The days turned into weeks. Laenilas, who before had been so eager to press on with her journey when they set out from Lebennin, felt the fatigue of travel and tragedy come upon her with a suddenness that left her aching more than the harshest day of work over pot and tub. She did not linger in her bed or spend her waking hours bent with grief, but she viewed the prospect of walking among strangers with dread. She remembered all too well the heavy closeness of so many people on the busy streets and entering the Gondorian court in her rustic finery would make her prominent in a way she detested. With no small measure of happiness, she kept to herself and her thoughts. When she deemed herself ready, she would gladly embrace the world outside.
However, she willingly accompanied Boromir to the main barracks one day not long after they arrived. He had assembled a group of men scarred by battle or maimed in ways that made intense soldiering an impossible hardship, but the still rigorous, less deadly life of a herdsman was not beyond their skills or strength. They had stood before her, eight curious faces that ranged from the smoothness of youth to the hardened lines and crags that Gorhend and Cirien possessed. Boromir had desired her to speak to them, tell them what she expected and anything else she might wish to say.
"Your Captain has faith in you, otherwise you would not be standing here, selected for this task," she said. "I am grateful that you have accepted and I am certain that you shall keep that region safe as only soldiers of Gondor can." She let her gaze drift over the line of men. Despite their various injuries, they appeared fit and able to stand up against the Enemy, should it ever send another raiding party into the provinces. They would do well.
"You will find your new commander to be not unlike you," she continued. "Cirien once served in the ranks, just as you have up until today. He is fair and just and will treat you well if you work hard. It is a demanding life, but you already know of such things. Instead of a sword, you will be wielding a steady and patient hand on beasts that will eventually bear the friends you leave behind. Swift journey!"
The men bowed awkwardly to Laenilas and looked expectantly at their captain. Many of them had never been so far west and the real prospect of seeing new towns and sights pulled at their patience. Boromir grinned and swept his arm in the direction of the Great Gate. "Grab your horses and packs, lads, and be on your way. Should you encounter trouble, send the swiftest man back with word of it."
A scramble of men young and old left the barracks amid a scraping of boots on worn planks and Boromir watched them go with an expression of vague regret. Laenilas turned to leave and caught the fleeting disappointment on his face.
"Are you sorry to be losing your men?" she asked. "Or do you wish you could take the place of one of them?"
Boromir looked puzzled. "I hold no homesickness for Lebennin. I think I should be asking you that question."
Laenilas gave a flippant shrug. "Perhaps part of me does, but if so, I do not feel it. 'Eyes front,' I have told Myrhil. 'Forward. Never back.' I would not say such a thing if I did not believe it."
"No, I do not believe you would."
"I asked you that because you are laden with your gear," Laenilas went on, gesturing with her hand towards the Horn he wore at his waist and sweeping upwards to encompass the leathers, tunic, chain mail, cloak, sword and knife he carried. "You wear them well, but you seem weary. Riding the plains with a herd would seem peaceful work compared to what you do."
"The season has been quite hot, more so than a normal spring," Boromir explained. "That is to blame for any weariness you see."
Laenilas' eyes did not stray from his, her expression slightly skeptical, but she eventually nodded. "I have felt it," she said. "The warmth that has settled over this city. Even if I had not seen it, I would have felt the seasons change. The plains had a distinct scent to them with every turn of the season. It is no different here."
"Since your arrival, we have increased our patrols and slaughtered stray orcs as we find them," Boromir continued, "even though we did not decide on a full attack. We are determined to not let another party slip past the city unchallenged. When I am not leading a patrol, Faramir is. The strain has been great. Father and I have discussed strategy nightly."
"As indeed you must, but do not despair if the tide cannot be completely checked."
"I despair? Those are despairing words themselves, Laenilas."
Laenilas gave a small, amused grunt at Boromir's reproachful tone. "Gorhend fought against the same Enemy as you do now," she told him. "There are always those who will wish Gondor ill. My husband fought alongside your father and alongside Thorongil, both able and brave men, yet no one has been able to ensure permanent safety. Victories, certainly, but only temporary ones. In the darkest hours of the night, Gorhend would express doubt that the Enemy would ever be destroyed."
"No!" Boromir replied sharply. He intended his immediate response to ring with conviction, and so it did, but his gaze shifted to the ground and Laenilas perceived that disbelief and doubt lingered there, if only a little. "No," he said again. "We will have victory, total and complete. One day the Shadow will fall and we shall stand triumphant upon the field. The white banner of the Stewards will rise where the Enemy's standards now fly." His grey eyes met hers and she saw that he believed all of his uncertainty had been vanquished. "Victory shall be ours, Laenilas, whether by my hand or another's."
She did not answer, but instead reached up a hand and brushed aside a lock of hair that had fallen over his brow. He shifted uncomfortably under her caress and she smiled absently. She could not stay her hand from making such gestures, though she was not his mother or nurse. The longer she knew him, the more she felt that something about him compelled her to see the sorrow and strain that he bore silently. His face was marked with the worries of a soldier, the same that her husband had carried for all the years that she had known him, but there were others, too. Deeper marks, and only beginning to take hold of his features, but they would never fade. Soldiers fought for their country, certainly, but foremost for their lives. For this young warrior, it was quite the opposite.
"And so shall it pass," she replied. "You are so young and the fire to defend your home burns so hotly within you," she continued, her voice heavy with regret. "Be sure it does not consume you to the exclusion of all else."
Boromir retreated from her slightly and smothered a relieved sigh when her hand returned to her side. "That is my duty," he said. "It simplifies all matters. Gondor will come first, now and always."
"I am sure it shall, but do not spend all your years intent on everyone's life but your own. 'Tis not a way to spend one's youth. Take pleasure where you can, my child, for you shall surely regret it when you are old and bent, or breathing your last on a blood-soaked field."
Boromir could not find suitable words to reply, but he found it unnecessary when Laenilas turned and began to leave the barracks. He escorted her back to the tunnel that led to the citadel and she returned to her small cottage while he left the city on another patrol. Since that day, she had rarely ventured from the cozy domicile.
The cottage Faramir had housed them in was comfortable, not to mention peaceful, set as it was away from the White Tower and other official buildings that saw much activity. The cottage's insignificant size also seemed to aid in the peace Laenilas enjoyed, for it tended to escape the attention of the casual passerby. Servants came with bath water and food, but they did not linger in accordance with Faramir's orders.
Two weeks after their arrival, Laenilas asked the girl who delivered their supper to relay a message to Faramir that she wished to see him. Later that evening, he arrived with a soft knock on the door. Laenilas bade him enter and sit at the small table as she took the opposite seat. Faramir was very attentive as he waited for her to speak.
"I apologize for taking unseemly advantage of your hospitality, my lord," she began. "I realize that we have been here longer than what I intended. I certainly did not plan this--"
"Lady Laenilas, please," Faramir said, holding up a hand. "You have not taken advantage. We are most delighted to have you here although we wish it were under more favorable circumstances. Rather, I should apologize for neglecting you so shamefully. It was my intention to escort you around the city or command someone to carry out that task, but my attention, and that of my brother, has been quite preoccupied of late."
"The orc attack."
"Just so. I have but newly returned from the south and Boromir has taken a scouting party north, but you already know of that."
"Yes, Myrhil keeps me informed. She is seemingly determined to keep herself apprised of all military matters here. I would not like her to become bothersome, however."
Faramir smiled. "Boromir is quite capable of fending off her questions, but he is not interested in doing so. I have learned much from him, so it can only benefit your daughter to do the same."
Laenilas nodded thoughtfully. Myrhil had been spending many hours within the city, exploring on her own and in the company of Boromir, his brother, or that soldier, Beregond, who had been with Faramir the day of their arrival. She was not surprised that Myrhil showed greatest pleasure when she spent time, however brief, with Faramir's brother.
"Still, I apologize all the same," she said. "It was foolish of me to expect her to be content remaining here, as I have. Truth be told, my lord, I have had little desire to emerge from this snug cottage, but I know that I shall be feeling constrained within a few short days. My spirit has benefited from this rest."
"If I may say so, I have been concerned about your reticence." Faramir's eyes brightened with amusement. "I was beginning to wonder if Boromir's impressions of you were false."
Laenilas surprised herself by letting forth with a hearty laugh. "The stories you must have heard about me!" she exclaimed. "I am certain that your esteemed brother painted me as a harridan, is that not so?" Before Faramir could reply, she added, "He would have been partially truthful, I confess, for my tongue does have a sharp edge." She smiled sweetly. "But have I not been flawless in my agreeability here?"
"Certainly," he replied, returning her smile. "I truly am glad that you are here, though the circumstances which brought you are regrettable." He stopped and cleared his throat in discomfort as he realized that he had mentioned this before. "I am sorry."
Laenilas looked at him, brow creased in puzzlement, but her expression softened when she realized to what he referred. "Think no more on what you say, Faramir," she said. "Talk of it has ceased to cut me as close as it once did."
"Then if it would not pain you--" He paused and Laenilas saw that he was contemplating something, his expression uncertain.
"My lord?" she prompted. "What do you fear will grieve me?"
"I--I had not seen Gorhend in many years," he continued. "My only news of him was from Boromir, and he and your husband only discussed war and the business of horses." He paused again and saw that Laenilas's head was inclined towards him in expectant curiosity. "Would it hurt you overly much if you could tell me of him these past years?"
Laenilas was silent as she pondered his request. "I am not certain what I could tell you that would be of interest," she finally said. "I was but his wife. . ."
"Then you knew him as something other than a soldier. That is all I ever knew." His eyes, nearly a mirror of his soul, spoke a silent plea.
She rose from her bench and rounded the table to sit beside him, looking upon his fair face in wonder. What was this quality both brothers possessed that made her wish to speak so openly to them about Gorhend? Perhaps it was the love they bore for him. It was honest and open with no hint that their affection hinged on receiving something in return. In that moment, she found herself comparing it to Myrhil's affection and how, up to the hour of Gorhend's death, her daughter had been intent on making amends in order to secure her inheritance. Nor had Larhend loved his father selflessly. Knowing that everything would be his, he had demanded more than what Gorhend would willingly give before its time. It would have doubtlessly been the same situation had Faramir and Boromir been our children, she thought sadly. Families are doomed to strife.
But such ties of blood did not exist between them and there was no cause for rancor. No desire for land, horseflesh, or the freedom from filial obligations came between these two boys and her dead husband. If revealing details of Gorhend's simply country life would please Faramir, then she could not bring herself to refuse him.
She took his hand in hers and clasped it tightly. Her head began to swim with tales and memories, all wishing to be told. There were so many!
"By the stars," she whispered, "where shall I begin?"
Considering Myrhil's obvious contentment to remain within Minas Tirith, Laenilas did not expect to see regret in her child's eyes when she announced they would perhaps prolong their stay for several weeks more. Though not disappointed, she was noticeably curious as to the reason for her mother's change of plans.
"I thought you were eager to go to Rohan," she said. "Why the delay? Have you not rested fully?"
"Oh, I have that. Fully and completely, but I think I was perhaps a bit hasty and single-minded in my plans before we departed. The way is clear for us to proceed at our leisure and I think that leisure is what we must take while it is before us." She chewed her finger in thought. "Though I greatly desire to see Rohan, there is nothing that forces us to arrive there immediately and I ponder daily what does await us in Edoras. I cannot be certain that we will not find ourselves adrift to make our way as best we can. Théoden will surely see to our comfort in small measure, but as for full hospitality, I think it too much to take for granted. So, let us seize pleasure where we may."
"Why not just say that we will take advantage of our kindly hosts as long as it suits us?"
Laenilas shook her head in resignation. "I thought that I possessed little subtlety, but you lack it completely! 'Tis a wonder that you have not become known throughout the city as an unmannered bumpkin!"
"I do not open my mouth as much as you think I do," Myrhil retorted. "I adore this city and, were Edoras not our destination, I should be content to remain here indefinitely."
"Aye, I suspect you would. I cannot say I fault you for thinking so. Minas Tirith does have many attractions." Laenilas allowed herself a smile. "I daresay you would join the army if it were possible, serving under the command of a certain Captain."
Since the night of their arrival, beginning with the partial revelation as Myrhil had lain in her washtub, Laenilas and her daughter had come to an understanding about what had occurred during the watch that night with Boromir. Finding her mother's discerning, yet silent, gaze maddening, Myrhil had divulged further details, if only to prove that nothing had been amiss. It was obvious that the girl was not pleased at Laenilas's knowledge, and the periodic teasing her mother indulged in was an irritant at best, but she maintained there was nothing shameful in what she had done. In fact, once Laenilas had her prized salve back in her own hands, the matter was of little importance other than a source of amusement at her daughter's expense. Myrhil was free to enjoy Boromir's company and she did so, gladly.
"I would happily serve him with my sword in the ranks, but we both know it is a ridiculous notion," she replied without a trace of humor.
"Faramir told me that you were continuing your practice with the sword and you have begun to learn the knife," Laenilas continued. "He says that you handle both well."
"He is a fine sparring partner and he wields a sword more gently than his brother." Myrhil sounded relieved, though grudgingly. "My shoulder is still weak and last week Boromir brought me to my knees. He said that he deliberately softened the blow and my pride still bleeds from his words. I hope within a month such will never occur again."
Laenilas pointed towards the door, her finger rigid. "Go back to the Houses of Healing. They have done much for you, but not enough. If they are as talented as their reputation proclaims, then by month's end you will be able to withstand those soft blows." She shook her head again. "Sticks and swords! With that sling, you already throw rocks. I am proud of you, girl, but please vow that you will never pick up a lance or bow. I wish to travel with my daughter, not a walking arsenal!"
Myrhil left the cottage, mind at work about what weapon to learn next. She despised feeling so petty, but she got a fair amount of pleasure from irritating her mother, as did her mother from mentioning Boromir in such sweet tones. Perhaps it was the closeness of the cottage and her mother's constant presence whenever she entered, which may be why she spent most of her waking hours in the city or out on the Pelennor Fields. Summer was encroaching upon Gondor and, after a harsh winter on the plains, the thought of remaining enclosed within four walls ran counter to every impulse she felt.
She skirted the citadel wall, the White Tower to her left. She had only been in the fabled structure once, when Faramir took her there and presented her to his father in order to thank him for his hospitality, a formality that she had been deputed to perform. Laenilas had adamantly remained behind in the cottage and while Myrhil was, at the time, angered at her mother's apparent attack of fragility, that feeling did not last long when she came face to face with Gondor's ruler. As she looked upon the stern and stony features of Denethor, she could not help but feel that, had her mother joined her, the encounter would have been neither smooth nor successful. Denethor's very mien stated quite plainly that he preferred to have the upper hand in whatever congress he engaged and, considering Laenilas' penchant for having the last word, discord would have been the inevitable result. As it was, Myrhil felt she only emerged with a small measure of goodwill in her wake because she largely remained silent, allowing Faramir to talk in what she was quickly recognizing was the artful and skilled manner she would forever lack.
Still, she could not rid herself of the feeling that Denethor disliked her, though what she had done to earn that ill will, other than prolonging her stay, she could not specify. As she had left the Tower, she wondered if the reason why Laenilas remained behind was because of this same impression she had received. Perhaps her mother had once met him and did not wish to repeat the experience. However, she did not remember Laenilas ever mentioning she had exchanged words with the Steward of Gondor and she had not thought to ask.
She dismissed these thoughts as she passed the tower and continued onward to the tunnel that would lead her to the next level of the city and the Houses of Healing. Her shoulder was mending quickly and without much pain ever since she had first come to the attention of the healers, but not fast enough to suit her. The physician she had last seen bade her be patient and not exert herself, advice that she regularly ignored in her desire to continue her arms practice. Though Faramir had admonished her only the other day for her careless treatment of her own health, Boromir's reaction was one of amusement, almost approval, and she was similarly light about her delayed recovery.
Ah, it mattered not what anyone thought. The wound was still angry and required time to fully mend. It demanded attention and rest. She would not give it the latter, but the Houses of Healing and their immense inventory of herbs, lotions and remedies could provide the former. Since her first session with a healer, she had acquired several fragrances about her as salve after salve was spread onto the wound, not all of them pleasant. What was one more?
When she entered the vast collection of buildings, she was told the healer who had tended her previously was preoccupied with other patients. She agreed to wait. One of his assistants directed her to a room that adjoined the man's study and as she entered, she was surprised to see Faramir sitting there.
"Are you sick?" she asked.
Faramir smiled and she noticed that his cheeks turned a faint shade of red, as though he wished she were not there. He closed the small book he was reading after marking the page with a blue ribbon. "No, not exactly, but I know someone who is." He pointed at her. "You."
"I? I am not sick. Simply mending."
"I must disagree. You have a disease up here." He tapped his finger against his temple. "It is called stubbornness. Or deafness. Either way, if that is not cured now, nothing else ever will."
Myrhil crossed the room and took a seat beside him, her expression guarded. "So you have come here to conspire against me, enlisting a healer or two to join forces and bend me to their will. That is something your brother would never do."
"Boromir is not always mindful of his own health," he said. "He is a soldier, not a healer. He dispatches life. He does not preserve it."
Myrhil's eyes hardened. "He saves the lives of his men. He helped save mine. Healers lose their patients as well, my lord."
"Agreed, but Boromir receives wounds and presses on, regardless of how he feels. It is through luck alone that he has not suffered greatly for it. I would not like you to be one of the unfortunates."
"This is about my father, isn't it?" she asked shrewdly, leaning forward with her arms resting on her legs in a manner unseen among the finer ladies of Minas Tirith. "Both you and your brother help me because in a way you are honoring him. In fact, you are intent on preserving me."
Faramir said nothing. He looked down at the slim volume in his hands, his fingers running absently over the gilded letters on the cover. They were marks that she could not understand, but she paid it no attention beyond that brief observation.
"It is," she affirmed. "I sense it about Boromir as well. From the first time he had me pick up a sword against him, he has been insistent that I bear whatever he chooses to put on me. He says I need to be able to meet whatever I might find before me and come away from it with my life intact." She had not been looking at him as she spoke, her eyes fixed on the book and his hands, but now she lifted her gaze and sought his. "It is so very odd, but when he said that, when he told me I needed to be stronger than I ever thought possible, I swore I could hear my father." Swallowing noticeably, she finished, "I deem myself fortunate to have your concern. I only hope I can repay it in some small measure."
Faramir shook his head. "No, no, you need not fear a debt. And, should our paths ever cross again and one of us is in need--" He shrugged his shoulders and smiled. "Well, we will do what we can for the other with no thought for who owes whom. Satisfactory?"
Myrhil considered his words and finally nodded her head, straightening in her chair only to slouch backwards. "Satisfactory." She sighed and brought her hands to her eyes. "Can we not speak of it anymore? Perhaps it is still the wound or simply the arms practice, but I am weary."
"Certainly. I shall abandon my plot to turn your thoughts to your health, now that you know of it. Here." He held out the small book to her. "I will leave you, but this will be entertaining until the healer can tend to you."
She looked at the bizarre letters and waved her hand. "No, I cannot read that. It looks like nothing I have ever seen."
"Ah, that is Sindarin. You do not know it?"
Myrhil looked at him blankly. "Should I have? Who speaks it?"
"It is the language that influenced the tongue you speak." He opened the book to the page he had marked. "See? On one side is Sindarin, the ancient language of Gondor and still spoken by the elves. The other side is Westron."
"What is the book about?" she asked, making no move to take it.
Faramir smiled. "Read for yourself." He held it closer and she took it after a moment's hesitation. "This page contains one of my favorite poems," he went on. "'Tis the first thing I ever memorized. Mother had both Boromir and I recite rhymes like this to cheer her."
Myrhil looked at the page in silence. The image of Boromir as a child reciting a silly rhyme would have made her laugh, had Faramir not continued sitting there expectantly. She wished he would leave, but she would see this through as best she could. Venturing an uneasy smile, she turned the page.
"You did not like it?" he asked.
"What?" She flipped back a page.
"That poem." He affected a hurt expression. "What a blow to my childhood memories to have you pass that by without a word!"
The uneasy smile found its way to her lips once again. "Ah, yes, it was very enjoyable."
Faramir's puzzled gaze went from her to the book and back again. "Read it to me," he said finally.
"W-what?"
"'Tis a simple poem," he said quietly. "Please read it."
Myrhil felt the sudden urge to snap the book shut and shove it into his startled hands, but she instead placed her finger on the page under the first line and held it there for what seemed like ages.
"At least you have your finger on the Westron translation." He took the book from her. "You cannot read, can you?"
Myrhil exhaled loudly as she felt the pressure lift from her. "It appears all your learning has taught you to spy a liar," she said, trying to keep her tone light. In truth, this revelation of her ignorance to one of such high station humiliated her. "In my defense, I know my letters and I can read some and write just as much. Words in my father's ledger, mostly. Inventory words. Barrels, bushels, grain, horses, nails. Things like that, but as for. . ." She gestured helplessly at the book. "I would have as much success reading a book of orc poetry as what you have there!"
He laughed. "Orc poetry. That would be a fine read!" She expected him to be snide about her obvious lack of schooling, but he simply held the book between them and put his finger under the first line as she had done earlier. "Then I will begin to teach you. Boromir shall instruct you on the field and I in the library. Satisfactory?" Though it seemed he was asking for her permission, his eyes held no such willingness to accept a negative answer. He wished to have her learn, and learn she would.
Indeed, he did not wait for her to reply, but instead began to read what was on the page. Each line was spoken slowly and in a clear voice, his finger guiding her eyes and ears.
Learn now the names of Gondor's Fiefs
Ever-faithful friends in need:
In mighty Anórien Elendil sleeps
While Eastern watch the Stewards keep.
The Moon walks in Isildur's realm:
Fair and forsaken Ithilien.
Lossarnach, in flowered vales,
Will shelter keep while War's wind wails.
Cross five streams to reach the haven
Of Pelargir, in flowered Lebennin.
High in the mountains of Lamedon
The Heir will call and Dead will come.
O'er Belfalas flies Ship and Swan;
Land of the Prince, where Elves have gone;
One hundred leagues along the sand,
Is Anfalas, peaceful Langstrand.
Seven remain, two gone, Alas!
Calenardhon and drown'd Tol Falas.
"You just taught me about Gondor. I recognized the names and some other words besides." She smiled broadly and pointed to one name after another. "I have read so seldom, and what I have read were practical things, not written in a way such as this. 'Tis beautiful." Her eyes continued to stare intently at the verses. "You must tell me more about them," she said thoughtfully, her finger drifting from one verse to the next. "There are many stories of bravery and valor in each one, I hope."
Faramir shook his head wordlessly at her appetite for all things military. He did not know if she truly was of such warlike bent, or if she was merely emulating his brother. Her admiration for Boromir was obvious and he suspected she was mildly infatuated with him, which was to be expected, considering what had occurred in the small vale of Lebennin. Boromir had been there to aid them in a trying time, dealing out death and, as she had pointed out, saving lives -- namely hers. His brother had never lacked for admirers and Myrhil was simply another one of them. However, her steadily growing ease with handling weaponry bespoke of a genuine enthusiasm for the soldierly trade and wielding of arms, rather than the feigned interest of the smitten. Perhaps she has interest in learning the bow, he thought.
Footsteps approached and Myrhil looked up to see the healer standing before them, his expression grim. "Ah, I see you have returned for another miraculous potion so that you may continue to throw your bruised body about like a sack of grain," he said, not attempting to conceal his disapproval.
Myrhil looked over at Faramir and bit her lip in mock fear. "You should go," she whispered. "I fear I shall be lectured for quite some time."
He stood and closed the book. "Boromir will be away for several days yet and I feel this good man here will be quite emphatic about you altering the way you spend your time." The good man in question nodded and continued to regard Myrhil with a dour look. Faramir smiled. "Well, we shall obey his orders and you will leave the practice field behind for a few days. It will not affect your progress overly much. Am I correct?"
Myrhil nodded, knowing that what he proposed was reasonable and what must be done, though she would prefer to continue her sword practice. She needed to rest and not take two paces backward in her recovery for every step forward. The prospect of spending several days in a musty library did not set her pulse racing, but there were definitely worse things she could be forced to do.
What they were, however, she could not name.
Note: The poem is "Gondor Fiefs Nursery Rhyme" by Nancy Brooke, a marvelous little inspiration. I have used it here with permission.