Faramir Fiction Archive

Half-Hearted Holiday (NC-17)

Written by Laurëlóte

29 September 2006 | 19511 words

Chapter 2

As they prepared to leave a few days later, neither man was in a good mood. They both saw the whole exercise as pointless and a complete waste of time, especially when there were so many important things to be done within the city. Yet instead, they were being sent off by Éowyn and the king, in the hope they might become friends.

Although Faramir was willing to try for a final time, it was purely for his fiancées sake, and he was having difficulties seeing how in being forced to spend time with him, Éomer would suddenly find him a worthy husband for his beloved sister.

“Éowyn, I really can not see what this will achieve,” pleaded Éomer, making a final attempt to get her to change her mind. “Surely we are much more use here?”

“There is much work to do finding housing for those who have lost their homes and assigning what resources we have,” added Faramir, having assigned himself to helping all the refugees who had found themselves homeless during the war.

Éowyn smiled in amusement, if nothing else they had been working hard together to try and get out of the trip.
“I am sure we will be able to manage without you for four days. I promise to ensure that no one will starve in your absence. Now go, I will see you soon.”

Accepting defeat, both men sighed simultaneously; it was going to be a long few days.
All traces of teamwork vanished as they rode away, and Éomer was happy to pin the blame for the whole situation onto Faramir.

“You do realise that we would not be doing this if it was not for you. Aragorn is probably desperate to get rid of you, you are so highly irritating.”

As usual, Éomer’s reasoning made no sense at all, but Faramir decided not to point out that Aragorn had only agreed because he too found it impossible to say no to Éowyn. He was well aware of his considerable temper, and knew that if he said anything in retaliation, it would likely result in one of them getting seriously hurt. It was best to say and do nothing, and just let Éomer finish his ranting.

“I really wish I knew what Éowyn sees in you, you can not even stick up for yourself.”

Éomer hated the fact that no matter what he said, Faramir never once responded. Was he really that unfeeling, that he did not care what anyone thought of him? He was becoming desperate to know just what it would take to cause the younger man to react.

“All the time you should have spent defending your own home, you managed to spend in bed reading poetry, while my men did the job for you, and people still have the audacity to call you a warrior.”

Faramir had never classed himself as an excellent soldier, certainly not in the same league as Boromir, but he knew that he was very good with a bow and more than sufficient with a sword. Éomer’s comment was a step too far, he already felt bad enough about not being able to take part in the battle at Minas Tirith, but as he had been gravely injured as the time, it could hardly be helped. He definitely did not need snide remarks from some arrogant Rohirrim reminding him of the fact.

“Are you forgetting all the years I spent fighting in Ithilien, or are you just choosing to ignore the fact I was captain there?” asked Faramir coldly, not being able to refrain himself from commenting any longer.

He would not deny that he hated war and fighting, but he had risked his life many times to protect Gondor and his rangers, and although he would never admit it, he was very proud of it. The life of an Ithilien ranger was not for the faint hearted. Or at least, it never used to be, trouble in the area had greatly reduced in the area after the war had ended, and for that Faramir was highly relieved. While orc attacks still occurred, they were much less frequent.

“It is surprising the positions men can acquire simply from being born into the right family, skill does not come into it,” replied Éomer, deeming it unnecessary to add that he believed Faramir to be one of these men.

Faramir found the suggestion that he had gained his position simply on being the steward’s son alone, highly laughable, but instead of pointing out that his father would never have permitted such a thing to happen, be decided to turn the other man’s words against him.

“Well I must confess, I was wondering how you managed to secure your position as Third Marshal of the Riddermark. And now you find yourself a king no less. I strongly suggest that you work on your people skills before heading any important diplomatic missions.”

Faramir’s words stung Éomer like a slap across the face; he was unaccustomed to being spoken to in such away. Although they were harsh, they were fully deserved, and deep down, he knew that the young man was right. He was a warrior and certainly no king for a time of peace. He was worried that he would be unable to do the right thing by his people, and that was the main reason why he so desperately wanted Éowyn to remain by his side in Rohan; she was so much better at diplomacy than he was.

Lost in thought, Éomer ceased his verbal assault on the young man and an awkward silence descended upon the pair.

After a while, Faramir pulled his horse to a halt, and Éomer was unsurprised when the steward announced that they had reached the borders of Ithilien. Not knowing the land, he had let Faramir lead, and knowing his fondness for the region, had always suspected that was where they would end up.

“We can rest here for a while, let the horses have a drink,” said Faramir, dismounting and leading his horse to a nearby stream.

Éomer followed suit, unable to resist another comment as if did so. “So this is the famous home of the Ithilien Rangers.”

“It has always seemed unnatural to me, a group of men spending so much time together in the wilderness, without a woman in sight,” Éomer continued. “Must lead to all sorts of morally unacceptable practices. Your men all seem so… close. Tell me is having a preference for men compulsory, or is it just advisable?”

Faramir frowned and looked away, hoping not to show the anger, which ran through him. He was well aware of the rumours which surrounded his men, although he personally did not believe such relationships occurred any more frequently than in any other company, maybe even less in some cases. The close bonds which were formed were more like that of blood brothers than of lovers, as was so widely believed.

Sensing that the steward was close to losing his temper, Éomer turned his comments onto Boromir, knowing how close the brothers had been. He disliked speaking ill of the dead, especially words which were untrue, and had respected Boromir tremendously, for being a great leader, and an even better warrior. But being driven by an ever increasing need to push Faramir over the edge, he spoke the next words before he even had a chance to realise what he was saying.

“Of course, from what I have heard, Boromir would never have made a good ranger; he liked the ladies far too much. But I do not think he would have remained loyal enough to actually marry one of them.”

Faramir shot Éomer a warning glare, there was a line which was rapidly being crossed, and he was quickly losing his temper.

‘Just ignore him,’ Faramir told himself. ‘He is a king, and you will treat him as such. Just take a deep breath, and remain calm and relaxed.’

Despite desperately willing himself to relax, he felt his hands clench into fists. Éomer really was going too far this time. In a final effort to regain composure, he turned to walk away.

Seeing the effect he was having on the young steward, Éomer could not help but push him that little bit further. He had been trying for weeks to get him to lose his temper and he was not about to stop now.

“It would not surprise me to find out that there were dozens of baby Boromirs running about the streets of Gondor.”

Faramir snapped.

He spun back around, swinging his right arm as he did so, punching Éomer square in the jaw.

Falling backwards, the Rohirrim only realised what was happening when his back came into contact with the hard ground.

Before he had the chance to get back on his feet, Faramir was on top of him, with a look in his eye, which could only be compared with a warg’s who had been starved of food for several weeks.

Éomer was scared. Whatever reaction he had been expecting from the steward, he certainly was not expecting it to be this intense. He tried to push Faramir off him, or at least to reverse their positions, but found him to be surprisingly strong, and impossible to budge.

The attempt to move the man on top of him ended abruptly as he found a knife pointed at his throat.

“I do not give a damn what you think about me,” spat Faramir, still full of rage. “But if you ever attempt to dishonour my brother’s name again, I will kill you regardless of the consequences. Do I make myself clear?”

Éomer tried to reply but found his mouth too dry to speak. He was not used to not being in control, and the fact that he had no idea how far the Gondorian was prepared to go, terrified him. Faramir could kill him right here and now, no one would see, and who would disbelieve him if he said that they had been ambushed by orcs, after all, he never lied.

“I said,” repeated Faramir slowly. “Do I make myself clear?”

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