Disclaimer: Nope, I don't own this character. Or the series. You know who does. *rolls eyes*
Faramir had retired to his rooms for the night.
He didn't really like the bed, not that the bed was uncomfortable, but he didn't like beds in general. He didn't like the feeling of lying down, or helpless rest.
It had been ten years since Aragorn was crowned King. Faramir had accepted change, he had even grown to love his life, but there always was this emptiness within him. Ten years of hard work had finally paid off, the kingdom was stable and for once, everything was as Faramir would have liked it to be. Except, of course, that void which had grown to cause him a particular numbness.
He had started to slip up in his work. That morning was the first time it had been clearly noticed and talked about with the rest of the Council. The Councillors and the King had tried their best not to be rude or upsetting, but the message was clear - Faramir, the Steward of the King, had to pull his socks up.
Faramir sighed. He crossed the room and sat down at his table. He moved the papers in front of him away and cushioned his head sideways in his crossed arms . The orange light from the fire seemed to complement his mood. He knew he was failing in his duties, it was clear for all to see, but the fact that Faramir found it hard to improve despite knowing how to improve was the problem here. It was almost as if he didn't want to improve, but he did want to, he really did. He found it hard to finish drafting official documents on time, he found it tough to attend court, he found it challenging to do any kind of work at all, really. But Faramir knew it was not just work. It was hard to wake up in the morning, it was hard to get dressed, it was hard to eat breakfast and walk out of his room. It was hard to look people in the eye, it was hard to talk to them, it was hard to stand and follow court procedure. It was hard to live through banquets and hunting trips, it was hard to look interested. It was particularly hard to talk to the King and Queen. When in public, formal titles and talk eased him a little, but when Aragorn and Arwen wished to talk to him... it got very uncomfortable.
Faramir sat with his head on the table and in his arms, and looked at the four-poster bed , the thing that was in his line of vision. His mind was blank as he sat there, still and unmoving. He looked at the orange and brown of the bed sheet, blinking slowly and at regular intervals. He didn't remember noticing tears fall from his eyes and gently roll down his cheeks. Some touched the wood of the table and others did not. Instead, they took the route that let them smooth his dry lips. He sighed.
He made no move to wipe them. He made no move at all. He made no move to understand why he cried when he was alone, why he felt like not moving. He had simply accepted it, the same way he had accepted it when he was that tender child after a telling off from his father.
He did not keep count of the minutes that passed that way, but he eventually closed his eyes and entered the land of slumber, just like the previous day and the day before that. Just like he would cry himself to sleep the next day and the day after that.