Faramir Fiction Archive

Secret (PG)

Written by Bubbles

05 February 2006 | 52192 words

Part 3

“The servant told you this.”

“Aye.”

“You took his word as good?”

Aragorn sighed. “Why would he wish to deceive me about it? His loyalties lay with Denethor above all; he would have seen into the grave any who brought his lord to harm. That Denethor raised as his own a son born out of Finduilas’ extramarital relationship... aye, such a revelation only brings harm to the name of the house, and Ferenhil would not have concocted it. I feel somewhat strange commending such an ill-tempered ass — and that is the best way I know to describe Ferenhil — but Denethor never appreciated what he had in that man, what staunch and unwavering support.” He sighed again, studying his hands. “There were many things that Denethor failed to appreciate. But to answer your question, nay. I confess that I did not immediately believe Ferenhil. I stubbornly, vehemently denied the possibility... until he showed me the letter.”

“Letter?”

“Finduilas wrote to a close friend, a confidante. I recognized the flowing hand as hers, for ‘twas the hand I had come to know and love in her rare, precious, secretive letters to me. She was utterly certain. She knew in her very bones that the child she had just borne was not of her husband. She described his eyes, his mouth, a birthmark which I have. Which my father had as well.”

“A mother knows such things.”

“Aye. Finduilas knew. She wrote that she had sensed the babe’s parentage before his first stirrings in her belly, and that when she gazed on him all those other things — his looks, his birthmark, even his wisps of hair — were just the evidence to prove what was already, for her, truth. She loved him... you know.”

“Of course.”

“Her husband, I mean.”

Lendimir nodded. “You... did love her, Sire?”

“Aye. She was unlike any woman I had ever met. Beautiful, as though she had just risen from the mist of cold sweet lake, and perhaps was even destined to return there ere long. Graceful and quiet and discreet. She would curve her neck, tilt her head and blush if one looked at her but in passing. Kind, funny, intelligent, perceptive — oh, she could see into a heart. She could melt a heart, as well.”

“She sounds remarkable.”

“I did not want to leave her.”

“Surely not.”

“‘twas not meant to last for all eternity, Lendimir.”

“I know, Sire. I realize as much.”

“She knew I could not stay with her! Her husband, the son she already had... She told me — she bid me go—”

“Sire,” Lendimir interrupted, “I realize.”

Aragorn blinked at the captain. “Aye,” he breathed, forcing himself to calm. “I am... I apologise.” He grew aware of the ache in his forearms and looked down to see his fists clenched, the knuckles white like bleached bone. “Why am I so vehement about a love that was born, lived, and died an entire lifetime ago?” he murmured. “Why am I so angry?”

“Sire, if I may?”

“Please.”

Lendimir leaned forward on the bench. “Perhaps you are angry at her.”

“At Finduilas? Why?”

“She bore you a child. Your only child. She did not write to you in her flowing hand to tell you of this, to describe the stirrings deep inside her or the truths in her heart, to bid you stay away or come to her, speak or be silent, but instead she allowed that child — your son — to be raised by a man who abused and neglected him. She died and you knew naught of the boy, or of the boy’s suffering. You had to find out so many years later, after so much damage had been irreversibly done. And you had to find out from a servant who despises you. Aye,” he nodded. “I could see anger at that. I could see it.”

“What would be the point of it, though?” Aragorn asked. He shook his head. “Finduilas is long dead; Denethor is dead. All that was gone forever in the instant flames overtook a pyre. Faramir is alive, and here, and mine. He is MINE, Lendimir. But what do I do upon learning of him? I begin to berate him for his every indiscretion, large and small. I worry so after him, so much that I lose sleep with each new situation into which he manages himself. But can I show concern without anger, can I tell him as much? Nay — I yell at him. I ask him if he has no sense! Have I no sense?”

“You have the all too natural worry of a parent, Sire. And there are times when our children simply tax us to the bone.” Lendimir chuckled. “My eldest son is thirty-three, a man whichever way you define the word. Married, with beautiful boisterous younglings of his own. And I respect him as deeply as I can respect any man. Yet recently, when he grew careless with his mount and was nearly trampled, I had to fight the urge to take a switch to his breeches. Even the most experienced of us occasionally regrets an overly sharp tongue, wishes he had handled a situation more gently.”

“I certainly wish that.”

“The young steward does seem to possess a rare talent for manoeuvring himself into perils both petty and grave. I have heard the tales of his adventures, and have occasionally wondered whether or not he even possesses man’s instinctive desire to survive.”

“He does. I am certain that he does, or he would not have survived this long. But Denethor’s cruelty has marked him. It makes him question his own worth. And it drives his recklessness, I am sure.”

“Indeed. Which returns me to my point. The boy was mistreated because his mother did not tell you the truth. Because the man who acted as his father resented every kindness, every perceived weakness to be found in him. I saw enough to realize that much, that the steward looked upon the boy with rage and pain. And now the man grown out of that boy risks himself. He may only see his own value in heroics. He may tend to act before thinking. Either way, when your heart fists itself into a painful ball at the sight of him in danger, how could you not grow angry?”

“I think I’ve acted without thought a few times lately,” Aragorn admitted. “And in the past. I know that my Adar, my adoptive father Lord Elrond, has declared more than one night of his sleep lost due to me.” He smiled mirthlessly. “Like father, like son, I suppose. Would that not be ironic?”

Lendimir nodded, frowning. “If I may ask, how did Ferenhil come to possess the Lady’s letter?”

“He was suspicious. Of me. Of her. Of aught that moved between the walls of that draught-devilled house, to be sure. I suppose I can hardly condemn him for it, since he was right.”

“Did the steward know? That might account for... well.”

“Ferenhil would not say, although I pressed. I pray that he did not know.” Aragorn stared into the bowl of his pipe. In it, the weed smouldered gently. The smoke that curled upward into the night looked like a gentle line of her thigh. “Elbereth,” he breathed. “I pray that he did not.”

---

The season was changing, swiftly as was its way. No gradual warming spread out over Gondor to coax ice out of frozen ground and uncurl sleeping greenery, nay. When the cold yielded it did so in a rush, as if it needed to be somewhere else. The sun rose, a pale watching eye; the skies remained light and clear, but suddenly there was heat in the yellow air, heat that steamed on tile pavilions and in the streets and off the citadel’s grey stone.

One more time he tried to concentrate on his duties. ‘Ai,’ he thought. ‘Eternally ‘tis as though I take a single small step forward and then am knocked back a league.’ The papers were still neatly piled on his desk, but now the mass of them had grown to nigh critical height. ‘Imagine,’ his mind prattled, ‘the eulogy. “Captain Faramir of Minas Tirith, faithful steward and subject of King Elessar, was far too noble a soul to be crushed under a stack of superficial diplomatic missives and petty citizen requests. Alas, he shall be missed, for none could get through paperwork with such fearsome skill... ”’

Faramir giggled as he settled behind the desk, then sat for a moment mildly stunned. ‘twas not often that he caught himself giggling. Nigh unto never, in fact. His father would have been mortified to hear such an undignified display from him. Displays were for the worthy and for those with no one around them to embarrass. Denethor’s face popped into his mind, twisted into a look of unmitigated disgust, and he giggled again. Damn, but he was giddy.

At that he sobered. It had been a bad night, disturbing, the hours long and dark. His exhaustion had not proved sufficient to permit him sleep — not after his visit from the king. That he would be called stupid for simply holding a meeting! That he did not have his ruler’s leave to address matters of his own position within the city! King Elessar had been so angry with him, so frustrated, and so... much more. Something more had flickered strangely in the monarch’s grey eyes. Something more had tinged a normally proud and powerful voice. Nay, he could not recall ever seeing his king as aught other than strong, and yet he had looked into that rugged face and read weakness — what had seemed distressingly like weakness. He had heard what sounded like pleading in the king’s voice. Pleading? Nay — that was not the right word. Desperation? Yearning?

Fear? But of what? He gripped the quill, stared blindly at the letter in front of him. What had that all been about? What tempest had raged in the king’s mind?

He blinked, mentally shook himself. King Elessar’s words and deeds had seemed somewhat... off to him, for a time. Gondor’s king had first been a man — a ranger alongside whom they had fought. A natural leader, or at least apparently so. Aragorn, son of Arathorn, had never seemed beset by circumstance or afeard of what was to come. And that had been a balm to all the weary souls of the land. They had all waited for a fearless leader, a man who could bring them the most valuable and intangible of possessions...

Aye, they had looked to Aragorn to bring them all hope, and as surely as the elves said, “Estel,” they had not been disappointed. The Dark Lord fallen, the terrible watching eye extinguished, the cursed Ring fallen and extinguished itself, and Gondor enduring through it, still green, still alive. In the aftermath of those deadly days, did the man who endured within King Elessar now find himself in need? Nay, nay — if the king were plagued by aught then the queen would see to it, and she was returning anon from her journeys. She would see to it.

‘twas certainly not a steward’s place to think about such things, nor to question his king. A sudden wash of shame tingled in his cheeks, his brow, the back of his neck, and he was grateful for his solitude so that none would see him blushing at his own thoughts. Faramir dragged his wandering mind from its musings; he felt his face grow cool again as he bowed his head to the parchment and resolved not to further irritate his sire.

There were days when it seemed he could do little else. “Just like with Father,” he murmured.

Knuckles rapped against the door. “Come,” Faramir called.

“Captain,” the young guard greeted, bowing. “I regret the need for me to interrupt your work.”

“I regret the need for you to interrupt my work, as well,” Faramir replied, but offered a reassuring grin. “What is it?”

“They’re at it again, my lord.”

“Are they?”

“Aye,” the guard nodded rapidly. “I would have informed Captain Lendimir, but as you know he departed this morn to see to a couple of the settlements; he’ll not be returning before late this evening. Of course his second is always available, but Lieutenant Mendren is out on the archery range, training with some of the newer boys, and he’s left strict orders that none interrupt him for aught but the most dire of emergencies, which I don’t really think this is. And they did mention your name, after all.”

“That’s disturbing.”

“Aye indeed! I tried my level best to calm them down, but... well — they just don’t seem interested in calming down. In fact, one of them told ME to keep my nose clear out of it! As though they hadn’t decided to start squabbling right where I could hear them, thus making it my sworn and honoured duty to intervene. And when I pointed that out to them, what do you think they did?”

“What?” Faramir asked.

“They ignored me like I wasn’t even there, Captain!”

“Most inconsiderate! Who are we talking about, by the way?”

The guard spluttered for a moment. “A-apologies, my lord. I didn’t explain myself enough. The innkeepers. From The Ramshead, and The Rolling Goat. You met with them in the council chambers the other day—”

“I recall,” Faramir sighed.

“I wasn’t at all eager to bother you with it, my lord, especially seeing as how they attacked you last time.”

“They hardly ‘attacked’ me, Anthorn. As I’ve explained — repeatedly — ‘twas a blow that I accidentally... intercepted.”

“With your face, my lord!”

“Aye, Anthorn. You need not remind me.”

“Sorry, my lord. Will you come?”

“Where are they?”

“At my post, unless of course they’ve managed to kill each other by now, which I wouldn’t altogether be surprised about. Although that might make things a bit more peaceable around here, if you ask me. Two louder and more obnoxious people I’ve not had the misfortune to meet in a goodly while. I listened to them for a bit, then left them arguing like an old married couple.”

Faramir sighed again and rose, pulling a wry face for Anthorn. “Then let us go see if we can resurrect the honeymoon.”

---

As the first rays of light had shafted themselves upon a willing land, Aragorn had finally abandoned his bed. He had taken there of necessity rather than desire — Captain Lendimir had retired graciously after lingering long with him in the gardens; he had bid the man go, for a fat moon was risen and a wife lay waiting, probably wondering. Having confided in Lendimir as he had confided in none, not even the friends who had become brothers to him, he had sent his confidante home. ‘You have an early morn approaching, Master Guard. I know that I have crossed every boundary with you, Master Guard, and yet I now speak to you with this formality. You know so much of my heart now — things that my adoptive brothers and my surrogate brothers and even my beloved do not know — and yet you should go and leave me here in this dark garden. Of course I shall be alright. Of course I shall.’ So Lendimir had bowed, the boundaries redrawn, re-affirmed, and had gone. And he the king had lingered down the paths until the night guards had taken to watching him curiously, and then he had known ‘twas time to take himself inside before they took it in their heads that something was amiss with their leader.

After lying awake for however long, he had felt himself begin to slip. His muscles twitching as they shut themselves down in preparation for rest, his mind had hovered on a threshold. The world had remained, but dimmer and carrying a strange quality. As though it wore a veil, and he could see just beyond it, just beyond the surface of it... into nothing. Yawning black emptiness. And for just a moment he had envisioned himself stepping off the floor, off the safe solid ground, into it. His stomach had lurched, sending bile into his throat, and he had risen and padded to the window and gazed out on a brightening dawn. The streets had been just waking, Deninghil’s smithy exhaling its sooty breath, a few merchants erecting their crates in preparation for the throngs that would soon come. No children had been out, sadly toiling alongside tired parents or more happily playing. Beyond the outer wall the land had sparkled with a frost that waited to be touched by sun. Warmth — they all needed warmth. He had thought of Faramir, his son, and felt something. Warmth?

So he had left his chamber, eschewed breakfast in the bustling dining hall, made an hour’s worth of excuses to be outside of the citadel and that positively stifling office. But now the end had come: ‘twas time for Aragorn to be Elessar again. Minas Tirith waited for no man’s personal distresses to fade, not when so many war-weary souls depended on the maintenance of a smooth routine. His council had called a morning meeting — something about tariffs. He needed no particulars to dread the endless bickering debate that would surely follow their proposals.

Well, he would not be complicating the trade issue now. South Ithilien and Aglarond were Minas Tirith’s two largest trading partners, and the lines between them had to be kept simple. Friendship already clouded things: the elves, eternally wary of treacherous men, watched their leader carefully lest Prince Legolas fail to negotiate the best possible arrangement for them; the dwarves similarly scrutinized Gimli, Son of Gloin. His own council had stopped just short of suggesting that King Elessar might permit personal sentiment to override the city’s pressing needs. Aragorn allowed himself a brief smile as he stepped through one of the inner gates: although trade negotiations were always more enjoyable when the parties trusted each other, difficulties remained. To achieve the best for Minas Tirith, he had been forced to push the tariff issue with both Legolas and Gimli, and they had each been compelled to do the same with him. But the trio had settled it after many a long evening of drink and discussion, after many a night of tedious details that he would rather have ignored.

Nay, there was no way in Arda his council was going to dig up that bone again! And if any of them was rash enough to insinuate that he had not kept Minas Tirith firmly in mind through it all—

He entered the square wherein mongers hawked silver-scaled fish and black eels from the coast, long straight bright carrots and bulbous potatoes and gleaming apples from the local farms. Dogs barked and sniffed for scraps among the carts, and children darted underfoot. Minas Tirith rounded the mountains against which she sat; the square was thus a curving area shaped vaguely like a broad-bean. Yet ‘twas known to all as the square, its outer edge brushing against one of the inner walls. Sporadic guard shacks studded the line of stone.

Raised voices caught his attention and he lingered to watch the group play. Six or seven of them, six or seven years old. Sprites in mud-speckled clothing with bright faces and hair that shone like no jewel ever would. They held hands and sang — shouted — the old words:

In my little po-cket

Hidden from your eyes

I have a little se-cret

And it’s a big surprise!

They ran, laughing. First one to the old-man elm tree bowed solemnly under the weight of “winner.” What was the secret? He did not know. Like so many of the games that had tinged his own childhood with drama and import, this game made no sense to grown eyes.

More raised voices, one of them familiar. Aye — ‘twas Faramir and a guard standing by one of the shacks, arguing with two men. Aragorn felt his jaw tighten as he recognized the pair. They radiated belligerence, leaning toward the steward, thick fists balled at their sides, heads up, chins jutting forth. Their broad, flat brows glistened in the sun; their prominent bellies were not quite usurped by their sagging breasts; their eyes were bright round little stones nigh buried above pink fleshy snouts. Small sunlit drops of saliva issued from the spongy lips of the larger one. Every angry statement was punctuated by quivering folds of neck and by that fine spray; Aragorn felt disgust rising in him as the man waved an impatient hand at Faramir, who appeared conciliatory.

His approach, silent though it was, should have been noted and acknowledged accordingly. Yet four tongues — well, three at least, since the young guard seemed to have decided silence was the best tack — continued to work. The innkeepers glared by turns at each other and at the guard, who ducked their gazes by staring at the ground. And Faramir directed his attention by turns to each of the innkeepers, occasionally glancing at the guard, who fearlessly ducked that as well. Aragorn stalked toward them and they bickered, lost in their frustration. Fragments of complaint reached his ears.

‘—not the one at fault ‘ere—’

‘—I only rose to the bait—’

‘—cannot tolerate such behaviour—’

The guard glanced up, spotted him, and rapidly paled. Aragorn ignored the young soldier and smartly covered the distance between himself and them. “HALT!” he bellowed.

They fell silent as one and stared at him. “What is going on here?” he asked quietly, resisting an urge to step between the men and Faramir.

“Sire,” Faramir hastened to explain, “we were just... negotiating a truce between these gentlemen—”

“You mean the ‘gentlemen’ who committed a violent assault against you during your last meeting with them?” Aragorn interrupted. The innkeepers had the good sense to look abashed, firing a somewhat fearful glance each at the other before electing to study their boots.

Faramir winced, then nodded. “Aye, Sire. Our last attempt at a treaty, though it saw some initial progress, did not end well, as you know. However, I felt that another opportunity might present itself—”

“Is that why they aren’t locked in adjoining cells in my dungeon, pondering their dismal futures?” Aragorn interrupted again.

“Aye, Sire. I decided—”

“YOU decided?”

“Aye, Sire. I thought that... ” Faramir’s voice trailed into silence. Blue-grey eyes met his; they were wide and bright.

Aragorn felt the blood pounding in his ears. “You, Faramir, obviously did not think at all. These two hopeless miscreants—” he waved his hand without looking at the cowed men “—should be locked in jail right now, not skulking about the streets and requiring your attention! And when you choose to actually have a guard at your side, you select the greenest and most timid of the lot! What in all the hells is wrong with you? Are you this stupid?”

Faramir flinched as though under a blow — all colour drained from his already fair face.

“Faramir, I—” Aragorn began, stepping forward.

“A-aye, Sire,” Faramir breathed. “I-I — I suppose... that I am.” Pivoting, the young man fled through the gathered crowd. The people parted, stared.

“Faramir!” Aragorn yelled. His throat closed so that not a gasp of air would pass through it; he could say naught more though so many words clawed upward from his breast. He made three strides and stopped, closing his eyes. He cursed himself silently, remembering the long halls of the House of Denethor, the echoing stone, the carpets so red they could soak up tears or blood and never show it. Finduilas arching beneath him. And those days in the man’s service, before that arching, before that wet passionate betrayal. Oft he had heard Denethor’s voice raised in anger at some failing of the servant or of the guard. He heard it still and wondered how it could ever have been aimed so viciously at them, the children, the younger child — and he wondered if that pitiful excuse for a father had ever noticed just how wide Faramir’s eyes could become.

---

He entered the citadel and forced himself to walk, arms at his sides, face schooled. Oft he had walked his father’s halls in such a fashion, tense, ready, his body expecting the blows that would soon land, his body aching from previous blows. But through the worst of it, never had tears stained his face. His control, hard-fought, hard-won, had become a habit, and now he slipped into it. ‘twas just as hard as it had ever been, and just as easy.

The upper halls were quiet, no staff to see him, and Faramir swallowed to force down the lump in his throat. Stupid — he was stupid now. He had been stupid then, too, and Father had never shrunk from a chance to tell him as much. Senseless. Worthless. Pathetic. A young man whose uses were all known — whose uses were few. The dedicated teacher of all lessons worth learning, Father was always ready to show him where he’d erred, or was erring, or would in the future err again. Father, with no warning, reached into him and pulled out his failings to line up against the wall. They looked like little bones with scraps of flesh clinging to them. Father pointed to them in turn. Weakness. Insolence. Cowardice. Never was gentleness mentioned: it stood on the very end, white and red, dripping on the rug. Father ticked off the wrongs but left that one unspoken. Perhaps Father was reminded too much of Mother, and could not stand to look at that wrong.

Perhaps it was the greatest wrong of all.

King Elessar obviously shared Lord Denethor’s sentiments, and now Faramir thought of the king’s face and saw also his father’s; he thought of the king’s angry voice and heard also the angry words that had clanged through his childhood.

It was not a surprise to him, such judgement. Or at least it should not have been. Father had well seen his faults, the flaws that ran through him as impurities run through stone and weaken it. Odd it was that he, the master of stoic silence, one who could stand impassively while words bit into his soul, while a belt or a pair of fists bruised his body, was the weak one. No matter how silent he had been, though, Father had never praised him for strength. The weaknesses had to run far deeper than he could demonstrate with mere words or the lack thereof — otherwise, he would have been able to prove himself, somehow. The impurities had to run along the most fundamental lines of his soul. Father had always been keen of vision and of mind; Father had always been able to see.

Boromir had been pure, carved from a buoyant and laughing child into the warrior who had embarked on a great journey and then died in the service of all that was good. But Boromir had also been the great reservoir for Father’s hopes, the symbol of a greatness for which Father had never quite been recognized. On Boromir’s strong shoulders, all of Father’s dreams had been lifted above oblivion’s reach, and would shine on long after the dreamer had passed. That Boromir had been taken first was bad, for it had left the great successes unattained; it had left the dreams unrealized. It had left Father without a pot in which to stir his grand ambitions.

Aye, pride had shone like a flame in Denethor’s eyes every time they had landed on the noble first son. Those same eyes had grown dark and distant every time they had landed on Faramir. Too studious, too quiet, too meek he had always been. His tutors had affectionately called him “book-worm,” and Father had cringed. Father had wanted a warrior, not a worm. And now the king, such a good and wise man, a man who had fought at Boromir’s side and borne witness to the ultimate sacrifice, could see as Father had seen, and agreed.

Would the king really want such a bookish man in Minas Tirith, helping to rebuild the great White City? He tasted a sudden surge of bile and felt his lips twist into a grimace. That would be the limit, getting sick like a nervous child because he didn’t like hearing the hard truth. Making a bigger mess than he already had. Shame! Shame. He forced the nausea down, swallowing so hard his jaw ached.

His chambers were a beacon, a haven into which he slipped. The door closed, all of it closed outside, he found himself suddenly struggling to draw breath. Elbereth — his lungs would not work. His eyes burned, his throat. His back pressed against the door, he let his legs slowly collapse beneath him as though one muscle at a time was being cut through, crippled. He was sitting with his knees drawn to his chin. His arms hung limp at his sides, his hands resting on the thick carpet. He raised them, wrapped them around his legs, balled himself tight. That was a habit, too.

---

Working with quiet efficiency, he stripped Settys of packs, saddle, bridle. He laid them aside for the stable hands to deal with. His fingers reached automatically for the large brush, curled around it as it moved through a silken mane and over a muscled body. With the lie of the short coarse hair, firmly, rhythmically. The horse blew out a relaxed sigh and he smiled. “You do enjoy your comforts, old friend,” he murmured, and smiled more broadly when a dark ear flicked toward his voice.

He thought of Reyann as he ran the brush from crested neck down strong withers, along the short straight back that bespoke noble ancestry. He imagined the feel of her lean, lithe torso, the spine that would run beneath his fingers with a staccato intensity. Her legs would wrap around his own and she would thrust herself upward, to him. Her arms would be the frame inside which he painted the colours of his passion. She had good strong arms, his beloved.

Images of her warming him, he continued with the brush. Over the rump and down each smooth chestnut hip. Down each leg in turn, down strong fetlocks. New shoes would be in order anon; he would speak with Deninghil on the morrow. For now, for two tired travellers come home, a bag of fresh oats and a bowl of thick dark stew. A bucket of water, not overly cold when the beast was still hot from travel, a tankard of ale that would indeed be cold. But while Settys would sleep standing alone in a warm stall, he, Lendimir, would enter once again that private place, the shelter of slender limbs and limpid eyes. The flower that remained so tightly closed to others, yet unfurled, sweet and hot, to his touch. His thoughts flickered briefly, turned to the king, and he blew out a sigh of his own. He never feared, when he was away, Reyann’s solitude. He never questioned her fealty. “This Denethor should have feared,” he muttered.

“Indeed. He should have.”

Lendimir pivoted to see King Elessar half drawn in shadow. How long might the man have been standing there like a spectre half-formed, melting into the darkness, breathing so quietly as to become naught more than a part of the night... “Sire,” he greeted, straightening and then executing a perfunctory bow.

“I did not mean to startle you, Master Guard,” the king said, moving to the stall door and reaching in to scratch Settys’ chin. The stallion snorted. “Your steed wishes for his supper.”

“Aye, Sire.” Lendimir retrieved the feedbag a stable boy had left, slipped the worn strap over Settys’ ears and imparted a final slap to the horse’s neck before fastening the door. The boy would be back, duly, to check the animals and remove their empty bags; Settys would undoubtedly receive a few more affectionate scratches and pats before being left to whatever dreams a captive stallion might harbour.

“I am certain you wish the same.”

The king was studying him. “Aye, Sire,” he replied frankly. “It has been an arduous day and I must confess that I do, most keenly.”

“Will you indulge me, afterward, if ‘tis not too great a burden to spend another hour separated from your lady?”

“Sire?”

“The citadel. The main hall therein.” King Elessar turned away, paused, and then turned back to him. “I... I just need to speak to someone, Lendimir. And you have proven an excellent listener.”

Lendimir nodded. “I would be happy to, Sire.” He watched the king’s even strides out of the stable, heard the light contact of boots against the moonlit tile path. He waited for silence to return before walking out himself.

---

They sat in the king’s den, a room of rich wood and black leather, of lamps that flamed against the walls, steeping the very air in warmth and colour. From those flame-gleaming walls there peered forth the history of Gondor — portraits painted in deference to a score of kings. Eyes probed the new king, the missing portrait. Eyes judged the visitor who settled somewhat awkwardly into a luxurious chair by the hearth. They were confident in their choice: Elessar’s face would join theirs, while the visitor would fade into obscurity.

Aragorn, once cowed in their presence, once too uncomfortable to even consider his own place among them, had eventually taken to ignoring them. Lineage could be such an inconvenient thing. He poured two goblets of wine and handed one to Lendimir, noting as the man’s gaze flitted from one sombre brushwork face to the next. “They have naught to say, Master Guard.”

“Nay, Sire?”

“Their words are the dust of tombs. Gondor moves into a bright future; all they see from their dark places is treachery and strife. They see too much evil, and wars that rise endlessly from it like the fruit of bitter seeds.”

“We have all seen too much of that, my lord.”

“Indeed.” Aragorn settled in his chair. “How was your journey?”

“Not as effective as I had hoped ‘twould be, Sire. One of the two settlements — its inhabitants have duly renamed it Karas Tuuur in honour of the victory of light over darkness — has been looted thrice, and the most obvious suspects are people from nearby Eden Aur, which itself has been attacked twice and blames the people of Karas Tuuur. Supplies have been taken each time, in the deep of night. Grain and other staples, items not easily identifiable. No soul has been injured as yet, but the hostilities are growing and I believe ‘tis only a matter of time before the people descend into outright violence. Anger fuels them. Their hatred is mutual and, sadly, rooted in an acrimonious past.”

“They have been fighting one enemy or another for so long, they do not know how to be at peace,” Aragorn murmured.

“Aye. During the War, they fought for whatever scraps they could find. Resources were terribly scarce — many towns took to battling each other.”

“What solution would you propose?”

“Diplomacy, I would think. I would hope. They are neighbours, and they have lived under common chains of darkness. They both have suffered the misfortune of being situated along a main corridor used by Sauron’s forces. That shared history alone should give them room for understanding now. They have all seen cruel death, been uprooted from their homes more often than they can say, and they are desperately weary. They that I met seemed all to be good people. They want a future, Sire, and they are tired of the fighting. But their pride hinders them: you were of course correct in your orders that I should schedule the meeting at a point halfway between the towns so that neither side feel slighted.”

“Pride is a difficult beast to tame, Lendimir,” Aragorn sighed, rolling the goblet idly between his palms. “We must find a method to convince them that they need not fight any more. They are understandably suspicious of each other, and despite their exhaustion they will not bow; they will not surrender their battle-hardness. We must lighten their burden.”

“I think you are correct, Sire.” Lendimir took a swallow of wine and considered. “I also think that you did not invite me in here to drink whilst I give you a report that you would have heard on the morrow during our customary meeting.”

“You grow comfortable. Is it the wine?”

“My apologies, Sire, if my remark presumed upon your good nature.”

“Nay, Lendimir, pray do not apologise. I have presumed upon your good nature more than once already, and you are right. I would have resisted the change in topic had it come gently.”

“Faramir, my lord.”

“Who else?”

“Have you and he spoken?”

“Oh, Lendimir.” Aragorn studied tiny ripples that shimmered on the surface of his wine, set the goblet on the low table beside his chair. He stared into the fire until the smoke and heat made his eyes burn. When he closed them, tiny spots of light hovered against the blackness.

“What has happened, Sire?”

“I think I have established, Sir, that I am possibly a worse father than Denethor ever could be.”

“You do not mean that, Sire.”

“Do I not?”

“Pray, tell me what has come about.”

“I shouted at him again today, in front of a crowd of people. I called him stupid.”

“What had he done?”

“Are you suggesting that there is any possible justification for my callousness?” Aragorn demanded, stiffening. “Perhaps when Denethor so maligned and humiliated the boy, there was justification then, too? Did Faramir, through his occasional lapses in judgment, invite it all?”

“Sire, I suggest no such thing. You know I do not suggest that.”

Aragorn leaned forward and rested his head in his hands, staring at the rug between his feet. “What should I do, Lendimir? I have stumbled and thrashed about with this knowledge, and now I have cruelly wounded the one I most do not want to hurt! I feel so many things, so many tangled emotions. I am proud of him, beyond all measure of pride. I can hardly conceive of it myself; it strains in my breast. I am afraid, for he is reckless and does not value himself, and I value him so much, so very much. I am frustrated; I am furious. I want him to recognize that I seek only to shelter him from harm. I want him to heed me. And I have yet again caused him hurt. What should I do to make this right?”

“You are struggling with this truth, my lord.”

“Aye!” Sighing, Aragorn reclined again and let his head slide back to rest against the chair. “Aye, I am. I have dreamed that meeting with Ferenhil, over and over. I see his withered old face sneering at me. Often I wake in the moment before he told me. Walking through the citadel or the city streets, focussed on a destination, I find myself back in that town. The dust and the tavern and the lodging house where the old man lived. Lives. I come back to myself and realize that I have been imagining it all, remembering it all. But my struggle is at least an answer I already have, Lendimir. Faramir is only questions to me.”

Lendimir finished his wine and set the goblet aside. “Sire, you must tell him the truth of it.”

“That I am his—” He blinked and imagined Faramir’s face blanching deathly white at such news, Faramir’s eyes widening impossibly with shock. The truth? You are my son, Faramir; you are my son and I... “Nay!” he spat, forcing the image from his mind. “I cannot do that to him. He has spent all of his years knowing his blood and his family, flawed though it may have been. I cannot do it.”

“Do what?” Lendimir demanded, leaning forward now, meeting his eye. “Tell him who he really is to you? Tell him that he has blood that flows still in Minas Tirith, that he has an enduring legacy? My lord, those things — the knowledge of his heritage, the knowledge of his lineage — are important to a man. They set him firmly in the world, give him a solid floor beneath his feet. They infuse him with pride, provide for his children when he has them. Falsehoods and ignorance can never be so solid, even though they may appear to be. Only the truth can fill a man’s heart. But more than any of that, I say to you Faramir would want to know the simple fact that he has a father. Not a dead father who treated him poorly, but a live father who worries and loses sleep and gets angry, and who thinks so very highly of the man he is. ‘twould explain so much, shed light into so much of your recent behaviour toward him. I think that Faramir must be greatly confused at present, and that he would want such answers indeed.”

“You think so.” ‘twas preposterous, the idea. Stirring up ancient ghosts, ancient crimes.

“Aye, my lord,” Lendimir confirmed. “I think so.”

---

Time could contract itself when it willed, shrink down into a singular point. A moment. A heartbeat wherein the heart contracted, evicting its blood, then held itself in a tight little ball, held itself empty, fisted, closed to all. He sat, back to the door, tense.

The words had silenced themselves and now there was no sound to plague him. Hours must have ticked by and taken themselves off to wherever time went when it wasn’t hanging around underfoot, but he paid them no heed. Only the silence mattered. Memories were damnably talkative things, like ghosts that just would not shut up. They could not simply linger in the back of a mind and let themselves be ignored — nay, they had to be loud and persistent and intrusive. Oh, he was grateful for silence.

And then the silence edged away too. Faramir did not move, nor did he unwind his limbs from about themselves, but at the first faint footfall and rustle of clothing he set his ears to listening. Someone had approached the door, outside in the hall, and then stood there rather still as if unsure whether or not to knock. It could have been a timid servant or page, reluctant to disturb the steward. Or perhaps Anthorn, the greenest and most timid of the guards, the one who he had been stupid to accompany. It could have been anyone in the towering stone citadel, any one of the diplomats or the soldiers or the messengers or the servants.

But he knew ‘twas the king.

He unwound himself slowly, gazing at the open window. The steps came again from out in the corridor; they retreated: the king was moving away. They halted and then resumed, growing louder: the king was returning to the door. More rustling of fabric, a fitful and fidgety sound. Faramir squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, ran a hand through his hair and rose. The rustling outside ceased. He turned, blinked a few times, pressed his fingertips against his eyelids and breathed deeply of the night air. One tug at his clothing; he opened the door.

King Elessar stood, waiting.

“Good evening, Sire,” Faramir greeted, pleased with the strength of his voice.

“Faramir,” the king said, then fell silent.

“Would you like to come in, Sire?”

“Aye — nay, nay. I do not wish to bother you.”

“‘tis of course not a bother, Sire.” Faramir stepped back and motioned smoothly into the chamber. He waited for the monarch to move, to stride confidently forth and assume command of the space. Kings did that. They took whatever place they happened to inhabit and made it unequivocally theirs. They breathed their authority into the air itself, into the walls and the floor. They claimed everything, because everything was their right. Faramir waited, but there was no such movement from the king. Faramir waited, studying the floor, studying the king’s unmoving legs and the hall beyond, a spot of dust gathered in the open door. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Sire?” he asked conversationally.

“I... ” King Elessar began, holding forth a scroll. “I have brought something for you.”

Faramir took the scroll. It felt light and fragile in his hands, old. “What is this, Sire?” he asked.

“A letter written by your mother, to a friend of hers.”

“My mother?”

“You know that I spent time, years ago, in service to the House of Denethor.”

“Aye. I just did not suppose that Thorongil would ever have been presented with opportunity to meet my mother. She lived a secluded life: my father saw to it. At her healthiest she still tired easily and spent much time resting. And after she took ill, she received no visitors at all. I would be surprised to learn that she was ever in a position to meet people outside of the servants and her court.”

“Well, she... was. And I was as well — presented with opportunity to meet her, I mean.”

Faramir did not unroll the document. “So, my lord?”

Still in the corridor, King Elessar studied him for a minute, inscrutably. “It says you are my son, Faramir.”

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