Author's Note: Hello and welcome to the prologue of "To Whatever End". I have only a few short, but important notes before I begin. Firstly, this story is A.U. and includes both a Faramir/OC pairing and the traditional Faramir/Eowyn pairing. If any of you have read my fics before, you know I am terribly fond of the question "what if"? This fic, therefore, is an attempt to answer a question that jumped into my mind some time ago. What if Faramir had been married when he meet Eowyn? I originally explored this idea in my one-shot "A Dutiful Husband" and this fic may be considered an expansion of it. However, despite the A.U. tendencies of this story, I do have the deepest, greatest respect for Tolkien's masterpiece, so I will try to abide as close to canon as possible and touch on some of the aspects of the wonderful Faramir/Eowyn pairing. Secondly, although the prologue takes place pre-War of the Ring, the story itself will be set in during the post-War of the Ring years in Gondor and Rohan respectively. Thirdly, please take the time to leave some feedback if you can. Whether you like, hate or couldn't care less about this story, I'd love to hear from you. So often do I get ideas from my reader's critical feedback and of course, I am always happy to hear your opinions. Now on with show! I do hope you enjoy.
Summary: After the War of the Ring, Faramir travels to Edoras with his sickly, pregnant wife to foster diplomatic ties between Rohan and Gondor, only to cross paths with the cold yet enthralling White Lady, Eowyn.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Tolkien's mast piece. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
To Whatever End-Prologue
Minas Tirith, March, 3014 Third Age
Faramir clenched his hands into tight fists and stared at his knuckles. They were white, ivory really, akin to the stones that sheltered Minas Tirith. A shaky breath rattled in his throat. The air was warm, too warm…he would suffocate.
No.
Reclaiming what composure he could, the Captain of Gondor managed to stitch himself back together. But the thread of his existence was worn, the tapestry unraveling before he could stop it. He felt decidedly frayed.
The lamps in his apartment were lit with indecently low flames and a small fire growled in the hearth, grumbling as it nibbled at spring saplings. The logs were mossy and exuded a damp perfume. The scent tortuously reminded him of Ithilien. Outside the narrow window, it was raining.
Faramir leaned against the wall, the unadorned divider between his study and bedchamber. A noise troubled him, a little, insignificant thing that could have been mistaken for a scratching mouse. But he knew better.
She was sitting in the chair by the bed. Her legs were crossed and a tiny, slipper shod foot scraped the floor. The silver buckle on her shoe tinkled like a bell set upon a shopkeeper's door.
A strange sound it was, not loud, not whispered, but troubling. Faramir unclenched his fists and ran his hands over his arms. He was cold now. The fine hairs on his arms felt stiff, his heart shooting chilled blood through his veins with all the force of charging mumak. He would much rather be facing a mumak now. The endangered lifestyle of a Ranger was certainly an easier existence than a life of state-and marriage.
Faramir glanced over his shoulder and into the bedchamber. She was still sitting there, foot twitching. The woman, the new bride, the wife…his wife.
The thought did not necessarily fill Faramir with terror. No, guilt was a better word. He felt disgustingly guilty.
But I am not to blame, a small voice reminded him. Nor is she.
It was all old Denethor's doing and surprisingly, some of Boromir's. Not that he wished to blame either of them, as both father and brother had acted accordingly. But why did accordance have to be so wretchedly dismal?
Faramir decided that it had something to do with the darkening of days, but he had not the time to debate lore, much as he would find it agreeable. Nesting his fingers in his hair, he stifled a sigh against his chest.
It seemed criminal to marry a woman he didn't love and downright terrible to wed a widow. And not only a widow, a mother as well.
"Proven fertility," his father had said after the engagement had been announced, wearing an unusual smile that set Faramir's every nerve on edge.
His wife had an infant daughter that was now residing with her maternal grandmother in Dol Amroth. It was decided that his betrothed's kin would not make the journey to the White City for the wedding. Why, Faramir had not asked. His concern laid markedly elsewhere.
A wife, he was not quite prepared for a wife, nor a family for that matter. It was an awful responsibility, another stone that he would be forced to shoulder in order to please his eternally unsatisfied father.
The rain softened and Faramir's nostrils flared. A balmy, blithe breeze spilled into his apartments, leaking through half-opened windows and cracks and little mouse holes that had been carved by careful rats into the watchful stone. Outside, he detected the delightful strains of music. A high, keening flute chirped accompanied by a gittern and some hollow, hopeful drum. Those in the streets below, the keen-eyed, strong and valorous Gondorians, were celebrating.
And here Faramir stood.
He remembered the roguish smiles of his fellow Rangers, the hearty hands clapped onto his back and the jests. Our Captain, how fortunate is he, they would crow. A pretty, pliant wife he shall have.
Faramir could not reconcile their mirth with his misery and the joy in the streets below was a foreign, mocking thing. Toasts would be proposed this night, raised amidst laughter and whispered promises for the future. The line of Stewards would continue, that merciless entity that devoured man, woman and child alike. And Faramir was simply the next victim.
Cruel, he felt cruel then and selfish. Poor woman, she was trapped in this as much as he.
His wife shifted, the chair protesting with a creak, the silken gown fluttering about her dainty legs. Without warning, desire nipped at Faramir. She certainly was fair enough and to his liking in appearance. And this was his wedding night….
No.
A cold stone of worry dropped into the pit of his stomach. He could not, would not…. She was little more than a child after all. Nineteen. A mother and widow at nineteen. Yet still, he thought of her as innocent, virginal.
Or so Imrahil had spoken of her. Last autumn, Faramir's uncle had arrived rather unexpectedly at the Citadel, a visit that was warranted due to some common concerns he had regarding trade tariffs and Dol Amroth's defense. Faramir himself had been in the city and privy to the seemingly harmless small talk around the dinner table. Then Imrahil had mentioned the "poor widow", the young girl who had been married to one of his lieutenants and was now bereft after a thief of an illness stole her husband away. And so the talk had spiraled on, taking on a life of it's own when Denethor asked after her family connections and was impressed by her standing.
Shortly after, Faramir departed for Ithilien with a certain sense of unease about the whole matter, only to receive a panicked message from Boromir that their father was intending to wed him to the girl. And the elder Hurin, courteous and handsome as he was, wanted naught to do with marriage now.
"There is no virtue which can endear her to me," Boromir had told to his younger sibling in a voice that was both desperate and stubborn. "We shall be miserable, both of us. Why should I take a wife when I am pleased with my warrior ways?"
Dutifully, Faramir had tried to sort the matter out and then in a wind and a whirl, he found himself trapped.
Reflecting on the situation now, Faramir felt as though he should have left her to Boromir.
Another sound grated against his nerves. His wife coughed. Shame made him blush.
What must she think of him? Did she despise him already? Did she hate him for what he was, a poor replacement to the husband she had so dearly loved? Or had her first marriage been arranged as well, a similar dance of state and sacrifice for the supposed good of Gondor?
Useless rumination. Faramir felt very much the coward. To where had his courage fled? Undoubtedly, to a place of greater happiness than the one he now occupied.
He could not, of course, leave her stranded. It would be rude and Faramir was not a rude man. His dear mother had imparted a delicate sense of manners on him even in the short five years he knew her.
"Never leave a lady waiting," she instructed him when they had snuck down to the kitchens early one morning to bake pastries. Boromir had overslept and missed all the fun, the kneading of the dough, the picking of ripe strawberries from the gardens and of course, the tasting.
Those pleasurable times were but faded memories now and Faramir felt more of a boy than a man, as it was. An artless, mindless boy.
He fiddled with the long string that held his tunic closed at the neck. As much as he wanted to be polite, he could not stand to frighten his wife. She seemed the flighty sort and had clung to one of handmaids throughout the ceremony, pale, faint, hidden behind a veil that disguised her features and left him curious. And even at the feast, the wine served did little to bring a blush to her cheeks. Faramir feared she would swoon if he strode into the bedchamber. But as it was, she just kept tapping her foot, shifting, coughing quietly.
The matter was not to be delayed, he decided and feeling like an utter villain, turned inside the chamber. She did not look up when he entered.
He paused for a humiliating, awkward moment by the hearth and pretended to warm his hands. But despite the murmuring heat of the blaze, his blood curdled.
What to say? What to do?
He wished to calm her, to still her and stop that tiny foot from tapping. Straightening, he turned around and dissected her small form from out of the shadows. She had her hands in her lap, the white of her gown complimenting her pale skin…too pale. Faramir thought she looked sickly.
"My lady." He offered her a bow.
She nodded, her brown hair dressed with some sort of scented powder that made it look soft. He wished to touch it, but humiliation kept him far from her. And there was silence, thick, dark silence that swallowed them whole until Faramir had to fight back a scream.
"How fare you this eve, my lady?" he asked in a ridiculous attempt to conjure conversation.
His wife glanced up at him, grey eyes painfully wide and at once burst into tears.
Faramir set his jaw.
This was going to be much harder than he had anticipated.
Author's Note: Well, that's it for now. And yes, Faramir's wife does have a name, but I thought anonymity suited her better as far as the prologue was concerned. In chapter one we jump forward five years later to post-War of the Ring. With any luck, I should have the next chapter posted soon. Again, please let me know what you think of this story. I truly appreciate any and all feedback. Have a great week!
