Work Text:
Quotes:
“When you choose an action, you choose the consequences of that action. When you desire a consequence you had damned well better take the action that would create it.” – Lois McMaster Bujold
“[D]o I not destroy my enemies when I make them my friends?” – Abraham Lincoln
“Courtesy seldom costs anything, and the willingness to extend it can be its own subtle declaration of strength.” ― David Weber
Making Arrangements:
After Herion left the royal pavilion to check on the lists for the next day’s matches, Faramir helped Aragorn change into finery of his own. Then, together with Arwen and their other companions, they began walking back in the direction of the upper levels of the city. Aragorn and Arwen were going to a gathering at Captain General-the-Lord Tavasond of the Lebennin and his wife Nessanie’s town house, while Faramir was headed back to the Citadel for ‘free time.’ In truth, Faramir normally did not mind having free time. It was nice to again have the leisure for things he enjoyed doing for their own sake. But he didn’t like not having a choice in it, and it was something to tease his parents about, besides.
Faramir had intended to go with them to this gathering. Tavasond and Nessanie were old friends of Boromir’s and also dear to Faramir. However, given how many events Faramir needed to attend throughout the rest of the week, he was already short on ‘free time.’
Upcoming events, in addition to many more prize givings to preside over at the festival, included the solemn vigil and then memorial service for Padron, the honorable Archivist and Priest of Aule who had been one of the murderous Archivist Belven's first victims, and for no better reason than that he had beaten Belven out for a minor promotion! If not for Legolas’ gardening and planting of trees in the plot beside the side entrance to the archives (where Arwen had recommended), they may never have found Padron’s body. Then Belven and his co-conspirators might have continued with their crimes for many more years to come. And yet, if Faramir hadn’t told Belven that he’d ask Chief Archivist Arradon to make sure that Legolas wasn’t gardening in sacred ground (as Belven had contended in an attempt to keep his crimes hidden), then Arradon might still be alive, today.
Faramir knew it was unreasonable to blame himself for that. But he felt such deep regret over his unkind and childish words to Arradon the day before his mentor’s death, when they’d argued over Arradon’s intention to tell Aragorn about Faramir being his son, that it was hard to think about it all rationally. Of course, the truth had ended up coming out anyway, it was only that Arradon hadn’t gotten to live so long as to know that he’d been right about how Aragorn would react.
On the upcoming sixth day of the Harvest Festival, which was also Sixth Day, it was traditional to spend the evening in personal family celebrations. This was partially so that the Harvest Festival grounds could be cleaned and reorganized for the closing ceremonies on Seventh Day. Seventh day was to be the official announcement of Faramir’s status as Aragorn’s natural heir and son, and Aragorn’s and Arwen’s son – and heir presumptive - by adoption.
The adoption itself would be private, on Sixth Day evening, with just a small group of family and friends present to witness Arwen’s and Aragorn’s formal adoption of Faramir. After the short ceremony would be a dinner and a party, as well as the traditional exchange of gifts. Gimli had saved Faramir’s sanity by convincing him to just give Aragorn and Arwen a painting he’d already done of the King’s Garden in bloom this summer, instead of the overly ambitious painting of the surviving members of the Fellowship at Aragorn and Arwen’s wedding, which Faramir was now working on (with some help from Legolas) as a Yuletide gift for his new parents. Legolas had helped to save Faramir’s sanity, by repeatedly emphasizing that the adopted child’s gift in an elven adoption ceremony was supposed to be only a token, something small and handmade, and that any of Faramir’s paintings would be superlative for the purpose, whether or not Aragorn and Arwen had already seen them.
Faramir also planned to attend the lute competition at the Harvest Festival, with Arwen, who was going to hand out the prize. She had encouraged him to compete, but he had trouble with the idea of doing so, as Denethor would have hated the idea. He also wanted to attend the gardening competition prize-giving, where Legolas was going to get a ribbon, although Faramir wasn’t sure if Legolas knew that, yet. Arwen had entered a part of one of his gardens, after first asking Gimli. It hadn’t won first place, that had gone to a more traditionally Gondorian garden. But it had done quite well, anyway.
As they approached the point where Faramir was to meet his guards while his parents’ guards stayed with them, Arwen reminded Faramir, “If I don’t see you before dinner, don’t forget to wear the special House of Hurin style of tunic for the formal dinner tonight, and the ball.”
Faramir sighed.
“Yes, dear one, I know that the buttons down the back make it miserable to wear,” Arwen kindly consoled him, “but it is your heritage, too, as Boromir’s brother, and as a descendant of the first Lord of Ithilien. And it will be more politic to wear it tonight, and then Telcontar colors for the formal dinner and the ball on Seventh Day.”
“You are quite right, Naneth Arwen, I just hate the buttons,” Faramir complained, “and the high collar, too.”
He gave Arwen a kiss on her cheek in parting at the cross street, making her smile, then left her with her ladies and her guards while he walked with Aragorn and Elrond and his sons closer towards the meeting point.
As they walked, Aragorn put an arm around Faramir’s shoulders and told him, “Arwen and I saw you and Legolas helping the children to fly their kites, on our way towards a prize-giving for winning livestock. Unfortunately, we did not have the time to stop and join you. But we saw enough to know that you – and Legolas - made a number of small denizens of Minas Tirith very happy today, son. That is no small accomplishment, not even for the Steward of Gondor and the Prince of the Greenwood.”
Faramir smiled back, touched. Then he frowned, even though it had been a highlight of his day, because playing with the remaining orphans still resident in Minas Tirith had made him think of the charming young orphan Langwen and her older brother Ramion and their mother, who had disappeared on their way to their new homes in Lossarnach, without a trace.
Gimli had hustled him and Legolas away from the kite field just as Faramir began to really berate himself, once again, for his failure to be able to find that remarkable young family. He’d gotten distracted by the games, and then by winning further prizes that he could share with Eowyn.
But now that Faramir remembered his earlier renewed worries, he shared sorrowfully with his father, “Helping the children to make and fly their kites reminded me of Langwen, and Ramion.”
“Ai, ion-nin, I’m sorry,” Aragorn commiserated, as he tightened his arm around Faramir’s shoulders, turning the gesture from companionable to comforting.
“Have we heard anything new?” Faramir asked, his voice tight with fear and sorrow, “from the army’s inquiries, or from our Quiet Men’s investigations?” The Quiet Men were Gondor’s – and Arnor’s- spy service, led by the newly ennobled Captain-the-Lord Ethiron of Eryn Vorn, Aragorn’s friend from his youth and his fellow ranger of the north. Ethiron was ably assisted by Lord-the-Captain Dervorin of the Ringlo Vale, who was originally from Gondor, then had later been trained by Ethiron in Arnor, and who now spent most of his time between Gondor and the Southron kingdoms of Harad and Khand.
“Nothing that changes the picture, dear Faramir,” Aragorn answered, his own tone solemn and kind, “I will tell you at once, if anything new truly comes to light. Then, if it is bad news, we will discuss it with Gimli, and then share it with Legolas, as well. I know how close a friend he had become to dear little Langwen.”
“Did I do something wrong?” Faramir asked, looking up at his father in hurt query, but trying to keep his face from betraying the intensity of his emotions in the middle of the Harvest Festival.
“I doubt it. Whatever do you mean?” Aragorn replied, both concerned and confused, though his expression gave away none of that in public.
“For you to have cut me out of the loop, in regards to the search for Langwen and her family,” Faramir answered, trying to control his resentment and pain at being thwarted in the carrying out of what he saw to be HIS duty. When Aragorn still appeared not to follow, Faramir huffed, and tried again to explain, “When I knowingly defied your will to confront that blackguard Belven on my own, part of my tariff for that wrongdoing was that MY men of the Citadel Guard answered to YOU for the whole two weeks that you had relieved me of my duties. Is this more of the same, that you are the one the Quiet Men and the Army Captains are answering to, in respect of the search for Langwen’s family and the other missing refugees? And, if it is, what did I do wrong, to incur such a harsh sentence?” Faramir ended plaintively.
“Faramir, no, not at all,” Aragorn remonstrated gently, and slowly, as if searching for the right words to explain the situation from his viewpoint, “It is no punishment!”
“Then what is it?” Faramir couldn’t help but snap back, stopping in his tracks so that he could better look his father in the eye, “I am the Steward of Gondor, am I not? The search for missing refugees in Gondor, and for those whom Belven’s poison supplier and co-conspirator Lord Morcocano and his still-hidden accomplices sold into slavery in Gondor, should be primarily MY responsibility, as your second-in-command in respect of Gondor. Not your responsibility, as King and overall commander.”
“Faramir,” Aragorn began again, consoling and commiserating but, blast it all, not yielding!
“Ada,” Faramir said desperately, hoping that an appeal to the father would soften Aragorn, even though this was truly a matter of Steward-and-King, not father-and-son, and Faramir wouldn’t normally stoop so low as to try to use a personal appeal in a professional matter, “This is not a matter having to do with Arnor, which would logically be delegated to your new Steward Bregolas of Arnor. Nor is it a matter of foreign affairs, which would arguably come first to you, as King, even though you often delegate many foreign issues to me. The missing refugees have to do with Gondor, first, and I am still your Steward of Gondor, am I not?”
“You are my Steward. Of course you are,” Aragorn affirmed, sternly but with a hint of compassion, “But I have elevated the matter of the missing refugees. It has become a matter for the King’s concern first, not yours. I will keep you informed, but it is now an issue which is on my plate, not yours.”
“But, Ada, that’s not fair, it really isn’t, surely you can see . . .” Faramir began, wondering bitterly why it was that he could win a debate competition, but not a re-hearing on this issue, which mattered to him so much more!
“Faramir,” interrupted Lord Elrond, who had been silent until then but had, apparently, been paying close attention, “I, too, was once my King Ereinion Gil-Galad of Lindon’s first officer. I was his heir and then also his viceroy for Eriador, a position very much like your own as Aragorn’s Steward in respect of Gondor. As you surely know, it is a settled matter of law in both realms that it is within the remit of the King, which duties to take primarily upon himself. Your King has spoken, on this matter. Your place is not to further question his decision, now that he has made his will clear to you, but rather to accept it. Attempting to change his mind by appealing to him as his child instead of his officer will avail neither of you anything but frustration.”
“Yes, Sir,” responded the very frustrated Faramir, trying hard to hide his resentment in the face of Lord Elrond, whom he was fairly sure BLAMED him for how he’d come to be born. That, in combination with heart aching over the missing refugees, had Faramir desperately trying to blink tears out of his eyes so that no one would notice his lack of control. Being younger than almost everyone else was bad enough, Faramir didn’t need any more reasons for people not to take him seriously!
Aragorn placed a fatherly hand on Faramir’s middle back, and applied careful pressure to guide him into moving towards their destination, where they were to meet Faramir’s guards, to hand him off as if he were a package, a small child, or an idiot.
Elladan, who had apparently also been listening, asked his father in an innocent tone which Faramir KNEW meant that the younger twin was up to no good, “So, Ada, how did it work out for you, when you pressured Ereinion for repeated re-hearings on an issue as his baby foster-brother, rather than as his viceroy and heir?”
“Not well,” said Lord Elrond wryly, with a fondly irritated look for his equally raven-haired son.
“Particularly not, or so I am told,” his other son Elrohir interjected with sharp amusement, “If Ada had been obstreperous enough that Great Uncle Cirdan, or even our oh-so-humble mentor Glorfindel, found cause to wade in on cousin Ereinion’s side of whatever spirited discussion was going on.”
While Aragorn’s elven family began to amicably bicker the question of whether the Balrog-Slayer could ever be described as ‘humble,’ Faramir stewed in resentment due to his various highly justifiable causes for vexation. Being cut out of the refugees issue was probably the most pressing, and Lord Elrond’s disdain for his foster-son’s bastard possibly the most cutting, but the ban on participating in duels during the Harvest Festival was also worthy of mention.
Being allowed to participate in the contests of physical prowess, particularly the swordsmanship and group melee duels, would have allowed Faramir to show the people of his Kingdoms that he was, if not the best warrior of his age at the Harvest Games, at least on par with the best of his age.
That was important for the people of Gondor (and Arnor) to know, about their Steward of Gondor, and about the new Prince of an important border princedom. It was even important for the people of neighboring kingdoms to know, so that they would know that Gondor would be in strong hands should anything, Eru and all the Valar forbid, ever happen to Aragorn.
By sole accident of his birth – and then appointment of Aragorn – Faramir as Steward would command the City Guard as well as any standard Army forces in residence, in the event of a siege of Minas Tirith.
While Faramir had ceded the role of Captain-General of Gondor (and second-in-command to the King in the field) to Captain-the-Lord Tavasond of the Lebennin, until Faramir had attained greater years and experience, he still also was, as Prince of Ithilien, the commander of the White Company, the reorganized Ithilien Rangers. Of course, Faramir had experienced seconds-in-command in the form of Captain Beregrond in Minas Tirith and Captain Anborn of the White Company Rangers, and he would rely on their experience.
After all, Faramir certainly wouldn’t have survived his two years commanding patrols in Ithilien as a lieutenant if he hadn’t quickly learned to listen to his older non-commissioned officers, despite their more junior rank. Nor was Faramir shy about turning the tactical command during an engagement over to a more experienced tactician. But the ultimate responsibility for deciding when to engage, and when to break off an engagement, was Faramir’s, as the most high-ranking officer present. The men of Gondor deserved to know whether Faramir was making adequate progress, for his age, towards being worthy of this responsibility, and also towards being ready for the day when he was the most experienced tactician present.
So, Faramir was relieved for the opportunity to once again prove his worth as a warrior. At least to Cadwar, and to his teammates.
Once he could see his waiting guards, Faramir petitioned, “Can’t I walk even just the last 50 feet to Orohael on my own?
“Not today,” Aragorn denied tolerantly.
“But . . .” Faramir reflexively began to protest, because he’d had less freedom when he was a toddler still in LEADING STRINGS, for Eru’s sake.
“Not. Today.”
Faramir turned to stare at his father’s unusual curt and emphatic refusal. Then it occurred to him to worry, “are you hurt from your duel, Sir?”
Elrond, who looked equally concerned by that possibility, went so far as to give Faramir a grateful look for raising it.
“No, ion-nin,” Aragorn answered with a sigh, “Merely tired, and not looking forward to more socializing. I apologize for snapping at you.”
“If it helps your perspective, Faramir,” Elrond offered, “Uncle Cirdan would have given Ereinion or I the same answer to such a question, in a crowd this large.” That caused Aragorn to give Elrond a grateful look. Faramir resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He also felt less guilty for having agreed to join in a challenge to an illegal duel, since not only wasn’t he allowed to compete this year for what seemed to him a silly reason, but he wasn’t even allowed to walk fifty feet by himself. It was infuriating!
Aragorn did relent enough to let Faramir walk the last few feet by himself, saying, “Off with you, now, Brat,” and ruffling Faramir’s hair. The endearment ‘brat’ often also portended a half- teasing swat to Faramir’s hind end if in private. Which Faramir didn't really mind, as Boromir had also been fond of such irritating shows of affection. But Faramir was just as glad to miss out on it, especially with such a large audience of interested Festival goers.
"Hello, Orohael, Brithadan," Faramir greeted his primary royal guards with fond resignation, "Did you miss me?"
Orohael laughed, as did Aragorn and his twin foster-brothers, and even solemn Brithadan and Lord Elrond smiled at that little jest.
"Always, your Highness," Orohael professed to Faramir, with a twinkle in his hazel eyes. In private, most of the royal guards felt comfortable addressing Faramir by name, but where anyone who wasn't 'family' might overhear, they were always careful to respect the dignity of their youngest charge.
Once they got to the King’s House, Faramir left Orohael and Brithadan in the guards’ ready room, while he went to the private apartments that he shared with Aragorn and Arwen. He thought about stopping by Legolas and Gimli’s suite, to see if he could invite Legolas to join him alone on some pretense to go over all the things Legolas probably didn’t know about Gondor’s unofficial code for illegal duels. But the likelihood of catching Legolas on his own (or being able to separate him from Gimli on a pretense) was very poor, and Faramir didn’t really have much time before he had to meet Cadwar at his office. So, he decided against it. Instead, he started a letter to Eowyn, sharing with her everything.
Soon enough Faramir was on his way to his office in the Citadel, picking up Orohael and Brithadan again on the way. He could have avoided their company, if he’d done something drastic, such as gone out a window, or taken one of the secret tunnels in the King’s House, but there wasn’t really much point. As Aragorn had told Faramir, once he was past his two week partial confinement after the Belven fiasco, the royal guards’ job was not, generally, to stop Faramir from going where he pleased, it was just to go wherever it was with him. Nor was it their job to inform on Faramir’s comings and goings to his parents, with the specific exception of things that Aragorn had asked to be informed of after the fact, such as midnight working sprees.
Faramir’s first destination wasn’t his offices, it was the assistant spymaster Dervorin’s office.
Dervorin favored Faramir with his usual broad, welcoming grin, then asked, “Did we have a language lesson, today? I had thought that you’d planned to spend your free time painting, this afternoon.” Another thing that Faramir did with his new ‘free time’ was to improve his grasp of foreign languages.
“Actually,” said Faramir, glad that Dervorin wasn’t as good at telling what he was up to just by looking him in the eyes as Aragorn was, “I happened to observe a number of new fashions while at the Harvest Festival with Legolas and Gimli today. I was thinking that perhaps I could go through your closets of costumes for our Quiet Men going about unobserved in Gondor, to note what should be added, and what would make them stand out and look like they didn’t fit in. Arwen and her ladies are collecting worn or unfashionable clothing to mend or re-work and donate to charity, so I could save you some trouble, and a trip to donate the garments which you no longer have a use for.”
Meanwhile, Faramir could also help himself to enough ragged and worn clothing to help him and Legolas blend in on their way from where the tunnel from inside the Citadel that Faramir was planning for them to use exited and the inn near the Shades. They’d need disguises, to go from there, to the inn where Faramir was planning to have Herion rent a room for them to change into their armor and uniforms for the melee duel.
“That’s thoughtful of you, Faramir,” Dervorin said gratefully, “I appreciate the chance to have another perceptive set of eyes look over our costumes.”
“You also,” Faramir teased, while being thankful that Dervorin was eternally less suspicious of Faramir’s motives than his irritating commander Ethiron, “appreciate my saving you a trip to deliver rags for charity to Arwen’s ladies-in-waiting, many of whom think that the future Lord of the Ringlo Vale would make a very fine husband, indeed.”
“Also true,” admitted Dervorin cheerfully as they headed through a secret tunnel to the Quiet Men’s wardrobing closets, “although I’d throw myself on that sword for poor Prince Legolas’ sake, if his most ardent pursuer Thillien wasn’t so young that I couldn’t in good conscience even flirt with her.”
“I’m going to ask Arwen to speak with Thillien again,” Faramir said, with unfeigned frustration, “and I’ll see if Lannor has had a chance yet to have a word with her, too, as he told me he would. Maybe she’d listen better to a male cousin of near her own age.”
“Not a bad thought,” Dervorin praised, “and, to be honest, I’m not as averse to the whole idea of starting a romance as Prince Legolas is, at least not now that Herdestir and I have broken things off. It’s just that I’m just accustomed to women who are interested in me for my smile or my laugh, or for my making them laugh, rather than for my new-found Uncle being a rich and respected lord of Gondor.”
“On another topic, Dev,” Faramir circled around to one of the subjects that he’d argued about with Aragorn earlier in the day, hoping to find Dervorin a less unyielding and more empathetic audience, “Have you heard anything more, from your Quiet Men making inquiries in Harad? About Langwen and Ramion, and their mother? Or about the slaves taken by Lord Morcocano’s agents? Or about who Morcocano’s other co-conspirators smuggling captured people out of Gondor might be?” While he spoke, Faramir pulled out a moth-eaten cloak that was almost too disreputable to pass unnoticed in daylight but would probably fit Legolas.
“Nothing that really changes the picture, Faramir,” Dervorin answered with a soft, sympathetic look in his blue-gray eyes, “Mostly just more answers about where they aren’t, and who likely isn’t one of Morcocano’s accomplices. This week is pretty packed, but next week, even if nothing new comes up, I’ll ask Aragorn and Ethiron, and maybe also Lord Gimli, to sit down with you and me, to go over it all. Maybe you’ll even see something that I’ve – we’ve – missed.”
“After that, we should loop in Legolas,” Faramir reminded Dervorin, his eyes again starting to burn with tears of frustration and anguish at their young, missing friends, “He might think of something that all of us have missed.”
“Aye, he may do,” Dervorin conceded easily, “Coming from different backgrounds, as all of us do, keeps us from making assumptions.”
“Speaking of assumptions,” said Faramir angrily, “the assumption seems to be that I’m too young to do my job. This investigation, looking for Langwen and Ramion and all the other missing refugees and villagers, it should be MY investigation. Not yours.”
“You’ll have to take one up with your father, Faramir,” Dervorin recommended, not completely without sympathy.
“I already did,” Faramir complained, in utmost frustration, “He wouldn’t budge.” To stop himself from glaring at Dervorin, who really wasn’t at fault here, Faramir continued to cull the Quiet Men’s clothing repositories to suit his needs. And also, to remove truly unacceptable garments to give to Arwen, because it was a task that needed to be done and he liked being able to help. Even if no one would let HIM help, or even just do his own job!
“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing that I can do about that, my dear lad.”
“I have not been a ‘lad’ since I graduated from the Army Academy at the age of fourteen and a half,” Faramir upbraided his normally easy-going tutor with heat born of utter aggravation, “added to that, to my late name-father Denethor, I was NEVER a lad. It is entirely TOO LATE for all of you . . . you johnny-come-lately Northerners to protect me from the true state of affairs in MY kingdom, just because I am now Aragorn’s son as well as Steward. Besides, this . . . this whole situation, with Morcocano and Eru-knows-who-else kidnapping MY people to sell them into slavery, it started on MY watch. Yet none of you will even LET me TRY do my utmost to FIX it!”
“Wait, hold on just a moment,” Dervorin said, in a tone of dawning horrified realization, “Faramir, you don’t think that the refugees disappearing, and Morcocano’s slave-taking, you don’t really think that ANY of that could possibly be in ANY way YOUR fault, do you?”
“It happened on MY watch, Dev,” Faramir protested, heart-broken, “That’s what being the Steward, means. If my name-father Denethor taught me nothing else, he taught me that. That the man in charge is ultimately at fault, if something important goes wrong. Even if he didn’t actually DO something wrong, he MISSED something that he shouldn’t have missed, that let something else, go wrong, and then hurt someone innocent, and . . . and irreplaceable, like Langwen and Ramion. My brother Boromir, as Captain-General, would NEVER have blamed someone else, if there were illegal happenings going on in the army HE led. Am I to be held to any lesser standard?”
“Faramir,” reasoned Dervorin gently, “You weren’t even in diapers, when Morcocano started his slave-taking operations in Gondor. You do realize that, don’t you?”
“What DIFFERENCE does that make!” Faramir exclaimed heatedly, almost dropping his armful of clothes as he raised his arms in frustration, “It’s on my watch that it’s KEPT going, and I do NOT have the excuse of a war going on to excuse my negligent Stewardship of the realm, like Lord Denethor did!”
“Lad, you’re thinking about this all wrong,” Dervorin soothed, “I’ll talk to Lord Aragorn, and we’ll find a time, soonest, to sit down, him and Lord Ethiron and you and me, to talk this through, so that you understand how much is not within your control or your fault, and how even the best of leaders miss important problems, sometimes.”
“I don’t want to talk with Ethiron about anything,” Faramir complained grumpily, much put out by the recent lecture Ethiron had given him – and Legolas – about not wandering off without adult companions during the Harvest Festival, “He thinks I’m a difficult brat.”
“Anyone worth dealing with is difficult sometimes,” Dervorin said calmly, “and besides, you KNOW that you can be a bit of a brat, at times. Although most often in a not unappealing way. I think so, and Aragorn and Arwen, at least, also seem to think so, and theirs are the opinions on your occasional objectionable attitudes which matter the most, of course! Besides, I know for a fact that Ethiron likes you. He also doesn’t mind the occasional bit of brattishness. If he did, he would never have brought me home from Rhun with him as a teenager in the first place, or picked me for his apprentice, or let me pick KASIM, of all people, for my own apprentice.”
“Now,” Dervorin said firmly, returning to this unutterably irritating and insulting topic despite Faramir’s efforts to distract him, “we’re going to have this talk about you not blaming yourself for tragic things which are NOT your fault.”
Faramir opened his mouth to protest this ruling in the strongest possible terms.
“Ah ah!” scolded Dervorin, shaking his finger, “Before you even trouble yourself to ask, brat, I can’t keep quiet about this inappropriate guilt on your part. It wouldn’t, in truth, be a kindness to you. I wouldn’t accept one of my own subordinate officers keeping quiet about my protegee being wrong-headed about something important like this, and I will NOT do you the disservice of not telling anyone and everyone who might help persuade you of the truth in THIS case. Maybe Lord Gimli,” Dervorin mused aloud, “sometimes he can convince you of things. Or even Prince Legolas, if Gimli doesn’t think the subject matter is too dark for him. Sometimes you’ll listen to a contemporary with similar experiences, where us older-and-wiser heads make no impression on you.”
“Dervorin, I am NOT,” Faramir concluded, nearly shouting now, “too young to DO MY JOB!” He huffed, and then added, almost as an afterthought, “and neither is Legolas!” Who was likely also feeling particularly thwarted and frustrated by the overprotectiveness of their loving elders, this week.
“If you find anyone who actually thinks that either of you is too young to discharge your duties with the utmost competence,” Dervorin replied with imperturbable calm, “then please send them on to me, or to Aragorn himself, or to your Uncle Imrahil, or to Lord Gimli, and then, we’ll correct their misapprehension, as firmly as is needed. In the meantime, Faramir, this truly is something that I will be taking up with your father.”
“Fine,” said Faramir harshly, looking down at his sack of clothing and turning to leave. He had nothing more to gain here, and he didn’t want to risk saying something unkind, like he’d said to his dear friend Chief Archivist Arradon, the night before Belven had murdered Arradon with poison in morning cup of tea.
“Hey,” Dervorin said, quietly but intently, “Listen to me, Fara-nin. At least for just a moment. Check your temper. Take a few deep breaths. Take whatever you need, to calm down before you go out that door, into the hallway where anyone with freedom of the Citadel might pass you by. It’s not a fair thing, but every expression that passes over your face is of interest to most of the city.”
Faramir listened. It was good advice. He reminded himself, very firmly, while he took deep breaths the way that Mithrandir, Arradon, Aragorn and Elladan had all taught him to do, that all of this over-protection was because he was LOVED. Because Faramir could all-too-easily remember a time when that hadn’t been so, save except by Boromir and his too-distant Dol Amroth family, he tried to appreciate it. Then Faramir remembered, with a small but real smile, that despite Aragorn’s ridiculous post-rose-fever dictates and his high-handedly taking over the investigation of Langwen’s and Ramion’s disappearance and Morcocano’s slave-taking, Faramir was going to get to test his mettle against his long-time rival Cadwar and his teammates, with Faramir’s own friends and teammates fighting at his side. If Faramir had EVER been going to think better of getting into an illegal duel, he most certainly wasn’t, now.
“That’s better,” said Dervorin, with pleased relief. Then they parted ways, Dervorin with a better maintained closet of costumes, and Faramir with two sets of disreputable attire in his own and Legolas’ sizes in order to help them get to their illicit duel. Dervorin seemed pleased that he had been able to help Faramir feel better, and Faramir felt pleased that he was soon going to get to meet the challenge of arranging a melee duel under the noses of everyone who was busy stifling him with their well-meaning overprotectiveness. There really hadn’t been enough challenge to spice up Faramir’s life, since the rose fever debacle began.
From there Faramir went to the wing with his and the King’s and their various secretaries’, scribes’ and receptionists’ offices. He pulled a copy of the records about Numenorean road systems and road maintenance from his scribes’ offices and left a note with his thanks about another copy being needed. After that, Faramir asked his receptionist, Merillien, to send up a selection of refreshments that he recalled Cadwar having liked when they’d been served at Chief Archivist Arradon’s lectures. Then Faramir spent the time waiting for Cadwar profitably, by beginning to look through the notes and files that been placed into his inbox since yesterday evening.
When Cadwar did arrive, Faramir ushered him to the comfortable seating area by his window, instead of having him sit across from Faramir’s desk. Once Merillien had poured them both a cup of tea and then been dismissed with Faramir’s thanks, Faramir turned his attention to Cadwar. He also waited until Cadwar had bitten into a shortbread and apple jam cookie, since Faramir figured that he would be more likely to get in the first word, that way.
“I knew,” began Faramir, in his well-practiced calm, only mildly disappointed tone, “that there would be those who would call me a bastard, when the news of my true parentage began to get out. I knew that there would be those who forgot everything I’ve ever strived to do in service to Gondor, and said that my position was due only to my bastardry. But I hadn't expected you to be one of them.”
Cadwar looked torn between shame and anger.
Since his frienemy remained speechless, Faramir continued, “I know that we have always been rivals, Cadwar, in feats of academics as well as feats of arms. But I respect you, and I had thought that you respected me as well. Particularly after we fought side-by-side defending the walls of the city during the siege.”
“Aye, we did!” Cadwar snapped back angrily, “and now you’re too good for the Harvest Festival games, now that you’re the King’s son. It makes me think that I never knew you at all!”
Irritated, Faramir snapped back, “Well, I can't help who my father is! I wouldn't have even told Aragorn that he is my father, if not for that murderous worm Belven killing Chief Archivist Arradon, and then spilling the beans about my being Thorongil’s bastard while he was trying to kill me, all in front of witnesses. Including your grandfather Lord Sendar, and it was from him that I first learned, myself, that Thorongil was Aragorn, during the War. So I knew that he knew, and I didn’t know who he’d tell, or who Beleven would tell, for that matter! At that point I HAD to tell Aragorn myself, it wouldn’t have been FAIR to him otherwise. He’s a GOOD man, as well as a fine King.”
More thoughtfully, Cadwar replied, “Grandfather Sendar told us, about that. I . . . I'm very glad, and grateful, that you risked Elessar Telcontar's displeasure, Faramir. By going behind his back to confront Belven on your own, when Belven didn't know that anyone else was witnessing, so that he didn't fear incriminating himself. Daerada says that, without you having done that, Belven might never have admitted to Arradon's murder.”
“Or to Lord Morcocano's treachery,” Faramir admitted. He felt heavy-hearted at the mere possibility that Morcocano’s slaving might have continued unabated in Gondor for who-knows-how-long, but for Belven’s fit of temper when Faramir refused to agree to be blackmailed when, so far as Belven knew, only the two of them were present to hear.
“That, too,” Cadwar conceded, “but I am most personally grateful for the first, even though,” Cadwar added in a more critical tone, “Daerada also said that he didn't think you were risking much, because King Elessar is too fond of you to punish you harshly, and that was even BEFORE he knew that you were his son. Which Daerada WAS going to tell him, if Belven refused to talk.”
Faramir had no words for that. He just stared at Cadwar in disbelief.
Cadwar looked hurt, then turned furious as he almost yelled, “Arradon was my dear teacher too, if you'll recall!”
“Of course I recall,” Faramir responded, “He also spoke to me fondly of your recent achievements in scholarship on several occasions, even if I had forgotten. Besides, I know that you mean what you say. I am just surprised that your grandfather was going to tell my father about my being his son, that's all.”
“Oh,” replied Cadwar, his temper subsiding, “Well, Daerada said that a man has the right to know that he has a son, even if that man is a difficult king. And that,” he added in an almost friendly teasing tone, “a know-it-all brat of an heir is better for the kingdom’s stability than no heir, illegitimate or not.”
“‘Tis just as well that I told Aragorn first, then,” Faramir replied lightly, trying not to let on to how emotionally trying that time had been for him, “Ada doesn't like to hear me called illegitimate, let alone bastard. The last time I slipped up and called myself that, in the middle of an argument, he threatened to wash my mouth out with soap. And I do not think he was jesting.”
Cadwar smirked at that, but not in a mean way.
Faramir took that opportunity to try to explain, “He loves me, Cadwar, but he does not always dote on me. I paid the same price for defying him to secure justice for Arradon that any soldier would have paid for insubordination against his commanding officer.”
Cadwar's eyes widened in what looked uncomfortably like awed disbelief, which made Faramir remember that Cadwar had no experience whatsoever with military discipline, due to his grandfather's refusal to risk him by letting him join the army.
“Twenty-four strokes with a birch spray or a strap?” Cadwar asked, with an impressed whistle.
Blushing, Faramir admitted, “a strap. He sentenced me himself, then carried out the sentence, also himself.” Faramir didn’t bother to mention that Aragorn had softened, mid-way through, and given Faramir the last twelve swats just with his hand. It had hurt enough, on top of the warm up spanking and then the twelve stripes that he had gotten with the strap. Faramir had shared the full truth with Legolas, but no one else. He might have been willing to have also told his friend Ranger Kasim, save that Kasim was a merciless tease with everyone.
“Was it bad?” Cadwar asked, his warm brown eyes intent, even sympathetic.
Faramir blushed even brighter, “it was bad enough. But nothing like when Lord Denethor ordered me horse whipped for helping the Ringbearers instead of bringing him the One Ring. After the strapping from Ada, I was too sore the next day to want to sit much, and I was still somewhat uncomfortable sitting for another day after that.”
Faramir hadn’t actually been in pain, by that point. It was more that his backside had still tingled and felt just a little sensitive, which had made him have to continually fight the urge to squirm every time his rear end encountered a chair. Not so much in physical discomfort, but in embarrassment at remembering having been bare bottomed over his father's knees, and at being aware that some people knew - or could guess- that he had been punished in that particularly humbling way. Legolas and Gimli, who had spoken to Faramir the next morning, certainly knew, since Legolas had sympathized kindly with his predicament, and Gimli had indicated that Faramir had more than earned it, although, as always, he had been willing to forgive, even though Faramir’s stupidity had nearly gotten Legolas killed as well, since Aragorn had already made Faramir pay a fair price for his poor judgement. Likely a good quarter of the royal guard had known – or could have guessed - about Faramir’s bare bottomed whipping, as well, since Faramir had talked back to Aragorn after scaring him silly by almost getting knifed by Belven, and Aragorn had turned Faramir right about and smacked him six times on the rear, as if Faramir was a misbehaving child, right in front of Ethiron, Magordan, and Orohael.
“That said,” Faramir continued to explain to Cadwar, his cheeks still suffused with a rosy glow, “I didn't bleed at all from Ada's strapping, unlike the whipping. But with the horse whipping, I was able to do that meditation trick that Arradon taught us to do, to just be somewhere else in my mind, until my body stopped hurting so much.”
Cadwar frowned in confusion, “did that trick not work, when the King strapped you?”
“I didn't think to try it,” Faramir answered forthrightly, “Nor would I have done so, if I had. It was a fair punishment for having gone behind the back of a just King whom I love and respect. It wouldn't have been right, to use a mental trick to protect myself from feeling the full pain and discomfort and embarrassment of it.”
Cadwar nodded thoughtfully, “I can understand that.”
With a wry smile, Faramir added, “but, much as I hated paying that price for it, fair though it was, I don't regret having done it, in order to get justice for Arradon. Though I wouldn't have done it, if Aragorn had thought to make me swear not to confront Belven alone. Fortunately, he didn't. Also fortunately,” Faramir went on ruefully, “my stupidity in confronting Belven without anything in the way of armor didn't get me killed. It was Legolas who put together all the different pieces of information we had in time to realize that Belven was a murderer as well as a blackmailer, and it was Legolas who arrived just in time to tackle Belven, despite his holding a dagger coated in poison.”
“I see,” responded pensively, “Then I will have to offer Prince Legolas my thanks as well, for his service in catching Arradon's murderer.”
Faramir winced, “maybe wait until after our duel. I don't think he'll listen, before.” He paused, then took a deep breath and ventured, “getting back to my point, I know that we have always been rivals. But I have always respected you, and even enjoyed debating with you, such as during our discourse on Numenorean road systems, today. By the way, I do have copies of those scrolls I mentioned for you to take home with you. That wasn't just a pretense for us to be able to make arrangements for the duel without any elder kinsmen catching wind of it.”
Cadwar brightened, “Really? You still did that, for me? Even after . . .” It was Cadwar’s turn to trail off and blush, as he remembered the unkind things he’d said to, and about, Faramir.
“Even after earlier today,” Faramir confirmed quietly.
“I . . . I enjoyed our debate this morning, too,” Cadwar added, looking down at his lap.
“Then please tell me, Cadwar, if you will,” Faramir asked, allowing some of his hurt and uncertainty to show, “what did I do or say, between the debate competition and what happened later, that made you lose respect for me?" Faramir was, quite honestly, wounded and bewildered at having seemingly lost Cadwar’s good opinion. "Besides, that is,” Faramir ventured a guess, “our failure in good sportsmanship for not having congratulated you on your solid win before consoling the teammates we were ordered to abandon on their difficult loss? I do know that I can get carried away with my own cleverness, and even . . . even be a brat at times, like your grandfather says,” Faramir admitted.
Cadwar finally softened enough to give a real answer, “It’s not about you, Faramir. Or rather, it is, but it's not anything you did wrong. It’s . . . look, our Daerada Sendar is a good grandfather, as well as a great man. But he is scant on praise. He expects us to excel, in all areas. Subjects such as academics, and skills like rhetoric, that we will need when we assist him someday in his businesses, are very important to him.”
“My little brother Paran is a prodigy with any discipline that requires a blade,” Cadwar continued intently, “but he is not the academic overachiever that you or I were. So, he rarely wins Daerada’s approbation for his scholarship, and he is often criticized for not putting in better efforts. Even though he is trying, it’s just that his best isn’t like your best or my best, or even my older brother Barangallan’s best. Today, he made a particularly poor showing at the debate competition, and then he came in second at the singing competition, when he has always taken great pride in having the best singing voice out of anyone we know. Grandfather was there to see him win second place at singing, and he was very proud of him. You know Daerada – he’s hard, but fair. To come in second in such a strong field, against a voice as ethereal as Prince Legolas, that is no poor thing. And Daerada treated it as a fine accomplishment, but Paran . . . well, he had counted on winning that, as he did two years ago.”
Faramir listened as Cadwar elucidated further, “This is Paran's first festival that he's been old enough to compete in most of the martial events. He won all of his individual matches with a blade today, but Daerada’s businesses kept him away throughout most of the early afternoon, so he didn’t see any of those victories. The only martial event that Paran won today that our grandfather was able to watch was that melee duel, and then no one - not even our grandfather - could congratulate us for our victory without mentioning in the same breath that the team we had defeated had been shaken up at the last minute, and that we would have been harder pressed to win if the young Steward and the elven war hero hadn't been so sick.”
“Oh. I see,” said Faramir, in sudden comprehension, “I am sorry, Cadwar. You all fought hard, and well, and deserved better praise than that. Herion is a fierce fighter. He wouldn’t have been offered as my squire if he wasn’t one of the best that Gondor has. Laingened is quite good for his age, and their new teammates were the best of those who had not already been part of a team when Legolas and I sickened with rose fever.”
Cadwar relaxed further at that display of good sportsmanship from Faramir. Enough to confide, only slightly resentfully, “it doesn't help that my grandfather speaks very highly of you, you know.”
Faramir was so taken aback, it took him a few moments to process that enough to comment dryly, “Lord Sendar hides that quite well.”
Cadwar shrugged, “that's how he is. Praise from him is always hard-won. That is why,” Cadwar went on more slowly, but determinedly, “I do, in fact, know that you earned your position the hard way, King's secret son or not. So,” he persisted, squaring his shoulders, “I am sorry for the slurs I spoke against your good name. I was in a temper myself, not just about the scant praise we earned from our melee victory, but also about the rumors that I didn't deserve my win over you earlier this morning, in the debate competition. I heard two different rumors,” he complained, “that Daerada bribed the debate competition judges.”
Faramir couldn't help but laugh at the sheer absurdity of that very possibility.
Cadwar was, at first, surprised by that response. But then he started laughing, too.
Faramir, fighting for air amidst his hilarity, managed, “you . . . have NEVER, in seven years of festivals, failed to place in the top five in your age group. Several times over those years, we've traded off for first and second. So, for that rumor to be consistent with reality, someone in the city is foolish enough to give credit to the idea that your grandfather, a highly moral but shrewd and frugal man, would have been bribing seven different judges over seven different years, sometimes being content to buy you only fourth place!”
Cadwar made a face at Faramir for daring to mention the year he'd done so poorly as fourth place, but his nut brown eyes were still twinkling with amusement at hearing the ridiculousness of such rumors put into words.
Gently and solemnly, Faramir pointed out, “Cadwar, no one with sense would think of that rumor as holding any water at all. Morality aside, Sendar would never spend good money buying acclaim. Especially not in an arena such as reasoned eloquence, where anyone with sense to see knows that you are perfectly capable of winning high acclaim entirely on your own merits.”
At that point Herion joined them, and the three young men set about the task of figuring out the nuts and bolts of the arrangements for their duel. Third Day night, around midnight, was chosen as the date and time of the duel. Venue was easily sorted, one of the lesser frequented gardens adjacent to the Shades on the First Level of the City. The youths also easily reached agreement on sticking to the standard terms and rules of authorized melee duels during the Harvest Festival. Well, to the extent that they could be replicated in a garden in the Shades.
Then Cadwar asked, “what about forfeits?”
Faramir tilted his head thoughtfully, and offered, “According to what Herion’s older brother Sir Herdestir told Herion of the Army bookmakers' illicit gambling on the festival duels, the gamblers’ estimation of the odds of both our teams to win a melee match against each other, before the rose fever, were just about even. Agreed?”
“Agreed. My brother Barangallan said he heard much the same.”
Faramir nodded, “Then it is only logical that it would be against the self-interest of either of our teams to agree to a truly insulting forfeit.”
“Agreed,” said Cadwar again, this time with what Faramir judged to be well- hidden relief. That pleased Faramir, since it showed him that Cadwar thought more highly of Faramir as a warrior than he’d like Faramir to believe. Since archery was important in the early elimination phase of a melee duel, that made good sense.
“If we win,” Faramir proposed, “then you and your teammates will, in public, find something unambiguously positive to say: first, about our King Elessar and our Queen Arwen; and second, about Lord Gimli and his work on the great Gates to the city.”
Cadwar thought over that for a few moments, then nodded, saying grandly, “I agree to that forfeit, on behalf of my team, if we lose. Our forfeit is that the four of you publicly say something positive about our puissance as warriors, and something positive about the stonemasons' guild of Minas Truth. That means the human stone masons, mind you.”
Faramir exchanged glances with Herion, and thought of Legolas, before Faramir answered, “I agree to that, Cadwar, on behalf of myself, and Herion and Squire Laingened. Prince Legolas is not of our people, and I cannot speak for his willingness to make such a public statement without speaking to him first, which I may not have a chance to do before our duel. I can, however, offer that Legolas will not publicly speak to dispute his teammates, should we lose and have to satisfy such forfeit.”
Cadwar sighed and considered that for another few moments, before squaring his shoulders and saying determinedly, “Well, Paran won't be happy with that, but my judgement as team leader is that he can deal with his disappointment. Gondor owes Prince Legolas for his services in helping to bring Chief Archivist Arradon's murderer to justice. This is a great debt which I deem dictates our tolerance for him in terms of diplomatic immunity to forfeits.”
Both Herion and Faramir relaxed at hearing that, as both knew how touchy Legolas’ pride could be, at times. That, coupled with his lack of understanding of dueling customs (and illegal dueling) in Gondor, could make for an explosive combination, particularly given that Faramir had yet to successfully make an opportunity to talk to Legolas about how they were going to get out of the Citadel and what was involved in the duel, such as the risk of getting caught by the City Guard!
“If we tie, or if the Guard interrupts,” Herion put forth, “do all of us meet the terms of both forfeits, or none of us?”
“Both is fine,” allowed Cadwar, and Herion and Faramir concurred.
Since Cadwar seemed to Faramir to be in a reasonable mood, and back to being the frienemy whom Faramir had long known and valued – even to the extent that he and Cadwar had used each other to pass messages that Denethor and Lord Sendar wanted to pass to one another without actually acknowledging that they were doing it - Faramir further ventured, “if we win, Cadwar, then I ask as an additional forfeit, that any of the four of you who are up to the challenge will spend eight hours of your time with me. Four hours volunteering with me and Queen Arwen and Legolas in the gardens, or working with the city’s war orphans, and four hours volunteering with me and Legolas and the teams working on the gates – including the human stone masons. So that you have a chance to actually spend time with your Queen and Lord Gimli, and can make up your own minds about what you think of them.” In asking for this, Faramir was trying to win Cadwar over, and his teammates, too, if Faramir could. He was trying to win the hearts and minds of these young warriors who would someday help him in governing Gondor. It reminded Faramir of a quote that he and Aragorn both loved, and which Denethor had hated, that being, ‘I destroy my enemy forever when I make him into my friend.’
“That is an . . . unorthodox proposal,” Cadwar mused, “but not, I think, beyond the pale, for a melee duel forfeit. I will accept it, but only if you, and as many of your teammates who are able, agree to come with me to gatherings of the merchants and guildsmen, to actually listen and hear what they say about the foreigners in our midst.”
“Agreed,” said Faramir gladly, and reached his hand across the table to firmly shake Cadwar’s. Faramir would, in fact, be willing – even happy - to do that even if they won, since it sounded like a valuable intelligence gathering opportunity!
Although fairness, as well as caution, impelled Faramir to add, “depending, of course, if I am able to attend. If we get caught dueling, for instance, my schedule for the foreseeable future may become somewhat . . . constrained.” Faramir had to hide a wince at how much of an understatement that was. Or likely was, as he wasn’t sure if Aragorn would confine him to the King’s House outside of his duties and approved excursions if he got caught dueling, but it seemed likely.
Herion evidently thought so to, as he unhelpfully chuckled.
Cadwar actually did wince, “The same goes for me and Paran, unfortunately. If we get caught dueling, Grandfather will think that we’re not busy enough. He’ll have us reading ledgers and manifests until our eyes bleed, and he’ll probably volunteer us to help his vendors load their wagons, as well.”
Cadwar shifted uncomfortably, then offered of his own volition and entirely unprompted, “Win or lose, Faramir, if you make a good faith effort to show up to our duel, I will find an opportunity to publicly state my support for you as Steward, despite our many and varied disagreements, and the irregular status of your birth.”
“Thank you,” said a surprised but grateful Faramir, “I respect your opinion, and I know that others do, as well. So, that means a great deal to me.”
Cadwar accepted that with a shrug, “you said it yourself, a bit ago. We are rivals, but we are honorable rivals. Besides,” he added with a not unpleasant smirk, “our duels have always been a diverting challenge for me. I have missed them, at this Harvest Festival.”
“I as well,” Faramir shared.
Cadwar clarified, “this isn’t a retraction of our insults, of course. The duel is still on.”
“Of course,” Faramir confirmed, trying to hide his amusement. He was actually glad he didn't have to decide whether to accept a full retraction of the insults that had justified the challenge, without at least a little input from Legolas. Faramir didn't even feel that guilty for sneaking around their unreasonable elders. His only real pause in breaking the law was that it was a very irresponsible thing for the Steward to do, which would disappoint his own standards for himself, as well as, more painfully, Aragorn’s standards for him. But even that didn’t cause a long pause for Faramir, for, after all, illegal dueling was practically traditional!
With a wry, slightly apologetic smile, Cadwar put in, “Also, Faramir, just between you and I, win or lose, I will also state that I now actually believe that the King has forbidden you to complete in the games. I have come to believe it because I know both you and Herion to be sensible men, and, therefore, you wouldn’t be going to this much trouble to duel us illegally, or risking a hiding yourself, if the King hadn’t truly forced your hand. Apparently beyond,” Cadwar elaborated with another smirk, “your own not insubstantial ability to weasel around the restrictions imposed by our elders.”
“Aragorn,” said Faramir feelingly, “is far harder for me to fool, and to get around, than Lord Denethor ever was.”
Herion, meanwhile, was frowning at Cadwar. “In other words,” Faramir’s friend, squire, and teammate challenged Cadwar, “you will state, if we win, that you no longer believe that Faramir thinks himself too good to meet others in challenges now that he is the King’s son, or that he has lost his nerve.”
Cadwar defended himself for having apparently actually said those things in the first place with the relatively meek protest of, “I was a bit miffed, after our confrontation at the Festival earlier today.”
“A bit miffed,” a bemused Faramir repeated, sotto voce, which caused Cadwar to make a face at him.
“You were tipsy on ale and victory, Cadwar,” lectured Herion, “and so you ran off at the mouth to the other competitors while gathering to see the lists for tomorrow’s matches, sharing your misimpressions about Faramir’s courage and character. Slurs which you will retract, win or lose, as long as Faramir makes a good faith effort to show up. Which means,” Herion sternly continued, “that you will accept my, or Faramir’s, word, that he made a good faith effort to appear.”
Cadwar didn’t dispute any of that, and even looked somewhat guilty about his behavior.
“I see,” said Faramir dryly, accepting all of that without further criticism or comment. Well, he thought to himself, at least now he could argue with a straight face that the honor of the office of the Stewardship was a sound reason, in his opinion, for going ahead with an illegal duel. If he ever had to justify his decision to Aragorn, which he truly hoped that he wouldn’t.
“Now, as to referees,” Faramir changed the subject.
It was quickly agreed that their team’s referee would be Sir Minalcar.
“Herion, you did make sure,” Faramir checked, “that Minalcar knows that Ada-as-King-and-overlord would come down on him like a ton of bricks if he does this for us and we get caught, right? As well as him facing the normal legal penalties for helping minors to duel, such as a judicial strapping and a hundred hours of community service.”
“Minalcar knows,” Herion said respectfully, “He just said that Boromir would have done it for him, so he’ll do it for you, Faramir.”
“Good man,” murmured Faramir, to which both his friend and frienemy nodded in emphatic agreement. Not long after that, the conversation turned to healers, and then to trying again to convince Aragorn and Gimli to let Faramir and Legolas duel. An attempt which did not go anywhere near so well as Faramir had hoped. Practically the opposite, in fact!