Taking a deep, steadying breath, Faramir stepped out of Meduseld and went to stand beside his father at the fore of the procession which was to lead out of the city to the burial mounds. Aragorn had roughly explained the route that morning, all Faramir really needed to know was that, as husband and father, he should stand to the left side of the sepulcher door. Faramir could not understand the practice of burying the dead outside of the city where their graves seemed so vulnerable to desecration, but he did not argue. If these were their customs, he would not protest.
It was a chill and windy morning, as were many a morn in the Mark. Faramir pulled up his all too heavy cloak to shield Elboron, noticing that the child seemed upset and not at all himself. Faramir couldn't be sure if it was because he sensed the sadness around him, because of all the traveling, because of the weather in this northern country, or simply because his father's hair kept being whipped back out of his reach by the wind.
Faramir stood at the prepared burial chamber silently and stoically. He was beginning to think that at least with his son with him he stood a chance of retaining his dignity through this. The thought came to him that he no longer had to worry about disgracing his father, tears were no disgrace to Aragorn and as an added bonus, none knew he was his father anyway.
But Faramir thought again that he had stopped trying to honor Denethor sometime in his tenth year, from that time on it was Gondor's honor alone that he had acted for. It had been only another five years from that year that he had stopped trying to live up to Boromir's soldierly example. He considered himself a fool for trying in the first place and from then on he concentrated on learning first and foremost, as his mother had wanted for him.
Faramir was drawn back to the present situation by a man of Rohan, one whom he vaguely recognized as someone who attended Éomer. The elder man had to repeat his request before Faramir heard all of it, and when he did he overtly stared down at the man as if he were asking for his arm (Rohirrim, not being of the such direct Númenorean blood, stood several inches shorter than Men of Gondor, especially men with lineages such as the Steward's). Faramir was affronted at the man's request that he allow his child's nurse to take the infant back to the city so that their rituals might not be disturbed.
Faramir only held his son closer to him, his stare slightly frightening the other man and causing him to back off a little; so too did the fact that the King of Gondor was standing just behind his Steward and wearing a warning look that he had unknowingly picked up from his foster-father. At Aragorn's side stood Belthil and Berethil and Gandalf and Glorfindel. About them were a number of soldiers who had accompanied the funeral march from Gondor. Across from them stood Éomer, by his side Lothíriel (who had apparently forgiven her husband for his outburst on the road), and many, many people of Edoras.
Faramir nearly lost all nerve when he saw that Éowyn and Findiel were carried on a bier down from the city. Aragorn cursed himself for not preparing his son for that but it had not crossed his mind at all to think to warn him of it. Yet, Faramir held fast to his little one and took comfort in his father's hand on his shoulder. He closed his eyes and took several calming breaths.
The solemn men bearing them laid the dead just before the door and words were spoken in Rohirric that caused Éomer and most of the other people of Rohan to shed tears. Those with sharp eyes noticed that Aragorn, too, shed a tear. Then the adorned stretcher was lifted again and slid into the small house and Éomer wept openly, not a king at that moment, only a brother and uncle in grief.
As the door was reverently shut, Éomer glanced up, attempting the calm himself, and noticed that Faramir's eyes had remained dry. Éomer knelt before the sepulcher door and whispered Rohirric words before rising, glaring openly at his brother-in-law, and walking away. Within moments Faramir with Elboron and Aragorn were the only ones left there.
"He blames me for their deaths," Faramir said softly to his father, his eyes still fixed on the door as if by staring harder he could see beyond it.
"He blames himself, Faramir," Aragorn said sympathetically. "He simply clashes with you because the two of you are so different in nature. Éomer is just as his father was, a rash, hot blooded man. You, my son, could not be more different."
Faramir turned to meet his father's compassion-filled grey eyes and his hidden tears broke loose. He cradled his son against him and let his forehead lean on his father's shoulder as he wept his heart out in selfishness for his own lost wife and child. Faramir smiled bitterly to know that at least they were no longer trapped in a world of pain, but had gone beyond to eternal beauty. Gandalf and Glorfindel had both borne witness to the fact that death was not to be feared and that the only thing one could rightly mourn was one's own loss of companionship. Whether or not those words had been shared with Éomer was as yet unknown to Faramir.
It was more than an hour past the rising of the sun when Faramir felt able to return to Meduseld. It was good timing on his part, for when approaching the city gates, Elboron began to make plainly known his displeasure with a number of things, including not having seen his mother or sister in days, being far away from home, the weather in this strange country, being woken before the dawn (though in that case turnabout was probably fair play), not having been fed yet that day, and last, but definitely not least, the fact that he could not reach his father's hair to grasp onto because of the windy conditions. Faramir tried to settle his little one, but to no avail.
Passing the city's stables, Faramir glanced in and noticed Éomer currying Firefoot. Faramir sighed and asked his father to take his son to Berethil. "I must try to make amity with my brother-in-law," he said. "Gondor can not have this... you can not have this dispute continue."
"Faramir, i appreciate that greatly, and i know that you would do all to make peace, but i do not wish you to feel that you must do this for me or for Gondor. This may not be the right time...," Aragorn said, wishing that his son did not feel so duty-bound.
"Adar," Faramir said quietly, "in the entire history of Arda, as i have studied it, there has been just one right time... March 25, 3019, 1419 in Shire Reckoning." Letting Aragorn take Elboron to his nurse, Faramir walked into the stables, hoping that he would be able to resolve his differences (or perhaps rather, similarities) with Éomer.
"Brother," Faramir called out hopefully to Éomer as the King of Rohan groomed his own horse as he often did whenever he wanted to be alone. There were few grooms kept in employ in Rohan, even for the King, as the bond between horse and rider was so strong.
Éomer turned his head only slightly and did not stop currying Firefoot's left shoulder. "I have no siblings," he said lowly.
Faramir was silent for a moment before he said genuinely but composedly, "nor have i."
Éomer said nothing for some while before setting aside the curry comb with a deep sigh. "Is there something that you want, Lord Steward?" he said impersonally.
Faramir nodded. "Your friendship as my brother-in-law, at the very least, to put away this tension between us, as much for the clarity of my own conscious as for the greater good of our respective countries."
Éomer stood staring at Faramir, yet again not speaking immediately. "Why does it come so naturally to you, this whole diplomacy thing? I thought i was beginning to understand it, but it seems that it is in fact more than inviting to dinner murderous neighbors of your friend's lands while he is away. Oh well. Live and learn, is that not correct?"
Faramir flinched inwardly, not of the biting tone to Éomer's voice, but rather of the realization that Éomer did in fact blame himself for all that had happened. "The fault is no more yours than mine, Éomer."
"Maybe not so, but the grief is more mine, obviously," Éomer said quickly.
"Even that may be so, for you knew her much longer than i. And yet believe me when i say that i would have given my life for my wife and child," Faramir said sincerely.
"You would have... i should have," Éomer muttered despondently. He knew that he should have been in the Golden Hall, conducting the ceremonies there for the celebration of his brave sister's life, not in the stable, currying his horse as an excuse to sulk and for sorry himself. But he hated seeing Faramir take this whole thing with such ease and dignity. Why did his friend's son always have to be more noble than him, at times even more noble than his own father? He stared at the man of Gondor who was eight years his senior and seemed every bit of it in all but appearance, Faramir looked both more youthful and yet more aged at the same time. "How do you endure it so easily, Faramir? Why is this so easy for you?" he asked, finally voicing what had troubled him since before they set out from Minas Tirith.
"I have listened to what others have had to say and chosen to believe them. But this has been anything but easy for me. All men suffer, Éomer, but all men hurt in different ways. We can not begin to compare our grief," Faramir said wisely.
Éomer simply looked at Faramir for a while before turning back to Firefoot. "I do not need your sympathy," he said bitterly. "I have long since learned the worth of such, or lack thereof."
"For what reason other than sympathy did your uncle take you in?" Faramir asked gently, hoping his question would engage Éomer without inciting him. He knew it was dangerous ice to tread, but he did not fear the anger of others.
It appeared his question had neither the desired nor the undesired effect as Éomer just continued brushing down his horse. Firefoot, however, was seditious and sided with Faramir. He turned his massive head and shoved Éomer's hand away with a snort. Éomer gave the beast a shove back and continued anyway. Firefoot got a little more insistent, however, and turned again, putting his face against Éomer's chest, usually an expression of affection, and gave another shove, nearly knocking his rider down.
"What has gotten into you?" Éomer demanded, throwing down the curry comb, which Firefoot neatly kicked away. The horse's response was to give another "nudge", followed by a shake of his head and a snort. "Fine!" Éomer shouted at his horse. Éomer turned with great annoyance to find Faramir still standing there at the other end of the stable. "I suppose you can do better here as well? Perhaps my horse will allow you to curry him?"
"I highly doubt that," Faramir said calmly, walking to where his own horse, Aranro, was stabled, mostly to avoid just standing there. "Honestly, i think he is just trying to tell you that he doesn't like to be used as a pretext."
Éomer tensed and narrowed his eyes.
"As much as death pains the living, there is nothing we can do about it," Faramir said, almost seeming to talk to Aranro instead of his brother-in-law as he stroked his horse's neck and scratched his forehead. "You are their king, Éomer; they look to you for strength and comfort, and though you may feel you have none to spare for yourself, let alone them, you may be surprised at how much strength and comfort your people can provide you in turn."
"It must be all very easy for you to say that. You are cut out to be a Steward. I was not meant to be King, or if i was i certainly had no adequate training," Éomer said, scarcely realizing that he was confiding his troubles in Faramir. "One day i was charging orcs, leading my éored, at camp with all the other soldiers, no different from any of them. Suddenly i am supposed to be their King? I know what people expect of a king - one who is wise, noble, dignified, regally mannered... things of that sort. I am none of those things by nature, though i have tried to be and most frequently fail. All i have ever been is a soldier. I am twenty and nine, i do not know how to lead an entire people... i know not even how to be a good husband."
At Éomer's last desperate statement Faramir chuckled most unexpectedly. "Éomer, gwador, i think there is not one mortal Man alive today who knows how to be a good husband. Lord Elrond may have been, but he has the ability to read one's thoughts. We mere Mortals, on the other hand, are left to the fortunes of conjecture alone. And, furthermore, i will share with you a secret: I was not cut out for the Stewardship. Nor was my brother, it would have crushed him as it did Denethor. The Stewardship, as Gondor has always known it, is not my office. My office is entirely my own. Many things that the Steward should delegate, i take care of personally. I was most certainly never a soldier, but my days in Ithilien did have their effect on me. The first thing a Ranger learns is never to trust anyone else with your task. The second thing a Ranger learns is who he may trust with his life. I do not have the ability to sit about in heavy robes of state and tell people what to do, and so i refuse. I know it is not what is expected of me, but the old ways are no longer necessary to our survival. We are here now to enact changes in Middle-earth that shall last for all time. I shall not neglect my part in that. Éomer, you are the king, you may set the mode."
"I do not wish to disappoint them or impose upon them," Éomer said wearily.
Faramir shook his head sympathetically. "You care for your people, i see it, and i see that they support you. Take councils with those who you trust, not those who have always been appointed to council because their fathers were. I have seen where that will get one. And do not assume that you were not meant to rule. Nothing is ordered without a reason. You have a great opportunity at your hand, Éomer, do not waste it with fear to act upon it. We regret more of what we had not done than what we had. Let me ask of you a question?"
Éomer nodded.
"How would Éowyn have you be on this day?" he said gently.
Bowing his head, Éomer closed his eyes. He was silent for a moment. "Not as i have," he whispered. "I should be in the hall celebrating the life my sister lived. I should be comforted that she has a venerable place in the halls of our fathers." Éomer then glanced up, his eyes no longer glaring. "And you should be with your son, not wasting your time and wisdom trying to pull me together."
"Have i wasted, or have i shared?" Faramir said.
"You have shared, and i thank you for it, my brother. I am glad someone did," Éomer said, putting an arm around Faramir's shoulder and walking with him back to the Golden Hall.
---
Greetings of the New Year to all my readers!
Elenhin: Thank you and welcome home. I do aim to please. Sounds like it was a long trip. You are bang on right about Eomer - it's not quite martyrdom, but he thinks his pain and his losses can not be understood. He is well aware that others have suffered losses, but for some reason he thinks that they were not hurt as deeply by them. Denethor had that same problem, among a host of others. I, too, have known that sort of person. I once confided something very difficult to me in an ex-friend, and was disappointed but not truly surprised when my pain was met with indifference. As Eomer said, live and learn.
linda: It is very hard, especially for Faramir, to unlearn, but he is coming along. As we have seen, he is stronger than he knows.
I have surprised my by keeping regular updates even through the holidays. Now that the festivities have died down to sore legs from high heels on NY Eve, a jump in the lake with the Polar Bears on NY Day, and a long walk and talk with a new four-legged, 23-hands friend, i think i am set to reign in this story and begin the end. However, every time i say that i end up doubling the story in length. I will tell you, however, that i am excited to see what Elboron is like when he can talk and stuff.... I'm not promising a trilogy out of this, but perhaps another spin-off story or an epilogue.