His beloved King was, and always would be, a great and revered man. This Faramir knew, as he walked with his wife to welcome him in Ithilien.
It did not seem so long ago that Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, had been seated in Minas Tirith - the place and throne so loved by Faramir's own father. But the Steward of Gondor was dead - no! Not dead, for the title was now his, and Faramir still thought it difficult to think of it without thinking of his father, for the two had been so intertwined his whole life. He wondered if Denethor loathed that his lesser son had gained it not only through his death, but also through the blessing of Gondor's triumphant king. He wondered if Denethor was proud of him now that he was not only a Steward, but a Prince of Gondor.
He wondered if Denethor--
Éowyn laid a hand on his arm, and Faramir smiled, awakened from his dark thoughts, before stepping forward and bowing low at the waist. "My lord," he said to Aragorn, "I bid thee welcome."
Minas Tirith's rebuilding had been going well. Aragorn loved the city he ruled, but often he felt the need to escape its confines and ride towards Ithilien, where the woods were calming and its lords friendly and known. In Ithilien Aragorn could shed Elessar in his sleep instead of feeling the weight of the crown sink its claws deeper and deeper into his brow, until some mornings he was surprised to wake without blood in his eyes and hair.
But there was one thing he could not run from, in Ithilien. Minas Tirith had built a beautiful statue for the lost Steward's Son, for Boromir the Fallen, Boromir the Fair, beloved by the city he would have ruled if not for the King's return and his death. In Ithilien the statue came alive and took Faramir's guise, but slightly-changed.
Yet in Ithilien as well Aragorn was reminded of the love that Boromir had for his brother, the happiness Faramir had found, and he could not help but smile at the beauty and clarity of the gaze Eowyn turned to him.
It was a bittersweet, but Aragorn would prefer it to the near-suffocating bitterness of Minas Tirith. There was only Arwen, who was like a cooling sea breeze to Aragorn's being, but his duties and her own took him too often away from his Queen. This, too, was duty -- one he gladly with an eagerness that could be judged foolish.
He lidded his eyes, and shook away the thoughts, reaching out to clasp a hand around Faramir's shoulder.
"Thank you, Faramir," his voice was low, but it carried through the halls. "There is no need for such formality between comrades."
Stepping back, Aragorn looked over the halls again, and smiled slightly. "Every time I return to your city I find it has grown more beautiful," he said. "There is no doubt in my heart that I have chosen Ithilien's keeper well."
It took Faramir a moment to realize that Aragorn was not rebuking him, nor finding faults where none was to be found. It took Faramir another moment to realize that he was preparing himself for harsh words and harsher punishment - his fingers were curled into his palm, body tense and rigid, as though expecting an attack, as though the act could strengthen him against the glare from his better's eyes. None came, and Faramir blinked repeatedly.
"--thank you, my lord," he said, though in truth he was prepared to report Ithilien's progress had Aragorn requested it. The past days had been spent not in the comfortable and lovely company of his wife, but in the Prince's study. Should the King request it, he would be able to give a detailed account of all that Ithilien had gained and acquired since Faramir was made Prince of it. "Ithilien had already been flourishing even before its keeper had been appointed. All that it needed was someone with a hand strong and steady to guide its growth."
There was anxiety in Faramir's eyes that Aragorn knew not how to soothe. A King did not lavish praise easily; but not only did Aragorn hold back his words due to his station but also because he was not one to give false praise. Words lightly used were words with little meaning, and Aragorn knew better than most the weight of words coming from men of high status.
It was not merely the healing arts that he had learned from the Lord of Rivendell.
Aragorn's lips curled up slightly, the briefest of smiles. "Indeed it does," he turned away from Faramir to his wife, reaching out to take her hand. He pressed a soft kiss on the fingers. "My Lady."
A breath, "'Tis strange to speak to you in the hallway of your home, Faramir. I would like to see your garden, will you guide me thus?"
"As my lord wishes," Faramir replied easily, stepping aside and indicating the door towards his right. He smiled at Éowyn, noted that despite her loveliness and smiles there was a tinge of sorrow in her eyes and mouth that she could not hide, not from him - yet now was not the time to ask about it, despite his desire to soothe such away. He did nod at her when she asked that she be excused, as she had wanted to oversee the preparations for their royal guest and his entourage's meal. "You have come at an opportune time, my lord. The garden has been under my lady's constant attention and care - I believe you will agree with me that it had blossomed splendidly, even more so than the last you visited us."
Here, Faramir clasped his hands behind him. "It is our utter misfortune that the Queen is not with you. I have hope that she is well?" He had very few encounters with Gondor's beauteous queen, yet in those few moments he had found her to be accommodating and kind. There was little doubt in his heart that Aragorn had chosen well.
Long years of living had not taught Aragorn how to soothe and reassure, to heal the pain that lingered in Eowyn's eyes and the insecurity that still tugged at Faramir's heart. Aragorn's healer hands were for the body alone, but there was not a day that went by that he wished emotional wounds would weep and bleed like physical ones, such that the poultices and bandage knots he knew would be of some use.
But he chased those thoughts away once more. There was little he could do now. As King he could not heal every Man he came across, no matter how much he wished to. More than he ever thought he would when he was a Ranger still, Aragorn trusted in the strength hidden in the hearts of Men.
"I hope your garden live up to your words, Faramir," a teasing tone wove itself into his words. "For now I am filled with anticipation for what I might see."
He paused before he nodding, "Arwen is well, aye. She could not leave Minas Tirith at the moment for the repairs to the White Tower is reaching its heights, and she wishes to oversee it."
Faramir could not help the bittersweet smile that rose to his lips then, at the mention of Minas Tirith and its White Tower - for while Ithilien was now his home the City of Kings would forever hold a place in his heart. "I am glad to hear it," he said lightly, "and I do not doubt that it will flourish well under the Queen's care." How he longed to see it once more, to govern its repairs as his father had, long ago - yet Faramir knew it was no longer his place, for his role as the Steward is naught while the King was on his throne.
He opened the door, then waited for Aragorn to go before him. The garden would live up to Aragorn's expectations, this he knew. Éowyn had given it much of her love and attention, and the garden had responded in kind. He was proud of his wife's work - proud enough to let the greatest of men see it for himself.
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sagittariusly2012-11-12 09:24 am
aragorn
It did not seem so long ago that Aragorn, Son of Arathorn, had been seated in Minas Tirith - the place and throne so loved by Faramir's own father. But the Steward of Gondor was dead - no! Not dead, for the title was now his, and Faramir still thought it difficult to think of it without thinking of his father, for the two had been so intertwined his whole life. He wondered if Denethor loathed that his lesser son had gained it not only through his death, but also through the blessing of Gondor's triumphant king. He wondered if Denethor was proud of him now that he was not only a Steward, but a Prince of Gondor.
He wondered if Denethor--
Éowyn laid a hand on his arm, and Faramir smiled, awakened from his dark thoughts, before stepping forward and bowing low at the waist. "My lord," he said to Aragorn, "I bid thee welcome."
no subject
But there was one thing he could not run from, in Ithilien. Minas Tirith had built a beautiful statue for the lost Steward's Son, for Boromir the Fallen, Boromir the Fair, beloved by the city he would have ruled if not for the King's return and his death. In Ithilien the statue came alive and took Faramir's guise, but slightly-changed.
Yet in Ithilien as well Aragorn was reminded of the love that Boromir had for his brother, the happiness Faramir had found, and he could not help but smile at the beauty and clarity of the gaze Eowyn turned to him.
It was a bittersweet, but Aragorn would prefer it to the near-suffocating bitterness of Minas Tirith. There was only Arwen, who was like a cooling sea breeze to Aragorn's being, but his duties and her own took him too often away from his Queen. This, too, was duty -- one he gladly with an eagerness that could be judged foolish.
He lidded his eyes, and shook away the thoughts, reaching out to clasp a hand around Faramir's shoulder.
"Thank you, Faramir," his voice was low, but it carried through the halls. "There is no need for such formality between comrades."
Stepping back, Aragorn looked over the halls again, and smiled slightly. "Every time I return to your city I find it has grown more beautiful," he said. "There is no doubt in my heart that I have chosen Ithilien's keeper well."
no subject
"--thank you, my lord," he said, though in truth he was prepared to report Ithilien's progress had Aragorn requested it. The past days had been spent not in the comfortable and lovely company of his wife, but in the Prince's study. Should the King request it, he would be able to give a detailed account of all that Ithilien had gained and acquired since Faramir was made Prince of it. "Ithilien had already been flourishing even before its keeper had been appointed. All that it needed was someone with a hand strong and steady to guide its growth."
omg zarah idk how to play aragorn anymore help
It was not merely the healing arts that he had learned from the Lord of Rivendell.
Aragorn's lips curled up slightly, the briefest of smiles. "Indeed it does," he turned away from Faramir to his wife, reaching out to take her hand. He pressed a soft kiss on the fingers. "My Lady."
A breath, "'Tis strange to speak to you in the hallway of your home, Faramir. I would like to see your garden, will you guide me thus?"
shush
Here, Faramir clasped his hands behind him. "It is our utter misfortune that the Queen is not with you. I have hope that she is well?" He had very few encounters with Gondor's beauteous queen, yet in those few moments he had found her to be accommodating and kind. There was little doubt in his heart that Aragorn had chosen well.
I MEAN IT /hides under the table
But he chased those thoughts away once more. There was little he could do now. As King he could not heal every Man he came across, no matter how much he wished to. More than he ever thought he would when he was a Ranger still, Aragorn trusted in the strength hidden in the hearts of Men.
"I hope your garden live up to your words, Faramir," a teasing tone wove itself into his words. "For now I am filled with anticipation for what I might see."
He paused before he nodding, "Arwen is well, aye. She could not leave Minas Tirith at the moment for the repairs to the White Tower is reaching its heights, and she wishes to oversee it."
YOUR ARAGORN IS A *DREAM* THERE I SAID IT
He opened the door, then waited for Aragorn to go before him. The garden would live up to Aragorn's expectations, this he knew. Éowyn had given it much of her love and attention, and the garden had responded in kind. He was proud of his wife's work - proud enough to let the greatest of men see it for himself.