Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter One – Introduction

The mornings were still chilly. In the early hours of dawn, a whitish daylight sifted through the trees and climbed up the hills of Emyn Arnen; it made the dewdrops glisten and embraced cold, tiny buds and naked roots and stems. Gradually, as Anor rose in the East, the light grew milder, more golden, until it matched the sun’s rays perfectly and the unison was complete. The soil that lay hidden beneath long, half withered grass and the weight of last autumn’s fallen leaves was wet after the long winter, soaked through with the water that had once been swirling snow. Few clouds had graced the skies over central Ithilien for the past weeks and because of this the land was steadily drying up. Steadily but slowly, for this land did no one else’s bidding – it was its own master, and few were those who were allowed to reshape it.

But reshape it did, and already fresh green grass could be sighted by those who were meant to.

Emyn Arnen, central Ithilien

Tuilë 28, IV 5

Unseen by any other eyes than perhaps those of beings usually ignored or long forgotten, Faramir wound his way through the undergrowth. The morning was bright and clear, and already the promising warmth of a fine spring day was fingering the air. He had not risen very early – a small indulgence he reckoned he deserved – but was now washed and dressed, heading for a small grove not far from his house. All around him, spread out in a wide circle that encompassed nearly all of Emyn Arnen were his people, already hard at work. Many of them were former Rangers, some former citizens of Minas Tirith across Anduin, and others had come from other lands to join them.

His people. The mere thought disturbed him slightly, insinuating that he was somehow their leader in these times of peace and prosperity. It had been different during the War and the years preceding it when he had been a Steward’s son and Captain of the Rangers. That was more… normal. These days, the free folk of Gondor hardly needed any other leader besides the King. Yet he had realised after some time that the people of Ithilien indeed looked upon him as Captain still, and apparently he had no say in the matter.

A quiet but sparkling laughter rang out from behind a young birch-tree, causing Faramir to smile reluctantly. He shot a glance to his right but saw nothing out of the ordinary and thus continued to walk. His smile grew and he shook his head, knowing well that his ponderings were useless for things were not going to change this spring – and not the next, and probably not the one after that either.

His heart felt strangely light in his breast and as he approached the grove, it opened up completely to welcome the new life that stirred in the woods. The small clearing needed to be tended to. Dry leaves covered the ground and young – very young – saplings were eagerly reaching for the sky. He would need to shorten some of their slender branches to encourage the aspiring trees to become more broad than tall…

‘Broad?’

He raised his eyebrows, questioning the doubtful tone. Yes, it would further hide the grove from unwanted intruders and let him work in peace.

He detected a huff in the atmosphere around him, but he only gave a wry smile. After all, he was the one with the knife.

Faramir sank down to his knees in front of a stone, about five inches high and with a flat surface. Both of his hands could easily cover it and its colour was a dusty grey. He placed his palm against it, and slowly exhaled, searching for any sign of living energy. The stone’s surface was still ice cold and would remain so until the sun’s rays hit it and the air grew warmer. Faramir withdrew his hand and produced a small sewing needle he had fastened in his cloak before leaving the house. With naturalness he pricked his left forefinger and forced a heavy drop of dark red blood to form on his skin. Then, without hesitation, he smeared the blood onto the stone, once again a little surprised by the stickiness of the liquid so full of life force. He watched as it quickly dried, silently wording his prayer for the lands that he was set to govern.

He would have to cut down trees, disturb the way the branches interwove, tear at stubborn roots and burn shrivelled leaves. As he would rob the lands of some of their own treasures, he hoped his offering would be accepted in return.

The blood-offering, the ultimate gift. The first of the season.

For seemingly no reason at all he suddenly smiled.

It was done.

Smoke rose towards the clear blue sky and added a spicy scent to the fresh spring air. How many wood-fires that were burning in Emyn Arnen this day, Faramir could not say, but during the next three weeks, flames would be licking wood from morning till sundown. This was the burning season, the days of fire and the time of year when all remnants of last year’s greenery were transformed into ashes. It was also an excellent way of keeping the wildest growth at bay; it might seem cruel to burn the tall grass and thorny wild roses, but the truth was that if they did nothing, the roses would tangle in the grass and so create an impenetrable barrier, making it quite impossible to tend to the lands properly in the long run.

Faramir gave his own smoking fire a shove of his booted foot. The additional air that immediately seeped in amongst the ashes and embers gave the fire some new inspiration and soon the driest leaves were assaulted by the flames. From an enormous pile beside him, he reached for a new armful of twigs and twisted birch stems, throwing them onto the fire. Pleased, he watched as the fire greedily devoured them and crackled cheerfully. This was what he was meant to be doing. He lifted his gaze to his surroundings. This was his place in Middle-earth, this was where he belonged.

His house, large but not overly so – and certainly not a work of ostentation – was visible through the trees; he was more or less working in his own gardens, except that the ‘gardens’ in this case somewhat resembled a forest. Last year he had travelled further south and stayed there for two weeks, but this time he was forced to stay close to home.

Probably it was a good thing. Visitors usually raised an eyebrow when they spotted these wild parts of his grounds, silently wondering how it was possible to leave a patch so close to the main house in such a state – when the rest was so well tended to. If they did not ask, Faramir did not explain. And, to tell the truth, sometimes he did not explain even if they asked.

The fire was calming down and so he added more leaves from another pile. He had worked hard during the past week, gathering together much of what was meant to be burned. There was always more of course, but one had to begin somewhere. This year they were lucky as no rain had drenched the lands and therefore the fuel was dry.

The flames sprang up again and Faramir settled in for a long ride. This was only the first day of many and he hoped that the request in the letter he had received over two weeks ago would not disrupt the routine. He had agreed of course and sent word back to Minas Tirith at once. It did not do to object.

His thoughts were interrupted as a rustling sound was heard. A few moments later, Damrod stepped out from behind a tall fir-tree and greeted him with a bright smile.

“All well?”

Faramir grinned. “Have you come to make sure I do not set the house on fire?”

His friend glanced suspiciously at him. He was clad in high boots and a thick woollen tunic of a green shade so dark that it looked almost black. His hair was longer now and tied back with a strip of leather; these days he even shaved regularly. “I’m sure hoping you will not!” “I might still have a bundle or two in there that is mine, you know.”

“Hah!” cried Faramir. “My friend, I find it very hard to believe that you are truly concerned about your belongings these days…”

The smile that was still painted across Damrod’s features turned more blissful and distinctly sappy. “She’s perfectly lovely,” he said dreamily. “Did I show you the letter she sent me?”

Faramir rolled his eyes. He had known Damrod for nearly twenty years so undoubtedly it was his right. However, he could not help but smile at his friend’s infatuation with the young woman he had met not two moons ago.

“Yes, you did. But I am afraid I cannot decide whether it is sweet or mad that you should write each other when you live but a half-hour apart. The roads are good and you could ride to her father’s house in no time at all, I am sure.”

Damrod was not the least dismayed by his words, he only waved a hand dismissively in Faramir’s direction. “You wouldn’t know what ‘tis to be loved by such a lovely maiden.”

Faramir nearly burst out laughing. “No indeed, I would not!” He shook his head animatedly. “I shall leave it to you to explore such wonders.”

His friend winked at him but then seemed to rouse himself. “Well. In any case I’m not here to ensure you are not setting your own house aflame. It’s nearing noon and I’m come to relieve you.”

“Right.” Faramir nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “‘Tis best I get ready.”

Damrod reached for a straight, smooth branch Faramir used for prodding the fire. He gave the smoking pile a light shove and had it going once more.

“What do you reckon it’ll be like?” he asked thoughtfully. “You know… considering the rumours…”

“Honestly, I know not.” Faramir picked up a handful of dry leaves and offered them to the flames. “We shall have to wait and see, I suppose. But I never gave much for gossip.”

“Yea.”

They stood in silence for a while, letting the birdsong and the wheezing of the fire fill the air.

“Oh, well,” said Faramir at last. “I am off now. I shall see you later.”

“Good luck!” Damrod gave him an encouraging smile. “Don’t forget to wash!”

“Mind the house!” Faramir called over his shoulder as he strode away.

He was more unwilling to leave than he wanted to admit, even to himself. He dove underneath a low-hanging branch, coming closer, and knowing far too well that he would much rather have stayed by the fire.

Twenty minutes later he was standing by the gate, watching the company of riders drawing nearer. He drew a long deep breath and squared his shoulders. While in the woods it was so easy to forget that this was part of his duties too.

Note:

Tuilë – the Elvish season that lay between modern 29 March and 21 May.

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