The Last Ringbearer (15 page)

“Your father had always thought you a softie, so much so as to openly look for ways to disinherit you when Boromir died … But this didn’t bother you in the least; you even joked back then that since the pen had callused your finger, the scepter would for sure wear your palm to the bone – very well said, Prince, short and to the point! So – “ suddenly Aragorn’s voice became dry and hard, “let’s say that we’re simply back to the starting point: you still have no claim to the throne of Gondor, but the new king will be me rather than your wayward brother, the Valar rest his soul. Are you listening?”

‘Yes’

“The situation, then, is like this: Denethor is dead; this is a hard blow, but I think you’ll survive it. There’s a war on, the country is leaderless, and therefore I, Aragorn, heir of Isildur, having today defeated the hordes of the East on the Pelennor Fields, accept the crown of the Reunited Kingdom at the army’s request. This is set; alternatives exist only as far as your own fate, Prince. Option number one: you abdicate the throne (remember that yours is a dynasty of Stewards, rather than Kings!) and leave Minas Tirith to become a prince of one of the lands of Gondor; I think that Ithilien will suit you just fine. Option number two: you refuse, but then I will not treat you – whatever for? – and will assume the crown after your imminent demise. By the way, nobody but me knows that you’re still alive; the funeral is set for today, and I will simply let it proceed. In a few hours you’ll hear the tombstone seal your family crypt … I’m sure your imagination can fill in the rest. Do you understand me, Faramir?”

The prince’s fingers were silent. He had always had the calm courage of a philosopher, but the prospect of being buried alive can instill crushing dread into any soul.

“Oh no, this won’t do at all. If you don’t give me a clear answer in half a minute, I’ll leave, and in a couple of hours, when the
athelas
wears off, the undertakers will come. Believe me that I much prefer option one, but if you would rather have the crypt …”

‘No’

“No – meaning yes? You agree to become Prince of Ithilien?”

‘Yes’

“We have a mutual understanding, then; your word is quite sufficient – so far. Some time from now, when you regain your ability to speak, I will visit you with Prince Imrahil, who is the temporary regent of the city and the country after the passing of Denethor. By then Imrahil will have examined my royal credentials and will confirm them to you; you, in turn, will confirm your decision to resign as Steward of Gondor and move to Ithilien. The entire Gondor knows of the Prince’s nobility and his friendship with you, so I expect that the people will duly accept his announcement. Do you agree? Answer: yes or no?!”

‘Yes’

“By the way, I’ll answer your unspoken question: why don’t I do away with you, option two being both simpler and more reliable? I’m being quite pragmatic here: an alive, abdicated Faramir in Ithilien is harmless, whereas his dead body in the crypt of the Stewards of Gondor would no doubt spawn a legion of pretenders – false Faramirs. Oh, and another thing: I’m certain that you would not go against your given word, but just in case, bear this in mind: no one but me in the entire Middle Earth can heal you, and this healing will take a long time yet and can take unexpected turns … do you understand me?”

‘Yes’ (What’s not to understand? A simple poisoning would be the least of his worries; what if he were turned into a vegetable, to drool and soil himself for the rest of his life?)

“Wonderful! I’ll say just one more thing in conclusion, because I believe that it’s important to you …” To the prince’s considerable amazement, there was genuine emotion in Aragorn’s voice now. “I promise to rule Gondor in such a way that you, Faramir, will never have a single occasion to think that you would have done it better. I promise that the Reunited Kingdom will prosper and flourish like never before. And I also promise that the story of the King and the Steward will be so treated in all the chronicles as to glorify you forever. Now drink this and sleep.”

He came back to consciousness still in the thrall of darkness and muteness, but the terrible cold had retreated to the location of the wound, and – happiness! – he could feel pain and could even move a little. There were voices nearby, but they fell silent … And then She appeared.

CHAPTER 21

F 
irst there was only her hand – small but unwomanly strong; the hand of a rider and a swordswoman, as he immediately determined. The girl did not possess the habits of a real nurse, but it was obvious that treating the wounded was nothing new to her. Why is she doing everything one-handed, though – an injury of her own, perhaps? He tried estimating her height from how far she could reach when sitting on the edge of his bed – it worked out to about five and a half feet. Once he was incredibly lucky: she leaned over him, and her silky hair brushed the prince’s face. Thus he learned that she was not wearing her hair up (that meant a woman of the North, from Rohan); but most important was that now he would never confuse this smell with any other, an aroma like that of an evening steppe breeze, mixing the dry heat of the sun-warmed earth with the pungent refreshing smell of sagebrush.

In the meantime Aragorn’s medicine was working; the very next day he could speak his first words, which were, unsurprisingly: “What’s your name?”

“Éowyn.”

Éowyn … Like the sound of a bell – not a regular brass bell, but one of those porcelain bells that are sometimes brought from the Far East. Yes, the voice fit her owner quite well – at least it fit the image he had put together in his mind.

“So what’s the matter with your left arm, Éowyn?”

“Oh, you can see already?!”

“Alas, no; this is just a conclusion I’ve reached in my musings.”

“Really? Explain!”

He described her appearance as he had put it together from the scraps of information he had.

“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “All right, tell me – what kind of eyes do I have?”

“Most certainly large and wide-set.”

“No, I mean the color?”

“The color, hmm … Green!”

“I’ve believed you!” there was genuine disappointment in the girl’s voice, “but you must’ve simply seen me somewhere before.”

“I swear by anything, Éowyn, I’ve simply named my favorite color. So I guessed right? But you still haven’t told me about your arm. Have you been wounded?”

“Oh, it’s only a scratch, believe me, especially compared to yours. It’s just that men have a habit of brushing us aside when dividing the spoils.”

Éowyn described the Battle of the Pelennor Fields clearly and crisply, like a professional warrior, all the while taking care of him, now giving him medicine, then changing the dressing on the wound. It seemed to Faramir that she radiated some kind of special warmth; it was this warmth, rather than medicines, that chased away the deathly chill tormenting his body. But when, moved by gratitude, he covered Éowyn’s hand with his, she took it away politely but firmly and left her charge, saying: “This is quite unnecessary, Prince,” and instructing him to ask for her should a real need arise. Saddened by this strange rebuff, he dozed (this was real sleep now, healing and refreshing), and upon awakening heard the tail end of a conversation, recognizing Éowyn as one of the participants and Aragorn – much to his surprise – as the other.

“… so you’ll have to go to Ithilien with him.”

“But why, Ari? You know that I can’t be without you now.”

“It’s necessary, dear. It won’t be for very long – three weeks, perhaps a month.”

“That is very long, but I’ll do what you need, don’t worry. You want me to be by his side?”

“Yes, you’ll complete his treatment, you’re good at it. Plus you’ll check out how he does in the new place.”

“You know, he’s very nice.”

“Of course! You will have excellent conversation, I think you won’t be bored with him.”

“Bored? Oh, you’re too kind! …”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean it to sound like that …” The voices went away, a door banged, and Faramir thought that although this was none of his business, nevertheless … Suddenly he cried out from an abrupt pain: previously unseen light flooded his eyes and seemed to burn the retina that had grown unaccustomed to seeing. She was already by his side, holding his hand in alarm: “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, Éowyn – I think I’m getting my sight back.”

“No, really?!”

Everything around him swam in rainbow areolas, but the pain subsided quickly. When the prince finally managed to wipe away tears and take his first look at Éowyn, his heart skipped a beat and then poured a heat wave through his body: he was looking at the girl he had pictured in his imagination. Not a similar girl, but that exact one, from the color of her eyes to the gesture with which she brushed her hair aside. I’ve created her myself, he thought in resignation, and now I will never get away.

The fort of Emyn Arnen, now the official residence of His Highness the Prince of Ithilien, was not, strictly speaking, a fort. It was a log house of monumental proportions, with three floors, an unbelievably labyrinthine plan, and a cornucopia of architectural excesses: all sorts of turrets, dormers, and outside galleries. Nevertheless, the whole thing looked surprisingly harmonious. One could see the hand of the master craftsmen of Angmar in its design – it is there, in the forests of the far North, that this wood-building art flourishes. The house was impeccably positioned from the landscaping standpoint, but atrociously from a military one, not protecting anything. Besides, the unknown fortification ‘experts’ that had built the stockade around it had done it in such an obvious revulsion for their craft that it could only serve as an exhibit for the relevant course at the Academy of Military Engineering: “How not to build external fortifications: find eight mistakes.” This must have been why Emyn Arnen had been abandoned by the Mordorians without a fight as indefensible, and passed to its current owners intact.

It was not quite clear, actually, who these new owners were. The Prince of Ithilien could only be called such in jest, as he was not permitted to even leave the fort alone. Much to her surprise, his guest Éowyn, the sister of the King of the Mark of Rohan, had discovered that she shared the prince’s weird status. With no hidden agenda she had asked for her sword back, adding jokingly that she didn’t feel quite dressed without it, and got a joke in response: “A pretty girl looks even prettier underdressed.” Éowyn frowned in irritation: even by her uninhibited taste this compliment by a lieutenant of the White Company (forty men tasked by Aragorn to their protection) bordered on a
faux pas
. She made a note for herself to be on more formal terms with this bunch from now on, and requested a meeting with the company’s commander, Captain Beregond.

After all, every joke has its limits: they are not in Minas Tirith any more, walking these woods unarmed, while there may still be goblins about, is simply unsafe. – Oh, Her Highness has nothing to fear in this respect; the goblins are her bodyguards’ problem. – Does the Captain mean to say that those four ugly mugs are going to accompany her everywhere? – Yes, certainly, and this is by direct order of His Majesty; although they can be replaced, if Her Highness dislikes these four. – By the way, Aragorn is neither her sovereign nor guardian, and if this is how it’s going to be, she’s coming back to Minas Tirith right away … actually, to Edoras, not Minas Tirith! – Unfortunately, this, too, would be impossible without a written order from His Majesty. – So … not to put too fine a face on it, is she a prisoner? – Why, Your Highness! Prisoners stay under lock and key, whereas you can ride anywhere you want. Even to Minas Morgul (the Valar preserve us), but only with bodyguards and unarmed.

Strangely, only now did Éowyn realize that Faramir’s lack of a sword could be due to more mundane reasons than the prince’s poetic disposition.

By process of elimination it would seem that Beregond was the real master of Ithilien, but one only had to see him move charily through the corridors of the fort, avoiding eye contact with his prisoner, to understand that this was rank nonsense. The captain was a ruined man because he knew that he had guarded Denethor’s chambers on that tragic day and that he was the one who had announced the King’s suicide to the public – that is, he knew, but he could not remember any of it. His memory of that nightmarish day sported a large charred hole, in which Mithrandir’s whitish shadow flitted sometimes; the knight seemed to have had a hand in those events, but Beregond could not figure it out. It is hard to say what prevented the captain from taking his own life; perhaps he realized timely that by doing so he would have accepted the guilt for the crime, to the delight of the real murderers. In Minas Tirith a wall of scorn had surrounded him since that day – few believed the self-immolation story – so Aragorn could find no better man to lead the White Company. The job required a man who could not possibly conspire with Faramir – and here Aragorn had made a mistake: for all his knowledge of people, he had not foreseen that the prince, who had often sat in Beregond’s lap as a child, would be perhaps the only person in all of Gondor to believe in the captain’s innocence.

As for the men of the White Company, who not only guarded the fort but also filled all the housekeeping jobs (from majordomo to cook), they did not talk to the prince much at all. ‘Yes, Your Highness; no, Your Highness; I don’t know, Your Highness’ – that was the extent of the conversation, with ‘don’t know’ a clear favorite. They were ordered to guard, so they guarded; were they ordered to kill him, they would undoubtedly do that, too. Faramir could not figure out whose orders those cutthroats obeyed, but he did not believe even for a moment that it was Beregond. At the same time, there seemed to be no messages from Aragorn, either, unless they had clandestine communications with Minas Tirith without the captain’s knowledge – but then why make it so complex?

Indeed it was a strange crowd that made its home in Emyn Arnen that spring, and the funniest thing was that all the participants of
The Prince of Ithilien and His Court
show made a touchingly united effort to keep that strangeness from becoming the subject of discussion outside its walls, where real life went on.