Reminder:: Tolkien's, Tolkien's, Tolkien's, Tolkien's, Tolkien's! Nothing you see before is claimed as mine~. Except for things you may not remember; but those things aren't good enough to rhyme…!

Forgive me for putting the disclaimer to the tune of Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer. I'm feeling a little silly today. xD

Expect a few new changes this chapter. Eee, this is so exciting – I feel like I'm finally getting somewhere I want to be!

As always, read and enjoy and review. Reviews help me out, but they also help you, too. This could be utter crap, for all I know, if I don't get your insight and opinions. Well, here's a chapter as promised. n_n'

Chapter Twenty-Two :: Merry Yuletide
The Fifth Day of Yuletide

Faramir felt something was very… peculiar.

Of course, his old room he was standing in was a sight for sore eyes. It seemed very strange to him after being in and out of Minas Tirith for so long. He was so used to sleeping on rough cots with thin blankets. This bed was soft and the blankets were thick and warm. He was even impressed he had windows to shutter!

But, no, that could not be it.

Early morning and he had barely slept again. Even in such a comfortable atmosphere, Faramir was as restless as he was in the dark forests of ruin in Ithilien. Perhaps even more so, now that he came to thinking of it. His men were cold and hungry and leaderless. He would give up all the gold of kings for his troops to be as comfortably placed as he was. Then again, Faramir wasn't feeling very comfortable at all this morning. Perhaps they were better off…

Clenching his fists and searching for something to do, Faramir strode to the great wooden doors on the far side of the room and swung them open. Cold winter air rushed into the room and he stepped out to face it. Bare-handed, his fingers were instantly chilled when he gripped the rail of the large, stone outcropping. He could not face anywhere but East.

Everything in the world felt to be turned against him. How much longer could he keep up a convincing façade? There were two more days of Yuletide. That would be enough. And this was another day; another wooden face. He could pull it off. Faramir was quite good at it.

But then again…

Faramir had never felt so awful in all his life.

Well, of course, there were times he could probably recall if he tried, but these things are hard to come by when days are bitter like these. He could not honestly recall a worse holiday… other than the year he missed it entirely. And yet that was a very calm, uneventful winter. And peace is always something to be grateful for. Might've been the best Yule for all he knew.

So what then did he have? Too much idleness. He needed to do something helpful – use his hands. Lounging about all day at ridiculous galas and pacing the night away was such a waste. His men were in Ithilien still, more in Osgiliath that were in his care in his brother's stead, and they were waiting for the holiday to be over as well for their leader to return. They were out fending for their lives every day and here was Lord Faramir, Southern Ranger and First Lieutenant to his brother Captain Boromir, courting about some child in the city.

Inwardly grumbling for a moment, Faramir mentally danced around one of the many issues at hand to drive it from his mind. He didn't enjoy torturing himself with his own thoughts and whatever thoughts came to him as of late were convoluted. With a quick memory, he traced back the last time he had seen his brother.

A mighty gift…

Faramir felt his very spine crawl at the thought. He had been educated – he knew what his father wanted. But what his kin seemed to so conveniently forget is the nature of this 'gift'. If they thought they could wield it as their own, let alone use it against its creator, they were right out of their minds. Yes, Faramir should have gone to Rivendell. Boromir left midsummer, just before Finwen came to him, in fact. How ironic that if he stayed but a fortnight longer, he would have met his intended. Boromir did not need the burden of such a travel though… He had barely reclaimed Osgiliath before he was forced away. Faramir should have gone. He should have insisted upon it. The Council of the Wise had chosen Faramir – not Boromir – to go to Rivendell. Only at the insistence of the Steward they swayed their opinions and Boromir was practically forced out the door.

But after years of being passive, there would be no sudden change of character. No, he would remain loyal, meek and mild Faramir until the end of his days. And as long as it pleased his father, he wouldn't mind it so much. His father's wish was quite literally his command.

How exactly had it become Finwen's command as well? There certainly was an unearthly resemblance between she and his late mother, but what else could she possibly be of value to his father the Steward? As a wife for Boromir, she would be an ill-met prize indeed. He hated to think it, but Finwen was too fragile for a man like his brother. Boromir was a warrior through and through – one of the best at that. One thing Boromir was not, though, was gentle. Finwen was made mind and body of the thinnest of withering flower petals. Broken easily at a touch. Boromir needed a woman who was strong in body and spirit. Finwen was not this lady of kings.

Faramir was not so ignorant. He had seen her shaking like a leaf just the other day from just words he had spoken – words he should never had said since it affected her so. But how was he to know she would be so frightened at the idea of a wizard? Of course, he had heard her story by now, but what could be so bone-chillingly terrifying about someone like Gandalf the Grey? Did she not know he was of good heart?

Vexed even more now, Faramir sighed in exasperation. Dash it all – why does he always have to care?

And finally he was facing an emotion he had never felt. Anger. All his life, Faramir had been calm and calculated – he was not one to lose his temper. Had he ever?

But what was this one thing that so angered him now? Certainly it was not Boromir – he was the last person in the world to anger him. He had always loved his brother, followed in his footsteps, and had received his brother's love and protection in return. Faramir could not care more for a brother and friend. Boromir had few faults and he was strong. Not the quickest to the pen but quicker to the punch, Boromir was an excellent role-model for a young Faramir, growing up under a glowering father. Even though he was five years his senior, Boromir treated Faramir as an equal. Truly, Faramir could not ask for more.

Boromir had his father's favor. Boromir had the popularity. Boromir had the power. And never in his life had Faramir ever felt enmity towards him. These things happened outside of Boromir's control; he was not involved. He had the right to be loved.

No, of course it was not his brother. The man he so yearned to please… was angering him. His father, the Lord Denethor, had never truly liked him. But one does not necessarily have to like a person in order to love them; Faramir had seen it many times… and he had always hoped his father was the same.

Scapegoat for the death of his mother since he was five years, Faramir was used to the antagonism and every day he worked to reverse it. One day, Faramir would prove to his father his love and quality. One day soon, Denethor would recognize him for who he was: his son. One day… oh, someday. He mustn't dwell on dreams – they were always exaggerating what could be and creating disappointments out of miracles.

And the one time, the only time, this solid unwavering faithfulness had ever faltered is by the hand of a twiggy girl in her teens. Not only was it ridiculous, but it was uncouth and irritating. That is what was peculiar. Negativity… It wasn't something he was particularly used to. He had been dark and perhaps a little suspicious before, but pessimism was not one of his traits. He was used to being a pawn, a spare, a lesser son, but he did not like seeing his father making pawns of other people – especially defenseless, confused girls like Finwen. She'd no idea what Denethor was capable of. Of course, she was not so shallow as to admit that she was clueless and had wisely seen the betrothal to Boromir long before it would be announced, but that is where she deemed it ended. The way she was under the Steward's thumb now would continue until one of the two expired. Although brought about in a strange form, Finwen was Denethor's newest slave. One he praised and fawned over like a master to his dog, but never as the lady he so called her. She was a tool… and it made Faramir wonder how long it would take before the tool became obsolete or broke and which would come first…

Pushing the negativity from his mind, Faramir left the balcony as the sun was now high enough to leave. His sister-to-be would be waiting.

Dutifully holding his post like a sentinel, Mordred relaxed his shoulders just the slightest and breathed out a sigh.

For five days, the Lord and Steward Denethor had been sending him on petty errands like he was a young lad. The shining promotion he had been so proud of now seemed dim and temporary – he would probably be demoted to his previous Citadel position by the end of Yule. He had served his purpose.

Of course, being a Guard of the Citadel was nothing to scoff at. There were many men in the city of Minas Tirith that would kill for his position. He was grateful. Truly, he was.

Mordred turned to face the entrance, watching the faces that passed through the tall archway. Into the hall stepped the Lord Faramir and the Lady Finwen. Well, she wasn't a 'lady' technically, but everyone referred to her as so. It got quite a disreputable sniff from many ladies of the court that an orphan girl like her should be given the title they worked their lives for, and they were angered rightfully so, but to harbor hatred for someone so tiny and pathetic as Finwen was hard to do even for the most accomplished cynical spinster. Besides, if you got her to favor you, you were given the approval of the Steward. So suddenly, Finwen had half a thousand 'best friends'. Everyone knew she was Denethor's favorite except for the obvious choice of his first-born son. No, nobody could beat out Boromir's chair. Oh, but would you look at that? There she goes to sit in Boromir's seat right now. Ironic.

She was wearing purple today. A very royal color – Mordred wondered where she could have found the fabric. Even at war, it's amazing that there is always someone to make the trivialities of the upper classes. Her hair was loose, tied only a little in the back, and adorned with winter flowers of red and purple. Whoever dressed her in the mornings sure knew what they were doing.

Smirking to himself, he examined the poor embroidery darkly laced against the smooth lavender of the dress. It was obvious to him she had done it herself – he had watched his sisters deftly work a needle for many years. He assumed she was required to, or at least wanted to try her hand at the art in the very least, but a dress for Yuletide was not a proper place to practice. There she goes again – the girl knows nothing of propriety.

And at times, that's what Mordred felt he liked the most about Finwen.

She was very pretty, in her own dainty way, but her silliness got the best of him. No woman he had ever met before introduced herself by waving at him from a window wearing her nightgown and making ugly faces to catch his attention and later continued for his amusement. She was different. She was… special somehow.

And there is the lesser son of the two, cavorting about like it's his business to steal her from him. That should have been him out there yesterday dancing with Finwen. It should be Mordred, not Faramir, speaking with her for countless hours on the balcony. He was the Lord Faramir, yes, but why should his father suddenly favor him now and give him his prize? Finwen, named for Finduilas, given to the spare? What is this?

Letting out a huff, Mordred straightened his posture, trying to feel his feet again in these uncomfortable boots. Apparently the Steward Denethor didn't even need him today. The errand boy was out of the job and left to dwell on skirts and poor needlework.

Today, the Lady Finwen did not leave the table. He was so sure that she and the Lord Faramir would 'escape' Yuletide again like routine, but this day she remained seated like stone. She would make a lovely statuette, Mordred thought absently to himself.

The Lord Faramir said something to her to which she did not immediately reply. Curiosity peaked, Mordred side-stepped a few paces as casually as he could and stepped away from the wall. If he strained his ears, he just might be able to hear their voices… He felt he deserved to know something about Finwen – after all, she originally would have gone to Yuletide with him and she would have told him everything instead… Whatever that everything was, that is.

Finwen's voice was small, so it took all Mordred's focus to hear: "-no harm by what you said… You meant it as a comfort and I understand that now. I'm just… frightened."

"There is no need to be frightened, Finwen. You fear for things beyond you and your control. Be at peace. This is a holiday; I feel I must remind you." Lord Faramir offered in reply.

Finwen smiled (a little too wide for Mordred's liking) and said: "Thank you. You are a solace to me. I just have not dealt much with wizards… I do not know this Mithrandir as you. Are you… quite sure he needs to be involved?"

"Perfectly." The young lord nodded.

"May I ask a question?"

"Of course. I am not sure what answer I may offer you, but I shall be of use if it suits me."

Laughing, Finwen took a moment before she asked: "What is his name? Mithrandir or Gandalf? It is confusing to me."

"I have known him by Mithrandir, but often has he been referenced by his northern name of Gandalf. Either one; it is the same wizard."

Finwen nodded and delicately went back to her plate. The Lord Denethor made a loud comment at this moment and Finwen tried her best to settle him before he created too much of a disturbance.

Hm… wizards? What in the world could they be talking about…? The affairs of wizards are often confusing and strange… Mordred did not know much about wizards at all. He certainly wanted to know more now. How was Finwen involved with—?

"Is it too much to ask for a fresh bottle?" Denethor fumed.

Oh. He was screaming about his job. Errand boy back in action. Stepping forward quickly, Mordred bowed and clicked his heels. "Terribly sorry my lord—"

"Hurry up, now lad, I won't be kept waiting! Don't you know it's a holiday?" Denethor called after him as he unceremoniously left to open a new keg.