Secret (PG) 
Written by Bubbles05 February 2006 | 52192 words
Part 5
“Eden Aur lies ahead, Sire,” Lendimir announced, pointing.
Aragorn grunted. The town rose from vast grassy plains, and for a moment he saw in it the humble beginnings of great cities, gleaming towered cities. Minas Tirith had been once just an alliance of poor houses that leaned toward each other and shook with every strong wind. No secrets had existed then; the private lives of the early townspeople had blown through cracks in rough wood. Children had played, grown, become parents, and the city had grown with them. It had hardened into stone — seven levels, walled. Great wooden gates that became the definers of good and bad. Good remained inside, sheltered. Other things — bad things — found themselves barred, condemned to be outside for eternity. From primal, organic roots the city had gone thus, thrusting itself down into stony Gondorian soil, thrusting itself outward to become the solid, safe, sparkling jewel of the land. “Would that Faramir have stayed there,” Aragorn muttered, his eyes on the approaching town.
“Sire?”
“Oh — my apologies, Lendimir.”
“Your mind wandered, Sire?”
Aragorn nodded. “I was thinking of Minas Tirith.”
“Would that he have remained within safe walls.”
“Aye.”
“I do not wish to overstep my authority, Sire,” Lendimir said.
“I think I’ve erased most of the boundaries.” Aragorn pulled his gaze from the town. They were too far from it to see details as yet; he would not be able to see any soul, no matter how his eyes strained.
“I have raised enough of my own, Sire, and I know that, even grown, there are times when they demand a parent’s utmost attention. I would say that, even if he fully believes himself to be running from you, your son is calling out for your attention now.”
“You think so?” Aragorn asked. ‘twas becoming a ritual between him and this guard who had, a few moons prior, been only a stranger to him. Lendimir gave him the answer; he still asked the question again.
“Aye, Sire,” Lendimir replied. “I think so.”
Waerynne flicked the mud from her skirts as she entered the barn. The horses whickered at her and she paused to greet each of them in turn. “Good-day, Sheeware; good-day, Lasareth; good-day, Tiny.” She giggled: Trythos, for all the godlike power of his name, was a small and fine-boned stallion whose head barely cleared the stall door. Aye, he could move, his shorter legs eating up the ground. And jump — she’d seen him clear a wall that caused many a larger stallion to balk. Ardon had told her of the time Tiny, burdened with a rider, had cleared Lasareth’s back. Was that just a story to fool a little sister and send her passively back to her waiting doll? She wanted to believe.
But it mattered not, for the horse was little and she could reach his soft nose to scratch it. She had affectionately dubbed him “Tiny” one day, and the name had stuck. Now, she had it on good authority, several of the grown-ups had taken to calling him Tiny as well!
Ignoring a (possibly) indignant snort, she strode to the end of the aisle, unlatched the door there and stepped boldly into the dark little room behind. A time there had been when she was too afeard to even throw that latch, because the Diraenes would get her. Resentful of innocence after their fall, they seized children in their birdlike claws, then ate them in an attempt to recapture a sense of purity. Oddly, they were also said to spread their great webbed wings in protection over married couples. Waerynne shook her head — monsters could be terribly fickle. But Father had said that a lass of eight was grown enough to face any daemon of the dark. And the horses did need to eat. Their needs were bigger than her worry. That was being a grown-up, Father said. She stepped inside, unrolling her canvas sack...
The oat bin was open, sitting against the wall like a gaping square mouth. Like it wanted to be, just once, the one that got fed instead of the one that fed every other thing. Nay — none of the grown-ups would have left it that way, for there were rats big as cats around Eden Aur, and supposedly they liked their oats. The little mice who could squeeze in through a hole the size of her little finger — those little souls were let alone. But the big rats and their big appetites were another story.
Waerynne moved to the bin and peered inside. Aye, there was definitely something amiss. When she had come just two days prior, the feed had reached nigh to the top, so that she only had to lay her sack on the smooth oat-hills and scoop them in with her giant oat-hill destroying hand; now there was barely enough to fill the sack. Her older brother had fed the horses last day, but he would not have used so much — and a mere three stallions would not have eaten all that! Distress fuelled her muscles and she turned to run, then as quickly stopped. Lasareth was gazing at her with his liquid brown eyes. She turned back to the bin, stood on tiptoes to stretch into it, and scraped the remaining oats into her sack. “‘tis alright, fellows,” she soothed, opening the stall doors one by one and distributing the meagre supply of feed among their pails. “I’ll go tell Father, and he’ll make this right. You’ll see.”
Her sack was empty. Waerynne checked each stall; the doors were latched. She eyed the horses sympathetically then ran from the barn. Father was working the fields, beyond the wall where she could not go, but she would go to the gate and shout, and he would hear.
The council adjourned after an hour made short by the scope of their discussion, made long by bickering and insults. Faramir rose with the others and they filed out of the oppressive little room. A few shoulders bumped going through the narrow door; Damargon fell back to walk at Faramir’s side. “I have to confess, young Steward,” he began, “that I was not hopeful about the purpose — or the potential outcome — of your visit.”
“My only intent here is to enable peace to develop,” Faramir replied quietly as they rounded the corner and moved out into the main square.
“Your words sound honest enough that I feel wont to trust in your motives. But your judgement and your capabilities both are another matter. Do you truly believe that such bitter enemies can put aside their many differences and grow together as friends?”
Faramir paused, gave the matter its due thought although he had ever known his answer to such a question. “Indeed,” he asserted. “I always have believed in our ability to make peace, for the things that make us different from one another are eternally less significant than the things which make us alike.”
“You certainly can phrase peace nicely,” Damargon commented. “And that is part of the reason I continue to listen. Although I do not know if every man here will share your— Hold! What is about?”
Several men approached, and a young girl with a pale, pinched face. “I need a word with the council,” one of the group demanded. One of the others, who Faramir recognized as Ganador the farmer, nodded.
“What is it, Eothen?” Damargon asked.
“My daughter ‘ere was in the barn, set to feed the horses.” Eothen laid a dusty hand on the girl’s thin shoulder. “She discovered another theft — all the oats are gone since just last eve! We can’t even be sure when the crime took place, because the beasts got hay to break their fast and no one was in to check the oat bin. But it must ‘ave happened in the dark of night — that’s when those craven vipers slither out of their nest!”
Faramir stiffened at the mutterings of the assembled councillors. Their anger was palpable. They stirred like bees, readying themselves to swarm. “If I may,” he interjected, “do we know as a certainty that this theft was committed by a resident of Karas Tuuur?”
Ganador rounded on him, glaring. “Of course ‘twas, ye right fool! Who else? Unless ye think the spirit of Sauron got hungry and reached into our humble little barn for a mid-night snack!” A few of the councillors chuckled in response; the rest nodded resolutely.
“I only suggest,” Faramir said, “that you wait before jumping to any conclusions. Perhaps ‘tis as you say — if it is, then I vow to you that I shall do my best to ensure that—”
“Nay, don’t ye be givin’ us any o’ yer pretty “assurances,” Steward.” Ganador snorted and took a step toward Faramir. “I don’t trust yer assurances, and I sure don’t trust YOU.”
“My good man,” Faramir reasoned, “I know that you have had years to grow so suspicious of your neighbours, and you have had reason for suspicion in the past. I do not expect to change your mind in a day. I just want the opportunity to put your fears to rest.”
“My fears?” Ganador laughed. “I fear naught. And I know what the likes o’ ye is up to ‘ere.”
“What would that be?” Damargon had held his tongue; now he raised an eyebrow and waited, expectant.
“I find it mighty convenient, councillor, that this minion of the king arrives from Minas Tirith a day after the soldiers come, and right after Karas Tuuur makes another one of its sordid accusations.”
Damargon tilted his head, and it seemed to Faramir that there was a brief tightening over the bridge of the man’s nose, a squeeze of brow. “The timing is... peculiar,” he conceded.
“I assure you, Councillor Damargon, and the rest of this esteemed council, that my arrival here has naught to do with the guards.” Faramir eyed first the council, then the other men in turn. An audience was gathering, listening. “The guards were here to arrange a meeting for the purposes of discussing security, as merchants traversing these parts have had difficulties of late. I am here to discuss not their concerns, but yours, and hopefully to assist with forming a treaty that will benefit both the towns and bring peace to you all.”
“Peace,” spat Ganador, briefly showing crooked yellow teeth. “I don’t believe a word of—”
“What’s that?” One of the councillors pointed. Through the open gates, distant over the grassland, there approached a band of riders. A pennant flew over them, dark-edged against the sky.
“They make haste,” Damargon said.
“They’re from Minas Tirith!” Eothen exclaimed.
Aragorn saw the wall ahead, and the tops of wooden structures enclosed by it. His eyes ran over tilled land, up the road that ribboned its way through open gates. Within those gates stood a small crowd.
Lendimir, at his side, peered forth. “I can not tell you if Faramir is among them, Sire.”
“Nay — I can see no more than you from this distance. But I believe one of them pointed out toward us.”
“Aye.”
As Aragorn watched, there was movement. One of the men broke from the group and ran to the gates; a second man followed suit. “What are they doing?” he murmured.
“Sire, they close the gates!”
“They must see our banner and know us to be ally! What are they—”
The town folded in on itself and he could see no more.
“Those are the king’s men!” Faramir protested. “They come only to—”
“I care not!” Ganador pivoted from the gate and strode to Damargon. “I ask this council to see the plain truth that those soldiers come with the intent o’ takin’ away our freedoms!”
Damargon looked from Ganador to his fellow councillors and saw agreement in their eyes. He glanced at Faramir, paused a beat. Then: “You!” He pointed to the farrier, whose history in battle was well known. “Arm yourself! All of you, men — if the king believes that he can simply send his guards in here and lay claim to that for which we have toiled, then he is gravely mistaken! We have all fought, one way or another.” Damargon turned, swept his gaze over the restless crowd. “We fight again this day!” he declared, and the murmurs of assent turned to shouts. Men scattered, ran for the swords they had left in homes, in the meagre armoury.
“To home with ye!” Eothen barked, unwinding Waerynne’s frightened fingers from his tunic. “To yer mother’s side, and do not leave!” The girl ran, skirts a startled flutter on the breeze.
Faramir stood helpless as the situation reeled out of his control. His stomach tightened; ai, but a diplomat ever knew that when he walked into a tense situation he could make it either better or worse. His nightmare was ever the same — taking fragile peace and kindling it into violence. “Councillors, please!” he shouted, competing with the din. “Damargon — we have spoken at length about this!”
There seemed another brief tightening of the man’s brow, but ‘twas gone then. “I am sorry, Captain,” the councillor said, “because I do believe you have a pure and just motive for being here. But Eden Aur must defend herself now. Raegnor! Cathos! Guard our guest!”
Faramir gave the young men, dirty fingers curled around tarnished swords, only a moment to turn in his direction before drawing his own blade. Two against one was never the best of circumstances, but the steward of Gondor had fought his way out of far worse.
Andurin gleamed, eager. Hasufel’s strides quickened yet more so that they were streaking, thundering across the plain. The scrubby grass yielded; the tilled black soil churned under their hooves like water made choppy by a hammering of rain.
Lendimir pulled Settys up short; the rest followed suit. The gates rose before them, but these gates were nowhere near as solid and daunting as the great main gates of Minas Tirith.
“What say you, Lendimir?” Aragorn asked, running his eyes over the wall. “It does not look impressive.”
“Nay, Sire. We should have little difficulty gaining entry.”
“But... ”
“Indeed. What awaits us, I can only guess.”
“People of Eden Aur!” Aragorn called. “I am King Elessar Telcontar, and I demand entrance!”
“I think not, Sire!” came the answering call. “We are prepared to defend ourselves!”
“Against what, I ask you! Are we not allies?”
“Aye, Sire, we would be! But we cannot call friend any man who sides with Karas Tuuur, the instigator of our problems!”
“Open your gates, by order of your king!” Lendimir bellowed.
“The people of Eden Aur recognize no king who tries to take from them their liberty in deference to a band of common thieves!”
Aragorn gritted his teeth, recalling another set of voices defiantly raised. The innkeepers had been just as intransigent, and Faramir had seen fit to wade right into the middle of their dispute. “I wish to speak to Captain Faramir, my steward!” he shouted.
Faramir, the wall at his back, listened mutely to the exchange. King Elessar was outside the wall, under the banner of the White City. King Elessar had ridden from Minas Tirith — to fetch him? To fetch him... Now the weight of it pressed down on him. He had ridden headlong into this, and the king himself was involved.
His would-be conquerors or guards, Raegnor and Cathos, stood with swords drawn but had as yet made no serious move toward him. They seemed hesitant, eyeing each other, occasionally raising a brow or a shoulder as if carrying on some silent conversation. Or an argument. He waited.
“I wish to speak to Captain Faramir, my steward!”
His eyes remaining on the two men, Faramir called back, “I am here, Sire! This is naught but a simple misunderstanding!”
“Rest assured, Captain, we shall resolve things presently!”
Faramir glanced at Damargon. The man did not catch his gaze, and he could not afford to stare when two others seemed only to be waiting for an opportunity to rush him. His head was throbbing; his neck radiated tension that hunched its way down his spine like a creeping worm and brewed a faint nausea deep in his belly. His sword was a reassuring weight, but it did not open the gates, nor bring the king’s soldiers inside. For the moment, he was alone.
“He is alright,” Aragorn breathed. Then he raised his voice again, injecting the weight of his authority into each word. “You men in there will open the gates and receive my troops, and once you have done so we will speak of your concerns. Until then, I am fully prepared to regard you all — men, women, children — as enemies in my land, and to take appropriate action!”
There was a pause. Scraps of conversation flew over the gate, under it. Voices were raised — perhaps there was dissent among the ranks. Lendimir leaned close to him. “It seems they are not all in agreement, Sire.”
“Nay,” Aragorn muttered. “I just hope that circumstances inside do not become overly confused — that is the last thing we need, with us out here and my son in there.”
One of the gates began to open, quickly, as though being dragged by a determined force. A shout ripped through: ‘—ye daft? Close that—’ The gate abruptly reversed course.
Hasufel and Settys, however, wasted not a heartbeat of time. One cluck of tongue and flick of rein set them into motion, the other soldiers following. A few strides and they were there, already carried by their momentum; Aragorn held his blade high; Lendimir held his blade high; Hasufel reached the gate first and with a clarion whinny that one stallion uses when challenging another he shouldered up against the wood, his weight, his armoured king’s weight hitting the wood, splintering the gate and forcing it open once more. And they were moving through, charging, flooding through like blood through torn skin... and into chaos.
The king’s words hit them with the force of a blow, and Faramir watched them blanch under realization. Their stubborn pride, their hubris had led them against the leader of all of Gondor — a man who had led the Nine Walkers, who Sauron and Saruman and all the forces of evil had not been able to defeat! The councillors looked helplessly at one another. They were bureaucrats and had been for a time; their days of battle were over. Would they even take a sword in hand? And what then? Die in battle? Die later under the executioner’s blade, should the king decide it? Their initial rush of patriotism cooling, now their eyes only asked questions.
Eothen broke first, running to the gates and frantically dragging one open. But Ganador as quickly rushed to intercede, two other sword-wielding men at his side. They tussled briefly with Eothen before throwing him bodily out of the way and forcing the gate closed.
That was the signal, their first apparent victory against the king’s men, and it fuelled them: the fight was still on! Faramir spun in time to counter Cathos’ sudden lunge, parrying and keeping his back to the wall. Raegnor had retreated further, but he knew enough not to assume the man would stay away. They could not be given the chance to surround him. He deftly sent Cathos’ sword flying and found himself free — and then things turned.
The gate flew open again with an almighty crack as aged wood was met by nigh a thousand minas of barrelling horse and man. The men inside, trying to bar the way, were put off their feet, and in charged a mass of pure motion, white and brown and grey. Armour and horses glistened in the sun. Faramir turned in that moment, his eye catching one rider whose wild dark hair flew like a banner of triumph and whose sword was raised high — he could not help turning even as he knew the enemy was all about — vaguely and too late he realized his error, for Raegnor was suddenly bold and fearless and moving in — he saw the dull glint of steel and raised his blade to meet it, and while he was fighting the second man, the first retrieved fallen sword and swung back toward the fight...
Faramir threw himself at Raegnor, anger fuelling him, and when he was too close to fight with his blade he swung his free fist instead, expecting any moment to feel the death stroke from Cathos. Damn them! Damn their stubborn pride and their paranoia! He landed an almighty blow to Raegnor’s jaw, watched the young man’s body fall boneless to the ground, and then halted his advance — where was Cathos? Where? He turned, but the world was chaotic; townspeople were running past him; he could not see his other foe...
As he made to turn again, he was blinded by a flash of steel. Elessar was a shadow streaking by, a dark, bright-edged spectre blowing by. Cathos had moved behind him, out of sight, and now he could see the man charging and Elessar was there. Faramir raised his sword even as he realized he would not need to use it, then he let it simply fall. Raegnor was still down, not likely hurt but at least out of the way. Cathos seemed suddenly passive and uninterested in fighting. Faramir could not tell if the man was injured, and he did not care.
Elessar was down and still, bleeding into the grey soil.
—Nay, Captain—
—I will not—
—must get to—
... ... ... —almost—
The darkness began to lift, slowly, gently. ‘twas black as eternal night, then ‘twas grey, then lighter. The weight was everything, all about him. Then the weight was not everything. Heavy, lighter... lighter. A blanket.
“Sire?”
He opened his eyes. Ai — mistake, mistake—
“Peace, Sire. Aye, ‘tis bright, but the lamps have been snuffed now. Ye can open yer eyes again. That’s better, hm?”
Aye, better. Illewyn was hovering, her old eyes dark and soft. He tried to nod, to acknowledge her, but she was floating away and his head was too massive to move. Massive, buzzing, a swarm of bees. He tasted sweetness — had they given him honey? Nay, sickly. Awful.
“I know, Sire,” Illewyn’s voice came again, washing over him. “That stuff is vile, but ‘twill make ye feel better. ‘tis early yet; ye sleep now, for a touch.”
Feel better. Sleep now. Feel...
Faramir sighed and did a thing he was not generally wont to do: he rolled from his one side onto the other, pulled the blankets up a bit higher, and relaxed into his pillow.
Nay — he had never done that, not that he could recall. Always the creeping pre-dawn light had seen him awake, anxious to rise, anxious to get on with the day. From his boyhood he had been the one who was up and dressed while the others were still stirring, blinking owlishly, fumbling for their boots. Aye, Boromir had always seemed to be up a few heartbeats after he, but it had always been after — never before.
He mused idly, snuggling deeper into his nest. Boromir, even before joining the Rangers, had always risen early out of simple impatience, the sheer desire to resume the business of living. You can sleep when you’re dead! Aye, Boromir had said that more than once to a visiting chum. Now Boromir could sleep.
The one whose uses were few had risen earlier than his brother’s enthusiasm. He had risen earliest, always, uncurling from sheets and blankets, thrusting from warmth out into the cold. Rain on the windows, wind shrieking in the trees. None of it had ever driven him back for a few moments more rest.
But his brother’s flame had never burned in him. Nay, there seemed to be no reason that he would push upward and outward from his warm private space, one cold morn after another. Perhaps he had simply desired to escape the nightmares that were so typically a part of his sleep. Perhaps he had desired to escape others, if only for that short spell of peace before they woke and joined him in the world. Nay, too simple an answer. Far too simple.
Haste. When he thought of that word it felt right, like a truth settling in his brain. A sense of urgency had always fuelled him, driven his muscles into movement. Get up early, earlier, earlier still. Get on with it; get on with it; get on with it — for he of few uses should find ways to be a little more useful; he of little wisdom should spend a little more time with books; he of no future should hasten to carve something out of the miserable present. Like an insect that lived for a few short days, he buzzed and batted himself against the walls. But the morning had never come early enough for him to prove himself worthy.
His eyes opened, and he rose.
This time the room was bright and he minded it not. He had returned to himself, remembering the urgent ride out of Minas Tirith, the hunched and introverted demeanour of Eden Aur, the cacophony of voices that had greeted his entry into the shabby town. Then flashes of steel, flashes of pain, fragments of conversation infused with an overwhelming darkness.
Where was Faramir? Aragorn let his eyes wander over the comfortable furnishings of his chamber. He lay in his own warm bed, not in the House of Healing, and no attendants lingered obviously nearby: his injury had not been serious, then. Ai — when that bloody villager had hit him, it had felt serious enough! He had felt the hilt of the raised sword connect with his skull, then glance off. A poor blow: the swordsman had obviously been unprepared for anyone to come between him and his intended target. That was lucky. Faramir... he turned his head to gaze out the window; the flag of Gondor flapped gloriously in a morning breeze, full-height. The steward’s death would have seen it lowered. He took a deep breath.
“Ah, Sire.” Illewyn, her movements silent as a shadow despite her corpulent frame, was in the open doorway. “I see we’re awakened, and not feeling so poorly as before.”
“Aye, good nurse,” Aragorn sighed, stretching past the tightness in one shoulder. “I feel much improved. But let me ask you: have you seen Captain Faramir? Is he among your patients?”
The nurse glided to his bedside. “Nay, Sire, and I’ve not seen the lad since last night. He was exhausted; Master Lendimir sent ‘im to ‘is bed after a time and I’m sure ‘e’s been there since.” She laid a hand on Aragorn’s brow. “I fretted a touch about fever, my lord. Ye passed the night in such a deep sleep that it seemed ye might never wake. When ye did, just before dawn, ye were in some pain. But we steeped a strip o’ willow bark and that seems to ‘ave done the trick. “
“The vile tea you gave me.”
“No soul ever said it had to taste good to work,” Illewyn chuckled.
“You said ‘exhausted.’”
“Sire?”
“Captain Faramir. You said he was exhausted.”
Illewyn flashed a smile that surely had years of training behind it. “Aye, Sire, and ye surely are one to worry yerself about yer men. He was weary from the long day, but otherwise fit.”
“Good,” Aragorn replied. “Good.”
“Sire, are ye up for a visitor? The master guard ‘imself has been ‘overing outside.”
“Aye. Entreat him to give me a moment, though.” At the old woman’s departure, Aragorn rose. Dizziness washed over him, but ‘twas not too bad. Not like the waves of a choppy sea — more like the fingers of water that lap at pebbles on a shore. He breathed deeply and gained his feet, then moved to the basin that graced a nearby table. A few handfuls of cool water splashed over his face, wet fingers run through his hair and beard, he felt greatly refreshed. He turned back toward the bed but rejected it nigh at once: the sitting area was more appropriate. Slipping quickly into breeches and a loose shirt, he settled there.
“Sire?” Lendimir was in the doorway.
“Aye,” Aragorn greeted. “Come in, please.”
“I apologize for interrupting your... rest, my lord.”
Aragorn heard the slight emphasis on “rest,” but decided to let pass its possible censure. “Not at all, Lendimir,” he said. “Tell me of Faramir.”
“He is fine, Sire. He was unhurt in the attack.”
“The nurse told me. Thank the gods. But where is he now? You sent him to bed, she says.”
“Aye, Sire, that I did.”
“Are you certain he remained there? If he took it into his head to try leaving again—”
“Sire,” Lendimir said, raising a hand. “I took it upon myself to post a guard at his door — just for the night, with instructions to leave come dawn. The young man seems to have difficulties securing himself adequate rest, and I knew ‘twould reassure you to have him under lock and key, at least for the meantime. I have also alerted the lads that Lord Faramir is not going to be leaving Minas Tirith without a proper escort. That is a standing order. I have not, of course, told them that they now guard the crown prince, but I have made it abundantly clear that he is not to leave this city alone — ‘diplomatic errand’ or no.”
Aragorn relaxed a bit in his chair. “I thank you,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “My first thoughts upon waking were of him — I fell and saw naught of what happened — I knew not whether he was wounded... or worse... ”
“Not a scratch on him, Sire. You were the concern, for all of us.” Lendimir regarded the king evenly. “In that chaotic time after we returned with you, he refused to leave your side. He asked a thousand questions if he asked a single one; eventually, I had to usher him from the House of Healing lest the healers themselves turn homicidal at his pestering. He convinced them, just before I saw him out of there, that you would be far more comfortable in your own bed than in a cot in the healing chamber. I took it as a victory that I was able to convince him to go sleep, himself.”
“He is loyal,” Aragorn murmured.
Lendimir quirked an eyebrow, and for a moment took on the air of ageless wisdom that rested with such apparent ease on Lord Elrond’s regal shoulders. “What I witnessed last night, Sire,” he replied, “was far more than loyalty.”
Aragorn searched the guard’s dark eyes. He stilled the question that rose in his throat.
“Eden Aur has been secured, Sire,” Lendimir continued. “The inhabitants, realizing you fallen, also realized the extent of their transgressions: many a sword-wielding man fell to his knees at that, weeping as solicitously as a maid who’s just broken the plate. I left four guards with instructions to keep general order, and I made certain the townspeople knew that I would be dispatching a full troop upon my return to Minas Tirith.”
“Were any of your men injured?”
“Nay, Sire. We were most fortunate. Although I do not in all honesty believe the settlers foresaw their actions causing bodily harm. From the looks on their faces when you were struck down, I could see. They had not thought their little rebellion through to the point wherein any of them would be forced to inflict a wound.” Lendimir snorted faintly. “Farmyard warriors, most. More comfortable with a hoe in hand than with a blade.”
“The one who struck me seemed comfortable enough.”
“Aye, but I believe his courage came from altogether a different place. He had just seen another fall at Faramir’s hand.”
“Aye.”
“As soon as you were down, my lord, the fight just seemed to drain out of him. He made for the other one’s side and remained there.”
“Fellows.”
“Perhaps more.”
“Ah. So the troop has departed?”
“Aye, led by Lieutenant Mendren. It will have arrived by now, carrying my written orders to seize all weaponry out of private hands, secure the armoury, secure the horses, and ask some very pointed questions of the town council.”
“Good.”
“Criminal charges, Sire?”
“Against the men who attacked Faramir and I, definitely. About the rest, we shall see.”
“A few of the lads expressed a desire to ride out to Aglarond and South Ithilien with the news of your injury. I told them to stand down.”
Aragorn blinked. “You did.”
“Aye, Sire. I half believed that they desired a bit of vengeance: tell Lords Legolas and Gimli of this, and Eden Aur would find itself in deeper trouble than it already faces from us. I can envision a contingent of elven archers and axe-wielding dwarves descending on the town, and I’m fairly certain that is the same vision my lads entertained.” Lendimir flashed a brief grin. “Besides, the lords would hasten to be with you, and I heard tell from a rather wise soul that you need some time alone with your son.”
“My friend,” Aragorn replied, laughing mirthlessly, “I believe that I may be coming to depend on you far too much.”
“I do not think so, Sire.”
“Nay?”
“Nay.”
Faramir bathed, dressed slowly. His chamber was sun-lit and cheery, but he left the window closed. As he pulled on his boots, he recalled the dusty ground of Eden Aur and the way King Elessar had looked lying upon it. As he fastened his belt, he recalled Lendimir’s hands — strange that he should remember such — blocky yet deft as they hastened to Hasufel’s gear. The guards had transferred to the king’s riderless stallion Settys’ minimal packs, that Settys be free to take a second burden. And they had lifted the unconscious king onto the horse, entrusted him to Lendimir’s strong arms for the ride back home.
A head wound, a deep gash that had bled alarmingly. King Elessar, leaping from Hasufel, had rushed past Faramir to engage Cathos. There had been no fight, really, just a mad sudden rush and the quiet that came after.
Cathos had been coming for him, unseen by him. The charge not of a warrior but of a raging and murderous coward, that had been. The sword had been raised high, like in the statues and paintings of the old gods fighting. Had that attack been to avenge Raegnor’s fall?
Nay, the king had not had the chance to fight on his behalf, but only time enough to separate him from danger. It had been a sacrifice, the thing a man does when there is naught else left to do. He had always known that he would have done such for Boromir, as Boromir would have done such for him. No matter the peril, no matter the futility — when a man saw his kin about to be cut viciously down...
“He had to have known he could die.” Faramir started at the voice before realizing it to be his own. Aye, the king had to have known, seeing the enemy coming like an enraged bull, that stepping into the path of such a charge could have proved lethal. And he had done it. He had done it, and there had seemed not even a moment’s hesitation.
“He did it for me,” Faramir said shakily, to the wall.
Illewyn voiced her objections, which were duly heard and overruled. Aragorn finished dressing, tucking in the shirt and slipping on a tunic, retrieving his boots. No robes this day, for his headache lingered and a council meeting — or virtually any royal business — would surely drive him mad. He needed not more politics, not more angry voices and intractable positions. He sought clean air; he sought sunshine.
He sought Faramir, first. Last. Every thought in his head wheeled around the young man (the crown prince, aye) like stars wheeling through the night sky. Tiny pricks of infinite light, each one of them singing metallically of a son, unknown and then known, gone and then returned.
Faramir had not, after allegedly hovering so close by his side the night prior, returned to him. Aragorn drifted through the citadel’s corridors like a moth, turning to the steward’s office, venturing up to the private quarters where he had released life-changing news while standing in a doorway. The rooms were empty, their secrets all told.
Out of the citadel, then. He knew that Faramir cherished solitude, indulging, in those rare duty-free moments of a day, in long walks through the gardens. Small escapes from the world. So he struck out down a path festooned with the first bold lilac blooms, with apple blossom that unfurled like butterfly wings from the cocoon, with stiff young hyacinth and creeping tangles of vine from which perfect five-petalled periwinkles would soon open. The air was green-scented, spicy. Pine, cedar, fir clawed skyward as if summoning the gods.
Aragorn wandered through the enchantment, wound down roads travelled oft with his friends and fellows. His heart fluttered weakly against his ribs, like a bird seeking escape, and the blood rushed urgently through his veins. Each step on stone echoed; each corner promised a reward that did not come.
And then did. Faramir was there, across a small clearing like the one where he had sat with Lendimir and spilled his troubles. A fountain rose between them and spilled clear water into its stone basin. The paving stones, intricately carved, parted slightly for moss to wend through, and grass edged the circular plaza and its spilling stone angel. The trees that ringed it left off once on each side — a path in, a path out. Ingress and escape.
Faramir had not seen him, and Aragorn paused at the clearing’s edge. Another doorway in which he could (should?) hover. He waited, silent, watching the young man who sat cross-legged against a tree. Faramir’s eyes rested vaguely on something up and distant, off to Aragorn’s left. Naught perhaps. Faramir’s face was slack and unlined; the small creases that seemed to have taken up permanent residence on that fair brow had faded and left only faint lines. Echoes of worry arrived and departed and returned, departed and returned again, carving themselves a place in willing skin. Light brown waves of hair spilled down to lean shoulders. There seemed a profound stillness, as though Faramir had been planted in that place along with the bench and the angel, inanimate, only looking more alive. Aragorn let his eyes linger, searching for scratches, bruises, signs of the battle. There were none, and he sighed.
Faramir’s eyes sharpened then, and emotion crept back into the passive face. Lips that had rested together in unthinking ease now pursed, thinning their fullness in reaction to him. Aragorn made no move. “We need to speak, Faramir,” he said.
Recovering the demeanour of a proper steward, Faramir scrambled to stand. Duty slipped between the two men like a sheer curtain. Or like a stone wall, father and son eternally on opposite sides. “My apologies, Sire. I did not hear you come,” the captain greeted, straightening and issuing a perfunctory nod. A proper nod, properly professional.
Aragorn hated the nod. ‘twas a careful little gesture, creeping out to the wall and poking it to make sure it was sound. “Quite alright,” he said, and crossed the plaza to where Faramir had sat. The young man might have tacitly retreated behind a barrier, but there was no reason why he could not follow. “You have doubtless had much on your mind,” he continued, taking a seat on the nearest bench and patting the spot beside him. “Come. Let us talk.”
Stiffly, it seemed, Faramir walked to the bench and complied. Long fingers twisted themselves into a tangle in his lap. A confusion. “Of what do you wish to speak, my lord?” he asked.
“I am more than certain you know,” Aragorn replied. “We have not had a chance since... that night.”
“Nay.”
“You departed on your rather sudden “diplomatic mission” to Eden Aur, and I was unable to seek you out as I so wished to do.”
“Sire—” The word emerged plaintively, something suspended between a sigh and a whimper. Faramir shook his head, lips parted as if ready to form words of explanation or of plea, but naught came.
“Nay, Faramir,” Aragorn stated evenly. “Silence will not do, this time. Explain to me: why did you leave without a word?”
“Sire, I... I have duties.”
“I know. But you neglected to answer my question, and I will hear your explanation yet.”
“I need to—”
“Nay. No more retreat, no more silence.” Aragorn turned toward Faramir. His right knee brushed the young man’s left, unthinkingly, familiarly. The way families touch like pieces of a puzzle, blind and accepting, curving to fit each other. “We must speak of this,” he said, “and we will, but first I must apologize for the greatest silence of all — the silence of a father toward his son.”
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