Title: I Serve My King
Author: Kiara Kiara_Rogue@hotmail.com
Pairing: um....kinda quasi Aragorn/Faramir
Rating: PG
Summary: Faramir ponders his life in a not cheerful way.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything but my mopeyness.
Faramir and his King belong to King Tolkein and his minions.
Authors note: This is my first Lotr fic, if it sucks, don't hate me, just mock me.



I serve my King.

Odd, how that phrase means so much more than I thought it would when I played at adulthood with my brother in our youth. Oh, it still means honor, and great responsibility and strength, and bravery. But now it means more.

Now I stand on the outer walls of my home since birth and I see that it means far, far more. It means that I am trapped. Imprisoned at his side, living in pain and anguish. It means that I cannot leave this bloodied world and join my Father, my Mother, my Brother where they have gone. It means that no matter how I long for the darkness, there will always be my duties and him, bright, beautiful, terrible him to draw me back from it.

I serve my King.

And I will forever hate him for it. I am embraced by a beautiful wife, when I should be embraced by the cold earth. I am Prince of a land beautiful in its healing, when I should have been Captain to my pathetic end. I am father when the world should walk barren of my line. I should make things right, this very moment! Cast myself from the battlements, plunge to my deserved demise among the peasantry who mill below. But I will not.

For I serve my King.

My Father knew what my fate was to be. He knew the best action to take for me. He always did. He knew that I must find my end at his side. But still I remain. Every day I disobey his wishes. I always was a willful, disobedient fool. My head in the clouds and the histories. I should have fallen. Boromir fell. Boromir did as he was bidden. But I remain, foolishly.

All to serve my King.

I lean forward a bit, gazing south, trying to glimpse the sea as my mother did so often. She often stood in this very spot, wasting away in longing for that which was beyond her reach. When I was little, she would set me on the top of the wall before her and rest her chin on my head. “Faramir, love, so you see it?” She would ask, and I would nod just to make her happy. “Do you see Dol Amroth? Do you see Edhellond?” And I would nod and look upon her and for a moment, when she gazed at the distant mountains I would almost be able to see those far off places in her eyes.

Now I long to take up my young son and set him before me, as much to keep me from jumping as to hold. I wish to ask him, perversely. “Do you see it? Do you see my death? Do you see Finduilas? Do you see Denethor?” Perhaps when he turned he would see the dark despair that lies always behind my eyes and he would cry out in fear.

I tremble as I stand, staring out toward my mother's land. I feel weak. I must be wasting away with longing as she once did. I can feel myself thinning as I stare, unblinking. Perhaps in another few moments I will dry up and crumble to nothing? I smile at the thought and fervently pray for it. And just when I think I may have the consistency of a snowflake, a firm, familiar hand grips my shoulder and I am brought painfully back to solidity. “Walk no more in shadows, Faramir.” I swallow down a frustrated sob and bow my head.

“I serve my King.”