Chapter Text
”The face of Elrond was ageless, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful.
Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters, and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength. He was Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men."
The Fellowship of the Ring
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“Do you see, my lady?” Faramir stretched his arm, pointing to the ethereal glinting of white in the green valley below. “Another couple hours at most.”
The distant twinkle stirred something in him, an empty feeling just under the ribs, a tug of hiraeth, an unhomed longing for a future held in the past.
But his companion only nodded, absently, as though their approaching arrival was of no interest to her.
Faramir withheld a sigh and leaned over to pat her horse’s neck in thanks for being so understanding. She alone of their small company rode in a saddle and with a bridle. Although the horse did not enjoy either, it was necessary to at least in part compensate for the toll the long journey was bound to inflict upon her.
“Are you overly weary?” They still had time to rest before nightfall if necessary.
The maiden raised her gaze at him and curved her lips in a gentle smile, silently apoligising for the trouble. He regretted asking.
For the next hour they rode in silence save for the natural sounds of the wooded foothills.
Neither of them had visited this side of the Misty Mountains, let alone such a fabled site, but it felt profoundly inappropriate to express any excitement in the company of someone so frail and listless. Her paleness was acquiring the translucency of skimmed milk, and even the gold of her hair seemed to be fading.
Although he would have been glad for any occasion to go beyond the old familiar Mirkwood with its no less familiar vicinity, and see a bit of the world around – Faramir genuinely hoped the trip would prove fruitful for her.
Ill-named was how the official story went. Aredhel bore that which had first famously belonged to another, and it had brought no luck to its first owner either. This always made him wonder about his own mother, of whom he knew and remembered little other than the name, also shared across the ages. He could not quite penetrate the thinking behind naming a child same as someone with a rather unenviable fate, but perhaps Lady Aredhel’s family had had their reasons - as families always seemed to do.
They heard the first distant ringing of voices, singing. She let out an audible breath, as if this, too, added to her burdens.
It was too far yet to discern the words, and in the oppressive quietude of their company he was left little other avenue than to wander away in his own thoughts.
It had not escaped Faramir’s ear – although he did hope it had hers – what some, and not altogether few, thought of Lady Aredhel’s true plight and the according remedy to be administered. They were a rather straightforward people, the Wood Elves - at least far more so than he had expected of Elves before getting thrust in their midst.
Pragmatic in the kind of way that led to bluntness of speech. In their view, the maiden’s trouble came largely from having remained a maiden too long. Where swift hunts and strong wine fail to cast sorrows away, surely a tall drink of love would do the trick. And the meaning of love was as practical as shooting wild game with arrows.
If Faramir’s opinion were to be asked - which it never was, on this as many other matters - she could not be missing out on much.
To be fair, he had no way of knowing if it would be any different between Elves. What limited experience he had lay squarely with his own kind, in both senses.
Perhaps his liege knew this and it was one of his reasons for choosing Faramir among the many other sworn guards of Mirkwood for this mission. Sending out an Elf-maiden under the guardianship of a warrior with personal interest in neither Elves nor maidens was certainly sensible for everyone’s honour. Or perhaps King Thranduil simply did not care and picked him at random.
For his part, Faramir had never questioned this streak in himself with any degree of depth, wary, perhaps, that doing so would take him too far back in time to matters he would rather not think of.
Besides, with sons of Men there could be no ties, nothing promised, nothing asked – nothing to lose, and in his book that held truly great value.
If Elven lovers were anything at all like the mortal ones he had known – he truly did not see how their efforts could do anything for the Lady Aredhel's condition.
Or perhaps he was entirely wrong, perhaps any one of the slender warriors riding with them right now could have shown her a whole new world if she were but to feel anything for them.
For Faramir’s part, he never had, much as under the clothes their bodies had the same parts as the mortal males he bedded. Maybe they carried a certain coldness about them, despite the warm gold of their waterfallesque manes. Or maybe, all the years among them had never erased the border, never made him feel as one of them – and in that they were not desirable to him.
It did not help that he could never take them quite seriously. There was a certain purposelessness that estranged him. This, too, likely was his mortal heritage. A Man had so few years that he had to make something of them, pick a direction and better hurry to get there. Old age was merciless and swift in coming, wherefore one could not afford to while away one’s strong years on hunts, pranks and general dalliance.
Of course for an Elf, at least for one of Mirkwood, as he had never known any others, such mortal intensity was mystifying. Faramir on regular basis was teased for being ‘deep’ and even ‘morbid’, although the latter had to be a blatant exaggeration. His many ideas for how to improve things more often than not were met with a grace that did not, however, result in any action, now or later. He could not blame them, really – they had forever.
Nor could he blame them for not taking him seriously in turn. They were fond of him, in a way, and if there were to be selected one word for their view of him, it would have to be ‘amusing’. Amusing in his need to dwell – they would call it ‘brood’ – on things, in his drive to constantly apply himself to some cause, seeing rest as a reward to deserve rather than a gift to enjoy.
Amusing in changing so fast, too fast. There were no children in Mirkwood, mortal or otherwise, and no one seemed to know much about them. Even as Faramir had clearly headed into adolescence, they would still try to play nursery rhyming games with him. ‘It’s just not possible to keep up with you,’ he had been told with a nonchalant smile.
His swift growing up had been further facilitated by the fact that King Thranduil, although generally not unkind, was a vain and capricious lord given to losing his temper rather spectacularly. And Faramir, having been sensible even at that early age, soon figured that, despite his handsome dowry, he would be wise to earn his keep and please King Thranduil as best he could. It was clear the Elf-king was not inclined to dote on a mortal boy who was, to call a spider a spider, nobody to him.
And even though Faramir occasionally caught appraising glances from the guards and servants – and once even received a pat on the behind that was positioned as jocular but did not quite feel it – Faramir was under a lingering impression he would never be grown enough for them to be seen as a whole person. Perhaps if the attentions had persisted he would have given in eventually, out of sheer courtesy to his hosts if nothing else, but their interest never seemed to last, even by mortal standards.
Not that Faramir did not consider himself greatly fortunate in where life had taken him. He was certain there was no ill feeling left in his heart.
Thinking so, he had written back – it could not be said that he had written ‘home’, no, just ‘back’ – only once. Asking if…
He had not - never! - asked if he could return. If the decision could, perhaps, be reversed after this much time, if he was missed. If he was wanted.
He had asked only if, possibly, anyone was interested in him paying a visit? Only a short one, for he had many duties entrusted to him by his Elven liege. His lord would give him leave for the trip – he had not checked with King Thranduil, but he had every reason to be certain his lord would not care enough to forbid it.
Only upon setting it down in ink did he realise how much courage he had actually had to muster to take such a step.
The reply never came.
For well over a year Faramir had allowed for all possible and impossible delays, lying sleepless at night, hoping for news on the morrow. At last he could bear no more and sat down to write another, for the first message must have, of course, been lost.
And there, with the quill ready to dip into the ink-horn, he understood he was not going to.
This, around him, may never have become home, but here reward and punishment, albeit not always measured out in moderation, at least made sense.
Punishment. He chastised himself for using that term even in thought. It spoke of bitterness, of wounds unhealed, of hurt unforgiven – and had he not been told that he had nothing to forgive?
What did he even have to complain about?
Whatever his actual age might be, he was still young even by mortal reckoning, yet already a distinguished officer in the Elvenking’s host. Presently entrusted with the covetable responsibility of escorting the Lady Aredhel on the perilous journey to the legendary Imladris. Where glimmered the hope of her finally finding relief: whether indeed through meeting a handsome and lovesick Noldorin prince, or more likely and as planned - in the hands of one of the last great healers in all of Middle-earth.
The faraway vision of his fabled abode briefly disappeared from view as the party finally descended into the valley, and all distant views were blocked by tall graceful trees and lush ferns.
Not long now.