A/N: I do see all the lovely comments and encouragements! Thank you so very much for reading, everyone, and know that it was because of the lovely comments that I was able to come back to this series so soon.
Thanks you again, you beautiful humans.
Am, I hope you see this because your comment on my last work really touched me and helped me clobber the blocks I'd been struggling with.
Faramir's desk was littered with papers, as it usually was, but he knew that some had arrived in the night- he usually left his desk in slightly better order than the disarray he'd found that morning. He sighed heavily as he realized the breakfast would have to wait until he'd caught up on the events of the previous night. He sat down and began to read, holding the most important information in his mind to fill in the happenings he had missed.
A rider was dispatched to Dol Amroth to summon Lord Imrahil back to Minas Tirith.
He winced. Apparently, he hadn't been keeping up sufficiently with the work.
The messenger from Harad had arrived with a reply to Lord Aragorn's request for peace-talks, and a messenger from Gondor had ridden out the same night.
He looked away from the paper, his stomach turning with worry. That did not bode well.
Lord Elrond was preparing to leave early that morning, and lastly, food had gone missing from the kitchens again, and the thief, (thieves, if his intuition was correct,) had left coins on the counter.
He made a mental note to have a stern word with Merry and Pippin.
He sat back in the chair to reorder his list of priorities. He would certainly need to see the king about the exchange with Harad, but Aragorn would not be awake for another hour, if he was following routine, and something about Lord Elrond's sudden announcement of departure bothered him.
It had come after the sovereigns has turned in for the night, and before they were set to awaken, as if he were trying to escape unnoticed, without breaching the rules of courtesy.
Mind made up, Faramir got to his feet.
Lord Lamedon's budget proposal could wait for a few days if it had to.
Faramir met Lord Elrond and his escort at the stables, barely before they set out.
Elrond did not seem pleased to see Faramir, and the look on his face made the Steward's knees shake. The expression softened as Faramir approached.
"My Lord," the Steward began courteously. "I see you are leaving sooner than you had expected to be. May I inquire if something is wrong? Is there anything you would like me to tell the king?" he asked, carefully framing the inquiry as nothing more than the dutiful attention of a devoted steward.
"Nothing at all," Elrond said brusquely, his tone frosty, so much so that Faramir's suspicion turned to certainty.
Neither person was fooled by the other.
"Mekin, aran nin, ala lenndë an ohta. Aragorn nahtian," Faramir managed, trying to pretend there was no tremor in his voice.
The Elvish escort froze, and Elrond scowled, motioning for them to leave.
For a tense moment, none of them moved, but at last began to file away.
"You are a very devoted Steward to your King," the Elven Lord said as the last elf was ut of sight, but Faramir could hear the menace in his voice. "Does he know this of you, Son of Denethor?"
Faramir flinched as if Elrond had slapped him. "La, aran nin, anat istie i nwalmao e atar man carie la."
Cold silence stretched out between them, only broken as Elrond took a sharp breath. "Ista nomëlca," he snapped, leading his horse back to the stables.
Translation notes:
"Please, my lord, do not leave because of strife. Aragorn will be hurt."
"No, my lord, but I know the pain of a father who cares not."
"Know your place."
Faramir dragged in a rattling breath and felt it knock about in his ribs as if he'd dropped something solid into his lungs in place of air. His stomach turned over, and his hands were shaking, all clear signs of panic. He tried to imagine Gandalf's voice.
"Panic is the enemy of the hero," he would say, rubbing Faramir's back when it had been safe to do so, helping the young boy to calm down after a particularly bad encounter with his father.
Faramir had not allowed himself the luxury of such contact in more than ten years, and Gandalf had not found out about the scars crossing his back.
Calmed at last, Faramir slipped away, near silent as he returned to his work in the office just down the hall from the throne room.
His hands were still shaking as he tried to double-check the math on Lamedon's requested budget, and he was in no mood to be indulgent with the upstart, and so with very little consideration, rejected it for its excesses, and lost himself in his work, all other needs forgotten.
A knock sounded at the door, and he finally pulled himself from the paper stack in front of him, neck popping as he changed position. "Come in," he called, wincing and putting a hand on his neck.
Aragorn let himself in, politely closing the door behind him as the Steward scrambled to his feet to bow
"My king," Faramir started, mind racing with near panic.
Could Aragorn have heard what happened with Elrond?
He focused on his breathing, keeping it slow, his body language purposefully relaxed. His attempt was worth any punitive measures it gathered, and he was prepared to take any punishment with dignity.
"Faramir," Aragorn said warmly, settling himself into an empty chair by the door. "There's no need for such formality; we're in private."
"Right," Faramir winced as he sat down again; it was a near-daily reminder. "My apologies."
"No, no, it's alright." The king sighed, shifting his weight. "The point is that you don't have to be so worried about it all the time."
The steward nodded, suppressing the urge to apologize again.
"I wanted to check in with you to make sure you're alright," Aragorn continued, and Faramir winced; this was just confirmation that he had not been keeping up with his work. "I am certain a report came to you of the exchange with Harad, yes?"
The steward closed his eyes and rubbed his hand across his face. He'd been so distraught after speaking to Elrond that he had entirely forgotten about the diplomatic letters. "I'm sorry," he said, shoulders sagging.
Ista nomëlca. The words rang in his ears all over again, fishing out old, bad memories from the dark recesses of his mind.
"I meant to see you about that earlier, but-" he hesitated. "I lost track of time."
It was no excuse, of course, and the king would have every right to be angry.
"That's fine. I am pleased to visit with you, and this is a good excuse," Aragorn said easily, apparently unbothered.
Faramir shifted again, finding that he was perched nervously on the edge of his chair.
The appearance of temperance was generally the herald of great storms.
He had to remind himself that Aragorn was not the sort of man to scheme cruel vengeance over petty grievances. He managed a smile, but judging by the look on his face, the king was beginning to pick up on Faramir's nervousness. "Thank you, Aragorn," he said, forcing himself to actually relax. "The report indicated we sent our response within hours of receiving the message from Harad. I take it the request for negotiations went poorly?"
Aragorn was silent for a long moment as he considered his steward closely.
Faramir wanted to shrink back into the chair and vanish.
"Yes," the king said at last, leaving his concerns unspoken. "As expected, they are not pleased to honor my queen as they might a king. They wanted to move the meeting place into Harad."
"A trap," Faramir said immediately, all of his ranger-instincts screaming that humoring their enemy's whims was a terrible idea.
"I shall only agree to move it as far as the border. No further," Aragorn said firmly, and the steward relaxed. "But I cannot go myself. Arwen has forbidden it."
"Ah," the knot in Faramir's back throbbed as he tensed again. "I would be honored to accept such an important mission."
"Assuming they accept our terms," Aragorn added. "If not, then the war will continue. I will make no compromise on this matter."
"That is most wise," Faramir agreed. "The very suggestion speaks of impertinence and bad faith."
"That's what I worry about. I suspect you are the best man for this job, and I shall have need of your subtlety and insight before this is done," the king mused. "I expect there will be some trick."
Faramir tried to make sense of the words that were reaching his ears. "Are you… certain?" he managed, fingers fumbling against each other as he unconsciously began to wring his hands.
Aragorn's chin tilted downward slightly and one eyebrow lifted- signs of displeasure if Faramir had ever seen them. "I have not known followers of Sauron to be honorable. The people of Harad are proud and wild, but they will follow their corrupt leaders if ordered, even if the act strips their ethics down to the quick." He paused, eyebrow lifting even further, instilling a sharp sense of dread into Faramir's chest. "Or did you mean something else? Are you questioning my judgment, Faramir?" he asked, setting his elbows on his knees as he leaned forward.
The Steward swallowed hard, hands shaking where they sat, hidden behind the wood of his desk. "N-no, my lord, I just-" his eyes darted to the door, seeking an exit.
"Then you are doubting my faith in you?" Aragorn continued, his voice soft and gentle, rattling Faramir further; the steward could handle anger, but he could not comprehend the reaction he was receiving from the king, and so feared it.
He could only shake his head, hands gripping the edge of his desk.
"But you think it is misplaced?"
Faramir could not respond. He did think Aragorn's faith was misplaced. He could not conceive of himself as being ready for such a vital diplomatic mission. He was just a ranger captain, and now a ranger captain pretending to be a prince and steward, hoping for affection and rewards he knew he had not earned and did not deserve.
His eyes dropped to the floor.
"Faramir, look at me," Aragorn ordered, and Faramir flinched. "I know you," he said in a way that sent a shiver down the steward's spine, as if the king had set a secret and very personal knowledge in those words. "If you are worried that I shall see your flaws, let me assure you that I do. I am not blind, I am not deceived, and you are not a deceiver, and neither are those flaws the whole of you. Faramir, I see a man beyond the wounds of your past. Let them heal. Rise above, Faramir. You are a son of-" he hesitated. "A son of Numinor."
"A son of Denethor," he said tentatively. "I fear what weakness flows in my veins."
Aragorn nodded sagely. "And I, the heir of Isildur. I think we have both proven to be unchained by the ghosts of yesteryears."
Faramir did not look convinced.
"No madness is in you," the king insisted. "I know it."
A silence hung between them in the quiet study, and Faramir had to let the words cover him, setting a warmth and ease into him that was unfamiliar.
"Yes, Aragorn," he said, confidence restored, at least for the moment. "Thank you, my lord."
"Will you accept this task?" the king asked and Faramir nodded.
"I will."
"Good," Aragorn said, allowing a smile to peek through on his face. "This brings me to something else I heard today. My father tells me I have you to thank for persuading him to sta- Faramir?" He stood suddenly, taking a few long-legged steps around the desk to lean down, catching Faramir's chin and studying his face with all the intensity of a breaking storm in his eyes. "You've gone white, melon nin, what's wrong?"
"I- I- I thought he would be angry-"
"He was," Aragorn said easily, seeming to relax, presumably as he realized Faramir was alright. He remained standing for a second longer, lingering as though he preferred to remain in proximity before at last moving back to the chair to sit once more.
"I thought you would be angry-"
"I'm not," the king said firmly. "I am grateful on behalf of my wife… and myself, if I am being honest. We have little time left with him."
Faramir took a moment to consider before he responded. "I have stood by to see the eyes of a father I loved and aspired to make proud pass by me without lingering. I… do not wish anyone-" especially you "-to suffer the way I do. Did," he corrected himself, hoping Aragorn hadn't noticed the slip.
The king set his hand on the desk. "Those days are over," he insisted, gaining a tight smile from the man across from him.
Aragorn thought he had been referring to Denethor.
"Yes," Faramir agreed, tone thick.
Of course Aragorn had not noticed the true meaning of his error, but why did that sting so badly?
Silence reigned, unbroken by either side, and the desk kept them apart.
At last, Aragorn stood. "I've taken too much of your time," the king said, offering a wan smile. "I will let you get back to work, but please, remember to eat, melon nin," he said, turning toward the door.
Faramir scrambled to his feet. "It wasn't too much time," he said, words coming out in a rush. It wasn't long enough. "It was a pleasure to speak with you."
Aragorn nodded but said nothing before opening the door and vanishing out into the hall, leaving only the quiet click of the latch behind with the faint scent of athelas.
The Steward stood alone in the silent study before dropping back into his chair to bury his face in his hands.
He had said too much, gone too far, crossed too many lines, and gotten too close.
Of course Aragorn had left. Why would he stay? Why would anyone stay?
Aragorn stood in the hall, quietly observing his pounding heart. He was afraid, terribly afraid, and he hated it.
Orcs, Uraks, Mumaks, Easterlings, Wraiths of many kinds, the undead, even Sauron himself had not frightened Aragorn as much as the idea of losing Faramir, but he could tell he had overstepped boundaries better left uncrossed.
Perhaps it was his tone, or his affectionate use of Elvish, maybe it had been in crossing to check on the Steward's health that had done it, but he could tell it was his fault, something he had said.
He replayed the conversation in his mind, trying not to wince at every near-miss where his affection had gone undisguised, wondering if that had been the tipping point.
He'd said too much, gotten too close, and Faramir had reacted by pulling away- he could see it in the pained, unconvinced smile, the set of his shoulders, the way the Steward's eyes would avoid his own gaze.
Aragorn forced himself forward, heart heavy. His hip throbbed painfully.
He had his own work to do, and he could not let it bury Faramir for his own negligence.