Faramir Fiction Archive

The Song of the Steward and the King (NC-17)

Written by Raihon

19 March 2006 | 32932 words

Chapter 2 – The Shadow of Doubt

Faramir opened his eyes and remembered that he was in Minas Tirith. The sky had begun to pale outside his window. Faramir’s mind ran in the same worried circles it had a month before, only now his thoughts were more urgent, because tomorrow Éowyn would arrive and preparations would begin in earnest for their wedding feast on the first day of the new year. Faramir looked up at the painted ceiling of his bedchamber, the same ceiling upon which he had looked all the wakings of his youth, when he would imagine his future of honor and glory serving the Stewards of Gondor. A thousand details of his duties that day called his mind from sleep, so he rose and dressed.

His beloved city, ground down by war and hunger, nonetheless hummed this day with Yuletide cheer. Faramir’s dark mood lifted with each ring of the city he descended, taking in the sights of small trinkets for sale and the smell of roasting nuts in the market square. It warmed his heart when the vendors greeted him by name and wished him happiness in the new year and in his new life. He loved Minas Tirith, but the Citadel held for him too many memories that weighed his heart down. It would be good to start anew in the hills, where he could see the city without having to live within the confines of its cold walls. Happiness might just be within reach, he thought. At last, I may have what I deserve.

The thought struck him like a blow. For him, duty had always been its own reward and the idea that he deserved happiness with Éowyn seemed to him like unwelcome praise from another man’s mouth. Faramir looked around him at the children running wild in the streets, and the ragged beggar women clogging the doorways of half-ruined houses. Down in the city’s lowest levels, the devastation of The Dark Lord’s attack had been near total, and yet here were his people, living amid the rubble, barely clinging to life. What, exactly, do I deserve? he asked himself.

Faramir stopped in his tracks and turned around, walking back up through the gates, his errand no longer important. As he walked, a new course of action formed in his mind. He knocked on the door of a house in the fifth level. His old friend and partner in swordplay, Tarondor, answered the door.

“My Lord Steward,” Tarondor exclaimed, “what an unexpected pleasure!”

Faramir frowned. “Your Lord Steward, is it now? What ever happened to ‘runt’ or ‘bookworm?’” He paused, expecting Tarondor to laugh. Instead he was met with an obsequious smile. “May I come in? I have a favor to ask of you, my old friend.”

Tarondor bowed slightly. “Of course, please, come in! My wife and I are so looking forward to your wedding, Lord, or should I say, Prince Faramir. It will be the first chance we have had since the war to really show our guests what proper Gondorian society can turn out.”

Faramir entered a large hallway that was lavishly decorated with family heirlooms. The sound of Tarondor’s children laughing echoed down the polished marble staircase. Faramir found that the smell of meat roasting in the kitchen nearly turned his stomach.

He turned to face Tarondor, who nervously asked “what can I do for you, my Lord?”

Faramir felt both loathing and pity for his friend, and for himself. He wondered if there were anyone left in the city he could call friend. He took Tarondor’s head in his hands and pressed his lips to his forehead in the Gondorian gesture of leavetaking. “I just wanted to say goodbye,” he said and turned to leave. “Do come visit us in Emyn Arnen sometime. The children will enjoy the fresh air.”

The brief visit left him feeling sullied and set apart from everything that he had called his life before the war. He frowned down at the cold stone walkway. He had a scheme to set something in the city right, but who could he turn to for help? As he rounded the sixth gate, he bumped into a tall bearded man in flowing white robes who exclaimed in surprise, “have a care, young man!”

“Mithrandir!” Faramir exclaimed.

“You have been walking for some six and thirty years now. I should think you had learned to look up from your feet,” Gandalf said tartly.

“You came for the wedding? I am so glad.” Faramir beamed.

“In case you have not noticed, it is my habit to be present at portentous occasions.” Gandalf indicated he would walk the way Faramir had been going and they walked up the tunnel to the Citadel.

“To my mind, pretentious may be a more fitting term to describe how my wedding is turning out to be.”

“Faramir,” Gandalf said sternly, “you are about to bring together the kingdoms of Rohan and Gondor in a union that will see the dawn of a new age. Is that not something to be proud of?”

Faramir sighed, feeling ill at ease with the burden of these words. To himself, at least, he was still just a man.

Gandalf’s eyes twinkled. “Your wedding day will be in the opening lines of songs to be sung for many generations. I thought I had better show up if I did not want my name left out of the singing.”

“Mithrandir, I beg you, stop teasing me. My nerves are already greatly taxed.”

“You are no longer Denethor’s second son, Faramir,” Gandalf said more gently. “Open your eyes; everything has changed.”

The memory of his father was still something he would not willingly dwell on. Faramir focused his attention instead on the second thing Gandalf had said, and saw a way to ease some of the trouble he had seen that day.

“Indeed, Mithrandir, anyone with open eyes can see the people living below, how they suffer, while the noble classes close their eyes and await my wedding as an occasion to show off their wealth and fealty by bestowing on us lavish presents.” Gandalf nodded. “Éowyn and I have all we need. Our home is comfortable and she will bring with her wains full of gifts from the Rohirrim.”

Gandalf laid an arm in front of Faramir to halt him and exclaimed, “it would cause an outrage!” Then he began to chuckle and shake his head. Then the old wizard erupted into cascading guffaws. “Can you imagine Lady Imanris bumping into a farm girl wearing a dress made from the silk she presented to the White Lady of Ithilien on the occasion of her wedding to Prince Faramir?” He could barely choke out the words he was laughing so hard.

Faramir laughed, too. “No, it is impossible, of course. But perhaps you know someone, a middleman, somewhere in lands laid less low by war, who could be trusted to trade the goods for food and blankets?”

Gandalf raised an eyebrow skeptically. “Perhaps it would be wise to consult your wife before making this decision?”

Faramir looked at him scoldingly. “Of course I will speak to her, but I’m sure she will agree.”

“As am I.” Gandalf winked at him. “I will see it done, my boy. That will be my present to the happy couple.”

Faramir attended to his duties for the rest of the day with a lighter heart. That evening, as had become their custom, he joined the King in his study after dinner. Though Aragorn was King and his father had been but Steward, Elessar’s court was less formal and far more merry than Denethor’s had been. Aragorn did not make a habit of working late into the night, instead spending his evenings in fellowship with his friends.

In fact, Faramir had come to rather depend on the King’s warmth during the cold days of Éowyn’s absence. From the moment they met in the Houses of Healing nine months earlier, Faramir had felt devoted to the man who had called him from the darkness, but he had been surprised whenever the King returned his affection in any small measure. Since he had turned over his duties leading the Rangers in North Ithilien to Mablung and returned to reside in the Citadel, he had been invited to spend nearly every evening in the King’s company, often just the two of them and the Queen. Their conversations had demonstrated a likeness of mind, their thoughts taking similar twists and turns, and the King delighted in challenging his wit and exchanging knowledge of stories and songs.

That night, though, they were alone, and the King was somber and thoughtful, quietly sipping his wine and staring into the fire.

“Mithrandir has come. Did you see him?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn nodded. “And tomorrow we will be besieged by the Kingdom of Rohan,” he said it as if to jest, but he did not laugh. “You must be excited.”

Faramir thought about it. Now the King laughed. “Please, do think carefully before you answer.”

“I only hope they bring Éowyn with them,” Faramir confessed.

“She will come,” Aragorn said. “You are trothplighted. She is already yours.”

Faramir found Aragorn’s tone a little formal. He was not at all in his usual humor, but Faramir felt restrained from inquiring about it.

Aragorn rose from his chair by the fire earlier than usual and smiled down at Faramir. “Between the arrival of the wedding party and the New Year’s celebrations, the next few days will be chaos. We should get our rest.”

Faramir rose, too. “If I may speak freely, Lord Aragorn, I will miss our evening chats when I leave for Emyn Arnen.”

Aragorn smiled warmly but Faramir detected sadness in his eyes. “Well, we will have to make sure to continue the tradition when your duties bring you to the Citadel.”

The King grasped Faramir’s head in his hands and kissed his forehead, his warm, dry lips lingering for a moment. Faramir did the same to the King, but when he pulled back, the King moved towards him and their faces hovered close in front of one another, their eyes locked in a gaze that struck Faramir down to his core. Briefly, Aragorn’s lips pressed against his, and then the King turned away and walked a few steps from the fireplace. He turned back to Faramir, who could see a furrow in the King’s brow as he said with intensity, “I wish you nothing but happiness, my dear friend.”

Faramir was taken aback by the words “dear friend” as much as the kiss. “Thank you, my Lord,” Faramir said, bowing, and quickly departed. He felt unsettled, as if something was pulling on him, drawing him back to the King’s side. He stopped in the corridor, wavering over the choice to go forward or turn back. Turn back? he asked himself, for what? He knew not the answer, so he took a deep breath and moved forward.

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