Reminder:: NOT MINE!

Here we go! March first in Minas Tirith. n_n

As a further note, if you visit The Lord of the Rings wiki, you'll find it pretty awesome that the featured article today is Faramir. Just so you know. =3

Thank you for the continued support!

Chapter Thirty :: Expelled

It was very strange. Finwen felt miraculously free. At the physical appearance, this sounded ridiculous. The girl was a prisoner in her own room, chained to her bed post. But secretly, Finwen felt… new. Something had finally clicked in her mind that swept her up but pulled her down in a rushing river of guilt. It wasn't right, but… it couldn't be wrong.

The flowers she had collected for Yuletide had died and had been left to dry out in the sun. They filled a vase in her room on her writing table, stiffly staring at her with their shriveled heads and pressed petals. Finwen had a pile of petals turned to dust underneath her and a handful of the flowers in her fist.

She took out another long stem and picked at the head. Stripping the flower clean, she crumpled the petals between her fingers and let them fall from her hand to the floor. When she was done, she dropped the stem below her and picked up another flower.

This was how she was currently spending her time. She had exhausted her supply of paper writing whatever was on her mind including bits of poetry and song and just simple observations of her room and sketches of objects around her. Without much to do except embroider, this flower destruction was very entertaining.

Was it wrong not to care so much? She had never actually known Boromir, per say… How wrong that sounded. She wouldn't say it like that anymore.

Then how would she say it? She wouldn't have to get married anymore… She wouldn't feel so guilty because she liked his brother more…

See. That sounds better.

At that moment, there came a knock on the door.

Feeling quite the opposite, Faramir's head was swirling around like a mixing bowl. He felt so terrible; he thought he was going to be sick. Why was he standing here anyway?

"Captain Faramir?" The Warden asked, slightly surprised. The new title didn't settle his stomach at all, only made him queasier. Something else he stole from his brother.

Mercifully, the Warden had a guess so Faramir didn't have to try to articulate words that made sense. "Here to see the Lady Finwen? She's on house arrest upon the order of the Steward. I'm afraid I'm not allowed to show her to anyone."

"House arrest?" Faramir voiced aloud. What was his father thinking? How could Finwen have anything to do with all of this?

Now more confused than when he first arrived, he had to assume that all of this was a bad idea and these were just further signs that he should leave Finwen be. Without giving more of an answer, Faramir nodded and turned on his heel.

He was surprised to meet a Guard of the Citadel, practically running straight into him at the door.

"Captain Faramir!" The man apologized quickly. "My apologies, sir. I—"

"Beregond." Faramir said, recognizing the man. "What brings you to the Houses so early?"

Beregond smiled warily. He was very loyal to Faramir and he much appreciated it, more than Beregond knew. But this smile of his worried him somewhat. Beregond was nervous to answer – that was rare. "Orders from the Steward, my lord."

Faramir put two and two together. "Concerning the Lady Finwen?"

Surprised his superior guessed right, Beregond confirmed: "Concerning the Lady Finwen, sir. The Lord Denethor has ordered that she be detained in the White Hall. There was no explanation, my lord."

Faramir took him by the shoulder and nodded in thanks. Walking quickly past him, Faramir re-entered the Houses of Healing. The Warden had heard the conversation and felt he could not do much in the matter, watching as Faramir scaled the stairs and Beregond and another guard approaching from the street following behind.

Faramir was quite at a loss of where to go. Beregond surpassed him and led him the rest of the way. He had to come originally to put the chain on Finwen earlier.

Beregond decided to speak up, coming to a halt outside a tall door. "Just following orders, my lord. I didn't think it was right, but — not much I could do, sir."

Taken aback by the preparation, Faramir stepped forward. Because it was a lady's room, he tapped quickly on the door.

"Come in." The familiar voice called.

Faramir was shocked. When the door first opened, everything appeared normal enough. The Lady Finwen was sitting on her bed picking at flowers. Then he noticed the giant, clunking chain attached to her small ankle keeping her prisoner to her bed post.

"My God! Finwen, are you all right?"

"Lord Faramir!" She gasped in surprise, her face reddening.

"What's the meaning of this?" Faramir asked. Instead of ordering his subordinates to do so, he took the key from Beregond and unlocked the shackle himself. "Has my father ordered this?"

"Yes, my lord. Our apologies, my lord." The guard behind Beregond mumbled.

Downcast, Faramir saw the girl wince and start to rub her raw, chafed ankle upon being released. "Finwen, I'm so sorry. I would've come sooner had I known—"

"I'm fine, my lord." Finwen promised.

"How long have you been up here?"

"I… A bit over a day, I suppose." She shrugged, as if this was no interest to her.

Faramir helped her to her feet. Finwen didn't need help walking, but he kept a firm hand on her shoulder anyways. "Come with me."

Psh, to the ends of the Earth. She thought, obviously to herself.

The great doors to the White Hall swung open and Faramir strode inside, Finwen in tow. Feeling they needed to support their captain, Beregond and the unnamed guard followed after the two. House-boys closed the doors and were in the process of setting the table for Denethor's breakfast.

"Chains?" Faramir asked a rather defiant sentence to begin conversation with his father.

"You're going to have to be more specific." Denethor sighed, sitting down before his plate. He looked up and smiled. "Ah! Finwen! I was expecting you."

Finwen glanced sideways at Faramir. The look told him she was nervous – worse than that, she was scared. Of Denethor. He didn't like that look. It was something he was expecting to see for quite some time now, playing his father's pawn for so long, but Faramir still didn't like it on her face. Not at all.

"Why was the Lady Finwen being detained in her room?"

"A misunderstanding. Or rather, a mistake of my own." His father answered easily enough. "Finwen, come sit next to me. Right here."

Without much of a choice, Finwen pulled herself away from Faramir and did as she was told. A plate was set in front of her, but she took no notice. She seemed to be a petite ghost, curling up into herself away from Denethor.

"Shackles are barely an object of warmth to a guest of the White Tower." Faramir remarked.

The Steward ignored him. Picking at a bunch of grapes, he chose a stem and smartly broke it off and tossed it towards his plate. Already, he was reaching for the pheasant.

"Haven't you been long enough? Osgiliath is waiting." Denethor hinted.

Faramir lingered yet, wondering what was going through his father's mind.

Finally Denethor began to lose his patience. He offered a weak explanation: "Circumstances have changed slightly. I believe young Finwen would be best suited under my constant vigilance."

"Why must she be guarded?" They continued to argue as if Finwen wasn't right before them.

"You care exceedingly too much for my Finwen. Your brother's Finwen, I might add."

Faramir paused not a second. "I care as I should."

"I see…" He looked over Faramir knowingly. "She is no longer a concern of yours. Finwen will remain with me."

"I see no danger in—"

"I have." Lord Denethor cut in.

Faramir knew.

It was something neither of them mentioned aloud. It would only cause a greater rift between father and son, but Faramir knew of the ancient palantir that slumbered in Minas Tirith. What more he knew was only what he could guess – his father had looked into the forbidden orb. He had assumed his father had been tapping into it recently, but he did not expect the frequency of his father's use. It was dangerous. And Faramir felt he needed to say so.

"It's a dangerous practice you partake in, Father."

"And where did you hear this? Mithrandir? It's a tool…" Denethor avoided calling his son by name. "A useful asset that must be tapped for this war."

It was useless to argue with his father. Before Faramir could make a retort or think of more to say, Denethor was already off again. "You would do better to listen more and speak less. Where do your loyalties lie? With a wizard? I think not! Back to Osgiliath with you. I no longer wish you in my presence."

Bruised, Faramir bowed and walked unwaveringly out of the hall.