With a last fond pat on the old hobby horse's balding head, the new Steward of Gondor gathered up his writing kit from his battered, cluttered desk, took a last look round his quarters, and walked out into the palace corridor.
It was mid-morn, the day after a momentous night before, and although there was realistically little chance of an encounter (most souls were still sleeping off the effects of celebration), Faramir's soft day-boots were a quite deliberate and considered choice. Their doeskin soles (stitched with sinew and softened by some fetid concoction known only to Damrod's Ethring kin) made little noise on the forest floor, much less the Citadel's polished flagstones.
A most helpful feature when one did not wish to attract the notice of the few servants in the family wing.
He stepped lightly, silently, weight forward and ears alert for any creak of iron latch or whine of hinge; almost skulking in a pose that after many years of Ranging was entirely automatic, but also quite ridiculous given his location, and so he slowed, forced himself to straighten up. How Boromir would laugh. Denethor had drummed polite acknowledgement for every servant and Tower guard into his sons' stubborn heads, but the fact remained: the guards of the patrol had spent many years ignoring the illicit (and mostly innocuous) movements of the two 'young masters.' If Faramir did not wish to be addressed they wouldn't bat an eye.
He took a strong and steadying breath to calm his capricious nerves.
This was not his first visit back- that was not the source of his trepidation. The visit, two nights before, to raid his elder brother's secret stash of brandy, had been a desperate but surprisingly easy expedition. It was oddly comforting in its way, and a theft of which Boromir certainly would have approved. How many times had he wasted coppers in the Kine trying to get his 'little one' sotted to the gills? Too many to recall, and most had ended with Faramir himself supporting a singing, three-sheets-to-the-wind Boromir up the palace steps, hurriedly shushing him as they passed the candle glow leaking from behind their father's study door.
He shook his head and smiled wistfully at the memory. The study door: most often shut, weighty with authority and the focus of many an anxious childish knock, it was, of course, the focus of his problem.
The time had come to take up his father's responsibilities.
At the end of the long curving hall, Faramir's feet turned south then west, seemingly of their own accord, until just beyond the morning room close to the Tower stair, he stopped, straightened his cuffs and turned toward an imposing heavy door. Like the livery of the Tower guard, it was graced with the steward's sigil: Nimloth the Fair, Seven Stars, and a King's crown above set in lebethron against white oak.
Above the crown's high swept wings was inscribed: R-ND-R.
Arandur. 'Servant of the king.' His father's title that now was his.
The symbolism had never felt so apt.
For nigh a thousand years the Ruling Stewards had guided Gondor and now he, Faramir, the second son of Denethor, would have his name carved beside his forefathers' on the black obsidian of the Steward's seat: the youngest occupant since Hador seven hundred years before, but also the last and briefest. In just six weeks, he would gratefully, nay, joyously, surrender his rod of office to Aragorn: healer, Captain of the Host of the West, leader of a most miraculous victory, King foretold and soon to return.
He looked up to the polished wood and traced a finger across the ancient runes. There was much work to be done and little time to stand woolgathering outside the door. With a sharp shake of his dark head, he threw off the swirling memories, set his hand upon the latch and pushed.
The door swung wide. Sunlight poured through the open terrace doors and a warm breeze, redolent of rose and honeysuckle, lifted the curtains' silken tassels.
Someone was in the room.
"Cahill?!"
"Milord!"
The seneschal started violently, barely kept his grip upon a heavily laden tray. The china rattled musically. It slid sideways but thankfully did not fall as Cahill abruptly set it upon a small oval table. "My Lord Steward! Please, please come in. Shall I put these on the desk?" he asked, turning to relieve his master of the burden in his arms.
Faramir, dumbstruck, gave up the implements and stood blinking on the threshold. Poor man, he had been almost startled straight out of his skin. "I am sorry, Cahill," he began, but a quick half-bow cut him off.
"Do not apologize, milord, the fault is mine. I did not hear you."
Faramir chagrined, looked down at his boots. Cahill had not heard because a Ranger had snuck up on him. So much for his wish to avoid awkward interactions. "Cahill how did you know I would be here?"
When I did not know myself?
Faramir rubbed awkwardly at his brow. He had long suspected the seneschal read his father's moods, but he never imagined the man to be prescient. The room was freshly aired and polished. A few faggots had been lit to chase the last lingering chill of nighttime from the room and the mantlepiece held a pretty celadon vase filled with early anemones. Nera, that last was surely Nera.
Cahill laid the writing implements gently down on the gleaming surface of the desk and waited, wide-eyed, clearly puzzled by his response. "Milord?" His thin lips had begun to droop a little mournfully and his dark eyes looked concerned. As if he worried that he had somehow erred.
"Never mind.: Faramir sighed. The day, despite its glorious, golden sun and lingering elation, was not starting well. First he had missed Éowyn at breakfast, and now the space where he hoped to work in peace was occupied. Perhaps, like her, he should have lain in bed, but that would have only put off that which he had to do. And dreaded.
He forced himself to quirk the semblance of a smile. "Thank you. For the refreshments and taking care of my father's affects. I can see that all is perfectly in order."
Or as ordered as could be when the City had been under siege. A bookcase stood in the far right corner, oddly naked with broken panes in its tall door. How had that come to pass? Surely no catapult of the Enemy could reach so high and there had been no damage to the palace that Hurin had spoken of. A mystery, but one that could wait for another day.
The seneschal's long wrinkled fingers resumed tidying already meticulously tidy piles and so Faramir stepped hesitantly into the room, ran his hand lightly across the back of a deep wing chair. The space smelled the same: of ink and yellowed parchment, of wood polish and the old leather of tomes that marched, row on row, upward to the coffered ceiling. It looked almost the same as well; although his heart told him that it should not—as if, with its master gone, even the furniture should have shrunk without Denethor's force of personality.
"May I be of service, milord?" Cahill enquired, as the silence stretched. "Your father's most recent notes, such as they are, are here." He tapped a sheaf of papers held down by a round glass weight.
It was a masterpiece: An almost perfect replica of the City Faramir was now to rule.
For six whole weeks.
When his master did not immediately reply Cahill straightened up, hands wringing slowly, surveying the space with furrowed brows, as if searching for some defect. After a moment's searching, he found it over by the terrace doors.
"I apologize, Lord Faramir. The Table has not been updated in many days."
"The Table?"
Faramir glanced a little blankly across the room. The map of Gondor in relief stood where it had since his grandfather Echthelion's time- beside a tall window that gave excellent late day sunlight. It had been Denethor's habit to update the pieces as he enjoyed a suitably modest, solitary brandy before the evening meal, but in recent years the process had been markedly less relaxed: Boromir and he, Toric and Eradan, had often huddled grimly with the Steward about its redwood edge, devising stratagems on the fly.
He crossed the deep gold and carmine carpet in a few halting strides. Rangers and infantry, mounted horse and a few larger Captains were placed about Osgiliath, with dozens of small squat black painted blocks (Orc squadrons in name if not recognizable shape) clustered on the farther shore. This was the night before the retreat. He swallowed hard, at random plucking a soldier from the closest gate. Chipped. Well used. Clad in the black and green livery of far Morthond, Toric's home. He wondered where the indomitable lieutenant was now, Cormallen or Cair Andros? He must find the time to ask. His last memory was of a straight back and a frightened column of still marching men.
Behind him,, Cahill cleared his throat. "My Lord Steward, is there correspondence I may help you with?"
Faramir looked up. The man's long face was nodding toward the quill that was already placed efficiently and precisely upon the desk. On the left. Opposite to what he had done for almost thirty years.
He set the wooden soldier back down with care and slowly shook his head. "Thank you Cahill, but no. I have sent a note to Princess Ivriniel at Dol Amroth House and had one in return from Lord Hurin. He has kindly passed on the news from Cormallen. I thought to ..." he began, but his voice trailed quickly off. What should he say? That he had come to his father's room not to work, but for diversion? That the long, if sometimes pleasant, incarceration in the Houses had made a convenient excuse to not venture very far, but it was past time that he visited his father's bier? The King's-Aragorn's- letter spoke of a service of thanksgiving in Merethrond. He could not, in conscience, conduct it without having done Denethor, and Theoden-King, proper honour.
"Make a few personal notes to my men," he finished finally, running a mercifully steady hand through his hair. That was true enough; Mablung and Renil were both safe and well, but their reports had been necessarily very brief. He wanted more news of how Ithilien's company fared.
"Very well, my lord." The seneschal walked over to the tray, poured a cup of kahva and added just one sugar lump (exactly as Faramir preferred) before gliding smoothly back and laying the cup a handsbreadth from the blotter on the desk.
There was no avoiding the moment now. Slowly but steadily, Faramir rounded the massive expanse of darkened oak, lowered himself into the deep leather seat and laid his fingers on the worn smooth edge. It felt too large, awkward, but it was futile to wish for the light lap desk he used within the gardens. Like the role, he would have to grow accustomed to it.
He picked up the delicate cup and took a long, appreciative sip. The kahva was rich and dark and a far cry from the bilge water that the men brewed while on the move. He smiled. "Thank you, for this. Please tell Nerinel that it is excellent."
"Certainly," Cahill replied, voice low and retiring, hands clasping and unclasping inside the heavy brocade of his sleeves. "Is there anything else that I can do?"
A sharp pang of sympathy settled in his chest. This was unsettling for both of them. It could not be easy for Cahill to serve another man in that chair. "No. No thank you. The work will not take long. Afterward I will walk over to Rath Dinen, and then meet with Lord Hurin in the hall. There will be a Service of Thanksgiving in the coming days. I wish to pay my respects beforehand."
Cahill blanched white as Mindolluin's peak. "Rath Dinen?" he repeated faintly. A warm gust of wind ruffled the papers on the desk. He reached quickly, almost absently, across; realigning their edges and adding another weight. "Shall I attend you there?"
Faramir gently shook his head. This morning was proving difficult. Releasing Cahill to another task was perhaps the kindest thing to do. "No. There is no need."
There was no immediate response. Faramir waited patiently, absorbing himself in deciphering his father's distinctive tiny, embellished tengwar that covered the first of several notes, but as the silence stretched to become an uncomfortably weighty pause, he glanced askance.
A nervous tic had begun to jump silently, high on Cahill's cheek.
He about to speak, to commiserate delicately as he could, when the man abruptly folded his hands back into his sleeves and bowed. "Very good, my lord. Shall I leave you to it then?"
"With my thanks,"
The long formal robes bowed out through the door and Faramir sat back, relieved to have avoided more awkwardness but also (guiltily) pleased to be left alone. This would be all too soon a luxury: much of the City would desire a piece of the Steward's time. He must make the most of it and so he bent to the task, starting with a more detailed survey of the desk. Reports and notes, orders and letters, were all accounted for. The deep and heavy drawers (once an undiscovered country intriguing to a little boy) were filled with keys and spare writing bits, ledgers and even a sheet or two of music.
Sifting through this debris of his father's strictly mannered life, he found himself amazed that even in his last dark days Denethor had kept his world exactly as in his prime: neatly delegated into piles based on import. This made it easy to ascertain what was essential and what was not, and so there followed a surprisingly restful half candlemark. He found fresh sheets of parchment, took up and inked his quill, and began an appropriately semi-official reply to Mablung's hasty scrawl. After several minutes' concerted writing he tapped the shaker of sand and set aside the letter, rolling his wounded shoulder experimentally, pleased to find not even the slightest twinge of pain. Perhaps now Varan would let him leave off the sling for good.
By the time a second and more formally worded letter to Aragorn had been set carefully down to dry, the sun had retreated across the carpet to the terrace doors and he was surprised to find his stomach growling. Another propitious sign. His hasty breakfast had been but a few hours past.
He reached for a tempting nut-dusted cake and was about to try it when a knock sounded on the door.
"Come in!"
The old oak door swung wide and Cahill's voice rang out. "My lord, the Duchess of Lossarnach."
He hastily pushed back the chair and stood. "Amerith! Welcome, " he said, surprised and pleased, but also more than a little taken aback by her appearance. Amerith was, for her, dishevelled: without gloves or cloak, missing the usual silk hair veil. An enamelled hair clasp had slid down two thin loops of braid and let strands of red trail out. What was so important that she had to rush?
Before he could frame thought to ask a billowing sail of lilac skirt swept around the desk.
"Faramir, is this wise?" Amerith chided, leaning in to accept a kiss on each powdered cheek. "Has Varan actually given you leave to work? Or have you escaped again?"
"Again?!" He held her out at arm's length. Surely Varan was immune to Amerith's wily charms; would not have divulged the truth about their training jaunt? He shook his head ruefully. "And how did you know about that?"
She tilted her head and wagged her finger underneath his nose. "A woman never tells. And besides, I believe the more interesting question is why you would have a need to keep secrets from me?"
He rolled his eyes. "Am I to have no privacy? Can you ever leave off this game? Truly, Amerith, I think you must be part Umaiar, like a Great Spider of the First Age. We are all simply playthings caught in your web."
She beamed. "Ooh. I rather like that image. Me, hovered over my catch while the delectable morsel struggles helplessly, bound and waiting for me to suck…."
"Amerith! Behave! Someone might overhear," he sent quickly, picturing Cahill walking in.
She gave a mental blush. "Oh. Yes. Young Bergil is outside the door."
He is?! "You should know better," he scolded aloud.
She pouted, reached to brush an imaginary speck of lint from off his tunic and absurdly, he felt suddenly thankful that he had changed. The more formal dress—including his best belt engraved with the selfsame tree and stars- had been a whim. As if dressed with a sense of occasion, he could steel himself for the day.
"You are not answering my question."
"I have been given leave," he replied stonily, pointedly lifting his unbound left hand as he clasped her own to lead her to a faded damask armchair. She sat and settled her skirts, surreptitiously tidying the drooping braid. He went on: "I am considerably better. So much so, that I can now take up my duties. You needn't worry like a mother hen that the slightest effort will set me back."
Her elegant patrician nose tilted up. "I do not call pulling that beast of a bow you use, a slight or easy effort."
"Well no, not that. I may be determined but I am not reckless. I used a training bow."
She feigned wide-eyed surprise. "How very sagacious of you. Now what of my second question?"
A corner of his mouth quirked wryly. Like a wolfhound with a particularly juicy bone, his duchess. Or a spider in her web, voracious for every bit of news.
"Why did I not tell you, oh great and curious lady, about my trips to Mother's garden? Discretion. The less who know about an activity, the less likelihood of discovery."
"Hmmh." She tossed her head, displeased with an answer both knew she could not fault.
He narrowed his eyes and regarded her thoughtfully. "Why are you so interested?"
"No reason, darling. Other than your welfare."
That was a fib. Something was up but he had no shred of an idea what it could be. A gentle, respectful mental probing was met immediately with an impenetrable wall of will. How…odd? It was most unlike Amerith to shut him out and he did not have time this day for roundabout games of cat and mouse.
"Amerith, it is wonderful to see you but I am curious, how did you find me here?"
The answer was offered readily enough. "Bergil. The lad continues to be a wonder."
"He is indeed." Faramir eyed her suspiciously. The duchess was a night owl. This time of day she would have barely had her second cup of chocolate, let alone been up and about the Houses. He wondered where their paths had crossed. "I sent him to deliver orders to Anborn."
"Did you? Is his shoulder healing well?"
"Yes, thanks to Ivriniel."
As expected, she made a face. "Ah yes. Such superior character is enough to drive any man quickly from her tender care."
That was unfair and both they knew it. He frowned, folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in the chair, watching her watch him. One embroidered slipper, dust-covered from the street, was tapped quickly on the carpet. Too quickly. She was not just rushed, but agitated. And utterly unprepared to give a fulsome answer.
"I told Bergil to go take a rest when he was done. He was up late with the men," he pointed out but tleading comment got him nowhere.
"Adopted by the Rangers so very soon?" she quipped. "Next, you will have him hefting a bow that is taller than he is."
"I did at his age."
"You were a prodigy."
He snorted. "Hardly. I simply practised every waking minute."
"Determined to match your brother's prowess on some field?"
He helplessly shook his head, amused in spite of his suspicions. There had been the subtlest emphasis on 'some' and no doubt in his mind as to which field she meant. The bedroom. Boromir was only slightly less famous for his wenching than his soldiering. He drummed his fingers on his arm. Amerith was bantering, being blithely frivolous and slightly outrageous by turns, as she did when confronted with any foe. Or when trying to sluice some inconvenient feeling down a drain.
Deliberately, he let an uncomfortable silence fall. She fidgeted and finally roused herself to twitter on.
"Were you very late last night? I thought I might see you at the Houses?"
"Quite late. We went from the Citadel to the barracks."
An auburn eyebrow arched. "We?"
Tulkas' rod. It was careless of him to have left an opening for he was still reticent to share his news. Éowyn's question, and his giddy, joyous answer, had happened so suddenly, so unexpectedly, and he had had no chance to speak to her that morn. More than anything, he wished to see her once again; to look on her beautiful, proud face and see that her heart had not changed; that she had not been hasty in accepting or thought better of it in the light of day.
"None of your business, my dear friend," he replied at last, feeling delicate tendrils of thought push harder at his shield. Now Amerith was doing the probing and he was the one hiding away. What was up with her that morn?
Annoyed by her persistence, he sent an image of a child getting its knuckles rapped.
She chuckled and slowly shook her head. "Touched a nerve have I? That does not, perchance, have any relevance as to why Eowyn and Lothíriel were late to our rendezvous this morn?"
"I wouldn't know. I had to miss breakfast with Éowyn. She was yet asleep when I knocked upon her door." He set his jaw. Valar, this was becoming tedious. She was on the hunt, like a hound with a fox's scent. It was time to change the subject.
"How did you celebrate?" he asked. "I assume Anor had risen before you sought your bed?"
She made a tiny moue of distaste. "I was not so fortunate. The Courtyard of the Fountain was gay, but Langstrand as usual was a bore. With so few young skirts to chase he was altogether too persistent. I had to tread on his foot quite hard the second time he swooped in for a peck."
Faramir grimaced. The old reprobate was famous, both for his skirt-chasing and his gaggle of dim-witted daughters. The war wounds that prevented him from taking the field, seemingly did not affect other parts.
He laid a hand across his chest and gave her the briefest of sardonic bows. "The City thanks you Duchess for your selfless service."
"Quite." She rolled her eyes and sat back deeper in the chair. "And now? What are your plans?"
Faramir ground his teeth. The mental probing had redoubled with greater force and from outside, the deep clanging of the Tower bell began. It was the last hour before midday. His sense of impatience was growing with each fall of sand through the glass, anxious to close out this game of hers. The errands, good and bad, that must be addressed were there, and he hoped to hoard a little time later in the day for an errand all of his own: the Archive. Surely somewhere on its dust-filled, groaning shelves there was a volume that spoke of how one wooed in the Riddermark.
To just sit and lose himself in research for a little while after what he had to do would be a balm.
Pushing against the carved vines and leaves that graced the arms of the chair, he abruptly stood, walked over to the door, and set his hand upon the latch. Amerith arose. She did not need to read him to understand the tension in his face. A headache was growing steadily behind his eyes.
"I am sorry, but I must go. I must see Hurin. And Hirlas, who is now the Captain of the Guard. And likely the Marshal, too, for it is time I took up the Steward's duties. At least as many as Varan deems suitable. And," he took a deeper breath, "there is a king who fell. And father. I must go to Rath Dinen to honour them."
He open the door full wide, prepared to bow and wave her out when the space was abruptly blocked by a familiar, but most worried looking, lad.
"Bergil!" he exclaimed, "what is this about? Please make way."
The boy did not so much as flinch a muscle. Perplexed, beginning to be a bit alarmed, he turned at a sudden swish of silken lavender.
Amerith, quick as a cat, had moved up close behind. Her green eyes were ineffably sad.
"Faramir you must not go.."
.
~~~000~~~
.
Eowyn had not set out to deceive Lothíriel.
At least, not consciously; but as she found herself setting foot upon the curving, sloping ramp that lead up to the Citadel, she wondered: what would the young princess make of her change of plans?
They had bid goodbye at the top of the Sixth's long stair. Lothíriel, eyes brimming, had pressed her pale cheek to Éowyn's own and hugged her swiftly. "Where are you bound?"
"The Houses," Éowyn had replied and she had meant it, agreed to tell Ivriniel she was needed at the Steward's house and started to turn back west before the first wave of uneasiness rippled, sharp and darkly anxious, across her heart.
Something with Faramir was amiss.
Béma. What was this? How could she….? But then the wave washed in again and she remembered: the courtyard. Where they had touched and Éowyn knew, nay, felt his weariness and thoughts. This feeling was akin but far, far stronger, a sense of green, and loss, and hurt that stopped her, swaying, in her tracks; almost dizzy with the hammering her chest. How was this possible? By what rough magic did she hear him from afar?
Éowyn shook her head, trying to clear the sense but like an ache before a thunderstorm it did not go, merely strengthened, until it stopped her breath. She had to get to him. To help.
And Lothíriel would find her aunt.
That need and knowledge sent Éowyn hurrying- skirts hiked and clenched in her one good hand-the other way through the growing morning throng. She dodged startled yeomen, craned her neck to see around yet another tall Gondorian, flushed and hair flying out behind, certain only that she needed to venture up.
Below the weathered grandeur of the stone King above the Seventh gate she was stopped by a startled guard in black and silver.
"My Lady!" he exclaimed, eyes wide with surprise as he took in her splinted arm. "You are…!"
She brushed a sweat damp lock from off her forehead. "Éowyn. Yes, I am Eowyn of Rohan. And you?"
He bowed his head, hand to heart, and spear tilted to her in salute. "Cador, my Lady. It is a great honour to meet you. How may I be of service?"
"Well met Cador. I pray you tell me where may I find the Steward's palace? I do not know the layout of the Citadel and must find the Steward at once. Please open the gate."
"Certainly. If you would give to me the password."
Bema.. The password. Faramir had spoken it the night before but her fevered brain did not remember. Regretfully, she shook her head. "I am afraid I do not have it."
Young Cador bit his lip and glanced warily at his guard-mate then back to her. "I am sorry, my lady. No one is to enter the Citadel without the password. I can send to Lord Hurin for permission or perhaps if you found the Marshal or his second?"
That would assuredly take too long. Elfhelm could be anywhere; in their makeshift barracks in the Fourth or out on the Pelennor in the Riders' paddock. She held out her hand imploringly. "I am in great haste. I need to be there and as I am already inside the walls, surely you can let me pass this once?"
The man's boots shuffled uneasily on the stones. "I am sorry I cannot."
She ground her teeth. Damn these Gondorians and their many layered City. She had to get to Faramir. Must find some way to convince the man. She drew breath and raised her chin.
"Cador of the Tower guard, you know full well who I am and that I mean Gondor no ill. I came through this very gate last eve. In the company of your own Lord and Steward. By Tulkas's eternal strength and Ulmo's undying seas let me pass!"
Later, alone and safely in her bed, she would wonder at what fierceness had shone on her face for the young man blanched, nodded sharply once and motioned the gate to raise.
Béma's blessed horn.
She darted through the cool shade of the tower and out into the Citadel; felt a growing trepidation spur her feet across the white-paved court to the edge of a long azure pool. By the sweet patter of its fountain, she paused to ask direction of a guardsman in a helm of silver mithril wings.
"The Steward's Palace, I pray you, where is it?"
"There, my lady, beside the Hall of Feasts."
She followed his outstretched arm to a tier of steps that graced a much smaller hall, swept up and through its imposing doors. Inside, she moved by instinct. The space was not quite a maze but still foreign to her experience-no hall in Edoras was quite so great- and so she sought its heart, darting one way or the next with each cue from the few startled servants she chanced to meet, her footfalls become more urgent as her heart felt a stronger pull. In one long passage just as cool, and white, and echoing as the last, she found a face she recognized. Nera. Faramir's housekeeper. With a bundle of linen over her arm and a pleased and surprised smile upon her ruddy face.
"Lady Éowyn! This is a pleasure. What brings you here?"
"The Steward. Can you tell me where to find him?"
"In the study down the next corridor," Nera replied, with only the slightest furrow of her brow to acknowledge Éowyn's anxious tone. "There is a sigil on the door. The tenth. Mînae" she added, and Éowyn nodded, thankful that this was one Gondorian word she had come to know. Mînae was inward, toward the city's heart, osae was outward-toward the city's foot.
"My thanks!" she called back, turning inward at the junction, counting swiftly as the portals passed and almost stumbling as another wave, fathomless as the sea, rose up and tossed upon her shore.
He was here. Near. In something more and less than pain, Éowyn ran on until she stopped, heart in mouth, before a door adorned with a branching tree and stars. The runes she was surprised to find familiar: the same letters were stamped on her grandfather's favourite saddle, a gift from Ecthelion for Thengel's years of service to the realm.
Praise Vána ever young. She had the found the spot.
Almost weak with relief and quite uncaring of polite decorum, Éowyn pushed the handle and slipped inside, emboldened by another wave of sorrow that washed over, hard and unyielding, a rising tide that would not turn. It drew her on through a room of dark wood and more books than she had ever seen to arrive at a pair of open terrace doors through which shone a space of gold and emerald and alabaster.
She halted, gazing wonderingly at the sight, thinking Elfhelm, who oft decried the hardness of Stoningland, might be surprised at all the hidden spots of green. This was the family's private garden. Wide, and long enough that it opened to several other rooms, draped by living curtains of myrtle green that hung, heavy with blossom, along the walls and about the balustrades, it was paved in white stone and soft fescue. In one corner a tall stately willow swayed gently in the breeze and pots of a curious small tree with nodding trumpets of creamy white graced each corner. Before her feet, shafts of bright morning sun slanted between column after column; made a pattern of light and shade, umber and gold upon the stone.
It was perfect. And dream-like. And occupied.
The two friends sat upon a low curved bench, utterly still and silent, or so Éowyn thought at first. Faramir had shed his simple shirt and breeches for a black uniform, much like the guards' but far more richly made, a dark void against the sparkling field of white. His hands were clasped with Amerith's, his clear grey eyes raised to hers, and though he did not weep Amerith held her hands hard and steady about his larger ones, as if she alone kept him from falling, steadying him to master something terrible that he could not.
Éowyn, almost ill at the rawness of his hurt, bewildered by what she saw and felt, stood frozen with her hand upon the latch. Faramir shook his head, at first short and sharp, then urgently; trying to rid himself of a sight he would not see and she had to close her eyes. Felt grief and a smoke-dark sense of horror tumble down into a whirlpool of regret.
"…dragged me there, fought with Mithrandir to…."
" No. That was not the man we knew."
Amerith's cry of dismay was faint, but Faramir's reply was even lower, almost ragged, fragmented by the verdant curtain.
"..then why? What caused….?"
Éowyn's heart clenched. Merciful Valar. It was as she had feared. They were speaking of Denethor's demise. Faramir was learning the truth, all too terrible. Knuckles clenched white on the iron scroll below her fingertips, she ached to help. To say something that might ease his pain, but how could she? Standing there, all but eavesdropping on their whispers like a tattle-telling goodwife at the market well?
Now was not the moment.
She watched Amerith sag forward, place her forehead against his own. "Please…. so cruel a loss, That a man so proud could lose himself so utterly. His mood had been beyond strange since you were brought to him. Made mad by the images in the Palantír."
Palantír? The word was unfamiliar. She knew not what it meant but the strange sense of dark foreboding was all too clear. Faramir drew a shaky breath. "At last I understand."
"His mood?"
His dark head shook. "looks. .. silences. … grieved a ghost. King would…his name."
Éowyn strained to catch the words but they flowed sluggishly and thin, like a creek in summer heat. Did he speak of people shying to talk of the mad? She was unsure. In Rohan that was not the rule, but Gondor, where so much came from what was left unsaid? It seemed quite possible, and that was a sorrow that would be hard to bear.
She took a step to nestle closer to the column. Long dangling fronds of green brushed against her face: they smelled cool and light, fresh like athelas, and she took a calming breath before peering out from the new vantage point. They were lit by warm shafts of sun, bent together, touching at head and hand and knee. It looked intimate and oblivious. As if they two were a world and for a moment Éowyn felt as if she were also stone. A part of the scenery itself.
Amerith looked up and sighed, dropped one hand to her lap, and though her voice began again it was thread thin.
"Do you remember when you were recovering from the wizard's foul attack?"
'Of course."
"That was the father that I knew he could be. He was stricken, Faramir; terrified that he might lose you. … from Cair Andros ….tirelessly ….standing guard."
"But that was you?!"
Faramir's burst of surprise drew her up. It was strong and unmistakeable. Amerith must have felt it too, for she winced and pressed her long fingers above her eyes..
"Darling, please. There is no need to shout."
Shout? But they were whispering? Éowyn watched, mystified, as Faramir shook his head again.
"I am sorry.. I am so very very tired.."
Amerith squeezed his hand and nodded. "It is too much to shield. There is no need tax yourself."
She caught his gaze and tenderly tucked a dark lock back behind his ear. "Better?" she asked, and Éowyn stood in shock. The band of pain that squeezed her chest let go. Amerith's word rang out clear and loud, somehow warmer and much deeper and at Faramir's answering heartfelt 'yes' she knew.
They had not been whispering after all.
Blindly, Éowyn reached out, seeking purchase. Felt cool smooth stone below her fingertips- its solidness helped her still her tumbling thoughts. The thin, half-heard speech was otherwise. So much was now strangely clear. It had been thoughts. impressions. Meant for each other and somehow spilled out for her to 'hear'. Was this wizardry? Faramir had said he had learned much of Grayhame. But how then did Amerith know it too? Was it some elvish magic of Lórien? A long hidden spell of Westernesse? She shook her head. It was astonishing. Eerie, but oddly, not frightening.
The fearful pattering of her heart was for his sake, not her own.
She pulled the draping green a little farther, for now they spoke aloud again.
"Did you truly think it was only through my nosiness you had a shadow when you were out from underneath Ithilien's bows?" Amerith asked, voice soft as rain. "It was his idea, Faramir, even if my men continued long past the time he thought the threat had gone. Denethor loved you. In his own way. Do not let this darken your heart."
This seemed to help, for he shook himself and looked up to her green gaze. "I know not whether it makes it harder that we parted ill. I threw his orders back in his face."
Sighing, Amerith pressed her lips together and laced her fingers into his free hand. "Darling, the day you would rebel-and openly- was long in coming but the man who sent you out again- I say that was not him. Already when you first returned from Henneth Annun he was not himself. He was done with listening. No man or wizard could give him counsel. The long struggle with the Enemy, too long alone, overmatched him. He believed only what suited Minas Morgul-the fell story shown in the Palantír. Each contact must have sent him farther in its grip."
There was the word again. It must be a sort of tool, an object, used by the Enemy for great ill, for at Amerith's words Faramir's pale face drained to a stark bone white.
"Boromir touched it too."
His handsome features began to crumble. He bent slowly forward, hands across his face, silent but shuddering, and Éowyn knew that this thing was also somehow his brother's undoing. Had led a brave and noble warrior to fall, hopelessly, tragically, in sight of the land of his beloved home.
Slowly, Amerith enfolded Faramir with her arms. She laid her head upon his shoulder stroked her hand along his back and murmured soft soothing words as silver tracks streaked across her cheeks. Eyes brimming, Éowyn reached to find there was a dampness on her own neck, although she knew not if it were for Faramir, or Boromir, or Théodred: cold and still, barrowed by the washed, smooth slate of the Isen's restless bed.
Suddenly beyond weariness, she rested her head against the stone. The day, that had begun bright and blithe, was now all of shadow. Her heart felt heavy. For Faramir and the father he had lost. For Lothíriel and Ivriniel who grieved for him, but also for what mysteriously had passed between the two old friends. It seemed right and wrong at once. She would not deny him comfort but their-communion-seemed deeper, more essential, and though Éowyn longed to be the one to hold him, here was something she could not give.
So be it. She roughly scrubbed a hand across her face, drew back beyond the terrace doors. Perhaps it was best to leave them be.
Gathering her hem and her dignity, she turned away and sought the solace of her rooms.
Just as an auburn head looked up.
.
~~~000~~~
.
Ithil was riding high beneath a cloak of stars when Faramir at last clutched his precious cargo to his chest, pulled shut the hidden garden door, and turned wearily toward the Houses.
It was quite late. He knew Éowyn could already be abed, but their weeks together suggested otherwise. She had oft walked later in the evening before settling herself to sleep; breathing in the night scent of stocks and primrose and tuberose; gazing again across Anduin and finding him by the wall, for patrolling his perimeter was a habit long ingrained.
He needed to see her. At the end of this interminable day, it was an ache that echoed hollowly within his bones.
There had been as of yet no chance. In all the hours since, Amerith and Lothíriel and Aunt Ivriniel had not let him be; had swept him, numb and unprotesting, into the warmth of Dol Amroth House. Kept the vultures of work at bay while the first hot brand of shock had muted; been smothered by a colder, essential fury that left in its wake a leaden weariness, and a need to touch and feel the truth.
After hours of argument they had relented. Gone down to the Silent Street where he had sung, halting and low, a few bars of rest for Rohan's King and laid a hand on the cool smooth beauty of his mother's tomb. And knew.
Blessed Vairë they were wrong. There is a part of Father here.
Sometimes, one needed to be blinded by tears to see.
At the front courtyard door he bid "Good evening" to the night porter, took the hushed and dim-lit hall to their wing, nodded to the few servants clearing the last detritus of the night's ablutions.
By Éowyn's bedroom door he paused, raised his hand to knock gingerly on the wood, and tried not too hard to hope.
It cracked ajar. She, barefoot and bleary, clad only in her nightrail and thin dressing gown, peered up. The thick rope of her braided hair draped aside her breast and a book was in her hand. "My lord?"
His heart clenched at the sight. She was impossibly lovely so simply dressed. "Forgive me, my lady. I missed you at supper as I did promise. I…."
"I know." She stopped his words with the barest touch on his arm. Her lips were pressed together and her eyes were soft with sympathy, yet somehow the old hollowness flitted at the edges. Had he disturbed her rest? "I am so very, very sorry. Will you be well?" she asked.
"As I can be." He sighed. Her words were comforting but that was not the topic of which he wished to speak. He held out the ceramic pot that had hid, half covered by his cloak. "Forgive me. I do not know the custom in the Riddermark, but here in Gondor when a suitor first seeks a bride he brings a gift of something green and growing. To show that they might flourish. There are no merchants in the market and so I took the liberty… "
"Oh." Éowyn brushed her small strong fingers across the bundle of glossy dark green leaves and white star flowers, breathing deeply as the sweet scent gently wafted up. A pair of blond eyebrow raised in recognition. "It is…"
"Mother's jasmine, yes. From her conservatory. In this fashion, Aunt Rini tells me it should thrive for months until it can be set within the ground. It felt best not t to wait until the morrow."
She smiled a little wistfully. "It is beautiful."
He pressed the pot into her hands and took a breath. Of all those he knew, he thought that she would not take his next question ill for it was she who had showed his chary self that it was best to go with a heart unchecked.
"I know that in the days to come my time will often not be my own, but I find myself looking fondly back on the days of our incarceration. Now that I have disturbed your rest, will you walk with me? Just once. About the garden path?"
"Now?" She searched his face.
He nodded gravely. "Yes. It would ease my heart. There is nothing this day I have missed so much as you."
Something indefinable then passed across her face; an expression that Faramir had no code to decipher. It gave him pause, a worry that there was something more to her hesitation than just fatigue, but then, like a fish darting back down into the depths, it vanished. Was shoved hard back down as she pushed the door full wide and nodded.
"I will. Let me get my cloak."
.
Yay, a chapter! First, to help everyone reading piecemeal, the scene in the courtyard with the brandy bottle where Eowyn first hear's Faramir's thoughts (if briefly) is in chapter 33, a bit of a ways back, if you want to check again. And the background/nature of 'reading the hearts of men' as it is shown here is from chapter 5, where Faramir and Amerith first discuss it. That was a loooong way back-grin
Thank you so much to ISthereBloodonYourMustache for following this month.
If you would like to see the gorgeous illustration mythlorn has done for this chapter have a peek at my AO3: /works/2596937/chapters/28095705
Most importantly at huge thank you to Annafan, Eschscholzia and Wheelrider for help with this chapter. The second half needed a complete redo from the early draft to make it work properly and their brainstorming made all the difference. And also grateful thanks to Thanwen, Artura and Gwynnyd for their comments and pickies and encouragement. As always it is a huge huge help.
Unfortunately, once again, I have to thank all my friends here, in the Garden of Ithilien, on Tumblr, and in RL at home, for helping us get through yet another round of surgery for our son. The encouragment, pots of pasta on the boil and many many casseroles helped so much. May our lives be boring from now on.
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