Chapter 8 - Crisis

King Elessar silently sighed. The ceremony had passed surprisingly well and was now almost over. It had not been his decision to go to such lengths, but the Council had overruled him, and he had finally agreed. And now he knew this festival would become tradition; a celebration every five years when all the peoples of Middle Earth came to swear allegiance to their King in the White City. His culture, his new society needed its tradition, and even if he personally did not feel the need for such a pretentious and time wasting event as this, he could understand that his people did. Having been so long without a King, it was only natural that now he was back in residence that they would want to honour him.

He glanced upwards through the windows high above to the outside and saw the beautiful day. He wished he could throw off his formal robes, get on his horse and simply ride, but that life was lost to him. As if she read his thoughts, Queen Arwen, who was sitting on the throne next him leaned across and whispered.

“Nearly over, my love. Only the people of Gondor are left to swear fealty.”

Aragorn nodded. It was true he had received the oaths of loyalty from representatives of all the free peoples, some of them his friends and all his subjects. Over to his left, he saw Merry and Pippin, the Shire representatives, sitting proudly, and behind them were Legolas and Gimli. Eomer sat over to the right. Aragorn gazed down at the array of excited people before him, all dressed in their finery, pressed in to the hall and on the balconies above, all straining to see. Many others he knew filled the courtyard outside. It was as if the whole world had come to pay him fealty. Aragorn could not stop the shudder that such a thought brought him.

He pulled his thoughts back as a lone figure began the long walk from the back of the hall. There was a rustle and whispers from the gathered thong as they turned to see the last oath taker.

Faramir gulped. He had done something like this before as the son of the Steward. Although he had not been brought up to rule, he had taken part in the ceremonial life of Minas Tirith, so why did he feel like he did? Why was there a coldness in the pit of his stomach, and why did his legs feel they lacked the strength to carry him up the aisle to his King?

Aragorn sat patiently on his throne, and eyed his Steward with critical discernment as he approached. He noted that Faramir looked tired and very pale. His beautiful ceremonial robes seem to hang off his frame as if he had but borrowed them from someone bigger. A muscle flexed nervously at the side of his face, and his eyes, so bright and intelligent which normally gazed around the room missing nothing, stayed fixed on the floor.

Aragorn esteemed his Steward highly. He knew more about Faramir’s family circumstances than he dare tell the young man, and he had learned of his self-sacrificing bravery in the war of the ring. All of that would have won Aragorn’s respect, but what mattered more to him was that over the years since the war that respect had blossomed into a mutual friendship. Aragorn had found Faramir possessed a quick and intelligent mind that was wise beyond his years. He was also patient and empathetic, and above all else loyal with a keen sense of duty. Aragorn had come to love his young Steward for his warmth and commitment as much as for his logical mind and innovative approach to seemingly insurmountable problems.

As Aragorn watched Faramir approach on what should have been one of the proudest moments of his life, the King perceived that there was something not quite right. He remembered the strange conversation with Lady Eowyn and made a mental note that he needed to take some time alone with his Steward after all this fuss was over. They had spent much time together in the first months of his reign when Faramir had patiently explained the duties the King would be expected to perform, and Aragorn had slowly drawn out from the younger man the pain he felt but hid so deep following his own tragedy. Aragorn hoped he filled a little part of the terrific void that Faramir felt over the loss of his beloved elder brother, Boromir. Not for the first time, Aragorn wished that the price of victory had not been so high.

Following the Steward’s wedding and subsequent move to Ithilien with his growing family, Aragorn had noted that Faramir seemed to have overcome his heartbreak and found well deserved happiness. It was naïve, Aragorn realised as he thought on it now, for him to assume that Faramir could exist in such blissful happiness forever. Never-the-less the obvious decline in the younger man over the winter was quite startling. Something was wrong. Aragorn cared enough to note it and promise himself he would broach the subject with his Steward as soon as he was able.

Faramir was fighting his own personal battle as he continued his walk up the aisle. He could feel every eye on him. It wasn’t hard, he kept telling himself. All he had to do was walk, kneel, speak the familiar words, kiss the ring and then step back. Why did it fill him with such dread that it was all he could do to keep from turning and running from the massive hall? His heart was beating deafeningly in his chest, and his throat was dry. The thought kept spinning around his head that he was missing something important.

His instinct told him that there was great danger very close but he could find nothing to evidence it. So drawing on his sense of duty and his love for both Gondor and the man who now ruled his country, he forced himself to continue walking.

Eowyn sat close to the two hobbits. Cirion was in her arms, having fallen asleep. Elboron had spent most of the ceremony reading the book he had managed to sneak in but now sat up proudly watching his father. Eowyn felt a rush of panic when she saw how pale her husband looked and how slowly he walked as if each step brought him great pain. She wondered how many other people in the hall could sense the disquiet in him, or was she just being too sensitive? Again the questions tormented, her but she forced them from her mind with the knowledge that it would soon be over, and they could finally confront their fears.

The hall was suddenly quiet, as everyone appeared to be holding their breath. The people of Gondor had suffered so much for so long, absorbing the hammer thrusts of the menace from Mordor. For them the place at the end of the ceremony as last in the oath taking was that of the highest honour and paid tribute to their courageous fortitude. That the oath should be given by the Steward of the City, the Lord Faramir who had personally suffered so much and given his all in defence of Gondor and was a well loved popular figure, made this point in the ceremony all the more poignant.

The Lord Steward finally reached the end of his stressful walk. He stood before the King, and the people waited in expectation. The King stood, his face beaming with a smile, his arms wide in welcome, but the smile froze on his lips, for what happened next was horrifyingly unexpected.

For a split second the whole hall seemed to be bathed in a blindingly green light, the source of which came from someone in the public galleries. It shown down from the balcony behind the King, and it was focused on to the Steward. The moment that the light touched his grey eyes a shiver ran through Faramir. Aragorn who was looking into his face saw them glaze over.

“Faramir!” he hissed.

But the Steward was moving forwards so quickly it was all Aragorn could do to lift his hands to defend himself as he perceived the flash of the dagger in his attacker’s hand.

Time seemed to slow as the whole of the hall looked on in horror. Faramir’s momentum knocked the King over, and he was above Aragorn with a clear strike. But then he hesitated. As he lay helpless Aragorn was morbidly fascinated by the emotions that flashed over the younger man’s face. It was almost as if he could see the mighty battle taking place in Faramir’s conscience. The dagger held high in the air was shaking violently.

“Faramir,” Aragorn whispered

Faramir’s hesitation proved critical as Legolas ever wary forced his way past the gaping guards and threw himself at the Steward’s back. As he fell Faramir finally brought the knife down, and it stabbed deep into the King’s shoulder as Aragorn threw himself to the side to try to avoid the thrust.

The green light vanished. Time re-engaged. Somebody screamed as the crowd rushed forward. Orders were being shouted as the guards belatedly moved to protect the King.

Legolas still held on to Faramir. Arwen leapt from her throne to comfort Aragorn who was sitting on the step staring at the dagger hilt protruding from his shoulder with a look of extreme surprise on his face.

“What the?” came Gimli’s voice as he forced his way through the quickly forming circle of guards.

Slowly Legolas stood up, and pulled Faramir to his feet. The Steward looked stunned and bewildered, almost like a little boy lost and searching for comfort.

Aragorn let Arwen help him up. Behind them the crowd was beginning to get angry as the import of what they had witnessed began to bite.

“Get the people out of here,” Aragorn ordered the nearest captain who rushed to obey.

Aragorn turned to his Steward. “What were you doing, Faramir?” he asked.

Faramir gulped and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

“You know I will have no choice in this,” Aragorn continued.

Faramir nodded, his head down to the floor. He refused to meet his King’s eyes.

Aragorn signalled to the Guard captain. “Take him away.”

“To the cells?” asked the captain incredulously.

“For now and guard him well.”

“Aragorn,” Arwen said. “You have a serious wound, you need treatment.”

As his Steward was marched past him, Aragorn reached out a hand and clasped the younger man on the shoulder stopping him. He moved his hand under Faramir’s chin and lifted his head so their eyes met.

“I will know what has happened here, Faramir. You will tell me. I promise you.”

Faramir gulped as his eyes filled with tears. “I am sorry, my Lord,” he whispered and then pushed past.

Aragorn watched him leave as the others moved closer to their King as if to protect him from further harm.

“The healers,” Arwen pressed.

Aragorn nodded. “Legolas,” he said. “See to Eowyn and the children. I would speak with her to our private rooms.”

Legolas nodded and moved away as Aragorn turned and allowed Arwen to guide him towards the back entrance. He suddenly felt weak and very tired.

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Saruman allowed himself to be maneouvered with the rest of the crowd into the bright spring sunshine. He felt strangely elated and had to work to stop a smile from running across his lips. Around him the crowd twittered and cursed at the horror.

As he made his way back down the City’s rings Saruman’s mind was working on his options. True it would have been better if the King had died, but that would have been too good to be true, bearing in mind the incompetence of the Steward. Although Faramir had failed, he had done enough to rip the Kingdom apart. After all in front of so many people, how could the Steward possibly plead his innocence? And now the populace could see the nature of the corruption of those that ruled them. Now as the whole thing tottered, Saruman knew he must make his advantage pay. He needed to be decisive and clever to rush in and pick up the pieces of power as Elessar’s pathetic kingdom crumbled.

He had to find Wormtongue - where had that fool got to when he was really needed?