Chapter 6

With only a week before the next council meeting Faramir was confident that he was beginning to get a feel for how the system of administration operated. He had also begun to comprehend that there were more areas of concern than just the administration of the military. The deeper he delved into the contracts and agreements pushed forward by the council the more convinced he became that there was evidence of serious mal-administration and  corruption. Whoever was involved in the suspect dealings had covered their tracks well and Faramir, Tamir and the scribe had to follow a vague and convoluted paper trail to begin to unravel the story.

Faramir cancelled his afternoon appointments with Legolas, concentrating all of his energy and attention on deciphering the council and city business. Tamir became his eyes and ears in the city. He talked to the tradesmen and artisans in the market place and in the shops that lined the business areas of the city. He would accompany other Rangers into the taverns and get a feel for the mood of the people and listen to the gossip and the talk; always a good source of information.

Faramir made only one visit down into the lower levels of the city; he and Tamir met with the quartermaster at what was now known as The Refuge. He was amazed at the strides that had been made. The building teemed with purposeful activity; the kitchens fed between 150 and 200 people a day and basic dormitories housed as many of the homeless as turned up on the doorstep. Widows had pooled resources and had set up a collective for teaching cooking and sewing skills to the young girls, while veterans instructed the lads in carpentry and practical skills. The large gardens had been cleared from the long years of neglect and showed the early promise of a bountiful harvest. Faramir’s monetary resources were rapidly being eaten up but they all had hopes that the Refuge would become self supporting before the money ran out.

On the day before the scheduled meeting he received two requests seeking his attention to matters in Ithilien. The first was from Beregond who wanted to discuss some concerns with troop supplies and deployments, and the second was from the master builder who needed to consult with the Steward on the plans for the location and building of his proposed home in Emyn Arnen. Faramir decided that he would seek leave of the King to journey into Ithilien after the meeting.

The council meeting followed much the same pattern as the first. There was endless prolonged, seemingly pointless discussion on subjects ranging from taxation to the price of grain in the markets to the supply of candles to the Citadel. It struck Faramir forcefully that despite the endless talking very little was actually decided upon. It was also noticeable that when asked a direct question the Councillors rarely gave a straight or direct answer. Faramir continued his strategy of passive observation; most of the councillors ignored him completely and those who did acknowledge his presence treated him with condescension. Faramir deliberately avoided catching the King’s eye but was aware from the tension in his body language that the King was not impressed with his performance.

When the subject under discussion moved on to the reconstruction of the lower levels Faramir decided to test the information he had gathered.

“My Lords, forgive my question if it appears naïve,” he began hesitantly; “I notice that one of the projects underway is the rebuilding of the barracks and the housing for the families of our troops? May I ask what has been done for those who have been moved out of the areas under renovation?”

“Don’t worry your head about them, my Lord; we sorted that out while you were taking your ease in Rohan. We would not have wanted the people to suffer any unnecessary distress because the Steward was too busy to concern himself with matters in his own realm!” The King was fairly bristling with indignation at the insolence of Lord Haralil’s reply and it required all of his restraint not to intervene but Faramir’s response was humble and conciliatory.

“I am grateful to the King and all of his councillors for the efforts they have taken on behalf of the people of the White City. I hope in time I will prove myself worthy to earn my seat at this table.”

The meeting progressed with agonising slowness through the morning. Refreshments were provided at mid day and the discussions continued into the afternoon. Faramir watched and listened, taking note of every evasion and obfuscation.

 By the end of the proceedings he was convinced in his own mind that the king had not been a party to the edicts that had so badly affected Lireal and the others in her predicament. Despite the fact that the King’s signature and seal marked the documents Faramir had seen enough of the way the Councillors operated to be sure that he had not been apprised of the full implications of the changes. The Councillors had played on his inexperience and had manipulated him and the King was so isolated from the day to day activities and conditions of his people that their hardship had gone unnoticed.

Faramir was relieved that his faith in the King had not been so totally misplaced but his mistrust had driven a wedge between them and Faramir was not sure how to bridge the gulf that now separated them.

The king closed the meeting and Faramir excused himself quickly, the first to leave the room. As he reached his office he realised that he had left some papers in the council chamber. His scribe offered to fetch them but Faramir bade him continue on his way and retraced his steps to the now empty room in time to see the door to the King’s chamber slowly swing on its hinges.

*****

The King stood and waited for the last of the Councillors to depart before he strode to the door at the rear of the chamber that led to his private ante-room beyond; his face full of thunder and his hands clenched in frustration. He pushed the door back so angrily it crashed closed; the violence of the impact caused the latch to jump and the door to swing slowly ajar.

“That Boy will be the death of me!” he yelled, surprising the two elves relaxing quietly in front of the fire.

“Another productive session, I take it,” said Legolas facetiously.

“Estel, please calm yourself and tell us what angers you so!” soothed Arwen pouring him a glass of wine.

“Whatever made me think he would be any use as my Steward? He simpers and cowers and lets them walk all over him; all it needed today was for that oaf Haralil to pat him on the head and send him off to his basket!” the King fumed.

 “For goodness sake stop sniggering Legolas, this is not funny. He has about as much back bone as a jellyfish…it’s no wonder he drove Denethor to distraction. I might as well pack him off to Ithilien and make the appointment purely ceremonial; he is no use to me here. I wish to goodness he showed some of his brother’s spirit; Boromir would never have allowed those self-satisfied, jumped up….two-faced…”

“Enough Estel,” Arwen chastised. “Remember, he is new to this task and he is young yet. You should remember how apprehensive you were the first time you had to sit in council…” Arwen’s lecture was cut short when Gimli appeared in the doorway.

“Whatever is going on here,” he demanded. “And what have you done to Faramir? I just passed him in the chamber and he looked as pale and frozen as one of those blasted statues.”

The two Elves exchanged horrified glances; Arwen turned to her husband to see him bury his face in his hands with a groan. Legolas hurried out to try and find Faramir.

****

Faramir stood rooted to the spot, every word of the King’s tirade echoing through his head and lacerating his heart. He was desperate to get away but too numb to move. The confirmation of the King’s low opinion of him was not a surprise and yet the hurt of it shocked him to the core.  He didn’t hear Gimli arrive; wasn’t aware of his presence until the Dwarf shook his arm. He managed to focus his gaze but was unable to force any words through the tightness in his throat. With a final look of desperation he shook his arm free and blundered out of the chamber leaving the bewildered Dwarf staring after him in disbelief.

He knew the citadel well enough to find a hundred places in which to seek solitude but he had his own favourite bolt-hole and in his distress he made his way there. He ran his hand along the cold stone of the corridor until he felt the chill of the stone give way to the warm silky smoothness of polished wood. Taking the bunch of keys from his belt he searched for a familiar ornate brass key and pushed open the door to his own private sanctuary; a garden, tucked along the outer wall of the building and totally private; with the door secured nobody would find him. The garden overlooked the Pelennor and out to the river beyond; it had been his mother’s retreat and it had fallen into neglect after her death but Samwise had brought it back to life; had poured his love into the soil and had made it bloom again in honour of the friendship between them.

Now the weary Steward drew on the strategies that over his lifetime had served him so well when the vagaries of his father’s temper or the challenges of command had taxed the limits of his endurance. He sat on the bench and, resting his head back against the wall, closed his eyes. He deliberately relaxed the tension in his arms and shoulders, breathing deeply and allowing the warmth of the sun to seep into him, warming to the frozen core of his being. As he felt the tension leaving him he shifted the focus of his attention to the small sounds around him; the rustle of leaves dancing in the breeze and the soft call of a songbird. Slowly he opened his eyes and gazed up into the sky, watching the movement and play of the clouds as they drifted high above the horizon.

Only when the tranquillity of nature had soothed his distress did he allow himself to contemplate the wreck of his relationship with the King. That he was the author of his own misfortune he did not doubt, but the King’s opinion of him was based on a false impression created to allow him to expose the rottenness at the core of the council and as a strategy it had been successful but the cost was so high?

He paced along the length of the garden contemplating how best to approach the process of reconciliation, for he knew that the process would have to begin with him. The King thought him weak and spineless; he would have to prove himself afresh, to prove to the King and the council that he was equal to the tasks allotted to him, to prove his stature and his worth and prove to himself that he was a worthy of holding the title of Steward. With new resolve Faramir left his sanctuary and made his way back to the Royal chambers.

*****

“Sire, Lord Faramir seeks leave to attend you.” the Page announced, interrupting the still heated discussion between the King and Queen. Both were surprised that the Steward should choose to face them so soon after the earlier debacle. The King was swiftly on his feet and without waiting for the Page to announce him ushered Faramir into the room.

Faramir stood to attention and saluted both the King and Queen. Arwen made to approach him to offer a more informal greeting but he forestalled her with a shake of his head.

“Sire, I wish to request  leave to journey into Ithilien.” The request took the King by surprise and he observed the pale solemn young man before him, noting the closed and guarded expression and the tension in his rigid stance.

“Will you tell me the purpose of your journey,” enquired the King, hoping to draw out a response form the subdued steward.

“The master stonemason needs to consult with me on the setting of my new dwelling in Emyn Arnen, Sire; they are ready to begin the foundations. Also, Beregond has some concerns to do with the forces out in Ithilien and has requested that I visit and see the situation for myself.”

“Are these concerns of Beregond matters on which I should be worried,” asked the King, conscious that the forces in Ithilien were the first line of defence against potentially hostile forces from the east and south.

“No Sire, it is my understanding that it involves matters of administration and supply; Beregond is a good and loyal commander, he would have asked for reinforcements if he though security was compromised,” he reassured with firm confidence.

“How long do you intend to be gone and who will accompany you?” enquired the King.

“A small party of troops are leaving for the garrison in Ithilien at first light, Tamir and I travel with them as far as Emyn Arnen; Beregond will meet us there and we will travel south with him. Depending on what I find I expect to be away for a week, maybe ten days.”

“I need you back here for the conference of councillors and envoys in three weeks Faramir. I need you here…” the King asserted. Faramir nodded his head in acknowledgement of the request that was also an order. Thinking the audience was at an end the king turned away.

Faramir remained in his place.

“Was there something else, my Lord Steward?”

It took all of Faramir’s resolve to stand his ground. Taking a steadying breath he looked the king in the eye.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, it wasn’t my intention to intrude on a private conversation,” he began. “I’m sorry that I have been a disappointment to you. I wish with all my heart to prove to you that I can be what you want, what you need.”

“I’m sorr…” Faramir  silenced the King with a wave of his hand.

“No, Sire, A king should never apologise to his servant…it shows weakness!”

“And what about to his friend?” Faramir dismissed the question, knowing that he could not yet claim friendship with the King.

“I will continue to fight, Sire. It is all I’ve ever known; fighting for Gondor, fighting for my father’s approbation, fighting to be seen as worthy for the positions I held, even  fighting to emerge from my brother’s shadow….I loved Boromir; he was my rock, my friend, my mentor, he was the one who loved me for myself….But Boromir is DEAD! How much longer do I have to remain shadowed and diminished by his memory? If I could change one thing in my past it would be to have stood firm against both my father and Boromir and not allowed the quest to be taken from my shoulders…I should have gone, and if it had claimed my life at least now you would have had a worthy Steward; one whose worth was not in question…”

Arwen came forward and placed a hand of comfort on his arm and for a brief moment saw through the carefully shuttered emotions and read in his eyes grief and pain without a hint of self-pity. Her touch nearly undid the composure he strove so hard to maintain and he closed his eyes to shut out the compassion radiating from her and allow himself the space to reorder his thoughts.

“Sire, I ask only that you allow me the opportunity to prove myself worthy…do not judge me too hastily or underestimate my commitment to your service or to Gondor! I will not let you down.” With that Faramir saluted and with great dignity made his exit.

The King watched the retreating figure with a sense of disquiet, feeling humbled and diminished by the quiet dignity and restraint of the Steward.

TBC