A white king is placed in check, a captain fears a gambit, the white bishop sees too many moves ahead.
Lothron, T.A. 3014
In the last, soft lingering weeks of spring it was the colour of the land that lifted hearts. Many had been weighted down by the long, harsh winter and the cold, uncertain spring. Now, as Anor warmed the air, at last the soft greens and blues burst forth, every wood and meadow sang of hope and life returned. Soon the cooler hues would give way to warmer pinks and gold of summer. A promised bursting of abundance, and so work must hurry too.
About the lands of Arda there were those who waited, each to their wont, their colour as varied as their nature. One who waited kept to the deepest of green shadows, searching for a pale phantom that ached for something that was lost. One who guided with a gentle hand was all in grey, as smoke or gathering storm, in deference to his master, swift lord of all the air. One who now but served himself wore a cloak of many colours, faithless image of all those he had once served.
Two wore only black: the craven servant, who like a magpie collected baubles and rewards as blithely as words and lies; and the lord of the land, collecting knowledge for his needs as a dam against a blacker tide.
~~~000~~~
The old oaken door whined softly on its hinges as it swung open just a little. Enough for the slip of a girl to sneak inside and tend the fire, not so much that the room's occupant need acknowledge he was awake.
The pretty maid knelt upon the hearth and made up the fire, her motions quick and sure, wasting no tinder and as quiet as she could be.
Within the great carved bed Theoden-King shrunk a little lower. Let Emelinde think him still asleep. He was in no mood to speak or test the wavering rasp of voice Bema blessed him with these days. Instead he lay, brooding and ashamed to hide but unable to find the energy to test his strength. To give voice and protest it was almost summer and he needed not the extra warmth. Except, of course, he did. Nothing warmed his bones these days it seemed.
The crackle of the fire soon filled the quiet space and the door hinge whined again. Emelinde was gone.
Theoden sank deeper in the pillows, shivering again with chill, his blue eyes bright with fever and faded hair lank with sweat. He had been ill for weeks. Each time the ague receded and he gained a little strength, rose and took back his work, it snuck back again. As relentless in its grip as the eternal snows of Thyrindon.
The King's rooms faced east and on this late spring morning the sun was already high. She cast her promise across the pale green of unripened wheat within the fields, lent warmth to the climbing breeze. Upon her heated airs a tawny kestrel flashed and dove upon the wing, hunting voles in the longer grass. He could just see the bird through the parted curtains, just hear the sharp stacatto call of her excitement. How many hours as a boy had he watched the majestic hunter at her work, longing to follow where she soared? Now he lay, his thick and aching head only hurt more at the sound.
Listlessly he pulled the winter coverlet back up upon a shoulder. So much for the promise of the day. It had been a silly fancy that he might be getting better once again. Weak and old. That is what he was. No more the vital warrior than the eternally still, golden Riders that graced the great bed posts about him, carved as the pillars of the hall.
Lost in his reverie, the King did not see his niece walk purposefully into the room. He caught the sound, the soft but purposeful tread that could only be his sister-daughter. Cautiously, he peered above the blanket. The bright light hurt his eyes, but still he smiled.
Eowyn, seeing no motion from the bed, had made straight for the window seat, thrown back the curtains even farther and opened the casements to let in a breath of air. The room could quickly become stifling this time of year. Outside the new foals were trying out their legs, whinnying as they capered about the fields. His niece watched them longingly for a moment, golden as the spring herself, bathed in the morning's rays that caught facets in the glass and scattering rainbows around the room.
Tall and straight Eowyn stood, hair a river of shining gold, face fair and young and fearless. For a moment the sight of her made Theoden's heart constrict. Could it be really nineteen years since she had been born? Since Theodwyn had beamed with joy to have a daughter and Eomund had nearly burst with pride, already lost at the feel of a tiny finger coiled around his finger. Since her doting uncle dangled her over his head to hear her laugh with glee as loud as any boy.
So like her mother she was: the cornsilk hair, grey eyes with the barest hint of blue. But also like to her father; proud and fierce and stubborn. At times it seemed she and Eomer were twins, not years apart, both determined to master every skill, practice endlessly on horseback or in the sparring ring. Fleetingly, he worried he had done her a disservice, not done what was best for her but for himself. Spoiled the young girl, unable to deny her any boon, but now, when he had need of comfort, keeping her tied to his side when she should be finding a house of her own. The weak and tired part of him tried not to think too long upon it.
"How are you this morning, Uncle?" Eowyn placed a silver ewer and a basin beside his bed and smiled a little hopefully. A small, strong hand was placed below Theoden's elbow as he pushed himself up to meet the day. His erstwhile nurse bent to plump the pillows behind his back and scanned his face surreptitiously. The exhaustion, he knew, made dark circles like bruises below his eyes.
"The same sister-daughter, just the same." was the tired answer she received. A warm, wet wash cloth was offered without comment. When he did not quickly take it, it was wiped gently, without ceremony, across his face and neck.
"Thank you" he murmured, embarrassed at his own lack of effort. At least it felt a little better to be clean.
Eowyn nodded and tried to smile. "Would you like to break your fast?" This was in truth no question. Theoden had been a squire, knew marching orders when he heard them. Hidden in the covers, he had not seen at first the tray she carried. It overflowed, resting on a table near the wardrobe, carrying enough food for an eored not one ill and tired King of little appetite. Clearly this morning his niece was taking a different tack. Overwhelm his senses. Next to the usual, oatmeal with milk and honey, breads and cheese, there were small plump sausages and cured meats.
His stomach roiled. "Nay…" A green and slightly evil looking tonic stood beside a pot of tea. "I have no hunger, Eowyn. Perhaps a little later."
The bright cascade of hair was tossed past a shoulder as Eowyn placed her hands upon her hips.
"Uncle. We all wish to see you better. To regain your strength you have to eat."
Theoden watched her turn and reach for a pot. A firm smile graced her lips but the grey eyes were grave, full of pity and determination. "I have yarrow tea as well, when you are done. To help the fever…"
"It is vile." He grumbled, sounding more like a boy than a man of six and sixty summers.
That brought a swift sure smile. "I have something to chase the taste away."
Theoden looked up with sudden interest but one fair eyebrow raised back at hiim in challenge. Eowyn set the teacup carefully in both his hands and nodded. "Only if you finish that."
The cup shook just a little but not so much that the saucer could not catch the drips. The patient sipped and made a face. The brew was hot and bitter but surely it must help. As his niece fiddled with something hidden on the tray Theoden did his best and by the time she presented the treat for his inspection, half the cup was gone.
Mallant!" he exclaimed, elated at the sight of a small golden cake upon the proffered plate. Blessed girl. That she should remember his favourite childhood treat from Minas Tirith.
"Yes. But only if you eat and drink that tonic."
With new found courage and a little enthusiasm the King ate and drank a little as instructed, eyeing all the while the small bar-shaped almond cakes that lay, moist and golden, upon the plate Eowyn had now set just out of reach. The sight brought back such memory, his hand held tight by his mother, his elder sisters skipping on ahead, heading to the bakery on the morning after Thengel had headed out for a new patrol. It became a well-loved tradition this treat for breakfast, to cheer them up and distract Morwen's noisy brood from the fact their father was gone again on the Steward's service.
"Did you make them?"
"No..Cook did, to Grandmama's specifications. We found the recipe in her housekeeping book."
With the tea and tonic gone and half a bowl of oatmeal downed, Eowyn pushed the plate of mallant a little closer.
"Thank you daughter. That was a thoughtful surprise." With relish, Theoden picked up his treat and took a bite. It was wonderful. Firm but moist as he remembered. With renewed enthusiasm he reached for a second bar but his shaking hands lost their grip. Crumbs and broken cake decorated the coverlet and the small plate slipped with a rattle onto the floor.
"Bema." He exclaimed. Could he not do anything? Mournfully, he gave up and sank back onto the pillows once again. "I am a trial to you…"
"Of course not…" Wordlessly, Eowyn stooped to gather up the mess as a hastily smoothed look of worry crossed her brow.
What a state for a warrior to be in. An invalid. Unable even to feed himself. Self-pity was not an emotion Theoden usually familiar indulged, but in the past few months he had come to know its sting. "I am indeed trying but you are too mannerly to show it. My sister and my mother both trained you well. A true daughter of kings, polite and proud, even in the face of dishonoured dotage."
"Uncle! Never! You will be well and soon." came the quick reply. "Would you like me to read once your head pains you a little less? The tea should bring the fever down quite quickly."
A hopeful smile quirked on Eowyn's fair face but her Uncle sadly noticed it did not light her eyes. Worry was scarcely a fitting companion for so young a woman. What had Theodwyn been concerned with at her age? Horses and Riders. Festivals and the free air. Not caring months on end for an old, sick man.
He sighed and reached out a hand. "No…but I would be happy for the company." Gently Eowyn sat upon the bed and laced her fingers in his gnarled and painful ones. "I am an old sway-backed nag, getting whiter than Snowmane with each passing day." he grumbled. His own fair hair was more grey than blond, like an old warhorse, its coat getting lighter with the years.
Eowyn's blond head shook in disagreement as the wash cloth was pressed into service once again. "Lightfoot is older in horse-years than you but does not feel his age. He still has an eye for a pretty mare. Had you not heard that Firethorn dropped her foal? A fine dappled colt with his sire's long legs and temper. Eomer already has his eye on him, has dubbed him Firefoot."
"Really? That is well, the old scoundrel. When did he get to her?"
"No one is quite sure," Eowyn replied, wiping the last of the sticky honey from off his fingers. "But I am certain that he is anxious to have you ride him once again."
"May be." Theoden replied weakly, not wanting to disappoint. He watched as she rose and went to the wardrobe. A fresh robe and nightshirt were laid across the bed.
"Come in!" Eowyn answered in surprise as a knock sounded on the door. No one was to interrupt them unless she was consulted. Who would dare disturb the King before he had even been dressed for the day?
As swiftly as the door was answered, the tall, gangly, dark figure of his chief counsellor strode into the room.
"My King, my lady." Grima bowed obsequiously low, clutching tight to a great sheaf of papers in his arms. The sight of them made Theoden's head ache suddenly. "How are you this fine morning my liege?" Bent almost double, arms and legs akimbo, the son of Galmod looked to Eowyn nothing so much as one of the grasshoppers that would plague the wheat some weeks hence.
"The same." The sternness of Theoden's voice to most would have been a warning, for all that it was low.
Grima, self-centred as he was, ignored it.
"That is good at least. Not worse." A wide smile stretched tight across the man's narrow, horse-like face. "I am sorry to disturb you so early Theoden-King, but some new requests arrived late yesterday and are quite urgent."
"What have you brought?" Eowyn's question was curt and sharp. Standing now on the far side of the great carved bed, she arranged the pillows carefully at Theoden's back to help him sit a little straighter.
The King glanced sidelong at his young niece. Her hands were clenched and the knuckles white. Was Eowyn angry that his councillor sought to disturb him on his sickbed or was there some other reason for her mood?"
"Drought has taken grip in east Enmet, my Lord and the grain is withering on the stalk. They are paying the price for this wonderful sun. Lord Grimbold has asked that we rebalance the tithes right now so that no one in the east will go without. It appears he has a record crop." Long thin fingers, heavy with jewel-studded rings, held the parchment out for him to see.
Theoden suppressed a groan, reached with trembling fingers for the sheaf. He tried to read but the numbers swam before his eyes. Focusing made the pounding in his head much worse and with it his stomach give a sickly twist.
"Grima, just…."
The young man's face was all heart felt consideration. "Shall I ask the Prince to deal with it, your majesty?"
"Yes, perhaps that would be best." The King sighed. His voice sounded weak and listless even to his own ears.
"Ah…."
Grima had gathered the papers but then stopped as he turned away, frowning thoughtfully and glancing back. "I have just remembered, my liege. He is not here. I saw Prince Theodred ride out this morning, toward the west." The black eyebrows raised in speculation. "I wonder where he went so soon. He was just back…. "
Theoden's eyes narrowed at the obvious implication. Helm's Deep was west and there lived his son's mistress and his daughter. Of course Theodred would take time to see them. Surely no one begrudged him that after a long patrol.
"He will be back tomorrow Grima. Can you not ask him then?" he asked. And leave me be was the unvoiced extra thought.
"No I am sorry, sire. Lord Grimbold is here just today…it would be helpful to sign the addendum now. This is most inconvenient."
Theoden raised a hand to cover his eyes a moment. The man's loud and tinny voice truly made his head feel as if it could split in two. "Then deal with it and do not bother me again!" he growled, surprised at the force of his own worlds.
The dark figure jumped in startlement but quickly recovered and bent in a hasty bow, backing toward the door. "I will Sire. Right away. Of course you must rest. I will do my best to handle affairs until the Prince is back."
Theoden sighed as the door slid shut with a heavy thud. "I am sorry, daughter. That was a little unkingly of me."
Eowyn had turned away, looking out towards the sun and green beyond. The golden river of long hair hid her face but from the stiff set of shoulders and rigid back he knew she must be trying hard to keep her peace. Was she angry at him or something Grima had said?
"Not at all, Uncle. It was unseemly for him to interrupt." By the time she turned and soft hands smoothed once more the coverlet, Eowyn's face was an expressionless mask. Unreadable. Polite and cool and shuttered like a window against the westering sun.
"Sleep and I will see you later." Cool lips grazed his brow. Then gratefully, wearied with all the fuss, Theoden-King sank down onto the pillows to take his rest.
~~~000~~~
Eowyn padded softly through the doorway and closed the door behind, hands full with the still heavily laden tray. For the barest moment, drained and worried that her beloved Uncle had not eaten sufficiently once again, she rested her head against the door. Perhaps it was time to find another healer. Nothing they gave the King seemed to work for very long and the thought of vital, energetic Theoden confined all summer long to his bed made her heart twist. Perhaps they should even send to the famous healing school at Mundburg, but that was an unwelcome thought. Surely his malady was not so very serious?
Annoyed at her own anxiousness, she shook her head. It was childish to borrow trouble from another day. He would be fine. She would give him careful care and soon he would be back with them in the Hall again.
Resettling her grip, Eowyn turned quickly and nearly collided with someone in the hall. "Oh! Grima! Were you waiting for me?" she asked, juggling the tray as the tea pot slid a little precariously near the rim.
The tall, dark figure of Theoden's councillor stood uncomfortably close. He was not unhandsome but, unusual for a Rider, fair-skinned with dark hair curling above his nape. From far Westmarch it was said, though behind his back some said he had Dunlending blood. Something about his broad hopeful smile made her think of Grandmama's words. Beware the man with a smile abroad and a scowl at home.
One hand gripped her arm as another reached for the handle. "Let me help my Lady. You have such a heavy load." The tips of his fingers brushed her wrist, they were quite oddly cold.
"No thank you. I am just fine. I am quite strong enough." she demurred. It was ridiculous. Both of them were standing quite unseemly close. She could smell the oil he had used in his hair and the morning's tea upon his breath.
"Of course, my Lady. But we must work together. The King is ill again and who knows when he will be well. You work so long and tirelessly for him. I would only make your day a little easier." The dark eyes glittered brightly above the all too ready smile.
"Thank you Grima but I must away."
She jerked the tray but his fingers still lingered upon hers. They tightened, hard like an iron band, cold and suddenly unyielding, pressing hard into her flesh. Panicked, she tried to jerk a little harder. Whyever would the odious man not let her go?
"Did you not hear or are your ears as poor as your manners?" came a sudden deep and commanding voice. "My sister is fine."
Unheard, unseen, Eomer had appeared as swift and silently as a fox upon the plain. He towered above the councillor, a scowl upon his lips and grey steel within his gaze. Daggers could not have been sharper than his look.
Lady of mercy. Had the tray not been braced against the jamb Eowyn felt surely her knees would have buckled in relief.
"Of course." Grima swallowed hard and adjusted his collar nervously. The white, cool fingers quickly released their grip. "I was only trying to be helpful Marshal. Nothing more."
Eomer's eyes narrowed skeptically. "Then it would be best in future to make sure that your helpfulness is welcome before you offer it."
Bowing and apologizing profusely, Grima hastily took his leave. Eomer reached quickly to grab the tilting tray, watching thoughtfully the councillor's stiff, retreating back. Was it his imagination or had the man's apologetic, fawning smile not light his dark and roving eyes?
"Are you all right?" he asked worriedly, looking down at his little sister's face. She looked suddenly all too pale and wan.
"I will be." Eowyn gave a shuddering sigh and shook the tension from her hands, wondering why the man's insistence bothered her so very much. Could he not have been simply trying to be helpful? She could not explain, yet somehow it did not feel so very straight and right.
"Come." Her brother balanced the load easily against his hip while he draped an arm about her shoulders and lightly squeezed. She looked so troubled. He tried and failed to think when he had last seen her smile. Perhaps he could do something to help lift her mood.
"Can your big brother not win your favour? I had promised you a match,'Wyn, had I not?"
Her face suddenly brightened like the sun as they walked through the hall toward the kitchens. "Yes, please!"
Later, when Eowyn had donned a pair of his old breeches, rolled up the cuffs and shrugged into a linen shirt, they squared off in the practice yard.
The match, unusually, did not go as either of them expected. Time and again her brother got past her guard, touching Eowyn lightly for the kill on knee or hip or shoulder.
"Wyn?" Eomer fell back, frowning, pulling off his helm and letting his sword point rest in the dirt. How was it that Eowyn was so easy he could use her for a pell? He should not have able to best her so very soon.
"Sorry" came the half-hearted reply. The blue-grey eyes beneath the helm were troubled, stormy as the thunderheads that raced across the plain in high midsummer. "My mind is elsewhere."
'So I can see," Eomer rubbed the bridge of his nose thoughtfully. What the young shieldmaiden lacked in strength and reach she made up for in speed and agility. Perhaps the unpleasant exchange with Grima bothered her more than either of them expected.
"Are you sure you want to do this now?"
"Yes!" The proud chin that had been drooping lifted defiantly a little higher.
"Well then," he mused, "let us go with your thoughts." Eomer grinned and raised his sword. He had an idea that just might help her focus. "Imagine me with black hair and too much nose."
That time the young Rider had to jump quite sharply back…
~~~000~~~
"Well that bloody does it, you cheating bastard son of a Wraith. Enough. I am out of the game."
Dusty and dog-eared playing cards flew into the air and the crash from the up-ended stool echoed off Henneth Annun's rough rock walls.
Over by the rushing water curtain, Madril winced. Day fifty-two with no break looked to be ending with a bang. What a change from morning to the eve. At breakfast they had all laughed at the new recruit's choice remark, cheered as he 'put it on the table', carved it into the wood for posterity. Now, a hard, hot patrol done for the day, they were nearly into fisticuffs. He shook his great shaggy head. The men's mood these days turned wildly from one moment to the next.
The fracas looked to be heating up. Terrell glared at Mablung who glared just as sharply back. "I did not cheat!"
"Then what do you call stuffing cards down your sorry breeches?"
The lieutenant reached to grab at something sticking out of his sergeant's waistband but the young man was having none of it. "Leave off!." Mablung shoulders were roughly shoved away.
Around the torchlit chamber, men looked up from their evening tasks hopefully. Even a fist-fight at this point would be a welcome break from the routine.
Mablung sneered and gestured to his waist. "Oh right, it's the only action your packet's like to get."
A laugh ricocheted round the room and the younger man's face flushed scarlet. "You whoreson!" Terrell cried, winding up, readying to throw a punch.
Anborn, worry plain on his fair, bearded face, reached to grab his friend's raised arm but was roughly shaken off. The Captain's rules were clear: no fighting, whatever the provocation and there were worse rotations than the Refuge.
Much worse.
From the suddenly doubtful look on Terrell's face he had suddenly remembered it. That at least was good. The two combatants circled warily. Insults flew but for now the fists had lowered.
Madril, senior lieutenant of the bunch, put down the bow he had been oiling and decided it was time to act. He walked over to a farther alcove and stood at ease, waiting for the Captain to take his notice.
The big lieutenant was not a man given to advising others about their jobs. To him, the best way to manage was to train the men right and then, by Osse, trust them. Get the blazes out of their way and let them do their jobs. He trusted his commander implicitly, but at that moment things had a bad feeling about them. Best to make sure the boss was aware.
Faramir sat by the light of a sputtering lamp, forcing himself to do the least favourite of his chores: reports to Minas Tirith. Any excuse to stop was welcome and the quill stilled against parchment. He cocked his head, black eyebrow raised.
"See the fools?" The Tolfalas man nodded toward the knot of men in the centre of the chamber. Slowly he folded his uncommonly long legs under the trestle table and took a seat on an upturned crate.
"Yes Madril, I did and heard them." Faramir gave a nod of thoughtful agreement. His grey eyes ranged about the torchlit space, taking in the rustling and the tension in the air. It was amazing any of them could breathe for the heaviness that suddenly filled the space.
"'Tis not like Mab to get so riled about anything. When even he is losing his cool, I reckon we have a problem. Three nights now we've needed to throw the boot at Damrod, him snoring like a Mumak and so grumpy with being woken for it now he's gone and put young Will on report."
"What for?" asked Faramir in surprise, turning to eye the grizzled lieutenant by his side. Will was an earnest new recruit. Careful and from Faramir's limited experience, thoughtful. What could he have done that merited any censure?
"Nowt. Pissing too close to the Forbidden Pool Damrod said." They both rolled their eyes at that. "Need to do something, sir, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Not at all and I have been thinking on it…"
Faramir ran his fingers through his long black hair. Veteran now of ten years leading the company of Ithilien, he understood all too well that of the all the things a soldier faced, the isolation, the discomfort, the daily danger and thankfully infrequent major battle, only the discomfort was something he could do much about. The small miseries of living in the wild were like small debts. They hit one in so many places that what they wanted in weight they more than made up for in number.
He sighed. That spring had been unusual. First cold, then dry for weeks on end, cursed with a hot and steady eastern wind that moaned about the trees and shriveled the leaf buds of their moisture. Even the animals seemed maddened by it, roaming down slope in search of moisture. Elk and moose out in the open where they had no wont to be. Between the orc parties and hot, uncommon weather there had been no break for the men, no change to rest and regroup a bit. Normally by now there would have been a day or two of storms so foul they would simply hunker down. Sleep. Eat. Get their wits back.
Making up his mind, the Captain rose. At this hour evening chores were all but done but it was still earlyish for bed. The majority of their hundred men sat on around the central pit, talking in quiet groups. It was time to engineer a little break.
"Gather round gentlemen." The rustle and babble quieted as man by man they took note of their Captain's careful posture and upraised hand. Faramir had no need to raise his voice to gain attention.
"I know some of you were woken the last few nights by the noise some one was making."
"If that's what you call it." some wag called out. Damrod scowled, but held his tongue. Normally he could be counted on to take a little ribbing. Faramir paused to let the catcalls settle down.
"I must apologize for this. I can only assume you heard me dream."
Laughter echoed off the walls. Damrod's frown smoothed to a set and displeased line. Hopefully his Captain's ruse would let the Ranger save a little face before he truly lost his temper.
"Only if it t'were dreaming of the Lieutenant's snoring." This time Damrod's own sergeant made the quip. The old Ranger reached across and clipped him upside the head.
"Nay Hallan. It was not that. I have had a premonition."
The room went very quiet. Faramir scanned the expectant faces. A decade on he was still surprised they had never resorted to the boot, never flung it over the curtain at him, when the dream of the Wave broke his rest. Often enough it woke him shouting and tossing, trembling in fear. He had come to understand the dream was most often a portent of his own disquiet, a sign that things were ill. But blessedly it had not plagued him in a while..
There was no harm, he thought, in a little fibbing.
"It is going to rain tomorrow, Gentlemen. Absolutely, simply pour. The entire day. I know this without a shred of doubt. Given this unfortunate event there will be no breakfast call and no formal muster."
He paused to enjoy the change in the air as smiles lit like little flames around the room.
"Who has midnight watch?"
"My men, Captain." Erlin raised his hand. This was crucial. The others would get extra sleep but the men on early watch missed out.
"They are excused from other chores on the morrow then. Damrod, Erlin you personally will have the day watch. Madril and myself will take the perimeter patrol …"
He caught his lieutenant's slightly pleading look. "… third turn after sunrise. We shall expect there to be a warm and elaborate supper when we return."
A cheer went up and suddenly there was a rush to ready bedrolls. The prospect of a day off had done much already to improve the mood.
Faramir. relieved and smiling, went to ready his own gear for the morning.
It would be a nice change from reports.
~~~000~~~
The next morning Faramir found himself striding through the pines, light of heart and more than pleased with his day's plan.
He and Madril had grabbed a quick breadroll and descended the stone stair long after the bird's dawn chorus. Now moving carefully downslope toward the river, he breathed the sharp, dusky scent of pine litter below their feet and dodged a looming spider web.
The morning's air was still a little cool but there was a lightness to it that promised heat to come. He did not mind. To simply go and run a routine patrol was a luxury he rarely had these days, more often on the move from one refuge to the next, assessing the defenses and making sure all ran well.
Long used to each others way of ranging, he and his lieutenant spread a little farther out, just out of sight but near enough and in earshot should the need the arise. Bows were slung and swords readied at the hip, though they did not expect to encounter any trouble. Orcs had not been through these parts for nigh on a month. Denethor's reports and his own scouts showed all the movement near to the Crossroads. They would be alert but he expected no action in the day. Perhaps if they were lucky, some of the spring's bounty could be foraged for a treat
The morning passed. Lunchtime found them happily back up a farther ridge and beside a rock outcrop, having slogged through some heavy underbrush to gain the height. The breeze was stiffer there, welcome in the heat, and kept the early midges down as they took big mouthfuls of bread and cheese. The only good use for the unseasonable heat was it might bake the small creeks dry and keep the little monsters down. A man sweat terribly in a mask and hood and there was no way to keep the tenacious creatures out.
And there also only so much added chewy insect he could stand in his food. All of it, the bugs, the heat, the work, was making them to a man a little grumpy.
The Rangers packed up their meal and headed out, wending their way back down the ridge toward the hidden stair. It was as the sun fell westering after hours of solid walking and nothing untoward, that Madril sent out a hurried, chirpy call. Over here.
Faramir pushed aside the aspen and sage and yarrow that choked the understory, spying the big Ranger a ways farther down. He was bent over something the Captain could not see. Ahead rose a stand of birch and Faramir could make out the soft chime of water amidst the birdsong. A brook must lie ahead.
"Fiddleheads!" Madril grinned and held up his prize in triumph.
Faramir looked about his feet and there in the wet, damp bank was vast drift of the tiny, coiled up ferns. Shaped perfectly like the head of a fiddle, they were bright green little gems, succulent and packed with goodness this early in the season. Damrod's patrol had brought a fair few back the day before. Now with these there might be enough to feed the men. Grinning, Faramir unslung his pack and the two men began picking quickly, brushing off the dry brown paper beards that covered the tight coils and laying them safely in an outer pocket.
By the time the patch was almost stripped both men were near ten feet apart, stopping now and then to scan the trees and listen. Perhaps it was the wind direction not in their favour or the loud rushing of the brook in full spring spate. Perhaps it was simply rare ill chance, but in the event, neither heard the creature until too late.
Madril gave a loud, broken shout.
Growling and grunting, the black bear was upon him before he could react, its claws digging into the heavy leather of his jerkin and jaws snapping at his nape.
"Protect your neck!" Faramir yelled, dropping everything and unsheathing his sword. He closed the distance as fast as he was able, heart pounding quickly in anxiety and fear, trying to see where he could aim.
The lieutenant did as he was bid, lacing his hands over the back of his hood and trying to roll up in a ball and over on his back. Desperately he rocked, trying to get over on his side and jar the creature off. He could feel the bear's hot, fetid breath and pinpoint stabs of pain where it tried to bite, instinct driving it to his most vital spots.
Madril's face was white and shocked but he was still struggling hard as Faramir leapt and plunged his blade into the bear's broad back. It shrieked, so very like a man for a moment the Captian worried it was his lieutenant he had hit.
Thankfully it was not so. As the bear dropped its grip and turned to face the new opponent, Madril rolled away, grunting in pain when his shoulder bashed a hidden rock. Panting with adrenalin, bleeding where teeth had found their purchase, he watched Faramir pull back and drive a second strike deeper through the animal's broad chest.
It gave long howling moan, shivered from nose to tail, and slumped.
"Are you all right?" Thin-lipped, Faramir pulled out his sword and rushed over to his friend, looking anxiously at the cuts across the backs of Madril's hands. Six perfect round punctures were driven in and there were small gashes across his back. None of them looked serious but he hurriedly pulled out the lieutenant's water flask and washed the saliva and dirt from the slowly bleeding cuts.
"It didn't bluff!" said Madril dazedly, looking over at the carcass. His great bulk shook like a leaf. The shock was beginning to set in.
Faramir looked up from his ministrations. "I know. It charged without declaring." He tried to hide his frown. He did not like it. Bears almost always faked a charge and turned away before attacking. They were usually wary of a man-sized foe. This was highly unusual for a creature on its own. From its thicker neck and shoulders it was a male. Not likely that there were hidden cubs nearby.
He began to pull bandages from out of his pack but then quickly stopped, looking closely at the bear's long muzzle. He had had another awful thought.Rabies. Oh Valar, the animal could be ill and Madril could be infected. Then their only hope would be to let the Ranger's body bleed, drive the infection out.
"Captain?" Madril asked in puzzlement, as the younger man went to the body and began to examine its face and neck.
"Just a moment."
He did not want to alarm his friend unduly, but they all knew Rabies, like as not, was a death sentence. Using the edge of his cloak he pried opened the creature's jaw. There was no sign of foaming, thankfully, but the animal was thin. Undernourished. Could that mean it was infected? Heart in mouth, Faramir began to slice through the pelt, looking for signs of an infected wound. Its jaw had not been paralyzed, it was not that far gone if it could bite Madril as it did.
Methodically he continued his examination, nearly choking at the stench of the creature's musk. It was a wonder they hadn't smelled it coming. Finally, as he worked toward the head, peeling the fur away he something glint that looked unusual.
Deep in the muscle of the neck was a collar of flat, black metal, so tight it bit into the throat. Clearly it was impossible for the poor thing to swallow. Faramir felt dizzy for a moment with relief. It was starving, driven wild with it. Not likely rabid.
Peering closer at the collar, an ill feeling pricked at the edge of his sensation. Faramir could just make out tiny runes crudely carved into the surface. Not Tengwar or Cirth but something else. Orcish…or Black Speech. An ill and worrying sign. The bear had likely escaped from Morgul Vale, been tormented for some dark design he could not surmise. It was not the first such refugee they had found wandering Ithilien's cool green slopes. And likely not the last
Now settled in his mind as to the cause, the Captain turned back to his lieutenant. "It has been tortured, Madril. Driven mad. Starved. Not likely sick"
"Tha's all right then. A mercy to end its misery." The look in Madril's eyes spoke volumes. He too had worried it was diseased.
It was not long before they had his injured hands bound in bandages. After one last long pull on the water bottle and a bite to eat, Madril declared himself fit to move. He was only a little shaky and felt stronger now he'd had a rest.
The two men made their way for home, less light of step than they had set out.
~~~000~~~
"A little dearly bought," was Renil's quiet comment as he dressed Madril's wounds with healing salve. The healer of course had noticed the bandages at once when the Lieutenant held his prize high for all to see.
"Just a scratch." But the uncomfortable twitch of a clawed and bruised shoulder as Madril raised his tankard to his lips put the lie to the brave words.
Faramir deposited their bounty with the cook and stood back, grinning with amusement and relief, nursing a small tankard of his own. Man after man had come over to see Madril's wounds and by the time the story had been round once or twice his normally reticent lieutenant was soused enough to begin enjoying all of the attention.
Their little adventure had turned out to be simply that, little, but the Captain decided he would pass on the word. The last thing the patrols needed was the normally friendly animals of Ithilien hampering them in their work.
The now much more rested men were in high spirits, going about the business of setting dinner on the board and easy with it. Many appeared much cleaner and by the humidity in the cave he guessed that a lot of laundry had been done.
Damrod and Erlin had reported nothing untoward.
After a loud and boisterous meal of rich rabbit stew with the spring's wild garlic and the fiddleheads braised with butter, Faramir sat back, enjoying the happy swirl around. He had taken ribbing for his failed premonition with good grace, pleased to let the men have their joke and relieved that all seemed well. Another cask of ale had been broached. Not wine for it was back to the rota on the morrow.
Later, when the dice came out, and books, and an instrument or two, Mablung had come over, swung his long legs under the bench and sat beside his Captain.
"Sir, I…" he began, clearly planning to apologize.
Faramir shook his head, a wry half smirk upon his face, his long fingers cradling the last of his drink. "Not me Lieutenant, it is your sergeant you should be speaking to. I expect he has already apologized to you."
"Yes sir, he has, but no sir if you'll pardon me. 'Tis not that." Embarrassed, the craggy-faced young man flushed red to the roots of his dark brown hair. Mablung bent and took a bracing pull of what looked to be his second or third ale of the evening. "You see sir, I knew that I was getting bushed. Should have said something soonest when I noticed. Not tried to muscle through. It never works."
"That it doesn't." Faramir agreed, eyeing Mablung appreciatively. It took guts to admit when one was wrong. Even more to admit when one was spent. "I'll be grateful if you'll let me know next time Mablung. When even my best lieutenants are thinking squirrely I need to know."
"Thank you, sir." The young man let out a breath, looking entirely relieved to have not got more of a bollocking. "Captain, what's in store now? Are we going to be heading farther east, ranging closer to the Vale?" Morgul Vale he meant. They did not name it unless seriously pressed. There were enough evil sounds within the world.
"I will think about it Mab. That certainly that comes to mind."
Across the bench Madril's ears perked up as he tried with questionable success to concentrate and mend the hole in his leather jerkin. His hands were clearly starting to be stiff and sore and Faramir expected he was regreting his earlier blithe refusal of Renil's willowbark tea.
"Here let me do that, my fingers are half the size of yours." Anborn reached across the table and took the awl, began stitching carefully and neatly, pulling the slit shut tight.
"I can fletch." The big Ranger protested, but flexed his aching hands gratefully. Holes meant midges in your shirt and Anborn's father was a cobbler. The young man knew what he was about.
"Know you can, but not with hands like that." Anborn, fingers sure on leather, looked up, interested also in the Captain's plans. "Would we sir? Range near't Vale?" It was not a thought any of them welcomed, though they would if the orders came down.
Faramir downed his last mouthful and rose, rolling his head tiredly on his shoulders. "I will be moving on in a week or so, to Dolen dant, I will see how many other incidents there have been." The Steward had ordered him to complete a round of all the refuges before Midsummer. It had been a hard winter and he needed to assess what state they were in, what needed to be done to keep them well in readiness.
"But you just got here!" Mablung protested. Around the table eyebrows raised in surprise. He had only arrived a week before. They knew there were too few men and too many jobs to cover. But all rested easier when they had their Captain back again.
Faramir shook his head ruefully. "I know. It feels strange. I am not used to this. I don't usually come so late and pull out early."
He froze. Oh Valar. They had him. Knew it the moment the phrase left his mouth.
The fact that their Captain never swore, never used vulgar language or joined in the ribald talk was something the men of Ithilien company were, quixotically, quite proud of. One of the things they loved about him, like the absolute certainty that he did not lie and always considered their needs before his own. Not prissy or a prude, Faramir simply considered it a failure of his own quite considerable imagination to speak unnecessarily crudely.
"Captain. Captain. Captain…"
His infelicitous turn of phrase ran through the cavern fast as wildfire. Rhythmic thumping of hands on knees and bench reverberated about the central room. Men stood hastily back and the wooden trestle table was ceremoniously flipped upside down.
He was finally going on the table.
Faramir shook his head, trying not to laugh. Ten years a Captain and half that again a lieutenant and he had never slipped up so.
Boromir's words and name were of course proudly carved into the worn wooden underside. His little brother still remembered the drunken Midsummer's eve when the Captain-General had visited unannounced and had, with a flourish, performed his part of the ritual.
The chanting did not let up. Broad grins showed far and wide, the stamping and hollering had become only louder still. No way he could get out of this now.
Madril rose and offered Faramir his own knife. Striving mightily to keep a grin off his face, the older Ranger's wide blue eyes twinkled merrily in the flickering torchlight.
"Well, my Lord," he said, at last giving in to a low chuckle only the two of them need hear. "If you have to get on the table it might as well be for a corker."
Faramir sighed, reluctantly took the proffered knife.
"Just don't tell my elder brother what I said. I would never hear the end of it."
.
~~~000~~~
.
"Pray tell me Denethor what was that about?"
The Steward froze, resigned to the inevitability of intrusion. He knew it would be her. Had caught the distinctive rustle of heavy silk and the scent of Imloth's fabled roses that she wore.
The Duchess, unhindered by her elaborate overskirts, caught him up quickly in the hall. Reached to grab his arm, furious at the dressing down she had so publically received.
Denethor took in the white set of her lips, the implacable hardness to her eyes and cringed.
Perhaps he should not have indulged his temper so.
Reluctantly, he tried to explain himself a little further. She, of all the councillors, deserved a little more. "Lady your intelligence is a bit behind the times. If you will insist on being in the game, I demand that you play at my level. Is not your favourite phrase to paddle faster? I do not have time for slow and steady gathering. I need useful information now."
There was a scrape of boot on stone as all around them guards stood hastily straighter to attention. They too had heard his angry tone and strove to sink a little farther back to the walls. All had seen the flash of steel below his robes. All knew the whip of steel within his tongue.
Fools. He was surrounded by cowards and fools.
Belatedly Denethor forced himself to focus on Amerith again. The lady did not look convinced and with a flash of irritation, he realized she was her espousing her arguments for the second time, shaking her elegantly coiffed head in disagreement.
"Surely the levies are for all the companies, not just Osgiliath and Ithilien. Why not bolster all those around? Denethor, you showing precious little common sense. Do you not realize you will get more co-operation in the long run if you share what you know right now!" Amerith's rich contralto voice was near to pleading. Its tone of outright frustration leavened by earnest solicitude made him want to grind his teeth.
"Out of the question."
What could he say? I have spied secretly on the Enemy's inner fastness and seen the storm of misery of come? There are 20,000 orcs alone held in readiness above Morgul Vale.
Impossible.
Who knew when the Enemy would move? Night in, night out, he spent every last ounce of will and strength, striving to answer that dreadful question. Only he alone was strong enough to carry the knowledge for the uncertain present. Not his councillor. Nor his heir. He had discovered that to his chagrin.
Oh Boromir, how had I misjudged you so?
The Steward swayed, exhausted. It was getting harder to manage on his own. Suddenly he felt as white as the City's stone. Drained. Cold as the blue cornices high on Mindolluin. The ever present headache pounded harder still and for a moment he could not think for the pain behind his eyes. Nor, more alarmingly, could he remember what he had meant to do.
The Duchess saw the flash of confusion on his face, the lines of worry and fatigue deepen about his nose and brow. As his tall, sere form listed suddenly she quickly clasped his arm.
"Denethor are you all right?" she sent, looking about for a seat within the hall. "When did you last eat or sleep?"
All right? he wondered, blindly following the steady pressure of Amerith's hand into a meeting room. Gratefully he sank down upon a chair. What did that mean? Ludicrous construct. How could he be all right when the kingdom he had sworn to serve was crumbling and he could no more stop it than order Anduin to flow up the Argonath?
"My Lord, rest here while I fetch Varan to look at you. He I trust to be discreet."
He did not look up as each one of the lady's footfalls echoed like a thunderbolt round his skull. No one must see him incapacitated. Steeling himself against the pain he opened his eyes and rose, took in the opulence of his surroundings.
With a mirthless laugh he realized what room he had taken refuge in.
King Minardil's fabled study, covered inch by inch with priceless tapestries. Minardil who own Steward was the first Lord of Emyn Arnen. Mindardil who died untimely in Pelargir because he doubted intelligence about the Corsair fleet.
How fitting. A king of long ago and a king yet to come. One who doubted the signs and the other who claimed to see them.
Well they were not finished yet. They had yet to see the result of Thorongil's lauded gamble. Gondor had not yet come to the end, merely the ending of the beginning moves.
Half-blinded by pain but driven mercilessly by need, he staggered toward the Steward's more modest palace. They had to win, else the black king tilt the board and all was lost.
For now, as so often at the outset of the game, no certain conclusion was possible.
.
Definitions of names I have created here.
Mallant: Sindarin..golden gift.
Dolen dant: Sindarin: hidden fall
Thank you so very much to guest Anon99 for the lovely review; thank you also to silverswath who favourited and to silverswath, Wtiger5 and Amilasse who followed this past month. Your support is what keeps me going!
As always I am indebted to Annafan and Wheelrider for their critters and comments and encouragement. You guys are the best.