Chapter 28

Only A Steward

May 18

Southern Gondor, Battle Line, Gondorian Side

Bartho had finished his rounds of the camp — a self-imposed duty he had taken during the Gondorian retreat to make sure that falling back did not mean a loosening of sentry duty. It would be just like Mavranor to use even this aspect of the attack to her advantage. He was backtracking now to his own tent, but just before he entered he knew something was wrong.

He looked back along the row of tents, searching grimly for the problem, and found it instantly. Beregond the Sleepless was not at his post.

The Dúnadan did not pause to rationalize why Beregond's absence might be harmless — few things in life had rational, harmless answers — and that meant… the worst. As he ran down the row he drew his sword and dagger.

He was only a dozen feet away from Faramir's tent when a figure burst through the entrance, and a short glance assured him it was no Gondorian. He did not even blink when their eyes met, nor when the knife he threw caught the stranger in the throat. He did not pause to look at the body as he thrust aside the flaps of Faramir's tent with a loud slap.

It was dark inside, but he went to the lamp on the table and lit it, hearing the ominous sounds of labored breathing over by the cot. The wick flared into orange light, revealing Faramir on the floor. He was pale, bleeding from half a dozen places, and his face was dripping with sweat as his chest heaved with adrenaline. His bloody sword sat across his lap.

"Hello, Bartho," he said tonelessly.

Bartho said nothing, but took Faramir's uninjured elbow and helped him, limping, to the chair. For an anxious moment he busied himself looking for fatal injuries, answering Faramir's attempted protests with a brief, "Hush." Silently he thanked the Valar that the stabs were not that serious, though definitely in need of care. If there was one thing the army could not afford to lose just now — he didn't like to finish the thought. In particular he noticed the place where Faramir's jerkin had been sliced open at the chest, revealing a matching score across the chain mail beneath it.

"His first attempt. It woke me," Faramir answered his unasked question.

"I'd imagine it would." He cast the Steward a measuring glance. "Good thing you were sleeping in your mail."

Faramir's smile was more of a grimace. "A habit I acquired from a hard-headed doomsayer. 'Saves time when catastrophes intrude on my sleep.' I did not expect them to try that."

"Didn't you?" Bartho was binding the stab wounds in Faramir's thigh to prevent further blood loss.

"No, in all honesty. I'm only a Steward, Bartho. Hardly the proudest and strongest of men." Faramir's tone was wry.

"You're only— oh, never mind." Bartho scowled blackly, muttering, "The lie's entrenched; why waste time? And you'll need a healer for these wounds. Assassins too often love to poison their blades."

"Did he escape?" Faramir asked, calmly ignoring the last comment.

"No."

"Where is Beregond?"

"I don't know yet— you sit down," Bartho's tone changed mid-sentence as Faramir tried to rise. "I'll find him." He left the tent, returning a little while later dragging Beregond's still form.

"Beregond!" Faramir exclaimed, rising anyway and kneeling beside the guardsman, performing the same check that Bartho had made on him. Beregond was still alive, though badly hurt and pale as a ghost. "I am so sorry, my friend," Faramir whispered softly.

In the middle of the night, the entire camp found itself in a controlled uproar. Healers were called for Faramir, Beregond, and a sentry who had been propped up, unconscious, at his post at the perimeter. The assassin had been identified as a Southron and a search for other accomplices had stirred everyone from their sleep. The soldiers were to be found in anxious groups, speaking in low and serious tones about the incident, until military discipline seemed entirely forgotten.

Bartho reinforced the sentry line, but left the rest of the men alone. They would sleep after Faramir emerged on his own two feet to reassure them.

As he waited outside the healer's tent for just that, Bartho watched the men lingering nearby. He snorted under his breath, almost with satisfaction, and took a sip from his water flask. "Here's to Lord Denethor: may he be writhing in humiliation over the worst misjudgment of his life. And here's to Queen Mavranor: likewise.

"'Only a Steward'…" And he laughed outright.

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May 20

Minas Tirith, Gondor

Duurben was being followed. Again. The pursuer was as persistent as ever, only more patient than Duurben had come to expect. They'd been walking and stalking, respectively, for almost an hour. The man found himself again in the middle of the old quandary — should he object, or defend himself, or should he play along? He berated himself for the debate. If the prince was able to play chase in the corridors even with his father absent and his mother dying, surely Duurben's duty was to meet him halfway. Surely that was the good and right and honorable thing to do…

"Honorable," he whispered, and felt like he was choking on the word. He was suddenly too tired to play games. Almost too tired to keep walking under the weight on his shoulders. He slowed to a halt and his entire body slumped in defeat. Valar above — such a defeat. What if the traitor (and that was the only way he could let himself think of his nephew anymore) injured or delayed Aragorn? What if some new threat broke through his guard to take the life of the queen? What if…?

"YAHHH!" Eldarion's war-cry sounded and he leapt from concealment, crashing into Duurben's lower back.

So lost in thought, the guardsman was taken completely unaware. Reflexes slowed through too many sleepless nights sent him crashing forward with barely a move made to cushion himself. There was a painful sounding thud as armor collided with stone flooring, and a grunt of pain from Duurben as an old injury in his shoulder protested the jolt that ran all the way up his left arm.

For a moment it seemed almost too much effort to stand back up again. So much easier to just stay on the floor. The stone was cool beneath him.

"Captain Duurben?" a small voice asked. Eldarion's blue eyes, round with shock at his own handiwork, came within inches of Duurben's tired green gaze. "Can't you get up?"

"Yes," Duurben murmured, and the boy backed up as he pushed himself to a sitting position. Pain shot through his shoulder again, so he decided not to press his luck and he remained sitting in the corridor with his back against the wall. How had that happened to him? Was there anything left of worth in his pathetic body?

"I'm sorry."

"What?" Duurben turned, a little bewildered since he'd almost forgotten Eldarion's presence. The prince was crouching in front of him, knees bent, sitting on his heels, with his elven mother's and Dúnadan father's influence clear in the ease with which he balanced in that pose. His dark hair was hanging partly in his eyes and his expression was worried.

"I'm sorry," he repeated. "I didn't mean to hurt you."

Hurt. Oh, Ilúvatar, yes it hurt. "You didn't hurt me, your highness. I — stumbled a little, that's all. I'm quite alright."

The dark head shook in denial, disturbing the dust motes in the air. "You're not alright. You're holding your shoulder all stiff, and there're bruises under your eyes."

"Those aren't bruises," the man replied, hoping to deter the child's interest.

"Oh." Eldarion nodded wisely. "So you can't sleep either?"

"No." So much for deterring him.

"I don't sleep well most of the time. I have nightmares that there's someone in the girl's room who's going to hurt them, but when I go look the only person in there is Lady Eowyn. Then sometimes I think someone's in my room and I'm too scared to get out of bed." His gaze turned shrewd. "Tantur ran away, didn't he?"

Duurben jumped. "How did you know?"

The boy gave a one-shoulder shrug. "He used to keep watch around Naneth and Ada's rooms, but he's not there anymore, and Pippin said," here he borrowed the hobbit's accent, "Tantur was thoughtless slug of a man and left you here alone. Why did he run away?"

Ah, now there was a question. "I don't know, your highness. He didn't tell me."

"He wasn't a good nephew for you, then. Can you ever get a new one?"

"I'm afraid not, my sister's been dead for several years now." Just as well, considering recent events.

"It'll be fine, though."

"Fine?"

Eldarion nodded emphatically, moving so that he could sit cross-legged on the floor. "Yes. You're a soldier — a very brave one — and it'll be fine."

Duurben chuckled mirthlessly. "What if I've let my nephew do horrific things? Is that something a brave soldier is supposed to do?"

The boy's nose scrunched up in distaste, "That's Tantur's problem. He's all grown up now — he's supposed to figure those things out himself. Besides, it's not like you're his ada or anything. You're just his uncle."

"I'm responsible for him."

"That doesn't mean you can make him do things like a puppet. Captain Eression is sometimes responsible for Ada and Ada does just as he pleases."

"This is different," Duurben almost growled.

"Why?" Eldarion countered.

"It merely is, your highness. I'm not only responsible for my… family, I'm also responsible for yours. My duty here is to protect you from people who want to hurt you. In letting Tantur hurt your mother, I — I doubly failed."

The boy stiffened suddenly, and too late Duurben remembered that Eldarion hadn't been told the name of the man responsible for the queen's sickness. He remembered the times Tantur had cheerfully teased and played with the prince and his sisters. Too late.

"T-Tantur… Tantur put the snake in Naneth's room?" he whispered, his voice incredibly small and vulnerable.

The shocked words twisted like a knife in Duurben's already aching heart. "Yes," he said hollowly, and turned his face away from the stricken lad like a coward. "Yes. And I let it happen."

He waited for the condemnation that was sure to follow — he almost willed it to come. It could not possibly equal the guilt clawing scars in his own soul.

Then there came the feel of a slender hand reaching up to rest against his cheek, the pressure turning his face back towards the prince until their eyes met once again.

"I won't let you be sorry for things you didn't do; but I'll forgive you for everything else. Will that help?"

"What?" The word cracked in the middle.

"Will that help? Make you stay, and not worry anymore, I mean. Ada calls you his true friend, and he never lies. You shouldn't wither all up just because Tantur was 'a slug of a man'; that takes something bad and makes it worse. Please?"

Something warm began to fill Duurben and lift the lead weights from his heart. Too full for speech, he nodded once in answer. He could feel his chest tightening as worries, fears, despair and forgiveness jumbled together in his mind. Against his will, his eyes began to blink rapidly.

"It's not bad to cry, you know," Eldarion whispered.

And the walls broke. Awkwardly, his breath hitching painfully in his chest, Duurben's whole body hunched in misery and he began to weep. There were many things worth crying for, but not the least was the loss of his nephew and the relief of forgiveness. If there was anything worth remaining for, it was Aragorn's friendship and Eldarion's love.

He felt an arm looped over his bowed shoulders and a hand patting him gently on the back. "See there," Eldarion murmured. "That's better already."

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Arien woke with a start. She was a light sleeper anyway, but particularly easy to awaken if her name were called, and she had a sixth sense that that was what had happened. She looked around the room, which was turning orange as the sun began to set. There was nobody there, except of course for Arwen lying asleep in her own bed. Or was she asleep…?

Sitting up, Arien's keen ears caught the sound of murmured speech, as if Arwen were conversing with herself. Anxiously the handmaid rose and came forward. So far, even on nights when the queen was particularly ill, she had not succumbed to delirium.

Arwen was actually asleep, and she was weary enough that her eyes were closed, but she was speaking aloud in her dreams, as if her husband was standing next to her. Since she was talking about her children, Arien assumed her name had be said in connection with them.

"Eldarion watches everything you do…" she murmured, a smile crossing her pale lips. "Do you remember when you and Legolas taught him to cross rivers using rope?" She chuckled weakly. "I know it… it wasn't your fault. It never is. You came back so wet… I thought even Legolas would catch pneumonia. You… you had told Eldarion to let you explain it to me, so I wouldn't be frightened, and the minute you walked in he came to me, trailing mud, and said, 'Naneth, I drowned. But not really.' Yes, I know, Estel, it was obvious he hadn't drowned, but you have to understand how mothers think.

Her words were coming almost fluidly, so different from her tired speech when she was awake. "So you say Eldarion reached the middle and became frightened and Legolas went to get him. Only he was used to elven rope and his knots did not hold… he… they felt the rope loosen and Legolas grabbed it just in time, but when the rope went taut again with their weight it snapped you across the chest." She paused, her head turned a little feverishly. "You really do attract injury, dearest, and Legolas…. Only you two… out of a simple lesson in outdoor survival, you got a broken rib, him bruises and a sprained wrist, and Eldarion came out right as rain… other than being drenched on a cold day. And of course, the moment the healers left, Duurben descended, wanting an explanation… you shouldn't keep slipping your guards, Estel… I… I know you're a ranger… I know you need to s-slip off… Estel? Estel, where are you going?"

She began to toss in her sleep, her all-too-thin hands gripping at the coverlet. Her dream was changing. "No… no… come back! Keep it, Estel… you have to keep it… it was mine to give… mine… you can't let them frighten you, Estel… can't fall to it, or… he prevails… you don't have t-to… to take the Ring for him to win… don't have to… give up… can't… Estel! Estel, don't… come back!"

Arien was shaking the sleeping woman hard now, trying desperately to wake her and fighting tears. The battle Arwen was reliving was long in the past, but her current battle seemed no less desperate.

With a startled sound between a moan and a shriek, Arwen's blue eyes flew wide. "Estel?" she gasped, her hand flying to the empty place in the bed, but her husband wasn't there.

"No, my lady," Arien said quietly, "it is me. His highness hasn't returned yet."

For a moment Arwen's eyes closed, but when they opened she appeared more lucid. "I know," she said through labored breathing. "I'd know if… I'll know."

"He'll bring back the cure, my lady," Arien said, dabbing at Arwen's forehead. The Lhandlas was keeping the poison at bay, but only so far, and each dawn robbed the queen of a little more life.

"He may," Arwen agreed. "He may not. He will… he will try. He is Estel… he will always… try. But he will come back to me… no matter what."

"He loves you dearly," Arien said, her eyes bright.

"I know it." Arwen smiled. "It is… a great thing to know you are loved. Make certain you don't let me keep you from… your own… I would hate to hoard you."

"You could never be so selfish, my lady," the handmaid reassured her. "But I'm afraid that, well… he is more afraid than I am."

"Mm. He, you say? You've… been holding out on me. Can you…" Arwen paused for a steadying breath, but seemed alert and interested. "Can you tell me who…?"

Arien hesitated only a moment, then blushed and looked away. "General Bartho."

"Aha, I see. A good choice, though I don't think many maidens would notice… such a one."

"How could they not? He is compassionate and kind and humorous and intelligent and brave… what is there that is so repulsive?"

Arwen's chuckle was musical. "Obviously you're quite taken. Good. I think he is considered too gruff, and his scowl… isn't charming enough … and he will not praise without truth. Estel tells me a woman was unkind to him. Be wise, Arien, for both your sakes. Don't let his hurt become both your hurt."

"Aye," Arien smiled softly, then blushed even harder. "He sent me a letter a few days ago."

"Oh?" Arwen shifted on her pillows. "Private?"

"It purports to be an inquiry after my health, but… well…"

"Read on," the queen smiled, genuinely pleased and interested, so Arien went to her cot and removed an envelope from underneath the pillow.

Sitting again she unfolded the short letter and read aloud, "'Lady Arien, I write to you hoping that you've sufficiently got over the attack that you and our queen recently fell under. Particularly I wanted to make sure you had recovered from the personal injuries you received at the filthy hands of that…'" she paused and grinned a little mischievously, "I'm sorry, my lady, it is dwarvish, and not very complimentary."

"You know what it means?"

"Yes, I'm afraid, but translated it sounds even worse, so I'll just skip that bit." She traced a finger along and found her place again, "'I was pleased to see that even the most horrible and inscrutable of villains is still a prey to the old art of vase-clubbing. My gratitude for your help that night is still fresh in my mind. I am not used to being this pleased at having escaped death… Erynbenn is quite beside himself with nonsense as he tries to encourage the cause of my abnormal good humor.

"But I'm afraid of boring you, and truly the only reason for this letter is that I was forced to leave Minas Tirith so immediately that I was unable to make sure you had survived without ill effects. You said you were quite fine, but I happen to know you are good at mincing the truth when you think there is work you are supposed to be doing. Make sure you don't leave off sleeping now that there is no one to order you around like an arbitrary tyrant. Thank you again, too, for the scarf you gave me; it made a very serviceable bandage and it cleaned up well when I was through with it. I am making sure not to lose it. With my regards to the queen, and my hope that she is improving, I remain your servant, Bartho."

Arien refolded the letter and looked down at it, her slim fingers caressing the edges of the parchment. "If I learned anything from meeting him, I learned that all the things he wants most to say are squeezed between the lines. Such a short letter, and yet…"

"He is saying a great deal." Arwen agreed seriously.

"I'm still trying to decide what I shall write back. I feel like a lass again. Here I am, grown woman, quaking in my skirts lest he turn me away. I assumed no man would ever make me feel this way. I certainly assumed any man who did would be… well… different, I suppose."

"I had the same dilemma. Estel was wearing a tattered, mud-spattered coat and smelled of orc, for one thing, and for another he didn't have the right ears. At least… I believe that's what was troubling Adar at the time. I was having a hard time concentrating on his objections…"

Together the women laughed, the warm health of the handmaid's mirth twining agreeably with the silvery trickling of the elf's laughter, and though Arwen was still smiling after her weak chest would not let her laugh anymore, Arien felt her heart constrict painfully.

Hurry home, Elessar. The Evenstar is waning fast…

Authors’ Note: We’re about to leave on a trip to go visit friends and relatives in Illinois, so we won’t be posting the next chapter for at least a week. We’re sorry to leave you on such a dramatic note, but we felt this was preferable to an out-and-out cliffy. *smile* You are all amazing people, and we thank you for your patience! - Sarah and Hannah