Faramir Fiction Archive

I, Faramir (PG-13)

Written by Surreysmum

21 February 2011 | 7582 words

Epilogue

From the journal of Estel Elrondion, Aragorn son of Arathorn, now known as Elessar Telcontar, beginning of volume the 542^nd.

Arwen has just left. When I came in here to write, she was sitting with her feet up, munching on an apple, reading Volume 247. Again. She likes that one. I kidded her that I was going to have to start charging a fee for all the entertainment my journals afford her, and she chuckled, saying there isn’t that much gold in the Royal Treasury. But she could tell I was troubled, I think, and she just came over and kissed me and told me not to stay up too late, then left.

Looking at all these shelves of my journals, I despair. When I was seven years old, ada, you told me that a constant habit of setting my thoughts down on paper would help me straighten things out and do the right thing, and that’s what I told Faramir too. But today I think maybe all these journals have been good for is to record the aftermath of incredible blunders. How could I have been such a fool?

After he arrived this morning, he came straight to my study. He was tense and a little pale, as Legolas said, but he met my eyes steadily and smiled when he greeted me. Clearly he wasn’t in the mood for small talk, though; within moments he had pulled out a sheaf of papers, and pulling back just the edge of the top one, he showed me with a wry grin that it was headed, “I, Faramir”.

“Did it help?” I asked.

He paused and looked down. “Yes,” he said eventually. “Yes, in the end I think it will prove to have been a good thing.”

He met my glance again, and for one moment I had the impression that he was going to hand me the papers. But he turned swiftly to the fireplace and threw the whole sheaf in, then sat down with a fire-iron and poked the pieces to make them succumb to the flames more quickly. As the last fragment changed to a curling, blackened ember, he looked up at me where I stood beside him and said in halting, but perfectly comprehensible Sindarin, “It is finished.”

Before I had the chance to react to this surprise, or to comprehend its full significance, he had pushed me gently down into my chair and was explaining to me that he was relinquishing his administrative duties at my court entirely to Orodreth, and would be retiring to Emyn Arnen, where he and Éowyn would be spending most of their time with their son and his family, and bestowing more time and effort on the country folk around them, whom they felt they had neglected.

I sputtered and objected and tried to persuade him out of it, of course, but he was quietly adamant. “And now I have to go and make sure this evening’s banquet table is properly set,” he told me. “My last hoorah as your major-domo, you know – everything must be perfect.” And he left.

I sat, stunned, trying to gather my whirling thoughts. And eventually it came to me why it was so important that he spoke in Sindarin. I groaned and put my face in my hands. Idiot that I am. Instead of relieving his discomfort, I only seemed to cause him more and more.

There was an apologetic tap on my door, and I went to answer it. To my surprise, it was Éowyn. She and I have never been much more than cordial, I’m afraid. It’s understandable. I wanted to question her, ask for her understanding, even beg her influence in keeping Faramir from running away. But of course that was impossible. I have no idea how much she knows, and if she did, surely she would be the last to want to help.

Yet I somehow felt there was more warmth and sympathy in her towards me than I had seen in many years. “Don’t worry, Aragorn,” she said kindly. “I will take care of him. And sooner or later, he’ll come back; I’m sure of it.”

I pray to the Valar that you are right, White Lady. For I will miss him sorely.

From Éowyn’s Small Private Book

I read it. Well, of course I did. He kept “accidentally” leaving it around where he knew I’d find it, instead of locking it away in his desk as he routinely does with anything half-way important. He can be pretty obvious, my Faramir. And just as obviously he didn’t want my comments, or he would have brought it to me directly. So I haven’t said anything. I suppose there are some who would tsk at me, but this dear man has been given to me by the Valar to care for, and I’ll embrace any means, any information that helps me do that better.

There wasn’t much in it that surprised me – really only two things. The first was that it all came as such a shock to ‘Mir at this late date. The Valar know that he’s never been one to examine his own feelings – spending your youth desperately trying not to want to murder your own father will do that to you – but I honestly thought that he must have realized by now that there was more of a spark between him and Aragorn than could fully be explained away by comradeship, fealty and the affection of old friends. Not that these things don’t exist between them – indeed they do – but you’d think my dear old muddle-head would have sorted it out by now. Ah well – men! They’re born with an endless capacity for wilful blindness, it seems.

It was certainly no surprise that Aragorn has an eye for the lads as well as the lasses. I’ve suspected that for a very long time, and Arwen as good as confirmed it – several times – during those days when we sat together nursing our respective firstborns and chatting about how our men were coping with having new rivals for our love and attention. Arwen’s an Elf, and Elves know how to hold their counsel; they don’t say anything by accident once, let alone several times. So I took it as the friendly warning I knew it to be.

No, what surprised me about Aragorn was that he didn’t take more advantage of the situation. He’s a better man than I, that’s certain! Perhaps I truly have underestimated him all these years, and my resentment over old history has clouded my judgment a bit. On reflection, I’m glad to know there really is something in him of that impossibly perfect knight of my girlhood dreams.

I can’t honestly say I’m sorry about Faramir’s decision to stay away from Court, though. Even if Aragorn’s trustworthy, just being around him is obviously making ‘Mir uncomfortable, and that’s reason enough. And frankly, there’s something about the atmosphere of that court, with all the Elves around, that makes me just a little uncomfortable too; always has. No, it’ll be no hardship to have him to myself for a while. And, naturally, it won’t last forever. Inconvenient emotion doesn’t just go away because you wish it would – I can attest to that. Inconvenient desire, on the other hand, is something you can wait out. I’ll help him and take care of him till he realizes that he wants to go back and be Aragorn’s friend and steward again – and then the Valar aid poor

Orodreth when ‘Mir starts to meddle in all the duties he thinks he’s handed over!

He’s calling for me. “Wynnie!” I’ve always loathed that nickname. But what’s to be done? It’s Faramir who’s calling me, my dearest love, reason for my existence and father of my son. He can call me whatever he likes – as long as he doesn’t do it at Court!

“Wynnie, Wynnie!” There he goes again. Eru grant me patience. I’ll Wynnie him…

finis

On to I, Faramir: the latter days.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/i-faramir. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!