Beginnings & Endings (G) 
Written by Susana18 January 2012 | 37741 words | Work in Progress
Title: Beginnings & Endings Part I, Chapter 1,
Series: Desperate Hours AU
Disclaimer: Everything recognizable belongs to Tolkien.
Warnings: AU. Discussion of past spanking.
Beta: Proofreading assistance and helpful comments received from KC, Beth, and FC. All remaining errors are my fault.
A/N: This is all an AU, most things are the same but I have, in some ways, mixed book and movie canon (though primarily going with book). There is also one major change, obviously AU, that occurred when Aragorn (as Thorongil) sojourned in Gondor, which will become clear as time goes on (or if you’ve read Wise Child, in Tales of the Wizard’s Apprentice). This story is set beginning at the end of ROTK, and goes through a little over a year after that (summer of Third Age 3020). The main character is Faramir, but it is an AU rendering of how the developing friendship between Aragorn and his Steward might have come about, so various other characters are developed (including OCs as needed) to bring depth and interest to the story. One clear departure from canon is that the eagles brought Sam and Frodo to Minas Tirith rather than the Black Gate after rescuing them, and that the celebration at Cormallen fields did not take place in the same way, so that the first time the ringbearers will be reunited with Aragorn and those of the fellowship who marched to Mordor will be when the armies of the West return to Minas Tirith.
Part I – Beginnings
Chapter 1 – Of Breakfasts, Gardens, and Brighter Days
The most intense conflicts, if overcome, leave behind a sense of security and calm that is not easily disturbed.
Carl Jung
Extraordinary people survive under the most terrible circumstances and they become more extraordinary because of it.
Robertson Davies
In the sweetness of friendship let there be laughter, and sharing of pleasures. For in the dew of little things the heart finds its morning and is refreshed.
Kahlil Gibran
In a pleasant little garden attached to Gondor’s House of Healing, a small group of companions gathered for breakfast, as had become their habit over the past few days. It was an odd group, not because all of its members bore the signs of war and hard use. That alone would have been common enough in the days immediately following the end of the Ring War. Rather, it was odd because three members of the group were small people – hobbits, or halflings, as they were called by humans. It was rare in those days to see hobbits wander so far from their shire as to be observed in Gondor. One of the hobbits was dressed as a Squire of Rohan, another still wore the comfortable pale blue leggings and tunic of a patient of the Halls of Healing. It was impossible to tell what the third hobbit wore, for he lay swaddled in blankets in a lounge chair, dozing whilst his companions ate and spoke.
The rest of the group consisted of two humans who frequently paused to hold hands or meet eyes, in the way that those newly fallen in love are wont to do. The woman was blond and slight, but her bright blue eyes hinted at a will of steel. And so it was, for she was Éowyn of Rohan, who together with the hobbit Meriadoc, had slain the witch king of the Nazgûl. Éowyn wore white, the color of mourning in her native Rohan. She had lost a beloved uncle mere days ago, and not long before, an equally loved cousin.The man was tall with a warrior’s mien, though his piercing gray eyes, and the musical tone of his deep voice, were more apt to be gentle than fierce. His shoulder-length red-gold hair hinted at a heritage foreign to the land of Gondor, where dark hair and dark eyes were the norm. He was Faramir, and he was a reluctant, though effective, warrior and leader of men. Son of the former Steward Denethor of Gondor, brother of the former Captain-General the Lord Boromir of Gondor, he wore black in mourning for his lost father and brother. As the former Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, he had visited his few surviving comrades in the House of Healing. Those who had, like himself, been too badly injured to join the siege of Mordor with the King-to-be, Aragorn, Isildur’s heir.
At the Lady Éowyn’s side, Faramir had visited those Riders of the Mark similarly afflicted, thanking them, on Gondor’s behalf, for their bravery and sacrifice. The hobbit Meriadoc, who preferred to be called Merry, had accompanied his human friends, for he took his duties as a Squire of Rohan quite seriously. The Riders were happy to see their beautiful Shield-maiden, and the brave Hobbit who had become one of them, and took heart at their returning health. Faramir, sometimes with Éowyn’s company, also visited those wounded members of the Dunedain, the northern rangers of lost Arnor, who had come early to Gondor at the request of their King-to-Be, and had been wounded too gravely to accompany him to the Black Gate. No one who met the soft-spoken young Lord forgot him, though he had not the overwhelming presence of his departed brother, or of Aragorn who would be King.
That same Aragorn had ordered that Faramir, Éowyn, and Merry rest in the Houses of Healing over the last ten days. It was the longest period of time that Faramir had been still and comparatively idle since he began military training at the age of ten. Faramir had been frustrated, unable to do anything to help the distracting army, but glad to have Éowyn, and Merry, as companions in his waiting. Then the sky lightened, and Minas Tirith realized that Sauron was no more, defeated by two small hobbits. At that point, Faramir felt a joy and relief he had never before known. Having Éowyn and Merry to keep him company, and later the ringbearers as well, had made the remaining time pass quickly. Still, Faramir had not truly been idle.
Although he had learned all he needed to know of the future King when Aragorn healed him of the black breath, Faramir had realized that others would not be so easily convinced. Son of a politician, Faramir was also aware that the new King would need help claiming the Kingdom which was his birthright, despite winning it again through bravery and feats of arms and heroism. Also, Faramir by nature was as curious as a cat. So Faramir had gently teased out details about Aragorn and his wife-to-be from the three hobbits and Éowyn, as well as from the Dunedain. Drawing upon that knowledge, Faramir made another attempt to engage the quietest member of their group, the hobbit wrapped in blankets.
“Frodo,” the young Lord called softly, “what was the name of the elven rider who saved you from the Nazgûl the first time you escaped them, outside Imladris?”
“Umm.” The hobbit murmured, allowing himself to be coaxed to the table, and seated beside his good friend Sam, also still a patient of the House. “I believe it was Arwen.”
“It was, Master Frodo!” The hobbit Sam commented, joyful that Frodo had deigned to join them. Éowyn quickly handed the most injured hobbit a cup of hot chocolate and a biscuit slathered in butter and jam.
Merry, understanding Faramir’s gambit, put in his own oar. “And she was an elf of rank, as well, wasn’t she, cousin?” He asked Frodo, frowning thoughtfully. As Frodo’s attention turned to the new question, Merry met Faramir’s eyes, nodding his thanks. Merry and the human lord had become fast friends, building on Faramir’s respect and affection for Merry’s cousin Pippin. Moreover, Faramir and Merry had found in the other a kindred spirit. Both, though less outgoing than many of their companions, were beings who liked to prepare for every contingency in advance. Merry had told Faramir of how he had planned for Frodo’s travels from the shire for several years, such that they had been ready when the Nazgûl came. Faramir, much impressed, had shared some of his own stratagems for fighting off a superior force with inferior numbers, learned from his experiences holding Ithilien.
Frodo nodded, slowly chewing the biscuit. “Lord Elrond’s daughter,” he commented after a moment of thought.
“Lady Arwen,” Faramir said thoughtfully. “That would make her the same Lady Arwen who is betrothed to Aragorn, our King-to-Be?”
“She and Strider did seem friendly,” Merry observed, “though I’d not heard they were properly betrothed.”
Faramir smiled. “Apparently,” he related, “Lord Elrond is a most difficult father-in-law. Although by all other tales he treats the King-to-Be like a son, he told the future King in no uncertain terms that Aragorn could not be engaged to his daughter until he had taken up Isildur’s heritage, and seen the dark lord defeated!”
“Oh my,” observed Frodo, drawn in to the tale, for he loved stories, and cared deeply for Strider. “That is quite a figurative dragon to be required to slay, merely for an engagement.”
“Indeed.” Faramir continued, playing to his audience. “Moreover, ‘twas nearly fifty years ago that Aragorn and Arwen first went to the Lord Elrond, and asked for his permission to wed. So, in a sense, they have been waiting to be engaged for fifty years!”
The hobbits all gasped in surprise, shaking their heads at what a trial their poor Strider had been put through. Hobbits were accustomed to long engagements, they explained to their human friends, but, fifty years! That was above and beyond!
Éowyn met Faramir’s eyes over the heads of their diminutive companions. What passed between them was difficult to describe, for they could, even after such short acquaintance, exchange an entire conversation in one loaded glance. But it had something to do, on Éowyn’s side, with acknowledging her shame for having loved a man who could not love her back. Now that she had met Faramir, and come to know him, Éowyn realized how foolish was that earlier infatuation. Without words, Faramir’s gentle, loving glance told his Lady that he held none of that against her, that he saw no shame in falling in love with an honorable man. There was also, in the gaze exchanged between the two humans, a layer of great admiration for a pair of lovers who could wait out fifty years of time and great trials. The White Lady of Rohan and the new Steward of Gondor desired to be married as soon as possible. The two young lovers knew they both had obligations which might make the hasty marriage they desired an impossibility. Still, they could comfort themselves that they should not have to wait fifty years.
“Indeed..” Éowyn commented at length aloud. “As good and reserved a man as the King is, and as virtuous a lady as I’m sure Lord Elrond’s daughter is, I should not be surprised if theirs is a very brief engagement.”
“Hmm.” commented Faramir, eyes dancing. “I would not care to bet against you, Lady Éowyn. In fact, I have heard from Lord Húrin that the King-to-Be has, in fact, asked for quarters for the Lord Elrond and his daughter to be made available by the end of this week, and that the necessary formalities for a wedding of the King be explained to him at Hurin’s earliest convenience.”
The hobbits and Éowyn all laughed merrily.
“Speaking of Hurin, my Lord,” Éowyn inquired “Shall he come to meet you here again this morning?”
“Nay, my lady, today I shall go to meet him at the Citadel, and take over my work as Steward. Much to poor Hurin’s relief, though he has been faithfully, if not uncomplainingly, discharging those duties during my convalescence. One of the northern Dunedain and one of my rangers shall be discharged this morning as well, and I shall take them with me as guards to the Castle. Apparently the Steward of Gondor may not walk about unaccompanied, as Denethor’s second son, the Captain of the Ithilien rangers, was wont to do.” Faramir gave his love a weary half-smile, and she smiled in understanding back. Éomer’s daughter had never thought to be second in line to the throne of Rohan, where now she stood.
Their breakfast was interrupted by the arrival of Warden Del, the chief Healer and Administrator of the Houses of Healing, and two of his assistant healers. The Warden smiled widely to see Frodo sitting up and eating, but, upon checking the hobbit’s pulse rate and eyes, insisted that he go back to resting, though he might rejoin his friends for lunch and dinner. Sam accompanied Frodo, and the two assistant healers left to aid the hobbits on the short walk to their rooms, which looked out on the same garden. After they had left, Faramir invited the Warden Del to join them for breakfast, and asked the healer’s honest opinion on the recovery of the Ringbearer and his companion.
Warden Del shook his head, “I wish I could tell you, Faramir. They seem to be recovering, but Frodo in particular is more wearied than he should be after several days of rest. More, his wounds heal very, very slowly, even after application of the King’s foil which was so efficacious on others’ injuries. Both Frodo and Sam are suffering from a lingering fatigue beyond what I would expect. I simply don’t know how to help them, besides copious amounts of food and rest. I’ve treated hobbits before this, but I am not an expert. I rather wish we had the future King’s elven kin already amongst us, for many of the elves have made a study of treating all manner of light beings, including hobbits.”
Faramir nodded, deep in thought. He had directed Húrin to write the King-to-Be and tell him of the hobbits’ arrival and prognosis. Aragorn had written back with advice for the hobbits’ recovery, and to ask that the hobbits, if they were well enough, be present for the King’s arrival at Minas Tiirith, and his coronation that same day. Faramir very much wished that the two ringbearers could be present for such momentous celebrations. Their victory over Sauron and Mordor was, after all, mostly due to these small, brave, souls. But Faramir was reluctant to risk their recovery, which Warden Del had told them such exertions might, and Warden Del, out of all the human healers, should know.
Del was acknowledged to be the best and most talented of the healers at the House, and Gondor’s House of Healing was justly famous throughout Middle Earth for the skill of its healers and the breadth of their knowledge. It was where Faramir had spent much of the first five years of his life, when those same healers had been powerless to stop his mother’s gradual decline and eventual death. Faramir had been reluctant to leave the houses of healing during his early years, because it had often meant leaving his mother.
The young Faramir had learned to read by following his mother’s finger as she traced lines in ancient texts, desperately trying with the last of her dying strength to learn more about the ways that their ancestors had fought the Dark forces of Sauron, that Gondor may be fortified with knowledge as well as armed men against foes which could twist men’s minds and deaden their spirits, ‘ere ever facing them in battle.
It was in the white halls and green gardens of the House of Healing, redolent with the smells of herbs and occasionally with the less pleasant odors of the dying and the sick, that the young Lord Faramir had first learned to walk, talk, and manipulate those in power over him into doing as he willed.
This latter lesson was probably not intentional, but being the youngest child in a family haunted by his mother’s sickness, and possessed of a prodigious intelligence that Gandalf the Gray once referred to as “catastrophic, in a less well intentioned soul,” it had come about somewhat naturally.
The lady Finduilas felt better on days her sons were with her. With Boromir starting military training at the young age of 8, Faramir, at age 3, appointed himself his mother’s near constant companion. Therefore Faramir, by age five, knew thirteen different ways to go from the nursery in the Steward’s quarters of the citadel to the Houses of Healing without being observed. The schedule of Healers and wisewomen caring for the ailing Lady of Gondor had been carefully memorized by both of her sons. Oddly, those healers who were unwilling to permit the unplanned company of Boromir and Faramir usually left after a very short period of time, claiming that “ghosts” were tormenting them. It had actually become easier for Faramir to see his mother after Boromir started military training, for Faramir alone was less likely to be missed. Denethor had frequently come into the nursery or schoolroom to look for Boromir, but hardly ever sought out his second son. Faramir had yet to start formal school lessons, his nurse had long since given up keeping track of her fey charge, and, as a small child, he had no other duties to claim his time.
Faramir had learned, at this early age, that one must not be too picky in acquiring allies. Just because a certain healer always had an unpleasant expression on his face, or because a certain janitor always smelled unpleasant, didn’t mean they might not be willing accomplices to two young boys who wanted to spend time with their sick mother. The frowning healer- who, it turned out, was simply always worried about his patients – was quite willing to mislead the Lord Denethor as to where and when his boys had been present, provided that those boys did nothing to set back their mother’s recovery. The janitor who always smelled of astringent cleaners was perfectly willing to lend said boys whatever supplies they needed to convince their victims that malignant spirits meant them ill.
After his mother died, Faramir for many years avoided the Houses of Healing, save on those few occasions where his brother Boromir ended up there. When Faramir joined the Ithilien rangers, he made it a practice, as his duties permitted, to visit any of his fellows who ended up in the Houses of Healing, as he recalled what a difference visitors had made to his mother. Seeing the care and compassion with which his men were treated, Faramir convinced Boromir, and some of their allies on the council, to direct more of the city’s resources to the Healers, so that more of Gondor’s injured soldiers might be returned to the ranks of healthy fighters with little delay. That, or re-trained to other occupations, so that they might be able to continue to support themselves in another manner, had they lost the will or the ability to continue to fight.
Still, Faramir preferred not to linger beyond duty visits at the House of Healing. This stay, his longest since he was five, had been different. The overwhelming malignancy of Sauron’s presence was gone, the threat of Mordor all but vanished for the first time in anyone’s memory. More, the King would soon return to Gondor, and Faramir had fallen in love with the most beautiful and wonderful woman in Middle Earth, who, miracle of miracles, loved him too. It only made sense to linger and have breakfast with her on the day of his release, although Faramir smiled at the irony of his actually voluntarily staying at the Houses of healing longer than forced to. The Warden, probably seized by the same irony, offered the Slayer of the Witch King his welcome to stay as long as she wished, should she continue to have a calming effect on one of their most difficult patients.
“You, my lord Faramir?” Éowyn exclaimed, smiling a little in surprise.
“Aye, dear Lady, to my shame.” Faramir admitted. “These good Healers oft despair of me. I am afraid I cannot, generally, abide being still once I begin to feel better.”
The Warden patted the young Lord Steward on the shoulder. “You’re a good boy, Faramir …er, my Lord, but you’re a terrible patient.” The Warden smiled ruefully at the young Captain, who, like most Númenoreans, healed quickly. Since his brother Boromir had died, the younger son of Denethor had refused to stay in the House of Healing once he could walk out under his own power and rejoin his unit. “At least,” the Warden thought in amusement, “until the King bade him stay, and left him the White Rose of Rohan for company!”
Faramir shook his head. “Please, Warden Del, do continue to call me by name, unless we’re in an official situation. You’ve known me for far too long for such formality.”
“As you wish, Lord Faramir.” The Warden conceded, smiling fondly at the young Steward. The Warden Del, as a young healer, had been one of the child Faramir’s allies in his secret comings and goings to the Houses of Healing to visit the Lady Finduilas. He knew the young Lord of old, and knew better than to expect him to stay where he had been bid, barring extraordinary circumstances.
Éowyn, who had heard something of Faramir’s childhood, knew not to inquire further as to how the Warden and her beloved had come to know one another. Instead, she asked the young Steward to please join her for dinner that night if he could, and exulted in the delight her request brought to his dear face.
“You will be staying here, then?” Faramir inquired gently of his intended bride. “You are quite welcome at the Citadel, there are rooms set aside for visiting dignitaries…”
“Actually,” Éowyn replied, looking to the Warden, “Now that I am recovered I would like to help others who have been hurt in the war. Provided that your healers could use my help, of course.”
The Warden looked somewhat taken aback. It was not normal for ladies of the city of Gondor to do more for the Houses of Healing than raising money or occasionally rolling bandages, except, of course, during this last battle when all of the normal rules of society had fallen by the wayside. However, the Lady Éowyn could be an asset, as the wounded arrived from the siege of Mordor. She was physically a sturdy, though slender, lass, now that she had mostly recovered from her injuries. More, she had shown herself to have a strong stomach and a soothing way about her when accompanying Lord Faramir on his visits to their wounded comrades. The Warden considered that, when comforting the terribly wounded, or assisting a healer or wisewoman with a procedure, during her stay the last few days, the Lady Éowyn had never faltered. Lastly, the Lady planned to marry the Steward of Gondor, and Faramir was not the type of husband to care whether his wife was doing a job which “wasn’t fit for a lady,” provided that she found it fulfilling. He was too much his mother’s son for that nonsense. Nodding after a moment, the Warden gratefully accepted the Princess Éowyn’s offer of assistance, soothing himself that he was also guaranteeing the continued visits of Faramir, who could be examined on a regular basis for signs of working too hard and jeopardizing his recovery.
“What about you, Squire Merry?” inquired Faramir. “Shall you stay to keep the lady Éowyn company, or would you like to join those Riders of the Mark who have recovered from their wounds, and are supplementing the number of the city’s remaining guards?”
“Hunh.” Commented Merry, pondering where his duty lay. “My lady, could you use my assistance?”
Hiding a smile, for Éowyn could tell the brave hobbit wished to be out and about after having been cooped up in the Houses of Healing for a ten-day, Éowyn demurred “No, dear Merry. I shall be fine. Healer Engle and Wisewoman Ioreth have offered to have me accompany them on their rounds today, and the House is well supplied with guards.”
“And will continue to be so, despite my departure.” Faramir commented with some asperity, for he had discovered only the previous day that part of the reason for the entire guard patrol of twenty men at the Houses of Healing was the protection of the recovering Steward. Faramir had spoken politely and softly, as was his wont, but the contingent had been permanently reassigned to the Houses of Healing. There they would stay at least until after the King’s coronation, despite the Guard Captain’s and the Keeper of the Keys Hurin’s strenuous objections.
“Say, Merry,” offered the Lord Faramir “Would you like to join me for the morning? I am meeting with the senior Rider of the Mark early this afternoon, to go over guard schedules for the next few days and the King’s arrival and coronation. You could rejoin him then.”
Merry smiled. “That sounds fine, Faramir. If it doesn’t bother you, I’d be very interested to see how one goes about running an entire human city.”
Faramir laughed. “So would I, friend Merry. I suppose we’ll figure it out together.”
Warden Del assured the hobbit that he, too, would be welcome to return to the Houses of Healing for dinner and to sleep, so that he might spend more time with Frodo and Samwise.
Their breakfast was then interrupted by another visitor, not Faramir’s regent during his incapacity, the Lord Húrin (who had been half-expected, despite his agreement that the Lord Faramir could make his own way to the Citadel), but instead a dark haired, dark eyed woman, announced only as Mistress Nessanie of the Lower City. To Éowyn’s surprise, Faramir smiled and rose to greet this visitor eagerly. The Princess of Rohan was not jealous, for the mental and emotional intimacy she had formed with the Steward of Gondor precluded any doubt as to the fidelity of his regard for her. However, Éowyn was intensely interested in this Mistress Nessanie, for she wanted to know everything about Faramir, including who were his friends.
“Ness!” Faramir said, taking the woman by both hands, and looking at her carefully, as friends were wont to do upon meeting in these days when so many had lost so much. “How do you fare? And Tavan?”
Nessanie, called Nessa, smiled in response. “We fare well, my Lord, and my heart is lighter that you seem well on the road to recovery yourself. Tavan and I were so worried when the whole city thought you were dead.”
“Princess Éowyn, Warden Del, Squire Meriadoc” Faramir introduced, recalling his manners, “This is my friend – and business manager- Mistress Nessanie, daughter of Saelas.” Looking to Éowyn especially, Faramir added “Nessa was a good friend to my brother Boromir, as well.”
Picking up on the subtext, Éowyn realized this woman had probably been Faramir’s dear brother’s lover. Knowing that, and having watched Faramir in action these past few days, Éowyn guessed that the appointment as business manager, while probably not undeserved, had likely been another instance of her husband-to-be matching the skills of those for whom he felt affection with jobs which needed to be done.
Warden Del, for his part, shook his head. “My apologies, Mistress Nessa – had I known you were a friend of Lord Faramir’s as well as his business manager, I would have permitted you to visit him days ago. As it was, I have had to let Lord Húrin disturb my Lord’s rest several times a day, and I did not want to add more disruptions to his recovery.”
“It is no worry, Sir Healer.” The elegant brunette assured. “Lord Faramir is ever wont to do more than his share, no matter the state of his health. I am glad that those who guard his recovery do so assiduously.”
Faramir, smiling at the Warden in mingled affection and annoyance, soon turned to his business manager and asked “How fare the lower levels of the city? “
Éowyn, who had been present during several of Hurin’s debriefings with Faramir, at first wondered why he was asking the same question of Nessa.
Nessa grinned tolerantly at the Steward. “Well, the refugees are overflowing the spaces allotted to them, but you already knew that, since you ordered Húrin to make room for them in the soldiers’ barracks. Incidentally, what are you planning to do when the army gets back?”
Faramir waved a hand. “The soldiers of Gondor’s army are accustomed to living off the land. They’ll be fine with tents in front of the city for a week or so while we get something else figured out. Its harder for the refugees, what with grandparents and small children. What about..”
“The merchants are doing just fine, mostly.” Nessa replied before Faramir had finished his question, smiling more broadly when he gestured for her to continue. “So many refugees means there is always someone to buy their goods. But those who mainly sell outside Minas Tirith are hurting, as trade has been badly disrupted.”
Faramir nodded, then proceeded to ask Nessa a number of detailed questions about different people in the city. Éowyn quickly lost track of who was who, but she did understand why Faramir would want a briefing from Nessa after his daily consults with Hurin. Nessa knew different things about the city than its official regent, and didn’t feel the need to hide any of the problems from her old friend the new Steward.
Glancing at the sun, Faramir winced. “Ladies, Warden, I must beg your pardon. If I do not leave soon, I will be late to meet with Hurin, and then he really will send the guard after me.
Nessa chuckled.. “Take care, Faramir. And listen to the poor healers’ discharge instructions this time, or there will be no fruit pie for you, the next time you stop by.”
Faramir grinned. “I’ll behave, Ness.” He assured.
The Warden excused himself to oversee the Steward’s departure. Faramir collected Merry, and turned with obvious regret to bid Éowyn farewell. “Until tonight, my Lady.” Faramir kissed her hand respectfully, his eyes intent.
The White Lady’s eyes followed the Steward until he disappeared from the Garden, then she invited Nessa to stay for a cup of tea, which the dark haired woman readily accepted.
“Faramir asked me in his letters to tell you anything you want to know about his business dealings and his holdings, my Lady.” Nessa explained to Éowyn in a friendly manner. “He is obviously quite taken with you.”
Éowyn smiled softly, amazed to be so content, having known little of such during her life. “We mean to be married as soon as possible, though it may be some months, even a year. My younger brother is now King of Rohan,” the Lady broke off, her uncle’s death still causing her grief..
“I am sorry, my Lady.” Nessa consoled. “You and the Riders of Rohan have all of Gondor’s thanks for your brave rescue of Minas Tirith, but I know it was bought at a dear price indeed.”
Éowyn blinked tears away. “I thank you, Mistress. But please, call me Éowyn, and I shall call you Nessa, for if you call my Lord by name, then we should be friends as well.”
Nessa nodded. “I would like that, Éowyn.” Nessa poured herself a cup of tea, and one for the still-quiet White Lady, then began to explain with a humorous gleam in her eyes. “Your husband-to-be has a good instinct for which businessmen are honest, Lady Éowyn, and for which enterprises will prosper, but no head for numbers, I’m afraid.”
“It is well he has found you to aid him, then.” Éowyn replied, and the two spoke of Faramir’s various accounts and holdings within the city, and in Ithilien and Dol Amroth, for a short time. Then Éowyn could not contain her curiosity any longer “How did you first meet Faramir, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“I met him through his brother.” Nessa explained with a sad smile. “To befriend one of the sons of Denethor is to befriend them both, or was, rather.”
“I am sorry for your loss as well, then.” Éowyn offered. “I remember Lord Boromir a little from when he visited Rohan. I was but a child, however he seemed a wonderful man and a courageous soldier, and I know he was very dear to Faramir.”
Nessa took a deep breath. “Boromir was all of that. When I met him, he was barely a Captain, and Faramir only a scape-grace Lieutenant. They grew into wonderful men.” Nessa looked at Éowyn carefully, weighing her, and then spoke further. “About Faramir, Éowyn…you should know that, other than his brother, he has never had anyone to take his side, first and foremost.”
“I had realized some of that.” Éowyn spoke softly. “I assure you, he does now.”
Nessa smiled. “Welcome, then, Éowyn, to Minas Tirith, and welcome to the circle of Faramir’s friends.” Smile turning into an irreverent grin, Nessa expanded, “the few, the brave, the patient.”
Éowyn grinned back. “I thank you. As a friend of Faramir’s, and a woman of Minas Tirith, is there anything you can tell me about what other pies my Lord has his fingers in? If I’m to help him, I must know more of what he does in a day.”
Laughing, Nessa inquired. “All of what Faramir does in a day? Oh my…how much time do you have? Before he even left today, he had sent me several messages, asking for this or that information. That’s not even including the reams of messages he has sent me over the last eight days, asking for special foods and books to tempt the Ringbearers in their recovery, and a recommendation for a Lady of the City to serve as our future Queen’s secretary and personal assistant.”
Éowyn, somewhat taken aback, asked “How did he get you so many messages, my Lady? I had thought the Warden was monitoring how much work my Lord was getting done in any given day…”
Nessa, with an air of frustrated patience, explained “Faramir can get almost anything almost anywhere, Éowyn. He has a secret way of going anywhere in the city and beyond, ‘twas I who had no means of getting in touch with him until today.”
Frowning worriedly, Éowyn asked Nessa, “Does my Lord often disregard the instructions of healers, and sicken again?”
Nessa, sympathy and amusement in her eyes, answered honestly. “Yea and Nay. Faramir often doesn’t listen, but being of a strong constitution, heals nonetheless. Faramir preferred to stay with his command at Ithilien, even if hurt. On those rare occasions when Faramir was so badly injured that his officers felt the need to bring him to the Houses of healing, before my Lord Boromir died, he would hasten to Minas Tiritrh to care for his younger brother. Boromir used to insist that Faramir stay here until the healers were relatively sure he would be fine recovering elsewhere. Then Brom would bring Fara to my house, and take all of his clothing but a night shirt, and stick him in my guest bedroom. Thus handled, Faramir would generally stay put, at least until he could convince one of my servants to risk my wrath and Boromir’s by bringing him clothes. Even then” Nessa’s eyes twinkled “Faramir would openly defy his brother on rare occasions indeed, for Boromir would not hesitate to register his concern by spanking his younger brother soundly for worrying him, once Faramir was well enough.”
Éowyn smiled, somewhat taken aback by how very much her beloved did not like to be still, even when healing, but delighted beyond measure to have found this woman who had almost an older sister’s perspective on Faramir. “Oh my.” The lady of Rohan said. “I see I have my work cut out for me. Perhaps I shall put a sleeping draft in my Lord’s wine tonight.”
“It might be for the best.” Nessa agreed sagely.
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.
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.”
Title: Beginnings & Endings Chapter 3: The Steward’s Fierce Lady
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours: Story: Beginnings & Endings
Feedback: Please use the form below
Warning: AU
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Summary: Éowyn and Faramir have dinner together after his first day acting as Steward outside of the House of Healing.
Beta: Thanks to Beth for reading over earlier versions for me, and whose suggestion regarding Chapter 3 I am finally following, albeit well over a year late. Thanks also to everyone who has let me know that they like B&E, and encouraged me to go back to it.
A/N: Please note that the eagles bringing the ringbearers to Minas Tirith instead of to the army is a deviation from canon. For plot reasons that will become apparent, I needed the ringbearers in Minas Tirith. I am hoping to update this story more frequently, now that I have excised the difficult chapter into a different planned story (“The Road to Barad-Dur and Back”), as well as decided that since this was really the story I wanted to write, I’ll go ahead and focus on it and get the other prequels and stories fleshing-out supporting characters done as I can. This chapter is mostly Éowyn POV, which I did not expect. But that’s Éowyn for you.
Chapter 3 – The Steward’s Fierce Lady
“And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.” – Anais Nin
Every man’s life (and … every woman’s life), awaits the hour of blossoming that makes it immortal … love is a divinity above all accidents, and guards his own with extraordinary obstinacy. – Eleanor Farjeon
Éowyn of Rohan paused in a garden of the House of Healing, a smile on her pale face as she luxuriated in the feeling of the sun upon her skin with a smile on her face. A gentle breeze tugged playfully at Éowyn’s white-gold braid and her dun-colored skirts, and the clean, fragrant scent of the herbs in her collection basket relaxed her.
It was pleasant to have a moment to herself. Éowyn had been busily and contentedly occupied for most of the day. Learning the routines of the House as a student of healing, rather than a patient had been interesting, to say the least. Even fulfilling. Éowyn was an attentive student, when she cared to exert herself, but now her mind felt stretched. In a good way, like her body felt after a practice match during which she had comported herself well with a blade. But still, this errand in the garden was welcome, away from the needs of patients, and the eyes of the curious.
Oh, the healers had all been kind to Éowyn, and quite willing to help her expand her skills beyond those of a competent battle-field medic. Nor had any one else been unwelcoming. In fact, those patients and citizens who had recognized Éowyn had been alternatively grateful and…almost awed. It was not a reaction to which Éowyn was accustomed, and she did not think that she cared for it, for several reasons. On a practical level, people in awe were not the best at thinking clearly or answering questions, and Éowyn found such dithering quite irritating.
On a more personal level…the people of Gondor knew and respected Éowyn, only for slaying the Witch-King. But that had been merely one moment in time. A duel that had lasted only minutes, such an incalculably small fraction of Éowyn’s twenty-five years of life. True, there had been other moments leading up to that…thousands of hours of practice, learning to match blades against a larger opponent and live. Years of frustration. And years of fighting an even more invidious darkness, with weapons that not were not Éowyn’s best.
She took a deep breath, and lifted her face again to the cleansing sun and wind. Éowyn’s smile widened, as she felt a familiar presence approach from the direction of the House.
“You said that you would be back for supper,” Éowyn told her betrothed, turning to behold him with her cornflower blue eyes, “But I did not know that you would be able.” She had to catch her breath again at how handsome he was, yet she could also see how much more fatigued he seemed just since earlier this morning. Oh, he still stood tall, his fine features etched with focus, and his gray eyes ablaze with affection for her. But Faramir seemed worn, like the elegant sheath on Éowyn’s uncle Théoden’s favorite sword.
“My Lady,” Faramir said in greeting, and in his eyes Éowyn saw herself to be the most beautiful of all the flowers in the garden, “I will tell you that it was not easy,” Faramir confessed, his mouth widening into an unaccustomed smile as he added, “But it is a matter of priorities.” And Éowyn was one of Faramir’s very highest priorities.
The two exchanged a smile, grateful and relieved to find themselves still on the same wave-length despite their first day spent apart. Faramir offered her his arm, and Éowyn took it without demur. If they walked perfectly in tandem, no one could tell that today it was her lending Faramir her strength, rather than her leaning on him.
As they walked back into House of Healing, Faramir leaned down to whisper, his breath warm in Éowyn’s ear, “I had expected to see you in the robes of student healer by now, meleth-nin.”
Despite the seriousness of the topic, Éowyn’s heart beat faster just at Faramir’s touch and tone, and her heart soared at how well he listened to her hopes and dreams. “I will learn gladly from them, but I cannot take their oath.” Éowyn explained quietly.
Faramir nodded after a moment, his attention still intently focused on her. “The part about never seeking to cause harm? That has been an issue, for a number of battle-field healers, including Del himself when he served my father, Lord Denethor.”
“Aye, that part.” Éowyn agreed. “I’ve lost many family to orcs and bandits, including my own father. Even in times of peace, which you and I have never known, there are those who will seek to gain unfairly by force of arms. I do not wish to fight; but I cannot swear to never cause harm.” Éowyn paused, reflecting that a lifetime spent in her Uncle’s court of Rohan, where every year they had heard reports of not just riders slain by the Enemy’s creatures, but women and children also, had made of her a guarded, cautious shieldmaiden. Now she was to be the wife of a man who had been a soldier his whole adult life. Faramir’s role in this new era would almost certainly require a sword in his hand. She meant to be often by his side, and perforce, a sword in her hand as well. So, when Healer Del had told Éowyn of the Healer’s oath earlier that day, which precluded the bearing of arms and the intending to wield them, even in defense, Éowyn had decided that while she would learn all she could of healing, she would never take that oath, never be a Healer proper. Being a soldier who healed was good enough for Aragorn, and for the half-elven sons of Lord Elrond Peredhel. It would have to be good enough for Éowyn as well. “There are some that need killing.” Éowyn concluded in a dark voice.
“It is just as well,” Faramir told her quietly, his arm tightening around Éowyn, as he pulled her closer to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. It was not a passionate gesture; rather one of comfort, affection, reassurance. Faramir had known how important to Éowyn it was to set a new course for herself, one less focused on renewal instead of fighting. He understood that she felt her inability to swear to this new way of life as a fault, that she feared the darkness within herself that saw no solution to some conflicts save sword and death.
“To be honest,” Faramir continued, holding Éowyn close enough that she could feel each quiet word as he rumbled through his chest, “I prefer you well able to defend yourself. As a man of Gondor, it would be proper of me to promise you that you shall never have to fight again. That instead, I and mine will protect you from everything that might threaten your safety. And indeed, that would be my hope, to never see you at risk. But I prefer to plan for all eventualities, and given the unexpected dangers that life in a still-wild land like Ithilien can pose, the prospect of a wife who can best me at swordplay reassures me rather than intimidates me.”
Éowyn fluttered her eyelashes, flattered, though honesty compelled her to admit, “I think my Lord too modest.”
Faramir grinned at her, an honest, open expression that Éowyn found particularly endearing, and one that she hoped she might inspire in him quite frequently.
“When we have time, and not so many tasks pressing upon us, we will have to see, my Lady.“Faramir answered her, his smile melting into a serious expression as he added, “In the meantime, I will have one of my staff make a note for the future King that he ought ask the guild of healers to reconsider what oaths they require of their members. We do send soldiers to guard our healers when they venture through dangerous parts of the kingdom, but I have never seen the point in requiring healers to swear not to defend themselves.”
Éowyn smiled back at Faramir brilliantly, and tried not to mind as three or four petitioners claimed his attention before dinner. After all, she and the Steward did get to eat supper together, in company with Frodo, Samwise, and the ebullient Meriadoc, who had brought along with him several of the Rohirrim known to Éowyn. She was particularly glad to see Swidhund, a rider and horse-trainer who had long ago put Éowyn astride her first horse, and who had never looked askance at his King’s niece training to be a shieldmaiden. But it was still a shock to see Swidhund without his best friend, Harding, who had died during the Battle of the Pelennor. Just as it was a shock for Éowyn to see her young cousin-by-marriage Barden, without his blood-brother Guthlaf at his side. Guthlaf had been her uncle Théoden’s standard bearer, and he had fallen defending the King before Éowyn could work her way to his side.
Barden was also prone to taking offense to Faramir’s affectionate gestures towards Éowyn, even those as innocent as the Steward’s occasionally reaching out to clasp the White Lady’s hand. Faramir politely ignored the behavior, but it made Éowyn want to slap Barden. She’d settled for pulling him aside several days ago, and telling him to stop acting like a boor around her betrothed Lord, or else.
“Éowyn, he kissed you, on the battlements, in front of everyone! As if he were a randy stableboy, and you naught more a common scullery-maid! It was undignified, and besides, when Éomer hears…” Barden had protested hotly.
At that point, Éowyn had seized Barden’s hand, and twisted it behind his back. When Barden squeaked with pain and tried to dislodge her, she’d knocked him down to the ground, and used a nearby gardening hoe to keep him down as she explained, slowly and using small words which she thought even a hot-headed young rider should be able to comprehend, “That is my business, cousin, and not yours. You will cease to glower and mutter in Lord Faramir’s presence, or else I will tell Éomer when he returns that it was you who vomited in his saddle bags five years ago, and that Théodred only took the blame because he felt guilty for getting you so drunk.”
“Eep,” said Barden, but after that he did stop glowering and whispering darkly when he and the Steward of Gondor were in the same room. Mostly.
So it was a cheerful group which gathered together for dinner, even if Steward and Lady were both more tired at the end of the day than they had been in the morning. Only one issue truly troubled them, and that was the ringbearer’s wan face, and his still fragile state.
Healers came and went, including Warden Del himself, who sighed and clucked at Faramir, until Frodo’s growing paleness drew the entirety of his attention.
“Frodo is not recovering as he should,” Éowyn murmured softly to Faramir, “It has even the most senior of the healers baffled, and greatly concerned.”
“Frodo Baggins is a hero even amongst the greatest hero of this last war,” Faramir replied, grave worry in his quiet tone, “For the wisdom of Gondor’s medicine to fail to heal him now, after everything, would be worse than a tragedy.”
Éowyn nodded, her lips pressed carefully together. Being a hero didn’t guarantee that you would come home from the battle. Théodred’s death had proven that to Éowyn. Then Théoden’s death at the Witch-King’s hands… the wraith of Angmar had needed killing, and Éowyn did not regret that she and Merry had been his fate. But nor did it bring her loved ones back from the dead. That Frodo, after all of his sacrifices, might survive their victory by weeks, was so desperately sad. “Lord Aragorn,” Éowyn remarked quietly, “He and the sons of Elrond Half-Elven saved many besides us, the night after the Battle of the Pelennor ended. It may be that he can help, when he returns. “
A quick glance between Éowyn and Faramir ensued, and then Faramir’s thoughtful gray eyes widened. “You think that the King’s return with the army may come too late.” He observed softly.
“Most see Frodo fading and cling to hope of improvement, saying that hobbits may heal differently. Warden Del is silent. But Healer Olidhor has said that he fears the army may return only in time to watch helplessly as Frodo dies.” Éowyn confessed.
Faramir blinked, “Isn’t Healer Olidhor an animal-healer?” He asked, taken aback.
Éowyn nodded, not seeing the point. In Rohan, horses and men were often stitched up by the same healers. But because that might be different in Gondor, Éowyn expanded, “Olidhor has actually spoken in depth with Sam and Meriadoc, as well as Frodo, whereas the other healers seem to be working off of old scrolls which describe hobbits as ‘semi-mythical creatures,’ while trusting Frodo’s protestations that he’s ‘feeling much better, thank you.’”
Sighing, Faramir confessed with a worried, incredulous smile, “I wish that I had foreseen two eagles coming out of the sky and bringing us hero halflings in need of healing. If I had, I’d never have ordered so many of our best-traveled healers to go with the King’s army.”
“I don’t know as anyone could have foreseen that one.” Éowyn murmured with sympathy, remembering the mix of shock and relief that had pervaded the House of Healing when the eagles delivered their precious burden.
At that point, Meriadoc leaned forward to ask Faramir a question about sanitation, and one of the Rohirrim asked Éowyn to assist him with writing a message to his sweetheart. Faramir and Éowyn had arranged for some of the refugees in Minas Tirith who were literate and capable of riding long distances to join the messenger relay which had been established between the White City and Edoras in Rohan, after the battle. Éowyn was intent on her task, but she still overheard Faramir send away one of his guards, with the curious command that the fellow loudly discuss the healers’ concerns about the ringbearer’s health in front of the temporary quarters belonging to the Northern Ranger Ethiron.
After dinner, Warden Del insisted that Frodo return to his rooms and rest. Samwise, of course, would not leave Frodo. Since the spring night was pleasant, the rest of the party retired to a garden. The hobbit Meriadoc and the Rohirrim shared stories of the recovering city. Éowyn half-listened to her country-man and her companion Merry, while curled on a bench beside Faramir. The young Steward sat in front of a camp table, speaking with one member or another of his staff or the Council of Gondor, concerning the herding of men and materiel to and fro. In between that work, Faramir pored over documents and scrolls by the light of lamps, moon, and stars. Éowyn herself read from a scroll on recovery from traumatic injury, pleasantly aware of the moments when Faramir paused in his work to give her affectionate glances, or murmur some information about his country that Éowyn would soon call home.
The pleasant conviviality was interrupted by the arrival of a very angry older man, white of hair and stern of face. His cheeks were darkly flushed, almost the same shade as his robes of magenta velvet. A dozen or so other men followed him, some also clad elegantly, others in armor, and some in the simple cotton clothing and leather aprons of tradesmen.
“You must do something, my Lord Steward! A boy just came running into my house and stole my silver!” The angry man protested, slamming the palms of his hands down on the flimsy camp table before Faramir. Éowyn’s future husband did not even flinch, although it was clear that this petitioner had his full attention. But no more so than any other who had approached him, this evening.
Faramir’s guard stood at attention, clearly torn between protecting his Steward and reluctance to lay hands on the finely dressed man, whom both he and Faramir seemed to recognize, although Éowyn did not.
“Master Burgold,” Faramir replied with a calm, tired sigh, “I am sorry to hear of the loss of your property. The city guard is stretched rather thin right now, as I am sure that you understand, since you were present at today’s council meeting.”
Éowyn recalled hearing of Master Burgold. Specifically, that he was the leader of the powerful commodities guild, the association of buyers of food-stuffs and prosperous farmers who did not rent their lands from Gondor’s feudal lords. Burgold was a formidable force amongst Gondor’s rising merchant class, and had held his position since some years prior to Faramir’s birth. Or so Éowyn had learned from Faramir’s friend and funds-manager, Nessanie Saelasiel.
“What USE is there in your ordering Gondor to put bread in the mouths of the poor, if they’re busy helping themselves to their betters’ valuables!” Burgold boomed furiously in reply.
Éowyn didn’t say anything, but she watched as intently as a cat. Intently enough to notice as Faramir’s gray eyes flickered almost imperceptibly towards a soberly dressed middle-aged man in the middle of the crowd, one who stood with a soldier’s straightness. The man nodded back, and then Faramir stood and said firmly, “I understand the concern. While I cannot order the city guard to be redeployed when they are already working double shifts, looting is a scourge upon our wounded city. Do any of you have a suggestion?”
Master Burgold’s jaw dropped wide open, as a stir worked its way through the crowd. Éowyn heard someone whisper that Faramir would be an easy ruler to maneuver around, as Denethor would never have permitted this type of insubordination. Another man murmured that it was a pity Faramir intended to turn over the white staff to a Northern barbarian, since the new Steward was already proving himself a better listener than his father had been.
It was the tall, spare fellow whom Faramir had silently addressed, who first spoke up, “We’ve still got the list of pensioned-off soldiers and trained volunteers from the fire and pitch lines,” he began, referring to the citizens who had bolstered Minas Tirith’s defenses during the siege, trying to minimize the damage from the Enemy’s barrage, while deterring assaults on the city walls, “Most of that lot are still in the city. And there are probably more retirees and folk they’ll vouch for as regular militia volunteers, amongst the refugees.”
“Homeless flotsam and jetsam,” Master Burgold sneered. Faramir ignored him, instead answering the man who had made the suggestion, whom Éowyn was beginning to suspect might have been planted in Burgold’s retinue by Faramir, or perhaps Boromir or Denethor, if the appointment had been of longstanding.
“A good thought, Merchant Salabros.” Faramir praised, “Make it so.” Enough of the men of the city guard who had been seconded to the House of Healing had gathered in the garden, clearly giving their support to their Lord Steward and his chosen delegate. Master Burgold, recognizing that he’d lost whatever contest of wills he’d chosen to initiate, scowled, but followed Merchant Salabros from the garden willingly enough.
“The politics of Gondor,” Éowyn commented lightly when the group was out of earshot, “seem to have more in common with the politics of Rohan than I ever would have expected.”
Faramir laughed, his white teeth flashing in the semi-darkness, while Swidhund made a joke about how a young Lord Eomund, Éowyn’s father, had once tricked a boyhood enemy into escorting valuable wagons of manure to grain fields a week’s ride from Edoras.
“Impressive,” Faramir commented, his gray eyes dancing, “May I ask how Théoden-King managed that feat?” Then someone else needed Faramir’s attention, some matter of recovered horses to be apportioned amongst the guard. Faramir murmured a quiet apology to Swidhund, and returned to his duties.
Éowyn turned back to her reading. Her fingertips lightly tapped Faramir’s good arm, as she visualized the wounds that the scroll described, and how a healer would prioritize their treatment. The stream of petitioners somehow finding their way to Faramir slowed, and Éowyn was considering seeking her bed. She would have surrendered to slumber hours ago, were it not for her even stronger desire to spend time with Faramir. As the night grew later, and the visitors fewer and less official, Faramir’s arm slipped around Éowyn’s shoulders, and she put her head on his good shoulder with a soft sigh. Rider Barden, across the garden, gave them a glare, but Éowyn ignored it. Everywhere that Faramir’s body touched hers, Éowyn felt as if she were warmed by summer sunlight on a snowy winter’s day. As if his very fingers trailed light as he stroked her arm, a feeling that was at the same time soothing and exciting.
Before Éowyn could decide between sleep and Faramir, there was a commotion at the gates of the House of Healing. Injured men and women in foreign clothing were being carried in on litters through the doors, into the rooms set aside for urgent care. Without pausing to think, Éowyn was moving to assist, and Faramir as well. Her beloved was not a healer, nor was Éowyn yet, but both had steady hands and strong stomachs. And both were well practiced at triaging wounds inflicted by orcs.
Soon enough, the most sorely wounded patients had been seen to, and Éowyn looked up to hear Faramir speaking softly but intently with Lord Húrin and Helegair, the acting Captain of Minas Tirith’s city guard.
“We have patrols guarding the roads and scouring the surrounding countryside in sweeps, and have since the battle.” Captain Helegair assured Faramir, “It’s just that they can’t be everywhere, I don’t have enough men for that and garrisoning the city.”
“The orcs and the defeated men of the Enemy are more desperate for having lost their master.” Lord Húrin added solemnly, “Their numbers have steadily increased as the army makes it way back. They flee before our host like rabbits before a fire, for they know that when our army returns, their chances of survival are very slim.”
“What if we were to send someone with each patrol who has a sense for the yrch, for the foulness that clings to them albeit their master’s defeat?” Faramir asked, his right hand tapping idly on his bow as he spoke.
“Such men are few and far between, my Lord, and we sent most of them with the army.” Captain Helegair pointed out with a sigh.
“I am one.” Faramir reminded them levelly, “I am here, and am well enough to ride with another patrol, and point them to where the land itself most hates the creatures which walk upon it.”
Lord Húrin winced, and Captain Helegair immediately protested, “My Lord, that is very brave and noble of you, but we do not have another patrol planned for this night. I mislike the idea of sending soldiers so far afield at night, let alone yourself. After all, we don’t know where the enemies are, or what their numbers are.”
“Sensible of you,” Faramir observed fairly, “However, my understanding is that we still have not only refugees but also dignitaries on the road tonight, given the full moon.”
“That is the case.” Lord Húrin reluctantly.
“How many men can be released from the city guard, given that Captain Salabros is reorganizing his volunteers to take over some of the city patrols?” Faramir inquired intently.
“Salabros has been retired for a decade!” Helegair protested.
Faramir didn’t reply, he just waited. After a few moments time, Helegair supplied with a sigh, “Enough for at least half a company, my Lord.”
“Faramir, I really don’t think that’s really necessary,” Lord Húrin protested, “Those who travel at night, whether they be allies or citizens, ought to know that they are courting grave danger by doing so, in such unsettled times.”
Éowyn could tell that Faramir clearly didn’t agree, an impression that he quickly bore out by objecting, “Hurin, if we are not fit to defend travelers into this city, that is not only to our shame, but truly unacceptable. For what do we even have an army, if not to protect people who have been displaced by war and are coming to the White City for safety? Besides that, the King will be arriving in the next few days, and others of his allies may arrive in between then. The ways into the city must be kept safe, ‘lest we risk losing a valued ally and causing a diplomatic incident.”
Éowyn, sensing that the moment was ripe to reinforce Faramir’s authority, leaned toward him and stated loudly and firmly. “My lord, I had thought to never take up arms again, but here and now I promise to you, my sword arm is yours, tonight and always, should you have need of it.” Éowyn’s offer shamed Hurin, and guard Captain Helegair, into agreeing that patrols another patrol that night was needed. More importantly to Éowyn, it brought a light to Faramir’s eyes, and a carefully concealed smile to his lips. As she had intended, the offer showed Faramir again that he need never fight any battle alone, for Éowyn would always have his back.
Warden Del sighed resignedly, “You will return to the House after your little field trip, will you not, Fara… er, my Lord? So that we can check to make sure that you haven’t…”
“Yes, yes.” Faramir hastily reassured the chief healer. Probably, Éowyn surmised, not wanting to have him again air Faramir’s less than battle-ready state to all present. Éowyn was sympathetic to that, as she herself had little liking for displaying weakness before anyone, even close family. But still, she worried over her new trothed lord. He was left-handed, and she knew that his left shoulder was still healing. Besides, she had yet to see Faramir do anything more strenuous than lift a dinner plate with his left arm.
Swidhund, at least, knew Éowyn well enough to read the worry. “We of Rohan who have healed since the battle are somewhat at loose ends, my Lord.” He offered Faramir. “I will send down to our lodgings, and see if any of the other men are as bored as Barden here, and would welcome a spot of orc-hunting.”
Barden actually grinned at Faramir, for the first time in their acquaintance. “You won’t regret taking us with you.” He promised the Steward.
“I am sure I will not.” Faramir replied, with a grateful smile.
As Helegair and Swidhund left to find and organize men, and Faramir spoke with Hurin, Barden whispered fiercely to Éowyn, “I swear to you, cousin, I will see to it that this man comes back to you alive and well, or die trying.”
Éowyn’s heart ached, for Barden had been one of the warriors to bear Théodred’s slain body back to Edoras. But this was a peace offering, as well an act of love and fealty, and Éowyn accepted it as such. “Thank you, Barden.” She whispered, her voice husky with emotion.
Then Faramir was preparing to take his leave, and Éowyn had to take her chance to address him, “My Lord? A moment, please?”
“Of course, my Lady.” Faramir answered, with a soft smile for Éowyn despite his evident desire to be about his self-appointed errand.
Left alone for a rare moment, Éowyn asked with quiet intensity, “Are you truly well enough for this, Faramir? If not, you could say that I persuaded you bide. There are others who have a feel for where orcs might be. Barden is one such, as I know are several of your own guards.”
Faramir did not take offense to such a question from Éowyn, as Éomer undoubtedly would have. Instead, he just put a gentle hand on her shoulder and explained, “It will be well, Éowyn. My right side is fine. I’m ambidextrous, and the lighter blade and smaller bow I carry do not pull intolerably on my left shoulder.”
Éowyn smiled slightly, trying to be reassured. “You can wield a sword or pull a bow with either hand. A neat trick, beloved.”
“A necessary one,” Faramir replied with a wry smile, “At least for a boy half the size of his academy classmates. And even at that, I still normally lost.”
Tilting her head, Éowyn made the reasonable guess, “But not, I think, when it was most important.”
With a rueful half-grin, Faramir agreed, “Well, I’m not dead yet. And if I thought that I’d die tonight, I would not go.”
Éowyn thought that much, at least, was probably true. Lord Húrin was a good man, but he had a hard time standing up to the most respected of Gondor’s Lords, many of whom were not convinced of Aragorn’s right to rule Gondor. If Faramir died, there could well be civil war in Gondor, or at the least a large-scale uprising in Minas Tirith or the southern fiefs. Éowyn knew that Faramir would not risk that possibility lightly.
A long moment passed, while Éowyn and Faramir gazed into one another’s eyes. Éowyn thought of how Théodred had not expected to die when he rode for the Fords of the Isen, nor Théoden either, when he led the Rohirrim to save Minas Tirith. Faramir took in a ragged breath, then they moved towards one another at the same time. Her arms flung carefully around him, and his tightened around her. The grip of Faramir’s right arm was a bit tighter than his left, but the left was still strong, so strong. Then he kissed her, or she kissed him, and the moment seemed both gloriously long and infinitely too short. Éowyn wished that he would leave her thusly more often, but not if it meant she might not see him again.
But then the soldiers of Gondor and the Rohirrim were ready. Faramir departed with them, and Éowyn was left behind to worry. But it was not so much of a burden when there were patients to see to. Warden Del did not remind the Witch-King slayer that she had been up since dawn and should perhaps be a-bed, and neither did anyone else. Perhaps they realized that she could not rest without seeing Faramir safely back, or perhaps they just needed her aid. Some of the injured who had been brought in that night grew worse, for no reason that Éowyn could tell. She had seen men much worse injured recover handily, though she recalled that sometimes those injured by orcs died, despite having suffered only minor wounds.
“Yrch wounds carry a… .a taint. Not quite the same foulness that attacked your ladyship, but of the same nature, just reduced.” Senior Healer Gailor explained to Éowyn, as they mixed medicines for poultices on the affected weapons.
“You can call me Éowyn.” Éowyn reminded him. “Will cleansing the wounds and dressing them again, help?”
“We never know.” Gaelor told her sadly, “Some heal, where others, less gravely injured, wither and die. We don’t know why, precisely. Folk with Númenorean blood are usually better off… the Ithilien rangers, as well, tend to heal, even from orc-poisoned wounds.” Gaelor adjusted the heat on the bowl that Éowyn was mixing, and then continued unhappily, “Still, we lose far too many. The Kings of old were said to have a way of combating it… as does Lord Aragorn, evidently, for the peace he brought to you, Lord Faramir, and Master Meriadoc, when you were afflicted by the black breath.”
“He does, “ Éowyn agreed. Although she could barely remember Aragorn healing her, she she recalled quite well his hands aiding others, after the siege of Helm’s Deep. He had driven himself to near exhaustion, before Legolas and the Wizard convinced him to rest. But no man whom Aragorn’s hands had touched, died of wounds which should not have meant his fate. “Why were there more survivors from Ithilien, do you know?” She asked.
Gaelor shrugged, “I do not know, my lady. But rangers seem to be hardy folk, whether they be of Ithilien or the North. And some of the old blood survives there, in Ithilien.”
Éowyn just nodded, but she would later note that of those similarly injured that night, the ones who were doing the best come morning’s first light had all been those whom Faramir had aided, however briefly. And, as the White Lady waited with Warden Del for Faramir’s return, Éowyn thought to herself that there was something of the same air about Faramir as about Aragorn.
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
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.
Gfic: Beginnings & Endings Chapter 4: The Warrior Steward and Meriadoc the Brave: Part 2
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours: Story: Beginnings & Endings (Chapter 1 is 24130; Chapter 2 is 24342; Chapter 3 is 32459; Chapter 4 part 1 is 32637 ) (and thanks to Minnie for upkeeping the database so that I can find where previous chapters are posted).
Feedback: Please use the form below
Warning: AU.
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Beta: Thanks to Kaylee. Any remaining mistakes are mine.
Summary: Lord Steward Faramir find orcs, and trouble.
A/N: This part of Chapter 4 is gen; the next will probably include a discipline scene. You can guess who will be involved, if you like. I am really hoping that Chapter 4 will have only 3 parts.
Also, my most sincere gratitude and appreciation goes out to Firstar, Holly, Minnie, Beth and Rosemarie. It means so much to me that you all took the time to let me know that you like this chapter. I’m sorry that I don’t manage to say thank you more often.
Chapter 4 Part 2: The Warrior Steward and Meriadoc the Brave
“To Merry’s amazement, Dernhelm was revealed as Éowyn, the King’s niece. Pity filled his heart and great wonder, and suddenly the slow-kindled courage of his race awoke. He clenched his hand. She should not die, so fair, so desperate! At least she should not die alone, unaided.” – From “The Return of the King,” by J.R.R. Tolkien
‘I have a sword,’ said Merry, climbing from his seat, and drawing from its black sheath his small bright blade. Filled suddenly with love for this old man, he knelt on one knee, and took his hand and kissed it. ‘May I lay the sword of Meriadoc of the Shire on your lap, Théoden King?’ he cried. ‘Receive my service if you will!’
‘Gladly will I take it,’ said the king; and laying his long old hands upon the brown hair of the hobbit, he blessed him. ‘Rise now, Meriadoc, esquire of Rohan of the household of Meduseld!’ he said. ‘Take your sword and bear it unto good fortune!’
“He is bold, more bold than many deem; for in these days men are slow to believe a captain can be wise and learned in the scrolls of lore and song, as he is, and yet a man of hardihood and swift judgement in the field. But such is Faramir. Less reckless and eager than Boromir, but not less resolute.”
—Beregond on Faramir, from “The Return of the King,” by J.R.R. Tolkien
[Merry POV]
Merry kept on the alert as they rode from the city, but all he heard were normal night-time sounds. The wind whistling over the Pelennor, the roar of the Anduin, the singing of insects and the quieter sounds of other nocturnal animals. It could have been the Shire, but for Mount Mindolluin and the white specter of Minas Tirith which receded behind them. Well, that, and the odor of decaying bodies. The people of Minas Tirith had done their best to sort through the dead and give them due honor. Unfortunately, the slain on the battlefield outnumbered the survivors inside the city, and sorting through the fallen was still an ongoing process. It was an awful job. Faramir and Lord Húrin had left orders that no one who was about it could work on the plain for more than two days in a row, which Merry thought was probably wise. He couldn’t imagine how awful it would be to sort through bodies, some of them headless and practically unrecognizable, and suddenly realize that you held the corpse of your neighbor…or worse, your father or your brother.
Because that was less likely to happen to him here in Gondor, Merry had offered to join the party of Rohirrim taking a burial shift on the Pelennor.
“Not today, I think, Squire Meriadoc.” Captain Swidhund had told him after a surprised pause.
The riders who had been designated the unpleasant task left quickly, before Merry had the opportunity to protest. It wasn’t that the hobbit had any desire whatsoever to join in the grim, heart-rending task. But he did hate being thought of as someone who needed protection, merely for his small size.
“Although I’m impressed that you have the energy to offer your services for any task, after your riding lesson.” Swidhund noted, with a nod of approval, and a glint in his eyes that might almost have been teasing, were he a less serious man.
“Short of stature I may be, Captain Swidhund.” Merry returned with a ghost of his old insouciant grin, “But I’m not short of stamina, or spirit.”
“I don’t doubt that, but ‘tis your first day away from the healers, young Squire.” Swidhund reminded Merry with rough kindness, “I wouldn’t accept your offer today, even were you the size of Ogden.”
At the sound of his name, the sinewy, six-foot-plus Ogden gave them a wave and a toothy grin.
“That man is built like a mountain.” Merry observed with disbelieving good humor, letting go his feeling of insult from his services being declined.
“That he is.” Swidhund agreed, “But he’s not exactly quartermaster material.”
As Ogden was currently frowning over dice, after having lost to a nimble young street urchin three times in a row, Merry could believe that. He suppressed a smile, as Swidhund asked hopefully, “Perhaps you could help Ogden with drafting up lists of the supplies which we of the Eorlingas shall require on our way back to Rohan and Edoras. He seems to get, ah, easily distracted.”
With a faint smile, Merry offered, “I’ve only ever before provisioned a group of four, but I did a decent job of that.” And Ogden seemed to need the help.
After that, Merry had spent most of the rest of the afternoon helping the Rohirrim to organize themselves, in regards to determining which supplies they would need for their return to Rohan, and where they might obtain them. Merry didn’t know that much about how such things were done in Gondor, yet, but he had a knack for finding the things that he needed, whereever he was. He dearly missed Pippin, for many reasons, but at the moment because Pippin was a fine ally in bargaining scenarios. Ogden, on the other hand, just went out and told the merchants how much they needed and how much money they had, at least until Merry taught him better. Ogden was also illiterate, so Merry did all of the writing.
At the time, it had seemed like a tedious task, though a necessary one. Now, as they rode through the fields of the dead, riding through the swarms of flies and the stench of death, Merry wished that he was back in the market, teaching Ogden how to project how much dried meat a group the size of the Rohirrim would need to eat in a day.
To Merry’s relief, the patrol quickly swerved away from the city and the river. Merry could tell that they were heading in a south-westerly direction, but they avoided the South Road.
“The main roads have been better patrolled, and messengers have been coming back and forth with no incident. The same is true for the river. To the north, the constant stream of correspondence between Minas Tirith and the returning army has scared off most of the surviving orcs.” Faramir explained, apparently noticing Merry’s questioning glance back at the road. Faramir’s expression darkened, “The survivors of tonight’s skirmish but barely made it to a patrol traveling upon the South Road, so it seems that a patrol there might be the most efficacious.”
“Do you know why they’ve headed to the south, my Lord?” A young lieutenant inquired of Faramir.
“I do not, Lieutenant.” Faramir answered, seeming troubled. “It does not seem a wise strategy, as any escape back to Mordor would require crossing the Anduin into Ithilien.”
“Who knows why orcs do anything?” Captain Calarion asked darkly.
Faramir did not reprove the Captain aloud, but he did continue to theorize, “These orcs may have gotten stuck between the bulk of the army, before it left, and the Anduin. The roads, the river, and the city have been adequately patrolled during the daylight hours and much of the night.”
Faramir paused, and the young Lieutenant offered, “There may not have been an opportunity for them to sneak back across the river?”
Nodding approvingly, Faramir added, “At least not before the ring was destroyed, and their master defeated. And with him disappeared any hope of succor from their homeland.”
Merry shuddered, and then got himself under control. He was a squire of the late King of Rohan; He had hit a witch-King in the knee, helped to slay him. He was a warrior now, like Strider or Legolas or Gimli, and he would be brave, like the men he rode with, Rohirrim and soldiers of Gondor alike. Dwelling on those thoughts, Merry was able to remember the orcs who had held him and Pippin captive with a warrior’s eyes, not a victims. Merry was shocked at how cynical, how calm he’d become, as he contributed in a dark, hard tone he hardly recognized as his own, “If the orcs were stuck, they’d probably want to kill as many people as possible. That’s what orcs do when things don’t go their way.” Or that’s what the orcs who had held him and Pippin captive would have done, at least.
“What can a halfling know of orcs?” One of the soldiers asked.
A year ago, such a question would have made Merry blush. It would have upset him. Now he just sighed with weary, ironic amusement. But he didn’t even have the time to make a joke in order to inspire his detractor to leave him alone, before Barden reached over his saddle to haul the offending soldier off of his horse.
“This is Meriadoc, Théoden-King’s last squire.” Barden growled, “His was one of the swords that bought the Witch-King’s death. And he survived several weeks as the captives of orcs and Uruk-hai, before escaping them to recruit the tree-folk…”
“They call themselves the Ents.” Merry supplied helpfully, with light humor and only a little bit of an I told you so look directed towards the soldier who was now struggling in Barden’s grasp.
Captain Swidhund and Lord Faramir forcibly separated Barden and the Gondorian soldier.
“We’re all on the same side tonight, gentlemen.” Faramir reminded them, his voice firm and commanding, “All of the members of our party deserve respect, and their opinions will be listened to WITHOUT resorting to physical violence.” With that, Faramir gave Barden a mingled look of pride, amusement, and gentle censure. Merry could tell that Barden wasn’t sure how to react, but Merry grinned. Lord Faramir know how to give a man pause, get him to rethink something, and act as if it were his own idea.
Captain Calarion glared at the offending Gondorian soldier, and Swidund said something sharp in Rohirric to Barden that Merry didn’t quite understand. Faramir evidently did, because his lips twitched ever so slightly as if he were concealing a smile.
After that, Merry’s attention turned back to the empty, ruined fields they rode through. The flat landscape was broken up by occasional hillocks, stands of trees, and babbling brooks.
“They flow to the River Sirith.” One of the soldiers informed Merry, when he asked.
The night seemed to Merry less frightening than it had ever before, well, at least since the winter before they had left the Shire. He could barely remember a time when the darkness had not been full of dread. Now…there was still some fear. But it seemed….as a trickle to a flood. Small, and something that could be defeated. Merry rode tall in his special saddle, promising himself that whatever the night brought, he would prove its equal. He owed it to his fellows who had gone to the Black Gate and not yet returned, and he owed it to Boromir, who would not return.
As the company moved further away from the city, Merry listened to the conversation between Faramir and Captain Calarion.
“Are you sure that you want me to call the orders for our patrol, when we meet the enemy?” Calarion asked Faramir, a mixture of relief and uncertainty in his voice.
Rider Barden interrupted Faramir’s answer, whatever it might have been. “Isn’t strategy and command your responsibility, Lord Faramir?” The younger Rider sniped, apparently still stinging from Faramir’s earlier reproof, however mild it had been.
“The command is mine. The responsibility for strategy is mine.” Faramir answered sharply, “Many responsibilities are also mine, Rider Barden, which have precluded me from practicing with the city guard regularly.” Faramir turned back to Calarion, ignoring Barden for the moment, and said less heatedly, “I haven’t drilled with the city guard in years, Captain. I’d be stepping on your toes, when I’m not at my best. Once we engage the enemy, you call the orders, I’ll back you unless I’ve good cause to do otherwise.”
After that, the group rode on mostly in silence, with Faramir quietly directing them further west and south. The Steward paused every now and then, the expression on his face thoughtful, as if he was turning inward. It reminded Merry of Strider (who would soon be King). Specifically, those times when the ranger had been listening or looking for some threat that the hobbits – and normal men – just couldn’t see. To Merry, it seemed both like and unlike the way that Legolas could sense orcs. The elf could detect creatures of Mordor with the ease that normal beings could detect whether it was hot or cold outside at a given moment. It seemed to Merry that Faramir – and Strider – had to search within themselves, kindle some spark, and then it was if they could see more than other men, but less than elves.
About an hour and a half after they had departed Minas Tirith, Merry felt the very tone of the air changing. It was not so bleak, hopeless and terrifying as the horrible dark night before the Battle of the Pelennor. But…it was still…wrong. The air had become thick and stagnant and sharp all at once. It was as if they were simultaneously being stung by bees and stuck inside the thick, disgusting pudding that Lobelia Sackville Baggins had once made for one of Frodo’s birthdays, when she spent the entire time looking at the younger lads as though she would have liked to have eaten them. And maybe she would have, or at least Frodo. Merry shook his head out of thoughts of the Shire, when Lobelia occasionally attempting to conspire to arrange a fatal accident for Frodo had been his only worry. Because the feeling in the air also reminded Merry of the feel of the yrch who had kidnapped them, although not quite that bad. Like a babbling brook of unnatural fear, where as their Uruk-hai kidnappers had been a raging river, and the Battle of the Pelennor had been a seething ocean. Through his fear, Merry felt guilt and shame that he hadn’t been able to go with the other surviving members of the fellowship to the black gate, which must have been so much worse, an ocean in tempest.
The Uruk-hai and orcs who had kidnapped them had been bad enough. Thinking of it made Merry set his jaw, determined not to show weakness. The things that he and Pippin had seen had been fairly awful. The orcs had not been permitted to them because Sauron thought that one of the hobbits might be the ringbearer, and needed them alive. But that didn’t stop the orcs from torturing, roasting and eating captured soldiers, and worse, women, children and babes, in front of their two hobbit hostages. Merry had been very distraught, but Pippin had seemed to just grow more focused. Pippin had been the one to start leaving his cloak clasps and then bits of their clothing behind them, in case someone was following. Merry had followed his lead, but it had been Pippin’s idea. And when the moment came that they could escape into the forest unnoticed, it was Pippin who nudged him, and started crawling forward. Merry had always looked after his little cousin, but when their situation became dire, it was Pippin who had kept his head.
Then Faramir, his face more focused and intense than Merry had heretofore seen it, signaled that there were enemies ahead. Captains Calarion and Swidhund sounded their horns. The patrol then charged forward, sounding like a thunder storm in the night. Merry was at first greatly upset to have been shuffled to the back of the column, but then he realized that Faramir was beside him, and he didn’t feel so bad.
Merry was determined to be brave, for all of their companions, but mostly for Pippin, and Frodo, and Sam. And because he didn’t know what they would meet when they returned to the Shire… there had been trouble everywhere this last year, not just in Gondor. He knew that he needed to be prepared, and he was determined to do his part.
This first skirmish, however, was over almost before it began. The lead Riders and guards slew the orcs nearest their party, but the other monsters broke and ran as soon as they saw the size of the party of human soldiers from Minas Tirith. Merry, beside Faramir and Rider Barden, only had time to ready his weapons before their enemies high-tailed it further away from the city, leaving their victims and their loot behind.
Some of the riders and even a few of the guards began to chase after the fleeing orcs. Merry, still near the rear of their party, between Lord Faramir and Rider Barden, felt as much as saw Faramir tense beside him. But then Captain Calarion and Captain Swidhund called their men back. Merry was a bit amused that such an action required not just the sounding of horns but also the yelling of loud curses.
“What did I say, you idiotic young hotheads?” Captain Calarion bellowed at his guards, while Rider Swidhund spoke sharply to the sheepish looking Riders in Rohirric, using a few words that Merry had learned from the other Riders after they’d imbibed impressive amounts of ale, and knew were not particularly nice.
“Not to engage once the enemy scattered, Sir.” One of the guards muttered bravely, and the lecture was over, at least for the time being. Although Merry suspected from the expression on the commanders’ faces that the offending Riders and soldiers would have ample reason to repent of their error during the next few days. There were a great deal of unpleasant tasks to be done in post-war Minas Tirith, and a soldier on his commander’s bad side was quite likely to be assigned to some of them.
Faramir, with one of the citadel guards, Merry and Rider Barden as his shadows, had coordinated the unoccupied soldiers and riders in aiding the wounded civilians.
Faramir quietly ordered, “Calarion, separate a squad under one of your Lieutenants, as an escort for these folk to the city gates. We will go further to the east, the rest of us.” with a wry grin for the Rohirrim and the soldiers of Gondor who had forgotten their orders not to pursue the fleeing orcs, Faramir added, “It may be that we will catch up with the, ah, “shy” orcs.”
Then their party was moving again, swift as the wind before a storm, through the dark spring night. The mountainous bulk of Mount Mindolluin and the White City, glowing in the moonlight, receded further behind them, as the feeling of dread, of something rotting and wrong, grew even stronger. Soon they saw new lights…they heard no more human screams, but Merry could smell burnt flesh, and hear the grating, horrific noise that was orcish laughter. A few silent hand signals and quiet commands amongst the allied warriors, and Lord Faramir, the two commanders, Merry, and several soldiers were creeping towards the noise. Faramir stopped long enough to wipe dirt on Merry’s face, whispering, “So that they don’t see your face reflecting the light.”
What they found around a bend was more or less what Merry had expected and dreaded to see. A large group of orcs, celebrating successful raids. He could see multiple guards posted, none of which fortunately saw them. And they looked ready to flee, or fihgt, at a moment’s notice.
Barden whispered to Faramir and his commander, “We have enough swords to take them. Even we riders alone could send them running for their poisoned land.”
“I don’t like it, my Lord.” Captain Calarion said darkly, carefully not looking at Barden.
Faramir nodded, whispering in the darkness softly enough that his mouth never opened enough to flash white teeth, “Aye. While our party is more than the equal of those we can see, they are entirely too confident, suggesting that their numbers are greater than we can see in the darkness. The siege tunnels that were built, even as far as this from the city, could permit hundreds to hide.”
Rider Swidhund added, “This feels rather like the ambush they set for us, the one that got Prince Théodred killed.”
“Perhaps we should….head back.” Barden suggested, sounding torn between every instinct he had urging him to go forward, and his promise to Éowyn that he would keep Faramir safe.
The Captains looked like they agreed, but Faramir turned again to survey the orcs before him, his face thoughtful.
“Lieutenant,” Faramir inquired, his soft tone intent, “You patrolled often here. There were already small tunnels, from the brooks to the fields, for irrigation, were there not? Ones that would almost certainly feed into the tunnels Sauron’s army dug during the siege?”
The Lieutenant nodded, his face going from troubled disappointment at having to turn back to speculative interest, “Aye, m’Lord. There were. We could easily enough put down the flood panels on the streams, sending water shooting through the old underground canals.”
Faramir turned back to Calarion, turning slightly on the ground so that his comments were addressed to Swidhund as well, “Well, gentlemen? That should at least neutralize the orcs belowground. Those tunnels are not well built, and were often collapsing on them during the battle itself, without even coming under our fire. Of course,” Faramir smiled with bitter remembrance, “Their numbers were so great that it made little matter.”
Calarion and Swidhund both looked intrigued. “We brought fire powder, did we not?” Calarion asked his chief lieutenant.
The lieutenant nodded eagerly, and Calarion continued, “If we flood the old tunnels with fire powder and the light it just as it goes into the tunnels, that should take care of most of the underground orcs. This lot, we can probably handle.”
Looking a little sick at the idea of not only drowning but also burning orcs alive, Faramir nonetheless nodded firmly, “Do it.”
One of the other soldiers who had accompanied him, Merry thought that he was Calarion’s sergeant, objected strongly, “The grass, my Captains, my Lord. The crops…the water will drown them, and the fire…will spare none of them.”
“They are already poisoned, Sergeant.” Faramir told the man, his musical voice strained with sorrow, “For Sauron had his minions sow salt and worse in the earth, as they went.”
With the plan of action agreed upon, events moved very swiftly. Merry had gardened and farmed in the past, so he ended up helping the men who were diverting the brooks into the old irrigation canals. The men of Gondor had set stone barriers into the creek bed at various points, two inch thick slats of steel that could be lowered or lifted depending on where the crops needed extra water. It was an ingenious system, and Merry made a note to remember it. It would be useful in the Shire, where Merry sincerely hoped that they would not have to use it to drown orcs.
After that, everything was fire and chaos. Orcs were thick amongst them, although the patrol had the benefits of higher ground and surprise. Merry found that after the initial terror of seeing a leering, hissing orc bearing down upon him, the actual dancing back and forth on his horse to attack the orc was not so bad. His horse seemed to know what to do, better than Merry did. That, and Faramir and Barden both were experienced fighters, easily covering for Merry when his inexperience would otherwise have cost him the upper hand. The skirmish shifted and flowed around them, with Faramir at one point calling on his horn for the party to watch their left flank.
Time passed oddly when one was simultaneously terrified for his life and fighting orcs, Merry noted to himself. For he couldn’t tell if it was a few minutes after Faramir’s call or almost an hour, when he saw an orc with a necklace of human scalps. The orc wasn’t even near Merry, he was on the other side of a burning ditch. But Merry could see him through the leaping flames, see that one of the scalps he had adorned himself with was different than the others. Even through the fire and the blood which obscured it, Merry could tell that the one scalp was trailing bloody blond hair, of a shade between Éowyn’s pale cornsilk and Pippin’s dark gold locks. After that, Merry remembered charging through a break in the flames, his horse flying nimbly beneath him. And then a blur of blocking and parrying and slicing, orcs on all sides of him.
[Faramir POV]
It had been a long night for Faramir, the new (and last) Lord Steward of Gondor. Part of him was glad to be out of the city, and engaged in an activity where there was a clear enemy. And part of him was relieved, as he met an orc’s blood-and-gore soaked club with his sword. Faramir had feared that he would have lost his nerve for the arts of war. He’d never had much taste for it to begin with, and after as bad a battle as the last he’d had, well, he’d known it to happen to warriors more seasoned and better-suited than he to the life of the sword. But he felt no fear in his heart, or no more than he had before. He still felt the old distaste for dealing harm to others, even orcs. He also felt a new, more acute, awareness of his own mortality. But it didn’t slow him down.
Still, Faramir kept himself to the edges of the fighting. He knew that he was tired, and that his left side was weak. More, it was good to have an officer stay far enough to the rear of the chaos, order to see problems developing, like the orcs regrouping to their left. Or the late King of Rohan’s squire going insane, and charging through the fire to get at the orcs who hadn’t yet committed to fight or flight. Faramir suppressed colorful curses and a regret that he’d thought Merry brave but sane, and sounded a call that the main force should attack the orcs on the other side of the ditch. Faramir knew that Captain Calarion was experienced enough to realize that the Steward meant that they should reinforce AFTER they had decided the engagement on THIS side of the ditch. Then Faramir signaled his horse to follow the short hobbit through the flames, prepared to be outnumbered on the other side. Faramir meant to keep Merry alive; but he didn’t want to die keeping that promise to himself. Faramir silently promised himself that he’d give Merry a hard time for making those two goals hard to achieve.
Faramir was aware of one of the Riders of Rohan to his left. To his surprise, it was Sir Barden, Éowyn’s cousin. So far as Faramir had been able to tell in the past few days, Barden loathed him. But it was Barden who had been guarding Meriadoc all night, so Faramir supposed that it made sense. Faramir had certainly appreciated Barden on the other side of Merry, helping him to keep the small, novice swordsman from being overwhelmed. And he was grateful, now, that he and his one guard were not following Merry alone. And then Faramir had no more time to think; he had to focus on finding a way through the orcs who were enveloping what they probably saw as a lone, small, tasty victim on a delicious horse.
[Barden POV]
Sir Barden of the Mark made it his business to keep close to his cousin Éowyn’s betrothed, as they entered their second engagement of the night. He wasn’t particularly impressed by Lord Faramir. To Barden, it wasn’t noble to shirk one’s duties simply because one was tired, or out of practice with mounted warfare. Lord Faramir hadn’t even ventured into the first skirmish at all, leaving all the fighting and all the glory to other men. And now, he was staying on the outsides of the fray, content to clean up the orcs trying to sneak around the back and sound warnings to the Captains. It was the place of some officer to do so, yes. But not the place of a war leader, or one who should be a war leader. Barden had met Lord Boromir, and so he knew that Lord Faramir was by far the inferior of crazy Lord Denethor’s two sons.
But Barden had promised to bring Éowyn’s Steward back to her, and so he stayed near Faramir, which had the incidental benefit of putting him near Squire Meriadoc, as well. Barden had gone out with new riders before, had been one once himself, so he knew how to fight beside someone still learning the sword. Barden had accepted that the engagement would never become more exciting, when all of a sudden Squire Meriadoc took off like a hound scenting the trail.
To Barden’s shock, Lord Faramir signaled his change of position as steadily as a Marshal under fire, and then practically flew after the hobbit. Barden couldn’t move for a minute, he just blinked in surprise. Then he cursed, and went after the Steward and the squire.
Faramir moved through the flames as if he sensed where they would next flare, and his horse didn’t even pause. Neither did Barden’s, but that was because he was a Rider of Rohan. Faramir almost danced through the orcs on his way to Merry, stopping to exchange blows with those he passed, but only enough to make them let him through. Soon enough he was beside the Squire, calling directions to Meriadoc, moving them slowly back towards the bulk of the patrol. Barden observed that Faramir fought fiercely, but precisely. He was obviously shielding Merry, but even in doing that, he fought mostly by trying to predict his opponents’ strokes, and not being where they expected him to be. When he had to, he met blows head on, but he turned them aside when he could. Which made Barden realize…why wasn’t the Steward of Gondor in proper armor? He wore only leather armor and chain mail. Fine chain mail, but not the plate armor that could have stood up to real blows from the enemies’ fouled weapons. Barden hastened to the Steward’s side, not even sure if Lord Faramir realized that one solid blow would mean his death.
[Faramir POV]
Faramir knew that one solid blow from an orc’s blade would cut through his chain mail and leather boiled armor. He had purposely eschewed the heavier plate armor. He’d worn his only complete set in the ranger’s last sortie, and he wasn’t even sure where that set was, now. Sergeant Menohtar had previously had the keeping of Faramir’s armor, including the older sets he’d outgrown or put aside. Boromir, and Faramir’s Dol Amroth family, had often gifted him with new armor. But since Menohtar hadn’t returned from the Pelennor, and even thinking of him had hurt, Faramir hadn’t pursued the question of where his armor was. Faramir could have sent someone to look for his armor when he realized that he’d be going on this foray. He probably should have. Boromir had always hated it when Faramir wore naught but chain mail into conventional engagements. But Faramir’s best skill as a fighter lay in being quick, not strong. Particularly not now, when he was exhausted and his left arm was barely strong enough to draw the bow he’d carried as a scrawny teenager.
Faramir dodged and weaved, advanced and retreated in front of the orcs. Anything to confuse them and discourage them sufficiently to let him and Merry retreat. Faramir’s kept his voice even and firm, telling Merry where to focus his attention, and where it was safe to withdraw. Faramir was surprised that neither of them had been killed yet; this wasn’t his kind of fight. The last time he’d been in close combat such as this (well, before the Pelennor), rather than small skirmishes and ambushes, had been Osgiliath.
There, Faramir had fought beside his brother. Boromir had always been an incredible warrior. Faramir knew that he lacked his brother’s skill and grace. But decades of combat had finally made the drills and blows, that Faramir had once only been able to do by rote, into a seamless exercise. Time seemed to slow down rather than speed up, and Faramir was able to keep blocking, keep retreating. The orcs helped, in a manner of speaking. They were not accustomed to fighting as a group, and Faramir took advantage of that. He wasn’t strong enough to meet their blows directly; so he sideswiped, forcing one orc to dodge into another. In the end, it wasn’t so much that he and Merry managed to survive until reinforcements reached them. Instead, it was that the orcs, inspired by Faramir’s sword and Merry’s blows, got into one another’s way. Then the orcs suddenly broke and ran, and Faramir realized that the bulk of the patrol had shown up just beside them.
Captain Calarion gave Faramir a very dark look. Faramir just smiled brightly back at him, hoping that it annoyed Calarion just as much as it had always annoyed Faramir when Dervorin just grinned after almost getting himself killed. Or any of his men, but it was usually Dervorin. Under normal circumstances, Faramir wouldn’t have gone out of his way to be a thorn in Calarion’s side. But it annoyed Farami intensely that Húrin had probably pulled the Captain aside, warning him to keep an eye on Faramir. Faramir used his frustration over that to keep his arms from shaking, and his hand from dropping his sword. Now that they were not in immediate danger of dying, he felt the full extent of the exhaustion and soreness that duty and then sheer adrenaline had only barely kept at bay. Faramir surveyed the patrol, of which the only men still actively fighting were the soldiers with long-bows, who still had the range on the fleeing orcs. Normally Faramir would be one of those, but not today.
“Lieutenant,” Meriadoc asked one of the long-bow men, his voice intense, “Shoot that orc.” Merry pointed to a particularly large orc, one having trouble crossing a stream. Less than a minute later, the orc lay dead, five Gondorian arrows in his back.
“Happy?” Faramir asked the Merry sharply, more than a bit out-of-humor with the hobbit. The Steward kept his voice soft, though. They would have had to deal with the orcs on the other side of the burning ditch anyway. Merry’s way of initiating the maneuver had been worse than stupid, but Faramir didn’t believe in dressing down young soldiers in public. Not if he could help it.
Merry didn’t even wince. His gaze on the dead orc stayed intense, as he answered Faramir in a dead level tone, “No. It should be seven arrows.”
“He is just as dead.” Faramir answered softly, grief mingling with sympathy in his heart as he realized that Merry was speaking of his brother’s last, brave, desperate moments. “That orc was no equal to Boromir, Captain-General of Gondor’s armies.”
Shaking his head, Merry returned to the present. “No,” He agreed sadly, before apologizing, “I’m sorry that I almost got you killed.”
“Don’t do it again.” Faramir replied, with a rueful half-grin. Turning serious again, the Steward ordered, “And stay close, on the return back to the city.”
Merry nodded an affirmative. Satisfied, Faramir turned to Swidhund and Calarion. “Do we have any wounded who need to be tended to before we return to the city?” Faramir was relieved to find that the answer was no.
“Sound the horns to return to the city,” Faramir ordered Calarion, exhaustion overcoming his desire to be irritating.
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A very good story, please keep writing!
— Annabelle Saturday 9 October 2010, 14:17 #Ann.