Loyalties

Chapter 27: Loyalties

“I find it exceedingly difficult to believe that there is no one who saw what transpired,” Denethor said, his tone a clear order to find that which obviously existed somewhere. “This city has tens of thousands of eyes, and gossip is the profession of more than is tolerable.”

Faramir’s gaze flitted briefly to his brother before returning to the waiting Steward. “It is only noon, Father,” he began, “and there are twenty men searching and questioning those in the area.”

Denethor looked to his eldest for confirmation and Boromir nodded. “They have covered much ground already,” he elaborated, “and though some people claim they heard noise from the region of the gaol, none thought it of enough interest to rouse out of bed. They thought it was merely a fight between drunken fools.”

Denethor gave a snort of bitter amusement. “A fine time for them to acquire a sense of propriety.”

Faramir nodded in mute agreement. “There is solid reason to believe that one of the prisoner’s conspirators…silenced him.” He paused to see if his father wished to comment. “The man knew of the raid on Gorhend’s horses,” he added.

“Yes, I remember,” Denethor said with visible impatience. He then sighed upon seeing his sons exchange a silent agreement of mutual reassurance. Dragging a hand over his eyes, he nodded. “Yes, Faramir, go on. Anything else? An indication of why the murderer chose that particular night to do the deed?”

“Necessity, I imagine. He no doubt realized the man had been questioned once, and would be again.”

The Steward’s flinty eyes went to Boromir. “You had questioned him?”

“I did not.”

“Hm. Your methods might have achieved greater results, and we would know more.”

“Perhaps,” Boromir replied, noncommittal. “But Myrhil thoroughly rattled his brains against the cell door and it had little effect.”

“Interesting,” Denethor said, more to himself than to his sons. “The good Laenilas certainly throws odd offspring.” This last comment, soft-spoken though it was, had obviously been meant for Boromir’s ears, for he bestowed an amused and calculating smile on his son.

“No odder than Mother did, I suspect,” Boromir returned placidly. “I have my share of peculiarities.” A smothered chuckle escaped from Faramir.

“Indeed,” their father said.

A voice raised in anger made all three turn their heads towards the door of the Steward’s study. Faramir and Boromir advanced as one and swung the door open into the hall where nearly two dozen men stood with petitions and various other items of business they wished to receive their lord’s attention.

From this gathering surged one individual whose robes of high station and impressive Rohirric features swept an open path before him. Many recognized Elfléda, the omnipresent emissary from Gondor’s neighbor to the west, and they immediately melted to the side. They knew that his business would supercede theirs, despite some of them having waited to see the Steward since dawn.

Denethor’s sons watched as the two guards who stood sentry outside the study began to ask the agitated ambassador his business so that they could announce him to the Steward, but Elfléda strode between them with nary a word or look. He made to pass by Faramir and Boromir just as imperiously, but Boromir held up his hand and smiled good-naturedly. Elfléda halted quickly and paid them no heed, instead staring between where the brothers stood side by side and speaking directly to his quarry.

“Denethor!” he called. “I wouldn’t trust this city to go one day without an outrage of some sort!”

“Now this is the blunt speech I’ve wanted to hear at the negotiating table,” Boromir rejoined, grinning. “Please continue it for the remainder of your visit.”

“There’ll be no lack of it, Captain, if you don’t allow me to pass,” Elfléda snapped. “When you’re Steward, the tenor of any debates will be yours to set.”

“Let him in,” came Denethor’s voice from deeper within the chamber.

Faramir looked over his shoulder and saw that his father had retreated to his vast desk, before which he now stood with his hand resting on the white rod signifying his office. He stepped aside and Elfléda swept past him, the politician’s posture as rigid as his anger.

Denethor tapped his fingers against his plain scepter as he waited for Elfléda to calm somewhat. It soon became apparent that the ambassador had little intention of doing so, and the Steward gestured for him to speak. “And what grievance do you have today?”

Elfléda turned as Boromir and Faramir passed him and stood to the side so that they could fully observe the proceedings. Faramir’s arms hung at his side in a display of content patience, but periodically he flicked his fingers together, betraying some unease. The Steward’s heir, however, stood to his fullest height with arms folded across his chest and one hand grazing his chin contemplatively.

“I would prefer, Lord Denethor, if we could speak alone,” Elfléda began crisply.

Denethor shook his head without hesitation. “My sons and I were discussing a rather important matter. No offense intended to your urgent matter, Ambassador, but as soon as I have heard you out, we’ll be resuming what you interrupted.”

Though visibly dissatisfied with this arrangement, the diplomat from Rohan realized he had little choice but to acquiesce. “Very well, Denethor,” he replied, a civil rein now on his tongue, but only barely. “I shall be quick in order to conserve your valuable time. Some of my men have come to me this morning with suspicions and fears that some ill might have befallen Falvöd.”

Boromir shifted in interest. “He has taken sick?”

Elfléda turned and smiled faintly. “Would that it was so simple. I appreciate your concern, Captain. I understand you both have exchanged ideas on combat and tactics, and he admires your skills greatly, as do many in Rohan.”

“Diplomat to the last,” Denethor observed, not without some humor. “So if he’s not sick – and I assume you’ve inquired at the Houses of Healing – then what is it?”

“He’s disappeared,” Elfléda returned flatly. “He has never failed in his morning duties, and today no one has seen neither hide nor hair of him.”

Denethor shook his head in exaggerated bewilderment. “We are your hosts, not your keepers! Had any of my guards been overly present around but one – one! – of your soldiers, you would still be standing here complaining, but only then of spies and the dishonor done to your integrity and that of your king!” He leveled a finger at the fuming Rohirrim. “I’m a patient man, Elfléda, but the day I see your horse’s arse will find me rejoicing.”

The room fell silent, but the air shimmered with anger and shock. Boromir and Faramir stared at their father as if some dementia had suddenly possessed him. Sharp, acidic words had tumbled off the Steward’s tongue before, but never recklessly. However, there was little about Denethor’s expression that indicated he had spoken without due consideration.

Elfléda straightened, the muscles in his face turning rigid as he squelched whatever retort he burned to speak, yet would not. “Very well,” he ground out, “then let us turn to one of my men who is still among us.”

“By all means!”

“I’ve granted my scribe, Gríma Galmódsson, leave to gather his brother’s remains. Of course,” he added, gesturing with broad sincerity, “if you decline to let one of Théoden’s subjects to wander about your country at will, then I shall certainly understand.”

“Where are these remains?”

“On Gorhend’s farm,” Boromir interjected, his eyes on Elfléda though he spoke to his father. “He was killed the night of the orc attack.”

Denethor nodded. “I would think it quite coincidental that one of your men has to journey deeper into Gondor,” he told Elfléda, “but it seems my son verifies it fully. He may go.”

“No escort?” Elfléda needled.

“To safeguard him or Gondor?” Denethor rejoined with wry humor. “You should have kept silent, Elfléda. Now I’m suspicious.” He turned to his eldest son. “You know of this scribe? You vouch for his character and intentions?”

“He seems honorable,” Boromir began slowly, “though I know him only in passing.”

“Ah, well then, is there anyone who can put my, no doubt, unwarranted suspicions to rest?”

Boromir was silent, but when Faramir shifted at his side, he cleared his throat lightly. “Laenilas’ daughter has spent some time in the scribe’s company,” he said. “She has spoken well of him.”

Denethor’s brows rose in surprised interest. “It seems I am overdue for a meeting with her. She has been quite…occupied during her stay here.”

“Does this mean my scribe’s journey hinges on the impressions of that bothersome girl?” Elfléda snapped. “Don’t forget our conversation that night, Denethor. I asked you for assurances of her good character.”

“Her character is unquestionable!” Boromir retorted without hesitation. “She is no doubt more capable of defending herself than that scribe of yours.”

“Arguably,” Elfléda replied. “She has certainly proved herself against orcs, so I hear. Yet Gríma is not untried himself. I believe them quite equal in that regard and, to be honest, well-suited as a traveling pair. They have already done so, endured attack, and emerged with their lives.”

“An interesting proposition, Ambassador,” Denethor said.

Boromir turned to his father, eyes widening in consternation. “Interesting?” he repeated. “Foolish!”

Denethor gestured to his son reassuringly. “Calm yourself. When have I ever decided anything without full consideration of its merits?”

“Never,” he agreed, relaxing slightly.

“Precisely, and this will be no different.” The Steward regarded his son silently before returning his attention to the waiting Ambassador. “You shall have an answer about the second matter, the scribe, by evening. As for your original request…” He shook his head. “We will do what we can, but at the moment my sons have urgent matters to investigate. I’m inclined to let this missing man of yours have an opportunity to show himself before I divert soldiers and time to chase after what may be a fool’s errand.”

“Well then, I suppose that is all one can reasonably ask for, isn’t it?” Elfléda asked, his tone slightly colored with reproach. He turned to leave, but stopped and looked over his shoulder at Denethor. “This matter that has occupied your sons’ full attention… There has been talk this morning, raging up and down the city in fact, that someone was murdered. I always thought Minas Tirith to be quite…safe.”

“It is, I assure you,” Denethor replied stiffly. “Some undesirable elements have entered the city and we have been rooting them out. Or, in this case, one eliminated another. But the Citadel is quite safe from it.”

Elfléda smiled. “Any fears I might have had are allayed, Lord Steward.” He bowed his head. “And I will anxiously await your answer about my scribe’s journey. Any escort you provide will be suitable. Gríma is not prone to complaint.”

Denethor cast a glance at Boromir. “I shall keep that in mind.”

As soon as the door was swung shut behind the Ambassador by the two sentries, Boromir whirled to face his father. “I don’t often speak out of turn,” he said, “but don’t do—”

“Do what?” Denethor stared at his son unflinchingly.

Boromir’s jaw tightened. “I won’t believe you’ll let your contention with Laenilas and Gorhend extend to Myrhil. Do you seek to punish that woman by endangering her daughter?”

“Boromir…” came his brother’s soft plea.

“No, Faramir!” Boromir said harshly, turning away this imprecation. “Father, if this shunts me from your affections for a month or even a year, I will say it. Myrhil shares my bed and my heart. That is a fact to which you best reconcile yourself.”

“And when she leaves for Rohan?” Denethor asked placidly. “She will go. I have not heard anything to the contrary about that. I believe you mentioned only recently that she wished to follow her mother there, to see new sights. So, after she leaves, what of your bed and heart then?”

“They will await her return,” was the unhesitating reply, the words clipped. “Until then and beyond, she will not become a pawn in your politics or age-old grudges.”

Boromir’s eyes went from his father to his brother. Neither of them seemed inclined to argue further. Faramir had crept closer to the desk and was glancing down at a map in an effort to distance himself from the fierce confrontation. Denethor, however, was returning his son’s unblinking gaze. Then he smiled in reconciliation.

“Let’s turn to the truly important matters before us, hmm?”

His father had always seemed to be, in large part, a mystery. His mind and nature wasn’t like that of other men Boromir had known, even those nobles whose blood was almost as elevated and whose minds were also acute and learned. Denethor had always been like that, more so after the death of his wife, but still… Boromir could recall many days in his early childhood when he was confused and troubled, though not overly frightened, by his father’s curious turns of temperament. What was the explanation his mother had often used? Ah yes… He has his reasons. He had heard it so often that it became as familiar as the drum beat on the battlefield years later.

But these vacillating moods – they were increasing in both frequency and intensity of late, and it had led Boromir to presume that his father was acting out of petty revenge by threatening to send Myrhil out into the wilds with the scribe. Denethor’s decision was still solidly cloaked behind that impenetrable mask of the politician, a mask the Steward had no qualms about wearing in front of his own sons if it suited him. And to make his heir bend and twist in the wind of uncertainty – what a fine joke!

Boromir forced both his feet and his breath into a slower pace. His head, beginning to pound, gradually subsided to a tolerable, though still irksome, throb.

A few inquiries had revealed that Myrhil hadn’t yet been seen on the Citadel that day, despite the noon hour having already come and gone. When he had risen, she hadn’t stirred a whit and her deep sleep was explained when his questioning of a guard revealed that she had returned sometime after the midnight hour. The odd and slightly embarrassed expression on the man’s features Boromir could interpret any number of ways, and he was hard-pressed not to do so, but he merely thanked the fellow and moved on.

For his part, Boromir couldn’t recall hearing her enter his room. He had retired early, alone, and fallen asleep shortly thereafter.

That he hadn’t heard the door open or felt the mattress sink beside him gave him pause, discomforted him. Was he becoming too rested and content? Was the fine and ready edge of his senses in the field being blunted by routine and inaction? It was obvious that his father believed Myrhil’s continued presence would be detrimental, but he hadn’t articulated any of those concerns. It would not be amiss for Denethor to leave him to discover such things on his own. Conclusions done in this manner, laborious and hurtful though they might be, tended to be lessons learned thoroughly with no need for repetition.

Boromir stopped outside his door and rested his hand on the latch, unsure whether he wanted Myrhil to still be inside. His father’s hovering threat to send her off into the wilds with nothing but her sword and her wits to protect her – for the scribe could, and would, look to his own safety first – plagued him. He debated with himself whether to trouble her with it when the matter was still undecided. With a snort of impatience at this willful hesitation, he opened the door.

Myrhil twisted around from her position on the edge of the bed. With a sleepy smile, she finished tugging her shirt around her waist. “Good morning.”

The guard’s reticence returned to his memory. “You were outside late last night.” He bit his tongue as soon as he said it. It was blunt, without preamble, accusatory.

Her expression of rumpled good cheer faded. She turned back and bent forward to retrieve something from the floor, but returned upright with empty hands. She tapped her fingers on her bare knees and asked, “Have you seen my trousers?”

The apology that had been ready was tucked away. Against his desire to erase whatever hurt his words might have caused her, curiosity rooted and grew. Was she ashamed? Caught like a child who had sneaked out of the home long after bedtime? He almost smiled at the absurdity of it, the innocuous charm doing much to alleviate the tension that had hounded him from his father’s study.

“I didn’t see where you put them,” he replied, tone light. “You took great care to not wake me.”

She nodded, the motion quick, almost a spasm. “I did come to you late, as you said,” she said, still not turning around.

Boromir felt his curiosity acquire unwanted weight. He circled the bed. “Myrhil, honestly, you are not chained to me,” he began. “I would not like that, nor would you, I suspect.”

She sprang off the bed in obvious search of her vanished clothing. “Are you certain you didn’t do something with them this morning?” she asked.

Boromir decided to put aside his nagging questions for the moment and indulge her determined distraction. His eyes went to the four corners of the room and searched every point in between.

“I must have put them in here,” came her voice as she went into the adjoining room. “Help me look.”

He began to follow her when he stopped, his eyes catching sight of a garment under the bed, only the smallest portion of which was visible. “Wait. Maybe it’s this.”

Crouching beside the bed, he grasped the item and withdrew it. His brow creased in puzzlement when he saw that it was a pair of hose. “Is this yours?” he asked, holding it up and looking towards the open door into the other room where Myrhil stood watching. He regarded them again. “These can’t be yours,” he mused. “If you can fit these, then I can still wear Faramir’s baby clothes.”

“You’d best see Faramir straightway,” she replied with an abashed smile as she approached him and took them from his hand, “for they are indeed mine.”

“Put them on. I’m curious to see how they fit you. It must border on the comical. Or indecent.”

Myrhil placed her hands on her hips. “Gondor will certainly fall into neglect if you’d rather I parade outfits before you than see to the country’s business.”

Boromir shrugged. “Indulge me.” When he saw Myrhil’s eyes darken at her thinning humor, he added, “I’m surprised you didn’t find them when you bent over the edge of the bed. I wondered what you were looking for. Or hiding.”

Myrhil’s dismissive headshaking halted suddenly as the first syllable passed his lips. “Hiding?” she asked with some incredulity. “These sorry-looking things?”

“I’d be ashamed of them too, if they were mine.”

“You’re determined to hound a sordid story out of me, Captain,” she replied crisply. “I do hope it meets your expectations.”

Boromir sat on the edge of the bed, arms folded across his chest, and smiled. “Pray continue. I’m eager to know this new trouble you fell into when I wasn’t looking.”

Myrhil blanched. “It’s more foolish than a tavern brawl and not nearly as interesting as an orc attack.”

“But no doubt more entertaining than a puffed-up diplomat crying over an independently-minded subordinate.”

Myrhil’s brows rose. “From your tone alone the ridiculous events of my evening pale in comparison to your morning. What happened?” She took a seat beside him, rested an elbow on his shoulder, and flicked at a lock of hair that had fallen over his ear. “Hmm? Tell me.”

He batted at her hand. “It must be an extremely ridiculous tale you’re keeping from me to change subjects so clumsily.”

“Continue to bait me with that grin, and I’ll forever keep it a secret.” She gave an exaggerated sigh. “I grew thirsty late, after spending the evening with Mother.” Her gaze flitted to Boromir, but his attentive expression indicated all too clearly that he would remain and listen until satisfied.

“So I left the Citadel,” she went on, “and headed for a tavern, just for a short drink.”

She paused and Boromir leaned forward. “And then?”

“Your rapt attention mocks me. Chance put that scribe Gríma in the same tavern as me and we drank together. On our way back to the Citadel, some drunken louse had tossed his insides on the cobblestones and my foot found it.”

“Don’t tell me. You slipped.”

“Well, it can be quite slick,” Myrhil smiled, though her face twisted in disgust.

“Please, go on!”

“We returned to the Citadel and Gríma made a generous offer of hose and tunic. I wished to discard what I wore before coming in here, because I knew I would never hear the end of it.”

Boromir indulged in a hearty laugh. “Tell me,” he began once his laughter had subsided, “were you inebriated or otherwise scandalous?” At her hesitant expression, he waved his question aside with another chuckle. “It seems you shocked one of the guards. He was quite reluctant to tell me details of your arrival last night. If eyes could speak, he would have said a mouthful.”

She straightened. “I do remember passing a guard. What did he say?”

“If I read his nervous twitterings and flinches rightly, your spirited appearance in the company of one of the Rohirrim was the exception to a rather dull watch. I’m certain he thought revealing that you had a companion would send me into a rage.” He shook his head, then turned to regard her. “It should, I know. Carousing about the city, getting into mischief, and spending unseemly amounts of time in the company of another man. But…it doesn’t. It’s a charm I thought never existed.”

Myrhil was silent, returning his gaze. She reached out a hand. “If my ‘mischief,’ as you call it, does you harm or causes you embarrassment, then I regret it. It is not my intention. Things have a tendency to find me, not the other way around. I think I’m beginning to look at Rohan with relief rather than excitement. What can possibly plague me there? It’s nothing but rocks, horses, and hills.”

“By Yule, I’ll expect to hear news to the contrary.”

Myrhil huffed a resigned sigh. “I’ll not wager against that.”

He grasped her hand and squeezed it tightly. “Myrhil, there is something you need to be aware of.” Their hands still clasped, Boromir felt Myrhil’s fingers play over his, whether the gesture was absent or nervous, or her slight shift an indication of physical discomfort or apprehension, he couldn’t tell.

“I have just come from a meeting with Father,” he began, “and I fear he’s in a perverse mood. It is something that Elfléda planted in his mind, but I refuse to let him act on it.”

He proceeded to tell her of all that had happened that morning: the dead prisoner in the gaol, Elfléda’s self-important outburst, and the exchange about the scribe’s planned journey to Lebennin to collect Belaród’s remains.

When he finished, Myrhil surprised him by nodding. “He told me of that last night. It came as a shock. First, that he wishes to disturb his brother’s rest, and also that he will go alone.”

“Don’t worry about that second matter,” Boromir replied briskly, Myrhil’s thoughtful tone pricking his fears. “Father will send someone – a soldier or Ranger – to escort him. And if he should be up to mischief or on a mission of which this body retrieval serves only as a ruse—”

“It isn’t a ruse,” Myrhil told him. “Belaród meant much to him. I’ve sensed it, despite their estrangement.”

“That may be,” Boromir insisted patiently, “but the man can’t be content to play the scribe forever, and I’m no stranger to the look of ambition in a man’s eyes. The outward symptoms aren’t a mystery to me.”

“But you said you told your father he was honorable.”

“Seems honorable,” he corrected her. “So did the leader of a strolling band of players who came to the city last year. He was quite the noble presence during the performances, but at all other times he was adept at parting people from their money.”

Myrhil looked at him in confusion and disbelief. “Gríma’s not some cutpurse or gaming-house trickster!”

“But he is ambitious.”

“And an inherently decent man,” she insisted.

“I told Father that you know him better than I,” Boromir said quietly. “It seems I wasn’t mistaken.”

Myrhil flinched, an involuntary spasm that saddened him. “He is a trying person,” she allowed, “though not altogether disagreeable.”

“It is just as well that I’m not jealous. Your confidence in him, conditional though it may be, relieves me. And as Elfléda says, he’s capable of defending himself.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it in brisk affection. “So you can cease troubling yourself about his safety.” He stood.

“I owe him a debt,” she said simply, not moving.

“There are many, many ways to repay it,” he replied, “but I won’t let you offer up your life to discharge it. Myrhil, you are as reckless as your brother.”

“He died through anger. I could not be more calm.”

Boromir felt frustration and anger of his own creeping upon him in the face of her stubbornness. It was becoming apparent that Myrhil’s docility, when it surfaced, was doomed to a short life. In moments such as this, the fine virtues of tractability and gentleness would be welcome. But the set of her jaw on the invisible bit wasn’t that of a biddable mare. Rather, her expression was distinctly mulish.

“Wherever you wish to go,” he said, “I will not stop you. Far be it for me to dictate your honor and conscience.”

Myrhil looked up at him. “You’ll not forbid me?”

“Were you one of my soldiers,” he said grimly, folding his arms over his chest, “I could order you to walk there barefoot and you would thank me for the privilege.”

Despite his leaden expression, she smiled and nodded. “I’m certain that’s true. Soldier or wife, I would be yours to command. However, that’s not the case.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“You’re unhappy with me.” It wasn’t a question.

Boromir was silent, then he sighed. “Unhappy, no. Perplexed, yes. I would see you content, Myrhil. Gorhend would demand no less of me, were he aware how matters progressed after his death. He would want you safe, and Minas Tirth is safe, recent events aside. He would want Laenilas safe and around what little family she has left. And he would understand whatever feelings you had about honor. He swore by honor and duty, and Gondor was well-served by those convictions. He stayed long after others had abandoned the field for a peaceful dotage.”

“I knew him for so little time, it seemed,” she said. “Somehow I think that if he were here, he’d tell me to think of my own safety above all else. It was ever so with him. I always tried to not be bitter about it.”

“He had reason, after your brother’s accident.” A solid reason, he thought. One that made his snappish commands to his daughter completely logical. Thinking of Gorhend made his earlier contemplation of his father even more hurtful, and he clapped his hands together in discomfort.

“Your father wanted to see me, you said?”

“He made a comment in passing about it, though no doubt it was one of his usual antics.”

She nodded, then smiled. “It would be amusing to ask for the very same thing he supposes would be a punishment. Don’t you think?”

Boromir grinned. “It would, though it might not be prudent on today, of all days. He wouldn’t appreciate the humor in it, what with a murder to inquire about.”

Myrhil’s smile faded. “Yes. Yes, of course.”

Boromir cocked his head. “You’re troubled.”

“No, no, it was thoughtless of me to suggest such a trick, with weightier matters to consider. It’s my enduring difficulty with proper behavior among my betters.” She glanced up at him. “Gríma puts me in my place easily enough. Says my accent is pure backwater.”

“Charming,” he commented dryly. “And you owe him what, precisely?”

The reply was unhesitating. “My life.”

It had been his intention to only speak with her briefly before returning to his duties, which seemed to be mounting throughout the day, but her manner was curious. She seemed perfectly normal, her chatter the same as it had always been, but the banality of it was out of place. It struck his ears as hollow, an artifice. He didn’t want to give one moment’s consideration to these thoughts. He knew he would regret pursuing them. But something compelled him.

“Would that you owed that debt to me.”

“I owe you much, much more than that.”

“Is that so?” He resumed his seat on the bed beside her. Brushing tangled locks of hair from her brow, he asked, “Would you care to begin repaying it?”

She smiled lazily. “You’re busy. You’ve said as much already.”

He cupped her chin. “It won’t take but a minute.”

“So little?”

“Perhaps not,” he whispered. “Please…tell me if you saw anything abnormal last night.”

The hunted and furtive look that had been in Myrhil’s eyes flared brightly before clouding into confusion and annoyance. “Always so mindful!” she declared. “And I thought your desire lay elsewhere.”

Boromir allowed a smile to mask the very real fears he felt. He had never caught her in a lie, was unable to recognize the ticks and gestures unique to every person when falsehoods passed their lips. However, her expression, as brief as a lightning flash, spoke quite clearly. He felt confident enough to press on.

“Myrhil, you were about the city last night. Did you hear anything peculiar? Did you see anyone?”

She stared out the window, her jaw rigid and eyes steely. “Yes,” she began in clipped tones. “I heard drunken songs and I saw Gríma.”

“I was not looking for petulance.”

Myrhil’s gaze fell to her lap, accepting his rebuke. “I saw nothing, Boromir. Brawls, arguments, typical rowdy behavior of men too deep in their cups.” She turned and her eyes and voice were steady. “That is all.”

“You didn’t try to see the prisoner?”

“Why would I?”

Boromir shrugged. “A random thought I had. Your anger yesterday prompted it.”

“I assure you, I saw and heard nothing around that gaol. I passed by it, yes, on my way to the tavern, but it was silent as a tomb.” Her lips tugged upwards in fleeting amusement. “Perhaps it was already serving as one by then.”

He could not find it in himself to return her humor. “So I daresay it would be pointless to put similar questions to your friend the scribe?” he said.

“I daresay. He was with me, so whatever I saw, he saw.”

Boromir stood. “Get dressed,” he told her. “The day is yours to do with as you please, since you will no doubt be leaving soon. At least it will be into familiar territory.” With that, he turned and left.

As he retraced his steps down the corridor, he mulled over the change that had come over Myrhil. When he had risen from the bed, he had felt pushed to his feet as much as moving of his own will. Sitting beside her, he had felt her hair and her warmth, but there was something new, something disturbing. He could sense another presence around her. That damnable scribe.

The man hadn’t stolen her heart; that was absurd. But her loyalty was now divided, and he struggled with it. There was nothing amiss in feeling as she did. The man had indeed saved her in the woods during that chaotic hunt, and her honor, cultivated as it was by her father, called upon her to repay one of the highest debts a person could incur. It was natural, he told himself. Natural. He would no doubt do the same. Had done the same, in fact. Debts big and small had never been “forgotten” in the cracks of his station and blood.

But Myrhil was no longer his own, and the loss burned him even greater than he had imagined, resented the notions of honor for the first time. The gods help that scribe if he should wander into his path today.

And the gods help him if this merry errand brought Myrhil to harm.