B2MeM Challenge- Waters - underwater scene; Last Lines -There wouldn't be any decent wine, would there?;First lines -The cold passes reluctantly from the earth and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills resting.; Tolkien's Trees - Elm.; Injuries and other ailments- Cough; Canon couples - Denethor/Finduilas

Format: 500 word FLF

Genre: angst.family

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Denethor

Pairings: Denethor/Finduilas

Summary: Denethor writes a letter.

The cold passed reluctantly from the earth, and the retiring fogs revealed an army stretched out on the hills resting.

Denethor scrambled to his feet and flexed his long limbs. He fumbled in his pack and took out writing materials. This was a perfect opportunity to write to Finduilas before the rest of the camp was abroad.

He seated himself beneath a nearby elm tree, his back against the trunk and the parchment upon his lap. He began to write.

My dearest wife,

 The campaign is going well and I find myself with a rare moment of leisure to write.

It gladdened my heart to learn that our Boromir is doing so well with his sword practise for one so young. Our son will make a mighty warrior and a great Steward in the fullness of time. I miss my boy so much! He is such a remarkable child.

So Faramir is now a precocious talker who has learned to recite some verses despite his tender years? I am glad the boy is proving intelligent, but hope he will prove as apt with the sword as his brother. You think the little one gives such clever answers that he has the makings of a statesman? A worthy calling, but not in this present age when Gondor has such sore need of warriors.

I hope you are taking care of your health, dear wife, and the cough you have been suffering from these past months is improved. Have you consulted another healer yet? The woman who said you needed sea air obviously didn’t know what she was talking about.

We passed by a great lake yesterday and saw a truly remarkable sight. The water was very clear and the rocks beneath gave the appearance of underwater ruins. It made me think of Númenor of old. I wonder if the ruins appear thus on the ocean bed? We few Men of the West and our beloved Gondor are now all that remain of the former glories of our people. We must fight to our last drop of blood to preserve what is left to us in these latter days.

The camp was now stirring. His men would be awaiting their orders. Denethor dipped his quill in the inkpot and concluded his letter.

Have no fear for my safety, Finduilas. Now I am Ruling Steward, my duty is to command and inspire the men rather than throw myself into the fray. I hope to be reunited with you before Mettarë.

Your loving husband, Denethor, Steward to the House of Anárion.

He sealed the letter and got to his feet. He paused for a moment and looked up at the elm. For some reason the bare branches reminded him of the White Tree. This common elm would sprout in springtime, though, while the White Tree would remain forever lifeless.

A deep melancholy seized Denethor. He called to his servant for breakfast and as an afterthought asked. “There wouldn’t be any decent wine, would there?”

Title – Leaves from the Past

Author: Linda Hoyland

Characters/Pairing: Faramir, Denethor

Rating PG

Warnings: None

Book/Source: LOTR book-verse

Disclaimer – Middle-earth belongs to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

With Thanks to Raksha

Faramir sighed deeply. He looked out of the window. It was still raining, so it was neither the best of days day for sword or archery practise, nor for riding for pleasure. The council meeting was not until this afternoon, and he would not be joining Éowyn in Ithilien until the morrow. He could put off the unwelcome task no longer. He had no excuses left to delay looking through the trunk containing his father's private papers. They had been languishing in the bottom of a cupboard for more time than he cared to recall. Faramir would have been happy to leave it there, but kept wondering if it contained any information concerning Gondor's affairs that ought to be given to his new lord.

He lifted out the trunk and placed it in on the hearthrug, then knelt beside it and slid the key into the lock. It opened with some difficulty, as if loth to reveal its secrets.

Faramir lifted out a sheaf of yellowing scrolls and glanced at them. They mostly concerned official decrees. He placed them to one side to give to the King.

Beneath the scrolls lay a bundle of letters tied with a red ribbon. Faramir opened the one on the top of the pile. It was in his mother's hand, written from Dol Amroth during a visit there that Faramir vaguely recalled from his childhood. She told her husband that she missed him before recounting howmuch she and her sons were enjoying their time with Prince Imrahil. Faramir replaced it. He would read the letters one day, but not just yet. He only wished that he could recall more about Finduilas.

At the bottom of the trunk, hidden under the other papers lay a bound calfskin volume. Curiously, Faramir opened it. He was surprised it appeared to be a journal. It was written in Quenya, no doubt to make it hard to decipher. The Steward was fluent in the ancient language and it posed no difficulties for him.

The journal began the year Denethor became Steward and the early entries seemed mostly concerned with matters of government. A line caught Faramir's attention. I have decided to use the Seeing Stone. It would be foolish not to take advantage of such a powerful tool. My father claimed it was too dangerous, but I have the strength to master it. I need to know what is happening within my realm and ensure that Thorongil does not return without my knowledge.

Faramir shuddered at the reference to the palantír, which had proved his sire's downfall. He turned over more pages, scanning them quickly. There was a gap in the entries around about the time his mother died. Then they resumed in greater detail than before. His own and his brother's names caught his eye. Boromir grows taller by the day and continues to delight me. His sword master is delighted with his progress and says he will make a fine warrior. Young Faramir is a different matter. His tutor tells me he is a fine scholar, but he shows little interest in the sword. Gondor needs soldiers not scholars in these troubled times and my sons should be a good example to others.

Faramir turned more leaves, looking for familiar names. Mithrandir is here again and my younger son follows him around like a lap dog, hanging on to his every word. I fear he will fill the boy's head with gilded tales of the kings of old. I would not have a son of mine be a Wizard's pupil!

The young Steward took a deep breath. Mithrandir was a great and wise man. Why had their friendship troubled his father so much?

The next entry provided some answers. Mithrandir has gone at last, praise the Valar! Faramir is upset and keeps asking when will he return? If the boy wants a lore- master to consult, why does he not choose his own father? I fear too that the meddling wizard will fill his head with tales of the long gone kings and the White Tree blossoming anew. I do not forget that Thorongil was another of his pupils!

Faramir thought sadly that the answer should have been all too plain. His father had usually been too busy to discuss lore with him. Then he was angered if Faramir's opinion had differed from Denethor's on the rare occasions they did speak of legends and traditions together. Faramir could still recall the way Boromir's eyes glazed over when father and son would debate the origins of the line of Nimloth. Denethor would glance sternly at Faramir and the conversation would swiftly and suddenly turn to Hyarmendacil's victories over the Haradrim or some other feat of arms that interested Boromir.

Faramir perused more pages full of details of government and praise for his brother. Then another entry caught his eye.

My younger son continues to disturb me, even as I increasingly see myself reflected in him. He too has the power to see into men's hearts. Alas, that he wastes this gift on mawkish pity that renders him too slow to strike with the knowledge he has gained. The people love him, though, more than they love me. He reminds me all too much of that scoundrel Thorongil! The days are growing darker and the enemy increasingly draws closer. Soon all hope will be lost.

Faramir continued to turn the pages and read, both dreading and desiring to find a clue that might explain his father's final despair and last dreadful act. Then his eyes lighted up the final entry in the journal.

The enemy are at the gate. The only son left to me is dying. Better we should perish together than be sport for Sauron's creatures. I have heard too that Thorongil is on his way. I would not be his dotard chamberlain and my son his slave! Let the fire cleanse all and ...

The writing had become scarcely legible and the last few words were indecipherable. Faramir snapped the book shut with a shudder. He had read enough. At last, he understood much of his father's coldness towards him, but the knowledge brought him no peace, only pity. His father had known so much and yet understood so little. He thrust the journal back into the bottom of the trunk and locked it. He then called for a servant to take it to the storeroom. He would not destroy this relic of the past, but he very much doubted he would ever open the trunk again.

Written for the 2009 BTME challenge Prompt "Trunk".

Title – The Salt of the Earth
Author: Linda Hoyland 
Characters/Pairing: Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen
Rating: G 
Warnings: None
Book/Source: LOTR book-verse 
Disclaimer – Middle-earth belongs to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

In loving memory MJM

Faramir smiled his thanks to the serving maid who placed a steaming bowl of soup in front of him. He was spending the night in his apartments in the City after a day spent negotiating with a trade delegation from Khand. As was their custom, the King and Queen had invited him to dine with them.

 
The Steward sniffed the aroma wafting from the dish appreciatively then picked up the elaborate silver saltshaker and sprinkled a little in his soup. He then swallowed a mouthful and smiled.

“Do you like it, Faramir?” Arwen enquired.

“I have acquired quite a taste for mushroom soup after Merry and Pippin convinced me of its merits,” the Steward replied.

“I meant the saltshaker, not the soup,” said the Queen. “I know well that you enjoy anything made from the recipes sent by our Hobbit friends.”

“It is very fine workmanship,” said Faramir studying the saltshaker more closely, albeit with little enthusiasm, which he reserved for the soup.

“It was a gift from the envoy from Khand,” said Aragorn. “A little too elaborate for my taste, as I sense it is for yours, but I felt we should at least use it once at a private gathering such as this, so I can truthfully tell the envoy his gift is appreciated. We all know how they value salt in Khand. When I was there in my younger days, they used it as their currency.”

“Some Men have strange customs,” said Arwen. She picked up the saltshaker and studied it closely. “This figure represents one of their gods and the salt comes out of his mouth!”

“I will never forget the saltshakers we had in the nursery when I was a child,” said Faramir, a faraway expression on his face. “How I loved them!”

“You loved a saltshaker?” Aragorn could not contain the surprise in his voice. Faramir had confided many things about his childhood , he found strange but this was one of the most surprising yet.

Faramir finished the last of his soup and put down his spoon. ”When Boromir and I were children,” he began, “we usually ate our meals in the nursery at a long table that doubled for our lessons. Boromir liked a lot of salt on his food, as did I, but I was too small to reach across the table. This led to some unseemly scuffles over passing the salt. At Mettarë, when Uncle Imrahil came to visit, he announced he had brought us saltshakers as gifts; one each, so that we would no longer fight. Boromir and I were most disappointed, but our sorrow gave way to delight when we unwrapped our gifts.”

“It still seems an unsuitable gift for children,” Arwen observed. “I could not imagine giving Eldarion a saltshaker!”

“These were special ones,” Faramir explained. “They were made out of polished wood to resemble soldiers, Citadel Guards to be exact; their painted uniforms perfect copies of the ones worn by real soldiers. Uncle Imrahil gave us a solemn lecture that we must respect them, as our soldiers are the salt of the earth. Boromir and I loved them. We gave them names and even took them to bed with us.”

Aragorn grinned broadly. “Your beds must have been full of salt!”

Faramir laughed. “That did indeed happen and we were made to do extra lessons as a punishment. Our nanny, though, bought some ordinary saltshakers from the market to use at table. She told us we could play with the others, so long as we did not damage them, and they were put to their proper use when our Uncle came to visit. The paint became rather worn, but he assumed it was from constantly shaking them.”

“Do you still have them?” Arwen enquired.

“I think so,” said Faramir. “I will see if I can find them before I re-join Éowyn at Emyn Arnen tomorrow.”

“Perhaps we could have them on the table when we next dine together,” said Arwen. “I should like to see them.”

“So should I,” said Aragorn, a gleam of interest in his eye. Those wooden soldiers should march again. They say old soldiers never die.”

“Nor do men ever cease to be boys at heart!” Arwen laughed.


A/N This story is based on fond memories of a salt and pepper in the shape of two wooden soldiers set my Mother bought me when I was a small child. loved the red and black uniforms and bearskins of the soldiers who guard the Queen at Buckingham Palace.

Cat-atastrophe

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been nor will be made from this story.

"I cannot find Laurea. Have you seen him, Uncle Faramir?” asked Elbeth. She looked around anxiously. “I wanted to feed him before the guests arrive.”

Faramir shook his head. “No, Elbeth. I have not seen your cat since breakfast. I expect he is enjoying the sunshine out of doors.”

Elbeth sighed and glanced down at the elaborate gown she was wearing. “I would much rather be outside on such a lovely day as this! If only we could go on a picnic with the little ones.”

“I wish so too,” the Steward said ruefully. "Entertaining visiting dignitaries is the price we pay for our rank and privilege, though. Before the ambassador arrives, I will help you look for Laurea. He cannot have gone far. Let us look in the solar.”

 It pleased Faramir how devoted Elbeth was to the ginger tomcat. She had first taken a liking to him when he was a scrawy kitten living on a farm and had remained inseparable from him. The once tiny kitten had grown into a large tawny cat with a mischievous and lovable personality. “Look, there he is!” exclaimed Faramir, spotting the cat curled up asleep on the couch, his ginger stripes merging with the floral pattern on the cover, making him near impossible to spot.

“Come on now, Laurea!” said Elbeth, gently stroking the cat’s head as she spoke.

The cat yawned, revealing ferocious looking teeth that had been the nemesis of many a mouse, then slowly sat up and stretched. Before Elbeth could pick him up, he had sauntered through the open door into the dining room, which was set ready for the King and Queen, together with the Ambassador from Rhûn and his attendants to dine.

Seeing something new that demanded his inspection, Laurea took a flying leap up on the table, landing amidst sparkling glasses and finest china. Elbeth reached out to grab him.

“No!” cautioned Faramir. “He is more likely to break something if we attempt to catch him. It is best if he comes down on his own.” He called the cat’s name. Laurea blithely ignored him and continued to daintily navigate the tableware with the skill of an acrobat. Faramir and Elbeth watched with baited breath.

Just then, a servant walked past the open door with Eldarion’s spaniel puppy Nimrodel on a leash. The pup caught sight of Laurea and broke loose from the grasp of the surprised servant. Her leash trailing and barking frenziedly, she leapt up on the table in hot pursuit of the frightened cat. Glasses, plates, and cutlery were swept from the table with a deafening crash, while Faramir, Elbeth and the servant looked on in dismay.

Faramir lunged and grabbed hold of Nimrodel’s trailing leash. Meanwhile Laurea had retreated to the top of a cupboard where he sat washing his whiskers and regarding the company with an air of supreme disdain.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” stammered the servant.  

“Return Prince Eldarion’s dog to the kennels then go and find someone to clear up this broken glass and crockery,” said Faramir, handing the leash back to the red-faced man. ”You will return to your duties in the gardens and no longer have care of the  Prince’s dog since you obviously cannot control her.”

“Yes, my lord, at once, my lord.” The servant scurried away with a dejected Nimrodel trailing behind him, her tail between her legs.

“Whatever is Éowyn going to say?” said Faramir. He sat down heavily on the couch and sighed.” However we shall we entertain the guests now?”

“What has happened?” called Éowyn. “I heard a crash just then.” She appeared in the doorway together with the King and Queen. “Lord Bema protect us!” she cried on espying the carnage.

“Nimrodel chased Laurea,” said Elbeth. “It wasn’t poor Laurea’s fault. He was scared.”

“We should quickly change into our riding clothes,” said Aragorn.

“Go riding?” exclaimed Éowyn. ”Men! How can you think of such a thing when the best crockery is ruined and the guests are expected any moment?”

“The Men of Rhûn know little of our dining customs,” said Aragorn. ” I know something of theirs’, though. When I travelled through their lands many years ago, I learned that they like to entertain their guests out of doors. The dining room is unusable, but the food is untouched. We can ask the cook to prepare a picnic for our guests. The children can come too with their nursemaids.”

“An excellent suggestion!” said Éowyn.

“I will send to Minas Tirith for some of our state crockery and glasses to be sent here for you to borrow,” said Arwen. “They should be here by this evening if we have a late dinner.”

 000

“I never did like those plates,” said Faramir surveying the remains of the official dining ware of the House of Stewards. ”Would it please you, Éowyn, if we chose some new ones together?”

The Princess of Ithilien nodded, already envisioning plates decorated with images of white horses frolicking beside the White Tree. “Elbeth, take your cat to the nursery. In future he is not to come downstairs when important visitors are expected.”

”Arwen and I enjoy Laurea’s company, so be sure to bring him down when we visit,” said Aragorn. “I think he has perhaps done us a favour. I would rather be outside on such a fine day!” He stroked the cat as Elbeth carried him towards the door. Laurea purred loudly.

000

“How thoughtful of you to entertain us according to the custom of our lands,” said the Ambassador from Rhûn. He contently sat cross-legged on the grass beside Aragorn and Faramir. ”Our ruler will be happy to allow more trade between our peoples in future.”

“We are honoured that our hospitality pleases you,” said Aragorn graciously.

“Let us drink to our peace and prosperity!” said the Ambassador.

“To peace and prosperity!” Aragorn and Faramir echoed.

“It delights me to meet your families and such a perfectly behaved dog,” the Ambassador continued.

Aragorn stole a glance towards the next field where the children were playing with Nimrodel. He exchanged a knowing wink with Faramir.

A/N I wrote this a few years ago for the prompt ”Table” for the AA Group since when it has languished forgotten.

Laurea, as yet unnamed, first appears in “Web of Treason”.  Nimrodel first appears in “Partners in Crime”.

Laurea – = like gold in Quenya

B2MeM Challenge weather- windy ;Injuries and other ailments - Just a scratch. Song lyrics -Open eyes and open ears wake up your starboard bride. ;Love in M-e- He believed he must say farewell to love and light. Book Titles- The wave in the Mind. The Steward and his Sons - Son and heir.

Format: short story

Genre: General

Rating: PG

Warnings: minor injury

Characters: Boromir, Faramir, OMC

Pairings: none

Summary: Faramir's visions prove dangerous for him.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

He was aboard a wind tossed ship, his bride asleep beside him on the starboard side, when the giant wave approached, towering over the small ship. He closed his eyes and prepared for death, believing he must bid farewell to love and light. The wave reared up with its mighty crest of white foam, like an angry war steed, a harbinger of death. He felt the sea spray drench his arm followed by a sudden sharp pain.

"Faramir!"

Boromir's voice forced him back to the present. The wave in his mind receded, but the pain remained. His arm was wet, not with seawater, but with blood.

"You are hurt!"

"It is nothing, just a scratch." Faramir ruefully reached for his kerchief and wound it around his injured arm.

"Whatever were you thinking of, Faramir?" Boromir's eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and concern. "I could have killed you. You were leagues away!"

"I am sorry, Boromir. My concentration wavered."

"Was it one of your visions?" Boromir asked in a softer tone.

Faramir nodded. "It was the vision of the wave in my mind again. It seems to draw ever closer."

Boromir sheathed his sword and nodded to his squire to unbuckle the light armour he was wearing. "Our sword practise is over for today. You are hurt; brother, we must summon a healer. I am so sorry, Faramir."

"Do not trouble yourself, it is nothing, the bleeding has almost stopped."

"It could become infected. If it were one of your men who was injured you would insist that they see the healer. We had better go to the Houses now, if you can walk that far, we do not want to keep father waiting for the day meal."

"Very well." Faramir sighed. "I can walk."

"I know you have always had visions," said Boromir, "but now they come in the middle of a practise bout? You are starting to worry me!"

"The times are growing darker from which we shall either escape, as did Elendil and his folk, or be utterly destroyed as was Númenor of old!"

"How cheerful you are, brother!"

"Not all my dreams are foretell doom. This time there was a fair maiden with me, I knew her to be my bride. Then sometimes I have visions where I see the White Tree blossoming and I kneel before the King returned." Faramir turned. His brother saw that his eyes were alight with joy.

"That sounds like a nightmare to me," said Boromir. "I look forward to having rod and rule when our father leaves the circles of this world." His expression brightened. "Maybe you see me, little brother? If I were to lead us in victory against the Dark Lord, maybe the Council would offer me the silver crown?"

Faramir shook his head. "I have never met the man I see in my visions, Boromir, but I would know him at once if I beheld him."

"You had best not speak of such fancies to father."

Faramir laughed mirthlessly. "I know better than to do that."

The brothers lapsed into silence as they walked side by side down to the sixth circle where the Houses of Healing were located. It was a windy day and a fresh breeze from the Anduin blew in their faces and hair. When they passed through the gardens of the Houses, the autumn leaves swirled about their feet.

"I knew it would be windy today," Faramir remarked.

"Another vision, little brother?"

Faramir laughed. "No, the moon had a golden ring about it last night, that always signifies stormy weather, or so the sailors at Dol Amroth say!"

"Never have I known anyone with such a thirst for you lore as you; you even remember old tales that you hear from the common folk!"

"It is true, though. Who knows when such lore might prove useful?"

"I have no idea!" Boromir threw up his hands in mock surrender as they entered the Houses of Healing.

The brothers enquired of the clerk who greeted them if they might see Master Tarostar, one of the senior healers. He was kin to their father personal healer to the Steward's household.

"Master Tarostar is occupied," said the clerk. "You will have to wait, my lords."

"I am the Steward's son and heir," said Boromir. "I desire that he attend my injured brother now."

"Boromir!" Faramir chided once the man had scuttled away.

"What is the use of being heir to the Stewardship if I cannot make use of it?" Boromir replied.

"But Master Tarostar might be tending some seriously ill patient!" Faramir protested.

"Or he might be having an afternoon nap. When men have important business they usually make sure their lackeys inform the world of it!"

He had no chance to say anything further before Tarostar appeared. He was a tall man of middle to late years with greying hair and a bushy beard.

"My brother is hurt," said Boromir before Tarostar had a chance to speak.

"It's just a scratch," Faramir said.

"Let me be the judge of that," said Tarostar. "Come with me." He led the way to an inner chamber, which was reserved for those of high rank when they were ailing or wounded.

Tarostar bade Faramir sit on the bed and unwound the bloody kerchief that he had wound around his forearm. "Hmm," he said, as he examined Faramir's arm.

"Hmm?" said Boromir. "Is my brother badly hurt?"

"For once, the patient is right," said Tarostar. "It is just a scratch. How did you come by it, Lord Faramir?"

"He was injured when we were sparring," said Boromir.

"Can you not be more careful?" Tarostar said testily. "I have enough to do with patching up men who were injured by the enemy!" He began to clean the wound then applied a salve. It stung and Faramir grimaced.

"It will not be effective if it does not hurt," said the healer. He picked up a bandage and bound it around Faramir's arm. "Keep the wound wrapped for a day or two, it does not require stiches and should soon heal. Now I must return to my seriously injured patients. I bid you good day." He swept from the room.

"What appalling manners that man has!" said Boromir.

"We should not have bothered Master Tarostar," said Faramir as the two left the Houses of Healing. "One of the apprentice healers could have tended such a minor wound."

"We are the Steward's heirs, we deserve the best care," said Boromir.

"So does every humble soldier that fights for Gondor," Faramir replied. "We are but Arandur, servants of the King."

"A king that will never return," said Boromir. "The people look to the House of Húrin for leadership in these dark times."

"Which we shall give them," said Faramir. "But we live in hope still of the King's return, however many centuries have passed."

Boromir did not reply and the two walked up to the Citadel in silence.

"Have your dreams if they give you comfort, little brother," said Boromir. They had reached the Court of the Fountain. "However, the days of our longfathers have gone. Behold, the White Tree is dead and crumbling. It will never again bring forth blossom."

"I have seen it my visions covered in fair white flowers," said Faramir. "Therefore I live in hope."

"Steel will serve where dreams cannot. I prefer to trust my sword," said Boromir.

"I dream of the day that I can offer my sword in allegiance to to the king then sheathe it forever," said Faramir, a faraway look in his eyes.

"Your dreams are my nightmares," Boromir replied. "You were born in the wrong times, little brother."

"Yet times can change," said Faramir. "Though whether for good or ill, my foresight does not tell me."

B2MeM Challenge The Steward and his Sons- Emyn Arnen; Emotions- horror; I All Ocs, all the time - an artisan; Book Titles - The Importance of Being Earnest; Landscape - sand dunes; Talents and skills- baking; Beasts - snake; Last Lines- And the party got started. Here we come a carolling - If the fates allow.

Format: short story

Genre: general, family, humour

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Faramir, Éowyn, OMC, OFCs

Pairings: Faramir/Éowyn

Summary: Faramir must prove himself as tamer of man and beast.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Faramir considered himself an earnest man with a suitably solemn demeanour appropriate for his serious duties. However, compared to the artisan currently working on carving an elaborate screen for the main hall in the Steward's residence at Emyn Arnen, he was the very soul of levity. Tuor was a good workman, well skilled in his craft, but the man seemed incapable of displaying the slightest hint of any kind of emotion. When Faramir praised his work, Tuor simply said, "Thank you, my lord," without even a hint of a smile. Faramir suspected his reaction would have been the same had he told the man his craftsmanship was the worst he had ever seen.

One fine day in early April, Faramir's duties were not especially onerous and he was able to join his family in the solar by mid- afternoon. The cook had been baking and a plate of cakes was set on a low table for the Steward and his family to enjoy. They smelled delicious and tasted just as good.

Éowyn had just come in from the stables and was wearing a plain brown gown, which Faramir thought set off her golden hair to perfection. She sat down upon the sofa and settled baby Elboron on her lap.

Faramir's niece, Elbeth, and daughter, Elestelle, were playing with Elbeth's cat, Laurea, a fine ginger tom, endowed with a magnificent stripy tail. The two girls were in fits of laughter at the feline's antics. He was stalking a beetle across the floor, hiding itself behind the furniture, or so he thought, as his long tail was clearly visible, however closely concealed his body. Faramir joined in their mirth. Eventually, the beetle disappeared beneath the rug and the cat settled himself on Elbeth's lap. Faramir told the two girls a story about a visit he had paid to his Uncle in Dol Amroth when he was a boy and how he had played hide and seek in the sand dunes with Boromir.

"What are sand dunes?" asked Elestelle.

"They are hills made of sand near the beach," Faramir explained. "Sometimes they are covered in sea grass."

"Are they like the hills here at Emyn Arnen?" asked Elbeth.

Faramir shook his head. "No, they are only very small compared to the hills we dwell amongst. They were just the right size for two young boys to play hide and seek in, though."

"Dune might be a good name for Night Beauty's foal," Éowyn remarked. "Such a pity she is brown rather than black like her dam, but she is beautifully proportioned. Maybe if the fates allow, I will get a black foal when Night Star foals next month."

"May we go and see the horses?" asked Elbeth.

"I don't see why not," said Éowyn.

"I will go with the girls," said Faramir. "I need some exercise."

He got to his feet and opened the door. Elestelle clutched her father's hand as went outside. The cat followed them.

While the girls petted the horses and fed apples to them, Faramir stood looking out at the view of the hills and fields. Emyn Arnen was surely the fairest spot on Arda and his heart was filled with gratitude towards Aragorn for making him Prince of Ithilien.

Faramir was just about to tell the girls that it was time to go back indoors when Tuor came rushing out of the house. Instead of his usual impassive expression, his features were contorted with horror.

"My lord!" he cried when he beheld Faramir. "There is a snake in the hall! A great wriggling stripy thing it is, no doubt highly venomous! It will kill us all!"

"A snake?" Faramir raised his eyebrows. "There are few in Ithilien and those we do have, are not venomous, and live out in the wilds."

"I'm returning to Minas Tirith at once, my lord," said Tuor. "I can't be doing with snakes!"

"Let me see this monster," said Faramir. "Girls, I will be back in a moment."

"I'll keep an eye on them, my lord," said a groom.

"Come and show me where this snake is exactly," Faramir ordered Tuor.

The man looked highly reluctant, but Faramir's stern tone, more often heard when commanding men in battle, brokered no argument.

Faramir led the way into the hall followed by the quaking artisan. Nothing looked amiss. Then he noticed the curtain that divided a recess from the rest of the hall was twitching and a stripy snakelike appendage wriggled beneath it.

It was all that Faramir could do not to burst out laughing, but as Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, he understood the importance of being earnest. He strode across the room and drew back the curtain to reveal Laurea. He scooped the cat up in his arms and said "A strange snake indeed that has fur rather than scales!" He ran Laurea's long furry tail through his fingers to emphasise his words. The cat purred.

Tuor flushed scarlet. "I'm sorry, my lord," he said. "It's just that the very thought of a snake fills me with horror."

"Most of us fear something," said Faramir. "There is no shame in it. You can continue with your work in peace now." With Laurea still clasped in his arms, he made his escape. As soon as he was out of Tuor's earshot, he burst out laughing.

000

A few weeks later, the screen was complete. Faramir was delighted with the result. It was carved from oak taken from Emyn Arnen's forests and depicted scenes from the great tales of old; Thingol entranced by Melian; Lúthien and the faithful Huan, Elendil's ship arriving on the shores of middle-earth and many more great tales.

Faramir and Éowyn decided to hold a small celebration to mark both Faramir's birthday and the completion of the screen. They invited Faramir's Uncle, Prince Imrahil and their closest friends; the King and Queen, Legolas and Gimli and Ambassador Tahir from Harad together with his wife, Lady Adiva.

The guests admired the fine workmanship in the screen. Faramir then told them the tale of the "snake" which had almost resulted in the departure of the artisan for Minas Tirith.

The guests laughed at the anecdote and toasted Faramir on his birthday. On that happy note the party got started.

The Shieldmaiden Unleashed

Genre: hurt/comfort, family, humour

Rating: PG

Warnings: mention of violence

Summary: Faramir suffers a mysterious injury

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

 “You are hurt, Faramir!” Aragorn exclaimed as his Steward entered the study, carrying a large sheaf of parchments under his arm.

“It is nothing; do not trouble yourself, my friend.” Faramir smiled ruefully. He placed the documents on the table, ready to begin the morning's work.

“But that bruise on your face looks painful. I have some comfrey salve that might help,” Aragorn insisted. He went over to the side of his desk where he kept a satchel of healing supplies and took out a large jar.

Realising that resistance was futile, Faramir meekly submitted to the King’s ministrations. “Ouch!” He winced as the ointment touched his skin.

“The sting will soon wear off and you will feel a soothing warmth,” said Aragorn. He patted his friend on the shoulder and put the jar away. He then rubbed the salve off his hands with his handkerchief and seated himself at his desk ready to begin the morning’s work.

“Thank you, it feels much better now.” Faramir smiled at his friend. He turned his attention to the mountain of parchments. “I should have been more careful. I feared it might happen ever since I decided to wed. Still, how could I help but love my sweet one, even when she strikes me. The way she smiles at me just melts my heart every time. She does not mean to injure me.”

“You mean this is not the first time?” Aragorn looked up sharply from the document he had been studying.

“I have been black and blue, but my tunic concealed the bruises.”

“You should have told me about this before.”

“The bruises soon heal. I have become accustomed to it.”

“I suppose being married to a shieldmaiden might at times be hazardous. It troubles me to hear that she strikes you, though, Faramir. You should not take it so lightly.”

“It scarcely matters to whom a man is wed. It is just one of those things that one lives with.” Faramir shrugged and turned his attention back to his work.

“Would you like me to speak to her as her King?”

“She would not understand you. Surely you have experienced your fair share of bruises too?”

“My beloved Arwen would never strike me!” Aragorn retorted sharply.

“Neither would my sweet Éowyn!” Faramir sounded horrified. “Surely you did not think?”

“You said that your injury was a consequence of being a husband?” Aragorn regarded his friend with a bewildered look.

Faramir began to laugh. “When a man marries he hopes that he might have children. And children can be somewhat rough at times. Last night I was playing with my baby daughter and she accidentally hit me with her rattle!”

“So little Elestelle is to blame for your hurts?”

“She has a strong arm for a baby. I think Éowyn and I have a little shieldmaiden in the making!”

“By the way you are smiling, you are proud of her strength.”

“She is sweetest babe that ever lived and the strongest too! Fatherhood is worth a few bruises. As soon as she is a little older, she will learn to be more careful and not to injure anyone when playing. Until then, I shall either have to find her a lighter rattle or duck more swiftly.”

Aragorn grinned. “Now that I think of it, Eldarion has dealt me a few blows too. One needs all one’s warrior skills of evading lethal blows when dealing with infants!”

“Maybe all our years fighting Orcs were simply a preparation for fatherhood!” Faramir replied.

A/n this is a revised version of a story written for the “Teitho” dialogue challenge, where it was placed equal second. You can read the original asthe next chapter.

The Shieldmaiden Unleashed – Linda Hoyland
Rating - K+
Warning – mention of violence
Disclaimer: This is a work of transformative fan fiction; all characters and settings belong to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. No copyright infringement has been perpetrated for financial gain.
Summary – Faramir is suffering from a mysterious injury.
Word count- 351

“It is nothing; do not trouble yourself, my friend.”

“But that bruise on your face looks painful. I have some comfrey salve that might help.”

“Very well, ouch!”

“The sting will soon wear off and you will feel a soothing warmth.”

“Thank you, Aragorn, it feels much better now. I should have been more careful. I feared it might happen ever since I decided to wed. Still, how could I help but love my sweet one, even when she strikes me. The way she smiles at me just melts my heart every time. She does not mean to injure me.”

“You mean this is not the first time?”

“I have been black and blue, but my tunic concealed the bruises.”

“You should have told me about this before.”

“The bruises soon heal. I have become accustomed to it.”

“I suppose being married to a shieldmaiden might at times be hazardous. It troubles me to hear that she strikes you, though, Faramir.”

“It scarcely matters to whom a man is wed. It is just one of those things that one lives with.”

“Would you like me to speak to her as her King?”

“She would not understand you. Surely you have experienced your fair share of bruises too?”

“My beloved Arwen would never strike me.”

“Neither would my sweet Éowyn! Surely you did not think?”

“You said that your injury was a consequence of being a husband?”

“When a man marries he hopes that he might have children. And children can be somewhat rough at times. Last night I was playing with my baby daughter and she hit me with her rattle!”

“So little Elestelle is to blame for your hurts?”

“She has a strong arm for a eleven month old baby. I think Éowyn and I have a little shieldmaiden in the making!”

“By the way you are smiling, you are proud of her strong arm.”

“I am trying to teach her not to hit me when she is playing, but she is very little yet and the sweetest babe that ever lived! Fatherhood is worth a few bruises.”

Breaking Free

B2MeM Challenge- Beasts -spider; Waters - rain; Last Lines -And realised that was all she ever really wanted.;Landscape-plain;weather- calm;Colours -grey;Talents and skills - archery;Here we come a carolling - He sees you while you're sleeping.

Format: 500 word FLF

Genre:

Rating: PG13

Warnings: adult themes

Characters: Faramir. Eowyn, Grima

Pairings: Faramir/Eowyn

Summary: Eowyn is haunted by the past.

Éowyn shuddered as she watched the plump spider building its web in the corner of her chamber.

Usually spiders did not trouble her; this spider, though, reminded her of Wormtongue, the way it haunted her chamber and watched her while she was sleeping, as she was certain Grima craved to do. She shuddered. She knew what he wanted from her and the thought made her flesh crawl. Never would she yield to him- never! She would sooner drive her sword through her own heart!

She arose from her bed and donned a plain grey gown. She tried to be as inconspicuous as possible while she tended her ailing uncle, but Wormtongue would still leer at her even if she covered herself with a sack!

Éowyn opened the shutters and gazed out across the plain. It was raining heavily. She sighed. She had hoped to spend the morning practising archery, imaging that each arrow that hit the target was piercing Wormtongue's heart!

She knew she was not as other women. They dreamed of home and hearth, a handsome husband, and a brood of children, or a few with no taste for marriage or motherhood, would study herb lore and become healers. Éowyn wanted nothing of such feminine pursuits. She desired only to become a great warrior, a fierce shieldmaiden and kill or be killed with a sword in her hand.

The rain pattered down relentlessly. It was yet early. Only the servants would be abroad yet. Éowyn lay down again on top of the bed and closed her eyes. She felt something brush lightly across her cheek. The spider? No, it felt like a man's hand. How had Grima invaded her locked chamber? Éowyn screamed and lashed out.

"Éowyn, beloved!"

"Faramir?" She sat up, still breathing heavily. Her husband stood beside her looking worried. There was a red mark across his face.

"Were you having a bad dream?"

She nodded. "Did I strike you? I am sorry."

"It is nothing. Are you well, my love?"

"Well enough now, I dreamt I was back in my chamber at Meduseld trying to protect myself from Grima. It was raining and I was trapped within doors."

"An evil dream indeed," said Faramir.

The baby in the cradle beside her bed started to wail with hunger. Faramir gently picked him up and handed him to his wife to suckle.

"In my dream I craved to be a great warrior," said Éowyn. "Now I am a wife and mother, who breeds horses and practices herb lore."

"Do you still crave glory in feats of arms?" Faramir asked.

"I had my fill of battle when I slew the Witch King," Éowyn said with a shudder.

Her babe still in her arms, she got up and looked out of the window, at her horses in the paddocks and at her herb garden, then at her husband and babe. It was a calm day without a cloud in the sky.

Éowyn realised that was all she ever really wanted.

B2MeM Challenge Canon couples - Valacar/ Vidumani The Steward and his sons - Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, colours - sea green
Format: short story
Genre: Romance, hurt/comfort

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Faramir, Éowyn 

Pairings: Faramir/ Éowyn, Valacar/Vidumani

Summary: Éowyn is troubled. 

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Darling, I am growing old,

Silver threads among the gold,

Shine upon my brow today,

Life is fading fast away.

But, my darling, you will be,

Always young and fair to me,

Yes, my darling, you will be

Always young and fair to me. - Eben E. Rexford,

Faramir was becoming increasingly worried about Éowyn. He knew his beloved wife was prone to melancholy, but it had been years since he had seen such a pinched, tight look upon her lovely face as she had now. His gentle enquires as to what troubled her, had been met with a weary shake of her head and a swift change of subject. Unable to concentrate on his work, he sat thinking back over the events of the past few days, trying to ascertain what might be troubling her.

This time last week, she had been happy when she had awoken that morning, and joyful when she had returned from tending her horses, delighted a new foal had been unexpectedly born in the night. She had been her usual self when they had eaten the noonday meal together. Then her seamstress had arrived to fit her for a dress of sea green silk that she planned to wear for the King and Queen’s wedding anniversary celebrations the next month. It was a beautiful colour and imported especially from Harad for the occasion. Faramir was certain the hue would set off her golden locks to perfection. It seemed that was when her melancholy had begun. She had looked sorely troubled since she had emerged from her chamber after the seamstress had departed.

Surely, Éowyn was not still pining with unrequited love for Aragorn. That had been years ago and long since resolved.

Faramir tried to turn his attention back to his work, but he found it impossible to keep his mind upon it. He pushed aside the trade agreement he was working on. He could not bear to see his beloved unhappy. Either he would solve whatever problem was disturbing her, or if it were melancholy with no cause, he would ask Aragorn if he had some herbs that would help to raise her spirits. Or maybe a change of scene might help her? A visit to her brother in the Riddermark, or some time by the sea with his Uncle Imrahil’s castle? Aragorn would surely allow him a break from his duties to assure Éowyn’s well- being.

The Steward went in search of his wife. She was no to be found; either in the stables, or her herb garden, her usual haunts when she was not in the nursery with their children.

Much to his surprise, Faramir found Éowyn in their bedchamber, staring at the looking glass she held in her hand. That was most unlike her, for she was not a vain woman and rarely fretted over her appearance.

“Éowyn, what ails you, my beloved?” he asked, sitting down beside her on the bed. “Tell me that I might help you.”

“No one can help me, not even the Valar!” Éowyn replied sadly.

“At least, tell me what troubles you so, my love.” Faramir’s tone was gentle but insistent.

“This!” she whispered, indicating a few grey hairs amongst her strands of gold. “I noticed when I tried on my new gown.”

“Grey hairs? That is all?” Faramir could have laughed with relief. “They do not mar your beauty in any way, my love. You could cut them off if they trouble you.”

“But do you not see, Faramir? I am getting old while you remain young! I know well the story of Valacar and Vidumavi. Their union caused great disquiet, as she was not of Númenorean lineage. Great kinstrife resulted when it was time for their son to become king! What if the men of Gondor should reject Elboron as their next Steward? Moreover, I will one day leave you through old age. You will be all alone!” She burst into tears.

Faramir swiftly enfolded her in his arms. “My love, fret not over such matters. Valacar wed Vidumavi because he loved her, just as I love you. Their son was a great king and lived as long as any of  the pure blood of Númenor. Aragorn is descended from them and I know those are among the longfathers he is the most proud of.

Times were different then and I dare to hope that Men have grown a little wiser. You are of the great House of Eorl and your grandmother came from Gondor, so you have a measure of the blood of Númenor in your veins. Aragorn told me once that should any of our children desire to wed any of his when they are grown, it would greatly gladden his heart, so have no fears on account of our little ones.

I hope with all my heart you will be long lived, but should it prove otherwise, I shall not be alone. I have the beautiful children you have given me, and the companionship of the King, who is of a far purer lineage than mine and will no doubt outlive even our children!”

Éowyn’s sobs quieted somewhat, but she was not completely reassured. “Do you never wish, though, that you had married a woman of Gondor?”

Faramir shook his head. “Never. No lady of Gondor ever captured my heart, though many tried to. I recall telling Frodo and Sam when I was captain of the Ithilien Rangers how much I loved and admired your folk, golden-haired, bright-eyed, and strong; you remind us of the youth of Men, as they were in the Elder Days. Our people have diminished themselves by intermarrying too much, so our marriage has strengthened my line, not weakened it, though such matters were far from my mind, when I asked you to marry me. Now though, I look at our fair children who combine the best of both Rohan and Gondor. I am certain that Valacar never regretted marrying his lady and I certainly do not regret marrying mine!”

He pulled Éowyn close and kissed her tenderly. To his joy, she responded with equal ardour. “When you wear your new sea green gown and I dance with you at the anniversary celebrations,” he said. “I shall be envied by every man in Gondor! Now there is still an hour before sunset, shall we go riding together?”

“Well you know how to please me, Faramir of Gondor!” Éowyn was smiling now. Hand in hand, they went to the stables.

Of Palantíri and Paper Towns

Aragorn and Faramir

B2MeM Challenge  Carolling- A beautiful sight, they're happy tonight; Book Titles: Paper Towns; Beasts - horse; Snippets of verse- if it could weep it could arise and go; The Steward and his sons - palantír; Talents and Skills- weaving; Last Lines- I wonder if she is as stubborn as I am; Tolkien's trees - Bay; Colours - orange

Format: ficlet

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, OFCs

Pairings: Aragorn/ Arwen, Faramir/Éowyn

Summary: Aragorn seeks to raise Faramir's spirits.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Faramir regarded the palantír grimly. Try as he might, he could see nothing save the gruesome image of his father’s withered hands within it. He had so hoped that the passing of time would have somehow cleansed the stone and made it fit to use again. The King was planning a journey to the North soon and they had hoped they might use the palantíri to swiftly exchange messages.

“I will stow this away under lock and key,” Aragorn said gently. “Trouble yourself not over it.” He threw a cloth over the globe, lifted it from the plinth, and locked it within a wooden chest.

“If it could weep it could arise and go,” Faramir said bleakly. He had turned pale and sweat beaded his forehead.

Aragorn squeezed his shoulder. You are too stubborn, ion nîn. There is no need for you to distress yourself so. The Orthanc stone suffices for me and you are competent in its use too.”

“It saddens my heart that my father should have destroyed this ancient thing that our House guarded for so long,” said Faramir. “And the grim manner of his death that was almost mine too!”

“The House of Hurin kept my kingdom well,” said Aragorn. “It was a great pity that Sauron caused your father to lose his mind, but I thank the Valar that you live and thrive!” He was silent for a moment, wondering how best he might comfort the son of his heart. “We have an hour or two before our ladies are expecting us to join them for the evening meal,” he said at last. “Shall we go for a ride across the Pelennor? That is, unless you would rather join Éowyn and your children now?”

Faramir shook his head. “I would be poor company for my lady and little ones at present,” he said. “She has little understanding or patience with palantíri. I think she might have given my father good counsel had she but had the chance!”

“Then let us exercise our horses,” said Aragorn. “The fresh air will do us both good. We have no pressing duties, so we ought not remain indoors on so fine a day.”

“Thus speaks the Ranger!” said Faramir.

“A Ranger who would lighten a fellow Ranger’s heart,” said Aragorn.

The two men, followed at a discreet distance by their guards, made their way to the stables. Roheryn whinnied excitedly at his master’s approach, while Iavas lifted her fine chestnut head and shook her mane when Faramir greeted her.

King and Steward were soon cantering along the Pelennor, enjoying the motion of the noble horses that bore them, and greatly relishing the feel of  sun and wind upon their faces.

They rode alongside fields of flourishing crops and many fair trees. What once had been a battlefield had now been restored to its former fertile glory. When they approached a grove of dark leaved young bay trees, which had been planted to honour the fallen, the reined their horses to a halt and paused and bowed their heads in silent tribute.

As they rode onwards, the shadows lengthened and the blue sky gradually turned to flaming orange.

“What a splendid sunset!” Faramir exclaimed. He brought his Iavas alongside Roheryn. The two riders brought their horses to a halt and gazed at the orange and pink tipped clouds while the sun became a flaming red ball that gradually sunk beneath the western horizon.

“Beauty seems all the more precious after so long living in the fear that we might lose all,” said Faramir.

“I cherish each sunrise and each sunset,” said Aragorn. “The more so that now I no longer walk the wilds alone. To enjoy Arda’s beauty with Arwen, my children, and you, mellon nîn has made victory and peace even sweeter than I dared hope.”

In unspoken agreement, the two friends urged their horses homeward.

Arwen, Éowyn, and the older children were awaiting Aragorn and Faramir in Arwen’s beautifully decorated sitting room.

Arwen was engrossed in weaving a tapestry, which depicted her husband’s great deeds in battle. Éowyn was watching Eldarion brandish his wooden sword while the boy told her of the new moves he had just learned. Meanwhile, Elestelle was building  intricate paper towns, helped by her cousin, Elbeth.

“A beautiful sight, they are happy tonight,” Aragorn murmured in Faramir’s ear as they greeted their ladies and little ones.

“What are you building?” Faramir asked his daughter.

“A town for my dolls to live in,” said Elestelle.

“It is beautiful,” said Faramir, admiring the intricate design. “Is it meant to be Minas Tirith?”

“No,” Elestelle said firmly. “It is Edoras.”

“Oh,” said Faramir. “I thought it looked just like Minas Tirith. Why, there is the Tower of Ecthelion!”

“It is Edoras,” Elestelle insisted.

“It began as Minas Tirith then Elestelle decided she wanted to build Edoras instead,” Elbeth explained

Aragorn smiled at the domestic scene. It was good to see that Faramir had recovered from using the palantír, while the sight of Arwen and Eldarion never failed to gladden his heart.

Faramir looked again at his daughter’s paper town and shook his head, before raising his eyebrows and saying, “I wonder if she is as stubborn as I am.”

Sea Longing

B2MeM Challenge AspectsOfAragorn1- wooer; Botany1- sage; Carolling- Tidings of Comfort and joy;Landscape1- cliffs Love1- And through all the lands, love is now mingled with grief, it still grows perhaps, the greater. Song lyrics- Now the light is slowly beckoning you to the shore; Canon couples Imrazor/Mithrellas

Format: short story

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Faramir

Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen, Faramir/ Éowyn, Imrazôr/Mithrellas

Summary: Aragorn and Faramir enjoy a walk along the beach.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

The two men walked slowly along the deserted beach. Few were yet abroad so early in the morning. They were enjoying a brief hour away from the bustle of the castle in this peaceful spot surrounded by the towering cliffs of Dol Amroth.

Faramir stopped. He stood motionless for several moments, watching a flock of gulls that wheeled and circled overhead. "When I visit the sea, I think of the story of Imrazôr and Mithrellas and the trace of Elvish blood in my veins," he said. "I can feel the sea longing buried deep within me."

"I hope it does not consume you, mellon nîn, as it does Legolas, and did your poor mother." Aragorn's tone was anxious. "I would miss you greatly, should you feel the need to dwell by the sea. You must, of course, follow your heart and do what is best for you, though."

Faramir laughed. "There is no cause for concern," he said. "I love Minas Tirith and Emyn Arnen far too much to ever forsake either of them, not to mention your company, mellon nîn. I just feel a longing every now and then to behold the sea and I feel grateful to my Uncle Imrahil for inviting us here for a change of scenery before the Council reconvenes in the autumn. Unlike my poor mother, I am not threatened by the Shadow and I know I can visit the sea whenever I feel the need. What of you, Aragorn? You have Elvish blood too. Do you ever feel the sea longing?"

Aragorn shook his head. "I always enjoy visiting the sea, but I have never pined for it."

Faramir gazed out across the horizon. "I often think about my distant ancestors," he said. "What were they like? What were their hopes and dreams? Why would an Elf maiden desire to be wooed by a mortal?" He flushed slightly. "I am sorry; I should not have said that to you!"

Aragorn smiled and patted Faramir's shoulder reassuringly. "No offence is taken. Out of all Men living, I deem I might be the best able to answer your question. I never set out to woo an Elf maiden. To be honest, before I beheld Arwen, I had little interest in wooing or women at all; fighting Orcs appealed to me far more, foolish young man that I was! However, when I beheld Arwen's beauty and grace, I fell in love for the first and last time. I swore I would woo and win her, or forever walk alone. Maybe it was the same for Imrazôr and Mithrellas?"

"Maybe," said Faramir. "That was exactly how I felt when I first beheld Éowyn. Never until then had I believed before in love at first sight!"

"Maybe the peril that threatened us all had its effect?" Aragorn suggested. "I recall an Elf of Lothlórien saying, Love in all the lands is now mingled with grief, it still grows perhaps, the greater."

"Wise words," said Faramir. "Love seems all the greater and more precious in the shadow of death. I knew too that I loved you from the first moment I beheld you. A very different kind of love than what I feel for Éowyn, but no less deep and true."

Aragorn nodded. "Love sprang between us when you opened your eyes and hailed me as king. I was sore weary and my heart was heavy with grief at the death of Halbarad. There were few tidings of comfort and joy during those dark hours, but that was one of them. I had not only gained in you, a son of my heart, but your acceptance of my claim brought me closer to wedding my beloved."

"There was no doubt then in my heart that you were my rightful lord and king," said Faramir.

"And now?" Aragorn asked.

"I wonder why I yielded so easily to so terrible a tyrant who hauls me from my bed at dawn to tramp over the cliffs with him!" Faramir playfully aimed a mock blow at Aragorn, which the King easily dodged.

"If I recall rightly it was your suggestion last night that we take a walk to watch the sunrise and leave our ladies to sleep a little longer."

"Éowyn was already awake and dressed when I arose," said Faramir. She wanted to go riding before breakfast."

"Your lady is an early riser. Arwen was still fast asleep when I came out," said Aragorn. "Our ladies are like the lark and the owl. We former Rangers had to be like both. I do not miss tracking Orcs all night."

"Rising at dawn for roll call as a young recruit was even worse!" said Faramir. He sat down on a large rock. Aragorn sat beside him. They sat in silence for a few moments watching the waves and listening to the roar of the incoming tide. "Éowyn is interested in visiting the local healers to improve her herb lore while we are here. She was talking to an old maidservant who claimed that a local wise woman had used sage to clear her mind when the confusion of old age came upon her. The poor old lady must indeed be confused. I thought sage was used to flavour meat. Our cook makes delicious sauces with it too."

"The old woman is right," said Aragorn. "The Elves had long known that sage sharpens the memory of aged mortals. It has many other healing uses too; to kill infections, remove surplus fluids from the body, and to treat women's ills."

"Éowyn should talk to you then rather than the local healers."

Aragorn shook his head. "There is often something new to be learned from country folk. Mistress Tasariel knew far more about treating everyday aches and pains than any Elvish healer. I now use her recipes to treat patients for muscle soreness rather than Master Elrond's. They are far more effective. Country folk have often studied lore that is of little use to Elves, but can be a great deal of use to Men."

"It is strange then that Elves know that sage could aid the old."

"The Elven healers had pity when they saw once wise folk become forgetful and confused and sought to help them. That was back in the days of long ago when Elves and Men first became friends."

The sun slowly rose higher in the sky. Soon the beach was bathed in golden light, which seemed to beckon the two men to the shore.

They rose from the rock on which they had been sitting and approached the sparkling waves. Faramir chose a flat pebble from the beach and skimmed it across the water, watching it make several jumps before vanishing beneath the waves.

The two men looked at each other, voicing an unspoken wish. Aragorn pulled off his boots and stockings and rolled up the legs of his breeches.

"Maybe we should return this afternoon with our ladies and children?" said Faramir doubtfully.

"There is none here now to frown at us enjoying such childish pleasures," said Aragorn. "Why is it so shocking that a King and his Steward might take pleasure in paddling?"

"It is indeed shocking," said Faramir. Then he grinned. "But I care not at all!" He pulled off his boots and stockings and placed them beside the King's.

Together they waded out into the sparkling water, enjoying the feel of sand and warm seawater beneath their bare feet and the wind against their faces, tugging playfully at their hair.

Aragorn laughed at the sheer joy of the moment. "On second thoughts, were I never to behold the sea again, I believe I would indeed suffer from sea longing," he said. "Is there any other place that refreshes the spirits quite as much as the seashore?"

Clouded Skies

B2MeM Challenge First lines – Ships at a distance; Tolkien's Trees- Pine: Snippets of verse=Old year roaring and blowing. Waters - clouds

Format: 500 word fixed length ficlet
Genre: general/ romance

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Denethor

Pairings: Denethor/ Finduilas

Summary: Denethor awaits his bride.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Ships at a distance have every man's wish on board, so the old saying went. Denethor had not believed it until today. His bride to be was sailing along the Anduin with her entourage. By nightfall, she would be here and on the morrow, they would be wed.

Denethor had never known time pass as slowly as it had done these past weeks. He had fallen in love with Finduilas the moment he had set eyes upon her, a few months past. The old year had been roaring and blowing its way out on the day they had first met. At first, she had rejected his advances and cast longing glances at that upstart captain from the North, but once he had left on campaign, she had soon come to her senses and accepted his offer of marriage. Finduilas then had insisted on returning to Dol Amroth for two weeks to prepare for the wedding. Those weeks had been the longest of Denethor's life. He was determined that after tomorrow they would never be parted again.

Denethor had known that as the Steward's heir, he must marry and sire a son, but never had he expected his duty to be so pleasant. He was certain that even the Elf maidens in the tales of old, could not have surpassed Finduilas' beauty, grace, and sweetness of nature. Her hair was like silk, her eyes were brighter than the stars, her figure as slender as a birch, and her voice was sweeter than birdsong borne on the western wind.

Everything now lay in readiness for the coming of the bride. The Metherond was bedecked with willow and pine branches and scented spring blossoms.

Denethor paced his chambers restlessly. He tried to study a military report, but the words swam before his eyes. At last, he gave up the pretext of trying to work and made his way to the east end of the great outthrust battlement and looked out across the Pelennor towards the Great River, which lay like a giant ribbon stretching towards the distant sea.

Denethor rarely indulged in studying the view, but what he saw now, pleased him well. Was this not the fairest place in Middle-earth? Behind him lay the pine-clad mountain, while the fertile fields stretched in front of him. He closed his eyes for a moment and imagined riding across those fields with his bride and the children she would give him.

The breeze grew stronger while he stood there, waiting for Finduilas' ship to appear on the horizon. The high fluffy wisps of cloud gave way to dark edged storm clouds, which blew in from the East. Denethor shivered and drew his fur lined cloak more closely around himself'.

Then, he saw it, at first a mere speck on the horizon. He strained his keen eyes until he could make out the swan emblem upon the sails.

Finduilas was coming!

Just then, a great cloud obscured the sun completely and the rain began to fall.

Grey Havens

Challenge:

"You can never go home again, but the truth is you can never leave home, so it's all right."

--Maya Angelou

Write a story or poem, or create a piece of art on the theme of leaving or returning home.

Title: An Unexpected Welcome

Author: Linda Hoyland

Characters/Pairing: Aragorn, Faramir, Arwen

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Book/Source: LOTR book-verse

Disclaimer - These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

For once, the sight of the White City did not gladden Faramir's heart. Minas Tirith still looked forlorn with the broken gate and damaged walls. He chided himself inwardly for his low spirits and tried to think of cheerful things; it had been most enjoyable to visit his Uncle in Dol Amroth, men were busy rebuilding the walls and now the King returned dwelt within the City.

It had been at the King's insistence that Faramir had returned home with his uncle after King Théoden had been laid to rest. Concerned for his Steward's health, King Elessar had insisted that he take a short holiday.

Now, there was no delaying his return to the Citadel any longer, a return to his empty rooms, so close to those once inhabited by his father and brother, and now abode to the King and Queen. It was still hard to take in that never again would Boromir warmly embrace him, nor his father take him to task for some failing, real or imagined. And this was his only home now, until his new house in Ithilien was built. The Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien could no longer dwell amongst his Rangers simply as their Captain. It would have been far different if Éowyn had been at his side for this homecoming, but she was still needed in her native land to assist her brother.

It was not good brooding, though, over what could not be changed. Faramir shook himself inwardly. He had already decided to dedicate himself to serving Gondor and her new lord. The first moment he had beheld Aragorn he had loved him, but this love was mixed with overwhelming awe combined with a fear that should he fail in performing his duties in any way, the King would be no more pleased with him than his father had been, for all his present kindness. Faramir knew he owed everything to Aragorn, life, lands, and titles. The Steward still felt sometimes that he must be dreaming and he would wake up and find it had all vanished again.

Faramir rode through the city streets, responding to friendly greetings called out by the people he passed. He took a deep breath on the threshold of his rooms and smiled a warm greeting at the servant who took his luggage.

“You have guests, my lord,” said the man. “They are waiting for you in the living room.”

“Guests? Who is visiting me?”

“Your pardon, my lord, but they gave no names.”

Faramir debated whether he should first wash and change his travel-stained clothes first, or greet his mysterious guests. He decided to do the former would be lacking in courtesy. He made his way to the living room and opened the door. To his amazement, the King and Queen were sitting either side of his hearth. They both rose to their feet. Aragorn warmly embraced Faramir while the Queen clasped his hand.

He froze, yearning to accept the affection offered to him, but bewildered that his new lord and his lady should greet him thus, and uncertain how to respond. His father had always insisted on being greeted in a formal manner and derided displays of affection as being only for women and small children.

“Welcome home, my Steward!” said Aragorn. “I forbade your servant to tell you who was here; we wished it to surprise you.”

“Indeed, my lord, it is gladdens my heart to see you and your lady,” said Faramir. “Please forgive me that I have neither washed nor changed my clothes after the journey.”

“That matters not,” said the Queen and gave him a radiant smile.

“We are here only for a few moments,” said the King. “When we heard you had arrived in the City, we feared this might be a lonely homecoming for you without either your lady or the brother you loved here to greet you, so we hastened here.”

“We should like you to dine with us tonight,” said the Queen.

Faramir hesitated. He yearned to accept the invitation, but surely the newlywed couple would rather be alone together and were simply trying to be kind? He recalled too all the times his father had berated him for saying the wrong thing at the dinner table. What if he offended the King and Queen in some way?

“That is kind of you, my lady, my lord,” he said. “I have much work to catch up with, though.”

“You should not exert yourself so soon after a long journey and when still recovering from your battle hurts,” said Aragorn. “I forbid you to work tonight. Unless you are too tired, we shall expect you in an hour.”

“Until then, “said the Queen, smiling at Faramir again.

His every excuse overruled, the Steward called to the servants to bring water for bathing and to look out  his best clothes.

000

Later that night, after a simple but delicious meal of carrot soup, poached salmon and fruit pie, accompanied by a fine wine and agreeable conversation concerning old lore, Faramir could only reflect how different his homecoming had been to what he had expected. His heart soared. His admiration for the King had grown ever greater. Truly, Aragorn was the greatest man of the age, and he, Faramir was most fortunate to be his Steward.

A/n. This ficlet was written for a challenge in 2011 and since languished forgotten on my hard drive.

Call me Thorongil

B2MeM Challenge First lines – Call me -; Emotions; awe; The Steward and his sons - Captain General

Format: 500 word fixed length ficlet

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Denethor, Thorongil, Ecthelion

Pairings: none

Summary: Denethor ponders on the identity of the man known as Thorongil

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

"Call me Thorongil," the stranger said. He looked me straight in the eye with none of the awe usually seen in those who address Denethor, son of Ecthelion, Captain General of Gondor!

Such insolence in one who lacks even a father's name to introduce himself by!

Who is this fellow anyway? He says he comes from Rohan, and he does indeed carry a letter of introduction from King Thengel. He is no horse lord with his dark hair, lanky frame, and grey eyes. He rides like one of them, though, man and beast becoming a single fluid entity.

My father is besotted with the man. He keeps remarking how like unto me this Thorongil is. Could he be Ecthelion's bastard? Valar perish the thought! My father is a true son of Númenor and would never have betrayed his marriage vow and polluted himself by getting this nobody's mother with child!

Alas, my father's affection for this Thorongil proves that he is in his dotage. It saddens my heart deeply to see a man of such wisdom fawn upon this stranger, inviting him to his table and showering him with affection. He even lets him wear a brooch shaped like a star upon his uniform, in defiance of all our regulations! Thorongil claims that he wears it in honour of his people. Are we next to see soldiers from Dol Amroth sporting swans on the uniforms of the Citadel, while those from Lossarnach adorn themselves with flowers? Even I, as Captain General wear only a simple insignia to denote my high rank.

Then who are Thorongil's people? Lore states that some of our Dúnedain kin yet survive in the North, a scattered and ragged remnant of a once great people. No doubt, Thorongil grew up in some mud hut there with his shamed mother and decided to improve his lot as a sellsword. He must have picked up the fine manners he uses to impress my father at Thengel's court. It is a homely place compared to the Citadel. At least Thengel's wife, Morwen, introduced our speech and manners there.

I have the gift to see into the hearts of Men, yet I can discern little of what secrets Thorongil's heart hides. It is almost as if he has learned to hide his thoughts. But where could he have learned such arts and to what purpose? What could a fatherless sellsword have to hide?

Sometimes he gazes at me with those unreadable grey eyes as if he is trying to discern my thoughts, the impertinent fellow!

Yet my father seems to be in awe of the fellow's abilities. Thorongil boasts that he has knowledge of lore and healing arts as well as soldiering. My father claims the fellow to be Elven wise. A charlatan more likely! Those who profess knowledge of many things, generally excel in none.

Yet, his perfidious influence on my father grows daily. It cannot last, though, for he is a mere sellsword, while I am Captain General.

Crown and Sceptre

B2MeM Challenge Facets of Faramir- writer; Emotions1- delight; Roles and names of Aragorn - Stranger; Aspects of Aragorn - Traveller; Canon couples1 -Faramir/ Éowyn; Rangers of the North- Sceptre of Aninuminas;The Steward and his Sons - Prince of Ithilien; Snippets of verse-Day brought back my night; Injuries and other ailments - stomach ache;landscape - canon(gorge)

Format: short story

Genre: general

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, Éowyn, OFCs

Pairings: Aragorn/Arwen, Faramir/Éowyn

Summary: Aragorn visits Faramir in Ithilien.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

"You are fortunate I do not have to blindfold you here," teased Faramir as the two men entered the narrow gorge that led to the waterfall at Henneth Annun. The torrent was overhung with dark boxwoods and holly, which served only to highlight the water's clear brilliance.

"Not if you value your title as Prince of Ithilien!" Aragorn replied. He laughed. "This is the one place that your grandfather never suggested that I visit."

"During the dark days of our struggle against Sauron, no stranger was permitted to come this way with eyes unbound," said Faramir. "We dared not betray our refuge to possibly unfriendly eyes."

"It gladdens my heart that I can now look upon it," said Aragorn. "The waterfall brings back memories of Rivendell and my childhood, while the view over the meadows is most fair. But you did not bring me here to look at the view nor visit your Rangers at the outpost here, did you, my friend?"

"How well you read my thoughts!" Faramir replied. "There is something I wish to ask you about."

The two men ceased walking and stood together gazing at the waterfall, the bright water sparkling in the sunlight as it cascaded over the stones. "I think sunset here is the fairest sight on earth," said Faramir. "I have tried to paint it, but cannot do justice to the colours. No matter how many times I behold it, I am filled with delight. How blessed I am that you have made me Prince of this fair land!"

"You deserve it, Faramir," said Aragorn, squeezing the younger man's shoulder. "You are a man of many talents."

"I should like to write down the story of your time here as Thorongil, if you would permit to do so," said Faramir. "That is the favour I wished to ask of you."

"Why not? If you think my youthful adventures an interesting enough tale to tell. You are a skilled writer who will tell the story well."

"I find it a wondrous tale that a traveller who was a stranger here should perform such great deeds and then vanish back into the shadows from which he came then re-emerge forty years later as our king!" said Faramir. "You came when all hope seemed lost and saved us."

"You should thank Frodo, not I," said Aragorn. "Now, if we are not to need saving from your good lady's wrath, we should get back in time for the delicious meal she will be helping her cook prepare for this evening."

"I wish we could stay until sunset," said Faramir. "I did promise Elestelle a bedtime story, though."

"We will return," said Aragorn. "I should like to bring Arwen here. The waterfall would remind her of Rivendell."

King and Steward lingered a moment longer, loth to leave such fair surroundings on a summer's day, then side by side made their way back along the narrow gorge to where the guards awaited them, together with their horses. They bade farewell to the Rangers and rode away back towards Emyn Arnen.

Rather to their surprise, Éowyn was nowhere to be seen when the two men returned.

"She is in the nursery with Lady Elestelle," said Mistress Elwen, the housekeeper in response to Faramir's enquiry. "The poor mite isn't feeling well."

Faramir almost ran to the nursery. Aragorn did likewise, Faramir's little girl was almost as dear to him as his own flesh and blood.

They found Éowyn sitting on a chair in the nursery trying to soothe a tearful Elestelle. The child managed a wan smile when her father and the King entered.

"She found some green apples this afternoon and ate them," said Éowyn in response to her husband's anxious questioning. "She now has a bad stomach ache as result. I've given her some peppermint tea, but it has not helped much."

"Maybe I can ease her?" said Aragorn.

"I would be grateful if you could," Éowyn replied. "I need to feed Elboron and I also have a lame horse I am concerned about, but I cannot leave Elestelle while she is in pain."

Aragorn took the child in his arms and held one hand a few inches about her stomach. Almost immediately, the little girl stopped crying. "Does that feel better?" he asked.

Elestelle nodded. "Why can you make me feel better when Naneth can't, Uncle Aragorn?"

"Because as the King I have healing hands," Aragorn explained.

"Why don't you wear your crown all the time?" asked Elestelle. "The kings in the story books all wear their crowns!"

Éowyn smiled gratefully at Aragorn. She kissed her husband and daughter then left the room.

"I think you will be telling the bedtime story tonight, mellon nîn." Faramir said with a smile. His little daughter was fascinated by stories of kings and queens.

"The crown is too heavy and uncomfortable to wear save on special occasions," Aragorn explained. "I could not always wear it, any more than I could always carry the Sceptre of Annúminas around with me.

"What is that?" asked Elestelle.

"You will not have seen it because it is a symbol of the Royalty of Arnor, rather than of Gondor," Aragorn explained. "It is the oldest thing that survives made by Men, as my longfather, Elendil brought it with him from Númenor. It is very special to me because Master Elrond gave it to me when I married Aunt Arwen."

"Can I see it, Uncle Aragorn?"

"When you next come to the City, you may. And one day you shall visit Annúminas, which is being rebuilt to be as splendid and beautiful as Minas Tirith."

"No city could be better than Minas Tirith!"

"We shall see, child. You can tell me your verdict after you visit Annúminas with your parents once the rebuilding is complete."

"Is the sceptre like ada's White Rod?"

"I suppose it is," said Aragorn.

Elestelle nestled contentedly in his arms as Aragorn continued to tell her about the sceptre in a soft low voice. Soon she was fast asleep. Aragorn laid her gently on her bed.

"Thank you, my friend," said Faramir as the two men tiptoed from the nursery, leaving Elestelle in the care of her nanny.

"It is always a joy to be able to help you," said Aragorn. "I enjoyed telling Elestelle about the royal regalia.

"It is not crown or a sceptre but your goodness that makes you such a great King," said Faramir, and hugged his friend.

Author: Linda Hoyland

Title: Pondweed and Perfume

Rating: PG

Theme: Fanon Busters

Elements: eyes, believe, round,

Author's Notes: (Optional) A kind of sequel to the story I wrote last month and inspired by Rhymer23's comment on that story. I dedicate the story to her with my thanks and also to my friend, Julia on the occasion of her birthday.

Summary: Aragorn and Faramir have an unfortunate accident.

Word Count: 2692

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

With grateful thanks to my LJ friends for all their help.

The strawberry scones were to blame for the accident, or so Aragorn and Faramir were to tell their wives later.

One moment they were sitting contently in Faramir's little boat eating scones, lovingly made by Aragorn's cook to a recipe given him by Sam, then the next they were in the water, gasping and spluttering.

Or maybe it was the wasps to blame rather than the scones? All would have surely been well, had not the wasps shared the King and Steward's partiality for the strawberry jam which smothered the scones and swarmed around the two friends when they were enjoying their treat. Their frantic attempts to drive off the hungry swarm caused the boat to capsize, depositing both its passengers and the scones in the depths of the Anduin.

Most unfortunate of all, the two had been feeding the ducks crumbs of scone in a weed- infested inlet. Once Aragorn and Faramir had righted the boat, retrieved the oars and clambered back into it most of the water weed had transferred itself to their persons, clothes and hair. Not only were they wet, but they were also covered in stinking green slime.

"If only we had taken our clothes off to go swimming!" lamented Faramir. He ruefully pulled off his boots and emptied out the water together with some small fish, water snails and seemingly endless green tendrils.

"Most likely our clothes would still have been in the boat, though," said Aragorn.

"I would not have duckweed clinging to my back, though," said Faramir. "Ah well, at least the wasps have gone."

"Together with our picnic!" Aragorn said grimly. "The sooner we get home and change into clean, dry clothes the better."

"I thought you were used to being wet from your Ranger days?" said Faramir. "I believe it rains more in the North than in Ithilien."

"I am, but I am not accustomed to being covered in stinking weed!" said the King. "I had my fill of that when I hunted for Gollum."

The two fell silent as they rowed towards where they had left their horses grazing. The noble beasts neighed in protest at the smelly and slimy condition of their riders. At least the summer breeze and their exertions had removed most of the water from the King and Steward. The drying mud, which clung to their skins was even more uncomfortable than dripping garments.

"I hope no one sees us," Faramir fretted as they approached the City gates. He pulled his cloak more closely round his face.

"Our reputations will remain intact," said Aragorn. "No one will recognise us looking like this! I just hope we can sneak back inside the Citadel unnoticed. I do not even wish Arwen to see me until I have bathed and changed my clothes. I will never hear the last of our mishap!"

"Everyone will smell us coming for leagues around!" Faramir said grimly.

"I wish you peasants would wash before coming to the City," grumbled the guard at the gate.

Aragorn rewarded the man with a glare that made him visibly cringe under the King's steely gaze. The guard muttered an apology.

Aragorn simply grunted as they were waved through. Under the mud, Faramir flushed scarlet. His discomfort increased as they rode through the First Circle. Passers-by laughed at them while several children shouted rude comments,

"Don't you wash?" shouted one child.

"My grandpa's pigs are much cleaner than you two!" cried another.

"That the King should be treated thus!" groaned Faramir in a tone so low only Aragorn could hear.

"Peace! This is nothing new to me, mellon nîn," said Aragorn ruefully. "The Breelanders often treated us thus. It is far from easy to keep clean in the Wilds, much as I would have liked to do so. Then there was the time that Butterbur offered me and Halbarad a free meal and bed for the night if we mucked out his stables. One of the horses reared and knocked Halbarad over. The stench was so bad that we never did get our free meal and lodging!"

"The innkeeper should have provided a bath!" Faramir exclaimed indignantly. "Yet, I have heard your foster- brothers remark on your liking to be covered in mud."

Aragorn snorted. "Nonsense! They simply would tease me, because when I arrived back at Rivendell after months in the wild, I was usually in dire need of a bath, but yearning for one too! One of the nicest things about being King is being able to have as many baths as I wish. I do not mind a little mud, but nothing feels better than a hot bath afterwards!"

"There were many strange tales told about you when you first came to Gondor. Who knows how many are believed still?" said Faramir.

"I most clearly recall a mistaken belief that I despised Men in favour of Elves," said Aragorn. "Though why I should seek to rule Gondor were that the case, I have no idea!"

"I believe that came about when you toured the City with Legolas to discuss plans for the rebuilding," said Faramir. "I admit that even I believed that Legolas was your closest friend, being an Elf, as I knew you were brought up amongst Elves."

"Legolas is a good friend, but no dearer to me than the other members of the Fellowship," said Aragorn. "I had met him a few times before the Quest when Elves from Mirkwood visited Rivendell, but we were merely acquaintances. I shared a glass of Dorwinion with Legolas and his sire when I placed Gollum in the care of the Elves, but I was treated no differently than any other guest from Master Elrond's house. I was most grateful for the use of their bathhouse to wash off the mud that clung to my person, though."

"Before or after you were offered the wine?" asked Faramir.

"Before, of course! No King or Prince would drink with a muddy traveller."

"This Prince would!" said Faramir. "And it seems the King will ride alongside a muddy companion!"

The two had distracted themselves so well with their banter that they failed to notice a familiar figure approaching until he was almost upon them.

"Honoured friends, whatever has happened to you!" exclaimed Ambassador Tahir, his brown eyes full of concern.

"Our boat capsized and we fell in the river," said Faramir. "I fear we cannot stop to talk. We need to return to the Citadel to bathe and change our clothes."

"You must come to my residence," said Tahir. "It is much nearer."

Aragorn and Faramir looked at each other. On the one hand, they had no desire for the Ambassador and his household to see them like this, on the other hand Tahir already had done. Then there was the problem of dripping mud onto Arwen's favourite carpet. She would be far from pleased. Éowyn was in thankfully in Ithilien, but Arwen would be certain to tell her.

"We would accept your kind offer," said Aragorn. "We need hot water to wash in though, rather than the steam of your hamam."

"My servants will fill the pool in the soğukluk with hot water for you, honoured friends," said Tahir.

"You are very kind, but we could not put you to so much trouble, my friend," said Faramir.

"You would honour me greatly by coming to my humble abode," said Tahir. "Many times you have done great service, both to me and to my family. Please let me be of some assistance to you, honoured friends."

"Thank you, we will come," said Aragorn.

Tahir turned to the servant who accompanied him and said something in his own tongue. The man scurried off.

"The bath will await you by the time you reach my residence," said the Ambassador. "Better you should be bathed and wearing fresh clothes before your fair blossoms behold you."

"Indeed," said Aragorn drily, envisioning Arwen's face if she saw him covered in pondweed.

The three soon arrived at Tahir's spacious residence in the sixth circle. To Aragorn and Faramir's relief, once their horses were handed to the care of a groom, the Ambassador took them through a side entrance, which led directly to the hamam. To Tahir's great credit, he managed not to wrinkle his nose at the stench of pondweed emanating from his guests.

To Aragorn and Faramir's delight the round, deep bathing pool was filled with steaming water, which was perfumed with fragrant spices. Cooler water flowed from the fountain in the centre of the pool. The Undying Lands could not have presented a fairer prospect to the two bedraggled friends.

Tahir gestured towards the edge of the pool. "Here are towels and soaps, fragrant oils, sponges and scrubbing brushes," he said. "I have given orders you will not be disturbed. I will return when you have refreshed yourselves, honoured friends," he said. The Ambassador bowed low and left Aragorn and Faramir to their ablutions.

As soon as he had left, Aragorn and Faramir thankfully peeled off their stinking sodden clothes. Beneath them they found that mud and pondweed was clinging to almost every inch of their anatomy, even their toes. They plunged into the bath and swiftly scrubbed themselves clean.

"Tahir has thought of everything," said Faramir, as he scrubbed mud from his arms with one of the brushes. "We will not need fragrant oils, though; there is sufficient in the water to remove the stench of weed."

"We might," Aragorn said grimly, as he pulled a length of slimy vegetation from his hair. "Little though I wish my hair to smell of perfume, I imagine Arwen would prefer it to pondweed!"

At last, after much scrubbing and soaping, the two friends felt clean again and scrambled from the pool and swathed themselves in the towels Tahir had left for them. They regarded their discarded clothes ruefully. The garments had left muddy puddles on the pristine marble floor.

"We can hardly put these on again," said Aragorn. "They smell even worse than we did!"

"Apart from our cloaks, they are fit only for the fire," said Faramir. He laughed ruefully. "How spoiled we have become in these days of peace. As Rangers, we would somehow have washed them clean! But what do we do now? We can hardly return home clad only in towels."

"We should have thought of that before accepting Tahir's invitation," said Aragorn. "I so wanted to bathe swiftly, though."

Just then, Tahir poked his head around the door.

"Come in," said Faramir. "Thank you for the use of your pool. We greatly enjoyed our bath."

Tahir's body followed his head into the room. Aragorn and Faramir could see now that he was carrying a large bundle. "Would my honoured friends condescend to don some of my humble garments?" he asked. "I have brought you some of my best robes."

"We are honoured to accept," said Faramir. Even as he took the robes from Tahir, though, he wondered how the folk of Gondor who had lost loved ones to the scimitars of Harad would feel at the sight of their King and Steward walking through the streets dressed in the garb of their former enemies. He glanced towards Aragorn and guessed that his friend's thoughts were of a similar nature.

"I must ask a further favour of you, Ambassador," said Aragorn. "Please could I beg quill and parchment of you to write a note to my lady?"

"Of course, esteemed friend," said Tahir. "I will leave you to dress then you must share some sherbet tea with me while you write your letter."

Aragorn and Faramir swiftly donned the blue robes adorned with gold embroidery that Tahir had brought. They were worn over baggy breeches which were usually secured around the waist and ankles. They were, unfortunately too short for such tall men as Aragorn and Faramir and reached only to their mid calves, as did the robes. They were decent enough, though to leave the soğukluk and venture into the rest of Tahir's mansion. If the servants they passed were amused by their appearance, they were too well mannered to say anything.

Tahir appeared and beckoned them into the spacious hall that he used to receive guests. Aragorn and Faramir settled themselves on the large cushions that were scattered around the floor. Almost at once, a servant appeared and served them refreshing sherbet tea and small cakes flavoured with rose petals. Another servant brought writing materials for Aragorn.

While Aragorn penned his missive, asking Arwen to see that two sets of clothes be despatched to Tahir's residence, Faramir enquired after the Ambassador's wife, Adiva, and his family.

"My fair blossom is out riding," said Tahir. "My small blossoms are all flourishing and Fikri is doing well with his studies. I have hopes he might become a scholar or teacher."

"Those are good tidings indeed," said Faramir.

The three chatted contentedly until one of Aragorn's servants arrived, bearing two sets of Aragorn's clothes, one for him, and one for Faramir, who was much the same size, albeit a trifle shorter.

"What would you have done with your other garments?" asked Tahir.

"Burn them apart from the cloaks, which are dear to us," said the King. "The coins in our purses, please give to your servants to compensate them for all the trouble we have put them to. As for you, my friend, my lady and I would like you to dine with us on the morrow."

"You have rendered much service to me and to my family, honoured friends," said the Ambassador. "It pleases me greatly I could for once be of some service to you both."

Once Aragorn and Faramir again resembled their usual neatly dressed selves they took their leave, mounted their now perfectly groomed horses and hastened back to the Citadel.

Aragorn, though, was in an uneasy mood. The scent of the perfumed oil seemed to grow stronger with every pace that Roheryn took. Faramir would fare well enough. He was needed in the City for several days to attend Council meetings and by the time he was reunited with Éowyn the perfume would have disappeared. What would Arwen make of it, though? Would she think him less than manly, or horror of horrors, fear he had been enjoying the unchaste embraces of another?

Faramir went straight to his chamber to change out of Aragorn's clothes while the King went in search of his wife. He found Arwen seated at her embroidery in the solar.

"Estel, where ever have you been?" she exclaimed. "And why did you ask me to send clothes to Ambassador Tahir's?"

"The boat capsized and we fell in the river," Aragorn said ruefully.

"How could that happen? You and Faramir are experienced oarsmen both."

"I suppose the strawberry scones were to blame."

"Strawberry scones?" Arwen sounded incredulous. "I know the Secondborn are prone to gaining weight, but surely a few scones could not make you so heavy that your boat capsized?"

"It is a long story," said Aragorn. "I will tell it to you while I eat. I am tired and hungry."

"My poor Estel!" Arwen put her needlework aside and rose to her feet. She kissed her husband tenderly and ran her fingers through his unruly mop of grey-streaked dark hair.

Aragorn froze.

Arwen sniffed his hair curiously. "Your hair smells different!" she said.

"Tahir gave us some oil to remove the stench of pondweed," Aragorn replied sheepishly. "It should soon wear off."

"But it is delightful! You must use it again."

"I fear perfume would make me appear less than manly, my love," Aragorn said hastily. "Besides, I do not know what the fragrance is."

"But who would object when we are alone together," said Arwen, nuzzling her face in his hair. "I shall ask Adiva for a supply of the perfume for you.

Aragorn shook his head in bewilderment. He and Arwen could sense each other's thoughts and were as close as any couple could be, yet she still had the capacity to surprise him. He kissed her tenderly, the frustrations of the afternoon's misadventures rapidly fading like a half forgotten dream.

Beyond the Shadows

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil- Psalm 23.

Warning – character death.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

The shadows lengthened almost imperceptibly as the afternoon wore on, until the features of the younger man in the room were no longer clearly discernible.

Ecthelion coughed loudly causing his son to look up.

"We should send a thousand men," said Denethor. He blinked as the sinking sun dazzled his eyes.

"You have not listened to a word I said," Ecthelion chided gently.

"I was listening, father," Denethor protested.

"I might be ninety- seven years old, but I am not yet in my dotage," the Steward replied. "I know when you are not paying attention, but how can I blame you today of all days. This discussion on the strength of the Ithilien Rangers can wait for another day."

"Our routine should not be interrupted by the impending arrival," said Denethor. He sighed and rubbed the back of his hand across his forehead. "It has been too long, though. I was informed that second babies usually arrive much more swiftly than the first. I am eager to behold my daughter. Boromir will make a splendid watchful older brother to his little sister, who will be the fairest little maid in Gondor."

"You could have a second son," Ecthelion cautioned.

"Nonsense! Finduilas was much stricken with sickness in the morning this time, which she never was when expecting my Boromir. The healers told me to expect a girl and I assured Finduilas that I would not be disappointed with a daughter."

"Boy or girl, as long as my grandchild is healthy and Finduilas is well, I shall be more than content," said Ecthelion. The old man reached for the cane he had needed since he had suffered a slight seizure the year before. He laboriously rose to his feet and went over to the window where he stood gazing out at the crimson hued sky. "It is a beautiful sunset tonight," he said.

Denethor glanced towards the window. "It is no different from any other," he said. "It tells me only that day is almost done."

"When you are as old as I am, my son, and you know that your days are approaching their end, you appreciate the small beauties all the more," said the Steward.

"Speak not of your death so calmly!" Denethor said sharply. "You are of the House of Húrin, a true son of Númenor. You could yet live for many more years."

"I do not fear death," said Ecthelion. "I rejoice, though, that I have lived long enough to see your children."

Before Denethor could reply there came a knock on the door.

"Come in!" both men cried almost in unison.

A woman entered; her fresh complexion and rosy cheeks suggesting she was most likely recently arrived from the country. She was dressed in the black gown and white smock worn by the women healers."

"What news?" Denethor barked impatiently before the woman had time to open her mouth.

"You have a son, my lord, and such a fair babe, as fine as any I've ever seen. Not a large babe, but he has a right lusty cry and…."

Denethor's face clouded at her tidings. "What of the Lady Finduilas?" he interrupted.

"She is well enough now, but it was a long and hard ordeal for the poor lady. Dame Morwen almost despaired at one time, but both are well now and the Lady Finduilas is taking a little beef tea to strengthen her and…"

"I wish to see my wife," Denethor interrupted.

"Of course, my lord. Mistress Morwen sent me to tell you that you can see your new son and the Lady Finduilas."

Denethor rose to his feet.

"I will come with you," said Ecthelion.

"It is a long way for you to walk, father."

"Nonsense, the exercise will do me good. It is the custom that the Ruling Steward should welcome each new heir into the world."

"You have already welcomed Boromir who will rule after us both," said Denethor.

"And I would welcome this grandson too." Ecthelion smiled at the woman who had brought them the news. "You lead the way, mistress, but not too swiftly, remember I am not as young as I once was. What is your name? You are not from the City, I wager?"

"I am called Ioreth and I hail from Lossarnach, my lord. I am but lately come to the City to study with Mistress Morwen and…"

Her chatter continued until they reached Lady Finduilas' lying in chamber.

As was the custom, Ecthelion waited in an antechamber while Denethor joined his wife and new-born son in the inner chamber. It was a dreary place to wait, dimly lit by a single torch burning in a sconce, the light from which barely penetrated the deeply shadowed recesses of the room.

A servant bearing a lamp entered, alongside one of the healing women, who carried the infant in her arms. The lamp brilliantly illuminated the baby, bathing him in a pool of light.

Ecthelion gasped. Boromir had been a sturdy babe, but this little one was, like their mother, nigh elven-fair. He had a sweet face with delicate features beneath a shock of dark hair and long limbs. He was smaller than Boromir had been at birth, but was perfectly formed. The old Steward was unexpectedly reminded of Thorongil. How he had hoped that his favoured captain might choose a wife and settle in Gondor. Surely, a son of his would have been elven fair, just like this tiny babe?

Ecthelion reached out a finger towards the child, which was promptly grasped in the tiny fist with surprising strength. The baby gazed at him with a clear unblinking gaze, innocent, yet full of wisdom.

Ecthelion was suddenly filled with an unexpected sensation of joy and hope. He blinked away a tear.

Denethor appeared from the inner chamber. A refreshing scent wafted out of the door behind him.

"Finduilas is resting," he said. "Mistress Morwen said it was a difficult birth, but that my lady should soon recover with rest and good food. So what do you think of your latest grandson, father?"

"He is a fine child. Our beloved land will be in good hands."

"We already have Boromir to secure our future." Denethor sounded angry and a shadow clouded his features.

"Your pardon, son, I scarce know from whence my words came." He turned to Mistress Morwen. "My thanks for bringing my grandson to show me, Mistress Morwen. He is a fair babe indeed. Tell me, what is that scent in Lady Finduilas' chamber?"

"It is kingsfoil, my lord. Mistress Ioreth says they use it in Lossarnach to refresh the air in a birthing chamber."

"Mistress Ioreth is quite a character," Ecthelion said with a smile.

"At present, she seems to think her country lore is the answer to everything, but she is proving a competent assistant," said Morwen.

Ecthelion lingered a few more moments contemplating his new grandson and stroking his soft cheeks and hair. At last, he said, "You should take him back to his mother now."

The healer disappeared back into the inner chamber, followed by the servant. Ecthelion could not tear his eyes from the baby until they were out of sight.

"Such a beautiful child," said Ecthelion. "It gladdens my heart to behold one so fair."

"Compared with Boromir, I find this one somewhat ugly," said Denethor. "He is a scrawny infant and much smaller."

"He will soon grow," said Ecthelion. "I believe he resembles Finduilas somewhat with her elven beauty and grace."

"Beauty and grace ill befit a boy child," said Denethor. "Gondor needs warriors not dancers!"

Ecthelion again thought of Thorongil, the mightiest of warriors who moved with the grace of a cat. Finduilas' brother Imrahil had much of his sister's grace in movement too and was a doughty fighter. "What will you call your son?" he asked Denethor.

"My Lady and I had planned to call a daughter, 'Miriel' so that we would have two jewels. Therefore, we have decided on 'Faramir '."

"Why not 'Miriond' for a boy?"

"It would seem that I valued this second son more than my Boromir if I called him my 'jewel son'. Faramir will be a sufficient enough jewel, I hope."

"'Faramir' is a good name for one whom I feel will prove more than sufficient," said Ecthelion.

"Time alone will determine that," said Denethor.

000

Baby Faramir thrived, but his mother recovered from the birth slowly. Her body healed, but the melancholy, to which she had often been prone in the past, held her in its thrall and seemed to drain the very spirit from her slender frame.

The healers informed the Steward and his son that it was not unusual for new mothers to suffer from low spirits and that Finduilas simply needed time and rest.

Ecthelion enjoyed spending time with his new grandson. The sight of the fair babe made him forget the aches and pains of his growing infirmities for a time. During that summer, the Steward was usually often to be found in either the nursery of or Finduilas' solar when his duties allowed.

Finduilas, more often than not would sit in a chair by the window in her solar with Faramir asleep either in her arms or in his cradle at her feet. Ecthelion frequently found her gazing south towards her homeland with a look of longing on her fair face.

Today, when he visited, though, he found his daughter by marriage looking out of a another window, one that faced east. She clutched Faramir so tightly that he wailed in protest, while tears streamed down her pale cheeks.

"What ails you, my daughter?" Ecthelion asked in alarm.

"The Shadow from the East grows ever stronger," said Finduilas. "My poor babies! What is to become of them?"

"We should not abandon hope," said Ecthelion. "Maybe the King will return and lead us to victory."

"If only he would come!" said Finduilas. She made a valiant effort to compose herself. She gently placed Faramir in his cradle, and began to rock it, all the while wiping her eyes. "Maybe Denethor could take me to visit the sea if the King returned and released him from his duties?" she said, her tone like that of an as eager little girl. "But pay no heed to my foolish words. I should like to see the White Tree bloom anew and Gondor at peace. These are but dreams, though. Perhaps we should hope instead that Captain Thorongil will return. He led us to a great victory against the corsairs. Maybe more might follow?"

"I miss Thorongil," Ecthelion said wistfully. "He was a good friend to Gondor and to me."

"I wish he could have seen Faramir," said Finduilas.

"Maybe one day he will," said the old Steward.

000

That night Ecthelion enjoyed a private late supper with Denethor. Finduilas had already retired to bed.

"I visited Finduilas and Faramir today," said the Steward.

"You never spent so much time with Boromir as a babe, father." Denethor's tone held a mild rebuke.

"You were constantly at his side when your duties allowed. I had no wish to intrude," said Ecthelion. "It is Finduilas I wish to speak about to you, though. She is in very low spirits. I have spoken to the healers and they say a change of air would benefit her."

Denethor sighed. "They tell me that too, but, alas, I cannot leave my duties to take her and the children to visit her kin in Dol Amroth. These times are too dangerous for her to go alone. Some of the healers have strange ideas, though. My lady is already in the fairest place in Arda. The healers should concentrate on brewing tonics to restore her health. If she misses her kinsfolk they are always welcome to visit her here in the City."

"You could be spared."

"I am needed here. It is out of the question, father. The subject is closed."

"I am your father, but I am also your lord," Ecthelion said sternly. "I still hold rod and rule here and the City will fare well enough in your absence. Your lord commands you, Denethor, to take your lady and sons on a visit to Dol Amroth."

"As you wish, father." Denethor replied. "If you will excuse me." He strode from the room.

Two days later, Ecthelion watched Denethor and his family depart for the coast. The old man found the extra duties that fell upon him in their absence drained his already meagre reserves or strength. Yet, he deemed his hard work a worthwhile sacrifice on Finduilas' return, for her step was lighter and colour bloomed in her cheeks once more.

Summer turned to autumn and autumn to winter. The cold seemed especially bitter this year and seemed to seep into Ecthelion's very bones. However many furs he wore and however large the fire, the Steward found it hard to get warm.

Faramir continued to delight the old man. Soon after Mettarë he learned to crawl and liked nothing better than to crawl around his grandsire's feet laughing delightedly when the Steward played peek a boo with him. Ecthelion would laugh too, something he had rarely done since Thorongil's departure.

Sometimes, Boromir would join in these games for he was touchingly devoted to his little brother. The lively little boy quickly grew bored, though, and would soon go off to play with his wooden sword or toy soldiers. Ecthelion was always relieved, for although he loved his elder grandson, he found Boromir somewhat boisterous. Faramir, on the other hand, was a quiet, sweet natured baby who was surprisingly undemanding for one so little. Ecthelion became increasingly convinced that there was something special about the child. an unusually wise child, quick to recognise and remember faces and possessing strong powers of concentration for an infant. The babe would gaze intently at pictures in books held up to his face, his bright eyes following the images from one page to the next. He was also sweet natured and loving. He liked nothing better than to snuggle against his grandsire.

Spring came at last, but Ecthelion's health did not improve with the warmer weather. He still dealt with official papers, but he rarely left his chambers. The slightest exertion exhausted him. The healers could do nothing and said old age was what ailed him, the one affliction for which there was no remedy. Ecthelion dismissed them, weary of their fussing. The old man found himself thinking more about the past. Sometimes it seemed only yesterday that he was a young man watching his own children growing. He had tried to be a good father, but it had not been easy. He realised now that he had made mistakes with poor Firiel. Her sisters seemed content enough in their lives though. Then there was Denethor. He had never been as close to his only son as he would have wished, but Denethor seemed to hold everyone at arm's length, including his own father. The old man sighed. Sometimes he thought that ruling Gondor was easier than ruling his family and that he had been more successful as a Steward than as a father.

Ecthelion was aware that he was slowly dying. He was resigned to it. He had grown weary of being confined within an aging body and was ready to gladly receive Eru's Gift to Men. One thing troubled him, though, the fate of his beloved land.

He had taught Denethor all he knew and his son was ripe to receive the White Rod from his hand, but battle hardened warrior and lore master, though Denethor was, Ecthelion feared that his son's pride might shadow his judgement. Unlike his father, Denethor shunned Mithrandir's counsels. Then what if Thorongil should return? Denethor would not welcome him as his sire had done.

Faramir's first birthday fell in early May and Ecthelion was determined to attend his grandson's modest birthday celebrations He rejoiced to see the toddler's delighted smiles at his gift of a wooden horse, but afterwards he was exhausted. The next day, he sent for Denethor and entrusted the White Rod into his keeping.

Denethor seemed torn between sorrow and delight on receiving the ultimate symbol of authority. "You could live for many years yet," he protested.

"My son, I am ninety-eight years old. All that is left for me is to ask that you rule Gondor wisely and well until the king should come again."

"I will," said Denethor, taking the rod and clasping it firmly in his hand.

Ecthelion now spent most of his time sleeping, but at his request, Finduilas brought Faramir for a brief visit each day. The visits much cheered the ailing Steward.

One morning, when Ecthelion awoke with a pounding headache and he felt as if the room were spinning. His body felt numb and unresponsive down one side and he could not speak clearly. When his servant drew back the curtains to let in the morning sunlight, the chamber still seemed full of shadows. Ecthelion tried to speak to the servant but could not form the words properly.

The man hastened from the room. Denethor and a healer appeared soon afterwards.

"I fear the Steward is dying," said the healer after a thorough examination. "He has suffered another seizure."

"Have you no remedy?" asked Denethor. "He recovered two years ago."

The healer shook his head sadly. "I fear not, my lord. The seizure is far more severe this time. All I can advise is that Lord Ecthelion is kept comfortable. I will prepare a draught. You should send for any family who might wish to make their farewells, my lord."

The day passed in a blur. Ecthelion was aware of his weeping daughters at his bedside and a scared looking Boromir clutching his mother's hand. The little boy seemed veiled in shadow, as were Finduilas and Denethor. "Faramir?" Ecthelion muttered.

"I will bring him," said Finduilas.

Ecthelion looked up and saw, to his great surprise, his father, Turgon, standing beside his bed. His sire appeared as a man in his prime, just as Ecthelion remembered him from his childhood.

"Come, my son," said Turgon. "It is time. Many are waiting to welcome you home. Your lady and your mother are eager to greet you, as is Firiel."

"What of Gondor?" asked Ecthelion. He found he could speak clearly to his father. No one else in the room seemed to have noticed Turgon's presence.

"I think you know Gondor's future is in good hands," said Turgon. "Behold!"

Just then, Finduilas returned with Faramir in her arms. Unlike the others in the room, Faramir appeared to be surrounded by light.

Suddenly, he was a child no longer, but a man grown. He was riding beside Thorongil along a path lined with blossom trees and everywhere was fair and green.

"Father! You cannot leave us now," Denethor cried. "Not when Mordor's shadow grows ever longer!"

Ecthelion wanted to tell his son that all would be well. With a might effort, he cried out, "Thorongil, Faramir, hope!"

Turgon reached out his hand. Ecthelion grasped it. The Old Steward was enveloped in a glorious golden light as the shadows fell away forever.

A/n. This story serves as a sequel to "An Unexpected Letter" and also refers to "A Sad Tale's best for Winter". This story was written for the "Teitho" "Shadows" contest where it was placed second.

Title: The Steward's Blessing.

Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt: Spring Garden picture prompt

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=5373&picture=garden-in-spring

Summary: Faramir receives a special gift for his garden.

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Beta: Deandra

Author's Notes: This story was inspired by an idea of Shirebound's and also refers to ideas suggested by Engarian and Suzil. Written for B2ME14

Faramir walked slowly through past the clumps of daffodils, humming softly to himself. There were times he still felt amazed that the freedom to walk in this fair garden in days of peace was not some fantastical dream from which he would awaken to face another long day of fighting Gondor's enemies. He smiled at the screech of one of his prized peacocks in the distance, the beautiful birds being a gift from one of those then enemies, Tahir of Harad, now a close friend and Ambassador at Aragorn's court.

Ever since he was a boy and had heard the stories of his ancestor, Húrin of Emyn Arnen, he had dreamed of living here and making a garden. Never though, had he dreamed that his garden would be planted by Elves and become a favourite place for his King and Queen to visit.

A thrush flew up in a nearby tree and began to sing. Faramir paused to listen. Doubtless, the bird was busy building a nest with his mate. Faramir smiled and thought of the nest here he had created for himself, his fair Éowyn and their little ones. The birds were more than welcome to a corner of their garden in which to build a home. The Steward loved the spring here, filled as it was with birdsong and fair blossoms.

First the shy snowdrops appeared, then the colourful crocus and now his favourite spring flowers; the golden daffodils. For a few years after the war, spring had been a bittersweet time for him as it was in spring that Sauron had launched his final offensive and Faramir had almost died, as indeed had a third of his men. It was one fateful spring day that his father had chosen a shameful end and almost taken Faramir with him in the fire.

Yet it was in spring too that Aragorn had recalled him to life, he had met his lady, and Sauron had been vanquished forever. He smiled again. There was so much he had to be thankful for.

He started when he felt a hand on his shoulder and spun round to behold his friend and King.

"Never did I think to catch a former Ranger so off guard!" said the King. "I did not mean to startle you. You must have been very deep in thought."

"I was thinking that I first met you at this this time of year," said Faramir. "The daffodils did not bloom until after the enemy's defeat, though. But I have not greeted you properly, my friend." The two men embraced then Faramir said. "I was not expecting you until later. I fear you caught me unprepared."

"I trust my arrival is not inconvenient?" said Aragorn.

Faramir shook his head. "Not if you do not mind waiting for the cook to finish preparing a meal for you and your lady."

"I rode on ahead as Roheryn needed a good gallop," said the King. "He has been cooped up far too long, as have I. Arwen and the children are following at a more sedate pace in the carriage. She told me to ride on lest Roheryn bolt, he was straining at the reins so hard! Éowyn has given him the run of a large paddock for the duration of our visit with our own horses to keep him company."

"She caters for her equine guests as carefully as her human ones!" Faramir grinned.

"I would not be unhappy to share the paddock with my faithful steed as the grass would make a far softer bed than many I knew in my Ranger days," said Aragorn. "My lady might not be too happy though! But I digress; I had a letter from Master Samwise a few days ago. He enclosed in it a message and a gift for you. "Aragorn reached inside his tunic and drew out a crumpled parchment and an envelope, the latter which he handed to Faramir.

"This is Sam's message," said Aragorn, reading from the parchment. "'Tell Faramir that I believe the Lady would like a measure of her gift to grow in his garden, so I'm sending him the first fruit from our new party tree. I'm sure he'll look after it right.'"

The Steward swiftly broke the seal on the envelope and reverently lifted out what looked like a small nut with a silver shell.

"It is a mallorn seed," said Aragorn. "Should it take root and flourish in your garden, it will be the only one in Gondor."

"I am deeply honoured," said Faramir. "But why send such a precious seed to me and not to you?"

"I believe Sam has a soft spot for you, Faramir," said Aragorn. "Not only that, though, but I am certain he believes the tree would be far happier here in Ithilien with you than in the City. I have the White Tree in Minas Tirith. This mallorn could become a cherished heirloom for you and your line."

"I shall plant it this very afternoon," said Faramir. "I should like you and Éowyn to assist me, and Lady Arwen too, if she agrees."

"Gladly," said Aragorn. "Little, though do I know of tree husbandry."

"I believe the King's blessing is worth more than green fingers," said Faramir.

000

As soon as the noonday meal was concluded, Faramir carefully selected a spot in which to plant the precious seed. The place he chose was beside some flourishing daffodils, sheltered but sunny and well watered.

All his family, as well as the King and Queen, were present when he placed the nut in the moist earth. "May Yavanna bless this seed!" he said as he covered it.

Éowyn, followed by Aragorn and Arwen, added their voices in calling for Yavanna's blessing. They helped Faramir bury the seed deep. Their hands looked like those of farm labourers rather than royalty by the time the silver nut was planted to Faramir's satisfaction.

"I hope the seed will thrive here," said Faramir. "It would be a great honour to have a mallorn in Ithilien."

"How could it not flourish under your loving care?" said Éowyn.

0000

Spring turned to summer, then summer to autumn. Every day when Faramir was at home, he carefully tended the seed and watched eagerly for signs that it was growing. It seemed, though, that his efforts were vain as the seed failed to germinate and no green shoots forced their way through the earth. He would look around his garden and see plants from many lands. Éowyn had coaxed some Simbelmynë from the Mark to thrive, roses bloomed from cuttings sent from the Shire; Tahir and Lady Adiva had given him exotic tulips and lotus flowers to grace his garden while Legolas had brought saplings from the Greenwood, which were growing into fine trees.

When winter came, he was starting to feel quite despondent, but he continued to hope that when spring came with its abundance of new life that the mallorn would begin to sprout and grow.

Spring arrived and the daffodils bloomed in profusion while the almond trees put forth their snowy and delicate pink blossoms, but the mallorn seed showed no sign of life.

Faramir's winter despondency returned in full force. He had never considered growing a mallorn tree in his garden, but Sam's gift had made him realise just how much he would like to own one of these elven trees. Not only that, but he felt he had let down the Hobbit gardener who had entrusted the precious nut to his care. It saddened him that he had no news of the tree to tell Sam when he wrote to him.

He had told Legolas about the mallorn nut and the Elf had been much moved by the prospect of a mallorn tree in Ithilien. Sometimes at sunset, the Steward had espied the Elf or one of his companions singing softly to the seed.

It seemed that all their efforts had been in vain, though as nothing sprouted from the ground.

One especially beautiful spring day when all looked fresh and new, the young leaves virtually glowed, while the birds were almost singing their hearts out with sheer exhilaration, Faramir came again to see if the seed had spouted. Surely, on such a day as this, anything that lived must burst forth with new life and growth. He knelt down beside the place where he had planted the seed. There was neither leaf nor shoot. The earth remained barren where he had so lovingly planted the seed.

Faramir could have wept. He knew one tree counted but little in the great scheme of things, but a mallorn would represent far more than just a tree. It would be a living symbol of the future that he and Aragorn were working for; a symbol of a land where the Elves were revered once more before they all sailed forever from these shores.

The sunbeams that had seemed so joyous before, now only appeared mock him. He closed his eyes for a moment. He then felt the strangest sensation, as if he were somehow part of a vast invisible harmony, like the great music of creation.

He opened his eyes again. Much to his surprise, he beheld a tall woman standing before him. She was barefoot and clothed in a gown of soft green. The sunbeams seemed to dance in her glorious golden hair. She was the fairest woman that Faramir had ever beheld. Her presence filled him with awe. He made to rise, but she gestured to him to remain where he was.

"You are sad, Faramir," she said in a sweet musical voice. "Are not you and this fair garden richly blessed?"

Faramir laughed ruefully. "My life is most richly blessed, as is my garden. All things grow and flourish here," he said. "All save the tree that I most desire. Yet how can a man expect to grow a mallorn?"

"If any man can, it is you, Faramir of Gondor," said the lady.

"I know not," said Faramir. "I believe the King would meet with more success."

"You, too, Faramir, are one of the Faithful," said the lady.

"I have held fast to what I value," said Faramir. "The King led me forth from the darkness and the Powers have heaped rewards upon me. Maybe I have reached too high and I should be content with growing flowers here for my lady."

The woman smiled. "Your humility does you credit, Faramir. You set your children a good example. Do not underestimate your strengths, though."

"How do you know so much about me, my lady?" asked Faramir. "I do not recall telling you my name."

"I know many things, especially about those who serve me faithfully," said the lady. She waved an elegant hand over the place where the mallorn seed was planted, then bent and lightly kissed Faramir's brow. Her touch was like nothing the Steward had ever felt before. It was both searing and tender at the same time. His eyes grew heavy and he knew no more.

000

"Faramir!"

Faramir opened his eyes at the urgent summons and found Aragorn kneeling beside him. An expression of concern was on the King's face.

"Aragorn? I did not expect to see you here. And where is the lady?"

"I had a compelling feeling that I should come here today, while Arwen sensed something of note was about to happen. I feared you might be unwell. Which lady?"

"She was the fairest woman I have ere beheld, with tresses like the sun and eyes like stars."

"You had better not let Éowyn hear you speak so highly of another lady! Can you stand?" Aragorn held out his hand and helped Faramir to his feet.

"This was a woman to revere, not to woo," said Faramir firmly. "She reminded me somewhat of Lady Galadriel or your lady. She was dressed all in green."

"I glimpsed such a lady standing beside the brook when I arrived," said Aragorn. "She smiled at me and then vanished between the trees. I wondered if she were but a trick of the light, as I only glimpsed her for an instant out of the corner of mine eye."

Faramir brushed leaves and grass from his tunic and breeches then looked around. "Behold!" he cried in wonder.

A beautiful young sapling had leaped up in the spot where the mallorn nut was planted: it had silver bark and long leaves.

Faramir stared at the young tree in amazement. "There was nothing there earlier this morning!" he cried. "I was lamenting that the mallorn had failed to thrive when the lady appeared. She waved her hand over it then she kissed me on the brow. I remember nothing more until you roused me."

Aragorn reached out and reverently touched the sapling with his fingertips. It seemed to be tingling with life and energy. "I believe Lady Yavanna herself appeared to you," he said, his tone filled with wonder. "This is a fair young mallorn. Well I recall their beauty from the season I spent in Lothlórien. Come April, it will be covered in golden blossoms. I believe that Lady Yavanna must take an especial interest in you, my friend."

"I have beheld her in visions, but never did I dare to hope that she would appear before me," said Faramir.

"When I used the athelas to call you forth from the darkness the scent was like a spring morning in Arda unmarred might be," said Aragorn. "I believe that fragrance is of Yavanna's realm of new life and growth. She has chosen you to help rebuild this land."

Faramir's grey eyes sparkled. "What greater blessing could there be?" he exclaimed. "I must strive to prove worthy of such honour."

Aragorn clapped him on the shoulder affectionately. "I think your mallorn tree proves that Lady Yavanna has already found you more than worthy," he said. "I believe that she smiles upon you and your garden."

An Unfortunate Series of Events by Linda Hoyland

Disclaimer: These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Rating: PG

Characters: Éowyn ,Faramir, Aragorn, Arwen, Elanor, OCS

Dedicated to Larner as a belated birthday gift.

"Should we sit the Kha Khan opposite to Ambassador Tahir or not?" asked Éowyn.

"They are on good terms with one another," said Faramir. "I think the most important detail to remember is not to place the Great Raja next to a lady, as their culture forbids them to sit next to a woman who is neither their wife nor concubine."

Éowyn snorted. "That would include half the women of Rhûn then if even half of what I have heard concerning the Raja is true!"

"Let us hope it is simply idle gossip," said Faramir. He arose from his chair in Éowyn's solar and went over to the window and looked out. "At least, the visiting dignitaries will see Ithilien at its most beautiful," he said.

"It was an excellent idea of yours, my love, to suggest all the different rulers meet here," said Éowyn.

"I hope only that they do not end up at each other's throats," said Faramir.

Éowyn laughed somewhat grimly. "If they but try, my brother and Aragorn would soon restore order, as would you, my love. My main concern is whether they will be satisfied with the food or not."

"You fret too much, Éowyn. We have an excellent cook and her assistant is almost as good as she is," said Faramir. "I am hopeful that all will go well and this time next week we will be bidding farewell to our contented guests.

"I hope you are right, Faramir," said Éowyn. "We shall see."

0000

The King and Queen, together with their children and servants, arrived the day before the other guests. Aragorn and Faramir desired to discuss details of the treaty they hoped to sign with the other rulers, while the ladies planned the entertainment for the guests. Arwen planned to sing some Elvish songs in the evening while Éowyn's finest horses would show off their paces during the afternoon.

The ladies decided to take a stroll in the gardens before dinner. Their younger children were playing a ball game together under the watchful eye of their nursemaids. Arwen had brought only two ladies- in- waiting with her, Lady Idril, who was a skilled musician and would accompany the Queen while she sang and Mistress Elanor Gamgee, the youngest of the ladies. Elanor walked sedately around the gardens for a while then asked leave to join the children, which Arwen willingly granted.

"How does Elanor like life at court?" Éowyn asked once the Hobbit lass was out of earshot.

"I think she misses the green fields of the Shire," said Arwen. "That is one reason I brought her here with me. She does not complain of homesickness, but I felt a visit to Ithilien would be good for her. Elanor is a delightful girl and I have come to love her dearly. She is a talented seamstress and has a sweet singing voice. She is also expert at brushing my hair without pulling it. The children love her too and she delights in playing with them."

"I expect Elanor misses her brothers and sisters," said Éowyn.

"I have asked her several times if she is unhappy and wishes to go home," said Arwen. "She says, though, that she is proud to be the first Hobbit lass in history to wait upon the Queen. Like her father, she loves all things Elvish, so I have given her the freedom of my library. I think she is gradually becoming more at home here."

Just then, the cook came hurrying along the path towards them, clutching a letter in one hand, and dabbing her eyes with her apron with the other.

"Whatever is the matter, Lindeth?" Éowyn exclaimed.

"I have just received a message from the City that my mother is very ill," sobbed the woman.

"You must go to her at once," said Éowyn. "You can borrow a horse from the stables and you must take anything you need that might help her from my storeroom."

"You are very kind, my lady," said the cook, wiping her eyes and giving a loud sniff. "But what of the banquet with so many grand guests coming?"

"I'm certain Níniel will manage perfectly well," said Éowyn. "You have trained her to make your recipes perfectly. Now, go and pack so that you will reach your mother ere nightfall."

"Thank you, my lady," said Lindeth. She scurried away, still dabbing at her eyes.

Éowyn sighed. "This could not have happened at a worse time, but what else could I do?"

"I have sampled Níniel's cooking and it was delicious," said Arwen. "I am certain all will be well."

"You speak wisely," said Éowyn. "The kitchen maids are very competent too. Lindeth has taught them all well."

The ladies walked for a little longer and then returned to the house.

0000

The household arose early the next morning to make the final preparations for the arrival of the distinguished guests. After visiting the kitchens, Éowyn was feeling confident that the guests would enjoy the banquet later that day. She sat down to enjoy a leisurely breakfast with Faramir and the King and Queen. As it was an informal family meal, Arwen's ladies were eating with them too.

"How are your parents faring, Mistress Gamgee?" Faramir asked Elanor.

"They are well, thank you, my lord. My father asked me to convey his greetings to you in his last letter. He is pleased with the way his roses are coming along this year and-"

Just then, a loud crash and a scream were heard from the direction of the kitchens. Aragorn with his long legs was the first to reach the scene of the accident. The others followed in his wake. They found Níniel was lying on the floor in front of the kitchen range, her leg twisted an unnatural angle. When Aragorn knelt beside her and gently felt her leg, she whimpered in pain.

"I'm sorry," Níniel whispered. "I tripped over the woodpile and fell. I'll be right as rain if I can just rest for a moment."

"I fear you have broken your leg, mistress," Aragorn said gently. "You will need it set, then several weeks of rest while the bone knits."

"But, I can't sire, begging your pardon, sire," said Níniel. "There's all the guests coming later and the meal not ready!" She made a vain attempt to get up and fell back with a loud groan.

"You must stay still," said Aragorn. "I will give you some poppy to ease the pain then the bone must be set. Faramir, can you help me carry your cook to her room, please? Éowyn, I will need your assistance. Arwen, could you get my bag of medical supplies from my room, please?"

"But what about Lord Faramir and Lady Éowyn's banquet?" said one of the kitchen maids.

"We shall have to cancel the feast. It is too late to bring a skilled cook from the city," said Éowyn. "Alas! We shall just have to feed the guests who are already here on whatever simple fare the maids and I can prepare."

Faramir ran his hands through his hair distractedly. "This is an ill chance indeed. Some of the rulers might well take offence. They expect the very best."

"I'm so sorry, my lord," said Níniel.

"It is not your fault, mistress," Faramir said firmly. "Accidents happen. Maybe if we send a messenger to the City at once explaining we have no cook, we can prevent some of the guests from setting out. "

"You have me," said a soft voice. "There is no need to cancel the dinner."

Every one turned to stare at Elanor who had been hovering on the fringes of the group.

"We are pleased you are here with us, Mistress Elanor," said Éowyn, "but I cannot see how your presence affects our needing to cancel the dinner."

"I am a Hobbit," said Elanor, "and I am also the daughter of Samwise Gamgee, the best cook in Hobbiton. If Mistress Níniel could just tell me what she was planning to prepare and the maids could help me, I will cook the dinner for your guests."

"But there will be twenty-four people at the table, all with different tastes," Éowyn said doubtfully. "It is well beyond my skills to cook for them and I have been running a household for many years."

Elanor laughed. "I have grown up with around a dozen of us at home for every meal and mother and father love having company round. My Aunt Marigold won't eat fish while Aunt Daisy won't eat meat and my uncles demand onions with every meal. I doubt your guests are very much different."

"I don't know," said Éowyn doubtfully.

"Do not underestimate Mistress Gamgee," said Aragorn. "There is more to many Hobbits than meets the eye."

"If you could wait to set my leg a little while, I can tell Mistress Gamgee what recipes I planned to prepare," said Níniel. "We have already made a start on some of the dishes."

"Very well," said Aragorn. "I shall give you something for the pain first, though and we must not delay setting your leg for very long."

Éowyn reached a decision, though she still looked far from convinced. "Thank you, Elanor, I shall be pleased to accept your help."

000

Two hours or so later, Níniel's leg had been set and Éowyn and one of the housemaids had put her to bed, where she rested in a poppy- induced slumber. The kitchen was now a hive of activity. Elanor was humming merrily between issuing instructions and darting between various pots and pans. The distinguished guests were due to arrive at any moment.

"I hope Elanor knows what she is doing," Éowyn said doubtfully after putting her head around the kitchen door for about the tenth time.

"She is a Hobbit," said Aragorn. "Cooking is in their blood."

"Bilbo used to sometimes like to cook for my father's guests at Rivendell," said Arwen. "His meals were always delicious."

"We shall soon know the outcome," Éowyn said grimly. "I only hope the Kha Khan or the Grand Raja, not to mention the Grand Potentate of Khand or all three of them together will not decide to wage war on us if the meal does not meet their expectations."

0000

The distinguished guests sat round Faramir's large dining table, their jewels and silks gleaming in the candlelight. Bowls of fragrant roses from Éowyn's garden adorned the table, and the cutlery and glasses had been polished until they gleamed. The plates were of a special design that Faramir had commissioned depicting a horse beneath a full moon to represent both Ithilien and the Mark.

A delicious aroma wafted from the kitchens and the maids appeared carrying the first course on silver trays. It was a creamy mushroom soup flavoured with a variety of herbs and spices and served with freshly baked rolls.

Éowyn held her breath as the guests sampled the food before them.

A collective murmur of "Mmmmmmmm" rippled round the table. The following courses were received with equal appreciation.

"Did I not tell you that Hobbits were excellent cooks?" Aragorn remarked later.

"I had no idea just how excellent," said Éowyn. "Both the Kha Khan and the Grand Raja wanted to buy Elanor from us. At least they seemed understanding when we politely declined."

"You should have told them that Elanor's father would wage war on anyone who dared to try take his daughter from him!" Aragorn said drily. "I could just imagine him hitting the Kha Khan and the Grand Raja over the head with his frying pan!"

"I narrowly escaped such a fate, I believe when I questioned Frodo," said Faramir. "Master Samwise certainly gave me a piece of his mind."

"I am going to thank Elanor with the gift of a pony," said Éowyn. "She shall have the pick of the finest from my herd. I shall also invite her to visit us whenever her duties permit."

"She will like that," said Arwen. "Elanor is her father's daughter and a very special girl in her own right as well."

A/n This was written for the Teitho Challenge where it tied for first place. Wishing all my readers a very happy, Easter, Passover and Spring season.

An Accidental Arrow

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

A/N This was written for the AA Group back in 2008 and has been languishing forgotten ever since.

"How Éowyn will scold us if we return empty handed!" Faramir said with a sigh. "We should never have volunteered to replenish her larder."

"I thought there was no better way to spend my visit here than a hunting trip so might impress our ladies with our skills. Now I can just imagine Arwen saying she thought she had married a Ranger; one who was said to be the greatest hunter and tracker of the Age," Aragorn replied glumly. He leaned heavily on his bow. "These woods around Emyn Arnen are said to be full of deer. Where have they all gone?"

"They must be hiding well," said Faramir, pacing the ground in frustration. "I have detected tracks but no deer apart from a doe with her fawn, which would not be fair sport."

A sudden movement caught Aragorn's eye. "Look! Over there by the stream," he whispered.

Faramir turned his head just in time to see a large stag disappearing between the trees. Swiftly he drew his bow, but before he could loose the arrow; the animal had vanished. He cursed softly in frustration.

"Come, let us give chase," cried Aragorn. "I will catch that stag if it is the last thing I do! We will bring our ladies venison to dine upon ere nightfall." Swift as a deer himself, he sped off in the direction of his quarry. Faramir followed, wondering not for the first time, why a man twice his age could usually outrun him.

The two hunters pursued their prey until they came to a fork in the path. Uncertain which way the stag had gone, Aragorn took one path while Faramir took the other.

The Steward was certain he was on the right track, as several times he caught a brief glimpse of the elusive deer. A sudden movement ahead of him in the undergrowth made him pause in his tracks. Smiling with grim satisfaction, Faramir nocked an arrow. They would dine well tonight and Éowyn would be impressed that he had supplied their table so well. He could see the stag clearly ahead of him. He fired, only for the animal to veer sharply to the right and disappear through the trees.

"Argh!" the cry of pain was no wounded deer.

A sudden feeling of cold dread seized the Steward. He plunged into the undergrowth in the direction of the cries. There was no sign of the stag, but under a great oak was Aragorn. The King was staggering, his face contorted in pain. An arrow with Faramir's distinctive fletching was protruding from his shoulder. As Faramir approached, Aragorn sank to his knees, his face white with shock.

"No! Whatever have I done?" the Steward cried. He raced towards his friend and crouched down beside him, supporting him. "I have shot my King! I am so sorry, mellon nîn! I mistook you for the stag we were pursuing!"

"You shot me!" Aragorn's tone was both accusing and disbelieving. "Do I look like a stag?"

"Much rather would I have shot myself through the heart than wounded you!" Faramir's voice was thick with emotion. "The stag veered aside just as I loosed the arrow."

"I know it was an accident," said Aragorn in a calmer tone. He grimaced. "The path goes round in a circle, which we had forgotten since we last came this way. The arrow will have to be removed quickly ere the wound becomes infected. Fortunately my healing supplies are in my pack, if you would assist me?"

Very carefully, so as not to push the arrow in any deeper, Faramir eased the pack from Aragorn's shoulders. He quickly found the familiar and well-worn satchel containing the King's healing supplies. "What do you want me to do now?" he asked Aragorn, though he suspected all too well what gruesome task he would need to perform.

"Make a fire first," said Aragorn. "We need to boil some water." He looked far less pale now, much to Faramir's relief.

"There is a stream nearby," said Faramir. "I bring the boys here fishing. Before I fetch water, though, I had better cut away the shaft," said Faramir. He took his hunting knife from his belt. "Brace yourself, this will hurt!"

"Do it quickly!" Aragorn gritted his teeth.

Faramir took a deep breath and grasped the shaft in one hand and his knife in the other. To his amazement, the arrow fell to the ground. For a moment, he stared at Aragorn in horror, convinced that he had done him a further grievous injury.

"What the…?" Aragorn pulled aside the torn fabric of his tunic and shirt to reveal his shoulder disfigured by nothing worse than a flesh wound, little deeper than a severe graze.

"But the arrow struck you!" Faramir said haltingly, hardly daring to believe that Aragorn was not badly hurt.

"It hit me hard and gave me a shock, but must have just caught against the strap of my pack and become entangled in my clothing while the tip grazed my shoulder," said the King. "Just as well you were not aiming for me or the shot would not have gone awry." He reached for his healing supplies to grab a cloth to staunch the bleeding. "I will clean and bind it, but it is only a slight hurt."

Faramir kindled a fire. He then hastened to the stream, filled a pan with water and put it to heat.

Faramir helped Aragorn remove his tunic and shirt while the water boiled. "I fear you will be black and blue tomorrow," he said ruefully. "Your clothes are ruined too."

"It will not be for the first time. Luckily, they are old ones I keep for hunting," said Aragorn. "Arwen did not stitch this shirt." He dabbed at his shoulder. The bleeding was already abating. He cleaned the wound and applied some salve, then bandaged it with Faramir's help. "At least we have a good excuse why we did not catch anything," he said as Faramir helped him ease his arms back into his bloodied tunic and shirt.

"Our wives will never let us go hunting again!" Faramir said sadly. "I do not know whether your lady or mine will be the angrier with me!"

"We will persuade them to let us go again ere long," said Aragorn confidently. "Arwen claims I drive her to distraction if I am confined within doors for too long!" He placed a comforting hand on Faramir's shoulder. "Remember, mellon, nîn you are human. No one could have guessed the stag would bolt in front of me. Accidents can happen to anyone and no real harm is done." A sudden light kindled in his eyes. "Are there fish in the stream, did you say?"

"Plenty," said Faramir.

"Why not catch some while I rest a while?" Aragorn suggested. "Then we will not return empty handed to our ladies."

"An excellent idea," said Faramir.

000

A few hours later, two contented friends made their way back to Emyn Arnen. Aragorn, despite his torn and bloodied clothing had already almost forgotten the accident after a nap on a comfortable mossy bank. Meanwhile, Faramir had caught a brace of plump trout, but had slipped on the bank while doing so and was covered in mud. Neither man cared in the slightest about their disreputable appearance. They whistled cheerfully, ignoring the shocked expressions of various guards and servants they encountered.

Arwen, Éowyn and the older children came out to greet the returning wanderers.

"Whatever has happened to ada?" asked Eldarion.

"Why is ada all muddy?" asked Elestelle.

"I think they will have some adventures to tell us," said Éowyn.

"After they have bathed," said Arwen grimly.

"Be not alarmed at our appearance," said Aragorn. "We had a minor accident but all is well."

"And there will be freshly caught trout for dinner," Faramir added.

"I thought you promised me venison, " said Éowyn.

"It is a long story," said Faramir.

"Never mind, " said Arwen, "if truth be told I much prefer trout."

Seasons of the Ring 
Summary: Faramir lives though a fateful year

Rating: PG

Warnings: none

Beta: Raksha

Author's Notes: A set of four drabbles. This was my second choice of BTME prompt to sign up for, so I thought I'd write it anyway.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

Autumn came early that fateful year, without its habitual blaze of colour. The leaves turned brown and withered ere October was out, blighted by Mordor's foul poisons. With every day that passed, Faramir's heart grew heavier, while his father's mood grew ever darker. The weeks passed, and with them, their hope, for no news of Boromir reached Minas Tirith.

"It was a fool's errand," Denethor said darkly.

"It should have been mine," Faramir replied.

"I would not have your head turned further with riddles," said the Steward.

A cold wind blew through the Citadel as the year approached its ending.

0000

It was a hard winter. The sun rarely broke through the leaden skies while the east wind chilled the bones of the Ithilien Rangers.

Mettarë passed without mirth. Boromir's absence was keenly felt by all.

One February night, Faramir beheld his brother once more. He scarce knew whether he were in the world of dreaming or waking when the funeral boat glided past his eyes 'neath the silver moon and twinkling stars.

Real though, without doubt, was the cloven horn yielded up by the river. Darkest dreams became reality. Faramir wept, as did his father. They did not weep together.

0000

Spring brought no relief. The very earth seemed blighted by the Shadow's tightening grip. Denethor sat silent, the shattered horn held in his hands. The Enemy struck hard and fast. An arrow felled Faramir. His father fell by fire. All hope seemed forsaken.

Then Hope returned, Elendil's heir borne of the wind from the sea. A star shone upon his brow and healing was in his hands.

Faramir awoke from deathly slumber and recognised his King. Reborn, with strength renewed, he dared again to dream.

Eagles sang the yearned for tidings. The Ring was destroyed and with it, Sauron's might.

0000

Summer rushed in, riotous in green and gold array. Sunlight bathed Gondor in a golden glow of endless days. Life sprung up abundantly, birds sang in every blossom- laden tree. Faramir too found abundance, the fairest maiden's hand, a princely diadem and Gondor's rod of rule.

The King had returned, the summer king, the Renewer. The White Tree bloomed again and Faramir walked beneath it, inhaling the scent of sweet blossoms carried on the western breeze.

Boromir would not return, but the land he loved would flourish. Faramir was well content to walk beneath the unshadowed sun with his lady.

Title: A Meeting of Minds

Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt: Love of Books

http://www.publicdomainpictures.net/view-image.php?image=65466&picture=love-of-books

Summary: Gandalf and Faramir discuss books.

Rating: G.

Warnings: none.

Beta: With grateful thanks to Raksha.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

"What brings you to Gondor, Mithrandir?" asked Denethor.

"I travel where the road takes me," said Gandalf. "As I was passing through this realm, I came to offer my counsel."

"You are welcome food and lodging while you are here," said Denethor. "I keep my own counsel, though and have no need of yours."

"I will take my leave then, Lord Steward," said Gandalf.

"I would ask Mithrandir a question," said the young man who sat at Denethor's right hand.

"Speak then, Boromir."

"They say you are wise, Mithrandir," Boromir began. He glanced up at the empty throne behind him. "This throne has stood empty for well- nigh upon a thousand years. Might I be the one destined to sit upon it?"

"Boromir!" chided his father.

"I cannot tell you the future, Lord Boromir, only remind you that you are the Steward's heir, not the King Returned," said Gandalf. Leaning on his staff, he began to make his way past the statues of long dead kings.

"There is one thing you might be able to tell me, Mithrandir," Denethor called after him.

"And what might that be?" Gandalf turned around, but did not walk back towards the Steward's chair.

"There was a captain called Thorongil in my father's service who deserted his post. I wondered if you had any tidings of what had become of him."

"And what should an old man know of your father's former captains?"

"He always spoke with you when you visited." Denethor's keen gaze met the wizard's eyes. Gandalf did not flinch.

"Thorongil knew my travels sometimes took me to the North where his old mother dwelt," Gandalf replied. "What is more natural than that a son should desire tidings of how his mother fared? Now, if you will excuse me, I am weary from my journey."

"Feel free to partake of our hospitality, Mithrandir." Denethor waved his hand in dismissal.

000

"Fools! A family of fools!" Gandalf sat puffing furiously on his pipe on a bench in the courtyard. He knew that was not strictly true, but only a fool or an over-prideful man rejects the very notion of counsel, and Denethor was no fool. How he wished Ecthelion were still alive. The old man had had far more sense than his son.

After blowing a variety of smoke rings, Gandalf decided to soothe his nerves with a visit to Denethor's vast library. He made his way back inside and laboriously climbed the many stairs leading to where the precious parchments were stored. It was always agreeable too to be amongst books and the comforting aroma of leather and parchment.

He was surprised to find he was not alone amongst the dusty scrolls. A young man sat there reading, engrossed in a weighty tome of history.

"Mithrandir!" the young man started and looked up. "It is good to see you again. It has been too long."

"Faramir!" Gandalf greeted him warmly. "How you have grown, boy! I hardly recognised you."

"I am a man grown and a soldier now," said Faramir. "I still like to come here when I have leave, though. Books are a great consolation."

"Indeed, dear boy," said Gandalf. "What is it that you are reading?"

"The Life of Isildur by Beldoran," said Faramir. "Isildur intrigues me. He was a great hero who saved a scion of the White Tree and a mighty warrior, yet no man knows where his grave lies. There is much about Isildur that puzzles me."

"There are many things I too should like to know," Gandalf replied. "The answers to many riddles lie in old tomes and scrolls. You do well to study Isildur, my boy."

The Wizard fell silent and Faramir's gaze returned to his book.

"Those must have been wondrous days indeed when the City was fair as a Queen and the White tree blossomed in memory of Númenor and in hope for the future of the kingdoms of Men."

"Beldoran's works are justly renowned here in Gondor and elsewhere, especially his writings on the days of the Kings." Gandalf said thoughtfully.

"The Kings whose return I long for," said Faramir. "It is foolish, I know, but sometimes I dream of the return of the Silver Crown and the White Tree blossoming in a land free of the Shadow."

"Do not fear to dream," said Gandalf. "If we have no dreams we have no hope, then all is lost. Were the King to return, though, your father would no longer hold Rod and rule. Does that not trouble you?"

Faramir shook his head. "We are the king's servants who rule only until he returns. What greater honour could there be than to surrender the rod to Elendil's heir, were he like the Kings of Old, well worthy of the Silver Crown, a man of wisdom and strength and greatness of heart?"

"Indeed, my boy. This old man's heart would be gladdened too to see the White Tree bloom again under the rule of such a man." Gandalf regarded the young man thoughtfully. It seemed there was one wise man still in the House of Húrin. A pity indeed that it was the younger son and not the heir. But all things had their purpose and their time.

"Tell me, Mithrandir, was the Tree truly as fair as men say?"

"It was more so. The blossoms shone like stars beneath Ithil's light."

Faramir's face lit up for an instant before his brow clouded and he said. "It is but a dream, though. I doubt any of Elendil's line yet draws breath."

"There are many things that we cannot know, Faramir, but we must never abandon hope."

"I shall try."

Gandalf was silent for a few moments before he spoke again, "You remind me of your grandsire, Ecthelion."

"You honour me, Mithrandir. I have heard he was a man of wisdom. It saddens me that he died when I was too young to remember him."

"Maybe you might be remembered as a man of wisdom too, Faramir," Gandalf said thoughtfully. "Your grandsire loved books much as you do."

Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt: Danger

Summary: Faramir is troubled by a sense of foreboding.

Rating: PG.

Warnings: Mention of injuries.

Beta: None.

Disclaimer: The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.

A revised version of a ficlet I wrote back in 2008 for the AA list and then forgot about.

Faramir had awoken that morning with a nagging feeling of unease, which he could not account for. There was nothing he had planned for the day that had reason to cause him any apprehension. He intended to spend the morning working in his study and accompany Aragorn to a public audience that afternoon then dine with the King and Queen that evening. It promised to be a very ordinary day.

The morning had passed without incident and by the time the noonday meal was concluded Faramir was beginning to feel more at ease. He concluded his earlier disquiet must be because he was missing Éowyn and his children, who were at home in Ithilien. The Steward stifled a yawn. The audience seemed to be endless today.

Instead of the high seat atop a slight of stairs, the King used a throne on a low dais for his audiences and usually either Arwen, Faramir, or Prince Imrahil sat a chair beside him and acted as an advisor when needed.

Faramir was starting to understand why his father had discouraged public audiences as much as possible. The people often brought problems which were mainly either trivial or absurd, which only the occasional one worthy of their lord's attention. Aragorn accepted this fact, but strongly believed that the King should be willing to help as many of his people as he could and not be a remote figure seen only by lords and ladies. Faramir wholeheartedly agreed, though sometimes he wished that his lord's subjects were not quite so eager for the King to solve every trivial quarrel that arose between them.

Within the past hour, Aragorn had patiently listened to two farmers from the Pelennor disputing the ownership of a cow; a drunkard who had spent all his money at the tavern, who now wanted the King to punish the innkeeper for letting him spend so much, and a woman who objected to her male neighbours hanging their underwear on the washing line where she could see it.

Aragorn had awarded ownership of the cow to the farmer who best described the animal, sternly admonished the drunkard before dismissing his case, and suggested that the woman would be far more offended if her neighbours had no clothes that needed washing.

Another woman was now requesting that Aragorn stop her husband from spending his evenings in the tavern with his friends rather than at home with her.

It was warm in the Great hall and Faramir started to feel his eyelids growing heavy. To keep himself alert, his eyes wandered round the vast room. Guards in the black and silver livery of the Citadel Guards were stationed at the doors, keeping a watchful eye on the crowd. Most of the folk looked bored. A few looked anxious as they waited to be heard.

Faramir's gaze fell upon a man. The fellow seemed to be fiddling with his boot. The Steward recognised him as the fellow who had squandered his money in the tavern. Strange that he had not left once Aragorn had dismissed the case like the other supplicants had done. A glint of steel suddenly caught Faramir's eye. The man had a knife!

Swift as an arrow, the Steward leapt from his seat and threw himself in front of Aragorn. The Guards raced to seize the man, but acted too slowly. He had already hurled the blade at the King. It flew through the air and struck Faramir. Several women screamed in terror.

Aragorn reacted swiftly. His years as King had not blunted his Ranger reflexes. He caught hold of the Steward before he could hit the ground. "Faramir!" he cried. "Are you much hurt? Guards, seize the miscreant and then clear the Hall. The audience is over for today."

The people needed little urging to leave. A couple of burly guards grabbed hold of the knife thrower. He shouted, "You rulers are all alike, you always favour the rich! A plague on you all!"

The innkeeper shouted after him. "It's all I can do to pay the rent thanks to the likes of you who don't want to pay their bills!"

Aragorn ignored the commotion. He gently eased his friend down on the cushioned throne, his eyes filled with concern and horror.

"Are you harmed, mellon nîn? Did the blade strike you?" Faramir asked, seemingly unperturbed by the knife embedded in his shoulder.

"I am unhurt, unlike you. You took the blade meant for me!" Aragorn replied. Tears glinted in his eyes.

"Shall I fetch a healer, sire?" enquired a Guard.

"I shall tend, Lord Faramir myself," Aragorn replied. "But send for Master Aedred to assist me. I require some hot water and my healing supplies."

The man hurried off. Aragorn supported the weight of the knife in his hands to prevent it causing further harm to his friend.

"Strange indeed that I should be sitting upon your throne!" mused Faramir, trying to take his mind from his pain.

"And on it you will stay seated upon it until Master Aedred and I have tended your wound," said Aragorn.

Once Aedred arrived and the healing supplies were brought, Aragorn dismissed everyone from the room, leaving the Guards stationed outside.

"Can you not even hold an audience without some ill befalling you?" said Aedred. "What has happened this time? Did you trip over your robes or knock yourself out with your crown?"

"I am perfectly well," said Aragorn. "Lord Faramir has been injured taking a would- be assassin's blow that was meant for me."

Aedred's usual composure was shaken at these tidings. "You are fortunate, my lord that the Steward is a man of such loyalty and valour."

"I am," Aragorn said simply. "Now help me remove this knife from his shoulder."

Faramir gritted his teeth and managed not to cry out when Aragorn and the healer removed the blade, albeit as gently as they could. The King quickly staunched the bleeding, Aedred assisting with a supply of clean cloths.

Once the bleeding had slowed, they eased Faramir out of his tunic and shirt. Much to their relief, the cut was not as bad as it had first appeared. Faramir's thick woollen tunic had somewhat deflected the blow.

"You should not take such risks!" Aragorn gently chided as he cleaned the wound. "No great harm has been done, but you could have been killed!"

"As could you!" Faramir replied, gasping in pain when Aragorn smeared the wound with honey. "Did you think I would just sit there while my friend and King were slain? Not while the sun and the moon travel across the sky, mellon nîn!"

"I am blessed to have you," said Aragorn, patting Faramir's good shoulder. He stitched the wound closed. Then Aedred carefully bandaged it. He wrapped Faramir in his cloak and sent a servant to fetch a clean shirt for the Steward.

A few moments later Arwen hastened into the Hall with a bundle of clothing.

"Estel, Faramir, what has happened?" she demanded. "I have just heard that you have been attacked."

"A miscreant threw a knife at me during my audience," Aragorn explained. "I was unaware of the danger until Faramir threw himself in front of me. He saved my life."

"We owe you a debt we can never repay, Faramir," said Arwen.

"It is reward enough that I was able to save my King," said Faramir. "Strange but I awoke this morning with a feeling of foreboding."

"You have the foresight of your forebears," said Aragorn. "It is a gift, which you use wisely."

"Do you feel well enough to have something to eat," asked Arwen.

"I believe so," said Faramir.

"Then I will ask the cook to prepare something nourishing and light," said Arwen.

"He deserves a meal fit for a king," said Aragorn and smiled at his Steward.

An Obscure Nook

I give the fight up: let there be an end, A privacy, an obscure nook for me. I want to be forgotten even by God. – Browning

With thanks to Raksha

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

“We should be able to persuade the Council of the need to change the inheritance laws in this afternoon’s debate,” said Faramir.

”This afternoon?” Aragorn groaned. ”I was certain it was next week.”

“I prepared all the documents last week,” said Faramir a trifle reproachfully. “I assume you have not read it?”

The King shook his head. ”I am sorry, mellon nîn, there always seems so many other things to engage my attention. Perhaps we could study the changes you propose now? Arwen is not expecting me to dine with her, since she is visiting the City Orphanage today.”

“I would be happy to,” said the Steward. “I will fetch the scrolls and join you in your study.”

“We may as well study them in my private sitting room,” said the King. ”We can at least be comfortable there and have something to eat while we work.”

Aragorn ordered a servant to bring a selection of breads, meat, cheeses, and fruit together with some wine. The woman had just placed them on a table by the couch when Faramir returned carrying a bundle of scrolls and documents. The two men were soon sitting side-by-side, papers on their laps and hunks of bread and cheese in their hands, scattering crumbs over the carpet.

“I believe when Elendil came to Gondor that he intended- “ Aragorn began, only to be interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” he called tersely.

A maid entered. “Are you sure those refreshments are sufficient for you, my lords?” she enquired. “The cook said to tell you she had a nice roast chicken prepared if you were hungry and she would make you a gooseberry fool or some syllabub for dessert.”

“This is quite sufficient, thank you,” said the King, dismissing the girl. ”Now where was I?”

“On page twelve, where I wrote that I believe Elendil intended Númenorean law to apply to Gondor,” said Faramir, finding the place and taking another bite of bread, this time accompanied by cold roast beef.

A loud knock came on the door.

“Come in,” Aragorn called grumpily.

It was a servant carrying wood for the fire. The man dropped the bundle of logs so that they rolled over the floor, then kept apologising profusely as he picked them up and built up the fire. It was impossible to concentrate on reading. After what seemed like an age, he was finally left after many bows and further apologies.

Aragorn groaned. “The usual servant is unwell. I believe this fellow usually works in the stables, work he is obviously far better suited to.”

For a few minutes, the two men resumed their work. Then there was another knock on the door. This time it was a housemaid, carrying a brush.

“What do you want?” Aragorn asked unable to keep the irritation from his voice.

“The cook’s assistant who brought your refreshments said there were some crumbs on the floor that needed sweeping up,” said the girl.

“It will do later,” said Aragorn.

“But the Queen, is most particular about thiscarpet,” the girl protested.

“I said it will do later,” Aragorn said angrily causing the girl to blanch. He softened on seeing her frightened look.” I promise you that the Queen will not be angry,” he said smiling at her. “We just need some to be left alone to work at present. Perhaps you could tell the Housekeeper we are not to be disturbed during the next hour?”

“Yes, my lord.” The girl bobbed a curtsey and left.

“Has a King no privacy?” Aragorn sighed as she closed the door behind her.

“It seems not,” said Faramir sympathetically. "Neither does a Steward, for that matter at least not in Minas Tirith. Now, if we continue on page sixteen where I noted that the fourth King, Tar-Elendil, gave his daughter an equal share of his personal property with her brothers.”

At last, it seemed the King and the Steward would be left to discuss the document in peace. Their meal completed, Aragorn removed the plates from the small table in front of them and leaned back with his feet upon it.

Faramir sat only slightly more properly, with his feet sprawled out.

As the fresh logs burned brightly, the room grew hot and both men shed their outer tunics.

Just then the door opened without a warning knock

“Estel!” Arwen said angrily. “That table belonged to Father. It is older than I am! How could you put your dirty booted feet on it?”

“I am sorry, “said Aragorn, hastily putting his feet on the floor. “It is just that I think better sitting like this!”

“I think not,” snapped Arwen. “You blood will all be in your feet rather than your head! And just look at the state of the carpet! There are crumbs everywhere. I spent thirty years making it; it took me fifteen years alone to find the perfect threads!”

“Faramir and I were eating our lunch while we worked,” said the King. “Do not blame the servants; we did not wish to be disturbed while we discussed inheritance laws to be debated later in Council.”

Meanwhile, Faramir struggled to pull his tunic back over his head with all possible haste. It was considered a grave discourtesy to be seen less than fully clothed in the presence of a lady.

“You would have more privacy in your study," said the Queen, smiling at Faramir to show that her anger was not for him.

"Now I understand why Ecthelion used to retreat to the recesses of the White Tower to ponder matters of state," Aragorn grumbled as King and Steward heeded the Queen's words and carried their papers to Aragorn’s study. "A wise man, your grandfather; he had an office built, and let only his closest friends and counsellors and the guards know of its existence. The chamber had been hastily built and was small. Well I remember how Denethor and I were constrained in such cramped quarters. Now I agree with Ecthelion's words:  'Privacy is as valuable as comfort, and sometimes is more valuable still."

A/n . This was written several years ago for the prompt “Privacy” on the AA list and has languished forgotten on my hard drive.

B2MeM Challenge: Beauty
Beauty
"‘For myself,' said Faramir, 'I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. War must be, while we defend our lives against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend: the city of the Men of Númenor; and I would have her loved for her memory, her ancientry, her beauty, and her present wisdom. Not feared, save as men may fear the dignity of a man, old and wise
Format: ficlet 
Genre: romance, friendship, biography
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Characters: Faramir.
Pairings: Faramir/Éowyn
Summary: Faramir reflects on beauty.
A/N; This was a somewhat experimental piece. I’ve no idea if it will work or not, but the joy of BTME is trying new ideas. I confess it is inspired by "Das Lied von der Erde" as well as Tolkien. You can hear it here
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kQZ51udFtrg 

With thanks to Raksha.

O Schönheit! O ewigen Liebens-, Lebens-trunk'ne Welt! – Das Lied von der Erde.
(O beauty! O world forever drunk in love and beauty.)


 

Beauty - Faramir had always revered and loved it. His mother had been beautiful beyond compare with her softly flowing hair and gentle smile. Most beautiful of all, were her gentle hands adorned with bright rings, and the tender caresses she bestowed upon her son.

He had thought his brother’s smile beautiful too even more so than his uncle's lively hound pups that played upon the hearth, or the cook's graceful green-eyed cat.

His world shattered into shards when his mother’s beauty was forever lost from sight. Faramir believed beauty had fled forever from the world, though he was too young to put into words what he was feeling.

Beauty gradually returned; little by little in a fair sunset; or some fragment of verse or lore that the growing boy discovered.

His father scorned such sensibility. Sunsets and poetry were for women to admire, or the bards to write about, not for a boy bred and born to be a warrior.

His brother laughed. Boromir had found beauty of his own in the bright sword he was now of sufficient age to wield. He polished it until it shone like a star and boasted how many enemies he would run through with his blade.

Faramir shuddered, envisaging bright blood pouring to the ground and the screams of the wounded and dying. When his time came to wield weapons, he liked better the bow than the sword. The arrow in flight had a beauty of its own when the bowstring sang to hasten it on its way.

There was no beauty in war, though, only in the land he sought to defend. The fair White City with her walls and battlements, which gleamed like pearl in the setting sun. Ithilien with her riot of lush greens and golds, and heady scents that could intoxicate him with their sweetness.

His fellows spoke of the beautiful girls whose kisses they sought, but Faramir’s heart remained untouched. How could he protect a wife and little ones in a land from which the beauty was draining, hour by hour, day by day, as the enemy drew ever closer?

The world grew dark indeed. Even the sun was blotted out for a time. Boromir had fallen in a far off place. His father’s heart turned to stone. Faramir walked, shrouded in deep shadow in a place where beauty was but fragments of memory scattered in the winds.

He was about to depart for that realm far beyond the world where beauty reigned supreme, save that one sought him out and plucked him forth from the darkness.

Fair as one of the Ainur did his rescuer appear. Yet, his true beauty was only revealed in the weary grey eyes that smiled upon Faramir when he could at last gaze upon his rescuer. Those eyes revealed a soul brighter than mithril and more precious by far.

Beauty was revealed again as Faramir’s strength returned, together with his hope. The sad lady of Rohan with her sun-bright golden hair and a daisy that defied the poisons of Mordor and grew defiant in the gardens. At last, the Eagle’s wings flashed golden in spring sunlight, bringing tidings of great joy.

Faramir now dwells daily in a realm drunk in love and beauty. What greater beauty than fair Éowyn riding to greet him upon her grey mare, or the merry laughter of his children as they look at him with loving eyes?

The King, the lord he loves, is come and the White Tree blooms each year. The land blossoms, each year more fruitful than the last. Beauty is no longer hidden, but present in every blossom and every child that gathers them.

Faramir is well content.

"But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him."
Format: short story
Genre: friendship
Rating: PG
Warnings: alcohol consumption
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir
Pairings: none
Summary: Faramir discovers an unexpected side to the new King.
With thanks to Raksha

His new King was all that Faramir had hoped for and more. In his dreams, he had long beheld Elendil's heir as tall, noble, and kingly. Today, he was even more, for when Mithrandir placed the crown upon Elessar's noble brow; there was a light surrounding him and a glory beyond his wildest imaginings.

Faramir had glimpsed Aragorn thus when he called him forth from the dark vale. Indeed, he had mistaken his rescuer for one of the Valar! In the waking world, though, he had beheld a weary Ranger and loved the man for himself.

Now when he again beheld Aragorn's kingly glory, he was filled with awe. His heart was overflowing as he cried, "Behold the King!"

000

In the months that followed, he found Aragorn to be a wise and kindly lord, and every inch of what a King should be. Faramir found his new lord to be friendly, yet he hesitated to become close to his liege lord. Aragorn was most solicitous towards him and enquired frequently about his health, offering him further treatments for his shoulder, which remained stiff and painful at times, though the wound had healed. Faramir always declined. Much as he loved and admired Aragorn, his father had left him somewhat wary of those who held the power of life and death over him. Aragorn was much of an age with his father and at times, when in a stern mood, looked disconcerting like him.

One evening, King and Steward had worked especially hard all day, compiling a complicated treaty with Harad. Queen Arwen was spending the day visiting the many Guilds of City craftsmen and then dining with the heads of the Guilds. She was not expected back until late evening, so the two men worked later than usual.

Only when the sun had set and a servant came to light the candles, did the King and Steward set aside their work.

"Have you any plans for this evening, Faramir?" Aragorn asked.

"No, my lord," Faramir replied. "I thought to do more work on the treaty and draft out an invitation for the Kha Khan of Harad to exchange ambassadors with us."

"That can wait until tomorrow, Faramir. I would not have you spend all your time tied to your desk. We shall escape from the Citadel together, this night."

"Escape, my lord?" Faramir could hardly believe his ears and could not conceal his alarm.

Aragorn laughed. "You remind me of your father when you raise your eyebrows like that, my Lord Steward! No need to look so concerned, I am not planning to escape back to the Northern lands from whence I came."

"That is good to hear, my lord."

"We are both former Rangers, are we not? We need a little freedom every now and then, if we are not to go quite mad cooped up within these walls!"

"But, my lord! It would cause an uproar if we were to simply disappear!"

"This time, we shall take guards with us who will be ordered to be as unobtrusive as possible. In future, though, when they are better used to my ways, I intend to disperse with them. Now, Faramir, will you join me for a drink?"

"Thank you, sire, I would be honoured," said Faramir.

000

The King strode through the darkening city streets with long confident strides, giving Faramir the answer to a question that had puzzled him these past months, why the Hobbits had often referred to the King as "Strider". The guards struggled manfully, but had trouble keeping up with their King. Faramir, who was nearer to his liege lord's height, managed to keep up without too much difficulty.

The King kept on walking until they reached the fifth circle where he stopped outside a very ordinary looking tavern. A crudely decorated sign read 'The Travellers' Rest.' "We will stop here," he told Faramir. "Gimli speaks highly of the place."

Aragorn ordered the guards to wait outside, ignoring their horrified reaction. He strode within, followed by a somewhat reluctant Faramir.

"Welcome to my inn, my lords. I am Turin son of Turgon," declared a tall, balding man, who was obviously the innkeeper. He swiftly approached them and bowed. "How might I be of service to your lordships? Would you like some refreshment to warm you on this cold night? I have the finest wines from Dorwinion to Lossarnach."

"A glass of Dorwinion, please" said Faramir.

"And a tankard of ale for me, please," said Aragorn. "Do you have Dragon's Breath?"

Faramir stared open mouthed. Labourers and other common folk favoured Dragon's Breath. He had never tasted it, but had heard it was an exceedingly strong and pungent ale.

"And would my lords like anything to eat?" asked the innkeeper.

"A crusty loaf with butter and a hunk of cheese," Aragorn replied. He glanced at Faramir who could only nod dumbly. The King, who could dine off the finest foods in Gondor, wanted to eat the fare favoured by the humblest of his subjects?

Turin showed his guests to a table. It was still early and there was plenty of room. A hush fell over the common room and the other patrons rose and bowed. Aragorn smiled at them and bade them ignore his presence.

"This was a mistake, Faramir," said Aragorn once the innkeeper had scurried off to fulfil their order.

Faramir let out a sign of relief. The King had come to his senses.

"Next time we come out for a drink we must choose a tavern where we will not be recognised and wear our old Ranger clothes as a disguise," said Aragorn.

"But why my lord?"

"We do not wish to ruin anyone else's enjoyment of their drinks by making them constrained in our presence," said Aragorn. "Also only a foolish King pays no heed to what his people are thinking. Over a drink, men talk of their joys and fears and whether or not they are happy with their lot and those who rule over them. "

Faramir nodded, suddenly understanding. The King was far wiser than he had imagined.

The innkeeper brought their drinks together with the food: brown crusty bread with creamy butter and sharp cheese from Lossarnach.

Faramir nibbled the bread. It was much tastier than that served at his table. He sipped his Dorwinion. It was a poor vintage. He grimaced.

"You should have had a tankard of Dragon's Breath," said Aragorn. He took a swallow and linked his lips appreciatively.

"My father always insisted I should drink wine," Faramir replied. "He said ale was common. I would have preferred, though, to drink the same as my men. My father, though, always insisted that wine was supplied and drunk by the officers."

"Neither King nor Steward should ever lose the common touch," said Aragorn. He called to the innkeeper to fetch another pint of Dragon's Breath.

"Now drink up, lad," he said, pushing the foaming tankard towards the Steward. "Let us make the most of our hour of freedom!"

Faramir drank, at first cautiously. To his surprise, the ale tasted good. It was a strong black beer with rich, complex aromas and the flavour of roasted malt.

"Do you like it?" asked Aragorn.

Faramir smiled. "I think I do, sire."

Aragorn grinned at him. "I thought you might once you had tasted it. I was brought up to only drink wine too, but discovered the delights of a good ale when Halbarad took me to 'The Prancing Pony in Bree'. I should like to take you there one day. I discovered "Dragon's Breath" when I was in Gondor before, many years ago. It is one of this land's hidden treasures. Drink up and enjoy!"

Faramir drank his expression thoughtful. This was a side to the King he had not suspected, an unexpected side of the man beneath the crown. Here was a former Ranger desiring to escape the trappings of royalty and enjoy simple pleasures. Behind the King's glory, was a humble man and Faramir loved and admired the King all the more for it.

Written for BTME and now revised . Faramir and Aragorn do not become close friends until "Shadow and Thought" in my universe.

Author: Linda Hoyland

Title: Burning the Midnight Oil

Rating: G

Theme: Wisdom

Elements: No man can be a good ruler unless he has first been ruled.

Author's Notes:

Summary: Faramir is concerned that Aragorn is working too hard.

Word Count: 884

Faramir put down his pen and glanced across the room to where the King was still working. "I have done all I can for tonight," he said. "I think I will retire to bed now."

Aragorn sighed. "There are still several sections of this treaty I need to work on."

"You can continue it in the morning," said the Steward. "We still have five days before the Grand Potentate arrives."

"The treaty has to be checked by the experts in law and copied out several times by the scribes before he does," said Aragorn. "I must finish it tonight. You should go and rest, though, you look exhausted."

"So do you, mellon nîn," said the Steward. He studied Aragorn's familiar features in the candlelight. The King looked so weary that he appeared old and haggard instead of his usually vigorous self.

"Your lady will be waiting for you," said Faramir. He got up from his desk and locked the parchment he was working on into a drawer.

"Arwen understands I need to work on this," said Aragorn. "Goodnight, Faramir, May Elbereth bless your slumbers!"

Faramir said no more but quietly left the room. Instead of going to his own chambers, though, he turned down the corridor that led to the King and Queen's apartments and tapped on the door.

"Come in," the Queen's voice that answered. She had obviously sent the servants to bed. "Oh, it is you, Faramir. Come sit down and take a glass of wine." Her welcome was cordial, but her eyes betrayed her disappointment that the Steward stood before her and not her husband. Her hair was unbound and she was clad in a loose robe and looked as if she were ready for bed. She was not alone as an elderly lady in waiting was snoozing on a chair in the corner of the room.

Faramir accepted the wine, but instead of drinking, he fingered the glass in his hand.

"I thought you were Estel for a moment," said Arwen.

"I am concerned about him," said Faramir. "He is exhausted, but he insists on sitting up to finish the treaty he is working on. He has been up since dawn and it is gone midnight now."

"Estel spent all morning in a meeting and only paused to snatch a noonday meal before rushing off to the Houses of Healing as the healers sent for him to help a badly wounded man," said Arwen. "Healing always drains him. He is the strongest of living men, but even he has his limits. I tried to persuade him not to return to work after the daymeal."

"We felt we needed to work on the treaty after the messenger brought tidings from Khand late today," said Faramir. "I am dealing with the part concerning trade and still have a good deal of work, but I knew if I worked any longer tonight I would write about tortoises rather than tariffs! I tried to get Aragorn to rest for the night too, but he would not listen," said Faramir. He took a sip of his wine and tried to stifle a yawn. "I fear he will fall asleep at his desk. I came to you as I know he will heed your words, my lady."

Arwen smiled at the Steward. "You know Estel all too well, my friend. Finish your drink and then we will see if we can persuade my weary husband to go to bed."

"It will not be easy I fear, my lady. He can be very stubborn." He drained his glass and placed it on the table. The lady in waiting began to snore softly.

Arwen laughed, but expression was determined. "I know Faramir, I know."

Queen and Steward marched down the corridors together to Aragorn's study. The King did not appear to have written anything since Faramir had left him. Faramir hovered on the threshold while Arwen entered the room.

Arwen coughed loudly. Aragorn did not move. "Estel?" she called, gently placing a hand on his shoulder.

Aragorn sat up with a start. "Yes, my love?"

"Come, Estel. It is time for bed."

"I will come as soon as I have finished this treaty, my love."

"You were half asleep. You should come and lie down now."

"The treaty will be finished in an hour," Aragorn protested.

"We have an important meeting in the morning," said Faramir coming forward. "You need a good night's sleep."

"Do I have to send you to bed as I do Eldarion?" threatened an exasperated Arwen.

Aragorn turned to face his wife and his Steward. "Can the King not choose whether or not to sleep?" he asked them in mock irritation. He tried unsuccessfully to stifle a yawn.

"No man can be a good ruler unless he has first been ruled," said the Queen firmly.

"A very good point to which I concede defeat," said the King. He picked up the treaty and locked it in the drawer of his desk. "I am a fortunate man to have both a wise wife and a wise Steward."

Arwen exchanged a triumphant glance with Faramir. He blew out the candles before Aragorn could change his mind.

"Goodnight, my friend," said Aragorn as Arwen led him towards the royal bedchamber. "May the stars ever shine upon you!"

A/n Wishing all my friends in the USA a very Happy July 4th.

Title: Vanquished Shadows

Author Name: Linda Hoyland

Prompt: "Then, as a sweet rain will pass down a wind of spring and the sun will shine out the clearer, his tears ceased, and his laughter welled up, and laughing he sprang from his bed." (Return of the King, "The Field of Cormallen") combined with Your character gets caught in a spring rainstorm. What happens next?

Summary: Faramir ponders the events of a momentous day.

Rating: PG

Warnings: None

Beta: none

Author's Notes: Written in honour of Defeat of Sauron Day. 500 FLF

Such a day it had been, unlike any other he had known. Faramir felt he wanted to laugh and cry both at the same time.

All his life, Faramir had dwelt beneath the Shadow. Now it was no more. He had seen such marvels today that he could hardly take it all in.

He had kissed the Lady Éowyn. For granted, a chaste kiss upon her brow, but nonetheless a kiss. She had not objected.

Then a great wind had blown, the sun had come out and the Shadow had departed.

If those were not marvels enough, a Great Eagle had come from the East and announced that the Black Gate was broken and henceforth the City would be blessed and her King was returning.

The wondrous day was now almost at an end. Faramir desired to quiet his racing thoughts before nightfall. He decided to take a stroll in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. He was still under the healers' care and recovering from his wounds, but he did not feel yet like returning to his bed. He had half hoped that he might behold Éowyn again to bid her goodnight, but she was nowhere to be seen. Faramir was not downhearted. He knew now that there would be a tomorrow in which to woo her.

His thoughts turned to those who were not there to see this day. He blinked away the tears as he thought of Boromir. How his brother would have rejoiced in the defeat of the Dark Lord! Then his thoughts turned to his father. Faramir tried to imagine Denethor smiling as everyone around him had smiled today. It was not easy. Denethor would most surely have rejoiced at Sauron's defeat, but would he have welcomed the return of the King? Faramir felt certain he would not.

His heart soared again when he thought of the man he had recognised as the heir of Elendil, even as Aragorn had saved his life leading him forth from the dark vale in which the Black Breath had imprisoned him. This man was the king of his dreams, wise, compassionate, and mighty. It would have been so easy for him to let the one man who could hinder his path to the throne, perish, but Aragorn had put forth all his strength in order to heal him. He would gladly surrender the White Rod to such a man.

Suddenly, Faramir felt moisture upon his face, this time not from weeping. He looked up and although the sun still shone, it was raining. As a child, Faramir had always thought there was something quite magical about rain and sun at the same time. It seemed a fitting end to this day. He laughed aloud with sheer joy and lifted up his face to better feel the raindrops against his skin. He would be soaked and the Dame Ioreth would scold, but he cared not at all.

Then Faramir looked towards the East and beheld a perfect rainbow.

B2MeM Challenge:Image Prompt: Blue bowl decorated with yellow flowers

http://starbrow.livejournal.com/pics/catalog/1107/14256

Format: Short story
Genre: gen
Rating: G
Warnings: none
Characters: Finduilas, Faramir, Ioreth
Pairings: Finduilas/Denethor, Faramir/Éowyn
Summary: Ioreth has a gift for Faramir.

"Pretty dish!" said Faramir. He reached out a small finger towards the bowl on the table and touched it gently then scrambled on to his mother's lap and snuggled against her.

"It's just an old bowl," Boromir said scornfully.

"Pretty," Faramir insisted.

Finduilas smiled at her youngest son. "That bowl is very precious to me. A potter in Dol Amroth made it for me as a wedding gift. He captured the colours of the sea and sky in it and my favourite little star flowers, or celandines as they are sometimes called."

"Want to see star flowers!" said Faramir.

"I am certain that you will one day," said Finduilas. "They only grow in the countryside, though, not here in this city of stone. When I am better, I will try to persuade your father to take us to visit Dol Amroth." She turned her head and looked wistfully out of the window.

000

Many years later

"Fancy bumping into you here in the marketplace, Lord Faramir," said Ioreth, placing herself squarely in front of the Steward. "I hope you're taking good care of yourself. You shouldn't be doing too much after suffering the Black Breath, my lord, you shouldn't. There's a chill in the air today too. You need to wrap up well against the draughts or you'll be catching a chill."

"Good day,Dame Ioreth," said Faramir. "I promise I will take care of myself. I am just taking a stroll to help me regain my strength." He made to move on.

Ioreth continued to block his path."As I was saying, Lord Faramir," she continued. "Fancy bumping into you here. I was on my way to see you. Seeing you here has saved me walking all the way up to the Citadel. I heard you were meaning to get married to Lady Éowyn, poor sorrowful lady."

"I hope I can ease her sorrows once we are wed," said Faramir earnestly. "Now I really must be on my way. I have a meeting with the King within the hour."

Ioreth did not move. "I'm sure the Lord Elfstone can wait a little while. Now, as I was saying, Lord Faramir, I heard you mean to be wed, so I've something here for you, I thought you'd like to have." She looked in the large basket she carried and rummaged in its depths, reaching for a cloth wrapped object.

"Why thank you, Dame Ioreth, that is most kind of you," said Faramir, his heart sinking. He had already received a selection of wedding gifts from well-wishers and was certain he now owned more dishes than the potter, and enough spoons to supply Gondor's entire army, not to mention a selection of truly hideous ornaments.

"You should sit down to open it, my lord," said Ioreth, shepherding him towards a nearby bench. "You don't want it to get broken, you don't."

Faramir's spirits sank even lower. He had hoped to open it in private and express his thanks in a vague and tactful missive. He hated to tell a falsehood, yet he did not want to hurt the old woman's feelings. She had been so kind to him while he was in the Houses of Healing. However hideous her gift was, he would have to find something good to say about it. He obediently sat down beside Ioreth and carefully unwrapped the concealing cloth to reveal a blue bowl. He stared at it in amazement. It was not just any blue bowl, but one that reawakened treasured childhood memories. He was grateful that Ioreth had one hand upon it, or he might have dropped the lovely object in his surprise. He was silent for a moment gazing into the bowl's blue depths. Ioreth smiled at him benignly. "My mother had one just like this," he said at last.

"I know that full well and it is the very bowl you're holding, Lord Faramir."

"I thought it had been lost years ago when my dear mother died," said Faramir. His fingers traced the delicate pattern of celandines adorning the bottom of the bowl.

"Your poor, sweet mother was taken from us too soon," said Ioreth. "Such a lovely lady she was and she had such pretty things. I was sent for one day soon after Lady Finduilas died to tend your brother. He'd sprained his ankle a few days before. Always getting into some scrape or other was Lord Boromir, now you were a careful child, my lord, you caused the healers much less work: not that it wasn't a pleasure to tend Lord Boromir. Now as I was saying, I was sent by the Warden to see how Lord Boromir's ankle was healing and came across a great heap of things in the yard that had belonged to dear Lady Finduilas that Lord Denethor was throwing away. I imagine he couldn't bear be reminded of your poor sweet mother, but it was a crying shame to throw such lovely things away. I'd seen the bowl in the sweet lady's room when I'd tended her and thought it was so pretty, so I took it and put it inside my healer's satchel, as it was going to be thrown away with the rubbish. A marvel it wasn't broken, it was! Maybe I shouldn't have taken it, but I've cherished it in Lady Finduilas' memory all these years, but now it's time for you and your bride to cherish it instead."

Faramir's eyes prickled with tears. He remembered how pretty he'd thought this bowl as a child. He had forgotten about it for years, assuming his father had destroyed it with so many of Finduilas' possessions. It was still most fair in his eyes. It were as if some small portion of his mother had been returned to him. Beside him, Ioreth coughed, reminding Faramir of her presence. She regarded him somewhat anxiously. The Steward collected himself and smiled at her.

"Thank you, Dame Ioreth I am so glad that you kept this. I shall treasure your gift always."

Ioreth beamed. "I'm glad to hear it, my lord, but I must be on my way. I can't stay here all day talking. I'm due at the Houses in an hour and I've still not bought any eggs, and if I don't hurry, the fresh ones will all be gone. You'd never believe what some of the farmers try to sell you, last week one sold me a dozen eggs that floated, but I wasn't born yesterday, I wasn't. I demanded my money back!" Still chattering, she rose from the bench and made her way towards one of the stalls.

Faramir made his way home carefully clutching the bowl. Soon he would dwell in fair Ithilien where the celandines grew in profusion. He would gather some with his lady and remember his mother. They would fill the bowl with water and let the celandines gleam like stars against the night sky.

Choose Life

These characters belong to Tolkien and his heirs. I make no money from writing this story.

Caught between life and death, Faramir faces a decision.

I call heaven and earth to record this day against you, that I have set before you life and death, blessing and cursing: therefore choose life, that both thou and thy seed may live – The Bible Deuteronomy 30:19

A/n. Some lines are taken directly from Tolkien.

Faramir had ridden out to battle more times than he cared to count. Today, though, was different. He was certain he would not return. No man had wanted this mission, so hopeless did it seem. Only his father's piercing gaze and direct challenge to his courage had compelled him to volunteer. There was no other choice. His father expected him to atone for not bringing him the Halflings and the thing that they carried.

He preferred to think of it as simply a thing. He had spoken truly when he had told the Halflings that he would leave it on the highway if he found it, but that did not mean he could not feel the Ring's lure. It seemed to whisper to him that his father would love him as much as Boromir if he took it, but so absurd was the suggestion, he had pushed it from his thoughts at once. Now, he was trying to retake Osgiliath in Boromir's place. He wondered if his father would have been so willing to send his brother to almost certain death.

Boromir was already dead, though, and with him any hope that Gondor might somehow triumph in this war. Faramir wondered just what had gone through his brother's mind in the long weeks spent with the Halfling. Had the Enemy's weapon teased and tormented him beyond all endurance? Frodo had said little, but Faramir could guess all too easily what had remained unspoken. Somehow, the Ring had led to Boromir's death. Had it been brought to Minas Tirith, it would surely have destroyed them all.

Before Faramir had ridden away, Mithrandir had spoken to him. "Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness," he had said. "You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!" Faramir had smiled sadly at the wizard. His life was most surely forfeit today for the odds were overwhelming. As for his father, if he truly did love him, would he have sent him forth without a word of encouragement or blessing? Faramir sighed. Had he brought his father the thing he so desired, he would doubtless now be beside his sire in the Citadel, watching him become something he hardly recognised. It was better this way. His father's wrath had fallen heavily upon him, but he knew he had done what was right. They were doomed, but trying to use the Enemy's weapon against him would have been a greater evil by far.

Despair gripped Faramir's heart. He had often felt sad throughout his life, but before there had been hope, not this bleak emptiness that now filled him. He glanced around at his men. They all rode silently, with heads bowed. There was none of the usual camaraderie and bravado that usually came before a battle. Even the horses were subdued. It were as if the Enemy had not only brought terror, but with it, utter despair. Every part of his body ached, but worse was the ache in his heart.

A blood-curdling screech filled the air. The dread enemy captain had returned and was circling overhead on his fell beast. Death was approaching and Faramir was ready to embrace it. He would perish defending the city he loved. The last remnant of Númenor 's glory was about to be swallowed up by darkness. He urged his horse into the fray. His men were vastly outnumbered by a hoard of Orcs and Easterlings. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his shoulder and his eyes dimmed. The sounds of the battlefield grew faint.

0000

Faramir knew not for how long he had stumbled through this dark vale where even the sun glowed black instead of gold. If this were death, it brought no release. He wondered if this were some form of punishment for disobeying his father. Sweat soaked his garments and a raging thirst tormented his throat. Thorns and sharp rocks tore at his burning flesh. His body throbbed with pain from head to toe. Fell creatures assailed him. Somehow, Faramir managed to fight them off, even as he wondered how could they kill him if he were already dead?

Somehow, he felt convinced that he yet lived, if only because he had always been told that the dead found peace beyond the circles of the world. And where was Boromir if this were the realm of the dead? Would his mother not come to greet him too? Surely they would not leave him to wander in this parched wasteland?

Something crunched beneath his feet. He glanced down and to his horror saw that his boots had crushed a human skull. Then the ground went soft beneath his feet and the air was rank with the stench of decaying flesh, the flesh of his men.

Bile rose up in his throat. He had to leave this place!

As if in response to his thought, a shaft of golden light appeared in front of him and he could see a tunnel opening. Boromir and his mother and father stood at its mouth and beckoned to him.

They had come! Faramir stumbled towards them, filled with relief. Then he wondered why his father was there. Surely, Denethor was alive and leading the defence of the City? It mattered not, though. Boromir would lead him into the light that surely lay beyond .

Suddenly, he heard someone in the distance calling his name, like a shepherd might call for a sheep that was lost. Faramir hesitated. The voice came from behind him and was coming nearer. It seemed too great an effort to turn and see who was calling. He ignored the increasingly urgent tone. He entered the tunnel. Boromir was waiting. Soon they would be together and there would be no more pain and heartache.

He was so near now to being with Boromir again, so very near! Something in the voice, though, compelled him to stop and turn around. A strong hand immediately grasped his.

Faramir tried to pull away.

"Faramir, come!" said the stranger.

"My mother and brother are calling for me," said Faramir. "I must go to them."

"It is not yet your time," said the man, clasping Faramir's hand more firmly. "Come with me and choose life!"

Faramir turned and looked at the stranger. For a moment, he thought that the man could almost be the twin of his sire, but when he studied the carven features, the eyes were full of warmth and compassion rather than coldness and anger. The stranger had an air of high nobility about him and was bathed in a clear green light which emanated from a gem he wore set in a brooch shaped like an eagle. On his brow, he wore a gem, which gleamed like a star,the brightest thing in this dark place.

Suddenly, a gauntleted hand seized Faramir's other arm. A chill coursed through Faramir's body as the Lord of the Nazgûl tried to drag him away. He cried out in terror.

The stranger drew his sword. It gleamed with clear blue light. "Begone, spawn of Sauron!" he cried, piercing the creature with the blade. It gave an unearthly shriek then crumbled into nothingness.

Faramir almost swooned, but the stranger's firm grip kept him from falling. He opened his eyes and regarded him with awe. "Surely you are one of the Powers!" he exclaimed.

The stranger's face lit up as he laughed. "I am more accustomed to being called a vagabond and a layabout!" he replied. "I am a mortal man like you. My name is Aragorn, son of Arathorn."

"Then surely you are some great lord, sir?" Despite his pain and weariness, Faramir felt drawn to know more about this man. "What brings you to this dread place?"

"I am come to seek you and bring you home, Faramir, son of Denethor," said Aragorn.

"But why, lord? My father says I have failed him and betrayed Gondor."

"I say that he was wrong. Never did a truer man draw breath than you, Faramir. The Enemy seeks to destroy you. He knows full well that I shall have need of you in my kingdom should we triumph in the days that lie ahead."

Recognition dawned on Faramir. He would have fallen to his knees had he not feared he might never rise again if he did. "You are Elendil's heir, my lord and king!" he cried. "I can depart with joy, knowing that you are come."

"I bid you to choose life!" said Aragorn. His tone was stern, yet kindly at the same time. "I bid you come with me."

Aragorn laid his hand on Faramir's brow and the younger man felt new strength coursing through his veins.

"I will come, though I know not the way," said Faramir. "How long have I tarried in this place?" He glanced back just in time to see the tunnel of light close and his family vanish from sight.

"Come!" said Aragorn. He put his arm around Faramir's shoulders and half dragged, half carried him along. "You have been here for three long days. It is time to return to the light. I will lead the way."

The ground was as rocky as before and fell sights, sounds and smells of death and evil still assailed him. Now, though, Faramir began to believe that maybe he could escape this place. It were as if Aragorn were pouring his own strength into him.

At length, though, even Aragon's strength seemed to falter. They were climbing a steep cliff together, which seemed to have no summit. More Orcs and fell creatures of every kind came to try to block their path. Aragorn despatched them all with his gleaming sword, but he was moving more slowly now.

"You should leave me, lord, save yourself," said Faramir.

"Endure but a little longer and we shall come safely home," said Aragorn.

They reached a rocky overhang and paused to draw breath. "I am so thirsty," said Faramir. "The foul air burns my throat."

"You shall soon have water in abundance," said Aragorn. "Wait here but for a little while. I shall return."

To Faramir's dismay, he vanished from sight. Faramir huddled against the rock face, his sword clasped in a somewhat shaky hand awaiting the next enemy that might appear. Somehow, though, he knew that Aragorn would not abandon him.

Suddenly, a fresh breeze blew, dispersing the foul air and carrying on it the scent of a spring morning. The barren landscape seemed to melt away leaving in its place a fair meadow full of blossoms. Faramir lay down on the grass, closed his eyes and breathed in the sweet scent.

"Faramir, awake! I bid you to choose life!"

Faramir opened his eyes. His gaze met warm, kind eyes shining in a weary but noble face. He realised he was lying on a soft bed. A light of love and knowledge was kindled in Faramir's eyes. "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?" said Faramir.

"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!" said Aragorn. "You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return." He turned away for an instant then held a glass of water to Faramir's parched lips.

Faramir drank deeply. It tasted sweet, the very stuff of life. He had chosen.

A/n Written for the Teitho Challenge "Life and Death" a couple of years ago. With grateful thanks to all who have helped me with this story.

B2MeM Challenge:B2MEM Challenge B2MEM 2012 I18 Adunaic – Izrê (beloved), Economy – Market Day, Emotions – Grief, Of the Sea – Corals

But the other Ainur looked upon this habitation set within the vast spaces of the World, which the Elves call Arda, the Earth; and their hearts rejoiced in light, and their eyes beholding many colours were filled with gladness; but because of the roaring of the sea they felt a great unquiet. And they observed the winds and the air, and the matters of which Arda was made, of iron and stone and silver and gold and many substances: but of all these water they most greatly praised. And it is said by the Eldar that in water there lives yet the echo of the Music of the Ainur more than in any substance else that is in this Earth; and many of the Children of Ilúvatar hearken still unsated to the voices of the Sea, and yet know not for what they listen.

Format: ficlet

Genre:friendship

Rating:G

Warnings:none

Characters:Faramir, Gandalf

Pairings:none

Creators' Notes (optional): Most British people suffer from sea longing to some degree. Maybe it is because we live on an island.

Summary: Gandalf gives Faramir some advice

The gulls circled overhead, screeching their wild cries to the wind. Faramir looked up at them, watching them until they disappeared in the direction of the river. He closed his eyes and could feel warm sand beneath his bare feet. Laughing, he ran towards his mother. She was smiling as the wind blew her unbraided hair around her face. The waves crashed against the shore and Faramir was consumed by longing.

"Good morning, my boy."

Faramir started out of his reverie. "Mithrandir! What brings you here, old friend? It is good to see you."

"It is too long since my travels brought me here to Gondor. I thought I would pay your father a visit. He was not pleased to see me as usual."

Faramir looked uncomfortable.

"Do not trouble yourself, dear boy. Who does appreciate an old man's meddling? But shall we find somewhere to sit? My old bones protest at standing too long."

"Of course, Mithrandir."

There were several stone benches in the Court of the Fountain. The old wizard selected one facing the dead White Tree. The guards stood impassively on either side of the withered branches

The old man and the young sat in silence for some time. Then Gandalf spoke. "You seem troubled, son of Denethor."

"The times are dark and I fear for the future. I look at the White Tree and think of the days of Gondor's glory that are no more."

"Do not despair, Faramir. In the darkest hour hope will come from the North."

"Always you speak in riddles, Mithrandir."

"In time, all riddles will become clear. There is more , though, that troubles your soul than this withered tree, methinks."

Just then, another flock of gulls flew overhead, screaming their mournful cries. Faramir blinked hard then rubbed his sleeve fiercely against his eyes.

"The gulls trouble you, dear boy?"

Faramir grinned ruefully. "Their cry pierces my heart. Sometimes, I fear I have the sea longing and many say that was what killed my mother. Am I fated to be like her. Mithrandir?"

Gandalf stroked his beard thoughtfully. "Men say many things, not all of them true. Certainly, you share your mother's gentle heart and that heart was filled with longing for the sea. The Wise say that a soul too consumed with longing lacks the strength to fight off the many maladies that Men are prone to. Maybe the sea longing sapped your mother's strength, allowing some common mortal illness to kill her. The foul fumes of Mordor borne on the East wind bode ill to both man and beast in these times in which we live. Small wonder, Lady Finduilas craved for the fresh sea breezes from the West. She was not alone in her longing, though it consumed her spirit more that it does for most of the younger Children of Ilúvatar . However, many who have once seen the sea, both Men and Elves, are forever after consumed with longing for it."

"But why, Mithrandir? I can understand that the Eldar might yearn for Elvenhome across the sea, but why should Men, who are banned from the blessed realm, be thus tormented?"

Gandalf smiled. "To Men, the sea should not be a torment, but a joy. The Wise say that song of the waves still carries an echo of the Great Music from when the Ainur sang the world into being. To hear that song is to be strengthened and refreshed, though none now recognise the primal music from which it stems."

Faramir's features relaxed and he smiled back at the wizard. "That would indeed explain the call of the sea. I once asked one of the healers and he told me that we were drawn to the sea, because our bodies contain salt like the sea water, but I like your explanation better. I feel no longing when I look at a salt cellar!"

"When you next have leave from your duties, Faramir, pay a visit to your Uncle in Dol Amroth," Gandalf advised. "Let the sea refresh you and restore your spirits. Hold fast to hope so that melancholy will not consume you."

"Your words and wise and I will heed them. Maybe the gulls call to me as they say my mother was descended from Elves? Yet Boromir feels nothing when he hears their cry."

"Who knows why members of a family can be so different?" said Gandalf. "One thing, I am certain of, though. Many Men will still be consumed by sea longing when they hear the gulls cry, countless generations after the memory of the Eldar has faded from Middle-earth."

"Truly, Mithrandir?"

"Truly, for as long as Arda endures, the sea will sing the echo of its creation and those with ears to hear with respond and their spirits will be called to the echoes of the Great Music ."