A/N I don't know why, but this chapter was very difficult to write. I had
written about a third of it when I decided to scrap all of it and start
over. Then I got stuck at one point, and couldn't seem to get unstuck.
All in all, this was a difficult one to write. As this is my first fanfic,
I would really love to know if this happens to any of you. I know there is
such thing as writer's block, but this was different. I knew what I wanted
to write, I just couldn't seem to write it. Anyway, here it is. I think I
like the outcome of all my struggling. Oh, and one last thing, if anyone
knows what a group of wild boars would be called please let me know.
"Group" just doesn't sound right to me. Thanks.
Disclaimer: all characters, settings, and elvish language are strictly from the mind of J.R.R. Tolkien or inspired by him.
Chapter XIV
The Pass of Poros
Faramir stared out across the dale. Campfires twinkled throughout the expanse and spilled out into the plains beyond except at the very center of the broad valley. Here ran the River Poros, as yet only a small stream and easily forded. The ripples of water glinted in the light of the half moon as the water ran playfully over unseen rocks on the way to its eventual merging with the great Anduin and finally the sea. The land was cast in the moon's ethereal glow, and Faramir could not help but take in the beauty of the land before him. He had never ventured so far to the south in his own realm.
In fact, the river was the border between Ithilien and Harondor, the southernmost fife of Gondor, and since Faramir was standing on the mountainside south of the river he was in fact no longer in his own realm. This, however, mattered little to the prince of Ithilien. The land of Harondor was claimed by both Gondor and the men of Harad. In times of peace the land served as a buffer zone between the two countries, and at times when the Haradrim deemed they would take the land for themselves it was a place of war. This time, however, the men of Gondor had come here to fight the Easterlings and orcs out of Mordor, not the men of the South. Not that Faramir had not considered what role the Southrons might have been playing in this attack, but the spies he and King Elessar had sent into Harad had reported no preparations for war.
A warm breeze laden with moisture from the Bay of Belfalas off to the west blew through Faramir's hair and he turned into the wind allowing the sweet air to flow into him. There was just a hint of salt in it. The scent turned his thoughts from the land, and Faramir thought of Legolas. Perhaps it was best that the elf was not here. The prince of Ithilien had never seen such a sadness in another's eyes as when Legolas spoke of the sea. The elf-prince had come near to its waters during the battle at Pelargir, and Faramir was certain that it was a daily struggle for Legolas to resist its call. His eyes moved to gaze at the elven contingent on the north side of the river. Every year more and more elves left Ithilien for the Grey Havens far to the north and west because of this longing for the sea. Faramir hoped that being so near the Bay of Belfalas would not hurry the elves who had come to this battle towards the inevitable. He desperately needed their help, but what would their aid cost them?
There was little movement in the various camps. They had managed the 100 miles from Amon Galen in just four days, a very hard and demanding march. Many of the men and dwarves had taken to their tents for much needed rest, and even Thranduil's people seemed to be asleep, lying under the stars lost in the dreams of the elves. Instinctively, Faramir searched the Ephel Duath for any signs of the scouts he and Thranduil had sent out, but from this distance and in the weak light he could discern nothing. He only hoped his men would be allowed their rest for the evening and so better prepare for the impending battle.
Far to the north a shooting star streaked across the sky. Faramir followed its trail down over the Ephel Duath. Instantly his thoughts were turned to Eowyn and Boromir. It was rare that Faramir was separated from either his wife or son and never in such imminent danger. On the morning they had departed from Amon Galen he had turned back to look upon his city once more and he had espied Eowyn. She stood on the topmost balcony of Minas Mallen, her golden hair shining in the newly risen sun. So perfect was that final vision that Faramir almost faltered in his duty. It seemed to him that the vision was one given by the gods as a final token to take with him as he passed from this world into whatever awaits mortals beyond death. Not for the first or last time the Prince of Ithilien considered whether he would behold the countenance of Eowyn or Boromir ever again.
At least he was comforted in the knowledge that Eowyn was safe. The fate of his son was as of yet unknown, and even if he should survive this battle there was no assurance that Boromir would live through his own undertaking. Anger began to well up within Faramir, but just as soon as it had come it passed. He was long past being angry with his son. He wanted only to hold him again and hear the deep, rumbling voice that was so much like that of his namesake. Faramir sighed. Somewhere within the deep places of his soul the emptiness made its presence known. The wound one suffers from losing a brother can never be fully healed. It can be masked and buried deep within, but it will endure, awaiting a time when one's guard is down the wound will resurface, festering and bleeding openly. Faramir had suffered at the loss of Boromir, his brother, but he did not think he possessed the strength to bear the loss of Boromir, his son.
"He lives yet, Prince of Ithilien. Of this I am certain."
Faramir turned to face the King of Eryn Lasgalen, "I was not aware that the heightened senses of the elves could be used for such things."
Thranduil smiled, and Faramir realized it was the first time since his arrival and even in all the previous times he had met the King that he had ever seen a genuine smile upon his beautiful face. "They cannot, but there are other ways in which I might deduce if Boromir yet lives. I have eyes, and though they are the far-seeing kind of my race, I need not such grace to deduce that you are a resourceful and noble man. There are not many who would find it easy to berate one of the Firstborn for rash judgment, much less one who has lived for more than 30,000 years." Faramir opened his mouth to speak, but the King raised his hand to silence him, "You need not apologize, Prince Faramir. Your words were wise and justified. Unlike many of my race, I am aware that great age can lead to stubbornness and even intolerance."
Faramir nodded his head in understanding, but he found it difficult to hold steady in Thranduil's steely gaze. "And so," the King continued, "a man of your worth would likely raise his son to be of the same ilk. What I have observed of your son would say so as well."
"You have me at in a bit of a dilemma, your highness. Your kind words concerning my own character seem exaggerated and undeserved, but where my son is concerned I would whole-heartedly agree." Faramir laughed and was surprised that Thranduil joined him.
"Yes, we are all quite proud where our children are concerned, are we not?" The question had been rhetorical, yet Faramir nodded in agreement. "And we still see them so even in light of their recent … shall we say … lapses in judgment."
"Yes," Faramir snorted, "lapses in judgment, indeed. But I find that the more I contemplate Boromir's decision to aid Legolas in his search for Gimli the more I think I should have anticipated it. He was ever a willful and stubborn child, and these traits seem not to have been lessened by his years."
Thranduil gave a rich, hearty laugh, "Willful and stubborn? It could not compare to that of Legolas Greenleaf." Thranduil's eyes took on a veiled look, and Faramir realized he was reliving some memory from long ago, "Many years ago, when Legolas had seen but twenty years, there was a royal boar hunt. The boars of my realm are notoriously dangerous. Even the most seasoned of warriors take great care when hunting these creatures. When they charge you must be ready with a well-aimed arrow otherwise you would be knocked to the ground and likely impaled on their long tusks. Legolas begged to be allowed to join the hunt. Looking back on that day I should have allowed him to accompany me, but I was always overly protective of my youngest son so I denied him this request.
"On the third day of the hunt we had come across a small sounder of boars. They were watching their young, which made them all the more dangerous. As was the way of a boar hunt, once the group was discovered we would spread out in a wide circle, surrounding them, and then slowly move inwards. The boars would become aware of our presence and would charge, and that's when we would loose our arrows. I felt the presence of my brethren as the circle began to tighten. Suddenly, off to my right a rather large boar initiated its attack. By right the elf next to me had the first shot. I heard the bow as the arrow was loosed, and watched as it hit its mark. But the shot was not aimed well and only took the boar in the shoulder. It stumbled, then rose and continued forward towards the offending elf. That is when I descried the figure of Legolas as he climbed into a nearby tree to escape the angered boar. I came closer only to find the boar sitting at the foot of the tree snorting and pawing at the ground enraged, and Legolas perched in its branches staring back at the animal. Apparently, in his haste to escape, he had dropped his bow upon the earth." Thranduil laughed heartily at this memory of his son, "I should have been very angry with him, but the position he was in was so preposterous I could barely contain my laughter. Besides, the humiliation of being found thus was enough punishment."
Faramir laughed along with the King of the woodland elves, though it was difficult to imagine Legolas in such a situation. He did not doubt that the elf-prince would be horrified that his father had shared that story. He would have to remember to relate it to Gimli when the opportunity arose. "Yes, I suppose that all children are willful and disobedient at times, but when they are your own they seem all the more so."
"Agreed," Thranduil replied, "and yet we would not truly wish them otherwise. I am angry with Legolas for leaving because I know the great danger he faces, and I fear for his safety. Yet, in his situation I would have done the same. I could not leave a friend to suffer torture and possibly death if I had any way to stop it." The king sighed, "I seem ever caught between being a father and a king where my son is concerned. I fear for him, I am proud of him, I am angry with him, and yet I understand his decision."
Faramir nodded, "Yes, I feel the same concoction of emotions. And then there is the danger we must face." Faramir's hand strayed to his sword, and his eyes sought the head of the vale once again. His heart misgave him. Something was not right, but he could not see it.
"You are having doubts about our campaign?" Thranduil prodded, seeing the look on the prince's face.
Faramir turned to face the king once again, "Yes, but I do not know why. Something is amiss here."
Thranduil's face darkened, "I have felt this as well, but I too am unable to discover its source."
Man and elf continued to stare out across the encampment, saying nothing but both struggling to find the root of their uneasiness. They remained silent for some time until Thranduil at last spoke, "One of our scouts is returning. He is in a great hurry. Let us go and meet him." Faramir nodded and king and prince descended the gentle slope together.
As they approached the banks of the river, Faramir became aware of an elf running out of the vale towards them. Faramir knew him, as he was one of the elves of Edhil-e-londe. He stopped in front of them and took a moment to catch his breath. For an elf to be in such a state meant that he had been pushing himself overly hard. "What news, Cirin?" Faramir asked when the elf appeared to be recovering.
Cirin bowed first to Thranduil and then to Faramir, "The enemy approaches, my lords. They will be here ere the sun climbs above the Ephel Duath." Inwardly Faramir swore, his men would have little rest this evening.
"Can you guess at their numbers?" Faramir asked, knowing the answer.
"Nay, your highness. They are walking five abreast through the pass and the line continued until it passed around the mountains and from my sight."
"Who of their warriors will we encounter first?" the Prince of Ithilien pressed the elf for more information.
"Orcs," Cirin practically spat the word, "They come with their swords, but few archers."
"Good," Faramir nodded, "that will aid our cause. You have done well, Cirin."
"Come," Thranduil nodded to the other elf, "accompany me back to our camp. We must wake the others and prepare for the assault." Thranduil turned and looked at Faramir, "If all went as planned the kings of Gondor and Rohan will be here in two days. Until then I wish you good fortune in battle. We will meet again, Prince of Ithilien. There is still the matter of deciding proper punishment for our sons when they return. I would take your counsel on this matter."
Faramir smiled, "And I, yours." Thranduil nodded to the prince and then he and Cirin turned away to make for the camp of the elves.
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The gray light of dawn silhouetted the mountains against the sky. For once, Faramir was thankful for the presence of the Ephel Duath. They were facing east, towards the vale where their enemy would soon emerge. If not for the large mountains in front of them the men, elves, and dwarves of Ithilien would be blinded by the rising sun. The archers would be especially disadvantaged by the light, and the archers were critical to his plan.
Sitting atop his horse Faramir looked out across the soon-to-be battlefield. All remnants of the camp had been removed. Before him the majority of his men were spread across the plain from the mountains to the river. Across the Poros he could see Thranduil's elves and Kolim's dwarves had done the same. There were barely enough bodies to cover the distance, but this mattered little. They were the bait, and once the enemy had been drawn out into the vale the cavalry would ride in. Faramir could see the horses and their riders at the shoulders of the mountains, out of view of anyone standing in the vale. The prince would be joining the riders of Ithilien soon to lead them in their charge when the time came.
At the head of the vale was a small contingent of elves, dwarves, and men. When the time came for the cavalry to ride, the enemy in the vale must be cut off from the army still approaching from the pass. This was the responsibility of the archers hidden on the shoulders of the mountains that formed the vale, but the others would take care of any who were able to pass through the barrage of arrows. And, if at all possible, they could collect the spent arrows and return them to the archers to replenish their stores. Faramir doubted if there would be any time for that, but the possibility was there.
The archers were so well hid that Faramir could not see any of them unless they chose to reveal themselves. Somewhere on the northern slope of the vale was hid Thranduil. He had wished to lead his cavalry into battle as Faramir would, but the archers were more sorely needed. Thranduil's skill with the bow was bested only by his own son, and so the King of Eryn Lasgalen had agreed to stand with the elven archers.
All was in readiness.
Off to his left a red banner was raised by an elf standing some way up on the mountainside. It was the signal that the enemy had rounded the last bend in the pass before coming to the mouth of the vale. Only minutes remained before they would enter the wide valley where Faramir and his army waited. The same red banner was raised on his own side of the river, and he could see and feel the men as they tensed in anticipation of the coming battle. Faramir pulled at the reins and urged his horse towards the other members of the cavalry.
Silence had descended upon the battlefield. The sky was now blue behind the Ephel Duath heralding the imminent arrival of the fiery globe. The minutes seem to tick by agonizingly slowly, and Faramir was agitated by the wait and by the inability to see what was occurring. Above him, on the mountainside, stood the bannerman with a blue banner now at his side. The unmistakable sounds of orc voices as they cried out in their guttural and unlovely tones could soon be heard, and then Faramir saw the bannerman raise the blue banner. Danethil's cry of "Ithilien!" could be heard and was quickly picked up by others who followed him into battle.
If the moments before the battle had seemed excruciatingly long then this wait was an eternity. The sounds of battle rang through the air, and Faramir wanted only to join them in their fight. His feelings were mirrored in the faces of his men, and even the horses danced anxiously, eager to join the fray. Faramir watched as the bannerman picked up the green banner from the ground. The Prince of Ithilien drew his sword. The sounds of his men following suit echoed behind him. Even as the bannerman began to wave the green banner high Faramir kicked his horse into a gallop and he sped his way into the vale.
The scene before him was just as he had expected. Danethil and his men were retreating back out of the vale and the orcs were following. Above him he heard the sounds of bows loosing arrows and the whistling of shafts as they sped through the air. Swiftly he led the horsemen around the edges of the vale and surrounded the enemy. When he had reached the far side he turned his horse and galloped in towards the heart of the battle.
The orcs were confused by the approach of the horses and were tripping over one another trying to retreat back to the mouth of the vale. Faramir swept his sword down and neatly removed the head of the first orc he encountered. The next orc was impaled from behind as Faramir's horse sped past. Prince and horse were practically bathing in the blood of the enemy as they hewed their way into the center of the vale.
The orcs were becoming thicker and Faramir reined the horse in to do battle with the many orcs that now surrounded him. He could see their wicked grins as they approached and tried to unhorse him. His sword danced through the air as more and more fell to its deadly blade. The horse he sat on reared up and pawed at the air, not liking the smell of the foul creatures. Faramir checked the horse then quickly shifted his blade to his left hand as two orcs charged at him on his left. His sword arced out to parry the blows dealt by the two attackers. With all his strength Faramir sliced downwards managing to bite into the flesh of the nearer orc at his thigh. He screamed out in pain and staggered back, but the other approached quickly and Faramir's blow had left him open to its attack. He raised his sword in an attempt to lessen the blow when the orc fell forward with an arrow protruding from his back.
The other orc had recovered enough to launch another assault, but met with the tip of Faramir's sword before he could level even a single blow. Faramir's right hand shot inside his tunic and gray steel flashed in the morning light as the dagger imbedded itself in the eye socket of the orc who had been stealing up from behind him. Spinning his horse around he fought his way to the side of the nearest rider.
He could see now that the first wave of the attack had been won. The last orcs were falling to the swords of the men of Ithilien, and the archers were keeping the remaining force at bay for the moment. Faramir dismounted and found the orc whose foul head still held the dagger he had thrown. Freeing the blade he wiped it on the orc's garment, and re-sheathed it inside his tunic.
Turning towards his men he shouted, "Kill any orc that you even suspect is not yet dead. We cannot have one of these victims surprising our men. Gather what arrows you can and retreat back to the cover of the mountains!" Faramir stabbed the body of a nearby orc whose hand had been straying to the mace it carried. Few arrows were found since the archers had concentrated on keeping additional forces at bay and not on protecting the cavalry as they attacked Within moments he and the other horsemen were retreating to the shelter of the mountains' shadow to prepare for the next attack. The Prince was heartened to see few bodies of his own men littering the ground. Danethil and his men were marching forward to prepare for the next assault. The captain of the army of Ithilien placed one arm across his chest in salute to his prince. Faramir returned the gesture and then the two moved their separate ways.
One of the horsemen had stopped to retrieve an injured man who lay upon the ground. His arm was hanging at an odd angle, and a great deal of blood was being soaked up by the man's tunic near his shoulder. When they arrived at the their hiding place once more, Faramir dismounted and helped carry the injured man out of the way of the horses. Two other wounded men were positioned against a rock. Looking up Faramir saw the bannerman wave the blue flag, and the prince knew there was no time to properly help these men. He picked the least injured of the three, a man who looked to have taken a sword in the thigh and handed him a small bundle, "In here you will find athelas, tinder and flint, and a thread and needle. Here is a pan for boiling water, if you are able. Do what you can for these men and yourself." Faramir saluted the three men, "You have honored your prince and Ithilien today."
The man with the leg wound saluted back, "Thank you, my Prince. It will be as you say." Faramir nodded then returned to his horse.
As he waited for the signal yet again he contemplated their position. The first attack had gone well, but how long would they be able to continue this? The enemy would eventually discover their strategy and come up with a way to defend against it. And how long could they keep this up before exhaustion set in? These were questions that time alone would be able to answer. As the green banner was once again raised, Faramir launched himself into the battle dreading what time would reveal.
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The night had brought little respite for the army of Ithilien. Orcs feared the daylight, and though clearly the leaders of this evil army had managed to force them to fight in the full light of day they were much more fierce after the sun went down. Twice during the night the enemy had managed to break through the opening of the vale despite the efforts of the archers. Faramir and his men as well as the elves and dwarves on the northern bank had rallied both times to push the enemy back into the pass, but it had cost them more lives. If it happened again Faramir was not certain they would be able to push them back again.
Some hope had come to him as he looked towards the Ephel Duath and noticed the blue at their horizon was a shade lighter than the rest of the night sky. Dawn was coming, and if they could hold back this last assault they would have the advantage of daylight. The forces of Gondor and Rohan would be here soon, perhaps even before sunset. They need only hold their ground a bit longer.
Throughout the night the dead and wounded had begun increasing at an alarming rate. Weariness had set in and men were more prone to mistakes. The man who he had given the athelas and other healing tools to had proved to be a good and attentive healer. The athelas was boiling in the pot producing the curative scent, and he had sown up many wounds throughout the day and night. Faramir could only guess that he had collected fuel for the fire despite his wounded leg. It was well that there was such a man to take care of the others. His leg was too sorely wounded for him to be able to retreat effectively, but not so wounded that he could not move about to take care of all the ailing men.
The bannermen on both sides of the river had changed to flaming arrows as night had set in. The arrows had been treated with a chemical that made them burn with a blue or green flame. Faramir watched as the arrow with the green flame flew overhead and out into the plains beyond. Once more he and his horse leapt forward and moved quickly to join the current battle.
The Easterlings had now come with the orcs, and their taller stature made them a greater danger to the riders. Faramir caught the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye and ducked low over his horses back. He felt the small rush of air as the dagger flew by just over his arched back. He saw the blade imbed itself between the shoulders of a nearby orc, and smiled grimly as the creature screamed in agony, arms grasping desperately in an attempt to remove the knife.
Bringing his sword around in a wide arc he clipped the head of an orc who appeared to be attempting to run away. Checking the blade as it swung high into the air again he brought it down on the head of an Easterling who had been battling with one of his riders. The man flashed him a brief smile then turned to take on another attacker. Faramir found himself without foe momentarily and looked up to the opening into the pass to see how their archers were fairing. The enemy still were held at bay, but there seemed to be many of them crowding at the opening.
From out of nowhere an orc came crashing into the prince's leg. Faramir swore and hewed at the miserable creature, cutting the body neatly in two with a single stroke. This wave of the battle was nearly over. The few of the enemy who remained were surrounded and would soon be dead. Faramir again turned to look at the opening to the pass. A great number of orcs were issuing from the mouth as a single large contingent. Shields were turned out in all directions to help shield them from the rain of arrows. The few men, elves, and dwarves who remained near the opening were battling but to little avail. As the contingent broke free of the confines of the narrow pass suddenly the orcs on the outside dropped to the ground. In the midst of the large group were some twenty archers who now took aim on the army of Ithilien in the vale below.
"Retreat!" shouted Faramir, but he knew few could hear him above the din. Grasping the reins he began to maneuver his horse behind his men and shouted at them to urge them out of bowshot. Somewhere off to his right he could see the elves and dwarves were doing the same. Quickly his men began to see the danger and the men on horseback were retreating to the open plains as fast as they could. Thankfully the foot soldiers had already retreated and were out of harms way. Seeing now that all were withdrawing, Faramir urged his horse into gallop, but as the horse took the first stride he was thrown to the ground.
Searing heat ran through his upper body, and Faramir cried out in agony. His Dunadan training was screaming for him to move. He knew he had been pierced by an arrow. Others would soon follow to finish the job if he did not run. Pure will drove him forward as he raised himself to his feet. He could see the shaft of the arrow protruding from his left shoulder. The sight reminded him of his brother and the manner of his death. He laughed coldly as he willed his feet to move forward. If such an end was fit for Boromir, then so it would be for the second son of Denethor. The whine of arrows could be heard near him, but he struggled forward to the relative safety of the brush of the mountainside. The archers here would aid him if he could get close enough. Up ahead, one of his men was running towards him. Faramir wanted to call out and tell him to stay, but he found he could not speak. The sun was rising in the eastern sky, but Faramir's vision was growing darker. Something wet dribbled down his cheek. He was too weary to check, but he knew the liquid must be his own blood. A small bush appeared on his right, and Faramir sank to the ground behind its meager shelter. A face appeared above him, and Faramir tried to focus in on its features, "My lord, can you hear me?"
The Prince of Ithilien tried to respond, but still his throat would not make a sound. The face was growing dimmer, and the prince knew blessed unconsciousness was not far away. "Prince Faramir! Can you hear me?!" But blackness had closed around Faramir and he heard no more.
Disclaimer: all characters, settings, and elvish language are strictly from the mind of J.R.R. Tolkien or inspired by him.
Chapter XIV
The Pass of Poros
Faramir stared out across the dale. Campfires twinkled throughout the expanse and spilled out into the plains beyond except at the very center of the broad valley. Here ran the River Poros, as yet only a small stream and easily forded. The ripples of water glinted in the light of the half moon as the water ran playfully over unseen rocks on the way to its eventual merging with the great Anduin and finally the sea. The land was cast in the moon's ethereal glow, and Faramir could not help but take in the beauty of the land before him. He had never ventured so far to the south in his own realm.
In fact, the river was the border between Ithilien and Harondor, the southernmost fife of Gondor, and since Faramir was standing on the mountainside south of the river he was in fact no longer in his own realm. This, however, mattered little to the prince of Ithilien. The land of Harondor was claimed by both Gondor and the men of Harad. In times of peace the land served as a buffer zone between the two countries, and at times when the Haradrim deemed they would take the land for themselves it was a place of war. This time, however, the men of Gondor had come here to fight the Easterlings and orcs out of Mordor, not the men of the South. Not that Faramir had not considered what role the Southrons might have been playing in this attack, but the spies he and King Elessar had sent into Harad had reported no preparations for war.
A warm breeze laden with moisture from the Bay of Belfalas off to the west blew through Faramir's hair and he turned into the wind allowing the sweet air to flow into him. There was just a hint of salt in it. The scent turned his thoughts from the land, and Faramir thought of Legolas. Perhaps it was best that the elf was not here. The prince of Ithilien had never seen such a sadness in another's eyes as when Legolas spoke of the sea. The elf-prince had come near to its waters during the battle at Pelargir, and Faramir was certain that it was a daily struggle for Legolas to resist its call. His eyes moved to gaze at the elven contingent on the north side of the river. Every year more and more elves left Ithilien for the Grey Havens far to the north and west because of this longing for the sea. Faramir hoped that being so near the Bay of Belfalas would not hurry the elves who had come to this battle towards the inevitable. He desperately needed their help, but what would their aid cost them?
There was little movement in the various camps. They had managed the 100 miles from Amon Galen in just four days, a very hard and demanding march. Many of the men and dwarves had taken to their tents for much needed rest, and even Thranduil's people seemed to be asleep, lying under the stars lost in the dreams of the elves. Instinctively, Faramir searched the Ephel Duath for any signs of the scouts he and Thranduil had sent out, but from this distance and in the weak light he could discern nothing. He only hoped his men would be allowed their rest for the evening and so better prepare for the impending battle.
Far to the north a shooting star streaked across the sky. Faramir followed its trail down over the Ephel Duath. Instantly his thoughts were turned to Eowyn and Boromir. It was rare that Faramir was separated from either his wife or son and never in such imminent danger. On the morning they had departed from Amon Galen he had turned back to look upon his city once more and he had espied Eowyn. She stood on the topmost balcony of Minas Mallen, her golden hair shining in the newly risen sun. So perfect was that final vision that Faramir almost faltered in his duty. It seemed to him that the vision was one given by the gods as a final token to take with him as he passed from this world into whatever awaits mortals beyond death. Not for the first or last time the Prince of Ithilien considered whether he would behold the countenance of Eowyn or Boromir ever again.
At least he was comforted in the knowledge that Eowyn was safe. The fate of his son was as of yet unknown, and even if he should survive this battle there was no assurance that Boromir would live through his own undertaking. Anger began to well up within Faramir, but just as soon as it had come it passed. He was long past being angry with his son. He wanted only to hold him again and hear the deep, rumbling voice that was so much like that of his namesake. Faramir sighed. Somewhere within the deep places of his soul the emptiness made its presence known. The wound one suffers from losing a brother can never be fully healed. It can be masked and buried deep within, but it will endure, awaiting a time when one's guard is down the wound will resurface, festering and bleeding openly. Faramir had suffered at the loss of Boromir, his brother, but he did not think he possessed the strength to bear the loss of Boromir, his son.
"He lives yet, Prince of Ithilien. Of this I am certain."
Faramir turned to face the King of Eryn Lasgalen, "I was not aware that the heightened senses of the elves could be used for such things."
Thranduil smiled, and Faramir realized it was the first time since his arrival and even in all the previous times he had met the King that he had ever seen a genuine smile upon his beautiful face. "They cannot, but there are other ways in which I might deduce if Boromir yet lives. I have eyes, and though they are the far-seeing kind of my race, I need not such grace to deduce that you are a resourceful and noble man. There are not many who would find it easy to berate one of the Firstborn for rash judgment, much less one who has lived for more than 30,000 years." Faramir opened his mouth to speak, but the King raised his hand to silence him, "You need not apologize, Prince Faramir. Your words were wise and justified. Unlike many of my race, I am aware that great age can lead to stubbornness and even intolerance."
Faramir nodded his head in understanding, but he found it difficult to hold steady in Thranduil's steely gaze. "And so," the King continued, "a man of your worth would likely raise his son to be of the same ilk. What I have observed of your son would say so as well."
"You have me at in a bit of a dilemma, your highness. Your kind words concerning my own character seem exaggerated and undeserved, but where my son is concerned I would whole-heartedly agree." Faramir laughed and was surprised that Thranduil joined him.
"Yes, we are all quite proud where our children are concerned, are we not?" The question had been rhetorical, yet Faramir nodded in agreement. "And we still see them so even in light of their recent … shall we say … lapses in judgment."
"Yes," Faramir snorted, "lapses in judgment, indeed. But I find that the more I contemplate Boromir's decision to aid Legolas in his search for Gimli the more I think I should have anticipated it. He was ever a willful and stubborn child, and these traits seem not to have been lessened by his years."
Thranduil gave a rich, hearty laugh, "Willful and stubborn? It could not compare to that of Legolas Greenleaf." Thranduil's eyes took on a veiled look, and Faramir realized he was reliving some memory from long ago, "Many years ago, when Legolas had seen but twenty years, there was a royal boar hunt. The boars of my realm are notoriously dangerous. Even the most seasoned of warriors take great care when hunting these creatures. When they charge you must be ready with a well-aimed arrow otherwise you would be knocked to the ground and likely impaled on their long tusks. Legolas begged to be allowed to join the hunt. Looking back on that day I should have allowed him to accompany me, but I was always overly protective of my youngest son so I denied him this request.
"On the third day of the hunt we had come across a small sounder of boars. They were watching their young, which made them all the more dangerous. As was the way of a boar hunt, once the group was discovered we would spread out in a wide circle, surrounding them, and then slowly move inwards. The boars would become aware of our presence and would charge, and that's when we would loose our arrows. I felt the presence of my brethren as the circle began to tighten. Suddenly, off to my right a rather large boar initiated its attack. By right the elf next to me had the first shot. I heard the bow as the arrow was loosed, and watched as it hit its mark. But the shot was not aimed well and only took the boar in the shoulder. It stumbled, then rose and continued forward towards the offending elf. That is when I descried the figure of Legolas as he climbed into a nearby tree to escape the angered boar. I came closer only to find the boar sitting at the foot of the tree snorting and pawing at the ground enraged, and Legolas perched in its branches staring back at the animal. Apparently, in his haste to escape, he had dropped his bow upon the earth." Thranduil laughed heartily at this memory of his son, "I should have been very angry with him, but the position he was in was so preposterous I could barely contain my laughter. Besides, the humiliation of being found thus was enough punishment."
Faramir laughed along with the King of the woodland elves, though it was difficult to imagine Legolas in such a situation. He did not doubt that the elf-prince would be horrified that his father had shared that story. He would have to remember to relate it to Gimli when the opportunity arose. "Yes, I suppose that all children are willful and disobedient at times, but when they are your own they seem all the more so."
"Agreed," Thranduil replied, "and yet we would not truly wish them otherwise. I am angry with Legolas for leaving because I know the great danger he faces, and I fear for his safety. Yet, in his situation I would have done the same. I could not leave a friend to suffer torture and possibly death if I had any way to stop it." The king sighed, "I seem ever caught between being a father and a king where my son is concerned. I fear for him, I am proud of him, I am angry with him, and yet I understand his decision."
Faramir nodded, "Yes, I feel the same concoction of emotions. And then there is the danger we must face." Faramir's hand strayed to his sword, and his eyes sought the head of the vale once again. His heart misgave him. Something was not right, but he could not see it.
"You are having doubts about our campaign?" Thranduil prodded, seeing the look on the prince's face.
Faramir turned to face the king once again, "Yes, but I do not know why. Something is amiss here."
Thranduil's face darkened, "I have felt this as well, but I too am unable to discover its source."
Man and elf continued to stare out across the encampment, saying nothing but both struggling to find the root of their uneasiness. They remained silent for some time until Thranduil at last spoke, "One of our scouts is returning. He is in a great hurry. Let us go and meet him." Faramir nodded and king and prince descended the gentle slope together.
As they approached the banks of the river, Faramir became aware of an elf running out of the vale towards them. Faramir knew him, as he was one of the elves of Edhil-e-londe. He stopped in front of them and took a moment to catch his breath. For an elf to be in such a state meant that he had been pushing himself overly hard. "What news, Cirin?" Faramir asked when the elf appeared to be recovering.
Cirin bowed first to Thranduil and then to Faramir, "The enemy approaches, my lords. They will be here ere the sun climbs above the Ephel Duath." Inwardly Faramir swore, his men would have little rest this evening.
"Can you guess at their numbers?" Faramir asked, knowing the answer.
"Nay, your highness. They are walking five abreast through the pass and the line continued until it passed around the mountains and from my sight."
"Who of their warriors will we encounter first?" the Prince of Ithilien pressed the elf for more information.
"Orcs," Cirin practically spat the word, "They come with their swords, but few archers."
"Good," Faramir nodded, "that will aid our cause. You have done well, Cirin."
"Come," Thranduil nodded to the other elf, "accompany me back to our camp. We must wake the others and prepare for the assault." Thranduil turned and looked at Faramir, "If all went as planned the kings of Gondor and Rohan will be here in two days. Until then I wish you good fortune in battle. We will meet again, Prince of Ithilien. There is still the matter of deciding proper punishment for our sons when they return. I would take your counsel on this matter."
Faramir smiled, "And I, yours." Thranduil nodded to the prince and then he and Cirin turned away to make for the camp of the elves.
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The gray light of dawn silhouetted the mountains against the sky. For once, Faramir was thankful for the presence of the Ephel Duath. They were facing east, towards the vale where their enemy would soon emerge. If not for the large mountains in front of them the men, elves, and dwarves of Ithilien would be blinded by the rising sun. The archers would be especially disadvantaged by the light, and the archers were critical to his plan.
Sitting atop his horse Faramir looked out across the soon-to-be battlefield. All remnants of the camp had been removed. Before him the majority of his men were spread across the plain from the mountains to the river. Across the Poros he could see Thranduil's elves and Kolim's dwarves had done the same. There were barely enough bodies to cover the distance, but this mattered little. They were the bait, and once the enemy had been drawn out into the vale the cavalry would ride in. Faramir could see the horses and their riders at the shoulders of the mountains, out of view of anyone standing in the vale. The prince would be joining the riders of Ithilien soon to lead them in their charge when the time came.
At the head of the vale was a small contingent of elves, dwarves, and men. When the time came for the cavalry to ride, the enemy in the vale must be cut off from the army still approaching from the pass. This was the responsibility of the archers hidden on the shoulders of the mountains that formed the vale, but the others would take care of any who were able to pass through the barrage of arrows. And, if at all possible, they could collect the spent arrows and return them to the archers to replenish their stores. Faramir doubted if there would be any time for that, but the possibility was there.
The archers were so well hid that Faramir could not see any of them unless they chose to reveal themselves. Somewhere on the northern slope of the vale was hid Thranduil. He had wished to lead his cavalry into battle as Faramir would, but the archers were more sorely needed. Thranduil's skill with the bow was bested only by his own son, and so the King of Eryn Lasgalen had agreed to stand with the elven archers.
All was in readiness.
Off to his left a red banner was raised by an elf standing some way up on the mountainside. It was the signal that the enemy had rounded the last bend in the pass before coming to the mouth of the vale. Only minutes remained before they would enter the wide valley where Faramir and his army waited. The same red banner was raised on his own side of the river, and he could see and feel the men as they tensed in anticipation of the coming battle. Faramir pulled at the reins and urged his horse towards the other members of the cavalry.
Silence had descended upon the battlefield. The sky was now blue behind the Ephel Duath heralding the imminent arrival of the fiery globe. The minutes seem to tick by agonizingly slowly, and Faramir was agitated by the wait and by the inability to see what was occurring. Above him, on the mountainside, stood the bannerman with a blue banner now at his side. The unmistakable sounds of orc voices as they cried out in their guttural and unlovely tones could soon be heard, and then Faramir saw the bannerman raise the blue banner. Danethil's cry of "Ithilien!" could be heard and was quickly picked up by others who followed him into battle.
If the moments before the battle had seemed excruciatingly long then this wait was an eternity. The sounds of battle rang through the air, and Faramir wanted only to join them in their fight. His feelings were mirrored in the faces of his men, and even the horses danced anxiously, eager to join the fray. Faramir watched as the bannerman picked up the green banner from the ground. The Prince of Ithilien drew his sword. The sounds of his men following suit echoed behind him. Even as the bannerman began to wave the green banner high Faramir kicked his horse into a gallop and he sped his way into the vale.
The scene before him was just as he had expected. Danethil and his men were retreating back out of the vale and the orcs were following. Above him he heard the sounds of bows loosing arrows and the whistling of shafts as they sped through the air. Swiftly he led the horsemen around the edges of the vale and surrounded the enemy. When he had reached the far side he turned his horse and galloped in towards the heart of the battle.
The orcs were confused by the approach of the horses and were tripping over one another trying to retreat back to the mouth of the vale. Faramir swept his sword down and neatly removed the head of the first orc he encountered. The next orc was impaled from behind as Faramir's horse sped past. Prince and horse were practically bathing in the blood of the enemy as they hewed their way into the center of the vale.
The orcs were becoming thicker and Faramir reined the horse in to do battle with the many orcs that now surrounded him. He could see their wicked grins as they approached and tried to unhorse him. His sword danced through the air as more and more fell to its deadly blade. The horse he sat on reared up and pawed at the air, not liking the smell of the foul creatures. Faramir checked the horse then quickly shifted his blade to his left hand as two orcs charged at him on his left. His sword arced out to parry the blows dealt by the two attackers. With all his strength Faramir sliced downwards managing to bite into the flesh of the nearer orc at his thigh. He screamed out in pain and staggered back, but the other approached quickly and Faramir's blow had left him open to its attack. He raised his sword in an attempt to lessen the blow when the orc fell forward with an arrow protruding from his back.
The other orc had recovered enough to launch another assault, but met with the tip of Faramir's sword before he could level even a single blow. Faramir's right hand shot inside his tunic and gray steel flashed in the morning light as the dagger imbedded itself in the eye socket of the orc who had been stealing up from behind him. Spinning his horse around he fought his way to the side of the nearest rider.
He could see now that the first wave of the attack had been won. The last orcs were falling to the swords of the men of Ithilien, and the archers were keeping the remaining force at bay for the moment. Faramir dismounted and found the orc whose foul head still held the dagger he had thrown. Freeing the blade he wiped it on the orc's garment, and re-sheathed it inside his tunic.
Turning towards his men he shouted, "Kill any orc that you even suspect is not yet dead. We cannot have one of these victims surprising our men. Gather what arrows you can and retreat back to the cover of the mountains!" Faramir stabbed the body of a nearby orc whose hand had been straying to the mace it carried. Few arrows were found since the archers had concentrated on keeping additional forces at bay and not on protecting the cavalry as they attacked Within moments he and the other horsemen were retreating to the shelter of the mountains' shadow to prepare for the next attack. The Prince was heartened to see few bodies of his own men littering the ground. Danethil and his men were marching forward to prepare for the next assault. The captain of the army of Ithilien placed one arm across his chest in salute to his prince. Faramir returned the gesture and then the two moved their separate ways.
One of the horsemen had stopped to retrieve an injured man who lay upon the ground. His arm was hanging at an odd angle, and a great deal of blood was being soaked up by the man's tunic near his shoulder. When they arrived at the their hiding place once more, Faramir dismounted and helped carry the injured man out of the way of the horses. Two other wounded men were positioned against a rock. Looking up Faramir saw the bannerman wave the blue flag, and the prince knew there was no time to properly help these men. He picked the least injured of the three, a man who looked to have taken a sword in the thigh and handed him a small bundle, "In here you will find athelas, tinder and flint, and a thread and needle. Here is a pan for boiling water, if you are able. Do what you can for these men and yourself." Faramir saluted the three men, "You have honored your prince and Ithilien today."
The man with the leg wound saluted back, "Thank you, my Prince. It will be as you say." Faramir nodded then returned to his horse.
As he waited for the signal yet again he contemplated their position. The first attack had gone well, but how long would they be able to continue this? The enemy would eventually discover their strategy and come up with a way to defend against it. And how long could they keep this up before exhaustion set in? These were questions that time alone would be able to answer. As the green banner was once again raised, Faramir launched himself into the battle dreading what time would reveal.
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The night had brought little respite for the army of Ithilien. Orcs feared the daylight, and though clearly the leaders of this evil army had managed to force them to fight in the full light of day they were much more fierce after the sun went down. Twice during the night the enemy had managed to break through the opening of the vale despite the efforts of the archers. Faramir and his men as well as the elves and dwarves on the northern bank had rallied both times to push the enemy back into the pass, but it had cost them more lives. If it happened again Faramir was not certain they would be able to push them back again.
Some hope had come to him as he looked towards the Ephel Duath and noticed the blue at their horizon was a shade lighter than the rest of the night sky. Dawn was coming, and if they could hold back this last assault they would have the advantage of daylight. The forces of Gondor and Rohan would be here soon, perhaps even before sunset. They need only hold their ground a bit longer.
Throughout the night the dead and wounded had begun increasing at an alarming rate. Weariness had set in and men were more prone to mistakes. The man who he had given the athelas and other healing tools to had proved to be a good and attentive healer. The athelas was boiling in the pot producing the curative scent, and he had sown up many wounds throughout the day and night. Faramir could only guess that he had collected fuel for the fire despite his wounded leg. It was well that there was such a man to take care of the others. His leg was too sorely wounded for him to be able to retreat effectively, but not so wounded that he could not move about to take care of all the ailing men.
The bannermen on both sides of the river had changed to flaming arrows as night had set in. The arrows had been treated with a chemical that made them burn with a blue or green flame. Faramir watched as the arrow with the green flame flew overhead and out into the plains beyond. Once more he and his horse leapt forward and moved quickly to join the current battle.
The Easterlings had now come with the orcs, and their taller stature made them a greater danger to the riders. Faramir caught the glint of metal out of the corner of his eye and ducked low over his horses back. He felt the small rush of air as the dagger flew by just over his arched back. He saw the blade imbed itself between the shoulders of a nearby orc, and smiled grimly as the creature screamed in agony, arms grasping desperately in an attempt to remove the knife.
Bringing his sword around in a wide arc he clipped the head of an orc who appeared to be attempting to run away. Checking the blade as it swung high into the air again he brought it down on the head of an Easterling who had been battling with one of his riders. The man flashed him a brief smile then turned to take on another attacker. Faramir found himself without foe momentarily and looked up to the opening into the pass to see how their archers were fairing. The enemy still were held at bay, but there seemed to be many of them crowding at the opening.
From out of nowhere an orc came crashing into the prince's leg. Faramir swore and hewed at the miserable creature, cutting the body neatly in two with a single stroke. This wave of the battle was nearly over. The few of the enemy who remained were surrounded and would soon be dead. Faramir again turned to look at the opening to the pass. A great number of orcs were issuing from the mouth as a single large contingent. Shields were turned out in all directions to help shield them from the rain of arrows. The few men, elves, and dwarves who remained near the opening were battling but to little avail. As the contingent broke free of the confines of the narrow pass suddenly the orcs on the outside dropped to the ground. In the midst of the large group were some twenty archers who now took aim on the army of Ithilien in the vale below.
"Retreat!" shouted Faramir, but he knew few could hear him above the din. Grasping the reins he began to maneuver his horse behind his men and shouted at them to urge them out of bowshot. Somewhere off to his right he could see the elves and dwarves were doing the same. Quickly his men began to see the danger and the men on horseback were retreating to the open plains as fast as they could. Thankfully the foot soldiers had already retreated and were out of harms way. Seeing now that all were withdrawing, Faramir urged his horse into gallop, but as the horse took the first stride he was thrown to the ground.
Searing heat ran through his upper body, and Faramir cried out in agony. His Dunadan training was screaming for him to move. He knew he had been pierced by an arrow. Others would soon follow to finish the job if he did not run. Pure will drove him forward as he raised himself to his feet. He could see the shaft of the arrow protruding from his left shoulder. The sight reminded him of his brother and the manner of his death. He laughed coldly as he willed his feet to move forward. If such an end was fit for Boromir, then so it would be for the second son of Denethor. The whine of arrows could be heard near him, but he struggled forward to the relative safety of the brush of the mountainside. The archers here would aid him if he could get close enough. Up ahead, one of his men was running towards him. Faramir wanted to call out and tell him to stay, but he found he could not speak. The sun was rising in the eastern sky, but Faramir's vision was growing darker. Something wet dribbled down his cheek. He was too weary to check, but he knew the liquid must be his own blood. A small bush appeared on his right, and Faramir sank to the ground behind its meager shelter. A face appeared above him, and Faramir tried to focus in on its features, "My lord, can you hear me?"
The Prince of Ithilien tried to respond, but still his throat would not make a sound. The face was growing dimmer, and the prince knew blessed unconsciousness was not far away. "Prince Faramir! Can you hear me?!" But blackness had closed around Faramir and he heard no more.