The Stone and the Steward

Chapter One

Disclaimer: All hail, Tolkien!

Rating: PG(13)

Summary: Several years have passed since Faramir inherited the Stewardship from his father. But after returning to the White City to celebrate the completion of Minas Tirith's reconstruction, Faramir begins to fear that he has also inherited Denethor's propensity towards madness.

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"[Denethor clasped] the palantir with both hands upon his breast [as he burned]. And it was said ever after, if any man looked in that Stone, unless he had a great strength of will to turn it to other purpose, he saw only two aged hands withering in flame." –Return of the King

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The cloudless night was peaceful.

A light breeze blew steadily from the east, trickling like water against his skin, stirring the length of his hair, but he hardly paid notice to the resulting shiver that traveled up the length of his spine. The pale moonlight cast an elongated, friendless silhouette behind his somnolent form, which reclined on the ledge of the window, one leg dangling precariously over the side, the other, drawn up against his chest.

He gazed into the black nothingness of the night, letting a slow, labored breath ease from his chest as he willed the tenseness in his shoulders to subside. The muscles in his shoulders chose not to cooperate and persisted in their subtle torture.

Closing fatigued yet incessantly alert eyes, Lord Faramir breathed deeply of the cool, night air. The wind shifted briefly from east to north and calmed him momentarily as it swept over him. The cool breeze eased away a minuscule amount of the burning in his veins, and once again, Faramir's gray eyes opened to quietly regard the moon.

His grave countenance clearly reflected his mood. Serving for years as Captain of the Rangers of Ithilien, Faramir possessed an uncanny ability to sense concealed danger before it struck. The lives of his men depended upon it. Perched upon the quiet window ledge overlooking the peaceful White City that was no longer his home, the young Steward felt deeply disturbed in his spirit. Something was very wrong. He would bet his life upon it. A vein in his neck ticked heatedly, his mind fuming with the uncertainty that plagued it.

His eyes were on the moon, but it was the quiet breeze that brought the soft whisper to his ears.

"Faramir."

The Steward blinked. Turned.

He was alone.

"Please."

Darkness overtook his gray eyes as Faramir's pupils dilated in bewilderment. The whisper was gentler than the wind, decidedly masculine, but barely distinguishable. Its timbre was pleading. Desperate.

"Faramir, I beg you..."

The Steward had long since descended from the window ledge, feverishly searching the room for the source of the whisper. "Who are you?" he demanded. "Show yourself!"

The soft sound of weeping reached his ears. He spun in circles, trying to determine what direction the inconsolable cries were coming from. His efforts were in vain. The weeping was all around him. A dull ache began to twist urgently in his chest.

"Forgive me, my son."

Epiphany hit him with brutal intensity as the voice changed from a whisper to a cry of anguish, its true tone displayed. Faramir blinked in surprise and bewilderment, his heart hammering angrily in his chest.

"Father?"

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He awoke upon cold stone, sticky eyes peeling apart slowly at the sound of a voice calling his name. Though numbness seemed to have paralyzed his limbs, Faramir realized small but persistent hands were shaking him. Through the darkness, he could make out his wife's profile, outlined by silver moonlight streaming into the room from the window behind her.

"Éowyn?" he managed, his tongue feeling thick and stupid.

"You're awake!" she cried, in obvious distress. It was about this time that Faramir realized he was on the floor. Disoriented and unsettled, he struggled to sit up, finding the task more difficult than it should have been. Éowyn's arms moved to steady him.

"What happened?" he asked, looking around the dark room in perplexity.

"I don't know," she answered in a trembling voice. "I awoke and saw you had not come to bed, so I came looking for you. Do you remember nothing at all?"

He did not answer her, for he had no answer to give. But after a few moments, the memories began to surface. His gray eyes widened in bewilderment.

There was a voice. It called to me.

The Steward frowned deeply as an eerie chill crept up his spine. He shook the feeling away as quickly as it had come upon him, refusing to be frightened by something so irrational. But it was too late, for a shadow of doubt began to unfold in his already troubled mind.

"Faramir?"

He blinked, startled from his thoughts. "I am all right," he answered at length, rising steadily to his feet. Éowyn's pale lips gave no response as she took his offered hand, but her face gave away that she was far from satisfied by his answer.

Together they moved through the Steward's House towards their chambers. It was not their home, which lay in the royal hills of Emyn Arnen, but when their presence was requested in the City, they resided there. Faramir disliked the arrangement, for the halls were thick with unpleasant memories. Of his discomfort in the home of his father, Faramir told no one—not even his wife—and certainly not the King. Thus he moved through its darkened halls coolly, as if determined to be unaffected by its shadowed past.

Though he hardly needed it, Éowyn's strong hands guided him to their bed. He was quiet as he slowly pulled off his boots. She watched him warily as she worked on the leather laces of his tunic. "Are you feeling ill?" she asked quietly, seeming troubled by his silent contemplation.

"A little tired, I suppose," he answered inattentively, obviously still lost in thoughts he did not share.

"And earlier? Did you feel ill before the collapse?"

His eyes fell upon her face and perceived fear there. "No, Éowyn," he said gently. "Please do not upset yourself over this. I feel quite well."

"You were pale as death," she whispered, meeting his gaze. "How would you react had it been me lying there?"

Faramir's features softened, and he rose from the bed. Éowyn allowed herself to be gathered close in his arms. Pressing her face against the warm crook of his neck, she breathed deeply of his familiar scent—of leather and musk. "I am sorry," she said as she calmed. "It frightened me, finding you like that. For a moment, I thought you were dead."

"You won't be rid of me that easily," he whispered into her hair, trying to lighten the mood. "I'm afraid you're to be stuck with me for some time yet."

"A terrific burden, indeed." She lifted her head and tried to offer him a smile. "But one I shall bear without complaint."

"How courageous of you. Tell me, love, isn't marriage proving to be a terrible bore?"

Éowyn laughed, and once again she marveled at her husband's remarkable ability to pull her away from fear and doubt, even as the shadow closed in around them both. "If this is boring, I dread the day something does happen."

He smiled and kissed her, trying with everything he had to erase the anxiousness he saw in her eyes. It was an all too familiar picture of the Éowyn he'd first met, whose face was filled with sorrow and unrest. Though his thoughts overflowed with uncertainty of his own and discomfort in finding himself in the house of his father, Faramir pushed such things from his countenance so that Éowyn could be at ease.

His efforts were not in vain, for it was not long before she fell asleep. He watched her slumber trustingly in his arms, half buried in the absurd amounts of feather pillows that littered what was once his father's bed.

Never did I dream this room would serve as my chambers, he mused, twisting the silver ring of the Steward around his finger thoughtfully. I wonder what Boromir would have thought of it had it come to him?

The room did not bother Éowyn in the least. Indeed, she found it quite comfortable, as would anyone who had not grown up in fear of it. When it belonged to his father, to enter was absolutely forbidden. How large and foreboding the room had seemed to him as a child! Faramir's adult eyes found with some amusement that it now appeared rather small. If only the memories of the rest of the house would dissipate in his mind as well.

Resolutely, Faramir pushed these thoughts away. Tonight was not the night to remember Denothor. Tonight was not the night to grieve him.

Not yet—not until I have forgiven him. I owe him that much.

Shutting his eyes against the ghost of unpleasant memories, Faramir buried his face in his wife's hair and fell into a dreamless sleep.

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To be continued.

I have plagiarized myself a bit in this chapter, and taken a small amount of text from a Labyrinth story I wrote some years back but never finished. So for the few people who might recognize a few lines (though I doubt anyone will), don't tar and feather me! Both story authors are one and the same! ^_^ Bach stole from himself all the time—why can't I?

faramirandeowyn@hotmail.com

ithilien.morningstar-rising.com