Categories > Books > Harry Potter > The Boy and the Ring
The Boy and the Steward
2 reviewsRituals are delicate things. So are Dark Lords. Harry learns this the hard way, along with the true meaning of companionship.
2Insightful
-=-=-=-
By the time the white ramparts of Minas Tirith came into view the next day, the setting sun was already painting them in hues of pink and gold. That made it no less beautiful, however, and Faramir felt a thrill of satisfaction at the gasp he heard from the boy sitting in front of Anador on the next horse. Stealing a glance at their guest, he found Harry staring at the citadel, with both wonder and dismay on his face.
Before the man could wonder at the reasons behind such an expression, the call of a horn rang out as Minas Tirith's sentinels spotted their party. Faramir pulled his own horn from his saddlebag and blew through it twice; the two-toned song would tell the guards they were friend, not foe, and they would have the gates open and ready by the time they rode up.
Recognizing their home, the horses sped up into an unbidden canter. Faramir nearly reined Larsk back in, but then decided he had the right of it. There was no reason in delaying their return, however slightly, merely because he hated the feeling of being caged within the White City, constantly beneath the cloud of his father's disapproval.
The guards hailed them with amiable shouts as they passed through the enormous gates, which swung ponderously shut behind them. There weren't many townsfolk on the streets, now that dusk was upon the City, and the small party was able to travel quickly up the road that wandered side to side, passing without notable incident all the way through the fifth level. Once they'd reached the sixth, Faramir quietly ordered Anador to carry his charge to the Houses of Healing, set back off the main roadway. The guardsman saluted and bowed as well as he could, with Harry in the saddle in front of him, and turned his horse.
The rest continued on to the stables, where Faramir dismounted and let a stableman lead Larsk away. He himself continued on, ignoring the temptation to change out of his sweat-stained clothing before his audience with the Steward as another attempt at delay tactics. He could see no way in which he might have handled the situation with Harry differently, but he had little doubt that his father would be able to find one and point it out. At length.
Sighing, the young Captain passed close enough to the Dead Tree to stroke a hand along its pale bark, a habit from his childhood he'd never been able to break. The Tree had always been a reminder to the boy that the stories of glory past his tutors filled his head with had really happened; standing beneath the ancient Tree that had witnessed them all was to feel the past become present once more. And it was said that on the day the King set foot in Minas Tirith, the Dead Tree would bloom once more...
Faramir shook his head, banishing his thoughts. There were no more Gondorian Kings; the line had ended with King Earnur's death. There were only the Stewards, now...
And the current Steward would be most unhappy with him if he were any later. Even more so than he would have been already.
The first thing one always saw when stepping into the Tower of Ecthelion was the great throne of the long-gone Kings; only then would you see the smaller, rather plain throne of black stone at the foot of the dais, where Steward Denethor sat. His shrewd brown eyes, never quite losing their hint of suspicion even when regarding their own flesh and blood, followed Faramir as he approached and knelt, resting his fist over his heart.
"Captain," the Steward said formally, gesturing for him to stand. "You bring word from Pelargir?"
Faramir nodded. "Yes, my lord. There have been several attacks on trade ships by Corsairs in the last year, many more than they have seen in years past. There have been only very rare encounters with the Haradrim, however, and those only with small parties."
"I see..." The crow's feet around Denethor's eyes creased as he pondered. "This will be ill for us, I have no doubt. Perhaps... but we shall see." He shook his head, turning his gaze back to Faramir. "Was there anything else?"
To the Steward's obvious surprise, Faramir nodded. "Yes. During our return, we found a boy injured and unconscious by the trail. His circumstances were... unusual, so we brought him with us. When he woke, we were able to learn his name is Harry, but nothing else."
Denethor sat up straight on his throne. "He would not tell you?" he growled, irritation set deep in his words. "He dares to remain silent? Where is he now?"
"I... I ordered him taken to the Houses of Healing so his wounds might be treated," the Captain replied. What else could he have done?
For an instant, there was pure anger on Denethor's face as he looked at his errant son. "That is unacceptable," he said coldly. "He should have been brought to me immediately. Guardsman!"
One of the men-at-arms guarding the entrance doors, who had determinedly been ignoring the dressing down of one of his commanders, quickly saluted. "My lord?"
"Go to the Houses of Healing and bring the boy back here. And send someone to inform the Tower Warden that Captain Faramir has returned and that his presence is required," Denethor ordered.
Faramir opened his mouth to protest, and hastily shut it again as the anger in his father's eyes grew. With the state Denethor was in, it would do no good to argue that this was pointless, given that the boy Harry didn't speak or understand Westron; but until he saw the situation for himself, Faramir knew the Steward wouldn't listen.
-=-=-=-
The man with the beard just beginning to gray- Anador, Harry reminded himself, strange a name as it was- dismounted first and then reached up for Harry. The wizard flushed in mortification, but knew that with his hands the way they were, the only way he could get down off the horse himself would be to fall. And that would be even more embarrassing than being helped off, and a lot more painful, so he held out his arms to be grabbed.
They were in the courtyard of some of the most beautiful gardens Harry had ever seen. Around the edges of the courtyard were small buildings made of the same pale stone as the rest of the amazing city he was in, the one Faramir had called Minas Tirith. Pillars and arches that wouldn't have been out of place in the Mediterranean connected each of the buildings, but rather than reassuring him with their familiarity, they only reminded him of how very far he was from home.
An older woman wearing gray robes and a wimple came out of the nearest building and greeted Anador warmly, before turning her steady gaze on Harry. She spent only the barest of seconds studying his face, before her eyes went to the bandages on his hands, and the next thing Harry knew, she had him by the elbow and was leading him into the building.
Inside was a bed with white linens that she immediately sat him down on, speaking soothingly all the while, a table, and two chairs. An open window looking out into the gardens let in a soft breeze that smelled heavily of flowers.
He'd gotten used enough to the constant pain in his hands that he was starting to be able to ignore it, but when the woman took one and began to unwrap the bandage, the wave of refreshed agony made his heart pound and black dots swarm in front of his eyes. All of his concentration went into not fainting on top of the strange lady, so he barely heard her snap out an order to Anador, who meekly bowed his head and stepped outside.
By the time he'd returned, both of Harry's hands had been unwrapped, the woman 'tsking' the entire time at the deep burns she was revealing. His senses still reeling, the wizard didn't protest when she took the small cup Anador was holding and held it to his lips.
The liquid inside didn't taste nearly as bad as he was expecting; in fact, it was just really strong tea laced with honey and something he couldn't identify until after it made his lips and tongue go numb.
Painkiller, check, he thought sluggishly, swaying a little until the woman caught him and made him lay back on the bed. This time when she took Harry's hands to rewrap them he felt nary a twinge, a state of affairs that left him as happy as he could be with his thoughts turning to mush.
When loud voices were raised a few minutes later, the boy barely twitched until he was abruptly lifted from the bed and set on his feet. Given that he couldn't actually feel his feet, he felt understandably proud of himself that the guard helping him out of the building, while the healer protested and Anador paced them with a frown on his face, only had to half-carry Harry as they went along.
It wasn't a long walk by his normal standards, but by the time they led him into a large room where Faramir and another man with graying hair waited, Harry was more than ready to go to sleep. Of course, this was impossible, given the way the strange man was speaking to him... and then yelling... all in that weird language he'd never heard before.
It was vastly annoying. Harry wanted to sleep, and with the man yelling he wouldn't ever get the chance, unless the stranger burst a blood vessel. The man was getting redder and redder as he shouted angrily at the young wizard, until finally Harry had had enough and did something about it.
-=-=-=-
It was with a sinking feeling that Faramir noted Harry's glazed eyes as the boy almost clung to the guardsman in order to stand. Even if there hadn't been a language barrier in place, Harry wouldn't be able to answer the Steward's questions while under the influence of whatever painkiller the Healers had given him.
But Denethor saw the boy's uncomprehending silence in response to his questions only as defiance. The Steward of Gondor was the leader of the most powerful kingdom of Men in Middle Earth, and Denethor, son of Ecthelion II, wasn't at all used to being defied; he could see the man's rage growing with every unanswered question.
"Who is he?" a voice murmured over his shoulder, and Faramir turned to see his brother behind him, watching their father interrogate Harry with a frown on his face.
"We found him on the return from Pelargir," Faramir whispered back, watching as Harry closed glassy eyes and prompted an audible growl from Denethor. "...Boromir, he doesn't speak Westron..."
Boromir's frown grew, but as he stepped forward to bring that fact to their father's attention, Harry's eyes opened again and Denethor abruptly stopped yelling. The red faded from his flushed face, and the Steward stepped back, staring at the boy who had finally given up the fight to keep standing and collapsed senseless into the guardsman's arms.
"My lord?" Boromir ventured cautiously. "Are you well?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Denethor answered distractedly. He glanced with perfectly calm eyes at his two sons, and then turned back to studying Harry with a calculating air. "Boromir, take a company and scour the area where he was found. A boy his age and with those injuries would not have been alone. I want whoever his friends are found and brought to me for questioning. I will know what their purpose is on Gondorian soil."
Boromir gave him a short bow and a salute. "Yes, my lord." On his way out, he laid a hand on Faramir's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly, and Faramir gave his brother a small smile. He was sorry they hadn't had a chance to talk, but there would always be time upon Boromir's return.
"Faramir," his father called, drawing the Captain's attention once again. Denethor's gaze on him was stern, but still calm. "Take the boy back to the Houses of Healing, but I'm assigning him to your care. Stay with him, find out what about him you can, and by Huron's blood, teach him to speak Westron!"
Blinking in muted astonishment, Faramir saluted, and quickly went over to take charge of the slumbering Harry. In all his life, he had never seen his father act so... strangely. It worried him.
What in the world was going on?
By the time the white ramparts of Minas Tirith came into view the next day, the setting sun was already painting them in hues of pink and gold. That made it no less beautiful, however, and Faramir felt a thrill of satisfaction at the gasp he heard from the boy sitting in front of Anador on the next horse. Stealing a glance at their guest, he found Harry staring at the citadel, with both wonder and dismay on his face.
Before the man could wonder at the reasons behind such an expression, the call of a horn rang out as Minas Tirith's sentinels spotted their party. Faramir pulled his own horn from his saddlebag and blew through it twice; the two-toned song would tell the guards they were friend, not foe, and they would have the gates open and ready by the time they rode up.
Recognizing their home, the horses sped up into an unbidden canter. Faramir nearly reined Larsk back in, but then decided he had the right of it. There was no reason in delaying their return, however slightly, merely because he hated the feeling of being caged within the White City, constantly beneath the cloud of his father's disapproval.
The guards hailed them with amiable shouts as they passed through the enormous gates, which swung ponderously shut behind them. There weren't many townsfolk on the streets, now that dusk was upon the City, and the small party was able to travel quickly up the road that wandered side to side, passing without notable incident all the way through the fifth level. Once they'd reached the sixth, Faramir quietly ordered Anador to carry his charge to the Houses of Healing, set back off the main roadway. The guardsman saluted and bowed as well as he could, with Harry in the saddle in front of him, and turned his horse.
The rest continued on to the stables, where Faramir dismounted and let a stableman lead Larsk away. He himself continued on, ignoring the temptation to change out of his sweat-stained clothing before his audience with the Steward as another attempt at delay tactics. He could see no way in which he might have handled the situation with Harry differently, but he had little doubt that his father would be able to find one and point it out. At length.
Sighing, the young Captain passed close enough to the Dead Tree to stroke a hand along its pale bark, a habit from his childhood he'd never been able to break. The Tree had always been a reminder to the boy that the stories of glory past his tutors filled his head with had really happened; standing beneath the ancient Tree that had witnessed them all was to feel the past become present once more. And it was said that on the day the King set foot in Minas Tirith, the Dead Tree would bloom once more...
Faramir shook his head, banishing his thoughts. There were no more Gondorian Kings; the line had ended with King Earnur's death. There were only the Stewards, now...
And the current Steward would be most unhappy with him if he were any later. Even more so than he would have been already.
The first thing one always saw when stepping into the Tower of Ecthelion was the great throne of the long-gone Kings; only then would you see the smaller, rather plain throne of black stone at the foot of the dais, where Steward Denethor sat. His shrewd brown eyes, never quite losing their hint of suspicion even when regarding their own flesh and blood, followed Faramir as he approached and knelt, resting his fist over his heart.
"Captain," the Steward said formally, gesturing for him to stand. "You bring word from Pelargir?"
Faramir nodded. "Yes, my lord. There have been several attacks on trade ships by Corsairs in the last year, many more than they have seen in years past. There have been only very rare encounters with the Haradrim, however, and those only with small parties."
"I see..." The crow's feet around Denethor's eyes creased as he pondered. "This will be ill for us, I have no doubt. Perhaps... but we shall see." He shook his head, turning his gaze back to Faramir. "Was there anything else?"
To the Steward's obvious surprise, Faramir nodded. "Yes. During our return, we found a boy injured and unconscious by the trail. His circumstances were... unusual, so we brought him with us. When he woke, we were able to learn his name is Harry, but nothing else."
Denethor sat up straight on his throne. "He would not tell you?" he growled, irritation set deep in his words. "He dares to remain silent? Where is he now?"
"I... I ordered him taken to the Houses of Healing so his wounds might be treated," the Captain replied. What else could he have done?
For an instant, there was pure anger on Denethor's face as he looked at his errant son. "That is unacceptable," he said coldly. "He should have been brought to me immediately. Guardsman!"
One of the men-at-arms guarding the entrance doors, who had determinedly been ignoring the dressing down of one of his commanders, quickly saluted. "My lord?"
"Go to the Houses of Healing and bring the boy back here. And send someone to inform the Tower Warden that Captain Faramir has returned and that his presence is required," Denethor ordered.
Faramir opened his mouth to protest, and hastily shut it again as the anger in his father's eyes grew. With the state Denethor was in, it would do no good to argue that this was pointless, given that the boy Harry didn't speak or understand Westron; but until he saw the situation for himself, Faramir knew the Steward wouldn't listen.
-=-=-=-
The man with the beard just beginning to gray- Anador, Harry reminded himself, strange a name as it was- dismounted first and then reached up for Harry. The wizard flushed in mortification, but knew that with his hands the way they were, the only way he could get down off the horse himself would be to fall. And that would be even more embarrassing than being helped off, and a lot more painful, so he held out his arms to be grabbed.
They were in the courtyard of some of the most beautiful gardens Harry had ever seen. Around the edges of the courtyard were small buildings made of the same pale stone as the rest of the amazing city he was in, the one Faramir had called Minas Tirith. Pillars and arches that wouldn't have been out of place in the Mediterranean connected each of the buildings, but rather than reassuring him with their familiarity, they only reminded him of how very far he was from home.
An older woman wearing gray robes and a wimple came out of the nearest building and greeted Anador warmly, before turning her steady gaze on Harry. She spent only the barest of seconds studying his face, before her eyes went to the bandages on his hands, and the next thing Harry knew, she had him by the elbow and was leading him into the building.
Inside was a bed with white linens that she immediately sat him down on, speaking soothingly all the while, a table, and two chairs. An open window looking out into the gardens let in a soft breeze that smelled heavily of flowers.
He'd gotten used enough to the constant pain in his hands that he was starting to be able to ignore it, but when the woman took one and began to unwrap the bandage, the wave of refreshed agony made his heart pound and black dots swarm in front of his eyes. All of his concentration went into not fainting on top of the strange lady, so he barely heard her snap out an order to Anador, who meekly bowed his head and stepped outside.
By the time he'd returned, both of Harry's hands had been unwrapped, the woman 'tsking' the entire time at the deep burns she was revealing. His senses still reeling, the wizard didn't protest when she took the small cup Anador was holding and held it to his lips.
The liquid inside didn't taste nearly as bad as he was expecting; in fact, it was just really strong tea laced with honey and something he couldn't identify until after it made his lips and tongue go numb.
Painkiller, check, he thought sluggishly, swaying a little until the woman caught him and made him lay back on the bed. This time when she took Harry's hands to rewrap them he felt nary a twinge, a state of affairs that left him as happy as he could be with his thoughts turning to mush.
When loud voices were raised a few minutes later, the boy barely twitched until he was abruptly lifted from the bed and set on his feet. Given that he couldn't actually feel his feet, he felt understandably proud of himself that the guard helping him out of the building, while the healer protested and Anador paced them with a frown on his face, only had to half-carry Harry as they went along.
It wasn't a long walk by his normal standards, but by the time they led him into a large room where Faramir and another man with graying hair waited, Harry was more than ready to go to sleep. Of course, this was impossible, given the way the strange man was speaking to him... and then yelling... all in that weird language he'd never heard before.
It was vastly annoying. Harry wanted to sleep, and with the man yelling he wouldn't ever get the chance, unless the stranger burst a blood vessel. The man was getting redder and redder as he shouted angrily at the young wizard, until finally Harry had had enough and did something about it.
-=-=-=-
It was with a sinking feeling that Faramir noted Harry's glazed eyes as the boy almost clung to the guardsman in order to stand. Even if there hadn't been a language barrier in place, Harry wouldn't be able to answer the Steward's questions while under the influence of whatever painkiller the Healers had given him.
But Denethor saw the boy's uncomprehending silence in response to his questions only as defiance. The Steward of Gondor was the leader of the most powerful kingdom of Men in Middle Earth, and Denethor, son of Ecthelion II, wasn't at all used to being defied; he could see the man's rage growing with every unanswered question.
"Who is he?" a voice murmured over his shoulder, and Faramir turned to see his brother behind him, watching their father interrogate Harry with a frown on his face.
"We found him on the return from Pelargir," Faramir whispered back, watching as Harry closed glassy eyes and prompted an audible growl from Denethor. "...Boromir, he doesn't speak Westron..."
Boromir's frown grew, but as he stepped forward to bring that fact to their father's attention, Harry's eyes opened again and Denethor abruptly stopped yelling. The red faded from his flushed face, and the Steward stepped back, staring at the boy who had finally given up the fight to keep standing and collapsed senseless into the guardsman's arms.
"My lord?" Boromir ventured cautiously. "Are you well?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Denethor answered distractedly. He glanced with perfectly calm eyes at his two sons, and then turned back to studying Harry with a calculating air. "Boromir, take a company and scour the area where he was found. A boy his age and with those injuries would not have been alone. I want whoever his friends are found and brought to me for questioning. I will know what their purpose is on Gondorian soil."
Boromir gave him a short bow and a salute. "Yes, my lord." On his way out, he laid a hand on Faramir's shoulder and squeezed comfortingly, and Faramir gave his brother a small smile. He was sorry they hadn't had a chance to talk, but there would always be time upon Boromir's return.
"Faramir," his father called, drawing the Captain's attention once again. Denethor's gaze on him was stern, but still calm. "Take the boy back to the Houses of Healing, but I'm assigning him to your care. Stay with him, find out what about him you can, and by Huron's blood, teach him to speak Westron!"
Blinking in muted astonishment, Faramir saluted, and quickly went over to take charge of the slumbering Harry. In all his life, he had never seen his father act so... strangely. It worried him.
What in the world was going on?
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