Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Part 4 – The Prince of the Night Sky

“You should go and speak with him, dear brother,” Éowyn prompted. “He is our honored guest and the representative of Gondor. You have already mentioned that you would share more words with him than the ones you have meagerly spared.”

“I’ve had no reason to disturb his enjoyment of your company, sister,” Éomer replied. He then stole a quick glance over to where Faramir, son of Denethor, sat in the company of the Halflings, Merry and Pippin. They drank and chatted pleasantly.

Clearly Éomer could understand his sister’s enthusiasm. She wanted her only kinsman to make himself acquainted with the man she hoped would ask for her hand. It was only natural. Éomer chided himself for his cowardly and foolish behavior. He was the son of kings and a warrior of the Mark. Certainly, he had more fortitude than to run from simple conversation.

“However, as you desire, dear heart,” Éomer sighed. “You are right, as you often are. I have been remiss in my manners, and it is unbecoming of the queen’s own kinsman.”

Éowyn smiled fondly and touched his face. “I never meant for you to be so hard on yourself.”

Éomer took her hand. “It is my nature,” he replied with a convincingly jovial twinkle in his eyes.

Éowyn laughed as Éomer tenderly squeezed her long fingers. His sister was beautiful and wise. It was his duty to her to get to know this man she wanted, and he would not fail her.

As the night wore on and the ale lifted spirits and loosened tongues, it was again their good fortune to be gifted with a jolly song from the Hobbits. It was during this uproarious time that Éomer found himself close to the Stewart from Gondor. The man smiled and clapped his hands in time as he watched the proceedings. By his side, Gandalf laughed heartily at the Hobbits’ antics.

“They know many of these fine ale house songs,” Éomer said as he drew closer.

Faramir turned sparkling blue eyes to him, and, for a moment, Éomer was dazzled by the purity of their color and beauty. However, he quickly remembered his vow to serve his sister’s interests.

“They have sang to this hall before?” the Steward-Prince asked in a voice that strangely gentle and yet strong like the sound of a summer rain.

“Yes,” Éomer replied.

“Merry and Pippin were here after the defeat of Saurman in his tower at Isengard,” Gandalf added. “We drank to the victorious dead of the battle for Helm’s Deep.”

“It was the beginning of hope,” Éomer stated.

“Hope never left the world,” Gandalf said then. “It just lay waiting for the hearts of men to pick it up once more.”

Faramir looked down into his cup of ale, his eyes thoughtful. Éomer remembered being told of his hopeless charge to take back Osgiliath. Was it true? Had the man’s father valued him so little?

Éomer had heard that Denethor had been insane at the end of his life. He had heard the rumors that he had tried to burn himself and Faramir alive, but had only succeeded in killing himself.

“Hope is nebulous when the enemy surrounds and outflanks at every turn,” Éomer said kindly. “What little we hold can turn to ash within a heartbeat. That we live to tell the tale is often enough.”

Faramir looked into Éomer’s eyes as Éomer spoke. It was as if he understood that Éomer’s words were meant as a comfort to a man so long bereft of a father’s love.

“You have much to discuss,” Gandalf said kindly to them both. “I take my leave.” The white wizard walked away into the crowds that sang and cheered, watching the two Hobbits frolic upon the tables.

Éomer looked at the man who was Gondor’s representative in the Golden Hall. So many things he had been told about Faramir, son of Denethor: that he was a fine warrior and a skilled archer, that he was a wise battle tactician, and that he was a loyal man of fine quality. It was also said that his mother had the blood of the Dunedain in her lineage. There were so many things to know of him.

“My lord?” Faramir said, prompting Éomer from his musing.

Éomer shook his head. “This celebration is too boisterous and I would wish to hear your answers to many questions. Would you walk with me?”

“Of course,” Faramir replied graciously.

Éomer’s heart beat just a little faster in his chest as Faramir allowed himself to be led to the colonnade that surrounded the Golden Hall. The city below was lit with the torches and fires of a merry springtime evening. The stars swirled in their dance above the high ranges. Faramir looked to the south.

The noise of the feast was only a murmur of laughter and music behind them. Yet Éomer felt as if they were the only two beings alive in that moment as they drank in the sweet night air.

“I miss Ithilien,” Faramir said softly. “The cool forest and green glens were always more a home to me than any citadel or hall.”

“The freedom of the open ranges have always been my joy,” Éomer said, commiserating.

Faramir turned to look at Éomer. The Prince of Ithilien’s eyes took on silvery glow that rivaled the shine of the stars in the evening sky. His expression was kind and gentle, and it threatened to take Éomer’s breath away. His heart contracted painfully, telling him that this man was his sole desire.

“Do you know the stars?” Faramir asked.

“No, my lord Prince,” Éomer replied. He knew that the Rangers of Ithilien were known for being able to read the patterns of the stars through the days and seasons.

Faramir pointed to a bright point high in the southern sky. “That is Eärendil’s Star. She walks low in the sky until summer is full upon the woods. They say she is the holder of love’s enchantment and is the reason why many courtships begin in the springtime.”

Like a dousing of cold water, Faramir’s words brought Éomer back to his initial purpose with a breath-halting shock. He was Éowyn’s brother. It was his job to see to her happiness with the man she has chosen to offer her heart too. Éomer shuttered his wounded heart as best he could, remembering that this was no fault of Faramir’s. It was his own foolish heart that chose to become so easily smitten with a man he barely knew.

“Ithilien is the province of the Ithil, the Silver Flower of the night,” Faramir continued, looking longingly back towards the southern sky.

“Éowyn would enjoy this,” Éomer said softly.

“I have spoken to her of star lore,” Faramir replied. “She was polite, but after a while, I could tell that I tired her with all my old stories of the scholars and their search for the Narsilion.”

“You know of the ancient tales? The sagas of old?” Éomer now asked, his curiosity engaged. “Do you know the story of the song of Sun and the Moon? I thought only sages and wizards knew such.”

Faramir looked back upon Éomer with a gentle smile. “I spent my time as a child following sages and wizards, seeking the ancient knowledge.”

“Minas Tirith is a place of great learning. The archives of old are still there? They have not been destroyed by war?”

“They were placed within the depths of the citadel, deep in the walls of the old city, to keep them safe from fire, flood, and war,” Faramir said.

A gentle nighttime breeze stirred tendrils of his ginger hair about his face. In that moment, he seemed like an enchanted Prince from some long-forgotten tale.

Éomer turned away from Faramir’s gaze, fearing his own expressed too much. Again, he reminded himself of his task and his duty to Éowyn.

“Surely these things entertained my sister. She was always the one who paid closer attention to the lore and legends that were presented in the hall on a winter’s evening.”

“Apparently you did as well,” Faramir said lightly. “Not many know that the Narsilion is the epic of the sun and moon.”

Caught off guard, Éomer frowned and straightened. “A mere chance of a memory…”

“Sincerely?” Faramir’s voice sounded amused.

“I was a child when the court scholar told us of the epic. He had no knowledge of its actual verses. He told us very few men did,” Éomer replied.

Faramir seemed to let Éomer’s explanation rest. They were quiet for a time, looking out across the Edoras evening. All the questions Éomer had intended to ask suddenly felt brusque and rude in this peaceful moment. He did not know how to broach the subject of the man’s intentions with his sister without being blunt and cold. Nevertheless, Éomer felt neither distant nor proud in the company of this man. Never before had it ever been a problem for Éomer to speak plainly to another man.

No, he thought. That was not true. There had been another.

At last, Faramir spoke again, turning to look at Éomer once more. “The hour grows late and I would make my regards to your good sister before I retire. It was good speaking with you, Lord Éomer, son of Éomund.”

“We may speak again upon the morrow,” Éomer replied. “The tournaments and sports shall continue. Perhaps you will favor the court with a demonstration of the famed prowess of ranger archery.”

Faramir smiled slightly, looking humble. “If the lady Queen wishes… and her noble brother, I would be honored to perform.”

With a sweeping bow and another gentle smile, Faramir stepped away, heading back to the revelries in the Golden Hall.

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