Faramir Fiction Archive

Beginnings & Endings (G)

Written by Susana

18 January 2012 | 37741 words | Work in Progress

Title: Beginnings & Endings Part I, Chapter 2, The New Steward’s Odd Ways
Series: Desperate Hours AU
Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to Tolkien.
Warnings: AU. Spanking.
Beta: Proofreading assistance and helpful comments received from KC, Beth, and FC. All remaining errors are my fault.

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Chapter 2 – The New Steward’s Odd Ways

‘When he saw the pale face of Faramir he caught his breath. It was the face of one who had been assailed by a great fear or anguish, but has mastered it and now is quiet. Proud and grave he stood for a moment…and Pippin gazing at him saw how closely he resembled his brother Boromir—whom Pippin had liked from the first, admiring the great man’s lordly but kindly manner. Yet suddenly for Faramir his heart was strangely moved with a feeling that he had not known before. Here was one with an air of high nobility such as Aragorn at times revealed, less high perhaps, yet also less incalculable and remote: one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Elder Race. He knew now why Beregond spoke his name with love. He was a captain that men would follow, that he would follow, even under the shadow of the black wings.’ —Tolkien, Pippin’s thoughts on Faramir from ROTK

“He had been accustomed to giving way and not giving his own opinions air, while retaining a power of command among men, such as a man may obtain who is evidently personally courageous and decisive, but also modest, fair-minded and scrupulously just, and very merciful.”
[J.R.R. Tolkien in a draft letter to a reader, in: The Letters of J.R.R. Tolkien

All of the great leaders have had one characteristic in common: it was the willingness to confront unequivocally the major anxiety of their people in their time. This, and not much else, is the essence of leadership.
John Kenneth Galbraith

Ethiron, a captain of the Dunedain Rangers of the North, carefully put weight on his left leg, testing its soundness. The tall, white haired man smiled slightly when he felt no pain, enjoying the sensation of being hale once more. A long cut from an orc blade across his side, several fractured ribs, and a sprained ankle sustained at the battle of Pelennor fields had robbed Ethiron of the chance to accompany his Chieftain Aragorn to Barad Dur. Ethiron had merited several brief visits from his leader before the Chieftain left for Barad Dur.

The explanation given to the Healers had been that Ethiron was a personal friend of Aragorn’s, and one of the few Dunedain to be nearly a contemporary in age to their fabled chief. While true, neither of these were the real reasons for Aragorn’s several long discussions with Ethiron. Not many were aware of the fact, but the Northern Dunedain owed many of their successes in the long struggle against Mordor and Sauron not to strength of arms alone, but also to the cunning of a series of spy masters, of which the current, and most successful, was Ethiron. It had been Ethiron who had passed the word to Aragorn that several of the hobbits were acting strangely, before Frodo and the others had left the Shire. It had been Ethiron who, through his network of informants, was able to share with the Fellowship some of the information about the safest routes to take through Middle Earth to evade the agents of Sauron.

After Aragorn’s timely arrival with the host and the Riders of Rohan won the day at Pelennor fields, it was Ethiron who first suggested to the his Chieftain that something might be gained by distracting the dark lord from the progress of the hobbit Frodo. So it was that Aragorn visited his spymaster several more times to discuss various details for the feint at Barad-Dur. The Chieftain had been accompanied on those visits by his elven foster-brothers, the famous warriors and healers, Elrohir and Elladan Elrondion, and the senior captain of the Dunedain, the venerable Magordan. All of these had desired to make the feint, and the lives that would be lost in the process, count for as much of a distraction as possible. “If I must spend my people’s blood to distract the dark host,” Aragorn had stated firmly, “I refuse to do so in vain. Not when better planning can enable us to give Frodo a better chance to succeed.”

As he listened carefully to the apprentice healer go over his exit instructions with one ear, Ethiron reflected briefly on how much he had missed his Chieftain while he lay in the houses of Healing. Oh, he was sure the apprentice he had sent to Barad Dur was well trained, but it was not in the spymaster’s nature to be idle. More, Ethiron worried over Aragorn as one might a cousin, for all they were not related by blood. In one of his few private moments with his Chieftain and friend before the army left, Ethiron had taken a good look at the man. Aragorn was clearly tired, but there was a new light of purpose in his eyes, one that befit him well.

“You know you cannot ride with our host, that you must bide here?” The Chieftain had explained to his valued spymaster, stern but kind.

“Aye, Aragorn.” Ethiron agreed with a sigh. “I am sorry to let you down.”

“No such thing, friend.” Aragorn disagreed firmly. “You fought well and bravely for mankind outside this city. ‘Twas your secret knowledge of the fastest and surest routes here, and your messenger network, that brought so many of the Northern Dunedain in time to aid Gondor. You have done more than one Ranger’s part, and I thank you. More, your help with designing our deceptive feint towards Mordor was invaluable, as always.” The Chieftain’s gaze became chiding, “Though I think Magordan wants words with you. He is somewhat wroth that you were injured so sorely in his defense, when a better mastery of the sword you have all but abandoned in your spy-work could have bought his rescue without such dear cost.”

Ethiron nodded, resigned. “Aye, so the senior Captain has mentioned.” His thoughts moved back to that conversation

“That wasn’t the kind of fight you are accustomed to anymore, eh, Ethiron?” Magordan had asked, relief in his eyes that his friend would survive warring with his annoyance at said friend’s arguably avoidable injuries.

“Nay, it was not.” The spymaster agreed.

“Well, then, if we all survive this, we’ll have to work on that.” Magordan planned with a smile.

Ethiron had repressed a shudder, for he knew that smile. “Aye, Captain.” The spymaster gamely agreed, perfectly willing to put up with whatever grueling practice schedule his old friend would assign, if they could all just live through this, or at least win it.

As Ethiron was dismissed by the healers who had been seeing to his case, he effortlessly cataloged the various details of the House of Healing that were different today. This morning the House’s most important patient, the young Steward of Gondor, would be released. This meant that there would no longer be a parade of various functionaries and messengers coming back and forth between the House and the Citadel, with this or that dispatch for the attention of the evidently diligent and efficient Faramir of the House of Hurin.

Ethiron had a great deal of respect for both diligence and efficiency, developed from his long years of work as a spy. The young Ethiron had been plucked from ranger ranks early, due to both his talent for memorization and disassembling, and his absolute loyalty to his friend the young Chieftain. Ethiron had then been trained by the Lord Elrond of Rivendell and his adviser Lord Erestor, well as by Magordan and other rangers. Ethiron had taken the place of the old Dunedain spymaster when still a comparatively young man. In the many decades that Ethiron had held the position, he had come to have more and more respect for his friend and Chieftain. Though he was frustrated at his injuries causing him to miss being at Aragorn’s side, Ethiron was too much the spymaster to not relish the opportunity to see Minas Tirith again with his own eyes. He had been to Gondor’s capital a handful of times since Elrond had first selected him to be the future spymaster of the Dunedain. But now that Aragorn would come to rule here in the very near future, he had new eyes for this most ancient and sophisticated of human cities.

One of the first subjects of Ethiron’s scrutiny had been the new Steward of Gondor. It was this man who would have to give over rule of the city to the rightly returned King. If Faramir was not inclined to do so willingly, as his brother Boromir had not been, at least not until he came to know Aragorn well, then Ethiron would be Aragorn’s first tool in, ah, persuading the Steward.

Ethiron had his chance to meet Faramir earlier than he had expected, and under decidedly different circumstances than he would have planned. Faramir had entered his room without knocking when Ethiron had been suffering from intense pain, having just overdone one of his breathing exercises. Ethiron had felt a complete fool, as he’d had broken ribs before, though it had been decades ago, and should have known better than to actually follow the idiot apprentice healer’s instructions to take a deep breath. The slender, tall man with the red-gold hair had helped Ethiron to sit up and master his breathing, then had given the apprentice healer strict but kind instructions to fetch the Warden, or one of the other senior healers.

Faramir had waited with Ethiron until his previous physical therapist had been replaced by someone more experienced. Ethiron knew it must be the young Steward, for he knew the man to have his Dol Amroth mother’s red-gold hair, a shade darker than the Lord Boromir’s strawberry blond. To Ethiron’s bafflement, Faramir (as well as the senior healer) had then apologized for the younger healer’s mistakes. “We’re light on experienced staff,” the senior healer had explained, “Most of ours who can ride well, we sent with that other fellow.” Ethiron had winced at hearing his Chieftain referred to so casually, and to his surprise, so had Faramir.

Faramir, good natured but embarrassed, had corrected the healer. “What the Senior Healer means, Captain Ethiron, is that we sent many of the House’s best healers with our future King.”

“That quiet fellow who healed you will be King, Faramir?” The healer had commented in surprise.

Faramir, smiling slightly, had asked the healer whether he had been off duty for anything other than eating the food brought to the house and grabbing a few hours of sleep. The healer, baffled, had shaken his head. Faramir had sighed, and explained that yes, “that quiet fellow” was their new King, Isildur’s heir returned to rule Gondor, after having saved Minas Tirith from Mordor’s armies.

The new Steward seemed sincere. Ethiron breathed a sigh of relief. Apparently, Aragorn’s judgment of men had proven right again. His Chieftain had said “Young Faramir is my man, and a good one.” And so it appeared. But Ethiron would keep an eye on the youngster, nonetheless. Although Faramir seemed true, he was still young. At thirty-three, the Steward’s age, most Dunedain were not yet promoted to Captain. And Ethiron knew from decades of experience that even promising young officers could do remarkably stupid things, from time to time.

Faramir continued to impress Ethiron over the course of their time as mutual patients of the House. The young Steward was a tireless diplomat, mediating between injured soldiers and demanding healers (including Ethiron and Warden Del, on occasion). Faramir was also a canny administrator, or so Ethiron gathered from the few scraps of gossip he could glean from listening to those servants who accompanied the Keeper of the Keys. Húrin obviously made very few decisions without consulting the new Steward. The Healers of the House also seemed to like their new Steward, though the older ones treated him with an unbecoming familiarity, for Gondorians.

Most importantly to Ethiron, “Captain Faramir” was very well-spoken of by his few surviving Ithilien Rangers. The only time that Ethiron had ever seen the younger man overset was right after he had visited with one of the worst injured of the rangers. As soon as the Steward thought he was out of sight, Faramir had gracefully crumpled into a ball, silently sobbing for a dozen or so minutes. The lad then picked himself up, wiped his face, and summoned a bright expression to go help his friend with learning to walk with a missing leg. It had been impressive as hell, but something about it bothered Ethiron. A northern Dunedain Ranger captain who had lost as much of his command as Faramir had, through no fault of his own, wouldn’t have been left alone to mourn by himself. Magordan or Lord Aragorn would have ordered the surviving captain to see a mind-healer, possibly Lord Elrond himself if the young ranger were as promising as young Faramir. More, how, and why, had Denethor’s second son learned to cry noiselessly, as if he himself were a spy in his own city?

Faramir’s frequent companions were the slayers of the Witch King, the Lady of Rohan and the hobbit Merry. Ethiron heard the rumors, and then saw for himself, that Faramir and Éowyn were mutually smitten with one another. Ethiron silently wished the Steward luck. He himself preferred a less well-armed lass.

When Faramir had discovered that most of the guards at the House of Healing had been stationed there solely for the Steward’s own protection, Ethiron had learned first-hand that the Steward could be a formidable opponent. Dressed in the blue pajamas of the House of Healing, Faramir had faced down Húrin and two captains of Gondor’s guard, all at least twice the Steward’s age. In the end, the guards would stay at the House, and Faramir was the only one of the four not to have raised his voice.

As amusing as the brief stand-off had been, Ethiron found himself even more worried. Everyone the spymaster had personally met (even Húrin and the frustrated guard captains) seemed to be fond of Faramir, if a little baffled by the young Steward’s polite intransigence and clever tongue. But what would happen to Faramir, if someone else in the city was not of that mind, and knew the young Steward would be walking about unaccompanied? If Faramir had been Ethiron’s to command, he would have definitely ordered the younger man to the mind healers at that point, out of fear that Faramir was purposely courting an assassin’s arrow. But most of Gondor’s mind healers had also been sent with Aragorn, and Ethiron had personally witnessed Faramir talk rings around those still in residence, in polite conversations Ethiron had innocuously started between the new Steward and the mind healers who darn well should have noticed they had a patient. Ethiron had the uncomfortable thought that Faramir was somewhat like a younger version of Aragorn, but with no Magordan, Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, or twins to ride herd on him. This thought terrified Ethiron, until he realized that, if he knew Aragorn, the Chieftain had recognized Faramir’s merit, and was already planning to take the younger man under his wing. If anyone could deal with a younger Aragorn, surely it would be Aragorn himself?

Still, Ethiron was concerned about those few days in between when Faramir would leave the House and Aragorn would arrive for his coronation. With the few agents he had in Minas Tirith, Ethiron was trying to work out how he might protect the stubborn young idiot from any bright fellows who might have figured out that offing the Steward who was minded to welcome the King would slow down the process of Aragorn’s coming to rule Minas Tirith in fact as well as by right.

In one of those lucky coincidences that Ethiron would later learn to be very suspicious of when connected to Faramir, the Steward himself came to the spymaster, and asked if Ethiron wouldn’t mind, since they were being released on the same day, serving as one of Faramir’s guards until the army arrived back and Ethiron returned to the Dunedain. Since following Faramir around would be a golden opportunity to both observe the highest workings of the government and keep the talented young Steward alive until Aragorn could take over, Ethiron accepted immediately. Ethiron was not sure if Faramir would have made this invitation if knew Ethiron was Aragorn’s spymaster. There was, after all, a difference between recognizing a man’s right to be King, and choosing apurpose to let your future King’s best observer of men note all of your flaws. Though there was a studiedly guileless look in the polite young lord’s eyes when Faramir asked Ethiron to join his guard, that made the spymaster wonder if there wasn’t even more going on behind that innocent expression than he had originally assumed.

Preoccupied with these thoughts, Ethiron still immediately snapped to attention when Faramir stepped into the entrance of the House. The Steward was followed by the chief healer, Warden Del. Faramir nodded to Ethiron in greeting as Warden Del continued to lecture the Lord Steward as if he were an errant apprentice.

“Now remember, Faramir, just because you are discharged does not mean that you can resume your normal 16 to 20 hour days.” The Warden said, in the tone of a man who knew he was giving good advice, which it was extremely unlikely the recipient would heed. “You still need to rest, and drink extra fluids, and continue to wear your sling for at least a week.”

Faramir, wincing internally at the not-so-well-hidden expression of amusement on the northern Dunedain ranger’s face, made a mental note to remind Del not to address him like a child when they were in public. Always fair if he could help it, Faramir admitted to himself that the Warden had good reason to suspect Faramir would disregard his instructions. Faramir had never minded a healer in his life once he felt well enough to be about his regular activities. “I thank you for your excellent care of myself, Warden Del,” Faramir emphasized the other man’s title gently, and was rewarded by the Warden’s wince as Del recognized he had been over-familiar with the new Steward, who just happened to dwell in the same skin as his one-time favorite patient Finduilas’s devoted but wayward child. Seeing the Warden’s apology writ on his features, Faramir softened his tone further, and added “Please continue that care for my dear friends Frodo and Sam, and for the Lady Éowyn as well, though she is now fellow healer-in-training rather than patient.”

The Warden Del accepted this solemn charge gladly, and Faramir turned to his escorts, the Dunedain captain Ethiron and the Squire Merry. After confirming with both of his temporary guards that they were quite fit for this duty, Faramir left the House of Healing to begin his work as temporary Steward in earnest. It was one of the first times that a man of Gondor, born in Minas Tirith, would be about his duties accompanied by a Captain of Lost Arnor and a halfling, but it would not be the last.

As they walked on what he noticed was a remarkably circuitous route toward the Citadel, Ethiron mused on his gladness for northern rangers having guarded the hobbits. Their diligence in that duty had been well-paid by these four small folk. Ethiron had developed particular respect for Merry, whom he knew had been the hobbit to so cleverly coordinate Frodo’s flight from the Shire. If not for Merry’s planning, the quest might have ended ‘ere it began. Ethiron noticed that Faramir seemed to have developed a particular friendship with Merry as well. More, the young Steward appeared to enjoy telling the hobbit stories of the people and places in Minas Tirith they passed, which the spymaster supposed might be the reason for their indirect route. Ethiron didn’t mention that he knew of at least 3 shorter ways to the citadel, for he had not become spymaster by revealing knowledge he shouldn’t have.

Faramir, meanwhile, had, in fact selected this roundabout approach for a reason, but it was not primarily to tell Merry more about the city. The Steward’s purpose was to collect a few good men and women for himself and the future King, and to talk to a few others. Faramir had decided to ask the Dunedain (and Merry) to act as guards not just as a gesture of respect and diplomacy to the Northern Rangers and Hobbits, but because they were less likely to notice his meandering route back to the Citadel than the Home Guard of Minas Tirith, who might wonder at the longer walk. The route had been agreed upon by himself and his friend Lieutenant Dervorin, one of the Ithilien rangers under Faramir’s command, and the officer in charge of running the information network in Harad, in order to maximize the number of unofficial contacts Faramir had access to prior to his first meeting with the Council.

Dervorin, or “Dev,” had been one of Faramir’s few contacts who had needed no help sneaking into the Houses of Healing to visit the recovering Steward. Dev had appeared in his chambers during shift change, to bring Faramir word from the King’s camp. Dev had been selected by Aragorn, as one of the few Ithilien rangers who had arrived late to the Battle of Pelennor Fields, to run the messenger relay between Minas Tirith and the future King’s armies. The Lieutenant had also been one of a small number of friends who knew without having to ask that Faramir planned to support Aragorn as King.

“He’s a good man, and even the elves confirm he’s Isildur’s heir. Though they call him something else – “Estel,” means happy in Sindarin, don’t it?” Dev asked through bites, consuming the nutritious midnight snack some industrious healer’s assistant had brought for Faramir.

The Steward and former Captain, marveling at his friend’s ability to eat even the House’s unpalatable food, corrected, “Nay, “hope.” Appropriate enough, I suppose. Must you continue to speak like an Ithilien frontiersman, Dev? The King’s armies may not know you were born and raised in the city, or that we shared some of the same tutors, but I do.”

“Sorry, Fara.” Dev apologized with a smile. “I’m in the habit, but I should make a point of breaking it from time to time, so I don’t get out of practice. I’m not like you with a perfect memory of exactly the intonation and mannerisms this personality is supposed to have. I have to work at it.”

Faramir sighed, for he was not comfortable with what a good spy Lieutenant Faramir had once been, and that Captain Faramir had still been, when his father or Dev’s various schemes demanded it. “So you, too, approve of the future King, I take it?” The Steward asked his friend. Dervorin was one of the very few people Faramir knew who could beat him at chess, and he respected his Lieutenant’s opinion. Faramir was sure, after meeting Aragorn on the strange plane where the King had come to fetch him back from the Witch-King’s deceptions, that Aragorn was a great man. But Dev agreeing would make things go more smoothly, for Dev had contacts all over Minas Tirith, as well as in Ithilien’s hidden settlements and throughout Harad.

“Aye, Fara, I do.” Dev confirmed to his friend’s relief. “If Aragorn were “taking your place,” I might feel differently. Since I know well that you do not want to rule, my friend, I find the King returned welcome indeed. Even did we not know him from saving our city and you, well, the clear sky speaks for itself, and he was the ringbearer’s companion.”

Faramir grinned in answer, pleased to have a friend still among the living who knew him so well. Dev and Faramir had started at the academy together. Dev had followed Faramir to sea when new Steward had been a young teenage academy trainee. Then, later, Dev had succeeded in being posted to Ithilien a year or so after Fara was. Boromir had always had at least a handful of best friends and bosom companions, but Dev had been Fara’s only close friend of his own age, outside his family.

Faramir had argued with Dev during that visit that it would be best for the new Steward to go about his city himself, and see the the people he meant to see. Dev had disagreed, sighing, for he knew the new Steward very well, and how stubborn Faramir could be when he had made up his mind. Dev had pointed out that such visits would take a lot of energy Faramir might need later that day for dealing with his new staff and Gondor’s council. Faramir had agreed reluctantly, and the two had worked out an approximate route for Faramir to take. Dev planned to spend a few extra hours in the city, letting the folk that Faramir wanted to talk to know when and where he would be available, before riding the relay back to the King’s armies. Only public business could be discussed in the streets, but much of what had to be said could be said in public. More, it would be good for people to see that Gondor’s new Steward was approachable, since Boromir had always been the public face of the brothers Hurin.

Before he left, Dev turned to warn his friend. “Fara, the Dunedain spymaster may be here, in Minas Tirith.”

“The ghost!” Faramir exclaimed in interest. “Really, I thought you had gone back to thinking he didn’t exist.” Faramir couldn’t resist the impulse to tease his friend a little bit. Dev was nearly the consummate spy runner and spy. Though Dev was a good man, and unalterably loyal to Faramir, his mind was twisty, and he delighted in plots, and plans with more than one end. Dev and Faramir between them had easily defeated all of Sauron’s heavy handed attempts to get a spy into the remaining hidden settlements in Ithilien. Sauron and Saruman had not even suspected the Ithilien rangers’ Haradrim network. But someone, not an enemy, had almost succeeded in infiltrating Dev’s network last year. Whoever it was had saved Dev’s life when an orc had unexpectedly tried to kill the annoying “Haradrim” human. Then, later in the year, Dev’s agents had saved a Dunedain posing (quite effectively) as a man of Harad, and helped him get back to his kin.

Dev made a face. “I am sure the ghost is real, now. I’ve coded dispatches from his agent with the King.”

“Dev, please, please, tell me you haven’t been taking advantage of your position to read the King’s mail.” Faramir murmured, closing his eyes in worry.

“Nay, Fara, but only because I knew it would upset you. Quite frankly, I think it in the King’s best interest that I know what he knows so that I can keep him from making mistakes.”

“Lord Aragorn is very lucky to have a clever man like you looking after his interests.” Faramir assured his friend solemnly before they both broke into soft chuckles, Faramir wincing as even that motion pulled on his wound.

“Here, Fara, I should let you rest.” Dev said, retucking the blankets around his friend. “But I did want to let you know that I had, ah, infiltrated the ghost’s message relay network. One of his men is fairly careless, and was sent with the King. That foolish young spy has me scribing for him.”

Faramir muttered a curse at the carelessness of that.

“Aye,” Dev agreed. “So I know the ghost is in Minas Tirith, and corresponding with the King, though I’ve not read the King’s mail, oh suspicious one. There are any number of reasons why Aragorn might have chosen to have his spymaster in our city rather than with him on the feint, but the only one that makes sense to me, having seen the King in action, is that his spymaster must be injured.”

“Oh,” Faramir said, processing that. “I hope the ghost is alright, then. We owe him your life, after all.”

“Thanks for reminding me.” Dev said with a glower. “Now you rest, while I go about and do all the hard work, liasing with the silent service, making sure none of the Lords of council are going to kill you when they find out you’re the King’s man, that type of thing.”

“Thanks, Dev.” Faramir’s eyes glowed with gratitude. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am that you are still here.”

Dev turned back to grasp his Steward’s hand. “Neither can I, sad as I am to have missed being at your side for the battle. I am always your man, Faramir. If your next role is to be an itinerant sailor, I’ll follow you even then.”

Faramir laughed, mood lightened though he did not know what he would be doing when the King returned to Gondor. “I’m sure we can find something far more worthy of your time, my friend,” he murmured as Dev left through the window as soundlessly as he had entered.

Faramir shook his head, returning himself to the present as one of the people he had most wanted to talk to this day came into view. Captain Ethiron and Merry had been most tolerant of various citizens of Gondor stopping Faramir for conversation, so this one should not seem remarkable to them. “Captain Arnaut!” Faramir cheerfully greeted the merchant sea captain who had been his friend for decades. With his own wages, Faramir had invested in Arnaut’s first ship, the Burnt Lizard, when Faramir had been newly made a lieutenant.

Ethiron and Merry stopped as Faramir turned to clasp arms with the grizzled old veteran of many wars.

“Lord Faramir,” the man greeted discreetly slipping a note into Faramir’s tunic as he brought the younger man in for a hug. “I am glad to see you so well.”

Faramir, grinning, replied “And I am glad to congratulate you on becoming a grandfather.” Arnaut’s only child, a daughter, had married one of Boromir’s former soldiers, who had retired from the army due to injuries incurred in combat, and walked with a limp too severe to pass Gondor’s strict tests for its soldiers.

Captain Arnaut grinned broadly. “I thank you. My grandson is a fine babe.”

Faramir turned serious. “Is there any chance your son-in-law is now looking for work in Minas Tirith? I know he has been a great aid to you, serving as factor on your ships.”

The captain sighed. “He is. I can’t complain too much, or my daughter will be wroth with me. Are you here to poach him?”

Faramir grinned. “I need a few good men for the King. He has no staff whatsoever, and some of my father’s will be unsuitable for one reason or another.”

The Captain suppressed a smile at the new Steward’s careful wording. “Unsuitable” was a mild epithet indeed for some of Denethor’s staff, who, but for the absence of the entire army from the city, would have been plotting an armed insurrection to keep their power base intact. And but for the absence of a willing usurper, which Faramir would never be. Arnaut agreeed to send his son-in-law later that day to the citadel, and asked Faramir what his plans were, with the King due to return in a few days.

Faramir shrugged gracefully, pleased that such movement no longer pained his shoulder. “I shall be retired as a man of thirty-three. Who knows, perhaps I shall come to you someday soon looking for work. Though for a time, I shall stay to advise the King if he has need of me, then settle in Ithilien, perhaps traveling if my Uncle Prince Imrahil has need of me.

The old sea captain shook his head. “I’d be happy to employ you, friend. But I suspect your King will have need of you for some time yet. “ Provided he is not a fool, Arnaut thought to himself. He’d heard that the returned King was the same as Captain Thorongil, whom he had known well when he himself had been a soldier. If that was indeed the truth, he did not see Thorongil failing to put the young Lord Faramir in a position of great responsibility and honor, somewhere in his new kingdom. Thorongil had been very good at recognizing talent and nurturing it. Arnaut himself had been promoted directly to his current rank, before the battle with the Corsairs of Umbar, by Thorongil. He had proved worthy of it, though that service had left him sick in mind and body. Thorongil had taken one look at his dispirited new captain, and had given the wounded man’s keeping to the Prince Adrahil. Adrahil had cared for the young Captain, until the man was well enough, and then had helped him to start a new life in Gondor, to send him away from the home he loved, but found painful. Arnaut had lost most of his family in corsair attacks on the coast. Prince Imrahil had later employed Arnaut as part of his information gathering network in Dol Amroth, and Arnaut was always pleased to be of assistance to his Prince’s nephew.

Ethiron, listening to this conversation, agreed that Aragorn would not be letting this particular young Lord of Gondor escape to the quiet life of an ordinary citizen anytime soon. No, if he knew Aragorn, clever Faramir would be granted a position of honor in the new king’s retinue, and put to work. Ethiron also thought that the name Arnaut sounded famliar, but could not place it.

“My Lord,” Ethiron gently reminded Faramir, “‘Tis time and past that Lord Húrin was expecting you. ‘Twould be best to get to the citadel before he sends out the guard.”

Moving on, the group of three men were stopped again by Faramir’s glad cry of “Dev!” to a man dressed in the colors of a messenger of Gondor, mounted on a fast horse.

The man threw himself from his horse in one fluid motion, catching and embracing the Lord Steward of Gondor. “Faramir! I am glad to see you walking among the living. The healers have guarded you like the creature Smeagol did the one ring.”

Faramir shook his head at the inappropriateness of that, as he introduced one of his very few surviving Ithilien Rangers to Ethiron and Merry. Ethiron sighed, as he realized they would probably not get to the Citadel before Húrin sent out the guard to look for the missing Steward. Still, more support might be helpful, as the Steward insisted on allowing armed men to approach him before Ethiron and the hobbit could get a good look at them, let alone make sure they were not enemies.

Faramir and Dev were conversing with Merry, who was interested to hear how the messenger relay worked. Ethiron noticed an unexpected movement in the crowd, approaching the Steward. So did Faramir, apparently, for he reached out to grasp the hand of a young pickpocket.

The child seemed offended to have been caught. The Lord Steward swatted the boy, too gently in Ethiron’s opinion, before explaining “You stopped to stare at my companions with your hand still in my pocket. ‘Twill get you caught every time.” Faramir then handed the youth off to a passing member of the Minas Tirith guard, stating, “This young fellow has volunteered to help care for the horses of the arriving army, and should be quartered with the others preparing to do so. Make sure he has a chance to eat and is well cared for, but also carefully watched.” The guard, who appeared to recognize Faramir, merely nodded without surprise. Ethiron was pleased by how similar were Faramir’s methods to Aragorn’s, but troubled by something as well. The whole interaction seemed almost too smooth to him.

Dev, as well, was displeased. The child informant who’d approached Faramir had been unpardonably clumsy and needed further training. Dev himself would not be able to protect Faramir during the riots the child’s message had warned them might occur later in the day. More, Dev had not planned to take the risk of meeting Faramir himself, but upon learning that Ethiron had been visited in the House of healing so many times by the King, felt he needed to warn Faramir that Ethiron was probably the Dunedain spymaster. Speaking in a modified version of ranger hand speak, he did so. Faramir, however, was not upset. Murmuring into Dev’s ear as they embraced in parting, Faramir explained, “He will be King, Dev. What does it matter if he knows all we know?” Faramir, Dev thought, was entirely too noble and respectable and honest. It was a wonder of wonders that he had been one of Dev’s better spies before mostly retiring. The demands of being Captain were incompatible with the long and unpredictable absences required for spying.

Ethiron heaved a sigh of relief when they finally arrived at the Citadel, though perhaps it was premature.

The regent and Keeper of the Keys, Lord Húrin looked askance at the presence of the northern Dunedain Ranger and the hobbit. “My lord, may I have a word with you in private?” He asked.

Faramir looked his cousin in the eyes, pausing for a moment to read the fears he saw there. “Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of this company, cousin.” He replied gently. “For this Ranger served as one of our King-to-Be’s trusted captains in the North. This hobbit was one of the future King’s, and my dear departed brother’s, brave companions on their Quest. I shall not start out my brief time as Steward with secrets from the allies of he who will soon govern Gondor.”

Hurin, frustrated but not surprised, for cousin Faramir had always been a strange one, nodded his assent. “Fine, well, here are the numbers and information you asked for, what we could get of it, in respect of the guards, food, shelter, rebuilding of the gate, and search and rescue operations.”

Faramir nodded intently, and the two men sat down to business. Ethiron was glad to hear them discuss for nearly an hour the plans to welcome the King to the city, and turn governance of the country over to him. Húrin did later pull Faramir aside, to discuss a personal issue that Ethiron was grimly certain had to do with why Faramir was recognizing this unknown (to Hurin, at least) Dunedan as the King returned. When the two younger men came back, Húrin was frowning thoughtfully, and Faramir seemed more relaxed. Ethiron took that to mean that the discussion had gone well. Ethiron was a man who noticed everything, and he was sure, by this point, that young Faramir was indeed the King’s man.

Before the council meeting, Faramir also conducted brief interviews with Denethor’s staff and secretaries. The Lord Steward looked each carefully in the eye, before deciding either to dismiss them, or keep them on at least until after the coronation. Ethiron made a careful note of who was dismissed, as he suspected Faramir was only firing those unwilling to welcome the new King. Even Ethiron could understand the young Lord’s keeping on those loyal staff who were merely withholding judgment on a man they had never met before, much as Húrin had been.

As the members of the council entered the council chamber later in that day, Húrin as well as Ethiron were surprised to note that many of them nodded respectfully to Faramir, or conveyed their well wishes for the young Steward’s recovery. Ethiron made a mental note to harangue his Minas Tirith informants, except for the one young fellow who had mentioned that the younger son of Denethor was making allies on his father’s council, even prior to his brother’s death. That informant was an archivist, the son of one of the Arnor Dunedain who had accompanied Aragorn to Gondor as Thorongil. The archivist had related that some of the councilors had recognized Faramir as a voice of reason and a strong proponent of the needs of the armed forces, and had established a more frequent correspondence with Faramir since Boromir’s death. Meanwhile, Ethiron’s other informants had been under the impression that Faramir was a shy, politically naive army man who rarely left Ithilien. Shy the young Lord might be, but politically naive he was not, Ethiron thought with a snort.

Many of the councilors had never heard Denethor’s second son speak at all, but only whisper something softly to his brother. Others of them knew that Faramir had become a quiet, though effective, broker of power in the city. The few Captains who were still in the city listened closely, for they knew the former Captain of the Ithilien Rangers was a force to be reckoned with, when so he chose.

Faramir opened the informal council meeting by stating clearly that it would be the last under a Ruling Steward. Further, the young Steward established that he was hesitant to make most decisions without the new King’s presence. This prompted a murmur as the other councilors realized Faramir meant to make way for the new king, without consulting them. Faramir waited a moment for the whispers to die down, before continuing to state that some issues must need be dealt with by the council immediately. The Steward then led the group through an exhaustive but efficient survey of those issues, including the city’s readiness to receive the army, the status of the guard, security in the city, and the search and rescue operations being jointly supervised by the stone masons’ guild and the guard, including the order of damaged structures to be secured and emptied (food storage first, then archives, then private homes, then other goods).

Merry, still standing guard behind Faramir’s chair, hid a grin at how Faramir had secured the reluctant respect of the other councilors as they realized the extent to which Faramir had kept abreast of current issues, even though he had been so gravely injured.

Moving to the topic of readiness for the King’s arrival, Faramir was startled by an interruption from one of the few councilors still serving who had been appointed by his grandfather Ecthelion.

“The King cannot return!” The old Councilor stated baldly.

Faramir blinked. This was more bluntly than he had expected to have the issue addressed, after having made his own opinion clear at the outset. Gamely, the Steward asked “And why not, good councilor?” Vaguely, Faramir recognized the fellow as the councilor in charge of formal protocol.

The Councilor explained that there was a crisis. His office no longer knew the appropriate tune for the silver horns of Gondor to play to welcome home the King.

Faramir, bemused, suggested that they make something up. They could always change it later.

The Councilor in charge of protocol appeared horrified. “That will not do, my Lord.” he pointed out stiffly.

“Well, I’m hardly going to deny our returning King entrance to the city, merely because we can’t remember the correct tune to play. Figure out something you’re happy with by the morn of the day after tomorrow, and go with it.” Faramir commanded.

The councilor glared, but agreed.

Faramir seized the attention of the restive council back, hoping his opponents on the council hadn’t planned too many such sallies to waste his time, and theirs, that day.

Ethiron was further impressed by ease with which this comparatively young, untried politician regained the attention of the room. From what he knew of Gondorian politics (and he had made it his business to know quite a bit, as these would be Aragorn’s people), it would be normal for the councilors to test a new Steward, and all the more one who had been effectively kept out of the political process by his father. At least, that had been Ethiron’s previous understanding, garnered from occasional visits by Rangers to Gondor, and by gossip over the past few days in the HOH. As a result of following Faramir around the city this morning and hearing updates on various of these issues from citizens of Minas Tirith, Ethiron suspected it was necessary to revise their previous understanding of Denethor’s younger son’s political influence.

Turning back to the topic of how to feed the population, including the visiting armies soon to arrive on Pelennor fields, and the displaced refugees, it became clear that while there was enough food for the next several months, there would not be enough to see the entire population through the winter.

Faramir shook his head. “No, that’s not good enough. We need to be able to feed people now, and through the winter. Increase the amount of aid we are asking for from Dol Amroth. They can trade with the Easterlings and Southrons, if needed. The nations of the South haven’t had to field an official army this year, though many of their men fought for Sauron. Their levies who supported Sauron were not fully mustered until after the end of the first planting season, and their seasons run longer, so they may have a surplus. We’ll figure out a way to pay for it later.”

“With all due respect, my Lord Steward.” Disagreed the Lord Sendar querulously. “Money doesn’t grow on trees. This new King, if you’re indeed determined to hand the reins of government over to the man sight unseen, will not thank you for leaving a huge debt for him to pay at the start of his reign. Its sad, and its not a fair world, but those who can afford to buy food will eat, and those who can’t, will starve.” Lord Sendar, despite his nobility, had long been the head of the merchants’ guilds, giving him effectively two seats on the council. Being only one man, he had ceded his other seat to Allamar, Chief of the Weaver’s Guild.

Faramir took a deep breath to hide his vexation. He knew Sendar was not so uncaring as his position on this issue made him seem, after all, Sendar was one of the most generous supporters of the widows and orphans fund, and of other charitable causes in the city. Sendar was only stating the issue as he saw it…which made a thought occur to Faramir. “What about our exports? Is there anything sitting in warehouses that Gondor’s traders wouldn’t be able to export anyway, given the current state of our navy and the lack of labor for the next few months, until men are relieved from their duties in the army?”

“Aye,” agreed Sendar in confusion. “There are shipments of arms to be sent to Dol Amroth, for their navy, which Lord Denethor embargoed last year. There’s also several shipments of crockery bound for the Haradrim, livestock bound for the Southern lands, plow shares for..”

Faramir interrupted. “So, a sizable amount?”

Lord Sendar and Councilor Allamar both nodded cautiously.

“How would the guilds respond to an offer from the Steward’s office to buy the warehoused goods at a 1/3 discount?” Faramir asked, figuring numbers in his head and wishing he’d thought of this enough in advance to run through it with Denethor’s staff accountants.

Master Allamar, unusually, spoke up first. “Most would be grateful, my Lord. Its gotten to the point of being a concern. War is terrible for business.”

Sendar held up a hand. “What’s your plan, lad..err, my Lord?” He asked of Faramir, suspiciously.

Faramir smiled politely. “These goods will mostly sell for full price, some for more. The Steward’s office buys them for 2/3 price. There is enough left in the Steward’s coffers to do this, and naught will be needed after the end of this week, as the office will cease to exist with the return of the King. Gondor shall ask Dol Amroth for the increased food stuffs, and pledge payment against the sale of the warehoused goods. Dol Amroth, for a 1/8 fee, ships the goods, except for things like livestock and other foodstuffs, which remain here. The returning guards of Gondor, Swan Knights, and whatever other able bodied labor we can find, load the goods onto the bulk of Dol Amroth’s navy, which is mostly on its way here for the coronation, since it was late for the battle.”

Sendar pursed his lips in thought. Allamar put in urgently. “My Lord Sendar, 2/3 is much better than nothing.”

Sendar nodded to that, but put in. “Lord Faramir, some of the merchants would rather hold onto their goods, as they’ve naught to replace them. Better a full warehouse, in hopes that you can get a full price later.”

Faramir nodded in understanding. “That occurred to me, my Lord. What if Gondor offers our merchants 1/2 the price of rent for these warehouses, for the next six months, to house refugees, and goods for their keeping, over the winter?”

At this, both merchants’ eyes lit up, as the rest of the room erupted in objections.

It was Lord Tyorvond, a retired Captain General of Gondor, and Warden Del, who shouted down the opposition this time.

When the room was quiet, one of Denethor’s accountants, hastily summoned by Faramir, pointed out “The refugee’s fund will cover the first two months of the warehouse rentals.”

“The refugee’s fund?” Lord Tarsten asked in honest confusion.

“Aye,” explained Lord Tyorvond with a smile. “I will refresh the Council’s memory, since the Refugee’s fund was established on the last Yule council, when many of our honored members were unable to be present. It was suggested by Warden Del, and sponsored by Lord Boromir and and myself. In the end, a Refugee’s fund was approved. A 2% tax was added to the price of all luxury goods sold in Gondor, and a surcharge to all fines for drunk and disorderly behavior and the destruction of property. This money has been collected and is now available for exactly this type of disbursement.”

The council voiced a number of other objections, and several alternatives were considered, but in the end, the Lord Faramir’s plans were voted into action.

Following the Council meeting, Lord Sendar pulled Faramir aside for a moment. “I know you can’t remember this, though you were there that day, but your mother the Lady Finduilas once bet me a good meal at our city’s finest eating house that charity would work its way around to put money in my coffers someday. I took her up on that, and today, you and your clever machinations proved me wrong. So, here’s a blank draft on my account, I trust you to take only yourself and a few friends out to eat.”

Faramir’s eyes widened in surprise, but he quickly hid it. “I think I do remember, my Lord. Your wife was with you, and she scolded you, for she said my mother never made a bet without knowing she could collect.”

Sendar, in turn, was surprised that such a small child would have remembered the conversation so many years later. “Aye, that she did. Would both ladies had lived to see this day. You take care of yourself, Lord Faramir. I don’t like you, but you wouldn’t be the worst ruling Steward Gondor’s ever had. I hope no worse can be said for this King of yours.”

After the council meeting, Faramir met with the senior Rider of the Mark, who was delighted to have Merry’s assistance.

Ethiron, dismissed for lunch and a rest, later came back to check on the Steward. To his surprise, the young Lord, while still wearing his sling, was also wearing a light sword, likely his own from when he had been a teenager, and a bow from the same era. Faramir was planning another outing into the City.

Ethiron suggested, archly, that perhaps Faramir should rest instead. When the Steward seemed determined to go back into the city, the Ranger Captain sighed and prepared to follow him. Ethiron had been unimpressed by most of the guards that Faramir had inherited from his father. They didn’t seem particularly fond of, nor even respectful of, their new Steward. Apparently, many of the best of the Steward’s guards had also been sent with Aragorn. More, the one guard Faramir was planning to take with him struck the Dunedain as shifty and unreliable.

As it turned out, Faramir shared Ethiron’s perception of this particular guard. Faramir had picked him to go on this jaunt in order to keep an eye on him.

The Dunedain had selected himself to continue following Faramir, rather to the Steward’s bemusement. Ethiron had realized that the rest of Faramir’s guards were either cohorts of the unreliable fellow, or were trusted enough by Faramir to be sent on various errands in the city and beyond, and were serving the Steward in that way. A few were also walking wounded, and of them, Faramir had sent several to the HOH himself, threatening dire consequences if they did not arrive in due course. One had given him a look, and muttered “do as I say, my Lord?’

Faramir had grinned back, and replied. “Now, friend, I just spent exactly the time resting that I was supposed to. Let’s see what Warden Del and his fellows think of your condition, hmm?”

From this Ethiron gathered that strict obedience to the will of the healers was not normally a trademark of Gondor’s new Steward. Undoubtedly a difference of opinion he and Aragorn would later explore at length, Ethiron was sure. Ethiron kept quiet for the nonce, but planned to point out that perhaps Faramir should keep one guard who was in good condition and unlikely to to be …unreliable…with him in the future, as soon as he had a chance to do so in relative privacy.

Faramir then commenced a dizzying round of errands in the city, visiting businesses and private citizens, as well as the guard offices on each of the levels of the city. Faramir seemed a naive innocent, but Ethiron noticed, in their travels around the city, that the young Steward carefully avoided blind alleys, staircases, and anywhere else where there wasn’t a crowd. Nor did Faramir go into any buildings, except homes and businesses of those with whom he had clearly had a long relationship of trust. The Steward, then, may well know that there was unrest in the city, and that he could be a target himself, since he had declared for the King.

Ethiron took the opportunity to question Faramir closely as to what had been his instructions for release from the House of Healing. The younger man was running the Dunedain spymaster ragged, and he knew Faramir had been injured more severely. Faramir, smiling though somewhat frustrated, explained that they would be done shortly. When Ethiron appeared to be (and was, in fact) considering cutting the Steward’s day short through some more direct means, Faramir gently pointed out that he needed to visit the archives to make sure all the formalities were prepared such that no one would later question Aragorn’s right to the Kingship. Ethiron, suspecting that Faramir knew the appeal of such an errand to him, was suspicious that it had come only at the end of their day, and said so. Faramir laughed, and explained that the archivists had needed all of this time to pull the information together.

During the visit to archives, Faramir reviewed materials which had been gathered as a result of messages he had sent to the Chief Archivist. That official and his apprentices had combed the archvies for everything they could find on protocols for the coronation of the King, the wedding of the King, and other information pertaining to the rights and responsibilities of Gondor’s King which had not been needed for many years. Faramir, seated among the archivists, looked more like one of the apprentices than the ruler of the city, but for his occasional air of authority as he demanded ritual be followed, or changed in one fashion or another. Ethiron was amazed at Faramir’s attention to detail after such a long day.

After leaving the archives, Faramir paid one last visit to his friend the sea Captain before departing for home. The less reliable guard, dragging his feet with weariness, insisted they should take a quicker route home. Faramir, face unreadable, agreed.

Their path took them directly into a huge riot which had erupted over the price of bread in the city. Before Ethiron could grab his charge, Faramir had flung himself into the masses. Ethiron swore as he watched the Steward place himself inbetween armed, angry citizens, without drawing arms himself. By mere force of his presence amongst them, the young lord Steward, unarmed and bare-headed, calmed many of the refugees and citizens of the city, as well as the guards who had been overwhelmed by their numbers, and the angry merchants. Most were at least, if not calmed, quieted in anticipation of learning what the Steward had to say. The people of the city, with few exceptions, loved their new Steward well, even if he meant to make way for the return of the King.

However, there were those few exceptions, as well as a small number of rioters who had not recognized Faramir, or were too enraged to cease their actions. One of them shot an arrow, which came within an arm’s reach of the young Lord. Ethiron, deciding enough was enough, and that Aragon would not thank him for a dead Steward, grabbed Faramir firmly by the upper arm and prepared to drag him away, willing or not. The Steward was paying him no mind, merely reaching out his other arm to pluck a second arrow from its flight before it could hit a merchant standing near Faramir. Ethiron dropped young Faramir’s arm in astonishment. He’d seen like feats, but only from elves.

“Good citizens of Gondor and visiting friends,” Faramir lectured, gently but firmly, arrow still held in his hand, Ethiron still guarding his back (the other guard had disappeared in the melee). “I understand that there is a great deal of fear and uncertainty about the days to come. Many of you have lost homes and livelihoods, and are unsure where your next meal will come from, through no fault of your own. Many of us have lost family and friends, shortening our tempers by grief.” The young lord’s face grew sterner. “However, contretemps such as this do no one any good. The House of Healing is overworked already, now we have given them more folk to care for through our own brawling. This shames us, when the King’s armies will arrive in but a few days, carrying our wounded, and those of Rohan and Dol Amroth, from the assault on the Black Gate.”

There was an uncomfortable shifting of feet amongst the audience. Those who had been rioting, both the hungry and the merchants and their employees, put down their weapons and make shift weapons and continued to listen to the young Steward of Gondor.

“I cannot promise that no one shall go hungry.” Faramir explained, honest young voice tinged with compassion. “But I can tell you that plans have been made to feed all who are currently within the city, projected out to those who shall not be able to return to their homes and renew their lives before winter begins.”

“By who?” One voice shouted, no longer angry but disbelieving, as another called out, “How?”

Faramir looked around, and spotting Lord Sendar arriving with his guards, waved the man over. “Lord Sendar here will tell you, for he as well was present for today’s council meeting and voted for the measure, albeit as the lesser among other evils. Other questions that you have may be put to your representative on the council.” Each of the guilds had a representative on the council, as did each level of the city, and each group within Gondor’s army.

Sendar eyed Faramir with scant favor, but did as he was bid. The crowd calmed further, for Sendar was an institution. Most didn’t like him, but everyone knew his word was gold, and that he gave it only with great infrequency.

Faramir, stepping out of the crowd, went limp like a puppet with its strings cut. It was such a contrast from the animated Faramir Ethiron had come to expect, that it further alarmed the Spymaster. Making a quick decision and hoping Aragorn would not later take him to task for overreaching his authority, he grabbed Faramir by the arm. The young Steward, for his part, allowed Ethiron to pull him along, back down the street into Captain Arnaut’s home.

The Captain, summoned by the closing and locking of his own front door, merely welcomed them back and asked if they needed anything.

“Some brandy,” Ethiron grunted, “and a place to set your young Lord down. I think he’s in shock.”

“I’m not in shock.” retorted Faramir weakly, sounding rather as if he might be.

Ethiron rolled his eyes. This whole day was reminding him of similar dealings he had once had with Aragorn at a like age, convinced being Chieftain of the Dunedain gave him immunity to the weaknesses of lesser mortals as he went out and did any harebrained thing that he thought Isildur’s heir should be responsible for.

Arnaut gestured up the stairs of the narrow house, and Ethiron tugged a vaguely protesting Faramir to the sea captain’s small parlor, where an hour ago they had discussed trade routes. “Sit, Lord Steward.” The Dunedain spy master commanded.

Faramir, having had enough of this high-handed but well-meaning assistance, instead turned to leave. “Captain Ethiron, I thank you, but I should not leave Lord Sendar alone to deal with that crowd.”

Sighing as he grabbed the younger man’s arm again, Ethiron’s eyes widened as he caught sight of a hole in the Steward’s shirt.

“What?” The Ranger Captain growled. “I thought you unharmed. Idiot, why didn’t you say something?”

“I am fine.” Faramir sighed. “The first arrow but took a bit of my tunic.”

“And it didn’t occur to you that such was a hint from the Valar to leave that place?” Ethiron asked in horror.

“Nay.” Faramir explained, trying to find a way to loosen his arm from Ethiron’s firm grasp, that he might go back about his duties without actively fighting the older soldier. “It gave me a chance to gauge where the next arrow would come from.”

Ethiron, not releasing Faramir, looked up at Arnaut’s beautifully decorated ceiling and counted to ten. Admiring the scenes of the ships at sea and the shores of Dol Amroth, he calmed somewhat. After about thirty seconds, he turned back to Faramir, who was looking at him with concern.

“I’m sorry, my dear Captain Ethiron.” The Steward offered. “Were you injured? I didn’t think to ask. If so, you should go back to the Houses of Healing. One of Arnaut’s men could escort you?”

Ethiron swore softly and turned the young Lord Steward of Gondor about, bending him over the arm of Arnaut’s fuchsia settee. Ignoring Faramir’s rather incoherent protests, Aragorn’s spymaster turned up the youth’s tunic and undershirt, and placed a hand on the younger man’s back to keep him in place. Ethiron then proceeded to deliver a dozen or so sound swats to the seat of the Steward’s black leggings. Faramir bore this indignity mostly in silence, though his eyes were wide when Ethiron turned him back around to face the Dunedain.

“If I ever,” Ethiron growled “see you do anything so careless of your life as to stand out in plain view of an archer so that you might gauge the path of his next arrow, I will paddle you myself, then take you to our King so that he may explain in great and painful detail the error of your ways. Is that clear, my Lord Steward?”

As Faramir nodded, Ethiron noted with some slight amusement that the younger man clenched his hands into fists to keep them at his side, rather than rubbing his sore backside as he might have done were he alone.

“Good. Now why don’t we discuss exactly why it is that you have a death wish, eh?” Ethiron asked, voice sympathetic now that the first of his anger and concern had been vented.

“Death wish?” Faramir looked startled. “I do not want to die, Captain Ethiron. I am planning to get married, you know.”

Captain Arnaut, re-entered the room with a tray, a decanter of brandy, and three glasses. “Then we must drink to your forthcoming union, Lord Faramir.” The captain called, shoving a glass gently into Faramir’s hands.

Arnaut’s eyes as he handed a glass to Ethiron were filled with respect and appreciation, and Ethiron realized that Faramir’s friend had heard their…disagreement, and recognized Arnaut as his ally against the clever Faramir, who did not wish to discuss his disquiet. Ethiron had been prepared to accept that reticence when the boy was only weeping in out of the way places. Now that he was shoving himself between armed rioting citizens without protection, the spymaster rather felt the issue needed to be dealt with, post-hast, before the promising young officer, now Steward of Gondor, got himself killed.

Arnaut took a seat, gesturing for his guests to do likewise. Faramir blushed, and demurred. Ethiron remained standing as well, the better to catch the young Lord should he decide to bolt for the door.

“Faramir, my friend,” the grizzled old sea captain began gently, “surely there is a procedure in place for the Steward being in the city when a riot is taking place?”

The Lord Steward blushed again, Ethiron absently noting that the color in his cheeks was almost alarming against the paleness of his skin. “Aye, there is, for the Steward’s guards to take him immediately back to the citadel.” Faramir answered at length. “But that policy was not written for times such as this, when even good folk are so unsettled!”

Arnaut held up a hand. “I realize that, but under no circumstances should the Steward go running into a riot. A better tactic would have been for you to find Sendar in the first place, and to have gone to address the crowd once they had calmed, with a full escort.”

Faramir bowed his head, considering. “Perhaps you are right. Perhaps I am not thinking clearly, but I have no wish to die!” The young Lord said at length, looking somewhat nervously to Ethiron, as he ran a hand through his red-gold hair.

“That’s as may be, lad.” Ethiron spoke up, breaking from formality at how upset the normally calm Lord was. “But as you said yourself, you’re not thinking clearly right now. Hardly your fault, given your recent losses. But I want you to promise me something, Ranger to Ranger.”

“I will if I can, Captain Ethiron.” Faramir promised. “I owe you much for standing by my side this day, as well as for your…erm…advice.”

Ethiron repressed a smile. He couldn’t recall ever having been thanked for handing out a spanking before, brief as this one had been, merely intended to get the Lord’s attention. Turning serious, he met Faramir’s eyes and asked intently. “Will you talk to someone about your losses, my Lord? I will not ask of you that it be a mind healer, just someone you trust. You are carrying too much grief on your shoulders, and it has clouded your eyes at a time when they would best be clear.”

Faramir sighed, and then nodded, meeting Ethiron’s eyes in turn. “I swear that I will, at the earliest opportunity. But now I must get back to the House of Healing, or I will miss supper with Éowyn.”

Ethiron chuckled, clapping the young Steward on the back. “Very well, my Lord.”

“You may call me Faramir, Captain Ethiron, when we are not in a formal situation. I think we shall be friends.” The Steward offered, with a rueful half grin the spymaster found very appealing, particularly in contrast to the Lord’s earlier solemnity.

“Aye, Faramir it is then.” Ethiron agreed. “But before we leave, I would ask Captain Arnaut for the loan of several of his men, seeing as we’ve lost your other guard.”

“Bother.” Faramir muttered. “I wanted to keep an eye on him.”

So Faramir had been aware of the guard’s perfidy. Ethiron merely closed his eyes at this further proof of the Steward’s carelessness. Arnaut chuckled, looking at the Ranger Captain with sympathy. “I suspected as much, Faramir.” The merchant captain explained. “I had my son-in-law and several of our burlier employees forcibly recruit your other guard for the navy. Let Imrahil straighten him out.”

Faramir chuckled. “Well done, Arnaut, although I suppose I should not take such joy in the fellow’s…ah, change in circumstances.”

“After he led you to that riot and deserted you there, he is lucky to get the opportunity to change addresses. I might have just killed him.” Ethiron commented in disgust, taken aback by the amusement in Faramir and Arnaut’s eyes.

“Not exactly lucky, my good Ethiron.” Arnaut explained. “Prince Imrahil is as protective of his nephew as he is of his children, the one way in which our calm Prince of Dol Amroth is entirely fierce Adrahil’s son.”

“Ah.” Ethiron commented, smiling as he realized the fate which awaited the possibly traitorous guard. “That’s all well and good, then. But you, my…Faramir.” Ethiron remarked strictly to his temporary charge. “If you walk about the city, or leave the citadel at all without at least two competent guards, I will hear of it, and I will tell my King. Who will disapprove, given the circumstances, in case you were wondering.”

Faramir nodded, though he looked slightly sick. “I knew you would be giving our future King a report, and I do not mind. But I shudder to think of him hearing of all the mistakes I’ve made, and I’ve only been Steward for one day.”

Ethiron looked at the youth, doubting his sanity, for Faramir had taken very good care of Aragorn’s city indeed. Arnaut chuckled and poured himself another glass of brandy, enjoying the experience of seeing someone else flummoxed by Faramir’s odd standards of perfection.

“Faramir,” Ethiron began gently, “I have seen few mistakes at all, save those respecting your safety which we’ve already discussed. Those few mistakes I’ve witnessed, well, have you ever served as Steward, or as a public official, in the past?”

“Nay, though I helped Boromir when my father traveled,” the mention of his brother seemed to have only made Faramir look more sick. Arnaut refilled his brandy glass and bid him drink, which Faramir declined.

“My point is that this is your first day, and I think Aragorn would approve of the job you are doing.” Ethiron said kindly. “Mistakes are to be expected on a a first day. Do you not recall your first day as lieutenant, or captain? It takes awhile to learn the ropes. My King is not a fool, he will understand that. And I think he will find himself very well pleased by you.”

“Well,” Faramir commented, looking somewhat comforted. “He need not put up with me for long if he is not. What need has Gondor for a Steward with the King returned?”

Ethiron murmured something non-commital as Arnaut rustled up an escort for them back to the Houses of Healing. The spymaster was entirely sure that Aragorn would not be dismissing this young Steward, at least not anywhere except into the ranks of the King’s most valued advisers.

Ethiron sat composing a letter to Aragorn later that night in the rooms he had been granted in the citadel, after having personally approved the guards who were to accompany Faramir in the morning. After completing his description of the day, he laid down for a moment, and allowed his thoughts to move undirected. Lord Elrond had taught him this technique for identifying problems which he could not consciously solve.

Ethiron’s mind moved from Faramir, to the young Steward’s messenger friend they had encountered on the way to the Citadel. Dervorin had been slender, and slightly shorter than Faramir, though about the same age. The messenger’s coloring had been normal for a man of Gondor, dark hair and skin a bit darker than the pale Faramir’s. However, his eyes were an interesting shade of blue gray, hinting at some other ancestry, possibly Númenorean. Ethiron recalled seeing young Dev leap off of his horse, and suddenly recalled where he had seen a similarly graceful fall before. It had been in the camp of the enemy, as a young Haradrim had been cleverly sabotaging an alliance between Harad and Rhun. Ethiron had been there to do the same thing, and had been somewhat surprised to see his work so neatly done for him, though more openly than he would have liked. Surely enough, one of the brighter orcs whom Sauron’s captains had sent along to keep the proceedings moving had realized who the obstruction was, and attempted to kill the slender lad. Ethiron and his assistant had spooked a horse, which had distracted the orc, and allowed the clever young Haradrim to get away. It hadn’t been the first time Ethiron suspected that Gondor might have started its own spy network, but it had been the first time that he was nearly sure.

Nor was the spymaster certain that Dev had been that clever young man of Harad, but the build and the gracefulness matched. In spy work, where hair, skin, and eyes were frequently dyed, those were some of the best physical clues. Letting his thoughts wander again, Ethiron realized that Dervorin and Faramir had been using some unknown hand signs to have a private conversation under his nose. More, all of Arnaut, the pickpocket, and Dev had gotten close enough to pass Faramir a paper message. Swearing, Ethiron added “And unwillingly sneaky” to his description of the Steward in his letter to Aragorn, advising his Chieftain “If you don’t want this young one, friend, then I do.”

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