Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)
Title: Cold (#1955)
Author: Lilan
Chapters: 3
Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: A tired Denethor and an ill teenage Faramir...and memories brought to surface.
Published: 06 Jun 2005
Updated: 09 Jun 2005
Warnings:
Type: Drama
Characters: Denethor, Faramir
Chapter 1 - Chapter 1
Denethor rose from his chair and tried to stretch his back, wincing slightly in the effort. Hours of sitting hunched over the desk made him rather stiff, and he decided to move a bit.
He was suddenly aware of a pair of grey eyes looking from a small coach in the corner.
“What, Faramir?” he asked, rubbing his cold hands together. It was funny that they should be cold, for the fire was cracking merrily, and it was rather warm in the office.
“Sorry, Father… nothing,” his son said and sniffled, then rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
Denethor crossed the room and put his hands to the boy’s brow. It was still a trifle too warm for his liking.
“I am fine, Father,” Faramir said reproachfully, ducking his head from the touch.
Denethor smiled inwardly. Gone were the days when he could stroke his children’s heads without getting an indignant hiss in return. He was glad, for that showed growing up. Every child grew up quickly these days… and his sons had to, being what they were. Still, he could not repress a feeling of loss. He, being who he was, had been denied much more than common parents, who could read their children stories before they went to bed, or take them out riding as they pleased, or listen to their small and bigger woes…
He was brought out of his reverie by another sniffle. Faramir was fumbling with his clothing, looking for a kerchief. Denethor sighed and handed him his own.
“Thank you,” Faramir said, handing the piece of linen back after he had thoroughly blown his nose.
Denethor cocked his head at him.
“Are you implying we should share it?” he said, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.
The boy flushed scarlet, then smiled hesitantly too.
“No, of course not,” he admitted. “Sorry, Father.”
Denethor smiled and returned to the desk.
“Do you have much left there?” he heard Faramir’s voice from behind, followed by a loud sneeze.
The boy was just past a bad cold, which had put him to bed for a week. The fever was almost gone, but he still had a runny nose, and Denethor had been recently forced to listen to soft sniffles, sneezes, and laboured breathing; normally, that would have made him mad after an hour, but he had been literally buried under paperwork of late, and had barely seen his son when the latter was in bed. He did feel for the poor boy, confined to his chamber, too weak to even read, with only one window to look at, and even that was of small comfort, for it had been raining heavily for that whole week. So, when Faramir stuck his head in the doorway and asked if he could sit in the office with his book, Denethor did not have the heart to turn him away. Much as he disliked the accompaniment of his sniffles.
“Heaps,” he sighed, returning to the desk. “They just seem to come all at once. For a whole week, there can be nothing at all, and then you get this.”
He went on with the papers, then almost felt Faramir’s eyes on himself again. Denethor looked at him, but the boy instantly returned to his book, rubbing his red nose one more time. He seemed rather sleepy, Denethor noticed.
“You should be in bed, Faramir,” he said. “I would see you in a better state than this, and to be well again, you need your sleep.”
Sleepy grey eyes looked at him again, refusing to close.
“I shall wait until you finish, Father,” Faramir said stubbornly. “You look tired too.”
Denethor could not help laughing softly. That seemed to annoy his son, and the Steward explained, “This is precisely what your Mother would say, Faramir. With her, that was the surest way of them all to get me to the bedchamber.”
No sooner the words left his mouth, he wondered at himself. Strange as it might have seemed, there was no familiar pang in his chest, just a wave of warmth as he remembered Finduilas’s innocent tricks. Even his frozen hands felt better.
He left the desk, deciding to leave the work until later, and went to sit beside his son.
“Do you remember her, Faramir?” he asked, trying to look him in the eye.
“No… not really,” the boy said sadly. “I remember that she used to draw pictures for us… and once I fell and grazed both my knees, and she put something so stinging on them! And she sang lullabies to me…”
He blushed, embarrassed, no doubt, with the childishness of the memories, but his father seemed interested rather than amused.
“Is that all?” Denethor pressed.
Faramir sighed miserably.
“I…I cannot remember her face,” he confessed. “It just slips away. Oh, I know there are portraits of her, but…I think she was different. When I look at the pictures, I just cannot believe that the face is my mother’s.”
Denethor shuddered slightly at his words. He himself had the same feeling at times: the proud beauty looking down from the canvas was a far cry from his warm and loving wife. It was almost frightening that his son should feel the same.
“And there was something blue. Dark blue,” Faramir said unexpectedly.
“I beg your pardon?” Denethor started.
He had to wait a bit for the answer, as Faramir took to blowing his poor nose again. When finished, he said, “I do not know why, but I always think of the colour blue when someone mentions Mother… like some garment. F-father? Did I say something wrong?”
Denethor could only shake his head and press a hand to his brow.
He replied after a while, “It is all right, son. It is just that you seem to remember some things about her. Your mother had a cloak, dark blue with silver stars. I gave it to her, and it was a very… special gift.”
He swallowed painfully, but found somewhere a tremulous smile for his son.
Quite unexpectedly, the boy’s eyes filled with tears.
“I am sorry, Father,” he whispered, and this time the sniffle had nothing to do with his cold.
Denethor grew alarmed. “Now, now, what is that?”
He reached his hand to Faramir’s cheek, but the boy shook his head and wiped his eyes with annoyance.
“I…I had better go, Father,” he said. “I really need to be in bed, you are right, and you too. Will you…”
Denethor smiled, moved by his son’s concern.
“Yes, Faramir, I promise I shall not stay up late. But – I thought I was the father here!” he added teasingly, attempting to lighten the mood.
However, the effort was lost.
“I am sorry…” Faramir said helplessly, clutching the book to his chest.
He rose from the coach, then, quite unexpectedly and awkwardly, took Denethor’s hand and brought it to his lips. When he looked up, there were tears in his eyes again.
“Sorry…” he repeated, and was gone in seconds, leaving his father rather at a loss what to do, given the number of apologies he had just got from his son, and not quite knowing the reason for them.
TBC
Chapter 2 - Chapter 2
Chapter 2
He stood hesitantly at the entrance to the House of Stewards, quite unsure if he should proceed.
Long ago, he decided to come there only once a year, on her birthday. He could not bear to visit the place on the day of her death, as this would only bring memories he would rather keep somewhere away, tucked under the thick cover of everyday duties and cares. He did not want to remember how she died; the memories of her happier day were a lot better.
Gradually, he was a little surprised that the pain was wearing away, not ripping his heart in two any more. There were regrets, for certain. He smiled ruefully at that. There were always regrets, but there was also a chance that you could put things to rights, unless the one who you believed wronged was beyond your reach… forever.
Had Finduilas not died, he would have certainly proceeded to make her wait long hours until he came back from her office, and declined her tentative offers to go for a ride together when there was a moment to spare (he was too exhausted, so he preferred staying in with a book of lore), and he knew she longed for open spaces rather than the constant confinement of the City… though she never mentioned it, not once, and he chose not to notice, for it was more convenient that way.
He remembered how immensely relieved he was when healers assured him that his wife’s illness and death had naught to do with her longing for the sea. He could not have borne it at the time.
Sighing, he entered.
Finduilas’s resting place was easily recognisable by the beautiful sculpture, a likeness of a woman lying on the stone slab that had been placed over her. He remembered his search for the piece of marble that would suit his demand: pure white, smooth and even-coloured, not cloudy, so that nothing could mar the beauty he wanted to keep for eternity.
The stone was found eventually, and he had the best sculptor make the likeness of his wife, providing him with all her portraits and especially pointing out that he wanted her to look as real as possible…he wondered at this whim. What did it matter, after all… She was not returning from the journey she had started on.
Denethor stood before the sculpture and touched his hand to the cold face. Cold… Yes, this stone lady looked like his wife with every single line of her proud fair face, of her stilled hair curling slightly over the brow… and still it was not she.
He traced the line of her mouth. Yes, the trick lied there. The lips he remembered and loved had been ever curled in a soft smile, a little bit mischievous and teasing. This mouth was hard and cold, as was the still figure before him. No artist could ever hope to show her as she really was…
“Fin…” he said softly, seating himself on the slab beside the figure. “How you would rage if you could see this… ”
The thought made him smile.
“Perhaps you can,” he went on. “I prefer to believe in the afterlife, my dear. Will it not be amusing to watch our boys together when I come and join you there?”
The thought of the children saddened him. Who could promise him that his own end would come before theirs?
“It is so wrong, Fin,” he said, stroking the cold hands folded on her breast. “So wrong, to have to bury your children, and yet this is what happens here each day. I…I do fear for them. I cannot tell you how I fear… I cannot tell anyone but you.”
His heart constricted painfully as he thought of Boromir. His eldest was not coming back for a long while, and Denethor hoped with all his heart that his return would be safe. It was the first time his son was in real danger, in danger of a battle, not a short fight, and oh, what would he not give not to have to send him into peril!
That he could not afford. An eighteen-year-old could fight; an eighteen-year-old who was the Steward’s son had to fight, and there was nothing one could do about it.
Faramir would be leaving soon, too. Denethor sighed and rubbed his brow tiredly. At least Boromir was doing what he excelled at and loved. His younger brother was good at those things too, but his heart was elsewhere most of the time… much like Denethor’s had been under the same circumstances.
Whatever people might say (and they said it displeased the Steward to see his other son so ill-suited for battle), he pitied the boy. Faramir had been born in the wrong times. How great a scholar he would make were he allowed to follow his inclinations! But that was not to happen. Too much, and too many, depended on them, the father and the sons. Denethor smiled softly. He could already imagine it all, all three of them appointed for different feelings from their people: himself for fear and reverence and a little bashing – no ruler could do without those; Boromir for pride and admiration, and their youngest for quiet love, the kind you give to your nearest ones. This sort of rule was bound to succeed.
“See, Fin, I truly am a scheming sort,” he smiled, looking unseeingly past the still white figure and almost seeing her lovely face, radiating warmth and affection, melting through the deadly chill of the place…
He was startled to hear a sneeze rip through the night silence of the house of the dead.
Whirling around, he froze in astonishment to see his son standing some feet away, clad only in a thin white shirt, and that looked soaked with rain that never stopped.
Faramir seemed to be blue with the cold, shivering in the current of cold air from the entrance.
“Faramir!” Denethor cried, pulling off his cloak and wrapping it around the shaking frame of the boy. “Are you mad, child? Goodness, you are soaked through! Is there any brain at all in that head of yours? Or should I strap you to your bed so that you do not catch your death in addition to the cold?”
The boy did not respond, though his shaking began to still. Denethor put a hand around his shoulders, leading him gently towards the exit.
**********************************
When Faramir was settled in his bed, with the fire built up and the flames dancing merrily, warming the big chamber, and scolded properly by a healer called in, a guard who happened to come and check what the commotion was, and his father (not once), Denethor allowed himself a relieved sigh as he sank into a chair at the bedside.
“I wonder if you are really your age, Faramir,” he said. “Even a five-year-old would not be that foolish. Indeed, when you were five, you seemed much more reasonable to me!”
The boy’s eyes looked at him unhappily, and Denethor forced his annoyance away. After all, the child had been ill, still was, so he reached his hand to Faramir’s cheek.
He was surprised to see that the boy’s head jerked away from the touch.
Denethor almost gritted his teeth in frustration. Why was it that he never knew how to approach this son of his? Earlier in the evening, all had seemed so peaceful, so…right!
“What is it, Faramir?” he asked in his softest tones.
“Nothing,” the boy said hoarsely.
“I can see something is wrong, child,” Denethor said, catching his chin and forcing him to look at himself. “You can tell me. I promise I shall do my best not to be angry.”
He smiled, trying to reassure Faramir, but the boy remained grave and alert. Slowly, he took Denethor’s hand and pushed it away.
“Please leave,” he said. “I want to be alone.”
“Oh, do you?” Denethor felt his blood slowly starting to boil again. “So that you could get out into the rain and cold again? Much as it is not fitting that the Ruling Steward of Gondor should baby-sit his almost grown son, I am fully prepared to break the protocol like that to keep you from an absolutely foolish death! I feel I cannot trust healers with the task. I do not…”
“I know that it was my fault,” Faramir stated flatly, staring at the ceiling.
Denethor stopped mid-sentence.
“What was? Did you do something that I do not know? I rather thought you were past smashing windows,” he said wryly.
“Mother. I know she died because of me.”
Denethor stared at him as if he had the Dark Lord himself emerge before his eyes.
“What?” he gasped. “What the…”
“I heard someone talking, in here, when they thought I was feverish and would not hear them. They said she never recovered after I was born. That is how I know.”
*************************************
“…Still not awake? Poor boy.”
“Yes, this is likely to keep him down longer that one would have thought. Has the Lord Denethor been in here to see him?”
“He has not today. He does not come very often.”
“Small wonder. They say he cannot stand the boy, because of his wife.”
“His wife?”
“The late Lady Finduilas never recovered from the birth, she was very weak and eventually died. So they say. Now, the Steward loved her very much indeed, and he had been blaming her death on the boy ever since. You do see that he prefers his eldest to Faramir?”
“Yes, I heard that.”
“That is because the boy took his mother’s life, and he does not like to be reminded of that.”
*************************************
TBC
The sculpture like the one I attempted to describe really exists, and I had it before my eyes the whole time as I was writing. It is on the sarcophagus of a Polish Queen Hedwig (a saint as well) who died at a very young age giving birth to her child. She married a man fit to be her Granddad for the benefit of her country and did heaps of good in her very short life. Unfortunately, she died, as well as her newborn daughter, and the marble figure of her is by far the loveliest thing I have seen in my life. If any of my readers is planning to visit the city of Krakow (which is also the most adorable place for me), go and see it in the Wawel Royal Castle, in the church.
Chapter 3 - Chapter 3
Chapter 3
For a moment, Denethor could not either speak or move.
All he knew was waves of rage hitting him from inside, and he would have burst out with curses but for his ill child lying very still on the bed.
“Who were they?” he hissed, slowly rising from his chair.
Faramir looked at him again.
“Who were the people? I have to know that,” Denethor pressed.
“I…I do not know, Father… I was not fully awake…” the boy mumbled.
Denethor sighed. There was no way that he knew of to make his son speak the names, and he was sure Faramir knew them, judging by the sudden colouring of his pale face.
“And you believed them?” he asked, feeling unexpected anger and bitterness towards the poor boy. “You just took their words for granted, not even trying to ask me if that…thing was true? You never once doubted their words, Faramir?”
He sighed, sitting down onto the bed.
“I have to know who is spreading gossip like that, son,” he said tiredly, placing his hand on his son’s arm.
He could have wept, seeing a tiny flicker of hope in those darkened, anguished eyes.
“So…that was just gossip?” Faramir whispered, his eyes slowly filling with tears.
“It certainly was!” Denethor shouted, springing to his feet and starting to pace the room. “Your Mother died five years after you were born, Faramir! She was gravely ill, but that had nothing to do with the birth! In fact, I took her out riding just a week after you arrived…you should have heard what we had to listen to from healers upon our return.”
He smiled involuntarily at the memory of that childish escapade.
“But…but…” Faramir stuttered helplessly, “you said that I reminded you of her… and then you went to the House of Stewards after our talk… and I thought… I thought that it was my fault that you were upset…”
Denethor sat beside the boy again and gently, but firmly took his hands with his own.
“Who told you that the memories were unpleasant, son?” he enquired, looking gravely into the moist grey eyes.
“You looked sad,” Faramir pointed out.
“Oh, right,” Denethor snorted. “And what would you have preferred, the sight of me singing tavern songs in the place? I did love your Mother, Faramir, and to lose her was the most painful thing that has ever happened to me; were it not for you and your brother, I do not know how I would have lived through all these years. And when I was there, your Mother was not the sole occupant of my thoughts. She passed away, and our troubles are nothing to her… unless there is a world somewhere indeed from which the dead can watch us. But I thought of you, too, of our children that we brought into the world together, of all the perils that awaited you… and that was what made me truly sad.”
He wondered at his own words, for it had never been his habit to declare his feelings so openly; Faramir seemed astonished too at the thought that appeared rather unexpected.
Denethor was immensely relieved to feel Faramir’s hands press his almost imperceptibly. His son gave a tremulous sigh and closed his eyes.
Denethor reached to touch his face once again, and brushed away two glistening tears that had managed to escape, this time meeting no resistance.
“Is this why you did not want me to touch you, son?” he asked softly. “You thought that would bring me pain?”
Faramir’s face crumpled in distress; it was obvious he was taking great efforts not to allow any more tears to follow, but he was too exhausted by his illness and by the recent stress. All he could do was turn to his side and bury his face in the pillow.
At that moment, Denethor would have killed the two fools who were to blame for all this with his bare hands. He decided he would have the guards and servants questioned thoroughly later; now, he shifted closer to his weeping son and pulled him close, cradling Faramir’s head against his chest.
He sighed, hearing the boy sniffle into one of his favourite tunics. The cold together with his present distress would surely make it impossible to wear in tomorrow’s Council meeting… but it did not matter. Denethor could not help feeling a little proud of himself: he had just managed to reach his younger son, and there were very few people who could boast that.
Faramir gave a final sniffle and a sneeze, pulling away from the embrace, and the tunic was ruined once and for all.
“Get back under the covers, or tomorrow we shall be dealing with something more serious than just a simple cold,” Denethor said, pushing his son into the warm bed and covering him warmly. “Whatever made you get out in the rain like that? I had an impression that at least one of my children was not hot-headed.”
He smiled, tucking in the blankets around Faramir, but the boy was grave.
“I…I just wanted to be near you,” he whispered. “I did not mean for you to see me… I thought it would bring you only more hurt, to see me at Mother’s resting place, but then I sneezed and you saw me…”
“A lucky sneeze,” Denethor murmured, not quite trusting his voice. “Did you mean to go in hiding for the rest of my life? Perhaps you have been spending too much of your time with the Rangers.”
“I did not mean to hide!” Faramir protested. “Just…not to be before your eyes too often. So that you did not have to think of…her.”
“Why did you come to my office then?” Denethor asked.
Faramir blushed and sighed miserably.
“Faramir?”
“I just wanted to sit there with you, for the last time…” he confessed. “I would have never come there again…”
“You little foolish child,” Denethor blurted out.
“I am not a child!” Faramir cried indignantly.
So, things were slowly returning back to normal.
“You do admit to being foolish, then,” Denethor observed coolly.
“Father!”
Suddenly, Faramir caught a slight quiver of his father’s lips, and in a moment his own face lit with a smile.
“Laughing, are you?” Denethor frowned. “First told me to go to bed, and then kept me on my feet halfway through the night.”
**********************************
“Father?”
“Yes, Faramir?”
“Why are we here?”
The boy was clearly uncomfortable under the vaults of the House of Stewards, because of both the nature of the place and the memory of his recent trial.
He had had a severe setback after his night walk in the rain, and spent another week in bed. This time, the things had been different, though, for Denethor did his best to visit Faramir as often as he could. There had also been loud complaints from the Steward’s son about the vile taste of the medicines, the lumpiness of the bed, the lack of light and air in the chamber; all as it always is when a young one is firmly on his way to recovery. The healer appointed to look after Faramir observed that it had to be the boy’s desire to be like his brother, for Boromir was a case of total healers’ frustration.
Denethor had conducted a great investigation attempting to find the two gossips, but failed. Faramir never breathed a word as to who they were, though his father was quite sure the boy had recognised them.
Now, they were standing before the marble likeness of Finduilas, and Denethor was holding a bundle wrapped in a piece of dark cloth.
“I just wanted to give you something, and it is only fair that I did it here, for your Mother would also want you to have it,” Denethor said, placing the bundle in Faramir’s hands. “Unwrap it.”
Faramir did so, revealing a magnificent garment, a mantle of deep blue colour, adorned with silver stars.
“Is it…was it Mother’s?” he gasped, stroking the soft fabric.
“It was,” said Denethor, reaching his own hand to touch the cloak. “I gave it to her when she told me that she carried our second child. You.”
Faramir sighed, clutching the mantle to his chest.
“Thank you, Father,” he said, looking up into Denethor’s face with his big earnest eyes.
“You are most welcome, son,” Denethor smiled. “You can also give it to the lady that you will one day choose to be your bride.”
“I do not want any bride,” Faramir scowled.
“As you wish then,” said his father, laughing quietly. “But do get some lavender to keep the moths away. You might still reconsider.”
******************************
“Father!”
Denethor almost jumped at the shout, his quill tearing the sheet he was writing on in two.
“For goodness’ sake, Faramir! Can you not see that I am working!”
“Oh…I am sorry…” the boy said, almost in a whisper, preparing to retreat back to the hallway.
Denethor sighed and beckoned him in.
“What was it that you wanted?”
“Just…just a question, Father. You gave Mother the mantle when you learned about…well…me… what about Boromir?”
Suddenly, Denethor started laughing quietly.
“Boromir… Oh, no…”
“What?” Faramir frowned.
He rose from the chair and came to his son, placing both hands on Faramir’s shoulders.
“I got her a robe, a silk one, light green with golden laces. I waited beside her bed until she awoke in the morning, and ate her breakfast, and proudly presented it to her…” he lowered his voice almost to a whisper.
“And then?” Faramir whispered too.
“It appeared to remind her of lettuce, which she hated…” Denethor sighed. “She…she lost her breakfast all over it…”
The End
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