The Haradi delegation has been in Minas Tirith only three days, but Zinat knows that the lord Faramir does not like her. The best that can be said of it is that he hides his feelings better than the lord Boromir, who wears his resentment like a surcoat. (It grates against her, more than the impending marriage itself—the ambassadors had warned her that the prince would be resistant, but she had assumed this alliance at least worth the effort of feigning politeness.)
The lord Faramir’s dislike, however, is curious. She had counted him among Harad’s supporters in Gondor, having been so instrumental in crafting the trade agreements. And it is not as though this marriage would be inflicted on him—Faramir already had a bride, the tall woman with the pale-gold hair Zinat had met briefly during one of the great feasts. He is unfailingly cordial towards her, and discourse with him easy—and still Zinat gets the sense that he truly does not like her.
But it seems very petty to discuss the lord Faramir’s feelings towards her with the ambassadors, or with her most royal brother, and none of her ladies have any insight into the matter. So she merely smiles, and charms, and prays that she gives neither brother grounds to find fault in her.
.
Faramir doesn’t dislike the Haradi princess. Truly, he doesn’t. She is beautiful, clever, a natural diplomat; her Sindarin better than some Gondorian nobles he could name, and her dark eyes betray a quick and unflinching mind. She brings as her marriage-gift further legitimacy for Aragorn’s rule, new markets for Gondor’s goods, a powerful naval ally, and the promise of a new beginning between Middle Earth’s two powerful empires in the wake of war.
And, were she to marry anyone except his brother, Faramir would be overjoyed.
Initially, Gondor’s council had agreed upon Faramir’s cousin, Elphir. Elphir, a man of age and tested in battle, poised to inherit Gondor’s most vast and powerful fife, would surely prove a good match for the foreign princess. Imrahil had championed his son’s cause, no doubt dreaming of a dowry of Umbarian baghlahs; Aragorn and Boromir had both sent word from Arnor that they approved of the choice.
It had been decided: Elphir.
But the Haradi ambassadors had soon come back with their answer—a prince presumptive, even a powerful one, was not equal to the Padshah Begum, the first lady of the empire and favored daughter of His Imperial Majesty. If Elphir was the best Gondor had to offer, then Harad would withdraw their princess, and offer some lesser child.
(And a more tenuous alliance, though that was only implied.)
It was not until the end of their conference had approached when Mirza, who had not spoken past the initial introductions, asked, Is not the lord steward, Boromir, still unwed?
Faramir had felt a sudden coldness well in his heart.
What had followed was weeks of negotiation, wherein Faramir’s temper grew shorter and shorter, trying to deny the ambassadors’ choice without either insulting their princess’ worthiness, or baldly declaring what he knew to be true: that Boromir fled from any marriage like the Black Riders were on his heels, could they not be content another, any other?
But the ambassadors were insistent, and even Imrahil, perhaps sensing that Umbar’s ships would not fly the swan pennant, urged him to accept. Surely it will be good to see your brother settled, Imrahil told Faramir one night. You have been managing Ithilien well in his absence, but you have your own duties, your own lands to look after. Emyn Arnen needs a mistress, the line of Stewards must have issue. I am Boromir’s uncle too, you know, I think only of his well-being.
Peace between Gondor and Harad has been three years in the making, Eowyn had said softly as they lay in their bed. What keeps you from taking this last step towards it?
She had been threading her fingers through his hair, and so he leaned forward, kissing the heel of her palm. When I was younger, he murmured, my father and Imrahil discussed an engagement between Lothirel and Boromir. When Boromir heard, he took a company of men to Ithilien, where he stayed, harrying the servants of Sauron and refusing to return until the matter was dropped.
Eowyn was gazing at him curiously, and Faramir smiled. I thought it merely the desire to remain free and unwed, but…my brother is beloved by Gondor, a hero among the people, do you not think it strange none of the adoring throng enjoys his favor? That he will laugh and jest with other men about their conquests, but never mentions his own?
Perhaps he simply does not have the appetite of other men. It is not as though you entertained many admirers before our marriage. Or he is discreet, that is an admirable quality—
I think he has no conquests to speak of. I think he…is averse.
To…women, Eowyn had said carefully, watching Faramir’s face.
To all, I think. If there were some brother of the battlefield with whom he…then I do not know it, and he has given me no reason to guess. Faramir played with a strand of her hair, admiring it in the firelight. There are stories of Elves who chose not to wed for their long lives—I think it is his Dunedain blood. I have no quarrel with it, but—
You are trying to protect him, Eowyn had breathed, understanding dawning on her face. The Haradi want him wedded to their princess, and you are trying to protect him from it.
He ran for the hills when it was just my cousin. Tell him he is to marry a Haradi princess and we will have to go looking in Rhun.
You do not know that. Write to him, Eowyn had said gently. Whatever comes of this, it will be better met with both the sons of Hurin.
So Faramir had written. And less than a fortnight later, Boromir, dripping with rain and still smelling of horses, had stormed into the council-chambers, brandishing the letter and thunder in his face.
But he had taken one look at Faramir—Faramir alone at the table, bent over sheaves of trade agreements and pledges of support and discussions of borders, looking for something, anything—and the anger had gone from his face. Boromir had smiled. It had been a tired smile, revealing lines at the corners of his eyes that Faramir did not recall, but it was indeed a smile.
Oh, little brother, he sighed, crossing the room and pulling Faramir into his embrace. Faramir had been taller for some years now, but Boromir was broader of shoulder and somehow more solid, warmer. I give my consent, little brother. Harad will have its steward-prince and Gondor will have peace. I come with Aragorn’s blessing and all will be well. I give my consent and all will be well.
Faramir had sunk into the embrace gladly, and let himself believe that truly, his elder brother would make all well.
Boromir had been as polite and attentive as he might during the council meetings that followed—in truth, Boromir had never been very good at disguising his true feelings. But the Haradi ambassadors were pleased just by presence of Boromir Ithilien, eager to agree to Gondor’s terms after proof of Gondor’s willingness to meet theirs.
(Later, it would occur to Faramir why Harad was more interested in having a foothold in Ithilien than Belfalas, but just then, it was a relief for discussion to be moving forward again.)
But as the princess’ visit—for she too had to give consent, it had been part of their agreement—had drawn nearer, Boromir’s time in Arnor dragged on, his return visits as infrequent as he could make them. Of course Faramir understood that Aragorn’s campaign required attention, but he saw the tautness of Boromir’s shoulders every time Imrahil brought up the subject of the princess, and the panicked look that any discussion of marriage could bring to his face. Boromir had sworn that all would be well, and Faramir knew he would do his duty, but—
(I dislike seeing him so miserable, Faramir told Eowyn. Why could Harad not agree to Elphir? Why could my brother not stay in Arnor, and make war and pay no heed to women, as he likes?
You are a man who married his heart, she said, tilting her face up to kiss him. Not everyone is so lucky as we have been.)
(There was more to that particular discussion, but it took place with Faramir’s fingers in places not fit for children to hear about.)
Boromir had been supposed to arrive back two days before the princess was to come. When he did not arrive that morning, Faramir understood it to be delays—the roads were not always good, a horse could lame or throw a shoe. When he did not arrive that night, Faramir still understood, though doubt had begun to gnaw at him. When Boromir was still not back to Minas Tirith by that morning, Faramir had sent out scouts to look for him on the nearby roads. When Boromir had still not returned by that evening, Faramir had paced the parapet, wondering whether Harad would declare war if their chosen prince did not come to greet his bride.
At some point, Faramir must have sat against the wall and then fallen asleep, for his next memory was of Boromir flicking his forehead as though they were children again, and Faramir was sleeping at lessons. The light was hazy and grey, the sun not yet up.
You were supposed to be here two days ago, Faramir said. his voice rough with sleep.
Boromir crouched down to sit beside him on the parapet. I went to Ithilien.
Oh? Faramir asked, sitting up straighter.
I walked through the halls of Emyn Arnen. It is beautiful, brother. I don’t think I’ve seen it since the building was finished.
Why did you leave it? Faramir asked slowly. You have never said, and…I thought you were happy there, for a time.
I have…bad dreams. Dreams of the east. Dreams of all I love dead at my feet. When I fight or camp or march all day, I sleep like the dead and I do not dream. But they are worse, in a comfortable bed with solid walls around me. Boromir let out a shaky breath. She comes today.
Yes.
I am going to wed her, Faramir, if she consents. I gave my word to you. I gave Gondor’s word.
I know. It grieves me to see you so in pain over it, though.
Yes, Boromir had said softly. But then he had smiled again, and all was well. Come, little brother. My horse’s backside was prettier than your face right now, and you wouldn’t want to offend the princess, would you?
Zinat of the House of Verethragna is beautiful, clever, a natural diplomat. She is clearly trying to charm Boromir, despite his stubborn and obvious resentment. Faramir does not loathe her, begrudge her, he does not even know her—but she is the shape of his brother’s grief, and so he cannot like her either.
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