The Last Ringbearer

Emyn Arnen, getting in the narrow window of their ‘princely bedchamber.’ In the olden times the prince was always up with the dawn; being a morning person, his best working hours were before noon. Now, however, he slept late with a clear conscience: first, a honeymoon is a honeymoon; second, a prisoner has nowhere to hurry.

However, she had slipped out from under his arm already, and her laughing eyes looked at the prince with fake severity: “Listen, we’ll totally undermine the public morals of the Ithilien colony.”

“Like there’s something there to undermine,” he grumbled. Eowyn flitted to the foot of the bed, sat down there, naked and cross-legged, and began putting her ripe-wheat hairdo in order, glancing at him from time to time from under lowered eyelashes. He told her on one of their first nights, only half-joking, that looking at his beloved brushing her hair in the morning is one of the most intense and exquisite pleasures available to man, so now she kept polishing and perfecting this little ritual of theirs, jealously observing his reaction: do you still like it, darling? He smiled to himself, remembering how Prince Imrahil used to insist that northern women, for all their beauty, are a cross between a dead fish and a birch log in bed. I wonder if it’s my good luck or his bad one for all those years?

“I’ll make coffee for you.”

“Now that is certainly a blow to public morals!” Faramir laughed. “The Princess of Ithilien in the kitchen – an aristocrat’s nightmare!”

“I’m afraid they’ll have to put up with my lack of refinement and manners. For example, I intend to go hunting today and prepare some real baked venison for supper, and let them all blow their gaskets! I can’t abide our cook’s fare any more; the guy apparently knows no spices other than arsenic and strychnine!”

She should go, he thought, and perhaps we’ll start the Game tonight? Lately he and Eowyn were allowed to leave the fort one at a time – enough to be grateful for; the hostage system has its advantages.

“Will you read to me tonight?”

“Certainly. About Princess Allandale again?”

“Well… yes!”

Those evening readings were another of their rituals; Eowyn had a few favorite stories which she was ready to hear again and again, like a child. Like most of Rohan’s elite, the girl was illiterate, so the magical world that Faramir laid open before her astonished her imagination. That was the beginning of their relationship… or perhaps it started earlier?

…On the day of the battle for Pelennor fortifications the prince was commanding the right defensive flank; he fought in the front line, so it was bewildering that a heavy armor- piercing arrow struck him from behind – in the trapezius muscle, to the left of the base of his neck. Its three-sided tip had channels for poison, so by the time the good knight Mithrandir got him to Minas Tirith the prince was in a bad way. For some reason he was carried to a far room in the hospital, and, most astonishingly, forgotten there. Completely helpless, he lay right on the stone floor – the poison had caused blindness and paralysis, so that he could not even cry for help – feeling the cold of the grave spreading through his body from the already numb left arm and neck. His brain still functioned normally, and he understood clearly that he was believed to be dead.

An eternity passed, full of loneliness and despair, and then he felt the sharp taste of some oily liquid on his lips; the sensation seemed familiar, dredging up a half-forgotten name: athelas. The cold retreated a little, as if unwillingly, and a commanding voice floated out of the darkness: “Prince, if you’re conscious, move the fingers of your right hand.”

How was he supposed to move fingers he couldn’t feel? Perhaps he should remember a movement in all its details… here, he’s taking his sword out of the scabbard, feeling the supple leather of its grip…

“Very well!”

Did it work? Apparently, yes.

“Now, a bigger challenge. One movement will mean ‘yes’, two mean ‘no’. Try saying ‘no’.”

He tried to imagine making a fist twice… whatever for? Oh yes: here, he’s taking a pen from the table, writes down a word, puts it down; now he has to pick it up again to make a correction…

“Wonderful. Allow me to introduce myself: Aragorn, son of Arathorn. As the direct descendant of Isildur, I wish to express my royal gratitude to you: the dynasty of Stewards of Gondor, of which you are the last heir, had maintained my throne well. Now this arduous task is over: I have come to relieve your dynasty of this burden. From now on your name will be the first of the glorious families of the Reunited Kingdom. Do you understand what I’m saying, Faramir?”

He understood it all perfectly, but moved his fingers twice – ‘no’ – otherwise it would mean that he implicitly agreed with this nonsense. A descendant of Isildur, right – why not Iluvatar himself?

“You have always been an alien to them, Prince.” Aragorn’s voice was quiet and compassionate, as if he was a bosom friend. “It’s quite understandable that they greatly resented your studies, that’s not a royal pursuit. However, they even blamed you for creating the Ithilien regiment and setting up an intelligence network beyond Anduin, didn’t they?”

Pride would not let him answer ‘yes,’ honesty precluded answering ‘no:’ all this was true, this Aragorn really did know his Gondorian politics. When the war broke out, Faramir, himself an excellent hunter, formed a special unit for forest combat out of free shafts (and not a few outlaws) – the Ithilien regiment; the famous Cirith Ungol Rangers soon discovered that their monopoly on lightning raids through enemy’s rear was over. The prince personally commanded the Ithilienians in a number of skirmishes (for example, the one that trapped and destroyed a whole caravan of mumakil) and even had time to write something like a manual for what would much later be called ‘commando warfare.’ As a result, the aristocrats in the capital joked that he was about to add a flail and a black mask to his familial coat of arms. And long before the war Faramir, who had an honest and profound love of the East and its culture, had set up a regular collection of military and political information in its countries through volunteer efforts of like-minded people – the first real intelligence agency in Western lands. Making his case on its reports, the prince argued in the Royal Council for cooperation with states beyond the Anduin, earning himself the ‘defeatist’ label and almost getting branded as an enemy collaborationist.

“Your father had always thought you a softie, so much so as to openly start looking 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 wear your palms 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, the heir of Isildur, having today defeated the hordes of the East on the Field of Pelennor, accept the