Ch. 8 - An Outing

Cold winds blew across the Pelennor as the City prepared for winter. Narquelië was upon them. Théodred had been gone well over a month now and the Steward’s mood was glum. Too many times, Indis found him sitting, legs curled under him, upon the bow of the escarpment, his hair whipping in the breezes that found the Citadel a choice place to play. This morning, as the chill air settled into her very bones, she watched. It had now been over an hour and the child had hardly moved.

“It is unnatural for a child his age to sit so long, doing naught,” Húrin noted.

“I would take him fishing, if you like,” Borondir spoke up. “If he needs time to think, sitting on the bank of the Anduin with a line in his hand would give him an excuse. Have you spoken to him?”

“Numerous times, but to no avail. His heart is in Rohan.”

“Of course it is. He misses Théodred.”

“I am not sure fishing would be the right thing, Borondir. Though I thank you mightily for the suggestion. Fishing was a past time that Faramir spent with his father and his brother. It would bring back too many memories.”

“Fishing memories are only good, Indis. Believe me. I will take Targon with me, if the lad is agreeable. All I have to do is say he can cook the fish when we are done and he will come willingly.” Borondir and Targon had struck up a great friendship whilst they were in Tarnost and both had striven to keep it strong and whole once Borondir moved back to Minas Tirith. “We will create new memories. Please,” he held her hand for a brief moment, “let me try.”

She nodded, her heart in her throat. “Thank you. Tomorrow, but with a full escort.”

“Only if they ride well enough behind us. I do not want the lad thinking this trip will be dangerous. His mind wanders far too often to horror, expecting only bad things to happen.”

~*~

They left at first light, with Indis there to send them off. Borondir knew she could not let Faramir go without a fare well. Her own memories of horror were still too fresh for her to let the lad off without some small hug. Borondir would have wept if the lad’s own sense of unease did not permeate the little party. Targon, however, was all smiles. His mood slowly infected Faramir. They rode from the Sixth Level to the Great Gate. At every corner and every storefront, people stopped what they were doing and called out kindly and with great fervor to their young Steward, cries of friendship and good fishing. How the word had gotten out, Borondir had no idea, but all in the City, it seemed, knew they were off for an adventure. Faramir’s little face glowed red from his surprise and discomfiture. “They love you, Lord Faramir,” Borondir whispered to him as Faramir tried to squish down into his horse’s mane. “Wave to them. It will make them very happy.”

Faramir looked up in surprise. He nodded and began to wave. The people responded with joy. Much laughter filled the City’s streets and a song was taken up, one of Tuor and Idril, and all smiled as they watched Faramir ride by, one who appeared as they thought a descendant of Eärendil should look. It took twice as long as usual to travel to the Great Gate.

At last, they entered the Pelennor and Faramir’s smile grew bright. Borondir breathed a sigh of relief. They rode at a leisurely pace, stopping now and again as farmers, herders and such hailed them. Whenever that happened, Faramir would stop, dismount and speak with them. Borondir, amazed, sat and watched as the seven-year old boy offered himself to their adulation. Then, he would mount and they would ride on. The soldier from Tarnost realized that any plans he might have had would not be fulfilled. It would take them the whole day to reach the Causeway Forts, never the mind the Anduin.

By noontime, they reached an inn that Húrin had told him about. The innkeeper ran out, arms wildly waving in delight at his Steward’s visit, and shouted orders so loud that Borondir noted Faramir had his hands to his ears. He smiled. At long last, they were dismounted and allowed to enter the inn. There were many soldiers of Gondor about, as well as simple folk. The innkeeper showed them a table near a window.

“Anything that you like is yours for the asking, my Lord Steward,” the man bowed low. “I am honored that you would visit my little establishment.”

Faramir blushed. “I would just like a little lamb and some rice, if I may?”

“Of course. In just a few moments. Would you like some wine?”

Faramir and Targon laughed. “Some fruit juice?”

“I have some fine, newly-pressed apple juice. You will like it.” He ran to the back before anyone else had a moment to order.

Once again, Faramir and Targon laughed. Borondir smiled.

The man returned within moments with two mugs of cold cider and a large flagon of ale for Borondir. The warrior nodded appreciatively.

The innkeeper beamed. “I served your father once, a very long time ago. He was very kind.”

Faramir’s eyes grew bright, but he smiled at the man. “I believe he told me of that visit. Not often did he ride onto the Pelennor. Less frequent were the times he stopped for sustenance. He said your lamb was quite good.”

The man’s smile grew even larger. “I never did meet your brother.”

Borondir quickly changed the subject. “I would like some lamb myself. Targon, what would you like?”

“Do you have fresh fish?”

“I do. Fresh trout from a little mountain stream that runs from Mindolluin. Just received it this morning. You will like it. Breaded?”

“Nay. Broiled?”

“Good choice.”

“With some basil and tomatoes?”

“Hmmm. Perhaps you would like to come to my kitchen? You sound like you know something about cooking.”

“Oh! May I?” The boy stood up and followed the owner into the back. They heard the mention of garlic, mustard, ginger and thyme.

Faramir laughed. “Do you think he will return?”

Borondir smiled. “Are you enjoying yourself, Faramir?”

“I am.”

“I was quite proud of you as you greeted the people.”

Faramir blushed and whispered, “I watched my father. He oft did the same. I thought it only right, if I am to be the Steward.”

“You are the Steward, Faramir. And you appointed yourself well today. Your father would have been proud.”

Faramir looked down at his mug. “I was frightened.”

“You did not show it and I did not hear fear in your voice.”

Faramir looked up; delight filled his voice. “You did not hear it. I thought… my voice trembled.” The last words were whispered again.

“Faramir. You have nothing to fear or be ashamed of. Your voice was strong and firm. It reminded me of your father’s.”

Tears filled the boy’s eyes. “Thank you.”

“Here! This fellow is quite a good cook,” Targon’s merry voice interrupted them. “Look at the dish he has created. It has peppers and olives and tomatoes…”

Faramir laughed. “Stop! Stop! When do we get to eat it?”

The innkeeper placed their plates in front of them with a flourish. “It is nice to share recipes with another great cook.”

Targon blushed. “Thank you.”

“I have an idea,” Faramir said quickly. “When we bring back the fish we catch, you can cook them for us.”

“Indeed I will, my Lord Steward. And without charge! It would be an honor.”

As they finished their meal, knights and warriors of Gondor began to file forward. Most gave Faramir Gondor’s salute and walked away, but a few knelt by the boy and held his hand, tears filling their eyes. Some were mute; others offered words of condolence. Faramir bit his lip but acknowledged each greeting. For those with words, he offered his own, asking if they had fought with his father or if they had served under him in the Citadel. An hour went by and Borondir began to be concerned: it seemed the inn was filling up with more and more of Gondor’s knights. Word must have spread that the Steward was within. Faramir’s resistance was low and the boy was still too thin and weak. He could not let this continue. “My lords,” he intoned, “Lord Faramir thanks you for your kindness, but we must be away. We are bound for the Causeway Forts and if we tarry further, we will not arrive till well after dark. Would you give us permission to leave?”

Faramir looked up in surprise and chagrin, but stopped himself from speaking. Borondir acknowledged his feelings by a short nod of his head and began to rise. All the men in the inn rose with him. One warrior jumped upon a table and shouted, “Long live Faramir, Steward of Gondor!” The others responded. Shouts of ‘Huzzah!’ filled the air. Faramir began to cry. Borondir, wanting to pick him up and hold and comfort him, saluted instead and pointed towards the door. Targon took Faramir by the arm and the two boys left. Borondir saluted the men in the inn. “Thank you! You have done more than you know this day. The Regent, Indis, will hear of your kindness.” He swallowed hard and followed the boys out the door. They mounted and rode off in silence.