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Ten Thousand Years Will Not Suffice  by Agape4Gondor

Ch. 24 - Third Age 3017 - Part Eight - B

The next morning, his fever had left him. Faramir shouted orders for the camp to be struck. Within an hour after they broke their fast, they set out. Boromir was still on the litter. Faramir walked beside him. “I sent a rider this morning. There appears to be little danger in this part of Gondor. He should arrive in Minas Tirith by nuncheon.”

“Father will be relieved.”

They went some way before Faramir noticed that Boromir was deep in thought. “Now, big brother,” he smiled warmly, “What troubles you?”

“The Lady Míriel. What is she like? You did meet her?”

“I did. We had the feast for Ethuil and I danced with her. She is fair to look upon and she dances better than I.” He smirked at Boromir’s sudden grin. “Uncle Imrahil gave me a few lessons before the festival. I appointed myself well, according to Aunt Nerdanel. Well, she seems fair. I liked her, but I do not think father is convinced.”

Boromir smiled. “I should be wed to a queen, I think, in father’s mind. Perhaps the Queen of the Elves!”

“Boromir! There are Elves; you know that. It is not respectful to make light of them.”

“So you again remind me that you alone saw the Elf at Edhellond?”

“That is not what I was saying!”

“Calm yourself, Faramir,” Boromir laughed. “I know what you are saying. It was only a jest, nothing more.”

“One day you will meet one and then you will be sorry. I very much remember what he was like. Father told us about the time he met an Elf too, in Dol Amroth. Remember?”

“I do, Faramir. But the Elves are of no use to us now. They have deserted us. Have you seen one raise a sword in Gondor’s defense as of late? One day, we will need Elves, and Dwarves even, if what father foresees is true. I wonder, will we have their help? Or even Rohan’s?”

“If Éomer has anything to do with it, Rohan will help. I do not believe Théoden King will not help, if the Red Arrow is sent.”

Boromir remained quiet for some time. Faramir gave him that time.

They stopped twice that day, once for nuncheon and once nearer the daymeal. At both times, they changed Boromir’s dressings. The trip was beginning to wear upon Boromir. He slept fitfully in between stops and his fever returned. All hoped they would reach Amon Dîn before night fell.

Baranor greeted them at the gate. Faramir had winded his own horn and the gates had opened immediately. The old warrior was profuse in his welcome and his quiet assessment of their needs. Four soldiers picked up the litter with Boromir on it and walked quickly, but steadily, to the garrison’s healing rooms. Faramir began to follow, but Baranor stopped him. “He will be well tended. A rider with this news must be sent to Minas Tirith.”

“I already sent one this morning.”

“Another would not be remiss, for the Steward must be anxious.”

“You are wise, friend. Send another rider. I will go to my brother.”

“Another moment? Boromir is in very good hands. Our healer is one of the best in Minas Tirith. I picked him myself,” Baranor’s smile grew wide. “You and your men must eat and rest.”

Faramir’s head bowed. He was indeed tired and knew that the men who had accompanied Boromir from the Mering must be exhausted. “Show us where we may sleep. And thank you.” He was asleep a moment after his head hit the pillow.

~*~

“Treachery, Denethor?”

“I know not yet. At the ninth hour, bring to me the errand-riders responsible for reports from the various garrisons. Bring them to the Great Hall, one by one. I would speak with them about these missing reports.”

Húrin nodded and left, his face swept with concern.

Denethor stood and leaned against the window’s sill. He watched as the Tower Guard went through their morning ritual. Four men, dressed in the elaborate garb and helms of the Tower Guard marched in formation from their quarters to the base of the Tower, their boots sounding as one on the marble floor of the Citadel. They stopped in front of the White Tree, facing the Great Hall. The soldiers on duty drew their swords, saluted, sheathed their swords, and then formed their own detail. They marched to the other side of the White Tree and faced east. Their replacements saluted and marched to the now abandoned posts. The relieved detail marched briskly back to their quarters. All grew still again.

Denethor’s manservant knocked and entered. “Will you break your fast now, my Lord?”

The Steward nodded and watched as the man lay a linen cloth on Denethor’s desk, then placed silverware, plates and glasses in their appropriate spots. The man left the room, but within moments, returned carrying a large tray. He placed it next to the cloth, took the teapot, cup and saucer and placed them at the head of the linen. After that, he beckoned for Denethor to sit, holding the Steward’s chair out for him. Once his master was seated, he removed a large rounded top off a server, took a plate from the tray and began to fill it with bacon, poached eggs in a scallion sauce, fresh asparagus with dill, and small squares of new potatoes that had been boiled, mashed and fried. He put a bowl full of cut up fruit at Denethor’s left, with a plate of toasted, honeyed bread on his right. Bowing, the manservant left.

Denethor contemplated the food before him. Two thoughts entered the Steward’s mind in quick succession: there seemed to be an overabundance of food, and, should he bring in a taster for his food?

He wondered if he was always served so much food. He did not remember such plentitude. Was it because of the guests in the City for the betrothal? The talks with Imrahil and Húrin regarding the storage of extra foods and the increase in the fields being planted had reminded Denethor that food would not always be so plentiful. ‘Are we wasting it?’

The other thought was more grim. If treachery was afoot in the Citadel itself, would it not be prudent to have one? This thought galled him. Never, as far as he could remember, had a Steward needed a taster. He cursed. The Enemy would change the entire fabric of his life, if given the opportunity. He slammed his fist down. Nay! He would not have a taster. He smiled at the mess. His fist had thoroughly crushed the asparagus.

~*~

Two errand-riders had come to the City this day: one at midday, the other about an hour past. The news had been good, but not excellent. Boromir was indeed injured, but should return to Minas Tirith by the daymeal. The City grew chaotic as Húrin urged all to prepare for the heir’s arrival. Denethor had decided that Boromir would be taken to his own rooms; the Steward’s personal healer would attend him. The nature of the wound was discussed by a small gathering: Denethor, Húrin, Imrahil, twelve healers, and the errand-rider who came directly from Faramir.

“There was treachery, my Lord Steward. Captain Faramir deemed you hear of it, for the wound is infected.”

“Is it a gnawing sore?” Argon, Denethor’s Warden of the Houses asked the rider.

The man swallowed hard. “It is. We had no maggots. Marshal Éomer cut off the…”

“Marshal Éomer?” Denethor stood and the study immediately grew quiet. “What was Marshal Éomer doing there?”

“His company found Captain-General Boromir. I know nothing more, my Lord Steward. I was given these details only and told to ride for my life.”

“Is there anything more about the wound?” the Warden interrupted impatiently. “I must know about the wound to prepare medicaments.”

“It is a belly wound, my Lord. It is long, from here to here.” The rider used his finger to show the extent of the wound, as described by Faramir. “It cut the muscle, but did not enter his gut. The wound was cared for well at the beginning. I was not told how or why, but the wound became infected, due to treachery. Captain-General Boromir has been with fever since yesterday.”

“Is he awake?”

“Aye. And speaking with Captain Faramir. I was told the wound is grievous and will need some diligent care.”

“Have you seen it?” the Warden continued.

“I have not.”

“Is that all you need, Argon?”

The Warden nodded.

“You may go,” Denethor turned to the rider, “but stay within the Citadel, in case we need to ask more questions.”

The rider saluted and departed.

Denethor put his elbows on his desk and leaned his chin on his folded hands. “Treachery. Long has it been our enemy. Go now, Argon and do what you must to prepare for Boromir’s arrival. I will have him stay in his own room. Bring what you need to the antechamber. If there is anything you need, anything, send for Húrin.”

The healer nodded and left. Imrahil waited a moment, then walked towards Denethor. “The Rohirrim are our allies. Éomer is with Boromir for a reason, perhaps to discuss the very thing you sent Boromir to discuss. I cannot believe he would be a part of any treachery.”

“I would believe you are correct, but the Enemy is cunning, Imrahil. He would turn us against one another. I wonder if Éomer is Faramir’s guest or prisoner?”

“Guest!” Húrin said emphatically. “If naught else, remember that Éomer is Morwen’s grandson. The blood of Númenor runs through the man. He would not betray his mother’s people!”

“The blood of Númenor runs through Théoden and I do not trust him further than I can throw him. He is weak. Is the same weakness in Éomer? It is useless to discuss further. When Faramir returns, we will discover where the treachery lies. As for now, let us find the treachery within our own walls. Húrin, where is the Captain of Report? You were going to send him to me this day.”

“I had given the position to young Arthad. We were finished with preparations for the betrothal and the man asked for another assignment. I did not realize you wanted to see him. I thoroughly interviewed him. The reports have been received and sent to those who needed them, according to Arthad. I know Boromir highly respects the man. I was going to bring my report to you this evening. I have found no cause for the missing reports. The errand-riders were ready to meet with you an hour ago, but I deemed it more important for you to meet with Faramir’s rider.”

“Arthad.” Denethor took a deep breath. “Aye. Both Boromir and myself hold Arthad in high esteem. Yet, he has seen much battle as of late. Mayhap battle sickness assails him. Have him taken to Argon and examined. I wish to hear your report by this evening. I will meet with the errand-riders tomorrow. Tonight, I must prepare for Boromir.”

Húrin nodded, saluted and left.

Imrahil, noting Denethor’s disquiet, challenged him to a bit of sword work. Denethor agreed. The hour passed quickly. Denethor puffed a little. “You are younger than I and it is beginning to show. Or did you hold off the first few times we met, so that I was lulled into a sense of ease?”

Imrahil laughed. “I too am puffing. It is the late hour of our practice. Usually, we do this in the morning. I need a bath.

“As do I.”

“Nerdanel thinks you are angry with her. She wonders at your absence. Would you join us for the daymeal?”

“I will. Give me an hour to bath and prepare myself and I will meet you in your quarters. Tell her to please not fuss.”

Imrahil smiled and they embraced and left each other.


Denethor now sat with a glass of wine in one hand and waited for Imrahil. The Prince was finishing cleaning up.

“I will be with you in a moment,” he called from behind the screen. “Then, I will show you that sword that I found in father’s library. It is incredible. The detail is Elvish, I am sure of it.”

Denethor smiled at the excitement in Imrahil’s voice, but the smile quickly faded as he heard women’s voices coming from Miriel’s rooms, adjoining Imrahil’s study.

“I do not want to meet him at the ceremony! I want to see him beforehand. I do not want to be shocked by his appearance.”

“You will obey the Steward. The Lord Boromir has been injured and will require much time convalescing. If you do not meet him before the ceremony, you will have to accept that decision. It is the Stewards to make, not yours.”

Denethor recognized Nerdanel’s voice and listened attentively.

“The wound. I heard it is ugly. Will I have to touch it? I do not want to touch a wound.”

“You are marrying a warrior, Míriel. A warrior of Gondor. He will have wounds. Your father has wounds, I am sure, and your mother touches him.”

“Do not speak of my father and mother in such terms. It is disgusting to think of them that way.”

He heard Nerdanel’s sigh. “As Boromir’s mate, you will be expected to attend him in many ways. One of them might even be taking care of his wounds, rubbing healing ointments on his battle-weary limbs, helping him undress when he is burdened with his armour. There are many things that are done by a good wife that are sometimes difficult, but the other parts of marriage are worth it. You must learn to touch him in many ways.”

“I will not touch his wounds!”

Denethor heard a small foot stamp and his face grew livid. He put down his wine glass and left the room.

~*~

It felt as if he lay on a great, warm bed. He could hardly believe it. In truth, it felt like his own bed. Keeping his eyes closed, he savoured the feeling. When he tried to sink further into it, however, a stab of pain coursed from his belly to his head. So it was not a dream.

“It is your bed, my son, and it would be wise if you moved as little as possible.”

Boromir’s eyes flew open. “Father!” he gasped.

“You are home, my son. Rest a little, until the healers come back.”

Boromir closed his eyes in gratitude; a lone tear trailed its way down his cheek. “I had not thought to see you again,” he whispered. “Do not tell Faramir.”

“I am too stubborn to let you go.”

“And too proud to have it be known that the Steward of Gondor failed his own son,” Boromir smiled, though his eyes remained closed.

“That too,” Denethor smiled himself. “Pride has its place, at times.” Denethor bit his lip to keep the next thought silenced. ‘Was it pride led Faramir to usurp his authority to deal with the Rohirric traitor?’ In his wildest imaginings, he could not fathom why his youngest had allowed the fiend to escape his rightful judgment. Be that as it may, this was Boromir’s homecoming and Boromir would not welcome talk of Faramir’s moment of weakness.

When Denethor looked up, he found that Boromir watched him.

“Is not the news of my return enough, Father? Yet, I see your anger and understand. It is against Faramir?”

“Let us not discuss your brother at this time. He has, as of late, decided to be Steward.”

“He has not, Father!” The vehemence of Boromir’s reply drew a gasp from him as the wound tightened. The muscles of his stomach were not yet healed and readily reacted to any movement.

“I told you it best not to move,” Denethor said gently. Then, he continued, “Let it suffice to say, Boromir, that I have forgiven your brother. I will speak of it no more.” A faint sheen of sweat now covered Boromir’s forehead. Denethor took a cloth and wiped it. Gently, he placed a kiss on his son’s brow. “How can I be angry with Faramir when he brings my son home?”

Boromir smiled, then quickly frowned. “What of Éomer, Father? You were kind?”

“As I have heard the story told, I would not have you beside me if not for Éomer of the Mark. I give him much credit, after the treachery of his healer, to come to me with apologies. I wonder how his uncle will react to the news?”

“He would not banish him, would he? Or… or execute him?”

“I think not. Théoden knows he needs every capable warrior to guard his borders. Banishment? Nay. But perhaps demotion. I know not. I can no longer fathom my friend. Too many others of questionable regard have Théoden’s ear. But enough of this talk. Your promised one is here, in Minas Tirith, and eagerly awaits your recovery.”

“What is she like? Faramir thinks well of her.”

“She is comely and courtly.”

“You have no regard for her?” Boromir’s brow rose.

“I have reservations. She is young. She will learn. Faramir, before he ran off after you, showed her about our City. She was most attentive. She is adept at needlework and has some organizational skills. Imrahil thinks highly of her.”

“But she has him wrapped around her finger?”

Denethor laughed, then looked down at his hands. “If she accomplishes that with you, then I have much to fear. For a man deeply in love with a woman will allow her to destroy, if she is so inclined, everything else that he loves.”

“Then I know what my task will be in this marriage – to ensure that I am never entrapped.”

Denethor looked up in surprise. “There are different forms of entrapment, my son. Your task in this marriage is to love this woman with all your heart, teach her the ways of Gondor, and give your land an heir.”

“Is she lovable?”

Denethor pondered this question for a moment. “I most hope so.”

Faramir diffidently entered the room.

Boromir’s smile told Denethor who had come in. “Faramir,” he called. “Come and sit with your brother. He is restless, yet I must leave him. Boromir, the healers believe you will be up and about in four days. I have moved the ceremony back a fortnight. Do you agree?”

“Aye, Father. I will be ready.”

Denethor bent and kissed Boromir’s brow one more time. “Rest now, my son, and be at peace. You are home and safe.”

Boromir shuddered.

“Safe,” Denethor reiterated. He turned and left, nodding to Faramir on his way out.

“He is most displeased,” Faramir said quietly.

“Aye. But he says he has forgiven you.”

“Did I need forgiveness? Was I not acting as a Captain of Gondor? Boromir, I did what I thought was right and proper. What needed to be done.”

“I know. And he knows as well. It is just that his anger and fear were too great. He almost lost me, that he realizes, and it is bitter knowledge to have. Give him time.”

Faramir smiled. “The healers will be here shortly. Let me look at you.” Faramir noted the sheen of sweat on Boromir’s brow. “The fever persists. Are you not resting?”

“I am. Well, I was until father unknowingly woke me.”

“Speaking with father gives me a fever,” Faramir laughed.

Boromir took Faramir’s hand and squeezed it. “Do not concern yourself with that now. Tell me, have you rested yourself? I remember naught since we left Eilenach.”

Faramir stared. “That was four days ago. I am surprised father did not let the healers place you in the Houses!”

“After your last ‘incarceration,’ I am most grateful he did not. My own bed suits me.”

Faramir returned the gesture. “Now, I have brought our book. Would you like me to read more?”

“Aye.” Boromir grimaced as he settled deeper in his bed. “Which battle?”

~*~

The next morning’s meeting with the errand-riders proved fruitless. Only four were present, as most were on their appointed rounds.  He already knew most of what they said: reports were brought in and handed to Arthad; Arthad sent them to Denethor, Húrin, and the Lords of the Council; replies and orders were distributed to the appropriate riders; the riders delivered them to the different outposts and garrisons. All seemed to be in order. And yet, reports were not being received. Faramir had told him of Baranor’s complaints. He had his own; he was not receiving reports! He waved the riders away.

“Write a list of the daily and weekly reports, Húrin. Show me which errand-rider covers which territory. I must speak with Arthad, but I hesitate until I know more.”

Húrin painstakingly wrote a note. Then, he looked up at Denethor. “Éomer, Marshal of the Mark, still waits upon your pleasure.”

The hint of distress in Húrin’s voice would have made Denethor smile, if not for the gravity of the situation in Rohan. “I will see him after the morning’s audience.”

“He has been here two days already and has spent a very long time on the road before that, guarding Boromir.” Húrin hesitated to speak, but the courageous Rider of Rohan stirred empathy in his heart.

“After the audience. And in my personal study.”

Húrin bowed, saluted and left the Great Hall.

The crowds filed in, nobles and lords, peasants and shopkeepers, farmers and tradesmen, all awaiting his judgment of their grievances. He had found that, more and more, he could hardly bear this duty. Troubles and petty little squabbles. They had increased ten-fold this last year. No matter what he had done to alleviate their suffering from the effects of this war, they still found other things to complain about. The treasury was being bled dry by orphans and widows, never mind by the suppliers raising their charges for supplies desperately needed by Gondor’s army. Yet, when a Knight’s widow came to him, he readily offered recompense, though never enough to satisfy them. He had opened another two orphanages on the second level, but his Warden told him they would be full before the year was out. He set his jaw and sat.

When at last the time allotted was completed, he walked to his study. He needed to use the Palantír; the riders had to be followed and watched. Arthad was a capable administrator. Argon had done a thorough check of the man and found no signs of battle weariness. Reports should be arriving here and in the field. But they were not and he could not trust those about him. The stone would not lie. Only steps away from his own study, he turned the corner to go back up the stairs, and ran into the Marshal of the Mark.

“Éomer, Marshal, please, come into my study.” He offered a chair to Théoden’s nephew. “Sit down. Forgive me for the delay. You are anxious to return to Meduseld and I, I keep you here. Would you join me for some wine?” He turned and took the carafe off the silver tray and filled a pewter goblet. He handed it to Éomer. He laughed to himself, not many soldiers would turn down free wine. He sat on a chair opposite the Marshal and took a few sips. He could feel Éomer angering at the delay. This was not the first and it would not be the last. The young one would need to take a message back to Théoden King that to trifle with the loyalty and friendship of Gondor would be a fool’s tack in these times. He watched under his eyelashes as the Rohir squirmed in his chair. The wine had been quickly downed, as if, and he knew this was the reason, as if the man wanted to flee Minas Tirith as quickly as possible. He would find himself here another few days, if Denethor had his will. At last, he looked up and smiled. “I would offer a banquet in your honour. Gondor is most appreciative of your selfless act of courage. Bringing my son home to me is the greatest gift any man can give another. Do you not agree?”

Éomer opened his mouth as if to speak, but Denethor continued on, seemingly without haste, so that Éomer had not a moment to speak.

“A banquet is only fitting. I would ask you to stay for Boromir’s betrothal ceremony, but that is now scheduled a fortnight away. I do not think you will be able to attend that. Nay, it is a shame. Boromir himself would appreciate your being there. I know you are fond of each other; your long friendship has been a boon to Gondor. I think it has been a boon to Rohan as well, do you not think, Éomer? Well, never mind that. The important thing is that we, of Gondor, make some show of gratitude to you. What might you have in mind?”

Again, Éomer began to speak and Denethor cut him short. “I know. Mayhap a mithril-tipped spear? Engraved, of course, with your name and Boromir’s and the mention of your bravery? Ah, yes. That would be better than a banquet for a warrior such as yourself.”

“Father?” Faramir stood at Denethor’s study door. “Boromir has asked to see you.”

Denethor rose and ushered Faramir from the room. “I must speak with Éomer. He has waited long for our interview. Is Boromir not well? Does he need me now?”

“He wishes to speak to you about Éomer. He is concerned that you have not allowed him to leave Minas Tirith yet.”

“I do not need to answer to my sons on matters of state, Faramir.” His voice was cold and hard. “Tell Boromir that I will be kind, as he has asked, but I must make sure Rohan remains loyal. And Éomer will help me with that. Go back to Boromir, if indeed he sent you, and tell him I will sup with him tonight.”

Faramir saluted and left.

“Lord Denethor,” Éomer stood behind him. “You need not be concerned. Rohan’s loyalty has been known since the days of Eorl. I would speak plainly with you. I do not acquaint myself with court manners nor customs. I am a simple warrior. I obey my liege lord and I obey my heart.”

Denethor looked at the man with affection. “Then I will not mince words either. I knew your father well. He would tell me of his love for your mother. I never doubted your father.”

“You doubt my uncle.”

“Aye. You have seen the treachery that rears up between us. You have seen it!” His voice rose in pitch; he stopped for a moment and collected himself. “Lies have spread throughout Gondor that Rohan has changed allegiance to a wizard in a tower. In deference to your father’s memory, I ask you, is this true?”

“It would seem so, but I do not believe it. If Gondor calls, I will answer as will my men, as will Théodred and, in the end, Théoden King. He swore the oath to you. No matter what his ‘counselors’ might say, he must keep his oath.”

“If he does not, will you still answer?”

“I will not look that far. I see more than you think, Lord Denethor. I know what lies are being spread. I have seen it first hand with Boromir and the leach. But even before that, I saw and heard them in my own éored and my men now know that I will not countenance the telling of those lies. They know I follow my king and our laws. If aught should happen, I will follow our laws. Is that enough for you?”

“Nay. But it will suffice. I could rely upon your grandmother to plead Gondor’s case with her son. May I rely upon you?”

“I can only do what I can do. Théodred and I have spoken of this. He leads his men well; they trust him and they are prepared to defend not only the Mark but Gondor as well. He reminds them of the oath.” With this, Éomer smiled. “Have you forgotten, Lord Denethor, how we swear by our ancestors? We believe we will see them one day and would not wish to greet them as traitors to an oath handed down generation to generation. You have my word. Unless I am imprisoned or dead, I will keep my word.”

“Then make haste back to the Mark, Éomer Marshal. And know that you have my love, as your father did. Your horse has been well tended. I will order supplies for you and your men. Would you leave this noon?”

“If it pleases you, my Lord Denethor. I will say my farewells to Boromir and Faramir.”

“First, take this.” Denethor strode to his antechamber and brought back a long, mithril-tipped spear, made of black lebethron wood. Carved horses’ heads ran down the length of it. A mithril plate, small, was attached directly below the point: ‘To Éomer, in deepest gratitude, Denethor.’

Éomer looked up, tears in his eyes. “Thank you. I will treasure it. May it ever serve the Mark and her friends.” He stepped forward and clasped Denethor to him. “To my father’s honour,” he saluted. Then, he turned and left.

Denethor smiled sadly. ‘Is there honour left in Meduseld?’

~*~

Faramir had not missed the innuendo in his father’s reply. ‘If Boromir sent you…’ The sting of the words had hurt and infuriated him. He dared not go back to Boromir’s room, not with this anger raging in his breast. Boromir would see and be aggrieved. Right now, Boromir had to heal and anything that would delay that healing was unacceptable to Faramir. He shivered and pulled his cloak tighter about him. Where could he go? The stables. He would groom his horse, that usually calmed him. Edhel whinnied when he entered the stall and Faramir grinned. He put on the halter and hooked the horse securely, then pulled a body brush out of a nearby cupboard and proceeded to smooth the hair. He’d already groomed Edhel earlier in the morning, but needed the calm of the repetitive action to steady his heart.

“Faramir! I went to Boromir’s rooms to bid you both farewell, but you were not there. I am glad to have found you. I would not want to leave Mundberg before bidding you well.” Éomer strode forward and stopped outside the stall’s door.

“Father is letting you…? I am glad you and father have finished your business. I am very glad you are going home.”

“As am I. I… uh, I am not certain of my welcome in the King’s court, but I am long o’erdue.”

“I am not certain of my welcome in the Steward’s court.” Faramir smiled.

“Ah!” Éomer’s brow rose. “So I am not alone in the bad graces of a liege lord?”

“You are not.”

“Letting the healer go?”

“Aye. Among other things.”

Éomer laughed loud and heartily. “The same here. Among other things. My uncle does not quite see my way of thinking. Nay. He sees, but does not approve. I heard Denethor’s words. Not kind.”

“Nay. Not kind indeed, but not unexpected. I seem unable to win his graces, as of late.”

“It is hard being the second.”

“Ah, yes. Théodred?”

“I do not begrudge my cousin his father’s love and respect. At one time, I received a fair share. But no longer.”

“I have heard of your uncle's… illness. I am sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I do not begrudge Boromir’s place in father’s heart, either. It has been some time since I have received a fair share.” Faramir shrugged. He took off Edhel’s halter and moved out of the stall, locking it securely behind him. “I would that our time together had been longer and of not so serious a nature, but it was good to see you again.”

“As it was for me. Take care of yourself, Faramir. From everything that Boromir has told me, you are a good soldier.”

“Boromir says Théodred has said the same about you, Rider of the Mark.”

Éomer smiled. “We should both take such words to heart. There are enough lies spreading about the country without us listening to them!” He put his hand on Faramir’s shoulder and pulled him close.

Faramir returned the embrace. “May the Valar protect thee.”

And thee,” Éomer replied.

They walked slowly to the First Level and said their last farewells.

~*~

“If I do not meet him before the betrothal, I will not stand next to him!” She stamped her foot and the sound rang through the hallway leading to the Great Hall. They were scheduled to meet with Denethor in a matter of moments and the silly girl had picked this time to be stubborn. Imrahil had all he could do not to stomp away himself; he had never been so angry. Nerdanel gave him a look and he obeyed her. She always could take care of situations like this much better than he.

“If you do not stand, as your father has promised, then you will return to Dol Amroth in disgrace. Do you understand me, girl?”

Míriel gasped. No one had ever spoken to her like this; not even her mother. She began to cry. Imrahil’s brow rose in concern, but Nerdanel gave him such a look of fury, that he stopped the words of comfort that were on his lips.

When her ploy did not work, she bit her lip. “My mother has many friends,” she sobbed, “and they will not invite you to their parties.”

Nerdanel laughed in shock and surprise. Imrahil stepped forward, but his wife shook her head. “If that is the price I must pay to ensure your father’s honour, than so be it,” she said in mock humility.

The girl stared at her. “I have my honour, too. I will not be wed without meeting him.”

They heard a discreet cough and turned. Faramir stood before them. “Mayhap the Lady Míriel has a point. Boromir, I am sure, would deem it appropriate for them to meet before the ceremony. I will arrange it, if you ask.”

Míriel smiled brightly and gave a deep, eyelash-fluttering bow to Faramir. Nerdanel drew in her breath and Imrahil let one out.

A perfect solution, the Prince thought. “Lord Faramir, if you would be so kind as to act as intermediary for us, I would be grateful.”

Nerdanel shook with anger, but said not a word.

“I will speak with father after your audience. You are, as we speak being introduced, are you not?”

Imrahil heard the Chamberlain’s voice and shook his head. Never had he been late for an audience. He took Nerdanel by the arm and led her forward.

Faramir, seeing Miriel’s bewilderment, took her arm and led her into the Great Hall.

~*~

Boromir’s face was turned towards the sun. It was slowly moving westward; only another few hours, and Anor’s light would slip behind Mindolluin. Much as he loved the City, these savoured moments alone in his mother's garden filled him with a rare peace. He knew she would be coming soon; Faramir had arranged a meeting. Glad he was that his brother thought of the garden, for no other place in Minas Tirith would afford him the peace he would need.

Denethor did not like the woman, of that, Boromir was certain. Yet, he could not base his own life, his marriage, upon his father's feelings, wise though Denethor was. He did not need a companion; his men gave him companionship. He did not need someone to protect; did he not have all of Gondor to protect? He did not need someone to care for him; did not his mother teach him how to darn his own socks?

Nay! He needed someone to carry his seed to fruition. That was the crux of the matter. Miriel's family tree was long and strong. She could bear children, if her ancestry was any measure.

Is that all he had hoped for? Nay, again. He hoped for love and fidelity, for a warm hand on his back when the mail became burdensome and cut into him. He hoped for a playmate. He smiled at the idea. Time would not allow him the luxury of play, but he missed it. She could remind him to laugh and to look at the clouds and to remember joy. He swallowed hard. If his father was correct, this one would not fulfill any but the basest of needs. And he wondered if she would e'en do that.

And he - what was expected of him? She would eventually be the Steward's wife. She would have everything she would need. Food, shelter, fine clothes, jewels about her throat, slippers (his brother had told him women like many slippers), servants.... His father had suggested other needs... He knew, from the soldiers under his command, the needs of a woman, and he would happily take care of those needs. But would this one...? He heard a cough behind him and made to stand.

“Nay, dearest nephew! Please stay seated. Lady Míriel and I have brought tea and sandwiches and some chocolates from Harad. Let me serve you.” Aunt Nerdanel ordered a table brought over to where he sat while Míriel supervised the tray of refreshments.

He sat up in his chair, trying to stifle the grunt of pain that threatened. His gut was still sore, but it was to be expected. Today he had spent time in the practice court, trying to wield his sword. He bit his lip, remembering the frustration.

“There is still pain?”

“Not much, Aunt. I moved the wrong way.” He smiled and it melted her heart, as his smiles always did. Truth be known, he was her favorite, though Imrahil loved Faramir more. The steadfastness of her eldest nephew and his great fortitude endeared him to her. He reminded her of her father, dead in the Corsair battle of '80.

“Lady Míriel,” Boromir bowed his head in greeting. “You look splendid today. Dol Amroth blue has never looked prettier, except perhaps on Lady Nerdanel.”

Míriel smiled slightly. The man was large and broad-shouldered; his hands were huge. She shivered. ‘Why could he not be like Faramir?’

He saw her eyes rove over him and was surprised at the expression he read in them. “Please, sit by my side. I have heard so much about you and your family. You have much to be proud of. Did your parents come for the ceremony?”

She nodded. “Both are here along with my sisters and brothers.”
 

“Three sisters and two brothers, if I remember correctly?”

She nodded again.

“Are you comfortable in your quarters?”

“Your father moved her family into one of the visitor's mansions on the Sixth Level,” Nerdanel broke in. “The Tower had not an apartment spacious enough for the entire family.”

Boromir immediately understood. Someone had been unhappy with the accommodations first given them. ‘Probably her mother,’ he mused. He had heard tales of the woman's pride and pomposity.

“Ah! I hope it is to your liking, Lady Míriel?”

She nodded.

‘Blast!’ he thought wryly. ‘She has not a tongue of her own.’

Nerdanel poured the steeping tea. She handed a cup and saucer to Boromir and then filled a plate with small sandwiches and slices of orange. The plate she placed on the table next to him.

He took the cup and smiled at her. Impulsively, he took her hand and kissed it lightly. “You have always been too kind, Aunt. I am deeply grateful.”

Míriel's eyes rose at the gesture. She took a proffered cup from Lady Nerdanel and sipped quietly.

“You have been in Minas Tirith for quite some time now. Is it what you expected, Lady Míriel?”

She looked up and towards the east. The mountain flared at that moment and she flinched.

“The mountain carries naught to frighten you. It is well beyond our borders and heavily guarded by the garrison at Osgiliath. If you walk to the end of the parapet, you can see the old city. It once was quite beautiful. Father and I have hopes of returning it to its glory. Did you know there was a planetarium there? And a fine theatre. We do have a theatre here, though not as grand as that one once was. We have our own troupe of actors. They are quite good. Mayhap, when next you return, I might take you to the theatre?”

She nodded.

He stifled a sigh.

After an hour, his strength flagged and Nerdanel, ever vigilant, noted his fatigue. It had been a very trying hour. His intended had said no more than a dozen words. And all were responses to Boromir's gentle questions. Nerdanel rose. “It is time we prepared for the daymeal. Your father has quite a feast planned, though I hope the evening will end early. We will all need our sleep for the ceremony tomorrow. Thank you, Boromir, for the directions to the jewelers and the cartographers. I mean to gift Prince Imrahil with a map. Your description of the new Bay of Belfalas one has piqued my interest. Your uncle will be delighted.”

“I am most pleased to offer any service I might. To both you and to you, Lady Míriel. I hope you enjoy the meal. I do not plan on attending.”

Nerdanel gave her nephew a sharp look, but she curtsied and led Míriel away.

“If he dies, will Faramir be Steward?” he heard her whisper to his aunt. Hurt and sorrow filled him. “If Faramir becomes Steward, will the law protect me? Make him marry me? After all, the papers have been signed.” He heard Nerdanel’s reply; the slap was loud.

Boromir gave a low moan and slumped in his chair.

“It did not go well?”

“Faramir! Were you listening?”

“I was not! But I noted the ladies did not seem to be smiling as I passed them in the hall. And Aunt Nerdanel was livid. I do not envy Míriel the next hour.”

Boromir tried to laugh, but pain had coursed through him during the last half hour of the meeting. He was, indeed, fatigued, and more.

“I am sorry, Boromir. I had hoped it would help to meet her. She is quite nice when she puts her mind to it.”

“Her mind was not on me this afternoon. I think she wishes I were someone else. She spoke hardly a word to me. Is she in love with another?”

“I had not thought so. I do not understand. We have had many delightful talks. But we discuss art and music.”

“Ah. I know not much about music, except what you play for me. But I did speak of our theatre. She seemed less than… thrilled.”

Faramir sat next to Boromir and helped himself to a plate of sandwiches. “I brought wine.” He poured Boromir and himself glasses. “Will you still wed her?”

“The papers have been signed.”

Faramir nodded as they ate.

“Now, do not start that yourself. I deserve at least a plain answer.”

Faramir looked at Boromir in surprise.

“All the Lady Míriel did this afternoon was nod.”

Faramir laughed. “At least she did not nod asleep.”

“Thank you,” Boromir said dryly. “I have not put anyone to sleep in a very long time.”

“Forgive me, brother. Give her time. She is not used to warriors. She is used to a courtly life.”

“Her father was a warrior, a Knight of Dol Amroth.”

“And she rarely saw him! As oft happens with warriors. Give her time.”

“For Gondor’s sake, I will. Faramir, would you help me to my room?”

Faramir stood in alarm. “Pain?”

“Aye. I stayed at the practice field too long. I know, I know,” he protested at the look Faramir gave him. “It is my own fault, but I must gain back my strength. Father plans to send me north sometime after the ceremony. I can hardly lift my blade.”

“Mayhap a lighter blade for the nonce? A practice sword instead of that great cleaver you call a sword?”

Boromir laughed, then grimaced. “Do not make me laugh, little brother. It is cruel.”

Faramir hugged him as he helped him stand, then took his arm and walked him back to his quarters. “Please rest,” he said as he pulled the bell. A servant entered immediately and began to help disrobe Boromir. “Sleep. If you do not mind, I will come for you when it is time for the daymeal.”

“I am not going.”

“Why? I am sorry. I should not question, but father will be displeased. It is a banquet for you in Merethrond. You and Lady Míriel.”

“I know, but I have not the strength. You will offer father my apologies?”

“Boromir, we have three hours before the meal. Wait and see how you feel.” Faramir pulled a chair up to the bed where Boromir, now clothed in a sleeping garment, lay. Faramir took his hand. “I promise. If you still are too weary at that time, I will go and tell father. And make him understand. Now, here, drink this tea.”

Boromir snorted. “Valerian? I do not...”

“It will help you sleep and it is much better for you than poppy.”

Boromir closed his eyes and Faramir continued to hold his hand. “I will not leave your side until you sleep. Will that help?”

“I am no longer a babe, Faramir. I do not need you to sit with me.”

“What if I want to sit with you?”

“That is acceptable.” Boromir sighed. “And welcome. Thank you, little brother.”

~*~

A/N – the words that Faramir says to Boromir (“I would rather have come home with no arms or legs than without you, Boromir.”) are slightly changed from words from a World War II survivor, Walter Ehlers (PBS Series War.) Walter’s older brother and he landed at Normandy. He made it; his brother did not. He said of his brother, “I would rather have come home with no arms or legs than without my brother.” It struck such a cord with me. My heart went out to this still heartbroken soldier, but at the same time, I thought of the Brothers ‘Mir and realized that this statement exemplified my understanding of the bond between the two.





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