Pairing: None, just Faramir and his thoughts.
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: Do not own Faramir or any other character from Lord of the Rings, sadly they belong to Tolkien. Just borrowing Faramir for a while. He shall be returned unharmed.
Summary: Faramir on his way back to Osgiliath.
Thoughts
"You wish now that our places had been exchanged? That I had died and Boromir had lived."
"Yes, I wish that."
Those words hurt the most, he wished me dead. Never had I thought that my father would wish me dead. He hated me, loathed me, but never would he have wanted me dead. I was the last reminder of my mother, I looked too much like her, I reminded him of her in everything I did. He would not want to lose the only thing that reminded him of her would he?
Gandalf said he still loved me, that he always has, that he will remember it before the end. But I doubt it. How can I not when everything he does is an insult to me? How can I shake off his cruel words when they are all he ever says to me? He does not call me his son anymore, merely a Captain of Gondor. I am rarely in the City, my time being spent first at Osgiliath, then Ithilien and then back at Osgiliath. My time in the City is minimal, to escape his cruel words and taunting voice.
The Halfling was there, when he told me of his wish of my death. He looked shocked, bewildered even, that a father could treat a son like that. Maybe the Halflings all live in a place of peace. I should like to live there. The Halfling pledged his allegiance to father, as I, and Boromir, did so many years ago. He kissed his Ring, as I myself have done, the same Ring that has been imprinted in my cheek by the force of his blows on me.
I tried not to cry, tried not to show my weakness but I couldn't help it. I long to loathe him but I can't. How can I hate my own father?
His hatred of me increased when he heard of Boromir's death, the broken horn, the numerous wounds. I saw my brother, on his way down to the Sea and a part of me broke inside. He had no love now, to give to anyone. His mood darkened steadily and I bore the brunt of it. Always he found fault in me, always he found stupidity. Always he found a reason to hate.
When I brought him the horn of my brother he sneered at me, "Always you have wished for your brother's death, so you may become the only son."
Never. I never wished my brother dead.
So now, as I lead my men to certain death, as I ride my horse for the last time, all I wish for is the love of my father, the acceptance from him. I can see the orcs now; they are rising up all over the ruins of Osgiliath, bows raised, arrows cocked, just waiting to fire at us. As I urge my horse forward and draw my sword I can almost feel the command to fire on my skin and then everything goes black.