A large part of Boromir regretted that he had let his discomfort with the bristly Laenilas get the better of him. His sleep was restless and, in the middle of the night, he woke up to find most of his blanket damp from the water absorbed by his clothes. With a curse, he thrashed his way out of its confines and grabbed the remainder of the gathered kindling. Tossing it onto the dying embers, he fanned the fire to life again and brought the blanket closer to the growing blaze. He lay down upon the coarse wool and inched forward until the heat nearly blistered his skin. By the Valar, his breeches would be dry as a bone come morning. He would not close tomorrow's travel with a rash from the constant chafing of wet leather.
So it was with improved spirits and dry breeches that Boromir greeted the morning, the nascent dawn peeking timidly from behind the distant hills to the east through the omnipresent haze of ash and smoke. He brought a hand to his eyes and tried to rub all vestiges of sleep from them.
Myrhil and Laenilas were also stirring, though the girl's only movement was to roll onto her other side, her blanket wrapped as tightly around her as a caterpillar's cocoon. The river had amplified the chill of the night and it was only Boromir's proximity to the fire that had made his body unaware of it. Myrhil, furthest from the fire, had sought to contain all of her warmth by curling into a ball. He presumed she had been in that position for some time because when she rolled over and ventured to stretch one leg, she gave a tired grunt as stiff muscles protested.
Although she was not the first to waken, Laenilas was already on her feet and surveying the waning fire. She shivered a bit at the morning dampness and pulled her cloak about her. "Where is the kindling?" she asked.
Boromir explained how the rest of it came to be used and she nodded, although she did not hesitate to add, "You would have been safe if you had shed your breeches, my lord." Without pausing for a reply, she hastened to the fire and removed Myrhil's breeches and shirt from the sticks that had been driven into the ground next to the fire, creating a crude rack. With the bundle of clothes, she walked over to her daughter and gently nudged the girl's backside with a booted foot.
Realizing that he would need to distance himself while Myrhil dressed, he got to his feet and quickly rolled his blanket and tied it to the back of his saddle and buckled his sword belt around his waist. With a quick word to Laenilas that he would search for more wood for the breakfast fire, he turned and retraced his steps with Myrhil the night before. The tree that they had hid under would provide some suitable wood for no doubt it had shed a branch or two over the years. The encroaching darkness the previous night had made it impossible to know for certain, but he did not mind the walk. It would help him wake more fully.
Their path through the tender grass was easy to see and his uneasiness, already piqued by their vulnerable position and small number in the lonesome expanse of the plains, increased as he imagined a roving band of orcs happening across it and following the scent up to the very door of their camp. Noses to the ground like the beasts they are, he thought grimly, snorting and grunting with delight at a fresh meal and a warm draught of blood.
He shuddered. He had fought them for more years than he cared to number but the battle in the shadows of the mountains had affected him in a way he had never known. Always he had been with his trained men, whether many or few, but never against such odds as he had faced scarce nights ago. Two old men, a callow youth and a girl had been his only allies in the struggle, fighting against orcs who were skilled and crafty enough to slip past Minas Tirith and the bulwarks of men to the north and south of the city, commanded to divert such enemy activity. Yet every member of this unexpected band could claim at least one kill and most had dispatched three or more. If his childhood tutor had posed such a situation to him, asking if the odds could be overcome, Boromir knew that even his youthful optimism would have been strained to make an affirmative answer sound confident. And such optimism would have undoubtedly earned him a derisive snort from the pedagogue.
But it was possible. Even with dismal odds, victory was possible. It filled his heart and gave him hope. Expand that small skirmish to battlefield proportions and there was nothing to say that success would be denied. The hardened warrior inside him warned that such wishful hopes would prove unreliable, that this odd success was nothing more than luck -- and in the recent past luck had never lingered long in Gondor's favor. Despite this dark and drear voice of doom that spoke with sense and experience, Boromir would not let it grip him completely. He had seen it. He had seen the scattered bodies of orcs, their lives extinguished by two weathered old men feeling the pains of age, by a boy who had relied on his wit and handsome features for advancement, and by a girl who possessed only her brother's sword and the strength that fear can produce.
The tree leaning over the river swayed in greeting as he drew near and he saw that the grassy banks and soft, churning river were as peaceful in the daylight as it had been the previous night. Even during the tense wait with Myrhil to hunt for their supper, it had been a welcome respite from the hard day's ride and the constant weight on his mind of what threatened the city during his absence.
He had no doubts that Faramir was fulfilling his duties as acting Captain with a willing heart and able hand. Although his younger brother's skills lay more in study than arms, in subtle maneuvers than straightforward battle, Boromir held higher faith in only their father. It was not simply brotherly affection that made him so trusting. He sensed a steely resolve beneath that studious exterior, a feeling that would never have occurred to him a scant ten years ago when Faramir celebrated his sixteenth birthday and turned green at the thought of confronting a battle-hardened trollop who had handled her share of swords. Even less impressive was when Faramir had first picked up a real sword, ten years before that. His little brother's eyes had been impossibly wide as he stared at it with the horror of one holding onto a serpent and too stricken to let go.
Yet since then, he had become a worthy soldier and a source of pride for his brother when swords proved to be only slightly more of an obstacle than books had been. Faramir was indeed a boy who was adept at whatever he set his mind to, and Boromir refused to feel jealous at his own shortcomings in that regard. When Faramir was struggling through arms training, Denethor had often tried to prod his youngest son to greater heights through coarse berating and indifferent praise. While Boromir had been initiated into their father's particular brand of encouragement during his own training and did not find it a hindrance to improvement, it had had the opposite effect with the fledgling Faramir. But, like most problems that Faramir encountered, he emerged from them stronger and smarter.
He remembered a day when the lad, barely a month into his training, had parried with a swinging arm contraption operated by a squire. Boromir had looked on, shouting the moves that needed to be made. "Parry, brother! Now, lunge! Attack from underneath!" he cried. They were in a small courtyard in the center of the King's House and the sounds of battle had summoned their father onto the balcony that adjoined his study. For several minutes, Denethor had watched his youngest try to best the wobbly wooden adversary. Boromir could not remember why Faramir failed to block the arm's movements as well as he could have, but it did not matter for whatever reason caused the lack of skill was enough to prompt Denethor to shout taunts down to his son for his clumsiness and ineptitude.
He still remembered the embarrassment he had felt for his brother, as though he himself had been dismissed as an incompetent. Ever since their mother's death, they felt each other's pain as though it were their own. That day he felt as wounded as Faramir, but he did not leap to his brother's defense. Commiseration always waited until they were alone, for he knew that such a display of softness in front of their father would earn him a rebuke as well. As much as he loved his brother, he always sought to please the Steward. His father was strong and the Steward of Gondor, to be successful and preserve beloved city and country alike, had to possess that trait in plenty. When he assumed the leadership of his people, he would need to have their trust and faith. A weak and soft man would receive neither.
He shook his head in dismissal of those hurtful memories. Perhaps it was no mystery why he had preferred Gorhend's gruff, yet affectionate, praise to the sharp demands of his own father. The aging soldier had treated his brother well, too. Although Gorhend had looked upon Faramir's love of books with a skeptical eye, and his fascination with the roaming wizard Mithrandir with uneasy superstition, he was patient with the lad and wanted to turn Faramir into as skilled a warrior as the boy's gifts would allow. After many months under Gorhend's eye and guidance, Faramir had exhibited no mean skill with a sword and a keen talent for the bow and arrow, his confidence blossoming under a very different type of encouragement. Denethor's seeming inability to be completely pleased never failed to dismay the young man, but the hurt gradually became less acute, for praise did come from his father's lips, though perhaps not in plenty. As the years passed, Faramir became comfortable as a leader of men and showed patience and courage when in command. Yes, he thought, my soldiers are indeed in capable hands.
Another breeze swept along the course of the river, bringing the cleansing smell of the water to his nostrils. He breathed deeply, savoring the unsullied fragrance. He loved his city, but it stank of ceaseless habitation and the refuse that came with thousands of people cramped together in quarrelsome close quarters. There were edicts and laws in place to ensure that the citizens would not become mired in their own ordure, but with the stream of refugees trickling through the outer gates, seeking a haven from the perils that gripped the countryside, it was impossible to force obedience from everyone. The Steward's House, situated as it was on the highest tier next to the White Tower, was rarely subjected to the churning aromas from down below in the lower circles. That is, unless an unfavorable wind carried it swiftly upwards, in which case the delicate members of the court would produce sachets of herbs and flowers to ward off the unwelcome odors.
Boromir often spent his time in Minas Tirith among the soldiers in their barracks, located far from the seat of power and in the thick of the raw stench. Despite the smell, he preferred it that way. He was at greater comfort among his men than the conniving and tedious courtiers who spent their days amusing themselves with gossip and the latest fashions. In that respect, it was impossible to tell the difference between the men and the women. He had no time for such nonsense. Most of those idiots would not be able to tell one end of a map of Gondor from the other. Or so he liked to tell his men, causing a hearty roar of laughter to roll along the barracks. On more than one occasion, a soldier would reply that it would be a good day for Gondor when a group of the most worthless court dwellers held a map upside down and advanced straight into the heart of Mordor. Another roll of laughter would always shake the worn timbers of the soldiers' lodgings.
Boromir chuckled to himself as he slipped under the overhanging branches and scanned the ground for dead wood to take back to the camp. He gathered a few choice pieces and broadened his search, all the while letting his mind take a path of its own although his senses remained alert. They would need to be for the remainder of the journey. Every step brought them closer to home. . .and Mordor.
Myrhil did not approach stealthily, but Boromir saw her before he heard her steps. Her cloak was slightly askew on her shoulders and she walked with the uneven and noticeable stagger of the newly woken. At least she has her sword on, he thought. She is somewhat vigilant.
The sun continued to steadily rise from over the mountains and the light that bathed the plains became more intense. Her eyes screwing shut at the painful glare, she flinched and turned her head away, holding up one edge of her cloak to shield herself from it. Her head still averted, she blinked rapidly and shook her head to rid herself of the nocturnal cobwebs that still clung to her mind. If the purpose of walking was to force her to fully waken, it was apparently failing.
"Good morning," Boromir said as she drew near.
Myrhil dropped her cloak and gently rubbed at her bruised eye. "Is it?" she asked. "I am frozen."
"Then I assume that you are not agreeable to a bit of sword practice?" Boromir asked, tucking a bundle of kindling in one arm. "You came equipped for it."
"So I did. I refuse to leave this sword untended. It is too precious for that."
Boromir grinned. "You have a healthy love for weaponry, Myrhil. It speaks well of you."
A loud and raucous yawn escaped Myrhil's mouth before she could stifle it. "I would indulge in some practice, my lord," she said, stretching stiffly, "if I were sure that I would not hack off an arm in my exhaustion."
"I am certain that I would be able to protect myself," he said dryly.
"Your arm?" she replied. "I was talking about mine."
Boromir laughed. "I nearly regret that you will not be staying in Minas Tirith for any length. I should like to set you adrift in the court and watch the results. There are few there with your refreshing country manners." Indeed, he thought, there would be no small measure of amusement to gain from watching her beside the very sophisticated women who littered the court like so many useless items of frippery on a gaudy dress.
Myrhil looked eastward, still squinting in defense but able to look at the sun without great pain. "It will be Mother's decision, the length of our stay in any place," she said. "Though paths may branch. They almost did back home, except that I took the cowardly route and followed her instead of walking a road by myself."
"Not cowardly," Boromir pointed out, although that exact thought had occurred to him the night before. "There is always a reason why things are as they are." With an inward smile, he recalled that he had often spoken the same words to Faramir as children when his brother demanded to know why certain duties were required of him, before the concept of those duties and of hereditary calling made sense to his young mind.
"That is not helpful," Myrhil replied unhappily, still staring at the distant mountains. "For good or ill, I do not know where this path will lead." She turned to him. "I was foolish not to stay behind. This path is completely unknown. At least if I had stayed I would have had Cirien beside me."
Boromir felt it necessary to be blunt. "Myrhil," he began, "I dislike doubt and uncertainty. It is not good for the mind to spend precious time and energy wondering about what might happen for every course of action, even when the decision has been made and the time to change it is past. Do you know what results from weakness and doubt?"
His tone had become so forceful that Myrhil could not help but listen raptly. When he commanded attention, he received it. "Tell me," she said.
"Chaos and madness. Unless one decision is made and accepted fully, then nothing that comes after it can stand on firm ground. Decide and proceed. Take the consequences in stride and mend mistakes as they come by deciding anew. Do not look back, and do not torment yourself with paths not taken." He searched her expression and saw that he had her ears. Faramir's innate desire for knowledge could not have rivaled her avid gaze. "I speak as a captain and I learned this from my father," he continued. "He has not survived so long and ruled a kingdom by pondering all courses and taking none, or by wailing about lost opportunities."
"My mother has been telling me the same thing," she said, "but. . ." She walked past him and picked up a small limb that was covered with dry lichen and swung it absently at the grass around her feet.
Boromir turned and spoke to her back. "But what?" he pressed. "'Tis sound advice and I would never accuse your mother of lacking sense. Why have you not listened?"
"It makes sense when you say it," she replied, poking the end of the stick into the soft earth. "Hearing it from you, it seems like the only way to think, the only right way to act." She looked up at him and smiled apologetically. "Forgive me if I act like a child worshipping some hero out of the old tales," she said. "You see, Father's stories were very kind to you, almost as though he spoke of Elendil or Eorl himself."
Boromir shifted the kindling onto his other hip and cleared his throat in discomfort. "Myrhil, I am not. . ."
"I know that," she added hastily. "Yet it always took great effort to remember that you were actually alive, not some untouchable legend of the past. You coming to see Father helped dispel the magic somewhat. As we got older, Larhend and I realized that you most likely ate food like the rest of us instead of having orcs for breakfast, dinner and supper."
Boromir's eyes widened slightly. "Just what did your Father say about me?" he choked. "Eating. . .orcs?" He did not know whether to laugh or question the sanity of the old man.
Myrhil smiled again. "That is how fathers entertain their children to keep them out from underfoot. Fill their heads with fanciful imaginings so they run off to fight dragons, trolls and orcs and let their elders have some peace. Your father and mother must have done thus to you and your brother. You will no doubt do the same with your children someday."
She turned and picked up another limb that Boromir had missed, tentatively swinging it with her right arm. Her teeth gritted in anticipation of pain, but she was relieved when the twinges and throbs were even less than they had been upon waking that morning. No sharp pains bothered her now, but the itching that nagged at her stitches begged her fingers to dig into the flesh.
"I cannot wait to put more of Mother's salve on this wound," she growled in frustration. "It is driving me insane. Have we finished? Do you have enough wood?"
Boromir nodded. "I think so."
She drew up beside him, holding her two pieces of wood in front of her like swords. Together they retraced their steps once more. The path was fast becoming an enjoyable one to walk.
"Before we leave our camp, can you show me some defensive moves?" she asked, eyes fixed on the limbs and absently whacking them against each other. "Father said that I always attacked and never gave thought that I would have to protect myself on occasion."
"Certainly," Boromir replied, smiling to himself, gaze cast to the ground. He had received the same criticism when he was a young man.
"I will be attentive," she promised. "Your lesson shall not be wasted and I will practice it long after we part."
"I would not expect less from you." He glanced over at her and saw that she was still contemplating her wooden swords. "Myrhil?"
"Hmm?"
"Tell me one of your Father's stories, will you?"
The journey continued, but slower this time, as the effects of the previous day's relentless pace settled in and fatigue took hold of the travelers. Laenilas, long absent from the rigors of the saddle, insisted that instead of matching yesterday's distance, they decrease it by half, if possible. Boromir was tempted to argue and declare that they must press ahead with all speed as the region they now entered was among the most perilous, but upon seeing the woman's weary posture on the back of her mount, he agreed to a shorter day's progress.
"Pelargir is too near to stop for the day," he said an hour after they had left camp. "We may find a tavern or inn on the South Road."
Myrhil eagerly looked forward to seeing the city of Pelargir again. She had not been there in nearly five months and she always enjoyed the purposeful bustle that surged through the streets. Carts and tents were erected in the marketplace with vendors hawking their wares, arguing with customers over prices and keeping a watchful eye on roving bands of urchin thieves who could snatch an apple or tart with the speed of lightning and disappear as fleet as the wind. The overwhelming presence of so many people always made Myrhil somewhat breathless. Living on the sparsely populated plains, where animals outnumbered people, the sight of thousands struck her dumb.
So her reaction was no different when they entered the city at midday. The vendors were in their usual places, the grubby children raced among the laborers and carters with edible loot in hand, and the taverns belched staggering drunks out through their doors with regularity.
After absorbing the sights mutely, Myrhil, riding alongside Boromir, shook her head in amazement. "Sometimes I wonder if so many people can actually exist!"
"Then be prepared for a change of mind if you think Pelargir is large," Boromir told her, amused. "Minas Tirith is certain to leave you speechless. It is constructed in such a way that no man or woman will ever forget his or her first sight of it."
"Father often described the path one had to take to get to the citadel," she said, drawing a zigzag line in the air with her finger. "He said it was frightfully inconvenient if he had to get to the citadel quickly."
"Aye, it is that," Boromir agreed, "but it is one of the best defenses the city has against invasion. Only magic would allow an enemy army to reach the highest circle unscathed. All the while, as they wended their way to the top, they would be set upon and decimated from all sides. No, the only routes an army can take to seize the city is to pluck it out of the sky, or puncture each and every wall to make a direct ascent."
"And every solider knows that to attack from below is suicide," Myrhil said.
"Every soldier, and a soldier's children, it seems. That is, if they have paid heed to their father's stories."
"I have, that."
They paused on the outskirts of the marketplace and while Boromir and Myrhil hitched their horses at the public trough, Laenilas advanced into the marketplace, purse in hand and a determined expression on her face to not pay one coin more than was proper for a small basket of victuals.
Myrhil watched her disappear into the gathering of stalls and stands and laughed softly. "She will return only a few coins poorer and bearing enough food for several hearty meals. Mark me on that."
"I'll not gainsay you," Boromir replied. "I do not think your mother incapable of anything. I have learned that much since I arrived." He grinned. "Notice how even the coins in her purse do not jingle merrily, but reluctantly, as though they do not wish to be parted from one other."
"You certainly have learned much," she agreed with a rueful shake of the head at her mother's back. "When I came here with Father or Cirien, we would always go to a tavern nearby. Maybe you have been there yourself. Desolation of the Drunkard? An odd name, I know, but the ale is excellent."
"You can vouch for it?"
"Many times over. You will not find better in the region."
"I would be foolish to let this opportunity pass," he said. "How near is it?"
Myrhil looked around, then pointed down a street to their left. "That way. See the sign? A man sitting among empty mugs?"
"Come," he said. "It will take not a minute and your mother, I am certain, will not panic at our absence." He turned to the young lad who attended the public trough and gave him two copper coins. "When a. . .determined- looking woman returns and asks our whereabouts, tell her that we will return shortly. Understood?" The boy nodded and took the money with a grin.
Boromir and Myrhil headed down the street, weaving their way between townspeople and foreigners chatting and doing business. The houses around them hung over the street, making it much dimmer than the open area of the marketplace. "Father said never to stray in that direction," she said, pointing further down the street, an increasingly darker tunnel created by the claustrophobic overreaching slant of shabby buildings. "He said it was a rotten limb that needed to be cut off, but this tavern has not been sickened by it. One look at the keeper, Othil, and even the blackest murderer would turn and run with his tail between his legs, yet he keeps his tavern smelling as fresh as a rose garden."
"Sounds charming," Boromir said dryly as they stopped in front of the chipped and worn walls of the Desolation of the Drunkard. To the side of the door was a pane window so dingy that only if one got close to it could anything be seen on either side. The sign creaked above their heads, but that was as soft as a spring rain compared to the savage squeal that burst from the hinges as Myrhil pushed the heavy plank door inwards.
Myrhil had advanced surely, as though entering her own home, but after several steps she halted, causing Boromir to bump into her from behind. She looked to either side of her and lastly towards the counter in the back of the room where kegs of ale were stacked and tended by an aproned figure. She continued, but her steps were noticeably cautious.
Boromir put a hand on Myrhil's shoulder and stopped her again. "A rose garden?" he hissed into her ear. "It is as foul as an orc's armpit."
Indeed, Myrhil had noted the acrid odor that drenched the air. It smelled of spilled ale, the odor of unwashed drinkers, and an indifferently kept kitchen. She remembered the mouth-watering potatoes and sausages that Othil's kitchen maids would cook by the barrowful, but the sickly aroma that wafted through the kitchen doors now turned her stomach. She surveyed the room. She could detect no familiar faces. Every time she had come here with Cirien or her father, the tavern seemed to be inhabited by a permanent group of regulars.
Nor was the man behind the bar familiar. Othil's enormous figure, with head permanently cocked to the side to avoid hitting his head on the rough- hewn beams, was nowhere to be seen. The fine kegs of ale that he had always stocked were still there. The mark of the brewer was the same, the fancy spigots that matched the class of ale tapped firmly into the kegs as they always had been when Othil stood behind the bar. Also still unchanged were the shelves of tankards of every form and substance, wood and metal, lined up behind the bar. But for all this, the differences were more noticeable. The cheerful banter and sodden roar about the room were gone. Questions hung in the air that demanded to be answered.
Their presence had been noticed by the collection of motley drinkers and several had turned on their benches to study the new arrivals. Boromir's soldierly garments, as well as the weapons that both he and Myrhil wore, garnered no small interest. Boromir noted that the knife he wore at his belt, its well-crafted hilt visible, was now the object of many calculating looks. He was not uninitiated in tavern fights, but he had no wish to become embroiled in one while a prudent exit still remained. When he felt Myrhil lurch forward, as though to make for the bar, he took hold of the hood on her cloak and dragged her back to him.
She was about to protest when the man behind the bar yelled, "Are you staying or going? Will you drink or simply look at it?"
"Where is--?" Myrhil began, but she was silenced by Boromir when he tugged once more on her hood and spoke over her shoulder to the inquisitive barkeep.
"We will not bother you further," he said. "The young lady got confused and came to the wrong tavern." He laughed and, with a hand on Myrhil's back, turned her towards the way they came. He practically shoved her out through the door and continued his insistent pace until they were well away from the tavern.
"What were you doing?" she demanded. "I wished to ask them where Othil was."
"He was obviously not there. And those who were looked like they would have fed you lies until you were suitably engrossed so that you would not even see the club coming down on your head. I assume the place has changed much since you were there last."
"Yes," she replied thoughtfully, her eyes trained on the heavy door across the street. "It looked like a den of thieves."
"Which it most likely is. Come." He took her arm. "We shall have to either find a more hospitable place or do without." They were about to walk back towards the plaza when a surprised voice called out, "Girl! You, with the soldier! How is your father?"
Myrhil twisted herself out of Boromir's grip, eyes searching the crowd for the bearer of the voice. "Sir?" she responded. "Where are you?"
A slight figure emerged from the swarm of people standing or milling about on the fringe of the plaza. He looked to be about fifty years old, with long and straggled curls that brushed his shoulders. He was dressed in the garments of a common laborer and his honest and open face was alight with recognition as he made his way to her.
"I never knew your name," he said upon reaching her, "but I remember your face distinctly. You came here many times with your father, Gorhend, or his chief herdsman. Am I right?"
"You are," she replied uncertainly. Then her face relaxed into a smile. "Ah, I recall you now! You and Othil once tried to convince my father to go into the brewery business."
"An argument that was not strong enough to bring down the walls of your father's stubbornness." He shook his head sadly. "'Tis a pity, because the added competition in this city would have lowered the price agreeably." He shrugged his shoulders. "There will be other ambitious men to cajole. How is Gorhend?"
Myrhil recounted her father's death and her mother's decision to journey to Rohan, the land of her ancestors. He listened avidly and with an expression of sadness etched on his features. "My condolences, child," he murmured. "This is troubling news. It seems that odd things have become the order of the day."
"Odd? How do you mean?" Boromir asked, interested.
"Orcs coming so far west. And Othil--"
"What of Othil?" Myrhil demanded. "We did not see him in there."
The man's eyes widened in surprise. "You went inside?" He lowered his voice, though he need not have done so. The clamor in the plaza would have prevented anyone from overhearing. "A frightening place, is it not? Nothing at all like when Othil was there."
"What happened to him?" Myrhil pressed. "As soon as I stepped through the door, everything seemed wrong."
"Aye. 'Tis one of those odd things that happen every so often, and it seems like it should not matter a whit, but the feeling one gets from it says that it does. Othil left here about three months ago, I believe."
"He sold his tavern?" Myrhil asked, incredulous. "He loved it more than he did his own life."
Her informer lowered his voice even more. "Some say that is exactly what he had to pay in order for others to lay their hands on it."
Myrhil was struck dumb. She only stared at the man mutely until she fumbled for her voice. "Killed?" The thought of the enormous Othil bested by anyone seemed impossible to believe.
"I went in one day and he was not there. There one day, gone the next. Very strange. I was wary as soon as I saw someone else behind the bar. A ruffian of the sort you see skulking about in alley shadows. Was he the one you saw just now?"
"I did not take note of what he looked like," she replied. "But he did not sound friendly. Nothing about it seemed welcoming anymore."
"Aye, that was the feeling I had. I managed to choke down a mug, all the while keeping a hand on my purse. There were other regulars, but they seemed as ill-at-ease as I. I even left the dregs in the tankard instead of draining them like I usually do. I wanted to leave quickly." He shuddered at the remembrance. "I am certain that some of the hopeless drunkards from Othil's time still stagger in, for their money would be welcome. For the most part, from what I have heard others say who have since stopped drinking there, the place has become the domain of a most horrible pack of villains."
"Do they threaten anyone in the city?" Boromir asked. "Extortion? Assassinations?"
"Perhaps a bit of the first, but not professional killing. At least, not that I am aware of. They seem content to simply sit and watch others. Wolves eyeing the sheep, is what it is."
Boromir absorbed his words and pondered them silently. Myrhil bowed to the old laborer and smiled wanly. "I thank you for your information," she said, "though it is very grim."
He returned her bow. "I regret it. It has been a shock to many others. There are some who say that they saw Othil leave the city, so there is hope that he lives. Perhaps they offered him a price he could not ignore."
"Yes, I hope you are right." Myrhil's words were hopeful, but her voice was not.
The man begged leave and Myrhil waved farewell as he disappeared into the crowd. She turned to Boromir. "Come, we should leave. Mother is waiting for us, no doubt." They turned and headed towards the place where they had left their horses. Neither of them noticed the avid gaze behind the dingy pane that followed them until they were out of sight.
"Did what he say trouble you?" Myrhil asked when, after having walked nearly all the way to their horses, Boromir still had not spoken.
Boromir nodded. "There are many things occurring in our lands, almost too many to control. As though every bad element is taking advantage of our city's distraction by the threat that Mordor poses to further their own petty advancement. 'Tis impossible to crush all of them."
"What will you do about Othil's tavern?"
Boromir was thoughtful. "That is for my father to decide. I shall report what I have learned, but the decision is his."
"What would you do, were you Steward?" she asked boldly.
"I have never much liked petty thieves," he said, smiling wickedly. "They could expect a group of armed men banging on the front door." He sobered. "But I am thinking with a young soldier's mind. When the Stewardship is upon me, I may perhaps think differently. The world will be a stranger place through that certain glass. My father has hinted at such a transformation on more than one occasion." He looked down at the signet ring on his hand, a piece of jewelry Myrhil had never noticed before. It was wrought of silver and the setting was of a flat and polished black stone that bore an intricate engraving of The White Tree, the same emblem he wore on his tunic, only this time instead of wreathed with stars, the branches were entwined around a sword. The detail was so precise, an amazing feat for so small a thing.
"I shall have to relinquish this ring when I become Steward," he said, voice low. Myrhil strained to hear him. He seemed to be talking to himself, rather than to her. "It will then become Faramir's. My father's ring will then be upon this finger. And with it, the weight of Gondor's welfare, the very life of our country. A much heavier ring." He stared intently at the ring he must surrender, as though in reproach. "One that promises nothing but hardship."
Myrhil watched silently as Boromir lifted his gaze from the ring and turned to watch the people drifting or hurrying around them. She could not discern what he was thinking or feeling. His face was impassive.
They reached their horses just as Laenilas returned from the marketplace. Myrhil helped her mother stash the food in each saddle bag and made several surreptitious peeks into her pack, inhaling the heady aroma of small meat pies and fresh bread. She mounted her horse before the others, but waited for Boromir to lead them from the city.
The Captain of the Guard was still silent, and Laenilas sensed that he was deep in thought, not simply having nothing to say. She rode beside Myrhil long enough to ask what was wrong, but Myrhil simply shook her head. Laenilas fell behind her daughter, but kept her eyes on the soldier.
They passed through the town, single-file, wending their way through the streets and pedestrians, edging around plodding wagons and other travelers on horseback. They had not gone far when Boromir flung his cloak back over his shoulders under the brunt of the day's increasing heat. He received immediate attention by doing so and, should Myrhil have been beside him, she would have seen a smile gracing his features. The fine stitching on his tunic informed them of who was in their midst as plainly as it had Belaród. Bowed heads or hearty gestures of greeting came his way and he returned them with the same solemnity or warmth with which they had been delivered.
The thought of his father's ring, the sign of his office and all the duties that it entailed, required that he remember he had not begun that path yet. It would come in time. But for now, he was simply Gondor's Captain, not its Steward. The joys of being Captain were such as this, when he could be among his people, within their world. It was a luxury that he would have to relinquish once he inherited his birthright. His father rarely strayed beyond the outer reaches of Minas Tirith, and certainly not beyond the Erui River. Politics and the details of governing bound him to the White City, month after month. Minas Tirith, indeed the whole of Gondor itself, survived due to a strong hand, ever present and unswerving in its purpose. Such would be his life when he inherited. Faramir would become his Captain of the Guard while he remained in the Hall at the base of the Tower of Ecthelion, hearing petitions, appointing officers, pouring over maps and scrolls. The sights and sounds of his land would come in the form of dispatches and from the lips of messengers, his memories trying to flesh them out into something recognizable and alive.
At that moment, as the desire for freedom warred with inescapable duty, he regretted that he must return instead of continuing to roam.