Faramir Fiction Archive

I, Faramir (PG-13)

Written by Surreysmum

21 February 2011 | 7582 words

Day 4

I woke up this morning groaning at my own obtuseness. It has suddenly become clear to me why Aragorn thinks it necessary for me to perform this silly daily ritual. Really, I should learn to listen more closely when he speaks. “For the last couple of months,” he said.

It’s true. It pains me grievously to admit it, but I’ve been nervous and skittish around him ever since that night two months ago when he and I had to take shelter from a snowstorm in the cave behind the falls up at Henneth Annûn. It’s a night that I have been carefully avoiding thinking about, let alone mentioning here. And he wants me to write about it and get it out of my system.

All right. I concede. Today I will write about it; but I will not examine it. Today’s task is merely to set down what happened, as clearly and as honestly as I can. Taking it (and myself) apart can wait until tomorrow. After all, it’s not as if anything untoward actually happened, really…

I don’t know whether my weather sense has diminished as I have grown older, or whether I was just distracted by the sheer pleasure of having Aragorn’s company all to myself for a few days, but I did not see that snowstorm coming, even though so far into Northern Ithilien in mid-February, it was hardly unexpected. Aragorn and I were on what he calls (usually with a sly grin) a “royal progress” – a horseback tour of the small towns and villages in some region of his realm, where he charms the townsfolk and I have a quiet word with the tax collectors and other officials, making sure all is being conducted fairly.

Though it can be hard riding sometimes, these expeditions are still a pleasure, not a chore for me. I pride myself that I have stayed fit and hardy; not that I’ll ever match Aragorn in that respect, with all his natural advantages. There’s nothing I can do about the creeping grey in my hair, or the little wrinkles that appear in unexpected and undignified places. Nonetheless, my body’s still lean and strong and able to do what I ask of it, thank the Valar. As for him, he doesn’t look a day older than he did the day he was crowned; in fact, I think as he has grown more potent and more confident in his rule, that haggard look has dropped away from him, and if anything he looks younger, irritating man that he is! (Though none of us has cause to indulge in vanity with the Elves around).

Anyway, somehow we managed to get ourselves well out on that isolated road that runs up the stretch of the Anduin near Henneth Annûn without realizing that the temperature had risen slightly and the snow that had been whispering lightly round our ears all day had begun to come down thick and fast.

“We’d better take shelter for the night,” Aragorn said, huddling into his cloak. “Think you can still find your way behind the falls?”

“Could do it blindfolded,” I said confidently, though it had been many years since either of us had made use of this wartime hideout. It was still very much a secret, known only to those of us who were or had been Rangers, and though it was almost never visited now, no-one had ever bothered to divest it of its primitive furnishings.

We threaded our way through the narrow passage and into the darkness of the rough-hewn cave. A fire had always been out of the question in this place for fear of discovery, and now it was out of the question again for a simpler reason – no firewood, and no desire to go in search of it. So it was not just dark, but cold, very cold.

I have seen Henneth Annûn in all seasons and all weathers. I have seen the the Western sun glow in through the falling water more times than I can count; I have seen the river curtain glisten and sparkle cheerfully at high noon and gleam in sinister moonlight. On this wintry eve, the water fell sullenly, thickly, almost invisible against the snow-filled air without. I stared at it for a moment, then turned and bumped into Aragorn in the darkness. He laughed and clutched at me for balance, his features indistinct but his breath faintly visible in the gloom right before me.

“Warmth, I need warmth,” he said urgently, though with a tinge of self-mockery. “Don’t I recall there was some kind of bedding in this cave? Some blankets, perchance?”

Into my mind unbidden flashed a vivid memory of Frodo and Sam on their low, makeshift bed that night they came unwillingly into our midst, Sam tense and protective of Frodo even in his sleep. I felt my way over to a nook under a small overhang in the corner, and found what I expected, a thick pile of blankets. Quite possibly they were the same ones that had given the hobbits whatever small comfort they found.

Together we pulled out the blankets and shook some of them out, checking with gingerly touch to be sure they were not too badly sullied by time and small creatures before arranging them against the driest wall of the cave. Aragorn seated himself upon them.

“Come here then, ye worthless varlet, and make yourself useful for once, as my warming pan,” he said in a laugh-tinged drawl.

“Anything to please Your Highness,” I responded with feigned breathlessness, “anything at all!” And I let him draw me down to sit between his legs, my back to his chest.

It’s a game we fall into sometimes, only when we’re alone of course, this little by-play of spoiled Prince and fawning servant. I’m not quite sure why we do it, except of course that it amuses us both, and perhaps reassures us that such a thing could never happen in reality. For we were comrades, soldier and leader, long before we were servant and master, and Aragorn guards my dignity, and that of all his men, as if it were his own.

Except, of course, when he is whining, “My hands, ye fool, my hands are shaking with the cold. Warm them at once!”

Laughing silently, I pulled a couple of blankets up to our shoulders, then seized his hands and brought them to my stomach, where I covered them with my own. “I beg forgiveness, most noble Highness,” I said, not begging anything. I looked back over my shoulder and caught the flash of his wolfish grin in the darkness.

“Any news from your son?” he asked in his normal tones, though his hands stayed put (they were, after all, in a nice warm place).

“Wynnie had a note from them the other day; apparently Gwennie’s growing big as a house. The midwives are predicting a healthy boy,” I said, and then went on and on about it just like the tedious old grandfather-to-be I am.

I won’t waste paper on all the things we talked about that evening. Politics. Horses. The renovation of the royal treasury and archives. More politics. Just all the usual things.

Oh, but speaking of the archives, I did tell him about a regrettably imperfect and mouldy parchment I’d found that contained a transcription of an ancient ballad I’d never heard of, and to my surprise he said he remembered hearing that one sung many times at the court of my grandsire Ecthelion, when he served there under the name of Thorongil. He sang it to me then, as much as he could remember, and I tried to make mental notes. But he has promised to write it down for me sometime. He has a pleasant voice; he should sing more often.

We talked a bit too about my young apprentice, Orodreth. Aragorn insisted some years ago that I take somebody on to do some of the more laborious paperwork, and I must say we made a good choice. The lad – well, no, he’s a young man now – is full of energy and aptitude, and apparently gets along with Arwen like a house on fire. Aragorn laughed and said his only failing is that he’s sometimes a bit too helpful. It’s good to know that when the time comes there will be someone who can take over my administrative duties without a hitch. He has a good name for it – there was an Orodreth amongst my ancestors – and though my son Elboron will inherit the ancestral title, he doesn’t show any signs of wanting to help run the royal household.

As I made that particular observation, I gave a big yawn, and Aragorn promptly matched it. So of one accord we slid deeper down amongst the blankets and dozed off without any trouble. My last sleepy thought as I listened to the unchanging thunder of the waterfall was of Frodo and Sam in that place, anxious and quietly terrified, and I thanked the Valar once more that the world had changed for the better.

I grow sleepy now, thinking about it. I will have to finish this tomorrow.

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