The black knight seeks the white rook, the white bishop seeks the king, a new gambit opens.
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Goran sat his horse, wide-eyed, mouth slack, trembling in fear and wonder like a new born foal. He quite simply could not find a point of reference for the sight that lay before him. Awe-struck, he risked a glance beside. Na'man whickered but stood peacefully, untroubled by his master's more internalized anxiety, but Goran was not fooled. Behind the dark keffiyah Najir's face had blanched so very pale.
Already the first Gondorim trotted smartly across the bridge, supremely unconcerned by what for them was merely a routine event, to pass thereby from one side of the ruined city to the other. The shoes of their heavier mounts thudded dully on the stone, as Mablung and Faramir hung back behind. The two lieutenants waited patiently for their guests to move, exchanged glances when the seconds stretched into minutes.
Still the Haradrim sat unmoving, awed by a sight they had never contemplated.
Great Anduin, a ribbon of shining blue, misted in the early morning sun, stretched as far as the men could see. North and south, for many, many leagues and many times wider than a horse, the cool bounty of the river flowed on. It was impossible, yet here they stood, poised to cross a bridge over more land-locked water than either could have dreamed. Poros, fabled in song and story, was as a trickle next to this.
It hurt to see.
Najir let out a long slow breath. The sun played upon the water, sparkled and kissed the lazy eddies, the grasses waving along the bank. The view was gentle, serene, the river wide and slow, but evidently quite deep.
So much. Lips moved repeatedly, a prayer of thanks, wending westward on the wind.
"Is something wrong?" Faramir's voice betrayed no great concern, more puzzlement, as he looked between the two men who sat frozen at the edge. They were safe, the bridge was whole, there seemed to be no reason for any great problem that he could see. He looked toward the older man, one eyebrow raised.
Najir, in truth, knew hardly what to say. How could he explain? How could he make these men understand a thirst so terrible one could not speak, tongue turned to stone, rigid behind lips so parched that they would not press together? How could he explain the deep and burning ache of shoulder muscles straining to pull up buckets from the well; minutes and minutes of desperate pulling for a taste of brakish, bitter wet?
"No." Najir replied. With difficulty he tore his gaze from the bounty below their feet. "It is…a shock, that is all, to see this, Lieutenant. Our home lies upon the desert. Water there is life. A gift of the gods. It is precious and sustains us. You must understand, to us this is wealth beyond imaging. We have heard of the boundless water of the sea, but the sea one cannot drink."
Faramir seemed to understand something of his conflict, waited patiently while the Haradrim's gaze followed the ribbon yet again. Light played upon the water. A golden leaf drifted gently down, its path wayward as ripples on a dune, Caught in the river's foaming, Najir wondered whither it was bound and if he had fortitude to follow.
Great Araw are we unworthy to have so little? When he spoke again he tried to keep the bitterness deep down within his heart. "East beyond even our home the oases are few and far between. The people had grown more desperate as the winter rains failed year by year. The priests came down the shadowed mountains and promised water and wealth to all who would worship their new Lord. I am not sure I can censure a thirsty man for abandoning his god."
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Courage gathered for the ride, the Haradrim urged their skittish mounts under the bridge's eastern arch. It took a little time and many pleading words before Goran and Najir convinced their horses to step quickly by. Lest they change their minds, their masters kept both at a steady trot over the rush and murmur of the river underfoot.
Once crossed, within the silent, towering streets of west Osgiliath, they drew a quiet breath. Here the stones and monuments and palisades were a marvel too, but next to the River, a modest one for the Haradrim who knew well that stone lay under sand.
To pass the Causeway road they spread out and rode two by two. Mablung rode with Goran and answered sparingly as ever the many questions that came to him. Faramir rode with Najir, who for the present, seemed unmoved to speak.
The young sheikh, in truth, was struggling with all that he had seen and noted. So many challenges, so many false assumptions. This he now had to face, as he sifted the past days' experiences. How could he reach these men and make them understand? Were they truly too different to bridge an ancient gulf?
As they rode, he watched the Gondorim ride beside. Faramir wore no helmet, had thrown off his hood to catch the wan rays of the autumn sun upon his face. The sunlight glinted on raven hair that whipped about his face in the rising breeze.
The Sheikh shook his head at this small but telling difference between two men of war. In his home only those of little sense or reason went uncovered in the sun. This looked so very strange. He noted to his surprise that through the day that the Gondorim's milk white skin did not burn. Perhaps here, where the sun above was pale and the air was cool, it was not unusual.
Abaan said too much water and pale, weak sun bred men of little purpose. Soft, uncaring men, not used to toiling for their very days. To look upon the Gondorim, he knew this was not right. They were not weak and worthless men like the godless, uncovered hedons of the southern coast. These men had defeated the Qahtani many times before: the name of the Gondorim still struck fear into a rider's heart. Uncomfortably, the Haradrim let another of his prejudices fall.
Faramir rode patiently through the morning light, not wishing to intrude upon his companion's thoughts. At last a long slow sigh let him know Najir had settled something in himself, the high proud face grew less strained, dark eyes less troubled and more clear. He decided to risk a comment, looked admiringly upon Na'man's proud arched neck and powerful small body.
"Your horses are very beautiful, they move so very gracefully yet are so light and swift."
"They are bred to run, Lieutenant, with large nostrils to breathe the open wind and small bodies to fly upon the sands." White teeth flashed in the dark-skinned face. "We have a saying…'One can have enough women, one never has enough horses."
Faramir laughed. "How does one handle more than one of each?"
"Gondorim take only one?" Najir asked, genuinely surprised. "Who then keeps your wife company when you are away in 'Ithilien'?" The word felt strange and twisted up his tongue.
An embarrassed flush crept up Faramir's pale cheeks. "I have no wife."
Najir caught briefly a hooded sadness that played about the young man's eyes. Gravely, with no hint of irony he spoke as honestly as he could. "I mourn for you. To be not yet blessed by sons of your loins is a great sadness for so fine a warrior."
How could a man, a high born man, not be wedded at his age? He looked on Faramir's handsome, though oddly beardless face, kind grey eyes and marveled yet again. It was unheard of in Harad, most especially for the son of a ruling Sheikh. Perhaps customs were very different in this place, blessed as it was by all a man could need. Perhaps there was no rush, when the land was easy and babes thrived as easily as the land.
He pondered this before he spoke again. "It is said that after Poros we sent tribute to your land; horses and gold, but never women. To share kin ties a tribe together. It is unfortunate that my daughters are too young."
At the lieutenant's startled laugh he looked over in surprise. "That is the way is it not?
"Yes," allowed Faramir "but my brother is the heir, not I."
"I would not aim so high." explained Najir, but suddenly, aghast, realized the import of his words. "You brother, surely, is not unwed?"
Faramir's mouth quirked, and to his companion's relief, a light of humour graced the grey eyes again. "I thank you, honoured Sheikh, for your gracious consideration. You have may solved a major problem. I think to have more than just one wife might suit my brother very well indeed."
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The party rode smartly under the twin towers of the Forts and out onto the wide, brown fields of the Pelennor. The golden townlands had been cut some weeks before and now the fields were tawny brown, just stubble showing above the rich dark earth. Here too was plenty, enriched by the flooding of the river, a wide and open sky with ample sun; sustained by centuries of careful cultivation.
The Rangers horses eagerly picked up their pace, recognizing by the flat straight road that home was near. Na'man whinnied and shook his head, happy like his master to be in the open once again. Najir, caught his nephew's eye. The younger man was grinning, the whole set of his body more relaxed than it had been in many days.
They raised their eyes into the middle-distance. In a day of many wonders, the last, but most certainly not the least, was the sight of the White City gleaming in the mid-day sun.
To the Qahtani blue was a sacred colour, beloved of the Prophets, the hue of water and and of life. Here in Minas Tirith it was all around; blue of the river beyond the fields, blue in the eyes of tall and fair-skinned men, blue in the sky that was touched by the sparkling mountain peaks, blue shadows on the white snows of Mindolluin.
By the time a trumpet called the Ranger's bright and climbing note and they passed through the great carven gate, the Haradrim had fallen silent once again.
So many people, so many streets, so very many strange and startling sights. Can a man, Najir wondered, wander so very far that he cannot find his way back again?
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~~~000~~~
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The urgency of the season's change was felt upon the now gelid air and in the frost-hard soil; forest creatures scurried quickly to lay in their winter store, birds flew hurriedly to find their winter haven. For Eru's children, the autumn's steep decline meant only more travail. Most shivered as the days grew cold, but thought little of the change. This year was harsh, the last was so, the next would be the same. Eru only knew why it should be so.
A few, a very few, understood this change to mean this season would be different.
A prince from the far southeast sought help before winter's cooler air brought thunder with the rain.
A lord of the fading west spent every waking minute gleaning knowledge before the dark of winter's night trammeled visions in a stone.
A wizard worried for the still quiet north at last sought help, before winter's snows locked too many spies upon the land.
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~~~000~~~
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The sharp fall wind blew oak leaves dry and sable-brown aloft upon the air. Those already fallen underfoot crackled at each step. The sound they made was taunting, a perfect imitation of the warm and welcoming fire he hoped to find at the end of the long road.
The old man gestured, and a capricious gust of wind pulled a trail of burnished leaves upward in its spiral. For a moment a great mallorn tree sprouted, rose and bloomed, danced lightly on the breeze, before another gust tore its leaves away to begin their dance again.
Beneath the grey and battered hat the Maia shook his head, the faintest of smiles just visible below its brim. Old fool, you are playing like a youngling.
Ages of Arda had passed and still Gandalf liked best in all the year this golden time; the ripened wheat taken from the fields of Rohan, the pipe weed cut and dried in the Shire's barns, the mallorn leaves of Cerin Amroth limned by their winter majesty.
Sadly, in the raw and windswept eve he had no time for harvest ritual, nor even time for rest. He was in haste. The messages from Rivendell spoke of byways no longer safe and spies along the road. Every lane and weald and upland that he had passed north of the Greyflood sported new ears and eyes. Invisible to the unwary yes, but not to one who was ever vigilant.
Treason was the foe he had always worried most about, both on high and in the alleyways and hedgerows. Wariness had long guided his designs, made his search for knowledge a solitary pursuit, ruminating to himself upon the many paths before him. So rarely had he company on the road, man or elf, bird or beast, the disguise of a muttering, wandering old man was not much of a disguise at all. It had, through long years, slowly become the truth.
He pulled his hat more tightly down, lengthened his stride and hastened again his pace. When last they spoke, Elrond had scolded gently; reminded him that the time had passed for comfort in long established habits. Counseled him to seek out and lean upon another ally. Though he trusted his learned friend, it would not come easily to speak of his fears or concerns so openly, however pressing was their present need. However trustworthy and vested the recipient.
"Niena, lady of Mercy, help me see my way, thy servant toils and has need of thy greater wisdom." The words fell gently from wind chapped lips. It was prideful folly to think that he should do too much himself. Guide and assist. That had been his charge. I thank you Lady also for the wisdom to know when I am being foolishly stubborn.
Sometimes one must take a risk, drop a stone into the water to see what it will bring and watch the ripples carry across the pool of time.
Patience, old man, anno enni i innas an narthad a estel
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Gandalf stooped that wild and blustery night and passed the Inn's front door, shaking the clinging leaves from his stained grey cloak. It was not the first time he had graced the Prancing Pony, nor would it be the last, but it was the first with its new young publican, the latest in a long unbroken line of loquacious and distracted Butterburs.
Barliman Butterbur certainly thought nothing so very odd of his new patron, the coins he laid were not so new, his manners easy and not obsequious. The portly host drew a pint without looking down or stilling in his chatter, his hands knew by instinct where spigot stood and the lip upon the cup. He talked lightly and without pause of local happenings. The newcomer surveyed the room; it was merry and bright, a fiddler warmed up in one far corner, while about the tables voices warmed as well.
The old man before him accepted his pint with grateful thanks and raised the jar. "Your heath, good man." With a grateful sigh he rested his long bones upon a stool and took a sip.
"Aye, thank ye, sir. Enjoy your drink and grab another quick. We've 'ad so many feet these last few days I wager we could run out of beer if it keeps on this rate all night."
Gandalf's eyes crinkled in appreciation. "Folk far and wide surely know the quality of the Prancing Pony's pint."
"Folk far and wide is right, but many new faces too. Everyone coming and going these days, though why so many for'ners want to come to Bree I am sure as I don't know. And them Rangers…more 'an them, here and the road." A damp dishcloth swiped at glass, busy hands never still just like the busy lips.
"Rangers, yes an entirely doubtful lot." The wizard's lined and weathered lips curved into a smile. "Have you one called Strider? I was told I could meet him here."
"What would you want with one o' them skulking, no good, trouble makers?" Butterbur's eyes narrowed just a little. He was, by nature, less sure of a man who would truck with the wandering folk.
The wizard pondered quickly what he could say, here where ears were listening and tongues were ever wagging. He had yet to make up his mind about the trustworthiness of his new host. Caution, as ever, he felt to be expedient. "They have their uses surely? They know the North and all its tracks 'tis said. I must find my way to the Last Bridge."
"Last Bridge, that is a piece. Well if it's Strider you must want he is over there." A hand paused in its drying of another glass to point to the dim recess of the farthest corner, well out of the way of the merriment to come.
Hidden by a hood, the object of their perusal sat silently and still, pipe in hand, long legs spread out before him and ankles crossed. He sat, as always, with not the easy sort of still that comes from well-earned rest beside the fire, but with the brooding sort of still that could shatter in a moment. Pale grey eyes roved restlessly about the hazy room, caught the wizard's eye and nodded once. As he stood and drained his tankard, the grim and weatherbeaten face quirked just slightly. It was, the Gandalf knew, what passed in these uncertain days for his widest, welcoming smile.
As they drew together under the low and smoke-stained beams, the elder pressed a gnarled finger to his lips, head tilted to a small, swarthy figure by the door. "We are watched." In the bustle of the room, only the Ranger heard his whispered words.
"I am not surprised." said Aragorn, twitching his hood farther over his lanky hair. The small half smile widened to a feral grin.
"Shall we lead him a merry chase?"
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They did not, of course, take the expected route out of town, nor did they hurry. Perhaps it truly was the aimless wandering of old friends, making for a fire and a nightcap somewhere else, keen to rest their weary feet upon a hearth. Perhaps it was merely an evening's stroll to take in some fresher air. A well played ruse, but not one they truly thought would fool the one who followed.
He was, in fact, quite good. The little Dunlander had done such jobs before, found he liked the easy coin; far easier a job than trying to coax a few tubers from their family's stone-filled ground.
The shadows cloaked him well, as he slid from the lee of a spreading oak to another farther on; the moon was just a fingernail, he was in luck. The night was dark but it was still alive and far from silent, the creatures were restless with the wind and cooling air. Birds called somewhere down the lane, but he could not place them.
The caw from near above was unfamiliar, sharp and grating, like a scratch upon a child's learning slate. He started but then forced himself to settle.
His eyes followed the pair of men as they walked in an unhurried fashion, moving with the ease of long companions, comfortable in each others pace. He did not know their names, only roughly where they were bound and that he was to meet his handler back again.
The chitter of a squirrel next echoed in the branches overhead; the angry scolding staccato that meant the creature was perturbed.
He glanced upward in irritation, not need anything that drew attention to his hiding spot. Shut up, you nervous ninny, he thought, it is not you that I am after.
It was just ill luck that they stopped beside his tree. Slowly he faded back behind the mightly trunk, blended farther into the shadows, hoped those who passed assumed they were the ones to startle the little creature. His keen eyes caught a sudden movement: the Ranger had reached up and tugged sharply on the old man's hat, remonstrating surely with something the old coot said.
The sudden movement made him nervous; it never paid in his line of business to be caught unawares. A knife rested in his boot top. He thought longingly of its comforting haft and reached.
With a startled cry he found he could not pull it, another set of hands seized his, pinched cruelly at the tendons in his wrists. He dropped the knife with a strangled cry, muffled by a heavy gloved hand that clasped across his face. He struggled wildly, but the man who held him was much taller and fiercely strong, and nearly had him pinned.
Nearly, but not quite. Halbarad's leap had been a little too awkward for his road weary boots. He had struggled not to curse as the battered sole split and threw his balance off.
For a few uncertain moments, not planted as surely as he'd like, the Ranger worried his captive might break free. A sudden whoosh of air brought a second pair of flying feet and knocked the little man flat to the ground.
"Nice of you stop by lad," Halbarad's mouth was set in a fine white line. He was not pleased. None too gently he pushed the spy onto his chest and tied his hands behind.
"Thought I'd finish my pint first." Caradoc, hood thrown back and dark hair wild from his sudden sprint, grinned brightly back. It felt good for once, to have been the one to help.
A low grunt made certain the youngling knew what the veteran thought of his jest. "Tie his legs and grab the knife." A dirty gag that tasted of whetting oil was shoved roughly across his mouth.
"Some help you two were. Thought you were walking straight to Weathertop." The Chieftan and the wizard exchanged a knowing glance. Halbarad's growl was not entirely unexpected.
"I have to cut the apron strings sometime." Aragorn explained, grey eyes dancing under the bright moon. "Come, bring him along. We shall see what we can learn."
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The camp was rough but remarkably efficient, ten men had settled into the many small tasks of the early eventide. Commotion over, their captive lay hands bound, little worse for the wear and tear of careful questioning. He had, as Aragorn had expected, known nothing of great use, but the search of his filthy, ragged person revealed much more than he could know. Scillingas, small and gold, the coin of Rohan and Isengard, lay sewn into his cloak.
Gandalf stood thoughtfully to one side, let the preparations for their meagre evening meal pass unhindered. He watched the Chieftain of the Dunadain go about his business, conferring with the men, easy with his role but attentive to all he should.
Elrond, the wizard realized, had been exactly right. Here was a man leagues away from the eager youth he had first met nearly fifty years before, humbled and no little daunted by the weight of lineage revealed. Many miles and years of toil were now marked indelibly in his wary eyes. Wary but wiser now in the ways of men. From Thengel he had learned it was not weakness to be patient, even for Men who had little time, swept along by the unending rush of years. From Ecthelion he had learned that praise does not diminish the one whose gives it, nor is it lessened to be shared.
Throughout the meal Gandalf watched the dark and brooding forest, oddly alive this night though Ithil was but a pale shining sliver. The sparrows that flitted from branch to branch had not found their evenings rest, nor had the smaller woodland creatures. A marten, to the men's amusement, boldly pinched a piece of bread.
He coaxed and cajoled the little birds, trilled a passable imitation of their song, yet they would not come to him, nor take the seeds and nuts he offered from his hand.
Suspicion gnawed and he could not settle. The Rangers looked on in puzzlement as their guest rose and raised up his arm, staff glimmering in the dim.
"Forgive me blessed Yavanne." The words were low but thrummed with purpose. All at once his arm thrust down and the staff pounded upon the turf. A dark shimmering in the air fanned outward, grew and rose to cover their meeting place. A startled noise arose as wings and paws all fled. Inside the veil an eerie quiet fell.
"Now, I hope, we may confer without ears beside."
"Ears and eyes, I should think." said Halbarad, reaching out a curious palm to touch the curtain that lay just beyond his perch. He looked no more astonished to see such magic aloft upon the air than to find a firefly flickering in the night.
Others were not so easygoing. Caradoc, a load of firewood in his arms, near jumped out of his skin as the walls rose around him. A log fell and, embarrassed by his fumble, the young Ranger quickly bent to pick it up. His flushed cheeks flared darker still when Gandalf reached out and laid an unexpected hand upon his shoulder. "Hold young Dunadan. We will not stoke the flames for now. I ask in fact that you douse the fire for a while."
Uncertain what to do, the young man caught his Chieftain's doubtful eye. Gandalf hastened to explain his strange request.
"By firelight we can be seen if by some ill-chance an Eye is roving near. The barest glimmer could be enough. In this, I take no chances."
It took but a moment for Aragorn ponder the advisedness of the wizard's words. He nodded quickly to the younger man. Clearly, this evening was to be more than simple visit with his friend.
The fierce hiss of rising steam filled the quiet space as Caradoc bent to pour water on the glowing coals.
Satisfied that all precautions had been met, Gandalf settled his long frame upon a log, gesturing for Aragorn to sit beside. "It is very good to see you my friend, but we have, I am afraid, little time for smaller matters. By tomorrow I must be on the road again." Blue eyes turned intently to scan the Dunadan's grim face. "The first signs that all is not as it should be have come to Rivendell."
"Aye," said Aragron, and it was clear the knowledge did not please him. "Strange creatures and stranger persons gather here as well: wolves, foxes and even elk boldly hang about the outer fences. Swarthy men of uncertain errand hover on the byways. Hald has had far too many strangers ask for help with broken horseshoes."
The grey head nodded thoughtfully and a lined hand stroked absently the long white beard. "Just so. There are many types of spies. The very birds and beasts, as you have seen, are watching all we do."
Aragorn turned to search the wizard's face. "Whose? His or another?" There was no need to give a name, Gandalf's sense of caution had seeped into his bones.
"Both I fear. Though Saruman does not yet have dominion over Yavanna's works. I suspect he has used his silver tongue to turn one guileless to his tool."
Aragorn's voice was low and weighted deeply with unease. "All counsel must then be guarded if we cannot trust the land around."
Gandalf looked for a while into the waiting dark, ordered thoughts made darker by the implication. "I do not think it is yet quite so very dire, but we must be more prudent than before. Long and selflessly have the Dunedain guarded Eriador. Now the time of gathering begins. I would ask you double your watch upon its borders, especially the Shire."
"The Shire" Aragorn seemed surprised. " It is still a sleepy place. What of interest would spies seek there?"
"A pure and enduring heart and the gift that it yet holds." Gandalf replied. Beneath the bushy eyebrows, blue eyes twinkled for a moment.
The expression on the The Chieftain's was puzzled. He raised an eyebrow and waited patiently.
"There are… happenings that give me pause. A Hobbit who has never lied to me has lied."
Aragorn sighed and shook his headm, uncertain still of what the wizard meant. "Your words are no more full than one of Barliman's famous pints."
Gandalf chuckled and smiled ruefully to himself. "I am sorry, I speak in riddles. It is difficult for me to speak openly to anyone." The wizard bent his head and sighed, rubbed his hands anxiously across his knees. It seemed to Aragorn he was almost at war within himself.
The wizard's gaze now raised and Aragorn followed where it led.
Halbarad sat not far away, keeping close to his Chieftain as was his habit. The quiet stretched and a soft creak of leather sounded as the Dunadan rose and moved away. He had had no need to look upon his cousin's face to know that was the best time in all that day to mend his boots.
Blessed man. Yet still the wizard hesitated. Elrond's gentle voice echoed in his head. Estel is the one we have been waiting for. Trust him. Open your heart to him. You have not the time to watch and wait and make your own judgement. Trust me. "Enough." The word was spoken impatiently, heavily, but clearly to himself. It came out into the world compelling a response.
"You are the heir of Isildur, Aragorn. What I must now speak of concerns you most closely. What do you know of how your forefather died?"
"He fell at the river, Great Anduin, pursued by Orcs." the ranger answered, surprised by the line of questioning. This was old but well thumbed lore. "Drowned there it is thought, though his body was never found."
Gandalf nodded slowly. Below the heavy brows, blue shone brightly in the night. "From that day the weregild Isildur took from his Enemy's hand has been thought lost. Saruman counselled us that it was drowned and lies yet safe in Ulmo's keeping. But I do not believe him."
Aragorn's grey eyes grew wide and dark. He could not speak; his heart hammered in his chest. Hope, hope they needed most, in those years that grew only colder and more grim.
"A hobbit of the Shire many years ago took from a chance wayfarer a gold ring, one with uncommon powers. At first I thought naught of it, many are the lesser rings of power. But I have come to understand that Bilbo, this hobbit, has lied to me about how it came to him. Never before would he have done so Aragorn. And yet more worrisome I have heard him say it is precious, just as Isildur spoke of it."
"You think it could be the Enemy's…?"
Gandalf quickly raised his hand…"Do not name it! We understand each other enough I think. I believe we need to know better how this unnamed ring came to that wayfarer and how he had in his keeping. The creature, Gollum by name, ranges widely, has been many places far and dark."
The Chieftain's craggy face was for the moment unconvinced. "You believe it could be…what many seek…and yet you leave it with this hobbit? Do you not take it to guard yourself?"
"No!" exclaimed Gandalf, his voice laced with startled fear. "I do not trust myself. Nor any man or elf in Middle-earth. The temptation is too very great, my friend. Even your foster-father will not touch it. A pure and earnest heart is no great defense against its siren call. It tempts all who tarry near or carry it. Seeks to turn them to its purpose, dominate their will, turn them its own dark designs. Always it will promise what its subject desires most. No man that does not want something within this world is safe."
"And the hobbit, is he not also in great danger of corruption?"
The wizard's face was split with a gentle smile. "Ah, now there is one advantage we have in these uncertain times. There is a reason Celebrimbor did not forge rings for the Little People. They are not so easily tempted, Aragorn, not so much as Men. Their wants are simply made: good food and drink, a quiet hearth. They have no need of magic to achieve them. For now, I believe it will be safest where it is."
Aragorn stretched and sighed. He gazed up at the dark vault of the encroaching night and the stars hanging in their cradles, searching, it seemed, for an answer out of time. "Then we must hunt for this creature, this Gollum, and hear the story from his own lips. And without delay." He glanced sidelong and caught the wizard's gaze. "I will join you on the search if you will have me. My forefather's action set us to this place, it is fitting that I should help repair the fault."
Gandalf smiled and clapped a wrinkled hand upon his shoulder. "I knew I could count on you my friend." They rose and the wizard turned to tip his staff against rippling dark. The curtain fell and the gentle murmer of the night rose around them all again.
Halbarad, quiet as a cat, rose from his seat and walked back to where they stood. Without a word, he reached up to touch his liege's tattered cloak and unpinned with nimble fingers the six-pointed star that glinted dully against the green.
"You are going again in secret, are you not?" he asked, glancing between the two startled men.
"How did you know?" asked Aragorn, surprised. "You did not listen to our counsels?"
"Of course not." The Dunadan glared for effect and slowly shook his head. Aragorn knew him better for all that. "I do not need a wizard's sight to know the pattern before my eyes. Every time we meet Gandalf at the Pony our plans turn upside down and we lose you for a while."
Halbarad fingered the brooch within his hand, seeming to collect himself before he spoke again. His eyes were worried and pleaded softly in the dim.
"Just don't be gone so long this time."
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~~~000~~~
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"Lieutenant! What an unexpected pleasure. Her ladyship did not say we were to expect you. Do come in." Amerith's elderly seneschal bowed to the visitors on the townhouse step and opened wide the door. Only the barest hesitation belied that there was anything curious about the circumstance. Faramir smiled. Trust Willen to treat a Haradrim on the stoop as no more than an everyday occurrence.
"I did not know myself that I was coming. I am sorry we have come unannounced." the young man explained as he gestured for Najir to lead the way. The Haradrim gathered his flowing robes and stepped lightly across the threshold.
Faramir hastened to introduce his guest. "Willen, this is Najir, Sheikh of Qahtan. He is here on an embassy to the council."
Najir gracefully inclined his head, hand clasped about his wrist and palm open, in the curious gesture that Faramir had seen the day before. He wondered for a moment how imposing a sight the man must be, all black robes, elaborate curved sword, nothing but his eyes visible through the equally dark headdress.
"Your excellency." Willen's greeting and the bow that followed were as smooth and polished as the floor of Merethrond. "The honour is ours." He turned his attention back to the younger man. "Please come this way." He motioned for them to follow, steps nearly silent against the soft plush carpet of the entrance hall.
Faramir was surprised when they did not turn at the door to Amerith's salon. Willen discretely cleared his throat and hastened to explain, as the younger man started by habit to turn that way. "I am afraid we did not expect guests, Lord Faramir. The salon is being cleaned and rearranged on her ladyship's orders."
He continued down the hall to a quiet, darker room that Faramir knew was rarely used. The carven door bore the Ship and Star sigil of Pelargir, the ducal seat of Lebennin. This had once been, he realized, Taras' study.
Najir, gazing thoughtfully about the richly appointed room, rewrapped his keffiyah with a practised hand: the room was cool, the fire had not been lit.
Willen, too well trained to stare, kept his gaze on the young lieutenant, who was himself admiring the polished carvings. "I will send in the housemaid to light the fire right away, milord. The Duchess has just yesterday herself returned. Should I have your rooms made up?"
"No, no need," Faramir replied. "The sheikh and I will stay at the Citadel. We will meet with the Steward, but there are a few things I must pick up before we do. I seem to not remember where my dress clothes are these days. I assumed that they were here."
"I had then sent for cleaning, my Lord. If you will attend a moment I will lay them out for you to choose." Silently, the elder man bowed again and left.
As he walked slowly through the room, the Haradrim admired closely the designs upon the walls. What he saw was a delight to one more used to art on a small and detailed scale. Panelled in red lebrethon, each wall bore a design depicting the journey of the Faithful, the stars that guided them and their landing on the shores of Beleriand. Grand and darkly elegant, Faramir was quite certain he had seen nothing like it in the Steward's palace. But it was large canvas above the stone fireplace that caught his eye and for a moment made his heart beat hard in instinctive fear. The fall of Westernesse, a rising, foaming wave and Meneltarma to be lost had been painted by a skilful hand. Beautiful, and terrible and almost too very real.
Najir paused in his puzzled examination of the fireplace itself to look up at his companion. "What is it, my friend?" he asked, wondering at the wistful yet haunted look within the pale, grey eyes.
"Numenor." explained Faramir, in a hushed tone of reverence. "It is of Numenor at the very moment the Valar struck it down."
This too then, was another wonder. The scene could be one taken from their prayers. "The Prophets spoke of a wave, but one that washed clean an evil place, home to men of pride and greed, heretics had turned away from Araw and been lost. Perhaps it is the same."
Faramir looked back, brow furrowed in concentration. "Perhaps it is. I did not know Amerith had a painting of this scene."
"Amerith is a woman who lives here?" Najir asked, curious after the earlier conversation that he could not help to overhear. Faramir had said he was unwed, yet clearly, if Najir understood their quickly spoken words, he lived at times with a woman at this place. A small smile graced the Haradrim's dark features. There was obviously more to the young Gondorim than he was letting on.
"Yes, she is our hostess, duchess of two of our larger fiefs. I expect we shall see her any moment."
"Is she your sister or your aunt, Lieutenant?" Najir asked, wondering at the connection still. In his experience, one did not ever live with a woman who was not a relative.
"No," Faramir shook his head, a slight flush rising up his throat. "Neither actually, I only have a brother. My aunts and uncle live in Dol Amroth to south."
"Ah. The Haradrim frowned in puzzlement for a moment. Unless…. Black eyes glimmered with understanding and amusement. "Your concubine." he said, satisfied at his deduction. Surely that explained the discomfort on the young man's face.
"No." Faramir hastened to reply, blushing redder still. "No, she is not my concubine." Nor am I, more rightly, hers…he thought ruefully for a moment. "Amerith is a widow, a member of the council," Valar, he did not want to risk offending the Haradrim, but how could he succinctly explain Amerith? "It is…. complicated."
Najir threw back his head and laughed. "Are women ever otherwise?"
.
.
Willen returned quite quickly after that and, while a young maid laid a fire in the grate, he led Faramir through the house to his usual suite of rooms. The room was neatly made, far larger and tidier than his chamber in the Steward's apartments. A small selection of his favourite books lay stacked upon the bedside table; papers and letters arranged carefully upon the desk. He smiled. Nera and the Steward's staff had long ago quite given up trying to order his habitally cluttered space.
"Your dress tunic and uniform are in the press, milord. A few stitches and buttons have been fixed." The older man stood patiently just inside the door, awaiting any further needs.
"Thank you Willen, " Faramir smiled, appreciating as always the efficient running of the house. It never wavered, even with his rather irregular comings and goings. "As always your service is by far the very best."
"Thank you my lord. We each serve in our own way." The elder man's tone was just slightly wistful. He had, Faramir remembered, served with the Lord of Lebennin; been with him when he fell. A white scar from orc blade curved across his cheek to the corner of an eye than no longer caught the light.
A sound of footsteps came from out the hall and both men turned. They had caught the distinctive whisper of silken slippers and skirts hastening to the room.
"Faramir! Oh darling, we did not expect you." Amerith, positively dancing with excitement, ran across the room and caught him swiftly in a hug. Waves of delight and surprise washed over him. He stooped to peck her on the cheek.
Hair hastily piled, dressed simply in a morning dress, she was possibly the least made up that he had ever seen.
"Have I brought you from your toilette? You are dressing late this morning." Gazing pointedly over her shoulder, he grinned and pretended to search the outer hall. "Should I make myself scarce? Have you a guest?"
The tinkling laugh rose up as a small white hand swatted him on the shoulder. "No!"
With a happy sigh she looked him up and down, relieved to see no injury or hurt. In the year that had passed she learned to not worry so. It was an old familiar feeling to wait and wonder. It did not change.
Faramir caught the thought and smiled, lacing long fingers through one hand to kiss her wrist. "I am quite fine, not a scratch."
"What brings you?"
"I have left a Haradrim in your sitting room."
"Really! my word. Chained to the furniture?"
"Amerith, you are terrible." Faramir laughed. "No, he is not a spoil of war. A supplicant to the council."
"Too bad." Came the quick reply, green eyes dancing wickedly at his blush. She laid one hand upon his arm, ready to lead him back, as he gathered the clean uniform. "Ah, well that is different then. We must not keep him waiting."
.
.
Faramir followed Amerith's gliding skirts back through the halls and to the study door. They found Najir, hands clasped behind upon his lap, waiting patiently upon a window seat. At their entrance he smoothly rose and bowed so low he might surely have kissed his knees.
"Shukran Jazīlan, duchess, blessings on your house."
It took a moment for Faramir to realize what had changed: the keffiyah had been removed and hung loosely about the Haradrim's neck. Gold winked in tiny beads that threaded through the long waves of his dark and gloosy hair and dangled from his ears. A design of curves and graceful arabesques was patterned acroos one cheek. He made, the young Gondorim realized, a handsomely exotic sight.
Amerith smiled prettily and to Faramir's astonishment, sank low, eyes cast down toward her toes. "We are honoured by your presence. You are well come to the city and this house, Shiekh of the Qahtan."
The Haradim reached forward and grasped her hand as he smoothly raised her up. Gold glinted in dark, expressive eyes as the barest kiss of darker lips grazed across her knuckles. "It is said on a day when the wind is perfect, a sail must open and the world is full of beauty. Today is such a day. Your beauty, great lady, has been under-exaggerated by my men."
"As have your manners, Prince of the Sands." The duchess graced him with her most radient smile. She waited just a moment longer than strictly necessary before letting go her hand.
Faramir stood dumbfounded, mouth hanging open, wondering by the Valar, what was going on? They knew of each other? How had that come to pass?
"Catch up my dear, paddle a little faster." The thought made him sputter in indignation, as laughing green eyes turned back toward their guest. "Your man, Najir, said you would be here upon the 4th. I am greatly relieved to find you are safe and well."
"We were delayed by some soldiers upon the road, my Lady." Najir explained, fingering lightly his mustache and hiding a sudden smile. He at least, had the good grace not to laugh. The duchess, felt no such compunction.
"All is ready for your arrival…." She began, but Faramir, now decidedly out of patience, cut across her.
"Willen said you had been away." Pale grey eyes flashed accusingly. Surely he would not lie, but Amerith, he suspected, was quite adept. Saying whatever suited, whenever it suited her.
"I have been." The duchess took a sip from a goblet of warmed wine a footman was silently passing round. "Taking the country air, visiting my nephew in Pelargir. It is amazing how many ships hurry to make it up the river this time of year."
An elegant hand picked up a morsel from the tray the servant now proffered in his other hand. "You must try these dear." she suggested airily, nibbling on a small pink cube. "They are made from rose water and sugar, delicate and delicious. I thought the Sheikh would appreciate a familiar treat after his long and taxing ride."
"Thank you no, my lady, I am not hungry." Faramir replied, determined not to be mollified. Surely she deserved him something of an explanation?
Silent laughter rippled across his thoughts. "You are jealous, Faramir, son of Denethor. I can't decide if I should be flattered or annoyed."
"I am not!" The retort was quick and he realized to his chagrin he had not meant to sound so loud. Amerith winced. Faramir had practically shouted with his gift.
Najir, all this time, placidly watched a minor war of emotion flit across the faces of his silent hosts. Not concubine, he mused, but surely not just a friend?
With an effort, Faramir mastered his rising anger. "I presume Father does not know about your meetings?"
Amerith shrugged, supremely unconcerned. "Denethor does not know everything I do. Yet."
"He would toss you from the council if he knew you acted without his leave."
"Oh I hardly think so." Amerith answered dryly. "He has always been shrewd enough to take the rough along with the smooth. I know just exactly where the line falls and am very careful to never step across it."
It was Najir, not wishing to offend his friend, who explained a little more. "The Duke had made contacts over many years with our people, Lieutenant. Trade of course runs down the river in Lebenin and across the bay. My father always felt it greatly wise to know better those of the Gondorim who might listen before shooting us in the back."
"Najram was a wise and learned man, peace be upon his soul." Amerith allowed. "I have been enquiring of the quorum present for the council. You will not find a greatly open welcome. A few of us consider this is an advised move. Lossarnach and Lebenin, Anfalas and Dol Amroth at the least. Elphir is here for your uncle, Faramir, Leylin has been ill again."
Faramir murmured quiet words of commiseration but his thoughts were only partly on his aunt. Was there no end to the network that Amerith kept her fingers in? he wondered, watching the two conferring in low somber tones about the various fiefdoms and their leaders.
He looked over to hear Najir ask the question that was also foremost on his mind.
"The Sheik of Gondor, the Steward? Do you know what are his thoughts?"
"Not positive." admitted Amerith, sudden nerves betrayed by the long hand playing nervously at the ornament in her hair.
"His will be your most difficult mind to change."
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A/N Thank you again so very much to Iris and Guest44 who I cannot pm for their lovely reviews and also to Artura, Blancwene, Cratiuspen, and wanderthoughtspace for following and favouriting this month. Sorry this chapter has taken so long...the next will come more quickly I promise :)
Eternal thanks to Annafan, Wheelrider, Thanwen and Gythja for excellent suggestions and beta'ing. As always remaining embarrassments are my own.