Unraveling

Chapter 24: Unraveling

When Myrhil stopped to think about it, she realized four days had passed since that eventful hunting trip. Her body, however, insisted that it had only been two, if that. The prospect of lying abed late into the mornings was an attractive one, and whenever such an opportunity presented itself, she tended to grasp it. Twice, Boromir had risen before dawn and she had followed suit, but this morning he was apparently content to linger long past his normal waking hour. She wouldn’t argue with that.

Only moments earlier, she had been woken by various aches and pains that had thrown off the shackles of sleep and now were dancing gaily through her limbs. Her knee, she noticed, was throbbing less with each day, but it was still intent on being an annoyance. She kicked her leg gently, flexing the joint to rid it of any stiffness that had set in during the night.

With that matter tended to, she then turned her attention to her chest and the bruise incurred by Gríma’s quiver from where it had bitten into her during their periods of flight. She didn’t think she had held onto him that tightly, but the dark, purple stripe that was a near-perfect impression of the hard leather rim of the quiver was proof that she had. As soon as she had seen it the following morning, she had wondered if Gríma wore a brand of her making somewhere on his body. She hadn’t seen him since to inquire about it, though, and even if she had, she had a feeling that such a question would provoke no answer.

He was secretive, that one, she thought. It seemed that all the Rohirrim guarded their words very closely compared to the men of Gondor, the open and expansive men her father had always hired to work for him. It had sometimes been said that the temperament of southern Gondor was as hot as the weather. No doubt an unfair observation, but it was probably also untrue that the Rohirrim were as frozen and unyielding as the mountains that ringed their country. Though such an opinion was accepted wisdom among the various herders, even among those who had ventured into the country of their neighbor to the north.

Myrhil kicked her leg again for good measure and pushed such thoughts to the side. They were essentially worthless, for she would soon discover for herself if they were true or not. She had received some indications from Boromir that negotiations were winding down between Elfléda and Denethor, though not all terms had reached an ideal level of agreement, and soon the Rohirrim would leave Minas Tirith. Boromir had spoken much of compromise, but always in a tone that suggested it was being demanded far more from them, than by. The term “hard bastard” had become part of his standard description of the Rohirrim ambassador, along with the conviction that the man was far too clever for his own good. Myrhil recalled laughing at that, replying that a king would be a fool to send any man with less than a cagey brain to negotiate on his behalf. Boromir had agreed, but maintained that despite Rohan’s opinion of its own importance, it paled in comparison to Gondor’s when one looked dispassionately at the facts. Her observation that he was beginning to sound like a belligerent Steward alleviated his mood, but not by much.

Myrhil sighed and turned her head towards the window. The sun had only begun to rise, the Citadel receiving the first light. There was little chance of her falling asleep again since it would soon become too bright to ignore, and she wondered if she should simply rise and let her day get underway.

A quick glance at Boromir revealed that he was far on the other side of the bed and unlikely to be disturbed by any movements she could, or would, make. Lying prone on his back with his arms and legs askew, he would have been a fine picture of one dead were his chest not rising and falling as he soundly slept. Instead, he exuded the bliss of ecstatic slumber. Considering his mood of late, she desired him to continue sleeping as long as he wished.

Slipping from the covers, she snatched his much larger shirt from where it lay at the foot of the bed and continued on to the balcony. One unadorned wooden chair was situated next to the low rail and Myrhil settled into it contentedly. Though a cushion on the seat would have been welcome, this lowly piece of furniture was left out in the elements year round and no extravagance was granted it.

She placed her feet squarely against the iron railing, the centerpiece of which was wrought in the shape of the standard white tree of Gondor, and some flakes of ancient black paint fell to the floor. Tucking her knees up to her chest, she brought a hand to the sore joint and aimlessly rubbed it as she listened to the sounds of the city waking. Despite it being the early minutes of dawn, some of the city folk were already awake and busy. The night watch was returning; the sounds that drifted to her ears from the direction of the barracks made her think so. Ovens had been fired and some industrious bakers already had steaming loaves ready for sale to wakeful citizens. The delicious smell was wafting on the morning air and Myrhil licked her lips in anticipation of breakfast.

Along the horizon, clouds rose and gathered, moving towards the east. The sun had only cleared the distant mountains for scant minutes when it was blotted out. With it went what little warmth it had created. Following this was a chilly breeze that swept along the Pelennor and came swiftly up the mountainside to strike her, causing a shiver to course through her and prompted her to hug her knees even tighter.

As the wind faded from this brief surge, she became aware of sounds behind her and turned around in time to see Boromir standing in the open doorway, yawning. One hand was braced against the wall while the other scratched his backside.

“Good morning, my handsome one,” she chirped.

Boromir’s hand migrated to his chest where he continued to scratch. Another loud yawn escaped him, then he shook his head vigorously as though to toss any other remnants of sleep from him. “And good morning, thief,” he replied.

“Thief?”

All itches scratched, he pointed at the shirt. “I wondered where that went. I didn’t recall tossing it far last night.”

Myrhil looked down and leveled a finger at him. “I didn’t steal your britches, so there’s no excuse for you not to have put those on, at least.”

“I always put my shirt on first,” he retorted impassively.

“And apparently you don’t care who sees you until you do. Like the entire city, for instance.”

Boromir shook his head. “Actually, no.” As if to prove his point, he walked out fully onto the balcony and stood exposed for several seconds before he crouched beside her. “Deep in thought?” he asked.

“No. Why should I be?”

“You seemed intent on something, bent in half as you are.”

“In all truth, I was trying to keep warm. It became bloody freezing all of a sudden,” she replied, “and seeing you naked like that is making me colder.” She wiggled one foot. “I could have said I was contemplating the dirt between my toes. It’s a fascinating pastime. Care to see for yourself?” As well as she could, she contorted one leg outward for his perusal.

Boromir clasped her lightly around the ankle, his fingers and palm a warm shackle. “Very fascinating. And I’d have thought you were contemplating something much deeper, like those women do in the poetry Faramir reads.”

Myrhil laughed. “I think you’ve read more of that soggy poetry than you’ve admitted to. You appear to be quite well acquainted with its conventions.” She arched a brow inquiringly. “Hmm? Let’s hear it.”

He chafed her ankle lightly. “You’ve found me out,” he confessed. “There is little that boys won’t do in the quest of finding out what girls like to hear.”

“And you apparently delight in confusing them as well. I finally puzzled out what you meant, that little riddle you said after meeting us on the way back from the hunt.”

“A clumsy attempt at poetry myself, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, but very successful at making a tangled mess of my mind. There were sixteen men, or rather fifteen men and myself, sixteen meaning ‘hollow’ in that Quenya language. And one – I - means ‘metal.’ And a man only needs one metal or blade, or woman. Quite a convoluted way of saying that you find me tolerable and good company.”

“Excellent company,” he replied, putting an arm around her shoulder and pulling her close to him. His lips began to warmly tend her neck. “So, did you go to the library to look that up?”

“No, I asked Faramir.”

Boromir pulled away slightly and straightened his back in sudden alarm. “My brother?” The corner of his mouth quirked in surprised discomfort. “An—and did you tell him the circumstances of it?” When Myrhil grinned, he raised his brows. “And?”

“He held his sides and laughed for about fifteen seconds, then he told me what I wanted to know. He is very helpful.”

“Too much so,” Boromir grumbled.

“Oh, come now! Take heart that as soon as he laughed, I thought he found the prospect of you holding me in your affections to be absurd. I nearly asked him why it shouldn’t be me, then it became obvious that he was being a typical sibling.”

“So Larhend was like that?”

“All the time!” Myrhil smiled. “Cheer up. One day you’ll be able to torment Faramir horribly over the girl who truly captures his fancy and makes him act idiotically poetic.”

“Fair praise for my wooing gesture.”

“I’ve told you that I prefer your very direct approach to courtship,” she chided him. “Talking wastes time, and it’s reaching the point where I have little of it left.”

Boromir’s arm went slack around her. “That’s something I don’t wish to dwell on,” he said. “It’s a cruel irony that it is the Rohirrim which has been consuming my time and energies of late, and it is they who will take you away so quickly.”

Myrhil sighed. “I would love to leave Minas Tirith, however briefly. You and I leave. Perhaps enjoy ourselves as we did on our journey here from my home.” Before he could reply, she shrugged. “Impossible, I know.”

“Yes.” The single word was heavy with regret. “I had many days like that when I was young, waiting for the responsibilities to come to me. And now…they seem ill-timed.”

Myrhil snaked her arm around his back and ran her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck. “I’d pity you,” she said, “except I know you wouldn’t want it.”

“Correct. I don’t. It’s useless to regret what’s past. I learned that long, long ago.” He gave her an encouraging shake. “Then let’s do what we can, eh? Treat each day like the last.”

Myrhil smiled weakly at his attempt to cajole her, and she found it difficult to believe that only moments earlier, she had been the one prodding his spirits. Treat each day like the last, he’d said. Just what would that day be like? She wasn’t certain she wanted to know.

“I’ll stay, if you wish it,” she whispered. “I won’t leave with Mother. Just tell me to stay and I will. The only land I need to see is Gondor.”

Boromir regarded her silently before shaking his head. “No, I’ll not hear of it. You want to go, I know that much.” He pointed towards the increasing dark clouds on the horizon. “It’s only a melancholy dawn that’s making you say such things. Imagine what a sunrise will look like in far Edoras, many hundreds upon hundreds of miles away from the black ash and smoke that makes it rare for us to enjoy the sun’s birth every day as my distant ancestors did. As yours did.” He reached behind him and settled a hand over hers, so that both now rested on the nape of his neck. “If I have one demand of you, Myrhil, it’s that you come back to Minas Tirith soon and tell me what you’ve seen.”

“But you’ve been to Rohan,” she said. “You’ve already seen it for yourself.”

Boromir smiled in sudden embarrassment. “So I have. I’m an abysmal liar, then, aren’t I?”

Myrhil laughed quietly and realized from the nasally sound that met her ears that she had foolishly begun to cry. She ran a hand across her nose as she felt the tears begin to dry on her cheeks in the wind. “No, you’re not,” she sniffed. “You’re simply telling me in a wonderfully indirect and mildly convoluted way that you want me to return soon.”

“Yes,” he replied, “and that’s as plain as I can make it. Now then, what say we push all gloom aside and start thinking about what’s truly important.”

“Such as?”

“Getting dressed, for one.” He took hold of the loosened laces at the throat of the shirt and tugged on them gently. “As I said, that’s mine and it always goes on first.”

Myrhil also seized on the laces and tugged them back towards her. “I’m very content with it at the moment. You’ll need to win it. Take by force or negotiate.”

His tone was reproachful. “Myrhil…Myrhil… You think I have the stomach for more negotiations?”

She jumped to her feet, her sudden movement startling him to let the laces drop from his hand. Bounding away from him with a leap towards the open door, she held her arms out to the side and let the breeze ruffle the voluminous sleeves. “It’s yours if you can get it!” she taunted before darting back into the room.

Boromir stood and glanced over his shoulder at the Citadel and city below, wondering if the attentions of any citizens had been drawn upward to the small balcony. With a grin, he leaped in pursuit of Myrhil, charging forward like a hound on the hunt.

He ran a hand over his eyes and blinked, groaning when the knocking on the door continued. Myrhil stirred beside him and muttered something about telling whoever it was to do the impossible with himself.

“Boromir, I need you to come with me,” the voice said.

“It’s Faramir,” Boromir told her as he poked her back. “It sounds urgent.”

Before he could call out for his brother to enter, the door opened and Faramir was standing beside the bed. His cheeks were flushed and his breathing was slightly labored. His appearance was so alarming that Boromir quickly sat upright and was already halfway out of bed when Faramir spoke again.

“Boromir, I think we’ve found one of the men from the tavern brawl. Myrhil?”

Myrhil shoved the covers down from over her head and stared at him in sleepy surprise.

“You get up, too, Myrhil,” Faramir continued, visibly agitated. “Come with us. I hope you’ll be able to identify him.”

Faramir waited outside in the hall as Boromir and Myrhil quickly threw on their clothes. As soon as his brother emerged, he fell into step beside Boromir as they rushed down the corridor. Though their pace was hurried and loud, Faramir kept his voice low as he informed Boromir of the instances of this sudden development.

“He was caught stealing from one of the bakers early this morning, before dawn. A carter saw him and ran him down, literally, tackling the man right in the middle of the street. The guards took him to one of the gaols used for drunks. That’s what they thought the man was.”

“Smell of ale, did he?”

Faramir shook his head. “Not overly much. But he looks like a vagrant and any suspicious person has been questioned about that tavern brawl.” He looked over his shoulder at Myrhil, who was keeping close on their heels. “I’m not convinced that both of those men you saw made it out of the city before we’d shut the gates,” he told her. “There’s at least one in here, and I’ve been determined to catch him.”

Boromir smiled in grim satisfaction. “Just like a dog with rats, Faramir, you’ll ferret them all out or die trying. So, how were your suspicions tweaked by this man?”

“I accused him of a violent crime that occurred about two weeks before the brawl, to hopefully get a sense of how long he’s been in the city. I didn’t even have to test the waters for more information. He protested immediately that he entered the city nine days ago. That would be the day or so before the fight in the tavern, consistent with a man slipping in and out to report to a superior, or whatever tricks they’re up to.”

“Did you trap him into saying anything incriminating?”

“He called himself a poor, innocent traveler—”

“Of course.”

“—and he claimed that someone had stolen his purse, forcing him to lift his meals from peoples’ carts and sills. That was also apparently his reason for why he looks like he’s been pulled through a rat-hole backwards.”

“Filthy, is he?”

Faramir nodded. “No vagrant here for a mere nine days would have acquired such a look of the gutter to him. He’s been trying to stay out of sight, that much is clear. I accused him of being in this place or that place, seen by one person or another, and he denied them all. Kept saying, ‘No, no. It’s all false.’ I’ve been unable to get much more out of him than that.” He exhaled loudly. “So I’m going to try to shock him. That’s where Myrhil comes in.”

“But I didn’t see him – either of them – that clearly,” she protested.

“True,” Faramir acknowledged grudgingly, “but I’m wagering that they saw you. That would corroborate my theory that this man we caught wanted to stay in the shadows, away from anyone who could identify him in connection to something far more serious than being a simple thief or vagrant.” He smacked his fist into his other hand. “I have to be right!”

“I don’t doubt that you are, little brother,” Boromir told him. “Like I said, a dog ferreting out rats. You don’t even feel the nips and bites in the digging, so fixed are your eyes on the objective.”

Faramir bowed his head and waved his brother’s words aside with an embarrassed gesture. “No, that’s not me. Not me.”

Upon entering, Boromir sidled over to a position out of sight of the cell holding Faramir’s suspect, in accordance with his own suggestion that should intimidation be needed, he would then step forward. There was no sense, he said, in pulling out all their weapons at once. Myrhil took a place beside him and intently watched Faramir approach the cell, waiting for his signal to come forward.

Faramir leaned stiffly against the door and craned his neck to peer through the window into the dark cell. He waited in silence, but when no sound was forthcoming, he kicked at the door with his toe and resumed his intent observation of the inhabitant within. “Get up,” he said brusquely. “You’re not sleeping. Don’t pretend you are.”

From Myrhil’s position, she could hear some deep mumblings from the prisoner, but the thickness of the walls and doors muffled any intelligibility. She fought the impulse to creep forward and eavesdrop, instead slouching against the cold stone behind her and mulling over any and all possible scenarios regarding this incarcerated thief. If he accused her of lying, what could she counter him with? Was her evidence too slight? Could she even recognize this man? When she recalled the brawl, she remembered most vividly the shower of ale dripping over the edge of the table and being pinned under a pile of sweaty and cursing bodies.

“Get up,” Faramir repeated, his tone no less stern than before.

Myrhil tilted her head up toward Boromir’s ear. “Your brother,” she whispered, “was almost genial in comparison after the orc attack on the hunt.”

Boromir nodded, one corner of his mouth crooking into a grin. “That was out there,” he replied, just as quietly. “This is in the city itself, a danger neither of us wants. Quite a different Faramir than you know, I’ll wager.”

Myrhil made a soft hum of assent, but quieted when Faramir turned his head briefly in their direction at this disruption. He made no indication that he had heard what they said, only that they were making noise, and betraying their presence.

The prisoner must have noticed either this motion or heard them himself, for out of the small window came the sharp demand, “Who you got out there with you?”

“No one of importance,” Faramir replied coolly. “Merely someone curious about you.”

“Curious?” The voice had quieted again, but Myrhil thought the tone had thinned with this one word.

Faramir didn’t turn from the door, but he slipped one hand behind him and waved Myrhil to come forward, then motioned her to approach slowly. “Yes. Curious,” he said. “No harm in having a citizen look upon a thief as a moral lesson, correct? It will make this city easier to patrol. There are many other things more diverting to do than admonish people locked up in cells that stealing is wrong.”

“How right you are,” the prisoner affirmed with mock righteousness. “Let them gawk. What do I care? Let me be a lesson to everyone.”

Myrhil drew up alongside Faramir, who stepped aside so that she could look through the small window and observe the prisoner fully. The cell was incredibly dark at first, even though the dim interior of the gaol itself had already adjusted her eyes considerably. Soon, the vague lumpen shape of a man slouched in the corner stood out in shadowy relief from the pale, stained stones of the cell wall. Then features became distinct: coarse, grime-soaked hair, rough hands clasped around knees encased in worn leather britches, a nose that appeared to have suffered an unfortunately devastating punch at one time or another, and eyes that glittered at her in what she believed was a mixture of resentment at being imprisoned and apprehension that his true crime would be revealed.

The silence lengthened as Myrhil tried to grasp at every detail she could recall from the tavern fight. It all seemed so long ago. A jumble of shouts, rancid smells, and flailing limbs. She had only ventured the briefest of glimpses at the two men scheming behind her. Fear had prevented greater bravery. Now she wished she had foolishly turned to face them, even marching over to their table. Chances are they would have still fled in the welcome confusion, but at least she would have no doubts about identity if she were ever confronted with either man, such as now.

Faramir shifted beside her, drawing Myrhil’s attention from the object of her scrutiny. She looked at him reluctantly, knowing he was expecting an answer in the affirmative. Indeed, his brows were arched hopefully in mute inquiry. She wished she had an answer to give him. Her apologetic expression provoked a muted chuckle from the confines of the cell.

“So certain, were we?” he taunted. “Go stare at someone else, woman, whoever you are.”

“This woman,” Faramir interjected icily, “might be known to you, or you to her. I suggest you think hard. Both of you.”

Myrhil flinched inwardly at the command in Faramir’s tone. He had been doggedly pursuing the fugitives, even when it seemed they had completely vanished within the city or perhaps had escaped into the safety of Gondor’s expanses. He believed he had found one of them, and Myrhil believed that he would not let her doubts or the prisoner’s brazening taunts discourage him. If she didn’t identify the man, he would achieve it through other means. But her failure would always nag at her. She had to proceed as though she were absolutely certain.

The prisoner emitted a sullen grunt. “I seen plenty of faces since I got here. Why should she stand out so damn particular?”

“My father raised horses,” Myrhil began slowly. “In Lebennin province. You have heard of it?”

The prisoner was once again silent, and Myrhil sensed a heightened tension in the air, gradually got the impression that this question struck a nerve.

“I’ve heard of it,” he finally replied.

“Anything beyond that?” she pressed. When no answer was immediately forthcoming, Myrhil added, “Repeat after me: ‘I would have killed him had he shown the courage to withdraw in person.’ You were talking about Belaród, a young man who was bought for some scheme, in a tavern some nine days past—” She was prevented from saying more when Faramir’s hand clamped firmly around her arm and he led her away from the cell door.

“Myrhil, you’re not hedging wisely,” he whispered. He looked over at Boromir helplessly. “She shouldn’t have spoken to him so directly.”

Myrhil turned on Faramir, frustration creasing her brow. “I’ve had no lessons in this,” she retorted in a sharp whisper. “That man was talking with another that night…about Belaród. I don’t know how to go about such a plain fact as that with any delicacy.”

The grimy face filled the barred window behind them. “Yes, we was talking about him!” he shrieked. “He was a lousy rat who didn’t do as he was told, and he got it in the end!”

The three outside the cells stared, dumbstruck, at the agitated prisoner. But it was Myrhil who first rushed forward. Before the man could propel himself back from the window, her hands were filled with his hair and the ragged collar of his shirt. She yanked him forward, striking his head against the bars with a satisfying clunk, and braced one knee against the door to prevent him from reeling backwards and inflicting the same injury on her.

“What was the scheme, you bastard?” she hissed. “Stealing our horses for Mordor? What about Belaród? How did you lure him into aiding you?”

The stench at these close quarters sent Myrhil’s empty stomach roiling, but she didn’t relinquish her hold on him. “Huh?” she demanded, yanking him forward sharply, and his forehead met the bars again.

He was saved from further attack by Boromir, who seized Myrhil from behind, locking his arms under hers, and lifted her from the door. Even so, her hold was not loosened so easily and the stone structure rattled from the prisoner’s wails as a small clump of hair was ripped from his scalp.

“Myrhil!” Boromir shouted into her ear. “You’re behaving irrationally.”

Myrhil drew in a deep breath to settle her madly pounding heart and head. She looked up at Boromir and realized that he had both hands on her shoulders, shaking her roughly. “I-I’m fine,” she managed, though she cast a withering glance over at the now empty cell window.

“It’s a start,” Faramir told his brother dryly. “Take her outside, Boromir. I’ll see what else I can learn.”

As Boromir steered her towards the outside door, Myrhil looked over her shoulder at Faramir. “Find out who he answers to,” she said in a tone that indicated she would settle for no other outcome.

Faramir smiled weakly. “We’re not in the Tower,” he joked. “I don’t know whether to thank you for giving me this task, or ask if I’m truly crazy for asking for it. I’m glad you trusted me.”

Boromir clapped Faramir on the back. “Enough said,” he replied. “It’s been nearly four hours. What have you learned?”

“Probably nothing that ten minutes of a beating couldn’t have revealed, but I wouldn’t resort to those methods.”

“If Myrhil had been given free rein, it might have been five minutes.”

Faramir shook his head in bewilderment. “I almost couldn’t believe my eyes,” he said. “Her fury burst like a dam. Irrational was a kind way for you to describe it.”

“I can’t say I would react any differently if I were confronted with someone who had had, even slightly, a hand in Father’s death. No doubt I’d be even more irrational. Would you?”

“Yes, undoubtedly,” Faramir replied immediately. “I confess my hands itched to throttle the cretin on more than one occasion.” His expression clouded in thought, but he shrugged it off quickly – something the sky was not inclined to do, he noticed. Looking up, he saw that it was still overcast, though the rain had long since stopped and some of the cobblestones were beginning to dry. “Where’s Myrhil?”

“Her impatience got the better of her and she stalked off in the direction of the Citadel,” Boromir told him. “I was not going to run after her.”

Faramir straightened. “You’re a difficult one to puzzle out. One moment I think you and Myrhil are one painful word away from asking Father to bless you, and then the next moment each of you are marching down a different road.”

Boromir gave a low growl, as though he didn’t wish to discuss the matter in such open quarters. “Just tell me what you discovered,” he said gruffly, making no attempt to mask his obvious desire to change the subject.

“I’m no closer to the identity of the other man Myrhil says was talking with this one,” Faramir told him, willingly leaving the sensitive topic behind. “Only that he implied the fellow was one step above him in command, whatever organization they have for horse stealing and murder.”

“The horses were for Mordor?”

“You told me that the black ones were spared, others were slaughtered. When faced with that fact, he couldn’t deny what the method implied. It’s well-known throughout Gondor and Rohan. To deny it is either admitting hopeless ignorance or blustering one’s way out of complicity. But he and this other man seem to have no part of actually carrying the raids out. Merely planning them. The thought of actually having to march across miles in the company of orcs truly disgusted him, quite frankly. No, I believe that our prisoner prefers the company of Man in refined pursuits like spying and intimidation.”

“Intimidation…” Boromir paused, considered the word thoughtfully. “Soon after I arrived, I informed Father about a tavern in Pelargir that appeared to have been forcibly seized by thugs, running any number of shady businesses from that central point. A townsman seemed to believe extortion and murder weren’t beneath them. I reported this to Father and a patrol was sent a short time after, I believe. Their findings must have been either unremarkable, or completely overshadowed by the distraction of the…bloody Rohirrim arriving and then consuming our every waking minute!” His jaw worked in frustration. “What did they discover? Do you know?”

“A pit,” Faramir told him. “Ale-soaked and reeking of Eru knows what, and peopled with the types you would expect to find in a place such as that. The sergeant’s report relayed that they made inquiries, but they could not find one soul in the town to speak against it.” He glanced at the silent gaol. “But since our man knows of it, it warrants another visit.”

“And we now know that the former keeper of that tavern met a sudden end by our conspirators Myrhil overheard. If the second man is no longer in the city, I would wager my armor that he has returned to Pelargir.” Boromir groaned. “Would that I could leave this city, if only for a month, and take fifty men with me. I would make a wide sweep of this country and get rid of all these foul elements, now that the pieces are falling together!” He grinned wickedly. “The Rohirrim are leaving within the week, empty-handed or no. I shall kick every one of them out the gate personally. In the most diplomatic fashion, of course.”

“Make certain you have your horse ready as they’re leaving,” Faramir advised. “Your particular brand of diplomacy is well nigh exhausted already. You’ll need to exit quickly before the Rohirrim turn round after they realize they’ve been booted up the backside and hear your parting curses.” He sobered. “There was more I gleaned from our prisoner.” Seeing Boromir’s avid interest, he continued. “About Myrhil’s acquaintance, Belaród. Naturally, it was money that acquired his services. Our guest has no qualms about speaking ill of the dead, especially one who failed to keep his side of a bargain.” When he saw his brother nod, he added, “You don’t seem surprised.”

Boromir shook his head. “Young and rash was my impression of him. No doubt Belaród wanted the money and thought it was no large task to carry out, but gave no thought to any consequences if he backed down once he had the money in hand.” He sighed. “Gorhend’s land was so remote that Belaród probably thought it was a form of protection. Were any raids to come as planned, he would have the option of fighting or fleeing into the vast plains. A haven for cowards, I should imagine.”

“But he chose to fight.”

“He did. Bravely, too. Against those odds, it was very brave.”

“I won’t take it upon myself to judge him or ponder his motives,” Faramir replied. “I don’t even think Myrhil fully knows what lay in Belaród’s mind and heart. If she can’t say what they were with any certainty, then neither can I.”

“The Rohan scribe, Gríma Gálmódsson, is his brother.”

It was stated so simply that Faramir almost didn’t hear it, but his eyes widened at the information. “How did you discover that?”

“Myrhil. Stranded out there in the woods during the hunt, she and the little scribe became reluctant conversationalists.” Boromir smiled wryly. “He saw her saddle, recognized it as his brother’s, and accused her of stealing it. Their ‘friendship,’ so to speak, had an unenviable start.”

“Perhaps he knows more about his brother that might be of some help,” Faramir mused. “I must question him.”

Boromir shook his head. “No luck, little brother. The two apparently hadn’t seen each other for several years, since they came to Minas Tirith when Belaród was a young man. He ran away shortly after and cast his lot with that charming individual inside. Faramir, even if he had something to tell you, I don’t think he would. You know how tight-lipped the Rohirrim are. You would have a better chance ridding a Harad camel driver of sand fleas.”

Faramir smiled feebly. “I appreciate your attempt at humor, and if matters indeed stood so distant between them, then I don’t see how pestering our good guest from Rohan would improve anything. The last complication we need is the Ambassador crying ‘persecution,’ yes?”

Boromir rolled his eyes. “The very last!”

Boromir had said no more about her outburst in the gaol. She felt the urge to explain why she had acted as she did, feeling that the loss of control was inexcusable and weak, but that same encouraging smile met her as she had opened her mouth to speak. Perhaps he was only trying to make the indignation and anger subside, soothe himself as much as her. Perhaps. It was a balm, that smile, and she did feel the tension ebb from her somewhat, but the seconds dragged into minutes, and then into hours. Unable to focus her thoughts on anything beyond what might be transpiring inside, she decided to remove herself from it. Wrench herself, actually. A quick and sudden break to reduce any inclination to linger and let the boredom and impatience twist her further. With only a final glance at Boromir, she left, heading straightway towards the Citadel. He could wait for his brother, if that was his desire. She was certain that he wasn’t being plagued with scenario after scenario about how the interrogation was unfolding.

As she wound her way back up to the Citadel, she saw several Rohirrim at leisure, strolling through the streets singly or in twos, more visibly at ease with their surroundings than what she recalled seeing two weeks ago. She sympathized with their initial confusion and sense of being overwhelmed. Lebennin, despite its relative proximity to Minas Tirith, possessed no city even one-tenth as large as the glittering seat of the Stewards’ power. Myrhil thought that any dirt scratcher from the backwaters, herself included, would be struck dumb at the sheer size and density of it all. For the Rohirrim, so used to vast expanses and, she heard, small settlements, this sojourn had been an experience no different from hers.

She was startled to see a couple of those she passed nod their heads in acknowledgement, and before she could give it much thought, she returned the gesture, surmising they had been on the hunt with Faramir. She recognized not a one; they weren’t wearing their helmets, and on the hunt they had never doffed them. I can use every scrap of goodwill I can muster, she thought, as she forced a smile to accompany her nod. Though surely Théoden couldn’t be as difficult a man as Denethor.

Ah! Speaking of difficult men…

Ahead of her at some distance, one shoulder sagging familiarly under the weight of his leather scroll case, was Gríma. He was inspecting some goods at a merchant’s stand, and quite intently so. More than once she saw him glance up at the man in the booth, either in interest at the typical spiel of the seller or distrust of the same. Perhaps against all impulses of fairness, she settled on the latter. Shrewd and sarcastic, he must be a merchant’s nightmare, she thought.

The tumult of the confrontation in the gaol faded as she willed herself to be diverted by the sight of Gríma’s suspicious interest. There was something obviously amusing and, at the same time, vaguely intriguing about the peculiar-looking scribe. So unlike the other Rohirrim she had met in both character and appearance, that it was perhaps no surprise that he found it difficult – if not downright undesirable – to force himself into their mold. From the amount of time of shared company, she found him the most interesting of all. His suspicion towards her had been tempered with what she felt was genuine interest. Such would most likely not be the case if they had not the common bond of Belaród between them.

“Do you prefer to watch others buy rather than lay money down yourself?”

Myrhil started at the sound of a deep voice approaching her from her right, the distinct rocky accent of Rohan sharpening each word in Westron. She turned to see a man of imposing height and muscular build walking towards her, his wheaten hair and weather-scarred face branding him as a Rohirrim, though he was not wearing the tell-tale armor of the northern warriors. Rather, he wore tunic and trousers of soft, worn leather in earthen red hues. The more brilliant reds, she had learned, were restricted for those of royal blood. Still, the style and state of this man’s garb indicated a station of some importance. He bore himself quite impressively, even more so than some of his proud and stoic countrymen.

She sensed that he was acquainted with her, for his expression conveyed familiarity, yet she could not recall his face from any previous encounter.

He soon supplied her with the information, unprompted. “I am Lord Elfléda’s lieutenant,” he stated as he drew up to her and stopped. “Falvöd is my name, and I hail from the Westemnet of Rohan, if you have knowledge of how our country lies.”

“I do, yes,” she replied. “I have seen you by his side on the few occasions I have glimpsed the Ambassador.”

“No formal occasions, I believe.” As one of her brows rose in query, he went on. “It is only that you have the appearance of preferring your present costume above all others,” he said. “We have already discovered that you are not easily hidden among the other womenfolk of this city.”

“I have made no attempt to hide,” she replied, “and no one has tried to hide me that I’m aware of.” She tensed at the turn of conversation, finding it somewhat odd to be accosted in such a manner on the open street, even if it was by one of the Rohirrim. Her attention returned to Gríma, who was still in some state of indecision at the distant booth. “You are kindly guests of the Steward,” she said, “and I am certain that you will be kindly hosts to my mother and I when we make the journey to Rohan in your company. So, does the Ambassador wish to see me on some matter?” she asked. “Is that why you approached me?”

“Partly. We heard of some trouble in the city this morning and I am making inquiries. Just out of curiosity, you understand.”

“A matter of horse thieving,” Myrhil said guardedly. “A man in league with a band of orcs has been captured. The practice is a blight your country has suffered as well as ours.”

“Indeed. A relief whenever one of the perpetrators is captured or killed. This man…he is being held nearby?”

“He is being questioned now.”

“A shame I’m not there. I would like to discover Gondor’s methods of interrogation. I wager they’re different from our own.”

“I should hope to avoid both breeds in my lifetime,” Myrhil commented.

Falvöd didn’t immediately reply, and Myrhil straightened as Gríma parted with visible reluctance from the coins he dropped into the hand of the merchant. He gathered up his purchased goods and turned from the booth to walk towards them, head bent in avid interest of the items he held.

“You are quite familiar with Gríma Gálmódsson, I hear.”

Myrhil found herself bristling at his words, though she could not put her finger on anything particular about them to make her feel so disconcerted. It was an innocuous enough remark. She was very familiar with innuendo, sly insinuations and ribald digs both, and though his comment could be interpreted thusly or as a casual remark, it did not ring in her ears as such.

“I’m acquainted with him, yes,” she said, leaving him to advance on Gríma. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Rohirrim fall in step beside her. Any conversation she had hoped to curtail was apparently impossible to elude, though she still had hope when, at that moment, Gríma found complete satisfaction with his new possessions and returned his attention to the street to navigate safely through it.

She had barely opened her mouth when Falvöd called out heartily, “Where are you off to?”

What little pleasure Myrhil had seen in Gríma’s face faded quickly, though which one of them, she or Falvöd, had brought about such a change, she was not certain. There was certainly no reason why he should be particularly glad to see her – or anyone, for that matter. Nothing about him had ever indicated he was one for easy smiles and a surfeit of cheer. The only person she could imagine he would have ever been pleased to see was now dead.

With the briefest of gestures over his leather bag, Gríma’s hands were emptied and he clasped them before him in suppliant attentiveness. “Good afternoon,” he said, punctuating his greeting with a hasty nod. His eyes were restless, gaze flitting from one distraction to another until finally coming to rest upon Falvöd. His shoulders seemed to reflexively hunch as he did so.

The Rohirrim beside her breezed on. “Adding more junk to your collection?” he commented jovially. “You must have enough quills to clothe a naked goose and plenty ink to drown the Ered Nimrais, Gríma.”

“I daresay that my supplies will never run dry,” he replied impassively.

“Are you off to scribble whatever the Ambassador has to say?” Falvöd continued. “It wasn’t originally my intention to converse with this…able-bodied young woman. I was looking for you.”

Gríma was silent, and his gaze threatened to rove once more, but pale skin tightened over a clenched jaw and through his lips came, perfectly modulated, “What services are required?”

“The Ambassador will inform you of it when he sees you,” Falvöd went on smoothly. “Merely that same little matter from last night. He’s not quite certain he agrees with how you have transcribed yesterday’s negotiations with the Steward.”

“I believed I had explained it to the Ambassador’s satisfaction,” Gríma replied.

“There were other details he recalled afterwards, details he told me the Scribbler needed to be aware of – to make the record complete.” He inclined his head in the direction of the Citadel. “Go.”

Gríma nodded curtly and, hands clutching his leather case, he slipped between Myrhil and Falvöd.

As he sidled past her, his bony elbow nicked her side, seeming to jar her awake. She had watched the exchange between lieutenant and lowly man of letters, her own trepidation about the Ambassador’s man fed by Gríma’s visible unease. Some people had the unenviable knack of disturbing others for whatever reason. So did this man Falvöd. The friendliness seemed genuine enough, his words unremarkable in their geniality or good-natured ribbing, but they were delivered in such a way that commanded the senses. They were not sharp, but direct; not menacing, but strong and brooked no refusal. It was not only his size and obvious prowess that gave one pause. There were indications of other strengths behind his eyes and voice.

The prospect of remaining in his company upon Gríma’s absence spurred her to seized upon the departing scribe like a drowning man flotsam. “I should like to join you, Gríma,” she blurted – too loudly, she feared.

Gríma stopped and turned. “I regret that you cannot. The Ambassador would wish to see me alone.”

“No doubt,” she pressed, “but that is not my intention – to intrude in your meeting with the Ambassador. I am returning to the Citadel anyway.” She knew she was courting refusal. Even if Gríma should realize she wanted to leave the Ambassador’s man through any ploy, the perverseness of his own nature could push him to leave her to writhe in discomfort.

So she was startled to see the anxious lines in the scribe’s face fade briefly as he gestured for her to join him. With a hasty word to Falvöd, she hurried after Gríma.

Only when they were both some distance away did either venture to speak.

“I thank you, Gríma, for your kind rescue.”

A small grunt of amusement. “Desired to be free of his company?”

“You didn’t appear ecstatic to remain with him, either,” Myrhil replied bluntly.

Gríma shook his head. “We poor overworked scribblers often have that look about us when it’s actually lack of sleep that makes us appear so…”

“Tired? But you looked skittish.”

“Since when have you discarded all pretenses of subtlety?” he demanded stiffly.

“When trying to throttle someone proved more satisfying.” She clasped her hands together, lacing her fingers, and squeezed until her knuckles were deathly white. “I lost my temper today, and would have killed a man had a door not been between us. All because he had some answers that I wanted.”

“What sort of answers?”

“About the massacre of my father’s horses. About Belaród’s deal with them.”

Gríma straightened. “You wrung no answers from him?”

“My interrogation differed from what Faramir had in mind. No doubt his plans are more thought-out. Blind rage works in some situations, but not all. He did know Belaród. That much I did discover before I was turned out to cool my head.”

“You Gondorian women,” he said, faintly smiling, and fell silent.

Despite this slur on her sex and country, it was an odd comfort speaking to Gríma, Myrhil thought. He was like a deep well into which things – words, thoughts, observations – could be tossed, there to rest forever, unmolested. Of all the people in Minas Tirith, only he was the natural one to share information about Belaród. Boromir had other concerns, and though he did not seem averse to the occasional mention of her former lover, she would rather not make the dead man a steady topic of conversation. But with Gríma, the surviving brother, talking about Belaród was one of the few wedges she had into that well-girded fortress, that sardonic stronghold.

The few glimpses she had inside him had been due to Belaród. It was a chink she would hack away at, bit by bit, until she breached the pale walls.