Faramir Fiction Archive

Nature vs. Nurture (PG-13)

Written by Susana

03 April 2011 | 9076 words | Work in Progress

Title: His Mother’s Son
Author: Susana
Series: Desperate Hours
Feedback: Please use the form below
Rating: PG-13
Warning: AU; quick spanking
Disclaimer: All recognizable elements are Tolkien’s
Summary: Sometimes, Aragorn is acutely aware that Faramir is his mother’s son, as well as Aragorn’s. And that is a good thing, and a challenging one.

A/N: This story takes place during Year 4 of the Fourth Age, or thereabouts, later the same week as But, I’ve, , and A Normal Man Would Just Get Drunk,. Arwen and Eldarion are in Emyn Arnen in Ithilien with Éowyn, Theodwyn, and Elboron. Aragorn and Faramir are still in Minas Tirith, as the Haradrim Ambassador asked for a meeting with the King and the Steward during the few weeks when it is customary for the royal family to be away in Emyn Arnen. A flashback in this story takes place when Aragorn (as Thorongil) is in Gondor, a little over a year after Denethor marries Finduilas, and before she is pregnant with Boromir, right after An Impulse Not to be Denied,.

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His Mother’s Son

Aragorn awoke very early most days. Too early even for dawn practice, too early for the kitchens to be serving breakfast, or for his wife to do more than blink at him blearily. With Arwen gone, he did not even try to curl back into bed, ever-grateful for her presence.

Instead Aragorn dressed, casually but not informally, and went to do some work in his office. He loved the early morning hours, when the sky was just beginning to lighten in hope of the day. He loved the clean scent of the morning, and the quiet in the citadel that thrummed with activity later in the day. None of his family were such early risers save Éowyn, and when she had realized he was often up this early, by some magic she had coordinated with the kitchens, and now there was often a dish of fruit and some journey bread, or something non-perishable, in his office by the time he arrived.

As Aragorn walked down the hall, he hesitated at the door to Faramir and Éowyn’s apartments. Normally, when Aragorn awoke, he kissed his sleeping wife and then, since Eldarion had been born, his sleeping son. If Eldarion awoke at his gentle affection, then Aragorn would spend an hour playing with ‘Darion instead of working, or let the toddler come and watch morning practice from the safety of Magordan’s arms. After Aragorn had learned that Faramir was also his son, he had tried to add looking in on the sleeping Faramir to his morning rounds. He had been successful for the first few weeks, as Faramir had been recovering from wounds and it was entirely reasonable that Aragorn, as his adar and healer, might check up on him first thing in the morning. Then Faramir had been recovered enough that he and Éowyn had been… otherwise occupied, one of those mornings.

After that Arwen had convinced her husband that he couldn’t just look in on his married son the way he did with Eldarion, that it was disrespectful to Faramir’s and Éowyn’s privacy. Aragorn didn’t really see why, in the future he would know to knock. That one morning had been an aberration. That early, Fararmir was asleep and Éowyn usually already awake, but Arwen had been insistent. More, she had told her husband that once Eldarion married, he wouldn’t be able to “count” his younger chick in the mornings, either. Aragorn had reluctantly accepted this reality.

However, at this particular time Éowyn and Arwen were both away, and Aragorn could give into the temptation to look in on Faramir… make sure he was well, that he had in fact sought his bed the previous evening, instead of working all night again. As Faramir had, once this week already. Ostensibly, because of some suspected peculation and embezzlement… of course there was embezzlement. In a Kingdom the size of Gondor, Aragorn would be surprised if there wasn’t. But Aragorn didn’t understand why his oldest son and Steward seemed to take it so personally. It seemed more Denethor than Faramir, to obsess over a detail like this. And Aragorn had already told him… Ada Elrond had always said that Elladan was something of an expert at embezzlement. Elladan would be returning for a visit soon enough, they could share the problem with him, then. But Faramir didn’t seem satisfied. Even so, reluctantly, Aragorn decided he should trust that his son had kept his word, and slept. Besides Aragorn had entirely too much work to do, leftover from yesterday when he’d decided that sharing ale and a smoke with Magordan was more important than reading through dispatches, despite Faramir’s disappointed Steward look.

Aragorn walked into his office and frowned. He should have a pile of dispatches to look through, but they were missing. Faramir might have borrowed them to read last night when it was clear Aragorn wasn’t going to get to them, but Faramir would normally have returned them before the morning. More, Faramir hadn’t left anything in Aragorn’s inbox for his attention. Which usually meant that Faramir hadn’t slept, as he always brought the paperwork for the King right before retiring. Faramir would stay up late and Aragorn get up early, and that’s how they managed to get the business of the Kingdom done, but Aragorn had called a parental veto of all-night sessions when there wasn’t an imminent crisis of catastrophic proportions. He sighed, and went to find his son, and his errant paperwork.

Aragorn went first to Faramir’s office, feeling a bit guilty for immediately leaping to the conclusion that his son had disobeyed him a second time this week. Perhaps Faramir was asleep in his bed as he should be, and had just forgotten to bring over the papers he had put aside for the King’s attention. That had in fact happened, once or twice, and was no great matter. Both of their offices were in secured locations, and Aragorn trusted Faramir’s staff as much as he trusted his own, even when it came to even the most sensitive of missives.

But, alas, no. Aragorn sighed again. Faramir was bent over his desk, red-gold head pillowed in his arms. The ink still wet on the parchment before him. His eldest son clearly hadn’t slept but twenty minutes. Aragorn shook his head, “You’re your mother’s son, you know, as well as mine.” Aragorn remarked softly to his sleeping child, as he looked over the papers in front of Faramir to make sure he had no questions which needed to be answered immediately. “And I like these bad habits in you even less than I liked them in her.” Aragorn continued with quiet affection and frustration, remembering.

Nearly fifty years previous, the morning of “An Impulse not to be Denied,” (29552).

Aragorn, who had been called Thorongil for longer than he’d been called by his own name, stifled a groan as he sat down to breakfast. As a man of Númenorean descent, he wasn’t even to middle age. He was past fifty, but many of his grandfathers had lived to see thrice that age, if they hadn’t died in combat.

His loyal men suppressed smiles, as did Denethor’s eldest nephew, Lord the Lieutenant Celonglor, and some of his men. Aragorn gave them a tired, answering smile. “Just wait until the next time any of you takes a fall from a horse during jousting practice.” He remarked without anger.

Celenglor chuckled, remarking, “Well, my uncle Denethor is due to return later this week, so you won’t have long to wait, Thorongil.”

Aragorn, still recovering from a rare fall from a horse during jousting practice the previous day, clapped Celenglor on the back. Denethor’s nephews were all good lads, but Celeonglor was Aragorn’s secret favorite, and Denethor’s heir until he had a son of his own. Which hopefully would be soon, for a number of reasons.

“I toast your endurance, Thorongil.” Steward Ecthelion complimented, his eyes twinkling. “I rarely made early practice the day after a fall like that, myself. Not once I was past my twenties, at least.”

“Thorongil had to prove he can be just as heedless as any twenty year old, your Lordship.” Magordan commented briefly, with a tolerant look for his own Lord. Thorongil loftily ignored him, long practice having made him immune to such barbs. Magordan had nothing on the twins, and they… well, best not to think about it. They’d entirely left him alone since he had first left Imladris after swearing his love for their sister. And Magordan was right, anyway. Thorongil had made dawn practice as a point of pride and habit. But now, he just wanted to eat a substantial breakfast, and go back to sleep. And he was cheerful because he couldn’t think of any duty that was going to interfere with that plan.

Then Celenglor’s wife, Lady Lindorie, came to the breakfast table, looking worried and strained.

“Lin?” Celenglor asked, immediately concerned. The young couple were very much in love.

“Finduilas is missing.” Lindorie explained quietly, loud enough that only Celonglor and Ecthelion could hear. Thorongil didn’t need to hear; he could lip-read, a bit, and besides, the Steward’s only daughter-by-law was clearly not there. He moved closer, coming to stand just behind Celonglor at Ecthelion’s nod of permission.

“I’ve checked her rooms, and the library, and the solar.” Lindorie didn’t wring her hands, but it was only because this had happened before.

“Has anyone checked the archives?” Thorongil thought to ask.

“No, she was here last night, even Fin wouldn’t have left the Citadel without word!” Lindorie protested.

Thorongil sighed. He quite frankly doubted that. He sighed again as he realized he’d have to leave his breakfast, and that he could kiss sleeping in goodbye until his good friend, Denthor’s wandering wife, had been located. After all, Denethor was a proud man who practically never asked for favors. And he had asked Thorongil to look after his Fin, while Denethor was out on patrol as Captain-General, visiting several different forts.

Ecthelion raised an eyebrow, and Thorongil nodded. Magordan chuckled, and only Lennart followed Thorongil. In the city, he had eventually worked it out that he really only needed one guard, and he forewent even that if he was with a soldier of Gondor whom Magordan and he agreed was trustworthy, such as Denethor.

Surely enough, Finduilas was in the archives. Looking perfectly ready for the day, as if she’d slept through the night, save for a certain manic glint in her eyes and a very slight tremble of exhaustion in her fine hands.

Half-amused, half-exasperated, Thorongil reproved lightly, “You promised you wouldn’t do this while Denethor is away!”

Finduilas gave him a rueful half-grin, and proceeded with Dol Amroth coping strategy number five; when caught in an obvious act of wrong-doing, brazen it out as if everything was going according to plan. “Thorongil! How lovely to see you! You’ve just come from morning practice, I assume. You must be starved – let’s go to that little restaurant by the gate for breakfast. I know you love their custard.”

Thorongil did love their custard, and that sounded like a good plan, except he knew better than to be distracted by Adrahil’s charming children, “Finduilas, you can’t stay up all hours like this without leaving word where you are. Its not good for you, and it worries Denethor, and all of us who care for you. Lindorie was practically wringing her hands again.”

Finduilas sighed, looking a mixture between guilty and exasperated, “When will she learn, that if its likely something will go wrong, I’ll leave a note?”

Thorongil wondered whether that statement was part of Dol Amroth coping strategy number seven, ‘tell them something true but so illogically infuriating that it will make them forget what they were saying.’ Whether or not it was planned, it almost worked. Shaking his head with a faint smile for how much Finduilas recalled her father, at times, Aragorn said, “What could possibly have been so pressing that you couldn’t have waited until morning to work on it?”

Finduilas’ face lit up, as if she was glad he had asked, and Aragorn resigned himself to listening to whatever she’d been researching. He couldn’t dash that kind of happiness.

“Did you know why Orcs prefer to avoid water?” Finduilas asked, near breathless with the excitement of her discovery, whatever it was.

Thorongil smiled gently, and sat down. “I have no idea why. I’m grateful that they do, though.”

Finduilas, “Well, I’ve been researching it. At first I thought it had something to do with Ulmo, but it seemed more nuanced, and immediate.”

Intrigued by the hypothetical, Thorongil murmured thoughtfully, “Water can carry blessings… on some level, those might be anathema, to yrch.”

Finduilas’ smile sparkled like the morning sun on the window pane, as she encouraged, “Really, Thor? Where did you hear that?”

Thorongil winced, because sometimes Finduilas sounded like Erestor or Melpomaen or Elladan in the throes of a discovery, and he missed them. Especially like Erestor, ‘Cite your sources, Estel,’ Aragorn’s tutor had often said. And he also winced because he shouldn’t know that, about water carrying blessings. He’d heard it from Lord Elrond, and everyone knew that Lord Elrond would foster his distant human kin. No one could know his foster-father was Lord Elrond, who was barely speaking to him anyway, so Thorongil mumbled, “Um, a fireside tale, I think.”

Lennart, who apparently had been inadequately briefed on all of this, and who insisted that Lord Elrond was quite concerned about his foster-son, which Thorongil frankly doubted as he hadn’t heard from Lord Elrond in years, besides a one-sentence note, asked, “Didn’t your foster- adar say so, Captain Thorongil? I think I remember him having said so…”

Thorongil said quellingly, “I don’t recall.”

Finduilas changed the subject, and her eyes were sympathetic although she didn’t give away in word or tone that she knew anything about Thorongil’s family troubles. Even though Thorongil rather suspected Denethor must have told her something. Instead, Finduilas said, “It actually might be because the first yrch – or the first few generations of them- weren’t particularly well made for water. In making them the “ultimate soldier,” strong and such, Morgoth and Sauron bred them to be so very densely muscular that they couldn’t float – they nearly always drowned, they were just too heavy.”

Thorongil and Lennart, and Finduilas’ lady Sion, as well, found that a bit shocking, that the Dark Lord could ever have made a mistake like that, let alone his dread master, one of the greatest of the Valar.

“Hunh.” Commented Thorongil at last.

Finduilas gave him her half-smile again, and pointed out, “Just because our enemy is a semi-divine megalomaniacal tyrant and supernatural force of evil doesn’t mean he’s perfect.”

Thorongil fought a smile, thinking that Finduilas and his friend Ethiron, now the young spymaster of the Dunedain, would get along well. Its a pity he couldn’t ever introduce them.

Finduilas, having the rapt attention of her audience, continued, “Anyway, Sauron improved upon Morgoth’s design – but descendants of those first yrch have passed along the warning, and the memory and the folklore is a powerful thing. The Yrch remember that they once died in great numbers crossing water, and they tell their, um, off spring.” Then Finduilas paused, and added thoughtfully, “Poor yrch. Forced by their master to go over rivers, which terrifies them, on his errands.”

Thorongil blinked. He’d had a young private killed by an orc just last week, but Finduilas did have a point, he supposed. In any case, she was in scholar mode now. No point arguing with her, even if she did say the darnedest things. “Um. Yes, I suppose, Fin, poor yrch.” Thorongil commented at last.

Finduilas, registering his lack of enthusiasm, expanded, “I try not to forget that our enemies are our kin.”

Thorongil smiled at his young friend, bemused again by how much she reminded him of Erestor, or Melpomaen, or Elladan in a certain mood.

Lennart, on the other hand, was offended, and had apparently also napped through the briefing on just humoring Finduilas when she was in this type of mood. “Orcs are no kin to me!” Lennart proclaimed loudly.

Finduilas gave Thorongil’s newest man a soft, confused smile, “You are of the Dunedain, are you not, Len?” She asked.

As Lennart politely answered, “Yes, my Lady,” Thorongil recalled that not only was Lennart Dunedain… but he was a cousin of some sort of Magordan’s, and had been raised by Magordan’s parents after losing a mother in an yrch raid. Thorongil patted the young ranger on the shoulder supportively. Time enough to teach him what to say and not to say in Gondor, and Lennart was a good man, a promising young soldier.

With all of that in mind, Thorongil very gently explained, “As we are all descendants of the men of Númenor, Lady Finduilas is probably right, the yrch are all of our kin. Most theories say they were bred from tortured elves and men, perverted into taking a horrible form for Morgoth’s pleasure.”

Lennart made a disgusted face. “Eurgh,” he commented.

Thorongil chuckled lightly, squeezing Lennart’s shoulder gently. “Yes. ‘Eurgh’ sums it up well.”

Finduilas gave Lennart a sympathetic look, though she didn’t stop trying to make her point. “Remembering that the yrch are our kin makes me no less determined to oppose them, and to learn more in order to help you and your brave fellows kill them more efficiently and safely. But it helps me remember… the real enemy is he who makes us have to fight for our peace, for our lives. Not his foot soldiers.”

Lennart, proving again Thorongil’s faith in him, managed a slight smile and a pensive, “Something to think about, I suppose, my Lady.”

Thorongil hid a smile at the look on Lennart’s face. It was always a treat to see someone realizing that he had to rethink his initial impression of Captain Denethor’s absentminded, pretty young wife.

“So, my Lady, Captain, Lieutenant.” Sion proposed, carefully bookmarking and putting aside the volumes Finduilas had been perusing, “Breakfast? We can send a messenger from the archives to let the Steward know where we are.”

That idea met with everyone’s approval except Finduilas’s, as she wanted to check one more reference. Thorongil played the guilt card (Denethor would be so worried over you,) and Finduilas decided that the reference could wait. Soon, the four of them were breakfasting at the restaurant near the archives that Thorongil favored, seated at an outdoor table, admiring the view of the city.

“Days like this, I could almost forgive Minas Tirith for being so far from the sea.” Finduilas murmured, as she poured tea.

Thorongil smiled at her, as Lennart asked Thorongil what was safe to eat, at this restaurant. Lennart shared the same kind of allergies that Thorongil had to a variety of spices and medicines.

“Oh, everything here should be safe for you both.” Sion answered for Thorongil, “All we have to do is have the cook use garlic instead of southern salt.”

Finduilas and Thorongil both looked to Sion in grateful interest, “Really?” Finduilas asked, “I did not know that would work.”

Sion nodded modestly. “If I weren’t a lady,” she and Finduilas exchanged a smile, “I would have become a baker rather than an archivist. I know the cook here rather well, and the only spice he uses that bothers Northerners is southern salt, and he has garlic to substitute. He doesn’t use meat that was preserved in southern salt, because he only likes to cook with fresh. It raises the prices, but it should be safe for you both to eat.”

Not long after, Thorongil was reclining in his chair, replete with eggs and custard and tea and content with the word. Well, mostly content. He was still sore from yesterday, and he was observing with some amusement and a tad bit of worry the shy flirtation going on between Lennart and Sion.

He was in no mood to welcome Celenglor’s cousin, Lord Tarsten of Lebennin. Their mutual uncle Romendacil had been Captain-General of Gondor before Denethor, and his retirement had been under protest. Tarsten had never warmed to Thorongil, who had supported Denethor in that power struggle.

“Lady Finduilas.” Tarsten said shortly, “I see you and Lord Thorongil are having a cozy breakfast during your husband’s absence.”

If you knew Finduilas very, very well, you could tell that she wanted to claw Tarsten’s eyes out. Or perhaps turn him into a frog… Finduilas was a student of Mithrandir’s, and the twins had convinced Aragorn at an early age that the Wizard really could turn folk into wizards, he just didn’t. But Finduilas smiled sweetly, and apparently let the insult go in one ear and out the other. Instead she smiled more naturally at Tarsten’s young wife, Mavina, and asked, “Oh! Mavina, congratulations, when is the baby due?”

Lady Mavina, who had only just had her stylish robes cut in a style to reveal her growing belly, smiled happily back and answered, “Just after Yule. We’re all very excited.”

Even Tarsten’s face had lost its unpleasant, pinched look. He was very fond of his young wife, and proud of his growing family.

“Your older son Brannon is the best swordman in his year at the Academy.” Finduilas gushed to Tarsten, “I’m sure your new little one will be equally a great warrior, with such a big brother and illustrious family to guide him.”

Tarsten puffed proudly, and agreed, and Mavina smiled again as well. Brannon was only her step-son, but she was quite fond of him. They managed to part from Tarsten and his party with mutual good wishes, and Thorongil marveled at how neatly Finduilas had disarmed one of her husband’s most steadfast opponents on the council.

In fact, Thorongil was a bit surprised by what an unexpectedly capable Steward’s wife Finduilas was turning into. She had a temper -all of Adrahil’s get did. But Finduilas could restrain her anger, choke it back, and manage to smile, and say something that wasn’t actively insulting but would cause someone acting foolishly to really think about their behavior. It was a gift that Aragorn both admired and envied. Being around Finduilas and her clever, capable ladies made Thorongil remember that he was Aragorn, and miss Arwen, and the other ladies of Imladris – his mother, and Gailest, Siana, Tauriel, Ambaraxiel, and all of the others. But Arwen most of all.

But Finduilas was like Thorongil’s little sister, and one didn’t let one’s little sister stay up all night without lecturing her. Filling her tea cup and offering her another biscuit, Thorongil said sternly, “If this happens again, Fin, I’m going to have to tell your husband. He made me promise to watch out for you.”

Whatever answer Finduilas might have given was cut off by her glad cry of welcome, and the Steward’s wife was dashing carefully into the street, where she was swept up into the arms of her returning husband.

Gray eyes met gray eyes over Finduilas’ red-gold hair, and Denethor said without words, Thank you. Father told me you found her. I don’t know what we’d do with you.

Thorongil smiled, glad to have been of service to so good a friend. Glad that Denethor trusted him enough to speak in such a manner. It was my pleasure, always, dear friend. He replied.

Fourth Age Year 4, Steward’s Office in the Citadel of Minas Tirith:

Contemplating Faramir asleep on his desk again, with Éowyn away, Aragorn felt a moment of synchronicity with that long ago day.

A week or so ago, Arwen and Éowyn, both pale and looking like they needed the break from the capital, had left with Aragorn’s younger son and grandchildren for Emyn Arnen. Before they left, Éowyn had asked him to look out for Faramir.

Aragorn, torn between amusement and irritation, had answered, “Of course I’ll look after my son your husband, daughter. I did so even before I knew he was my own child.”

Aragorn shook his head. How confusing this all was. He had made Finduilas and Denethor’s younger son his Steward and Prince. Due to Faramir’s own fine qualities, he had become Aragorn’s friend and tithen gwador. A year ago, almost exactly, Aragorn found out that Finduilas’ younger son was not Denethor’s child, but his own. A year later, they were still working that out. But this… he’d warned Faramir about this. He’d give his son another warning, but this one would be firmer. And if Faramir pushed him, again, well, Aragorn was Elrond’s foster-son. He knew how to push back, even if he preferred not to have to.

Aragorn gently grasped his sleeping son’s shoulder. “Ion-nin.” He called gently, but firmly, “We need to talk briefly, and then I command that you seek your bed.”

Faramir woke with a start, but Aragorn recognized this as a false wakefulness. Introduced to a flat surface, Faramir would fall back asleep with alacrity. Aragorn supposed there was that, at least. His presence must suggest safety to Faramir on some level, if he could lecture his child and not shake Faramir’s sleepiness.

“You’re up early, Ada.” Faramir half-commented, half-complained, with a yawn.

“No, difficult child, you are up late. We talked about this, what did I say?” Aragorn asked, keeping his voice light, but letting his exasperation as well as his affection show through in his expression.

“You told me not to stay up all night dealing with what you feel is routine paper work again, or you’d, ah, warm my bottom for me, Sire.” Faramir answered, embarrassed but dutiful even in this.

Aragorn pulled him into a hug. “Aye, that is what I said and I meant it, but it shall not be a serious spanking, this time. Don’t keep pushing me, on this, Faramir. As your healer and and your Adar, your staying up all night for insufficient cause bothers me.”

Faramir nodded his acquiescence, and Aragorn pulled his sleepy son over his hip, and applied six stinging swats to Faramir’s bottom, and four to his sit spots. Over his leggings, but Aragorn was sure it was enough to let his son know he took this type of thing seriously. But, being that this was Faramir, he spelled it out again, “Go to bed, ion-nin. But keep in mind that this is absolutely your last warning, eh?”

Faramir nodded, his eyes wide, and Aragorn wished irrelevantly that this child of his would ever feel safe enough around his father to let down his guard, and show in anyway beyond widened eyes that he was in pain. Not too much, as this spanking had been far from harsh, just a reminder, a warning. Aragorn pulled Faramir into another embrace, “I love you. I want you well, and that includes well-slept, my dutiful Steward, my dear son.”

Aragorn felt rather than saw Faramir’s nod, and pulled his son gently away by the shoulders, enough to meet his eyes and explain firmly, “I’ll handle the morning’s meetings without you. I’ll leave orders for your squire to wake you at 10:00, and we’ll do the briefing for the afternoon meeting at lunch. You can make an afternoon practice, and still be in time to see Dervorin and your former rangers for dinner before Dervorin’s departure tonight.”

Faramir cocked his head in surprise, “You read your schedule, and mine in advance,” he murmured. Then his eyes narrowed, “You usually read your own schedule in advance, and you’ve been pretending not to know what’s on it for almost six years because you think its a funny joke. Oh, Ada.” Faramir finished, with tired disappointment as well as a bit of incredulous amusement.

Aragorn realized that Faramir would snitch to his secretaries and Arwen, and that his own staff and family would now be expecting more of him. “You’re cursedly perceptive even when you haven’t slept.” He complained lightly, stroking Faramir’s hair and cheek with a gentle, calloused hand.

Faramir smiled, Finduilas’ smile. “Why do you bother to, um, correct me for missing sleep, then, Aragorn?”

Aragorn considered his older son carefully. Faramir wasn’t sincere in this question, or only partially sincere. They both knew that Faramir tended to miss things when he didn’t sleep. Faramir wasn’t stupid, he understood that. So it wasn’t that he thought Aragorn was wrong… it was that Faramir thought this was none of Aragorn’s business. Well, Faramir was entitled to his opinion, but fortunately this was one of those things that Faramir had ever-so-helpfully delineated for them, before either of them knew that Aragorn was Faramir’s father. When Faramir’s father had meant Denethor, who was safely dead.

Aragorn didn’t bother to hide a smug grin, as he explained, “Ah, but Faramir, my dear son, this is one of those areas that we agreed I had a say in. In fact, if you recall, the first year that we met, you told me that I did not have a say in your eating and sleeping habits because I was not your father. And I insisted that you eat, but left the sleeping issue more or less alone, meeting you half way. But now, since I am your father, I think we can both agree that I do, in fact, have a say.”

The expression on his elder son’s face was now entirely rueful, but Faramir’s soft smile in parting, as he went to seek his bed… it was a mixture of Finduilas’ smile and Gilraen’s, and it tugged at Aragorn’s heart. So did the fact that he knew Faramir quite well, and because of that he could tell that Faramir was not really upset, about this. Oh, he was annoyed. But Faramir was also glad on some level to have someone care for him enough to tell him what to do for his own good, and mean it.

Aragorn picked up the dispatches he had come for, wishing that he could have had the raising of Faramir. And annoyed with Denethor for doing such a piss-poor job of being Faramir’s father. If Aragorn had ended up raising a son of Denethor’s as his own, say Boromir, Aragorn would have brought him up lovingly. But Aragorn had had a more peaceful childhood than Denethor… had lost less.

It would have been hard, at first, to raise a son not your own, Aragorn was sure. Denethor hadn’t known that, about Faramir. Perhaps part of Denethor had known, like part of Aragorn had known that Faramir was his from his first sight of the younger man. Still, Aragorn would never have left any child of his, even one not of his blood, in doubt that Aragorn loved him. Nor would Aragorn have entrusted his son’s care to men whom Aragorn and his brothers desperately wanted a few moments alone with in a dark alley. If only Faramir would willingly divulge any of their names…

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