Son of Denethor

Chapter Two

I'm gently awoken by cool raindrops on my cheeks. Faramir is standing up, leaning against one of the trees. He's looking out to Minas Tirith, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

I stand up, my limbs stiff from sleeping on the ground. "Sorry for falling asleep," I say.

Faramir doesn't look at me as he replies, "Don't worry about it. But we had better get going. And quickly too. We don't want to be out here when it's dark."

"I know." The gates close every day at sunset. We've never been locked out before, but there's been a few close calls. I tuck my tangled brown hair behind my ears.

The ground is sloppy, all the dirt turning to mud in the downpour. "My norther is going to kill me," I mutters looking down at my feet, already caked with mud. "I look filthy."

"Maybe you should start wearing shoes," Faramir says, his eyes crinkling up in a smile.

"Maybe," I say, still doubtful. "And at least this will scare away any unwanted suitors. Not that there's a whole lot, but still..." I trail off, reaching down into the mud and smearing some on my face.

Faramir watches me. "What on earth are you doing, Miriel?"

I blush, but thankfully the mud is covering my red cheeks. "Might as well have some fun. The rain will wash most of it off on the way home." I pick up a handful of mud and fling it at him. It splats in the middle of his chest and slides down, until dropping off with a small plop.

He sighs. "How am I going to explain this to my father?"

"Just tell him the truth," I say. "He doesn't like me anyway."

He doesn't argue with my statement. I turn around and begin walking, but feel a cold lump of mud hit the back of my head. I turn around to see Faramir, bent over, laughing so hard he's having trouble breathing.

"Oh no," I say, but I can't help the laugh that escapes me. I run toward Faramir, but slip in the mud and fall on my back. He walks toward me, but I trip him and he falls beside me.

"Let's hope the rain washes this off," he says, standing up. He holds out his hand to help me up.

We start walking back towards the White City, swinging our hands and laughing. The rain feels like little drops of ice on our skin, but at least it's washing the mud away.

"My mother is going to kill me," I say.

He smiles. "She doesn't like me a whole lot, does she?"

I turn to look at him. Drops of water are running down his face in rivulets, and dripping off his blond hair. "She does," I protest, but it sounds unbelievable. I wish I were a better liar.

"She prefers Boromir." He says this like he's stating a known fact.

"She likes both of you," I say, "but you know how she is. She probably wishes I'd spend more time with the townspeople, so I could get married sooner."

He chuckles, wiping his face. His nose is turning red from the cold. The sun is starting to set. "We're going to get locked out," he says.

I laugh at first, then stop. "Do you actually think they'd lock us out? Surely the gatekeeper would let us in."

He grabs my hand and starts running, not really paying attention to the fact that I'm slipping and sliding in the mud. "Slow down!" I gasp.

He stops suddenly. "We're not going to make it back in time," he says.

One hour later, we stand in front of the locked gates. It's black as pitch outside, and although the rain has almost stopped by now, it's still cold. Goosebumps are covering my arms and legs, and I'm starting to shiver. I wrap my cloak tighter around my shoulders.

Faramir sighs, and leans against the wall, sliding down it until he's sitting on the ground. I sit next to him and lean on his shoulder. We don't speak.
"A mug of warm ale would be heavenly right now," I say, through chattering teeth.

He closes his eyes. "And a turkey leg."

"Warm bread with butter."

"Potatoes."

"Even porridge."

"The runny kind that your mother makes?" He nudges me with his shoulder. We continue torturing each other with thoughts of warm food.
"Your lips are blue," Faramir says.

I touch them. They're icy cold. "So are yours." I scoot closer to him. He puts an arm around my shoulder, and before long he's snoring quietly. I watch him as he sleeps. He must never know how much I love him. I'm poor, he's the son of the Steward. It would be one big mistake.