Faramir Fiction Archive

Without Air, Fire Does Not Burn... (NC-17)

Written by Hurinhouse

29 November 2009 | 5694 words

Chapter 4

Hidden in the back of the room, he could see the odd fiery shapes that shone onto the mantel through Faramir’s glass, only half full. Denethor wondered if Faramir was ensuring his wits stay sharp. Not that the bruised chin and dark eye were anything to worry over, but an attack on the Steward’s heir was a grave matter.

Faramir had refused to name the culprits, and though he took pride in his son’s savvy, the defiance ate away at Denethor. He had overheard Endahil offer Faramir words of advice the last few weeks, noting Faramir’s continued wandering from the upper levels. “Be careful young master. You don’t want to go missing like your brother.”

“Boromir be damned! Why couldn’t he have run when he was told?” Denethor had never heard such blasphemy from his son and would have slapped the boy’s disrespectful head if he’d been closer. Though, if he was honest with himself, he’d screamed the same question inside his head countless times over the years.

The light above the mantel caught his attention again, moving up and down with each breath Faramir took, the glow reflected onto Boromir’s sword, as well kept as the Steward’s own weapons. Woe to the man who produced a smudge on his first-born’s ungifted blade. It shimmered on the wall as a tribute.

Faramir’s blade was no less magnificent, though almost as little used. But the day had come for the weapon to see some action.

“You used to climb the mantle, in attempt to reach your brother’s sword.” Faramir didn’t flinch. His instincts were good. “You were successful one day when you were six, the same age—”

Denethor cut off abruptly, his traitorous eyes darting to the small shredded surcoat, faded on a shelf beneath the blade these past thirteen winters. The river had bled much of the bright blue dye surrounding the swan boat before the coat had been found.

He tore his eyes away and poured himself a glass of wine, sitting in the chair nearest the fire. He heard Faramir sigh.

“There will be a ball on the morrow, in honor of the induction of troops into our forces. You are to wear your best dress uniform. You will swear your oath to your steward before you deploy two mornings next.”

Faramir turned to look at him, and Denethor’s heart swelled. Though he’d been taught from an early age of his requirement in Gondor’s forces, Faramir had never had an interest in combat. Nevertheless, Denethor thought he would be thrilled when this moment finally came; or at the least, relieved. As it turned out, the boy appeared as numb as Denethor had felt all these years.

The robed man in the stone chair looked little like his coin yet Bálin felt a faraway stab of recognition; an affection from another lifetime that he could not place. He wished now he’d listened to the old Tinker and his foolish fables of that wispy Hall where good men received a second life. Here he was now, shod in the velvet trappings of some bloated nobleman; and clean again, as well! He pulled at the tight collar. The Steward’s son had best requite him later.

Faramir. His last nerve, hadn’t he said? If Bálin was honest, he’d grown tired of his profession these last few weeks. Maybe there were worse things than being tied to a respectable trade. The music they played here was smooth and in tune, and though Bálin preferred mead to the bubbles on his tongue, he savored the treats for this night.

Lanterns, roasted quail, wooden chairs painted white, by the Valar! Everything was more than anything Bálin had ever seen; but the silver trumpets took his breath away. They echoed in the stone halls, entirely different than when endured from the lower levels. Here they were lyrical and joyous and like a home Bálin never had. He’d never anticipated such delights when that Lostir had slipped the rich garments into his arms, passing on instructions from Faramir. Bálin imagined the new scar on his cheek didn’t help his assignment to blend in.

He was about to swipe another cream puff when the Steward spoke, and Bálin’s life forever changed. He knew not of what the man declared, for it was not his words that froze Bálin to the spot, but the voice used to express them. Deep and gravely, of summer bark boats and hiding under long council tables and the soothing bees in his mother’s garden. His mother. Lavender.

Bálin squeezed his eyes shut, tried to block out the voice so his mind could place it, yet willed it to carry on. When he felt a sudden panic that he might lose sight of the man he opened them again, swaying at the sudden clarity.

Bálin’s breath quickened as the Steward rose from his marble chair. He’d come here to watch Faramir on his special day, but now he only had eyes for the wondrous leader in the wine-colored robes, the man’s face in a half smile that spoke of duty and pride, and also a melancholy that seemed out of place.

With a shaky hand, Bálin pulled out the coin he’d kept safely in his pocket, rubbed the smudges from the Steward’s likeness. Yes. It was him.

Bálin’s eyes sought out Faramir, fair and strong in his new uniform. He watched the boy swear fealty to the steward, his father. As his heir. As his son. Bálin’s brother.

The Hall was suddenly stifling. Snatches of memory deluged him, of ringing steel and of horses, neighing in fright. “Run, little lord!” Bálin’s hand grasped his chest as he imagined a knife run it through. And he fled.

Arriving at Saddle Row, Faramir imagined what the set of Bálin’s shoulders would look like when he tacked horses. He remembered the labor being harder than he’d assumed when he learned the skill during his esquire days and he was eager to watch his lover at work.

The merchants were just setting up for the day’s sale, too busy to worry who may be among the stalls. He had drunk too much the evening last, anger toward Bálin’s absence driving him toward carelessness. The general noise here played havoc with his heavy head, but he found the innocuous chatter soothing to an overloaded mind.

The farrier didn’t bother to look up at Faramir’s entrance, just continued to stoke the first heat of the day with his leather bellows into the furnace. Faramir cleared his throat.

“I search for Bálin.”

“Gone.” A crushing sense of foreboding assailed him as he tried to comprehend the farrier’s reply.

“Gone? Where?”

The farrier shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Does he not labor here?”

“Labor? That lazy thief? He ain’t worked a day in ‘is life! ‘e’d rather be skewered by the Eye itself than touch one o’ me lads ‘ere.” The old man patted the roan beside him. “Scared of ‘em.”

Faramir knew the man must surely be lying. He’d been directed here more than once while searching for Bálin, hot under the collar from the snickers he’d heard as he’d walked. But whatever Bálin’s task here, the farrier cared not to share it and Bálin could be slipping away by the moment.

“Can you tell me where he lives?”

The man’s eyes came up like saucers. He looked at Faramir as though he’d been the target of a joke, and pointed to the loft, “Yonder, with the rest o’ the scum.”

Faramir climbed the loft ladder as the farrier called up, “Took that fancy dagger ‘e stole. Won’t be back.” Faramir didn’t recall any of the guard reporting a dagger missing last evening.

There were four distinct areas lain out for sleeping. Three of them had meager trinkets: a spoon, a blanket shot with holes, a pair of shoes without soles. The shutters on this side of the loft were shut, blocking the wind. But the west shutters were wide open, where Faramir saw a matted down section of hay. On the sill was the coin he had given Bálin, polished to perfection.

He felt a great weight settle about his heart and he slumped down against the window, looking out as he imagined Bálin had done every night he wasn’t carousing. More akin to every morning.

His hand gripped the sill and he found himself caressing a groove there while his thoughts scoured the previous evening, searching for a sign as to why Bálin would have left without speaking to him. He’d seen him tugging at his collar as though he needed air.

The wind whipped Faramir’s hair. Plenty of air here.

Blinking back threatening tears, he looked down at the sill to find a letter carved there in the wood. F.

The weather turned as Faramir walked up level, passing through each gate, harsh wind blasting his face, causing his eyes to water. Air. There was plenty here in the lower circles. Valar knew fire needed air.

Finis.
For now.

Continue to Fresh Fuel for Charred Coal

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