Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: In the Age of Men (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Part 3 – That Which the White Wizard Knew

Long before he was sent to train with the rangers of Ithilien, Faramir knew he had been the less favored of his father’s sons. Denethor could not grasp his younger child’s bookish, mild, and soft-spoken temperament, and he certainly could not fathom the boy’s hero-worship of the conjuror/troublemaker Gandalf the Gray. He thought the boy wasted his time following the wizard around, speaking of legend and lore that would bring no one any good.

Faramir had been thoughtful while his brother, Boromir, had been a man of action. Nevertheless, Boromir had understood his little brother better and he had loved him. He had disliked his father’s treatment of Faramir and had often protested the belittlement.

Faramir remembered the last time Boromir had broached the subject with Denethor. It had been just before he had left for Rivendell. Faramir had listened secretly behind a closed door.

“You do him injury to say such to his very face,” Boromir had told his father.

“I have never lied to either of you and I shall not start now to spare his weakness.”

“Faramir is stronger than you know!”

“Your brother was made up of all that is soft and useless of our lineage. He has no head for decisions and ponders when action needs to be applied. And to add to his worthlessness, he is not even viable to wed for an alliance. A lover of men will never produce an heir.”

“He is good and he is loyal,” Boromir had argued fruitlessly. “…and he loves and serves you.”

“Do not be so certain,” Denethor had replied in a soft but heated tone. “He serves me to serve you. I know where his loyalties lie. They lie in the brother that he uses like a mother; someone to hide behind when the storm becomes too dark and wild. He will have to learn to stand on his own to prove his worth to me.”

“And he will, my lord,” Boromir had replied with confidence.

It had not been enough. No words or deeds would have ever been enough.

“I find you yet again within your own thoughts,” Gandalf said as he walked up to Faramir.

The day had proved mild, and it was Éowyn’s wish that it be reserved for leisure. Tomorrow the festivities would continue with a great tournament. There were to be horse races and sparring. There was even to be a poetry contest in which the horse lords would compose many a strong and florid verse about life, war, service and freedom. It promised to be a spectacle.

“I fear I cannot escape them,” Faramir replied as he looked to the white wizard.

Gandalf stood by his side. Together they looked down at the lower town of Edoras and beyond.

“Éowyn was wise to grant this day of ease,” Gandalf said. “Often men are too eager to rush into the celebration. They forget why they have come. A moment of peace, a day of thought is good to refresh the memory of ills well cured.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed. Gandalf was correct. This peace, this silence was hard fought and won. This day when men could sleep with fewer cares, napping in the sunshine of the new day of a good Queen, was fine. Tomorrow they would kick up their heels again and celebrate with refreshed vigor.

“She spoke with you this morn?” Gandalf asked.

“Yes,”

“Hm,” was Gandalf’s reply.

“I do believe that the Queen of Rohan would see me make company with her brother,” Faramir said lightly.

“Éomer is not an easy man,” Gandalf said.

“Those words have been said to me before,” Faramir replied.

“No doubt by Éowyn herself,” Gandalf said as he smiled.

“I know little about the man. He avoids my company.”

“Éomer can make himself scarce when manners allow, but he is not a coward. I’m sure that if you approach him, he will surely renew his acquaintance.”

“I had hoped that he would find me,” Faramir admitted.

“Someone must make a move,” Gandalf said in an amused tone.

“I feel like I’m being matched,” Faramir replied in a shrewd but amused voice.

Gandalf turned his face back out to the bright day and the pleasant town below. “Perhaps you are, Prince of Ithilien.”

“As always, you know more than you are willing to yield.”

Gandalf chuckled.

The following day of tournament and sport ended with a feast, and the long-awaited verse of the warriors. The Rohirrim prided themselves on the majestic tongues of their warrior poets. Creating beauty was valued among the fierce horse lords as much as valor and being battle hardened practitioners of warfare.

The food was served and the drinks flowed in the Golden Hall as each honored horse lord stood and offered his verse for his valiant queen. Some spoke of bright victory and the fall of the dark lord Sauron. Some spoke of prosperity renewed to the Riddermark. Most included a line to praise their queen either in the battle of Pelennor Fields, or her glorious beauty as she sat enthroned.

Faramir found their poetry succinct and moving. It used decisive words that wasted no time in painting a picture for the mind’s eye. Each man spoke in a clear and sincere voice and Faramir found himself enjoying the experience.

“Normally, I’d not have the attention to spare to poetry,” Pippin had admitted to him as they sat and listened. “But this isn’t so bad.”

“Isn’t so bad as Treebeard’s ever-long and rambling poems with treeish grunts and groans,” Merry added with a mischievous smile.

Pippin agreed, lifting his mug of ale to salute his kinsman who sat to the other side of Faramir.

Then it was Éomer’s turn, and Faramir found his interest piqued. He wondered what verse would he would make and what was the nature of the muse that would stir such a complex heart. After all that he had been told of the man, Faramir expected an angry or somber poem full of weighty and dark images.

“His honor fills the Golden Hall still where his footsteps last struck upon the stones of this floor. His heart is free from darkened dreams and he rode the mighty mearas to lift his head before his fathers at Béma’s holy door.” With a fist to his chest, Éomer bowed to his queen after the final line of his poem.

“He speaks of Théoden,” Faramir whispered. “A fine verse it was.”

“Aye,” Merry agreed sadly.

Éowyn came down from her throne to throw her arms about her brother. Éomer held her for a moment as they were quiet and remembered their beloved uncle. The other horse lords pounded the tables in appreciation of Éomer’s verse.

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