Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: In the Age of Men (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Narsilion: In the Age of Men
Author: E. Batagur
Fandom: Lord of the Rings
Pairing: Faramir/Éomer
Rating: Overall NC-17
A/N: Many thanks to the brave and fabulous [info]splix who consented to the most death-defying task of beta for this monster. This is an AU closer to Peter Jackson’s final product than Mr Tolkien’s books.

The Narsilion, in the lore of Middle Earth, is the ancient song of the Sun and the Moon.

Summary: At the camp before the battle at Pelennor Field, Théoden told Éowyn that the rule of Rohan was to be hers. Therefore, Éowyn is crowned Queen of the Rohirrim. Her brother, Éomer, stands as her Chancellor and Marshal. Faramir, Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor stands at her coronation, representing the King Elessar. Éowyn formally introduced her brother to the man who became her best friend in Gondor.

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Part 1 – The Coronation of a Queen

Bright and cold, like the metal of the Rohirrim’s beaten copper armor, the spring day was clear and beautiful, but the wind held a sharp chill that shook out the banners and touched the skin of the gathered, raising a blush to fair cheeks. Faramir had never been to the northern plains of Rohan before, but he had listened eagerly when Boromir had told him once of the golden hall of Edoras.

The hall stood proud and alone on the crest of the rocky hill. The city was defensible only by virtue of standing on high ground, but the lonely range about where beast grazed was open. One could see an enemy advance for leagues. Nevertheless, the kings of Rohan never brought battle to Edoras. They always sought the strength of their mountain refuge during evil times. Faramir would have liked to seen Helm’s Deep, the mighty shelter and fortress carved from the rock of the massive White Mountains. It, like the White City, stood wounded from battle, but Éowyn had vowed to heal the ancient keep.

Faramir had met the White Lady and Shield Maiden of Rohan as she recovered in the House of Healing in Minas Tirith. Even within the shielded quarter of the citadel, the profound damage of war was palatable in the dust and smoke laden air. The Lady Éowyn was consumed with grief after the loss of her good uncle, the king. The deep melancholy had threatened her very health, and the healers had been confounded in what to do for her.

Gandalf had stepped briefly away from Aragorn’s council to speak with Faramir on the subject.

“You understand the pain of grief, Faramir. She will respond to one who knows the profound darkness of raw sorrow.”

“Yes,” Faramir had said. “But it is still too fresh for me. My heart is still broken and my will lies upon the cold stone floor. I have no words for others that would lift such a burden.”

“No one can lift such a burden for another, but a burden can be shared. In this way is the load lightened,” Gandalf had said kindly. “Go to her. Her need is great, and with it, the need of all Rohan. Théoden’s wish was for the people to follow her rule.”

Faramir had been mildly surprised by this announcement. “Not her lord brother?”

Gandalf had smiled as he recognized Faramir’s surprise. So few had understood the wisdom of Théoden’s choice. “The lady is Théoden’s pronounced heir. She is the elder of Éomund’s children by a year. And she is wiser and stronger than anyone lays credit. She will rule and defend the lands of the Horse Lords with courage and intelligence.”

Faramir had accepted Gandalf’s approval of her, and had gone to see the lady as Gandalf had asked of him. From there, a great friendship was born. Yes, Éowyn grieved. She grieved for the loss of her uncle and the loss of her dreams. She also feared. She knew her uncle’s will and stood in doubt of her own worth. To be the ruler of all the Riddermark was a daunting thing for most. But any who would stand completely without a single doubt in his or her heart would not be the right one for the throne. Sometimes the humbling of doubt and caution was a strength all its own.

Faramir stood that clear day next to the knight of Gondor and grandson of the Shire Thane, Peregrin Took. The young Hobbit was all smiles, as he had been since the coronation in Minas Tirith. The chill in the air did little to daunt the spirits of those gathered today, for Gandalf was to place a crown on the head of another monarch in the realm of men. Today Rohan would receive Éowyn, daughter of Éomund, as Queen. The procession of the queen rounded the streets of Edoras on horseback. At her side rode a strikingly fierce warrior that Faramir could only assume was her brother, Éomer. Behind them, first in the line of noblemen and knights rode Meriadoc Brandybuck, Squire of Rohan.

Pippin grinned up at Faramir as they caught first sight of them.

“Look at him!” Pippin declared. “All puffed and stiff on his pony, like he was a real horseman of Rohan!”

“He is,” Faramir replied mildly. His smile to his small companion was kind.

They waited at the top of the long stair to the plaza of the golden hall. At its graven door, Gandalf the White stood, holding the gold and bronze crown that had last graced Théoden’s brow.

“Do remember, Sir Took, Squire Brandybuck is a favored nobleman of the queen since they fought side-by-side in the battle for Gondor.”

“It’s hard to think of Merry as a nobleman,” Pippin admitted. “Before we set out from the Shire, no one would have said that there was anything noble about either of us.”

Faramir smiled, but his attention was called back to the procession as they cantered past.

Éowyn was radiant in white and gold. Over her silk and velvet gown she wore a gold breastplate. Her sword rested at her side. Her sun kissed-golden hair flowed behind her, weighted by a simple band of woven gold mail with interlocking loops. By her side rode the broad-shouldered horse lord who would be her brother, his face stern beneath his golden helm.

His posture and seat on his charger was more than perfect. It was outstanding. The man rode at Éowyn’s side like a force of nature, as breathtaking as he was lethal. Beneath his helm flowed honey-blond hair, just a shade darker than his sister’s, but almost as long. He was the younger of the two siblings, coming almost eleven months after his sister’s birth. There was a saying in Gondor about such siblings. They were called Rohirrim twins, and the sentiment behind the saying was not meant to be kind.

Faramir would have banished the fool who would lay such a belittlement before the feet of this noble pair. Only weeks before, just as they returned to their home, did they lay their most loved uncle in his tomb, covered in simple white flowers the horse men called simbelmynë. Now he lay at peace next to his son, his bequeathing of reign placed on his niece. So shall it be.

The party of the heir and her nobles dismounted within the plaza and proceeded to the double doors of the Golden Hall on foot. All eyes watched as the horse mistress and shield maiden of Rohan accepted the hand of her brother to lead her up to where Gandalf awaited.

At The formal reception of the Queen, Éowyn raised a toast to the honored dead, mentioning her Uncle, felled in the battle for Minas Tirith, and, to Faramir’s surprise, Boromir, who had been lost at the beginning of the quest of the ring bearer. The horse lords boomed their hail to the lost heroes, lifting their tankards high. Faramir joined them in the toast with a thought to his older brother who had always loved him, even though Boromir often found it hard to understand him. Nevertheless, Boromir at least made the attempt. No one else had ever come closer.

Faramir smiled faintly as he watched a memory in his mind’s eye: his brother teaching him the proper way to shoot from a long bow. Boromir had been a patient teacher. Faramir had not been surprised to hear Pippin tell that it was Boromir who took up the task of teaching him and the other Halflings of the expedition sword-play. The loss of his brother still stung. And the madness and death of his father was a wound that he thought would never heal well. Gandalf had been right. Denethor had remembered a use for his youngest son in the end.

“For I, Faramir, son of Denethor, whose uses are few, make good kindling,” Faramir murmured into his cup.

“What’s that, my lord?” Pippin asked, looking up from his own drink.

“Nothing, my friend,” Faramir said softly. He had Pippin to thank for his life. And he knew that he should not have such thoughts of his father now. Gandalf had told him that it had only been the madness and despair caused by tampering with the Palantír that had kept his father so cold. However, Faramir had never known a time when his father’s favor had fallen warmly upon him. Denethor’s further antipathy had seemed only a natural progression of their already ill relationship.
Faramir pushed these disheartening thoughts away. The time for mourning the dead and the lost was past. This was a celebration, and it was only just beginning.

The Queen laughed out loud at something a nobleman told her as they stood in conversation close to the dais. Merry had come down from the places of honor to speak with Pippin. Faramir moved away, looking about the hall for a friendly face to make small conversation with. He thought to go to Éowyn and give his regards, but she seemed so taken with the conversation she currently shared that Faramir felt awkward to step in. He held back to quietly wait for his time, sipping his ale.

The Rohirrim’s ale was strong, but sweet, and Faramir knew he could easily grow accustomed to its taste. The stouts of Ithilien were bitter and thick. Some folk even mixed them with water to make them more palatable. But the men of the White Guard of Osgiliath drank their stout straight from the aging barrel. Boromir had laughed at him the first time he pulled his little brother a pint. Boromir had laughed as Faramir sputtered about the taste.

“It’ll grow hair on you, little brother!” he had laughed and embraced Faramir lightly with one arm. He had turned Faramir to face the other men, Boromir’s face glowing with pride. “He killed his first Orc and he had his first stout!” The men had laughed and cheered with Boromir.

“It is hard to set the heaviness of grief aside,” Gandalf said at Faramir’s shoulder. Faramir had not seen the wizard approach. He looked at Gandalf in understanding.

“You caught me with my thoughts,” Faramir replied.

“It was not hard to tell,” Gandalf reassured. “She did mention your brother’s sacrifice.”

“I had no knowledge of the details until Pippin spoke to me of it,” Faramir said. He looked at Gandalf. “But I had a dream…”

Gandalf nodded. “This is not the first time you have had dreams of things that are and things that are yet to come.”

Faramir looked down at his hands. “After we found his horn, I dreamt that I stood in the fords of the Morgulduin. A boat floated towards me, and I went to it. Within was Boromir, slain.” Faramir said no more.

“Forgive me, my young friend,” Gandalf said gently, resting a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “I did not mean to stir what is still difficult sorrow.”

Faramir looked up at the wizard and smiled a smile he had practiced all his life. It was the smile he used to reassure his brother when he became over protective. It was a smile he used to appease his father when his demands became too difficult. “I heal,” he said to Gandalf.

Gandalf looked at him with a piercing gaze, but Faramir was able to maintain his facade. He knew he had Denethor to thank for that as well.

“I see two men that I respect and admire holding grave council on a day that is to be a celebration?” Éowyn swept up to them, her face still a glow from the strong salutations of her people.

“Our council is not so grave,” Faramir said to her, holding his smile for her benefit. “And I was only biding my time until I could give you my fondest regards.”

“You need never wait,” she said, taking Faramir’s arm. “You shall ever be first among my friends, Faramir.”

“Then I am greatly honored.”

“And I am greatly unnecessary,” Gandalf said lightly with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

Éowyn laughed again. “Oh you great faker!” she teased. “But truly,” she added more seriously. “I am honored that the White Wizard whose hand crowned the high King of Gondor chose to honor my coronation here in Rohan.”

“It was your uncle’s choice and wish,” Gandalf replied. “And it was the right one. Long may you defend Edoras and the lands of your fathers.”

Éowyn glowed under Gandalf’s regard. She turned her radiant smile to Faramir, who could not help but feel the warmth of joy throughout his being, moving into the dark places where the grief still held strong.

“Oh! But I wished to make you acquainted with my brother!” Éowyn said suddenly. She turned her head, scanning the crowds of nobles and horse lords until her eyes rested on her mark. Her smile grew even more radiant than Faramir thought possible as she gestured forth to the crowd.

“Do come, Éomer!” she called.

From the crowd, the striking warrior that Faramir had seen riding at Éowyn’s side in the procession broke away from whatever conversation he had been participating in with a small knot of bronze armored horse lords. His head, free from his helm, was topped with the finest honey blond mane of hair Faramir had ever seen. His face was stern and grave, but youthful, and Faramir guessed that without his whiskers and his well worn scowl, he would have had too young a face to be taken for a deadly warrior. Éowyn took the man’s arm as he drew close and she held him to herself with much affection.

“Éomer, I told you I would make you acquainted with the man who saved me from my despair while I convalesced in Minas Tirith.” She turned her joyful gaze back to Faramir. “This is Faramir, Son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. And Lord Faramir, this is my brother Éomer, Son of Éomund, First Marshal of the Riddermark.”

“Lord Faramir,” the Rohirrim said in a solemn tone. “I am grateful for your aid to my sister’s failing spirits as she stayed among the healers. I was told that her melancholy was impeding her healing and wellbeing. I feared leaving the city on the further march that the Elessar suggested with Éowyn so ill of heart and body. But then I was told that you had begun to speak with her and her sorrow was lessened just enough that her whole healing could begin. I knew I would owe you a great debt for saving one who is dear to me.”

“There is no debt,” Faramir replied. “Indeed, my lord, for the lady’s company was an ease to my own grief as well. In that, I stand grateful to her.”

The horse lord’s eyes softened as he gazed upon Faramir’s face, and Faramir noted the very depth of those eyes.

“Be at ease,” Éowyn said, addressing them both. “It is all our great fortunes that we found each other.”

Faramir looked from brother to sister, noting the brilliance of affection that shone on Éowyn’s face. But as he looked to Éomer, he noticed that the man’s eyes had not yet left his own face. Those intense, dark eyes examined him as if trying to read his very soul. It left Faramir feeling a little off-balance for a moment. Faramir wondered what he could have done to merit such an intense stare. Was there suspicion behind that gaze, and if so, suspicion of what? Was it Éowyn’s obvious deeply felt friendship towards him? Was her brother seeing a suitor to be carefully scrutinized?

“I would desire to talk more with you sometime, Lord Prince,” Éomer said politely. “But forgive me, and you my lady sister and liege, I must step away to see that the bounty you set for all of the city below the Golden Hall is being attended to as you wished. We have no steward to see to such things these days.”

Éowyn frowned, her face souring as if she tasted something foul.

“Put Wormtongue from your mind, Éowyn Queen,” Gandalf said with gentle cheer. “He shall trouble no one on these lands. Banished to the tall tower of Isengard, he will waste the years of his life in the company of Saruman.”

“You are assured that neither he nor his master can escape?” Éowyn asked.

“Saruman has no power, my lady queen. It was washed away with the river Isen. He and his servant are guarded by the Ents, the forest giants. They should trouble you no more.”

“That is well,” Éomer said. “He has only himself and his master to poison now.” He touched Éowyn’s hand where it rested on his arm. “I take my leave, sister. I shall not be long.”

With that, Éomer gave a brief, polite bow to the company and then stalked away. Éowyn sighed.

“I would have hoped for more joy from my brother.”

“Surely he is not troubled by your ascension to the throne,” Faramir said, incredulous.

“No, my dear friend,” she chuckled softly.

“Honorable a man and hardened a warrior as he may be,” Gandalf added, “Éomer son of Éomund never expected that he should ascend to the throne of Rohan. In fact, it was said that he breathed a mighty sigh of relief when he heard that his uncle’s mantle fell on the shoulders of his elder sister.”

“He would have worn this mantle well if it had passed to him,” Éowyn defended. “But, yes, he had never anticipated he should have such a care. Théodred was strong and good. He was young, but he had been a warrior coming well into his own. He would have been a mighty king…” Éowyn faltered, and her eyes grew bright with unshed tears.

“Forgive me,” Faramir said gently. “My questions have led you away from the joy of this day.”

Éowyn’s smile renewed but was tinged with sadness. “It is only right that I should remember my beloved kinsman Théodred on this day of all days. I walk the path that should have been his.”

“Dear Éowyn,” Gandalf said gently. “Look upon your life and see how this path has been brought to you. This fate is by no small chance, shield maiden of Rohan. You were born to lead, and your uncle knew this. Your people have followed you without question long before this crown rested on your brow. Your strength has been a beacon in times of great darkness, and the Rohirrim will sing praises of your valor for generations to come. Already bards have been set the task to sing of your victory over the Witch King of Angmar.”

“Then I hope they remember Merry in their warblings,” Éowyn said with mischief. “I would not have been victorious with out his help.”

Gandalf laughed with her and Faramir found their humor infectious. His smile grew.

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