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.