Faramir Fiction Archive

I, Faramir (PG-13)

21 February 2011 | 7582 words

Day 2

I’m really at a loss how to fill this page today. I mean, I’m just rather ordinary, when it comes down to it. A middle-aged man, with what most people would consider a rather good job, and I suppose if you’re impressed by outward things like the title “Prince” (I rarely use it, though), I have some status. And I’m useful enough, in my own way, which is a great solace to me.

Wynnie and I have long since settled into a very peaceful and comfortable routine here in Ithilien. We spent the first few years of our marriage finding out and poking at each other’s sore spots (as most young marrieds do, I suspect), but since then we’ve learned enough wisdom to give each other more comfort than aggravation. Having Elboron together was an enormous and wondrous change for both of us; for the better all around, I think, though Wynnie’s sudden conversion to frills and baby-talk and pink bedspreads came as a bit of a surprise – I blame Arwen for a lot of that, frankly. Anyway, there’s nothing like having a youngster around to take your mind off yourself, and wallowing in self-doubt (as I freely admit I did a lot as a younger man) is not much of an option when you have a growing boy to be father to. I must admit these last couple of years since he flew the nest, it has been rather lonely in our big palace in Emyn Arnen. Wynnie says she feels the same way. But Gwennie seems like a very good lass, and they promise as soon as she has the baby, they’ll visit us for a good long stretch and let us be doting grandparents. Elboron says if it’s a boy they’ll call him Barahir. Must admit I’m just a little disappointed about that – I mean, it’s a fine old name, but I was hoping my first grandson might be named after me, or Boromir, or maybe the King.

Grandson. It seems almost impossible that we’ve lived that long, and in such peace. All credit to Aragorn for that – he’s a good King, but he’s no empire-builder, and though there was a fair bit of fighting to do even after the Ring was destroyed, we did it as cleanly and quickly as we could, with good order in mind, not revenge. I’m glad those days are over. Though I’ve come to acknowledge over the years that I was never as dismal a failure on the battlefield as my poor benighted old father always told me I was, it’s still not how I’d ever choose to spend my days. Now Boromir, on the other hand… You know, it’s a terrible thing to confess, for I still miss him, every day of my life, but I’ve come to think of it as something of a blessing for my brother that he was taken as a young man, before that warlike spirit of his could come to fret and feel useless in peaceful days. He died exactly as he would have wanted to, I think, bravely and for a reason he could believe in; Aragorn has often told me that my poor brother’s troubled mind was clear at the last from the influence of that terrible Ring, and that he had his own kind of peace at the end. Yes, one could have a much worse death than Boromir did. I’ll admit it here, though nowhere else, that when I used to go into battle in those after-days, side by side with the King, it was that picture of Boromir dying in Aragorn’s arms that I used to think of. It helped me steel myself; I used to think that if Denethor’s second son wasn’t as brave a warrior as his first, yet nonetheless he’d have no worse an end, for surely Aragorn would notice and care for me too. Was that conceited and wrong? Probably, but it doesn’t matter, because it helped me get through the worst of it, and as it turned out, I didn’t die, but lived to see Aragorn properly crowned, and married, and come into his own as King of a great realm.

Wynnie will be wondering where I’ve disappeared to. I’ve left this little chore late tonight, and it’s nearing our bedtime. We like to go to bed and get up together; it’s one of the small, enormously valuable parts of marriage that nobody really tells you about, that companionship at nightfall, at dawn, through the night. Though there’s not much happens in that bed but sleep these days, I’m not really complaining. All human men know that there will come a time when their wives are less interested in physical affection than they are. Wynnie and I seem to have worked out quite a good compromise – I ask less often, but she accommodates me more often than she really feels the urge to. And once we get started, she seems to enjoy it well enough. I wonder if Aragorn thinks that’s why I’m grumpy lately. If he does, he’s wrong.

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