Truth will out
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of
the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his
own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of
your son: give me your blessing: truth will come
to light; murder cannot be hid long; a man's son
may, but at the length truth will out. - Shakespeare- the Merchant of Venice
With grateful thanks to Raksha
“Please help my daughter; she has lost her wits!" cried Hareth, approaching in
a state of great agitation.
“I am coming,” Aragorn joined the woman. She grabbed his arm and pulled him towards her hut.
Faramir followed in case Aragorn might need him. He kept his hand on his sword lest events had taken a turn for the worse and might cause the villagers to threaten his lord. He stayed a few steps behind and discreetly waited outside once they reached their destination.
Several candles illuminated the hut, allowing Aragorn to see that Vanreth now sat up in bed, retching violently and tearing at her clothing. She stared ahead with wide, terrified eyes. Tasariel tried to restrain the young woman with one hand while holding a basin in the other.
“I’m glad you have come,” said a relieved Tasariel.
“Something crawls over me!” cried Vanreth. “Gwinhir! He is in danger! Someone find my baby!"
“He is with Finrod,” Hareth said gently.
“They have stolen him!” Vanreth exclaimed before starting to retch again. She then lashed out at Tasariel, landing a glancing blow on the woman’s shoulder.
Aragorn approached the bedside. Vanreth seemed hardly aware of his presence. She plucked fretfully at the blankets and the linen shift she was wearing.
“There is nought to worry about,” he told the anxious Hareth and Tasariel. “Reactions like this are usual after being bitten by a poisonous spider. I will try to calm her”
He reached out and caught Vanreth’s wrists and pressed on them, murmuring “Easy now,” as he did so. The retching eased somewhat but Vanreth remained highly agitated. She cried “No, no it chokes me; make them take it off!" She stared at the blanket in wild alarm.
“She is reliving the terror of being sewn in her shroud,” Aragorn explained. While Tasariel restrained the young woman, he laid a hand on Vanreth's brow, then lightly brushed his fingertips over her eyelids.”Sleep now, “ he told her gently. Almost at once, Vanreth went limp. “Make some water hot,” Aragorn instructed her mother.
When Hareth returned a few minutes later with a bowl of freshly boiled water, Aragorn took two athelas leaves from his pouch, breathed on them and cast them into the steaming water. He bathed Vanreth’s face with the mixture. As Aragorn wiped her brow and cheeks with the wet cloth, the woman's taut features relaxed and her breathing deepened.
“I need to look at the bite,” he told the women.
Hareth nodded while Tasariel pulled back the blankets to reveal a bite just below Vanreth's knee. The bite resembled an archery target, and, Aragorn noted, it looked almost exactly the same as had Faramir's wound at this stage. Like the Steward’s bite, it was obviously inflamed.
“That needs lancing and a poultice of cabbage leaves,” Tasariel said sagely.
“Indeed so, Mistress, “ Aragorn agreed, tactfully not saying that he had been about to suggest the same remedies. He cleansed his knife in the candle while Hareth fetched the leaves. With Tasariel’s help, the procedure was quickly completed and a bandage applied to Vanreth’s leg. He then felt his patient’s forehead again and frowned. She was drenched in a cold sweat and shivering, as Faramir had been upon awakening from the deathlike stupor.
“How can I aid her?” her mother asked, misery in her eyes.
“Bathe her in warm water and change her nightgown, “ Aragorn told Hareth. "Then I suggest you or Mistress Tasariel hold her until she stops shivering. She has a fever and needs keeping warm. She should be much better in a few hours, but I will need to awaken her.”
“Thank you, Master Morrandir,” said Hareth.” I will care for my little girl now.” She soothed her daughter tenderly; stroking back the sweat soaked hair. Vanreth sighed softly as if sensing her mother’s loving presence.
“ Call me at once if you need me,” said Aragorn. He tactfully withdrew and rejoined Faramir. The Steward was hovering anxiously outside the door. “She lives and should be well by the morning,” he told his friend, sighing with relief. "I had feared that both she and her child would die and I had raised false hopes in their loved ones.”
“The boy is so young,” Faramir said sadly, “If the spider’s venom could fell a grown man such as I, what hope has a little child?”
“That is what I fear,” Aragorn said grimly. ”We can only wait and hope.”
He and Faramir were just about to settle down again to snatch a few hours sleep for what remained of the night when Tasariel emerged from the hut and joined them.” I just wanted to tell you how grateful I am that you realised Vanreth was alive,” she told Aragorn. ”It would have broken her poor mother’s heart had she died. After Hareth's sons were killed in the war, her husband just faded away from the grief of his loss. Hareth would have faded too were it not for the love she bears her daughter. She was so happy when little Gwinhir was born.”
“I wish I could have continued to tend the little boy,” said Aragorn. “Alas; his father was adamant that I should not.”
“Finrod is a good man, but a stubborn one,” Tasariel remarked.
“That seems to be a common trait in these parts,” Aragorn said wryly.
“I think I should take a look at young Gwinhir,” said Tasariel. “Finrod respects me. You are welcome to come with me, Master Morrandir. I shall tell him that his wife’s condition is improving."
“Than you, Mistress,” said Aragorn. His respect for the village Healer was growing.
“Master Finrod!” called Tasariel, knocking on the door of the young farmer’s hut.
When there was no reply, she pushed open the door. The hut was clean and nicely furnished. A child’s playthings were scattered around the floor. However, a grim sight met their eyes. Finrod lay slumped on the floor, a flagon of wine in his hand. Beside him lay his son, silent and unmoving.
Aragorn snatched up the child. The small body felt cold. Desperately, his pressed his ear to the little boy’s chest. The faint heartbeat was still there but feebler than ever. Tasariel bent over Finrod. "He is the worst for drink,” she pronounced. “ He must have thought both his wife and son were dead and decided to drown his sorrows. If only he had believed you! How is the child?”
“Alive but by a mere thread,” said Aragorn. ”The infection has not come to a head as it should. I feared this might happen in so young a child. I need hot water and quickly!”
“I will fetch some from Hareth,” said Tasariel. She hurried away.
“Hold the child and keep him warm,” Aragorn instructed Faramir.” "Light a candle from the lamp too.”
“What are you going to do?” the Steward asked.
“I can only hope that athelas might hold some power over a wound like this, “ the King replied grimly, placing his bag of healing supplies on a table.” I will have to rely on my instincts.”
Tasariel returned with a large bowl of steaming water, which she placed on the table.
The King selected a small, sharp knife from amongst his tools and held in it the candle flame.
“What are you doing?” Tasariel asked in alarm. “Surely you do not plan to cut the baby?”
“If the wound is not opened, he will surely die,” Aragorn replied grimly. ”Place the child on the table,” he told Faramir. The King washed his hands with soap, and examined the small red mark, feeling carefully round the edges. Then Aragorn took up the knife and made two small but deep cuts across it. “Let it bleed for a moment,” he cautioned Tasariel, who made as if to staunch the wound. “The poisons need to be washed away."
Aragorn took two athelas leaves and breathed on them; then crushed them in his hands and placed them over the wound, holding them in place. “Gwinhir!” he called. "Turn back from the darkness! I bid you come to me!” He sustained the healing trance for some time, calling urgently until his voice grew faint and the colour drained from his face. He sank to his knees. Rivulets of sweat trickled down his cheeks
“ Ara-er-Ada!” Faramir cried in alarm. “Have a care! You cannot help the child by killing yourself! You have a wife and son who love and need you. Many depend upon you! I beg you, for the love I bear you, to desist!” He grabbed Aragorn’s shoulders and was about to shake him out of the trance when suddenly Gwinhir gave a cry and opened his eyes. Blood and pus poured from the wound.
“Staunch it, Mistress,” Faramir ordered. He quickly threw his arm around the grey-faced King, seeing that his lord was close to collapse. With his free hand, Faramir threw another athelas leaf in the bowl and placed it under Aragorn’s face. The scent was pleasant but lacked the power it had earlier. Faramir dipped a cloth in the bowl and wiped his lord’s face.
“What ails him?” asked Tasariel, tying the final knot on the bandage she had wrapped round Gwinhir’s chest.
“Healing drains his strength, Mistress,” Faramir explained without thinking. “The athelas can aid him, but he alone can utilise its full healing power.”
“Strange indeed,” said Tasariel eyeing them shrewdly. Gwinhir began to cry loudly and she turned her attention to trying to soothe him. “ I have never seen the like before. No Man has the power to bring back one so close to death as the child was!”
“It is a skill that came from my longfathers,” said Aragorn. A little colour had returned to his cheeks, but he was still reliant on Faramir’s supporting arm to keep him upright. “Take the child to Mistress Hareth. I am certain she will take good care of him and he should sense his mother’s presence nearby.”
“You must rest now, lord,” said Tasariel, eying Aragorn as if he were some strange creature. “I will bring you some tea in a moment.”
“ I need air!” said Aragorn.
“Come, ada! I will take care of you.” Supporting his friend, Faramir gently led him outside past Finrod who now snored in a drunken stupor. The Steward settled his lord under the tree where they had been sleeping. He had just tucked a blanket around him when Tasariel returned with two steaming mugs of tea.
“Thank you, Mistress,” said the Steward. He held a cup to Aragorn’s lips.
“I will leave you to rest,” said Tasariel. “I doubt your father will be fit for reaping in the morning.”
“Can you not ask your husband to let him rest?” said Faramir. “ He has saved two of your people, that should surely be sufficient payment for the crops we damaged!”
“So it should,” said Tasariel with a kind smile. “ I must return to Vanreth now".
As soon as the two men had drained their mugs, Aragorn fell into an exhausted slumber. Faramir was slow to sleep as he fretted over what the morrow might bring. He feared it would kill Aragorn to work again in the fields. If their hosts insisted that Master Morrandir exhaust himself further, Faramir would reap in his place; or bear the King away and to the Darkness with anyone's objections! A faint light was already appearing on the Eastern horizon and dawn could not be far off.
Aragorn was awoken, not by the cock crowing but the warm sun on his face. Slowly and stiffly, he sat up. Faramir was sitting beside him and smiling. “At last you are awake!” he exclaimed. “Mistress Tasariel is waiting for us to eat breakfast.”
A few minutes later, King and Steward joined the other villagers. Most had already finished their morning meal.
“Do not forget there is work to be done after breakfast,” Beleg greeted them sourly.”You are not the only ones who had little sleep last night!”
Aragorn sighed wearily. Would nothing satisfy this farmer save his collapse in Beleg's field from exhaustion?”
"Let me do my father's share of the reaping," Faramir demanded. "My father needs rest."
“Master Falborn is in no fit condition to work, unless you want another worker to drop dead, Beleg!” Tasariel said sternly, glaring at her husband. “And I believe his father is also unfit for scything. I would examine him too. Come, Master Morrandir!”
Aragorn felt a firm hand upon his arm. ”Mistress, there is no need for this!” he protested.
“Let us settle the matter once and for all,” said Beleg.
Faramir could only watch helplessly as Tasariel led his lord away.
“If you would remove your shirt, Master Morrandir,” said Tasariel once they were inside her hut. “I need to see if you are half starved like your son.”
“I prefer to remain fully clothed,” Aragorn said in his firmest tone of voice, more often heard when issuing orders to the Council. He towered over the woman, but she stood her ground.
“Come now,” Tasariel coaxed. “There is nothing I have already seen. I have brought many a lad into the world and laid out their grandsires when they departed it. There is naught to fear, I shall not hurt you.”
“I do not wish to remove any of my clothing, Mistress,” Aragorn repeated in a tone that would have caused a lesser woman to flee.
“If you carry the marks of torture, there is no need to be ashamed,” Tasariel said kindly. “Such scars shame only those who inflicted them.”
“There is no shame. A man of honour risked his own life and soul to save me;” Aragorn said softly more to himself than the farmwife. “If you would excuse me now, good lady? I must see how my patients are faring, ere I begin work.” The command in his voice was unmistakable.
“We will be forever grateful to you, Master Morrandir,” said Tasariel. "However could I have missed it that they still lived? I brought both Vanreth and her babe into the world and would not wish to see them leave it so soon.”
“Do not blame yourself in the matter. I initially thought my son was dead. It took him even longer to regain consciousness. I ought to have used the kingsfoil on him sooner.”
Tasariel started and looked at Aragorn more closely.
"You are skilled with that herb, Master Morrandir. It works well for you. Yet if I should steep the kingsfoil, it serves only to freshen a room or ease a headache. I have heard it said that the herb responds to one man only, the rightful King! 'Tis also said that it drains the King’s strength to use and you look sore weary. Last night you were near to collapse.”
“People say many things,” Mistress Tasariel. It amuses me that you think I am the King. I have just had little sleep.” Aragorn’s tone was level but his eyes betrayed his shock at her words. She caught hold of his wrist.
“Your pulse races wildly for a man who is merely amused,” she said. “People also say that the King was captured by evil men and put to torment just as you were!”
“The King lives in Minas Tirith with his Queen and a son who is not quite one year old,” Aragorn said desperately. “You said how like my son I am!”
“People also say that the Steward and the King are as alike as close kin,” Tasariel continued relentlessly. "My kinswoman Ioreth, wise-woman of the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith, told me how the King recalled the Steward to life. She saw the bond of love that sprang between them, almost as if they were father and son. You cried out his name in your sleep but the other night! I know who you are! Even from the distance, as I saw you at your coronation, I marked your face, the visage of a king out of legend. You have that face still, my lord.” She sank to her knees in a gesture of respect.
“Please, Mistress, do not speak so to me!” Aragorn said frantically, grasping her hands and raising her to her feet. ”Whoever heard of a king working as a bumbling farmhand, or his steward running naked through a cornfield? What respect would such a King and Steward have in the eyes of their people?”
“They would have a great deal of honour in my eyes,” said the farmer’s wife. “What deed could be more noble than that of one friend who seeks to protect the other when he had no control over his actions? Lord Faramir is known to be a sober, modest prince. And I have seen the spider bite with mine own eyes.”
“Mistress, I pray you to say nothing!” Aragorn said urgently. He feared the worst. Their secret now lay in the hands of a kinswoman of perhaps the most loose-tongued woman in Minas Tirith. News of Faramir's seeming disgrace would soon be spread all over Lossarnach, and then onto the rest of Gondor!
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
The Spirit of Gondor
These Characters are the property of the Estate of J. R. R Tolkien and New Line Cinema. This story has been written for pleasure and no profit has or will be made from it. The Spirit of Gondor – A Story for Halloween.
Alas, poor ghost! – Shakespeare Hamlet. Act 1:scene 5
A/N This story was written for Raksha’s birthday last year. The events take place just over a year after “A Time to Reap.”
With thanks to Deandra
“Please tell me a story, Uncle Faramir,” begged Elbeth. She was sitting comfortably on the floor, stretched out in front of the fire. It was a chilly autumn evening outside, but the Steward’s apartments provided a haven from the elements. No chill winds penetrated the thick stone walls. Faramir sat in his armchair, a book on his lap ignored. He was stretching out his toes towards the fire to warm them, gazing absently into the flames. Éowyn was absent, occupied settling Elestelle to sleep in the nursery.
“What sort of a story would you like?” asked Faramir. A gifted storyteller, he loved to entertain his niece by telling her the lore of their people.
“A ghost story, please,” replied Elbeth.
“Would that not frighten you? It is almost bedtime. I do not want you to have nightmares.”
“I won’t, uncle, I promise! All the maids are telling them, now the Feast of the Dead is approaching. I’ve heard lots about people with no heads who leave bloody footsteps, but the maids aren’t good at telling stories like you are! “
“They work too hard to have time to learn the art of storytelling,” Faramir rebuked gently. “They can do all sorts of things that I am not very good at, like sewing, cleaning and cooking.”
“I know, Uncle Faramir and I am grateful to them for looking after us, but please tell me a scary ghost story!”
“Very well,” Faramir conceded.
Elbeth moved closer to him, so that her dark head rested on his lap.
“Once upon a time,“ Faramir began, “there lived a Steward who fell in love with a beautiful lady from the distant lands in the East.”
“I thought you were telling me a story about ghosts; love stories are boring!” Elbeth interrupted.
“Patience, child!” said Faramir, thinking just how like Boromir she sounded, “Do you want to hear this story or not?”
“Just as long as it doesn’t have any kissing in it,” Elbeth said firmly.
“I promise there will be no kissing,” Faramir smiled. He then continued. ”The Steward became engaged to the lady and brought her to Gondor intending to make her his wife. She arrived at this time of year when the weather was becoming cold. It was so unlike her homeland where the clime was always warm. The poor lady felt cold all the time.”
“What was her name?” asked Elbeth.
“I am not sure, but let us call her ‘Sarah’, which means ‘ Princess’ in the tongues of the East,” said Faramir, knowing if he failed to give the lady a name Elbeth would grant him no peace. ” Poor Sarah always felt cold, even though the Steward gave her a fur cloak and fur mittens to wear and had warm fires lit in her rooms. When winter came, it was just as cold as it was when we were looking after Uncle Aragorn in the cave and it snowed nearly every day!”
“Did Sarah and the Steward play snowballs?” Elbeth asked.
“I think they might have tried, but it was just too cold for her,” Faramir replied. “One day, Sarah caught a chill and became very ill. She grew weaker and weaker. The Steward sent for the best healers in the land but no one could make her better.”
“Strider would have done!” Elbeth interrupted.
“I am certain that he would,” Faramir agreed, “but this happened long before Uncle Aragorn was born.”
“That must have been a long time ago then, Strider is very, very old indeed,” Elbeth said thoughtfully. ”He is even older than you are! “
Faramir laughed and then continued. “Poor Sarah grew so frail that she realised she would not recover,” he said. ”She called the Steward to her bedside and asked that she be embalmed when she died, according to the custom both of her own people and the nobility of Gondor. She wanted to be laid to rest beside her beloved when his time came to leave Arda, since they could not be united now in life. The Steward promised her that her wishes would be fulfilled. ‘I will not let your promise be forgotten,’ Sarah said and breathed her last. The Steward sent for the embalmers and a magnificent tomb was made for her in the Rath Dinen.”
“What a sad story!” Elbeth exclaimed. She looked on the verge of tears.
“It is not over yet,” said Faramir. ”The Steward mourned Sarah for many years. He did not want to marry anyone else, but his people begged him to. After all, he was the Steward and a Steward needs heirs.”
“I’m glad I’m not Steward!” said Elbeth her tears forgotten. “I wouldn’t like to be made to get married!”
“Neither did this Steward,” her uncle replied. “He knew, though, he must do his duty to Gondor. He decided to wed the daughter of one of the Lords on his Council. She was a beautiful lady with long dark hair and a perfect complexion. Her heart, though, was cold and hard. For a little while, she was nice to the Steward and bore him two fine sons and a daughter. However, he could not love her, for his heart remained true to his lost love. His wife was furious, for it seemed he still loved Sarah more than he loved her. She demanded that Sarah be removed from her tomb, where one day the Steward was to have been laid beside her and her body be buried in the earth with the common folk. For a while, the Steward resisted, but his wife complained to her father. He stirred up the other nobles to support his daughter’s demands. There was famine in the land at the time. The people believed that Yavanna was angry and withheld her fruits, because a foreigner who did not honour her was buried in the Rath Dinen. After a few months, the Steward gave way and Sarah’s tomb was demolished and her body buried outside the City.”
“Poor Sarah!” Elbeth exclaimed sadly.
“Soon afterwards, the famine ended and the Steward gave a huge feast to celebrate. All the lords and ladies of Gondor were invited. While they were sitting eating and drinking, an icy breeze blew through the Hall, though the doors were closed and the night was warm.”
Elbeth, now completely engrossed in the story, unconsciously snuggled closer to her uncle.
“A figure in white suddenly appeared amongst the guests,” Faramir continued.” It glided silently towards the Steward. The ladies screamed and fainted. The guards bravely drew their swords and commanded it to stop. When it failed to do so, one drew his sword and attacked the figure, but his blade went straight through it as if he stabbed the thin air. The guard fell in a dead faint. The figure stopped before the Steward. He recognised her as Sarah! She pointed an accusing finger at him and said ‘You broke your sworn vow!’ She then vanished and no trace could be found of her.”
“What did they do?” Elbeth asked. She was trembling slightly.
“The Steward at once gave orders that Sarah’s body was to be re-interred in the Rath Dinen and ordered a splendid new tomb to be built,” Faramir said. “But no one could find her body, as many other people had died and been buried during the famine. Ever since then, her ghost has haunted the Citadel and may be seen on moonlit nights.”
“That is a very scary story!” Elbeth exclaimed. ”I liked it. Is it true? I do hope it is!”
Faramir already doubted the wisdom of having told his impressionable young niece one of the old legends his nurse used to tell him on chilly nights such as this.
“No one knows,” Faramir replied truthfully. “It was all so long ago that no one remembers what really happed. It is said a white lady is seen sometimes, but usually only those who are very drunk tell such tales!”
“Your supper is ready in the nursery, Elbeth, nanny is waiting for you!” Éowyn had entered unnoticed and stood in the doorway. “ Say goodnight to your uncle and I will come and tuck you in later.”
“Goodnight, Uncle Faramir and thank you for the story.” Elbeth kissed Faramir. He affectionately returned the gesture.
“You should not scare the child by putting such nonsense in her head!” Éowyn chided, once the little girl had gone.
“It is just an old tale; my nurse told it to me when I was about her age. It is less gruesome than the gory stories the servants have been telling her,” Faramir replied. “It is after all, our custom at this time of year to tell ghost stories. I think the story of the white lady was invented to cover up the disgrace of one of my ancestors having taken a mistress.”
“I must have a word with the servants.They should be careful what they say to an impressionable child.” said Éowyn. She then sat beside her husband. He drew her close in a loving embrace.
How ill this taper burns! Ha! Who comes here?
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes
That shapes this monstrous apparition.
William Shakespeare Julius Caesar, act 4, sc. 3, l.
“If you just leave your clothes in the bedroom, I will send a maid in a few minutes to take them to be washed at once, ” said the housekeeper. “We have filled the bath for you, my lord, I hope it is to your satisfaction.”
“I am sure it will be, Mistress Elwen, thank you. I am sorry to put you to so much trouble.” Faramir smiled apologetically at the woman. “ I do not know what came over Elestelle to eat half a pot of honey when no one was looking, she is usually so good!”
“It’s no trouble, Lord Faramir,” Elwen replied. ”When my children were little, they were much like Lady Elestelle, unable to resist anything sweet. No one can have eyes in the back of their head! Many a gown I had to wash unexpectedly. My youngest once ate an enormous cake meant for the six of us and then kept us up all night, suffering from a severe bellyache! The sooner you are in that hot bath and your clothes are in the wash the better, my lord!”
She bustled from the room. Faramir smiled ruefully. He had known Elwen since he was a small boy and she had assisted his nanny in the nursery.
The Queen had summoned Éowyn before breakfast, leaving him with his Elestelle. The Steward and his lady always took care that at least one of them should spend time at the beginning and end of the day with their child. Her nanny’s back turned, the toddler had helped herself to the honey. Faramir had been holding his little daughter when she had regurgitated it all over the clothes he wore for council meetings. The Housekeeper said the garments must be washed at once if the fine wool and embroidered velvet were not to be ruined.
Faramir hastened to pull off his tunic and breeches. The Steward found that Elestelle’s breakfast had soaked through to his undergarments, so quickly divested himself of those too. He folded the soiled clothing neatly in the laundry basket for the maid to collect. Wrapping himself in a towel, he padded into the bathing chamber and climbed into the steaming bath.
Faramir sighed contentedly, stretching out his long limbs in the blissfully warm water. After so many years as a Ranger, living in the wilds, he still found a hot bath was an experience to savour.
Reaching for the soap and flannel, he began to bathe himself, thoroughly soaping his lithe body, before washing his abundant dark hair.
He would have lingered longer until the water started to cool, but as Steward of Gondor, he had his duties to attend to. He was due to attend a Council Meeting before preparing for the annual festival to honour the dead. There would be a candlelit procession around the citadel as soon as darkness fell, which would be led by Éowyn and himself.
It was a sombre occasion for Faramir. He had so many to remember; his mother, Boromir and his poor crazed father, as well as the comrades who had fallen in battle as he fought alongside them.
The occasion was also deeply comforting. The candles formed a moving river of light and warmth. Aragorn would read a blessing for the dead and remind the assembled people that more than memories lay beyond the circles of the world.
After singing traditional songs of Gondor, the people would disperse to their homes and eat a meal of celebration with those they loved the most. It was believed that tonight the worlds of the living and the dead were very close and the departed loved ones would be present in spirit. Ghost stories would be told and there would be games for the children.
Faramir and Éowyn were planning to share the meal with the King and Queen and Elbeth; Eldarion and Elestelle being as yet too young to attend.
Reluctantly, Faramir climbed gracefully from the bath and selected a thick towel from the heap that been left there for him. He wound one around his waist. He threw another towel across his broad shoulders and began to dry his lean muscular body, patting away the rivulets of moisture that ran down his firm contours.
He was not a vain man and was always surprised when his wife told him just how handsome she found him and how even the sight of him approaching her,made her heart beat faster.
Faramir rubbed his hair vigorously, shaking himself like a dog to remove as much excess moisture as possible.
He was just about to go into his dressing room, when he heard voices approaching the bedroom, which he needed to cross to reach it.
Thinking it was the maids belatedly coming to collect his soiled clothes, he waited. The voices came nearer and entered the bedroom. Then he realised the speakers were his wife, Elbeth and Queen Arwen and her ladies! The bathing chamber had only a thin wall adjoining the bedroom. Though he had no wish to eavesdrop, he could clearly hear every word.
Faramir retreated further into the bathing chamber, wrapping the towels more securely around himself. He sincerely hoped that the Queen was only there to brush her hair before the luncheon he knew she was sharing with Éowyn. Then he heard the wardrobe door being thrown open.
“I cannot decide whether I should wear my green gown with the gold embroidery or the blue and silver one,” Éowyn’s familiar tones stated.
“I think the blue one is better suited for the summer,” Arwen’s melodic voice replied. “Why not wear your russet gown tonight?”
“I fear it might clash with the orange you are wearing. I would like Elbeth to wear her orange dress too, if you have no objections?”
“Of course not, it is after all only a private family party. You should wear the russet, it suits your colouring and Faramir likes it. I just like to try to look nice for Estel.”
“You would still look fair if you wore an old sack, with your Elven beauty!” Éowyn exclaimed. “You will always look young and beautiful while I already have a few grey hairs!”
Faramir felt a pang of sorrow that already his beloved wife was worried about aging.
“I don’t want to wear an orange frock!” Elbeth interrupted. ”I like my pink one better!”
“Pink is a summer colour, orange is nice for autumn,” Éowyn explained. “You need to have some more dresses made before next summer, you are growing so fast!”
Although Faramir could not see her expression, he could just imagine the face his niece would be pulling.
“I hate having dresses made!” Elbeth said grumpily, “You have to stand still for so long and have pins stuck in you!”
“I never get pins stuck in me,” said Éowyn. “You won’t keep still, that is why!”
“I must choose my dress for tonight correctly,” Éowyn fretted, “I so want my husband to be proud of me and not regret marrying an uncouth shieldmaiden from the North!”
It took all of Faramir’s self restraint not to rush into the room there and then and tell his wife that he loved her whatever she wore, but it would be unthinkable to appear before the Queen and her ladies wearing only a towel!
“Why not try on both the green and the russet gowns?” Arwen suggested, “ I will tell you then, which I think suits you the best. Then I should like to try on your green and gold gown to see how the colour looks, before asking my seamstress to make me one in those shades.”
Faramir groaned inwardly. The women might be there for hours once they started trying on gowns. He was starting to feel very trapped. For once, he could understand Aragorn’s dislike of small spaces. He was also starting to get very cold and his arms were covered in gooseflesh. His only consolation was that the door was fastened so the Queen could not walk in to see him wearing so little.
“Thank you, dear friend,” Éowyn said gratefully, “You have such good taste and I value your judgement. I fear all eyes will be on me tonight when I lead the procession and I want to look as fair as the ladies of Gondor.”
Again Faramir, the unwilling eavesdropper, wished he could reassure her that he found her fairer by far. He held his breath, hoping that Arwen might take the gown to her own room to try it on. It was another dire breech of propriety for any man other than her husband to be in the next room when the Queen was undressing.
He heard a bell ringing outside and realised to his horror that he would be late for the council meeting if he did not escape soon.
It went quiet in the room and Faramir wondered if they had decided to go into Éowyn’s boudoir rather than remain in the bedroom. The reason her dresses were in the main bedroom was that the gowns for formal occasions needed a huge wardrobe to store them in.
Very cautiously, he opened the door a fraction of an inch and saw that the women were engrossed in looking in the wardrobe. The sparkling embroidery on some of the gowns fascinated even Elbeth.
Faramir had a sudden idea. As a Ranger, he could move swiftly and silently without being heard. Maybe he could slip past the ladies before they started trying on gowns. This was the best chance he would have to slip away unnoticed. He could call out and alert Éowyn to his plight but it would be so very embarrassing and break every rule of Gondorian etiquette by being seen in the vicinity of the Queen almost naked. Even for a man to be seen without a tunic by a high-ranking lady was considered a grave breach of manners and propriety.
Faramir carefully arranged the towels around himself, so that he was swathed in white from head to foot with only his eyes visible. Carefully, he opened the door again a crack. The women were still occupied with the gowns, their faces in the wardrobe.
Swiftly and silently he tiptoed across the room, willing them not to turn around. Once he reached the sanctuary of his dressing room, he closed the door quietly. Unlike the bathing chamber, the walls were far thicker and sturdier making it impossible to hear what was being said outside. It had been built as part of the original building and was designed as a male refuge from nagging wives and fretful children, though Faramir had always been able to hear Elestelle crying. No architect seemed able to insulate a room from the piercing howls of a crying infant.
“Look there’s a ghost! It’s Sarah, the white lady!” exclaimed Elbeth excitedly.
“I didn’t see anything,” Éowyn replied. You just saw this white gown!”
“No, I didn’t!” Elbeth protested, “I saw a ghost!”
“I sensed no unearthly presence, “ Arwen said placidly. “Maybe you have been listening to too many ghost stories?”
“We saw nothing,” said Arwen’s ladies.
“But I did see the white lady, I did!” Elbeth protested indignantly.
“I know what truly ails you, and making up naughty stories is not the way to be excused from duties you dislike,” Éowyn said crossly. ”Come on, young lady, you are returning to your lessons! I thought it would be a treat for you to help us plan what we would wear, but it seems not!!”
“I am telling the truth!” Elbeth protested.
“What about choosing your gown, Éowyn?” Arwen enquired.
“ I have decided to follow your advice and wear the russet one,” Éowyn replied.” I am weary of trying to decide. I want to visit my horses on the sixth level before it gets dark. You are welcome to borrow my dress. Why not see what Aragorn thinks of the colours?”
The women swept from the room.
Once Faramir was dressed, he cautiously opened the door. Somewhat to his surprise, he found the bedroom deserted. He hurried off to his meeting, thankful to have escaped so easily from his embarrassing predicament.
“A cat may look at a king,” said Alice. “I’ve read that in some book, but I don’t remember where.” - Lewis Carroll (1832–1898), Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
A few hours later, a still indignant Elbeth, having escaped her nanny, was approaching the King’s study. Her Aunt Éowyn was still refusing to believe that she had seen a ghost. Even worse, she had decreed that Elbeth was to have extra Quenya lessons until she stopped telling lies. While her nanny was fussing over the dress she was to wear later, Elbeth remembered Uncle Legolas telling her a story about how he and Uncle Gimli had followed Strider through a tunnel in a mountain to summon an army of ghosts to fight in the Great War. Uncle Gimli had added that the fearsome spectres were obedient to Strider’s wishes.
As soon as the nanny went into the bathing chamber to prepare Elbeth’s bath, the little girl decided to go and see if Strider could do something to make Aunt Éowyn believe she had seen a ghost.
Surely, as he was the King, he could help her, as Kings could do anything!
The guard at the head of the corridor looked at her doubtfully when she demanded to see the King and hastened after her when she approached Aragorn’s door.
“King Elessar is very busy, Lady Elbeth,” he said. ”He does not have time to grant audiences to little girls.”
The study door opened and Aragorn appeared. “Come in, Elbeth,” he said, smiling at her kindly. “I am never too busy to see my friends.” He shut the door and settled himself on the couch. ”Come and sit beside me and tell me what is wrong. I can see that you have been crying.”
“It is so unfair, Strider!” Elbeth burst out. ”I have seen Sarah, the ghost of the White Lady that Uncle Faramir told me about. Aunt Éowyn won’t believe me and says I am making up stories and have to be punished until I stop telling lies, but I’m telling the truth. I am!”
“What did Sarah look like?” Aragorn asked, thinking that maybe the child had mistaken one of the maids for a ghost while Faramir’s story was still fresh in her mind.
“She was very tall and clad in white all over. She glided across the Aunt Éowyn’s bedchamber and disappeared into Uncle Faramir’s dressing room. Aunt Éowyn and Aunt Arwen were looking at dresses and did not see her.”
“What does Uncle Faramir say?” Aragorn enquired, puzzled by Elbeth’s story. He knew, although she was stubborn and strong willed, she was a very truthful child, much like Faramir in character.
“They won’t let me see him as he is busy getting ready for the procession,” Elbeth explained. “I heard that you know all about ghosts and they do what you say. Please could you order Sarah to appear and show Aunt Éowyn that I’m not making up stories?”
“I fear that it was only the spirits of the oath breakers who betrayed my forefather, Isildur, that I had mastery over,” Aragorn explained.
“But you are King! I thought everyone, including ghosts, had to do what you said?” Elbeth looked crestfallen.
“Even a King has limits to his powers,” Aragorn told her gently. ”However, I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Strider, Aunt Éowyn says I have to have extra Quenya lessons for being naughty. I hate Quenya, it is so hard to learn!”
“It is indeed, though I have heard you are becoming quite fluent in it,” Aragorn said solemnly. “I found the verbs almost impossible to master!”
“You had to learn it too?” Elbeth asked surprised.” But you are the King!”
“I was not King then, just an ordinary boy who preferred playing to boring lessons,” Aragorn confided. ”I will tell you one day about my schooldays. Now, I have to prepare for the festival. I expect Aunt Éowyn will be waiting for you to join her for the procession too. I promise I will see what I can do about Sarah.”
Thank you, Strider!” Pausing only to bestow a parting kiss on the man she regarded as another favourite uncle, Elbeth hurried back to her own quarters, bumping into her nanny on the way there and receiving a scolding for wandering off.
Aragorn sat lost in thought for a few moments after Elbeth left him. He was certain that the Citadel was not haunted. For a start, he was sure that Arwen would have sensed it, if it were so, and most likely both Faramir and himself too. Indeed, he had spoken Elvish blessings to banish unquiet spirits in every room here, when he first moved in, lest Denethor’s spirit should linger to disturb the living.
Since Elbeth’s belief in the White Lady seemed to have started with being told a story by Faramir; maybe talking to his Steward would throw some light on the matter? He despatched a servant to find him, telling the man to send Faramir to him.
The Steward appeared just as Aragorn was finishing dressing in his ceremonial garb. The King hated having anyone help him dress and was struggling to lace his ornate tunic.
Faramir looked rather flustered, having spent most of the day trying to catch up, after being delayed so long in his bathing chamber.
“Is something wrong, Aragorn?” Faramir enquired anxiously, not having expected to speak to the King until the ceremony.
“All is well, mellon nîn. It is just that Elbeth came to me with a most curious story.” The tunic fastened, Aragorn took the Star of Elendil from its casket while he started to relate the details of Elbeth’s visit.
“Yes, I did tell her the story, but I never thought she would take it so seriously,” Faramir said. “You need to brush your hair down before putting the jewel on,” he cautioned the King, whose unruly locks were refusing to be tamed.
Obediently, Aragorn took up his hairbrush.
“Let me fasten that,” Faramir offered, seeing that the jewel was hanging at an awkward angle and threatening to obscure his lord’s vision.
“Please do, how I hate the pomp that goes with ceremonial occasions,” Aragorn sighed. “Of course, we should remember the dead and I am honoured to lead the tributes, but why I have to wear all this to do so, I have no idea!”
“The people need jewels to show your greatness. They do not know you as well as I do,” Faramir replied. “They were starved of spectacle for so long, we cannot begrudge it them now.”
“I suppose not,” Aragorn conceded, drawing on his ceremonial cloak before finishing narrating what Elbeth had to say. ”She told me she saw the White Lady of Gondor in your lady’s bedchamber this morning,” he concluded. ”Elbeth insists she did see a ghost and your lady is angry with her for what she perceives as telling lies.”
Faramir, who had been handing Aragorn his gloves, dropped them at this revelation. ”Oh no,” he exclaimed in distress. ”Poor Elbeth! She must have seen me trying to make my way undetected to my dressing room. I did not wish the Queen and her ladies to see me improperly clad. I am so sorry! I will go and tell Éowyn the truth at once and apologise to Elbeth.”
Aragorn placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.”I have a better idea, mellon nîn,” he said.” Listen to what I have to say first."
It is my feeling that Time ripens all things; with Time all things are revealed; Time is the father of truth.- François Rabelais (1494–1553)
A solemn candlelit procession led by Faramir and Éowyn, wound its way through the upper circles of the City. It came to a halt beside the White Tree.
Éowyn glanced directly behind her to see if Elbeth, who was being escorted by young Bergil, was behaving herself. The little girl looked suitably solemn and was holding her candle carefully. Rather to Éowyn’s surprise, Elbeth reached for Bergil’s hand, as if seeking reassurance. The Princess of Ithilien felt a pang of remorse. Maybe the child was missing her mother and grandmother and pretending to see ghosts as a way of comforting herself? She resolved to talk to Faramir later.
The murmur of low voices ceased when Aragorn, resplendent in full regalia, appeared. Beside him, Arwen was a vision of exquisite beauty, wearing a gown of dark orange with a necklace of pearls round her slender throat. A fur-trimmed cloak was thrown around her shoulders to protect her from the chill night air.
“People of Gondor,” Aragorn said in a clear, resonant voice. ”We are gathered here tonight to remember the loved ones who await us beyond the circles of the world. Because of them, their lives, their love and their sacrifices, we are able to be here today and celebrate this great feast of the living and the dead. May we never forget to honour those who went before! May we cherish our loved ones while we dwell here in Arda together! The One gave Men the Gift of passing beyond the bounds of Arda. May we cherish our days, as all the sweeter, given that they are numbered; May we be forever filled with hope and love!”
The crowd remained silent for a moment, taking in his words. They broke into a spontaneous cheer before Aragorn led them in singing traditional songs of remembrance.
“The time of mourning is over, let us now celebrate the joy of living, together with our loved ones!” Aragorn declared once the singing had died away. Taking Arwen’s hand, he let her inside, Faramir, Éowyn and Elbeth followed.
The Royal dining room had been set with places for five. As the adults entered, they placed their candles on the table and spoke the names of those whom they wished to remember; Gilraen and Halbarad, Finduilas, Boromir and Denethor, Théoden and Théodred, Théodwyn and Éomund. The lights symbolized the presence of those whose names they spoke.
“Do you want to remember anyone, Elbeth?” Éowyn asked gently. “Your mother or your grandmother perhaps?”
Elbeth shook her head.
“We give thanks to the One that we are here with our loved ones tonight!” said Aragorn. The friends and spouses warmly embraced one another.
After the standing silence, the servants brought in a hearty meal of hot vegetable soup, a stew of lamb and vegetables and finally, a special pie made from pumpkins and apples, which was only consumed on this feast day.
The mood progressively became more cheerful as the meal progressed, Faramir had written a poem about the eternal nature of love and read it aloud to the delight of the others
” I look into the eyes,
The eyes of those whom I hold most dear.
I see reflected,
Within the windows the soul:
The love we share.
A bond transcending
Boundaries of life and death. “
Once the meal was over and the table cleared, Aragorn told his friends that he wanted to introduce them to a game popular in the North.
While the ladies retired to give their babies a bedtime feed and settle them to sleep, a large bowl of water was brought into the room and placed on the table. Another servant followed with a pile of clean towels.
“What is that for?” asked Elbeth, voicing the curiosity that her uncle felt too. “Why is the bowl full of apples?”
The ladies returned just as Aragorn explained “It is for a game called ‘apple bobbing’ that is popular amongst the Northern Dúnedain,” Aragorn explained, taking off his outer tunic as he spoke. ”The object of the game is to grab an apple with your teeth. Who would like to play?”
“I would,” Elbeth said, jumping up and down with excitement. “It looks like fun!”
Faramir hesitated for a moment before saying he would like to try the game too.
“You had better take off your tunic, then, mellon nîn. You are likely to get wet, “ Aragorn cautioned. “The Queen will not mind.”
“We will watch, “ Arwen smiled, whispering something in Éowyn’s ear, causing her companion to smile.
The King plunged his head into the bowl and soon came up laughing and spluttering somewhat, without having gained an apple.
“Come on, Elbeth!” he enthused, “This is great fun! I cannot wait for Eldarion and Elestelle to be old enough to take part in the game! Try and grab the stalk with your teeth,” he told the little girl when she came to take her turn.
To her surprise and delight, Elbeth captured an apple and was congratulated by the adults.
“Come and dry yourself and sit by the fire to eat it,” Éowyn told her.
The women laughed and cheered when Faramir took his turn and after several attempts captured his prize. Aragorn then tried again and this time was successful.
The King dried himself and donned his tunic again. The group settled round the fire.
“It is your bedtime now, Elbeth,“ Éowyn told her niece.
“Please let her stay for the storytelling to conclude the evening, “ Aragorn said in a tone with an unmistakable hint of command.
Éowyn looked somewhat surprised. It was very rare for Aragorn to exercise his authority over any purely domestic matter. She could only surmise that the King wanted to indulge Elbeth tonight. She raised her eyebrows slightly.” Just for a short time, then,” she conceded.
The lamps were lowered. By the flickering light of a single candle, Aragorn began a chilling tale of his adventures on the Paths of the Dead. They were all so engrossed that they did not see Faramir quietly slip away. “Has anyone else here seen a ghost?” Aragorn asked, once his tale was concluded. He nodded to Arwen almost imperceptibly and looked expectantly at Elbeth.
“ I have, I saw Sarah the White Lady,” Elbeth said excitedly.
“I have told you not to make up such absurd stories, Elbeth,” Éowyn said irately. ”You are making me very angry and I will have to punish you with even more extra lessons!”
Just then a cold draught blew through the room as the door opened. A tall figure, clad all in white, glided across the room.
Éowyn gave a stifled scream while Elbeth cried, “It’s Sarah, she has come back! I told you I was telling the truth!”
Aragorn rose to his feet and said sternly, ”Spectre, I bid you be gone to your rest and trouble us no more!”
The apparition took a step backward, before throwing off the concealing white towels that covered it, to reveal Faramir. He bowed low to the King.
Aragorn laughed and rose to pat Faramir on the back. You played your part well, mellon nîn,” he said. ”I wanted this to be a feast to remember!”
Faramir then turned to Elbeth.” I am sorry if I frightened you earlier,” he said. “It was I whom you saw, not a ghost!”
“Elbeth, I am so sorry!” Éowyn came to kneel beside the little girl and placed her arms around her. ”I had no idea that your uncle was practicing this surprise for tonight. I should not have doubted your word. Tomorrow, I will take you riding and you can miss your Quenya lessons.”
“Thank you, Aunt Éowyn!” Elbeth hugged her aunt back.
Later that night, when they lay beside each other in bed, Faramir told his wife the whole story.
Éowyn burst out laughing and was rendered speechless for several moments. Then she pulled her husband close and kissed him passionately. “You are certainly no ghost but a man of flesh and blood and a hot blooded one at that!” she said when he responded.
Faramir did not reply, preferring to use his lips for something other than words. He returned her kisses with ever growing ardour.
The End
A/N The story Faramir tells Elbeth is based on a local legend I grew up with.
The ceremonies were loosely inspired by the All Souls Service at my local church.
Apple dunking is a traditional British Halloween game.
These Characters are the property of the Estate of J. R. R Tolkien and New Line Cinema. This story has been written for pleasure and no profit has or will be made from it. The Spirit of Gondor – A Story for Halloween.
Alas, poor ghost! – Shakespeare Hamlet. Act 1:scene 5
A/N This story was written for Raksha’s birthday last year. The events take place just over a year after “A Time to Reap.”
With thanks to Deandra
“Please tell me a story, Uncle Faramir,” begged Elbeth. She was sitting comfortably on the floor, stretched out in front of the fire. It was a chilly autumn evening outside, but the Steward’s apartments provided a haven from the elements. No chill winds penetrated the thick stone walls. Faramir sat in his armchair, a book on his lap ignored. He was stretching out his toes towards the fire to warm them, gazing absently into the flames. Éowyn was absent, occupied settling Elestelle to sleep in the nursery.
“What sort of a story would you like?” asked Faramir. A gifted storyteller, he loved to entertain his niece by telling her the lore of their people.
“A ghost story, please,” replied Elbeth.
“Would that not frighten you? It is almost bedtime. I do not want you to have nightmares.”
“I won’t, uncle, I promise! All the maids are telling them, now the Feast of the Dead is approaching. I’ve heard lots about people with no heads who leave bloody footsteps, but the maids aren’t good at telling stories like you are! “
“They work too hard to have time to learn the art of storytelling,” Faramir rebuked gently. “They can do all sorts of things that I am not very good at, like sewing, cleaning and cooking.”
“I know, Uncle Faramir and I am grateful to them for looking after us, but please tell me a scary ghost story!”
“Very well,” Faramir conceded.
Elbeth moved closer to him, so that her dark head rested on his lap.
“Once upon a time,“ Faramir began, “there lived a Steward who fell in love with a beautiful lady from the distant lands in the East.”
“I thought you were telling me a story about ghosts; love stories are boring!” Elbeth interrupted.
“Patience, child!” said Faramir, thinking just how like Boromir she sounded, “Do you want to hear this story or not?”
“Just as long as it doesn’t have any kissing in it,” Elbeth said firmly.
“I promise there will be no kissing,” Faramir smiled. He then continued. ”The Steward became engaged to the lady and brought her to Gondor intending to make her his wife. She arrived at this time of year when the weather was becoming cold. It was so unlike her homeland where the clime was always warm. The poor lady felt cold all the time.”
“What was her name?” asked Elbeth.
“I am not sure, but let us call her ‘Sarah’, which means ‘ Princess’ in the tongues of the East,” said Faramir, knowing if he failed to give the lady a name Elbeth would grant him no peace. ” Poor Sarah always felt cold, even though the Steward gave her a fur cloak and fur mittens to wear and had warm fires lit in her rooms. When winter came, it was just as cold as it was when we were looking after Uncle Aragorn in the cave and it snowed nearly every day!”
“Did Sarah and the Steward play snowballs?” Elbeth asked.
“I think they might have tried, but it was just too cold for her,” Faramir replied. “One day, Sarah caught a chill and became very ill. She grew weaker and weaker. The Steward sent for the best healers in the land but no one could make her better.”
“Strider would have done!” Elbeth interrupted.
“I am certain that he would,” Faramir agreed, “but this happened long before Uncle Aragorn was born.”
“That must have been a long time ago then, Strider is very, very old indeed,” Elbeth said thoughtfully. ”He is even older than you are! “
Faramir laughed and then continued. “Poor Sarah grew so frail that she realised she would not recover,” he said. ”She called the Steward to her bedside and asked that she be embalmed when she died, according to the custom both of her own people and the nobility of Gondor. She wanted to be laid to rest beside her beloved when his time came to leave Arda, since they could not be united now in life. The Steward promised her that her wishes would be fulfilled. ‘I will not let your promise be forgotten,’ Sarah said and breathed her last. The Steward sent for the embalmers and a magnificent tomb was made for her in the Rath Dinen.”
“What a sad story!” Elbeth exclaimed. She looked on the verge of tears.
“It is not over yet,” said Faramir. ”The Steward mourned Sarah for many years. He did not want to marry anyone else, but his people begged him to. After all, he was the Steward and a Steward needs heirs.”
“I’m glad I’m not Steward!” said Elbeth her tears forgotten. “I wouldn’t like to be made to get married!”
“Neither did this Steward,” her uncle replied. “He knew, though, he must do his duty to Gondor. He decided to wed the daughter of one of the Lords on his Council. She was a beautiful lady with long dark hair and a perfect complexion. Her heart, though, was cold and hard. For a little while, she was nice to the Steward and bore him two fine sons and a daughter. However, he could not love her, for his heart remained true to his lost love. His wife was furious, for it seemed he still loved Sarah more than he loved her. She demanded that Sarah be removed from her tomb, where one day the Steward was to have been laid beside her and her body be buried in the earth with the common folk. For a while, the Steward resisted, but his wife complained to her father. He stirred up the other nobles to support his daughter’s demands. There was famine in the land at the time. The people believed that Yavanna was angry and withheld her fruits, because a foreigner who did not honour her was buried in the Rath Dinen. After a few months, the Steward gave way and Sarah’s tomb was demolished and her body buried outside the City.”
“Poor Sarah!” Elbeth exclaimed sadly.
“Soon afterwards, the famine ended and the Steward gave a huge feast to celebrate. All the lords and ladies of Gondor were invited. While they were sitting eating and drinking, an icy breeze blew through the Hall, though the doors were closed and the night was warm.”
Elbeth, now completely engrossed in the story, unconsciously snuggled closer to her uncle.
“A figure in white suddenly appeared amongst the guests,” Faramir continued.” It glided silently towards the Steward. The ladies screamed and fainted. The guards bravely drew their swords and commanded it to stop. When it failed to do so, one drew his sword and attacked the figure, but his blade went straight through it as if he stabbed the thin air. The guard fell in a dead faint. The figure stopped before the Steward. He recognised her as Sarah! She pointed an accusing finger at him and said ‘You broke your sworn vow!’ She then vanished and no trace could be found of her.”
“What did they do?” Elbeth asked. She was trembling slightly.
“The Steward at once gave orders that Sarah’s body was to be re-interred in the Rath Dinen and ordered a splendid new tomb to be built,” Faramir said. “But no one could find her body, as many other people had died and been buried during the famine. Ever since then, her ghost has haunted the Citadel and may be seen on moonlit nights.”
“That is a very scary story!” Elbeth exclaimed. ”I liked it. Is it true? I do hope it is!”
Faramir already doubted the wisdom of having told his impressionable young niece one of the old legends his nurse used to tell him on chilly nights such as this.
“No one knows,” Faramir replied truthfully. “It was all so long ago that no one remembers what really happed. It is said a white lady is seen sometimes, but usually only those who are very drunk tell such tales!”
“Your supper is ready in the nursery, Elbeth, nanny is waiting for you!” Éowyn had entered unnoticed and stood in the doorway. “ Say goodnight to your uncle and I will come and tuck you in later.”
“Goodnight, Uncle Faramir and thank you for the story.” Elbeth kissed Faramir. He affectionately returned the gesture.
“You should not scare the child by putting such nonsense in her head!” Éowyn chided, once the little girl had gone.
“It is just an old tale; my nurse told it to me when I was about her age. It is less gruesome than the gory stories the servants have been telling her,” Faramir replied. “It is after all, our custom at this time of year to tell ghost stories. I think the story of the white lady was invented to cover up the disgrace of one of my ancestors having taken a mistress.”
“I must have a word with the servants.They should be careful what they say to an impressionable child.” said Éowyn. She then sat beside her husband. He drew her close in a loving embrace.
How ill this taper burns! Ha! Who comes here?
I think it is the weakness of mine eyes
That shapes this monstrous apparition.
William Shakespeare Julius Caesar, act 4, sc. 3, l.
“If you just leave your clothes in the bedroom, I will send a maid in a few minutes to take them to be washed at once, ” said the housekeeper. “We have filled the bath for you, my lord, I hope it is to your satisfaction.”
“I am sure it will be, Mistress Elwen, thank you. I am sorry to put you to so much trouble.” Faramir smiled apologetically at the woman. “ I do not know what came over Elestelle to eat half a pot of honey when no one was looking, she is usually so good!”
“It’s no trouble, Lord Faramir,” Elwen replied. ”When my children were little, they were much like Lady Elestelle, unable to resist anything sweet. No one can have eyes in the back of their head! Many a gown I had to wash unexpectedly. My youngest once ate an enormous cake meant for the six of us and then kept us up all night, suffering from a severe bellyache! The sooner you are in that hot bath and your clothes are in the wash the better, my lord!”
She bustled from the room. Faramir smiled ruefully. He had known Elwen since he was a small boy and she had assisted his nanny in the nursery.
The Queen had summoned Éowyn before breakfast, leaving him with his Elestelle. The Steward and his lady always took care that at least one of them should spend time at the beginning and end of the day with their child. Her nanny’s back turned, the toddler had helped herself to the honey. Faramir had been holding his little daughter when she had regurgitated it all over the clothes he wore for council meetings. The Housekeeper said the garments must be washed at once if the fine wool and embroidered velvet were not to be ruined.
Faramir hastened to pull off his tunic and breeches. The Steward found that Elestelle’s breakfast had soaked through to his undergarments, so quickly divested himself of those too. He folded the soiled clothing neatly in the laundry basket for the maid to collect. Wrapping himself in a towel, he padded into the bathing chamber and climbed into the steaming bath.
Faramir sighed contentedly, stretching out his long limbs in the blissfully warm water. After so many years as a Ranger, living in the wilds, he still found a hot bath was an experience to savour.
Reaching for the soap and flannel, he began to bathe himself, thoroughly soaping his lithe body, before washing his abundant dark hair.
He would have lingered longer until the water started to cool, but as Steward of Gondor, he had his duties to attend to. He was due to attend a Council Meeting before preparing for the annual festival to honour the dead. There would be a candlelit procession around the citadel as soon as darkness fell, which would be led by Éowyn and himself.
It was a sombre occasion for Faramir. He had so many to remember; his mother, Boromir and his poor crazed father, as well as the comrades who had fallen in battle as he fought alongside them.
The occasion was also deeply comforting. The candles formed a moving river of light and warmth. Aragorn would read a blessing for the dead and remind the assembled people that more than memories lay beyond the circles of the world.
After singing traditional songs of Gondor, the people would disperse to their homes and eat a meal of celebration with those they loved the most. It was believed that tonight the worlds of the living and the dead were very close and the departed loved ones would be present in spirit. Ghost stories would be told and there would be games for the children.
Faramir and Éowyn were planning to share the meal with the King and Queen and Elbeth; Eldarion and Elestelle being as yet too young to attend.
Reluctantly, Faramir climbed gracefully from the bath and selected a thick towel from the heap that been left there for him. He wound one around his waist. He threw another towel across his broad shoulders and began to dry his lean muscular body, patting away the rivulets of moisture that ran down his firm contours.
He was not a vain man and was always surprised when his wife told him just how handsome she found him and how even the sight of him approaching her,made her heart beat faster.
Faramir rubbed his hair vigorously, shaking himself like a dog to remove as much excess moisture as possible.
He was just about to go into his dressing room, when he heard voices approaching the bedroom, which he needed to cross to reach it.
Thinking it was the maids belatedly coming to collect his soiled clothes, he waited. The voices came nearer and entered the bedroom. Then he realised the speakers were his wife, Elbeth and Queen Arwen and her ladies! The bathing chamber had only a thin wall adjoining the bedroom. Though he had no wish to eavesdrop, he could clearly hear every word.
Faramir retreated further into the bathing chamber, wrapping the towels more securely around himself. He sincerely hoped that the Queen was only there to brush her hair before the luncheon he knew she was sharing with Éowyn. Then he heard the wardrobe door being thrown open.
“I cannot decide whether I should wear my green gown with the gold embroidery or the blue and silver one,” Éowyn’s familiar tones stated.
“I think the blue one is better suited for the summer,” Arwen’s melodic voice replied. “Why not wear your russet gown tonight?”
“I fear it might clash with the orange you are wearing. I would like Elbeth to wear her orange dress too, if you have no objections?”
“Of course not, it is after all only a private family party. You should wear the russet, it suits your colouring and Faramir likes it. I just like to try to look nice for Estel.”
“You would still look fair if you wore an old sack, with your Elven beauty!” Éowyn exclaimed. “You will always look young and beautiful while I already have a few grey hairs!”
Faramir felt a pang of sorrow that already his beloved wife was worried about aging.
“I don’t want to wear an orange frock!” Elbeth interrupted. ”I like my pink one better!”
“Pink is a summer colour, orange is nice for autumn,” Éowyn explained. “You need to have some more dresses made before next summer, you are growing so fast!”
Although Faramir could not see her expression, he could just imagine the face his niece would be pulling.
“I hate having dresses made!” Elbeth said grumpily, “You have to stand still for so long and have pins stuck in you!”
“I never get pins stuck in me,” said Éowyn. “You won’t keep still, that is why!”
“I must choose my dress for tonight correctly,” Éowyn fretted, “I so want my husband to be proud of me and not regret marrying an uncouth shieldmaiden from the North!”
It took all of Faramir’s self restraint not to rush into the room there and then and tell his wife that he loved her whatever she wore, but it would be unthinkable to appear before the Queen and her ladies wearing only a towel!
“Why not try on both the green and the russet gowns?” Arwen suggested, “ I will tell you then, which I think suits you the best. Then I should like to try on your green and gold gown to see how the colour looks, before asking my seamstress to make me one in those shades.”
Faramir groaned inwardly. The women might be there for hours once they started trying on gowns. He was starting to feel very trapped. For once, he could understand Aragorn’s dislike of small spaces. He was also starting to get very cold and his arms were covered in gooseflesh. His only consolation was that the door was fastened so the Queen could not walk in to see him wearing so little.
“Thank you, dear friend,” Éowyn said gratefully, “You have such good taste and I value your judgement. I fear all eyes will be on me tonight when I lead the procession and I want to look as fair as the ladies of Gondor.”
Again Faramir, the unwilling eavesdropper, wished he could reassure her that he found her fairer by far. He held his breath, hoping that Arwen might take the gown to her own room to try it on. It was another dire breech of propriety for any man other than her husband to be in the next room when the Queen was undressing.
He heard a bell ringing outside and realised to his horror that he would be late for the council meeting if he did not escape soon.
It went quiet in the room and Faramir wondered if they had decided to go into Éowyn’s boudoir rather than remain in the bedroom. The reason her dresses were in the main bedroom was that the gowns for formal occasions needed a huge wardrobe to store them in.
Very cautiously, he opened the door a fraction of an inch and saw that the women were engrossed in looking in the wardrobe. The sparkling embroidery on some of the gowns fascinated even Elbeth.
Faramir had a sudden idea. As a Ranger, he could move swiftly and silently without being heard. Maybe he could slip past the ladies before they started trying on gowns. This was the best chance he would have to slip away unnoticed. He could call out and alert Éowyn to his plight but it would be so very embarrassing and break every rule of Gondorian etiquette by being seen in the vicinity of the Queen almost naked. Even for a man to be seen without a tunic by a high-ranking lady was considered a grave breach of manners and propriety.
Faramir carefully arranged the towels around himself, so that he was swathed in white from head to foot with only his eyes visible. Carefully, he opened the door again a crack. The women were still occupied with the gowns, their faces in the wardrobe.
Swiftly and silently he tiptoed across the room, willing them not to turn around. Once he reached the sanctuary of his dressing room, he closed the door quietly. Unlike the bathing chamber, the walls were far thicker and sturdier making it impossible to hear what was being said outside. It had been built as part of the original building and was designed as a male refuge from nagging wives and fretful children, though Faramir had always been able to hear Elestelle crying. No architect seemed able to insulate a room from the piercing howls of a crying infant.
“Look there’s a ghost! It’s Sarah, the white lady!” exclaimed Elbeth excitedly.
“I didn’t see anything,” Éowyn replied. You just saw this white gown!”
“No, I didn’t!” Elbeth protested, “I saw a ghost!”
“I sensed no unearthly presence, “ Arwen said placidly. “Maybe you have been listening to too many ghost stories?”
“We saw nothing,” said Arwen’s ladies.
“But I did see the white lady, I did!” Elbeth protested indignantly.
“I know what truly ails you, and making up naughty stories is not the way to be excused from duties you dislike,” Éowyn said crossly. ”Come on, young lady, you are returning to your lessons! I thought it would be a treat for you to help us plan what we would wear, but it seems not!!”
“I am telling the truth!” Elbeth protested.
“What about choosing your gown, Éowyn?” Arwen enquired.
“ I have decided to follow your advice and wear the russet one,” Éowyn replied.” I am weary of trying to decide. I want to visit my horses on the sixth level before it gets dark. You are welcome to borrow my dress. Why not see what Aragorn thinks of the colours?”
The women swept from the room.
Once Faramir was dressed, he cautiously opened the door. Somewhat to his surprise, he found the bedroom deserted. He hurried off to his meeting, thankful to have escaped so easily from his embarrassing predicament.
“A cat may look at a king,” said Alice. “I’ve read that in some book, but I don’t remember where.” - Lewis Carroll (1832–1898), Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
A few hours later, a still indignant Elbeth, having escaped her nanny, was approaching the King’s study. Her Aunt Éowyn was still refusing to believe that she had seen a ghost. Even worse, she had decreed that Elbeth was to have extra Quenya lessons until she stopped telling lies. While her nanny was fussing over the dress she was to wear later, Elbeth remembered Uncle Legolas telling her a story about how he and Uncle Gimli had followed Strider through a tunnel in a mountain to summon an army of ghosts to fight in the Great War. Uncle Gimli had added that the fearsome spectres were obedient to Strider’s wishes.
As soon as the nanny went into the bathing chamber to prepare Elbeth’s bath, the little girl decided to go and see if Strider could do something to make Aunt Éowyn believe she had seen a ghost.
Surely, as he was the King, he could help her, as Kings could do anything!
The guard at the head of the corridor looked at her doubtfully when she demanded to see the King and hastened after her when she approached Aragorn’s door.
“King Elessar is very busy, Lady Elbeth,” he said. ”He does not have time to grant audiences to little girls.”
The study door opened and Aragorn appeared. “Come in, Elbeth,” he said, smiling at her kindly. “I am never too busy to see my friends.” He shut the door and settled himself on the couch. ”Come and sit beside me and tell me what is wrong. I can see that you have been crying.”
“It is so unfair, Strider!” Elbeth burst out. ”I have seen Sarah, the ghost of the White Lady that Uncle Faramir told me about. Aunt Éowyn won’t believe me and says I am making up stories and have to be punished until I stop telling lies, but I’m telling the truth. I am!”
“What did Sarah look like?” Aragorn asked, thinking that maybe the child had mistaken one of the maids for a ghost while Faramir’s story was still fresh in her mind.
“She was very tall and clad in white all over. She glided across the Aunt Éowyn’s bedchamber and disappeared into Uncle Faramir’s dressing room. Aunt Éowyn and Aunt Arwen were looking at dresses and did not see her.”
“What does Uncle Faramir say?” Aragorn enquired, puzzled by Elbeth’s story. He knew, although she was stubborn and strong willed, she was a very truthful child, much like Faramir in character.
“They won’t let me see him as he is busy getting ready for the procession,” Elbeth explained. “I heard that you know all about ghosts and they do what you say. Please could you order Sarah to appear and show Aunt Éowyn that I’m not making up stories?”
“I fear that it was only the spirits of the oath breakers who betrayed my forefather, Isildur, that I had mastery over,” Aragorn explained.
“But you are King! I thought everyone, including ghosts, had to do what you said?” Elbeth looked crestfallen.
“Even a King has limits to his powers,” Aragorn told her gently. ”However, I will see what I can do.”
“Thank you, Strider, Aunt Éowyn says I have to have extra Quenya lessons for being naughty. I hate Quenya, it is so hard to learn!”
“It is indeed, though I have heard you are becoming quite fluent in it,” Aragorn said solemnly. “I found the verbs almost impossible to master!”
“You had to learn it too?” Elbeth asked surprised.” But you are the King!”
“I was not King then, just an ordinary boy who preferred playing to boring lessons,” Aragorn confided. ”I will tell you one day about my schooldays. Now, I have to prepare for the festival. I expect Aunt Éowyn will be waiting for you to join her for the procession too. I promise I will see what I can do about Sarah.”
Thank you, Strider!” Pausing only to bestow a parting kiss on the man she regarded as another favourite uncle, Elbeth hurried back to her own quarters, bumping into her nanny on the way there and receiving a scolding for wandering off.
Aragorn sat lost in thought for a few moments after Elbeth left him. He was certain that the Citadel was not haunted. For a start, he was sure that Arwen would have sensed it, if it were so, and most likely both Faramir and himself too. Indeed, he had spoken Elvish blessings to banish unquiet spirits in every room here, when he first moved in, lest Denethor’s spirit should linger to disturb the living.
Since Elbeth’s belief in the White Lady seemed to have started with being told a story by Faramir; maybe talking to his Steward would throw some light on the matter? He despatched a servant to find him, telling the man to send Faramir to him.
The Steward appeared just as Aragorn was finishing dressing in his ceremonial garb. The King hated having anyone help him dress and was struggling to lace his ornate tunic.
Faramir looked rather flustered, having spent most of the day trying to catch up, after being delayed so long in his bathing chamber.
“Is something wrong, Aragorn?” Faramir enquired anxiously, not having expected to speak to the King until the ceremony.
“All is well, mellon nîn. It is just that Elbeth came to me with a most curious story.” The tunic fastened, Aragorn took the Star of Elendil from its casket while he started to relate the details of Elbeth’s visit.
“Yes, I did tell her the story, but I never thought she would take it so seriously,” Faramir said. “You need to brush your hair down before putting the jewel on,” he cautioned the King, whose unruly locks were refusing to be tamed.
Obediently, Aragorn took up his hairbrush.
“Let me fasten that,” Faramir offered, seeing that the jewel was hanging at an awkward angle and threatening to obscure his lord’s vision.
“Please do, how I hate the pomp that goes with ceremonial occasions,” Aragorn sighed. “Of course, we should remember the dead and I am honoured to lead the tributes, but why I have to wear all this to do so, I have no idea!”
“The people need jewels to show your greatness. They do not know you as well as I do,” Faramir replied. “They were starved of spectacle for so long, we cannot begrudge it them now.”
“I suppose not,” Aragorn conceded, drawing on his ceremonial cloak before finishing narrating what Elbeth had to say. ”She told me she saw the White Lady of Gondor in your lady’s bedchamber this morning,” he concluded. ”Elbeth insists she did see a ghost and your lady is angry with her for what she perceives as telling lies.”
Faramir, who had been handing Aragorn his gloves, dropped them at this revelation. ”Oh no,” he exclaimed in distress. ”Poor Elbeth! She must have seen me trying to make my way undetected to my dressing room. I did not wish the Queen and her ladies to see me improperly clad. I am so sorry! I will go and tell Éowyn the truth at once and apologise to Elbeth.”
Aragorn placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.”I have a better idea, mellon nîn,” he said.” Listen to what I have to say first."
It is my feeling that Time ripens all things; with Time all things are revealed; Time is the father of truth.- François Rabelais (1494–1553)
A solemn candlelit procession led by Faramir and Éowyn, wound its way through the upper circles of the City. It came to a halt beside the White Tree.
Éowyn glanced directly behind her to see if Elbeth, who was being escorted by young Bergil, was behaving herself. The little girl looked suitably solemn and was holding her candle carefully. Rather to Éowyn’s surprise, Elbeth reached for Bergil’s hand, as if seeking reassurance. The Princess of Ithilien felt a pang of remorse. Maybe the child was missing her mother and grandmother and pretending to see ghosts as a way of comforting herself? She resolved to talk to Faramir later.
The murmur of low voices ceased when Aragorn, resplendent in full regalia, appeared. Beside him, Arwen was a vision of exquisite beauty, wearing a gown of dark orange with a necklace of pearls round her slender throat. A fur-trimmed cloak was thrown around her shoulders to protect her from the chill night air.
“People of Gondor,” Aragorn said in a clear, resonant voice. ”We are gathered here tonight to remember the loved ones who await us beyond the circles of the world. Because of them, their lives, their love and their sacrifices, we are able to be here today and celebrate this great feast of the living and the dead. May we never forget to honour those who went before! May we cherish our loved ones while we dwell here in Arda together! The One gave Men the Gift of passing beyond the bounds of Arda. May we cherish our days, as all the sweeter, given that they are numbered; May we be forever filled with hope and love!”
The crowd remained silent for a moment, taking in his words. They broke into a spontaneous cheer before Aragorn led them in singing traditional songs of remembrance.
“The time of mourning is over, let us now celebrate the joy of living, together with our loved ones!” Aragorn declared once the singing had died away. Taking Arwen’s hand, he let her inside, Faramir, Éowyn and Elbeth followed.
The Royal dining room had been set with places for five. As the adults entered, they placed their candles on the table and spoke the names of those whom they wished to remember; Gilraen and Halbarad, Finduilas, Boromir and Denethor, Théoden and Théodred, Théodwyn and Éomund. The lights symbolized the presence of those whose names they spoke.
“Do you want to remember anyone, Elbeth?” Éowyn asked gently. “Your mother or your grandmother perhaps?”
Elbeth shook her head.
“We give thanks to the One that we are here with our loved ones tonight!” said Aragorn. The friends and spouses warmly embraced one another.
After the standing silence, the servants brought in a hearty meal of hot vegetable soup, a stew of lamb and vegetables and finally, a special pie made from pumpkins and apples, which was only consumed on this feast day.
The mood progressively became more cheerful as the meal progressed, Faramir had written a poem about the eternal nature of love and read it aloud to the delight of the others
” I look into the eyes,
The eyes of those whom I hold most dear.
I see reflected,
Within the windows the soul:
The love we share.
A bond transcending
Boundaries of life and death. “
Once the meal was over and the table cleared, Aragorn told his friends that he wanted to introduce them to a game popular in the North.
While the ladies retired to give their babies a bedtime feed and settle them to sleep, a large bowl of water was brought into the room and placed on the table. Another servant followed with a pile of clean towels.
“What is that for?” asked Elbeth, voicing the curiosity that her uncle felt too. “Why is the bowl full of apples?”
The ladies returned just as Aragorn explained “It is for a game called ‘apple bobbing’ that is popular amongst the Northern Dúnedain,” Aragorn explained, taking off his outer tunic as he spoke. ”The object of the game is to grab an apple with your teeth. Who would like to play?”
“I would,” Elbeth said, jumping up and down with excitement. “It looks like fun!”
Faramir hesitated for a moment before saying he would like to try the game too.
“You had better take off your tunic, then, mellon nîn. You are likely to get wet, “ Aragorn cautioned. “The Queen will not mind.”
“We will watch, “ Arwen smiled, whispering something in Éowyn’s ear, causing her companion to smile.
The King plunged his head into the bowl and soon came up laughing and spluttering somewhat, without having gained an apple.
“Come on, Elbeth!” he enthused, “This is great fun! I cannot wait for Eldarion and Elestelle to be old enough to take part in the game! Try and grab the stalk with your teeth,” he told the little girl when she came to take her turn.
To her surprise and delight, Elbeth captured an apple and was congratulated by the adults.
“Come and dry yourself and sit by the fire to eat it,” Éowyn told her.
The women laughed and cheered when Faramir took his turn and after several attempts captured his prize. Aragorn then tried again and this time was successful.
The King dried himself and donned his tunic again. The group settled round the fire.
“It is your bedtime now, Elbeth,“ Éowyn told her niece.
“Please let her stay for the storytelling to conclude the evening, “ Aragorn said in a tone with an unmistakable hint of command.
Éowyn looked somewhat surprised. It was very rare for Aragorn to exercise his authority over any purely domestic matter. She could only surmise that the King wanted to indulge Elbeth tonight. She raised her eyebrows slightly.” Just for a short time, then,” she conceded.
The lamps were lowered. By the flickering light of a single candle, Aragorn began a chilling tale of his adventures on the Paths of the Dead. They were all so engrossed that they did not see Faramir quietly slip away. “Has anyone else here seen a ghost?” Aragorn asked, once his tale was concluded. He nodded to Arwen almost imperceptibly and looked expectantly at Elbeth.
“ I have, I saw Sarah the White Lady,” Elbeth said excitedly.
“I have told you not to make up such absurd stories, Elbeth,” Éowyn said irately. ”You are making me very angry and I will have to punish you with even more extra lessons!”
Just then a cold draught blew through the room as the door opened. A tall figure, clad all in white, glided across the room.
Éowyn gave a stifled scream while Elbeth cried, “It’s Sarah, she has come back! I told you I was telling the truth!”
Aragorn rose to his feet and said sternly, ”Spectre, I bid you be gone to your rest and trouble us no more!”
The apparition took a step backward, before throwing off the concealing white towels that covered it, to reveal Faramir. He bowed low to the King.
Aragorn laughed and rose to pat Faramir on the back. You played your part well, mellon nîn,” he said. ”I wanted this to be a feast to remember!”
Faramir then turned to Elbeth.” I am sorry if I frightened you earlier,” he said. “It was I whom you saw, not a ghost!”
“Elbeth, I am so sorry!” Éowyn came to kneel beside the little girl and placed her arms around her. ”I had no idea that your uncle was practicing this surprise for tonight. I should not have doubted your word. Tomorrow, I will take you riding and you can miss your Quenya lessons.”
“Thank you, Aunt Éowyn!” Elbeth hugged her aunt back.
Later that night, when they lay beside each other in bed, Faramir told his wife the whole story.
Éowyn burst out laughing and was rendered speechless for several moments. Then she pulled her husband close and kissed him passionately. “You are certainly no ghost but a man of flesh and blood and a hot blooded one at that!” she said when he responded.
Faramir did not reply, preferring to use his lips for something other than words. He returned her kisses with ever growing ardour.
The End
A/N The story Faramir tells Elbeth is based on a local legend I grew up with.
The ceremonies were loosely inspired by the All Souls Service at my local church.
Apple dunking is a traditional British Halloween game.
Sunday, October 14, 2007
Further Impressions by Linda Hoyland
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
The Dawn of Hope
For all my foresight, it grieves me to see my little girl in pain.
My daughter bears her ordeal with the dignity expected a chieftain’s wife. Only the crushing grip on my hand betrays her agony.
She cries out only when the babe enters the world.
“A fine boy!” exclaims the midwife, “What will you and your lord call him?”
She hands the babe to me while she tends my daughter. Instead of crying, he looks into my eyes. I know then that hope has dawned at last for our people.
Gilraen smiles at her son. ”His name is Aragorn.”
This was written to mark Aragorn's birthday and is inspired by this passage from 'The tale of Aragorn and Arwen."
'But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: "The more need of haste! The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts."
Darkening Days
The characters are the property of the Tolkien estate.
With thanks to Raksha
One by one, death claimed our friends. First, Éomer and the Hobbits, now Faramir.
Each death seemed to diminish Estel a little, especially Faramir’s.
They were so alike, kindred souls, the last of Númenor.
I saw our Steward, once so vigorous and hearty, slowly fading, until the Doom of Men overcame him.
“I hope I shall depart with the same accepting grace,” my husband tells me, weeping anguished tears. “I too, am growing old.”
Foreboding fills my heart, knowing that Estel must one day follow him. I shall taste the bitterness of mortality with him. Slowly, the days grow darker.
A/N
Faramir died in year 82 of the Fourth Age. Aragorn lived for another 38 years.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
Death of Hope
I always knew this dreaded day would come. Yet nothing could prepare me for it. I pleaded with him to stay, much to my shame. Would it have been easier if I had watched him growing ever weaker, losing everything that made him the man he was? I know not.
He departed with such courage, full of hope, my Estel to his last breath.
Is this the true Gift of Men that more than memories await?
Even in death his glory was not diminished.
I feel half of my spirit departed with him. I am left but a walking shadow.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
Walk no more in Shadows
“Walk no more in shadows, but awake,” I tell him. I sense so many shadows, not all caused by Sauron’s minions.
Those shades reach far back into the past, overshadowing the small child deprived of a mother's love, the restless youth vainly striving for his father’s approval; the darkness of a brother’s deeds and death. Darkest of all is the shadow of the father slain by his own hand, who would have consigned his son to the flames.
Walk no more in shadows cast by others. Awake, O Jewel of Gondor, to walk in the sun at my right hand!
Awakening
Faramir’s eyes open, the clear grey of a true child of Númenor. He resembles me as a son might. His eyes meet mine.
I expect to see confusion in his gaze. Instead, he looks at me with love and recognition, almost as if he expected to see me.
“What does the king command?” he asks me, thus bringing closer my dreams of marriage and heirs.
Love springs between us. Friendship and fealty both, kindled in that instant.
I smile, my heart gladdened to have snatched this prize from Sauron’s grasp.
Gondor has need of this son and so will I.
A/N I could not let March 15th pass without revisiting Aragorn and Faramir in the Houses of Healing.I have already written about them in "First Meeting" and "The One", also on this site, but would recommend Raksha's wonderful "The Falcon and the Star" as essential reading for today. http://www.tolkienfanfiction.com/Story_Read_Head.php?STid=695
Some phases are taken from "The Return of the King" .Tolkien uses the phase. "Love sprang between them" in an earlier draft, which is published in HOME "The War of the Ring."
With grateful thanks to Raksha for her help with these drabbles.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.No profit has been nor will be made from this ficlet.
But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And then Faramir cried:
‘Behold the King!’ - The Return of the King - J. R.R Tolkien
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra.
Behold the King
The young Steward approaches with the crown; I am taking his place, yet he offers it willingly, his eyes filled with devotion.
I speak the words of my forefather, bringing together past and present.
I take it from him, but do not crown myself. I call rather for Frodo and Gandalf. Today, all are hailing me, but without them there would be no crown to offer. Gondor would lie in ruins under the Dark Lord’s dominion, while I would be dead, or worse, enslaved by him.
For many long years have I longed for today. My dreams, though, will only be fulfilled if Arwen is beside me as my wife and Queen. Dark will be my days if I am doomed to rule alone.
I scan the sea of faces. So many are here and yet so many are not. Would that my mother had lived to see this day! If only Halbarad were here and Théoden King. Their blood bought my triumph dearly.
I kneel before the Wizard in humility. Gandalf places the crown upon my head and speaks a blessing. The crown weighs heavily upon me, reminding me of the many burdens I now bear.
New strength courses through my veins. I feel the burden of my long years of wandering lifted. Today, I am reborn as Elessar, Envinyatar. I show my true face at last, the heir of Elendil, the rightful King in whom the blood of Númenór runs true.
Faramir, his face alight with joy cries aloud, ”Behold the King!” Shouts of acclamation fill the air as trumpets sound.
The sea of smiling faces gladdens my heart. They are my people now. I will protect them as a loving father protects his children.
May the Valar grant me wisdom to rule them with justice and compassion!
A/N This ficlet suddenly jumped into my head to mark the date of Aragorn's coronation
These characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The Silver Crown
For long centuries, the Silver Crown had lain in the darkness, waiting for the rightful King to come for it. The old Kings had guarded the crown well throughout the long years of my sires’ Stewardship. The ancient helm shone like a sliver of Ithil, as if Eärnur Last-King had laid it aside but yesterday.
I took up the crown that my longfather Mardil left here for safekeeping. My own father would have known little joy in this task. Would that he had chosen life and hope, however faint, instead of the fire! He might have come to love the King as I do.
The Crown of the Sea-Kings was indeed a great prize. But greater by far was he who would soon claim it to wear as he renewed Gondor. Long had I yearned for the day that was to come on the morrow.
I bore the crown, quickly, anxious to leave the dead in peace. There had been too much death of late. I quickened my steps when I passed the rubble of the House of Stewards.
The tree still lay dead and barren, but hope lived in the City!
Hope had found me at the very end of my strength. I was lost, nearly taken by Shadow. When I first beheld him, I knew that Elendil’s heir, the King I longed for, had come. He restored me. What other hands could hold such healing power? I knew then that I was safe and so too was Gondor.
His hands also recalled Éowyn, the fair Shieldmaiden, from death, to my joy. I pledged her my heart, and she will become my bride.
Now, before the gates of our longfathers’ city, the King smiles and thanks me.
I can only offer him the crown. He gave me life anew.
`For myself,' said Faramir, 'I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. - J.R.R. Tolkien - The Two Towers.
A/N. this is a companion piece to "Behold the King"
Flash of Foresight
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
“You may see them now, my lord.” Denethor impatiently pushed past the waiting woman to see his wife and new son. He was vaguely disappointed. He already had the heir he needed. A daughter would have been nice; a child he need have no fear of being called upon to sacrifice in Gondor’s endless struggles against the Dark Lord.
Finduilas sat propped in the vast bed, clutching a small bundle, her face almost as white as the sheets. She looked exhausted. Denethor felt a stab of fear. The Healers had warned him she was not strong.
She smiled. “We have a fine boy, my lord. Another jewel for us to cherish. Would you like to hold him?”
Rather reluctantly Denethor took the babe from his wife and studied the tiny creature. Its face looked as wrinkled as an old man’s and was framed by a fuzz of black hair. Altogether, it was small and not too fair to look upon, though Finduilas seemed to think otherwise. Boromir had been a beautiful baby. Almost immediately, the infant began to howl.
With sudden foresight Denethor knew this child was destined to somehow supplant his brother.
Shuddering, he returned him to his mother.
A/N
A companion piece to the New Arrival.I imagine these events taking place a few moments before the events in that ficlet.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
Dedicated to Raksha
The New Arrival
Boromir cautiously approached the bed. His mother was sitting up, gazing adoringly at a shawl wrapped bundle.
“Come, meet your new brother,” said Finduilas. ”Is Faramir not fair?”
“He is very small,” Boromir replied, studying the red, wrinkled face without enthusiasm. “I thought you said I was to have a new playmate?”
“You will have to wait for him to grow,” Finduilas explained.
“I’d rather have a puppy. Puppies are more fun than babies!” Boromir scowled.
Faramir suddenly opened his eyes and looked at his brother, stretching out small chubby arms.
Boromir tentatively extended a finger, which the baby grasped.
“He is strong!” The older boy was impressed.
“He will grown into a big strapping boy, just like you,” said Finduilas smiling. I will need you to help me look after him until then.”
“Yes, mama,” Boromir replied obediently.
Finduilas‘s heart swelled with pride at the sight of her sons together. Her two precious little jewels. How she loved them!
“Promise me you will protect your brother?” She tried to disguise the sudden shiver down her spine.
“I promise.”
“Good boy, now go and play while mama rests.”
“I think I like having a brother!” Boromir skipped away smiling.
A/N The first mention of Faramir's existence as himself was May 6, 1944 in Tolkien's letter to his son Christopher.
Inheritance
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
The Ring is rightfully mine. By taking it, I would set Frodo free from a burden too great for one so small to bear. Without my aid, the poor hobbit could not even have reached Rivendell.
Once I wield it, none will withstand me. Denethor will yield the rod and I shall be King. I can claim Arwen as my bride. No more waiting; no more hiding in the shadows! Sauron shall be defeated and I will rule over all.
Aragorn started at his own folly. The Ring had betrayed Isildur; it would not claim his heir as victim too.
A/N Inspired by a recent drabble on Tanqui's LJ
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
Written for Raksha's Faramir week. With thanks to her.
Tamer of Man and Beast
Éomer was leaving the stables as Aragorn and Faramir approached. The King of Rohan was ruefully rubbing his arm.
“What ails you, my friend?” Aragorn enquired.
“The new colt! Never did I think to encounter a horse I could not tame!”
Faramir approached the stall, whispering softly to the enraged animal. Aragorn and Éomer watched enthralled as the colt gradually calmed. When Faramir offered him an apple, he nuzzled the Steward affectionately.
“Whoever would have believed it?” exclaimed Éomer in astonishment.
Aragorn laughed. “There is more to our Faramir than meets the eye, he can tame both man and beast.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been nor will be made from it.
The Honour of the House
“Let us drink toasts!” proposed Éomer. “Let us drink a welcome to our guests!”
“All hail!” The Rohirrim raised their drinking horns.
Aragorn and Faramir smiled their thanks.
“Let us drink to the memory of the Glorious Dead, Théoden King and all our forefathers who fell fighting with honour! All hail”
“All hail!” the assembly echoed with one voice.
Faramir’s cheeks flushed with shame. His father had died an ignominious death unlike the fathers of his companions. Even as Théoden had fallen upon the field, Denethor had ignited his own pyre.
Aragorn’s kindly gaze fell upon him.
Later that evening Éomer sat alone with his guests.
“You have restored the honour of your House,” Aragorn told his Steward.
“I have wrought no great deeds.” Faramir stared fixedly at the fire.
“Who resisted the Ring and helped the Hobbits? Who braved the Nazgûl might? Who gave Gondor into my safekeeping and is rebuilding Ithilien anew? Whose wisdom helps me govern wisely?” Aragorn smiled at his Steward, needing no answers to his questions.
“And who healed my sister’s heart and brought her happiness?” said Éomer. “Why, you of course, Faramir!”
Faramir turned from the fire and faced them, his head held high.
A/N Wishing all my readers in the USA a happy holiday.
Green
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been ,nor will be made from this story.
To Faramir, the colour green had always been a grim reminder of war. It was after all, the shade of the uniforms that he and his fellow Rangers wore to conceal them from the Enemy. The drabness had mirrored the sorrow in his heart as his father declined and Gondor with him. Each day the Dark Lord’s power had increased. Everything had seemed drained of life and colour by Sauron’s evil power.
Now that drabness had vanished. Each colour seemed brighter and more vibrant. The sky was bluer and unclouded by the fumes of Mordor. It was the green though, that caught Faramir’s eye as he rode across the Pelennor one morning.
Every tree was clothed in its spring finery of fresh green leaves. The birds flew from tree to tree, twittering joyfully as they built their nests. He too would build his own home soon at Emyn Arnen and nest there with his fair lady. Green was her favourite colour, the hue of her people’s banners.
Never before in living memory had the fields been so lush and verdant, promising the most abundant harvest in living memory. It seemed the earth itself was rejoicing at Sauron’s defeat and the coming of the King.
A/N. This was written for the AA List prompt," Green" and also entered in the "Summer in Ithilien" challenge.
No Regrets
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
"Do you ever regret?” Aragorn asked Faramir as the two men rode abreast through Faramir’s lands.
“Regret what?” The younger man looked puzzled.
“That you are not Ruling Steward,” said the King.
Faramir laughed aloud. ”How could I, when I have all this?” He gestured around him. Fields once battlegrounds were now covered by waving corn and scarlet poppies. Honeysuckle and wild roses bedecked the hedgerows. Butterflies and bees flitted from flower to flower, blackbirds and thrushes sang sweetly in the treetops. “I have the fairest garden in Gondor to share with my Éowyn. What more could any man want?”
A/N This was written especially for "The Summer in Ithilien " challenge, where it won the drabble section, no great achievment,as there were only 3 entries !
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
With thanks to Raksha
Autumn
The days were shortening, the leaves slowly turning red and gold.
He used to dread these days, heralding the hardship of a long northern winter.
No longer did his spirits fall with the tumbling leaves. Cold nights could be spent by a warm fire with his wife and children and the cheerful company of good friends.
Sometimes on summer days, he lamented his loss of freedom to wander in the wilds, feeling sun upon his skin and the wind in his hair.
Curled on cold nights in his wife’s warm embrace, Aragorn Elessar counted the advantages of hearth and home.
A/N You can see an illustrated version of this drabble on my site at http://www1.freewebs.com/lindahoyland/impressions.htm
This was written as a Hobbit Birthday Gift for my friends on LJ on September 15th.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
The Dawn of Hope
For all my foresight, it grieves me to see my little girl in pain.
My daughter bears her ordeal with the dignity expected a chieftain’s wife. Only the crushing grip on my hand betrays her agony.
She cries out only when the babe enters the world.
“A fine boy!” exclaims the midwife, “What will you and your lord call him?”
She hands the babe to me while she tends my daughter. Instead of crying, he looks into my eyes. I know then that hope has dawned at last for our people.
Gilraen smiles at her son. ”His name is Aragorn.”
This was written to mark Aragorn's birthday and is inspired by this passage from 'The tale of Aragorn and Arwen."
'But Ivorwen, his wife, who was also foresighted, answered: "The more need of haste! The days are darkening before the storm, and great things are to come. If these two wed now, hope may be born for our people; but if they delay, it will not come while this age lasts."
Darkening Days
The characters are the property of the Tolkien estate.
With thanks to Raksha
One by one, death claimed our friends. First, Éomer and the Hobbits, now Faramir.
Each death seemed to diminish Estel a little, especially Faramir’s.
They were so alike, kindred souls, the last of Númenor.
I saw our Steward, once so vigorous and hearty, slowly fading, until the Doom of Men overcame him.
“I hope I shall depart with the same accepting grace,” my husband tells me, weeping anguished tears. “I too, am growing old.”
Foreboding fills my heart, knowing that Estel must one day follow him. I shall taste the bitterness of mortality with him. Slowly, the days grow darker.
A/N
Faramir died in year 82 of the Fourth Age. Aragorn lived for another 38 years.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
Death of Hope
I always knew this dreaded day would come. Yet nothing could prepare me for it. I pleaded with him to stay, much to my shame. Would it have been easier if I had watched him growing ever weaker, losing everything that made him the man he was? I know not.
He departed with such courage, full of hope, my Estel to his last breath.
Is this the true Gift of Men that more than memories await?
Even in death his glory was not diminished.
I feel half of my spirit departed with him. I am left but a walking shadow.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
Walk no more in Shadows
“Walk no more in shadows, but awake,” I tell him. I sense so many shadows, not all caused by Sauron’s minions.
Those shades reach far back into the past, overshadowing the small child deprived of a mother's love, the restless youth vainly striving for his father’s approval; the darkness of a brother’s deeds and death. Darkest of all is the shadow of the father slain by his own hand, who would have consigned his son to the flames.
Walk no more in shadows cast by others. Awake, O Jewel of Gondor, to walk in the sun at my right hand!
Awakening
Faramir’s eyes open, the clear grey of a true child of Númenor. He resembles me as a son might. His eyes meet mine.
I expect to see confusion in his gaze. Instead, he looks at me with love and recognition, almost as if he expected to see me.
“What does the king command?” he asks me, thus bringing closer my dreams of marriage and heirs.
Love springs between us. Friendship and fealty both, kindled in that instant.
I smile, my heart gladdened to have snatched this prize from Sauron’s grasp.
Gondor has need of this son and so will I.
A/N I could not let March 15th pass without revisiting Aragorn and Faramir in the Houses of Healing.I have already written about them in "First Meeting" and "The One", also on this site, but would recommend Raksha's wonderful "The Falcon and the Star" as essential reading for today. http://www.tolkienfanfiction.com/Story_Read_Head.php?STid=695
Some phases are taken from "The Return of the King" .Tolkien uses the phase. "Love sprang between them" in an earlier draft, which is published in HOME "The War of the Ring."
With grateful thanks to Raksha for her help with these drabbles.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.No profit has been nor will be made from this ficlet.
But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And then Faramir cried:
‘Behold the King!’ - The Return of the King - J. R.R Tolkien
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra.
Behold the King
The young Steward approaches with the crown; I am taking his place, yet he offers it willingly, his eyes filled with devotion.
I speak the words of my forefather, bringing together past and present.
I take it from him, but do not crown myself. I call rather for Frodo and Gandalf. Today, all are hailing me, but without them there would be no crown to offer. Gondor would lie in ruins under the Dark Lord’s dominion, while I would be dead, or worse, enslaved by him.
For many long years have I longed for today. My dreams, though, will only be fulfilled if Arwen is beside me as my wife and Queen. Dark will be my days if I am doomed to rule alone.
I scan the sea of faces. So many are here and yet so many are not. Would that my mother had lived to see this day! If only Halbarad were here and Théoden King. Their blood bought my triumph dearly.
I kneel before the Wizard in humility. Gandalf places the crown upon my head and speaks a blessing. The crown weighs heavily upon me, reminding me of the many burdens I now bear.
New strength courses through my veins. I feel the burden of my long years of wandering lifted. Today, I am reborn as Elessar, Envinyatar. I show my true face at last, the heir of Elendil, the rightful King in whom the blood of Númenór runs true.
Faramir, his face alight with joy cries aloud, ”Behold the King!” Shouts of acclamation fill the air as trumpets sound.
The sea of smiling faces gladdens my heart. They are my people now. I will protect them as a loving father protects his children.
May the Valar grant me wisdom to rule them with justice and compassion!
A/N This ficlet suddenly jumped into my head to mark the date of Aragorn's coronation
These characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The Silver Crown
For long centuries, the Silver Crown had lain in the darkness, waiting for the rightful King to come for it. The old Kings had guarded the crown well throughout the long years of my sires’ Stewardship. The ancient helm shone like a sliver of Ithil, as if Eärnur Last-King had laid it aside but yesterday.
I took up the crown that my longfather Mardil left here for safekeeping. My own father would have known little joy in this task. Would that he had chosen life and hope, however faint, instead of the fire! He might have come to love the King as I do.
The Crown of the Sea-Kings was indeed a great prize. But greater by far was he who would soon claim it to wear as he renewed Gondor. Long had I yearned for the day that was to come on the morrow.
I bore the crown, quickly, anxious to leave the dead in peace. There had been too much death of late. I quickened my steps when I passed the rubble of the House of Stewards.
The tree still lay dead and barren, but hope lived in the City!
Hope had found me at the very end of my strength. I was lost, nearly taken by Shadow. When I first beheld him, I knew that Elendil’s heir, the King I longed for, had come. He restored me. What other hands could hold such healing power? I knew then that I was safe and so too was Gondor.
His hands also recalled Éowyn, the fair Shieldmaiden, from death, to my joy. I pledged her my heart, and she will become my bride.
Now, before the gates of our longfathers’ city, the King smiles and thanks me.
I can only offer him the crown. He gave me life anew.
`For myself,' said Faramir, 'I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. - J.R.R. Tolkien - The Two Towers.
A/N. this is a companion piece to "Behold the King"
Flash of Foresight
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
“You may see them now, my lord.” Denethor impatiently pushed past the waiting woman to see his wife and new son. He was vaguely disappointed. He already had the heir he needed. A daughter would have been nice; a child he need have no fear of being called upon to sacrifice in Gondor’s endless struggles against the Dark Lord.
Finduilas sat propped in the vast bed, clutching a small bundle, her face almost as white as the sheets. She looked exhausted. Denethor felt a stab of fear. The Healers had warned him she was not strong.
She smiled. “We have a fine boy, my lord. Another jewel for us to cherish. Would you like to hold him?”
Rather reluctantly Denethor took the babe from his wife and studied the tiny creature. Its face looked as wrinkled as an old man’s and was framed by a fuzz of black hair. Altogether, it was small and not too fair to look upon, though Finduilas seemed to think otherwise. Boromir had been a beautiful baby. Almost immediately, the infant began to howl.
With sudden foresight Denethor knew this child was destined to somehow supplant his brother.
Shuddering, he returned him to his mother.
A/N
A companion piece to the New Arrival.I imagine these events taking place a few moments before the events in that ficlet.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
Dedicated to Raksha
The New Arrival
Boromir cautiously approached the bed. His mother was sitting up, gazing adoringly at a shawl wrapped bundle.
“Come, meet your new brother,” said Finduilas. ”Is Faramir not fair?”
“He is very small,” Boromir replied, studying the red, wrinkled face without enthusiasm. “I thought you said I was to have a new playmate?”
“You will have to wait for him to grow,” Finduilas explained.
“I’d rather have a puppy. Puppies are more fun than babies!” Boromir scowled.
Faramir suddenly opened his eyes and looked at his brother, stretching out small chubby arms.
Boromir tentatively extended a finger, which the baby grasped.
“He is strong!” The older boy was impressed.
“He will grown into a big strapping boy, just like you,” said Finduilas smiling. I will need you to help me look after him until then.”
“Yes, mama,” Boromir replied obediently.
Finduilas‘s heart swelled with pride at the sight of her sons together. Her two precious little jewels. How she loved them!
“Promise me you will protect your brother?” She tried to disguise the sudden shiver down her spine.
“I promise.”
“Good boy, now go and play while mama rests.”
“I think I like having a brother!” Boromir skipped away smiling.
A/N The first mention of Faramir's existence as himself was May 6, 1944 in Tolkien's letter to his son Christopher.
Inheritance
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
The Ring is rightfully mine. By taking it, I would set Frodo free from a burden too great for one so small to bear. Without my aid, the poor hobbit could not even have reached Rivendell.
Once I wield it, none will withstand me. Denethor will yield the rod and I shall be King. I can claim Arwen as my bride. No more waiting; no more hiding in the shadows! Sauron shall be defeated and I will rule over all.
Aragorn started at his own folly. The Ring had betrayed Isildur; it would not claim his heir as victim too.
A/N Inspired by a recent drabble on Tanqui's LJ
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
Written for Raksha's Faramir week. With thanks to her.
Tamer of Man and Beast
Éomer was leaving the stables as Aragorn and Faramir approached. The King of Rohan was ruefully rubbing his arm.
“What ails you, my friend?” Aragorn enquired.
“The new colt! Never did I think to encounter a horse I could not tame!”
Faramir approached the stall, whispering softly to the enraged animal. Aragorn and Éomer watched enthralled as the colt gradually calmed. When Faramir offered him an apple, he nuzzled the Steward affectionately.
“Whoever would have believed it?” exclaimed Éomer in astonishment.
Aragorn laughed. “There is more to our Faramir than meets the eye, he can tame both man and beast.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been nor will be made from it.
The Honour of the House
“Let us drink toasts!” proposed Éomer. “Let us drink a welcome to our guests!”
“All hail!” The Rohirrim raised their drinking horns.
Aragorn and Faramir smiled their thanks.
“Let us drink to the memory of the Glorious Dead, Théoden King and all our forefathers who fell fighting with honour! All hail”
“All hail!” the assembly echoed with one voice.
Faramir’s cheeks flushed with shame. His father had died an ignominious death unlike the fathers of his companions. Even as Théoden had fallen upon the field, Denethor had ignited his own pyre.
Aragorn’s kindly gaze fell upon him.
Later that evening Éomer sat alone with his guests.
“You have restored the honour of your House,” Aragorn told his Steward.
“I have wrought no great deeds.” Faramir stared fixedly at the fire.
“Who resisted the Ring and helped the Hobbits? Who braved the Nazgûl might? Who gave Gondor into my safekeeping and is rebuilding Ithilien anew? Whose wisdom helps me govern wisely?” Aragorn smiled at his Steward, needing no answers to his questions.
“And who healed my sister’s heart and brought her happiness?” said Éomer. “Why, you of course, Faramir!”
Faramir turned from the fire and faced them, his head held high.
A/N Wishing all my readers in the USA a happy holiday.
Green
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been ,nor will be made from this story.
To Faramir, the colour green had always been a grim reminder of war. It was after all, the shade of the uniforms that he and his fellow Rangers wore to conceal them from the Enemy. The drabness had mirrored the sorrow in his heart as his father declined and Gondor with him. Each day the Dark Lord’s power had increased. Everything had seemed drained of life and colour by Sauron’s evil power.
Now that drabness had vanished. Each colour seemed brighter and more vibrant. The sky was bluer and unclouded by the fumes of Mordor. It was the green though, that caught Faramir’s eye as he rode across the Pelennor one morning.
Every tree was clothed in its spring finery of fresh green leaves. The birds flew from tree to tree, twittering joyfully as they built their nests. He too would build his own home soon at Emyn Arnen and nest there with his fair lady. Green was her favourite colour, the hue of her people’s banners.
Never before in living memory had the fields been so lush and verdant, promising the most abundant harvest in living memory. It seemed the earth itself was rejoicing at Sauron’s defeat and the coming of the King.
A/N. This was written for the AA List prompt," Green" and also entered in the "Summer in Ithilien" challenge.
No Regrets
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
"Do you ever regret?” Aragorn asked Faramir as the two men rode abreast through Faramir’s lands.
“Regret what?” The younger man looked puzzled.
“That you are not Ruling Steward,” said the King.
Faramir laughed aloud. ”How could I, when I have all this?” He gestured around him. Fields once battlegrounds were now covered by waving corn and scarlet poppies. Honeysuckle and wild roses bedecked the hedgerows. Butterflies and bees flitted from flower to flower, blackbirds and thrushes sang sweetly in the treetops. “I have the fairest garden in Gondor to share with my Éowyn. What more could any man want?”
A/N This was written especially for "The Summer in Ithilien " challenge, where it won the drabble section, no great achievment,as there were only 3 entries !
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
With thanks to Raksha
Autumn
The days were shortening, the leaves slowly turning red and gold.
He used to dread these days, heralding the hardship of a long northern winter.
No longer did his spirits fall with the tumbling leaves. Cold nights could be spent by a warm fire with his wife and children and the cheerful company of good friends.
Sometimes on summer days, he lamented his loss of freedom to wander in the wilds, feeling sun upon his skin and the wind in his hair.
Curled on cold nights in his wife’s warm embrace, Aragorn Elessar counted the advantages of hearth and home.
A/N You can see an illustrated version of this drabble on my site at http://www1.freewebs.com/lindahoyland/impressions.htm
This was written as a Hobbit Birthday Gift for my friends on LJ on September 15th.
Partners in crime
A Tale of Telcontar
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
Aragorn grimly surveyed the scene of chaos. The trade agreement on which he had laboured all morning was scattered across the floor, the parchment torn to shreds.
Eldarion’s puppy, Nimrodel stood beside Aragorn's desk, wagging her tail.
Aragorn called a servant and bade her summon his son.
A few minutes later Eldarion arrived. “You wanted to see me, ada?” he asked innocently. “Ah, there is Nimrodel; I could not find her!” The puppy ran to him and licked his hand.
“And how did she come to be in my study?” Aragorn asked severely.
“Um, maybe the door was open,” Eldarion said evasively. He looked down, unable to meet his father’s stern gaze.
“A dog cannot open a closed door,” said Aragorn. “Look at me, Eldarion! There is nought to gain by studying your feet.”
“She must um have um followed me in here. I wanted to look at your model soldiers.” He gestured towards a collection of ornate bejewelled warriors that a visiting envoy had given his father.
“I have told you are not allowed in my study without permission,” said Aragorn. “ Just look at all the damage the pup has done! An important treaty – ruined!”
“Bad, bad dog!” Eldarion shouted at Nimrodel. The puppy whined and her tail drooped between her legs.
“You should not blame her,” Aragorn admonished his son.
“She chewed up your papers,” Eldarion replied, a trifle sulkily.
“Puppies do chew things, it is their nature,” said the King. ”However, if you had not disobeyed me by coming in here, you would not have led Nimrodel into trouble. Take her outside, then return and I will decide best how to punish you.”
“I am sorry, ada.” Eldarion blinked away a tear. He led Nimrodel from the room, his eyes downcast. It was hard to tell whether boy or pup looked guiltier.
Just then Faramir arrived, a parchment tucked under his arm. ”Whatever has happened here?” the Steward asked in dismay.
“Nimrodel decided to chew up the trade treaty with Rhûn,” Aragorn told him.” I had just spent three hours working on it.
“Maybe she is too high-spirited a pup for the Citadel,” Faramir lamented. "I regret not having chosen a quieter pup for the lad, but Nimrodel was the fairest and strongest of the litter."
“We would not be without her, mellon nîn, so do not blame yourself. She is a good-natured creature, just mischievous, as all younglings are. But what brings you here? I thought you were occupied with the City renovations today.”
“I am, but I thought of some new details to add to the treaty.” Faramir spread his parchment on the King’s desk. Aragorn perused it carefully. His features slowly relaxed into a smile.
“This treaty is far better worded than the one Nimrodel chewed!” the King beamed, clapping Faramir on the shoulder affectionately.
A few minutes later, Eldarion returned in a state of growing apprehension. “What is your will, ada?” he asked.
“Do I have your word you will not come in here without permission again?”
“Yes, ada, I promise.”
“I want you to sweep up this mess,” Aragorn said sternly. Then he smiled. ”Later, if you do it well, I will tell you the story of Huan, the greatest hound ever to live."
“Thank you ada!” Eldarion embraced his father then gladly set to work.
Outside in her kennel, as if sensing the young Prince’s relief, Nimrodel wagged her tail.
A/N This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Guilty” on the AA Discussion list.
These story stories form part of a collection,"Tales of Telcontar". Thank you to Deandra for suggesting the title.
You can see Nimrodel at
http://www1.freewebs.com/lindahoyland/talesoftelcontar.htm
A Tale of Telcontar
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
Aragorn grimly surveyed the scene of chaos. The trade agreement on which he had laboured all morning was scattered across the floor, the parchment torn to shreds.
Eldarion’s puppy, Nimrodel stood beside Aragorn's desk, wagging her tail.
Aragorn called a servant and bade her summon his son.
A few minutes later Eldarion arrived. “You wanted to see me, ada?” he asked innocently. “Ah, there is Nimrodel; I could not find her!” The puppy ran to him and licked his hand.
“And how did she come to be in my study?” Aragorn asked severely.
“Um, maybe the door was open,” Eldarion said evasively. He looked down, unable to meet his father’s stern gaze.
“A dog cannot open a closed door,” said Aragorn. “Look at me, Eldarion! There is nought to gain by studying your feet.”
“She must um have um followed me in here. I wanted to look at your model soldiers.” He gestured towards a collection of ornate bejewelled warriors that a visiting envoy had given his father.
“I have told you are not allowed in my study without permission,” said Aragorn. “ Just look at all the damage the pup has done! An important treaty – ruined!”
“Bad, bad dog!” Eldarion shouted at Nimrodel. The puppy whined and her tail drooped between her legs.
“You should not blame her,” Aragorn admonished his son.
“She chewed up your papers,” Eldarion replied, a trifle sulkily.
“Puppies do chew things, it is their nature,” said the King. ”However, if you had not disobeyed me by coming in here, you would not have led Nimrodel into trouble. Take her outside, then return and I will decide best how to punish you.”
“I am sorry, ada.” Eldarion blinked away a tear. He led Nimrodel from the room, his eyes downcast. It was hard to tell whether boy or pup looked guiltier.
Just then Faramir arrived, a parchment tucked under his arm. ”Whatever has happened here?” the Steward asked in dismay.
“Nimrodel decided to chew up the trade treaty with Rhûn,” Aragorn told him.” I had just spent three hours working on it.
“Maybe she is too high-spirited a pup for the Citadel,” Faramir lamented. "I regret not having chosen a quieter pup for the lad, but Nimrodel was the fairest and strongest of the litter."
“We would not be without her, mellon nîn, so do not blame yourself. She is a good-natured creature, just mischievous, as all younglings are. But what brings you here? I thought you were occupied with the City renovations today.”
“I am, but I thought of some new details to add to the treaty.” Faramir spread his parchment on the King’s desk. Aragorn perused it carefully. His features slowly relaxed into a smile.
“This treaty is far better worded than the one Nimrodel chewed!” the King beamed, clapping Faramir on the shoulder affectionately.
A few minutes later, Eldarion returned in a state of growing apprehension. “What is your will, ada?” he asked.
“Do I have your word you will not come in here without permission again?”
“Yes, ada, I promise.”
“I want you to sweep up this mess,” Aragorn said sternly. Then he smiled. ”Later, if you do it well, I will tell you the story of Huan, the greatest hound ever to live."
“Thank you ada!” Eldarion embraced his father then gladly set to work.
Outside in her kennel, as if sensing the young Prince’s relief, Nimrodel wagged her tail.
A/N This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Guilty” on the AA Discussion list.
These story stories form part of a collection,"Tales of Telcontar". Thank you to Deandra for suggesting the title.
You can see Nimrodel at
http://www1.freewebs.com/lindahoyland/talesoftelcontar.htm
Morning has broken like the first morning,
blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing, fresh from the Word! - Eleanor Farjeon (1881–1965)
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
With thanks to Raksha
A Tale of Telcontar
Aragorn rose silently from the bed so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. He stood for a moment looking down at her in the pale light of dawn, which streamed through the window.
Her beauty always made him catch his breath. Now with her cheeks slightly flushed with sleep, framed by her flowing dark hair, black against her white nightgown and the pillow, Arwen looked fairer than ever. He was a privileged man indeed to have her to wife. Sometimes, he could hardly believe his good fortune that he was free to awaken every day beside her.
He crept into the adjacent dressing room, almost stubbing his bare toe on the washstand as he did so. Faramir’s home in Ithilien was still relatively unfamiliar to him; as was the freedom it offered to escape briefly from his royal duties.
Quickly, he splashed water on his hands and face then changed out of his night attire, donning his oldest riding clothes. He paused to kiss his wife lightly on the cheek. Arwen stirred slightly, smiling in her sleep. Aragorn tiptoed softly from the room.
The kitchen was already a hive of activity. A young maidservant brought a mug of ale and a plate of bread and cheese at his request, looking only slightly surprised when he elected to sit and eat it at the kitchen table.
A few minutes later Éowyn appeared, accompanied by a bleary- eyed Faramir. The servants seemed accustomed to seeing their lady at this hour, less so their lord. Aragorn rose to embrace his friends.
“I often ride at dawn, unlike my sleepy husband,” said Éowyn, taking a bite of crusty bread, still warm from the oven. “I breakfast here in the kitchen as I did in Meduseld. It is the warmest place to be at dawn.”
“It promises to be another hot day,” said Aragorn. ”I am glad we are riding before the sun is too high in the sky.”
”A pity the Queen does not wish to join us,” Faramir lamented. ”She has told me she loves the countryside.”
“My beloved Undómiel prefers the evening,” said the King. ”She will just about be ready to eat breakfast when we return. I hope to ride with her under the stars one night while we are here.”
“It will be evening today ere we set out if we do not hurry,” said Éowyn, tapping her foot impatiently, having already finished her makeshift breakfast.
The three friends made their way to the stables, where dismissing the grooms, they saddled their own mounts.
They rode across the lush countryside, east into the sunrise. Like a blood red ruby, the sun crept above the horizon painting the sky in glorious hues of pink and mauve. The dew sparkled on the grass and the air felt fresh and sweet.
The breeze blew Aragorn’s hair behind him as he rode. He laughed out loud for sheer joy. On a morning such as this, the ranger in him could leave the King's cares behind and take pleasure in the bright clear dawn, if only for a little while. It was enough.
A/N This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Morning” on the AA Discussion list.
These stories form part of a collection, "Tales of Telcontar". Thank you to Deandra for suggesting the title.
blackbird has spoken like the first bird.
Praise for the singing! Praise for the morning!
Praise for them, springing, fresh from the Word! - Eleanor Farjeon (1881–1965)
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
With thanks to Raksha
A Tale of Telcontar
Aragorn rose silently from the bed so as not to disturb his sleeping wife. He stood for a moment looking down at her in the pale light of dawn, which streamed through the window.
Her beauty always made him catch his breath. Now with her cheeks slightly flushed with sleep, framed by her flowing dark hair, black against her white nightgown and the pillow, Arwen looked fairer than ever. He was a privileged man indeed to have her to wife. Sometimes, he could hardly believe his good fortune that he was free to awaken every day beside her.
He crept into the adjacent dressing room, almost stubbing his bare toe on the washstand as he did so. Faramir’s home in Ithilien was still relatively unfamiliar to him; as was the freedom it offered to escape briefly from his royal duties.
Quickly, he splashed water on his hands and face then changed out of his night attire, donning his oldest riding clothes. He paused to kiss his wife lightly on the cheek. Arwen stirred slightly, smiling in her sleep. Aragorn tiptoed softly from the room.
The kitchen was already a hive of activity. A young maidservant brought a mug of ale and a plate of bread and cheese at his request, looking only slightly surprised when he elected to sit and eat it at the kitchen table.
A few minutes later Éowyn appeared, accompanied by a bleary- eyed Faramir. The servants seemed accustomed to seeing their lady at this hour, less so their lord. Aragorn rose to embrace his friends.
“I often ride at dawn, unlike my sleepy husband,” said Éowyn, taking a bite of crusty bread, still warm from the oven. “I breakfast here in the kitchen as I did in Meduseld. It is the warmest place to be at dawn.”
“It promises to be another hot day,” said Aragorn. ”I am glad we are riding before the sun is too high in the sky.”
”A pity the Queen does not wish to join us,” Faramir lamented. ”She has told me she loves the countryside.”
“My beloved Undómiel prefers the evening,” said the King. ”She will just about be ready to eat breakfast when we return. I hope to ride with her under the stars one night while we are here.”
“It will be evening today ere we set out if we do not hurry,” said Éowyn, tapping her foot impatiently, having already finished her makeshift breakfast.
The three friends made their way to the stables, where dismissing the grooms, they saddled their own mounts.
They rode across the lush countryside, east into the sunrise. Like a blood red ruby, the sun crept above the horizon painting the sky in glorious hues of pink and mauve. The dew sparkled on the grass and the air felt fresh and sweet.
The breeze blew Aragorn’s hair behind him as he rode. He laughed out loud for sheer joy. On a morning such as this, the ranger in him could leave the King's cares behind and take pleasure in the bright clear dawn, if only for a little while. It was enough.
A/N This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Morning” on the AA Discussion list.
These stories form part of a collection, "Tales of Telcontar". Thank you to Deandra for suggesting the title.
Let Sleeping Kings Lie
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
With thanks to Raksha, Deandra and Julia
Released early from his lessons because his tutor was unwell, a bored Eldarion made his way to his father’s study. Ada had said he was working on some dull but important documents.Maybe he could be persuaded, instead, to play a game for a little while, with the collection of model soldiers that Eldarion so liked. The brightly coloured and bejewelled models, a gift from a visiting ambassador, held a great fascination for the young prince. Ada had confided in him that playing with model soldiers was much more fun than working even when you were very old, as his father undoubtedly was.
Eldarion passed the guard at the end of the corridor, who smiled and greeted him.
The boy tapped on the door of the study, but received no reply. Strange, for he was certain ada was planning to spend all afternoon working there. He listened carefully. A strange and raucous sound suddenly emanated from the room.
Although he was forbidden to enter without permission, Eldarion opened the door.
Aragorn was slumped back in his chair with his mouth wide open, snoring loudly, his papers scattered around him.
Eldarion was about to creep quietly away when his little sister, having escaped the care of her nurse, toddled past him through the open door and ran to her father. She was clutching a doll almost as big as herself.
“Ada, look at my dolly, she has a pretty pink bonnet and shawl!” Farawyn cried. (
Aragorn’s only reply was an especially loud snore, which made both children jump.
“What is wrong with ada?” Farawyn asked, her lower lip trembling.
“He is just asleep,” her brother replied. “We must not wake him or he might be cross with us as we are not supposed to be in here.”
“I will leave dolly’s new bonnet and shawl for him to see,” said Farawyn. “They will keep him warm. Naneth says people get cold if they fall asleep without a cover over them.”
The children tiptoed from the room, quietly closing the door behind them.
***
A little later, the Queen went in search of her husband. “Will you have tea with me, my love?” she asked brightly as she entered the room. She then caught sight of Aragorn and burst out laughing. Stifling her mirth, she hurried off in the direction of Faramir’s study.
The Steward was engrossed in a document on grain tariffs when Arwen entered his room.
“Faramir, you must come with me at once to Estel!” Arwen demanded.
“My lady! Is the King unwell?” Faramir asked anxiously, springing to his feet.
“No, nothing is wrong. I just want you to come and see him,” Arwen replied laughing at the very thought of what she had just witnessed.
Queen and Steward made their way to the King’s study, where they both stood, shaking with mirth.
“I wonder how many flies he has caught? Or has the colour of that shawl frightened them away?” Arwen giggled.
“We should wake him,” said Faramir. ”What if the servants come in?”
“Dolly is cold and wants her bonnet and shawl back!” announced the Farawyn, running into the room.
“Lady Farawyn, come here!” called the little girl’s nurse from along the corridor.
Arwen rushed out and called to the servant. “I will look after my daughter now. You may go Miriel.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the nurse curtsying. She disappeared in the direction from which she had come.
Arwen returned to the study just in time to see her daughter remove the doll's frilly bonnet from Aragorn’s head and bright pink shawl from his chest. The little girl then kissed her father.
Aragorn blinked and open his eyes. ”What is the matter?” he asked a trifle tetchily.
“You were snoring when I came to ask you if you would take tea with me,” said Arwen sweetly. “Faramir is invited too.”
“I do not snore!” said the King. “Ada does not snore, Farawyn.”
“Dolly snores then, “said Farawyn wrapping the pink shawl around her plaything.
Unable to feel out of sorts any longer, Aragorn picked up his little daughter and hugged her. "Bring dolly to tea, there might be some of her favourite cakes to eat," Aragorn said smiling.
"Girls!" snorted Eldarion.
Queen and Steward smiled at each other. The afternoon’s entertainment had been most amusing.
A/N This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Entertainment” on the AA Discussion list.
In my long stories, Aragorn is notorious for his snoring.
Tolkien said Aragorn had daughters but did not name them; Farawyn’s name is my invention.
These stories form part of a collection, "Tales of Telcontar". Thank you to Deandra for suggesting the title.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate
With thanks to Raksha, Deandra and Julia
Released early from his lessons because his tutor was unwell, a bored Eldarion made his way to his father’s study. Ada had said he was working on some dull but important documents.Maybe he could be persuaded, instead, to play a game for a little while, with the collection of model soldiers that Eldarion so liked. The brightly coloured and bejewelled models, a gift from a visiting ambassador, held a great fascination for the young prince. Ada had confided in him that playing with model soldiers was much more fun than working even when you were very old, as his father undoubtedly was.
Eldarion passed the guard at the end of the corridor, who smiled and greeted him.
The boy tapped on the door of the study, but received no reply. Strange, for he was certain ada was planning to spend all afternoon working there. He listened carefully. A strange and raucous sound suddenly emanated from the room.
Although he was forbidden to enter without permission, Eldarion opened the door.
Aragorn was slumped back in his chair with his mouth wide open, snoring loudly, his papers scattered around him.
Eldarion was about to creep quietly away when his little sister, having escaped the care of her nurse, toddled past him through the open door and ran to her father. She was clutching a doll almost as big as herself.
“Ada, look at my dolly, she has a pretty pink bonnet and shawl!” Farawyn cried. (
Aragorn’s only reply was an especially loud snore, which made both children jump.
“What is wrong with ada?” Farawyn asked, her lower lip trembling.
“He is just asleep,” her brother replied. “We must not wake him or he might be cross with us as we are not supposed to be in here.”
“I will leave dolly’s new bonnet and shawl for him to see,” said Farawyn. “They will keep him warm. Naneth says people get cold if they fall asleep without a cover over them.”
The children tiptoed from the room, quietly closing the door behind them.
***
A little later, the Queen went in search of her husband. “Will you have tea with me, my love?” she asked brightly as she entered the room. She then caught sight of Aragorn and burst out laughing. Stifling her mirth, she hurried off in the direction of Faramir’s study.
The Steward was engrossed in a document on grain tariffs when Arwen entered his room.
“Faramir, you must come with me at once to Estel!” Arwen demanded.
“My lady! Is the King unwell?” Faramir asked anxiously, springing to his feet.
“No, nothing is wrong. I just want you to come and see him,” Arwen replied laughing at the very thought of what she had just witnessed.
Queen and Steward made their way to the King’s study, where they both stood, shaking with mirth.
“I wonder how many flies he has caught? Or has the colour of that shawl frightened them away?” Arwen giggled.
“We should wake him,” said Faramir. ”What if the servants come in?”
“Dolly is cold and wants her bonnet and shawl back!” announced the Farawyn, running into the room.
“Lady Farawyn, come here!” called the little girl’s nurse from along the corridor.
Arwen rushed out and called to the servant. “I will look after my daughter now. You may go Miriel.”
“Yes, my lady,” said the nurse curtsying. She disappeared in the direction from which she had come.
Arwen returned to the study just in time to see her daughter remove the doll's frilly bonnet from Aragorn’s head and bright pink shawl from his chest. The little girl then kissed her father.
Aragorn blinked and open his eyes. ”What is the matter?” he asked a trifle tetchily.
“You were snoring when I came to ask you if you would take tea with me,” said Arwen sweetly. “Faramir is invited too.”
“I do not snore!” said the King. “Ada does not snore, Farawyn.”
“Dolly snores then, “said Farawyn wrapping the pink shawl around her plaything.
Unable to feel out of sorts any longer, Aragorn picked up his little daughter and hugged her. "Bring dolly to tea, there might be some of her favourite cakes to eat," Aragorn said smiling.
"Girls!" snorted Eldarion.
Queen and Steward smiled at each other. The afternoon’s entertainment had been most amusing.
A/N This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Entertainment” on the AA Discussion list.
In my long stories, Aragorn is notorious for his snoring.
Tolkien said Aragorn had daughters but did not name them; Farawyn’s name is my invention.
These stories form part of a collection, "Tales of Telcontar". Thank you to Deandra for suggesting the title.
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Gift of Dawn
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.“Wake up, ion nîn!” Aragorn called, gently shaking the sleeping child.
“Ada? Why are you waking me?” Eldarion sat up. “It is still dark.”
“I want to show you something. Dress quickly, there is no need to wash or comb your hair.”
Eldarion beamed. The washing of his ears, face and hands by his insistent nanny was a morning chore he would gladly avoid. Eldarion scrambled out of bed and pulled on the clothes his father held out to him. Aragorn helped him fasten the laces in the dim light of a single candle.
The King took his son by the hand and led him through the halls of wood and stone, where the royal family were spending a few pleasant days with the Prince and Princess of Ithilien. They passed a few guards, and a bleary-eyed maidservant beginning chores in the kitchens; but most of the great house was still and silent.
“Where are we going, ada?” asked Eldarion.
“To the stables, for Iavas has given birth to her foal,” his father told him, leading the little boy outside to the spacious and comfortable building where the horses were kept.
Lamps illuminated the end stall. Faramir and Éowyn stood in the shadows, keeping a watch over Faramir’s chestnut mare.
Iavas stood over a small foal whose coat was still damp from birth. The delivery had been difficult, keeping Éowyn and Faramir from their beds for most of the night. Aragorn had kept watch with the Prince and Princess, using his healing hands to calm the mare. Like her mother, the foal was chestnut with a white blaze. The infant had already tried twice to rise on her slender, wobbly legs; but had not yet managed to stand.
Still holding Eldarion’s hand, Aragorn petted the foal’s head, “ Come now, you can do it!” the King coaxed the newborn, then stood back.
The foal whickered, then began to rise, the long legs trembling with the effort until she stood up on them. She did not fall! Eldarion watched in wonder as the little animal tottered to her mother’s side. Iavas nuzzled her baby affectionately.
“She is beautiful!” Eldarion exclaimed. ”What is her name?”
“You may choose, for she is to be your horse once you are both old enough,” said Faramir. “We thought it was worth waking you early to see her stand for the first time.”
Eldarion’s face lit up. He rushed to hug the Steward. “Thank you, Uncle Faramir, I think I will call her Amaurea, since ada woke me so early to greet her. How clever she is to be able to walk so soon! My sister couldn’t walk till she was a year old!”
“Horses grow up quickly, like kittens and puppies,” Aragorn explained.
“I wish I could grow up so quickly!” Eldarion lamented. “Then I would be tall and strong like you, ada, and a Ranger, and I wouldn’t need any more lessons!”
Faramir chuckled.
"You would have to take many lessons to become a Ranger," his father told Eldarion solemnly. "You would have little time to play."
Eldarion frowned, considering the information.
"I will take you back inside now,” said Aragorn. "Iavas should have some peace and quiet while she gives Amaurea her breakfast.”
The boy cast a final thrilled glance at his new treasure, who was now greedily suckling her mother's milk.
Eldarion felt like he was walking on air as he accompanied his father back to the house. The sun rose in the Eastern horizon, promising a glorious day.
A/N
This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Early” on the AA Discussion list.
I hope to post more of these short stories soon.
"Amaurea" means “Early Day” in Quenya. Iavas is Faramir’s chestnut mare, a wedding gift from Éomer .She was introduced in “Shadow and Thought”.
With grateful thanks to Raksha.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.“Wake up, ion nîn!” Aragorn called, gently shaking the sleeping child.
“Ada? Why are you waking me?” Eldarion sat up. “It is still dark.”
“I want to show you something. Dress quickly, there is no need to wash or comb your hair.”
Eldarion beamed. The washing of his ears, face and hands by his insistent nanny was a morning chore he would gladly avoid. Eldarion scrambled out of bed and pulled on the clothes his father held out to him. Aragorn helped him fasten the laces in the dim light of a single candle.
The King took his son by the hand and led him through the halls of wood and stone, where the royal family were spending a few pleasant days with the Prince and Princess of Ithilien. They passed a few guards, and a bleary-eyed maidservant beginning chores in the kitchens; but most of the great house was still and silent.
“Where are we going, ada?” asked Eldarion.
“To the stables, for Iavas has given birth to her foal,” his father told him, leading the little boy outside to the spacious and comfortable building where the horses were kept.
Lamps illuminated the end stall. Faramir and Éowyn stood in the shadows, keeping a watch over Faramir’s chestnut mare.
Iavas stood over a small foal whose coat was still damp from birth. The delivery had been difficult, keeping Éowyn and Faramir from their beds for most of the night. Aragorn had kept watch with the Prince and Princess, using his healing hands to calm the mare. Like her mother, the foal was chestnut with a white blaze. The infant had already tried twice to rise on her slender, wobbly legs; but had not yet managed to stand.
Still holding Eldarion’s hand, Aragorn petted the foal’s head, “ Come now, you can do it!” the King coaxed the newborn, then stood back.
The foal whickered, then began to rise, the long legs trembling with the effort until she stood up on them. She did not fall! Eldarion watched in wonder as the little animal tottered to her mother’s side. Iavas nuzzled her baby affectionately.
“She is beautiful!” Eldarion exclaimed. ”What is her name?”
“You may choose, for she is to be your horse once you are both old enough,” said Faramir. “We thought it was worth waking you early to see her stand for the first time.”
Eldarion’s face lit up. He rushed to hug the Steward. “Thank you, Uncle Faramir, I think I will call her Amaurea, since ada woke me so early to greet her. How clever she is to be able to walk so soon! My sister couldn’t walk till she was a year old!”
“Horses grow up quickly, like kittens and puppies,” Aragorn explained.
“I wish I could grow up so quickly!” Eldarion lamented. “Then I would be tall and strong like you, ada, and a Ranger, and I wouldn’t need any more lessons!”
Faramir chuckled.
"You would have to take many lessons to become a Ranger," his father told Eldarion solemnly. "You would have little time to play."
Eldarion frowned, considering the information.
"I will take you back inside now,” said Aragorn. "Iavas should have some peace and quiet while she gives Amaurea her breakfast.”
The boy cast a final thrilled glance at his new treasure, who was now greedily suckling her mother's milk.
Eldarion felt like he was walking on air as he accompanied his father back to the house. The sun rose in the Eastern horizon, promising a glorious day.
A/N
This is an extended version of a story written for the prompt “Early” on the AA Discussion list.
I hope to post more of these short stories soon.
"Amaurea" means “Early Day” in Quenya. Iavas is Faramir’s chestnut mare, a wedding gift from Éomer .She was introduced in “Shadow and Thought”.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Comes the moment to decide
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, some great decision, offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever, ’twixt that darkness and that light. –
James R Lowell
With grateful thanks to Raksha with whom much of this story is co written.
Faramir waited outside the door of his father’s study. He fidgeted nervously, his apprehension growing. His father had summoned him to an urgent meeting well over an hour ago, but there was no sign of the Steward.
He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to seek his bed and rest. The retreat from Osgiliath and the flight from the Nazgûl had drained him more than he would admit, but first he must face his father’s wrath, which would take all his wits.
His father had been in a strange mood of late, spending hours alone in the topmost room in the tower. His temper had grown increasingly uncertain and there was even talk of him beating the servants, which if true, was most unlike the usually icily controlled Steward. The look in his eyes earlier when he had learned of Faramir’s encounter with the Ring bearer and his companion had been truly terrifying to behold.
A stern voice called “Enter!”
Faramir went into the room and knelt before his father, kissing his ring of Office. The Steward did not bid him to rise, so he remained kneeling at his father's feet on the cold stone floor. Denethor’s office was as austere as the man himself, a simple desk piled high with papers and two hard wooden chairs. The walls were devoid of tapestries adorned only by several ornate swords and a riding crop. The floor was equally bare save for a somewhat worn hearthrug, which lay before the meagre fire, the room’s only concession to comfort.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Denethor asked sternly. His haggard face looked even more careworn than ever and was grey with fatigue as if he had been engaged in some great struggle.
“I did only what I believed to be right,” said Faramir.
“And who are you to say what is right and what is not?” Denethor persisted. “Are you Ruling Steward now?”
“No, my lord, you hold rod and rule in Gondor,”
“Yet, you would conspire with Mithrandir against me?”
“No, my lord, I did not.”
“Do you know what you have done?” Denethor demanded, his tone like ice. “You have sent the weapon that could have saved us all straight into the lands of the Enemy! Boromir would have brought it to me and given me the mighty gift!”
“I would not pick it up if I found it lying on the highway, far less wrest it from the hand of a helpless Halfling. It led to my brother's doom,” said Faramir, his calm tone belying his inner turmoil. “Mithrandir’s words were wise. It is wholly evil. How can evil be defeated with evil?”
“Mithrandir! Always it is Mithrandir you speak of! I see more than you suspect, foolish boy. Beware of Mithrandir! With your help he is seeking to supplant me and place that upstart Thorongil on the throne!”
“No, sire, never did I seek to supplant you!”
Denethor glared at his son. Curse the boy; he even looked like Thorongil with that air of scarely veiled insolence disguised as superior knowledge. “Yet you have spoken of your desire to see the King return and the White Tree bloom again. Fool! How could a dead tree blossom?”
Faramir’s eyes lit up.” I have seen the King in my dreams, the tree blossoming at his coming!” he said in a rapt tone.
Something inside Denethor snapped and he snatched the riding crop from the wall.
Faramir struggled to repress a shudder. As a child he had sometimes been beaten for such misdemeanours as tearing his new clothes or answering back, but never as a man.
“Take off your tunic and shirt, it is time to teach you a lesson you will not forget!” Denethor ordered. “You are not only a fool but a traitor! You are fortunate I have not ordered a traitor’s death for you, but punished you will be!”
“No, father, I am loyal to you and to Gondor,” Faramir protested, but had no choice but to comply. This was not only his father but also his liege lord and to disobey was certain death.
Divested of his upper garments, he knelt patiently trying not to tremble from a mixture of cold and fear.
“Why was Boromir taken and I left with such a puny excuse of a man for a son and defender of our land?” Denethor said, eyeing Faramir with contempt unheeding of the many scars that disfigured his body, all inflicted in the service of Gondor. ”Traitor! Coward! Weakling! Wizard’s Pupil!”
Faramir hardly knew whether the words or the blows hurt him the more. Unable to remain kneeling upright under the force of the blows, he curled into a ball vainly trying to protect himself.
After what could not have been more than a few moments, but felt like an eternity, Denethor dropped the whip and slumped back on his chair. “Go, sleep while you may. The enemy march upon us, the hour of doom is at hand, Minas Tirith will fall! I have seen it!” He buried his face in his hands.
Faramir pulled on his shirt and staggered from the room. He struggled to reach his chamber, at times forced to clutch the walls for support. Reaching his room, he collapsed on the bed. He knew he should send a servant to fetch a Healer, but they would ask how he had come by such hurts. How could he let any see the shameful marks of his father’s displeasure? He must tend his own wounds as best he could. He pulled off his shirt, finding it soaked with blood and stuffed it under the bed. There was water in a pitcher on the washstand. He poured it into the bowl and bathed the painful welts on his back as best he could, before applying a salve the Healers had given him for his most recent wounds.
His task completed, he changed into a nightshirt and fell into bed.
Although Faramir was exhausted, sleep was slow to come. His back throbbed painfully and his mind was in turmoil. What had happened to his father to cause him to act so violently? Was he truly a traitor? He had indeed been commanded to slay all who were found in Ithilien without his father’s leave, but how could he harm two helpless Halflings with whom the fate of Arda lay? Why could he never please his father unlike Boromir? Why did his beloved brother have to die? He dared not think of it. There was no time to grieve. Tomorrow he would redeem himself in his father’s eyes. He would ride out and die for Gondor.
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die! – Henry H. Milman
Faramir awoke from a few hours of uneasy sleep. His back throbbed painfully and it took considerable strength of will to drag himself from his bed. When he tried to dress, he found the dried blood had caused his nightshirt to stick to his back.
He struggled into his robe and called for the servants to fill the bathtub in his room with hot soapy water. It was an unusual request for him to make at this hour, but was obeyed unquestioningly. Faramir had always been a favourite with the Citadel’s many retainers, who liked him for his modest and kindly manner. Now they treated him with a new respect, which had previously been reserved for his brother.
Faramir soaked in the tub until the water started to cool. The soap-filled water eased his back, at least enough for him to move with little pain. Then he dressed. Breakfast, brought for him while he had bathed, held little allure; but he forced himself to eat some of the fresh-baked bread and sausage. The coming day, whatever it brought, would demand all his strength, and a wise soldier, whether guardsman or Captain, knew to take food when it was offered. A servant informed Faramir that the Steward had summoned all the captains to a council.
The morning dawned like a brown dusk and Faramir’s heart was heavy as he made his way to the Council Chamber.
“We should not lightly abandon the outer defences,” said Denethor, “It is at Osgiliath that the Enemy will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage.’
‘That was but a trial,” said Faramir. “Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange.”
“And what of Cair Andros?” said Prince Imrahil. ‘’That, too, must be held, if Osgiliath is defended.”
“Much must be risked in war,’ said Denethor. ‘Cair Andros is manned and no more can be sent so far. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.” He looked at Faramir as he spoke, his eyes issuing challenging him.
All fell silent at the Steward’s words. The captains were brave men, but they believed that they would better employ their men on the City's impregnable walls than in so risky a mission.
Faramir saw that this challenge was his alone. There was choice but to take it; as the Steward's sworn man, he could not disobey him over a difference in the disposition of troops. Neither choice offered much hope; and if he refused, Faramir would not only forfeit his honour, but Denethor would merely appoint another captain to lead the men in his place. And in truth, Faramir yearned to prove to his father, though it might be for the last time, that he was indeed as bold as his lost brother. Finally, he made his reply: “I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead - if you command it.”
“I do so,” said Denethor.
‘Then farewell!’ said Faramir. “But if I should return, think better of me!”
‘That depends on the manner of your return,’ said Denethor coldly. “You are dismissed!”
Faramir walked from the room, hoping none would notice the slight stiffness with which he moved. Angry mutterings broke out amongst the assembly, only to be quelled by Denethor's cold glance.
“Is it wise to send Captain Faramir forth into such peril, my lord?” Imrahil questioned. ”He is now after all, your sole heir and Gondor has need of him.”
“He should expect no special treatment,” Denethor said curtly. “The Council is dismissed.”
***
Faramir tried not wince as his manservant helped him don his armour.
“Are you well, my lord?” the young man enquired.
“The darkness lies heavily upon us all,” said Faramir. He forced himself to smile. “Should I not return, Narmacil, I thank you for all your years of service to me.”
The servant fell silent, too overcome for further conversation.
***
On his way to join his men, Faramir espied his Uncle together with his cousin Elphir. He noted wistfully how father and son smiled at each other, how Imrahil gazed fondly at Elphir and put his arm around his son's shoulders, before parting with a kiss of blessing. Imrahil was overseeing the Outer Defences while Elphir remained within Minas Tirith.
Faramir’s heart ached as much as his back. His father had sent him forth with blows rather than blessings.
Faramir slowly made his way to the stable yard where his company were preparing to depart. In a loud voice he cried “We ride to defend Osgiliath, but I would not take any man unwilling. Let those who prefer to remain to guard the City, do so!”
Only a handful of men turned aside, so great was their love for their Captain.
Gandalf it was that last spoke to Faramir ere he rode east “Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,’ he said, as if reading the young man’s mind. “You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!”
Faramir could only wish that he shared the Grey Pilgrim's conviction that his father cared for him. After last night, it was hard to believe.
Those remaining in the City watched Faramir ride out and muttered amongst themselves. “They give him no rest,” some murmured. “‘The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, for himself and for the one that will not return.”
Faramir wondered sadly how he could ever fill his brother’s place. He could only try to lead with Boromir's valour. Faramir was painfully aware that even should he triumph against all odds, his mission would still not suffice to raise his worth in Denethor's eyes. How clearly obvious his father’s disapproval must be, if even the folk in the streets murmured of it. This battle was his chance to acquit himself with honour, even if it ultimately cost him his life. If he could hold the enemy in Osgiliath even a day, the delay might provide enough time for the Rohirrim to come and save the City. Perhaps his father would at least remember him in death with some of the approval he had withheld in life.
********
Two days later, Faramir and his men found themselves fighting for their very lives, as the ordered retreat that he had shepherded from the Forts splintered under the screams of the Nazgûl.
Bravely they battled Haradrim hordes, fierce Orcs and worse of all, the Nazgûl, whose very presence made the blood run cold in all who beheld him and drained all hope from the hearts of Men. Swords clashed and arrows flew. Bravely the Men of Gondor fought. Outnumbered ten to one their cause was a hopeless one.
Faramir gave the order to retreat and started back towards the City. Somehow he kept those of his men who were left together.
Intent on fighting a Haradrian horse soldier, the Captain failed to notice the Southron arrow aimed at his heart until it was too late. Faramir gave a low cry and fell senseless to the ground.
Imrahil had ridden forth with his men to cover the retreat. Dismayed, he saw his kinsman fall. Heedless of his own safety, he urged his horse forward to the aid of his stricken nephew snatching him just in time from the Southron swords, which sought to hew him to pieces. Placing Faramir in front of him, he urged his horse to gallop back to the City.
Fury blazed within the Prince’s heart. How could Denethor have risked his surviving son like this? Faramir was no common soldier, but the heir on whom all Gondor’s hopes now rested. This young man had a rare gift of inspiring hope within Men’s hearts. Where Denethor had been feared, Faramir was admired and loved. Whenever he saw Faramir, Imrahil could glimpse his long-dead sister in her son's eyes. His poor sister had been as much a sacrifice for Gondor as both her sons now seemed fated to be.
Men wept in the streets as Imrahil bore his stricken nephew in his arms and the people cried out Faramir’s name.
The Prince Imrahil brought Faramir to the White Tower, where he said to the Steward: "Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds." But Denethor rose and looked on the face of his son with ashen eyes and no words. At last he bade them make a bed in the chamber and lay Faramir upon it and depart. Denethor turned from the still form of his son, then suddenly left the chamber.
Imrahil was surprised that no healer had been summoned for the Steward’s heir. He could only assume that they were all otherwise occupied in tending the many wounded. Imrahil, who had received some training in the Healing Arts, decided they could not afford to wait. The longer the arrow remained in Faramir’s body, the greater the chance that a fatal infection could arise.
With the help of a servant, Imrahil divested Faramir of his armour and cut away the clothing surrounding the wound. He then called for hot water, salves and bandages to be brought. Heating a knife in the fire, he deftly cut the arrowhead from Faramir’s flesh. To Imrahil's great relief, the wound was neither deep nor vital, the arrow having embedded itself in the muscles of his nephew’s shoulder. Neither the injury nor the arrow that had dealt it seemed to be poisoned. Yet Faramir did not awaken, to Imrahil's concern, even after the arrow was extracted. And Faramir's skin felt feverishly warm and clammy.
Imrahil cleaned and bandaged the wound; and was just about to search for further hurts, when Denethor returned and dismissed him. The Steward’s face was grey and haggard. He looked even more ill than his son.
Imrahil had no choice but to reluctantly leave Faramir alone in his father's hands, and return to the defence of the City.
So light up the fire and let the flames burn - John Paculabo,Keith Rycroft and Sue McClellan
'And we are caught in the fire
The point of no return
So we will walk through the fire
And let it
Burn’ - Joss Whedon
Faramir was growing weaker by the hour. The fever burned on, sapping the little strength that remained after days of hopeless battle, the contagion loosed by the Enemy's dark riders, and the cursed arrow that had struck him at the last. Even now, Faramir seemed to struggle to breathe. His only remaining son was dying. Denethor was certain of that if nothing else. Imrahil had urged him to have Faramir carried to the Houses of Healing - to what end? The heir to the last Steward of Gondor should perish with his closest kin by his side, not servitors. He would care for his son in Faramir's final hours.
The pain of his remembered last words to his only remaining son twisted in Denethor's heart like a knife. Tending Faramir now, after sending him forth to die with such disdain, was the least he could do. It was not enough. Outside the White Tower, time dragged on, while Denethor sat there, mopping Faramir’s brow and calling his name. Faramir did not answer. He never even opened his eyes!
Denethor shut his own eyes; trying to stem the tide of misery that threatened to well up behind them. For the first time, he was glad that his lady was dead, so she was spared the agony of one son's death and the other son's prolonged dying. Could it not be granted to him to see Faramir's eyes open one last time, to glimpse one last flicker of the light that had been Finduilas of Dol Amroth?
How could he have ordered Faramir to ride to almost certain death without even a commander's encouragement? The young man was, after all, his only surviving son. The reminder that Boromir was no more struck Denethor as sharply as an arrow.
Why had the Valar allowed his greater son to fall, leaving this gentle, credulous dreamer who had let the Enemy’s weapon fall into his grasp?
In the palantír, Denethor had seen the Halfling who Faramir had described, the Ringbearer, Frodo son of Drogo, borne to Cirith Ungol by a troop of Orcs. Faramir might as well have delivered the poor creature to the Orcs himself! How Sauron must be gloating over his prize, the prize that Faramir had given him!
All this was the fruit of Mithrandir's poisonous counsel! Denethor's memory brought forth the image of the Grey Pilgrim beguiling the innocent, motherless child, filling the boy's head with legends of Elves and heroes of old. The Wizard had stolen Faramir, stolen his regard, and stolen his allegiance. Mithrandir had turned Faramir’s head with talk of the White Tree blooming again and the King who would one day return.
King indeed! The man was none other than that upstart Thorongil. Denethor felt his mouth grimace as anger seared his heart. Had Mithrandir intended Faramir to offer the scoundrel the crown after Denethor himself had gone to join his longfathers? Had that been the wizard's game all along? Alas, alas for Boromir, who would never have bowed to any but his father!
A sudden flash of foresight came upon Denethor: a vision of Faramir regarding Thorongil with the same adoration that Ecthelion had reserved for his favoured Captain. So Mithrandir had intended Thorongil to usurp his son’s affections in the same way the Northerner had stolen his father’s love?
Yet Mithrandir, supposed master of pawns, had lost the game in the end. Thorongil might yet skulk out of the hills, but there would be little left for him to claim.
Strange indeed that he should see it so clearly as it could never come to pass now. The City was in ruins, as was his House.
The waves of pain and rage had receded. Denethor felt numb as he stumbled away from Faramir's bedside and climbed up to his secret place atop the White Tower.
Denethor looked again in the palantír. A vast fleet of black-sailed Corsair ships was sailing up the river to reinforce the Enemy’s troops. It was over, there was no hope left for Gondor. The West would fall.
All was burning. Soon he would burn too. And what of Faramir? He was as good as dead already. He would not send his son away from him again. Better they should burn together. None save he should touch his son.
Resolved, Denethor called for his servants.
Do you be afraid, for I have redeemed you.
I have called you by your name: you are mine. – Kevin Mayhew based on Isaiah 43
Faramir had no idea how long he had been in this place. It was so hot. Where did such heat come from? He looked up to a sullen grey sky and saw, to his horror, what appeared to be a black sun that scorched the air and earth, slowly concealing the true light. Anar, what has befallen thee? his heart cried.
He seemed to be in some sort of maze, with walls made of cruel thorns that tore at his flesh whenever he tried to find a way out. Every now and again he would stumble and fall and the light would grow just bright enough for him to see that he had tripped over a corpse, each one recognisable as of one of his men. Accusing eyes stared out of decaying flesh disfigured by hideous wounds. Faramir wanted to weep, but could not; neither could he retch at the hideous stench of decay.
Faramir’s legs grew weaker; but he forced himself to remain upright. The prospect of crawling over the dead bodies was too dreadful to consider. A constant throbbing pain in his back and shoulder weakened him even more.
Orcs lunged at him out of the darkness and tore at his flesh and his clothing. Between their curses, the creatures snarled out threats, gleefully describing exactly what they intended to do to him. Faramir managed to stop or kill them with his sword, but his arm lacked the strength to go on much longer.
He was thirsty; so parched that he could hardly swallow. Sometimes he thought he heard water running but could never find any to drink.
Faramir called out to his father, trying to warn him to escape, lest he be captured too. There was no answer, only distant cries and the smell of smoke. The City must be burning, just as his father had foretold.
He thought he heard Mithrandir’s voice, but that must have been an illusion. Surely the wizard would not leave him to languish in this place? Or was it a punishment for letting the Ring fall into the Enemy’s hands?
He was stumbling now every few moments. Soon his body would fail him and he would fall and be unable to rise again.
Suddenly, Faramir saw a circle of light at what appeared to be the end of a very long tunnel. He could make out the faces of his mother and Boromir standing at its mouth. They smiled at him and beckoned to him to come into the light with them. Then his father joined them and gestured that he should join them.
He knew that death lay before him.He had been told that deceased loved ones came to lead your soul beyond Arda when the hour of death drew nigh. But why was his father amongst them? Had he too perished in the battle? Faramir prepared to embrace his death willingly. What did he have left within the circles of this world? He had led his men into darkness and death. His beloved brother was dead. His father had no love for him. The Enemy was poised on the brink of victory. He knew now what his dreams of a great wave had foretold. Gondor would be destroyed, just as Númenór had been.
He had cherished such hopes and dreams. Dreams that one day his father would look at him with the same delight in his eyes that he reserved only for Boromir then tell him that he loved him and was proud of him. He had dreamed too of a wife to cherish and a large brood of children to dote upon. How he would have liked a home of his own, in the green vales of an unstained Ithilien, its walls lined with books and its halls ringing with music and laughter. What joy it would have been to become a scholar rather than a soldier! His father had been right though; dreams were only for fools. These cruel times had no place for dreams.
He started to make his way along the tunnel. The light grew brighter.
Then he heard it; a far away voice calling to him, as from a distant shore. He tried to ignore it, but the call was insistent. It was a deep voice, resonant with the power of command and the urgency of a friend that repeatedly called Faramir’s name.
Faramir turned in the direction of the voice, which seemed to be coming closer. Then a hand reached out to take his own. At first, Faramir thought it was another foul creature and tried to break away, but this hand belonged to a living man. It held him firmly in a strong yet gentle grasp.
“Faramir, come to me!” said the voice.
Faramir could now see its owner, who was faintly illuminated by the glow from a green gem he wore upon his breast. The man was very like his father, and yet not quite. The stranger had grey eyes, which now alighted on Faramir with a warmth and kindliness long absent from Denethor's face. He appeared to bear Númenórean lineage, having the dark hair and carven features of a true son of Westernesse. Faramir noticed that the man's noble features were drawn and weary. For some reason he could name, this saddened him.
“I do not know if I can. I am so weary,” said Faramir. He could hear the plaintive calls of his mother and Boromir; and he yearned to lay it all down, the burdens, the pain and sorrow, and follow them.
Suddenly a tall, dark figure, faceless and hooded, appeared and seized Faramir's other arm! Terrible cold coursed from the shadowed one's gauntleted hands as he tried to pull Faramir from the stranger’s grasp. It took most of Faramir's strength just to breathe. The only warmth in all the world lay in the hand of the stranger with the green stone. Faramir held on to that hand with all his heart and hope.
“Back, foul fiend of Mordor!” cried the man. “You shall not have him! I have called him by his name and he is mine!”
A deathly scream rent the air; but the foul creature's cold grip relaxed, then released Faramir entirely. The stranger bore him up, supporting him until Faramir could stand unaided. The shadow-fiend had gone!
“Are you one of the Valar?” Faramir enquired of the stranger.
The man threw back his head and laughed, though not unkindly. For an instant his whole face lit up and the sound of his merriment was as sweet music in this grim place.
“I have been called many things in my life but never a Vala before!” he laughed.” No, I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, a Man just as you are. I have come to take you home.”
“I do not know the way,” said Faramir.
“Hold my hand and I will guide you,” said Aragorn. “ You only have to follow where I lead.”
Faramir felt compelled to follow and tried his best to walk alongside the stranger. The path, though, became increasingly steep and he struggled to maintain a footing. He glanced at his companion and noted how his features were now grey with fatigue. He looked almost on the verge of collapse. “You must leave me, lord,” he said. “Flee from his place and save yourself!”
“I will not let you go,” Aragorn replied firmly.” Lean on me!” With these words, he placed an arm around Faramir’s shoulders, so that he was bearing much of his weight.
“Why do you trouble yourself over me, my lord?” Faramir asked somewhat bewildered. “My father says I am a traitor!”
“And I say that you are not. Too many brave sons of Gondor have perished this day. I will have need of you in my kingdom.”
Realisation dawned upon Faramir. “Then you are he of whom I have dreamed!” he exclaimed. “You will renew Gondor and the White Tree will blossom at your coming! You bear the sword of Elendil!”
“Perhaps I dreamed of your coming too,” Aragorn replied somewhat enigmatically. “I have indeed come to rekindle hope, though I know not what the future will bring.”
“You will set us free,” Faramir said with sudden foresight. He felt oddly safe now. If he died this moment, he would die content.
“First I must free you,” said the King. “Do not let go.”
Despite his words, the King's grip seemed to be growing weaker. Faramir began to fear that maybe they were now both trapped in this dark place. He could have wept from the pain, the heat and the thirst, but had no tears left.
“Once we leave here, it will become easier to bear,” the King told him, as if he had read his thoughts. “I know how much your sorrow and your wounds pain you. You are strong enough to endure!”
The path was now so steep they could traverse it only inch by agonizing inch and foul creatures assailed them at every turn. Aragorn drew his sword and slew the vile monsters as they appeared, all the while never relaxing his grip on Faramir’s hand.
Just when it seemed they could endure no longer, a wondrous scent wafted though the foul air, like the first breath of spring in the dreary heart of winter. Faramir’s spirits at once lightened. He turned towards his companion and saw that Aragorn was smiling and looked much refreshed.
“We are almost home now,” the King said.
The tunnel closed, but before they vanished he could hear their voices ensuring him of their love and telling him it was not yet his time to leave the circles of the world.
Aragorn laid a hand on his brow and sudden strength coursed through Faramir's veins. He was cool now, though still dreadfully thirsty. He breathed deeply of the sweet scent, which had now banished all traces of foulness from the air. It was growing lighter.
Faramir blinked and opened his eyes. He found he was lying on a bed and Aragorn was bending over him, holding a bowl filled with the sweet smelling substance in front of his face.
The King smiled at him, his eyes filled with approval and affection. It was the smile he had always yearned for from his father but never received. A light of love and knowledge was kindled in his eyes. ‘My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?’ said Faramir.
‘Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!’ said Aragorn. ‘You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.’
‘I will, lord,’ said Faramir. ‘For who would lie idle when the king has returned?’
Who will serve the King? - Frances R Havergal
My advisers tell me I should proceed with care. They seem to think I know little of Gondor’s history, when they remind me of the kings of long ago; the horrors of kin-strife and war. Castamir the Cruel’s name still causes a shudder in all who hear it, while other kings were vain and foolish.
These venerable men were my father’s counsellors. They remind me our House ruled wisely and well for close upon a thousand years. The House of Hurin has lineage as ancient as any scion of Isildur. My longfathers settled in Gondor with Anárion and there remained, as much a part of the land as the very soil and trees rooted therein.
“What does this pretender to the throne know of our ways?” one says. “He comes from the Northlands and was raised in the forest by Elves!”
"If we were to have any King," old Cemendur, named for a King like so many here today, huffs from his chair; "It should be one of the true line of Anárion, descended from father to son, not through a woman!"
Cemendur has apparently forgotten that my own line continued its inheritance of rod and rule through a woman, when Steward Dior was succeeded by Denethor I, son of his sister Rian. And he dares to teach me our history!
I say nothing yet, merely watch and listen.
Other voices warn me that we dare not resist. The Lord Elfstone holds the Rohirrim, through the love of their young king, in one hand, and the power of Mithrandir in the other, and now holds sway over my uncle Imrahil as well. They say he is a schemer who only healed me to gain popular support in his bid for the throne!
I begin to understand my father's impatience with his Council.
I stand up and face them. ”Were the Lord Aragorn merely a devious pretender, would it not have been easier to leave the heir of the Stewardship, his greatest potential rival, to die of the Black Breath?” I ask. “After giving me life, he rode out to an almost certain death, hazarding his own life to give the Ringbearer a better chance to save us all. Though I grieve to say so, it was the Lord Aragorn who led us to victory while my father chose to perish in the flames. Were it not for Mithrandir and the Lord Aragorn, the House of Hurin would have ended that day. I have listened to you all, but my decision is already made. When he brought me forth from the darkness, I beheld the greatness of the man and hailed him as King. I mean to offer him his rightful crown and gladly surrender my Office."
Some faces are aghast, some voices stutter in protest, some sigh and others are quiet. I think that none can believe that the King has truly returned to Gondor.
I survey them with my most compelling gaze, which I remember well in the eyes of the last Steward to sit here. "My lords, there will be no more argument. I, Faramir son of Denethor and twenty-seventh Ruling Steward of Gondor, now accept the kingship of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I have decided!"
The End
A/N The final chapter is an expanded version of a ficlet written for the AA Group, which inspired me to write this story, a series of vignettes concerning vital decisions for Denethor, Faramir and Aragorn. Each chapter has been given a title from a popular hymn.
I have referred to Denethor having beaten Faramir several times, most notably in “Facing the Darkness” where Aragorn tends Faramir’s hurts and in several other stories. As Faramir is haunted by this penultimate encounter with his father, which shapes his early fear of Aragorn, I felt it needed to be shown.
When I first started writing LOTR stories, three years ago, I had unfortunately read far too many evil Denethor and poor abused Faramir ones, which coloured my perception. I have changed many of my ideas since then and have decided Denethor is too cold and controlled to be a habitual abuser; nor a monster. I have endeavoured to portray his actions in this scene are the result of the madness which will destroy him a few days later.
I feel when I wrote “First Meeting” that I did not to justice to the wonderful scene of Aragorn and Faramir’s first encounter.
Some dialogue is taken directly from Tolkien's "The Return of the King".
This story is influenced by Raksha’s wonderful “The Falcon and the Star” , a must read if you have not already done so.
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The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, some great decision, offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever, ’twixt that darkness and that light. –
James R Lowell
With grateful thanks to Raksha with whom much of this story is co written.
Faramir waited outside the door of his father’s study. He fidgeted nervously, his apprehension growing. His father had summoned him to an urgent meeting well over an hour ago, but there was no sign of the Steward.
He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to seek his bed and rest. The retreat from Osgiliath and the flight from the Nazgûl had drained him more than he would admit, but first he must face his father’s wrath, which would take all his wits.
His father had been in a strange mood of late, spending hours alone in the topmost room in the tower. His temper had grown increasingly uncertain and there was even talk of him beating the servants, which if true, was most unlike the usually icily controlled Steward. The look in his eyes earlier when he had learned of Faramir’s encounter with the Ring bearer and his companion had been truly terrifying to behold.
A stern voice called “Enter!”
Faramir went into the room and knelt before his father, kissing his ring of Office. The Steward did not bid him to rise, so he remained kneeling at his father's feet on the cold stone floor. Denethor’s office was as austere as the man himself, a simple desk piled high with papers and two hard wooden chairs. The walls were devoid of tapestries adorned only by several ornate swords and a riding crop. The floor was equally bare save for a somewhat worn hearthrug, which lay before the meagre fire, the room’s only concession to comfort.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Denethor asked sternly. His haggard face looked even more careworn than ever and was grey with fatigue as if he had been engaged in some great struggle.
“I did only what I believed to be right,” said Faramir.
“And who are you to say what is right and what is not?” Denethor persisted. “Are you Ruling Steward now?”
“No, my lord, you hold rod and rule in Gondor,”
“Yet, you would conspire with Mithrandir against me?”
“No, my lord, I did not.”
“Do you know what you have done?” Denethor demanded, his tone like ice. “You have sent the weapon that could have saved us all straight into the lands of the Enemy! Boromir would have brought it to me and given me the mighty gift!”
“I would not pick it up if I found it lying on the highway, far less wrest it from the hand of a helpless Halfling. It led to my brother's doom,” said Faramir, his calm tone belying his inner turmoil. “Mithrandir’s words were wise. It is wholly evil. How can evil be defeated with evil?”
“Mithrandir! Always it is Mithrandir you speak of! I see more than you suspect, foolish boy. Beware of Mithrandir! With your help he is seeking to supplant me and place that upstart Thorongil on the throne!”
“No, sire, never did I seek to supplant you!”
Denethor glared at his son. Curse the boy; he even looked like Thorongil with that air of scarely veiled insolence disguised as superior knowledge. “Yet you have spoken of your desire to see the King return and the White Tree bloom again. Fool! How could a dead tree blossom?”
Faramir’s eyes lit up.” I have seen the King in my dreams, the tree blossoming at his coming!” he said in a rapt tone.
Something inside Denethor snapped and he snatched the riding crop from the wall.
Faramir struggled to repress a shudder. As a child he had sometimes been beaten for such misdemeanours as tearing his new clothes or answering back, but never as a man.
“Take off your tunic and shirt, it is time to teach you a lesson you will not forget!” Denethor ordered. “You are not only a fool but a traitor! You are fortunate I have not ordered a traitor’s death for you, but punished you will be!”
“No, father, I am loyal to you and to Gondor,” Faramir protested, but had no choice but to comply. This was not only his father but also his liege lord and to disobey was certain death.
Divested of his upper garments, he knelt patiently trying not to tremble from a mixture of cold and fear.
“Why was Boromir taken and I left with such a puny excuse of a man for a son and defender of our land?” Denethor said, eyeing Faramir with contempt unheeding of the many scars that disfigured his body, all inflicted in the service of Gondor. ”Traitor! Coward! Weakling! Wizard’s Pupil!”
Faramir hardly knew whether the words or the blows hurt him the more. Unable to remain kneeling upright under the force of the blows, he curled into a ball vainly trying to protect himself.
After what could not have been more than a few moments, but felt like an eternity, Denethor dropped the whip and slumped back on his chair. “Go, sleep while you may. The enemy march upon us, the hour of doom is at hand, Minas Tirith will fall! I have seen it!” He buried his face in his hands.
Faramir pulled on his shirt and staggered from the room. He struggled to reach his chamber, at times forced to clutch the walls for support. Reaching his room, he collapsed on the bed. He knew he should send a servant to fetch a Healer, but they would ask how he had come by such hurts. How could he let any see the shameful marks of his father’s displeasure? He must tend his own wounds as best he could. He pulled off his shirt, finding it soaked with blood and stuffed it under the bed. There was water in a pitcher on the washstand. He poured it into the bowl and bathed the painful welts on his back as best he could, before applying a salve the Healers had given him for his most recent wounds.
His task completed, he changed into a nightshirt and fell into bed.
Although Faramir was exhausted, sleep was slow to come. His back throbbed painfully and his mind was in turmoil. What had happened to his father to cause him to act so violently? Was he truly a traitor? He had indeed been commanded to slay all who were found in Ithilien without his father’s leave, but how could he harm two helpless Halflings with whom the fate of Arda lay? Why could he never please his father unlike Boromir? Why did his beloved brother have to die? He dared not think of it. There was no time to grieve. Tomorrow he would redeem himself in his father’s eyes. He would ride out and die for Gondor.
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die! – Henry H. Milman
Faramir awoke from a few hours of uneasy sleep. His back throbbed painfully and it took considerable strength of will to drag himself from his bed. When he tried to dress, he found the dried blood had caused his nightshirt to stick to his back.
He struggled into his robe and called for the servants to fill the bathtub in his room with hot soapy water. It was an unusual request for him to make at this hour, but was obeyed unquestioningly. Faramir had always been a favourite with the Citadel’s many retainers, who liked him for his modest and kindly manner. Now they treated him with a new respect, which had previously been reserved for his brother.
Faramir soaked in the tub until the water started to cool. The soap-filled water eased his back, at least enough for him to move with little pain. Then he dressed. Breakfast, brought for him while he had bathed, held little allure; but he forced himself to eat some of the fresh-baked bread and sausage. The coming day, whatever it brought, would demand all his strength, and a wise soldier, whether guardsman or Captain, knew to take food when it was offered. A servant informed Faramir that the Steward had summoned all the captains to a council.
The morning dawned like a brown dusk and Faramir’s heart was heavy as he made his way to the Council Chamber.
“We should not lightly abandon the outer defences,” said Denethor, “It is at Osgiliath that the Enemy will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage.’
‘That was but a trial,” said Faramir. “Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange.”
“And what of Cair Andros?” said Prince Imrahil. ‘’That, too, must be held, if Osgiliath is defended.”
“Much must be risked in war,’ said Denethor. ‘Cair Andros is manned and no more can be sent so far. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.” He looked at Faramir as he spoke, his eyes issuing challenging him.
All fell silent at the Steward’s words. The captains were brave men, but they believed that they would better employ their men on the City's impregnable walls than in so risky a mission.
Faramir saw that this challenge was his alone. There was choice but to take it; as the Steward's sworn man, he could not disobey him over a difference in the disposition of troops. Neither choice offered much hope; and if he refused, Faramir would not only forfeit his honour, but Denethor would merely appoint another captain to lead the men in his place. And in truth, Faramir yearned to prove to his father, though it might be for the last time, that he was indeed as bold as his lost brother. Finally, he made his reply: “I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead - if you command it.”
“I do so,” said Denethor.
‘Then farewell!’ said Faramir. “But if I should return, think better of me!”
‘That depends on the manner of your return,’ said Denethor coldly. “You are dismissed!”
Faramir walked from the room, hoping none would notice the slight stiffness with which he moved. Angry mutterings broke out amongst the assembly, only to be quelled by Denethor's cold glance.
“Is it wise to send Captain Faramir forth into such peril, my lord?” Imrahil questioned. ”He is now after all, your sole heir and Gondor has need of him.”
“He should expect no special treatment,” Denethor said curtly. “The Council is dismissed.”
***
Faramir tried not wince as his manservant helped him don his armour.
“Are you well, my lord?” the young man enquired.
“The darkness lies heavily upon us all,” said Faramir. He forced himself to smile. “Should I not return, Narmacil, I thank you for all your years of service to me.”
The servant fell silent, too overcome for further conversation.
***
On his way to join his men, Faramir espied his Uncle together with his cousin Elphir. He noted wistfully how father and son smiled at each other, how Imrahil gazed fondly at Elphir and put his arm around his son's shoulders, before parting with a kiss of blessing. Imrahil was overseeing the Outer Defences while Elphir remained within Minas Tirith.
Faramir’s heart ached as much as his back. His father had sent him forth with blows rather than blessings.
Faramir slowly made his way to the stable yard where his company were preparing to depart. In a loud voice he cried “We ride to defend Osgiliath, but I would not take any man unwilling. Let those who prefer to remain to guard the City, do so!”
Only a handful of men turned aside, so great was their love for their Captain.
Gandalf it was that last spoke to Faramir ere he rode east “Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,’ he said, as if reading the young man’s mind. “You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!”
Faramir could only wish that he shared the Grey Pilgrim's conviction that his father cared for him. After last night, it was hard to believe.
Those remaining in the City watched Faramir ride out and muttered amongst themselves. “They give him no rest,” some murmured. “‘The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, for himself and for the one that will not return.”
Faramir wondered sadly how he could ever fill his brother’s place. He could only try to lead with Boromir's valour. Faramir was painfully aware that even should he triumph against all odds, his mission would still not suffice to raise his worth in Denethor's eyes. How clearly obvious his father’s disapproval must be, if even the folk in the streets murmured of it. This battle was his chance to acquit himself with honour, even if it ultimately cost him his life. If he could hold the enemy in Osgiliath even a day, the delay might provide enough time for the Rohirrim to come and save the City. Perhaps his father would at least remember him in death with some of the approval he had withheld in life.
********
Two days later, Faramir and his men found themselves fighting for their very lives, as the ordered retreat that he had shepherded from the Forts splintered under the screams of the Nazgûl.
Bravely they battled Haradrim hordes, fierce Orcs and worse of all, the Nazgûl, whose very presence made the blood run cold in all who beheld him and drained all hope from the hearts of Men. Swords clashed and arrows flew. Bravely the Men of Gondor fought. Outnumbered ten to one their cause was a hopeless one.
Faramir gave the order to retreat and started back towards the City. Somehow he kept those of his men who were left together.
Intent on fighting a Haradrian horse soldier, the Captain failed to notice the Southron arrow aimed at his heart until it was too late. Faramir gave a low cry and fell senseless to the ground.
Imrahil had ridden forth with his men to cover the retreat. Dismayed, he saw his kinsman fall. Heedless of his own safety, he urged his horse forward to the aid of his stricken nephew snatching him just in time from the Southron swords, which sought to hew him to pieces. Placing Faramir in front of him, he urged his horse to gallop back to the City.
Fury blazed within the Prince’s heart. How could Denethor have risked his surviving son like this? Faramir was no common soldier, but the heir on whom all Gondor’s hopes now rested. This young man had a rare gift of inspiring hope within Men’s hearts. Where Denethor had been feared, Faramir was admired and loved. Whenever he saw Faramir, Imrahil could glimpse his long-dead sister in her son's eyes. His poor sister had been as much a sacrifice for Gondor as both her sons now seemed fated to be.
Men wept in the streets as Imrahil bore his stricken nephew in his arms and the people cried out Faramir’s name.
The Prince Imrahil brought Faramir to the White Tower, where he said to the Steward: "Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds." But Denethor rose and looked on the face of his son with ashen eyes and no words. At last he bade them make a bed in the chamber and lay Faramir upon it and depart. Denethor turned from the still form of his son, then suddenly left the chamber.
Imrahil was surprised that no healer had been summoned for the Steward’s heir. He could only assume that they were all otherwise occupied in tending the many wounded. Imrahil, who had received some training in the Healing Arts, decided they could not afford to wait. The longer the arrow remained in Faramir’s body, the greater the chance that a fatal infection could arise.
With the help of a servant, Imrahil divested Faramir of his armour and cut away the clothing surrounding the wound. He then called for hot water, salves and bandages to be brought. Heating a knife in the fire, he deftly cut the arrowhead from Faramir’s flesh. To Imrahil's great relief, the wound was neither deep nor vital, the arrow having embedded itself in the muscles of his nephew’s shoulder. Neither the injury nor the arrow that had dealt it seemed to be poisoned. Yet Faramir did not awaken, to Imrahil's concern, even after the arrow was extracted. And Faramir's skin felt feverishly warm and clammy.
Imrahil cleaned and bandaged the wound; and was just about to search for further hurts, when Denethor returned and dismissed him. The Steward’s face was grey and haggard. He looked even more ill than his son.
Imrahil had no choice but to reluctantly leave Faramir alone in his father's hands, and return to the defence of the City.
So light up the fire and let the flames burn - John Paculabo,Keith Rycroft and Sue McClellan
'And we are caught in the fire
The point of no return
So we will walk through the fire
And let it
Burn’ - Joss Whedon
Faramir was growing weaker by the hour. The fever burned on, sapping the little strength that remained after days of hopeless battle, the contagion loosed by the Enemy's dark riders, and the cursed arrow that had struck him at the last. Even now, Faramir seemed to struggle to breathe. His only remaining son was dying. Denethor was certain of that if nothing else. Imrahil had urged him to have Faramir carried to the Houses of Healing - to what end? The heir to the last Steward of Gondor should perish with his closest kin by his side, not servitors. He would care for his son in Faramir's final hours.
The pain of his remembered last words to his only remaining son twisted in Denethor's heart like a knife. Tending Faramir now, after sending him forth to die with such disdain, was the least he could do. It was not enough. Outside the White Tower, time dragged on, while Denethor sat there, mopping Faramir’s brow and calling his name. Faramir did not answer. He never even opened his eyes!
Denethor shut his own eyes; trying to stem the tide of misery that threatened to well up behind them. For the first time, he was glad that his lady was dead, so she was spared the agony of one son's death and the other son's prolonged dying. Could it not be granted to him to see Faramir's eyes open one last time, to glimpse one last flicker of the light that had been Finduilas of Dol Amroth?
How could he have ordered Faramir to ride to almost certain death without even a commander's encouragement? The young man was, after all, his only surviving son. The reminder that Boromir was no more struck Denethor as sharply as an arrow.
Why had the Valar allowed his greater son to fall, leaving this gentle, credulous dreamer who had let the Enemy’s weapon fall into his grasp?
In the palantír, Denethor had seen the Halfling who Faramir had described, the Ringbearer, Frodo son of Drogo, borne to Cirith Ungol by a troop of Orcs. Faramir might as well have delivered the poor creature to the Orcs himself! How Sauron must be gloating over his prize, the prize that Faramir had given him!
All this was the fruit of Mithrandir's poisonous counsel! Denethor's memory brought forth the image of the Grey Pilgrim beguiling the innocent, motherless child, filling the boy's head with legends of Elves and heroes of old. The Wizard had stolen Faramir, stolen his regard, and stolen his allegiance. Mithrandir had turned Faramir’s head with talk of the White Tree blooming again and the King who would one day return.
King indeed! The man was none other than that upstart Thorongil. Denethor felt his mouth grimace as anger seared his heart. Had Mithrandir intended Faramir to offer the scoundrel the crown after Denethor himself had gone to join his longfathers? Had that been the wizard's game all along? Alas, alas for Boromir, who would never have bowed to any but his father!
A sudden flash of foresight came upon Denethor: a vision of Faramir regarding Thorongil with the same adoration that Ecthelion had reserved for his favoured Captain. So Mithrandir had intended Thorongil to usurp his son’s affections in the same way the Northerner had stolen his father’s love?
Yet Mithrandir, supposed master of pawns, had lost the game in the end. Thorongil might yet skulk out of the hills, but there would be little left for him to claim.
Strange indeed that he should see it so clearly as it could never come to pass now. The City was in ruins, as was his House.
The waves of pain and rage had receded. Denethor felt numb as he stumbled away from Faramir's bedside and climbed up to his secret place atop the White Tower.
Denethor looked again in the palantír. A vast fleet of black-sailed Corsair ships was sailing up the river to reinforce the Enemy’s troops. It was over, there was no hope left for Gondor. The West would fall.
All was burning. Soon he would burn too. And what of Faramir? He was as good as dead already. He would not send his son away from him again. Better they should burn together. None save he should touch his son.
Resolved, Denethor called for his servants.
Do you be afraid, for I have redeemed you.
I have called you by your name: you are mine. – Kevin Mayhew based on Isaiah 43
Faramir had no idea how long he had been in this place. It was so hot. Where did such heat come from? He looked up to a sullen grey sky and saw, to his horror, what appeared to be a black sun that scorched the air and earth, slowly concealing the true light. Anar, what has befallen thee? his heart cried.
He seemed to be in some sort of maze, with walls made of cruel thorns that tore at his flesh whenever he tried to find a way out. Every now and again he would stumble and fall and the light would grow just bright enough for him to see that he had tripped over a corpse, each one recognisable as of one of his men. Accusing eyes stared out of decaying flesh disfigured by hideous wounds. Faramir wanted to weep, but could not; neither could he retch at the hideous stench of decay.
Faramir’s legs grew weaker; but he forced himself to remain upright. The prospect of crawling over the dead bodies was too dreadful to consider. A constant throbbing pain in his back and shoulder weakened him even more.
Orcs lunged at him out of the darkness and tore at his flesh and his clothing. Between their curses, the creatures snarled out threats, gleefully describing exactly what they intended to do to him. Faramir managed to stop or kill them with his sword, but his arm lacked the strength to go on much longer.
He was thirsty; so parched that he could hardly swallow. Sometimes he thought he heard water running but could never find any to drink.
Faramir called out to his father, trying to warn him to escape, lest he be captured too. There was no answer, only distant cries and the smell of smoke. The City must be burning, just as his father had foretold.
He thought he heard Mithrandir’s voice, but that must have been an illusion. Surely the wizard would not leave him to languish in this place? Or was it a punishment for letting the Ring fall into the Enemy’s hands?
He was stumbling now every few moments. Soon his body would fail him and he would fall and be unable to rise again.
Suddenly, Faramir saw a circle of light at what appeared to be the end of a very long tunnel. He could make out the faces of his mother and Boromir standing at its mouth. They smiled at him and beckoned to him to come into the light with them. Then his father joined them and gestured that he should join them.
He knew that death lay before him.He had been told that deceased loved ones came to lead your soul beyond Arda when the hour of death drew nigh. But why was his father amongst them? Had he too perished in the battle? Faramir prepared to embrace his death willingly. What did he have left within the circles of this world? He had led his men into darkness and death. His beloved brother was dead. His father had no love for him. The Enemy was poised on the brink of victory. He knew now what his dreams of a great wave had foretold. Gondor would be destroyed, just as Númenór had been.
He had cherished such hopes and dreams. Dreams that one day his father would look at him with the same delight in his eyes that he reserved only for Boromir then tell him that he loved him and was proud of him. He had dreamed too of a wife to cherish and a large brood of children to dote upon. How he would have liked a home of his own, in the green vales of an unstained Ithilien, its walls lined with books and its halls ringing with music and laughter. What joy it would have been to become a scholar rather than a soldier! His father had been right though; dreams were only for fools. These cruel times had no place for dreams.
He started to make his way along the tunnel. The light grew brighter.
Then he heard it; a far away voice calling to him, as from a distant shore. He tried to ignore it, but the call was insistent. It was a deep voice, resonant with the power of command and the urgency of a friend that repeatedly called Faramir’s name.
Faramir turned in the direction of the voice, which seemed to be coming closer. Then a hand reached out to take his own. At first, Faramir thought it was another foul creature and tried to break away, but this hand belonged to a living man. It held him firmly in a strong yet gentle grasp.
“Faramir, come to me!” said the voice.
Faramir could now see its owner, who was faintly illuminated by the glow from a green gem he wore upon his breast. The man was very like his father, and yet not quite. The stranger had grey eyes, which now alighted on Faramir with a warmth and kindliness long absent from Denethor's face. He appeared to bear Númenórean lineage, having the dark hair and carven features of a true son of Westernesse. Faramir noticed that the man's noble features were drawn and weary. For some reason he could name, this saddened him.
“I do not know if I can. I am so weary,” said Faramir. He could hear the plaintive calls of his mother and Boromir; and he yearned to lay it all down, the burdens, the pain and sorrow, and follow them.
Suddenly a tall, dark figure, faceless and hooded, appeared and seized Faramir's other arm! Terrible cold coursed from the shadowed one's gauntleted hands as he tried to pull Faramir from the stranger’s grasp. It took most of Faramir's strength just to breathe. The only warmth in all the world lay in the hand of the stranger with the green stone. Faramir held on to that hand with all his heart and hope.
“Back, foul fiend of Mordor!” cried the man. “You shall not have him! I have called him by his name and he is mine!”
A deathly scream rent the air; but the foul creature's cold grip relaxed, then released Faramir entirely. The stranger bore him up, supporting him until Faramir could stand unaided. The shadow-fiend had gone!
“Are you one of the Valar?” Faramir enquired of the stranger.
The man threw back his head and laughed, though not unkindly. For an instant his whole face lit up and the sound of his merriment was as sweet music in this grim place.
“I have been called many things in my life but never a Vala before!” he laughed.” No, I am Aragorn son of Arathorn, a Man just as you are. I have come to take you home.”
“I do not know the way,” said Faramir.
“Hold my hand and I will guide you,” said Aragorn. “ You only have to follow where I lead.”
Faramir felt compelled to follow and tried his best to walk alongside the stranger. The path, though, became increasingly steep and he struggled to maintain a footing. He glanced at his companion and noted how his features were now grey with fatigue. He looked almost on the verge of collapse. “You must leave me, lord,” he said. “Flee from his place and save yourself!”
“I will not let you go,” Aragorn replied firmly.” Lean on me!” With these words, he placed an arm around Faramir’s shoulders, so that he was bearing much of his weight.
“Why do you trouble yourself over me, my lord?” Faramir asked somewhat bewildered. “My father says I am a traitor!”
“And I say that you are not. Too many brave sons of Gondor have perished this day. I will have need of you in my kingdom.”
Realisation dawned upon Faramir. “Then you are he of whom I have dreamed!” he exclaimed. “You will renew Gondor and the White Tree will blossom at your coming! You bear the sword of Elendil!”
“Perhaps I dreamed of your coming too,” Aragorn replied somewhat enigmatically. “I have indeed come to rekindle hope, though I know not what the future will bring.”
“You will set us free,” Faramir said with sudden foresight. He felt oddly safe now. If he died this moment, he would die content.
“First I must free you,” said the King. “Do not let go.”
Despite his words, the King's grip seemed to be growing weaker. Faramir began to fear that maybe they were now both trapped in this dark place. He could have wept from the pain, the heat and the thirst, but had no tears left.
“Once we leave here, it will become easier to bear,” the King told him, as if he had read his thoughts. “I know how much your sorrow and your wounds pain you. You are strong enough to endure!”
The path was now so steep they could traverse it only inch by agonizing inch and foul creatures assailed them at every turn. Aragorn drew his sword and slew the vile monsters as they appeared, all the while never relaxing his grip on Faramir’s hand.
Just when it seemed they could endure no longer, a wondrous scent wafted though the foul air, like the first breath of spring in the dreary heart of winter. Faramir’s spirits at once lightened. He turned towards his companion and saw that Aragorn was smiling and looked much refreshed.
“We are almost home now,” the King said.
The tunnel closed, but before they vanished he could hear their voices ensuring him of their love and telling him it was not yet his time to leave the circles of the world.
Aragorn laid a hand on his brow and sudden strength coursed through Faramir's veins. He was cool now, though still dreadfully thirsty. He breathed deeply of the sweet scent, which had now banished all traces of foulness from the air. It was growing lighter.
Faramir blinked and opened his eyes. He found he was lying on a bed and Aragorn was bending over him, holding a bowl filled with the sweet smelling substance in front of his face.
The King smiled at him, his eyes filled with approval and affection. It was the smile he had always yearned for from his father but never received. A light of love and knowledge was kindled in his eyes. ‘My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?’ said Faramir.
‘Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!’ said Aragorn. ‘You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.’
‘I will, lord,’ said Faramir. ‘For who would lie idle when the king has returned?’
Who will serve the King? - Frances R Havergal
My advisers tell me I should proceed with care. They seem to think I know little of Gondor’s history, when they remind me of the kings of long ago; the horrors of kin-strife and war. Castamir the Cruel’s name still causes a shudder in all who hear it, while other kings were vain and foolish.
These venerable men were my father’s counsellors. They remind me our House ruled wisely and well for close upon a thousand years. The House of Hurin has lineage as ancient as any scion of Isildur. My longfathers settled in Gondor with Anárion and there remained, as much a part of the land as the very soil and trees rooted therein.
“What does this pretender to the throne know of our ways?” one says. “He comes from the Northlands and was raised in the forest by Elves!”
"If we were to have any King," old Cemendur, named for a King like so many here today, huffs from his chair; "It should be one of the true line of Anárion, descended from father to son, not through a woman!"
Cemendur has apparently forgotten that my own line continued its inheritance of rod and rule through a woman, when Steward Dior was succeeded by Denethor I, son of his sister Rian. And he dares to teach me our history!
I say nothing yet, merely watch and listen.
Other voices warn me that we dare not resist. The Lord Elfstone holds the Rohirrim, through the love of their young king, in one hand, and the power of Mithrandir in the other, and now holds sway over my uncle Imrahil as well. They say he is a schemer who only healed me to gain popular support in his bid for the throne!
I begin to understand my father's impatience with his Council.
I stand up and face them. ”Were the Lord Aragorn merely a devious pretender, would it not have been easier to leave the heir of the Stewardship, his greatest potential rival, to die of the Black Breath?” I ask. “After giving me life, he rode out to an almost certain death, hazarding his own life to give the Ringbearer a better chance to save us all. Though I grieve to say so, it was the Lord Aragorn who led us to victory while my father chose to perish in the flames. Were it not for Mithrandir and the Lord Aragorn, the House of Hurin would have ended that day. I have listened to you all, but my decision is already made. When he brought me forth from the darkness, I beheld the greatness of the man and hailed him as King. I mean to offer him his rightful crown and gladly surrender my Office."
Some faces are aghast, some voices stutter in protest, some sigh and others are quiet. I think that none can believe that the King has truly returned to Gondor.
I survey them with my most compelling gaze, which I remember well in the eyes of the last Steward to sit here. "My lords, there will be no more argument. I, Faramir son of Denethor and twenty-seventh Ruling Steward of Gondor, now accept the kingship of Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I have decided!"
The End
A/N The final chapter is an expanded version of a ficlet written for the AA Group, which inspired me to write this story, a series of vignettes concerning vital decisions for Denethor, Faramir and Aragorn. Each chapter has been given a title from a popular hymn.
I have referred to Denethor having beaten Faramir several times, most notably in “Facing the Darkness” where Aragorn tends Faramir’s hurts and in several other stories. As Faramir is haunted by this penultimate encounter with his father, which shapes his early fear of Aragorn, I felt it needed to be shown.
When I first started writing LOTR stories, three years ago, I had unfortunately read far too many evil Denethor and poor abused Faramir ones, which coloured my perception. I have changed many of my ideas since then and have decided Denethor is too cold and controlled to be a habitual abuser; nor a monster. I have endeavoured to portray his actions in this scene are the result of the madness which will destroy him a few days later.
I feel when I wrote “First Meeting” that I did not to justice to the wonderful scene of Aragorn and Faramir’s first encounter.
Some dialogue is taken directly from Tolkien's "The Return of the King".
This story is influenced by Raksha’s wonderful “The Falcon and the Star” , a must read if you have not already done so.
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