Faramir Fiction Archive

Those who care to see (PG)

Written by Lille Mermeid

15 May 2010 | 1205 words

Title: Those who care to see
Author: Lille Mermeid
Rating: PG
Pairing(s): Faramir
Warnings: AU, death of major characters.

This story wanted to be written and I had to, even if it differs a lot from my usual style.
I was feeling mean.

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Looks could be deceiving.

Especially when someone had a life-long training in hiding his thoughts. People never seemed to detect what lingered under the surface and he did not rob them of the illusion they had of him. Only his brother had ever cared to really see him, but now he was dead and there was no one left to give his love to. There had someone he would give his heart to, someone who had cared to see, but she was gone now and he was alone. He would have to focus his passion to different pursuits, even if many would not like the results.

The thought brought a cruel smile to his lips and a cold light in his eyes.

His liege had seemed so supportive of his pain, but he knew that he had been glad to see removed the only other reason, stronger than duty, that moved the man he counted upon to run his kingdom. The one who, while the king was so graciously and wisely engaging himself in negotiations and decision-making, was taking care of the lesser nice aspects of power, such as dealing with the administrative tasks of running a country after a long war, listening to complaints, managing the every day life of Gondor. The king, despite being himself a former ranger, did not seem to realize that for one accustomed to the freedom of the woods, being jailed in the marble cage of the Citadel was even more difficult for his second-in-command, because of the hurtful memories lingering within the thick walls. Memories of pain, losses and anger that made the atmosphere as foul as Mordor. But the king did not seem to know or, rather, to care.

His pain had been deep and consuming, at the thought of what could have been and had been killed, long before the orc arrow, by the selfishness of his love’s brother. He was new to his throne and had relied on his sister’s counsel and work to rule and, if she married an outsider, he would have lost her support. So he had callously denied his approval and crushed her heart and hopes, entrapping her in what she most feared: a gilded cage of duty and hopelessness. During one of her travels to assess the state of the kingdom, a duty that should have been performed by the king, she had been killed by a stray band of orcs that had attacked the party. She had fought like a demon, killing most of the beasts, but she had been slain trying to save a child. She would now rest with her ancestors under a patch of beautiful white flowers. White and beautiful like her, the White Lady of Rohan who could have been the salvation of a lonely soul. Now his heart was empty and devoid of love. The place once occupied by this feeling for his brother and his love was now a barren land, where grief and hatred roamed and built fires all around.
He had written a letter of condolences to the King of Rohan. It had took all his knowledge of the written word not to let his true feelings show in the wording. He had been nice and courteous, while he wanted to flail the younger man alive for what he had done to his sister and to him. Éomer King didn’t deserve to mourn, because he had been the one who had killed his sister, not the orc who had wielded the killing weapon.
He deserved something entirely different.

Days passed, then months and the kingdom of Gondor thrived. Not so the King who had experienced many illnesses. Even his elven queen had been unable to tell why he had become so weak and she bemoaned her father’s departure to the Gray Havens. His healing ring would have been of use. During those days, the Steward did his job with admirable dedication and soon the counselors started to rely more on him than on the ailing king, recognizing an acute mind that has emerged after his appointment in the office. Even those who had shared Denethor’s lack of interest had to recognize his worth. Strangely, those who didn’t, had all suffered of strange diseases and were either dead or unable to attend council meetings.

The Kingdom of Rohan was slowly crumbling under Éomer’s rule. He was a good warrior, but had no diplomatic skills and his refusal to learn what his sister Éowyn had tried to teach him started to show. Only his allegiance with Gondor had saved him from being removed from the highest seat in Meduseld and many of his people regretted that the sibling killed by the orcs had not been him. A little hope had arisen at the news that he was going to marry Lothiriel of Dol Amroth, daughter of Prince Imhrail and cousin to the Steward of Gondor. She was smart as she was beautiful and many trusted her to reign in her husband’s stubbornness.
Her cousin had a long private meeting with her, before her travel to her new home.

The King of Rohan was being led to his final home close to his beloved sister, his uncle and his cousin. It was so sad that he would not be able to witness the birth of his heir. Luckily his mourning wife was strong and wise and she was going to rule until the child could take the place of his father. Her cousin, the Steward of Gondor, who had participated to the burial ceremony on behalf of his liege, who was too weak to travel, held her close and promised to help her in her new duties. Many noticed that neither of them cried.

Black banners were all around Minas Tirith, in stark contrast with her white stone. The King has died and his Queen was fading from grief. The people had turned toward the Steward to ensure the rule of Gondor. They offered him the mithril crown and he accepted it with grace, speaking words of mourning for the fallen King.

The day of his coronation, the new king was preparing in his rooms, donning the attire that would mark him as the new ruler. No elves or halflings or a wizard to witness his feat, but he did not care. There was no happiness for him, just an empty and cold heart.

He recalled a question his brother had once asked Denethor: “How many hundreds of years needs it to make a steward a king, if the king returns not? “ he asked. “Few years, maybe, in other places of less royalty,” my father answered. “In Gondor ten thousand years”.

Maybe less, he thought, now that the king was not going to return. Ever.

“My dear Boromir. I wish you could be now, wearing this crown that ought to be yours. You died for someone who did not deserve your sacrifice. You would have made a good king. Give me your blessing, my brother.”

With these thoughts the new king left his chambers and went to the place of the coronation. Meanwhile he could hear the chanting voices of the citizens of Minas Tirith.

“Long life to King Faramir”.

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