A prince is lost. a new Captain joins the board. A new gambit is employed
T.A. 3010 Gwirith
The deck's worn, dark planks lay sure beneath his feet, while all about the sky's dark vault enrobed him like a mantle; blue-black and studded with a myriad white and sparkling jewels. Ithil, above, kissed the churning sea and gave of his faded lamp a silver light to twine in endless swirls of shimmering green and blue upon the waves. To seaward, low in the sky, the brightest star of all the dawn led them on: bound to Vingilot that sailed the heavens round.
The ship he trod was not Vingilot, not silver-white wings and oars of gold and sails of shining light. She was no swan, but a swan-ship, silver on deep sea blue, graced the flag upon the mizzen mast. A hunter, a fighter, lean and swift and foaming grey to hide upon wide dark sea. Minuramar, Wings of the Dawn, was her name and east she had ever sailed.
At the shrill broken cry of a kittiwake he looked up and caught the flag snapping as a stiff and following breeze took hold. Boards creaked and groaned, protested like an old man rising in the morning, now the boat heeled and turned to windward. Around him a dozen men hurried to and fro, tied down the great foresails and set the jib.
The tall young seaman stood half hidden by the flurry, relaxed and easy with the roll, a strong hand upon the starboard shroud. The neck of his tan linen shirt lay open, his dark blue coat was worn and faded from many hours in the sun and spray. A short black beard framed a proud and narrow face: unlined but for a few creases about the merry eyes. His glossy raven hair was tied in braids twined with bead and shell and clasped about his head by a sash of darker blue. Upon his arm was a golden band of dolphins leaping in the foam.
Drawn forward, with a shock he realized he knew the shining light grey eyes and wry half-grin, if the not hair and garb. The smile was his own and so the eyes. They were the ones they both shared with his long-departed mother.
"Grandfather." He found himself pulled into a swift embrace by strong arms and work callused hands.
"Faramir." Warmth and love washed over him but the touch of hands and chest were gossamer, fleeting, light as a siren's call. " I am so sorry we could not meet again, my lad, but I must go. My time here is done."
He felt a sharp pain twist within his breast. "But where do you go?" It seemed impossible. That the years had flown so swiftly, that the prince had been called to judgement at the last.
Adrahil shook his head and smiled sadly upon his young grandson. "You know well, lad. Do not fight what has to be. Not all walk the Qalvanda to the Halls of Waiting, some of us are blessed to sail. But I have little time, the veil approaches and there is much I need to say." The grey eyes shone intently, held within a luminesence near as bright as that upon the waves. They caught his gaze and spoke into his very soul.
"No man could have been so blessed to have so many worthy grandsons. Please tell your brother what I say to you. It is not in him to hear me, to dream and cross the twilight. You and Boromir, both, I love so very much. You have made me so very proud."
"I will….I will tell him, Grandfather. I….."
"Nay lad, there is more and I have little time. I know your love, I feel it ever."
The light grey gaze became then serious, darker, more like to the shingle of Adrahil's home and bay. It was a thoughtful look he knew, from council or debate, points of lore and games of chess.
"You know Finduilas saw a king before she died…"
It was not a question. They both knew her vision and the pain.
"Yes." All at once hope and excitement coiled with urgency in his chest. His voice was low. He could barely breathe for the fire of the words. "Do you know him? Who he is? What is his name?"
The young prince shook his head. "I do not know. But again the dream has come to me. I give it to you now that you may know him in his time, our true king who will come again."
An image of a man washed over him, clothes rent and stiff with dirt, dark with the sweat and grime of long, rough toil. Brow furrowed at the scent of danger, he seemed ageless and yet laden with a weight of years and wisdom, grace and purpose. His brow and hair and eyes all told of the blood of Numenor. In the fold of the dark green cloak shone the thinnest edge of silver, the ray of a many pointed star.
"Adra, will you come." The stern young man who touched his grandfather's arm was surely the ship's captain by his commanding bearing. The image of his grandfather, this man was shorter, more wiry and weatherbeaten, with many scars upon his arms and Haradi tattoos upon his hands. With a thrill, Faramir realized who it had to be: Aglamir, his great uncle, whom he had never met.
"Yes." Adhril turned back and spoke quickly once again. "You must go, grandson. The way is dark ahead for Gondor but there is light. Trust. Be true. Hold fast, Ulmo watches the children of the One. Up from the riverbed and then the sea will salvation come." One more swift hug and then the moonlight glimmered, made the dolphins upon a strong forearm all seem to leap as swiftly they drew apart.
He turned and stepped down the waiting ladder. The rope was rough and unfamiliar under his archer's hands, the crusted salt stung the little fletching cuts. He stepped down carefully and sat in the small skiff that bobbed beside.
As he watched, the great ship turned to westward, her sails bellied and filled. He heard his grandfather's voice, eager, exultant, saw the high proud face and smile of purest joy. Above him a flock of darting kittiwakkes keened and cried and followed his small boat back to shore.
Faramir sat up with a start, heart pounding in his chest, eyes wide and dark, blankets all askew. Around him were not wave and foam and starry sky but rough granite walls and woolen bedrolls, the snoring and shuffling of sleeping men and the soft sussurration of the falls.
Panting, he took deep steadying breaths, filled his lungs with the familiar scent of pine and broom, and unwashed men. He did not see them. The vision blazed, it would not leave his sight. So it was true.
He lay back down: a tide of wistfulness and grief washed gently through. With the sound of the crying gulls and crashing waves receding, he knew then that Adrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth was gone.
.
~~~000~~~
.
Dol Amroth's many walls and graceful spires rose in tiers of blue-grey stone but little darker than the shining eyes of her fabled brave and wily princes. Perched upon a steep-sided peninsula jutting west into the bay, she sat serene and proud, steady as a swan upon calm water, impervious to the winds that blew ever to the shore. Her great sea walls, built also of the smooth and sparkling shale that strode the coves near by, enclosed an inner harbour studded with every ship and craft that folk could mind. Most graceful of all among a city nigh Elven fair was her Seaward Tower, Tirith Aear, standing high and prouder still just to the north. Listening it was said for the voice of Amroth, who searched always for his Nimrodel about the Bay.
On this sunny spring afternoon, Eomer, young Lord of Aldburg and Rider of the Mark, looked around him with keen-eyed interest, admiring the sparkle of the stone and the sun upon the waves. He and Rohan's Crown Prince had journeyed far from their home for the morrow's funeral. Adrahil, Dol Amroth's Prince for whom Tirth Aear's pennant lowered and her bell tolled mournfully, was a distant kinsman and steadfast ally. It was their honour to bring Rohan's respect and admiration.
The day before, he had walked in anxious silence through the Prince's palace to where its lord was laid in state. Imrahil, his three strong sons, his wife and daughter, stood pale and composed to receive their honoured guests. The young Lord, already awed by the splendour of the gardens, the rooms, and the abundance all around, was further awed by the sight of so many of Gondor's high nobility. Eomer was not used to feeling short. In Rohan he was considered tall indeed, but shaking hands in greeting, following Theodred through the receiving line, he was conscious of being an anomaly amongst the many tall, grey-eyed men. Tallest of them all, forbidding even, was the Steward of Gondor. By order of precedence, representative of the King, Denethor greeted his kinsmen ahead of them, his two handsome sons striding just behind. All the men and women who stood in the hushed and peaceful space were pale of skin and dark of hair, though Princess Leylin, he thought, looked more than a little pale…
Eomer had discovered over the days before that there was great hospitality to be found in other lands. He was surprised, thought why that should be so he could not explain. Princess Leylin had made sure their rooms, as befitted a Prince and his retinue, looked over the great walled garden toward the sea. When she had asked what he thought to be near the sea, well aware it was his first trip outside his home, he found himself admitting it felt familiar. The sky was wide and blue and the ever-present waves rode away into the distance like the swaying grass upon the fold.
Now, as he and his Prince walked at leisure down through the city streets to the market place, Eomer found himself grateful for his cloak. It was every bit as windy as he had been warned. A smell he did not recognize rode the breeze; sharp and green and briny as the sea itself. It was not unpleasant, but simply odd, one of many oddities he was adjusting to in this foreign land.
The market stalls were thronged that early afternoon. Folk strode hurriedly by, on their last errands before the day to come. The Prince's funeral had been declared a day of mourning. It felt uncomfortable to be so hemmed in, he and Theodred at times could barely walk for the people jostling all around. But each time he felt his discomfort rise some new and unusual sight caught his distracted eye: spices in red and orange and yellow piled in little pyramids upon flat woven baskets. Silks and swords, pots and bowls of many strange and intricate designs that Theodred explained were from far Harad. A great fish with a sword upon its nose he found altogether ugly, but was told, skeptically, it tasted best of all.
There was nothing that could not be bought. Except, it seemed, the perfect gift for Eowyn. He felt a pang of guilt. She had been so disappointed not to come. And though he had argued hard, Theoden, only just recovered from the illness that kept him in his bed, would not hear of being separated from his niece. The weak and querulous voice had pleaded. None other tended him so carefully, knew his needs so well. "Of course, Uncle." She had acquiesced, face set in the barest dutiful smile, but disappointment limned again her wide grey eyes. It was an expression he realized she wore all too frequently of late.
They walked up and down the stalls, Eomer searching with increasing desperation for something that would suit his proud and fearless little sister. Books and kirtles and handkerchiefs were all examined but did not suffice. A merchant eyeing their good swords and warrior's braids tried to interest them in jugs of the celebrated Belfalas yellow wine. It tasted thin and sour. He swallowed and mumbled a polite half-hearted compliment but wished longingly for ale.
As they wandered, Eomer realized they too were the subject of curious and admiring looks. Few around had fairer hair and Theodred's heavy torque was as exotic here as the soldiers' white Swan belts were to them. Eomer flushed with embarrassment to be eyed but Theodred took it with uncommonly good grace. The Prince could charm the birds from the very trees for all his temper and moved about with an understated confidence that was reassuring rather than intimidating. He admired his cousin's ability to carry himself in this unfamiliar place, the fire in him well hidden by a disarming manner and self-deprecating charm.
"They look like boys." Eomer remarked a little truculently in Rohirric, now thoroughly irritated after an hour's searching and no success in their urgent quest. He was amazed to see that not a single man within the lane before him wore a beard.
His Prince's snort of laughter was lost amid the buzz and clamour of the throng. "I assure you they are not boys." Theodred fingered his own chin thoughtfully and grinned. "Is that how you take me?" He turned broad shoulders for a moment to squeeze past a goodwife laden with heavy baskets.
"Of course not." Eomer replied quickly. "But your face looks older. They look so young…"
The Prince, quite untroubled to be called old, forebore to tease harder his obviously unsettled cousin. "Dúnedain. They live longer than we do, Eomer. Did you not see the Steward yester morn? He is twenty years older than Father but looks younger still."
Chewing quietly on this thought, the younger man desisted for a while, but as they rounded a dressmaker's stall he raised the point again. "Only one has even a really decent beard."
Theodred, who had been idly examining a bolt of fine blue velvet, looked up as Eomer nodded his head toward a tall soldier walking with a pretty woman on his arm. "Who is that woman with the red hair?"
The dark-haired man spoke quietly to his companion and a peal of merry laughter rose up. Something about both of them seemed familiar.
The Prince's face lit suddenly with surprise and happiness. "Lady Lossarnach, our cousin! Surely you remember…?" But with a pang of guilt he let the comment fade. How would the young Rider remember? They had only ever met at Theodwyn's funeral.
Awkwardly, Theodred cleared his throat and continued on. "You met her some years ago. Her grandfather was grandmother's eldest brother."
"And the man with her?" Above the close black beard, something about the man's intent light eyes reminded Eomer of Prince Imrahil. Surely he was a noble? The scabbard at his side was finely worked.
Taking in the grey eyes, aquiline nose, and narrow jaw, Theodred knew suddenly who it had to be. "Do you not recognize him from the hall? That is Faramir, the Steward's younger son. He left to stand honour guard before we could meet yesterday. Boromir said he is newly made a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers and has come straight here from patrol. I assure you the beard will be gone upon the morrow. We should pay our respects."
The Rohirrim pushed their way forward through the crowd. As they drew near, Theodred hailed them in his best Sindarin. "Lady Lossarnach, my eyes have been dazzled by the many fair sights of this fair city, but the sight of you puts them all to shame."
A startled but delighted smile and bright tinkling laugh greeted his extravagant compliment. "Cousin! Theodred!" Amerith put down the light gloves she had been fingering and accepted her kinsman's kiss upon her hand. "The sight of you is a fair surprise indeed. You are far from home."
"We would not miss a chance to honour the Prince. He has ever been a good friend to Rohan." Theodred turned and pulled a suddenly shy Eomer a little closer. "You remember our cousin, my Lady?" he asked.
"Indeed, I do." Amerith's bright green eyes sparkled with welcome. "Lord Aldburg, it is a very great pleasure to see you once again."
Somewhat less smoothly, the young Rider took the proffered hand and pressed it to his lips. He had had little practice in the formal courtly manners the Gondorians preferred but if the lady noticed his nervousness and hesitation she did not show it.
The Duchess turned and pulled her companion close. "Prince Theodred, Lord Aldburg, may I present my friend, Captain Faramir of Gondor."
The tall Gondorian inclined his head in a respectful and graceful bow, the rondels upon his black velvet tunic flashing briefly in the sun. "Westu Hal min Aelfric," he addressed Theodred in perfect, if oddly accented, Rohirric.
"You speak our language?" Eomer exclaimed, delighted to hear the familiar words.
"I have studied it some, yes." came the modest reply. This son of Steward, with his elegant manners and elocution, clearly had had far more experience at courtly life but he was no dandy. There was also in his light grey eyes a keen intelligence and a calmness and competence to his demeanour that Eomer found he liked at once.
"Westu Hal, Captain." Theodred returned. "It is a surprise and pleasure indeed to find you both here."
"It has been too long since I last heard your charming speech." Amerith's voice was teasing but the bright green eyes sparkled in happy amusement. "How is Uncle? And Great Aunt Morwen?"
The Prince of Rohan's brows drew together in a frown. "I have little time for friendly visits I am afraid. These days we are ever on patrol. But Grandmother is as much a force of nature as she ever was. Still hale, if but a little slower." The faint smile at the mention of his redoubtable grandmother faded quickly once again. "Father has been…. less well…. of late."
Theodred's quick glance to Eomer was brief, but the Duchess's shrewd green gaze did not miss it nor the hesitation in his carefully chosen words. Less than fortuitous affairs of state should not be discussed in the open air with so many ears about.
"I am sorry to hear it so." Smoothly, she let the obvious question pass and turned to Eomer. "Cousin, your sister, the Lady Eowyn, how is she?"
"Very well," he replied, saying the first thing that came into his head but then fearing his face looked less than earnest. Well was decidedly not the right word. There had been a worrying bleak emptiness to her soft grey eyes as she dutifully lifted the stirrup cup.
Theodred's eyebrows shot halfway up his brow as he struggled mightily not to laugh. His awkward smirk did not pass unnoticed. Eomer, catching the interested gaze of his companions, tossed his older cousin a dirty look and hastened to carefully explain. "She was not pleased to miss a chance to come. Uncle would not allow it. That is why we are here this afternoon. I am a little aggrieved to not find a suitable gift to bring her home."
The duchess clutched excitedly at Faramir's arm, her face lit brightly at the thought of focused shopping. "Surely we can help you find something! Dol Amroth has the best market in all of Gondor. How old is she now?"
"Fourteen my lady." Eomer replied.
Faramir, trying to be helpful, gestured back the way they came. "We just passed a stall with some dolls and other toys."
Amerith's tinkling laugh made him blush. "She is a little old for those, my dear. You have, I forget, had little practice buying gifts for girls."
"I know my cousin Lothiriel." the Captain protested, but a finely-tuned sense of humour showed in the laughter-lines about his wry half-smirk.
"She is only ten. The Lady Eowyn is nearly a woman. There is wonderful stall with ribbons and rare beads just one alley over." She pointed crosswise to their path and made to move, but looked back nonplussed at Theodred's quiet snort of laughter.
Eomer once more hastened to explain. "Nay, my lady that wouldn't suit Eowyn either."
Theodred could not contain himself, enjoying immensely his cousin's discomfiture. "The Lord of Aldburg, dear cousin, has much to learn about women. I am afraid the one he knows the best is somewhat… unusual."
"Knowing women better hasn't helped you any in your quest." Eomer snapped, but just as quickly flushed scarlet with embarrassment. He had forgotten to use Rohirric in his haste.
Two pairs of eyebrows, red and black, raised up. "Ah, am I to assume the funeral may be the main, but not the only, reason for your visit? Every young woman of marriageable age in Gondor is here. It would, of course, not be done for any of them to miss paying their respects to Adrahil and his sons." A smile of mischievous delight graced the Duchess's face.
"As you guess, my lady, I must find a wife…" Now it was Theodred's turn to blush. With no mother of his own, his aunts busy with their own manors, and his father less than well, Rohan's Crown Prince had been left to his own devices to search out a suitable Princess. He was finding it an increasingly frustrating endeavour.
Now speaking to his cousin once again, he was reminded of how enjoyable her company was. They were nearly of an age. At one time it had been thought a promising match.
"I don't suppose I could convince you to reconsider, my lady?" he asked, picking up her fingers to kiss her hand once more.
The red hair tossed and green eyes sparkled at the compliment. "And deny an ambitious young debutante the chance to be a Queen? Never. Besides, I understand you are quite famous for your skills at gentling young restive fillies. Why deprive you a chance to display them?"
As Eomer raised his hand to hide his smile he noticed a sudden furious frown upon the Captain's face. The man's lips were pressed tightly together in a thin angry line and his light grey eyes were stormy. A smile of polite and bland correctness slid so quickly back the young lord of Rohan thought it must surely have been his imagination.
The tall Gondorian looked quickly up toward the sun to gauge the time. With a hurried mumbled comment about his turn for the honour guard, Faramir excused himself and suddenly wheeled and strode away.
The two Rohirrim exchanged a confused and startled glance. Had they done something to cause offennce?
Gondor's Captain left the startled group so quickly in his wake he did not see the Duchess's eyes narrow thoughtfully nor hear her words as she took the Prince's arm to walk.
"Come, we shall find something for the Lady Eowyn and discuss the merits of the other young ladies you may meet."
.
~~~000~~~
.
The stretching shadows of late afternoon cast their soft grey embrace, their quiet introspection, upon the hushed and patient hall. Soon the sun would go down into the western sea and eventide would quickly fall. Then the last of the Prince's subjects would bid their farewells and the honour guard would watch his final rest.
Faramir, grandson of Adrahil and Captain of Gondor, stood to the west at the foot of the golden bier. Torches had been lit against the closing dark. Their flickering glow made the great ijolite in his sword glimmer, as did the silver thread of Gondor's tree upon his breast. His cousin Amrothos stood to the right. The thin white belt of Dol Amroth's knights esquire was for the first time about his waist and made him look much older than his sixteen years. Rothos stood so stiff and still, so proud to have newly gained his honour from his grandfather's hand, that Faramir found himself checking his face quite frequently. It would not do to have the new Prince's son faint before them all.
In time, the last visitors drained away and the family were alone again. Quiet words and brief steadying clasps were given in exchange. Faramir shyly hugged his Aunts, a little startled by how thin and pinched Leylin had become. He wished he could ask his uncle about the change but knew it was not the time; the focus for the moment was otherwise, as it should be.
As he passed the silent bier, Faramir bent to kiss his grandfather's brow. It was cool and smelled pleasantly of cinnamon and cedar oil. The scent of the embalmer's wares lingered yet. Adrahil lay enrobed in deepest blue, his circlet of ijolite and mithril upon the long white hair, the silver swan chased in fine needlework upon his breast. A captain's glass lay beneath his hands but not his sword. That blade he had gifted to Imrahil years before saying a man who rode a chair had need only for a quill. Now, still and silent, merry grey eyes dimmed, his grandson was amazed how little of Adrahil's three and ninety years showed in the smooth, proud face. Only his wrinkled, weathered hands and famous snowy mane gave away his age.
Faramir felt so very blessed for this gentle and thoughtful man, the one who had been such a constant in his life. No matter the vagaries of his father's chancy but coveted fair regard, the long years and months of swift, sure change, the fleeting happiness and bitter disappointments, the rock of his true self had rested longest here. Not upon the white stone of Minas Tirith, so often absent of his brother, but the grey and delicate spires where he had always known he was welcome, always known that he was loved.
With a heavy but grateful heart he turned and stood to attention once again. In the solemn quiet he could not keep his thoughts from Adrahil's final gift. The vision burned as bright before his eyes as it had in Ithilien weeks ago, as bright the leaping dolphins upon the gold arm band. The leisure to worry its import made him uncertain if he were blessed or cursed to be his mother's son in this.
Anxiety and hope now chased each other endlessly by the tail. They had been amplified by the closer quarters the Steward and his sons had shared on ship from Minas Tirith. Relieved to find his father and his brother speaking once again, Faramir had not even minded that Denethor quickly re-embraced his fulsome praise of his eldest's martial exploits. Boromir, for his part, had returned a wary courtesy. Trust would be hard won. Yet over the idle days both men had found they had something more in common. They were restless, each suffering to be cut off from their mirrored vices of knowledge and sated oblivion. Gradually they had become more at ease their enforced rest and Denethor had lost the harder edge that marked his recent days. Still Faramir had not found the fortitude to tell him of his dream nor why he had reached the City before a messenger had been dispatched.
The urge to share the hope was strong. The urge to keep it his was stronger still.
Watching the two he loved the best debate hotly some point of tactic Faramir had admired them, the way they threw themselves wholly into their pursuits. He felt these days that he had become too much the Ranger, moved too lightly across the land. Doing everything well but nothing deep. Holding his passions back while inside a hollow ache grew ever greater. His own restlessness he held carefully in check, as if he were on guard the long days round.
Brow furrowed in the deepening twilight, he sighed quietly and glanced toward his cousin. Rothos looked tired but not glassy-eyed. That was good. With a start he wondered where was Boromir? The evening shadows were growing longer and was he not supposed to be with him on this watch?
Faramir was not certain, but he thought ruefully he could well guess where his brother was. The Captain-General had become nothing if not wilder since his promotion, indulging every whim in the hard won moments away from his increasing duties.
A rush of telltale heavy footfalls echoed across the hall then slowed respectfully as they approached the bier. Boromir saluted his younger cousin, green-grey eyes flashing, hair just barely combed. He looked handsome and far more sober than Faramir expected. His knots of rank were straight upon his shoulder and sash flat across his chest. Amrothos gravely shook his head and retreated to his rest.
Alone then, the brothers stood properly still once more, heads bowed. The quiet huff of their breath and gentle hiss from a single brazier were the only sound. Faramir, unable to contain himself, risked a sidelong glance. Boromir was well turned out, there was little hint that not long before he had been underdressed. With one exception. A stray black thread dangled on his brother's tunic. A silver rondel was missing from its place.
A knowing smile lit his elder brother's eyes. They had caught his gaze and followed it, down to his uniform and up again. The corner of Boromir's mouth twitched as he struggled not to grin.
They both knew why his brother had been late. With a wink and toss of his raven hair, Boromir pursed his lips, raised a hand, and furtively blew his little one a kiss.
Faramir shook his head, his own mouth twitching with the effort not to smile.
Blessed Valar his brother would never change.
Suddenly helpless to stop the laughter that bubbled up, Faramir heard the merry echo in the hall and let it flow. He knew with grateful happiness that their grandfather would not mind.
.
~~~000~~~
.
"Thank you Nelleth. That will be all."
The young woman put down the brush she had been wielding and curtseyed once. Attuned to her mistress's moods, she shut the door quietly behind her.
Amerith had dismissed her maid unusually early; she wanted time to think. Her evening's necessary errand required thoughtful preparation.
Practised hands twisted the long red hair into a neat chignon and pinned it carefully in place. A quick look in the mirror showing nothing out of place. She picked up the fine cut crystal glass from the table and took a tiny sip. The smooth and honeyed amber liquid burned. It was Imrahil's best brandy of course. She must remember to thank Leylin for knowing her always unconventional taste.
With no small relief, she was pleased to find herself in Dol Amroth for the succession. Not Langstrand or Erech, the other far but crucial places where the Steward's reach grew long.
She had listened and watched intently in the marketplace that afternoon. The Prince was loved and his son was too. Imrahil was indeed a gem. Fair. Just. Strong. The people would follow him unquestioningly. Her discrete questions about the Steward brought a quite different response but that was no great surprise. These days she heard a wary obedience to Minas Tirith in all her travels, but thankfully no open scorn. That, she knew, may yet come. Denethor's recent raising of the levies had rankled many lords. There were less folk these days from which to draw. The merchants grumbled too. Goods went unsold, crofts lay empty and fields stood fallow. The people of Gondor were dwindling. She could see it, as did her lord, but he was increasingly obsessed with only looking east. Somehow she had to find a way to make Denethor look also to his lands.
It was still a bitter disappointment that the chance for help from Far Harad was gone. For Gondor, the only source of greater aid lay to the west in the long neglected farther fiefs and Rohan farther still. How much aid could they share if they too were increasingly beset? She must find time to speak to Theodred privately. The guarded looks between the Prince and Eomer had been worrying. Something was afoot, something more than a simple illness of the King. She needed to know more.
Amerith knew her own position had become more difficult. Denethor had knowledge he was less and less inclined share. The lords were now asked to vote and agree with one who clearly did not trust them and gave them little credence. The grumbling had begun. She needed room. To manoeuvre. To counter Denethor's worst instincts. To stiffen the resolve of those who had begun to waver. Being allied openly with him no longer helped.
Her first instinct was for their split to be a highly public one. It would suit for the gossip to run wild and here in Dol Amroth most of the nobility would be party to the show.
And though it rankled she knew full well the way the spectacle would be seen. The Duchess, no longer young poor thing, cannot keep the attention of her handsome lover.
She sighed. Ran a still smooth hand across a creamy throat. Her pride was not the issue here. Indeed for her to be thought taken down a peg would only make the rumour run faster still.
Yet now she hesitated. The afternoon's events had been more than puzzling. Indeed they were a worry. Faramir, she knew, would have ridden in haste to Minas Tirith then had a long journey down the river. Surely he was fatigued, but could that alone explain his behaviour that afternoon?
Mulling the options, she absently dabbed a touch of rare and precious gardenia oil behind her ear. None of them were good. She had not before considered that the Steward's son would not want to follow the end game to its logical conclusion. Developments, it seemed, had outweighed her careful plans. For the moment a public show was out.
From across the bay the bell of Tirith Aear tolled the evening hour. Amerith put down her pins and bottle of scent and picked up her new bought gloves.
Drab for once, in linen skirts and a plain grey cloak with her bright hair covered, she hustled through the palace unrecognized.
It was time they truly talked.
.
~~~000~~~
.
The Duchess held back within the hall, found a vantage point near the door to watch and wait until Faramir was released. To her practiced eye he looked more tired and even a little stiff. Boromir seemed fresher and, as usual, better dressed. She smiled fondly. There was something about formal clothes that made the Steward's younger son look just a little out of place, as if he were surprised to find he was no longer on patrol.
While she watched, a tanned young man in the lieutenant's uniform of Dol Amroth's fighting fleet walked shyly up to the bier. This must be Erchirion. She would not have recognized him but for his uniform; he was bulkier now, with a harder wiriness from time at sea. The Captain hugged his cousin hard and quiet words of commiseration echoed softly in the vaulted hall. Saluting his still captive elder brother, Faramir turned and walked quickly across the grey stone pavement, body tight as a bowstring. Clearly he wished to finish his duty and be away.
"Fara may we speak..?" She had not meant to startle him but in her haste, Amerith stepped more quickly then she had planned.
He stiffened. Grey eyes narrowed briefly in annoyance but they knew each other far too well for him to stay taken aback for very long. He had reason to hide before but to do so now would be more than simply hurtful, it would be foolish. With a sigh of resignation, he bowed and offered her his arm.
Together they walked down the colonnade to the high sea wall. At this time of night the crowds were gone and the street was clear. A fresh wind arose and a few wisps of cloud lightly cloaked the evening stars and quarter moon. The scent of white jasmine, sweet and pure, drifted down on the soft and sultry air.
Faramir, ever-courteous, had shortened his stride to hers. They ambled, in no great hurry to reach their destination nor worry the thorn that pierced them both. He was afraid to speak the truth. She was afraid she knew what it would be.
Once they reached the wall and found a bench, the lady sat patiently, pretending to admire the play and sparkle of moon light on the waves. Amerith was determined to let Faramir have the opening and could be far more patient than many would have guessed.
She did not, in the end, have to wait too very long. He knew it too. Could read her mood in this, if in other things he did not read her very well.
"He asked." The quiet baritone, to do him credit, did not sound so very jealous. "He asked for your hand. He was not entirely joking."
"Not entirely. No." She felt him tense at the swiftness of her agreement while he studiously refused to meet her gaze. The ornamental braid upon his cuff held a curiously uncommon fascination.
She inclined her head and tapped his hand to gather his attention. "Theodred is perhaps getting a little desperate. He has done just as your brother has. Sown his oats, kept an eye to war and sung songs of slaying in the hall. He has a daughter and a mistress in the Hornburg, did you know?"
Faramir's light grey eyes widened. He obviously had not. That perhaps explained the strength of his reaction. "So long as they are not under Theoden's nose in Meduseld it seems to matter not. But now he has woken up and still he is prince and heir and there are other necessities that must be."
"Is that the reason you are not interested? That it would be a just marriage of convenience?" The angry toss of his head made a few strands of raven hair come loose from the velvet ribbon. Annoyed, one hand reached back to roughly pull the tie, but he did not look her way.
"Why do you think I should be interested in this at all?" she asked. Had they not talked of this long before? What possessed him to think that she would want it now?
"You could be a Queen…." Jealously, blind and thoughtless, leaked from around the oh so straightforward words.
"Stop! Just… stop."
Deliberately, Amerith let a little of her hurt wash over him, to make him feel what he had refused to see. "Please, use your fabled wits for but a moment. Whether I wanted to leave my home, leave Lossarnach and Lebinnin, which I do not, I cannot be queen to any king. The whole point is that he needs a legal heir. You know I cannot give him that."
Faramir flushed and bit his lip, abashed. She saw the light of understanding in his eyes. Her greatest grief and he had chosen to awkwardly rub it in. "I am so sorry."
"You should be." She watched him rise and turn away, trying to hide his discomfiture in motion. At the wall, Faramir planted both hands upon the smooth top surface. In the dark, the black velvet of his tunic gave the illusion of a deeper shadow.
"Why? Why do you do this?" the lady asked when he was still again. "Why sully what we have with jealousy?"
She watched the fine, long fingers restlessly pluck a few tendrils of green from between the joints. They fell like faded prayers about their feet.
Too many heartbeats passed and still Faramir did not speak. The warm, salt-kissed wind rose higher. It whipped the long black locks about his face, made a curtain of night that hid the pain and confusion she knew must lie within the clear grey gaze.
When he spoke it was to the sea and not to her. "I do not know." The usually unforgiving sea could not know that he was lying.
With a sigh she reached and stilled the hand restlessly shredding its victims on the wall. Was she not, next to his brother, the one person with whom he need not stand sentry on his words?
"I thought, dear heart, we had agreed to be always honest with each other?"
He flinched and turned. The words stung as she had meant them too. For once, if he choose, he could be foolish and let emotion guide his tongue. She saw the decision flit through his eyes and waited for the long guarded words to come.
"Is there…. no one you could give your heart to?" The whispered words were low. It took less courage to speak so soft and she had to strain to catch them above the wind.
He held his breath, uncertain of their reception.
So that was it. She held her thoughts shielded tightly as a drum. This man who had always loved so deeply, so selflessly, who drew out the best in others and put their needs before his own, had at last wanted something for himself.
Aching at what she had to say, Amerith pulled off one silken glove and with fingers that trembled but a little reached up to touch his cheek. The new beard was soft and downy. It filled the hollows below the narrow cheekbones and put years upon his younger face.
"Oh love, I cannot give away something that I do not hold. I have tried, time and again, but it does not last. My heart will always come back to lie, with dust and silence, in Rath Dinen under stone."
Swift sure hurt darkened the clear grey eyes. In that instant she knew what she had to do. There would be no public row, no entertainment, the split had already begun in truth. Still she could give him a little more. Just enough to blunt the hurt but not foster hope. Green eyes pleaded, asking him to follow where she led.
"Niena, lady of mercy. I know. I know the yearning in you. The long shadow that grows. The light that is becoming hard to find." As always she had read him well. The chiseled face jerked round, pained eyes were all too bright. A few wisps of cloud had now veiled the thin and pallid moon.
Then, because she was weak and could not bear to see him hurt, she reached up and touched, just once, the bow-shaped lips. Stopped him speaking before she went on. Her voice quavered a little through the gentle smile.
"It would be so very easy, do not doubt, ever, that. And yes, for a time it would light the closing dark. But it would not be fair to you. You are too like him Faramir. You deserve to be loved wholly for yourself."
Bare fingers trembled harder now but not with cold. They reached down to clasp his, seeking an anchor, a buttress for the part of her heart that would give in, that needed comfort as surely as he did.
She saw the confusion in the clear grey gaze. How to make him understand?
"You have a chance for something more. For a love that will pierce your breast and take your breath. That will gallop roughshod through your heart. When that day comes, Valar may it be soon, all the heart that I have left will overflow with joy."
She saw his pride war with the hurt and watched, grieving, as the mask slid back in place. He took a single pace that might as well have been a league.
"You and my brother both. Though where either of you find your certainty I do not now." It was as if they had never talked, though the fine archer's fingers did not grasp hers back.
"Will you come…?" The clouds had cleared. The stars glimmered hard and brilliant in their vault of bluest-black. Across the sky white fire streaked, a shooting star was one minute there and another gone. Just so had their moment of danger passed.
The dark head shook once. "No. I have been too long within the hall. I need some air."
He looked to seaward once again. She dropped her hands and meant to turn away but impulse grabbed her hard and would not let go.
She stood on tiptoe. "Goodnight." His cheek below her lips was cool. He did not flinch and but neither did he move. That was enough.
Amerith forced herself to not look back, to leave him to his thoughts and walk swiftly up the nearly silent streets. Outside a house arrayed with the Prince's blue and silver banner an old lullaby drifted out on the nighttime air. The tune should have hurt but this night she found it oddly comforting.
True love, a mother's or a lover's or even of a land, was ever selfless. But the right thing was sometimes very hard to do.
.
.
A/N The Bell Tower of Tirith Aear is referred to in the Red Book of Westmarch. I have moved the timeline of Theoden's illness back four years to merge events. I apologize profusely to the Eomeristas out there. I have taken liberty with his height. :)
Thank you so much to loopid and HisGirlMonday who followed since the last post and thank you once again Guest44 for your wonderful review. It is so very much appreciated and keeps me going.
My grateful thanks and kudos to Annafan, Thanwen, Adaneth, Lia and Artura for comments on this draft and to Wheelrider for her wonderful and skillful beta'ing.