Chapter IV – 'Onon fëa nin le.'

Faramir was alone in the darkness of his room. It must have been just before dawn, but he had not shut his eyes all night. This time it was not nightmares that kept him awake, but regret. How could he resign from his position? His family had been the Stewards of Gondor for as long as the position had existed! Their line had never failed! Yet now he was surrendering it willingly? He could just imagine what his father would say, were Denethor still alive.

"You never learned to take what is rightfully yours! You are a coward, weak, pitiful! I should never have trusted the inheritance of the White Rod to you! What an heir I have been cursed with! Boromir would never have surrendered the Stewardship! Boromir would have carried on the line of my fathers until death, as is our right! Would indeed that your places had been exchanged! Whelp! Curse you and curse the moment you were born as my son!"

Faramir shivered. In the darkness he could almost feel his father's hard eyes piercing him, blaming him for his judgment while loathing the very sight of him. As long as those eyes were set scornfully upon him, he was filled with the all-too-keen knowledge of his inferiority, his ineptitude, his inadequacy as his father's son. It had taken him so long to convince himself that he would be able to act as Steward of Gondor as well as Boromir would have, and now all of that doubt returned to him. He had failed. As hard as he had tried, in the end he had failed, just as his father had predicted.

"Would indeed that our places had been exchanged," whispered Faramir, squeezing his eyes shut tight against the darkness that surrounded him. "Would that I had died and Boromir had lived…"

They had always known that Boromir would become the Steward upon Denethor's death, and Faramir would become his chief advisor, Captain-General of Gondor, and High-Warden of the White Tower. Boromir would rule Gondor, and Faramir would stand in the shadows just behind him. They had often spoken of it, of the glory they would bring to Gondor, of the peace that would reign during Boromir's rule.

Had Faramir died, that peace could still have existed. King Elessar would rule as the sovereign of Gondor, of course, but Boromir would have taken up his place as Steward and helped to govern the country justly and wisely. Boromir would never have fallen into this terrible darkness as Faramir had. Boromir was not plagued by visions and dreams that either foretold the horrors of the future or relived the horrors of the past. Boromir would never have resigned from the Stewardship, and the memory of Denethor's spirit would approve of all that he did.

Faramir tossed restlessly in his bed, seeking a comfortable spot but finding none. Even if he could manage to fall asleep, he knew that he would be haunted by his nightmares, tormented by the sight of his beautiful wife's face…

He closed his eyes and wept silently, his shoulders shaking with the effort of repressing his sobs. Éowyn…Éowyn…his beautiful wife… If he had been able to save her, none of this would have happened! If he had known then how to control his visions, could he not have foreseen the trouble with the birthing and insisted that Aragorn be present? Could the King not have saved her, as he had saved countless others? Alas! that only now did Faramir realize the true potential of his gift! If only he had known! If only he had not held it back all these years! He could have saved her. She could still be alive.

Trying desperately to calm himself, Faramir rose from his bed and moved to the fireplace where a kettle of water was being kept warm by the smoldering ashes. He poured some water into the basin sitting on a low table nearby and splashed the tepid water on his face. It was enough to clear away the sharpest pangs of alarm, but the deep throb of guilt remained. He stood over the basin, breathing heavily, remembering a time when Éowyn had always been there to chase away his anxiety and his fears.

'Hush, my love,' she would say, guiding him gently to a seat on the edge of their bed. 'You fret over such trivial matters! Do not let them be worrisome. There is always a new day to deal with such petty worries.' She would caress his cheek and whisper kind words and massage his tense shoulders with her gentle fingers. His troubles all seemed to melt away at her touch, and nothing in the world seemed wrong.

"Oh, Éowyn…my Éowyn…" Faramir dried his face and turned away from the basin, tired of seeing his own reflection without Éowyn's behind it. "How cruel of you! To leave me here, a widower of only fifty-five years, doomed to a fate of longevity here within the circles of the world… I must now live perhaps half my life without you beside me. Oh, Éowyn…" He closed his eyes. "Such short years did I have with you, no more than twenty. By what sin did I earn such a fate?"

He put one hand to his heart, as if his pain was physical as well as emotional. It was becoming a subconscious gesture of his, a habit that he could not and did not want to break. It invariably brought up the question of his health when he was in the company of others, but alone it served only as a reminder of his personal grief and the sense of complete hopelessness which pervaded his dreams.

Faramir had long since accepted the fact that he would probably not live to see his next birthday. If his grief did not kill him, the illnesses brought on by his sleepless nights would. Was it possible, he wondered, to die of exhaustion? Yes, no doubt it was.

Aragorn, though, seemed to refuse to accept this truth. Always did he keep his hope as his childhood name, Estel, suggested. Faramir tried very hard to do as Aragorn told him, to hope and to love and to anticipate a brighter future, but these nightmares…

"Oh, Eru, these nightmares…" Faramir shook his head and drew his breaths shallowly. "Such carnage and death and blood… It is as if I am a soldier again!" He shuddered at the thought, remembering all too well the long years he had spent in Gondor's frontlines, the fighting in Osgiliath, the skirmishes in Ithilien, and finally that last push to retake the River and the Pelennor as his father demanded. He felt as close to death now as he had then, living from day to day without knowing what would befall him the next moment, doubting himself and yet pushing himself harder and harder to keep up the fight.

That was why he must resign. The harder he pushed himself, the angrier and the more frustrated and bitter he became. He would rather surrender the Stewardship than allow himself to turn into the man he saw himself becoming. He was haunted by an image of himself, greying, lonely, and above all angry, sitting upon his Steward's chair in his dotage and making rash judgments, forsaking Gondor, and losing all friendships he had once held. It was the last image that Faramir had of his father, and it was what he saw himself becoming if he continued down this path.

Denethor had known that he would turn cold and bitter if he continued to cling to his duties as Steward, and yet he clung because of the honor of his ancestors that he felt he must uphold. He had worn himself down, hardened by grief and pain, until there was nothing left but an empty shell of a man, incapable of love except for his elder son. Even that tiny bit of love died with the passing of Boromir, and he was driven to madness and suicide. Faramir could not allow himself to follow in those footsteps. If he continued to strain to hold on to his position, he would sure fall, and he would lose all sense of the man he had once been.

Yes, he must resign.

Aragorn did not understand, he knew. Aragorn could see it only from the political stand point. He saw the fact that Faramir was brilliant at what he did and that his wisdom on the Council was surpassed by none. He saw that Faramir's talent lay in the political and scholarly realm of the Stewardship, and so he could see no reason why Faramir should not follow his heart's desire and remain the Steward of Gondor. He could not understand that the stress of Faramir's responsibilities would warp him into a man that he had vowed long ago he would never become. He could not see that Faramir was changing slowly, becoming the very thing he feared to become.

It ended now. Faramir would let it go no further.

"Elboron will be angry…" Faramir whispered into the dark, sitting down in a soft chair by the fireplace. "If I resign…he will never forgive me for denying him his rightful inheritance…" He shook his head and took a deep breath. "But there is no other way. If I am truly to die…then I will die as myself, not as the man I swore I would not follow. I will die as Faramir. Not as Steward Faramir, maybe. Perhaps not even as Lord or Prince Faramir. But Faramir I will remain, nonetheless…"

Faramir knew that he was a good Steward. He knew that he did his job better than any other lord on the Council could have. But he also knew one thing more, which Aragorn did not grasp. "When you are unwell, Gondor suffers, just as when I am unwell," Aragorn had said. What he failed to see was the fact that if Faramir allowed himself to turn into his father, Gondor would suffer just as it had under Denethor's rule.

"It is right for Gondor that I should resign," he told himself softly. "They will find a new Steward, perhaps a better Steward. Then there shall be peace in Gondor, and when I die there shall be no debate over who the rightful successor of the Steward should be."

And his children? Elboron and Nimhiril? What would happen to them? Faramir massaged his temples with the palms of his hands, trying to think through his splitting headache. Elboron was quite nearly a man now, capable of taking care of himself, but Nimhiril was still only four months old and scarcely able to do more than cry when she was sad and smile when she was merry. Pain and guilt welled up in Faramir's chest, not for the first time. Would Nimhiril be forced to grow up without knowing either of her parents? Faramir could ask Aragorn and Arwen to take the babe when he died, but it was not the same as having two healthy, loving parents who had created her and now took care of her.

For the hundredth time, Faramir wished that the babe had died with Éowyn. It was not out of cruelty or selfishness that he wished this, for he loved his little girl more than the sun loved to shine on daisies in the summertime. Éowyn had given everything to bring her into the world, and she was the most beautiful baby girl Faramir had ever seen. Still, would not death be better than this, being born to a dead mother and a dying father? Faramir feared for her more than he had ever feared for any living being.

"Eru, all I want is to be a father to my two children," he sobbed, burying his face in his hands. "You have already taken their mother. Is that not enough? Why must you force me through this ordeal, pushing me towards exhaustion and death? Is it so much to ask for a little relief from the pain? For a little happiness? Can I not live for a few moments in peace with myself and my wife's memory, or must you continue to persecute me so?

"If I have committed some heresy against your will, please, I beg of you, tell me what it is!" he pleaded. "I will do anything to atone for my sins, if this torment will be taken from me! I will endure any amount of physical pain if these visions and nightmares will cease!" Faramir looked out his window into the clear spring sky, where tiny white stars glistened in the inky black sky.

"I know that there are many to listen to, but hear my prayer this night, if not for my sake then for the sake of my children." He bowed his head, tears still streaking down his cheeks. "Thy will be done, Lord. Galadthoniel, chebo orë nin mān a tiro amarth nin palanello hi dú. Onon fëa nin le. Nai."

Galadthoniel, chebo orë nin mān a tiro amarth nin palanello hi dú. Onon fëa nin le. Nai.

(Light-kindler, keep my heart well and watch over my fate from afar this night. I give my spirit to thee. May it be so.)

Author's Note: Alright, I confess. This Elvish is mostly Sindarin, but it does have some Quenya words mixed in. Tolkien himself said once that it was permissible to combine Quenya and Sindarin elements, so I don't feel too badly about it. Also, I used the word "Nai" as a substitute for "Amen". In Hebrew, "Amen" means "truthfully" or "so be it", and I found "Nai" to be the closest substitute as it means "may it be" or "may it be so".