Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Two – Visitors

The company was not a large one. No more than five riders were approaching him and their horses were not laden with much luggage. Faramir had alerted the stable boys and they were fidgeting nervously behind him, never before having been asked to attend such dignified guests. Or ‘guest’, more likely by the look of it.

His gaze wandered and settled on the oak by the gate. It was an old tree with plenty of dead branches that had refused to fall to the ground even when the harshest winter winds were blowing. Despite its somewhat miserable appearance the oak proudly towered above the gate, faithfully fulfilling its duty as guardian.

Faramir sent it a small smile and silently vowed to remember to care for it better. A patch of sunlight found its way into the branches as settled there and to Faramir it seemed like the extra weight was enough for suddenly a few twigs loosened their grip and fell gently to the ground. With a sigh the oak let go and the message was not lost on Faramir.

The first rider reined in his horse, a brown mare, before the gate and easily slid to the ground. It was a middle-aged man with piercing blue eyes that had seen too many treacheries to trust another living being at once. He surveyed Faramir for a moment or two before he spoke in a voice completely owned by authority.

“King Elessar seeks to enter the house of the Steward of Gondor.”

Faramir could not help it if his eyes strayed to the King himself, now in plain view atop his own horse. He had not seen Aragorn for nearly two years but if the man had not changed fundamentally this ridiculous display of protocol would bother him as much as it did Faramir.

But by what he saw and sensed Faramir was slightly taken aback. There were creases of worry lining the King’s forehead and though his hair was still as dark as ever and his shoulders broad and strong, there was a despondency in his features that was entirely new to Faramir. His eyes were downcast, and his face almost ashen. Faramir would have frowned if he had not been watched by the other riders who were now filling the courtyard.

“You are welcome.” He addressed what he supposed was the herald. “Leave your horses here and they shall be seen to. Then you shall be shown to your rooms and there you may refresh yourselves.”

The herald gave him another intense stare and for a second or two, Faramir was sure he would draw his sword, but then he nodded and turned to the King. Aragorn was speaking in hushed tones to his horse that Faramir immediately recognised as Roheryn, the same beast that Aragorn had used in the War. Only when the herald approached him did he look up and Faramir was once again struck by the exhaustion that flowed from Aragorn’s form. He stood perfectly still and waited.

A faint breeze stole across the courtyard as Aragorn left his horse’s side and started to walk towards Faramir. The air shifted a bit around him and the clear sunlight suddenly seemed less brilliant as he remembered the mist that for many nights now had invaded Ithilien. He hoped Damrod was doing a good job over by the fire or some of that mist would undoubtedly wet the grass and make it more difficult for him to persuade the flames to consume it.

“My lord.” He bowed to Aragorn who now stepped up to him.

“Faramir.” The King’s voice was low, lacking in mirth and strength. “I am afraid I have come to abuse your hospitality.”

His herald was standing right behind him, still with his eyes trained on Faramir.

“You are welcome,” repeated Faramir as he could not think of much else to say. It was rare these days that he was looked at with such suspicion and it was most uncomfortable. If he was not careful it could bring back memories he had successfully evaded for the past five or six years. “The house of the Steward is always open to the King of Gondor.” He tried a smile and was happy to note that his head was not hewn for it.

Aragorn nodded. “Thank you.”

They strode to the house in silence. Faramir led the way and Aragorn followed him without hesitancy; all the while the shadow of the herald was looming over them both. They walked up the short flight of stairs leading to the double doors that made up the entrance. The sun was warming the stone steps and a random thought crossed Faramir’s mind. Someday, when all was back to normal and the weather was warmer he would not mind having lunch on those very steps. There was no point in eating indoors when one could enjoy the sunshine.

“The house is not very large,” he found himself saying when they were inside the entrance hall.

Curtains and rugs were washed and through the windows streamed the sunlight. Faramir had made sure that his home in no way resembled the White Tower and his father’s halls as he remembered them. Where the walls of the Tower consisted of stone, Faramir had chosen wooden panels, and if Denethor’s chambers had been eerily empty, his son had carefully chosen fabrics and tapestries that gave the rooms a warmer tone.

He turned to Aragorn with mixed feelings. He was proud of what he had created, but he also understood that it was not the ideal residence for a King. Still, it was his home and he was no King – and he was happy here.

Aragorn was studying the wooden panels with some interest. “I recognise this…”

“From Edoras,” Faramir smiled. “I was telling Éomer of my plans and a few months later he sent me a set of panels. The same carvings can be found randomly throughout the house. I decided to not group them together.”

“They are beautiful.” Aragorn turned to him and Faramir spotted the thin veil that lay over the grey eyes, hindering any sparkle from breaking through.

He was well aware of the herald standing grim and silent beside them. He was also well aware of the peculiar power that Aragorn’s gaze carried, be it veiled or not. And he was all too well aware of the thrill that sped through him whilst being held by that gaze.

Very briefly, he was tempted to acknowledge it too much, but managed to quench that desire almost at once. Aragorn had always been handsome and Faramir admitted – at least to himself – that at times he had felt drawn to him. He held much love for the King, but so much of that love was rooted in respect that he was not sure it could be called love at all.

Giving himself a mental shake, Faramir smiled. “I will show you to your room, my lord.”

The herald, finally introduced to Faramir as Beriand, followed them closely, making absolute sure he knew which room the King would use during his visit. His grim presence was deeply unnerving and Faramir rather nervously opened the door to Aragorn’s bedchamber, grateful that he had inspected the cleaning himself that morning.

A large bed with an intricately embroidered bedspread took up most of the space, but was accompanied by a bedside table and a closet. Faramir had considered trying to squeeze in a desk too, but had given up on the idea when he realised that was impossible. However, he hoped the newly finished adjacent bath chamber made up for this.

Aragorn surveyed his temporary lodgings and to Faramir’s relief his face softened noticeably.

“This is perfect,” he said simply, still in that low voice. “Beriand, you may leave us now.”

The herald looked like would rather stay exactly where he was, but he bowed and silently edged towards the door.

“Shall I accompany you?” His voice sounded more strained than he would have liked, but Faramir could not help it.

Beriand’s eyes narrowed slightly. “I remember the way back,” he stated and then said no more.

Faramir watched him leave and with a sinking feeling wondered how all this was going to work out.

“Worry not.”

Aragorn had sunk down upon the bed and his cloak lay by his side. His tunic and breeches were well-worn and his boots dusty. “He is protective… A fine guard. But generally very distrustful. My men will not be staying, though.”

Surprised, Faramir frowned, but was given no time to ask questions, for Aragorn spoke again:

“Forgive me, Faramir if that was still your impression. The matter was settled during our ride hither. I hope it does not cause you too much trouble?”

Faramir shook his head. Truly, this seemed easier, and at least no Beriand would watch his every step. “The rooms were cleaned,” he smiled. “That was just as well, I suppose.” Then his curiosity got the better of him. “My lord, are you alright?”

A frail half-smile briefly crossed Aragorn’s lips. “I am in need of some rest,” he confessed, which in itself was unusual since the King of Gondor rarely displayed his own weaknesses. “I hope to find it here.”

“I am sure you will,” said Faramir, forbidding himself to ask any further questions. It was not his place to question the King and if Aragorn wished to tell him he would do so when he deemed the time was right. “I’ll leave you now so you may settle in.”

Aragorn nodded slowly but then caught Faramir’s gaze. Grey eyes held him, in a strange way let him know he was seen, that what he had done was appreciated.

Open.

Faramir opened up once more, tentatively exploring the air between them. He held his breath and sensed tension that was more comfortable than uncomfortable; the energy that he found now surrounding them did not disturb him and he was content.

He drew a long breath and smiled. “I hope your stay in Emyn Arnen will be pleasant, my lord.”

Aragorn did not move and his voice wafted through the room in the form of a whisper. “Thank you, Faramir.”

And so it began.

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