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Secret (PG) Print

Written by Bubbles

05 February 2006 | 52192 words

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Part 6

“My lord, there is certainly no need for apology.” Faramir rose, looking suddenly anxious. He smiled shakily, bowed and stepped toward the fountain where the angel’s tilted pitcher spilled. The workmanship of dwarves married, there, the water-work of elven-kind. Rugged and delicate came together and found their fit.

Aragorn’s mind took him to Finduilas again. Her quiet walk through the stony corridors of her lord’s home. Of her lord’s heart. Her delicate skin, warm and soft as rose petals under his hands. She had always laughed when he stroked the inside of her elbows. “Faramir,” he called.

“Sire, I should really be attending to my duties. This morning has escaped me, somehow. If there is naught further you require of me?” The steward moved around the fountain toward a path. An escape route.

“I said nay, Faramir. Come back here.”

“My lord, I—”

“Faramir!” Aragorn surprised himself with the bark. Somewhere nearby, a sudden quick rustle told him he had surprised birds into flight. What he watched was Faramir: the young man did not seem to startle at his voice but halted so suddenly that ‘twas as though movement itself had died, and stood there. Aragorn could see rigid shoulders and the lines of a straight, lean, angular body. He could see the back of a tawny-maned head, long arms, long legs meant for covering ground. “Come back here,” he repeated.

Faramir turned, stepped to the bench, turned again, sat. “I have pressing matters to which I must soon attend, Sire.”

“For now we talk.”

“As you wish, Sire.”

Aragorn stilled the fingers that moved toward his throbbing temple. “Would you please relax, Faramir?” he sighed. “I feel as though I sit next to a statue.”

“My apologies, Sire.” But Faramir’s back remained straight as an elven arrow.

“Alright then. We talk, whether you are relaxed or not. Your solitary trip out to the settlement was one of the most foolish acts I have ever had the misfortune to witness. Do you realize that?”

Faramir stiffened further. “I understand that I broke with protocol, Sire,” he said.

“Protocol be damned!” Aragorn snapped. “You risked your life!” He studied Faramir, searched for any sign of understanding in the young man’s eyes, any sign that sensible Captain Faramir comprehended the gravity of the wrong — and of why it angered him so.

“‘tis my life to risk.”

The words, so quiet and direct, so utterly lacking drama or emotion, struck Aragorn. He felt the breath leave his lungs even as into his muscles seemed to bleed a shocking sense of power. Anger rose like a tide in him, choking off his rational thought. Ignoring the dull thumping in his head, he twisted ‘round, seized Faramir’s shoulders, and forcibly hauled the steward over his knees. For the space of a heartbeat or two, Faramir hung tense and motionless, and Aragorn managed to find the words that had been momentarily flattened by his rage. “YOUR life to risk?” he seethed. Faramir began struggling to rise and Aragorn leaned forward, using the weight of his upper body to hold the young man in place. “Your life?” he repeated. “Your father has a thing or two to say about that!”




He sat, but his mind rebelled. His thoughts took him out from the little plaza, out and down the paths, onto a path that was eternal. Trees closed about him from either side, and they had naught to say. Trees knew how to be quiet, and they lived long peaceful lives because of it. The sky above was a perpetual blue — not bright, not dull, but just the precise flat-plane blue that could exist forever without being noticed. The air was neither too warm nor too cold, and his footfalls were silent. He glided down the path, ever down the path, and though others were surely about, there was no other soul to—

Nay. There was King Elessar, and he was not on his blessed solitary walk but trapped on a bench. Being scrutinized. Inspected. Measured. Being engaged — he wanted to leave. Being ordered to stay, and listen, and speak.

His earlier relief had left him, bleeding out like the blood of some small creature. An arrow had pierced its heart, or a sword. It had twitched briefly as the king had commanded him to stay. And it had reminded him of the way his own heart had fluttered upon seeing Elessar so still, of the questions he had asked in the House of Healing. ‘Will he survive?’ ‘Aye, Captain, surely he will.’ ‘Will he recover fully?’ ‘Aye, Captain, I surely do hope that, as does all of Gondor.’ ‘When?’ ‘Do you ask when he will recover, Captain?’ ‘Aye, and when will he wake, and when will we know of his faculties?’ ‘That I cannot say, Captain. But you should get some rest, my lord.’ ‘Nay — my place is here, with my... ’ ‘I should call you if he awakens in the night, my lord.’ ‘Nay — I should remain.’

So he had remained, heart fluttering, until Lendimir had seen fit to usher him from the stone chamber. He had turned on the threshold and directed the healers to transport their patient to the king’s apartments. He had lingered there, half in the room, half out in the hall, until they had agreed.

The relief was gone, although it had marked him. He listened to the strength of Elessar’s voice, and a small voice inside his own mind whispered thanks. It turned bitter and whispered accusations: he had caused it. He had brought the king to that. His actions had nearly killed an entire troop of soldiers... and the king of Gondor, the most noble man... He forced himself to pay attention, to answer the king’s queries, but even as he did so he also desperately wanted to be alone for a time. Just for a time. Just for a time longer, as he had so often wished in those grey dawns when he had risen from bed before his family. Pray, just a few moments longer before Father rises and begins listing my flaws. Just a few moments longer before Boromir must shift from playful older brother to staunch defender, pain flashing in his eyes as he pleads my case to our sire—

To his sire.

Oh... Faramir felt suddenly winded, empty. Boromir, his anchor. His tether, his connection to the light. Father had shown him darkness, suspicion, hate. Boromir had put an arm over his shoulders and pointed at the sun, at snow-capped mountain peaks, at birds in flight. ‘Look, Fara, look. See the way moss grows on the shaded side of a rock. See the way the spider’s web traps dewdrops that sparkle like little gems. See the way fish fight against the river’s current to reach their breeding grounds. See, Fara.’ Fara meant “adequate.” The adequate jewel. But Boromir, the prized one, had never dismissed him as adequate. Boromir, his teacher, and only half a brother to him. Only half a tether, half a tie. The sun dimmed.

The king spoke again, angrily, of the risk to his life. What of it, next to other lives? Next to the truth about him. Indeed, what of it? ‘twas his bastard’s life to live, and his to risk. He said so.

And then the world spun, crazily. Faramir did not register the king’s movement before he had been firmly seized and hauled over Elessar’s thighs. His mind snapped back from its wanderings as the bowstring snaps back upon the arrow’s release, and he hung still for a moment, assessing his position. The ground was before his face; the king had him securely around the middle. He felt his heartbeat turn urgent and his breath quicken in his throat; he began to thrash, seeking freedom.

A weight pressed down on him, and Elessar’s voice floated down with it: “Your life? Your father has a thing or two to say about that!”

Faramir closed his eyes and forced himself to cease his struggles. He felt the world closing in around him, as he had felt the walls of his father’s — of Lord Denethor’s — study close in on him so many times. Just the sight of the man’s belt or clenched fist had always been enough to suck the air out of his lungs and sap every last reserve of will in him. But he had never fought, for it was useless to do so. There would be no freedom from such weight, from such strength levelled against him. There never had been. Soon the pain would begin, and this time ‘twould be delivered by a different hand. A different voice would call him weak and worthless, and a different pair of eyes would glare their disgust at him. But the pain — that would be as it always had been. Faramir drew a shallow breath, as quietly as he could, and found an odd bitter comfort in the consistency of pain. No matter what else changed, some things remained. “Aye, my lord,” he whispered.




Aragorn felt Faramir’s body go rigid and still, the muscles tight. The young man fairly trembled, but even that quivering was restrained as though through sheer will. He read anxiety in every line, apprehension.

Fear. Shame lanced through him at Faramir’s whispered surrender. He ran through a silent litany of Westron curses, then threw in a few Sindarin ones for good measure. Damn! Damn it all — how could one man be so stupid and callous? How could he keep frightening and wounding this damaged soul? And what in all the hells was he to do next?

Slowly, the way one moves when cradling a broken limb, he eased his torso back. His left arm lay around Faramir’s waist. He straightened until he was sitting erect, and Faramir stretched like a board over his lap. He ran his eyes from the crown of the young man’s head down a body so tense he could envision it snapping, shattering and falling in pieces onto the stone. And he had intended to strike that body in anger—

“Faramir,” he said quietly. “I am not going to hurt you.”

Faramir neither replied nor moved to escape. Silence moved into the space, and Aragorn listened to his own breathing. He could hear naught of Faramir’s, but he could feel the warm slow pulse of life against his thighs.

“Faramir,” he repeated, this time reaching down to lift the young man, “I said that I will not hurt you. You should rise.”

In response, Faramir allowed Aragorn to lift him; he eased himself back off the king’s lap and then, rather than standing, slid down to kneel before the bench. He seemed to study the ground for a moment, then raised his eyes slowly to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “S-sire,” he breathed, “I do not—I do not know what to say. You are not going to... t-to... deal with me?”

“Not like this,” Aragorn replied. He struggled against a cold viscous swell of hatred. Denethor, that supposedly noble man, had raised one son in love and respect and sent him joyously out into the world. The problem was that Denethor had been entrusted to raise not one, but two — and the second son had gone without. Without affection, without care, without even safety within his own home. Denethor had, in his wisdom, created a strong and proud warrior out of his eldest; he had reserved his praise and his esteem and his good counsel for the first son.

The noble Denethor had, for the second, reserved his pettiness, his frustration, his fury, and all the dark things that a parent should never let a child see. Aragorn struggled against his own rage lest Faramir mistake it for rage directed at a disobedient steward. He drew a breath to steady his voice. “Faramir,” he said, “I make a vow to you this day. I shall never, ever do as Denethor did. Do you understand me? I vow this to you—”

“Sire,” Faramir interrupted, “prithee stop. Do not continue, for you owe me no vow. You owe me naught. I—I have behaved reprehensibly, flouted your orders, and you have already shown me far too much mercy. I des- ... I deserve not such kindness.” The steward’s pale face had flushed slightly.

“You do.” Aragorn choked on the words; tears stung his raw throat. Again he stilled his hands: they wanted to reach out and stroke Faramir’s unruly locks. Although his eyes had filled and begun to overflow, he did not try to wipe them. “You deserve kindness and respect both, and patience whilst you adjust — whilst we both adjust — to this truth. I am your father, young one, but even were I not I would still value you — look at me, Faramir; do not shake your head. Do not look away, for I am as unguarded here as I will ever be, and I need you to see me. I need you to hear me when I say that I value you. For your sharp mind, your sensitive heart, all the things I saw in you long before I met Ferenhil and heard his story.”

Faramir held Aragorn’s gaze, his eyes unreadable. “You sound... like Boromir, Sire.”

“Boromir was wise,” Aragorn said softly. “Far wiser than many knew. He saw all that is worthy and beauteous in you — how could he not love his little brother? I feel such gratitude to him for his care of you, and I shall never be able to tell him that.”

“But you think me stupid, Sire—”

“Nay, never. Never.” Aragorn shook his head to silence Faramir’s protest. “Never, my Faramir, could I think thus. That was my worry talking, running away with me after I saw you dealing so reasonably with men who had hurt you. ‘twas my frustration with what I believed to be your carelessness. I had no idea how to speak of it to you then, for I could not reveal why I was feeling these emotions with such intensity.” He felt again the stirrings of fear, and wondered if there was aught he could say to make Faramir understand. “I still struggle to talk to you,” he admitted, finally reaching his hand out to gently tap Faramir’s temple. “Not here,” — and he lowered the hand then until it rested over Faramir’s heart, — “but here. Here is where I want my words to be heard, for here is where their meaning overcomes their crudeness.” Under his palm he felt the slow throb of a life he had helped into being. The truth of it, dizzying, washed over him. “I would sooner die a score of deaths,” he avowed, “than journey toward a place wherein you fear me, my son.” He withdrew his hand. “Go in peace,” he whispered. “Go.”

Fleet as a shadow when the torch flares, Faramir was gone.




The day rose, peaked, began to wane with the vagueness in which early spring cloaks herself. He walked the passages of the citadel, aimlessly. He walked the passages of his memory and found them cold. Stone echoed around him; it would never be soft or warm and it would never yield. Down a road he had taken himself, and if at one time he might have blamed circumstance or fate or the omissions of another, he now could blame naught but his own damned callousness and stupidity. He had a son. He had a son.

He had a son! And this son was so damaged—

Ai, Elbereth. Damn. Damn it, damn it, damn it. Aragorn rounded on the wall, swinging. His fist connected with a thud that satisfied him only until its echoes faded down the long corridor. When he pulled back his hand it was bloody. Oh gods, it had been hours. Faramir had run out of the garden hours past, a silent fleeing shape.

A ghost, one who had spent a lifetime slipping silently through the world and would have continued in such silence had he not reached out and laid a claiming hand.

He turned, squared his shoulders and sneered at the blood-smeared wall. His desire may have been silent and hidden even from him, but he had so wanted a son that when the chance arose he had charged for it. Warg-like he had chased down his prey, spouting nonsense about blood and family. Faramir’s face hovered before him, blue-grey eyes accusing. All he’d had to do was leave it alone, leave the young man to whatever bliss or torment the House of Denethor had imparted, be the king, be the strong man he supposedly was.

Nay. He sneered again and snorted. Nay, the mighty King Elessar had wanted a son, so the mighty King Elessar had gone out and claimed the son he’d never known. Of course.




Funny that the gardens had called him back to them. Faramir chose his paths seemingly at random, but a part of his mind was intent on its customary task, that task now holding as much weight as it had ever held. He chose, without choosing, the walkways quietest and least likely to take him within view of the citadel. His ears listened without his awareness, filtering sounds. Distant laughter could turn him the way it would turn a wild deer. Footfalls or the rustle of clothing could turn him.

He paused in another small stone plaza, eschewed the benches and the fountain and stood near the tile’s edge. Order gave way there to chaos, civility to wildness. But even that chaos and wildness was tame, cultured, contained. Trapped in the liminal space, neither one nor the other, indefinable. Between a bush and a tree, spanning those two worlds, a spider wove her parlour and invited guests in for tea. She seemed calm, happy enough, certainly dedicated to her duty. Leaning toward the web, Faramir blew on her — a sudden blast of wind. Startled, she ran to the centre of her creation and froze there. She had no idea of that which lay beyond. She had no want of it, and could not have reached it with all her desire to move. Faramir turned away.

The citadel, though he could not see, was still where he had left it. His office was still there, his duty waiting. King Elessar was still there, waiting.

Back toward the web. He bent and his fingers closed around a stick. Clattering it between the tree trunk and the bush, he destroyed the delicate structure. The spider clung for a moment to the quaking remnants of her home, then dropped on a single line of silk and disappeared into the undergrowth. Faramir swept the stick up and down a few times to clear away the last strands; the tree and the bush were separated again, as they should always have been. No mindless thing should have spanned those two realms, linked them, and grown fat off the exercise!

“Begone!” he yelled, throwing the stick.

“Did the branch anger you, my lord Steward?”

Faramir pivoted and looked. From the path opposite where he stood, the head of the guard nodded in greeting.

“Captain Lendimir,” he sighed. “I do not have to tell you that you startled me.”

“Nay, you do not. And I apologise, my lord.” Lendimir stepped into the plaza and circled its far edge. He seemed to keep one eye on the younger man.

Faramir drew a breath and straightened just a touch. “Is there aught that you need, Captain?” he asked.

“I was looking for the king, my lord,” Lendimir replied.

“He is not here, as you can see.”

“Aye, indeed.”

“Do you need aught further?”

“My lord?”

“A simple question, Captain.” Faramir struggled to keep irritation out of his voice. “I merely wonder at your continued presence.”

Lendimir regarded him openly for a moment. “Have I been dismissed, my lord?” he asked.

“Aye. Nay.” Faramir sighed. “My turn to apologise, Master Lendimir,” he said. “It has been a trying few days. However that is no reason to turn my temper on you.”

“I do not mind, my lord,” Lendimir replied evenly. “In fact, I was seeking out King Elessar precisely because he has endured a trying few days, as well.”

Faramir studied the guard master. “Has the king... spoken to you about his trials?”

“Somewhat,” Lendimir said. “He is a private man, not wont to divulge overmuch to any soul. And of course he is the king — I am a loyal guard, a servant. Of many years’ service, but nonetheless a servant I remain.”

“His Highness respects the soldiery,” Faramir replied absently.

“Aye, my lord. But we are his men first, before any of us may be a friend. And we are certainly not family.”

Closing his eyes for a moment, Faramir nodded. “He has been... troubled?”

“Greatly, my lord. He admits that he does not sleep well, if at all. His mind strays from duty, from the realm. He walks about in a self-assured manner, and all who see him may full believe him alright, but he is weary and heart-sore. A terrible burden he carries.”

Faramir raised his eyebrows at the guard. “Burden?” he asked.

“Aye, my lord,” Lendimir said softly. “He has found something of immense value, something he had hoped for but never allowed himself to imagine, only to lose it again. He blames himself for the loss. He curses and castigates himself viciously for his errors. He fears this precious gift will never return to him. He fears even more that it will return, and that he will prove himself unworthy of it. It has become the most important thing in his life, more important than his life... ” The captain nodded once, smartly. “May I be dismissed now, my lord?”

“Aye,” Faramir murmured, staring at the tree. “Go in peace.”




It read: “Your Most Noble Highness.” Your Most Noble... . Your Most Noble Highness.

Aragorn read the hail once more. Most Noble Highness. There were lines after that. A request for... something.

He threw the paper. It wafted over his desk to land out of sight on the floor. No matter — he’d read the damnable thing twenty times if he’d read it once, and he had yet to recall what it asked of him. Only that it asked, that it called him “Your Most Noble Highness” and then put its paper hand out. A few coins, Your Most Noble Highness. A few bags o’ grain, or a spot of ‘elp with these bothersome orcs. They keep killin’ the slower townsfolk, ye see. A soldier or two, per’aps? Your Most Noble ‘ighness?

Feeling a rush of heat in his face, he rose and circled the desk, and carefully retrieved the letter from the floor. It would be carefully read and answered. Normally the steward would take care of it—

Damn. Aragorn moved to gaze out the window. The sun was setting, shining gold off wet roofs, glittering in wet streets. Gondor was not setting but rising, no matter how heavy his thoughts might turn. She was like a bird, a great white bird whose pinions had been broken, whose wings had been smashed and had taken long to heal. She was healing now. She was readying herself for flight.

Where in Arda was Faramir? A possibility lanced through him, but Aragorn as quickly forced it from his mind. Of course the young man was still within Minas Tirith — probably in the gardens. They were cold and lonely. Just the kind of place Faramir would go.

A low knock at the door. He heard it and yet it did not immediately register as a thing that should require any response from him. Silent, he waited. He was not altogether surprised when it sounded again. “Enter,” he called, nigh overwhelmed with the sense that, whoever was on the outside of that door, he did not want to see them.




The walls had closed around him protectively, or perhaps with the cold mind of a predator: he could not be sure about their intent. Always his home had worn two faces. Solid and seemingly eternal, it reassured all within. No bad things could come in and disturb their lives. But into its stone had soaked years of raised voices and crying and loneliness that sounded like an empty hall. Sickness and death had blossomed in it, slowly, and a terminal anger had flown in on their heels. The wood and stone had seen and heard so much — how could they not have absorbed malice along with the memories?

Faramir cursed himself silently. Folly, such thoughts. The king’s office door was in front of him and he was standing there silent, pinned in place, waiting as though the gods themselves would give him a sign. Enter or leave. Enter or leave.

Advance or retreat.

He turned away, watching the corridor stretch off. Rows of closed doors stood like vanguards of the private things, and behind them were rooms where a body could disappear. He listened to the echoing silence, broken by distant clicks of boot soles, muted thumps as other bodies slipped in and out of rooms he could not see.

He reached without looking and knocked on the door. There was no answer from within. A moment passed and he pursed his lips. Walking away was the better thing to do. He knocked again and put more insistence into it.

“Enter,” the king’s voice called.




The door opened. Aragorn turned back toward his desk. Reports and requests both were always best met when the king was seated with official quill and seal at hand. Lord Elrond had spoken of decorum more than once. Apparently it was the appearance that mattered. And ‘twas unfair, he knew, to label the Lord of Imladris a slave to image, but he did not quite have the energy to disagree with himself.

“Sire?”

One word was all it took, and Aragorn’s senses pricked. The air hummed with that word. The office filled with it. Like music. Like the harmonic voices of a song. Faramir! He turned again.

Faramir bowed. “Do I intrude, Sire?” he asked.

“Nay,” Aragorn replied breathlessly. “Not at all.” He stood for a moment, silent. “Come,” he urged, then. “Come sit.”

“Aye, Sire.” Faramir moved to a chair, one on which he had perched often, at his monarch’s behest, and relayed guard reports or security concerns or administrative missives. He settled on it with as much ease as he had ever felt in the king’s office. Odd, he thought: in that place of utmost formality and protocol he found his stride. His heart slowed; a calm flowed into his blood. Out in the pretty cultured gardens, in the halls, in his own private rooms he was anxious. In the king’s office, the heart of Minas Tirith, he was entirely confined and yet he could breathe. He eyed the solid desk before him, the gulf between king and steward, father and— ‘twas no matter. Stilling his hands in his lap, he waited for King Elessar to settle.

“I am glad you came,” Aragorn said. He leaned back in the chair and let his arms rest in his lap, then he leaned forward again and crossed them on the desk. It didn’t feel right. “I have been... wondering... if you would feel like — that is if you be amenable to a talk. A talk would be productive right now, I should say. If you wish, that is. If you wish.”

Amenable? Faramir blinked at the rush of words from Elessar’s lips. “A-aye, Sire,” he replied, feeling suddenly as though he were the more composed of them. “I would welcome a chance to speak with you.”

“Good! Good.”

Faramir looked to — at — the king. He blinked, focussing. Through all that had happened, he had not really looked at this monarch. This... man. This man. His eyes started at the crown of Elessar’s head and ran down short hair that still tended toward the unruly. Over a brow traversed by little lines, little chasms of time. Down to high cheekbones, down over short well-kept whiskers. A mouth that was still at the moment, rather tight and thin. Down further to the desk, where crossed arms revealed one hand balled so that the knuckles wore a white blush. Up again, over a regal nose to grey eyes. Serious eyes, expressive eyes. More little lines etched into the skin around them. There was a vague shadow below each, as though part of the shadow the nine walkers had defeated had managed, somehow, to evade their swords and arrows and had taken up residence in plain sight, ever close to one of its mortal foes. He finished his study and began again — shoulders hunched a bit as with tension, skin on the cheeks and brow pale. Strain reached into it all. The man was knotted and bent. Faramir pondered his own strain, his responses, his decisions.

“Faramir?” Intrigued at what the young man would say next, Aragorn had held silent as Faramir had, it seemed, appraised him and mused. On what? The ways he had crowded in on the steward’s privacy, the offences of his past, the omissions and excuses of his present? His clumsy attempts to bridge the distance created by a lifetime apart? Ai, he read the look Faramir directed at him and knew that it was censorious. He had failed in so many ways.

“Aye, my lord,” Faramir replied. Meeting Elessar’s eyes once more, he took in their darkness. But not darkness, he realized, so much as lack of light. Aye, when he saw the king’s face in his mind’s eye there was always a light about it. A spark, a flame that burned in its depths. The power of a powerful ruler, but also the spirit of a spirited and noble man. The light seemed to have gone out of this man’s eyes. Like skies plagued by a storm, they had clouded over. The sun was gone, driven off by worry and weariness. A burden too heavy even for such a strong man to carry. With a dull throb in his breast Faramir realized: he had cast those clouds. He had put that burden on the man’s shoulders.

“What are you thinking?” He was afraid to know. Faramir had resumed that odd silent look that suggested study. Appraisal, consideration, judgement. Aragorn winced inwardly at the sound of his own voice. The question came out so unsure, so plaintive and needful. Had he not burdened Faramir enough?

“I... ” Faramir closed his eyes, but only for a moment. Elessar’s voice did not sound right, either. Such a strong voice was not supposed to tremble and sound weak. He sighed. “I am thinking, my lord, about... the things I have said. A-and the things I have done.”

Aragorn blinked. “Oh,” he said. “I must admit, I have been doing much of the same. I have... erred so often—”

“Nay,” Faramir interrupted, holding up a hand. “Please, my lord. You have not.”

“I have, Faramir.” Shaking his head, Aragorn tried to process the turn in conversation. Faramir was accusing him of naught, and the young man was wrong. He searched for words. “I told you such a heavy truth,” he said finally, and let the statement hang there between them.

“Aye,” Faramir nodded. “But you carried the weight of it long before you informed me. I have contemplated very little since you showed me my mother’s letter — I confess that. Although my mind has been a whirl, it has for the most run in circles. I have asked few questions, choosing instead to throw accusations and anger. I have walked about in a haze of my own making, and aye, ‘tis still that I struggle with this knowledge. But in my own suffering, it has not occurred to me that you would suffer as well.” He untangled his fingers and wrapped his hands around the arms of his chair. He studied the edge of the desk. “Indeed,” he continued more quietly, “I believe I have harboured enough anger as to enjoy any suffering I might have seen in you, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded and waited for Faramir’s eyes to creep back up to his own. “I can understand that,” he replied. “I have also been angry.”

“At me.”

“Nay. Well, Aye. I have been, but my real anger is aimed elsewhere.”

“Elsewhere... ?” Faramir gasped. “You are angry at her? Why?”

“She never told me.” Aragorn raised his hands before himself in a helpless gesture. “She told me naught. Not even when she must have known there was little time— Faramir, she-she handed you to HIM, as his son, and she knew what he was as a man. She had to know how you would be treated—”

“But Fa— Lord Denethor — did not know. I am sure of it, my lord.”

“I... hope not,” Aragorn breathed. “For then ‘twould all be my fault. Indeed it is, no matter how I might wish to avoid the truth. I cannot even be angry at your mother, for I was responsible. She was lonely — what could she do? She was married; she had a son already. She had to do as she did. The blame can only lie with me, then. My involvement with her, and my leaving. I am so sorry, Faramir. I cannot begin to say.”

Faramir gripped the arms of the chair. “Nay,” he replied evenly. He could hear Elessar’s breathing hitch and stutter, as though the man were close to letting drop that strong and stoic mask they all knew. He did not want to see behind it — not yet. “Nay, Sire” he said again. “You did not know, and as far as either of us will likely ever be able to say, neither did... Lord Denethor. You are not responsible for aught that he said or did. That belongs with him, my lord.”

Drawing a deep breath, Aragorn calmed himself. He felt suddenly fragile and exposed, and he forced his fears down. He would not lose control altogether in front of Faramir, and leave the young man to comfort him! ‘twould not happen. He met Faramir’s eyes. “I know that I could change naught of Denethor’s heart, nor of his actions,” he agreed. “However, I have no other to blame for the way I have treated you of late.”

“How have you treated me, my lord?” Faramir asked.

Aragorn shook his head. “You need me to tell you? I have treated you with callous disregard. I have questioned your skills and your judgement, and even your intelligence. More than once I have spoken to you in anger. I—”

“What, my lord?”

“I struck you. I failed to apologise. I drove you from Minas Tirith.”

“I see.” A wry smile tugged at his lips, and Faramir let it. “My lord, I see that perhaps we have both done this.”

The smile appeared genuine, and Aragorn stared, intrigued, at Faramir’s face. “Done what?” he asked.

“This,” Faramir replied, motioning between them. “Sire, you recall the words you said, and the night you slapped me. You recall ‘driving me away.’ I, in contrast, recall the words I said to you. The times I failed to exercise caution, which has always made you angry.” He reached forward and laid his palm on the desk’s smooth edge. “That night you struck me — I had just desecrated the memory of my own mother. I deserved a slap across the face! And although I was greatly burdened, the decision to leave Minas Tirith without a guard was my own, my lord. I was so eager to leave that I gave little thought to the consequences of it. But I knew—” Leaning back again, Faramir shook his head. “You came after me, Sire. You put yourself in harm’s way, and harm came to you. You did that for me after I had shouted at you and run away like a petulant boy.

“Of course I would,” Aragorn nodded. “Always. As it should be. But later, in the garden... I... ”

“You let me go, my lord. You tried to speak to me about the folly of my actions, but I was beyond listening. I was lost in my own pain, as I have been. You became angry, and rightly so, but when you realized you had frightened me you let me go. Not a word of censure or correction.” Faramir sighed. “I have behaved badly. I am struggling still with the truth that you have acted out of concern for me. As... family would act. And in my struggle I have made serious mistakes.”

“Then we both have,” Aragorn murmured. He smiled, feeling somewhat steady inside for the first time in countless days. “I am glad that we are speaking of this, Faramir. There has been too much unsaid.”

“Aye, Sire.”

“I must make another confession to you.”

“My lord?”

“I do not quite know what to do next.”

Faramir nodded. “I am at a similar loss. Perhaps... we could speak again?”

“Of course,” Aragorn replied. “Any time you wish; any time you are ready.” He studied the young man. “You look weary.”

“I am, my lord.” He searched Elessar’s face again, then. The darkness had lifted somewhat, the tension eased, but the shadows were still there. “But if I may, my lord, you look more weary than I.”

Aragorn’s smile widened. “It has been a difficult time.” He would not have wanted the conversation to end, not ever, but he could read Faramir’s fatigue. He could feel his own. “Perhaps, for now, we should both seek our rest.” Nodding once, he rose.

Rising as well, Faramir bowed and turned for the door. It was open, and he halfway out of the chamber, when he spied a pair of the guards striding away down the hall. Galinir was on the left, limping. Galinir, married and father of two, had rushed into Eden Aur and been stabbed in the thigh by a villager wielding a hunting knife. Recovery would be long and uncomfortable. Faramir stepped back into the office and closed the door. For a moment he stood grasping the handle, gazing at the rug.

“Faramir?” Aragorn said. The young man had seemed increasingly at ease during their discussion, increasingly like the steward he had long known. Quiet and reflective, aye, but also friendly. Warm, once in familiar company. Now the tension had returned, and he held his breath and waited.

Faramir raised his eyes and turned to face Elessar, fighting a sudden urge to fidget. “Sire, I must tell you... when I made for Eden Aur I knew that I was putting an already delicate diplomatic situation sorely at risk. I said earlier I did not think overmuch before leaving, and that is true. But I had hours to reflect on the way there, and I knew I was wrong to go. I was disobeying the protocols in place for our security. I had lied to the boys at the gate. Most importantly, I also knew I was putting lives at risk and doing it all out merely to ‘get away’ for a time. I did not allow myself to be honest, pretending I had little choice in the matter and needed to be away from Minas Tirith. But I did know the truth of it, and I never considered turning back.” He shook his head. “The men who were wounded taking the settlement—”

“Minor wounds,” Aragorn soothed. “As you know. A few scratches, really. Naught serious.”

“They could have been.”

“But they were not.”

“They could have been, so easily. Sire, you could have died. Because I hared off without a word.”

“Faramir, what are you saying?” Aragorn felt the anxiety flowing from Faramir’s tense body, filling the office and thickening the air.

“I... ” Faramir closed his eyes, unable to believe the turn his thoughts had taken. He recalled the garden, Elessar’s voice, the counsel he had refused to hear. “I think, my lord, that you were right earlier — when you... when you attempted to, or thought to—”

“Faramir,” Aragorn urged, “Say it. Whatever ‘tis.”

“I think you were right when you put me across y-your knee, my lord.” Sucking in a steadying breath, Faramir nodded. “I think you were absolutely right. I was beyond reason, and I deserved it. I... deserve it still.”




Aragorn felt his jaw slacken, but he stared open-mouthed at Faramir for a long minute before it occurred to him that he was staring open-mouthed at Faramir. Then he closed his mouth and pursed his lips, half turned back to the desk. Finally, his mind seemed to snap back into place, and he shook his head. “Nay,” he said simply.

“But Sire—”

“Nay, Faramir. I was about to punish you thus in the plaza, in the heat of anger. But I saw your fear.” Crossing the room, Aragorn stood before Faramir and looked the young man in the eye. “I felt your fear. And if you recall, I vowed to you then that I would never do to you what that man did. Never, Faramir, no matter how angry I may be.”

Faramir’s blue-grey eyes grew distant for a moment before focussing again, and a touch of colour appeared on the steward’s fair cheekbones. “I do not expect you to do to me what Lord Denethor did, my lord. Lord Denethor never struck me to ensure my safety, nor to see me not repeat a grave mistake. When I was in need of correction, it was usually delivered by... my nanny. Or by Boromir, or occasionally my tutor.”

“Your nanny?” Aragorn asked quietly, his curiosity transcending his urge not to press, not to pry into such a dark and painful time.

“Ayan,” Faramir nodded. “Her love for me was a thing I never had cause to question. After she had been sent away and I placed in Master Anthor’s care, he took to correcting my behaviour. He was far less affectionate than Ayan, but he was fair and just and he took no pleasure in punishing me. When I was beyond his reach, ‘twas usually the guards who took the greatest interest in my conduct. And Boromir, of course.” He smiled faintly. “I do not mean to imply, Sire, that I was perpetually in trouble. I did not earn punishment often, likely due to my reserved nature.”

Returning the smile, Aragorn quirked one eyebrow. “That would have been me, Faramir. As a boy, I seemed to possess a special talent for finding trouble. It never had to look for me: I was always on the hunt for it. My Adar used to say that I even outdid the twins.” Remembering the topic, he sobered. “You say Lord Denethor never punished you for mischief or disobedience. But he did... ?”

“Aye, my lord,” Faramir replied evenly. “When he chose to strike me, especially later in boyhood, ’twas never for a thing that I had done, but rather for a thing that I was. Or was not.”

“I do not understand.”

With a dip of the chin Faramir offered what seemed like a shrug. “I would not expect you to understand, Sire. Lord Denethor did, I am certain, believe himself my father in blood. But when he looked at me he did not see himself, a strong and tested warrior. He did not even see his older son, a strong and promising young man. He saw me. Weakness. That reserved nature I mentioned, which was tied to my shyness. A “gentle” spirit, which was indeed little more than a stomach too faint for the truths of life. Lord Denethor saw this and tried to beat it out of me.” Faramir shrugged more apparently. “He was never successful, Sire.” There showed no trace of disturbance on the young steward’s face, but a hardness had crept into his normally fluid voice.

Aragorn listened, waiting. He opened his mouth to interrupt, and fought to check his own bitter reaction to mention of that beast of a man. Finally he held up a hand. “Faramir, do you tell me that your nature, your spirit, are... do you believe Lord Denethor was correct about you? That you are weak?”

“I believe, my lord, that I—I had many lessons to learn about life.”

“As do all boys. And most men.”

“Aye.” Faramir furrowed his brow. “Perhaps that which set me counter to my apparent sire was simply the evidence of my real one.”

“Then you believe me weak,” Aragorn replied dryly.

“Nay!” Faramir exclaimed, losing the hardness and becoming, for an instant, the passionate and animated young man who had negotiated many a perilous diplomatic course. “Nay, Sire. Of course I do not believe you weak.”

Aragorn recalled his own childhood, the obvious joy Lord Elrond had taken in teaching him the healing arts. “If I told you,” he said, “that as a boy I demonstrated a love for reading in addition to my propensity for mischief, or that I used to take great pains mending the hurts of wild things, would you amend that assessment?”

Faramir shook his head. “Of course not, my lord. A love of books and a love of creatures need not be weakness. And look at the man you have become, my lord.”

“Aye,” Aragorn nodded. “I would suggest you look into a mirror yourself, Faramir, and do the same.”

“Aye, my lord,” Faramir murmured. He eyed the floor for a moment, then glanced up and met Aragorn’s eyes again. “What of my transgression, Sire?”

Aragorn laid a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, pleased that the young steward neither flinched nor attempted to withdraw. Touch had always seemed problematic for that soul. Little wonder why. He nodded again. “It shall be duly addressed, as you say.” Looking into Faramir’s blue-grey eyes, he read the flickering light there and wondered if it burned from relief or from shame, or from fear.




The king nodded at him and acquiesced, and Faramir experienced a momentary sense of satisfaction. His error would be... not erased, not undone, but dealt with so that he would at least not look upon Galinir and the other guards and feel so keenly the weight of his failing. And mayhap he would be able to evict from his memory the stillness of King Elessar’s unconscious form, in that little town filled with the angry people.

He felt apprehension flow in on the heels of the relief. What did he ask of his king? An act frightening in its closeness and in the pain it involved. Elbereth. Ayan had taken him easily in his boyhood; Boromir had never made him afraid or ashamed. His tutor and the guards had been fair, never malicious, never cruel. If he had shrunk away from Fa... from Lord Denethor, he had never withdrew from the rest of them in the same way. They had tried to reach him, to correct him; he, having made the mistake that occasionally found him in such straits, had paid them the honour of remaining. And so he would again. But his neck felt tight and warm; his stomach fluttered. The muscles in his shoulders were bunched.

His nerves were alight, and he himself had kindled them.

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