Faramir Fiction Archive

Mist (R)

Written by Geale

30 September 2010 | 88324 words

My lovelies, I know you have been waiting but now the time has come: the infamous armchairs are back ;)

Chapter Five – Conversation

The day passed by – literally – in a reluctant cloud of smoke. The mist had lingered long into the hours of day and the dew was slow to dry and leave the grass to be heated by Anor’s weak light. Dismayed and weary, Faramir sighed at the smoking pile of twigs and leaves that he was trying to set on fire, knowing very well that the clouds looming in the western sky did not bring good news. He gave his smoking load a shove, but his boot only came away more soiled and no flames sprang up.

‘Come now..!’ He glanced around, more or less beseeching, but there was only a faint disinterest floating about.

He gave up when the first drops of rain, carried by a chill wind, fell to the trampled grass and efficiently killed all remnants of glowing embers. The weather changed quickly after that: the skies darkened and the falling raindrops grew heavier. Faramir, who had dressed with the previous days’ sunshine in mind, pulled his hood over his head and retreated.

The ground was greedily drinking of the rain in a way that seemed very strange considering the many inches of snow that had fallen last winter. Now and then, laughter echoed among the trees but Faramir heeded it not as he rushed towards the house. Rejoicing at this sudden change was not his greatest priority as his boots sunk down in the soft soil that was transforming into mud. His hands grew cold instantly and the winds threw themselves at him most callously.

The race to shelter was a short one, though. But no more had he stepped inside before a roll of thunder drowned out the singing of the rain.

He toed off his boots and left them by the doors. His light cloak was soaked through and he left that one too by the entrance to dry. He was not one to leave his belongings scattered about his house – he knew he could be orderly beyond reason – but carrying a dripping cloak all the way to his chambers would do the floors no good. Raking a hand through his hair, he went in search of a basin of warm water.

It became difficult to tell the time. Afternoon blended with early evening slowly but gradually. The house was quiet.

There were many questions that Faramir could ask himself as he sat staring into the fire in the small sitting-room next to the dining hall. And not only could he ask what his heart was silently dwelling on, but here also was the chance to pose questions to the world around him – to any powers willing to listen and give advice.

He sat perfectly still, in front of the fire. Ironic really, considering his fruitless attempts at starting one in the woods before. The rain fell incessantly and persistently.

Issues such as power.

What powers did a neglected son of a cunning man possess?

Faramir knew more about his father than Denethor would have wanted. During those days of oppression and Darkness, the people of the White City saw the strange lights that at times glowed within the Steward’s walls, coming from some remote chamber, high up in the Tower. It was not the light of hope that glimmered, indeed not. It filled the hearts of many with an eerie feeling of discomfort and dread.

Faramir knew it – he had seen it, felt it.

He could not tell what caused that light, only that it etched lines into his father’s face and made him suspicious and mistrustful, capricious and dangerous. It made him powerful – and those around him weaker.

His own power was nothing to his father’s. It did not transform his eyes into shining orbs of ice cold steel, and his influence over other people did not increase, even though it mingled with his blood just as perfectly as his father’s did in him.

Maybe if he had been similar to Denethor, he would have been loved.

The irony was of course plainly visible. Boromir, the adored first born, knew naught of these things. He was a warrior through and through, a man who better understood the ways of the dancing sword than those of the meddling mind. Still Faramir loved him, and his passing had grieved him for Boromir was a man of worth, and a proud citizen of Gondor.

Gondor, who cried for her lost son for many nights and the rain wet the white stone of the Tower.

Faramir did not turn to his father then, knowing that he would be met with disdain. And he knew it should not be so, but a part of him blamed Boromir for being so cherished and precious.

His power never suggested that he should avenge his own childhood, and it never sought to challenge Denethor. It simply waited for the time when Faramir could succumb to it and in doing so, grow stronger. That time had come some five years ago and now he was here, happier but still without the love he admitted he longed for. Love for another man, that was, as much of his love was already given to those that were unseen.

His musings so enchanted him that he did not notice he was no longer alone. The call of a low voice brought him out of his musings and confused he looked up.

“Faramir?” Aragorn was standing by his chair and there was a softness in his features that was new. “Forgive me, I seem to interrupt you always.”

Faramir shook his head, letting images of old flee his mind. “No,” he said slowly as another wave of rain crashed against the window-glass. “You are not interrupting.”

A soft smile crossed Aragorn’s features. “You were deep in thought, I could see that, but I confess to being a little lonely… And I thought perhaps you could offer me some company.”

He still spoke with such care, choosing his words well and keeping his voice down. Faramir could not remember when, or if, he had ever seen him like this, ever before. He suddenly felt words coming to him that he had not found appropriate to utter yesterday.

“My lord, I am not asking you to tell me the purpose of your visit, but I would be grateful to know to which extent you wish to be left alone.”

Aragorn’s smile faltered a little and his shoulders dropped. “I am sorry…” He glanced at the armchair beside Faramir’s. “May I?”

“Of course.”

Sinking down into his seat, Aragorn sighed. “I should have dealt with this smoother, I know that. I wished to come away from the City for many reasons… I am not sure I am suited well for kingship, but I will not burden you with this.” He paused and met Faramir’s gaze, and there was earnestness in that look. “I miss the woodlands and… I find that there are few whose company I enjoy in Minas Tirith. Do not misunderstand me, Faramir, for you are a son of that place, but its walls hold not much…”

“Warmth,” concluded Faramir, giving a small smile. “You may say whatever you wish, Aragorn.”

Perhaps he would have taken it back, but the usage of Aragorn’s real name instead of any title seemed to please him. Faramir bit back the excuse that was to immediately follow the slip.

“It is long now since I left Minas Tirith for Ithilien. I love the people but not the city they dwell in,” he said instead, searching Aragorn’s face for any delayed disapproval.

The other man, however, displayed none of this. He nodded thoughtfully, his dark hair catching the light of the fire and gleaming in the dark evening. Faramir idly wondered if it was soft to the touch, only partly aware that that was probably not a proper thought.

When Aragorn spoke next, he did it with even more care. “I knew not you lived alone…”

There was an underlying question in his words and Faramir hesitated, unsure of how much to tell. “Yes,” he said. “For some time Damrod – you may remember him from the War – dwelt here as well, aiding in the work and such, but now he has found both a home and a woman to love and so I am by myself.”

“A Ranger was he not?” Aragorn queried and Faramir confirmed it with a nod.

Inevitably though, Faramir’s words would lead Aragorn to wonder at something else, but he could not have spoken differently and remained faithful to the truth.

Aragorn smiled suddenly. It was not the bright smile Faramir knew from years before, but a more sombre version, almost bordering on apologetic.

“And you, Faramir? You have a beautiful home but have found no woman to love?”

He made it sound so very strange and Faramir shifted uncomfortably; he had devoted much time to his house, creating that which he had missed during his childhood. Love came not as easily.

There was a choice before him now. Drawing a deep breath, he felt again the exhaustion that was the result of hiding one’s true identity settling on his shoulders. At some point enough was enough, surely?

“No, and it is highly unlikely I ever will,” he said, looking into the fire. “In fact, I can safely say that will never happen.”

He waited. Aragorn did not reply at once and he refused to speculate as to why.

“You are telling me that you fall not for women.” It was a statement spoken softly, not a question.

Faramir nodded. “It is so. I prefer men as partners, lovers…” His cheeks warmed slightly at the last word.

“Exclusively?”

He forced himself to look at Aragorn. The King was regarding him calmly and he appeared neither angry nor disgusted.

“Yea, exclusively,” he said, still nervous but feeling lighter and a bit proud of himself too for not telling any of the lies that so easily slipped from his lips by habit.

“I see.” Aragorn’s grey eyes did not leave him and they held him kindly almost. “I did not mean to pry Faramir, I am sorry.”

At this, the younger man could not help but smile. “You must stop apologising constantly, my lord.”

He was met with such a surprising sound that he was truly shocked. Aragorn’s laughter was warm and genuine.

“Perhaps you are right. Listen, by coming here I did not mean to intrude too much upon your privacy, Faramir, but I mean what I said earlier: I seek some company and though I crave some time alone also, I should very much like to spend time with you.”

And so for the first time since he received Aragorn’s letter, Faramir felt at ease with the situation. “You are most welcome, Aragorn.”

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