Faramir Fiction Archive

Shadows (R)

Written by Minx

12 December 2012 | 29219 words

Chapter 3

Warnings for mild flashbacks to nastiness continue. Note – The angst is still on and there’s still some way to go before Faramir goes in for some recovery

Aragorn stepped into Boromir’s bathing chamber, with a warm robe and towels. Steam hung over the room, fragrant with the herbs that had been put into the water. A steady rain splattered against the wooden shutters, the dull drumming sound oddly relaxing in the warmth of the room.

The younger man lay reclining in the water, his eyes half-closed.

“I suppose I should get out of the water before I turn into a prune,“’ he said sleepily.

“Yes,” Aragorn said gently, and knelt by the bath to help him rise.

Boromir groaned painfully as he unfolded his aching limbs. The warm, herb-filled water had helped soothe his aches and pains, but he was still exhausted. He dried himself with a large towel and slipped on a thick, warm robe.

Aragorn helped him into bed and lay down beside him, sinking into the soft, warm bedclothes. The newly renewed trade treaties with Khand had brought in lovely, albeit expensive silks for bedclothes and quilts and soft, luxuriant woollen blankets, in a riot of colours and both the steward and the king’s chambers were furnished with these now. It was a far cry from their soldiering days for both. They had been amused when the household staff had insisted on using these, but at times like this, Aragorn was quite thankful.

Boromir moved into his embrace, and all thoughts of softness and silk vanished from the king’s head.

“You should have stayed over in Osgiliath,” he chided him, holding him close, “Going all the way there, inspecting the work, and returning today in weather as awful as this, is too tiring, even for you.”

“Stay away from you an entire day and night?” Boromir said, “I don’t think I can quite do that yet.” He shifted to touch his lips to Aragorn’s.

“You need to rest,” Aragorn said softly, as Boromir shrugged off his robe, and reached for Aragorn’s shirt.

“And I know just what would help me rest well,” Boromir said, smiling.

Faramir groaned painfully, as he restarted his calculations for the treasury allocation for the military for the fifth time. He’d never been involved in the budgetary allocations earlier, and when he’d asked Boromir’s chief scribe for some explanations the older man had had neither the time nor the patience. This was so confusing!

He was beginning to realise now that there was much in the day to day governance of Gondor that he had no knowledge of. He looked back at his sheets despairingly.

He had missed out one of the allowances and three outlying companies in this round of calculation. The numbers he had now didn’t come anywhere close to the approximation Boromir had noted. He rifled through various loose sheets of papers, of varying sizes, all of which had various notes scribbled across them. He checked the details of the allowance missed out and then groaned as he realised that the allowance amounts varied by the location and by wartime and peacetime efforts.

His head felt as if it would burst. He rested it against the table, the cool, smooth wood providing him some respite. He’d been in his rooms all day, working. Boromir had entrusted the task to him more than a week ago, and had been annoyed to learn the previous day that it had still not been completed. So Faramir had put everything else aside and worked on this. He had lunched in his chambers as he’d done most days – bread and cheese and a lukewarm glass of ale.

The rain drummed down on his windows, a loud, incessant clattering that made his head hurt even more. The rooms were cold; he’d need to speak to someone about having a fire lit here, at least when it rained.

When he finally realised he could not arrive at a number close to the approximation, he rose slowly, wincing as he stretched his back and arms. He would need to ask Boromir.

Boromir had returned from Osgiliath, he knew, and had decided to dine in his chambers. Faramir thought he could check with him quickly, and perhaps join him for supper. And then sleep. He felt so tired! He’d been working late into the night every day for much of the paperwork was too confidential to entrust to scribes yet.

He knocked at Boromir’s door. A muffled voice bade him enter and he did so, quietly pushing open the large oak door. The room was beautifully warm, with a small fire crackling merrily in the fireplace.

It was the king who had spoken, Faramir realised when he entered, and flushed at the sight of the two men together in Boromir’s large bed, the blankets bunched at their waist. Elessar was sitting up with some papers in his hands, while Boromir lay sleeping beside him. They were both bare-chested, their hair tousled, lips reddened and swollen.

“Faramir,” the king said in surprise, his expression anything but welcoming.

“I –,” Faramir began, flustered, unsure of himself in front of the king, and embarrassed by the openness of their lovemaking. He should have realised Elessar would be here, he berated himself mentally.

“I thought you were Inglor with more firewood,” Elessar said unnecessarily, drawing up the blankets, “What may I ask brings you here at this odd hour?”

“I – I wanted to ask Boromir, about – about the military allocation estimates – he gave me an approximation, but the calculations indicate a higher figure – I could not discern how – I thought –,” he wished he wouldn’t stammer so in front of the king, but Elessar’s visage was grim, and Faramir had never felt very comfortable around the older man.

“Boromir was very tired after the inspection ride this morning. I would not wish to wake him for this,” he said, a little curtly.

“I – I didn’t… is he unwell?” he asked, alarmed. Boromir did look tired, from the slump of his shoulders, and the lines on his face.

“Nay, he’s merely tired. It was cold out today and he did have a long way to travel and back. Nothing a few hours’ complete rest won’t take care of. Could you see to this yourself?” Elessar continued, “Boromir does have a lot of work already.”

“Aye,” Inglor’s quavering voice sounded behind him. The old man walked slowly into the room carrying a load of wood.

“Ever you run to Master Boromir with all your responsibilities,” he spat out at Faramir, glaring at him.

Faramir cringed. Inglor had been Denethor’s manservant all these years and had always abided by his views on all matters. He supervised the staff of the citadel as well, and hence it was that most of the servants followed his views. He served now as a personal attendant to Boromir, and the king, as well.

“He has enough to do as it is as captain general and steward without having to add your work to his tasks,” Inglor continued, his voice quivering in anger.

“I – I don’t,” he started helplessly, embarrassed to feel sudden tears pricking his eyes. Inglor’s words were a reflection of Denethor’s. The old man had oft been present when his father had upbraided him for his constant errors; and at times, had even taken on the task of punishing Faramir.

“Inglor!” the king, exclaimed. He seemed equally startled by the older man’s vehemence.

He glanced at Faramir. “I will let Boromir know you were here, when he awakens,” he said firmly, dismissal clear in the tone.

Faramir blinked trying to hold back the tears and nodding gratefully, slipped away from the room. Inglor’s shrill, quavering voice followed him down the hallway.

“He was always bothering Lord Boromir, even as a child. And he didn’t stop even after he was sent to the rangers. Our young lord oft times had to send supplies and reinforcement to Ithilien from his own troops. When Lord Denethor found out he put a stop to it – told Faramir if he could not manage with what he was given, he could surrender his captaincy,” Inglor’s voice, thin and clear and loud wafted through the open door, “Lord Denethor always said he was too incompetent to manage matters of state; and far too wilful and disobedient in other matters. You must not let him tire Lord Boromir with his constant nagging.”

Faramir halted, frowning unhappily. He wondered if he should go back and defend his requests to the king. In his early years with the rangers, they had been constantly harried by orcs and easterlings for months on end. And the supplies provided to them were inadequate so that he’d sought a higher allocation from Boromir.

“’tis of no matter,” Elessar replied, “Would you ask the kitchens to prepare supper? Rabbit stew perhaps.”

“Aye, my lord is most fond of that,” Inglor said.

Faramir supped alone in his chambers, refusing the stew and settling for some more bread and cold cheese instead, worriedly playing over the conversations he’d just had in his mind.

“Who were you talking to when I was sleeping? I thought I heard a familiar voice,” Boromir asked, as he threw on the warm robe around his naked frame. Inglor had brought hot, herb-infused water for him to wash up, so that he felt refreshed and energised now. He joined Aragorn by the fire. It was warm and crackling, the fragrance of the pine filling the room. Warm bowls of stew and hot buttered bread had been placed on a small table.

“Faramir. He came to see you about some treasury figures.”

“Oh those. Oh yes, I’d asked him to work on those, they’re quite a pain. I suppose I’ll need to take a look at those some time. Did you ever realise how boring all this could be?”

“Oh I find many ways to entertain myself,” Aragorn smirked, and pulled him close.

Boromir laughed.

Faramir washed up after dinner, shivering as he splashed cold water on his face and neck and chest. He changed into his nightshirt and settled into his bed, pulling on a larger, thicker blanket, for it was still raining and the night was getting colder.

He lay awake for a long time, huddling under the coarse woollen blankets, thinking of Inglor’s words and of Denethopr’s words from earlier.

When Denethor had found out he’d been requesting additional supplies, he’d summoned Faramir to stand in front of the inner council and almost beg for increased rations and more men. The council, comprising five of the most senior councillors had questioned him long, making him go through supply lists, and explain why he needed the additional rations. It had taken two days of relentless arguments, counter arguments and some desperate pleading from Faramir to finally receive some increase in the allocations. He’d been exhausted when done, almost collapsing into his chair.

In those two days, he’d had every aspect of his captaincy and his very worth questioned multiple times. He’d been told in front of all them by Denethor that he was a disgrace to his post.

“A waste of a captaincy. To think there are so many others so much more worthy of you. The shame of it – that you go running like a cornered rabbit to your Captain at the smallest instance of a problem.”

He’d received too a harsh slap in front of two of the councillors – Denethor’s closest friends, for not displaying the right etiquette while talking to the council.

And later, in private, he’d received a furious caning; he remembered suddenly – ten strokes across his bare back for insolent behaviour at the council, and then for the laziness implicit in his request, fifteen more strokes on his bared buttocks, so that he’d been uanble to sit the next day. He’d endured it tight-lipped and red-faced, crushing inside him the embarrassment that he felt to be punished so at his age.

Tears trickled down his cheeks at the memory. His pillow was still damp as he finally fell into a restless sleep.

The wet weather continued for a few days, but Faramir hardly realised as the days filled up with work. The weather finally cleared up in a few days, and the city was bathed in gentle, warm, sunshine.

Faramir hummed softly to himself, as he left the archives. He had come there for a brief interlude after he’d finally managed to finish going through and making notes on the quotes from the various guilds for the reconstruction estimates. A painful meeting with the councillor from Pelargir on the new trade duties still awaited him later in the evening, but he’d grabbed the precious moment of respite he’d had and come to the archives, for they’d had some new books from Khand, brought in by the ships that had docked early that week. He’d found in them a book of poems that seemed most interesting, and now the day seemed so much better!

And early that morning, on a stroll in the sixth circle, he’d found some excellent savoury pastries, which awaited him in his study now – warmed and ready to wash down with a mug of spiced mead. He was having a relatively quiet day after a very long time. The book, and such nice food, perhaps in the garden, would make for a good noon meal.

Boromir strode down the passageway as he opened the door to his study.

“Oh good there you are! I’ve been looking for you. Where were you? What are you doing?” Boromir huffed.

“I was in the archives. I found an excellent volume of Khandrim poems so I thought I’d sit in the gardens and read for a while,” Faramir told him cheerfully, still quite excited by his find.

Boromir nodded distractedly and strode into Faramir’s study, ahead of the younger man.

“Come on in now. Stop dawdling about! I don’t have all day.”

Faramir groaned silently to himself. Boromir seemed rather snappish today; a result of those long meetings in the morning.

“Gods, it’s so stuffy in here! Why don’t you open the windows, and let the air in a little. It’s such a lovely day outside; I can’t imagine how you could prefer to stay cooped up in here all day!”

Faramir frowned, feeling a little indignant. It wasn’t as if he didn’t want to be outside on a fine day. But he had a lot to do! And opening the study windows wouldn’t help. They overlooked the markets in the sixth circle and the strong smells of stale fish and over ripened fruit in the afternoons could get quite overwhelming.

“I don’t -,” he started only to be interrupted by a very distracted Boromir who had now moved towards the bare fireplace to kick at a loose piece of metal in the grating.

“Here,” he said, tossing a sheaf of papers onto the table, “Can you see to those? I don’t have the time today – Éomer’s horsemasters are here to see the new Khandrim horses. And the scribes are already full with work.”

“What is it?” he asked. There were so many papers, all crammed with tiny writing and many numbers!

“The harvest reports from Lebennin. Could you go through those and see if they match with the tax collection reports and the agricultural trade reports?”

He stared uncomprehendingly at the large pile of papers, unsure of what he’d heard. The words seemed to be running all over the sheets. He blinked his eyes, tried to ignore the headache that was starting up, and sighed. He wasn’t even sure how those three reports could be compared.

Boromir seated himself at Faramir’s table and bit into a piece of pastry. “It’s needed for the meeting with the agricultural council early tomorrow morning.”

Faramir stared at him in surprise.

“But the day is half over!”

“How long could it possibly take?” Boromir shrugged. He’d finished the pastry and was helping himself to an apple from the fruit bowl.

“I don’t know. I’ve never seen any of these before,” Faramir said slowly, trying to work out in his mind what needed to be done. He’d have to look at the numbers here, pull out the reports, look at those, perhaps month by month.

“Well, if you started with it instead of dithering over it, perhaps you’d know,” Boromir said, “I’d be surprised if it required much of your time.”

Denethor wouldn’t be surprised at all, Faramir thought suddenly, sourly.

“Were it any other, I would ask them to work swiftly and complete that by luncheon. But you -, I expect you will tarry your way through it and with errors undoubtedly, and not give this to me before dusk tomorrow,” Denethor would have snapped, much as he often had when he’d been forced by urgency to take Faramir’s aid in his paperwork.

Boromir rose, “Would you leave it at my table when you’ve completed it? I need to leave.”

He strode out of the room, before Faramir could pull himself out of his unhappy thoughts. He hastily looked through the papers, and bit his teeth.

“Boromir!” he ran out behind his brother, “I couldn’t go through all of this by tonight,” he repeated worriedly, as he hurried to keep pace with his brother. They had neared his brother’s chambers. Inglor stood by the door, holding Boromir’s cloak.

“Why ever not? It’s really very easy. If you could decipher those Khandrim poems, you should have no trouble with these!,” Boromir retorted impatiently, sounding at the moment much as their father would have, only less cold in tone.

“You fill your head with poems and songs but you cannot manage your footwork for swordplay…”

He snapped back, as he would never have dared to earlier, “Perhaps you could work on it instead then.” And immediately regretted his words.

Boromir’s expression changed immediately, annoyance marring the handsome features, reminding Faramir of Denethor again – he had rarely given him anything but an angered glance. “Very well,” Boromir bit out, and grabbed the papers, “I will ask one of my scribes to do it. They are very busy, but they will surely manage. You must clearly be too busy reading poetry.”

Faramir winced at the sharp tone.

“Boromir! You know it’s not that,” he cried out, but his brother had already stormed off towards his rooms.

He sighed and ran after him.

“Forgive me,” he panted, as he caught up with his brother, “It’s just … I’ll do it. But I’m don’t know –”

“Is anything the matter?” The king stepped out of Boromir’s study.

“It’s the harvest reports,” Boromir told him, still sounding quite cross, “They need to be tallied against the tax and trade reports.”

“That should be fairly simple,” the king said, shrugging, “Faramir could take care of it without you, surely?”

“Ever you rely on Boromir to aid you, you run to him even in matters commonplace!” Denethor would have spat out.

“And I need your help on a somewhat complex matter, before you leave to meet the horsemasters,” the king continued.

“Of course,” Boromir thrust the papers into Faramir’s hands, “Here. You can give it to me at breakfast tomorrow.”

The door swung shut as Faramir clutched at the papers. He heard Boromir laugh softly and ask if the complication lay in the king’s breeches. He flushed and walked away.

He ended up rather distracted at the evening meeting, enough so for the old councillor to take him to task, and suggest sarcastically that the discussion be deferred until Boromir was available to chair it. His scorn was all that was needed to incite the already frayed tempers of the other participants, and it was all Faramir could do to get them to at least listen to him, before finally assuring them he would pass the matter on for Boromir’s attention. His brother would not be pleased about this, he knew.

He did manage to finish the work on the agricultural estimates, staying up a large part of the night. He asked for dinner in his chambers, and nibbled at the cold soup that was sent up, as he worked out the numbers.

The work had been simple, as Boromir had claimed, for all he’d had to do was work out some calculations and then compare the numbers from each report. But it had taken him nearly all afternoon to understand which numbers to look at and what each meant, and the calculations he needed to refer to before he could actually start work.

Boromir took a final bite off his apple and aimed the core at a tub of lilies on the window. He missed and it rolled onto the floor instead to be gobbled up by Aragorn’s hunting dog instead. They were in one of the smaller rooms for breakfast.

“Now I see why he’s getting so fat. You throw like a girl,” Aragorn said, grinning, as he signed a batch of documents.

His secretary, Tarlong smiled in tolerant amusement as the two men bantered along cheerfully. They had had an enjoyable early morning ride together, which had left them energised and refreshed. Boromir was still in his riding clothes.

Inglor bustled in with breakfast.

“That’s about all, sire,” Tarlong said, “The agricultural council will convene in an hour.”

“Oh yes, Faramir’s brining in the reports for that,” Boromir said, as he uncovered the breakfast dishes.

“Ah… buttered mushrooms!” he said happily.

“You sound like a hobbit,” Aragorn said. Tarlong smiled and left.

“Should I ask someone to fetch Faramir?” Inglor asked.

“Oh, he’ll be along soon, I suppose,” Aragorn said.

“You asked him to be ready with the work by breakfast,” Inglor said, “You should not let him be so tardy, sire!”

“Oh, he rarely is, you know that Inglor,” Boromir protested, as he broke off a chunk of bread and covered it with mushrooms.

“Aye, because your father ensured he was always punctual and respectful. He was most rude to you yesterday when you asked him to help. He would never have spoken to your father just so.”

“Well,” Boromir said good naturedly, “I’m merely his brother.”

Inglor pressed his lips together tightly, and set about clearing up the riding things strewn all over.

“He was rude to you?” Aragorn questioned, frowning.

“No,” Boromir said, “He’s a bit of a worrier, and I suppose I did give him very short notice.”

“That is no excuse for rudeness,“’ Aragorn said.

“Indeed,” Inglor said, “You should control him, my lord.” He picked up the riding crop Boromir had left by the fireplace and placed it on the table.

“He’s not a horse, Inglor!” Boromir said in amusement, “Speaking of which, I think I need a new crop.”

“Lord Denethor would have never let him answer so rudely,” Inglor repeated.

A knock sounded on the door, and Faramir entered, a little hesitantly.

Boromir smiled up at him, “Oh good! There you are! Have you eaten? Come on in.”

Faramir did feel very hungry. He nodded shyly at the king, and greeted Inglor politely, and stepped in.

“I’ve brought the papers,” he said softly.

“See, I told you it was simple,” Boromir said, cheerfully, “You needn’t have worried so much about it.”

“Or been so unpleasant to Lord Boromir,” Inglor said darkly. Elessar gave him an appraising look, but said nothing.

Faramir reached for a plate quietly.

“Leave him be, Inglor,” Boromir chided gently. He picked up the riding crop, and balanced it on his hand.

Faramir stared at him, and then at the crop. He swallowed. Inglor glared at him, and walked away.

“See,” Boromir told Aragorn, and flicked it lightly in the air.

Faramir bit back a gasp.

“The grip is faulty,” Boromir continued.

“Aye, I think you need a new one.”

“I think father had a new one made,” Boromir said thoughtfully, “I could use that. He hardly rode much, so it is likely still serviceable.”

Faramir bit his lip. It certainly was serviceable. He’d felt it some months ago when Denethor had used it on him. He shifted uneasily in his seat. He stared at the breakfast spread. Bile rushed to his throat, and he rose hurriedly.

“I should leave now,” he murmured.

“Are you not eating with us?” the king asked.

“I’ve had breakfast. I – I must leave now,” Faramir moved towards the door.

“Oh very well,” Boromir said, and flicked the crop again, “I am certain something is wrong with the balance.”

Faramir left the room, trying to walk as calmly as possible. He walked down the hallway, trying to ignore all thought, focussing instead on the floor, measuring his stride on each flagstone. He turned into a smaller corridor leading to one of the gardens. He leaned against the wall. The sounds of the citadel drummed around him – people walking by, their boots striking stone or wood, talking, laughing voices, doors and windows opening and closing. They were fading away now to a dull hum. The high walls melted away into a mass of grey. The soft sound of the crop flicking through the air echoed in his ears. The harsher sound of the crop striking bare skin came hurtling back to him, accompanied by a memory of the stinging sensation flaring through him.

He rested his head against the cold stone, and slumped against the wall.

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