The Sky Has Claws

Creaking in the New Year's cold, the old man peered into the crevice between book-cases. In its depth lurk a few forgotten nibs, much darkness, innumerable dust bunnies, and a recalcitrant grandson. In his younger days, he thinks, he might have discerned more than the hint of a form, solid and stubborn in the shadows.

“Did your father tell you you'd be in trouble when you come out?”

“...yes,” answers the wary voice.

“And?”

“And I told him that made me want to come out even less.”

He takes nonsense personally. The grandfather coughs into his sleeve; partly because he needs to, being in his old age almost as dusty as the ancient library, and partly to conceal amusement at the child he is supposed to be disciplining. Done with this, he lowers himself, carefully, knees shooting pain through his wiry body and bony hands shaking on the head of his cane, to kneel in front of the crevice. It's too narrow to admit an adult, or even a large child, and too deep to reach into, but by the light of his candle he catches the glimmer of eyes, unblinking.

He takes a further moment to gather his breath, to make the boy squirm, then speaks in sonorous tones, as both grandfather and Steward.

“Then listen to me, child; if you do not come out, this instant, your brother shall go to bed without his bear, and keep your mother and the nurse up all night with his squalling.

“No fair!” A thunk and a muffled “ouch” followed the instantaneous indignation, then the boy stands at the mouth of the crevice, hands balled into fists, scowling at the old man. “Mother and Iolynn have nothing to do with it and Faramir isn't even two!”

“Indeed, they don't, and he is. You, though, are almost six, and will be Steward.” The old Steward smiles to himself at the fierce child, standing with feet braced, not even rubbing his scalp. Gently, he asks “Is your head all right?”

“You're changing the subject.” The boy's frown deepens; his mind remains on his brother and mother and the Numenorian woman hired to care for them. His grandfather can see the betrayal written plainly in every line of his face. The boy has always held implicit faith in him. He takes a step forward, defiantly distancing himself from his hiding place. “Why would you do that to them? That's not right. They did nothing wrong. It isn't fair. It isn't right!”

As an appeal, it fails. His grandfather's strong hands seize his sturdy little shoulders, hold him out at arm's length while the old man's fierce sunken eyes blaze into his.

“Because you will be Steward, and when a leader acts wrongly, it is their people who suffer.” He shakes the child gently to keep him focused; the boy's eyes, thick-lashed and mutably grey, remain locked on his. “Because if, as Steward, you opt to hide, children will go to bed without food, day after day, and night after night their families will lie sleepless, listening to them die."

The boy's breath catches. For a moment, the grandfather thinks he might cry, for all his face doesn't crumple – his throat works, wordlessly, and he bites his lower lip until blood beads along the corner of a white milktooth. Then he blinks hard a few times and nods, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“It is not fair,” affirms the old man, gently now, “to you or to them. It simply is.”

The boy closes his grey Gondorian eyes for half a breath. Upon opening them he nods and answers, simply, softly, steadily, “I know.”

Too old for his age, the Steward thinks. We are all too old for our age. He watches his grandson, collected now, pick up his book, useless in the dark, and cloak, a vital accoutrement in the chilly stone library. His movements still show traces of childishness. I'm sorry to have to do this to you; to allow this to happen – sorry to have to raise you in a world where this must happen. But it will no matter what. I can only assure it goes as well as possible, for your sake and our people's.

He wants to pull his grandson into a tight hug, as he returns, warm and solid in the cold stone necropolis of books. He wants to hold him tight, as all children should be held, bu the time for that is long past. There is so little time. He has so little left.

Instead, he squeezes the boy's shoulder and mutters a hoarse “good lad.” Past the billow of dark curls he thinks he sees the sweet curve of the child's guarded smile. Blessing that wary gleam and cursing his ancient joints, he braces himself to try to stand; halfway up and halfway successful, he finds himself confronted by a small olive-skinned hand and pauses for a moment, shaking hands clinging hard to the head of the carven cane, staring between the hand and the somber young face, quietly inscrutable as deep water. Seldom does anyone think to offer a hand to the Steward of a great, if faded, realm, even if he is a man of ninety.

What the hell. He takes the hand. It is cool to the touch, at first, but warm under that first chill, and young though the child is his palm is rough with calluses, and strong. I'm a parchment with half an inch left, and I weigh little more.

Nonetheless it surprises him when, the instant he is on his feet, his grandson throws his arms around him. Bewildered, he hugs the boy tightly and feels his shoulders shaking, a thing so rare as to verge on disturbing. He knows the boy; the sharp lesson in responsibility would not so have shaken him, else the grandfather would have refrained – he wants to teach the boy, not break him.

This leaves only his father's words, and against his stern command, the Steward feels suspicion stir. His son has been so distant, and so stern...

One hand cupping the boy's shoulders – thought very strong for his age, looking fat in his heavy winter wear, he is not tall – he smooths the other hand, all wiry power and twisted ligaments over knuckles swollen here and there with time and injury, through russet-black curls that wrap around his fingers like friendly snakes.

“Do you fear the punishment your father promised?”

“No.” The boy shakes his head sharply. “I'll miss you. He takes half a step back to look his grandfather in the face and, seeing the question there, answers it unspoken. “When you die."

The old Steward, after a moment, reminds himself to breathe. Funny, how something as intangible as sorrow can so effectively block an airway.

“What do you know of death, Boromir?”

“I know it's the only thing that everyone in the world does.” The child offers him a smile better suited to fifty then to five and, finally, his grandfather scoops him up, suddenly, more roughly than intended, and clasps him tight as if to hold him safe in a protective shell of fierce love and brittle bones. He could not begin to say for whose comfort he makes the gesture, for his grandson holds him, too.