Notes: Thank you all for reviewing! I'm so glad you're liking what I'm doing here.
First of all, I'm glad you all kept an open mind in regards to Eowyn realizing her love for Faramir. I just can't bring myself to believe that she didn't really love him and was just marrying him because she felt it was best; it also didn't make sense to me that she would suddenly realize her love for him in one second (although it could happen). Therefore, as you can all see (and will see more in the next chapter), she is still deceiving herself, while knowing deep down that she made a mistake in letting herself love again.
I'm also glad some of you picked up on her emotions of horror at herself when she held up her love for Faramir next to her love for Aragorn and inspected it. Looking back, I wish I had expanded that more, for I think now that that is one of the key things keeping her in depression. She was so sure that her love for Aragorn was true and noble, and when he spurned her she painted herself a picture of the suffering, wounded maiden. But when she realized her love for Faramir, and consequently realized her love for Aragorn really had been childish, she was forced to believe in her own fickleness. Her pride, which as we all know is substantial, rebelled horribly at this revelation, and I think that is the major reason she still shrank from her problems.
Well anyway, enough of that. I hope you enjoy this chapter--as I said before, it's very angsty. I guess all the angst I'd been surpressing in the previous chapters all spilled out here; in any case, just keep in mind that this chapter does not necessarily contradict all of Faramir's other emotions. He's realizing and coming to grips with some things in this chapter that he's never come to terms with before, but he's also overdramatizing. It's a natural thing to do sometimes.
Chapter Eighteen: Stepping Into the Shadow
This wasn't what Faramir wanted. He stood on the doorstep, hesitating for a moment and gazing into the depths of the dimly lit house, his mind spinning. If he had remembered that leaving the Houses of Healing meant coming here, he might not have left. If he had realized that he would be standing here, feeling the rough wood under his fingertips and seeing the familiar furniture in the hallway, breathing in the air that was so heavy from not being breathed and feeling the bubbles of fear rising in his chest, he would have found a way to stay within the safe confines of the Houses while still taking up his office. But there was no help for it now.
It had hit him only after he had visited the throne room and the office that his father had used. It had been hard to step into the room and see his father's papers stacked in neat piles upon the desk, but it had been harder still to realize that he would have to enter his father's house and take up residence there again. He would have to live there, and the thought was at once terrible and painful. To go and walk up the halls again; to lay to rest Boromir's clothing and his father's books was one thing—it was another to live among the ghosts of the past. As he contemplated the return, he knew that he had not truly dealt with them yet. He had been grieving, quietly, and he felt some of the scars beginning to close, but there was no way living in the Steward's house would not rip open the scars that needed distance to heal.
Yet there was nowhere else he could stay. It was impossible to remain in the Houses after he had already left them. Perhaps if he had chosen to stay it would have seemed natural, but now that he had gone he could not slink back to the healers like a dog afraid of being whipped. And besides there, where was he to go? To ask for quarters in some other part of the city would raise talk and be awkward for him and for whoever housed him. Besides all that he knew deep down inside that he had to face his ghosts. He could almost call himself a coward for this weakness, this inability to face what had happened to him. He told himself fiercely, as he looked in the door, that he needed to come to grips with his father's and brother's deaths and move on.
How easy that would be, he did not know, but he stepped inside firmly and shut the door behind him. The few servants that had remained in Minas Tirith had not left the house after his father's death, he realized, for they had had nowhere to go, but the upper floors had not been lived in at all for at least ten days. The candles were lit, however, and the furniture was as well dusted and polished as it had ever been. The maid had likely been up only today to return the house to the right order. Faramir went over to a heavy wooden chair that stood in the corner and reached out a hand to touch it, then watched it dance before his eyes as his vision fogged over. Just the smell of the house brought back memories and emotions he had thought had long since died. Before he could do anything to stop it, he heard his father's words in his head as he had spoken them at their last interview before Faramir had been wounded.
Denethor had been in his study, looking over papers when Faramir had entered, slowed by his wound and even more tired than he had been the day before. He had gotten little rest that night for much of it had been taken up with orders and details about the plan that had to be worked out. He remembered thinking vaguely that before the darkness descended on the earth men would have thought it suicide to enter combat in his condition, but the thought was pushed out almost before he thought it.
Faramir's most prevalent memory of Denethor at that last meeting was how his eyes were dark. His father had gray eyes, and they were usually hard, cold, and flint-like. But they were light in color, which could often be even more unnerving than dark eyes—yet Faramir remembered how Denethor had looked up at him with dark eyes and there had been no love in them. Faramir had bowed slowly and looked up knowing that no words would be sufficient to convey his true feelings, and even if he could find a way to say them, his father would not listen. What exactly they had said he could not remember, except the very last phrases. He had looked at his father, and he knew his eyes had begged his father to please, just this once, give him something that he could grasp onto and carry with him onto the battlefield. "If I should return," he had said, desperation eking out of his words, "Think better of me."
For a moment it seemed as if Denethor wavered, but Faramir now doubted that there had been anything but anger in his heart. Faramir knew, in that second, as his father's eyes stared into his own, that everything Denethor had endured was in his mind at that moment, and for some reason that Faramir could not understand, he was blaming his only living son. Faramir had felt something like pity, and something like anger, but they had both vanished at Denethor's last words to his son: "That will depend on the manner of your return."
It had been all Faramir could do to turn and leave the room. All the pretend acceptance and fake appreciation he had built up around himself had come crashing down at the words his father spoke—words which forced him to accept the cold, razor-sharp edge of his father's disapproval. He had been past wondering what he could have done differently. He had been past feeling sorry for himself, or trying to tell himself that his father really did love him. The only thing left to him was to know the truth about his father's heart, and that he could not accept. So he felt nothing as he left the room, and he felt nothing as he left the city, followed by his men. He felt nothing as the Wizard spoke words of encouragement; he felt nothing as the battle raged around him and he fought to defend what he did not own. He felt nothing until he awoke in the Houses of Healing and there he found a reason to live again.
Faramir drew a shuddering breath as he came back to the present—to the world where he now lived. He would remind himself of that as often as he must in order to overcome these fears and memories. And now, he decided, he must go and face his father and his brother. It would be far better than living here and having them hanging over his head like a weight. Accordingly he turned and began climbing the stairs slowly, taking in once more the way the curtains hung over the huge windows and the light of the candles reflected on the shining wooden banister. How often he and Boromir had slid down the railing as children, only to be reprimanded by one of the servants! It seemed now, in the heaviness of the moment, a glimmer of hope gifted to him to remind him that he would find a way out of this darkness. Somehow.
His father's room was not far from the top of the stairs, but he turned his feet down a side corridor, intent upon going to Boromir's room first. The door, he realized with a twist of fear at the bottom of his stomach, had probably not been opened by anyone since Boromir had left, unless his father had felt the urge to visit his absent son's rooms. Faramir paused only briefly before the door and set his jaw as the door swung open to reveal a dark room. In an instant Faramir had one of the candles from the hall in his hand and had entered the room. For a moment he was busy with the task of lighting the candles set in the wall fixtures, and then he stepped back to look around.
The room was far cleaner than it had ever been while Boromir was living in it, yet Faramir felt his chest tighten as he looked around at the piles of clothes—unneeded on the journey—stacked on the shelves, and at the miscellaneous gear, books, and trinkets strewn over the tables. His brother had always been far too busy to keep his room clean, and now Faramir felt a thousand memories come rushing back on him as he looked around at all the objects his brother had used and he had tried so hard to forget. He ran his fingers over a tunic that was strewn over a chair; the gold thread sewn into it glimmered faintly in the candlelight and it presented itself to Faramir's mind as the tunic Boromir had worn the night before he had left. That had been a sorrowful night, filled with goodbyes—yet Faramir had never truly let himself think his brother might not come back. Not until he saw the boat slipping past him on the river.
Faramir trailed a finger down the edge of the table and looked at the amount of dust it had collected. It hurt, somehow, to see that his brother's things were left to the dust. His memory was of Boromir being so alive—so present—that to see his possessions not being used did not fit in Faramir's mind. And yet Faramir also felt a satisfaction that while being in Boromir's room made his heart ache, he could be in here without finding the unfathomable sea of pain he had so feared. Suddenly, he remembered something Boromir had told him as they faced each other out in the crisp wind on the walls. "If I don't return brother," he had said with the familiar twinkle and the not-so-familiar seriousness in his eyes, "Keep the city alive for me. Don't let them lose hope." He turned to gaze silently out over the sleeping city and his hands fell to his sides. "They need us so greatly, Fama. They are like sheep watching the shepherd and trusting in what he says. They don't trust father anymore—at least, not as much as they trust us. They need us to be strong, so that they can be strong. You have to be strong while I'm away Fama, and if I fall."
Faramir's protests were merely batted away by Boromir as he went on, eager to say what he needed to before he left. "We need them too, little brother. I used to think that we were the strong ones—we with the blood of Numenor in our veins, and the reigns of leadership given to us at such a young age. It's true, to a certain extent. Yet the people have strength too, and you'll see it someday. You haven't seen them as I have, for you've been in Ithilien with your rangers. But someday soon, Fama, you'll look into their eyes as you ride out with your men behind you, and you'll see that unquenchable strength. You'll know what I mean."
Faramir had seen it—when he had gone out with his men to Osgiliath. He remembered the looks now—looks that hadn't meant anything to him at the time, but now meant the world. He had seen that strength in the eyes of the few women who remained, watching out of doorways and windows. He had seen it in the soldiers left behind, and the guards at their posts. And he had seen it reflected in the eyes of the men who rode behind him to face their fate. Strength, bolstered by his own courage, that had conquered the darkness.
He left the room after extinguishing the candles, and closed the door softly. Someday soon he would return and pack his brother's things, but that task, he knew, could wait a while. What he had to do now, he knew, would not wait, nor would it be easy. The peace he felt at the thought of his brother's death, despite all his sorrow, was far from what he felt at the knowledge of his father's death.
Thailan turned away from the elderly matron in frustration, ignoring her words of comfort. "He'll be around here somewhere," she was saying, but he shook his head and hurried out the doorway, to the staircase that led up the first floor. His long legs took the steps two at a time, and he just missed knocking his curly head against the low doorway at the top.
It had been hours since Faramir had told him to return to the Houses and gather his things. He had come to the house expecting to find Faramir waiting in his rooms, the kitchen, or even the first floor, but he had not found him in any of those places. The Steward's house was large, and Thailan had never been there before; he had no idea where to look for his master. For master he was, now—Thailan had asked first Faramir and then the Warden if he might accompany Faramir to his house and act as his manservant. Faramir had been hesitant at first, for he'd never had a manservant before the Houses, and he knew he didn't really need one. But Thailan, using all his powers of convincing, won him over by saying that now that he was the ruling Steward he would have even less time to devote to personal affairs, and he would be expected to keep up a much more flawless image in court. Thailan did not actually say that Denethor and Boromir had both kept menservants, but Faramir knew and caved to Thailan's wishes. The Warden had been much easier to convince, and Thailan had no trouble taking his leave of the Houses of Healing.
Now Thailan went up the main staircase in the same manner, taking the steps two at a time. He had taken his time gathering Faramir's belongings and putting them away once he was here, but now he regretted it. Faramir had said he would be waiting here, at the Steward's house, when he came back, yet Thailan could not find him. It was always possible, he knew, that Faramir had gone somewhere else and would be back soon, but Thailan did not believe it. Something inside of him told him that Faramir was here—somewhere.
There were a lot of doors at the top of the stairs, and Thailan went the opposite way of Faramir's rooms. The maid had showed him where those were when he had arrived. But now he wished he had asked where Faramir's brother's room was—or his father's. He had an idea that he would find his master there, and Thailan was sorry for his Lord. He hadn't thought, before, what sorrow it must cause in him to be living here, along with the ghosts of his family. He had to find him—not only because of his instinct as a friend, but also because of his instinct as a healer. Faramir still had to take care of himself, even though he had been released.
The rooms were all dark as he opened doors, and he quickly shut them. He didn't know what secrets this house lodged, but he had no wish to find them out alone, in the deepening gloom. Finally, a little way from the main hall, he opened a door to find a single taper burning on a desk situated in the middle of the room, and he paused. The candle was burning low, and the light flickered slightly in the draft from the open door; Thailan could see paper spread out over the desk and a bottle of ink sitting open. The young man opened the door a little wider and entered, his eyes caught on the papers. The writing on them was dark against the crisp whiteness of the paper, and the desk was like a pool of light in the middle of the dark room. Thailan's eyes caught on the first paragraph of the writing, and he leaned one leg on the chair that had been pulled out as he read:
I write this in the dark of his room, with only one candle to see by. I cannot bear to light more, for they would only illuminate the things that were so sacred to him and so unknown to me. Why I write I cannot say—why I torment myself by huddling in this cold room, stale from days with no one living in it and years of never being aired out, I do not know. All I know is that I can no longer keep these feelings and thoughts of my heart inside. They must spill out one way or another—why should it not be through writing? I cannot tell anyone, for words spoken by my mouth cannot convey everything I want them to. I fear I could not be honest enough with anyone living and breathing, and I cannot bear more dishonesty. I cannot bear to appear as the wise and courageous captain anymore—I desire suddenly to be a boy, scared and confused. Besides, no one would want to hear what I have to say.
My heart is bursting with so many emotions, but confusion is indeed foremost among them. I am here, father. I am here among your things, breathing the air you breathed so recently! The questions are old and familiar to both you and me—why father? Why? The bitterness of my soul is reflected in that question—a question you will take the answer of to your grave. Did you know that by your actions you would make me wonder my whole life what I have done wrong—what sin I committed as a child or am still committing that you cannot forgive.
They want me to believe that you loved me, father. That at the last you tried to kill me for love. I am no fool, and neither were you. Perhaps you did love me, once. Perhaps you wanted me like you wanted Boromir, praising me, admiring me, loving me as a father should love his son. This confusion is eating away at me! Was it solely my own fault, or are the gossips and slanderers in this city right, and did it have something to do with my mother? I have heard them speak—on long patrols and watches their words have torn my heart to rags and my spirit has slowly been smothered by their tales. For I know there is some truth to them, father. And now how they will talk—long after I am dead they will tell tales of you and how you could not kill me, even as you wished to, even as you attempted to. Even at the last, when I lay helpless and unconscious, weak with fever and shivering in delirium, I found a way to disappoint your command.
But for all the hate it would seem you had for me, I loved you. I would not be writing this letter if I didn't love you, father—I would be off somewhere busy forgetting about the father who always demanded more, always said I wasn't good enough. Doubtless I would listen to those who have told me you were wrong, or absurd. Doubtless I could believe them and move on. But I can't, for I desired your love so much it hurt. Every night as I lay down, believing what I had done that day was not enough, and every morning when I rose earlier and earlier in an attempt to do more to please you, I felt an ache in my chest. There was always something missing, father—a hole only you could fill. And now that you are gone I fear that hole will always be there.
Am I never to be whole? It seems so unfair that I should be left here while you, Boromir, and Mother are all gone and together. And what is left to me? To struggle daily to keep my head above the waters that are trying to drag me under. To help this world piece itself back together while I myself have lost the pieces that will fix me. To labor beside the King, feeling joy at his return, yet also feeling an unshakable sense of betrayal to you. Had I been forced to choose while you were yet alive, Father, I would have been torn to pieces.
But I must heal, Father. You called me resilient once—do you remember? I was such a young boy, and you said that over my head as you looked at Boromir. "He's resilient, Boromir. He'll be fine." I wanted so much to be whatever it was you had said I was, so I ran as fast as I could to the stacks of books and pulled a dictionary off the shelves. When I found out what it meant I resolved to always be resilient—to never let anyone see what I really felt, and to never let the things of this world break me. It's been so hard, Father. So hard to feel my heart being silently killed day by day and try to give my men the courage and spirit they needed. And now, with the city rejoicing and turning to me once again, I have to do it once more. My sojourn in the Houses of Healing is over—the masquerade has once more begun. I thought, once, that I wouldn't have to put my mask on again—that maybe my heart could learn to love another, and that I could tell her about this. I thought that she would understand, but I was, as usual, premature. I am alone.
There are tears on my cheeks, Father. I feel the sobs rising in my chest, and they hurt. The bruises are still painful, and so are the terrible reminders of our final hour together. But I don't mind—the fact that there is pain feels almost better; if I must cry, as you warned me never to do, at least there is some retribution.
I will burn this when I am done—I know I will, but the words will stay with me forever. I will be Lord Faramir once more—wise, somber, and perhaps even cheerful of a time, but I will not be simply Faramir. Faramir has died, somewhere, and I don't think he can be resurrected. He was dying slowly every day of his life.
Thailan drew in his breath in a sharp gasp, transfixed by the utter despair in Faramir's words. He really is alone, he thought, touching the pages softly. He has no one. His uncle is here, true, but he will return to his land and that will be that. He has Damla, too, but her friendship can only go so far, with her family and her duties. There is no one left to him that can help him through this storm.
Thailan raised his head as the candle burned ever lower, and he looked around at the dark room. The door to the hallway still stood open, for he would not be stupid enough to close himself in this dark, unknown room, and it cast a small amount of light around the doorway. His eyes suddenly fell on a dark shadow in the corner by the door, and Thailan drew back at once in fear and surprise; it was a man. As soon as the initial fear was over it was only a moment before Thailan saw that it was Faramir, and he gasped again. All this time, as he had been reading Faramir's words, Faramir himself had been in here. Indeed, he wondered why he hadn't thought of that before. He immediately stepped forward toward his master.
Faramir sat with his back against the wall, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms crossed on his knees. His head was bowed onto his arms, and from the rise and fall of his shoulders Thailan knew he was asleep. How long he had been here, Thailan didn't know, but he knew it had been a few hours at the least. And what he had thought as he sat in this room, alone, after writing his emotions down on the paper, Thailan could not imagine. He stooped and put his hand on Faramir's shoulder, surprised when Faramir did not respond.
"My Lord," he began, and he shook Faramir's shoulder slightly. Faramir still did not move, though his breath stilled. "My Lord?" he asked again, louder. Finally, stooping closer, he said, "Faramir!"
Faramir's head rose out his arms slowly, and Thailan met his eyes with the uncertainty of a man who fears what he will find. But Faramir's eyes were not dead, as Thailan had expected, nor rife with grief. They were, instead, soft and unsure, like a child's. Yet upon seeing Thailan he turned his head away, and his glance fell on the table where the candle was still burning. His voice was a whisper: "Did you read it?"
Thailan nodded, though he knew Faramir couldn't see it, and answered, "Yes." But instead of being unable to meet Faramir's eyes, he found himself looking into their depths with greater boldness than ever before. The light in his master's eyes emboldened him, and he said, "Yes I did."
For a long moment Thailan didn't know what Faramir would do—if he would look away, stand up, or perhaps just shrug and say with a painful smile, "I'm alright." He wanted—oh so much—to be able to tell his master how much he cared, and how he was there for him. How he would never abandon him like everyone else had. Yet he knew that Faramir knew all these things, and it was up to Faramir to accept them. Whether Faramir could accept them, when so much had been taken from him, Thailan did not know.
So when Faramir bowed his head into his arms and began to weep, softly and brokenly, Thailan felt a rush of relief, and he knew that this once, and maybe this was the start of something more, Faramir was accepting the gift of another. And Thailan found himself weeping with him—not with any affectation or falseness, but because he was truly grief-stricken and heart weary. Together they wept for everything they had lost, and everything they would lose, and everything they still had that was so precarious. As they wept the taper sputtered and burnt out, but they continued to sit in the dark, for the first time realizing the blessing of their friendship.
Notes: Wow, I hope you all hung in there. It gets better in the next chapter, I promise. :-)
Next chapter...Eowyn paces, Faramir works, and Kitha's big moment comes.