Night of Love
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien and New Line Cinema. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Dedicated to Julia
O sink hernieder,
Nacht der Liebe,
gib Vergessen,
dass ich lebe;
nimm mich auf
in deinen Schoss,
löse von
der Welt mich los!
O sink down us
Night of love,
Let me now forget
I live;
Take me up
In thy lap.
Release me
from the world ! – Tristan und Isolde - Wagner
Oh thou, my fair evening star,
how gladly have I always greeted thee;
O du, mein holder Abendstern,
wohl grüsst'ich immer dich so gern:- Tannhäuser- Wagner
His bride deserved better than to be taken like some sacrifice upon a marriage bed, haunted by the ghosts of long dead stewards and their wives, while servants listened and gossiped behind the closed doors.
Arwen was a child of stars, not of stone. Aragorn cared only for her happiness. How he wished that they could spend their honeymoon in Rivendell or Lothlórien where his bride felt truly at home.
Arwen had been overwhelmed to see Minas Tirith the day before, regarding its elaborate architecture with a mixture of curiosity, alarm and revulsion. Only her joy at seeing her beloved had sustained her throughout the wedding ceremonies and the long drawn out Gondorian rituals of escorting the bride to her marriage bed.
When, though, the doors had finally closed behind the newly weds, leaving them alone in a vast stone walled chamber, an overwrought Arwen had collapsed sobbing into her new husband’s arms. This was not how she had dreamed of spending her wedding night through the long years of their waiting.
Galadriel had provided wise counsel the next morning, after beholding the new bride’s less than radiant demeanour .She and suggested the secluded gardens would make a suitably romantic setting to relax the nervous newly weds.
Hand in hand they now tiptoed through the corridors, silent of step and unnoticed by the sentries as they stepped out into the gardens.
Arwen’s steps lightened as she gazed up at the stars
Shedding the cloaks they wore over their night attire, they spread their blankets in a secluded spot under a vast tree, then kneeling, called upon Elbereth to witness and bless and their union.
A breeze blew away what wisps of cloud veiled the sky. The stars seemed to smile upon them while the moon bathed them in a gentle glow. The balmy night air smelled of honeysuckle and a nightingale sang sweetly in the branches overhead
Aragorn trembled with a mixture of fear and longing. How could he ever be worthy of the Evenstar? How could he ever please her; he a man beset my mortal frailties and imperfections? He kissed his bride. Tentatively at first, then with increasing ardour at her eager response. Her perfume intoxicated him, while her unbound hair gleamed like silk in the soft glow of the moonlight
Still he hesitated, despite the eagerness of his longing. “Are you certain?” he asked her almost shyly. “You will be giving me so much!”
“I offer myself to you, freely, my Estel!” Arwen replied. “No other has touched my heart through long centuries. I would accept the Gift of Men. I would be ever at your side and bear your children. I would be wholly yours, both body and soul!” She nestled closer, pressing her body against his, revelling in the touch of his strong arms, both tender and ardent. Never before had she been so close to a man nor felt such fire in her veins. Eagerly she melted into his embrace, whispering sweet words of love as he sought to reassure her.
Never did they think they could know such rapture, a union of both body and soul that no words would be adequate to describe. No longer apart and alone, but one with each other, man and wife.
At last they slept, snug under the blankets entwined still in each other’s arms.
Aragorn awoke first, mindful that they must return ere daybreak to their rooms. Fondly he gazed upon his sleeping bride’s face. She looked so young, yet was older than the mightiest oak in the garden. He could scare grasp that one so wondrous fair was now his wife! He had waited so long for this, forsaking all others, even when his love had seemed destined to remain forever unrequited. This night had been the most fearful and most beautiful he had ever known.
Arwen slowly opened her eyes. He hardly dared meet her gaze. Had he disappointed her in any way?
Radiantly, she smiled at him. “ I love you, Estel,” she whispered. ”I am so happy to be your wife!”
“I am so proud to be to be your husband!” Aragorn replied, helping her to her feet and kissing her tenderly. She shook the leaves from her nightgown and donned her cloak.
The first pink streaks of dawn were visible as they made their way back inside. The walls took on a glow in the soft light. Arwen smiled. “The city looks far fairer now!” she exclaimed. ”I shall learn to be happy here with you at my side, beloved watching your White Tree blossom each season!”
“My Steward had a vision, which I shared, of us by the Tree surrounded by our children and our children’s children,” Aragorn confided.
“Such a glorious vision gladdens my heart! We will build a happy home together, you and I,” said Arwen,” It will as fair as the Elven cities of old!”
“If only I were not taking you from your people and your home!” Aragorn lamented.
“My home is where you are, for you hold my heart,” Arwen replied fervently.
Hand in hand they watched the sun rise.
A/N Written to celebrate Aragorn and Arwen’s Midsummer marriage.
Sunday, June 24, 2007
Comes the Moment to Decide
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, some great decision, offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever, ’twixt that darkness and that light. –
James R Lowell
Warning – This chapter contains violence and may distress sensitive readers
Faramir waited outside the door of his father’s study. He fidgeted nervously, his apprehension growing. His father had summoned him to an urgent meeting well over an hour ago, but there was no sign of the Steward.
He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to seek his bed and rest. The retreat from Osgiliath and the flight from the Nazgûl had drained him more than he would admit, but first he must face his father’s wrath, which would take all his wits.
His father had been in a strange mood of late, spending hours alone in the topmost room in the tower. His temper had grown increasingly uncertain and there was even talk of him beating the servants, which if true, was most unlike the usually icily controlled Steward. The look in his eyes earlier when he had learned of Faramir’s encounter with the Ring bearer and his companion had been truly terrifying to behold.
A stern voice called “Enter!”
Faramir went into the room and knelt before his father, kissing his ring of Office. The Steward did not bid him to rise, so he remained kneeling at his father's feet on the cold stone floor. Denethor’s office was as austere as the man himself, a simple desk piled high with papers and two hard wooden chairs. The walls were devoid of tapestries adorned only by several ornate swords and a riding crop. The floor was equally bare save for a somewhat worn hearthrug, which lay before the meagre fire, the room’s only concession to comfort.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Denethor asked sternly. His haggard face looked even more careworn than ever and was grey with fatigue as if he had been engaged in some great struggle.
“I did only what I believed to be right,” said Faramir.
“And who are you to say what is right and what is not?” Denethor persisted. “Are you Ruling Steward now?”
“No, my lord, you hold rod and rule in Gondor,”
“Yet, you would conspire with Mithrandir against me?”
“No, my lord, I did not.”
“Do you know what you have done?” Denethor demanded, his tone like ice. “You have sent the weapon that could have saved us all straight into the lands of the Enemy! Boromir would have brought it to me and given me the mighty gift!”
“I would not pick it up if I found it lying on the highway, far less wrest it from the hand of a helpless Halfling. It led to my brother's doom,” said Faramir, his calm tone belying his inner turmoil. “Mithrandir’s words were wise. It is wholly evil. How can evil be defeated with evil?”
“Mithrandir! Always it is Mithrandir you speak of! I see more than you suspect, foolish boy. Beware of Mithrandir! With your help he is seeking to supplant me and place that upstart Thorongil on the throne!”
“No, sire, never did I seek to supplant you!”
Denethor glared at his son. Curse the boy; he even looked like Thorongil with that air of scarely veiled insolence disguised as superior knowledge. “Yet you have spoken of your desire to see the King return and the White Tree bloom again. Fool! How could a dead tree blossom?”
Faramir’s eyes lit up.” I have seen the King in my dreams, the tree blossoming at his coming!” he said in a rapt tone.
Something inside Denethor snapped and he snatched the riding crop from the wall.
Faramir struggled to repress a shudder. As a child he had sometimes been beaten for such misdemeanours as tearing his new clothes or answering back, but never as a man.
“Take off your tunic and shirt, it is time to teach you a lesson you will not forget!” Denethor ordered. “You are not only a fool but a traitor! You are fortunate I have not ordered a traitor’s death for you, but punished you will be!”
“No, father, I am loyal to you and to Gondor,” Faramir protested, but had no choice but to comply. This was not only his father but also his liege lord and to disobey was certain death.
Divested of his upper garments, he knelt patiently trying not to tremble from a mixture of cold and fear.
“Why was Boromir taken and I left with such a puny excuse of a man for a son and defender of our land?” Denethor said, eyeing Faramir with contempt unheeding of the many scars that disfigured his body, all inflicted in the service of Gondor. ”Traitor! Coward! Weakling! Wizard’s Pupil!”
Faramir hardly knew whether the words or the blows hurt him the more. Unable to remain kneeling upright under the force of the blows, he curled into a ball vainly trying to protect himself.
After what could not have been more than a few moments, but felt like an eternity, Denethor dropped the whip and slumped back on his chair. “Go, sleep while you may. The enemy march upon us, the hour of doom is at hand, Minas Tirith will fall! I have seen it!”He buried his face in his hands.
Faramir pulled on his shirt and staggered from the room. He struggled to reach his chamber, at times forced to clutch the walls for support. Reaching his room, he collapsed on the bed. He knew he should send a servant to fetch a Healer, but they would ask how he had come by such hurts and how could he let any see the shameful marks of his father’s displeasure. He must tend his own wounds as best he could. He pulled off his shirt, finding it soaked with blood and stuffed it under the bed. There was water in a pitcher on the washstand. He poured it into the bowl and bathed the painful welts on his back as best he could before applying a salve the Healers had given him for his most recent wounds, not yet fully healed.
His task completed, he changed into a nightshirt and fell into bed.
Although Faramir was exhausted, sleep was slow to come. His back throbbed painfully and his mind was in turmoil. What had happened to his father to cause him to act so violently? Was he truly a traitor? He had indeed been commanded to slay all who were found in Ithilien without his father’s leave, but how could he harm two helpless Halflings with whom the fate of Arda lay? Why could he never please his father unlike Boromir? Why did his beloved brother have to die? He dared not think of it. There was no time to grieve. Tomorrow he would redeem himself in his father’s eyes. He would ride out and die for Gondor.
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die! – Henry H. Milman
With grateful thanks to Raksha for all her help with this chapter
Faramir awoke from a few hours of uneasy sleep. His back throbbed painfully and it took considerable strength of will to drag himself from his bed. When he tried to dress, he found the dried blood had caused his nightshirt to stick to his back.
He struggled into his robe and called for the servants to fill the bathtub in his room with hot soapy water. It was an unusual request for him to make at this hour, but was obeyed unquestioningly. Faramir had always been a favourite with the Citadel’s many retainers, who liked him for his modest and kindly manner. Now they treated him with a new respect, which had previously been reserved for his brother.
Faramir soaked in the tub until the water started to cool. The soap-filled water eased his back, at least enough for him to move with little pain. Then he dressed. Breakfast, brought for him while he had bathed, held little allure; but he forced himself to eat some of the fresh-baked bread and sausage. The coming day, whatever it brought, would demand all his strength, and a wise soldier, whether guardsman or Captain, knew to take food when it was offered. A servant informed Faramir that the Steward had summoned all the captains to a council.
The morning dawned like a brown dusk and Faramir’s heart was heavy as he made his way to the Council Chamber.
“We should not lightly abandon the outer defences,” said Denethor, “It is at Osgiliath that the Enemy will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage.’
‘That was but a trial,” said Faramir. “Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange.”
“And what of Cair Andros?” said Prince Imrahil. ‘’That, too, must be held, if Osgiliath is defended.”
“Much must be risked in war,’ said Denethor. ‘Cair Andros is manned and no more can be sent so far. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.” He looked at Faramir as he spoke, his eyes issuing challenging him.
All fell silent at the Steward’s words. The captains were brave men, but they believed that they would better employ their men on the City's impregnable walls than in so risky a mission.
Faramir saw that this challenge was his alone. There was choice but to take it; as the Steward's sworn man, he could not disobey him over a difference in the disposition of troops. Neither choice offered much hope; and if he refused, Faramir would not only forfeit his honour, but Denethor would merely appoint another captain to lead the men in his place. And in truth, Faramir yearned to prove to his father, though it might be for the last time, that he was indeed as bold as his lost brother. Finally, he made his reply: “I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead - if you command it.”
“I do so,” said Denethor.
‘Then farewell!’ said Faramir. “But if I should return, think better of me!”
‘That depends on the manner of your return,’ said Denethor coldly. “You are dismissed!”
Faramir walked from the room, hoping none would notice the slight stiffness with which he moved. Angry mutterings broke out amongst the assembly, only to be quelled by Denethor's cold glance.
“Is it wise to send Captain Faramir forth into such peril, my lord?” Imrahil questioned.” He is after all, your sole heir and Gondor has need of him.”
“He should expect no special treatment,” Denethor said curtly. “The Council is dismissed.”
Faramir tried not wince as his manservant helped him don his armour.
“Are you well, my lord?” the young man enquired.
“The darkness lies heavily upon us all,” said Faramir. He forced himself to smile. “Should I not return, Narmacil, I thank you for all your years of service to me.”
The servant fell silent, too overcome for further conversation.
On his way to join his men, Faramir espied his Uncle together with his cousin Elphir. He noted wistfully how father and son smiled at each other, how Imrahil gazed fondly at Elphir and put his arm around his son's shoulders, before parting with a kiss of blessing. Imrahil was overseeing the Outer Defences while Elphir remained within Minas Tirith.
Faramir’s heart ached as much as his back. His father had sent him forth with blows rather than blessings.
Faramir slowly made his way to the stable yard where his company were preparing to depart. In a loud voice he cried “We ride to defend Osgiliath, but I would not take any man unwilling. Let those who prefer to remain to guard the City, do so!”
Only a handful of men turned aside, so great was their love for their Captain.
Gandalf it was that last spoke to Faramir ere he rode east “Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,’ he said, as if reading the young man’s mind. “You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!”
Faramir could only wish that he shared the Grey Pilgrim's conviction that his father cared for him. After last night, it was hard to believe.
Those remaining in the City watched Faramir ride out and muttered amongst themselves. “They give him no rest,” some murmured. “‘The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, for himself and for the one that will not return.”
Faramir wondered sadly how he could ever fill his brother’s place. He could only try to lead with Boromir's valour. Faramir was painfully aware that even should he triumph against all odds, his mission would still not suffice to raise his worth in Denethor's eyes. How clearly obvious his father’s disapproval must be, if even the folk in the streets murmured of it. This battle was his chance to acquit himself with honour, even if it ultimately cost him his life. If he could hold the enemy in Osgiliath even a day, the delay might provide enough time for the Rohirrim to come and save the City. Perhaps his father would at least remember him in death with some of the approval he had withheld in life.
Two days later, Faramir and his men found themselves fighting for their very lives, as the ordered retreat that he had shepherded from the Forts splintered under the screams of the Nazgûl.
Bravely they battled Haradrim hordes, fierce Orcs and worse of all, the Nazgûl, whose very presence made the blood run cold in all who beheld him and drained all hope from the hearts of Men. Swords clashed and arrows flew. Bravely the Men of Gondor fought. Outnumbered ten to one their cause was a hopeless one.
Faramir gave the order to retreat and started back towards the City. Somehow he kept those of his men who were left together.
Intent on fighting a Haradrian horse soldier, the Captain failed to notice the Southron arrow aimed at his heart until it was too late. Faramir gave a low cry and fell senseless to the ground.
Imrahil had ridden forth with his men to cover the retreat. Dismayed, he saw his kinsman fall. Heedless of his own safety he urged his horse forward to the aid of his stricken nephew snatching him just in time from the Southron swords, which sought to hew him to pieces. Placing Faramir in front of him, he urged his horse to gallop back to the City.
Fury blazed within the Prince’s heart. How could Denethor have risked his surviving son like this? Faramir was no common soldier, but the heir on whom all Gondor’s hopes now rested. This young man had a rare gift of inspiring hope within Men’s hearts. Where Denethor had been feared, Faramir was admired and loved. Whenever he saw Faramir, Imrahil could glimpse his long-dead sister in her son's eyes. His poor sister had been as much a sacrifice for Gondor as both her sons now seemed fated to be.
Men wept in the streets as Imrahil bore his stricken nephew in his arms and the people cried out Faramir’s name.
The Prince Imrahil brought Faramir to the White Tower, where he said to the Steward: Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds. But Denethor rose and looked on the face of his son with ashen eyes and no words. At last he bade them make a bed in the chamber and lay Faramir upon it and depart. Denethor turned from the still form of his son, then suddenly left the chamber.
Imrahil was surprised that no healer had been summoned for the Steward’s heir. He could only assume that they were all otherwise occupied in tending the many wounded. Imrahil, who had received some training in the Healing Arts, decided they could not afford to wait. The longer the arrow remained in Faramir’s body, the greater the chance that a fatal infection could arise.
With the help of a servant, Imrahil divested Faramir of his armour and cut away the clothing surrounding the wound. He then called for hot water, salves and bandages to be brought. Heating a knife in the fire, he deftly cut the arrowhead from Faramir’s flesh. To Imrahil's great relief, the wound was neither deep nor vital, the arrow having embedded itself in the muscles of his nephew’s shoulder. Neither the injury nor the arrow that had dealt it seemed to be poisoned. Yet Faramir did not awaken, to Imrahil's concern, even after the arrow was extracted. And Faramir's skin felt feverishly warm and clammy.
Imrahil cleaned and bandaged the wound; and was just about to search for further hurts, when Denethor returned and dismissed him. The Steward’s face was grey and haggard. He looked even more ill than his son.
Imrahil had no choice but to reluctantly leave Faramir alone in his father's hands, and return to the defence of the City.
So light up the fire and let the flames burn - John PaculaboKeith RycroftSue McClellan
'And we are caught in the fire
The point of no return
So we will walk through the fire
And let it
Burn’ - Joss Whedon
This chapter is co written with Raksha whose help is greatly appreciated.
Faramir was growing weaker by the hour. The fever burned on, sapping the little strength that remained after days of hopeless battle, the contagion loosed by the Enemy's dark riders, and the cursed arrow that had struck him at the last. Even now, Faramir seemed to struggle to breathe. His only remaining son was dying. Denethor was certain of that if nothing else. Imrahil had urged him to have Faramir carried to the Houses of Healing - to what end? The heir to the last Steward of Gondor should perish with his closest kin by his side, not servitors. He would care for his son in Faramir's final hours.
The pain of his remembered last words to his only remaining son twisted in Denethor's heart like a knife. Tending Faramir now, after sending him forth to die with such disdain, was the least he could do. It was not enough. Outside the White Tower, time dragged on, while Denethor sat there, mopping Faramir’s brow and calling his name. Faramir did not answer. He never even opened his eyes!
Denethor shut his own eyes; trying to stem the tide of misery that threatened to well up behind them. For the first time, he was glad that his lady was dead, so she was spared the agony of one son's death and the other son's prolonged dying. Could it not be granted to him to see Faramir's eyes open one last time, to glimpse one last flicker of the light that had been Finduilas of Dol Amroth?
How could he have ordered Faramir to ride to almost certain death without even a commander's encouragement? The young man was, after all, his only surviving son. The reminder that Boromir was no more struck Denethor as sharply as an arrow.
Why had the Valar allowed his greater son to fall, leaving this gentle, credulous dreamer who had let the Enemy’s weapon fall into his grasp?
In the palantír, Denethor had seen the Halfling who Faramir had described, the Ringbearer, Frodo son of Drogo, borne to Cirith Ungol by a troop of Orcs. Faramir might as well have delivered the poor creature to the Orcs himself! How Sauron must be gloating over his prize, the prize that Faramir had given him!
All this was the fruit of Mithrandir's poisonous counsel! Denethor's memory brought forth the image of the Grey Pilgrim beguiling the innocent, motherless child, filling the boy's head with legends of Elves and heroes of old. The Wizard had stolen Faramir, stolen his regard, and stolen his allegiance. Mithrandir had turned Faramir’s head with talk of the White Tree blooming again and the King who would one day return.
King indeed! The man was none other than that upstart Thorongil. Denethor felt his mouth grimace as anger seared his heart. Had Mithrandir intended Faramir to offer the scoundrel the crown after Denethor himself had gone to join his longfathers? Had that been the wizard's game all along? Alas, alas for Boromir, who would never have bowed to any but his father!
A sudden flash of foresight came upon Denethor: a vision of Faramir regarding Thorongil with the same adoration that Ecthelion had reserved for his favoured Captain. So Mithrandir had intended Thorongil to usurp his son’s affections in the same way the Northerner had stolen his father’s love?
Yet Mithrandir, supposed master of pawns, had lost the game in the end. Thorongil might yet skulk out of the hills, but there would be little left for him to claim.
Strange indeed that he should see it so clearly as it could never come to pass now. The City was in ruins, as was his House.
The waves of pain and rage had receded. Denethor felt numb as he stumbled away from Faramir's bedside and climbed up to his secret place atop the White Tower.
Denethor looked again in the palantír. A vast fleet of black-sailed Corsair ships was sailing up the river to reinforce the Enemy’s troops. It was over, there was no hope left for Gondor. The West would fall.
All was burning. Soon he would burn too. And what of Faramir? He was as good as dead already. He would not send his son away from him again. Better they should burn together. None save he should touch his son.
Resolved, Denethor called for his servants.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Once to every man and nation, comes the moment to decide,
In the strife of truth with falsehood, for the good or evil side;
Some great cause, some great decision, offering each the bloom or blight,
And the choice goes by forever, ’twixt that darkness and that light. –
James R Lowell
Warning – This chapter contains violence and may distress sensitive readers
Faramir waited outside the door of his father’s study. He fidgeted nervously, his apprehension growing. His father had summoned him to an urgent meeting well over an hour ago, but there was no sign of the Steward.
He was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to seek his bed and rest. The retreat from Osgiliath and the flight from the Nazgûl had drained him more than he would admit, but first he must face his father’s wrath, which would take all his wits.
His father had been in a strange mood of late, spending hours alone in the topmost room in the tower. His temper had grown increasingly uncertain and there was even talk of him beating the servants, which if true, was most unlike the usually icily controlled Steward. The look in his eyes earlier when he had learned of Faramir’s encounter with the Ring bearer and his companion had been truly terrifying to behold.
A stern voice called “Enter!”
Faramir went into the room and knelt before his father, kissing his ring of Office. The Steward did not bid him to rise, so he remained kneeling at his father's feet on the cold stone floor. Denethor’s office was as austere as the man himself, a simple desk piled high with papers and two hard wooden chairs. The walls were devoid of tapestries adorned only by several ornate swords and a riding crop. The floor was equally bare save for a somewhat worn hearthrug, which lay before the meagre fire, the room’s only concession to comfort.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Denethor asked sternly. His haggard face looked even more careworn than ever and was grey with fatigue as if he had been engaged in some great struggle.
“I did only what I believed to be right,” said Faramir.
“And who are you to say what is right and what is not?” Denethor persisted. “Are you Ruling Steward now?”
“No, my lord, you hold rod and rule in Gondor,”
“Yet, you would conspire with Mithrandir against me?”
“No, my lord, I did not.”
“Do you know what you have done?” Denethor demanded, his tone like ice. “You have sent the weapon that could have saved us all straight into the lands of the Enemy! Boromir would have brought it to me and given me the mighty gift!”
“I would not pick it up if I found it lying on the highway, far less wrest it from the hand of a helpless Halfling. It led to my brother's doom,” said Faramir, his calm tone belying his inner turmoil. “Mithrandir’s words were wise. It is wholly evil. How can evil be defeated with evil?”
“Mithrandir! Always it is Mithrandir you speak of! I see more than you suspect, foolish boy. Beware of Mithrandir! With your help he is seeking to supplant me and place that upstart Thorongil on the throne!”
“No, sire, never did I seek to supplant you!”
Denethor glared at his son. Curse the boy; he even looked like Thorongil with that air of scarely veiled insolence disguised as superior knowledge. “Yet you have spoken of your desire to see the King return and the White Tree bloom again. Fool! How could a dead tree blossom?”
Faramir’s eyes lit up.” I have seen the King in my dreams, the tree blossoming at his coming!” he said in a rapt tone.
Something inside Denethor snapped and he snatched the riding crop from the wall.
Faramir struggled to repress a shudder. As a child he had sometimes been beaten for such misdemeanours as tearing his new clothes or answering back, but never as a man.
“Take off your tunic and shirt, it is time to teach you a lesson you will not forget!” Denethor ordered. “You are not only a fool but a traitor! You are fortunate I have not ordered a traitor’s death for you, but punished you will be!”
“No, father, I am loyal to you and to Gondor,” Faramir protested, but had no choice but to comply. This was not only his father but also his liege lord and to disobey was certain death.
Divested of his upper garments, he knelt patiently trying not to tremble from a mixture of cold and fear.
“Why was Boromir taken and I left with such a puny excuse of a man for a son and defender of our land?” Denethor said, eyeing Faramir with contempt unheeding of the many scars that disfigured his body, all inflicted in the service of Gondor. ”Traitor! Coward! Weakling! Wizard’s Pupil!”
Faramir hardly knew whether the words or the blows hurt him the more. Unable to remain kneeling upright under the force of the blows, he curled into a ball vainly trying to protect himself.
After what could not have been more than a few moments, but felt like an eternity, Denethor dropped the whip and slumped back on his chair. “Go, sleep while you may. The enemy march upon us, the hour of doom is at hand, Minas Tirith will fall! I have seen it!”He buried his face in his hands.
Faramir pulled on his shirt and staggered from the room. He struggled to reach his chamber, at times forced to clutch the walls for support. Reaching his room, he collapsed on the bed. He knew he should send a servant to fetch a Healer, but they would ask how he had come by such hurts and how could he let any see the shameful marks of his father’s displeasure. He must tend his own wounds as best he could. He pulled off his shirt, finding it soaked with blood and stuffed it under the bed. There was water in a pitcher on the washstand. He poured it into the bowl and bathed the painful welts on his back as best he could before applying a salve the Healers had given him for his most recent wounds, not yet fully healed.
His task completed, he changed into a nightshirt and fell into bed.
Although Faramir was exhausted, sleep was slow to come. His back throbbed painfully and his mind was in turmoil. What had happened to his father to cause him to act so violently? Was he truly a traitor? He had indeed been commanded to slay all who were found in Ithilien without his father’s leave, but how could he harm two helpless Halflings with whom the fate of Arda lay? Why could he never please his father unlike Boromir? Why did his beloved brother have to die? He dared not think of it. There was no time to grieve. Tomorrow he would redeem himself in his father’s eyes. He would ride out and die for Gondor.
Ride on, ride on, in majesty!
In lowly pomp ride on to die! – Henry H. Milman
With grateful thanks to Raksha for all her help with this chapter
Faramir awoke from a few hours of uneasy sleep. His back throbbed painfully and it took considerable strength of will to drag himself from his bed. When he tried to dress, he found the dried blood had caused his nightshirt to stick to his back.
He struggled into his robe and called for the servants to fill the bathtub in his room with hot soapy water. It was an unusual request for him to make at this hour, but was obeyed unquestioningly. Faramir had always been a favourite with the Citadel’s many retainers, who liked him for his modest and kindly manner. Now they treated him with a new respect, which had previously been reserved for his brother.
Faramir soaked in the tub until the water started to cool. The soap-filled water eased his back, at least enough for him to move with little pain. Then he dressed. Breakfast, brought for him while he had bathed, held little allure; but he forced himself to eat some of the fresh-baked bread and sausage. The coming day, whatever it brought, would demand all his strength, and a wise soldier, whether guardsman or Captain, knew to take food when it was offered. A servant informed Faramir that the Steward had summoned all the captains to a council.
The morning dawned like a brown dusk and Faramir’s heart was heavy as he made his way to the Council Chamber.
“We should not lightly abandon the outer defences,” said Denethor, “It is at Osgiliath that the Enemy will put his weight, as before when Boromir denied him the passage.’
‘That was but a trial,” said Faramir. “Today we may make the Enemy pay ten times our loss at the passage and yet rue the exchange.”
“And what of Cair Andros?” said Prince Imrahil. ‘’That, too, must be held, if Osgiliath is defended.”
“Much must be risked in war,’ said Denethor. ‘Cair Andros is manned and no more can be sent so far. But I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought - not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.” He looked at Faramir as he spoke, his eyes issuing challenging him.
All fell silent at the Steward’s words. The captains were brave men, but they believed that they would better employ their men on the City's impregnable walls than in so risky a mission.
Faramir saw that this challenge was his alone. There was choice but to take it; as the Steward's sworn man, he could not disobey him over a difference in the disposition of troops. Neither choice offered much hope; and if he refused, Faramir would not only forfeit his honour, but Denethor would merely appoint another captain to lead the men in his place. And in truth, Faramir yearned to prove to his father, though it might be for the last time, that he was indeed as bold as his lost brother. Finally, he made his reply: “I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead - if you command it.”
“I do so,” said Denethor.
‘Then farewell!’ said Faramir. “But if I should return, think better of me!”
‘That depends on the manner of your return,’ said Denethor coldly. “You are dismissed!”
Faramir walked from the room, hoping none would notice the slight stiffness with which he moved. Angry mutterings broke out amongst the assembly, only to be quelled by Denethor's cold glance.
“Is it wise to send Captain Faramir forth into such peril, my lord?” Imrahil questioned.” He is after all, your sole heir and Gondor has need of him.”
“He should expect no special treatment,” Denethor said curtly. “The Council is dismissed.”
Faramir tried not wince as his manservant helped him don his armour.
“Are you well, my lord?” the young man enquired.
“The darkness lies heavily upon us all,” said Faramir. He forced himself to smile. “Should I not return, Narmacil, I thank you for all your years of service to me.”
The servant fell silent, too overcome for further conversation.
On his way to join his men, Faramir espied his Uncle together with his cousin Elphir. He noted wistfully how father and son smiled at each other, how Imrahil gazed fondly at Elphir and put his arm around his son's shoulders, before parting with a kiss of blessing. Imrahil was overseeing the Outer Defences while Elphir remained within Minas Tirith.
Faramir’s heart ached as much as his back. His father had sent him forth with blows rather than blessings.
Faramir slowly made his way to the stable yard where his company were preparing to depart. In a loud voice he cried “We ride to defend Osgiliath, but I would not take any man unwilling. Let those who prefer to remain to guard the City, do so!”
Only a handful of men turned aside, so great was their love for their Captain.
Gandalf it was that last spoke to Faramir ere he rode east “Do not throw your life away rashly or in bitterness,’ he said, as if reading the young man’s mind. “You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!”
Faramir could only wish that he shared the Grey Pilgrim's conviction that his father cared for him. After last night, it was hard to believe.
Those remaining in the City watched Faramir ride out and muttered amongst themselves. “They give him no rest,” some murmured. “‘The Lord drives his son too hard, and now he must do the duty of two, for himself and for the one that will not return.”
Faramir wondered sadly how he could ever fill his brother’s place. He could only try to lead with Boromir's valour. Faramir was painfully aware that even should he triumph against all odds, his mission would still not suffice to raise his worth in Denethor's eyes. How clearly obvious his father’s disapproval must be, if even the folk in the streets murmured of it. This battle was his chance to acquit himself with honour, even if it ultimately cost him his life. If he could hold the enemy in Osgiliath even a day, the delay might provide enough time for the Rohirrim to come and save the City. Perhaps his father would at least remember him in death with some of the approval he had withheld in life.
Two days later, Faramir and his men found themselves fighting for their very lives, as the ordered retreat that he had shepherded from the Forts splintered under the screams of the Nazgûl.
Bravely they battled Haradrim hordes, fierce Orcs and worse of all, the Nazgûl, whose very presence made the blood run cold in all who beheld him and drained all hope from the hearts of Men. Swords clashed and arrows flew. Bravely the Men of Gondor fought. Outnumbered ten to one their cause was a hopeless one.
Faramir gave the order to retreat and started back towards the City. Somehow he kept those of his men who were left together.
Intent on fighting a Haradrian horse soldier, the Captain failed to notice the Southron arrow aimed at his heart until it was too late. Faramir gave a low cry and fell senseless to the ground.
Imrahil had ridden forth with his men to cover the retreat. Dismayed, he saw his kinsman fall. Heedless of his own safety he urged his horse forward to the aid of his stricken nephew snatching him just in time from the Southron swords, which sought to hew him to pieces. Placing Faramir in front of him, he urged his horse to gallop back to the City.
Fury blazed within the Prince’s heart. How could Denethor have risked his surviving son like this? Faramir was no common soldier, but the heir on whom all Gondor’s hopes now rested. This young man had a rare gift of inspiring hope within Men’s hearts. Where Denethor had been feared, Faramir was admired and loved. Whenever he saw Faramir, Imrahil could glimpse his long-dead sister in her son's eyes. His poor sister had been as much a sacrifice for Gondor as both her sons now seemed fated to be.
Men wept in the streets as Imrahil bore his stricken nephew in his arms and the people cried out Faramir’s name.
The Prince Imrahil brought Faramir to the White Tower, where he said to the Steward: Your son has returned, lord, after great deeds. But Denethor rose and looked on the face of his son with ashen eyes and no words. At last he bade them make a bed in the chamber and lay Faramir upon it and depart. Denethor turned from the still form of his son, then suddenly left the chamber.
Imrahil was surprised that no healer had been summoned for the Steward’s heir. He could only assume that they were all otherwise occupied in tending the many wounded. Imrahil, who had received some training in the Healing Arts, decided they could not afford to wait. The longer the arrow remained in Faramir’s body, the greater the chance that a fatal infection could arise.
With the help of a servant, Imrahil divested Faramir of his armour and cut away the clothing surrounding the wound. He then called for hot water, salves and bandages to be brought. Heating a knife in the fire, he deftly cut the arrowhead from Faramir’s flesh. To Imrahil's great relief, the wound was neither deep nor vital, the arrow having embedded itself in the muscles of his nephew’s shoulder. Neither the injury nor the arrow that had dealt it seemed to be poisoned. Yet Faramir did not awaken, to Imrahil's concern, even after the arrow was extracted. And Faramir's skin felt feverishly warm and clammy.
Imrahil cleaned and bandaged the wound; and was just about to search for further hurts, when Denethor returned and dismissed him. The Steward’s face was grey and haggard. He looked even more ill than his son.
Imrahil had no choice but to reluctantly leave Faramir alone in his father's hands, and return to the defence of the City.
So light up the fire and let the flames burn - John PaculaboKeith RycroftSue McClellan
'And we are caught in the fire
The point of no return
So we will walk through the fire
And let it
Burn’ - Joss Whedon
This chapter is co written with Raksha whose help is greatly appreciated.
Faramir was growing weaker by the hour. The fever burned on, sapping the little strength that remained after days of hopeless battle, the contagion loosed by the Enemy's dark riders, and the cursed arrow that had struck him at the last. Even now, Faramir seemed to struggle to breathe. His only remaining son was dying. Denethor was certain of that if nothing else. Imrahil had urged him to have Faramir carried to the Houses of Healing - to what end? The heir to the last Steward of Gondor should perish with his closest kin by his side, not servitors. He would care for his son in Faramir's final hours.
The pain of his remembered last words to his only remaining son twisted in Denethor's heart like a knife. Tending Faramir now, after sending him forth to die with such disdain, was the least he could do. It was not enough. Outside the White Tower, time dragged on, while Denethor sat there, mopping Faramir’s brow and calling his name. Faramir did not answer. He never even opened his eyes!
Denethor shut his own eyes; trying to stem the tide of misery that threatened to well up behind them. For the first time, he was glad that his lady was dead, so she was spared the agony of one son's death and the other son's prolonged dying. Could it not be granted to him to see Faramir's eyes open one last time, to glimpse one last flicker of the light that had been Finduilas of Dol Amroth?
How could he have ordered Faramir to ride to almost certain death without even a commander's encouragement? The young man was, after all, his only surviving son. The reminder that Boromir was no more struck Denethor as sharply as an arrow.
Why had the Valar allowed his greater son to fall, leaving this gentle, credulous dreamer who had let the Enemy’s weapon fall into his grasp?
In the palantír, Denethor had seen the Halfling who Faramir had described, the Ringbearer, Frodo son of Drogo, borne to Cirith Ungol by a troop of Orcs. Faramir might as well have delivered the poor creature to the Orcs himself! How Sauron must be gloating over his prize, the prize that Faramir had given him!
All this was the fruit of Mithrandir's poisonous counsel! Denethor's memory brought forth the image of the Grey Pilgrim beguiling the innocent, motherless child, filling the boy's head with legends of Elves and heroes of old. The Wizard had stolen Faramir, stolen his regard, and stolen his allegiance. Mithrandir had turned Faramir’s head with talk of the White Tree blooming again and the King who would one day return.
King indeed! The man was none other than that upstart Thorongil. Denethor felt his mouth grimace as anger seared his heart. Had Mithrandir intended Faramir to offer the scoundrel the crown after Denethor himself had gone to join his longfathers? Had that been the wizard's game all along? Alas, alas for Boromir, who would never have bowed to any but his father!
A sudden flash of foresight came upon Denethor: a vision of Faramir regarding Thorongil with the same adoration that Ecthelion had reserved for his favoured Captain. So Mithrandir had intended Thorongil to usurp his son’s affections in the same way the Northerner had stolen his father’s love?
Yet Mithrandir, supposed master of pawns, had lost the game in the end. Thorongil might yet skulk out of the hills, but there would be little left for him to claim.
Strange indeed that he should see it so clearly as it could never come to pass now. The City was in ruins, as was his House.
The waves of pain and rage had receded. Denethor felt numb as he stumbled away from Faramir's bedside and climbed up to his secret place atop the White Tower.
Denethor looked again in the palantír. A vast fleet of black-sailed Corsair ships was sailing up the river to reinforce the Enemy’s troops. It was over, there was no hope left for Gondor. The West would fall.
All was burning. Soon he would burn too. And what of Faramir? He was as good as dead already. He would not send his son away from him again. Better they should burn together. None save he should touch his son.
Resolved, Denethor called for his servants.
Behold the King
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.No profit has been,nor will be made from this story.
1. The Silver Crown
For long centuries, the Silver Crown had lain in the darkness, waiting for the rightful King to come for it. The old Kings had guarded the crown well throughout the long years of my sires' Stewardship. The ancient helm shone like a sliver of Ithil, as if Eärnur Last-King had laid it aside but yesterday.
I took up the crown that my longfather Mardil left here for safekeeping. My own father would have known little joy in this task. Would that he had chosen life and hope, however faint, instead of the fire! He might have come to love the King as I do.
The Crown of the Sea-Kings was indeed a great prize. But greater by far was he who would soon claim it to wear as he renewed Gondor. Long had I yearned for the day that was to come on the morrow.
I bore the crown, quickly, anxious to leave the dead in peace. There had been too much death of late. I quickened my steps when I passed the rubble of the House of Stewards.
The tree still lay dead and barren, but hope lived in the City!
Hope had found me at the very end of my strength. I was lost, nearly taken by Shadow. When I first beheld him, I knew that Elendil's heir, the King I longed for, had come. He restored me. What other hands could hold such healing power? I knew then that I was safe and so too was Gondor.
His hands also recalled Éowyn, the fair Shieldmaiden, from death, to my joy. I pledged her my heart, and she will become my bride.
Now, before the gates of our longfathers' city, the King smiles and thanks me.
I can only offer him the crown. He gave me life anew.
`For myself,' said Faramir, 'I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. - J.R.R. Tolkien - The Two Towers.
2. Behold the King
The young Steward approaches with the crown; I am taking his place, yet he offers it willingly, his eyes filled with devotion.
I speak the words of my forefather, bringing together past and present.
I take it from him, but do not crown myself. I call rather for Frodo and Gandalf. Today, all are hailing me, but without them there would be no crown to offer. Gondor would lie in ruins under the Dark Lord's dominion, while I would be dead, or worse, enslaved by him.
For many long years have I longed for today. My dreams, though, will only be fulfilled if Arwen is beside me as my wife and Queen. Dark will be my days if I am doomed to rule alone.
I scan the sea of faces. So many are here and yet so many are not. Would that my mother had lived to see this day! If only Halbarad were here and Théoden King. Their blood bought my triumph dearly.
I kneel before the Wizard in humility. Gandalf places the crown upon my head and speaks a blessing. The crown weighs heavily upon me, reminding me of the many burdens I now bear.
New strength courses through my veins. I feel the burden of my long years of wandering lifted. Today, I am reborn as Elessar, Envinyatar. I show my true face at last, the heir of Elendil, the rightful King in whom the blood of Númenór runs true.
Faramir, his face alight with joy cries aloud, "Behold the King!" Shouts of acclamation fill the air as trumpets sound.
The sea of smiling faces gladdens my heart. They are my people now. I will protect them as a loving father protects his children.
May the Valar grant me wisdom to rule them with justice and compassion!
But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And then Faramir cried: 'Behold the King!' - The Return of the King - J. R.R Tolkien
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.No profit has been,nor will be made from this story.
1. The Silver Crown
For long centuries, the Silver Crown had lain in the darkness, waiting for the rightful King to come for it. The old Kings had guarded the crown well throughout the long years of my sires' Stewardship. The ancient helm shone like a sliver of Ithil, as if Eärnur Last-King had laid it aside but yesterday.
I took up the crown that my longfather Mardil left here for safekeeping. My own father would have known little joy in this task. Would that he had chosen life and hope, however faint, instead of the fire! He might have come to love the King as I do.
The Crown of the Sea-Kings was indeed a great prize. But greater by far was he who would soon claim it to wear as he renewed Gondor. Long had I yearned for the day that was to come on the morrow.
I bore the crown, quickly, anxious to leave the dead in peace. There had been too much death of late. I quickened my steps when I passed the rubble of the House of Stewards.
The tree still lay dead and barren, but hope lived in the City!
Hope had found me at the very end of my strength. I was lost, nearly taken by Shadow. When I first beheld him, I knew that Elendil's heir, the King I longed for, had come. He restored me. What other hands could hold such healing power? I knew then that I was safe and so too was Gondor.
His hands also recalled Éowyn, the fair Shieldmaiden, from death, to my joy. I pledged her my heart, and she will become my bride.
Now, before the gates of our longfathers' city, the King smiles and thanks me.
I can only offer him the crown. He gave me life anew.
`For myself,' said Faramir, 'I would see the White Tree in flower again in the courts of the kings, and the Silver Crown return, and Minas Tirith in peace: Minas Anor again as of old, full of light, high and fair, beautiful as a queen among other queens: not a mistress of many slaves, nay, not even a kind mistress of willing slaves. - J.R.R. Tolkien - The Two Towers.
2. Behold the King
The young Steward approaches with the crown; I am taking his place, yet he offers it willingly, his eyes filled with devotion.
I speak the words of my forefather, bringing together past and present.
I take it from him, but do not crown myself. I call rather for Frodo and Gandalf. Today, all are hailing me, but without them there would be no crown to offer. Gondor would lie in ruins under the Dark Lord's dominion, while I would be dead, or worse, enslaved by him.
For many long years have I longed for today. My dreams, though, will only be fulfilled if Arwen is beside me as my wife and Queen. Dark will be my days if I am doomed to rule alone.
I scan the sea of faces. So many are here and yet so many are not. Would that my mother had lived to see this day! If only Halbarad were here and Théoden King. Their blood bought my triumph dearly.
I kneel before the Wizard in humility. Gandalf places the crown upon my head and speaks a blessing. The crown weighs heavily upon me, reminding me of the many burdens I now bear.
New strength courses through my veins. I feel the burden of my long years of wandering lifted. Today, I am reborn as Elessar, Envinyatar. I show my true face at last, the heir of Elendil, the rightful King in whom the blood of Númenór runs true.
Faramir, his face alight with joy cries aloud, "Behold the King!" Shouts of acclamation fill the air as trumpets sound.
The sea of smiling faces gladdens my heart. They are my people now. I will protect them as a loving father protects his children.
May the Valar grant me wisdom to rule them with justice and compassion!
But when Aragorn arose all that beheld him gazed in silence, for it seemed to them that he was revealed to them now for the first time. Tall as the sea-kings of old, he stood above all that were near; ancient of days he seemed and yet in the flower of manhood; and wisdom sat upon his brow, and strength and healing were in his hands, and a light was about him. And then Faramir cried: 'Behold the King!' - The Return of the King - J. R.R Tolkien
Friday, June 01, 2007
I have heard you calling in the night- Kevin Mayhew
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, no will be made from this story.
With thanks to Raksha.
I have heard you calling in the night- Kevin Mayhew
Faramir was roused from a deep slumber by the King’s cries of distress. The lamp had gone out and the hut was in almost complete darkness. A blow landed on his face and he yelped in pain, groping in the darkness for Aragorn’s hands in order to restrain him.
“Wake up, mellon nîn!” the Steward called urgently.
“No, no!” Aragorn cried. “Let me out! No more!”
Faramir dodged another blow as Aragorn became increasingly agitated. Not only did he fear for his friend’s distress, but also his dignity, fearing that he would be subjected to the curious stares of half the village if he continued to cry out.
“Faramir, no, no!” Aragorn screamed.
“Come, wake up!” Faramir placed his hand over Aragorn’s mouth, fearful the whole village would not only be roused but soon know their true identities. Aragorn’s shouts subsided to dull whimpers but he continued to lash out wildly. Abandoning his attempts at grasping the flaying arms, Faramir braved the blows and aimed to grip his lord’s shoulders as something more substantial in the darkness. Finally, he managed to shake him awake, sustaining a blow to the nose as he did so.
Aragorn woke with a start. Faramir could feel the King's thin body shaking beneath his hands, even through two layers of clothing.
By now, his keen eyesight, honed from years as a Ranger, had made out a faint chink of light, which must be the doorway. “Come on!” he said. Throwing the blanket round him, he half dragged, half carried the King outside.
“What do you think you are doing?” Thoron asked suspiciously, emerging from the shadows.
“My father needs some air,” Faramir told him. To his relief, the countryside was bathed in bright moonlight while the air was chill and fresh after the stuffy confinement of the hut.
“You drunken city dwellers might think it well to rouse hard-working farmersfrom their beds but that is not the way things are done here!” Thoron said angrily. “The pair of you deserve a beating! And who is Faramir other than the Steward who got away with it treason?”
Faramir struggled for an answer that was not a lie. "My father fought in the war, and saw many terrible things, including the dark things that hunted the Steward. He has evil dreams sometimes.”
“My father died in the war alongside our good Lord Forlong,” said Thoron sourly. “I do not spend my nights waking weary men from their sleep!”
“Peace Thoron!” Borlach arrived on the scene, carrying a lantern. “Go to bed now, I will take the next watch.”
“What are you going to do about these drunkards?” the young man demanded.
“That is for me to decide,” said the old man. “I do not think they consumed any more wine than the rest of us. If I recall you drank more than they did at supper. Now go; your mother and sisters might be alarmed by the shouting and have need of you.”
Thoron scowled and departed without another word.
“He is a troubled young man,” said Borlach. “Since his father died he has had to support his family, and has little time for the joyful celebrations shared by some of the other young fellows. I think he resents sons who have fathers to love and teach them.”
“I am sorry for the trouble we caused,” said Faramir looking anxiously at Aragorn. The King had not spoken and looked pale and drawn.
“So many of the men who fought against Sauron have nightmares that we are accustomed to it,” said Borlach. ”I suggest the pair of you try to get some rest, you will have another hard day’s work ahead of you.”
“We will stay outside,” said Faramir. ”My father needs air.”
“Please yourselves, at the least the rain clouds seem to have blown over. I will leave you now. Rest easy!” With those words the old man turned to patrol the huts at the far side of the village.
Faramir shepherded Aragorn to a log near the embers of the fire they had sat round several hours before and tucked the blanket round him. He then settled himself beside him, with a comforting arm around his still trembling shoulders.
“Faramir?”
“You were dreaming. Peace, all is well now! The lamp went out, which I expect caused the nightmare.”
“You were there!” Aragorn shivered even more violently. “Pain, so much pain!”
Faramir shuddered inwardly, wondering if Aragorn were doomed to dream of that dreadful moment when he had branded him for the rest of his days. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, “ You understand now, do you not that I had no choice and it almost broke my heart?”
“Yes, I do, but that was not what I dreamed, “ Aragorn replied. “You tried to save me and the rebels had captured you. I was beaten, then chained up forced to watch them torture you. It was horrible, I could not stop them!”
“It was but an evil dream,” Faramir soothed. “We are both safe and free. Just look at the stars, how beautiful and peaceful they are!” He tucked the blanket more closely round the distressed King, whose breath came in ragged gasps, and held him more tightly.
Aragorn looked up and sighed suddenly coming fully to his senses. “You must think me very foolish,” he sighed, “I must still fear confinement in a strange, dark place, even among kindly people."
“There is nothing to feel ashamed about. It takes time to recover from an ordeal like you suffered, as a Healer; you should know that, as you told me many times! We should never have slept in that hut .It was far too like the cellar. Little wonder you were upset!” Faramir replied. “Let me rub your back again for you. Maybe I can ease it?”
Tasariel suddenly emerged from one of the nearby huts, clutching two mugs of steaming tea. “You both look in need of a drink,” she said matter of factly.” Drink up! I’ve added some horsetail and valerian to Master Morrandir’s drink to ease him.”
“Thank you; please forgive ourhaving disturbed you,” Aragorn said contritely.
“Don’t worry about it!” said Tasariel cheerfully, “ My brother was just the same. A raiding party of Orcs captured him. He only survived to come home to us as a group of villagers saw him taken and pursued them. When the dreams came upon him, we could only sit and hold him and give him some of my tea. He is much better now, though and the evil dreams rarely trouble him. Was your Ada captured?”
“Yes, Ara-um-Ada was captured by evil men, “ Faramir said, gratefully sipping his drink.
“That is even worse!” Tasariel exclaimed. ”Orcs now, they can’t help their foul ways but Men should know better!”
“They should indeed,” Faramir replied sadly.
“I say we’ve nought to worry about now the King has returned,” the woman said confidently. “We can all sleep safe in our beds now! I had better go before my men folk miss me and cause a commotion. You can leave your mugs here by the log.” She turned and went back to her hut.
Faramir set his mug aside and started to gently rub Aragorn’s shoulders. The King sighed gratefully, but Faramir could still feel him shaking slightly. “Is the pain very bad?” the Steward asked sympathetically.
“ I have known far worse,” Aragorn said.
“Your heart is sorely troubled, I can sense it,” Faramir said quietly.
Aragorn took a deep breath. “I had never been so afraid,” he said at last somewhat hesitantly. “The dream brought it all back, the cellar, the torture, the pain and worst the fear I would not be strong enough to withstand them.”
“But you did,” Faramir said, continuing his ministrations. “You protected your wife and son. No man could have been braver.”
“I feared. I feared that… No, I cannot speak of it!”
“Maybe it would help if you did,” Faramir said gently.” I think I understand.”
Aragorn swallowed a mouthful of tea then swallowed hard. ”Yes, you do, after what Mahrod would have subjected you to,” he said at last.” I feared that what they might do to me would cause me to have betrayed my vows to Arwen. I have kept myself for her and her alone my life long. To break that vow, however unwillingly would destroy us both! I know all too well what Hanna wanted!”
“I know,” Faramir said grimly, shuddering at the memories. “I was prepared to take your life rather than let them subject you to further humiliation and worse pain.”
“And I thank you for that, ion nîn.”
“They would have had me betray my Éowyn too,” Faramir confided. “Two vows I hold sacred, my marriage vow and my vow of fealty. Rather would I die than break either oath!” His voice trembled slightly. “I am at least faithful to my wife.”
“Never were you more faithful than when you seemed faithless!” said Aragorn. He took another sip of tea and managed a faint smile at his Steward.
“Sleeping inside a darkened, strange place brings back too many painful memories for you,” said Faramir after a moment’s thought. He hesitated, then reaching a decision, said firmly. “We should tell them who we are and send some men from Minas Tirith to help them. I know you seek to protect me, but I will not have you risking your health on my behalf!”
“Nor would I have your reputation damaged!” Aragorn replied with equal firmness. “I have wronged you and this is my chance to make amends. Do not deny it me. Do not forget that I made yet another vow, to protect you. A vow I have shamefully neglected and almost broken.”
Faramir knew that when his lord used that tone of voice he would not be dissuaded. “I would beg to differ,” he said resignedly.
They finished their tea in companionable silence, both comforted by the warm, soothing liquid.
“We had better go back inside,” Aragorn said reluctantly, putting his empty mug on the ground. “I must face myfears!”
“What point is there in tormenting yourself?” Faramir asked. “Just how often do you sleep in a pitch black hovel? We are both likely to have nightmares for a time but they will pass,” Faramir said firmly. “So let us sleep comfortably under that treeover there. I am not going back in that stuffy hut for what time is left before dawn! I will just fetch our cloaks and the blanket.”
Aragorn raised no further objections. A sudden thought struck him: the dream had been different this time. Instead of trying to escape from Faramir, he had been trying to escape from torment with him. It seemed that he was healing and coming to terms with his ordeal.
Faramir reappeared with their cloaks. They settled themselves under a large oak, huddled together under their cloaks and the blanket. Aragorn still found it hard to settle as not only was he haunted by dark images, but his stiff shoulders throbbed painfully. Faramir draped a protective arm around him, while his other hand rested on his sword hilt. “Sleep, ada nîn, I will not let any harm come to you. We are quite safe here,” he soothed. “Look up at the stars, Elbereth will grant us her protection from all dangers tonight.” He tucked the blanket snugly around the King and huddled closer to reassure him of his continued presence at his side.
The hot summer days in Gondor were often followed by chill nights and this was no exception, the hazy heat of the day having given way to a clear crisp night.
Exhausted from the day’s labours and comforted by the presence of his friend beside him, Aragorn eventually fell asleep, soon followed by Faramir.
This time, they slept dreamlessly until awakened all too soon by the cock crowing to herald the dawn.
Aragorn groaned as he tried to sit up. “My shoulders, my back!” he exclaimed.” I did not know that I had so many muscles!”
“I thought Healers knew the names of every muscle?” Faramir teased though he looked troubled.
“I know the names, but not that they could be so painful!” Aragorn retorted.
“ Let us return to the hut so I can apply more of Tasariel’s salve, “ said Faramir, helping his King to his feet. “Come, I will help you.”
“You are lucky to have such a devoted son!” Beleg said, approaching them. “The stiffness will pass once you start working. Everyone is like you to begin with, even the skilled labourers! My wife will provide breakfast for you.”
“This worse than fighting Orcs!” Aragorn lamented, as soon as they were in the privacy of the hut.” I was never this stiff the next day!”
“Let me see what I can do for you!” said Faramir, helping Aragorn remove his shirt before crouching beside him and starting to rub the salve into the King’s shoulders.”
”Ouch!” was the only reply he received.
“I warned you last night that I have neither skills nor experience!” Faramir retorted good-naturedly. “Just try to keep still!” He tried his uttermost to be gentle and Aragorn found his stiffness was much eased by the time he was finished.
“I will make a Healer of you yet!” Aragorn informed him, turning his head to look at him.“ I am sure Éowyn and Elestelle will appreciate your new found skills!” Aragorn said pulling on his shirt. He was only just in time as Tasariel poked her head around the door to announce that breakfast was served.
“We shall come thank you, Mistress,” Faramir replied, rising to his feet.
“You have not had your turn yet! I am not letting you escape so easily!” Aragorn said as soon as she had gone.
Faramir groaned, albeit half heartedly, as he made to remove his own shirt. “What a pair we make!” the Steward commented ruefully.
“We would frighten them if they saw us without our shirts!” Aragorn agreed.
“I grieve that I left you scarred for life,” Faramir said miserably. "I would cut off the hand that branded you if it could heal you, my lord."
“It matters not. Arwen is untroubled and so am I.” To his surprise, Aragorn realised he was not just saying the words to comfort his friend but that he truly meant them. He thought for a moment and then said. “I have come to seethe brandnot as a mark of shame and pain but rather a mark of love that I am privileged to bear.”
”You do?” Faramir was astonished.
“Yes, when I look upon the scar now, I see it as something to treasure as a symbol of your devotion to me. How many are so blessed to have a friend who will risk all that they hold most dear to save them?” He kissed Faramir on the brow as he spoke.
“I would do it again, but may the Valar protect me from seeing such a day once more!” Faramir said, almost too overwhelmed to speak.
TBC
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, no will be made from this story.
With thanks to Raksha.
I have heard you calling in the night- Kevin Mayhew
Faramir was roused from a deep slumber by the King’s cries of distress. The lamp had gone out and the hut was in almost complete darkness. A blow landed on his face and he yelped in pain, groping in the darkness for Aragorn’s hands in order to restrain him.
“Wake up, mellon nîn!” the Steward called urgently.
“No, no!” Aragorn cried. “Let me out! No more!”
Faramir dodged another blow as Aragorn became increasingly agitated. Not only did he fear for his friend’s distress, but also his dignity, fearing that he would be subjected to the curious stares of half the village if he continued to cry out.
“Faramir, no, no!” Aragorn screamed.
“Come, wake up!” Faramir placed his hand over Aragorn’s mouth, fearful the whole village would not only be roused but soon know their true identities. Aragorn’s shouts subsided to dull whimpers but he continued to lash out wildly. Abandoning his attempts at grasping the flaying arms, Faramir braved the blows and aimed to grip his lord’s shoulders as something more substantial in the darkness. Finally, he managed to shake him awake, sustaining a blow to the nose as he did so.
Aragorn woke with a start. Faramir could feel the King's thin body shaking beneath his hands, even through two layers of clothing.
By now, his keen eyesight, honed from years as a Ranger, had made out a faint chink of light, which must be the doorway. “Come on!” he said. Throwing the blanket round him, he half dragged, half carried the King outside.
“What do you think you are doing?” Thoron asked suspiciously, emerging from the shadows.
“My father needs some air,” Faramir told him. To his relief, the countryside was bathed in bright moonlight while the air was chill and fresh after the stuffy confinement of the hut.
“You drunken city dwellers might think it well to rouse hard-working farmersfrom their beds but that is not the way things are done here!” Thoron said angrily. “The pair of you deserve a beating! And who is Faramir other than the Steward who got away with it treason?”
Faramir struggled for an answer that was not a lie. "My father fought in the war, and saw many terrible things, including the dark things that hunted the Steward. He has evil dreams sometimes.”
“My father died in the war alongside our good Lord Forlong,” said Thoron sourly. “I do not spend my nights waking weary men from their sleep!”
“Peace Thoron!” Borlach arrived on the scene, carrying a lantern. “Go to bed now, I will take the next watch.”
“What are you going to do about these drunkards?” the young man demanded.
“That is for me to decide,” said the old man. “I do not think they consumed any more wine than the rest of us. If I recall you drank more than they did at supper. Now go; your mother and sisters might be alarmed by the shouting and have need of you.”
Thoron scowled and departed without another word.
“He is a troubled young man,” said Borlach. “Since his father died he has had to support his family, and has little time for the joyful celebrations shared by some of the other young fellows. I think he resents sons who have fathers to love and teach them.”
“I am sorry for the trouble we caused,” said Faramir looking anxiously at Aragorn. The King had not spoken and looked pale and drawn.
“So many of the men who fought against Sauron have nightmares that we are accustomed to it,” said Borlach. ”I suggest the pair of you try to get some rest, you will have another hard day’s work ahead of you.”
“We will stay outside,” said Faramir. ”My father needs air.”
“Please yourselves, at the least the rain clouds seem to have blown over. I will leave you now. Rest easy!” With those words the old man turned to patrol the huts at the far side of the village.
Faramir shepherded Aragorn to a log near the embers of the fire they had sat round several hours before and tucked the blanket round him. He then settled himself beside him, with a comforting arm around his still trembling shoulders.
“Faramir?”
“You were dreaming. Peace, all is well now! The lamp went out, which I expect caused the nightmare.”
“You were there!” Aragorn shivered even more violently. “Pain, so much pain!”
Faramir shuddered inwardly, wondering if Aragorn were doomed to dream of that dreadful moment when he had branded him for the rest of his days. “I am sorry,” he said quietly, “ You understand now, do you not that I had no choice and it almost broke my heart?”
“Yes, I do, but that was not what I dreamed, “ Aragorn replied. “You tried to save me and the rebels had captured you. I was beaten, then chained up forced to watch them torture you. It was horrible, I could not stop them!”
“It was but an evil dream,” Faramir soothed. “We are both safe and free. Just look at the stars, how beautiful and peaceful they are!” He tucked the blanket more closely round the distressed King, whose breath came in ragged gasps, and held him more tightly.
Aragorn looked up and sighed suddenly coming fully to his senses. “You must think me very foolish,” he sighed, “I must still fear confinement in a strange, dark place, even among kindly people."
“There is nothing to feel ashamed about. It takes time to recover from an ordeal like you suffered, as a Healer; you should know that, as you told me many times! We should never have slept in that hut .It was far too like the cellar. Little wonder you were upset!” Faramir replied. “Let me rub your back again for you. Maybe I can ease it?”
Tasariel suddenly emerged from one of the nearby huts, clutching two mugs of steaming tea. “You both look in need of a drink,” she said matter of factly.” Drink up! I’ve added some horsetail and valerian to Master Morrandir’s drink to ease him.”
“Thank you; please forgive ourhaving disturbed you,” Aragorn said contritely.
“Don’t worry about it!” said Tasariel cheerfully, “ My brother was just the same. A raiding party of Orcs captured him. He only survived to come home to us as a group of villagers saw him taken and pursued them. When the dreams came upon him, we could only sit and hold him and give him some of my tea. He is much better now, though and the evil dreams rarely trouble him. Was your Ada captured?”
“Yes, Ara-um-Ada was captured by evil men, “ Faramir said, gratefully sipping his drink.
“That is even worse!” Tasariel exclaimed. ”Orcs now, they can’t help their foul ways but Men should know better!”
“They should indeed,” Faramir replied sadly.
“I say we’ve nought to worry about now the King has returned,” the woman said confidently. “We can all sleep safe in our beds now! I had better go before my men folk miss me and cause a commotion. You can leave your mugs here by the log.” She turned and went back to her hut.
Faramir set his mug aside and started to gently rub Aragorn’s shoulders. The King sighed gratefully, but Faramir could still feel him shaking slightly. “Is the pain very bad?” the Steward asked sympathetically.
“ I have known far worse,” Aragorn said.
“Your heart is sorely troubled, I can sense it,” Faramir said quietly.
Aragorn took a deep breath. “I had never been so afraid,” he said at last somewhat hesitantly. “The dream brought it all back, the cellar, the torture, the pain and worst the fear I would not be strong enough to withstand them.”
“But you did,” Faramir said, continuing his ministrations. “You protected your wife and son. No man could have been braver.”
“I feared. I feared that… No, I cannot speak of it!”
“Maybe it would help if you did,” Faramir said gently.” I think I understand.”
Aragorn swallowed a mouthful of tea then swallowed hard. ”Yes, you do, after what Mahrod would have subjected you to,” he said at last.” I feared that what they might do to me would cause me to have betrayed my vows to Arwen. I have kept myself for her and her alone my life long. To break that vow, however unwillingly would destroy us both! I know all too well what Hanna wanted!”
“I know,” Faramir said grimly, shuddering at the memories. “I was prepared to take your life rather than let them subject you to further humiliation and worse pain.”
“And I thank you for that, ion nîn.”
“They would have had me betray my Éowyn too,” Faramir confided. “Two vows I hold sacred, my marriage vow and my vow of fealty. Rather would I die than break either oath!” His voice trembled slightly. “I am at least faithful to my wife.”
“Never were you more faithful than when you seemed faithless!” said Aragorn. He took another sip of tea and managed a faint smile at his Steward.
“Sleeping inside a darkened, strange place brings back too many painful memories for you,” said Faramir after a moment’s thought. He hesitated, then reaching a decision, said firmly. “We should tell them who we are and send some men from Minas Tirith to help them. I know you seek to protect me, but I will not have you risking your health on my behalf!”
“Nor would I have your reputation damaged!” Aragorn replied with equal firmness. “I have wronged you and this is my chance to make amends. Do not deny it me. Do not forget that I made yet another vow, to protect you. A vow I have shamefully neglected and almost broken.”
Faramir knew that when his lord used that tone of voice he would not be dissuaded. “I would beg to differ,” he said resignedly.
They finished their tea in companionable silence, both comforted by the warm, soothing liquid.
“We had better go back inside,” Aragorn said reluctantly, putting his empty mug on the ground. “I must face myfears!”
“What point is there in tormenting yourself?” Faramir asked. “Just how often do you sleep in a pitch black hovel? We are both likely to have nightmares for a time but they will pass,” Faramir said firmly. “So let us sleep comfortably under that treeover there. I am not going back in that stuffy hut for what time is left before dawn! I will just fetch our cloaks and the blanket.”
Aragorn raised no further objections. A sudden thought struck him: the dream had been different this time. Instead of trying to escape from Faramir, he had been trying to escape from torment with him. It seemed that he was healing and coming to terms with his ordeal.
Faramir reappeared with their cloaks. They settled themselves under a large oak, huddled together under their cloaks and the blanket. Aragorn still found it hard to settle as not only was he haunted by dark images, but his stiff shoulders throbbed painfully. Faramir draped a protective arm around him, while his other hand rested on his sword hilt. “Sleep, ada nîn, I will not let any harm come to you. We are quite safe here,” he soothed. “Look up at the stars, Elbereth will grant us her protection from all dangers tonight.” He tucked the blanket snugly around the King and huddled closer to reassure him of his continued presence at his side.
The hot summer days in Gondor were often followed by chill nights and this was no exception, the hazy heat of the day having given way to a clear crisp night.
Exhausted from the day’s labours and comforted by the presence of his friend beside him, Aragorn eventually fell asleep, soon followed by Faramir.
This time, they slept dreamlessly until awakened all too soon by the cock crowing to herald the dawn.
Aragorn groaned as he tried to sit up. “My shoulders, my back!” he exclaimed.” I did not know that I had so many muscles!”
“I thought Healers knew the names of every muscle?” Faramir teased though he looked troubled.
“I know the names, but not that they could be so painful!” Aragorn retorted.
“ Let us return to the hut so I can apply more of Tasariel’s salve, “ said Faramir, helping his King to his feet. “Come, I will help you.”
“You are lucky to have such a devoted son!” Beleg said, approaching them. “The stiffness will pass once you start working. Everyone is like you to begin with, even the skilled labourers! My wife will provide breakfast for you.”
“This worse than fighting Orcs!” Aragorn lamented, as soon as they were in the privacy of the hut.” I was never this stiff the next day!”
“Let me see what I can do for you!” said Faramir, helping Aragorn remove his shirt before crouching beside him and starting to rub the salve into the King’s shoulders.”
”Ouch!” was the only reply he received.
“I warned you last night that I have neither skills nor experience!” Faramir retorted good-naturedly. “Just try to keep still!” He tried his uttermost to be gentle and Aragorn found his stiffness was much eased by the time he was finished.
“I will make a Healer of you yet!” Aragorn informed him, turning his head to look at him.“ I am sure Éowyn and Elestelle will appreciate your new found skills!” Aragorn said pulling on his shirt. He was only just in time as Tasariel poked her head around the door to announce that breakfast was served.
“We shall come thank you, Mistress,” Faramir replied, rising to his feet.
“You have not had your turn yet! I am not letting you escape so easily!” Aragorn said as soon as she had gone.
Faramir groaned, albeit half heartedly, as he made to remove his own shirt. “What a pair we make!” the Steward commented ruefully.
“We would frighten them if they saw us without our shirts!” Aragorn agreed.
“I grieve that I left you scarred for life,” Faramir said miserably. "I would cut off the hand that branded you if it could heal you, my lord."
“It matters not. Arwen is untroubled and so am I.” To his surprise, Aragorn realised he was not just saying the words to comfort his friend but that he truly meant them. He thought for a moment and then said. “I have come to seethe brandnot as a mark of shame and pain but rather a mark of love that I am privileged to bear.”
”You do?” Faramir was astonished.
“Yes, when I look upon the scar now, I see it as something to treasure as a symbol of your devotion to me. How many are so blessed to have a friend who will risk all that they hold most dear to save them?” He kissed Faramir on the brow as he spoke.
“I would do it again, but may the Valar protect me from seeing such a day once more!” Faramir said, almost too overwhelmed to speak.
TBC
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