Ch. 2 - Friends of Gondor

More than a month had passed and still the House of Húrin mourned, not only for Denethor and poor Boromir, but also for its six year old Steward – lying unconsciousness in the Houses of Healing. The City reeled in its grief. Black flags hung from every battlement, horses hooves were socked to quiet their footfalls, children were strictly forbidden by their parents to shout or laugh outdoors, and inns were only kept open until one hour after sun’s set.  None of these things were commanded; the people did them in their grief.

Seeming to recover from the torture he had endured under the usurper’s hand, Faramir had been allowed to attend the entombment of Boromir. Sadly, his little heart could not take the bitter sorrow that engulfed it. He had flung himself upon his brother’s cold body, and was pulled screaming from it. He had collapsed in Indis’ arms and taken to the Houses. He had not awakened.

Exhorted by Ragnhild to rest, Indis would go to her chambers, lie down, and, once she knew her healer was abed, would rise and walk the parapets until dawn. The night watchmen would guard her, but they kept their distance, in diffidence to her sorrow. Her face grew worn and haggard and all who saw her turned in horror and sobbed. Nothing could diminish the memories of that last battle for her. Nothing could ease the shock of Boromir’s death. She would sit on the stone seat in the embrasure and wait for the dawn to come. Her hands still felt sticky from his blood, though she had washed them a hundred times at least.

The fountain’s lip had been cleaned thoroughly, but she knew exactly where he had fallen. She would go to the spot, kneel on the ground beside it, and gently wipe her hands across it. Once, she had found a shard from his tunic, lying in the bottom, and she had screamed his name and swooned. Éomund had rushed to her side, he was ever near, and lifted her gently in his arms. Waking, she struggled; he whispered her name over and over as he carried her to her chambers. Ragnhild had been called; she brought sweet tea and cold compresses. Indis had slept that night. None since had she slept through.

Once the sun rose, she would walk to the Houses and sit at Faramir’s bedside, holding his hand. Théodred stood behind her, face as still as stone. At last, Siriondil would enter the room, examine Faramir, then take Indis by the shoulder and gently lead her from the room. He would bring her to his office and offer her tea, but she would not take it, knowing it contained a sleeping drought. Shaking his head in exasperation, he would send her to her chambers.

The Council had been convened and passed the Regency to her, naming Faramir Steward, but the people of Gondor already called him that in their love for the family and for him. Prince Imrahil dispatched the day-to-day needs of Gondor, waiting for Indis to return and take this task from him. He handled it well, as she knew he would, but he found it distasteful. Every morning when he awoke, the burden of it reminded him of why he was still here in the City, reminded him that his beloved mentor and friend, Denethor, was dead, and that the dear Heir, his nephew Boromir, had also been murdered.

Théoden called a council – not of the White City’s lords, but of those who loved Indis and Faramir. It was very near to the safe room, where those who had striven to protect Boromir and Faramir had launched their fateful attack against the traitors of Minas Tirith. Éomund shuddered as he entered the hall, striding quickly past the door and into the room his king had called him to. Already Baranor stood waiting. He had been newly appointed counselor to the Captain of the Guards of the Citadel. Though he had been retired for nigh unto fifteen years, Minas Tirith had need of him, so he agreed. Gorlim was now counselor to the Captain of the Third Company of the Citadel, while Gildor counseled the Captain of the Steward’s own guard.

“I must return to Edoras,” Théoden said as he walked back and forth in the small room. “I have been gone too long. Denethor’s murderer, the traitor, is still hidden from me. I must discover his identity. We are in danger as long as he is free.”

“I agree, my Lord,” Éomund said. “However, I cannot bear to leave the Lady Indis alone. I ask your permission to stay in Minas Tirith at least another month. Mayhap the little one will awaken in that time.”

“She is not alone; Prince Imrahil remains in the City.” Théoden placed his hand on Éomund’s shoulder, “But I agree that you should stay.” He leaned against the heavy oaken table that dominated the room. “My son will not leave either. I have spoken with Théodred, but his vow to Boromir holds him here.”

“I will guard his back, my King,” Éomund said. “As will Captain Gildor.”

Elfhelm entered the room, his face etched in grief. He stood and waited for his king.

“Are my men ready?” Théoden asked him.

“Aye, my King. The column has assembled and awaits your orders.”

“The bodies of your sons and Grimbold – are they in the likwain?”

“They are, my King.” The man stood stoically before Théoden, but the king’s heart broke for his dear friend.

“Very well. I will be down within the hour. I will say my farewells to the Lady Indis and meet you before noon.”

Elfhelm saluted and left the room.

“He holds his grief well. I do not think I would be so noble if my sons’ bodies were in a likwain following our company. To lose both the same day.”

“They appointed themselves well,” Captain Gildor spoke quietly. “They guarded Boromir and Faramir with their lives. Worthy they are to be called Rohirrim, warriors of the Mark, and friends of Gondor!”