Upstairs, Downstairs

"History is women following behind with the bucket." Alan Bennett

Minas Tirith, end of March 3019 T.A.

Eilyn had loved the old lord, fiercely. She didn't know that she was rare in feeling this way; she had not known anything else. She had come to the Steward's House the summer before the War, a few weeks after the breaking of the bridge, fresh from Lossarnach. Her mother's aunt Haleth was the housekeeper there, and said Eilyn would be safer in the City than the Vale, and, besides, she could use a sensible lass around the place.

By that late date, the old lord was not much about the house. His duties kept him in the Tower from before dawn until well into the night. Haleth said it had not always been that way; when he first brought his young wife home, for instance, he would return at all times of the day, flowers in hand. Then there was the baby, then the next one, then two small boys, and then... Well, his wife had died, of course, and the house became much less of a home. You try your best, Haleth would say, but if the master's heart isn't it, there's not much you can do. Then she would sigh. Those poor boys.

When the old lord was home, however, you knew he was there. His heavy, measured tread; his careful, modest habits. His orderliness and quiet; his distant courtesy. His presence hung over the house. Others, Eilyn knew, found him oppressive, but she was a kindly girl, uncomplicated, and she felt sorry for this lonely old widower, with burdens she could not begin to understand. Eilyn did not know the sons. The older one had gone away on his long journey before she came to the house. She knew his name, of course; she knew how brave he was and how he laughed when faced with danger. But everyone knew that. He was famous. Eilyn knew more – things she would never tell. She knew the mess his rooms had been in, after he'd left, and the faint scent of leather and soap that hung around them even now. She knew that his father would go there, sometimes, to stand in the middle of the room, and close his eyes, and simply breathe… She knew that the old man carried an image of him everywhere, which he placed on his bedside table at night.

Eilyn hadn't seen much of the other son. He'd been away most of the end of that year too, on some errand or other that had taken him out to Belfalas. He came back for mettarë, but not for long, and, besides, all he did was eat and sleep, and leave his clothes lying around. Good clothes too, best clothes, screwed up in a heap in a corner, which meant work for someone, which meant her. She tried her best with his rooms, but they were beyond hope. She didn't dare touch the desk, sensing that there was some order there that should not be disturbed. All she did, she thought, was clamber over stacks of books and move the dust around between them.

During the siege, after she'd refused to go with the wains on the promise that she would run for the hills the second Haleth gave the order, Eilyn went up to the young lord's rooms. She sat on the bed, and looked around, and thought about the old lord sitting right now by his dying son, and she cried for him – the old lord, who had given everything, and still it had not been enough. After the battle, when everyone took some time to slip away, to be alone to weep for their fallen, she had come back here and cried again for the old man, amongst the books and the dust and the empty bed.

Between the battle and the Downfall, Haleth kept them busy cleaning the house from top to bottom. One or two complained that there wasn't much point, given the end of the world and all, but Eilyn found the task kept her mind off things. It turned out to have been the right thing to do. The day of the Downfall found her back once again in the young lord's rooms, stripping the bed. Haleth herself took on the master bedroom – clearing, tidying, dusting, throwing open windows, making everything ready. The new master – this unknown, untidy man – was coming home.

Eilyn caught a glimpse of him on his arrival, back from the Houses of Healing. Tall, very pale, with a faint line of bruises on his face, he was clutching a book and some papers to his chest as if they were helping him keep his balance. He looked slightly dazed. Haleth whisked him away before Eilyn could get a better look, and he went back out again later, to the Tower, where he stayed for the rest of the day. That evening, by the fireside in the kitchen, he was the only topic of conversation: How did he look? Was he really fit enough to be out of bed? What did he know about his father? Haleth – no-nonsense, sensible Haleth – shed a few tears at that point. That poor boy, she said. Those poor boys.

The morning after that, Eilyn got up earlier than everyone else, as usual, and went down to the kitchen. As she came along the passage, she heard a noise ahead – someone was already there. Eilyn was the early riser in the house – a childhood in the country and half-a-dozen younger brothers and sisters meant she would always be awake before the sun. Who could it be? She picked up a pan as a precaution and opened the door. The young lord was standing by the table, knife in hand, cutting a piece a bread. The loaf was directly on the table, and he was hacking away. There were crumbs everywhere.

"What do you think you're doing?" cried Eilyn. "Look at the state of that table!"

He blinked at her. He said, "Are you going to use that on me?"

"What?"

"The pan," he said, pointing with his knife. "It looks like it might hurt."

She put down the pan. She went over to the table, and began to sweep the crumbs into her hand. "What a mess," she muttered, crossly.

"I woke early," he said. He sounded faintly embarrassed. "I wanted some breakfast—"

"I'll get you breakfast," she said. She picked up the loaf and tutted. "Who goes hacking at a loaf of bread like that?"

"It was all I could find—"

"There's not much at the moment."

"Yes, well, I'm working on that—"

"Hmm," she said. She got a plate, and put it on the table. He sat down. "That's better," she said. "Now, there's some honey somewhere…"

She busied herself around the kitchen, the enormity of how this conversation was unfolding having by now more than dawned on her. She found the honey, and she briskly boiled water and made tea. She cut another two slices of bread – one to tidy up the loaf (she handed that to him, it was his mess) and she put the other on a plate for herself. She poured them both tea (earning mumbled thanks), and sat down opposite him.

They ate bread and honey and eyed each other. Now she could take a proper look at him, she could see the resemblance to the old lord: the long nose and the sharp grey eyes. One big difference: she'd never seen his father in the kitchen.

"Do you usually wander in here and help yourself?" she said.

"Haleth never minded," he said, defensively.

"Haleth would have my hide if she saw me doing that to a loaf."

"It seems the regime has changed in my absence," he said. "I'll know better from now on."

"It's your house."

He smiled, faintly. "I suppose it is now. But evidently not my kitchen."

She blushed. "Just... use a board next time. Somebody has to tidy up afterwards, you know!"

"You're quite right," he said, humbly. He finished his tea and stood up. "Is there anything else… I'm sorry, I don't think we've been introduced."

"Eilyn," she said.

"Eilyn," he said, and nodded. "I'm Faramir. I should warn you that I do get up early, and I also eat a lot. But I'll try to be mindful in future of making a mess."

"I'd appreciate that," she said.

He was indeed there the next morning, but this time he'd used the bread board, and he stayed afterwards and dried the dishes and put them away exactly where and how she told him. Then he disappeared off to the Tower and whatever he did there, and she got on with her day.

That afternoon, on her rounds, Eilyn came to the library. Eilyn liked the library. The books were solid and reassuring. Shelved and orderly too: another difference between father and son. She had decided, during the siege, that if for some reason she couldn't get away, she would come to the library and wait for the end. She hadn't needed to, but she was still happy in here, and always took a little longer over her tasks. Most days, when she was done, she would sit down in the big arm chair by the fire and read. Just a page or so; not too much. She had taken to leaving the book she was reading on the table by the chair.

So she knew the library well, and she knew when something was up. The half-read book on the floor by the long couch alone wasn't a clue; he left a trail of books after him like breadcrumbs. No, the clue was in the thick blanket tossed over the back of the couch and all the cushions piled up at one end. An empty wine bottle stood on the floor. Following her hunch, Eilyn went straight upstairs to the master bedroom. The bed was untouched; the room plainly still unoccupied. The following morning, as he made tea for them, she said, "Did you sleep in the library last night?"

He looked at her guiltily. "What makes you say that?"

"I do the beds round here. I know the one in the master bedroom hasn't been slept in…" She stopped herself before saying 'since'.

He said, "That isn't my room. My room is at the back."

"I know which your room is. Why not sleep in there?"

A slight pink rose up on his cheeks. "Well, the bed isn't made—"

"And I suppose you don't know how to make a bed?"

"I do know how to make a bed," he said, tartly. "I don't know where Haleth has hidden the sheets, and I also know that if Haleth discovered me sleeping on an unmade bed she would – how did you put it the other day? – 'have my hide'."

"Quite right too," said Eilyn. "So the library was the best option?"

"It was the simplest option."

Eilyn took a swig of tea. "She'll have your hide if she finds you camping in there."

"Are you going to tell her?"

Eilyn drained her cup, stood up, and started collecting the dishes. "Not if you wash up."

She made the bed for him. She brought his book up from the library and left it on the bedside table and, as an afterthought, put a vase of freshly cut spring flowers there too. The next morning, he was slightly later downstairs than she was, as if he'd had a particularly good night's sleep. He went out whistling.

That afternoon, when she had finished up in the library, and went to her seat to read, she couldn't find her book. She looked everywhere; no sign. Well, she thought, so much for my five minutes to myself. She got up and went about her business.

The following morning, as they were washing up, he said to her, "Cementur's Odes, is it?"

"What?"

"Sorry to have borrowed it – I needed them. When you're done, you should try his Lament for Finduilas. I've left it with the Odes on the table by your chair."

She flushed scarlet. The books, of course; the books. Books everywhere – in his room, on the shelves, on the stairs, on the floor, in his hand, everywhere he went – books. She said, "How did you know it was me reading it?"

"Not much happens in that library that I don't know about," he said. "Not much happens in Gondor that I don't know about." He smiled at her. "There are ships arriving later this morning. Tell Haleth to send someone down to the market. Tomorrow I'll make you bacon and eggs."

Written for the 'Legends' challenge at Teitho, where it placed second.

Altariel, 4th April 2019