Faramir Fiction Archive

Never trust a scholar (G)

22 November 2009 | 577 words

I don’t own our sweet Faramir, just the words I wrote.

Minas Tirith had a few libraries and Faramir knew them all. Not all the books and scrolls, but he was young, he would have all his life to read them as he fully intended to do. He liked reading, just as much as he liked archery practise and he was good in both pursuits. And it helped to know that his efforts were appreciated by Boromir, the future Steward of Gondor. His big brother had been the first to discover and appreciate Faramir’s skills and had already declared that once in office, he would have kept him as chief counselor. Despite Denethor’s feeling, Boromir’s love and appreciation was all that Faramir needed.

Today he had a goal in his search of knowledge. The last time Mithrandir had visited the city had taught to him to read some of the Elven books and a few of them were about herbs and plants. The wizard had explained the difference among those that could heal, and those that could harm. He recalled that the book he was looking for was in one of the shelves closer to the ceiling and he took the ladder usually used by the librarians. His search was successful and Faramir went close to the window to search for the passage he remembered. An impish smile graced his face before he put the book back to its place.

Damrahl was donning his training clothes before archery practise and grinned at the idea to torment again the young son of the Steward, especially when Boromir wasn’t around to protect him. With Faramir’s brother around, it would have been suicidal, but until his return, Faramir was fair game. He was on his way toward the door of the barracks when he felt his arms starting to itch. It was nothing at the beginning, but soon his arms and legs were hurting as if on fire. He went out in search for help, but he had arrived early and no one was around. Damhral dispeared to find solace. His skin was burning, he was sweating and didn’t know what to do. At last he saw a trough and jumped in it dressed. The cold water stunned him but at least he had stopped itching so fiercely.

“Wouldn’t it been better to wait for the end of the training to take a bath, Damrahl?”

The strong voice of the trainer interrupted the boy’s thoughts, especially because it sounded really annoyed. Damrahl turned toward the old warrior with a sheepish look on his face, that turned into a full blush when he noticed that all the other boys had arrived and were laughing at him. All of them, safe from Faramir. The Steward’s son wasn’t laughing, but was bearing a strange expression that made him look older and meaner, a lot like his father. Damrahl shuddered.

Faramir was in his bathing chamber, removing the dirt from the practise session. The door of his room opened as if caught in a whirlwind and he found himself hugged fiercely by Boromir.

“Boro, you are home early! I am so glad you are here.” Faramir exclaimed happily.

“Me, too. Are you back from training?”

“Yes, archery and treachery. It went good.”

“Treachery?”

“Yes, O Brother mine. You don’t want to know.”

“Sometimes, Little One, you frighten me.”

Faramir’s laugh was so happy that Boromir forgot to ask him more questions.

The End

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