Left Behind
A Tale of Faramir
AN: I am The Author Formerly Known As SI3CGinMON. Due to password loss, I've set up this account. Other works of mine may still be seen under SI3CGinMON, but I'll be moving my story, "Evil's Point," to this pen name. Here's a new tale for your enjoyment! This is a little angsty short story about Faramir mourning the deaths of Boromir and Denethor. Set after the War of the Ring—contains spoilers! Thanks for reading, and enjoy!
I stood at the entrance to the House of the Stewards, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in my hand. About a month had passed since the end of the War of the Ring. Eowyn and I had come to Minas Tirith so that I could meet with Aragorn about matters concerning Ithilien, which I was appointed prince over. We were almost through with the long hours of planning and negotiating. There was just one more thing I needed to do. I needed to pay my father a visit.
I had heard the tale several times of the madness of Denethor. Somehow, though, it didn't seem real. I had been refusing to grieve, busying myself with my wife and new princedom. It had been the same when I had seen Boromir's boat glide toward me that night. There had simply been too much else for me to think about, and besides, I had to lead my company of Rangers. I'd never really even cried for him. I simply went about my business as if everything was normal, but there was a hole in my heart where my father and brother had been, and it refused to be filled.
Now, I slowly moved toward the entrance to the house of the dead, feeling an urge to just turn and flee. But no—that would only make matters worse in the long run. I needed some kind of closure. Steeling myself, feeling like I was about to enter some huge battle, I leaned my weight on the heavy stone door. It slid slowly open, grinding against the stone of the floor.
It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. When they did, I saw, feet away from me, the first of many long, low stone slabs. This slab was blackened, as if it had been scorched by fire, and on it sat a large stone urn. The urn was decorated with the Seal of the Stewards, and bore my father's name and lineage through many generations. Inside, the ashes from Denethor's pyre rested.
I forced myself to take one step, then another. In a few moments I found myself kneeling by the stone slab. I laid my flowers on the lid of the urn, and my hand came up to trace my father's name engraved in the stone. Two fingers rested lightly on the "R" of "DENETHOR". My head bowed, forehead leaning against the cold slab my father's urn rested on. "Father..." I whispered, caressing the side of the urn gently. My voice caught in my throat, but the tears hung unreleased in my eyes, refusing to fall. I felt the present day slipping away from me as an old memory came to my mind...
"Step! Thrust! Block! Excellent! Excellent, my son!"
I watched, perched on a hay bale, as Father and Boromir performed their customary weekly swordfight, impatiently clutching my wooden practice sword in my hand. Today was a very exciting day for me. Today, I would be allowed to swordfight with my brother with real weapons for the first time.
Denethor was laughing, one arm wrapped around Boromir's shoulders, the other hand clutching the pommel of his sword, whose point trailed on the ground. He smiled as he saw me, and raised his sword. "Ah, Faramir! Are you ready for your match with Boromir?"
"Yes, Father!" I cried out, excitement shining in my seven-year-old eyes. I ran to the weapons shed, flinging my wooden sword into the barrel where the other training swords rested and skidding to a halt before the beginners' metal swords. I scanned the collection of lovingly-tended, shining blades eagerly. Finally, I selected a short blade with a leather pommel. I lifted it from the hanger it rested on and stood back, taking a moment to position my hand properly around the blade. I raised it to block position, then gave a few quick thrusts at the air, crying, "GONDOR! GONDOR!"
Suddenly, Boromir was there, laughing at my enthusiasm, picking up his own sword and turning to face me. "Come on, brother. Come test your mettle against the Iron Fist of Gondor!" he jokingly boasted.
"You may be an iron fist, but I'm the Lightning Bolt of Gondor!" I answered, swiping my sword through the air.
Boromir laughed. "Come on, to the field!"
"To the field!" I crowed in reply, hefting my sword into the air and rushing out after my brother. Soon, we faced each other on the small practice field, Denethor standing off to one side, doling out last-minute advice.
"Now, bow to each other," Denethor ordered. We did so, then stepped away from each other, swords raising to defensive positions.
"Are you ready?" asked Boromir, moving his sword back to attack.
"Yes!" I grinned in response.
The rest of our fight was a blur of sweat and joyful competition. I felt like I was on top of the world. It was a thrill to be able to swordfight with the brother who was, in my eyes, the best at everything he did. For a few minutes, I didn't feel like simply "Boromir's younger brother," the unfavorite son, the one who was shunted aside from father's attention whenever Boromir learned a new fighting technique. When we swordfought, it was as equals.
That was when it happened. As I struck at Boromir's sword arm, his sword shifted in his grasp and his unprotected forearm ended up in the path of my sword as he moved to catch it. I tried to stop, but it was too late to pull back. As I watched in horror, my sword sliced into Boromir's arm.
Shocked, I cried out as Boromir yelled in pain, dropping his sword. Mine fell almost on top of his as I lunged forward to my brother who was now on his knees, babbling apologies. Boromir's face was ashen and blood was spurting from the deep gash. As I stared in horror at the wound I had caused, Denethor sprang forward with a cry of dismay, knocking me aside.
"Boromir! Boromir! My son, speak to me!!!!"
But Boromir would not speak. Slowly, his eyes closed, and he toppled over onto the grass, unconscious.
Denethor began shouting orders to those who stood watching us, scooping Boromir into his arms with suprising strength, sending some running for the healers, others to alert those in Ecthelion. I reached up and put a hand on Denethor's arm. "Father..."
To my surprise, Denethor whirled around and glared at me in fury. "How dare you!!!" he shouted. "How dare you harm your brother!!! This is your fault, and now he's dying!! You took my wife from me and now you would take my son? I cannot stand you!! Get out of my sight!! NOW!!!"
Stunned, tears glimmering in my eyes, I stared as Denethor whirled around and carried Boromir from the practice field. Slowly, I backed toward the gate, aware that all those that remained around the field were staring at me in shock. I turned and fled.
Night had fallen by the time someone found me. I had taken refuge in the market, curled up into a ball, sobbing beneath a fruit vendor's unoccupied stand. No one seemed to notice me—no one, that is, except my brother.
"Faramir?"
Sniffling, I looked up, and seeing Boromir, arm bandaged and done up in a sling, I shrank away in fright.
"Boromir! I...are you all right?"
"I will be fine," smiled Boromir. "The cut was not too bad."
"Oh, Boromir...I...I am so sorry," I choked. "Please...forgive me..."
Boromir sat down beside me. "I do forgive you, brother. What happened was an accident. It was not your fault." But as he reached out a hand to comfort me, I pulled away.
"That's...that's not what Father said," I sniffed.
Boromir frowned. "What did he say?"
As I related what Denethor had shouted at me, Boromir's face became grave and sad. As I finished, tears began to slide down my cheeks again and I let out a sob.
"Oh, Faramir..." Boromir murmured, looking down at me with an odd expression on his face. He reached over and pulled me into a one-armed embrace, and my head fell onto his shoulder as I sobbed.
After a few minutes, my tears quieted. Boromir squeezed my shoulders and murmured in my ear. "I don't care what Father said. It was not your fault. I should have been more careful. You do not have the experience that I do yet, and I shouldn't have let my guard down.."
"But..."I sniffled. "He said it was my fault, he said he can't stand me!!"
Boromir sighed. "Father loves you, Faramir. He just...has trouble remembering it sometimes."
I sat there, feeling the roughness of Boromir's woolen tunic against my cheek, pondering what he had said. "A—are you sure?" I asked in a very small voice.
Boromir turned my face toward his. "Far, I am very sure," he said. "Remember how proud of you he was when you learned that sword move last week?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"He would not have been so proud of you if he didn't love you. Trust me."
I looked at Boromir with doubt in my eyes, unsure.
Boromir sighed. "You know what, little brother? I think you need to go have a talk with Father."
So I found myself, ten minutes later, beside Boromir as we stood before Denethor, my brother having just told him what had happened when he found me. Denethor rose from his chair and came towards me, his expression unreadable. My lips quivered as my throat tightened. Surely, he was about to punish me for hurting Boromir! Frightened tears came to my eyes as my father raised his hand, as if to hit me...and pulled me with one arm into a hug.
"My son." I felt the rumble in his chest as he spoke, heard the loving words he murmured with such care. "I...I am sorry I caused you pain today, Far."
I pulled back and gazed up into my father's eyes. What I saw there surprised me. There was worry and concern in those eyes...concern for me.
"But Father, shouldn't I be the one apologizing? I hurt Boromir!" I protested despairingly.
"Of course not, Faramir," Denethor insisted, kneeling to my level. "I know I frightened you today after you accidentaly hurt your brother. I was worried for him, and I did not stop to think of what I was doing to you. It was my mistake. I love you, Faramir, very much, and I did not intend to hurt you."
"But..."I protested, a tear sliding down my cheek.
Denethor shook his head and placed his hand on my cheek, wiping away my tear with his thumb. "Stop it, now. Boromir will be fine. It was not a bad wound. And neither he nor I blame you for it."
"Not in the least," Boromir agreed, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Do you accept my apology for hurting you today, my son?" asked Denethor, smiling caringly at me.
I felt a warm feeling spread through me, and my heart swelled with love for my father, who cared enough to forgive. I nodded, grinning back, and flung myself into my father's arms.
"I love you, Father," I whispered into his shoulder as Denethor wrapped his arms around me.
"I love you too, Faramir," my father smiled back. And I knew I had been wrong. For Father did love me, no matter what.
I was brought back to the present by a slim hand on my shoulder. "My love?" I heard the voice of Eowyn say softly. Raising my head, I turned to see her standing there, radiant in a dress of all white bound with a golden belt about her waist, with a simple silver circlet on her golden head. Tears filled my eyes as Eowyn slipped her hand into mine and rose me to my feet. "Are you all right?" she inquired softly.
"Better, now that you're here," I told Eowyn as my hand slipped into hers. She sighed and turned to Denethor's slab, bowing her head respectfully. I did too, and for several moments we stood staring at the cold marble slab and the urn resting upon it.
"He was a good man, truly. So was Boromir," I murmured. "But the Shadow got them in the end..."
"The Shadow took many good men," Eowyn agreed.
"There were times," I admitted softly, "when I thought my father did not love me. Boromir was always his favorite..."
"You know that's not true, Faramir," Eowyn said firmly.
After a time, I nodded. "He did not show it much, but, in my heart, I always knew," I whispered. "And I loved them too...so much..."
"I know," Eowyn replied. "I see it in your eyes..."
"I miss them," I said softly, feeling a lone tear slide down my cheek.
"I know, my love," said my wife, reaching up and wiping away my tear. Seeing her loving, sympathetic face, and feeling her gentle touch, did what learning of the death of my father, and even seeing his final resting place, had not done. I began to sob. Eowyn's arms wrapped around my neck, and I felt her hot tears soak into my clothing. We held each other as we cried for my lost father and brother, for Theoden, for all the others taken by the War, and for those of us left behind.
Eventually, my tears stopped, and I pulled away, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I reached over and wiped the tears from Eowyn's face with a watery smile. "Thank you, beloved," I said softly.
Eowyn smiled back at me. "You'd do the same for me, Faramir," she replied. "Come now, my darling. It's time to go."
As I gazed at her, I felt the hole in my heart left by the loss of my family fill with love for the woman who stood before me, so simple, yet so beautiful, the shieldmaiden of Rohan, now mine to claim. Our new life together was waiting. She was right--it was time.
I reached out and pulled Eowyn in for a gentle kiss, then turned back to Denethor's pyre and touched the name on the urn once more. "Namarie, Father," I whispered, with a small smile for the man I had loved. Then, taking the hand of my beloved, I turned and we left the tomb of my father, never looking back.
Thanks for reading "Left Behind"—hope you enjoyed!
A Tale of Faramir
AN: I am The Author Formerly Known As SI3CGinMON. Due to password loss, I've set up this account. Other works of mine may still be seen under SI3CGinMON, but I'll be moving my story, "Evil's Point," to this pen name. Here's a new tale for your enjoyment! This is a little angsty short story about Faramir mourning the deaths of Boromir and Denethor. Set after the War of the Ring—contains spoilers! Thanks for reading, and enjoy!
I stood at the entrance to the House of the Stewards, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in my hand. About a month had passed since the end of the War of the Ring. Eowyn and I had come to Minas Tirith so that I could meet with Aragorn about matters concerning Ithilien, which I was appointed prince over. We were almost through with the long hours of planning and negotiating. There was just one more thing I needed to do. I needed to pay my father a visit.
I had heard the tale several times of the madness of Denethor. Somehow, though, it didn't seem real. I had been refusing to grieve, busying myself with my wife and new princedom. It had been the same when I had seen Boromir's boat glide toward me that night. There had simply been too much else for me to think about, and besides, I had to lead my company of Rangers. I'd never really even cried for him. I simply went about my business as if everything was normal, but there was a hole in my heart where my father and brother had been, and it refused to be filled.
Now, I slowly moved toward the entrance to the house of the dead, feeling an urge to just turn and flee. But no—that would only make matters worse in the long run. I needed some kind of closure. Steeling myself, feeling like I was about to enter some huge battle, I leaned my weight on the heavy stone door. It slid slowly open, grinding against the stone of the floor.
It took my eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dimness. When they did, I saw, feet away from me, the first of many long, low stone slabs. This slab was blackened, as if it had been scorched by fire, and on it sat a large stone urn. The urn was decorated with the Seal of the Stewards, and bore my father's name and lineage through many generations. Inside, the ashes from Denethor's pyre rested.
I forced myself to take one step, then another. In a few moments I found myself kneeling by the stone slab. I laid my flowers on the lid of the urn, and my hand came up to trace my father's name engraved in the stone. Two fingers rested lightly on the "R" of "DENETHOR". My head bowed, forehead leaning against the cold slab my father's urn rested on. "Father..." I whispered, caressing the side of the urn gently. My voice caught in my throat, but the tears hung unreleased in my eyes, refusing to fall. I felt the present day slipping away from me as an old memory came to my mind...
"Step! Thrust! Block! Excellent! Excellent, my son!"
I watched, perched on a hay bale, as Father and Boromir performed their customary weekly swordfight, impatiently clutching my wooden practice sword in my hand. Today was a very exciting day for me. Today, I would be allowed to swordfight with my brother with real weapons for the first time.
Denethor was laughing, one arm wrapped around Boromir's shoulders, the other hand clutching the pommel of his sword, whose point trailed on the ground. He smiled as he saw me, and raised his sword. "Ah, Faramir! Are you ready for your match with Boromir?"
"Yes, Father!" I cried out, excitement shining in my seven-year-old eyes. I ran to the weapons shed, flinging my wooden sword into the barrel where the other training swords rested and skidding to a halt before the beginners' metal swords. I scanned the collection of lovingly-tended, shining blades eagerly. Finally, I selected a short blade with a leather pommel. I lifted it from the hanger it rested on and stood back, taking a moment to position my hand properly around the blade. I raised it to block position, then gave a few quick thrusts at the air, crying, "GONDOR! GONDOR!"
Suddenly, Boromir was there, laughing at my enthusiasm, picking up his own sword and turning to face me. "Come on, brother. Come test your mettle against the Iron Fist of Gondor!" he jokingly boasted.
"You may be an iron fist, but I'm the Lightning Bolt of Gondor!" I answered, swiping my sword through the air.
Boromir laughed. "Come on, to the field!"
"To the field!" I crowed in reply, hefting my sword into the air and rushing out after my brother. Soon, we faced each other on the small practice field, Denethor standing off to one side, doling out last-minute advice.
"Now, bow to each other," Denethor ordered. We did so, then stepped away from each other, swords raising to defensive positions.
"Are you ready?" asked Boromir, moving his sword back to attack.
"Yes!" I grinned in response.
The rest of our fight was a blur of sweat and joyful competition. I felt like I was on top of the world. It was a thrill to be able to swordfight with the brother who was, in my eyes, the best at everything he did. For a few minutes, I didn't feel like simply "Boromir's younger brother," the unfavorite son, the one who was shunted aside from father's attention whenever Boromir learned a new fighting technique. When we swordfought, it was as equals.
That was when it happened. As I struck at Boromir's sword arm, his sword shifted in his grasp and his unprotected forearm ended up in the path of my sword as he moved to catch it. I tried to stop, but it was too late to pull back. As I watched in horror, my sword sliced into Boromir's arm.
Shocked, I cried out as Boromir yelled in pain, dropping his sword. Mine fell almost on top of his as I lunged forward to my brother who was now on his knees, babbling apologies. Boromir's face was ashen and blood was spurting from the deep gash. As I stared in horror at the wound I had caused, Denethor sprang forward with a cry of dismay, knocking me aside.
"Boromir! Boromir! My son, speak to me!!!!"
But Boromir would not speak. Slowly, his eyes closed, and he toppled over onto the grass, unconscious.
Denethor began shouting orders to those who stood watching us, scooping Boromir into his arms with suprising strength, sending some running for the healers, others to alert those in Ecthelion. I reached up and put a hand on Denethor's arm. "Father..."
To my surprise, Denethor whirled around and glared at me in fury. "How dare you!!!" he shouted. "How dare you harm your brother!!! This is your fault, and now he's dying!! You took my wife from me and now you would take my son? I cannot stand you!! Get out of my sight!! NOW!!!"
Stunned, tears glimmering in my eyes, I stared as Denethor whirled around and carried Boromir from the practice field. Slowly, I backed toward the gate, aware that all those that remained around the field were staring at me in shock. I turned and fled.
Night had fallen by the time someone found me. I had taken refuge in the market, curled up into a ball, sobbing beneath a fruit vendor's unoccupied stand. No one seemed to notice me—no one, that is, except my brother.
"Faramir?"
Sniffling, I looked up, and seeing Boromir, arm bandaged and done up in a sling, I shrank away in fright.
"Boromir! I...are you all right?"
"I will be fine," smiled Boromir. "The cut was not too bad."
"Oh, Boromir...I...I am so sorry," I choked. "Please...forgive me..."
Boromir sat down beside me. "I do forgive you, brother. What happened was an accident. It was not your fault." But as he reached out a hand to comfort me, I pulled away.
"That's...that's not what Father said," I sniffed.
Boromir frowned. "What did he say?"
As I related what Denethor had shouted at me, Boromir's face became grave and sad. As I finished, tears began to slide down my cheeks again and I let out a sob.
"Oh, Faramir..." Boromir murmured, looking down at me with an odd expression on his face. He reached over and pulled me into a one-armed embrace, and my head fell onto his shoulder as I sobbed.
After a few minutes, my tears quieted. Boromir squeezed my shoulders and murmured in my ear. "I don't care what Father said. It was not your fault. I should have been more careful. You do not have the experience that I do yet, and I shouldn't have let my guard down.."
"But..."I sniffled. "He said it was my fault, he said he can't stand me!!"
Boromir sighed. "Father loves you, Faramir. He just...has trouble remembering it sometimes."
I sat there, feeling the roughness of Boromir's woolen tunic against my cheek, pondering what he had said. "A—are you sure?" I asked in a very small voice.
Boromir turned my face toward his. "Far, I am very sure," he said. "Remember how proud of you he was when you learned that sword move last week?"
"Yes," I nodded.
"He would not have been so proud of you if he didn't love you. Trust me."
I looked at Boromir with doubt in my eyes, unsure.
Boromir sighed. "You know what, little brother? I think you need to go have a talk with Father."
So I found myself, ten minutes later, beside Boromir as we stood before Denethor, my brother having just told him what had happened when he found me. Denethor rose from his chair and came towards me, his expression unreadable. My lips quivered as my throat tightened. Surely, he was about to punish me for hurting Boromir! Frightened tears came to my eyes as my father raised his hand, as if to hit me...and pulled me with one arm into a hug.
"My son." I felt the rumble in his chest as he spoke, heard the loving words he murmured with such care. "I...I am sorry I caused you pain today, Far."
I pulled back and gazed up into my father's eyes. What I saw there surprised me. There was worry and concern in those eyes...concern for me.
"But Father, shouldn't I be the one apologizing? I hurt Boromir!" I protested despairingly.
"Of course not, Faramir," Denethor insisted, kneeling to my level. "I know I frightened you today after you accidentaly hurt your brother. I was worried for him, and I did not stop to think of what I was doing to you. It was my mistake. I love you, Faramir, very much, and I did not intend to hurt you."
"But..."I protested, a tear sliding down my cheek.
Denethor shook his head and placed his hand on my cheek, wiping away my tear with his thumb. "Stop it, now. Boromir will be fine. It was not a bad wound. And neither he nor I blame you for it."
"Not in the least," Boromir agreed, placing a hand on my shoulder.
"Do you accept my apology for hurting you today, my son?" asked Denethor, smiling caringly at me.
I felt a warm feeling spread through me, and my heart swelled with love for my father, who cared enough to forgive. I nodded, grinning back, and flung myself into my father's arms.
"I love you, Father," I whispered into his shoulder as Denethor wrapped his arms around me.
"I love you too, Faramir," my father smiled back. And I knew I had been wrong. For Father did love me, no matter what.
I was brought back to the present by a slim hand on my shoulder. "My love?" I heard the voice of Eowyn say softly. Raising my head, I turned to see her standing there, radiant in a dress of all white bound with a golden belt about her waist, with a simple silver circlet on her golden head. Tears filled my eyes as Eowyn slipped her hand into mine and rose me to my feet. "Are you all right?" she inquired softly.
"Better, now that you're here," I told Eowyn as my hand slipped into hers. She sighed and turned to Denethor's slab, bowing her head respectfully. I did too, and for several moments we stood staring at the cold marble slab and the urn resting upon it.
"He was a good man, truly. So was Boromir," I murmured. "But the Shadow got them in the end..."
"The Shadow took many good men," Eowyn agreed.
"There were times," I admitted softly, "when I thought my father did not love me. Boromir was always his favorite..."
"You know that's not true, Faramir," Eowyn said firmly.
After a time, I nodded. "He did not show it much, but, in my heart, I always knew," I whispered. "And I loved them too...so much..."
"I know," Eowyn replied. "I see it in your eyes..."
"I miss them," I said softly, feeling a lone tear slide down my cheek.
"I know, my love," said my wife, reaching up and wiping away my tear. Seeing her loving, sympathetic face, and feeling her gentle touch, did what learning of the death of my father, and even seeing his final resting place, had not done. I began to sob. Eowyn's arms wrapped around my neck, and I felt her hot tears soak into my clothing. We held each other as we cried for my lost father and brother, for Theoden, for all the others taken by the War, and for those of us left behind.
Eventually, my tears stopped, and I pulled away, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders. I reached over and wiped the tears from Eowyn's face with a watery smile. "Thank you, beloved," I said softly.
Eowyn smiled back at me. "You'd do the same for me, Faramir," she replied. "Come now, my darling. It's time to go."
As I gazed at her, I felt the hole in my heart left by the loss of my family fill with love for the woman who stood before me, so simple, yet so beautiful, the shieldmaiden of Rohan, now mine to claim. Our new life together was waiting. She was right--it was time.
I reached out and pulled Eowyn in for a gentle kiss, then turned back to Denethor's pyre and touched the name on the urn once more. "Namarie, Father," I whispered, with a small smile for the man I had loved. Then, taking the hand of my beloved, I turned and we left the tomb of my father, never looking back.
Thanks for reading "Left Behind"—hope you enjoyed!