Faramir Fiction Archive

Cedar and Cloves (PG)

Written by Mira Took

19 December 2010 | 7721 words

Chapter 2

Faramir’s formal introduction to the visitors had gone more smoothly than he had hoped. Denethor had presented him with punctilious correctness, Faramir had bowed politely, and the sons of Elrond had bowed back in perfect unison. Then the King had drawn Boromir and one of the twins – Elrohir, who had waved up at the window – into a conversation about horses. Elladan, who had smiled first, spoke in a quiet voice to Denethor about the beauties of the City, a tone and a topic that led the Steward into speaking to him with something close to enjoyment. Faramir was of course ignored by his father, but not by Elladan, whose keen gaze somehow included the silent young man in what was being said. For his part, Faramir was glad to listen to the City’s praises told in the Elf’s quiet, musical voice with its faintly Northern intonations.

This meeting between the King’s foster brothers and the Steward’s family had lasted only a quarter of an hour before it was time to proceed to Hall. Faramir was seated between the Castellan and the Librarian as usual, a happy arrangement that gave him an excuse to glance at the visitors whenever the Castellan mentioned the preparations made for their comfort and to listen to the Librarian repeat everything of interest he knew of Elrond Half-elven, his sons, and their home in Imladris. The twins seemed perfectly content in their place between their brother and Faramir’s (the Castellan confided that he had seated them side-by-side at the King’s own request). At one point, Faramir even had the fun of seeing them raise their eyebrows – a single eyebrow each – at something Boromir had said. Elladan raised his right and Elrohir raised his left, but otherwise their expressions in that moment were perfectly identical. The King laughed aloud at whatever it was and the talk moved on.

All in all it was a very satisfactory evening, which ended with Faramir being able to slip out unnoticed through the anteroom toward the gardens. Not even the pleasure of watching the two Elves take a graceful leave of the company was worth being pressed into one of his father’s after-supper lectures. He would let Boromir have the honor of listening to strictures upon the King – disguised always as lessons in statecraft – and instead enjoy the gardens at dusk.

Faramir walked along the longer path by the ornamental pool, thinking about what he knew of Imladris. “The Hidden Valley, the Place of the Waterfalls,” the Librarian had quoted one ancient source saying. How Faramir would love to see such a place.

He came to a sudden halt when he realized that a dark figure ahead of him, which he had taken for the shadow of one of the saplings, was actually a person. An Elf, in fact, clad in a long grey mantle. The figure spoke, and Faramir could hear it was Elladan.

“Good evening, Faramir.”

“And good evening to you,” the answer came automatically. As the Elf moved closer, Faramir thought that his face could have been carved from marble like the statues of the old kings. And yet not like, for his eyes were bright and alive in that pale face. Faramir had never seen anyone so fair.

“This is a peaceful place,” Elladan said, taking an audible breath. “It smells of fresh earth.”

Faramir mirrored that breath a second after and caught a smell like cedar wood among the familiar scents of the garden. Elladan now stood near him, close enough to touch.

“I- I’ll- I won’t disturb your walk, then. Since it’s peaceful. I- I ought to be going back anyway. In case my father wants to talk to me. He often does, after supper I mean. I’ll- I’ll take your leave then. Good night.” He turned on his heel and left the way he’d come without waiting for the Elf to answer.

Idiot. Driveling fool. Lackwit. Faramir walked quickly toward the nearest garden gate. All he wanted was to get back to his room, to his books, to his old sheepskin rug by the fireside. How could he have made such a fool of himself? And in front of one who was not only the King’s guest, but an Elf. Faramir had waited all his life for a chance to talk to Elves, and now all he wanted was to find a place where he would not have to talk to anyone.

When Faramir rounded the corner of the hedge, he could see ahead of him a tall, dark-haired figure dressed in grey. It did not occur to him that Elladan might also be heading toward the gate. Faramir knew at once this was Elrohir and did not consider how he knew it. Instead, his first thought was that he had another chance to behave in a manner becoming his City and family. Elrohir would respect him for at least that short time before Elladan told him of Faramir’s incredible lack of poise. Resolved, Faramir squared his shoulders, lifted his chin, and stepped forward.

Elrohir turned on silent feet and put a finger to his lips. Then he swung around again and knelt, bending toward the ground, so that Faramir was looking down at his curved back. Whatever the Elf was hunched over was down low by the bottom of the hedge. Faramir wondered what plant could possibly have attracted such concentrated attention. One that they did not have in Imladris perhaps, that deserved to be given a Sindarin name? Or one that was ailing, that Elven magic could heal?

“He blinked!” The exclamation was whispered but none the less enthusiastic for that. The twin turned his head to smile broadly at Faramir. “I love it when they blink their eyes. As if a rock had winked at you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Faramir replied, striving for a tone of blank civility. He feared he sounded more bewildered than polite.

Elrohir craned his neck to look up at him and point out, “You can’t see from that great height. I’ll move to the left because moving the other way’d cast a shadow, and you kneel down here.”

Faramir would never have guessed that the twin brother of the serene, dignified, altogether perfect Elf that he had just met would be the sort of person to pull schoolyard tricks. But the young man had dealt with bullies all his life, and he knew better than to follow a suggestion so obviously made in mockery. He lifted his chin slightly and prepared to go.

“Come down as quick as you like,” Elrohir said cheerfully, shuffling leftward on his knees. “It’s the shadows that are the problem, not the movement.”

Faramir knelt. He hadn’t meant to and he was still thoroughly confused, but now he was on the ground next to the Elf. Elrohir had an entirely different scent than his brother: cloves and spice. And the two braids in his hair were of another style – made with four strands, it looked like – though the beads that ended them were the same as Elladan’s. His face was identical: ageless and fair. Yet his smile as he returned Faramir’s stare was broad and bright. Sunny even. It would have been difficult just then to compare Elrohir to his twin by calling him either serene or dignified. But he was just as perfect.

“He’s over there, m’dear,” Elrohir said softly, and used one gentle hand to turn Faramir’s chin.

For a moment, the young man still didn’t understand who Elrohir had crouched down to see. And then Faramir spotted him: a tiny, brown, warty toad with perfectly rounded yellow and black eyes. He did indeed look like a rock, and as Faramir watched, he blinked, closing his slitted pupils for a fraction of a second before resuming his impassive stare.

“There!” Elrohir said, pleased. “He winked for you.”

“He is like a stone, he’s so still,” Faramir replied. “He looks as though he’s never moved from that spot.”

“He’d move quick enough if a shadow fell over him. That’s why you had to be careful how you approached him. Frogs are harder, but toads stay still unless you worry them.” Faramir had no ready response to this sage advice, but Elrohir seemed content without one. The young man was so occupied studying the Elf’s face that it was a long moment before he realized that he was being studied in return. As soon as he did, Elrohir grinned again and stood.

Faramir stood as well and began to think up ways to take his leave. He usually had one or two ready before he even began a conversation with a new acquaintance, but this particular acquaintance was far from usual. And he had no wish to repeat his stumbling retreat from the Elladan’s company.

“I think I should go find Twin,” Elrohir remarked. “We like to have a walk before bed.”

“I’ll bid you a good night then,” Faramir said, relieved.

“Good night!” Elrohir replied warmly and set off deeper into the garden. The young man himself walked at a rapid pace toward the gate, the Citadel, and his quiet room.

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