It took little time for accommodations to be found for Myrhil and Laenilas. Built along the wall on the citadel were several small cottages that served as quarters for visiting dignitaries and informal guests of the Steward and his family, and it was one of these that Boromir and Faramir decided would be suitable for the two women from Lebennin. It was small and would serve their purpose, for neither expected to linger long in the White City.
Faramir took it upon himself to show them the few rooms housed beneath the tiled roof. Boromir made his excuses at the door, saying he would try to dispatch servants to them before he got mired in discussion with his father. He then left at a brisk pace to give his report to the Steward.
Laenilas could no longer disguise her relief at the looming prospect of hot water and a bath. She cared not for whatever else the servants might feel it their duty to perform. If they came bearing so much as a bucket of steaming water, she would seize it from them and kick them out, if need be. That was all she wanted presently. Other things such as food and assistance with unpacking could wait.
Myrhil let her mother be led around by the youngest son of the Steward while she stood near the small, cold fireplace. For lack of having anything else to do, she began to throw kindling onto the hearth. No doubt a servant would burst in shortly and seize this chore from her, but until then she would perform it herself.
"My lord, I do not wish to disparage any hospitality extended to us," she heard her mother say from the other room, "but I would like to request that servant interference be kept to a minimum. I have been mistress of my own home for many a year and though I had a girl help me, she knew exactly what to do and what to leave alone. . ."
Myrhil fell into the chair beside the hearth. A small wooden footstool sat before her and she propped her boots on it with a contented sigh. It seldom took long for her mother to revert back to her own self. She debated whether to rescue Faramir, but decided that it was in his best interest to pass this trial, as had his brother. Every soldier needed this particular test of courage under fire. In that respect, she wondered if she was a hardier warrior than the Steward's sons.
"Lebennin! Should this attack become widely known, our people's faith might fail."
"News of it has spread, even if only one place was struck. Should there be no counterattack on our part, Father, the result will be the same."
Boromir leaned over a large wooden table in a small chamber that adjoined the throne room in the White Tower. Before him was a map that had seen many years of service and was marked with the travails of marches afield, battles, and conferences such as the one he now conducted in private with his father, Denethor.
The ruling Steward stood on the opposite side of the table, scrutinizing the battered map. His grey Númenorean eyes darkened to the shade of wet slate at he tallied the strategic and financial costs of another attack from Mordor. The results were grim.
"How could they have done it?" he wondered, his voice a meditative rumble.
"No one is more shocked by this raid than I," Boromir said, his finger following the mountain range to the location along the Gilrain where the attack had occurred. "I encountered no evidence of other raids. No man, woman or child we met on the road had suffered injury, or known of anyone who had been killed or wounded."
"They did not fall out of the sky, I assume!" Denethor snapped in frustration. He dragged his hand over his eyes, but did not allow this moment of unguarded emotion to linger long. With his jaw set grimly and his hands now braced against the worn wood of the table, any weakness he had displayed was either buried or banished.
He crooked his neck and continued to study the map. "They could not have found an unguarded path into the mountains, could they?" His breath came heavy through his nostrils as his finger, shaking almost imperceptibly, settled on the grimy parchment in the mountains around Mordor and to the south of Minas Tirith. "The Emyn Arnen. . ." he whispered. "From there, across the Anduin, and to the Ered Nimrais." His finger made the perceived trek of the now dead orcs. "I cannot believe it. Our men would have detected them. It is too near the city to try a route that bold. Even for orcs, they would have known their chances were slim. Perhaps they crossed the mountains from Rohan. . .?" His voice trailed off as he imagined other paths the orcs might have taken.
"What trouble did Faramir encounter in the north?"
Denethor straightened from his studious posture. "None!" he grunted. "A message arrived with word of orcs on the southern reaches of North Ithilien and your brother rode out with nearly one hundred men."
"They met no enemy?" Boromir asked, startled.
"They all returned, to a man! Not so much as a scratch on them, other than what they got beating the bushes to flush out an enemy that was not even there," he snorted. "You left just when you were needed. Had you gone, there would have been bloody blades returning through those gates."
"I am certain that Faramir did all that I would have done, and more," Boromir replied, hiding his wearied expression by continuing to stare intently at the map. "He returned the men safely and I am content." Denethor had not time to retort for he pressed on, turning to the matter at hand. "The fact that Lebennin was attacked is what troubles me most, Father." He rested his thumb on Pelargir. "Why not harass the towns along the river? Why not hammer away slowly at something within reasonable distance to their fire-blasted pit? Why strike at a region so far away? For what purpose? They massacred scores of horses and would have absconded with perhaps a mere dozen black ones had they survived. From what I have been able to learn, they did not wreak havoc on anything or anyone else." Boromir dug his fingers in his hair and groaned in frustration. "I cannot make sense of it. And the waste of it! Not only for them, but us as well. Capable men cut down, and Gor--" His angry words ended abruptly.
Denethor lifted his gaze from the map and stared levelly at the bent head of his eldest son. "And worthy Gorhend," he finished. "You are saddened at his death?"
Boromir did not immediately respond. He had detected the harsh tone, however slight, in his father's voice and knew that his response had to be thoughtfully weighed before spoken. Though he had taken great pains throughout his adolescence and young manhood to disguise the depth of love he bore towards his arms instructor, he always knew he had been unsuccessful. Camaraderie among soldiers and the brusque companionship in all its gruff tones was no cause for suspicion, but Boromir's eagerness to please the sergeant in drill and sword practice bespoke of a need that was only partly being fulfilled by his own father. It was a need that, unconsciously or not, had permitted Denethor to see his own failings and it rankled the taciturn Steward.
Denethor dispensed warm praise with rarity and his standards were of such strictness that a healthy dose of criticism usually accompanied whatever kind words he chose to bestow. Thus the more frequent and less conditional compliments that Gorhend had given to both he and Faramir had sown the seeds of affection unlike that which they bore for their own father. It had not taken long for Denethor to perceive this difference and it became an underlying source of tension for years, recognized by the three men but discussed in only the most indirect of terms.
"Indeed, I am saddened," Boromir replied slowly, his eyes not leaving the map and his fingers still firmly pressed against the parchment. "We now need to have an outpost established in these hinterlands and had the necessity not come about in this manner, I would have given Gorhend the task of command. Yet now we shall have to rely on men of lesser experience and stoutness." He lifted his gaze and met that of his father. "Do you not agree?"
Denethor's lips curved into a slight smile, not unaware of the carefully chosen words in his son's reply. "Remember to look in a man's eyes when you lie, my son."
"I do not lie, Father. I would not. Not to you."
Denethor's features relaxed visibly, but still he added, "Perhaps half- truths, then?"
"If you wish to believe so," Boromir heard himself say.
The matter would have faded from conversation had Faramir not that moment entered the room. "I was told you were here," he said to his brother, approaching the table. "Father." He inclined his head.
"Make no obeisance to me, boy. I am no king," Denethor snapped irritably. "Faramir," he continued, his voice softening slightly, "I suppose you have heard the sorry news from your brother?"
Faramir looked at him blankly while he grasped for the matter in question to come to mind. "Sorry news?" he ventured. Their father's back was facing Boromir and his brother took advantage of this to mouth the name of their instructor along with a shake of his head. Faramir immediately understood.
"Yes, I was told of an attack far to the west," he said. "So that is what you are discussing now? Countering with an offensive?" He moved to stand beside his father and looked down at the map in avid interest. "What have you planned, Father?"
Boromir glanced upward and his eyes met Faramir's. Their father could not see the face of his youngest son and he was glad for it. Faramir was smiling, but despite his attempt to make it seem conspiratorial, Boromir could see the effort his brother took to not seem nervous. The confusion and apprehension at entering a room already filled with tangible tension would have momentarily set him off his feet had he been in Faramir's position.
"Father?" Boromir prompted. Denethor looked at both of his sons in turn, but said nothing. "Father?" he repeated. "Do you have a strategy or plan to counter this?" He looked back down at the map and shook his head, perplexed. "My instinct is to reorganize the patrols and send a regular detail further into the west than what we have done before. But what if this is just a feint by the Enemy so that we leave their desired target undefended?" As he mused this possibility, his finger drifted northward of Minas Tirith.
"Do you think that was the purpose of the message from Ithilien?" Faramir asked, shocked. "We did see orc tracks there. Fresh ones. Yet we saw no evidence that they had destroyed anything."
"What of the messenger?"
"He swore that he was only reporting what he had seen."
"Do you trust him?"
Faramir looked startled. "Y-yes, Boromir. I have no reason to doubt him."
Finally Denethor's voice broke into their conversation. He brought his hand down onto the map and leaned over the table so that his head interrupted his sons' line of vision. "We must think on it," he said, his gaze fixed on the wall opposite. "I. . .must think on it, and decide whether any action will give us gain or loss." He then looked at each son in turn. His face was drawn into tight lines. The brothers saw the tired and haggard expression of their father and it alarmed them.
"We cannot put too much faith in our strength," Denethor continued. "What we face is greater than anything ever seen before in this world." With that, he drew back and left the room, tugging his cloak about him.
When the sound of their father's steps could no longer be heard, Faramir let out a shuddering breath and leaned heavily on the table. "Boromir. . ." He closed his eyes when he felt his brother's fingers grip his shoulder in encouragement. "Why do I still dread speaking to him?" he asked, voice thin.
Boromir was silent for a moment. Then he said, "He is grim this day, but perhaps that is due to the sorrowful news I delivered."
"He would shed no tears for Gorhend," Faramir replied softly, "and well you know it." He reached up and clasped his brother's hand within his own. "If he is troubled by anything you have reported, it would be about those orcs slipping past our defenses."
"I would expect so. He has cause to be troubled by it, as am I. As should you." He knew Faramir realized the importance of the danger that they now faced, but he always found himself stating the obvious to his younger brother, as a teacher would to a pupil. For Faramir was his student in military matters, the first person the young man looked to for advice or an answer on such things. So it always had been and, he expected, always would be.
Boromir withdrew his hand from Faramir's and gestured to the map in an effort to return his brother's attention to the matter before them. "Depending upon what Father decides, and what arguments I may need to make, there is a great possibility that our patrols shall have to range farther and farther abroad. North and south, into the reaches of Ithilien long relinquished. If they indeed took the route we believe they did, they would have no fears of traveling through less defended areas. We cannot allow them easy passage. We must stop them as they seep through."
Faramir nodded. "When you have the order, I will obey."
Boromir took the map by one edge and began to roll it with a sigh. "I already weary of looking at this," he said. "My mind can absorb little besides a warm bed and a hearty meal. The bed will have to wait for it is barely past midday, but the meal is a different matter."
Appearing pleased that dark matters were put aside momentarily, Faramir asked, "Ah, what did you survive on during your journey? Dried meat and river water?"
"Actually, Gorhend's wife is an accomplished cook and we never lacked for fine food. Myrhil and I hunted one night and nearly drowned for our efforts." He laughed. "We jumped into a river feet first in pursuit of a duck. You may laugh about that as much as you like, brother. It was tasty and worth the effort."
Faramir chuckled. "You make me envious. It sounds like you have not left our childhood far behind!"
"How were our guests when you left them?" Boromir asked, his mention of Myrhil and Laenilas returning him to the need for their comfort.
"I left them well-tended. The Lady Laenilas was more intent on a bath than having any interfering servants around. She was quite direct about it."
Boromir finished rolling the map and secured it with a tattered ribbon, a grin on his face. "Ah, so you have met that pleasant side to the fair lady's personality, have you?" He tossed the parchment onto the table and joined his brother on the other side.
"You speak unfairly of her," Faramir replied. "For the life that marriage to Gorhend would have entailed, any woman would need to possess a spine of steel and a will of iron. Life on those plains is a matter of only the fittest surviving, much like war. City dwellers are very ignorant of how harsh rustic life can be."
"And you, being a city dweller, would know all about that, I assume."
Faramir endured his brother's teasing with good nature. "'Tis only a scrap of knowledge I have acquired from the library," he said, his smile containing a trace of smugness.
"You cannot needle me with such comments about your bookishness, Faramir, try as you might," Boromir said, amused. "As for Laenilas, I can always rely on you having a good word to say about anyone. I do not think even Mother was that charitable." He shrugged his shoulders. "Perhaps she is not a complete dragon, but there have been a few occasions where my first instinct was to lay a sword across her throat."
Faramir smiled indulgently at his brother's ungenerous declaration. "Her daughter seems pleasant enough," he said. "I see much of Gorhend in her."
Boromir nodded. "Indeed, very pleasant," he said thoughtfully. "Yes, I have noticed more than a passing semblance to Gorhend as well. She would take great pride in that, if she knew we thought so." He laughed. "That crazy old man, he told her such tales as to make even I blush with embarrassment at the immodesty of them, and I am not known to flinch when hearing of my deeds in battle."
"You should not be surprised about that," Faramir grinned. "You were my shining childhood hero."
Boromir shoved the side of his brother's head playfully and kicked at him, missing him purposely. Faramir laughed and smoothed his ruffled hair from a safe distance, but his humor was dampened somewhat upon seeing his brother's sobering expression. "What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing," Boromir said, trying to shrug off the heaviness that was settling about him. It disturbed him when these changes flitted through him so quickly for they reminded him of his father's volatile moods, though they were not so pronounced as those that Denethor exhibited. He considered himself blessed to have so many of the Steward's admirable traits such as bravery and sense of duty and purpose, but this grimness was wearying to the body and spirit. Perhaps it is simply the nearness of the Shadow, he thought, for it comes upon me here in Minas Tirith more than anywhere else.
"Nothing," Boromir repeated, looking down at the floor and trying to regain his former high spirits. "I think I am simply weary from the long journey and troubled that Myrhil and Laenilas have not yet finished theirs. This strange business with the orcs has me worried for their safety. Should something happen to them, I do not think I could look Gorhend in the eyes."
"Do not think about that now," Faramir said, returning to his brother. His grey eyes held concern for his brother, but also encouragement. "It is only fitting that they be well-rested and supplied before they finish their journey, so they shall remain here for several days or as long as they wish to stay. Though Father held no love for Gorhend, I do not think he would hold his wife and child accountable. By the time they are ready to depart, perhaps these worries shall not weigh so heavily upon you." He smiled. "If you feel that they need an escort, and considering that I find Laenilas such lovely company, I think it only right that I should spend a week with her!"
Boromir found it impossible to not laugh at this vow of self-sacrifice. "You will wish you had not said that, little brother!" Spirits lifted for what he hoped was the remainder of the day, he put his arm around Faramir's shoulders and they left the room.
Myrhil thought that she had enjoyed a certain degree of luxury with Cardhel's constant toiling in the kitchen and assisting Laenilas in the daily tasks while she labored over the forge and in the barn, but she was quite unprepared for the efficiency of the Steward's staff of servants. Faramir seemed to respect her mother's wishes to have little interruption and what Laenilas called "meddling" in her belongings, so only a lone servant appeared during the first several hours after their arrival but his speed was impressive. Rapping on the door each time he appeared with a two- bucket yoke of hot water, he darted into the cottage and dumped the contents into the two wooden tubs before retreating just as quickly for the next trip. Myrhil was so occupied with unpacking her saddlebags and inspecting her surroundings that she was never able to ask the man his name. Whenever she saw him bustle past, he was gone before she could open her mouth. Finally, after the fifth time, she resigned herself to thinking of him as the Water Carrier. The tubs filled quickly and she did manage to thank him before he left.
Myrhil lingered lazily in her tub, water nipping at her chin, allowing the invasive heat to seep into her very bones. I do not think I have ever been so sore or dirty in my life, she thought, flicking at a puddle of grey scum with a disgusted swipe of her hand.
"If you remain in there any longer, I will begin to worry about your wound becoming infected. That water looks as inviting as a low pond in midsummer."
Myrhil looked up at her mother, who was wrapping a coarsely woven bath sheet around herself. "It will be a small matter of cleaning it," she said. "Please do not drag me from this. Filthy it may be, but my bones are thankful."
"Even so, I will get a cloth and a basin of fresh water. We have some wine left. That should clean it adequately."
"A shameful use of spirits," Myrhil muttered under her breath as Laenilas left the room.
"Myrhil, where is the salve?" came her mother's voice. "I cannot find it."
Myrhil's lips pressed into a thin line and she sunk lower in the water. "Boromir. Boromir has it," she finally said.
"Boromir?" came the puzzled reply. "Why did he use it? He had only a shallow wound. It did not even require stitches."
"He. . .he brought it to me last night," Myrhil said with what she hoped was a disinterested air. "He said it would make the watch past faster if I was not irritated by the wound itching and burning."
Laenilas reappeared in the door and stared levelly at her daughter. "So, that is why you returned together this morning. He was tending your. . .hurts."
Myrhil tried not to look away, knowing that it would brand her guilty of something that was of no consequence, but her eyes darted to the side before she could check herself. "He brought it to me, that is all," she said weakly.
Only brief seconds passed, but Myrhil saw her mother's shrewd gaze discern so much more simply from reading the expressions that she tried so hard to suppress. "We did nothing," she put in. Curse her! she thought. I eluded her notice for so long with Belaród, but mere hours after a simple kiss with Boromir, she knows all and suspects the worst. Either she is more observant or I have become weary and careless. I do not desire another confrontation. Not here while I am naked and steeping in repulsive bath water. . .
"When you see him next, remind him of it," Laenilas said. "I have no more salve other than that jar. He has the Houses of Healing at his disposal." With that, she returned to the other room, a smile on her lips. Her thoughts this morning, of allowing her daughter to make and learn from her mistakes, had not been forgotten or replaced, but she was not above letting the girl know that little would escape her attention now. Though should another Belaród appear, she did not think she could remain completely silent. But, as she had told herself only the day before, Boromir was no Belaród.
Denethor sat surrounded by darkness and silence in another chamber in the Tower, a level above the throne room. Ensconced in a finely crafted chair at the head of a table like the one he had just left, he disd not move or make a sound. After leaving his sons, he had dismissed his secretary, declaring an end to the day's business. With that, he retreated from the main hall and slipped into this silent room, remaining here for he knew not how long. Day had dimmed and the sun had long ago lifted its warm blanket from the tower. All the rooms began to acquire the coolness of impending night.
He had not heard his sons' mirth, but even had their cheerful banter reached his ears, his mood would not have lightened. The news of Gorhend's death weighed as heavily on his mind as the orc attack so deep into Gondor's interior. He was quite angered at one, ambiguous about the other. The next orc found within Gondor's borders would suffer greatly for his comrades' audacity. But Gorhend. . . He was another matter.
It had been many years since he last saw that proud soldier, and the intervening time had placed a glad distance between him and one he cared never to see again. His sons could believe that he disliked the dead sergeant solely because they had displayed filial affection for him, but that was not entirely the reason. No, it extended further back than that. There were many men Denethor would prefer never set another foot inside his city, and though Gorhend certainly had not been as much of an irritant as that raggedy schemer Mithrandir, his face and name were always coupled in his mind with those of another man who, long ago, he had despised above all others.
Thorongil. What a rapturous disease that cursed man had caused! Denethor thought with a mixture of amusement and bitterness. It infected my soldiers and, above all, my own father.
Despite his attempts to forget, Denethor could not erase the memories of those pleased and proud smiles his father Ecthelion had bestowed not upon his own son, but rather some stranger from the north, a man of shadow and mystery. From the court of Thengel King this man had come, bearing little other than the clothes on his back and the sword at his side, yet he had forged such adulation for himself during his years in Minas Tirith as to make the Steward's heir tremble and shake in jealousy and suspicion.
The stranger from Rohan had possessed neither the golden hair of the Horse- lords, nor their manner. For all his rough appearance and garments, he bore himself with more grace than those of the Blood and commanded loyalty and respect from every soldier put under his command. Denethor knew such fame would have been his, had Time and Fate allowed him an open ground on which to build himself. With Thorongil beside him, however, it was a competition he was destined to lose. His opponent showed no desire to defeat him -- a maddening situation -- but, rather, only to do his duty and receive victory with affected modesty. Denethor's frustration led him to study his rival and as the years flowed into one another, bitterness and suspicion seized on the thought that Thorongil had come to Gondor not through mere accident, but by design.
But he had remained silent as the soldiers vied for Thorongil's attentions, commanding his own regiments with watchful eye and steady purpose. Gorhend had been one of his sergeants, until the favored stranger selected the hardiest and fiercest warriors to lead down the Anduin to Umbar with intent to cripple the Corsairs. Gorhend, certain of success and eager for promotion, had approached Thorongil personally, asking to be included. When Ecthelion decreed that Thorongil would have all latitude to carry out this mission, Denethor had no choice but to relinquish him to another's command. Gorhend's disloyalty burned his pride and ever since, he had had little liking for the man. It was only the need for Gondor to retain as many skilled warriors as they could that kept Denethor from sending Gorhend into whatever horizon suited him. This necessity had only caused the resentment to fester.
After this intrigue by Gorhend and several other men in his company, it was with thinly disguised pleasure when he discovered that Thorongil, after defeating the Corsairs, had returned north with his men as far as Pelargir and bade them farewell. The men sailed to Minas Tirith, dispirited and confused at their leader's abandonment of them in the flush of success. They delivered a note to Ecthelion written by the absent captain and reported that he had taken a boat across the Anduin and was last seen traveling toward Mordor. What had befallen the departed hero since, no one knew.
And I care not what happened to him, Denethor thought, bringing a hand down heavily on the table. He may return. He said as much in his farewell to my father. He left as a hero and he may well return as such. Should he do so, Boromir shall not suffer the jealousy and suspicion that I felt so harshly thirty years ago. For Thorongil shall not set one foot on the Pelennor Fields, not while I draw breath.
He remained sitting in the darkness for some time when he felt that familiar sensation pull at him. Slowly, his gaze drifted to the ceiling above. He had not been able to control Thorongil, but he could control that little stone up there in the chamber. Confined to this city and the center of power, he received reports from other regions through the eyes and words of others. But that stone. . . It let him see things for himself.
Rising to his feet, he made his way to the circular staircase with steady steps. He did not need to grasp in the dark like a man newly blind. He knew the path. The carved wooden rail felt warm and worn beneath his hand and he let his palm glide over it lightly as he climbed the stairs. Over the years, he had made many such treks. The darkness seemed to lessen as he ascended its height, as he drew closer to the small, inanimate counselor that opened so much of the world to him.