Author's Notes: Hello and welcome to chapter one of "To Whatever End". I'm afraid the beginning of this story is rather slow, but then again, I suppose there is no sense in rushing through things. Unlike the prologue, this chapter takes place post-War of the Ring, in the autumn of 3019. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the prologue and those that reviewed, .And.Embers.Rise., Sarahbarr17, Kyoluva731, Chibi-Kaz and Katie0203. Thanks so much everyone! I was thrilled to receive your comments.

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Tolkien's mast piece. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter One

Early November 3019 Third Age

Faramir paused in the outer courtyard to adjust the buckles on his slippers. Slippers, bah! He hated the decidedly feminine feel of the shoe and his thoughts turned to the long line of Stewards. It was indeed a curiosity then, that they all bore the rod of their office with strict masculinity. Amongst the delicate robes, the soft, silk-lined shirts and cotton breeches, Faramir felt undone. But then again, he had never wanted to be Steward in the first place.

A thin, silvery note struck the damp air. Faramir grimaced and ran his tongue along his teeth. He was late, late for the King's council. The pages were already blowing upon their horns. He straightened, threw his dark robes into some state of order and breezed into the inner sanctum of the Citadel. The halls were crowded. Dignified men jostled about his elbows with disgustingly sycophantic glances.

It was strange, Faramir thought, he knew each lord by name and all the detailed dispositions of the gathered dignitaries and yet, they appeared as strangers to him. These men were indeed familiar to him, but in that distant, abstract way one comes to identify with office. He had been a boy of a Ranger when introduced to them and hitherto, had viewed each stoic, stony countenance with a soldier's flippancy. Men of law they were, of state and standing. And for long years he had not associated himself with them…until now.

An unconscious, unstoppable blush darkened his cheeks. Faramir ducked his head, feigning contemplation and darted through the thick throng of bodies. Crisp pleasantries were addressed to him as he walked, mutters of…

"My lord."

"Lord Faramir."

and…

"My lord Steward."

The last grated upon his nerves the most and Faramir found his hands clenched beneath the voluminous sleeves of his robes. He entertained the fanciful notion of fleeing back to Ithilien and he would have begun to retreat down the corridor, had Damrod not stopped him first.

Thank blessed Eru for Damrod.

"Captain." The ebony-haired Ranger placed a hand on Faramir's shoulder. "It seems the sea hasn't swallowed you after all. Good."

Faramir whirled about to see his old friend tucked in a corner, dressed in his soldier's garb and smelling of the Wild. The Steward was instantly envious.

"You come to mock me, sir?" he asked as Damrod pulled him out of the veritable stampede that had evolved as soon as the doors to the King's quarters were opened.

"Am I cruel?" Damrod replied with a crafty lift of his brow.

Faramir shook his head, his once long hair now only dusting the surface of his shoulders. That had been another sacrifice for office, as Niriel had mildly suggested that a Steward should not possess a mangy mane. Faramir sighed and felt nearly humiliated by the unchanged Damrod.

"I'll have you know," his friend said, chest swelling with importance, "that the King has sent for me. Rangers do count for something, it seems. He wishes me to join the council so that I might keep things 'grounded', I believe that was his term."

"Lord Anardil must be in hysterics," Faramir drawled with a drawn smile. The stuffy Anardil was the sort of man who viewed warriors as strategic ants meant to be governed, not listened to.

"He is under the chair as we speak." Damrod folded his hands behind his back in a ridiculously formal manner. "But what of you, dear man? You must tell me something of Dol Amroth."

Faramir exhaled sharply. Dol Amroth indeed. What a mistake that had been. Upon first inheriting the office of Steward, Faramir found himself cowed by the King's harried, put-upon ways. It had been a rather unpleasant time, one that urged him to depart…or run, rather. And since Stewards of Gondor were not inclined to abandon their posts, Faramir had searched for an excuse. A short trip to visit his wife's kin in Dol Amroth seemed in order. The King had accepted his reasoning with surprising grace and Faramir took his leave for three weeks. But it had been a mistake, as he found he could only think of his mother's soft smile rising above the foam-flecked waves. And as it was, his wife's kin were a suspicious clan and Niriel did little to foster an alliance betwixt the awkward parties.

Faramir chewed on his lower lip and offered Damrod a suppressed sigh. "Never mind that now. How is the King?"

Damrod was a keen man and with traditional good humor, he overlooked the matter entirely.

"Well enough," he said and shook his head so that rays of sun tumbling through the slanted windows avoided his eyes. "But you put too much store in the worthless words of a poor judge. I have attended only one council thus far." He yawned, exaggerating the legendary boredom of state ceremonies. Faramir had heard such from Boromir who had been forced to endure hours of endless talk and diplomacy in preparation for his Stewardship.

And yet here Faramir stood, wearing the robes and bearing he rod. He suddenly felt as though his skin itched and he rubbed his arms fiercely.

"Captain?" Damrod let his head drop to the side.

"Never mind, friend."

"A common phrase of yours." A saucy chuckle parted Damrod's lips. And then he was suddenly sober, brows falling back into place with a cautious air.

"How fares your lady wife?"

Faramir knew this subject could not be dodged so easily. Coincidentally, it happened to be his most detested topic for conversation, one that evoked inquiries and looks of pity. And Faramir, Captain of Gondor, would not be pitied.

Gathering himself once more, he nodded. "Better."

"And the cough?"

Faramir shook his head. Damrod was wise enough to stay silent.

Faramir flexed his fingers. It was quite hard enough to be partnered with a cheerless girl, but his wife was also…not well.

"Well, I am certain she was happy to see her child," Damrod said. Faramir stiffened, prepared for a second volley of worrisome questions. Fortunately, a polite but punctual page arrived and reminded them both of the ensuing meeting. Faramir, grateful for the excuse, adjusted his heavy robes one last time and pattered after the page, hoping that perhaps he might wear boots unnoticed next time.

The meeting unfolded as anticipated. A great menagerie of old lords and counselors gathered in the chamber in which Faramir's father had once held sway. And now Faramir himself sat at the King's right hand, out of place, awkward, but composed. Stoicism was indeed a solid virtue.

King Aragorn appeared to be a settled mood, sitting easily beneath the weight of his crown with a reassured smile and sharp, soul-searching eyes. Matters of trade were discussed and debated, as was the constant shift towards recovery after the War. The King accepted his advisors' suggestions with a humble mind and stout heart, speaking wisely on all subjects and often quashing what bickering arose between the men.

After half an hour, Faramir felt the tension slip from his limbs and he relaxed in the stuffy robes. A swift, inviting breeze fingered the light curtains adorning the windows and he detected the earthy scent of the herbs grown in the kitchen gardens below.

Ithilien.

Memories of cold, clear streams and tendrils of mist and moss punctured his thoughts. For a moment he wandered in green fields, stopping to rest beneath the lengthy shadow of an old evergreen. The birds were nesting in the bushes….

"My lord Steward?"

Faramir all but jolted in his chair. Eyes were on him, curious, discerning eyes of old men that looked like his father's and so conjured ghosts.

But he had been daydreaming.

A quick cough cleared Faramir's throat and he presented the council with a stern, attentive countenance. Discussion resumed, though King Aragorn was silent for a time. Faramir felt the man's grey eyes lit upon his face. He shifted in his chair, uncomfortable.

Oh, Ithilien.

Almost all matters of business were settled when the King at last turned to Rohan and tempers flared. Rumblings and rumors of the seemingly wild realm ruptured the stillness. It seemed as though most had forgotten the alliance already and even though Faramir felt naught but the deepest respect for his brother's to the West, he was not at all pleased with the resounding conclusion.

Treaties were not enough. King Eomer was yet young and impulsive. He had not the practiced ways of the lamented Theoden. Things must be secured.

It was Lord Belegorn who suggested a marriage.

"Feel your skin prickle?" Damrod whispered in Faramir's ear as the debate raged on.

The King was otherwise silent until Belegorn rose to his ungainly feet and fostered fetid suggestions.

"The King, as it is," Belegorn promclaimed in a voice that need not have been loud, but was, "has no heirs. I say then, that we choose a woman of high-standing, a maid of Dol Amroth mayhap."

"And now I shiver," Damrod muttered.

A cold stone dropped into Faramir's stomach.

Men of state and law had no right to govern happiness. When would they learn? Was he not perfect living proof of the utter wretchedness cultivated by an arranged marriage? As it seemed on the surface, his union was an unspoken success, even though it had yielded no children. But inside, yes, inside lay the truth of things, the black bile, the sickness that infected his life, shortening every breathe with misery.

And yet perhaps he was being too harsh on poor Niriel. Faramir chided himself mentally, curbing his frustration with a frown. He did have a tendency to blame the other partner in their fumbling dance, though just as often he had trod on his wife's toes as she had sometimes trampled on his. Niriel never made things easy though and her constant languishing about, her pale, cold way of life contrasted vilely with his own.

Faramir grimaced. And now he was blaming his wife for being sickly. No wonder why she feared him so, villain that he was.

"Lord Faramir?"

Faramir tensed. Again, his thoughts had wandered. Blast! Now the King's cool eyes were on him and he felt an uncomfortable blush touch his cheeks.

"Sire?" he asked, folding his hands neatly on his lap.

"I wonder if you might venture your opinion on this matter?" the King continued. He had turned in his chair, palm perched on his hip and was facing Faramir. "I am unfamiliar with the custom of arranged wedlock. Do enlighten me."

Before he could quell it, anger split Faramir's stoicism and hardened his gaze. Of course, the King was unfamiliar with arranged marriage. The man had wed for love, for happiness. Did the King think to mock him now? To separate him from the herd with witty questions?

With difficulty, Faramir reined himself in and focused on the query. Perhaps he might save some man and maiden from misery.

"I cannot find favor with it, sire," he replied, much to the surprise of the gathered company. Eyebrows darted upwards and lips twitched. Faramir ignored them all. "If you wish to strengthen any alliance, I would suggest diplomats, ambassadors, if you will. A marriage is much too permanent and…unnecessary at this time."

There was silence for a breath. Faramir dared to glance at Damrod and saw the old Ranger biting back a smile.

Yes, he had certainly buried himself now.

The King nodded his crowned head and turned back to the company. "Wise words," he said and tactfully steered the debate away from Rohan and marriage altogether.

With the meeting concluded, Faramir spilled out into the corridor, still sweating in his robes and feeling as though the weight of the world had once more been placed on his shoulders. Thankfully, the long hall was empty. He had been cautious enough to let the lords pass by first, feigning serious conversation with a royal scribe until the horde dispersed. Damrod had not lingered, rushing back to his happier home and wife. A pang of envy stuck a barb in Faramir's heart. But Damrod was a friend and he could never show jealousy.

Stumbling over to a low window, Faramir wrenched off the ugly slippers and leaned upon the stone sill. There was a pleasant breeze and autumn had yet to solidify, leaving the weather delightfully mild. Fresh, green grass swayed over the Pelannor, masking the blood and bones that had of late rested there. So much loss…so much….

It was in quiet moments when Faramir felt he could not withhold the grief that plagued him. He was quite accustomed to isolation and fending for himself in almost every manner, but now he was truly alone.

Father had never been one for conversation. But Boromir had shared his fears well enough for a time. With his passing, Faramir was left stranded, adrift upon a fathomless sea of distress and sorrow and every manner of vexation. Niriel was not one to mind his burdens, being too delicate to bear anything besides her own illness. There was hardly a week when healers did not attend to her and Faramir was left with his worries and wounds, expressing his tension by quietly skipping dinner and retiring to his study.

There was no Henneth Annun to retreat to now, no causeway that he might flee along to find solace for a time. But in truth, Niriel did not botherwith him. She kept to herself, a stranger that ate at his table, slept in his bed and moaned in her sleep because her side pained her. And coughed, yes, she was poisoned by that soul-shaking, heart-jolting cough that sent her handmaiden running for smelling salts.

Faramir let his eyes slide close. Ah, he was reminded of his mother.

The staccato rhythm of footsteps pattered down the corridor. Faramir straightened and pulled his slippers back on. The King was approaching.

Faramir inclined his body in a genteel, yet stiff bow, his spine aching a little from old wounds as he did so. The King likewise nodded, placing his hand lightly on his breast by way of greeting.

"My dear Steward, it is indeed good to have your company."

Faramir was shocked by the sudden congeniality of the King's tone and something of his surprise must have shown in his face, for Aragorn laughed.

"I fear you are angry with me," he said merrily, "for at first I was cold with you and I sense my chill sent you to Dol Amroth. And now upon your return, I prod you with unseemly questions. But forgive me. This old Ranger is still somewhat unsettled by the grandeur around him."

Faramir's lips parted and he searched for suitable, flattering words. But somehow, he sensed the King would not stand for sycophancy and he was not disposed to provide it.

"Only if you will forgive my cowardice," he replied at length. "And my distraction. This old Ranger is still undone by the all the pomp."

"A shrewd man you are at heart, I think." The King lifted his head and a clear light shone in his eyes, calm, confident and warm so that Faramir felt soothed.

"A fumbling man, my lord," he said. "So well my tongue used to serve me and now it is tied, twisted."

The King lifted his shoulders in a shrug, the velvet of his tunic rising like a blue mountain under shadow. "You speak well enough for me. It is the eyes of those hawks that endanger us so."

Faramir could not help but laugh, especially when a good number of the King's council did resemble the feathered fellows.

"Have I charmed you yet?" the King asked. "Or are you still so opposed to me?"

"I cannot tell." Faramir locked his hands behind his back. "That which appears fair might be foul."

The King's nostril's flared and his brows folded, knitting together in contemplation. "Then you are wise and I am glad for it. I thought I had bled the stones of this city quite dry in my search for sense."

"You have not looked hard enough, sire," Faramir replied, his tongue tasting tart. The King exhaled sharply and Faramir wondered if he had been a bit too cheeky.

He took a step back, awaiting the verbal slap back into place, the lashing bestowed on his pride that would leave him raw with leaking welts. Denethor had never shied from uncoiling the whip of his tongue and Faramir duly expected the thrashings.

But the King was silent and still, a wild oak with deep roots that held the trunk steady.

"Faramir," he said gravely.

The young Steward suppressed a shudder at the sound of his name. Directness he certainly did not anticipate.

"Faramir, I fear you have your hackles raised," the King continued. "Why? Do you begrudge the loss of power?"

"No, sire!" Faramir lurched forward, determined to pull the King's mind from the darker recesses spawned by an inherent struggle for supremacy. "You speak with one who would rather thrive on simplicity, not a lofty reign."

The King smiled wryly. "So I guessed. But you have not helped me pinpoint the trouble."

Faramir could only shake his head. Burdened though he was, he had no need to dispatch his woes to his liege lord.

"A long life I lived, sire, before ever you came to the White City."

The King accepted his response with usual grace. "Very well, I press you no further. But I will take a chance." He touched a weathered finger to his lips. "I have a favor to ask of you, my Steward."

Faramir feigned indifference with a careless nod.

The King took a breath before plowing ahead. "I dislike the notion of an arranged marriage with Rohan, for many, varied reasons. Diplomacy is a craftier, surer art than a hasty union." The King paused, eyes cutting up to Faramir and brimming with question.

"What would you have me do?" Faramir asked quietly, a phrase he had so often mouthed and almost always meant, despite personal opposition.

"Can I trust Rohan to you? Will you play the part of my ambassador for a time?"

Faramir's heart fluttered. What did the King offer him? Oh, certainly such a boon had not been granted! Rohan, ah to go to Rohan would be a pleasurable relief. Indeed, he did love Gondor and his White City of wisdom and beauty. But a brief time without Niriel's frail and flailing presence would certainly be blessing.

Guilt churned in the pit of Faramir's stomach. He clenched his fingers into fists and swallowed away his remorse with difficulty.

"I will go, sire," he replied, shame coating his throat like bile. He was, after all, plotting to avoid his sickly, lonely, child of a bride.

Faramir wondered if the King could detect the scent of strife, as he seemed perceptive in other things.

Accordingly, Aragorn clapped a heavy hand on his Steward's shoulder. "Perhaps you had best broach the subject with your lady wife first."

Faramir agreed, rather grudgingly and he felt more than a little discomforted by the knowing twinkle in the older man's eyes.

The weight settled once more onto Faramir's shoulders and he nibbled his lower lip.

Niriel would not be pleased. She rarely was.

Author's Note: Well, there you have it. Please take the time to review, I would love to hear your thoughts on the opening chapter. And to those who celebrate, have a very happy Thanksgiving!