This was for an old teitho prompt but then it got too long and other things got in the way. Very happy that it could be dusted off and offered to Altariel who's birthday is this day. Many Happy Returns my dear. A little bit of fun from 'A Man of his Word' and 'Cool Hand' universe to set up the mystery.
3003 T.A.
The young lieutenant nestled down into the soft rushes of his pallet, set aside the precious book, and snuffed out the tiny candle in its cage. At last it was time to rest. This day, his first at their furthest refuge, had been so long-too long in truth, with two patrols attacked, a wounded man to tend, and then a furious chase across the higher slopes. He had slid and slipped on unfamiliar muddied trails, climbed past glossy ilex and mounds of blue-fringed juniper, until the Rangers burst through the heinously thorny higher bushes to the barren, windy carapace of Ithilien's weathered hills.
Valar his muscles hurt. They had, at last, cornered the Yrch on the hill top and dispatched them quickly; returned through the wet and wildly sodden night to mercifully warm stew and dry, warm socks. The Captain had been pleased-at the briefing and the lack of casualty. Now it was time to lay aside the jangling nerves and put the day away.
This was not easy. Somewhere high above the grotto, the wind-whipped spray of the Window's stream trickled down behind the rocks, followed the high keening whistle that danced and played in the crevices, teased them like a ghost- now moaning, now sighing. Away at the refuge's sparkling curtain edge, the thunder of the waterfall was all, but here, behind the rough linen of the sleeping curtain, its song was muffled- let in the eerie noise of the unsettled night.
And the beats of Damrod's droning snore.
Oromë's blessed horn. The Sergeant's nightly cacophony could do service to a growling dog. An unfortunate reality only further amplified by the close quarters in Henneth Annun's embrace.
Faramir sighed and punched down his pillow, pulled up the grey blanket and turned to lie on the one shoulder not bruised by an errant branch. He willed his mind to still-to ignore the wind and warbling. And the niggling headache that began to crawl with twisting, craning fingers up over his neck and head.
Please no. Not tonight.
Rest was an absolute necessity. He could ill afford a broken sleep, but with sick certainty he cataloged the signs. The stomach that fluttered wildly. The stealthy, creeping headache. The dull, leaden, heavy feeling behind his eyes. The Dream had come too often, too strong and relentlessly, for him not to recognize the aura that presaged the Waves.
He lay down his head and sighed. Tried to breathe a futile calm into his aching limbs and then gave himself to the green.
It began as always. A great emerald wave towered up from a lashing sea, gobbled the island's sandy shore and moved heartlessly, inexorably, over the verdant land. It smashed the grey stone of the city, swept ships and people, trees and animals ineluctably before it. Roiled and boiled. Devouring all, and in its wake a great brooding darkness rose up. He was drowning. His perch was gone and the dark green was everywhere; eerie and merciless, with the wind's cry and the caw of eagles. He could not catch his breath; he could not keep the shattering sea from rolling in, and his mouth was full and his feet unmoored. He was choking, sputtering; desperate knowing there was no….
"Ow!"
Faramir awoke in a heaving, gasping rush, felt the warmth of the blanket fall away and tried to reconnoiter the situation. He was awake-that much was clear. He was in the refuge and outside he could make out the snuffling and sighing of sleeping men, the dim roar of the waterfall and the nearer annoying drip, the wind still protesting its lot.
No sound was out of place. There was no call of alarm or scrape of hastily assembled weapons. All seemed well, but for a slight throbbing of his knee. A new hurt, not something from their day, and most certainly not the Dream whose tendrils were finally, blessedly letting go.
How odd. Reluctantly, he sat. Fumbled for the matches, relit the runt of candle wax with shaky hands and took stock of his tiny space. This far back, past the few torches for the watch and well away from the Window's shimmering reflected moon, the refuge was black as pitch. He held the little wire lantern up and took in the one thing new: the broad pale face and haphazard stubble that peeked around the curtain anxiously.
The young soldier (from Anorien if he remembered Captain Eldacar quite right) was dressed just the same as he. Regulation undershirt and thin trews, light socks to go inside the heavy outer ones. By day the garb went underneath their uniform- at night it could pass for sleeping wear. Seems they'd both been too tired to take them off after ten miles in upland ground elder and Morgoth's club.
He rubbed at a still stinging scratch on his cheek and with an effort retrieved a name. "Private Mablung is somewhat amiss?"
The dark shape materialized out of the gloom and gave a hasty bow. "No, Sir. Sorry Sir. Begging your leave. I thought as you were someone else."
Faramir held the lantern higher and took in the man's ruddy flush. There was chagrin and embarrassment there, but no evidence of sudden lunacy. "Pardon? Who else would I be?"
"I thought that you were Geraint, sir," Mablung whispered anxiously. "I would never have done it had I known t'was you."
Done what? A muzzy moment of puzzled blinking passed before he could process what the young man meant.
The throbbing. The sudden wakening. The clutches of the dream. Some thing had been thrown to stop him crying out and now it was Faramir's turn to flush. For the first time in the weeks since Ithilien's company had begun their farther sorties, he had slept, not in a private room in a wooden hut, but in a mostly open cavern.
Where his Dream could wake others up.
"What was it?" he asked weakly, passing a tired hand across his face.
"M'boot."
Faramir shook the last vestiges of foaming wave from his sight and turned to scan his kingdom. The light flickered about fitfully but he could spy every crowded inch. The pile of books. The small serviceable chest. The scabbard with its blue-gemmed ancient sword. Sure enough, on the far side of the little alcove a flask was tipped awry and a tawny leather boot lay upended on the rough grey rock. It had the beginnings of a hole in the worn, pitted sole and a split across the toe.
Praise Lorien for a Ranger's aim. It could have hit him in the head.
"Do you want it back?"
"Aye, sir. Tis my only spare."
Reluctantly, Faramir rolled out of the bedclothes into the chill of the mid night air, took one pace and reached down for the errant dart, passing it back to its owner with alacrity.
It reeked. A gamey, entirely familiar smell compounded of swamp-soaked leather, sweat and well-rotted leaf mould.
His own were likely worse.
"I'm sorry, sir," offered Mablung, clutching the offending item to his chest and still trying to apologize. "I thought you were the Sergeant, sir. We always throw t'boot when he has his dreams. You were shoutin' just like him."
"I was?" Faramir ran a hand through sleep-tousled hair, somewhat relieved to find he'd not be dodging missiles inside the haunt—the ones outside were quite enough- but still puzzled by the coincidence. It was not uncommon for nightmares to be part of a soldier's lot: a veteran who had seen too much could suffer so. Or a greenhorn taken by the fear that stalked the night before a battle. But his were quite another thing- as much a part of his Dol Amroth heritage as sea-mist eyes and fine, high cheekbones. They were visions. Sometimes portents. But most often the Great Wave-terrifying when it was dark, hopeful when green and lit by sun.
It was always the surest sign some new turn in his world was bound to come.
"My apologies for disturbing you Private," he said, clearing a bark-dry throat. "It happens. But not often." Or not often, depending on the Enemy.
Faramir might have learned to listen to these moments, but his Men were yet wary of their odd Lieutenant. Sudden glassy stares and a tendency to 'see' Orcs behind his back or just around a bend made them twitchy.
And more than a little superstitious.
Mablung seemed to be thinking of just that. He held his superior's gaze for a longer moment, finally nodded once, and reached to pull the curtain back. "That's as well," he murmured, looking out over the sea of huddled blankets. His own pallet lay rumpled and empty not a few feet away. "I'll be going then, as I've first watch. Night, sir."
"And you. Sleep well."
If Faramir thought the adventure might go unremarked, he was mistaken. Over wooden spoons and bowls, small beer and the great scrubbed table top, the men were in high spirits in the morn. They ribbed Mablung for assaulting an officer, declared it a marvel that the lieutenant had found anything in his already famously cluttered space, and almost, almost, began a bet on who owned the worst footgear.
(The Captain's eyeroll had swiftly put a stop to that. T'would take too long. There were too many candidates.)
Through it all, Faramir blushed furiously and let them take their fun, found himself looking again and again curiously down the board to the man he'd been mistaken for. Geraint, the youngest of their sergeants, was a dozen years older than he; a veteran with flecks of grey scattered in a tawny beard and the burly, barrel-shape from far Langstrand. A nasty scar ran under his nearer ear to meet a habitual resting frown. Faramir found him brooding and diffident, not one inclined to be particularly friendly with the Men or officers, but for all his few words, he was one who said exactly what he meant. Always. And would never leave a man behind.
His platoon adored him unreservedly.
Faramir watched, wondering what experiences the man had had; why he too woke shouting from his sleep? 'You were shoutin' just like him' said Mablung. Did he mean that literally? Shouting of drowning and darkness inescapable? Or was it purely the act: thrashing and yelling while riding a dark nightmare?
He rather doubted the laconic sergeant would take to publicly quizzing, and so Faramir waited for the hubbub to die down, mesmerized by the man's facility with a knife. Geraint's nicked and scarred broad hands were peeling an entire, blessedly unwithered apple in the round. The green skin coiled neatly to fall in an entire spiral onto the smoothed pale wood. Once done, Geraint expertly tipped back on his makeshift stool, set his knife aside and drew breath to speak.
Every eye turned his way.
"Bit a shouting here and there is nothing next to a warg's mad howling every flaming night."
The cavern erupted into gales of laugher. Damrod, victim of this pointed jibe and never a shrinking violet, shook his head theatrically and slowly, proceeded to most menacingly lick the last bit of butter from his own weapon before setting it in its sheath.
He rose halfway. Turned to Geraint and then to Faramir, and flashed a crooked grin. "Aye. Well. Sergeant, I appreciate the Lieutenant's maiden effort, but I suggest 'ee keeps it that way. Last thing I want is competition."
Of course that set the catcalls going. The men were stamping and clapping; yelling ridiculous odds on Faramir's 'performance' until the moment Eldacar's fuzzy brows crashed together and his fist met the table. Once.
The company instantly fell silent. They looked to their commander whose head was cocked and listening, and to their new lieutenant who was already on his feet. Faramir had abandoned his cooling porridge, caught Mablung's widening gaze and reached to shoulder the quiver that he'd left balanced behind his stool.
Then it came: the high piercing double whistle of the rare thornbird, passed from crouching scout to dawn patrol to waiting guard.
Yrch.
He never got the chance to ask. In an instant Eldacar was barking orders to scrambling men, weapons were hastily strapped on, and Faramir was plunged into the role that never became routine. Though near a score of years would pass.
3019 T.A.
It was not out of the ordinary in the King of Gondor's short experience of his Steward to find the younger man lost in thought, a cup of tepid tea forgotten at his elbow and a mess of papers all around.
Faramir could be remarkably focused when chasing a wayward, intriguing thought. Neither food, nor music, nor even open speech could distract the man from that state—a trait that Thorongil-that-was would have recognized as just the thing to prick his Lord father's famous sense of order. Denethor, son of Echthelion, had been nothing if not punctual. And tidy. And immaculate. His younger son was none of these things, and Aragorn, by nature not inclined to make a fuss himself, found it entirely refreshing. And endearing. And occasionally, as now, exasperating.
He pushed wide the study's carved oaken door and padded in, wondering what of the many possibilities had captured his friend this eve. Tricky points of diplomacy? Appropriations for the treasury? The wedding in Edoras to be planned? The latter would lately have been his surest wager, but then a good deal of loopy grinning into the distance would have been involved.
This looked different.
He avoided the first two floorboards that always creaked and paused in middle of the thick, riotously patterned rug. The once perfectly ordered space had quickly taken on an entirely different air. The high bookcase shelves bulged with well-thumbed tomes and half-rolled maps. The desk held tottering spires of scrolls weighed down by bits of Osgiliath masonry and possibly a mumak tusk. A blue jay feather sprouted from a crystal inkwell.
It looked every inch the illicit offspring of Rivendell's soaring archive and a rag-and-bone shop from the 4th . He loved it. Every bit.
"A castar for your thoughts?"
A scroll and quill and tea took flight.
Yes, oblivious. Boromir's fond description of a young pupil flying from Minas Tirith's archive, juggling sword and scabbard, and hopping on one foot to pull on a boot, sprang to mind before Faramir's customary dexterity reined in the flock. He dabbed at the only slightly damp seat before finally looking up.
"Sire? My apologies. I did not see you there!"
"I noted." Aragorn's mouth quirked wryly. He could, when desired, be utterly silent, and surprising another Ranger still brought a little thrill. "What has you so engrossed when you should be in your bed?"
Grey eyes rolled. They did this, the two of them-the King playing the patient collie dog and his Steward the errant sheep. Two months had not entirely erased the strain of nearly twenty years. And Faramir could, if left to himself, work the night right round.
Aragorn shifted a tunic, a plate, and three books from off the adjacent armchair and sat waiting patiently for a response.
The one that came was a pleasant surprise.
"A mystery," answered Faramir, smiling a little sheepishly and tapping an ink-stained finger on the letter in his lap.
"A mystery? How interesting." Aragorn sat back in the deep leather of the chair, stretched out and crossed his ankles. Much more fun than correspondence. And, right then, a month before his Evenstar arrived, a welcome distraction from Hurin's endless lists.
"Can I help?"
"I am not sure." Faramir purloined a decanter of oak-coloured brandy from the table behind the chair. "No glasses. I didn't want to wake the servants," he explained, passing another teacup across. The letter soon following suit. "I am not certain what to do. You see, I do not wish to dredge up a past that will distress my Aunt, but neither do I wish ignore a long-standing wrong."
Ivriniel? What could distress a woman with a tongue famed for keeping cowering deckhands in their sickbeds? Aragorn took a gulp of 'tea' and scanned the letter penned in the sort of immaculate tengwar only purchased from a scribe. It was from the widow of one of Boromir's lieutenants. Caerlin by name. She thanked the Prince and Steward for his letter of sympathy on the loss of her Geraint. Insisted that she would be well in time and would put the kingdom's small gift of mirian to good use for their boy.
One of literally hundreds the new Steward received after the daunting stack that he had penned. Why should this one be remarkable?
Faramir went on. "Geraint served with me briefly in Ithilien when I first joined. A veteran. He'd had enough of wet bedrolls and chillblains, I think. Soon shifted to Boromir's company. He was a fine bowman and skilled tracker. Eldacar considered it something of a loss, though what Geraint thought you could never tell. He rarely said a word to anyone, though I had the feeling he did not like me over much. He said he had no time for gabbing like 'a useless lordling.'"
Aragorn raised his brows. An intensely private man who disliked nobility on sight? There was a story there. But not one that would be easy to suss out. "What happened to him?"
"He served under my brother's lieutenant, Toric. Steadily and well to all accounts. He was promoted for bravery on the field after Osgiliath, but then fell at the Pelennor," added Faramir, sadly. "I confess the letter is a surprise. I did not know that he had a son."
So many. And so many hardships rippling on. "How old is the lad?"
"Twelve."
"Are they in great need? Would you have me bring him here?"
Faramir shook his head. "No, it is not that. They have a small holding near Belfalas Bay. But I do think I owe it to the boy to find out."
"Find out what?"
"The dream," he answered, rubbing absently at the now healed collarbone. "You see, I never got a chance to ask. Geraint left right after. Yet Mablung still swears it was the same. And the apple peels," he added, faintly. "An entire round. It was all so strange and now I see..."
The words trailed off.
"Faramir. Faramir," called Aragorn, gentle but firm, alert to impending vision, for the Prince was no longer seeing them and his eyes were wide and nearly black. "You speak in riddles, my friend. Come back."
A heatbeat passed. The candles blurred and finally Faramir shook himself, the sprigged teacup rattling in his lap. "Forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive."
With an effort. the younger man dragged his gaze back from the unlit hearth and took a steadying breath. "It has taken me twenty years to remember where else I'd seen them. Grandfather Adrahil. He always peeled apples in the round. I remember as a child sitting on the terrace with fall's first pickings, entranced by how he did it."
Aragorn nodded slowly. "And your great Aunt Ivrenna. I believe she does it, too. With a wickedly sharp fish gutting knife."
A small half-smile appeared. "That would be exactly her."
"And the nightmares?"
"Another family trait. Grandfather dreamed of the fall of Númenor. He bequeathed it to Uncle, and to Elphir and Erchirion. And me. Though I regret I did not speak out at once, this way, now, is likely for the best. Afterward Geraint and Toric had their hands more than full and I think he would not have taken it well."
More riddles. Aragorn tilted his head. "What well? And what does this have to do with your redoubtable Aunt?"
"His parentage. I think he is related to my family."
Can anyone guess what classic 70-80s song this is based on? :) The only hint now is that it is featured in a Marvel movie. ^_^ I will drop a new hint each chapter