Though Myrhil had felt upon Boromir's departure from the city that the next several days would be intolerable, she did not find them so. Her routine changed little, apart from an increased tendency to fall deep in thought about the absent Captain. Faramir seemed hopeful that she might turn her attention back to the library for want of his brother's company, and on the second day, she did indeed spend an entire afternoon with him in a small study nestled in the back of the archive. He had found a firsthand account of the Battle of Nanduhirion, fought some two and one-half centuries past between Dwarves and Orcs, and thought that in an odd way it would lift her spirits.
"Odd?" she replied when Faramir revealed his reasoning. "Odd? Do I seem that strange to you?"
Faramir said nothing, but his smile seemed to answer her question. "My opportunities for leisure are sparse," he continued, "but I have chosen to spend these precious hours today sharing something that I knew you would enjoy."
"Rest assured my gratitude is properly expansive," she replied, leaning over the tattered scrolls to begin reading the elegant, fading words describing that bloody struggle.
But that had been yesterday and the tales of valorous deeds of people long dead could only occupy her mind for so long. The next afternoon she was forced to stand rigid and patient while a regiment of seamstresses hovered over every limb with their shears, needles and pins. Laenilas had been insistent that they both have new gowns should they ever find themselves in a formal setting with the Rohirrim and Myrhil had reluctantly submitted to this command. Faramir, ever willing to lend assistance to Gorhend's widow, had instructed a dressmaker to measure the two women and suggest suitable fabric for these new creations. After some harsh negotiation over price, Laenilas was able to reach an agreement for two gowns and the third afternoon of Boromir's absence found Myrhil with little else to think about as she bore the women's interminable stitching and alterations.
When her feat of imitating any one of the numerous statues within the walls of Minas Tirith was completed, she abandoned the women to their task and entered the Citadel with no small measure of relief. The sun was still well above the horizon and had not yet acquired that intense golden glow that signaled the closing hours of the day. The city still baked under the merciless heat and the Pelennor was blanketed in dust and haze. An unimpeded view of the surroundings was impossible and the men on watch had lately complained of the fruitlessness of their long labors stationed on the Embrasure. The Rammas Echor to the east was partially obscured by the humid pall, but there was confidence that the Enemy would not move so audaciously under such oppressive conditions.
Despite the limited visibility and Boromir's far distance from the city, rendering even the slightest glimpse impossible, Myrhil walked out onto the jutting spur of rock and announced herself formally to the guard on watch. Permission to pass was granted and she took a position beside him on the battlement, staring silently on all that lay before her.
"Myrhil, you look haggard," said the soldier sympathetically.
"I am, Beregond. I am."
"I did not see you practicing on the Pelennor or in the armory today. Other things were more important?"
Myrhil turned and gave him an amused look of reproach. "Important to some, but not to me. I would indeed have fancied a coat of mail rather than one of silk, but that will not present a demure portrait for my mother's kin. She desires I appear something I am not."
Beregond nodded, but said nothing. Myrhil had long since noted that, though Beregond was among the friendliest of the soldiers she had met, he spoke with great thrift. Once ebullient welcomes were extended to a stranger, he then settled contentedly into unspoken amity with them, rarely revisiting the mundane greetings and pleasantries. At least such had been the case with her and she found his companionable silences comforting in a city that oftentimes seemed to thrive on a diet of endless, bustling cacophony. If his reticence was partly due to her being a woman, she did not feel his distress.
Silence had passed between them for several long minutes before Myrhil spoke. "Beregond, may I ask you something?"
"You may ask." When she seemed not to have heard his little joke or found the humor lacking, he cleared his throat and added, "I will try to answer, whatever it may be."
Myrhil leaned forward on the parapet and lazily kicked at the battlement, her toe bouncing gently off the stone. "If you were given the choice of remaining in the city or. . .leaving for unknown and perhaps exciting lands, would you do it? Would you go?" She tried to make the question sound casual, but her ears told her that her voice had sounded anxious.
Beregond continued to stare out over the Pelennor, as though her question had fallen on deaf ears, but Myrhil saw his expressions flow from one thought to another and knew he was mulling her words. "It would depend on many things," he began, "but. . ." He stopped and his head turned to look down upon one house among thousands in the lower reaches of the city. "Down there," he said, gesturing with a nod of his head. "That is my reason for staying. Ninmíriel and little Bergil. With them to consider, the choice would be clear."
"But for those of us who have no betrothed or children?" Myrhil pressed. "Imagine for one minute, Beregond, that you are a free man again. Friends, yes; but no wife or child to sway you. Would you not desire to journey to lands unknown to you and see all that you have only heard about or dreamed of?"
Beregond turned and smiled imperceptibly. "Do you wish to be convinced to leave here or to remain?" he asked. "I am not learned in the manner of my lord Faramir, but some things do not require wisdom to see."
"My mind has swung to and fro on it," she replied. "I have not settled upon a firm answer. I thought I had a few days ago, but I am not so sure now. It is not a matter to be decided lightly!"
"Then perhaps rather than deciding by mere whim, you should consider necessity," Beregond offered. "Go where you are needed." He gestured to the city beneath them. "I am needed here, but not only because of Ninmíriel and Bergil. Even if we had never wed and Bergil had never come about, I would still be needed here. I am a soldier. This city is a city of soldiers and there can never be enough of them. So here lies my purpose and so here I shall remain."
"Could that reasoning hold true for me, do you think?" Myrhil asked.
"Do I think that you will ever be able to serve as I do?" he replied. "Is that what you ask?"
"That I will ever be allowed? Yes."
"No," Beregond answered gently, as though to soften the blow of this wretched truth. "No, I do not think you ever would."
Myrhil sighed. "It is as I feared. Boromir will not let me. He has said as much, though not directly." She tried to muster a laugh, but it only came as half-hearted. "He made me promise to not follow him on his mission to the Rohirrim. As if I would do anything so foolish and stupid! But it is very telling. He would not consider me joining a small escort. His opinion on joining an army and fighting an enemy host requires no guessing."
Beregond nodded. "So there you have it."
"So there I do. From what you know of me, Beregond, speak truly what you think of me staying in this city with only arms practice to occupy me. Practice that one day will have an end, and no use for it once it is over. What would I do afterwards?" Before Beregond could reply, she added, "And one can only read so many scrolls and books. What would be left? Tending the sick? Waiting for our Captain to return from his forays and patrols to mark the passage of my days?"
"But does Rohan offer anything different?" Beregond prompted.
"That is the mystery. I do not know. I cannot know until I see it, until I find out what it has to offer or what I can offer it in turn. Does Théoden King need me there? Is there the necessity of which you speak? My heart tells me that it may be no different than what I can expect here."
"But as you said, you do not know." He turned his attention once more to the plains and horizon, allowing Myrhil to ponder for as long as she wished while he repeated his patrol around the Embrasure.
The sun sank steadily in the sky and the tower behind them became a spike of flame as the rays intensified the color of the stone. Below came the sounds and smells of supper and Beregond fancied that he could smell the unique mixture of herbs Ninmíriel always used in her rabbit stew. His watch would end soon and he began to measure off the time in his mind. But his concentration was interrupted by seven softly spoken words, uttered in a mixed tone of resignation and hope.
"Embrace me, Rohan, as I embrace you."
"Farewell, Myrhil."
"I have not left yet!" she retorted, this time laughing spontaneously. "And for all this hard thinking, I am going to the nearest tavern and have the largest drink they offer."
She began to leave and was nearly a third of the way down the Embrasure towards the citadel when she stopped and looked over her shoulder at Beregond. "Tell me something, my friend. You are from Lossarnach. Why did you come to Minas Tirith?"
Beregond smiled. "Adventure, Myrhil. Looking for adventure."
Myrhil did not have far to walk to find a place to slake her thirst. On the sixth level of the city facing Mount Mindolluin was a large tavern. It was set against the lower wall and nestled between larger buildings on either side, one being a storehouse for ale and various other spirits. Combined with the shadow cast by Mindolluin in the afternoon, the tavern was always looked over by those seeking it for the first time. Boromir had brought her here on a few occasions over the past several weeks and the ale was among the best she had ever drunk.
The large, heavy door was blocked open by an empty cask in an effort to keep the room airy, or at least as airy as a room full of sweating soldiers and tradesmen on a stifling day could ever be. Most of the chairs and long tables were occupied, but a few small tables on the outer reaches of the room still stood empty and she made her way over to one near the far corner. A serving maid soon appeared and asked her pleasure as she wiped her hands on an increasingly dirty rag.
"Ale. Large tankard, please."
"Odd to be seeing you in here without the Captain," the girl commented playfully. "I hear he's out helping the Rohan folk."
Myrhil nodded. "You will see him again shortly," she said, adding with a grin, "so all of you girls here can contrive to bump into him like you do every time."
"It be a technique that works without fail," came the maid's rejoinder. "Most of us are pleased to get a smile or a pinch. I wager you've tried it yourself with him a time or two." Seeing Myrhil's knowing smile, she laughed. "Large tankard it is. Back soon with it."
The girl left and Myrhil rested her chin in a hand, staring vacantly down at the tabletop. The wood had begun to split in several places and she ran a short fingernail along the separation in the grain. The noise around her, distinct and loud when she arrived after the relative peace of the street outside, softened as it became a seamless din. Here and there, voices rose above the monotonous clamor and she listened to them with little interest, but with no company of her own, she attached herself to these conversations from a distance. A man to her right complained of a flour merchant putting his thumb on the scale and cheating him of a copper coin. Another one could be heard recounting some manner of tale and Myrhil assumed it was of an obscene nature, gauging by the raucous laughter that followed. She smiled to herself and wished she had heard the details.
Her attention to her surroundings, however half-hearted, was distracted by the arrival of her tankard. Eagerly, she took a long draught from the brimming crockery and wiped her lips with the back of her hand. As she let the liquid settle comfortably in her stomach, conversations around the room returned to her ears but none seemed particularly compelling. Bored, she rested an elbow on the table and propped up her head by resting her cheek in the palm of her hand. She was about to close her eyes when she heard a man growl about "that cursed tavern keeper in Pelargir."
Myrhil felt her skin prickle at the words, though there were dozens of tavern keepers in Pelargir. Still, Othil's face and uncertain fate leaped to the front of her mind and she remained in her slouched posture, though she was tensely alert.
"Speaking ill of the dead serves no purpose," another voice said.
"If he'd agreed to the demands, then he'd not be feeding the worms now, would he?"
Again, the growl. Myrhil concluded they sat at the table a short distance behind her, judging by the closeness of the voices and their low pitch. When she entered, she had taken no notice of who flanked her but she did not wish to venture a glance over her shoulder, though she burned to do so. Every bit of her was concentrated on the two men behind her, to such an extent that she believed she could hear them draw every breath, every scrape of a hand or foot against table and floor.
"I need to leave tonight," the other voice said, tiredly. "Is there a message you want me to deliver?"
"I won't have the message for a while yet, but I can safely say I know what it will be."
"Let's have it, then."
"Proceed with the agreed mark. Success is certain with this one. Ambition overruled sense last time, despite my warnings, and none returned. We cannot risk it again so far from our center."
"I still say that was because the lad refused to continue aiding us. A fine time for a sudden attack of noble conscience. I would have killed him had he shown the courage to withdraw in person, but Fate left that task to others." The tired voice acquired an angry edge that rivaled the other man's growl in deadliness.
"Speaking ill of the dead?" the growled voice mocked. "Whether it was that or the distance they had to cross, I will argue against any more forays into Lebennin, particularly near that river. It is too far west-"
Myrhil heard no more. The little amount of ale that was in her stomach rose up in her throat and she tried to swallow it again, but the bitter bile made her begin to cough. She brought a hand to her mouth as the spasms passed and regained her breath. Her entire body had broken into a sweat as the words from behind her mounted in dreaded portent, only to crash against her furiously with that final remark. She felt ill, terrified, and betrayed all at once. Betrayed by her own kind. Men conspiring against Men, working with the Enemy.
And the lad who had aided them? Belaród? Had he betrayed her in a way she never could have imagined? Looking down at her hand that rested on the table, she saw it trembling, the skin flushed a bright red and ridged with veins engorged with frantically coursing blood. She tried to clench it to stop the tremors, but there was no strength in it. She had felt stronger lying prostrate on the table under her mother's needle than she did now.
She tried to wait, hoping that the two men would rise and leave. Then she could mark their features as they passed and report all that she knew to Faramir. Her nerves jangled madly as the minutes stretched on. She tried to hang onto anything else they said, but part of her would not allow it for fear of what else she might overhear. Only a few words met her ears from each exchange, making no sense, and she took odd solace in that ignorance, wishing that the matter had forever remained enshrouded in it.
A heated argument had erupted at the long table to her right and she could not help but hear every single word uttered. The man cheated by the flour merchant had seen the swindler enter the tavern and was angrily demanding his money back. The merchant taunted him for being a fool and professed shock that he would ever play such a trick. Sides were taken and the confrontation scaled threateningly. The suffocating, rank heat inside the tavern, aggravated by the sweltering summer outside, was making tempers shorter by the minute.
When a tankard flew through the air, the entire room exploded with shouts, punches, kicks and any object that came readily to hand. More tankards followed suit, striking walls, ceiling beams and heads. Some people rushed for the door, shoving their way past the brawlers to escape. A few were dragged unwillingly into the fray and fought as viciously to free themselves as the others who had begun the uproar.
Myrhil decided to take advantage of the distraction and looked over at the two men, keeping the lower half of her face masked by her shoulder. Their table was wedged into the corner and it was so dim that it was hard to discern their features. They were both avidly watching the fight, but before she could completely turn her head back, one of them noticed her and met her gaze, his eyes glinting in a stray beam of light, reflecting a mixture of caution and curiosity.
Myrhil felt a surge of panic, but she continued the gesture without haste, using all the strength and presence of mind she possessed. She could not venture another glance without truly endangering herself. Unfortunately, she would be as ignorant of their appearance as she had been before.
All thoughts flew from her mind when she saw a wayward chair hurtling through the air towards her from the brawl. With a hoarse scream, she slid to the floor and crouched under the table, her knees striking against her chin. Wood splintered on the wall above her and soon the contents of the tankard spilled over the table's edge, soaking her arm, running down her back, and pooling all around her.
Two pairs of legs rushed past her and she scrambled out from under her shelter, dripping with ale. A boot immediately treaded on her hand and she struck out with her foot in an attempt to shove the oblivious brawler aside. He tumbled and fell onto her lower body, pinning her to the floor.
It was as though the orc had attacked her all over again. She kicked, jabbed and shoved with all her might, trying to free herself. Calling the hapless soul every name she could think of, she wriggled free and plunged through the entangled mass, climbing over some and dodging under others. She tried to keep the two men within sight, but their strength and bulk made their passage easier than hers. When she reached the door, body aching and bruised, she staggered out into the street and frantically looked left and right.
They were gone.
When Laenilas woke, there was only a brief moment before she felt the close heat of the small room wrap its unwelcome self around her. Kicking the coverlet away, she sat on the edge of the bed, inwardly grumbling about the oppressive evening. Even sleep could not spare one from this unpleasantness, at least not for an entire night.
She straightened. From the bed on the other side of the room, a mere ten feet away, there was not a sound. No breathing; no sleepy movements from Myrhil. The window was of no aid, for the moon was now in its dark phase. She had no method to guess the time. But it felt like many hours had passed since sunset.
Myrhil would have no reason to remain out in the city so late. Boromir was not here so this was Myrhil's one and only bed. It was not in Laenilas' nature to be so alarmed at a simple thing like a child's periodic absence, but she had known too many absences of late, permanent and sudden. Being completely alone was a state she did not wish to experience. Not yet.
She stood and retrieved her gown from the foot of the bed. She pulled it on over her nightdress, tugged a shawl over her shoulders, and left the cottage, making her way towards the Tower. She did not know where else to begin her search.
A guard at the entrance proved ignorant when asked of Myrhil's whereabouts. He suggested that Beregond might know, but that he had returned to his family for the evening. "But I will make inquiries, my lady," he offered. "Please remain here and I shall return shortly with some helpful news." With that, he opened the door and gestured her inside, closing it behind her.
Laenilas ventured ahead several paces, her head turning from left to right as she went. Great sconces were mounted on the walls along the passage, tapers lit. Until now, she had evaded this place, made excuses, and expressed no desire to look upon it again. She was no stranger to painful memories and these, however distant, still stung with a bite of such fresh immediacy she wondered if indeed as many years had passed as she thought. Was it truly the year the calendar said? Or was it again the verdant days of her youth when she had spent the spring months with her mother in Gondor's fairest city?
The hall had not changed much, intensifying this sensation. Care had been taken to maintain its stark splendor, even in times of trial. Other parts of the city had acquired a ragged appearance, but not the Tower. It would never fade or diminish even remotely. Yes, it was as she remembered, though perhaps more austere, now that a Steward of similar temperament carried the rod of office. Ecthelion had not been averse to a bright tapestry or two hanging on the walls, but the ones she recalled no longer occupied their places. Stone and metal, as it always had been, with nary a beam or panel to interrupt.
She paused outside the tall metal door that opened into the great hall. There was no reason to progress further. If the soldier returned and could not find her, two women would be lost and a tedious, confusing farce would no doubt ensue. She turned to retrace her steps, but she let her eyes linger on the door for one second too long. Reluctant indifference transformed into curious desire and she pressed her palm against the metal, surprised at its stubborn frigidity in the summer heat. A gentle push, and the halves fell away in a graceful, silent sweep.
The great hall was dimly lit compared to the passage she had just left. Sconces still lined the walls, but not all were ablaze. Most of the vast room was cast in shadow, but Laenilas saw enough to know that little had changed here as well. She advanced into these familiar surroundings, looking up at the murky heights of the impressive vaulted ceiling. The statues of the ancient kings still lined the path up to the throne and Steward's chair, sentries that had watched over countless lords, ladies, office seekers, visiting foreigners, and the long legacy of Stewards that had kept protective watch over this city. Their faces, grim yet fair, were tilted downwards, as though curious about all that transpired beneath them, but their blank, unseeing eyes conveying bored detachment.
She had just fancied an animated flicker in one of those chiseled orbs when she heard the soft squeal of a hinge issue from the right side of the hall. Instinctively, she drew back and sought the protection of the shadow cast by a statue. A slow and steady footfall echoed over the polished stone, but her ears could not distinguish its direction. By turns, its path seemed to go towards the great door or towards her. After a time, neither was its destination. A dark, imposing figure that was not out of place among these stony watchmen appeared and stopped when he noticed the door gaping open.
"Derelict guards," came a familiar, irritated growl.
"Good evening, Denethor."
Laenilas marveled that the figure did not start in surprise at finding he was not alone in the chamber, though she should have expected it. Control was one of Denethor's unshakeable virtues. She now watched him turn and gaze silently at her, this nocturnal intruder. Tightening her shawl around her, she walked towards him, feeling much less nervous than she had anticipated. As she drew close, she prepared herself to flinch when recognition transformed his features, or be forced to identify herself should he be unable to see her through the years that had passed between them. But his expression, when it did alter, was knowing and not unpleasant, though his greeting was not what she considered welcoming.
"So," he began, "you have finally shown yourself. I wondered when you would poke your head out of that burrow I am so generously allowing you to live in."
"A fine burrow it is," she replied, undaunted. "I could not have asked for more." She stopped before him and tilted her head upward to look him directly in the eye. "I had forgotten how tall you were, though if you are the same as other men, I deem that your structure has sagged with age as well."
One corner of Denethor's mouth slanted upwards in a grudging smile. "Time has done nothing but wrinkle you, Laenilas."
"Am I still that stunning? I have given up the looking glass. I discovered that what once was tactful is no longer so."
"I cannot imagine you fleeing from something as ridiculous as that."
"Correct, my lord. I was lying."
"Ah, now that is something I can believe."
"Yes, I have lied to you in the past, haven't I? A past so distant that I barely remember it."
Denethor's gaze hardened. "Either you are lying again, or you have aged more than I, for I have not forgotten."
Laenilas smiled. She had not sensed his flinty scrutiny in these obscuring shadows. "This has been easier than I feared!" she exclaimed. "I dreaded that you would make a meeting difficult, silent, uncomfortable, but you have been quite. . .talkative."
"It must be your effect on me," Denethor continued, his tone a creeping chill. "You never failed to bring a box of daggers with which we could stab one another. Neither of us preferred to let the other always be the one to strike."
"But I am finding it pleasanter this time." Laenilas still spoke brightly, though she was aware of his souring mood. "Indeed, there have been moments over the years when I missed you."
"Many?"
"Do you doubt it?"
Denethor paused in thought. "I am inclined to think so," he said finally. "I cannot think of many reasons why you would lament my absence."
Laenilas sighed and looked down at her hands. "It is true that I felt Gorhend's slights at your hands just as acutely as he did. A wife's loyalty makes it second nature. You had wounded me upon your betrothal, though I lied and said it hurt me not at all. It was a sad way to part, but I held nothing against you. You could not have borne me ill will for being so accepting. Or did you think I was too understanding? Did I acquiesce too easily?"
Denethor said nothing, nor did he look at her. His gaze was fixed on a point past her, down at the end of the hall where the throne and Steward's chair sat.
"I was sorry to hear of Finduilas," she continued. "The news eventually made its way to the hinterlands. I heard of all the happenings in Minas Tirith many months after the fact, either by gossip or when Gorhend returned home on leave. Know that I grieved-"
"Laenilas, why are you here?" he snapped. "It cannot be to stick me with your knives or to discuss my dead wife. Did you wander in here mistakenly, or were you seeking me out to say something of importance?" Without waiting for an answer, he moved past her and walked down the vast aisle, his dark robes vanishing into the shadows.
"She was a gentle woman," she continued, turning, "and you did well by her, and she by you. I would have failed, had I been in her place."
Denethor's steps halted, and his disembodied voice, no longer harsh, drifted up past the statues to settle mournfully on her ears. "If that is the truth, I thank you for it. I know how you dislike failure."
"I despise it. In myself more than in others, but I am no stranger to it where you are concerned." She pressed her lips together as she debated whether to continue, but the darkness that separated them gave her courage. He had made no motion to retrace his steps. He still stood somewhere between her and his seat of office, perhaps waiting for her to finish. She had much more in her mind and on her tongue and this heavy silence indicated he knew she had more to say. She began to retreat to the open door, walking slowly backwards.
"I once envied her you," she said, "but that is long past." He said nothing, as she knew he would. She stopped when she reached the door. "I still envy her your sons. They are both fine, brave boys. Would that they were mine." She struggled to speak that final word without betraying any further weakness than she had already shown by speaking thusly. "The gods keep you, Denethor."
Grasping the door by its handle, she swung each half shut and was relieved to hear the final clang as it latched, separating her once more from the Steward.
Myrhil started in alarm when she felt a hand grip her shoulder and shake her out of her sleep. She scrambled up from the makeshift chair positioned beside the door of the guardroom near the main gate of the city. Blinking her eyes rapidly to rid them of their heaviness, she peered around, slightly disoriented. "Faramir?"
"Yes, it is I." He sounded weary and, now that her vision had begun to clear, she saw that his features showed fatigue as well. "No one has passed through the gate for some time," he said. "If he was intending to leave the city as you said, he would have left long before this. He could not make any progress on the open road by departing so late."
"What is the time?"
"Well past midnight. We have been here for most of the evening. Come, both of us need our rest." Faramir hooked an arm under hers and steered her along the cobbled street. "The guards have their orders to stop and question those leaving the city. Tomorrow I shall go to the tavern and see what I may learn there. Perhaps someone there knows of these disappearing suspects. And I shall have soldiers watchful of anyone suspicious. Until I discover more, that is all we can do with the little information you gave me."
"And that is all I know," she replied in frustration. "Had I found you more quickly, perhaps we could have caught him. Had I overheard more, I might have known where he was going. It is my fault."
"That is a ridiculous thing to say," he told her flatly. "You already overheard more than enough. You nearly lost your head in the brawl alone, and that had nothing to do with these villains." As they passed a sputtering torch, Faramir studied her face quietly before taking a square of linen from his shirt and handing it to her. "Your lip. It is split open."
Myrhil stopped, took the cloth with a grateful smile and pressed it against her mouth. The blood had clotted and dried, but she wiped at it anyway to clean it as best she could. She inspected the cloth in the torchlight and saw a dark stain soaking the weave. She groaned in what seemed like self- disgust. "I seem unable to go unmarked for long," she muttered, pressing the cloth tightly to her lip. They continued to walk, their pace steady and quick.
"I suppose one cannot wade through a tavern of brawlers and not catch a stray fist."
Myrhil smiled, though uncertainly. One thing she had not revealed to Faramir was the detail about Belaród's possible betrayal of her, her father and all the men who had shared barracks with him. Ever since she had heard the men speaking of it, she turned over in her mind every moment spent with him, every word uttered. It mattered not if he had indeed retreated from fulfilling his pact with these men. He had made one, and that was unforgivable, loathsome and vile. She did not want to discuss it with anyone, not a soul.
Faramir had tried to alleviate her low spirits with that light remark, but her half-hearted response prompted him to look upon the stars once more. "I hope that Boromir is traveling safely. I have had no feelings of unease."
Myrhil's brow furrowed. "You are connected to him that closely?"
Faramir shrugged. "Boromir would deny it if you asked him. A bunch of nonsense, he would call it. But ever since we were children, we have experienced the same thoughts and feelings." He smiled for the first time since she had found him that night. "It could be a matter of blood, that we have done so much together that our minds think alike. Or perhaps it is something magical and cannot be understood by mortal thinking." He looked out of the corner of his eye and saw Myrhil's disbelieving expression. "Ah, so you are a skeptic as well."
"No, no," she said hastily. "Not that, but-"
"'-but I think you are daft as a dancing pig on a rooftop, Faramir,'" he finished. "I cannot blame you. My friendship with old Mithrandir has made some think me foolish and fanciful. He is a harmless old man. Wise and harmless. You know of him?"
"Only that my father thought-" She stopped and paused uncomfortably, as though weighing her words. "Thought him mad," she finished. "But that did not reflect badly upon you, at least to his mind. He disliked my choice of companionship as well, so I think he was merely difficult to please."
Faramir smiled. "Perhaps in the past," he said, "but not your present choice. My brother-"
"Yes, I am certain Father would not be angry with that," she said quickly. She suspected that Faramir was aware of the state of things between her and his brother, but that did not make it a palatable subject of conversation on the city streets.
Faramir fell silent as they continued onward, then he said kindly, "I sense that he is safe, so you may sleep well on it."
Myrhil allowed a nod, though she said nothing. She knew the observant Faramir would see her relief and confidence in that single gesture.