Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Nine – Knowledge

Tuilë 31

That night Faramir had no dreams. He awoke to vague memories chasing each other across his mind, but he had had no dreams. The morning light filtered through his drawn curtains but he felt heavy and lost in the softness of lingering sleep. Faramir sighed and let go of the waking world.

But dreams or no dreams, sleep would not have him once more and so he lay somewhere in between, sometimes imagining he could taste Aragorn’s lips on his own. And when he shifted and felt the mattress rub against him, he thought he could feel Aragorn’s hand against his flesh – as if it had really happened, as if he could know for sure. As if he desired nothing else.

The walls of his bedchamber were painted in a whitish tone against which the sunlight melted and allowed the room to almost shimmer, thus this room contrasted starkly against the more colourful chambers in the rest of the house. Fabrics of soft browns and greens accompanied the white and though Faramir would never word such an idea aloud, he liked to think of his bedchamber as a small sanctuary, maybe even elvish in kind – if he were to believe the tales that wide-eyed Hobbits told.

During many years, Mithrandir the Istar’s visits to Minas Tirith had been the only joyous occasions he had to look forward to. Mithrandir was one of few – if not the only one – who dared oppose the grim Denethor whose tongue and mind grew more twisted which each passing moon. It was Mithrandir who had introduced Faramir to the ancient lore, taught him some basic Sindarin, and had awakened in him the possibility of living a different life. And then, late at night when he lay in his bed and Ithil, afraid of angering the mighty Steward of Gondor, dared not spill his light over the cold stone floors, Faramir had silently vowed that if he should ever have a house of his own, neither Moon, nor Sun, would ever be shunned from it.

Now, as he lay where he lay, Faramir could not help but remember the question that Aragorn had asked him a couple of days ago – of course he would like to see Rivendell. He had never dared to ask Aragorn any of the questions he harboured, he had never quite managed to summon the courage he needed to admit that he would love to hear more of Aragorn’s legendary childhood home.

But courage was one thing and knowledge was another… even though no one – although they imagined they did – knew..?

Faramir rolled over and stared up at the ceiling. He recalled his own surprise at learning the truth – which he had done from Aragorn himself.

It had been a confusing night, as all nights seemed to be in the aftermath of the War. Faramir was not wholly recovered yet from the influence of the Black Breath, but he had left the Houses of Healing and despite his weariness he was still poring over some document of some kind. The skies were cracking open with the flares of lightning, and the rain came down so heavily that had the battles still continued, most armies would simply have been washed away. The level of activity within the walls of the Tower was maddeningly high. One did not need to be a cynic to suspect that the organisation was less than perfect, but at least people were eager to help.

Faramir had been torn from his reading when Aragorn entered the study with slumped shoulders and eyes that had not closed in sleep for many, many hours.

“There is something I must tell you, Faramir,” he said as he lowered himself into a simple chair opposite his newly appointed Steward. “This knowledge is no secret but it is not spoken of either. However, I would prefer it if you would keep it to yourself for the time being.”

Faramir nodded, saying nothing, still unsure of how to speak to this man whom he had bade the Valar to protect, years before he knew of his actual existence. The low-burning fire cast an eerie light across the King’s face.

‘His legacy must seem a heavy burden tonight,’ reflected Faramir, only seconds before he learnt how truly correct he was.

“You should know I have a son,” said Aragorn simply. “Eldarion.”

He must have seen the surprise flash across Faramir’s face for he nodded. “‘Of the Eldar’… He was born in Imla… in Rivendell, six years ago.”

“And… who..?” Faramir hesitated. He was not sure if it was his place to ask, and yet in its bizarre way, it was matters of state that Aragorn wanted to discuss.

“Arwen, daughter of Elrond Peredhil.” There was a hint of defeat in his voice. “She will remain in Rivendell. As will my son, for now.”

Faramir must fight hard in order to not search Aragorn’s eyes too deeply. His only role was an advisory one: he was to co-govern with the King, he reminded himself, for as long as the King should wish it. But he was unprepared for this. Aragorn was newly crowned and though perhaps someone somewhere had begun considering marriage and heirs, and consequently securing the bloodline of Isildur, he had to admit to not spending one single thought on this subject.

“I see,” he said slowly. “But you, my lord, mean to bring him to Minas Tirith and foster him here?”

Aragorn remained silent and his gaze fell as his thoughts turned inward. Eventually he looked up. “He is my son and, by the grace of the Valar – if that it can be called – he will be King… He is six years old, he knows nothing of this yet. He knows only his home.”

He knows nothing of terror or death.

Thunder shook the walls of the Tower and Faramir understood that he would learn nothing more that night, if ever. He allowed himself to finger the energy that should be nourishing Aragorn’s being, but discovered that its source was nearly depleted. Nothing except for stern will kept another from slipping inside Aragorn’s personal space. Faramir withdrew.

“I will add this fact to the records but nothing more,” he assured the King. Casting a glance through the trembling window-glass he gave a half-smile. “If I may be so bold as to advise you, my lord, I would tell you to take some rest. No more can be done tonight.”

Aragorn stood; his well-worn coat probably shielded him better than he knew himself. “Follow your own advise, Steward Faramir.” A weak smile may, or may not, have ghosted across his lips. “Thank you.”

He left.

The insistent rain that had washed every leaf and twig in Emyn Arnen clean had ceased to fall. Faramir’s boots sank down deep in the mud and he shed his cloak and threw it over his shoulder instead, as it was no use to him when all it did was to gather up the thousands of drops of water that clung to the greenery. The woods had practically exploded in a brilliant firework of greens.

There was a joyous singing all about him; beings unseen eagerly celebrated the living energy in nature where they dwelt. Faramir smiled despite himself as he crossed a small meadow in a hopeless search for any dry wood that would serve him well by the fire. It was a fruitless endeavour most likely, but he enjoyed the walk and the freshness in the air that filled his lungs with new inspiration. The previous night’s blurred ending had no influence over him here.

‘All well?’

A young breeze filtered through the trees and rattled the leaves. Faramir briefly closed his eyes and felt again the connection he had to this place. Rooted he was – much like the oaks and birches, alders and elms.

All well.

Faramir let his thoughts stray as he picked his way through the undergrowth. The grass was high in some places and it brushed against his breeches, drowning them further in rainwater. He let his hands travel over the rough bark of the oaks and he knew they appreciated it and drew comfort from his presence, just like he depended on them to support him. The day would be a long one, but Faramir did not mind. Staying here, where he was safe, in the drenched wood, was more tempting than returning to the house – perhaps more tempting than it should be.

Water…

There had been water last night too… deep, dark pools mirroring the equally dark skies. And the mist lingered between the trees, wrapped against proud stems and weak saplings.

Like liquid… dark waters, were Aragorn’s eyes in the torchlight, and they said nothing.

And Faramir simply did not know.

Shaking his head to clear it, he suspected that was a fruitless endeavour too.

Many hours later he decided to finish his work. An early dusk was sweeping in over the land and it grew steadily chillier. He spread the ashes of his fire and created a wide smoking circle, listening to the final crackles of the embers. As the daylight faded the scene changed and the shadows came creeping forth. As if answering some secret signal, the mist rose from the grass and blended with the evening. Faramir stood still for many long minutes, watching it and sensing the promise that wafted through the silence.

He knew not what this promise consisted of, but he but found himself loosely wondering where Aragorn was, a question he had tried to evade all day. With a sigh, Faramir submitted and closed his eyes.

A new wave of rain had softly fallen around them as they walked back in silence… only water, silence and mist. And a longing born out of something that could just as well have been but a vision or a dream.

Now Faramir performed an act of a similar kind: he returned to the house, washed and ate – all in silence and with his thoughts far away. The sky darkened and some of the clouds drew away and so the glimmering stars were allowed to once more sail over Ithilien.

And so, finally, Faramir was standing by his window, watching the rising crescent moon shoulder the rule that Anor left behind as she sank behind the trees. His white tunic reflected the moonlight and seemed to call to it, just as his soul soared somewhere over his lands.

He let go.

When the discrete knock on the door came, he already knew its purpose. He half-turned towards the door and nodded even before the servant had spoken.

“The King wishes to speak with you, my lord.”

He is in his chamber.

Faramir watched another star light up the night.

He left.

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/mist. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!