Faramir Fiction Archive

Walk No More In The Shadows (NC-17)

Written by Minx and Iris

12 January 2007 | 50694 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 5

Faramir woke to bright sunshine late into the next day. Gandalf sat on a chair beside the bed, and smiled gently at him.

“Did you sleep well?” he asked, and somehow the young Steward just knew the wizard had been there by his side the whole night and ensured he had indeed slept well.

Faramir nodded. “Thank you,” he whispered softly. He felt strangely rested, something he hadn’t felt in a while now. In fact, he felt better than he had all week. Perhaps, he could even return to work?

“You’ll stay in bed today as well,” Gandalf said suddenly, “The chief healer came by again while you slept. He thinks you should stay here a few days more, till you have completely recovered your strength.”

“A few days more?” Faramir questioned, uncomprehendingly. But there was so much work to do!

“Yes. If you find the bed stuffy, sit in the balcony awhile,” Gandalf said, rising, “I must go speak to Aragorn now, but I will have food sent to you, and you must eat it all. Were you a hobbit it would nearly be time for your second breakfast now!”

Faramir frowned after Gandalf had left. A few days… but that was impossible. There was so much to do. There were envoys arriving from Rhûn the next week, and there was that council meeting about the construction work. He was to have helped Aragorn. He pursed his lips unhappily as a timid knock sounded on the door. One of the kitchen lads stood outside with a tray full of food in his hands. Faramir’s frown turned to a small smile. He might be able to help Aragorn after all.

It was not long after that the boy returned with the pile of papers from Faramir’s study. It was not very difficult to do so, for Faramir was neat and methodical, and all the papers he needed were stacked in a single pile on his desk.

He dismissed the boy and then, forgetting all about the food, started to go through them. The drafts for the Rhûn meeting were missing, as were the most recent reconstruction papers, and he realized with a start that those would be with Aragorn now. Sighing unhappily he began going through the older papers, there had been some plans for building repairs that they had left off going through till now.

Faramir came awake suddenly. He realised there was someone else in his room. He stiffened immediately, and then realised it was Elessar and relaxed. Then he saw the look on the king’s face. He seemed unhappy.

Faramir straightened up almost immediately and quickly bit back the cry of pain that his protesting back and shoulder caused. The papers he had asked for in the morning lay mostly unread on his lap, a thick bundle. He remembered having barely read half a dozen pages, and then… he supposed he’d fallen asleep. That should explain the look on the king’s face, he decided as he looked up warily.

“Faramir!” Aragorn started.

“I’m sorry, Sire,” he said immediately, “I – I’m really sorry. I did not mean to —”

“And you shouldn’t have,” Aragorn inserted, shaking his head, “Whatever am I to do with you?”

“I’m really sorry,” Faramir whispered, “I was going to finish it, but – but I f-fell asleep… I did not mean to, Sire. I promise I’ll have it finished by —”

Aragorn stared at him in surprise, and then groaned as realisation struck him. He’d been sitting there waiting for Faramir to wake up and had planned to administer a strict lecture on health and obeying orders, but Faramir seemed to have totally misunderstood him. For a brief second he wondered why Faramir thought so of him.

“You don’t have to finish it, Faramir,” he said gently, “I shall see to it.”

“You?” Faramir asked in confusion.

“Yes, I. I would like to, in fact, I want to. Leave it to me. I’d rather go through those myself anyway.”

“Oh,” Faramir said in a soft voice, as the king leaned down and picking up the papers began to thumb through them.

He’d rather go through those himself Faramir stared at the stack of papers in Aragorn’s hands as he let the king’s words sink in, still puzzled as to why the king should want to waste his time over such trivial matters as approvals for building repairs. Unless – unless the king had been unhappy with his work. The king would never tell him directly of course; he is such a kind and tactful man, he wouldn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. Not even those of his Steward, who instead of doing his duty now spent his days lolling around in bed.

The more Faramir thought about it, the more it made sense to him. Yes, the king must be discontented with quality of his work, and of course since he’d been ill the reports weren’t reaching him in time either. Why else would Elessar prevent him from working? Denethor had always been clear on that. They must never shirk their duty. Aragorn must be really disappointed. He had to do something, he decided, as he leaned back against the pillows tiredly. Even if he had to get up and walk all the way down to his study, he must do something, he decided as he fell back against the pillows, his eyes closing involuntarily.

He woke with a start in the evening, and groaned as he realised the whole day had sped by and all he had done was sleep. The conversation with the king was still clear in his mind, and he bit his lower lip a little as he thought of what to do next. It would be getting dark soon, and he suddenly realised that Gandalf might come by soon. He was quite sure, in fact, that he would. There wasn’t time to wait for possible messengers; he must see to everything himself then.

He was barely halfway down the passage, when Aragorn found him.

“And where do you think you’re going?” the king asked, grabbing his stumbling Steward by the arm.

“To my study,” Faramir mumbled quietly, drawing his robe tight around his shoulders, “I thought I’d finish going through those papers —”

“I told you that I would see to that myself,” Aragorn said despairingly, as he tugged him back to his room.

“But – but – you have so much else to do —”

Aragorn sighed. He rubbed the bridge of his nose in a self-conscious gesture, before speaking, “Faramir, I have been very remiss towards you, by letting you do all the work I should have done. And you too have not taken care of yourself as you ought to have.”

Faramir coloured at his words, “I-,” he started off uncertainly.

Aragorn held up a hand, “I need you to rest well, Faramir. You have been quite ill.”

“But I am well now,” the Steward protested.

The king raised an eyebrow and drew himself up, “Get back to bed, Faramir, and stay there until Gandalf allows you to rise.”

Faramir hesitated.

“I’ll carry you back if I have to,” Aragorn continued sternly, and that had the desired effect, for Faramir promptly backed away and his eyes fell to the floor again.

“Come, now,” Aragorn said more gentle now and steered the younger man back to his room.

“The King’s chambers,” was all he said, in a flat tone like it was the most normal thing in the world, without bothering to look up from his desk, or even pause his constant writing.

“Yes, my lord,” he heard himself answer automatically as he bowed and turned to leave the study. It wouldn’t do any good to dawdle around, wasting time.

The King’s chambers? Why – Boromir is not here, he wondered as he walked the corridors that became ever more quiet as he went along, the last few passages completely deserted. All that inhibited these rooms and hallways was an eerie silence. They were well-maintained, but no one had lived here for hundreds of years. Like the throne in the great hall, they were not to be used, they merely lay in waiting for the day the king would return.

Faramir undressed, prepared and sat on the King’s bed as he waited for his father’s arrival. He had always considered the waiting to be the most difficult part, but waiting in the King’s chambers doubled his discomfort. Anytime now, he’d hear the heavy boots rounding the deserted corner, the creaking of the hinges as the door opened…

With every minute he sat waiting his doubts grew. He shouldn’t be here. This wasn’t right. Father may not believe there’ll ever be a king again but what if, what if a king should return…

He shuddered at the thought and pulled the lush quilt off the bed to wrap it around his bare shoulders, though it didn’t provide him with much comfort. The king surely would find out somehow what we have done in his room, in his bed. This is treason – high treason! Should a King ever return to these rooms, the House of Stewards will be outcasts… we’ll be doomed and everyone will know why! he thought wildly, his fingers shaking as he pulled the quilt closer.

“Faramir! Faramir, wake up!”

“Mithrandir?” Faramir stared into the ancient face.

“You were having a bad dream again, I though it better to wake you.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Faramir sat up hugging his quilts around him.

“Mithrandir? Please promise me you’ll never tell Aragorn about what father did to me?”

“My dear child, you know I’ve already given you my word on that, and that I would never go back on a promise to you, even if I wished I had never made that promise,” he soothed, yet not without making his point.

“Really Faramir, you are making this unnecessarily hard on yourself. I truly feel Aragorn could be a great help in your recovery: he is a skilled healer, trained by Lord Elrond himself. He cares deeply for you; you’ve seen how much time he spends in here. And he’s worried – he’s not blind, you know! He’s been asking questions, and of course I would never tell him anything without your permission, but have you ever though how he might feel? He wants to help, but you shut him out because you don’t trust him enough to tell him what’s wrong.”

The Maia sighed and rubbed his brow, unsure whether or not to continue as he had intended. The young steward looked so fragile now, huddled in his blankets, outwardly calm and composed, but staring at him with a look that didn’t hide his fright or his desolation. Still, things could not go on this way, truth must be told, he decided. Better to be harsh on him now than let this fester.

“I’d be lying if I told you I’ve never felt disappointed because you obviously didn’t trust me enough to let me help you either. Still, I always was but a mere incidental visitor in your life. Yet Aragorn… you will spend the rest of your life serving your king, and you’ll be working with him more closely than any other man. Do you really want to start out that relationship by showing him you don’t trust him?”

“No! He must never find out!” Faramir insisted worriedly, drawing the quilts closer around him.

“You have dealt with it alone for too long,” Gandalf tried again.

“I had to! I could never let anyone find out. Father would have been furious!”

“But I could have taken you away. Somewhere safe, away from his anger.”

“And I would never have left Boromir!” Faramir said determinedly, “I could not!”

“Then Boromir would have known,” he continued unsteadily, “I could not let that happen. He – he would have hated me so.”

“Hated you? Boromir? Why?”

Faramir continued speaking in a flat tone, “I would that you never knew of it too. How could Boromir have stood to talk to me once he had learnt how filthy and cowardly I have been over these years? How can you stand to talk to me?”

Gandalf was at Faramir’s side in an instant, pulling him around by his shoulders to face him, “How can you speak so? As if Boromir would ever have stopped loving you. Do you think your brother was so lacking that he would discard you over what is not even your fault? And do you really think that I would do so? I have known you since you were a child, and I have seen you grow into such a fine young man! There is nothing you can ever do that will make me think less of you, Faramir! I know you can never act in a manner that is unfitting.”

Faramir stared at him in confusion, as he continued speaking.

“If anything I would only admire you more now, my child. To have withstood all this silently, and to still stay strong is a worthy feat,” he gently brushed Faramir’s cheek as he spoke, and pulled the unresisting younger man into his arms, “I know Aragorn will feel the same”.

“Never, ever speak so of yourself in front of me,” he admonished gently, as he placed a tiny kiss on the dark head resting despondently on his shoulder.

Aragorn poured himself a goblet of wine as he wondered what he should do that evening. He had planned to sit with Faramir a while after he’d finished his work for the day but Gandalf had indicated he wished to spend some time with Faramir, alone. Aragorn could see why. The Steward was clearly still not sleeping well. He sometimes woke up from dreams that left him crying and weary. Gandalf would surely be able to help him. After all he had known Faramir all these years.

Aragorn finally decided he would sit down with a book. Denethor, being the man of learning he was, had a large collection in the bookcases that lined the walls of his study, and Aragorn’s keen eyes had spotted the collection to be an impressive one. He headed for the nearest shelf and ran a cursory eye over the books trying to pick out something light to read. The shelf ran along most of the wall, and most of it was lined with books. The blank spaces were adorned with small artefacts. A vase or two, a jewelled dagger, a small statuette. Aragorn glanced at them briefly, until a long object caught his eye. He pulled it out slowly and stared at it. It was a long, thin cane, the sort that he had sometimes seen people use on their animals. He ran a finger along the wooded surface and wondered what it might be doing in Denethor’s study.

The answer wasn’t long in coming. He could almost picture the faded marks on the lean back…

Aragorn slept poorly that night. He had spent his childhood under the care of Lord Elrond of Imladris. It had been a strange existence for a mortal child to grow up among elves and to slowly learn that he was different. He had had few companions and his days had been full of training and lessons. His mother had resided there too, a quiet saddened young woman, whom he had been quite fond of. He’d grown up cared for by those who were in essence strangers, and yet, he’d always been happy. Elrond had been like a father to him, caring and helpful, and Elladan and Elrohir treated him as a younger brother. He’d left to take up his place with the rangers and yet, he held Imladris as home. He had not imagined that home could connote a place such as this citadel, vast and dark, where a father kept a cane within easy reach of his hand, and his younger son’s back bore traces of its application on an all too frequent basis. Or where a father told a child of seven he would always be inadequate. At seven he hadn’t even been allowed a real sword, much as he’d wanted one. Elrond had firmly told him all he’d get would be a toy sword. And in all those years of living around Elves all of whom were excellent warriors, honed in skills over millennia, Aragorn had never once been made to feel inferior in any way.

Gandalf had told him Faramir’s sleep was uneasy. He’d wondered if it had been due to his near-death by the same fire that took Denethor’s life. But Faramir’s unhappiness seemed more deep-rooted that that and Denethor’s callous attitude towards him was no secret. He had not however thought that callous might translate into regular physical punishment. And it must have been regular Aragorn knew as he remembered finding the stock of salve in Faramir’s room, and the scarring that still remained on the young man’s back, even if faint now. Gandalf obviously knew but for some reason had decided not to tell Aragorn. He’d have to deal with that later, though… Faramir came first.
What must it feel like for Faramir to know that the same man who had treated him so ill all these years had in a final act of misplaced kindness tried to kill him.

No wonder he’s so confused and lost… it all makes sense now!

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