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It had been a good day, Faramir thought. An unexpected pleasure, no doubt, but a good day none the less.
The king's messenger had caught him by surprise that morning when he announced Aragorn's and Arwen's approach. Their visit should not have been such a great surprise, Faramir had thought in retrospect. Emyn Arnen was nigh unbearable in the July heat, and he remembered how much worse Minas Tirith was, her glorious white stone reflecting the sun's rays until the whole city felt like one giant oven. Anyone who could escape, would. He remembered that lesson well enough from his youth, and he could hardly blame Aragorn and Arwen for seeking a day's respite in the hills of Ithilien.
Just now, Aragorn looked as free from cares as Faramir had ever seen him. He dozed in the crook between a tree's roots, his head drooped against his chest so his wide-brimmed hat almost fell off. He let out another great snore – Arwen had likened the sound to the din of marauding orcs, when it first began – and Faramir could not keep himself from chuckling.
Arwen's lips quirked around the pipe she was smoking (her husband had corrupted her on that point). "I wonder sometimes how he survived the wilds of Eriador without being caught with that foghorn for a nose." Then, frowning a bit, "It is a pity Éowyn could not join us," she said.
"Aye, but I did not have the heart to wake her," Faramir said. "We had a difficult foaling last night, and she was up all night."
"Surely you have animal-healers for that sort of thing?" Arwen asked.
"Indeed," Faramir answered. "But you know Éowyn near as well as I do. She never could sleep when one of her horses is in trouble, and so she spent the better part of the night pacing the stables and doing what she could to make herself useful. She'd gone to bed maybe three hours before you arrived, so I let her sleep. We will see her at dinner."
The thought of food made his stomach growl quite of its own accord, and Faramir hunted through the remnants of their picnic for leftovers. "I meant to ask you something earlier." He rapped the empty wine-bottle with his knuckle. "You brought wine from Minas Tirith – that I understand, Aragorn's stores are legendary. And the candies and other odds and ends I could perhaps not produce easily on short notice. But bread?"
He found a peach and took a large bite, the juices dribbling through his fingers. A wild thought occurred to him, then, for boyish legends die hard. He looked over at Arwen curiously. "Do not tell me I've been eating lembas all this time?"
This time it was Arwen's turn to chuckle. "No," she said. "But you're not so far off, really. It is a little joke of Estel's. Both of ours', really. He once remarked that at the start of any great quest the queen of an elven house must furnish the adventurers with lembas – and that little escapades like today are the only adventures left to him. I bring the bread to remind him."
Faramir listened to her go on a bit with the story, nodding at the expected intervals, but in truth his mind was far away. The mention of lembas had called to mind other memories, and he found his mind strangely drawn to them. Boromir had written him letters, composed during his watches as the Quest had journeyed south, though he had never had the chance to send them. Aragorn had delivered them to their rightful heir, after the war.
Through them, Faramir had learned of boots that pinched all day long and spoiled meat that made his bowels run and rocks that poked at his back all through the night. Boromir had griped, too, about lembas. To think that he'd journeyed all the way to Imladris, found the Last Homely House against all hope, and still there was not a crumb of lembas to be found! That lack had bothered Boromir, for he'd heard great tales about the Elvish way-bread and had been eager to try it.
Faramir had learned the joys of their quest, too, of course: the bawdy songs Gimli sung round the camp-fire, and how the periannath had taught the Fellowship an absurd game they called tic-tac-toe, and a dozen other small tales. He almost felt as if he'd been there and without the bother of blisters. Still, the small complaints had struck Faramir with the most force. It was laughable, really, to dwell on such things when all the world was turned topsy-turvy, after. But still Faramir remembered them.
Beside him, Arwen had stopped talking and was looking at him. He offered her a bite of his peach and shrugged his shoulders, as if he could shake off his memories that way. "I promised Boromir that I would grow him peaches like this," he said at last. "After the war, in Ithilien. These are from Dol Amroth, but our own orchards will bear fruit in another year or two." He sighed to himself. "I cannot help remembering him, sometimes, and the memories wear me down inside."
Arwen patted his knee sympathetically. "For me it is apples," she said matter-of-factly. That statement caught Faramir by surprise, and he looked over at her inquiringly. "My father had a grove of apple-trees, in Imladris," she explained. "He mulled cider for midwinter, and our kitchens baked the most delicious bread with walnuts and bites of apples inside. And honey. We dried some of the fruit for the Dúnedain, too. Even after Estel and I were handfasted, still Father sent great barrels of apple-rings to the Angle, so the Rangers might carry a taste of home with them in the wild."
Arwen fell silent, looking out across the field to the stand of trees a half-mile off. Faramir knew them to be oak trees, but from this distance it might have been an apple orchard. "Whenever I taste that fruit now, I cannot help but remember," Arwen continued. "The memory is good, but sometimes I wish for a day's rest from it."
A part of Faramir wondered whether he should trust Arwen's words. She had proved herself a formidable opponent across the chess-board, and that would not have been possible without some fair measure of guile. Still, the wistful smile that now graced her face, the yearning he had heard in her voice – they seemed like truth to him. In any event he was glad to take them that way; those signs pointed to a friend who understood his own heart's burden.
Wrapping his arms around Arwen's waist, Faramir pulled her a little closer so she could lay her head on his shoulder. Boromir had held him like that, and Faramir was glad just them of the long friendship that allowed such familiarity. Once upon a time he would not have dared to hold another like this but no longer, and Faramir was glad of the trust Arwen showed him. For the song of another's heart, a friend's heart, beating so close to his own.
They sat like that a long while, watching the sun slink lazily behind the trees. A good day indeed.