Title: Beacons.

Author: Shireling

Rating; G

Warnings: Angst. H/C

Disclaimer: Not mine! Sigh.

BEACONS

He stands on the keel. Tall and straight, hair and cloak blown and tousled by the night’s cold breeze; a chill swirling breeze that ever seeks to exert its power.

He stands rigid with grief. . .Aye, and with anger; cold burning anger.

He stands as a statue, immune to comfort, locked inside a fragile shell that yet hides a core of steel.

Fragile and indomitable.

And I must break that shell, must find a way to burrow beneath the many layered carapace before the frigid ice consumes the bright flame of his gentle spirit.

My own heart is torn. His vulnerability cries out for comfort, for sanctuary, yet he voices no request, denies that he is in need, shies away from any obligation but duty. He spends his energy, giving his all and more, until even he can no longer ignore his limitations, and still then berates himself for his weakness.

 I would have him rest, recover his strength, pace himself.

I suggest, I request, indeed I order but it is as if he hears a different dialogue.

How do I cancel out a lifetime of vitriol and poison? How do I make him see that the world has changed? How do I convince him that he is valued and worthy? How do I silence the cruel words of the past that drown out those who would speak with him now and offer him comfort and understanding?

They look to me to make this right and I quail in the fear of my own inadequacy. He still seeks to satisfy the one who would never deem to be satisfied no matter how much he accomplished.

I have seen the scars; honourable battle scars there are many and many also are the silvered stripes the score his back from shoulder to hip. The internal scars are there too for those of us who are willing to look.

He has erred and I am duty bound to deal with his transgression.

I had ordered him to rest but he deemed that checking that the beacons were reset and readied was a responsibility that could not be delayed nor delegated.

I force down my anger, for my anger will only push him further away and I will not subject him to its  corrosive bite. I will deal with him as those who have loved and supported me from my earliest days have dealt with me.

I will proceed with caution; persuade him to accept what I know he needs; what I know he is crying out for. I will not order him; I will lead him gently but firmly through the steps of this dance towards absolution.

I will not fail him. I cannot fail him. The price of failure is too high, too awful to contemplate. In memory of the brother who loved him above all others, who gave him into my care. I will not fail.

He maintains his vigil and I will wait no longer. It is too much to expect him to come to me so I step towards him allowing echo of my footsteps to herald my presence.

When I see where he stands my fear for him grows. He is right on the precipice, his toes beyond the edge of the anchoring stone. Does he tempt the fates? Does he seek to allow the blustering wind to accomplish what the weapons of the enemy and the fire of his Father’s pyre failed to achieve. His eyes are closed but I know he hears my approach by the tightening of his already rigid shoulders. He forces a breath and takes a step backwards away from the perilous drop. When he turns towards me his face is as calm as I knew it would be, this brave warrior will face whatever I ask of him. . .even his own fears.

I raise my hand in invitation and he slowly, bravely comes to my side. I rest my arm across his shoulder and lead him back towards the citadel.

“Come, Faramir. Come, Little Brother, trust me. I will take care of you.”

Shireling 2007