Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 2

Aragorn groaned silently. This would surely count as one of the worst council meetings he had sat through. First, there had been a completely unnecessary discourse on turnips, and then a long but necessary discussion on the corsairs. They had arrived at some useful decisions though. But then after that they had started discussing the taxes. It was too much for one meeting, he thought in annoyance. He could see a similar emotion reflected in Denethor’s visage.

It was to have been simple. They were to announce a slight increase in some levies for the next two months. His lords and councilors however rarely believed in simplicity. Most of them had not even read the reports or papers sent to them two days earlier so they could have all the information they needed, instead of needing it all explained to them.

While the riverland lords sought to magnify the corsair problem, seeking more than was required to tackle it, the other lords failed to comprehend the seriousness of the issue altogether.

“It is completely unnecessary,” the lord of Lebenin was stating, “We have adequate ship strength to fight the corsairs. To build more suddenly as a precaution is not required. Surely we can wait till the coffers are fuller? And were we not just last week discussing that the rebuilding effort is imposing a strain on the carpenter’s guild? Surely building new ships right now would only increase the strain upon them? “

Faramir stepped in suddenly, “We could look at an alternative to building more ships sire. You are signing a new treaty with the Haradrim. They build light boats that moved very speedily upriver. Could we not purchase some of these from them and try using them against the corsairs for now?”

“From the Haradrim?” the lord of Pelargir inquired incredulously, “You suggest we use the help of the Haradrim to fight the Corsairs. That we trust them so highly? And to use light boats instead of our larger, more powerful ships? I realise you’d hurt your arm, my lord and that keeps you out of active service, but you sound more like you hurt your head!”

Faramir flushed an ugly shade of red at that. An uncomfortable silence reigned briefly, until Aragorn decided to step in.

“That’s enough, my lords. I suggest we discuss this again on the morrow, once you have all had a chance to think more on this.”

Aragorn sighed and sat back after the last of the councilors had left. Denethor waited for the door to close before handing him a goblet of wine.

“I thought we would never get over with that,” Aragorn sighed, “I have seen more conviviality among fisherwomen!”

“Boromir used to call them old crones in his more charitable moments,” Denethor said with a small smile.

Aragorn smiled briefly in response. He could well imagine Boromir making a statement like that. Boromir would have had little patience with the long, fruitless discussions they had had today. Aragorn had also not missed the strange, almost wistful tone in the older man’s voice or the ensuing discomfort he clearly sought to hide. He changed the subject hurriedly.

“The Haradric envoy shall be here in a few months, and there is yet much to be done on the treaties.”

“The scribes have started on their work already,” Denethor said reassuringly, “Though I’m afraid there is a lot to be done by us as well. There are many of their new laws that need to be studied. And there are many of those old treaties we spoke of that can be of use.”

Aragorn nodded, “Yes that would involve a lot of work. My foster brothers have messengers arriving from Imladris. I had asked them to bring me some documents that I recollect Elrond had which could be of help.”

They spoke cursorily of other matters, and Aragorn extended his invitation to dinner.

It was as Denethor was leaving that he remembered he needed to invite Faramir too. And then recollected something else.

“Perhaps Faramir could help out with the work on the treaties?” he suggested, “that was an interesting idea he had about the light boats. He is already helping with the reports on the Ithilien reconstruction work isn’t he?”

“Yes, that might be a good idea. He has little else to do,” Denethor’s voice seemed a little hard as he spoke, “And it is about time he made himself useful, anyhow.”

Faramir made his way towards his chambers tiredly rubbing his aching shoulder. He had overdone his sword practice earlier that morning, and had strained his injured shoulder. The pain had bothered him all morning and he found himself gritting his teeth in embarrassment as he remembered the incident at the council. His sudden movement had resulted in a stabbing pain in his shoulder and it had taken all his self-control to not scream out. He had asked for hot water to be sent up earlier and he hoped that would relieve some of the pain.

The injury he had received from a Haradrim dart during the final days of the war had turned out to be worse than suspected earlier, enough to pull him out of active duty with the Rangers. He could barely use a bow. He could still wield a sword although not as well as earlier, and had decided to work on that instead.

He lowered himself into the tub, bending his knees awkwardly to fit himself into it. The water was tepid by now. The council had lasted longer than expected. He sighed and tried to stretch back and instead and think of something other than the council. He was as yet still getting used to taking his post on the council; he had rarely attended earlier, being away in Ithilien more often. Boromir had been a more regular attendee in his position as Captain General.

He closed his eyes and leaned back, planning out the rest of his day. He still had much of the paperwork on the Rangers left to do. He would need to hand those over to his successor. There was much more than he had anticipated. And there were more reports he needed to work on for the council, including a very lengthy and detailed one on the land distribution in Ithilien. They were going to start work on restoring Ithilien and Faramir had found himself volunteering to help on all the initial paperwork.

He had been glad to do so though. Ever since he’d had to resign his captaincy his days had become increasingly monotonous. The injured arm ensured he could not practice more than an hour each day, and the few friends he had had in the city were all back with their troops, leaving him with little to do but attend the councils, and spend time in the archives, reading for them. There was much the council needed to debate so soon after the war, and Faramir knew that as one of the younger, inexperienced members of the council, he would need to be well prepared for all that was to be discussed. Denethor in particular tended to be a little sarcastic with anyone who sat at the meetings without having read the papers prepared for the discussions. His irritation had been only too clear that morning. Faramir had little doubt that were he to appear ill equipped for a meeting, Denethor would not refrain from castigating him in front of the entire council. He had found that reading reports on the older councils helped too. It was how he had found notes of an older council where the Haradrim light boats had been discussed. That had not gone down well though, he thought, tiredly. But then little he suggested at the councils went down well, barring perhaps some ideas on the Ithilien restoration work, since it was of little relevance to most councillors.

Once the restoration work started, he thought, perhaps he could look at renovating his own hunting lodge there. He found he felt increasingly uncomfortable staying in his father’s house. Denethor’s few monosyllabic conversations with him were reduced to none now. He rarely even acknowledged Faramir’s presence in the room. Even at dinner, he would converse entirely with Andreth. Faramir had contemplated taking his meals alone in his own chambers, but Denethor did not approve of that either. Denethor approved of little he did these days.

He had sought his father after the Steward had returned from the war. By then, he too had been released from the healers’ care. He had been tired still and sore, and aching from the constant reminders of loss that he saw around the city, and unable to sleep. It was late into the night and his father was still at work. His father was finalizing troop allocations, he recollected, reassigning duties among the troops to help rebuild the city. It must be tiring, he’d thought. Normally Boromir would have taken care of anything to do with the troops.

“Father,” he had said softly to the older man, taking in the worn features, “I’ve brought some wine.”

“Why are you here?” Denethor asked coldly.

“I thought perhaps… you would like some wine. It is late and… and I thought perhaps if you needed help -”

“I do not require any help from you,” Denethor said, and turned back to his papers, “I have not required it earlier, nor do I now.”

“You had Boromir to help you,” Faramir replied softly, “Let me –”

“You are not Boromir,” Denethor interrupted sharply, “And you never will be. Do not seek to him replace him ever. Leave now.”

“I- I do not seek to be Boromir. Nor do I wish to replace him. I merely… I – just wanted to tell you, that I could help you his stead in aught you require.”

“In his stead? Do you truly think I would make you my heir? The heir to the Stewardship is Andreth, and I intend to ensure all know that. I let you live here, that is enough!”

“I didn’t –” Faramir started.

“Leave!” Denethor commanded.

Denethor did indeed after that often refer to Andreth as his heir. To Faramir, he referred not at all, if he could.

He had thought of living elsewhere, away from the citadel, and away from Denethor’s disapproval and annoyance. But Denethor had, sticking to his word, made all their townhouses and apartments in the city Andreth’s. All he had by way of property was the old hunting lodge in Ithilien and some lands in Dol Amroth left to him by his mother’s father. He had therefore decided instead to have the hunting lodge restored. It would at least let him get away from the city for a few days every now and then.

Initially Denethor had still spoken to him regularly, mostly to scold him. Faramir had been embarrassed at first as Denethor had often shouted at him in front of Andreth or even the servants over the tiniest of matters, criticising him over all his weaknesses, but later had come to expect it. It was all Denethor spoke to him.

Despite Denethor’s angered words that night, Faramir found he did have to help his father with his work. While the Steward had not actually requested his help, he had instead suggested often and loudly, and sometimes publicly, in the acerbic tone he reserved for the dullest of his councilors, that Faramir make himself useful in some other way now that he was of little use in the field. Faramir had refrained from pointing out that he had always offered help.

Faramir pulled himself out of his reverie, sighing tiredly and rose. The water was nearly cold now, and had done little to help his shoulder.

Aragorn found Faramir in the archives, later that evening, looking through some books. He looked surprised to see Aragorn there but then smiled a little shyly in greeting, and then turned back to the books. Aragorn noticed the tips of his ears had reddened again.

“Faramir,” he spoke pleasantly, “I was looking for you.”

Faramir turned to him, surprised, “You were looking for me, sire?” he repeated.

“Would you join us tomorrow for supper?” Aragorn asked.

Faramir stared at the king blankly, until he realised what he’d been asked.

“Supper?” he repeated again.

“Yes we’re inviting some friends over.”

“Friends?” Faramir said softly. Aragorn wondered why he was repeating each word.

“I’ve already informed your father. And I’ve asked him to bring Andreth along. The boy is old enough now,” he said smiling.

Faramir nodded at that, and after the king had left mulled over their conversation slowly. He found himself almost childishly elated as he recollected the king saying that they had chosen to invite some friends over.

Elessar was a well-liked ruler. They had spoken little in all these days, but in the little they had spoken, Faramir had found himself liking the king greatly. He was brave and intelligent and could be as good with a sword as he was with a quill. And Faramir knew he owed his life to the king’s healing. He often remembered waking to the cool sensation of the king’s soft hands over his fevered brow and chest. He had opened his eyes and found himself drawn into the intensity of the king’s gaze, and felt strangely awed and pleasant and had smiled up at the king.

And now the king considered him a friend! He found just recollecting the conversation in the archives left him feeling warm and liked inside. Even Denethor’s frowning visage at the dinner table and his curt instructions to help the scribes did not remove the pleasant feeling.

For the first time in many weeks, he finally had a full night of sleep, undisturbed by dark dreams of black riders, war cries or black waves. Instead he was mortified and surprised to find himself waking up the next morning, wet and sticky and with a pleasant lingering memory of the hazy twilight in which Elessar had spoken to him, held him and healed him.

Faramir dressed hurriedly, pulling on an old grey outfit. He had been delayed at the archives while searching for some old reports, and had not noticed the time. The council in the morning had stretched interminably, leaving everyone fractious and irritated. Faramir had decided to avoid lunching at his father’s table and had some bread and mead in the archives instead.

He entered the large room in the king’s apartments, looking around curiously. He had never seen this wing of the citadel before.

Denethor stared at him in annoyance as he entered after all the others had arrived. The queen appeared to be frowning a little too. They had started serving wine, he realised embarrassed. He noticed Andreth standing by the hearth. He looked at the younger man and felt a short catch in his throat. The boy was dressed in black and grey and white, and wore a miniature brooch shaped as the white tree around his throat. It was one Boromir had worn as young soldier and passed on to his son later.

He helped himself to some wine quietly and found himself a place by the window where he could rest his back against the wall. Around him the conversation had continued uninterrupted, and he found himself listening to snatches of talk.

“You look unwell, my lord,’” The queen said to the Steward concernedly, “What ails you?”

Faramir turned towards his father and glanced at him, taking in the tired lines in the older man’s face. He bit his lip worriedly. The Steward had been angry at the councillors in the afternoon but the weariness in his expression seemed to have some other cause.

“It is nothing. I am well, as well as a man my age may be,” his father replied softly.

“You are unhappy,” the queen replied, her voice barely carrying across to him.

“Forgive me,” Denethor said tiredly, “I am not good company some days. I grow older and find myself being wishful. But tell me, how does Eldarion fare? He grows quickly I see.”

Faramir suddenly realised he knew the cause of his father’s deep sadness. The day of Boromir’s passing on was nearing. He turned away unhappily, and watched the others around him instead, standing in small clusters, talking amongst each other.

The queen’s brothers were present, stern and tall and beautiful, so alike in looks that he could still sometimes not tell them apart. Legolas and Gimli were also there. They were talking to Elessar who glanced towards him and smiled in greeting. He smiled back in return, and decided to move forward and speak to the king. He should thank him properly for being invited after all. But the king seemed quite engrossed in his conversation and Faramir did not want to interrupt. Everyone seemed quite engrossed in their little conversations. He stayed by the window drinking his wine slowly.

They sat down at the long table to dine soon. He was seated between Gimli and Andreth. Elessar sat at the other end of the table talking to Denethor. Dinner was just as quiet for Faramir. Gimli spent the time talking solely to Legolas and by his other side Andreth barely even glanced at his uncle, beyond a nod in greeting. Instead he chatted cheerfully with Lord Elrohir about his weapons training. Denethor had earlier that month gifted him one of Boromir’s old swords and his own shield, much to his delight and pride. When they began to speak of lightbows and archery, Faramir listened in with interest and contemplated joining in their talk, particularly when he heard lord Elrohir describe the lighter elven bows they used on horseback, but found himself shying away from actually speaking. The rangers used lightbows as well, and he thought he would tell Andreth of those later. The lad seemed interested in them.

Andreth was everything Boromir was, he thought wistfully, as he listened to the younger man’s clear voice. Like his brother he could get along with anyone. He was intelligent, confident and already appeared to have the strength required in a soldier.

Faramir ate in a miserable silence, realising with increasing unhappiness that he seemed incapable of conversing with anyone at this table. Boromir would never have been so awkward and out of place. Next to him Andreth chatted. He picked at his food listlessly and helped himself to some more of the strong, sweet wine served with dinner, letting the hum of conversation wash over his tired mind. He remained lost in thought, not really listening, even when Legolas recited a particularly funny story that had everyone laughing aloud, even Denethor.

When they returned home later, Denethor smiled slightly as he wished Andreth a good night, and dropped a kiss on the boy’s forehead.

“You looked so fine and smart! And I know you enjoyed yourself. I’m very proud of you!”

He then turned to Faramir and bade him gruffly to see him in his study.

Faramir followed him into the large, draughty room, hoping it would not take long. He felt a little tired, the wine combining with his limited eating at lunch and dinner to leave him with a dull headache. The wine had relaxed him a little though, so perhaps he could sleep easier tonight. He wondered what Denethor might want and was unsurprised to hear him ask on the progress of his researches on the old trade treaties.

Faramir didn’t bother explaining that he had been working at it for barely a day. His father had little patience with excuses. He started speaking of what he had worked on after the council, and before he’d realised he was late for the king’s dinner.

“Is that all you’ve done since yesterday?” Denethor asked, frowning, “I thought I told you this was important work. Instead you leave it half-done! I expected little else from you, though! It is a good thing we have the scribes working on this as well. They have managed to do a lot more than you have.”

Faramir felt his face flush a little, but accepted the curt words without argument. Arguments would only worsen his father’s fraying temper.

“You may leave now,” Denethor said.

As Faramir turned to leave, he remembered Andreth’s conversation with Lord Elrohir.

“Father,” he broached softly as he stood at the door.

Denethor grunted in annoyance.

“I thought perhaps, since Andreth has begun his weapons training, he might find my bow useful?” he spoke hurriedly. Denethor rarely gave him an opportunity to speak, “ It is lighter than the infantry bows and he will find it easier to use, and perhaps I could help with his archery training.”

“And you wish he would grow into one as weak as you?” Denethor asked, in a sneering tone.

Faramir stared at him, and then began to explain, “Nay it is lighter yes but-”

“I would not have Andreth grow into one such as you, ever hiding away from the frontlines. As for you training him, what can you teach him? You spent your days in Ithilien so you could hide behind your men. Andreth will have his cavalry and infantry training with proper weaponry, fit for a soldier, one such as Boromir! Not a weakling such as you. You may leave now.”

The words stung him but Faramir ignored them. The slurs against his abilities and courage were Denethor’s favoured ones, even though Faramir had constantly led his men from the front in their forays in the east, and been wounded oft times in the process, enough for Boromir to suggest once that he leave the rangers.

“I know I cannot train him as Boromir would have but I heard him speak of lightbows to -,” he started.

“Quiet!” Denethor commanded, “I want to hear no more of this. Leave now.”

“But – “

“Quiet!”

He heard the slap first before he felt it. His head jerked back from the impact, sending pain shooting up his weak shoulder and neck and a sharp stinging sensation spread over the side of his face. He let out an involuntary sound, as he stared at his father in surprise through suddenly tearing eyes. He had forgotten how hard his father’s hand was. Denethor hadn’t hit him like this for some years now.

“Get out,” Denethor said furiously, “I am tired of your constant indiscipline. Ever you seek to disregard aught I say to you. I will not stand for it longer. Leave Andreth alone. I command it. I will not have him influenced by your weak and craven manner.”

He managed not to reach out and touch his aching cheek until he’d left the room. His face felt tender and painful to touch. There would be a mark, he realised bleakly. He returned to his rooms and sat awhile by the window staring dully out as night fell over the Anduin, and tried to stop his mind from replaying Denethor’s words against his fighting skills or his captaincy. His face still hurt when he lay down to sleep, his head throbbing miserably.

He sighed and curled up in his bed, ignoring the strange emptiness he felt. When he woke the next morning, his pillow was damp and his eyes felt tired and scratchy from prolonged crying.

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