A/N: At first, i was deeply unsatisfied with this, it has a weak ending, i think. but the rest of it is pretty decent, and, well, it's not half bad. So, enjoy! - nadz

A Father’s Sin

The white city of Minas Tirith was bathed in an orange glow as the sun set and the moon prepared to take its place. Voices from the lower levels could be heard; mothers shooing their children home and men turning to the taverns after a hard-days work for a few mugs of ale. Excited chatter and the clatter of dishes could be heard behind each closed door. With the first star came the thanks-giving for another peaceful day filled with laughter and joy.

But even as each room was being softly lit by lamps, one man sat alone in his study letting the darkness engulf him. Faramir sat with his back to the wall and his knees hugged close, much as he had when he was but a child. His grey eyes stared ahead, yet he neither saw nor heard anything, lost as he was in the painful memories that were assailing him.

“Father! Father! Mithrandir taught me how to read Elvish and then he helped me write my name in the script. Look! I wrote your’s and Boromir’s and Mama’s too!” Little Faramir bounded into the council’s chambers with all the energy of a ten-year-old. He had neither knocked nor asked his father’s permission to interrupt the meeting, two mistakes which he knew to be grave but had forgotten in his excitement.

“Faramir…”

“Look, Father! I tried to write it all so neatly and Mithrandir said I did well for my age, but my hand wobbled a bit, here. You see?”

Prince Imrahil, the only other occupant in the room could not hide the smile on his face at his nephew’s demeanor, his sour mood and the ongoing argument with Denethor forgotten for the moment. Faramir, while still at a young age, had been much more subdued since his mother’s death. It was nice to see some spark back in the boy, Imrahil thought.

“Faramir…” Denethor’s voice was quieter now, more deadly and had Faramir been more of his usual self, he would have sensed his father’s anger. But he was still very much excited over his first ever lesson on Elvish.

“Boromir said that it looked nothing like Elvish, but then he has never seen Elvish before, so what would he know? I think that he was just jealous. Next time, I want to try scripting out the family tree. And then – “

In one swift motion, Denethor’s palm made contact with Faramir’s cheek. It made a sound that echoed and resounded loudly in the room that had grown all too quiet without the cheerful voice. Time seemed to stand still as father and son stared at each other.

Pain filled Imrahil’s heart as he watched Faramir retrieve the piece of parchment that had flown out of his hands. With shaking hands, the boy straightened out the crumpled piece of paper. His cheek was pink, Denethor’s hand clearly etched across it. With a bow and a quietly spoken, ‘Sirs’, he left.

Faramir reached up to touch his cheek as all the pain and confusion from that incident came rushing back to him. His father had avoided him for days after and when he had emerged one morning, his cheek finally free from any brand, Faramir was sure that he had seen something akin to relief in his father’s eyes. Though Denethor had never hit him nor Boromir again, his hand had strayed close a couple of times.

And each time, Faramir would flinch, terrified of the oncoming blow.

He loved his father, he truly did, but he did not want to end up as the bitter man that he was. Faramir had forgiven his father, had known that it was the palantir that had driven him to madness, had known that his father was a noble man who had simply fallen prey to another of the Dark Lord’s vices. But that was the man in him.

However, the child, the child that had felt the coldness of his father’s ring as it bruised his cheek, that child was lost. That child had lost the full open trust that he had always had, only to replace it with a certain wariness that was essential as a Ranger.

Dark the shadows were but darker still were the thoughts of its occupant. Faramir lifted his hands and stared at them with horrid fascination. Ink stains dotted his hands, evidences of the many hours spent in his office. Scars ran along the two palms, a physical reminder of his life long ago, when war and battle was all he knew. Blisters burned angrily at the tips of his fingers, a souvenir from his recent expedition in the gardens. Even in the dim light, the stains, scars and blisters stood out to him, each representing a part of him.

And yet, it was the non-visible stain on his hands that struck him the most. His fingers have intertwined with Eowyn’s smooth slim ones too many times to count, though each time felt like a new discovery for him. His hands had gently cradled his son, mere minutes after his birth.

Still, these were the very same pair of hands that had caused pain to the one he loved. It was such a contradiction and irony that the very same hands that could be gentle and loving, could also be harsh and cruel.

Just like how his father, who had once showered him with an abundance of love, had then turned against him and wished him dead.

“I am not my father’s son.”

The shadows in his mind threatened to overwhelm and engulf him, but Faramir fought it, unwilling to let this once mistake he made, rule out all the good he had done to erase the stains left behind by his father.

He was not his father’s son.

As steward, he was respected out of love, not fear, as his father was. He was a caring and loving husband, attentive to Eowyn’s needs. Elboron was a source of joy for him, unlike his father whom had only seen his son as a reminder of the painful reality.

With an effort, Faramir wrenched his mind away from the darkness in which he had been trapped him for the past few hours. Past circumstances may have made Faramir a more foreboding man than he actually would have been, but years of happy marriage to Eowyn and then the birth of his son had changed him. Dark thoughts no longer had a firm control over his mind and though the nightmares still came, they were far and few in between.

There was no use, he had decided, in hiding oneself in the dark and brooding over such matters. He was no longer a child, constantly protected by his brother. Neither was he still a soldier, made to obey his lord’s commands, whatever they may be. He no longer needed to fear his father’s wrath over small trivial matters.

Faramir stood up, bracing himself against the wall as he stretched his aching legs. Though he was a young man still in his prime, and even with the blood of Numenor in him, Faramir’s lean lithe body ached from being curled up in the same position for hours. He stretched his back, wincing as the bones cracked, yet taking pleasure in it as he immediately felt better.

Feeling more himself, Faramir walked down the dark corridors which even at such an hour, was still filled with servants. He couldn’t help but feel nostalgic once again as memories from his childhood came up. As the younger son to the steward, Faramir had spent most of his time at Minas Tirith. He remembered racing along the very same halls he was walking down now with his brother. Then he remembered getting reprimanded by his nurse for it.

Faramir smirked. His men would never have believed that their grave captain had once been a rather mischievous boy, till the untimely death of his mother.

Elboron was now four years of age and this would only have been his second visit to the white city, the first being when he was but a wee babe. And Faramir was eager to teach his heir the ways of their people. Eowyn was with child again and he had thought that maybe Arwen could his wife’s frayed nerves. And frankly, the house staff could use a break from her cranky temperaments.

But alas, what was supposed to be a happy vacation for the trio had turned into a nightmare. Elboron had developed a high fever their third day there, making him almost unbearable to control. Eowyn had tried her best to soothe and calm their unhappy four-year-old, but she herself needed much rest and relaxation, which undoubtedly left Faramir to deal with both his stewardly duties at Minas Tirith and his duties as a father to occupy and entertain an ill child.

As the weeks progressed, he had become increasingly frazzled with all his duties till at last, early that morning, he had snapped. And Faramir had taken out his frustrations on the one who was causing it all.

He had slapped Elboron.

Horrified at what he had done, Faramir had retreated to his hiding place and that was where he had remained till a few minutes ago. He had wanted to check up on Elboron, to apologize. He could never try to justify his actions, but he could at least show remorse. Yet, Faramir couldn’t bring himself to face Elboron.

He couldn’t bear to see the red mark on his son’s face.

It was a sense of dejavu once again as Faramir recalled the betrayed look on Elboron’s face. He knew that that look was once mirrored on his own face when Denethor had first hit him.

“I am not my father’s son.”

And unlike his father who had simply ran away after making a mistake, Faramir would face up to his.

Finally he reached his destination. A heavy oak door stood closed in front of him, barring the way into his private quarters. Faramir entered, noticing the solemn atmosphere.

Eowyn was already there, her willowy arms wrapped tightly around a sleeping Elboron. She was silent, but her blue eyes spoke volumes. He saw no judgment there, just silent understanding and trust. She still trusted him even after what he did. And that filled his heart with hope that maybe the situation was not beyond fixing.

Elboron stirred in his sleep and awoke fully. His eyes widened at the sight of Faramir standing by the bed. Something akin to fear flashed across his face before recognition dawned on him, recognition that the man in front of him was his father, someone who made mistakes and was not ashamed to admit that he made them.

“Papa?”