Faramir Fiction Archive

Treasure Enough (PG-13)

Written by Mira Took

19 June 2010 | 3909 words

Title: Treasure Enough
Author: Mira Took
Pairing: Faramir/Haldir
Rating: PG-13
Summary: Blown off course on his way home to the Grey Havens, Faramir meets an Elf. AU, Pre-Ring War.
Disclaimer: The characters and legendarium are Professor Tolkien’s. I have no permissions and make no profits.
Note: The year is T.A. 3004 and Faramir is of age. After the prologue, any references to him as a ‘boy’ or ‘child’ are figurative.

Written for the 2010 Midsummer Swap.

Request by Angelstar3999: I would like a story where Faramir is either a wizard like (gandalf), or half-elven and raised by the elves how they elves get costody of him is up to you. Please have Faramir be the sub even a demanding sub when he gets into a relationship with his elf (Elrond, Glorfindel, Erestor, Legolas or Haldir your choice as long as it is an happy ending.) I will leave the rest to you.

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Prologue

“This is not the first time a child has been smuggled here on a stormy night. But it is the first time I will refuse to take such a child in. This boy will need protection of a sort I cannot offer.”

“Tell me then who is a better choice than Melian’s descendant — and one with the blood of the House of Bëor in his veins — to teach the son of an Istar and a mortal woman?”

“Cirdan. Who first welcomed the Istari to these shores. Who has no little experience bringing up exceptional children — for I can assure you Gil-galad was both exceptional and impeccably well brought up.”

“Cirdan, who no longer wields a ring?”

“That is an advantage. Your son will one day be part of great events, I deem. I would council you to let him grow in the same innocence of his fate that my own foster son enjoyed. Time enough for him to face the dangers of this Age when he is a man grown.”

“Very well. Your council is never given — nor ought it to be taken — lightly. I will bring the child to Cirdan as you suggest. Besides, if nothing else, it will give me an excuse to pass frequently through the Shire. Always a pleasure, visiting hobbits.”

“You will be seeing the boy then?”

“As often as I may, though I am inclined to think he should not see me. Or do you think that wrong?”

“No, my friend, I do not. Though I am biased, having loved my foster father dearly and found in my foster son a healer after my own heart.”

“I shall hope, then, that Cirdan and his household can give him all that I cannot of both care and training.”

“Have you given him a father-name?”

“Yes, but that shall not be needed for many years yet. Not until he begins to show his power. No, he shall go by the name his mother gave him. Faramir.”

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N.B. Elves can have up to three names: a father-name given at birth, a mother-name (often considered to be prophetic), and an epessë or nickname. One suggested translation of Faramir is far = sufficient, enough; mir = jewel, treasure.

Chapter 1

Faramir leaned heavily against a sapling as he looked over the edge of the embankment. The River Isen was at least fifty feet down: not a sheer drop but steep, and slick from yesterday’s rain. Even had he not been exhausted, feverish, and still damp himself, it would have looked a daunting route. As it was, he was having trouble focusing on his next goal. The opposite bank, he supposed, but he had to struggle to remember … a road, he must reach a road because it would be on a road that Cirdan and Lanthir might find him … Lanthir, that was funny, because of course a lanthir is a waterfall and there was the water and now he was slipping, sliding, falling toward it …

When Faramir woke some time later, he was dry and warm. Too warm, between the fever raging through him and the two cloaks wrapped about him. He struggled feebly to free himself from the thick material, making a noise of protest so hoarse that it startled him into stillness.

“Drink.”

The tea was some sort of herbal concoction, cooled enough that Faramir could gulp it as it was held to his lips. When he finished, he became aware of the person who gave it to him. An Elf. With brows too dark and a nose too prominent to be one of the Falathrim from home. A Wood-Elf, perhaps — Faramir had heard that Thranduil’s people were always light-haired. Faramir himself had wished for dark hair as boy: dark hair and grey eyes like so many of the heroes out of legend. And straight locks, not his unruly waves. This Elf’s hair was straight, straight and long and beautiful. Yes, though it was not black like Beren the One-handed’s or Eärendil the Mariner’s, yet it was undeniably beautiful. Golden and fine as embroidery floss …

With a sigh, the boy fell back asleep. The Elf regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then moved to feed the small campfire at the mouth of the cave. He had not seen many Men while traveling through the land of the Rohan. And so far he had been fortunate enough to see them only at a distance, in good time to conceal himself beneath his cloak. This Man was the first person on his journey that he had met face to face. A good face, the Elf adjudged it, with a noble, open look about it. The reddish beginnings of a beard should have marred it in his eyes — for what Elf could admire such a dwarvish affectation? — but somehow made the young Man seem all the more appealing. For the rest, his clothes were leather and wool more finely woven than the Elf would have expected Man-made clothing to be, but they bore the unmistakable signs of hard wear, even before the final soaking from which the Elf had rescued him. His weapons, too, were good though unremarkable. From the calluses on the boy’s hands, the longbow saw as much use as the sword. His pack had contained a store of food, a few tools, and some common coins. In fact, the only anomaly was a small, fat volume of Quenya poetry, carefully wrapped in oilskin. An unlikely possession for a traveler in the wilds, and a Man at that. But there was nothing in the pack to answer the urgent question that had caused the Elf to search it.

Uttering a sigh of his own, the Elf took a cloth from his own baggage, wet it with water, and moved back over to his feverish charge. Gently, he ran the cloth across the boy’s flushed face and neck. He had no experience of illness, but much of wounds and the resulting fevers. Thus far, the same sort of treatment seemed to suffice. The Man would probably grow worse before he got better, and the Elf prepared himself for a long wait.

Faramir woke many times over the next few days, though often for only moments at a time. At first, he could barely take in his surroundings. More than once he called out for his foster fathers, but an Elf he didn’t know answered instead. Faramir tried to warn the stranger that the Heron was going to sink — that it could not ride the edge of the gale forever — but he was too weak to make his words understood. Later, Faramir realized that he was not on his one-man sailboat, that it had not sunk after all, but he couldn’t be bothered to remember how he had come to be in a cave. In his periods of wakefulness, he simply watched the Elf move around the small space or tried to move in a way that did not hinder his caregiver, who always seemed to be making him drink something.

On the day that the young Man was finally well enough to chew some rabbit stew in addition to the broth he had been swallowing, the Elf decided that it was time to ask for a name. He asked in his own tongue, which the boy had used often enough while he was delirious.

“Faramir, foster son of Cirdan of the Havens and Lanthir his husband.”

That explained the knowledge of Elvish languages and perhaps the strange fashion of a beard, for all knew that Cirdan was so old as to have one.

“And I am Haldir, son of Haidin, and a marchwarden of Lórien of the Blossom.”

“Oh, that explains your hair!” As soon as he said it, Faramir turned red.

Haldir smiled. “Yes, my family are Silvan. My brothers have light-colored hair as well. I’m told we look alike, though the youngest, Rúmil, escaped the family eyebrows. My brother Orophin and I consider him lucky, but he says it makes it more difficult to achieve a proper warden’s glare. When he was young, he used to practice tilting his chin up to look down his nose at everyone.”

As he spoke, Haldir deftly cleared away the remains of Faramir’s dinner and helped him to sit near the fire, propped up against their packs.

“I always wanted a brother,” Faramir offered, when he had been made as comfortable as the circumstances allowed. “The only Elf-child at home was thirty years older and apprenticed to a ship-builder before I could toddle. We came of age at the same time, but it’s only lately that we have had anything in common. I used to pretend I did have a brother — a merry, daring sort of boy, always charging into adventures, which was odd since I’m so quiet.”

“I suppose I’m quiet myself.”

“That likely makes you a good marchwarden.”

“I hope so,” Haldir replied. “The mallorn forests of the Golden Valley deserve careful guardians. I have had business abroad before now — sometimes even with settlements of Men — but never have I longed to be anywhere but home.”

“I wish I could say the same, but I’ve often thought there was someplace else to be. Than my home, I mean. I love my foster fathers dearly, but I don’t believe I should like to be a shipwright or even a fisherman.”

“Or a warrior?” Haldir asked.

Faramir chuckled. “I can’t imagine asking Lanthir to apprentice me to one. He remembers the good old days when no one needed such things and would probably be bewildered by such a request, even having fostered the last High King. Cirdan took over my education when I was of an age to be apprenticed; he said I should learn ‘the Way of the World.’ I’m still figuring out what he meant by that, but it’s certainly not what the dockhands mean when they say it!”

Haldir laughed.

“I learned to use a sword, of course, but I prefer archery,” Faramir concluded.

“Then we shall have to have a shooting bout someday. For now, though, I think we have spoken long enough for your first day of wakefulness. Let us rest.”

Chapter 2

The days settled into a pattern. Haldir would hunt at twilight while Faramir rested and then he would prepare whatever food he had found for the next day’s cooking. They both would sleep into the mornings before rising to break their fast. As Faramir’s health improved, Haldir helped him take short walks. The cave was located part-way up a large hill that rose from the bank opposite the one where Faramir had his fall. A stream wound its way down to the Isen and the Elf and Man would follow its course back and forth. Afterwards, Haldir insisted that Faramir should sit in the sun just outside the cave; lingering underground being an uncivilized practice for Elves or anyone raised by them. They spoke a great deal while Haldir busied himself with camp chores. Faramir had said — with truth — that he was quiet as a rule, but to Haldir he showed the side of himself that his foster family saw: observant of everything and eager to offer his reflections and puzzlements to any who listened. And Haldir was a ready listener. Faramir found himself bantering with, and even teasing, the Elf with an ease he didn’t know he could feel in a conversation. By supper, however, he was tired and glad to fall asleep to the sound of Haldir stringing and testing his bow.

One evening Haldir returned from gathering food to find Faramir still sitting up, feeding the fire. “Feeling better?” he asked, as he set down an improvised basket full of tree-nuts.

Faramir smiled up at him. “About time, isn’t it?”

Haldir settled himself next to Faramir and took a long drink of the water he had left close at hand. Stoppering it, he turned to ask Faramir if he wanted to attempt a longer walk in the morning.

Faramir kissed him.

It was not the most seductive of kisses perhaps, but it was warm and hard and left no doubt of how Faramir felt.

Haldir began, “You’re very young …”

“I’m old enough to know what I want,” Faramir replied in a low voice.

“So you are,” Haldir agreed. “But I’m not sure you know what I want.”

Faramir snapped, “Don’t be patronizing. I’ve read several treatises about …” and then stopped, flushing. Of all the times to remind the Elf that he had more book-learning than life experience.

But Haldir wasn’t smiling in that way that even gentle Lanthir did when Faramir displayed his love of libraries. The Elf’s tone was serious, not coy, when he asked: “Did you read of anything that interested you?”

“I- …” Faramir’s blush deepened.

“Shall I tell you what I want then? I like to have charge of things. To take care of someone, but also to take control. I’m not attracted to pain — my own or anyone else’s — but obedience … that is something that interests me.”

“Well,” Faramir said quietly. “That would work well with what I want.”

“Which is?”

“I like the idea of being … passive.” Faramir forced himself to go on. “Of not resisting, just letting someone else do whatever he- As long as I was safe.”

“You would be safe.”

“I don’t mean safe physically, I mean …” Faramir’s voice broke off.

“I know what you mean,” Haldir replied gently. “And you do know, how it is between men?”

“Of course. Lanthir gave me the basics when I was quite young and then … well, then he gave me a book. And then I did some reading on my own account.”

“You would.” Haldir grinned, not unkindly.

“I was interested by an act described in the Garden of Scented Flowers,” stated Faramir offhandedly and had the satisfaction of seeing Haldir change expression.

“And would you like to try it?” asked Haldir, almost succeeding in matching Faramir’s casual tone.

Faramir took a deep breath and reached for an honest answer to that question. “I’d like to try anything with you, actually, but I don’t know how to begin. That’s why I kissed you. If you think we- I mean, if you’d really want-”

This time Haldir kissed him.

Chapter 3

“I’m not a child.”

“I don’t suppose you are.”

“But I’m acting like one, is that what you think?” accused Faramir.

The Elf regarded him with mild exasperation. “At this precise moment, perhaps. Silent stoicism is all very well, but-”

“But I need to regain my strength if I am ever to leave this cave. And I’ll need to be able to hold my sword too. And swing it. And possibly fight off wolves. Just strapping it on while I walk to the stream hardly seems-”

“But you did not ‘just strap it on’,” Haldir pointed out, in a manner that many unlucky wardens-in-training would have recognized. “You took it down to the stream, at the place it curves east and so cannot be seen from the cave, and swung it. Repeatedly. In the absence of wolves, I can only imagine you were doing this because you enjoyed lying ill in a cave so much that you’d like to experience another week of it.”

“I enjoyed the parts where you took care of me.”

The Elf maintained a grim silence.

“And the stew,” Faramir continued. “I liked your rabbit stew. Filling, but easy to eat. I don’t know how you season it, but it was certainly tempting even when I felt quite awful.”

Haldir drew breath to answer, but Faramir went on. “Perhaps tomorrow, I can come with you while you lay snares and then I will have no time to get myself into trouble.”

Haldir’s expression remained hard but his eyes gleamed. “Or perhaps I’ll tie you up while I hunt, so I do not return to find you fatigued, sweating, and white as an egret. I have a good length of rope in my pack that would suit the purpose. And I’ll have to hunt some bigger game if we are to stay here much longer.”

“Haldir …” The humor in Faramir’s voice had given way to something more hesitant. “You needn’t tell me, but I have been wondering: why are you here? In all the years I’ve lived in the Grey Havens, I can’t remember once meeting any emissary of the Galadhrim. Travelers going beyond the sea perhaps, but no one who came on other affairs, as do Elrond’s folk and the Wandering Companies. Surely, it is no common thing for a warrior from the Golden Wood to be traveling alone, in the lands of Men?”

“In all the years you have lived in the Grey Havens,” said Haldir, not looking at him, “I doubt that a mallorn-acorn would grow past my shoulder.”

Faramir was still a moment. Then he sat, reached for his book, and began to thumb through it. Haldir’s mouth tightened a bit and he sat as well.

“Faramir?”

Faramir looked up again.

“I came because of a vision.”

The book was set down.

“I know not what you have heard of the Lady Galadriel’s Mirror. Even among our own folk, it is a thing not well understood. Indeed, though all know where it is to be found, few have ever seen its basin. I had not, until my lady called me there, some weeks ago. She told me that she had seen in her Mirror some hidden thing – a treasure, she named it, secret and unlooked for – that would one day bestow a great blessing on Arda. It would be of help, she said, to weary travelers and of comfort to those enshadowed and other things that meant nothing to me. But she said I was to hunt for it and so she asked me to look in the water. When I did, I saw vast stretches of land, as though I were a bird in flight across them: the wooded banks of the Anduin and the grassy plains of Rohan and then along the Isen toward the sea. I saw at last this very cave and here the vision ceased. Thus I set out and the rest you know.”

“It sounds like a lesser Ring — I mean, one of the ones the Elves made before they learned to forge the greater, for of course any other Ring would hardly be a comfort against the Shadow! Or perhaps one of the lost Númenorean treasures? A Seeing Stone might help a traveler, I suppose.” Faramir paused for a moment, looking at Haldir. “You were here days before I abandoned the Heron and came inland. Have you thought of what the visions might mean?”

“I had little to do but think of it, in the time before I found you. One phrase in particular has been in my thoughts: the Lady Galadriel said the origins of this treasure were from beyond the Sea and beyond the Stars.”

Faramir’s gaze sharpened. “You think it has something to do with me? Coming here from the coast?”

Haldir looked at him for several moments without replying. “I think the vision led me to you,” he said at last. “I think if this treasure is to be found, it will not be found without you. When you are well, we should plan how and where to look.”

“And if we do find it, what then?”

“The Lady said it belongs to Gondor, so I suppose I must journey there.”

“And I’ll come with you.” Faramir said. If he had sounded pleading or defiant, Haldir might have argued that point. But the Man sounded instead like a warrior confirming his orders: in no doubt as to his duty, but repeating it to be clear. So Haldir simply nodded and began the evening’s chores.

Faramir built up the fire and remained staring musingly into it, until its light was obscured by a length of cloth slipped over his eyes and secured with a quick knot behind his head.

“Haldir?”

“Mhm?” The reply came from very close behind him.

“Is this also something that interests you?”

“On you? Definitely. But there are other things to be tried, if you would rather not.”

“I think,” Faramir replied with suitable gravity, “that I should try this one for a little longer before forming an opinion. But I was wondering …”

“What?”

“Could you get that rope from your pack?”

“Faramir. Are you still awake?”

“Mmm. Yes.”

“What I said earlier, about acorns. I should not have implied that your youth belied the wisdom of your words.”

A small chuckle. “Just wait until tomorrow, when I sneak away to try bending my longbow. We’ll be talking of saplings again I’m sure.”

“Impatient child.”

“Yes.”

“You should wait.”

“But I won’t. Or I will, but only until your back is turned.”

“No, don’t do that. I’d rather you were impudent to my face — it’s charming.”

“Thank you.”

“And I would like the opportunity to catch you, when you fall over from exhaustion.”

A yawn. “That sounds nice. G’night.”

“Good night.”

Epilogue

The sun was shining brightly on the morning the Man and the Elf reached Minas Tirith. They had traveled in easy stages, and Faramir found the going easier each day. They stood now atop the ruins of the ancient wall that marked the boundaries of the City’s farmland. Faramir looked out across the plains at the White Tower of Ecthelion and shivered suddenly despite the warm sunlight.

Although the young Man had speculated long upon the meaning of Haldir’s vision and Galadriel’s words, he had reached no conclusions. Haldir, although perfectly willing to answer Faramir’s questions in great detail every time he was asked, seemed content to let the matter rest until they reached the City of the Guard Tower. They had decided upon that course because Faramir had suggested that perhaps there would be records there of a lost treasure that would match the Lady’s cryptic phrases. They would ask the Lord Steward if they might, as emissaries of the Elves, look amongst his archives.

Faramir leaned back against his companion and deliberately let go of whatever premonition had touched him. They were coming to the end of this part of their journey, and they were together. As Haldir said, that was treasure enough.

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