Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Twelve – Breakdown

Tuilë 33

Éowyn’s dress glowed a perfect, shining white as she walked beside him; the thin fabric seemed almost intent on wrapping around his legs as they slowly crossed the Court of the Fountain in the midday sunlight. She was laughing gaily and he smiled at her before turning his eyes to the great oak that stood in the centre of the court. Greens leaves adorned the branches that in one moment appeared a brownish-grey, and in another, gleamed as white as Éowyn herself.

Their stroll across the Court was brutally interrupted by a hiss and flames sprung up beside Faramir with such force that he must throw himself aside. He heard his father’s desperate cry as the fire licked his skin. Denethor’s hands, claw-like in the wild blaze of the fire, reached out for him and failing to evade him, Faramir felt his father’s nails dig into his arm as he frantically clang to him.

“Boromir…” Denethor pleaded, “my sweetest son…” The fire was swallowing him whole and his eyes were shining madly. “Boromir!”

Faramir thrust his father away from him and the whirlwind of fire was suddenly gone. He was standing in front of the tree and from behind it a very tall man stepped out. The water of the Fountain lapped around Aragorn’s bare feet but he remained solemn and grave. Beside him stood Éowyn, proud, and with her white dress stretching across her rounded belly. Faramir watched how Aragorn lifted a hand and gently laid it there, protecting the life that grew within. Éowyn’s hair was dark, coal black, and it fell in gentle waves down to her waist. Faramir felt a heavy sorrow settle in his breast.

“Damrod?” Faramir stepped into the dining hall, still with bits and pieces of his dream chasing each other across his mind. The sky was covered by a compact, white blanket of clouds and a cold, sharp daylight had replaced the night.

“Hey!” His friend was seated at the table, eagerly investigating the contents of various pots and cup. He lifted a lid and nodded, seemingly content. “Eggs?”

“No?” Crossing the floor, Faramir dropped into a chair opposite Damrod. He found it difficult fighting a smile as the examination continued most enthusiastically before him. “You had no breakfast in your own kitchen?”

Damrod briefly looked up from a steaming pot of tea. “Sure I did.” He sounded only slightly offended. “But none as good as yours, my friend. An’ not half as much!” Almost reverently, he poured two cups of tea and pushed one towards Faramir. Then he picked up a knife and proceeded to slice some bread. “Also,” he said as a look of embarrassment settled itself on his face, “I came to apologise, you know. For the other night.”

Faramir shook his head as he claimed one of the slices for himself. “Think no more on it.”

“Cheese?”

With an insistent look, Damrod urged him to fill his plate. Faramir accepted some of the fruit and a small bowl of a vegetable soup Damrod apparently had convinced the cooks to make.

“When did you arrive?” he asked, more and more intrigued as he dipped his bread into the soup.

“Oh, not too early,” Damrod shrugged. “So you sure all’s well?”

“Yea,” Faramir nodded, “despite the fact that you are securing peace by offering me my own food in my own home.” He grinned.

Damrod raised an eyebrow and there was a twitch in the corner of his mouth. “Seems to work.” He reached for a small jug proving to contain some type of jam. Carefully, he coated a chunk of bread with it and inspected the result with an approving smile. “So,” he said, “how’s the King?”

Faramir nearly choked on his tea. “What?”

“The King,” repeated Damrod before he took a bite. He chewed slowly while he frowned.

“Well, I think,” said Faramir, not sure Aragorn was well at all, but not the least inclined to speak of him.

“You aren’t keepin’ an eye on him?”

Producing a shrug, Faramir set his cup down. “He is the King…” It was hardly an explanation but it was all he could manage.

“That,” Damrod nodded, “he is.” He leaned forward suddenly and lowered his voice. “So, have you found out anything, then?” he asked between bites.

“And what ought I to ‘find out’?” Dropping his gaze, Faramir concentrated on stirring his soup.

His friend, evidently not impressed by this display of ignorance and disinterest, gave a long sigh. “You know well what I speak of,” he said and then continued in a more conspiratorial manner. “We were all there – we all saw them.”

Faramir felt the demanding gaze trained on him and so he lifted his head to meet it. Damrod was suggestively waving a piece of bread before him. “We saw the whole party, remember? I’m telling you ‘twas a strange sight indeed! Stranger even than when we stumbled upon the Periain in the woods you know… But in strange times, strange tales will be told, I suppose.”

He fell silent for a moment or two and Faramir uneasily shifted in his chair. He could plainly see where this conversation was headed but he was not the least tempted to speculate about the royal affairs of Minas Tirith.

“Anyhow,” continued Damrod, “the whole host of them, riding into the City… All bright and gleaming, and such. And we all saw the boy. And…” he lowered his voice even further, “we all saw the Lady.“

Faramir nodded as an image of the slender, and very beautiful, daughter of Elrond rose in his mind. Her pride was of another kind than Éowyn’s and she spoke not much as far as Faramir could see – or hear. She had ridden in the company of her brothers with Eldarion beside her.

“True,” he said simply.

Damrod raised his eyebrows. “So? We all saw the elven Lady who would be Queen, but it’s been six years and still there’s no Queen on the throne in the Tower.” He popped the bread into his mouth.

Taking a sip of his soup, Faramir could only agree. Perhaps if Eldarion’s identity had been kept hidden – and if people failed to see the resemblance – then no one would have wondered, but the child had been brought to Aragorn who greeted him as his son. Arwen Undómiel was therefore expected to be crowned any day and though some regarded her with suspicion, the citizens unconsciously prepared for it, and even perhaps for a wedding. Faramir, as newly appointed Steward, should have been informed. He should have been formally introduced to his future Queen, and he awaited this and dearly hoped he would like her. He found himself pondering and loosely planning the upcoming ceremony as all was pointing in that direction – except it never happened.

When the elves departed, Eldarion went with them and suddenly that was the end of that, and it all seemed like a dream or an odd piece of history that somehow lay outside reality. Tongues in the market were idle, and the City overflowed with rumours. Faramir had never asked Aragorn.

“I take it you don’t know anything more?” Damrod was pouring them both some more tea.

“No,” said Faramir, rousing himself enough to resume the battle with his breakfast. “Why are you so curious?”

Damrod flashed him a grin and leaned back in his chair. “It’s not me who’s housing a King!”

“Forget it,” said Faramir, “I, at least, am Steward. It really is nothing you should care about.”

Damrod’s grin only grew. “I am not Steward, no, so I am allowed to speculate.” He shoved the plate of eggs closer to Faramir. “Eat.”

The sun refused to break open the compact blanket of clouds that covered the sky. Faramir worked without inspiration and so did his fire. The woods were silent and unwilling to speak with him. The rage that had caused Faramir to scar the young birch had deeply disturbed the confidence they had for him. They would not prevent him from doing his job, but they would not aid him either.

Damrod had stayed for several hours, making sure he earned himself a large portion of the noon meal, and Faramir was pleased to have him around. When he married, which he probably would though his chosen lady’s father appeared to enjoy prolonging the courting process, Faramir suspected he would come less often.

A few times, Faramir had tried to picture himself as a married man, or even a father, but the fantasy immediately failed when he struggled to imagine what it would be like sleeping with a woman. He had known men – men his own father would have greatly despised – who swore that to lie down with a woman was a horror… But then, and this he knew all too well, there were men who would rather cut their throats than to lie with another man. Sometimes he wondered if women were the same, and if there were women who also preferred their own sex.

The house was quiet and some type of peace was drifting through it when Faramir stepped inside and shed his cloak and boots by the door. Aimlessly he wandered through the rooms, for the first time actually reflecting on the silence that seemed to inhabit the walls and furniture. And for the first time ever, he found it somewhat sad.

He came to stand by the large table in the dining hall. It was now cleared and showed no traces of either breakfast or noon meal. He ran his palm slowly across the smooth wooden surface as the daylight began to fade. He knew not what he wanted.

From an unknown source within, grief sprang up, and tears dimmed his vision. He let them fall as unwanted knowledge came to him: for such a long time it seemed, had he been convinced that this house, the silence it provided him with, and the connection he had to the land was enough, and that he really needed no more. He truly believed that he was happy and that by being strong and focusing on what needed to be done was good enough. If he were blessed with the good friendships of Damrod and Mablung, then that was a welcome gift. He rejoiced when they were happy, and he watched Mablung’s family life from a distance, telling himself not to be envious for he had no reason to be, and so he never was.

But tonight this house, no matter how much he loved it, was very, very quiet. And the night would be a dark one.

He gave a small sigh and self-consciously wiped away the tears from his eyes. Still he did not move but stood by the table as the mist swept over the grass and evening fell. He felt at loss and yet he could do nothing. Tears began to fall once more and his heart felt large and heavy in his breast. If it was this openness that so unexpectedly had grasped him, or if it was the will of the Gods that determined what happened next he could not say, but he jumped when he thought he spotted a shadow in the doorway.

Quickly running the back of his hand over his cheeks, his pulse began to race when Aragorn cautiously stepped inside the dining hall. The darkness hovered around him and he looked pale. Faramir swallowed down his emotions without much success. The foolish idea of running away suggested itself to him but he was unable to move. He felt beaten and worn out and could do nothing but stare as Aragorn slowly approached.

Dark shadows played in the corners and the blue shade of nightfall stretched out across the floor. The King kept his gaze trained on Faramir who could not understand his expression. He seemed so calm and it made the floor sway under his feet. Deeply embarrassed, Faramir felt new tears sting his eyes. When Aragorn came to stand before him, he was forced to turn and the edge of the table nudged his backside. The older man’s eyes shimmered in the darkness and Faramir felt all remaining energy seep out of him.

His last hope of staying strong died when Aragorn’s face was touched by a wave of gentleness. “I am sorry.”

Faramir slumped against the table and the tears ran down his face unchecked. His father’s words and Boromir’s silence mingled with the strong force of rejection.

“I am sorry,” whispered Aragorn and he lifted a hand to Faramir’s temple and brushed away a stray strand of hair. “I am sorry.”

This was a touch that Faramir could not handle and yet his entire being screamed for more. He shrank away from Aragorn’s hand but his breathing grew erratic and the first true sob shook his frame. Burning pain pierced his heart when he realised Aragorn would not go away. His fingers brushed his temple a second time and this time they did not leave. They gently began tracing a line down his cheek, spreading the moisture that wet Faramir’s beard. Aragorn’s eyes were still so gentle and that more than anything made Faramir’s vision hazy.

He leaned against the table for support, not able to trust his legs any longer. Sorrow welled up in a way he had never before known and Faramir could not stop it. His sobs filled the room and he wished he could be someplace else, someplace where he could be alone. But he was not alone and Aragorn would not disappear.

“Faramir,” sighed Aragorn and his name floated out into the dining hall, turning into an apology of some sorts. Arms wrapped around him and Aragorn held him loosely, obviously unsure of how to deal with his reaction.

Faramir, however, could produce no resistance. He melted into Aragorn’s embrace and was dazedly surprised at the sensation of comfort that he discovered there. For a little while, he felt secure and he closed his eyes.

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