Full Summary: These are the tales that never found their way into the Red Book of Westmarch. The tales of a father's secret past, inherited by his only son. Told through the memoirs of a young man by the name of Faramir and written in the words of Lord Elboron of Emyn Arnen, these tales give the lost account of one of Gondor's most beloved captains and of a father whose hidden youth may serve to bridge the gap between the generations.
Disclaimer: I do not now nor will I ever own The Lord of the Rings or its plot or any of its characters. Nor do I own any non-English languages that appear here. They're all Tolkien's, and no one can ever change that. : )
Author's Note: And speaking of Tolkien's languages—these characters may have a perfect knowledge of Elvish, but I do not. If there are any errors, especially in Elvish grammar, I apologize in advance.
Lost Tales of My Father
Chapter I – 'Túlë mar! Túlë mar!'
The men in front of me carry my father's body.
I do not weep. I am straight-backed and rigid and dignified. I am, as the circumstances require of me, solemn but reserved. Why is it, then, that the nausea of regret consumes my every thought, drives my mind wild with questions, invades every corner of my consciousness?
I think I'm doing a good job of hiding it. I think the pain is kept from my face. But my wife sees it and drifts nearer to me. She slips her hand inside mine, transferring her strength to me. She smiles weakly, but I cannot. Our son walks behind, and I draw comfort from the stillness of his presence. On my right forefinger rests the crafted signet ring of the Stewards.
It is such a heavy burden—one that I somehow did not expect at eighty-one years of age. The guilt of this selfish thought reminds me: My father had the burden at thirty-six. I've seen more than twice that count of summers, had more than twice the amount of experience, and had more than twice as long to prepare myself for the task that I knew would one day fall to me. I have also known Elessar, my liege lord, all my life. The King himself walks further behind in the procession. Is it my imagination that I can feel his old, sad eyes watching me?
A hand falls lightly upon my shoulder and gives it a gentle squeeze, and I turn to see her. Tears course down my sister's face, lit by the flickering of torches along the walls. Suddenly it strikes me how much like our father Nimhiril looks. Her raven tresses settle long and lank about her shoulders. Her expressive grey eyes are filled with the same soft kindness and wisdom, as if they are ageless. Her entire semblance bears the air of a scholar; her arm is cocked in an angle, as if always ready to hold a book. But she has our mother's sharp chin and firm jaw.
As I step through a muddied puddle on the path down Rath Dínen, I glance at my reflection. I can see nothing of my father. I never wanted to be like him, but the comparison pains me now. I see none of the gentle compassion for which he was loved, nor do I behold a shrewd gaze. No intelligent, angled features. None of the quiet precision he held as a swordsman and a Steward. No learnèd, bookish appearance. Nothing.
"Úne dim." Nimhiril takes her hand from my shoulder and smiles even through her unshed tears. "Nalye Faramiro," she finishes in perfect Quenya before stepping back and fading once more into silence.
I never fully grasped Quenya; Sindarin is by far the more graceful tongue. Nimhiril, like my father, learned both while I was sent to Minas Tirith to serve in the Citadel Guard and then on to the Black Lands to serve in the Great Eastern War. But I do know enough Quenya to understand most of her words. What I do not know, I can guess. Be not sad. Thou art Faramir's.
Is that what I truly wish for? To be known as Faramir's own child? Or do I only fear that the love that the people of Gondor held for my father will not be passed unto me because I inherited none of his traits—the traits they held so dear?
The procession passes through the grey twilight and beneath the great archway of Rath Dínen, and we turn to march onward, down to the chambers of the Stewards deep within the Silent Street. Motionless soldiers stand at intervals, guarding our passageway. As we pass by the tombs of my ancestors, I can only stare at their carven likenesses, each poised somberly over its respective sepulcher.
One day I will join these ranks of stone, leaving behind no legacy save for my only son. The resolve that I spent hours building up withers at the thought. How can I face this? How can I confront the shame of my regret, with everyone's eyes fixed on me?
The company finally comes to a halt beside the stone tablet beneath which the remains of the Lord Denethor, my grandfather, still lie. Eryndil, the Captain of the White Company, has the weepiest eyes of all as he and the other men lay my father's body down. The tomb was built beside Denethor's and, on the other side, my mother's.
Slowly, fear halting my breath, I step up to my father's body. My hand leaves my wife's like the parting of a tear from a sorrowful eye. Nimhiril stands beside me now, crying soft, silent tears.
My head bows in pain, and I clutch my chest as a tide of fresh grief and remorse threatens to consume me. It slams against my wavering reservations like a battering ram. Still I hold back my tears. I cannot cry. I will not. I will not.
Eryndil's sobs are like plaintive cries, seeking an answer. I can hear weeping and moaning from further back in the procession, and I suddenly realize how many people loved my father. They loved him more dearly than I ever did.
Elessar steps forward with Queen Evenstar, sorrow glistening in his ancient eyes.
"I fought with his father," Elessar says, "and I fought with his brother. But I was never given the honor of fighting with him." A sigh escapes the King's lips. "This knowledge is something that I almost came to regret when news was brought to me of Faramir's passing. Almost, I repeat. Many say that the true essence of a man is revealed in combat. Nay, it was not so for Faramir. He was no coward; he fought for many a year on Gondor's frontier during the trials of the War of the Ring. But he was no soldier."
I watch silent tears trickle down Nimhiril's pale face, and Eryndil lowers his face into his hands. I have to struggle harder yet to keep my eyes dry, staring at my father's unmoving eyes, closed to the world forever. I struggle, and I listen to Elessar speak.
The King has always understood my father, perhaps better than anyone else alive. Even my mother frequently grew frustrated with his whims or confused by his mannerisms. I never tried to understand him, which I regret now. But there was a bond between my father and Elessar that I could not have explained upon being asked. I am certain that every word that comes out of the King's mouth now is a word of truth.
"Faramir showed his quality in the things he did without a sword in his hand. His devotion to his office and to his family was unsurpassed by that of any whom I have met in my lifetime. His cleverness with language, his fascination with lore, his shrewd discerning of the hearts of men, and his compassion that outweighed all else." Elessar speaks smoothly, but he closes his eyes as if he is in great pain. "He was a man of greater virtue than many who walk this earth, and he was a good friend."
Devotion to his family. Why did I never see such devotion? Was I blinded by my stubbornness? Hadn't he tried to show his affection for me, and didn't I turn it away? Hadn't he tried to talk to me time and time again, and didn't I refuse? I was too old to waste my time arguing with him, I'd thought, but had that feeling risen from nothing more than the bitterness and loneliness of my youth?
"He has now passed away from this land of mortals—passed on to the Halls of Mandos." I struggle to pull myself back to Elessar's words. "There he will be blessed, and it is not for us to decide that he should still be with us. For death itself was presented as a Gift of Men, not as a curse." His eyes meet mine knowingly. "I beg that it puts grieving minds at ease to know that Faramir, who dwelt here carrying a greater burden than most, is at rest with his heart and his mind and his soul."
The King falls into still silence, and for many long moments not a sound disturbs the chamber. Hesitantly, I step forward once more and take from my father's chill hands the white rod of his office, which is now mine to bear. It feels heavy in my hands.
All of a sudden, the sweet peal of a voice lifted in song blooms beside me. I jerk my head around to see Nimhiril with her eyes closed and lips moving to form words in what I know to be Quenya. I cannot catch all of the words, but her voice is so beautiful that I do not care.
"Pella nen, pella nórë,
pella nár, pella vilya.
'Túlë mar! Túlë mar!'
nalla lo fëa.
Rokkomel lina, Atar;
vana, mí collo ninquë.
Pella ëar, pella mor,
tenn' i norë, Valinor."
At last they fall—the tears that I have held back for so long. At first it is only one, then two, and then a multitude of teardrops falling from my eyes onto the lifeless body of my father. With a gentle hand on my shoulder, Elessar pulls me back away from the tomb so that I am next to my wife and my son again.
My entire body shakes as Eryndil and his guards lift my father once more, ceremoniously open the stone vault, and then lower him into the gaping black hole that swallows him up. I lean forward to catch the last glimpse of my father's solemn face before they slide the lid over the tomb with a grating thud.
My knuckles turn as white as the rod that I clutch to my breast. A short, piercing cry of agony tears itself from my lips. As my wife draws me into her loving arms, I can do nothing but hold her and dry my tears with her golden hair.
"Laurelindë," I whisper for her ears alone, "what does any of this mean?"
Laurelindë answers just as softly: "It means that you are your father's son. It means that you are taking your place in the world, as every man must."
I look up and see Barahir, my seventeen-year-old son. He casts his eyes on the floor, but I can tell that he was staring at me moments before. He has never seen me so weak, I think, and I vow that he will never see me this weak again.
"Elboron." I turn towards the gentle voice and see the sad eyes of the King. Queen Evenstar takes my wife by the hand and murmurs to her softly in Elvish. "Heed well my words: Faramir is at peace at last, after having suffered greatly in this world. Your father was a wise and a just man, and he will be received with honor in the Halls of Awaiting."
"I know this, Elessar," say I, turning to face my King without drying my tears. "It is for selfish need only that I shed tears. Selfish regret…"
"Death is not an end, Elboron." My eyes turn to the face of the Queen as she speaks. "It is merely the beginning of a new life. I surrendered all the ages of this world to live only one with those whom I love. To celebrate one life with my husband, my son, and my daughters." She shares a glance with my wife—her daughter. "The grace of the Valar will protect Faramir as it protects us all."
She puts one slender, delicate hand to my cheek and continues in Sindarin. "Grieve not for those who have drifted under the undying grace of the Valar, nor for thyself," she says. "Only live and be free, and then shalt thou find peace within thyself."
"May it be that we all find such peace," Elessar adds in Sindarin as well. I swear that he can see deeper into my being than any other man alive. With a move that is as surprising as it is unexpected, he pulls me close and clasps me in a firm embrace. When he pulls away, I can see a deep sorrow in his eyes, and I know that I am not the only man who grieves for himself.
"My grandfather once saved his life," Eryndil is telling a handful of his guards as I gradually focus my attention on my surroundings once more. His voice is quavering but calmer than it was. "I heard the story so many times in my childhood that I can almost see it in my mind's eye as a memory of my own. During the Siege of Gondor, the Lord Denethor was driven from sanity by the ruin of his sons. Yet though Faramir was mortally wounded, he lived still. Denethor in his madness made to burn himself and his son alive…
"But Peregrin son of Paladin, Ernil i Pheriannath, found my grandfather, who was then in the Citadel Guard. Of course, my grandfather was forbidden to leave his post without the permission of the Lord Denethor, but when Ernil i Pheriannath told him that Lord Faramir was in mortal danger, he hurried to Lord Faramir's aid and helped to save his life."
My eyes find those of Elessar, who is smiling softly as if in reminiscence. I, too, have heard the tale countless times, and I have passed it on to Barahir. Of how Beregond, with the aid of Peregrin and Mithrandir, came to my father's rescue. Of how he slew men in Rath Dínen where we stand even now, violating the sanctity of Silent Street. Of how King Elessar, in his endless mercy, rather than putting Beregond to death as law required, granted him the position of Captain of the White Company that would serve as my father's personal guard in Emyn Arnen.
Eryndil's family has done much for my father. It began with Beregond and continued with Bergil, Eryndil's own father, who gave his life defending Faramir from a rampant mountain troll that blundered its way into Ithilien one day many decades ago. Now as I look at the young Eryndil, weeping silently into his hands, I cannot help but think that one day he might give his life for mine. I pray to the Valar that such a sacrifice is never needed.
And yet, we all have our sacrifices to make, do we not?
Note: I wrote the song in Quenya seen above. This is its loose translation into English:
Pella nen, pella nórë,
(Beyond the water, beyond the land,)
pella nár, pella vilya.
(beyond the fire, beyond the air.)
'Túlë mar! Túlë mar!'
('Come home! Come home!')
nalla lo fëa.
(calls thy spirit.)
Rokkomel lina, Atar;
(Horse-love sings, Father;)
vana, mí collo ninquë.
(fair-haired, in the cloak of white.)
Pella ëar, pella mor,
(Beyond the sea, beyond the dark,)
tenn' i norë, Valinor.
(unto the land, the land of the Valar.)