Mask of Virtue Chapter Two
Don't judge a book by its cover.
The next morning the citizens of Minas Tirith were still talking about the dangerous criminal who had posed as a Guard in the Court of the Fountain. The people were also discussing the new ruling that the Guards must have their faces uncovered. Opinion was strongly divided whether it was a good idea or not.
Aragorn had slept badly. He felt strangely troubled by the haunted look in the young criminal’s eyes. Whatever had driven the man to take such desperate measures? Ostopher seemed to have such an open and honest face.
During Aragorn’s years of service as Thorongil, he had encountered men who had received letters breaking off a betrothal. Many a maiden had grown weary of waiting for her lover to return from fighting and chosen another, but none of the men had reacted like Ostopher. Aragorn had seen men under his command weep and rage against the perceived fickleness of the gentler sex, but not one had deserted.
Although Aragorn could ill spare the time from his other duties, he decided to try Ostopher’s case himself rather than leave it to the magistrates. Maglor had died during the night without regaining consciousness. Ostopher was now charged with two capital offences: the attack on a Citadel guard and his murder, along with the lesser crimes of assaulting prison warders and escaping from his prison cell. Since he would have to sign the warrant for the young man’s execution, Aragorn desired to learn what had made him commit such dreadful crimes.
Aragorn summoned Faramir and asked him about Ostopher’s original crime. The Steward soon returned with a scroll detailing the trial. It seemed that a wealthy jewel merchant in the second level had been attacked and left unconscious. Some precious stones from his shop had been found in Ostopher’s house, thereby proving the man’s guilt.
“What made the attack even more shocking,” Faramir added, “was that rumour had it the criminal was courting his victim’s daughter. He knew the family well and often dined with them. It was a cruel betrayal of the worst kind.”
“Had Ostopher committed any previous crimes?” Aragorn asked.
Faramir shook his head. ”No, at least none that were ever discovered. The young man was said to be a hard working carpenter who was skilled at his trade. One of my Rangers knew him. He had made some furniture for his mother who was highly impressed by the quality of the workmanship. He was making a good living and had no need to steal. Alas, when greed enters a man’s heart, it destroys him!” Faramir said sadly.
“Alas, indeed,” Aragorn replied suspecting Faramir was referring to his brother as well as to Ostopher. "Greed has destroyed far better men than this young fool I am trying today. May his fate be a lesson for others! I would have you accompany me while I judge the trial. You have the Númenorean ability to see into human hearts, and I would value your insights.”
“Certainly, my lord,” Faramir replied.
The Great Hall was packed with interested spectators when Aragorn and Faramir took their places.
When Ostopher was brought in the crowd booed and jeered. Minas Tirith respected her Citadel Guards and the murder of one was seen as an affront to every honest citizen. Ostopher walked stiffly as if in pain, his head bowed. He raised his head and stared at his accuser with a sad grey gaze when Aragorn addressed the crowd telling them what the prisoner was to be tried for. To the King’s horrified astonishment, a spark of what could only be described as joy seemed to glitter in Ostopher’s eyes when he learned he was charged with murder. Aragorn exchanged a glance with Faramir. He nodded. The Steward had seen it too.
The King listened carefully as the first witness, the chief warder at the prison, was called to give his evidence.
“I gave Ostopher a letter the morning he escaped,” said the man, slurring his speech slightly as if drunk “He read it and went berserk, attacking me and the other guards. We were lucky to escape with our lives, we was!”
“What injuries did you and your comrades sustain?” Aragorn enquired.
“ Er, a black eye and a cut lip, I think, my lord,” said the warder.” I can’t quite recall.”
Aragorn raised his eyebrows and curtly dismissed the man.
The next witness, a soldier’s widow, described how she had discovered Maglor lying in the alleyway. “ I was very shocked, my lord,” she said. “To see him lying by his doorway wearing only his drawers! It wasn’t proper at all! I’ve never seen such a thing in the City before. Lord Denethor would never have allowed it! Folks were always dressed proper in his day! It was such a shock what with Sergeant Maglor being a respectable Citadel Guard and all!”
Aragorn, who had been struggling to keep his attention during this rambling account, suddenly pricked up his ears.
“Did you recognise the man as Sergeant Maglor, Mistress?” he enquired. “The soldiers who reported the matter to me had no idea who the victim was.”
“Well, they never asked me or I could have told them!” said the woman. “Maglor was my neighbour for well nigh on twenty years. He was a quiet enough neighbour but too given to fancies if you get my meaning, my lord.”
“Perhaps you could explain?” Aragorn coaxed her.
"Bravest in his troop he was, leastways according to him, my lord," said the woman. “But we know all soldiers are brave, don’t we? My husband, may he rest in peace, most certainly was. Then the past year or two he has been telling me he was getting married, but I never seen any young lady with him!”
Seeing she would ramble on all day in this wise, if not stopped, Aragorn thanked her and politely but firmly dismissed her.
The crowd muttered amongst themselves agreeing the Lord Denethor would never have allowed such goings on. Men attacked in the street wearing only their drawers! Whatever was the world coming to?
Ostopher was then brought forward, his hands and feet secured by heavy manacles.
The crowd murmured angrily and shook their fists at the young man.
Aragorn studied the prisoner closely. He was a tall, obviously of Númenorean descent with the carven features and dark hair typical of his people. He faced Aragorn calmly, a resigned expression on his face, in stark contrast to his agitation of the day before.
“Ostopher son of Cirondil, “ Aragorn began sternly. “You are charged with escaping from prison and the murder of Maglor, a Citadel Guard. You are further charged with the theft of his clothing, then of impersonating him and resisting arrest. You stand before me facing death. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I was sent to prison for a crime I did not commit,” Ostopher said firmly, looking Aragorn in the eye and not flinching when the King returned his gaze. “ I admit that I fled the prison for reasons I prefer not to disclose. I struck Maglor twice, one in anger, the second time in self-defence when he set upon me. I did not intend to kill him, though I regret his death not at all! “
“Explain yourself!” ordered Aragorn.
“I would rather hang than have the honour of someone I hold dear besmirched,” said Ostopher.
“I have ordered you to explain your actions,” Aragorn said sharply. “I am offering you a fair trial and the opportunity to speak in your defence. Do you not understand?”
“I can say nothing more,” Ostopher replied. “I willingly accept whatever fate you decree for me.”
“That scoundrel ruined both me and my daughter!” cried an irate voice from the back.
“Let the man come forward to speak!” Aragorn demanded. ”What is your name?”
An old man came forward. He pointed an accusing finger at Ostopher. “I am Findegil, son of Caranthir,” said the greybeard in reply to Aragorn’s question. “That scoundrel there wormed his way into my household, saying he wanted to marry my daughter. My wife, may she rest in peace, left me with six daughters to provide for. The eldest is of marriageable age and I am eager to see her settled with a man of her choosing. She told me last year that she wanted to marry that good for nothing, who now stands before you, my lord. He seemed a decent enough fellow and earned a good living as a carpenter. Never was I more deceived in a man than I was in him! One day, when I was alone in my shop, Ostopher crept up behind me and hit me over the head and stole some of my most valuable jewels. I was certain the thief was someone who knew that I was working late that night. I usually leave well before the evening meal and take my most valuable merchandise home with me. The Guards searched the houses of my acquaintances and found the jewels in Ostopher’s home, so there was no doubt he was guilty. Not that my foolish daughter would believe it! She even refused to break off her betrothal until a few days ago. I was delighted when she suddenly announced she would marry Maglor, who was an old family friend. Now this villain here has gone and murdered him and I have to find another husband for the girl! May you only be blessed with sons, my lord! The sooner you hang that Ostopher, the better!”
“I never harmed you, sir,” Ostopher interrupted.
“Be silent!” Aragorn admonished sternly. He sighed inwardly. It seemed the reason for Ostopher’s misdeeds was all too clear now. ”I have one question for you, Master Findegil,” he said. “Did you clearly see Ostopher’s face when he attacked you.
“No, my lord,” Findegil replied. “I was bending over my workbench engrossed in fashioning a necklace for a merchant’s wife. He wanted their family crest set in diamonds to mark forty years of marriage to his lady. I awoke in the Houses of Healing. A curse on the young villain!”
Aragorn dismissed the man. A grim picture was gradually starting to form in his mind. It seemed that Ostopher was indeed as wicked as the evidence suggested. And yet…he sensed no evil in Ostopher’s presence despite the overwhelming evidence.
Just then the noon bells rang. Aragorn ordered the court to adjourn for the midday meal, after which he would sentence the young man to death. The thought repelled him. Why should this be? He was King and it was his duty to rid his lands of evildoers such as Ostopher. Justice in the North had been a very different matter. As Chieftain, Aragorn was responsible for judging wrongdoers, but serious crime was very rare amongst the Northern Dúnedain. They were too preoccupied eking out a meagre living and keeping Orcs at bay to turn upon one another.
Aragorn felt he needed air. Instead of joining Arwen as he usually did, he took a walk in the gardens.
He came across his Steward seated upon a bench. Faramir leapt to his feet.
“My lord, I am sorry, I did not see you approaching,” said Faramir.
“There is nothing to apologise for,” said Aragorn. ”Come sit beside me, I would hear how you perceive Ostopher?”
“My heart does not sense that he is as an evil man, nor a liar,” said Faramir. “Yet it seems clear enough that he murdered Maglor because he planned to marry Master Findegil’s daughter. Or is there more to this matter than meets the eye? Do we see the entire picture since Ostopher will offer no explanation.”
“I would rather face death than have my lady’s honour besmirched,” said Faramir.
“As indeed would I,” Aragorn replied gravely. “ However, since we know nothing of any threat to a lady’s virtue, I must pronounce the death sentence within the hour. Maybe I was deceived by Ostopher’s appearance? A king cannot be influenced by an innocent seeming face, or let an evildoer escape because he has an air of Númenor about him.”
The two men sat lost in thought for a few moments.
“Sire,” said Faramir, struck by a sudden flash of inspiration. ”If Ostopher was indeed set upon by Maglor, would he not bear some marks of violence upon his body to prove it? Could you not ask a healer to examine him? The law states that all possible methods may be used to uncover evidence when a capital crime has been committed.”
Aragorn smiled and clapped his Steward on the shoulder. ”Well spoken, Faramir! I will examine Ostopher myself for any injuries sustained in a fight. I can, perhaps, also persuade him to reveal what secrets he is hiding. I know many Elven calming arts that can make a man reveal the secrets of his heart.”
Too well did Faramir remember Aragorn's Elvish healing arts. He flushed with shame to recall how he had wept and revealed his pain and grief when the King had treated him with them. How weak he must have appeared in the eyes of his lord! He vowed inwardly it must never happen again.
Aragorn was so focused on the planned course of action with Ostopher, that he failed to notice his Steward's discomfiture. Faramir made no comment as King and Steward rose from the bench together and returned indoors. Aragorn despatched a messenger to order the Guards to bring Ostopher to his study. He was determined to learn the whole truth if only for his own peace of mind. As Gandalf had been fond of telling him, death should not be dealt out lightly.
About half an hour later, Aragorn, having collected his healing supplies, was awaiting Ostopher’s arrival in his study. Faramir was with him, sitting unobtrusively in a corner, pretending to be engrossed in a scroll. “Enter!” he called when the expected knock came on the door.
Four burly Guards escorted the still shacked prisoner into the room.
“Remove the wrist manacles, then wait outside,” the King ordered.
“But, my lord!” one of the men protested. “He is dangerous and violent. We cannot leave you with such a man!!”
“You can and you will!” Aragorn replied sternly. “How can I examine him if his wrists are bound? I assume he has been thoroughly searched and relieved of any weapons? I wish you to wait outside the door until I summon you.”
“I would not harm my lord king!” Ostopher said indignantly. “You have my word upon it.”
The Guards reluctantly obeyed the King’s command. Aragorn and Faramir were left alone with Ostopher.
TBC
Saturday, March 08, 2008
Friday, February 29, 2008
Star of Hope
"I saw a star that was falling, I wish'd the wish of my soul." - Traditional Irish song.
“You wished to see me, my lady?”
I shuffled my feet nervously. Master Elrond was never other than courteous towards me, but I still felt like a timid little girl in his presence.
“It is my son’s third birthday tomorrow. I should like some small celebration to mark the occasion for him.”
“Ah, yes, Lady Gilraen, the tradition of Men to mark the day of birth, since the day of begetting is so rarely recalled amongst my brother’s kindred.”
I lowered my eyes, hoping Master Elrond would not see the light of memory in my eyes that his wordskindled. Oh, but I did know the day of Aragorn’s begetting, that special night is still as clear in my memory as if it were yesterday. These memories are too precious and private to ever speak of to Master Elrond, kindly though he is. Maybe, one day I will tell my son that he was begotten upon an auspicious day. Maybe…
It was a rare gathering for the Dúnedain. As many who were able came from the scattered villages amidst the ruins of the old capital, Annuminas, where they made camp and prepared to celebrate Loëndë.
The celebrations began on the longest night of the year, a night feared by the servants of darkness. My parents were amongst those present. I gladly greeted them, having not laid eyes on my mother and father since my wedding day.
“Are you happy in your marriage to Arathorn?” my mother enquired of me later that night, taking me aside, her keen gaze scanning my still slender form. I could sense her disappointment that I was not yet with child.
“He is kindly and treats me always with respect,” I answered. Truth to tell, I still hardly knew my husband. He had been away most of the time even before the Lord Arador's death. Since he had become Chieftain earlier that year, Arathorn had even less time for home and hearth. As Lord of the Dúnedain, he was needed to care for our people and lead the fight against the minions of Shadow. I tried to be a good wife and ease his cares when he was at home. I had not opposed my mother's wish for the marriage; and I was content enough, honoured to be wed to so worthy a lord.
“Have you grown to love your husband?” my mother persisted.
I could only say. “He is a good man. ”I had never lied to my mother. It was useless, for Ivorwen’s gift of farsight always enabled her to see into my mind.
My mother frowned but said no more on the matter, instead encouraging me to try the wine, a gift from Elrond of Rivendell.
The sun sets on even the longest day. We sat watching it sink below the hills while we told tales of old Númenor and sang of the great deeds of the Sea Kings and the Faithful.
“Will you walk with me, my lady?” Arathorn appeared beside me as if out of nowhere, my cloak in his hand. He draped the soft woollen mantle around my shoulders. Arathorn slowed his pace to match mine, and took my hand as he led me along the shore of Lake Nenuial. The moon had risen and cast a silvery glow across the rippling waters.
“To think that these ruins were once a great and prosperous city,” my husband sighed, his voice full of sorrow. “Alas, for our people!”
“Maybe one day it will be rebuilt,” I said, wondering why I should voice such wild dreams. Tonight they appeared almost as a certainty to me. It was as if I could see a fair city, where now there lay only tumbled stones.
“The young may have their dreams still,” Arathorn said sadly.
I pressed his hand. We stood there for I know not how long, watching the bright path of the Star of Eärendil across the evening sky, the silence broken only the music of the waves gently lapping against the shore.
Suddenly, a light flashed in the West.
“Look!” said my husband, a smile easing the grim cast of his features; “a shooting star. You should make a wish, Gilraen.”
I silently wished that I might give him the heir he longed for, the heir we all needed.
We watched star after star streak across the sky under the sovereign eye of Gil-Estel.
“Come,” Arathorn said at last, “it grows cold.”
He let me back to our large and well-appointed tent, set a little aside from the others as befit the Chieftain and his lady.
Arathorn took me in his arms and kissed me. I found myself responding with a newfound fervour; pulling at the fastenings on his cloak as he bore me down to our warm nest of hides and furs. That night I was not just a dutiful wife, but also a happy one. Perhaps it was the wine, or the stone remnants of our people's past glory surrounding us, that awakened my heart. I know not. I know only that I enjoyed the intimacies of marriage for the first time. My passion equalled his as I freely and joyously surrendered to my lord.
“Never have I seen so many shooting stars as there were last night!” my mother remarked over breakfast the next morning. ”You look well, today, child. That Elvish wine must have suited you.”
Alas, my joy would be short-lived. Arathorn had to ride away again ere nightfall when a report arrived of Orcs gathering in the East.
When he returned a few weeks later, I had news for him.
“I carry our child, my lord,” I said.
My husband's weary face lightened. I will never forget the joy that lit his deepgrey eyes as he smiled and tenderly embraced me.
Arathorn was at my side more often during the following months. I grew large with his child and spent my days dreaming of filling our home with the laughter of many sons and daughters.
Soon after the turn of the year, my mother arrived to care for me. We expected the child in mid-March, but our Aragorn was eager to enter the world and arrived as soon as February took its leave. The moment I first held my son was the happiest I have ever known.
“You are smiling, Lady Gilraen. Do you find our customs amusing?”
Master Elrond’s words interrupted my memories. “Indeed not, lord, but my son is a child of Man, not an Elf.”
“Your son is the Hope of Men, my lady,” Elrond said gravely. "He will learn his lineage when the time is ripe. I shall ask the cooks to prepare special treats in celebration for his birthday on the morrow; and we will have gifts and games. Our Estel cannot yet know his true name, but he shall know that he is loved.”
I smiled my thanks. For now, my Aragorn must remain hidden, but in the fullness of time he will blaze forth, as a star of hope for our people. Until then, I can only wait and hope.
"I saw a star that was falling, I wish'd the wish of my soul." - Traditional Irish song.
“You wished to see me, my lady?”
I shuffled my feet nervously. Master Elrond was never other than courteous towards me, but I still felt like a timid little girl in his presence.
“It is my son’s third birthday tomorrow. I should like some small celebration to mark the occasion for him.”
“Ah, yes, Lady Gilraen, the tradition of Men to mark the day of birth, since the day of begetting is so rarely recalled amongst my brother’s kindred.”
I lowered my eyes, hoping Master Elrond would not see the light of memory in my eyes that his wordskindled. Oh, but I did know the day of Aragorn’s begetting, that special night is still as clear in my memory as if it were yesterday. These memories are too precious and private to ever speak of to Master Elrond, kindly though he is. Maybe, one day I will tell my son that he was begotten upon an auspicious day. Maybe…
It was a rare gathering for the Dúnedain. As many who were able came from the scattered villages amidst the ruins of the old capital, Annuminas, where they made camp and prepared to celebrate Loëndë.
The celebrations began on the longest night of the year, a night feared by the servants of darkness. My parents were amongst those present. I gladly greeted them, having not laid eyes on my mother and father since my wedding day.
“Are you happy in your marriage to Arathorn?” my mother enquired of me later that night, taking me aside, her keen gaze scanning my still slender form. I could sense her disappointment that I was not yet with child.
“He is kindly and treats me always with respect,” I answered. Truth to tell, I still hardly knew my husband. He had been away most of the time even before the Lord Arador's death. Since he had become Chieftain earlier that year, Arathorn had even less time for home and hearth. As Lord of the Dúnedain, he was needed to care for our people and lead the fight against the minions of Shadow. I tried to be a good wife and ease his cares when he was at home. I had not opposed my mother's wish for the marriage; and I was content enough, honoured to be wed to so worthy a lord.
“Have you grown to love your husband?” my mother persisted.
I could only say. “He is a good man. ”I had never lied to my mother. It was useless, for Ivorwen’s gift of farsight always enabled her to see into my mind.
My mother frowned but said no more on the matter, instead encouraging me to try the wine, a gift from Elrond of Rivendell.
The sun sets on even the longest day. We sat watching it sink below the hills while we told tales of old Númenor and sang of the great deeds of the Sea Kings and the Faithful.
“Will you walk with me, my lady?” Arathorn appeared beside me as if out of nowhere, my cloak in his hand. He draped the soft woollen mantle around my shoulders. Arathorn slowed his pace to match mine, and took my hand as he led me along the shore of Lake Nenuial. The moon had risen and cast a silvery glow across the rippling waters.
“To think that these ruins were once a great and prosperous city,” my husband sighed, his voice full of sorrow. “Alas, for our people!”
“Maybe one day it will be rebuilt,” I said, wondering why I should voice such wild dreams. Tonight they appeared almost as a certainty to me. It was as if I could see a fair city, where now there lay only tumbled stones.
“The young may have their dreams still,” Arathorn said sadly.
I pressed his hand. We stood there for I know not how long, watching the bright path of the Star of Eärendil across the evening sky, the silence broken only the music of the waves gently lapping against the shore.
Suddenly, a light flashed in the West.
“Look!” said my husband, a smile easing the grim cast of his features; “a shooting star. You should make a wish, Gilraen.”
I silently wished that I might give him the heir he longed for, the heir we all needed.
We watched star after star streak across the sky under the sovereign eye of Gil-Estel.
“Come,” Arathorn said at last, “it grows cold.”
He let me back to our large and well-appointed tent, set a little aside from the others as befit the Chieftain and his lady.
Arathorn took me in his arms and kissed me. I found myself responding with a newfound fervour; pulling at the fastenings on his cloak as he bore me down to our warm nest of hides and furs. That night I was not just a dutiful wife, but also a happy one. Perhaps it was the wine, or the stone remnants of our people's past glory surrounding us, that awakened my heart. I know not. I know only that I enjoyed the intimacies of marriage for the first time. My passion equalled his as I freely and joyously surrendered to my lord.
“Never have I seen so many shooting stars as there were last night!” my mother remarked over breakfast the next morning. ”You look well, today, child. That Elvish wine must have suited you.”
Alas, my joy would be short-lived. Arathorn had to ride away again ere nightfall when a report arrived of Orcs gathering in the East.
When he returned a few weeks later, I had news for him.
“I carry our child, my lord,” I said.
My husband's weary face lightened. I will never forget the joy that lit his deepgrey eyes as he smiled and tenderly embraced me.
Arathorn was at my side more often during the following months. I grew large with his child and spent my days dreaming of filling our home with the laughter of many sons and daughters.
Soon after the turn of the year, my mother arrived to care for me. We expected the child in mid-March, but our Aragorn was eager to enter the world and arrived as soon as February took its leave. The moment I first held my son was the happiest I have ever known.
“You are smiling, Lady Gilraen. Do you find our customs amusing?”
Master Elrond’s words interrupted my memories. “Indeed not, lord, but my son is a child of Man, not an Elf.”
“Your son is the Hope of Men, my lady,” Elrond said gravely. "He will learn his lineage when the time is ripe. I shall ask the cooks to prepare special treats in celebration for his birthday on the morrow; and we will have gifts and games. Our Estel cannot yet know his true name, but he shall know that he is loved.”
I smiled my thanks. For now, my Aragorn must remain hidden, but in the fullness of time he will blaze forth, as a star of hope for our people. Until then, I can only wait and hope.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
"The strife is o'er, the battle done;
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
"The strife is o'er, the battle done;
The victory of life is won;
The song of triumph has begun: Alleluia!" - Traditional Easter hymn
With grateful thanks to Raksha,
Aragorn and Faramir quickly cleansed themselves in the warm soapy water, towelled themselves dry and started to dress in the assortment of garments that Tasariel had provided. It was obvious that the Healer had lent them her best towels and King and Steward wondered if the clothing had belonged to the sons she had lost. Tasariel's kindness touched their hearts.
“Let me look at you before you put your shirt on,” Aragorn told Faramir. ”I wish to check the bite on your back.”
“What of you?” asked Faramir, ”You are moving stiffly. Do you want some more of Mistress Tasariel’s ointment?”
“That can wait until later, ”said Aragorn. ”But fear not; there is nothing seriously amiss; merely some already over-taxed muscles having been pulled in the fight. The pain is not too bad today.”
Pulling the borrowed tunic over his head, the King turned to face Faramir and picked up the lantern. Faramir sat on the straw-covered floor, clad in the borrowed breeches; and suddenly burst out laughing.
“What is so amusing?” Aragorn demanded, approaching his friend.
“You in those clothes!” Faramir chortled. The High King of the West was indeed a sight to behold. The tunic was both far too short and much too wide. It hung like an ill-fitting sack from Aragorn’s shoulders, flopping just below his waist. The breeches reached only to his mid-calves, and fit so loosely at the waist, he had to secure seemingly endless folds of material with his belt.
“You will not look much better once you stand up!” Aragorn retorted, noticing that Faramir's borrowed breeches were even baggier than the ones he was wearing. The sight reminded Aragorn that Faramir had lost flesh recently, and that the loss had weakened Faramir and made him more likely to take harm from the spider's poison. Trying to conceal his anxiety, he moved behind his friend, fearful that further exposure to the spider might have inflamed the bite on Faramir’s back. Lifting the dark hair aside he breathed a deep sigh of relief that the small, red mark remained cool to the touch and unchanged in appearance. Fortunately, Faramir’s shirt and tunic had protected his body from any further stings caused by the spider’s hairs.
“Does your face still hurt, ion nîn?” Aragorn enquired.
“It stings but a little,” replied Faramir. His voice was quiet, but Aragorn caught an undertone of weariness, reflected in the younger man's eyes.
“Let us try Mistress Tasariel’s salve then,” said Aragorn, picking up the jar and applying a generous amount to Faramir’s injured cheek and neck. The King then checked Faramir’s heartbeat, finding it slightly too rapid for his liking. He would have liked nothing better than to tell him to rest and use some Elven relaxation treatments to ease him after his ordeal, but there was work to be done. He turned his attention to Faramir’s injured ankle, while the Steward donned his shirt. The ankle was starting to swell, while above it, ugly scratches disfigured his calf.
Faramir flinched when Aragorn gently felt the injured limb. "I will bathe the grazes with the athelas mixture and bind your ankle for the time being,” the King said. ”I will treat it properly once the creature’s carcass is disposed of. Do you wish to remain here to rest?”
Faramir shook his head vehemently. “Of course not, my hurts are but slight. If you can just help me mount Zachus, I will come with you. Some of the villagers might panic at the sight of the creature. I would not let you go there alone.”
“I am blessed by your loyalty, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, patting Faramir’s shoulder affectionately. He tied the bandage securely and proceeded to gather up the dirty laundry, carefully shaking out the soiled clothing to ensure no spider hairs had stuck to it.
“Are you dressed, Masters?” Tasariel’s voice called from outside. "I have brought you some tea and my neighbour has scones fresh from the oven.”
Aragorn opened the door and stood there blinking in the bright sunlight.
The two women vainly tried to maintain their calm and avoid staring at the sight before them. The neighbour, a red-cheeked younger woman, was the first to yield to her mirth. Tasariel soon followed suit and both women laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.
Aragorn maintained his dignity for a full ten seconds before joining in the laughter. “I fear we are rather tall for our borrowed garb,” he said good-humouredly.
“And far too skinny!” Tasariel retorted. “Has my salve aided Master Falborn?” she enquired.
“It has indeed, Mistress, I thank you,” said Faramir. ”We greatly appreciate all your kindness to us.”
“I would be interested in the recipes for your healing salves,” said Aragorn. Elrond’s remedies were far more potent against serious maladies, but the Elves had little practice in treating the everyday ailments that plagued mortal country folk. Tasariel beamed with pleasure.
Aragorn helped Faramir outside. The two friends sat on a log, enjoying their tea and scones as they awaited the arrival of the menfolk.
Beleg and his sons were the first to come in from the fields. ”I might have guessed it was you two sluggards who had interrupted our work again while you pass the morning eating food from our wives' hearths!” he snorted. “What is it this time? Giant butterflies or cats the size of horses? Or some strange creature that shrinks your britches?” He guffawed with laugher.
“We have laboured hard this morning,” said Aragorn coldly. ”The monster we slew would freeze your blood and that of men far greater!”
Borlach then arrived and Aragorn quickly told him all that had happened. The headman did not entirely understand the full nature of the beast Aragorn described, but he nodded in agreement to Aragorn's plan. Borlach called his people together and told them in a loud voice: “Master Morrandir and his son have done a great service to our people. They have slain the creature that struck down Mistress Vanreth and her child. He would have us go down to the riverbank to see this monstrous spider and burn its carcass.”
Thoron laughed rudely. ”Giant spider indeed! I'll not leave the harvest to chase after children's stories. No doubt they killed a common boar! At least we will dine well tonight.”
“Maybe you are too afraid to risk looking upon a monster and prefer to hide in your mother’s fields?” Tasariel said tartly.
Thoron scowled. “I fear nothing!” he retorted with the bravado of the young and untested. ”Had I seen this creature, I would have killed it myself.”
“No one needs to come if they lack the stomach for it,” called Aragorn. ”It is best that the very young children remain behind and any woman who is with child. However, if you see this creature and know what it looks like, it may save your lives should any others ever appear in these parts. If they do, you must send a message to Minas Tirith and inform the King that an evil beast troubles your village again.”
Thoron laughed bitterly. “A fine lot of good that would do. What would the King care about poor folk like us? He left us defenceless when he exiled Lord Fontos!”
“The King cares for all his people,” Aragorn said firmly. ”You are especially under his care until Lord Fontos returns. I shall tell him that a giant spider was found near your village. He will listen to Captain Morrandir.”
“I believe you,” said Tasariel.
“As do I,” Hareth added. “Such a great Healer must surely have the ear of his lord!” Her daughter nodded. Vanreth was still rather pale and leaning heavily on her mother’s arm.
“Come then to the riverbank,” said Aragorn. ”We must hasten ere the carcass attracts scavengers. Bring torches and oil to burn the creature’s remains.” He helped Faramir rise from the log and mount Zachus.
“It seems Master Falborn fell over when in his cups again,” Thoron said in loud whisper.
“Hush! Would you risk the wrath of fierce warriors who have the King's ear?” Tasariel cautioned.
“I should like to see what attacked my baby and I, but fear I cannot walk that far,” Vanreth lamented. ”My neighbour would care for Gwinhir.”
“Are you certain, Mistress?” asked Aragorn. ”What lies ahead is a sight most foul.”
“Nothing could be worse that the horrors I imagine in my dreams,” answered the young woman.
“Come then,” said Aragorn. “You can ride with me to the riverbank. Roheryn can easily carry two riders.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Finrod. “I would have my lass rest easy.” He lifted his wife up behind Aragorn on the great horse.
The procession slowly wound its way down to the riverbank at the pace of the slowest villager. As they approached the spot where the dead spider lay, those with a keen sense of smell wrinkled their noses in disgust.
“We are almost there,” said Aragorn. ”I warn you, the carcass is not a pretty sight.”
Six of the younger women paled at his words, and hurried back toward the village with two elderly men.
“Cowards!” muttered Thoron loudly enough for those departing to hear.
Vanreth trembled slightly. ”You do not have to see the creature,” Aragorn told her gently.
“I want to,” she said staunchly. ” Please ride on.”
They rounded a bend in the path and there lay the corpse of the spider, exactly as Aragorn and Faramir had left it. No crows hovered above the dead monster. Even the flies kept their distance. Several of the women cried out. Thoron took one look, paled, and promptly retched. “It must something I ate,” he mumbled to Tasariel, who had come swiftly to aid him.
Aragorn dismounted. ”That is the creature we slew,” he explained. “The spider is close kindred to Shelob, ally of the Dark Lord, she who waylaid and wounded the Ring bearer in the pass of Cirith Ungol. This creature has preyed upon your village in secret; and would have killed men, women, children and beasts had it grown to maturity. It lived underneath yonder willow in the hollowed out river bank.”
Finrod summoned up the courage to delve into the spider’s lair. ”It is full of animal bones!” he exclaimed. “I think the bones come from pigs, cats and chickens. Small wonder our livestock kept vanishing!”
“Gather wood for kindling to burn the monster,” Aragorn ordered. “Look upon it and remember! Should you ever glimpse such a creature again, walk wide of it, and send at once to the King in Minas Tirith. It is his charge and duty to rid to see Gondor rid of such leavings of Shadow.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Borlach. “How can we ever thank you and your son sufficiently for ridding us of this menace?”
Aragorn tensed, wondering if the village Headman had guessed who he was; but it seemed the greybeard was simply expressing respect.
“It is our duty as the King’s Captains to aid those in need, “said Faramir, sparing his Lord the need to dissemble. Aragorn simply inclined his head graciously.
Aragorn tensed wondering if the village Headman had guessed who he was, but it seemed the greybeard was simply expressing respect.
The people searched the riverbank for kindling and had soon built a large bonfire around the dead spider. Aragorn and Tasariel then drenched the pyre with oil.
Borlach handed the torch to Aragorn. “You, my lord, should set the fire ablaze,” he said.
“Thank you, Master, but I can think of two who have greater cause to wield the brand,” said the King. “My son Falborn and Mistress Vanreth.” He helped Faramir down from the horse, while Finrod aided his wife.
The Steward and the country girl cast the torches into the kindling. The flames blazed up high and bright.
“So may all traces of the darkness that engulfed this place be banished!” said Aragorn as the fire climbed toward the sky.
“Our visitors have laboured hard this day,” Tasariel remarked to her husband.
“Humph, it seems they have not been idle after all,” Beleg conceded. ”Easy work compared with reaping, though!”
Leaving several men to keep an eye on the fire, King, Steward and country folk made their way back to the village. The women who had stayed behind had prepared food, but few had the desire to eat it. Most of the farmers soon returned to the fields. Tasariel sat near the long table in the village's centre, peeling potatoes for the evening meal. Several young children ran around the huts, scuffling over a ball made of stitched cowhide; shouting as their bare feet kicked up clods of dirt.
“I will tend your ankle properly now,” Aragorn told Faramir.
The Steward settled himself comfortably in the shade of a large tree and took off his boot with some difficulty. Aragorn carefully removed the bandage and gently felt the bruised and swollen ankle. Faramir winced. Aragorn held his hand a few inches above the injury and Faramir felt the pain ebb away, leaving his ankle feeling strong again. He sighed blissfully.
“That is amazing!” exclaimed Tasariel who had been watching, unnoticed by the two men. “I can see the bruises fading before my eyes!”
“Ara, um my ada has wondrous healing skills,” said Faramir fervently.
“I can see that, ”said Tasariel. “What are you doing now?” she enquired of Aragorn.
“Massaging the ankle with an Elven healing touch to ease the swelling and stimulate the circulation,” answered Aragorn.
“Well, I hope Master Falborn is on his feet for the day after tomorrow,” said the woman. “We will all dance at the harvest celebrations.”
“He will be,” said Aragorn.
“We have a king and queen of the harvest,” trilled a little girl as she skipped past with her companions. “Just think, to be king or queen for a day just like the real ones in the City! I wonder who will be chosen?”
TBC
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
"The strife is o'er, the battle done;
The victory of life is won;
The song of triumph has begun: Alleluia!" - Traditional Easter hymn
With grateful thanks to Raksha,
Aragorn and Faramir quickly cleansed themselves in the warm soapy water, towelled themselves dry and started to dress in the assortment of garments that Tasariel had provided. It was obvious that the Healer had lent them her best towels and King and Steward wondered if the clothing had belonged to the sons she had lost. Tasariel's kindness touched their hearts.
“Let me look at you before you put your shirt on,” Aragorn told Faramir. ”I wish to check the bite on your back.”
“What of you?” asked Faramir, ”You are moving stiffly. Do you want some more of Mistress Tasariel’s ointment?”
“That can wait until later, ”said Aragorn. ”But fear not; there is nothing seriously amiss; merely some already over-taxed muscles having been pulled in the fight. The pain is not too bad today.”
Pulling the borrowed tunic over his head, the King turned to face Faramir and picked up the lantern. Faramir sat on the straw-covered floor, clad in the borrowed breeches; and suddenly burst out laughing.
“What is so amusing?” Aragorn demanded, approaching his friend.
“You in those clothes!” Faramir chortled. The High King of the West was indeed a sight to behold. The tunic was both far too short and much too wide. It hung like an ill-fitting sack from Aragorn’s shoulders, flopping just below his waist. The breeches reached only to his mid-calves, and fit so loosely at the waist, he had to secure seemingly endless folds of material with his belt.
“You will not look much better once you stand up!” Aragorn retorted, noticing that Faramir's borrowed breeches were even baggier than the ones he was wearing. The sight reminded Aragorn that Faramir had lost flesh recently, and that the loss had weakened Faramir and made him more likely to take harm from the spider's poison. Trying to conceal his anxiety, he moved behind his friend, fearful that further exposure to the spider might have inflamed the bite on Faramir’s back. Lifting the dark hair aside he breathed a deep sigh of relief that the small, red mark remained cool to the touch and unchanged in appearance. Fortunately, Faramir’s shirt and tunic had protected his body from any further stings caused by the spider’s hairs.
“Does your face still hurt, ion nîn?” Aragorn enquired.
“It stings but a little,” replied Faramir. His voice was quiet, but Aragorn caught an undertone of weariness, reflected in the younger man's eyes.
“Let us try Mistress Tasariel’s salve then,” said Aragorn, picking up the jar and applying a generous amount to Faramir’s injured cheek and neck. The King then checked Faramir’s heartbeat, finding it slightly too rapid for his liking. He would have liked nothing better than to tell him to rest and use some Elven relaxation treatments to ease him after his ordeal, but there was work to be done. He turned his attention to Faramir’s injured ankle, while the Steward donned his shirt. The ankle was starting to swell, while above it, ugly scratches disfigured his calf.
Faramir flinched when Aragorn gently felt the injured limb. "I will bathe the grazes with the athelas mixture and bind your ankle for the time being,” the King said. ”I will treat it properly once the creature’s carcass is disposed of. Do you wish to remain here to rest?”
Faramir shook his head vehemently. “Of course not, my hurts are but slight. If you can just help me mount Zachus, I will come with you. Some of the villagers might panic at the sight of the creature. I would not let you go there alone.”
“I am blessed by your loyalty, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, patting Faramir’s shoulder affectionately. He tied the bandage securely and proceeded to gather up the dirty laundry, carefully shaking out the soiled clothing to ensure no spider hairs had stuck to it.
“Are you dressed, Masters?” Tasariel’s voice called from outside. "I have brought you some tea and my neighbour has scones fresh from the oven.”
Aragorn opened the door and stood there blinking in the bright sunlight.
The two women vainly tried to maintain their calm and avoid staring at the sight before them. The neighbour, a red-cheeked younger woman, was the first to yield to her mirth. Tasariel soon followed suit and both women laughed until tears rolled down their cheeks.
Aragorn maintained his dignity for a full ten seconds before joining in the laughter. “I fear we are rather tall for our borrowed garb,” he said good-humouredly.
“And far too skinny!” Tasariel retorted. “Has my salve aided Master Falborn?” she enquired.
“It has indeed, Mistress, I thank you,” said Faramir. ”We greatly appreciate all your kindness to us.”
“I would be interested in the recipes for your healing salves,” said Aragorn. Elrond’s remedies were far more potent against serious maladies, but the Elves had little practice in treating the everyday ailments that plagued mortal country folk. Tasariel beamed with pleasure.
Aragorn helped Faramir outside. The two friends sat on a log, enjoying their tea and scones as they awaited the arrival of the menfolk.
Beleg and his sons were the first to come in from the fields. ”I might have guessed it was you two sluggards who had interrupted our work again while you pass the morning eating food from our wives' hearths!” he snorted. “What is it this time? Giant butterflies or cats the size of horses? Or some strange creature that shrinks your britches?” He guffawed with laugher.
“We have laboured hard this morning,” said Aragorn coldly. ”The monster we slew would freeze your blood and that of men far greater!”
Borlach then arrived and Aragorn quickly told him all that had happened. The headman did not entirely understand the full nature of the beast Aragorn described, but he nodded in agreement to Aragorn's plan. Borlach called his people together and told them in a loud voice: “Master Morrandir and his son have done a great service to our people. They have slain the creature that struck down Mistress Vanreth and her child. He would have us go down to the riverbank to see this monstrous spider and burn its carcass.”
Thoron laughed rudely. ”Giant spider indeed! I'll not leave the harvest to chase after children's stories. No doubt they killed a common boar! At least we will dine well tonight.”
“Maybe you are too afraid to risk looking upon a monster and prefer to hide in your mother’s fields?” Tasariel said tartly.
Thoron scowled. “I fear nothing!” he retorted with the bravado of the young and untested. ”Had I seen this creature, I would have killed it myself.”
“No one needs to come if they lack the stomach for it,” called Aragorn. ”It is best that the very young children remain behind and any woman who is with child. However, if you see this creature and know what it looks like, it may save your lives should any others ever appear in these parts. If they do, you must send a message to Minas Tirith and inform the King that an evil beast troubles your village again.”
Thoron laughed bitterly. “A fine lot of good that would do. What would the King care about poor folk like us? He left us defenceless when he exiled Lord Fontos!”
“The King cares for all his people,” Aragorn said firmly. ”You are especially under his care until Lord Fontos returns. I shall tell him that a giant spider was found near your village. He will listen to Captain Morrandir.”
“I believe you,” said Tasariel.
“As do I,” Hareth added. “Such a great Healer must surely have the ear of his lord!” Her daughter nodded. Vanreth was still rather pale and leaning heavily on her mother’s arm.
“Come then to the riverbank,” said Aragorn. ”We must hasten ere the carcass attracts scavengers. Bring torches and oil to burn the creature’s remains.” He helped Faramir rise from the log and mount Zachus.
“It seems Master Falborn fell over when in his cups again,” Thoron said in loud whisper.
“Hush! Would you risk the wrath of fierce warriors who have the King's ear?” Tasariel cautioned.
“I should like to see what attacked my baby and I, but fear I cannot walk that far,” Vanreth lamented. ”My neighbour would care for Gwinhir.”
“Are you certain, Mistress?” asked Aragorn. ”What lies ahead is a sight most foul.”
“Nothing could be worse that the horrors I imagine in my dreams,” answered the young woman.
“Come then,” said Aragorn. “You can ride with me to the riverbank. Roheryn can easily carry two riders.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Finrod. “I would have my lass rest easy.” He lifted his wife up behind Aragorn on the great horse.
The procession slowly wound its way down to the riverbank at the pace of the slowest villager. As they approached the spot where the dead spider lay, those with a keen sense of smell wrinkled their noses in disgust.
“We are almost there,” said Aragorn. ”I warn you, the carcass is not a pretty sight.”
Six of the younger women paled at his words, and hurried back toward the village with two elderly men.
“Cowards!” muttered Thoron loudly enough for those departing to hear.
Vanreth trembled slightly. ”You do not have to see the creature,” Aragorn told her gently.
“I want to,” she said staunchly. ” Please ride on.”
They rounded a bend in the path and there lay the corpse of the spider, exactly as Aragorn and Faramir had left it. No crows hovered above the dead monster. Even the flies kept their distance. Several of the women cried out. Thoron took one look, paled, and promptly retched. “It must something I ate,” he mumbled to Tasariel, who had come swiftly to aid him.
Aragorn dismounted. ”That is the creature we slew,” he explained. “The spider is close kindred to Shelob, ally of the Dark Lord, she who waylaid and wounded the Ring bearer in the pass of Cirith Ungol. This creature has preyed upon your village in secret; and would have killed men, women, children and beasts had it grown to maturity. It lived underneath yonder willow in the hollowed out river bank.”
Finrod summoned up the courage to delve into the spider’s lair. ”It is full of animal bones!” he exclaimed. “I think the bones come from pigs, cats and chickens. Small wonder our livestock kept vanishing!”
“Gather wood for kindling to burn the monster,” Aragorn ordered. “Look upon it and remember! Should you ever glimpse such a creature again, walk wide of it, and send at once to the King in Minas Tirith. It is his charge and duty to rid to see Gondor rid of such leavings of Shadow.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Borlach. “How can we ever thank you and your son sufficiently for ridding us of this menace?”
Aragorn tensed, wondering if the village Headman had guessed who he was; but it seemed the greybeard was simply expressing respect.
“It is our duty as the King’s Captains to aid those in need, “said Faramir, sparing his Lord the need to dissemble. Aragorn simply inclined his head graciously.
Aragorn tensed wondering if the village Headman had guessed who he was, but it seemed the greybeard was simply expressing respect.
The people searched the riverbank for kindling and had soon built a large bonfire around the dead spider. Aragorn and Tasariel then drenched the pyre with oil.
Borlach handed the torch to Aragorn. “You, my lord, should set the fire ablaze,” he said.
“Thank you, Master, but I can think of two who have greater cause to wield the brand,” said the King. “My son Falborn and Mistress Vanreth.” He helped Faramir down from the horse, while Finrod aided his wife.
The Steward and the country girl cast the torches into the kindling. The flames blazed up high and bright.
“So may all traces of the darkness that engulfed this place be banished!” said Aragorn as the fire climbed toward the sky.
“Our visitors have laboured hard this day,” Tasariel remarked to her husband.
“Humph, it seems they have not been idle after all,” Beleg conceded. ”Easy work compared with reaping, though!”
Leaving several men to keep an eye on the fire, King, Steward and country folk made their way back to the village. The women who had stayed behind had prepared food, but few had the desire to eat it. Most of the farmers soon returned to the fields. Tasariel sat near the long table in the village's centre, peeling potatoes for the evening meal. Several young children ran around the huts, scuffling over a ball made of stitched cowhide; shouting as their bare feet kicked up clods of dirt.
“I will tend your ankle properly now,” Aragorn told Faramir.
The Steward settled himself comfortably in the shade of a large tree and took off his boot with some difficulty. Aragorn carefully removed the bandage and gently felt the bruised and swollen ankle. Faramir winced. Aragorn held his hand a few inches above the injury and Faramir felt the pain ebb away, leaving his ankle feeling strong again. He sighed blissfully.
“That is amazing!” exclaimed Tasariel who had been watching, unnoticed by the two men. “I can see the bruises fading before my eyes!”
“Ara, um my ada has wondrous healing skills,” said Faramir fervently.
“I can see that, ”said Tasariel. “What are you doing now?” she enquired of Aragorn.
“Massaging the ankle with an Elven healing touch to ease the swelling and stimulate the circulation,” answered Aragorn.
“Well, I hope Master Falborn is on his feet for the day after tomorrow,” said the woman. “We will all dance at the harvest celebrations.”
“He will be,” said Aragorn.
“We have a king and queen of the harvest,” trilled a little girl as she skipped past with her companions. “Just think, to be king or queen for a day just like the real ones in the City! I wonder who will be chosen?”
TBC
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
The Vase that was Broken
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
A Tale of Telcontar
“Tell me a story, ada, please!” Eldarion pleaded. He was sitting with his father in his mother’s sitting room eating his tea. The Queen had taken Farawyn to visit Éowyn for a few days and the young prince was bored.
“What sort of a story?” asked Aragorn.
“A tale of your battles and brave deeds,” said Eldarion.
The King began to tell his son about how they had fought the orcs and the cave- troll in Moria, using his spoon to illustrate how he had wielded Andúril. Before long, father and son had risen from the table and were mock-fighting enthusiastically.
A sudden loud crash brought the game to an abrupt halt.
“Oh, no; we broke Naneth’s vase!” Eldarion exclaimed.
Aragorn surveyed the scene in horror. All of Arwen’s vases looked much alike to him. He seemed to recall that this was a special one; a family heirloom that had belonged to Celeborn and Galadriel and had been made for them before the breaking of Beleriand. He gingerly picked up the fragments.
Eldarion frowned. "Naneth will be cross." He looked up at Aragorn, his small face earnest. "I did not mean to break so old a thing, truly, Ada." )
Aragorn caressed the child's tousled black hair. “ It was not your fault, ion nîn,” he reassured his son. "I should have known better than to mimic a battle with you in Naneth's sitting room. Let us send for Uncle Faramir and see if he can help.”
The Steward, who was working late to allow Aragorn to spend more time with Eldarion, appeared within a few minutes and inspected the damage. “ I fear it is beyond repair,” he said. ”At least it does not look to be very valuable.”
“ It is!” Aragorn contradicted. “ It is Elven workmanship dating from the First Age. It had pride of place in my lady’s room.”
“I have rarely been in your lady’s private rooms, so had little chance to appreciate its beauty,” Faramir said diplomatically. “ I suggest we summon the City’s craftsmen and find a vase of equal beauty ere she returns.”
“A good idea, mellon nîn, always you think of something!” said Aragorn, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
The King’s enthusiasm for the plan abated somewhat after spending much of the day inspecting the wares of a seemingly endless procession of craftsmen, all of whom had dozens of vases to show him. Aragorn’s head began to ache at the sight of each additional vessel of silver or gold or multi-coloured glass. Eventually, with Faramir’s help, he chose a silver vase encrusted with sapphires and rubies. It seemed well made and was quite costly, but the expense would be worth it if it staved off Arwen’s wrath.
Aragorn went to bed weary and slept badly, dreaming he was being buried under a mountain of vases of every hue and description imaginable.
The King’s heart was in his mouth when his Queen returned and took her accustomed place in her sitting room. He decided to wait for her to notice the vase before confessing his mishap with her treasured heirloom.
Suddenly, she espied the new vase and her eyes lit up. “How beautiful!” Arwen exclaimed. “And how thoughtful of you to buy me a surprise gift, Estel!”
“I fear your grandparents’ vase was broken while Eldarion and I were playing,” the King said sheepishly.
“The priceless heirloom?” Arwen looked puzzled. “That is silver inlaid with pearl and I put it away safely as soon as Eldarion could walk. The one that was there was a gift from the Harad Ambassador, which I always considered hideous! How could you fail to notice the difference? Men are so unobservant!”
Aragorn sighed with relief, before ruefully realising he had wasted a good deal of time and money.
Arwen picked up the new vase and studied it. Then, embracing her husband lovingly, gave him a tender kiss.
Returning his wife’s loving embrace, Aragorn decided the vase was worth every coin after all.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With grateful thanks to Raksha
A Tale of Telcontar
“Tell me a story, ada, please!” Eldarion pleaded. He was sitting with his father in his mother’s sitting room eating his tea. The Queen had taken Farawyn to visit Éowyn for a few days and the young prince was bored.
“What sort of a story?” asked Aragorn.
“A tale of your battles and brave deeds,” said Eldarion.
The King began to tell his son about how they had fought the orcs and the cave- troll in Moria, using his spoon to illustrate how he had wielded Andúril. Before long, father and son had risen from the table and were mock-fighting enthusiastically.
A sudden loud crash brought the game to an abrupt halt.
“Oh, no; we broke Naneth’s vase!” Eldarion exclaimed.
Aragorn surveyed the scene in horror. All of Arwen’s vases looked much alike to him. He seemed to recall that this was a special one; a family heirloom that had belonged to Celeborn and Galadriel and had been made for them before the breaking of Beleriand. He gingerly picked up the fragments.
Eldarion frowned. "Naneth will be cross." He looked up at Aragorn, his small face earnest. "I did not mean to break so old a thing, truly, Ada." )
Aragorn caressed the child's tousled black hair. “ It was not your fault, ion nîn,” he reassured his son. "I should have known better than to mimic a battle with you in Naneth's sitting room. Let us send for Uncle Faramir and see if he can help.”
The Steward, who was working late to allow Aragorn to spend more time with Eldarion, appeared within a few minutes and inspected the damage. “ I fear it is beyond repair,” he said. ”At least it does not look to be very valuable.”
“ It is!” Aragorn contradicted. “ It is Elven workmanship dating from the First Age. It had pride of place in my lady’s room.”
“I have rarely been in your lady’s private rooms, so had little chance to appreciate its beauty,” Faramir said diplomatically. “ I suggest we summon the City’s craftsmen and find a vase of equal beauty ere she returns.”
“A good idea, mellon nîn, always you think of something!” said Aragorn, clapping his friend on the shoulder.
The King’s enthusiasm for the plan abated somewhat after spending much of the day inspecting the wares of a seemingly endless procession of craftsmen, all of whom had dozens of vases to show him. Aragorn’s head began to ache at the sight of each additional vessel of silver or gold or multi-coloured glass. Eventually, with Faramir’s help, he chose a silver vase encrusted with sapphires and rubies. It seemed well made and was quite costly, but the expense would be worth it if it staved off Arwen’s wrath.
Aragorn went to bed weary and slept badly, dreaming he was being buried under a mountain of vases of every hue and description imaginable.
The King’s heart was in his mouth when his Queen returned and took her accustomed place in her sitting room. He decided to wait for her to notice the vase before confessing his mishap with her treasured heirloom.
Suddenly, she espied the new vase and her eyes lit up. “How beautiful!” Arwen exclaimed. “And how thoughtful of you to buy me a surprise gift, Estel!”
“I fear your grandparents’ vase was broken while Eldarion and I were playing,” the King said sheepishly.
“The priceless heirloom?” Arwen looked puzzled. “That is silver inlaid with pearl and I put it away safely as soon as Eldarion could walk. The one that was there was a gift from the Harad Ambassador, which I always considered hideous! How could you fail to notice the difference? Men are so unobservant!”
Aragorn sighed with relief, before ruefully realising he had wasted a good deal of time and money.
Arwen picked up the new vase and studied it. Then, embracing her husband lovingly, gave him a tender kiss.
Returning his wife’s loving embrace, Aragorn decided the vase was worth every coin after all.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Along came a spider
With very grateful thanks to Raksha who wrote by far the greater part of this chapter, including the confrontation with the spider.
Warning - This chapter contains violence and may disturb arachnaphobes
Along Came a Spider – Traditional Rhyme
Curled up quietly in the cool comfort of her burrow, well-fed from a meal of fresh, juicy kitten, she is startled by noises outside the lair. Frogs? Beavers, or the impudent otters? Surely not weasels, for she has rid her river bank of those rival predators. She awakens fully and extends her senses.
Men! Loud, rude Men! Can they not give her a day’s peace, the noisy, brutish things! The sounds and shudders continue. Something knocks at the trees and rocks that shelter her. A horse is snorting a challenge to her. And beyond, she hears the voice of its master.
Well, he will soon learn to walk wide of Shelob’s daughter; that is, if she leaves him living to walk at all. Perhaps she has been too forbearing. She has stung Men mostly in defence, since their presence has assured her penned animals to easily capture, especially their juicy young fowl and rabbits. She is too small and immature to feed upon most of the Men as well, though one day she will take them as she pleases. Yet it seemed they would not respect her territory. They must be taught a lesson! Small she might be, but no cloddish Man could match her for skill and speed. Just two days ago, she had felled a female and would have had borne its tender manling to her larder, but for the coming of a great herd of stomping farmers. But another such Man? Little hazard to her! And the few horses they had here were skittish and dull-witted.
She extends her forelegs, feeling their bladed hairs bristle, ready to throw. Lifting her back, she charges out of her lair.
Faramir’s stomach lurched as the creature scuttled from the burrow with surprising speed. At his command, Zachus had reared and struck the nearby ground with battle-force in his strong front legs. The spider had reacted as planned. What a monstrosity it was, larger than even he had thought, the size of a small wolf! He could see the long stinger and the vicious beak of which Samwise had spoken of as Shelob's armaments. Faramir manoeuvred the reins so that Zachus blocked the spider from escape, yet paced out of the reach of that stinger, visible even from the gelding’s back. Eight legs, evil horned head, covered with black and brown bristles except on the barer back; the spider paced and watched them. He could swear that there was a malignant spark of awareness in the clustered eyes. This was no mindless beast; the thing could think!
This is no farmer! The spider backs up fast. She has never seen so furious a horse. Those pounding legs could actually hurt her! She must get behind, or between the legs, jump at it, get a good sting in its hide. Then it will go down, and she'll settle with the rider. She knows that one, the tall West-Man who smells faintly of Elf. She'd already given him what-for when he'd troubled her lair before; though her juice no longer courses through him to mark and hold him as hers. Better fire off some darts to slow them down!
The spider backed up, hissed and rose up slightly on limbs half as long, when stretched, as Faramir's own legs. The Steward barely had time to rein in Zachus and turn him back a few paces before he felt something sharp slam into his cheek. Aragorn had learned from Legolas that young spiders could throw their own body hairs as weapons. Something wet trickled down his face; probably blood. The skin hurt where it had been cut; but the shot was less strong than an arrowhead and less damaging. He had no time to feel for it now. Faramir felt Zachus twitch and shudder beneath him. He looked down to see a light trail of blood on the brown shoulder. Faramir bit down his rising rage; unwound the rope that he had coiled round his saddle horn, and looped an end around his wrist. Leaning forward, he whispered encouragement to Zachus, then turned him back toward the spider. "Now!" he cried, moving the horse into a gallop and lashing out and down with the rope.
Skhshaaaaaaa! That hurt! The nasty West-Man has a sting of his own. There is no time to throw more bristles; the rider is striking out with his rope, flailing her. She can't get past or behind him; the horse is too fast, the hooves too big to risk a sideways charge. What to do, what to do?
"Good, Zachus; Faramir crooned under his breath; "toward the willow, go!" Their plan was working! The spider was confused, too beset to strike back, and they were almost at the place they needed her to be.
Aha! A sudden inspiration comes. The spider hops as the rope stings her; but does not recoil. Instead, she leaps up, seizes the rope, and pulls with all her considerable might. She shrills a victory cry as the West-Man tumbles from the horse's back down to the ground. The spider marches forward to reclaim her errant prize. This time she will not leave him alive.
The first thing Faramir saw, as he struggled for breath; was the spider; making a steady and deadly approach. It looked much bigger from the ground! The first thing he heard was Zachus' war-cry; followed by the sound and sight of the gelding rearing up between himself and the monster. Faramir scrambled to his feet as Zachus pounded the earth in fury, narrowly missing the spider. There was no time to mount; they had to keep pushing it, not much farther now. "Forward!" Faramir told the mighty bay. Zachus obeyed the command, pawing the ground as he slowly edged onward; prompting the creature to edge backward. Faramir forced his bruised shins to work; danced ahead, around and behind, and snatched the rope back from where the spider had dropped it. He hastily looped the rope around his hand and then attacked the spider with a shorter length, whipping at the legs, keeping out of reach of its visible stinger, working with Zachus to drive her toward the largest of the willows.
She starts to worry; for this Man is far quicker, far more hardy, than any she has encountered in her travels west from the mother-nest. Wait, wait for it; now, there it is, a sudden pause in that stinging line of his as he shifts position. She rears up and fires off more darts; five of them this time. Ah, she's pricked his neck, right below the jaw. And she's struck the cursed horse as well; the beast's scream of pain pleases but does not distract her. While the West-Man stops to pull at the dart, the spider charges full at him. Now she has him in her sights! He's moving again, but not fast enough! He is almost beneath the biggest willow tree; is he fool enough to think it will shelter him from her? She shrills a victory cry as she scores the West-Man's lower leg with one of her claws. His pain gives her precious moments before he can wield the rope again to sting her. She scrapes again, and again, cutting through the coverings on his legs. This time, when he falls, she is close enough to pounce on the Man's foot and seize the ankle in her claws. He struggles, but she pulls with all her might, bringing that ankle closer and closer to her beak and the venom behind it.
"Away!" Faramir cried out to Zachus, gritting his teeth through the pain caused by the spider-bristles' sting and the turned ankle in the spider's claws. The horse was hurt, and would only get in the way now. One more pace, and the spider would be put in the right place. Faramir scrabbled forward, and yanked his captured leg hard. There! The right place, but he was still caught. The creature is horribly strong for its size. He could not get purchase, could not right himself to attack the spider that held him. "Elbereth," Faramir called out, his breath catching in wearied lungs. " A Elbereth Gilthoniel..."
"Release him, spawn of darkness," Aragorn's voice cried, stern and commanding, from above them. The spider swivelled to look up at the source of that call.
Aiiii! What trick is this, the spider questions as she screams. A foul wetness has poured down upon her, burning her very eyes. She can still see, barely, but it hurts to look. She shuts three of her wounded eyes; and recoils, releasing her grip on the West-Man, as something big alights from one of the large tree's branches. The sun burns her eyes even further, nearly blinding her as it comes out from the clouds. She cannot see this new assailant; and wonders briefly if it is one of those monster Eagles she had glimpsed when she had flown from the mother-nest as a terrified youngling. She strains with her tiring eyes: It is a second Man; even more dangerous than the first! She can smell Elf-taint on him in greater measure; not just any Elves either, but the worst kind, the High-Elves. Best to flee now, back to her burrow, where she can tunnel down to fastnesses so dark and deep that they will never find her. Then she can sleep and heal her eyes. She will grow bigger and stronger, too strong for either of these Men or any other to hurt.
The spider turns, but the willow-leaves rustle; and a huge shape comes through. It is a great horse. He moves with fearsome speed, blocking the path back to her burrow; head lowered, whispering warnings of Elven death. The Man advances upon her. He brandishes what looks like a length of light, sharp and cruel. She turns to face him and raises her back high, ready to sting.
"In the name of, Elbereth, Arien and Eärendil; I proclaim that thou shalt die here,” Aragorn vowed in Quenya. Faramir, who had pulled himself up on shaky legs, noted approvingly the use of Quenya and the names of the bringers of light, a fitting pronouncement to doom a monster of so demonic and dark a lineage “I, Heir of Isildur son of Elendil, send thee back to the darkness that spawned thee, for the pain and death thou has dealt to my people." With that, Aragorn sprang forward, swift as an eagle upon its prey. Andúril flashed once, then twice, in his hand.
The spider's last scream faded to a hiss, ending with its final twitch. It lay still, its greenish-yellow blood sinking into the grass. Faramir leaned against the willow's thick trunk, weary but satisfied. Their plans and preparations had worked! He blessed the hours of training he had undertaken in the past to learn Rohirric rope-work. "Aragorn, are you well;” He asked his friend and king, who was wiping Andúril with a fold of his cloak.
"Very well," answered Aragorn with a smile; "now that this evil-spawned monster is dead."
“You have done it!” said Faramir, reaching to embrace Aragorn in a warrior’s arm clasp.
“We did it,” Aragorn amended; then embraced his friend. He stared down at Andúril and wiped a final speck from the blade. “There were times I wondered if I would ever draw this sword again,” he murmured as he sheathed the weapon. ”Yet Andúril feels like part of mine own arm. The sword has not forgotten me even though I almost forgot it.”
“Years of skill and practise do not vanish overnight,” Faramir replied, gladdened almost beyond words by the proof that Aragorn had lost none of his old prowess. He sank back against the tree trunk. His ankle throbbed and he could hardly stand. Something was amiss. Zachus; where was the faithful steed who had served him so well today? "I must find Zachus; his hide was pierced by the spider's bristles."
"As was your own,” replied the King. Aragorn came over to Faramir and gently took his chin in his hand, turning Faramir's head slowly back and forth.
"Not badly;" Faramir said; "but Zachus was spooked by those evil darts. I would find him ere he hurts himself."
"I think you were hurt worse; Faramir. Zachus has just gone down the bank a ways, to drink. I will fetch him back. Bide a moment, but do not touch your wounds; ion nîn,” commanded the King. He walked over to Roheryn, his gait somewhat stiff to Faramir's concerned eyes. Aragorn mounted the grey stallion with less than his usual ease, and they trotted off through the willows and wild grass.
Faramir glanced down at the creature; glad that the evil thing was dead rather than sleeping like its victims. Andúril had nearly cloven the spider's head from its body. He sighed; for the pain in his cheek and neck was rising, like ten or more wasp stings at once. And his ankle throbbed; though he could still put weight on it, so it was neither broken nor sprained. He was fortunate to have a King who was a healer as well as a warrior. And Aragorn's guess that a tincture of athelas mixed with water would hurt and distract the spider had proved true.
Looking at the spider's lifeless form, Faramir remembered again the horror in the voice and eyes of Master Samwise when the hobbit had told the tale of his battle with Shelob. It must have been so much worse for him than this day's brief skirmish! To think that the child-sized gardener had faced a monster that was four or five times the size of this spider, and hundreds, if not thousands of years older and more cunning. Both he and Aragorn had begun warrior's training in early childhood; but Samwise had not. Samwise had had only the strength of hand and heart, and a small sword he barely knew how to use. Faramir resolved to write a letter to his halfling friend when he returned home. Samwise would be glad to know that the telling of his great deed had helped rid this vale of one of Shelob's get.
Faramir felt every one of his aches and pains, and a sudden desire to sleep. He could not relax though, not so close to the foul thing, dead as it was. The birds chattered loudly; as if emboldened by the death of the unnatural creature.
Aragorn returned with both horses. He dismounted, tethered Zachus, then approached Faramir. The bay was sweat-streaked, but seemed otherwise unaffected, aside from the evil looking cut across his powerful shoulder.
“Your wounds need tending, ion nîn,” Aragorn said firmly. He assisted Faramir to sit on the grass.
“Zachus is hurt too,” the Steward protested.
“He has a thicker hide than any Man,” said the King. “And Legolas has told me that the hairs of the Mirkwood spiders, though painful, carry no poison. I removed the spider's hairs from Zachus' shoulder; and there is sufficient athelas here to treat you both." He extricated the spider bristles from Faramir's skin with a needle taken from his healing kit, then took up the bottle containing the athelas and water mixture and gently dabbed some on the Steward’s wounds. "Are you hurt anywhere else?” he enquired.
Faramir shook his head. ”Only my ankle.” He swallowed hard as the stench of the spider’s blood, likely the blood of Shelob and the demonic Ungoliant herself, fouled the air. He started to feel dizzied.
“I will treat your ankle back in the village,” said Aragorn. ”We need to leave this place.”
“Should we not take the spider back with us to show the villagers?” Faramir enquired.
“We have nothing to carry it in and the stinging hairs could cause further injuries even now the creature is dead. Better that we should ask Tasariel for some oil and I come straight back and burn the foul corpse,” Aragorn replied, applying some of the athelas mixture to the bay gelding’s shoulder. Zachus snorted, but otherwise patiently permitted his ministrations.
“But should the villagers not see the creature?” Faramir persisted. ”They need to recognise it lest any more of its kind lurk in these parts.”
“I will ask Borlach to summon them here, then,” Aragorn said firmly. ”’Tis but a few minutes walk. There, that should ease Zachus, I will help you mount.” He supported Faramir as the Steward hobbled toward the horse; and helped ease him into the saddle.
000
Tasariel stared in alarm as Aragorn and Faramir rode back to the centre of the village. “Are you hurt?” she enquired anxiously. ”What is that vile fluid? Your clothing is drenched with it!"
“We are well, Mistress,” Aragorn assured her. ”’Tis but the spider’s blood that spatters our garb.”
“The Valar be praised!” exclaimed the Healer. "Your 'son' is bleeding though, the poor lad is hurt!"
“His wounds are but slight His skin was pierced by the spider's stinging hairs. We have slain the creature; yet we must return to the riverbank with Master Borlach and the other village elders. The remains of the spider need burning as quickly as possible. But first, I would have your people see the entire corpse, so they know we spoke the truth, and to better watch out for any others that might lurk nearby.”
Tasariel espied a girl leaving one of the huts, carrying what looked to be her father’s lunch in a basket. ”Go and fetch Master Borlach from the fields,” she ordered. ”Tell him it is a matter of grave import for all the village.”
“It will take her a while to fetch him,” the woman said. ”His fields are past Beleg’s on the other side of the village. You both look like death! What you need is a good wash and a change of clothing and a nice cup of my tea. I have some salve for stings too.”
“That will have to wait, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Apart from the linens you are kindly washing for us, we have no other garments save what we are wearing.”
“That is easily remedied,” Tasariel said firmly. ”Now get down from those great beasts of yours. One of the lads will look after them. Your linens are ready for you and I have breeches and tunics you can borrow. Go to your hut and I’ll fetch you some water.”
Aragorn felt too weary to argue and realised the good sense in her words, maybe more even than the good woman knew. Prolonged exposure to the juices of any of Sauron’s creatures was known to be harmful and though the Dark Lord’s power had been broken, he preferred to be free of all traces of the vile creature. He was starting to feel somewhat nauseous too. He helped Faramir inside the hut. They both sat down heavily upon the straw.
To King and Steward’s surprise, Tasariel, together with another woman brought two bowls of hot water, soap, a pot of salve, their clean linens, towels and an assortment of clothes. “Call when you are ready and I’ll bring you some tea,” said Tasariel, placing a bowl on the table..
“And some of my good fresh scones,“ added the other woman. She put the second bowl on the floor beside Faramir. She looked vaguely familiar to Aragorn and he realised she had companioned Tasariel the night Faramir had ran naked through the cornfield. Obviously she was a near neighbour.
King and Steward began to remove their clothes as soon as the women had departed. They could hardly wait for the soap and hot water, rare luxuries of late.
Aragorn was unlacing his boots when he was startled to hear an exclamation pass Faramir's lips. But when he turned to see what had provoked his friend, he saw that Faramir, seated on the ground, was smiling.
"Look what was nearly fell into the bowl," Faramir announced. Aragorn bent down to see. There, on the Steward's outstretched palm, skittered a small and thoroughly common long-legged spider.
With very grateful thanks to Raksha who wrote by far the greater part of this chapter, including the confrontation with the spider.
Warning - This chapter contains violence and may disturb arachnaphobes
Along Came a Spider – Traditional Rhyme
Curled up quietly in the cool comfort of her burrow, well-fed from a meal of fresh, juicy kitten, she is startled by noises outside the lair. Frogs? Beavers, or the impudent otters? Surely not weasels, for she has rid her river bank of those rival predators. She awakens fully and extends her senses.
Men! Loud, rude Men! Can they not give her a day’s peace, the noisy, brutish things! The sounds and shudders continue. Something knocks at the trees and rocks that shelter her. A horse is snorting a challenge to her. And beyond, she hears the voice of its master.
Well, he will soon learn to walk wide of Shelob’s daughter; that is, if she leaves him living to walk at all. Perhaps she has been too forbearing. She has stung Men mostly in defence, since their presence has assured her penned animals to easily capture, especially their juicy young fowl and rabbits. She is too small and immature to feed upon most of the Men as well, though one day she will take them as she pleases. Yet it seemed they would not respect her territory. They must be taught a lesson! Small she might be, but no cloddish Man could match her for skill and speed. Just two days ago, she had felled a female and would have had borne its tender manling to her larder, but for the coming of a great herd of stomping farmers. But another such Man? Little hazard to her! And the few horses they had here were skittish and dull-witted.
She extends her forelegs, feeling their bladed hairs bristle, ready to throw. Lifting her back, she charges out of her lair.
Faramir’s stomach lurched as the creature scuttled from the burrow with surprising speed. At his command, Zachus had reared and struck the nearby ground with battle-force in his strong front legs. The spider had reacted as planned. What a monstrosity it was, larger than even he had thought, the size of a small wolf! He could see the long stinger and the vicious beak of which Samwise had spoken of as Shelob's armaments. Faramir manoeuvred the reins so that Zachus blocked the spider from escape, yet paced out of the reach of that stinger, visible even from the gelding’s back. Eight legs, evil horned head, covered with black and brown bristles except on the barer back; the spider paced and watched them. He could swear that there was a malignant spark of awareness in the clustered eyes. This was no mindless beast; the thing could think!
This is no farmer! The spider backs up fast. She has never seen so furious a horse. Those pounding legs could actually hurt her! She must get behind, or between the legs, jump at it, get a good sting in its hide. Then it will go down, and she'll settle with the rider. She knows that one, the tall West-Man who smells faintly of Elf. She'd already given him what-for when he'd troubled her lair before; though her juice no longer courses through him to mark and hold him as hers. Better fire off some darts to slow them down!
The spider backed up, hissed and rose up slightly on limbs half as long, when stretched, as Faramir's own legs. The Steward barely had time to rein in Zachus and turn him back a few paces before he felt something sharp slam into his cheek. Aragorn had learned from Legolas that young spiders could throw their own body hairs as weapons. Something wet trickled down his face; probably blood. The skin hurt where it had been cut; but the shot was less strong than an arrowhead and less damaging. He had no time to feel for it now. Faramir felt Zachus twitch and shudder beneath him. He looked down to see a light trail of blood on the brown shoulder. Faramir bit down his rising rage; unwound the rope that he had coiled round his saddle horn, and looped an end around his wrist. Leaning forward, he whispered encouragement to Zachus, then turned him back toward the spider. "Now!" he cried, moving the horse into a gallop and lashing out and down with the rope.
Skhshaaaaaaa! That hurt! The nasty West-Man has a sting of his own. There is no time to throw more bristles; the rider is striking out with his rope, flailing her. She can't get past or behind him; the horse is too fast, the hooves too big to risk a sideways charge. What to do, what to do?
"Good, Zachus; Faramir crooned under his breath; "toward the willow, go!" Their plan was working! The spider was confused, too beset to strike back, and they were almost at the place they needed her to be.
Aha! A sudden inspiration comes. The spider hops as the rope stings her; but does not recoil. Instead, she leaps up, seizes the rope, and pulls with all her considerable might. She shrills a victory cry as the West-Man tumbles from the horse's back down to the ground. The spider marches forward to reclaim her errant prize. This time she will not leave him alive.
The first thing Faramir saw, as he struggled for breath; was the spider; making a steady and deadly approach. It looked much bigger from the ground! The first thing he heard was Zachus' war-cry; followed by the sound and sight of the gelding rearing up between himself and the monster. Faramir scrambled to his feet as Zachus pounded the earth in fury, narrowly missing the spider. There was no time to mount; they had to keep pushing it, not much farther now. "Forward!" Faramir told the mighty bay. Zachus obeyed the command, pawing the ground as he slowly edged onward; prompting the creature to edge backward. Faramir forced his bruised shins to work; danced ahead, around and behind, and snatched the rope back from where the spider had dropped it. He hastily looped the rope around his hand and then attacked the spider with a shorter length, whipping at the legs, keeping out of reach of its visible stinger, working with Zachus to drive her toward the largest of the willows.
She starts to worry; for this Man is far quicker, far more hardy, than any she has encountered in her travels west from the mother-nest. Wait, wait for it; now, there it is, a sudden pause in that stinging line of his as he shifts position. She rears up and fires off more darts; five of them this time. Ah, she's pricked his neck, right below the jaw. And she's struck the cursed horse as well; the beast's scream of pain pleases but does not distract her. While the West-Man stops to pull at the dart, the spider charges full at him. Now she has him in her sights! He's moving again, but not fast enough! He is almost beneath the biggest willow tree; is he fool enough to think it will shelter him from her? She shrills a victory cry as she scores the West-Man's lower leg with one of her claws. His pain gives her precious moments before he can wield the rope again to sting her. She scrapes again, and again, cutting through the coverings on his legs. This time, when he falls, she is close enough to pounce on the Man's foot and seize the ankle in her claws. He struggles, but she pulls with all her might, bringing that ankle closer and closer to her beak and the venom behind it.
"Away!" Faramir cried out to Zachus, gritting his teeth through the pain caused by the spider-bristles' sting and the turned ankle in the spider's claws. The horse was hurt, and would only get in the way now. One more pace, and the spider would be put in the right place. Faramir scrabbled forward, and yanked his captured leg hard. There! The right place, but he was still caught. The creature is horribly strong for its size. He could not get purchase, could not right himself to attack the spider that held him. "Elbereth," Faramir called out, his breath catching in wearied lungs. " A Elbereth Gilthoniel..."
"Release him, spawn of darkness," Aragorn's voice cried, stern and commanding, from above them. The spider swivelled to look up at the source of that call.
Aiiii! What trick is this, the spider questions as she screams. A foul wetness has poured down upon her, burning her very eyes. She can still see, barely, but it hurts to look. She shuts three of her wounded eyes; and recoils, releasing her grip on the West-Man, as something big alights from one of the large tree's branches. The sun burns her eyes even further, nearly blinding her as it comes out from the clouds. She cannot see this new assailant; and wonders briefly if it is one of those monster Eagles she had glimpsed when she had flown from the mother-nest as a terrified youngling. She strains with her tiring eyes: It is a second Man; even more dangerous than the first! She can smell Elf-taint on him in greater measure; not just any Elves either, but the worst kind, the High-Elves. Best to flee now, back to her burrow, where she can tunnel down to fastnesses so dark and deep that they will never find her. Then she can sleep and heal her eyes. She will grow bigger and stronger, too strong for either of these Men or any other to hurt.
The spider turns, but the willow-leaves rustle; and a huge shape comes through. It is a great horse. He moves with fearsome speed, blocking the path back to her burrow; head lowered, whispering warnings of Elven death. The Man advances upon her. He brandishes what looks like a length of light, sharp and cruel. She turns to face him and raises her back high, ready to sting.
"In the name of, Elbereth, Arien and Eärendil; I proclaim that thou shalt die here,” Aragorn vowed in Quenya. Faramir, who had pulled himself up on shaky legs, noted approvingly the use of Quenya and the names of the bringers of light, a fitting pronouncement to doom a monster of so demonic and dark a lineage “I, Heir of Isildur son of Elendil, send thee back to the darkness that spawned thee, for the pain and death thou has dealt to my people." With that, Aragorn sprang forward, swift as an eagle upon its prey. Andúril flashed once, then twice, in his hand.
The spider's last scream faded to a hiss, ending with its final twitch. It lay still, its greenish-yellow blood sinking into the grass. Faramir leaned against the willow's thick trunk, weary but satisfied. Their plans and preparations had worked! He blessed the hours of training he had undertaken in the past to learn Rohirric rope-work. "Aragorn, are you well;” He asked his friend and king, who was wiping Andúril with a fold of his cloak.
"Very well," answered Aragorn with a smile; "now that this evil-spawned monster is dead."
“You have done it!” said Faramir, reaching to embrace Aragorn in a warrior’s arm clasp.
“We did it,” Aragorn amended; then embraced his friend. He stared down at Andúril and wiped a final speck from the blade. “There were times I wondered if I would ever draw this sword again,” he murmured as he sheathed the weapon. ”Yet Andúril feels like part of mine own arm. The sword has not forgotten me even though I almost forgot it.”
“Years of skill and practise do not vanish overnight,” Faramir replied, gladdened almost beyond words by the proof that Aragorn had lost none of his old prowess. He sank back against the tree trunk. His ankle throbbed and he could hardly stand. Something was amiss. Zachus; where was the faithful steed who had served him so well today? "I must find Zachus; his hide was pierced by the spider's bristles."
"As was your own,” replied the King. Aragorn came over to Faramir and gently took his chin in his hand, turning Faramir's head slowly back and forth.
"Not badly;" Faramir said; "but Zachus was spooked by those evil darts. I would find him ere he hurts himself."
"I think you were hurt worse; Faramir. Zachus has just gone down the bank a ways, to drink. I will fetch him back. Bide a moment, but do not touch your wounds; ion nîn,” commanded the King. He walked over to Roheryn, his gait somewhat stiff to Faramir's concerned eyes. Aragorn mounted the grey stallion with less than his usual ease, and they trotted off through the willows and wild grass.
Faramir glanced down at the creature; glad that the evil thing was dead rather than sleeping like its victims. Andúril had nearly cloven the spider's head from its body. He sighed; for the pain in his cheek and neck was rising, like ten or more wasp stings at once. And his ankle throbbed; though he could still put weight on it, so it was neither broken nor sprained. He was fortunate to have a King who was a healer as well as a warrior. And Aragorn's guess that a tincture of athelas mixed with water would hurt and distract the spider had proved true.
Looking at the spider's lifeless form, Faramir remembered again the horror in the voice and eyes of Master Samwise when the hobbit had told the tale of his battle with Shelob. It must have been so much worse for him than this day's brief skirmish! To think that the child-sized gardener had faced a monster that was four or five times the size of this spider, and hundreds, if not thousands of years older and more cunning. Both he and Aragorn had begun warrior's training in early childhood; but Samwise had not. Samwise had had only the strength of hand and heart, and a small sword he barely knew how to use. Faramir resolved to write a letter to his halfling friend when he returned home. Samwise would be glad to know that the telling of his great deed had helped rid this vale of one of Shelob's get.
Faramir felt every one of his aches and pains, and a sudden desire to sleep. He could not relax though, not so close to the foul thing, dead as it was. The birds chattered loudly; as if emboldened by the death of the unnatural creature.
Aragorn returned with both horses. He dismounted, tethered Zachus, then approached Faramir. The bay was sweat-streaked, but seemed otherwise unaffected, aside from the evil looking cut across his powerful shoulder.
“Your wounds need tending, ion nîn,” Aragorn said firmly. He assisted Faramir to sit on the grass.
“Zachus is hurt too,” the Steward protested.
“He has a thicker hide than any Man,” said the King. “And Legolas has told me that the hairs of the Mirkwood spiders, though painful, carry no poison. I removed the spider's hairs from Zachus' shoulder; and there is sufficient athelas here to treat you both." He extricated the spider bristles from Faramir's skin with a needle taken from his healing kit, then took up the bottle containing the athelas and water mixture and gently dabbed some on the Steward’s wounds. "Are you hurt anywhere else?” he enquired.
Faramir shook his head. ”Only my ankle.” He swallowed hard as the stench of the spider’s blood, likely the blood of Shelob and the demonic Ungoliant herself, fouled the air. He started to feel dizzied.
“I will treat your ankle back in the village,” said Aragorn. ”We need to leave this place.”
“Should we not take the spider back with us to show the villagers?” Faramir enquired.
“We have nothing to carry it in and the stinging hairs could cause further injuries even now the creature is dead. Better that we should ask Tasariel for some oil and I come straight back and burn the foul corpse,” Aragorn replied, applying some of the athelas mixture to the bay gelding’s shoulder. Zachus snorted, but otherwise patiently permitted his ministrations.
“But should the villagers not see the creature?” Faramir persisted. ”They need to recognise it lest any more of its kind lurk in these parts.”
“I will ask Borlach to summon them here, then,” Aragorn said firmly. ”’Tis but a few minutes walk. There, that should ease Zachus, I will help you mount.” He supported Faramir as the Steward hobbled toward the horse; and helped ease him into the saddle.
000
Tasariel stared in alarm as Aragorn and Faramir rode back to the centre of the village. “Are you hurt?” she enquired anxiously. ”What is that vile fluid? Your clothing is drenched with it!"
“We are well, Mistress,” Aragorn assured her. ”’Tis but the spider’s blood that spatters our garb.”
“The Valar be praised!” exclaimed the Healer. "Your 'son' is bleeding though, the poor lad is hurt!"
“His wounds are but slight His skin was pierced by the spider's stinging hairs. We have slain the creature; yet we must return to the riverbank with Master Borlach and the other village elders. The remains of the spider need burning as quickly as possible. But first, I would have your people see the entire corpse, so they know we spoke the truth, and to better watch out for any others that might lurk nearby.”
Tasariel espied a girl leaving one of the huts, carrying what looked to be her father’s lunch in a basket. ”Go and fetch Master Borlach from the fields,” she ordered. ”Tell him it is a matter of grave import for all the village.”
“It will take her a while to fetch him,” the woman said. ”His fields are past Beleg’s on the other side of the village. You both look like death! What you need is a good wash and a change of clothing and a nice cup of my tea. I have some salve for stings too.”
“That will have to wait, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Apart from the linens you are kindly washing for us, we have no other garments save what we are wearing.”
“That is easily remedied,” Tasariel said firmly. ”Now get down from those great beasts of yours. One of the lads will look after them. Your linens are ready for you and I have breeches and tunics you can borrow. Go to your hut and I’ll fetch you some water.”
Aragorn felt too weary to argue and realised the good sense in her words, maybe more even than the good woman knew. Prolonged exposure to the juices of any of Sauron’s creatures was known to be harmful and though the Dark Lord’s power had been broken, he preferred to be free of all traces of the vile creature. He was starting to feel somewhat nauseous too. He helped Faramir inside the hut. They both sat down heavily upon the straw.
To King and Steward’s surprise, Tasariel, together with another woman brought two bowls of hot water, soap, a pot of salve, their clean linens, towels and an assortment of clothes. “Call when you are ready and I’ll bring you some tea,” said Tasariel, placing a bowl on the table..
“And some of my good fresh scones,“ added the other woman. She put the second bowl on the floor beside Faramir. She looked vaguely familiar to Aragorn and he realised she had companioned Tasariel the night Faramir had ran naked through the cornfield. Obviously she was a near neighbour.
King and Steward began to remove their clothes as soon as the women had departed. They could hardly wait for the soap and hot water, rare luxuries of late.
Aragorn was unlacing his boots when he was startled to hear an exclamation pass Faramir's lips. But when he turned to see what had provoked his friend, he saw that Faramir, seated on the ground, was smiling.
"Look what was nearly fell into the bowl," Faramir announced. Aragorn bent down to see. There, on the Steward's outstretched palm, skittered a small and thoroughly common long-legged spider.
Wednesday, January 09, 2008
Sour Milk
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
This is very AU, not to be taken seriously and intended as a mini pantomime for the holiday season.
Dedicated to Juno Magic and Silverwerecat
Sour Milk
The people cheered when the King arrived and the Steward presented the White Rod.
The King disdainfully accepted it, dismissed Faramir and marched through the City; still glaring. Éomer of Rohan’s army followed at his heels, ready to crush any dissent.
The people turned away and returned to their houses.
“Let’s made a nice cup of tea,” suggested one Goodwife, putting on the kettle.
Her husband scowled, as he tasted it. “The milk is sour!”
The City was in turmoil. Not a drop of fresh milk was to be had anywhere!
The King’s gaze had turned all the milk sour!
000
Word of meow summoned the cats of Minas Tirith together. The leader, a large ginger tom, spoke. “We must take action,” he mewed. ”There is no milk left in Minas Tirith that is fit to drink since this new King arrived. The old Stewards never brought such misfortune upon us!”
“I know what to do,” said an old tabby, veteran of many battles. “We shall chase him, scratch him, and spray upon his fine clothing until he mends his ways.”
The cats agreed and made there way to the King’s apartments. Aragorn raged, threw water upon the cats and even drew his sword, but they were too quick for him. Everywhere he turned, there were cats, waiting to trip him up, scratch him and spoil his fine clothes.
Unable to take any more, he called for their leader. ”What do you want?” he demanded of the ginger tom.
“We cats demand that you cease acting like a spoiled tyrant who turns our milk sour,” mewed the cat. “We also demand you recall Steward Faramir as he was always kind to us cats.”
Aragorn bowed his head in shame as he saw his errors at last. None but a cat had dared challenge the King. “I shall be a good King in future,” he promised. “The Steward shall take his place at my right hand. As for you, Master Tom, I would ask you to remain here at my side to teach me humility.”
The cat purred his agreement and commanded the other cats to depart.
From that day forward, Aragorn became a good and wise King, loved by both people and cats.
Never again was the milk sour unless it was left out in the sun. The Citizens of Minas Tirith all lived happily ever after as did the cats!
A/N I was studying the final picture for the There and Back LJ community Advent Challenge Calendar, when a friend challenged me to write a drabble when I said Aragorn’s expression would sour the mik. Another friend asked what the cats thought! This is a 400 word fixed length ficlet
Of course, I do not see Aragorn like this at all.
The cat is based on one of my own.
You can see both the calender picture and the cat leader on my freewebs site under ficlets.
I have just uploaded a new chapter of "A Time to Reap" for those in a more serious mood!
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
This is very AU, not to be taken seriously and intended as a mini pantomime for the holiday season.
Dedicated to Juno Magic and Silverwerecat
Sour Milk
The people cheered when the King arrived and the Steward presented the White Rod.
The King disdainfully accepted it, dismissed Faramir and marched through the City; still glaring. Éomer of Rohan’s army followed at his heels, ready to crush any dissent.
The people turned away and returned to their houses.
“Let’s made a nice cup of tea,” suggested one Goodwife, putting on the kettle.
Her husband scowled, as he tasted it. “The milk is sour!”
The City was in turmoil. Not a drop of fresh milk was to be had anywhere!
The King’s gaze had turned all the milk sour!
000
Word of meow summoned the cats of Minas Tirith together. The leader, a large ginger tom, spoke. “We must take action,” he mewed. ”There is no milk left in Minas Tirith that is fit to drink since this new King arrived. The old Stewards never brought such misfortune upon us!”
“I know what to do,” said an old tabby, veteran of many battles. “We shall chase him, scratch him, and spray upon his fine clothing until he mends his ways.”
The cats agreed and made there way to the King’s apartments. Aragorn raged, threw water upon the cats and even drew his sword, but they were too quick for him. Everywhere he turned, there were cats, waiting to trip him up, scratch him and spoil his fine clothes.
Unable to take any more, he called for their leader. ”What do you want?” he demanded of the ginger tom.
“We cats demand that you cease acting like a spoiled tyrant who turns our milk sour,” mewed the cat. “We also demand you recall Steward Faramir as he was always kind to us cats.”
Aragorn bowed his head in shame as he saw his errors at last. None but a cat had dared challenge the King. “I shall be a good King in future,” he promised. “The Steward shall take his place at my right hand. As for you, Master Tom, I would ask you to remain here at my side to teach me humility.”
The cat purred his agreement and commanded the other cats to depart.
From that day forward, Aragorn became a good and wise King, loved by both people and cats.
Never again was the milk sour unless it was left out in the sun. The Citizens of Minas Tirith all lived happily ever after as did the cats!
A/N I was studying the final picture for the There and Back LJ community Advent Challenge Calendar, when a friend challenged me to write a drabble when I said Aragorn’s expression would sour the mik. Another friend asked what the cats thought! This is a 400 word fixed length ficlet
Of course, I do not see Aragorn like this at all.
The cat is based on one of my own.
You can see both the calender picture and the cat leader on my freewebs site under ficlets.
I have just uploaded a new chapter of "A Time to Reap" for those in a more serious mood!
More Haste, less speed
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With thanks to Raksha.
“How I long to see Arwen and Eldarion again!” Aragorn exclaimed to Faramir as the two men rode abreast through the lower levels of the City. They had been away from Minas Tirith for several days touring the outlying fiefdoms. After what had seemed endless sessions of attending feasts in their honour and judging petty grievances, they were glad to be home again.
“I can hardly wait to see Éowyn, Elestelle and Elbeth,” Faramir said longingly, wishing it had been possible to ride through the Citadel unrecognised, but knowing it was impossible when followed by their guards. He paused to smilingly accept a bunch of flowers offered by an old woman. Meanwhile, a man lifted up a child to see Aragorn and receive the King’s blessing.
They had reached the market, which was even more crowded than the rest of the City with citizens milling around the varied array of stalls.
“It is good to see the market flourishing,” Faramir said in a tone loud enough for the surrounding people to hear, knowing some comment was expected of him.
Aragorn forced himself to smile at his subjects, ardently wishing it were not a market day so that they could travel at a faster pace. A sudden thought struck him. He had returned without suitable gifts for his wife and child! King and Steward had been showered with hand woven blankets, baskets and gifts of delicacies, but none of those would delight either Arwen or Eldarion.
His eye was caught by a stall a few paces ahead, which sold colourful jewellery and trinkets.
“I need to buy a gift for Arwen. Maybe this stall will have something?” he told Faramir.
“I bought new saddles for Éowyn and Elbeth in Lamedon and a doll for Elestelle,” Faramir said rather smugly, dismounting together with his King. “It was while you were healing a child with a fever.”
“My Lord King and my Lord Steward!” The stallholder bowed low, his eyes alight with awe and joy. “This is a great honour indeed, that you should visit my humble stall. What may I show you? I have amethyst and topaz, tourmaline and tiger’s eye, agate and amber, rose quartz and...”
“I will take this, please.” Aragorn gestured towards a pretty necklace of roughly polished amethysts. Arwen had fairer jewels by far, but he felt she would like these simple, colourful stones that many of the common folk of Gondor wore. His keen eyes scanned the stall for a gift for Eldarion. He spotted some carvings of horses in an onyx type mineral. ”I should also like one of the model horses.”
“They are yours,” smiled the stallholder. “They are far from my best pieces, though. I keep those under the counter in case of thieves.
Before Aragorn could say anything, the man had dived under the stall and started rummaging in some boxes.
“See, I have some river pearl necklaces,” said the merchant placing them on the stall. He disappeared under it again. “And silver bracelets.”
“They are very nice but I just..” The trader had vanished under his stall again before Aragorn could finish his sentence. The King struggled to hide his impatience, not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings. Beside him, Faramir tapped his foot.
“I have some silver brooches carved, I believe, by Dwarves here somewhere,” said the man. “If you would just wait one moment.” He pulled out another box and looked inside.
“Not today, thank you, good merchant,” Aragorn said in desperation as about forty brooches of dubious workmanship were presented for his inspection. ”How much do I owe you for the necklace and the horse?”
“They are a gift, my Lord King,” said the trader. “I require no payment. They are but trinkets!”
Aragorn knew to refuse would be an insult.
“Thank you,” he smiled. ”I will take this too.” He selected the nearest brooch, wanting to give the man some money for his wares. His shabby clothing suggested he did not earn a great deal selling his simple jewellery. The wealthy people of Minas Tirith had somewhat more elaborate tastes.
“But my, lord, that one is far from being the fairest! “ the merchant protested. “How about this brooch set with a sapphire, or this one inlaid with pearl?”
“I will take the pearl one,” Aragorn said firmly.
“You have not yet seen my finest necklaces,” the trader said eagerly. “I have some designs inspired by Elven-craft.”
“I am sure they are beautiful,” Aragorn said tactfully. He espied a tiger’s eye pendant that he was certain would appeal to Elbeth. “I will have that pendant and that is all.” His patience exhausted, he finally resorted to the tone of command he used as Chieftain and King.
“Yes, my lord!” The man looked startled.
Aragorn softened his words with a smile as he handed the man a handful of coins, far more than the purchases were worth. With a sigh of relief he remounted his horse.
000
A little while later, having stabled their horses, King and Steward were finally on the way to their apartments.
“At last I shall see Arwen and Eldarion!” Aragorn said joyfully.
“I feared you would never escape that merchant,” Faramir said dryly.
“So did I,” the King replied. “Greetings, Lady Morwen!” He smiled at Arwen’s lady in waiting as she passed him, her head dipped in a respectful curtsy.
“Greetings, my lord.”
“How fare my wife and son?” the King asked.
“They are well, sire,” the woman replied. “ The Queen has just left to visit the market together with the Lady Éowyn and the children. She has given me the rest of the day off as she expects to be gone for several hours.” She hurried on her way, oblivious to the dismayed expressions of the two impatient husbands and fathers.
Alas, all their haste had been in vain.
A/N
This is an extended version of a ficlet written for the prompt “Impatience” on the AA List. A Tale of Telcontar.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With thanks to Raksha.
“How I long to see Arwen and Eldarion again!” Aragorn exclaimed to Faramir as the two men rode abreast through the lower levels of the City. They had been away from Minas Tirith for several days touring the outlying fiefdoms. After what had seemed endless sessions of attending feasts in their honour and judging petty grievances, they were glad to be home again.
“I can hardly wait to see Éowyn, Elestelle and Elbeth,” Faramir said longingly, wishing it had been possible to ride through the Citadel unrecognised, but knowing it was impossible when followed by their guards. He paused to smilingly accept a bunch of flowers offered by an old woman. Meanwhile, a man lifted up a child to see Aragorn and receive the King’s blessing.
They had reached the market, which was even more crowded than the rest of the City with citizens milling around the varied array of stalls.
“It is good to see the market flourishing,” Faramir said in a tone loud enough for the surrounding people to hear, knowing some comment was expected of him.
Aragorn forced himself to smile at his subjects, ardently wishing it were not a market day so that they could travel at a faster pace. A sudden thought struck him. He had returned without suitable gifts for his wife and child! King and Steward had been showered with hand woven blankets, baskets and gifts of delicacies, but none of those would delight either Arwen or Eldarion.
His eye was caught by a stall a few paces ahead, which sold colourful jewellery and trinkets.
“I need to buy a gift for Arwen. Maybe this stall will have something?” he told Faramir.
“I bought new saddles for Éowyn and Elbeth in Lamedon and a doll for Elestelle,” Faramir said rather smugly, dismounting together with his King. “It was while you were healing a child with a fever.”
“My Lord King and my Lord Steward!” The stallholder bowed low, his eyes alight with awe and joy. “This is a great honour indeed, that you should visit my humble stall. What may I show you? I have amethyst and topaz, tourmaline and tiger’s eye, agate and amber, rose quartz and...”
“I will take this, please.” Aragorn gestured towards a pretty necklace of roughly polished amethysts. Arwen had fairer jewels by far, but he felt she would like these simple, colourful stones that many of the common folk of Gondor wore. His keen eyes scanned the stall for a gift for Eldarion. He spotted some carvings of horses in an onyx type mineral. ”I should also like one of the model horses.”
“They are yours,” smiled the stallholder. “They are far from my best pieces, though. I keep those under the counter in case of thieves.
Before Aragorn could say anything, the man had dived under the stall and started rummaging in some boxes.
“See, I have some river pearl necklaces,” said the merchant placing them on the stall. He disappeared under it again. “And silver bracelets.”
“They are very nice but I just..” The trader had vanished under his stall again before Aragorn could finish his sentence. The King struggled to hide his impatience, not wanting to hurt the man’s feelings. Beside him, Faramir tapped his foot.
“I have some silver brooches carved, I believe, by Dwarves here somewhere,” said the man. “If you would just wait one moment.” He pulled out another box and looked inside.
“Not today, thank you, good merchant,” Aragorn said in desperation as about forty brooches of dubious workmanship were presented for his inspection. ”How much do I owe you for the necklace and the horse?”
“They are a gift, my Lord King,” said the trader. “I require no payment. They are but trinkets!”
Aragorn knew to refuse would be an insult.
“Thank you,” he smiled. ”I will take this too.” He selected the nearest brooch, wanting to give the man some money for his wares. His shabby clothing suggested he did not earn a great deal selling his simple jewellery. The wealthy people of Minas Tirith had somewhat more elaborate tastes.
“But my, lord, that one is far from being the fairest! “ the merchant protested. “How about this brooch set with a sapphire, or this one inlaid with pearl?”
“I will take the pearl one,” Aragorn said firmly.
“You have not yet seen my finest necklaces,” the trader said eagerly. “I have some designs inspired by Elven-craft.”
“I am sure they are beautiful,” Aragorn said tactfully. He espied a tiger’s eye pendant that he was certain would appeal to Elbeth. “I will have that pendant and that is all.” His patience exhausted, he finally resorted to the tone of command he used as Chieftain and King.
“Yes, my lord!” The man looked startled.
Aragorn softened his words with a smile as he handed the man a handful of coins, far more than the purchases were worth. With a sigh of relief he remounted his horse.
000
A little while later, having stabled their horses, King and Steward were finally on the way to their apartments.
“At last I shall see Arwen and Eldarion!” Aragorn said joyfully.
“I feared you would never escape that merchant,” Faramir said dryly.
“So did I,” the King replied. “Greetings, Lady Morwen!” He smiled at Arwen’s lady in waiting as she passed him, her head dipped in a respectful curtsy.
“Greetings, my lord.”
“How fare my wife and son?” the King asked.
“They are well, sire,” the woman replied. “ The Queen has just left to visit the market together with the Lady Éowyn and the children. She has given me the rest of the day off as she expects to be gone for several hours.” She hurried on her way, oblivious to the dismayed expressions of the two impatient husbands and fathers.
Alas, all their haste had been in vain.
A/N
This is an extended version of a ficlet written for the prompt “Impatience” on the AA List. A Tale of Telcontar.
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
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!
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!
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.
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