LOTR Fic: A Game Well-Played

[martasfic]

Title: A Game Well-Played
Fandom: Lord of the rings
Characters: Denethor, Faramir, OCs (Boromir mentioned)
Prompt: BMEM09 Day 19; fanfic100 #27, "parents"
Word Count: 1,711 + Notes
Rating: General
Beta: Annmarwalk
Summary: On lessons learned across the chess-board.

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And the first principle of rule is this: much advantage is lost in the idle clatter of tongues. The wise ruler listens in silence, for he never knows which overheard word shall prove truly useful. (From Ereinion the Sage’s Philosophy of Kings)

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I. 2989 T.A.



Faramir stood by the table, rising on the balls of his feet to peer at the thin board of polished wood above. He seemed unsure of himself, which was rare enough in Faramir - always a thinker, but committed to his course once he'd decided on it. Usually Denethor would not indulge such timidity but just now he felt indulgent. It was not every day that one so small challenged the steward of Gondor to a game of strategy, even if that steward was his father; to even consider it showed resolve.

And there it was, the turning point; Faramir climbed up the stool until he sat atop it, his short legs dangling only half-way to the floor. Wherever his indecision had went, Denethor could find no trace of it on his son’s face. He picked up the captain, held it out so Faramir could see it, and began to explain how it moved; but Faramir stopped him.

"I have stood there" – Faramir nodded to the room’s corner – "while you and Boromir played often enough. I believe I know the rules. White always opens?"

Denethor nodded silently, with no trace of mirth on his face; he’d not have Faramir think it condescension. But in his heart, Denethor was proud indeed.









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The second rule is thus: The world is full of many dangers and challenges too large for even the greatest of men; and no man can truly thrive on his own. Alliances therefore being necessary, the wise prince will make them for his own reasons. And he will keep those reasons to himself, if they are not easily guessed, until he gets some advantage from revealing them. (From Ereinion the Sage’s Philosophy of Kings)

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II. 2998 T.A.

He sat hunched over the board, his long arms folded on his knees as he sat in quiet thought. Then without warning, he reached out decisively and moved his piece three spaces forward. "Cleric to E3."

He announced his move, as he always did, without the slightest hint of pride in his voice. This time it would have been warranted, for that put him within three moves of checkmate, and not by the obvious path. A lesser strategist than Denethor would have been caught unawares. He would congratulate his son, but he’d not make his son’s defeat worse – or spoil his son’s victory, if it came to that – through pity.

"Oh, I nearly forgot." Faramir fumbled inside his belt-wallet for a moment and at last retrieved a pair of silver scissors, such as some lords used to trim their beards. Denethor took them, turned them over in his hands, and wondered just what Faramir was getting at. But then he saw it, the engraved letters on the top blade: BDuG. Boromir Denethorion, uin Gondor. It was his older son’s mark.

"Let it be as an early mettarë gift," Faramir said in response to his father’s unvoiced question. Denethor, though, looked at him skeptically, and so a bit more of the truth came out: "You think, Father, that you are the only one who dislikes that damnable beard? It looks as though a wild animal died on his face. I’d have it off any way I can."

Denethor turned the scissors over a few times in his hands before handing them back to Faramir. "You have shown your game," he said at last. "Too much of it."

"Nay, you misjudge me, lord. I have not lost an advantage but gained an ally. For you are implicated; I know you will not lie to a son over such a matter, and if I am caught, well, so are you." Faramir smiled, then: not the impish grin of a boy, but that knowing smile that belonged more on a commander’s face. Denethor still was unused to seeing it on his son.

"Well done indeed," he said softly. Then, turning his attention back to the board: "But not – quite – well enough. Captain to E5." The black marble horse’s head slid across the board, blocking Faramir’s attack; and the game played on.







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And the third: A wise ruler must know that victory is never certain, and even in victory there is loss. The king must survive, else the footman’s freedom shall never last. Yet because one’s sacrifice saves the other, the wise ruler knows that this does not change the true equality of things… (From Ereinion the Sage’s Philosophy of Kings)

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III. 3015 T.A.



Through his cracked door, Denethor heard his son’s voice in the antechamber. No, he would not see his father just yet, not until he had washed away the road’s filth, yet there were some tasks that would not wait. Even here, Denethor smelled the proof of a hard-ridden journey. On any other occasion he would call Faramir on his lack of propriety, but this was an old tradition, and one Denethor loved as much as Faramir did. The clerk knew it well, too, and asked for protocol’s sake rather than out of true conviction that Faramir came to see the steward.

Faramir would walk past the clerk’s desk and bend before the cabinet in the corner. Denethor did not need to see this to imagine it, for this was how it always happened. Faramir would unlock the cabinet, pull out his tray, and stare at the board in fierce concentration.

The chest had been a gift from Boromir one mettarë years past, when in his clumsiness the boy had knocked over a table with five years’ worth of chess games. And a well-given one, for if Boromir had upset the boards a second time, the House of Húrin would be short an heir. Denethor enjoyed the game like he did little else, and he prided himself on introducing half the lords of Beleriand – and many beyond – to its joys. Now a shelf held those games safe, sturdy so it could not be knocked over so easily.

There was a shelf for each game: one for Boromir’s, and one for Imrahil’s, and one for Théoden’s, and even one for the strange captain from the North that Denethor never named and Faramir alone guessed. Other shelves stood empty, in anticipation of games with future friends – or future enemies, come to it; Denethor enjoyed his games with Thorongil as much as he did the ones with Théoden.

But Faramir’s game was unique. Of all the games, it alone was not carried out by mail. Letters would come from Dol Amroth, from Rohan, from other places further afield; and Denethor would unlock the chest with a rare smile, slide out a tray and move two pieces – one black and one white – before making a note in the registry atop the cabinet. But not with Faramir; Faramir alone had his own key, and would make his own moves. Denethor heard that key turn in tis lock once more, announcing that Faramir was done. That was quickly played!

Now that the move was made, Denethor got up from his desk. He would not look over another man’s shoulder as he chose his play, even one he had long wanted to see. But the move was played, and so now Denethor could greet his son. Walking around his desk, Denethor opened his study door and walked out into the antechamber. Faramir was leaner than he might have liked, but there were no new scars that he could see, and neither arm was bound in a sling; he seemed well enough. And his face, though weary, seemed peaceful too. There was a look of satisfaction in his eyes, but also of sorrow.

Crossing the room in three long strides, Denethor clapped Faramir on the forearm. "Rest you well, son," he said softly; "we will speak more come dinner." One less well versed in the steward’s ways might take that tone for ambivalence, but the clerk knew it was less cold than it might have been, as did Faramir. And in a most uncharacteristic move, Denethor pulled his son into an embrace, gladly breathing in the stink of Faramir’s sweat as proof that his son still lived. After a moment he released him; Faramir bowed and left the room without a word.

"He wrote something in the register," the clerk said. "More than the usual notation, I mean." He took a letter he had been writing from his desk and walked over to the chamber’s door. "By your leave, lord," he said, and he left the steward alone.

Denethor did not know whether the man had a real errand, or whether he just remembered his lord’s penchant for privacy, but Denethor would not waste the opportunity. Walking over to the chest, he opened the registry without delay. There was of course the expected record, "pawn 5 to D4," but on the line above Denethor saw something new. Where Faramir had recorded his last move, made some months before and captured by Denethor in a strategic sacrifice, there was now an added piece of feigned history: "Calarchíl; d. influenza, 16 Narquelië."

Denethor laid his hand on the chest’s ledge for balance; just then he felt heady, and he was glad that the clerk had left him alone. Seeing that record was like a whisper from his own past, and the similarity had caught him off-guard. He too had invented histories for those pieces he had lost, even the pawns. And to his knowledge, he was the only one who had ever done so, until now.

Where had Faramir gotten that idea? Was Calarchíl a recent death, someone Faramir wished to commemorate? But Denethor could think of no Calarchíl serving in Ithilien, and even if it were true, why should Faramir showcase genuine grief in such a way? A lesser man might, perhaps, but not Faramir.

Denethor allowed himself a rare smile before returning to his work. They would have much to discuss, come dinner.



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Notes:

Faramir was born in 2983 T.A. That would make him six, fifteen, and thirty-two in each of these pieces.

The second piece was inspired by Dwimordene’s drabble series Eight Weeks, specifically Week Three. I've invented several details not found in her original series, so I hope I haven't maimed her world too severely.

The Philosophy of Kings is obviously a made-up treatise. I imagine it as something similar to Macchiavelli's The Prince (or perhaps, in Denethor's hands, more like Sun-Tzu's The Art of War.)