A Face in the Crowd: Faramir

Chapter Eight - The White Lady

*Some short sections of text in this chapter are taken from The Return of the King, property of J.R.R Tolkien & the Tolkien Estate. All of my fanfiction is not for profit.

News came early the next day that the army had reached the Morgul Vale. Keren knew that Dannor, marching on foot, would be more tired, less ready for battle, than the folk on horseback, and all she could do was hope that he stayed tired, as it meant he was still alive. She worried for Pippin too - surely one so small had no chance, other than to be a burden to those that were protecting him, like Beregond.

Then there was her newest, and strangest, acquaintance. She still puzzled over his description of her as an elf-friend, and it was a surprising, sad thought that he might not return, that she might never see him again.

As for Faramir, there was now a little awkwardness between them after the events of the night before, but both strove valiantly to pretend otherwise. That morning she helped him move to another private room within the Houses, smaller but more finely decorated, and the Warden finally got his room back.

"When exactly am I allowed to hear of my father's death?" Faramir finally broached the subject she had been dreading. "I'm well enough now to bear such tidings."

"Lord Elessar commanded us not to tell you until you were fit to take up your duties. That time is still far off."

"But why must I wait?" he asked. "Surely you see that not knowing what actually happened is making me dwell on all the possibilities of what could have befallen him?" he said, his hands clenching together as he knelt forwards in his chair. "In my mind I have seen him stabbed, or drowned, or burned. Please, Keren."

"My lord, I – " Keren felt for him, but was afraid to break her word. "Faramir," she corrected herself. "Were you close to your father?"

He looked sharply at her.

"All in this city know I was not. But that doesn't mean I don't grieve at his passing. He was a fine steward, in his way, and he loved my mother."

"Do you remember her?" Keren wondered.

"She died when I was five," he said quietly. "After my birth she became ill, and never recovered. I'm told many women are low in spirits after childbirth but this... whatever she had, I'm sure was what eventually killed her. I believe it began when father became the Steward and she had to remain here. She was not used to living away from the shores of Dol Amroth, and her heart began to fail. My father blamed my birth for her illness, her death, and he has never forgiven me."

Still and stony-eyed he sat, looking much like his father. There was no emotion in his voice, for the childhood wounds long buried had lost their potency. Keren wanted so much to take his hand, but was uncertain after the night before how to proceed.

"I believe my father feels the same about me," she said eventually. "My mother died when I was eleven, and he told me she was never the same after I was born. I didn't know any different. But when she died she seemed happy to be leaving, as if life was too sad for her to bear."

Both felt as if they had shared just enough, and Faramir, no longer wanting to speak of his father, stood and stretched.

"Let us shake off this melancholy mood. Will you join me for a walk in the gardens?"

"I wish I could," she said, "but it must be past ten, and I'm supposed to go to the Lady Éowyn. Although perhaps my sister could go..."

"Lady Éowyn?" Faramir asked. "Wait, Éowyn of Rohan, niece of King Théoden? Why is she here rather than safe in her own country?"