Summer Nights

Faramir walked beneath the sweltering Dol Amroth sun, listening to the music of the gulls challenging the ocean's roar, a Sindarin grammar tucked under his arm. Home, sweet home, he thought bitterly to himself. _If I knew it would be this hot, I would have stayed in Minas Tirith_. He kicked a sea shell out into the surf and watched it sink. _You are supposed to keep this heat away_, he chastised it; _you always have before_. Ever since he was old enough to remember, Faramir and his brother Boromir came to Dol Amroth to escape the summer heat. Most summers it had worked. _So why not this time?_

Faramir held his book out at arm's length, clenched his hands around it, thought about throwing it out to sea as well. _No, that would never do; the useless thing is too valuable_. He heaved an exasperated sigh. _What am I doing here?_ he asked himself, wiping the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. _Boromir won't get here for another week -- his captain should have let him come -- and Elphir's too young to be any fun._

Dol Amroth had seemed like such a good idea back in Minas Tirith, but then, anywhere but Minas Tirith had seemed a good idea. The white marble reflected the sun's harsh rays until the entire city baked and you couldn't find an inch of shade, be you beggar's son or steward's. Dol Amroth at least had other colours of stone -- red, grey, and, yes, some white -- so it didn't reflect the heat quite as badly. _Small mercy_, Faramir thought. _With temperatures like these, who can tell the difference?_

Every morning, to gain some relief, Faramir took a book, a loaf of bread, and a flask of water and walked through the woods outside the city. There at least the branches blocked out the sun above, even if the air was unbearably muggy. It had served him well so far.

That afternoon, though, the mosquitoes had arrived.

Faramir lasted an hour, swatting away the pests and trying to concentrate on the verb conjugations he had set himself to learn that afternoon. "_Linen, linnech, linnant, linnen ..._ " he recited to himself, shoving his fingers in his ears to block out the sound of the crashing waves. _Curses!_ he thought. _You are an ocean. You're supposed to be *cooler*. So -- why -- aren't you!?_ He looked down at his book, realizing he had lost his place. "Linnen, linnech ... " Then he gave up. He slammed the book shut, flattened his long-empty water flask under his arm, and began the walk back to the city.

At last Faramir reached the city gates. The bugs had not followed him -- _some godsend at last_ -- but here the heat was worse than ever, impossible though that seemed. Faramir wandered for some time, searching for a spot of shade without success. The heat kept him from staying in one place overlong. He walked up one street and down another, idly letting his mind wander. _The green lawns are lovely_, he thought to himself. _Wouldn't they make Minas Tirith look fine?_ He roamed through the seven circles in his mind, adding flower gardens and small lawns, shoving centuries-old buildings aside to make room. _There, that's better_, he thought with satisfaction, then looked around to see where he was.

He realized he was lost.

_Curse it all_, he thought angrily, _you have been coming here nigh seventeen summers and still you cannot find your way home?_ Then he calmed down and took a good look around. The road was lined with bushes here, and on either side stood a row of houses and inns made from the finest stone, each several stories tall. Faramir craned his neck, trying to find a familiar landmark, but no such luck. _Well, there's nothing for it_, he chastised himself, _you'll just have to go back the way you came._

_And which way is that?_ the other part of his brain answered. Faramir looked around and realised he had no idea how he had got here. He could easily get himself lost worse, and that wouldn't do at all.

His eyes rested on the neatly-carved ash sign hanging in front of the grey stone building. _The Silver Fox. Now, that looks promising._ It was an inn, so he wouldn't have to disturb some goodwife's dinnertable, and what he could see of the inside through the small window -- some tables with proper settings and suitably fancy chairs -- seemed pleasant enough. _I'll just step inside, ask directions, and be on my way_.

Faramir placed his hand against the door to push it open, then stepped back in surprise. _Berúthiel's cats, that's cold! If the door's this cool, then that means . . ._ He quickly pushed the door open and stepped inside.

"May I help you, my lord?" Faramir looked up and saw a middle-aged woman approaching. She wore a crimson, high-collared dress and had her hair in a tight bun. _A bit austere, but not unfriendly_, Faramir decided.

"Good afternoon," Faramir said, bowing slightly, then looked around. "How is it so cool in here?"

"Elvish magic," the matron replied, a twinkle in her eyes. "What would you prefer?" she waited a second, looking at him expectantly, but when he did not answer she added, "A table perhaps?"

"Yes, that sounds nice," Faramir heard himself reply. Now that I think about it, he thought to himself, _I'm already here; I might as well eat dinner. Surely Uncle would understand, and it is my silver._

Faramir sat down at the table to which the matron led him. "It is always a pleasure," she said, "to welcome one of the prince's men." Her eyes rested on his ring, a silver band with the design of a swan etched into it and a light blue gem where the swan's mouth would be, and Faramir smiled understandingly. The ring was the mark of his uncle's household, and all the merchants throughout town recognized it.

"I am the Prince's nephew," Faramir volunteered. "The ring was a gift from him."

"Ah, my lord Boromir!" the matron exclaimed, a look of recognition crossing her face. "I should have known, of course. But you have changed --"

Faramir held up his hand, silencing her. "Boromir is my brother. I am Faramir."

Her face paled noticeably, and she bowed her head. "My lord Faramir, pardon my --"

"Do not trouble yourself!" he laughed. "'Twas a simple mistake." Faramir nodded to the chair across the table and continued, "Please, sit, if you will." After the matron had settled herself into her chair Faramir said, "Did my brother come here often?"

"On occasion," she replied. "Yes, your brother came in when he could, two or three times a month during his summer visits, since he was not much older than you. He loved the food and the wine -- and the pretty faces of our wenches, if I may say so. Where is he? I would have expected him to join you."

"He will be arriving within the week," Faramir replied. "He is a member of the guard, you know . . . "

"Oh, yes," the matron replied. "Of course. He's quite the man, your brother is."

"He thinks he is, at any rate."

That made her laugh, for some reason. "But here I am talking of your brother," she continued after a moment, "when it is you I should be seeing to. Will you be wanting something to eat?"

Faramir nodded. "Nothing cooked, I think; it is far too hot for that. What do you have cold?"

She thought for a moment. "The crab is delicious. We could make a spread from it, if you like. Perhaps some white bread, nice cheese, a cold spread, and a glass of wine. How does that sound?"

"Wonderful," Faramir replied, giving her a tired but appreciative smile.

"My poor dear!" she exclaimed. "You look exhausted, and I should hardly wonder in this heat." She thought for a second, then nodded to herself, a playful grin spreading across her face. "I have an idea. Your meal will take some time to prepare. While I must apologise for confusing you with your brother, my lord Faramir, I am sure you will forgive me for suggesting that you follow his practice of taking a rest before the meal in one of the rooms upstairs. I can send for you when your meal is ready."

His face lit up at the thought of a cool, dark room and a bed on which to relax. "That would be wonderful. Are you sure it is all right?"

"Of course," the matron replied. "Just take those stairs," she said, motioning to a stairwell at the back of the room. "Room 4 should be free."

~*~

Faramir stretched out on the luxurious bed, the silk sheets even cooler than the rest of the room. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the flowers on the bedside table. _Why Boromir had kept this place a secret for so long . . ._ He'd have to ask his brother, when he arrived, but that could wait.

The door opened, and Faramir looked over, surprised. He saw in the dim light a girl a few years older than him, her thick black hair in a loose braid down her back. "Is my dinner ready?" he asked softly.

"No," she replied. "We have some time yet. The matron said you would enjoy some company."

Faramir sat up. "I did not ask for any, but company unlooked-for is twice-blessed, as we say in the White City."

The girl suppressed a giggle. "As you insist, my lord," she said and sat next to him on the bed.

Faramir moved over a little to give her more room. "What shall I call you?" he asked.

"I have been called many things, my lord," she answered, "and you may name me as you wish. But if you desire it, my friends here call me Isilwen."

"Isilwen," Faramir repeated. "That is a beautiful name."

Isilwen nodded. "So I have been told, by many." She looked at him, then ran her fingers through his hair. Faramir leaned back and looked at her, a queer look in his eye. "Your hair, it is -- it is wonderful. Do all the men of your city have such luxurious hair?"

"Not -- not all, but many." He reached up and took her hand, removing it from his hair and laying it on the bed.

"You are blessed," Isilwen continued. She eased toward him and traced the nape of his neck with one long finger, allowing her hand to rest just inside his tunic on his shoulder. She began to kiss the back of his neck but he forestalled her.

"Tell me, Isilwen," he demanded, attempting to keep his voice steady, "why -- why are you here?"

"The matron said my services were needed," she replied calmly. "Have you changed your mind, then?"

"I never made up my mind to begin with," he exclaimed indignantly. _I can guess only too well what she expects_, Faramir thought to himself, _but best to be sure_. He turned to face her, and her warm silken lips trailed his cheek. He laid his hand on her shoulder, holding her slightly back, then decided physical contact was not a good idea. He snatched his hand away and shuffled along the bed further away from her. "What services -- w-what, exactly, do you speak of?" he asked, irritated to hear his voice wobbling.

"The usual, of course," he said. "I am skilled in all the arts, and whatever you wish --"

Faramir's eyes narrowed. "All I _wished_ was a cool room out of the sun and a good meal," he said.

"Did you not request the room?" Isilwen asked, a confused look on her face.

"Aye," Faramir said, staring at her in disbelief, "a cool place to rest until my meal was ready. Nothing more, I assure you!"

Isilwen looked at the ceiling and breathed a slightly annoyed sigh. "You are new to the city." Then she looked at him and shook her head. "When you ask for a room in an inn such as this, my lord, you are asking for more than a bed. You are asking for a wench to share the bed with, as well." Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but no words came out. "Shh," Isilwen said. "It is all right. A simple misunderstanding."

"I am so sorry --" Faramir began.

"No harm," Isilwen interrupted, chuckling to herself. "Our ways are strange to you."

"Are you mocking me?" Faramir asked her, a little cross that she seemed to find his discomfort so amusing. "How dare you --"

"No, my lord, I assure you," she replied quickly. "I apologize. I was merely thinking of the matron." Faramir nodded, and Isilwen continued. "I may go, if you wish." Then she gazed at him seductively. "Or I could stay."

Faramir thought about that for a moment, looking at the bed and the girl. _It would be nice_, he thought to himself. _Boromir seems to enjoy it, and it's so cool . . . _" He breathed in her aroma, lilies, roses, and vines, and allowed his hand to rest on her knee. He leaned over to kiss her, but then stopped himself. _No. You do not do this_. Slowly he shook his head. "I think you should go."

"As you wish," Isilwen said. She left quietly, pulling the door shut behind her, and Faramir tried to relax again. The room was cool, true, but he could not stop thinking about what all had occurred in this room, on the very bed he laid on. He got up and walked down the stairs to the dining room below.

"My lord?" the matron asked when she saw him. "Is something the matter?"

"It is indeed," Faramir replied coldly. "I did not request . . . 'company'."

The matron blanched slightly. "I am sorry for the confusion, my lord. I only assumed that your brother --"

"My brother's actions are not my own," he interrupted. "Faramir of Gondor does not pay for women, whether his brother will or not. This was a mistake." He sighed, and his eyes softened slightly. As angry as he was, he did not mean to frighten the woman. "In Minas Tirith, this would never have happened. I suggest, in the future, that you ask less coded questions and get more plain answers from visitors to your fair city." He reached into the money bag on his girdle and pulled out a few silver pieces, laying them on the table. "For your kitchen's trouble. I shall not be dining here after all."

Faramir turned his back and marched out the door. He would find his own way home.