Secret (PG) 
Written by Bubbles05 February 2006 | 52192 words
Part 2
Aragorn cut through yielding flesh. The orc’s grin disappeared and it staggered, its neck gushing a torrent of black arterial blood. It gurgled strangely, then dropped boneless to the stone. The clatter of its sword might have been a death rattle — he could not tell for he was turning again to half-slay the next. Efficiency did that, robbed him of a job done. He rarely killed one of the beasts outright, merely maimed it, struck a grievous blow and then moved on, leaving the rest to nature. Aye, he did not finish the kills himself. Somewhere inside a voice said he should probably feel cheated. Another voice, quieter, said he should probably feel shamed. Letting even the vilest of creatures suffer so...
He swung and nigh severed another orc’s thick leg, drew back, lunged forth, his blade sliding easily between ribs. The beast lurched toward him, snarling, its rage and pain only fuelling it, and he lunged again. Again. It fell from his vision and was replaced by... Faramir! Aragorn blinked — not fifty paces away the captain stood swinging, slashing, engaging the horde. How long had they unknowingly shared the field of battle?
“Faramir!” he yelled, seeing the young man stumble and almost fall over a dead orc. “Away with you! Away!” His throat felt raw; the words clawing up through it. Had Faramir heard him? Was his steward simply disobeying his command?
Then it happened. Aragorn had to turn to meet an uruk-hai head on. He had to turn away from that place where Faramir should not have been standing, should not have been fighting, not now — he parried, desperate, wanting only to get it over with; he snarled at the thing that would have held his attention, and he raised his sword and swung and felt the impact of steel against skull, saw more black blood and viscous brain matter geyser from the wound. He left the thing to fall in its own time and turned back, seeking Faramir, his—
Elbereth. Ai, Valar! A bullish orc, dull black hide with mangy patches of course hair, like the hair that bristles from a malnourished dog. Eyes jaundice-yellow and black, gleaming, jagged yellow teeth between cracked grinning lips. Such untempered ugliness and yet such glee in its own hideous existence. It had no joy left but the joy that came from destroying beauty, and so it tore at the light, shredded all things pure and good, worried decent life like a predator worries its prey. Faramir had struck the thing a glancing blow and lost his balance, and the orc was rising as Faramir was falling, its sword being drawn back as he himself would always draw back before the fatal lunge...
He moved, heedless of the fight.
He reeled, felt the earth and sky both tilt like a child’s spinning toy. He was falling as he fell in his dreams, in all his dreams when he was seeking and not finding, seeking and not knowing from where the next monster would come. All those nights he had wakened with a jerk that left his body clenched like an angry fist, and his breath painfully thin and reedy in his lungs.
This time the earth was close, though. Faramir landed heavily on his side and rolled immediately to his knees. He still had his sword clenched in a bloody hand; he ducked, sensing an assault, and the orc’s blade sliced through the air over his head. The beast surely had its advantage, would take the next opening and drive its blade through him, and all would be done. But he, Denethor’s second son, would go out fighting. He turned, planted one foot, made to lunge upward—
Nay — another fighter was there, another soldier engaging the orc. Faramir caught a flash of wild dark hair flying, of movements so fluid and fast they must have been the natural movements of a soul, like the wild cat’s soul that naturally runs, the hawk’s soul that naturally flies. Such creatures think not of the action, the effort, but breathe it into themselves, become the thing running, the thing flying, the thing warring. Sword met sword, up—down—defend—thrust—withdraw—defend—attack. ‘twas dizzying, hypnotic. ‘twas... King Elessar. The king was fighting. For him. The king was whirling, slashing, fighting to save him.
So the combatants spun and met and parted, solid bodies for a moment, then wraiths floating through the smoke of so many burning arrows. The gods fought like that. Up on their mount in the clouds, they played out their eternal battles for good and evil and love and hate...
The orc-god lost, its grin becoming a grimace as King Elessar’s blade rent sinew, muscle, vital organ beneath. Indeed, the battles all around were turning that way; the soldiers of Minas Tirith — the man-gods — were holding their mountaintops fast, driving the enemy back into oblivion. Down with the damned those orcs and uruk-hai fled. Down with all the little creatures.
Faramir felt his strength, which had waxed so sure in the first moments of wakefulness, wane. His head throbbed; there was a shrieking in him; his body shrieked its pain into his mind; a darkness stole over the world. Vaguely, he pondered vomiting.
“Faramir! What in the name of Arda were you... Faramir?”
Oh. Better not. “Aye, Sire,” he murmured.
Aragorn watched from the doorway as healers rushed to their tasks. Sixteen soldiers were dead — fine young men, all. Their families had lost much, and would need a visit from the king. He would extol to each family its loved one’s bravery, offer his small words of solace. Could there be any solace to losing a child?
Nay. The dead, however young, had not been children. Many had been married with children of their own. With wives who were now widows, black-veiled black-eyed symbols of the cost. Those women would drift through Minas Tirith like ghosts, unable for a time to root themselves in the soil of their own lives. Their young ones would be brave for them, so painfully brave. The soldiers who had served with their husbands would become shoulders and strong arms for them. But still they would wander, empty. All those left behind would be temporal and small and sad.
So many would suffer. But of course his thoughts had run automatically to the parents.
A nurse tended Captain Faramir. THE nurse, in fact: good Illewyn clucked ceaselessly, her patient’s wishes irrelevant next to her duty and her long-held instinct to mother. After having lost sight of him once, she appeared ready to brook none of Faramir’s melodramatic sighs, and she ignored the frown that seemed nigh ready to turn into a full-blown pout. His limbs were in the way as she swiftly divested him of tunic, shirt, boots and breeches. His hands were nervous flutters that sought to preserve at least a modicum of his masculine dignity; she slapped them aside and continued.
“Sire.”
Aragorn startled at the whisper. Forcing down his reaction, he turned reluctantly out into the corridor. Lendimir stood, dishevelled and grimy. Blood crusted in trickles down one side of his grim face and clotted darkly on his armoured breast — the red blood of fallen friends. The sword he carried was coated in black blood and gore, bits of flesh and coarse hair still clinging to the blade-edge. Aragorn took in the sight before the smell wafted over him: ’twas the reek of decay, and he could imagine Lendimir eviscerating a beast and barely noticing as bile and bowel flowed over the sword, over the hand gripping it, over the arm attached to that hand. The unmistakable smell of battle — he surely smelled that way himself.
“What say you?” he asked, matching the other man’s whisper.
“Apologies for interrupting you, my lord. I come to report that there are very few enemy survivors. The lads chased after a small group of orcs that was attempting to slink away. The beasts were wounded, to a one, and could not make haste — we finished them.” There was pride in that voice.
“I want the dead seen to.”
“Aye, Sire. We’ve dragged the enemy corpses outside the walls and are preparing the fire. ‘twill burn bright enough to keep predators at bay and also provide us much light by which to guard the main level gateway.”
“How much damage was done there?”
“Repairable, the engineers say. A laborious task ‘twill be, but the gates will stand noble and strong once more.”
“Very good. I want that seen to with all due haste. They are not only our safety, but a symbol of our strength.”
“Aye, Sire.” Lendimir cast a brief glance into the healing chamber.
“My deepest apologies, Master Guard,” Aragorn murmured. “I know you have lost much this night, and that you are concerned first and foremost with your lads. Duty takes you from their side now, when you doubtlessly wish naught more than to remain there.”
Lendimir bowed. “If I can not be with them, Sire, I am still at peace knowing that you are nearby.” With another bow, the guard moved off, then halted. “Are you alright yourself, Sire?”
“I am fine, Lendimir.”
Lendimir’s brown eyes studied him for a moment, and Aragorn was ready to offer a stronger dismissal when the guard bowed once more. “I shall return to my duties, Sire.”
Nodding absently, Aragorn watched the man’s departure and then turned back toward the healing chamber. He ached to be inside it, helping, offering the skills he had learned in his long years at Lord Elrond’s side, but the staff would regard him as a patient. They would look at the blood that trickled from his arm and insist on treating him first, and he could not allow them to do that. There were hurts far worse than his few scratches. He tried to think of happenings beyond the clean bare walls, beyond the sickness he still felt inside at the memory of an orc rounding on Faramir. A massive fire would needs be built outside Minas Tirith. Flames would light the Pelennor, the grassy plain, the edge of the distant wood. Smoke would drift through the White City, carrying on it the smell of charred flesh and blood and hair; all the citizens would breathe it in. Aragorn, feeling Elessar settle back into him, wondered vaguely if that smell would seem to them like victory.
Indeed the invasion was over. The attackers had sent virtually every body and blade they had left to topple the great White City, that symbol of the triumph of men, of all free beings in Gondor. Sauron gone, the Ring gone, now there existed only fragments of a once overriding evil. The tribes of wandering orc and uruk-hai had lost their glory. They were black creatures from whom purpose had been torn, leaving them only the succour of their bitter hatred, their desire for revenge.
The gates rose like a new day. Afternoon, ‘twas, three days after the deadly night. There had been no further signs of orc activity, but the plains around were suspect and the gloomy woods more so. Caution warred with joy. The sun had turned fat and orange, but was not warm enough yet to thaw the frozen ground.
Voices rang out in the streets. Mongers hawked rough-woven cloth, potatoes clinging with black soil, chickens, leather goods and knives and herbs for tea. Laughter carried down lanes, curving around houses where women leaned out the windows to chatter with their neighbours. ‘twas release, all of it. ‘twas freedom hanging on the air.
“Excellent work,” Elessar praised. He stood watching them finish, thinking of damage done and damage prevented. Somewhere in his mind, an image of Faramir falling, slowly, heavily, played itself over and over again.
“My thanks, Sire, and the thanks of my workers,” Beloden grated, bowing. “But of course my lord did toil greatly as well.”
“As is my way,” Elessar replied. Did the head engineer’s eyes harbour a trace of disapproval? He felt a flare of amusement but could not quite smile.
“Sire!”
He turned. “Master Guard?”
Lendimir trotted to meet him. “You wished a reconnaissance report forthwith, my lord.”
“Aye, indeed. What say you?”
“The lads and I have patrolled thoroughly. We located their base, some distance into the woods. There they had several deep caves they were using for shelter. They’d camped in the spot at least a fortnight, from the looks of things.” The guard wrinkled his nose slightly.
“My sympathies, Sir,” Elessar replied. “You believe they are gone?”
“We are not entirely certain, Sire. We do know that when they made their craven attack they sent in the vast majority of their forces. And that we took the fire right out of them.”
“And they worked under their own motive?”
Lendimir pursed his lips. “There is no indication they followed any other. Perhaps they still laboured under their original orders.”
“Perhaps.” Elessar shook his head, forcing down the questions that clamoured to be asked. ‘twas not unknown for bands of orcs and uruks, even after their leader’s fall, to organize and plot, at least after a rudimentary fashion. Perhaps this had been no more than the dying thrust of a defeated enemy. “I suppose we will have to remain vigilant and await the future,” he said.
“Aye, my lord. And we will.”
“The survivors — do you have a more accurate guess as to their strength?”
“I do not believe they exceed fifty, my lord.”
“But where.”
“Indeed. We will rest the horses and ride out again at dawn. I am wary of sending any patrol in the gloaming, for those forest climes are dim even as the sun rises high.” Threats would come at night, Aragorn knew — they all knew that threats would come at night.
“I shall ride with you,” Aragorn murmured. He needed to know for sure that they were gone, and not just gone for the moment. They had to be firmly on the retreat. There were things he had to protect, now.
“Sire?”
He blinked and found the guard eyeing him. “Excuse me?”
“I suggested that my lord’s time might be wasted on what will likely be a fruitless patrol.”
“You would not be suggesting that the time is not mine to waste?”
“Nay, Sire,” Lendimir said stiffly. “We shall of course welcome your presence.”
“Alright then. I shall be ready at first light.”
Lendimir bowed briefly and strode off toward the main guard housing. The injured soldiers from the first ambushed patrol had, to a one, been released; a few were easing themselves back into full duty. But the House of Healing was filled once again and these guards, flesh torn by sword and arrow, bones smashed, blood poisoned, would not be discharged so quickly. Some, weakening despite their valiant struggles to live, would not be discharged at all. Eighteen was the toll now, and ’twould rise. More soothing words to bereaved parents, wives, children.
He would not have to hear such words himself and then drift half-alive through the grief of the aftermath — he felt a rush of fullness and joy. Relief crashed over him, buzzed in his ears, and he breathed in smoky air that had a slight sweetness to it.
He had been discharged, at long last, the morning previous. What a ridiculous sense of propriety they had, those healers! He huffed to himself. The idea of keeping a patient with such minor injuries, of devoting time, space, and care to him while grievously wounded soldiers needed it all more—
Shaking off the irritation, Faramir turned back to his desk. Indeed the stack of documents had only grown more daunting with his absence, and all of them needed his personal attention so that they not bother the king. Two local innkeepers appeared to be embroiled in a spot of drama, their pettiness exacerbating what might only have been mutual irritation between more noble souls. The first had begun the festivities by casting garbage out into the alley between their establishments, attracting vermin which had plagued the second’s kitchen. The second had responded by flinging several dead rats in through one of the open side windows of the first’s premises. The first had responded to THAT by throwing a few small rocks through one of his neighbour’s CLOSED side windows; the second had thrown a brick... at the first. Now they wished a mediator. “First thing they’ve agreed on,” Faramir sighed, “and it has to involve me.”
A knock roused him from his musing, and he welcomed the distraction. “Come,” he called, then stiffened as the door swung open. “Sire,” he greeted, rising. “I-I had not expected you!” Damn, but the office was a mess.
“I... ” Elessar gracefully sidestepped the door, then closed it. “I thought I would come to see what trouble my steward has found for himself.”
Faramir felt a smart response rise in his throat and forced it down. There seemed to be an odd glint in the king’s eyes, an odd sort of mirth playing about the regal features, and it tugged at his typically dormant wit. The king of Gondor was not a stodgy old ruler, not a Denethor, truly — but a captain yet had to mind his tongue when speaking to his sire. Distance moved between them until Faramir opted for a perfunctory nod and stepped around the desk to meet Elessar. “I trust the repairs have gone well?” he inquired, indicating two chairs and waiting while the king settled.
“Aye, it has indeed. The gates have risen again, stronger than before. Those few shacks that burned in the rain of flaming arrows are now being rebuilt. The walls have been fortified so they stand stronger and more defensible than they were before. The engineers have honoured their craft.”
“I have regretted my unfitness for work, my lord,” Faramir said quietly.
Elessar blinked at him. “I have not, Captain. Regretted, that is. You were discharged with strict instructions not to overdo things, and I am most happy to see that you have followed the healer’s advice, for once. I... did not mean to suggest that I was aught but satisfied with your conduct.”
“Thank you, Sire.”
Silence took over the chamber. The king glanced about, seemed to study the bookshelves, then nodded and rose. “I shall leave you to your duties, Captain.”
“Aye, Sire. Thank you, Sire.”
On the threshold, half in the corridor, Elessar half-turned. “Do not strain yourself, Faramir.”
Alone again, Faramir eyed the bookshelves. He eyed the chairs, the distance between them, the desk embarrassingly cluttered with texts and scrolls. He stared at the door, vaguely disturbed.
When the guards rode out at sunrise, their king rode beside and brooked no arguments. A patrol had previously ventured as far as the orc camp that formed a gangrenous patch on the forest’s skin. They had examined the trampled dirt, put up with the lingering stench that filled their nostrils, estimated the number of small animals that had died to create the piles of bleaching bones near the cave mouths. The beasts were no longer in that camp, dead embers from a dozen small cooking fires testifying to absence. But no lack of evidence could testify as to the destination or intent of the survivors — had they limped away never to return? Had they only moved a few leagues, then erected a new camp with new fires to warm them whilst their wounds healed?
Might the daemons again be fashioning weapons, recruiting new fighters from amongst the scattered roving orc groups that still plagued Gondor’s wilds?
Aragorn moved to take the lead, but Lendimir urged Settys into a trot and overtook Hasufel. The ranger sighed mutedly, schooling his features. Out wheeling over the plains with his peers, he had oft led, back when leadership had been for him a novelty to be pursued and then just as quickly rejected. Another ranger would move up as he withdrew, and so in the early days no single soul had become the permanent head of that fluid group. Out on the Quest, his ranger experiences serving him, he had indeed led. Such had not been questioned by the rest; his skills and his knowledge had been looked to by eyes both eager and seasoned.
Now Elessar existed and made demands. The king. The King. The ruler of Gondor was not a ranger any more, and could only remember. The ruler of Gondor had to be protected by those who defined their lives as less meaningful than his.
Settys halted, head up, ears pricked forward. Lendimir sat erect, listening; a moment passed before either relaxed. Not too distantly there was a cracking of undergrowth, the slow movement of something large.
“Master Guard,” Aragorn called quietly.
“Aye, Sire. ‘tis naught — likely a warg.”
“I hear it.”
“It moves away from us.”
“Aye, you are right.”
They continued. The path widened as the trees clustered about each other less determinedly, and then they were moving through semi-forest, thinning stands of evergreens separated by wildberry bushes and bare soil. The tracks were more visible, and led them.
“They head northward, Sire.”
“Aye.” The spoor did not deviate upon leaving the woods altogether, but clung rather tightly to an unseen line that traced its way north, away from Minas Tirith. “They seem purposeful.”
“Their purpose being to put distance between them and us.”
“Indeed.” He smiled. “I wonder why they did not linger to make their proper farewells.”
“Perhaps, Sire, they believed we would make a more... permanent ‘good-bye’ for them than the one they desired.”
“Perhaps.”
“‘twill be good to resume the routines of life, my lord.”
“Aye, Lendimir, it will certainly be.” Aragorn looked ahead. The track continued, a straight cut across the grassland. It faded into the distance without veering. The grass grew to conceal it; further on there emerged the rocky terrain of hills that humped up from the plain. The beasts were travelling quickly, and relatively light — there were no indications that they had met allies along the way. In all likelihood, they were heading for the deeper woods of the north, the darker wilder places where evil things could still hide and await their next chance to strike. The south of Gondor was grown too crowded, too tramped by men and elves and dwarves; settlements were blooming; trade was flourishing. Even the dark woods were losing their gloom, their trails worn by hooves and boots. ‘twas no surprise that creatures of darkness would resent such change and seek new climes.
“‘twill be good to settle down a bit,” Lendimir said.
Aragorn nodded.
“And perhaps my lord can invite a couple of his fellows from the Quest to come for a visit.”
Aragorn started to nod his agreement, then blinked. “Are you trying to say something, Master Guard?”
“Nay, Sire — I was... attempting to make conversation.”
“Indeed?”
“Aye, Sire.”
Aragorn urged Hasufel full abreast of Settys. “I am not certain that I believe you, Sir,” he said.
Lendimir glanced at the king, then sighed faintly. “Sire—” he began.
“Aye? Spit it out, man.”
“You have seemed somewhat... distracted, of late.
“Have I?”
“I meant no disrespect, my lord. I merely thought that a visit from your fellows would bring you peace. I shall not bring up the matter again, my lord.”
“Well and good — I do not wish to discuss my ‘distraction,’ or aught else, with you at this time.” Elessar motioned to the others. “We return now.”
“I told ye, I’ll not be putting up with such nonsense from an idiot!”
“Ye call ME an idiot? Ye throw rotten food out in the lane and then wonder why we both got rats? Yer mother was a stupid swine, and yer father too!”
“Gentlemen!” Faramir chided. He eyed his two guests in turn from his position at head of the conference table. From their positions on either side, the men glared each at the other. Their wine goblets remained untouched. “Gentlemen,” Faramir repeated, “I am quite certain that if we discuss this matter rationally—”
“My lord,” the rat-thrower interrupted, “I would say yer intentions are most noble but ye cannot speak ‘rationally’ to a fool! He understands orders, and that’s the whole of it!”
“Orders, ye say?” the garbage-dumper exclaimed. “What orders would those be, then? The ones that say I can put out my garbage beside my property if I like, and ye can’t do aught about it?”
“Nay! The ones that say ye can’t expect to lure rats into MY kitchen and get away with it! My lord, pray tell him!”
“I would begin by saying that both of you have legitimate complaints,” Faramir sighed. “Perhaps we could—”
“My premises, my garbage, my business!” Garbage-dumper was on his feet now.
“Not when it brings rats into MY business! And I never broke yer window, either!” Rat-thrower had a point on that one, and he knew it.
Faramir rose as the two parties drifted to the far end of the table, presumably where they could berate each other without his assistance. Garbage-dumper — nay, do not get into the habit of calling him that, not even silently — was turning an alarming shade of red, and Ra— the other — did not look much calmer. Their voices rose; the steward moved to separate them.
“Ye think throwing a brick at me isn’t as bad?”
“I wish my aim’d been a mite better — might’ve knocked some sense into yer fat ugly head!
That was it for diplomacy. The one who he would thereafter refer to simply as “the first” released an ear-shattering bellow and charged, and the one he would call “the second” assumed a fighter’s stance, ready. Faramir did not contemplate the inanity of the situation — two grown men fighting over discarded trash and flying rodents — but stepped bravely into the space between them. “Halt!” he shouted, injecting all the authority of his station into that word. He was the Captain of Minas Tirith, Steward to King Elessar Telcontar... Ranger, Warrior!
He was, it seemed, merely an obstacle to the innkeepers. The first, who Faramir currently faced, feinted right (Faramir’s left), then darted left (Faramir’s right) when the second (who Faramir had trusted just enough to turn his back on) rushed in that direction. They lunged, retreated, faked and lunged again. Faramir gave up the idea of shouting and waited for his chance: it came, and he tackled the more reasonable second, hoping to force a temporary retreat on the part of the first. As he fell with an enraged citizen beneath him, he pondered his earlier decision not to bring a guard to the meeting.
The sun was sinking heatless in a pale sky when the orc-hunters passed in through the great rebuilt gates of the White City. Behind them the plains stretched, endless. The Anduin rushed. The wind spoke of places it had seen, places where men were still loathe to go. And the guards ponderously swung the gates first open, then closed once more, shutting in the men and horses, shutting out the enemies and the things not yet tamed.
“Sire,” a stable-hand greeted, taking Elessar’s mount. The horses were due a good rub-down and a bucket each of hot mash in their warm stalls, and their steps became eager; Elessar felt a similar urge for a hot bath and a meal. He climbed from the first level, up through dying market stalls and washer-women bringing in dry sheets, his gaze on the citadel which towered overhead.
He made it as far as the main hall. Entering the familiar stone and tile, his footfalls muffled by thick rugs, his eyes relaxing round the warm tapestries and lit torches, the king would have sighed in pleasure — had he not been greeted also by the sight of two men, presumably citizens, being manhandled down the corridor by citadel guards. He could hear mumbled curses; the two appeared combative. “Hold!” he called, and waited while one guard detached himself from the group.
“What is this about?” he demanded as the young soldier bowed before him.
“Sire, my apologies for such a disturbance in your halls. Those two are innkeepers both, of neighbouring establishments. They’ve been mutually hostile, each bad as t’other, and Captain Faramir met with them in the council chamber this day, in hopes of attaining a treaty.” The guard cast a glance back at the men waiting in his fellow’s custody. “Or at least a cease-fire,” he added, turning again to the king.
“I gather the meeting was unsuccessful?” Elessar presumed. “Why were they arrested?”
“They physically attacked each other, my lord. When Captain Faramir attempted to intervene—”
“Intervene? In his condition?”
“Ah... Aye, Sire. He stepped between them.” The soldier’s eyes were wide. “H-he was trying to prevent violence... ”
“And?”
“He was struck in the melee, my lord. We do not know which—”
“Struck? Is he injured? Speak!”
“Nay, Sire! He said he felt alright but was a little tired and would retire to his apartment for the evening. He appeared well enough.”
“How was it that this happened before the guards could become involved?”
“Uh... none of us were present, Sire. Captain Faramir did not require a guard for the—”
“I would say that he most certainly DID require a guard, Sir.”
“A-aye, Sire. He did not elect to have any guards present, however, so those of us posted at the main doors only responded when we heard shouting in the conference room—”
“Alright. Dismissed.” Elessar waved a hand and the lad bowed before hastening off. He raised the hand to massage his temple, where a low throb had been demanding his attention for several hours. Two obviously hostile parties and no guard. Damn that Faramir.
Raising a hand, Faramir gingerly massaged his temple. The skin was warm, bruising; he would have quite the black eye to show for his efforts. He drifted to the window and looked out over a city that glowed gold in the last dying rays of sun. Each day grew warmer — life was returning with each icicle that melted. And Minas Tirith would shine gold and white for all of Gondor to see. ‘twas at such times that he could forget his weariness and his sense of standing still amid endless diplomatic details. Damn, but he’d wanted to go out with the patrol. King Elessar had practically hit the ceiling when he’d asked.
A quiet knock at the door, and he knew who it was. He opened it, stood aside. “Please come in, Sire” he invited, tugging discreetly at the hem of his wrinkled tunic.
“Faramir,” the king began, stepping briskly into the room and running keen eyes over him. “I hear that you were assaulted!”
“‘twas not an assault so much, Sire, as an accident. I was holding a meeting—”
“Without benefit of a guard, I am told.”
“They were just innkeepers, Sire. I did not think—”
“You did not think, Faramir. They were hostile and belligerent, with a history of mutual violence. I have heard the tale from several members of the guard, and can scarcely believe that you would be so careless!”
“My lord, the situation simply got out of hand!”
“The “situation,” as you put it, is not one into which you should have wandered, Captain.”
Wandered? “Sire,” Faramir replied tightly, “‘tis a part of my role here to MANAGE such affairs. I wandered into naught, but attended to duty as befits my position.”
“Are you arguing with me, young man?”
Faramir felt heat flooding his face. “Nay, Sire. I-I would never... ” He blinked and looked hurriedly at the floor. “I apologize, Sire, for my indiscretion. The evening has been... a strain. May I be dismissed?”
“Nay. We are not finished! You have yet failed to answer me why. After I told you not to put strain on yourself, why did you disobey me?”
“I did not disobey you, Sire! I fulfilled my duties!”
“Your duty was to recover! How could you be so careless? Do you have no sense?”
“Oh, let me alone!” Even as the words leapt from his mouth, Faramir clamped a hand over it. Oh gods, too late. “Sire,” he choked out, falling to his knees, “I’m sorry, I am sorry — I did not mean it!”
King Elessar sucked in an audible breath and moved to crouch in front of him. “Nay, Faramir,” he said, and his normally strong voice seemed to shake. “I am the one who is sorry. I regret my words and my tone. I’ve pestered you incessantly over this; I’ve harangued you when you so obviously need your rest. Peace, Faramir. Please.”
Faramir saw the king’s extended hand and grasped it, allowed himself to be helped to his feet. His head was throbbing again, worse than before. He felt a burning behind his eyes and cast them downward. “I do feel weary, my lord,” he whispered, not trusting his voice.
“Of course you do. I am sorry. I shall leave you to get some sleep.”
Nodding and executing a poor excuse for a bow, Faramir watched the king depart. At the door’s closing he exhaled an unsteady breath. Oh, to become so emotional in front of one’s sire! The shame of it, the shame of it. In his father’s house he would not have dared such an outburst — Father would have beaten him within an inch of his sorry life for it. The shame, his mind echoed. King Elessar treated him so well, and all he could do was be spiteful about it. He rubbed his eyes and sniffled.
But ‘twas it the king’s way to shout and say such things? His unease was stronger; he recalled the visit in his office, the way the monarch had seemed wont to linger, well nigh to hover. From further back came an image of King Elessar fighting an orc, wild dark hair flying like a banner of freedom between him and death. That man had given him life, truly.
‘Shame,’ his mind echoed again.
~As if I hadn’t seen enough o’ ye to last me~
~I want the truth, old man; I want the truth~
~I’d not think ye’d want it if ye knew what it were~
~Tell me. You spoke a name earlier, and it obviously had meaning. Tell me~
~Don’t ye know everything already, now? Don’t ye know how to sneak around, Thorongil, to put yerself where ye should never be?~
~I do not know what you mean...~
~Sure ye do. Sure ye did. The Lady, that is~
~What is this about? Why do you plague me now, after so long?~
~The great Thorongil expects to do what he pleases and never be questioned. Aye, because he’s the king of all Gondor, the king of all in Gondor, and he can have his pick of the lasses~
~I am wed!~
~Ye never saw marriage as an obstacle before~
~That was... different — she was so alone, so abandoned by her husband~
~Of course she was. Of course that made it alright~
~‘twas a long time ago — a lifetime ago~
~But it remains~
~What remains? They are dead~
~Not all~
~Not you, not me~
~Not all, I said~
~What do you want from me, old man?~
~Stop calling yerself noble. Stand up and take responsibility~
~For what?~
~For—
Aragorn gasped and opened his eyes. The lamps still burned; the fire had not died in the hearth. Panting, he scanned the sitting room, let his gaze land first on the flames in front of him, then on the table at his side, the candles, the empty glass, up the tapestried walls, shadows flickering over portraits of the past.
He drew a deep breath and forced himself to release it slowly. Stretching both arms over his head, he groaned as the knots in his shoulders loosened. The time had been that he could have slept all night on stone floor without feeling it; now a stuffed chair by a warm fire was not sufficient for his muscles.
Rising, Aragorn surveyed the chamber once more. ‘twas eminently comfortable, decorated not only according to his tastes but to his wife’s as well, so that masculine and feminine mingled, became a thing to please them both...
Arwen. He sighed. She would return anon to this, and he would have to tell her all. Every shameful detail of it, every bad decision (could he call the decision bad, when such a wonder had come of it?). Every mistake, past and present. His failure to tell her of any of it upon his return, the omissions, the silences, while this new truth had weighed strangely in his mind and heart. He imagined hurt in the dark oceans of her eyes, disappointment. Happiness, perhaps? Tangled in with the rest, could there be happiness for him?
The bedchamber was dim and promised more sleep. Aragorn turned away from it, so weary but unwilling to yield. Sleep promised more dreams, and he accomplished naught by reliving the old servant’s words over and over again. He reached the door, felt a sudden need to go check on Faramir, make sure the young one was sleeping well. But he could not; he could not. There would be questions, and he could not. Out into the silent grey corridor he slipped, down dim stairs to the hushed main hall, out into the night.
Master of the guard had its benefits, surely. Lendimir had earned through long service the right to spend his nights in his warm bed, his beloved Reyann at his side. He well remembered his sacrifices — and hers — through the years. All those nights deep in a dripping forest, out on a frost-tinged plain, standing by a gate, by a guard shack, by a jail cell or a closed door. All those nights she had waited for the morn, praying that he would return home to her, and then greeting him with her pale smile and her limpid eyes, and the thin arms that could warm him like no fire ever would. He had promised her, upon being selected to lead the guard, that she would spend no more nights thus, waiting for a distant dawn.
But some nights he still slipped out of her willowy embrace, left her cocooned in their bed and slipped from the home in which they had joyously raised three daughters and two sons and mourned two others dead in infancy. Some nights he felt the need for silence and solitude both, for the counsel of cool black sky and for the stars that sparkled like ice.
He nodded perfunctorily at the few guards who passed on patrol. They smiled and nodded in return, probably assuming that he came to inspect them. Their boots rang more sharply on the tiled paths as he passed, but once he was round the corner or beyond the shrubbery he could hear their steps become dull and tired once more. It did not matter how they walked, though, as long as they were awake and alert, watching for trouble.
Torches flamed, lighting the garden paths so that, even in the darkest night, visitors could still wander and see the perfect red of a winter rose, the shining green of ivy that curled up into the trees. Lendimir wandered idly down, up, across small arched bridges that traversed streams. He breathed of the air, found it sharp and familiar, and then—
Pipeweed. Aye, ‘twas pipeweed he smelled. Stepping more quickly down the path, Lendimir reached one of the small tiled clearings where walkers could rest on stone benches and be amid the greenery. Elven visitors, he had been told, found it a special comfort to linger amongst the leaves, escape for a brief time the citadel’s unremitting stone. This night, the clearing was home to King Elessar, sitting not on a bench but on the paved ground, back to a tree, smoking. The man inhaled deeply, exhaled and appeared to study the rising smoke. Lendimir watched for a moment; the king faced his direction but did not seem yet to have noticed him. He wondered what thoughts could run so deep, then consigned them to the pressures of nobility. He prepared to retreat silently from the space.
“Master Lendimir,” Aragorn called.
“Sire,” Lendimir greeted, forcing a smile. “My apologies — I did not wish to disturb you.”
“What are you doing wandering so late?”
“I cannot sleep, Sire.”
“Join me?”
The king appeared somewhat expectant. Lendimir nodded once and moved to stand near Elessar.
“Are you not going to sit?”
“Aye, Sire.” He sat on a bench, somewhat awkwardly, and waited.
“You are looking at me that way again.”
“I am sorry, my lord. And I do apologise again for my earlier indiscretion. I meant naught by it.”
“By what — oh, aye. Calling me ‘distracted.’ Well,” Elessar sighed, “I would say that you were probably correct in your assessment.”
“Aye, my lord?”
“I have had much on my mind of late.”
“Indeed, Sire. The rebuilding continues, and the attack and its aftermath have been most difficult...”
“From before that, actually. From the time of my return.”
“From your trip, Sire?”
“Aye.”
Did his king wish him to say aught more? To ask? Lendimir studied the younger man. Younger, aye, even though older in years. He himself was stout at fifty-two, stout and full of vigour. Nigh forty years older, Elessar of the Dunedain looked a good ten years younger than he with his silvering temples and the slight sag of his once clean jaw line. And at the moment Elessar looked well nigh hopeful, watching him, waiting. Indeed, the king appeared to need... a friend. “How was your trip, Sire?” he asked, plunging boldly ahead.
“Strange.”
So that was how ‘twould be. Well, he and Reyann had seen five children into adulthood. Pulling teeth was not at all new to him. “Strange in what way?” he urged, and waited for the king to speak.
“I spent the night in a small town, and there I quite unexpectedly met someone. Someone I used to know.”
“Oh?”
“A servant, he was. Back in the house of Denethor.”
“Aye, Sire, you have mentioned your time in that man’s service.”
“He recognized me right off, before I remembered him. I was Thorongil then — he knew me only as Thorongil.”
“And he was a friend of yours, this servant?”
“Nay. He despised me, as he despised most people. He held a general contempt for anyone he met: he used to wave his rank around like he was planting a flag. Everywhere, every room of that house bore his mark. And every... intruder knew that he held the steward’s ear. I imagine he wasted not a single opportunity to impart his low opinion of me to Denethor, although I wonder if he told every secret. He was not indiscreet when it came to certain matters. But he was bold in his hatred of me, and that hatred appears to have only grown since then.”
“Why would he hate you, Sire?”
“I was young, and foolish.”
“Were we not all young and foolish at one time?”
Elessar met his eyes and smiled. “In other words, I should stop dancing around the subject and tell you what is on my mind.”
“I had no intention of saying it that way, my lord.” Lendimir resisted the urge to smile at his king’s insight. “What IS on your mind, Sire?”
“While I was in the service of Denethor, I met his wife, the Lady Finduilas. She was beauteous and gentle of spirit, and when I first saw her I felt as though an arrow had pierced my heart. So sudden and intense was the feeling, I knew not what to make of it. She was isolated, Finduilas, from her powerful husband. Sadness seemed to drift about her, to shadow her eyes, and it enchanted me. She enchanted me. After I left Denethor’s service, I found myself thinking of her often. I could hardly even sleep for it. I missed her, and so I returned under pretence. I made increasingly thin excuses to spend time in the area. I made up reasons to cross her path, eternally prepared with a flower or a passage of poetry, anything that might catch her attention. And eventually she and I... had relations.”
“I see.”
“Not quite.”
“That is why the old servant hates you so?”
“That, and other things.”
“Such as?”
“Faramir.”
“Captain Faramir, Sire?”
“Aye. Captain Faramir. It seems strange, now, to think of him that way. Or not, perhaps. Has he changed at all?”
His ruler could be an infuriating conversationalist. “You have lost me, Sire,” Lendimir replied evenly.
“He is my son, Lendimir,” the king said flatly. “Faramir is my son.”
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