Denethor is angry at the insult done to the Steward’s family, and rages at Marek, practically ignoring Faramir.
by Iris
“This was not part of the deal! This won’t do at all!” Denethor gestured towards Faramir still splayed on the floor, covered in bruises and various other signs of what transpired the night before, “Just look at the sight of you. He swore to secrecy and now how are we to keep this between us?”
Marek had hid his displeasure well, the previous day in the council room when the king of Gondor had claimed the boy for himself. As a seasoned diplomat, he had recognized it was of little use trying to dissuade the king once he had spoken out so clearly. It would not be fitting for any king, not even this ranger-king of Gondor, to be seen changing his mind under the persuasive powers of a foreign envoy. To get at least some gratification, Prince Marek went to the one man he knew he could talk to... another keen diplomat like himself.
The deal was struck very swiftly. In a matter of minutes Marek had agreed to give in on a number of key points in the trade negotiations, and also to include some smaller details that were very convenient for Denethor personally, in light of his private investments along the Haradric border, of which he had always assumed the King had no knowledge, nor did he -in Denethor’s opinion- need to know.
In exchange for these changes in the draft treaty, Denethor had given Prince Marek directions to his son’s chambers, vowing that they would not be disturbed, and whatever would happen there that night would never go beyond those otherwise deserted hallways.
“You,” Denethor addressed his son again with a tone midway between disdain and disgust, “better clean up and keep out of sight. No one knows about my deal with Marek here, and be sure it is also in you best interest is stays that way. You’ve already caused me enough trouble in this as it is.”
As soon as he had heard the door to his chambers slam shut, and blissful silence had returned once again, Faramir wanted nothing more than to sink back into sleep, his body and mind too weary to do much else. But now awoken, he now started to feel the aches and pains again, and most pressing of all at this time: the cold from the unforgiving stone floor that had crept into his bones over night could no longer be ignored. However much his body protested, he had to get up, he had to get warm, and yes, he had to get clean.
Dressed in his highest collared tunic to hide the marks on his throat from the servants, Faramir kept to his rooms for the rest of the day, working and taking his meals there. This was not at all unusual: at the moment the Haradric Prince and the King were in the city, but normally his only table companion was his father, and more often than not father and son both preferred to eat alone rather than in each others company.
Some time after the evening meal, his solitude was interrupted by a messenger boy, delivering a note bearing the royal seal.
- Faramir,
- Please come see me in my private rooms.
- - Aragorn
‘The king’s private chambers..’ Faramir wondered while he walked down the many long hallways that separated his rooms from the royal suite. The last time he had been in there – the only time he had been in there – was as a little boy playing hide and go seek with his big brother. He wasn’t allowed in there of course, but Boromir won their games each and every time by hiding in places they weren’t supposed to be in either, such as the kitchens, or the stables, and this time Faramir was determined to out do his brother. At first it had been very exciting, hiding alone in those rooms, which at that time were still deserted, belonging to a King of legends rather than flesh and blood. But Boromir had never come to find him.
‘Boromir is right at home in the king’s chambers now,’ Faramir thought, immediately feeling guilty for his jealousy.
He pulled the collar of his tunic up one more time before he knocked on the king’s door.
“Faramir, come in! Please, close the door behind you.”
The King had clearly retired for the evening and changed into simple yet elegant robes that looked to Faramir to be of Elven origin. Also the book he had just put down had distinctly Elven designs on the cover. “Do sit down,” he said nodding towards the armchair opposite his.
“I thought it best you spend the night here. To keep up appearances, you understand, after my claims from yesterday. I sent a note to your rooms last night as well but you didn’t answer, you must have already been asleep by then. That messenger party may have left this morning, but the Prince’s entourage is still quite extensive, and they do scour the hallways at all hours of the day and night. I thought this way we may avoid questions, and other, uhm, unpleasantness.”
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