tale_sons

Tales -
Father And Sons

I
Between Brothers

Atop the rampart of the tower of the western wall of the first circle, a lone figure huddled in a crenelle. Faramir son of Denethor sat with his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped about them for warmth, but his face was turned west into the chill autumnal wind. Before him loomed the heights of the Ered Nimrais, their purple slopes now coated with fresh-fallen snow. Clouds still wreathed the summits, spreading ominously towards the Tower of the Guard, and the sky looked bruised. Faramir’s eyes watered as a strong gust whistled through the passes, and the wind’s icy fingers ruffled his dark hair and ripped at his clothes, giving him goosebumps and chafing his cheeks raw. That was good; it meant that he could pretend the sting was due to a long and lonely vigil in the miserable weather rather than his father’s heavy hand. Faramir closed his eyes and felt hot tears burn down his cheeks only to be whisked away by the winds. He was fifteen, a young man old enough (if only just) to be assigned to a company, and the humiliation of being struck like a child bit deep, wounding his confidence. If he did not suspect his father’s motives, he might have been angry. But all he felt was a confused hurt and fear that eddied nauseatingly in the hollow of his breast, stirred by each heartbeat so that it seemed he would never feel whole again.

Opening his eyes again he stared vacantly out at the mountains, and in his mind they swayed in the wind. The clouds grew swollen and dark, blotting out the sky. Thunder boomed and roared, and the shadowed mountains trembled to their very roots… and began to fall. A noise like boulders crashing filled the air as the sea swept up to drown the heights…

Behind him, the trap door clattered open unexpectedly, but Faramir did not flinch, knowing who it must be. The wind swept away the footsteps, but soon he felt the heat of another body standing close behind him, and then a hand landed on his shoulder. "‘Tis a cold day for bird-watching, Faramir," his brother said, and though his tone was light, Faramir heard the undercurrent of concern. Nevertheless, the younger boy felt a smile tug at his lips, for Boromir wasn’t usually tactful.

"I seek the rare snowbird of Gondor. ‘Tis said it takes the form of a white hawk, and prefers the winter air," he replied.

"Then you are a season early. And I had heard that only those doomed to some unpleasant end ever saw it," Frowning, Boromir braced both arms against the merlons to either side and leaned close to peer at his brother’s face. "Do you foresee such an end for yourself?"

"Nay, I do not."

"Then why came you here?"

"I wanted to be alone," said Faramir, which was true but not the answer Boromir sought.

"I heard tell that you and father had another fight," said the elder prince, abandoning tact in favor of blunt honesty, and Faramir managed not to sigh.

"Aye, we did."

"And? What about this time?"

"Naught," Faramir replied, but then he hesitated. He and Boromir had always enjoyed a close relationship, despite their different temperaments. Boromir was his protector, and for his part, Faramir tried to reveal the subtleties of strategic negotiations to his brother, who was not always aware of the personalities of those with whom he dealt. To ensure that Boromir would listen occasionally required some maneuvering, but Faramir never lied to his brother. That was why he paused now, for much though he might prefer not to tell him, he knew Boromir would be at him until he did, and he could not lie. "I asked him about one of grand-father’s captains."

"Oh? Which one?" Boromir asked, sitting down next to him, though he faced east. To compensate, he leaned back on his hands a bit so Faramir would not have to crane his neck to look at him.

"He left the city before either of us was born, and his name is not mentioned much… if at all. I had been studying Númenór’s naval doctrine. In fact, our ancestors’ military strength lay primarily in their rule of the seas, since they could then land their armies at will at any port of call, even into Far Harad. Did you know that?" Faramir glanced left at his brother, and saw Boromir nod confirmation. He ought to have suspected he would, given that this bit of history attached to military matters, but he always asked. "I thought about that," he continued, "and I wondered about our own navy. It hardly plays a part anymore, and I wondered at that. If we had an adequate fleet, we could launch strikes with only a small number of men, get in and out quickly, and greatly extend our reach. But no one seems to look seaward anymore." He paused, waiting to see if Boromir had anything to say on that matter, but his brother only signed for him to continue the tale. "The only naval engagement in recent history took place twenty-three years ago, the year father married. The captain who conceived and executed the attack was a man named Thorongil. Evidently, he was a foreigner who came out of Rohan, and then he left Ecthelion’s service as soon as he had succeeded against the Corsairs of Umbar."

"Thorongil… Star-Eagle,*" Boromir mused. "You are right, I have not heard of him. One would think such a deed would earn at least a token mention!"

"So I thought, also, for he accomplished much else in service of Gondor, and he and father clearly hold similar views on most matters of policy. I thought to ask Denethor what else this stranger had to say on naval matters, but no sooner had I said his name, then father grew angry. He asked if Mithrandir had told me of him, and would not believe me when I said he had not."

"Would not believe you?" Boromir was taken aback by that. "Why should he not?"

"I know not," Faramir sighed heavily, closed his eyes and leaned his bruised cheek against the cold, rough stone. "I guess that he had some grievance with this Thorongil. Perhaps Mithrandir and he were friends—if father dislikes me for my association with the wizard, then how much more would he despise a stranger who welcomed him?"

"Perhaps. There must be some good reason," Boromir replied. But anyone who knew him would recognize that he was trying to convince himself of his own words. Likely, Faramir decided, his brother was as confused and troubled by Denethor’s behavior as he was himself. Well, no, that was not quite true, for Boromir had not seen their father’s wrath. Faramir shivered inside, remembering the rage in his father’s eyes. A proud and strong-willed man, Denethor son of Ecthelion was not known for outbursts like that, for his anger was a cold thing, apt to manifest itself in his razor-edged tongue’s precise and cutting comments. Faramir, having been victimized by that tongue all his life, knew this only too well. And though he had always suffered from his father’s disaffection, never before had he feared him as he had in that moment.

"Are you alright?" Boromir’s question, voiced gently, drew him back to the present. "Faramir, I have seen corpses with more color than you have now!" His brother reached over to grab his arm firmly.

"Have you ever had a waking dream, Boromir?" Faramir asked tiredly, and felt his brother’s eyes upon him.

"You know I have not."

"I have them often. I have heard it said that Elves dream thus, and that sometimes it is given to Men to dream in a similar fashion. I think I must have that gift. Since leaving father’s council chambers, I have seen but one thing it seems, though it is impossible that I should see it."

"Speak then, and give it a name. I am not one for riddles," said Boromir, seeming impatient, but also concerned.

"I see an island," said Faramir, gazing blankly at the frigid tableau of snow and rock before him, "an island with high mountains at its the center, and all the land lies in darkness beneath the clouds. Thunder peals out like a thousand drummers, and the mountains begin to rock, bending like trees until at last they topple to the earth. And the ground cracks under them, and the seas rise up to swallow all the land." He paused. "Númenór sinks into the waves leaving nothing but a shadow of ruin."

There was a long silence, and then Boromir asked softly, "And what portends this dream of yours?"

"Perhaps nothing. Perhaps it is simply a vision of what was, granted for I know not what reason." Faramir paused again, closing his eyes. After a moment he continued on in a tight voice, "Father does not rage like that, Boromir. He had no control of himself today. I did not think it possible… I do not want to think he could…" Faramir shook his head as if dazed, unable to voice his fears, and he had the horrible feeling that he was going to cry again. Of a sudden he was enveloped in a bear hug, and he leaned his head against Boromir’s chest, grateful that he at least had his brother’s support and love, even if their father despised him. But in truth, his fear was not for himself, or rather, not primarily for himself. In his power and pride, a Denethor given over solely to emotion was more dangerous than any Orc or Harad army, and not just for a wayward son. Minas Tirith would be in gravest danger if the son of Ecthelion ever succumbed to the fires that raged just beneath the ice of his reason and will, and that frightened Faramir. Once, he would never have thought to hold such a fear, but now, having glimpsed the most hidden vaults of his father’s soul, if only briefly and imperfectly, Faramir knew that his beloved city was in danger, and that he would never feel safe again, until Denethor died. And what an awful thing, to look to his father’s death in order to feel certain that Minas Tirith would stand! He felt almost ashamed, but that he knew he was right to fear his father’s mood. He thought of telling Boromir everything, but immediately abandoned the idea. His brother would not understand, and even if he did he was ill-suited to bear such a burden. Boromir was a man of action, and to tell him would be to trap him in a web of resentment, where strength turned in against itself because its proper object could not be met with force or challenged with forthright words. As lonely and painful as his present position was, Faramir knew that this was his burden, and that he alone could carry it.

And so he said nothing, just nestled in his brother’s arms, and fought with himself, seeking the strength to still his own roiling emotions. All around them the wind shrieked and howled as it came down off the mountains and Faramir shivered. I am at the eye of a storm, and all around me there is darkness as the mountains fall to the waves… I shall not waver, I dare not, I will not… Over and over he repeated it, like a mantra, and felt himself drowning nonetheless.

Boromir held Faramir close, and felt uneasy. He sensed that there was much his brother had not told him, that something deeper than grievance and hurt worked in him. But he could not pierce the younger man’s veil of grief, and was unwilling to force the matter from him by asking directly. There were those who had looked askance at the young lad Faramir had been, wondering at his strange ways, mistrusting that a child could know the things that he knew, or dream the dreams that he dreamt. When they were both younger, Faramir often would creep to his brother’s bed to sleep after a nightmare, or a particularly vivid dream. He preferred music and history to the martial pursuits that were a prince’s birth-right and duty, and so the younger prince had seemed to others somehow weaker, even effeminate. As a rule, Boromir, fiercely protective, had made certain no one ever voiced such thoughts in his brother’s presence. And as Faramir had grown up a bit, the talk had died down; doubtless once he had a few years of military service under his belt, it would disappear entirely. But he would still dream, and there were those who felt uneasy under Faramir’s gaze. It was not that he sought to dominate others, but men who were accustomed to hide their weaknesses felt exposed and humiliated by the pity and understanding in Faramir’s eyes. And though Boromir loved his father dearly, it came to his mind that perhaps Denethor, accustomed to having no peers, felt threatened by his younger son’s too-perceptive regard.

It made no sense to Boromir, who could not imagine what weaknesses the lord of the Tower of the Guard might wish to hide, but there it was. He could not dismiss the notion easily, for it rang true to him in spite of his own inability to delve any further into the matter. And if it were true… He glanced down at the dark head laid trustingly against his chest and frowned. What might Faramir have seen this afternoon that had frightened him so? Supremely confident of his own martial prowess, Boromir knew nevertheless that Faramir had a resolute heart, and would prove a formidable opponent on the field. He was therefore no coward, and if he sat here, curled up like a babe and shaking, then he must have some reason for it. This gift of his, to read others’ hearts, could kill him one day, Boromir thought with grim concern. It could poison him. How many secrets does he know that should be kept hidden from the sunlight?

"Faramir, you would tell me if you were in danger, would you not?" Boromir found himself asking.

"Of course," his brother replied, seeming surprised. Boromir bit his lip, uncertain how to proceed now. It had been long indeed since he had last seen his brother so upset over anything. Faramir might come to this secluded tower every few months, but whenever Boromir found him there, it usually needed no more than a few words to convince him to leave it. For Boromir counted it unhealthy for his brother to spend too much time brooding alone on this isolated perch, and he worried now that he might have to ask Denethor what had passed between him and his brother in order to work out the truth. Not that he thought Faramir was lying, but he knew he had not told all and would not unless pressed hard. But Boromir had no heart for that if the matter did not touch on the safety of Minas Tirith, as it assuredly did not in this case.

"Is there nothing I can do?" He finally asked.

"Nay, I think not …unless," Faramir paused, struck by a thought. He shifted and gently freed himself from his brother’s grasp so he could look him in the face. "Father wants me to remain here, and to take a position in the Tower guard. You know of this?"

"Yes, I do."

"Convince him to let me go with the Ithilien company," Faramir said, and Boromir frowned, taken aback both by the request and by the deadly serious tone in which it was delivered.

"The Ithilien company? Would you not prefer it here? Ithilien is well-nigh deserted, and it has but a small detachment scouring it."

"I know. But I think I can serve Minas Tirith better there than here. Do you not see, Boromir?" Faramir spoke softly, earnestly. "If I remain, father and I shall be at each other’s throats in every matter, even when we agree! Wherefore does that aid Gondor? Whereas if I am out of his sight, and placed in such a remote post, then I may yet learn to do much good for our people. Father listens to you. He trusts you, and if you ask him, he will do it. I know he will." There was a flicker in those grey eyes, as of ill-masked desperation, and Boromir realized that he was right. If Faramir remained in Minas Tirith, he and Denethor would tear each other apart inside. Behind closed doors, and in their private moments, they would mutilate each other; no one would ever see it, but everyone would know nonetheless. The two people whom he loved best in the world would be miserable, and all of Gondor would suffer with them.

So although Boromir heaved a sigh, he said resolutely, "I will see to it. If you like, I can have you assigned to my company in Osgiliath."

"Nay, I would not want to be an encumbrance upon you, brother. I, too, must learn to stand on my own," Faramir replied. Thunder crackled overhead, and both brothers looked up as lightning split the sky. "Perhaps we ought to go down now."

"I think so," Boromir said, standing quickly. The two made their way down the ladder, and Boromir pulled the hatch firmly shut after them. Below in the stairwell, a single torch guttered. Faramir retrieved it and they went quickly down the spiraling steps, pausing whenever the thunder shook the tower about them. Once they reached ground level, they left through the tower’s door and dashed across the plaza just as the sky opened up and rain came pouring down with a vengeance. They were soaked by the time they reached the eaves of the northern door. There they paused a moment, and Boromir wrung the water out of his cloak, while Faramir ran his hands through his hair, slicking back wet tendrils behind his ears. "I shall speak to father tonight, and afterward shall I come and find you."

"Thank you, Boromir," the younger prince laid a hand on his brother’s forearm, and his eyes were serious.

"There is no need," said Boromir simply. And indeed, there never had been need for thanks—not between brothers.

* I know in the appendix the listed translation is "Eagle of the Star," but given that Elendil comes out as "Elf-friend" rather than "Friend-of-the-Elf" Thorongil ought to be able to be similarly translated. And I think it’s more likely that people would translate the Sindarin Thorongil to "Star-Eagle" simply because it survives daily wear and tear better. Or maybe Boromir just doesn’t speak Sindarin as well as he speaks Westron.

I I
The Ones We Love

* Chapter title comes from the infamous line: "We only hurt the ones we love."

The rain continued unabated all that afternoon and into the night. It pounded against the glass window panes, and the guards outside were doubtless cursing their luck and hoping to fall ill just to escape the weather. Denethor sat in his chair near the enormous hearth and sorted through the various dispatches absently. Inlaid before him on the huge bureau was a map of Gondor and regions adjacent, and all about the map were stacks of parchment, scrolls, and markers, all neatly arranged. The steward despised untidiness in any form, but tonight the ritual ordering of his space served only to mask his discomfort, substituting a merely physical cleansing for a spiritual one. Guilt was foreign to Denethor, yet he knew beyond all doubt that he experienced it tonight. Raised to the burden of rule, and to a tradition that honored both warrior and scholar, he had learned early that those who governed could afford few apologies and that to doubt oneself–to show oneself vulnerable or indecisive–would cost lives in the long run. Guilt was an expensive commodity, properly belonging to the decadent or the lazy, and it galled him to think that he had warranted the torments of a guilty conscience tonight. That was an unforgivable offense, though no one but he and one other might ever know he had committed it.

Why had he erupted in Faramir’s face? The question hung in the air, tormenting him. Surprise at hearing the name of Thorongil again, after so many years had contributed to it, but he had borne Thorongil himself without incident for years. Perhaps it was simply that Faramir reminded him too much of the stranger at times. The boy’s eyes were keen, and he knew that he was always looking, always judging others… it was impertinent! And perhaps, Denethor decided, he himself was fatigued. His esquire had remarked that once, and had quickly learned never to mention it again. Denethor disliked others’ prying into his private thoughts and activities, particularly when such knowledge could prove dangerous to those of less hardy substance than himself. Oh yes, Denethor knew his will was stern as the rock of Gondor’s foundations, but even he grew tired in the use of the palantír. The weariness would pass, he knew, but it would take time to accustom himself to the stone’s trial of his will. Doubtless his fatigue had left him short-tempered and less able to control himself, and that was why Faramir’s questions had angered him so…

A grimace flashed across Denethor’s face, quickly concealed, and he set the dispatches carefully to one side. Then he leaned on the bureau and gazed down at the map, tracing with his eyes the movements of troops from Anórien to Umbar and beyond. It was a grim picture, and would grow darker still, he knew, before the age ended. Gondor might perish in that ending; indeed, he knew it was very likely that Minas Tirith would be reduced to ruin even if somehow Gondor survived. That was why he risked the use of the palantír, why he levied heavy tributes that even his subjects might resent, and why the army grew with each year. Every effort was warranted to find some way of saving something–anything–from the coming carnage and here he stood unable to concentrate properly because of shame! Thunder rumbled menacingly, and Denethor glanced at the rain-streaked window, and wished briefly that the icy water could infuse him with his usual coldly collected composure.

A knock sounded, and his esquire hastened to answer. He cracked the door open slightly, then quickly pulled it wider. "My lord, your son, the lord Boromir, would speak with you," the lad announced as Boromir paused on the threshold.

"Let him come," Denethor waved a hand absently without taking his eyes from a marker that told of troops gathering south of Harnen. Boromir’s steps echoed in the silence, and when he judged the prince but a few paces distant, the steward spoke, "What brings you to me, my son?"

"Good evening father," Boromir greeted him, and something in his tone drew Denethor’s eyes away from the map and his own silent recriminations. His son stood proudly before him, seeming to all intents and purposes his usual indefatigable self, but Denethor sensed a certain uneasy defiance in his voice and in the too tense shoulders. Straightening, Denethor wrapped his knuckles once, sharply, on the wood and drew an unobtrusive breath.

"Something troubles you?" He asked.

"I have a proposition, father, and I would beg you to hear and consider it."

"Ah?" This was not quite what he had expected. "Speak then."

"When last we discussed it, you said that Ithilien’s Rangers were responsible for most of the reports on the Enemy’s southern movements, and yet they are a small force compared to some."

"True," replied Denethor, waiting for the point to be made.

"Then each man in it learns to do many tasks, and there would be much opportunity for a newcomer to prove himself," said Boromir.

"Again, true, though I know not why this should be of great interest to you."

"Not to me, perhaps, but I think now of Faramir," Boromir said at last, looking Denethor squarely in the face. And yes, there was that defiance, Denethor thought with a cold smile that did not touch his lips. Boromir clearly knew of the argument between Faramir and himself, and had come to ask a boon for his brother that would put him far from Minas Tirith and any future outbursts. And if I am not mistaken, Boromir is not the author of this proposition. Likely it was Faramir who put it into his head to make the request, the steward decided, feeling a little spasm of disgust at such obvious manipulation. He was half-prepared to reject the idea, but then he paused, turning the notion over in his mind. On the one hand, he had thought to put Faramir in the Tower Guard simply because he was young, and also because Denethor did not trust his judgment in the same way that he trusted Boromir’s. But he could not afford to coddle the boy either, or to mistrust him too thoroughly. Ithilien was a different sort of company than most, being essentially a large scouting force distributed all along Anduin’s course, from Cair Andros to Poros. It required discipline of another sort than that practiced in more traditional units, and a mind accustomed to picking an answer out of disjointed bits of evidence… a scholar’s mind, in many ways, and Faramir had that at least.

And truth be told, he probably owed the boy something after the afternoon’s shameful altercation. He hated to admit it, but the conclusion was inescapable. Denethor knew that if the lad remained in the city, there would doubtless be more arguments, and that would ruin Faramir as a commander, leaving him with a resentful, worthless tool that might fail at the test. Better, then, to send him away while there was time, and if Faramir had already identified the one unit in which his talents would be best put to use, then that spared Denethor the trouble of discovering it for himself. It was not as if he could not keep watch on the boy from afar, especially now that he had begun to master the palantír. And Boromir clearly supported the move, or he would not have agreed to act as an intermediary in this matter. "I see. Very well. Faramir may go to Ithilien, and I will see to it that he leaves with the next runner. If he does well, he may inherit command of it eventually. At least the boy has sense enough to pick a company whose duties suit him," he added, to be certain Boromir knew that his father understood his reasons for coming. There! I have paid my debt! Denethor thought, gloweringly.

His eldest son nodded, his eyes narrowing just slightly as he regarded his father, and Denethor read in that minute betrayal uncertainty; a further question, perhaps, for Boromir loved his brother well… "Father," Boromir said, and his voice was more forced and troubled than usual, "I do not mean to pry, but Faramir is not a child. Why then did you strike him?"

Beneath the ice, there was always heat, and Denethor could feel it rising in him. Fortunately, he had had several hours to recover his self-control after his last glance in the Seeing Stone, and so it was in a coldly clipped tone that he replied, "Your concern for your brother is laudable, but the matter is settled. Do not presume to tell me how to deal with Faramir’s foolishness." Denethor paused and held Boromir’s gaze long, ‘til at last Boromir lowered his eyes in acceptance. "Good. Now, you are due to leave for Osgiliath tomorrow. You should ready yourself for that journey."

"Yes, sir. May I tell Faramir of your decision?"

"Yes, please do. Have him come before me tomorrow after the third hour. Good night, my son." With a nod, Boromir bowed and left quickly, though his step lacked its usual vigor. Denethor, sensing the dejection in his eldest son, felt a sudden thrill of alarm, heavily laced with angry frustration. Almost he succumbed to the need to call Boromir back, to try to explain what could not be explained, but then the fit passed, and the ice was back in place, stifling the impulse. He will forget it soon enough, he decided. Boromir is given to quick emotion; this will pass. And if that was the voice of rationalization speaking, Denethor cared not, seeking only a way out of this nightmare of a day. Rest, perhaps, would do him good.

With a sigh he straightened the dispatches once again, then looked toward the door in the southern wall and hesitated. It led to his chambers, but as usual he felt a sort of shadow fall over him, remembering the days when Finduilas had waited for him beyond those doors. She was dead now ten years and no trace of anything of hers remained there to remind her husband that she had ever existed. Denethor grimaced inwardly, chastising himself for useless sentimentality. Still, that empty chamber, with its narrow bed and bachelor’s furniture filled him with loathing. If he went there now, sleep would elude him all night. And so, after he dismissed the esquire with orders to see that no one disturbed him before the third hour, the steward of the city rose and went not to his bed, but climbed slowly into the tower above the council room. An inviolate haven, he had removed a great part of his private study to the topmost room, and he went there now, turning for solace to the other constant in his life: work. The palantír called him, and he girded himself to face it once more.

* * *

In the hall that led to the council room, Boromir stood silent and his face was drawn as he pondered what had just happened. For he was filled with confusion, and asked himself: how could he both love and loathe someone? He had occasionally been subject to his father’s disapproval, but that had never caused him to feel ambivalent about his love for Denethor. This time, however, his father’s cold rebuff had felt different, though he could not define that difference in words. He knew only that as he had looked into his father’s eyes, he had seen a gleam there that had seemed to him pitiless, even cruel. With that cold rebuff, he sensed that he had at last been granted a dim understanding of what Faramir must have felt so much more intensely all of his life. But how could I have overlooked this for so long? Surely if it were real, I would have seen it earlier? That was reluctance speaking, his unwillingness to doubt what he had always "known" before, namely that his father was a just man who always acted with reason. And yet if that were so, how to explain his treatment of Faramir? This was but the latest and most violent incident, if his brother's vague tale were true… which it must be, surely. He loved Faramir dearly and so was the more disturbed by the picture that was beginning to emerge, for he liked not the feeling that he was failing Faramir somehow. That he had failed him repeatedly and for years. But then again, how could he doubt Denethor’s own authority to discipline his sons as he saw fit? Yet because neither Denethor nor Faramir had told him the full tale of this latest grievance, he could not judge what, if anything, to believe.

I could stand here all night and debate this, and I would come no closer to the truth, he realized. Boromir had never been one to deliberate overmuch, and so he made a swift decision and strode away, heading for his brother’s rooms. There was surely one person who would not refuse him an answer to his questions, after all, and then he would know where he ought to stand.

* * *

When the knock came, Faramir set aside his writing and rose to answer it, knowing that it would be his brother. And he was right, but he opened the door to a rather troubled-seeming Boromir, which was a sight in itself. Father refused him! That was the first thought that sprang into his mind, and the dread that accompanied it was almost physically nauseating. But before he could so much as greet him, Boromir said, "It is done. You will go to Ithilien with the next runner." His brother entered the room, but instead of going to sit, as he usually did, he paused in the middle of the floor, staring at his surroundings. Faramir secured the door, then turned to regard his brother. Boromir’s eyes strayed from the bookcase with its collection that lined the eastern wall to the maps of Gondor and far countries that hung in place of tapestries; he looked then to the trunk which contained a few musical instruments, and the writing desk with pages spread out carefully atop it so that the glistening ink could dry. Finally, he sighed and stared down at the carpet that covered most of the flagstones. Faramir had rescued it from among their mother’s possessions, for Denethor had locked it in a storeroom upon her death. But his father never came to his chambers, and so he had had it moved into his room some three years ago. An abstract pattern of blue and green, brown and red spiraled out in intricate detail across its surface. It lent a certain warmth to the room, and Faramir found that the pattern helped him to think. Boromir had shaken his head over the whole matter, saying laughingly that it made his eyes hurt to stare at it for very long.

Now, though, he seemed to be trying to follow the ornate curlicues and knotted spirals, as if seeking meaning within its twisting lines. "Will you not sit?" Faramir asked, puzzled and worried, indicating the guest chair before the hearth.

"Nay, I have a few errands of my own tonight. I leave for Osgiliath tomorrow," said Boromir, looking up from the carpet and fixing him with an intent stare. "And glad I am of it, for I think it will do father good to have us both out of his sight for awhile."

"What happened?" Faramir asked, feeling the echos of his earlier fear begin to stir. Had Boromir somehow alienated their father this evening? He felt a chill run through him at the veery thought, for if anything happened to break Boromir’s hold on Denethor, then who would provide balance for the lord of the city? Boromir might not be the most subtle intellect, but at least he was generally sensible in matters of war and governance, even if he was not brilliant in the latter.

Instead of answering directly, Boromir turned and gave him a close look, reaching out to touch his right cheek briefly, probing the swollen flesh there. "I suppose that could be worse. Still sore, I wager?"

"It gives me little pain. Truly, I have had worse in sword drills," Faramir replied, unwilling to make more of the injury than that. After all, the pain was insignificant beside his fears about his father. And now Boromir was acting strangely, not like his usual confident self. He wanted to shake his brother, to wrest the news out of him, but that would do no good and much harm. Instead he stalked over to his writing desk and absently collected the dried manuscripts into a stack to put away.

"Tell me this: what exactly did you say to our father that made him strike you?" Boromir asked, not moving from his place, and the papers landed on the desk again with a slap as Faramir froze, tension rippling down his spine at that. He had thought Boromir had chosen to ignore the bruise this afternoon, and he had been glad. Now though… in spite of his initial suspicions, had Denethor somehow convinced his brother that he, Faramir, was at fault for everything? No, that could not be possible; Faramir prayed it was not. But even so, would Boromir, his father’s favorite, be able to accept the truth? Would it not be better to leave the matter unsaid, for how could it help to tell his brother of the shameful things that had passed between him and their father that afternoon?

"Boromir, it does not bear remembering–"

"Tell me what you said!" Boromir cut him off brusquely, and there was no arguing with that command. Why does this happen? Why can he not see that this can only hurt all of us? With all his heart, he wished he dared tell his brother to let the matter drop, but if he did, he sensed that he would jeopardize Boromir’s faith in him. And he could not bear that. So in a low voice, and with much trepidation, he replied:

"He had asked me if I had learned of Thorongil from Mithrandir. I told him that I had not, that Mithrandir told me nothing of the most recent history of the city. He then said I must have learned the name from someone, and that only Mithrandir would be impertinent enough to tell me. And I swore to him that it was not so, but he only grew more angry," Faramir paused, feeling the words stick in his throat as if to strangle him. He swallowed hard, then continued in as natural a voice as he could manage, "He said that I should never lie to him again, and that if I did, he would thrash me for it. He said," and here his voice grew hard and tight, "He said he would never tolerate a dishonest son, because such a son besmirches the honor of a high family. I was so stunned I could not speak for a time. When at last I regained my tongue, I asked him, furious, how he could accuse me of lying to his face. I would have asked if he thought himself so poor a father to raise such a child, but before I could embarrass us both, he struck me to silence me. Then he told me to leave, and I did. Truly, Boromir, that is how it happened."

There was a profound silence, broken only by the crackle of the hearth fire, and the poisonous confession hung in the air between them. Faramir closed his eyes and grasped the back of his chair in a white-knuckled grip, feeling as though his whole world hung in the balance. If Boromir did not believe him… if he felt that Denethor was justified… Always before, when he and Denethor had argued, Boromir had defended him without ever questioning their father, dismissing the steward’s behavior because the tension between the lord of the city and his second son was as fundamental as bedrock in Boromir’s universe. Those bouts were simply part of the order of life, to be endured without question. Now, though, Faramir thought, that is changing. Boromir had been gone for long periods of time in the past three years; he was growing more independent as his skill at command increased, and he had begun to open his eyes to the possibility that there was something unnatural in Denethor’s relationship to Faramir.

Whatever had occurred in his meeting with the steward, though, had crystallized that possibility and stripped the blinders away. No longer could Boromir blithely assume that that basic hostility was a part of the Way of the World, and any fight might force him to take sides. But how could he? On the one hand, he loved his brother and trusted him implicitly; but on the other, he was loyal to Gondor, and what was Gondor if not the steward of the realm? And Denethor was their father; how could Boromir possibly commit such a double treachery and choose Faramir over lord and sire? How, if he should turn away from me? Faramir wondered. What would I have? Where would I find strength, or do I have it in me to stand alone… all alone forever? Still, Boromir said nothing, and Faramir began to feel desperate indeed. At last, he could stand the silence no longer. "Boromir? Speak, I beg you! What think you now?"

And Boromir, hearing the plea in his brother’s voice, cursed softly but intensely, and saw Faramir flinch as if from a blow. That hurt, but he supposed Faramir had reason to feel threatened today. "I am sorry, brother," he said heavily, "I do but curse my own blindness." A pause, then, "Can you forgive me?"

"Only do not turn away from me, and I would forgive you anything!" Faramir replied fervently.

"Good. And never doubt it: I will never turn away from you," Boromir said, and strode to stand before his brother. "Look at me!" Faramir raised his eyes, and he continued, "Father commands you to present yourself to him at the third hour tomorrow morning for instruction in your new post. But do not let him see that you fear him, or that you grieve for anything that has ever passed between you. From now on, Faramir, you are no longer simply Denethor’s son, you are an officer of the realm, and that demands a certain dignity… on both sides. Do you understand?" Faramir blinked, amazed to receive such advice from his brother, but Boromir was entirely correct. And how foolish was I not to see that aspect of it?

"I understand. I shall not disappoint you," he replied, and Boromir gave him a thin smile and nodded.

"I know you will not. Good night. And please," Boromir paused at the threshold, "do not dream!"

Faramir laughed at that, perhaps the first real laugh he had had for months. "If I do, I promise it shall not be of Númenór!"

I I I
See No More with the Eyes of a Child

For a wonder, Faramir did not dream that night, and when he awoke the next morning to a chill and cloud-streaked dawn, he felt refreshed. Throwing on warm clothes, he passed swiftly through the halls of the Citadel and came to the terrace before the tower. The wind was sharp and crisp, and carried frost upon its breath, but Faramir rejoiced to see gold glinting on the tips of the Ephel Duath, whose peaks showed black and sharply fang-like against the white eastern sky. The prince wended his way between puddles of water to the gate of the seventh circle, and with a polite salute to the guards there, went down into the sixth ring, with its armories and vast storehouses, where men clad in the uniform of Gondor went like hounds on the trail, fulfilling the errands of company quartermaster or armorer. The fifth circle held similar offices, smaller, however, and there were smithies and other guild houses lining the streets. Most of them were shut fast still against night and weather, but a few gave evidence of life: smoke curled thinly above a blacksmith’s shop as the forge warmed, and a weaver stood atop a barrel to open the stall hatch.

The fourth circle marked the beginning of the inhabited portions of the city, though it was by far the emptiest quarter to be found. Here lay the silent houses of great families long since extinct, and as Faramir passed between them, he felt as always the specter of those sad places—lifeless and bereft of purpose—and rather than walk, he gave into the impulse and sprinted the rest of the way to the gate. Down, down, down, he went, circle by circle, into ever thicker crowds as the city roused itself with the rising sun.

The second circle of Minas Tirith housed the few horses that the city-folk employed, and Faramir made for the stables closest to the gate that led into the first ring. As he approached, he espied a tall, broad figure clad in blue and grey, and lading a horse with saddle bags and bedroll. "Boromir!" His brother looked up and raised a hand in greeting before returning to his task. He adjusted the straps to hold the saddle bags in place, and then bent to tighten the cinch. Once he had everything to his liking, he straightened and turned to his brother with a smile. "Good morrow. You seem much improved today."

"I feel it, too," Faramir replied. "But even did I not, I should be sorry not to see you off, especially since it may be long before we see each other again."

"Aye," Boromir replied, and draped an arm comfortably about his brother’s shoulders as he urged the horse out onto the street. "I doubt I shall spend much time in Ithilien, but perhaps we may meet at Osgiliath, or at least have news of each other. For runners come often from the eastern lands. Send word when you can."

"I shall. And do you likewise." Faramir responded. A beat, and then in a low voice, "You know I depend upon you."

"Never fear but that I will," Boromir paused and glanced down at his brother, as there played about his face a trace of the uneasiness he bore still from the night before. "Are you certain of your course?"

"I am certain, Boromir," Faramir replied, meeting his brother’s eyes firmly. "I cannot stay here, but neither can I go with you. Ithilien is the only place for me, I think." Boromir considered this briefly, then gave a sharp nod.

"Very good. Remember that when things go ill, for there is no doubt that there will be hard times ahead of you. You are still, as they say, an ‘unblooded virgin’ and men do not look upon such as a good thing, particularly in their captain. Show sign of doubt, or falter even once, and you may lose them before you can prove yourself. Be thou then resolute as the sun, hm?"

"I did not know you heeded old verses," Faramir teased, surprised by the literary allusion.

"The phrase struck me, that is all," Boromir replied, shrugging off the implied compliment, but nonetheless clearly pleased by it. "Promise me once more that you will adhere to those verses you study so diligently?"

"I promise I shall take all your words to heart. I know now how to face father. You need not fear for me," said Faramir. "But, brother mine, I would have a promise from you as well. I…" He halted, seeking the proper words. How does one tell the protector to protect himself? I know not even that he sees the danger, but if I warn him too bluntly, he will dismiss it out of hand. Strength can be turned so easily against itself… "Promise me that you will not think overmuch upon the… events… of yesterday. I meant what I said: they do not bear remembering, and I would not have you troubled by them unnecessarily."

"You ask much," Boromir replied with a scowl, but he sighed and said, "Very well. I shall do as you wish, insofar as I am able." As they talked, they had wound their way down through the lowest level of the city, and now they paused a moment, for they had come to the main gates of Minas Tirith. Beyond the guard tower lay the open fields of the Pelennor, rain-wet, slick and glistening in the sun. Boromir’s arm tightened about his brother’s shoulders, and Faramir turned into the embrace, returning it. After a brief moment, they parted, and Boromir mounted his horse. "The third hour comes fast upon you. Get you hence, back to the tower, and tell father I send my greetings to him!" Then he touched spurs to the animal’s sides and he was gone at the gallop, leaving Faramir to stand and watch after him. When horse and rider had receded to a mere speck on the horizon, he turned and began the long, winding ascent back to the Citadel, and he did not look back. His mind was now upon other matters, for he had given much thought last night, after Boromir’s departure, as to how to make clear to his father the precedence that he gave their new relationship over that of father and son. He thought he had an answer that would, if not please Denethor, then at least be unmistakable without being cause for reprimand. I shall soon discover whether I read my father’s mood correctly in this! And woe to me if I have not!

* * *

Denethor’s mood was somber that morning, and he took no time for breakfast but went immediately to his bureau for paper and ink. As the sun rose higher, a steady stream of orders issued forth from his chambers, all of them bound for the Out-captains of Gondor, and the servants wondered at this burst of activity. Not that their lord was prone to idleness—never that!—but it seemed so sudden, this spate of revisions to standing orders. None knew what had prompted it, but many looked east with misgiving. As well they might! Denethor thought. He had seen many things last night that boded ill for Gondor, and he was determined to mitigate the ill-effects of their enemies’ probable intentions as much as possible. The steward closed his eyes as his esquire took the last batch of papers from him, and in that brief moment of solitude, he leaned his elbows on the table and massaged his temples against a coming headache. The palantír had been difficult to control last night: its visions had strayed over half of Gondor and parts of Mordor even, erratic and seemingly wayward. The cause of this behavior was not difficult even for Denethor to discern, for he knew well that the palantír had simply reflected his own inner turmoil back to him; the more he had tried to deny his emotions, the more confused the visions had become. After long hours of wrestling with himself and with the stone, exhaustion had worn away his ability to feel what lay beneath his frayed self-control, allowing him to observe in peace the areas south of Anduin. But there was no satisfaction in such a victory over his heart, coming as it did from without rather than from the exercise of his own self-discipline. And though he had slept at last on the cot in the tower room, he had awakened to the same dispirited edginess that had kept him in its grip the day before.

In fact, he knew that his morning activity, though logical in light of what he had learned the night before, was nothing more than an attempt to divert himself from the shadow of yestereve. Ever when trouble arose, the steward looked to find satisfaction in the doing of the one task to which he had been born, namely the governance and protection of Gondor. But this time the ploy failed, as it had yesterday, and his thoughts returned always to his sons. He had made his peace (mostly) with his behavior towards Faramir, and he would not permit himself another such outburst. But last night, even in the midst of his utmost efforts of concentration, Boromir’s voice and eyes had remained with him, and he was haunted by the sudden disappointment he had read in them, for in some deep place in his soul where honesty dwelt still, he knew that he could not stand to lose his son's affection. And so the part of himself which told sweetly plausible lies clung to the notion that Boromir would eventually let fall that incident, being generally unable to hold a grudge for long, unless it were against Mordor. His elder son had not his father’s disposition, nor his long memory. And he is too unsubtle in his own feelings to concern himself for long with what I told him. Boromir is not his brother, Denethor thought, feeling a bit of his own tension dissipate.

Thought of Faramir reminded him that the boy would come soon to learn his new duties, and Denethor grunted softly. In his mind, he saw a half-dozen names of men bound for Ithilien and fixed upon one in particular. Yes, I could send him with Hirandar in little less than a week; that would be short preparation, but it will be a lesson in the exigencies of service to the realm, hm? Yes. Denethor bent once more to paper and quill, writing out a new set of orders, to be delivered by Hirandar to the current commander of Ithilien, one Galdon of Ithilien, whose family had been driven out of its ancestral lands only fifteen years ago. Galdon would serve as lieutenant for awhile, then be transferred elsewhere, to Osgiliath, perhaps, where there was always need for a proven company commander. He also wrote out the confirmation of Faramir’s new office, making him a captain of the realm with all the responsibility that that entailed.

No sooner had he finished that necessary task than a knock sounded. As his esquire had not yet returned, Denethor simply raised his voice and called, "Come!" Glancing up from the paper, he saw the door opened wide enough to admit the slender frame of his second son, who shut it quietly behind him. Then Faramir turned and squared his shoulders and strode forward at a measured pace until he reached the bureau. "Good morrow, sir," he said, "Boromir departed this morning ere the second hour, but he sends his greetings to his father." Faramir finished in a very even tone and Denethor noted well the resolution in those grey eyes. Apparently, Faramir, too, was unwilling to let his composure crack again, and he assumed now the reserve of a servant reporting to his master. It amused his father, but Denethor did not smile. If Faramir wished the meeting to be professional, then the steward had no objections.

"Good morrow and thank you, then." Denethor said gravely. He slid the writ of commission over the table top to Faramir, who studied it briefly and then gave a minute nod, though he seemed to catch his breath at the same time. "If you would accept the honors therein, then swear to me now."

Faramir glanced up quickly, meeting his father’s eyes, but if he had any protest, it died aborning and he nodded. Such an oath was normally made before investiture with an office, and usually it was public. But there was precedent for a more private ceremony, and as Faramir drew his sword and went down to one knee, he showed no trace of any emotion at all. He set the sword upright, resting it on its tip, and laid his hands upon the hilts, and began: "Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm, to speak and be silent, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace or war, in living or dying, from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me or death take me, or the world end. So say I, Faramir son of Denethor of Minas Tirith and steward of Gondor."

He spoke with quiet intensity, and the solemnity of the ancient formula was given new life in his mouth. And as he spoke, Faramir’s left hand slid along the blade, leaving a trail of blood, and Denethor’s eyes narrowed slightly in surprise. Blood-letting at oath-takings was older even than the words themselves, and was no longer a part of the formal ceremony, but Faramir seemed to wish that there be no mistaking his intentions. He had even used the correct hand, since a warrior would never jeopardize his ability to hold a blade, which meant that the boy had studied for this moment. And now he has bound me to a similar declaration of faith, the steward thought, feeling on the one hand irked at the implied challenge, but also admiring, in a grudging way, the manner of the challenge. I suppose one must admit that he has a certain style!

So he spoke in his turn, "And this do I hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor and Steward of the High King and I will not forget it, nor fail to reward that which is given: fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance." And the blade darkened as his blood stained the opposite edge. Faramir did not flinch, and the look in his eyes as he gazed up at his father was one of grim satisfaction. "Now rise, Faramir of Gondor, and learn now your first duty," Denethor said, nonchalantly wrapping his cut hand in a handkerchief that he pulled from his pocket, unwilling to bleed on anything important. "I have dispatches for Ithilien that you will need to discuss with Galdon when you arrive. I expect that he will be of great service to you for the next year before he moves to Osgiliath’s garrison. You will ride with Hirandar on the seventeenth of this month, and see that Galdon receives them. You will also be charged with instructing your men in their new orders," Denethor handed over a copy of his earlier writing that he had retained for the occasion. Faramir glanced at his father for permission, then picked it up and read it. To Denethor’s watchful eye, the boy’s expression hardened at that, but he made no comment.

"It shall be as you order, sire," was all that he said.

"I expect no less. In four days you depart from this city. I shall look for word from you after the twenty-first of the next month. Go now and do what you must in preparation for the assumption of your duties," Denethor said by way of dismissal.

"Good day, father," Faramir replied, bowing stiffly, and then he turned on his heel and left. Denethor looked after him a long moment, then began to chuckle low and sardonically, and he shook his head. "Well, so now I know what he thinks of me. ‘Good day father’ indeed!" He fell silent, staring sightlessly for a moment into the empty space where Faramir had stood, and deep beneath the ice there kindled a spark of regret. It was a small thing, and perhaps there was no one left living who would have recognized its birth in that instant, but it remained, smoldering gently, until events fanned it briskly to life, and from there into an unconfined, all-consuming blaze. For the moment, however, Denethor tasted it only briefly, then set it aside, as he did all things that did not pertain to Gondor’s safety. Regret was not something he could afford. Not now, not when he had work to do.

* * *

Faramir stood atop the western tower again, but this time he did not come to brood, or to hide until his wounded center could repair itself enough to endure the eyes of others. This time he came merely to reflect, and to taste the free air as it swept in off the slopes of the Ered Nimrais. The cut on the palm of his hand smarted, but he paid it no more heed than he did the bruise that discolored his right cheek. There, I have done it! Let father look no longer to me as wayward son, let him now deal with me simply as one of his men. Let him look to my deeds as deeds done for Gondor, and not as my deeds. He took a deep breath, and indulged himself for one moment in a fervent wish that it might have been otherwise—that he, like Boromir, could be both son and captain for Denethor. But father would scorn such fantasies, and perhaps he would be right. I must not let my gaze go solely westward, to what was; I must learn to look more carefully east, to what is. Before him rose the Ephel Duath, and Faramir, now a captain of Gondor, left the tower and came there never again.

I V
Growing Pains

Forest-clad slopes showed dusky green and red in the afternoon, and a wet, musty scent of damp leaves and grass suffused the valley. The air shimmered with a haze that had lingered throughout the day, though now sun beams pierced the mists and shone gold-white upon the land, glinting off Anduin in the west. Moist and enigmatic, the trees swayed coyly in the light breeze, seeming to hide a mystery beneath their branches, promising to reveal it if only one would venture down into their midst. Peace, they seemed to promise, and forgetfulness were for the taking if a Man would dare their twisting green-grown trails. An enchanting fantasy, but Faramir, captain of Ithilien, knew it for a lie, for he had walked under the eaves of the forest and seen the carnage that lay hidden under the leaf-laden branches. Indeed, he had wrought it: there lay now in that valley Orcs aplenty, and their dark blood was mingled with the scarlet of human blood.

It needed a strong force to pry those horses from the Rohirrim, Faramir thought wearily, gingerly probing his ribs which ached from a particularly strong blow. He would be sore for weeks but the bones were not cracked, fortunately. And truly, I was fortunate: we have not had such a hard-fought battle since I came here, five years ago. The Rohirrim must have taken heavy losses from this band! At least we recovered some of the horses. It was, perhaps, cold comfort compared to the number of steeds that the Orcs had butchered rather than allowing them to fall back into enemy hands, but at least those that were lost would never be slaves in Durthang. And though Faramir had never been one to believe too firmly in the notion that death was always preferable to dishonor, he had never doubted that death was a blessing if it meant escaping the rape of one’s very essence at the hands of Mordor’s foul brood. To be twisted and changed, alienated so thoroughly from oneself as to be unrecognizable—that he feared as he feared little else, and his hatred of Mordor was intimately rooted in his horrified loathing of its ruined creatures.

Ironic, is it not? For would I be so very certain in this matter had I not some experience with such twisting? He thought, and a hard smile played at the corners of his mouth. No one who had lovingly read the history of Minas Tirith and of Gondor could escape the cruel fact that any contact with the Enemy, even in the form of resistance, carried a certain taint. The glory of that tall, proud city had become firmly linked with battle and slaying, rather than with the wisdom and beauty that its founders had sought to embody in its white walls. And of course, he was intimately familiar with the manner in which his father had been twisted by the burden of defense against Mordor, to the point that for Denethor son of Ecthelion, there was very little of worth beyond that mortal struggle for the protection of Gondor. It was an inhuman effort in the service of an abstraction, and if it kept the boundaries of Gondor intact, it begat also the cruelty, intentional or otherwise, that had poisoned the steward’s family.

With a sigh, Faramir gazed down at trees and drew in a deep breath til his lungs felt ready to burst, then he exhaled slowly. Fair Ithilien, jewel in the crown of Gondor! Despite his earlier judgment of the forest, he had fallen instantly under its spell from the moment he had set foot under its shadow five years ago. Ithilien was for him a haven, be it peopled with monsters. It was not simply that Ithilien was a beautiful country, or that the land had a long and noble history; it had literally been his salvation as well. In five years, he had learned at last to trust himself, and to serve Gondor as befit his station in life. He had gained a measure of independence here, and a new perspective, and most importantly he had gained the trust of his men, and even friendship. Behind him, and below, on the leeward side of the shelf came a cry, and Faramir closed his eyes, counting heartbeats, wondering what brutality had just been inflicted on some poor man in the name of healing. The battle had ended early this morning, and the surgeons had for the most part done what they could for those most in need and were now occupied by injuries which required more careful labor… and occasionally a hard decision, such as whether to amputate or hope that their repairs were sufficient. Worse still was the need to decide whether poisoned cuts could be cured, or whether the coup-de-grâce was the only "cure" left to a man whose agony had but one end.

"My lord." Faramir recognized the tenor’s owner without needing to turn. Galdon, originally captain of the regiment and now his lieutenant, had come silently up to his side. Denethor had wanted to transfer him to Osgiliath after a year, but Galdon had requested to remain at Faramir’s side, and with some carefully worded arguments, Faramir had managed to retain his services. And he was glad of that, for Galdon, though fourteen years his senior, was a good man, and a wise counselor who had looked beyond the untried boy and seen the man he could become with the proper guidance. Discrete and loyal, Faramir counted him as a friend in spite of the gap of rank and age that stood between them, for he was one of few with whom he could speak in confidence.

"What matter brings you here, Galdon?" He asked in a low voice, bracing himself.

"Captain," Galdon said and there was grief in his voice, "Hirandar just died." Hirandar. The messenger with whom he had set out that fateful day, and whom he had grown to like in spite of his morose humor. Hirandar, who had lost his left arm today. The surgeons had thought he might survive, since he had not died of shock immediately. But now he will go never more to Minas Tirith, nor return to my comfort! Faramir bowed his head, and wondered when he forgotten how to cry. It must have been early on, perhaps after the second battle he had commanded. Before, he had always managed to hide his tears, but at some point, they had simply refused to come anymore.

"I see. Thank you for telling me," Faramir replied in a low voice. Once I wished never to weep again, and now I find I envy those who can. There are many things that I have lost, and that I looked to lose, which I miss now. Chief among them, to his great surprise, was the old relationship that he and his father had ‘enjoyed,’ if such a word could be used without doing it undue violence. Though, of course, what we had was violent, and remains so, under its cloak! Denethor no longer flayed him with his scorn as he once had, granted, and he treated Faramir as simply another officer; but if Faramir could never truly satisfy his father, no matter how expertly he carried out his orders, there was an element of dissociation in the steward’s appraisal of his performance. It was not a cavalier dismissal of himself as captain, for Denethor was too cold an analyst for such nonsense, but it was clear that he looked no further into Faramir’s deeds than was necessary. And if there was never praise, there was often some minute fault that Denethor would gravely point out to him, and Faramir could only accept the remonstrance in silence. Almost, I wish we could argue—truly argue, as we once did, though it was mostly father berating, while I said ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ as needed when he paused. It hurt, yes, but at least it was personal, something that attached solely to me because I was his son. Now we have nothing, it seems, and when I say ‘father’ the word tastes foul upon my tongue. How strange, to miss what once I cursed! But I cannot return to the past, any more than father can!

"It is hard to go back," Galdon said evenly, and Faramir blinked, surprised by the sudden intrusion into his most private thoughts. "I would often come to a place like this afterwards, and I would loathe the thought of returning to make myself look upon the misery I had wrought, and all in the name of Gondor." He speaks of war… he speaks of war, not of family! Faramir felt an almost painful relief at that, and so swiftly did terror release him from its grip that he nearly laughed at himself. Of course, Galdon could not know how things stood between the Steward and his captain, any more than he could sail into the harbor of Valinor.

"It is indeed," Faramir replied softly, careful to reveal nothing of his preoccupied reflections. Galdon must have sensed his omission, but he seemed to take it for the invitation of one still new to the burden of command, for he continued: "‘Tis the price one pays for the title one bears: unlike others, a captain or a lord must always look on the pain he has wrought, and accept that he had no choice but to cause it. It never grows easier, and I am glad it does not. There are some things to which no Man should be able to accustom himself."

Faramir drew a deep breath and nodded. "You speak wisely, as always, Galdon. And I thank you for all your many kind words. Tomorrow," he continued, broaching the subject that had been eating at him all day, "I must return to Minas Tirith, with such men as are swift riders, to return the horses to the city, and thence to Rohan. I know not how long I shall be gone, for I think the lord of the city may have words for me, but I entrust the men to your care and leadership while I am gone."

"I shall keep them for you until you come again to fair Ithilien. And if you will, I can alert some of the men to ready themselves to accompany you," the older man replied. Then he paused, "One always misses home on a long deployment." Faramir smiled inwardly at the unvoiced question, namely: why do you never speak of it, when every other man in the company does? It was, perhaps, the one topic that Galdon pressed him about, however gently, suspecting something must be amiss in a young man who never seemed homesick. At the same time, his lieutenant could not, perhaps, imagine that this secret was tied to something harmful.

"I do miss Minas Tirith, but one cannot dwell upon that, can one?" Faramir replied, making himself seem determinedly noncommital, and was glad when Galdon, after a minute hestitation, accepted his answer and asked no more. And in truth, he did miss the city to which he had been born: he missed her grace, and the history of her streets, and the beauty that she sought to embody and preserve, the symbol of all that Númenór had to offer in contrast to the "gifts" of the Dark Lord. But he did not wish to return to the Tower of the Guard to report to his father. For though Galdon had meant only to comfort him with advice in matters of war, his words struck close to Faramir’s heart, only too accurate in their blind flight. For even Denethor’s coldness held less dread for him than seeing the scars that he had wrought on his father’s soul. There were those, he knew, who would excuse him even those injuries that had been drawn with intent in the heat of anger, but Faramir knew better. Whatever his intentions, he was the author responsible for the existence of those wounds; in that light, he was little better than his father. Worse still, in their own way, were his infrequent meetings with his brother, who had laid himself open to such wounds as only family could deal for the sake of the brother he loved … because his love and a noble spirit demanded no less, no matter that Faramir had never asked for such a sacrifice. At least those scars were gained willfully, he thought sadly, wondering whether the pain would ever cease.

What matters it if it does? I still could not undo what has been done already, and I would be foolish indeed to set my heart on such a hope! Faramir sighed. With a certain reluctance, he turned from the view over Ithilien, and laying a hand on Galdon’s shoulder in silent thanks, he descended from that high place and went to face his men. Tomorrow he would leave, and he owed them his presence and what comfort he could give in the time that he had. In the end, he did not really resent this duty, painful though it be. How could he, when they had already given him so much? And truly, it would do neither him nor his father nor anyone good to continue brooding on matters that he could not change.

But when they had nearly reached the base of the shelf, Galdon paused, and touched Faramir’s arm, staying him. Galdon’s dark eyes searched his face, and Faramir could see the concern in them, and a most unusual indecision. Finally, he cleared his throat and said in a low voice meant only for his captain’s ears, "I am always at your service, my lord—since the first day you arrived, I knew I could not leave you, and later, I realized that I would not. As your lieutenant, such concerns as you choose to confide in me become mine, and I hope that I have never disappointed you as such. But if you will excuse my forwardness, as a man who would be a friend and no more than that, if there is something that troubles you, I am at your disposal." Those deep, dark eyes caught and held Faramir’s gaze, and the hand on his arm tightened briefly, then relaxed as it dropped away. Faramir swallowed (unobtrusively, he hoped) and after a moment, he nodded.

"That means much to me, Galdon." Faramir paused a moment, then continued earnestly, "Think not that I lack confidence in you, or that I do not wish your friendship, but there are some concerns that… are not mine to tell. You understand." Galdon’s lips tightened, but then they quirked into a slight, sad grin, and he nodded.

"Of course." They continued on in silence, and Faramir felt his heart pounding, but in a joyous rhythm for having found such a friend who, out of concern and in defiance of Gondor’s stratified ranks, would risk his commander’s ire to broach a topic that Faramir clearly wished to ignore. So it was that it was with a good heart that he returned to the camp, and to the men he called his own.

V
Yea, Though I Walk in the Shadows

(Chapter title comes from the old line "Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall not fear." I think you'll know why by the end of this little chapter. Amazing how they get shorter as I go on!)

Boromir spurred his mount onward, watching the ground fall away about him and his men as they drew nearer their target. The pounding of the horses’ hooves kept pace with his heart, and sent a low thrill of grim anticipation coursing through his veins. It was a familiar feeling, battle lust, and Boromir tasted his own fear, as it nibbled at the edge of his awareness, savoring it, even, for fear conquered made victory the sweeter. A speck on the horizon resolved itself into figures: Men standing guard alongside great wains, on which was piled timber. All were bound, he knew, for Umbar and the new ships of the Corsairs, but the wood was by right Gondor’s, for the plains of Harad were barren. They look to steal from us in order to use what is ours against our own people! Against my people! Let them look elsewhere, then, or suffer the consequences! Boromir had learned of the theft by chance, having gone to Lebennin on an errand for his father, and he had been in the hall of the lord of the Ethir region when an Ithilien runner had arrived with the news. Boromir had recognized the man, one Culadîn, one of his brother’s best-trusted messengers, and swift as a hare at need. From him had he learned that the southern company had not the strength to challenge the Haradrim, being more dispersed than their northern brethren, and had come to ask the aid of Dalruin, Lord of the Ethir, in repelling them.

Loathe had Dalruin been to spare the men necessary for such an assault, but he had bowed in the end to Boromir’s arguments. "Who will bear the brunt of the consequences if we allow our enemy to build his fleet? Not Minas Tirith, but the folk of the Ethir," he had pointed out, and Dalruin had at last relinquished command to him. Boromir had persuaded him even to spare horses enough for a small number of riders. And so now they were irrevocably committed, for by now, the Haradrim had spotted him, and their ranks began to form up against the on-coming wedge of cavalry. And though they had among them only beasts of burden, in truth they had little to fear from the small band approaching them on the broad road.

In fact, it was a very risky attack, more so than Boromir had been willing to admit to the reluctant Dalruin. For the Haradrim, as Culadîn had confided, were numerous and heavily armed, as well they might be given that they were in enemy territory, and they were fierce fighters. But that the rest of his borrowed forces were already lying in ambush, Boromir would never have ordered a charge such as he now led except in desperate circumstances. A company of Lebennin’s infantry, accompanied by men out of southern Ithilien, waited in the brush ahead of the line of wagons, and Boromir had not revealed his dozen riders until a scout had confirmed that all was in readiness. There was of course the chance that something would still go wrong, but Boromir was willing to face the odds. Spear-men had by now formed a line before the wagons, and still the riders bore down upon those gleaming pales as if seeking death. Boromir watched that line tense, preparing for the shock of impact, of violent collision and the mayhem of battle… and then with a hue and cry, the ambush was sprung as men clad in Gondor’s colors, or the green and brown of Ithilien, rushed in from behind.

In an instant, the cavalry-trap wavered, gaps opening, as men fell to blows from behind and others began to turn to counter this new threat. Only a small knot of Haradrim spear-men held firm, clustered tight, and Boromir spurred straight at them. His own men spread out, flanking him in a wide V, as their horses’ pounding strides swallowed the last few yards between them and their enemies. Always in battle, there is a moment of perfect, crystal clarity that forever marks it in a warrior’s mind, and for Boromir, charging into the teeth of the Haradrim defense, that moment centered upon the grimacing face of the man directly before him. Later, he would be able to recall the man’s face–eyes dark as jet set in a face no older than his, and though fear leeched the color from those tan cheeks his enemy was clearly just as determined as he himself was. He would remember the sparkle of finely-threaded earrings; the way his hair hung close about his face, weighed down by the black and red beads at the ends of long strands; the etching on the wrist-guards–minute details that gave him a strangely intimate portrait of this one soldier, and then all was swept away by the chaos of collision. Boromir leaned back and kneed his horse, which, obedient to his command, leapt. Men ducked instinctively, and then he was in their midst, though his horse staggered as it came down, gored the length of its body by a spear tip. Men fell before him, and Boromir saw most of the cavalry break through cleanly, complete a skidding turn, and charge back for another pass. His own mount had its head down, panting in agony, so he dismounted and plunged into the fray on foot.

It was a brief, but intense struggle, but in the end, the Haradrim ranks were broken utterly, as Boromir’s men swept through them, cutting down those who turned to flee, driving them before them. The Men of Harad fell back, and their defense disintegrated before the onslaught. In the space of minutes, the battle was over and Gondor held the field, to the relief and elation of its soldiers.

Later that evening, as they rested in Dalruin’s hall, Boromir went alone to the edge of the camp before the keep, and watched his men as they celebrated, laughing and talking as they stood or sat about the fires. There was an uncomplicated joy in their fellowship that Boromir found attractive. Of late he looked often to such simple emotion for relief from his own underlying concerns and conflicted feelings, and immediately his thoughts turned to Faramir, away north somewhere. Did his brother stand over similar gatherings and wrestle with demons at nights? Likely it is that he does so more than I do! Boromir thought, knowing his brother’s penchant for headwork. Though not given to the sort of intense and frequent self-reflection that Faramir was, Boromir had nonetheless become aware of a malaise that had crept over him with the passing years. Sometimes it seemed to him vague, especially when he was in the field with his men, and had tasks to occupy him. At such times, he dismissed it as simply a passing fit, an unworthy thing. But when he had space to think, then did the doubts arise.

Boromir had done his best to fulfill his promise to Faramir, to think no more on what he had seen and heard the day that he had prevailed upon their father to send Faramir to Ithilien. But what is one day, compared to the ten years that came before it? What means that one day when I have all of the years since then to reflect upon? Indeed, what meant his own love, unabated yet twisted somehow, for his father when he could see now for himself how cruel Denethor could be, whether or not he intended it? Denethor’s eldest son had not yet learned how to love with less than his whole heart, but he found that there was a sense of guilty ambivalence when he thought of his father. And that guilt spilled also over onto the love he had for Faramir, rendering it ambiguous. Is it truly love that I feel for my brother, if I love also the father who torments him with his coldness? Boromir found himself asking the stars at night. And what ought I to do? Surely I have some responsibility for my brother, but how does one protect him against his own father? Have I failed him yet again? If there were an answer, it remained silent, hidden, and Boromir found himself dreading the returns to Minas Tirith. Strangely, once he was there, the dread dissipated, though he knew not why. It is as if father casts a spell on me, and when I am with him, then do my doubts die! To his shame, there was an element within him that craved that certainty, however false, and when distance had severed the link that held him in thrall to Denethor’s mysterious power, he cringed and was filled with disgust. Then did he desire all the more certainty of another kind, for the instant he left the confines of the city walls, he began to fall again into that well of darkness where lay the doubts and the skepticism that ate quietly away at his ability to trust.

That was why he stood now watching his men, for the vicarious peace that accompanied the sight and sound of their joy over having survived once more. In truth, war in itself was less troublesome to him than many things: in war, the enemy was forthright in declaring himself as such, and the means to settle the issue were direct. It is not that I take lightly the danger that Mordor presents, he thought, trying to puzzle out his own confused convictions, I know well that this war can end only in triumph or utter destruction for Gondor, or indeed, for all of Middle-earth. For assuredly only a fool could ignore that the storm was coming, and that Minas Tirith would soon be an atoll alone in the darkness. And yet, the Dark Lord in his simple hatred for the West troubled him less than other things. It was honest hatred, if evil, and Boromir knew there could be no compromise with the power of Mordor. The prospect of dying in a hopeless fight was not appealing, but neither did it inspire in him the dread anguish that others felt as they woke to the power of the east. If that made him a hero, then so be it, but that was not why he greeted war with a sense of relief.

Perhaps Faramir feels this too, he thought. He knew from his brother’s not infrequent letters, and from the dispatches that he saw, that his brother had grown to be a good commander, and that his men loved and trusted him. The more hopeless the years grew, the more Faramir proved himself in the eyes of Gondor’s soldiery, though he still stood second to Boromir’s reputation. Could it be that Faramir, too, longed for the simple, for a battle that he could fight openly and well, and without having to doubt himself? Boromir turned his face north-east, knowing that somewhere in the night, his brother kept watch upon the woods, and he was stricken with a sudden and poignant desire to see him again. It had been almost seven years since that terrible day in the Citadel, and they had met perhaps three times since Faramir had gone to Ithilien. I want to see his face, and look into his eyes, and know that he is well! Letters are too apt to conceal, too ambiguous for me to decipher all that lies behind them. If I could see him, I would be certain of him, and of myself. But the time was unripe, and he had no cause to journey that far north. Between them lay Minas Tirith, whither he was bound with the rising sun, and Boromir felt a prickle of foreboding, a prescience that was gone too swiftly for him to grasp. With an inward sigh, Boromir made himself put aside such thoughts, and he drifted into the firelight, where he was greeted by his men. They need me. They depend upon me, and I cannot fail them as I failed Faramir. I have that at least!

And yet he looked north, and his thoughts were not upon the victory of the day. Already he looked ahead, with an eagerness that others might find fey, and wondered where the next battle lay.

to Part VI - XI
to Part XII - The End

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