Leaving

Chapter 29: Leaving

Goodbyes and farewells. Myrhil felt that what they lacked in number, the pain and shame compensated. Each one carried the sting of a pleased smile, completely ignorant of the underlying circumstances hounding her departure.

Beregond, the stalwart guard of the Citadel, reminded her that though they had spoken on few occasions, he would be first to wave to her upon her return. That is, he amended, if the Lord Boromir didn’t see her first from the battlements.

Faramir took her hand and, with a defeated shrug of his shoulders, lamented that her mind hadn’t been turned more fully towards study. “The largest library in the entire world, Myrhil,” he said, “and you could not see its beauty!” A joke came readily to her lips: she would be traveling with a scribe and professed scholar, so surely that would alleviate his disappointment.

She found her mother in their small cottage, intent on all being in readiness for the departure of the Rohirrim, scheduled for two days hence. On her knees before a small leather trunk, she was arranging and rearranging the contents to achieve greatest capacity.

“If you fold those dresses any tighter, you’ll need a chisel to use them again,” Myrhil remarked, standing in the doorway.

Laenilas laughed, though she still didn’t turn around. “Don’t complain! I will be hauling your few bits of finery with me as well.”

“Yes, I forgot,” Myrhil said absently. “I thank you for that.”

“Oh, it’s a mere trifle,” her mother sighed, hauling herself to her feet and swiping damp tendrils of hair from her flushed brow. “The Ambassador was generous enough to purchase a mule expressly for my—our baggage.”

At the mention of Elfléda, Myrhil bristled. “Don’t become beholden to him,” she said. “He could be buying your favor.”

Laenilas surprised her by laughing heartily. “Of course he is! He may have the King’s confidence, but I—” she snapped her fingers “—share Théoden’s blood. That is something no amount of merit can win him.”

Myrhil allowed her mother’s feisty mood to buoy her own spirits. She smiled. “I see you’ve already begun to act the arch role of privilege.”

“I shall be queen of my own chamber, or hut, or whatever Théoden sees fit to give me. To tell the truth, I fervently hope he allows me to remain within Meduseld. A large part of me is curious to see those young wards of his at close, prolonged quarters. He hasn’t taken another wife, so those children no doubt sorely lack for proper care.”

Myrhil started. “You shock me. Here I stand, under the impression for several years that you would like nothing more than to boot me from the nest, and now you talk of gathering other chicks.”

“It is the boy, Éomer, I am most curious about,” Laenilas said, rubbing her hands together with a thoughtful expression.

“Oh,” Myrhil nodded stiffly, her pleasant mood fast fading. “Yes, I expect you would anticipate that. He—he’s nearly Larhend’s age when he—”

“Yes,” Laenilas interrupted. “He is, indeed.” As though she suddenly became aware of the mournful tone their farewell was taking, she clapped her hands in impatience. “Oh, what are we doing speaking of that? No doubt the boy will be hot-headed, disagreeable, and shun affection, much like any male creature of that age.” She held out her arms and walked over to clasp Myrhil between them. “So, you have said good-bye to all?”

“Those who might be sorry to see me go,” Myrhil replied, wrapping her arms around Laenilas’ shoulders and squeezing tightly.

“Boromir?”

“Last night. He had to leave on a patrol before dawn.” She peered over her mother’s shoulder and saw the sun hovering above the eastern horizon, shining remarkably brilliant despite the omnipresent haze of ash and smoke. “It’s time I left as well. Gríma was insistent we leave at dawn, and I’ve been tarrying too long. The horses are probably being fed a string of well-articulated curses right now.”

“You have never been overwhelming in your desire to open yourself to me,” Laenilas whispered. “On occasions few and lamentably far between, and as unpredictable as a colt first shown the rope. Even now, you’d rather joke about a cross scribbler.”

Myrhil stiffened in the embrace. “I say nothing because you will discover it regardless. You and the Steward are fingers on the same hand in that respect.”

Laenilas parted and rested her hands on Myrhil’s shoulders at arm’s length. “A fine mood you’re in! Your good-bye to Boromir must have gone badly, rather than well.” At Myrhil’s impatient look askance, she held up her hands in surrender. “Very well! I’ll not tread on that ground. I’ll not even ask who spoke the first harsh word.”

“Imagine it to your heart’s content,” Myrhil told her. “I don’t wish to speak of it. It's a burden that I shall have it as wretched company for the entire journey.”

Laenilas’ eyes darkened in concern. “Myrhil, please tell me if you think it would lighten your conscience, either a little or greatly.” When Myrhil made no move to speak, she crossed her arms. “This troubles you now, whatever passed between you and Boromir last night, but you have been fighting a peculiar melancholy for longer than that. What is it? Did Denethor smash any notions you might have had of occupying a position on the Citadel?”

“An approved position, you mean. One that had Papa’s full consent.”

“Yes. I mean exactly that.”

“I think Denethor thought me more stupidly ambitious than I truly am,” Myrhil said. “Of course I dreamed of calling Boromir mine forever, but it’s not even a remote reality. I always knew that.”

“Did you?”

Myrhil pursed her lips. “I now say so. It is easier that way.”

“You’re being more considerate of his father than you are of him,” Laenilas remarked bluntly. “I don’t think Boromir shares the same definition of ‘suitable’ as Denethor does.”

“More fool he. It is by his father’s he must abide.”

“And you have told him this?” Laenilas demanded. “You have told him that he should not harbor any hope beyond this dalliance you have enjoyed?” Her voice sank to a tone that brooked no argument and compelled a short, satisfactory answer. “I will not have you deceive him, Myrhil. Not for an instant.”

Myrhil threw out her hands in angry supplication. “What would you have me do? Tell him plainly that it is an end? I wanted to! I couldn’t! I’m not so deluded to think he fights with me in his heart and that if I am gone, so is his purpose, but he does care for me enough that I couldn’t bear to turn our final night into something ugly. It was tense without it.”

“But he understands why you’re choosing to leave,” Laenilas said. “I confess I don’t. The scribe can find his own way. It is his brother he’s retrieving. You need have no part of it. Honor be damned if it takes you back over the same ground.”

Myrhil let this last remark pass without comment. It was no surprise her mother felt like that. So fixed had she become on this journey to Rohan, this marching into a new personal frontier, that the old and familiar were like worn things best set aside. It was as though Laenilas sought a new source of vitality, having received all Gondor had to offer.

“Yes, he understands,” Myrhil said. “In his words, at least, but his eyes told another tale. And—and he was not—” She stopped, flustered.

Laenilas peered at her intently, cool Rohirrim eyes delving beneath the barriers Myrhil tried to miserably erect, even in the knowledge that it was already too late. “He was ungentle with you,” she said flatly. “Last night.”

When Myrhil offered neither confirmation nor denial, Laenilas nodded in satisfaction that she had guessed rightly. “Of course. I see the pain and confusion in your face. I know more of long absences than you can begin to imagine. Few are the soldiers’ wives that haven’t had a similar coupling. A rare breed of violence, isn’t it?”

“I don’t hate him for it,” Myrhil said emphatically.

“Nor should you! There is nothing wrong with your voice. Had it been against your will, you would have made the rafters ring. But I do suspect you’re allowing it to ease your conscience, given those tart words about him just a short while ago.” She crossed her arms, her eyes suddenly sad. “Regrettably, it is too late for you to tell him the truth he needs to hear, but false hope has never killed a soul yet. Though, perhaps, he did what he did last night precisely because he know it was at an end. Who can say?” She shrugged. “But, Myrhil, rectify it when you pass through Minas Tirith on your way to Rohan. Come to Edoras with a clean conscience. Do not bring such a burden and unfinished business with you.”

There was little else to say. Myrhil nodded at this order, spoken perhaps more softly than Denethor’s had been, but certainly no less forceful.

A clean conscience? Impossible. Unfinished business? There would always be something she could never rid herself of. Falvöd’s body was being borne to Rohan, his death blamed on the unknown assassin who had also slain an incarcerated troublemaker. It was the conclusion Denethor had quietly and convincingly drawn, and so it had become accepted by all, at least to Myrhil’s furtive observations.

Once she reached Rohan, that body would lay moldering in its grave, but the stench of Falvöd’s blood and his temporary tomb in the sewer would never leave her hands. She had not killed him, but her part in his death negated her innocence in that matter. Denethor had exiled her for much less.

With a final, murmured farewell, Myrhil turned and left the small cottage to stumble her way to the stables, there to meet a man seemingly more calm and unburdened by events than she. As she descended from the Citadel, one portion of her conversation with Laenilas kept returning. Not Boromir or the stark, needful and punishing intimacy she had hinted at. Nor the matter of Denethor’s disapproval. What lingered was her mother’s expression as she had spoken of Théoden’s nephew, visibly lost in contemplation of having an incarnation of Larhend to perhaps dote upon, even if from a distance.

Yes, this young Éomer was around Larhend’s age when her brother perished, but as Myrhil stood there before her mother, her mind had been filled with one thought, and it echoed painfully with every step she now took.

Do you forget, Mother? So am I.

How she wanted Boromir here! This journey was similar to what she had proposed to him not long ago. Just the two of them, their horses, and a few days’ supplies. Unfortunately, duty had asserted itself over impulse and Myrhil could not find it in herself to condemn Boromir for his priorities. Then, other matters had intervened and that plan seemed even more unlikely of ever being fulfilled.

A small fire had been built soon after they decided upon a wayside camp and Myrhil now looked over the flames into the face of the scribe. Had events been different, perhaps another would be sitting in his place and the objective would not be to retrieve a corpse, but to revel in the freedom and life of a brief, aimless wandering.

She further scrutinized Gríma, fascinated in a way to discover how he would further cope with these rustic arrangements. When an inn had not presented itself around dusk, his distaste had been palpable, try as he did to mask it. Still, he had made camp with as much ceremony and deliberation as one would entering the finest wayside lodgings blessed with a roof. Gríma’s attention had been focused on some scraps of paper he was holding towards the light to read, so Myrhil’s scrutiny had gone unnoticed for some time. So long, in fact, that when he lowered a page and looked up, she didn’t realize he had done so until his voice wrenched her from her daze. She wasn’t certain what he had said, but it was apparently unimportant, for he said nothing else and had shifted his position so that she could not see his face so readily. Most likely it had been a sharp order to mind her own business.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind had wandered.”

He gave a low grunt of agreement. “I didn’t expect an apology,” he said, “but thank you.” He did not bother to look up as he spoke.

Myrhil fell silent again and nudged one of the campfire stones with her toe. It was of uneven shape, and so it tottered on its ragged underside. She nudged it again, then again, until it had spun full circle.

“Will you humor me for a brief moment?”

Myrhil looked up from her game in surprise.

“I realize that it’s not incumbent upon the Steward’s sons, extending back for generations, to pursue women of high intellectual merit,” he said, “but there must be something to occupy your mind other than rock spinning. Otherwise, it will be a long night.”

Myrhil leaned forward. “And will you humor me? Try to speak to me once – once! – without insults leaping off your tongue. Just because you don’t lace them with profanities doesn’t make them less odious.”

Gríma lowered the paper he had been studying and regarded her with an expression of long-suffering patience.

“I came because I must help you,” she went on. “I wanted to.” Her voice broke, though she did not weep. “You haven’t the birth, but you have all the arrogance, and I now wish I hadn’t felt so bound and willing to aid you.”

“Then go,” he said without hesitation. “I release you.”

Myrhil leaned backwards into her former slouch. “It’s not that simple.”

Gríma waved his hand in a gesture of mock grandiosity. “Yes, I forget. How stupid of me. The country folk of Gondor have an intricate code of honor they adhere to.” He sniffed, unimpressed. “A rude shock awaits you. You have not yet navigated through the honor protocol that rules Rohan. The world can thank us for inventing that particular beast. I have seen a fair but pale, very pale, imitation of it here.”

“You like nothing, Gríma,” she told him. “Gondor doesn’t have Rohan’s code, so we’re a bumbling people of insufficient honor, and Rohan knows not what books are and is a nation of ignorant fools. It is a wonder, truly, that you deign to live in either place. What need have you of honor anyway?”

“When it suits my purpose,” he told her. “It’s a tender thing and I don’t wish to overuse it.”

Myrhil picked up a small twig that had broken off the limb wood she had gathered for the fire and twirled it between her fingers absently. “Do you wish you had told Elfléda what you had done and exercise that rarely-used honor?”

Gríma snorted. “You must be mad.” His eyes narrowed. “Has that odd nose of yours smelled a business proposition to be had at my expense? You seem quite interested in what Elfléda does or doesn’t know, and his motives.” Before Myrhil could reply, he added, “Lest you forget, it was this same honor of mine which prompted me to action in the first place. Falvöd would have pounded you to pieces otherwise. Never forget that.”

Myrhil was silent, though her hand had stolen to her face upon his comment about her nose. It had always been rigidly angular and larger than she would have liked, but it was rarely, if ever, cause for comment. However, Gríma’s snide remark prompted her to unthinkingly inspect it.

“You haven’t moved,” he observed. “So I surmise that you would not return to Minas Tirith, even when given the option to do so.”

“Not in the dark, certainly,” she snapped, though she realized immediately after the words left her lips that he had provoked her intentionally. She should have grown used to his long ago. Gríma never uttered a word without total awareness of what he said and the effect it would have. For such a remarkably short time since they had first met in that library nook, he knew her disturbingly well. He knew what to say to make her self-conscious, angry, or render her into impotent silence. It infuriated her; frightened her, even. Boromir had exerted control over her body with a touch or a look, but Gríma sent her mind into a torment with words. His brother had done the same, though he had had a bit of Boromir’s effect about him as well.

Silence reigned for some time longer until Gríma said, “You will not leave in the dark, but what of the daylight? Do we part ways tomorrow?”

Myrhil stared into the fire grimly. She had not told him she was no longer welcome in the city, though she realized she would have to explain at some point why they would need to give Minas Tirith a wide berth on their route to Rohan. Or at least why she could not enter the gate to the Pelennor.

Denethor could not have meant that I am literally for bidden from being closer than a day’s flight from the city, Myrhil thought. It would be impossible to do so without passing dangerously close to Mordor, if not actually entering its outer wastelands. The only other option was crossing the mountains, thus avoiding Minas Tirith entirely and that…that was madness.

Myrhil shook her head. There were paths, but she was no mountain goat. She looked over at Gríma. He was small and nimble, yet she doubted he had the strength for such a feat. She knew it would tax her to the point of worthlessness before reaching the summit. The foothills were no stranger to her; she had wandered them before, but the giant slopes above repelled travelers by their size alone.

“There is something you haven’t told me.”

“There are a lot of things,” was her immediate reply, snappish and annoyed at the intrusion on her thoughts.

“Very well. I deserved that,” he said, “but if you would part with one thing you are withholding.”

Myrhil looked up. The scribe’s expression betrayed his curiosity, but did not indicate great worry. It would keep; there was no need to admit to her exile just yet. Perhaps there was still a way out of it and this banishment was only temporary. Confiding her dilemma to him was among the worst things she felt she could do. It was only the first night. Best to give the scribe fewer days to sting her with comments about losing Boromir.

She did not answer him. Instead, she retreated to her blanket and lay down with her face towards the fire and Gríma.

“Do you not trust me?” he scoffed. “I assure you, you are quite safe.”

“Don’t say it,” she rejoined. “My nose is a splash of water on even the hottest lust.” By insulting herself, it could only lessen the sting of his barbs. Or so she thought.

But Gríma would not be bested or let her have the final word. “Obviously not,” he said. “My brother found it no deterrent.”

“And you’re nothing like him, so you’re right. I have no reason to fear you. But that’s not what I meant,” she went on. “I’m wondering if I’ll wake up with a sore head and find you gone.”

“Your company isn’t irritating enough that finding my way through this country alone is enticing. I’d rather not rely on the kindness and goodwill of strangers. It’s seldom reliable.”

Myrhil smiled at the truth of this and nestled her head further into the crook of her bent arm. “I grew up among dour people,” she said. “My father was weary of war, and my mother had been blasted by the plains winds that sharpened her in places that are smooth in other people. Every day was filled with work of some sort, driven to do this or that simply because we had to. And I didn’t mind it all that much – or thought I didn’t – until your brother arrived.”

She paused, thinking that Gríma would use the opportunity to make one of his sharp-tongued observations that she was beginning to think was some sort of natural impulse, but he remained silent. His eyes had left her and were staring into the fire, and he had drawn one leg up to his chest and wrapped an arm around it. Though he gave the appearance of being lost in his own thoughts, a slight shift in his body told her that he was listening.

“He didn’t care about much, other than what gave him pleasure. I thought him daring and exciting. He wasn’t sour, and he wasn’t cynical. He was so different from what I had known. And that’s the strangest thing.”

Gríma looked up from his contemplation of the fire. “What?” he pressed. “What was strange about it?”

“That I should think him so wonderful, and yet discover, now, that I was foolish to be blinded. It is you who has a better grasp of what Men are and what this world is.” When Gríma flinched, she hastened to add, “I meant that as a good thing.”

He nodded. “I know.”

“You’re not pleased by it?”

He shrugged. “Others rarely find it a good trait in one like I. In experienced and bitter soldiers, yes. But they feel I could afford some optimism. Maybe play the fool for their mighty selves. I don’t know.” He shrugged again, this futile pondering no longer of interest. “Go to sleep. I’ll douse the fire and keep watch.”

Myrhil nodded without protest and pulled her blanket around her. She did not close her eyes until the coals had finished hissing and Gríma took his watch position, swathed in his blanket to ward off the falling dew.

She recalled her words to him, her fear that he would knock her unconscious and continue on alone. Her eyes grew heavier, and her thoughts became slow and ponderous. How ridiculous of her to have said that. He was quarrelsome, but so was she. And he had done nothing to lose her trust. It was only his prickly character that gave her these momentary feelings of doubt and frustration with him. He had killed a man to save her. Her trust should endure, if not grow.

She went to sleep with the notion that she was quite, and strangely, safe.