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Chapter Eleven - For what shall it profit a man?

For what shall it profit a man, if he shall gain the whole world, and lose his own soul? - The Bible. Mark 8.36

The Steward had never felt so alone in his life before. He missed Aragorn more than ever now. They had seldom been apart for more than a few days at a time, except during the military campaigns against the incursions by the Southrons and Easterlings that Aragorn had successfully led.

Even before they had become close friends, Faramir had always found the King a reassuring presence and a joy to work for. He had always been much easier to please than Denethor. Aragorn had known how to achieve the best from those who served him through love rather than fear. Each day he had greeted his Steward with a kind word and a smile. He had made Faramir feel that his counsel was both wanted and valued. On sad days such as the anniversary of Boromir’s death, or the same day of the year that Denethor had tried to burn his son alive; the King had always reached out with some affectionate and kindly gesture, to ease Faramir’s aching heart.

Although the Steward dealt with the smooth running of the realm, Aragorn always made the final decisions concerning the government of Gondor and the ordering of the Council. Just how heavy a burden that had been; Faramir was quickly learning. Ruling a country was very different than being Captain of the Ithilien Rangers or even Aragorn’s Steward.

How he regretted it now, that it had taken him two years to accept Aragorn’s friendship. Precious years that he had squandered because of his own fears from the past and awe of his new lord. How many times he must have hurt his King, by pushing him away, using the defensive mental barriers he had erected. Yet, Aragorn had never given up trying to befriend and heal him.

 Now he must prove that he would not abandon Aragorn either.

***

Faramir both dreaded and desired the Council Meeting. Today, he would have to speak and act in a way that was totally alien to his nature and true feelings.

For the first time since Aragorn had become King, he felt grateful to Denethor, for bringing him up to contain his emotions and hide his true feelings. Without such an upbringing, he would not have even dared to attempt his plan.

Dressed in his most elaborate robes, the Steward stood up in the Council Chamber and faced the assembly. He spoke confidently. Inwardly his heart was pounding and his mouth felt like parchment. “Now that the King is dead, my lords, I intend to see the fortunes of my House restored, after being pushed aside after more than a thousand years of loyal service! I once thought that I could work with Elessar, but after being imprisoned at his whim and almost losing my life, my patience has worn thin!”

He hoped he was managing to sound convincing and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar, that Aragorn had encouraged him to often appear hostile in Council.  Few even suspected the depth of friendship, which existed between them; that was apart from Imrahil, who now sat with a look of sheer horror on his face throughout Faramir’s speech.

“I had little choice until today, but to appear to obey our late King. My sojourn in prison showed all too well what he is capable of! But now, I assure you, things are going to be very different!” Faramir announced, with a sweeping gesture of his hand, so all could see the Ring of Barahir on his finger.

He paused as if for dramatic effect and murmurs both of approval and censure echoed round the chamber. His hearing was highly trained, after many years as a Ranger. He was certain the former were voiced by the Lords of Ringlo Vale, Lebennin, Lossarnach and Lamedon while the latter included Imrahil and the Lords of Pinnath Gellin and Anfalas, though in this great echoing chamber, it was impossible to be certain.

“I shall serve King Eldarion,” he continued, “ but I have not, as have many of you here have, forgotten that the House of Húrin ruled Gondor since the days of our longfathers, not the House of Telcontar, which has ruled here but for three short years of our history. My brother, the Lord Boromir, would never have stood by and seen us relegated to the role of lowly servants. Think not, that I have forgotten that the only witness to his death was our late King Elessar.”

Faramir finally sat down, wiping the sweat from his brow. He waited for the impact of his words to sink in, hoping the lords would think his agitation caused by long suppressed fury, rather than the effort of speaking such foul slanders against one so dear to him.

Imrahil, white with fury, sprang to his feet. “I would have all assembled here remember,” he said, “that the House of Húrin were appointed as caretakers only, to hold Gondor until the King return, as indeed he did, though sadly but for a short time. I, as have all here present, sworn a solemn oath to uphold his rule and that of his heirs, and I for one shall hold true to my word.”

“As I am sure, shall we all,” Faramir replied smoothly. “In future, though, the Stewards will get their proper due rather than remain mere lackeys for the King. The Council is dismissed until next week.”

Muttering amongst themselves, the lords filed out of the Council Chamber. Imrahil remained behind. He seized Faramir’s arm as the Steward turned to leave. “How far have you forgotten yourself, nephew, to speak thus of our late King?” Imrahil demanded. “I thought that he could be certain of your love and loyalty, above all others, after all he did for you. I wish you could have seen him after he snatched you from the prison, I thought his noble heart would break with anguish when he believed you were dying. You shame my house and your mother’s memory by slandering the memory of such a man!”

Faramir could have wept. He yearned more than ever to tell his uncle the truth, but, if his plan were to succeed, secrecy was essential. Imrahil’s dismay could only serve to make his act look more convincing.

“I accept your right to be angry, uncle,” he said quietly. “I trust you to give your loyalty to the rightful ruler of this Realm.” With that somewhat ambiguous comment, he turned and left the Hall.

Stony faced, Faramir returned to his apartments. Once within, he turned the key in his chamber and picked up his looking glass. The same familiar features were reflected in it, but now they no longer belonged to Faramir, loyal Steward to the King, who would not even entrap an Orc with a falsehood, but to a stranger.

He was now a traitor to his sworn liege lord in the eyes of the world, if not in his heart. He had taken an irrevocable step, which would forever besmirch his honour. He dared not think of the consequences, only that his actions might give him a chance, however slim, of saving his King.

He began to weep quietly, recalling Aragorn’s many kindnesses towards him. If he were indeed dead, what must his spirit feel when it heard such false and cruel words? Faramir hoped against hope that his and Arwen’s instincts were correct.

He summoned a servant and ordered that the large sunken bath be filled, hoping he would feel less tainted if he were to bathe. Faramir tore off his clothes almost frenziedly and climbed into the water. He then scrubbed himself so vigorously that his skin started to bleed in places. It brought him no relief, for his mind was filled with images of when Aragorn had shared that tub with him and treated his wounds with such compassion. Who could have foreseen that a day would dawn when he would denounce him?

A sudden stab of excruciating pain hit him, this time in the belly. He glanced down and perceived a red mark, which faded even as he gazed at it. This was now the fifth time this had happened, adding physical pain to the constant mental anguish we was suffering.

The nightmares had been getting worse too, sometimes they occurred two or three times each night. It was always the same, he would see Aragorn crying out to him for aid, and then, just as he reached out to him, he would awaken, shaking and sweating and often with either his back or ribs aching.

He was almost certain now that these were visions. Aragorn was in torment and needed him to help him, but how could he save his King, as he had no idea where he was?

Faramir wondered just how long he would have to wait and play a part so distasteful to him. Adding to his worries was the fact, that neither Anborn, nor the rest of the Escort he had taken with him on the day he went to see the Queen, had had been seen again since that day.

He wondered if there were any way he could place spies in the households of the lords he suspected of treason, but dismissed the idea as too dangerous. The fewer who knew of his plan, the better its chance of success.

***

A few weeks passed, with Faramir playing his part in the web of treason in which he was now enmeshed. He found it helped by remembering what his father would have done in any given situation and acting likewise. He became much more haughty and demanding towards his servants, and tried to act like a Ruling Steward should when he took his place in Council, or petitions were brought to him to be heard.

He deferred as many verdicts as possible, citing the fever as the reason. The exceptions were some instances of trespassing, where the offenders could not be found, which allowed him to appear to side with the nobles rather than the King over harsh penalties for gathering firewood and taking a rabbit for the pot, without actually punishing anyone who had done so.

He spent much of his time working and appearing in public as much as possible. He sensed the disapproval of many of those around him. Others treated him with a newfound respect, which made him wonder if even his own household were full of spies and traitors. He was desperately lonely, though it was a source of comfort that at least his family were safe.

He had not dared to deliberately seek out Damrod. However, one day had bumped into the young captain who had told him that’ the parcels were safely delivered’ which had raised his spirits.

When the day of the next Council Meeting dawned. Faramir again took every opportunity to slander Aragorn and complain how badly his family had been treated. For a man who hated speaking falsehoods, every false accusation was still a torment for him.

He observed some of the lords agreeing with his every word, which could either be an indication of their true sympathies or an attempt to curry his favour.

Fosco, Lord of Lamedon again brought up the suggestion that Eldarion should marry Elbeth, which Faramir pretended to view far more favourably than Aragorn had. He told Fosco he would consult the Queen over the proposal as soon as she emerged from her mourning rituals.

“And how long might that take?” the Lord of Lamedon asked sneeringly.

“Several weeks at least, but who knows what the Elven witch will decide,” Faramir replied, provoking gasps at his insult of the Queen. “However, I shall see that Eldarion will not drink in her influence with his mother’s milk. Elessar was no more than her lapdog, though praise the Valar I am no longer his!”

Imrahil sprang to his feet and roared. “How can you slander our Queen and our late King so, when he is not even yet laid in his tomb, and after he treated you with so much honour?”

“You seem to forget, my lord, that the late King made me walk through the streets clad only in sackcloth and had me wrongfully imprisoned to please his best friend,” Faramir replied coldly.

Dervorin of Ringlo Vale, Fontos of Lossarnach and Fosco of Lamedon all nodded approvingly.

“You bring shame on the name of your family!” Imrahil blazed,” I am glad that my poor sister did not live to this day! I disown you! You are no longer my nephew!”