Chapter Eleven: In the Shadow of the King

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Some parts of this chapter were inspired by Karen Wynn Fonstad's "The Atlas of Middle-Earth." Many thanks to Raksha for her great Beta review.

Once upon a time, he slept soundly, whether on a plush feather bed or on a bedroll spread out under a rain-soaked tent. Once upon a time, his dreams wandered through all of Gondor and then through lands he had never seen in waking life. Now Faramir lay awake on the immense bed he shared with his wife—a bed designed to accommodate a couple and up to three children under ten. He'd forgotten about his jealousy. Now the jealousy robbed him of his sleep. His body tossed; his mind churned as he lay awake, remembering.

Their modest hospital dinner was a pleasant, light-hearted affair especially welcome after Faramir's ordeal of telling the Lady of Rohan about the ill-fated charge. The Tower Guardsmen escorted Éowyn and Faramir to a small alcove for entertaining special guests on official business. They were greeted by Warden Narmar, who was far more pleasant when he wasn't treating Faramir as a patient.

During the meal, Éowyn thanked Narmar for the medical textbook he had given her, and mentioned that she had been studying it in the evenings. Faramir gently hinted that a few hours outside in the sun would do a world of good for driving away the symptoms of the Black Breath. Narmar grumbled predictably.

After the Warden's departure, Faramir and Éowyn shared a few tankards of ale and a few hours free of care. Late in the evening, as Faramir sat up in his hospital cot, his mind drifted back to their conversations. The scroll containing the revised plans for refortifying Minas Tirith was sprawled on his lap. He had already studied it in fine detail and wondered if the plan was too ambitious. But now, with midnight drawing near, his mind persisted in devoting time to the Lady Éowyn.

Faramir never expected to admire Éowyn as much for her intellect as well as her cool beauty and, as he imagined, her Rohirric horsemanship. They had talked at length of their homelands' warfare customs. Éowyn seemed surprised that mounted bowmen were a rarity in Gondor. Most riders of the Mark were taught to fire arrows while astride as a matter of course, though she admitted to being a poor archer.

Here in Gondor, the technique of the mounted bowman was strictly a Faramir creation. He had taught himself this skill, after spying on mounted Haradrim archers poaching antelope along the southern borders of Ithilien. When he perfected the “borrowed” technique, Faramir trained many interested Rangers as mounted bowman. Still, he accepted that his archery skills far exceeded his skills as a rider. Maybe he could trade Éowyn lessons in archery for lessons in horsemanship?

And when could we do that? Melancholy came over him. The only future that he could see involved the immediate defense of his country. Right now the lady's broken arm prevented archery lessons in the near future, and Faramir doubted he was ready to ride a horse.

On the other hand, could he be ready to, hmmm?

He thought of how appealing Éowyn looked today in her billowing houpelande, most likely borrowed from one of the nurses. Her hair was braided, encircling her head. She could have been a proper Gondorian merchant's wife, except for her yellow hair and freckles.

Indeed, he had noticed freckles on her cheeks even in the blazing torch light while she spoke of her childhood as an orphan. She had lost both her parents at a slightly older age than he was when his mother died. And yet, it seemed that her home life was happier than his. Her kingly uncle loved and protected her, even if he couldn't spend as much time with her as she would have liked. Moreover, she had the love and support of an older brother yet among the living.

By contrast, his lord father spent entirely too much time trying to control the lives of both his sons. Then Faramir's own bitterness softened into grief as he remembered that his father was gone. He'd easily trade a month of the Steward's endless belittling if only to hear his voice again.

He blew out the candles at either side of the cot, then lay down on his back. Trying to cope with the overwhelming sadness, Faramir closed his eyes. He imagined Éowyn's face in a lovely vision above him.

He recognized these peculiar woods. His dreams had taken him there before. He remembered these trees, older and larger than any he had ever seen. Their leaves were silver, reflecting the twilight of stars never dimmed by the Dark Lord's pollution. She was waiting--the woman with the pale hair, who stood with her back toward him. She raised her arm in a gesture to follow as she floated just ahead, never looking back. The woods opened into a vast garden, brightened somewhat by the light of the half moon. She led him to a gracefully sculpted fountain, and then turned.

His whole being gasped. Before him was not the lady who pervaded his waking thoughts, but a strange being of such awesome power and beauty that his legs trembled beneath him and gave way. He could not gaze at her directly to take her measure.

Her voice was gentle as she said, “Well done, well done, Faramir, son of Denethor.” She reached down for his hand. With more strength than even the strongest man, she raised him to his feet. In his dream—for Faramir knew he was dreaming—he lifted his head and looked on her powerful, yet kindly face. He had never seen one of the First Born, but knew immediately this woman was a Queen of the High Elves. “Who are you? How do you know me?” he managed to say.

“I am a long-time friend and ally of Olorin—Mithrandir, as you know him. I have watched events unfold in Minas Tirith, since long before the city was known by that name. Like Mithrandir, I too would know the fate of Frodo Baggins. Sauron blocks Mithrandir's sight into Mordor, but he does not block my sight. He waits for it, hoping to find out why I search his land. Now I hesitate to look there for fear he might follow the path of my mind. But I do not think the Dark Lord knows of your sight, Faramir, son of Denethor,and that it follows Frodo and Sam into Golgoroth.”

He gathered his sleeping courage and faced the terrible lady directly. She was at least a hand's width taller than he and moved like a willow, graceful yet unbreakable. Her silver cape partially revealed a white gown encrusted in jewels so bright that they overpowered the weak moon. Even more blinding was the piercing beam from the stars where her eyes should be. A strong wind swept through the garden, causing strands of her hair to billow and create an aura of light about her form. Faramir managed to say, “I believe I have heard of you—Sorceress of the Golden Wood.”

She laughed gaily, “I once was Altariel, she who commands in the Golden Wood, though Sorceress was never my title, even among those Eldar who wished me ill. Last night, your sight finally strayed into our land but did not stay. Tonight I sought you. I have long been aware of your ability, especially after your brother came with the fellowship into Lothlorien.”

Faramir lowered his head, ashamed at his audacity. This was indeed the Elven Queen whom Mithrandir had mentioned on many occasions. “Did Boromir speak to you of our terrible situation in Gondor?”

“Not directly,” the lofty woman said, “but I conversed with him in his mind, as we are doing right now. He did not understand clear sight and could not use it, though he might have learned it with stronger will and proper training.”

“I am not using clear sight,” Faramir's lips moved though no sound seemed to come from them. “This is a dream.”

“Sight can appear in dreams or in waking life, as you know. Do not fear your sight. Use it! Continue to concentrate your thoughts on Frodo. I charge you with this task, Steward of Gondor. I will follow you, and through me, Mithrandir can learn Frodo's fate.”

“My sight is cloudy. I don't understand half the time what I am seeing,” he said.

“But I understand,” the Lady's response was enigmatic. “I will leave you with a few words that might give you some hope, Steward of Gondor. Do not doubt that Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, is Elendil's heir and might indeed bring peace and order to your country—if he survives. Those who did not march with Aragorn still have a crucial part to play in the end of days as we know them.

“Defend your city with the forces available to you. Some of the Eldar yet remain in Middle Earth. Our numbers are small, but we watch and I assure you we will act. If the Men of the West fall at the Black Gate, we will speak in dreams again. If victory beyond hope comes to the West, my sight will fade, though yours might not. The clear sight given to the Numenoreans is separate from any powers that the Elves keep. Yet maybe we will meet again, son of Denethor, this time in waking life.”

Her arms reached toward him, and her hands touched his head. A powerful current emanated through her fingers. His whole body seemed to glow, as if filled with light, as the Elven Queen said, “Now sleep without care or pain. In the morning remember Galadriel's request.

His room was grey. Morning had come, early morning, without sounds of nurses moving about nor smells of breakfasts to be delivered. It was so quiet that he could hear a slight shuffle outside his door: one of the Tower Guardsmen shifting his weight. Faramir remembered his dream and the great lady's order to him. He did not remember her name.

As he sat up, he noticed that his body felt less stiff this day. His wounds were annoying, rather than agonizing, and his skin felt cool and comfortable. This was particularly surprising because outside the room's only window a mist swirled, the type of weather that sometimes made his old battle scars burn.

I must try to think of Frodo, Faramir reminded himself, though there was much to do today.

He pulled on soft leather breeches and a calf's length tunic without difficulty, using both hands. He felt the cold dampness in the air. The guardsmen had retrieved one of his father's winter robes of office, which now hung from a peg on the wall of his modest hospital room. The Steward's office is mine now. I should wear its badges in addition to performing its functions, Faramir thought. Besides the robe looks nice and warm.

However, he did not have enough strength yet in his right arm to pull on the bulky, fur-lined robe. He cleared his throat with resignation. The guardsmen were at his side in a flash, helping him into Denethor's garment., Faramir reflected sadly as the robe's hem trailed on the floor, On the day before his death, Denethor, son of Ecthelion, nearly nine decades old and bowed with unimaginable troubles, still towered over both his sons.

The morning nurse Idril entered the room with a breakfast tray and gasped, “My Lord Steward, you are up and well.” She quickly placed the tray on the table, curtsied politely, and left in a rush. Shortly afterward came Beregond, ready for this morning's Council update. He sat on the hospital cot, grim and silent.

“There is no word from the great host or from Mithrandir?” Faramir asked bluntly. Beregond shook his head.

“The city was silent last night when I arrived for duty,” said the guard Marod, “except at the first circle. Folk worked there by bonfire light. Perhaps the upper circles are so quiet because all the people are at the first circle, working to fortify the gates. I even saw women and children working or delivering food and water to the men.”

Faramir and Beregond conferred briefly; then they set off for the Council. Denethor's councilors and the trade guild representatives were already assembled in the meeting room of the Houses of Healing.

To Faramir's discomfort, the Gondorians rose at his arrival. He quietly found a chair among the men in the middle of the long council table. Hurin already occupied the chair at the head of the table. The Keeper of the Keys ordered the meeting to begin, and then asked the guild representatives to deliver a status report for each of their projects.

The representative of the Masons' Guild told of how his fellow stone-workers had cut massive stones out of the ruins of houses destroyed in the siege, which then were taken in carts to the fortifications. His report was interrupted by the arrival of the delegation of Rohirrim, with the Lady of Rohan at their head. The Gondorians started to rise in deference to the Lady, but she gestured for them to be seated.

On this morning, with his health and strength starting to revive, Faramir's reaction to the Lady Éowyn's presence was immediate. He noted how her lovely face was frozen into an impassive mask of brittle authority, as she took her seat next to the First Marshall. For the first time Faramir saw her in the garments of a noblewoman of Rohan. Her fitted cotehardie conformed to her shape, so unlike the baggy hospital gowns and oversized, probably borrowed dresses he had seen her wear so far. At last, he could tell that she had small, upright breasts, and a lean, muscular upper body, contrasted by curving hips perfect for bearing children. At this important, possibly contentious meeting, he was ferociously aroused at the sight of a lovely woman, like an inexperienced youth or the lonely Ranger he had been.

No doubt now that my health is improving, Faramir quipped to himself as he squirmed beneath his heavy robes. Both his body and mind were in great discomfort. Right now I have to pay attention to the proceedings, not dwell on the lady Éowyn . Even as he berated himself for his lack of bodily control, she turned her lovely dark blue eyes toward him. Her aloof bearing relaxed momentarily as she gave him a genuine grin. Ah, I can't stand this! Faramir struggled with his urges. Should I send a guard to Ithilien Faire after all?

The thought of tumbling a whore was hardly appealing when you were surrounded by arguing craftsmen and councilors. He tried to concentrate on the meeting, forcing his eyes upon the speakers, just in time to hear the Carpenters' Guild spokesman say, “The members of our guilds want your assurance that they will be rewarded in the end, as you have promised. ”

Faramir leaned back in his chair for a moment. So much for any arousal, he thought, repressing a bitter grin. He said gravely, “Our end is unknown to us. There is no guarantee that the West will prevail. If the host at the Black Gate is defeated, then your reward, at least in the near term, is safety behind the rebuilt walls. If by some great turn of fate, the Dark Lord falls, I will see to it that all are compensated.”

The Gondorian tradesmen grumbled. The councilors whispered among themselves. Faramir sat silent, tense, waiting.

Finally, a grey haired councilor in a rich velvet hat said, “My Lord Steward, I must speak what is on everyone's mind. We know very little of this man who took a force of just 500 to face the Enemy at his door. What if the Dunedain chief survives and comes back intending to be King?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir caught Éowyn bristling at the councilor's words. Her reaction suddenly troubled him. He took a deep breath and told everyone present what had been much on his mind:

“If Aragorn, son of Arathorn, returns to Minas Tirith, then I will accept him as my liege lord and king. I have made no secret of my feelings on this matter. Mithrandir and others before him have recognized Aragorn as Isildur's heir. Even my father suspected his true lineage. I am confident not only of the validity of Aragorn's claim but also the reports of his wisdom, strength, and courage.”

Among the Rohirrim, Éowyn 's face beamed. She smiled at him in hearty encouragement, but Faramir felt uneasy.

Erkenbrand, the First Marshall of Rohan said, “Aragorn is a gifted leader. I have seen him in the heat of battle. Yet even the best of us is easily felled by an arrow or a sword. By a stroke of luck, the West might prevail, but that does not mean our leaders will return alive.”

Faramir leaned forward, trying to take the participants' measure. He said, “If Aragorn does return, I will try to persuade him to compensate you as I have promised. If the worst happens and he does not return, then you will still receive your compensation. You have my word as Steward of Gondor.”

Hear, hear!” several of the guild representatives exclaimed, and suddenly the whole meeting erupted in a joyous wave of noise. Faramir quickly gestured to Hurin to strike his gavel on the table in the effort to silence the commotion.

At the sound, the Rohirrim jumped up in surprise. The men of Minas Tirith stopped their cheers, but the escalating noise continued from outside the council room. Then the Tower Guardsmen burst into the room shouting, “Lieutenant Anborn has come with a force from North Ithilien.”

A silent exclamation lit the faces of everyone in the room. Faramir's skin prickled as he asked, “Where are they?”

“Why, they're here! The nurses have surrounded them, begging for news.”

“Have Anborn meet us in the library right away,” Faramir ordered, and then indicated to Hurin to adjourn the meeting. He signaled for Beregond and Erkenbrand to join him as he rushed downstairs to the dusty library.

Moments later, the Ranger lieutenant Anborn and his sergeant Ornendil, whom everyone in Minas Tirith had presumed dead, entered the library. They collapsed into the comfortable chairs near the oversized desk, quite unable to speak.

Faramir, too, was momentarily rendered speechless. In his vision of two nights ago, Lieutenant Castamir had appeared, quite alive, in the hidden fortress above Cair Andros. He had heard Castamir tell his men that Anborn had left with messages for Minas Tirith. Anborn's exhausted presence in this very library meant that Faramir's vision was true, just as the Elven Queen had assured him. Then she too must really exist and await his help! Faramir felt his blood begin to rush. He quickly orde“red the Tower Guardsmen to fetch food and beverages for the worn out Rangers.

“We met the great company three days ago, north of Castamir's fort, on the road to Henneth Annun.” Anborn groaned and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “They were moving slowly and had not encountered any resistance. We've been riding hard and fast and untroubled by enemies to give you this news. ”

“The Witch King claimed that all who rode with me were dead,” Faramir spoke, so relieved to see the swarthy face and crooked-tooth smile of his capable lieutenant. “My father and everyone else saw no reason to question his claims. How did you manage to escape?”

“Through the southern gate to the cisterns, just as we planned,” Anborn answered. “When we entered the city, the enemy numbers were so overwhelming, we had no chance to prevail in prolonged combat. I ordered my men to hack their way through to the hidden gates, in hopes that most of us could escape into safety. To my surprise, the opposition we faced seemed disinterested. Most fought us as if we were just obstacles in their path to somewhere else.”

“They were on their way to try and trap me,” Faramir said laconically.

“I am sorry that I ordered such a swift retreat, Captain,” Anborn apologized. “It was my decision, and perhaps it was craven. I didn't want to sacrifice my men in a hopeless situation. I vowed that I would make amends to you in some way. I took it upon myself to lead my men to the north, either to join Castamir or relieve the few men still maintaining Henneth Annun.”

Ornendil said, “We kept well hidden, looking for retreating enemies, but saw no one for several days. Then we ran into Castamir and some of his trackers near the fort. They'd spied a medium-sized division of Easterlings and Uruks marching down from the north. With our group swelling their numbers, Castamir had enough Rangers to ambush them.”

“Shortly afterward we heard the sound of great horns and men chanting,” Anborn took up the story. We hid in the hills above the road. A good sized army flying both the flags of Gondor and Rohan marched up from the south. A single man rode ahead of them. Those of us with the best eyes reported that he was followed by heralds and standard bearers flying the seven stars and the white tree! As they came closer, we could hear the criers yell, 'The King Elessar has come.'

“We didn't know what to make of it. No one had heard of this king. Castamir and I resolved to have our men block their way as they marched into the narrow valley half a mile or so up the road.”

“We could move faster than the great company, so we snuck ahead and blocked their path as they came,” Ornendil continued. “Their leader reminded me of one of the statues of the kings up on the Citadel. He motioned for the host to halt perhaps 20 feet before us. There was something uncanny about him. I admit that I was scared. I thought that maybe Numenor had risen again, and the Valar had sent this great king from over the sea to battle it out with the Dark Lord.”

But Anborn laughed, “Then who should ride out past this Elessar but Mithrandir on his great white horse. He seemed as surprised and excited to see me as I was to see him. We'd learned of the victory in Minas Tirith earlier from Castamir. Mithrandir was full of much more news. He told us that no one who charged on Osgiliath had returned to Minas Tirith—except you and you were now the Steward. We also got to meet Elessar and learn of his plans. I met the King of Rohan and I saw your uncle, Captain, looking quite bright in his swan armor. They all were unharmed and their arms were untested.”

Faramir took a deep breath, ““You are the first to bring us news of the greater world. Minas Tirith tends its wounds in an eery peace since the battle at the Pelennor.”

“I've sent out some patrols a few miles beyond the Great Wall,” Erkenbrand said. “The only enemies they found were corpses that need burning. It's been strangely quiet.”

“Not even one of those cursed Nazgûl has paid us a call since the Lady of Rohan eliminated their boss,” Beregond said. “The Dark Lord has abandoned us. No doubt he finds his northern gates more important than lowly Gondor.”

Faramir considered the news for a moment. Then he said, “Aragorn's ruse is working. The Dark Lord knows of Aragorn's host and readies his armies for an attack on the Morannon. That's why he has left us alone. He might have sent the enemy patrol Castamir saw to spy on the host, rather than to attack it.”

He studied the faces of each of the four men in the library, and then said gravely, “The Captains of the West could arrive at the Morannon as early as tomorrow. What happens then, I doubt Eru himself could predict. All we can do is prepare for another attack here within the next week.”

Faramir sent Beregond and Erkenbrand out to relay the Rangers' news to all in Minas Tirith. His stomach felt edgy with tension; his wounds burned again. Leaving Anborn and Ornendil with the remainder of the food, Faramir headed into the garden and looked out to the East. High clouds feathered across the sky. The air felt heavy and cold. It would rain tomorrow.

The army of the West would soon be at the Morannon. But where was Frodo? He was certain that the halflings still lived. He somehow would know if and when harm came to them. Faramir remembered his promise to the Elven Queen, but he was too agitated to focus his clear sight on Frodo.

I feel useless, stuck inside when I should be outside, talking with people, helping along the walls, or possibly re-training myself with a sword. It's nine full days since I was brought back by Aragorn. He has left us. My father is dead. Gondor needs a leader. I owe it to the people to shed the invalid's role and publicly assume the Steward's office, if only for a brief while.

Faramir left the library as swiftly as he could, tailed as usual by the Tower Guardsmen. They quickly climbed two flights of stairs that amazingly did not steal his breath, and headed into the Men's wing. Nurse Nienor was preparing an herbal remedy at a table in the main hall. “I must see Narmar right now” Faramir demanded. She inclined her head respectfully, then gestured for Faramir and his guards to follow.

They climbed one last flight to the top floor of the building. As Faramir followed Nienor, he heard children's voices issuing from the rooms. Finally, the nurse paused in front of a non-descriptive door and put a finger to her lips. Faramir peeked his head into the doorway, trying to be unintrusive.

In the little room, Warden Narmar sat on one side of a girl not more than ten, explaining his actions as he cut a mass of thick casting from her left arm. On the girl's other side sat Éowyn, totally engrossed in the procedure, totally oblivious that Faramir was watching her. She was so magnificent, so animated, so amazingly smart, so beyond how his childhood fantasy of an ideal woman.

In this quiet moment, watching this intimate scene, Faramir realized that his life had changed. He suddenly accepted that he was so in love with Éowyn that it practically drove all other thoughts, even thoughts about the future of Minas Tirith, from his mind. He wanted to take her out of this ordinary room, speak to her of deep thoughts and utter nonsense, and kiss her cool lips until they steamed. Instead, he cleared his throat in a desperate attempt to remember his purpose. Éowyn looked up and a smile as broad as sunshine lit her face. “Narmar is showing me how to remove a cast like the one on my arm. Today I begin my apprenticeship as a healer,” she said proudly.

He took a deep breath, not wanting to break the tranquility of the moment. But speak he must, “Rangers have come from North Ithilien. They saw the great host three days ago. They haven't been challenged by enemies. One of the Rangers spoke with your brother, Éowyn . He is fine so far.”

At the news, the lady sat upright, “Aragorn? Did they speak of Aragorn?” The color left her face. Her right hand clenched as she moved it to her lap from the child's shoulder.
Her words pierced Faramir's heart as keenly as any arrow, as she asked, “How does he fare? You do not mention that he was harmed.”

If she had wanted to hide her love for the absent Dunedan, she had failed. He said grimly, “Anborn heard Aragorn as he spoke to all the Rangers. He did not mention speaking directly with Aragorn. I would assume that Aragorn was fine three days ago.”

“Three days ago. Anything could have happened since then,” Éowyn said softly, giving Faramir what he perceived as a surprised look.

“Very true. It might be many days until we find out what befell them,” Faramir sighed. “Narmar, we must talk. The host should reach the Black Gate tomorrow or the next day. Give me leave to take up my service in the Citadel, or I will leave this place tomorrow of my own accord.”

“I will determine your state only after I give you a complete examination, my lord Steward” the Warden continued to remove the girl's cast, hardly giving Faramir so much as a glance. “I'll examine you when I finish my rounds, just before the dinner hour.”

“Who are you?” the little girl interrupted, staring at Faramir.

“My name is Faramir.” Her spunk somewhat abated his growing gloom. The child had brown hair divided into two braids on either side of a lively, peasant's face. “You are very handsome, Faramir” she said blithely. “Are you married?”

“No.”

“Then you should marry Lady Éowyn ,” the girl declared emphatically. Faramir gasped. Where did this child get such ideas? Were his crazy, amorous thoughts and his disappointment so obvious that an innocent young girl could sense them?

“Shush, Rethe, you are too bold,” Narmar scolded as he positioned two narrow boards on either side of the girl's now cast-free arm. He held one strip of fabric against a board and gestured to Éowyn. She took the other end in her free hand and proceeded to bind it around the girl's arm. Faramir could not see Éowyn 's face as she teased, “Faramir is the Lord Steward of Gondor, Rethe. He's got more important things to think about right now than whom to marry.”

Rethe gleamed, “Well, then, if you are not spoken for in ten years from now, Lord Steward, I'll be old enough for you.”

“I'll remember that,” Faramir laughed at Rethe as he took his leave. But his mind swirled. Images of Éowyn , his duty, and horrible premonitions troubled his thoughts. He returned to the Men's wing but knew that he would be unable to rest. Could he bury his ardor for the lady and accept merely being a friend? A bitter taste formed in his mouth. The man whom Faramir looked to as Gondor's greatest hope was now his rival in love. He spent hours every day in the company of the White Lady of Rohan. He was about to officially become the Steward. What would happen when and if the king returned?