Untitled - BoG-Archive

‘This much I learned, or guessed’
by Nesta
The turret room was small, thick-walled, but with a surprisingly large
window, opening south to catch as much daylight as possible. All afternoon the
light had slanted in, carrying a million dust-motes, falling almost palpably on
strewn tables and piled shelves. Now, however, there could be no doubt of it: the
light was fading.
A clear bell-note from outside confirmed it. One hour before sunset.
Faramir frowned and shifted his position to ensure that as much light as
possible fell on the page before him. Very soon it would be too dark to read
without a light, and not having intended to stay so long he had not brought one.
To summon a servant to bring a lamp would be to betray his whereabouts, and
even if he pledged the servant to secrecy, his father would know within the hour;
his father could read a glance, even a thought. It wasn’t that his father had
forbidden him to visit this particular room, but Faramir felt uneasily that this was
because he hadn’t asked him. It would most likely qualify as ‘Dancing attendance
on Mithrandir’ or ‘skulking in the archives’, both of which were disapproved of.
He thought he’d heard Boromir calling for him quite some time ago; he
ought to have been at archery practice. If Boromir found him before supper time
he’d get his ears boxed, but it was worth the risk; Boromir had never in his life hit
his younger brother with any real intention to hurt, and moreover, he could be
relied on to cover for him if awkward questions were asked. And his memory for
offences was mercifully short. Their father was another matter.
Faramir had come up here because Mithrandir had said the matter was
important. No, not said in so many words; Mithrandir didn’t like to make things
obvious. It was the way his eyes grew needle-bright that told you, and his
attentive stillness whenever the subject was mentioned, however trivial the
allusion. Elendil … Gil-galad…Anárion …Isildur … Dagorlad … Orodruin …
Isildur… Aiglos and Narsil … the One who must never be named … Isildur.
It always came back to Isildur, but why? He fought alongside his father
and brother in the great war, they died in the last battle, he lived, came back to
Gondor, told his nephew what to do, rode away to his kingdom in the North, was
ambushed by Orcs, was shot, and died. Everybody knew that. How silly, how
bitter, to survive all that and then be brought down by a random shot: Isildur, a
man so mighty that you’d think Orcs would fly howling at the mere sound of his
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