Chapter Text
Faramir sat patiently as Elphir lifted off his coronet and handed it to Elfhelm to stow in its travelling box. Next he was relieved of the heavy gold torc that circled his neck. It was an heirloom of the House of Eorl, lent to him by Éomer, and of a very different design to the light chain of the Steward’s collar of state that he normally wore on formal occasions. The rope-twist band of this collar lay heavily against the nape of his neck, while the horses’ heads at the terminals rested in the hollow of his throat.
Faramir had felt keenly the honour of wearing it as he wedded into the kin of Eorl and Helm and Théoden, Thengel’s son. He had also felt the weight of it during the day. It was far more burdensome than his usual attire, and despite the honour, he was not entirely sorry to be rid of it.
The horses’ heads, studded with green gems, glinted in the candlelight as Erkenbrand carried it away to safe storage. As the Marshal of the Westfold departed on his errand, Erchirion knelt before the stool on which Faramir was sitting and began working on removing his boots, while Imrahil waited ready with the fur-trimmed robe he would wear that night. Only briefly, Faramir hoped, smiling to himself.
Behind him, from the far side of the room, came the laughter of women; Lothíriel’s giggle and the Queen’s merry peal could be heard amongst the voices. He could not pick out Éowyn’s tones: was she as silent as he was? As nervous?
He found himself rubbing his thumb against the gold wedding ring that sat on his index finger, first placed there nearly two weeks ago. Only now was it beginning to feel a part of him.
The great hall of the Tower of Ecthelion in Minas Tirith had been crowded when Faramir had made his way out from the side chamber. Nobles and commoners alike were crushed together, leaving only a small space before the throne. He saw a group of Ithilien Rangers pressed along one wall: he gathered they had drawn lots, since there was insufficient room for all to attend. The rest of them would be somewhere outside, ready to partake of the lavish feast that would follow the ceremony. He was sorry that the Rangers would not be providing the honour guard when he showed his new bride to the people, but that was now the place of the White Company.
His bride! If only it had been Éowyn approaching him from the other side of the hall. The need to satisfy the customs of both Gondor and Rohan had produced a fine tangle of ceremonies; and in Éowyn’s place, here in Gondor in the spring, he faced a matronly lady whose plump, pale prettiness was faded by years of care and service: Hild, wife to Erkenbrand.
It had been four months before, just before the turn of the year at mettarë, when the king had come quietly into his office and found him hunched over the latest dispatches from Rohan. He had started when Aragorn touched his shoulder and called his name.
”My apologies, sire,” Faramir had said, making a move to rise. Aragorn’s hand on his shoulder had pressed him back into his chair.
“Sit,” he admonished. He nodded to the letters on the table. “I trust the news from Rohan is not bad?”
“No, all is well. It is simply that there are still some outstanding matters regarding the wedding ceremonies.”
“Let me see.” Aragorn sat down in a chair on the other side of the desk, stretching out his legs, and held out his hand.
“I would not trouble you with it, sire.”
“I am more troubled that my Steward is troubled – and tying himself in knots over a simple ceremony,” Aragorn said. He softened the remark with a smile. “Come, Faramir. If we can outmanoeuvre the Haradric ambassador between us, I am sure we can see off the combined might of the Masters of Ceremonies of Rohan and Gondor.”
Faramir reluctantly pushed the papers across the table and reflected, once again, that the immensely complicated negotiations over the place and timing and form of the wedding ceremonies were in stark contrast with the simplicity of the pledge and betrothal. “I confess, I have been sorely tempted at times simply to ride to Edoras with a spare horse and some trail rations and invite Éowyn to come with me into the wild,” he admitted with a wry grin.
Aragorn laughed. “I dare say she would agree. But,” he fixed Faramir with a stern look that yet contained a glint of humour, “both Gondor and Rohan must see the deed done and done aright.” He scanned through the sheaf of papers and eventually commented, “I am glad to see you have managed to agree on the order of the ceremonies. At last.”
“Aye,” Faramir nodded. “It is clear we must wed in Rohan, since the White Lady is the last of the House of Eorl after her brother. Until he weds and has sons, her children might be heirs to the Riddermark.”
“And while I would not wish you to be the first and last of the House of Húrin to be Prince of Ithilien, the succession here matters less,” Aragorn nodded.
“Yes, I am sure you could find another Prince of Ithilien quite easily,” Faramir said. He was looking down at the pen he held, turning it over and over in his hands, and did not notice the sharp look Aragorn gave him. “Besides, it seems there are certain aspects of the ceremony in Rohan that must be completed there, but,” he sighed, “they cannot be undertaken before the ceremonies for Gondor are concluded. Yet, for her honour, my bride may not travel to Gondor unwed by the customs of Rohan.”
“A pretty pickle – and a pretty point of protocol,” Aragorn laughed. “If she had not already travelled here unwed – and been under your protection for many weeks - there would be no wedding.”
“’Tis true.” Faramir’s answering laugh smoothed away some of the frown lines from his face. He wondered if he would always be so grateful for his betrothed’s unconventional spirit. “So Hild of Westfold will stand proxy here in the White City, that the people of Gondor may see us wed. Then Éowyn and I will confirm the ceremony when I reach Edoras, before we wed after the manner of Rohan.”
“I shall be sorry not to see that,” Aragorn said. “I remember well that a wedding amongst the Eorlingas is a merry occasion.”
“And I shall be sorry that you will not be there with the queen, sire. But as the Prince of Ithilien has to attend his own wedding, and he requires the presence of the Prince of Dol Amroth as his nearest kin, your Steward has rightly advised you that you must leave someone competent behind in charge of the kingdom.”
Faramir’s tone was so dry that it was a moment before Aragorn realised he was making a joke.
“I am glad my Steward feels able to entrust me with the task,” he said, with a laugh. He waved at the papers again. “Have you decided on the wedding gifts?”
“Éomer has offered us livestock,” Faramir said. “Broodmares in foal, and sheep, and a fine breeding bull.”
Aragorn’s face split into a grin. “Ah, I had suspected the bloodstock of Ithilien might rival that of Dol Amroth, but now I know it will surpass it. What do you offer Rohan in return?”
“Logging rights in Ithilien for five years,” Faramir answered. “They have much rebuilding to do and little timber of their own – and there are many trees of a good age for felling which need clearing from old farmland if it is to be put under the plough again.” He looked quickly at Aragorn. “That is, if you have no objection, sire.”
“Ithilien is yours to do with as you wish, Faramir,” the king answered lightly. “It seems a good plan to me.”
“There is also another gift I wish to make,” Faramir said, going a little red. “My bride and her brother can read and write a little, but few of the people of Rohan know their letters. I wish to offer them my father’s books, help them build a library, and give them teachers to show them how to use it.” He paused. “Is it a foolish idea, do you think? I worry that Éomer will not find it welcome. Or perhaps think that I mock him and his people.”
“I think it may not be to his personal taste, but I am sure he will see the wisdom of it,” Aragorn answered. He paused before he asked casually, “You do not wish to keep your father’s books yourself? I believe it is a fine collection.”
Faramir looked down at the desk, his face going a deeper red. “It is, but I would rather it were not in my house.”
“Of course,” Aragorn said quickly. “And what of your morning gift to your bride.”
Faramir looked up, smiling again. “I will give her my mother’s dower lands in Dol Amroth. I am sure Éowyn will learn to love the sea. And there is no dispute that they are mine to give.”
Aragorn gave him another sharp look. This time Faramir saw the rebuke and stiffened himself to face the reprimand. His reaction only served to provoke an audible hiss of frustration from the king. “Faramir, there is no dispute that there are many things which are yours to give,” he said. “I know the properties of the Stewards and your own family and the Royal estates have become somewhat muddled over the last thousand years, but I wish you would accept a little more of what I have offered.”
“You have given me Ithilien.”
“And you are pouring every bit of income you get out of it – and more – back in to the reconstruction. Faramir, I commend your devotion to your Princedom and I know you do not care much for luxury beyond simple comforts. Nor do I think your bride is one who will be dissatisfied with such a life. I confess I find the refinements of the court a little wearisome myself at times. But you are the Steward of Gondor. I cannot reproach your performance of your public duties, but I ask you to remember that for you and I, the private is the public. Your personal life is not above notice from the people. While they do not want stewards and kings who are greedy, they do not expect their lords to live like… like an officer of the Ithilien Rangers! At the very least, please allow your sense of duty as to appearances to permit you to accept what is your due.”
Faramir laughed and saw Aragorn looked pleased at the sound. “Very well, sire, I will accept some luxury – for duty’s sake!”
“For duty’s sake!” Aragorn echoed. He glanced back down at the documents. “Ah, I see you also require a sword to give to your bride.” He tapped the papers with one finger. “If I remember correctly, it needs to be an ancestral blade with an honourable history. Have you such?” He gave Faramir another piercing look.
Faramir sighed and said, “Not yet. Another problem I face. Since any sword I might have offered has been rendered useless by fire.” Every mention of the word sword in the dispatches had brought with it the double pain of his likely failure to fulfil this requirement and the memory of the reason for that failure.
“And when were you going to come and ask me for assistance in this matter?” Aragorn asked, his tone half amused and half exasperated.
Faramir looked over at him and again reddened. “Probably in the hour before I departed for Rohan,” he conceded.
“I have a sword for you,” Aragorn said quietly. “It has a long and proud history.” A pained look crossed his face. “I am sure the one who bore it last would not begrudge that it should serve your sons.”
Four months later, as he stood facing Hild of Westfold in the great hall under the benign smiles of the king and queen, Faramir had reflected that it had not been an easy conversation with his king. It seemed he did not always provide Elessar with what he wanted. Yet the king was rarely angry with him, but offered understanding, guiding him in a role he had never thought would be his.
Like a father.
He had forced away the sadness that welled up in him at that thought and concentrated on the ceremony. With Hild, he had spoken the words that he would later confirm in Edoras with Éowyn, and they had exchanged rings. This ceremony achieved little more than their trothplighting the year before in advancing the marriage, yet it seemed to satisfy the crowd, who whooped and hollered and clapped, and then took themselves off to enjoy the feast.
Looking back, many aspects of the ceremony in Gondor had been quite unreal to Faramir, not least how strange it felt to be in the presence of the king and queen wearing something other than the sable and silver of his office. Even when the royal couple occasionally travelled to Ithilien to see how the resettlement progressed, they mostly found him bearing an image of the White Tree, clad as he often was in his old Ranger garb: a practical choice whether he was riding out to remote farmsteads or overseeing building works. Several times during the ceremony he had glanced down briefly at the crest embroidered on his tunic, a crest that the king had insisted he bear on this day of all days: You are my faithful King’s Servant and no one needs to be reminded of that. You wed as Prince of Ithilien and head of the House of Húrin – and Gondor must know it.
So it was that he bore a quartered crest. One part was bright argent like snow in the sun, bearing no charge nor device, the banner of the Stewards. Another showed a bird – a swallow - against a blue ground and that was for the House of Húrin, who hailed from the hills of Emyn Arnen in years long past. Faramir had known the symbol all his life, but he could not recall it ever being used by his father.
The third quarter bore a white tree on a green field: in memory of Isildur, who first held the Moon-Land and braved death to save the fruit of Nimloth, and as a reminder of the glades of Ithilien that Faramir loved. It was comforting to still bear an image of a tree. The last quarter showed the swan-prowed ship of Dol Amroth: his mother’s line. The sons of this marriage would bear the White Horse of Rohan in its place.
He was half brought back to the present as Elphir touched his shoulder and asked him to stand, so that he could lift that same tunic over Faramir’s head. Here he was, in Rohan, two weeks later, and now twice married.
“I hope you are not going to carry on frowning like that, cousin!”
“What?” Erchirion’s remark jerked Faramir fully out of his daydream. His cousins were now working on the lacings of his doublet.
“If you wear that face with your bride, she will be storming out of here within the hour, demanding the wedding be annulled,” Erchirion pointed out.
Faramir actually laughed. “I do not think so!”
“Oh, now he shows his confidence!” Elphir gave Faramir a friendly thump in the shoulder. “You did not speak so when we were in Gondor.”
“So that is what you debated in your secret council,” Erchirion said with a grin
“Which will remain secret,” Faramir warned Elphir. He realised his eldest cousin was rather more drunk than he had previously suspected. He wondered whether there would ever be a time when he could again guarantee that his private acts would remain private.
“Of course, my lord,” Elphir said with mock deference. Faramir did not doubt his brothers would have the whole tale out of him before the end of the night, but he suspected he would be past caring about being teased by then. Yet at this moment he did not want it spoken of.
His effort to secure an opening to talk alone with Elphir had somewhat spoilt his enjoyment of the feast after the proxy wedding in Minas Tirith. The party from Dol Amroth had only arrived late the previous night and Faramir felt there would be little opportunity for quiet counsel on the road once they set off for Rohan the next day. Even if he managed to draw Elphir aside and avoid being overheard, their conference would be noted and remarked upon. Faramir knew he must take his chance during the current celebrations.
The information he sought from Elphir was not strictly necessary, but there was a matter that had been preying on Faramir’s mind that he could not satisfy by recourse to books. After his conversation with the king before mettarë, he had come to understand that he should turn to his friends and family more often when he was troubled. Still, this was not an easy thing to ask. It was certainly not something he felt he could discuss with the king.
It should have been his brother’s place to answer, although Faramir was not entirely convinced Boromir would have been the best person with whom to broach the matter. Since that was, alas, an option no longer open to him, he had eventually decided that he could best trust Elphir with the task of enlightenment.
Yet it was early evening and the merrymaking was in full swing before he was able to approach his cousin. Elphir was giving a good night kiss to his small son before his wife carried the boy off to bed. When mother and child had left, Faramir touched Elphir’s arm. “Cousin, may I speak to you in private?”
Elphir raised his eyebrows in surprise but merely said “As you wish.” He allowed Faramir to lead him into the Steward’s private office, to one side of the main hall. Once there, Elphir looked around as if dissatisfied with the place. “We’re missing all the fun,” he grumbled. “And my goblet is empty.” He waved it at Faramir accusingly. “That can be amended.” Faramir took the cup and filled it with some wine from a decanter that stood on a side table. After he handed the glass to his cousin, he took a deep breath and said, “You were married latest of any man I dare ask such a thing. I would like your advice about my wedding night.”
Elphir spluttered a mouthful of wine back into the goblet. “Your wedding night?”
“Yes. I am unsure what I should do.”
Elphir seemed somewhat nonplussed. Then he laughed. “Cousin, did you learn nothing in your visits to the women of the House of Starlight? Clearly you are not such a quick study in practical matters as with your books!”
Faramir glared at him and said crossly, “Aye, I learnt plenty. I learnt how to lie with a woman who has been with many men. I did not learn how I should be with a woman who has known none before.”
Elphir sobered at his words. “There is that, cousin,” he said quietly. “I am sorry for my jest. But it is not so different, you know. Except that she may be somewhat more… surprised by you.”
Faramir felt distinctly hot as he remembered a summer’s night some months previous when Éowyn had surprised him. He hoped Elphir would not notice the flush that must have spread over his face. He said quickly, “I do not think that will be the case. My bride is a shieldmaiden and was raised amongst warriors and breeders of horses. I do not think she will be surprised by… appearances or what must be done.”
“That is true,” Elphir nodded. “Yet she has not done these things herself. I do not think you should expect her to be as adventurous or willing as the women of the House of Starlight in all things. Be careful what you ask of her… or offer her.”
Faramir bit his bottom lip nervously. “I will remember. Also,” he stumbled slightly over his words, despite the many times he had rehearsed this conversation in his head, “I have heard that for a woman the first time is not pleasurable. That it may be painful, even. I would know what I should do that I might make it less so.”
“Ah,” Elphir looked thoughtful. “I understand. I believe all you may do is make sure she is as ready for you as she may be. And that you are careful and slow….”
He paused, as there was an imperious rapping on the door. Then it burst open. “Ah, here he is!” Erchirion cried, half falling into the room.
“Hiding as usual!” Amrothos added. “This is one feast where you are simply not allowed to sneak away, Faramir.”
As Faramir’s two younger cousins claimed an arm each to lead him back to the hall, Elphir added in an undertone tinged with laughter, “And make sure the door is barred, so that you be not disturbed!”
Faramir had to admit he had enjoyed the celebrations more once that worry was lifted from his mind, and when he had felt free, late in the evening, to join the Rangers and receive their many toasts for his future health and happiness. He had lent his voice to their songs and, for a few hours, had slipped back to a time when he was not yet Prince and Steward, or even Captain, but simply one of this happy band.
The wedding feast in Rohan had brought a different kind of joy, with Éowyn at his side. Last time they had feasted, they had been placed far apart, but now they shared a single plate, piled high with the choicest food. The drink flowed freely and musicians brought out their harps and pipes and drums, and there was singing and dancing and much laughter. Looking around the hall, Faramir’s heart had been filled with quiet pleasure to see such cheer and he hoped they might carry even a tithe of this delight to their new home in Emyn Arnen.
When the feast was near its end, Éowyn brought a feasting cup to Faramir, that they might drink together, while the company toasted their heath. After they were done, Faramir rose and spoke.
“My lords and ladies of Rohan and Gondor. My bride and I,” here he could not resist pausing to look down at Éowyn. Her happy smile lit her face more brightly than all the flames in the hall. Faramir returned the smile and took her hand and raised her to stand with him. “My bride and I are honoured that you have come to celebrate our wedding with us. Today – and all the days since I first met the White Lady of Rohan – I count myself amongst the most fortunate of Men. We have come through sorrow to joy and know that, by our pledges, the oaths between our peoples are strengthened with yet another tie.
“And ere you depart, King Elessar and my uncle, the Prince of Dol Amroth, have given me leave to speak of another tie that will bind our two peoples ever closer. It is my great pleasure to announce that my new brother, King Éomer, has asked for the hand of my cousin Lothíriel, Lady of Dol Amroth , daughter of Prince Imrahil, and it has been granted. I beg you, therefore, to stand witness to their trothplighting and to join me in a toast to their happiness.”
And after Éomer and Lothíriel had been handfasted and more toasts had been drunk, it was time for the attendants to lead Faramir and Éowyn to the bedchamber.