Co-authored by Raksha

Chapter 7

Discovery

“I am well, my husband,” Eowyn breathed. A tired but beautiful smile brightened her pale face and clutched at Faramir’s heart.

He sat on the bed beside her, winding her hair around his hand, his eyes drinking in her presence like a thirsty man.

“Faramir,” Eowyn chuckled. “All is well. You heard the midwife and the Warden; I just need to rest. I have had no more contractions or pain and I feel much better.”

He nodded slowly, then bent down to put his cheek against hers, unwinding her hair in a pale blonde curtain around their faces. “I know,” he breathed, “I heard what they said but.....”

“But what?” she asked.

“I am just making certain,” he replied solemnly.

She snorted. “And how long will this ‘making certain' take?” she asked. “You surely don’t propose to sit there like a lovesick youth for the next three months, do you?”

He looked hurt but his eyes glowed as he replied, “That was the strategy I thought to employ. Does my lady object?”

She reached across and ran her hand lovingly down the side of his face. Truly, it had changed little in the years since they had wed. “I wish you could stay by me all day,” she said dreamily, remembering how they first had met during their recuperation in the Houses of Healing. They both had many more responsibilities now than those war-weary young people who had clung to each other as the Shadow surged up before them one last time. “You are Lord Steward of Gondor, your duty awaits you.”

Faramir sighed. “Aye, I am,” he muttered, standing up. “And it does. You are truly well?”

Eowyn nodded somewhat impatiently. “Yes I am and I will be so until you return this evening. Now please go and do something useful!”

He nodded. Since his conversation with the King had shown him the depth of Aragorn’s suffering, Faramir had become even more anxious than before to solve the puzzle of the green stone. It was only Eowyn’s indisposition that had delayed him thus far. And some work still remained to properly prepare for the Council session on the morrow.

Now he bent forward and kissed her mouth, then her cheeks and her brow. He placed his hand very gently on the bump of her stomach under the bed covers. Then Faramir let out his breath slowly and moved away.

“I will go to the library,” he said. “But if anything happens, if you are even afeared that something might happen, send word to me immediately.”

She snorted again. “Nothing will happen!” she said firmly. “Bring me something to read. I must have something of greater interest than the children's mischief to ease my confinement.” Mother of Stars, the dear man was more broody than any war-mare, hen, or even Rana, the hound bitch who had insisted on delivering her litter at the foot of their bed. Well, as she remembered from having borne her six children; there was one cure for that, and she would be glad to undertake it as soon as this seventh pregnancy was over and the babe safely delivered! Eowyn smiled. She would not trade these sixteen years for anything. She was encumbered by many more duties than that cold young shieldmaiden had known, but there was more love and laughter in her life than she had ever thought possible to have.

The man responsible for much of her happiness paused on his way to the door and turned. “Really? A book of love poetry perhaps?”

She pulled a face. “You know me better than that, Faramir,” she replied. “If I read anything it must be about war and honour. Bring me the History of Gondolin and Ecthelion's treatise on the Last Alliance. The only kind of love poetry I want is in your arms; and it is too soon for that.”

Faramir arched his eyebrows and shook his head sadly. “All these years of teaching you the finest Adunaic courtship verses, and you still crave tales of carnage!” he teased as he retreated out of the door. He shut it just as the pillow that his beloved wife threw at him, hit the place he had previously stood.

“My Lord Steward.”

The voice pulled Faramir's attention from History of the Seeing Stones, the scroll whose words he was eagerly devouring.

“Lord Faramir,” it repeated.

Faramir looked up and saw the stern face of Belecthor, the chief Librarian of Minas Tirith, staring at him with concern.

“What is it?” Fear suddenly clutched at Faramir as his mind left the history of the seven palantiri and returned to the actual world of the Fourth Age. “Word from my wife?”

"Nay, my lord; I just thought you might like some tea." It is past four; I was going to get something to eat for myself.

Faramir looked at him blankly. “It’s what time?” he said. “I’ve been here for six hours?”

The Librarian chuckled. “Yes, my lord. Just like the old days. I remember when the Lord Denethor had to send his guards down here to take you home when you were but a lad. I do believe you would have spent almost every day down in our most dusty corners, if he had allowed it.”

“One lifetime would not be enough to savour all the treasures you keep here,” Faramir said, glancing from wall to wall and all the documents arrayed between them.

He sighed wistfully. He could not revere the halls of the Valar more than this relatively small and silent part of Minas Tirith. When he had lived most of the year at Henneth Annun, fighting to secure the wilds of Ithilien, he had dreamt of the peace and quiet of the Library, of spending every day there if the Enemy was ever defeated. But now he ruefully accepted that the life of a solitary scholar, while tempting, did not include Eowyn or their children and hence would be a miserly and miserable existence. Still, he felt a small thrill of pride that as Steward of Gondor he had helped to add to the precious knowledge stored in this ancient edifice.

Beside him, old Belecthor cleared his throat.

“Oh, yes,” Faramir said. "I would welcome some tea, or whatever you are having.”

"I will bring you tea, then, my lord. I am sure you know to be very careful not to spill it on any of our texts."

Faramir rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had found no further information on the stone of Saruman. Feeling stiff, he stood up and stretched in a pleasant shaft of sunlight pouring in from the green glass of the window. He looked out through the opening, which glowed from the light that shone through it. Green glass, glowing....Faramir remembered the glow of a green stone shining like the clearest glass; the King's Elfstone. And Arwen had said that Saruman's stone felt familiar to her. Could it be....?

Faramir nearly tripped over two tables and a chair in his haste to reach a very room. Seventeen years ago, learning that the high-Elves were preparing to leave Middle-Earth forever, Faramir had pleaded with Master Elrond and the Lady Galadriel to send some of their histories and texts on medicinal lore to the Library on loan so they could be copied by the scribes before the Eldar's departure. He had been delighted by their assent. Over a hundred works from the Elves' archives had been loaned to Minas Tirith, and returned without incident before the Eldar had taken ship to the West. Faramir had happily presided over the venture; and had read many of the writings before they were made available to the scholars of Minas Tirith. Now he hurried into a small reading chamber where the public copies of the Rivendell Texts resided. Which shelf? Ah, yes, on the second shelf, he could see the golden, beautifully lettered title in Sindarin on the leather-bound text: Lhîw e-Faer, 'Sickness of the Spirit'. There it was, the book that contained much of the knowledge of Elrond Peredhil himself about the healing of troubled minds. He reached for the book.

And staggered, because his head hit something hard as he had bent to seize the book; namely another man's brow. His hand closing on the book, Faramir blinked at a tall, broad-faced man with grey hair and a deep blue cloak, who had evidently been trying to get either the Lhiw e-Faer or another text on the same shelf.

"Please forgive me, good sir; I had not seen you" Faramir explained, hoping he had not hurt the elderly gentleman.

To Faramir's surprise, the old man made a very rude noise and grinned. He had keen blue eyes, which he fixed on Faramir as he rubbed his head. "Do not fret, Lord Steward; I have a very hard head. And so do you, as my old friend Curumo found out to his sorrow!"

"Curumo?" That was the Quenya name by which Saruman had once been called. "How do you know Saruman?" Faramir shot back suspiciously.

"Fear not, he is no longer a threat to you." The old man declared.

Other people in the library were beginning to turn and look at them in annoyance, irked by the raised voices of Faramir and the old man.

"What mean you?" Faramir whispered. Who was this strange man?

"Later, Lord Steward. You have some reading to do." The old man replied, backing away toward the door. "And you are in the right place to do it!"

"Here you are, my lord" interrupted Belecthor, who came into the room as the stranger left it, bearing a steaming cup of tea. Faramir nearly knocked him down in his haste to see where the old man had gone. By the time he had thanked the Librarian and passed by him through the door to seek the old man in blue; the stranger was gone.

Faramir knew he would not have the time to chase through the entire library in search of the old man in the blue cloak and continue seeking the clues he believed he was nearing in his search for more knowledge of Saruman's stone. Besides, the old fellow had very deliberately dropped cryptic, self- important hints of greater knowledge and a connection to Saruman. Faramir knew that he would not need to seek him out. The mysterious old man would either return to pester him, or let him know where he could be found. Meanwhile, he still had a mystery to unravel. He was close now, so close!

He returned to the room of the Rivendell Texts; and sat down at the table with the book he had kept in his hand. He had to force himself not to turn the pages as fast as he wanted to, for fear he might tear them, and his hands shook with impatience.

Finally, he found the chapter he had vaguely remembered, having read it once or twice before. Faramir had been naturally curious about the stone that had helped the King heal him. He had learned that though Aragorn had been a skilled healer before the War of the Ring, using herbs and knowledge, he had only been able to save those afflicted by the Nazgul's Black Breath when he used the Elfstone in combination with the athelas. And the Elfstone had come to Aragorn from the Lady Galadriel; who had originally passed it to her daughter Celebrian, from whose hands it had, for an unknown time, gone to Arwen herself. Yet, who had fashioned the Elfstone; was it Enerdhil of Gondolin or Celebrimbor of Eregion?

"It is not known to us whether the Elessar, the Stone of Renewal made by Celebrimbor of Eregion, might be used for the healing of a troubled mind. The Lady entreated the Master-Smith to craft it for her, because she yearned for trees and grass that do not die. The Lady has foreseen that the stone shall pass to one who will use it to heal many hurts, the King of Men who is to come. To our sorrow, at least one other stone of minor healing virtue, and countless other treasures, were lost to us in the Fall of Eregion."

Celebrimbor had made the Elfstone! And this book mentioned the possibility of other stones, just as he had begun to think, or remember! Faramir stifled a cry of excitement. During the months that Elboron, then Faramir himself, had searched the archives for histories of Saruman, and poured over lists of the contents of Saruman's pilfered hoard in Orthanc, they had not thought to search the Rivendell Texts. For surely a tool as malign as the stone of Saruman had naught to do with the kindly Master Elrond and the refuge he had made in Imladris. Yet Faramir’s conversation with Arwen had sparked a theory that perhaps there could be some distant connection between the King's Elfstone, once worn by Arwen and her mother and the Lady before her, and Saruman's green horror.

Faramir returned to the shelf, and perused the titles of the books and scrolls. There! He seized the scroll entitled Curu Eregion,'Works of Eregion', and unrolled it. The writing was smaller; the Sindarin a somewhat more archaic form than that of the Lhiw-e-Faer. Finally, he found the passages he had only perused briefly in earlier years.

"For Celebrimbor, son of Curufin and Lord of the Mirdain, set himself also the task of crafting a most fair green stone for the Lady Galadriel, who he held in high esteem. The Lady had wanted grass and trees that did not wither. So Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain wrought the Stone of Renewal to fortify the beauty of Lorien against the ravages of time and sorrow through the Lady's use of it.
        Celebrimbor was most pleased by the Stone of Renewal, and, it is said, tried to make another stone of similar power. For the Dark Lord, hiding himself and his true purpose under the name of Annatar, had offered to instruct the Mirdain in ring-craft near the year 1240 of the Second Age.  Elrond and Gil-galad both urged the Mirdain to reject the offer of the stranger.  When they beseeched Celebrimbor, they saw that he held a green stone, smaller than his gift to Galadriel, but possessed of similar clarity and brilliance.  Celebrimbor said that the stone helped to calm an unquiet mind, and that he hoped to fashion stones and objects of greater power through the knowledge he would gain from the stranger who called himself the Lord of Gifts. Gil-galad it was who took the stone in his hand at Celebrimbor's invitation, and called the green jewel The Stone of Silence, saying that silence could come as a blessing to the troubled and the weary.
        No one ever saw this Stone of Silence after the Dark Lord betrayed and killed Celebrimbor and then despoiled Eregion. It is very likely lost forever, or broken by the hosts of the Shadow. "

Faramir grinned in sudden exultation. Here it was, the only clue he had yet found to the history of the stone!

He sat down at the table, putting the scroll carefully on the table beside the book. Taking out the green stone that he had found in Mordor from his pouch, he lifted it and turned it over in his hand.

"Could it be true?" he asked himself, then silently addressing the stone itself. "Are you this Sarn-e-Din, Stone of Silence? You have caused such sorrow for a small green stone, bringing low a Steward and a young prince. Were you first made to help rather than hurt? And did the mighty Gil- galad, the High King of the Noldor, once hold you in his hands, as I hold you now?"

Faramir sighed, still fearing to look too deeply into the stone. If this thing truly was the lost Sarn e-Dín, made alike in purpose, if lesser in power, to the King's own Elfstone, how could the stone have become so cruel an instrument, able to quell a man's will and render it prey to a wizard's evil design? He remembered Gandalf's words in his dream: ". . . you must undo the evil work in which the stone was used." In the dream, the stone had never been called the Stone of Saruman. And the dream mentioned the stone having been "used" for evil, not made for it, or eternally bound to it.

If this stone had once been made to heal, rather than harm, and later used by a corrupt wizard for evil....could the stone somehow be made to heal once again, and so restore Eldarion? Especially if it truly was the Sarn-e- Din, made by the same hands that had crafted the Sarn-en-Eden, the Stone of Renewal that was now the King's own Elfstone?

It was just a theory. But the pieces finally, after so long, now began to fit some kind of recognizable, if far-flung, pattern. Faramir returned the stone to the pouch on his belt, and took up the scroll and the book. He would look at them both later, in his house. He felt weary, his left leg was stiff as a mounting block; he still had some work to do in preparation for the Council session on the morrow. And he had to bring home the scrolls that Eowyn had requested. He sipped the tea that Belecthor had left him. It had cooled while he had pored over the history of the two stones.

After bidding farewell to Belecthor and gaining his permission to take several texts from the Library, Faramir left the wondrous storehouse of knowledge, burdened by three scrolls for Eowyn, the two Rivendell texts he had rediscovered, and the book of Sindarin nursery rhymes requested for his youngest children by their tutor. As an honorary Archivist and official Patron, Faramir was one of the very few people in Gondor allowed to remove documents from the Library, which he found to be one of the greatest privileges imaginable. Now, stumbling through the door with an armful of scrolls and books, Faramir wondered if he should have availed himself of the Librarian's offer to send an apprentice along to help him carry the precious texts.

Faramir made his way out of the library and walked through the courtyard towards the main thoroughfare which would take him back up to the Citadel.

It was indeed still warm outside. The sun was starting on her journey towards night; the bright blue sky had not yet paled. Although the courtyard was empty the babble and rush of the City floated across it towards Faramir. The noise was somewhat disconcerting after the hushed quiet that held sway in the archives, an effect he had always noticed after visiting the Library.

“Ho, Lord Steward!”

A cheery voice boomed out behind him. Faramir turned, peering over the tower of paperwork that lurched precariously in his arms.

He was irritated, but not completely surprised to see the blue-cloaked fellow from the room of the Rivendell Texts.

The stranger was an unusual sort of person. He appeared to be an old man of some seventy years or more. Yet his keen blue eyes were clear, and most sharply focussed on Faramir. He wore a sky-blue robe with several pockets, and an indigo cloak over it. His red-cheeked, beardless face was broad and capped by short, curly grey hair. Faramir noticed that the man was of stocky build, and at least a head shorter in stature than himself.

Faramir shook his head as if to free it from the man’s disconcerting stare. As he did so one of the scrolls that he was sure he held firmly, inexplicably fell to the floor to be followed in quick succession by the rest of the documents in his arms.

“Let me help you, Lord Steward.”

The old man was surprisingly nimble on his feet and bent to retrieve the scrolls while Faramir still stood immobile with vacant arms.

“I was sure I had firm hold.” Faramir said as he belatedly bent to help.

The stranger looked up at him, blue eyes shining brightly with something that could have been mischief. “Indeed,” he appeared very amused with the whole episode.

He picked up the Lhiw-e-Faer and read its title as he handed it back to the Steward. “An interest in Elvish headache remedies?” he mused. "You are not suffering a migraine, are you, my lord?"

Faramir felt himself flush as he grabbed back the scroll. He wanted to be irritated with the impudence of this man but could not summon up enough ire. There was something familiar about the stranger, the wisdom in his eyes, the old man's air of leashed power.

“No...not yet.” Faramir said, with a pointed look at the old man as he gathered up the documents once more.

“Let me help you carry them home,” the man said. “I was going that way myself.”

“Thank you but I can manage,” Faramir replied stubbornly. “Good day.”

He took one step and the scrolls toppled again. Faramir cursed, feeling his colour deepen even more.

Behind him he heard a stifled laugh and he scowled as the stranger appeared at his elbow again.

“I had heard you were an obstinate one, Arandur,” the man laughed. “At least I have proved that! I always enjoy a good joke, made infinitely better when it is played on one of such high rank and station as yourself!” With that the man bowed low.

Faramir snorted. “I think I am missing something here. Why do you call me Arandur?” he said trying to sound indignant but suspecting that he was failing.

“Arandur is the ancient Steward's title, and as you well know it means ‘King's Servant’. It fits you, son; since you have the face of a wise counsellor, the air of high nobility, and the Steward's Ring on your finger!”

“And what joke?” Faramir pressed, trying to subdue his embarrassment.

The man’s eyes gleamed even more and his eyebrows rose. He lifted his hand. The scroll containing Ecthelion's Treatise rose from the pile, hovered in the air for a full minute and then, as the man let his hand fall, it fell gently back to the ground.

Faramir’s mouth fell open. He cocked his head, scratched it and his eyes narrowed as they went from the man to the scroll and back again.

“Strings?” he asked.

The man’s smiled widened and he shook his head.

Faramir moved forward and tapped the suspect scroll with his foot. “A bird inside?” he offered.

The man guffawed. “I thought you were a man of intellect!” he chortled. “Is that the best you can do?”

Faramir shrugged. “I’m afraid it is,” he admitted.

The man wheezed and gulped in some air. “Honest, if dense,” he finally managed to articulate.

Faramir stood uncomfortably in the courtyard as the strange man dissolved into fits of laughter, soon tears were rolling down his reddening cheeks. The laughter grew louder and though he felt he should be insulted by it, Faramir found it so infectious that he began to smile. Before doing so though he glanced around the courtyard first, to ensure that no one else witnessed such a ridiculous exchange.

Finally the stranger sniffed and managed to control his laughter, long enough to say one word.

“Magic!” And then he dissolved once more.

Faramir rolled his eyes and leaned forward. “Pardon me?” he said.

Between guffaws the man said. “I once heard you called a wizard’s pupil. Olorin didn’t teach you much, did he?”

Faramir sighed softly and looked away as the laughter rolled on again. Finally he bent and began to pick up the biggest of his books. “I have no more time for this nonsense,” he muttered.

Immediately the chortling stopped. Faramir looked up to see the old man, red faced and tear stained, regarding him intently.

“I can’t include patience as one of your qualities, then?” he said. His eyes were twinkling again. The book that was in Faramir’s hands inexplicably slid from his grip and flew through the air straight into the man’s outstretched hand.

“So you are some kind of conjurer, skilled at slight-of-hand!” Faramir snorted in disgust. “That does not make you a wizard.”

The man suddenly appeared to be larger in size and dignity. “It might make me a wizard, but such simple trickery has no value, you are right. It certainly does not make me Istari!” he said.

“Istari!” Faramir’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? And why do I feel like you have been testing me as you tease me? And, since Mithrandir did not hide his other names from me, how do you know him?”

The man’s smile was warm but his voice serious. “At last a glimpse of the true eminence that the Steward keeps so well guarded from those he does not trust and they are many. I begin to see the quality of which I was told.”

He lifted both his hands into the air and all the discarded documents leapt upwards to come down in perfect order on to Faramir’s quickly outstretched arms.

“They will not fall,” the man said. “My simple 'conjuring' will hold them until you get home.”

Faramir nodded. “My thanks, but you have not answered my question.”

The beaming smile was back. “No, indeed, I have not,” he agreed. “Nor will I here and now. I must speak with the King, but I am informed that I must get through his Steward first. I sought you out to learn more about you. For though I have heard much of Faramir of Gondor, experience has taught me that I must make my own judgements of my friends and my enemies.”

“And which am I?” Faramir asked.

The smile turned pensive. “I would not presume, my Lord Steward, but I would hope you will count me among your friends.” His eyes burned even brighter as he continued, “And please forgive my pranks at your expense, but humour can be an effective tool when one needs to read the hearts of men.”

“No offence taken,” Faramir said. “Will you attend me at my office tomorrow morning so we may discuss what it is you have to tell the King?”

The man bowed. “That will be most acceptable, Lord Faramir.”

“You did not tell me your name,” Faramir said.

“No I did not.” The man’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief once more. “Until the morn then.”

Faramir watched, his arms full of books, feeling a tingle of excitement mixed with apprehension as the man turned with a whirl of his long blue robes and left the courtyard. There was something in the stranger's piercing eyes that Faramir found comfortingly familiar.

As he reached the gate to the main road outside, the man turned back. “By the way, Lord Steward, I hear you have brought home a little green keepsake from your recent journey to Mordor. Do not let it out of your sight!"

Before Faramir could even express his surprise at the old man's knowledge, the irritating and enigmatic stranger had disappeared into the throng of people wending their way homeward through the street.

Authors' Notes: Adunaic is the language of lost Numenor, not in general usage during the time our story takes place. All documents (treatises, histories, scrolls, etc.) are of our making rather than Tolkien's. Curumo was indeed Saruman's Quenya name; as "Olorin" was Gandalf's. Arandur is the Quenya word meaning "King's Servant", which translates as "Steward"; from the Seal of the Stewards of Gondor.

We have invented the term 'Stone of Renewal' for the Elfstone from which Aragorn took his royal name Elessar. There are several explanations given for the Elfstone's origin in Tolkien's UNFINISHED TALES, one of them being that it was made by Celebrimbor at Galadriel's request because she wanted grasses and trees that would not die, and later given by her to her daughter Celebrian and then from Celebrian to Arwen. Galadriel gave the Elfstone to Aragorn as a lovely parting gift when the Fellowship left Lorien in THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING. The so-called Stone of Silence is actually our invention rather than Tolkien's, so don't blame him or Christopher Tolkien for it. And to Ithildin, our Sindarin interpretor from the HASA Resources Forum (http:www.henneth-annun.net to join HASA); our most grateful Thanks for the titles of the crucial texts that Faramir found in the Rivendell archive; as well as the Sindarin names for the Stone of Renewal and the Stone of Silence. Any errors are ours, not hers.