Faramir Fiction Archive

Grief and Hope (NC-17)

Written by Minx

21 April 2013 | 40330 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 3

There were no meetings the next morning, so Faramir promptly got down to his work helping the scribes, unwilling to give Denethor any further opportunity to castigate him. The Steward had shown few qualms these last months in constantly referring to him as useless. He had eaten swiftly at breakfast, aided by Denethor’s silence towards him. His father had in fact not even glanced towards him, referring all through instead to some papers and talking to Andreth. Andreth had stared curiously at the mark on his cheek, and Faramir had reddened under the scrutiny.

He had left as soon as he could for the archives taking with him some bread and cheese for his luncheon. In the archives he had selected a seat near the high windows and started to work, trying hard to concentrate on the papers. He had been so listless at his sword practise that the armsmaster had been angered enough to dismiss him early. Faramir had tried but had been unable to put his mind into the practise. The previous night’s words had left him feeling unhappy and tired. It seemed no matter how much he tried his father would never accept his skills as a soldier. He might as well instead fulfil his other duties. He pored over documents all day long, choosing to avoid lunching at home again.

He pored over the documents all day, before returning in time for supper, again a tensely quiet meal, Denethor speaking only to Andreth and completely ignoring Faramir.

The next few days passed in a similar fashion. Faramir found his days full with the council meetings and with helping the scribes, and with his sword practise, aware that a report of his progress was being given to the Steward nearly daily. He felt his grip had improved immensely since the time of his injury, but his movements were still slow.

The Steward’s annoyance seemed to be only increasing as the day of Boromir’s passing neared, Faramir realised in dismay. He even snapped at him in the council twice. There was to be a short ceremony to mark the day; a ritual to honour Boromir’s memory followed by a small, customary feast among his friends and family. Both Aragorn and Denethor were to speak during the ritual and Andreth too had requested he be allowed to say something. Faramir had not been asked to do anything, and with Denethor’s increasingly angering mood, he had not wanted to ask. Besides, he had preferred to mourn privately.

“I’m glad you have offered to speak too,” the king told Andreth when the boy joined them after a council meeting that had stretched late into the evening.

Andreth had smiled, a little uncertainly, “I haven’t thought yet of what to say. I’m not sure I have words that will do justice.”

“Perhaps you could read out a poem,” Faramir suggested suddenly, “I have a volume I was reading the other day and one of the poems reminded me of Boromir…”

“I’m sure Andreth will not need to resort to someone else’s words to speak of his father,” Denethor cut in coldly.

“I didn’t mean that,’ Faramir started softly, “I though perhaps he could…”

“Andreth is perfectly capable of thinking for himself, more so that you were at his age or even for many years after that! I suggest you spend your time more productively by completing those estimates for Ithilien that the council asked you for yesterday.”

Faramir flushed, aware that the words were heard by most of the councillors still milling around. The king too glanced at them, a little startled. Faramir felt the warmth creep up his face, and returned to gathering up his papers. He pretended to shuffle them around until he was sure the council hall had cleared, before he too left.

It was best not to dwell on it, he kept telling himself, and tried instead to read through the papers he had brought with him until dinner.

At supper, Denethor again berated him, viciously lashing out at him when he admitted to not having finished the Ithilien estimates yet.

“Useless fool!” Denethor shouted, “I should have known better than to entrust any important work to you.”

“I – I have been working on it,” Faramir started to say. He hadn’t been able to complete it since he was also helping the scribes with the treaties.

“Quiet. Finish eating and return to work. I wish to see those papers on my table before you retire for the night.”

Faramir wandered tiredly into his chambers, and restarted his work on the papers. It was only after he’d finished the work that he rose and walked over to his window. It was quite chilly outside so he hugged his arms to his chest and pushed his head out a little, seeking some fresh, cool air. He shivered slightly, for he wore little other than an old tunic and trousers, the thin, well-worn fabric giving him little warmth.

He had a clear view of the citadel gardens from here, and so when he glance out he could see Andreth from the windows. The boy was sitting alone on a stone bench, staring at a disused fountain. Faramir frowned. Andreth too wore only his tunic and trousers and must feel cold. He picked up the papers and a cloak and made his way down the house towards the large doors leading into the gardens. It was quiet outside and he found the cool night air refreshing, as he made his way through the winding paths.

Aragorn found Andreth sitting alone in the citadel garden staring at the paving stones beneath his feet.

“Andreth? Why are you out this late?’ he said quietly, “It’s quite chilly here.”

“Sire,” the lad started to rise but Aragorn put out a hand to stop him.

“You seem to be lost in your thoughts. May I sit with you awhile or would you prefer to be left alone.”

“No… I mean, please don’t go. I should like to sit with you,” Andreth said, softly.

Aragorn nodded and sat by the boy, glancing at him as he did so. The young man was growing swiftly. He already looked lean and strong and was growing day by day. He came almost up to Faramir’s shoulder; Aragorn had realised and would soon probably be as tall as Denethor. He was intelligent, lively and, curious yet always spoke gently and politely to all. And he clearly took after Boromir when it came to weaponry. The boy already had a sword, and a bow, and was fast becoming proficient in the use of both from all accounts.

“Will you tell me a little about him?” he said suddenly, his still slightly thin voice breaking through Aragorn’s thoughts.

“About your father?” Aragorn asked and got a nod in return.

Faramir halted by a tree as he heard the king’s voice. Quietly he moved to one side, intending to move away but stopped as he heard Andreth’s request.

“You remind me of him,” Aragorn said suddenly and found his throat catching up as Andreth’s features lit into a small proud smile.

“I wish I’d known him longer,” he said softly, his mind wandering back to his days with Boromir, “Perhaps you should ask one who knew him better.”

Andreth shook his head, “I cannot ask grandfather for it will upset him, and uncle Faramir always starts tearing up if father’s name is mentioned.”

Aragorn thought back to the days of the fellowship and to the strong, young man he had grown to know and love. Their physical intimacy had progressed rapidly from a need for comfort to a need for intense and passionate intimacy. Boromir’s passing had left a void in Aragorn that was as yet unfilled. Their intimacy had even helped Boromir to get over his overwhelming desire to use the power of the ring to save his city. The younger man had agreed to follow his king finally, as they had left Lothlorien and had it not been for the attack by the Uruk Hai, Boromir would be hear now sitting by his young son.

“He was a beautiful human being. He cared deeply for all who were close to him, and all he held dear,” he said, thinking back to the mallorn strewn grounds upon which they had last made love, “He spoke often of you, of his beautiful, lovely son.”

Faramir found himself blinking back tears and quietly but swiftly walked out of the garden and back to the house. The raw intensity he heard in the king’s voice brought his own memories of Boromir rushing back, of an older brother who had always in his own way cared for him and aided him.

He walked slowly towards his father’s study, feeling almost glad on realising that Denethor had left. He slowly pushed the huge study door in and walking over to the table, placed the papers upon it.

Boromir’s old study was next door and he realised the connecting door was open. He walked in. Many of his brother’s things had been given away but a few still remained. The light from outside showed him the dull outline of an old pair of gauntlets. He picked them up, remembering the way his brother used to slap them on, always while striding out towards the stables, calling out for his horse. He ran his fingers over the embroidered pattern of the white tree. The leather was cool and soft under his fingers. Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t hear the sound at the door until his father spoke.

“What are you doing here?” Denethor’s voice was soft, full of grief and slurred.

He looked up almost guiltily and replaced the gauntlets on the shelf he’d found them on.

“I –” he started, but got no further, as Denethor’s step quickened.

“Answer me!” the voice was hard now and cold, “Why do you wander here like a thief in the night?”

Faramir stepped back uncertainly, reminded suddenly of other times when his father had caught him at some perceived wrongdoing.

“I – I-,” he stammered helplessly, “I merely came to – I wished to –”

The words rushed over each other in his head. How was he to tell his father that his own grief brought him here in this hour without further deepening the sorrow that was so evident in the older man.

The sorrow however, was fast being displaced by a cold anger, and before Faramir could realise it, Denethor stepped forward and slapped him hard across his face. He reacted instinctively as he always had – by cowering away as the familiar fear laced with unhappiness seared through his heart.

“You dare touch what little I have left of my son?” Denethor’s voice was full of anger now. He slapped Faramir again, his hand striking the same spot as earlier causing Faramir to moan as pain flared through his face. He rocked back on his heels, his hands reaching out to the wall nearby for support.

Denethor snorted, a contemptuous sound and struck him a third time.

Faramir felt his ears ringing. Denethor’s hand was strong as ever and combined with his own despair, it was dulling his senses. He limply sagged back against the wall.

He opened his mouth but the words would not come. Instead he gasped softly, as Denethor stood over his slumped form.

“F-forgive me,” he murmured finally, “I did not mean to –”

“Forgive you for what?” Denethor snarled furiously, “It is my folly that I asked him to leave in your stead and find myself now bereft of my son and Andreth bereft of a father. But yes, it is your folly that you try to make him like you with all your talk of words and poems and songs, and for that I forgive you naught. And it is your folly that you dare touch what belonged to my son. A folly for which I shall see you learn your lesson!”

He picked up his riding crop. Faramir stared at him in horror. The lamplight glinted dully off the sharp edge as it descended towards him. Whimpering, he ducked just in time for it to avoid his face, landing instead across his side and back, and sending pain lacing through him. The second stroke landed even as he was gasping softly. It struck his side and back again, and he cried out softly in pain, moving away and getting the third stroke across his stomach. He felt the sharp edge cut through the thin, soft cloth of his well-worn tunic. He squirmed repeatedly over the rest of the strokes as they landed across his body – his back, buttocks, stomach, thighs, cutting cloth and skin, his old tunic and trousers affording no protection – until Denethor’s hand tired, and he flung the whip away across the room, where it skittered across the stone floor.

“Go away,” he said angrily, before he left the room.

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