Co-authored by Raksha

    Chapter 5

    Storm Clouds

Faramir looked out at the lights of the White City, flickering beautifully in the close, humid night. He was standing on the balcony to his study in the Citadel as below him Minas Tirith prepared for night. He had missed its majestic beauty during his seven years of self-imposed exile. Even now, the sight of the moonlit White City spread below him, donning lamp- fire like a queen decking herself in jewels, caused his heart to lurch in his chest. He and so many others had sacrificed much for this city, the fair heart of Gondor.

The night was a dark one. He watched as the storm clouds rolled along the valley of the Anduin. The rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and he could see lightning flashing across the sky above Osgiliath. And before him the City shimmering in the humidity, the air heavy and close, waited as if held in a moment of timeless anticipation. The storm was coming.

Faramir sighed deeply. Despite his fatigue, he had left Eowyn in their bed a few hours earlier, unable to fall asleep. After leaving the King, he had happily reunited with his four youngest children, playing with them and hearing their adventures during the past four days of his absence. The littlest children, two-year-old Melethron and four-year-old Eirien, had been easily put to bed. Aldor, a curious seven-year-old, and Celairiel, the most stubborn of their children even at nine, had followed with more resistance and longer stories from their father. Eowyn had eventually decided that she too was tired enough to retire. Faramir had left her embrace reluctantly, fearing that he would awaken her with his tossing and turning. So he had dressed, and returned to his study while the storm clouds gathered outside and his frustration grew. There had to be answers to his many questions and he had to find them soon.

A loud crack of thunder caused him to start. It was raining already on the Pelennor. He remembered the agonizing retreat across that plain after the expedition to the Causeway Forts. The sheer magnitude of the Enemy's numbers had dimmed his hopes as he sought to hold what remained of his men together, but there was nothing to do but keep fighting, trying to bring them home. And then had come the hideous shrieking of the Nazgul as they swooped down upon the beleaguered horsemen; Faramir would never forget that sound as long as he lived. The Steward knew well the taste of fear and while he had learned to overcome it, he found himself desperately wishing that he would never have to experience it again.

He was tired and desired nothing more than to grow old with his beloved Eowyn and their children, taking pleasure in their family and in the prosperity of their lands. But the storm clouds were massing. Gondor would call once more, she was calling even now, she would demand his all and Faramir would give it as he always had.

A large raindrop fell on the balcony before him and then another. The sky was lit for one blazing moment with a flash of white lightning and seconds later the air rumbled with a blast of thunder more powerful than all the trumpets of his beloved homeland.

The storm had come.

Faramir remembered that he had left some dispatches from the White Company in the King's study. Curse it, in order to calculate the numbers of men he could pledge to the King he did need another look at them. Tonight. He hurried out of his rooms and down the steps to the first floor. As he walked, his stiff leg making a faster pace impossible, he passed the door that had once opened on his father's personal quarters. Faramir had never been able to bring himself to use the room, and had turned it into a secondary library of documents from the days of Denethor and Ecthelion. He rarely entered the chamber. But he heard a sound coming from behind the closed door. Pausing, he tried to discern what it was. Had the servants left a window open the last time they cleaned there, drawing in the cry of the storm? No, that noise was not the wind. There it came again, more like a sound from a human throat, a moan, or a quiet laugh, perhaps a whistle.

He backed away, momentarily feeling almost....frightened. Could his father's presence have somehow returned there to lament? No. What a foolish notion. He was the Steward of Gondor, not some ignorant bumpkin who quailed at the thought of the Dead returning. Besides, the last time the Dead had returned, they had come at the King's bidding, and had helped defeat the Enemy. And then the Dead had been most glad to leave, or so went the tale.

He looked below the closed door; and saw a pale light. Ah, perhaps some page or squire was playing a game, or a soldier had brought a girl inside the rarely used room for...private pursuits. This would not do. Let them find some closet; this chamber, where his parents had once lain and he himself had been born, was still part of his House.

Fumbling with the small set of keys that rarely left his person when he stayed in the City, Faramir knocked on the door, and tried to open it. When it did not yield, he used the key. Then he stood on the threshold in stunned surprise.

A man was in the room, hunched in the chair, his hands covering the lower part of his face. By the light of the two candles burning on the small table, Faramir could see that the man was Aragorn.

The King stared back at him with sudden surprise that almost matched Faramir's own shock. Faramir shut the door behind him.

Aragorn slowly dropped his hands and leaned back into the chair. Faramir had never seen his King in this condition; eyes red, his face, usually so calm and grave, now streaked with tears. Faramir moved quietly toward him, then carefully eased himself down cross-legged onto the floor before the seated King.

"What troubles you, my lord?"

Aragorn lifted one corner of his mouth in a half-smile, and extended a flask towards Faramir. "Some water? You look like you have seen the Dead."

"Nay, my lord. It is just that I never expected to find you here, alone, in this room."

"Do you know, that when you walked in just now, you put me in mind of your grandfather? You favour Ecthelion far more than Denethor."

Faramir normally would have encouraged Aragorn to remember his youth in the White City as Ecthelion's favoured captain Thorongil. But they were not sitting beside a warm fire in Emyn Arnen, or with the Queen and Eowyn in the King's House. Aragorn had been weeping alone here in Denethor's old room, and Faramir needed to know more, so he could be of help to him. "So my Uncle Imrahil has told me" he replied. "But that does not explain why you are here alone, in this state."

"I meant no disrespect to your father, Faramir. I have come here a few times of late, when I craved solitude. It is one of the few chambers where no one would look for me, and where no one comes, at least not very often...I.. needed," Aragorn paused, and looked down to meet Faramir's steady gaze. "A place where all eyes were not on me. I cannot have them see the King so...weary. Not even Arwen, I have burdened her enough with useless tears. I long to run, to ride away into the mountains, but I am King here and cannot leave so easily, and not now. ."

"My lord, the entire Citadel is yours. You may come to this room whenever you feel the need. And here, now, let yourself be Aragorn, leave the King outside the door. I am always your friend. We Rangers must look after each other in this city of stone, as Legolas calls it. "

"Rangers." Aragorn emitted a short laugh that was almost a sob. "Going my own way in the wild places, never having more than a few pieces of clothing to call my own, and a horse if I was lucky. Right now, I miss it. I have all that my forefathers were due, the crown of Gondor, the South and North Kingdoms under my hand. I hold the Sceptre of Annuminas, and eminence over all the lands of the West. I am the Heir of Elendil. I am husband to the most beautiful and loving lady in all the world..." his hands shook and he clenched them into fists. "And for all that power and wealth and love, my heir still sleeps. I cannot wake him, Faramir!" Aragorn's face twisted, and he growled and, in anger, struck the table with his fist.

"But there is still time. Eldarion is alive, just sleeping. We will find a way to revive him." Faramir assured him. He was still amazed to see his King, who had always been master of himself and all around him, come so undone.

"I thought I could rouse him. I never thought that after six months, Eldarion would still lie in this unnatural sleep. My foster-brothers and the Healers have told me that he grows weaker, Faramir. He continues to lose weight, because he can consume so little nourishment. There are only so many more weeks before he fades and dies. If he dies; I do know what will befall this land when I pass away from it." Abruptly, Aragorn rose, and commenced pacing like a caged animal.

"My daughters are twin-born, and there is no difference in their features. We did not differentiate them with ribbons on their wrists until two days after they were born; for Arwen's labour was difficult, and we despaired of the younger babe's life as well as that of her mother. To this day, no one is certain whether Nimloth or Rian was born first. I fear great trouble from their sons should I die without another heir."

"But Aragorn..." Faramir began, somewhat embarrassed. Then he continued, quietly. "Surely it is too soon to worry about the actions of your daughters' sons; the twins are but little maids still, not even two years of age. Perhaps you and Arwen will have another son."

Aragorn stood by the window, his back to Faramir. "That is not likely." he said in a flat voice. He turned again, his face troubled. "This land could face Kin-strife again if Eldarion dies."

Faramir remembered what he had heard the King say in his dream; and was chilled, though not surprised, at Aragorn's words.

"Do you know what I thought today, as I watched your son in Council?" Aragorn asked. "Elboron is such a fine lad, strong, brave, and honourable, with a mind as sharp as yours. I played a game with myself. I pretended, for an instant, that he was my firstborn, my son. That he would inherit Gondor one day, and I could rest easy knowing all that we strove and worked for would pass to Elboron and prosper in his hands. But then I remembered, Elboron is yours. And that my heir lies unmoving on his bed. And despite all the times I have sat at his bedside, held his hand and called for him, sent my spirit forth to heal him as I have healed hundreds of those that needed it, I cannot wake him. I cannot help Eldarion at all!"

He trembled like a storm-beset tree, rasping out sobbing breaths that he tried to stifle. Faramir rose stiffly and moved to Aragorn's side as quickly as he could. When he reached Aragorn, he took the older man and led him back to the chair, gently pressing him down into it. Then Faramir took up the flask that had been laid on the table, opened it, and placed it back in Aragorn's hand, nodding approvingly as Aragorn drank from it. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry that the flask held nothing stronger than water.

"How did Elladan and Elrohir fare when they tried to heal the boy?" Faramir asked, frowning as he remembered the warnings heard in his dream. Sometimes dreams conveyed truth and other times they were just random flotsam spewed up by sleeping minds. "You have said that their skill exceeds yours, although I do not believe it."

Aragorn smiled sadly at him. "They have tried on several occasions. Once, they worked with me to try to bring him back. But we cannot find him. Though my brothers swear that they can discern his presence, just beyond reach, I cannot even sense him when I try to find him. If not for Elladan and Elrohir's certainty that Eldarion still survives, I would believe that Saruman had taken his spirit with him into death."

"No, Aragorn, no!" Faramir exclaimed. "You must believe that Eldarion still lives! The wizard's last words to me, as he started to fall, were to look for him in Eldarion's eyes, he would be there. If Eldarion were so bound to Saruman that Saruman's fate would be his, then the wizard would surely have told me so when he tried to convince me to help him back into the tower. And, when Saruman was about to fall to his certain death, he would have exulted that he was taking the lad with him. But he did not."

"Then should I fear, that if I succeed in waking Eldarion, he will come back to life as the pawn of Saruman the White, the wizard's evil imprinted on his young mind?" Aragorn asked in a dull voice.

"No, I do not believe it!" Faramir exclaimed. "The wizard bespelled me, after all, and bent my mind to the point where...I tried to harm you, yet you stood by me in that dark time and told me that you still trusted me. And since then, the only trace of Saruman in my mind has been in my dreams, and only rarely. If he had any power over me, he would have exerted it in the tower last year, rather than resorting to duress, then offers of alliance along with threats, to try to alter my allegiance. I did nothing in that tower, or even in coming to it, that was of Saruman's desire. I know that now. So will it be for Eldarion when he awakens."

Strangely, the words that Faramir intended to kindle hope seemed to sadden Aragorn even more. He looked closely at Faramir. "But you, Faramir, you have always been strong. I knew it from the moment I first saw you, struggling in the grip of the Shadow, yet still fighting the darkness, days after you were felled by the Black Breath and the Southron arrow. You were always a good and dutiful son to your father; and no one could have fought harder against the Enemy's overwhelming might. While my heir..."

He paused, to continue in a low, almost hushed voice. "My heir is wayward. He fears to learn the ways of war, the things he must master as the future King. I could not make him see, or understand. He would hang his head and leave my sight as soon as he could, to engage in more base and frivolous pursuits. And I did not try to stop him. I should never have allowed him to leave for Rohan, I should have made him stay and learn what he must learn, even if it was painful for me to see my heir behave in such a weakling fashion. If I had, Eldarion would be awake now; he never would have fallen into Saruman's hands." Tears brimmed again in Aragorn's eyes.

Faramir tried to discipline his thoughts, to summon the exact words that could best help his friend and King. For now, Aragorn reminded him uncomfortably of Denethor, and he knew that Aragorn was a better and wiser man than the late Steward of Gondor.

"You could not protect him always," Faramir replied. "Sooner or later, Eldarion would have left the City on his own. Saruman planned to capture your heir; he would have waited a year or more to take him." Faramir stopped briefly, feeling somewhat awkward in offering personal advice to the King. But he was father to more children than the King; and his oldest had already passed Eldarion's age by almost two years. And Faramir had faced peril at Eldarion's side; Aragorn had not.

"If you had seen your son in Saruman's tower, you would not have called him 'weakling'" Faramir said earnestly. "It is true that he feared to take up arms; he confessed it to me himself. But Eldarion stood at my back when we faced first two Uruk-Hai, then many more. He fought one of the Uruks at my bidding, unarmed. How many other untried boys would have faced such a formidable foe with nothing but courage and their bare hands? And when I could fight no more, Eldarion cried out his defiance to the wizard, commanding him to leave me be, despite the pain of his own injury. You would have been proud of your son, Aragorn. I know that I was."

Aragorn smiled gravely, a light kindled once more in his tear-filled eyes, reminding Faramir of the sun itself breaking through clouds. "Faramir" he said softly, clasping the younger man's shoulder. "I never thought I would hear my son praised as a worthy fighter. Thank you. I pray that he will hear you repeat those words to him if...when he wakes."

Then Aragorn stood up, slowly, pushing down slightly on Faramir's shoulder as he rose, and released him. He stood up all the way, then squared his own shoulders and proudly lifted his head. The King had returned.

"Come, mellon nin; let us return to our duties, and then our own hearths. We are surely both missed," Aragorn said, and led the way toward the door. Faramir blew out the candle and followed, shutting the door once more behind him.

A half-hour later, Faramir had finally returned to his hall and was poking the fire into life. He had accompanied Aragorn back to the King's House and retrieved his dispatches from the chest in his Lord's study. The journey had not been long enough to soak his clothes; but the storm had brought a chill to the air.

The outer door slammed; and Faramir heard a loud voice curse in Rohirric. Faramir looked up to see Elboron stomp into the hall, shedding his sodden cloak and trying to dry his long, thoroughly drenched blond hair with it. Seeing Faramir, Elboron smiled widely at his father.

“Made it home before I got too wet!” he said. “There's a mighty storm out there tonight. Thank you again for having me seconded to Council as your aide, else I would probably be soaking on Guard duty tonight!”

“It was the King's idea; and not ordered so that you could avoid Guard duty,” Faramir stated wryly. “And I see you have still managed to get wet. Come here to the fire and warm yourself.”

Elboron nodded. “Of course, father,” he replied. “I thought you would be abed long ago after the rigors of your journey, or I would have returned sooner.”

Faramir poured two glasses of miruvor. He passed a goblet to his son, then took a long slow swallow of the smooth cordial and asked: “Where have you been?”

“My friend, Hador received his first posting. He leaves tomorrow morning. We had but a few drinks to send him on his way.”

Elboron had brought home the smoky scent of the taverns with him. The older man remembered many such carefree nights from his youth. He smiled indulgently at the bright light of life that shone so strongly in his son’s blue eyes and the high colour on Bron's cheeks. 'My son continues on the path I once walked' Faramir mused. 'I hope the road will be easier for him. Fathers and sons, where does one end and the other begin?'

“And I trust you gave him a good farewell?” Faramir asked lightly, shaking himself out of his reverie.

Elboron nodded. “I don’t think he will forget it for a while. The memory of it will keep him warm on the cold nights in Arnor next winter!”

Faramir smiled as he looked into the liquid he swirled around his glass and his eyes suddenly became focused on something that only they saw. Elboron waited patiently, aware of his father’s mannerisms, he knew that the Steward would speak when ready.

“My father used to say to me,” Faramir finally began and Elboron leaned forward to hear, for it was not often that his grandfather was mentioned and particularly not in the wistful tone Faramir now used.

As a child Elboron had asked his father often about the twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor, his never-known grandfather. But the twenty-seventh Steward had made it clear that he did not wish to be reminded of the late Lord Denethor, so Elboron had learned quickly not to ask. Instead, his father had regaled him with stories of his heroic uncle Boromir, or told him tales from the history of Gondor and the fabled realm of Numenor. Despite Elboron's keen interest in the history of the land he would one day help govern, or perhaps because of it, Elboron wished to know more about his paternal grandfather. Strange, even appalling rumours of Denethor's last days still persisted. Elboron hated having a source of crucial information denied him. But his father, normally the font of knowledge on ancestors dating back to First Steward Hurin, would swiftly change the subject when his children raised personal questions about Denethor. Persistence would only cause his father to withdraw coolly and completely into himself.

However as Faramir finished his sentence, Elboron realized with disappointment, he was to learn little more of Denethor tonight. His father was in fact revisiting well trod ground.

“You have responsibilities. You bear a valuable seed. You should be careful where you plant it!” Faramir finished abruptly.

Elboron smiled. “Not again!” He moaned playfully. “I assure you, Sir,” he said more seriously. “I have done no planting as yet and when I do, I shall be very much aware of my responsibilities!”

Faramir looked at him appraisingly. “I believe you, but your mother feels I would neglect my duty as a father if I did not repeatedly bring such matters to your attention!” He said by way of explanation, then continued on a completely different subject, “Elboron, I saw you in Council today. I was most impressed.”

“You saw me?” Elboron’s cheeks coloured more deeply.

Faramir smiled. Then his face became more serious as he asked, “Where did you learn to read men so clearly? You are young to be so wise.”

Elboron shrugged. “I did what I always do in such circumstances,” he said, “I asked myself what you would have done and then followed it as best I could!”

Faramir raised his eyebrows, then smiled again. “The King was right in seconding you to me as the Steward's aide. You are more than ready for the task, Bron."

“I have a good teacher,” the son replied as he raised his glass in salute.

Faramir stood up and moved back to the window. The pain in his leg refused to be alleviated by a simple stretch. The rain surged down now, forming small rivers that meandered down the cobbled streets to the City’s lower levels.

“The drains will never cope with such a torrent!” he muttered softly. Since he had returned to his role as Steward much of his time had been spent with the architects and engineers of the City making plans to repair and rebuild the City’s most decrepit systems. Last summer the sewage system had been particularly unsatisfactory. Faramir had hoped to resolve the problems before the people suffered similarly this year. But the rain was coming down so fast, and the repairs were only half complete; he could see his desire for a swift completion may have been an unattainable target. And if war with the Easterlings was coming within the next year, the renovation might have to wait even longer to finish, or the work stalled indefinitely. Could not the Easterlings have waited another few years to renew their enmity? War would kill many sons of Gondor; but damaged sewers could spread disease and also take lives. Somehow, he would see the work continue, war or no war.

Faramir opened his mouth to speak again, but the words never came. Over the drumming of the rain and the now distant rolls of thunder as the storm moved away, a terrifying sound reached their ears and brought dread to their hearts.

It was a high-pitched, pain-filled human scream.

“Eowyn!” Faramir cried as both he and Elboron raced upstairs.