Faramir Fiction Archive

Foolish Games

Written by Foofy

29 November 2004 | 7668 words

Title: Foolish Games
Author: Foofy (niceandfluffy@hotmail.com)
Rating: R
Pairing: Denethor/Imrahil, Faramir/Imrahil, hints of Faramir/Éowyn
Summary: Banished from Minas Tirith by his old love, Imrahil returns to discover that Faramir is more his father's son than he could have ever believed possible.
Warnings: Angst. So wet that if you squeezed it you could fill up a good sized lake. Sorry

Original cookie: X in love with Y, but is forced to leave. X returns after so many years to find Y passed on but son (Z) in his place. conflicting emotions as X falls in love with Z.
Bonus: Z is aware of previous X/Y relationship, but innocent of X's present feelings.

---

So Denethor was dead. Imrahil had always suspected the man would have an early demise, having never seemed the type to simply allow Death to come to him in sleep or peacefully at home. Denethor was always going to be one who fought kicking and screaming until the last moment, a trait that Imrahil understood the elder son had also managed to develop during these last years.

Imrahil had wandered around the streets of Minas Tirith in something of a daze. The city was busy; the buzz of people working filled the air. There were the occasional shouts from soldiers trying to organize things but much of the city managed to sort itself out, regardless of how neatly. For that was the benefit of Minas Tirith; you could try to destroy its walls, its structure, and the people simply came back, rebuilding, the spirit that made Gondor great never failing. You could take the people from the city, it was said, but not the spirit of the city from the people.

Despite this, the Shadow had managed to make a large dent in the city, and indeed even managed to sway the people. So many men failed to return from the battles for Middle Earth. Many widows were still in the numb state of shock that often followed such things, simply continuing their routine and trying to put to the back of their mind that their beloved was never returning from the mission he had so bravely left to fight in. Imrahil walked through the streets that were now both familiar and strange to him, occasionally nodding a greeting to those who called.

This was the street that Imrahil always remembered whenever he came to Minas Tirith, although he had not done so in so long that he was surprised how much it had been etched on his memory. His sister had commented about the craftsmanship of the roads that never seemed to require repair, although that was presumably down to the skill and watchful eye of whoever's job it was to ensure this. It was this street that he had hurried through so many years ago to catch hold of the Steward before he had left for a trip Edoras, and here was the corner where a most fiercesome battle had been fought in words, watched with wide eyes by Denethor's eldest boy who was trying not to cringe near the wall. Denethor seldom bothered to raise his voice but when he did it normally meant something horrific was likely to come.

Here was the stone bench that they often met up at after dark when Finduilas had retired to bed and the nurse was seeing to the welfare of the new baby Faramir. Here were the gardens they often walked round talking of politics and history and quite often nothing of importance at all, finding relief from the pressures of work from each other's company. Imrahil knew that his sister had never quite understood the man she had married, but through the close friendship of her brother and her husband she coped well, always having someone to translate for her Denethor's dark moods and curt answers that never tended to be related to anything that she had done. These harsh words were soon saved for Imrahil, allowing Denethor's wife to relax and simply bring up their two children to the best of her ability.

"Why do you curse so much?" Imrahil had once asked him idly after yet another night of growling. Denethor had laughed.

"Because it is a suitable outlet, my dear Imrahil. You wish, perhaps, for me to take it out on the hordes of the Haradrim personally?"

"But surely-"

"You wish for me to change? Ah! But how bored would you get without it?" Denethor had raised an eyebrow and smiled pleasantly. "We both know you like a challenge,"

And their relationship was a challenge indeed. For they could not call it anything but a relationship. After several years Finduilas was fast becoming more and more withdrawn into herself, and it was more often than not that Imrahil was requested to visit Minas Tirith to see his sister and subsequently, to visit his brother in law. He knew that Denethor was deathly worried about her, but in true style of the steward could never voice this to her with any success. Her brother was the only one to whom Denethor could pour his heart out to.

"But why? Could you not just spend more time with her?" Imrahil had asked one time.

"I do! And she hates me for it." Denethor growled, sitting on the stone bench in despair. "No, she is always tense and unhappy whenever I enter the nursery where she spends her days. Young Faramir takes up a lot of her time."

"Is the boy ill?"

"No. The boy is simply mollycoddled," replied Denethor shortly. "He is not as strong as his brother, it is true, but this does not mean he needs his mother's presence all day."

"I'll have a word," promised the prince.

But the words had done nothing. Finduilas' depression increased until even the children looked waned and anxious. Boromir spent much of his time with his father, his natural cheerfulness managing to overcome the tension in the household. Faramir was a different matter. More than once Imrahil had seen the young boy stare at his mother with solemn eyes as though understanding the difficulties of the situation he found himself.

As Finduilas withdrew further inside herself, she rejected her husband more and more. Imrahil remembered the day that Denethor confessed that they no longer slept in the same room, and had not been for a while. The man had looked more and more haggard as the days went on.

"I suppose you are seeing one of the maids in the citadel?" hazarded Imrahil.

He would never forget the look of surprise on Denethor's face at this.

"Of course not. I have come to accept that I cannot assist my wife in her melancholy, but I certainly can stop any rumour that might start. She is my wife. I am her husband. I will not sleep with any lady but her."

"And what about men?" Imrahil had been unable to resist the query.

There had been a cautious look across Denethor's face which was unusual in itself. The steward often had a gift of hiding what he was feeling whilst knowing exactly what everyone else felt. The prince could see Denethor knew exactly what Imrahil was speaking of.

However:

"I do not understand." Oh, but he did, he did. It was only too clear in his eyes.

"You have natural urges, Denethor," pressed Imrahil gently.

"I am not some beast in a field, Imrahil. I do have the ability to control myself." Denethor's voice was a growl. "If you are suggesting that I should seek out some common soldier-"

"I was not thinking of a common soldier,"

There had been a long pause over this. He had nodded to the Steward, having had the opportunity of seeing what many would never seen. A completely speechless Denethor.

"I'll let you consider it." Imrahil said softly and had left him.

It had taken a week for Denethor to consider it, a week before his frustrations had managed to get the better of him. He was not gracious in his defeat either. Imrahil had considered how wise this move actually was, but Denethor's poor humour swiftly evaporated after a fortnight. The whole of Gondor noticed. Suddenly Boromir was often found playing in the throne room watched indulgently by his father. Little Faramir, just over two years old and as cute as a button, smiled at his father whenever he was in the room, more often than not his hair being ruffled affectionately.

Only Finduilas seemed completely detached from her husband's happiness, despite all his best efforts. She smiled vacantly at him whenever he spoke to her, he spent time in her chambers and tried to please her as best he could. However the smile was strained, forlorn. There seemed to be nothing in her eyes. Denethor had reported that it was like seeing a wild animal die slowly in despair whilst cooped up in a cage. He had suggested that Imrahil take her back home for a while to recover, but they both had known this would not work. Finduilas was tied to Gondor through her children as much as she was tied to Dol Amroth as her home.

"I just don't know what to do!" Denethor had exploded one night after a long lovemaking session. This had made Imrahil pause. The times that Denethor had confessed to not knowing what to do were few and far between.

"Neither do I," he had sighed back.

"Imrahil, she is dying in front of me and I do not know how to stop it! She is not ailed in the body that is certain. I had hoped that Faramir might give her the chance to break through, but," Denethor shook his head slowly. "What it must feel like, slowly slipping away without feeling that you would be missed? How can I convince her?"

Imrahil had nothing to say. Everything had been tried. Everything had been suggested. Even young Boromir, old enough to work out his mother's distress, had had no luck in trying to get her interest. It was as though her willpower had long since departed.

Her body had finally succumbed to her mind's position not long afterwards. The nurse had found her, still sitting in her chair overlooking the plains, her skin as cold as marble, her eyes unseeing. Imrahil had seen a part of Denethor die as he looked at the sad empty shell of his wife before Imrahil had managed to steer him away.

"I will tell the children," he had soothed. Denethor shook his head angrily.

"No. It is my duty to inform them. She is dead. Nothing we can do now will assist this in any way,"

Imrahil had caught hold of his arm before he stalked off. "Denethor, they are only little. They have lost their mother. You must-"

"You dare to tell me how I should handle my own children?" Denethor spun around on him, his eyes furious. Imrahil shook his head.

"Of course not, but you must see how young they are. I doubt whether Faramir will even comprehend what has happened."

The children had reacted as Imrahil had feared. The normally boisterous Boromir had gone as quiet as a mouse, his eyes filling with tears before clutching hold of Faramir's hand. Faramir had looked at his father in that curiously solemn way the child had.

"When will she be back?" he had asked. Imrahil could see the struggle in the young boy's eyes as he tried to understand.

"She's not coming back. She's dead." Boromir had answered his brother shakily, tears still running down his face. "They never come back when they're dead."

"Never?" Faramir stared at his brother and stopped. The boy might not understand the full implications of death but he could certainly understand the sheer unhappiness of his elder brother. Denethor had turned away as the boys had hugged each other for support, Faramir's tears almost silent in the room.

"See to them," the steward had ordered their nurse curtly, who nodded her understanding. Her face was still white, her hands trembling. Imrahil had stayed long enough to watch her try to comfort the two boys before he too had to leave.

"I don't want to see you again," Denethor had spoken as they marched up the corridors, Imrahil hurrying to catch him up. Imrahil had stopped, shocked.

"What?"

"I don't want to see you again. Go back to Dol Amroth," There was a harshness that Imrahil had never heard from him before, not even through the worst of their arguments. He remembered how he had stood there, disbelieving. Denethor had not even bothered to turn round as he marched into the throne room and slammed the door, the noise echoing through the corridor as though the final note of a funeral song.

And now, after so very long, Imrahil was back in the city he had been banished from. Denethor was dead. His nephew Boromir was also dead, killed in battle by Uruk-Hai arrows. The new king had recounted Boromir's passing softly to him as they returned from the Black Gates, the king's eyes filling with sorrow as though personally grieved rather than losing a comrade. But Boromir, at least, had fallen whilst fighting to his last breath. Denethor had succumbed to his own mind. In his own way, he had found peace with his wife who had died so many years ago.

The last of his bloodline lay in the Houses of Healing. Faramir, Captain of the Ithilien rangers and now Steward of Gondor, was at least doing well according to the healers, despite his best efforts to the contrary.

"He keeps attempting to help rather than rest. He keeps this up he will kill himself for Gondor," sighed Aragorn. Imrahil had been silent. It was hardly surprising that the youngest might follow his family to a similar death.

"Can I see him?"

"I don't see why not. He is a little too aware of his surroundings, getting a little too bored. Éowyn of the Riddermark keeps him company as she is in a similar position herself, but there is only so much we can do to keep the pair of them amused whilst trapped inside. Not whilst the city attempts to repair itself around them," Aragorn paused. "If he tries to get you to help him out, ignore him. Faramir can be very cunning when he puts his mind to it, and even more so to keeping this hidden."

So Imrahil had gone to the Houses of Healing in order to assist Denethor's bloodline once again. He told himself he was doing this out of the best possible motives.

He was wrong.

Faramir was asleep. A blanket draped itself over his lower half, the upper half being mostly bare but covered with bandages. Imrahil could see the outline of the boy's ribs clearly, his breathing thankfully low and even. But it was his face that completely baffled the warrior; not so much Denethor as Finduilas shone back at him, the more delicate lines of his face making Faramir look so much more like Imrahil's own line of the family. The golden blonde hair of his youth had darkened slightly to a golden red colour, waving to his collar bone. A fine cover of golden stubble surrounded his jaw.

After a few moments watching the man Imrahil would always consider to be a boy regardless of said boy's age, he was aware that he was also being surveyed. He glanced round. A young woman stared steadily back at him, her eyes watchful.

"May I help you?" he asked politely.

"I was about to ask the same thing," she replied in a soft low voice. "I fear I do not recognize you, my lord."

"My apologises," Imrahil stepped away from Faramir's bed as to not disturb him. "My name is Imrahil, prince of Dol Amroth. And whom do I have the pleasure of addressing, my lady?"

"I am Éowyn of the Riddermark,"

"Ah yes, I have heard about you," Ah, so this was the young lady of whom the king spoke. She had fought alongside Imrahil, although he had not known it at the time. He watched as her eyes flickered towards Faramir protectively, as though a lioness protecting her cub, then falling back on him in curiosity as he continued to speak. "I know you fought bravely on the fields of Pelennor,"

"I did my best for my country," There was the warinessness again, as though not entirely expecting approval.

"I understand that you now do a fine job in ensuring my nephew does not injure himself further,"

He found amusement in the way her eyes flickered interest at this news.

"You are Faramir's uncle?" she queried. He could see the way her eyes flickered over his own features, seeking resemblances.

"I am indeed, although I fear I have not really seen much of him since he was but three years old." Imrahil glanced at the patient in the bed, and looked back with a smile on his face. "He also managed to get women to look after him then too,"

"Ignore him," came a dry slow voice from the bed. Faramir shifted slightly, and looked lazily towards them. "He's only jealous,"

The steward of Gondor yawned widely and sleepily and adjusted his position once again, trying to sit up more. Éowyn tutted and made her way towards the bed.

"You keep knocking that blanket off and you're going to freeze to death," she gave him a warm smile that Imrahil noticed with interest, and all but tucked him in like a nurse with a small child. There was a slightly sulky look that crossed Faramir's face at all this womanly fussing, but thankfully he was wise enough to know when to keep his mouth shut. The best commanders always knew which battles they were likely to win.

Curious blue-green eyes surveyed Imrahil, who stepped forward a little more. There was a moments pause as they both inspected each other.

"So you're my uncle Imrahil?" Faramir's voice was less croaky now that he had woken further. "I have heard a lot about you. I would have visited but .," the new steward shrugged lightly.

"Let me guess. Your father banned you from doing so?"

There was a look in Faramir's eyes that confirmed Imrahil's suspicions. The prince sighed heavily, and shook his head.

"Your father is a most unforgiving man,"

"He was, certainly," Faramir's eyes were sharp on him. "As, no doubt you are aware, he is dead." A rueful smile graced Faramir's features briefly. "I remember you from years ago. You were stood dressed in a fine uniform behind my father when he told my brother and I that our mother had died. That was another reason why I did not seek you out."

"You were very young at the time. I am surprised you remember," Imrahil raised an eyebrow. Faramir looked back at him steadily.

"I have dreams," he said quietly.

Imrahil paused. Denethor had often confided with him about his own dreams, those which were often harrowing, showing things that the Steward often wished to forget. Imrahil had not wanted to think how many nightmares his lover would have suffered since the death of his wife. Nightmares that he would have faced alone in the cold emptiness of his chambers. And now it seemed that Faramir had managed to inherit such a skill, if it could be called that.

He was faintly aware that Éowyn had settled herself outside the immediate area, not wishing to interrupt.

"I would have come to see you and your brother after my sister died," said Imrahil quietly. "But your father was quite clear that he did not want to see me ever again,"

"My father did have his moments." There was a look in the young man's eyes that spoke exactly how many of these moments Faramir had seen throughout his childhood. Imrahil shivered to himself. It was almost as though a hint of grey managed to sweep into Faramir's mostly blue eyes, a sternness that reflected his father's blood that flowed through his veins.

Imrahil took a few further steps towards the head of the bed, and brushed his hand lightly over the thick bandage.

"When have they said that you will be able to leave?" he asked.

"Any day now,"

"Two weeks. At least," came Éowyn's contribution from the corner. Faramir rolled his eyes and smiled ruefully at his uncle. Women eh? Imrahil smiled back and allowed his hand to move to gently smooth away some of the hair that fell onto Faramir's face. The steward watched him thoughtfully, not objecting to the touch that spoke of familiarity.

"I know you do not have many of your family left, Faramir," Imrahil said in a low voice. "I would like to help you, if I could. I have always regretting not being there as you grew up,"

Faramir's eyes were on him thoughtfully for a long while in such a way that it was as though being back with Denethor. The previous steward of Gondor had a way of staring through you and stealing your thoughts, knowing your hearts desire. The steady gaze of Faramir was so similar, although mixed with that same solemn aspect as he had when he was just a little boy.

"I thank you for your concern, uncle. But do not feel encumbered simply because we are related. Despite what it might look at the moment, I am more than able to look after myself,"

"Don't be stubborn, Faramir," scolded Éowyn from her corner. " You said yourself you needed some feeling of family surrounding you,"

Faramir's eyes flickered towards her, then were back on his uncle. "Do not feel that you need to do this through some sort of debt to my father," he added softly. "I understand you two were .. close,"

There was only the shortest of pauses between the words but Imrahil heard it immediately. He stared at the boy in faint horror. Dear Valar, what had Denethor been saying?

His distress was obviously clear as Faramir straightened slightly, his eyes reflecting his concern. "I am sorry. I did not mean to remind you of past times," his apology was shaky but heartfelt. Imrahil shook his head.

"It is okay, Faramir. I didn't realize your father had spoken much about me to you,"

"He hadn't. My brother informed me," Faramir shrugged lightly again.

Imrahil nodded slowly. "If you are willing, I will come back tomorrow and see how you are doing?"

There was a strange look in Faramir's eyes, but this managed to vanish in an instant. Faramir nodded.

"If you wish, Prince Imrahil. I would be happy to see you,"

The next week Imrahil spent a great deal of time by Faramir's bedside. Having been present at many of the city meetings, he was able to keep the steward up to date with the political standpoints at meetings, and be able to speculate with him to the best conclusion and solutions. Faramir often had a list of queries he wished to be answer, and it was more often than not that Imrahil would introduce the steward's comments in the council meetings that he attended.

Aragorn's visits to the patient grew more and more for pleasure rather than business. Éowyn often spoke with them as they discussed the situations, and Imrahil was more than impressed by her tight understanding of the political running of a large city. Faramir grew from strength to strength, and caused less difficulties to the healers who had once despaired that they might have to tie the young steward to his bed in order to keep him there.

However, this did not mean that Faramir's impatience had disappeared entirely. Imrahil had entered his room just in time to see the last bootlace being tied. He frowned.

"Faramir. Where are you going?"

The steward glanced towards him idly, his lack of reaction showing clearly that the man had already known Imrahil stood there. Faramir shook his head.

"I cannot stay here any longer. I am going insane with boredom."

"Thanks," Imrahil's voice was dry.

"You know I did not mean it in that way," replied Faramir sternly. "I am grateful for all you and Éowyn have done to keep me entertained and busy, but I cannot justify just sitting here when my city needs me."

"Your city needs you more alive than half dead, boy," Imrahil took another few steps into the room, his eyes steady on the steward. There was a flash of annoyance that crossed Faramir's face at the word. Obviously someone had used it often.

"I am perfectly fine and it has been many years since I was a boy," Faramir picked up his bag and made towards the door. Imrahil stepped in his way. Now the flash of annoyance was a permanent fixture. Faramir stared steadily towards him, his eyes narrowed, challenge in his posture. "With the greatest respect sir, get out of my way,"

"I will not." Imrahil folded his arms.

"Blast you, move!" snapped Faramir, his voice almost reaching the cold steel of Denethor's. "I have no time for this."

And Imrahil knew why. Éowyn was soon to visit, as was Aragorn. Should either of them reach the houses of Healing before Faramir had made good his escape his boredom would be the least of his problems. The king had already expressed his opinion of the matter and the shield maiden was like a mother lion, with claws to match.

"If you wish me to move," he said. "you will have to make me. For I will not allow you to leave,"

Faramir stared at him incredulously. "You take liberties, Imrahil," his voice was full of warning.

"So I hear. But I will still not move,"

The prince of Dol Amroth waited for the steward's next action. There was nothing to show on Faramir's face, no indication of what he might do. It was as though looking on an empty slate. The prince opened his mouth to speak again when Faramir struck, pushing him sideways. Imrahil stumbled and righted himself, slightly taken aback that the young steward had followed through with his threat. He grabbed hold of Faramir's arm swiftly, yanking him back and praying he wasn't making the wounds any worse.

However, Faramir had other ideas. Having expected something similar, he had already prepared his strength to pull away from his uncle's grip, knowing that his current injuries would stop Imrahil from taking it further. Faramir's arm slipped away from Imrahil's grasp.

This proved not to be a problem. As Faramir made his exit he ran directly into the King who had been entering the houses of healing. Aragorn stared at him in some surprise, his eyes falling to the obviously outdoors clothing that Faramir was dressed in. His eyes came back to him in a mild question. Faramir looked sheepish.

"I was going to the gardens. I fancied some fresh air,"

Aragorn said nothing, simply looked at him. Faramir straightened his back. Imrahil approached from behind him cautiously, Aragorn noticing the brief flicker of guilt that crossed his steward's face at the man's approach.

"Imrahil. Apparently Faramir was off to the gardens. In some hurry I notice." Aragorn spoke lightly.

Imrahil paused, taking in the set position of the younger man in front of him. Obviously Faramir fully expected to be in serious trouble.

"Yes. I believe he was feeling a little ill and thought the fresh air would do him good," the prince said after a pause. The king raised an eyebrow, and looked back at Faramir who did indeed had a slight green tinge to him.

"Is this true?"

"Yes," Faramir was unable to look at Aragorn in the eye. The king made a thoughtful noise and nodded.

"Then I shall not stand in your way, my steward. My apologises. I hope you feel better soon," Aragorn's eyes told of a different belief, but his words were pleasant enough. Faramir nodded and escaped through the door, feeling almost as ill as Imrahil had claimed for him. As the steward left, the king's eyes rested back on Imrahil thoughtfully.

"He was attempting to leave, I assume?"

"He was."

Aragorn sighed. "Occasionally it would be nice to have a little less dedication from my steward. I might point out to him that there is hardly another who would be able to step into his position should he have a self-inflicted accident."

"His father was similarly determined."

"Yes, Gandalf has said much the same," Aragorn glanced at the door, and shook his head. "Can I leave him in your capable hands? If he tries anything else, do not worry about restraining him. He will obey orders whether he likes it or not."

"I'm hoping it will not come to that," there was a faint smile on Imrahil's face. Aragorn nodded contemplatively.

"As do I. Faramir is certainly no push-over when it comes to getting what he wants. If you have any problems do not hesitate in calling for my assistance." Aragorn paused, then nodded again. "Good day to you, Imrahil,"

"Good day, sire," Imrahil watched the king leave and sighed to himself. It took him only a few minutes to walk to the gardens, where he was slightly surprised to see that Faramir was actually still present. As was an impressive frown. The steward paced a few more times before finally approaching Imrahil himself.

"You do not need to lie on my behalf, uncle. There was no need to bring any dishonour onto yourself," his words were fast and determined. Imrahil held up a hand to stem the flow of words. Faramir stopped speaking, although his pacing began again.

"It was my decision to do so. I don't get forced into things I do not wish to do."

"And yet I do. Still I do! Why am I stuck here like a prisoner? It is not fair!" Faramir exploded. Imrahil watched him patiently for a while before catching hold of Faramir's shoulder, bringing his pacing to a halt.

"It may not be fair but it is the right thing to do. And please stop moving around like that. You are making me dizzy," Imrahil patted his nephew's shoulder encouragingly and then released him. "You are the steward of Gondor. Aragorn wants nothing more than for you to be fit and healthy again. He holds back the official coronation so that you can attend and fulfill your traditions, as well you know,"

There was a stubborn look that crossed Faramir's face. "He does that to ensure that Minas Tirith is in a suitable position to accept a king. For the people to have a point where it is seen that everything gets better. It is not I who-"

"Oh, shut up." Imrahil snapped. Faramir looked at him in shock.

"What?"

"Shut up. You have people who care about you and how you're doing, and all you can do is complain it's not fast enough! For the Valar's sake, Faramir, calm down, heal properly and reclaim your position as the Steward of Gondor, not some spoilt brat!"

Faramir simply stared at him, shocked. Finally he shook his head, running his hand through his hair, confused and guilty eyes looking back at his uncle.

"I'm sorry. I did not mean any offence. I just .. I wish to help, that is all," Faramir appealed to him. Imrahil sighed and pulled the younger man towards him, hugging him. He could feel the man stiffen in shock and surprise, then slowly begin to relax as Imrahil pressed a kiss onto his head.

"You can help by getting yourself better, you young fool," he said affectionately. Although Faramir had relaxed a little more, he could still feel some rigidity within his muscles, as though the hug was unfamiliar. Imrahil frowned and released him. "Don't you embrace here?" he felt awkward himself.

The steward looked back at him uncomfortably. "Well. It is not uncommon, although only my brother used to embrace me in that fashion."

Imrahil looked confused. "Not your father?"

Faramir avoided his gaze miserably. Imrahil privately cursed Denethor, and gathered the young steward in his arms again.

"Well, we'll just have to make up for lost time," he said cheerfully. Faramir laughed against his chest.

"Best not let Éowyn see this. She'd only leap to the wrong conclusion," he said cheerfully. Imrahil paused.

"And what would the wrong conclusion be?" he asked slowly. Faramir suddenly became more uncomfortable again.

"Well.. you know. well, you must do if you had a thing with my father.," the steward of Gondor was reduced to a twelve year old child. Imrahil waited for Faramir's mumblings to die down and then lifted the younger man's chin to look at him. Wide and embarrassed blue-green eyes stared back at him worriedly. Imrahil paused. He had turned into such a beautiful child. Who would have thought that Denethor could have produced someone quite so delicate?

"I think I have some idea of what you speak, yes," murmured Imrahil, his eyes scanning Faramir's in interest. "And I assume that you have no desires in that direction?"

Faramir obviously had not been expecting this. His mouth opened slightly in shock. A faint red flush rose to his cheeks.

"Me? With men? Or with you in particular?"

Imrahil still refused to release him, but Faramir seemed in no hurry to escape. He knew he was being unkind and most likely humiliating the poor boy, but ah, what features and what a lean body clad in the typical leathers of the rangers. But, of course, only a boy, and of Denethor's bloodline. One of the sons he had sworn to his sister to protect. One of the sons that should have been entirely safe from his attentions. And yet one lay dead and the other ..

Imrahil shook his head and pulled away, releasing Faramir's jaw suddenly. The steward stared after him in concern as the prince walked unsteadily over the path of the garden and sat at the stone bench that had managed to withstand so much of the attacks on the city.

"I am sorry. I did not mean to . ," Imrahil broke off and shook his head. "It was nothing. Go to your woman."

"If you mean Éowyn, she is not my woman." Faramir protested automatically, his eyes still fixed on Imrahil. "And you have not confirmed what you meant."

Imrahil smiled grimly. "She is yours in all but name. She cares deeply for you, that is clear, and it is equally clear that you care deeply for her."

Faramir laughed bitterly. "Her heart is with another," he replied.

"Oh?" Imrahil looked up. "And who would this be?"

The steward shook his head. "The one man I could not possibly call out. My soon to be official king. Aragorn,"

Imrahil stared at him. "Aragorn? But he is to be married,"

"The fact had not escaped my attention, despite my current position," replied Faramir dryly, then sighed. "I cannot hope to compete with him. Even if she would have me, she would be thinking of him, wishing it was him beside her, kissing her. No, I will do her no favours,"

Imrahil stared at him and then smiled incredulously. "You would do nothing simply because of a girlish crush? Have you never desired anyone from afar, knowing that it will only remain a dream and nothing more?"

"No," replied Faramir shortly. "I tend to keep my mind on my work."

"I see," Imrahil's voice was deliberately kept neutral, although there was the faint flicker of humour in his eyes. "So you have never considered such things? You have never had a crush yourself?"

"I haven't the time for foolish games, Imrahil,"

"You think that love and desire are foolish, Faramir?" The prince raised an eyebrow and stood from the bench, taking a few steps towards the younger man. Faramir was watching him intently.

"I did not say that," the younger man's voice was cautious.

"With all due respect, you did. Foolish games you called it," Imrahil's voice softened slightly, his eyes still fixed on the younger man. "Your father had much the same opinion,"

Faramir stared at him briefly, then smiled and shook his head. "My father was married. And he also had a lover, so I understand," Here sharp eyes found Imrahil's. "I hardly think he-"

"Do you not?" Imrahil cut in, moving closer. "Did you know your father all that well?"

There was a flash of pain on Faramir's face before he looked away towards the city. Imrahil paused and traced his hand down the side of Faramir's face again. Hard blue-green eyes sought him out again angrily. Ah, thought Imrahil as he stepped closer. So the young one does not like to be vulnerable. That would indeed answer a lot.

"Whether Father occupied himself with such games is none of my concern. I need to be focused today. On the important things," he added as though there had been a query.

"And Éowyn is not an important thing today? Best not let her hear you say that. You may suddenly find you do not have the ability to father children." Imrahil allowed his hand to rest on Faramir's cheek, the younger man not moving to brush him off. Neither, however, did he have a warm expression on his face. Even Denethor had not been such a hard case to crack.

"Éowyn is and always will be important to me. But Minas Tirith will not suffer if she does not wish to marry me," Faramir's eyes slid to Imrahil's hand as though in curiosity then moving back cautiously.

"And she never will marry you if you do not ask her," Imrahil spoke but his mind was on a completely different track. Faramir's warmth underneath his palm was incredible. The hard lean body only a pace away. A vulnerable yet fierce mind, so similar to Denethor's so many years ago. Finduilas shared Denethor. Would Éowyn share Faramir?

Imrahil stopped dead. Faramir's eyes had widened slightly, as though the man had suddenly realized Imrahil's motivations, suddenly saw through to his soul and read where the man's desires lay. The sheer innocence that stared back at him made the prince believe even more that Faramir was indeed telling the truth when he maintained he had not focused on anything but his duty.

What a sad situation that must have been.

"Uncle.?," Faramir had regained a little of his composure although he still seemed tense. He did not move away and that was the fact that Imrahil clung to, simply hoping.

"Have you never considered it at all, Faramir?" Imrahil's voice dropped to a low murmur, his eyes searching Faramir's. "Not even late at night when you were on watch? Not when you felt cold and alone, watching the rangers with their close friendships? Did you ever allow anyone to get close to you, little one?"

It was as though the steward had been made of stone. The prince paused, before gently pressing his lips to Faramir's. For a few moments, nothing. Then he felt the steward begin to kiss him back, gently at first then harder, as though driven by a hunger or possibly guilt. Imrahil pulled him closer, feeling Denethor's son press against him just as his father had done, seemingly a lifetime ago. He could hear the little desperate noises that he doubted Faramir even knew he was making.

Faramir broke off the kiss suddenly, his breath harsh and panting, his eyes wild with desire and fright. He looked nervously around at the empty garden as though expecting someone to be watching, then back at his uncle with a mixture of fear and longing. Imrahil could see the desperation to be touched and loved deep within the young man's eyes.

"We shouldn't," Faramir breathed regretfully, in almost a mirror image of his father's words. Imrahil hesitated. No, they shouldn't. More now than ever. Faramir was not available, regardless of what he said to the contrary. He was too susceptible to any suggestion that Imrahil might have made, too eager to consider what he had denied himself through all these years.

"I told you I would be there for you," whispered Imrahil back. " And I would. But you must consider Éowyn. Do you love her?"

Faramir simply stared back at him as though not understanding the word. He snorted finally, shaking his head.

"It does not matter what I feel-"

"It does," Imrahil's words were full of strength. Faramir looked at him doubtfully then sighed.

"I believe I do," he murmured, almost as a confession as though expected to be berated for it. Imrahil sighed to himself and nodded.

"Then you must go to her,"

"She would not have me," replied Faramir glumly. Imrahil shook his head.

"Then better to find out now for certain than to live a life thinking of what might have been," the Prince looked at him sternly. Faramir managed to avoid his gaze, a faintly stubborn look crossing his face. It was almost as though he wanted her to refuse. Imrahil sighed and gently gave him a push.

"Go on,"

The stubborn look was replaced by something a little more doubtful. Faramir's eyes ran down his uncle in confusion, then frowned almost apologetically at him.

"But what about-" The steward's eyes flickered down Imrahil's body hungrily. The prince could see the outline of Faramir's desire showing through his breeches. Imrahil struggled to keep his mind on the right track.

"We'll discuss that if she does turn you down. Okay?" Imrahil folded his arms, having no doubt that Éowyn would be more than happy with Faramir's hesitant suggestions. The ache in his own body would have to die down. Faramir looked more than a little flustered himself, before nodding slowly and beginning to walk slowly back to the houses of Healing.

Imrahil sighed to himself, and turned to face the city. Why did the right thing always have to be so difficult?

The marriage between Faramir and Éowyn was no more than three months later. The steward and newly crowned Prince of Ithilien had spent much of this time trying to convince Imrahil to stay with them, in between running around after the King of Gondor and the various meetings that he had to attend. Éowyn was almost as forthright as her husband in this subject, although she had a little more success in the matter.

"Why exactly are you leaving?" she queried lightly after watching Imrahil saddle his horse. The Prince sighed and tightened the girth a little more, patting his horse's shoulder.

"My city requires my presence," It was a standard answer that mostly worked on Faramir, the younger man knowing all too well how tying a mistress cities were. However, it did not work on the keen eyes of Éowyn.

"Your city seems to be doing well in your absence. In fact, the reports suggest that your second in command is more than adequate for the tasks," Green eyes fixed on him. "You yourself have always protested that you find such meetings tiresome."

"I should not avoid my duty,"

"This is true. But you do not go back to your duty. You go back to avoid my husband."

Imrahil paused and stared at the horse in front of him. Finally he shook his head, and glanced towards her, a carefully posed expression already set on his face.

"I fear I do not know what you mean, my lady,"

"Please, do not take me for a fool, Imrahil. Faramir has already told me about your .. meetings,"

"I hardly think one event can be called meetings-" he stopped dead at Éowyn's interested raise of the eyebrow at this confirmation. He groaned inwardly. Women. Tricky the lot of them.

Turning back to the horse he continued to ready the tack. "You seem calm about such a circumstance, my lady. Not many women would."

"I seem to spend my life doing things other women wouldn't, my lord. I hardly think one more will hurt," There was a dry humour in her voice. Imrahil stopped again and glanced over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing.

"You would.. welcome it?"

"Unfortunately I am a very jealous woman, Prince Imrahil. Welcoming would be a little strong I feel." Éowyn played with a piece of straw in her hands, her eyes finally returning to him. "However, I am more than keen to ensure that Faramir is well looked after and is happy. You can offer him things that I cannot, my Prince,"

Imrahil let his hand drop away from the tack, turning a little more to face her. "Then what do you suggest?"

Éowyn ran her nail across the stalk of straw, splitting it. "Leave if you must, Imrahil. But please do return on occasion. We will both be happy to see you, and I can always find some other types of evening entertainment to satisfy myself whilst you two are .. catching up."

"Faramir might not-"

"Oh, Faramir will. Believe me, he will." Éowyn's cool eyes fell on him. Imrahil paused, slightly irritated.

"I did not say what he might object to," he bristled. Éowyn smiled sweetly, and cocked her head to one side.

"Does it matter?"

They looked at each other for a few more moments. Contracts were written in the air silently. Finally Imrahil nodded slowly and mounted his horse who whickered softly and eagerly moved towards the stable door, the smells of the plains already welcoming to the animal. Imrahil reined him in, and stared back at Éowyn with a half smile on his face.

"Until we meet again, my lady,"

Éowyn smiled again. "Both my husband and I look forward to it, Prince Imrahil."

As the horse clattered down the cobbled streets of Minas Tirith, Imrahil did not bother to study the road on which he traveled. For he knew he would see it again.

END

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/foolish-games. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!