not plan to fail.
Moving a little slowly and carefully at first, unused to the bulk and restriction of the armour, Denethor ascended the steep and winding stair of the Tower of Ecthelion and left far below the sounds of feasting and enjoyment. Let them revel. All too soon Gondor's winter time would come.
Girded as for battle, he stood once again in the hushed, expectant silence of the high and secret chamber. Ithil had risen more. His silver light poured down and cast streaks of light and shadow across the chamber floor. One, a shadow from the east, fell across the polished orb and blurred the images tumbling there.
One by one, the Steward reached out and closed carefully the shutters upon the crenelated windows; the weight of the mail by the sixth and last made his fingers tremble just a little. Were it only so easy, he thought, to banish the Shadow from our land.
His steps were measured, already gained in confidence as he walked carefully around the gleaming plinth to look toward the east. He bent down, cast his mind outward, forced the images to stillness. Opened the long debated move.
Beset now from east and west, the need for Gondor to know the true strength of the Enemy had become a sharpened goad. Trusting his own will, blinded by his pride, the Steward of the palantir in the Tower of the Setting Sun reached out and touched its corrupted twin in the Tower of the Rising Moon.
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~~~000~~~
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Notes on the Old English
ealu bora: the main pourer at a feast
bragafull: a ceremonial drink by the host after speeches by the war leaders
beot: a ceremonial toast, typically a boast of deeds to come.
thyle: the warrior who challenges an unlucky toast and turns it back.
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Thank you so very much to the Guest and Guest44 who both reviewed recently. It is so very encouraging and thrilling to know that people are enjoying this ever expanding story.
Thank you so much to Thanwen and Annafan for critters and encouragement! Sloppy punctuation (as always!) is my own :)
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