Secret (PG) 
Written by Bubbles05 February 2006 | 52192 words
Part 4
He waited for the words to gain meaning in Faramir’s mind. He studied the young man’s sensitive eyes, studied the mouth that seemed frozen into a faint smile, as though in remembrance of some private jest. He was about to speak again, to move inside the chamber and shut the door (why had he hovered on the threshold for this — why had he imparted such colossal truth while standing in a doorway?). He was about to begin explaining himself when Faramir finally reacted.
Faramir laughed. The odd little half-smile twisted into a grin, and Faramir laughed, standing with one hand on the door and one hand holding the letter that gave the facts but none of the complicated explanations behind them. The laugh was more of a giggle — a spontaneous high-pitched sound that rattled Aragorn’s nerves.
“Faramir,” he said, “I am not jesting.”
The giggle petered out. “Nay, Sire?” Faramir replied. “Of all the things I thought you might say to me tonight, this was not among them.”
“I am not jesting.”
“I do not know of what you speak, my lord. My father? Of course not — Denethor was my father, Lady Finduilas my mother—”
“Nay, Faramir. Finduilas was your mother indeed, and she loved you. She loved you with her whole heart. You were her pride, her greatest joy, and she saw in you such massive potential as to outshine the very stars. She knew, from her first look at your face, that you would be destined for great things. She was proud to be your mother. But Denethor was your father in name only — not in blood. Not in truth.”
“What in the name of Arda are you talking about, Sire?”
“Read the letter.” Aragorn motioned to the scroll. “Read it.”
“Nay, Sire. If you know what it says, then tell me.”
Aragorn entered the room. He closed the door slowly and lingered beside it. Faramir had drifted to the window and was watching him. “I met your mother. I was using the name Thorongil at the time; I was in service to Denethor’s house.”
“We know this already,” Faramir said. The young man continued to stare at him, stiff-necked, lips pressing themselves into a thin bloodless line.
“I met your mother and found her enchanting, enthralling. After I left Denethor’s service, I realized that I missed her and had to return.”
“Had to?”
“Aye, at the time I felt as though my heart gave me no choice in the matter. I went back for her, met her secretly and told her of my feelings. I expected naught from her — or I do not know what I expected. Incredibly, she told me that she harboured similar feelings for me. She felt isolated, unwanted, for Denethor was increasingly concerned with the power he could wield. Boromir was 3 years old and her greatest joy, but he could not provide her with the companionship she needed. She and I... began a relationship.”
“I see,” Faramir replied flatly.
“I left after a time, but I never forgot her. Recently, exhausted from the rebuilding we have laboured over, I took myself off for several weeks to rest. Legolas and Gimli encouraged me to go.”
“I know of your journey as well.”
“I know you do. The point is that this journey changed my life in ways I could never have expected. I met someone, in a little town through which my travels took me. I met a man named Ferenhil. He was—”
“My father’s servant.”
“Aye. He remembered me most clearly, and made that apparent from our first encounter. ‘twas he who eventually told me the truth about you, and offered me the letter you hold as proof.”
Faramir unrolled the scroll, stared at it for a moment. “Proof?” he echoed. “What does any of this prove?”
“That I am your father.”
“You see that in here?” Faramir waved the parchment at him and began laughing again. “You see that? Because all I see is conjecture. Perhaps you and the Lady Finduilas did have sordid relations behind her husband’s back; perhaps she got it in her head that I looked something like you! So what? So what? If this was even written by her... ”
“I recognize the script, Faramir. ‘twas written by her, truly. And her conjecture is supported by evidence.”
“Oh — of course. I have a birthmark on my lower back, and you happen to have a similar birthmark in a similar place. Well it’s conclusive, then!”
“Faramir,” Aragorn sighed, “my father also had such a birthmark, in the same place.”
“Fascinating, Sire.” Faramir smiled at him.
“She knew the truth. She knew long before you were born. She knew it.”
The smile faded. “You are not my father.”
“I am. I know that this must be difficult for you to accept, but ‘twas every bit as difficult for me—”
“Well, that is tragic.”
“Faramir. Your mother knew it as truth, and when she looked at you she could see it most plainly.” Aragorn stilled his legs, which wanted to carry him toward the young man. Faramir’s eyes no longer registered shock but now flickered with an odd light. He had the vague sense that a wall was descending between them, that the inappropriate laughter and that disturbing little smile were growing harder, thicker, and that soon he would be unable to reach through them to touch... his son.
Faramir sighed, and the smile crept back wider than before. “You are not my father. ‘tis that simple. Perhaps, if your little letter speaks truly, you had something to do with my existence. But that is no more than the basest level of involvement. You are certainly not my father in any way that matters!”
“Faramir,” Aragorn pleaded. “Please hear me. I never knew. I never knew of you—”
“Well, THAT’S convenient, don’t you think?” Faramir laughed. “You sow your seed and then fail to consider what might sprout from it!” He furrowed his brow, cocked his head. “I wonder how many other bastards walk Middle Earth because of you.”
Aragorn took a step forward and then forced himself to halt, fists clenched at his sides. “I swear to you, Faramir,” he ground out from a clenched jaw. “I swear it to you that I did not spend my days as a ranger courting ladies wherever I went! I fell in love — once, with—”
“In love?” Faramir interrupted with another laugh. “You were ‘in love’? Oh, how heart-warming! You were in love; she was in love; you both were absolutely heartbroken when fate ripped you cruelly from each other’s arms... But wait — ‘twas not fate that destroyed your wondrous bond, was it? Hm, Sire?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you left her. I did hear you say that, correct?”
“Aye... I left her, after a time. ‘twas not going to last forever; we both knew as much—”
“Oh, in the midst of this grand ‘love’ you both knew that. I see.”
“We did,” Aragorn beseeched. “We both cherished the time we had together, but at the same time we both knew ‘twas not to be forever.”
“And he knew.”
“Who?”
“My father.” Faramir raised his brows questioningly. “You do remember him?”
“Of course I remember Denethor. Neither of us ever forgot — not even for a blessed second. But you can not be certain that he knew of us.”
“And of me, as well.”
“You can not be certain of that, Faramir. He well may have known naught.”
“Nay? The head servant knew! Perhaps all the servants knew! Would that not be funny, if for all your skulking about, everyone within twenty leagues knew what was going on between the Lady and the Ranger?” Faramir bit his lip. “Would that not be funny, Sire? Seriously — would that not make you laugh? I mean, ‘twould make ME laugh, but I suppose that I’m not quite in the same position as—”
“Faramir, please listen! Ferenhil knew, but only because he was eternally paranoid and because he stole that letter! There is no reason to believe he ever told anyone else! ‘twas not his way to divulge much of aught to any soul, even his master Denethor.”
“Oh, Father was a smart man. He saw things. The way he treated me, the way he always treated me... ” Faramir turned toward the window, then back to the king. “But I suppose ‘tis now understandable, that.”
“Never.”
“He watched his wife, his Lady, grow heavy with—”
“Do not speak of her that way.”
“She was his wife.”
“She was a woman, Faramir. She was a woman with feelings and needs—”
“Do not TELL ME ABOUT HER NEEDS! She was my mother, no matter how much she might have resembled your cheap whore!”
Aragorn’s body had reacted before his mind could reconsider. He stared at his rosy palm. When he looked up, a matching print had blossomed on Faramir’s cheek. “Faramir, I didn’t—” he began, then: “Never use such a word in the same breath as mention of your mother.”
“Aye, Sire,” Faramir murmured, his expression unreadable once more. He cast his eyes down, slipped ghostlike through the door and was gone.
“Yet you did not call on them.”
“I know. I did not wish to burden them.”
Lendimir sat across from him, gilded in morning sunshine, and did not reply.
“I did not feel that ‘twas the time for me to tell them, although part of me desperately wanted naught more than to do just that.”
“I do not know if I understand, Sire.”
“‘tis... ”
“‘tis?”
He forced it into words. “I share so much history with Legolas and Gimli both. I knew the prince for many years before the Quest. The dwarf and I became close during our travels, as does oft happen when souls undertake a long or arduous trek together.”
“Indeed.”
“And ‘twould be so easy for me to tell them of all this. I know what they would do. They would ride out here within a day — both of them. They know me; they know Faramir, and they would open their arms to us without hesitation. ‘twould be so very easy for me to impose on our friendship.”
“Ease is not what you desire.”
“Nay — ease is not what I need. This is not supposed to be easy. I know so little about forging a relationship with... a son. I know naught. But I know that it can not be easy; it should not be easy... ”
“Aye, Sire,” Lendimir said, studying him.
“And... ”
“And?”
“That history — that ease. When Legolas and Gimli are here, I fall into it. I dive into it, so comfortable and secure a place it is for me. When my fellows are here, I readily focus on them and Faramir tends to be... left out of things.”
“And he has been left out for too long.”
“Far too long. All his life, in fact.” Aragorn sighed. “I feel that this is a story for the two of us to write. Faramir and I should be composing the lines of this tale. My dear old friends will so easily lift the burden from me, and I can not allow them to do it. At some point, of course I shall call upon them, and then I pray the news I have to give is both joyous and well-received. I would like naught more than to have those I have taken as my brothers come here to meet my son.”
“They have already met Faramir, of course.”
“Aye. But not my son. That will be different. But I want things settled first; I want a chance for Faramir and I to be somewhat alone with this.”
Lendimir steepled long fingers. “But you do need to speak your thoughts.”
“Indeed,” Aragorn replied. “You have noticed how I call on you, intrude upon your time.”
“Perhaps ‘tis easier with me because the boundaries are different.”
Wise man. Aragorn nodded, running his finger idly along the edge of his desk. His mind drifted; he remembered Faramir’s nigh hysterical laughter and the unchecked rage that had followed it. Never had he seen that gentle young man so gripped by anger. He turned his right hand. The palm showed no colour, no trace of redness where it had connected with Faramir’s cheek.
What do you wish to come of this, Sire?”
“What do I wish?” Aragorn shook his head. “After last night, after his reaction to the truth, after I struck him... How could I have done that?”
“‘twas an emotional experience for you both, Sire. I wonder how well any man could have handled it.”
“That does not make me feel better. I wanted to seek him out afterward, to tell him how sorry I am, but lately it seems that I can do naught but make things worse between us. I step up to offer a kind word and instead offer an insult. I try to reach out to him and instead slap him across the face. I have crashed into his life, stumbled around in there and broken countless things. And now... now I would not be surprised if Faramir hates me. Or, worse yet, if he is afraid of me. Perhaps the best I can do is to stay away from him.”
Lendimir considered the words for a moment, considered how candid and how forward a guard might be with his king. “I know that you will have your chance to mend all of it, Sire,” he said. “But first you must decide what it is that you ultimately seek from this, for while you linger in confusion yourself you can do little to ease your son’s distress. When you think of Faramir, knowing that he is your child, what do you want? Do you regret learning the truth about him? Do you truly desire a future with him as father and son?”
Aragorn blinked. “I thought I had said that I do. I thought — but my thoughts have whirled so, Lendimir. They have been a maelstrom, a storm that has nigh carried me away. To answer your question... nay, I do not regret learning the truth. Not one second have I spent regretting the truth, although I did rail against the weight of it for a time. What I regret is all the years we’ve lost. So many years. I think of his first words and his first steps and his first loose tooth. The first time he said nay and meant it. The first time he thought through a problem to find its solution. The first girl he laid eyes on, knowing she was different and wondrous. All the things I will never see!”
“Sire,” Lendimir replied softly, “most of what you have told me about is that which pains you. Tell me of what you hope — all of it.”
“You do not believe in asking simple questions, Master Guard,” Aragorn sighed. “There are just so many things that pain me about this. But you are right — as long as I thrash about in my own anger and grief, I can do naught for Faramir. And he needs me. I know that he needs his father. And aye — I have come to realize that I do want a future as his father. I want him to turn to me with his joys and his problems. I want to spend evenings talking companionably over wine, or perhaps sitting before the hearth in comfortable silence. I want to meet his friends, the woman he chooses, his children — my grandchildren. So many things, and I want them more than I can say; I want them so keenly that it hurts me to think I might not have them... ”
“You look forward to being a parent in every sense of the word.”
“Aye. I have been thinking about it nigh ceaselessly since I finally wrung my answers from the old man’s lips. I am not even certain how to describe it, but ‘tis as though somewhere inside me there is a door. A closed door, and it has been closed for so long, closed to the laughter of children, the sight and sound and-and the smell of their hair, of their skin, the wonder in their eyes, their innocence... it has been closed as though that would never change. Even after reading Finduilas’ words and believing them, I could not see the door opening into that hidden room.”
“It is opening now, Sire.”
Aragorn nodded, leaned back in his chair and let his gaze wander out the office window. “I know it is, my friend,” he sighed. “At the least, I hope it is.”
“Captain Faramir!”
Faramir started at the voice, cursing under his breath. An entire night he had managed to wander the streets and gardens of Minas Tirith. An entire night of mindless walking, walking, walking after his quiet flight from the suite in which he had once found peace. He had ghosted curving paths under flickering torchlight; he had drifted through the moonlit orchard — at least one of the orchards. Which one? He recalled skeletal branches that would soon bud. He recalled thick grass. And he had successfully, somehow, avoided every patrol that might have asked after his welfare and perhaps, jut perhaps, reported the answers back to...
Damn. Damn! In the dark he could transform his flesh into spirit, shed the weakness and the flaws for something both less and more. No more bones with their clinging flesh. Boromir had once marvelled that he could literally become the shadows, so that few eyes could find him among them. And even in the light he could usually blend, quiet, unassuming, stepping mutedly around the edges of a room, around the margins of a life. A useful talent. But this sunrise, his meandering path past the main gate had damned him. He wanted to get away, just to get away. He turned reluctantly. “Anthorn,” he greeted. “I had no idea you would be on duty so early. Were you not on last evening?”
“Aye, my lord” Anthorn laughed, then sobered rather abruptly and seemed to look him over. “Might I ask, my lord, if you and the king mended your differences?”
Forcing a smile, Faramir nodded. “Aye, we did. ‘twas a minor disagreement about policy, no need to worry yourself. But I’m still curious as to what you’re doing out here.” The possibility hit him and he offered the young man a more genuine but rueful smile. “Prithee say you did not find trouble with your commander.”
“Oh, nay,” Anthorn exclaimed. “Naught like that. And I won’t be here for long. Naedhrin’s wife just had the baby, and he wanted to invite a few of his close mates over. They’ll all be coming back to relieve us once they’ve had a chance to see the little tyke and pat Naedhrin on the back. Naedhrin says he’ll take his post, too. Something about being ‘responsible’ now. I said I doubt it! He doesn’t have a speck of sense in his body, that one — his wife is always on him about it! Just last week he—”
Faramir had stopped listening; he could not remember at what point. “‘tis a boy, then,” he said.
“Oh — Aye. What could be better for a first-time father than to have a son? Naedhrin’s got to have his chest out to here by now!” The young man grinned sheepishly. “I’m sorry for carrying on so, my lord. It’s just a big day for us all!”
“I would gather,” Faramir replied. “I shall send Naedhrin my regards.”
“If I may ask, my lord, are you alright? You look a mite pinched.”
Faramir shook his head and forced a smile. “I just have a few things on my mind of late.”
“The Ramshead and The Rolling Goat?” Anthorn regarded him solemnly. “I reckon those two’ll continue to be trouble.”
“We shall see. Do you have aught to report?”
“Not much, my lord. Although Captain Lendimir did return from his mission with a bit of unfortunate news.”
“What sort of news?” Faramir pressed, eager for a distraction.
“Bad news from the settlements he visited — Aur Tuuur and Karas Eden.”
“You mean Eden Aur and Karas Tuuur?”
“Aye, that’s them. They’ve taken to bickering, stealing each other’s supplies. Or I reckon they haven’t just taken to it now, but are keeping up their old ways. From what I hear, they’re working their way from mutual indignation into a state of outright warfare.” The young guard sighed. “Old habits are like that — don’t you think, Captain?”
Indeed. Faramir recalled the training his childhood had seen fit to impart on him. How to cover, how to hide. Oh, he needed an escape route now, that he not have to see one particular face again. “Aye,” he nodded at Anthorn. “But habits can keep one alive during the darkest of times. We are creatures that not only appreciate but depend upon a certain amount of stability. Habits create such for us, even when the larger world does not cooperate.”
“I suspect so, my lord,” Anthorn agreed. “But this fighting is a distress. The trade routes run right through that area, right between the settlements, and merchants have reported that whenever they stray within sight of one of them they find themselves being questioned about their intentions. Captain Lendimir says the townsfolk’ll be needing some ‘diplomatic assistance to resolve the pertinent issues,’ and I reckon that just means someone’ll have to go out there and tell them to stop acting like babies.”
Faramir nodded. He was ready to bid the guard good-day when it occurred to him. “In truth, Anthorn,” he said, “I have heard this particular news. Captain Lendimir and King Elessar apprised me last night. I am preparing to ride out now.”
“You are? Captain Lendimir hasn’t made mention, not to my knowing. Will he be among your escort?”
“Nay,” Faramir replied smoothly. “I shall be going alone.”
Anthorn gaped at him. “Mercy me! Did you say alone?”
“Aye, I did. ‘tis a short journey — less than half a day through well travelled territory. The diplomatic situation is troubling, and an escort may only raise tensions. King Elessar was most disappointed with the results of the last meeting. He wishes the tone of this one to be quite different.”
“The king has decreed it, then?” Anthorn asked hesitantly.
“Do you question me, young sir?” Faramir demanded.
“Nay, my lord!” the guard answered breathlessly. “I apologise, my lord!”
Faramir shook his head. “Peace, Anthorn,” he soothed. “I recognize the concern in your questions.”
“Aye, my lord. I am... concerned about it.”
“Do not be.” Faramir turned to make for the stables. He halted mid-step and turned back toward the gate. “I offer you my apologies as well, Anthorn,” he said quietly. “But there truly is no other way.”
Elessar heard Lendimir’s report on the settlement difficulties; the two men took their meeting outside after Lendimir informed him of a new arrival to the house of Naedhrin. They strode down toward the main gate, where the proud father was posted for the day, and found there a small congregation of guards, on and off duty, offering congratulations. Naedhrin, a red-headed man with freckles and a rounded face that suggested lingering boyhood, was positively bouncing as he described the bundle of joy that now slept in his exhausted wife’s arms. “Ten fingers, ten toes!” he crowed. “And one little—Oh! Sire!”
Elessar quirked an eyebrow and tried to suppress his grin. “Do not let me interrupt you, Naedhrin. You were saying?”
“I was saying, Sire, that my little boy is ‘ealthy and ‘appy and in fine form. And that ‘e’s got a great set o’ lungs on ‘im already. I reckon everyone in Minas Tirith has ‘eard ‘im by now!”
“Congratulations, Sir!” the king laughed, clasping Naedhrin’s shoulder. “‘tis a joyous day for your family indeed.”
“Aye, Sire, truly ‘tis. And thank you, Sire!”
“I suppose,” Elessar added, glancing at the assembled guards, “that you are the popular one this morn.”
“Aye, Sire,” Naedhrin beamed. “The lads’ve been terrific, all coming to offer their regards. And the commanders as well. And Captain Faramir, before ’e left.”
Aragorn blinked. “Left?”
“Aye, my lord. For the settlements. The diplomatic errand.”
“Errand? When did he leave?” Aragorn felt a hollow space fall open inside him. His thoughts clattered into it. He stared, disbelieving, at the guard.
“Must be an hour ago, Sire, at least... ” Naedhrin’s smile faltered. “I — my lord, was ‘e not scheduled to go this morn? Because ‘e told us as ‘e was, you and Captain Lendimir’d given ‘im orders. I thought ‘twas a mite unusual that ‘e should be riding out alone, but ‘e was all packed and ‘e told us that an ambassador of peace wouldn’t be needing a guard any for the trip. He said all the orcs are gone now, anyway, after the battle... Oh, Sire — should we ‘ave stopped ‘im?” The man’s freckled skin blanched a sickly white. “Sire?”
Callee tossed his head, ears pricked forward, and Faramir slackened his hold on the reins. They crossed flat plain, hard smooth ground ideal for running, and sure enough the stallion lengthened his stride. The wind was cold against Faramir’s face; he drew it into his lungs gratefully. There was no sound save the hollow rush of air, the rustle of wild grasses, the rhythmic thudding of Callee’s hooves. All of Gondor — all of Middle Earth — could have been empty but for one man and one horse, streaking across the tundra. Would that they never reach another soul and be forced to stop.
But time passed, the grasslands flying beneath them, and ahead Faramir saw the lines of a small town. Old stone walls stood scarcely taller than a man on horseback and appeared ready to crumble, hunched into a circle that embraced simple wood structures. The roofs of shacks, what looked like a dry goods store, a stable and smithy from which smoke issued. Outside there was farmland, thin plots radiating outward from the wall and connected each to the next by tramped down earthen paths and irrigation ditches that looked from a distance like little veins. The first green shoots were erupting from tilled black soil. Beyond fields tamed under the boots of men there lay commons, and scrubby wastes that extended into woodland. Less than a league down the wide forest road, hunched at the base of moss-green hills that stretched up into high barren peaks, there sat the neighbours: Karas Tuuur.
This was Eden Aur, symbol of that yet to come. In the history of the land, a history that could be read like the yellowing pages of an ever unfinished book, there came this page upon which the townspeople would write their future. ‘The new day,’ they would write. The new life, for truly life itself had been reborn after the War. The people had lived so long not living, suspended in their grief and fear and impotence like insects suspended in a spider’s web. They had lived so long crushed under Evil’s boots and black hooves, reluctant nomads ever in the path of that infernal watching eye. Now their time came; freedom spread over Gondor like the wings of a massive white bird.
Captain Faramir, Prince of Ithilien, Steward of Gondor, Brother of Boromir, Son of Finduilas, scowled at the new day. Ai — he chewed his lip as shame lanced through him; he slowed Callee to a walk. A new day could be naught but a good thing for souls weary from long years of oppression. Even laced with pain and confusion, it had to be better than all the days they had known before.
“Greetings!” he called, spying farmers pulling weeds from rows of emerging greenery.
“Greetings,” came a reply, less enthusiastic. A pair of dark eyes, set like black embers in a weathered face, seemed to measure him.
Faramir dismounted and led Callee up the single road that was more beaten path than highway. The city gates were ahead, closed although men and women toiled outside them. “Allow me to announce myself,” he said, bowing to the man who approached. The eyes were still narrowed, waiting. “I am Captain Faramir, Steward of Gondor. I have come at the request of King Elessar.”
“I am Ganador, son of Gandeth, my lord. A simple farmer. Your business is important, then?”
“Aye,” Faramir confirmed. “I need to speak to your ruling council.”
Ganador snorted faintly and motioned toward the gates. “I’ll take ye, my lord. I reckon they’ll be pleased to see ye.”
Beneath him he could feel the power of a beast whose greatest nature lay in flight. Hasufel’s strides ate up the grassland. Aragorn had paused only briefly, where tracks could be seen, to determine that Faramir was not pushing Callee as he pushed his own steed. Good — he might make up some time. Vaguely he recalled another great chase, long strides carrying them toward where their captured hobbit fellows waited for rescue.
Lendimir rode to his right, Settys gamely matching Hasufel’s pace. The eight guards followed, hoof-beats echoing. Aragorn leaned down over Hasufel’s neck and breathed in the clean cool smell of mane. No fell daemons watched them from above, no eye staring as they knifed their way across the plain, and yet his heart was a tight stone in his breast.
The ride alone could be perilous, for despite Faramir’s convenient untruth bands of orc did still rove Gondor’s wild places. Though the beasts, purposeless and drifting since Sauron’s fall, generally kept to cover through the days, emerging to feed when darkness rose, they were still always about. Like all evil things, they were always waiting for their next chance. A lone rider would be such a tempting target for them — perhaps temptation enough to bring them from cover even in daylight.
But Faramir’s course crossed open plain, and ‘twas a well used route. The creatures would not be nearby. How would they have the opportunity to even see him? Nay — they would be in the woods that hunched gloom-green to the west. They would be in the hills, lurking behind jagged falls of rock, catching fitful sleep as they could. They would not spy Faramir streaking from the safety of Minas Tirith, so there would be no danger. Of course not. Of course not.
Faramir would reach the settlements without a scratch, dusty and windblown, and be gained admission through their gates. Ever the diplomat, he would speak to their elders and begin the slow process of negotiating a treaty. The townspeople would listen and heed his sage advice, for no diplomat in the land could equal the Steward of Gondor when tact and skill were at issue.
But Lendimir had apprised him of the situation there, of the tensions under which those people continued to live. So long they had existed in the path of Sauron’s Eye, in a corridor through which Sauron’s minions had oft moved. Their cries of terror and pain unheard, they had clutched thin babes to their breasts and survived as best any soul could, but over seasons and years they had hardened. Their skins had grown tough; their hearts had grown wary. Now neighbour eyed neighbour not with friendship and common purpose, but with suspicion. The towns, erstwhile partners in defence and trade, were pitted one against the other. Neither seemed willing to yield, or even to make the first steps toward an amicable future.
And there was ever the possibility that theft could turn to violence. Lendimir’s fears were sound: anger appeared to be growing in both towns, and there would come the day when one hasty word, one act, might prove the last. Though they were tragically accustomed to helplessness against Sauron’s forces, they would likely not see themselves as helpless in the presence of a single man, even a representative of the king. And they had grown to rely not on outsiders, but on their own instincts, to survive.
Would such people, hearing the counsel of a lone ambassador from the White City, hear wisdom in the words... or the arrogance of one who could not truly know what they had endured? Faramir had no guard; they would look at the young man and see him to be without ally. One misplaced word, one diplomatic error, and what had thus far been friction might explode. Aragorn leaned closer still to the sweat-slicked neck against which he lay. “We must make speed, my strong friend,” he whispered. “At the end of our journey, my son awaits us.”
“Damargon, son of Arngoth.”
“A pleasure, my lord.” Faramir bowed deeply as the last introduction was completed. Eight councillors sat around the table. He could feel their eyes on him. “This table,” he commented, “is rather interesting, my lords.”
“Aye,” Damargon replied. “Ovoid, nigh circular. We tried a more traditional rectangular table but encountered difficulties in seating. This shape is far more advantageous.”
“Indeed.” Faramir settled in his chair, watched as Damargon followed suit. ‘Difficulties in seating.’ He could imagine the arguments waged as to who would sit at the rectangular table’s head, who would sit first on either side, who would be relegated to some indistinct position along its length. And then an equally difficult set of choices for the foot of the table — or would that be considered a second head? A nigh circular table that eliminated messy issues of rank — he would have to suggest such an idea to King— “I thank you, my lords, for your hospitality,” he said, forcibly muting his wandering thoughts.
“‘tis not often,” Damargon acknowledged, “that Eden Aur sees visitors. And even less frequently that we see visitors from the White City. Yet now we have seen a troop of the royal guard and the steward within a mere two days. ‘tis... intriguing. We are of a mind to wonder when the king himself will ride out here!”
Faramir smiled although the man’s tone sent a faint unease through him. The laughter of the council at mention of Gondor’s king — ‘twas disturbing that townsfolk, even isolated as they were, would demonstrate such a casual mien toward their sovereign. He swallowed the feeling and turned his attention to answering Damargon’s tacit question: “I have the king’s assurance,” he said smoothly, “that he is aware of circumstances in both Eden Aur and Karas Tuuur”— and here he ran his gaze meaningfully over each councillor —“and that his intent lies all in common with yours... the achievement of peace between your towns.”
“May I assume, Captain,” Damargon asked, “that your choice to visit Eden Aur first is a sign of the king’s... ”awareness” of the nature of our difficulties?”
“My choice,” Faramir replied, “was a matter of convenience — pure and simple. I chose to meet with you first because you were first on my route. This is by royal decree, and I shall be conveying such to the residents of Karas Tuuur as soon as I meet with them.”
Damargon winced briefly, then nodded. “Indeed, Captain.”
“He will go to Eden Aur first, I believe. Aye, he has no choice.”
Lendimir, riding to his right, cast a glance at Aragorn’s assertion. “You are certain, Sire?”
“Utterly.” Aragorn smiled faintly. “He is attending to duty. This may be an escape from me, but he will not shirk his responsibilities as steward. He must begin negotiations between two hostile parties, and in order to do so he must first convince all involved that his interests lie in the fair resolution of their conflict. He can not show favouritism to either side, or peace will never be gained. And his choice of which town to visit first is diplomatically meaningful.”
“I do not doubt that, Sire. You did wisely avert such a problem with our last meeting here. But I am not sure I follow your reasoning now.”
“One man can not be in two places at once, Lendimir,” Aragorn replied. “Faramir will need a convincing reason why he chooses to visit one of the towns first, and the best diplomatic explanation will be that I ordered him to visit them in order of their location along his route. Men may argue issues of rank, title, age, blood, and history, but they can give little protest against the unfairness of location.”
“I see,” Lendimir nodded. “A wise tactic. When my lads and I rode out, I had plenty of them to spare, so I could send four to each settlement and wait at the point between. I did not risk even visiting either one myself, for these settlers have proven that they can fight most persistently about the real or the imagined.”
“Indeed.” Aragorn shook his head. “Faramir will not incite them further, Captain. We need not concern ourselves with such.”
“I have faith in his abilities as well, Sire.”
“Good. Because he deserves all faith we have yet invested in him, and more. I believe that he could literally talk the trunk off an oliphaunt, were he to set his mind at the task.”
“No doubt, Sire.”
“And he is determined to see peace spread over Gondor. He demonstrates that each day. The innkeepers back in Minas Tirith — they are an example of his dedication and his skill.”
“Those two are still fighting, my lord.”
Aragorn glared briefly at Lendimir, but found no mirth on the guard’s weathered face. His temper died as quickly as it had flared. “I know that, Lendimir,” he sighed.
“I see little reason why we should meet with them ever again!”
Faramir inclined his head slightly at the councillor’s outburst. The council at Minas Tirith, rowdy and heated though it occasionally became, still managed to follow certain protocols about who held the floor at any one time. This council did not seem to abide by a single rule, and so each member simply thrust his opinion out whenever there arose the chance. The loudest voice had control. Maldorn, this was? Aye — he consulted his notes, the list of names he had jotted down after the introductions. Normally he would have had a scribe at such a large meeting, one to handle all the scribbling and to aid his memory (for recalling each name indicated his concern, that he took the matter at hand with all due seriousness), but this was somewhat thrilling. No aide, no assistance, naught beyond his own wits. “Councillor Maldorn,” he acknowledged before anyone else could interrupt, “please continue. I am most interested in what you have to say.”
“That’s what I have to say!” Maldorn replied, leaning forward and resting thick arms on the table. “I do not see why Karas Tuuur should get the benefit of any doubt! They steal from us time and again! Our labour goes into their soft bellies!”
“My esteemed Councillor,” Faramir replied, “the people of Karas Tuuur may seem like your mortal enemies, but they are men and women and children just as are the people of Eden Aur. And they have levelled similar accusations of theft.”
“Which are unfounded! I would not be surprised at all to hear that one of them made the whole thing up.”
“Perhaps.”
“No ‘perhaps,’ Captain.” Maldorn sniffed and leaned back once more. “Those people have declared themselves our enemies. They have stores of their own grain, plenty to hold them until next harvest, and yet they steal bread from my boys’ mouths!” Murmurs of assent flowed around the table.
Faramir nodded, noting the significance of the man’s words. “The thefts are truly unfortunate, and must be halted at once. I shall be conveying such a message to the residents of Karas Tuuur — of this you can rest assured. However, merely stopping criminal acts will not do either of your towns as much good as peace could do you all.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Damargon interjected.
“Quite simply, Councillors, I mean that the War is over. The Dark Lord had fallen and the One Ring has been cast into its primal flame, never to return. Peace is unfolding throughout Gondor, and it is a beauteous thing. ‘tis like a rebirth of the light after so much darkness. Men are working with dwarves and elves like ne’er before, and with each other, toward a future we all share. Forests that have been tinged with darkness are turning green again. Fields, plains, rivers are forgetting the taste of blood. Gondor is becoming a land of fertility, prosperity and friendship rather than of poverty and hate. Does Eden Aur not wish for such a boon? Does Eden Aur not wish for its citizens to wander the great land outside of its gates, and be safe and welcomed in that land?”
“Of course we wish for that,” Damargon replied shortly. “But WE are not the problem!”
“I have no doubt of your sincerity, Councillor,” Faramir assured the table. “None at all. But when I meet with Karas Tuuur’s council and hear their side of all this, will I not hear much the same thing from them?”
A few low mutters passed between the councillors, and Faramir waited. Of course they knew the truth, and there was no need to inform them that Maldorn had, in mentioning Karas Tuuur, unwittingly confessed to knowledge of his own people’s thefts against the other town. ‘twas a matter of convincing them without bruising their significant pride, of manoeuvring them without making them feel trapped. A delicate line stretched toward peace, and the diplomat’s task was ever to walk it, to encourage those on both sides to follow.
And most importantly to make it look effortless.
“You probably will hear much the same,” Damargon admitted, frowning. “You probably will, at that. And I am of a mind to trust your intentions, Captain Faramir, for you speak with sense but no bluster. Not like the guards who late summoned us to a council. But regardless of your motive, you do not know half of the nonsense we put up with from them!”
“I am certain that your patience is sorely strained,” Faramir soothed. “I ask you to trust not only in my good intentions, but also in my determination to bring Karas Tuuur to accord as well. The king wishes naught more than to see every citizen of Gondor enjoy freedom, opportunity, and harmony. This is your birthright, my friends,” he said, spreading his hands. “The War is over, and peace is the inheritance of every man, woman, and child in Gondor!”
“We shall see about that, I suppose,” replied Damargon. “But I shall be watching this situation closely, Captain,” he said, aiming a finger at Faramir. “And this council will not abide any actions which impede Eden Aur’s efforts to defend herself!”
Ganador stretched his arms over his head, listening to the crackles of sinew over joint. His shoulders ached; his neck ached; his back fared not much better. Long days tending the crops, coaxing precious shoots out of land that remembered evil and didn’t want to grow things...
Only to have it stolen. What a crime, ‘twas, that their hard work went into the mouths of those thieves. What a travesty! And now, now two days had each brought messengers from the king’s White City. It could be no coincidence that these messengers closely followed yet another of Karas Tuuur’s accusations. Well, if any soul from Eden Aur HAD been over to that dusty little settlement to take supplies, ‘twas a fair bet they only took back what had been taken from them first. ‘twas only fair!
But here were the messengers, and Ganador knew bloody well why. Word had reached Minas Tirith; the king up on his gilded throne was unhappy and wanted a stop to it. And Eden Aur would be blamed, his fellows and his family, for naught more than doing what they needed to do to put food back on their tables, where it belonged.
“What’re ye getting’ into yer head, Mate?”
“Not much good,” Ganador chuckled. “Tell me, Eothen, why does the king send a troop o’ the royal guards one day, then the steward right after?”
“Wouldn’t know,” shrugged Eothen, “but I’ll bet ye tell me.”
“Don’t it seem a mite suspicious?”
“Maybe. So why?”
“The guards got us to a meeting, and now this Captain Faramir wants to be sweet o’ tongue, ride in ‘ere alone and ask ever so politely for audience with the council. ‘tis a tactic, I’d say.”
“To what end?”
Ganador shook his head, studying his friend’s lined face. “Don’t ye believe that we work our bones too hard to lose the fruits of it, over and over again, to the likes o’ them?” he hissed.
“Course! I never said aught about that. But ye talk about the steward like one’s got aught to do with t‘other.”
“Maybe it does. Maybe it does. Them coward thieves just made another complaint about us.”
“Aye.” Eothen grimaced. “Don’t see what they got to complain about. We only take back what’s ours, after all.”
“Aye, that we do! I’ll just reckon this Faramir wants to make an issue out of it. Otherwise, why come? They send the guards to let us know they got teeth — then they send HIM, to charm us out of our own.”
Eothen shifted a bit closer, squinted briefly at a sinking sun before flicking his blue eyes back to Ganador’s face. “Are ye sayin’ we got to do somethin’?”
“Maybe we do,” Ganador nodded. “Maybe we’d be wise to watch this steward. I don’t trust him a bit, and I say we should damned well be ready for whatever comes next.”
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