Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by E. Batagur

03 July 2009 | 15042 words

Part 5 – The Unexpected Victories

Faramir had spent an amount of time in the presence of Éomer, son of Éomund, the night before and he felt no closer to understanding how the man regarded him. Never before had his perception of another failed him so miserably. The man remained a mystery.

Éomer had spoken only briefly, and when he spoke, he brought up Éowyn in their conversation as if he were pressing the subject to assess Faramir’s intentions. Perhaps that was as it should be. Nevertheless, as dear a friend as Éowyn was, Faramir had no intentions towards her, and he knew that she knew this. Éowyn had guessed his inclinations long ago. Furthermore, it may have been that her brother similar inclinations that made her more in tune and sympathetic to the nature of Faramir’s heart.

The prior evening’s conversation behind him, Faramir ventured forth the next day, seeking only the recreation and entertainment promised to the Rohan court on the fourth day of the reign of Éowyn Queen. Beyond the large stables and paddocks that held only the finest horses of Edoras, was the sparring field where men at arms applied themselves to practice of sword-play. There he found Merry and Pippin among a large number of the Rohirrim, wearing padded armor.

Pippin looked bewildered, but Merry was clearly vexed. The crowd of men laughed at some comment Faramir did not catch, and Merry’s frown deepened dangerously.

“What happens here?” Faramir asked as he strode in among the men.

One of the men (familiar to Faramir as a man of some rank) gestured at the hobbits with a smile. “The Halflings wish to play with the big boys,” he said with a hearty chuckle. “They wish to join in the spar.”

Faramir kept his expression mild. “Yes, they are Halflings, but they are not children. Why do you treat them as such?”

“No offense, my lord,” another man added much more respectfully. “It was all in jest. We only wish not to bring any harm to our lady queen’s honored guest.”

“Harm?” Merry spat back. “Don’t take us so lightly, horseman. My sword is as sharp as yours and it has worn blood before.”

“Peace, Squire Brandybuck,” Faramir said soothingly.

Before he could say more, Éomer walked into their midst, tall and severe, frowning at every face in the small crowd. He stood in his padded armor, prepared for a morning spar. The other Rohirrim seemed to diminish in his presence, and his presence was so very overwhelming that it did not take much. His long flaxen mane caught the morning sunlight and glowed like the blessings of golden springtime.

Faramir thought to himself: there is beauty. He could not deny Éomer’s pure majesty when the morning sun touched him.

“I will not see these good hobbits maligned by you or any man of the Mark!” Éomer growled to his men.

“We meant no harm,” the man of rank spoke again, cowed in the face of the First Marshal’s obvious wrath. “But it is as you once said, I do not doubt their courage; only the reach of their arms.”

“Perhaps it would ease you to know that they were taught sword-play by my brother, Boromir of Gondor,” Faramir volunteered. All the men looked at him incredulously. Merry stood up straighter, crossing his arms over his chest and placing what was obviously the mightiest expression he could muster on his face.

“Surely, Gamling, you would not bring insult to a pupil of such a noteworthy teacher?” Éomer too crossed his arms over his broad chest and smiled at the nobleman with what appeared to be challenge in his eyes.

The horse lord, Gamling looked as uncomfortable as could be under the circumstances. And Faramir could not help but smile as well. The other men chuckled lightly when they realized how easily Gamling had been maneuvered into a spot.

Gamling gave Éomer a soured expression before sobering his features. He bowed to the hobbits.

“Forgive my hasty words, master hobbit,” he said.

“And like that, you’ll not give me the satisfaction?” Merry said angrily. “You’ll not fight me?”

“Never would a lord of the Riddermark be so rude,” Éomer said with a broad smile. “Bring the practice swords and clear the spar circle. Master Squire Brandybuck is about to teach the Second Marshal a lesson!”

Gamling looked just slightly startled but, to his benefit, he kept his mouth closed and accepted the blunted sword offered him. Merry took his sword with determination in his eyes. He gave it a few hard swings to feel its balance.

For a brief moment, Faramir wondered if all this had been wise, and perhaps some hobbit would get hurt. However, as he watched Merry walking towards the spar circle with a proud posture and a smiling Pippin at his side, Faramir knew that the hurt feelings would have been deeper and more painful than any bruises the young hobbit would receive that day.

It had been short and brutal with Merry attacking, using his small stature to slip under his opponent’s guard. A punch to the groin had taken the horse lord down unexpectedly. When the large nobleman next looked up, he had a blade to his throat and a smiling hobbit looking down at him. Pippin had cheered Merry’s name while Faramir had joined in the uproarious laughter of all the Rohirrim present to see the take-down of a so acclaimed warrior.

“I must tell the truth,” Merry said with a cocky grin. “I learned that move from Gimli.”

Faramir looked about in time to see coins change hands among the warriors. Apparently others had had more faith than even he had shown. He saw his momentary doubt now as a little shameful.

Éomer walked up to his side holding a heavy purse. He was smiling once more, but not in challenge or sarcasm. His smile was like the sunshine of the day, bright and warm. Faramir knew he could easily bask forever in that radiance.

“You knew he would defeat Gamling,” Faramir said.

“I’ve seen the hobbit fight,” Éomer admitted. “And I’ve seen Gamling fight. The pick was easy.”

“You put less faith in a tried and trusted captain?”

“Not at all, my lord prince,” Éomer laughed. “Gamling would move gingerly about master Merry, not wanting to harm him upon some misfortunate step. However, master Merry would go for first blood if he could.”

Faramir joined in with Éomer’s laughter, watching as a gentle morning breeze stirred tendrils of Éomer’s long blond hair that caught the light of the sun. Éomer was like sunshine; strong like the sunrise in the east, and bright, touching all about him with his undeniable fire. It occurred to Faramir how very different they were from each other. Faramir was a cooler light that thrived on the nighttime sky and the secret dance of the stars. The moon, the Silver Flower, was his guide.

Together he and Éomer could be the retelling of the Narsilion. He would call Éomer his Vasa. Perhaps Éomer would call him Rana. The Heart of Fire and the Wayward Child could find peace at long last.

“This is a good day,” Éomer declared suddenly. “The winds are mild and the sun is good. Will you not accompany me to the target range? I would be most honored if you would display your ranger skills with the long bow.”

“It would be my pleasure,” Faramir replied with a smile. Perhaps, at long last, he would get closer to this man.

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