for reignfall
Jan. 9th, 2022 09:41 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
nearamirThis is, when he reflects on it, the longest that Faramir has been away from Gondor - and it has been a long time coming, to see where his wife hails from, and bring their firstborn to a land that, after all, he has some claim to. For all his seafarer's blood, Faramir has not often sailed out of sight of land, and there is a wonder in the journey that will not leave him. Sitting on the deck of the ship, dandling Borahîl on his lap, he sings the songs that his mother taught him: of mariners and open waves and the island that sank beneath them, of the salt in one's veins and the longing for what lies beyond the horizon. There is a part of him, deeper than he knew, that finds itself at home with the endless silver horizon and the clear stars overhead by which they steer. It is almost a disappointment when the voyage ends, and they come to rest on a Westerosi shore.
And yet, it seems to him an opportunity, too; the first time in all his memory where his duty is only to his family, when no war waits on him, and his people must do without him until he returns; the first time that he can see the homeland of his beloved wife, and meet her family more fully than brief wedding conversation allowed, and know that his sword may rest in its sheath. He is a visitor in this land, and as a visitor, has some freedom to be only a man - not a captain, nor prince, nor Steward, but only Faramir.
This illusion of freedom does not last long beyond their welcome. Faramir can be at times naïve, and often idealistic; but he is no fool, and Tywin Lannister makes no secret of his scorn. His scorn, indeed, seems boundless: for his own son, for the apparently too-lowly title of prince, for the time taken to produce an heir, even for the child's Sindarin name, as though he has any right to demand his own traditions take primacy above the line of Húrin. All of this, Faramir bears with as much grace and patience as he can manage, summoning diplomacy and politeness at every turn; for in the end, he is a guest in Lord Tywin's home, and Tywin holds kin-right through their marriage, and he will not make mockery of that by being rude. No matter how Tywin might provoke with his own barely-veiled rudeness, Faramir will not shirk his duty - no matter how he had hoped to be free of it.
No matter, too, how deep an ache it gives him to see that scorn and rudeness turned on Tyrion. From what little Cersei has said of her brother, he had expected to find a vicious and soulless creature, had imagined something more goblin than Man - but that is not at all what he sees in the poor child, who shows from the first a wit and a love of knowledge, and in whose mistreatment Faramir sees all too much of his own image. It aches to hear in Tywin's tone so much of the Denethor of old, to see the same distasteful overlooking of a child eager to be seen. With each small slight and oversight, Faramir feels in himself a greater wish to hold Borahîl close, and to make it certain that his own son should never feel that hollow certainty of an impassable demand. With each word from Tywin's lips that denigrates his youngest son, Faramir must fight the urge to flinch.
You wish, then, that our places had been reversed? That I had died and Boromir had lived? So he had said to his father, in those final days, and his father had looked him squarely in the eye when he answered: I do wish that.
No child should bear such knowledge. No father should wish it. And so, although he cannot be unaware of how it angers his wife - even if he does not entirely understand it - Faramir does what he can, in what small ways he can, to ease that burden; to spend time with Tyrion, and be kind to him, and share with him - more pointedly each time the matter of the boy's size is raised within his hearing - stories of the peoples of his own land, of Halflings and Dwarves and the great deeds they have undertaken, deeds beyond their stature. It is not a great burden to do so, for in truth he enjoys Tyrion's company. Beyond a certain point, it is no longer conscious charity. But still, it hurts to hear Tywin talk to his son that way.
In the end, though, it is not Tyrion's honour that breaks the bonds of mannered meekness - nor Borahîl's, nor Cersei's, nor even his own. In the end, around a ten-night into their stay, it is a greater slight still that spurs him to action. Tywin has not been subtle in his desire for power, nor in his wish that his daughter and his son-in-law might grasp more keenly for it: this, too, Faramir has borne in silence, although the undertones of it at times make his fingers itch for his sword. But this night, for the first time, it is spoken aloud: that word, king. That treason, that a crown might be taken.
Faramir stands abruptly, then, and stands tall; and glaring down the older lord, his eyes are storm-tossed, hard and unyielding as mountain stone. His face is grim, and carved of the same stone as the statues of ancient kings; and he is Captain and Prince and Steward all at once, and cold fury crackles from him in a way that he has scarcely ever allowed it. His voice, too, is cold, the syllables falling into place with a steady finality.
"I do not desire to be King," he says, and his gaze does not flinch from Tywin's, his hand resting almost unconsciously against the haft of a sword he does not wear. "There is one King of Gondor, and I rejoiced in his return, and rejoiced to return the realm to him. I did not desire his crown when I set it upon his head, and I do not desire his throne who sit gladly at the right hand of it; for I have seen what lies down the path of grasping power." His fist has clenched, his knuckles resting against the surface of the table. There is a hardness in the set of his jaw, and a dangerous strength in the slim lines of his body; and such is the weight of his tone that the shadows seem deeper where he stands, the air crisper and more cold. "Death is all that rewards such a hunger, my lord Tywin; death, and hollow shame, and the cold grasp of the Shadow. But at the hands of that very King you speak of was the Shadow burned away; and you may travel that path of Shadow to its end, if you must, but not in my presence will you speak treason against him."
Borahîl begins to whimper. Faramir does not soften at once, but his fist unclenches, and he bends to pick up his son, holding the dark-haired child close against his chest. For a moment, his eyes seek those of the other child at the table - Tyrion, whose mismatched eyes he finds wide in shock - and he nods, a silent consent for the boy to join him if he wills it, before turning without fanfare to stride out of the room, not looking back or waiting to hear whether Tywin will reply.
And if he holds the baby a little more tightly than he is accustomed to do, or if he is shaking a little when, at last, he finds a quiet place in the courtyard to sit, then it is not overly apparent; and if he feels a lump in his throat when he looks out from that seat across the shining water, then nobody need know it but him.
And yet, it seems to him an opportunity, too; the first time in all his memory where his duty is only to his family, when no war waits on him, and his people must do without him until he returns; the first time that he can see the homeland of his beloved wife, and meet her family more fully than brief wedding conversation allowed, and know that his sword may rest in its sheath. He is a visitor in this land, and as a visitor, has some freedom to be only a man - not a captain, nor prince, nor Steward, but only Faramir.
This illusion of freedom does not last long beyond their welcome. Faramir can be at times naïve, and often idealistic; but he is no fool, and Tywin Lannister makes no secret of his scorn. His scorn, indeed, seems boundless: for his own son, for the apparently too-lowly title of prince, for the time taken to produce an heir, even for the child's Sindarin name, as though he has any right to demand his own traditions take primacy above the line of Húrin. All of this, Faramir bears with as much grace and patience as he can manage, summoning diplomacy and politeness at every turn; for in the end, he is a guest in Lord Tywin's home, and Tywin holds kin-right through their marriage, and he will not make mockery of that by being rude. No matter how Tywin might provoke with his own barely-veiled rudeness, Faramir will not shirk his duty - no matter how he had hoped to be free of it.
No matter, too, how deep an ache it gives him to see that scorn and rudeness turned on Tyrion. From what little Cersei has said of her brother, he had expected to find a vicious and soulless creature, had imagined something more goblin than Man - but that is not at all what he sees in the poor child, who shows from the first a wit and a love of knowledge, and in whose mistreatment Faramir sees all too much of his own image. It aches to hear in Tywin's tone so much of the Denethor of old, to see the same distasteful overlooking of a child eager to be seen. With each small slight and oversight, Faramir feels in himself a greater wish to hold Borahîl close, and to make it certain that his own son should never feel that hollow certainty of an impassable demand. With each word from Tywin's lips that denigrates his youngest son, Faramir must fight the urge to flinch.
You wish, then, that our places had been reversed? That I had died and Boromir had lived? So he had said to his father, in those final days, and his father had looked him squarely in the eye when he answered: I do wish that.
No child should bear such knowledge. No father should wish it. And so, although he cannot be unaware of how it angers his wife - even if he does not entirely understand it - Faramir does what he can, in what small ways he can, to ease that burden; to spend time with Tyrion, and be kind to him, and share with him - more pointedly each time the matter of the boy's size is raised within his hearing - stories of the peoples of his own land, of Halflings and Dwarves and the great deeds they have undertaken, deeds beyond their stature. It is not a great burden to do so, for in truth he enjoys Tyrion's company. Beyond a certain point, it is no longer conscious charity. But still, it hurts to hear Tywin talk to his son that way.
In the end, though, it is not Tyrion's honour that breaks the bonds of mannered meekness - nor Borahîl's, nor Cersei's, nor even his own. In the end, around a ten-night into their stay, it is a greater slight still that spurs him to action. Tywin has not been subtle in his desire for power, nor in his wish that his daughter and his son-in-law might grasp more keenly for it: this, too, Faramir has borne in silence, although the undertones of it at times make his fingers itch for his sword. But this night, for the first time, it is spoken aloud: that word, king. That treason, that a crown might be taken.
Faramir stands abruptly, then, and stands tall; and glaring down the older lord, his eyes are storm-tossed, hard and unyielding as mountain stone. His face is grim, and carved of the same stone as the statues of ancient kings; and he is Captain and Prince and Steward all at once, and cold fury crackles from him in a way that he has scarcely ever allowed it. His voice, too, is cold, the syllables falling into place with a steady finality.
"I do not desire to be King," he says, and his gaze does not flinch from Tywin's, his hand resting almost unconsciously against the haft of a sword he does not wear. "There is one King of Gondor, and I rejoiced in his return, and rejoiced to return the realm to him. I did not desire his crown when I set it upon his head, and I do not desire his throne who sit gladly at the right hand of it; for I have seen what lies down the path of grasping power." His fist has clenched, his knuckles resting against the surface of the table. There is a hardness in the set of his jaw, and a dangerous strength in the slim lines of his body; and such is the weight of his tone that the shadows seem deeper where he stands, the air crisper and more cold. "Death is all that rewards such a hunger, my lord Tywin; death, and hollow shame, and the cold grasp of the Shadow. But at the hands of that very King you speak of was the Shadow burned away; and you may travel that path of Shadow to its end, if you must, but not in my presence will you speak treason against him."
Borahîl begins to whimper. Faramir does not soften at once, but his fist unclenches, and he bends to pick up his son, holding the dark-haired child close against his chest. For a moment, his eyes seek those of the other child at the table - Tyrion, whose mismatched eyes he finds wide in shock - and he nods, a silent consent for the boy to join him if he wills it, before turning without fanfare to stride out of the room, not looking back or waiting to hear whether Tywin will reply.
And if he holds the baby a little more tightly than he is accustomed to do, or if he is shaking a little when, at last, he finds a quiet place in the courtyard to sit, then it is not overly apparent; and if he feels a lump in his throat when he looks out from that seat across the shining water, then nobody need know it but him.
