Chapter 7: Mablung’s Tale

It was moonrise and the household was at supper when the Old Man strode into the kitchen in a mood darker than the pits of Angband. He stood before the hearth fire, very straight and tall, making his brisk salute, “Hail my Lord Boromir, you have summoned me and I am come, obedient to your command.”

Rising at once from the table, Boromir took his hand; a perfunctory grasp, swiftly dropped on both sides. “Greetings Haldor. You have my gratitude for your hospitality, and for your great kindness to my brother, both he and I shall remain in your debt to the world’s ending.” 

“I did my duty and no more,” the Old Man said gruffly, then turned to kiss his sister. And with a curt nod to Faramir, he pulled up a chair and began helping himself to a plate of roast venison. “Morwen, make haste and bring me some of that Lebennin wine that we put by last Mettarë.”

“You men are always needing to be fed,” she grumbled, heaving herself off to the cellar, “Always ‘Morwen, bring me this, or that or the other.’ What you’ll be wanting next Master Haldor, braised rabbit from Beleriand?”

“What a splendid idea Morwen, I should like some olives from Mirkwood to go with the rabbit, if you please.”

“Olives from Mirkwood indeed! Nettles or toadstools more like.” With surprising agility for a woman of her bulk, Morwen returned some moments later, an earthenware bowl of plump purple olives in one hand and a bottle of wine in the other.  

The scent of strong spiced wine wafted into the air, and as the Old Man filled his cup to the brim, Boromir, leaning forward in his chair asked, “You are looking grim Haldor. What tidings do you bring?”

“What tidings but ill ones?” the Old Man shrugged, drinking deeply. “My sword brothers are combing the hills for the enemy and the cub Arvegil remains missing.” He set the cup down and turned his shrewd gaze on Boromir. “My Lord,” he said frankly, “I do not doubt that you have called me away from my men because we have grave matters to speak of, but with your leave, I must first see the boy Mablung, for I have heard news that troubles me greatly.”

“And can you not tell me now this all-important news of yours?” Boromir asked, an edge in his voice.

“Not until I hear what Mablung has to say,” the Old Man replied tersely. Taking his sister’s hand he said, “Nienna, is the boy up? May I speak to him?”

“He awoke not half an hour ago,” she hesitated, “but if you promise not to tire him -”

“We will be quick,” he assured her. Pushing back his chair, the Captain turned to Boromir, “This way my Lord, if you please.”

Led by the Old Man, the small entourage made its way to the sick room, and Faramir bringing up the rear glimpsed in the brown half-dark of the corridor, the clenched fists of Boromir and the straight-shouldered tension about the Captain. A niggling unease had been growing in his mind through the day, a thing he could not quite put his finger on; a thing perhaps to do with Boromir’s sudden and baffling reticence, his barely concealed impatience to be gone as soon as decency permitted. He saw now that keeping the peace between those two would be no simple task, and so deep was his dismay that as he came to the doorway he walked, all unseeing into Nienna.  

The shock of it unnerved him completely and though she smiled at his fumbling apologies, all he could remember for a few intoxicating moments were the faint fragrance of lavender that clung to her hair and the softness of her skin. Hot with embarrassment and confusion, he lingered by the door watching as Boromir drew up a chair and the Old Man settled himself on a low stool at the edge of Mablung’s cot.

In health, Mablung had been a tall loose limbed boy, black-curled and with the round ruddy cheeks of a childhood spent in the country. In the shifting lamplight, his eyes were fever-bright and the gauntness of ill health showed in the hollowed cheeks and the thin hands that lay folded on a blanket of grey wool.

Softly, and with surprising gentleness the Old Man said, “Mablung my child, how you have suffered. But you are well and safe with us now.” And as the dark, haunted eyes shifted from the Captain to the tall stranger in the room, “This is the Lord Boromir. See how even the great and good have come to see you. You must be the luckiest cub in all of Ithilien.”

 Feeling unaccountably nettled, Boromir said as kindly as he could, “Nay Mablung, do not rise on my account. I do not count myself greater or better than any man who has shed his blood for Gondor’s sake, as you have.”   

Struggling to sit up, the boy fastened his dark gaze on the Old Man, “Oh sir,” he cried, “Arvegil is dead! I could not save him -”

“Help him up Faramir, if you will. Sit with him and let him lean on your shoulder.” There was an awkward pause as Faramir, woken from some reverie, trotted rapidly over from his place by the door and without meeting the sharp glance of his Captain, began propping the boy up. And when Mablung was comfortable at last, the Old Man spoke again.

“Mablung, we need to know what happened to you and how Arvegil met his end. It is very important that you should tell us everything you remember.”   

With a small sigh Mablung began, “The Hunt was a day and a night gone, and at dawn on the second day, I saw fresh tracks no more than half an hour old. It was a party of five or perhaps six men heading due west but doubling back again and again. We thought at first that they were the hunters and we lay up in the ruins of an old smithy, waiting for them to pass. And they did. It was a small band of Haradrim, five men. There was a tall bearded one at their head, and Arvegil said afterwards – for I did not see his face myself - that he was very dark like the men of the south, but with yellow eyes like a wolf.”  

At this the Old Man shifted uneasily in his seat. “A man with yellow eyes, you say? Carry on.”

“Then we ran as though all the hosts of Mordor were after us.” He stopped, licking his lips, remembered terror in his eyes. “We meant to make our way south, to the ruined watch tower on a low hill close to the Anduin, and there raise the alarm. But they were upon us within the hour and we could do nothing but turn and draw our swords. Arvegil cut down a man almost at once, and as he fell, I saw that he had stolen one of our black smoke signals, so I took it – ”

“Black smoke signal?” the Captain interrupted, and glancing at Faramir saw a puzzlement that mirrored his own.

“Yes, sir. I put it in my satchel, if I have not lost it, that is.”         

The Old Man turned to his sister, a question in his eyes. “Nienna?”

Without a word, she nodded and brought from a small table in the corner of the room, a battered pack, cracked and stiffened by river water. “Here it is,” she said, “Neither Morwen nor I have touched it since Mablung came to us.”

The buckles had to be pried apart and as the flap opened, a handful of objects tumbled onto the grey wool blanket - sodden raisins wrapped in a soiled handkerchief, a spare brace of throwing knives, a coil of rope and last of all a tubular thing the height of a man’s palm. Gingerly, the Old Man took it up.   

Faramir said, “Sir, it looks like one of ours. Only –” he broke off frowning, “It cannot be.”

“So it does,” the Captain whistled softly, turning the black cylindrical object round in his long fingers. “The make is the same, but this thing is no creation of ours.” Handing it to Boromir, he said, “My Lord, the men of Ithilien have never used black smoke signals. Not at any time in our history and certainly not now. And the art of making of such devices confined to a small company of men sworn to secrecy.”

“That makes your task simpler, does it not?”

Staring hard, the Old Man replied, “Yes, but no Captain relishes calling any man of his a traitor,” then to Mablung he commanded, “Go on, let us hear the rest of this sorry tale.”        

“I killed another man with my bow and it was hot work for a while, but it was three of them to the two of us. When I took a dagger to the belly, Arvegil told me to flee while he held them off. To my shame, I did as he bade me. So I bound the wound as best as I could, blundered my way towards the Great River and hid in a hollow oak. I must have fainted, for when I woke, night had fallen. In the moonlight, I saw tracks moving water-wards, the footsteps of one man pursued by three others – I followed them, and there among the rushes I found him.”

 “Sir, he died with his eyes open, Eru help me, I could not close them!” Mablung cried, his voice breaking as he cuffed away the tears that slid down his cheeks. “I shall never forget it sir, he had a great black wound in his throat and –”

“Oh Mablung,” Faramir whispered and drew the boy close, smoothing the dark hair that clung damp and lank on his fevered brow. They were silent for a long while until Mablung’s sobs faded, the Old Man sitting hunched over on his stool, stony faced, but when he spoke again, it was with great kindness. “Mablung, did you see anyone else? Did you see the man with the wolf’s eyes?”

“No. There was no one. I slipped Arvegil’s body into the river, for I feared what they might do to him. Then I lay down, for I was weary past caring, and when I woke again, it was you I saw. Did I do wrong?” he asked tremulously.

 “No, you did very well,” the Old Man said, laying a light hand on the boy’s cheek. 

“Have we… have I failed?”

 “No, my child. You have showed the courage of Húrin before the throne of Morgoth. Rest and do not trouble yourself, and by and by you will return to us and take your place among the Brotherhood.”

Then Mablung lay back and closed his eyes, and Nienna who had come and gone from the sickroom in her quiet unobtrusive way, laid a hand on her brother’s shoulder, “Haldor, Mablung must have his rest. He should not be over-tired.”

“Of course,” the Old Man rising briskly to his feet, “My Lord Boromir, I believe that we have a good many matters to speak of. If you will come to my study, none shall disturb us there.”

“Aye, that we do.”

Then Faramir said, “May I stay with Mablung a while?”

“Please Mistress, let Faramir stay,” the boy pleaded, “I should like some company.”

With a smile she replied “Aye, my Lord Faramir may stay if he makes himself useful.”

“I am always useful, O lady of the house,” Faramir answered brightly. “Mablung, would you like some broth? Morwen makes the best broth in the world.”

 “Hush, Faramir, don’t let Morwen hear you or you’ll be having broth for the rest of the week,” the Captain said with a wry grin. “This way, my Lord Boromir. Nienna, tell Morwen to send us some sweet wine and those little honey cakes of yours.” And as he stepped over the threshold, Boromir caught a glint of wicked laughter in his brother’s eye. 

*          *          *         

“By the Valar, that was some story,” Boromir said leaning back in his hard comfortless chair. The study had once been a sleeping chamber judging by the ancient mosaics on the floor and the faded frescoes on the walls, and in high summer it would have been very pleasant, for the long folding windows opened almost into the path outside. One could quite literally step from the room into the round pond with its small darting flame-coloured fish. Now, it was merely cold, and a three-legged brazier with an eagle’s head for a handle stood beside the heavy table of lebethron wood that served as Haldor’s desk. Lining the study were many low shelves sagging with books on medicine, music and history.      

 “We have a traitor in our midst,” the Old Man said grimly. Across the desk cleared of its habitual clutter, he poured two cups of hot spiced wine and handed one to Boromir. “Or a renegade.” 

“A renegade ranger?” Boromir sat up. “What makes you say that?”

“Five years ago a man of ours vanished on a patrol near Minas Ithil, a troop leader, no less; a tall dark man, with eyes the colour of the amber that comes from Far Harad. His mother was of the Haradrim, but his father’s people were from Belfalas by the sea. He was among our best men, and had I not been elected to the Captaincy by a mere three votes, he would be standing in my place today.” Cradling the steaming cup in his hands, the Captain said, “That was why I wished to hear Mablung’s story before I told you of the tidings I bring. Mablung spoke of this man my Lord, but a dispatch came yesterday from one who goes about my business in Ithilien, and it seems that he was sighted a fortnight ago at a tavern in Harlond. And by sheer chance, a pair of cubs making their way back to Henneth Annûn found a cache of Southron weapons not two hours’ march north of Osgiliath.  If Arvegil saw rightly, our man has returned.”         

“Has this renegade of yours a name?”

“We knew him as Ragnor son of Herumor.” Very quietly, the Old Man said, “Whatever he is called now, I shall hunt him down and kill him with my own hands.”

“You will report this to my father I assume, given that this touches so closely upon the security of our realm?”

“Aye my Lord, you assume rightly. More than that, this is a matter for the Council. This man knows our ways and all our secret places, and Eru only knows what he has betrayed to his new masters.” More wine sloshed into the two empty cups on the table. “Here, have some,” the Captain said, pushing a plate piled with honey cakes across. “Something sweet to take away the bitterness of betrayal.”

Boromir helped himself to a honey cake he did not want. It was as hard and dry as a biscuit and as he chewed manfully away, he wondered if Haldor had teeth of iron. He washed the lot down with wine and after a small pause said, “It is time we spoke of the reason why I summoned you here. My brother has served with you for three years. He has learned much from you and your people, and for that, my father and I are grateful, but he must now leave the Company of Ithilien and return to his own. By my father’s command I am to bring him back to Minas Tirith on the morrow’s morrow.”

The green gaze narrowed. “So. You are taking him to the White City. May I ask why?”

“Haldor, let us not quarrel. I come in peace, and if there is nothing else we can agree upon this night, know that I too desire the best for Faramir, for he is my only brother and therefore, dearer to me than my own life.”  

“There is one thing I would ask of you,” he said slowly.

“Well, what is it?”

Seeing the deep furrow between the other man’s brows, the Captain smiled sadly, shaking his head. The old suspicions ran deep, and for once, he did not begrudge Boromir the impatience that subtly betrayed itself in the tenseness of hand, jaw and eye. “You mistake me, my Lord. I seek no boon for myself. I only ask that you plead Faramir’s cause before my Lord Steward, that he should choose his own path.  Faramir is no longer the boy my Lord Denethor sent us three summers ago; he is a man now and knows his own mind. All his life, he has done his father’s bidding – not always willingly, I’ll grant you that – but with faith and constancy. And all his life, he has stood in your shadow,” and as Boromir made to speak, he held up his hand, “Nay, my Lord, listen to me for I speak naught but the truth, and this you know well in your own heart. Faramir loves you, but it is in Ithilien that he is loved by his brothers for his own sake; and so in Ithilien he has made himself in his own image, a man, a poet, a peace-maker, a warrior among warriors. Already, he is learning something of the art of commanding men; in time, he will grow in wisdom and strength, and one day he shall stand tall among his brother rangers, a Captain in his own right, and not by mere accident of birth. Will you see all that taken from him? Will you deny him a life wholly of his own making? In the Tower Guard, he will never be anything more than the Steward’s second son, your younger brother.”       

“Faramir has said something of the same to me.”

“Has he?”

“Yes,” Boromir said simply. “He wishes to stay with you and his sword brothers, and I gave him my word that I will not thwart his purpose.”

“If that is so, you have my gratitude my Lord.”

Boromir came to his feet and said, “Here, take my hand Haldor, if we cannot be friends, let there be a truce between us for my brother’s sake.” And as the Old Man rose slowly from his seat, they struck hands.

“A truce, my Lord. Let it be so,” the Old Man said, a reluctant smile spreading across his face.

*          *          *

Author’s note:

Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter! I’m glad you enjoyed it! I am honestly very humbled and quite amazed to find that LOTR fans are still reading my stories which have not been updated for years! Thanks again for the very kind reviews. : )

When I started this story, I wanted to explore Faramir’s early years in the Rangers – the difficulties he might have had fitting in, the personalities and events that might have influenced him, the journey from boy to man and the accumulation of wisdom and experience that turned him into the kind, noble and courageous Captain he was in the Lord of the Rings. I always had the beginning and the end firmly fixed in my mind – it was the middle that had always been missing – but it is coming together now, though not as I thought it might be! The fraught relationship between Haldor, Boromir and to some extent Denethor (which was not the original plan) with Faramir caught in the middle is beginning to take shape and I will probably be developing this theme further. Haldor in particular seems to be writing himself, and I’m not sure what he’ll be doing next in his quest for vengeance, except that he’s busy hatching a plan to trap his erstwhile comrade. I’m also spoiling for a fight, so I’m hoping to write an action scene within the next few chapters!

In my mind, Denethor, Boromir and the absent Finduilas have always played a large part in Faramir’s story, and the next chapter (set partially in Minas Tirith) will explore in some detail the dynamics of the Steward’s family, and I’m wondering if Imrahil should make a guest appearance. Thanks to those who commented on the nature of the Faramir-Denethor relationship – I am aware that there is quite a bit of fascinating debate on this, and I will think about it carefully when I write the next chapter. To me there is no doubt that Denethor does love Faramir (though less than his brother), but is for various reasons unable or unwilling to express that love. My version of Denethor has never been able to let go of Finduilas; the irrational part of him remains resentful that Faramir took the love of his life away from him, while the more sensible part knows that this is wholly illogical and is ashamed of his inability to control his emotions. He is also something of an autocrat and in this fic, Faramir learns to manage his relationship with Denethor: when to choose his battles, and when to bow to his father’s authority. Thus he grows from the independent-minded and passionate boy in my old fic “A Gift and a Promise” into the dutiful son who yet dares risks his father’s wrath by denying the allure of the One Ring.        

Description-wise, I have a long-standing fascination with the decline of ancient Rome, and Haldor’s house is based on the concept of a decaying Romano-British villa with gardens, frescoes and mosaics going to ruin. The three-legged eagle brazier was drawn from a picture of a similar Han dynasty object I Googled while doing my research for an original fic.

I’m off for a vacation at the end of this week, so the next update will probably be two to three weeks from now. Until then, take care!