AUTHORS' NOTES:  Sorry this chapter is late.  On the plus side, the chapter is twice as long as our usual chapters; so enjoy it! 

SUMMARY OF STORY SO FAR: Aragorn awakened Eldarion from his entranced sleep, with Faramir’s help, in Chapter 15.  In Chapter 16, Aragorn and the Blue Wizard Pallando healed Faramir’s damaged leg; and everyone ate and celebrated.  Faramir had a happy evening at home with Eowyn and all the kids.  The chapter ended with Cirion, Faramir’s 11-year-old second son, having a very scary dream. 

Tham Fain, a.k.a. The White Hall, is our name for Faramir and Eowyn's home in Emyn Arnen.

Chapter 17

Affirmation

Cirion sat crouched over the table, his chin resting on his hands, when the Steward entered the hall for the tea with which he usually started the day.  The boy looked nervous, almost . . . haunted.  The attitude was unusual for his second-born, who rarely thought of things beyond the moment.  Even more unusual was the plate of untouched pastries in front of him.  Cirion refusing to eat sweetmeat? 

"Cirion, if your face were any longer, I fear your jaw would fall off," Faramir said evenly, sitting down next to his son. 

Cirion looked up and chewed his lip.

"What troubles you, my son?"  Faramir asked softly.  He took Cirion's chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently lifted the boy's face up to meet his eyes.  He had little time to spare before this session of the Great Council began.  But he could not refrain from asking.

"I. . . Father, I had a dream.  It was bad.  I think it was a portent, like the dream of Imladris sent to you and Uncle Boromir."  Cirion answered in a strained, urgent voice.

Faramir schooled his face to patience.  The riddle-dream of Imladris was common knowledge in Gondor, as a vision that had called Boromir to his destiny in the storied Fellowship.  But Faramir had been careful never to reveal the dreams of the wave sundering Numenor; it was a heavy enough burden for him to carry without causing another to endure it through his suggestion.  If one of his children inherited the unwelcome gift of dreams telling the past or future, that power would manifest without help from him.  Cirion was a most unlikely recipient of the gift, being headstrong rather than contemplative.  Still, the lad had a good mind when he slowed down enough to actually use it. 

"What did you dream?"  Faramir asked, taking a sip of the hot tea.

"I dreamt of fire, and danger at home.  Father, the stables were in flames, and then there was an evil man, and a great shadow, I think it was a monster, and Uncle Pippin was there to hearten me.  And there were armed men, speaking a tongue I had never heard . . . and they took Steelsheen. . ." 

Faramir rejoiced to himself; the boy's description sounded very much like a typical nightmare, lacking clear instruction or the evocation of a single tragedy. Cirion was obviously disturbed by the dream; he was quite fond of Steelsheen, Eowyn's favorite mare.  Faramir was rather fond of the big grey mare himself; she had great stamina and a gentle temper.  Aloud he said:  "It was an evil dream, Cirion, but it does not sound like a portent.  You killed a man but a week past.  It will probably not be the only time you take a life, but you are very young to have done so.  Such an experience can cast a brief shadow on the soul, a shadow that pervades one‘s dreams in different forms."

"But it seemed so real!"

"Many dreams seem real, even when they show things that could not or would not ever come to pass.  A month ago, I dreamt that your Uncle Eomer was riding that big Mearas stallion of his through the Library, and Master Belecthor waxed most wroth with him.  It seemed as if I were there.  Of course it was merely a dream, not a foreboding.  Eomer-King is a great rider, but he has no love for libraries, and would surely never ride through one!"

Cirion chuckled. 

"We will speak later of your dream if it still troubles you, Cirion," his father said.  "But I must leave for Council now." 

Minutes later, Faramir perused documents in the Steward's Chamber.  Today's session of the Great Council would not be the last.  But it might be the  most important session, especially with the peril of the Easterlings ahead.   Faramir's honour had been questioned; and by the Valar, today would see the charge refuted!  He had decided to don more formal attire. After assuring that the Steward’s garb would not rival the King’s, Faramir's wardrobe-master had laid out the finery that he now wore:  a formal black Robe of State made of velvet with furred sleeves, a gray leather doublet engraved with the white tree, and a high-collared blue silk tunic, over trousers and new black boots.  Today his garb must be a Steward‘s, he would wear the moon-crown of Ithilien for the next and final session. 

"Faramir?"  A familiar voice called.  Faramir looked up to see Aragorn sweep into the Chamber.   His lord and friend looked splendid this morn; wearing the Elendilmir and a flowing blue cloak, over chain mail that partially covered a silver tunic and black linen shirt beneath it.  Anduril was sheathed at his side, the Elessar stone gleamed on his breast.  Aragorn stood tall and proud, filled with restless energy.  Yet he still looked more weary than Faramir would like. 

"Good day, my lord," Faramir greeted him.  "Did you sleep well?  Or should I ask, did you sleep at all?"

Aragorn smiled.  "Nay, not this night.  We had an excellent repast, and Arwen and Eldarion and I talked long into the night.  When my son finally fell asleep, I stayed by  him and watched his slumber.  In truth, I had some fear that he would not awaken, that he would lapse again into that cursed  sleep."

"I assume then, that Eldarion did awaken today?"

Aragorn's smile broadened.  "Yes, he is well.  The tailors have ensnared him, though; and are arguing with Arwen as to which raiment suits him best.  The poor lad has lost much flesh; he was measured for new clothing yesterday afternoon.  He still needs rest and care, but I am confident that he will recover.  He is most anxious to speak before Council today."

"The session will soon begin.  I am ready, my lord."

Aragorn frowned at him and made a snorting, coughing sound in his throat.  "Fara-mir" he said sternly, drawing out the name; "Save the title for occasions of ceremony.  We have journeyed through enough darkness together."

"Very well. . . Aragorn." 

“It almost makes me laugh,”  Aragorn said, a faraway look in his deep eyes.  “When I look at all this finery that I am told I must wear for the Great Council, I remember that first time I sat in a Council where I was given the respect of my lordship, if not yet the actual title.  It was the day after the Battle of the Pelennor.  I came up from my tents on the field; still travel-stained and weary, and badly needing a bath, looking like a vagabond rather than a King.  Yet sometimes I feel like that was a more important Council than all that I have led during my reign, as meanly clad as I was.”

“Ah, but I knew you were our lost King the moment I laid eyes upon you on waking,” Faramir countered.  “You did look battle-worn; I think your garb was still stained with the blood of our foes.  But I could see the kingship in your face, and feel it in the grip of your hand.  And it shone in your spirit, when you found me in that shadow-realm.   You could have walked into Minas Tirith naked and you would still have been our King.  Though perhaps,” Faramir noted wryly.  “It was advisable to hold the Ring of Barahir and the Elessar stone as true tokens of Isildur’s Heir.”

Aragorn flashed a mischievous grin, and replied:  “Perhaps I should come into this Council wearing naught but the Ring of Barahir, and bearing the Sceptre of Annúminas in one hand and the Elfstone in the other!  That would set all those tongues to wagging, no doubt!!”

The King and the Steward laughed like truant schoolboys.   There was no strain in the King’s outburst, only humour that had been sorely lacking, Faramir noted even as he shook with mirth.  Finally, Aragorn straightened, wiped his eyes, and sobered.  “I suppose that in these days of lesser perils, I have a duty to make such a grand appearance before the Great Council.  I hope my son is more gentle with the tailors than I have been.”

“Fear not that you are any less a King when you yield to the demands of ceremony, Aragorn.”  Faramir reminded him.  “Though most of our most important decisions have been made in smaller counsels, the Great Council has helped rebuild the Reunited Kingdom.  We need no longer fear the Shadow’s overwhelming force, nor the Nazgûl, nor even the Enemy’s armies of men come to ravage our homes.  Yet the work of securing a just and prosperous reign will always be needful.  Your appearance as the richly apparelled Lord of our Great Council is essential to that work. You are the cynosure of men’s eyes as you are the hope and centre of the Kingdom.  Unless you would like me to introduce a new law, that all who attend the Great Council of Gondor, from banner-bearers to the King, must be clad only in Rangers’ garb and comfortable old boots?”  Faramir finished with a laugh.

“Hmm; that would make for some entertainment” Aragorn answered.  “Can you not see fat Aradan wearing a Ranger’s muddy boots, or even Hurin, ever-dignified, entering the Tower Hall bedecked in scuffed leathers and a patched shirt?  I cannot count the number of times I sowed up that old red shirt that served me so well.”

Faramir smiled, remembering how he had learned to count sewing, once dismissed as women’s work, as one of the most valuable skills for a Ranger. The mending of rips helped keep a Ranger’s clothing in one piece and thus kept the Ranger warm.

Aragorn’s own smile faded.  “Those were good days.  But you are right, these are better times.  Faramir, you know that I mean to put an end to Lord Ingold‘s charges during this day‘s Session.”

“Of course.  My honour must be restored, and all accusations put to rest, for the authority of my Stewardship to be affirmed.”

“I might have to seem more stern than I would want to, as I deal with you today in Council,” Aragorn continued, frowning slightly.  “If that happens, you must trust me.”

“Of course.”  Faramir repeated.  He was confused and somewhat alarmed, though of course he did not allow his face to reflect his concern.  Surely Aragorn knew that Faramir was at his disposal, for good or ill. 

A commotion outside the Steward's Chamber caught both men's attention. 

"Father!"  Faramir heard Elboron call.  Faramir leapt forward, running for the door.  There was fear in his son’s voice!

Elboron charged into the Chamber, trailed by Imrahil.  The faces of Faramir’s uncle and son both revealed barely contained sorrow.

Faramir seized his son by the shoulders.  “Is your mother all right?”

“Oh…have no fear on that score, Father, she is well, at least as far as I know” Bron replied.  “But Father, there are ill tidings from Tham Fain.”

“Messengers from the White Company have only just arrived at the gate, Faramir,” explained Imrahil; “Your home was attacked before dawn this day.”

Faramir ignored a stab of mingled rage and fear.  “Tell me all that you know, Uncle,” he requested. 

“Tham Fain was attacked about an hour before dawn, by a force of over three hundred men, apparently at least half of which were horsemen.  They set the stables afire, and while your seneschal and the household guards and staff tried to save the horses and quell the flames, others, on foot, stormed the White Hall itself.  They ransacked your library, Faramir; and the bedchambers.  The White Company rallied and drove the invaders away.” 

Faramir reached for his sword, then remembered he was not wearing one.  “Are Tham Fain and the villages secure?  Were the attackers Easterlings?  How many of my people are dead?  What was the damage?  And who brought the word,”  he asked, straining to keep his voice even.  Rage would not help his people now, more information would; so that he could quickly plan what to do!

“Your lieutenant Borlas believed that they were Easterlings; at least so said the two riders he sent,” Imrahil said more gently, touching Faramir’s shoulder.  “The stable is destroyed, but the White Hall is mostly intact, as are the other outbuildings.  One of the villages was attacked, but it seems to have been a diversion.  No villagers’ lives were lost. The White Company lost five men, and some thirty are wounded, including Acting-Captain Pelendur.  Your Seneschal, Baran, was also hurt; he strove to defend the Hall.  Two grooms died in the fire, trying to save the horses.  And the Easterlings killed a young stable-boy, they said his name was Tuor.  The lad evidently meant to stop them taking Eowyn’s broodmare.  The riders left before the final count of the dead and wounded was made.  But Pelendur told them to tell you that Tham Fain and the villages seem to be safe for the moment.”

Faramir’s heart beat faster.  Tuor had been Cirion’s playmate when they were small, an orphan who loved horses.  Faramir remembered a dark-eyed boy with a skilful touch for foals and fiery stallions alike.  He had been almost as joyful as Eowyn over the prospect of Steelsheen’s first foal.   The Easterlings had killed him! And they had stolen a broodmare. Cirion's dream had been a portent!  He would have to talk to Ciri later. “Did they violate any of the women, or carry them off?”  He had to ask.

“No.  But the riders, Marach and Folcwine, said that the Easterlings had attacked a woman, Folcwine’s sister, the cook Eowyn brought from Edoras a few years ago.  They tried to drag her off, but the White Guards saved her.” 

“Ardith is pregnant,” Faramir remembered.  The cook's husband was the blacksmith, a quiet man with a club foot.  Had he survived the attack, or fallen to an Easterling blade?   “She is the only fair-haired, pregnant woman at Tham Fain, other than Eowyn, who of course is here.   Ardith is also of Rohan.”  He found it hard to talk, he was becoming so angry.  He had to get away, speak to Marach and Folcwine, two of the Company’s fastest riders, good men, both of them.  He could hardly believe that while he had been sleeping soundly, on a full stomach, his home had been attacked, his people harried and hurt and killed!   Why, for what purpose?  

Then he remembered something else his uncle had said.  The Easterlings had ransacked his library.  They were looking for something.  Their purpose may not have just been to carry off Eowyn.  Aloud, he said “I think they must have been seeking the Stone of Silence.  And Eowyn too.  They would have taken her, if she had been there.”  He turned quickly to Aragorn.  “I need more guards for the Steward’s House here in the City.  And I beg leave from today’s Council session.  I will leave for Emyn Arnen as soon as I have heard my messengers’ reports.”

“No, Faramir.”  The voice gainsaying him was Aragorn’s.  “I will post more guards to the House; to protect you all here.  But I need you to come to this Council before you return to Tham Fain.”

“I must go!”  Faramir challenged his friend and lord. “This time I cannot stay.  My people have been hurt, my home attacked.  I must return.”

“And you will, Faramir,” Aragorn answered firmly.  “But it seems like the White Company has restored order.   None of your people should suffer further peril if you leave two or three hours later.  By now the Easterlings who attacked your home know that neither the Stone nor Eowyn is in it, they will leave it alone.  I will send some of the healers from the Houses of Healing, escorted by the Tower Guard, to Tham Fain, with word that you will come later this day.

“No!”  Faramir snapped, feeling anger boil up within him.   “I cannot dally in Council while my people weep and mourn their dead uncomforted.  Can you not direct this session yourself?”

Elboron gulped, his wide eyes darting from his King to his father.  Faramir steadied his voice.  “With respect, my lord, I ask your leave to go.  The people of Ithilien need their prince.  I am honour-bound to hasten to their aid.”

“Listen to me, mellon nîn” Aragorn replied.  “Your honour has been questioned, in public, before all the powers in the realm.  You need to take it back, and the time for that is now.  Today.  The danger to Emyn Arnen is past.  Were you to ride there now, you could not restore the blood that has been shed, the lives that were lost.  But you could forestall the chance we have to erase the stain on your honour.” 

“If all is well in Emyn Arnen, I will gladly come to the next session of the Great Council, ‘tis but two or three days from now.”  Faramir countered.  “If Eldarion testifies then, rather then now, then surely I can put the rumours of treachery to rest.”

“But not as thoroughly as if you come to Council today,” Aragorn pressed.  He approached Faramir and looked down from his slightly greater height at his friend and Steward.  “Faramir,” he said earnestly, “I will not command you in this matter.  But I ask you to heed my words.  Today, the Citadel, indeed the entire City, is aflame with excitement over the news of Eldarion’s awakening.  And the names on everyone’s lips, from the street-sweepers to the Lords of the fiefs, are Eldarion’s and mine and yours, Faramir.  Legends are building, of how the Steward of Gondor, who was a wizard’s pupil, used magic to save the King’s son.  They call you ‘Faramir the Wise’!  Now is the time for you to come forth in Council as Eldarion tells the truth of his tale.  If you wait until the next session, you will not ride the swell of that wave of glory to the affirmation you deserve.  Instead, you will come after the wave has crested and fallen.  I would still call Eldarion to testify, but there would be those who would wonder why you hid from the Council’s scrutiny on the day you should have borne it, why you rode away on the morning of your triumph, and they will cast new doubt upon you, regardless of the truth of Emyn Arnen’s need.”

“The King speaks truly, Faramir,” said Imrahil, his blue eyes sorrowful but calm.  “If your people were still under attack, you would be right to go within the hour.  But if help can be sent in haste, it matters not if you return with it or wait a few more hours, as long as Emyn Arnen is succoured. “

Faramir considered their words, trying to cool his rage.  Imrahil was a seasoned diplomat and a valiant Captain.  Long had he held his place at the tables of power under Denethor’s rule as well as the King’s Great Council and the smaller counsels held throughout the year.  And Aragorn . . . When had that warrior, the quiet Ranger come out of the North bearing the Sword of Elendil, become such a polished and skilful leader of men?  Ah, but the leader had always been there.  The King had merely needed time and trial to bring him out.

“You are both right, my lords,” he ceded. “But I would not buy back my reputation with the coin of my people’s need.”

Aragorn made a strangled, impatient noise in his throat.  “Faramir, if you fail to regain your honour and reputation at Council, you will hurt your people through the omission.  True, your people in Emyn Arnen would see you a few hours earlier this day.  But in the future, other princes and lords might come to view you with suspicion, mistrust, and be less inclined to treat with you in commerce that could otherwise benefit Ithilien’s future prosperity.”

“Nephew, I love you dearly,” Imrahil said, his voice exasperated.  “But you are playing the fool rather than the wise man I know you to be.  Listen to your King, and take the bitter with the sweet.  Your people will be all the better for having their Prince’s honour restored, and we will not let them suffer any further harm in the few hours’ delay you must take.”

Faramir sighed. “Very well, my lords” he agreed.  “I yield to the wisdom of my elders.”  He was amused to see Aragorn and Imrahil exchange a startled glance at the word “elders”.  Then, serious once more, he stated, “I agree to wait, provided that aid is sent to Emyn Arnen at once.  And before I go to Council, I will see my riders.  Also, I insist that you release me from Council at the earliest moment possible, my King.  I trust you to know when the time will be right.”

“Well done, Faramir,” Aragorn answered.  “I will keep you no longer than is necessary.”

“Elboron,” Faramir said, turning to his anxious son. “Where are Folcwine and Marach now?”

“Here in the Tower, in the guardroom.  They came first to the House. I thought it wiser to bring them here, to avoid fretting Mother, and sequester them from the lords and officials gathering for Council.”

“You did well, my son,” Faramir continued, pleased that Elboron had prevented a possible panic.  “Go to them, see that they have refreshment, and a place to rest, and that their horses are properly cared for in the stables.  Tell them I will come speak to them shortly.”

“At once, my lord,” Elboron said proudly, and left the Chamber at a run.

When the boy had cleared the door and was off down the corridor, Faramir asked Imrahil:  “Uncle, is there any other news?  Was there any incursion to other parts of Ithilien or Gondor?”

“Happily, no.”  Imrahil answered.  “But Elphir and his men would not yet have arrived at the outpost in Mordor.  I am surprised that his force did not come upon the Easterlings who attacked your home.  But there is now more than one good road from Gondor through the Ephel Duath into Mordor, thanks to the industry fostered by you and the King, nephew. “

“That is well.  We shall have to go east sooner than I had hoped,” said the King, his mild tone belying the strong resolve in his grave face.  “I have had more than enough of Easterlings trespassing on our lands, hurting our people.  It is good that we lit the beacons; I expect the Rohirrim within a few days.  Now, my lords, let us attend to matters here at hand . . .”

As the third bell of the day began to toll, Faramir quickened his pace.  In the past hour, he and Aragorn sent out a hundred of the King’s own soldiery with healers and wagons of supplies to Tham Fain.   He had debriefed Marach and Folcwine and seen them fed before they insisted on returning to the White Hall.  Thankfully, they had taken no wounds; but they insisted on returning with the King’s men.  Faramir had arranged for the weary White Guards to ride back on fresh horses, and given them dispatches for Acting-Captain Pelendur.  They had seen young Tuor and others cut down without mercy.  And Steelsheen, the pride of Eowyn’s stable; was taken.  Folcwine reported that the silver-grey pregnant mare was seized and bridled by the Easterling captain.  Faramir rejoiced that it had been the mare, rather than the pregnant woman, Folcwine’s sister, who had been carried off, but Eowyn would grieve for Steelsheen, even while gladdened that Ardith was safe.  He did not want to think about the dead whose names he had not yet learned, or how many horses had perished in the fire.  He would know soon enough.

Was it truly just three short days ago that he had come to Council, Faramir wondered as he strode into the Tower Hall, bearing the white rod of Stewardship and flanked by Elboron.  So much had happened.  At least and at long last, Eldarion was restored to health!  Faramir pushed away the unwelcome thought that another child and others of his people had paid with their lives for the prince’s awakening; since the Easterlings had attacked Tham Fain to find the Stone that Faramir had used to help revive Eldarion.  In truth, if Alatar was leading the Easterlings and planning their campaign against Gondor, then Faramir’s possession of the Stone of Silence might not have caused the attack.  Alatar might have wanted to avenge Saruman’s death.  Were that the case, Legolas might be in danger.   Aragorn had said that the elves of Eryn Gelair had been warned of the Easterlings’ attacks; and he had already summoned Legolas to Minas Tirith for counsel.

The events of the last few days certainly made the absurd accusations of Ingold and Aradan seem more petty.   Faramir felt suddenly stifled by the press of the crowd of people pouring into the Hall.  The looks, some supporting and some venomous, that were thrown towards him, seemed of no greater import than the buzzing of insects.  He calmed himself, then stood before his Chair and called the noisy crowd to silence as he officially opened this session of the Great Council.  Then he sat in the Chair, and awaited the King’s pleasure.

“Lords, officers and guildsmen of the Reunited Kingdom!” Aragorn’s voice rang out loud and true around the chamber.  Restless murmurs ceased as heads turned toward the King.  “Our realm has been attacked. We come here with plans to defend our borders and to repel our enemies, that neither the White City nor any other part of our lands shall fall.  But first there is another matter to whose resolution I would direct the Council‘s attention.  My son, Eldarion, prince of the house of Telcontar and heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor has recovered from his recent illness to join us this day.  Eldarion,” Aragorn raised his voice to call, in a commanding but loving voice, “Come now before the Great Council!” 

It was Elboron, Faramir noticed with wry amusement, who opened the doors at his King’s call.  Eldarion stood tall between them, clad simply in a white mantle and pale blue silk velvet tunic emblazoned with the white tree over a white shirt, dark leggings and boots.  The boy had more colour in his face today, yet still looked sickly and thin.  But he held his head high and walked proudly across the Hall. 

It seemed to Faramir that the Council cried out in one single voice of unrestrained joy as the heir to the Reunited Kingdom came through their ranks to kneel to his father. 

The King beckoned, and rose from the throne.  Eldarion ascended. While the sound of applause filled the Tower Hall, Aragorn embraced Eldarion.  The King then turned the prince to face his people.  Eldarion coloured, but smiled gravely, inclined his head in acknowledgment, then lifted his chin slightly, very much like his father, as he raised his head. The Council continued to cheer, while Eldarion sat down upon the floor of the dais, beside the throne that his father claimed once more.  The King’s eyes shone with joy and pride in his son.  Aragorn looked young again, and stronger than Faramir had seen him in years. 

Aragorn waited until the applause had quieted before he spoke again:  “I thank you for your good will, my lords and friends.  We come now to a matter quite urgent.  The loyalty of my Steward, Lord Faramir, son of Denethor, was questioned during the last session of this Council.”

It was Faramir’s turn to feel the scrutiny of the assembled Great Council.  He disregarded the murmurs that arose, twittering of indignation or bitter rancor or mere curiosity. 

“I cannot have the reputation of my Steward so compromised, especially now, as the shadow of war darkens our realm once more.” Aragorn continued.  “Many accusations were raised which at the time could not be proven.  Before we proceed further, I wish to resolve this question once and for all.”

“My Lord King . . .” Faramir was on his feet.  He would defend his own honour, not sit by idly while others decided his guilt or innocence!

“Be quiet, Faramir!” the King hissed, surprising his Steward with the sharpness of his command.  Then Aragorn turned blazing eyes toward the lower end of the Hall.  “Lord Ingold,” he began.  “Since you were first to accuse Lord Faramir, what say you to the resolution that I propose?”

Ingold stood somewhat hesitantly.  “My Lord I have only ever had the welfare of Gondor and indeed your own person in my mind.  If you can prove to this Council’s satisfaction that my accusations are unfounded, I will willingly withdraw them.”

“Very well,” the King replied.

“My Lord King, I hardly think . . .” Faramir tried again.

“Steward, you have proclaimed your innocence,” Aragorn cut him off once more.  “But until now, your arguments carried little actual proof other than your word.”

“Aye but . . .” Faramir could almost feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle.  What was the King doing?  Why was he speaking to him in such a way, as if Faramir were a foolish child?  A seed of doubt began to grow in his mind even while Faramir controlled his face and held his words unspoken.  He looked up at his King.

The King returned his gaze coolly, without even a glint of humour or warmth.  “Now my son is safe.  He was held captive in Saruman‘s lair; he will tell us what he saw pass between the White Wizard and Lord Faramir!  Eldarion, give us your testimony.”

The seed of doubt came to full bloom in Faramir’s mind.  What if Eldarion was not free of the wizard?  What if he had lied in his account to the King?  But surely Aragorn knew how much Faramir had given to restore the boy to him.

No.  That way lay worse danger.  If he lost faith in his King, there would be little left to him.  He remembered what the King had said before the news of the attack on Tham Fain had darkened the day.  He had told Faramir to trust him.

Always, my lord, always, Faramir affirmed in silent vow. 

Eldarion slowly rose to his feet, his voice hesitant but gaining in strength as he spoke.

“My lords, my father has asked me to tell the truth of what the White Wizard did to me, and how Lord Faramir was involved, some six months ago.  This I will do on my honour as heir to the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor.”

Eldarion took a deep breath before continuing. “I regret to say that I was attacked, as I journeyed towards Rohan, by what a troop of some fifty monsters I now know were Uruk-hai.  They surrounded us, striking down my escort without mercy.”  He lowered his head a moment, his young face suddenly pale and sorrowful.  “We were outnumbered; and the ten brave men who rode with me were killed as I watched.  I was of little help, for my skill at arms was far less than theirs, and I was frightened.  I struck blindly through tears as I watched my guards die.   The Uruk-hai came and bound me, and I swooned away in terror.”

Lord Ingold paled as well, and bowed his head in his hands. 

The prince’s voice deepened as he continued, in the sudden way of young boys becoming men. “But know, Lord Ingold, and others whose sons rode with me, your sons fought bravely and well.  There were just too many of the Uruk-hai. “  His voice rose again, changing to a childishly high timbre as he went on with his account:  “When I awakened, I was held by a tall man with a long white beard and flowing white robes.  He said he was a wizard, and that he had saved me from the orcs and now commanded them through his power.  At first, I thought he must be Mithrandir, of whom I have heard many a tale, for he also wore white, and I was reassured.  He had a sweet and kindly voice.  But he would not let me go when I asked; and then there came a green glow that hurt my eyes and my heart and mind, and I knew no more.”

Eldarion swallowed hard, then raised his head to look out over the men of the Council, who now sat rapt, waiting on his words.  “When I awoke, I was standing in a different room.  Lord Faramir was there, bound hand and foot.  There were two Uruk-hai monsters there, guarding us.  It was Lord Faramir who helped me.  Though he was a captive too, he had no fear, and told me that we would escape.  He gave me courage.  I untied his feet; and together we fought the Uruk-hai, though he did most of the fighting and I…” He blushed, and then spoke again, more carefully.  “Well, I did my best, but it was Lord Faramir who battled his way down the stairs against a dozen Uruk-hai who came to stop us.  He shielded me as best he could.  Saruman’s lackey seized me then, and threatened my life.  The wizard could not gainsay him.  Lord Faramir fought the man, and saved me again, though he was wounded and finally overcome.  Lord Faramir is no traitor, my lords!  He risked his life to save me. The White Wizard held no sway over him.  I fear to think what would have befallen me had Lord Faramir not been there.” 

Faramir gulped and gripped the sides of the Steward’s Chair.  He was vaguely aware of Elboron jumping up in excitement, then squeezing his own shoulders.  A murmur of approval rose from around the entire Hall, until the King’s voice stilled it to silence.

“Thank you, my son.”  Said the King, his eyes resting coolly on Ingold.  “What say you now, Lord Ingold?”

Ingold looked up; his face ashen.  “If the prince says that Faramir is no traitor, then so be it.  He was there, I was not.  I withdraw my accusation.”  Despite the trouble the man had caused him, Faramir felt a pang of sympathy for the lord of Pinnath Gelin.  Faramir had four fine boys in his house; Ingold’s sons were spent.  He remembered that Ingold had lost his wife a few years earlier as well; and there was a small daughter who was fostered with her late mother’s kin.  Perhaps Ingold would take some solace in the little maid; Faramir had good cause to know that daughters brought much joy to their fathers.

“Would anyone else care to renew the charge against Lord Faramir?”  Asked the King, surveying the Hall.  No one answered.

The King nodded slowly.  “Very well, the matter is settled.” Rising, he declared:  “I call Lord Faramir to present himself to me now.”  Faramir stood, and watched in surprise as the King arose and, with the prince, descended from the dais to stand on the last step. 

Faramir left his own chair and turned to face his lord.  Aragorn’s eyes glowed once more, and his stern face relaxed as he beckoned. 

The Steward knelt before his King.  Aragorn smiled.  “Faramir, Lord Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, accept my thanks for your service to my Kingdom and my son.  Let all men know that it was Lord Faramir who searched for, and found, an ancient Elvish remedy that we used to restore Eldarion to health.” 

Ah.  So the King did announce Faramir’s role in the prince’s recovery, noted the Steward.  Hardly necessary, but Aragorn had said something of rumours growing, so Faramir supposed some kind of explanation was needed.  They had spoken of how much should be disclosed of the tale of the two Stones.  Their use of the same Stone with which Saruman had enthralled Faramir could have sown fear and suspicion in Council and indeed across the Reunited Kingdom.  The King was not being wholly frank with the Council, but he told no lies either.  Faramir despised falsehoods; so he had often been forced to use evasion and omission to conceal secrets that must be kept.  Thankfully, Pallando knew how to hold his tongue on at least some matters.  Now, Faramir noticed Eldarion left his father’s side to go to a page wearing the King’s livery, and take something from the lad.

Eldarion returned to his father, bearing in his hands a long sword encased in a scabbard and attached to a sword-belt.  The boy grinned at Faramir, and gave the sword to Aragorn.

Aragorn held out the blade at arm‘s length.  “I give thee a new blade, in place of the one that thou lost, protecting my son in Saruman’s tower.”

Raising his eyes, Faramir lifted his hands as onto them the King placed the weapon's length. 

A large moonstone gleamed in the pommel, etched on one side with the emblem of Ithilien and on the other side with the three-starred Arandur sigil of the Stewards of Gondor.  The scabbard was fair to behold:  wood covered with rich leather which was tooled with designs entwining the tree of Gondor and the moon of Ithilien, and studded with small green stones cut in the shape of leaves.  Green leaves?  Could Legolas have crafted the scabbard?, Faramir wondered.  It certainly looked Elvish-fair.  Although Faramir could not see the blade, it seemed to be well balanced. 

“This sword is called Beriol chathol, Defender.  It was forged by Gimli, Lord of Aglarond, and Legolas, Lord of Eryn Gelair.    May thy sword arm always be strong in the defence of Gondor, my Steward and friend,” Aragorn proclaimed.  “Arise!”

Faramir stood up, returning the sword to Eldarion’s outstretched hand.  By law, only the King and the Guards could bear swords into Council.  Aragorn clasped Faramir’s shoulders and drew him close in a brief embrace.

The Council erupted once again in loud cheers, drowning out the reply that Faramir wanted to make.  He could scarcely believe how the King was favouring him before all the Lords of the realm.  Faramir found that his own eyes were filling up with tears of pent emotion, sorrow and relief and gratitude all mixed together. 

“My lord,” he managed to say; “You give me too much honour.  The sword is a princely gift.”  He tried to suppress a sudden surge of acquisitive pride.  He could not help recalling that the sword given him by his father when he came of age had neither a distinguished history nor any particular beauty, having been made for a cousin who had sickened and died before being able to wield it.  Denethor had told him that he would give him a sword of greater history when Faramir would earn it, like the sword of great-grandfather Turgon that Boromir proudly bore.  He had been thrilled to have his father give him a sword at all, to entrust him with a small part in the defense of Gondor.  Denethor had never deemed him worthy of a finer blade.  But the King had arranged that this sword, this Defender, be made especially for him, as if he were a hero of old!  Faramir realized he was smiling widely, and instantly smoothed his countenance.  He was the Steward of Gondor, not a giddy child!

“I had it made a few months past,” Aragorn said, as if reading Faramir’s heart; “I would have presented it to you on your birthday; but as we are going soon to war, I thought to give it to you this day.  And Faramir, it is not too much honour.  You have twice saved my son; a princely gift is but a mere token of gratitude for a prince’s life.   Also, you are a prince yourself now, and will use this blade to defend Ithilien as well as Gondor.”

Faramir was unable to reply, words would not form in his mouth, so he simply accepted the embrace as his heart swelled in his chest.

Finally, they moved apart.  Aragorn still held Faramir’s shoulders in a friendly but firm grip.

“You understand,” Aragorn whispered.  “It was important for both you and Eldarion that his testimony was publicly given, and that I showed you no special friendship until the accusation was withdrawn.  I have never doubted you, Faramir.”

Faramir cleared his throat and answered quietly, “I understand, my King.”

Aragorn released Faramir’s shoulders, and the Steward stepped free, bowing his head respectfully.  “I thank you, my lord and King,” Faramir answered loud enough for the entire Council to hear.  “The sword shall be treasured by me and my house, and shall ever be justly used to protect Gondor.”

“Bide a moment,” Aragorn commanded quietly as Faramir began to return to the  Steward’s Chair.  “We shall all have need of swords anon, my lords and friends, for war is coming.  We heard word this morning, shortly before this session began, of an Easterling assault upon Ithilien, in the hills of Emyn Arnen, within sight of this City.  They were driven off, after they had burned the stables, slain at least one young lad and others, and tried to carry off a woman who was heavy with child.”

Murmurs of outrage and fear swelled into an outpour of angry questions.  Aragorn raised his hand to enforce silence, and said: “We shall see no more of these attacks, but shall take war back to those who made it.  Before I tell you of our preparations, I would release the Lord Faramir from further attendance here.  It was his home that was attacked before dawn this day; and he must see to his people’s welfare.”

Faramir bowed to the King, accepted the sword that Eldarion pressed into his hand, and, leaving Elboron to be his eyes and ears, walked out of the Tower Hall.  Every member of Council rose as the Steward passed.

Faramir returned to his chamber in the Steward’s House, having been told that Eowyn awaited him there.   He had summoned his armourer before Council had begun, and arranged for the delivery of what he would need. He threw open the doors of his bedchamber, pulled off his finery until he was clad only in trousers and boots, and opened the closet to look for a more reasonable shirt. 

“Faramir?”  It was Eowyn’s voice.  She came in from the balcony, her cheeks reddened from the brisk wind.  Her eyes were reddened as well, from more than exposure to the wind.  “You have heard the news, have you not?  Elboron said he would find you before the Council began.”

Faramir slowed his step, took a deep breath and crossed to her.  “Are you well, my dear?  I hope the ill tidings did not distress you over-much?”  She looked in good health, but it was hard to forget that she had nearly lost their child, and come close to grave harm herself, just a few days ago. “Perhaps you should return to your bed?”

“Don’t be such an old lady!”  Eowyn retorted, punching him lightly in the shoulder.  “I am quite well, just angered and so. . .  cumbersome!  This child inside me has determined that I stay quiet and wait helplessly after our home was attacked! They will not even tell me who was slain, for fear that I might swoon away in horror like some delicate maiden of Gondor who has never seen men die.  All I know is that the stables were set afire, and my Steelsheen was stolen.  I wish to ride with you and avenge our people.”

Her husband sighed.  Eowyn‘s angry mood grated on his own raw nerves.  Still, he understood her ire; Tham Fain was her home too.  “Sit down and I will tell you all that I know.”

Scowling so fiercely that she suddenly had a look of Eomer, Eowyn sat on one of the chairs.  While donning a fresh shirt, a tunic suitable for travel, and older, more serviceable boots, Faramir recounted the news he had heard from the two White Guards.  “And then, though I sorely desired to speed to Emyn Arnen, I spent an hour cooling my heels in Council as Eldarion revealed the truth of my dealings with Saruman,” he finished.   “I would have preferred to be on my way home, but Aragorn was right, my presence was needful.  I can leave knowing that the King is no longer burdened by a Steward whose reputation is compromised, and that the honour of Ithilien’s prince is fully restored.  Sometimes we cannot do what we want as soon as we wish it.  I would not risk your presence in Emyn Arnen until we know there is no danger that the Easterlings are lying in wait for us.  They were sent to find you as well as the Stone of Silence.”

Eowyn folded her arms over her round belly.  “I do not fear the Easterlings.  They are cowards!”

“I know.”  Faramir replied.  “But I do fear them.  I fear that they could take you.  The thought of you being seized and carried off, as they nearly bore away Ardith, fills me with fear.  For you and the babe would surely not survive it, to say the least of your being taken captive for an unknown purpose.  And if I lost you, my lady, I fear I would lose myself as well.”

He crossed to her and stood above her, reaching for her hand.  She looked up at him, softening, and let him take it.  Faramir pressed her small, strong fingers between his own.  “You must be strong for me here.  I promise that I will bring you home as soon as it is safe, perhaps quite soon.  Our people need to see their Princess as well as their Prince.”

“You have a smooth tongue, Son of Gondor,” Eowyn replied.  “But I suppose your arguments have some merit.  Sometimes I like not the lot of a Princess.”

“Sometimes I like not the lot of a Prince,” Faramir agreed.  “I know when to choose my battles and when to retreat.  You, my White Lady, have so strong a spirit that retreat, or restraint, is the last choice you would make.”  He looked down upon her upturned face.  “It is one of the things I love most about you.  Yet I ask you to remember that your life has immeasurable value, beyond that of the mother of my children or Princess of Ithilien.”

“Very well.”  She agreed; “You are a wizard with words, yet you always have truth behind them.  Do you know what they are calling you since you helped awaken Eldarion?  They speak of the good counsel of Faramir the Wise.”

Faramir felt his own cheeks redden as he blushed.  “I believe Aragorn mentioned something about that.  It is merely idle talk.”  Worthless chatter, and perhaps some flattery.  Yet he wondered what his father might say about such praise; and wished that Denethor could hear it given to his second son.

“What is this?”  Eowyn’s pleased voice cut into his melancholy thoughts.  She gazed at the bed, and the King’s gift that he had placed upon it.

“Hmm?  ‘Tis a sword.”

“I can see that, Captain Faramir.  I have had some experience with a blade.”

Faramir felt again the childish joy he had known when Aragorn gave him the sword.  “The King had it made for me; and presented it to me in Council today.  Its name is Defender.”

“Really?”  Eowyn grinned.  “In Council, before all the lords of the Realm?” 

“Yes.  It was quite an honour.”

“And one that was long overdue!”  Eowyn looked up expectantly, her eyes shining.  “Well?”

“Well, what?”  Faramir wondered what she was getting at, for Eowyn was practically bouncing out of the chair in excitement. 

“Are you not going to take the sword out of the scabbard and try it, or at least look at it?”  Eowyn pressed.

Eowyn was indeed a fair judge of weaponry, and she did desire to see the blade.  He took up the sword, and slid it free of the beautiful scabbard.  He noted that the scabbard’s throat was gilded in silver to prevent wear.  The dark new leather sword-belt was inlaid with a design of stars and leaves.  No effort had been spared to make a superb sword and scabbard and belt - for him!

“Oh, what a fair blade!”  Eowyn started to rise, but Faramir motioned for her to stay in the chair.  Moving to the farthest end of the room from the door, he tried first a two-handed grip in the basic ‘dragon guard’  posture that Boromir had been the first to teach him with a wooden sword so long ago.  The blade was a hand-and-a-halfsword, made to be wielded by either one or both hands.   He swung it down, towards the window, shifting to a one-handed grip; and noted the smooth extension, the easy fit of the long leather-wrapped hilt in his hand.   As much as he could tell by the limited practice afforded him in such close quarters, it was a fair blade indeed, well-appointed and perfectly balanced.  He would prefer to mount the sword on the wall of his White Hall to be admired as an heirloom of his House.  But Faramir knew that he would soon have to use it to kill other men.

Faramir lowered the blade, and approached his wife.  Eowyn stood up, smiling softly, and moved clear of the chair.  He came round behind her, put one arm lightly across her breast, and slowly raised the sword before her with the other hand.

“Behold Defender,” he said softly. 

“It says ‘I am named Beriol chathol.  I defend Gondor,” Eowyn said, reading the Sindarin inscription on the blade.  “Legolas and Gimli made me, for Faramir’s hand."

Eowyn was justly proud of her ability to speak and read Sindarin.  She had first learned the tongue in her uncle's household and had since improved her usage.  Eowyn had a quick mind, Faramir noted fondly; his own command of Rohirric was not quite as good. Now Eowyn tapped the shining moonstone in the pommel with a respectful finger, and brought her hands up to rest over those of her husband. “A remarkable blade.  The sword of Faramir.  I cannot wait to try it out after this child is come.”

“Sparring, my dear?  But it is too long for your arms.  I will match it against your sword, though.”

“I did not mean swordplay, Faramir,” She whispered, turning and pulling his head down to hers.  “I meant . .  your own sword, which is long indeed, but never too long for me.” 

Faramir kissed his wife, partly to hide the heated blush that her words brought to his cheeks, and mostly because he could not stop himself, having her so close and attentive and warm in his arms.   But finally, after a moment he wished could last forever, he pulled away with a sigh; and slid the sword back into the scabbard. 

He looked at his armour and weapons, spread neatly on a blanket atop the bed, and reached out towards the equipment.

Quietly, Eowyn slipped ahead of him and took up a quilted surcoat.  “Let me arm you.”  She had done so before, being a daughter of kings and skilled at the chore.

Faramir stood straight as Eowyn girded him in armour fit for a short journey and possible battle.    She placed the heavily padded surcoat over Faramir's tunic and tied the lacings down its front, then continued her task. The moon and tree sigil etched into his black leather cuirass and vambraces marked him as Prince of Ithilien; this was a mission of relief, not a Council gathering, so there was no need to bother with the moon-crown.  Leather greaves protected his legs, pauldrons of steel and boiled leather covered his shoulders. She buckled on the new sword-belt, then draped his gray velvet cloak, over his shoulders and fastened the silver clasps.  Taking up Faramir's mail shirt, she folded it into the leather case that he would bear behind his saddle, for use if needed.  Finally, Eowyn slung the quiver of arrows over Faramir’s shoulder.

Eowyn stepped back, then took up the sword and handed it gravely to Faramir.  “Here is your sword, my lord” she said quietly, all trace of naughtiness gone from her voice.

“I bear it in your service, my lady, and in the service of Gondor” He answered, taking the sword and setting it in the belt.  “I will carry it today to defend Ithilien,” he swore, kissing Eowyn’s hands.  “Walk with me to the door, my escort will come soon with Daisy.  He weathered the trip to Mordor well.  I hope to return tomorrow; and will send word as soon as I can.”  Faramir knew now that he would have to go to war when the King marched against Alatar, for he would be honour-bound to avenge the innocent lives of his people so carelessly taken by the Blue Wizard’s minions, and to end the threat of Easterling conquest.  Eowyn knew it too, or would soon realize it. 

Taking his short bow in his left arm, and Eowyn’s hand in his right, Faramir walked down the stairs with his lady, and to the door.  Ithilien’s need called him, but he would always return to her.

TBC

AUTHORS’ NOTES II: Thanks to Branwyn and her husband for help with arms, armour, and consultation on the Steward’s civilian wardrobe . . .Check out her story BY THE LIGHT OF EARENDIL’S STAR, elsewhere on this site, for a cracking good read!

Thanks also to Berzerker Prime, of the HASA language resource forums, for finding the Sindarin name for Faramir's new sword.  Technically, Beriol Chathol means "Protecting Blade", or "Blade that protects"; since there isn't a Sindarin  word meaning 'defend'.  But we, and Faramir, just call it Defender.  Here endeth the lesson!