Faramir Fiction Archive

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

Written by Hurinhouse

29 November 2009 | 5694 words

Title: Without Air, Fire Does Not Burn…
Author: hurinhouse
Pairing: Faramir/(OMC)/Boromir , Denethor
Rating: NC-17
Warning: AU
Summary: Faramir meets a street rat with a questionable past.
A/N notes: Bálin is pronounced Bay-lin… unless my elfish research is crap, which is entirely probable.

Archivist’s Note: A prequel to this story can be found here: A Spark Forged

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Chapter 1

The twinkling lights of the townhouses in the upper circles was a favorite view on the evenings sleep eluded him. The lavender tea rarely did the trick Endahil claimed, though Denethor was loathe to admit it directly. Endahil had come to him from Dol Amroth some twenty years prior, seen him through two tragedies and a major bout of illness without coddling him in false puffery. Though Denethor never told him, the man could not be spared.

To the South, within the seventh level, he could just make out the last lantern in the barracks, difficult to see past the Merethrond but for the height of the Steward’s house. As he gazed, the glow was swallowed in the black night, and he wondered if his son slept more soundly among his peers than in his own lush bed.

His vision descended, lights more scarce the farther down the circles wound, burnt only by pubs and whorehouses, but for the torches on the first circle where the watch was ever in full swing.

“Perhaps I’ll lower the tax on tapers.” Endahil bypassed the townhouses and businesses of the upper levels, followed Denethor’s view down below.

“Most would use the discount for mead and gambling, My Lord. Those who cannot afford wax sleep with the moon. As should you.”

Denethor sipped his tea, glanced back toward the barracks. “No doubt I soon will with your foul brew in me.”

Without air, fire does not burn. It was the perfectly logical conclusion, and yet Lostir had argued with him, claimed that lack of light was the culprit. After he’d replied that fire is light, and demonstrated his air conjecture with a bowl over Durn’s pipe, Lostir had wandered to the opposite side of the tavern, finding a game of dice more appealing than arguing with a pompous thinker.

Faramir lifted the bowl one last time when a renewed series of bellows distracted him. Five men from his barracks stood on the tavern table, chanting the virtues of Mellomir the Maid and her cooking instruments. Faramir wasn’t familiar with most of the terms, but was able to deduce they weren’t boasting of her strawberry tarts. If Denethor knew his only son of fourteen summers was cavorting down level, in the second circle no less, he’d have Faramir locked in his rooms. As it was, he was lucky to be allowed in barracks.

As entertaining as the off-key caterwauling was, it was the more subdued activity just past the table that caught Faramir’s eye. Not Hilros, nor his half laced tunic, nor even the way he straddled the bench like he’d fall into his squash pie. But the boy he leaned against, ran his hands all over. Not exactly a boy. The street rat was older than Faramir though certainly not as old as Hilros. He allowed Hilros to touch at will, but the soldier’s gropes were barely registered.

The young man was aware of everything around him, eyes darting about the room, taking stock of who, when, where. His begrimed shirt was streaked with clean patches, as though he’d been splashed with some liquid. Faramir wondered how he’d weather the coming winter without shoes.

He whispered something that made Hilros lean back and stare at him in question. The answering sly smile was all Hilros needed. Into the young man’s palm he slipped a coin, which disappeared immediately, Faramir knew not where, and the urchin led Hilros by the hand out the back.

Faramir hadn’t realized he was staring until the door slammed shut behind them.

“Oy, Durn won’t be pleased,” Lostir gestured to the pipe beside the bowl, no chance of being relit that evening. “I’d get a lashing for that, not being royal and all.” He’d had more ale than Faramir, fell into the stool beside him.

“So it’s to our joined benefit that you lower your voice, yes?”

Lostir didn’t appreciate the reprimand, but shook it off easily enough. “How long will you stay this time? I see you slipped your leash.”

“My father promised through the harvest.” We’ll see.

Faramir threw back the rest of his ale, scooted his chair across the wood. Fire wasn’t the only thing that needed air to function. He headed toward the door.

“Careful. Hilros and Durn are out there somewhere.”

Faramir scoffed, “I think they’ve moved on to better things than the Steward’s son draining himself.”

The night was chilly. The knots in his laces seemed tighter than usual and the need to empty himself became more dire each moment he was delayed. He leaned against the corner of the pub, trying for more leverage with both hands when he heard a moan behind him.

His hands fell away as he turned. Across the alley, among leaves and fallen twigs, he spied Hilros squeezing his arse forward, then backward, then forward again, his cock disappearing into the mouth of the street rat, who kneeled among the loose chipped stone. Faramir’s need to piss was suddenly cut off by a stronger urge, one he’d never experienced among the men.

The urchin’s cheeks were hallowed as he sucked and Faramir couldn’t imagine how confined he must feel, though he seemed completely unfazed. His hand reached up between Hilros’ thighs. Faramir couldn’t see what he did there, but Hilros’ jerk and sigh told a tale of debauchery.

“What have you here, Hilros? Enough to share?” The street rat tensed, body pivoting slightly, even as he kept to task. His eyes followed Durn, newly come to the garden. Hilros kept pumping, “Leave off.”

“I’ll split the fee with you. He looks limber,” Durn circled. The young man tried to turn, but Hilros began to jerk and his fingers tightened within filthy hair.

Faramir saw the urchin’s hand grope among the leaves when Durn ran a rough hand down his back. Hilros pumped in one last time, buttocks clenched in a perpetual pose. And Slam! Durn got an elbow in the eye for his trouble. “Valar!”

The street rat yanked off, breathing through his nose, as Durn found his feet. Hilros groaned, boneless in pleasure, and Durn slipped his dagger from his belt. Faramir’s heart quickened. He watched the urchin strike the dagger with a large stick he’d found. Durn lunged and the young man smacked the dagger away, pounding against Durn’s arm when the soldier lost his footing. The urchin’s lack of technique reminded Faramir of sparring practice that morning, when Master Teithin explained the difference between raw natural talent and practiced finesse.

The young man spat Hilros’ seed in Durn’s eye, causing Durn to slip on the stones. A lantern shone brightly beside Hilros, and as the urchin turned, Fara caught a flash of green in his eyes, glittering with contempt for the would-be patrons both now sunk to the ground.

Durn rubbed his eye, “Villain! I’ll forge your death!” But Faramir’s vision had room only for the street rat walking down the nearest alley, ire forgotten in the shine of the coin he flipped in the air with each step.

Chapter 2

He remembered the little lord. Mayhap in the stables, though his blood looked too blue to trudge down this far for tack. Perhaps the alley pub on the second circle?

Yes. He’d watched Bálin work one night a week past, stripling bit of a bulge growing in his thick-lined trousers. The shine of his buckle had caught Bálin’s eye. It wasn’t often he saw the like, and he’d rarely serviced one wearing something so fine.

The lad wandered through the marketplace now, but he’d passed up too many delicacies to have been interested in something sold in a stall. Bálin ran his fingers through his crusty hair as he stepped forward. If he was slick, he may get enough copper for one of the butcher’s meat pies.

“Wrong circle, Yer Highness.”

The fop whipped round, younger then Bálin had remembered. No matter, his coin was still good. The streets were fairly bare for Market Day, with the older troops gone scouting.

“I’m no royalty.”

“May as well be, with them fineries.” The young lord pulled his cloak tight, so Bálin changed the subject, “It’s not a private league, ye know.”

“What isn’t?”

“Me mouth. I’m willing to share…” Bálin looked pointedly at the lad’s purse, “… if you are.”

The lad sneaked a glance at Bálin’s tongue running across his lips and Bálin was sure he had him. Until the arrogant fool looked away, “I don’t deal in bothers.”

“Aye. I can see yer can’t afford it.” Weren’t them leather boots?

“Rather, I don’t pay to do it.”

“Looks to me like ye’ve never done it a’tall.” Bálin saw the little lord’s cheeks pink up before he turned and walked toward the nearest inn, leaving Bálin to catch up with him.

“Wait. Valar, yer touchy. If it’s the price, Tuesdays is ‘alf off.”

The fop picked up the pace. “You think nothing of selling your body for a silver?”

“Silver? Aye. Wot’s the trouble? I know it ain’t the goods. Don’t get much better.”

“How about lunch?”

“Wot?” The lord gestured around them and Bálin realized they’d stepped inside an inn. The vexing prat had distracted him.

“I’m going to eat. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”

That meat pie crawled right up into the back of Bálin’s brain and wriggled there. “Aye, I’m not particular. Anything that tightens yer bow-string.”

The princling held out his arm, “Faramir.”

Bálin stared at it, waiting for it to perform. When the show didn’t come, he pulled a chair out for Faramir, then sat across from him. He smiled, pleased with himself.

“Bálin.”

The barmaid had looked at Faramir as though he was having her on. “And a bath please,” he’d requested. His cleanliness was difficult to ignore. He’d pushed back from his plate and looked at Bálin, “Coming?”

Two hours later they stood before a rapidly cooling wooden tub. He’d had to coerce Bálin into the bath the first time with a pint of brandy, then insisted on the second for his hair. The girl carrying the boiling buckets looked younger than Faramir. He slipped her an extra coin.

Bálin’s skin shone golden, with the firm muscle Faramir hadn’t just imagined underneath. He longed to touch it, run his fingers through soft locks of summer wheat washed twice that very evening. He was harder than he’d ever been, including the day he spilt in front of the cook’s daughter.

“So how many men ‘ave bought yer papa’s tapestries or pottery or whatever trappings ‘e trades in?”

“How many men have bought you?”

Bálin’s smirk loosened. “Just business.”

“You enjoy being used? Choking on men’s—…”

“Pricks?” Bálin shrugged. “Better that end than th’other.”

“Gods, you’re crude.”

“Sorry, ‘ighness.” Faramir ran his cloth down Bálin’s back out of spite, not registering his own action until he heard the quickly stifled intake of breath. Bálin’s arch was that of a cat when he swirled to face Faramir, his own cloth coming up on Fara’s collarbone.

Faramir’s cock surged. Bálin burned like fire, drowning Faramir in flames. Dizzy, he grabbed Bálin’s head and kissed him. Bálin’s lips were hot and soft and the urchin shoved, shocked and suffocating, flame beginning to flicker.

So Faramir backed away, and saw Bálin suck in a gulp of air right before his usual smirk replaced the panic. Just before his eyes squeezed shut, Fara caught a glimpse of an old scar on Balin’s palm. A horse, much like those of his old Calvary set at home. Then Bálin touched the tip of the cloth to Faramir’s length and he shot, streams of come splattering white streaks on Bálin’s skin.

Bálin offered a sly smile as Faramir collapsed into the nearest chair. “Well now, that’ll cost ye extra.”

He’s pompous for a beggar. Filthy vagabond. “I told you I’m not paying.”

Bálin frowned and tossed the cloth into the water, reached for his trousers.

“There are so many more appealing opportunities waiting out there for a whore?” Faramir caught him off guard. Good. The brief moment of confusion was a welcome change to the smug confidence. Faramir was young, yes. But he was also the son of Gondor’s leader and had been taught the arts of banter, barter and debate. And as of last Tuesday, knew women would not be his first choice.

“There’s an upscale establishment in the fifth circle. Use it.”

“Father?” The clink of the fork on Faramir’s plate ceased so that the swish of Endahil’s robes became the only sounds in the room. Endahil poured Denethor a second glass of sherry.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten the urges of youth, Faramir. You’ve been seen frequenting an unsavory location in the second circle—”

“Bit and Spittle.”

“—Thank you Endahil— and I’ll not hear of it one more time. Rose and Crown is discreet and clean. If you must satisfy a craving, do it there.”

The pink rising up Faramir’s cheeks was enough of an admission for Denethor. It’d been quite some years since he’d done more than pass through the second circle, but he didn’t have to reach too far back in his memory to picture the women who plied their wares there.

“Father—”

“Your speed at fifty meters has improved greatly.”

“You were watching today?”

“I watch every day.” Faramir seemed surprised. Why?

“I’m near the top of my troop in close combat, as well.”

“So I’ve seen.”

“Scores that would earn most in the troop deployment this spring.” And we come round to this again. Does it take so little to forget?

“And what of your essay on Beren? Has your love of lore and music declined?”

“Not at all, Father. But—”

“Long have you wished for an end to violence. Is your mind so fickle?”

“Do we not all wish for peace, Father? No matter my feelings, I must fulfill my duty to Gondor.”

Denethor crushed a smirk with a healthy sip of sherry. No reason for the boy to see a father’s pride, lest he become arrogant and careless.

“Father, most of the men in my troop have gone out for a scouting mission at the least.”

“Most of the men are not the heir of the Steward.”

Chapter 3

“So, ye really are a prince,” Bálin grumbled, an edge to his voice. He tugged at the hood of the robe. Did they have less air up here?

“Stewards are not kings.”

“Close enough.”

Bálin ran his finger over the coin Faramir had gifted him. A likeness of his lover’s father was etched into the silver. Bálin wasn’t sure he could see a resemblance.

“Here we are.”

Bálin stopped at the gate. The first thing he noticed was the scent. Flowers had as much appeal to him as the plague so could not label it, but he knew that fragrance. He lingered at the gate for so long that Faramir came back and drew him in, “Is something amiss?”

“An odd smell.”

“T’was my mother’s garden. We came here often before she died.”

“Fancy.”

“Not really, just cared for.”

“Fancy.” Bálin had never been higher than the fifth circle, and then only when he’d stole through the gate, his eye on a coxcomb’s golden belt. He’d gotten close to nabbing it, until one of the guards caught sight of him.

Another whiff provoked the fleeting image of long soft hair, only to die away the next breath. He shivered and wrapped his arm round Faramir’s waist to stamp out the feeling. He pulled him flush, chewing at his lover’s neck, “Let us go be’ind yonder shed whilst I make ye beg again.”

Faramir leaned into the touch, then pushed Bálin away. “I wish I could take you to my rooms, to my bed. But the maids would see us.” Faramir started into the garden, pointing out this plant and that. But Bálin’s mind lingered on the idea of Faramir’s bed, then wandered to the night they’d first buggered, weeks ago…

This Faramir was unsullied, Bálin could tell easily now that he’d been in the business a while. If he wanted to have Bálin break it for him, all the better. He wasn’t certain if he’d ever taken a virgin, but it couldn’t be much different than normal. He’d have to steal something while the lad was sleeping to make all this cleanliness worth his while. The old Tinker always told him to find luck where you could.

This second evening the lad had tried to tame him with playing cards spread across the mattress, his hips and torso covered with a towel. But Bálin could smell the want on him and he’d never taken to games anyway.

Bálin sat down on the bed, with his own towel positioned so that his cock hung out, and swirled his finger beneath his foreskin all the way round the head, his eyes half closed. He brought his finger to his lips, sucked in the moisture with a pop at the end. Faramir’s gasp crumbled his resolve. He lunged, tore the lad’s towel to the floor, and ground their hips together. Faramir’s feeble protests were ignored and he flipped the lad over, pulling his cheeks apart.

“No!” But when Bálin’s tongue slid around the edges of his entrance, Faramir melted into the pillow, muted whimpers drifting up through the pounding of Bálin’s pulse.

He dipped his fingers into the oil lamp, and brought them to Faramir’s arse, rubbing in circles while Faramir moaned like a whore. Bálin’s own cock engorged and leaking, he spared a fleeting thought at the newness of that lust before he sank a finger into the boy below him. He kneaded Faramir’s walls and found that spot that the older soldiers sometimes directed him to. His fingers were suddenly seized within Faramir’s heat whilst the boy’s hips plunged into the mattress, undulating against it in an erratic pattern.

When his hand was released, Bálin pulled Faramir’s boneless sated body up and pushed steadily into his still pulsing sheath, trapping the younger boy’s body tight against his own. It was rare that Bálin actually fucked a customer. Most did not want to pay his heavy charge. Yet he here was doing it for free and wasn’t that just pathetic?

He stabbed in over and over, stroking Faramir’s skin everywhere he could reach it. Faramir now pushed back against him, holding up Bálin’s weight so that he could grasp Bálin’s hand tight against his own chest. This thrust Bálin higher, driving in harder, hips snapping, striving to preserve the unfamiliar closeness.

His left hand fumbled for Faramir’s cock, stirring again. He pumped again and again, trying to hold back with the unwitting challenge to take Faramir over the edge a second time. As he felt the constriction around his cock and he squeezed forward, all the unknown passion built up since the last time he’d seen the lad rushed into that clenching grip.

As his shudders subsided, he collapsed atop Faramir, heartbeat slowing as the lad caressed his arm. The bedeviled knight was poking his last nerve, his rounded fanciful lilt lulling Bálin into a feeling he couldn’t name.

He waited till Faramir’s breathing became even and heavy, then stole out back into the night – he had a business to run after all. He’d been in such a hurry he forgot to search the lad’s pockets.

Chirps of bluebirds and grasshoppers brought Bálin back to the present. He nearly ran into Faramir as the lad stopped at the garden gate.

“When did she die?”

Faramir had the faraway look Bálin had seen in some of the older soldiers. “I was five, I think. She’d been sick for a long while, especially since my brother died.”

“Women get that way.”

“Your mother is gone also?”

Bálin looked at him quizzically. “Don’t think I ever ‘ad one.”

“Who took care of you when you were small?”

“The Tinker let me sleep on ‘is floor by the fire.”

“Is that how you got this?” Faramir held Bálin’s hand, ran the pad of his finger over the horse that’d been there as long as Bálin could recall. He remembered little but pain, a kiss to burning skin, and a frantic man carrying him through a crowd.

“Dunno. Tinker said I must’ve been branded. Got to keep track of us buggers, ye know.”

“Branded?”

“Aye. Already ‘ad it when the Tinker found me down river. Figured I were a slave when the soldiers came, so ‘e ‘id me till they left.”

“We have no slaves in Minas Tirith.”

“There! Wot’s that smell?”

“There are so many here. Which one?” And then it was gone.

“No matter. I needs get back down circle. Where did you ‘ide me clothes?”

“Keep these.” The robe was soft. And warm. Bálin couldn’t remember owning something that wasn’t torn or filthy.

He took it off. “Won’t be able to keep it where I live.”

“You don’t have to do this any longer. I have my own money. I can buy you inventory. You could be a merchant, or a trader.” Faramir had grown tired of sneaking through the alleyways like a thief. Each week he came down here he had to fight for Bálin’s time.

“I am a trader. Wot? Ye aren’t pleased with me stock?” Faramir stopped, stared at Bálin. Anger bubbled up inside him and though he could read the self-deprecating humor, he was disgusted with Bálin’s lack of respect.

“Good night, Bálin.” He pivoted on his heel and marched back from whence he came, hearing Bálin’s defensive quips behind him. “Wot? They shatter ye in toy practice today?” Faramir could imagine Bálin’s arm gesturing a sword in action.

He didn’t know why he bothered. Why hadn’t he listened to Lostir? “They’ll always burn you in the end. It’s their nature.” Faramir had hoped…

As he approached the third corner of the alley, he spied Hilros and Durn coming his way, no officers in sight. They seeing him as well left no place for Faramir to make an escape, though he knew they were smart enough not to cause trouble with the Steward’s son.

“Hilros, is that a blue blood I see?”

“Blue mixing with dirt from what I hear.”

“Aye, that street rat who attacked me.”

Hilros laughed, “Envy does not suit you, Durn.”

“So, how is your rat, Steward’s son? He had quite a mouth on him, but how is his arse?”

I should have run. “Let me pass.” Faramir pushed through the older men but Durn grabbed his belt, “How about your arse?”

Faramir whirled on them both, drew his sword, prompting Durn and Hilros to follow suit. Hilros circled to Faramir’s right, Durn to his left. Faramir thought that Hilros was biding time, unsure whether he should proceed. Durn had no such worries. Faramir lunged, smacking Hilros’ arm with the flat of his blade. Durn jabbed Faramir’s chin with his pommel, the bone stinging, setting Faramir off balance, into the dirt.

“Wot’s this? Can’t get yer own tail so ye poof yerself up fer a boy?” Bálin! Faramir turned, saw Bálin squaring off against Durn with a dagger. He had a half a second to notice a familiar etching on the shank before a fist slammed into his eye and he went back down. Hilros pinned him and Faramir struggled beneath him. He could hear the scuffling footwork of Bálin and Durn behind them.

“Filthy whore. You’re diluting the Steward’s line, you know.”

“‘e ain’t royal. Only thing blue ‘bout ‘im is ‘is balls.” Faramir smiled fondly and shoved, forcing Hilros off. He jumped up, swung his blade against Hilros, who seemed less confident with the fairer odds.

Behind Hilros, Faramir could see Bálin spar with Durn. Block, parry, swing, he lunged with the dagger like a bull and kept Durn backed up, losing ground only when Durn’s sword hooked the dagger out of Bálin’s hand. Durn aptly delivered a slash across Bálin’s left cheek in the process.

Faramir sped up his pace, attempting to get help to Bálin. But Bálin was a street rat. Circling his way around, he got near enough to Hilros to knee him in the back, sending him hurling toward Faramir while Bálin pilfered his sword. Faramir scrambled atop Hilros, the tip of his sword at the man’s chest.

Bálin turned and attacked Durn. What Bálin lacked in grace he made up for in determination, driving forward over and over, ignoring Durn’s traditional rhythm for head on brute power. Bálin backed Durn into the wall, Hilros’ sword across the man’s throat.

He threw a cocky brow at Faramir over his shoulder, “Well, ‘ighness? Shall ‘e be spared or shall I gut ‘im?”

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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