Faramir Fiction Archive

A Clever Man (R)

Written by Mira Took

19 December 2009 | 5014 words

Chapter 3

Gríma had spent the better part of the morning bent over the trestle table that served him as a desk, composing and discarding letters to his master. How to get Saruman to see that consorting with the young man of Gondor would further the wizard’s plans? How to tell him Gríma was clever enough to seduce the steward’s son without letting Faramir discover Gríma’s ends? Saruman was ever quick to issue commands, but Gríma was more than capable of taking action on his own, without the meddling of that old… Gríma had buried that thought out of engrained caution toward the wizard, even in the privacy of his own thoughts.

At this moment, however, Gríma was not thinking of wizards, but of captains. He had hovered in the corridors until the party from Gondor passed by on their way to the noonday meal. He caught Faramir’s eye and turned, leading the young man down a staircase and from there out a back door toward the stables. The smaller tack shed was usually deserted this time of day; it was a good place for private meetings with informants, and it possessed also a loft filled with soft hay. Gríma intended to make the most of the short time the delegation would remain at Edoras.

“After you, Captain Faramir,” he said, holding the door to the shed open with one hand and gesturing with the other. “A poor alternative to your chambers, but a place far less likely to be entered by a serving maid or an envoy in search of his leader.”

Faramir smiled ruefully as Gríma joined him in the shed. “If you had heard them this morning, you would not name me captain. The bargaining for the horses is well on its way to being settled, without the dubious benefit of my leadership. I fear I, like you, have trouble convincing some of my fellows to heed my advice.”

“Yet you are a captain, and – if you will forgive my saying it – you have advanced to that rank very young. Surely a Captain of Gondor and of the White Tower deserves to have his title spoken.”

“As to that, they are almost the same thing. At least, they are for any captain who serves under the Captain-General, my brother. We come from the City and so we are of the White Tower, to distinguish us from officers of Dol Amroth or other parts of Gondor. When my father gave me the captainship of Ithilien, the other styles came with it.”

“And to be a captain of rangers is not an honor?”

“It is! And a great trust in these troubled times. The rangers face much peril in our labors to the south. I think my father gave me that task to season me for days to come. He told me not all of Middle Earth’s wisdom can be found in old archives – and he is right, of course.”

Gríma nodded his understanding, thinking to himself that the steward had done a great deal of his work for him. It was apparent from Faramir’s tone that the young man wanted his father’s trust and that his father was late in giving it to him. Soft-spoken and untried the young man may be, but a clever man did not underestimate his mark. There was a burden of responsibility on this young man’s shoulders, one he had taken willingly on himself, and the grace to carry it. Here was not a man who would be swayed by any selfish purpose Gríma tried to put in his head. He would not try. All he need do was show Faramir that in him, Gríma son of Galmod, the young captain had found a friend who could see his worth.

“Take honor, then, in the work that you are doing. You are a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, leading your men, a Captain of the White Tower, defending your City, and a Captain of Gondor, showing forth the strength of your land. From what I have heard of the negotiations, you show forth her wisdom as well. Do not be worried that some men ignore good counsel when they hear it. Perhaps when you have gained a few of my wrinkles you will find they are men who respect only years, not knowledge.”

“Do you have wrinkles?” asked Faramir with a grin. “I hadn’t noticed any, but perhaps I was not looking closely enough last night.”

Faramir stepped closer and raised his hands to draw Gríma’s head toward him for a kiss. It was deeper and more leisurely than the ones they had exchanged the night before, with Faramir controlling the pace. Gríma was enjoying the younger man’s burst of confidence when a noise close by caused them to draw apart. Standing in the doorway of the shed was young Éomer, whom Gríma had thought still with his sister in Aldburg. They had been away since Éomer’s coming-of-age in the spring, but judging from the look on his face the boy’s feelings toward Gríma hadn’t changed. There was a pause as the three men stared at each other.

“You filthy, rutting sons of trolls!” Éomer shouted. He strode forward, shoved Gríma to one side, and punched Faramir squarely in the jaw. “How dare you dishonor my uncle’s hospitality this way? Did you think no one would notice if you snuck around with this little leach? Is this the way Gondor conducts her alliances, hiding in the stables? And you, Gríma, what have you been planning? Do not think to tell me you are here for the company. I know well you have some other design. Do you look to him for power? Did you think you could get through him the kind of riches you have been trying to wrest from Rohan?”

Faramir had straightened himself as Éomer was speaking and half-turned so that he was looking at both Gríma and the angry Rider. Gríma lifted his chin, preparing to answer the accusations leveled against him. And then Faramir met Gríma’s gaze with his clear grey eyes that had the ability to read much of the hearts of men. Gríma could find nothing to say in the light of that keen regard.

Faramir turned then to Éomer and said, in a tone of cool authority his rangers would have recognized: “Hold a moment. Let us speak soberly about this matter. What do you say I have done?”

Éomer glared at him, but lowered his fists. “I suppose you didn’t know that this fork-tongued old man has been courting my sister? That would have suited your plans, would it not, if your fellow plotter became kinsmen to Théoden King?”

Thinking that the boy looked ready to explode again, Gríma took his chance to leave. A clever man, he had always told himself, need not be a fighter, if he was intelligent enough to avoid fighting. He moved quickly, though he knew Éomer’s attention would still be on the man of Gondor. The young hothead would want to expend his rage on someone who at least looked as though he could stand up to it. Gríma had never been a target for anything but Éomer’s contempt. Still, Gríma hurried, fleeing the angry words to come as though he might be hurt by them.

Fragments from a burnt parchment that was never sent to Gondor:

…seeing only that someone was listening and perhaps understood. I deserved the blow the Lord Éomer dealt me – I deserve far worse for being so simple, so orcs-take-it eager, as though I were just asking to be fooled. Did he even fool me? Or did I fool myself, flattering my vanity that an older man, a counselor to a king, would be interested in me. In truth, I should be proud to know that someone so power-hungry saw enough potential in me that he would even want to seduce me. For he does lust for power, I could see that in his eyes as we gazed at each other. I suppose he lusted for power more than…

…and yet, brother, I could have sworn there was something honest about him, about his own eagerness. Or am I just trying to believe I am less to blame? Certainly it is to my discredit if my actions caused the nephew of Rohan’s king to think me treacherous; shall I be glad that I convinced him I was merely deceived in a lover?…

…Gondor at least will have no trouble over my folly. I persuaded Éomer that what he saw was nothing more than the fancy of a moment. I would not have the counselor accused of conspiracy with foreigners when all he was guilty of was taking advantage of my inexperience. Whatever his hopes for the Lady Éowyn may be, he should not have to answer to his king for deluding one who wanted to be believe that…

…Will I learn someday to disregard it when others disregard me? Discovering that another cared not a whit for the joy I thought we shared, how do I bear that? I do not ask where to find one who does care, for I begin to see that I shall not…

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