Chapter XII – Not My Father's Son
The sun shines blindingly down upon the city Eltarma, lighting up the pillar-shaped fountain that graces the central square outside my window. It is said that in the sunlight the water falling from the pillar resembles a thousand falling stars, giving the city its name: Star Pillar. To me it seems that only tears fall from the pillar, mirroring the tears that gather in my own eyes.
'Faramir was never fond of war.'
That was what Legolas told me. Not fond of war. Now I realize that this was more of an understatement than I could ever have fathomed. 'Not fond' did not begin to describe the loathing that my father held for war, the disgust and the hatred. His abhorrence for battle was the very thing that prompted him to begin his own life story. It was his search to find himself, to find the man he wished to become, that he wrote within these pages. His desperation to escape the horrors of everything around him is echoed within each word. It must have been like a fantasy to him, his own world where he could record things as they were in his heart and not how he was forced to see them.
How could he ever have loved me? How could he have forced himself to look upon me, to see the love of battle and the thirst for excitement in my eyes, and yet call me his son? Was he ashamed of me? Did I choose a path that he did not intend for me?
Or perhaps he had intended no path to begin with. Perhaps my father truly wished for me to grow and choose my own path, and he respected whichever choice I made. It was an act of such selflessness that I cannot fathom echoing it with my son. How can I lay aside everything I believe in, every principle I hold most dear, so that I can accommodate my son's decisions? Could I watch Barahir become a reclusive scholar, bent on his studies and nothing else, shunning the military life that I have tried to encourage in him? Could I watch him reject all that I represent? Or is that, after all, what a parents job is? To teach but not to force, to strengthen but not to hone, to shelter…and then let go?
I believed my father to be old, bent upon his ways, stubborn to a fault. I always knew, or thought I knew, that he did not understand how I thought or why I acted the way I did because he was so different than I. Now I realize that he understood me better than I understood myself. He loathed the profession I chose, and yet he retained the offer of a warm, open love for me. It was I, not he, who turned away from the other because of differences. He could never truly appreciate me as his son, I thought. He was a politician. He did not understand war.
Faramir did understand war. He fought and suffered and lost dear friends just as I have. He grieved and allowed a part of his heart to harden into bitterness and hatred, just as I have. The only difference between us is that his hatred was for the act of war whereas mine is for the enemy. He was ready to give up his life as a soldier the instant he tasted death; I wanted to become the best soldier in Gondor when my friends were slain.
I do not believe my son Barahir is capable of hatred. He does not enjoy soldiering the way I do, but he fulfills his duties and works as hard is he is able without complaint. Obedient, he is. Submissive, even. When he is given an order, he follows it without question, even if it endangers his own life.
What have I done, sending him to war in a foreign world of ash and dust? Will he return? Should I even hope for his survival? Will it hurt only more if I pray for his safe return, only to be told one day that my only son, only child, is dead?
What have I done?
"My Lords, it is my honor and my privilege to introduce to you Elboron son of Faramir, Steward of Gondor, Prince of Ithilien, and Lord of Emyn Arnen," Legolas says with a flourished bow. In turn, each elf-lord bows low as Legolas speaks his name. "Elfain, son of Erestor of Rivendell. Arama, son of Elrohir of Rivendell. Celorod, son of Celeborn of Lothlórien. Haldir, son of Herion of Lothlórien. Faramith, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood. Gelinhir, son of Thranduil of Mirkwood, and his son Girithil. Krismoth, son of…"
I incline my head respectfully to the elf-lords. Although most of their names, especially the names of their sires, sound familiar, I can place only three of them; Faramith and Gelinhir are Legolas' brothers, and Girithil is his nephew. Many of the others have fathers of great renown, whose names I have heard mingled in song, but whose glory is now forgotten except by the scholars.
A slight taste of bitterness entered my mouth when he introduced me as Elboron, son of Faramir. Again I am being compared to him! Measured to his worth as his son and not as myself!
Something stops me in mid-thought. Should I truly be ashamed to be called his son? Is it embarrassing that I should be compared to him, or is it the greatest compliment that Legolas can give to me? Well do I know the esteem held by all Gondor for my father, even by the Elves of Ithilien. They believed him to be a man apart from most, a true throwback to the Númenorean race. In him, they said, wisdom was found which nearly matched the wisdom of the Elves, yet his kindness and generosity kept him humble.
Perhaps by naming me 'son of Faramir', Legolas is truly attesting to the quality of my heritage. I cannot see it so. I am nothing like my father, and I never wanted to be. I was all too happy to be a soldier and remain a soldier forever. I would have been happier if the Stewardship had never passed to me. Yet in this case, perhaps my view is not the only important one.
It is a strange thought. I am not accustomed to seeing things from other points of view, particularly from the points of view of Elves. If it is a compliment for Legolas to give, then should it be a compliment for me to receive?
Legolas' eyes flicker towards me, as if he can sense by some hint in my face what I am thinking. It is an unnerving thought, and I look away quickly. Whether a compliment or not, it is clearly how Legolas sees me. Perhaps it is not a comparison at all, but merely the statement of a fact. After all, he introduced each of the lords with the names of their sires, and in records I am Steward Elboron, son of Faramir. It only makes me angry because my father and I fought continually and rarely, if ever, agreed upon a subject. If it were otherwise, would I appreciate the connection of his name to mine?
Or is it something completely different, and do I recoil at the addition of 'son of Faramir' because somewhere I am coming to realize that I never deserved to call him my father?
"It is an honor to meet the son of Lord Faramir," says one of the elf-lords, the one Legolas introduced as Elfain. The reference to my father rankles me still, but I try to remember that they intend it as a compliment. "A good man, Faramir. There is not one of us here who does not lament his loss." A murmur of agreement flickers around the table.
"It is a great loss to Gondor," I say evenly, being careful not to mention myself. Not only would it induce pity from the elf-lords, but it would also dredge up the pain of the memoir that is lurking in the back of my mind at every moment. I do not pass a waking minute without longing to read more of my father's stories of his childhood, yet at the same time I dread opening the pages again to find myself accosted by further guilt.
"A terrible loss," says Elfain gravely, nodding. "Yet I am glad for him. He was very weary and his pain was great. If any man deserves to rest for eternity beyond the circles of this world, it is Faramir."
"Indeed." A slight frown forces itself onto my face, and I am not sure whether it is of grief over my father's death or of doubt in myself. What shall the elf-lords think of me when they realize that I am not my father's son? Will they expect me to rule Ithilien with the same judgment as he? Do they assume that I am capable of the same political brilliance as Faramir? I know in my heart that I am not. Within the realm of military matters, I may perhaps be able to hold my own in a council, but outside that of that small area, I am hopeless in politics. My mind does not easily comprehend the difference between what is good and what is bad for the people; I judge by what would be good and bad for myself, but that is frequently erroneous. I do not have the talent of speaking spontaneously, without prior preparation, and public speaking in general is something I have a particular dread for. I do not have the relationship with Elessar that my father had, and so I will not be able to do his will on the Council as perfectly my father.
My first meeting with the Council in Minas Tirith is in three days time. I have taken leave from my duties for long enough. My reprieve cannot last forever. I fear to take up my duties as Steward, for somewhere in my heart I know that I cannot hope to fulfill them.
"As you know," Legolas adds gently, "Steward Elboron is only just returning from a long campaign in Nurn where he has been commanding the King's forces. It may be some time before he acclimates himself with Ithilien again and becomes familiar with the problems we face currently here in our kingdom beneath the leaves." Legolas' smile is meant to be comforting, but it only serves to irritate me. It is as if he is implying that I will have difficulty living in the woods again after six years living beneath ashen clouds!
"I do not demand his presence at this council, except as a guest that he may witness our procedures." Legolas bows his head politely. "He is welcome in Eltarma and in the sister city Ithilduin at all times as an honored friend of the Elves of Ithilien."
"Thank you, Prince Legolas," I say with a bow. "Naturally I offer the same to my Elven neighbors. Your people are free to come and go in my cities as they will, and they shall be received warmly into Imeryn upon any occasion." The smiles of the elf-lords indicate that I have spoken well, and I subconsciously breathe a sigh of relief.
"The hospitality of the Steward is always appreciated." Legolas gestures for the council to be seated, and I take my own place to his left. It does not help my nerves to know that my father once sat in this place upon the council.
The Elves proceed to outline the course of the council, speaking briefly regarding the many subjects that require attention. Irregularity of crops, guard posts in far South Ithilien, the threat of the river Ithilduin to the city of the same name during the flooding season, and a proposition regarding the building of a grand new library for Eltarma; all of these things are included in the long, dreary session. Now that I finally have a taste of politics, I regret more than ever having called my father a lesser man for being a politician. Great Eru, this is no less challenging than waging war! It is like a battle against one's own boredom! I would take a sword and a horde of ravaging heathens any day!
The Elves look to me only on occasion for my opinion, and I speak only very briefly upon the subject before, thankfully, they move on to other arguments. They must be aware of my discomfort, and yet they look to me for guidance nonetheless! Oh, is it as I feared? Do they think I am my father?
"Steward Elboron," begins Gelinhir, one of Legolas' brothers. "Do you believe our treasury would be wisely spent on a library for Eltarma?"
This must be a trick question, a joke, a test. Surely they cannot truly be asking my opinion on the building of a library?
"As I have only recently returned to Ithilien, it is difficult for me to judge," I say awkwardly. "Are there no other needs in Eltarma which would be better fulfilled with such an expense?"
"None at present," Legolas answers promptly. "We have homes now enough to accommodate all of our families, plus dozens more. We are anticipating another three families from Mirkwood by the end of the month."
"Your military requirements are met satisfactorily?"
"Yes. All guards are equipped, and we have warehouses of weapons in case the need for them should arrive."
"It only seems that a library is such a luxury," I start hesitantly. "I would not like to see any facet of Eltarma's structure fail or falter because of expenditure on such an…extraneous project."
There is a pause, and Gelinhir exchanges a brief glance with another elf-lord. I can see it in their eyes. It was a test, of a sort. A test to see my character. Faramir, I realize now too late, would have instantly agreed to the construction of a library for Eltarma. He would probably have gladly donated from his own wealth to contribute to the project. Now the elf-lords understand. I am not like him.
Quickly, Legolas nods. "I agree with you, Lord Elboron. The construction of a library should be considered only under circumstances allowing such superfluous costs. Aware as I am of the stability of Eltarma and the Elven kingdom of Ithilien, I believe that we are now able to pour our resources into such a project. It is a worthy aspiration, and a goal I have dreamed of for Ithilien since I moved here with my brothers to begin the founding of Eltarma."
"You know better than I. If you believe it to be in the best interest for Eltarma, then by all means." I fall silent immediately, and the elf-lords fall back to arranging the details of the endeavor, calculating the amount of labor, stone, glass, and funds which will be required for the construction of such a library. This I follow easily: raw figures, numbers, bodies to be counted. The level of organization and workforce necessary for a construction effort is similar to that for an army. Soon, though, they drop into pointless bickering. Legolas suggests recruiting the help of the dwarves; perhaps Gimli and his brethren in Aglarond will be inclined to contribute. Several other elf-lords protest, insisting that a work of such beauty must be developed by Elves alone. It is enough to drive one mad, this banter!
This is what my father preferred to warfare?