Faramir Fiction Archive

I, Faramir: the latter days (R)

Written by Surreysmum

02 April 2011 | 14742 words

Title: I, Faramir: the latter days
Author: surreysmum
Pairing: Aragorn/Faramir (with several others implied)
Rating: soft R
Disclaimer: As always, just a little weed in the corner of the Professor’s beautiful garden.

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Part 1

28 Narvinyë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Emyn Arnen.

We buried Éowyn three weeks ago.

I look at those words on the page, and in some ways they still don’t make sense to me; they don’t seem real. And yet, it was far from a shock when my White Lady finally left us, peacefully, thank the Valar, with a faint smile on her lips as I held her hand. She had been ill for many months. We both knew the end was near, and were as well prepared as it is possible for any mortal to be. She believed with all her heart that Eru will reunite us at the end of days. My faith was never as strong, but I know if anyone can compass our reunion it will be my Wynnie (how she hated that name! – and yet she loved it too, or so she said, because I bestowed it).

It is quiet here at last. It is ungrateful to complain, I know, but Wynnie was much loved, and our guest rooms here at the palace of Emyn Arnen were full of family and dear friends, all desirous of saying their goodbyes during her final illness. Then they stayed to comfort each other and me during the sad rites; Éomer and Lothiriel, his wife, have been most kind and lingered to help with the difficult, necessary tasks, making sure that all my wife’s bequests were carried out, her little knick-knacks given to those who would care for them, and her warmer clothes carried down to the villages, as she had requested, to help some of the village women through this cruel winter.

I have never seen Éomer so broken, poor man. As the years have passed, he has grown more and more like a bull, solid and sturdy and slightly bad-tempered, but when he came out from the bedroom after viewing his sister’s lifeless body, his face was white and he seemed fragile. I could tell he was at his wit’s end to keep from breaking down in tears, so to spare him I asked him to look in on Wynnie’s gelding, to see whether he was in a fit state for sale, for I knew he would never be ridden here again. Éomer practically bolted down to the stables, where he could express his grief to the dumb beasts without shame.

Éomer left a few days ago, and my son Elboron and his wife Gwennie have taken young Barahir home to their own house; this darkened, rambling palace is no place for a youngster. So now I am alone, except for the servants, who keep their voices low and try not to disturb me. Indeed, I wish they would, and once or twice I have tried to join them in the kitchen for meals, but though they welcome me politely, I can tell my presence below stairs embarrasses them. They think it’s not quite proper. I regret now that I have been so unintentionally aloof from them, bound up in my scholarly pursuits practically to the exclusion of everything else since I retired from Minas Tirith.

I am lonely, and that is the whole truth of it. Perhaps after all I should take up the invitation to Minas Tirith that Arwen proffered three weeks ago, even though at the time I turned it away so brusquely. Maybe just for a few days.

Oh yes, Arwen and Aragorn were here. It was the first time they have crossed the threshold in the five years I have been gone from Minas Tirith, but I do not blame them for that. We sent them the usual invitations, but Arwen knows the difference between a genuine request and a pro forma one, and Aragorn, I am told, blames himself – unfairly, very unfairly – for my craven departure from his court and his company. He will not inflict his presence where he believes it to be unwelcome. If he but knew. I miss him terribly.

Yes, Aragorn was here, and when he tried to give a friendly embrace to a bereaved old comrade, I stood like a stick in his arms, and turned my face away from his comfort.

I am an old fool. Or a confused one. Or both. Maybe I should not go to Minas Tirith after all?

I cannot decide. Let me go to bed and weep instead. Oh, Wynnie…

Part 2

2 Nénimë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

I see from the date of my last entry that it took me nearly a week to make up my mind. And so here I am at last in Minas Tirith’s White Towers (why is everything so white in this wretched land? Not least the unrelenting snow that made it so difficult for me to get here!) In any case, I am now as comfortable as I could possibly be, wrapped in a soft warm blanket in an easy chair before the fire, a big bed waiting behind me, and a glass of wine at my hand while I scribble in this book.

Arwen was there at the great gates of the palace to greet me when I arrived this afternoon; I suppose someone must have spotted me entering the lower circles and sent a messenger, though the streets of the city were very nearly empty and eerily silent because of the thick snowfall as I urged my poor tired horse upwards. She’s a real sight for sore eyes at the end of a long journey, is Arwen. She used to complain to Wynnie that she was losing her looks because she was aging as a mortal, but I’ll tell you, it’s not evident to human eyes. To me, she’s still as spectacularly, darkly beautiful as she ever was (and, I’ll wager, to her husband too). Anyway, she kissed me on the cheek, and ushered me in the door, and fussed around me getting my coat and boots off – never one to stand on ceremony, Arwen.

“Look who’s finally here, Legolas!” she said, and Legolas (who is, if truth be told, just as spectacularly beautiful in his own way) came over and greeted me heartily. “When you’ve settled in,” he said with a hand on my shoulder, “I’d like to have a chat with you about the waterways just north of Emyn Arnen. I’ve heard that some of your tenant farmers are planning some dams for irrigation. My Elf advisors think they can help in avoiding any damage to the forest upstream.” I nodded my acquiescence – to tell the truth, I’d fallen out of touch with my tenants during Wynnie’s illness, and I’m glad Legolas reminded me I have that business to look after. He flashed me one of his patented glorious smiles and disappeared. I wonder if he spends a lot of time here at Minas Tirith these days?

The Great Hall was very busy, people of all ranks dashing through or chatting in small groups. It was such a contrast to my dark, lonely home, and I began to feel that a little while here really would be good for me. There was a shout from across the hall. “Faramir! Faramir, sir!” And Orodreth came loping over, arms full of linens and a huge grin on his honest face. “So good to see you, sir!”

“Sir?” I teased him. “Orodreth, it’s a long time since you were my apprentice Steward; I’ll wager you’re the most important man around here now!”

“Well, the second most important, perhaps,” he conceded with a laugh. “Your Majesty,” he said to Arwen, “the King is asking for you in the Little Office.”

“Oh yes, that’s right,” replied Arwen. “Sorry, Faramir – the work of Court is never done. Orodreth, could you see Faramir up to his rooms?”

“I would love to, ma’am!” And Orodreth walked me up to this very fine suite, chatting all the way about the recent improvements to the kitchen, the quality of the rugs that had just come in from Harad, and half a hundred other household details of the sort that used to fill my days. I felt almost envious, but I could see that young Orodreth had made the job very much his own, and everything I saw testified to a palace well-run. I congratulated him on that. He shrugged. “I had a fine teacher, Sir – I mean, Faramir. I hope we will see you at dinner?”

“Of course,” I said. “I must sample the efforts of the new cook from Rhûn that you are so excited about!”

I set about unpacking my things; hanging up clothes, pulling out my indoor shoes, placing my small portrait of Éowyn carefully upon the bedside table so I could see it night and morning. Beneath it, I placed her last letter to me, still unopened. She told me I do not need to read it right away, but should wait until I am in a calm frame of mind. I feel little curiosity and small need to do so yet. Wynnie and I spoke long and honestly at the end, about all the important things. But perhaps someday soon.

For the rest of the day there was a constant and gratifying stream of visitors to my rooms: practically all of the palace staff who remembered me, Gimli (a welcome surprise! apparently he has decided to winter with his friends in Gondor this year), and both of the young princesses, who have grown tall and graceful like their mother, though neither of them has her colouring.

Eldarion popped his head in too, saying, “I don’t think you’ve met my bundles of trouble, have you?” And two shy little people, all of two years old apiece, came round my door and stared at me as only toddlers can. I reached to the bowl of sweeties that the ever-provident Orodreth (knowing my sweet tooth) had left upon my table, and offered them to the mites, while Eldarion tried to feign parental disapproval and failed miserably, a big grin of pride on his face instead. Is it possible that this could be the rowdy teenager I remember? I was at his wedding three, no four, years ago now, but somehow I have never come to think of him as an adult. I got up and hugged him heartily, congratulating him. “I’m glad you’ve come to visit, Faramir,” he said, “and I hope you’ll stay a good long while. I want them to know you, and to learn the joys of reading and learning from you, as I did.”

I made some mumbling noises about any way I could help, surprised and warmed by the notion that someone saw some possible use for the old man yet.

“Dada!” said one of the little fellows urgently.

“Oops, nature calls,” grinned Eldarion. And one treasure attached to each hand, he departed, leaving me with a silly smile on my face.

But, welcome as all those visits were, there was one face that did not appear at my door, and I scolded myself for noticing the absence so much, and regretting it so badly. He is a very busy man, and I have no claim on his special attention now. Or so I kept reminding myself.

I dressed carefully for dinner, and when I got to the hall I was glad of it, for, to my dismay, Orodreth had placed me at the High Table, in a place of honour, between Arwen and Eldarion, and across the table from the young princesses. I would far rather have been down at the staff table, where Orodreth sat at the head of a lively bunch; they clearly like him as much as they respect him, and they often burst into laughter. Or I would just as much have liked to be at the guest table, where Legolas and Gimli, I could see, were teasing and humphing at each other just as they used to in the good old days.

I was painfully aware of Aragorn’s presence just one seat away, at Arwen’s other hand. But whether by design or accident, we were both involved in conversations to other sides throughout the meal, and Aragorn addressed me directly only once, to ask me to pass the bread-basket. When I handed it to him, I had the distinct impression he was avoiding my gaze and I looked away, ashamed it had come to this with a man I once considered one of my oldest, dearest friends.

As usual, when the King rose from the table, it was the signal that the meal was over and any who wished could depart. All rose with him, and he approached me, holding out his hand to shake. As I gripped it automatically, very aware of its warmth and hardness, he said, “Welcome back to Minas Tirith, Faramir. I am very glad you’ve decided to come and visit, and I hope you know that the library and archives are fully open to you as they always have been. Please stay as long as you like.” The words were kind, but though he met my eyes now, his gaze was shuttered. I had a mad thought of throwing myself upon his neck and begging his forgiveness for my distance, my stupidity, but here in the King’s hall, in the King’s palace, it was not possible to insult his dignity so.

Instead, I let go of his hand and said, “Thank you, Your Majesty.”

He pressed his lips together tightly before replying, “You are most welcome.” Then he turned and offered his arm to Arwen, who had a worried look upon her face. And, there being nothing else to do, I retreated back here to my comfortable quarters to write in my book.

Tonight, as usual, I will probably cry more than a few tears for my dearest lost love Éowyn before I fall asleep. But tonight, too, there may be a few extra tears for another lost love.

I’m sorry, Aragorn.

Part 3

7 Nénimë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

After five days in this palace, I am feeling thoroughly spoiled. It is a novel experience to be a guest in a household you were once responsible for. I notice, far more than I ordinarily would, I expect, how little details have been cared for, and now and then I have to forcibly repress an impulse to make a suggestion to Orodreth, or the chief parlour-maid, or the cook! They are doing just fine on their own.

And the people are uniformly so kind. If I am sitting in a drawing-room feeling a little lonely or sad, someone is sure to pop in with an offer of a mug of tea and a sweetmeat. Eldarion and his wife have taken to inviting me down to their rooms of an evening after the twins are to bed, and filling me in on all the news of state (and some of the court gossip, too! It seems Gimli is planning to wed, though even Legolas’ persuasion has not yet extracted the lady’s name or whereabouts).

I headed for the library as soon as it was seemly for me to do so, of course. There I encountered a very pleasant Elf named Ana who looks after the upkeep of the place. She greeted me by name, and immediately opened up all the locked cabinets for me. She seemed very interested in the Second Age histories I have been looking into, and steered me to some new acquisitions about the captivity of Sauron in Númenor that I would otherwise have missed. And then she left me alone to immerse myself in the past. A decidedly superior Elf!

Today, noticing that there was bright sunlight coming through the library windows (for a change), I decided to take myself out on to the battlements for a break. Muffling myself up warmly, for the air was chilly despite the sun, I cleared a bench and sat for a few minutes enjoying the air. A sudden cheer from childish voices below interrupted my thoughts and, mildly curious, I stood and looked over the ramparts at a most unusual sight.

The children were playing upon a sheet of ice in the courtyard that looked as if it had been deliberately laid and smoothed for them. Some of them tottered around in their boots, while others had given up the battle against gravity and blithely slid around on their bottoms, bumping into each other and squealing. Most, however, had suspended their play and were watching, wide-mouthed, a certain tall, slender Elf from Mirkwood.

Oblivious to the chill, as Elves so annoyingly are, Legolas had come out without coat or hat and wore only his indoor slippers, which seemed to aid him greatly in making long smooth glides across the ice. As he discovered he could work up speed, he began to push himself to a terrifying pace and then freeze in some absurdly flexible pose as his momentum carried him half-way across the icy playground. Then he started to twirl himself in a single spot, the ice allowing him to go much faster and many more times around than on bare ground. Then it was back to the speeding and posing – in truth, if there had been music, you would almost have thought he was dancing upon that treacherous surface. His face was lit up with joy, and the breeze ruffled his long locks and plastered his already tight clothing to his body. He made a graceful stop in the centre, and the children (and some of their mothers!) spontaneously clapped for him, to which he returned a not at all modest bow. I snorted, in a mixture of delight and derision.

“You don’t care much for Elves, do you, Faramir?” said Arwen’s amused voice. I jumped; she was standing at my right elbow, and I had not heard her approach.

“I don’t think… I’ve never really understood Elves, my Lady,” I replied, flustered.

“My Lady? Come now, Faramir, you haven’t called me that for years.”

I shuffled my feet. “Sorry, Arwen,” I said. “I feared I had angered you.”

“Not at all,” she said, her eyes still following the blond figure below. “In fact, if you have questions about Elves and how they differ from mortals, I am the one to ask, since I am both. Mayhap I can clear up some of your confusion.”

I was embarrassed by her offer, but I am never one to turn down new information, and Elves are a subject that has perplexed me for most of my life. I decided to try to keep my questions very scholarly and impersonal. “The chroniclers say that Elves bond but once in a lifetime and care little for physical closeness; that they live chastely for all the centuries of their lives after their children are born, and are far more bound up in affairs of the spirit – the fea – than of the body – the hroa.”

A small smile curved Arwen’s lips. “These would be human chroniclers you have been reading?”

“Aye, Arwen. I have tried to find confirmation in Elven histories, for I do read Sindarin, and even Quenya after a fashion – but they are all strangely silent on the matter.”

“That they are, my friend, for these matters are considered extremely private and are rarely discussed amongst Elvenkind, let alone with other races.”

“Oh,” I said, colouring.

“Nay,” Arwen said at once, “I did not mean it that way. I am not offended. Ask what you wish to know.”

“Well,” I said, “how can it be that the chroniclers declare Elves so pure and fastidious, while folk wisdom amongst men, dwarves and several other races abounds with phrases like…” I paused, suddenly appalled by what was on my tongue.

“Like?” encouraged Arwen.

“Like ‘none lustier than an Elf’ or ‘slutty as an Elf’,” I mumbled.

Arwen chuckled, and patted my hand where it lay beside hers on the rampart. “As usual, there is a little truth and a great deal of dross on both sides of the matter,” she said. “I shudder to think what will be said of us in ages to come, when all that remains is the accounts of those chroniclers of yours. It is true that we Elves bond with one other for life. For most Elves that means a very long bond indeed; for me and for Estel, it will not be so long, but it will be nonetheless unbreakable.”

A knife twisted in my belly as she said those words, however much I tried to ignore it. Arwen continued, “But the chroniclers are wrong, and your country-folk right, in one sense. In all those long years of living, Elves learn to value all kinds of love, and all ways of expressing it. We have few children, for we need few in comparison to the second-born; and much loved as our elflings are, we have never fallen into the dreadful mistake of thinking that creating young ones is the only reason to be intimate with one another. What is more, intimacy can take many forms, of which the act of bodily union is only one. For some, it is the soaring together of the fear in the making of music. For some, it is the boisterous pleasure of a hunt with brothers or those as dear as brothers, followed of course by much drinking and swearing! For some, it is the sharing of a tear and a swoon over a book of romantic poesy, or the holding of hands and the listening to painful confessions. Each of these is a way of expressing a kind of love, and the joining of bodies is no better and no worse, no more right and no more wrong, than any of them.” She did not look at me as she pursued her thoughts, but continued idly to watch the children and Legolas sporting upon the ice. “And so, to your second-born folk, who have such scant years granted to them, the free ways of the Elves in the matter of bodily love may seem scandalous. But I think you must know, Faramir, or at least have guessed, that Elves are bound by two sacred principles. The first is that none of these kinds of intimacy must be born from any mercenary motive, indeed, from anything but true affection. And the second is that all involved must consent fully. There is nothing more abhorrent to us than coercion.”

From my memory came the sound of Aragorn’s passionate whispers in my ear, behind the waterfall at Henneth Annûn: You are always loved, my Steward, my Faramir. And you will be desired, always desired, as you have been from the moment we met. But never, never coerced. I swear it…

“Aragorn thinks as you do,” I blurted.

She cocked her head to the side and looked at me. “Yes, it would be surprising if he did not. He grew up amongst Elves.” She returned her gaze to the ice-sheet below and a secret smile showed for a moment on her face. “Would it shock you to know, Faramir, that in addition to my most beloved husband, I have had a constant lover for these past thirty years, and intermittently for three hundred years before that?”

My mouth fell open. “Who?” I asked.

“I will give you a hint,” she said, smiling fully now. “His hair is golden.”

I sat down suddenly upon the bench. Legolas … and Arwen. So that was why he was so often at Minas Tirith. And I had thought… I shook my head to clear it.

Arwen was looking down at me with a worried frown. “Faramir, mellon, are you well? Truly, I am sorry if I have distressed you.” She crouched down in front of me, trying to read my face.

“I am not distressed, Arwen,” I replied, and strangely enough I meant it. “I thank you, indeed I do, for your frankness and your confidence. You have given me much to think upon.”

What she would have said in reply was lost in a pair of rambunctious greetings from Aragorn and Legolas, who had just emerged from the tower stair. “Hurry, Arwen!” cried Aragorn, “we have arranged for a sleigh ride!”

“White horses and jingling bells!” exclaimed Legolas, sweeping back Arwen’s hair and wrapping her in a green velvet cloak that matched the ones he and Aragorn were wearing. His eye fell on me. “Faramir – would you like to come along? You would be most welcome; I’m sure we could all fit if we squeezed a little!”

I could not help smiling at their exuberance, but I shook my head. Aragorn caught my eye, and slowly extended his hand in invitation. “Not this time,” I said, and then added almost against my will, “but maybe sometime.”

“Very well then,” he replied brusquely, and turned to Arwen. He and Legolas laughingly swung her into a makeshift chair in their arms, and she squealed as they carried her back across the battlements before they all three clattered their way down the tower stairs to their sleigh.

And I? I returned to the library, where I sat all afternoon in front of my books, and did not read a word.

Part 4

1st Narvinyë, 35 IVth Age Palace of Emyn Arnen.

My dearest ‘Mir,

You seemed a little perplexed when I told you I would write a letter for you to read once the first pain of my passing has retreated. But let me try, my love, to take care of you one more time. For that has been my greatest joy: looking after you as best I can. You have been worth it a thousand times over, and have repaid me in hundreds of ways you likely have no idea of.

If I know you at all, I suspect you are spending many hours by yourself in a library just now, chasing your grief away with that wonderful life you live inside your own mind. I am grateful to the Valar you have such occupations, my dearest, and I have never begrudged you those pursuits, though I was never inclined to follow you into them. But now I am no longer there to chivvy you out of your books to eat a meal or relax in the company of friends; I can no longer chase you out of the door and on to your horse to take some exercise and fresh air. Please keep my voice in your head, ‘Mir, nagging woman that I am, and remember to take comfort from others’ company as well as your own, hmm? I do hope you are not still at Emyn Arnen, but are staying for a while with our son or some of our friends.

You are not an old man, ‘Mir, not by any standard. I saw you beginning to feel that way when our first grandchild was born, and I deplore it, for you are still a fine, strong, attractive man with, the Valar willing, thirty or more good years of life before you. I am leaving too soon, and we both know it. Do not, I implore you, turn that unhappy truth into an even unhappier falsehood – that you are living too long, or without purpose.

‘Mir, I am secure in my knowledge of your deep and abiding love. You do not need to prove it to me by rejecting love and intimacy, if you should desire it, from others. The most important thing is that you should truly desire it, my love, and not feel merely driven to it by loneliness or others’ importunities. I know you have never been one to treat the bonds of affection lightly or stray without thought for the sake of bodily pleasures. Through all the years of our marriage you were faithful to me, and I accepted that as my due, and gave you the same consideration according to the customs of my people. But I am no longer there to be faithful to, ‘Mir, and when we are reunited by Eru at the End of Days, it will be in a place and a way that is incomprehensible and beyond all earthly customs. Though I want very much that you keep my memory alive – and I know you will – you must not stop living because of some misguided notion that you must be faithful to my memory. That will not do, and I won’t stand for it, ‘Mir! If you are so foolish, expect nothing more from me in the House of Ilúvatar than a clip about the ear!

There, I cannot say it any more plainly, love. If you feel that you want to do so, marry again, or take a lover if you prefer. You do me no harm, and possibly yourself great good, by doing so. Be your own cautious, careful self, but do what you must, and know that I approve.

I wish I did not have to leave you, ‘Mir, best of husbands, best of fathers, best of men. Of all the cruelties inflicted by my illness, this is the cruelest. I need not protest how much I love you. I know you know.

May the Valar care for you and protect you always,
Your Wynnie.

7 Nénimë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

I put Éowyn’s letter down beside me. My eyes were overflowing with tears. I wanted nothing more at that moment than to have her sitting next to me so that I could embrace her, kiss her, and tease her for the foolish notion that I could ever wish for anyone else in my heart or in my arms. Still looking after me, even after she is gone.

She is right, though. Next time Ana the Library Elf quietly suggests I might leave my books to join company for dinner in the Great Hall, I will listen. And I will take the twins out tomorrow to build a snow-troll, as Eldarion suggested the other night.

I have put Éowyn’s letter into the breast pocket of my nightshirt, next to my heart. And even though I have been weeping, I think I will sleep well tonight. I always do after Wynnie sets me right with one of her scoldings!

17 Nénimë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

This afternoon I was working at my usual table in the library when the door burst open, and two huge piles of unwieldy books staggered in, completely obscuring their bearer. I dashed over just in time to steady the piles down on to a table and then look up into the flushed and disgruntled face of the King of Gondor. He muttered a less than royal curse under his breath.

“How fare you, Aragorn?” I asked, a little amused.

“Not well, in truth, Faramir,” he sighed, seating himself and running a hand through his already unruly hair. “I don’t know how you used to do this – I have spent half the day searching through these fusty old tomes, and still I cannot find what I need.”

“What are you looking for?” I asked, intrigued despite myself. It takes quite a lot to put Aragorn so obviously out of temper.

“Our dear Eastern neighbours are challenging the border,” he said. “Of course, it wouldn’t have anything at all to do with the gold ore recently discovered in the Valley of Daer Grath, which was ceded to us hundreds of years ago! It must be recorded somewhere – truly, the last thing we need is a war over something that should be so clearly beyond dispute. But I just cannot find it!”

I considered. “Those borders were surveyed about the fifth century of the Third Age, and I do not believe the original treaties have survived. But Daerwhinion’s Second Chronicle reproduces a lot of material from that age at great length…”

“Daerwhinion! Why didn’t I think of that?” Aragorn leapt up and went to the shelves, pulling down a huge tome amidst a small dust storm.

“I think there are some accompanying maps in the rolled parchment cabinet,” I said, going to look.

It took only a few minutes after that to find what we were looking for. “There!” exclaimed Aragorn triumphantly, his forefinger bumping mine as they both descended at the same moment upon the same point on the map. We grinned at each other. “And here is the clause in the treaty that confirms it.” He clapped me hard on the shoulder. “Thank the Valar you’re here, ‘Mir.” He rolled the map carefully, then tucked Daerwhinion under one arm and the map under the other. “I’m going straight to the Ambassador. Let’s see what he has to say to this!”

At the open door, he paused and turned back to me with a smile that seemed almost bashful. “I’ve missed you,” he said, then hurried off.

As I went back to my own pursuits, I caught myself humming under my breath.

Part 5

25 Súlimë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

Well now, it has been an interesting day! I haven’t bothered with this journal for more than a full cycle of the moon, but I think I’d quite like to write down today’s events.

Maybe I’ll catch up a bit first, though. The weather’s been getting steadily better since I last wrote on these pages, and though there are still pockets of snow here and there, the winter is most certainly on its last legs. I have to admit I am not making much progress on my history of the Second Age Kings, but that is for the pleasantest of reasons, because I am rarely without occupation. Aragorn consults me frequently on matters of state, and Arwen too, for, as always, she handles Gondor’s relations with what remains of the Elven realms.

In the last couple of weeks, I have made an effort to go down to the barracks to reacquaint myself with my sword and bow. I am sadly out of practice with both, I regret to say, but just yesterday I managed to give one of the younger guardsmen a pretty decent bout without falling out of breath, so I think my skills, such as they ever were, are starting to return.

The barracks are well-peopled at most hours of the day, with young men eager to learn, and some young women too (Wynnie would definitely have approved). However around eleven of the morning it is particularly busy, and I have discovered the reason: that is when Aragorn and Legolas are accustomed to do some friendly sparring of their own. There are very few – and I am certainly not one – who can resist taking a break from their own exertions to watch that splendid sight. Legolas – well, Legolas is the Warrior Elf, one of the most famed fighters of our Age, as deadly as he is graceful. You could write an instruction book for armed combat just from watching him. But, to say truth, it is Aragorn I cannot drag my eyes from in these skirmishes of theirs. Accustomed as we have all become to his regal gentleness and civility, it is quite a thrill to see the battle-light come back into his eyes; to watch as he wields that long and heavy sword with effortless mastery, power evident in every motion of his muscled limbs. When his hair flies and he wipes the sweat of exertion from his face with a careless swipe of his forearm; when he startles the more disciplined Elf with an unorthodox move and a shout of glee; when he acknowledges a good hit with a nod and immediately falls back into defensive posture, daring his opponent to continue; when he whirls his weapon against the Elf’s in a dance so furious the eye cannot follow, except by the flying sparks; then it is that I see glimpses of the great war-leader we all followed without question into battle, ready to give our lives for him and knowing he would do the same for us.

I must look like a silly open-mouthed damsel when I watch him fight. But glancing around me at those times, I take solace in the knowledge that I am not the only one. And, like all of them (I suspect) I sometimes daydream of being in Legolas’ place, crossing swords with Aragorn, and being the sole focus of his wild and exhilarating intensity. I was never good enough for that, and never will be. It takes a Warrior Elf to match our Warrior King.

Anyway, to today’s little expedition, which involved a form of warfare I am much more adept at: making stubborn plain folk agree like reasonable men. There is a small village named Bathholme up in the hills not far from Minas Tirith. I know it quite well. As boys my brother and I used to roam these hills whenever we could, and I have thoroughly explored the old ruins that, tradition would have it, were used for bathing by some long-gone peoples, and that now give the village its name.

As Aragorn explained to me on our walk up into the hills – it is close enough to walk in a couple of hours – the village has been in some turmoil of late. Two bitterly opposed factions had formed on the Village Council, and now it was coming to blows and damage to each other’s property. Aragorn rarely interferes in local disputes, but, he confided to me bluntly, he’d had just about enough of the Ambassador from Rhûn, and any excuse would do to get out of the palace for a day.

“So it’ll be just like the old days, ‘Mir,” he said with a grin. “They’ve been sent word that the King is visiting, so all the self-appointed bigwigs of the village will be falling over themselves to give me a reception and make speeches at me. Meanwhile, you’ll find out which parties are at the centre of the dispute, sit them down and talk sense into them, draw up an official-looking document with that impressive calligraphy of yours, and bring it to me so I can impress it with the Royal Seal on my ring. There will be much talk of the King’s Peace, the Village Council will take all the credit, and with any luck you and I will be back to the palace in time for a mug of ale before dinner!”

And so it transpired, almost exactly. The good folks of Bathholme now have a most splendid Royal Charter laying out the uses of their Village Green, and specifically prohibiting the grazing of pigs on all but the southernmost fringe.

The main road into Bathholme meanders away from Minas Tirith, so Aragorn and I chose to use a narrow, direct footpath down the steep sides of the hills for our return. It is quite safe, for it has had for centuries past a wide, though very low, stone wall running along its edge where the ground falls away. Indeed, in places the wall is wider than the path, and two walking abreast often do so most comfortably one on the path and one on the wall. Boromir and I used to travel along the path this way, and now Aragorn and I did so too, Aragorn taking the higher road so that to a casual observer he would have seemed a foot or two taller than I.

So wrapped up was he in explaining his plans to establish a minor regional judiciary instead of having all legal matters brought to his own Court, that Aragorn actually turned and started walking backwards the better to gesticulate to me. I gave a cry of alarm as we approached a rough patch in the wall, but it was too late. Aragorn’s foot slipped, he lost his balance, and he toppled with a nasty thud over the far side of the wall.

Fortunately, he did not fall far, but he found himself with tenuous toehold a couple of feet too low to scrabble back up the sheer wall of rock that faced him. I braced myself and leaned far over the wall, finding that I could just get a grip under his arms. He in turn locked his hands upon my shoulders. Then, with every ounce of strength I possess I heaved him bodily upwards until he was able to reach out and, gaining purchase, haul himself back over the wall and on to the path. As soon as he was back on his feet, I found myself closely clutched in his hard embrace, not sure whether he had grabbed me or the other way around.

He was breathing hard. “Don’t ever let anybody tell you you’re not a strong man, ‘Mir!” he said, pulling back only slightly. “By the Valar, what you did there was amazing.”

I had no reply. My heart was still in my mouth. I merely looked at him and held on.

“You’re trembling, mellon,” he said, concerned. “Come, sit down.”

We sat upon the little wall, side by side. My arm went around him of its own volition, my hand rubbing up and down the solid muscle of his arm compulsively, checking and checking again that he was really there. “You could have been killed!” I blurted at last.

He laughed a little at that. “Hardly,” he replied. “It’s not that steep. I was more likely to expire of embarrassment, if you had had to call the Guard to fish me ignominiously out of a ravine because I cannot balance on my own two feet!” He sobered. “But I was like enough to break a limb or two if you had not rescued me.” He brushed my face lightly with the back of his hand. “Thank you, ‘Mir.”

I was overcome with such a flood of affection for him at that moment that I didn’t know what to do with it. There were no adequate words. I did my best. “I could not bear to lose you,” I said. “You are as dear to me as a brother, as dear as Boromir ever was.”

He cast his gaze down, long enough for me to have time to worry that I had discomfited or annoyed him. But then he looked straight into my eyes and replied, “That is the most wonderful thing you could ever say to me ‘Mir. I am moved and honoured that you would name me in the same breath as Boromir.” He stood and pulled me into a brief hug, saying as he did, “You are as dear as a brother to me also.” Then by common consent we started side by side down the little path again, though I pointedly took the wall and he did not argue.

After a few minutes of rather awkward silence, Aragorn began to whistle. It was one of the cheery marching tunes that we Rangers used to sing on long journeys. I fell into step with him and joined my whistling to his, earning a quick smile. Then, as we reached the foot of the hill and joined the King’s Highway, he flung an arm around my shoulder and sang the words of the chorus aloud:.

Let the evil Kings plot and wild animals bite,
Let the rain from the heavens descend!
There’s nothing in Arda a Ranger can’t face
With a bottle, a sword, and a friend!

We sang all the way back to the palace.

So, you see, it has been a very good day indeed, though it could have turned out so differently. Even now, as I think back to Aragorn’s declaration that I am dear as a brother to him, I am overcome with a great, warm fondness, not to mention joy at being accepted again, especially since I can hardly claim to deserve it.

And, inexplicably, I also feel slightly disappointed. Sheer perverseness, Faramir, sheer perverseness.

My arm and chest muscles ache from today’s adventure. I think I’ll start some archery practice tomorrow to strengthen them.

Part 6

28 Víressë, 35th year of the 4th Age, Minas Tirith

I’ve taken to visiting the archery range very early in the morning: right at sun-up, which comes sooner each day now that we are well past the equinox. Not only is it a very pleasant time to be out, with the fresh breeze and the noisy birds, but it means there are fewer witnesses to my ineptitude. My inability to find my range and direction has been a source of considerable grief to me lately!

This morning, however, I had some expert help. I did not realize at first that Legolas had been standing a little behind me, watching me grow more and more exasperated. I jumped when he stepped forward. But he just smiled.

“You are moving your head slightly just before you release the arrow,” he told me.

I tried twice more, concentrating each time upon the position of my head. But both arrows went their own way, as always.

“May I?” asked Legolas politely. And stepping close to me on the opposite side from my bow-arm, he laid his long fingers across my neck and cheek with as firm and impersonal a touch as a healer. “Try now.”

I released an arrow, and though it still missed its target, I was aware this time of how I had turned my face slightly into Legolas’ hand.

“Hold there?” I asked him, and he obliged wordlessly as I pulled the last arrow from my quiver and let it fly. It did not hit the bull’s-eye, but it was a much better effort.

Legolas’ hand dropped briefly to my shoulder as I thanked him. “It was my honour,” he responded, and he accompanied me down the field to retrieve my arrows. “Do you shoot more today?”

“No, I think that will be enough for this morning,” I said.

“Walk with me, then?” I nodded my assent. We stowed away my bow and quiver, and Legolas led me into an orchard nearby. All around, the trees were shedding their blossom, making ready for the summer work of creating the flesh of their sweet fruits. Legolas was silent until we were well into the shade of the trees.

“Tell me, Faramir, if you would,” he said at length, “why do you not take Aragorn to your bed?”

I stopped short in amazement – and annoyance. “I thought Elves did not discuss such things!” I retorted sharply.

Legolas shrugged. “I am a northern Elf. We are known to be a little uncouth when we see the need. And my friend Estel is direly unhappy, so again I ask you, why do you not take him to your bed?”

A myriad of perfectly good reasons rose to my lips, but the one that emerged was, “Well, for one thing he has never asked me to!”

Legolas sighed. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure!” I snapped.

“When you left us five years ago…”

“That is none of your business,” I said. “But if you must know, he did mention desiring me then; once only, in a way he did not think I would hear or understand. And I doubt he really meant it.”

Legolas shook his head in exasperation, muttering something I did not catch.

“But that was years ago, and we have talked much since then,” I went on. “He loves me as a brother only, Legolas, as I him.”

“Do you really believe that?”

I hesitated. For Aragorn’s part, I had no reason to disbelieve him, but the dreams of him that woke me nightly, stirred, yearning, and furious with my treacherous body, told me that I was being less than honest about myself.

“Why would I not believe him?” I said belligerently. “He has the most beautiful Elvish woman in the world to wife, and no doubt every fair lad and maid at the Court, Human and Elf, trooping through his chamber. Why in Arda would he look twice at me?”

Legolas stared at me incredulously. There was real anger in his tone as he replied, “I trust you jest, Faramir, though I think little of your humour in insulting Estel so. To my certain knowledge, the only ones to have received the most precious gift of his person in the last forty years are Arwen and I.” He carried on, but I no longer heard his words. It was true, then – Legolas was Aragorn’s lover. I felt myself sag against the nearest tree. He had more than proved my point.

“… and so, no more than I can ever possess Arwen, who is my dearest love – no more than that can you possess Aragorn. There is no place for jealousy in this, Faramir, no room for ownership. The Valar have decreed Aragorn and Arwen’s bond, and it is strong and true.” Legolas was still angry. “Is that why you withhold yourself, Faramir – because you wish to possess him outright? Let me tell you – that is not love, it is sheer selfishness!” He ceased his tirade and looked at me, a quizzical expression coming across his face. He must have finally noticed my bewilderment.

I shook my head. “Possess him?” I asked, trying to make sense of what the wrathful Elf was saying. “Legolas, look at me! He has you and Arwen for lovers. Of course he does not desire me. It does not matter what I want.”

Legolas frowned, and the effect was most unpleasant upon his beautiful features. “Why would he not desire you?” he asked.

“Look at me,” I said again helplessly. “I am old; I am plain. Friend and brother I can be to him, but to think of more is mere perversity – the stuff of malicious dreams.”

Legolas pursed his lips and put a hand up against the tree near my head. I do not know why, but I feared him a little at that moment. However, his voice was mild.

“Do you think me to have good taste in lovers, Faramir?” he asked. That was simply unkind; who could have better taste than the lover of Aragorn and Arwen? I nodded silently.

The next moment I was gasping in shock, as Legolas bent forward and kissed me, sound and long. Within seconds, the shock changed to yielding and burning as his soft, demanding lips opened mine and his sweet breath blew into me a gust of pleasure as great as any I ever experienced from the kisses of my dearest Wynnie. At the thought of her I groaned and tried to shift my head away, but he merely followed and pressed his point until I was thinking no more, but simply trembling with awareness of my own hungry body from top to toe.

The Elf drew back at last. “There,” he said with satisfaction. “Now, I trust you will not insult me by impugning my taste in persons to kiss. You are not old, Faramir, and you are not plain. And if I, who am merely comrade and friend to you, think thus, how much more must Aragorn, who loves you dearly?”

I slid down the trunk of the tree to sit at its foot, still thrumming with sensation throughout my body. I put my face in my hands, utterly confused. My thoughts whirled, and I was caught in a maelstrom of contradictory feelings. Only one thing stood out, and I seized it and clung to it. I desperately wished that Wynnie were here to help me sort this out. I had to choke back tears at the thought of her.

Legolas had joined me upon the orchard floor. “It is too soon, Legolas,” I said shakily. “I cannot…”

“Ai, Valar, I am sorry, Faramir,” he replied, his gaze full of sudden compunction. “I should have listened to Arwen: you grieve still, and it was cruel of me to push you so. Will you forgive me? If I have any excuse, it was that I thought only of Estel.”

“You were not cruel,” I said, swallowing my tears determinedly. “You have given much to think upon, and I thank you.”

He rubbed my shoulder a little awkwardly. “Then, if I may, let me offer one last thought,” he said. “You told me that Aragorn had never asked. That does not surprise me. He would cut off his own hand rather than cause you pain or anxiety, Faramir. That does not mean he does not want you – but he has it stuck in his stubborn Mannish head that you despise the thought of him as a lover. If you do desire him, you will have to woo him a little. I hope that, in your own time, when you are ready, you will do just that, for his sake and for yours. Will you consider it, Faramir?”

The promptness of my answer surprised me. “Yes, I will,” I said, and found a watery smile for him.

He left me sitting there on the new grass with the scent of apple-blossom all around, suspended between grief and hope. When I closed my eyes I heard my blood thundering through my veins and, for the first time in many moons, knew myself to be alive.

And I am still wondering to myself just how in Middle Earth you go about wooing a King?

tbc

Part 7

29 Nárië, 35th year of the 4th Age

It has been a very long time indeed since I wrote in this book, and I’m afraid it’s partly because I have been ashamed of my inaction. Indeed, in the days after that startling conversation in the orchard with Legolas, I was full of good intentions and actually putting my mind to how I might woo Aragorn, ridiculous though the idea still seems to me in my soberer moments.

I don’t know how to woo: that’s the honest truth. When I was a younger man, I had the occasional dalliance with the maidens at my father’s court, but I was never the one who started it. It seemed that my being the Steward’s son was enough, at least at first. And then, no doubt, I disappointed them, for I was anything but a romancer, and to tell truth, I preferred either my own company or that of my brothers-in-arms to the silliness the girls always seemed to want to indulge in. And then, finally, there was Éowyn, who was about as far from silly as you could possibly get, and I’ve never been entirely sure how I managed to win her heart. It certainly wasn’t the usual way. I’m just endlessly glad that she somehow saw through my awkwardness during those long days when we were convalescing together, and realized that my stammering compliments were born out of real respect and affection as well as attraction to her beauty.

Anyway, I eventually did what I always do when I don’t know something: I went to look it up in the library. And what a futile search that was! On those shelves it is easier by far to find the most obscure lore about the making of fishing lures or the hunting of forest beasts than a simple explanation of how to catch the human you have set your heart on. Amongst the very little that was to be found, most seemed terribly old-fashioned and, being aimed principally at young persons of good family, chiefly consisted of strong warnings about proper behaviour. Nonetheless, I sat dutifully down one afternoon and made copious notes. When I read them through afterwards I could only shake my head; I could not imagine how anything there had the slightest connection to my King and friend.

Nonetheless, the last few weeks have been happy ones. I see Aragorn every day; he seeks my advice now as a matter of course, it seems, even more than he used to in the old days. And his manner with me is so much less constrained than it was that I often think to myself that I would be a fool to disturb this pleasant state of affairs to pursue a chimaera of more. But then there are moments when I am sitting beside him and my fingers itch to touch him; the words of adoration tremble on my tongue, and I realize I have no choice. I must make my attempt or else leave altogether, and I do not think I have the fortitude to abandon his company a second time. Not until all hope is lost.

I wake early these days, and this morning I took myself out to the Pelennor Fields for a walk just after dawn. There is no trace now of the bloody battle that took place here. Instead there are deep and luxuriant grasses of various sorts, dotted with colourful clumps of many different kinds of wild flowers. As I bent to look more closely at some birdsfoot trefoil, an idea came to me from my reading. How long had it been since Aragorn had been given a gift of flowers? Not since his coronation, I would wager. Smiling, I began to gather an armload of fragrant blossoms: yellow coryalis, red campion, and the ever-present cowslip. I even found a stand of spotted orchids, pink and glorious. To these I added a few poppies, the simple white blossoms of the cuckoo flower, and some scarlet pimpernel that I found along the side of the track leading into nearby woods. I was on the hunt now! Into the damp underbrush I went, and there added some more colours to my treasure trove: the pink of the broad-leaved willowherb, and the blue of the bugle. Gathering up a few tall rushes and grasses to give the blooms a proper green nest, I ambled back across the fields to the palace, pleased with myself though not a little self-conscious at how I must appear with my burden of foliage. I decided to go in one of the many side-doors of the Royal Palace, and as luck would have it I came across Legolas doing some gardening.

He stopped me and admired the flowers I had picked. “So full of nature’s vigour and the variety born of Gondor’s warm soil; very appropriate!” he said. “May I have the honour to add one more native flower to your bouquet?” And before I could say yea or nay, he had clipped from his bush a perfect white rose, long stem nearly thornless, and settled it carefully amongst my blossoms, where I must admit it looked quite at home.

“There. A white rose for the white tree.” He smiled his dazzling smile, and if there was mockery in it, he hid it well. “Good luck, Faramir.” He clapped me on the shoulder and turned back to his rosebushes.

I made my way up to Aragorn’s study, not sure whether I wished him to be there or not. As it happened he was not, but Arwen was, hunting down some old letter or other from Rivendell.

“Oh how lovely!” she exclaimed. “Are those for Estel, Faramir? Let me find you a vase to put them in.” She was as good as her word, returning in an instant with a tastefully plain vase, big enough to hold my harvest and with water already in the bottom. I was grateful and irritated at the same time: grateful because I truly had not thought beyond the plucking of the things, and irritated because, if I had ever seriously doubted that Arwen and Legolas were conspiring to aid my feeble romantic efforts, now there could be no doubt.

Arwen had started to fiddle a little with the flowers in the vase, but she stopped herself, saying brightly, “I should let you do that!”

I wished she had continued, for what do I know of such things? I self-consciously shoved the flowers around a bit, trying to make them roughly symmetrical and to pull upwards the blooms of the ones that were getting squashed under leaves. But I doubt I improved matters.

Across the room, Arwen announced her satisfaction at finding the letter she was looking for. “Don’t forget a note to tell him it’s from you,” she advised as she bustled out of the study.

A note. Another thing that had not occurred to me. I found a small scrap of paper and a quill. The feather was considerably worse off from my chewing by the time I came up with, “Warmest regards, Faramir.” Then I folded the scrap of paper and pushed it between two of the uppermost flowers. It looked wrong: too bold, and it disturbed the beauty of the blossoms. So I poked it down a bit, out of sight. Better. Carefully I picked up the vase and placed it dead centre on Aragorn’s big desk, where he couldn’t possibly miss it.

I ran into him at breakfast. He was full of suppressed excitement about something and fairly hustled me through to his study before the last bite had made its way down my gullet. Going to a tall cupboard, he pulled out a brand new, enormous, rolled map. Turning, he tutted at the flowers on his desk.

“Women!” he said cheerfully. “They never seem to grasp that this is a working office!” The vase was banished unceremoniously to the windowsill so that the map could be unrolled. Aragorn explained it enthusiastically – a new division of the Kingdom into districts, each of which would receive its fair share from the Royal Treasury for the building of roads, public buildings and schools, and for the operations of the local judiciary. I immediately spotted a problem with the boundaries of one of the districts, knowing that there were two very different tribes of men, who would not easily agree, brought together within it. That said, though, it was like all of Aragorn’s plans for his Kingdom: bold, and just, and well thought through. I said as much, and rejoiced to see the answering smile on his face. We talked for hours about the new plans, and I barely gave my poor exiled flowers a passing sigh. When all is said and done, there is no question what is more important.

Loënde (midsummer day; or rather, about two hours into 1 Cermië, the day following).

I cannot sleep, so I will write in here instead, even though it is only to record another disaster. Tonight we had the usual midsummer feasting and drinking, and I decided, in my muddled way, that this would be an excellent opportunity to woo my King. Accordingly, I shifted to small beer, so as to have my wits at least a little about me, and joined Aragorn where he was carousing with some of the senior officers of his army. I was greeted warmly, for I believe they consider me a competent commander, but to tell truth I have never felt much at home in that company. One or two of them I know a little better: there is Gransfell, who takes a great interest in cartography, and Perkinnon, whose family is from Northern Ithilien, and who is full of the lore of those parts. But when they gather together, they are all the same, and it is all drinking, swearing, and endless discussion of wars past and sports present. This evening there was much roaring of loud opinions upon the young men who had taken part in the midsummer jousting tournament. And when that was exhausted, we were back in the Ringwar again: old strategies were re-examined, old arguments were re-opened, and the boasting grew fiercer and louder. Aragorn was well into his cups, and took full part in all this, though as was ever his way, it was more in the remembering vein and less in the boasting. Still, it is not my favourite side of him, and I must have been making a sour face at one point, because he stopped and looked at me, then gave me a broad wink. I roused myself then and made an effort to correct some rather erroneous memories of the Siege of Osgiliath. I was rewarded by Aragorn’s broad smile and a mug of ale he pushed across the table to me.

Well, I hung on and outlasted them all as they wandered off soddenly to their chambers. Eventually Aragorn and I were left alone in the smoky little room, gazing at each other across a sea of empty bottles and overturned cups. I pulled myself awkwardly to my feet. Aragorn was even unsteadier as he did the same.

“Not your usual choice of company,” he said in a mild tone, slurring his words a bit.

“You are my choice of company,” I told him boldly.

I saw his eyes flash, and he stepped forward and seized both my shoulders in his strong fists, squeezing perhaps a little harder than he meant to. “Do you mean that, Faramir? Do you?”

The moment had arrived at last. His beloved face was close to mine. “Absolutely,” I said, and closed my eyes, waiting for him to kiss me. Instead, I was released so suddenly I staggered.

“I am a drunken fool!” exclaimed Aragorn, and before half of his name could pass my lips, he slammed angrily through the door. I watched him striding down the hall, uncharacteristically ignoring the servants who scattered out of his path.

I did not follow him. Instead I have retreated here, and I see no possibility of sleep tonight.

tbc

Part 8

1 Cermië (again).

Aragorn and I avoided each other today. It was hardly surprising in the early part of the day, for if my head was bad, I can only imagine how his must have been. However, as the day wore on, I became aware that we were performing an almost comical little dance to avoid being together in the dining room, or the Hall, or the study, or the library.

Eventually it happened anyway, and not by chance. I was alone in the Inner Reading Room of the library, leafing through a Second Age history, when I heard Legolas’ unmistakable tones asking his companion to come in and settle their argument using a dictionary of Quenya. To my annoyance it was Aragorn’s voice that answered. I stayed out of sight.

The next thing I knew there was a startling thump, followed quickly by three more, along with an angry exclamation from the King. “Legolas!” he bellowed.

I emerged cautiously. To all appearances, Legolas had bolted all four doors of the Inner Reading Room from the outside leaving us prisoners. Aragorn looked over at me and rolled his eyes, and I can’t blame him: I wasn’t being much help. I checked the doors for myself, while Aragorn went to the two narrow windows that overlook the main courtyard of the castle. He turned back to me and shook his head.

“It seems we are the victims of a conspiracy of Elves, Faramir,” he said wryly. Ah, so he too had heard Arwen’s distinctive low giggle in the hallway. He paced down the well-worn carpet between two sets of shelves and then back again before saying, “I am not in much of a temper to indulge them, are you?”

I was in a fair state of annoyance myself, so I answered instantly, “Indeed not.”

“Right then, that’s settled.” I wasn’t quite sure what, in his mind, was settled, but I was feeling sufficiently wary not to argue. “What were you working on?” he asked, obviously changing the subject.

I explained, giving him the short version since I could see his attention wasn’t really on what I was saying. After he had managed to come up with a couple of fairly intelligent if distracted questions, I took pity on us both.

“Ana allows me to keep my own private supply in here,” I said, pulling open a cabinet door and fetching out a carafe and a couple of glasses.

Aragorn quirked an amused eyebrow. “Are you sure that’s wise?” he asked.

“It’s only wine,” I told him. “Would you like a glass?”

He accepted one, and we moved together to where a pair of large armchairs are set in front of a fireplace. There’s no fire at this time of year of course, but it’s still a comfortable place to be. I plumped myself down in one of the chairs, but to my surprise he ignored the other and sat instead upon the rug in front of me, his back against the broad right arm of my chair, not touching me. I wondered at this until I realized it meant he could speak without meeting my eyes.

He looked into the empty fireplace and sighed quietly.

“Something is troubling you,” I said.

He tried to pass it off. “Lots of things are troubling me,” he said flippantly. “There is no such thing as a King without troubles.”

“But there’s something in particular today,” I pressed. And, just to clear the path, I added, “and I don’t mean that drunken nonsense between us last night. That’s best forgotten.”

He put his head back to look at me, then nodded. “All right.” He took a long, slow swallow of wine then, and I knew he was thinking about what to say next.

“I heard today that Ganiton of Rohan has passed from this life,” he told me.

“What? But he is a young man!” I exclaimed.

Aragorn smiled. “He was two-and-seventy, Faramir.” He sipped his wine again. “We are outliving our friends, you and I,” he added sadly.

Aragorn is more than fifty years older than I, though it is easy to forget that. Indeed, to look at us, you would swear he is by far the younger, for the blood of the Dunedain runs stronger and truer in his veins than in mine. I look twenty years younger than most men of my age, and I expect that I will have a long life for a human, but Aragorn will outlive us all, except the Elves: of that there can be no doubt.

“You…” I began, and then bit back the tactless remark I was about to make. But he knew anyway.

“Yes, I have outlived a couple generations of friends already. It doesn’t get any easier, ‘Mir.” He was leaning his head against his hand. “I don’t think you knew Ganiton, did you?”

“Not well,” I responded.

“He was a kind man, a full-hearted man. A soldier, not a statesman — he was always the first to acknowledge that he had no talent for soft, clever words, and he never claimed to be a scholar. But he was loyal to a fault, and would go to the ends of Arda for his friends. Not unlike your Beregond.”

I felt an old pain in my heart at those words, for though it is a decade or more since Beregond left us, he was very dear to Éowyn and me. “Tell me more about Ganiton,” I urged him, for I know from experience that talking of those we grieve helps ease the pain a little.

Aragorn rested his head back upon my chair and said, “I took him with me, once, on a quiet visit to the borders of the Shire. As you know, I have decreed that the Hobbits are to be left strictly on their own to flourish, but I dearly wished to see my old companion Samwise Gamgee. I remember how at first Ganiton took the Hobbits for children, though he followed my example and treated them with respect. But then when the Hobbits’ actual children appeared, overcame their timidity in the presence of such a mighty warrior, and began to clamour for his attention – well, I have never seen the like. He was captivated by them, and sat down on the ground to play with them, teaching them finger-games and silly songs and letting them clamber over him however they pleased. It was a sight to see, Faramir.”

“You will miss him,” I commented quietly.

“Aye, greatly. But you know, Faramir, I have been thinking how fortunate I am nonetheless. Those devoted to me… Well, unless the Valar are very cruel, I will not have to bear the loss of Arwen or Legolas, and my children are all strong and healthy. Then again, Éomer, I hear, is not in the best of health.” I nodded, though he probably did not see me. It was too true. “And Éowyn… that was a terrible loss to me too, Faramir, though I never found a way to tell her she was dear to me. She was always a little prickly about the past.”

“She knew,” I reassured him. “She knew.” I put my hand on his shoulder.

He put one of his hands over mine, holding it there. “Worst of all,” he said, swallowing hard, “worst of the losses I will likely have to bear, by far… Faramir, when you disappeared five years ago, you left such a terrible hole.” He let me go and reached for his wineglass, drained it, then turned on his knees to face me, seizing both my hands in his. “Promise me you will never do that again!”

“I promise,” I said immediately, fervently, and it was not a hard promise to make at all. But I was embarrassed by our emotion, so I made a small joke. “It is hardly fitting for a King to be on his knees in front of a loyal subject though, is it?”

Aragorn bit his lip and pushed himself to his feet; still, I knew he understood why I said what I did. “More wine?” he asked.

I accepted and we moved of one accord to a nearby sofa. “There is more to this sadness, is there not?” I prodded him gently. “What is it? Arwen?”

He looked at me in surprise. “How did you know? Yes, every time we hear of another death, my thoughts go to Arwen. Faramir, I fear… I fear she does not understand her mortality.”

“Does any of us, really?” I asked gently. “She will have to learn her own path through that last dark mystery, as all mortals do.”

“But she was not born mortal,” said Aragorn. “She has lived almost three thousand years – can you fathom that? I cannot. But for most of that three thousand years she knew beyond a doubt that she would live until the End of Days, whether here or in Valinor. And then, just a moment ago in Elvish reckoning, she threw it all away in a grand romantic gesture.” He fended off my comforting hand. “No, no, I am not asking comfort for my guilt; Arwen and I are far beyond that now. She has long ago made me understand that it was her gift to give, and that I am not responsible. But I fear for her, Faramir. I fear she will not be ready. I fear that the bitterness of it, when I die and when she faces her own death, will drive her mad. I wish – oh, by the Valar, how I wish I could spare her that pain!”

I didn’t know if there was anything I could say that would help. My own circumstances have been very different. But I tried. “When Éowyn and I found out that she was dying,” I said slowly, “I was frantic. I wanted to kill the healer. I wanted to die in her place. I wanted her to try all sorts of horrible medicines and remedies if only they would prolong her life by a few months… a few days! But eventually I stopped raving and listened to her, for she too had been weeping and thinking, and had arrived at a place of more wisdom that I.”

Aragorn was listening intently.

“Wynnie told me that she knew that she would have to face the end of her journey alone, even though I would accompany her as far as I could. The healers could not tell us whether she would know the people around her till the end, or be travelling in a distant place for a long while, but it is certain that when we make that last slide into the dark, we do it alone. She told me that she was afraid – of course she was – but she took with her as talismans sure and certain knowledge of my love, of her brother’s love, and of the love of her son and grandchild. And she believed that this knowledge, deep within her even should her wits flee, would help her keep the fear and despair at bay until what must happen happened. I have always hoped and believed that is how it proved for her, Aragorn. She had a peaceful death.”

Aragorn said nothing, but he was visibly moved, and bowed his head a little.

“And,” I went on, “Wynnie also believed most fervently that we will be reunited by Eru at the End of Days, and I know that gave her comfort.”

“So Arwen and I believe also,” said Aragorn. He turned to face me squarely, and though he was grave, the sadness seemed to have lifted a little. “Faramir, I could not have spoken of these things to anyone in the world but you. No-one.”

And as I took him into my arms and hugged him, I realized it was nothing but truth. I hold a most important place in this man’s life, whether I deserve it or not, and it is up to me to treat that with the seriousness it deserves.

Aragorn clutched me tight for a few seconds, then pressed his lips lightly to my cheek and murmured, “Thank you for the flowers, by the way.”

“Oh!” I said in surprise, feeling my cheeks flaming. “That was sheer silliness.”

Aragorn smiled warmly. “Yes it was,” he teased. “But very lovely. Was it Legolas’ idea? I noticed one of his roses in there.”

“No,” I said. “Entirely my own notion.”

He pursed his lips a little, and seemed pleased though not entirely convinced.

“Aragorn,” I said desperately, “I am completely beyond my depth here.”

He was watching me closely, those grey eyes glittering. It was not at all a comfortable feeling. I ploughed on recklessly.

“I know you desire me,” I went on. It sounded twice as ridiculous as ever, said aloud like that, and I could scarcely believe I had said it.

But Aragorn replied, “Yes. I have told you that, albeit I let it slip in a most undignified way. I do desire you.” He held himself preternaturally still, conceding nothing.

“But you… are you pushing me away?” I sounded wretchedly plaintive in my own ears. “What do you want from me?”

And all of a sudden, Aragorn relaxed, releasing the breath I hadn’t realized he was holding. His face lit up. A puzzle had been solved.

“Yes!” he said, and his hand landed upon my shoulder in the old warrior’s grip. “That’s it. There’s something I want from you, nay, something I need from you. And until I get it, not one inch will I stir towards you, Faramir son of Denethor, heir of the great line of the Stewards of Gondor!”

“What is it you want?” I asked, not unreasonably.

But after a moment’s hesitation he shook his head. “I cannot tell you,” he said. “If I did, there is the chance you might feel you have to pretend, and there would be a lie between us.”

My frustration must have shown in my face. “You will work it out though, ‘Mir,” he said, and with every passing moment he seemed more gleeful. “I know you will. You know me. You know what I feel and how I think. We will make a happy ending of this yet!” He seized me exuberantly into another hug, and I ruffled his hair in forgiveness for his obscurity and gratitude for his warmth.

“And now,” he said, pulling himself with obvious reluctance out of my arms, “I have a pair of conniving Elves to scold.” He ruffled my hair in turn as he went briskly behind the sofa to one of the two narrow windows, opened it, and slid elegantly down a drainpipe to the courtyard below.

I snapped my mouth closed. So the window had been open all this time, and Aragorn had neglected to tell me. He had wanted – no, perhaps he had needed that talk with me.

But what was the further thing he wanted and needed from me before he would – what had he said? “Stir one inch towards” me. I had a grumbly thought that close hugs and kisses on the cheek, if not an inch, were nonetheless stirring – but no, I knew exactly where he had drawn his line. And though I tried to frown and puzzle out why, I discovered I had an enormous smile on my face that just would not go away. And as I write this, it’s back again.

I’ll work it out.

tbc

Part 9 and last

4 Cermië

We’re at an inn about half-way back to Minas Tirith from Northern Ithilien, and a welcome relief it is to be in a soft bed, I’ll tell you, for with every passing year my old bones get a little more reluctant to do these long rides. And besides… well, maybe more about that later.

Anyway, the pretext of this journey we took – that’s Aragorn and I, in case there’s any doubt – was a formal visit to the Elvish colony in this part of the country. But I don’t think there was ever any question about our real destination, though we said not a word about it to each other, even after the Elvish formalities were concluded. We simply set our horses’ heads towards Henneth Annûn.

We left the horses on long tethers in a shady glade with plenty of fodder and water. The paths through the woods into the hideout are narrow, winding and steep. Aragorn paused. “No blindfolds this time?” he asked with a smile. He was remembering how we Northern Rangers used to blindfold any strangers we brought there, even those we had reason to trust.

“No,” I said. “No-one is going in blindly.” And feeling curiously confident, I held out my hand to him. He took it, and though we have never walked thus together before, his hand felt entirely right in mine as we passed beneath the breeze-swayed branches, negotiated difficulties in the path, and heard the songs of summer birds and the waterfall’s splashing serenading us. Soon we entered the side-tunnels, and our path was dark until we emerged into the riot of rainbow light that is Henneth Annûn on a midsummer afternoon.

All too vividly I remembered our last encounter here: freezing, dark, awkward, exciting, and very nearly the end of our long friendship. We turned to each other, both saying “Forgive me” in the same instant.

“What have you to be forgiven for?” I asked him reproachfully. “I was entirely at fault.”

“Nay, Faramir, there was no fault, except mine in speaking so incautiously. Do you think I could possibly have wished to bring trouble between you and Éowyn? You were happy together; you were faithful to each other. The circumstances were entirely wrong. Had I only managed to keep my blabbing mouth shut…”

I shook my head at him. “And then I proved myself a fool and a coward,” I told him harshly. “But circumstances have changed, and I am determined to be neither today.” I advanced a pace upon him, and he stepped back.

“What do you want, Faramir?” he asked, and never was there a smile so devilish or so attractive. His second step back took him up against the wall of the cave.

I put a hand on either side of his head. “I want you, Aragorn son of Arathorn,” I told him. “I desire your body and I crave your love.” I leaned in and kissed him, and he responded instantly, bringing a hand up behind my head to cradle it.

When at last we broke apart for breath, he ran a gentle finger down my cheek. “I knew you would work it out,” he said with a contented grin. “My love you have already, and you know it. As for the rest, take whatever you desire!”

He was strong and wild and willing in my arms that night. It seemed we could not get enough of each other, returning again and again to the loving battle. And finally, towards dawn, I achieved my greatest satisfaction, persuading him – and it took some notable persuasion, believe me – to take of me whatever he desired. It was a great victory for him over all those years of self-denial, and we celebrated quietly for a long time afterwards, cuddling and kissing, unable to let go of each other, hot and sticky though we were on our moth-eaten old blankets on the cave floor.

The sun came up, and we bathed in the old Ranger fashion, swinging buckets into the waterfall and splashing the cold water upon each other. That inevitably led to wrestling and more kinds of naked gymnastics. I have never before had a lover who could physically outmatch me. It was utterly exhilarating.

That was yesterday. We spent the day taking our ease, and we talked long and seriously about many things, most especially about Arwen and Legolas, and I confessed myself a jealous idiot, especially when it came to the idea of Legolas in his bed. He laughed at that, and put his arms around me again, and told me that he grew up with Elves and even so it had taken him many years to get used to their ways of thinking.

I am content with that, at least for now. It is as Legolas told me in the orchard: Aragorn cannot be my possession. There are other, prior claims. But, as of two nights ago, he is my lover. There it is on paper – he is my lover! – and every time I look at the words I am filled with incredulous joy.

Epilogue – 5 Cermië

When we got home to Minas Tirith, there was nothing much going on in the Great Hall, but Aragorn strode confidently to the little withdrawing-room behind the Thrones. There, as he had somehow known, Legolas and Arwen were waiting, hand in hand, to welcome us back. Aragorn swept his wife into a lingering kiss on the lips, and then Legolas received a similar lingering kiss, while I stood a few paces back and fidgeted in confusion.

“Well?” asked Arwen impatiently, and at Aragorn’s little nod she flew to my side, threw her arms around me, kissed me on the cheek, and said, “I am so glad, Faramir! I am so glad!” Her embrace was soft, and tinged with an exquisite, slightly stimulating perfume.

As she released me, Legolas caught my eye and raised his eyebrows. I felt myself flushing, but when he politely said, “May I?” it was with no great reluctance that I proffered my cheek to be kissed by that most beautiful and mysterious being.

I felt a little knot of panic pulling tight within me. In acquiring one lover, had I somehow acquired expectations from three? Aragorn slipped his arms around me from behind and steadied me, murmuring. “No coercion, my love. Never. Remember that. It is their creed and mine.”

“Details!” demanded Arwen.

“Yes, we want details!” seconded Legolas.

Aragorn laughed aloud. “Terrifying, aren’t they, Faramir?” he said. “But with you at my side I feel less out-numbered! No details, my sweet Elven harpies. If Faramir wants to tell you what happened, he will tell you in his own good time. As for me, my lips are… otherwise occupied!” And with that he swung me into a kiss that was prolonged and anything but coerced.

I knew at that moment that my life would never be dull or bleak again. And I am happy.

finis

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