
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5229482.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Lord_of_the_Rings_(Movies), The_Lord_of_the_Rings_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Boromir/Faramir, Boromir/Original_Male_Character(s)
  Character:
      Faramir, Boromir_(Son_of_Denethor_II), Denethor
  Additional Tags:
      Sibling_Incest, Boromir-centric, Alternate_Universe
  Series:
      Part 1 of Restless_Blaze
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-11-17 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 5814
****** Without Air, Fire Does Not Burn ******
by hurinhouse
Summary
     Faramir meets a street rat with a questionable past. The encounter
     will eventually change the lives of many.
Notes
     Slightly AU.
     A/N notes: Boromir fans please bear with me. You will see more of him
     than anyone else if you just trust me.
     A/N notes: Bálin is pronounced Bay-lin… unless my elfish research is
     crap, which is entirely probable.
***** Chapter 1 *****
The twinkling lights of the townhouses in the upper circles was a favorite view
on the evenings sleep eluded him. The lavender tea rarely did the trick Endahil
claimed, though Denethor was loathe to admit it directly. Endahil had come to
him from Dol Amroth some twenty years prior, seen him through two tragedies and
a major bout of illness without coddling him in false puffery. Though Denethor
never told him, the man could not be spared.
To the South, within the seventh level, he could just make out the last lantern
in the barracks, difficult to see past the Merethrond but for the height of the
Steward’s house. As he gazed, the glow was swallowed in the black night, and he
wondered if his son slept more soundly among his peers there than in his own
lush bed.
His vision descended, lights far more scarce the farther down the circles
wound, burnt only by pubs and whorehouses, but for the torches on the first
circle where the watch was ever in full swing. A bleak picture.
“Perhaps I’ll lower the tax on tapers.”
Endahil paused at his words; bypassing the townhouses and businesses of the
upper levels, his eyes following Denethor’s view down below.
“Most would use the discount for mead and gambling, My Lord. Those who cannot
afford wax sleep with the moon. As should you.”
Denethor sipped his tea and glanced back toward the barracks. “No doubt I soon
will with your foul brew in me.”
 
***
 
Without air, fire does not burn. It was the perfectly logical conclusion, and
yet Lostir had argued with him, claimed that lack of light was the culprit.
After Faramir had replied that fire is light, and demonstrated his air
conjecture with a bowl over Durn’s pipe, Lostir had wandered to the opposite
side of the tavern, finding a game of dice more appealing than arguing with a
pompous thinker.
Faramir lifted the bowl one last time when a renewed series of bellows
distracted him. Five men from his barracks stood on the tavern table, chanting
the virtues of Mellomir the Maid and her cooking instruments. Faramir wasn’t
familiar with most of the terms, but was able to deduce they weren’t boasting
of her strawberry tarts. If Denethor knew his only son, all of fourteen
summers, was cavorting down level, in the second circle no less, he’d have
Faramir locked in his rooms. As it was, he was lucky to be allowed in barracks.
As entertaining as the off-key caterwauling was, it was the more subdued
activity just past the table that caught Faramir’s eye. Not Hilros, nor his
half laced tunic, nor even the way he straddled the bench like he’d fall into
his squash pie. But the boy Hilros leaned against, ran his hands all over. Not
exactly a boy. The street rat was a little older than Faramir though certainly
not as old as Hilros. He allowed Hilros to touch at will, but the soldier’s
gropes were barely registered.
The young man was aware of everything around him, eyes darting about the room,
taking stock of who, when, where. His begrimed shirt was streaked with clean
patches, as though he’d been splashed with some liquid. Faramir wondered how
he’d weather the coming winter without shoes.
The waif whispered something that made Hilros lean back and stare at him in
question, but the answering sly smile was all Hilros needed. Into the young
man’s palm he slipped a coin, which disappeared immediately, Faramir knew not
where, and the urchin led Hilros by the hand out the back.
Faramir hadn’t realized he was staring until the door slammed shut behind them.
“Oy, Durn won’t be pleased,” Lostir gestured to the pipe beside the bowl, no
chance of being relit that evening. “I’d get a lashing for that, not being
royal and all.” He’d had more ale than Faramir, fell into the stool beside him.
“So it’s to our joined benefit that you lower your voice, yes?”
Lostir didn’t appreciate the reprimand, but shook it off easily enough. “How
long will you stay in barracks this time? I see you slipped your leash.”
“My father promised through the harvest.” We'll see.
Faramir threw back the rest of his ale and scooted his chair across the wood.
Fire wasn’t the only thing that needed air to function. He headed toward the
door.
“Careful. Hilros and Durn are out there somewhere.”
Faramir scoffed, “I think they’ve moved on to better things than the Steward’s
son draining himself.”
The night was chilly. The knots in his laces seemed tighter than usual and the
need to empty himself became more dire each moment he was delayed. He leaned
against the corner of the pub, trying for more leverage with both hands when he
heard a moan behind him.
His hands fell away as he turned. Across the alley, among leaves and fallen
twigs, he spied Hilros squeezing his arse forward, then backward, then forward
again, his cock disappearing into the mouth of the street rat, who kneeled
among the loose chipped stone. Faramir’s need to piss was suddenly cut off by a
stronger urge, one he’d never before experienced among the men.
The urchin’s cheeks were hallowed as he sucked and Faramir couldn’t imagine how
confined he must feel, though he seemed completely unfazed. His hand reached up
between Hilros’ thighs. Faramir couldn’t see what he did there, but Hilros’
jerk and sigh told a tale of debauchery.
“What have you here, Hilros? Enough to share?” The street rat tensed, body
pivoting slightly, even as he kept to task. His eyes followed Durn's voice,
newly come to the garden.
Hilros kept pumping, “Leave off.”
“I’ll split the fee with you. He looks limber,” Durn circled. The young man
tried to turn, but Hilros began to jerk and his fingers tightened within filthy
hair.
Faramir saw the urchin’s hand grope among the leaves when Durn ran a rough hand
down his back. Hilros pumped in one last time, buttocks clenched in a perpetual
pose when a cloud of dirt and leaves flew up between them and Durn got an elbow
in the eye for his trouble. “Valar!”
The street rat yanked off of Hilros, breathing through his nose, as Durn found
his feet. Hilros groaned, boneless in pleasure, and Durn slipped his dagger
from his belt. Faramir’s heart quickened. He watched the urchin strike the
dagger with a large stick he’d found on the ground. Durn lunged and the young
man smacked the dagger away, pounding against Durn’s arm when the soldier lost
his footing. The urchin’s lack of technique reminded Faramir of sparring
practice that morning, when Master Teithin explained the difference between raw
natural talent and practiced finesse.
The young man spat Hilros’ seed in Durn’s face, causing Durn to slip on the
stones. A lantern shone brightly beside Hilros, and as the urchin turned, Fara
caught a flash of brilliant green in his eyes, glittering with contempt for the
would-be patrons both now sunk to the ground.
Durn rubbed his face, “Villain! I’ll forge your death!” But Faramir’s vision
had room only for the street rat walking down the nearest alley, the boy's ire
forgotten in the shine of the coin he flipped in the air with each step.
***** Chapter 2 *****
He remembered the little lord from somewhere. Mayhap in the stables, though his
blood looked too blue to trudge down this far for tack. Perhaps the alley pub
on the second circle?
Yes. That was it. He’d watched Bálin work one night a week past, stripling bit
of a bulge growing in his thick-lined trousers. The shine of his buckle had
caught Bálin’s eye. It wasn’t often he saw the like, and he’d rarely serviced
one wearing something so fine.
The lad wandered through the marketplace now, but he’d passed up too many
delicacies to have been interested in something sold in a stall. Bálin ran his
fingers through his crusty hair as he stepped forward. If he was slick, he may
get enough copper for one of the butcher’s meat pies.
“Wrong circle, Yer Highness.”
The fop whipped round, a bit younger then Bálin had remembered. No matter, his
coin was still good. The streets were fairly bare for Market Day, with the
older troops gone scouting.
“I’m no royalty.”
“May as well be, with them fineries.” The lord pulled his cloak tight, so Bálin
changed the subject, “It’s not a private league, ye know.”
“What isn’t?”
“Me mouth. I’m willing to share… “ Bálin looked pointedly at the lad’s purse,
“… if you are.”
The lad sneaked a glance at Bálin’s tongue running across his lips and Bálin
was sure he had him. Until the arrogant fool looked away, “I don’t pay for
bothers.”
“Aye. I can see yer can’t afford it.” Weren’t them leather boots? “Looks to me
like ye’ve never done it at'all.” Bálin saw the other boy’s cheeks pink up
before he turned and walked toward the nearest inn, leaving Bálin to catch up
with him.
“Wait. Valar, yer touchy. If it’s the price, Tuesdays is only ‘alf.”
The fop picked up the pace. “You think nothing of selling your body for a
silver?”
Silver? This should be worth his time. "Aye. Wot’s the trouble? I know it ain’t
the goods. Don’t get much better.”
“How about lunch?”
“Wot?” The lord gestured around them and Bálin realized they’d stepped inside
an inn. The vexing prat had distracted him.
“I’m going to eat. You’re welcome to join me if you wish.”
That meat pie crawled right up into the back of Bálin’s brain and wriggled
there. “Aye, I’m not particular. If that tightens yer bow-string.”
The princling held out his arm, “Faramir.”
Bálin stared at it, waiting for it to perform. When the show didn’t come, he
pulled a chair out for Faramir, then sat across from him. He smiled, pleased
with himself.
“Bálin.”
 
***
 
The barmaid had looked at Faramir as though he was having her on. “And a bath
please,” he’d requested. His cleanliness was difficult to ignore. He’d pushed
back from his plate and looked at Bálin, “Coming?”
Two hours later they stood before a rapidly cooling wooden tub. He’d had to
coerce Bálin into the bath the first time with a pint of brandy, then insisted
on the second for his hair. The girl carrying the boiling buckets looked
younger than Faramir. He slipped her an extra coin.
Bálin’s skin shone golden, with the firm muscle Faramir hadn’t just imagined
underneath. Fara longed to touch it, run his fingers through soft locks of
summer wheat washed twice that very evening. He was harder than he’d ever been,
including the day he spilt in front of the cook’s daughter.
The brat caught him watching, corner of his mouth sliding up, so at ease. "This
is much trouble for a jerk and a spill. Wot's yer purpose here, Prince?"
“How many men have bought you?”
Bálin’s smirk loosened. “Don't know that I can count that 'igh.”
“You enjoy being used? Choking on men’s-… ”
“Pricks?” Bálin shrugged and turned back toward the tub. “Better that end than
th’other.”
“Gods, you’re crude.”
“Sorry, ‘ighness.” Faramir ran his cloth down Bálin’s back out of spite, not
registering his own action until he heard the quickly stifled intake of breath.
Bálin’s arch was that of a cat when he swirled to face Faramir, his own cloth
coming up on Fara’s collarbone.
Faramir’s cock surged. Bálin burned like fire, drowning Faramir in flames.
Dizzy, he wrapped his fingers round the back of Bálin’s head and kissed him.
Bálin’s lips were hot and soft but the urchin shoved, shocked and suffocating,
flame beginning to flicker.
So Faramir backed away, and saw Bálin suck in a gulp of air right before his
usual smirk replaced the panic and he reached forward. Just before Fara's eyes
squeezed shut, he caught a glimpse of an old scar on Balin’s palm. A horse,
much like those of his old Calvary set at home. Then Bálin touched the tip of
the cloth to Faramir’s length and he shot, streams of come splattering white
streaks on Bálin’s skin.
Bálin offered a sly smile as Faramir collapsed into the nearest chair. “Well
now, that’ll cost ye extra.”
He’s pompous for a beggar. Filthy vagabond. “I told you I’m not paying.”
Bálin frowned and tossed the cloth into the water, reached for his trousers.
“There are so many more appealing opportunities waiting out there for a whore?”
Faramir called out, catching him off guard. Good. The brief moment of spite was
a welcome change to the smug confidence. Faramir was younger, yes, but not by
much. He was also the heir to Gondor’s leader and had been taught the arts of
banter, barter and debate. And as of last Tuesday, knew women would not be his
first choice.
 
***
 
“There’s an upscale establishment in the fifth circle. Use it.”
“Father?” The clink of the fork on Faramir’s plate ceased so that the swish of
Endahil’s robes became the only sounds in the room. Endahil poured Denethor a
second glass of sherry.
“Don’t think I’ve forgotten the urges of youth, Faramir. You’ve been seen
frequenting an unsavory location in the second circle- ”
“Bit and Spittle.”
“- Thank you Endahil- and I’ll not hear of it one more time. Rose and Crown is
discreet and clean. If you must satisfy a craving, do it there.”
The pink rising up Faramir’s cheeks was enough of an admission for Denethor.
It’d been quite some years since he’d done more than pass through the second
circle, but he didn’t have to reach too far back in his memory to picture the
women who plied their wares there.
“Father- “
“Your speed at fifty meters has improved greatly.”
“You were watching today?”
“I watch every day.” Faramir seemed surprised. Why?
“I’m near the top of my troop in close combat, as well.”
“So I’ve seen.”
“Scores that would earn most in the troop deployment this spring.” And we come
round to this again. Does it take so little to forget? Perhaps another visit to
his brother's grave was in order.
“And what of your essay on Beren? Has your love of lore declined?”
“Not at all, Father. But- “
“Long have you wished for an end to violence. Is your mind so fickle?”
“Do we not all wish for peace, Father? No matter my feelings, I must fulfill my
duty to Gondor.”
Denethor crushed a smirk with a healthy sip of sherry. No reason for the boy to
see a father’s pride, lest he become arrogant and careless.
“Father, most of the men in my troop have gone out for a scouting mission at
the least.”
“Most of the men are not the heir of the Steward.”
***** Chapter 3 *****
“So, ye really are a prince,” Bálin grumbled, an edge to his voice. He tugged
at the hood of the robe. Did they have less air up here?
“Stewards are not kings.”
“Close enough.”
Bálin ran his finger over the coin Faramir had gifted him. A likeness of his
lover’s father was etched into the silver. Bálin wasn’t sure he could see a
resemblance.
“Here we are.”
Bálin stopped at the gate, the scent washing over him. Flowers had as much
appeal to him as the plague so he could not label it, but he knew that
fragrance. He lingered at the gate for so long that Faramir came back and drew
him in, “Is something amiss?”
“An odd smell.”
“Lavender. T’was my mother’s garden. They say we came here often before she
died.”
“Fancy.”
“Not really, just cared for.”
“Fancy.”
Bálin had never been higher than the fifth circle, and then only when he’d
stole through the gate, his eye on a coxcomb’s golden belt. He’d gotten close
to nabbing it, until one of the guards caught sight of him.
Another whiff provoked the fleeting image of long soft hair and a loving smile,
only to die away the next breath. He shivered and wrapped his arm round
Faramir’s waist to stamp out the feeling. He pulled him flush, chewing at his
lover’s neck, “Let us go be’ind yonder shed whilst I make ye beg again.”
Faramir leaned into the touch, then pushed Bálin away. “I wish I could take you
to my rooms, to my bed. But the maids would see us.”
Faramir started into the garden, pointing out this plant and that. But Bálin’s
mind lingered on the idea of Faramir’s bed, the likes of which he could not
imagine. Surely it was finer than even the bed they’d first buggered in, weeks
ago…
This Faramir was unsullied, Bálin could tell easily now that he’d been in the
business a while. If he wanted to have Bálin break it for him, all the better.
He wasn’t certain if he’d ever taken a virgin, but it couldn’t be much
different than normal. He’d have to steal something while the lad was sleeping
to make all this cleanliness worth his while. The old Tinker always told him to
find luck where you could.
This third evening the lad had tried to tame Bálin with playing cards spread
across the mattress, his hips and torso covered with a towel. But Bálin could
smell the want on him and he’d never taken to games anyway.
Bálin sat down on the bed, with his own towel positioned so that his cock hung
out. He swirled his finger beneath his own foreskin, all the way round the head
and back, his eyes half closed and a soft groan spilling past his lips. He
brought his finger to his mouth, sucked in the moisture with a pop at the end.
Faramir’s strangled gasp crumbled his resolve. He lunged, tore the lad’s towel
to the floor, and ground their hips together. Faramir’s feeble protests were
ignored and he flipped the lad over, pulling his cheeks apart.
“No!” But when Bálin’s tongue slid around the edges of his entrance, Faramir
melted into the pillow, muted whimpers drifting up through the pounding of
Bálin’s pulse.
He dipped his fingers into the oil lamp, and brought them to Faramir’s arse,
rubbing in circles while Faramir moaned like a whore. Bálin’s own cock engorged
and leaking, he spared a fleeting thought at the unfamiliarity of that lust
before he sank a finger into the boy below him. He kneaded Faramir’s walls and
found that spot that the older soldiers sometimes directed him to. It wasn't
but a handful of swipes before his fingers were seized within Faramir’s heat
whilst the boy’s hips plunged into the mattress, undulating against it in an
erratic pattern. When his hand was released, Bálin pulled Faramir’s boneless
sated body up and pushed steadily into his still pulsing sheath, trapping the
younger boy’s body tight against his own.
"Mmmmm, Bálin," Faramir pushed back against him, rubbed his cheek against
Bálin's shoulder.
It was rare that Bálin actually fucked a customer. Most did not want to pay his
hefty charge. Yet here he was doing it for free and wasn’t that just pathetic?
He stabbed in over and over, his hands stroking Faramir’s skin everywhere,
though he knew not why. Faramir held up Bálin’s weight so that he could grasp
Bálin’s hand tight against his own chest. This thrust Bálin higher, driving in
harder, hips snapping, striving to preserve the peculiar closeness.
His left hand fumbled for Faramir’s cock, once more stirring. He pumped again
and again, trying to hold back with the unwitting challenge to take Faramir
over the edge a second time. As he felt the constriction around his cock and he
squeezed forward, all the unknown passion built up since the last time he’d
seen the lad rushed into that clenching grip.
As his shudders subsided, he collapsed atop Faramir, heartbeat slowing as the
other lad caressed his arm and whispered his name. The bedeviled knight was
poking his last nerve, his rounded fanciful lilt lulling Bálin into a feeling
he couldn’t recognize.
He waited till Faramir’s breathing became even and heavy, then stole out back
into the night – he had a business to run after all. He’d been in such a hurry
he forgot to search the lad’s pockets.
Chirps of bluebirds and grasshoppers brought Bálin back to the present. He
nearly ran into Faramir as he stopped at the western garden gate, a faraway
look in his eyes that Bálin had seen in some of the older soldiers.
“When did she die?”
Fara turned back, the wistful look fading, “I was five, I think. She’d been
sick for a long while, especially since my brother died.”
“Women get that way.”
“Your mother is gone also?”
Bálin looked at him quizzically. “Don’t think I ever ‘ad one.”
“Who took care of you when you were small?”
“The Tinker let me sleep on ‘is floor by the fire.”
“Is that how you got this?” Faramir held Bálin’s hand, ran the pad of his
finger over the horse that’d been there as long as Bálin could recall. He
remembered little but pain, a kiss to burning skin, and a frantic man carrying
him through a crowd.
“Dunno. Tinker said I must‘ve been branded. Got to keep track of us buggers, ye
know.”
“Branded?”
“Aye. Already ‘ad it when the Tinker found me down river. Figured I were a
slave when the soldiers came, so ‘e ‘id me till they left.”
“We have no slaves in Minas Tirith.”
“There! Wot’s that smell?”
“There are so many here. Which one?” And then it was gone.
“No matter. I needs get back down circle. Where did you ‘ide me clothes?”
“Keep these.” The robe was soft. And warm. Bálin couldn’t remember owning
something that wasn’t torn or filthy.
He took it off. “Won’t be able to keep it where I live.”
***
“You don’t have to do this any longer. I have my own money. I can buy you
inventory. You could be a merchant, or a trader.” Faramir had grown tired of
sneaking through the alleyways like a thief. Each week he came down here he had
to fight for Bálin’s time.
“I am a trader. Wot? Ye aren’t pleased with me stock?” Faramir stopped, stared
at Bálin. Anger bubbled up inside him and though he could read the self-
deprecating humor, he was disgusted with Bálin’s lack of respect, for himself
or others.
“Good night, Bálin.” He pivoted on his heel and marched back from whence he
came, hearing Bálin’s defensive quips behind him. “Wot? They shatter ye in toy
practice today?” Faramir could imagine Bálin’s arm gesturing a sword in action.
He didn’t know why he bothered. Why hadn’t he listened to Lostir when he warned
him about orphans? “They’ll always burn you in the end. It’s their nature.”
Faramir had hoped…
As he approached the third corner of the alley, he spied Hilros and Durn coming
his way, no officers in sight. They seeing him as well left no place for
Faramir to make an escape, though he knew they were smart enough not to cause
trouble with the Steward’s son.
“Hilros, is that a blue blood I see?”
“Blue mixing with dirt from what I hear.”
“Aye, that street rat who attacked me.”
Hilros laughed, “Envy does not suit you, Durn.”
“So, how is your rat, Steward’s son? He had quite a mouth on him, but how is
his arse?”
I should have run. “Let me pass.” Faramir pushed through the older men but Durn
grabbed his belt, “How about your arse?”
Faramir whirled on them both, drew his sword, prompting Durn and Hilros to
follow suit. Hilros circled to Faramir’s right, Durn to his left. Faramir
thought that Hilros was biding time, unsure whether he should proceed. Durn had
no such worries. Faramir lunged, smacking Hilros’ arm with the flat of his
blade. Durn jabbed Faramir’s chin with his pommel, the bone stinging, setting
Faramir off balance, into the dirt.
“Wot’s this? Can’t get yer own tail so ye poof yerself up fer a boy?”
Bálin!
He turned, saw Bálin squaring off against Durn with a dagger. Fara had a half a
second to notice a familiar etching on the shank before a fist slammed into his
eye and he went back down. Hilros pinned him, Faramir struggling beneath him.
He could hear the scuffling footwork of Bálin and Durn behind them.
“Filthy whore. You’re diluting the Steward’s line.”
“Last time I looked 'e 'ad cods, not a trench. Not enormous, mind, but
doubtless of great scale next t' yours.”
Faramir smiled fondly at the insult and shoved, forcing Hilros off. He jumped
up, swung his blade against Hilros, who seemed less confident with the fairer
odds.
Beyond, Faramir could see Bálin spar with Durn. Block, parry, swing, he lunged
with the dagger like a bull and kept Durn backed up, losing ground only when
Durn’s sword hooked the dagger out of Bálin’s hand. Durn aptly delivered a
slash across Bálin’s left cheek in the process.
Faramir sped up his pace, attempting to get help to Bálin. But Bálin was a
street rat. Circling his way around, he got near enough to Hilros to knee him
in the back, sending him hurling in Fara's direction while Bálin pilfered the
man's sword. Faramir scrambled atop Hilros, the tip of his blade at the man’s
chest.
Bálin turned and attacked Durn. What Bálin lacked in grace he made up for in
determination, driving forward over and over, ignoring Durn’s traditional
rhythm for head-on brute power. Bálin backed Durn into the wall, Hilros’ sword
across the man’s throat.
He threw a cocky brow at Faramir over his shoulder, “Well, ‘ighness? Shall ‘e
be spared or shall I gut ‘im?”
***** Chapter 4 *****
Hidden in the back of the room, he could see the odd fiery shapes that shone
onto the massive stone mantel through Faramir’s glass, oddly only half full.
Denethor wondered if Faramir was ensuring his wits stay sharp. Not that the
bruised chin and dark eye were anything to worry over, but an attack on the
Steward’s heir was a grave matter.
Faramir had refused to name the culprits, and though he took pride in his son’s
savvy, the defiance ate away at Denethor. He had overheard Endahil offer
Faramir words of advice the last few weeks, noting Faramir’s continued
wandering from the upper levels. “Be careful young master. You don’t want to go
missing like your brother.”
“Boromir be damned! Why couldn’t he have run when he was told?”
Denethor had never heard such blasphemy from his son and would have slapped the
boy’s disrespectful head if he’d been closer. Though, if he was honest with
himself, he’d screamed the same question inside his head countless times over
the years.
The light above the hearth caught his attention again, moving up and down with
each breath Faramir took, the glow reflected onto Boromir’s sword, as well kept
as the Steward’s own weapons. Woe to the man who produced a smudge upon his
first-born’s ungifted blade. It shimmered on the wall as a tribute.
Faramir’s blade was no less magnificent, though almost as little used. But the
day had come for the weapon to see some action.
“You used to climb the mantle, in attempt to reach your brother’s sword.”
Faramir didn’t flinch. His instincts were good. “You were successful one day
when you were six, the same age- “
Denethor cut off abruptly, his traitorous eyes darting to the small shredded
surcoat, faded on a shelf beneath the blade these past thirteen winters. The
river had bled much of the bright blue dye surrounding the swan boat before the
coat had been found.
He tore his eyes away and poured himself a glass of wine, sitting in the chair
nearest the fire. He heard Faramir sigh.
“There will be a ball on the morrow, in honor of the induction of troops into
our forces. You are to wear your best dress uniform. You will swear your oath
to your steward before you deploy two mornings next.”
Faramir turned to look at him, and Denethor’s heart swelled. Though he’d been
taught from an early age of his requirement in Gondor’s forces, Faramir had
never had an interest in combat. Nevertheless, Denethor thought he would be
thrilled when this moment finally came; or at the least, relieved. As it turned
out, the boy appeared as numb as Denethor had felt all these years.
***
The robed man in the stone chair looked little like his coin yet Bálin felt a
faraway stab of recognition; an affection from another lifetime that he could
not place. He wished now he’d listened to the old Tinker and his foolish fables
of that wispy Hall where good men received a second life. Here he was now, shod
in the velvet trappings of some bloated nobleman; and clean again, as well! He
pulled at the tight collar. The Steward’s son had best requite him later.
Faramir. His last nerve, hadn’t he said? If Bálin was honest, he’d grown tired
of his profession these last few weeks. Mayhap there were worse things than
being tied to a respectable trade as Fara claimed.
The music they played here was smooth and in tune, and though Bálin preferred
mead to the bubbles on his tongue, he savored the treats for this night.
Lanterns, roasted quail, and wooden chairs painted white, by the Valar!
Everything was more than anything Bálin had ever seen; but the silver trumpets
took his breath away. They echoed in the stone halls, entirely different than
when endured from the lower levels. Here they were lyrical and joyous and like
a home Bálin never had. He’d never anticipated such delights when Lostir had
slipped the rich garments into his arms, passing on instructions from Faramir.
Bálin imagined the new scar on his cheek didn’t help his assignment to blend
in.
He was about to swipe another cream puff when the Steward spoke, and Bálin’s
life forever changed. He knew not of what the man declared, for it was not his
words that froze Bálin to the spot, but the voice used to express them. Deep
and gravely, of summer bark boats and hiding under long council tables and the
soothing bees in his mother’s garden. His mother. Lavender.
Bálin squeezed his eyes shut, tried to block out the voice so his mind could
place it, yet still willed it to carry on. When he felt a sudden panic that he
might lose sight of the man, he opened them again, swaying at the sudden
clarity.
Bálin’s breath quickened as the Steward rose from his marble chair. He’d come
here to watch Faramir on his special day, but now he only had eyes for the
wondrous leader in the wine-colored robes, the man’s face in a half smile that
spoke of duty and pride, and also a perpetual melancholy that seemed out of
place.
With a shaky hand, Bálin pulled out the coin he’d kept safely in his pocket,
rubbed the smudges from the Steward’s likeness. Yes. It was him. Bálin’s own
father.
Bálin’s eyes sought out Faramir, fair and strong in his new uniform. He watched
the boy swear fealty to Denethor. As his heir. As his son. Bálin’s brother.
The Hall was suddenly stifling. Snatches of memory deluged him, of ringing
steel and of horses, neighing in fright. “Run, little lord!” Bálin’s hand
grasped his chest as he imagined a knife run it through. And he fled.
***
Arriving at Saddle Row, Faramir imagined what the set of Bálin’s shoulders
would look like when he tacked horses. He remembered the labor being harder
than he’d assumed when he learned the skill during his esquire days and he was
eager to watch his lover at work.
The merchants were just setting up for the day’s sale, too busy to worry who
may be among the stalls. He had drunk too much the evening last, anger toward
Bálin’s absence driving him toward carelessness. The general noise here played
havoc with his heavy head, but he found the innocuous chatter soothing to an
overloaded mind.
The farrier didn’t bother to look up at Faramir’s entrance, just continued to
stoke the first heat of the day with his leather bellows into the furnace.
Faramir took in the row of horseshoes hung on the wall, and cleared his throat.
“I search for Bálin.”
“Gone.” A crushing sense of foreboding assailed him as he tried to comprehend
the farrier’s reply.
“Gone? Where?”
The farrier shrugged. “Why should I care?”
“Does he not labor here?”
“Labor? That lazy thief? He ain’t worked a day in ‘is life! 'Sides, ‘e’d rather
be skewered by the Eye itself than touch one o’ me lads ‘ere.” The old man
patted the colt beside him. “Scared of ‘em.”
Faramir knew the man must surely be lying. He’d been directed here more than
once while searching for Bálin, hot under the collar from the snickers he’d
heard as he’d walked. But whatever Bálin’s task here, the farrier cared not to
share it and Bálin could be slipping away by the moment.
“Can you tell me where he lives?”
The man’s eyes came up like saucers. He looked at Faramir as though he’d been
the target of a joke, and pointed to the loft, “Yonder, with the rest o’ the
scum.”
Faramir climbed the loft ladder as the farrier called up, “Took that fancy
dagger ‘e stole. Won’t be back.” Faramir didn’t recall any of the guard
reporting a dagger missing last evening.
In the loft there were four distinct areas lain out for sleeping. Three of them
had meager trinkets: a spoon, a blanket shot with holes, a pair of shoes
without soles. The shutters on this side of the loft were shut, blocking the
wind. But the west shutters were wide open, where Faramir saw a matted down
section of hay. On the sill was the coin he had given Bálin, polished to
perfection.
He felt a great weight settle about his heart and he slumped down against the
window, looking out as he imagined Bálin had done every night he wasn’t
carousing. More akin to every morning.
His hand gripped the sill and he found himself caressing a groove there while
his thoughts scoured the previous evening, searching for a sign as to why Bálin
would have left without speaking to him. He’d seen him tugging at his collar as
though he needed air.
The wind whipped Faramir’s hair. Plenty of air here.
Blinking back threatening tears, he looked down at the sill to find a letter
carved there in the wood. F.
The weather turned as Faramir walked up level, passing through each gate, harsh
wind blasting his face, causing his eyes to water. Air. There was plenty here
in the lower circles. Valar knew fire needed air.
Finis.
 
This is the first part of a series.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!
