Dedication

"Dead Steward's Gift is dedicated to my beloved black cat ZouZou (1990-2007) who died shortly after I finished the third chapter of the story.

Chapter One: A Stranger Calls

The Steward of Gondor afixed his seal to the scroll containing this week's governmental status report. He hoped that the king would appreciate the report's level of detail and not be put to sleep by it. Unfortunately, much would likely happen between the scroll's sealing and its eventual delivery into the hands of Aragorn Elessar at his headquarters in Fornost. Two months at least would have passed.

Next, the Steward sealed the weekly letter to his beloved and struggled to cope with his longing for her. Six months had passed since the Lady of Rohan rode off for her home in Meduseld. Letters between Gondor and Rohan travelled by ships down the Anduin and seldom took more than a week to arrive. Eowyn's letters were frequent and optimistic. A lively correspondence had sprung up between the two of them. Surviving another six months without her was his greatest challenge. The responsibilites of being Steward at this moment seemed less difficult, for all that Faramir was charged with running Gondor's new government while Aragorn set up a similar organization for Arnor in the North.

As he put his latest communiques into the parfleche for the postal carrier, Faramir heard the slightest scuff of footsteps on the tile floor. Someone had entered his office unnannounced. The Steward moved his hand to the concealed drawer at the side of his desk that held his hunting knife. He looked up slowly. The intruder was a terrifying figure, an extraordarily tall man of powerful but knotted physique. His long grey hair and gnarled face indicated one nearing 70. He lurched toward Faramir, dragging a stiff left leg. For a moment, Faramir felt fear, the same abject fear he had once felt as a child for this man, the still imposing former Captain of the Tower Guard, now long retired.

Faramir's fingers rested on the handle of the hidden drawer. He let out a slow breath as he spoke the name, "Gorthol, son of Narmacil. No wonder the Guards did not detain you. Why, it must be ten years and more since I last saw you. A chair for Captain Gorthol and tankard of ale for us both," Faramir called out an order to his own Tower Guards, who stood faithfully just outside the door to the Steward's chamber.

Gorthol's tough old features were criss crossed by ancient lines. A recent knife scar descended from his ear down the neck into the collar of his grey wool cotehardie, grotesquely marring the once formidably handsome features. Gorthol's seen recent action, Faramir easily perceived, and perhaps more than the hoary old fellow ever experienced in all his years as the Steward's shadow.

When Gorthol was comfortably settled, ale in hand, he cleared his throat and spoke in a raspy voice, "Lord Faramir, I have here a package that I was charged by your father to deliver in the event of his death." Just the mention of his father by the man sworn to protect him made Faramir's stomach churn uneasily.

"I would have given it to you sooner, but..," and here Gorthol's eyes lowered to the floor, "I was injured, as you can see. A bunch of us old Lamedoners tried to defend Calembel from a rogue band of Corsairs who'd sailed up the Ringlo towards us. That was around the time Minas Tirith was beseiged, so we later found out."

"Even those who had long-ago retired fought to defend their lands," Faramir remarked and shook his head slowly.

"Aye," Gorthol grinned. "I do not have the strength of my prime, when I defended Lord Denethor. Still, I felled several of those cursed pirates before they lamed me. Unfortunately, it's taken months for my leg to heal enough to endure a ride by wain to Minas Tirith. And I admit I haven't thought of this package in awhile. My Lord Denethor put it in my keeping before I retired. It's sat in an old chest along with my Guardsman's uniforms and arms. I truly forgot about it." He reached into the pack strapped across his fur lined cloak and withdrew a leather envelope. It was fastened by a string and sealed with the same insignia on the onyx ring that Faramir now wore.

"Do you know what it is?" Faramir spoke slowly as he took the envelope.

"No. Your father didn't confide in me that much," Gorthol said. "Though I've always had my suspicions as to what it's about. I plainly recall that my Lord Steward insisted again and again that Lord Boromir was not to know about it. In fact, if you died before your father and Boromir survived, my lord ordered me to destroy it. I believe it's part of your inheritence, Lord Faramir."

A wave of grief momentarily interfered with Faramir's thoughts. Then he clenched his teeth, struggling to keep any indication of loss from spilling over to his face. So many months had elapsed since their deaths. Much would never be finished between Faramir, his brother, and especially his father.

To Gorthol, Faramir simply said, "Curious." He gazed at the envelope for a moment, and resolved not to look at it until the time he could give the contents his undivided attention. Then he gently steered Gorthol's conversation to his many years of retirement as one of Lamedon's genteel farmers.

****************************************************

The remainder of Faramir's day was long and lonely. When he finally left the Citadel for his townhouse on the sixth level of the city, he wondered about the well-being of his absent friends and loved ones. Beregond, son of Baranor, was off in Ithilien forming up the White Company. Uncle Imrahil and Aunt Idris were still in Dol Amroth, setting their holdings in order before moving to Minas Tirith. And then there was Eowyn. Did Rohan enjoy the blaze of color and brilliant harvest that characterized this past October? When Faramir awoke this past morning, frost gently covered the leaves on the bushes in the townhouse garden.

After a light dinner, he armed himself with a blazing lantern and climbed the steps to his bedroom on the second floor. The last embers in the lighted brazier near the ceiling glowed faintly. Faramir put his lantern on the bedside table so that he could read. The remaining corners of the chilly bedroom were dark and unfathomable.

He removed his clothes and donned a worn nightshirt for comfort against the cold. Then he slid into bed and drew the fur covers up to his waist. He placed the leather envelope that Gorthol had given him atop the furs. Faramir propped the pillows behind his back so he could sit up comfortably. Then he broke the envelope's seal and loosed the strings.

Inside was a small piece of parchment, in remarkable condition considering that it was dated SR July, 3004. Faramir immediately recognized his father's tight, well-formed script:


Faramir, my son, if you are reading this then I am no doubt dead, and Boromir has succeeded me. This letter contains matters of utmost secrecy. Do not divulge its contents to anyone, especially Boromir.

For a land to survive, it must be ruled by a leader of great strength or a leader of great intellect. Your beloved mother gave me two sons. To my son of great strength goes the Steward's office, for he is my heir and none in Gondor match his military prowess. To you, my son of great intellect, I leave this gift for the protection of Gondor. It is the most powerful tool remaining to us from ancient Numenor. You already know what it is. I have perceived it.

The paper shook in Faramir's hands.

He remembered the incident that occured when he was still a student, perhaps 13. Then people first whispered of lights flickering and thundering noises eminating from a room on the top floor of the Tower of Ecthelion. The servants were wary of that floor. Several told Faramir that they were permitted to clean only the hall on the tope story of the tower. The door to the only room on the floor was always locked against their entry.

Boromir dismissed their talk as silly ghost tales. But Faramir was curious and more than a little afraid. One night he crept from the Steward's house to see if there was any truth to the servant's stories.

It was long past midnight, when he reached the White Tower. From the plaza below he saw the intermittent flashes of light eminating from the large windows at the building's summit. Eager to discover the source of this mystery, Faramir climbed the ten flights of stairs to the top floor, barely noticing that he was out of breath. At the landing, he finally gasped as he faced a set of ancient doors, closed shut against passers by.

Each door was made of a dark pewter and bore the image of a Numenorean ship cast in relief. A Tower Guardsman stood on either side of the imposing doorway. When Faramir reached out his hand to grab a door handle, both guards swiftly crossed their pikes over the door to block his way. One of them was the Captain, Gorthol.

Did Faramir demand that the guards tell him what was going on? Possibly? Did Gorthol apologize for their behavior? Most likely. Faramir DID remember hearing a voice thunder out, "Turn your eyes from me!" He could not forget his father's defiant words: "You will never have Gondor. Not while my arm is strong!"

A small snort and a dim rustle penetrated the cold shadows of the damp bedroom. The ancient parchment drifted from his fingers as Faramir raised his head ever so slowly.

Where the top of the bookcase should be he saw two gold eyes blink before a small shadow leaped beyond the blackness. The heavy creature pounced on Faramir's chest; small claws like tiny needles pierced through his rough nightshirt. Faramir's heart socked against his ribcage. The animal plunged off the bed back into the darkness. For a second, Faramir lay still, waiting for his pounding heart to calm, watching tiny spots of blood form on his shirt. Then he shook his head and tapped the bed furs twice. Once again he'd been attacked by an oversized kitten.

In response to Faramir's command, the sleek black animal leaped into bed and collapsed at Faramir's side. "Tomorrow I will clip your claws, Cirri," Faramir warned half-heartedly With one hand engaged in stroking Cirri's velvety belly, he picked up the parchment and continued reading:

You will find the sphere on the top floor of the Tower in the cast iron box bearing the figures of Isildur and Anarion. The smaller key unlocks the box. The larger key is for the double doors. Gorthol has a duplicate.

Faramir quickly grabbed the leather envelope and turned it upside down. Two wrought iron keys fell onto the furs. Denethor was correct in his assumption. Faramir had long suspected that his father had used the legendary Anor stone. Then he continued reading:

If I have been harsh to you, my son, please forgive me. I know how the gift of farsight can also be a curse. Your farsight is strong. You will need it to guide the stone. But be wary. The Anor stone was meant for two-way communication. I have discovered that at least two more stones exist, and one at least has fellen into the hands of the Enemy. Do not let your eyes drift into his land for more than a moment. He will try to seize your mind and control it. Beware my son and be wary. You have my blessing. Your father, Denethor, son of Ecthelion.

Faramir's entire body shook. Nine months after his death, the source of Denethor's final madness was finally confirmed. Faramir curled up against Cirri, letting the cat's gentle purring bring him back to reality.

The Dark Lord was gone, but the Anor stone might still exist. Tomorrow evening, Faramir resolved to open the locked tower room. Could the stone still be used? Was it cursed? Tomorrow evening, he would find out.

*****************************************************

Author's Note

"Dead Steward's Gift" is set in the world of my other tales archived here at Stories of Arda. My stories take place in what i call, with tongue in cheek, the Steffverse. It is an amalgam of movieverse with gaps filled from canon; gaps in canon that I've filled with Tolkien characters as played by Jackson's actors; and original Fourth Age stuff like "Dead Steward's Gift." Because of its subject matter, "Dead Steward's Gift" has to assume that Denethor's death occurred as portrayed in the Jackson films. Otherwise, the story wouldn't work. However, my main inspiration was the essay "The Palantiri" in Tolkien's "Unfinished Tales" and my urge to write a scarey tale for Halloween.

CHAPTER TWO: LEGACY OF THE ANOR STONE

"I know Faramir's uses and they are few." He overheard the conversation between his father and brother on that fateful day among the ruins of Osgiliath. That was the last time that Faramir saw Boromir alive. What a difference in Denethor's attitude from the loving father in the letter Gorthol bore to the denigrating and belittling man with little respect for his younger son. What had happened in the intervening years to cause Denethor such disappointment?

Clarity at last! Faramir finally realized that the palantir was the culprit. The Anor stone. Faramir had long suspected his father had uncovered the ancient device and that it was slowly driving Adar mad. In his youth, Faramir had studied any information about the seeing stones of Numenor that he could find in the libraries of Minas Tirith. When those sources were exhausted, he received even more illuminating annals from Gorthol himself, on condition that Faramir keep their existence secret.

Perhaps in the end Denethor feared that his younger son might, with encouragement from Mithrandir and possibly help from Boromir, wrest away the Anor stone from his embattled father?

Gorthol should know more. Fortunately, the old man was visiting his grandchildren on the fifth level for a few days and had agreed to meet Faramir for lunch.

*****************************************************

"The Tower staff don't want to go up on the tenth floor," Hurin the Tall insisted when Faramir inquired as to whether the contents of the Tower's sole room had been inventoried since Denethor's death. The Keeper of the Keys joined Faramir and Gorthol at a small pub in the Citadel. "I haven't pressed them," Hurin continued. "We've been so busy carrying out the reoganization that the king and yourself have ordered. We haven't inventoried many of the lesser-used rooms. The Guards do go up there, though, to clean the hallway."

That was strange, Faramir thought. He said, "The White Tower cleaning staff doesn't clean that floor?"

"They haven't since Lord Denethor's day," Hurin explained. "As I recall, your father insisted that among my Tower staff only the Guards were allowed on the top floor. Since the Coronation, I've had the Tower Guards clean the hall once a week and patrol it daily. Maglor has the duty, at noon."

"My father has been dead more than half a year," Faramir spoke slowly. "It's time to return the responsibility for cleaning the top floor hall to the cleaning staff. The guards have more pressing duties, wouldn't you agree?"

Hurin cleared his throat and said, "The cleaning folk are afraid."

"Of what?" Faramir asked. Did the top floor's frightening reputation persist even though Denethor was dead and the Anor stone silent?

"Of the ghost in the Observatory," Gorthol interrupted. "What a bunch of nonsense that is. My grandson painted the rooms on the third floor recently and had his earful of the most ridiculous stories. He was full of 'em last night. It's people's imaginations. The peculiar doings that happened when your father was alive kept their tongues wagging and their minds off living in the shadow of the Enemy. Life's become too quiet for 'em, so the tongues are wagging again."

"And why haven't I heard all the wagging?" Faramir spoke calmly, masking his concern.

"You are the Steward. You and I have matters of much greater importance to discuss than whether the Tower staff fears to clean a room," Hurin groaned.

"But now it's gravely important to find out if anyone has been in the Tower Observatory since my father was last there," Faramir pressed him.

"No one has," Hurin continued patiently, though Faramir perceived that the Keeper of the Keys felt unfairly pressured. "The door was locked," Hurin said. "Denethor never gave anyone, including me, a key to that door. Round about the time of Elessar's coronation, we tried to spring the lock to take inventory. Ecthelion I must have had master lock smiths working on it. We couldn't break the lock."

Old Gorthol banged his hand on the heavy oak table, "You have a key now. Lord Denethor's left a key with me, which I gave to Faramir yesterday. This business of ghosts is ridiculous, I tell you."

"Something is up there," Hurin insisted. "Don't tell me that ghosts don't exist. Aragorn Elessar led an army of them into Minas Tirith. They saved our city. Maybe one of those green spirits is stuck in the Tower?"

"Pure bunk," Gorthol snorted. Faramir chuckled, though the mention of Aragorn's ghostly army gave him pause.

Hurin whispered, "One night I stood in the room under the Tower Observatory, as you call it, Captain Gorthol. The chief of the cleaning staff insisted I do it. Sure enough, I heard the rustling and movement on the ceiling."

"The wind!" Gorthol scoffed. The entire dome in the ceiling is made of windows. If one of them is opened or cracked, the wind howls through the room. The wind is so strong in that room that it easily blows light stuff around. That's probably what you heard rustling."

"Did my father let you in that room" Faramir queried the old guardsman.

Gorthol said, "Many times, always during the day. That observatory was a lovely room long ago. It was already needing repair last time I saw it. Old Denethor didn't allow us in at night, when he used the palantir."

"You mean Stewards before Lord Denethor used the Anor stone?" Hurin shook his head in apparent disbelief. "I thought only the great ones could control what they saw in one of those stones. That's why I never quite believed the rumors that Denethor used a seeing stone."

"Of course the Stewards looked into the stones, and probably more than the kings ever did," Faramir said. "We are of the blood of Anarion, just like the kings, but our line is more diluted. We're slightly less "great." Back when Gondor was young, the kings appointed the Steward to use the palantir and report findings." *

"I didn't know that," Hurin said. "How'd you find that out?"

"I was curious about the palantiri when I was in my teens. I read everything I could find on the subject," Faramir explained. He did not mention the decomposing annals that Gorthol had given him long ago.

"So now that you have the key, will you open the Tower Observatory and see what's in there?" Hurin asked.

Faramir nodded, "This evening I plan to unlock the door and see if the Anor stone still exists. I'm not afraid that any strange properties the stone might have will drive me mad. Sauron and Angmar are gone. If someone else tries to control the Anor stone while I am using it and reveals ambitions to become the next Dark Lord, it is better to find out now than fall victim to a surprise attack."

Hurin drew his hand through his hair, obviously distressed. "You're missing the point, both of you! Something or someone is up in that Observatory that has nothing to do with any seeing stone--a spirit that could be malevolent or benign. I'm concerned for your safety, Faramir, starting from when you walk into that room. What happens to you from looking at the Anor stone is far less of my concern."

**************************************************

The remainder of the meal was strained. In the end, Hurin accepted Faramir's decision to open the Tower Observatory that evening at dusk. Faramir insisted that his decision remain a secret. No one was to know his true purpose, other than Hurin, Gorthol, and Marod, Captain of the Tower Guards.

At their return to the White Tower, Hurin left for his office. Faramir and Gorthol returned to the Steward's quarters. Faramir could remain silent no longer. "How is it that you know so much about the Anor stone, and that you had access to those annals you gave me when I was young?" he suddenly directed his interrogator's stare at Gorthol.

The old man jumped, no doubt from the abruptness of Faramir's stinging inquiry. Then he relaxed and explained: "It was my job, my Lord Steward. I was trained as your grandfather Ecthelion's warden of the palantir. The Stewards always appointed a warden to assist them. The warden had to learn all the history of the stones and was responsible for guarding the secret annals kept over the years about the palantir's use. Yes, I had to know the lore, and I still remember plenty of it.

"When Ecthelion died, I became Lord Denethor's warden of the palantir, long before I became Captain of the Tower Guard. I had every right to give you the ancient annals because I was in charge of them--AND because your father ordered me to do it. Do you remember in the annals how the secrets of the palantir were kept only by the Steward, the warden, and the Steward's heir? I found it strange that Denethor chose to overlook your brother, his heir, and instead chose you as his successor to the palantir."

Faramir nodded. All the peculiar pieces in the puzzle of his father's madness continued to fit together.

"At some point, Lord Denethor seemed to trust me less and less," Gorthol continued. "He sent me off into retirement at a much younger age than I would have wanted. To my knowledge, he never appointed another warden of the palantir."

When Gorthol seemed to be finished, Faramir said,"I wish you could come with me this evening when I open up the Observatory. "But I doubt you could climb the ten flights of stairs today."

A regretful expression formed on Gorthol's mouth. "I could help explain much in the room, if it hasn't changed in the past twenty years. However, I can't protect you from a ghost." he winked.

******************************************************

Faramir was less skeptical about the claims of ghostly occupation of the Observatory than Gorthol. He suspected that he could find a logical explanation of the bizarre bangings in the night. The thought of a confrontation with a spectre definitely captured his imagination. Nevertheless, Faramir's highest priority this evening was to find the box that held the palantir, as described in his father's note. Still, he felt compelled to hear more stories about the alleged ghost from others who claimed to have seen or heard it.

This insatiable curiousity led Faramir to the cleaning staff's giant store room, where he found Lilah, chief of the staff, at her station amid the linens, mops, and buckets.

"No, My Lord Steward, we never go up there," Lilah said when Faramir asked her if she ever went to the top floor to clean or patrol. "Your father, of blessed memory, would not let us clean the top floor. He said that was the Guards' job; I say, I hope they did their jobs, else the floors would be filfthy after all those years. No one wants to go up there. It's haunted, people say."

"Haunted? Come now, Lilah. Has anyone ever seen a ghost on the top floor?"

"Yes! And I'm surprised you haven't heard the story," Lilah exclaimed, her eyes brightly animated. "Some of the folk who work here in the Tower late at night say they've seen a ghostly figure in the windows, waving its arms."

The image was hair raising but not very convincing. "Where were these folk standing when they claimed to have seen the ghost?" Faramir asked mildly.

"Why, I don't know," Lilah admitted, "especially since I haven't seen the ghost meself. I expect that they were standing in the plaza."

"Then I expect their eyesight to be very good indeed, if they can see a ghost in a window ten flights up," Faramir remarked.

Lilah put her hands on her hips, "Begging your pardon and all, my Lord Steward, as I said I didn't see the haunt myself. More important, the folk on my staff say they hear things, too--howlings, scrapings in the walls, banging, footsteps at night. My people who work on the ninth floor have told me that. They say it's the ghost of Lord Denethor. His body never was found."

Faramir gulped. "I expect it never will be found. The guards told me his body burned up as he fell."

Lilah shivered before continuing, "Lord Denethor, he'd close himself up in that room. I had the night watch then. I heard him screaming at someone or something more times than I can count. It got terrible in the end. We thought poor Lord Denethor battled in his mind with the Dark Lord himself. It took a toll on me. I couldn't continue. These past few years, Bes does the night watch. She's heard all sorts of sounds coming from that top room. People says that Lord Denethor's spirit had nowhere to go since all that's left of him is ashes. So his spirit came back to that Tower room."

Faramir thought grimly, If that's the case, then I will meet my father's spirit tonight. Perhaps he can give me some tips about how best to look into a palantir.

********************************************

Author's Note

* Like many other tidbits of palantir lore in this story, the Steward's use of the palantir during the reigns of the Gondorian kings is taken from Tolkien's essay "The Palantiri" in Unfinished Tales

See the Author's Note for the previous chapter of "Dead Steward's Gift" for an explanation of the setting for this particular story.

CHAPTER THREE: ON A DARK AND STORMY NIGHT

Ominous grey clouds, laced with occasional streaks of sunlight, filled the late afternoon sky above the Citadel. It will rain tonight, a fine setting for looking through a palantir or meeting a ghost, Faramir's thoughts made him shudder slightly.

"Here he is, my Lord Steward," the guard Dorlas interrupted. He huffed and puffed his way into the room on the eighth floor, where Faramir stood beside a window facing northeast. Dorlas shook his head slightly and placed the large basket he carried onto the floor. Said basket immediately wiggled about the floor in tiny jerking movements.

Faramir chuckled, got down on his knees, and tapped the sides of the basket. In response, the basket twitched in a frenzy.

"Pardon my asking, my Lord, but why did you have me bring your cat here? Has he been damaging your furniture? He didn't want to leave the house, and scratched me before I caught him."

"He probably thought you were playing with him," Faramir grinned. "He's not a year old yet despite his size. I want him here to do the job he's supposed to do. Several storerooms in the building are infested with rats. Cirri's turning into a superb mouser, so much so that my townhouse has no more rats. We've got such a terrible shortage of cats in the city that I'm afraid to let him outside to get some exercise. Cirri's such a handsome moggy; someone's bound to steal him. He needs some excitement or he's sure to get lazy and fat."

Dorlas sighed. He looked winded from climbing up all the stairs with a heavy cat in a basket. Faramir dismissed him: "Thank you. You can go home now. Have Marod come in."

Moments later the Captain of the Tower Guards entered. Faramir had appointed Marod, son of Minohtar, to fill the vacancy left when the previous Captain was killed in the seige of Minas Tirith. He is a good man, Marod, Faramir thought as the two ascended the Tower stairs. Beregond, in particular, recommended Marod due his ability to keep confidences and not reveal secrets. A good thing, Faramir decided, because this mission required the utmost secrecy.

When they reached the top floor, Marod dismissed the two guards in the hallway for the evening. The departing men left two ceiling braziers burning, which infused the corridor with a hazy, golden light. Marod had carried two fiery lanterns up the stairs. He left one beside the heavy pewter double door for Faramir's use.

For a moment, Faramir stared at the doors. He hadn't been on this floor in many years. The magnificent relief of the Numenorean sailing ships engraved on the doors still caught his imagination as it had when he was a boy. And now, finally, he would discover the Observatory that lay beyond them. He set down the heavy basket with the struggling cat beside his lantern. From a pouch hanging from his belt Faramir withdrew the two keys left him by Denethor. Marod held his own lantern above the lock.

At that moment a distinct whistling moan emanated from the slight space between the two doors, gaining and lowering in volume. Faramir held his hand against the gap. "Wind," his lips formed. Then he tried the larger key in the lock. It turned easily, a testament to its engineering hundreds of years ago. But then maybe not. Faramir grabbed the handles for each door in his hands. The imposing doors gave no resistance as he pulled them open.

A rush of wind hit Faramir and Marod in their faces. The dark room beyond that Faramir expected wasn't particularly dark. It was grey, bathed in shadows, but nevertheless illuminated from twilight coming in from windows. The impatient cat let out a grating, "Rouwr!" and struggled against the walls of the basket. Faramir bent down and lifted the lid. Cirri leaped out and disappeared into the Observatory. Retreiving the lantern from the floor, Faramir gestured for Marod to follow as he carefully walked into the room.

He took a few steps and stopped, quietly letting his senses give him a quick survey of the new surroundings. The shadowy room was much larger than he had expected, square shaped with shadowy outlines of furniture huddled against the walls. The only noise Faramir heard was that occasional rush of the wind, quieter now that the doors were open to relieve pressure. And the smell--well there wasn't much of one. No hint of mold nor curtain of dust assailed Faramir's throat and nasal passages. The constantly blowing wind probably kept the air fresh. He took a few steps further into the room, with Marod just behind.

Another gust of wind tried to chill his body. Faramir's eyes automatically bolted upward. His eyes delighted in the onion-shaped ceiling, gracefully arching in the gathering twilight. The roof consisted of magnificently curved windows that joined in one point to form the peaked roof of Ecthelion I's magnificent building.

The gleaming Tower spike, barely visible from the plaza below, must extend from this juncture of windows, Faramir assumed. That spike was unquestionably a symbol of Minas Tirith in its greatest days under the Stewards. Now the glimmering windows seemed to hold back the heavy grey and pink clouds that loomed in the gathering dusk. Faramir strained his eyes across the windows 15 and 20 feet above him, trying to locate one that might be cracked badly enough to let in a wind current. None seemed broken, but one was definitely pushed open on a hinge that Faramir could barely see.

"Now we know the reason for the moaning sound," Faramir remarked to Marod and gestured upward, "That window must have been open for months."

Marod chuckled, "I'll close it then."

Before Faramir had time to ask how he could reach a latch 15 feet above their heads, the guardsman located a huge pole leaning against a wall, barely visible in the distorted shadows cast by the two lanterns. Marod said, "The cleaning folk use these poles to open high windows and clean them, too. The windows in the domes in the Hamam work this way." Faramir observed Marod with keen interest, as the guard easily located a three step pedestal in another corner. Marod efficiently placed the pedestal beneath the open window and climbed it. As the guardsman raised the pole, Faramir noticed the hook at the pole's end, which no doubt would hook into the open window's latch.

With Marod thus occupied, Faramir quietly moved to the center of the room. A pillar or similar type of furniture, completely draped by a heavy cloth, stood directly beneath the apex of the domed roof. Faramir moved the cloth slightly with his hand. The mere touch of the fabric spoke to Faramir of its use. The rich black velvet seemed plush and new in the failing light. His father must have installed it not long before his death. Not a wisp of dust billowed from the cloth's surface when moved. The wind from the long-opened window must be very brisk to keep months of dust and mold from forming on this drape.

Faramir instinctively swept his lantern to light up the floor. Wouldn't there be a coat of dust an inch thick on the floor of a room that hadn't been occupied for more than six months? In the imperfect lantern light, Faramir could see no trace of his and Marod's foot prints on the dusty floor because the floor simply was not dusty. That wind was very strong indeed, or the ghost was an excellent housekeeper!

Instincts built up from many years of scouting out deserted woodlands put Faramir on his guard. Marod approached, having dutifully closed the window. Wordlessly, Faramir grabbed the black velvet drape and pulled it from its resting place. A gleaming white marble pedestal, fluted on its sides, was revealed. Marod gasped. "It's beautiful, isn't it," Faramir commented, carefully marking the guardsman's reaction. But he read nothing untoward in Marod's heart, other than a deep appreciation of the intricate design on the pedestal's column.

"Look at this," Faramir spoke softly, as he touched the top of the column. "Here is the cradle that held the Anor stone." His hands moved smoothly along the bowl shaped indentation in the pedestal top. "And the directions-- North, East, South, West--are marked on the sides to orient the viewer as to where in Middle Earth he is looking."

"Aye, my Lord Steward," Marod said. But he wasn't paying much attention, Faramir deemed. The guard seemed instead to be captivated by the elaborate tracery along the pedestal's flutes. "This is so lovely. Do you think it was made in Numenor?" Marod asked.

Ah, Marod, you are an honest fellow, Faramir perceived, but something is going on here that isn't quite right. He said, "The palantir has been removed. I will start the search for it tomorrow in the sunlight. There's no guarantee that it is even in this room."

Marod nodded.

Faramir continued, "I think I will spend a few hours looking about and then go home. Gorthol told me of some rare books that were once stored here. I'm going to look about for an hour or so. Maybe I can locate them. Ib and Hartanol are on the night guard this evening?"

"Aye, my Lord Steward."

"Then why don't you go home," Faramir said. "Have Ib collect a light dinner for me and bring another lantern." The Captain of the Guard nodded and seemed relieved to be dismissed for the evening. Faramir shut the double doors behind him, with a sense of relief combined with trepidation. Marod was most likely innocent enough, but someone had certainly been here since the seige of Minas Tirith. Or something. The place was too clean. It smelled entirely too...sweet.

Faramir immediately set about to evaluate his surroundings. He had just picked up the second lantern when a thud and then a horrific squeal pierced the heavy air. Seconds later, Cirri appeared at his feet with a struggling mouse in his mouth.

"Kill him right now or let him go," Faramir admonished the cat, knowing full well that cats typically don't obey orders.. Cirri dropped the mouse beside Faramir's boot and then scampered back into the darkness, shortly followed by the liberated mouse.

Hauling up both lanterns, Faramir walked to the door and then slowly travelled along the walls. Nothing was particularly unusual about his findings--chairs, a desk, bookshelves-- except that they were surprisingly clean. Admittedly, lantern light was faulty when compared to direct sunlight, but he could detect no dust, nor sign of mold and mildew. A tapestry lined one of the walls. Faramir smelled it. It had no dank odor stemming from years of neglect or simple water damage from rain leaking in from the open window.

Very peculiar indeed.

Had the palantir been removed since Denethor's death? he wondered as he crept slowly across the walls. Cirri joined him, quietly padding along at Faramir's side. He truly hadn't expected to find the stone on its pedestal, partly due to his father's note that he would leave the stone in an elaborate box. Yet his father could hardly be faulted if he had forgotten his promise and neglected to put the stone in its promised container.

Half way through his exploration, Faramir came upon a set of tall pillars covered by white curtain fabric. The bookshelves! He uncovered one and held the lanterns high so that he could read the book titles. Immediately five books with the same title piqued his interest: "Annals of the Steward Ecthelion II." Wonderful! Gorthol had never given these to Faramir long ago. Not enough was in the standard libraries about his grandfather. Faramir pulled one of the volumes down and placed it on the floor. Then he pulled the cloth off the second bookshelf. Moving the lantern light along the shelves, he scanned title after the title until he reached bottom shelf. The wavering light revealed a large pewter box.

Quickly, Faramir bent down, and, placing both lanterns strategically on the floor, he pulled the box from the shelf. He plopped down cross legged to inspect the item. Indeed, this must be the box his father spoke of. It had a beautifully wrought design of the Argonath on the lid, as Denethor had described. It was also peculiarly light. Were the palantiri light? Faramir had always imagined them grave and weighty things, almost impossible to lift.

His hands began to tremble. He grabbed the second key left to him by his father and placed it in the large lock on the side of the box. But before he even turned the key, the lid raised without effort. Denethor in haste had failed to lock it--or someone had been there first.

There was no palantir in the box, as Faramir had feared. Instead, someone had left a folded piece of parchment inside. He grabbed it eagerly. The paper was reasonably new, quite in contrast to the decomposing parchment Gorthol had given him. Positioning the paper in the brightest rays of the lantern Faramir recognized the sprawling Westron, written in his father's hand:

"Curses of all the Valar on you, spawn of Morgoth!" Denethor's script raved. "You have brought the end of my house, but you won't get it. It is gone. And your realm will fall in the end!"

The horror of these words made Faramir's skin quail. Could Denethor have written the curse just before he led the procession carrying Faramir's body to the Silent Street, with Nazgul flying about the White Tower--as Pippin had described to him months ago?

More writing followd the enraged epithet. This time the text was in artifully crafted Sindarin, and most likely indecipherable by the denizens of Mordor, except Sauron, himself. Denethor wrote:

"I have done all I could for Gondor but failed. Now I go to my doom, but maybe you who read this can indeed help Minas Tirth. On one hand I deplore you, Mithrandir, or Elrond, or Thorongil (yes I know who Aragorn is). But on the other hand you are Gondor's remaining help. It is not here, but I have hidden it in the room. That is all I can say, in case this note finds its way into the hands of the Enemy.

- Denethor, son of Ecthelion"

A strong stench broke the clean air. A caterwauling loud enough to terrify any ghost pierced the silent room. Like lightning, Faramir shoved the box beneath one of the curtains that had covered the bookcases. He hastily grabbed a lantern and swung its beam in the direction of the door. The uneven light revealed the cat on his hind legs, pawing at the doors and screaming his head off in a bizarre, ecstatic dance.

The doors vibrated slightly beneath the pressure of a muffled knock.

*********************************************************************

Author's Note

"Dead Steward's Gift" fills a gap in the tales of Fourth Age Gondor, as they might have occurred, given the events in the "Lord of the Rings" film trilogy. Not quite movieverse. Not quite canon. All mine.

Chapter Four: The Black Cat's Familiar

The pounding was louder and more insistent. The doors of the Observatory shook, frightening the cat who backed away. Faramir's breath caught in his lungs. Then he acted swiftly. With his left hand, he swept up Cirri, holding the cat against his shoulder and moving a few feet away of the door. His right hand rested lightly on the handle of the knife fastened to his belt--a precaution, of course.

"Enter!" Faramir ordered in his loudest voice, that reserved for addressing the Rangers in the field. 

Both doors swung open, releasing a gagging stench.

"My Lord Steward?" Tower Guardsman Ib stood in the doors' threshold, bearing a steaming kettle, a wrapped bundle, and a confused look on his face. Behind him his watch partner Hartanol and a boy of the Tower staff held torches and the extra lanterns Faramir had requested. Cirri squirmed out of Faramir's arms.

Ib cautiously entered the Observatory, "Here is your dinner, er, my lord, your cat?" Said cat had launched himself onto the guardsman's leg, wrapped his body about said leg, and meowed piteously.

"I didn't feed him much today, so that hunger might drive him to catch mice," Faramir sighed and removed the protesting cat from Ib's leg. "No doubt Cirri thinks you've brought his dinner. I'll have to give him some, or he'll pester me all night. By the way, what IS it that you brought?"

"Fish soup, my Lord Steward, Cook's best, and a favorite of us all," Hartanol said proudly. The small entourage brought a small table and chair out of the shadows.

"I had two bowls of it for dinner," Ib patted his belly contentedly.

"I'm sure Cirion will also want two bowls," Faramir chuckled ruefully. He shooed the persistent cat away so the staff boy could set up a cozy dinner without being harassed. The youngster unwrapped a loaf of bread and wedge of cheese. Then he set out a bowl and ladled a serving of soup into it.

"Ehm, what's in it?" Faramir asked.

"Why, mussels and clams and squid, too," the boy smiled. "Potatoes and leeks, carrots."

"You forgot the mullet," Hartanol said.

Faramir gritted his teeth. Only the mullet sounded appealing. He'd have to fish it out from the other contents of the odiferous concoction. "I expect to be here for awhile," he said. "You needn't set up a watch on this floor. The usual patrols of the ground floor exits is sufficient. If I do not come down earlier, Ib, send someone up at five hours past midnight. With a substantial breakfast."

He then took Hartanol's arm and asked, "Do you think someone's been in this room since my father's death?"

"I've heard the talk and some noises, myself," Hartanol said. "Some say it's ghosts, but I'll have none of it. It's probably rats. Or the wind."

Or somebody else has the key and has been up here. Faramir thought. He asked Hartanol, "Does this room make you afraid?"

Hartanol drew himself up in a show of bravado. But then he admitted, "It's creepy--all the odd, covered up things. But they don't really scare me. Battles scare me."

"Then you won't be afraid to help me place these lanterns around the room," Faramir challenged. Light in the room was limited to the four lanterns surrounding the table and the single torch in the holder by the entrance.

Faramir and Hartanol grabbed the lanterns and walked along the room's perimeters, placing a lantern in each corner. The lanterns revealed more ghostly forms made of drapes covering what? He'd already uncovered bookshelves and the pedestal that once housed the palantir. It was peculiar, but not out of character, for his father to cover unused furniture with drapes as a protection against dust and mold. As a child, he and Boromir played in the unoccupied rooms of the Steward's House and hid under the drapes over the unneeded furniture.

"That is all," Faramir dismissed Hartanol.

When the guardsmen left, he sat down at the little table near the door and contemplated the soup in the wavering torchlight. A few minutes to air had not lessened the ghastly smell. Faramir reluctantly lifted his spoon. Predictably, Cirri jumped into his lap and cushioned his body against Faramir's outstretched arm.

"I might have expected you'd turn up," Faramir dropped the spoon. He paused, let his eyes wander once again over the Observatory and listened for any unexplained noises. The changing shadows and the peculiar shapes made the room feel looming and oppressive. He held Cirri against his chest and looked up at the ceiling. Night had fallen, yet not a particularly black night. A cloud covering reflected the lights of Minas Tirith, casting gray, uncertain twilight into the room.

Faramir felt grateful for the small company of his cat. Nevertheless, he lifted Cirri from his lap. "Stay down and I'll give you some fish," he said, hoping the cat would understand his message. 

He returned to the soup and tasted a bit. The stuff undoubtably tasted better than it smelled, though he still wasn't terribly fond of it. He picked out a few pieces of mullet for himself, removing bits of mussels and squid for the delighted cat. Finally, Faramir spooned some more soup into the bowl and set it on the floor for Cirri. He then grabbed a hunk of bread from the loaf and rose from his seat. Time for more detailed exploration.

Removing the single torch from its holder by the entrance, Faramir explored the wall to the left. Past the book shelves, Faramir discovered an alcove with a thick fur rug covering the floor. The sight of the fur made him painfully aware of the chill in the Observatory. He had not brought a cloak on his trek to the top floor of the Tower.

A rug makes as good a cape as any in a pinch. Faramir reached down, grabbed for the fur, and found it light and easily lifted. Indeed, this fur was a coverlet, not a rug, apparently spread out over a pallet. He squatted down. Sure enough, here was comfortable pallet, at least six inches thick, covered by sheeting of fine cotten. Holding his torch aloft, he ran his free hand along the soft bedding. No crumbs, twigs, or other typical bedding residents scratched his hand.

Faramir smelled the sheets. They had almost no scent--not a man's sweat, nor a woman's perfume, nor the scent of a man with a woman. He moved back onto his haunches. These sheets were unused, waiting.

Waiting for his father, Faramir concluded. A great chill overcame him. Denethor must have used this pallet on nights when he'd stayed late in the Observatory, exhausted after battling the Dark Lord for control of his mind. He must have laid this fresh linen sometime before the siege and never returned to the pallet.

Faramir rose. With his left hand he drew the fur over his shoulders. "Tonight I will stay here," he addressed the covered furniture, the shadows, the lowering sky, and his cat. "If Father's ghost comes to lie in the pallet, then we will have a good conversation on palantir usage. If another ghost comes, well, I have my dagger."

The alcove was a far more comfortable place for reading the Annals of the Steward Ecthelion II than the table occupied by the smelly soup, Faramir collected three of the lanterns, reserving one for the corner of the room furthest from the alcove. He located his three lanterns on the bookshelves to cast enough light into the alcoves for reading. He then gathered one of the annals and plopped it onto the pallet.

His industry was interrupted by the sound of liquid being slurped. Rats in the soup?

Torch in hand, Faramir returned to the makeshift dinner table. The hind legs and tail of the cat were revealed leaning against the soup kettle. Cirri's long, sinuous body curled over and into the kettle; his head and forelegs were lost in the soup. Faramir lifted the cat out of the pot.

"Is there ever a moment when you aren't into mischief?" he groaned, using a handy drape to  wipe the soup off Cirri's face and paws. Releasing the cat, he covered the kettle and removed it to the top of a bookshelf beside one of the lanterns. Here the kettle might be less easily accessed by whatever beasts desired soup in the weeist hours of the night.

That settled, at last he could retreat to the alcove. Faramir smothering his torch with a drape. Aching to be comfortable, he removed belt, tunic, and boots.  Clad only in shirt and leggings, he slipped between the sheets on the pallet and drew up the fur. Resting his back against the wall, he mentally checked the state of his surroundings. Listening carefully, Faramir heard the wind gather strength outside. A window rattled. He heard the cat scampering about after mice or demons of the feline imagination. The fishy soup aroma seemed less annoying, now that the kettle was covered and the concoction was cold.

Good enough! he decided, and setttled back to read. Unfortunately, day by day reports made tedious reading materials. The entries in his selected book were dated from late in Ecthelion's stewardship. Moreover, they were written by Gorthol, rather than the Steward himself. Occasionally, Gorthol's sardonic humor shone through the rote passages. Unfortunately, most paragraphs were little more stellar observations , peppered with Gorthol's comments about Ecthelion's frustration with his difficulty in using the palantir.

Cirion crept onto the pallet and curled up at Faramir's side. In a minute, the cat was fast asleep. Might as well follow his lead, Faramir yawned. He rose and extinguished the lanterns. The faltering light from the lantern at the far side of the room would keep him from bumping into the eerily draped forms, should he need to rise before dawn. 

Faramir sprawled onto his back. Many times in the past he put himself to sleep by imagining various places or people in remote locations. If he was lucky, his dreams would cast his far sight into these places. In the past few months, he hadn't tried the farsight excercises that Mithrandir had taught him long ago. Now he felt lonely and guilty. The mysterious Anor stone and the proported ghost that might be involved with the palantir's disappearance had captured all his waking thoughts. Now his mind needed a rest. 

Closing his eyes, he cast his mind to his beloved, far away in Rohan. He imagined the Golden Hall of Meduseld, a place he had never seen, and hazily called forth an image of Eowyn, busily occupied at the side of Eomer King.

What could Meduself look like? Was it large, small, same size as the Great Hall of the Kings? Were there rushes on the floor or painted mosaics? His thoughts searched for Eowyn, and he pictured her back as she walked up to her brother. Eomer busily assembled his warriors for a hunt in the East Fold. Their goal was to rid the forests of evil beasts that fled there after the collapse of the Black Gate. He followed along as the Rohirrim rode off into the hills, singing and uttering threats to the foul creatures they expected to ambush. The horses' hooves rumbled and lightning blasted the sky.  

The band arrived in the East Fold. Thunder pounded above them, but the forest canopy kept the hunters dry. Eomer looked about for a second and then ordered his band to retreat due to the unfavorable weather. "I will stay. I've found suspicious tracks," his lips moved though his voice was inaudible. He studied the indentations in a pile of twigs on the ground, dimly aware that the Rohirrim were gone.

As he rose, a heavy force struck him from behind. He rolled over onto his back, swiftly raised his arms to haul off his assailant. No use. The massive creature pinned him down. Grey, bloodshot eyes twisted into a slant, contemplating their prey. A maw dripping with red blood and spittle opened eagerly. He felt the beast's hot breath on his face.

Faramir's eyes bugged open. Soft animal breath touched his lips. Luminous gold eyes hovered just above Faramir's nose, regarding him with concern. In the blackness, he could barely make out the small head and pointed ears just beyond his face.  A velvety paw reached out and gently stroked his chin.

A flash of lightning blasted through the windows of the Observatory. He felt as much as saw Cirri abandon his crouching position on Faramir's chest and draw his feline body into a terrified curve. A second lightning bolt revealed how the cat had puffed up his fur to appear twice his size. Thunder rocked the Tower. Cirri suddenly charged beneath the sheets and trembled against Faramir's stomach. Relieved to be free of his nightmare, Faramir stroked the frightened cat. "You've never experienced a thunderstorm close at hand, have you, youngster," he chuckled.

The number of thunderstorms he'd experienced as a Ranger were beyond counting. Here in the Tower of the Observatory, Faramir could appreciate the storm's fury without being drenched. The tumult outside drowned out any other sounds originating inside the Observatory. The room was set in deep darkness between lightning flashes. The wick in the lantern at the far side of the room must have burnt out. He sighed, closed his eyes, and scratched the top of Cirri's head.

*************************************

He didn't remember falling asleep. Now he awoke cold and slow, vaguely remembering the circumstances of his bedding down. His eyelashes touched muffled darkness. His nose sunk in softness. His mouth tasted animal hair. Ugh. In his sleep, he had wrapped his head in the fur coverlet of the pallet in the Observatory. His wiggled his freezing, uncovered feet.

Faramir lay motionless, checking for unusual sounds. Silence. The violent storm had passed. He carefully removed the fur from his head. The interior of the Observatory lay still in gentle moonlight. Past the ceiling windows, the night sky was quiet, lit in the eery glow the Rangers called "false dawn." It would be an hour at least before the real dawn broke. To the left, a half moon shone brilliantly down on the Observatory.

The room was too light and too quiet. The sense of unreality made Faramir's skin crawl.

Then the awful smell assaulted his nose. It was the wretched soup, steeping in its kettle on the bookshelf Determined to take that kettle and put it out in the hall, Faramir rose swiftly but then checked himself. He sensed a strange presence in the room.

On hands and knees, Faramir moved out of the alcove with the same stealth he had once used for spying on Enemy minions. The Observatory's features seemed more distinct, less vague than they had before the storm. He crept forward and positioned himself behind the nearest covered form, most likely a bench.

The quiet air was barely penetrated by the sound of a slight gasp. Faramir's eyes darted forward.

At the far end of the room he saw her, bathed in a pool of light. She wore a flowing, diaphanous garment with short puffed sleeves that barely covered her shoulders. Her arms were chalky pale, save for the frightening blue blotches that were easily visible from Faramir's hiding place. The figure's thick, curling black hair was streaked with gray. It snaked in wild fury down her shoulders, almost to her waist. Faramir watched transfixed, almost forgetting his decades of concealment experience.

She looked forward. Her face was deathly pale. A long gash ran the entire length of her cheek. In the eery light, she seemed a ghost newly risen from the grave. She turned her body in his direction. Faramir silently slipped behind the covered bench. Stifling his breath, he heard her rasping voice say:

"Moggie?"

Blasted cat! Faramir let out an exasperated breath.

Very carefully he poked little more than his right eye out from behind the bench. Sure enough, there was Cirri at the feet of the ghostly apparition, arching his back and rubbing against the filmy skirts. Was she a witch who worshipped the heathen gods looking for a feline familiar? Faramir shuddered. This she-ghost conjured up the legendary spectre of Queen Beruthiel herself, come out from beyond the borders of Arda to welcome Cirri into her entourage. Would she beguile his naive overgrown kitten? Or would the foolish kitten merely blow Faramir's cover?

Cirri chirped blissfully and rubbed her skirts again. The figure bent down and scratched his ears.

"How did you get in here, youngster," the spectre said gently, her face obscured by her snaking hair. "Are you a present from Glaurung?"

Faramir gasped from behind his cover. Glaurung. Turin Turimbar's nemesis!

"He knew I needed a cat. Yet I don't understand how he got you in here," she continued. "Best as I know, he doesn't have a key. Nevermind, he'll be here shortly." Faramir knew Cirri followed from the sound of his happy little meows.

The truth suddenly dawned on him. He choked down a laugh. Cirri's not interested in being a witch's familiar. He just wants more soup!

Crouching down as best as possible, Faramir silently moved closer to the center of the room. He hid behind a long object, most likely a table, directly behind a taller covered form--a statue? Faramir dropped to his belly, and then slid forward so that his head and shoulders stuck out past the drape covering the table's legs.

The ghostly female had moved Marod's step ladder directly beneath the center of the domed roof. Cirri wove in and out of her skirts. "Cease your begging, Moggie," she teased cheerfully. "Glaurung will be here soon as he sees my signal. Then I'll give you some of my soup."

Soup? Something was very fishy in this Observatory, far beyond the awful soup.

Faramir could easily see her strike a spark from a tinderbox to light a torch that rested against the ladder. He quickly slid behind his cover.

"I still can't figure how you could have gotten in here," she continued chatting to Cirri.

Faramir slowly got to his feet and, bending over, darted behind the covered statue.

"Unless you aren't from Glaurung at all. Do you live here in the Tower?"

Very carefully, Faramir peaked out from behind the statue. His "ghost" now held her blazing torch. He watched, hypnotized, as she climbed the ladder until she stood one step from the top. Raising the torch aloft, she waved it in a graceful arc from left to right a full three times. Any Belfalas mariner worth his salt would recognize this as the sailor's trusty all clear sign. However, the average land-loving passer-by in the plaza below might interpret the flashes as haunted doings in the Tower.

Cirri eagerly patrolled the base of the ladder, rubbing and chirping. Having seen enough, Faramir very slowly moved out from behind the form.

"Now that I think of it, Moggie, you look sort of familiar, though all black cats do look alike," the woman continued--for living woman she certainly was, and by her accent, a native of Minas Tirith. "Did you sneak in behind me, then?" She relaxed on the ladder and lowered her torch

Loud banging shook the Observatory doors.

The woman raised her head, startled. Cirri squeaked and ran off toward Faramir. 

"Hello! Lord Faramir. Wake up!!" he heard the Tower Guardsmen call from behind the closed doors.

The woman raised her torch as Faramir stepped forward, arms outstretched.

"Oh, my Lord Faramir," she cried out in dismay as her eyes caught his. The poor woman thoroughly panicked. "I am so sorry," she said as she stepped down, but one of her feet evidentally missed the stair. She lost her balance and pitched backward. The woman shrieked. Her arms flailed, and the blazing torch flew into the air.

*************************************

Author's Note
"Dead Steward's Gift" fills a gap in the tales of Fourth Age Gondor, as they might have occurred, given the events in the "Lord of the Rings" film trilogy. Not quite movieverse. Not quite canon. Mindful of both and all mine.

Chapter Five: The Beneficial Uses of Soup

The Tower Guardsmen flung open the Observatory doors.

The air borne torch landed atop a piece of covered furniture. Flames burst out from the thick drape.

"One of you, get the water kegs," Faramir barked out orders. "Ib, did you bring water with my breakfast?"

"Aye!" Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir saw Ib spill the contents of a water pitcher, his erstwhile breakfast beverage, onto the drapery fabric.

Faramir hastened to the woman intruder and knelt over her prone body. She was unconscious, either from a fright-induced swoon or from trauma to her head from her fall. The injuries to her face that he previously noted were even more grievous on closer examination.

A loud whoosh interrupted Faramir's thoughts. The tips of his ears overheated. Despite Ib's best efforts, the fire had spread to a cloth-covered object scarcily more than three feet from the woman's body.

Liquid? There must be more liquid, any liquid in this place. Soup. Yes, that awful smelling soup. Faramir leaped up.

Hartanol and two youngsters of the Tower staff rushed into the Observatory rolling water kegs from the hall supply closet, stored there in case of fire emergencies.

Above the din of the expanding conflagration, Faramir heard Cirri howl in terror. His head whipped into the direction of the cat's call. Citti was unharmed, but he created such a racket. He paced the crowded top of last night's dinner table, occupied mostly by a covered soup kettle identical to the one that had housed Faramir's wretched dinner. No doubt the woman had gotten the same soup from the Tower kitchen.

Speeding to the table, Faramir seized the kettle, tore off its lid, and raced to the nearest burning drapes. He dumped the soup onto the covering of what appeared to be a statue. The soup's heavy contents as well as its liquid smothered the fire and sent up a pungent aroma of twice-cooked seafood.

To Faramir's dismay, Cirri scampered over to the cooling muck though he seemed hesitant to eat it. "Get out of here, Cirri," Faramir scooped up the cat and quickly dumped him outside the Observatory door. "You could get burned or stomped on," he warned and hoped the animal might understand five percent of his meaning.

"Larno went down to eighth floor to get help." Hartanol was at his side. They headed toward the first water keg. Ib had already opened the tap and refilled the empty water jug.

Faramir held the empty soup kettle under the spiggot, "Bring the other soup pot, Hart. It's atop a bookshelf."

Faramir then joined Ib to attack the persistent flames. They succeeded in dousing most of the fire when a spark lifted and caught the drape covering the statue where Faramir had previously hidden. The fabric burst out in a huge blaze, igniting two more covered forms.

Handing the soup pot to a staff boy, Faramir sped to the alcove and seized the fur blanket. He walked carefully to the center of the room, methodically searching for small fire outbreaks while the guardsmen and staff boys strove to control the main blaze. With determined strength, Faramir beat at the resistant flames with the fur coverlet.

"Ah, Bes, poor Bes, how did you get in here?" he heard Hartanol's voice suddenly cry out. Faramir stopped instantly. No flames were visible in his immediate vicinity, so he headed to Hartanol's side. The guardsman knelt beside the unconscious woman, his hand on her pulse, checking her heart rate.

"You know who she is?" Faramir asked.

"Aye, my lord. Beseniel, daughter of Labadol. She heads the night staff. Ib and I thought she acted strangely when she came in to work. She barely gave us more than a grunt. Not like her at all. I thought I couldn't hear her well because her face was veiled up to her nose. It was storming outside, and she had her hood over her head, too. Neither of us gave her a passing thought. But look. She didn't want us to see she'd been beaten."

A rogue sparc flew out from a dying ember nearby. It landed on the hem of Bes' luminous white chemise.

Springing into action, Faramir furiously slapped the fur blanket about the woman's legs. The shock of the blows woke her from her stupor.

"Please don't beat me!" she cried out.

"I'm beating the fire, not you," Faramir said beneath clenched teeth. "Hold still, woman, lest your legs be burned." He slapped at the flames once again.

"I can explain.." she began but then screamed, after twisting her body in reaction the impact of the rug on her legs.

"There will be time for talk shortly," Faramir said. He bent down beside Hartanol and wrapped the coverlet around Bes' legs, effectively smothering the fire's remaining embers. "What part of your body hurts?"

"Me back," the woman said. "I think I wrenched it. I tried to keep the Observatory clean. I did my best. Instead I've burned it down."

"What's happening here!" A strong, commanding voice interrupted. The Captain of the Tower Guardsmen, stood in the doorway, lantern in hand, his face the picture of confusion. His cloak was flung over his shoulders; his garments were a modest shirt and leggings.

Faramir stood up and said, "Perhaps you can tell me, Marod, son of Minhotar? Isn't this a little early for the mid-day watch to begin? Carry her to my office," Faramir ordered Ib and Hartanol.

Before they could lift their bundle, Marod gasped and then raced to his men. "I'll help take her downstairs, Lord Faramir," he said, carefully raising the fallen woman's shoulders while Hartanol took her legs.

"Bes, my sweetest, " Marod seemed to sniff back tears. "How came you to be so hurt? Who laid a hand on you."

The woman groaned as they headed out the door, "Not Lord Faramir. Not Hartanol. You know who it was, Glaurung."

"Glaurung?" Faramir glared at Marod. "You are Glaurung?"

"Aye, we all call him that," said Ib, who followed the sad procession, brandishing two lanterns. "He favors hot food from Far Harad and has dragon's breath as a result."

"You have much to answer for, Captain, as well as your Bes," Faramir addressed in Marod in a low, ominous voice. He watched the guardsmen raise Bes' body and head off to the stairway. Faramir's mind plagued him. Now he knew why Marod easily found the ladder in the Observatory. He'd been in the room before, and most likely with the woman Bes. Yet Faramir found it difficult to believe that their purpose was evil.

He stood alone in the doorway of the Observatory, brooding in the light of the single lantern left him by the guards. Gentle pressure from Cirri's soft body rubbing against his calves interrupted Faramir's dire thoughts. The cat meowed blithely and collapsed in a docile heap atop Faramir's feet. Naturally, Cirri had not heeded his warnings to get out of the way.

"Cirri, what a relief that you are alright," Faramir said. "It's been a frightening night, moggie. So if you don't squirm, I'll give you a ride on my shoulder to the first floor."

************************************************

Faramir slowly proceeded down the many flights of stairs. His lack of sleep impaired his ability to piece together the reason for the woman Bes' appearance in the Observatory at five hours past midnight. She obviously was signaling someone, most likely Marod, and most likely for a tryst. The freshly made pallet where Faramir had slept could have accomodated his father after long nights of palantir gazing. However, the sheets were too fresh to have been laid out any earlier than yesterday. Surely the pallet awaited two lovers who took great pains to keep their affair secret. Did they know about the missing palantir? Had they seen the stone?

As he reached the second floor, Faramir let his now struggling cat slip from his shoulder. Dawn light crept in through the narrow window slits in the stairway, rendering the dimming light of his lantern unnecessary. The morning watch of guardsmen and Tower housekeeping staff would have already reported for duty. In fact, the morning watch of Tower Guardsmen, Nem and Dorlas, had now assumed their positions outside the Steward's Offices. The two stood stiff in their full regalia when Faramir passed between them. Their concerted efforts to hide their expressions told him they were fully briefed on the drama enfolding in the Steward's Offices.

The strange woman lay on the long bench beneath the great windows, her injured head resting in Marod's lap. Beside him, a small table held a basin and cloth, which Marod used to bathe the woman's forehead. The night watch Tower Guardsmen Ib and Hartanol pulled up chairs beside the couple, almost as if to protect them. When Faramir entered, the two guardsmen stood up immediately. Marod did not rise; his face was clouded with a remorseful expression.

"We sent for a healer," Ib spurted out.

Faramir nodded, "You're dismissed, Hart and Ib. Go home to your families." He approached the sad couple on the bench. Marod seemed to be holding back tears. The woman's eyes were closed. Marod tossled her hair slightly and said, "Bes, my love, Lord Faramir is come."

Bes' eyes sprang open. They were large, dark, and honest. Faramir knelt on the floor and fixed his gaze onto hers. The woman struggled to stay awake and composed.

"How are you feeling?" Faramir asked.

The woman moved slightly and then groaned.

"She pleads her back, my Lord Steward," Marod spoke. Faramir's glare silenced him.

"I'm sorry, Lord Faramir," Bes said with great effort. "I needed a safe place to stay."

"How did you get into the Observatory?" Faramir carefully controlled his voice as he interrogated her.

Bes shifted her position, winced, and then continued, "As I always have these past eight years. I have a key."

Faramir sucked in his breath. He said, "The chief of cleaning staff does not have a key; the Keeper of the Keys does not have a key to the Observatory, though surely he should have one. The Captain of the Tower Guards--well, I will deal with him summarily. Why does the head of the night staff have this allegedly hard to find item?"

The woman said clearly, "It was given me by your lord father years ago. I swore upon the Steward's ring to keep the room clean and keep its secrets." Faramir gasped. His shock was interrupted by a soft, feline chirp. Faramir normally confined Cirri in the Steward's offices, near his bowls and sandbox. Now the unflappable animal gently sprang onto the legs of the fallen woman and promptly nestled himself beneath her knees.

Faramir sighed, "I will remove him."

"He does me no harm. I like cats," Bes said. "The morning staff always talks about your black cat and his mischief."

All the sterness of his interrogation was effectively disrupted, thanks to the intrusion of that silly cat. Well, it was inherrently cruel to make a badly beaaten woman endure such scrutiny, Faramir concluded. Taking a gentler tone would be easier on both the woman and himself. "Why did my father give you the key?" he asked gently.

"So that I would clean the Observatory every night, as he ordered," Bes added with just a hint of sass. "Everyone else on the night staff feared the top floor. I didn't. I was always curious. One night the guardsmen had to handle an emergency, and asked me to deliver the Steward's dinner up on the top floor. That is how I met him, eight years and more ago." Tears coursed down her bruised cheeks. Faramir's distrust dissolved as he studied Bes' face, the face of an honest, hard working woman.

"My father was a big one for covering unused furniture to keep it from gathering dust," Faramir said ruefully and wiped his hair from his damp forehead.

"Lord Faramir, the healer is here," the guardsman Nem called out.

*********************************************

Faramir was not so gentle with Marod. He motioned the guard into the rooms of the Keeper of the Keys while the healer saw to Bes' injuries. They entered Hurin's office. Faramir drew a chair into the center of the room and motioned Marod to sit.

"You are in serious trouble," Faramir said as he circled Marod with a slow, deliberate gait. "You deceived Hurin the Tall into thinking that no one had entered the Observatory since my father died. Hurin thinks there are no keys, other than the one I just recently given." The Captain of the Tower Guards did not move, but beads of perspiration glittered on his cheeks.

Faramir's cold eyes glared into Marod's clearly unnerved face. "You and your lover deceived Hurin, myself, and many others into thinking the Observatory was haunted, so that you could use it undisturbed for a lover's bower," he accused icily. "We elevated you to the highest authority among the guards. Everyone who works in the Tower trusted you implicitly. Instead, you created an elaborate myth just to hide your romance. Wouldn't it have been easier to find a room in an inn?"

"And have Bes' husband find out?" Marod answered defensively. "He's the one who beat her. He's been beating her for years. She ran off the day the dead men cleared the city of orcs and has lived in the Observatory ever since."

"Surely her husband must have resented her leaving him for the arms of another man," Faramir said pointedly. He pulled up a chair opposite Marod and sat down. "Is that why he beat her last night?"

Marod shrugged. "I don't know. But I can tell you this, my Lord Steward, I've known Bes for five years and loved her without hope nearly all of them. I would not lure a married woman from her husband. Bes and I became lovers only after she'd been living in the Tower for some time. She had never known of my love until months after she found the strength to leave Borlan."

With these revelations, Marod's story became less a tale of arbitrary deception than the story of a man's effort to protect the woman he loved. However, Faramir suspected there was more to it. The couple had been living in the Observatory. What might they know about the palantir?

"Who else knows that Bes has been living in the Observatory?" Faramir demanded.

"Lilah, but please do not punish her, my lord. She only wants the best for both of us. People have been afraid of the top floor since your father's day, I'm sorry to say. The three of us are guilty, I admit, of continuing the tale so that people would be afraid to investigate the Observatory."

"Does anyone else suspect you?"

"I think Hartanol might," Marod admitted. "He's long been of the opinion that there have been people, not ghosts, in that room."

Faramir leaned forward, took Marod's shoulders, and gazed very deliberatly into the guard's face. Unfortunately, Faramir's clear sight was less strong than the days before Mordor's fall. He easily determined that Marod and Bes were not bent on evil, only on love. Still, there was that matter of dissembling and myth making.

"I do not quite understand why you deceived Hurin into thinking there were ghosts in the Observatory. He is a sentimental man and surely would have sympathized with Bes' situation," Faramir spoke softly and then leaned back in his chair.

Marod slumped. He shook his head nervously and said, "Because Bes' husband Borlan is Lord Hurin's armourer. We could not take a chance and tell Hurin, even if he would be sympathetic. Not meaning to, he might let a word slip, even to his wife or servants."

******************************

Marod has maintained his integrity, Faramir decided. The last time he meted out such a severe grilling, he'd caught several rangers stealing supplies and reselling them at high cost to struggling farmers in South Ithilien. He still was unsure whether to demote Marod for his lying.

Together, the two men returned to the Steward's offices. The healer Iris stood before the window seat, holding Cirion in her arms. Bes was awake, stretched out on the bench.

"This woman wrenched her back in a fall. The back injury is not serious. It should heal within the next two days," Iris presented her diagnosis. "I've treated her bruises and cuts with unguents and then bound them. Her left elbow is sprained. I've put a splint on it."

"Thank you," Marod said softly.

"Whoever beat her so soundly should be put in jail immediately!" the healer spat at the guardsman. The agitated cat slipped out of her arms.

"This man is not responsible," Faramir corrected her strongly. "I will see to the woman's safety and to her assailant's being brought to justice. Now, I must ask you both to leave me with Bes."

The healer nodded. Marod rose and took Iris' arm to escort her out the door with proper Gondorian ettiquette. Meantime, Cirri jumped back onto Bes' body, this time settling himself in her lap. The woman seemed far less anxious now that the healer had treated her injuries. She even rested her arm lightly across Cirri's body and scratched his ears.

Faramir sat down on a chair left by the Tower Guard night watch. He deeply desired to hear Bes' stories about his father. However, there was one more important question to be asked.

"Bes, in the Observatory, did you see the palantir?"

"Palantir? I'm not sure what you mean, Lord Faramir."

"My father might have called it the Anor Stone," he explained. "It is round and black, so I have been told."

"Of course, I have seen the Anor Stone!" Bes' face lit up. "Yes, that is what your father called it. I have seen him look into it. I think that is why he swore me to secrecy about doings in the Observatory. I do not know what he saw in the stone, only that when I came upstairs with his dinner, he sometimes would be looking in it."

"Perhaps you knew my father in his later years better than I did," Faramir sighed. The woman's feelings for Denethor, son of Ecthelion, were written so openly on her face. "Do you know what became of the stone?"

The woman closed her eyes and hesitated. Her hand slowly stroked Cirri's body, as if to derive comfort from the cat before answering Faramir's question. She finally said:

"Aye, I do. It was that horrible night of the siege. You lay in state in the Great Hall. Rumors had it that you were dying or even dead. The city was invaded by orcs. And here I was only trying to do my duty, cleaning the top floor of the Tower, like I always do. I come into the Observatory and saw your father bent over the stone. He looked like a crazy man, I'm sorry to say."

"Continue," Faramir whispered.

Bes began to tremble, "That horrible Nazgul flew outside the window and screamed and crashed against it. Lord Denethor got frightened, looked up, and saw me. I think he said, 'Take care of yourself, Bes. I am about to die.'

"Then he stood up with the stone and come over to me. 'Hide this, Bes,' he told me, 'if you survive and the king returns, give it to him.' "

She sniffed slightly, "I took the stone. I survived. The king returned. I hid from my husband in the Tower and forgot all about the stone."

"What did you do with it?"

"What my Lord Denethor asked. I hid it. I am sorry I kept my secret so long. The stone is safe. I saw it just the other day while I was cleaning. As soon as I can manage the Tower steps, I will give it to you."

Faramir leaned over the woman's body and kissed her brow. "Thank you for your love and loyalty to my father," he said.

CHAPTER SIX: FOUND OBJECTS

Faramir's heart raced as he watched the woman Bes settle back on the window seat, eyes closed, cat curled in her lap. She presented the very picture of an innocent beaten and wronged.

On the other hand, she was a deceiver--she, and especially, Marod. And Bes had the palantir. This woman kept her secret for six months and more. Was a woman who built an elaborate smoke screen to cover her tryst someone he could trust?

His father trusted her. What sort of judge of character was the Lord Denethor in his later years, at the end?

The urge to look in the stone suddenly overrode Faramir's patient deliberations on Bes' honesty. Of what consequence were her problems when compared to the possibility of his gaining the palantir? One look in the Anor stone might reveal the presence of lingering enemies lurking about Gondor's borders. It could reveal what was happening in the land most Gondorians feared to explore--the wastes of Mordor. Then melancholy suddenly overcame Faramir. The stone could also let him look on the face of his beloved so far away.

He knelt beside the window and touched Bes' shoulder. Her eyes sprang open. "Is the palantir well secured?" he spoke, barely above a whisper.

"Aye, my Lord Steward," Bes said. "I am not clever enough to tell you how to find it. It's complicated. I'd have to show you. No one else could even guess where it is."

"Then you must tell me where it is," Faramir demanded softly.

"Why, it's hidden in the Observatory, of course. I couldn't have left the Tower with it under my arm with all them fell beasts flying about, could I? But the place is secret, a spot my Lord Steward used to hide his most treasured things. He made me swear not to reveal it before he gave me permission to clean there."

"My father trusted you. Evidentally, so must I," Faramir decided. Then he called out to the Guardsmen to bring Marod.

I must make this woman take him to the palantir, whatever the condition of her back, Faramir thought. The stone was his family's heirloom. Though by rights it should become the property of the king.

That king had left Faramir in charge of Gondor. For the next six months, he had the ultimate responsibility for judging rights and wrongs, and for overseeing the needs of the people. That duty was far more important in the end, than any strange longing to use the seeing stone. So had Faramir's life always been: duty and then desire.

Bes gasped and raised her head. Snaking tendrils of black and silver hair slipped away from her face, revealing flushed cheeks in an otherwise pale, pinched face. "My lord, I beg you for mercy," her voice quavered. "I only told stories so I could hide from my husband's wrath. I faithfully cared for your father's secret Observatory, even after he died."

Marod entered the Steward's offices with his usual, brisk pace, though his face bore a downcast expression. He stopped before Faramir's chair and nodded his head slightly in deference. Faramir gestured for the guardsman to sit. Then he ordered:

"Have that Observatory carefully cleaned. I want the cloths removed from all the objects within and everything well dusted. You personally must be present while the staff cleans. When Lord Hurin arrives, I'll have him authorize you to organize and supervise the inventory of everything in the Observatory. I can't begin to imagine all the stuffs that have sat in that room unknown and unused during my father's rule and even Ecthelion's before him."

"As you command!" Marod said and started to rise.

Faramir laid a restraining hand on the Guardsman's shoulder, "See to it that you do your duty well. I am not sure yet what your fate will be, though you cannot continue as Captain of the Tower Guard. Before you can have another position of authority, you have to prove yourself worthy of everyone's trust. Start by supervising that inventory. And if you find the Anor stone..."

"He will not find it!" Bes spoke up indignantly. "No one will." Then her voice cracked and she sobbed, "Please, Lord Faramir, don't send me from the Tower. I served Lord Denethor well, kept his secrets, kept the Observatory spotless."

"You were adept at keeping not only my father's secrets but your own, as well," Faramir noted, his voice chilly. "Leave us, Marod, and go plan out the inventory until Hurin arrives."

After Marod left, Faramir leaned over Bes' body to pat the top of Cirri's head. "It troubles me that you would abandon your children with such a brutal husband while you hid in the Tower all these months," he said, more sympathetically.

"Children?" Bes scoffed. "I had no children with Borlan. With my first husband I had me son Micah. A fine man he is, too, with Hild, a worthy wife and good daughter-in-law, I might add."

"Can you stay with them?" Faramir asked because it was proper, though he had misgivings about letting Bes far out of his sight.

Fortunately, the woman shook her head resolutely, "And sit there with a pretty smile on me face while I wait for Borlan's next visit?

"I was on me way to Micah and Hild last night when Borlan decided to find me," Bes twisted on the window seat. "He pulled me into the alley and proceeded to have at me. Would've killed me, too, but we must have raised such a commotion. My children heard us and chased him off. Micah walked me to the Tower last night with a big stick in his hand."

Faramir carefully considered Bes' response. Yes, he must keep her close at hand, under guard, to keep her safe and, even more so, to ensure that she honored her promise to deliver the palantir. "I find your story most disturbing," he said. "Some of it defies logic. I don't understand how you could have kept your husband from finding your hiding place until he caught you visiting your son."

"My husband's suspected that I was living somewhere in the Citadel from near a week after I moved in," Bes retorted. "I came back then and demanded me property. He beat me so badly that I wound up in the Houses of Healing. I haven't returned to him since. He doesn't care about me, you see. He just wants my inheritance from my first husband. He left me alone until last week, when I had him served with a divorce. He's always known where my son and his family lived and figured out that I might want to visit them."

"Ah, at last some of the pieces of your story are coming together," Faramir said. "Then I shall offer you this proposal, good woman Bes. I'll see to your legal issues, and make sure this Borlan is brought to justice for beating you. In return, you can stay temporarily in my townhouse. I have an extra room in the servant's quarters. My housekeeper can set you up until you are well enough to climb the steps of the Citadel and give me the palantir."

"Lord Faramir, it was always my intent to give it to you," Bes protested.

"This time I will be there to see that you carry out your good intentions," Faramir reminded her sternly.

***********************************

To his mind, Faramir kept his part of their bargain. He had Bes sequestered in the servants' quarters under good Cook's care. It was as much a velvet prison as a safe haven for the woman. She was not allowed out until she deemed herself well enough for the journey to the palantir. Fortunately, Bes turned out to be a lively though not very mobile house guest. Her tales of Denethor were quite captivating. They painted a picture of Denethor in his later years, when Faramir was much estranged and physically far away from his troubled parent.

The pair of Tower Guardsmen always stationed at the townhouse's entrance would have prevented Bes' leaving, had she chosen to flee. They also regulated who came to visit. Thus, Faramir got to meet Bes' son and daughter-in-law. Marod, however, was not allowed to visit, as part of his punishment for deceiving his supervisors. Bes' ruffian of a husband Borlan never ventured to the townhouse, which was just as well, in Faramir's estimation.

The Keeper of the Keys was most unhappy, and frankly downhearted, to find that two men he held in high regard had been engaged in spurious behavior. And over the same woman, yet. When Marod confessed his tall tale about the Observatory, Hurin assured Faramir that the guardsman's demotion was sufficient punishment for the infraction.

Marod had shown his eagerness to reinstate himself in his lords' good graces by effectively planning and then overseeing the ongoing inventory of the Observatory. That inventory turned up many valuable items, nearly as much rubbish, and a few articles that were unidentifiable. Faramir read the updated lists each night, searching for mention of a strange black stone. Said inventory uncovered five rotting mouse carcasses and many more mouse sightings that did not sit well with the female inventory takers. No mention of any item that remotely resembled a palantir.

So Faramir once again decided to haul his cat to the Observatory of the Tower of Echthelion. He could switch off carrying the basket with the Tower Guards on the laborious journey to the tenth floor. Then Cirri could prove his usefulness as a mouser while Faramir and Bes set to the object of their venture, uncovering the hidden palantir.

Bes' husband Borlan was a different problem. He had served Hurin well for ten years. As Bes told it, Hurin introduced her to Borlan two years after her first husband had died in service to Boromir. At some point Bes realized that Borlan had married her to get his hands on her first husband's sizeable military pension. The entire affair disgusted Faramir to his core. He insisted that Hurin order his officers to imprison the blacksmith for serious offenses: beating his wife and attempting to steal her money.

The energy that Faramir had put into Bes' affair kept his mind from relentless obssessing on the still missing palantir. Nevertheless, every night, after long discussions with Bes and his usual preparations with Cook, Faramir's mind resumed its anxious speculation about the stone. He tried to quell his worries by imagining his Eowyn in her bower in far-off Rohan. Did she still love him? Did she still even think of him? Now, if he had the palantir, perhaps he could use it to have a look at her? Was spying on your sweetheart an appropriate use of the palantir?

What if someone had removed the palantir from what Bes had assured him was a very safe hiding place?

And if he and Bes did find the palantir, could he use it?

Would he look into the stone and see nothing but blackness, like his grandfather Ecthelion and so many previous Stewards?

Only the most intellectually powerful folk--evil Maiar and humans of the highest bloodlines--could bend the palantir to their wills. And yet Peregrin Took, a foolish young halfling, had seen images in the sphere that were used by the Dark Lord in an attempt to snare Pip's mind. Pippin was hardly an intellectual and scholar, though he was of noble blood, as Shire folk accounted such things.

But could Faramir use the Anor Stone?

Four days had passed since the fire in the Observatory. Bes' back had healed enough so that she could climb stairs without pain. Faramir had survived his nightly frets about the stone. On the fifth morning, he wrapped his sturdy Ranger's cloak about his shoulders against the chill of the late Fall morning. Then he gathered Bes, the pair of Tower Guards, and the carrier containing his extremely unhappy cat into a small troop for their journey to the Tower. When they arrived at their destination, they climbed the Tower stairs at a leisurely pace, stopping every three flights for a rest. At these times, the previously quiet Cirri scratched at the walls of his basket prison and whimpered. The guards obliged the cat's protests with sympathetic murmurings. Faramir stoically refrained from comment.

The tenth floor was abuzz with activity when Faramir's party finally climbed the last stair. Bes bent over slightly and rubbed the small of her back. "Aye, it hurts, if that's what you're wondering," she sassed to the little entourage.

The Observatory doors were wide open, without so much as a guard on either side. Upon entering, Faramir immediately noticed how the room's oppressive clutter was now under control. Very few objects remained covered by white sheets. Instead he saw the lovely statues, long under wraps, now undergoing intense cleaning and polishing by the women of the Tower staff. Many books had been pulled from the uncovered shelves; they lay in orderly piles against the wall, awaiting categorization.

In the room's dead center, the magnificently carved pedestal for the palantir shone from newly-applied gloss. Marod leaned against it, brandishing a smile that gleamed nearly as bright as the pedestal's new wax job. "My Lord Steward," he said, and added a deferential nod. "We've had the pedestal appraised by the City Museum's curator. It took three of us, but we turned it upside down and found that it is signed and dated on the bottom. It was carved by a sculptor called Aravir during the Stewardship of Hurin I. I'm afraid it is only 800 years old."

"And we thought it came from Numenor," Faramir chuckled as he escorted Bes to her lover's side. He retrieved Cirri's carrier from the guardsmen and freed the impatient animal. "Don't leave the room," Faramir warned. Cirri joyfully leaped beneath an unruly mass of discarded sheets a few statues away.

The demoted guardsman kissed his sweetheart gladly. Then he told Faramir, "The curator thought it was a copy of a copy of a copy of the original pedestal from Anarion's time."

"It's breath-taking, whatever its origin," Faramir spoke and then realized that he indeed was having trouble breathing. The artistically carved markings on the pedestal's top that indicated the directions of the compass were mute reminders of the purpose of his journey. The bowl-like indentation was obviously the cradle for the stone. He could no longer tary.

"Have the folk stop their work and take the rest of the day off," Faramir ordered. "Send the guards down to my office. You, too, Marod. Take your lunch break and wait for Bes in Hurin's office. I doubt she will be more than an hour. Bes will stay here until she completes her promise to me."

Faramir studied Bes' face as she separated, yet again, from her lover. Curiously, she was calm, happy, even as Faramir's aggitation increased to the point where he could barely swallow. The five workers left their tasks, curtsied slightly, and then left the room, followed by a much less happy Marod.

"Well, my Lord Steward, come with me and let's find the stone," Bes smiled blithely. She looked about her, as if to ensure that she and Faramir were the only people in the Observatory. Satisfied, she headed to a far corner where several empty bookcases rested against an inside wall. Faramir followed, trying to regain his breath.

"I wonder if anyone tried to turn this," Bes said with some vexation. She pointed to a knob on the right side of the second shelf . "Oh, probably not," she concluded and gave the knob a turn. Bes pulled at the bookcase to reveal that the unit was built into a door. That door opened at the woman's slight tug on the bookshelf's side panel.

Admittedly, Faramir had hoped the disguised door would reveal a secret, musty room full of old potions and cobwebs. Instead, Bes led him into a well-tended, walk-in linen closet, half full with neatly folded furniture covers, curtains, and bedding for secret lovers, carefully stacked on their shelves. The contents appeared to be untouched.

"I suppose I must let the rest of the staff know where to store the sheets once they are cleaned," Bes sighed. She knelt down before one of the shelves. When Faramir started to kneel, she held her hand out. "Stand back, my Lord," she admonished him before fishing for the keys she kept on the girdle about her waist. He moved a few steps back and bent slightly toward her to observe. Bes pulled away some folded sheets from a center shelf. Sure enough, behind these was a simple lock, into which Bes inserted one of her keys.

The lock responded with a squeaky click. Bes pushed against the right side of the bookshelf. It easily moved backward even as the left side swung forward, revealing that the shelving unit was mounted on a turntable. Only the first few feet of the hall behind the shelves were visible in the faint day light filtering in from the Observatory. Ostensibly quite familiar with her surroundings, Bes pulled out her trusty tinderbox from the pouch hanging from her girdle. She reached up to light the brazier in the hall just beyond the moveable shelves. The bleak, unpainted walls glowed in an amber light.

"I've heard of secret passages in the Tower but never believed the stories," Faramir said as Bes gestured for him to follow. "Yet here is this hall. I wonder why Father showed it to you?"

"He wanted me to clean it, of course," Bes shrugged. "The hall doesn't go much further. Someone boarded it up. Lord Denethor said it was closed off hundreds of years ago."

They walked barely ten paces beyond the turntable door to come upon a long set of bookcases, stacked with well-cared-for volumes. Out of habit, Faramir quickly scanned some of the titles and gulped at the rock that formed in his throat. Volume after volume bore the title, "Annals of the Steward Denethor II," and dates from various years during his father's life time.

"Look here," Bes interrupted Faramir's astonished thoughts. She gestured to a rolled up length of fur squished into a half-filled bottom shelf. "No one's been here, as I promised. Take it, my Lord."

Faramir's knees quivered as he bent. He carefully retrieved the fur bunting so that it would not unwrap and cause him to drop its treasure. The package was surprisingly light. "Come, Bes," Faramir whispered. "Close the doors behind you so that it appears like we have never been here."

"Aye, Lord Faramir," Bes agreed though Faramir hardly heard her. He moved quickly from the secret hall to the linen closet to the unoccupied Observatory, basking in the mid-afternoon sun. He stopped before the shining pedestal and positioned his burden in the cradle in the pedestal's top.

"Leave me, now," he ordered the smiling woman. "Tell the guards to bang on the doors at sunset, if I am not down by then." He was vaguely aware of Bes shutting the Observatory doors. He was somewhat more aware that Cirri rubbed against his leg and made an inquiring meow.

Barely breathing, Faramir carefully unwrapped the furs. Cradled in its home for the first time in months was the Anor stone, so black, so opaque, so dense in color that it did not reflect the image of the Observatory windows upon its surface.

*********************************************************************

Author's Note

"Dead Steward's Gift" fills a gap in the tales of Fourth Age Gondor, as they might have occurred, given the events in the "Lord of the Rings" film trilogy. Not quite movieverse. Not quite canon. All mine.

CHAPTER SEVEN: VISIONS TERRIBLE--AND BEAUTIFUL

Where to look? What do I want to see?

Faramir stared at the palantir comfortably positioned in its cradle, waiting. An engraved brass band half an inch thick encircled the indentation where the stone was seated. Slanting letters indicating the four directions were applied in gold leaf in their proper positions around the cradle, providing a compass for the viewer.

North! North east!, Faramir thought. I want to see what transpires in Rohan, in Meduseld.

He decided to experiment with the stone by first looking in on Eowyn, daughter of Eomund. And why not? Meduseld was only 150 miles away. It was wise to start small when dealing with strange devices.

The table that held the stone was narrow, slightly below his elbows. Faramir drew himself up, set his hands on the table's edge, on either side of the Anor stone. He leaned into the object, saw nothing but its unfathomable blackness.

How does one start up a palantir? Perhaps the proper commands were in the annals of some Steward from 500 years ago? It could take months to uncover that information, and he was devoid of patience. In Faramir's youth, Mithrandir had given him concentration exercises to hone his far sight skills. In rare cases had he experienced instances of far sight while awake. The skills were more effective when applied before going to sleep. In his dreams the visions of happenings far away would come. Surely his intense concentration skills seemed the likely tools for unlocking the palantir.*

Faramir closed his eyes and concentrated on the word "North." Then he opened his eyes, swept them over the palantir's opaque surface, and then fixed them on the engraved N on the table above the stone.

Thump!

He shuddered but tried mightily to maintain his concentration.

A second thump, followed by the terrified scream of a small animal, and Faramir wrenched his head away from the stone. About ten feet away, a white bundle of discarded sheets suddenly lifted from the floor like a ghostly apparition raising its head. The unearthly bundle remained in its pose, a weird, distended shape. Faramir's heart pounded against his chest. A small bump appeared where the edge of a sheet swept across the newly polished floor. A tiny mouse scurried out from beneath the hem of the crinkled white fabric.

Faramir let out his breath in a whistle. "Cirri?" he said. The sheets rustled energetically before the cat's black face appeared in high contrast to the surrounding pale fabric. Cirri chirped slightly and darted back under the pile of sheets.

Cat's only doing what I brought him up here for, Faramir reminded himself. He returned to the palantir.

Shock! Where once was only impenetrable blackness, the palantir's surface now was marked by arcing lines, extending from a single point in the center of the stone. Faramir's stomach contracted. North, show me North! his mind demanded, not at all sure that the powers behind the stone could understand. At first, there was no reaction. Then a fresh blue sky and puffy pink clouds appeared above the arcing lines.

Success!

Or was it? Faramir pulled his face from the palantir to look up at the ceiling. Sure enough, he saw the Observatory windows spoking from the dome apex. And outside the windows was a perfect mid-afternoon November sky. The image in the palantir was merely a reflection of the ceiling.

Dismayed but not yet defeated, Faramir returned to the palantir. Its surface was unchanged.

"North. Show me North," he spoke to the stone this time.

Was he mistaken or had the letter N on the table started to glow?

Clouds floated across the stone's surface. Then the tops of trees. Trees! You couldn't see trees in the windows of the Observatory ceiling. Trees floated into and out of the palantir's surface, faster and faster. They separated to show the tops of snow-covered mountains: the Ered Nimrais on Gondor's northern boundary. He recognized them from travels early in his rangering career. Only once had he crossed them into Rohan.

The surface of the palantir swept magnificently over the edge of the mountains from a height that seemed 200 feet in the air. This must be what a bird sees, Faramir thought. A giddy sense of elation and dizziness took over his mind. The palantir visions allowed his senses to fly like a hawk over rolling grasslands, the plains of Rohan, marked here and there by rocky buttes The pace was agonizingly fast--faster than any horse he had ever ridden.

Meduseld? Where is Meduseld? Could the palantir actually hear his mind or did it just wander willy nilly?

Like an eagle's eye, the palantir's surface honed in on the largest butte so far. As the butte approached, Faramir noted a range of long, low buildings with roofs of golden thatch scattered here and there on the steep, rocky hill. A pebbled road wound up the sides. The palantir's surface followed the road, traveled up it, and slowed down to the speed of a horse's easy canter.

Then the stone showed him a horse--a heavily muscled buckskin horse standing in a corral. The animal's unusually colored tan coat shown in the afternoon sun. A woman's hand wove a strand of beads into its black mane. Faramir gasped as the stone's surface moved from the hand to the woman's arm to her face--the beloved face of Eowyn. Every muscle in his body suddenly quivered. He had not seen her in nearly sixth months. In his memories she was beautiful. And now, the vision in the stone confirmed it, as he watched her finish currying her horse. Somewhere in his present existence, Faramir was vaguely aware of the cat rubbing against his leg and curling up against his foot.

She was the fairest among all the spectacular visions he had seen thus far. He watched in delight while Eowyn mounted the horse and rode down the hill. She can ride again, he thought. Her broken arm and shoulder no longer hinders her. As if in reaction to his thoughts, the stone's surface closed in on her face, mouth expressionless but eyes afire.

"'Wyn, my dearest 'Wyn," he blurted out. "If only you could hear me." Her head jerked. For a moment, she stared straight ahead as if she had heard his words but could not see the speaker. Her hair whipped across her face.

Then, just like that, her face dissolved into blackness, finally replaced by the image of moving earth. Faramir exclaimed out loud. He gripped the edge of the table. He was losing control of the palantir. It was tugging away from him, obeying its own will, showing him unfamiliar landscapes. Flying across the stone's surface were vast forests, huts of primitive farmers, ruins of long-forgotten Elvish civilizations, and great granite mountains that dwarfed the familiar Mindolluin.

"What is this? Where am I," Faramir asked the stone, vaguely aware that the N on the table glittered brightly in response. The palantir's pace slowed noticeably to reveal a beautiful but barren expanse of deep valleys and high Tors topped with jagged standing stones.

"Who are you?"

"What?" Faramir's brain automatically responded before adequately realizing that he was being addressed.

"Who are you?" a low but compelling voice queried in his brain. The stone's surface changed to bleak ruins. For a fleeting second, Faramir felt eyes seeking his mind, grave and powerful eyes, strange but, oddly, he did not sense that they were evil.

Nevertheless, he was terrified. Unwilling to lose control to this palantir usurper, Faramir's mind demanded, "Who are you!"

Sharp teeth pierced through his leggings to scrape his calf.

He wrenched his eyes away from the stone and raised his arm reflexively to strike--but just as quickly stayed his motion. Cirri's gold eyes blinked at him. With casual innocence, the cat rubbed against the leg he had just nipped, scampered to the Observatory doors, and scratched at the crack between them.

Only then did Faramir realize that the hairs on his neck and shoulders were sticky with sweat. His legs trembled with the same fatigue that he had experienced after a squirmish in the wilds of Ithilien. He grasped both ends of the table and hovered over the stone. Its surface was opaque, unreadable. He could not in his mind hear the voice that demanded his identity nor feel the intense eyes that tried to assess him.

On the other hand, he certainly heard Cirri's insistent meows. Faramir remembered guiltily that he not fed the cat today, hoping that hunger might inspire the tyke to catch mice for his meal. Unfortunately, this tactic once again did not work.

"Okay, Cirri," Faramir sighed and swept the overgrown kitten into his arms. "Time for us both to eat. And then, I must confront whoever wrenched control of the palantir from me."

************************************************************

Descending ten flights of stairs with a young nine pound cat clinging to his shoulders was slow going. Thus, Faramir had ample time to contemplate his experience and work up a hazy plan of action before he reached the ground floor of the Tower. He must find out who had challenged him in the Anor stone, though the thought of such a confrontation terrified him. Nonetheless, the challenge must happen tonight. The November sun was already low in the sky. His curiosity--and his dread--would not hold for another day. And perhaps, the palantir was best viewed by night. Evening was when Denethor chose to use it, which Faramir learned long ago from eavesdropping on his father as a youth. **

When he arrived in his offices, Faramir ordered Marod to bring Bes back to his townhouse. Then the demoted guardsman was tasked to fetch Faramir's leather armor and old ranger cloak. Tonight, Faramir determined to return to the Tower and seek out the one who had challenged him. If the Anor stone cooperated, he would face the challenger incognito. His cloak was an excellent disguise, as it had always been in the wild. He would not be alone. Marod would wait outside the Observatory doors, just in case...

Just in case what? In case the challenger is some evil minion of the Dark Lord who somehow survived the destruction of the Ring? In case the palantir was now marred by Sauron to show only twisted images designed to snap the mind of whoever stared into it? In case the stone was intrinsically evil, Dark Lord notwithstanding, as some fables had it?

Alone in his offices, Faramir fed the cat and slowly ate a late lunch though it was nearly dinner time. The issue of the palantir was terrible to contemplate. Still, he could not get thoughts of the stone out of his mind. Clearly whoever had challenged him was one of great intellect and power. How could the challenger have gotten hold of another palantir?

Faramir hunched over his desk , straining to remember the lore of the seven stones brought 3000 years ago from sinking Numenor. The great stone of Osgiliath was destroyed centuries ago. The stone of fair Minas Ithil was confiscated by Angmar and later used by the Dark Lord to ruin the mind of Denethor, son of Ecthelion. Of the three stones held in the North, two were lost, it was said, on a king's sinking ship on the Icebay of Forochel. A third was still said to exist, held by the elves in a land that the educated in Gondor deemed naught but the stuff of legends.

So that left two stones that certainly existed, the Anor stone upstairs and the Orthanc stone. Faramir shuddered at the thought of the Orthanc stone, which the wizard Saruman had used for years while the Dark Lord corrupted his mind. That stone journeyed to Minas Tirith with
Mithrandir before the seige. After the Coronation, Aragorn told Faramir of his intention to surrender the Orthanc stone to Eomer King for safe-keeping until Aragorn returned from the far North.

Had some unspeakable adversary stolen the Orthanc stone from the Mark? Or could the challenger perhaps be a man of Rohan charged with care of their stone. Perhaps the challenger was, indeed, his future brother-in-law? He recalled how the strange grey eyes did not seem evil, even though they had tried to probe his mind. Fortunately, Cirri had interrupted Faramir's mental wresting before the challenger had gotten very far.

In the late afternoon, Marod arrived with the ranger garments. With the guardsman's assistance, Faramir donned his now well-oiled but nevertheless well worn leather breastplate and vambraces for the first time in months. Could his clothing mislead the fearsome spectre, which might possibly be just a figment of his over-worked imagination.

Faramir and Marod began their long ascent up the twisting staircase. No sooner had they climbed one flight than they were assailed by a chorus of meows. Cirri stepped out from shadows cast by the late afternoon sun through the slatted windows. Faramir sighed, "Take him up. If we leave him, he'll only try to follow us. There are too many steps to the Observatory for a small animal to manage."

When they finally arrived at the Observatory level, daylight was clearly fading. Marod withdrew several lanterns from the utility closet. Faramir took one and unlocked the Observatory door.

"Stay here unless I call for you," he told the guardsman. "If you hear anything untoward, come in right away. If I don't come out before the sound of the midnight chimes," Faramir gulped, "come for me."

"My Lord Steward, are sure you will be alright?" Marod said.

"I don't know," Faramir admitted. He opened the door, paused for a moment as Cirri bolted into the twilit Observatory, and then closed the door behind himself. The now exposed statues in the Observatory hovered in the dimming light, a frozen audience awaiting Faramir's attempts to do the deed that petrified him. The pedestal that bore the palantir waited in the center of the Observatory.

Faramir set his lantern on a bookcase some distance from the palantir to keep down reflections on the stone's surface. He drew up a chair beside the pedestal and sat down. Then he withdrew a indigo scarf, which he wrapped over his nose and mouth, ranger fashion. Finally, he pulled the hood of his cloak low over his face.

Concentrating with all the ferociousness that Mithrandir had taught him, Faramir's mind called out to the stone, North. Take me North.

A grey cloud formed in the center of the palantir. It whirred vaguely, trying to coalesce into a solid substance.

Impatient, Faramir called out to it, "Show me North!"

Just like that, the engraved N glowed. In his mind, Faramir called out in his mind to the challenger, You who have spoken to me, show yourself. I do not fear you. Declare your intentions. Do you mean me ill or are you friend?

The cloud stopped spinning though it seemed to Faramir that an hour must have passed before its image was clear. The image in the surface of the palantir moved slowly, showing the wreckage of ancient buildings and deep pits that spoke of recent excavation. The crumbling granite blocks glowed wet with recent rain. The continuing movement revealed the reason why Faramir could see into the stone with such detail, even though it was clearly past sunset in these unknown lands. Two strategically placed lanterns, quite similar to the lantern in the Observatory, were placed on the walls of the new construction.

Then the images in the palantir revealed a solitary male, human or possibly elf kind, huddled over a crumbling table. He was clad in dark colored leathers bearing no visible standard. The hood of his cloak hid his face as he hovered over an object on the table.

Who are you! the stranger's silent probes demanded. Where have you found the stone that you use? What right have you to use it.

One who has the right, Faramir's mind countered. He leaned back into the chair and parted the edges of his cloak, to reveal the insignia of the Stewards of Gondor on his breastplate. He sent his most powerful thoughts out, I am the heir of the House of...

Oooof.

Cirri had jumped into his lap, destroying Faramir's concentration and forcing the exclamation out of his startled mouth. The cat stared at him and then turned. Leaving his hind legs in Faramir's lap, the cat set his forelegs right on top of the palantir. He stretched his gangly feline body over the palantir, nonchalantly showed Faramir his posterior, and commenced to rub first one ear and then the other against the stone's surface.

"Faramir?" a voice seemed to emanate from the stone. Cirri emitted thunderous purrs as he vigorously marked the stone with his chin. "Faramir...your cat?"

That voice was coming, not from the stone, but from the pedestal. Unlike the formidible voice in Faramir's mind, this audible voice was friendly and unmistakable.

"Moggy, you are impossible," Faramir groaned and removed the cat, who had just enthusiastically claimed the palantir as part of his territory. "My liege?" he queried hopefully.

Leaning into the stone, he now saw that King Elessar had removed his hood and smiled tentatively. Faramir had not laid eyes on his sovereign and friend in six months. His heart swelled just to see Aragorn alive and well and unimagineable miles away.

Swiftly Faramir lifted his hood and tore the scarf from his lips. "I found it," he blurted out. "This is the Anor stone, the stone of the Stewards that we thought destroyed when my father burned. He gave it to Bes, head of the Observatory night staff, who led me to it just this morning. It's quite a story. I will send you the full details."

"What wonders still survive in Middle Earth," Aragorn remarked, nodding his head. "I had thought the powers of the stones would fade after the destruction of the Ring. Yet here we speak over great distances, like the kings and stewards of old."

"For a moment, I thought you were the elven king of old that the stories tell of," Faramir said, "the one who commands the greatest of the stones from some remarkable stronghold in the far North West. I should have realized that you might use the Orthanc stone occasionally to survey the lands of Eriador and Gondor."

"The Orthanc stone is in Rohan under Eomer's care." Aragorn swept one arm outward. "Here are the ruins of Annuminas, the ancient citadel of Anor. We were digging the foundations of the new capital just yesterday, when this table was uncovered. Its drawer contained the most unexpected wonder". He held out the palantir, "This is the stone of Annuminas."

Faramir spoke hardly above a whisper, "The histories here in Gondor report that this stone was drowned."

"Not drowned," Aragorn said. "Removed from Fornost and buried here by the last king of Arthedain on his flight from the great battle to Forodwaith. We found a stone tablet in the drawer with the palantir, explaining its history. Arvedui's rescuers would not have known this. They assumed that he had both the Amun Sul and Annuminas stones with him when his ship sank. I do not fault the historians in Gondor for not having the entire facts of this story."

"What wonders indeed," Faramir grinned. "How could you tell that someone was using another palantir?"

"I'm not sure," said Aragorn. "I felt a strange urge to look upon it. I didn't use it yesterday when it was uncovered. Yet the thought of the palantir weighed on my mine. I wonder if that is the way the kings communicated over distances with their stewards? "

"They summoned each other in thought?" Faramir replied. "That seems almost Elvish."

"So it does," Aragorn agreed. "The most powerful Elves can summon each other and communicate in thought over vast miles. The palantiri were Elves' gifts to the Numenoreans, so that the lords of the humans could replicate Elven far sight through use of the stones."

Relaxing now, Faramir loosed the clasp of his cloak. Once again, Cirri was in his lap, this time curling up in a contented ball. "We should set up a regular time to communicate," Faramir spoke enthusiastically. "Perhaps once a week at dusk I can give you a report of conditions in Gondor."

"Excellent!" Aragorn laughed. "And I can give you whatever directives that you need to carry out activities in the South. You might not have expected to become Steward, but you already well serve Gondor and myself. Now, how do we let each other know when we need to speak, in case summoning each other in thought doesn't work as we expect?"

For a moment, Faramir was stumped. "I don't really know." Then the answer quickly dawned on him, "The Annals. I'm sure it is written in the Annals of the Stewards of Gondor. They've been hidden here in the Observatory for hundreds of years with no one to read them, except the odd Steward and his Warden of the Palantir."

He could see Aragorn's smiling image in the stone. Faramir's muscles relaxed with a sense of deep relief.

"I received a detailed report from Eomer last week," he heard Aragorn say. "Rohan is rebuilding nicely. He is well and so is Eowyn, though he writes that she misses you a might too much."

Faramir grinned and drew his hand over Cirri's velvety coat. The palantir of Anor sat silent in its fur coverlet. It was not an evil device, but a worthy inheritance from his father, after all.

**************************************************************

AUTHOR'S NOTES

* Faramir and Far sight

Faramir's far sight abilities are fodder for much speculation among fan fiction writers. I interpret far sight as the ability to see what's going on at far distances. It's an ability akin to elven telekinetic powers, such as Galadriel's mirror and Elrond's deep sense of "thought." With such
powers, the wielders of the Elven Rings kept watch on Middle Earth during the Third Age.

In my stories, Faramir's far sight is a small scale version of the the elven capability. Gandalf has instructed Faramir on how to use the sight. But Faramir can't really control far sight well. Instead, he gets occasional flashes of insight while awake or troubling visions in his dreams. So he becomes a perfect conduit for others using farsight (Gandalf, Elrond, and especially Galadriel) to pick up on what's happening in Gondor. I deal with Faramir's skill with farsight--or lack thereof--in several chapters of my novel-length story "Avoidance," archived here on Stories of Arda.

** Faramir eavesdropping on Denethor while Dad looked into the palantir?

Only in my 'verse, of course, so you may consider it AU. The scene is in my story "13th Birthday," also archived on this site.

*** The palantir of Annuminas still exists?

Only in my 'verse.

EPILOGUE: Midnight Cirri Speaks (with Apologies to Carole Nelson Douglas)*

Friends and fans, I am almost an adult and surely old enough to give you my point of view on some of the matters you read of in my now finished adventure. I'm sure you will agree that humans and felines don't quite understand each other, for all of our attempts to communicate. So what follows is my attempt to clear up any misunderstandings that you might have after reading my story.

Issue Number One: Names

Our mothers give them to us shortly after birth so that they can tell us apart. My dearest mother named me "Singer," for I surely had the prettiest and loudest voice among all my siblings. She knew a great deal about life, so she warned me that the humans we lived among would call me by a different name. When I heard the name my humans gave me, she advised, I should come up to the human to see what that two-legs wanted. If I was not too busy with other more important matters, of course.

Sure enough, my kittenhood human friend, a half-grown boy named Cirrion, named me Midnight. Midnight. That was my name as a kit. But one day, while I snuck outside our home to chase the birds, my humans ran away. They took my mother and my sister Fang along with them. They left me behind to learn to fend for myself. It was not such an evil fate, now that I look on it. I learned to catch mice and other creatures. No two-legs prevented me from going wherever I chose. Mostly I hid from the bad noise, evil smells, and fires that surrounded our neighborhood. That part of my life did not last very long, fortunately.

One day I met my now closest human friend--my favorite human of the lot of them. He befriended me by offering what I like best, some of what he was eating.** I've been at his side ever since. So naturally, being human he gave me another human name. I was no longer called Midnight. I was called Cirrion, very confusing indeed, as that was the name of my kittenhood boy. My adult human male was named Faramir by his mother, but I call him by the same name that everyone else calls him: Steward. My Steward.

Issue Number Two: Mice and Other Rodents

Rodents of any size aren't particularly tasty. My Steward seems to think that a cat would rather eat mice than anything else available in this great city. I am sorry to disappoint you and my Steward. Mice are prey, which means they are fun to catch and kill. While I was on my own, I learned to eat them because they were the freshest food around. Mostly, I'd rather eat what you two-legs are eating.

Issue Number Three: Female Humans

They smell better than the males. They are harder to deceive. Take Cook, for example. She won't let me near the ovens when food is a-cooking. My Steward's female. If I recall correctly, she adored me but thought I should live in the barn with the horses. Now horses are noble animals, to be sure. I enjoy when my Steward puts me in his shirt, and we go for a ride on one of his horses. Living in a cold stable full of them is another matter. The smell is awful. Plus, it is dangerous for us smaller types. Those animals never look where they put their feet.

My Steward says he will soon go off to join his female for a long period of time. He apologized for not taking me. I suppose that is a good thing, though I will miss him in my bed. I like being stashed in his shirt while he goes for short rides. Still, I don't think I'd like to travel for long periods in a shirt. I'm quite content to stay home and keep company with Bes. Oh yes, my Steward has hired her on as housekeeper, so she doesn't have to live in the roof.

Final Issue: The Meaning of Meow

Humans do not understand it. I understand them when they speak in coherent words. Yes, they try to meow at me, but their meows are meaningless. Feline communications must be far too subtle for those who go about on two legs.

Take my Steward for example. Right now I am curled up in his lap, waiting for him to do something fun. The human has been sitting in front of his favorite toy, the smooth black stone that is so effective for cleaning the gums and whiskers. I've yet to see my Steward rub his whiskers against the stone. They could use a good cleaning right now, as far as I am concerned. I've yet to see the usefulness of human whiskers. Only the males seem to have them. They never use them to feel their way in the darkness--but that is another issue for another day.

My Steward likes to stare at the smooth stone for hours at a time. Sometimes he talks to it--not meowing, of course. Usually it is quiet. However, very occasionally, I hear it speak back in a familiar sounding voice. I swear on my own useful whiskers that the voice sounds like the friendly two-leg my Steward and his family call Liege.

And what's this now? My Steward gets up without prior warning. I land on the floor, hoping this means he wants to dangle a string for me to play with. But no, he heads to a bunch of bookcases and pulls them from the wall. I follow him into the linen closet. It smells really nice. The sheets look very comfortable--the perfect place to make a nice nest for a nap. I jump onto the shelf. My Steward pulls me off. I watch, somewhat befuddled, as he yanks another shelf out of the wall. Then he puts me on his shoulder. We head into a dark corridor.

"I need to look at a book," he tells me. "Stay right here."

I'm not sure I want to do what he orders. I smell them.

"Rats!" I cry. The corridor is dimly lit, yet there is enough light for me to see. And their scent is unmistakable. I speed down the hallway, chirping my hunting call, "Errr Rats! Rats! Rats!" Does my Steward follow? Of course not. He's busy looking at yet another bookcase.

I tear down the corridor and am suddenly stopped. A barrier of wooden planks has closed off the corridor. It is a messy barrier with lots of gaps. I stand on my hind legs and peak into the darkness. I see their nasty, beady eyes staring at me in defiance. "I'll get you!" I chirp. They flick their ugly tails in defiance.

"Steward, come and take away the planks!" I meow at the top of my voice. "There are rats. I'll kill them for us."

There is glaring light. Now I can't see the rats at all. Instead, I turn my head and see my Steward approaching, carrying his lamp. "What's down there, Cirri?" he asks. He kneels down beside me.

I butt his elbow with my head to try to make him understand. "Rats," I meow as slowly and clearly as I can.

"My father's book says that this corridor was blocked off centuries ago to prevent invasion," my Steward explains. Not very effective, I think. The rats have definitely invaded.

"It seems we have another mystery on our hands," he says and gives my head a rub. "Shall we investigate?" he grins at me as he stands up and waves his lamp to light up the boards.

"Rats!" I meow. "There are rats down there."

"Time for another adventure, right?" he says agreeably.

I heartily agree to that. "Fantastic. Let's get the rats," I meow though I know this is useless. I love him even if he is too thick to understand the meaning of meow.

*************************

AUTHOR'S NOTE

* Carole Nelson Douglas is the author of a wonderful series of mystery/romances about the Las Vegas publicist Temple Barr and her hard boiled detective side-kick of a black cat, Midnight Louie. Louie and his "liberated" offspring, Midnight Louise, have always tickled my fancy. They may indeed have inspired at least some of my feline muse Cirrion's attempts to help Faramir solve the mystery of the missing palantir.

** The story of how Faramir caught Cirri is told in my long story "Avoidance" in the chapter "The Acts of the Last Ruling Steward." "Avoidance" is archived here at Stories of Arda.