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Family Games (NC-17) 
Written by December19 December 2010 | 65301 words
Chapter 7. A Fair Song for the High Lord
Denethor touched the tips of his fingers together and raised his brows at Faramir.
The Steward was sitting in his high black chair in the Tower Hall, and for the past hour and a half he had been speaking with Orophin while the young captain for the most part stood quietly at the Elf’s side.
In the morning the staff at the wards had been greatly amazed by the progress Orophin’s recovery had made during the night, and now, although still rather pale, the Elf did not appear in any way strained to stand throughout the audience, and were it not for the sling cradling his right arm, would not have appeared ill at all. The questions posed to him he answered with accommodating willingness, and generally displayed a highly agreeable deferential manner.
The Lord of Minas was not hearing anything his son had not told him the previous day, yet still he took his time, making mental notes to himself about all the little things he read between the lines, about all the little things he perceived regardless of what was being said.
And now that Orophin had finished his account, Denethor looked inquiringly at his younger son.
“Well, Faramir, since you had taken it upon yourself to bring your new acquaintance to the City, what would you suggest we do with him now?”
Faramir hesitated, taken aback his opinion was to be taken into account, and also unsettled by the note of amusement audible in his father’s voice – but then he straightened up and stated confidently, “I think he should stay with us, Father.”
Denethor snorted softly. “But of course he shall stay. You wouldn’t deem me capable of shoving a man with a freshly broken arm out into the wilderness, would you?”
Faramir bit his lip. “Oh, I am sorry, that is not exactly how I meant it, my father. I am suggesting that perhaps Orophin stay with us for good. He shan’t be returning to his own land, so if we were to deny him hospitality, that indeed would be akin to kicking him out – which I think he does not deserve, given he has done us no ill and only good.”
“Stay with us?” Denethor repeated slowly and thoughtfully, as though it was only now the possibility occurred to him for the first time. Then he looked at the Elf, the Man’s eyes keen and calculating. “Very well, I do not wish to be inhospitable, especially to someone who had done my son the service of saving his life. But neither do I provide free indefinite lodging to anyone who might chance to wander into my realm. If you are to stay, you would have to earn your living with an according service.”
“Of course, my lord,” Orophin said with a respectful bow of the head.
“So,” Denethor spread his hands. “What is it you can do for me?”
Orophin blushed, and Faramir looked at him in wonder, for it never ceased to strike him how comely his new friend looked with colour on his cheeks.
“Actually,” Orophin began, “I was thinking, perhaps your lordship would be kind to allow me to return to Ithilien upon my recovery, to serve among your men?”
The Steward curved his brow. “Ah, I see you have liked that fair corner of our land…?”
“Oh, yes, very much so!” Orophin assured him with great feeling, even taking a step forth in his eagerness. “‘Tis by far the fairest sight I have laid my eyes upon since leaving my Elven realm.” He stumbled, and his bright gaze went to Faramir for a momentary glance. “Well, ‘tis certainly the fairest place I have seen,” he added quickly, and Denethor narrowed his eyes faintly at the specification, and also cast a fleeting glance at his son. “Yet of course I would not expect you to send me there merely for my heart’s enjoyment, lord,” Orophin hurried to assure him, “although, by the powers afar, there is little my heart would desire more. But I do believe I could do you a fair service of guarding your border-land against the fell Orcs: I hope I have shown I can be quite useful at such a task…”
“Yes, you are certainly well capable of walking unobserved among those you deem your enemies,” Denethor replied with a nod of confirmation, although as he nodded he did not take his eyes from Orophin’s face, which made the latter blush even harder than before. “Indeed, such ability can prove very productive; besides, I understand you have learnt the woods quite well in the course of your stay, and your skill with the bow has been praised to me. However, given your current state,” the Steward pointed to the Elf’s bandaged arm, “I don’t deem it a viable option, at least for some weeks to pass, hence we shall speak of it again when time comes. But for now, ah, it would truly disappoint me to have someone like you waste the time of your stay in the City…”
“Well, I…” Orophin frowned, as though wary of his own boldness. He took a deep breath, and, making a proposing gesture with his hand, ventured, “I very much wish to make myself useful, and… And I could be a minstrel for your lordship while my recovery takes its course. That is… if you wish…” he trailed off, seeing the surprise his suggestion had caused.
Once again Denethor touched the tips of his fingers together, and looked amused.
“Do you think I need a minstrel at my court?”
The irony in his question, however, sounded too good-natured to signal true displeasure, and Orophin, despite blushing yet again, ventured a cautious smile. “I do believe you lordship might find it pleasurable, to listen to Elven-music,” he said softly. “Lord Faramir here has told me you have a fondness for lore, the tales of my folk among it. Well, I know many ballads and lays, and I would be more than honoured to perform for you. Of course, I do not know whether you shall find it to your taste, but at least among my own people my voice had always been described as pleasant.”
“Is that so?” Denethor mused to himself. “I have to admit, I have not yet had chance to hear an Eldar song in their own execution – and the poignancy of Elven singing is fabled to be beyond compare – so refusing the proposition without as much as giving it a try would hardly credit me as a well-reasoned man. Fair enough, let there be a minstrel.”
Orophin smiled and bowed, and Faramir, seeing his joy and relief, smiled also.
Denethor nodded, his eyes deep with thought. “Yes, let that be so,” he confirmed. “And I do hope you shan’t find yourself aggrieved by the long partings with your new friend this arrangement shall call for – nor much saddened to stay here in a city of cold stone instead of the fresh and lovely Ithilien.”
Orophin bowed again. “You are very thoughtful, my lord. You take everything into consideration.”
“So I do,” the Steward agreed, a full-scale smile appearing on his thin lips for the first time in the course of the audience. “And I believe you might do me a fine service after all, a very fine service indeed.” He leant back in his chair. “You two may go now. My son shall accompany you to the noon meal, Orophin, and in the mean-time a chamber shall be prepared for you. A servant shall be appointed to you, for practical assistance – mine is no royal court, however, so I am afraid I shan’t be able to find you a Sindarin-speaking valet, but I am certain you shall manage to find an understanding.”
As Faramir set out to resume his military duty two days later, his heart was not heavy like on the previous such occasion, for this time a different reception was sure to await him, and in a way he was even beginning to look forward to his return. Now that he knew the Rangers no longer resented him, Faramir could allow himself to admit that for his part he had already grown quite fond of them.
Much as he kept wondering whether it was indeed for the best Orophin was to stay in the City as his father’s bard, and was generally worried about the Elf, the young man could not help feeling glad this whole episode had taken place. He understood it would take him yet many a term to win the full measure of his men’s fondness and loyalty, but at least now it had been made possible – thanks to Orophin.
Truth be told, Faramir would have preferred to spend just a few more days in Minas Tirith, to make certain his friend had settled and was recovering well, and perhaps to help find some amiable company for him – and to have more time to himself enjoy Orophin’s. Not to mention that in less than a week Boromir were to arrive with a report for the Steward considering his errands. Although Faramir had not thought of his brother all that much these past few days, which he was for some reason more than a little ashamed of, it still pained him greatly and filled him with sad longing that once again they would not be able to have a proper reunion. Perhaps next time…
Yes, for now he ought to focus on the work before him, and trust that next time his and his brother’s schedules would finally coincide.
And so next time came.
Faramir’s second stay in Ithilien had proved entirely uneventful after the happenings concluding the first one. In fact, it had almost been a pity to leave: it was the middle of summer, and the lush resplendence of the groves called to be savoured with all the senses of perception, and filled the heart with joy and content. The men had little work to do, for after what they now referred to as the Battle by the Oak, the enemy had become sparse and cautious, and for the most part the Rangers were busy doing perfunctory patrols. They were less fatigued in the evenings, and had more energy – and desire – for conversation, and would often come to question Faramir yet again about the intriguing Orophin, curious for every little detail. Along with that they would also ask of Faramir himself and his years in Dol Amroth, and as he had many a story to tell, the night oft found the cave filled with the man’s clear pleasant voice as he recounted some old anecdote in his measured articulate manner.
Thus the report Faramir brought to his father was rather short and optimistic, and as the young man entered the Tower Hall, he planned to deliver it quickly and then proceed to look for his much-missed Elven friend.
But as the captain walked across the long hall, he saw that no search should be required, as at the Steward’s foot, on the lowest step of the stairs leading to the empty throne, sat Orophin.
Faramir had almost taken him for someone else at fist, however, so little resemblance he bore to the weary uprooted person the Man had parted with some three months ago, so peaceful and confident was the smile with which he now greeted Faramir.
The Elf’s pose was at once relaxed and graceful. He had one knee pulled closer to his chest, his now-fully-healed arm resting against the thigh, his other leg stretched out.
Orophin’s attire was not like one Faramir had seen before. It was made after the Gondorian fashion in terms of cut, but the hues of it were such that no man in the state had ever draped himself in. The prevalent colour was that of young grass after a spring rain: cool, vibrant and sharply fresh, as though brimming with intensity, wondrously bringing out the deep radiant gold of the Elf’s long tresses.
All the garments were made with great care, perfectly accentuating Orophin’s lithe frame, and aptly decorated with semi-precious gems and gold-thread. Across his waist was tied a silk claret-coloured sash that nicely matched the cabochon-cut jacinths and pink opals adorning his collar. His tunic was of the short length appropriate for a commoner, yet otherwise he was dressed to outmatch the wealthiest noblemen of court.
Atop his head and slightly to the side sat a soft velvet beret of the same grassy hue as his robes but several shades deeper. The cap more than anything worked towards making him resemble a Man, for Faramir had never heard of the Fair Folk wearing anything like it, yet at the same time it made the ‘elvishness’ in Orophin stand out all the more, for no matter his vesture nothing could dull the unfading radiant loveliness of his face, nor conceal his peerless gracefulness.
For a second it even seemed to Faramir his father had indulged the extravagant expense of decking him out like this for entertainment’s sake alone, as though wishing to show how alien the Elf was to their culture, a precious exotic toy, a fancy doll…
Faramir shooed the notion away, for it was unfounded and unkind, and filled him with unease and foreboding.
Then the unpleasant thought was obliterated altogether, for, just as Faramir finished delivering his tidings, the clouds moved in the sky outside and the sun came out – and suddenly the tall narrow window opposite the Steward’s seat was filled with it, and a thick beam of hazy yellow shine shot into the gloomy hall of black marble. Of the three of them it fell only on the Elf, and bathed him, and made him seem surreal and weightless, flooding his face with exquisite radiance, turning the long loose waves of his mane into molten effulgent gold, scattering in blazing sparks over the velvet of his tunic and setting alight the gems at his collar.
He was no longer simply a guest from a foreign realm – he was a vision, an apparition from another era, from another age of the earth, and to behold him thus made Faramir reel, for it felt to the Man as though the enchantment had engulfed him too and he was taken to those forgotten times when such beauty was not a distant memory but tangible everyday reality.
And then Denethor, who had seen this wonder many times before precisely at this hour of the afternoon, and was now looking at his son instead, said, “Sing for us, Orophin.”
And Orophin sang.
He closed his eyes and turned his face toward the light, as though retiring to a world of his own, and looked serene and content, alone with his song – and he sang as though not for them, but for the song itself.
It was an uncomplicated, untroubled piece, telling no tragic tales of unrequited love or heroic deaths – it wove itself through the nobly adorned branches of a forest saying its last farewell to the departed summer, and rose to the tops of the silver-barked trees to swim in the sea-like waves that capricious winds rolled through their aureate foliage. It soared in the lazurite heavens above, and swooped down to dive into the cool sparkling streams that hummed and remurmured to their own tune. It fell in drops of morning dew on the juicy ever-green grass, and played as the last ray of the setting sun in the exquisitely shaped leaves of the ageless trees.
It filled the listener with pinching longing for the spring that was forever gone, yet at once it shone with the promise of another spring to return in its place, year after year, age after age, eternally. It was at once a lament for the fragile, fleeting grace of all living things – and a hymn to life’s immortal nature, its uninterruptible continuity, its power, glory and resplendence.
And so easily and fluently it interlaced joy and sadness, so close it placed losing and finding anew, so simple and old was its logic, that it pierced the heart.
Yet what pierced the heart even more was Orophin’s very voice: it flowed like a river, clear and enlivening, full and effortless, as though unconscious of how it swirled, and bent, and slowed and quietened to then surge on with renewed force. It was one of those few things in life that sport such fundamental, unquestionable, undiluted goodness that even the proudest of men are awed and humbled by them, and fall silent, and forget themselves, and look on in wonder.
Just as he finished, the sun moved, and the radiance abated, no more than a soft glow now.
He sat silent for another long moment, then turned to look up at Faramir, the Elf’s eyes open and expectant.
Faramir swallowed. “Your voice is a miracle,” he uttered with great feeling, and was startled to hear himself sound hoarse, and only then felt the tears in his eyes. Faramir blinked them back and smiled vaguely. “A blessed miracle,” he repeated dazedly.
Orophin, to Faramir’s utter surprise, blushed scarlet and dropped his gaze.
“I am glad you are pleased,” he said in unaffected modesty.
Faramir could not suppress an incredulous laugh. “Do not speak like that! I am not ‘pleased’, I am astounded! And who would not be?”
“It is really quite relative,” Orophin assured him softly. “Your brother, for instance, was not all that impressed. ‘Tis all right, I take it this is all a matter of taste.”
“My brother…? I didn’t know you’ve met…”
“Yes,” the Elf shrugged casually, “he was here just the other day.”
Faramir turned to Denethor sharply. “Father, is that so?”
The Steward raised his brow. “My son, would you question the words of your friend? Just how polite is that?”
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Wow, December, I did hope that my request would go to you, I know you write so well… but I never expected to get an eighteen-chapter story! And how will I find the time to read it all, now?
Well, thank you so much, I’m sure I’ll love it, and I’ll start reading at once; but you might have to wait a bit for a full commentary…
— Nerey Camille Sunday 19 December 2010, 13:50 #