Faramir Fiction Archive

Beginnings & Endings (G)

Written by Susana

18 January 2012 | 37741 words | Work in Progress

Hfic: Beginnings & Endings Chapter 4: The Warrior Steward and Meriadoc the Brave: Part 1
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours: Story: Beginnings & Endings
Feedback: Please use the form below
Warning: AU; a relatively harsh punishment in a flashback
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s

Summary: Lord Steward Faramir prepares to leave the city to discourage the raiding orcs, along with soldiers of Gondor, volunteer Riders of Rohan, an annoying cousin, and one hobbit who is a Squire of Rohan.

A/N: Thanks to Kaylee for providing lots of background on hobbits. Any mistakes are mine (and there will probably be some mistakes in characterization of Merry; I admire him, but I don’t write hobbits often). I did not expect this chapter to be partially from Merry’s POV, but that is where the muse went.

Quotes:

(Denethor to Faramir) “‘Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle. That may well befit one of a high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death.”
“So be it,” said Faramir.” – from Return of the King, by J.R.R. Tolkien

“You can trust us to stick to you through thick and thin – to the bitter end. And you can trust us to keep any secret of yours – closer than you keep it yourself. But you cannot trust us to let you face trouble alone, and go off without a word. We are your friends, Frodo.” – Spoken by Meriadoc Brandybuck to Frodo, in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” by J.R.R. Tolkien

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Chapter 4: The Warrior Steward and Meriadoc the Brave: Part 1

Courtyard on the first level of Minas Tirith, spring of 3019

[Faramir’s POV]

Organized chaos reigned all around Faramir, as men and horses sorted themselves out into a coherent anti-raiding patrol. Faramir, trailed by a single guard, sought out the nucleus of the chaos.

“Orders, Captain… er, my Lord Steward?” Inquired Captain Calarion.

Faramir’s lips twitched at the small lapse. Calarion was a drinking buddy of the commander of the Minas Tirith army garrison, Senior Captain Galdoron, himself one of Boromir’s best friends. Or had been, at least, since Boromir was now gone. But Boromir had considered all the men of Gondor’s army to be his men. And they were still here, so Faramir had a duty to them. To keep them as safe as possible, as they performed yet another dangerous but necessary task. This one, at Faramir’s behest.

“I need you to consult with acting Captain Swidhund, Captain Calarion.” Faramir ordered quietly, as he nodded to Swidhund to approach. Normally, a Captain of Rohan would have commanded a full Eored, at least a hundred and twenty Riders of Rohan. However, almost the entirety of Rohan’s Eohere, their full fighting strength, had followed Aragorn to the Black Gate. Swidhund was the second most senior of the men of Rohan who had been left behind in Minas Tirith, to heal or to care for those who were healing. More than half of those Riders were here tonight, to aid in this endeavor, and Faramir was grateful. He did not know if they were here to continue to honor Rohan’s alliance with Gondor, or for Éowyn’s sake, or just because they were bored and wanted to go chase some orcs, but Faramir was glad for them, nonetheless.

“We will be just under fifty men, with volunteers from the Riders of Rohan, and from the city watch.” Faramir began, nodding gratefully to Swidhund, before continuing, “Our objective is to sweep the main roads and smaller by-ways around the city, looking for yrch. We need to have plans in place, for how best to attack them.”

“Killing them, m’ lord, or just to the point where they scatter?” Captain Swidhund asked quietly.

Faramir paused, torn. These yrch had been driven away by the combined might of Gondor, Rohan, and the King’s company, at the Battle of the Pelennor. Then they had returned, to plague travelers and folk coming to the White City for refuge. There could be no mercy, not for such desperate creatures who were preying upon the refugees of Gondor.

“Kill them if we can,” Faramir commanded softly, “But if they scatter, we cannot expend too much effort in chasing them down. We cannot afford to break into smaller combat parties, without losing any advantage we might have over the raiding orcs.”

“Our numbers may not be enough, as it is.” Captain Calarion pointed out softly, his eyes moving to his men, checking their equipment and their mounts, while the Riders of Rohan did the same, just more boisterously. The party was gathered in the courtyard before the Great Gate on the first level of the city. Faramir suspected that the jocularity of the Riders of Rohan was a bit at the expense of the soldiers of Gondor, perhaps even at Faramir himself. However, they were all volunteers, and Faramir wouldn’t begrudge men about to enter a combat situation a source of stress relief. Particularly not when Calarion’s point was quite valid.

“For that reason, we should also review strategies for retreat.” Faramir agreed quietly. With a respectful nod towards Swidhund, Faramir continued,“While the Riders of Rohan are a more experienced cavalry, in the case of a need to withdraw swiftly to the city, I think that Calarion’s lieutenant and his unit should take the lead. They know the best ways to avoid the traps laid out for invading enemies.”

“No argument, Lord Faramir.” Captain Swidhund agreed in a quiet rumble, before pausing with a perturbed expression to yell something in the language of Rohan. Swidhund’s harsh words were directed to the slender, armored figure whom Faramir recognized as Rider Barden, a cousin-by-marriage of Éowyn’s, as Lord Húrin was a cousin-by-marriage of Faramir’s. And speaking of Hurin… Faramir could see him approaching, a very displeased expression evident on his patrician face.

But Húrin wasn’t Faramir’s problem, at least not yet. So Faramir continued with preparations for their foray, “Gondor’s soldiers signal troop movements by horn…” He began.

“As do the Riders of Rohan.” Swidhund supplied, patting the horn at his side.

“But I do not know if the signals are the same.” Faramir concluded, with a rueful half-smile. “Perhaps we should decide on signals between the three of us, and review them with the soldiers and riders ‘ere we leave.”

By then, Lord Húrin had drawn even with the three of them. “A moment of your time, Lord Faramir?” He requested, but his tone was one of pained displeasure, making it quite clear that he was unhappy with the new Lord Steward.

Faramir resisted the urge to grit his teeth, as he did not want to show how annoyed he was with his cousin. Húrin was a virtuous man, a fine warrior, and a dedicated administrator. He’d done an excellent job filling in for Faramir during Faramir’s lengthy stay at the House of Healing, and he deserved the respect of the people of Minas Tirith. Húrin did not deserve having Faramir talk to him as if his presence was a chore.

So, the only possible answer was, “Yes, of course, Lord Hurin,” and Faramir said so in a courteous tone, with a polite expression on his face. Then he turned to Captains Swidhund and Calarion, “Please discuss and resolve the differences between the horn calls and battle signals of Gondor and those of Rohan, Captains, and agree on common calls. It would be an unfortunate thing to have trip us up, this night.”

The Captains set to that task, as Faramir and Húrin walked to a more isolated part of the courtyard. Faramir waved his guard back, but Squire Meriadoc kept pace with him, stopping just a few feet from Faramir and Hurin, and hovering protectively. It should have been a ridiculous sight, with Merry barely taller than a ten year old, but to anyone who knew what Merry had done, it probably wasn’t.

It was Faramir’s perspective that since Pippin had saved his life, Merry had rather adopted keeping Faramir alive as some sort of personal responsibility. And Faramir rather had the impression that this was a personal responsibility which Merry found rather challenging, at times, although that did not seem to dim the young hobbit’s dedication to his self-assigned duty.

Reaffirming Faramir’s impressions, Merry said stubbornly, “You said that you thought Ranger Captain Ethiron’s fears that someone might try to kill you were exaggerated, Faramir. You did not say that they were baseless, or that you felt yourself safe.”

The skin around Faramir’s eyes crinkled as he tried his best to hide a reluctant smile, “Indeed, Squire Meriadoc. I’m sure that your cousin Frodo was grateful for the company of such a perceptive individual, on his quest.”

Merry half-grinned at Faramir, as he cheekily replied, “Flattery isn’t going to distract me, Lord Faramir. My cousins are both rather skilled at that tactic.” Lifting his chin determinedly, Merry stated firmly, “You can count on my discretion, Lord Faramir, regarding whatever you discuss with Lord Hurin, or anyone else. You may not count on me to leave you unattended, when you’ve sent your other guards away.”

Lord Húrin sighed, clearly frustrated by the delay. “Lord Faramir, my cousin, I have words to say to you that would best not be overheard.”

Merry straightened himself to his full height, and appealed to Faramir, “Your betrothed is my sword-sister, since we fought and bled together just over that wall. That makes you my sword-brother, and I won’t let anyone spring from the shadows to harm you, not when I can be here to stop it.”

Faramir was almost overwhelmed by the offer. He’d gained a great deal of respect and fondness for Merry during their time together at the house of healing, but he hadn’t expected that Merry would claim him as a brother, or be so determined to protect him. Faramir coudn’t think of any time in his life, save perhaps in meeting Éowyn, when someone whom he had only known for a scant few weeks would make Faramir such a pledge of support. But Faramir didn’t want Merry to be in harm’s way, and was aware that he did not particularly want anyone to overhear what he and Húrin might have to say to one another. But neither did he want to spurn such an offer of loyalty and aid from someone he liked and respected as much as Merry, so Faramir met Merry’s eyes, considering the matter for a moment. In Merry’s gaze, Faramir read mostly only those sentiments that Merry had already shown and spoken. He was determined to defend Faramir; he cared for Faramir, for Éowyn’s sake and also for Faramir’s own, for Faramir’s partisanship of Pippin and his kindnesses to Frodo and Samwise. Beyond that, Faramir saw ghosts in Merry’s eyes of a long-ago threat to Frodo, from a hobbit woman who was jealous of Frodo’s status as the adopted heir of Bilbo Baggins. What parallel Merry might see between that and Faramir’s current circumstance as a Steward who was preparing to hand a city and a country over to a returning King, when a substantial (and powerful) minority did not wish the King to return, Faramir was not sure. But there was some parallel, and the determination and the affection, the loyalty that Merry was showing, deserved honor, not refusal.

So Faramir nodded that Merry could stay, the warmth in Faramir’s gray eyes compensating for the thanks he could not manage to say in words. Merry didn’t seem to need to hear them, he just straightened and nodded back, clearly pleased with his victory.

Faramir suppressed a smile at that, before thinking that permitting Merry to stay had a practical benefit, as well. Merry was not the most practiced of warriors, but he was brave. And his mere presence would probably be a deterrent to anyone who sought to harm the Steward. Some of the people of Minas Tirith may not like the idea of a King, but all of them welcomed the end of Mordor’s threat. And all of them knew what they owed to the hobbits. The King, Prince Imrahil, Lord Hurin, and faramir himself had seen to that, widely publicizing the Hobbits’ roles in eh days afte rthe Battle of the Pelennor. With Merry’s cooperation, they’d even suggested that he WAS the ringbearer, that it was for that reason that he was able to defeat the Witch-King, and that after his injury he’d given the ring to Lord Aragorn, to take to the Black Gate. Another ploy of distraction, to hoepfully keep the burning eye’s attention from Frodo.

Faramir turned back to his cousin, the Keeper of the Keys. Húrin was obviously displeased and discomforted by Merry’s continued presence within earshot. Faramir tried not to take a petty pleasure in that, and failed. But he tried at least not to show that he wanted to gloat at his cousin’s frustration. Faramir expect that Húrin was just going to try again to convince Faramir to stay in the city this night. Faramir knew that Húrin disapproved of Faramir’s joining this foray, because Húrin had said so, earlier that evening. Quite bluntly, in fact, calling Faramir a fool and a glory-hound, and a poor replacement for Denethor. Faramir thought that Hurin’s temper earlier had mostly been out of his worry for Faramir, but still. Faramir decided to control the course of the conversation as best he could.

“I’ve already said all I intend to say about tonight’s venture.” Faramir told Húrin with quiet certainty, “My mind is made up, I shall ride with the party, and fight with them, if I must.”

Hurin’s mouth tightened, and he held out a hand to grasp Faramir’s shoulder, perhaps to squeeze it, perhaps to shake it. Faramir wasn’t sure, and so he caught Hurin’s eyes with his own, and let his own lack of desire for physical contact with his cousin be plain. Hurin, to his credit, respected Faramir’s wishes and dropped the hand, his temper draining, as he said wearily, “Faramir, you are a good Captain. A fine leader. But you have yet to figure out that you are not merely the Steward’s spare heir, anymore. Your risking yourself in this endeavor when your arm should still be in a sling to spare your healing shoulder is not only sheerest folly, it is a dereliction of your duties as Steward to the city of Minas Tirith and the regency of Gondor.”

“I’ve been worse injured, and soldiered on.” Faramir retorted quietly, “And besides, it doesn’t matter. I can’t ask my men to do something I won’t do. and what is or isn’t appropriate for the Steward of Gondor is now my decision, and no one else’s. At least until the King returns.”

Húrin sighed, but did not argue. His legalistic mind probably agreed with Faramir’s last statement, if nothing else. But still, the Keeper of the Keys seemed unwilling to let the matter lie, and so Faramir caught his eyes, looking into them and seeing that Húrin felt that Faramir’s unwillingness to take advice was due to the difficult relationship Faramir had always had with his own father. Húrin knew, from long years with Denethor, how much could be read in a man’s eyes, and to Faramir that night Húrin offered sympathy as well as criticism. His face was stoic, but in his mind his affection for Faramir and worry over the new Steward were clear. Faramir could hear as plainly as if Húrin had spoken, that Húrin thought that the lack of his father’s love ached in Faramir’s soul like an unanswered question, causing Faramir to make all sorts of bad decisions.

Faramir sighed, thinking sarcastically to himself, “Oh, thank you so very much, Hurin.” Faramir was very aware of how his father Denethor had felt about him, from a very early age. At the end, though, Faramir knew that Lord Denethor had loved him. Faramir could have done without being almost burnt alive to learn that, but he knew that it had been, at the last, an act of love, however twisted by Denethor’s own misconceptions. Desperation, but love as well. It made Faramir wonder whether if he had confessed his suspicious that Denethor’s unconstant spy might be a palantir to someone earlier, if things might have been different, if his father might have kept his wits about him during the siege, and still be alive even now. But who would Faramir have told… Boromir did not understand the danger, though Faramir had tried to tell him. Imrahil would have confronted Denethor, and their relationship had been sometimes fraught, even without what probably would have amounted to an outright ultimatum from Imrahil, backed by the council, that Denethor leave the palantir alone.

Faramir’s silence encouraged Húrin to speak again, “If you refuse to listen to me as my Lord Steard, Faramir, then you still owe me a duty as your
elder and kinsman.”

Hurin’s tone as he made that semi-parental threat was stern, but still somewhat affectionate. It was as if Húrin was trying to mimic the mannerisms of Prince Imrahil, the only surviving senior familial relation to whom Faramir would not hesitate to admit he did owe such a duty. But as good a man as Húrin was, he was no Imrahil. To be fair, Faramir reminded himself, that was not Hurin’s fault. Húrin hadn’t been raised by Adrahil, and besides, Imrahil was uniquely protected from Denethor’s authority, as the ruler of the only semi-autonomous princedom in Gondor. Húrin had been nearly his whole lifetime under Denethor’s command, as Denethor’s former squire and then one of Denethor’s right-hand men. Imrahil could stand up to Denethor on many issues, and only be seen as fulfilling his duties as a feudal magnate. Húrin could not.

So Faramir’s response was firm, but tinged with empathy. “I respect you, Hurin, but I’m not willing to give you that authority over me anymore. I don’t blame you for… anything you did on my father’s orders.”

Húrin winced at that, and Faramir fought his baser instincts again, refusing to blame Húrin for what had happened that day, or any others. But it did not mean that Faramir did not recall it… quite clearly.

Minas Tirith, the apartments of the Steward in the Citadel, sometime in T.A. 3018

“I told you not to mention your nonsensical prophetic dreams to your brother, boy, or to the council.” Denethor had growled at his son, “At a time when war with Mordor is imminent, I cannot risk my best field commander to go off and chase fairy tales. I cannot even risk you.”

Faramir was silent. He had learned at a young age that arguing with his father at such times was counterproductive, to say the least.

Denethor’s stoic face twisted in disgust, and Faramir carefully kept his mind blank. In the past, when he’d gotten in trouble for sharing his visions with Boromir or the Lords of the Council, he’d had the temerity to wonder, in the privacy of his mind, how much of Denethor’s anger was for Faramir spreading ‘fairy stories,’ and panic, and how much of it was because Faramir was like his mother, in that Finduilas had often had visions, too. Those reflections had never failed to send Denethor into an even worse temper, so Faramir did not think them again. Instead he met his father’s gaze straightly, and dropped gracefully to his knees.

“My pardon, my Lord Father, for disobeying your direction. I will endeavor to serve you better in the future.” Faramir said quietly, but with sincerity.

Denethor laughed harshly. “You lie to my face with your careful words, boy.”

Faramir had nothing to say in response to that accusation. It was accurate; Faramir really was parsing his words finely. Denethor gave the orders, and mostly, Faramir though they were good ones, or at least that the chaos which could be caused by disobeying the only man with the right and ability to hold Gondor together was not worth the risk. But Faramir would not hesitate to do what he felt was right, if he felt that it must be done. Again, he was his mother’s son.

Denethor’s face darkened again, and Faramir cursed himself for letting that comparison to Finduilas slip through his mental guard.

“Hurin,” Denethor commanded harshly, “Take my son to your office and teach him a lesson he’ll be at least several days in forgetting.”

“Yes, my Lord.” Answered Hurin, not daring yet to reach out and put a reassuring hand upon Faramir’s shoulder, though Faramir knew from past experience that Húrin would, once they were beyond Denethor’s sight.

“Faramir,” Denethor commanded, “Do not speak of this nonsense of elves, and rightful Kings, and halflings, again.”

“I will do as my father and my conscience command me.” Faramir murmured, not daring to meet Denethor’s eyes.

“Get out of my sight.” The Steward commanded, and Faramir obeyed. As did Hurin, who grabbed Faramir by both of his shoulders and shook him lightly.

“He is your father. He is your liege-lord. If he says that something is not to be spoken of, it is not to be spoken of. I cannot believe that you were raised in his household, and yet somehow did not learn such basic rules of courtesy and fealty.” Húrin scolded.

“Well, as I am to pay for such lapses, perhaps it is good that I have them.” Faramir retorted shortly, not afraid that Húrin would truly injure him. Faramir was done, simply done, with walking the fine line of obedience, conscience, reason, and deception. At least for this day.

“You make things harder on yourself, Faramir.” Húrin complained with a sigh, as they walked into his office. Húrin lit a lamp, and then drew the dark shades over his windows, for privacy. He also locked his door, before gesturing to his immaculately clean and organized desk, “You know what to do, youngling. We’ve certainly been here often enough.”

Faramir shrugged elegantly, some part of his mind already elsewhere as he began to disrobe. If his attention hadn’t been divided, Faramir did not know if he would have said what he said next. “Better you than certain other respected members of my Lord Father’s staff, Lord Hurin.”

Húrin paused in his task of reluctantly pulling a well-worn strap from his desk drawer. Walking swiftly over to Faramir, he caught the younger lord’s shoulder again, and demanded, “If someone has punished you unfairly, or with excessive harshness, you are to go to the healers, my Lord. You know that is your father’s will.”

Faramir wanted Hurin’s hands off of him. This whole thing was unfair. Oh, sure enough there were times that Faramir spoke imprudently in council, or fell asleep, or was late to meetings or formal meals. Such lapses were well worthy of at least a paddling, for a Lord and Captain of Faramir’s seniority. And when such punishments were carried out by Hurin, or others of Denethor’s staff who saw only duty and not pleasure in the task, Faramir did his best not to resent them. Faramir did not, in fact, resent such chastisement from his brother, or his Uncle, or even the late Captain Andacar of the Rangers. Well, not anymore than any sane young man who preferred his bottom not to be spanked. But his father’s men who punished Faramir in Denethor’s stead, because Denethor would not, and for reasons such as speaking of his dreams, which were no reasons at all… well, Faramir had a hard time telling the difference between punishment for a real offense and punishment for an offense that Denethor had taken to an innocent act of Faramir’s. And that made him resent any punishment that his father’s staff gave him. Even this one, though Faramir had known that it would be the consequence of his actions today, in telling the council and his brother of his dream.

When Faramir was silent, Húrin gently shook him again. “Promise me, Lord Faramir. If someone harms you in carrying out our Lord’s orders that you be punished, you will go to the healers, if you have need.”

“If I have need…” Faramir repeated, doing his best to restrain his impulse to jerk away from Hurin. “If I have need, then yes, of course, I will.” A safe promise. Faramir had healed of potentially fatal wounds under the ministrations of his Rangers in Ithilien. A mere strapping, no matter how violent, would not be beyond Faramir’s ability to endure without “needing” to seek help.

Húrin nodded, relieved. “Very well then. Let’s have this unpleasant business over with, my young Lord, and then I will summon Sergeant Menohtar to help you to your bed. Or perhaps your brother?”

Faramir laughed, a cynical, broken noise, as he laid himself over Hurin’s desk, his leggings lose around the tops of his boots, and his pale bottom bare under his tunic. “Not Boromir. Unless you think it would be a good idea to cap off the night with a blazing row between Boromir and our Lord Father.”

Húrin sighed regretfully, “No, perhaps not Boromir.” Then he lifted Faramir’s tunic and tucked it gently into the young Lord’s belt, baring Faramir’s bottom completely.

Faramir felt the cool air around his nether region, and took a deep breath, trying to keep his buttocks relaxed for the searing, hot sting the strap would induce. After less than a moment, the first blow landed, and Faramir had to fight to keep himself in place. So he separated himself a bit more from what was happening… he had no control over the strapping, after all. Faramir did jerk at every smack of the strap on his increasingly hot and painful backside. How could he not… its hard, to ignore pain. But it was just the pain… Faramir did not feel the shame. He allowed his mind to be elsewhere. This was just the price he paid for being the voice that Denethor did not want to hear. Faramir accepted that, and he tried not to feel guilty over it. He owed his life and his training and his loyalty to his father, so there was some guilt. But Faramir didn’t let himself feel it now. He preferred not to cry, or cry out, if he could help it, during such punishments. Faramir could tell that his numbness worried Hurin, for the Keeper of the Keys laid a reassuring hand on Faramir’s lower back.

“You’re taking this very bravely, Faramir,” Húrin praised him, “It will be over soon.”

It wasn’t bravery, Faramir thought. It was… knowing what was unavoidable. He had to be who he was; had to speak when he felt the consequences for not speaking were worse than the consequences for keeping quiet when his heart and his sight bade him speak.

At last the strapping was over. Faramir had not cried, though his eyes were red from holding back the tears. And he had only groaned and yelped a little. Which Faramir was pleased with, since his bottom hurt so fiercely that it was hard for him to straighten, at first. Húrin offered a shoulder to help, and since it was that or fall, Faramir accepted, even though he did not want to be touched.

“Let me help you to right your clothing, cousin. And please take a few moments to regain your composure, before I summon your man.” Húrin said, offering Faramir an embrace.

At that, Faramir did step away, pulling his leggings into place and straightening his tunic with only a hiss of discomfort, despite the fire blazing on his backside. “It is well, Lord Hurin.” Faramir managed hoarsely, although he still kept the tears at bay. “You may truthfully tell my Lord Father that I will not sit easy for several days, which shall perhaps distract me from speaking at council.”

“Faramir, please, let me at least call Menohtar to care for you.” Húrin appealed, “I was careful not to bruise you, but there are welts.”

“I will be fine, Lord Hurin.” Faramir insisted, “And since my Lord Father has given you no other orders iwth respect to my person or the disposition of my afternoon, I will proceed to the library to find the books that my Lord Father had asked me to gather, on historical enlistment numbers from the southern fiefdoms.” Which could be done standing up.

Courtyard on the first level of Minas Tirith, spring of 3019

Faramir shook his head, returning himself to the present. Now, he was the Steward. He would not have wanted to inherit by his father’s and brother’s deaths, but Hurin, at least, no longer had power over Faramir.

“My father is gone, leaving me my own man.” Faramir reminded Hurin, “And I will not bow to you or anyone else who served at his bidding in that fashion.” In his own mind, Faramir added that he would do his best to never be under another man’s authority, ever again. At least not the way he had been under Lord Denethor’s.

Húrin was clearly taken aback by Faramir’s refusal. He took a few moments to absorb it, before appealing in a tone that was almost pleading, “Faramir, I do care about you. Our last blood connection was some centuries ago, but Denethor always regarded me as a nephew and I always saw you as a cousin.”

Faramir’s mien did not soften, although there was some empathy in his voice as he quietly related, “I know all about doing my father’s bidding. Hurin. To have failed him in anything major would have been treason, or at the least a confusion in a time when coherence is all that kept us from destruciton. My father was a good Steward, and even his worst decisions often had a kind of sense. But I do not forgive myself for those actions I took, in following my father’s orders, that brought harm to others.” Faramir paused, lost in his memories. He’d lost the most men in that ridiculous sortie on the Pelennor, for little gain. They should have just pulled back to the city. Faramir would never contest the right of any of the kin and loved ones of his rangers who died on the Pelennor to demand satisfaction of Faramir. ‘Eru,’ Faramir thought to himself, ‘If it had not been under my own command that Menohtar, Mablung, and so many others rode to their deaths, I would have to go seeking out myself to demand an accounting.’

His cousin did not read the truth in men’s eyes as well as did Faramir. Which Faramir recalled, as Húrin asked him sorrowfully, “You do not forgive me, my Lord, do you?”

There is nothing to forgive.” Faramir said, and truly meant it. “But there is no reason for me to allow that you would claim an elder kinsman’s right of appeal to my actions. You have not earned that trust, from me.”

Húrin sighed again, before telling Faramir with rueful pride and lingering worry, “Denethor never realized that there was a core of mithril, to you.” With a gentle, regretful smile for Faramir, Húrin added, “And I never realized how much of it there was. Be safe, this night, Faramir. My Lord.”

Faramir nodding back, forcing himself to clasp Hurin’s arm, as he’d seen Boromir do with many soldiers. Faramir himself was not given to such displays of physical affection, except with those few whom he trusted. However, he’d seen how Boromir’s casual gestures of affection and brotherhood helped to make Boromir’s soldiers a more coherent fighting force, and so Faramir had adopted the same practices, in Ithilien. He’d seen how it worked well at encouraging camaraderie, and in time, with his rangers, it became almost natural. But now his rangers were dead, and he had reasons, personal reasons, to be wary of Hurin. But Húrin was a good man, an obedient soldier, and a gifted administrator. And shared Faramir’s guilt, over following difficult orders. So Faramir reached out a hand, because it was the right thing to do.

[Merry’s POV]

Merry had done his level best not to listen to the fascinating conversation between Faramir and his cousin, the Keeper of the Keys. Merry knew well how complicated things could get between family, especially when unfortunate deaths elevated younger persons to positions of prominence over their elders. But insatiable curiosity was one of Merry’s vices, as much as it was one of Pippin’s. Merry was just a bit more controlled, and discreet. Besides, the best part of what Húrin and Faramir had to say to one another, was in the pauses, in what they didn’t say.

Merry fell into step beside Faramir as the Steward walked back towards the gathering war party, almost running into Faramir’s legs when the Steward stopped walking.

“Merry,” Faramir addressed him, kneeling so that he could address Merry face to face, “I am ordering that you be careful, tonight. This is a different type of engagement than you’ve fought in before, and you’re still but a talented novice as a warrior. So have a care, and do what your officers tell you.”

“I will,” Merry promised, his own brown eyes wide at the depth of the concern in Lord Faramir’s eyes.

Faramir squeezed Merry’s shoulder gently, “Thank you, Meriadoc. It is a promise that I will hold you to, on your cousins’ behalf.”

Merry met Lord Faramir’s gray eyes again, and nodded, fighting to keep his face serious as the moment seemed to demand. Then he gave up, and smiled brightly at Faramir, who, startled, managed a half-smile back.

“I am quite serious, Squire Meriadoc.” Faramir said with fond sternness, “This is no game we are about tonight.”

“I understand.” Merry assured Faramir, though his grin did not entirely disappear. That the Steward of Gondor, whom both Merry and Pippin had come to respect greatly, would care so much about Merry as to take the time to remind him to be careful, when Faramir had so many other responsibilities… it meant a lot to Merry. It made him feel… safe and warm inside, despite the danger he knew that they were about to leave the safety of the city to go a-seeking.

As the two walked back across the courtyard, Merry could practically feel the tense anticipation in the air. Soldiers and Riders of Rohan alike were readying their mounts and checking their armor and equipment. Merry was a bit anxious about riding into this engagement. Much less so than he had been before riding all the way from Edoras in Rohan to Minas Tirith in Gondor, but still, he’d had Éowyn’s help, then. Now he was to ride by himself, on a special modified saddle that Swidhund and several of the leather-workers from Gondor had collaborated together to fashion for him. Merry had spent a large part of the previous day under Swidhund’s tutelage. His muscles ached from learning to ride in the saddle, and practicing how to cut the buckling straps and fall from it without hurting himself, at need.

Minas Tirith, a training yard, earlier that same day in 3019

“We got the idea from Lord Eomund’s brother, Rider Kenley.” Swidhund had explained to Merry earlier that day, as he helped his late King’s squire buckle himself into the specialized saddle for the fourth time, tightening the straps that Merry had buckled for himself.

Anxious for a break from learning to fall, but also intrigued, Merry asked, “Eomund’s brother… that would be Lady Éowyn’s uncle?”

“Aye,” Swidhund agreed, his leathered face stiffening with sorrow. “His younger brother. Kenley was barely a teenager when he took an orc arrow to the back. He lived, but he could never move – or feel- anything above his waist, again. He re-taught himself to ride with a saddle much like this, and to fight from horse-back.” Swidhund’s mouth twisted into a rueful smile, “Almost no one believed that it could be done. I always thought that Eomund and Théoden only agreed to help him try because they thought he would fail, and wanted to be there to help catch him when he did.”

Merry tilted his head, reading both what Swidhund had said and what he hadn’t. “No one believed… but you?” He guessed.

Snorting, Swidhund shook his head, “Not me. The old Queen, Morwen. My mother was one of her women, and so she asked me to help, long ago when I was just an assistant horse trainer. At first I thought that Kenley had been driven mad by lingering pain from his injury and grief over the death of his dreams. But Kenley was determined, and patient. And if it could be done, I thought that it should be done. So I said yes, and this one’s grand-dam,” Swidhund patted Merry’s horse fondly as she rose from the kneeling position she’d adopted to help Merry mount easily, as he explained, “She was clever enough to learn to heed voice and specialized commands from the reins, without any lead from her rider’s knees or base. As were her foals, and this horse.”

“She… she was Kenley’s horse, wasn’t she?” Merry asked softly, running a hand over the horse’s velvety neck, and wondering what had happened to her previous rider.

“She was meant to be. But she was born with weak hips, would have had a hard time bearing a man of Kenley’s weight for more than a short time. I don’t even know why I trained her, but that it was during the days when Gríma first came to Edoras and began to practice his black magic upon our King. I was in need of distraction, and Need the Fourth, here, provided that.” Swidhund patted Need the Fourth’s neck again. “If Kenley had ever needed a back-up mount she would have served in a pinch, at least for the short-term. We always called his horses Need, after the first we trained to bear him.” Swidhund sighed, and continued, “Kenley died in a hunting accident just weeks before Théoden made Gríma one of his advisors. I never really believed that it was an accident… Théoden listened to Kenley, and Kenley distrusted Gríma. But nothing was ever proven.” Swidhund gave the straps on Merry’s saddle a final check, and then grinned at Merry, “Ready to try a controlled fall again, Squire Merry? If we keep up at this pace, I think that you might be competent to ride with tomorrow’s patrol, provided that you stay within the wing of warriors, rather than in the front lines or rear guard.”

Merry couldn’t stop a groan, which made Swidhund grin cheerfully, a smile that made Merry think of Boromir. Merry wondered if all trainers had to take a certain joy in their pupils’ frustration. Aloud, Merry complained with a cheeky grin of his own, “I don’t see how me learning to fall out of the saddle is part of me learning to ride a horse. Isn’t NOT falling sort-of the point of riding?”

Snorting, Swidhund related, “The rider in command of his Eored refused to let Kenley ride with our warriors again until he could dismount at a moment’s notice, and be taken on another’s saddle. Kenley resented every day of learning that skill, but after three weeks, he had mastered it well enough to satisfy even his brother and Théoden. Being able to get out of this saddle saved Kenley’s life three times. Once, when his eored was surprised by an ambush; again, when his horse was slain beneath him, and a last time not long before he died, when the girth of his saddle suddenly gave way.”

Merry gamely signaled Need to a canter again, and then pulled on the reins in the manner that let the sweet little mare know that he was going to fall off of the saddle, again. Need seemed almost to sigh in resignation, a sentiment that Merry quite agreed with as he fell. But once on the ground, he realized that he’d managed to land with probably only two or three new bruises, a new personal best. He also managed to spring to his feet, sword and shield in hand, almost in time to meet Swidhund’s attack.

After he lost that bout (which didn’t take long), Merry complained genially, “It took a Rider of Rohan three weeks to learn how to do this, and you expect me to learn it in ONE DAY?”

Swidhund tugged Merry gently to his feet, a broad smile breaking across his leathered face. “Aye, Squire. You have two good legs, a lower center of gravity, and a natural gift for falling down without injuring yourself too badly.”

“Not natural,” Merry corrected, with a pained smile, “But rather, learned in the course of my time in the delightful company of Saruman’s merry orcs.”

Swidhund squeezed Merry’s knee consolingly with his giant hand, as the hobbit reclaimed his seat on the horse. “Nothing that you’ve learned is ever wasted, Squire Merry. Or at least that is what Kenley’s aunt-by-law the old Queen would tell him, as he was falling from his saddle again and again.”

Courtyard on the first level of Minas Tirith, spring of 3019

Merry shook his head, bringing himself back to the present. He picked up his pace to keep up with Faramir and his guards, a task that was made easier as Faramir paused by one of the guards of Gondor, whose mount seemed restive. Before the ride to Rohan, Merry did not even think he would have noticed, but now… the shifting hooves, the slight shudder, from time to time, of the broad equine shoulders.

The guard had already accepted the help of two of the Riders of Rohan, who were examining the horse closely and discussing something having to do with bad grain.

“May I have a look at her, Corporal?” Faramir asked the guard, who blinked in surprise at being addressed by the new Steward himself.

“Of course, my Lord Steward.” The guard offered, “She was my cousin’s mount, but he… no longer has need of her, and my horses both died under me during the siege. I don’t know her as well as I should, perhaps she always gets the shakes before a battle.”

Faramir nodded sympathetically, and offered his hand for the mare to sniff. Then he met her large dark eyes, murmuring soft words too quietly for Merry to hear, even though he stood only a few feet from the Steward. To Merry, it seemed… like but not like watching Legolas speaking to an animal. It had never taken Legolas so long as it was taking Faramir to know a creature’s mind, but the manner, the eye contact, the intent but quiet words… that was much the same.

After a few more moments, the horse shook it’s head, and pawed at the ground, seeming relieved. “Her girth is slightly too tight,” Faramir told the guard, who bent immediately to adjust it, while one of the Riders of Rohan nudged the other, and coins exchanged hands between them.

“Also,” Faramir explained more quietly, “She is afeared that fire will fall from the skies again, as it did during the siege, singing her tail. I have assured her that it should not, and I hope that tonight will not make a liar out of me.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” The guard murmured, relieved that his mare seemed more contented.

“Treat her gently, the first few miles that we are out.” Faramir recommended, “I think that she should settle even more, after that.”

All of the Rohirrim had gathered to look at Faramir with expressions ranging between curiosity and outright awe.

“You’re a horse speaker, Lord Faramir?” Rider Barden asked incredulously.

Faramir frowned thoughtfully, before replying, “That seems a special title. I just… have a way with animals, sometimes.”

Swidhund gave the Steward an assessing glance, “A man who has such a way with animals would be much honored in Rohan.”

Captain Calarion of the Gondorian army chuckled lightly, “A good thing for Lord Faramir to keep in mind, if this whole ‘Steward’ job doesn’t work out for him. Oh wait… you’re already set to resign, my Lord…”

As one of Boromir’s friends, Merry noted with interest, Calarion seemed to be in the rare position of being able to tease Faramir, and get a laugh rather than a polite smile out of him.

And Faramir did laugh, but then he directed Calarion and Swidhund to give the order to mount up, and the war party moved out of the city gates of Minas Tirith, and into the dark, orc-infested night.

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