Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter two of "To Whatever End". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to those who read the first chapter and those who reviewed, Sarahbarr17, JWritten and sjgross. Thank you all so much.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Tolkien's masterpiece.
Chapter Two
Faramir had only just opened the door to his apartments when he heard the whisper of small feet fleeing across the stones and the murmur of a gown trailing behind. A sigh rattled his lungs and he stepped inside, letting the door close with a quiet click behind him.
Niriel wanted nothing to do with him, she rarely did.
He had seen her at breakfast, briefly, when she had taken a tiny sliver of ripe fruit and said she felt too ill to sit up with him. Faramir indulged her, he always did. It was a poor, but efficient method of keeping her happy.
A narrow, but elegant drawing room sat in center of his quarters, branching off into small, discreet chambers that existed less for courtly appearance and more for practicality. They had a dressing room apiece and he had a study. Their bedchamber was a large, garish thing, one that they both despised for its vastness and the utter feeling of emptiness it evinced. Decoration was sparse in most places. the drawing room alone boasting several silk-thread tapestries and heraldic devices.
Long, arched windows led out onto a balcony that he alone used. The healers had warned Niriel against cold airs, as if a single breeze would freeze her already decaying lungs. But Faramir never argued with them. His wife was still alive, after all.
Almost everything in their dwelling had a purpose, except for that dreaded chamber tucked just off her dressing room, the nursery. Once upon a when, Faramir had hoped it would house Niriel's little daughter Durwen and someday, their own children.
But Durwen was kept in Dol Amroth with her maternal grandmother. Why, Faramir had never discovered…nor dared to ask. She was a pleasant child, a creature who always brought him flowers whenever he visited and sang songs at her grandmother's urging. But the girl was otherwise a cheerless, frank creation of her mother's that called him "my lord" and now, "my lord Steward". Far too serious for a five-year old, Faramir thought, though his opinion mattered little when it came to his stepchild.
And then there was the matter of their own childless state. The most cantankerous members of the court whispered that Niriel was barren. Faramir, however, half-feared that he was to blame, since the healers maintained his wife was fit for child-bearing.
But Faramir was no longer keen in deciphering where the trouble lay. The burden of producing an heir had been lifted with the King's coming and he no longer had his harried father clamoring for a grandson.
The door to the nursery creaked open, exuding a fragrance of flowers, grown and kept in pots for his wife's enjoyment. Since she could not freely take the air a sort of indoor garden had been provided for her, a conservatory, she called it, like the one she had in Dol Amroth. Faramir had been inwardly against the arrangement at first and he felt as though converting the nursery into a planthouse would only further drive the prospect of procreation from their minds. But he was a hopeless man yet and would do what he could to please her.
Faramir removed his heavy outer robes and strolled over to the balcony. The windows had been shut against the descending evening chill. He threw one open, thrusting one leg outside to feel the breeze and smell the damp perfume of autumn.
A sigh eased the tension from his limbs. Another day over….
An annoyed grunt made him cringe and Faramir turned around to see Mithien, his wife's handmaid-betimes nursemaid-lifting his disheveled robes off the bench beside the hearth.
"My lord is late this evening," she mused, half to herself, but loud enough so Faramir could hear.
He stepped away from the window and crossed his arms over his chest.
"I had several words with the King."
"Contentious words?" The question was above her station, they both knew it, but Mithien was a reckless sort of woman and utterly miserable.
Tall, sharp-eyed and fairer than most, she had come from Dol Amroth as companion for Niriel, though the two only seemed to put up with each other. However, despite her harassing ways, she was not unpopular in the Citadel and Boromir had chuckled, in his rare, ribald moments, that he wished Mistress Mithien would be his nurse. She was married now, to one of Faramir's poor, hen-pecked Rangers though she outfitted herself more as the seneschal of her employer's household as opposed to a maid. Niriel had not the capacity to keep her in check, nor the disposition and Faramir hadn't the time.
Instead, she was largely ignored by them both until Faramir was sent away and needed someone to care for his wife.
He bit his tongue now, knowing full well that he would be forced to depend on her when he left for Rohan.
Rohan, yes, he would go if the King asked it of him. But how to break the news to Niriel? He hadn't the slightest notion.
"Will my lord take his supper?" Mithien asked. She folded his robes with a look of irritation and glanced at the long table shoved up against the far wall, meant for entertaining select members of the court but rarely used.
"Has my lady wife retired already?" Faramir parried her question with one of his own, useless though it was.
Mithien arched a black brow. "I have no idea."
"Then might I safely assume she will not join me?" Faramir reluctantly latched the window and smoothed back his wind-tousled hair.
Mithien shrugged. "I suppose."
Faramir frowned. Cheekiness was not something he readily tolerated. His Rangers knew that jesting was one matter and outright insubordination quite another. But Mithien, he sensed, was not a being to be controlled or governed, like his wife and she acted according to her own, separate will. Unfortunately for Faramir, however, that will was invariably at odds with his own.
"Then I will take my meal in my study." And he hurried past her, wishing the pervading sense of weariness that dominated his life would cease and loosen the ever-present knot of worry in his chest.
At the very least, he had Rohan to look forward to.
He was left alone for the greater part of the evening, taking his meal of meat and bread and cold wine on a unadorned platter with plain utensils. It was restoring, eating like a common man, a Ranger who was so accustomed to the on-your-feet lifestyle of camp and hit and run warfare.
Mithien was wise enough not to trouble him, except to say that his wife again had been to see the healers that afternoon. Faramir accepted her account whilst draining his wine goblet. Healers had become a dreaded entity, bearers of bad news that only deepened the lines of worry carved in his brow. And Niriel wasn't quite fond of them either.
But no more despair now. No more desperation. Faramir was resigned to spend the rest of his evening with a book and he reclined in the great chair behind his desk. Perhaps then he might decide how to deal with Rohan or at the very least, broach the subject with Niriel on the morrow.
He had but a short while to himself before she appeared, rather unexpectedly, her strangled voice only an octave above a whisper.
"My lord?"
His wife was but a shadow, a slip of a human being that now darkened the doorway to his study. Faramir was surprised to see her there. he stood, resting the book spine up on his desk.
"Niriel, I had not expected…" Faramir curbed his tongue, remembering that rambling words only seemed to frighten her and the creature before him preferred settled silence. Instead, he bowed.
She curtsied. "My lord."
Ah, how he despised the title, cold, detached thing that it was. And yet Niriel insisted on it. Faramir suspected it was all she had to cling to, a last vestige of semblance and order that kept them separated.
"Will you sit, my dear?" He pulled out his chair for her and as always, she hesitated.
"If I am not disturbing you, my lord."
"Never, my wife."
Niriel pressed her lips together, keeping them in a tight line until a cough wrenched them apart. Faramir trembled at the sound, the noise that had brought him much distress and disturbance of peace. His father had been furious when he discovered his son's new bride was ill.
"Say not that Faramir has been wed to a corpse," Denethor had railed at Imrahil, who had officially arranged the union.
"A summer sickness is what it is," Imrahil had retorted, uncharacteristically red-faced and enraged. "She shall weather it well enough. I know her kinsmen, a high and hearty clan they are."
But that had not soothed Denethor. For days he watched Niriel's progress, sending for healers to chase away the illness that had settled in her lungs. When all valiant efforts proved futile, he had declared, in front of most of his household, that the girl was "yet another young bride for the Hallows." After that, he had little to do with her.
The bitter irony was not lost on Faramir. His mother had died in such a manner. Weak, wasted, consumed.
Niriel slipped further into the room and slowly lowered herself into Faramir's chair with a grateful if not nervous smile. "What are you reading?" she asked, touching the binding of the book with her fingers.
"Poetry," he replied. "Poetry of the forests and dales and the greener places of this world."
"Oh." She slid her hands inside the folds of her gown.
Faramir knew his wife to be an avid reader. She had devoured his library within a year of coming to Minas Tirith and then shyly sent Mithien out to borrow books. At first, Faramir had reveled in her appetite and fed it with his own. He extended his own study and had a craftsman fashion her a small nook of a reading room, hoping that they might read together some evenings. But Niriel proved herself to be an enigma. She read but would not speak on her books, instead folding in upon herself, weaving a cocoon of disinterest and, as he feared, isolation.
Faramir found himself a seat in the corner across from her and cleared the chair from dusty scrolls. Niriel did not watch him move, but kept her eyes on her knees, her body jolting every now and then with a cough. Having seated himself, Faramir felt the predictable yet dreaded air of awkwardness descend, the shroud that smothered any of their happiness and almost always dominated their conversation.
And yet, something was different tonight.
Niriel was looking surprisingly rosy-cheeked, her eyes flecked with a rare current of energy.
Perhaps this was the perfect time to tell her of Rohan?
Faramir searched for the right words, the delicate, practiced words that would soften the blow and so ease her into security. For some indefinable, undeniable reason, he wanted Niriel to feel safe with him. It was a challenge, of course, in the way she distanced herself and drew far away from any meaningful connection that might form a bridge between them. But Faramir had been patient and relentless. If his wife would not love him, then he would at least have her trust him.
It took a good three years for her faith in him to grow to a distinguishable height. The War had sent her rushing into each his arms for a time, but now she had settled back into her old habits, those of a watchful yet constant companion.
But Faramir found he was fortunate in many ways. Thankfully, Niriel was not the suspicious sort. She never questioned his fidelity nor his care. She was a plaintive girl, not a demon and on most occasions she accepted his presence in her life willingly, living up to her reputation of compliance.
His wife was not one to complain, to correct him and nag him and harass him. No, she simply existed. Hid when she could, spoke when she was questioned and came when he summoned. Otherwise, she was capable lover, if not a little timid and did her best to please him.
Then why could he not love her?
Faramir drove the question away from the realms of understanding and thought. Hours he had spent trying to assess their marriage and hours he had wasted. In the end, he came to rely on a painful but accurate truth.
There was nothing to their union. Nothing at all.
And at times, Faramir feared he was no better than Niriel, trying his best to distance himself from the only person he could rely on.
Faramir was pulled from his ruminations by yet another dreaded sound. Niriel was tapping her foot again, a habit she acquired only when impatient-or deathly afraid. She had a tremulous look about her tonight and Faramir leaned forward in his chair, offering her his attention along with a smile.
"Niriel?"
She said naught for a while, her toes dusting the floor, echoing the dissonant rhythm of rain on stone.
"I fear I cannot balance things…in…in my mind," she stammered. Faramir did not interrupt her. She was easily flustered and he hated to thrust her back into her shy shell.
Niriel continued tapping her foot and finally she withdrew her hands and wrung them until the tiny blue veins cresting her knuckles bulged.
"You must pardon my…I am weary…words come slow." She stood then, pushing the chair back with surprising force.
Faramir likewise found his feet and dread climbed up his spine in the form of a shiver. He felt as though they were back in the cold days or so Boromir had dubbed them when Niriel refused any visitors after their wedding and seemed to be made of unthawing ice herself.
Faramir grimaced at the sharp, biting pain the memory brought. And Niriel, eternally observant, ever the wide-eyed girl with a mind too fast to be deceived, took his reaction for displeasure and shrank away.
"Your forgiveness, my lord." And then she was heading for the door, ghost-like arms outstretched to brace herself against the arched frame.
"I ask for none," Faramir replied quickly, but it was too late.
Niriel paused only for a moment, her hands falling across her abdomen, pressing close the fabric of her gown. Faramir recognized the roundness of her stomach and for a fleeting, rare moment, the thrill of joy left him numb.
"The healers say you will soon have your heir," Niriel said over her shoulder, disappearing into the dim corridor. "A shame your father is not here to see it."
Author's Note: I have decided to remain a bit ambiguous about Niriel's illness here, but for those med students out there, she has what is commonly known as consumption or tuberculosis. However, I am not sure if TB would exist in a medically advanced city like Minas Tirith, so all you purists may certainly correct me if you've read otherwise. As always, thanks so much for taking the time to read. Please, leave a quick review if you can. I greatly appreciate any and all feedback. Here's what's in store for the next chapter.
Chapter Three: Faramir frantically tries to make arrangements for his departure to Rohan while Niriel flat out refuses to be left behind against the arguments of her physicians. And what do King Elessar and his Elven Queen think about the matter?
Have a great week everyone!