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*
A stiff westerly breeze set the stub of candle to guttering, but Faramir paid it no mind, though he hunched more deeply into the folds of his thin woollen cloak. Soon enough the breezes would bring the icy bite of snow, and the windows would be sealed against the cold until springtime came again. In the meantime, there was the costermongers' territorial dispute with the egglers' guild still to be dealt with, a determination was needed regarding improvements on the Great Gate, and an entirely unappealing column of Citadel expenditures awaited accounting. Then, perhaps, he would take his ease during the Yáviérë revels. His eyes burning, he dipped quill in ink and scratched a notation on his market map.
"Still awake, Lord Steward?" Startled, Faramir half-turned and began to rise, but Aragorn waved a hand as he entered the room. "Forgive my intrusion."
"You do not intrude, my liege. In truth, I'm glad for a respite." Faramir rubbed his eyes and beckoned toward a chair. "Please sit. I take it the Harad delegation has retired?"
Aragorn nodded and dropped into a chair. His fine clothes – a green velvet surcoat bearing the White Tree over his ceremonial armor – were, as was his wont, slightly rumpled, and his boots scuffed despite his scandalized wardrobe mistress' frantic efforts to keep them pristine. Aragorn's nature never permitted sitting still for long – his preferred venue for Privy Council sessions was the Citadel grounds where he led his councillors in vigorous walks – and while he still had a Ranger's practical frugality and scorned a change in clothing thrice daily, he also had a lamentable tendency toward sartorial untidiness as the day wore on. Too, his visits to the Houses of Healing made for frequent dishevelment. But these were endearing things in Faramir's eyes; he would not trade Aragorn for the most fastidious and exquisitely garbed monarch. He much preferred a monarch unafraid to dirty his hands. "The Haradrim retire early and are up before the sun," Aragorn said with a wry grin. "There will be no lying idly in bed for the next few days at least."
"As if you made a habit of lolling in bed," Faramir scoffed gently. "In any case, we shall all have a busy time of it, not only with the Haradrim delegation but with Yáviérë."
"Is that a reproof, Lord Steward?" Aragorn asked.
"Not at all. I understand why you chose to commingle the events." Proof of Gondor's resilience and prosperity would reassure Harad that peace and commerce were worthy and profitable ventures, Aragorn had argued, and what better time to demonstrate that than Yáviérë, the harvest feast, when Gondor's fruitfulness and prosperity was at its most evident? Gondor's citizens had rallied admirably after the final battle of the Ring, and Minas Tirith was on its way to resuming its place as Gondor's radiant jewel.
A small dart of sorrow pierced Faramir's side and lodged there.
"What is it, Faramir?"
Faramir shook his head. "A stray thought, my lord – nothing more."
"Boromir," Aragorn said quietly. "I have observed your melancholy during the preparations for the feast."
Surprised into honesty, Faramir nodded. "It is impossible to conceal aught from you."
"I think of him also," Aragorn said. "You must have happy memories of harvests past."
"Oh, yes." Faramir smiled, remembering. "Even as men grown, we loved the harvest. Music, games, dancing, feasting, drinking until the small hours and awakening with sore heads…." He laughed. "Boromir's mood after a night of Yáviérë drinking was like a warg's, especially if we were required to ride out early in the morning."
"I never observed him overindulging in drink," Aragorn mused. "That must have been a brother's privilege."
"I think he became weary of an aching head. He still enjoyed it, though, and feasting as well. Every year at Yáviérë each of us would receive a small meat or a fruit pie of our own, with our names pierced into the crust." Faramir sketched Boromir's name in the air. "It was a special treat. Boromir tormented me by eating his slowly and saving the crust for the very last."
Aragorn chuckled. Then he rose and gently stroked Faramir's hair. "I think it would gladden his spirit to see you celebrate this Yáviérë, Faramir." Bending, he kissed the top of Faramir's head and caught Faramir's hand in his own. "To bed, Lord Steward. Your cares will wait until morning."
Faramir looked up at his king, and his breath caught in his throat.
"Does not my Lady Arwen expect you this evening, my liege?"
"Lady Arwen," Aragorn replied, "is with Lady Eowyn this evening. And we two are at loose ends. Unless you wish to join them, that is."
Faramir rose to his feet. It would be a pleasure to divest Aragorn of his rumpled clothing and armor. "I think that tonight we should leave them to their own diversions and indulge in idleness for a few hours at least." He kissed Aragorn on the mouth.
"My Lord Steward is both prudent and wise," Aragorn murmured, and tugged at Faramir's hand.
They disported themselves pleasantly, and afterward lay spent in a tangle of bedclothes and limbs. Aragorn slept at once, but Faramir, still wakeful, gazed at the ripening harvest moon and thought of his brother. The ache in his heart was easing, but slowly, so slowly.
Grief, Aragorn had once said, was not so orderly as the seasons. How right he was.
*
The great hall was aglow, warm with braziers and bodies and great platters of food hot and smoking from the ovens. Faramir sat at Aragorn's left hand, while the chief emissary of Harad, a wildly handsome, dark-skinned man in robes of jewelled brocade, sat to Aragorn's right. Aragorn had patiently guided the delegates through Gondorian harvest traditions, raising the first toast to celebrate the hard labor of Gondor's citizens and a fruitful reaping before a crowd of thousands, every soul who could squeeze into the vast courtyard of the Citadel. He then toasted peace and prosperity with the Haradrim and bade them welcome. Faramir's heart swelled with pride in Aragorn and all his people; while some still bore grudges lingering from the war, most of the city's folk appeared both curious and hospitable and treated the visitors with great courtesy.
There remained still some traces of the warrior's way; the emissaries' bodyguards stood against the wall, cloaked and swathed in their protective headdresses, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. Across the hall, an equal company of Gondorian soldiers stood guard as well – better to permit the Southrons their swords, Aragorn had said, and provide their own. Gondor's alliance with Harad was still delicately balanced on such blades.
Still, no uneasiness seemed evident this night. Badharkân, the chief emissary, laughed and jested with Aragorn, switching between his own language – in which Aragorn was nearly fluent – and the common tongue, lilting and peculiar in his accent, and the other delegates were unbending as well. The man next to Eowyn, in fact, seemed quite taken with her and listened, enraptured, to her stories.
Surreptitiously, Faramir winked at her and received a lavish smile in return. His steel-thorned flower was a consummate diplomat.
Servants brought dish after dish piled high with meats, vegetables, bread, and sweet confections. Wine and ale flowed freely, and Faramir, usually abstemious by inclination, drank three brimming tankards of ale. He regretted it almost at once, but the old melancholy had taken hold again.
The loss of his mother he had long accepted, but the double blow of his father and most beloved brother…had he at least been able to bury them, the grieving space inside might be partially filled, but there had been no remains, save Boromir's horn and a scorched bit of his father's cloak. He had buried those pieces together in the Silent Street, with Aragorn and Arwen and Eowyn in attendance, and few others.
Now the aching emptiness suffused him once more; he fought it, gamely stabbing at his food in an effort to counteract the strong drink.
Aragorn laid a hand on his arm. "Are you well, Faramir?"
Faramir attempted a sunny smile. "Quite well, my liege. Have you sampled the stewed fruit? It's a harvest specialty." He pushed the dish toward Aragorn, inadvertently knocking Aragorn's empty tankard to the floor.
"Oh – pardon, sire." He fumbled for it, but a gloved hand closed round the bowl and lifted it, placing it gently on the table.
Faramir glanced up and saw the tankard's rescuer was a Haradrim guard, clothed in scarlet and brazen scales. "Thank you. Forgive my clumsiness."
Aragorn grasped Faramir's hand and nodded. "Water, I think," he murmured, and poured a generous helping into a cup.
Chastened, Faramir took the cup. "I am sorry."
"It's often in the midst of the merriest celebration that the heart yearns, Faramir. Do not apologize. I know you would not disgrace yourself." Aragorn turned to the guard. "Thank y –" A quick breath escaped him, and he pressed his lips together. "Thank you," he said quietly. He fastened his attention on the chief emissary, and Faramir turned to his dining partner and did the same.
Some moments later, though, Aragorn rose from his chair and led Arwen to his place. "I will return shortly," he said. "Faramir, you are master of the revels."
Faramir smiled at Arwen. "Are these festivities too boisterous for you, my lady? Doubtless you're accustomed to more sedate banquets." He admired her lovely face, her shining hair, and the embroidered gown she wore, the color of a ripe plum.
He still stood in awe of her; she was timeless, half as old as Minas Tirith itself and yet resembled a girl on the threshold of womanhood. And there was no doubting her compassion, kindness, and wisdom. He marveled at Eowyn's ease with her, and was glad for their friendship, but sometimes, as now, it seemed as if she saw through his flesh into his very spirit.
Arwen laughed. "I must remember to shock you with tales of Rivendell's abandon, Faramir." She seemed about to say more when Badharkân drew her attention away. Faramir's dinner partner was once more fixated upon Eowyn, and Faramir sipped at his water, glad for the momentary respite.
A hand tugged at Faramir's sleeve. "My lord Faramir."
Faramir turned to the young serving boy. "Yes, lad?"
"King Elessar requests your presence in the southern garden."
Frowning, Faramir excused himself and rose from the table. He swayed for a moment, planted his feet firmly, and made his way from the hall, cursing himself for his immoderation. It was a true fool who allowed himself to become even slightly drunk in the presence of guests.
Cold air struck him as he opened the small door to the garden. He breathed it in gratefully – it helped to clear his head, just a little – and saw Aragorn standing a short distance away. Forcing his slightly unsteady gait into precision, he moved closer and saw shining tracks upon Aragorn's countenance. "My lord, is something amiss?" He grasped Aragorn's shoulder.
Aragorn pressed his lips together and shook his head. "No. No. Faramir…stay here a while." He dashed at the tears on his face and smiled. "Just for a short while, until I return."
Uncertainly, Faramir nodded, and watched Aragorn retreat, closing the door behind him. He pivoted unsteadily on his heel and gasped as he saw a figure close by. "Eru Ilúvatar –" He pressed a hand to his chest and peered at the figure, a Harad guardsman. "Forgive me, I didn't see you. Were you speaking to the king?"
The guard took a half step forward, apparently thought better of it, and stepped back. He gestured at his throat.
"Ah. You don't speak the common tongue." Faramir's Harad was embarrassingly poor; he folded his hands together and bowed slightly in the Haradrim's traditional gesture of respect. "Just as well. I find myself weary of social chatter."
The guard returned the bow and nodded shortly.
"King Elessar was weeping. Strange. You don't perchance – sorry. No." Faramir clasped his hands behind his back and paced. "He will tell me, in his own time. He is a good man, a fine king. In short months he's done much to undo the damage my father wrought through neglect and…and much unhappiness. Gondor is the better for his presence. As am I."
The guard stood impassively.
Faramir shook his head. "You may go, if you wish." He gestured toward the door. "I do not require a guard." The guard tilted his head to one side in gentle inquisition, but remained where he stood. "Very well," Faramir sighed. "No harm in it, I suppose. Do you mind if I sit? My head is spinning. I've drunk too much." He dropped onto a small stone bench. "The air helps, though."
The guardsman swept a hand sideways, as if encouraging Faramir to go on.
Faramir smiled. "You're very patient." He folded his hands and sighed. "I miss my brother on this night, guardsman. That is – I miss him every night, but on this night most of all. The harvest feasts were special to us. I should be content; I am blessed in many aspects. I live and am whole, thanks to Aragorn. I reside in comfort – no, splendor. I have a wife gifted with strength and a fine mind and beauty besides. My work yields satisfaction and is often to the benefit of my people. But still I yearn and bewail my loss. It is a failing, but one I cannot yet relinquish."
The guard had moved closer. He had no weapon in his scabbard, his face was entirely swathed save two gleaming pinpoints of eyes in the moonlight, and his silent presence began to unnerve Faramir.
"Did…did my lord Aragorn ask that you stay with me?"
The guardsman nodded.
Faramir rose to his feet. "You do understand our tongue." A strange apprehension filled him, and he began to back toward the door. Aragorn would not leave him, knowing he was unarmed, with someone dangerous, and yet – "I will take my leave. Farewell."
"Faramir."
Faramir's breath hitched unevenly. His name. A whisper, and yet…. "Who are you?"
Slowly, the guardsman raised his hands to his headdress and unwound it, revealing his face in the silver-gilt light of the harvest moon.
"It cannot be," Faramir whispered. "It cannot be."
"Little brother," Boromir said softly.
"Boromir." Faramir's heartbeat thundered in his ears. It was not, it could not be. He staggered, and Boromir hurried forward and caught him before he fell. "I'm drunk," he said.
"You never did hold ale well."
"You...was it a dream? I saw you. I saw you dead."
Boromir smiled. "And yet I live."
Faramir reached up tentatively and touched Boromir's cheek. A hiccoughing sob escaped him, and Boromir drew him close and embraced him, weeping. Faramir wept as well, and for long moments they clung together in the wordless joy of reunion.
*
The first grey light of dawn crept through the heavy draperies and the fire flickered to embers, and Faramir's throat ached from weeping and talking. He would not let Boromir leave his sight and clung to his hand as if his brother was mere illusion and would vanish into mist. For his part, Boromir did the same, and the two brothers lay side by side, recounting the months that had passed since their last parting.
"You were a valuable hostage," Faramir said. "Why did we hear nothing from the Haradrim?"
Boromir stretched and sat up, still holding Faramir's hand. "A dead hostage is of no use. I hovered between life and death for many long weeks, and I think that by that time they had grown accustomed to me. Too, one hostage is hardly impressive, especially when word of Father's…debilitation escaped. It was no secret in Harad, Faramir."
Faramir sighed. "Poor Father." He turned to Boromir and tugged at his hair. "You look like a cross between a Haradrim and an elf." Boromir's hair was long, drawn back from his brow in elaborate plaits and falling over his shoulders, brighter than the thread of gold worked into the collar of his scarlet tunic, as though the sun had bleached it. He was thinner than before, his face hawk-like in the shadowed light of Faramir's chamber. He seemed older, more serious, but his brilliant, joyous smile was undimmed and his tender affection toward Faramir unchanged.
"It suits me, does it not?" Boromir laughed. He stroked Faramir's hair. "How I have missed you. Time has changed us all, brother. We've lost a year, you and I. And you are Steward now, and are wedded. Your lady wife is beautiful indeed, and tales of her gallantry reached even the far reaches of the Sunlands."
"She is. I cherish her deeply. And she is generous." Faramir laid a hand upon Boromir's chest, marveling at the steady beat of Boromir's heart. "I have been truthful with her."
Boromir drew a trembling breath. "Then…."
"Yes." Faramir reached for Boromir and drew him close. He kissed Boromir's lips and fitted their bodies together. "Blessed Yáviérë, Boromir."
"Blessed Yáviérë," Boromir echoed.
And together they welcomed the harvest.
*
Faramir awakened to a discreet knock. He shrugged on a dressing-robe and went to the door after a tender caress to a sleeping Boromir’s brow. His beloved brother, restored to him.
When he opened the door, the corridor was empty, but on a tray were two pies, the names of Faramir and Boromir pierced into the crust.
End.