Ultimus

"Nothing..."

Faramir stifled the urge to sigh. He wondered what his wife had been about to say, and whether it was worth the trouble to pry it from her. The discussion no doubt would be a long one, and there was so much to be done today. Reports, finances, inspections, letters. It was all never ending.

He crossed out a row of figures in the book before him, wondering how he could have wasted so much money on construction material. The stone mason was swindling him. Things were so much easier when they dealt with Master Gimli.

In pondering the situation, he almost forgot his wife, still standing before him. Their son was gone. He looked up to find her staring down at him without expression. She did that at times, and he didn't know where she went.

He had given up trying to find her. After all, she would tell him if something were bothering her. That was her way. Today, however, something was different. It might have been the impending execution. It was a bad business, and he didn't like doing it, but he had not ordered it. It had been Elessar's court that convicted the man, for it had been Elessar's law he had broken.

A foolish law with a foolish clause. Faramir would not have passed it, and Elessar himself had not liked it. But the council insisted. Faramir suspected it would be repealed in the future, but not for a good while. Not until the council saw it was more trouble than it was worth. He had been the only advisor to oppose it. Well, Elessar was in Fornost now, and nothing could be done.

He did sigh then. Suddenly, he remembered that he was not alone.

Éowyn was still in the room. Faramir didn't mind. He never minded; but he was surprised. She usually was more than happy to leave him to his work, and often it seemed he never saw her when he was home.

Ah, that must be it. I am working too much.

He set down his quill and rubbed his eyes with his left hand so as not to smear ink over his forehead. Éowyn never seemed angry that he worked too much. Once in a while she might say something, and he would explain his reasons, but in general she would not argue. Even so, he knew that everyone had limits to their patience.

His father had always disapproved of his work habits. When Faramir had been a boy, he would curl up in the library with an old tome and not appear again until evening. He neglected his sword lessons so he could study. He forgot to take meals. Many people found fault with Denethor for disapproving of his son's dedication, but Faramir had always known that his habits were irregular. It was possible Denethor had a right to be angry. At times Faramir had honestly loved his books more than his own family. And Denethor knew it.

Mithrandir alone had understood. It was part of the reason Denethor had so resented the wizard.

Faramir was grateful that Éowyn did not resent him for his ways. Like Mithrandir, Éowyn understood him also. She never asked to go with him on missions: she knew now that he would feel better knowing someone was at home to take care of their affairs. And she never demanded that he put her first because she knew how much was to be done. How helpful she was to him: putting their household in order, caring for the servants, settling disputes during his frequent absences.

It was a lonely life, and yet this suited her. He was certain of it. She was a strong woman, independent, and he would not wish to crush her under his lordship. Instead, he had given her plenty of room to maneuver and wield her power as the Princess of their realm; and he trusted her to make the right decisions. No other wife could have suited him so well.

Except...the way Éowyn was looking at him now was so strange. Not emotionless...no not hardly...but familiar somehow. Faramir felt his breath catch when he placed it.

This was the way she had looked on him in the first days in the Houses of Healing, when she had been so full of despair and fear that she would have welcomed death. This was much more serious than concern for his well-being.

How? Why? She had said 'nothing.' "Nothing" was wrong.

"What has happened?" he asked. "What can have made you look so dreadfully upon me?"

Her cheeks flushed red, as if with fever, and she lifted a hand to her eyes. Pacing from one place on the floor to another, she fretting with her hands, lacing them in her hair, then lowering them to clutch at the folds of her skirt. Frenzied. Her question came out in a rush. "Do you not know?"

Faramir's quick mind flashed back and forth through every single possibility, through every single instance he had heard or seen, and he remembered some rumor flitting back to him almost a year ago. Your wife and your guardsman... He had discarded it as gossip, for he knew Éowyn well, and she would never be unfaithful.

But he did know that she had been fond of Castos, and it must be his death that now upset her. But she hadn't wanted to speak of him.

"Is it the guardsman?" he asked anyway.

"NO!" she burst, startling them both with the violence of her protest. Faramir stared back into her frightened eyes, and began to wonder if the rumors were true. But that was foolish. Éowyn would never be unfaithful to him.

"It is not him," she said, and it came out in a flood of words. "I promise you it is not. Nothing has ever happened between us."

Faramir waited patiently for her to say what she would say. She was a plain speaker, and she would tell him soon enough.

"Do you not believe me?" she whispered.

"Of course I believe you," he replied. But he saw her eyes glimmer with tears and they began to fall.

"You don't. I can see it in your eyes. But please, believe me. Do not be so cold, Faramir. I cannot bear it any longer."

Cold? When had he ever been cold?

"Don't explain anything. There is no need," he said, standing up, coming toward her to embrace her. She let him take her in his arms, and it felt so natural to have her there. He kissed her forehead.

She seized one of his hands and kissed it. Kissed the knuckles, turned it over and kissed the palm. Her tears were falling freely now as she clutched his hand in hers like it was the only thing she had in the world. She pressed her lips over the dark ink stains on his fingers.

Then she stopped, and still holding his hand she seemed to be considering something. She was shuddering as she spoke; there was madness in her eyes. "I can prove it to you."

"But, my love, I believe you. You need never prove anything to me."

She looked up at him, her red eyes searching his. He hoped she did not see the exhaustion he held within: how he had sentenced two men to death in the past month, and how five farmers were squabbling over whose well was whose, and how they had spent too much money building a rampart that had to be torn down and redone, and how the fertility of their cattle needed to be dramatically improved. He hoped that for the moment all she could see was his love for her and its truth.

"Faramir, I can prove it to you...I can prove that I haven't betrayed you. Let me. Please?"

He didn't understand why this was so important to her. He couldn't see at all why she didn't believe he trusted her. He only saw her request laid out before him, without having even heard it; and he felt uncomfortable with her in his arms.

His mouth was dry as he asked, "What is it?"

When the executioner had finished sharpening his axe, Castos caught sight of her again. Had she moved so as to be in his line of sight? Had she managed to come closer?

It mattered not. There she was. Like a goddess, out of nowhere, just as he had met her the first time by the riverbank where he had washed up, thinking his enemies had beaten him at last. Thinking nothing except that he was dead.

He knew he was saved when she raised her arm. Already, she was calling for them to cease the execution. She must have spoken to her husband, or perhaps she had sent a messenger to the King, asking for clemency.

Castos didn't have time to ponder what she meant when her arm lowered. Instead, he felt a sharp pain.

And of him, there is no more to write.