“Here, drink this, it’ll warm you up.”
“Wouldn’t you rather warm me up in another fashion?” She spoke with her eyes closed; her body, taut as a bowstring, was still shivering.
“Certainly not now. You’d hate me for the rest of your life, and with good reason.”
Then she knew for sure that, finally, it was all right to cry… So she cried, with abandon, like a child, while he was hugging that shivering, sobbing, infinitely dear girl to his chest and whispering something into her ear – he never could remember what he said, nor did it matter; his lips were salty with her tears. And when she was done pouring out her pain and disgust, she crawled back under the cloaks, took his hand and asked quietly: “Please tell me something… nice.” So he recited the best poems he knew, and every time he stopped she would squeeze his hand, as if afraid of being lost in the night, and ask with an inimitable child’s intonation: “More! Please, a little more!..”
She fell asleep in the early morning, still holding his hand, so he waited by the side of the bed until her sleep grew deeper; only then did he kiss her temple gently and removed himself to the armchair. He woke up a couple of hours later from some small noise and immediately heard an angry “Please turn away!” and then a plaintive “Listen, give me something to put on – I can’t walk around like this!” a few seconds later. Then, standing in the door (with his hunting jacket on), she suddenly spoke quietly and very earnestly: “You know, those poems… It’s something amazing, I’ve never experienced anything like it. I’ll come this evening, and you’ll read me some more of that, all right?” To make a long story short, by the time Faramir sent a message to Edoras inquiring whether Éomer had any objections to his sister’s decision to become Princess of Ithilien, evening readings were an indispensable part of their family life.
“…Are you listening?”
Éowyn had long since washed up and dressed, and was now gazing at the prince, upset.
“I’m sorry, baby; I’ve been thinking.”
“About something sad?”
“More like something dangerous. What if His Majesty the King of Gondor and Arnor sends us a wedding gift? Your joke about arsenic and strychnine might just be prophetic.”
By saying this he had broken an unspoken commandment never to mention Aragorn inside these walls. Only once, at the very beginning of their romance, did Éowyn say (abruptly and with no connection to the preceding conversation): “If you want to know what he’s like as a lover,” she was looking out the window and did not see his gesture of protest, “I can utterly honestly say: nothing much. You see, he’s accustomed only to taking, all the time and in every thing; a real macho, you know…” Her lips twisted in a bitter smile. “Of course, most women want nothing else, but I’m not one of them…”
She looked at Faramir questioningly for a while, then nodded and said thoughtfully, as if making some final conclusion: “Yes, he totally could… Do you have a plan for how to avoid such a gift?”
“Yes, I do, but all depends on whether Beregond will be with us.”
“Forgive me if this is not my business, but… this man killed your father. And a father is a father, no matter who he is.”
“I think that Beregond is not at fault. What’s more, I intend to prove it today, first and foremost to himself.”
“Why today?”
“Because it was unwise to do it before. That day in the dining hall he behaved recklessly. I haven’t spoken to him since then precisely to allay any suspicions the White Company guys might have, but now it looks like it’s now or never. In other words, please ask him to come see me for some innocuous reason, and make sure to speak to him in public – we have no secrets! And when you go hunting, try to lose your bodyguard, casual-like, and ask the people about a certain forest hamlet…”
There was a faint glimmer of hope in Beregond’s eyes when he entered – perhaps not all is lost?
“Hail, Your Highness!”
“Hello, Beregond; let’s not be so official. I would like you to help me contact His Majesty.” The prince rummaged in a cargo box by the wall and carefully placed a large ball of smoky crystal on the table.
“A Seeing Stone!” The captain was amazed.
“Yes, this is a palantír. The other one is in Minas Tirith. For some reason Aragorn doesn’t want me to use it myself and had a spell put on it. So please, look into it…”
“No!” Beregond shook his head in despair; terror was on his face. “Anything but that! I don’t want to see Denethor’s charred hands!”
“So you’ve seen them before?” The prince felt a sudden mortal weariness – did he, in fact, misjudge this man?
“No, but they told me… Anyone who looks into his palantír sees them!”
“Don’t worry, Beregond.” There was relief in Faramir’s voice. “This is not Denethor’s palantír; that one is at Minas Tirith, and no danger to you.”
“Really?” With some trepidation the captain picked up the Seeing Stone and looked into it for some time, then put it down with a sigh. “Forgive me, Prince, but I can see nothing.”
“You have already seen everything you need, Beregond. You are not guilty of Denethor’s death; you can sleep calmly.”
“What?! What did you say?”
“You are not guilty of Denethor’s death,” the prince repeated. “Forgive me, but I had to trick you: this is, indeed, his palantír. It is true that blackened fingers can be seen in it, but only those who were involved in the murder of the King of Gondor see them. You saw nothing, so you’re innocent. On that day your will had been paralyzed by someone’s powerful magic, most likely Elvish.”
“Is this true?” Beregond whispered. “Perhaps you just want to console me, and this is some other palantír…” (Please tell me it’s not so!)
“Think about it – who would give me another palantír? They only gave this one back to me because they believe it to be irretrievably damaged; they can see nothing in it past Denethor’s hands, which block the entire field of vision. Luckily, they don’t even suspect that people innocent of the crime can still use it.”
“So why did you tell me that it was another one?”
“Well, you see… you’re trusting and easily influenced, Beregond, and the Elves and Mithrandir have used that. I was afraid that you’d convince yourself that you could see that picture; self-hypnosis does weirder things sometimes… But now, praise Eru, it’s over.”
“It’s over,” Beregond repeated hoarsely. He kneeled and stared at the prince with such doglike devotion that the latter was embarrassed. “So you will let me serve you, just like before?”
“Yes, I will, but please rise immediately. Now, tell me: am I the sovereign of Ithilien to you?”
“How else, Your Highness?!”
“If so, do I have the right, while remaining a vassal of the Crown of Gondor, to replace the personal guard imposed on me by the King?”
“Certainly, but this is easier said than done. The White Company is only nominally under my command; I’m more of a quartermaster here.”
“Yes, I’ve figured that out. Who are they, by the way – Dúnedain?”
“The soldiers are, but as for officers and sergeants – those are all from the King’s Secret Guard. Nobody knows where they came from to Gondor; there’re rumors –” Beregond shot a glance at the door, “that they’re living dead. Nor can I figure out who their chief is.”