Ch. 3

Earlier that morning at dawn

Standing at the base of the pinnacle of the Tower of Ecthelion Faramir watched as two guards of the Citadel prepared the Stewards banner to be flown.  He watched as the snow-white banner of the Stewards with the silver tree and seven stars that had flown above the Citadel for close to a thousand years was raised one last time.  Hand over hand the guards inched banner higher until it reached the top of the spire.  He felt compelled to watch this ritual that had been performed every morning for nine hundred and sixty-nine years.  His heart swelled with pride for the dedication that the Stewards had served with these many centuries, in hope, out of duty and at the last he was to be the one to perform the rite so long ago sworn.  To give over the Stewardship to the newly returned king.  His thoughts strayed to his father, and he felt a tear fall.  Would he have given over the Stewardship had his mind not been corrupted by the palantir and Sauron’s whispered words that insidiously shadowed his heart to duty.  Another tear stained his face as it was turned upwards towards the banner as it seemed to scrape the sky.  It pained him to admit it, but he truthfully did not know.  He tried to bat away the thought as unworthy, telling himself that his own troubled relationship with his father colored his view.

He pushed the unworthy thoughts of his father to one side, telling himself this was a day of celebration not of recrimination.  He would probably ponder the unsettled relationship for the rest of his life, but he would enjoy this day and this celebration for what it was.  He felt like he needed to have a reason to feel joy and this was as good a reason that existed in this world.  He had to return to his suite of rooms, Eirik was waiting to adorn him in coronation finery.  He smiled thinking of his squire.  He could not have a more devoted servant and he had best get back, lest the boy should worry.  Eirik knew that Faramir hated pomp and ceremony.  Much like Aragorn, Faramir thought.  He murmured, “It is our life now so we had best get used to it.”

“Pardon, My lord steward?” one of the guards asked, “What was that?”

Faramir turned and smiled warmly at the guard, “Nothing, Harthedir.  Just musing on the fate of the world is all.” he chuckled.  

Harthedir looked up at the banner flying, “It is all changing, My Lord Faramir.  Is it not?  And all for the better.  I feel” He paused searching for the word, “…hope once again.”

Faramir looked into the eyes of the guardsman he had known since the boy had come from the Lebennin to start training and was then named to the Citadel guard.  He saw happiness and hope.  He placed a hand on the guardsman’s shoulder, “I share this feeling as well.  It is time to make things right.”  Harthedir nodded, determination in his eyes. “Are you to raise the colors when it is time?”

“Yes,” the guardsman stated in a suddenly emotion-choked voice.  He cleared his throat, “That is to be our honour,”

“Good man!”  Faramir nodded to Danaer, the other guardsman and then to Harthedir, “I must return to my suites. Eirik is waiting to make me grand!”

Harthedir smiled, “He is ever the diligent one, is he not, My Lord?”

Faramir chuckled, “That he is, Harthedir, that is he is!  Till later,” he stated as he made his way down to Eirik and finery.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Eirik had been up since before dawn and he had slept on the pallet within his lord’s room instead of his mum and dad’s home on the third tier as he had since his lord had given him permission after the eagles had flown to the City with news of Mordor’s fall.  He wanted to be on hand for whatever his lord might need in the early morning hours on the day of the coronation.  He had been up late polishing Faramir’s armor so it would shine until Faramir told him to stop and go to bed.  “Get some rest, the world will be there tomorrow.”  Eirik smiled and did his lord’s bidding.  But he awoke as Faramir left his suite just before dawn, dressed quickly to finish polishing the ceremonial breastplate that Faramir was to wear.  His lord needed to look his best to give over the Stewardship into the hands of the King.  Next, after brushing down the deep blue velvet of his lord’s ceremonial robe, he ran a hand over the fabric reveling in the softness of it.  He marveled at the silver embroidery along the hem.  He drew a deep breath and let out a shuddering sigh.  He tried to master the overwhelming grief that sigh had brought and he wiped away an offending tear that he was ashamed to have shed.

Faramir entered his bower and saw his normally ebullient squire wiping a tear away.  He smiled as his heart went out to the boy.  “Eirik?”  He saw the boy’s back straighten.

“Yes, My Lord!” The boy answered, still with his back to Faramir.

Faramir came to stand behind his squire, “Eirik, turn around.”  After a small hesitation the boy obeyed, his tear-stained face evidencing his emotional state.

“Tis the spring, My Lord.  The flowers, they cause my eyes to water.”  Eirik tried to explain as he looked down.  

Faramir paused and then lifted his squire’s chin to meet eyes, “Is lying something I have taught you in my service?” he gently admonished the boy.

“No, My Lord.”  Eirik mumbled, looking downward again.  Once again Faramir raised the boy’s chin to meet eyes and looked at him with compassion.  “Why am I sad?” the boy asked, “Why do I have tears in my eyes?  I should be happy.  This is a wonderful day!” he ended, clearly confused, more tears falling.

“You are right.  Today is a wonderful day.”  Faramir began assertively, placing a hand on the boy’s shoulder, “But you cry because you have a heart and you know what it has cost to bring this day foward.” he continued gently, holding his squire’s eye.  “I have great respect for a man who sheds tears in remembrance.  This means you honor the sacrifices made.”  At the use of the word “man” Eirik’s eyes widened and he stood up straight and threw his shoulders back.  Faramir smiled inwardly.  He loved this boy, who came to him at age ten and had never disappointed him, always rising to what task was set before him and always accepting of correction should something go amiss.  He kissed him on the top of his head and then said briskly, “Shall we get on?  I will be due at the Gates within the hour.”

“Yes, My Lord!” Eirik said, wiping away the last of his tears and briskly setting about his task of dressing his lord on this the finest of all days. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faramir and Eirik arrived at the Houses of Healing after Eirik had sufficiently fussed over his attire and then attended to his own finery as squire to the Steward.  Faramir was filled with expectations of how Éowyn would look in the gown he had commissioned for her, but Éowyn waiting in the foyer of the Houses with her young Riders, Haling and Léoulfwine, who had healed sufficiently to attend the ceremonies, had exceeded all expectations.  She was a radiant vision of loveliness in creme brocade.

“Will I do?” Éowyn asked, a slight hint of teasing in her voice. 

“I’ll say…” Faramir was enrapt by the vision before him.  He reached to touch the circlet upon her head, Éowyn blushed in the torchlight of the foyer.

“Éomer had it commissioned for me for the coronation.  He spoils me so much.”

Faramir smiled, “It can never be too much, for you deserve every jewel that can be showered upon you, though they can never outshine your beauty from within.”  He turned to bid greeting to the two young riders he had gotten to know over the course of the last month and was met with what could only be described as approving looks.  He nodded to Haling and looked at Léoulfwine, “How are you feeling? Are you recovering well?”

“Well enough, My Lord.  I shall be fighting fit soon enough!”

“Good to hear, though I should hope there will be no more fighting, at least not for a long while.”

Léoulfwine nodded, “I wholeheartedly agree, My Lord.” A shadow of remembrance shaded his young face.  Faramir nodded as he looked upon the young man with compassion.  Éowyn touched the young man’s cheek and smiled at both her boys.

Offering Éowyn his arm, Faramir stated, “Shall we be off?”

“Aye!  We shall!”  Éowyn declared cheerfully.

They made their way down to the main gate, or rather what was left of the main gate where a ceremonial bar had been placed across the opening.  The streets were thronged with the happy people of the City in their best festive attire, the women and children bedecked with floral wreaths in their hair. They greeted Faramir with joyful cheers as he made his way down to the first tier and the main gate. Faramir was to give over the ceremonial rod of Stewardship to Aragorn as part of the ceremony and Éowyn and Elfhelm and the thanes that had survived the battle were there to represent Rohan along with the Riders named by Elfhelm to stand attendant upon them.  Éomer, as the uncrowned king of the Mark, was to enter the city with Aragorn as friend and ally.  Faramir nodded his leave to attend to matters before the ceremonies began.

Éowyn looked around and saw Elfhelm and greeted him effusively and the old soldier looked her in the eye and said, “I don’t know whether to laugh with joy or to put you over my knee for disobeying your uncle!” Pausing the gruff, old warrior’s face broke out in a rare smile,  “But I am so happy you are here to witness this joy!”  Éowyn looked at the man who risked his position as Marshal and perhaps even his life for allowing her to stay.

She said in a low voice, “I owe you a debt I do not believe I will ever be able to repay.”

Elfhelm stared deep into her eyes before answering, “Aye well,” he sighed, “Clearly, Fate would have it her way.”  He chuckled softly, “If I had not you would have only found another way.  Best you rode with me…so I could keep an eye on you!” He ended more forcefully.

Éowyn has the good grace to laugh, “I would have.” She sobered, “I was in a place in my heart I never wish to go again.” They shared a look, Éowyn stated, if only to escape her memories of that time, “And thank you for caring for my boys.” she said as she saw Háláf, Heostar and Ceorl approach with Aethelred.

Elfhelm looked at his son and his three companions and said with a smile in his voice, “They are inseparable, I could not have one without taking the other three.”

Éowyn looked at her boys.  They looked like strong, proud young men arrayed in their polished armor and their Éored badges received in the field, shined to perfection.  Háláf was no longer that eleven year old boy she knew who played with a wooden sword or on crutches trying to recover from his broken leg.  A lump formed in her throat and she tried to disguise it by wiping an imaginary smudge off of Háláf’s nose with motherly concern.  “Oh dear, this won’t do at all.”

Háláf blushed at the motherly onslaught, his blue eyes once again that eleven year old Éowyn remembered so well. “My Lady, I washed my face!”  he said in embarrassed tones. Éowyn laughed.

“Of course you did!”  Éowyn looked at the other three.  Again, the lump formed itself in her throat, “You all look so manly!”  Now three more faces turned the blotchy red of teenage embarrassment.  They were spared more embarrassed blushes as the bell sounded for them to take their places as the royal entourage had just been spotted approaching the barrier set at the gate’s entrance.  

A portion of the Tower Guard were given dispensation to stand at the main gate on either side of the entrance.  In their uniforms of sable and silver the Guard stood awaiting the order to draw swords and form an arch for the Royal Entourage to pass under.  Faramir stepped forward and greeted Elfhelm, “My Lord Elfhelm and My Lady Éowyn of Rohan,” he bowed to them both formally as his connection to Éowyn could not be made public until her uncle was properly buried under Simbelmynë in Edoras. “It is time!” Faramir announced and with a wistful look at Éowyn he turned to lead the procession to stand at the gate’s opening.

Outside the gates lining the path the coronation procession was to follow into the City were the many soldiers and knights of the victorious armies and all manner of well-wishers who had come from near and far to witness this joyous event.  A hush spread over the festive crowd. Éowyn looked forward and saw the approaching procession. She had been told the order of the procession by Faramir on one of their stolen moments during the month preceding.  But knowing did not dim the beauty of first sight.  She saw the remaining Dunedain who had come to fight for their chieftain and brother.  But they were not dressed in their customary browns and greys, but in formal raiment of silver and grey.  But as the procession drew nearer she could see in front of them walking slowly was Aragorn, Éomer on his left and Prince Imrahil on his right.  Gandalf in undimmed white alongside.  As the procession drew near Éowyn could see Aragorn more clearly. He was clad in bright silver mail with a breastplate adorned with the tree and seven stars.  He wore a long white mantle clasped with a green jewel that flashed when the early morning sun struck it.  His head was bare, save for a jewel at his forehead.  Behind she could see Merry clad in his polished armor of Rohan and Pippin in his sable and silver livery of the Tower Guard.  She saw Frodo and Sam dressed hobbit style finery. She had gotten to know over the last weeks as Frodo had healed in the Houses.  A finer more stout people she had yet to meet.

Aragorn paused some paces before the gates and the procession came to a halt.  A lone silver trumpet rang out from the wall above and the hushed crowd fell silent for many moments.  Faramir took a slow calming breath as he and Hurin of the Keys stepped out in front of the barrier across the front gates.  They were followed by four guards of the Citadel, one holding the Steward’s Rod of Office and two holding a casket of black lebethron bound in silver.  They walked the short distance to stand in front of Aragorn.  The guard bearing the rod of office moved even with Faramir and presented him with the rod.  With hand on heart Faramir took the rod and proceeded to kneel into front of Aragorn, the rod held across both hands as Faramir bowed his head and then looked up to proclaim for all to hear, “The last Steward of Gondor begs leave to surrender his office.” He lifted the rod to be received by his king. Aragorn laid a hand upon the rod and then spoke.

“That office is not ended, and it shall be thine and thy heirs’ as long as my line shall last.  Do now thy office!”

Faramir stood and with pride shining in his eyes, he proclaimed in a loud, clear voice, “Men of Gondor hear now the Steward of this Realm!  Behold!  One has come to claim the kingship again at last.  Here is Aragorn son of Arathorn, chieftain of the Dúnedain of Arnor, Captain of the Host of the West, Bearer of the Star of the North, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor.  Shall he be king and enter into the City and dwell there?”  To this there was rapturous acclaim from all the peoples both inside and outside the gates.

The two guards carrying the casket came forward and Faramir laid eyes on the black lebethron wood and the emotions of the previous day came to mind.

~*~*~*~*~*~

The day before, 

He stood at Fenn Hollin, the Steward’s door leading to Rath Dinen, the street where the dead were entombed.  The last time he was here he was barely conscious, ravaged by fever and injury.  He felt a swirl of differing emotions and tried to dampen them down.  He could hear the crashing of doors; Could almost feel the flickering heat from the funeral pyre.  He shut his eyes and he could hear his father’s last words to him.  Even though the fever was raging through his body and distorted his perception, he remembered the words, “Do not take my son from me! My son!  He calls for me!”  Pain distorting his father’s noble face, the flame flickering all around.  The sight he had longed for, evidence of his father’s love for him, written in pain across that ravaged face.

“My Lord Faramir!  He started at Beregond’s voice.  He tried to rein in his emotions before he addressed his old friend currently on suspension from the Tower Guard for leaving his post though it had been to save Faramir’s life.  Faramir asked him to come to the Silent Street with him more as a favour to him rather than a command.

“Yes, my friend,” Faramir rubbed his face with the hand not holding the key to the door. Beregond cast a concerned look at his lord, not knowing whether or not he should tread upon the obvious ground of tragic memories that this road was going to bring for his friend.  Faramir saw the constrained look on Beregond’s face and sighed.  He pasted a chagrined smile on his face.  “I am fine.  We have a job to do here.” he ended levelly.

Beregond looked at his lord, the man he risked everything for.  He wanted to say so much but he knew that it was not the time.  He did not know if it ever would be the time.  He pursed his lips and mutely nodded his assent.

Faramir nodded, receiving his friend’s acquiescence, for he knew that is what it was, not acceptance.  He took a deep breath and turned the key to the Steward’s door.  They walked down the Silent Street to the as yet unrepaired door.  He stepped over the threshold and lit Beregrond’s torch from his.  As the second flame blazed to light Faramir looked around the room; all lay undisturbed, the strewn kindling and burnt sticks.  The platform upon which his father had set himself alight.  It was cold, so very cold.  He pushed aside recent memory with some difficulty.  

They were to travel far back into the tombs, to where the kings lay; the silence was almost unbearable and the air stale, even a few steps beyond the threshold.  Neither spoke much, almost as if the occupants of the tombs they passed frowned on sound of any kind. There was little degradation of the effigies placed upon the stone monuments owing mostly to being sealed inside, away from the elements. Passing through the section owed to the stewards was sobering.  He paused at his grandfather’s effigy.  He had not known him, Ecthelion had died when he was only a year old, but still he felt compelled to stop. 

When they reached the section where the kings lay there was a marked difference in ornateness, almost as if the Stewards thought by right the kings should be more celebrated even in death. Though for Eärnur, the last king of Gondor, there was no effigy for there had been no body.  He had gone into Mordor for single combat and was never seen again.  With no heir he was the last. Only the years of his life 1928 - 2050 and his winged crown set in an alcove under the numbers were evidence of his passing.  Perhaps because the alcove was inset but the crown looked like it had just been set there, only the silver, tarnished over the centuries spoke to any time having passed.  The wings, tarnished though they were, still spoke to Faramir’s heart.  He shared a glance with Beregond.  Still neither man spoke.  This is what they had come for.  Faramir placed his hand over his heart, staring at the crown, at the wings gently folded back.  He cleared his throat, the noise seeming loud in the complete absence of sound, “It is time for you to see the light of day.  One destined and worthy will wear you once again."  They were whispered words but they still seemed to reverberate around the silent chamber.  He reached to remove the crown from its thousand year home. 

~*~*~*~*~*~

Faramir looked about him and proclaimed, “Men of Gondor, the loremasters tell that it was the custom of old that the king should receive the crown from his father ere he died; or if that might not be, that he should go alone and take it from the hands of his father in the tomb where he was laid.  But since things must now be done otherwise, using the authority of the Steward, I have today brought hither from Rath Dínen the crown of Eärnur the last king, whose days passed in the time of our longfathers of old.”  He opened the casket and then held the crown for all to see and then he dropped to a knee as he then presented it to Aragorn looking at the man’s face.  Faramir was struck by the look in his friend’s eyes.  It was a private look shared between friends as if the world did not look on.  He gave a slight nod of approval and was overcome with shame that he should have been so presumptuous, but Aragorn answered with empathy in his eyes and the slightest of smiles before he accepted the crown from Faramir’s hands.  The young steward’s heart sang, knowing his presumption was forgiven and even accepted.

Aragorn held the crown aloft and sung the words of oath last heard from the lips of a king born over a thousand years ago, “Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn’ Ambar-metta!”  He again repeated in Westron, “these were the words spoken by Elendil after he had come from the sea!  Spoken by each king in his turn.  ‘Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth I am come.  In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.’”

He turned to Faramir and handed the crown back to him and Éowyn noticed the surprised look on Faramir’s.  This had not been part of the plan.  She looked at Aragorn wondering at what he was going to do next.  Aragorn stated in a voice designed to carry, “By the labour and valour of many I have come into my inheritance.  In token of this I would have the Ring-bearer bring the crown to me,” he gestured gently toward Frodo, “and let Mithrandir set it upon my head, if he will;” Here he gestured gently toward Gandalf, “for he has been the mover of all that has been accomplished, and this is his victory.”

She watched as Frodo started at his name and then focused on what he was being asked to do.  She saw Gandalf smile and then step forth.  Faramir gently handed the crown into Frodo’s hands, who then carried it to Gandalf who promptly stood in front of Aragorn, crown in hand.  Even from the slight distance Éowyn could see a slight twinkle in the old wizard’s eye just before he placed the winged crown upon Aragorn’s head.  The younger man knelt to receive his destiny, achieved after many years lived and many miles traveled.  And to Faramir’s eyes Aragorn seemed to grow in stature and he seemed to resemble the sea-kings of old in the stories he poured over as a child and dreamed a dream.  Wisdom sat upon his brow and strength and healing were in his hands.  A child’s dream collided with the reality that he had seen all of this with his own eyes and felt within his own heart.  Aragorn had shown himself to his young steward as the stories had been told.  Faramir heard someone shout, “Behold the King!” and he realised that voice was his own.

At that trumpets sounded and people rejoiced, Aragorn then made his way to the Gate of the City followed by his entourage of knights and Dunedain rangers.  Hurin of the Keys commanded four guards of the Citadel open the barriers outwards and Aragorn entered the City proper as King Elessar, the Elfstone, the one who brings healing.  He wended his way along the tiers as harps from Dol Amroth, the clear voices of singers from the Lebeninn rang out in the crowd that was bedecked in all colors and flowers thrown freely, this time in joy and not in sadness.  He climbed the seven tiers to the Citadel and as trumpets blared to announce his arrival Harthedir and Danaer lowered the Stewards banner for the last time and placed with shaking hands and joy on their faces the banner that Arwen Undomiel made with her hands, or so the story was told.  The banner that was unfurled on the Corsair ship that had given hope to all who had seen it while on the field of battle.  This banner was raised in hope and in promise that Elessar would bring hope to all Middle Earth. 

~*~*~*~*~