Faramir Fiction Archive

Chronicle of Scars: Cuts (R)

Written by Dernhelm

29 March 2004 | 29961 words

Chapter 1: Homecoming

It was strange to be home again. What had it been? Three, four years since he had last set foot in Minas Tirith?

Faramir had remained in the White City with Éowyn for almost two years after the war, spending most of that time in meetings, rebuilding what had been destroyed in the siege, ordering his troops to clean up the lingering remnants of the Shadow’s army. But once the house in the hills of Ithilien had been completed, and the prosperity of the lands on more stable footing, he and his wife had moved to Emyn Arnen, leaving the communication between King and Steward to be carried through couriers.

As Faramir strode through the main corridor of the Citadel, still clad in his worn riding clothes, he was struck equally by both the aching familiarity and the drastic changes that had undergone the castle he had grown up in.

All the old, rough tapestries of historic battles that had once lined the halls had been replaced by delicate weavings of arboreal scenes, testament to the Elven heritage of the Lady of the house. The shutters had been thrown open from the numerous windows that stood from floor to high ceiling, bathing the usually cold stones with warm July sun. Faramir could remember only a handful of times he had seen the corridor so bright; Denethor had preferred the security of locked windows and torchlight, even in the burning days of summer. The air seemed cleaner, purer, as if it had been swept free of the cobwebs of memory.

It was as if his family had never been there.

“Prince Faramir! You are earlier than we expected.” A melodious voice chimed from behind him.

He whirled, surprised at being caught so off guard on what should have been his home ground. He had not even heard the approach, but then again, the elves were legendary for their light step.

“Your Highness,” Faramir dropped to one knee and took the milky hand Arwen Evenstar offered him, pressing his lips briefly to the back of her hand, “I hope I have not disturbed you by arriving so soon after receiving your summons.”

The Queen was amused, both at having startled Faramir so easily, and at how quickly he fell upon protocol to stifle his embarrassment. She gently urged him to stand with the hand he clasped, wishing to put the formality aside. Faramir fluidly rose to his feet, and she embraced him lightly, like a warm breeze, kissing his cheek with friendly lips.

“Of course not, dear Faramir. You are always welcome in your own home.” She fought the very un-royal laugh that bubbled in her throat as she felt the warm rush of blood that tinted his face.

Faramir was unsure how to react, so unused to this level of assumed familiarity with his Queen. He had even addressed his father with honorifics more often than not, and hardly a touch beyond a handclasp had passed between them once Faramir had come of age.

“Thank you, my Lady.”

Arwen noticed the distance in Faramir’s eyes, and gracefully withdrew, making the motion seem natural. She had not meant to make him feel so uncomfortable.

“King Elessar has been trapped in his library all morning, wasting this precious summer day with dusty scrolls and books,” she spoke before the silence between them grew truly obvious, “I’m sure your arrival would be reason enough for him to leave his chores for at least a little while.” She linked her willowy arm through his, leading him toward the library.

“I do not wish to disturb the King at his work.” Faramir was starting to wish he had waited a few days before leaving for the White City. When the summon had arrived by courier, he had not even finished reading the note before he had begun to pack his bags. For four weeks he had been drifting aimlessly around his house, unable to do more than what was barely required of him. Every time his mind began to focus on a chosen task, a tiny detail would catch his eye, and carve another chink the armor he had so carefully built: the empty place at the table, the leather-bound book of Rohirrim songs she had given him for his last birthday, the vase of field flowers long since wilted into dry and molding leaves… he could not escape Éowyn as long as he dwelt in Emyn Arnen. It was in those little moments of realization that he missed her the most, and each day seemed to be made up of a thousand of those instants. It had been their house, a place in which they had intended to live out the rest of their days together.

At least in the White City there would be little to remind him of his lost wife.

At least the ghosts here were familiar.

“I am sorry the Lady Éowyn couldn’t join you on your visit.” Arwen’s voice was even, so casual she might have been speaking of the weather, “I had been hoping to show her the new weavings I have finished.”

Faramir’s heart twisted, and he sought to find the deeper connotation of her lament. Elven folk were cunning at masking the true meaning behind their words. But how could she have known? He had not made the knowledge public, choosing instead light excuses to divert the inquiries as to his wife’s whereabouts. And though his answers usually seemed to bring more questions, the stern look in his steely eyes was always enough to dissuade further interrogation. But here with his Queen, he felt as if his thoughts had been plucked from his mind like ripe fruit off a tree.

“I am as well, she would have been glad to return to the White City. But it is long since she had visited her homeland and her brother, and I do not begrudge her this long-needed reunion with Rohan.” Faramir had practiced this lie, and had told it so many times he was almost beginning to believe it himself.

“I am sure she will return soon, good prince. How could she stay away from such a handsome husband for long?”

Arwen had meant the words in jest, an effort to bring a smile to the Steward’s grim lips. But she realized too late that she had tread across a hidden tripwire as the color drained completely from Faramir’s already pale face. It was only a moment, a fraction of a second of naked revelation, before Faramir threw up the walls of defense against this unexpected assault on his already bruised pride. But not before Arwen saw the true depth of his pain etched across his face.

It was only then that the Queen truly realized why Éowyn had not accompanied her husband, and Arwen felt like a fool for not seeing it sooner. Salt in a wound.

Éowyn had left Faramir.

“Yes, my Lady. She will return soon.” He managed a polite smile, pretending his troubled demeanor was nothing more than the agitation of a man too long separated from his love, yet anxious for their imminent return. Not the deep grieving of an abandoned husband.

They walked in silence for the last few steps to the King’s library, Arwen’s smooth face not betraying her guilt at having hurt Faramir so needlessly with her careless banter, Faramir’s stoic countenance hiding his misery and shame at being so quickly reminded of what he sought to escape. Perhaps he shouldn’t have come after all.

The High King Elessar groaned as he slammed another tome onto the growing pile of books on his desk, a flurry of dust sparkling in the sunlight that filtered through the open windows. A gentle breeze scattered the little cloud, and Aragorn could not help but stop and savor the fragrant wind as it wafted from the garden below, the lilting perfume of the summer flowers distracting him momentarily.

Until a mighty sneeze tore through him, breaking his tranquil moment as the dust reminded him of why he had disturbed it from its rest. Grumbling, he began carefully leafing through the yellowed pages, hunting fruitlessly for the single sentence that he had been searching for all morning.

He hated library work. He disliked all paperwork for that matter, but sifting through miles of parchment for one very specific passage was quite maddening. Especially on such a fine day, when he could hear the seductive whisper of the trees on the voice of the wind, the sun begging to kiss his face with her warm lips…

A familiar knock rapped softly at the door as it opened, more of an announcement than a request. Glad for the distraction, he rose from his chair to greet his beloved as she glided into the library, her eyes sparkling bright. His loving smile transformed into an almost boyish grin as his Steward followed her through the narrow door, looking a little fatigued from the journey.

“Prince Faramir! What an unexpected pleasure!” Aragorn did not mask his joy at seeing his friend again, and before Faramir could fall to his knee as Aragorn knew he would, the King had wrapped him in a tight hug. He was in no mood for formalities this day. “I had not expected to see you for another week.”

Faramir hid his shock well as he tentatively returned the embrace. Such affectionate people! Maybe it was their elven upbringing, although he was hard pressed to see the aloof race as much for physical displays of friendship. Denethor would have been beside himself to see a Steward greet his King in such a fashion. Yes, things were different now in Gondor.

“Thank you, King Elessar, I hope my early arrival does not cause any undue distress.” Faramir bowed his head as he pulled away from the hug. He had to do something to properly acknowledge his King.

Aragorn laughed. “Distress? No, quite the contrary, my friend, you have arrived just in time! I was about to die of boredom locked in here.” Aragorn glanced behind Faramir, suddenly realizing that only one person had followed Arwen into the room.

“Where is—” Aragorn caught a sharp glance from his wife, a slight shake of the head so subtle that only he could notice it, “—my sense of hospitality? You must be tired from your journey.” Aragorn placed a hand on Faramir’s shoulder and gently steered him to the large chairs by the picture window, throwing a puzzled look at Arwen.

She replied with a tell-tale look, the promise of an explanation later on if he followed her lead now.

“Dinner is still a few hours away, I’m afraid, but I will have the kitchens prepare a light luncheon for you, Faramir.” She looked to the tower of books on the king’s desk, “I will have them prepare a meal for you as well, Elessar, for I doubt you have eaten anything yourself this day.”

“Thank you, my beloved,” he replied gratefully in her native tongue, catching on quickly to the need for discretion around his guest. If even the mention of Éowyn was discouraged, he was sure open endearments to his own wife would not go over well.

Aragorn need not have worried, for Faramir had gravitated almost instinctively to the books littering the King’s desk, and was already engrossed on the passage Aragorn had left open as Arwen left to secure their meal.

“Are you familiar with this volume?” Aragorn joined Faramir at the table, clearing a corner large enough for him to half-seat himself on, one leg holding his weight, the other dangling over the edge as he peered over his Steward’s shoulder.

Faramir closed his eyes as he ran his finger over a line of script in the middle of the large page. “In Lindon south of the Lune dwelt Gil-Galad, last heir of kings of the Noldor in exile…” He opened his eyes, and smiled for the first time in weeks.

Yes, he was home.

Aragorn was thoroughly impressed. “I take it that you are then?”

Faramir turned to the King, his smile turning sheepish. “I used to spend most of my free time in this library, reading and rereading these books. They are like old friends to me,” he looked around at the expansive shelves, lovingly gazing upon the rows and rows of bound leather and paper, the steel in his eyes diminishing momentarily.

Aragorn was taken by the sudden change in his Steward, the hard edges of his features softening. Faramir’s open fondness for the library touched Aragorn as much as it confounded him. Although he did find pleasure in reading, he had never really considered himself a man of letters.

“Then perhaps you can help me, Faramir. I’ve been trying to find a specific passage, no more than a few words…”

Within two minutes, Faramir had located the proper book, a little paperbound bundle no bigger than his hand, and unearthed the passage with a few quick turns of the pages, a look of modest triumph on his face.

Aragorn threw up his hands. “You are amazing! You have found for me in seconds what I have been searching for all morning!” He clapped Faramir on the shoulder, and was surprised as he felt the younger man stiffen at the sudden touch.

Faramir did not realize he had flinched until the hand had been removed, a look of apology crossing the King’s face. Faramir immediately felt foolish for being so uptight, for demonstrating his unease so openly. They locked eyes briefly, both searching for the proper words to break the awkward moment, and ice stabbed Aragorn’s heart as he felt himself sucked into the storm clouds that roiled in Faramir’s eyes.

For that one brief second Faramir’s suffering was laid bare for Aragorn to see, the deep, aching loss that had stripped him of even the hope of joy. Then Faramir blinked, and it was as if a curtain of iron had descended under the nearly translucent flesh of his eyelids, locking away the pain he so carefully guarded.

“My Lords?” A meek voice broke the silence, “your luncheon awaits you in the gardens.” A dark-haired slip of a boy, barely old enough to have begun his service to the House, stood in the open doorway, his head bowed low as he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

“Thank you, lad,” Aragorn nodded to the red-faced page, who scurried away like a frightened mouse as Aragorn then turned to Faramir. “Come, my prince, you must be famished.” The King’s smooth voice did not betray his concern for what he had witnessed in his friend’s eyes, the sucking void that had filled Aragorn with dread even after he had pulled his gaze away.

Carefully placing a scrap of paper to mark the page he’d found, Faramir left the little book with it’s brothers on Elessar’s desk as he followed the King out of the library.

They walked side by side down the corridor as they made their way to the gardens, and Faramir licked his lips, searching for words to break the pregnant silence.

“Did my King summon me back to the White City so that I may serve as his librarian?” he let a small smile play on his lips, hoping his attempt at a joke did not sound too forced.

To Faramir’s relief, Aragorn returned the smile easily, eager to put the disturbing revelation behind him for the time being.

“That was not my original intent. But since you have proved yourself to be a natural bibliomancer, I may exploit your skills further while you are here,” Aragorn chuckled. “I sent for you for two reasons. First, there are some new documents that I would like your assistance in drafting.”

“Are they of a sensitive nature, my Lord?” Faramir was puzzled.

“Not particularly.” Aragorn shook his head, sending the tips of his dark hair dancing across the finely brocaded surface of his chest. Faramir was suddenly struck by how much longer his King’s hair had become, further evidence of the changes of the years.

“Then, if I may ask, why did you not want to handle this by courier as we have always done in these matters?”

“That brings me to the second reason,” Aragorn met Faramir’s eyes as they turned the corner, “I wished for your company.”

Aragorn was surprised by the look of disbelief that flickered over his Steward’s face, the full lips parting and then closing again as Faramir searched futilely for the proper words. Misinterpreting the root of Faramir’s shock as displeasure, Aragorn suddenly felt a little embarrassed for masking leisure as business to lure Faramir to Minas Tirith.

“I apologize if my invitation came at a bad time,” Aragorn spoke hastily, hoping his disappointment was not evident in his voice, “if I had known that you preferred not to return to conduct—”

“No!” Faramir yelped, finding his voice at hearing his King’s veiled hurt, “not at all, my Lord, there is no need for apologies.” Faramir’s words tumbled over each other like sand in a wave, “I, I just did not expect the High King Elessar to…” Faramir trailed off as he searched for the proper way of phrasing his thoughts, risking a glance at Aragorn.

“Get lonely sometimes?” Aragorn confessed, throwing a rueful look at Faramir. “Aye, my good prince, Kings are not made of stone as history would have us believe.”

Aragorn stopped momentarily at an open window, admiring the breathtaking view of the White City as it spilled in tiers from the Citadel to the sparkling Anduin far below.

“My friends are few and far between these days, Faramir. It has been long since I’ve had any visitors, and I realized how long it has been since you have had a proper homecoming.”

“Thank you, my Lord. It is indeed good to be back,” Faramir replied.

The summer wind ruffled the King’s hair, sending stray tendrils fluttering like leaves around his finely chiseled face. His back was held straight and proud, and he looked every inch the King, the fine fabrics paling in light of the majesty he cloaked himself in.

“We all get a little homesick sometimes.” Aragorn whispered, suddenly a thousand miles away as the light caught the snowy peaks of the mountains beyond, dazzling him with their splendor.

In that moment Faramir could also see the man beneath the crown, the longing in his eyes as they roved to those glittering points, sought what lay on the other side of them. An untamed light shone from the deep blue, reminding Faramir that the King had spent most of his life in the wild, surviving by his means alone. He knew Elessar had willingly exchanged his throne of earth and root for one of stone and blood, but Faramir could see that part of the King still longed for the freedom of the uncivilized lands he had left behind.

“I am honored, my King, that you would look to me for company,” Faramir said softly, not wanting to disturb the feral beauty that shone from Elessar, “although I do not see myself as such an amusing fellow to be sent for specifically.”

“It is not amusement I seek, Faramir,” Aragorn turned to the prince, suddenly feeling very aware of himself, surprised by his own candor. Had he really become so hungry for the friendship of another?

Faramir bit the tip of his tongue and turned away, hiding the blush that had vengefully returned, not wanting his body to betray his confusing reaction. How could his King make him feel this way just by looking at him?

“Elessar? Are you deliberately trying to starve our guest?” Arwen’s smooth face held a look of mock annoyance, as she joined the men at the window, enjoying their surprise at her silent arrival. It was too easy for her to tread unheard on floors of wood and stone. And from the blush of Faramir’s face, which was becoming an endearing trademark of his, she recognized that she had arrived just in time. As always.

She slid one arm through Faramir’s again, and invited her husband to take the other. Linked thus, Arwen led them to the lush gardens as she led the light conversation, leaving the smoldering tension between the men to wash away on the temperate winds that wafted through the hall.

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