The Long Road Home
By Miriath
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Notes on Story:
Disclaimer: I'm not Tolkien. This story was made purely for the joy of fun and writing and no profit will be made off of it!
Summary: The story of Faramir's life. Features inputs from Denethor, Finduilias, Boromir, and Aragorn.
Characters: Faramir, Aragorn, Denethor, Boromir, Eowyn, and Pippin.
Notes: Can be consider AU if you're really picky about accuracy to the books!
Warnings: Implied child abuse.
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Chapter 1
A Vow
Denethor, for the first time in his life, was nervous. He stood alone in a small room located on the seventh level of Minas Tirith. His only connection with the world was through a small window, in which you could look out over the entire city. His breathing was rapid, sounding as if he had just run the distant between Minas Tirith and Osgilliath.
He wiped his forehead, almost as one who was wiping away sweat, but there was no sweat to be found. In fact, the room he was standing in was quite cool, for a hot summer's day in the White City.
"Everything is fine, nothing has gone wrong," Denethor assured himself for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Though this was nothing to stop his nerves, for he soon began pacing the small distance of the room, his booted feet wearing away the carpet on the floor.
"It has been hours since they last came! Something must have gone wrong!" Denethor thought as he sat down, his right hand tapping loudly on the armrest of the chair. He shook his head, "No, nothing has gone wrong, you will see." He leaned heavily on the chair tipping it so that he was balancing on its back legs.
Suddenly, the door flew open and a healer stepped in. "My Lord," he said, bowing to Denethor.
Denethor stood up, cursing himself silently for his ignorance. "What news?" He asked, eyeing the young healer warily.
"She is not doing well, my Lord, Ioreth says that she will not live throughout the night," the young boy said, staring tiredly at the floor.
Denethor suddenly swayed and collapsed clumsily back into the chair in which he has just been sitting. He looked up at the boy, who was now eyeing his Lord with curious eyes. "May...May I visit her, one last time?" Denethor asked in a raspy voice.
"Yes, my Lord, if you will just follow me," the boy said, before walking out the door.
Denethor stood and followed the young lad down one of the many halls in the spacious Houses of Healing. The boy stopped outside of a door and gestured to his Steward that he should enter. Denethor, in a dazed stupour, walked inside of the room, closing the door behind him.
He walked and stood beside the bed and looked down on his wife. Findulias looked horrible, not at all looking like she had when they had wed many years before. Her flowing black hair looked stringy and was loosing some of its once jet black colour. Her body, once lean and fit, now looked as withered and as pale as the White Tree. She was asleep, much to Denethor's relief, for he knew not what words of parting to say to his wife.
He cursed himself for being so blind to his wife's silent despair. In the last few months Denethor had been too busy to even notice his wife. He saw her often times walking in the gardens with Faramir and Boromir, most likely telling the young boys stories of Numenor and lays of far away lands. He had been too blind to notice the way that his wife had looked South each time that they passed by the window, searching for some element of the sea that was nowhere to be found. Too blind to notice the way his wife's face fell at each mention of her beloved Dol Amroth.
Then now, in the time that mattered most to him and Findulias, he could offer no words of parting, no words of comfort. Just sit in silent despair as his wife had done often in her last few months alive.
The slightest movement from the bed had Denethor off of the chair he had been sitting in. He ran over and kneeled beside his wife, "Findulias," he said gently, stroking back his wife's dark hair, "please come to me."
At these words Findulias blinked open her pale blue eyes that mirrored the colour of the sea itself. She smiled faintly at the sight of her husband, but she remained silent.
"Oh Findulias! What a coward I have been in these last few months! I fear I have been blind to everything but my own business, if only I could have seen what you wanted! Now time, it seems has turned against us, and I can not bring to you what you love the most! Forgive me, my dear wife, so that we may part in peace and not despair!" Denethor said, kissing his wife's cheek.
Findulias eyes seemed to drain of some despair at the apology Denethor gave, but there was still much left. She lifted a weak hand to wipe away at the tears that were now tracing rivers down Denethor's face. "I would never dream of parting in despair, my love," she said warily.
Denethor let out a long breath that he did not know he had been holding, and picked up his wife's hand and laid it on his heart. "You will always be here for me," he said softly.
"Please, if you would, bring in the boys. I wish to see them," Findulias said before leaning her head back on the pillow and shutting her eyes.
Denethor, extremely reluctant to leave his wife, crossed over to the door and looked out into the hallway. "The Lady requests her children!" He barked to whoever may have been listening.
A few minuets later the door opened and Boromir entered carrying in his arms a tired Faramir. Boromir walked over to the bed and set Faramir down on it. The five-year-old blinked tiredly at his father, his grey eyes, the color of a turbulent sea, were currently hidden behind locks of sandy blond curls that cascaded down his face.
Boromir turned and looked from Findulias to Denethor. "What is wrong with mother?" He asked Denethor. Curiosity welled up inside of his blue eyes.
Denethor looked at Boromir and slung his arm around his elder son's shoulder, "Mother is not well," he said, staring Boromir in the eyes.
"Is she sick?" Piped up Faramir, who was also looking at Denethor with great curiosity.
"Of course she is sick, Faramir, why else would she be in the Houses of Healing?!" Denethor replied with an exasperated tone edging into his voice. Faramir looked down and fell silent. Denethor could not but feel a little bit of remorse to his youngest son. He had never particularly liked Faramir, for what reason he did not know. It might have been that Faramir had been born premature, for when he was born he had had numerous amounts of health problems. It might have been that Faramir's birth had taken much of the strength and life out of Findulias.
"Is she going to die?" Boromir asked sadly, looking down at his mother. Tears had begun to well up inside of the ten-year-old's eyes as he contemplated his mother's death.
"I'm afraid yes, my son," Denethor replied in a solemn voice. He then took Boromir and hugged him close, he could hear Boromir sobbing gently into his shoulder, and Denethor had to control his own emotions so he would not let the tears fall.
Denethor looked up to the bed and saw that Faramir had snuggled up closer to Findulias, who was now awake. She had one arm wrapped around her second son and was gently murmuring to him. Her eyes were twinkling and a smile was alight on her face as she gently stroked his long and tangled hair.
Denethor suddenly stood up, his emotions in an outrage. Findulias, seeing that her husband had aroused out of his silent revere, whispered a few words, "Please take care of him."
The wife of the Steward then sank back onto the bed. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, before they suddenly closed and never reopened. Denethor let out a howl of range and despair as he watched his wife die before his eyes. He ran over to the bed, threw Faramir to the floor and began whispering pleas to his wife.
"Please come back!" He moaned, gently stroking his wife's hair. "Please."
When Findulias did not respond he rounded on Faramir, who was leaning against the wall, Boromir by his side. "Thou hast stolen my wife's love!" He yelled, pointing at the young child.
Faramir nervously moved closer into Boromir's embrace, his young eyes wide and fearful. Denethor's eyes were dripping with unchecked anger and malice as he stared daggers at his youngest child. Faramir, again, shifted uncomfortably under his father's gaze, his grey eyes focused on the floor.
Denethor whirled around, his eyes blurry and tear stained. He moved over towards the window and sat down, his eyes looking out over the vast expanse of Minas Tirith. The sun was setting in the West, making that city glimmer in the various colours of purple, orange, and red. A single tear ran down the side of his face, its crystal clear colour reflecting in the colours of the sunset.
He was dimly aware of footsteps entering the room, but he was not prepared for whoever the person was reaching up and touching his shoulder. Denethor jumped up to his feet, his mind snapping out of the world he had been previously in. He looked up to see, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth standing before him.
"Denethor," the Prince said, bowing his greeting, though his face was troubled. "I wish I could have got here sooner..," he added, his voice trailing off as his eyes wandered towards the bed were Findulias still lay.
Denethor nodded, his voice felt congested, so he dared not speak. Imrahil, however, moved towards this bed and sat down beside his sister. "I wish I could have seen her one last time, it has been so long since I last saw her," Imrahil spoke, his voice full of sorrow and memory.
"It has been long since she saw Dol Amroth," Denethor said, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper.
"Indeed." Imrahil replied stiffly, and for the briefest moment Denethor saw something flicker in the Prince's deep sea green eyes. It was the briefest flicker of hurt.
A knock came on the wooden door. "Come in," Denethor stated flatly.
The door opened and in walked the young boy that he had met earlier in the day. Seeing both Denethor and Imrahil he gave a low bow to each, "'Evening my lords," he said, "I come to check on the lady."
Denethor moved and took the boy by his shoulder, "she died about an hour ago," he said, his voice still raspy and hoarse.
The boy hung his head and stared shamefully at the floor. "I'm sorry, my lord," the boy said, tears beginning to leak from his brown eyes, "the healers, they said there was nothing they could do to help her!"
"Do not cry. What is your name, young healer?" Denethor asked.
The boy looked up, clearly astonished that the Steward of Gondor would ask him for his name. "My name is Shane, my lord, Shane son of Shenway," he stammered.
"Well then, Shane son of Shenway, I will beckon you to go forth and alert the Warden and all others of the death of their lady. May, as you grow, learn to be a master healer of great skills!" Denethor said, in a voice of high authority.
Shane gave a low bow and stammered a reply of, "thank you, my Lord Denethor." The boy then scurried out of the room to alert the city of the death of Finduilias.
Denethor turned to stare at Imrahil who was cradling a sleeping Faramir in his arms. Boromir stood by his uncle's side, his eyes still misty and wet with tears. Denethor nodded towards Faramir, "he needs to sleep. Boromir, take your brother to his chambers."
Boromir stood up, but before taking Faramir he walked over and gave Denethor a great hug which Denethor returned with all the love of a father. "Do not be troubled over things that you cannot control. For death is the path that all mortals must take and do not fear death, for it is just another journey," Denethor whispered softly in Boromir's ear.
Boromir nodded and picked up Faramir from his uncle's arms and proceeded to take his sleeping brother back to his chamber. Denethor watched them go with the face of a proud father. Though, his gaze only rested on Boromir not Faramir.
Denethor then remember his wife's last words, "please take care of him." Denethor knew that she had meant Faramir, and even though loving Faramir seemed like a task of its own. Denethor then vowed, with the stars as witnesses, that he would love Faramir and Boromir as equals.
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Authors Note: It's a real shame that Denethor never keeps his promises huh? Anyways I can guarantee that in this story Denethor will never ever love Faramir, whoops! I almost started giving things away!!
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Here are some answers to some questions that you might have had when reading the story:
Denethor is NOT suffering from schizophrenia, those thoughts that he had were like his conscious, which at that moment was torn because he wanted to believe that everything was ok, but he knew that it wasn't.
I do not know what Imrahil really looks like, so I made him what I think he looks like, the same goes for Findulias.
By Miriath
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Notes on Story:
Disclaimer: I'm not Tolkien. This story was made purely for the joy of fun and writing and no profit will be made off of it!
Summary: The story of Faramir's life. Features inputs from Denethor, Finduilias, Boromir, and Aragorn.
Characters: Faramir, Aragorn, Denethor, Boromir, Eowyn, and Pippin.
Notes: Can be consider AU if you're really picky about accuracy to the books!
Warnings: Implied child abuse.
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Chapter 1
A Vow
Denethor, for the first time in his life, was nervous. He stood alone in a small room located on the seventh level of Minas Tirith. His only connection with the world was through a small window, in which you could look out over the entire city. His breathing was rapid, sounding as if he had just run the distant between Minas Tirith and Osgilliath.
He wiped his forehead, almost as one who was wiping away sweat, but there was no sweat to be found. In fact, the room he was standing in was quite cool, for a hot summer's day in the White City.
"Everything is fine, nothing has gone wrong," Denethor assured himself for what seemed to be the hundredth time. Though this was nothing to stop his nerves, for he soon began pacing the small distance of the room, his booted feet wearing away the carpet on the floor.
"It has been hours since they last came! Something must have gone wrong!" Denethor thought as he sat down, his right hand tapping loudly on the armrest of the chair. He shook his head, "No, nothing has gone wrong, you will see." He leaned heavily on the chair tipping it so that he was balancing on its back legs.
Suddenly, the door flew open and a healer stepped in. "My Lord," he said, bowing to Denethor.
Denethor stood up, cursing himself silently for his ignorance. "What news?" He asked, eyeing the young healer warily.
"She is not doing well, my Lord, Ioreth says that she will not live throughout the night," the young boy said, staring tiredly at the floor.
Denethor suddenly swayed and collapsed clumsily back into the chair in which he has just been sitting. He looked up at the boy, who was now eyeing his Lord with curious eyes. "May...May I visit her, one last time?" Denethor asked in a raspy voice.
"Yes, my Lord, if you will just follow me," the boy said, before walking out the door.
Denethor stood and followed the young lad down one of the many halls in the spacious Houses of Healing. The boy stopped outside of a door and gestured to his Steward that he should enter. Denethor, in a dazed stupour, walked inside of the room, closing the door behind him.
He walked and stood beside the bed and looked down on his wife. Findulias looked horrible, not at all looking like she had when they had wed many years before. Her flowing black hair looked stringy and was loosing some of its once jet black colour. Her body, once lean and fit, now looked as withered and as pale as the White Tree. She was asleep, much to Denethor's relief, for he knew not what words of parting to say to his wife.
He cursed himself for being so blind to his wife's silent despair. In the last few months Denethor had been too busy to even notice his wife. He saw her often times walking in the gardens with Faramir and Boromir, most likely telling the young boys stories of Numenor and lays of far away lands. He had been too blind to notice the way that his wife had looked South each time that they passed by the window, searching for some element of the sea that was nowhere to be found. Too blind to notice the way his wife's face fell at each mention of her beloved Dol Amroth.
Then now, in the time that mattered most to him and Findulias, he could offer no words of parting, no words of comfort. Just sit in silent despair as his wife had done often in her last few months alive.
The slightest movement from the bed had Denethor off of the chair he had been sitting in. He ran over and kneeled beside his wife, "Findulias," he said gently, stroking back his wife's dark hair, "please come to me."
At these words Findulias blinked open her pale blue eyes that mirrored the colour of the sea itself. She smiled faintly at the sight of her husband, but she remained silent.
"Oh Findulias! What a coward I have been in these last few months! I fear I have been blind to everything but my own business, if only I could have seen what you wanted! Now time, it seems has turned against us, and I can not bring to you what you love the most! Forgive me, my dear wife, so that we may part in peace and not despair!" Denethor said, kissing his wife's cheek.
Findulias eyes seemed to drain of some despair at the apology Denethor gave, but there was still much left. She lifted a weak hand to wipe away at the tears that were now tracing rivers down Denethor's face. "I would never dream of parting in despair, my love," she said warily.
Denethor let out a long breath that he did not know he had been holding, and picked up his wife's hand and laid it on his heart. "You will always be here for me," he said softly.
"Please, if you would, bring in the boys. I wish to see them," Findulias said before leaning her head back on the pillow and shutting her eyes.
Denethor, extremely reluctant to leave his wife, crossed over to the door and looked out into the hallway. "The Lady requests her children!" He barked to whoever may have been listening.
A few minuets later the door opened and Boromir entered carrying in his arms a tired Faramir. Boromir walked over to the bed and set Faramir down on it. The five-year-old blinked tiredly at his father, his grey eyes, the color of a turbulent sea, were currently hidden behind locks of sandy blond curls that cascaded down his face.
Boromir turned and looked from Findulias to Denethor. "What is wrong with mother?" He asked Denethor. Curiosity welled up inside of his blue eyes.
Denethor looked at Boromir and slung his arm around his elder son's shoulder, "Mother is not well," he said, staring Boromir in the eyes.
"Is she sick?" Piped up Faramir, who was also looking at Denethor with great curiosity.
"Of course she is sick, Faramir, why else would she be in the Houses of Healing?!" Denethor replied with an exasperated tone edging into his voice. Faramir looked down and fell silent. Denethor could not but feel a little bit of remorse to his youngest son. He had never particularly liked Faramir, for what reason he did not know. It might have been that Faramir had been born premature, for when he was born he had had numerous amounts of health problems. It might have been that Faramir's birth had taken much of the strength and life out of Findulias.
"Is she going to die?" Boromir asked sadly, looking down at his mother. Tears had begun to well up inside of the ten-year-old's eyes as he contemplated his mother's death.
"I'm afraid yes, my son," Denethor replied in a solemn voice. He then took Boromir and hugged him close, he could hear Boromir sobbing gently into his shoulder, and Denethor had to control his own emotions so he would not let the tears fall.
Denethor looked up to the bed and saw that Faramir had snuggled up closer to Findulias, who was now awake. She had one arm wrapped around her second son and was gently murmuring to him. Her eyes were twinkling and a smile was alight on her face as she gently stroked his long and tangled hair.
Denethor suddenly stood up, his emotions in an outrage. Findulias, seeing that her husband had aroused out of his silent revere, whispered a few words, "Please take care of him."
The wife of the Steward then sank back onto the bed. Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears, before they suddenly closed and never reopened. Denethor let out a howl of range and despair as he watched his wife die before his eyes. He ran over to the bed, threw Faramir to the floor and began whispering pleas to his wife.
"Please come back!" He moaned, gently stroking his wife's hair. "Please."
When Findulias did not respond he rounded on Faramir, who was leaning against the wall, Boromir by his side. "Thou hast stolen my wife's love!" He yelled, pointing at the young child.
Faramir nervously moved closer into Boromir's embrace, his young eyes wide and fearful. Denethor's eyes were dripping with unchecked anger and malice as he stared daggers at his youngest child. Faramir, again, shifted uncomfortably under his father's gaze, his grey eyes focused on the floor.
Denethor whirled around, his eyes blurry and tear stained. He moved over towards the window and sat down, his eyes looking out over the vast expanse of Minas Tirith. The sun was setting in the West, making that city glimmer in the various colours of purple, orange, and red. A single tear ran down the side of his face, its crystal clear colour reflecting in the colours of the sunset.
He was dimly aware of footsteps entering the room, but he was not prepared for whoever the person was reaching up and touching his shoulder. Denethor jumped up to his feet, his mind snapping out of the world he had been previously in. He looked up to see, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth standing before him.
"Denethor," the Prince said, bowing his greeting, though his face was troubled. "I wish I could have got here sooner..," he added, his voice trailing off as his eyes wandered towards the bed were Findulias still lay.
Denethor nodded, his voice felt congested, so he dared not speak. Imrahil, however, moved towards this bed and sat down beside his sister. "I wish I could have seen her one last time, it has been so long since I last saw her," Imrahil spoke, his voice full of sorrow and memory.
"It has been long since she saw Dol Amroth," Denethor said, his voice coming out in a hoarse whisper.
"Indeed." Imrahil replied stiffly, and for the briefest moment Denethor saw something flicker in the Prince's deep sea green eyes. It was the briefest flicker of hurt.
A knock came on the wooden door. "Come in," Denethor stated flatly.
The door opened and in walked the young boy that he had met earlier in the day. Seeing both Denethor and Imrahil he gave a low bow to each, "'Evening my lords," he said, "I come to check on the lady."
Denethor moved and took the boy by his shoulder, "she died about an hour ago," he said, his voice still raspy and hoarse.
The boy hung his head and stared shamefully at the floor. "I'm sorry, my lord," the boy said, tears beginning to leak from his brown eyes, "the healers, they said there was nothing they could do to help her!"
"Do not cry. What is your name, young healer?" Denethor asked.
The boy looked up, clearly astonished that the Steward of Gondor would ask him for his name. "My name is Shane, my lord, Shane son of Shenway," he stammered.
"Well then, Shane son of Shenway, I will beckon you to go forth and alert the Warden and all others of the death of their lady. May, as you grow, learn to be a master healer of great skills!" Denethor said, in a voice of high authority.
Shane gave a low bow and stammered a reply of, "thank you, my Lord Denethor." The boy then scurried out of the room to alert the city of the death of Finduilias.
Denethor turned to stare at Imrahil who was cradling a sleeping Faramir in his arms. Boromir stood by his uncle's side, his eyes still misty and wet with tears. Denethor nodded towards Faramir, "he needs to sleep. Boromir, take your brother to his chambers."
Boromir stood up, but before taking Faramir he walked over and gave Denethor a great hug which Denethor returned with all the love of a father. "Do not be troubled over things that you cannot control. For death is the path that all mortals must take and do not fear death, for it is just another journey," Denethor whispered softly in Boromir's ear.
Boromir nodded and picked up Faramir from his uncle's arms and proceeded to take his sleeping brother back to his chamber. Denethor watched them go with the face of a proud father. Though, his gaze only rested on Boromir not Faramir.
Denethor then remember his wife's last words, "please take care of him." Denethor knew that she had meant Faramir, and even though loving Faramir seemed like a task of its own. Denethor then vowed, with the stars as witnesses, that he would love Faramir and Boromir as equals.
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Authors Note: It's a real shame that Denethor never keeps his promises huh? Anyways I can guarantee that in this story Denethor will never ever love Faramir, whoops! I almost started giving things away!!
*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Here are some answers to some questions that you might have had when reading the story:
Denethor is NOT suffering from schizophrenia, those thoughts that he had were like his conscious, which at that moment was torn because he wanted to believe that everything was ok, but he knew that it wasn't.
I do not know what Imrahil really looks like, so I made him what I think he looks like, the same goes for Findulias.