Mean What You Say part 5
For a moment Faramir thought he had lost his mind, like his father, and he was hallucinating. He was having a vision of himself, at age ten, being made to stand in position with his hands on that desk while his father beat him. He could see his old Tower Guard uniform, White Tree embroidered argent on sable, dropped on the floor next to the bleeding boy. But his father had never actually whipped him as badly as this child had been. Young Faramir had been blistered, bruised, even pounded so raw that he bled, occasionally, but not like that. That looked more like the kinds of wounds he had seen on the dead bodies of soldiers taken prisoner by orcs, in Ithilien. Men of his command, tortured to death for the sport of the soldiery of Mordor.
Then he looked at the tear-streaked face, looking back at him over the bleeding shoulder. He was not seeing his own ghost. It was Pippin!
A roil of unidentifiable emotion passed through him. He was not sure exactly what he felt: anger? Fear? Pity, for sweet little Pippin? Betrayed. Rock-certainty. He felt betrayed. But that made no sense at all. For a split second, he had a terrible urge to draw his sword and slay the false king, whose golden promises turned to old leaves like fairy-gold.
Panicked at his treasonous thought, Faramir turned and fled. He pulled the door shut behind him with the strength of the terror-stricken, slamming it with a loud bang. He barely noticed the people around him jumping at the noise; he barely noticed the ones who were in his way, and ran down at least one on his way outside.
He emerged in sunlight in the relative emptiness of the courtyard. He allowed the fear inside him to guide his steps, and turned not for the city, but for the little triangle of pavement between the palace wall and the curve of the courtyard rail, and the maintenance door there. It had been Faramir's secret hiding place as a child, the only spot he could reach from the throne room without being visible from the windows high up in the Tower of Ecthelion directly above it. So far as he knew, the new King had never even been up there, but panic and logic were not close companions.
Faramir pulled the door open and shut himself in the darkness inside. He stood just behind the door, breathing hard, and tried to compose himself. "Oh, this is very dignified," he thought at himself with a mental sneer, "the Steward of Gondor hiding from his King in a janitor's closet."
He replayed what had just happened in his mind. What could cute, lovable Pippin have possibly done to merit such extreme chastisement? Even Denethor had never had Pippin flogged for his lapses, finding them amusing rather.
Faramir's instinct had been to protect his friend Pippin; surely that was the only reason for that alarming desire to run Aragorn through. But Pippin had been Aragorn's friend, too, one of his compatriots on the Quest of the Ring. Faramir had once envied the hobbits' easy comradery with the King. If Aragorn could do this to such a friend…
Aragorn had sworn that Faramir would never be beaten again. He had seemed to be shocked at Faramir's treatment at the hands of his father. But he had beaten little Pippin.
Faramir started shaking, as reaction set in. The hot rage was melting out of him, leaving only cold fear. In the silent darkness, he allowed himself a few bitter tears. For lost hope. For the dread of the years to come, that had once seemed so bright and blessed.
He should have known better. "Do not be too enamored of the arts of the gentlemen, Faramir," his father had once said, disapproving of Faramir's preference for books over swords, "no one gentle can rule a great realm." One of the few times Denethor had ever alluded to the fact that the spare can become the heir, especially when the heir is always in the thick of battle.
Then the fear, too, passed through him and emptied out. He composed himself, but could not quite bring himself to open the door and leave the kindly darkness. Again the scene passed before his mind's eye: naked, bleeding, weeping Pippin, back bent over the desk. Aragorn standing off to the side, looking stern. Himself, running away. He had slammed the door. He had slammed the door on the King. An unforgivable breech of etiquette. Was he going to be beaten next?
A stab of fear went through his gut, and Faramir blew out a breath to calm himself. If he was, he was, and there was nothing he could do about it, just like during Denethor's reign. Nothing, that is, except plot treason. That he refused to do. The people of Gondor loved their new King; already they were making songs about him, and about the golden age to come. Let them have their fantasy, Faramir thought. If King Elessar turns out to be a tyrant-- in the mold of Denethor, or even worse-- he was still their King. Rebellion would do nothing but weaken Gondor. The new King had helped to defeat The Enemy, and Minas Tirith's long vigilance was rewarded at last. Let Gondor not falter now, and end like Arnor, broken up into competing states, easy prey for raiders, orcs, and foreign enemies. Gondor could become like the Northern Realm, nothing left but tumbled stones, peasant huts, and dour Rangers. No. Not for him would Gondor fall. The banner of the Stewards would never be raised against the banner of the Kings.
Faramir would give his life for Gondor. If he occasionally had to give a little of the skin off his back, so be it. He opened the door and walked out into the light.
End of Part 5