Faramir Fiction Archive

The Prince of Ithilien (NC-17)

Written by Raihon

08 June 2007 | 33215 words

Title: The Prince of Ithilien
Fandom: Tolkien
Author: Raihon
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Faramir/Éowyn, Faramir/Aragorn
Warnings: Sex, polyamory, angst, politics, economics. Lots of economics!
Word count: 30,000+
Disclaimer: this is a work of fanfiction
Summary: A story in the plot arc begun in The Song of the Steward and the King. Third year of the fourth era: Faramir is struggling to balance his roles as Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien. Political demands of the present and ghosts from the past come into conflict with the desires of Faramir’s heart. Major roles for Aragorn, Éowyn, Arwen, Legolas, and Imrahil, with very cute guest appearances by Elboron and Eldarion.

And all that was in the Theme they have, for their own good, the right to use – rightly, without pride or wantonness, but with reverence. If the smallest child of a woodman feels the cold of winter, the proudest tree is not wronged, if it is bidden to surrender its flesh to warm the child with fire. – The Peoples of Middle Earth, p. 413

Legolas…also brought south Elves out of Greenwood, and they dwelt in Ithilien, and it became once again the fairest country in all the westlands. – ROTK, p. 399

---

The Prince’s Helm

March 19, year 3 of the Fourth Age

A man named Anmuin sat before Faramir in his office, calling himself the Lord of Laegtalad in North Ithilien, and Faramir supposed he had that right. His great-grandfathers had held lands north of Cair Andros off an on for the last few troubled centuries, though more recently his family had been reasonably content managing farmlands in exile in Anorien. Now he presented himself to Faramir as the representative of a collection of restored towns and villages that were, as yet, little more than way stations for foresters on their way in or out of the hills.

“Prince Faramir,” he said, his eyes earnest and determined, “lumber is what North Ithilien has, and lumber is much in demand both in Rohan and to the South. Minas Tirith hobbles us in restoring prosperity to Ithilien with its restrictions on trade, and it baffles me why the King will not let us harvest enough wood to meet the needs of our own people. Does he not want Ithilien to flourish again?”

“Hardly, Lord Anmuin,” Faramir answered and paused, waiting to see what the next question would be. He was fairly sure this was not the question the man had come here to ask.

Anmuin flashed Faramir a slightly resentful look. “Well, if we are to flourish, let us fell the trees and hew the wood.” He gave Faramir a long look and finally said, “Will you not help Ithilien seek prosperity?”

“Am I not doing so now? What more would you have me do?” Faramir asked mildly.

“Stand up for your charge,” Anmuin said, with an edge to his voice. “The King is too much like an Elf to see that these forests are anything more than a temple to the glory of nature. What we need is felled timber, productively used, not pleasure gardens!”

Faramir nodded, offering Anmuin the chance to continue, though he objected to the man’s words. He was always eager to hear more about “the Elf problem,” as it was coming to be known on the wagging tongues of Ithilien. It was a problem that Faramir charged himself with solving.

Anmuin leaned forward, placing his forearms on the edge of the desk. “If we were free to trade directly with the South, instead of accounting for every twig and branch to Minas Tirith, and expand the local production of forest products for sale…”

“Freely trading timber is out of the question for now,” Faramir interrupted him. “Given the smuggling problem we had last year, your request cannot be in earnest. It is precisely the trade of raw lumber to the South that we want to restrict.”

“It is our power that he means to restrict! Why do you permit it?” Anmuin burst out, throwing his hands up in the air. “Your father would never have been content to simply be…” he caught himself and his lip twitched.

Faramir stared coldly and Anmuin paled. Faramir was not as upset by this man’s words as he was concerned that a petty lord would so readily speak to him this way. Anmuin was little more than a greedy man with pride and ambition that did not match the reality of his station and Faramir was tempted to retort harshly, but that he had heard echoes of such words from others. Perhaps, Faramir thought, it was time to think seriously about these accusations, and to decide how to counteract them before any real damage was done to his authority.

“My Lord, I’m sorry I let my tongue escape me, but…”

“Lord Anmuin, you are most correct about my duties to Ithilien. I will formulate a proposal to ease the burden on our people and I will speak to the King before next week’s Great Council.”

Anmuin looked surprised. “Well, thank you, my Lord. I will look forward to hearing what the King has to say.”

Faramir nodded and rose, gesturing toward the door. “Please summon representatives from the towns and from the other houses of North Ithilien to come here in three week’s time and we will discuss what is to be done.”

Anmuin looked a little flustered and displeased that he was being displaced from his role as arbiter, but smiled politely. “Ah, it may be difficult to arrange for all the lords to be present, but I will try to do as you ask, Prince Faramir.”

Faramir regarded him closely. He is hiding something, Faramir thought. Perhaps there are factions among the lords that he wishes to exclude?

After Anmuin left, Faramir put his feet up on the desk and leaned the chair onto its back legs. Am I content to take orders from Minas Tirith, as Anmuin suspects? he mused. Am I, as the rumors suggest, little more than the lapdog of the King? He smiled grimly at that thought, because he was favored by the King and everyone knew it, though very few even suspected the extent of their mutual affection. I am more than the King’s beloved, he thought, more than a pet or a puppet, certainly, but perhaps I do not yet really know what more I am. I spoke of we – the King and I – restricting trade and Anmuin spoke of our – his and my – power, he mused. Where do my interests lie?

He stood up to pace around the sunny room, growing increasingly agitated as he searched for an answer to this question. Éowyn entered and watched him for a moment, leaning against the doorframe for support, for she was very pregnant.

“You are pacing, and that means your discussion did not go well,” she said. “Would you like to speak with me about what is troubling you?”

Faramir smiled and walked over to her, kissing her quickly on the brow and then on the belly. “Excellent idea. You may help me see this problem more clearly and as Warden of the Land, I will need your approval for its solution, in any case. Have you a few minutes?”

She nodded. “I am to receive the herbalist for my lesson shortly, so I hope your thoughts are not tangled in too big a knot.”

Faramir sighed. “Alas, this is a rather large knot, but I would welcome your help untangling it.”

She moved to a sunny window seat and folded her hands in her lap. “Where do you want to begin?”

He summarized the conversation he had with Anmuin and explained that he was having trouble sorting out where the interests of Gondor departed from the interests of Ithilien. “The duties of stewardship are familiar to me and I would like to think I perform them adequately. But there are those in Ithilien who think little of my performance as Prince. I need to reduce the friction between myself and the hereditary lords of Ithilien, but the course of action is not clear to me.”

“Most of these towns are managing themselves now,” Éowyn stated. “The lands are held in trust under your name and most of the towns are governing themselves through elders the people themselves have chosen. Why should it be in either your interest or in the interest of the towns to capitulate to the petty nobility?” she asked.

“It is true that the nobles have little power other than their family name, which may or may not be remembered by the townsfolk. However, it does strengthen their claim that the archives have documented their rights as descendents of deed-holders in Ithilien. So far the King has not suggested, nor have I considered, contesting their claims, and so they have returned.”

Éowyn held up a finger. “So, there’s one possible course of action. Contest their claims.”

Faramir continued to pace in front of her. “Ah, but here are the problems with divesting the lords of their land. First, it is not customary and would be legally complicated, and second, it is unjust to the lords of Ithilien to apply one rule to them and another, far more advantageous rule, to all the other fiefdoms.”

“Indeed,” Éowyn concurred.

“Furthermore, there is some good to be gained from allowing these families to grow their meager coffers and rebuild their power over those they seek to make dependent on them.”

“What honor is there in that?” Éowyn asked, genuinely surprised. “Where is the good in bringing these hardy townsfolk and foresters back under the thumb of their hereditary lords?”

Faramir rubbed his hand across the stubble on his face and thought about how best to argue in favor of Gondor’s economic and political foundations. He could see how Éowyn might find their traditions restrictive and unfair compared to those she was raised with, but Faramir believed in it more than just for reasons of tradition. He thought of an answer he knew would convince Éowyn. “Imagine a terrible storm came and ruined the town. Or an illness decimated the population. Without wealth concentrated in the hands of a few, who is going to act to alleviate the suffering? In such situations, it is only natural to think of one’s own family first, but the role of the noble is to prepare for such events and act in the interest of the greater good when dire need arrives.”

“If their lords are restored, the people will suffer a loss of independence,” Éowyn said thoughtfully, “but if they don’t make that sacrifice, they would sooner or later suffer displacement, loss of livelihood, and hunger.”

“Exactly. But right now, the nobility themselves are in this situation of privation. They need to be far enough above subsistence themselves if they are to see to the wellbeing of others.”

“So they seek to increase their wealth at a faster rate than others, but the King’s laws are preventing them from doing so.”

Faramir nodded. “We must help the nobility to grow their power in a limited way, one that does not endanger the strategic interests of Gondor as a whole.”

“We?” she asked. “Oh, you mean…” Éowyn glanced out the window toward Minas Tirith.

He turned away and began to pace again. We. It struck him that he saw this as a joint decision of himself and the King, and assumed that Aragorn would agree to whatever he proposed. Indeed, he thought, sometimes it is difficult to remember that we do not share a single mind or a single heart. All the strength he had in him seemed tied in some way to the King, not least of all to the way the bond they shared fortified them both. A vivid memory of the hunger and ecstasy of the last night he had spent with Aragorn a few weeks before intruded into his thoughts and filled him with both longing and dismay.

He stood before Éowyn and the open window and gazed out toward the City. “Am I losing myself?” he asked out loud.

Éowyn took his hand and pressed it to her warm cheek. “Are you?” Her eyes were concerned.

A chill passed through Faramir’s veins and he saw the truth of it. Slowly, he nodded. “Being Steward is simple because I know what is expected of me and because he and I can answer as one for the needs of Gondor.” He laughed wryly. “And it is so easy! A word from either of us and things just seem to fall into place. But when I answer for the needs of Ithilien, I need to speak as Prince, not as Steward. I have yet to learn how wield my strength without him.”

“Or against him,” Éowyn said softly. “Is that even possible? Could you resist him if he opposed an action that you knew would be best for Ithilien?”

“Would that it were not necessary!” Faramir exclaimed in dismay. “Surely the interests of Gondor largely coincide with those of Ithilien?” Faramir looked to Éowyn for hope but her blue eyes were clouded with doubt.

“You need to discover the needs of your people before you can make that judgment,” she chided him gently. “‘It is not just the lords who are unhappy with the restrictions on how they use the land. In nearly every town, orchard and vineyard I visit, people ask me what you will do with the unclaimed and despoiled lands, and if you really intend to make good on the King’s promise to let the Elves ‘take over Ithilien,’ as they say. The Elf problem may put you to the test as Prince.”

Faramir looked again out the window. On the road, workers of the estate came and went: a donkey pulled a cart filled with bags of flour up the long hill, its master walking beside it; two older women dressed in clothes too warm for the weather stood talking by the gate, occasionally addressing their talk to the guard, probably the son of one of them; two boys and a little girl chased each other around the kitchens and storehouses, but Faramir couldn’t recall who their parents were.

He closed his eyes and pictured these good people multiplied and living all over Ithilien. “You are right, of course. These people have lived difficult lives. They lost their land to Mordor and had to survive on the charity of relations across the Anduin or, if they were highly placed enough, they scraped together a living on poor land granted them by the Steward or by lords of other parts of Gondor. They are worth consideration on top of the greater good of Gondor.”

Éowyn smiled at him but her eyes were still troubled. “A head can wear but one helm at a time, husband. Do you think the Prince’s helm ill-fitting?”

Faramir’s brow furrowed and he stared out the window again. “Perhaps.”

Éowyn squeezed his hand and rose. “I will think on this. Let us discuss it later.”

Faramir nodded absently, continuing to gaze across the hills to Mindolluin and the White City. He missed Aragorn keenly, and he wished he did not.

“Faramir,” Éowyn interrupted his thoughts. “You will find your way. All things are within your grasp.”

Faramir gazed at his lovely wife and smiled softly in acknowledgement that his strength came from her, too. “Thank you,” he said, kissing her goodbye.

The Hunt

In the late afternoon of the following day, Faramir grabbed his bow and a quiver of arrows and headed across the large courtyard of the estate. He poked his head in the kitchen and asked the cook, “would you like me to bring back some venison?”

The cook chuckled and said, “I was about to take the hatchet to some chickens, but I can keep the birds for another day, or just in case…”

Faramir frowned. “There will be no ‘in case,’ I assure you.”

She nodded, her eyes twinkling. “No. Of course, my Lord.”

Beregond hurried over. “Off for a bit of hunting, Prince Faramir?” he asked hopefully.

“I am mainly hoping to get some practice in. But if my arrow should happen to find a deer…” he smiled at Beregond. “Would you like to join us? I am on my way to meet Legolas, who likes to humiliate me with his skill.”

At the mention of the Elf’s name, Beregond no longer looked so eager. “Ah, well, no. I am on duty soon…” he bowed quickly and went back to the guardhouse.

Faramir sighed. Contrary to what he and Aragorn had anticipated, people seemed to be getting less comfortable with the Elves as more of them arrived to Emyn Arnen. There were only six, and they kept mostly to themselves, being as unused to living near men as the men were unused to them. Still, there was a tension growing that Faramir did not completely comprehend.

Faramir walked through the gate and off the road, into the open area that stretched between the estate proper and the Elven settlement by the river. He followed the course of a creek that ran down the shallow slope of the hill, enjoying the water’s music. At one point he noticed relatively fresh deer tracks by the creek and made a mental note to follow them on his way home if he did not find other quarry sooner.

The Elven settlement spanned both sides of the small river, a beautiful wooden bridge connecting the workshops on one side with the homes on the other. The Elves’ houses were built around a copse of oaks and were all interconnected with pathways constructed on the sturdy lower branches. Faramir climbed up to the first level of the houses and called out, “Legolas?”

Faramir jumped as a voice answered from directly behind him. “I heard you coming.”

“No doubt,” Faramir said, turning around. Legolas was dressed in light clothing, his bow already slung across his shoulders. “Shall we go find some suitable targets?”

They walked up hill to a stand of trees and skirted it for quite some time. “I suppose that not just any tree would do?” Faramir asked impatiently.

“Any dead tree,” Legolas said, giving him a disapproving look. “Why would anyone want to shoot at a living tree?”

Faramir sighed, but then spotted a fallen trunk near the edge of the small wood. It was a good choice, having fallen against another tree and offering targets at various heights. “There,” he gestured, and Legolas nodded.

Faramir carved several small circles of bark from the trunk while Legolas counted off fifty paces from the tree. They shot a round of arrows and went to retrieve them. Faramir was annoyed that he had to seek a stray arrow of his a short distance into the woods. “I must make time to practice more,” he grumbled.

“Your arm is still cold,” Legolas reassured him, counting off the paces again. “It will warm up.”

Indeed, the next round of shots was truer and Faramir relaxed into the rhythm of the bow. After a few more rounds, he asked, “what will you do if Aragorn declares the forests of North Ithilien a preserve?”

“I will go there.”

“And do what?”

“Live among the trees. Help them. Heal them, if I can. They suffered much under the shadow.”

Faramir put down his bow and watched Legolas shoot for a while, trying to discern what it meant to him to help the trees. “I must confess, I do not entirely understand your relationship with the trees. I lived among those trees for many years, but I do not feel for them the tenderness you do.”

“Men have forgotten how to listen to them.” Legolas put down his bow and sat cross-legged on the ground, looking up at Faramir.

Faramir sat facing him. “Will you move the other Elves there?”

“I think some will come, and more from Greenwood will join us, many more if we are to be self-sufficient. Some like Arasail and Luthir will want to remain here to work with Éowyn on cultivating gardens and orchards, but most will want to live among the wild trees.” Legolas looked at him with opaque blue eyes.

“There are men who think they own those trees,” Faramir said, watching Legolas’ face carefully. “And the laws of Gondor probably agree with them.”

“And what would they do with those trees?” Legolas’ eyes flashed anger. “Cut them, strip them and sell them? Burn them in order to clear farmland?”

Faramir nodded. “Is that wrong?”

Legolas looked away. “No, not of itself. All things have their right uses.” He ran his hand along his bow. “Gondor has more land than it has men to people it. Surely there are places that can be left wild and unmolested.”

Faramir looked down at the ground, running his hand over the rough grass. Legolas had a point. Most of the settlers were coming from Anorien and Lossarnach, regions where every hand was still needed at planting and at harvest. They could live well if they stayed in their foster homelands, and it would be better for the Kingdom as a whole if they did so, at least for now. But if the Valar willed it, someday Ithilien would flourish and be dotted with thriving towns. That is, if Faramir acted wisely now to bring about such a future.

Then Legolas said gravely, “Aragorn has made an offer to the Elves. I would stay in any case, as would Arasail and Luthir, but that promise is why the others have come.”

“A promise made on my behalf,” Faramir muttered, irritated that Legolas seemed to be trying to put him in his place.

Faramir idly plucked a blade or two of grass and felt Legolas’ gaze on him. He dropped the grass, wondering if Legolas felt empathy for the grass, too, so carelessly put to death by this wanton man’s hand. Faramir sighed. “All things have their right uses,” he repeated quietly.

For a while, the two gazed down the hillside to where a small segment of the Anduin was visible over the ridge, glinting in the last rays of the sun.

“We need not…” he caught himself. “I need not encourage the settlers to return to Ithilien in any haste, but I cannot justly stop them. Those trees have grown up around the bones of their ancestors, men and women who stood in the face of the growing darkness and gave their lives hoping to hold it at bay,” he said with increasing emotion. “It is important to them, and to me, and to all of Gondor, that Ithilien come to life again.”

Legolas’ eyes betrayed a deep sadness. “They are being called home again,” he said.

Faramir nodded, and was glad that Legolas understood this, at least. He put a hand on the Elf’s knee. “The lives of Men are short, my friend, but memories endure. They may never have seen it except from afar, but Ithilien is their home, and they long to return.”

Legolas bowed his head and Faramir withdrew his hand. When Legolas looked up, he said, “if you truly want Ithilien to come to life again, you must not let Men have their way. Let them return, but let them share the land, let the trees and the animals enjoy the retreat of the shadow, as well. One creature should not flourish by causing another to suffer.”

Faramir felt troubled, for in his heart, he agreed with what Legolas had just said. Who would be a better steward of Ithilien’s treasures, someone like Lord Anmuin or someone like Legolas? Anmuin thought only of his own advantage, but the kind of stewardship Legolas had in mind would make the trees masters of men. There was another kind of stewardship, though: there were honest people who would honor the land and its gifts by making proper use of them. The good of Ithilien would best be served by Men and Elves working together, but Faramir doubted he had the skill to bring about such a partnership.

Legolas grabbed his arm and pulled them both to the ground, flat on their stomachs. Faramir looked at him in alarm, but Legolas smiled. He nodded toward the woods and Faramir detected movement within.

“What do you see?” Faramir whispered.

“Deer,” Legolas replied.

Faramir looked at him and grinned. “One of them may be rightly used by my cook tonight,” he said, crouching on his knees and nocking an arrow.

Legolas did the same. “Get down. You have no target,” he teased, bumping into Faramir with his shoulder.

“I see them well enough,” Faramir retorted, pushing back.

“If you let me get my shot off first, you will see nothing but the leaves they kick up behind them,” Legolas said, and both men stood and drew their bows, releasing their arrows at the same time.

They walked to the wood to see if they had felled their targets. They found two animals laying still in the leaves. Legolas knelt beside his deer and Faramir did the same, gently caressing her neck and thanking her for her sacrifice.

That night Faramir sat in front of the fireplace in the library, the family’s favorite room in the house. His arms were wrapped around a two-year-old Elboron, who was curled up in his lap.

“You killed the deer?” Elboron asked. “You shot him?”

“Her,” Faramir corrected. “I shot her with an arrow.”

Elboron looked into his father’s eyes, his face showing concern. “Did it hurt her?”

“Probably not,” Faramir said, smoothing the boy’s hair. “And then I went to her and thanked her for her gift.”

“What gift?” Elboron asked, not understanding.

“She gave her life to feed us.” Faramir looked around him, suddenly moved almost to tears. “Just like the trees gave their life so we can burn them in the fireplace to keep us warm…” he hugged his son even more tightly.

Elboron turned his head to the fireplace and softly said, “thank you, trees.”

Faramir laughed and covered his son’s face with kisses. “Thank you trees for your wood, thank you cows for your milk, thank you sheep for your wool, thank you Mama for making Elboron…”

Elboron giggled and squirmed. “Thank you Papa, thank you Maida…”

Maida, sitting quietly in a corner of the room sewing, raised her head and smiled. “You are welcome, my angel. Come along now, time for bed,” she said, standing and stretching.

Faramir kissed the boy goodnight and went up to Éowyn’s study, where she was preparing her report for the Great Council. Faramir came up behind her and lightly ran his hands over her hair, across her shoulders, down her arms and up again, until she shivered under his touch. “Thank you for our son,” he said, his hands moving now over her swollen breasts and down to her stomach. “And for this one, our soon-to-be-first-daughter” he said, leaning against the back of her chair so he could reach further down, below the curve of her stomach to the tops of her thighs.

Éowyn sighed. “You are most welcome,” she said.

“You are most inaccessible,” Faramir complained, his hand stopped by her belly.

“Help me to bed,” Éowyn said, smiling tiredly.

Faramir helped her undress and then undressed himself.

Éowyn lay on her back, one arm stretched out, welcoming him, the other cradling her belly. “You know we can’t…”

“Shh,” Faramir said, sliding into bed next to her, slipping one leg between hers and spreading her open as he kissed her. Light as a butterfly’s touch his hand roamed over her skin, and she flushed with desire. “I know what the midwife said,” he whispered in her ear. “Tonight I seek only your pleasure, love.” Faramir smiled as his words quickened Éowyn’s pulse and his hand found its quarry.

“My beautiful wife, my noble lady, mother of my much beloved children,” he said, timing the stroking of his fingers to the rhythm of his words. He kissed her neck and shoulder. “The one I see before I close my eyes at night, the one I wake to again in the dawn.” Éowyn groaned and he slowed his pace. “Can I ever tell you with words how much I love you? How I desire you? I cannot. Let me show you.” Éowyn moaned with pleasure as he kissed her deeply, his hand deftly pleasuring her. “Éowyn,” Faramir gasped, getting carried away by seeing her responses to his touch. He pressed himself into her hip. “Oh, my beloved! You make me ecstatic, just watching you.”

Again, Éowyn groaned and began to whisper, “yes, yes, yes…”

Faramir gently flicked at a nipple with his tongue until it was hard, then took it in his mouth. Éowyn’s cries exploded and she convulsed under his hand. When she was through, Faramir arranged the pillows so that she could sleep comfortably, then lay curled around her back, careful not to press too closely against her, lest she notice his need and feel obligated to reciprocate.

“Sleep well, my love,” Faramir whispered, but she was already asleep. Faramir clenched his groin muscles, frustrated but happy. If all went well, it would be just two more months until he could join with her again. He banished the thought and tried to fall asleep.

Chains of Silver

Faramir rode for Minas Tirith on a day that matched his mood: cool and cloudy. He and Éowyn had spent the previous day grimly, for it marked four years since the deaths of his father and her uncle. The rites of remembrance were easier for Faramir this year than they had been the previous three, when only his sense of duty had compelled him to perform them. The love he felt for his father was not erased by the bitter manner in which they parted, but it seemed as if he could not return to the happier memories of the past without first passing through what had happened at the end, and that was a journey he still could not force himself to take.

Yesterday, he had taken an initial step, though. In the past, he had uttered the words of the remembrance rite without thinking about their meaning or feeling what a son was supposed to feel when speaking such words of reverence. But yesterday, when he had said “I honor the memory of my beloved father,” he was able to touch at least a little of the truth behind those words. Every year, he had forced himself to light the candle, though this part of the rite was especially difficult for him. Yesterday was the first time he had been able to overcome his loathing of the flame and fulfill the ritual, watching the candle burn until it went out, and trying to recall only good memories of his father.

It had been a struggle that had taken an emotional toll on him, and Faramir was still feeling a little raw, so that a melancholic nostalgia had begun to weigh him down as he neared the gate. The stables reminded him of other times when his joy at returning to the City was dampened by anxiety over an immanent confrontation with the ruler of the White Tower. He tried to put the thought out of his mind, as he always did when Aragorn recalled to him his father.

As he walked up the circle, his mood became more melancholy as the city reminded him of others he had lost. Here, on this stretch of street, he fell and scraped his knees as a very small boy. One of the few specific memories he had of his mother was of her scolding him for running ahead of her, before sweeping him up in her arms and hugging him while he cried. There, around that corner was the tavern where he and Boromir would go when they wanted to feel as if they were just ordinary soldiers. They would drink more than they should and flirt shamelessly with the barmaids. Faramir paused for a moment, considering stopping at the tavern, but decided that a drink would only make him more morose.

He walked more quickly as he approached the Citadel. He nodded to the door warden of the King’s house and stopped to exchange a polite greeting with the guard posted outside the door to the hallway linking the private chambers. He then went to his room to drop off his saddle bag, to rinse the Pelennor’s dust off his hands and face, and to change into the more courtly clothes he kept at Minas Tirith. He pulled his hair back and secured it with a strip of green cloth embroidered with silver stars that Arwen had made for him and that Aragorn had given him on the first day of the new age. He heard the bell chime and realized it was later than he had thought.

Just then there was a knock at his door. It was Doronil, the servant who attended Faramir when he was in residence at the King’s house. Faramir tried not to be impatient with the boy.

“My Lord Steward, I came as soon as I heard you were here,” the young man said breathlessly.

“Thank you, Doronil, but I am in haste. If you would, please lay out the things in my bag on the table in the adjoining room. Then take my riding clothes to be washed. I will return in a few hours.”

The boy went about his tasks and Faramir shut the chamber door behind him. He had turned to head down the hallway when he heard Aragorn’s voice call his name. He stood still, feeling strangely reluctant to face Aragorn, but soon spun on his heel and watched as the King, radiating energy and grace, approached him.

Aragorn’s openly adoring smile made Faramir weak with desire. “Did you just arrive?” Aragorn asked. He embraced Faramir and said quietly, “I did not know you were coming so early. I am glad.”

Faramir clung to Aragorn for a moment longer than was advisable in a location where someone might see them. His heart was heavy with melancholy and confusion, and Aragorn’s embrace warmed and comforted him.

Faramir pulled back, lightly brushing Aragorn’s cheek with his lips as he moved away. “I have to go see to some things, but I need to speak to you later. Tomorrow or the day after preferably, but definitely before the Council meeting, yes?”

Aragorn tilted his head and looked like he was about to say something, but just nodded. He released Faramir’s arms from his grasp and took a step backward to put an appropriate distance between them. “The next few days will be very busy, but we will find time,” he said, and his eyes twinkled.

Faramir felt the warmth spread downward and he smiled slyly. “I hope so. But I need to talk to you, as well.”

“Of course.” Aragorn bowed his head and Faramir made his way down the hallway, relieved that his odd mood seemed to have escaped detection.

Faramir’s first stop was at the archive, where he requested that one of the clerks gather for him the deeds for lands in North Ithilien and the old charter of the Woodcraft Guild. He also requested any law books or historical documents that might deal with the issue of lands held in common trust.

“Lord Faramir, it is nearing supper time,” the clerk warned him. “I only have a few hours to find all these documents. It would be best if you return tomorrow to begin your work.”

Faramir frowned. “I need to see these documents rather urgently. Would you please have them delivered to the Citadel tonight?”

The clerk, a stern young woman, glared at him. “My Lord, these materials are for use in the archive.”

Faramir chuckled at the woman’s self confidence. “Good lady, I have been a loyal patron of this archive since before you were born. I well know that the Steward may request a delivery,” he chided. “But if you are too busy to see to this yourself, I could send my attendant to fetch the documents for me.”

The clerk pursed her lips and cast her eyes down. “I will do it myself before I return home this evening. Where would you have the documents sent?”

Faramir hadn’t thought of that. He had a small desk in the study off his chamber, but it wasn’t suitable for the kind of work he had to do. Perhaps he could presume? “Please deliver them to my attendant and have him deposit them in the King’s study.”

She frowned stubbornly. “I would prefer to see them safely delivered myself.”

“That won’t be necessary. Ask for Doronil. Thank you,” he said crisply and left.

Next, Faramir descended to the Guild house and asked the matron, an old woman wearing a black mourning veil, if the Master of Woodcraft was in the City.

“Yes, Master Tawahir is aged and stays mostly in the city,” the clerk replied. “He used to travel much, but now mostly the other members of his guild come to him. It’s such a shame,” she clucked.

Faramir raised his eyebrows. “What is?”

“Arthritis,” the woman whispered, looking around her. “He can’t do any carving himself anymore, just a little lathe work.”

“Is he here now?” Faramir asked. “I would like to speak with him.”

“No, he did not return after lunch. I expect he had business somewhere.”

“I do not mean to impose on him, but if a trip up the hill would not tire him too much, I would summon him to breakfast with me tomorrow morning. If he has assistants or apprentices, they are welcome, too.”

“My Lord Steward, I am certain it would not trouble him to join you.” She adjusted her black scarf, tucking a strand of gray hair back under it. “He will be pleased to hear that you came to call on him in person,” she beamed.

Faramir noticed that in the courtyard of the Guild house were a series of displays. “May I look?” he asked.

“Of course!” the matron opened the door for him, and beckoned him to follow, smiling at him affectionately, as if she knew him.

“Are these wares for sale, or are they masterworks?” Faramir asked.

The clerk shook her head. “These are mostly for show, but they are not particularly valuable. If you see something that strikes you, let me know and I will ask its price.”

Faramir was drawn to a table laden with silver jewelry. He picked up an intricate hand piece that resembled the ones worn by Haradric women he had seen near Poros. It was a thick bracelet inlaid with irregular turquoise stones and was connected to three engraved rings by very fine silver chains. “Is the Master of Silverwork Haradric?” he asked.

“Aye, well, half. You know.” The clerk shrugged. “His work isn’t to everyone’s taste here in the City, but he does well enough and he knows how to manage his guild.”

Faramir smiled, picturing this exotic piece on Éowyn’s delicate hand. She would either laugh at him and put it deep in a drawer somewhere, or play along, letting him admire her encircled hand and fingers, and tease him about choosing the White Lady when he really desired a dusky-eyed slave. In two more months.

Faramir cleared his throat. “I like it. I will pay what he asks.”

The clerk winked at him. “A lovely gift,” she said, still smiling. “Master Kahar will be honored by your patronage.

Dusk had already arrived by the time Faramir made it back to the Citadel and a servant of the King’s house informed him that he was invited to dine with the royal family in the private dining room. Faramir smiled to himself at the anticipation of a cozy family dinner and nearly forgot to check if the documents had been delivered yet. Doronil said they had not, and Faramir instructed him to expect two deliveries. He handed Doronil a few silver coins.

“For the jewelry, pay the asking price,” he instructed his attendant. “And when you deposit the documents, please light a fire in the hearth, and then you may retire.”

To his slight disappointment, Arwen and Eldarion were alone when he arrived to the dining room. While he kissed Arwen in greeting, Eldarion leapt up from his chair and tried to throw himself at Faramir.

“Be careful, little King!” Faramir laughed, catching the two-year-old and slinging him over one shoulder. The boy laughed with delight.

“Faramir, please, the boy has just eaten!” Arwen protested.

“Very well,” Faramir said, and set Eldarion back in his chair. “Finish up, young man. Eat your vegetables. Mind your mother.”

“That’s better,” Arwen said and motioned for Faramir to take a seat.

“Where is he?” Faramir asked, buttering a piece of bread.

“I guess he has been delayed,” Arwen smiled resignedly.

“Too bad. I wanted to ask for his permission to do something I have already done.” A servant brought Faramir a plate of food and he began to eat. “I have taken the liberty of having some documents delivered from the archive to his study, since the table in our room is somewhat diminutive for the task.”

“And what task is that?”

“The ordering of Ithilien,” Faramir said, the bread sticking a little in his throat.

Arwen raised her eyebrows and contemplated him.

Faramir considered what counsel he should seek from her.

“Fa-mir,” Eldarion shouted, pointing to his plate, “look, I ate vegebles.”

“Lord Faramir,” Arwen absent-mindedly corrected him.

Eldarion got down from his chair and started to run in circles around the table. He stopped at Faramir’s side and asked, “El-bon here?”

“No, dear,” Faramir said, tousling the boy’s thin, dark hair. “Elboron is at our house in Emyn Arnen.”

“And probably quietly finishing his supper and calmly toddling off to bed,” Arwen said grimly.

Faramir nodded, scooping up the child and bouncing him on his lap. “Now that the weather is nice, maybe you can come visit us and play with Elboron in the creek. Do you remember the creek by our house?” Elboron looked at him blankly and Faramir chuckled and said, “probably not.”

Eldarion reached out for Faramir’s wine glass and knocked it over, spilling a little on the table.

Arwen rolled her eyes. “Enough of that. If you are done eating, you must go to bed.”

Eldarion stuck out his lower lip. “No! More apple.”

“More apple, please,” Faramir corrected him and called for someone to bring a cloth to clean up the wine.

Arwen took an apple from the bowl in the center of the table and sliced it for Eldarion. Faramir fed him pieces of apple and he stayed quiet while Faramir and Arwen chatted about the charming things their sons had done or said in the last few weeks. After the servants had cleaned the spilled wine, collected their plates and refilled the water pitcher, Faramir decided to turn back to the topic of Ithilien.

“Legolas wants the forests of North Ithilien to be left untouched so that he and his kin may tend them,” Faramir began. “He understands Aragorn as having invited, and perhaps having promised, that this would happen.” Arwen nodded, indicating she was familiar with this discussion. “But the legal status of these lands is not clear. Aragorn seems to think that he may make such a declaration at any time, but there are several nobles of North Ithilien who have their deeds to these lands in proper order.”

“But they have not lived on those lands for several generations. Have these property rights not lapsed in that time?”

Faramir sighed. “That is not clear. Up to this point neither the King nor I have thought to dispute these claims, and there are a few lords now residing on these lands and building permanent structures, which, in effect, restores their rights. As sovereign, Aragorn could, or I could, for that matter, revoke their rights, but that would not be wise. I will study the question tonight, but I am fairly sure their claims are legitimate and should be honored.”

Arwen gave him a bemused smile. “I am certain that Anbriel or one of the other archivists would help you with this.”

Faramir shook his head and broke away from Arwen’s gaze. “Until I speak to Aragorn, I think it best that no one outside our small circle know what picture can be put together with those documents.”

Eldarion began to squirm on Faramir lap so he tried to put the boy down, but he tugged on Faramir’s hand. “Play!” he demanded.

Faramir shook his head. “I have to go do some work, my sweet.”

Eldarion got a very stubborn look on his face and tugged harder at Faramir’s hand. “Go play!”

In an instant, Arwen grabbed both Eldarion’s hands in her own and said, “time for bed, darling. Kiss Uncle Faramir goodnight.” She smiled as Faramir blushed at being named kin. “When he returns, I will tell Estel to go find you. Don’t tire yourself,” Arwen said.

“I’m afraid it can’t be avoided, but thank you,” Faramir said, rising and bowing slightly before he left.

The study door was now closed, so Faramir knocked before entering, but found the room empty. The documents had been delivered, so Faramir lit a few lamps, poured himself some wine, and settled down to work.

A few hours had passed and Faramir’s head was growing heavy with fatigue when Aragorn entered. Faramir stopped what he was doing and watched Aragorn approach, entranced, as before, by the masculine grace of his movements.

“I heard that you had staged an occupation of the King’s study. Very impudent,” Aragorn said, moving behind Faramir and rubbing his shoulders.

“Yes, very presumptuous of me. Ah, there – you found the spot,” Faramir said, directing Aragorn’s fingers, which dug deep into his muscles. He leaned his head back against Aragorn’s stomach and received a soft kiss on the forehead and another on the lips. “Mmm, please forgive your humble servant,” he said, smiling at the comfort this physical contact gave him.

“You are forgiven,” Aragorn said, running a hand across Faramir’s chest.

Faramir drew a deep breath, then stilled Aragorn’s hand with his own. He couldn’t afford this distraction. What was more, he needed to reassure himself that he was still able to put duty before pleasure. More than once in recent months he had felt ashamed when his preoccupation with Aragorn had taken his attention away from something more important.

“What are you working on?” Aragorn asked, bending so that his chin rested on Faramir’s shoulder.

The gesture, simply pressing together cheek against cheek, was so affectionate and familiar that Faramir closed his eyes and struggled not to forget himself. “I am studying the law,” he said after a moment. “It is most unpleasant, but I must come up with a proposal before breakfast, I fear.”

Faramir could feel the breath from Aragorn’s sigh of disappointment whisper across his neck.

“So until tomorrow, then?” Aragorn said, standing upright.

Faramir turned his head to look up at Aragorn’s face, and he felt longing, swiftly followed by fatigue. “After breakfast, I will find you so I can tell you what this is all about.”

Aragorn nodded and bent to kiss him again. Faramir’s response was instant and agonizing. There was nothing he wanted more than to let himself give in to this, to ease the weeks of longing that had built up in him such exquisite tension. He indulged himself in a verse or two of Aragorn’s poetry and then moved his mouth away. “Please, you know I can’t refuse…”

Aragorn stepped back as he had done earlier, putting a polite distance between them. “You just did,” he said, his eyes flashing a challenge. But then he smiled. “Don’t work too much longer, love.”

Faramir smiled weakly. “I won’t. I can’t stay awake much longer.”

Aragorn left and Faramir willed his blood to cool. He began sketching a map from memory and made notes on it. The third time his head fell forward onto his chest, he allowed himself to go to bed.

Negotiations

Faramir slept for a few hours before his breakfast meeting. Master Tawahir and two younger men joined him at a small table located in an alcove off the main dining room. Tawahir, who was hunched but still had a firm grip when he clasped Faramir’s hand, introduced the men as his assistants, no longer apprentices, but still junior members of the Woodcraft Guild. After Faramir had inquired about their work and where they were from, he introduced the topic he had asked them there to discuss.

“Settlers have returned to North Ithilien,” Faramir explained, “but prosperity is still a long way off for them. Since timber is the most abundant form of wealth in the area, it is only natural to bring woodcraft back to Ithilien. As you well know, there is not a single member of your guild in all of North Ithilien.”

Tawahir nodded. “Well, first it was the Orcs and now, well, begging your pardon, Lord Faramir, but where’s the wood to craft? It’s no more available in Ithilien than anywhere else. We’ve had to ration wood for over a year now and it is not entirely clear to me why that is, considering, as you yourself say, there is abundant timber in Ithilien.”

“Elves,” one of the assistants muttered and was shushed by Tawahir.

Faramir put a mask of patience on his face; the guild knew quite well the reasons behind the policy, and it was not to do with the Elves.

“I have a plan to work with the Elves, but that is not your concern,” Faramir said a little more sternly. “However, my next question does concern you: if I were to get harvesting limits increased for local woodcraft production, would the guild be willing to send master craftsmen to Ithilien to establish workshops?”

Tawahir’s eyes glinted. “Do you mean that you would free up the wood supply to the entire Kingdom, or only for use by craftsmen in Ithilien?”

Faramir briefly wondered if he should be thinking more broadly than Ithilien on this matter, but he spoke firmly, “only for craftsmen in Ithilien. This is a plan to benefit Ithilien, not the guild.”

The two younger men looked at each other and then down at their plates.

Tawahir stared long and hard at Faramir. “We spend half our time waiting for wood instead of working it. Demand for our work greatly exceeds supply right now, but, ah…the King keeps insisting on restricting what price we can charge. Even the master craftsmen can barely eke out a living. It would be difficult to ask them to start fresh in Ithilien.”

Faramir knew that Tawahir was preparing to give him a difficult time because of the King’s restrictions on what the guilds could charge for their wares. The man had probably been at the Council meeting soon after the war when Faramir had suggested that stability in Gondor would be achieved more quickly if none greatly benefited at the cost of others. The order had come from the King, but everyone knew whose idea it had been to impose price limits on the guilds.

“Naturally, your members must have incentives to make the move,” Faramir said, pouring some more tea in Tawahir’s mug. “But as you said, they will not have to spend half their time waiting for wood – they will be more productive than they would be elsewhere. And, if the Valar will it, soon we will be out of our crisis and prices will again be set by the guilds.”

“We would need to write a new guild charter for Ithilien,” Tawahir snapped.

Faramir gestured toward the King’s study. “I have the old charter here. I can have it copied…”

Tawahir shook his head. “No, a new charter that gives the Ithilien guild the right to treat directly with the Prince. There was no Prince when the old charter was written.”

Faramir considered this. It was not an unreasonable demand and though it would strengthen the Ithilien guild relative to the others, it would also strengthen his control over the economy by setting a precedent for other guilds to follow. “What else?” he asked, knowing this wasn’t going to be the only point of negotiation.

“Towns that want our craftsmen must provide a workshop and lodging at their own expense, but upon occupancy, the property will revert to the guild.”

Faramir said nothing, waiting for Tawahir to continue. He was sure the lords would agree to this provision.

“And for the first ten years, the Ithilien guild members are exempt from taxation,” Tawahir concluded.

Faramir smiled coolly. “There will be a new charter, which the guild should prepare at its earliest convenience. Let the charter reflect the following provisions.” Tawahir nodded to one of the younger men, who attended closely what Faramir was saying. “I will secure from the lords an agreement to provide workshops and lodging, if you will agree that the workshops should be overseen by a senior guild member, each of whom will take on a minimum of two apprentices from Ithilien.”

Tawahir whistled. “You think much of the talent of your Ithilien boys, my Lord. Are there two to be found in that wild land who are worthy of apprenticeship to a Master Woodcrafter?”

Faramir narrowed his eyes and leaned forward. “And I will exempt the Ithilien guild members from taxation for the first year after they establish a workshop.”

Again, the younger men glanced at each other uncomfortably. Tawahir held Faramir’s gaze, twirling his thumbs and muttering, “one year. Nothing can be accomplished in one year. Hmph.”

“On the contrary, Master Tawahir. Much can be done in a year. What say you?”

Tawahir harrumphed again and rose, so Faramir and the others did the same. “I will present your proposal to the guild. We will answer you before the Council meets.”

“Thank you, Master Tawahir, for your consideration,” Faramir said politely, escorting them through the dining hall. And thus, Faramir thought to himself, the Prince of Ithilien defends his charge.

After they had left, Faramir went back to the table to finish his breakfast. He had been attending Tawahir’s demeanor too closely to eat much while the guild members had been there.

Faramir then went to the Tower Hall to advise Aragorn of his plans, but he was not there and one of the Guard informed him that the King had gone down to the barracks, but would be back in the Citadel after lunch. Faramir then returned to the study and began making notes on what he would expect to see retained from the old guild charter.

Faramir took his lunch in the dining hall and caught up on the gossip of the court, but immediately returned to the study to survey the deeds. For now, he only needed to get a rough picture – how many families held which lands and for how long. He was familiar with most of the houses in question because their sons had served under him in the Rangers. If any family had not sent its sons to serve, it would be bold to make a claim to Ithilien’s lands now. When he finished filling in the map he had started the night before, he bade Doronil to summon the clerk from the archive to retrieve the deeds and the guild charter later that day. He then began perusing the law books to acquaint himself with the legal basis of land trusts.

Aragorn entered just as Doronil left. “Good afternoon, Lord Steward,” he said pleasantly.

“Good afternoon, King Elessar,” Faramir responded, a smile tugging at his lips. He rose from the desk to yield it to Aragorn, who was holding some parchment scrolls.

Aragorn put the scrolls on the desk and gave Faramir a quick kiss and a squeeze on the arm before sitting.

Faramir leaned his hip against the edge of the desk, and resisted an urge to smooth a lock of Aragorn’s hair that was out of place. “All is well?” he asked.

“Quite well,” Aragorn said. “We will have all of the discharges and promotions in order by the Council meeting. By the way, Cair Andros is requesting a new infirmary.”

Faramir nodded. “The roof leaks. We could get away with just giving them a new roof, but I think it might be wise to give Theron what he asks for.”

Aragorn looked up at him. “He has served with honor.” Faramir raised his eyebrows and nodded, and Aragorn picked up on his thought: “will he retire if we do not do as he requests?”

“He has threatened to, but more importantly, he has a desire to teach. I hear he wants a new facility that can accommodate training.”

Aragorn pursed his lips and nodded his approval, turning his attention back to the scrolls.

Faramir touched him on the shoulder. “I want to talk to you about Ithilien.”

Aragorn turned his attention to Faramir and a small smile on his face distracted Faramir from his thoughts for a moment. He returned the smile and said, “we have left some legal loose ends, or rather, I have failed to address certain issues in a timely manner, and I need your counsel,” Faramir struggled with his inclination to speak of ‘we’ and his intention to speak of ‘I.’ “I want to advise you of some discussions I have had regarding the timber…”

A knock at the door interrupted him and Doronil entered with a small velvet bag, which he handed to Faramir, along with some loose coins. “I paid what he asked. It was a fair price, I would say,” the boy said, smiling shyly.

“Thank you Doronil. After you deliver the documents to the clerk, you are free for the evening.”

When Doronil left, Aragorn asked, “what is in the bag, if it is not a secret?”

Faramir smiled. “Not a secret, but a surprise. A present for Éowyn. I think I will give it to her after the birth of our child.” He opened the bag and laid the hand piece out in front of Aragorn, who slipped his left arm around Faramir’s waist. With his right hand, he traced his finger along the delicate silver chains.

“Three rings bound to one master,” Aragorn mused, looking up at Faramir. “An interesting choice.”

Faramir tilted his head, looking from the bracelet to Aragorn. “I just thought it was an enticing piece of jewelry.” What did he see in this? Faramir wondered. For some reason, Aragorn’s comment irritated him.

Aragorn moved his chair so he was facing Faramir, a hand on each side of his waist. “It is enticing,” he said, giving Faramir a smoldering look.

Faramir’s hands traveled up Aragorn’s arms to his shoulders, along the curve of his neck and tangled into his hair. “You weave quite a spell on me these days,” he whispered. “I am utterly desperate for you.”

Aragorn stood quickly and pulled Faramir close. “Come to me tonight,” he said, his eyes intense. “I see a change in you and I would know what has happened.”

Faramir closed his eyes, confusion muddling his brain. He tried to withdraw from Aragorn’s embrace. “Aragorn, we should talk about the…about Ithilien,” he said, his heart pounding in his chest, his muscles straining to keep him from giving in to the desire that consumed him.

The sound of voices outside the door caused Aragorn to grumble, “what now?” He sat back down and Faramir went to stand on the other side of the desk.

Valacar, the King’s personal secretary, a slight man with short gray hair and somber eyes, entered the room and announced, “Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth has arrived to pay his respects to King Elessar.”

Faramir smiled and Aragorn said, “bid him enter.”

“Good day, King Elessar,” Imrahil said, smiling broadly. “And my dear nephew, what a pleasant surprise! I just arrived and I came to pay my respects.”

Aragorn rose and embraced Imrahil. “You are welcome, as always, Prince Imrahil. How was your journey?”

Faramir also embraced his uncle and they both remained standing.

“Smooth and uneventful,” Imrahil answered. “It is a fine spring we are having.”

“A little dry,” Faramir fretted. “May the new year bring rain.”

“Is there anything we need to discuss before the Council meeting?” Imrahil asked Aragorn, knowing that there were always things best discussed before such meetings.

“Perhaps we should find time to talk tomorrow. Will you return here after the third bell?” Aragorn asked and when Imrahil nodded, he turned to Faramir.

“Yes, I will be here,” Faramir confirmed.

“And I hope you have no plans for supper, nephew,” Imrahil said, clasping him on the shoulder. “Elphir asked me to find out if you were in the City yet and if so, to invite you to dine with us.”

Faramir bowed his head in deference, though he had been hoping to join Aragorn and Arwen again for dinner, and then to have Aragorn to himself. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, and reconsidered his impulse to seek out Aragorn at every chance. Imrahil would be a good person to talk to about his political dilemmas. He knew nothing about forestry, but he knew how to be a Prince.

“Excellent. Then, if you will excuse me, my Lords?” Imrahil bowed to Aragorn and left the room.

Faramir smiled wryly at Aragorn.

“What?” Aragorn asked.

“I am just waiting for the next interruption.” Faramir paused. “Or, if there is none, about Ithilien…”

Aragorn grimaced. “Truly, I am sorry, but perhaps you can bring it up tomorrow when we meet with Imrahil? I am about to be due elsewhere. There are, at last count, six petitioners waiting to be heard this afternoon and…Faramir?”

Faramir was already half-way out of the room when Aragorn caught his arm. “Faramir!”

Faramir turned to him, cheeks reddening. He did not speak because his emotions were warring within him. He was angry, but Aragorn’s touch shot through him, weakening him, and this weakness only made him angrier.

“What is it?” Aragorn whispered urgently.

Faramir shook his head. “Nothing that cannot wait until tomorrow,” he said, his eyes scanning Aragorn’s face, which looked concerned and a little hurt. When Aragorn did not protest or ask him again to come to him that night, Faramir turned away, pulling his arm from Aragorn’s hand. “Until tomorrow, then,” he said. Aragorn did not answer.

Faramir left the door open behind him and walked briskly to his chamber, changed into light breeches and a loose shirt and headed down to the Tower Guard training grounds. He grabbed a practice sword from the bench.

“Lieutenant,” he said to the middle-aged man supervising the training, “who here needs to be taught a lesson?”

The Power of a Prince

“What happened to your hand?” Elphir asked, embracing his cousin.

Faramir hugged him back with one arm. “I got distracted at the wrong moment and got my hand in the way of the other man’s sword. It is just bruised. I bound it to keep the swelling down.”

“I will go see if there is any ice in the kitchen. Father is in the other room,” Elphir gestured across the hall.

Faramir joined Imrahil in front of the fireplace. A servant handed him a cup of wine and he sipped it slowly.

“When will Éowyn arrive?” Imrahil asked.

“The day before the Council begins. I wish she would not come. She is very far along and tires easily.”

“So why is she coming, if you do not wish it?” Imrahil asked, winking.

“Frankly, I did tell her to stay home, but she would not listen to reason. She gives her Lord loyalty, but no obedience whatsoever,” Faramir said, shaking his head.

Elphir returned and said, “someone has gone to fetch ice.”

The three men sat in comfortable chairs by the hearth and shared news of their families. Elphir’s wife, Niniel, and his infant daughter joined them for dinner and Faramir caught up on the last six months of events on the Falas.

“The herds in the uplands are doing well,” Imrahil said.

“There has been no blight since the war and the grasses in Anfalas have never been better,” Elphir added.

“Maritime and river trade is at two thirds of its pre-war level, so that is not bad,” Imrahil continued. “There are goods waiting to ship, but we do not have enough vessels to meet the demand.”

Faramir’s attention focused intently on his uncle.

“The lumber shortage has meant that commercial vessels have to wait longer to be repaired,” Imrahil said, meeting Faramir’s gaze. “We do not have the men up in Lamedon to harvest both trees and crops.”

“Meanwhile, we have too many men, merchants, sailors and fishermen, sitting idle in Dol Amroth, getting into mischief,” Niniel sighed.

“You try and joke with them about heading inland to find work and they look at you as if you just asked them to turn into an eagle and fly away,” Elphir said with irritation. “They can always pull their supper from the sea. They do not care that others upstream or down the coast depend on the grain and the fruit from Lamedon.”

Imrahil frowned. “Do not be too harsh on them, for it is only their supper they can find in the sea. Without a boat to pull in a catch, they have no coin for a homestead or a bride.” Again Imrahil looked at Faramir and nodded almost imperceptibly. “We cannot expect them to become inlanders for a season or two just to pick up a few pieces of silver. It is not worth their trouble, even if there is no other way for them to earn. Until prices become normal again, nothing is going to work properly in the Kingdom, but it is up to us to find a way to make things work until then.”

One corner of Faramir’s mouth tilted upward, acknowledging the friction between himself and his uncle over the King’s policy on prices. “As you say, Uncle, we have to find a way. It is our responsibility to balance the different parts of the economy or the price restrictions will benefit no one. With trade and production artificially suppressed, we are the ones who must manage either wages or supply.”

“You think we should offer payment for seasonal labor out of the treasury?” Elphir asked.

Faramir tilted his head. “What do you think?”

The baby started fussing so Niniel excused herself. Elphir thought for a moment and said, “It is not the Prince’s place to offer that incentive. Father could broker the offer to the men on the coast, but the transaction with the workers must be conducted directly with the lords of Lamedon.”

Faramir smiled. “And why is that?”

Elphir laughed. “You may be a few years my elder, but you are not my tutor! Who are you to quiz me so?”

“I am your pupil,” Faramir answered. “Yours and your father’s,” he said, glancing at Imrahil. “I am trying to learn how to be a Prince.”

A look of comprehension came across Imrahil’s face, but then he gave Faramir a probing look while his son answered the question Faramir had posed.

“Well, first of all, it is too low level a transaction for us to be interested in it. It is beneath us to manage affairs at the level of paying workers. Secondly, it would be seen by the Lords as interfering with their affairs. And third, if we brokered the deal, we could control the terms of the agreement, giving us more of what we want.”

“Which is?” Faramir asked.

“Power,” Imrahil said.

“Really?” Faramir asked.

Imrahil took a drink of his wine before speaking. “Yes. Of course!” he scolded. “Power. The Prince must circulate power in such a way that it keeps moving, bringing benefit to people all over the land. Each time power moves, however, it should pass through the Prince’s hands on its way to wherever it is going.”

Faramir nodded slowly. “So you do not possess power as much as you possess the ability to circulate power.”

Imrahil smiled wryly at his nephew. “All the power you and I possess is contained in a single word: Prince. Everything else is watching, waiting, and working.”

Faramir shook his head. “I am sorry, but you are wrong in one thing. My power is also contained in a second word: Steward.”

“True enough,” Imrahil conceded, and searched Faramir’s face. “But the power of the Steward is of a different nature. Perhaps it is time you unlearned some of your father’s lessons.”

Faramir shifted uncomfortably in his seat, thrown off balance by this thought. He chuckled grimly to hide his feelings. “He might be gratified to know that I learned any of them.”

Imrahil clucked his tongue and shook his head. “Do not exaggerate your differences with Denethor,” he said in a tone that implied he was tired of hearing such words. “In trying to please him, some of his lessons you have learned too well. You have learned that power is static, resting quietly in history, in records and traditions, and that he who controls the center wields power.”

Imrahil exchanged a long look with Faramir, whose face had flushed. “I do not envy you, nephew,” Imrahil said, softening his tone. “You not only have to learn an entirely new approach to your duties, but you have to divide yourself in order to do so. In justly rewarding you, the King has put you in a difficult position. You serve two masters.”

Is that all? Faramir wondered, or is this slave shackled to three masters? He suddenly recalled that he had left the bracelet in Aragorn’s study. Faramir took a deep breath to calm his stomach, which had started to sour. He forced himself to turn his attention back to what he intended to discuss with his uncle. “It is difficult, but I am learning. This issue of timber, for example, is my first real test.”

Imrahil smiled knowingly. “Yes, you mentioned something about managing supply?”

Promise

The next morning, Faramir and Imrahil both arrived early for their meeting with the King. The King’s secretary, Valacar, was hovering near the edge of the room. “Have you made a decision?” Imrahil asked Faramir quietly.

Faramir nodded. “I will advocate for increasing the harvest.”

“And what of the forest preserve?”

Faramir shook his head. “Too sensitive. It needs to be worked out between myself, the King and the Elves first. I am not yet confident in that plan, in any case.”

Imrahil smiled grimly. “It is your plan, nephew!”

“I know, but it is not ready yet.” Faramir felt a prick of doubt. “Think you I am too timid?” he asked, and immediately regretted it. What good would it do to trade in reliance on Aragorn’s counsel only to be overly dependent on his uncle’s?

Imrahil wisely did not answer the question and instead turned and sat in one of the chairs across the table from Aragorn’s.

Faramir saw on the corner of the desk the velvet pouch he had forgotten there yesterday. He almost did not want it anymore, but overcame his reluctance to touch it and picked it up. “I had this delivered here yesterday, and forgot it,” he explained to Valacar, who just raised an eyebrow. He went to the door and called for Doronil, whom he instructed to put it in his room. Then Faramir took his seat next to Imrahil.

Aragorn entered, his robe flowing behind him and Faramir sank under the weight of his emotion. He was swept into a torrent of melancholy thought. My love moves across the room and stops my heart. How am I to declare myself anything but a slave to a man such as this? The naked quality of these thoughts embarrassed Faramir. His resolve to cling to himself today began to slip away and a muddled longing took its place.

Aragorn’s eyes lingered on Faramir as he sat down at his desk, and though he longed to meet those eyes again and feel the pleasure of seeing the love that shone there, Faramir turned his face away, afraid Imrahil would see his weakness.

Fortunately, the meeting started off with Imrahil explaining to Aragorn at length the affairs of the Falas since the last Great Council. Faramir took the time to clear his mind and feel his own will strong again inside him. He then looked back to Aragorn, whose handsome face quickened his heart, but did not cause him to falter. He also looked to Valacar, who met his gaze. Faramir had nothing against the man, he was discreet enough, but sometimes Faramir found his constant presence irritating. He wondered how much Valacar knew, or suspected.

“Lastly, my King, I would call to your attention the problems the lumber shortage is causing for the fishermen and maritime traders in my lands,” Imrahil said, glancing briefly at Faramir. “Is there no way to increase the supply?”

Faramir frowned, for this was not the most advantageous point from which to begin his conversation with the King. He wondered if his Uncle were challenging him to confront the problem with Aragorn directly, or if he just playing politics, trying to get what he wanted by putting Faramir on the spot.

Aragorn had not missed the looks the other two men exchanged and asked, “you mean by lifting the harvesting limits in Ithilien?”

“My Lord,” Faramir began, “I share your concern that if we had an abundant supply of timber, some of it might again be diverted into illegal trade to Umbar, but we must make better use of the resources of Ithilien. I have already proposed to the Woodcraft guild that, if they re-establish workshops in Ithilien, they will have unlimited access to raw supplies.”

Aragorn sat back in his chair, trying not to show his surprise at Faramir’s words.

Faramir took a deep breath and continued. “Increasing Ithilien’s timber harvest for use locally will pose no threat to the Kingdom, and it will provide a better life for the woodsmen and for the towns that sponsor a workshop.”

Faramir looked to Imrahil and said, “and perhaps we can work out among ourselves other exceptions to the restrictions on timber harvesting. Perhaps a one-time shipment negotiated between the Princedoms to meet the needs of Dol Amroth?” he said, as if they had not already discussed it the night before. Something inside him twisted uncomfortably at playing politics with Aragorn, but he did it anyway because he had to understand for himself what being a Prince entailed.

Aragorn placed both palms flat on the top of his desk. “Wait. What you propose regarding the woodcraft guilds is reasonable, but the order regarding the harvest limits is not yours to rescind.”

Faramir felt his face flush. “There are two reasons why it is.”

“What are they?” Aragorn asked, leaning forward.

“First, though this order was given by you, it was recommended by me. I now recommend that you revise the order. Second, by your grace, I am Prince of Ithilien and unless you command me otherwise, it is within my rights to determine how the resources of my land are used.”

Aragorn looked stunned, staring at Faramir as if he suddenly did not know him. “First,” he said harshly, “I may not accept your recommendation. Second, I may command you otherwise.”

Faramir clenched his jaw. I take one step away from him and now he seeks to reject my counsel and command my actions! he thought indignantly. But he bowed his head and said, “yes, my Lord, of course you may,” in a pointedly humble tone. Faramir looked up and his eyes locked with Aragorn’s. The space between them felt almost electrified.

Faramir pushed down the anger building inside him, and thought about how to bring the conversation back to a more reasonable tone. “Lord Aragorn,” he said, trying to sound conciliatory, “I wish I had been able to speak with you when I first arrived, to advise you of my plan beforehand, but there was no time. Much has been set in motion the past week that I would have you know.”

“Yes, I would know it. Let us speak now, then,” Aragorn said impatiently.

Imrahil cleared his throat. “My Lords, it is my understanding that this conversation does not directly concern me. I beg your leave, though if the King is amenable to what you propose, Nephew, I would speak to you of it later, for we are in dire need of lumber,” Imrahil said, looking to the King.

“You have my leave,” Aragorn said curtly, nodding at Imrahil and dismissing Valacar.

Faramir stood and for once wished that Valacar would not leave him and Aragorn alone. He feared that without the others present, the conversation he was to have with Aragorn could be taken in too intimate a direction. Faramir sat back down, again locating a source of calm within him before looking at Aragorn. The look on the other man’s face nearly shattered him. Now Aragorn no longer tried to hide anything he was feeling. The distress he read in Aragorn’s eyes angered Faramir, who perceived such vulnerability in this context as manipulation.

“Aragorn,” he said sharply, “do not be distracted. We are discussing the Kingdom’s business now.”

For the second time that morning, Aragorn looked thoroughly taken aback. “Again, I see a ghost,” he muttered, looking unnerved. “And I heard his voice, as well. By what name did you just call me?”

Faramir again felt deeply unsettled as he guessed whose ghost Aragorn was seeing. “I called you Aragorn. Why? What name do you think you heard?” Both men stared at each other warily, and Aragorn did not answer.

“Aragorn,” Faramir said distinctly, “there are three issues at stake here. First is the issue of my sovereignty as Prince. I hope that you will become accustomed to the idea that on some occasions I will have to make independent decisions regarding Ithilien, just as Prince Imrahil does for Dol Amroth and its territories. I do not think you would speak to him as you just spoke to me now.”

“You did not just make an independent decision, Faramir. You made a promise in direct violation of one of my commands!” Aragorn said, placing his hands on the arms of his chair and thrusting his chest forward.

Faramir’s blood chilled. It was a mannerism that reminded him very much of his father. “Now I see the ghost, too,” he said quietly, and Aragorn blanched. Faramir’s stomach began to sour again and he felt a clammy sweat break out on his skin. This is all going quite wrong, Faramir thought in dismay.

“My Lord,” Faramir said, but did not like the taste of the words on his tongue. “Aragorn,” he tried again, “I have not disobeyed you. I simply had a conversation setting out the proposed conditions for the guild’s re-establishment in Ithilien. The Woodcraft Master has yet to present it to his guild, and no contracts have been signed.”

Aragorn broke away his gaze from Faramir’s face and leaned back in his chair again. His brow was furrowed and Faramir could tell his thoughts were elsewhere.

“Second is the issue of the harvest limits. I ask you to let me exert my sovereignty in this matter. You should trust that, as your Steward, I will set my policy in accord with the interests of Gondor. However, as Prince I should be the steward of resources coming from my own lands.”

“Do as you will, Prince Faramir,” Aragorn said bitterly, still not looking at him.

Faramir gritted his teeth, annoyed by the childish tone. “Do not speak so quickly, Aragorn, for you know not what you agree to.”

Aragorn looked back to Faramir, his eyes pleading Faramir to return some sign of their intimacy.

Faramir shook his head. “No,” he warned, “let us finish this.” It was all the acknowledgement he could allow himself of the emotions running just below the surface of their conversation. His nerves were fraying and his heart pounded in his chest, so he stood and paced across the room to calm himself. “Here is the problem: when I raise the harvest limits, with your permission, of course, how shall I determine the source of the harvest? Who do you think owns these lands, Aragorn?”

Faramir went to a shelf and pulled out the map he had worked on earlier. He placed it in front of Aragorn, warily keeping his body well apart from the King’s. “Of about 800 square miles of healthy, forested land in North Ithilien, approximately one third is currently claimed by five minor houses. There are four more houses that might yet make a claim, and six houses that no longer exist or have established themselves in other lands.”

Aragorn looked up at him in surprise.

“These calculations are still preliminary,” Faramir continued, “but if there are nine likely claims, two are here, northwest of the crossroads. However, those houses left so long ago that they probably do not even remember that their deeds exist in the archives. Four of the claims are to lands located here,” he pointed to the area just east of Cair Andros. “Another three are more scattered, but larger,” and he indicated three more locations further north and east.

Aragorn’s brow furrowed. “And?”

Faramir looked at him, trying to convey both his love and his determination. “And where do you want to put the Elves, Aragorn?”

Aragorn looked down at the map and did not answer.

“What did you promise Legolas?”

Aragorn sighed. “I asked him to tend the forests.”

“Which forests? What did you say, exactly?”

Aragorn thought for a moment. “I said, ‘come dwell in the forests of Ithilien, and bring with you those of your kindred who would live among men. Do what you will to make the land a place of great beauty…’”

Faramir waited, expecting Aragorn to continue, but he did not, instead staring out the window, seemingly lost in thought.

“It was not right to make that offer,” Faramir said gravely. “First the land belongs to its lords, then to me, and only after that, to you. If you do not reconsider, you will rouse the wrath of many, at your peril.”

Aragorn’s eyes challenged his again and he said in a low tone, “my Lord Steward, do not tell me of my rights as King, or pretend that I may not command that my will be done in Ithilien. I may yet risk even your wrath if I deem the cause worthy.”

Faramir felt chilled by his words, wondering why Aragorn felt he had to make such a show of his power when Faramir was just trying to do his duty. It struck Faramir that perhaps Aragorn’s talents as King lay more in commanding troops than running a realm, but in either case, his job was to assist with the latter. “I am your chief advisor,” Faramir said, assuming again a humble demeanor, “and it is my duty to warn you when your rights are not upheld by custom or when your decisions are unwise.”

There was a long silence, but Faramir kept his eyes cast down. He tried to appear calm, but he was agitated, confused, and on the brink of exhaustion.

“Faramir, Ithilien should be sacred to us,” Aragorn said at last, his tone still haughty. “It was the seat of my forefather Isildur, it served as our bulwark against Mordor, and it is the land our people vainly fought to keep for a thousand years. The reclaiming of Ithilien is an important symbol for our Kingdom…”

Faramir’s emotions at last burst through. “What you would call the sacred ground of Ithilien has been anointed with my blood, and that of my brother and father, and of the men I commanded unto death,” he said angrily. “Do not presume to lecture me on what Ithilien means to Gondor. Would you make it into a symbol? Well, I would not. I would honor the value of Ithilien by making it a home for men again, and let the Elves have what the men do not claim. Let Ithilien be green, the most beautiful of our lands, let her gardens and orchards flourish, let her trees grow tall, let her be the cradle for the future of Gondor, but do not make her a living monument to the past. The Elves would cherish her in this manner, but such is not the stewardship of men. And it is to men we are responsible, Aragorn.”

This time, Aragorn did not rebuke him. He reached for Faramir’s hand, and looked up at him tenderly.

It seemed to Faramir that this gesture was meant to distract him, and he wrenched his hand away. Aragorn recoiled as if he had struck him. The fear Faramir saw in the other man’s eyes pushed him over the edge, drawing him down into the undercurrent of their interaction. He gripped Aragorn’s shoulder with his hand and gave him a gentle shake. “Why must you be so afraid? Have I shown myself to be so fickle that you think I would abandon your love over a disagreement such as this? Have you no faith in me?” Faramir hissed. Or do you seek to sway me by means of my love for you? He wondered, but did not speak it aloud. He stood upright again. “Would that I did not wound you so easily, and would that you did not always show me this clearly when I do so!”

Aragorn’s voice shook when he replied. “Please do not say so, Faramir. I need you and I know it makes me weak, but I welcome it. Do you see? Always before I had to deny myself, always to conceal myself. I want you to be my weakness because I have faith in you, because I trust you with my need and my fear. Please do not ask me to be strong and hide these things from you.”

Aragorn looked up at him, his soul bared and his love utterly unconcealed. Faramir’s heart felt squeezed inside his chest, and he was moved by his beloved’s anguish. Faramir’s hand moved from Aragorn’s shoulder to his face, and his thumb caressed Aragorn’s cheek. “No, love” Faramir said softly, shaking his head. “I will not ask that. I will gladly bear being your weakness.”

Their eyes locked for a long moment, this time in compassion, then Aragorn stood and pulled Faramir to him, kissing him deeply. “I love you so,” Aragorn whispered, moving Faramir backward until he was up against a bookshelf, pressing hard into him.

Faramir’s arousal was instant and almost painful, his need for release was so great. Likewise, his heart ached with longing to overcome the separation he felt from Aragorn, and he held the other man tightly and kissed him with wild intensity. All his anger flowed out of him and was replaced by a crashing wave of love, both tender and passionate.

Faramir pulled Aragorn into an alcove that was less visible from the door. “You know Valacar is lurking right outside,” he warned.

“I do not care,” Aragorn groaned.

Faramir kissed Aragorn again, and ran his hands all over the other man’s body, fumbling to get under his clothes, his hands hungry for the touch of bare flesh. He wanted to soothe and arouse, to be comforted and to find release. He ached all over with the longing to merge, to experience the elation and relief of giving himself fully to this love. Aragorn’s lips were on his neck, biting and kissing, and Faramir groaned out loud, his arousal flowing up through him and clouding his thoughts, sundering his will. He held Aragorn’s head in both his hands and caressed his face with his own nose, lips, cheeks, breathing in the other’s scent, almost forgetting, almost losing himself, almost letting Aragorn subdue and consume him…

“I need you,” he gasped, and kissed Aragorn’s forehead. “Oh, how I need you! And it makes me weak,” he whispered, holding still, staying his kisses. “But I do not welcome it,” he said, shaking his head, “I do not.” He took a deep breath and took a step backwards, straightening his clothes. Aragorn was panting, disheveled, and dismayed.

“Aragorn, I cannot…I need to be strong now,” Faramir said hoarsely. “Clearly, I cannot discuss these things with you when we are alone. You will hear my proposal at the Council meeting.” Faramir held Aragorn’s gaze for a moment longer, and left.

To Valacar, who was indeed waiting in the hall, Faramir said, “give him a minute before you go in.”

Captain and King

I have handled this badly, Faramir thought as he walked hastily through the house and out into the garden, gulping down the fresh, misty air. I should have met with Aragorn when I first arrived and explained everything to him from the beginning. This fear of losing myself to him has dug me a nice deep trench which I have now fallen into.

Faramir walked to the wall and looked out over the city and across the Pelennor, and fruitlessly contemplated how to clean up the mess he was making. It dismayed him that both Aragorn’s anger and his own arrogance had invited an unwelcome guest into the room that day. He knew Denethor when he was my age, Faramir thought. They say Thorongil was beloved by my grandfather, so it is likely he knew Denethor well. How is it he has never spoken to me of my father as a young man?

He recalled his father’s bitter sentiments about Captain Thorongil, which he now saw resembled the attitude his father had often had toward him. This connection caused such a strong sense of unease to take hold of Faramir that he immediately stalked away from the wall and drove his thoughts elsewhere, fearing these echoes between present and past would prove an even worse distraction than what he had just fled.

That afternoon, Faramir met with several people who had requested to speak with him in his capacity as Steward, and then went again to his uncle’s house to dine and discuss a potential timber trade.

“So, Prince Faramir, what do you have in mind?” Imrahil asked.

“I have not had enough time to prepare, Uncle. I will have to ask the lords how much they think they can harvest before you and I can work out the specifics, I am afraid,” Faramir said.

Imrahil chuckled and shook his head. “No. Wrong answer. I will have to slap your wrist and make you re-learn your lesson.”

Elphir laughed and Faramir smiled wryly. “Ah, am I again constricting the circulation of power, Uncle?”

Imrahil nodded. “So, back to lesson one. You are not to concern yourself with the details. You are to open possibilities for others to work out the details in a way that favors your realm.”

“I fear to hazard a guess lest my wrist be slapped again. Please, tell me what you suggest.”

Imrahil thought for a moment. “Well, clearly the details will be worked out directly between the timber merchants and the lords. Then the merchants will sell to my people.”

Faramir threw up his hands, “and Númenor will rise again from the sea! Uncle, the King despises the timber merchants. He will never agree – he thinks they are all paid agents of Umbar.”

“Umbar is like a recurring nightmare for the King,” Imrahil muttered. “Surely it will return again, but during the light of day one cannot still fear the terrors of the night. Even I do not hold such a grudge as he does.”

“That is neither here nor there,” Faramir said. “Though the traitors were dealt with last year, it is not unreasonable to mistrust the rest, those who covered their tracks and are allowed to continue trading only because their crimes were not discovered.”

Imrahil shrugged. “It is no matter. The King need not know the details and you need not deal directly with the merchants. It will be good for both of you to let some slack into the reins.”

Faramir was irritated at being scolded but respected Imrahil enough to take what he said seriously. “I thought we were talking about timber. You know the price restrictions will not change this year, Uncle,” he said and smiled.

Imrahil waved a hand dismissively. “Yes, yes. Now, what you need to do in circulating your power involves a sleight of hand. The lords you want beholden to you, and the builders and merchants I want beholden to me, must see themselves as the masters of their fates.”

Faramir smirked. “But it is not so?”

“Not precisely. You must establish the conditions under which their actions will produce a favorable outcome.” Imrahil called for a servant to bring out an abacus. “As long as the amount of timber Dol Amroth needs continues to be greater than the timber harvest Ithilien produces, there will be no danger of the timber merchants smuggling to Umbar. The price in Dol Amroth will be high enough to make the risk of smuggling too unappealing.”

Imrahil did some calculations on the abacus. “Of course, these estimates are very rough.” He pushed the abacus over to Faramir. “We need about three hundred thousand board feet.”

Faramir frowned, trying to put together the variables he would need to estimate what the maximum supply could be. He made some possibly unfounded assumptions about the reduced capacity of the foresters to harvest due to their depleted numbers, and tried to remember what an acre of old forest might yield. Then he worked through the numbers on the abacus and winced. “Ithilien could probably supply twice that.” He checked the numbers again.

“Well, that makes it easier, in a way,” Elphir pointed out. “You just set the new harvesting limit somewhere below the amount that Dol Amroth can use, and you will not see wood floating down Umbar’s way.”

Faramir nodded, still thinking. “Even if we set the limit at one hundred fifty thousand, that would be nearly double what it is now.”

“How about two hundred fifty?” Imrahil asked, smiling.

Faramir smiled back, knowing his dear Uncle had likely deliberately erred on the high side in his initial calculation. “Two hundred. The Lords will see their income rise significantly, but it will not give them too much too soon, or encourage them to be irresponsible in the harvesting.”

Imrahil nodded. “The outcome could be more favorable, but I am pleased at your reasoning, nephew. Just remember what I said about ensuring that power passes through your hands in these transactions.” Faramir leaned forward, attentive. “This is an opportunity for you to reward those who are loyal to you. If you so choose, you can make a decision to allocate the extra harvest based on the size of a lord’s holdings, for example.”

Elphir grinned wickedly. “Or you can do it the Dol Amroth way.”

“Which is?” Faramir asked.

“The circulation of information,” Elphir said. “If you let your favored lords know in advance that an increase will be coming, they can make their deals and present them to you, taking their share of the quota before the others can even contact the merchants.”

Faramir smiled distractedly. “Or, conversely, I could let the lords with whom I am not on good terms make their deal first with the guild. Those lords will be offered freedom from harvesting limits to the extent that the few guild shops have demand. They will jump at the chance, and perhaps I can get something from them in return.”

Imrahil began to chuckle softly. “There’s a good prince.”

Faramir looked Imrahil in the eye, amused and slightly repelled that he was such an apt pupil. “Of course, each lord will be allowed to make only one deal with their surplus, to make the transactions easier to monitor. That will assuage some of the King’s concerns. And then, once those deals have been struck with the guild, suddenly the unexpected option for trade will be made available to the lords who have not already availed themselves of the first agreement. Those who were not privy to the secret of the first opportunity to deal with the guild will find themselves able to make a much larger profit in their deal with the timber merchants. Then next year they can use this profit to invest in a workshop to attract guild members to their town.”

Faramir sighed and suddenly looked discouraged. “I will have to work quickly and speak to the King as soon as possible. I do not know how to get him to agree to this.” Especially as I vowed not to speak to him alone before the Council meeting! he thought ruefully.

“Indeed, he reacted poorly today, not just to the substance of your proposal, but to the very fact of it!” Imrahil said, looking at Faramir with puzzlement.

“It only got worse after you left,” Faramir muttered.

“What does King Elessar want that you can give him?” Elphir asked.

Faramir suppressed a smile. “What the King says he wants is to make Ithilien a symbol of Gondor’s struggle and triumph. But I think what the King really wants is for the Elves to have a place in Ithilien. I think that as long as Elves remain in Middle Earth, he wants at least some of them to make their home in his kingdom.”

“You can give him that, can you not?” asked Imrahil.

Faramir nodded slowly. “I believe I can.”

Faramir awoke the next morning with a terrible headache. He had stayed up far too late with his uncle and cousin and had drunk somewhat too much wine after dinner. He was feeling drained and lonely, missing his wife and child, and suffering from another kind of separation from Aragorn. He wanted to avoid seeing Aragorn while he was in this state, so he had accepted Imrahil’s offer of a spare bed at their house, where he had slept rather poorly.

A pleasant breakfast and a neck rub from a thick-armed maid of his uncle’s house helped him feel better. He set off for the Citadel as soon as he could and sought out Doronil, asking him to go to the guild house and find out if Master Tawahir had an answer for him yet. Doronil was also charged with finding out if Lord Anmuin was in the city for the Council meeting.

A guard informed Faramir that Aragorn was in the receiving room, being greeted by the lords who were arriving to the City in advance of the Council meeting. The room was thick with representatives of the petty nobility and the atmosphere was a little tense, as each were vying for a moment of the King’s time. The men, and a few women, greeted Faramir politely as he worked his way over to Aragorn. When Aragorn saw him, he whispered to Valacar, who then announced, “my Lords, please excuse the King. He will speak to each of you individually later in the day. Please, clear the room, my Lords and ladies, you will be bidden to return after lunch.”

Faramir recognized one of the lords who had recently returned to North Ithilien. Pulling him aside, Faramir said, “Lord Targon, if you would be so kind as to wait outside, I would have a word with you when I am done speaking with the King.”

Targon, a silver-haired man whose sad eyes were enlivened with laugh lines, looked pleased and said he would remain in the anteroom and wait for the prince.

After Valacar cleared out the room and had departed himself, Aragorn shut the door and stood with his back to it, as if to block any potential intruders. “Faramir,” he said, his voice betraying his emotions. “The way you left yesterday…I wondered if I really was not going to see you before the Council meeting.”

Faramir smiled apologetically. “I spoke rashly yesterday. I would like to resolve this now, if possible.”

“Resolve this? Which ‘this’?” Aragorn stepped away from the door and placed his hands on Faramir’s arms, pulling him closer. “Are you toying with me?” he asked tensely, and then, “where were you last night?”

Again, Aragorn’s thoughts eluded Faramir’s comprehension and Faramir bristled at the accusation that he was playing games. Faramir scrutinized Aragorn’s face more closely and saw something new there, among the other emotions was…what? Suspicion? Surely not jealousy? Faramir was taken aback at the thought. “How do you know I was not here?”

Aragorn looked away. “Were you?”

“No.” Faramir withheld saying anything more, wondering what unjustified fear Aragorn would confront him with next.

Aragorn’s face flushed a little, then he brought himself under control. “I am sorry. I am behaving foolishly.”

“Yes, you are,” Faramir said, feeling mixed emotions at Aragorn’s strange mood. He wrapped his arms around Aragorn, who held him tightly. “I stayed at the Prince’s last night,” he explained. “We were up late discussing timber trade.”

Aragorn’s arms dropped to his sides so Faramir released him. Aragorn took a step backwards and regarded Faramir evenly. A chill swept over Faramir and he wished to take back the last thing he had said so that he would still find himself in the warmth of Aragorn’s embrace.

“So there is to be a deal between the princes?” Aragorn asked calmly.

“If you permit me to raise the harvest limits, there will be.”

“Have you even asked my permission?”

Faramir pursed his lips. “Yesterday you told me to do as I would, but I do not take those words as final. So I ask you again to give me sovereignty over my own land.”

“I thought we were just speaking of timber harvests,” Aragorn said testily.

“Very well, let us begin with timber. King Elessar, I humbly request that you allow me to determine the timber harvesting limits in Ithilien.” Faramir could not keep the irritation out of his voice.

“How much?”

Faramir blinked in surprise. “How much?”

“Yes,” Aragorn snapped. “By how much will you increase the harvest?”

Faramir turned and strode across the room to a window, hoping to hide that his emotions were careening out of control once again. He suddenly felt exactly as he had felt when, as a young captain, he had been called to his father’s office and asked to report in minute detail on the number and experience of his troops, the routes and frequency of patrols, and on the details of where they encountered the enemy, how many there were, and how they were armed. For the first few years, these sessions had not bothered him because he was young and inexperienced, while his father knew better than anyone how to use the Rangers and what to do with the information about the enemy. But as the years went on, and Denethor’s barrage of questions remained the same, Faramir began to understand that these reports were not just the Steward’s means of keeping tack of Ithilien, but his way of keeping Faramir on a short leash. It was just one motif in a larger tapestry of Denethor’s mistrust and disdain for his younger son.

“Faramir?” Aragorn said sharply.

Faramir leaned heavily against the window casement, feeling light-headed. His father’s ghost was indeed haunting him this week; he had not thought about Denethor this much since his conversation with Gandalf two years earlier, and he had never allowed himself to dwell on such memories in Aragorn’s presence before. Faramir threw open the window and gulped in the fresh air.

“Faramir?” Aragorn asked again, this time more gently. “Are you ill?”

Faramir looked at Aragorn and shook his head. Looking at Aragorn had a calming effect on him, bringing him back to the present. This man’s love did not have to be won; whatever the difficulty was between them now, they would solve it. With some effort, he pulled his thoughts away from his emotional reaction to Aragorn’s questioning, and began to consider it dispassionately. What was it Aragorn was reacting to so poorly?

He kept his eyes on Aragorn’s face and eventually smiled, feeling himself again. “Aragorn, I hope you will forgive me for saying so, but you are still too much the military commander.”

Aragorn shifted his weight onto one leg and crossed his arms. “How so?”

“All Gondor is not a battlefield, and its resources are not troops to be marshaled for your command. In times of peace, you need not be a master tactician directing everything from above; movement will occur of its own accord and will generally work for the good. You still seem to think that you must direct your troops. Instead, perhaps you should let your captains mind their own troops and instead occupy yourself with the master strategy.”

Aragorn smirked and quirked an eyebrow. “And yet you find it hard to abandon the martial metaphor yourself, Captain.”

Faramir shrugged and walked over to Aragorn, his blood warming and his heartbeat increasing its pace; he knew that this man loved him and knew his worth. Slowly, he reached out to touch Aragorn’s face. Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment. “I am no longer a captain,” Faramir said.

“I know,” Aragorn said, moving his head to kiss Faramir’s palm.

Faramir felt his stomach tremble and a tender longing seized him. Why is it so hard for me to stay balanced, to find the place between separation and merging? he wondered. He made himself draw back his hand from Aragorn’s lips and steadied himself. “Perhaps we have been so long without one, we have forgotten what a king is. ‘A tall tree has deep roots,’ as the Elves say.”

Aragorn nodded thoughtfully.

“Trust me,” Faramir said softly.

Aragorn looked at him lovingly. “I do,” he said emphatically.

“Will you grant my request?”

Aragorn’s face looked solemn again. “How much will you raise the limit?”

Sadness weighed down Faramir’s chest and he was no longer able to reassure himself that Aragorn knew his worth. He felt bitterly disappointed at how often Aragorn’s suspicions belied his avowals of faith. “Do you really need to know?” he asked in a small voice.

“I want to know.”

Faramir shook his head, feeling disregarded and ineffectual. “Two hundred thousand board feet for this year. It will be lower next year…”

“Two hundred thousand?” The King asked incredulously.

“You said you trusted me. You say that often…” A moment passed, neither looking at the other. Faramir began to feel sullen and resentful. “I cannot wait all morning, my Lord. People are expecting promises from me today so I need to know: will you grant my request?”

Their eyes locked for a moment and Faramir’s palms began to sweat as if he were a child. He had lost himself again, not to love this time, but to pain. Like a physical craving, he strongly desired to be out of Aragorn’s presence, to be away from these situations that tore him in two and bade him dwell on things he would rather forget.

“For this year, I will grant your request. But we still have much to discuss,” Aragorn said, his eyes flashing a double meaning.

“Yes, we do. Thank you for granting my request.” Faramir bowed his head and walked quickly from the room.

Faramir paused before the doorway to the anteroom, regarding Targon before he entered, trying to overcome his downcast mood. Targon’s nephew and grandson had served in the Rangers under Faramir and they were both honest, hard-working men. Targon himself had a dignified bearing and clear eyes, and Faramir sensed he could trust him.

Faramir sat with Targon in the anteroom and after some preliminary pleasantries said, “Lord Anmuin came to speak with me last week about the limits on the timber harvest.”

“He did?” Targon looked alarmed.

“Oh, did you not know? He led me to believe he was representing all the lords of North Ithilien,” Faramir said lightly.

“He did?” Targon said again, more vehemently this time. “That is most interesting. And what did Anmuin say?”

“He said he would gather the lords and town elders to hear my proposal on timber harvesting in two weeks. Has he not told you of the meeting?”

Targon turned red in the face and shook his head. “That man has been making as much trouble as he can for the smaller estates down river. This is only the latest maneuver of his to try and get a leg up on us.”

Faramir nodded, pleased that his intuition about Anmuin had been correct. “Ah, well, that will not do. I appreciate your honesty and would have you know that I will always welcome such information in the future.”

Targon looked up at him hopefully.

“Do you have any acquaintances among the timber merchants?” Faramir asked.

Targon looked shocked. “Of course, we have been trading, within our limit, since we returned last year.”

Faramir glanced around the room to ascertain they were alone. “Find the merchant with the largest capacity and find out what volume of timber he can purchase in a single transaction. Are there others you trust among your peers in the north?”

Targon nodded.

“Let them know that the Prince is looking to find out who his friends are, and those who are true to him will be rewarded. If all goes well, there will be enough of this prize to go around.”

“And to think that I almost stayed in Ithilien for the New Year. Thank you, Prince Faramir.”

“Do not thank me yet. I will speak to you after the Council meeting. In the meantime, pay no attention to rumors you may hear about Lord Anmuin and the Woodcraft Guild. You will be offered every opportunity he is offered.”

Faramir rose and bade farewell to Targon before seeking out Doronil. The page informed him that both Master Tawahir and Lord Anmuin would be attending him after lunch. Faramir smiled as he thought about how to best prime the pump of Anmuin’s greed.

Ghosts

Everything went well with Tawahir and Anmuin. The guild had drawn up an acceptable charter and Faramir now was free to back up his offer to the guild with his seal. He had arranged with Doronil that Anmuin be sent in while Tawahir was still there.

“What good timing, Lord Anmuin. I have just completed the first step in our plan to bring woodcraft back to Ithilien,” Faramir smiled at Anmuin conspiratorially and introduced him to the Guild master. He then explained to Anmuin, “In order to bring prosperity to our land, I am prepared to offer all the lords of North Ithilien a chance to draw up one contract this year that will exceed the harvesting quota.”

Understanding dawned in Anmuin’s eyes. “It is a good start, Prince Faramir,” Anmuin conceded.

“Would you like to be the first to make a contract with the guild?” Faramir asked. “I summoned you here, knowing that the guild master was coming to meet with me. Since you were the first to express interest in increasing local woodcraft production, I thought I should offer you the first opportunity.”

As Anmuin spoke with Tawahir about drawing up a contract immediately, Faramir sighed, regretting how easy it had been to deceive Anmuin. What will Anmuin think of me when he hears of the far more lucrative contracts his rivals will negotiate? Faramir wondered. Will he indeed respect me more, or will I have made him my enemy?

After the meeting, Faramir found himself at loose ends, not sure which of his problems to tackle next. He wandered the halls, not paying particular attention to where he was going, until he found himself in front of a familiar door. He smiled grimly, thinking of what forces might have drawn him to this particular place. He pushed on the door, but it was locked. He considered leaving, but something in him wanted to go inside, to face the ghost that had been haunting him since he had returned to the city. He went to the guard at the end of the hallway and asked that the door be opened for him.

When Faramir walked into his father’s small private study, he drew in a sharp breath. “By the blood of Carcharoth¹!” he exclaimed quietly to himself. “How is it that they left it this way?”

The room, and everything in it, was covered in four years of dust.

Faramir went to find a maid and instructed that the room be tidied up immediately. Now that he had finally found the courage to enter, he was going to take care of what should have been done long ago. After he ate supper, Faramir returned to the room, which was now reasonably clean. He lit a lamp and began to sort through what little remained of his father’s life.

The room was sparsely furnished and sparely decorated. A wonderfully fanciful map of Gondor, complete with sea monsters off the coast of Belfalas, adorned one wall. On the other wall was a replica of a Númenorian tapestry depicting Fëanor making the Silmarils from the light of the Two Trees. On the floor was a very worn Haradric carpet. Though the room was familiar enough, none of these things particularly spoke to Faramir of who his father had been.

Books and scrolls were neatly stacked on shelves and in alcoves. Faramir glanced through them to see what they were, but for the most part they were things that should be sent to the archives. Only two books did Faramir take to keep for himself: a volume of political philosophy from Silmarien’s The Discourses, and an old, pocket-sized version of Tuor and the Fall of Gondolin, which Faramir vaguely recalled might have been a present his mother had given his father.

The desk contained dry ink wells and cracked quills. An abacus. Faramir searched the single desk drawer. All he found were a few pebbles. He bowed his head into his hands. Perhaps the man I am searching for never existed, Faramir thought, perhaps he was always a phantasm. After a while, Faramir raised his head and picked up one of the pebbles, smoothing it with his thumb.

Suddenly, Faramir had a clear memory of walking with his father somewhere outside of the city, Denethor stooping to pick up a pebble and casually putting it in his pocket. Faramir recalled asking his father about the pebble and being rebuffed, probably for asking too many questions. Faramir looked again at the pebble in his hand, turning it over again and again with his thumb. His mind was empty of thoughts, but he sought to feel something, some connection to his father through this object they both had held in their hands. Slowly, he began to feel a vague longing, sadness, determination, but these feelings were as much his own as they might have been his father’s.

Faramir heard a noise and looked up. He had left the door open and saw Aragorn coming down the hallway. Normally, the sight would have filled his heart with joy, but today Faramir’s heart froze with doubt, and he began to consider the possibility that the last few years had been an illusion. The thought that their love might turn bitter pierced him to his core. A week earlier, this thought would have never entered his mind, but now that he had opened the door to grief, there seemed no end to the sorrows awaiting him.

Aragorn stood now in the doorway, and Faramir was too upset to even greet him. The two men just looked at each other for a few moments.

“The guard said you were here,” Aragorn finally said. “I was surprised. Are you…you do not look well.”

“You came looking for me, as you did last night?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn nodded. He put his hand to his mouth and pulled on his lip; he was thinking.

Faramir looked again at the pebble in his hand. “Do you know why my father picked up pebbles?”

Aragorn looked confused. “He picked up pebbles?”

“Yes, I think it was a habit of his to pick up pebbles when he was outside the city. Maybe he collected them. But I guess you did not know that,” Faramir said sadly.

Aragorn shrugged slightly. “Or I do not remember.”

“Why would you?” Faramir asked, frowning at the pebble. “You did not know him well, did you?”

Aragorn shifted uncomfortably, leaning against the doorframe. “I knew him well,” he said softly.

Faramir tossed his head backward, shaking the hair away from his face. “Oh,” he said, his heart pounding. “You have spoken of him to me so little.”

Aragorn looked at the floor. “I thought you did not want me to speak of him.” Aragorn looked again at Faramir, piercing him with his eyes. “Do you wish me to speak of him now?”

Faramir met his look steadily. “I do.”

Aragorn took a step into the room and began to close the door behind him, but changed his mind and left it ajar. There was no other chair but the one Faramir sat on, so Aragorn leaned against the window sill. He crossed his arms in front of him and looked at Faramir with a mixture of concern and caution. Again, there was a long silence as the two men looked at each other, both completely still but for the motion of Faramir turning the pebble in his hand. Finally, Faramir took in a deep breath and let it out with a shaky sigh.

“I do not know where to begin,” Aragorn said.

“What was he like when he was my age?” Faramir asked, slowly leaning back in the chair. His body felt tightly coiled but calm, like he were waiting in ambush.

For a while, Aragorn’s thoughts seemed elsewhere, but eventually he looked at Faramir and answered slowly, “masterful. Arrogant. Brilliant. Cold.” Aragorn’s eyes narrowed as he thought back. “And he bore a lot of pain.”

“Physical pain?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn shook his head. “No. Well, that, too, but that is not what I had in mind.”

“How did he bear it? How did you know he was in pain?”

Aragorn looked at Faramir, concern again showing in his eyes. “Anyone with an open heart could see that fear and pain were behind his coldness, his seeming lack of regard for others. Most people assumed that it was his arrogance that made him treat others this way, but they did not understand that his arrogance was necessary, that it made him strong enough to face what he had to face. It was his fear and pain that weakened him and led him astray.”

Faramir nodded and, hoping to avoid his father’s mistakes, uttered a silent prayer to Nienna, the Vala who weeps for others: bring strength to my spirit and turn my sorrow to wisdom. “What grieved him? Do you know?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn hung his head for a moment and looked up again. “I think you can guess. Anyone who wanted to could have seen. Denethor…” Aragorn sighed, and had trouble meeting Faramir’s gaze. “He wished that his father had loved him more, or at least understood him better. He worried over the future of Gondor. He feared losing the love of your mother…”

Faramir’s heart thumped in his chest at the realization that Aragorn must have known his mother, too. He shook his head to clear his confusion, but Aragorn misread this as a signal that he should stop.

“I am sorry,” Aragorn said, closing his eyes. “I do not want to hurt you. I will say no more.”

“I do not fear what you have to say, Aragorn,” Faramir said firmly. “Were you close to my parents?”

Aragorn opened his eyes again and hesitated. “Yes.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows in surprise. “You were friends?”

“Your mother called me friend.”

“And what did my father call you?”

“Captain Thorongil.”

Faramir smiled a little. “So you were not friends with my father.”

Aragorn sighed again, uncrossing and re-crossing his arms. “Your father had few friends, but I was one of them, though he would not have called me so.”

A sickening curiosity had been nagging at Faramir, a question forming in his mind that both attracted and repulsed him. He looked at Aragorn, whose refusal to meet his gaze demanded that the question be asked. “Did you love Denethor?”

Aragorn’s attention snapped back to Faramir, who felt a morbid delight at the dismay on Aragorn’s face. A line from The Tale of the Children of Húrin recalled itself to him: a man that flies from his fear may find that he has only taken a short-cut to meet it. Everything – I will know everything, Faramir thought. Aragorn told me that he has shared himself with other men. Let the truth slay me. The time has come.

“Did I love him?” Aragorn asked incredulously.

Faramir nodded, and waited.

“We were not lovers, if that is what you are asking.”

A wave of relief swept over Faramir, but he wanted to know more about what had been between his father and Aragorn, and what had driven them apart. “But did you love him, Aragorn? Did he inspire tenderness in you? Did you do things to take care of him, perhaps without his ever knowing? Did you crave his attention and delight in his approval? Did you long for him to…”

“Yes!” Aragorn exclaimed, his voice a little shaky. “Yes, I loved him. He was a great man, and I wanted to be like him. I waited for years without reward for a kind word from him, and yet I waited. He was…” Aragorn smiled, and it struck Faramir as a smile of fondly remembered grief. “I did not always understand him, but I did love him.”

“I loved him, too,” Faramir said quietly, all the tension draining out of him. “And he was worthy of our love. One moment of failure should not erase a lifetime of accomplishment. He should not be remembered as he was at the end.”

“Nay he should not.” Aragorn stood, as if he were going to move closer to Faramir, then sat back down again, gripping the window sill with his hands. “He was a great man, when I knew him.”

Silent tears slowly trickled down Faramir’s cheeks. He just let the tears drip off his jaw, his hands in his lap. It is not fair, he thought petulantly, that Aragorn knew and loved my parents in a way I never could. Aragorn lived an entire lifetime before he ever knew me. We could spend the next forty years talking and there would not be time to learn everything about him.

Aragorn again leaned forward, as if to reach out to him, but his hands still gripped the window sill, and Faramir now wondered about the cause of his restraint.

“Do you want to hear more?” Aragorn asked, his voice strained.

Faramir nodded. His grief was powerfully cleansing, and he felt gratitude to Aragorn. Faramir knew that it was not easy for his lover to see him suffering, but why did he offer no comfort?

“But Denethor was also a fearsome man,” Aragorn continued. “He was brave to the point of foolishness. He could kill all day and sleep well that night. He would not hesitate to lie to dishonest men, and to honest men he would tell only what he wanted them to know. He cared little for tradition, for friends and family, and he was nearly incapable of letting himself feel joy.” Aragorn’s gaze softened. “He was not like you, Faramir.”

Faramir drew in a ragged breath and wiped his cheeks with his hand. “No. And you are not like him.”

Aragorn looked surprised at this, then frowned, searching Faramir’s face.

“Aragorn,” Faramir said, clearing his throat and shifting his weight forward in the chair. “You say you were his friend, yet he only ever spoke of you, when he spoke of you, as his enemy. Some say he was jealous that Ecthelion favored you, but if that was so, why did he not rejoice at your departure? He never disparaged your service to Gondor, which my grandfather is said to have praised so highly. It seemed he hated you only for leaving.”

Aragorn nodded, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Faramir paused, recalling what Gandalf reported that Denethor had said just before he died. “He did not respect you. He would not have accepted you as King. Why? What happened between you that left him so bitter?”

Aragorn’s eyes flashed so fiercely that Faramir felt a brief pang of fear. “I betrayed him.”

“How?” Faramir shot back, disbelieving.

“I would not do his will. I took council from Gandalf and left Gondor when he would have had me stay. I chose a different path than the one he had chosen for me.” Aragorn’s gaze burned into Faramir. “And then I withheld from him the reason for my disobedience.”

“Why?” Faramir asked, his throat closing up around the word.

Aragorn shook his head. “I did not trust him.”

Faramir choked back a sob only to be overtaken by another. The bitterness his father bore towards Thorongil was indeed akin to his father’s attitude toward him at the end, for he and Thorongil gave Denethor the same cause for anger, and for the same reason. What was more, it now seemed to Faramir that his whole adult life had probably been haunted by the ghost of Thorongil, but he had not known it. Could it be that Denethor had never truly seen his own son? The irony and the injustice shook Faramir badly and he buried his head in his hands.

Faramir felt a hand on the back of his head. At last Aragorn sought to comfort him, but the gentle touch brought to him a new realization: loving Aragorn was the ultimate betrayal of his father. He saw now that there was no way he could come to an understanding with Denethor, not even in his heart.

“Faramir, elen nín²,” Aragorn said, softly invoking their affectionate nickname.

Faramir did not look up. “Please,” he said, trying to control his voice. “Please go.”

Aragorn’s hand withdrew and Faramir heard his footsteps recede down the hallway. Once he was gone, Faramir dissolved again into grief.

---

Notes: Some aspects of the Denethor in this chapter are borrowed with permission from the story Hands of the King by Anglachel.

¹ Carcharoth – the Wolf of Angband from The Silmarillion

² Elen nín – (it sounds a little cheesy in English) my star

Bonding

Faramir stayed in his father’s study late into the night, dwelling long and hard on the past, until he was spent and he felt the calm of acceptance seep into his heart. He barely made it back to his own bed before collapsing and sleeping deeply, rising only after he heard the third bell.

Doronil told him that several people had asked to see him, but Faramir put them off until later that morning, needing to walk in the garden for a bit to clear his mind. The day was cold, with a brisk wind whipping down from the mountain, and Faramir found it refreshing. When Faramir went back inside, he sought out Valacar and asked him where Aragorn was.

Valacar hesitated for the briefest moment before saying, “the King is very busy today. May I give him your message, my Lord?”

Faramir drew in a breath carefully, his body tense with the realization that Aragorn must have told Valacar he did not wish to see him. “Please tell him…” Faramir struggled to conceal any emotion from the secretary, and pretended that he was musing over his words. “Well, it is nothing urgent, but when you see him, please tell him that I am feeling better today, and I thank him for his concern.”

“I hope you are quite well, my Lord,” Valacar said politely.

“I am. Better than I have been in a while, actually,” Faramir replied honestly.

Valacar gave him a slight smile. “I am glad to hear it. I will give King Elessar your message and I will seek you out should he require you later today.”

Faramir nodded and departed, looking for Doronil. As he walked down the hallway, he told himself not to worry about Aragorn. Perhaps he really is that busy, he thought. Surely he will seek me out later? But he could not convince himself. Again, he felt the stabbing fear that things were about to change, and he could not push back the desperate fear that if such a break should come, he might never feel whole again. But what can I do about it if Aragorn will not see me? he thought. I myself have too much to do today. I cannot let this distract me from my duty.

That night, Aragorn came uninvited and unannounced into Faramir’s chamber from a door to a back hallway that linked this room to a room in the King’s private chambers. Faramir was half undressed, washing himself at a basin. He looked up at Aragorn then resumed what he was doing.

Aragorn quietly shut the door and walked over to Faramir, who was hunched over the basin. He ran his hands down Faramir’s bare back, making the other man shiver. Faramir dried his face and arms with a cloth and turned to face Aragorn. They stood less than an arm’s length apart, staring at each other for nearly a minute.

“Thank you,” Faramir said at last, “for last night. I know it was not easy for you.”

Aragorn looked sorrowful. “It seems lately that I cause you nothing but distress.”

Faramir’s impulse was to touch him, but he could not. It was as if there were a barrier between them he could not push through. He felt a hopeless resignation wash over him, and when Aragorn saw this change in Faramir’s mood, his eyes filled with fear, as they had before, when Faramir had refused to give in to his plea to acknowledge their love.

“Please, Faramir, tell me why you are angry with me. I cannot bear it when I hurt you and you turn away from me.” Aragorn said pleadingly.

“Then why did you tell Valacar to send me away today?” Faramir asked, trying to keep his tone calm.

“I feared we would fight again, and you would walk out again, and I would wonder…” Aragorn swallowed, “again, if I were losing you.”

Faramir sighed. “I am not angry with you, Aragorn, but you have caused me distress. I am exhausted from trying to play three parts at once.” He moved past Aragorn to a table and pulled the bracelet from the pouch, putting the tip of a finger through each ring, letting the wrist piece dangle.

“You see, here is Faramir, bound by a pretty silver chain to three masters.” He moved his hand so that the silver bracelet swung jerkily at the end of its tethers. He smiled grimly. “Ah, but if we turn this puzzle around,” he said, holding the wrist piece in his other hand and letting the rings dangle, “we see that all three, Steward, Prince and lover, are all in turn bound to a single master, but that master is not named Faramir.”

Aragorn shook his head in disbelief. “Why are you saying this?”

Faramir put down the bracelet and walked over to Aragorn, his mood turning from wry to volatile as he confronted the other man. As he had last night, he felt a reckless desire to face it all and let it ruin him, if that was his fate. “Is it not true?”

Aragorn looked pale. “I do not wish to be your master.”

“Then why do you seek to command me as Prince?” Faramir asked, roughly tangling one hand in Aragorn’s hair and wrapping the other arm tightly around his waist. “Your Steward will obey you in all things, but the Prince must have a will of his own.”

“And the lover?” Aragorn asked softly.

Faramir closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “He would loose himself in you, and destroy the others in the process.” Faramir moved Aragorn backward onto the bed and moved on top of him, covering Aragorn’s body with his. “Admit it to me, to yourself. Do you not want me this way? Desperate for you? Dependent on you?” Faramir pulled Aragorn’s arms up along the bed, pinning them above his head. Aragorn flushed and grew hard under Faramir’s thigh.

“I do not,” Aragorn gasped.

“All because you do not trust me.”

“Of course I trust you!” Aragorn protested.

“Why do you keep lying to me?” Faramir said softly. “To you, my absence means my betrayal, my independence means my disobedience. You doubt me too readily, so please stop saying that you trust me!”

Aragorn’s trembling mouth had no response, so Faramir kissed it, wildly, as if starved for him. Aragorn moaned, kissing back just as hard, bruising their lips.

“Faramir,” Aragorn gasped when he was given a moment to draw a breath. “I am sorry. You have never given me cause to doubt your wisdom, your selflessness, or your love.”

Faramir held still and closed his eyes, a kind of relief flowing through him, but Aragorn’s words only made it more painful to make his own confession. He released Aragorn’s wrists, ashamed of the way he had forced this admission from his lover, though there was no doubt that Aragorn had taken pleasure from something in it. Aragorn’s hands were now on his back, gripping him greedily.

“I ask you to trust me, yet I do not even trust myself,” Faramir said, finding it hard to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “I should have stayed with you the first night I was back. I desperately wanted to, but I had to know if I was still capable of putting aside my desire for you when I had duties to fulfill.”

“Is this what has changed in you?” Aragorn asked. “You have seemed different to me. Distant, and yet…more ardent. What has happened?”

“Aragorn, this love is running roughshod over my reason. It is shameful for me.” Faramir looked into Aragorn’s eyes and finally allowed himself to admit everything. “Elen nín, I look upon you, and nothing else matters to me but finding a way into your arms. The slightest touch of your hand sends me into a spiral of longing. When we are apart, I crave the taste of your breath. I sit in my study and dwell for long minutes on the memory of our last night together, caring little for the distraction of my duties. You have become like the sun to me and I fear I will burn, yet I cannot withdraw from your heat. All these things and more…” Faramir’s voice broke and he gave himself to the comfort of Aragorn’s embrace, laying his head on the other’s chest.

Aragorn caressed Faramir’s back and kissed the top of his head. Neither man spoke for a while, but at last Aragorn said, “I see,” and Faramir could hear the trace of a smile in his voice. “I am sorry you are suffering now, but I think you will soon master the worst of this affliction. I am just surprised, and my pride is a little wounded, that it took you this long to fall in love with me.”

“I cannot believe you are mocking me,” Faramir muttered miserably.

“I am not mocking you,” Aragorn said, stroking Faramir’s hair. “I know of what you speak. I am a man who loves easily, though rarely has love turned my head from duty or good sense. But Faramir, this is how it has been for me since the first night we spoke of love. Now for three years I have known your devotion and your passion, and though it was more than I dared hope for, still I wondered why you did not love me the way I loved you. Only, it seems…you do!” The joy was plain in Aragorn’s voice.

Faramir raised his head to look at Aragorn and reached up with one hand to caress his cheek. He searched Aragorn’s face, questioning him with his eyes.

Aragorn smiled tenderly, and his eyes glistened. “Oh, love, how was I to know how ready my heart would be to give itself to you? I love you with desperation because your music completes the harmony of my life. As soon as you touched your lips to mine and gave me hope, I heard the song it all its glory and I was forever changed. Even if Éowyn had not…” Aragorn took a deep, shaky breath. “You see? I cannot bear to think of it even now, for had you told me never to touch you or speak of my feelings again, I fear that my love for you would remain undimmed even to this day.”

Faramir was touched and did not speak for a moment, letting the meaning of Aragorn’s words sink in. Then he asked, “why did you not tell me this before?”

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “I knew your heart was not as ardent as mine. I did not want to frighten you.”

Faramir smiled grimly. “Aye, you might have done so. It is a fearsome affliction.”

“You suffer because you resist it,” Aragorn suggested softly.

Faramir’s entire body responded to the thought of giving in, of accepting this consuming need for Aragorn. “It will destroy me,” he muttered.

“It will not. Struggling will destroy you.” Aragorn reached up to tuck Faramir’s hair back behind his ear, and then smiled. “Faramir, it is not like you to be so dramatic. You must be very much in love with me!”

Faramir smiled back, a little embarrassed. “Of course I am,” he whispered. Then he kissed Aragorn tenderly, and they became absorbed in the language without words. At last, Faramir let himself relax and enjoy the touch of Aragorn’s mouth, the feeling of the other’s body underneath his, the growing arousal each could feel in the other. Faramir responded to a movement of Aragorn’s hips with a slow grind of his own, and the two men’s lips pressed together in a smile. Faramir raised his head and as he looked into Aragorn’s eyes, he grew serious, his heated emotions flooding through him.

“Faramir,” Aragorn whispered huskily, “make me yours.”

Faramir stripped Aragorn of his clothes and finished shedding his own. Gently now, he made love to Aragorn, moving slowly inside him and looking deep into his eyes. He felt his fears dissolve; this was not the end, and for this moment, there need be no struggle. Now is the right time, he thought. I may give in and lose myself to him completely. And so he did, watching Aragorn’s face, seeing everything the other was feeling, and making it all his own. His hips pressed forward and Aragorn almost closed his eyes. Faramir held still, his heart pounding, his chest aching with love, waiting to connect again to his lover’s gaze.

Unspoken words passed between them as Faramir pulled slowly back, his arms trembling slightly. Aragorn’s eyes flashed heat and devotion and the realization of cherished dreams, all in one look. Faramir felt humbled and bent forward to kiss Aragorn’s mouth. It was a delicate kiss, neither man wanting to speed the pace of their lovemaking. Faramir moved in, driving deeply but gradually, almost loosing control, his breath coming out in a gasp.

Faramir raised up again and took another long, slow thrust, putting into it all the love he felt for the other man. As he moved, he tried to read each expression on Aragorn’s face, each change in his eyes. To his surprise, he felt himself coming completely into focus as he looked at Aragorn. Though they merged into one movement, one sigh, one thought, he sensed himself there more clearly than ever. Then he stopped moving, their bodies deeply joined, and for several breaths, he dissolved completely. There was no sensation, no thought, nothing but them, together. Just as it had been five years before, when Aragorn had called Faramir back from the dark: their minds touched and they knew each other in ways beyond the understanding of the senses. Slowly, Faramir lost this sense of merging and was aware of himself again as he blinked away his tears of joy. With one hand, he caressed Aragorn’s face, brushing hair from his damp brow, and lingering to feel the other man’s cheek pressed against his palm.

“I know, elen nín,” Aragorn said, his eyes full of wonder, “I felt it, too.”

A rush of elation swept over Faramir, followed by a wave of desire. He shifted their position so that he could touch Aragorn more intimately, matching his pace to Aragorn’s growing passion. A surge in Aragorn’s pleasure echoed through Faramir and he felt them both approach the edge, Aragorn’s cries amplifying his own, the sweat of both their bodies covering them, the sensations each was feeling ringing throughout the other’s body.

When they were done, Aragorn wrapped his arms around Faramir and pulled him down so that their bodies were pressed close together. “We are one,” Aragorn whispered, and the thought filled Faramir with nothing but joy.

Faramir held very still. He felt Aragorn’s heart beating against his chest. They breathed as one. He felt the surge of strength in his veins and knew that the same force ran through Aragorn, too. An entirely different longing came to Faramir, one he had struggled with in recent months but which he had never fully acknowledged. He wanted Aragorn to be sure of him, never again fearing to lose him; was this what Aragorn needed? Faramir tried to stop himself from making this choice, but now it suddenly seemed inevitable.

He kissed Aragorn’s temple and felt the words welling up from deep inside him, overwhelming his doubt. “Aragorn,” he whispered. “I pledge…I pledge to you…”

“No, my love!” Aragorn’s hand clasped Faramir’s cheek and his thumb pressed gently against Faramir’s lips. “Whatever we feel, we must not say those words. That pledge is not for us,” he said emphatically.

Faramir closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, releasing it in a long sigh. He felt suspended between two moments in time, having taken a first step down a path that was now vanishing before him. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling.

Aragorn lay on his side, an arm across Faramir’s chest, gripping his shoulder. “We must give our wives something that is sacred and for them alone. Whatever happens between us, they will have our marriage vow. They will always know who they are to us, do you see?”

“I do see,” Faramir said, a tranquil smile creeping onto his face, “but I thought you needed to hear those words to be sure of my heart.”

Aragorn smiled, too. “It seems that I no longer need words to know your heart, love. I see you clearly when I look into your eyes.”

Faramir pulled Aragorn into his embrace, and Aragorn rested his head on Faramir’s chest. Faramir could no longer detect within himself the pull of resistance, doubt, or fear. Giving up the struggle had freed him somehow, and he hoped it would last.

The Hearts of Men

That night, as often happened when he slept in Aragorn’s arms, Faramir had a memorable dream. He was walking through a forest when he came upon a starlit glade where Arwen stood, dressed in a gown of deep green. She began to sing, and Faramir’s heart was filled with wonder. “Undómiel, gwathel nín, man laer linnoch?” he called, “my sister, what song do you sing?” He moved toward her, but he stood moveless when he saw that it was not Arwen before him, but Melian the Maia, mother of Lúthien. Faramir bowed his head and Melian held out her left hand, palm upward. “Child of Ilúvatar, what gift do you bring me?” Faramir raised his head and opened a small velvet bag from which he poured into her hand a pile of pebbles. She brought her hands together and slid a portion of the pebbles into her empty hand, saying:

From elder to younger, from darkness to light
Legacies pass to the hand on the right.
To brother and sister, to love as to earth,
To all must be given a token of worth

When Faramir awoke, he was alone. He quickly washed and dressed, eager to share his dream with Arwen and find out what she made of it. When he entered the dining room, Aragorn and Arwen were already sitting at the table. “I dreamed of you and your foremother,” he said to Arwen.

Arwen looked up at him and gasped, looking in alarm from him to Aragorn. “What has happened?” she asked.

Faramir felt his stomach drop. He stood frozen in the doorway and forgot all about his dream.

Aragorn turned to her and caressed her cheek. She reached out a trembling hand and laid it on his. Faramir watched them gaze intently at each other until he felt compelled by embarrassment to look away. When he again looked to Arwen, she was calmer. She looked back at him, no longer shocked or angry, but puzzled, and perhaps irritated.

“I do not understand the hearts of Men,” she said, standing abruptly and moving away from the table. “It is so complicated with you, not like the bonding of my people.” She pushed past Faramir and left the room.

Faramir slumped into a chair and glumly looked at Aragorn. “But we didn’t…” he said.

Aragorn shook his head. “It is not that.”

“Then what?”

Aragorn also gave him a puzzled look. “I am not certain. I will speak to her as soon as I am able.”

They ate their meal in silence and Faramir left as soon as he was finished. He called Doronil and they had a leisurely walk down the levels of the city. They arrived to the top of the wall at mid-morning, and Faramir anxiously looked across the fields for Éowyn’s arrival. He would have put his foot down and had the midwife forbid her from coming, but that he knew Windfola would bear her here as if on a cloud. It was too dangerous to ride down the hill, though, Faramir fretted, so she had agreed to walk. It was nearly two miles – what if she tired herself? What if she lost her footing on the road?

Fortunately for Faramir’s peace of mind, he soon saw two figures on horseback arriving from the Harlond, going so slowly he knew it must be them. He walked through the Great Gate and went to meet them down the road.

Legolas rode ahead to meet him. “Faramir, all is well,” he reassured him.

“I am glad to hear it,” Faramir said.

Then the Elf looked at him more closely and Faramir saw an expression on his face he had never seen there before. Legolas looked over his shoulder to Éowyn and then back at Faramir, still looking shocked. “Faramir,” he said, and stopped.

Faramir again felt cold in the pit of his stomach. “What is it, Legolas?” he asked quietly.

Legolas did not answer. His eyes scanned Faramir, and again, he glanced toward Éowyn. “You…” he began, then looked embarrassed. “I do not know. You seem different today,” was all he said, and he urged his horse on.

“Legolas, wait,” Faramir called. Legolas turned his horse.

Faramir looked up at him, squinting a little in the mid-day sun. “I hope to speak with you later today about North Ithilien. I would like to gather a few people together to take counsel. I hope that we will be able to achieve a consensus to present to the King.”

Legolas regarded Faramir for another long moment and said, “of course. Let us meet in the afternoon.” He turned his horse again and went on ahead.

Faramir walked a short way and fell into step beside Windfola. “How are you?” he asked Éowyn, whose face looked pale and whose mouth was pressed into a tight line.

“I am fine,” she said, and resumed her grim expression.

“You don’t look well. Are you in pain?” Faramir asked, trying not to sound alarmed.

“I am well into my eighth month and have been upright for five hours. Of course I am in pain. Do not trouble me with foolish questions.”

Faramir sighed and thought better of reminding her whose idea this was. “We will go first to the Houses of Healing, then.”

“Are you deaf? I said I am fine! I just need something cool to drink and to lie down for a bit,” Éowyn snapped.

“You will first go to the Houses of Healing. They will give you a cool drink, a hot bath, and a long massage.” Faramir looked up at Éowyn, who did not protest. “After that, we will eat lunch. Then I would appreciate your counsel on some matters regarding North Ithilien.”

Éowyn nodded. “That is a good plan. I had not thought of the massage.”

Faramir looked up at her again and tried not to laugh. She would not meet his eyes, but her mouth was not so grim as it was before.

Doronil met them at the gate and Faramir bade him to leave a summons at the officers’ barracks for Mablung to present himself as soon as he arrived, and then to alert someone at the Houses of Healing that Éowyn would be arriving for a treatment. “And please ask your mother to fetch Lady Éowyn from the Houses of Healing after she is done, and bring her to lunch with me in the private dining room,” Faramir added, for Doronil’s mother was Éowyn’s attendant while at Minas Tirith.

Éowyn moved as if to dismount her horse, but Faramir put a hand on her leg. “We will put Windfola with the messenger horses on the sixth level. I do not want you to walk any more today.”

Legolas had gone on ahead, leaving Faramir to walk Éowyn and Windfola up the levels of the city. Faramir asked Éowyn for stories of all Elboron had done or said during the last few days. Then Faramir told Éowyn the news from Dol Amroth and filled her in on the gossip of the court.

After they had shared all the news, Éowyn looked at Faramir and asked, “and what of the Prince of Ithilien?”

Faramir smiled. “He is growing into his helm.”

“Good for him,” Éowyn said. “What happened?”

Faramir shook his head. “Not here. If you are a good patient at the houses of healing and eat a hearty lunch,” Faramir began to whisper, “I will tell you of the terrible fight I had with the King.”

Éowyn nodded, not as surprised as Faramir thought she might have been at this news. Then she grinned. “Ah, but I hope you have made up with him,” she said, and when Faramir blushed, she said, “wonderful. You will tell me the whole tale later, then.”

“You torment me,” he complained, vividly imagining the frustration he would soon face.

“It is the price you agreed to pay,” she taunted him.

After leaving Éowyn with the bath attendant, Faramir found Doronil and asked him to make their small study comfortable for four people, and he went to retrieve his documents from Aragorn’s study. Aragorn was not there, but he had been recently; Faramir could detect his slightly spicy scent in the air and it sent a wave of warmth through him. Rather than taking the work back to his chambers, he sat down at the desk and skimmed through one of the books, finding more examples to confirm his interpretation of the law on land trusts. He heard the sixth bell toll and he took the books and the map to his study, then went to see if Éowyn had arrived for lunch yet.

When he entered the dining room, Arwen was there, alone, and she did not greet him as usual, with a warm smile. Instead, she looked at him penetratingly, and a little coldly. Faramir felt anxious, but he sat down next to her and put a hand, palm up, on the table in front of her. She held his gaze for a moment, then looked at his hand. She put one of her hands by his, and he closed his fingers around it. Her hand was large and strong, but the skin was impossibly pale and soft, and it was cool to the touch. He did not feel a warm energy flowing from her touch as he had once or twice before.

“Arwen, what is it?”

“I do not accuse you of playing false with me, but how can you not know it?” she asked, regarding him intently.

“Aragorn and I…” Faramir felt words leave him. “Something changed last night, something happened, but…but nothing happened. I know not what you see.”

Arwen sighed, closed her eyes, and touched two fingers to the center of her forehead. She took a few breaths and removed her fingers from her forehead, then looked at him again. “To an Elf’s eyes, your fëa has now bonded with another’s. Do you understand?”

Faramir frowned, then looked at her, astonished. “But how can that be? Men do not…it is different for us, or so I have heard.” Faramir felt an unpleasant prickly sensation all over his skin.

“I do not claim to have much experience of Men, but I have seen it in the eyes and voice of one other of your kind,” Arwen said, releasing his hand, which Faramir now realized was sweating.

“Aragorn?” Faramir asked. “He has bonded with you in this way?”

Arwen bowed her head and Faramir felt his chest constrict. “Yes. I do not know what it means that you have now…” her voice faded away.

“But Arwen, he and I have, we have loved each other for years…”

“This, too is different. With us, this joining is the result of the physical act of love. Why has this happened now, after you have been together so many times?”

“Perhaps, then, this is not like your bonding, after all. Arwen, nothing is different,” Faramir said, grabbing her hand again and pressing it between both of his. “It is not even a change that I myself perceive!”

She looked at him sharply, her eyes moist. “Is it not?” she asked, and Faramir’s heart skipped a beat. “Son of Númenor, can you look into your heart and honestly say that it has not changed? That you are not transformed?”

Faramir held her gaze, searching his heart, his face wearing a pained expression.

The door swung open and Éowyn entered. Arwen looked at her and Faramir saw the look in Arwen’s eyes shift from anguish to pity.

“What is wrong?” Éowyn asked, looking from Faramir to Arwen, whose hand was still clasped in her husband’s hands.

Arwen stood up and helped Éowyn sit down at the table. She did not answer Éowyn’s question, so Éowyn looked to Faramir, who just looked back at her, not sure of what to say.

“Is something wrong?” Éowyn repeated.

“I will ask them to bring us lunch now,” Arwen said and left the room.

“Are you feeling better?” Faramir asked.

Éowyn gave him a stern look. “Actually, I am. Now what was that about?”

Faramir sighed. “I do not entirely understand. Arwen says that my spirit bonded with Aragorn’s last night.”

Éowyn shook her head. “What does she mean, bonded?”

Faramir shrugged. “It is something that Elves see in other Elves, it is for them akin to marriage.”

Éowyn laughed. “Did you and Aragorn get married last night?”

Faramir smiled and was grateful that he could say, “no, we did not. We fought for several days, then said tender things to one another, and all the rest you will have to wait until later to hear.”

Éowyn looked over her shoulder. “But Arwen is upset about it. This bonding.”

Faramir nodded. “She says she has never seen this in another of our kind besides Aragorn. I think that for Elves, love is much simpler. With one other, they join their spirits in the physical act of love, and then they are married for the rest of their long lives.”

Éowyn regarded him thoughtfully for a few moments. “I see nothing different in you. What do you think?”

Arwen returned and sat down next to Éowyn. She looked from Éowyn to Faramir and seemed about to say something, then folded her hands in front of her and stared down at them. “Lunch is coming,” she said.

“Arwen,” Faramir said softly, and she looked at him. “The only change I see when I look into my heart is that I am at ease with my love, whereas yesterday I was quite agitated. Today, all the sharp edges have been worn away and all the pieces of my life seem to fit together much more smoothly. Except that now I am concerned for you.”

Arwen looked into his eyes for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I believe you. Now I must ask Estel to search his heart and tell me what he finds there.”

Éowyn lay a hand on her friend’s shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze.

The servants brought in their lunch and Arwen turned the talk to matters of bearing children and raising sons. Faramir watched as Arwen tried to veil her pity, and he wondered if Éowyn saw it nonetheless.

Trust

After lunch, Faramir and Éowyn retired to the small room adjacent to their bedchamber and awaited the arrival of Legolas and Mablung. Doronil had set four chairs around the small table, and Faramir helped Éowyn sit down in one. He cringed to see the brooding look on Éowyn’s face. He sighed quietly and sat down next to her, folding his hands on the table in front of him.

“Arwen is not upset only for herself,” Éowyn said. “I suppose she thinks I should be upset, too. Only I do not comprehend what I am supposed to be grieving. Do you no longer love me, husband?” she asked in a tone that expressed no genuine apprehension about the answer Faramir would give.

“Of course I love you,” Faramir answered calmly.

“Do you love Aragorn more than you love me?” Éowyn asked, her voice betraying a hint of doubt this time.

Faramir’s brow furrowed. “More? I cannot answer that. How am I to measure and compare, Éowyn? Do you love Elboron more than you love me?”

Éowyn surprised him with a wry smile. “I will never have to choose between my son and my husband.”

Faramir’s shoulders tensed. “Will I have to choose between you and Aragorn?”

Éowyn looked wistful. “Once you would have chosen me. Three years ago, you told me that you would renounce Aragorn’s love if my happiness were at stake. Would you still make that choice today?”

Faramir looked stricken. “Are you unhappy now?” He could not believe that he would miss the signs if Éowyn were suffering because of him, but he knew he had been preoccupied of late.

Éowyn shook her head. “But perhaps I would be, if I truly understood the cause of Arwen’s distress. So I ask you: if your love for Aragorn made me unhappy, would you now renounce it?”

Faramir felt sick to his stomach at the thought. “No,” he said flatly. “I could not; it is too late. If you asked it of me, I would never speak of it again, never act on it again, but my heart would not change.”

Éowyn looked at him solemnly. “You would sacrifice much for my happiness, husband.”

Faramir felt a swell of poignant emotion as he looked at his wife. She had never said to him, ‘we are one,’ but they were bound in another way. “I have pledged myself unto thee, wife. I will ever honor and cherish that vow.”

Éowyn cast her eyes down and then looked up at him again. She laid her hand on top of his. “I believe you.” She stared at him for a while with her cool blue eyes. “And I believe that your love for Aragorn will never cause me to demand such a sacrifice from you.”

Faramir brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it softly. She sighed and smiled at him resignedly.

Faramir returned her smile, but was still troubled and said, “I saw that Arwen pitied you, and I fear that Legolas, too, will cast such glances at you. He saw something in me this morning, and he knows that the change happened while you and I were apart. I do not know what he will make of it.”

Éowyn frowned. “It will be most vexing to be pitied by the Elves, but I will try to hold my tongue.”

Faramir could not help laughing. “There may be gossip, speculation,” he warned.

Éowyn pressed her lips together, thinking. Then she laughed mirthlessly. “Well, there is nothing I can do about that, in any case. What will you say if Legolas asks?”

There was a knock on the door and Doronil’s voice calling out, “Prince Legolas has arrived, my Lord.”

Éowyn smiled. “I wonder if his pointy ears were burning?” she whispered.

“Let him enter,” Faramir called, rising from his chair.

Legolas entered, this time betraying no emotion upon seeing Faramir. “I have come, as you requested, Lord Faramir,” he said, a little too formally.

“Please sit down,” Faramir said, moving to the door. He asked Doronil, “have you any word from Captain Mablung?”

Doronil nodded eagerly. “Yes, he is on his way.”

“Very good. Let him in when he arrives,” Faramir said, closing the door behind him.

The three of them waited for Mablung, sitting in companionable silence much of the time, for they were now quite accustomed to each other’s company. Éowyn asked about the business Faramir had been conducting the last few days, and Legolas listened, saying little. After a while, Mablung arrived and Faramir embraced him warmly.

“How are things in the north?” Faramir asked.

“Quiet enough, my Lord,” Mablung replied. “There is evidence that Orcs are about, but they are still timid, staying well away from the settlements and the patrol routes. The villages are chaotic, as usual. Lively, full of hope, but rowdy. Too many unsettled folk passing through, looking to make a fortune, or simply to make trouble!”

Faramir nodded. “Do you think it would help the situation to restore the traditional privileges of the petty nobility?”

Mablung chuckled. “As usual, my Lord, you cut right to the chase. I have not even greeted Prince Legolas and Lady Éowyn yet,” he chided.

Faramir bowed his head, conceding Mablung’s point and gestured to the empty chair, which Mablung sat in. As Mablung exchanged pleasantries with the others, Faramir unrolled his map. Mablung halted in mid-sentence when he saw his elder brother’s name scrawled on the map. He looked up at Faramir and raised his eyebrows.

“Your brother Berelach is still in Anorien, is that correct?” Faramir asked. Mablung confirmed this and Faramir continued, “I remember your brother before he was injured. He was a good man and a skilled Ranger.”

Faramir tapped his finger on the relevant part of the map, a large stretch of hilly land near the north-south road. “Your family holds the deed to substantial holdings in Ithilien. Does Berelach not wish to return?”

“He does, but I have discouraged him from doing so. I have not thought it safe. And in any case, he does not have the means to start anew. You remember correctly, he is a good man, but he was a much better Ranger than he is a farmer,” Mablung said grimly. “His lameness slows him down. His wife does more than her share, but their children are still young and require her attention. They fare poorly on that farm and cannot pay enough; their hired help works for a season, if that, and then moves on. They get by from year to year. They would not be unhappy to let a tenant manage the place if they had somewhere else to go and the means to build a home there.”

“I would like him to return, and to serve as the lord of these lands,” Faramir said. Mablung cocked his head, interested. “I need men like him to help me govern Ithilien, men who will be foresighted and dedicated, who will be responsible to the land and to the people who would settle there.”

Mablung bowed his head. “I am honored that you think so highly of him, but I fear that if you ask this of him, he will have to refuse and he will be humiliated.”

“Tell your brother to broker a deal with a timber merchant, as large a deal as he can manage,” Faramir said. Legolas frowned, but Faramir deliberately ignored him for the moment. “Have him send some of his laborers across the river to do the felling after they have finished the planting this spring. But before any of this happens, you must take a short leave from your service and build a dwelling on your land. It does not have to be grand; it can be a shack with a few beds in it, for all I care. But this will establish your legal right to re-claim the land, and it will provide a place for the laborers to live. When the contracted amount is paid at the end of the summer, your brother will have enough to tear down the shack and rebuild your family’s manor house in its place.”

Mablung looked stunned. “But, my Lord,” he said cautiously, “the harvesting limits?”

Faramir shook his head. “I have decided to raise the harvest limits this year to accommodate one contract per landholder, and the King has agreed.” He glanced at Legolas, who nodded slowly, moving his gaze from Faramir to Mablung. “I have also persuaded the woodcraft guild to return to Ithilien, but contracting with them is only practical for those lords who have already reestablished themselves and can provide a workshop. Next year or the year after, Berelach can contract with the guild if he likes.”

Mablung became uncharacteristically emotional. “Our family home…” he said in a breaking voice. His face flushed and he grew silent.

Éowyn smiled. “You will have your family closer to you. And perhaps you will finally take a wife if you have some place to put her besides a dirty cave?”

Mablung rubbed his eyes and chuckled. “You are assuming my brother will want me around, or that any woman would have an old man like me.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows, for he knew that Mablung already had a child by Éopryt, the tavern owner in Lendnos. “She might, if you asked her,” Faramir said.

Mablung blushed and chuckled again.

Faramir then turned to Legolas. “The other part of my proposal will be to create a land trust in my name, which will be home to your people so long as they wish to remain.” Faramir gestured to parts of the map he had marked with diagonal lines. “All these lands here along the Morgulduin are despoiled, are they not?” he asked Éowyn.

Éowyn peered over the map intently. “Yes, the entire area around the crossroads is dead and must be replanted. Further downstream, for miles on either side, the soil has been poisoned, yet life clings to the land. Arasail and I have discussed what the solution might be for healing what grows there, but we have come to no conclusions.” Éowyn looked further North on the map. “I do not know of these lands along the road. Even though I am Warden of the Land, I have not been allowed to journey there yet,” she said, pointedly glaring at Faramir.

“It is still dangerous along the road, my Lady,” Mablung said. “Though there is nothing wrong with the land or the trees, as far as I can tell.”

Legolas looked at the map, and then looked at Faramir, narrowing his eyes. “Would all this territory be included in the trust you propose?”

Faramir nodded. “I imagined that you would want to found a town on the Emyn Arnen side for now…”

Legolas put a long finger down on the map at the crossroads. “Faramir,” he said, interrupting. “The Rangers have a watch post here, and I have met them patrolling here,” he moved his finger north along the map, tracing the road to where it crossed a river gorge. Mablung shot Faramir a warning look, but said nothing. “Do you mean to put all of this land, territory that the Rangers keep so closely, into the hands of the Elves?” Legolas asked again.

Faramir felt a little anxious as he glanced from Legolas to Mablung. “Ithilien needs the Elves’ care for its land to flourish, but I would also welcome the Elves’ skill in protecting her people.”

Mablung straightened up in his chair and looked at Legolas. Legolas was staring at Faramir thoughtfully. Then a smile broke across the Elf’s face and he turned to Mablung. “What say you, Captain? I know not all your Rangers would welcome Elves among them.”

Mablung barked out a laugh. “And how many Elves do you know, Prince Legolas, who would suffer the company of a flet crowded with unwashed Men?”

Legolas nodded, still smiling. “Very few, but it would not hurt to try.”

Faramir turned to Mablung. “Will you try, Captain?” he asked, his voice serious.

Mablung stopped smiling and looked down at the map. Faramir knew he was thinking of Henneth Annûn, which was still a well-kept secret. Mablung looked again at Legolas, and then at Faramir. He shrugged. “I do not want to take this lightly, my Lord. We would be foolish to turn down any aid offered by the Elves, but many would think it foolish to offer up all our secrets to another race.”

Éowyn’s hand crept over to Faramir’s knee and, finding his hand, grasped it tightly. “We must trust each other,” she said firmly. “It will take some time to bring it about, but it is a wise plan. We must try it.”

Mablung bowed his head to Faramir. “As always, your men will follow wherever you lead them.”

Exile

That evening, Faramir sat at the table in his chamber for quite some time, gathering his thoughts about what he would say at the Council meeting the next day. It was not yet late, but he was ill-rested, so he was glad when Éowyn returned and began to undress for sleep.

“How did your visit to the nursery go?” Faramir asked.

Éowyn smiled, but looked distressed. “I am afraid my grotesquely large belly terrified poor Eldarion. He did not recognize me at first, and when he did, he burst into tears.”

Faramir gave her a sympathetic smile and began to get himself ready for bed. He opened a cedar chest and got out extra pillows to position under Éowyn’s belly and legs, then he lay down and gratefully curled up around her back, wrapping his lower arm up and across her chest, and cradling her belly with his upper arm. He nuzzled the back of her head, breathing her scent in. “Mm, I missed you,” he purred.

Éowyn’s breath grew more shallow. “Meleth,” she said. “I spoke with the midwife today.”

“Is anything amiss?” Faramir asked.

“Quite the contrary. The baby is well and could come any time now.”

Faramir breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, for your sake, I hope she comes soon.”

“Why are you so sure it is a girl?”

“I just am.”

“Meleth,” Éowyn said again. “There is no danger…if you want to make love.”

Faramir’s eagerness was quickly apparent against Éowyn’s back. “Do you wish it? Truly, would you enjoy it?” he asked, concerned.

Éowyn’s answer was to take her husband’s hand and bite down playfully on the soft flesh between his thumb and index finger. “You are not the only one who has grown tired of showing restraint,” she growled. She took his other hand and moved it over her backside and down between her legs. Faramir felt that she was already moist. “All you have to do is move a few inches this way,” she prompted him.

Faramir was overwhelmed for a moment with a variety of desires. The enforced abstinence of the last months of pregnancy were hard on him, leaving him feeling at a distance from his wife when he most wanted to be close to her. It was especially difficult right after he had been with Aragorn, for his time with his lover only strengthened and made more urgent his desire to re-join his body with his wife’s.

Faramir’s hand caressed Éowyn’s breast, teasing the nipple into hardness. Éowyn ground back against him impatiently, so he pulled his arm out from under her and angled himself so that he could enter her without her having to move. Using his hand to guide him, he teased her a bit at first, rubbing himself around in her wetness, and she sighed in appreciation. Then, very gently, he slid himself inside, and Éowyn gave out a long moan. He paused, savoring the softness, the heat, the moisture. Again, Éowyn pushed back against him, so he began to move, thrusting slowly and experimentally, cautiously learning what his wife’s body wanted in its current condition.

Éowyn cried out when he found the right angle, and so Faramir repeated the gesture with increasing intensity. It was Faramir’s habit to speak tender words to his wife as they made love, but this time speech abandoned him. His attention was completely absorbed by the sensations, the smell of Éowyn’s heat, the sounds of her desire, and the growing tension in his groin.

With Éowyn curled up on her side, there was no way for Faramir to pleasure her with his hand. “Is this what you want? All that you want?” Faramir asked.

“I want you to last long and spend yourself deep inside me,” she said throatily.

Faramir paused, trying to relax. “You will only get the latter if you speak to me in that voice,” he warned.

Éowyn laughed and reached backward, putting her hand on his hip and pulling him toward her again.

Faramir began again the rhythm that she wanted, drawing the heat upward out of his loins so that his head was filled with fuzzy desire and sweet longing. Inarticulate thoughts of love passed through his mind, vague sentiments of destiny and eternity that sent bolts of fire back down his spine, until he lost himself completely in the moment, moving deeper and deeper in his striving to merge with Éowyn in every way. He moved his body as close to her as he could, growing frantic in his thrusts. His fingers dug into the flesh of her hip, his teeth bit into the top of her shoulder, but he kept on for the sake of hearing a few more of her cries of passion. Then it was over, and Faramir found himself emerging from the cascading rapids into a wide pool of calm water.

Faramir delivered several gentle kisses to the back of Éowyn’s neck. “There is nothing like the way I feel when I am inside you,” he said, his voice croaking. He cleared his throat. “Or how I feel when we are through.”

Éowyn sighed and said, “Mm-hm.”

Faramir could feel her body was still tense, that she was not sharing in his bliss. He rolled away from her and she rolled on her back, spreading her legs apart. Again, a warm and earthy scent assailed Faramir’s nose and his energy returned. As his hand made its way down around her belly and between her legs, he said, “shall I tell you about how Aragorn and I made up after our fight?”

Éowyn smiled grimly. “I doubt it will help. Nothing seems to take away this feeling of fullness, this accursed bloated sensation, as if I am an overfilled wineskin.”

Faramir chuckled and began to stroke her rapidly. “Let me drink deeply, then. I know you will especially enjoy this story; it is one of your favorites.”

Éowyn grinned. “Ah, did you take the King last night, husband?”

Unfortunately, Éowyn was right about her insatiability. Even what seemed to Faramir to be a fairly intense culmination failed to ease Éowyn’s discomfort. Faramir fell asleep right away, but was awoken every few minutes by Éowyn’s restlessness. He tried to make her comfortable by adding, subtracting, and re-arranging the pillows. Eventually, he went to fetch her a draught of medicine to take away her aches, he rubbed her back and her feet, and he even tried singing to her.

Finally, Éowyn barked at him, “get out. Your attentions are only making my mood worse as I feel responsible from keeping you from your rest.”

“But meleth nín,” Faramir said gently, “I cannot leave you in such a state.”

“You shall. You must sleep, Faramir. The Steward must not doze during the Great Council. Take Aragorn’s bed; he and Arwen retired to her chamber after putting Eldarion to bed.”

Faramir reluctantly did as she requested, making sure before he left that everything she might need was within arm’s reach. He left by the side door, went down the servants’ passage to the King’s chamber and quietly slipped inside the dark room. He was about to crawl into the bed when he saw that Aragorn was already in it. He smiled down at the form of the other man, surprised that he had not yet woken. He quickly calculated the danger he might face from getting into bed and surprising a sleeping ranger, and decided it was worth the risk.

To his surprise, Aragorn did not wake up, and even when he wrapped an arm and a leg around the King’s body, he did little but murmur and nestle closer to Faramir. Faramir closed his eyes, repressing his urge to kiss Aragorn, and tried to fall asleep.

Just as Faramir began to drop off, Aragorn sighed and grabbed Faramir’s hand, pushing it down to his groin.

Faramir laughed and said softly, “are you awake?”

Aragorn jerked away from him. “Faramir?”

Faramir laughed even harder, trying to be quiet. “Who else’s hand do you make such rude use of?”

Aragorn slid Faramir’s hand back up to his stomach. “Sorry, I was asleep,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Éowyn exiled me – she cannot get comfortable and was keeping me awake. What are you doing here? Éowyn said you retired to the Queen’s chamber.”

Aragorn was quiet. Then he said, “she also exiled me.” His tone was not light.

Faramir looked at Aragorn but the room was too dark for him to see the expression on Aragorn’s face. “Because of…?”

“Last night,” Aragorn sighed.

Faramir snuggled closer to Aragorn and kissed his cheek and neck. “Do you wish to speak of it?”

Aragorn’s fingers stroked the back of Faramir’s hand. “I think this is the first hurt Arwen has felt with the heart of a mortal.”

Faramir’s own heart filled with pity. “Oh,” he sighed.

They were silent for a while, each with his own thoughts. Then Aragorn said, “she is confused by what she sees in you, and I know not how to reconcile what she sees as bonding with what happened between us.”

“How so?”

“I do not deny that something remarkable happened last night: I began to realize I could feel what you were feeling, and for a few moments, there was nothing separating you from me.”

“Yes,” Faramir agreed.

“But that did not happen when Arwen and I first joined in bodily union. Yes, there was a touching of my mind and hers, as I have known when healing someone, but I have never before felt that merging of physical sensation.”

“So perhaps that remarkable moment was more from hroa than from fëa,” Faramir chuckled. “What then do you think is the cause of the change that Arwen and Legolas saw in me?”

Aragorn’s fingers stopped their stroking. “Legolas saw it, too?”

“Mm,” Faramir confirmed.

“Úmarth³!” Aragorn cursed.

“Do you know what it is that they see?” Faramir asked and Aragorn shook his head. “Arwen asked me to look into my heart, and I told her nothing had changed, except that I was now at ease with my love for you.”

“Hm,” Aragorn said, nodding. “Yes, perhaps that is it. Perhaps it is that subtle for us. The easing of agitation…”

“A shift…from the edge to the center,” Faramir said softly.

“Yes, that is what I felt, too. With Arwen, we were apart for so long, at first I did not understand that what I was feeling was anything more than relief that we were at last together. But looking back, it was much more than that: the absence of uncertainty, the banishment of fear. As now I also feel with you.” Aragorn rolled over onto his side, leaning his forehead against Faramir’s. “I am glad of it, but it hardly seems earthshaking.”

“Knowledge of the joining of spirit and body in our race is not given to us as it is given to the Elves,” Faramir said. “It is possible that Man’s fëa calls to him from a great distance, so softly it is only heard by those who listen well.”

“Perhaps it will ease Arwen’s mind to know that, whatever she sees written on our faces, it does not mark a great change us.”

Faramir frowned in doubt. “Or perhaps she will be disappointed to discover after all these years that your bond to her carries so little meaning for you.”

“It may well be there is a moment in time that changes everything, at least to an Elf’s perception,” said Aragorn, agitated. “But as a Man, I ask how can a single act of love, no matter how profound, compare to years of shared thoughts and experiences? That is what matters to me, not the existence of some other dimension that is beyond the reach of my senses.” Aragorn rolled on his back again, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. “She does not understand: the hearts of Men are complicated. Sometimes, I feel I am a child to her, and yet I know that her wisdom does not encompass all things, things that I know in my own heart to be true.”

Faramir sighed. “I know not what more I can say or do to ease her mind.”

“Nor do I. Her cares are beyond our comprehension, I fear.” Aragorn’s hands went to his sides. He was quiet for a few moments and then he said, “However, she does have request of you.”

“Anything,” Faramir said.

“She wants to be more to you than the wife of your lover, and more importantly, she wants you to be more to her than the lover of her husband.”

Faramir’s stomach fluttered in disbelief. “How so?” he asked. He did not comprehend what Arwen had in mind, but he was fairly sure that it was not in her Elven nature to want to take him as a lover. Furthermore, he did not desire it.

“Her meaning was not clear to me. She said that for balance to be restored, you and she need to…I do not know. What she said was ‘Faramir and I need to create a harmony of our own.’”

Faramir smiled at the metaphor. “Interesting,” he said. Slowly, he nodded.

Aragorn turned his head to look at Faramir. “You understand what she wants?” he asked incredulously.

“I think so,” Faramir said. “I had a dream in which Arwen was singing a beautiful song. I meant to tell her about it this morning, but she was in no mood to give me counsel.” Faramir paused, his brow furrowing. “She could not have known of the dream when she spoke to you tonight.”

“But the same thought could have come to both of you for the same reason,” Aragorn suggested. “What happened then?”

“I called out to her,” Faramir said, thoughtfully, “but I called her ‘Undómiel, my sister.’” He paused, reflecting on times that Arwen had said or done things that overcame the barriers of formality between them. “She has already named me kin more than once, but I have never presumed to do likewise, at least not in waking. Perhaps she seeks a token of her worth to me. That was also in my dream…”

“Yes?”

Faramir hesitated. “Let us speak of it later. We should take our rest.”

“I would hear it,” Aragorn said, yawning, “in the morning.”

---

Note:

³ Úmarth – ill fate

Counsel

Upon returning to his chamber in the morning, Faramir was surprised to see a midwife by Éowyn’s bed. The midwife was equally surprised to see the Steward emerging from the servants’ passage.

“Oh!” the midwife exclaimed.

Éowyn gave Faramir an apologetic look.

“Is everything all right?” Faramir asked, moving swiftly to Éowyn’s side.

“The labor has begun,” the midwife said.

“I explained that you had gone to take your rest in one of the guest chambers and that they should not bother waking you,” Éowyn quickly interjected.

Faramir was consternated. Not only had his lustful attentions probably brought on the early labor, he had then abandoned his wife to fend for herself in her moment of need, and furthermore, she could not send for him without the whole household finding out where he had really spent the night. “I am so sorry!” he said, dismayed. “I should not have left.”

Éowyn took his hand and patted it. “Everything is fine. After the water broke, I simply found a guard in the hallway who sent for my maid, who fetched a midwife, and here we all are, happy and healthy…” she winced and breathed out audibly.

“My lord,” said the midwife, pushing Faramir out of the way, “it is time for you to leave.”

“The Great Council!” Faramir exclaimed. “I will be in the council all day. This is a disaster!”

Éowyn made a sour face, breathing furiously. “How do you think I feel?” she gasped. “Will you ask Legolas…to present…my report?” she grunted. “He is…familiar…with the main points. Aah,” she sighed as the contraction passed.

The midwife gave Faramir another gentle shove. “Be gone. This is women’s work.”

Faramir glared at her and pushed past her to kiss Éowyn. “I am sorry,” he said again.

“Go. I will have Doronil fetch you when there is something to see,” Éowyn promised.

Faramir looked around the room in confusion. “My clothes,” he said, only now noticing that he was parading around in front of strange women wearing nothing more than a dressing gown. “I will change in the other room,” he muttered.

Two hours later, there was no word from Doronil but the Council meeting was about to begin. The lords of all the major houses of Gondor were gathered around the large oval table, flanked by their captains and their sons or other advisors. Behind Aragorn sat Arwen and Valacar. To Aragorn’s right was Imrahil, with Elphir and the Captain of the Swan Knights. To Aragorn’s left was Faramir, who had with him Mablung and Legolas.

The economic reports began with Imrahil and would work their way around to Faramir late in the first day of the council. The second day would be occupied with military affairs and any pressing issues that remained from the first day’s reports. It was very hard for Faramir to contain his nerves while his uncle spoke, as he had already heard the reports from Dol Amroth twice over. More than a few times, he glanced toward the door, wondering when Doronil would call for him. Aragorn did an admirable job of ignoring Faramir’s anxiety, but Arwen kept meeting his gaze with her own concerned eyes.

When the Council adjourned for lunch, Arwen was immediately at Faramir’s side and told him, “I will check on her.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said, taking her hand and squeezing it.

Faramir felt too nervous to eat, but he had to make himself available, so he circulated among the lords and listened to what they wanted him to hear. And when the lords were not paying attention to him, Faramir also listened to what they did not want him to hear: mutterings about price restrictions and rumors of trouble in the south. Lord Bregor of Lebennin had his back to Faramir, who passed by and overheard Bregor jesting, “at least before the War you never saw Elves at the Great Council of Gondor.”

Suddenly, a blushing Doronil was at Faramir’s side saying, “my Lord! You may see her now!”

Faramir looked over to Aragorn, who immediately rose and followed Faramir out of the dining room and over to the King’s house. As they walked, Aragorn put a hand on the small of Faramir’s back, as if to propel him along, but Faramir knew it to be a gesture of affection.

When he entered his chamber, he saw Arwen holding a pink lump wrapped in a thin blanket. Arwen smiled and gingerly walked over to him. “You have a daughter,” she said, breathily. Arwen held out his baby to him, and their eyes locked for a moment.

“Le hannon, gwathel nín⁴,” Faramir said, taking the baby in his arms. He smiled, his eyes moving from the baby to Arwen’s startled face. “May we not call each other kin?” he asked.

Slowly Arwen smiled. “Yes, that word rings true, gwadoreg.”

Faramir rolled his eyes and said to Aragorn, “little brother? Already the teasing begins.”

Aragorn laughed and put his arm around Arwen, leaning over her shoulder to look at the baby in Faramir’s arms.

“I am here, too,” Éowyn called weakly.

Faramir sat on the bed next to Éowyn. “How are you, my blessed wife?”

Éowyn smiled. “Happy and healthy. It was much easier this time. I only cursed you once or twice.”

Faramir bent over to kiss her forehead. “What will this one be called?” he asked.

Éowyn looked at him hopefully. “Theodwyn?”

Faramir looked at the girl, whose face was distorted in a yawn. He smiled tenderly. “She will be called Theodwyn,” he said firmly, still gazing at her puckery face. To Éowyn he said, “you have excellent timing. We were just eating lunch. I did not have to miss a minute of enthralling economic reports to come here.”

Éowyn smiled. “At your service, my lord. Now let me sleep.”

Faramir handed Theodwyn back to his wife and left the room with Aragorn and Arwen, both of whom embraced him tightly once they were in the hallway.

“We should get back,” Faramir said, blinking back a tear. “I will join you in the Council chamber,” he said, moving in the direction of Denethor’s study.

When Faramir arrived to the Council chamber, Aragorn announced his good news and the meeting was delayed for nearly an hour while all the lords offered their personal congratulations to the Steward. Consequently, it was getting quite late in the day when it came time for Faramir to present the report on the affairs of Ithilien. Faramir reached into his pocket and withdrew a small pebble, which he held loosely in his hand.

After some preliminary remarks about resettlement and security, Faramir turned to face Arwen and spoke his first few words as if addressing her directly. “The music of the Ainur is as fate to all things but Man, to whom is given the virtue to shape our own lives. So say the most ancient tales of Arda, given to us by our elder kin. As Men, it is given to us to make our own choices, with wisdom and reverence, to complete and fulfill the world until the end of its singing.”

Arwen’s eyes shone and Faramir turned back to face the others around the table. “With reverence, I speak today of Ithilien not just as a part of the Reunited Kingdom, but as a symbol that should be sacred to all the Men of Westernesse.” Faramir gave Aragorn a small smile. “Ithilien, land of the moon, and Anorien, land of the sun, are the twin jewels of Gondor, sundered by the evil of the shadow. Anorien’s mate is now returned to Gondor, but lies maimed by the careless use made of her by the Dark Lord. What does wisdom dictate we should do to make Ithilien a home where Men may thrive again? What choices shall we make to restore this jewel to the crown of Gondor?”

Faramir paused, sensing the mood of his peers before he continued. “Let it be known that all who claim ownership of land in Ithilien must now return, to till her soil and reap the fruit she will soon bear again. Let it also be known that those lords of Ithilien who think it wise to let others do the hard work of healing their wounded mother will find their claims to her bounty no longer honored by their sovereign Prince.” Faramir glanced at his Uncle, whose face was creased by a knowing smile.

Faramir turned to look behind him at Legolas. “Ithilien welcomes home her scattered children, but she has also been fortunate to find new friends such as Prince Legolas, who would spend his last days in Middle Earth working to see her thrive again.”

Faramir turned back and looked pointedly at Lord Bregor. “And yet such words make their way to my ear as to chill the warm welcome that the Men of Gondor should bestow upon such friends. Let us hope that the Elves do not also hear these whispers, for I would not have them turn their backs on us now that our long-forgotten friendship has at last been renewed. And we have not a moment to waste, for one day we will find ourselves alone, sundered from our Elven kin until the end of all that is. But there is yet time for the Fourth Age to bear the imprint of the wisdom of Elves. Let us not forget our brothers and sisters while they still dwell among us, for we are all children of the One.” Arwen nodded almost imperceptibly.

Faramir allowed himself to become a little more expansive, hoping his enthusiasm would be contagious. “Ithilien will not be as Neldoreth, surrounded by a girdle of protection, or Lothlórien under the guard of an Elven ring. Ithilien is protected by the good will of Men, and that aid that we would seek from our friends, the Elves.” Faramir glanced at Aragorn, whose eyes were intently upon him. “In honor of the bringer of birdsong and lover of the great trees, mother of Lúthien the fair whose bloodlines in both Men and Elves are now reunited in the royal house of Gondor,” Faramir bowed his head to Aragorn, “let all of us, Men and Elves, join in building the Garden of Melian.” Arwen’s face lit up at these words and Faramir also bowed his head to her.

“I hereby place the lands of the vale of Morgulduin and the hills at the foot of the Ephel Dúath in trust under the name of the Prince of Ithilien, to be cared for jointly by Men and Elves, so long as Elves remain in Middle Earth. May the Garden of Melian flourish as does the Kingdom.” Faramir sat back down and the silence in the wake of his words was then filled with whispers. He gripped the pebble more tightly in his hand and pressed his lips together grimly, awaiting the reaction to his words.

After a moment, Aragorn cleared his throat, an odd smile on his face. “The Prince of Ithilien has enchanted us with his wise words, and the sun is already long set. We have but one report left to hear today, from the Warden of the Land of Ithilien. Given that she is unable to attend the Council herself, she has appointed Prince Legolas of Greenwood to speak on her behalf.”

Legolas stood and put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Legolas of Melian,” he said, squeezing Faramir’s shoulder, “will strive to say much in as few words as possible.”

When the Council adjourned, Arwen pulled Faramir aside and kissed him on the cheek. “The Garden of Melian, home to Elves and Men,” she said, smiling. “Very good, little brother.”

Faramir looked at her intently, trying to fathom what was behind her sparkling eyes. “The name, it is my gift to you, a token of…”

“Faramir,” Arwen interrupted, placing her hand on his arm, “somehow, all that you do is a gift to me. Even your bond with Aragorn, as disconcerting as it is to me, is a gift, do you not agree?”

“I do, not least because it has called us to see each other in a new light,” Faramir said, taking her hand in his.

Arwen’s smile broadened. “Love begets love, and that is a gift to all. Now, let us hasten to join the others before we are missed.”

That night, Faramir brought Éowyn a dark blue velvet bag and placed it in her hand. “I bought you a present.”

Éowyn looked at him skeptically. “When?”

Faramir smiled and sat down on the bed next to her. “A few days ago. I wanted to give you something, to thank you…” he blushed and wondered if she would find his gift foolish. “Open it,” he said.

She pulled the satin cord and opened the bag, gently withdrawing the silver bracelet. She held it up, uncertain what to do with it. Faramir slipped a ring over each of her middle fingers and pushed the bracelet around her wrist.

“I have never seen anything like it before,” Éowyn said.

“The silver guild master is Haradric,” Faramir explained. “It is like what their women wear.”

Éowyn held out her hand and admired the piece. “It is lovely, and very exotic.” She turned and gave Faramir a scathing look. “But there are three rings.”

“And?” Faramir asked, wondering what she saw.

“Do you not think you are a little impatient to ask for a third child so soon after I have given you the second?”

Faramir laughed and kissed Éowyn’s adorned hand. “I would advise that you put it away for a while. When I see it on you again,” he said with a sly smile, “I shall know what to do.”

---

Notes:

⁴ Le hannon, gwathel nín – thank you, my sister

A big le hannon to Oshun and Insignia for their feedback, especially on an earlier version of the last few chapters.

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