Ghosts

[Pinkie]

Elendur liked the green dress but her lady-in-waiting preferred the red on her. The blonde stood looking into the mirror with her blue-grey eyes wide, her lips pouted, turning side to side to see how her back and shoulders looked in the gown.

"I'm not sure -- the green is so much more earthy. The red is a bit ... scarlet." she mused with a lopsided smile. The other women in the room sat languidly on loungers, eating small pastries prepared for Elendur. She did not mind however - they were good women the three of them. Honest.
"Which do you prefer Cristain?" she asked the dark haired of the three.
Cristain looked up and gave a doting smile to her better --
"They are both beautiful El --" she mused and Elendur rolled her eyes.

"Bloody peasants..." she muttered, knowing Cristain only said that because it was the least controversial thing she could have said.
Elendur decided to remain in the red and dismissed her ladies, arranging her hair herself. Up. Curls hung down her neck and little bells tinkled in teh heavy bundle of hair at the nape of her neck. She smiled at her reflection and left her rom, walking with stately grace through the white halls of Minis Tirith. Her slippered feet made barely a noise.

Coming to her father's chambers, she knocked and entered, pouting when she saw that he was not there. Turning, she decided he must be at court instead and so she made her way there, seeking his honest opinion where her women let her down. Walking into the court - Elendur was a ruby amongst slate - her red gown was perfectly fitted to her shapely body - cut high in the neck but swooping low down her back to just below her shoulderblades.

"My Lord --" she said loudly, spreading her hands and smiling brightly at Denethor who was in conference with Boromir about some fickle bit of denfensive trivium. "-- Father. Tell me - does this red make me look a harlot?" she asked with a petulant smile, her look sultry and pleasing all at the same time.

[Pinkie]

Éonan was sitting on the steps of the dais where the Steward's chair was. She was busy with her nose in a book about plants and the medicinal advantages of flowers. Her icy blue eyes, however, could not focus properly on the words for he was in the room. His presence filled her with a girlish, youthful sense of excitement but also a burning feeling of inadequacy. He never noticed her --- ever. He knew of her existence btu he never actually set his eyes on her.

The woman's eyes flickered up when she saw a flash of red and she almost groaned to see it was Elendur. There was nothing worse than being in the presence of that woman when Boromir was around. She was so... so... forward! She didn't treat him with the respect due his station and of course, Éonan was always worried that Elendur would draw attention to her and possibly say something about her feelings for Boromir.

Dipping her head, Éonan frowned at the words on the page but her ears were all on what was to be said between Denethor, Boromir and Elendur.

[Pinkie]

Faramir enjoyed the mornings. They were always filled with such hope for the day and being the man that he was, he never predicted that things might not go his way. The white walls of Minis Tirith gleamed as the Captain made his way across the courtyard. His blue eyes shimmered with admiration as he looked at the blooming White Tree of Gondor. A burning swelling pride filled him and he gave a lopsided smile.

He was stopped short in his tracks, almost running over a messenger who handed him a missive from his wife.

Faramir winced and received the missive, tucking it into his leather breastplate to read at a later time. He had no wish to spoil the mornign just yet and no doubt Eowyn had some scathing comment or two to make.
He didn't know why she still wrote to him -- perhaps to make him feel puny, comparing him to her great and wonderful Aragorn. How could he, Faramir, possibly compare or hope to stand a chance when compared to the likes of Aragorn?

Pressing a hand to the door of his room, Faramir slung his bow and arrow down onto the bed and went to sit in the window, taking out the missive and running a tender finger over the seal. He still loved her --- adored her at least.

[Bogwoppit]

Boromir gritted his teeth as he listened to his father, a small muscle twitching in his strong jaw as he tried to rein in his impatience. The old man was a fool, and a dangerous one at that. His madness would surely bring down the city even as the people struggled to rebuild it.

Some days the first captain of Gondor despaired, and more than once he envied Aragorn, wishing he too had had the courage to disappear into the wild when it had all come to an end, that he had left them to think he was dead as they had believed, wishing that he could shake off his responsibilites and leave Gondor to ruin. But he knew he could not, nor would he want to deep down in his soul. He was a proud man, sometimes an arrogant one, and he would see the city of his birth brought back to its former glory if it killed him. More than once he had thought to leave it to his brother to realise the dream, especially now that he was back in Minis Tirith, for good it would seem. But the young man was as much use as a wooden sword at the moment, moping around the city like a lost soul, and Boromir had even less patience with him than with Denethor.

He took a deep breath and held it for a count of ten, wracking his brain to think of a way to disagree with his father without actually saying as much. He hated these meetings that the steward insisted on, and wished the old man would just leave him alone to run the city as he saw fit. He especially hated the fact that Denethor insisted on having that serving wench present at all times, he couldn't even remember her name she was so unnoticeable. But he suspected his father kept her there on purpose, knowing that Boromir's sense of honour would prevent any unsightly outbursts of temper in front of a woman. His temper was well-known, and on occasion even his father had been seen to flinch from his harsh words and curled fists, which thus far he had managed to keep firmly by his sides.

Before he could speak however the door burst open and his young half-sister swept in, almost blinding him with the brightness of the creation which clung to her slim figure. Boromir winced at her inane ramblings, but could not stop an indulgent, even teasing smile from playing across his lips.

"Of course it makes you look like a harlot," he replied before Denethor had the chance to speak, his eyebrows drawn together in a stern frown.

Elendur was incorrigible, and Boromir knew if he gave a hint of his amusement she would take him and wrap him round her little finger as she always managed to. He loved her, but she needed to grow up and realise that life wasn't all about girly gossip and the latest fashion in gowns.

[Bogwoppit]

Miriel was late. She had for once slept the whole night through, and her mother had not the heart to wake her. Too many long dark hours had the old woman lay in her bed silently listening to her daughter's faint sobs. It broke her heart to think that there was nothing she could do to ease her pain, the least she could do was let her sleep on the rare occasions she managed to.

Almost running across the courtyard towards the Houses of Healing, Miriel glanced up to see Faramir heading back inside the main sleeping quarters, absently tucking a parchment into his breastplate. She had heard that Eowyn had finally left him to return to Rohan alone, and the rumours were flying around the lower city. Miriel did not partake of the gossip, but it was impossible not to hear, and she felt sorry for this lonely soul. She had always admired Faramir far more than she had his elder brother, liking his quiet, studious manner, and the respect with which he treated Aldor whenever he came to order a new sword or piece of armour. Faramir always made sure to come himself, never sending a squire as Boromir was wont to do, preferring to confer with the blacksmith himself over his requirements. For herself Miriel had been glad to play a small part in Faramir's fight back from the brink of death at the end of the war, although at the time she was in such a state of grief that she hardly noticed to whom she tended.

The young woman smiled, a bitter-sweet smile, as she always did when thinking of her husband, and hurried on towards her work. There had been an outbreak of Orc activity lately, nothing serious, just random mindless attacks on the outskirts of Gondor, but several men had been injured, and there were dressings waiting to be changed.

[Pinkie]

Elendur never thought that she might be interrupting anything. Certainly nothing important of course. There was little more important in Gondor to Lord Denethor than his beautiful young daughter and of course, his strong son Boromir. The blonde gave the man a smile, nothing that he cuold not help the smile forming on his own lips in the meantime. She raised her eyebrows awaiting a reply - and got one.

Boromir said:

"Of course it makes you look like a harlot,"

The blonde blew out a chiming laugh and waved a hand at Boromir, turning aside his stern frown. She leaned forward, a small hand around his thick forearm and she smiled up at him graciously.

"Oh I knew you would like it." she winked and glanced around towards the dour little creature sitting on the steps of the dais.
"Do you hear him, Éonan? He says I look like a harlot..!" Elendur laughed again and then smiled over at her father, ignoring the stammers from the hand-maid as she draped her hand over Denethor's in a similar pose to what she had just done with Boromir.

"And what do you think, Father? Is Boromir right? Am I an insult to your name?" she asked, batting her eyelashes above gentle, grey-blue eyes. Denethor gave her a lopsided smile and shook his head, patting her cheek (not that one) lovingly.
"You my dear, and you Boromir - are never an insult to this family's great name. No no - never you two..." he mused darkly the last three words. All could tell which name was left with which to bring shame onto the family but none would say it.

Elendur's smile faltered just a little. She did not like to hear her father speak so ill of Faramir for he was a good man. Gentle, but good. Her eyes looked to Boromir and she bit her bottom lip.
"Are you coming to the festival this evening, brother? The elf is meant to show himself if I have heard correctly..." Elendur changed the subject deftly though she knew by Boromir's eyes that he still bubbled beneath the surface.

[Pinkie]

Ignore me, ignore me, please don't see me, please just ignore me. I'm not here. Don't talk to me... please, heavens above, please...

Elendur & Boromir & Denethor said:

"Of course it makes you look like a harlot,"
"Oh I knew you would like it. Do you hear him, Éonan? He says I look like a harlot..! And what do you think, Father? Is Boromir right? Am I an insult to your name?
"You my dear, and you Boromir - are never an insult to this family's great name. No no - never you two..."
"Are you coming to the festival this evening, brother? The elf is meant to show himself if I have heard correctly

The hand-maid had started to snicker with soft laughter at Boromir's terse reply but managed to keep her laughter quiet, hidden, secret.
Éonan looked up so quickly that her book fell off her lap and she stared straight at Boromir, her eyes flickering to Elendur like a frightened rabbit. She almost thought that she had been caught laughing but no, she was asked a question.

Parting her lips to speak, her blue eyes once again flickered to Boromir and the words on her lips faltered, she stuttered a few syllables and then Elendur had turned away.

Éonan shrank visibly. Her shoulders sagged and she reached down to pick up the book, placing it back on her legs and sighed, looking down at the pages. She still listened to the conversation though -- eager to know if Boromir would be attending. He always dressed his very best at such things --- and he danced with such grace that it stilled her heart to see it!

[Pinkie]

Faramir pursed his lips as he opened the letter. He had, ironically, cut his finger on the edge of the paper and the blood seeped into the expensive, soft parchment. He placed his cut index finger against his tongue and started to read the letter. It was hardly the sort of thing one would expect to pass between husband and wife but it had become so normal for him to read her scornful words that he did not even flinch. In fact, he did not read all the words - just skimmed through it to see if there was any real news.

But nothing --
All the letter consisted of was how unhappy Eowyn had been in Gondor and how much more pleasant life was back in Rohan. How quiet. How unburdened without a husband.

The Gondorian Captain rolled his blue eyes and let the page slip onto his lap, his shoulders sagged miserably as he looked out the window. It was a fine day but lingering over Osgilliath there hung the deepest grey clouds he had seen in a long time. Removing his finger from his mouth, Faramir rose to his feet and the letter slipped to the ground, where he left it. He trotted down the steps and out into the courtyard, crossing over towards the Houses of Healing. He had been finding it hard to sleep and with a lack of sleep there came such headaches... and his reflexes were slower too. Perhaps there was something that he could drink to make him drowsy?

Licking his lips, he entered the Houses of Healing and paused, struck by memories so fresh that they seemed to lurch forward and grip him by the neck. A longing smile started to ghost across his lips as he watched --- Eowyn stood by that window there, with her soft blonde hair waving in curly tendrils down her slim back. Her arms wrapped about her waist, her head bowed. The sun kissed the crown of her head and --- it was not her! Faramir released a breath he had not known he was holding when the wmoan turned and she transformed into someone else-- not his estranged wife at all.

Shaking his head, he frowned, looking dazed and confused, walking over to sit on a bench and waited to be tended to.

[Bogwoppit]

"Do you hear him, Éonan?..."

As his sister spoke Boromir turned his head, and found himself looking straight into the frightened eyes of the serving wench, inwardly tutting to himself as the book she had been reading crashed to the floor. Honestly, if the girl would only stop behaving as though all the Orcs in Mordor were about to jump out at her Boromir might even give her a second glance. She wasn't bad looking after all... nice figure, good teeth...

The amused glint still lingered in his narrowed eyes as he glanced away towards his father, putting thoughts of the girl from his mind as the old man replied to Elendur's question.

"You my dear, and you Boromir - are never an insult to this family's great name. No no - never you two..."

Boromir sighed, a frown darkening his brow once again. When would the steward ever realise that Faramir was a far better man than he was? Indeed, there were days when Boromir wondered if he really should pass over his right to the throne to his younger brother, even if at the moment the boy seemed to be doing his best to annoy him with his drooping and sulking. Faramir really ought to learn that women were good for one thing and one thing alone. Honestly, had he taught the boy nothing that he should go and fall so hard for a wench who did not deserve him?

"Are you coming to the festival this evening, brother? The elf is meant to show himself if I have heard correctly..."

His attention turned once more towards his sister, and he uttered a short laugh as he shook his head indulgently.

"The Elf..." he repeated slowly, reaching out to touch Elendur's hand softly. "Sometimes I forget just what a novelty it still is to all of you, especially the maidens, to have Haldir in the city. He is not so different from us you know. Well... apart from his arrogance... and his superiority... and his fondness for sleeping in trees..."

Boromir understood though. He still recalled his own reaction to Legolas when they first started out on their quest. That Elf had seemed strange enough to one who had seen few and met even less of the beautiful, ethereal creatures. But the Lothlórien Elves... they had been something different again. At least Legolas had shown himself to have a sense of humour of sorts. The March Wardens of Lórien had been nothing but aloof, distant and unwelcoming, which Boromir for one had resented seeing as the Fellowship had been trying to preserve their very way of life. He had never really taken to Haldir then, but at the Battle of Helm's Deep the Elf had proved his worth, and finally gained Boromir's respect. Now the two met on the rare occasions they were both off duty, the bond between them strengthened beyond mere tolerance by the fact that so many of the people involved in the war seemed to have disappeared off the face of Middle-Earth.

"Yes, I shall be attending the festival," he replied to Elendur's question now. "Someone has to keep an eye on you. You would frighten Haldir half to death with your candid curiosity, you and your dreadful friends, if left to your own devices."

He turned to his father once more, standing and bowing slightly towards the throne.

"Now father I will take my leave if that is all? I have much to do. Orcs are still being spotted on the Northern borders and I wish to ride out to see it for myself."

[Bogwoppit]

Miriel stood by the tall window, gazing out across the gardens behind the Hall where people could stroll about as they recovered enough to do so. It was a beautiful day, and she was in a deep reverie thinking how much Aldor would have enjoyed seeing the good weather return. For too long the shadow of Mordor had spread its dreadful fingers across the earth, turning all to darkness. He used to love the sun, often taking a day off from his work, regardless of the amount of orders piling up, to whisk Miriel out of the city and away somewhere for the day when the weather was fair. Miriel would protest, telling him he should be working, but he would not listen, and it was not as though they ever went short of anything. Nor did he ever keep anyone waiting, and soldiers would often complain in jest that their armour or sword was ready to soon and they had not yet the coins to pay. Miriel smiled her usual soft, sad smile and turned from the window, only to see the young lord Faramir seated on a bench watching her with a strange expression in his eyes.

"I am sorry Sire," Miriel exclaimed quietly, hurrying to his side, "I did not hear you come in. Is anyone seeing to you?"

Glancing around the room she realised what a silly question this was. The other healers were all busy with their own duties. Miriel was the one posted to deal with new patients this morning, and so it was up to her to see to him.

"What can I do for you?" she asked, gathering her thoughts quickly and efficiently.

She ran an expert eye over his face as he sat, taking in the dark shadows beneath his eyes, the lines of exhaustion which hollowed his cheeks, making him seem older than his years. For a moment Miriel felt a burst of indignation that anyone could bring a kind man such as Faramir to this. But then, it was not her place to judge, she did not know the circumstances and neither did it really concern her. It was not as though she knew the young lord well, they hardly moved in the same circles. And she had her own dark shadows, her own weariness to cope with, and it showed in the furrow of her brow as she examined his face with the shrewd eyes of one who knew about the sleepless nights.

Was it better to lose someone to death? Or to have them leave you by choice... That was something she would never find out, as she would never again allow herself to love and risk losing. The pain was too great, and time did not heal, despite what others insisted on telling her. So far the passing of the seasons had done nothing to ease her sense of loss, and her mother's repeated requests that she talk about it did not tempt her to unburden herself of her grief. Better to close herself off, go inside herself, away from the pain, away from the risk that someone might want to be her friend. How could she know who to allow close? How could she know that they too would not be snatched from her?

[Pinkie]

This is what Elendur did best. She distracted the minds of men from the gruelling task of running a Kingdom. Boromir's laugh was met with a proud beaming smile from Elendur. Her blue-grey eyes glittered marvellously and she looked from her brother to her father, smiling broadly still.

Boromir said:

"The Elf... Sometimes I forget just what a novelty it still is to all of you, especially the maidens, to have Haldir in the city. He is not so different from us you know. Well... apart from his arrogance... and his superiority... and his fondness for sleeping in trees..."

Elendur turned her hand into Boromir's, holding it gently and smiling indulgently at him, accepting his gentle rebuke for her to remember herself in teh presence of the ethereal creature, Haldir. In truth, she was much unaffected by his presence and beauty. It was the fact that he was an elf that intrigued her! Elves were now an almost 'extinct' race having fled after the War of the Ring, leaving men to their own devices. They were still magical beings and whilst Boromir was correct about Haldir's arrogance, his presence made up for any such pitfalls in character. An Elf attending Lord Denethor's Festival! It was enough to keep the gossips yapping for weeks!

There was also a part of Elendur that could not fathom that her very own brother had become aqcuainted with the Elf, Legolas.

Boromir said:

"Yes, I shall be attending the festival, Someone has to keep an eye on you. You would frighten Haldir half to death with your candid curiosity, you and your dreadful friends, if left to your own devices. Now father I will take my leave if that is all? I have much to do. Orcs are still being spotted on the Northern borders and I wish to ride out to see it for myself."

Elendur's indulgent, suffering smile slipped when Boromir mentioned Orcs. She shivered and her hand squeezed Boromir's hard before withdrawing and the woman wrapped her arms about her upper body. A frown marked her brow as Denethor dismissed his son, turning to look at her with a paternal gentleness. Elendur offered a brief smile and bowed her head, giving the man a kiss on his sunken cheek and turned, following Boromir out of the hall.

"Boromir -- " she called out, lifting her crimson skirts to chase after him steadily, linking her arm with his as she leaned in against him affectionately. "Have you spoke to Faramir since he came home? He is much grieved by whatever tryst it is between him and the Lady of Rohan.." Elendur said with obvious distaste for the woman who caused hurt to one of her brothers. Tensing her jaw and lifting her chin, Elendur appeared the picture of righteousness as she walked next to Boromir, out into daylight, her pace slowing his as she hung out of his arm, encouraging him to walk at a slower pace despite her having overheard him telling his father he had things to tend to. Fickle business compared to what she thought on in Elendur's opinion.

[Pinkie]

Faramir was not waiting. In truth he was wasting time - finding things to do in his idle time for he had not the heart to do much more. Oh he did his duty but did not have the urge to go beyond duty. His spirit was diminished along with his confidence. But it was a situation he was used to being in -- the situation where he felt that he let down the people he cared for. He had let his father down so often, he had disappointed him. And now he did the exact same thing to Eowyn. How had he ever managed to gain her affections in the first place?

Miriel said:

"I am sorry Sire, I did not hear you come in. Is anyone seeing to you? What can I do for you?"

She looked at him but Faramir felt that she looked through him, into him from one side and out the other. He felt that he need not speak his ailment but that she would know what it was that made him so gaunt, that made his eyes so sorrowful, that made his smile so sad. The Gondorian Ranger lifted his head to look at the healer and offered that sad smile, hoping it put her at ease. She had called him 'Sire' - a title he had not ever become used to. Perhaps it was his father's constant badgering or his brother's natural qualities and abilities to excel where Faramir faltered, or perhaps it was just a lack of confidence that Faramir was born with, but he could never piture himself as being better than another. As being higher born.

This healer's look was level though -- it was person to person and not recognising station. Faramir's eyes slid shut and he lifted a long fingered hand to his temple, running his fingers down the side of his eyesocket to his cheek and back up again, the tops of his digits disappearing into the auburn waves that spilled down his shoulders.

"I --" he said the word in a whisper and tilted his head to the side, opening his blue eyes to meet hers - "I cannot sleep." the man said regretfully, apologetic that he bothered her at all with such a tedious ailment. But it was affecting him too greatly to not seek some assistance from those who knew better. Face to face with her now, Faramir realised that the woman looked nothing like Eowyn though her face was familiar to him. Still he could not place her. It made the creases on his brow furrow even deeper and he lifted his hand from his temple, pointing his thumb at her, his lips pulling out as he thought.

"Your face--- " he said gently, frowning, "I recognise you..." his blue eyes dropped and he thought a moment. His gaze had fallen to the tip of his scabbard that was still about hsi waist and suddenly it clicked. Faramir lifted his head and clicked his fingers. It was a bad idea to move his head so quickly and he clasped a hand to his temple at the pain, grimacing and sucking in a sharp, surprised breath. "Ah -- Aldor." he said between gritted teeth, giving a derisive laugh at his stupidity, his hand pushing back into his hair as he gave the woman an apologetic smile. "Aldor -- your husband is a blacksmith." Faramir concluded, not following the thought along far enough to conclude that the man had died. Faramir had no need of a sword since the War of the Ring and so had not been to the Smithy to discover that he had passed away.

[Bogwoppit]

Boromir strode from the room after taking his father's leave, impatient to be gone from this place, to ride out and feel the wind against his face once more. He had found himself oddly restless since returning from the war, less able to settle, despite his continuing love of the pinnacle of Minis Tirith, and his determination to see her proud once more. This was another reason for his annoyance at his younger brother. Faramir was free to ride out with the rangers any time he wished, while Boromir was bogged down with beaurocracy and politics. But did he make the most of it? No, he cloistered himself in his quarters, moping and frowning over that woman day after day.

"Have you spoke to Faramir since he came home? He is much grieved by whatever tryst it is between him and the Lady of Rohan.."

Boromir turned his head to frown down upon his sister as she caught him up, forced to slow his pace to hers as she took his arm. How did she do that? Vapid as she was she sometimes had the knack of seeming to know exactly what was on his mind. He knew it was not something she was aware of, the girl did not think that deeply, but still it irked him.

"I know," he sighed heavily, pulling his gloves from his waistband and pulling them on in the hope that Elendur would leave go of his arm. "If I am honest I would say that I am avoiding him. I do not know what to say, for I have no notion of how he feels."

He slowed some more, turning to look down at her with a shrewd expression.

"You should speak to him," he said, appealing to her vanity, "you..."

He stopped. He had been going to tell her she knew how Faramir felt, but as he thought about it he realised that she didn't, any more then he did. The two of them were more alike than he had realised, although he hoped perhaps that he had slightly more sincerity. No, it was up to him to talk to his brother, his duty, and he would not shirk it. He loved Faramir, certainly more than Denethor did, and the boy must be feeling so alone right now.

He sighed again, closing his eyes for a moment as he tipped his head towards the ground.

"I will," he spoke softly, then raised his head to look at Elendur. Yet another duty to fall upon his broad shoulders, but this one was not a chore, he just wasn't sure how to handle it, worried his crass manner might cause him to say the wrong thing. "I will speak to him this evening before the festival. Perhaps I can persuade him to come along, no doubt he has other ideas which include such excitement as going to bed early with some weighty tome to while away the hours."

He huffed out a breath of resigned laughter, and bowed slightly to the girl by his side.

"And now I must go," he said, trying not to sound too eager. "These Orcs will not wait while I fritter away my time with you, sister."

He smiled to soften his words, and retreated to the stables.

[Pinkie]

Éonan was fixated as Boromir turned to look at her. She swallowed hard when he looked away and shut her eyes tight, cursing herself for appearing so bloody dumb in his presence! She could not help it! He stilled her tongue and rattled her heart. He made the room feel cavernous yet it seemed that only they were in it. Sucking her upper lip, the hand maid shook her head and ran her fingers along the spine of the book on her lap. When Boromir excused himself to leave, she looked up hopefully, praying that he might look in her direction with even a flicker of farewell in his blue eyes. But he did not - he continued on his way as if she was not there at all which made her heart sink right to her toes.

Sighing, Éonan rose to her feet and walked over to Denethor as he gestured for her to do so.

"Go make sure that all is in place for the festival -- I will not have Boromir and Elendur disappointed." the Steward said, his head bowed over the maps that he had been perusing with his son. Éonan nodded and left in the opposite direction from where Boromir and Elendur had gone, her expression weary, her head bowed meekly and her book clutched tight to her slim stomach.

[Bogwoppit]

"I cannot sleep."

She knew, before he even spoke she knew what he was going to say. Even without her natural ability to see what ailed others she would have known, because the look in those haunted eyes of his told her everything she needed to know. But that was not all. From the way he held his head, the tension so evident in the set of his shoulders and neck, she could see that he had a headache, and from the resigned way he had spoken she knew also that this was not a man prone to complaining about his hurts.

She nodded, and was about to turn away to fetch a Feverfew tincture and Camomile tea when she saw the wondering frown appear on his face, and he appeared to be about to speak once more. Miriel paused but when he spoke she wished she had not waited, for his words made her heart still in her breast.

"Aldor -- your husband is a blacksmith."

A solid lump formed in her throat, and she vainly tried to swallow to prevent it from choking her. Faramir was still watching her expectantly, and she struggled to find her voice as she yet tried to force her frozen face to move. Her whole body seemed to be frozen in place, unable to move as the pain washed over her once more. People who knew avoided the subject, making sure not to mention his name, merely asking her how she was, or ignoring the fact that she had lost her husband altogether, that's if they spoke to her at all. It was surprising how many of her so-called former friends suddenly seemed to find urgent missions heading in the opposite direction whenever they saw her in the street. Oh, she knew it was not meant as a slight, that they merely did not know what to say to her, but it still hurt. Even others who had themselves lost loved ones in that final battle seemed not to understand, many of them already having found new husbands for themselves.

"Was..." she croaked after what seemed like a century. She cleared her throat awkwardly and tried again. "He was a blacksmith."

Even to her own ears her voice seemed to come from a long way away, shaky and high, hardly her own at all. Finally she was able to swallow the lump, and her feet unstuck themselves from the floor, although she still held herself stiffly. She licked her dry lips and reached up to brush away a stray lock of hair that tickled her pale cheek.

"He died," she continued roughly, "in the war. He... died..."

To her shame she felt tears pricking her eyes, and quickly she turned away. It was the first time she had actually said it out loud, the first time she had someone mention him who did not know, and she felt the black despair sweep over her once more.