Paths of Peril -- A Dynasty Broken Book II

By Adara

This chapter returns the reader to Minas Tirith and the situation with Faramir and the Steward. In Book I, Love and Lust -- A Dynasty Broken, Denethor looked too long into the palantir and became ensnared by the Dark Lord. I shall continue to weave together events happening within the Fellowship and in Minas Tirith throughout this story.

The Winds of War

Faramir thought he heard his brother's voice crying out to him. He was standing in a narrow meadow surrounded on both sides by gnarled trees bereft of foliage, and so thick and close he could see nothing beyond. Then the sound again -- a sharp cry as though someone were in pain. Faramir rushed into the trees in search of the source of the noises. From somewhere to his right he heard his brother's voice calling his name over and over.

"Boromir, where are you? It is I, Faramir. Where are you, Brother?" Frantic, Faramir rushed through the trees in the direction from which the sound emanated. A loud snarl and a responding yelp caused him to draw his sword and proceed cautiously. As Faramir parted the brittle branches in front of him, he saw two large feral shapes feasting upon something on the ground. One of the animals looked up sharply. Gore and blood dripped from its long snout. As he watched, horrified, the other furtively grabbed what looked to be a human arm and turned to flee. It was then that Faramir realized that the Wargs were feasting on a human. Enraged, he ran forward and the creatures melted into the dark beyond the trees.

Faramir stood over what remained of the bloodied corpse and felt his gorge rise. He was looking upon the remains of what once had been his beloved brother. A keening wail escaped his bloodless lips and he fell to his knees. Boromir's blood soaked his breeches and stained his boots. "I should have been the one to make the journey, not you! How can Gondor survive without its Favorite Son? How can I ever tell Father?" As he wallowed in his misery, Faramir's vision began to fade and all about him was a darkness blacker than night.

* * * * * * * * *

Faramir awoke with a start. He felt nauseous and slightly disoriented, the way he often did following one of his visions. He knew he had dreamed, but could not recall the substance of the dream. However, he felt deep in his soul that his brother was in trouble. He closed his eyes and thought he heard Boromir's voice echoing dimly within the deep recesses of his mind. "Boromir," he whispered aloud. "Please be safe and unharmed."

Shaking his head to clear it, Faramir rose unsteadily from the chair beside his father's bed. It had been several weeks since Mithrandir had brought the Steward of Gondor from the summit of Ecthelion's Tower to the Houses of Healing. During those weeks, Denethor had been feverish, wafting back and forth between semi-consciousness and an uneasy sleep. The way his father cried out and cursed led Faramir to believe that Denethor still struggled against the Dark Lord, even though he was now far from the palantir. A slight scraping sound drew his attention toward the room's entrance. Adanomir, Denethor's personal physician, stood humbly in the doorway, waiting to be noticed.

"How fares he, my Lord Faramir?" Adanomir hesitated only a moment out of respect for Faramir's new station before moving to his patient's bedside. Denethor's youngest son had been acting Steward since that disastrous night when the ruler of Mordor enslaved Denethor's mind. Faramir still found it nigh impossible to believe that his father would succumb to the evil whisperings of the Dark Lord, despite evidence to the contrary.

"He is much the same," Faramir answered tiredly. "I sometimes feel that he will never recover." Adanomir studied him over round-shaped glasses perched atop the bridge of his long patrician nose and smiled kindly.

"Do not give up hope. Your father is a strong man and will return to us when his mind has healed. I see slight improvements in his condition daily, though you may not. The young are only appeased by that which is easily seen."

Faramir frowned, bristling at the physician's words. A sharp retort formed on his tongue, but retreated when he saw Adanomir's tight smile and sparkling gray eyes. "Go and eat, and then take some rest," he advised. "I will stay with the Lord Denethor this night. You need to take better care of yourself. With your father ill and your brother gone, the people of the White City look to you for guidance. How will Minas Tirith thrive if none of the Steward's line remains at its helm?"

"I shall do as you suggest, for your words are wise," Faramir said, a fleeting smile touching his lips. "Send for me immediately should the Lord Denethor awake, or his condition change."

* * * * * * * * *

Faramir stood outside the main entrance to the Houses of Healing and drank in the clean night air. Men in the uniform of the City Guard saluted him smartly as they passed on their rounds. Some wished him a good night and added the title, Steward, which disturbed him. I need to see Uncle Imrahil. Perhaps he can lift my spirits.

His eyes scanned the narrow street that ran beside the wall of the gardens. Seeing nothing amiss, Faramir pulled his cloak tightly about him against the chill and began the walk to the uppermost circle. He wanted to be alone with his thoughts and so kept his head down and his hand upon his sword's pommel. None dared bother him.

* * * * * * * * *

The Prince of Dol Amroth was deep in conversation with one of his captains when Faramir rapped on his door. A young page, pale with exhaustion, answered the knock. "Is my uncle within?" he asked, unable to see the room's occupants, who were hidden behind the partially open door.

"Come in, Nephew, come in." Imrahil's voice was strong, despite the late hour. Faramir thought he heard a slight groan from the boy. Faramir moved stiffly to the table and picked up a decanter of fragrant red wine. As he began filling his glass, the Prince made a disgruntled motion to the page, who should have been waiting upon his guests.

"Let him go to his bed, Uncle. The boy is nearly asleep on his feet. It is well past the bedtime of one so young." Faramir smiled kindly at the youth, who blushed and ducked his chin against his thin chest.

"All right. Away with you, lad. But see you return promptly by the third hour." Faramir laughed at the delighted look the young page gave him as he scurried from the room.

"I fear you are a bad influence on my servants. You should not encourage them to shirk their duties." Despite the severity of his words, Imrahil's sea-gray eyes were laughing. The Prince made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating that Faramir should take a seat at the table.

"What is so important that it keeps you and members of your staff up so late? If I remember correctly, this is Captain Redderick, to whom I still owe a debt of gratitude for his help that night we took my father to the Houses of Healing." The captain gave a nod of acknowledgement and thanks.

Imrahil studied his nephew closely, then pushed a sheet of parchment toward him. "Read and you will understand what keeps me from my well-earned rest." This time Imrahil's words were light, but his tone and his countenance were grim. Faramir looked at the script on the page and realized the words were not the Westron language, but that of Harad. He lifted his eyebrows at this and glanced quizzically at his uncle, who motioned him to continue to read.

Faramir's knowledge of the language of the Haradrim was somewhat sparse, but he could still make out the gist of the letter. What he read shocked him. "Has this information been verified?" he asked sharply.

"Aye, my Lord," answered Imrahil's swan-knight. "The man who put together that dispatch is as trustworthy as my own mother, may she rest in peace. The information is only a few days old. A great army masses on Rohan's border near Isengard."

Faramir shook his head. "If I read this aright, the Haradrim have allied themselves to Isengard and fight with orcs and Uruk-hai. Is this true?"

"Not all in Harad are loyal to Isengard, for most serve Mordor. But it is said that many are lured northward on the promise of wealth and an easier life. It is hard enough being a soldier without also having to endure the horrors meted out by Barad-dur." The captain's face was slightly pale and pinched looking. His steel-gray eyes mirrored the concern in those of his liege lord's. "However, our spies say that most of the men in this army are from Dunland."

"If they mass near the Gap of Rohan, then they are too close for comfort to our lands," the Prince of Dol Amroth said heavily. "What of Theoden King and Prince Theodred? Have they had time, think you, to return safely to Edoras?"

"Yes, my Lord, for our messengers say the King and his party passed through the gap several days before the army first was sighted," replied Captain Redderick.

Prince Imrahil remained silent while he pondered how best Gondor might answer this challenge to its Rohirrim allies and, eventually, to its own lands. Faramir stood and began to pace the length of the room. After a few minutes he stopped in mid-stride and smiled. Prince Theodred always paced when he was excited or angry, but this was not a habit common to the Steward's younger son. "You picked up some bad habits from our Rohan guests, I see," said Imrahil wryly.

"Eledwhen often poked fun at her brother for his restlessness and inability to remain still for any length of time. How I miss them both." Imrahil cocked an eyebrow at his nephew's admission, knowing full well his feelings for the Princess. Faramir caught the look and blushed.

Imrahil sighed tiredly and ran a hand through his hair. "It is late and we all need sleep. Let us three think on these matters and meet in the morning. Faramir, will you join me for breakfast?"

"Aye, Uncle. However, I doubt I shall sleep much. I think I will take a walk on the battlements. Sometimes I think better where the air is clear and the stars seem within reach."

"Well, then, I bid you goodnight until the 'morrow. Captain Redderick, you will meet with the other captains and glean what information they may have heard. I fear that war shall soon be upon us in deadly earnest. We need Denethor's military knowledge now more than ever. It is an evil wind indeed that blows through the White City."

Faramir stood in the doorway, one hand on the latch, remembering his final conversation with Mithrandir. The old wizard had explained his purpose for coming to Minas Tirith, a purpose that had brought him to the White City in time to save the Steward from total madness, and the city itself from mounting chaos. Mithrandir needed to browse through the ancient scrolls in the city's libraries, searching for what he would not say. Evidently his search had been fruitful, for the wizard had taken his leave rather abruptly. However, he had taken the time to inform Faramir of his intentions to ride to Orthanc to confer with Saruman before traveling on to Imladris.

"I hope that Mithrandir finds his answers at Orthanc and, later, in Rivendell. I sent letters to Boromir with him. I wish with all my heart that my brother could have traveled with the wizard. If we'd only known about the council…"

Prince Imrahil walked to his nephew's side and placed a hand lightly upon his shoulder. "Life is filled with 'what ifs.' They can drive a man mad. Be content that he is with the woman he shall marry and pray that both are well."

Faramir felt a dark shadow fall upon his heart at Imrahil's words. Snatches of the dream he'd had earlier came to him in fleeting flashes. He pleaded silently to the Valar that it was merely a nightmare, not a premonition. Dejectedly he headed for the battlements.

To be continued