Tolkien Fan Fiction
| 6 |
| Duty |
| Idril ran down the steps of the hall and across the paved court catching up with her brother just beyond the fountain as he made determinedly for the stair to the lower circles and caught his arm. "Where do you think you're going?" "I have work to do." he answered eyes straight ahead, chin high, ignoring the tears tracking the dirt on his face. Idril ignored them too. "The work can wait. You are weary and hungry and smell of horse and worse. If you have no pity on yourself at least have some for your officers!" That jarred a brief laugh out of him. "A bath and a bite to eat would be welcome." he conceeded and let himself be turned around. Idril took him to her apartments, as his own rooms had not yet been made ready for him, ordered a bath drawn, sent a chamberlain to fetch fresh clothing, and had a table laid with enough food for three Men in the solar. When Faramir joined her a half hour or so later, skin and hair several shades lighter and smelling of flower essences, he devoured everything set before him with an appetite honed by months of deprivation while his sister entertained him with inconsequentialities; a recension of the poetry of Gelmir of Edhellond recently offered for sale by their favorite book dealer; the sudden marriage of the City's most popular female singer to a gentleman of Lamedon and her departure from Minas Tirith amid the lamentations of her admirers; and how their father's recent statute closing the theatres and forbiding dinner parties or other private entertainments had lowered spirits. "I doubt anyone has much heart for merrymaking just now, Idril." Faramir said quietly. "You call dinner parties merrymaking?" she asked drily. And her brother, who enjoyed such occasions no more than she, smiled. "But even if you do, is it so evil for folk to seek diversion to escape for a time from their fears? You remember what Boromir used to say; 'What good does it do the army for folk to sit at home brooding in the dark? Let them put off mourning til they have cause for grief!'" "But they do have cause now." said her brother quietly. "They do," she agreed. "So don't you give them more. He didn't mean it, Faramir, you know he didn't." He shook his head, face set. "Yes he did, Idril, you do not know all that passed between us. I have displeased him beyond all mending this time. He meant it." She looked at him, disturbed by the conviction in his voice but unconvinced. "I cannot believe that is true." Faramir produced a semblance of a smile. "Why would he say it if he did not mean it?" "Because for years now neither of you has let pass a chance to hurt the other." Idril retorted sharply. Then wistfully: "Surely it hasn't always been so. I seem to remember a time when we were a happy family - or am I decieved?" "No." Faramir answered shortly. "You are not decieved. "Then when did that change, and why?" she almost pleaded. "How did this war between you and our father start?" Her brother sighed helplessly. "I don't know Idril. I know things changed between us - but when or how I cannot recall." "Nor maybe can he." she said softly, then strongly: "End it Faramir. Stand up to him, tell him he's asking the impossible and refuse this ridiculous order. That's what Boromir would do!" "I am not Boromir." Faramir reminded her tightly. "No. You are Faramir, the Steward's wise and prudent son, you know this is folly!" But he denied it. "Not folly, Idril. Father's right. If we lose control of the river we lose the outer defenses - the Rammas wall and causway forts cannot hold against an attack in force." "Then let them fall! Outer defenses are meant to be sacrificed at need. Don't waste Men's lives on piecemeal battles that cannot be won. Save them for the final defense of the City." Faramir smiled crookedly. "Reckless as always, Little Sister, anyone would think you wanted to see an army of Orcs under the City's walls. Better far to keep the enemy at distance as long as we may. Boromir retook Osgiliath once before." "With more Men against fewer of the Enemy." she retorted. "It cannot be done again." "No." her brother agreed quietly. "But the attempt will buy time. Time for the provincial levies and the Riders of Rohan to reach the City." "At the cost of thousands of our Men." Idril shook her head. "To high a price." "Time is our great need now, whatever the cost." Faramir argued. "And it is the Steward's will that it be done. That ends it." "It will be the end of him." Idril said bluntly. "You are his last son, the last of his line. He survived Boromir's loss - barely - he will not survive losing you!" "I think he will." Faramir answered bitterly. His sister shook her head. "You know that's not true. Kill yourself and you kill him." then she paused, as a new thought struck her, and her eyes narrowed. "Or that your purpose? To revenge all the hurts and insults in one final, shattering blow?" "No!" he recoiled from her, from the thought, in undoubtedly genuine horror. "Of course not, now could you think such a thing of me, Idril!" "Whether it is your intent or not such will be the result." she said inexorably. "Think again, Faramir, it's not just your life but our father's as well. And if he dies what becomes of our people left leaderless? Consider that too before you throw your life away." **** It was a horrible afternoon. Denethor ate not like a Man who was hungry, or one who was enjoying his food, but like a Man trying desperately to shut out his thoughts. For the first time in Pippin's life the sight and smell of food inspired no appetite. In fact his stomach rebelled at the thought of swallowing a single morsel. He was wondering why when suddenly Denethor spoke. "Can you sing, Master Hobbit?" "Well, yes." he stammered, heart sinking at the very thought of singing 'The Green Dragon' or any of the comic drinking songs he knew best to the Lord of Minas Tirith. "At least, well enough for my own people. But we have no songs for great halls and evil times." Denethor gave him a grim look. "And why should your songs be unfit for my halls? Come, sing me a song." For a desperate moment all Pippin could think of was that silly bath song of Merry's 'Sing hey! for the bath at close of day.' which obviously wouldn't do at all. Then he remembered Bilbo's favorite walking song - the one they called the 'Adventurer's song': "Home is behind, the world ahead, And there are many paths to tread. Through shadow, to the edge of night, Until the stars are all alight. Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, All shall fade! All shall fade ..." The words had never made him cry before, but now, after all he'd been through, they took on a new meaning, a new poignance. He struggled against his tears and Denethor, absorbed in his own pain, either didn't notice or pretended not to. It was no better after lunch. The silent Men in their rich furred gowns cleared the table and took it and the chair away. Denethor sat again on his throne and various people were admitted to give counsel or take orders. Occasionally Pippin would help the Men set chairs for the visitors, or serve them with wine and little white cakes. Gandalf returned and Pippin's nerves clenched, bracing for another explosion. But nothing of the kind happened. Instead wizard and Steward had a chilly but civil discussion of recent happenings in Rohan. Denethor seemed very interested in Eomer for some reason; asking about his opinions and what advice he'd given the King. It was about teatime, as they reckoned it in the Shire, when Denethor suddenly looked at him, frowned a little, and said quite kindly: "You seem weary, my small liege, have I kept you too long on your feet?" "I am not used to waiting on the great, my Lord." Pippin admitted. Then added stoutly: "But I will grow accustomed!." Denethor smiled. "I have no doubt of it. But perhaps it would be wise to limit your hours of attendance at first, I do not wish to outwear you! You are dismissed for the rest of the day, Master Peregrin. Return to me tomorrow at the third hour." Pippin bowed and went down the long marble floor, past the towering statues and silent Menservants, to the great doors which a guard opened for him. The shadows of hall and tower darkened the court outside where the Fountain Guards in their black robes and strange winged helmets still stood watching over the bleached and withered trunk of a dead tree. Beyond them the black clouds over Mordor, lit by red fire beneath, seemed to have come closer, almost overshadowing the city. Pippin's heart sank to his toes. Here he stood in the great fortress and city of Middle Earth, dressed in armor with the sign of the White Tree on his breast like he belonged there - but he didn't. He sat down on the steps of the Hall and put his head in his hands. He wanted Merry. he wanted to be safe home in the Shire and for none of this to have happened. "Are you all right, Master Halfling?" a voice asked with concern. Pippin started, looked up, then started again. One of the Fountain Guards was looming over him, helmet under his arm, gazing down with a kindly expression on a face that reminded Pippin strongly of Aragorn, or perhaps of a younger Denethor. "Yes I'm fine!" the Man looked skeptical and Pippin felt constrained to add: "That is to say no. But there's nothing much wrong, just a touch of homesickness." He consulted his insides and said thoughtfully: "I should eat something I think, but I can't say I have much appetite. Not to mention not knowing where the dining rooms or kitchens are." The Man smiled. "Now there I can help you. As my Lord's esquire the messes of all the companies of the Guard are open to you. If you like I will take you to that of my own old company." "Please!" said Pippin with relief. "And thank you, Master - ?" "Beregond son of Baranor." the Man said and offered his hand. "Peregrin Took." Pippin replied, taking it. "Or rather 'son of Paladin' as your folk would say, and very pleased to meet you." |