Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

Chapter Thirty-One – Reactions

Tuilë 48

It was nearing late afternoon when Faramir, wading through the undergrowth, finally drew closer to the house. He had taken his time, dragging fingertips over rippled bark, rubbing the leaves of some herb to let loose its scent in the shimmering daylight… telling himself he was making up for time spent elsewhere, reaffirming his vows to his land… walking in circles, dreading the moment he would stand face to face with Eldarion.

For that was the true reason for why he, at every opportunity handed him – and they were many, the land saw to that – took the longer paths that wound through the trees and groves like lost threads in a large tapestry.

The sunlight was hazy, as if the mist had decided to stay the day too. This made it difficult to tell the time for however much he searched the patches of clear sky above, he could not spot the sun itself. But the immediate dampness was mostly gone and his leather jerkin dry.

He wondered what Eldarion thought of him now; another man had gained his father’s love when the son was convinced he himself had not earned it. And Faramir felt guilty for this, but also because he had not wholly trusted Aragorn the night before when the older man had said that he would speak to Eldarion after they had breakfasted. It seemed not long since Aragorn, wearied and haggard, had slid from his horse and requested shelter from what ailed him, though he had not put it like that, of course. And now, when the waxing moon was only a few days from full, he would tell his son that he loved Faramir?

There was some insistent whispering among the leaves but Faramir had the distinct impression these dealings of the woods did not concern him. He had longed for comfort after a night spent alone but found that he only missed Aragorn more. The older man, conflicted by his self-appointed task, had wished to sleep in his own chambers, to ponder and choose his words, to gather courage. Faramir had let him go, agreeing it was probably for the best, though his heart had clenched at the decision.

He listened half heartedly to the murmurings around him and faintly entertained the idea that his land might have grown weary of him and was managing on its own. Of what use was a guardian whose heart and mind were so full of other matters that he almost forgot where his true allegiance lay? Perhaps Minas Tirith would be kinder to him now…

A chill rushed through the woods but stirred no leaf. Nevertheless, it seeped through Faramir’s clothes and icy fingers ran down down his spine. With his skin prickling, and his breath catching, he hastened to silently offer his apologies. After a little while the whispering stopped and all grew silent.

‘A solution?’

He sent the thought forth, and he willed the chill away from his body and wished he were a leaf himself so that he could easier soak up the sunlight.

‘A compromise?’

Silence reigned for yet some time and he stood still beside an overgrown hazel. Then, from somewhere far away, came a shrill cry of a bird and time moved anew. But no one spoke to him; all spirits were busy, frantically trying to make the best out of his still formless offer.

Faramir let out a long breath and suddenly the trees seemed to part in front of him and he caught a glimpse of his house. He could avoid this no longer, however much he would have liked to, knowing that the confrontation should come sooner rather than later. With a heart steadily growing impossibly heavy, Faramir reluctantly made for the edge of the woods.

“Hey!”

He jerked at the call and looked up. Damrod was hurrying towards him from the house. He was dressed pretty much like Faramir himself.

“I’ve been looking for you!” The dark-haired man flashed at grin but it did not reach his eyes, and despite that grin there was a trace of a harshness in his voice that Faramir had not heard for many long years. But before he had time to sort this out, Damrod clasped his shoulder in a semblance of a hasty warrior’s greeting and then leaned in close. “Do you know that you’re housin’ that elf-Lady? And the Prince?”

Somewhat sidetracked, Faramir turned back towards the trees and dragged his friend with him. “Yes, I do happen to know that. Good day to you too.”

Damrod grunted a reply but he was tense and the grin had now completely faded. “And you don’t find that just a wee bit strange?” He spoke in a hushed whisper but the words rushed out of him in great haste.

“It is… working out,” said Faramir, secretly praying it was truly so.

Damrod’s grey eyes were burning with curiosity but the brightness was kept at bay by the accompanying …worry? Faramir could not name whatever it was that flickered across his friend’s face.

“You are crazy. This is madness.” Damrod, suddenly the commander now, steered Faramir in behind a group of low-growing rowan-trees and spoke with much discomfort. “Tell me, I order you – as your friend – to tell me: did I or did I not see you and the King share a… moment that morning, you know?”

“What?” Confused and tempted to jest, or lies, or anything that might ally his friend’s anxiety and buy himself some time, Faramir opened his mouth to deny, but found he could not. He dropped his gaze to the ground and swallowed. He wished he could disappear into the thick grass which twined about the trees’ roots.

“Aye…”

“Faramir–”

“I know, alright?” He looked up into Damrod’s face. “I know how it must look to you…”

“Oh, you do?” The former Ranger raised his eyebrows and his voice acquired a faint but dangerous edge. “Really?” He shook his head frantically. “I know you seek love, Faramir, though you’ve never said as much aloud, an’ may the Gods grant you your wish, but… the King? And now you’re housing his son and the Lady herself? Does she know? Or are you sneakin’ around late at night– “ He bit back his words at the very last moment and all Faramir could do was to stare at him in disbelief.

But Damrod did not pause for an answer even if Faramir had been capable of one; he seemed to grow angrier instead. “So you’re involved with him, and what – you’re gonna go packin’ and do you think the City’ll be nicer to you this time around?!” He spat the last words out. “You think they’re all suddenly so full of acceptance, huh? I’ll tell you nothing’s changed! Nothing!”

Nailed to the ground by the blazing glare, any retort that Faramir might have wanted to make stuck in his throat. Tears stung his eyes as he absorbed Damrod’s words. The air shimmered no more and nothing around him backed him up. Silence hung between them in heavy, dead folds.

“I know,” he whispered at last, pain breaking through the numbness. “I know…” And he turned away and left Damrod among the trees, walking without knowing where he placed his feet towards the house.

His tears ran unchecked down his cheeks and his mind was blank; there was no stirring emotion, only that searing pain twisting his heart into a foreign object in his breast. Pain for an impossible hope, a friend angered, and more he could not name.

He was only a few feet away from the steps leading up to the entrance when he realised that he was not alone. Two figures, blurred by his tears, were seated on the stone but at the sight of him one of them rose and quickly came towards him, one hand outstretched.

“Faramir?” Aragorn’s soft voice wrapped around him like the warmth of a fire on a cold winter’s night. “What is the matter?”

Desperately needing that comfort, Faramir instinctively accepted the hand clasping one of his. He tried to blink away his tears and breathe evenly and when the world once more cleared before him he saw that Aragorn’s eyes were full of concern, and the older man drew Faramir close to him.

“Speak to me,” he urged quietly. “Has something–”

“No,” Faramir shook his head and melted into the embrace. He dropped his head to Aragorn’s shoulder and wished everything else far, far away. “Damrod found me and…” his words died in his throat as he laid eyes on the other figure on the stone steps. “Eldarion,” he whispered.

Aragorn stiffened and the embrace turned into an awkward arrangement of two bodies. Faramir felt an uncompromising heat rise in his cheeks as they drew apart. The boy was regarding them with wide eyes, as if he did not trust his own vision. Faramir did not know he had moved before he stood in front of Eldarion and dazedly watched Aragorn sink down to sit beside his son, and fear flipped his stomach over.

“Is something the matter, lord Faramir?” Eldarion’s voice was devoid of all confidence and Faramir silently cursed himself for nor speaking first.

“Well,” he said through the nervous pounding of his heart, “I quarrelled with an old friend… for the very first time.” He could feel Aragorn’s searching gaze on him but he ignored it and dropped down onto the stone, he too, crouching more or less at Eldarion’s feet. The boy was staring at him as if he were a horse with six legs.

“Faramir…” Aragorn did not reach out for him but that was just as well for the younger man had no idea how to behave in this moment. “I have spoken to my son… and he knows,” he made a brief pause and swallowed, “of our love.”

The last word, rich and promising, threatening and challenging, choked Faramir into silence when he should have replied.

“It seems a strange thing,” Eldarion mumbled, lowering his gaze to stare at his own knees. “I did not know…”

Only last night they had shared a meal in the gardens and the Steward and the King had seated themselves opposite each other, not touching once. Faramir could grasp some of the enormous surprise Eldarion must have felt at the revelation and a sudden wave of compassion somewhat dragged him out of his dazed state.

“This came upon us too as a surprise,” he said slowly. “I would never have dreamed of…” He fought for words, but Eldarion nodded.

“Father said so too.” He did not look at Aragorn but kept his gaze firmly trained on his knees.

“Eldarion,” Faramir decided to forego any titles that only seemed cruel to use now and leaned forward just a fraction, “I will not take your father away from you.” Too late did he understand how this might sound and he was ready to bite off his tongue. Father and son were already so distanced that he grimly suspected a lover probably did not make much difference.

But Aragorn grasped at the opportunity and moved a little closer to Eldarion and hesitantly put an arm around his shoulders. The boy froze, completely unaccustomed, and unsure how, to respond to such a display of affection.

“I love you, ion³,” Aragorn said and his voice was not steady but it was clear. He pressed a kiss into the dark curls and closed his eyes. “I always have and I always will.”

For an awful moment, Faramir thought Eldarion would break free in anguish and rage, but then all air seemed to go out of him and he crumpled against his father and clutched at him like a frightened toddler woken by nightmares. Aragorn’s arms went around him and crushed him to his chest. Faramir blinked away new tears even as Aragorn cried openly, repeating his words over and over again in muffled whispers.

Eventually, Eldarion pulled free and though his curls shielded much of his face from view, Faramir had no trouble spotting the puffy, red-rimmed eyes and the wet streaks on his cheeks.

Suddenly hesitant, Faramir did not know if he ought to leave them alone to talk or if he should stay and answer any questions Eldarion might have for him. He shifted uneasily on the stone and so caught Aragorn’s attention. The older man looked wearied and his eyes were still shining with liquid silver, but Faramir thought he had never looked happier. And of this he could not be jealous. He tried a small smile but Aragorn’s eyes only shone brighter. Unable to hold back, Faramir laid a hand on Aragorn’s knee, sensing how easy it was too let their energy mingle now that the walls were cast down fully.

Eldarion, of course, was not blind to this and Faramir cleared his throat before he turned to him. The boy was observing the simple touch but he looked up when Faramir spoke, “You will always be welcome here,” he promised, “never doubt that.”

Eldarion frowned slightly but then his face cleared a little and he nodded. “Naneth – mother – will be leaving…”

Faramir turned to Aragorn in silent inquiry. For Arwen to be sailing so soon was truly madness if nothing else was, and he felt anger flash through him. But Aragorn did not look so troubled.

“While Eldarion and I ride to Minas Tirith, she will continue on to visit Legolas and those of his kin who dwell here in Ithilien also,” the King clarified.

“Oh,” said Faramir for he could momentarily think of nothing else. Just as quickly as anger had come upon him, relief and then sorrow replaced it. He tried to sound neutral when he spoke, “When do you ride?”

“As soon as the Road is mended,” said Aragorn softly. His hand covered Faramir’s. “I fear I am needed in the White Tower…”

Faramir swallowed down the wave of despair that rose in him. He produced a faint smile for Eldarion. “And you shall plant the saplings from Rivendell.”

“Yes,” the boy said simply, his gaze automatically drifting to the hands that lay touching upon his father’s knee.

“I think it will do the City good,” said Faramir, pressing on despite everything. “I am told much there has not changed but has stayed the same…”

He met Aragorn’s eyes as he spoke that last part and the older man gave his hand a gentle squeeze. “I would like to change that.”

Faramir looked down at their joined hands and nodded slowly. “Me too,” he said. “Me too.”

³ Ion – son

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