Fear of Fire, Chapter Four: Ghosts in the Smoke
Rating: PG this chapter
Summary: Faramir's fear of fire is revealed to Aragorn
A/N: Oy! This is a really long chapter, folks. Sorry about that, I just couldn't find anyplace to break it up. Anyway, that's why it took me so long to update. :) Also, I wound up writing Eomer as something of a doofus in this chapter--my apologies to all fans of the Third Marshal/King of Rohan.

Chapter Four: Ghosts in the Smoke

Faramir tugged at the uncomfortable collar on his formal tunic as he strode down the hallway, wondering if he could have gotten away with not attending the party this evening as he had just arrived in Minas Tirith that afternoon. He had never really enjoyed these evening gatherings, almost mandatory for Gondor's elite to attend each Orbelain. He had a difficult time being himself in a crowd, even if it was made up of people he was acquainted with. And after all, Aragorn had asked Faramir to let him know if there was anything he could do to make Faramir's life easier.

But it seemed too odd. Who didn't enjoy a good party? The whole point of these gatherings was to allow people a chance to relax and socialize with their peers in a setting that was not the court. Besides, his presence would make for a more relaxing evening for Aragorn, as everyone would much rather bother the Steward than the King with any petty problems or quarrels that arose. Asking Aragorn for a favor now and then would be one thing, but getting himself off the hook and inconveniencing the King in the process was quite another. It would be selfish not to attend.

Faramir had dashed to his quarters as soon as Aragorn had excused him from their meeting and asked a servant to draw a bath, determined to wash off as much of the dirt from two weeks on the road as possible before appearing in public. He had bathed hastily, turning the bathwater positively gray with the grime of the past two weeks, and dressed with equal haste, which accounted for his having thrown on this particular tunic, one he was not fond of as the embroidery at the collar and sleeves irritated his skin. He had not felt that he had time to dry his hair, so he had merely raked a comb through it in an effort to make it lie flat before going to meet Eowyn.

She answered the door almost as soon as he knocked, as though she had been waiting, which made him feel guilty. "Good evening, Eowyn," he greeted her. "You look stunning." It was true--Eowyn was quite adept at dressing to her best advantage. Tonight she was wearing a gown of turquoise, a shade which highlighted and illuminated her golden hair, and its long bell sleeves and low waist accented her figure to perfection.

"And you," Eowyn replied, "look as though you have not slept in a week."

Faramir gave a mocking bow, wishing he could hide his fatigue better. "My lady is observant," he remarked dryly. "As a matter of fact, my sleep of late has been plagued by nightmares."

"Oh?" Eowyn asked as she stepped out into the hallway, her smile faltering. It was clear she was aware of Faramir's history with portentious dreams.

"Indeed," Faramir said, wondering how far he could tease her. "I have seen most troubling things in my dreams." He offered Eowyn his arm, and they began walking down the hall.

"What things have you seen?" Eowyn queried delicately after a moment.

Faramir pretended to hesitate. "Must I reveal myself?"

"Yes, you must," Eowyn said mock-severely.

Faramir heaved a sigh. "I have dreamed, without ceasing, of your brother offering to spar with me."

It took a moment for his statement to sink in, and then Eowyn burst into laughter. "Oh, Faramir!" she complained, striking lightly at his shoulder. "You had me worried!"

"And now you have me worried," Faramir replied gravely, taking the hand she had struck him with. "You should not use this arm lightly, you are only just out of your cast."

Eowyn rolled her eyes. "Yes, my Lord," she said with exaggerated patience. After a moment she said mischievously, "He has missed you, you know."

"Who?"

"My brother. I believe he is more excited over our impending union than either of us, or indeed both of us combined," she confessed in a low, conspiratorial tone. "By the way, is the date well with you, Faramir?"

"The date is fine," he assured her. Eomer had almost completely taken over planning for the wedding and had tentatively set it for next Orbelain. "I need not make many preparations. My only worry is that you shall not be able to find a gown in time."

"Oh, Arwen has offered me the loan of hers," Eowyn said in a mild tone. "We are much the same size."

"Indeed? That was kind of her," Faramir said noncommittally.

"She said," and now there was an edge in Eowyn's voice, "that it was only appropriate, since the circumstances of my wedding would be much the same as hers. Why didn't you tell me about her and Aragorn?" she hissed.

Faramir flinched slightly. "Aragorn asked me not to reveal him to anyone," he said firmly. "And he did not exclude you from that ban, even though it was his suggestion that we come to an arrangement. I did not feel that breaking the King's faith was a good way to begin as his Steward," he finished with dignity.

Eowyn's anger subsided as quickly as it had flared. "No, I suppose not," she admitted. "Still, I wish you had told me. When Arwen spoke to me she assumed I already knew. It made for an interesting conversation."

Faramir was relieved--if Arwen had assumed Eowyn already knew about her and Aragorn, it meant Aragorn didn't object. "I'm sure it did."

They reached the garden Aragorn had designated for this evening's entertainment without further incident. As soon as they entered, Eomer descended upon them. "Good to have you back, Faramir!" he announced loudly, with a brotherly clap to Faramir's shoulder.

"It is good to be back," Faramir replied, refraining from rubbing his poor shoulder, which had now been punched twice tonight by members of the house of Eorl.

"How are the provinces doing?" Eomer inquired.

"Well, for the most part. Or as well as can be expected. I brought personal word of the King's return to several outlying areas that may feel cut off from the goings-on in Gondor, and I have seen with my own eyes what can best be done to aide these isolated areas," Faramir replied diplomatically.

"Well, that is good. But I hope Aragorn can be prevailed upon not to make you work so hard this coming week," Eomer said, almost conspiratorially. "Got to have you in shape for the wedding."

Faramir gritted his teeth into something that resembled a smile; his head was already beginning to ache. "I am certain the King will take that into consideration."

"And if he does not, he shall have me to reckon with!" Arwen announced lightly, sailing by and joining the conversation. "Hello, Faramir, it's good to see you back ."

"My Lady," Faramir replied, politely taking Arwen's hand and kissing the knuckles.

"As I'm sure you're aware, Eomer, my husband relies on Faramir an extraordinary amount," Arwen continued, causing Faramir to blush furiously. "Almost unhealthily, I believe. Not for Aragorn of course, but for poor Faramir!" They all laughed and Faramir blushed a little hotter. "But I will see to it that he is allowed at least a little time with his bride-to-be," she continued, casually linking arms with Eowyn as she spoke. The two made a beautiful picture together, light against dark, and from the ease of the gesture Faramir gathered they had become friends while he was away.

"You had best, my lady," Eomer replied, his jovial tone offsetting the impression that he would dare command the Queen of Gondor. "I will not see my sister slighted in the weeks after her wedding."

"Of course not. We will all see to it that neither of them work too hard," Arwen said, with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "Eomer, while I have you, Lady Silmaen was looking for you earlier, she and I need your advice on something. Might I prevail upon you to leave your sister's company for a time and search for her with me?"

"Foiled again in my attempts to spend time with you, brother!" Eomer declared ruefully, delivering yet another blow to Faramir's much-abused shoulder. "But who could resist the Lady Arwen? I am always at your service," he finished with a courtier's flare.

"Thank you," Arwen said serenely. "My apologies, Faramir."

"You are of course forgiven, my Lady," Faramir replied formally. As soon as Eomer's back was turned, he mouthed the words thank you to her. Arwen winked before gliding away on Eomer's arm.

"Another narrow escape," Eowyn commented dryly. "You are fortunate your friends look out for you and step between you and my brother's enthusiasms. I had to fend for myself growing up."

Faramir made an indistinct noise, since he wasn't sure how to respond. Eomer had depressed him, and he tried to shake it off. He gingerly touched his abused shoulder, just to make Eowyn laugh--he was developing a great deal of fondness for that light, lilting laughter. But Eowyn did not laugh. "Are you all right, Faramir?" she asked lightly. She didn't mean the shoulder.

Faramir hesitated, completely unsure of how to respond. Despite her joking about Eomer's overbearing nature he knew Eowyn loved her brother very much, and he did not want to say anything negative. He settled, as he often did, for telling a half-truth. "When Eomer calls me 'brother' it makes me think of Boromir," he said simply.

"Oh," Eowyn said. As Faramir had hoped, in her eagerness to understand she didn't realize he had said only a small part of what was bothering him--that in truth it felt like Eomer was trying too hard to be his brother, which was ridiculous. His marriage to Eowyn was largely political, after all. And this soon after Boromir's death, it was as though Eomer was trying to replace his beloved brother, which no one could ever aspire to do. "He doesn't mean to--"

"It's all right," Faramir assured Eowyn quickly, not wanting to probe into the topic. "Come, let's move into the party."

Eowyn nodded, and they moved forward, smiling and chatting politely with those they met. Eowyn was still unfamiliar with some of the Gondorian nobility so Faramir worked hard to introduce her, and to facilitate conversations with those she had only met once or twice before. It was exhausting. What he wouldn't have given to be away from here, curled up in his reading chair with a good book and unworried about who was watching, what they were thinking.

As the evening wore on he began to regard his bride-to-be with more and more envy. Eowyn seemed to have been born socializing. She handled it with the same easy grace as Arwen, but was a tad less condescending and more open in her manner. The courtiers flocked to her and Faramir felt himself becoming less and less necessary, for which he was quietly grateful. He was extremely short on sleep from his journey and had been allowed no time in between taking council with Aragorn and coming to this party, leaving his nerves on edge. He was perfectly happy, once Eowyn was surrounded, to quietly detach himself from her side and look for a quiet corner where he could half-conceal himself for the remainder of the evening.

Unfortunately, as soon as he left the bustle of courtiers around Eowyn and started across the square, an all-too familiar face descended upon him. A face he was beginning to fear the sight of much more than Eomer's.

"Captain Faramir," the man greeted him evenly, bowing slightly.

"Lieutenant Amlach," Faramir replied coldly.

Amlach eyes him speculatively. When it became clear the conversation was not going to continue without his aide, Faramir suppressed a sigh and wound himself up for some small talk. "I trust you are well?"

"Aye," Amlach replied, almost absently, and that was that. Before Faramir could struggle with another comment, he said abruptly, "I hear you are to be married next Orbelain."

Faramir nodded. "Yes."

There was a moment of silence in which Amlach neglected to offer congratulations. Just as Faramir was beginning to wonder if there was any aspect of the recent weather worth commenting upon, Amlach spoke. "Have you given any further thought to my proposition?" he asked point-blank.

"You know my answer, Amlach," Faramir replied firmly, relieved that the lieutenant was coming straight to the point without condemning them to further social fumbling.

"I said, have you given further thought to my proposition...Captain?"

Faramir began to wonder if the man was being deliberately offensive. In a social situation it was customary to refer to someone by the title they used in peacetime, not their officer's title. "Steward" or "My Lord," would have been appropriate, or even "Prince," though Faramir had yet to become comfortable with that title Aragorn had bestowed upon him. To refer to him continually as Captain implied that Faramir possessed no other title, and that combined with the slight hesitation was more than enough for Faramir to infer insult. But Faramir just wanted to smooth this over, so he answered as inoffensively as he could manage under the circumstances. "And I said that you knew my answer, Lieutenant. I have given you my reasons. Do I need to go over them again?"

"Boromir trusted me," Amlach said, his rising anger apparent in the slight clenching of his fists.

"So you have said, repeatedly. And for some captains that would be enough. But I have already told you, Amlach, everyone begins on equal footing with me. I have had a veritable influx of men into my unit, and while your position with my brother must be taken into account, I need time to evaluate everyone's abilities and where they will fit into the unit best, along with my ability to interact peacefully with them." He paused meaningfully there. "As well, the position you occupied in Boromir's unit is already filled. While I am by no means saying I will not see fit to elevate you, I am not prepared to move or demote a man I have worked with for years simply because you were my brother's second in command!"

Faramir took a deep breath; his voice had become more heated than he had intended. He was weary of Amlach. "Do I make myself clear?" he finished in what he hoped was a more moderate tone.

"You do," Amlach said, but there was no mistaking the anger and resentment smoldering in his eyes.

"Then," Faramir said, bracing himself to be pleasant and reaching out to put an arm on Amlach's shoulder, "let us not spoil the evening with strife. Come, let me introduce you to my fiancee."

Amlach almost jerked out of Faramir's touch. "With regret, Captain, I must be elsewhere." He bowed stiffly and strode off, leaving a baffled Faramir behind him.

Faramir allowed himself a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand over the hair on the back of his neck. He prayed that Lieutenant Amlach would not become any more difficult than he had already been. If he started causing dissention in the unit then Faramir would have no choice but to move him, but he couldn't think of anyplace he could be moved to that would not be viewed as a punitive action. He dearly regretted that he had been given command of the man at all. As Boromir's second in command Amlach could have easily been elevated to lead that unit, but instead a man from Dol Amroth had been brought in and Amlach, along with several others from various units who had lost their commanders, had been dumped in with Faramir. Amlach had been very clear from the beginning that he did not feel Faramir was treating him well. Yet Faramir had not been given a chance yet to see Amlach's supposedly famous skills in action; all he had seen was how miserably the man handled peacetime.

Boromir, Faramir thought sadly. What did you see in this man? There must be something I don't see. Please help me, brother. Help me to find the qualities that made you respect and elevate him. Help me.

But there was no answer for Faramir. He felt tears prick the corners of his eyes and was ashamed of himself. What had he been expecting, anyway? The ghost of Boromir to form in flames of the bonfire they had just started in the center of the square? Dispensing advice and wisdom by forming letters and words with the smoke? That would be a mean feat, even for Boromir.

Before Faramir could stop himself, he found himself drawn slowly towards the fire, mesmerized in a cold way by its crackling and snapping. Denethor, he thought morosely, would be more likely to rise out of the flames. For was it not fire that had taken his father? What would Denethor say, if his ghost were to form from the wispy tendrils of smoke? Would he be angry with Faramir?

With a sinking sensation Faramir realized there was little he had done since Denethor's death that his father would find praiseworthy. He had made a politically advantageous marriage, it was true, but Denethor would have been suspect of that, knowing Faramir's inclinations as he did. He probably would have earned only a stern lecture on the duties of a husband. And nothing else would merit praise. He had not been part of the glorious battle before the gates of Mordor, but had rather stayed home like a sick old woman, a convalescent in the Houses of Healing. Then he had freely supported Aragorn's claim to the throne--this he knew in his heart to have been the right course of action, but when had that excuse ever held with Denethor? He would see it only as another betrayal, another wrong, see it only as Faramir following blindly where Gandalf led--wizard's pupil, indeed.

And as Faramir stared into the bonfire he almost felt that he could indeed see the image of the last of the Ruling Stewards form in the smoke above. He could feel the heat of disapproval radiating from the flames, and once again did not know what he had done to deserve it.

It was Aragorn who noticed that something was wrong with Faramir. He was standing and chatting comfortably with Arwen and Imrahil when his gaze, wandering slightly, alit on a tense figure on the opposite side of the bonfire. A judicious squint revealed it was Faramir.

When Aragorn realized Faramir was staring into the flames, focused and intense and seemingly oblivious to the world around him, a chill went through his spine. Without any attempt to excuse himself from conversation, he left his wife and councilor and strode quickly across the square.

Faramir appeared even worse when seen close up. His face was slick with sweat and his eyes were wide and positively fixed upon the fire, his mouth clenched tightly. Aragorn drew even with him and put an arm solidly around the younger man's shoulders, hoping Faramir would lean into the comfort he offered.

There was no movement from Faramir. Aragorn looked closely at his face and found to his dismay that Faramir's expression had not shifted in the slightest--it was as though Faramir was completely unaware of him. "Faramir?" he asked softly, leaning in slightly.

There was no change. Aragorn was now positive Faramir couldn't hear him; Faramir wouldn't just ignore him like that. "Faramir!" Aragorn said in a more commanding tone, shaking the Steward slightly. "Faramir!"

With a gasp like he was coming up out of a deep pool, Faramir gave a convulsive shudder and looked around himself wildly, like a wild beast unsure where he was and ready to bolt. Panting heavily, he grasped convulsively for Aragorn with both hands.

"Come," Aragorn said quietly. His arm still protectively over the shorter man's shoulders, he turned and quickly guided Faramir out of the gardens. He schooled his features into what Arwen was beginning to call his "Anger not the King" expression, one that invariably let courtiers, councilors and soldiers alike know that now was not the time to bother him.

It was essential that he get Faramir out of the public eye before he could do anything to help him. He led Faramir with his arm still tight around the Steward's shoulders; Faramir followed along blindly, clutching Aragorn's sleeve as though he was drowning and Aragorn was a raft. Aragorn could feel Faramir's shoulders quaking, and hear his labored breathing as he struggled against tears or hysteria, Aragorn could not tell which.

The closest place Aragorn could think of that stood a fair chance of being deserted was the library. He gave a sigh of relief when they got there and found it was indeed empty. He let go of Faramir briefly to shut the door behind them and throw the latch. To his dismay, the instant the door swung shut Faramir began not just to cry, but to cry in a way Aragorn had never seen anyone cry before. Faramir stood with his back to Aragorn, folded over slightly but still upright, his hands over his face as though to hide. He cried in a soft, heartbreaking way, as though his heart had been broken and yet he did not expect comfort from any source but himself.

Without speaking, Aragorn went and drew Faramir tightly into his embrace. After a moment, Faramir's hands came away from his face and he tentatively put his arms around Aragorn's shoulders. Aragorn pulled him even closer, fiercely protective, and the level of Faramir's sobbing increased.

Aragorn tried to murmur soothing words. He realized his Steward had just been through some traumatic experience, though he couldn't fathom what could have happened. There seemed to be no response on Faramir's part to his words so Aragorn gave up, just holding on and letting Faramir cry, stroking his back and hair.

After several minutes the tears did not seem to decrease, and Aragorn began to worry. He wished they were somewhere that he could make Faramir a cup of strong tea--he knew from experience that having some liquid to swallow could help stop tears when they had gone beyond the point of sadness and become a physical convulsion, almost like the hiccups. He also knew that slapping someone could bring them out of hysterics, but he did not think Faramir was that far gone. In any case he was firmly resolved, having heard ominous hints from both Gandalf and Boromir, never to raise a hand against Faramir. In the end all he could think to do was to gently maneuver the both of them over to a couch, where he sat and adjusted Faramir so the younger man was half-sitting, half-leaning against Aragorn.

The change of position seemed to remind Faramir of the external world; after only a moment he sat up stiffly, making little choking noises as he worked to hold the tears down.

"You don't need to do that, Faramir," Aragorn said softly. "You can cry for as long as you need to."

Faramir shook his head firmly. "No...I don't want to," he managed to slip out between labored breaths.

"I think you need to," Aragorn replied seriously.

"No." Faramir knuckled his eyes fiercely. "No, it's not, it's fine."

"Faramir!" Aragorn exclaimed. He reached out and took both of Faramir's hands in his, ignoring the way Faramir tensed at the touch. "You're obviously in some kind of trouble," he continued kindly. "Let me help you."

Faramir's tears had all but ceased; he looked Aragorn in the eye for the first time. Aragorn had to call forth all his restraint to keep from leaning forward and kissing the young man, he looked so hopeful and vulnerable all at the same time--and beautiful, despite his watery eyes and red nose.

Aragorn didn't know what Faramir saw in his own face, but he stammered, "I can't abide...the fire."

"That's not surprising," Aragorn said comfortingly, and he risked reaching up and tucking a few escaped strands of hair back behind Faramir's ear. "Why don't you tell me about it."

It was like a dam had been broken. Faramir curled up on his side with his head against Aragorn's shoulder and began speaking, hesitantly at first, but soon the whole story was pouring out of him. Aragorn had suspected that some fear of fire might linger after Denethor's attempt to burn Faramir alive, but Faramir had hid very well just how much it was bothering him. Aragorn had had no idea, and yet as Faramir he spoke he went over the past month in his mind and could recall several instances where Faramir had avoided fire. He remembered that Faramir never seemed to join the men around the hearthfire on a chilly evening. And he had assumed some inherent shyness was to blame for Faramir's habit of standing far back from whatever light source was being used in the evenings, half-concealed in shadow.

Aragorn could have smacked himself when Faramir talked about the nights on his recent journey, and how he had been unable to bring himself to even gather kindling for a fire, much less attempt to light one. Guilt washed over Aragorn at the thought of Faramir huddled under his cloak, shivering the still-cold spring nights away, going without sleep on a mission that hadn't been necessary in the first place because he, Aragorn, had sent him.

"And then tonight, I was talking to--someone from my unit, and what he had to say disheartened me. To tell the truth I've never cared for these parties anyway, it's hard for me to just chat with people. And I don't know why, but when I looked at the fire everything just started piling up on me, and I couldn't breathe, couldn't move. I remember I could have sworn I could feel my father there in the fire, watching me, and I got--stuck."

"Stuck?" Aragorn queried gently. "I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Faramir replied sadly. "It was as though--I couldn't move. I was frozen in place and my limbs were weak with the fever and I couldn't escape," he said, his words coming quicker and quicker as his voice took on a frantic quality. "I could hear voices all around but I couldn't look, couldn't turn my head or even open my eyes, and there was someone weeping--"

"Faramir!" Aragorn said sharply. "Stop thinking about it, now!"

Faramir jumped slightly, as though water had been thrown in his face, and Aragorn knew he had been right to stop him. "What's happening to me?" Faramir asked in a small voice.

"I'm not sure," Aragorn admitted. "But I think you're having flashbacks to the day--of Denethor's death.

Aragorn could feel the young man tremble against him. "How am I to stop it?" he asked. "How am I to vanquish an enemy I cannot even see?"

"I know not," Aragorn admitted.

Then Faramir surprised him by asking, "Will you help me?" Faramir raised his head slightly so he could look Aragorn in the eye, his expression somber. "Please," he said heavily. "I can't ask anyone else for help, I can't trust this--this weakness to another. It grieves me to ask you for anything when you have already given so much to me, but I remember how you have pulled me from the shadows before. I do not believe anyone else can help me with this, not even Eowyn, and I need help. And you did say I could come to you if I needed to."

"I did," Aragorn assured him. "And I will find a way to help, I promise you. But there has been enough tonight, you are worn out."

"We should return to the party," Faramir said suddenly, as if just realizing their absence must have been noted. He stood quickly.

Aragorn also stood and placed a hand on Faramir's arm to stay his action. "Nay, I meant what I said," he said firmly. "You have been through enough for one night. You need rest. Furthermore," he added with sudden suspicion, "I am going to escort you to your bedroom so as to be certain you do not slip off to the library."

Faramir gestured around them with a slight smile. "We are already in the library, Aragorn. Slipping off there would not be very difficult."

Aragorn realized Faramir was right, and had to laugh at himself. He was relieved Faramir did not offer any further resistance as he unlocked the door and the two of them made their way to Faramir's chambers; the young Steward must be truly exhausted if he didn't think it was worth a fight. At the door to his rooms Faramir turned as if to bid Aragorn goodnight, but Aragorn stopped him, declaring that he would come inside and wait until Faramir was asleep. As he had anticipated Faramir turned a lovely shade of pink and immediately began stammering that it wasn't necessary, but Aragorn was adamant. "It's not for your peace of mind, it's for mine," he repeated firmly several times. And in the end, since Aragorn was the king and used to getting his own way, Faramir was forced to acquiesce.

Aragorn made himself at home with a volume of poetry in Faramir's study, to allow Faramir some privacy. After Faramir bid him goodnight and went into the bedroom, Aragorn could hear the soft sound of clothing being changed. He tried in vain to prevent himself from imagining what sort of view he might be presented with at any given moment if he had burst into the bedroom. He was half-afraid that Faramir would come out to say goodnight a second time and studiously arranged the large book on his lap, covering the evidence of his thoughts. After a moment he heard the rushes in Faramir's mattress shift, and he let out a breath he did not know he had been holding.

He idly read some of the poetry, not really taking it in--he was too busy listening to the rustling of sheets and rushes from the other room. Faramir was either having a hard time settling down or was a truly restless sleeper. After a time the noise cut off so abruptly that Aragorn felt compelled to put down his book and go and check on Faramir. He found the Steward sprawled on his stomach, deeply asleep and looking like an angel; apparently he had been able to find some surcease from the ghosts and emotions that had been stirred up. '

Aragorn had intended to return to his own quarters as soon as Faramir fell asleep, as Arwen was no doubt wondering what had happened to him. But something about seeing Faramir at peace for once drew him in, and he found himself watching over the Steward's sleep for many more hours before he finally sought his own bed.