Author's Note: I do not own The Lord of the Rings, or the characters mentioned therein. (I'm certainly not related in any way to JRR Tolkien.) I am simply borrowing the characters for my own writing fun and purposes. I use some elements from the film, possibly moreso than the books. It's been a while since last reading them. Also, I have somewhat tweaked the timeline just a little bit in certain parts. Please, be lenient with that. Thanks! Enjoy. ~ RK

Scholar, Soldier, and Steward

Faramir was a scholar, not a warrior. At least primarily. The soldier was always his brother's role in life – to protect and defend Gondor and her borders. The second son of Gondor's steward had a slightly different path. He made it his duty to love Gondor, to know her history and to lead the charge to restore her to her former glory. The only hint of that former glory and beauty was in the preserved and unflowering White Tree of the King. He protected Gondor in a very different way from his brother. It was always that way, even in childhood.

He was a young child when he'd crept into his older brother's room, mainly to verify that he wasn't insane. "Boromir?" His older brother shifted in his sleep and mumbled something unintelligible. Then, he settled again. "Boromir!" he said a little louder. This time his brother pushed himself up to only his elbows with a groan.

"What?"

"Did you hear something?" He realized how silly it sounded – not to mention childish – as soon as he asked.

Boromir didn't say anything. He seemed to be trying to listen. When there was nothing heard but the sound of their breathing, he flung himself back down flat on his bed, his head hitting his pillow with a dull thud. "Faramir, what are you—"

But he heard it again in the distance somewhere. "There it was again! Don't you hear it?"

Boromir seemed about to lose his patience. "Listen, I know it's been hard since mother died, but you have to stop with this whole attention—" His head suddenly jerked to an odd angle as though he was listening closely.

Faramir realized what the expression meant. "Do you—"

"Sshh!" his brother hissed. Then, without warning, Boromir sprang into action. He flung his bedding aside and started to get ready. It looked like he was preparing for a battle in Faramir's eyes. He knew that one day his brother would be a great soldier. Right now he looked like he'd been woken up by the alarm signal and was hurriedly and efficiently getting prepared for the call-to-arms to defend the City of Kings. It was glorious.

Boromir had managed to yank on a pair of trousers, tug on his boots, tie his belt, and pick up his sword before he realized that he was forgetting something. His brother. Faramir was too much in awe as he watched Boromir that he almost didn't hear him when he said, "You want to find out what it is?"

Faramir looked down at the floor in embarrassment. "I don't have a weapon." He knew he was a feeble excuse, but it was all he had. He wasn't fond of fighting anyway. He knew he would never be suited for it.

Suddenly there was a dagger hilt in front of him. He looked up and saw that Boromir was holding it out to him. "But…I'm more the scholar type than the fighter."

Boromir smiled at his younger brother. "Even the scholars need to be armed to defend themselves at least. Your brains are worth more than just the might of a man."

"Father doesn't think that."

Boromir snorted. "Don't let him tell you that being knowledgeable is waste. Besides, Faramir, scholar of Gondor," he said, teasingly. "I need your learned mind to figure out where the noise is coming from. Let me handle it from there." Faramir took the dagger from his brother. Boromir started out of his room, leading the way down the corridor. It was almost deserted in the halls this late at night. "Also," Boromir said, "I'm pretty sure that you wouldn't be able to sleep until your curiosity was satisfied."

Faramir fought back a blush. "Would too."

Boromir glanced back at Faramir and noticed that his stance was lazy. "Hold the dagger up," he instructed. He spent another few moments fixing his brother's stance before they continued prowling down the hall. "Always be on guard. You never know if an enemy will come up unexpectedly."

It took them a while to reach the sounds of the disturbance. Faramir gave directions the whole way, knowing that Boromir was simply letting him do so. They ended up going right outside! What they saw there was a rather unexpected sight. It was their father, Denethor, Steward of Gondor. He was at the farthest point away from them, on the very edge of the courtyard. Both brothers stared as they watched their father.

Denethor was flanked by two guards, both of whom were holding torches, which drew the eyesight right to them in the evening's darkness. Their father was kneeling right on the edge of the courtyard, where it was open to the air. From far off in the distance – below their level? – came a reverberating thud of something landing. Had someone jumped? If anyone had felt like it, they could leap from it to a rather sudden and likely painful death somewhere in the streets of a level of Gondor.

"Boromir," Faramir said quietly. "Did our father throw someone off that ledge?"

Boromir shook his head. "He can't be. That'd be ridiculous."

Faramir was unconvinced. "Then, he threw something off!"

However, his brother had come to the right conclusion. Denethor got to his feet again from his kneeling position and instructed one of the guards next to him to "Prepare the torch!" and then he took hold of a wooden chair. Then, at Denethor's signal of "now!" the guard touched the torch to the chair. It started to blaze. Anyone else would have either put down the chair or put out the fire. Not Denethor. He held it higher and started laughing! He stumbled towards the edge of the ledge with the flaming chair.

"Isn't that mother's old chair? The one she used to sit in when one of us was sick?" Faramir asked.

Boromir looked harder at the bizarre image of his father. "Yes, it is." His face furrowed in confusion. "But, why would he—"

Then, Denethor hurled the chair away and over the edge! He got down on his knees again and seemed to freeze in anticipation. Then, there was the sound of impact…and Denethor's laugh turned to hysterics!

Faramir noticed that there wasn't really anything else near their father for him to set aflame. However, the guard's torch was still lit. Did their father plan to burn something else? There was nothing else to burn. He began looking around the courtyard. In his distraction, he didn't notice that his father and his two accomplice guards had left the edge of the ledge and was walking back towards the entrance to the Great Hall, where Boromir and Faramir waited with weapons drawn concealed in the shadows.

Boromir tried to pull on his brother's arm. "Come on, little brother. We should go back inside."

Then, with horrifying clarity, Faramir realized what was directly between them and their father that was still burnable. His eyes widened in terror.

"The Tree!" he gasped.

He tore himself from his brother's grasp and charged forward with his dagger. He charged silently. His father and his guards stopped before the White Tree of Gondor. "Prepare the torch." The guard hesitated. "This thing hasn't had a single flower on it for decades and decades! When a forest is dead, it's time to burn it down to make room for a new one."

Faramir had raised his dagger as he began to mount his attack. The guard hesitated again, and the boy took this as his chance. He found himself standing defensively between the fire and the tree. "No! You can't burn the Tree!"

"Faramir!" shouted Denethor. Faramir knew the tone well. It was the same disapproving tone he'd used towards him since he'd shown more interest in ancient parchment than clean blades. "What do you think—"

"You can't destroy the Tree! It's a symbol of hope to everyone in Gondor."

"It's a symbol of despair and abandonment!"

Faramir stood firm. "When the true King of Gondor returns it will bloom again."

Denethor sneered at his younger son. "The line is broken! If there were a king left for Gondor he would have come long ago."

"Burning the Tree will only tell everyone that there is no hope! That Gondor's given up hope. You can't do that!"

Denethor reached over and grabbed the torch from the guard. He towered over his son. "The people of Gondor have already given up hope."

"I haven't," he said, though his voice began to shake a little, the dagger in his grip trembled. "As long as there is one person left in Gondor who still has hope that our king will return to us, this Tree must stand to welcome him!"

"I've had enough of this, Faramir!" Denethor snarled. He moved faster than Faramir realized. He found himself sprawled on the ground, his dagger useless on the stone. He stared up as his father approached the White Tree.

Faramir closed his eyes.

"Boromir?"

Faramir opened his eyes and saw his brother was standing next to their father. A moment later, he noticed that the torch was not in his father's hand. Boromir held it. Faramir didn't know what to think, or what to feel. The image of his brother holding both a sword and a torch was indeed a strikingly powerful image.

"Boromir, what are you—"

Then, his brother did something wonderful. He threw down the torch into the pool of water which surrounded the trunk of the White Tree. The hiss of the flame's abrupt end sounded like the Tree was admonishing Gondor's Steward in the suddenly enclosing darkness.

"Faramir's right, father."

In the darkness Faramir heard someone heavily stomp away from the Tree. By the other accompanying footfalls, he assumed it was his father and his guards. He was about to get to his feet, when he was helped up in the darkness. "Alright, now?"

"I told you I'm not a fighter," Faramir said, as he righted his balance.

Boromir chuckled softly. It was a sound that made Faramir think that the night was a little warmer. "Seemed to me you did a good job just now fighting for your Tree." He threw his arm around his brother's scrawny shoulders. "I think there's a little bit of the soldier in you, yet, little brother."

Faramir didn't agree. He'd always be the scholar, and Boromir would always be the soldier.

Until now.

Faramir drew his sword, trying to muster up the courage of battle that solely belonged to his departed brother. To Boromir. He felt like an intruder in this armor. It fit him poorly, and it felt foreign to him. It was not that he was untrained in battle, or untrained in riding. But with Boromir's death, the duties typically taken up with great pride and authority by his brother were now his to command. In that moment, as he was about to advance into a pointless battle, he realized for sure that he would never see his brother again. He had to be the soldier now.

And so he led this futile charge towards Osgiliath on the orders of his father. He led his group of soldiers to their deaths, and he knew it. How he would have liked to meet the coming King of Gondor. He'd seen a flower on the Tree after he'd left his father in the Great Hall. The sight had made him come up short and he stared. And in an instant, he knew that the King was returning to Gondor.

He was jarred back to the present as he saw the volley of arrows flying towards him and his charge. His arm holding his sword aloft began to lower. His focus was on one arrow alone, and Faramir, second son of Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, was terrified.

But he was a soldier of Gondor now. His brother could not do this anymore. His sword arm rose again. If he was about to die, he was going to die a soldier. A soldier that defended Gondor to his last breath. A soldier that never had the chance to meet his king.

He didn't feel the arrow pierce him, nor did he feel the second one a moment later. All he knew was the terror of battle, and the sadness of the wasted lives he had been forced to lead to death, all at his father's whim. He closed his eyes, wondering if he would follow his brother's path in death.

Then, he was wet with something. He wasn't sure exactly what it was. Faramir, soldier of Gondor, struggled to open his eyes. Whatever was wet on his face made it difficult. It blurred his vision. He saw a shape over him, and it held a torch. He was confused for only a moment, wondering why the image looked so familiar. Then he remembered just how his father had looked so long ago, standing over him in the darkness by the White Tree, with a torch in his hand.

Was this dark shape his father?

He closed his eyes, trying to blink the moisture away. He was so weak that even opening them again took a great effort. Before he could even open his eyes, Faramir suddenly felt heat. Unbearable heat.

Then, there was noise. A horse. Shouting. It was so loud. He turned his head to the side, away from the heat, and once again struggled to open his eyes.

He saw the astonished face of his father. "Faramir!" Denethor exclaimed in a surprised whisper. All he could do was stare through hooded eyes at his father. He was struggling too much to simply breathe, to keep his eyes open. He doubted that his voice would even obey him anyway.

Distantly, he was aware that his father's face twisted, and his voice began to cry out in pain. Then, he saw his father was on fire.

He closed his eyes, the effort to keep them open defeating him. When he managed to open them again, which seemed like days later, but could only have been moments, his father was gone. All he heard before succumbing to unconsciousness again was someone's voice. "So passes Denethor…" Then, the heat, the wetness, the pain vanished and he closed his eyes.

When he opened them, it was with much less of a struggle than before. Somewhere in his mind he knew that he'd been in and out of awake and asleep states. However, for how long this went on Faramir was completely unsure. What he was sure of, however, was his location, and that was the Houses of Healing.

It seemed years to Faramir before he was able and permitted by the healers to rise from his bed. "You are recovering from arrow wounds, my lord," he'd been told by one. "You've had a terrible fever. It is unwise to be moving until it has stabilized again," said another to him. But he was tired of waiting to heal, he wanted to see what had become of his city. However, the healers were stubborn and would not allow him to wander around the grounds without someone accompanying him.

Faramir stubbornly refused to lean on the healer, and he also had grown far too proud to use the wall for support. "My lord," began the healer at his side. "Why are you so determined to go outside today? The air has been coming through your window every afternoon."

"Because it is stifling in there," he retorted, in a tone that he instantly regretted. "I cannot stay hidden away when my city is in ruin."

"Your people would want you strong again, my lord, if you expect to lead them."

He stopped walking for a moment. The realization struck him suddenly. He was the last of his family's line. The very last. His mother had long been dead. Then, his brother only recently. And he had no proof, yet, but he knew from the lack of discussion near him about it that his father was also dead. The thought struck Faramir so strongly that he was forced to lean on the wall.

"My lord?"

Faramir swallowed thickly. "I am now responsible for this city. It is my duty." The healer nodded at him. Then, he opened his mouth hesitantly before closing it again. "Something you wish to say?" The healer again hesitated. "Speak."

The healer took a breath. "My lord, there has been whispers of…of the return of our king."

He didn't know why, but these words came as a relief to Faramir. "Really? Why would such a thing be whispered?"

"There was a man in the Houses – a ranger. He had fought in the battle. He treated the wounded." Faramir's interest was peaked. He knew the legends. "He used athelas."

"The hands of the King are the hands of a healer," he whispered to himself.

"Precisely, my lord."

Faramir allowed himself a small smile. He had thought the arrival of Gondor's lost king was imminent when he saw that solitary blossom on the White Tree. He nodded to himself. He was right. "I saw a bloom on the Tree of the King before I rode out of the city." The healer nodded, encouragingly. "It must be true. Where is this man now?"

"He has ridden to Mordor with a great host."

Once again, Faramir was struck with the thought that he may not ever be destined to meet the long-lost king. If he had gone to Mordor to make a stand, then there was a great possibility that he would not return. The care of Gondor would then rest with him. That thought weighed heavily on Faramir as he reached to push open the door that led outside, only to give in to the healer coming forward to do it for him.

He stepped out of the doors and breathed in the outside air, closing his eyes in appreciation of the breeze. And then he opened his eyes and he found that all of his cares, all of his worry, his thoughts of grief had vanished. Everything in his perception narrowed down to the figure who stood overlooking the Pelennor Fields. She stood tall and alone, her pale skin nearly the same shade as the white stones forming the walls of Minas Tirth, and her long, flowing golden hair waving in the gentle breeze like a herald's banner. He instantly perceived her beautiful. Faramir stared at her for a long moment before he was able to speak, but not to her.

"Tircoi," he addressed the healer by name. "Who is she?"

He was still gazing at her, that he did not see the barely perceptible smile on Tircoi's face. "That is the lady Éowyn of Rohan."

"How is she in Gondor?" he wondered aloud.

"She was wounded in the battle where she killed the Witch-King." He saw that Faramir's expression shifted to something between respect and horror. "She defended her fallen uncle, King Théoden, from him. With her king's death, the throne passes to her brother. And with him, Lord Éomer, now ridden to Mordor, she spends every day looking to the East, waiting to see him return."

Faramir looked tenderly upon her. "A warrior-maiden of Rohan," he mused aloud. His eyes shifted to the ground for a moment in thought before he gazed upon her again. Then, he noticed that she had wrapped her arms tightly around her body and stood stubbornly in the breeze, shivering. And as her beauty grew in his estimation of her, so did his realization of her sorrow. She was like him, he realized. One without family to watch over her. A soldier, however unexpected she was. But, ultimately, alone, and awaiting someone's return with hope. They were both waiting for their kings, both keeping a hopeful vigil for their returns.

Had anyone welcomed her to Gondor? There were other duties of a soldier than battle. "Tircoi, would you fetch something for me?" he asked.

"Of course, my lord."

"My mother's custom while watching for my father to return from a journey was to await him from the edge of the citadel wearing a very specific cloak. Do you know of it?"

Tircoi nodded. "It was blue, was it not? With silver stars."

Faramir nodded to him. Then, Tircoi was gone. Faramir then grew bold and approached her silently. He stood just behind her, the tips of her flowing hair just brushing him in the breeze. Her shivering had not ceased, and she drew her arms tighter around herself. She did not notice his presence. She only had senses with which to focus East.

When Tircoi returned with the mantle he'd requested, Faramir took it and enveloped her in its weight and warmth. She started and turned to gaze at him with fiery grey eyes. He offered her a gentle smile before he too looked to the East, trying to tell her without words he meant no harm to her. She understood him and relaxed beside him as she turned her attention back to the East. Faramir thought that this beautiful and melancholy soldier of Rohan looked royal as she awaited the kings' return with him.

The return was quiet and the whispers of Gondor's king returning increased when it was said that he helped to heal the two half-lings that Faramir remembered from what seemed like ages past. The hands of a healer indeed. He remembered Frodo Baggins and Samwise Gamgee, his honored gardener. The half-ling that he since learned had saved him from being burned alive informed him of their recovery. Pippin, the dark-haired half-ling sworn to the service of Gondor, was practically dragging him towards where Frodo was resting in recovery when he encountered a small group in the corridor near the older half-ling's doorway.

There in front of the door was quite the collection of races from all throughout Middle-Earth. There was an elf, a dwarf, another half-ling, two men, Samwise Gamgee, Mithrandir, and Éowyn. This newest half-ling must have just brought her to this group, just as Pippin had brought him. He watched as Éowyn's grey eyes grew moist with tears and she embraced the equally emotional long-haired man. Faramir knew that he must be her brother, Éomer. He watched their embrace for a moment. Almost everyone's attention was on this reunion with the exception of a certain wizard, who came forward towards him and Pippin. With him came the other man. He was dark-haired, but with a noble carriage despite having to mask battle weariness. Even before then stopped in front of him, and before he could be introduced, Faramir bowed his head reverently. He simply knew.

"My King," the soldier of Gondor spoke with quiet respect.

"Not yet, my lord," he replied. It was not the first thing he would have thought the King of Gondor would have said to him, but it was not unwelcome. Faramir looked at the man and saw the hint of a smile on his worn face.

Faramir was stunned. He swore that he'd heard that voice long ago. "I know you," he said. "You have been here before many years ago." He looked at the man he knew to be his king. "You were then called Thorongil." The man nodded. "The respected captain who trained many of our men in battle and the sword."

"I did long ago and returned briefly for a time," he replied. He seemed to wait for something.

"If you, who were once my brother's captain, are my king, then why did the White Tree fail to blossom when you were here?" The man before him tilted his head and continued to gaze at him like he was a puzzle to solve. He was measuring him somehow. Then he seemed satisfied with whatever he had concluded for he replied.

"I recently traveled with a man from Gondor who referred to me in the last moments before his death as his brother, captain, and king." Faramir swallowed thickly. His king was with Boromir when he died. The knowledge both brought him a fresh sting to remember his brother's death, but the words also brought him peace. "And during our travels," the man continued, "he spoke of a brother. Are you he?"

Faramir nodded.

The man before him smiled. "I had thought it." There was a moment of silence as he looked at the wizard, who nodded slowly, before he looked at Faramir again. "Walk with me a moment."

Faramir had no choice but to obey. He listened as his king spoke. "It seems that I have need of a steward. With your brother's death and the recent loss of your father it would be your title."

Faramir stopped walking, causing the other man to pause and turn to face him. "My king, I am only a scholar. Hardly fitting for the requirements of a steward."

It was a long while before he received a response. "When I assisted in your recovery, I was told of how you had come to your injuries. You were a soldier obeying your lord's bidding. Yet I recall a time when the younger of Denethor's sons defended his king to his steward. Am I mistaken?"

Faramir was now gazing intently at this man. "You are not."

He nodded. "Such loyalty to an absent king is remarkable and worthy of respect. I would be honored if you would be my steward." With that, the soon-to-be King of Gondor began to walk past him the way they came.

Faramir hung his head as he turned. "I am not suited for it, my lord."

The other man stopped, and turned just enough so that he could see Faramir. "I think the position would suit you well. I will need both a tactician and advisor, and you, Faramir, are both a scholarly man and a soldier. Who is better suited than yourself?" With that, he turned away again and continued back to the group in front of the half-ling's door.

Faramir watched as the door opened to reveal Tircoi, who said something to Mithrandir. He watched as the wizard entered the room. He heard then, the sound of laughter. Then, the others that had gathered began to enter the room. Pippin with the other half-ling. Then, the dwarf and the elf. Then, his king. Lastly, the gardener, Samwise Gamgee.

There were only two left outside the room, and they noticed him. Éowyn was leading the man that strongly resembled her towards him. "My lady, Éowyn," Faramir greeted her approach.

"May I introduce you to my brother, Éomer?" Faramir bowed to Éomer, then caught Éowyn's gaze. She smiled radiantly at him and where her sadness dwelled in her bearing, there was left only beauty.

Faramir had never expected to live to see the return of Gondor's king. He also did not expect that he would serve as his steward. He smiled to himself as King Elessar Telcontar spoke the words that he had suggested – the very same that long ago Elendil spoke. "Et Eärello Endorenna utúlien. Sinome maruvan ar Hildinyar tenn' Ambar-metta!"

The White Tree's blossoms were falling like snow on the people gathered to watch their new king's crowning. It was spring in a way. A time of rebirth.

Beside him was the Lady Éowyn of Rohan. He had asked her to remain in Gondor at his side. She refused at first, pleading the necessity to make peace with her uncle's death and burial, and to witness her brother ascend his own throne in Meduseld. Faramir was at first disheartened, until she had promised to return to Gondor, saying to him, "I shall be a shieldmaiden no longer, nor vie with the great Riders, nor take joy only in the songs of slaying. I will be a healer, and love all things that grow and are not barren."

Shortly afterwards the King of Gondor, though not yet crowned, had approached Faramir and offered him the land of Ithilien in which to settle. The idea then grew in the young steward's mind to plant his lady a garden upon which she could love all that grew within it. He had then sought the counsel of Samwise Gamgee, who was generous in his knowledge.

After King Théoden had been laid to rest, the newly crowned King Éomer returned to Gondor with his sister, whom he brought to Faramir's side. Faramir was unaware of the King of Rohan's knowledge of his affection for Éowyn, but knew the other man must know when the only words he spoke to him was a veiled order to instruct her in the traditions, lore, and manners of Gondor. Faramir had bowed to Éomer, King of Rohan, and then accepted the hand of Éowyn, the White Lady.

Many years later, Faramir journeyed home from Minas Tirith to Ithilien. The years since the War of the Ring had transformed him.

After his wife, the Lady Éowyn, had exhausted and tested the limits of his knowledge of lore and legend, she had borne him a son, Elboron, whose curious mind tested his scholarly father with each day when he eagerly asked for a new tale from the old legends from the tales of Númenor, to the stories of Gondor, to the adventures of Half-lings and Dwarves, to the songs of the Elves. And in this way, Faramir remained a scholar.

He would often ride with the men of Gondor to battles against the remaining groups of orcs and Uruk-hai that survived the War of the Ring. It was still his duty to defend the kingdom that he loved so well. Only by now, he did not feel that he was trying to take his brother's place in the ranks. He knew it was his own choice to be so. It was his honor to defend the land of his king. And in this way, Faramir remained a soldier.

He continued thusly to serve Elessar, his noble King of Gondor. He performed his duties well and with honor. Were the king to travel, he would guard the kingdom well. When called for advice, he would advise. When called to consult on tactics, he would do so at the bidding of his king. And in this way, Faramir remained a steward.

Long after his death, he was respected and remembered in song and tale.

He was Faramir, scholar, soldier, and Steward of Gondor.

End Notes: I went with the translation of Faramir's mother's name, Finduilas, to mean "flowing hair." This is why he is reminded of his mother when he sees Eowyn. The healer's name, Tircoi, comes from Elvish words to translate together as "Life-watcher." I know that in the books Faramir is supposed to be awake when Aragorn treats him, and there are other things I tweaked and messed with, but again I ask that you bear with me. I do quote Tolkien's text several times throughout this story. I, obviously, do not really own that which I directly quote. Thank you for reading. I hope everyone enjoyed it. Please leave a review to let me know what you thought! (Please keep your flames and abuse to yourself, though. There's no call for them. Know the difference between constructive criticism and abuse, please.) Thank you! ~ RK