Disclaimer: Not mine, borrowing from Prof etc. . .

Author's Notes: Clairon's bash at slash! I lied: Chapter 2 was not the end! Here is another chapter and maybe there will be a final one from Faramir's point of view. What do you reckon?

Thanks for all the reviews and kind words.

Again, adult themes are discussed here and relationships between men. If you don't like the thought of it please do not read. I do not wish to offend.

Dedication: For Chibi-kaz who asked for it . . .

Chapter 3

Dumb

'Just as long as I can see the morning,

And blossoms come to bud again in spring,

It's enough to keep me still believing,

Your memory is everything.'

C MacDonald and R MacDonald

Minas Ithil

YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)

I have not the words to tell him how I feel. I cannot begin to describe the emotion that thunders through my heart, the cold shattering fear, the certainty that I will lose him so very soon.

But then I have never had the words.

I was still young when I realised that I was different, that although I may think them and wish them, words would never come from my mouth. I knew very quickly that because I could not speak people would think me dumb. Such suppositions come easily to the child who is constantly called 'stupid' and beaten for his silence. Even those who did not react with ridicule and violence looked at me with eyes that revealed my inferiority – I was less than them, my needs were unimportant, my pain not so hurtful because I could not express it. Yes, I learnt very quickly the way things would be and so I swore to myself that I would never mourn the lack of a voice. I would take the loss and make it a powerful thing, a thing that made me strong, made me better than them, in no physical way for I was always a pitiful, stray urchin but in some other less defined but higher and more mystical sense. And, in truth, I never have allowed the bitterness that lurks at the very edge of my consciousness to move in . . . until now.

Now, I would do anything to find a voice. I need so much to be able to tell him how he makes me feel, the worth and light that he has brought to my life. Before I met him I was nothing; he has given me all I am. I need to thank him and I cannot. Instead I must rely on the message I give through my eyes. For as long as I have known him he has been able to read my eyes and from them see what truly dwells beneath in my heart. He has understood me completely with no need for words. It is a gift they do say; the Prince of Ithilien reads men's hearts.

But does he see me now? Will he read me as he is numbed from pain, clinging barely to life, anticipating an end, waiting only for the one who can release him? Why should I expect him to have the time to read a mute boy's eyes? I fear he will die not knowing what he means to me.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

Instead I sit and hold his lifeless hand. Gently I stroke his fevered brow. He moans softly, his eyes tightly shut, he sees nothing and my frustration and fear grow. For, when the King comes I will lose him completely. It has ever been so, though he has tried to fight it, I have learnt; place him in a room with King Elessar and the rest of us become only grey ghosts and shadows, colourless moons, orbiting uselessly around the source of all light, all life for the Steward; his King. I understand such need for it mirrors my own.

Fearing the moment when I shall lose everything with all my being, I find myself retreating to the comfort of memory. The touch of his long fingers on my body, his soft lilting voice and the low groan from deep in his soul that he releases at the point of rapture always. Such intimacies are ours and ours alone, he has told me he has shared such love with no other and I believe him, for my Lord is a man of honour and he speaks no untruths. But such memories will soon be all I have left. I cannot live without him, I know this. His loss will crush so many but all others have friends and lovers to lean on for support. I alone have nothing else; he is my world. I would tell him so.

And so I would speak, but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

Suddenly his eyes open and he impales me on the steely blue of their beauty.

"Tobir," he whispers, his voice hoarse and weak but his face smiles with radiance and I am carried back to the moment when I first saw him . . .

Minas Ithil

YEAR 72 (Fourth Age)

I had stolen the apple, I could not deny it but I was hungry and one worm-ridden apple surely did not equate to the beating that the grocer was giving me! I quivered in the wet gutter trying to make myself even smaller than my normal pitiful form, my arms above my head, pathetically trying to protect it from further damage. The pain was aching through me, as the grocer screamed and raised the stick once more.

I blocked the whole experience out as best I could. It was not the first beating I had endured, and if I survived it, it would surely not be the last. I was a beggar, an orphan, worse than that when I was caught stealing, as I inevitably was, I could not even apologise. My silence was taken as conceited arrogance which further enraged my aggressor and so my punishment was doubly painful. The fact that I was but ten years old, or close to it – as I had never met my mother I was unsure of the date of my birth – vastly undernourished, dressed in rags, teeming with fleas and all alone in the world, rarely brought with it enough sympathy to spare me.

I say rarely for there had been occasions when I had been treated with kindness. When I was very young I had lived with a distant relative of my mother's. But when she wed her new husband did not want to share his hut with an 'imbecile'. He talked of wringing my neck like an unwanted kitten, I ran before he got the chance.

For the two winters previous to this event I had worked for an elderly blacksmith in Osgiliath. I had done odd jobs for him and in return received food and lodgings but then the old man had taken a chill during the last frost of the winter and died quickly. His son and family of six mewling brats had returning from the White City to take over the business. He had enough mouths to feed and I had known he could not support me as well. He had to let me go. What he did not have to do, was give me food and a blanket for my journey but he did. He had also pointed me in the direction of the new city; Minas Ithil. And so, with his tales of gold and mithril for all making my feet move faster, I had set off to find my fortune.

It was not to be. For though the newly rebuilt city was indeed beautiful, buzzing with life and joy, it was only so for those who had the wealth to prosper and benefit from the commerce that took place in its intricately designed halls. For me it was just another place to be hungry and cold, to steal and to be punished for my crimes. From the gutter one city looks very much like another.

Such thoughts did not enter my head then. Why should they? I was uneducated and hopeless. It was very likely I should die in a blooded heap in a gutter such as the one I now writhed in never having had the chance to think any more enlightened thoughts than where my next meal was coming from. Indeed my future was not bright, and as the grocer continued the beating it was becoming more of a possibility that it would be this gutter, with its rotting vegetables and rubbish, where I would actually meet my doom. Such a fate would certainly pass unmarked and unmourned.

The pain was now so numbing that I could no longer function. The darkness was creeping into the corners of my mind and I could not fight it. So far gone was I that I did not hear the raised voices. One belonged to the grocer and spat his vengeful anger, the other was calmer and more controlled, seeking to reason. It took long moments before I realised that the blows no longer fell. I did not know when they had stopped, but I opened my eyes slightly just to prove that it was so.

A small group of citizens had gathered to watch the scene and I saw them now. Gaping at me with wide uncaring eyes and muttering. I shifted my position a little but the pain was too intense so I simply lay still. Loud angry voices continued to dance at the edge of my consciousness but I could not ascertain what words were spoken. The beating had stopped, in my strange, numb world that was all that mattered. I would sleep here until the pain had gone too.

Hands suddenly touched me. I braced myself for the pain and it did come but the hands, though firm, were gentle, softly they held me and I felt myself being lifted. I feared to open my eyes for I knew however soft the arms that held me they would eventually disengage and toss me aside, as all hands did. If I kept my eyes shut I would retain the intimate physical contact for a little longer. And the warmth of such a touch after a lifetime of aggression and pain was wondrous to me and so compulsive I wished it to continue for just one second more.

However, the strong arms did not disengage. Rather I was jostled and moved but always with as little hurt as possible. I grimaced at the pain but admitted to myself that the overall experience was a pleasurable one. I went upwards again and then we appeared to settle. There was a smell of horses and leather and something warm was wrapped about my shoulders.

A man's voice spoke then but not to me. "Father," he said in a tone of mild rebuke. "You cannot take home every waif and stray from the City. Even you must see that!"

A voice nearer replied strong but unassuming and I could tell it belonged to the man who held me. "It is my City, Bron," he said with determined softness. "Therefore every waif and stray is my responsibility. I will not have them beaten to death on my streets and do nothing. I thought we had come far, but obviously not far enough if such brutality still exists over an apple. It will not hold sway, not while I am in authority here. I will not have it!"

The first voice chuckled. "Then may I suggest you start by building a public bath house; this latest one stinks!"

They was a snort from the other man and then the sensation of movement. I could hear the soft jangle of the bridle. A wave of fear washed through me, for I had been a street urchin long enough to hear the stories of noblemen taking my peers and subjecting them to all manner of devilry. Still the apprehension was not strong for there was something in this man's voice that spoke of compassion and gentleness and what lingering doubt I felt was soon overcome by curiosity to see the features of my mysterious benefactor.

I shifted my position to rest my head against his expensively clothed chest, biting back the pain the movement caused, I opened my eyes. As I did so the man above me glanced down. Our eyes met and streetwise as I was I did not comprehend the danger I was in. Already it was too late, for at that moment I drowned irretrievably and forever in the overpowering pool of compassion deep in those azure eyes.

Minas Ithil

YEAR 82 (Fourth Age)

It was in his eyes you see. Those blue orbs that promised bottomless, unquenchable passion but also tempered with a cold iron sadness. Eyes that could at once inspire you with the heat of their emotion but could also freeze all they fell upon with the coldness of their control.

As they look at me now I can see the beauty is veiled in dull pain.

"Tobir," he repeats. "Do not look so sad."

How can I not look sad? I clasp more tightly hold of his pale hand before me feeling my own control faltering. His once powerful body lies broken beyond repair, his time is short and yet he speaks to reassure me. I feel my lower lip begin to tremble as tears wash into my eyes. Unable to stifle it, I throw myself into his chest as I have always done, knowing it as a place of safety. But not now for my Lord has not the strength to move his arms to envelope me from the brutal world outside as he has in the past. Instead he tries to placate me with his words, soothing and gentle but as my tears rage through me and my body shivers I hear them not. Eventually as my sobs subside I hear what he says, his courageous words of hope for me when all he has is despair. He is so brace and selfless to one such as I who was never worth the care he gave me.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

I pull back from him then but only as far as the stool at the side of his bed. The room we share feels suddenly cold and caverness. We are alone, the healers have long since been banished to treat others who will benefit from their care. And Lord Elboron has received word of the King's imminent arrival, so he has gone to welcome him.

"We knew this day would come, Tobir," he says softly.

He speaks the name he gave me, for before I met him I had nothing, not even a name. I remember the day he gave it to me. A twinkle shone in his eye as he said I minded him of a young boy from his youth, apprentice to the tiler who was renovating a roof in the Citadel one summer. The boy must have made an impression of my Lord for him to remember him so many years later. My Lord went on to confess that the youth had possessed the same grey eyes that I had and something within their mysterious depths had entrapped him. He never acted on his infatuation, the boy became one of a long list of men that my Lord had felt an initial attraction to but had not dared to pursue. But I reminded him of the youth from a long ago hot and sweltering summer and so I became Tobir. I could not complain, it was as good a name as any.

I nod but do not look into his eyes for I know the courageous resolve I shall see there will set my tears flowing once more.

"You have brought joy to a lonely old man," he says. And my thoughts go back to the times we have shared; his infectious chuckle on the day he declared that he was exactly one hundred years older than me. I had smiled at his delight at such a fact although I still do not fully understand why it caused him such mirth.

And there were other days. The long patient hours he spent trying to tutor me with bow and sword when it was patently obvious to all that though I was quick, I would never have the strength or stamina to be a soldier. We did laugh at my pathetic attempts as it became obvious I could not learn what he could teach

Finally, as he had stopped trying and accepted the fact, he chuckled once more. As he left the practice floor I heard him mutter, "It will make a change to share a bed with someone who cannot wield a weapon better than I!"

My heart had soared at his words for at that time, though I desperately wanted to physically express my love for him, we had never touched in such a way. It was as if he had first explored all possibilities to shield me from his own desire, for as well as trying to make me into a soldier, he had also tried to teach me to read and write but my lack of a voice had made the whole process impossible.

When he realised he could give me none of these gifts my Lord finally bowed to the inevitable; he allowed me to fulfil the role I believe I was born for. At first he was simply my lover, and a tender more respectful partner I could never hope to meet. Later when I also became his confessor, it became evident that his restraint had been truly awesome. He had spent his whole life never allowing himself the release of true pleasure. I still do not understand how he achieved such restraint that first time he took me, when the repression of years of control must have threatened to overwhelm him. But it did not and I was thankful.

While I never mastered the art of reading, he believed I loved the stories he told me. If I am honest I loved being close to him, nestling my head in his broad chest and smelling his honey scent as the fire burned brightly in the hearth. I cared not what story he read, it was just the sharing that was important to me. It did not matter whether he read from a beautiful elven tome or a list of supplies needed for the White Company. He coveted me at such moments and I felt I was the only one to share his world; that was enough.

On one winter's night when the blizzard blew through the City and none wished to leave their firesides he became strangely morose. His eyes were bright but brittle in the firelight. I was afeared for I had never seen him so affected. It was that night, for what reason I know not, that he began to tell me the story of his life. He told me of his childhood in the lonely, chill Citadel. His youth as a soldier and a leader of men throughout the Ring War. His marriage and the joy and heartbreak that it brought him. But most of all he spoke of his duty. He spoke of it as if it were a living thing – something he must conciliate at all costs. It scared me the depth of his passion for he was an intensely private person who held himself remote from his own grief. Even he, in the end, found the need to tell his story was too strong to repress. I am ever honoured that he chose me to hear his confession but I am not fool enough to think that he chose me for any other reason than he knew his story was safe with me. I praised the fact that I had no words of my own, it was as I had decided years before, a gift, for though he would have saved me and protected me as he did if I had had a voice, he may even have take me as his lover, I know that he would never have trusted me with the intimacy of his life. And what a treasure it was; a proud, brutal and haunting story that will remain with me forever. I wanted to thank him for his trust and his love.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

I look at him again and he smiles weakly. "I love you like no other," he rasps.

I meet his eyes now finding new strength from the memories we have shared. He opens his mouth to speak but there is noise drifting through the hallway; a commotion outside.

I feel him relax a little. He closes his eyes and lets out a sigh. I feel my panic raise. The noise can only mean one thing; the King is here and I have lost him. I grip his hand still more tightly.

My Lord's eyes open once more. He looks deep into me and for a moment I feel completely open before him. He shakes his head slowly. "You have not lost me," He says softly. "Nor will you ever, for I will always be in your heart. I know what I mean to you, Tobir, I see it in your eyes. I have not told you before but believe me whatever you feel for me I feel just as intensely for you. You saved me from myself and for that I will ever be as grateful as you are to me for the life I have given you. We do not need words to understand this."

He stops. There are boot steps clicking on the stone stairs far away but they come nearer with every moment.

My Lord blinks. "I will die in his arms, Tobir." I cannot subdue the selfish sob that escapes me. "For that is my duty," he continues bravely. "But it does not mean I love you less. Be strong and when I am gone look for me in my City for I will be all around you. And you will feel me." His voice becomes suddenly urgent. "Now kiss me for one last time!"

I lean toward him, uncertain at first but as I draw closer I sense his wanting. I gather him up in my arms, my mouth clasping his and I enter him one last time with my tongue, cramming all my passion, all my emotion, into him. He crumples before me on the bed and then his tongue engages mine and we kiss properly, each searching for the power to make this moment stretch out to infinity, each knowing it will not.

The boot steps stop outside the door. I hear hushed voices – Lord Elboron and the King. Still my Lord's tongue ravishes mine and just as I begin to believe this kiss will last forever, he pulls back and I am empty.

As the King enters the room I am back on my stool, holding my Lord's hand demurely. The King Elessar is still a most impressive figure and as I turn to regard him, I wonder how one such as I could ever hope to compete with him for the Steward's affection. For, though I share the King's grey eyes and black hair (a relic my distant cousin did tell me when I was very young from the blood of the Dunedain who was my father, long dead even then) I have nothing else to compare with his regal beauty. But I have shared more than he ever will; the last kiss still warms my lips and my heart.

As the King moves forward to me, his nose twitching with the scent of athelas in the room, he speaks, "Peace, Tobir," he murmurs resting a comforting hand on my shoulders. "I would speak with my Steward," he continues.

I wish I had the voice to respond. I wish I could tell this King of the love I bear my beautiful Lord. Of the man who lies before us and the passion of his soul. Of the life he has given me and the happiness he has created. I wish I could tell everyone, I would sing it from the top of the highest tower in this fair city so that all would hear.

And so I would speak but alas, I cannot; I do not have the words.

A long sigh comes from the bed. We both turn to see cobalt blue eyes regarding us unflinchingly.

"You came," Lord Faramir breathes, his voice hoarse and weak.

Aragorn smiles. "Of course," he says as he moves forwards. "I promised you a long time ago that I would."

I hesitate a moment still not wanting to comprehend what surrendering my place at my Lord's bed side actually means. But as I glance back I see that already his eyes have left me. The coldness at such a loss makes me shiver.

From the doorway Lord Elboron, who once despised me for my relationship with his father, but now understands I am just a lonely poor boy, says, "Come Tobir, you need to eat a little. Give the old boys time to speak."

The Steward's son places an arm around my shoulders as I grudgingly retreat to the door. This is how it will be from now, my Lord has given me over to the care of his son. The door closes with a gentle click and my last sight of my Lord is as his King leans towards him, their eyes locked together.

I do not eat any of the food that is proffered my way. Instead I sit motionless, thoughtless and soulless. He would not want this I know but I can contemplate naught else.

At dawn Lord Elboron comes to me. Gently he envelopes me in his firm embrace and together we slowly walk the hall to my Lord's chamber. A stifled sob escapes Lord Elboron as we stand in the doorway. The King lifts his head. Cradled in his arms is the lifeless body of my Lord.

"The light has gone out," Lord Elboron whispers sadly as we move into the room.

"As all lights eventually must, Bron," the King replies, his voice soothingly soft. "But Gondor will bask in the glory of his radiance for generations to come. His duty was done, his story told. He is at peace now and it is well deserved. He would not ask for more."

We sit beside the King and weep as the enormity of his loss crushes us . . .

Later that day, finding no solace in the rooms that I shared with my Lord, I walk out into the City. My eyes are reddened and I sniff constantly but at least the tears have stopped for a while. I walk aimlessly, shocked that outside the confines of the Steward's house the weak, winter sun shines and the cold wind still blows; life goes on.

I find my feet have led me to the gates of Minas Ithil's orphanage building. I stop amazed that I should find myself in this place on this of all days. The standard of its patron, the Steward, flies above the building at half mast and draped in black. Borne on the same breeze that makes it flutter are the voices of the children inside. They sing a bitter-sweet requiem to the man whose vision and kindness has changed their lives so greatly, no longer forced to scrape an existence on the brutal streets they are fed and educated to make something of their lives. They, like me, are indebted to the Lord Faramir.

Tears spring once more to my eyes as I understand the force that has moved me to this spot. He told me to look for him in his City and I have found him. Blinking back the tears I look around me and I see him, not only in the orphanage, but also in the library across the street, in the market place down the road and in the courts of justice higher up, in the beautiful university and in the public bath house as well as the noisy barracks of the White Company. I see him all over this beautiful City that he has created for his people. And not only in Minas Tirith, his work changed the face of the whole of Gondor. I am humbled before his achievements and yet I understand why he has brought me here to this place. I understand the message he has given me; it needed no words to dilute its power because sometimes words are not important. I know he loved his people but now I see he loved not one of them as he chose to love me.

I am different.

I am special.

I do not have the words; I never did. It matters not; for even without words I am truly blessed.