There had been no birthday gifts, again.
What a petty thing, Faramir thought. What a small, trivial
occurrence to be mulling over, to be so upset about. A birthday was
only another day in the life of men, and gifts were only material things.
Was not he the Steward's son? He had plenty of things.
He had lots of interesting books, and the king's library
was within easy reach. He had a big room facing the west, and wasn't
the sunset breathtaking when it was seen from his window? He had a soft
bed in which he could leisurely rest, new clothes made each year, a
decent meal tree times a day. He had a wise tutor teaching him history
and elven languages, and a competent master at arms to make a skilled
warrior of him, one as good as his lauded brother.
He had his brother's love, and the sure knowledge to be lavished
with exotic treasures on his return from duty. What should he care about
not getting anything now, when in two months Boromir would be there,
hugging him and making him laugh, showing him in every way possible
how valued he was, how cherished, how special?
What should he care?
If his training peers congratulated each other with loud
voices, but nobody cared to ask him when he was born, or shied away
from, in order to congratulate him too. If the cook had not prepared
a treat for him, as it was his wont, long ago. If the librarian had
driven him out his reading bench without a second thought. If father
had… had forgotten, again, to see him at least. If he didn't bother
to merely send him a glance at lunch, when he was so busy talking with
his councillors. If he didn't find the time later to visit him at the
training yard, or in his room, or simply for crossing his path in the
long citadel corridors and say… something. Anything.
Who could blame Denethor for forgetting, or ignoring Faramir's
birthday? He was the Steward of Gondor; he had a land to deal with,
and a war to fight.
Who could blame Denethor, indeed? Not Faramir himself, he
bitterly decided.
That would be an ungrateful response to the unimportant,
small, insignificant hurt for being unloved.
FIN
