The Last Ringbearer

by Kirill Yeskov

  He slept badly that night, waking intermittently and only truly sleeping close to sunrise. He dreamed of a wonderful circus and himself -- a large-eared second-grader skipping school, fingers sticky with cotton candy. Heart almost still, he is watching an unimaginably beautiful girl in a golden cape, slowly walking across the dark abyss on a thinnest of golden rays; he had never seen a tightrope walker to also juggle three large balls as she walks -- how is this possible? Wait -- this is Sonya! NO! Stop her -- this is not her job, she doesn't know how!.. Yes, I understand -- she can't turn back, going back is even scarier... Yes, if she doesn't become afraid, nothing will happen to her, it's ancient magic. Of course it's magic: those balls she's juggling are palant ri! All the three Seeing Stones that are in reach in this part of Middle Earth; we've collected them ourselves and turned them over to her... I wonder: if I and Sonya each had a palant r, would we be able to transmit a touch? He woke up with that thought; it turned out to be late morning. The pot was bubbling soothingly over a fire (Tzerlag had trapped a few partridges), while Tangorn was busy polishing his beloved Slumber-maker. It was sunlight reflecting off the sword that woke up Haladdin: his comrades obviously did not intend to wake up the doctor, but to let him get enough sleep. He followed the reflection arcing swiftly over the boulders on the shadowed side of the dale with his gaze and thought sadly: that's what would have no problems reaching the palace of Lady Galadriel -- a light ray!..

  ...A brilliant flash lit up all the nooks of his tired brain when by a wonderful coincidence the last dream thought and the first waking thought brushed wingtips before flying apart forever. There's your solution -- send a light ray through a palant r... He had such flashes of insight before (for example, when he guessed and later proved that the signals traveling over nerve fibers were electrical, rather than chemical, in nature), and yet each and every time there was some magic novelty in the experience, like in a lovers' meeting. All creative work has two components: the first insight and then painstaking work, sometimes for years, whose goal is to make your insight available to other people. The nature of insight is always the same, whether in poetry or criminal detection, nobody knows where it comes from (one thing is certain, though -- it is not from logic); and the moment of insight, when for however brief an instant you're equal to the One Himself, is the only thing truly worth living for.

  "Gentlemen!" he announced, coming up to the fire. "It looks like I've managed to put together this puzzle after all, or at least a substantial part of it. The idea is simple: rather than taking the Mirror to Orodruin, we will take Orodruin to the Mirror." Tzerlag froze with a full spoon halfway to his mouth and shot a wary look to the baron: has our commander gone nuts from all that thinking? Tangorn politely raised a brow and suggested that the doctor have some partridges first, while they're hot, and only then broach his extravagant hypothesis.

  "To hell with the partridges! Just listen! There are other magical crystals beside the Mirror -- the palant ri. We have one of them, or at least we can get it whenever we want..." He related everything he knew about the Seeing Stones, marveling at his comrades' ability, given their lack of any education in magic or science, to precisely pluck the bits they considered important from that torrent of information. Everyone was absolutely serious now -- the real work had begun.

  "...So, suppose we have two palant ri -- one set to receive, the other set to send. If we drop the `sender' into Orodruin, it will be destroyed, but not before managing to transmit a bit of the Eternal Fire to the immediate environs of the `receiver.' Therefore, our task is to place one such receiver next to the Mirror."

  "Well, fair sir," the baron said thoughtfully, "your idea certainly doesn't lack what they call `noble madness'..."

  Tzerlag scratched his neck. "Better tell me how we're gonna get a palant r into L rien and find the Mirror there?"

  "I don't know yet. All I can say is what I said yesterday: I hope to come up with something."

  "You're right, Haladdin," Tangorn agreed. "At least we have a concrete task for now: to find another palant r. I think that we should start in Ithilien, since Faramir is bound to know what happened to the crystal that used to belong to his father. Besides, I'm certain that you will quite incomparably enjoy conversing with the prince..."

  PART II -- The King and the Steward

  "And besides, when folk talk of a country covered with troops, it's but a kind of a byword at the

  best. A soldier covers nae mair of it than his bootsoles."

  Robert L. Stevenson

  Chapter 20

  Ithilien, Emyn Arnen

  May 3, 3019

  "What time is it?" E:owyn asked sleepily.

  "Sleep on, sweetheart." Faramir rose on his elbow a little and gently kissed the top of her head. Apparently it was a sharp movement in his sleep that woke up the girl; his wounded arm kept going numb, but he never let on, knowing that she preferred to sleep stretched along his body, her head pillowed on his shoulder. As usual, they have only fallen asleep close to sunrise, so by now the sun's rays were already bathing the wooden buildings of Fort 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. E:owyn 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 E:owyn 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; E:owyn 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 Il vatar 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 m makil) 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 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. After 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, Faramir?"

  The prince's fingers were silent. He had always had the cool courage of a philosopher, but the idea 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 you'll regain your ability to speak, and I will visit you with Prince Imrahil, who is the temporary regent of the town and 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 simple and reliable? I'm being quite pragmatic here: an alive, abdicated Faramir in Ithilien is harmless, whereas his dead body in a 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?)

  "Excellent! 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 conscience still in the thrall of darkness and speechlessness, 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

  First 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 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 t
hat of a steppe breeze, mixing the dry heat of the sun-kissed 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?"

  "E:owyn." E:owyn. 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, E:owyn?"

  "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, E:owyn, 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?"

  "That'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."

  E:owyn described the Battle of Pelennor Field 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 E:owyn'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 E:owyn as one of the participants and Aragorn -- much to his surprise -- as the other.