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Hurin

Hurin handed it to him on bended knee, holding it out upon upraised palms as if presenting the most honored relic of the realm instead of the slightly rusted piece of metal that it was. There were tears in the elder man's eyes which he did not try to hide for there was no shame to color his grief.

For years, Hurin had faithfully served the Lord Steward Denethor, served him, revered him, and then, eventually, befriended him. There had been a familiar ease in the two men's relationship, much like teacher and pupil…or father and son. Faramir's only jealousy in life.

"It was given to me by one of the guards." The iron key was heavier than Faramir had thought it would be as Hurin dropped it into his hands. "It is yours now."

Or, perhaps, it was the burden of his own grief, unacknowledged and unexpressed, that was weighing him down.

...

The door had been locked. He wondered why. Were not locks meant to guard treasures, objects of value? There was only devastation within.

Shafts of harsh sunlight filtered into the chamber piercing the reverent darkness. It almost seemed a sacrilege. A breeze stirred white ash into swirling patterns and lifted the fine residue upon gentle currents to brush, soft as fingertips, against the sharp lines of Faramir's cheeks. He shut his eyes against the touch.

The great dome had cracked and mourning doves now nested in the debris. There was nothing left. Nothing of his grandfather's sarcophagus. Nothing of his mother's. Nothing of the Stewards who had come before. Who was he if he had no ancestors to honor, no family? All he had left were ashes and dreams, and all these slipped through grasping, desperate fingers.

Father, you devouring bastard.

There were hesitant steps behind him, feet shuffling through brittle, soot-stained stones and shattered fragments of marble.

"He would not have wished for it to end this way between you." Hurin looked about him with true sorrow writ so clearly across his pale and aging face. He did not need the black robes of mourning. "Only ruins."

"What would you have me say, Hurin? That he was my father and I his son? That I loved him?" Faramir shrugged, wincing still at the pull of bandages upon pink, fragile flesh. "All this I know. It is everything else that I am unsure of."

...

There was little left by the time he was done having the chambers cleaned, and he felt a moment's guilt at the bewildered, slightly forlorn expression upon Hurin's face as he viewed them. The former Steward's chambers had been a study in darkness, shadows upon shadows, heavy ebony furniture and tightly shut curtains. Faramir had ordered the rooms stripped bare, down to the very mortar of the stone floor and had had no inclination, and even less time, to remedy the situation.

The books went to the library, a gift from the late Steward Denethor. The parchments with his father's distinctively bold writing, his memoirs, went to the archives. The clothes in the wardrobe were sent to the city's stores. Only two things he kept – a sketch of his mother (how had he forgotten that his father had once had a fine hand for drawing) and a heavy silver ring which Faramir remembered his father wearing all of his life but had never asked from where it had come. To Hurin he gave the ring.

"You knew him better than I, Hurin. There is no harm in admitting such things now. Not now."

Not now when it was all over and could never be changed.


I don't think that Faramir would hate Denethor. But, come on! The guy tries to burn you alive after a lifetime of disregard. I think a little anger is warranted. Afterall, anger is a part of the grieving process. And I like to write Faramir as a man just as fallible as any other. The beauty of Faramir, I think, then is his ability to overcome such feelings and love his father all the same.