A prince is retired from the board, the white bishop reveals his weakness, a pawn makes an open move
The day Prince Adrahil was laid to rest was one of sun and high scudding cloud and sharp winds aloft but gentle breezes by the bay. A good sailing day t'was said, but not so very good that any felt the lack to rest in port. The city's streets were thronged ten deep. Hushed with expectation and heady with the scent of caborpin, the 'little frog', the brave buttercup that clung to every rock and now graced the path below the mourners' feet.
Adhrahil's golden bier rode over all. Five strong grandsons and three great-nephews paced in slow and steady time, bore their beloved lord to his final resting place. For Imrahil's sons, too young to know the passing of their grandmother or their aunt, this was a first. A solemn day, full of prayers and song and words of praise but little lamentation. The Prince had lived long and well and went peacefully to his rest.
For the Steward's sons, arms interlaced, hearts full, to walk was to traverse again the path of memory. To feel the grey-green stalks of mistletoe beneath their feet and smell once more the sweet perfume of winter rose along a silent street. Not for their mother the scent of spring, the earthiness and warmth and bright airiness of new green weed, but the scent of snow, that cool and slightly dusty freshness, so quickly marred by tramping boots and hooves. Old grief, they found, does not diminish, but slumbered. Rested uneasily until the wheel of time brought it aloft again.
At last, the cortege came to Lond Medui, the final port, the haven and resting place for every Prince since Mardil the Good took the Steward's seat. Twenty grey stone tombs sat low and silent, arrayed about a central path. Each was shaped in profile as a ship and in its hold lay its lord and captain. Swords and shields, horns and harness fore and aft, each prince slept forever with feet toward the west. Whither his spirit had been called.
Adrahil was laid in the twenty-first, paler that its companions, made of blocks but newly cut and unweathered by the stiff sea air. Salt water and the Bay's sweet green oil and pale straw wine were poured about his feet to ease his path. When at last the blue and silver shroud of swans and ships was laid over all and the door was softly closed there came the moment that Faramir would remember all his days.
With the bright new latch just closed and heads still bowed, a rush of wings and a prickling at his nape made the young captain look to the sky. A flock of kittiwakes, hundreds strong and crying in perfect unison, soared straight overhead. A flag snapped in a following breeze. The sight and the joyous sound lifted his drooping heart.
Boromir, attuned as ever to his little one, felt his brother's spirits rise and looked to skyward though he knew not why. He followed the flock out across the bay and with a sigh of longing wondered if others had felt it too. Joy. A pure and unfettered joy had travelled on those wings. Dol Amroth's twenty-second prince, his face suffused with wonder, turned and met his nephew's questioning gaze. He nodded. He had felt it too.
Beside them, the Steward's second son watched as the white ribbon travelled westward into the setting sun.
Thank you grandfather, Faramir whispered to Manwe's air, certain now that the Prince's spirit had reached the blessed shores.
~~~000~~~
After the service and a subdued if excellent dinner, the family and their honoured guests gathered in the library. The warm, sunny day had receded. Belfalas' famous winds rose once more and turned to shoreward. Now the sashes rattled with each heavy gust and Dol Amroth's new prince thought ruefully the morrow would be wet. An onshore wind always brought with it rain.
Imrahil had ordered the fire to be lit, though more for comfort than for warmth. In its golden glow he sipped his brandy and reflected on the day. Together, they had toasted the old Prince, and remembered his many years, filled with love and more than ample laughter. Truly, he found that he could not be very sad. He would miss his father, yes, but Adrahil's had been an uncommonly long and happy life.
I should be so lucky, was his heartfelt prayer. For Imrahil the only note of lasting pain came as he looked upon his wife. Leylin's pale and tired face contrasted starkly with the others in the room. A malady sapped at her strength and none knew what to do. His heart clenched. Fear would not help, just as the healers' tonics had not done. He must be strong and hold fast to hope. She would need him all the more. Niena, lady of mercy, let us have more time.
~~~000~~~
In a far corner of the room another man stood and thought with pain of love taken all too soon. Denethor had not been to Finduilas's childhood home for many years. It was an act of will to stand in the room. It was the space where they had courted, had laughed and stolen a brief first kiss. He leaned against the sill and placed his aching head against the cool window pane. Memories swirled, like dry leaves before a tempest, and with them the longing grew. So intense was his need, so strong her spirit here, he thought he caught a note of white jasmine below the scent of wood smoke and stronger spirit.
He took a steadying sip from his trembling glass and made a face. Denethor did not like Belfalas' dark amber brandy but she had. It was, of course, part of her attraction. Well bred ladies of Gondor did not enjoy the stronger spirits. It had seemed then such a shocking and beguiling thing that his delicate flower of Dol Amroth had flouted convention in this way. Finduilas had been undefinable, a bundle of contradictions: gentle and delicate of form yet schrewd as her father, with wit to match his own and no hesitation in her tongue when she judged the moment right. It had been a heady mix and like nothing the young Captain of Gondor had ever seen. He dared a glance across the room. To see this in their son, the same fair narrow face, the long elegant hands, the shining smile he missed so much, should have been a balm. He shook his head, took a larger gulp of drink but the burn on his tongue only made the ache grow more.
Across the din of conversation and happier reminiscence another guest thought fleetingly of jasmine and fine dark hair. Ivrenna, the Dowager Duchess of Tolfalas, Adrahil's last remaining sister, saw the mask of grief cross the Steward's face and rose stiffly from her chair. She too remembered her favourite niece here and understood something of what he felt. Slowly, but with grim determination Ivrenna rose stiffly and made her way to the cool of the embrasure.
"Denethor, does your man not feed you? You are far too thin," remarked Ivrenna with her customary bluntness. Petite and swift and delicate as the sandpipers on the shore, the duchess cocked her white head and looked up expectantly for a reply. She knew him well, knew he would not willingly be rude to his old friend.
"I take in sufficient to my needs, my Lady," came the clipped and formal answer. A correct half-bow accompanied the Steward's hand, as he led her to a nearby seat. She could not stand for very long and he would not be so churlish as to make her.
"Don't be ridiculous," she smiled gratefully at his courtesy and settled her walking stick beside. "Your tunic is loose and your sleeves hang long because your shoulders are too thin. I expect it is overwork. Have a care for yourself, Lord Steward. Gondor needs you at your best."
"My condolences on your loss, Duchess."
The snort that greeted his stiff and formal words showed Denethor she had lost nothing of her skill within the ring. Ivrenna frowned a little, but nodded graciously. "I will miss my brother terribly but I know he went gratefully to his rest." Would he really let formal courtesies take the place of real discussion between old friends?
"It has been many years since we saw each other last. Have you been happy on the island?" Denethor asked, clearing his throat in the embarassed manner she remembered from many shy and stilted, but carefully chaperoned, conversations.
Uinen's tears, she thought. Denethor was so stressed he was resorting to meaningless prattle. She must not allow him that. "Yes indeed. I dote on my grandchildren and work on my schemes. I suspect the fisherfolk wish I did not dote on improving their liveilhood. They chafe at my innovations." The young Lord of Tolfalas had told the Steward proudly of their increasd production that very eve. Fish, I shall bore Denethor with fish if he refuses to speak his mind.
The Steward coughed. "Indeed, you have always led the parade, Ivrenna. I would expect nothing less."
That was a little better. At least he relaxed enough to use her name. She waited a moment to look pointedly about the room and let him catch her gaze. Oh so gently she set about settling the ghost that hovered still.
"I find the library much changed from Firiel's time. Her taste was pretty but perhaps a trfile too carefully correct. Leylin's is much more relaxed and with it more refined."
The barest slight had the hoped-for effect. His sharp grey eyes flashed briefly for a moment but the smallest of smiles now graced the grave, proud face. Her dear departed sister-in-law, used to the more open and easy Dol Amroth men, had objected strongly to her daughter's chosen match. Finduilas had asked her favourite aunt to intercede. With pleasure, she noted the smallest of smiles now graced the grave, proud face
"Indeed." Denethor strove to show his appreciation. He nodded to a cluster of tall, dark-haired men beside the standing harp. Lord Tolfalas and his sons, alone of the Dúnedain in the room, bore the fabled grey-lilac eyes of their elven foremother. "I had not recently spoken with Galathon. Your son and grandsons do you credit, Ivrenna. They are most open to the tariffs and do not begrudge the levies we must raise."
She smiled. He was trying to butter her up. Ivrenna gazed fondly on her eldest, animatedly talking with Imrahil and the Steward's sons. Laughter rang out. Galathon was, as usual, recounting with vigour some tale from the merchant fleet. He was a man who loved stories and talked always with his hands. She could see them flying even from across the room. Gazing on them all she was struck again how much Gondor's young Captains were the image of the Steward at their age. The elder in particular was Ecthelion through and through, down to his straighter locks and powerful, commanding build.
Ivrenna looked sidelong to the thinner face of Denethor. Always he had worked too hard, trying futiley to gain the trust of one who stubbornly would not give it. It explained so very much and yet so very little. Seeing his sons, she could not let it pass.
"I last saw your sons as young children, Denethor, when they were still unformed with so much change to come. But now, seeing them as young men grown, I find there is much of Hurin about them both. Do you not think so?" Surely at her age, she thought, she was allowed a little latitude?
The Steward stiffened. He feared he knew where this was going. All Angelimir's children had courage and had been taught to speak their minds. It was a disquieting combination.
"Ivrenna…"
His voice was cold but she blithely ignored the warning. Forty years on and still the need to prove drove Denethor without mercy. It was high time he stopped. She dropped her voice for just the two of them.
"Though you favour Eleanna a little in your looks, your elder son is very much Ecthelion, even Turgon in some lights."
"He looked more like Mother as a babe." The agony, the bite of his Father's stern and reflexive cool regard, whispered as a bitter wind through his heart.
"They change so much when they are little, do they not? Your son may have her wildness, her love of life, but there can be no doubt now that they, and you, are your father's blood."
A muscle twitched on the high proud cheek as the glass turned around and around in uncalloused but wrinkled hands. She could see it, see the wheels turning, just like the brandy circling in the glass.
"We all make mistakes. Your mother's, in her gay, self-centered way, was to test the bonds of love too much. Your father's was to hate where he had loved, to hold her caged and with it, hold the sin of the mother against the child."
"I hated the countryside." murmured the Steward, so low Ivrenna had to lean to catch his worlds. The dark grey eyes were bleak, seeing another time and place. "It might have been Langstrand itself, for all it was an hour or so away."
Denethor, like his younger son, had been a solemn, watchful child but unlike his son he had been alone, cut off from all he knew. The isolation, she knew, had been intense. Ivrenna watched as the hurtful memories played across his chiseled, still handsome features.
Tapping her stick for emphasis, Ivrenna called him back. "Not a person in this room remembers the world as we do, Denethor. The parties, the day-long hunts, it all seems so bright and innocent now the world has grown much darker. But it all fades. Even the scandals. There is no doubt and no one left to doubt it. You need not prove yourself so very hard."
A clear, contralto voice rang softly in his head. "Let it go. Your father loves you dearest, though he finds it hard to show it. In his way he lets you know, doting so very much on the boys you also love so very much."
Could he do it now, what he could not do then?
Failing courage took refuge in formality again. "Lady, I have proved my loyality to Gondor many times over since I came of age. I cannot rest while the Shadow grows."
Lilac-grey, aged eyes flashed with thinly–veiled impatience. "Do not be deliberately obtuse, Lord Steward. I have heard that your days are filled entirely with Gondor, you have little room even for your own sons. You have always been the most single-minded man I know. The people must rejoice. How can the Enemy prevail when his oppononent simply will not back down?"
"I will use all my faculties and every ounce of strength to keep Gondor safe. It is my duty."
"Oh Denethor, for Ulmo's sake, I was paying you a compliment." Ivrenna's sigh was heavy and heartfelt. Clearly she would not get any further with him now. It was time to let the lesson sink in quietly and hope it would take in time.
The lady turned her winningest smile to the frowning face. Best to leave him with a happy memory. "I remember your determination."
It had been the talk of the city, the Steward's handsome son, the Midsummer ball and a lovely and delicate Princess who adored dancing above all. A determined young man who chose a matron to be his teacher, learned every step in just a few long days.
Ivrenna chuckled. "It was exhausting but I was bored and Galadan was away at sea always in those days. You still owe me a pair of slippers, Denethor. My shoes were trod to ruins. Thank heaven we were in the garden or you would have crushed my toes."
The Steward could not help himself. He laughed. A deep, bass rumble that made heads turn and brought quickly-stilled looks of shock. He tried not to notice their surprise. The sound had simply bubbled up and with it an unfamiliar feeling, a lightness in his chest.
She too had made him laugh…
The chuckle subsided into quiet ripples. "Then allow me to repay my debt, my Lady. With interest. Two pairs shall be in your room upon the morrow." He bowed, offered his hand to help Ivrenna rise. Her garled but still strong hand took his and squeezed, she was pleased with him after all.
As the tiny but redoubtable Princess of Dol Amroth glided to the centre of the room, he watched, brow furrowed. Why should it be that the daughters of Dol Amroth were so annoying, yet so very beguiling for all that?
The lights of the room swam and it was not Ivrenna walking away in cool evening of early spring, but a gay young girl, black hair unbound, on a hot Midsummer's eve. A wry and witty Princess to whom he had once opened his aching heart.
He smiled, lifted the glass and tossed the dregs quickly back. For once, the shard of memory did not sting. He knew it was a fragile thing, his heart. Which was why of course he guarded it so very tightly…even from those he loved.
~~~000~~~
More than curious about a woman who could make his father laugh, Faramir hastened forward to help his tiny Great Aunt into a low and cushioned chair. Her hand grasped his, gratefully. Its skin was thin and papery, stretched taught over bird-like bones. She felt light as a feather but something told him she could immovable as the rock of Belfalas' fabled cliffs.
Only too happy to have a handsome young Captain's attention, Ivrenna tapped his arm lightly with her stick and prepared to be entertained. "You are the younger son. Forgive me. I don't remember everything these days. Undoubtedly you are too polite to ask. I am one hundred next mid-summer." She turned a wrinkled but beaming smile upon him. "Which 'Mir are you, young man?"
"Faramir, my Lady."
She found she liked his quiet manner and the thoughtfulness in his gentle eyes. "Faramir. A good name. Finduilas had the sense name her sons for her Grandfather Angelimir. Thank the Valar she did not let her husband saddle either of you with those ridiculous Hurin names. Ecthelion. Belecthor. Thorondir. Hmmpf. Of course I should imagine Denethor would not choose Thoron anything."
Boromir, catching his little brother's startled but wry half-grin, set his drink too hastily down upon a polished table. Faramir had been far too solemn and oddly forlorn in the past few days. It was good to see him smile. With an unerring sense for the scandalous, and no worry for the wet upon the wood, he excused himself to Imrahil and wandered over in time to hear Ivrenna in full flight.
"I remember you as a very sensible child, far too knowing at an improbably young age. I am glad to see you have learned to smile. I was worried for a while. You have her look you know, the same eyes and certainly the same brow."
Faramir blushed. He hated to be the subject of conversation. "I am told that I favour my mother, although I remember her very little."
Ivrenna patted his arm consolingly. She remembered a beautiful little boy at the funeral, bewildered by the storm of emotion swirling all around. "Indeed you do, although there is much of your father there as well. I was the one who introduced them, did you know that?"
"No, my lady," Faramir looked up with excited interest. "Father never speaks of those times."
"It was the Midsummer ball. He was too shy to ask, hid in a corner. I practically had to place his hand in hers." The lilac-grey eyes twinkled. "He was an excellent dancer, he remembered the steps so well and your mother loved to dance. My father, your great-grandather Angelimir that is, was delighted he lived just long enough to see Finduilas wed. She was such a beauty and your father was so besotted. He would do anything for her."
The Steward's sons could not believe their luck. Someone who remembered the father as a younger man and unafraid to speak about it. They listened closely and did not interrupt, unwilling to halt the unexpected trove of memories.
"Now Boromir, you are right to hold off on getting married. Your father will not have told you but it is something of a Dol Amroth male tradition to wait to marry. They all sow their oats a good long while before finally settling down."
Both brothers grinned. This was of course another story they had not heard. Both of them listened so intently the drinks and food offered by the butler went unnoticed. Ivrenna helped herself to a small delicately iced white cake.
"Of course Imrahil was rather younger to marry but then he sowed his oats just as long before and rather wilder, if the reports are to be believed."
Two pairs of identical black eyebrows raised at that. In unison, they turned and eyed with newfound admiration their neatly turned-out Uncle. Imrahil sat, relaxed and elegant as always, in an overstuffed chair beside the fire. He, at least, they could ask for more details on the morrow.
Ivrenna saw their interest and carried merrily on. "Oh he was a rakehell. I blame Aglamir myself. The two of them were so much alike. Both the spoiled babies of the family."
The Dowager reached up and with surprising strength twitched a startled Faramir's arm. "Look to yourself, young Dunadan. If there is a younger son he almost always marries first. That is a tradition unbroken in ten generations before your Great-Uncle died."
Boromir laughed and elbowed his blushing brother in the ribs. "Better you than me, little one! Best not to let the tradition down."
Faramir's light grey eyes rolled in indigation but his mouth quirked nonetheless. Ivrenna did not miss that he also had his mother's sense of when not to speak.
Ivrenna fingered thoughtfully the silver swan twinned around her walking stick. The elder brother, now he was clearly cut from much different cloth. She thought she saw his grandmother's fabled passion in the broad and generous mouth. If he was anything like Eleanna he thought quite enough of himself all on his very own. It would not do to not let him get away with too very much. She had her sources. They would serve to keep the young one on his toes.
"And you, Boromir of Gondor." The older man started at the now acerbic tone in her still-commanding voice. "Best look to your reputation. What is charmingly dashing in a Captain, may be a little too careless in a Captain-General. One wouldn't want to make a habit of being late to the battlefield."
Now it was Boromir's turn to blush. As he hastened to apologize his brother barely smothered a sudden urge to grin.
Enjoying herself immensely Ivrenna shifted in her chair to ease her stiffened back. Old age had it benefits and its banes. Settled once more, she inclined her elegant snow white head toward the hearth, grabbed young Faramir's attention.
"Bring the Duchess of Lossarnach over if you please. I wish to partake of the only truly entertaining indoor sport left to a lady of my age. I need the latest Minas Tirith gossip…"
~~~000~~~
"I do so hope I am interrupting something."
With a swish of dark silk skirts and smile of invitation Amerith of Lossarnach joined the little group, most intrigued by the remnant of an embarrassed flush on Boromir's high proud face. She was delighted to have a chance to speak privately with Princess Ivrenna. Any one who could make Denethor laugh and Boromir a little nervous was worth knowing very well indeed.
"No, my dear, I have just finished making a better acquaintance of Denethor's charming sons."
Princess Ivrenna sat elegantly upright, her bright eyes as sharp as when they had first met nearly twenty-five years before. Amerith's mother had been Princess Firiel's close companion. She remembered many visits to Dol Amroth as a girl and Taras had always spoken highly of Lord Tolfalas as a leader. Gondor was, after all, a small and insulated place. All its noble families were intertwined if one looked back or sideways far enough.
The word 'finished' had made the expression on the Captain-General's face lighten with relief. Glancing swiftly askance, he caught Theodred's dark grey eyes. The young prince nodded, a wry grin on his smooth, tanned face. Clearly he too was well abreast of the conversations swirling in the room.
"Come brother," insisted Boromir, "the Prince wishes to hear a bit about Ithilien. His grandfather once served there I am told."
Faramir looked as if he might protest but quickly bowed his head and excused himself, all but dragged by his elder brother away from the knot of women. The Steward's eldest clearly recognized when the numbers of an enemy were large enough they should not be engaged.
Amerith watched them go and stifled a quiet sigh. Their departure was not a slight at her, but it was not easy to still the disappointment. She had caught the polite mask descend to hide the welcome on Faramir's handsome face. Only time would make things easier.
"Whatever did you do to make such a brave warrior quake in his boots?" she asked the Princess, seeking a distraction from her own discomfort.
"I was advising the Captain-General on his tactics." The small but slightly wicked grin was quite discrete in case Boromir looked back to their way. Amerith pulled a side chair over and sat closer to Ivrenna.
"You will have had a rare success if you can make that stick. And you made the Steward laugh. Quite the coup for one short evening. What did you do?" Across the room Denethor was speaking in low and earnest tones with Imrahil. Something about his face looked different here, a certain tension was relieved. He looked more rested, without the constant unsettledness in his limbs Amerith had came to associate with his evening work. Whatever it was, and she meant to learn truth, being away from it had certainly done him good.
"I reminded him of his large and once clumsy feet. Well before your time my dear." Ivrenna patted the elegant hand nearly lost in the armrest's pattern of large blue flowers. "But I understand you also are adept at managing him? Perhaps are the only person on council who can change his mind?"
A tinkling laugh rose up. Amerith approved. Ivrenna was definitely accomplished. The inquiry was well covered in pretty compliment but it took more than a casual compliment to get information out of her. "Sometimes, Princess, sometimes. And all too infrequently these days. I will not have a man tell me what my opinions are. Even one as worthy as the Steward." The Princess was reputed to be outspoken like her famous mother. Surely that outweighed that Ivrenna and Denethor were old friends.
A beaming smile of approval met her quip. "And even more adept at managing his son…?"
The Duchess of Lossarnach started at the word. Managing? Now that was unexpected. How did she guess it was the case? Amerith sat back a little and resettled the heavy black satin of her skirts. How best to answer? Ivrenna's look of intent enquiry was not one she could pretend to miss.
"We are just friends." she replied, wincing inwardly. The feint was a little limp even to her own ears.
"Truly?" White eyebrows shot up a wrinkled brow. "That explains the decided resemblance between the young man and Ivriniel's sad-eyed sable dog, I suppose."
This time the brows that rose were auburn. It appeared the older lady's dainty bird-like manners were deceiving.
"Amerith dear, you are quite amazingly peripatetic these days. How do you do it? You are seen everywhere. From one end of the kingdom to the other." ivrenna had neatly turned the subject. Amerith was impressed. Perhaps she was bird-like after all if it were not something small and delicate but swift and merciless like a hawk. "It must be such an effort to keeping up appearances all the time. We live more simply on the island I am relieved to say. Perhaps that is why we haven't been graced by your presence yet?"
The younger woman's mouth set in thin and disapproving line. What Galathon needed to know he already did. She would not be pulled into a net no matter how much his mother wished to help. "Ivrenna, as I am sure you are aware that was fishing with the wrong weight of line." There were limits to the subjects she could discuss. Surely the Princess knew that as well as anyone?
Ivrenna sat back, nostrils slightly flared and two spots of colour high upon her sharply jutting cheekbones. She tapped her stick firmly on the floor. Imrahil's butler hastened to bring another tray of drinks.
Wide-eyed, Amerith watched the Princess helped herself to a large double brandy before selecting a small single of her own. "Does it not bother your digestion Ivrenna? It always did my mother as time wore on." Was that too low? she worried for a moment. No, the Princess was in another league. She would appreciate a game played hard and well.
"No my dear, I sleep little enough these days without something to help me down." Lilac eyes flashed once but then softened to a gentle glow. The cut crystal glass was raised in silent toast. A draw. Amerith, relieved, took the smallest sip. "How go things in the city?"
"There has been much fuss about the newest levies and court has been sadly rather quieter of late. The Steward's sons are ever on patrol and the season is a subdued affair. I have seen more obvious entertainment and speculation here, to be quite honest. If Lady Castamir or her daughters mention the greatly improved refinement of Edoras since Morwen's time or the Prince's quite impressive grasp of Sindarin one more time I shall be quite unable to partake of lunch."
Both ladies chuckled quietly and quite without thinking glanced across the room. Theodred threw back his head and laughed at something quipped by the Steward's eldest son. As if aware of the ladies' keen attention he looked over and with one hand carelessly threw his gold-trimmed braids back over a strong broad shoulder. He was a catch. Amerith positively shuddered at the thought of either of the Castamir girls winning Theodred's hand.
"I should think her daughters would be surprised by the Prince's impressive grasp of other things as well." Ivrenna observed when they had turned their attention quickly back.
The young duchess now looked upon her companion with a growing sense of awe. How ever did Ivrenna learn so much sequested on that rock? True, Galathon was in to every port between Tharbad and Anduin, but she didn't picture the bluff, good-natured ship's captain as interested in gossip. Perhaps she had underestimated him as well. Rumours, it was said, flew faster on the waves.
"He is my cousin. Perhaps I should not say." 'Anything' was the sudden thought that followed quickly on her words.
The Princess's hopeful expression sagged. "What a disappointment. I am afraid I can only applaud your circumspection after you have left the room."
Well. Against her better judgement Amerith wanted to smile at that. This was too much fun. Perhaps a tidbit would be enough.
"Our dashing Prince is a man who knows his mind. He needs a Queen who will not pout and fret when he seeks every excuse he can to inspect the fortifications at Helm's Deep. He has entanglements he must pay attention to."
A snow-white head inclined just very slightly. Clearly the Princess appreciated someone who could impart intelligence without appearing over eager. "Can you imagine Malina of Castamir at Meduseld?" Mischief danced in lilac eyes. "Mastering how to run a foreign court? Standing up to Eowyn, Eomer's younger sister. She would be lost. Someone would run her through from sheer frustration."
The tinkling laugh was genuine. "Have no fear. He has better taste than that. It is too bad that Lothiriel is a little young to be betrothed." Or perhaps better for the girl, she thought, given the Prince's situation. The young lady was already famously a little wild, traipsing around after her pack of elder brothers. Her idea of marrying likely did not include accommodating another woman. At ten the new Prince's youngest had already said her goodnights, all the while pleading quite loudly with her parents to stay up later with the guests. Imrahil was a happily indulgent parent. Denethor sons would have been punished for such an open display of disagreement.
"Do you think Eowyn would then make a suitable match for Boromir?" asked Ivrenna with a smile.
The small sip of brandy caught awkwardly in her throat. The duchess raised her hand and discretely coughed to clear it out. "No, not at all. By all accounts she is as headstrong as he is. She needs a foil, someone with a gentle hand." She could hear the Steward's elder son in high good humour, surrounded by a clutch of younger men. Who was to say what was the better course? A discrete but accepted mistress or an endless stream of courtesans. On balance, she suspected Theordred to be happier.
"What of Faramir? I am surprised Denethor does not seek to bind him to a lesser house or one standing on shaky footing. Langstrand or even Lossarnach perhaps?"
Lossarnach a lesser house? Clearly Ivrenna was still nonplused that her companion had doled out so very little. The young duchess kept her features carefully impassive. "No. My niece is already bethrothed and more to the point you know Denethor. He felt justified in forcing Faramir into soldiering but he is not stupid. A good blacksmith can mould good steel as needed but only so very far or it might break. He will not force either son to marry someone not of his choosing. The woman they wed will be their choice."
Or none, she thought, looking at the Captain-General and the other men scattered around the room. So it was with all the children of Mithrellas. They married for love or not at all. Imrahil and Finduillas had chosen for themselves. Ivrenna had fallen for Galadan as a gay young girl. Adrahil had adored Firiel all his long and happy days. Even Ivrenna's sons had followed the tradition, had married their sweethearts the moment they made sea captain as Elphir seemed set to do. And those who did not? Well, Ivriniel was wedded to her plants and patients as Aglamir had been wedded only to the sea.
With a worried heart the Duchess looked on the three handsome soldiers by the fireside, the ones next in line to lead the failing kingdoms of the west. What did it mean that those charged with holding back the coming dark could not find it in themselves for now to settle?
~~~000~~~
The first to take their leave were the Prince and the young Marshall, planning to rise early the next morn and inspect the herds of Dol Amroth's famous greys. They bowed and bid goodnight and after them, bit by bit, the study emptied until only the Steward and his younger son were left.
Faramir, oddly too unsettled to go to bed, bent to poke the fire and raise it up. He watched intently as the tongues of flame licked hungrily at the wood, hoping some clarity would be found in their softly glowing light. Why now? Why the feeling of restlessness tonight?
He shook his head and with a moment's hesitation threw back the last mouthful of brandy so very fast the sweet before the burn was almost lost. Thoughtful fingers traced the design upon the crystal, the firelight playing in arcs of colour off the facets. It felt odd to hold something so delicate after months of only wood or pewter. Trust Imrahil to use the very best, both he and his sister loved beautiful and exotic things.
With a smile Faramir remembered: stitches or script, brushstrokes or notes, they all had held a fascination for Dol Amroth's gentle princess. The image Ivrenna had painted of his father dancing came suddenly to mind. Here, relieved a little of his duties, face more relaxed than his son could remember, Faramir fancied he could see in his father something of the younger man he had been. It was a surprise to realize Denethor son of Ecthelion had been beautiful too. For Finduilas he also must have been something rare and unusual amongst the exuberant folk of her home; a shy man who hid his feelings and his passion, kept them inside, well locked, a treasure to found by one who made a little effort.
His father sat by the window once again, seemingly lost in thought and worlds away. The wind had risen, the gusts that now lashed the windows were now laden with fat, wet drops. A plate of dainties lay ignored upon the tufted window bench, as did his half-full glass. A sudden frown graced his brow and Faramir flushed, embarrassed like a little child caught out with less than perfect manners. He had been staring, hoping to see in the high proud face the young man who had danced so happily so long ago.
Denethor, not for the first time that very night, studied Faramir's face in turn. The son knew instinctively at times like this what his father sought: to draw aside the veil, to catch, however painfully, a needed glimpse of her. The slight frown was all the sign of how hard the struggle was, along with a familiar crease upon his brow and a twisting of his mouth just so. Like the armour concealed under rich dark robes, the Steward did not advertise his strength and most assuredly not his weakness: the emotions he could not master to his satisfaction.
Seeing the frown, Faramir thought it had been inevitable, the collision between them both. Between the father who hid everything and the son, by nature so like his mother, who had worn his heart upon his sleeve. Faramir had learned. He did not do so any more, he hid his more wayward emotions behind a door inscribed with duty and bound in stout iron locks.
The room was very quiet. The only sound was the soft hissing of burning sap within the wood and the gentle crackle of the flames. The crystal chimed just very slightly as Faramir poured himself another measure and touched the decanter to the glass's lip. He gestured but his father shook his head.
Denethor turned back and looked out the window at the moonlight that poured clear and silver across the swelling ink-dark waves. The wind would move the system quckly through and it promised to be fine upon the morrow.
Something in his face relaxed, its angle of repose became gentler once again. "As I am here a few more days I think I will take Imrahil up on his offer and go for a sail. The wind, he says, should to be just right." The faintest of smiles drew his mouth quickly up. "This time I will remember not take your brother." Boromir had been woefully seasick once they left Anduin's calmer mouth. It had been his stated excuse for his frequent absences.
"You will enjoy it, Father, I am sure." Faramir smiled in return, heart leaping in his breast. What an unexpected thing: his father doing something for himself. It felt so precious to stand there and hear Denethor speak so lightly and so at ease. In the years since he had patrolled Ithilien they had had been little time together and all the while Denethor had receeded more. Grown ever harder. The young Captain wondered what had happened on the voyage down, what had changed to ease his father's strain. Whatever the cause, praise Este it would endure, would linger after their return to the City. It was almost as if his father's bitter winter had begun thaw.
"Before you leave I would also have your written report on the Company."
Denethor's sudden words started the young man out of his reverie. "Yes sir. It is very nearly complete."
Faramir was Captain now and with went the paperwork. It was a good feeling to do a job he liked and do it well. More than well if Boromir's compliments were not exageration. It was an unfamiliar feeling to have a commander generous in finding praise, after his father's reflexive and almost automatic fault. Perhaps in this new found ease he could nurture Denethor's grudging respect the more.
In an evening already heady with surprise and reminiscence, the young man then found the strangest yet. The Steward began to pace a little restlessly about the room, stopped beside a small portrait of the Prince, regarded it silently for many minutes.
No outward emotion played upon the sere, proud face but his voice, when next he spoke, was wistful.
"I will miss him." Faramir knew he meant the father-in-law who had supported the young Steward's son, had encouraged his daughter's choice over Princess Firiel's strong objection. "I valued his support. He had much of your mother's gentleness, but was canny and resolute when the need was hard."
It occurred to him how isolated his father must now feel. Denethor had not been close to his own father. His wife was gone. Theoden he knew not well and Imrahil was new come to his responsibilities. There was no man near to the Steward who understood as well what it truly took to lead.
The picture was set back down. Restless again, Denethor now reached to lightly stroke Adrahil's great harp. The Prince, like his middle daughter, had been a fine musician. A cascade of notes in a climbing scale chimed softly in the room. "He was the last of a generation, Faramir. Thengel, Ecthelion, Adrahil, all were men of the world from when it was younger, when the shadow was less pressing and the peaks of Ephel Duath could yet be seen."
The young Captain nodded. He knew those peaks, their brooding adumbration, a wall between fair green and darker shadow that waited to be breached.
The fingers quite by habit adjusted a tuning pin. "Thengel was a hothead in his youth but in time was a wise and respected leader. He brought stability to a land drained by his father's greed. Adrahil I think, though the youngest, was the shrewdest of them all. He knew trade and its profit would encourage the Umbari merchants to keep the Corsairs quiet and bound in port."
A single sweet, high note was plucked in counterpoint and with it memory stirred. A little boy sat on his mother's lap, wreathed by tenderness and the soft ringing tones of an old sea tune. Of course Denethor would have learned to play. Finduilas had delighted in it. As in everything he did, he would have ensured he did it well.
He remembered his grandfather sitting by this very hearth at the harp, delighting his young grandsons at Mettare long ago. Not for the first time, Faramir felt saddened that his other grandfather was only a name to him. Boromir's memories were the hazy images of a very little child and Denethor was not one to share anecdotes and stories.
"Ecthelion I never knew…"
A shadow passed behind his father's storm grey eyes and the single note was followed by a darker tone. "He loved you greatly Faramir. I believe he knew he had little time and made the most of it. He was as besotted with you as your mother was and would hardly put you down. He was generous like your brother and had always a particular weakness for strays in dogs and men. Thengel, Thorongil, all of them he raised up to the heights, decreed those in his service should prosper by the force of their abilities, not by their birth. I had to work always doubly hard, to fight for every grain of his regard." The voice trailed off, low and darkly pensive. "We were so very different, Father and I. Others could please him just by their very presence."
The irony bit hard and deep. For once Faramir had downed his brandy very fast. The glass was empty once again and discarded on the mantle. Perhaps he was just a little drunk, else he might not have said what came into his heart.
"I know that too."
The grey head snapped upward, eyes blazing like a meteor in the winter's sky. Valar, what had made him speak?
Then his lord and father did a surprising thing. He turned away, rubbed hard at the frown line upon his brow as if scouring the edge of a difficult emotion. From the hint of sadness on his face, Faramir thought it might be guilt, but more likely it was just embarrassment.
"Perhaps….perhaps that is fair."
Two pairs of startled eyes held each other across the room. Their gaze, like their words, half revealed and half concealed the souls within, the truth that hung between them.
Is this is perhaps the closest to understanding we shall find? wondered the younger son with no little awe.
"Trust" Adrahil had said. Anxiety and knowledge chased each other round in the long and pregnant pause. Faramir had seen a vision. Duty said he should tell it to his Lord. Now love and honour said he should also tell it to his father.
He took a steadying breath.
"I saw a king…"
"Show me!" The order was immediate. It brooked no refusal or denial.
Unguarded, Faramir was never certain how well his father could bend his shields. And just for once he thought he might welcome the closer contact. Carefully he sent the image: a Dunadan, clothed in green, ageless, a proud graceful face, sea grey eyes and long dark hair and close dark beard. The grey eyes shone, as did the sliver of the many pointed star.
The quiet gasp told all.
The Lord and father heard the unspoken query in the air. Felt his son's confusion but could not answer yet.. He wanted to disbelieve. To think it some simulcarum sent by the enemy, distorted, meant to undermine them while the shadow grew. Yet in his heart of hearts he knew it to be not so. Saruman's words of long ago came back. The line of Elendil has long failed. A terrible anger grew. To think he had been prey to yet more of the wizard's lies.
The face that had lost some of its recent pallor became white and hard as the Citadel's shining marble once again. As its Lord stood by the hearth and searched the fire for words that would not come, he was a mirror, alternately gleaming and shadowed by the flickering of the flames,
The words when they came were bitter. "If this is truly so what is he waiting for?" Gravely, with no hint of irony, Denethor asked the question to the tense, expectant air. His son, not understanding and seemingly forgotten, stood by, afraid to ask but needing still to know, as much if not more than he.
"What does he do? Skulk and hide. Play cat and mouse, watching ever from the sidelines." Denethor spoke so angrily and yet so low it was almost to himself. "Why not declare himself before? Surely Mithrandir's hand lies on this. They wait and bide their time and still we bleed. We are already at war. They, victorious, will sweep in at the last when the harder, less glorious toil is done."
The dark angry gaze snapped up and held his son's. "No. No I will not have it! I am the one who worked to keep Gondor safe. I am the one who has sacrificed everything for duty while he played at being Captain."
To Faramir it was clear this was someone his father had known but did not aver, but still he did not know who it was. The disappointment was acute. As he watched the fire light play across his father's face he mourned. Moved always by hope far quicker than by fear, the vision seemed to him to be a candle in the closing dark, a gift, a touchstone. To hold close and use as a shield, like his mother's words about the rising wave.
"But surely this is a portent of greater hope? That we will prevail, though all looks bleak. That when he comes, it be will at Gondor's greatest need?"
The scorn was immediate. "Who would you fainer have..an image of glory without substance or the effort of one appointed to keep her people safe? What could he bring that we truly need? Where are his troops? His ships? A rabble of dirty Rangers is all he has. The Star of the North." Denethor almost spat the words. "There his lineage and his first love lie and there he may stay."
Faramir felt the precious understanding wash away, dashed to pieces like a skiff upon the rocks. Sick at heart, he had no words. The silence stretched, the heavy walls held out the quiet moaning of the wind and in the distance the Bell of the Tower rang mournfully.
Contempt. It was an insidious thing. Released once before when the sons had dared to question their Lord and father. In the years since Faramir had seen its tendrils spread and grow in the dark and silence of a high and storied tower. But now all too fleetingly they had withered in the light of this brief and glorious spring. Was it amnesty or capitulation to agree to not treat each other so? He toyed with speaking, to bind them both in promises, to love and be loved. But in the end he shut his mouth. Perhaps he did not need them after all.
"You will speak of this to no one." The wrinkled hand and the signet ring were proffered.
It was an insult, to think he must make his own son swear. Faramir swallowed hard, mouth drying in the bitter wind of the angry words. He could no more have looked away than he could refuse his father's order.
"I obey you my Lord, as I have sworn." He did not move to kneel.
The hard grey gaze held the young Captain caught, measured the tenor of his words, the stiffness of his jaw and its sudden tilt. "Just. To the very thinnest edge in what you judge to be correct and not a hairsbreadth more."
Denethor, it seemed, had heard the words and tone many times before, knew at times how grudgingly they were given.
Thorongil too had listened and spoken little, turned almost never in his counsel.
"Do not think I do not see it."
Because he needed an anchor in that moment Faramir held his father's gaze a moment more. Nodded once and swallowed around the hard lump that blocked both his throat and heart.
His silence bought them peace. But even then he knew it was not a beachhead but a temporary purchase on slick, unsteady rock.
~~~000~~~
It was not an entirely unexpected sight for a merchant of far Umbar to be about the grey and shingled shores of Belfalas' wide and windy bay. The Prince had always encouraged trade and so long as the men of the Serpent's Fire kept the Prince's peace and did not cheat, too outrageously, on their deals they were made welcome, with one eye on their hands and a firm grip on one's purse.
Nor indeed was it considered so very strange for one to walk of a fine but briskly breezy evening about the city streets. The man, grey of hair and dark of eye, was that quite interdeterminate age of one who has lived long in the sun and wind, with a keen sharp gaze and scarf wrapped the proscribed five turns about his his head. His beard was neatly clipped and his robes bound in the common man's sash, a muddy gold that against the pale cream robes brought to mind sun and sand. If the pads of his fingertips were oddly calloused, well, indeed that could easily be explained. He had been a mercenary, had paid off his bond to his wealthy master and in recompense for saving his master's life not once, but twice, had been set up with enough coin for a small but thriving business. The Lord of Fire is benevolant in many ways is he not?
The little man was not curious. He little cared the reason for the mark. All he knew was the gold was oddly stamped and old, not in castars or the dinars he knew well. Gold was gold. All that mattered was what it weighed in the usurer's scale.
He had watched the tall dark-haired Dunadan walk down the seawall boulevard most evenings, shaking off the hours of his watch and turning his face to the western stars. The Umbari had waited patiently take his chance, the gold pieces already weighed nicely at his hip, the commission had not come with any hurry. Tonight, the rising wind would mask the sound and keep most people huddled close inside. The Dunadan was alone. Perfect.
All was set in readiness. Yarn to damp the oiled string's ready hum swayed beside each axle. No quiver hung in which the arrows would clang and make a noise. Dark fingers lightly grasped the nock, the arrow was set and notched. As the bowstring strained in readiness there was the barest creak, even the rest had been thickly laid with fleece. The Umbari smiled, arm straining with the tautness of the bow. Yek… Do….
As Ithil shined cool and silver-fair he was not the only one to keep the shadows on that moon lit eve. Another man, tall and dark, green-eyed, padded silently out of sight. He was not a regular tower guardsman and was only unoffically attached to his company. Had particularly elusive skills, learned by dint of long experience on another set of docks: the rougher, harder quay in Pelargir. If he owed his allegiance to the duchess first, what of that? He would guard her friend, unobtrusively, with all his skill and care. He was after all very very grateful his head still rode his shoulders. In time there would be horses and good pasture and a pretty lass waiting while he made his way,..
The Steward and his chief counsellor, although they disagreed on many things these days, still stood firm upon this point. The Steward's second son did not walk anywhere abroad alone. Not in the White City or any space that was not covered deep and green by forest.
The Umbari did not get to three. The liquid gurgle that sounded as blood welled up around the dagger through his throat was nigh as quiet as the arrow would have been.
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. AN: Thank you so very much to Lederra, Wtiger5, delovlies, TMI fairy, MeeCee and Ealasaidy who followed and/or favourited this past month. And grateful thanks of course to Annafan, Thanwen, Adaneth, Artura and JuneGloom who commented and gave great pickies as usual. And most especially to Wheelrider for her wonderful beta'ing.
I am amazed to find I have been working on this story for a year. It feels like its birthday in a way and seems fitting that finally, finally we get to the time of the War of the Ring next chapter, jumping forward to 3014-3017. And a certain Shieldmaiden finally appears.