Chapter Two

The Lady of Rohan took the grave tidings with all the grace and pride that Faramir expected of her. He felt, almost, as if he were two people, the man who could look at her face and never tire, delighting in all the vagaries of her character, and the one who saw a daughter of kings, stern as steel, a warrior who had won glory and renown on the Pelennor Fields, not merely for her people, but among them.

She must go to Cormallen, she said, and the part of him that looked at the world and saw an enormous chessboard agreed. Elfhelm was a fine man and a fine leader of men in battle; however, when there was no enemy to be fought, no charge to be made, he was at a loss, and Halmir of Lossarnach, himself no diplomat, was forced to do the duty of two.

Faramir knew that he, too, must go to Cormallen, for much the same reason. Húrin was more than capable of leading any defence of the City that might be required.

‘I shall come as well,’ Lothíriel said. ‘I shall be needed.’

He thought that his young, sheltered cousin should be protected from whatever she might find there; and he thought that she would be of infinite use. Lothíriel had always been the darling of her father’s people.

‘Very well,’ he said.

Éowyn rode a little apart, her mail gleaming brightly in the sun. She had insisted upon riding clad as a Rider, and to her surprise, he had not demurred. In fact, he felt it a prudent choice and approved, though he doubted she required it.

Lothíriel plaited flowers into her hair.

They were greeted with considerable relief by Halmir, Elfhelm, an Arnorian, Mithrandir, and an exhausted peredhel who looked decidedly more Man than Elf today.

‘You may not recall my young friend,’ Mithrandir said presently, gesturing towards the peredhel. Faramir looked at him, estimated his age at three thousand years, and bowed.

‘Elrohir, son of Elrond, at your service, and your family’s,’ he said. Faramir’s lips thinned, then he caught a glimpse of Lothíriel out of the corner of his eye.

‘I really must insist,’ she was saying, with her typical indomitable sweetness. ‘Nobody must be moved until they have the healers’ leave.’

Faramir smiled then, and replied, ‘Faramir, son of Denethor, at your service . . . and your family’s, though I doubt they require it.’

A shadow darkened Elrohir’s face. ‘Who can say, my lord? I stand here today because of two hob— halflings, you would say.’

‘We none of us can tell what the future will hold — in its entirety,’ he agreed. ‘The halflings, how are they?’

‘They will live. Sam is nearly wholly recovered.’

‘And Frodo?’ Faramir searched his eyes and something briefly altered the other’s face, softening the harsh lines. The image of the hobbit, far thinner than when he had seen him — almost emaciated — and the brown skin ashen pale, flashed into his mind.

‘His recovery is slower,’ Elrohir said, ‘as I daresay you can imagine.’

‘Lord Steward,’ Halmir said, turning to him with Lothíriel at his side, ‘surely you cannot expect a delicately brought up young lady to visit . . . visit men, wounded men — ’

Lothíriel’s grey eyes were as cold and stern as Éowyn’s. ‘Cousin, I must act in the stead of the Prince of Dol Amroth. If he were here, you know that he would perform his duty by those in his service.’

Faramir looked at her a moment, judging carefully. A knight, he thought, as much as Éowyn — flowers and all. ‘Halmir, you cannot expect Alphros to fulfil his position at his age. His aunt is acting Prince — Princess — of Dol Amroth.’

‘But my Lord Steward, there is no precedent, it is unheard — ’

Faramir smiled and said gently, ‘My dear Halmir, I was not making a suggestion. Please escort the Princess to the Belfalas camp.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

He noted to himself that he would have to smooth Halmir’s ruffled feathers at some point, and instruct — or advise? — Lothíriel. Elfhelm and Éowyn were deep in conversation. He hesitated, then left them to it. The Rohirrim were and had always been fiercely autonomous. Officious interference would do her no favours.

He turned back to Elrohir and Mithrandir. The latter looked almost amused. ‘You are transforming Gondor already, my friend.’

‘I? You give me too much credit, Mithrandir; Pelendur decided that Gondor was not Númenor and would not follow her ways, but must look forward to the needs of the present time.’

The Arnorian said, his voice harsh, ‘I confess, my Lord Steward, we have never seen his decision in that light.’

‘Fortunately it is my place, at present, to interpret such decisions,’ he replied easily. ‘Forgive me, I do not believe I have the pleasure of your acquaintance?’

The unknown Dúnadan bowed. ‘Arothir son of Borondir — son of Beren, who was the second-eldest son of Argonui.’

So he meant to claim the Chieftainship. Faramir looked at him. He was younger than the Lord Aragorn had been, though he looked older — perhaps seventy. Undoubtedly he had sons. Perhaps even living sons. Faramir considered. He, himself, had accepted Aragorn’s claim. He had known that he was the rightful King, legal difficulties notwithstanding. This one — every thought recoiled from it. The Arnorians could quarrel to their hearts’ content. He would have preferred a strong neighbour there, particularly for the halflings’ sake, but entangling Gondor in Northern affairs could only be disastrous.

‘Faramir son of Denethor,’ he replied coolly. He had no intention to try and bow others down by the weight of his titles and birth; he knew who he was, and they knew, and that was sufficient.

Elfhelm and Éowyn took their leave, and though he knew perfectly well that he would see her again, it felt somehow a final parting, that they would never meet on such terms as they had during the long days of waiting.

He visited his own people, and also those of Arnor, on nothing more than what might be called the impulse of the moment. A young man of about his own age, whose only injury seemed to be in the arm caught in a sling, stared at him as he spoke to the wounded and dying. Before he could pass to those of Dol Amroth, the other man stopped him.

‘Hîr nin.’

Faramir inclined his head. ‘May I be of assistance?’

‘I was not aware, my lord, of any warm feeling for my people, here in the South.’

The Steward gazed at him a moment, his expression very tranquil. ‘Is that so?’

‘It is said that your people envy us, for we carry the blood of Númenor unmingled, and we have carried on the line of kings unbroken.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes.’ He smiled crookedly. ‘And I have since heard it said, here, that lineage is nothing without a place to call our own, that no man may call himself king without a kingdom. I have heard that we are nothing now, a handful compared to even the waned might of Gondor, destroyed by our own hubris, and unworthy of honour in this land. Tell me, what does a Gondorian of high race do here, among we who remain only on sufferance, on the remembrance, the reflection of the glory of our Chieftain, who is gone beyond the circles of this world?’

‘He believes,’ said Faramir, ‘that it is the tragedy of our race that we insist upon dividing among ourselves. Your people and mine are both Dúnedain, the nearest kin of all the peoples of the world. Whether we happen to dwell in the North or the South is a matter of little significance.’

The other Dúnadan stared at him. ‘Are there many in Gondor like you?’

‘Perhaps. Tell me, how is your arm?’

‘Well enough. It is my own fault; I could not command my own horse. And yours?’

‘A Southron arrow and the Black Breath.’

The man’s eyes widened. ‘And yet you are here. You must be a man of staunch will; I could not have done it.’

‘I owe my survival to your . . . late . . . Chieftain. He brought me back.’

‘I see,’ he said, still looking rather bemused. ‘Oh, I beg your pardon; Dior son of Arminas, at your service.’

‘Thank you,’ said Faramir. ‘I am Faramir son of Denethor.’

Dior stared. ‘You are the Steward of Gondor?’

Faramir’s eyebrows lifted. ‘I am.’

‘I meant,’ he added quickly, ‘you are not at all what I expected. I thought — well, what I thought is of no consequence.’

‘Oh, I believe it is. Would you mind accompanying me?’

With a faintly suspicious look, Dior assented. Faramir did not leave himself time to doubt, trusting his instincts as he always had.

‘Our people are in a very delicate position at present. We have our victory, but at such a price that we are now vulnerable to attack. Rohan and Arnor have lost their leaders. The Lord Aragorn may have expected such a turn of events when it was decided to leave many of our forces behind to protect my City.’

‘Your city?’

‘I am the Lord of Gondor, and of Minas Tirith — unless the king should come, again,’ Faramir said evenly. ‘I understand that the line of Isildur’s heirs has never been broken, not once.’

Dior stood a little straighter. ‘No, never.’

‘Then I daresay the protocol for the succession must be very uncertain.’

‘Nonexistent, you mean.’ Dior met his eyes keenly. ‘You must have met Arothir.’