The Forgotten Love ~A Faramir Love Story~

Chapter III

Clearing his throat, he knocked sharply three times on the door.

A voice could be heard from within: "Meredor, Squire of Gondor, presenting the Lady Gwennan of the Southern Woods."

The doors were flung open and Gwen and Meredor stepped through.

Gwen took in the sight. The court was enormous, with huge marble pillars surrounding the perimeter. They caught the rays of moonlight shooting up from the mountain, sending cold beams of light dancing on the crystal embedded walls. An illustrious velvet carpet lead straight up to the throne. On top of the throne sat the Steward of Gondor, the Lord Denethor himself. Two young men stood on either side if him. All were dressed regally, the two younger ones sporting the crest of their city on the tunics: The White Tree.

Meredor lead her up to the throne, bowing low.

"My lord," he adressed the sour looking Steward. "Permit me to introduce Lady Gwennan Alassë of the Southern Woods." 

Gwen took that as her queue and curtsied, her skirts rippling out around her as she sunk to the floor.

Denethor nodded. "Meredor, you are excused." Meredor bowed once again, gave Gwen an encouraging smile, and left the castle.

"Well?" Denethor turned to Gwen. "You do have a tongue, do you not? Speak!" 

"Forgive me, my lord," Gwen said, embarrassed. "It is a pleasure to finally meet you."

"Yes... Well..." Denethor muttered as he clasped his hands behind his back and circled around Gwen, inspecting her. "Far too skinny, rather sharp cheekbones, extremely pale," he stood up to his full height. "And much too tall."

Gwen waited nervously, staring straight ahead and grasping her hands in front of her.

"I do not think you are a fit for this court," Denethor continued. "Much is left to be... Mmm... Perfected."

Though she had enough sense not to loose her tongue, her insides raged with indigence towards this nasty, sour man. She could feel her cheeks turning a dark rosy red with each second that ticked by. 

"I don't know, Father," the one who looked to be the older of the two stated, turning to his father. "She is a fresh, new face. A spritely young thing. She might turn out just fine."

Denethor studied her from her seat. "What is your heritage? Do you have Elvish in your blood? Dwarf? I can not accept this."

"I do not, good sir, I am completely human," Gwen stated.

"Who are your parents?" Denethor continued his prodding.

"I am an orphan, my lord. I was raised by an older woman, Faerwyn Rindel."

Denethor stiffened, blinking several times at the mention of Faerwyn's name. "Faerwyn, did you say?" He asked bitterly.

"Yes, sir."

The Steward turned from her with an air of disgust, his face screwed up as if he were searching for the person who allowed her to step foot in his throne room. "I did not realize your heritage, girl. This Faerwyn you speak of was a maid of the lower levels of the city. Her kind was not fit to be a ranking lady of the court."

Gwen seethed, her teeth grinding together as she so desperately wanted to cry out.

"My son, Faramir, will escort you to your room for the night," he spoke again in his cruel, cold tone. "I will have to think about this news and decide your fate tomorrow." And with that, he dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

Gwen could not help but let her mouth drop open when Denethor turned his back towards her. How was this atmosphere any better than her little home in the woods?

The younger looking son stepped forward, bowing. "If you will follow me, my lady," he suggested warmly, offering his arm.

Gwen composed herself and smiled, graciously taking his arm, and together they walked out.

Denethor watched their retreating figures suspiciously. "Faerwyn, daughter of Rindel," he repeated, turning to his son. 

"I'm sorry?"

"Correct my memory if I am wrong my son, but surely that is not the same Faerwyn that was your mother's maid?"

"It's highly unlikely," the son said. "You said so yourself she retired a good twenty years ago, going to live with family."

"I did, didn't I?" Denethor spoke softly. 

"And she was far too old to have children as young as that girl."

"Yes..." Denethor mused, stroking the stubble on his chin thoughtfully.

Could it be? 

Maybe his son was right.

That girl was gone, sent to an orphanage twenty years ago as a frail baby. She was most likely dead.

Or was she?