Faramir Fiction Archive

Unexpected Blessings (NC-17)

Written by Nissi

14 November 2006 | 18644 words

Chapter 4: The Terrible Feeling of Freedom

The fourth account of Faramir, son of Denethor, husband of Boromir II:

It has been a cycle of the moon since construction on the memorial began. The stonecutters have informed me the statue of my beloved brother is ready for unveiling. I am anxious to see it, hopeful that they captured him perfectly. Those who saw the creation have told me it is eerily lifelike. I am pleased to have, with invaluable aide from Legolas, brought Boromir some life again.

I remain with my wife, still full of guilt for my dishonesty, and dubious that my union with her is not an infringement upon my vows to my husband—however much Legolas protests the notion. The elf asserts that Boromir would want me to live, not dwell in the darkness of melancholy, but Legolas also does not seem to understand the pain it brings me to be in a loveless partnership with Éowyn. Her love is wasted on me. I am emptying her heart and ruining it for one who might give her what she dearly deserves. She is a beautiful, giving woman. She should be with one who will appreciate her. But I have not the courage to set her free.

I have not lain with her since my return. She does not question this lack of intimacy, as it is normal for us. Yet I see in her eyes the desire to be closer to me than I allow. She was so cold when first I saw her. Now she is warmed, and I am frosted.

On the morrow we shall reveal the memorial in all its glory. Elessar will officiate a simple service in Boromir’s honor. Many have come to pay their respects. My house is full of guests—the king and his consort Arwen, who is heavy with child; Legolas and several of his elves; Gimli and two of his dwarven kin; and a host of men from Gondorian territory, with many arriving from Minas Tirith in the morning.

There is a celebratory mood to the gathering, with a great feast organized by Éowyn in Rohirric tradition. Yet my mood is somber. I have tried to present a pleasant face, but my hurt remains fully intact. I know the intuitive Arwen senses my discomfort, and it is lost on neither Aragorn nor Legolas. I have subtly avoided private time with all but the Silvan, chief among my friends and the only soul with whom I trust my truest thoughts. I cannot face dissection of my emotions with either Arwen or Aragorn, as genuinely fond as I am of them, and as touched as I am by their care.

I will be relieved when the throng has departed and I have time to be alone with my thoughts and memories, walking Boromir’s memorial, and remembering my dearest love—my only love—in peace.

Penned in Emyn Arnen, seat of Ithilien, territory of Gondor.

The ceremony had been an emotional affair, with many weeping openly—men and women alike—but Faramir remained stone-faced, cold, and distant. He was clearly caught in a web of his anguished thoughts, his grief chiseled into his countenance. The unveiling of the statue brought gasps and sobs, as the statue did in fact capture Boromir to the last detail. It was splendid, majestic, and possessed a commanding presence—precisely as Boromir did in life.

Faramir refused to leave the memorial’s gardens to wish his guests well on their journeys. He would not take meals, even when Estel himself brought a platter of fruits and cheese to him. Defeated in his attempts to feed his Steward, the king merely sat beside him silently, watching as Faramir stared tirelessly at his brother’s form.

Night fell, and all retired to their chambers. Faramir eventually trundled to his bed, tired beyond reckoning. He found the room empty and, placed carefully upon the pillow, the leather cylinder containing his most private, desperate thoughts rested beside a folded note.

Instantly Faramir was hit with a wave of fear and panic. He realized that in the haze of his pain he had carelessly left the tube upon the desk, instead of secreted securely away. He walked slowly towards the bed and lifted the note gingerly, as if it was poison.

Swallowing hard he unfolded the parchment and immediately recognized Éowyn’s handwriting. With mounting fear he read:

My dearest husband,

I found this upon the desk this eve, and curious as to its contents, I read what was surely intended to be a dearly private journal. I am sorry for this invasion of your privacy. I am sorrier for what I found in your pained writings.

The changes in you were apparent swiftly after our marriage. It was as though a lever had been pushed inside you, and you changed from the brightly smiling, compassionately supportive, freely loving man who had wooed me to a morose, distant, and puzzling being. I never pressed you to reveal your thoughts to me. I realize now that perhaps I should have so done, as it would have saved me the pain of discovering your true feelings, and the secrets you carry, in this way.

I will keep your secrets with me, Faramir, and never reveal them to another. I am an honorable woman and this you know. I have no wish to further ruin you by sharing with anyone the truth of your relationship to Boromir. That you were not a free man when you wed me, but a husband still tightly bound to his ever-loved spouse. Burn this note when you have read it, my lord, and have a care to keep your journal hidden at all times.

I am returning to Edoras, and I shall stay there. Our marriage is, in my eyes, dissolved. It was never a true union.

My heart yearns for my country and my people. I will live in my brother’s halls, and I will be happy again, Faramir. Mourn not my loss; I free you from your guilt.

But I cannot free you from your pain. I know well you will pine for Boromir forever. I wish your future brighter, but I do not trust such hope. Only you have the power to unlock your heart—to open yourself and accept the light of love from those who would give it to you.

For my part, I go now to find my own bliss. Our lives will go on, husband mine, but they will do so separately.

Farewell, Faramir. May Eru bless you.

Fondly,
Éowyn, daughter of Theodwyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan

Clutching the note in his hand, Faramir collapsed upon the bed and wept bitterly.

He wept not for Éowyn’s departure, but for the feeling that followed its discovery. For the first time since wedding her he felt guiltless and free. And he cried for it. He feared he truly had become a callous, careless monster.

He feared that his heart would never again accept the light of love.

The following day Faramir had no choice but to face Aragorn, Arwen, Legolas, and Gimli, all of who remained at Emyn Arnen and would no doubt notice Éowyn’s absence. And even if they had returned to their homes, word would quickly spread that the White Lady of Rohan was gone.

Faramir could not explain the full reasons for her departure, as they were deeply rooted in his secrets. Legolas knew well the underlying cause, but the rest were informed that Éowyn’s and Faramir’s own distinct grief made in them personalities that were not conducive to a marriage, and that it was decided, for the betterment of both, that they be apart. Faramir guessed that Éowyn would give a similar excuse to her own people. It would be both a betrayal of her promise of discreteness and a humiliating admission for her to say otherwise. Her husband was wedded to his own brother, and could not find love enough in his heart to give her. Even if Faramir had wanted his secret released it was not a declaration she could have possibly made.

When all but Legolas had left his home for their own, he faced Legolas in the privacy of his bed chamber.

“I am sorry for it, mellon nin. It was my hope that you and Éowyn might work through this—that you could find happiness with her, given time,” Legolas sighed softly.

Faramir sat on his bed, staring into space. “It was bound to happen, Legolas. Ours was a marriage that could not last.”

“It sometimes takes more than the life of a man for elves to settle into love. Perhaps my perspective is different,” Legolas admitted. “But…” he added thoughtfully, “sometimes love comes to elves with surprising swiftness. I can see now how, after such a short time, you know that love will ever be absent between you and Éowyn.”

“It matters not, she is gone. She is not coming back,” Faramir said calmly. He looked up at Legolas and mingled stares with the elf. “Is it terrible that I feel…relieved?”

Legolas tilted his head. “Not terrible, Faramir.”

“Is it terrible that I feel almost pleased for the freedom from such guilt? She has left, and I am no longer betraying both her and Boromir. Now I remain what I should always have been: Boromir’s husband. His and his alone,” Faramir replied.

“It is not terrible. Your emotions are complex, Faramir. What you have experienced and what you are would puzzle most in Middle Earth. Your feelings are unique and dependent upon your status as widower to your brother. It is enough a burden to bear without the addition of guilt about failing to provide a wife with what you perceive she needs,” Legolas evaluated.

Faramir nodded slowly and looked to the ground. “I think I will take more time in the gardens, alone with my brother…or at least, his image.”

Legolas smiled sympathetically. “As you wish, Faramir. I will retire to the library. I am enjoying your extensive collection. Please, seek me if you desire company.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Faramir rose and placed his hand on Legolas’s shoulder. The elf returned the gesture. “You have been good to me. Better than I deserve,” Faramir smiled sadly.

“Hush,” Legolas responded. “You deserve happiness, friendship, love.” Legolas’s striking blue eyes shimmered with torch light. “I will give you whatever is within my capacity to give.” Quietly, tentatively, he added, “Anything.”

Faramir studied his friend’s face curiously. It was an unusual statement for the elf, and carried with it an emotion the Steward had never heard in Legolas’s voice. It was a riddle. “Thank you,” Faramir replied simply, extricating himself with a respectful bow and making for the memorial.

“_I will give you whatever is within my capacity to give…anything,_” replayed in Faramir’s mind. He shook his head and stopped in the pantry, collecting bottles of wine in which he might drown his enormous tangle of internal conflict.

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