Chapter Eight: First Sight and Far Sight

AUTHOR'S NOTE:

This chapter includes discussion of sexual matters, although it does not have any sex scenes, explicit or otherwise. The talk might not be appropriate for readers under thirteen.

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She sat on the stool beside the massive tub. Without turning around, he could feel her closeness, the heat that eminated from her body. She leaned forward. Her hands slid down his chest and onto his stomach, still acceptably lean after two years of marriage. Faramir reached up suddenly to grab his wife's forearms. Eowyn squeaked and tottered off balance. He wanted more than anything to pull her into the soapy water, so that she sat on his lap, alluringly sopping in her chemise. But there was the child to think about. Could their son be injured from such exuberant play?

So he caught her gently and steadied her arms so that she wouldn't fall. He craned his neck to face her. “I confess that you didn't grab my breath when I met you. Rather, you unloosed my tongue, much to my surprise.”

“You were a quiet man before we met, right?” Eowyn rested her cheek against Faramir's soft beard.

“I kept my own counsel in those days,” he said. “As did all who were posted on the borders of the evil lands. Though I could speak enough and well when the occasion called for it. But looking back to when I first saw you, I recall that you reminded me of a proud war-mare.”

“One who would thrill to bear her rider,” Eowyn let her lips travel over his beard.

“One of the Mearas,” Faramir assured her before he kissed her, “Great Shadowfax's great sister.”

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Faramir stood at the garden ledge, looking inward at the calm patio, its winter-quiet fountain, and the grand door to the library beyond. He noted the Lady of Rohan's form as she disappeared beyond a large stack of books. Then he slowly walked along the wall to the spot where the trees and buildings separated, giving him a clear view beyond the city's rings, beyond the Pelennor Fields. In the late afternoon, the air was astoundingly clear. He could see the shadows of verdant Ithilien and, at the very edge of his straining vision, the forbidding outline of the Ephel Duath. East, where all their hopes lay.

He concentrated, closed his eyes, and reached for the power Mithrandir assured was within him. But he could see nothing, certainly not while he was awake. Had the great host been besieged by Sauron's armies? Or did they march along unimpeded? The Captains of the West traveled on paths near to hidden Ranger strongholds. Faramir had not ordered the skeleton forces in these outposts to aid in the retaking of Osgiliath. On their usual patrols, the Rangers certainly would see the army as it passed.

Again, he concentrated on the eastern horizon, to no avail. He strove to know the fate of the Captains' army for any number of reasons, not the least of which was to assuage the worries of the Lady of Rohan. The proud and indecipherable Eowyn, daughter of Eomund.

He remembered feeling disappointed earlier, as they took tea, that she mentioned nothing at all about the incident last night. He had been standing in the courtyard, noting that it was no longer filled with ailing bodies, and wondering who among them still lived. Then he looked up, to have his deep thoughts shattered by her image in a window, like a luminous apparition. Her flowing hair and shimmering white chemise gave her an aura of gauze--a tenuous softness about her body. Her face above him seemed remote and stiff for all its beauty. Still he thought he saw her smile at last, a mighty queen condescending to smile on a poor yeoman. Oh, to be that poor yeoman.

The frosty impression of the lady was strengthened when he finally sat beside her in the garden. But then that fit of wordiness flowed out of his mouth. He became an uncouth Ranger from the farthest outposts of the South, reassigned to guard a fair noblewoman. He praised her beauty and could not stop. And then, like the floes on the Bay of Forochel, her icy features cracked.

“Lord Faramir,” Beregond's voice broke into his thoughts. “I have the results of the planning between the councilors and the officers of Rohan.” Beregond stood at the stone table and spread a length of parchment across the table's length. Faramir's mind had been so preoccupied that he hadn't heard his aide enter the garden. He sat down and tried to study the agreement that was reached.

“The engineers will have a design for us tomorrow,” Beregond reported. “Erkenbrand has promised half of his forces to aid in the rebuilding of the walls.

“What of our people? How did the ministers react?” Faramir spoke softly. His neck felt hot; then the heat traveled to his forehead. A single drop of sweat formed on his brow. The fever was returning. For a second, he thought he could hear a Nazgul's derogatory hiss.

Beregond's usually cheerful face looked grave. “The ministers and myself will go among the people tomorrow and try to persuade them to assist with the labor at the gates. We need many more workers, non-combatants, laborers, skilled tradesmen whose service in the army ended decades ago. These people cower in their houses, I am told. They persist in believing that the King who passed through here is naught but an ambitious Dunedain Chieftain, and that you, their only hope, are dead.”

They still believe that foul rumor. Faramir began to sink into despair. He walked slowly to a bench along the ledge and carefully lowered himself onto it. Unexpectedly, his thoughts traveled to a set of alert, clear blue eyes below a pale brow. A woman's eyes. He knew whom those eyes belonged to. Faramir drew a hand across his brow. So many things needed caring for. Nevertheless, he said, “Find out what you can about the Lady Eowyn. Has she been provided with a new room that faces East? And see to it that the nurses provide her with proper garments and shoes and...”

“And what?” Beregond asked. “What about the shoring up of the wall?”

Faramir struggled, trying to focus his thoughts on the dire situation facing the city. Finally he said, “I will draw up a proclamation. I think if the West succeeds, we can safely promise all volunteers land outside the city walls. Gondor is so depopulated now. The countryside needs to be filled. Still, that wouldn't squash the rumor that I am dead. I can't travel outside these Houses so that people can see me.”

He rose slowly. Beregond moved to assist him, but Faramir waved him off. The two went inside to the library, where Faramir hastily drew up the proclamation and handed it over to his assistant.

“Have copies made for the public places, and then have the criers read it throughout the city. I'll put the Steward's seal to the copies tomorrow,” Faramir said. Then he slumped, spent, into the plush chair behind the massive ornamental desk.

Beregond shook his head and sat on the desk beside Faramir's chair, “Perhaps you should go back to your bed and rest.” He grinned mildly, though Faramir perceived that his aide was greatly concerned.

“Her demeanor and her unbound hair led me to think she was unmarried--a maid, not a widow,” Faramir said, suddenly wistful.

Beregond jerked up, startled, “I would think her unmarried, too...but, well, shouldn't we continue planning the city's defenses?”

I was rude to her, Faramir berated himself. I spoke to her of her beauty when I should have planned with her to ease her stay here at the Houses. I forgot I was the Steward and acted the lonely Ranger beguiled by the sight of a lovely woman. With a clean scent and all her teeth. Yet to Beregond he merely said, “I am fully considering the city's defenses. However, I fear I might have offended Lady Eowyn, though it was not my intent. This is not a good way to improve Gondor's relations with the nobility of Rohan.”

Though Beregond said nothing, Faramir perceived that the huge man was on the verge of making a quip. So he took a deep breath and then continued, “Gather the ministers and also the heads of the major guilds, the carpenters, the masons, the black smiths, the bread-makers. Have them meet with me at midday in two days time. They can vouch to their people that I still live. And I am still planning to be alive in two days time.”

Yet when he returned to his modest room within the men's wards, Faramir was barely able to stand. The Tower Guardsmen, who had turned up outside every room he was in this day, at last made themselves useful by assisting him to strip down to his braes. Faramir slid beneath the bed covers. The exhaustion penetrated every muscle in his body. Curse that foul Witch King; he's dead but his taint still lingers.

Before he had a chance to close his eyes, Chief Nurse Ioreth bustled into the room, carrying a tray with the evening meal. She had evidently chosen to serve him herself, rather than delegate the duty to one of her comely minions—which did not bode well.

Ioreth was uncharacteristically quiet, though she looked at Faramir expectantly. He watched as she set the tray before him, curious at her silence. The Chief Nurse lifted the cover from the large bowl that occupied much of the tray.

Faramir set a spoon into the aromatic stuff and began to eat. The heat from the meal forced another sweat upon him, which this time cooled him off and broke his fever. He felt energy from consuming the simple beef, mushrooms, and potatoes. Could it be that the comforts of ordinary life had the power to defeat the fevers of the Black Breath?

“So what did you think?” Ioreth finally broke the silence between them.

“About?” Faramir mumbled as he chewed contentedly, though he was getting a faint inkling of the subject that Dame Ioreth intended to grill him on.

“About what, indeed,” the nurse said sarcastically, but then caught herself. “I am sorry, my lord. I continually forget my station. You are high above me now and not marching in attendance behind my husband's old battle destrier. I was curious about your thoughts on the Lady Eowyn.”

He hesitated. Ioreth was ever a busybody back when he was but a fledgling Ranger, and her husband Mersin was Faramir's mentor. Age had not withered that busybody in the least. Her nerve was astounding. “I would see that Lady Eowyn is comfortable in a room facing East,” he threw Dame Ioreth a crumb of his thoughts.

“Oh, my dear Faramir, the whole ordeal must have exhausted her, for she collapsed into sleep on her bed and didn't even lift an eyelash when we had her carried to her new room. We unpinned and removed my daughter's dress from the lady's body without waking her. She will have a happy surprise at the big window that looks onto the Pelennor Fields. Her room is far finer than this one, might I tell you.”

So she did not speak of me, Faramir thought, but he certainly wouldn't let Ioreth know his feelings. Perhaps Lady Eowyn would even forget his outburst after she'd had a good night's sleep. And that would be a good thing. Or would it?

“Oh, my lord, you must know that the Lady of Rohan is unmarried,” Ioreth continued. “I do not know if she is betrothed. A fine catch she would be, though a bit hard to handle, as you would expect from one of those wild Horse People. However, I suspect that she fancies herself far more stubborn and high-handed than she is in reality. She tries to give my staff trouble but she's actually quite sweet, for all her attempts at haughtiness. I suppose that there is some lord of Rohan what would petition the Rohan king for her hand, should this war end favorably. Though undoubtedly she deserves a man of higher station. That's my take on it. Surely you have some opinion of her.” And she cast such a look at Faramir that he immediately felt uneasy.

“Then I will tell you that I do feel sorry for her.” Faramir warned himself to control his words. Certainly Beregond had asked Ioreth for details of the Lady, which no doubt had emboldened the Chief Nurse. “She is alone in this House and does not know our customs. Plus a hospital room, even the most commodious of hospital rooms, is not particularly fine accommodation for a noble lady.”

“Indeed, indeed. Some flowers in her room might sweeten her awakening,” Ioreth commented as she collected Faramir's now empty tray. She observed him cannily for a moment and then teased, “I must say that you are looking much improved now that you've been cleaned up a bit. Good evening, my lord Steward, and to you, noble fellows, as well.”

Faramir grunted as he watched Ioreth leave. He couldn't see the “noble fellows” but knew full well whom Ioreth was farewelling: his shadows, the fellows of the Tower of Guard. The retinue of the Steward of Gondor. For as long as he remembered, the fellows of the Tower of Guard stood sentry outside his family's living quarters, and followed his father's footsteps wherever he went throughout Gondor. And now Faramir had inherited what he had never expected to have: the magnificent living quarters, the Stewardship, and the ever-present Tower Guardsmen to remind him of his responsibilities.

These all faced him and he must face them alone. He sank beneath the covers and closed his eyes, an immense sadness overwhelming him. This was not the Black Breath. This was not a result of being wounded and feeling the inadequacies of one condemned to a hospital bed. No, this was simply the fact that he now must go through life bereft of a brother and a father, no matter how difficult the relationship with that father had been. The sumptuous living quarters of the Steward would be inhabited by him alone, should he survive long enough to move into them. Faramir, Steward of Gondor, last of the House of Hurin.

When I am more recovered and the city defenses complete, I will order the construction of a tomb for you on the Silent Street, so that Gondor and I can remember you. He silently made a promise to his father and Boromir, even though they had gone beyond the confines of Arda and could not know his pledge.

The Lady Eowyn, too, must be mourning her uncle. Would it be appropriate to speak to Eowyn of her plans for King Theoden's obsequies? Or should he wait until King Eomer returned from the Black Gate? If he returned from the Black Gate? Poor Eowyn. She looked so lovely, so brave, so out-of-place in that great dress with her arm in a sling. And that coldness that seemed to collect all about her. Was that more residue of the Black Breath? Or was the lady simply, as he detected, cold as ice, and vulnerable to cracking when thawed?

Despite his grief, Faramir felt himself start to smile at the thought of the Lady of Rohan. She reminded him of a great silver destrier who had suffered a laming injury in battle and thus was retired and put out to pasture. His heart went out to the brave mare, who he imagined standing alone in her paddock, calling out to her war-bound companions, and watching her beloved knight ride off on some other steed. The lonely mare had naught to do but recover. If she were lucky, she might later be bred to a stallion of fine stock, also put out to pasture due to injuries.

Hmmm, would Lady Eowyn would appreciate being compared to a great war-mare? Faramir mused. A proper Gondorian lady would have been horribly offended by such a comparison. She'd think, “He means that I have a great long face, like a horse. Or that he means I am fat as a horse. Or that I am an old nag.” But a noble lady of the Rohirrim, the proud Horse Lords of the Plains? What might she think? He tried to picture her face in his imagination. He hadn't seen her for that long a period of time. Aside from her obvious coldness, he remembered a rather small but beguiling, somewhat sun-freckled face on a long proud neck, like a horse.

He slept. Deep. Without dreams. But at some point he awoke to pain and stiffness beneath his right arm and the sound of voices and movement outside his door. Sure enough, it was his loyal retainers, Tower Guardsmen Dorlas and Marod of the night watch, conversing with themselves.

“The Steward has been sleeping for some hours,” Faramir heard Dorlas say. “I'd deliver the message in the morning. This is the second night in a row that we've got messages of this type, particularly for the Lord Steward!”

Marod's voice said, “It was a strange matter. A woman covered in veils approached me outside the Houses, just before I reported. She bade me give her message directly to the Steward and tell no one else.”

Dorlas snorted, “They are looking for assignations with a sick man. Earlier, Lord Faramir could barely stand up. How could these ladies expect him to get it up, for even the most magnificent whore in all Gondor? Unless they are really looking to establish political favors early on, like exemption from taxes, now that he's Steward.”

Faramir squirmed. He was about to clear his throat and alert them to his wakened state when he heard Dorlas say:

“I certainly couldn't comfort a woman if I were in his condition, yet I wonder about Lord Faramir? You remember the talk about him and Lord Boromir and the ladies of the Blackthorn Inn?”

“Aye,” said Marod. “But it must have happened some years before I joined the military. The story was oft told among us rank and file rs when I had my basic training.”

Ah, that old rumor. No truth to that. Faramir answered silently. That brothel had 18 ladies in residence and no, the Steward's sons did not sample them all in one evening. They had merely paid that night for the services of the entire establishment. He had something like four women, too much to drink, and a raging headache when he woke the next afternoon in the bed of the Mistress of the Home. He could not vouch for what Boromir was doing, though he found out later that Boro hadn't stayed the night.

When Faramir returned home the next evening, his revered father announced that his second son's higher education had gone high enough. It was time for Faramir to fulfill his military responsibilities to Gondor. Two weeks later, at the age of twenty, he spread out a bedroll for the first time, in a humble Ranger tent beneath an uncharted shadow of the Ephel Duath.

Dorlas lowered his voice to the point where Faramir could hardly hear him: “I have heard strange tales about those Rangers. Tough duty out there in the wilds. Who knows what such duties might drive a good man to?”

Not me; I never had an interest. Faramir silently answered. He certainly knew what his loyal retainers alluded to. Again, he considered clearing his throat to alert the gossiping guards, before their speculations became too outrageous.

“Nah,” Marod said. “Not Lord Faramir. Too many stories of female trouble when he was a youngster, sowing those wild oats like we all do. The older one, though, now there was someone to wonder about.”

That was too much for Faramir to keep silent about. It was true that Boromir seemed to prefer the company of men to women. But Faramir knew that his brother had relations with women. In his youth, he'd been in adjacent rooms on various occasions when his brother was having relations with a woman. End of gossip. He moaned softly to try to get their attention, but kept his eyes closed.

“Thieves! Thieves! They've broken into the kitchens!” a woman's voice screamed from the end of the hall. “They are ransacking the meat closet. Help!”

Dorlas spoke swiftly, “He's asleep. He won't miss us. We'd better see what's going on.”

Of course, the Steward was fully awake, with a wildly pumping heart. Had the situation in Minas Tirith deteriorated so fully that simple hooligans were raiding public buildings for food? His eyes at first opened slowly, but then flashed open wide.

In front of him was a female figure swathed head to foot in wine-colored velvet, except for the flimsy veil that covered her face up to her nose. The veil was so transparent that he could see her perfect mouth when the veil sunk into it as she took breath. She could not have been more than 17.

“My Lord, I was sent here by the Mistress of IthilienFaire Inn,” the woman spoke hardly above a whisper, but the mere trembling of her breath told Faramir of her fear.

He sat up carefully, for his injured rib was troubling him. He had never expected to be propositioned in a hospital bed at an hour long past midnight by a mysterious swath of fabric.

The intruder continued, “My Mistress Doe Eyes says that you are an old friend. She asks if she or any of the employees of IthlienFaire can be of assistance, in the near future or perhaps this very night. Are you in need of entertainment? Or comforting?”

He couldn't help but smile. The lovely Doe Eyes, fairest courtesan in the White city, or so he thought, as a green Ranger on leave from his terrible duties. Life was lonely indeed in the far outposts, where one's job was to spy on and outsmart a variety of enemies. How the Rangers had counted the months until their brief leaves of absence. Sometimes all they wanted to do was merely talk to someone female other than an ornery war-mare or a malodorous she-orc.

He hadn't quite forgotten Doe Eyes' plush body squirming in real or feigned delight beneath him. How many years ago had that been? He had heard of her eventual rise to Mistress of her brothel, IthilienFaire Inn. And now she had sent him a little message through this frightened girl.

“Tell Doe Eyes that yes, I am quite uncomfortable right now. And I am quite lonely now. But the thought of sharing my small bed with a lively woman sounds even more uncomfortable to me, as I sometimes become plagued with fevers.”

She lowered her lovely painted eyes, a gesture of humility for the prostitute-in-training, Faramir noted. Then she said, “Would you prefer to be comforted by a man? We have some very comely and attentive gentlemen working in IthilienFaire Home.”

He grinned and wished the girl would remove her useless veil. He said, “Please tell your Mistress that at the age of 36 I still have no interest in being comforted by a male. My only interest in boys is in the recruiting and training of them as bowmen for the Rangers. Pass that message and my other words to Doe Eyes and to the other Mistresses who have been pestering my guards.”

The girl moved forward to the bed, grabbed his right hand to kiss the Steward's ring, when the two Tower Guardsmen ran in with a great racket. The guard Dorlas grabbed the girl and elevated her three feet from the floor, her bulky garments entangling both their bodies. Marod bellowed, “You again, you pestering tart. You made up the whole thing.” The bulky fabric of her garment bulged and contracted as she struggled, though not a word came from her mouth.

“Put her down,” Faramir ordered evenly.

Dorlas let the girl go instantly. She almost toppled to the floor when he swept her up again, this time to set her safely on her feet. He said, “There were no thieves in the kitchen. No one was in the kitchen, not even the cook.”

“You have to admire her enterprise. Her order was to deliver a message from an old friend,” Faramir grinned. “Young lady, please pass the news to Doe Eyes that I am still alive and getting better. Perhaps in a few weeks I can take up my office in the City. There Doe Eyes can petition me along with the other citizens of Gondor, so that I can find out the real reason why she wants to offer me whores' favors, when I am in a sick bed. And Marod, please have one of the guards downstairs walk the girl back to her place of business. I can't think of how late it is.”

The guard Marod swiftly escorted the girl out the door, as Faramir sunk back onto the mattress. Oddly enough, the post-midnight communication from Doe Eyes made him feel comfortable, comforted, and slightly less lonely. In this relaxed state, his mind began to wander, thinking,almost guiltily,of the Captains of the West. Where would they be? Surely they must have passed the hidden strongholds some miles north of Cair Andros by now?

His thoughts grew bright and strong, as though his body was inside the fort closest to the river. He felt as though he walked among the skeleton force that had stayed in place. He saw that they were intact, about their business of monitoring the northern reaches of the Anduin. He did not regret ordering them to not march South to participate in the siege.

As he wandered silently, undetected by the Rangers, Faramir saw many more men than he had assigned to remain in North Ithilien. Moreover, he recognized a few he hadn't expected to see again—Casta, Tarst, Earnil--Rangers who had been in Osgiliath when it fell. They had not returned with him on the retreat to Minas Tirith. Now, beyond hope, Faramir saw them as he walked about the River fort.

Lieutenant Castamir had gathered his sergeants at arms about him and was saying, “Anborn spoke at length with them yesterday, and now he rides to Minas Tirith with a report.”

Anborn? But he had volunteered to participate in the charge to retake Osgiliath. Anborn had died, hadn't he? Didn't he? Wasn't Faramir the sole survivor of the ill-fated charge? Or so he had been told—by the Lord of the Nazgul! How could Castamir be talking about Anborn? What was Faramir seeing? Was he dreaming? Were these images residue of the Black Breath sent to drive him mad?

Faramir did not have to force his eyes open from this dream because he had never closed them. Now he looked at the table and darkened window of his room in the Houses of Healing. He could hear the shuffling of the Tower Guardsmen posted on either side of the door. His mind was no longer among the Rangers.

I am mad, he told himself, but now he wasn't really sure. Was Castamir really talking to his sergeants at this very moment? Surely this vision must be hopeful wishes on my part. Mithrandir was right; I undoubtedly have farsight. However, I have been able to clearly perceive events at a distance only in dreams, never in my waking. Except once. Except that misty evening not long ago, on the banks of the Anduin, when the tragic boat drifted by.

Dreams were where his farsight functioned completely. But that night he didn't dream much. Only of orcs, orcs marching in poorly disciplined columns. Orcs smelling of the most odiferous orc sweat. They squashed each other as they weaved. They bumped him, and he couldn't tell if this was their typical marching style or that they simply didn't see him because he was so small.

“Lord Faramir, don't you want to get up now?” Beregond was leaning over him. The room was achingly bright. “The nurses couldn't wake you at breakfast. I should think you would be hungry by now. It's three hours past dawn, and very cold. There was a frost in the valleys, I am told,”

“And the other news?” Faramir asked carefully.

“There is no other news.”

Sadly, he asked Beregond to order another breakfast, to be delivered, this time, to the big Steward's desk in the library.

Faramir decided he was well enough to dress himself. He recalled had that Beregond and the guards had stuffed some clothes into the room closet. From these, Faramir haphazardly pulled on a simple shirt, leggings, and grey over- tunic. He was glad to find his trusty Ranger's cloak, which he tucked under his good arm.

As he headed to the library, trailed by the guards, Faramir thought, Had any of the ancient Numenoreans written about farsight, just what it was and how to distinguish it from madness? Was there an aged volume somewhere in the stacks that could help him? His vision last night had filled him with both dread and hope? Was he a madman? Or had he finally succeeded in all of Mithrandir's teachings?

Faramir was determined to find out.