Autumn turned into winter and life in Minas Tirith continued unchanged, with the vast majority of it’s residents blissfully unaware of the invisible struggles and conflicts where their future and history were being forged in the shadows of the civilized society. Sure, there was the growing shadow on the eastern horizon, the threat of Sauron and Mordor, but that threat had always been there for the people of Minas Tirith. Most of them did not think much about Sauron or Mordor in their daily lives. It was much more convenient to carry on living their lives as normal than to constantly worry about a threat nobody could do anything about.
Life continued unchanged for Lord Falaben as well. After he had received a word that Steward Denethor had ordered him to promptly discontinue his dealings with the Haradrim, he had immediately sent a word to Ethir Anduin to close down the operation. Apart from that there was not a single word of reproach from the Steward or anyone else about his actions and transgressions, no stain to his honor.
Falaben understood the way it was. Even though Denethor had distanced himself as much as possible from the deal Falaben had made with Captain Torthadir, and even if Torthadir – that fool! – would likely accept all the blame for himself, even the suspicion that Denethor might have been somehow involved in a trading agreement between Gondor and Harad, Gondor’s sworn enemy, might be enough to cause considerable internal instability into the realm and demoralize the citizens of Gondor, Lords and commoners alike. Indeed, even the fact that such an agreement had been made in the first place and the Captain of Gondor had been involved in it might cause too much damage in the current political situation, with the threat of Sauron growing each day.
So as long as Falaben closed down his operation with the Haradrim and treaded carefully for a while, he would not be punished in any way. Sure, it would mean the end to a very lucrative deal that had already made him a very rich man, but the agreement had already made him one of the richest men in Gondor. He had earned all the money he could possibly ever need and more, so what more did he want? It was never wise to get too greedy, especially when there was not much more to gain and everything to lose from being overly ambitious.
Falaben was rich and he was popular. He donated money to the poor. He was seen kissing babies. He made sure to let some of his considerable wealth trickle to the poor and the needy in Ethir Anduin. He helped the community and that made him popular, even loved among the commoners. He was powerful and respected among the other Lords. He sat in the Council of Gondor and the Dome of the Sun. Falaben was beyond reproach. He was untouchable.
It was an early evening in Falaben’s quarters in the Great Guest-House of Minas Tirith. His day had been busy and eventful, as all his days were, and it would culminate in a feast held in his honor in the grand hall. He was just selecting an outfit to wear for the feast when his peace was disturbed by a knock on the door.
”Enter!”
It was Falaben’s secretary. ”Excuse me, my Lord, but this just came in. A sealed letter for you, my Lord.”
”Who is it from?”
”I don’t know, my Lord… a messenger brought it.”
Falaben took the letter and opened it. The message was short.
”Lord Falaben,
did you really think you could wriggle your way out of a deal you have made with Sauron? The arrangement with the Haradrim may have ended, but you are not in the clear yet. We can ruin you if we want, but perhaps that won’t be necessary. Perhaps there is a way you can still be of use to us, and of course we will make it worth your while. Come meet me by the Artists’ Fellow-hall in the Player’s Tier at your earliest convenience tonight. Come alone, or you will not see me and trust me, you will be sorry if you don’t.
Sincerely,
Dôlguzagar”
Falaben broke into a cold sweat. Dôlguzagar was the name of the spokesman of the delegation of emissaries from Mordor Sauron had sent to Minas Tirith to discuss the terms of treaty for a lasting peace between the two realms. Denethor had banished the delegation from Gondor once Sauron’s plot had been uncovered, but if they had found their way back into the city, they could destroy Falaben if they so desired. Sauron had nothing to lose and everything to win if Falaben’s transgressions were to become exposed to the public.
But Dôlguzagar wanted to talk, so perhaps there was a way he could save himself. Perhaps there was a way he could make himself useful to Sauron’s cause once again, even benefit from the new arrangement himself.
”I think I will take a little walk”, Falaben told his secretary in a calm tone of voice. ”I will be back in time for my speech tonight.”
”Do you want to…”
”No”, Falaben interrupted. ”I will go alone. I need some fresh air and time to think alone.”
”As you wish, my Lord.”
Falaben walked out of the Great Guest-House and through the Gate of the Citadel down to the Master’s Tier. Strangely enough, the streets of Minas Tirith were almost empty tonight. A lot of people besides Falaben had experienced a busy day. In the Sage’s Tier Falaben stopped for a moment by the strange black building called the Black House, turned and looked up at the pinnacle of the White Tower of Ecthelion rising high above the White City. Minas Tirith was like the civilization itself, Falaben thought, each layer built atop each other, each tower built on the ruins of old towers. Our past is beneath our feet, Falaben thought, deciding to use these thoughts in his speech tonight.
Falaben continued his journey down to the Player’s Tier. He paid no mind to the majestic statues, fountains or beds of flowers as he passed them by on his way to the Artists’ Fellow-hall. Falaben was full of thoughts about the past and the meaning of life, he was feeling good about himself.
He did not see the hand holding a dagger with a blackened blade in the darkness. He did not hear the sound of soft footsteps behind him.
The blade slipped smoothly into his back and between his ribs, pushing effortlessly into his old, tired heart. Blood rushed into his chest cavity and filled his lungs.
Falaben knew he was about to die, but he refused to believe it. How could he die like this, right here on the street? A victim of street violence, a pointless mugging in this city he had known for all his life… no, he could not believe it.
Falaben’s body collapsed on the street and Delioron stood still as it fell. Then he pulled his dagger slowly and effortlessly from the back of the dead man’s body lying on the wet walkway. He reached his hand inside Falaben's pockets until he found the letter, crumpled it and put it in his own pocket to burn it later. He wiped the blade clean from Falaben’s blood and concealed the dagger, turned and disappeared into the shadows behind columns like a ghost disappears into the night.
