Chapter III – The Steward and the King
"I want you to focus, Faramir."
"I am trying!"
"No. I want you to focus…on not focusing at all."
"I—what?"
"Focus on letting go of everything that is cluttering up your mind," Aragorn directed calmly. "Your problem is that you think things must be regimented and orderly at all times, because that is what you have been taught all your life. Now you must learn to let go of the order and allow yourself to roam beyond the borders and limitations of your mind."
"I see things in patterns," Faramir argued. "Everything is in its place and there is a place for everything. The order comes naturally!"
"Then you must break it," Aragorn muttered. "You cannot receive your visions properly if you are bent on having a complete and unbreakable structure within your head. Your gift does not function that way. That is the very reason why these visions have been forced into your dreams. You lock them away in a tight corner, a part of the 'order', and then they are trapped there until they wriggle their way into your subconscious. Is that what you want?"
"Of course not," said Faramir wearily. "I will try, but I can make no promises. I do not understand what you are asking me to do."
"I am asking you to unlearn everything that you have learned."
"Unlearn everything that I have learned over the course of over fifty years. That may be more difficult for me than you realize, Aragorn." Faramir's voice broke unevenly as he spoke. Aragorn did not understand. He liked having everything regimented and orderly. It was the only way that he managed to cope with the stress and the pressure of daily life as the Steward of Gondor. It was the only way that he managed to carry on without Éowyn as his support system. Everything must be regimented, or else he would fall apart.
"You must try," said Aragorn encouragingly.
Faramir closed his eyes obediently. His breath hissed slowly through his teeth. He could sense the structure and the order that Aragorn wanted him to tear down. He could feel the neat, tidy arrangement of every thought and every memory. Any conscious tidbit that found its way into his mind was categorized and packed carefully into place. Aragorn wanted him to destroy it all, let loose everything that he had spent so long restraining. He hesitated.
"Faramir, you must trust me if this is to be successful," said Aragorn, detecting his friend's reluctance. "Teaching you to channel your gift properly is all I can do for you. You know that I cannot control your dreams—"
"Yes, I know," said Faramir quickly. A picture rose immediately in his mind, a picture of Aragorn standing over his bed that night. Such horror lingered in the King's eyes…such fear… Faramir was unaccustomed to seeing Aragorn so afraid, and it had unnerved him. He wished he knew what Aragorn had seen in his dream that night, but he dared not ask.
"Then close your eyes and try again," said Aragorn coaxingly. "It may help if you try centering your thoughts on a single object, devoid of sentimental value but something you know well. Once that becomes your total focus, the order will begin to fall away."
His eyes shut tight, Faramir tried to think of an object towards which he could direct his thoughts. First he thought of the simbelmyne blossom that stood in the vase on his desk, but he discarded the thought quickly. Devoid of sentimental value, Aragorn had said. Something he knew well…
A feather quill sat upon his desk. Elphir had given it to him long ago as a birthday present, but he attached no real sentimental value to it. It was a fine quill, plucked from the wing of an Ithilien hawk and honed to a fine point. It was golden and brown and black, and Faramir found it easy to focus on such a mundane item. His entire being was consumed by the image of the quill; it seemed almost to have been burned onto the backs of his eyelids. All else vanished from his mind, including the regimented order of his every thought.
Faramir gasped as a quick series of images flashed through his head. Bed. Knife. Assassin. Blood. Weeping children. Tolling bells… Image after image battered against his mind, beating into him the reflection of an unspeakable tragedy, a blade in the night, and an entire nation in mourning.
"Aragorn!"
Before he could even open his eyes, Faramir had fainted.
Slowly, very slowly, Faramir returned to himself. He could feel his heart beating again, and a large bruise had formed at the back of his head. What had happened? Where was he? This was not his office… After a few moments he realized that he was lying on his back on a soft bed in the Houses of Healing. Two figures stood in the far corner, muttering to each other. One of them wore a crown…
"Aragorn!" cried Faramir, sitting straight up in the bed. The instant he did so, he felt the pain in his head hit him like a brick, and he collapsed back onto the bed. The two figures hurried to his side. One of them was a healer and the other was, of course, the King.
"Faramir, you need to calm yourself," said Aragorn. "If you push yourself too hard, you may lose consciousness again."
"Aragorn, I must tell you what I have seen!" The healer was trying force something wet and slippery down his throat, but Faramir resisted.
"It can wait." Aragorn's voice was gentle, almost apologetic, as if he felt guilty for somehow causing Faramir to pass out. "Do as the healers tell you, Faramir."
"No! It cannot wait!" Faramir shoved the healer's vial away from his lips. "Aragorn, someone is going to try to kill you or the Queen! Someone…someone…!" He squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately to get back the feeling of knowing what was going to happen. The certainty had now faded into a dim memory, leaving only speculation.
"Why must I see such horrid things?" Faramir clutched his head in his shaking hands. "Why does nothing good come of this gift? Why won't it leave me alone? It only haunts me! I can see only death! Why death?"
"Faramir." Aragorn pulled Faramir's hands away from his head, but the Steward could not stop shaking. "Tell me what you saw. Tell me exactly what you saw."
"I saw…I saw…" Faramir shook his head. "I am not sure anymore! I saw…a knife. A knife in the hand of a killer… An assassin, I think. A little girl crying…the bells in the Tower ringing frantically… That is all I can remember, Aragorn. They are only disjointed images burned into my memory. When I saw them, I was so sure… I knew what was going to happen. Now I cannot…I can no longer feel…"
"Faramir, do not hide anything from me," said Aragorn sternly. "If my life or the Queen's is at stake, I must know everything. Did you see Arwen and me in the dream?"
Faramir paused. "No. No, I did not see you…but I saw a country mourning the death, a dark ceremony befitting a king or a prince… I have no way of being sure, but I am almost certain that the threat was to you or the Queen. There was blood spilt." He shivered. "Royal blood."
"What else? Could it have been Eldarion?"
"I have told you all that I know," said Faramir miserably. "I cannot remember more."
"You must remember more!" snapped Aragorn.
"I cannot!" cried Faramir, withdrawing in fear from the intensity of Aragorn's eyes. "I cannot remember, Aragorn! I am sorry, but I do not know! I only know that someone is going to die, and now it is going to be all my fault because I saw it and could not stop it!" Faramir turned his head away and shuddered, feeling a black wave of guilt and helplessness wash over him.
The fire in Aragorn's eyes softened when he saw how pale Faramir had become. He was being unreasonable and unfair to his Steward. It was not Faramir's fault that he could not remember everything, and Faramir was not to blame for any harm that befell him or Arwen.
"Faramir, I am sorry," he said gently. "It is not your fault."
"It is the duty of the Steward before all else to protect his liege," Faramir recited flatly. "To ensure the upholding of the honor of the King of Gondor and the continuing health and happiness of the Royal Family." He released a broken sigh from the pit of his roiling stomach, suddenly feeling faint again. His greatest fear was beginning to rear its head, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
"That is what you have done," Aragorn assured him. "Do not question yourself. You have no reason to doubt that you have performed your duties."
"Oh?" Faramir took the vial from the healer and swilled it down in one quick gulp. The slimy contents stuck to his throat, making the vile taste linger in his mouth. A slight twitch started in one cheek, but it soon faded along with the bad taste and his feeling of lightheadedness.
"You may go now, if you wish, my Lord," said the healer briskly. "Be careful of the bump on your head, though. You've got an awful bruise there now, from when you hit your head falling. Mind you don't irritate it, and I would like to see you again in two days' time." The healer bowed as Faramir thanked him and rose from the cot. With Aragorn helping to steady him, Faramir walked quickly from the room and towards the exit of the Houses of Healing, eager to leave this place which was full of horrifying and painful memories for him.
"Just a moment, Faramir," said Aragorn, touching him lightly on the shoulder. "I would speak with you here, before we return to the Citadel."
Faramir felt a painful twinge just looking around him, but he nodded silently and allowed the King to steer him in the direction of the gardens. This place more than most was full of memories that he wished he could forget. Just there, beneath that overhanging willow tree, was where he and Éowyn had sat and talked for many hours each day as they awaited the return of the Host of the West. There, just on that creaking wooden bench, was where they had grieved the death of their infant son Adrahil. Upon the wall, just there where the sun was shining through the dappled leaves, was where he had first seen the White Lady of Rohan marching dutifully towards him with the Warden at her side. How gorgeous she had appeared on that day… How beautiful, and how sad…
"Faramir, have I ever given you reason to believe that you do your duty poorly?" asked Aragorn. His tone was fretful and worried, as though he feared that the answer to his question would be 'yes'.
Faramir hesitated before answering, still caught up in the memories that flew through his mind as they walked the paths of the gardens. "No, my liege," he said finally, murmuring softly beneath his breath. "You have never done so."
"Perhaps I am wrong, but you seem so…hesitant now. As if you are not always sure that you are dong the right thing." Aragorn frowned. "I do not want my Steward feeling that his work his questioned. You know that I always approve of your decisions, and your counsel is always thoughtful and wise."
Faramir sighed. "I know. It is not your fault that I feel my work is questioned."
"Then I am right," said Aragorn quickly. "You are hesitant. But why, Faramir? What reason have you for doubting yourself now?"
"May we sit?" asked Faramir suddenly, feeling the lightheadedness returning again. "I'm afraid I don't feel very well."
"Should I summon a healer?" Aragorn asked, guiding his friend towards a seat upon a stone ledge near the wall.
Faramir shook his head. "It will pass shortly, I am sure." Nevertheless, after nearly a quarter of an hour sitting he felt no better. The glow of the sun felt hot against his sickly pale skin, and it added queasiness to the dizzy feeling in his head.
"In what way do you not feel well, Faramir?" asked Aragorn, as if he were asking his young daughters the question.
"Everything seems to be spinning," mumbled Faramir. "I cannot pin anything down. It is like constant vertigo that I cannot control."
"Lack of sleep will do that to you," Aragorn observed worriedly. "I wish I could do more to help you with your dreams…"
"As you cannot, I would not concern yourself with it."
"I am always concerned for the health of my Steward. When you are unwell, Gondor suffers, just as when I am unwell."
"And I am unwell so often." Faramir wiped a hand over his eyes. "I am a poor choice for the position…"
"You are my choice for the position, and I deem you to be the best qualified for it," Aragorn reminded him.
"I am not the man I once was, Aragorn." Tears shimmered on the verge of spilling over in Faramir's eyes. "I am not fulfilling my duty the way I should be. I'm not fit for the position. I don't deserve it. I can no longer keep my mind focused in the meetings, my reports are rambling and pointless, and worse than all this is that I don't even care. Any of the other lords on the Council would be better suited to be your Steward, Elessar."
"None of the other lords have your wit or your intelligence or your patience or your commitment," said Aragorn fiercely. "I do not want any other lord as my Steward, Faramir."
"I do not want to be your Steward."
Stunned, Aragorn could find no words to speak.
"I cannot do this. It is too much. These nightmares are changing me into something that I do not want to be, into a person who cannot be the Steward of Gondor." Faramir faltered, struggling to say what was hardest to say. "I am sorry. I-I must resign, Aragorn. I must step down from my position. I do not want to, but I must. I am failing you and Gondor by trying to keep up with my duty when I know that I cannot."
"Faramir, you do not know what you are saying," said Aragorn gruffly.
Faramir laughed lightly, closing his eyes. "Yes, I do. For once, Aragorn, I know exactly what I am saying, and I know that this must be done. It is the only way. I must do what is right for Gondor, not for myself."
"It is up to me to decide what is right for Gondor, and I wish no other man to sit beside me as Steward of my realm!" Aragorn cried.
"Your judgment on this matter is blurred by our friendship," said Faramir. "You know in your heart was is right, yet you would have it otherwise because you hate to see me like this, to the point where I must resign. No, Aragorn. I must do the right thing. It hurts so much… It is so hard for me to struggle with the tasks you give to me, easy tasks yet beyond what I can cope with now. The only difference four months has made is that now I can separate the truth from the dreams, but it is destroying me. I am like meal caught between grindstones, gradually being worn down into finer powder until there is nothing left but what can be blown away by the gentlest breeze. You cannot have a man like me as your Steward."
"It is my will to have a man like you as my Steward! I care not what the other lords say, or what Gondor says! You are the only man who can do your job as well as you do, Faramir! You are a brilliant man who is unafraid to stand up to the most arrogant of lords and tell them that they are wrong to their faces! You have the ability to solve problems as if it were no more difficult than drawing a breath!"
Faramir smiled weakly. "Yet drawing a breath has become so much harder for me of late."
Aragorn paused, realizing that Faramir had turned his metaphor around and shot it right back at him. "Faramir…I want you as my Steward. I will not let the other lords change my opinion of you."
Faramir rose and began walking back towards the Houses of Healing. "You cannot stop me from resigning, Aragorn."
"Faramir…"
Faramir paused for only a moment. "I am sorry, my friend. For once I cannot do as you ask of me. You must find a new Steward now."
Author's Note: This chapter title ("The Steward and the King") was taken directly from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King, Book VI, Chapter 5: The Steward and the King.