Chapter Text
"Have you taken leave of your senses? Or are you deliberately trying to start a war between Gondor and Rohan?"
The speaker, a rather tall, stern looking man, glared at his son. His son simply ignored the questions asked, and kept on working at a desk that was not his own. However he soon found it difficult to continue finishing the King's paperwork (and inthe King's own handwriting at that) when he was lifted from his seat, and thrown over his father's shoulder. Still thin after the deprivations caused by running an outpost within contested territory during the recent war, the younger son of the Steward of Gondor caused his Father little strain as he was carried out of the King's office.
Faramir had spent the better part of two decades with the rangers, and had received a rather thorough education in breaking the hold of an enemy combatant. So he wasn't quite sure why he hadn't broken from Denethor's hold yet. Fortunate for Faramir, Denethor reached his destination, that being the set of quarters set aside for the use of the Steward and his children in the Royal House. These rooms had been given to the Steward by his new surrogate Father, Lord Elrond of Imladris, mainly so that Faramir did not have to be carried as far when he fell asleep during family events. This also decreased the risk of Faramir waking up, and refusing to go back to sleep during the long walk back to the Steward's House.
Having reached the door of Denethor's small study, the owner of the room removed one arm from its hold on his son in order to open it. In that instant Faramir jerked violently, dropped from Denethor's shoulder, and bolted. He only got as far as the next door, as the door opened and Lord Glorfindel walked out, saw what was going on, and grabbed the young runaway, slinging him up onto his shoulder in the same manner that he had been held in previously by his father.
Raising one eyebrow at the youngest of his liege's sons, he followed Denethor into his study. Denethor locked the door, and, once Glorfindel had put his captive into one of the study's corners, handed the key over to him for safe keeping.
By this stage Faramir was in danger of losing his temper. To this point, no one had listened to him when he had told them the situation was not of his own making. That rather than he leading his betrothed astray, and convincing her that slip away from their chaperones, it was Eowyn who had been doing the convincing. Swearing under his breath, he kicked the wall that he was facing. Forgetting, however, that elven hearing is much more acute than that of humans, Faramir had not whispered softly enough to stop Glorfindel from hearing.
"You have been in a mood since breakfast, pen neth. A particularly foul one at that. You are in enough trouble without adding to it, so I would suggest you keep your mouth shut, in an attempt to keep the number of soapings owed to you at a minimum."
Faramir shut his mouth and glared at the wall. It wasn't his fault that everyone was against him today. He hadn't started it. Rather, the fault lay with his soon-to-be brother by law, Eomer, the young nephew of the King of Rohan. Eomer didn't believe that the younger son of the Steward of Gondor was good enough for his sister, and made his displeasure at being over-ruled in the situation by his Uncle most plain. Mainly by refusing to let Eowyn go more than two meters from him, unless she was in her rooms. Faramir, having a horde of over protective guardians himself, and understanding some of the reasons why Eomer was unwilling to let his sister out of his sight, was willing to let him get away with this behaviour. His betrothed however, had different plans.