The White Tower, 26 March 3019 T.A.
In a small chamber in the White Tower, Húrin, the Warden of the Keys, conferred with a trusted ally, Meldis, the housekeeper of the Steward’s residence.
“Ornendil told me he might have to let the Lord Steward leave tomorrow or the day after,” Húrin said. “He would like to keep him for a few more days, but you know how Lord Faramir is when there are deeds to do. And Ornendil telling him he is strong enough for riding... that hardly helps.”
Meldis shook her head slightly. “The chief healer he may be, but sometimes Ornendil is tactless. Once Lord Faramir is aware he is well enough, there is no keeping him in bed.”
“There are a few things we need to take care of before he leaves the Houses,” Húrin said.
“Of course,” said Meldis. “Poor boy.”
“Have you cleared the late Steward’s belongings?”
“I have tidied the late Steward’s chambers, but I will wait for Lord Faramir’s instructions on what to do with his father’s personal items. And I believe he prefers his own chambers to his father’s, at least for the first few days.”
“But still, would you want him to return to a house full of reminders of his father and brother?”
“I know better than that, Lord Húrin. I have kept all Lord Denethor’s and Lord Boromir’s things inside the chests in their chambers. Not a single thing remains in the dining chamber or the parlour—well, except the library, what could I do? The books belong to both Lord Denethor and Lord Faramir. And Lord Denethor’s study, I locked it. What about the rod? He will need it when he takes his oath.”
“A new rod will be ready tomorrow.”
“And what about the ... the burnt place? He may wish to go there.”
“I have taken care of that. Mithrandir spoke to me before he left for the last battle. Lord Faramir had asked him whether there were any remains of his father.”
Meldis’ eyes filled with tears. “Poor boy. How has it come to this? Poor Lord Denethor.” She had served Steward Denethor’s family for many years.
“My men have cleared away the rubble and ashes. But of course, anyone who goes down the Silent Street will still see the broken dome and the scars of the fire. I will try to prevent him from going there for as long as I can.”
“Were there any remains?”
“Parts of the rod were found. The chain mail survived. I placed them all in a chest in the House of the Steward,” Húrin replied. “I have also seen to Brandir and the other three,” he added.
Meldis raised her eyebrows. “Where did you send them?”
“I sent them to work at Cair Andros, under Ingold’s sharp eye. I will keep them close for some time, until I discuss with Lord Faramir what should be done about them. I believe they acted out of fear and confusion, not malice, yet their actions aided a great evil.” He was talking about the household servants who had brought oil and fire to Denethor that fateful night.
Meldis nodded. Then she remembered something that made her happier. “Have you seen the Lady?”
Húrin kept his composure, but his face brightened. “I have even spoken to her.”
“Spoken to her! How did you find an excuse to do that? What is she like? Ioreth kept babbling about how beautiful she is.”
“The Warden of the Keys can always find a reason to drop by anywhere. Beautiful? Aye, very. Tall, golden hair, a regal bearing. Our Lord Faramir seemed less grave when he was with her.”
“Is she smitten by him? Ioreth said she must be, although outwardly she seems reserved.”
“She seemed content sitting and conversing with him. And she wore the mantle.”
“Did she! I was so surprised when Lord Faramir sent for it. I knew then that Ioreth’s tales have some truth.”
Húrin took a sip of the honey water that Meldis offered him. “So, the Steward’s residence is ready? Let me know if you need anything. I have asked Ornendil to send word to you before he releases Lord Faramir.”
“It is ready.”
“Good evening, then, Mistress Meldis. I will see you tomorrow.”
...
The Houses of Healing, 27 March 3019 T.A.
The night before Faramir was to take his oath as the Steward, Húrin visited him in the Houses of Healing. He came as Faramir studied the reports on the goods sent to Cormallen and the food stores in the City.
“Given the extent of the destruction of the Pelennor, the next harvest may not be sufficient. We will need to dip into our reserves,” Faramir said.
Húrin nodded. “It would be prudent to keep the food ration in place for now, my lord.”
“Are the Rohirrim content with their lodgings and rations? Who among them speaks with you on such matters?”
“Marshal Elfhelm. Thus far, he has not mentioned lacking anything. There had been a minor misunderstanding about the grains for their horses, but we have sorted it.”
Faramir nodded, then he put down the parchments on the bedside table.
“I had meant to ask; do you have the rod? Or do we have to find a substitute while waiting for a new one to be made?”
Húrin looked searchingly at Faramir before he answered. “The old rod was broken, but I had a new one made. The smith delivered it this afternoon.”
He continued cautiously, “There has not been time to forge a new Steward’s ring, but I have this.”
Reaching beneath his robe, he produced a small box and held it out to Faramir.
While not originally a sign of the Steward’s office like the white rod, the Steward’s ring had been handed down through many generations and had come to represent the authority of the Stewards.
It was a plain gold band unadorned by any gems, as unassuming as the Steward’s white banner. On the inner side was engraved the mark Cirion had used when he called for Eorl’s aid: the tengwar R.ND.R with three stars above the letters.
Faramir accepted the box but did not open it. He grew quiet.
“I found it almost intact, only a few small parts melted.” Húrin’s voice grew softer as he continued, “I have asked the smith to clean it, as I thought you might want to keep it, even if you choose to have a new one made.”
Faramir opened the box slowly. He took the ring and placed it in his palm. Then he returned it to the box.
“This will do,” he said. “In fact, I prefer it.”
Then he asked, “I believe you have also taken care of the late Steward’s remains, Lord Húrin?”
Húrin nodded. “Worry not, my lord. The ashes and remains are kept with due honour.”
Faramir clasped Húrin’s hand between his own and looked into his eyes. “Thank you, Lord Húrin.”
Húrin placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “You have done very well, Faramir.”
Later, when the house had grown quiet and the night pressed close, Faramir sat in the stillness of his room. He opened the box again and took the ring in his hand, studying it for a moment before slipping it onto his fourth finger. He gazed at it again, tracing the burn marks slowly. He blew out the candle on his bedside table. Then, in the blessed darkness of the night, he kissed the ring reverently, and let his tears fall as he quietly remembered his father.
...
Early the next morning, as Faramir prepared to leave his room, a knock came at the door. He opened it to find Erien, the cook who had served the Steward’s family for many years.
She brought a large basket and the scent of freshly-baked bread—an unusual and welcome change from the aroma of medicinal herbs that lingered in the Houses of Healing.
“Good morning, Lord Faramir. You did say you would like to leave early today.”
Erien entered the room, placed her basket on the table, and even drew open the curtain, as though it were part of her daily routine.
“I mentioned it to the Warden,” Faramir said. “I did not expect him to send for you to fetch me home.”
“O, how you jest! Of course you do not need fetching, my lord. But to go home alone, as if you had no one, while so many have cared for you, where is the sense in that? Meldis is busy making the house spotless, so I get to come instead. But why did you not tell us you were coming home, my lord?”
She spoke the last remark in the same tone she had used when urging young Faramir to finish his meals.
Faramir smiled faintly. “To avoid the fuss, perhaps.”
“What fuss? The lord of the house is returning—” She stopped abruptly and turned her back to him. When she turned back, her expression was calm again, though her eyes glistened. “Let me pack your things, then I will set up a meal for you.”
Then she looked around the room, noticing the empty table, the bare walls and the chest in the corner. “O, you have already packed, even your nightshirt.”
Faramir refrained from telling her, even in jest, that he had survived in Ithilien and Osgiliath without her or Meldis. He rather enjoyed being fussed over by the kind, motherly cook this morning.
“Would you like to break your fast now? Let me set it up.”
“Would you set it up in the garden, Mistress Erien?” He added, rather sheepishly, “And do you happen to bring enough for two?”
Erien’s eyes widened. “It is true, then! You and the lady of Rohan! Why did I not think of that? Enough for two, but that means you cannot have a second helping. And it is porridge with cinnamon and apple slices, your favourite.”
Faramir raised an eyebrow. “Second helping? Apple slices? My dear Cook, do you forget we are still under food rationing?”
Erien huffed. “You need better food to regain your strength, my lord. And I have kept strictly to the rations. The apples are the ones preserved from last harvest—I would love to give you fresh ones, but these are what we have. Surely I am allowed to use what I find in my kitchen?” Then she corrected herself with a blush, “I mean, your kitchen, my lord.”
Faramir chuckled, then his gravity returned. “I thank you, Mistress Erien,” he said.
...
When they reached the garden in the Houses of Healing, there was no sign yet of the Lady of Rohan. Erien placed a bowl of steaming wheat porridge before Faramir, and proceeded to slice the apples. The sweet scent of cinnamon and apples filled the air, mingling with the comforting aroma of bread.
The simple porridge had been Faramir’s favourite breakfast as a child. As he grew older, Erien made it for him whenever he was ill or returning home after a long absence.
Just as Erien finished setting up the bowls of porridge and a plate of fresh bread and butter, the lady of Rohan appeared.
Faramir rose to greet her. “We have special fare this morning, Lady Éowyn,” he said. “Courtesy of Mistress Erien, the head cook of the Citadel.”
Erien did not try to hide her interest; she openly watched the lady. Then she gave her a curtsey and greeted her. “My lady,” she said.
“Mistress Erien,” said Éowyn as she dipped her head. “This smells delightful.”
Then she took her seat. Erien left them to their meal and went off to find a servant to take Faramir’s belongings to the Steward’s residence.
After they finished their meal, they parted, for Faramir was to leave the Houses of Healing that morning, but the Warden had asked Éowyn to stay a few more days.
“I will come from time to time,” Faramir told her, “though not as often as I wish, I am afraid.”
Éowyn said, “Come when your duties permit you, lord. It would gladden my stay here.” With some reluctance she added, “But you must go and get ready now.”
“I will see you in the Hall, Éowyn,” he said. He had invited her and Marshal Elfhelm of Rohan to witness him taking the oath as the Steward.
Éowyn nodded. “I will be there, Lord Faramir.”
They left the garden and found Erien and the Warden waiting at the entrance of the Houses. After listening to the Warden’s final instructions and assuring him that he would come every few days to have a healer tend to him, Faramir left with Erien.
From the terrace of the Houses, Éowyn watched them—the tall, lordly man and the short, plump matron, their heads turned toward each other as they conversed. For some reason, the sight made her smile.
...
At the gate of the Citadel, the guards bowed low as Faramir approached.
“ ’Tis good to see you return, my lord," one of them said. Then, with a loud voice, he shouted towards the Citadel, "The Lord Steward enters!"
As Faramir passed through the gate, he lifted his eyes to the White Tower. The Tower stood tall, its white stone gleaming in the sunlight, and the Steward’s banner fluttered at its peak--a stark contrast to the ruin he had seen in his fevered dream under the Black Breath
Erien requested his leave to make her way to the Steward’s residence ahead of him. “The Tower guards must have been waiting impatiently to speak with you,” she said with a smile. “I will see you at home, my lord.”
True enough, the guards had gathered at the entrance of the Tower. “Lord Faramir!” “Lord Steward!” they called eagerly as he approached.
Faramir was as glad to see them. Among the guards, he noticed some who had followed him to Osgiliath. Their eyes met, and a silent understanding passed between them.
How strange it seemed, that they had returned when so many had not.
He entered the Tower and ascended the stairs to the Steward’s Residence. The door stood open, and inside, Meldis and the other servants had gathered to greet him. It was a sight Faramir had never seen before, not even when he and Boromir had returned from their successful campaign in Osgiliath the previous summer. Yet today they welcomed not only the lord of the house, but one who had returned from the brink of death.
Meldis curtseyed deeply and took his cloak. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said. “I have placed your things in your chamber. Do you wish to use the Steward’s chambers instead?”
Faramir shook his head. “Eventually. But not today.”
When he entered his chamber, he saw his bed was made with crisp new sheets. Had the curtain been changed as well? Hanging on the wall were his best tunic, his finest robe and the white mantle of the Steward, all sparkling and without a crease. His belt and sword rested on the table, gleaming and waiting. He knew that if he went to his father’s chamber, he would find it equally prepared, with the things that might remind him of his father carefully kept away from view.
He turned to Meldis, who stood quietly behind him. “Thank you, Mistress Meldis.”
The housekeeper pressed her lips together to maintain her composure. “My lord.”
...
Acknowledgement:
The part about the household servants welcoming Faramir home was inspired by Altariel’s fanfiction “Leaving the House” in ff.net.