Faramir Fiction Archive

Shadows (R)

Written by Minx

12 December 2012 | 29219 words

Chapter 4

“A just and able ruler…”

“Such a wise man, we are deprived of his acumen and intelligence…”

Faramir sat quietly through the memorial service for Denethor. As people spoke – councillors, liege lords, guildmasters, he felt his thoughts drifting away. The wine was quite delicious he decided, as he took a third glass, it was very fine fruit wine from Mirkwood. The large hall looked beautiful. Ship’s lanterns placed in cleverly hidden niches, let out a beautiful golden light, and the warm room was filled with the fragrance of flowers and good food.

He felt thankful he wouldn’t be required to speak. Boromir had asked him if he’d like to but he’d managed by carefully avoiding him and any discussion of the service, to be excluded from the list of speakers. It had annoyed Boromir when he’d realised though, that his brother was not listed among the speakers. He’d even told Faramir he needed to lose some of his shyness and reticence. Faramir was just glad. Just the thought of thinking of words about Denethor had left him feeling shaky. Anything to do with Denethor was not something he ever felt like thinking about. His thoughts only led him back to the desolation of those days at the end of the war and the pain before that.

Ever, even as child, and later as a captain, the thought of the constant warring they faced left him heartsick and weary and he knew somehow that Denethor knew that, and held that in scorn.

He’d always known that he was not as much a warrior as Boromir. And Denethor had considered that a grave failing – Faramir, in his eyes, had been less of a support to a brother embattled with leading their forces, and more of a burden. And Denethor had done his best to ensure that for every little failing, Faramir had been given his due.

In his younger days, he’d despaired that his achievements were few and unworthy of notice, and had fought harder, throwing himself into each attack, with little care for his own being. There had been little praise, not even when he’d successfully led his small band of rangers against a horde of wandering orcs, or held back the constant stream of raiding parties sent by Harad. For Boromir would have done so with fewer men, or had fewer casualties or required less time, and would certainly not have been injured as Faramir often was, and need to waste time at the healing houses.

Then Boromir spoke, repeating much of those and talking too of a kind, doting and loving father.

Faramir felt himself start at that, and spilled a little wine down his shirtfront. The others at the table glanced at him, and even Boromir halted for the barest second, before continuing. But Faramir ignored them, caught up in his thoughts instead.

He supposed Denethor had been just and intelligent – but he wasn’t sure about the other things. He couldn’t remember a loving word from him for many years. He tried not to think of the constant stream of chastisement he’d always heard instead – weak, craven, coward, inept, failure, lazy, fool, worthless. Or of the harsh nature of the discipline that was imposed on him, even in his adulthood.

All he could recollect now were a cold expression, angered words, harsh, sharp tones, and a heavy hand. For any summons from Denethor while he was in Minas Tirith were meant merely to rebuke him, for some misdemeanour or the other.

He knew Boromir had never been upbraided thus, since his childhood. But Boromir, he knew, had not the faults that he did. It was a thought that always left him ashamed and unhappy, and he’d silently endured the sharp words and painful punishments.

He reached out for another glass of wine. He was beginning to feel a little light-headed now, and realised he wasn’t sure how many he had had. More than his usual, he thought.

“He left an impression that we will never forget,” one of the councillors was saying.

Faramir thought of the marks on his back, and the way the scars sometimes left him stretched and stiff after a cold night.

He let out a small giggle. He couldn’t help it. He really just wanted to cry, he thought bleakly. He noticed the others at his table staring at him, and realised most people in the room had heard him. Boromir looked even more annoyed.

To his relief, that was the last speaker. Supper was a brief, quiet meal, given the solemnity of the occasion. Faramir ate silently, avoiding conversation with anyone. He stood near Boromir at the end of the meal, as people approached them, with words of solace, but he found he could respond with little more than monosyllables.

“You must miss him a lot,” someone was saying.

Faramir stared at the lady blankly. To him, all these days without Denethor were like any other day, but without as much of the worry of where he was falling short.

She was waiting for a response, he thought wildly.

“Y-yes,” he finally stuttered helplessly, feeling Boromir’s gaze boring into him.

The lady gave him an odd look before moving forward.

It didn’t surprise him too much when Boromir asked to see him later that night. He was coming down with a raging headache, and realised that he could barely remember how much wine he’d had. He did remember though that he’d probably been expected to behave in a more civilised fashion at the service. He readied himself, washing his face multiple times, and brushing down his hair. He knew as he looked at himself in the mirror that he looked well like someone who had spent a night of excess at the taverns.

Boromir was sharing a cup of spiced wine with the king, when he reached.

Elessar gave Faramir an appraising look, before rising. Boromir still looked annoyed. Denethor would have looked merely cold and expressionless.

“I’ll await you in the chambers,” Aragorn told Boromir.

It didn’t take Boromir too long to say what he needed to.

“What ever were you doing?” he nearly exploded, “First you refused to speak, and then you were fidgety while others spoke. You spilled wine on yourself, like a child! And then you giggled! And when people were leaving you displayed such a deplorable lack of etiquette!”

Faramir sighed, “Forgive me. I was tired, and the wine, well… forgive me.”

“Wine! Faramir! The wine… is that all you can say? I can’t believe you could behave so disgracefully. I don’t even know what to say to you.”

Denethor would have said he’d get ten strokes for misbehaviour, and ten more for rudeness.

Faramir said nothing, just standing there unhappily.

“What do you have to say for yourself,” Boromir asked.

“You said he was loving and kind… and I thought…” Faramir gulped and felt the bile rise up in his throat. His voice caught in his throat, and he let out something between a croak and a belch.

Boromir grabbed him by the shoulders and gave him a small shake. Faramir bit back the fear that rose, as the grip tightened around his limbs.

“You’re drunk,” Boromir said disgustedly.

“He was not always loving or kind,” Faramir said dully, “I remembered… and…”

“Well of course he wasn’t. I agree he was often hard and very harsh, but surely you understand that those were very difficult times!”

Faramir said nothing. His head felt heavy and hurt miserably.

“We were fighting a war. There was no time for niceties.” Boromir continued.

“Have we not spoken enough of him today?” Faramir retorted, stung by his brother’s continued defence of their father. Yes, he may have deserved much of the harshness for his failings but perhaps he had deserved too, all those kind and loving words that Boromir spoke of.

Boromir stared at him in disbelief, and Faramir realised this was one of those rare occasions when they were having a fight! And Boromir, he knew, would be unused to seeing him behave in an unseemly manner or even disagreeing with him. He felt so tired!

“Forgive me. My behaviour was inexcusable. You may penalise me as you see fit.” he said wearily.

“Is that all you will say?” Boromir fumed.

“What would you have me say?” Faramir bit back, and then with his customary restraint, “‘tis late now, Boromir. Can we not talk of this later?”

“No,” Boromir said shortly.

“I’m tired, Boromir. I can think of nothing to say.”

“Well, I will wait for you to think of something to say,” his brother said stubbornly, “All night, if need be. I’m not tired.”

“Aye, but does not Elessar wait for you in his chambers?” Faramir snapped back.

“Inglor spoke truly. You are uncontrollably rude!”

Faramir said nothing, simply looked back at Boromir stormily.

“I will speak to you when you return to your senses,” Boromir retorted, “Be off now.”

When Faramir woke the next morning, his mouth was dry, head heavy, and empty stomach roiling. He’d had a wretched time last night, leaning over a bowl, retching, his body unused to such excesses. His sheets were damp with sweat and the room smelt despite the open windows. He groaned, wishing he hadn’t imbibed the extra cup of wine, or perhaps two or three extra, he thought bleakly. For nothing else could explain how awful he felt, or the way he’d lost his composure.

He groaned again as the events at the service came back to mind, and the conversation with Boromir later. He hadn’t drunk that much that he could not recollect the words they’d exchanged he realised. Boromir had been so annoyed. He needed to apologise!

Boromir was most certainly annoyed. He was out riding that morning, and later claimed to be too busy to meet Faramir. When they did finally meet at a council meeting, he wouldn’t speak to Faramir. It continued so for some days. Boromir sent any communication to Faramir through curt notes, instructing him on his tasks. Faramir responded by following the instructions, and waiting for some verbal acknowledgement. By his turn, he too now remained silent, when they met, at mealtimes or in council. It was not difficult, for him, but it hurt him nevertheless.

Boromir and he had disagreed in the past, and at times in their childhood, not spoken to each other, but that had lasted merely a day. Usually a good night’s sleep would be enough to restore their good humour with each other.

“This has gone on long enough,” Aragorn finally told Boromir, as he watched the Steward sitting at a window seat staring down at the gardens. Faramir was standing below, watching some birds perched on a fountain. The younger man was standing hunched into his cloak. A stiff breeze carried yellowing leaves across the courtyard, and one got caught in the young man’s hair. Faramir did not seem to notice.

Boromir scowled. The weather had worsened these last few days. Grey, leaden skies interspersed with rain had them spending all their time indoors, and Boromir’s mood had only worsened.

“I know you’re not really angry with him,” Aragorn retorted, “The weather has turned you sour and crabby and you’re taking that out on your poor brother.”

“I’m still very upset with him,” Boromir huffed, “He was very silly that night, and stubborn too. I just want him to realise he cannot expect to be so wilful and silly, at this age. He needs to be responsible and mature.”

“I’m sure he does,” Aragorn soothed, returning to his paperwork, satisfied that Boromir seemed to be in a better mood already.

And to Faramir’s relief, Boromir began talking to him again. He responded with more than equal enthusiasm. They did not discuss the events around the service again, and he felt grateful for that.

The weather remained unpredictable, raining heavily some days, and warm on others, but the warmer days began to grow fewer. The council sessions were coming to a close and the work reached a faster pace, for many matters had to be finalised before the councillor and liege lords returned to their lands for the winter.

For more than a week, they were all hard at work, from morning till late in the night, finalising all matters that needed council approvals. They had returned now to the pattern they followed earlier.

And then the load began to ease, slowly. The council related matters were starting to get wrapped up, some councillors were even starting to leave. The days were getting cooler, and shorter. Faramir found he slept even more badly in such weather, but the thought that Boromir was no longer as upset with him, made him feel a lot better.

It was on one of those days, when the sky looked clearer and less grey and the winds felt softer that a chance detour by the kitchen for Faramir revealed the fragrance of honeycakes. His brother loved those, he recollected. That would be good. They had been working hard for long hours all this week, but much of their work for now was over, and Boromir could look forward to a fine meal.

In fact, Faramir mused, perhaps they could have a small picnic. That was an excellent idea, he thought happily. They could go by the river, which both of them would like. They could carry along a fishing rod for Boromir, he’d take that new book he found in the archives. They could return a little after sundown just in time for supper. It would be just like the outings they used to have in their younger days.

He went looking for Boromir, pleased with the plan. He found his brother walking down the long hallway outside his chambers, a bundle of papers in his hands. Boromir glanced up from the papers in his hands as he approached. He looked a little put out. Faramir thought it must come from being confined to the indoors the last few days.

Well, he did know how to cheer him up.

“The kitchens have made honey cakes today,” he declared smiling, “Wouldn’t it be nice if we could go out on a picnic by the river? I’ll get us some bread and cheese and fruits as well. And that nice cordial from Dol Amroth that you really liked.”

“I don’t really want honey cakes,” Boromir murmured, returning his gaze to the papers in his hands, “Really, it seems some of these papers just reproduce if they’re left on the table too long!”

“Oh but they’re your favourites, aren’t they? We could leave after the noon meal,” Faramir continued, “We’d be by the river in time for tea.”

He stopped talking suddenly realising that Boromir did not look too pleased. He felt his own cheerfulness fade. The memory of their recent argument was still fresh in his mind, and he found he did not wish to endure again, days of Boromir not talking to him. The very recollection of those few days of loneliness and unhappiness sent a wave of misery washing over him.

“I said I didn’t want honey cakes,” his brother replied loudly, “And must you keep chattering so inanely, like a hobbit. And a picnic? In this weather? Have you naught else to do? Did not Aragorn ask you for some reports?”

“I just thought you might like to spend a little time with me, like we used to,” he stammered out, scared by the annoyance in Boromir’s expression.

Surely, they were not going to fight again! He had merely sought to be with his brother. Perhaps, everyone spoke truly, he truly did burden Boromir too much!

He was embarrassed to feel tears pooling around his eyes, suddenly. He felt weary and heartsick now, and inexplicably sad. He turned away from Boromir and began walking away hurriedly. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the king walking towards them, and realised now why his brother had refused. Boromir would have planned luncheon with the king, and he was merely being in the way.

He truly was inept and a disturbance.

“Faramir!”

Boromir looked up at his brother’s retreating form, and took in the slouched posture. He shouldn’t have been so short-tempered with him. He grabbed at him, clutching the shoulder worriedly. Faramir was all skin and bone, he realised suddenly.

“Look, I didn’t mean to sound like that. Is it a picnic you want? Perhaps we can have one when the weather is finer…”

“No… I… leave me be, Boromir… I must return… those reports, you were right.” Faramir could feel the tears run down his face.

“Faramir! Are you crying? What is it?”

“N-nothing,” he pushed the hand away. It was heavy and it hurt. He’d have bruises on his shoulder tomorrow.

Boromir hadn’t expected his hand to be pushed away, certainly not by Faramir. The sudden movement made him step back. His foot caught in the rug at the top of the staircase, and he found himself falling. He threw out a hand to catch at something but failed to land a grip anywhere, and landed with a loud crash.

“Boromir!” he heard Aragorn and Faramir’s terrified voices, before he sank into darkness.

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