Sons of the Steward

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*

The breeze was touched by coolness and with it came the scent of autumn. Drawing her gray cloak to her the Elf maiden pursed her lips and looked into the overcast sky above the vibrant trees. The sound of rushing waters let them know they were close to their mark. Inhaling, she caught the scent of fire and point on towards a shoreline just visible beyond the heavy plant life surrounding them. Looking up, she saw an expression of irritation painted upon the fair features of her companion. “Will you turn back?” she asked him mildly. “There is no return after this.”

Haldir shot her a glance, then shook his head and looked out ahead. “You would have me break oath, Minuial? I follow my lord’s will no matter the cost.”

Moving her eyes away from his firm stance, she nodded once in acceptance. She did not doubt his courage or his will, but this was not a thing she wanted him to waste his life on. In truth she knew she was probably walking into death and he with her. It had been long since any Elf had been intacntact with Gondor and the depth of their falling was not fully known. But Haldir had his own orders and she knew he would stand firm. She could tell it by the way he answered and by the look of his eyes.

“So be it,” she said, then took a step. When she noticed he was not following, she turned with a smile. “Coming?”

His eyes ran from her hair down her face and further before he nodded and came with her. Turning away, Minuial wrapped her arms around herself and ped ped beyond the trees that led to the Silverlode. His footsteps followed in her wake.

Ahead were the remnants of a campfire and standing above, kicking dirt over the last dwindling flames among the sticks was a tall human form with dark hair and clad in a dark blue cloak. He straightened and looked up, watching their approach with distant eyes. She recognized this face from before, having glimpsed him when the Nine had come to Lothlórien for rest. Gone was the comfort of being in the company of Elves, replaced by distrust and wariness. Yet his voice remained the same, rich and noble as she remembered it. “Suilad, Edhil o Lórien.”
(Greetings, Elves of Lórien.)

Now moving beyond from behind, Haldir approached the mortal with a rigid command. “Let us speak in the tongue of your people, Aragorn. I would not have Men sully the words of Elves.”

“You are unkind, Haldir,” Aragorn remarked without malice, looking to the form coming into view. He bowed his head. “I greet you, Lady. I hope you are not as unkind.”

Not returning his gentle smile, she merely watched him a moment and then said, “My kindness lacks inspiration. Though I do thank you for the information you brought, if indeed it is true.”

“Could not Lady Galadriel discern the truth from me?” the mortal asked dryly as he picked up a bag he had probably been carrying since Gondor. He gazed at her intently and a look at Haldir’s expression her her inwardly rebuke herself for that little slip. She said nothing and Aragorn nodded in confirmation. “I did not know her ability had waned so far. Regardless, I was speaking the truth. You must believe that, else you would not be here.”

Haldir did not take kindly to the mortals assumptions and said sharply, “We believe as we believe. One thing is to be made clear, Aragorn. We go without firm intention. If at any point I feel we should turn back, I will not hesitate to do so and should we go as far as Minas Tirith there is no guarantee we will do more than visit.”

Aragorn took the verbal lashing without comment, his blue eyes betraying a loss that made Minuial put her hand on Haldir’s shoulder to quell him. The mortal shook his head and replied, “I expected no more than that. I wish…”

“You wish to get into the good graces of the Elves,” Haldir continued, pulling away from her touch. “You wish to coax your way back into Rivendell to claim that which will forever be denied you, now. Arwen wed another.”

The astonished and pained expression on the Ranger’s face made her feel heavy inside. “Haldir, nuitho.” She would not make assumptions about the reason Aragorn had come when he had to speak of what she had longed to know ever since her sister had failed to return home. The ‘why’ did not matter to her. Yet neither would she tolerate an expedition of bickering, either.
(ir, ir, stop.)

Throwing his pack into a boat there near the shore, Aragorn shook his head. “It may not matter to you, but you have it wrong, Haldir. I made peace with not having her long ago.”

“You are right,” Haldir said simply, giving the ranger a look of contempt. “It does not matter to me.”

The rest of the day did not progress much smoother. The two Elves got into the small craft that the mortal provided. Immediately Minuieaneeaned back and watched with a smile as Haldir took a hold of the oars and seated himself to row. He grunted and she grinned sunnily at him. Aragorn moved in behind him, taking a second set of oars to help with the rowing. The Marchwarden made a few critical remarks about the vessel, then they were off.

By the time dusk had long passed into full-fledged night the human Ranger was getting tired. He said nothing, but it began to show in his half-lidded gaze and his quiet aloofness. “We should pull re,”re,” Minuial suggested, feeling weary of the cramped little boat.

Haldir stopped rowing and peered into the starry sky, then shrugged. “As you wish. That should make you happy, hmm, mortal? I have been feeling your aid slacken.”

“Haldir,” Minuial said with a teasing smile as she nudged his leg with her boot. “Do not be so petty.”

Aragorn said nothing, merely aided the direction of the boat towards the eastern shore. They left the small vessel behind and took to the woods after gathering their belongings. Heading into the forest, they remained close enough to the river to hear the sounds of the gentle flow, but far enough away for what Minuial had in mind. Setting her bag down upon the ground in a clearing they chose, she said, “I am returning to the river. Do not intrude.”

“Far be it from me,” Haldir replied slyly, giving her a glittery-eyed look that she ignored.

She left their company and headed on towards the river, eager to be away from their company for a little while. When her feet came upon the shore she began peeling her clothes from her body until at last her toes touched the edge of the Silverlode. Cool water bit back at her flesh, but she did not care. Tossing her tunic down with her cloak at her feet, then untying her hunting trousers and letting them pool at her feet, Minuial brushed her hair behind her ear and stepped into the soft water. It made her shiver.

The water splashed pleasantly when she jumped in fully and immersed herself within the clear depths. It was invigorating, painful and pleasurable all at once, one of the final memories of enjoyment she could carry with her to Minas Tirith. She stood up and through cupped hands brought the coolness to her face, rubbing back into her hair as it trickled down her cheeks and throat.

It was maybe half of an hour before she realized her moment of idyllic peace had been intruded upon. She stood with her back facing the shobrinbringing the cleansing liquid up over her shoulders when she heard it. A twig stirred within the trees, something innocent enough that the untrained ear would have mistaken it for the way of nature, but she knew better. A smile snaked across her flushed lips as she turned to glance over her naked skin at the shadows. “Man cenich, Haldir?” she asked in a teasingly seductive tone.
(What do you see, Hr?)

He did not answer her. She knew he wouldn’t. Satisfied at the sensation of retreat she seemed to instinctively hone in on, she turned back towards the shore and made for her clothing without fear she would be seen. A trained hunter knew when she was being watched and that was not what she felt right now. She felt strangely relaxed, despite what lay before her. Enjoying the view of the sunset from here, she spread her cloak upon the dirt near the river and stretched out across it to watch the light pass away and to dry her body off before clothing herself.

*

It began in the east, to the back of the great citadel and on past the mountains that hugged Minas Tirith. Dawn did not come in a glorious burst upon the horizon, but rather tumbled along the ground in a gradual illuminating of the White City. A sunset when viewed from the top tier found no match in beauty and yet despite all this he found himself here outside his father’s hall more often in the morning than not. There was a certain charm about watching the city transform from a dull gray to a brilliant white. Things had been falling apart right up until he had returned victoriously. Now the Men had hope, a true vision of the possibilities that lay stretched out before them. They had the Ring protecting them, after all. He was no stranger to hearing his name shouted, not before and certainly not now. They sang songs and toasted him, women threw themselves at him—sometimes getting their wishes fulfilled.

Boromir took a drink of ale as he watched Osgiliath begin to brighten across the way. A chuckle bled out of the shadows behind him and he smirked, holding out the flagon. “Good morning, dear brother.”

Joining his brother, Faramir sidled up to his right and took a generous drink. “Good morning.” His humor seemed dry this morning and the elder had a pretty good idea why.

“How was Father?” he asked with a grunt.

Faramir ano another drink. “How do you think? He’s always a bastard to me, so asking me to discern his moods is like asking if I know the mind of Sauron.”

The older of the two raised his eyebrow and snatched his flagon back, finishing it off. “Do you liken our sire to the dark lord?”

The younger nodded with a grin. “As always I have, even when we were boys.” He sighed and looked across the grassy plains before the city. “He suspects Aragorn.”

With an impatient roll of his eyes, Boromir nodded. “He always suspects Aragorn of something.”

“With due cause?” Faramir asked. They had become quick friends, probably finding kinship in that the Steward displayed openly his disproval of both. In that matter Boromir did not meddle. He liked Aragorn all right, had thought him a decent fellow, but anyone who understood the nature of Aragorn’s heritage knew he had come to Minas Tirith as a man trying to take back a throne that the people did not want to give. Boromir was not prepared to fight a war with his own father for the sake of putting Aragorn on the throne even if it was the Ranger’s rightful place. Mithrandir was adamant that the throne be returned to the King and Aragorn made it no secret that this was his wish also, no matter what misgivings he had, but it was Denethor that had the Ring and neither the Wizard nor the Ranger would dare to battle him openly. Boromir did not interfere either way, knowing his father could handle himself. Faramir, however, he wondered about.

Boromir gave him a sidelong glance. “I do not follow the affairs of Aragorn. In truth it has been long since I last drank with him, so I think that perhaps you would understand his mind better than I.” He turned away from the dawn and eyed Faramir thoughtfully. “What do you make of his sudden disappearance?”

The younger shrugged, appearing not so certain of his friend as he should have been. “Honestly? I do not know what to make of it. He has been quiet of late. I think it has to do with newsnews of Arwen.”

“Oh yes,” the elder captain grunted sourly. “She wed Legolas, Aragorn’s very own friend before he and I departed Lórien for Minas Tirith. They were close friends as I gather.”

Faramir winced. “That would be bothersome, no doubt about it.”

They shared a secret smile between them, then Boromir sighed and looked down in time to see three forms approaching the White City. Shielding his eyes from the sunlight, he peered ugh ugh half-lidded eyes, able to make Aragorn out. He frowned, then saw something else of note. The two others with him were neither from Gondor, nor from Rohan even, but wore the garb of Elves. He groaned, hissing, “Valar, what does he think he is doing?!”

Looking down, the younger actually grinned. “Giving us a chance for some fun,” he commented, pointing.

“Haldir,” Boromir growled, looking at the silvery gold hair of the male Elf, ignoring the other.

Faramir laughed. “My tastes follow along the vision of females, dear brother. Unless, of course, you insinuate that her name is Haldir.”

The elder gave him a disparaging look, then shook his head. “Come, Faramir, we had best head this off before our father finds out.”

Falling into step beside him, this time it was his brother that grunted sourly. They made their way down a side stair, quickly side-stepping anyone that happened along their path. “Our father will find out,” he said firmly, his tone holding a note of dread. “Doubtlessly he will look for reasons to make this a difficult meeting.”

Boromir shook his head with a distasteful expression. “He will not need to try hard. Haldir is no gentle Elf. I met him in Lothlórien. He was quite ready to end my life when I convinced the Hobbit to give the Ring into my care. He is no diplomat.”

“Hmm, what of the female?” Faramir asked curiously as they descended onto the fifth level. “Perhaps he comes as a protector.”

“It could be, but it seems very strange after what happened before.”

They shared another look between them, but it was not a smile. The rest of the trip was made in grave silence. They met Aragorn and his small party at the second level stair. “Boromir, Faramir,” the Ranger greeted with a bow. “I bring emissaries from Lórien.”

Boromir slid his eyes over the Elves briefly, nong tng the hard stares they both directed at he and his brother. It was just as well, for he felt no more friendship towards them than they felt for him. “And do you believe my father will accept Elves being allowed into his city.”

As inevitably the Captain of Gondor had known it would be, Haldir spoke and it was not polite. “We were brought here on a mission of peace that we thought your so-called leader would hear. My Lord Celeborn thought perhaps we could end the bitterness. It could aid the war effort, he said. I believe Men are not so important I should trouble myself overmuch to see one, however. We will leave.”

Naturally, of course, Aragorn was quick to put a stop to that. “Haldir, please. Boromir, if you are vexed with me I would ask you direct it at me rather than them.”

“That is not it at all,” Boromir counted smoothly, looking between them. “Without your little stunts I have plenty reason to hate this Elf personally.” He rubbed at his arm reflexively, remembering the arrow that had grazed his skin, slicing through his skirt. “Be my guest and get the hell out of Minas Tirith.”

It was the female that spoke next, moving from behind Aragorn to look into the faces of Boromir and Faramir. Her eyes were a mystery to him as she said, “We need not fight. I would at least try to fulfill my lord’s command.”

Boromir frowned at her, then looked up at the Ranger as Aragorn spoke. “Boromir, will you tell your father that I come with emissaries on a mission of peace?”

The Captain sighed, not liking this. Exhaling, he looked back down upon the woman. “You would like security, I gather?” he asked, wondering if she knew the tale of her predecessor.

Her eyes were intense as she said, “There is no guard belonging to your race I would trust. I keep my own security.”

Grunting, he glanced at Haldir, then turned his glare back on Aragorn. “I will give my father the message you have returned with these emissaries. You see to their lodgings.”

“I will, my sour friend,” Aragorn sighed, looking to his guests. Annoyed, Boromir turned on his heel and stalked away without a word. He heard Faramir utter an apology, which set him on edge even more.

As soon as his brother took stride with him, Boromir let loose the full extent of his glare. “Do not presume to apologize for me, brother.”

Widening his eyes in mockery, Faramir retorted, “Why, Boromir, I apologize.” He laughed at the elder’s growl of frustration, clapping him on the back. “Come, brother. What has you so troubled? They will stay a week, and then Father will throw them out. What do you care?”

Boromir shook his head in discontent. “I do not like this, Faramir. I do not like Elves suddenly in my city after a few years of bitterness. Particularly in view of what has happened between our kinds.”

“You refer to the girl?” Faramir surmised.

The Steward stopped and looked at his brother seriously, pulling him aside. “Of course I refer to the girl! If one thing Elves do not lack it is a short memory span. That they would want peace after that is absurd! Especially in light of what happened in Rohan.”

“So what do we do?” the younger asked him. He looked off towards where Aragorn was taking them. “Father…”

“Father will appease them for now, if only to find out their true purpose,” Boromir interrupted. He fiddled with his bracer and contemplated. “Most likely they are spies. There may be Elves mobilizing as we speak to exact their vengeance for all that has transpired.”

Faramir frowned with a knit brow. “I think we’re racing to conclusions, brother. We should at least wait and see.”

The elder brother nodded, still put off at having to deal with this just now. He exhaled sharply, then looked at Faramir. “Very well. Keep your eyes open. If they act suspicious, let me know and I’ll deal with it.”

Giving him a mock salute, Faramir quipped, “Yes, sir,” then smiled. “You’re tense, brother. We should get a drink to ease this most bothersome burden.”

Nodding, then stepping on ahead, Boromir breathed, “Shut up, Faramir. Come on.”

*

Is it good? *bangs head against wall* Oh, Elven must punish herself if it's not! *blinks at you with wide, Dobby-like eyes*
Ahem...sorry, I just bought a book...