Minas Tirith
Mid-years’ Day, 3019 T. A.
Elrond’s eyes
roved the room, seeing yet unseeing, as the sounds of merriment filtered
into his ears. One did not need to be of elven kind to discern that
much merriment was taking place. But his heart was heavy. He wished
greatly for Arwen’s happiness, but he himself was not totally
happy with what guaranteed her that. Estel, he knew would love her,
and she loved Estel, but he was a father and he could not forget that
his only daughter was giving up her immortality. He would sail west
in the days to come, but she would not be sailing with him, and neither
could he look forward to her joining him ever.
But all that had
been discussed and ruminated over time and time again. He sighed silently
and tried to distract himself from his thoughts, looking around the
gathering instead. There were many faces, familiar and unfamiliar. He
noticed Mithrandir speaking to a tall, good-looking man whom he recognised
as the prince of Dol Amroth, having been introduced to him the day before.
Elsewhere a boisterous
group was making its presence felt, and he turned towards them, unsurprised
to fond his twin sons in it, along with the elf prince from Mirkwood,
and Gimli, the Dwarf. They were soon joined by a group of halflings,
and he smiled to himself at the mixed group.
His eyes kept roving
until the finally rested on a slender young man, standing alone some
distance away from everyone. He had been introduced to him too. Estel’s
Steward, he remembered, and Boromir’s brother. Like Elrond, he
stood alone, watching everyone a little wistfully and even the noisome
antics of the elves and hobbits would not bring more than a very faint
smile to the serious face. Once in a while he would join others in conversation
for a brief moment, his expression always remaining grave and courteous.
Elrond soon deduced
that the arrangements for the wedding were probably done by him, and
made a mental note to thank him later for it, for everything had certainly
been organized beautifully and right down to the last detail. He would
do that, he decided, soon, as soon as this strange moroseness left him,
if ever it would.
He knew why he felt
the way he did. But there was nothing he could do about that.
He turned to watch
the younger halflings up to their antics again. They were running around
now, laughing, when suddenly, they brushed past the Steward in their
hurry. For a second it seemed Faramir had almost been knocked over.
He seemed to rock back on his heels, his face twisting into something
like a grimace, his hand flying to clutch the shoulder that had been
bumped. The entire sequence barely lasted a few seconds, for almost
immediately the hand flew down and the features schooled themselves
back into impassivity.
Elrond frowned a
little and then shook his head sighing. This war had taken much from
everyone, he thought tiredly.
Elrond entered the
tiny garden in much the same frame of mind. The celebrations continued
late into the night. There was singing and dancing all over the city,
and not just in the citadel. Torches flickered everywhere, bright as
the stars as night approached. The residents of Minas Tirith were still
celebrating but here in this small patch tucked away near the citadel,
all was silent. But, as he walked down the narrow grass path, he realised
he was not the only one here, as he observed someone seated on a stone
wall overlooking the city.
He frowned, not
for the first time that day. He suddenly felt quite unlike himself.
He no longer felt like the Lord of Imladris. He felt depressed. He had
wanted to be alone. But solitude was obviously to be denied to him today.
He walked forward and realised that the man on the rampart was Faramir.
The Steward turned
as he came and stood at his shoulder.
“Lord Elrond,”
he said, standing up in greeting.
“My lord Steward,”
Elrond replied formally.
They stood in an
uncomfortable silence.
“You are not
at the festivities?” Faramir asked slowly.
“And neither
you,” Elrond replied coolly, making no attempt to cover his displeasure
at being questioned about his movements. It was really none of Faramir’s
business where he went.
“There is
naught the matter, is there?” came the worried question, and Elrond
realised that the original question had only been asked to ensure all
went well.
“Aye,”
he said in a kindlier tone, “I merely wished for some time alone.”
“I shall leave
you to your thoughts then,” Faramir bowed formally, recognizing
the obvious dismissal, and when Elrond simply nodded, he turned to leave.
As he turned, he
seemed to lose balance at the abrupt movement. Elrond dashed forward
and grabbed him.
“I am sorry,
just a spell of lightheadedness. It must be the wine.”
The lines on his
face told a different story. But Elrond decided not to pursue it further.
He too was feeling weary.
“I must offer
you my felicitations,” Faramir murmured.
“Felicitations?”
he could not hold back the bitterness in his tone.
“For your
daughter’s marriage,” Faramir began.
“I gave my
daughter away,” he whispered, almost to himself, “I have
lost her.”
“My lord?”
Elrond shook himself.
He must really be tired, he decided, to ramble like this in front of
a stranger, and one so young, at that. What would Faramir understand
of his loss? He was young still. He looked at him now, and noticed once
again the lines on the slightly pale face. Too many lines for a young
one, the healer in him said. Then he remembered the Steward had been
injured during the war. He seemed still to be recovering.
“You are tired,”
he commented.
Faramir stared at
him confusedly. He ignored the look, and began walking back to the building,
signaling Faramir to join him.
“I hear you
spent much time organizing the wedding. It was very well done. You have
my gratitude.”
“We have never
had a wedding such as this in Minas Tirith before. And after all these
days, it was good to have something to celebrate about,” the voice
sounded a little strained now. Elrond looked sideways at the Man walking
next to him. His pace was slow, and he held one arm to his chest as
though it hurt.
“Does your
injury bother you still?”
“Nay. It is
healed. Elessar, he – the hands of the king are the hands of healer.”
“Let me see
it,” he offered, “I know a little healing myself.”
The somber face
suddenly broke out into a brilliant smile, “You jest with me,
Lord Elrond. Elessar has often referred to your abilities as healer.
He said you taught him all he knows.”
“Estel is
as my son,” Elrond said very softly, his voice tinged with affection
and pride, and yet, unmistakable unhappiness.
There was no reply
from his companion.
Once inside, he
made Faramir lead him to his chambers, insisting on taking a look at
the injury. It would give him something to do, perhaps give him some
rest. He always felt at peace when he was healing others. He led Faramir
towards the bed and made him sit.
“A light tea
should offer respite from the pain. I will get some herbs from my room,”
he said.
“There are
some in that pouch,” Faramir pointed to a table. Elrond moved
towards it, and pushing away a pile of books found the pouch. Examining
it, he pulled out what he required for a brew to soothe the Steward.
“I understand,
not entirely, but a little . . . I do,” Faramir said quietly.
Elrond turned and raised an eyebrow at him, as he crushed a few herbs
into a small bowl.
Shadowed eyes looked
up at him, “How you feel,” came the faltering explanation,
“But you – you must – do not let them feel that .
. . you are angry,” the words now hurried out tripping over each
other, “You are not, I know that. I can see in your eyes that
you love them both. I know you are unhappy, but you love them. And they
know you love them. They are fortunate, and so are you.”
“Fortunate?”
he felt the angry bitterness seep into his voice, feelings that he had
locked away for years, “Fortunate that I will now lose my daughter
as I lost my brother once. Fortunate that they made a choice and I could
not prevent it.”
“Because you
did not want to,” Faramir said softly, “Because you knew
it is what they desired, and your love for them is strong.”
Elrond added a little
water to the crushed herbs, and glanced at the Man with an irritation
that he did not bother to mask, “Not strong enough to prevent
me from losing them. My brother and my child.”
“It is not
so,” Faramir began insistently. Elrond felt a furiousness build
up in him, as he had never felt before. He lashed out promptly, a reaction
he had never indulged in before.
“What do you
know of losing one as dear as a daughter?” he snapped out, grasping
his wrist tight. Faramir’s face paled. He unclenched his fingers
immediately, remorsefully yet still irked, and watched as the young
man took a deep breath, and straightening up stiffly stared back at
him out of clear grey eyes, that seemed to reflect a hint of sadness
and, as Elrond suddenly noticed, a trace of wetness.
He realised with
horror what it was he had said. But he could not help it, he realised
desperately. He should not have taken his ire out on Faramir, but it
was so easy to do that.
“Forgive me,”
he said quietly, and picked up the bowl. He should leave, he decided,
before he said anything else that he had not intended. He was still
angry and Faramir’s words were only fuelling his ire even more.
Faramir opened his
mouth to say something, but Elrond forestalled him by handing the brew,
“Drink that Lord Faramir, and speak not of matters you know naught
of.”
Faramir looked contrite
at that, “You are right. I know naught of matters of the heart
but perhaps I will learn soon,” he murmured, “The Lady Éowyn
has agreed to marry me.”
“You have
my felicitations,” Elrond said flatly. He had gleaned some such
thing when his sons had made a few canny remarks about the Steward to
the lady in Edoras. He was truly feeling tired. The events of the day
had taken more of a toll on him than he had thought they would.
“This brew
will soothe you and help you sleep,” he told Faramir, who seemed
to have sensed his disinclination to talk and had returned his glance
to the bowl in his hands. His voice came out harsher than he intended,
and he could see a fleeting expression in the young man’s eyes,
almost as though he were trying to restrain himself from cringing away
from the Lord of Imladris.
He berated himself
inwardly. This was unlike him. He had never before lost control of his
emotions like this, but seeing Arwen being wedded today and knowing
that he could not look forward to seeing her in the Undying Lands was
finally taking its toll on him. He had to maintain his stoicism in front
of his children and Estel for he had made a word and he must keep it.
“Thank you,”
came the quiet response.
It was when he returned
to his room, that he concluded he had acted in a truly shabby manner.
He had taken out his anger at the situation on a young man he hardly
knew, and one whom he had offered to heal. The long walk to his chambers
had made him think back to his conversation with the Steward, and he
realised how restrained the young man had been despite everything he
had said.
*What healing must
I have provided? * He thought bitterly, *I made him sad. He has lost
much more. *
Making up his mind,
swiftly, he returned the way he had come, not even bothering to change
out of his ceremonial robes.
When he reached
Faramir’s chamber, he notice to his consternation that the Steward
was not in bed. He walked in quietly, and then noticed that the young
man stood slumped against the wall in the balcony, the moonlight streaming
onto a pale visage with eyes closed, and hands clasped tight around
the chest. From where he stood, Elrond could make out the unmistakable
silver glint of tears marking his sunken cheeks. And on the table lay
the bowl full of brew. Down below, lights were still on all over the
city, indicating that the celebrations continued. Strains of music wafted
up to their ears, as did sounds of laughter and joy.
“Why are you
not sleeping?” he demanded a little annoyed to see his instructions
had not been followed. He had thought from the young man’s behaviour
that he was serious and sensible, and would do what he was told in such
matters, for he seemed the type who would not like to let his work suffer.
He had not realised that, like his foster son, this human, too would
require to be force-fed medication.
Faramir turned in
surprise, his expression changing to an almost wary one as he realised
it was Elrond who had walked in. He shrugged unhappily.
“Can you sleep?”
the voice was low and haunting, tinged with a note of bitterness, “Can
you sleep, Lord Elrond, at the thought of separation from your daughter?”
Elrond did not answer.
The question hit him and he found himself walking up to the Man. The
wan face turned towards him with questioning grey eyes, and he shook
his head automatically.
“Then atleast
rest yourself knowing that you have not let her down,” this time
the bitterness was unmistakable.
He reached out for
Faramir’s shoulder, but the Steward simply flinched from his touch.
His face had developed an ashen hue.
“Do you love
them, my lord?”
He found himself
nodding immediately. He had always treated Estel as his son, he had
given him the love of a father, and now he had given him his daughter.
“Then, tell
them My Lord that you do so. It will not have the value from another’s
voice that it will have from yours.”
The voice continued
in that same haunted tone, “We tend, do we not, to forget what
remains over what is lost and what will be lost. But, it is not the
fault of those left behind that they were left behind, is it?”
Elrond found himself
getting a little worried. Faramir’s eyes seemed glazed over at
some kind of thought, “Or perhaps it was my fault after all. Had
I gone in Boromir’s stead, father would still be alive. But I
did not. And he is dead and so is father, and I live on, but what is
life worth without them?”
“You must
not speak so,” Elrond started uneasily.
“Look at them,
My Lord,” Faramir cut in, pointing down at the lights around the
city, “They are happy and content. Why do I not feel so?”
“You must
rest awhile,” The half-elf said quietly.
“You spoke
truly, My Lord,” Faramir continued unheeding, “There is
nothing fortunate in watching others leave you. But you – you
will avoid that when you sail west. What shall I do? Remain here, and
rue my existence each time the city celebrates and I feel disinclined
to join them?”
Elrond opened his
mouth to speak, but then noticed Faramir sway slightly. He was by his
side in an instant, and helped him onto his bed promptly, forcing him
to lie down against the pillows. Belatedly, he realised the Steward
still wore the ceremonial attire he had donned for the wedding. It seemed
just a little crumpled. Faramir had an air of imperturbability that
seemed to have penetrated down to his clothes too.
“Why did you
not have the brew?” he demanded.
“It tastes
vile,” Faramir muttered tiredly.
Elrond sat by him,
and gently ran a hand through the soft hair, hoping the constant motion
would calm him own and put him to sleep. His fingers touched the dark
circles under one eye a little tentatively.
“When did
you last sleep for an entire night?”
“I cannot
remember,” came the slightly hazy reply, “I have always
had dreams. Even Éowyn heard me dreaming once in the houses of healing.
She was very scared, but she still helped me.”
Elrond could see
there were more than vivid dreams to the haggardness he could plainly
see.
“Would you
like me to stay a while with you?” he asked quietly. He still
felt a little guilty over how carelessly he’d behaved earlier.
Faramir had lost his family, was alone except for his uncle, and had
had to trust the realm to a new king. With Estel getting married, Faramir’s
responsibilities could only have increased.
Grey eyes looked
at him with longing now before the look slipped away, “You must
be tired,” came the murmur.
“I will stay
with you for some time,” Elrond said, stroking the pale cheekbone
lightly, causing Faramir to sigh contentedly, “but you must have
that brew.”
He helped him sit
up, and still keeping an arm around his shoulder, handed him the brew.
He supported him with a hand against his back, feeling the bony spine
against his fingers. Faramir was unlike Boromir or even Aragorn in build,
slimmer and more graceful, and Elrond remembered the tales of there
being elven blood among the people of Dol Amroth, for surely this young
man had the wisdom of the Eldar about him. He was sipping the brew slowly
now.
He helped him take
off his long tunic, a rich blue adorned with fine-threaded embroidery
in many colours. Elrond examined his shoulder. The dart had left a wound
that was now just an angry, red scar.
Faramir’s
expression was still a little strained and tense when he had finished
the tea. Elrond tightened his hold on him, and quietly took the bowl
from him. Placing it on the table nearby, he grasped Faramir’s
hands, and held them gently until the young man looked up at him, his
face now relatively composed.
Gently he took the
lean face in his hands and placed a light kiss on the lined forehead,
surprising Faramir a little. He suddenly laughed bitterly, causing the
young man to glance questioningly at him, “This is it, is it not?
We are both here, alone, and pitying ourselves. Come let me give you
company this night then.”
“Your company
I would never refuse, My Lord,” came the heartfelt reply.
“And some
comfort also I may offer, I daresay. There is much we can speak of together,
I am told.”
Faramir smiled a
little, “You will not let me indulge in self-pity then, my lord?
Very well, I shall give you company this night and accept what comfort
you may give, and offer much the same in return. I hear your library
in Imladris has many wonders?”
Elrond laughed at
that and then responded to Faramir’s quizzical expression, “You
are the first person I have come across who asks of the library first,”
he said, still laughing.
Faramir smiled almost
ruefully at that, “I -,” he started and then realising there
was nothing he could say in response simply shrugged expansively.
“It must be
beautiful,” he said finally, and then on impulse, clasped Elrond’s
hand where it rested on his lap now, and holding them, continued, “These
hands, they built the wonder it is.”
Elrond stared at
the Steward bemusedly, as he continued running his fingers over his,
and spoke on, “And they heal.” Bending his head down he
kissed Elrond’s fingers.
“Yes, child.
I can only hope they would heal you too.”
“They already
have, My Lord.”
Elrond lifted his
other hand, and gently stroked the damp face in front of him. Something
in him seemed to melt at the touch. He felt an intense desire to offer
more than just a simple comfort to his young friend, for he could think
of him as nothing else now.
Their lips met soon
after that, neither entirely sure, later, of the sequence of events,
just that they were soon holding each other and comforting each other
with lights caresses and kisses. It seemed to Elrond that this one night,
he needed companionship to an extent he could not recall yearning for
many centuries now. They fell back against the soft bedclothes, and
made love gently but not with the slow, pleasurable pace of long time
lovers. It was gentle, yet not lingering, it brought not so much pleasure
as comfort, an act designed not to be repeated but to be remembered.
They held each other
as though afraid that letting go might let go of the entire moment and
neither wanted to be deprived of the other this night. They lay awake
after that, not speaking, but quiet.
When the rays of
the sun wafted in through the windows, Elrond stirred a little, forcing
Faramir to look up. He looked into the young man’s eyes, startled
by the depth of clarity he could see in them. He had wondered what to
say, but now he knew he would not need to say a word. Faramir understood.
Elrond could see that. He could also see the depth of gratitude shining
out of those eyes, where the night before he had merely seen despair
and sorrow. His own heart felt at rest today.
“I must leave,”
he said, knowing Faramir would understand, and that he would hear the
gratitude in his own voice.
Faramir nodded.
They let go of each other, and rose silently, pulling on their clothes.
When they parted, it was with the usual formal assurance of seeing the
other at the morning meal.
Edoras
14 August, 3019 T. A.
He had just one
last farewell to bid. It would hurt, he knew. He would never see his
daughter again. It hurt already. He sighed as he looked into the grey
eyes that patiently rested on him, as he stood in front of Faramir,
clasping his hands, and wishing him happiness and joy. They had spoken
oft after their night together, the young man’s endless curiosity
and Elrond’s patient explanations perfect foils for each other.
He now bent forward
and lightly kissed him on his forehead, before embracing him briefly.
Moving apart, he glanced towards Arwen, and felt a light, reassuring
grip on his wrist. He nodded his farewell to the Steward, knowing he
had in him a friend for what was left of his life on Arda and then moved
away to talk to his daughter. He would say what he had to say, listen
to what she had to say, and then leave. For there was much to be done
in Imladris, before he left for the west.
The End
