Co-authored by Raksha

Chapter 4

Apprehension

Faramir silently eased his way into the small railed balcony above the Tower Hall. Few people ever looked up this far from the Hall when the Great Council sat in its quarterly session; all eyes were on each other or the King. And if he positioned himself in the right distance from the rail, the overhang of the next floor would shadow him from any eyes that did look up from the Hall. He had hidden up here as a child. As far as he knew, no one else was aware of the hidden entrance way as far as he knew. Faramir had discovered it one day when playing hide-and-seek with Boromir and kept it a closely guarded secret even from his brother. Many were the times he had climbed up here seeking to read when he could find no other peaceful retreat.

But this place held other memories too. Faramir remembered watching his father masterfully manipulate the dealings of the Council below. His relationship with his father could be described as ambivalent at best, particularly in its later years, but Faramir had always respected the last ruling Steward of Gondor. One of the reasons for this he had witnessed frequently from this very spot. It was the shrewd way Denethor had influenced and compelled the Council to his way of thinking. It was very rare for the ruling Steward to lose an argument especially one of import and that was especially so in this chamber. Denethor had known every member of the council as intimately as a minstrel would know the strings of his own harp.

As a young boy, Faramir had sat here entranced by the spectacle before him. How could he fail to be impressed by such artistry? He remembered how he had felt a rush of excitement as he watched his father's seemingly effortless domination of each situation. It was a spectacle he found far more interesting than anything he could imagine on a battlefield. This was the arena the second son of the Steward had felt drawn to, had wished to master as well as his father before him.

Denethor had allowed him to sit at Council during Faramir's eighteenth summer; and had given him leave to speak for his father. Thrilled by the opportunity, Faramir had bent his mind to the task of learning all he could to better serve his father's interests. He had started to learn diplomacy, and found it to be a game as vicious as any battlefield, though far more bloodless. Faramir had spoken with respectful confidence, and had begun to see the heads of older and wiser men turn in his direction. He remembered wistfully the sheer joy he had felt when, leaving the Council chambers after thanking his uncle and two other allies for their support of the Steward, Faramir had overheard Forlong of Lossarnach praise him to his father. Forlong, a bluff old veteran of battlefield and Council table, had told the Steward what a credit to him Faramir was, and how it appeared that Faramir could eventually dominate the Council as his brother dominated the battlefield. Then, Faramir had heard ice in his father's voice as Denethor replied that Boromir would soon return to take his proper place at Council as the Steward's Heir. That night, as they supped together, his father had told Faramir that his service at Council was no longer required, that he should return to the Guard. Faramir did not reappear in Council for several years, until he came there by right as Captain of the Ithilien Rangers.

Strange, the workings of fate, Faramir mused. Boromir had endured his attendance at Council as a torturous but necessary duty. He had often told Faramir how, when he became Steward, he would lead Gondor's army and gladly rely on Faramir to lead the Council in his name. They had joked about the prospect, carefully skirting around the fact that their father would have to die first. Boromir had insisted that Faramir's reports to him should never exceed one page; Faramir reminding him that Boromir exerted far more forceful a presence than he did and so should attend his own future Council. Faramir had laughed as he promised to "sound out the long words" to him in private, knowing full well that Boromir was just as able to read and articulate as he was, just less patient with the petty details haggled over at the table of power.

Had his father hated him that much, to remove him from Council after he had begun to feel at ease there, Faramir wondered. It was incomprehensible that Denethor would have been jealous of him. For all the skill he had begun to possess, Faramir had been very young and awkward compared to his masterful father. And now, against the natural order of the world he had known in his youth, he was Steward in the place that Denethor had held, the place that Boromir should have inherited. Sometimes the change in circumstance still surprised him.

A rueful smile crossed the current Steward’s lips as he remembered how easy his father had made it seem. Having latterly taken his rightful place as Steward in the Council chamber, Faramir now realized through personal experience that getting the Councillors to agree was no simple matter. How he wished he could have been allowed the opportunity to learn from his father, to practice and refine his talents, so that now he could serve Gondor better. Despite the passage of years, he was still occasionally troubled by bitterness towards the father for whom he would have died, the father who had tried to kill him. Pushing that useless rancour from his mind, Faramir focused his attention on to the session below.

The Councillors were arguing now.

They were men that Faramir knew well: Aradan, a wealthy merchant from the White City and Lord Maethor, a retired soldier and landholder from Cair Arthos. Each loathed the other and rarely missed an opportunity to express their hatred. The current argument concerned a proposal to expand Gondor’s army to counter a possible threat from the East.

The two men were glaring at each other across the Council chamber. Aradan was red in the face and already wheezing through his double chins while the lean and muscled Maethor eyed him calmly with cold blue eyes. They would soon start spitting venom at each other if allowed the chance to escalate their feud.

Faramir switched his glance to his Lord. King Elessar Telcontar sat high on the throne looking down on the Council. He wore a light silver-brocaded grey robe over a deep blue silk tunic emblazoned with the White Tree, black leggings and boots. A silver circlet with a small and brilliant white star of mithril crowned the King‘s brow. Such was his usual concession to the formality of the Great Council. Elessar possessed the strength and aspect of a man in his prime, rather than the frailty that many men would show at the age of one hundred and five. But today he looked unusually tired and disinterested. Faramir’s heart went out to the man he revered above all others. Aragorn was his King, the Lord of Gondor to whom Faramir had sworn allegiance. He would never forget how the King reached deep into Shadow to save his life. In Aragorn's place, another man could have easily dismissed Faramir after the coronation. Instead, Aragorn had invested him with the Stewardship as a hereditary office, and also given Faramir his beloved Ithilien as a Princedom. He had made Faramir effectively the second most powerful man in Gondor. But far more valuable, beyond titles or power, were the King's priceless gifts to Faramir of his trust, his kindness and his friendship.

Faramir wanted to be able to repay at least some small part of the tremendous debt he owed his King. Guilt stabbed at him, for neither the first time nor the last. He had freed himself from Saruman’s hold, at least he prayed that he had; but not Eldarion, who he had sworn to help. Although he had managed to save Eldarion’s life, Faramir had not been able to release the King's son from Saruman’s vile spell.

The King‘s concern over his son‘s condition was beginning to show. For the last six months, Aragorn had veiled his own pain, and continued to rule with the dignity and power he had always shown. He had revealed hints of his sorrow only to those closest to him, in whose number Faramir had been privileged to include himself. But Aragorn’s demeanour today, the care that lowered his proud head, was an unusually clear betrayal of the King’s private sorrow. Faramir knew full well how private sorrows could slowly ravage the heart of those in positions of power; from Captains to Stewards to Kings.

Worriedly Faramir wondered he had been wrong to leave his King and friend at this time. Aragorn needed him now more than ever. If Faramir had not gone to Mordor on the inspiration of a dream, he might have presided over the entire Council session and spared Aragorn at least some aggravation. Yet the Great Council rarely lasted less than four days; and the first day was usually limited to summations of events since the last session, and the inevitable posturing of the more ambitious and contentious Council members.

Faramir waited now for the King to intervene in the current impasse but it was not the King’s voice that echoed firmly around the chamber. Instead it was a voice more familiar still to Faramir for he had heard this voice since its first newborn cry, heard it through boyhood and heard it now as it had deepened in to the voice of a man. Faramir lurched forward at the sound, for it was Elboron who spoke.

Elboron. . . his fifteen-year-old son. Elboron. . . who was in the chamber only as Second for his absent father. Elboron . . . who Faramir had briefed to simply listen and learn from the experience.

Stilling his sense of shock and subsequent worry, Faramir forced himself to listen to his son’s words. They came out in a strong voice, although Faramir could sense the nervousness behind them, he doubted very much that anyone else in the room would be able to perceive his son’s discomfort. To all others, Elboron appeared confident and relaxed as if he had played this role many times in the past.

“My Lords,” he began. “No one doubts your loyalty to our liege-lord or the Kingdom itself. However, your arguments have been made many times already today. We all value your contribution to the debate, but alas, time is not on our side. We must resolve this issue now, for the sake of the realm.”

Faramir held his breath as the two opponents assessed his son’s reasonable words. Though both eventually nodded, neither seemed prepared to retreat back to their seats.

Undeterred, Elboron continued, “My Lord Aradan,” he addressed the red-faced merchant directly. “The Council thanks you for your contribution. Have you aught else to add?”

Aradan puffed and ran a wrinkled handkerchief over his wet brow. He looked towards the King who had lifted his head from his hand and was eyeing the merchant coldly.

“Sire, I but repeat. . . “Aradan began.

“My Lord,” Elboron cut in. “Your words have been noted. The time is passed for reiteration. Please take your seat.”

Aradan hesitated for a second as if to say more but much to Faramir’s relief, obviously thought better of it, shrugged his shoulders once and sat down.

“And you, Lord Maethor?” Elboron continued. “Will you take your seat for the tally to proceed, please.” It was an order rather than a question.

Faramir let out the breath he had been holding in admiration at the adroit way his son has handled the situation. Realizing he was clutching the marble rail in front of him so tightly that his hands had lost all colour, he forced himself to let go.

Maethor, Faramir knew, was too much the old soldier to question such direct authority. Elboron had seen that the merchant was the key and in dealing with him first he had resolved the conflict completely.

Where did he learn to read men’s hearts in such a subtle way? Faramir asked himself.

The King cleared his throat. He was staring at Elboron too, his eyes shining with gratitude and he nodded his head in recognition of the action.

“Thank you, Elboron of Ithilien,” he said. “You are indeed your father’s son.”

Elboron inclined his head slightly as his cheeks coloured. “With your leave, my Lord, we shall now hold a tally of their men and goods pledged to the realm‘s defence.”

“Of course.” King Elessar responded. “But first it is late, we have talked the day away my Lords. I call a recess until noon the day after tomorrow so this Council may more fully ponder Gondor’s need.” He stood, as did all the Councillors.

Faramir thought he could detect a slight slump in his monarch’s normally erect gait, as Aragorn made his way to the exit.

The King of Arnor and Gondor stormed into his blessedly quiet study in his own House and shut the heavy brass-inlaid wooden door. He stripped off the robe and threw it over the chest of drawers, then happily changed the opulent silken tunic for one of his favourite dark red linen shirts from the closet. He removed the circlet of rank from his brow and twirled it idly around his forefinger. Each new occasion that he had to don his formal robes and sit through a formal Council seemed to wear him down further. After all that had been sacrificed, all the lives lost to bring Gondor to the prosperity and relative peace it now enjoyed, could not the men who purported to guide him in the realm's interests find any better way to help than turning his Council into a nest of chattering magpies?

Today had been no exception. War was brewing in the East; or so his scouts reported. Small, scattered troops of Easterlings which included orcs and mercenaries had been seen lurking east of Lake Nurnen, near the villages and farms of Sauron’s former slaves. No battle or even bloodshed had yet occurred. But as King he needed to prepare the realm’s defences, yet those fools in the Council would argue and hesitate about the way he would raise the money to do so. Gondor’s army would not be left bereft of armoury or supplies, not while he was King!

Aragorn had tripled the size of the standing army, Guard and cavalry combined, during his reign, but it would not be enough for a foray to the east. Thankfully, he could always count on Eomer. The Lord of the Mark's eagerness for battle had not dimmed in seventeen years. Eomer was still a mighty warhorse, and would bring at least two thousand equally enthusiastic Rohirrim. But Aragorn wanted his reunited Kingdom to have its own strength of arms. He would never forget how, during the War of the Ring and the years preceding it, Boromir and Faramir had led forces caught between the overwhelming might of Saruman and Sauron and their allies. Denethor’s sons had valiantly led skirmishes and battles that cost hundreds of good men’s lives and would have ended in Gondor's defeat. Sauron was gone forever. Yet it would take many years before a King of Gondor could be sure that the Haradrim and the Easterlings and the Corsairs would truly embrace the peace he had tried to offer them. And Men being what they were, treaties could always be broken.

Aragorn tried to calm his turbulent thoughts. He knew that his current frame of mind, although not improved by today‘s session, was not caused by the chatter heard in Council. He flexed his fingers. His hands held the re-forged Sword of Elendil and the rule of the greatest kingdom of Men to exist since the fall of Numenor. His hands were the hands of a healer; he had proved that many times on the bodies of hundreds of sick and injured people over nearly eighty years. Yet the one person he could not heal was the one person he had to heal, for the sake of the realm and for his own and Arwen's sake. But he could not reach his sleeping heir. What good were his powerful hands now?

For three months following Eldarion's return, Aragorn had visited the boy's bedside every day. He had tried everything he knew to waken his son. His own foster-brothers, the boy's uncles, had tried to heal him, as had Arwen herself, again and again. The best of Gondor's healers fared no better. And then Aragorn had stopped visiting the boy. He could not continue coming to Eldarion every day, seeing his only son grow thinner, weaker, despite the sugared water and broth he was able to swallow in his strange trance. He knew not how Arwen endured her visits. She managed to do so faithfully; singing to Eldarion, talking to him, turning him, massaging his limbs. She left trusted nurses and healers there with the boy in her absence so that Eldarion was never alone. It hurt his lady that he could not bring himself to regularly visit the boy anymore; and her eyes sometimes grew hard as she looked at Aragorn. He could not blame her for it, but he could rarely force himself to return to that room and look on the evidence of his failure.

With every day Aragorn's desperation grew. The thought of his son’s pale, slack-jawed face horrified him. How could he concentrate on governing a Kingdom, how could he make the necessary preparations for war, if he could not even revive his own heir?

The door opened before him with a quiet click. Pulling himself from his self-doubt and despair Aragorn looked up.

“Your pardon, my King,” Faramir stood on the threshold. “May I enter?”

Aragorn forced a smile. “Of course!” he replied, his voice a little too loud with enforced cheer.

Faramir entered the room and moved forwards. The King noted the stiffness in his Steward’s gait. The Prince of Ithilien was covered in dust and grime from his journey but his blue eyes shone brightly through his smudged face.

“You have not been home since your return?” the King asked.

Faramir shook his head.

Aragorn indicated that Faramir should sit, then filled a flagon with the ale from the bottle of Shire fourteen-twenty on his table and passed it to him. It was a ritual they had observed many times after a session of full Council. Faramir’s visits to his sanctuary after Council were a welcome element of the routine of governance. The Steward and the King had often conferred here after a session either of the Great Council or the smaller and more frequent councils called on a less formal schedule. Though in truth Faramir was usually more at ease than he was today, bickering Council members never seemed to particularly bother his Steward.

“Faramir,” Aragorn admonished. “You should see to your Lady first, especially in her current condition.”

Faramir tensed. “She is not well?”

The King noted the reaction. Even worn from his journey, Faramir was still strung as tight as his bow.

“As far as I am aware she has been most well during your absence,” Aragorn said quickly trying to allay any unneeded worry.

The Steward eased himself slowly into a chair with a sigh. “I sent Cirion to report,” he said, forcing a smile but Aragorn detected the veiled pain behind his voice.

“Your wound still ails you?” he asked.

Faramir made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “My leg stiffens a trifle when I ride any distance, that is all.” But his other hand rested firmly on his left thigh, close to his wound as if to support the leg.

Aragorn chose not to pursue the point. He wondered again if he could have healed Faramir if he had worked on him personally in the days following Saruman's death rather than handing the injured, unconscious Steward over to the Healers. Aragorn had been consumed with worry for Eldarion; he had poured all his strength into attempts to revive the boy, and had not thought Faramir's wound serious enough for his attention. It was not until weeks had passed that the damage caused by the poison in the wound had become apparent. Faramir had seemed more worried about Eldarion than his own discomfort; and had never asked for Aragorn's help or reproached him for not offering it.

Aragorn realized that Faramir had not come here today, before even stopping to wash his face, to discuss recalcitrant members of the Council.

The King understood that Faramir was almost as concerned about Eldarion as he was himself. They had spent long hours discussing all that the Steward had managed to learn during his captivity and escape from Saruman‘s tower. Aragorn had given his Steward leave to return to that tower last week with some reluctance. His first instinct had been to keep those he loved from going anywhere within twenty miles of that fell and cursed place. Including Faramir, who had suffered considerably at Saruman’s hands before courageously risking his own life to destroy the wizard. Finally, after Faramir had revealed his dream of a magical stone to be found near the tower, Aragorn had agreed to let his friend return there.

And Faramir was here now, his eyes blazing so brightly. Aragorn felt a faint remnant of hope suddenly stir deep inside him. Could their fortune finally have changed?

“Tell me of your journey,” Aragorn commanded.

Faramir nodded slowly and told his King all that happened in Mordor. As he finished he took the green stone from the pouch on his belt and held it between his thumb and forefinger, eyes widening as he pondered it.

Aragorn sat back in his chair and sighed. “More questions,” he muttered. “But no answers.”

“Possible answers” Faramir challenged. “I did find a patch of what was probably Saruman’s clothing, and the strands of bloodied white hair. None of the Rangers who searched the area since the day Saruman fell had either long white hair or a head wound; I made sure to check with Damrod at the garrison before I returned. Although I could not find either the cloth or the strands of hair after we were surprised by the Easterling; I am certain of having seen both. We might well be able to assume, finally, that Saruman is dead. If he indeed lay there, on the ground, he would have fallen too far to have survived.”

Aragorn reached out for the stone and Faramir, almost reluctantly, passed it across to him. Aragorn examined it carefully. It was a pretty green stone, to Aragorn’s eye nothing more and nothing less. It betrayed no magic, no power to the King who had wielded two palantiri and the Elfstone from which he took his royal name.

“Are you sure this is the same stone Saruman used?” he asked finally.

Faramir’s eyes glittered. “The Easterling gave his life to find it. I saw it in Ithilien, again on the stairs when Saruman threatened Prince Eldarion and when the wizard fell from the tower, I saw it fall too. It is the same stone, can you not feel it?”

Aragorn regarded him blankly. “Feel what?”

Faramir stood up. “There is a power,” he began, licking his lips excitedly and beginning to pace, his earlier weariness vanished. “Some connection to Saruman there. I can almost hear his voice inside it. Remember the words of my dream, ‘You must find the stone that Saruman lost...you must undo the evil work in which the stone was used. Go in haste, for very soon the stone shall be taken by less worthy hands.’ And I saw that strange green glow come from the room where Saruman took Eldarion, before the boy fell into this strange sleep. This has to be what he used to enthral the boy! And there must also be a way to use this stone to awaken him!”

“I feel nothing, Faramir,” Aragorn responded softly.

Faramir came to a stop in front of his King. He held his hand out. Aragorn looked at the stone once more and said: “I would like Arwen to see it. And our brothers, when they return from Imladris. Perhaps they will sense something that I cannot.”

Faramir nodded impatiently but still held out his hand. “I will keep it until then,” he said quickly.

There was something in Faramir’s eyes that Aragorn found faintly disconcerting. Finally he shrugged and placed the stone on the Steward’s outstretched and demanding hand.

Faramir’s long slender fingers closed around the stone instantly and he returned it to his pouch.

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak but at that moment there was a loud knock on the door.

A page entered at the King’s order. “My King, the Queen sends word that dinner will be served shortly.”

Aragorn stood tiredly then emptied his flagon of ale.

“We need to talk at more length, Faramir,” he said as he moved passed the other man. “Will you dine with us?”

“I thank you, my Lord, but I long to see my wife and family. I would go home to them,” Faramir replied.

Aragorn smiled. “Of course. Go home and rest now. Come to me tomorrow morning. And take some rest, I will need you ready when Council meets again.”

Faramir bowed.

The King turned back to him as he reached the door. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “How does Cirion fare after his first kill?”

“He was shocked but we have discussed it fully. He had a good lesson in the responsibility of wielding weapons of war, though it came earlier than I had planned,” Faramir replied.

Aragorn nodded. “You are fortunate in your sons,” he said pensively. His face contorted suddenly into an achingly sad expression. Faramir knew he was thinking of his own son.

“We will release Eldarion,” Faramir said firmly, determined to support his friend. “There must be a way; we have only to find it.”

The King rubbed his chin and looked back at Faramir. He managed a tentative smile, but it was belied by the bleakness in his eyes. Then he rose and with a murmured farewell, left the room.

Faramir lingered in the silent chamber for a few moments. His attention was drawn back to his pouch, and then the green stone lay once more in his hands. It twinkled malevolently in the glow of the sputtering candles. Faramir’s heart was clutched by a sudden sense of foreboding.

“Look for me in Eldarion’s eyes.”

In the silence Faramir heard the echo of Saruman's last threat. The Steward shuddered involuntarily. The stone might hold the answer to all the riddles. Yet how could Saruman's weapon be used for good purpose when it had previously inflicted such pain and sorrow?

Hurriedly Faramir returned the green stone back to his pouch. He could no longer bring himself to consider the problem further; for he knew he would find no answer this night. He felt tired and dirty from the journey and he suddenly craved his wife's presence above all else. Faramir stood up from the chair and limped home as speedily as he could.