I want to thank Chris for her great beta reading job, thank you very much, pal.
This story is dedicated to all people who are around and support me: Mirka, Tanicka, Shaytis, Jo, Chris, Inyx and of course all Faramir fans.
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Prelude to Innocence
by Akin
Boromir sat in his chamber. The rigid muscles of his back were already protesting, but he was
too nervous to easy his body. Tense like a string, Faramir would say, or something similar.
The thought of his brother lifted Boromir's mood a little. Even a small smile crossed his face although there was really no reason to be joyful that day.
After this small easing, his eyes returned to gazing southwards.
Although he was considered far-sighted, his eyes could not reach the distances he wished them to.
This inability was to be expected, but increased his dissatisfaction and impression of great burden lying on his shoulders.
The only burden I carry now is my own impatience. He chastised himself; I wish there were at least some news so we can act. Not only sit!
He sighed.
For a long time bad rumour had come from the southern borders, but there was no one to confirm them or prove them wrong. Naturally, the head of Gondor could not make important decisions based on the talk of folk in the streets under the Citadel. Yet Boromir knew, that these silent whispers were often faster than any messenger.
Is father listening to the rumours? Could it be the explanation why he always knows so much more than the others?
For a few moments Boromir pondered over the answer, but then dismissed it as a most unlikely explanation.
Boromir prided himself for not taking the rumours too seriously, yet he had a feeling that there really might be much going on under cover of the night of Haradwaith.
We should forget about the Southern Region. The soil is naught but sand, and the land almost as hostile as the neighbours. There is no one, save some border villagers, who would dare ride closer to the line.
Nobody wondered about that though, for behind the line was lurking Harad. The very name sounded as dark as its folk looked.
He himself had been on the borders only once, not a long time ago. And it seemed like he would return there ere he wished.
Suddenly the loud sound of silver trumpets of Guards of the Outer Ring shook the air. Once – twice. A messenger was coming!
Boromir bolted from his chair and hurried to his father's working chamber. His long paces were fast and he must put a lot of effort into trying not to run. All the way he was met by curious and half envious stares.
The worried lines around the mouths of Steward's advisors were prolonging- under the unstable peace with Harad the threat of open conflict was constantly bubbling on the Southern borders. And the steward was never very subtle in his actions - from an open conflict was never too far to an open war, which would be against all interests of Gondor.
If bloodshed occurred though, it seemed inevitable.
Boromir almost ran into his father at the door of his chamber, but he managed to stop just in time. Despite the strain of the last days Denethor was calm. The Steward's blue eyes pierced his son with disapproval and Boromir felt his impatience suddenly leave him. He looked down and followed his father into the office.
Denethor sat down to his table and gestured for Boromir to sit as well. He put a hard bushing with engraved sign of Gondor on his desk and then simply, without any ceremonials broke the seal. Inside was a single sealed scroll clearly signed as solely for the steward's eyes.
Boromir looked away discretely. He did not doubt that Denethor would give him the scroll after he had studied it alone. Till then he would wait patiently.
He tried to avoid making his father's shifting moods worse by his impatience because even though the servants and maids believed the steward to be calm, Boromir knew better. He looked away from his father's wrinkling brow and waited.
He promised himself to sit quietly and patiently, but his equanimity was soon lost again and Boromir curiously glanced at his father. He carefully studied the small signs crossing Denethor's strict face - brows were knitted together, eyes were blazing. His hand with the big silver ring with the sign of the office was pressed to the thin lips... he would go to Harad.
The shadow looming over the steward's eyes spoke volumes, the conflict was opened and war was closer than in the long years past.
Finally Denethor's eyes left the scroll and he raised them to Boromir. Then without a word his long arm stretched over the table and handed his son the scroll. A few moments ago Boromir had been eager to read it, but now he took it reluctantly.
After he had read it, Boromir grimly put the scroll away. It did not tell much about what had happened except the fact that Reenatirion had been attacked. Nothing about the outcome of the attack or about the losses. Even from the little he had learnt it was clear though, that his presumptions were correct - there was only a small chance they would not end up in war.
"How do you think we should proceed?"
Denethor's eyes pierced him, awaiting his suggestions. Yet Boromir had a feeling that whatever he would say, it would not be right. Was there something he had missed?
"The best would be to organise a troop of the soldiers who are still in the city and immediately leave for Reenatirion in Hyarmen, the southern land of Harondon. The guards there know the situation and could be of assistance. If we need help we could send for the groups in Southern Ithilien."
The Steward folded his hands behind his back and stood up, "No. The outpost Reenatirion was attacked and destroyed. Only one man escaped the slaughter, who brought the news and died immediately after."
Boromir straightened alarmed, "How could they dare to attack it. They must have known we would fight back!"
His father's cold eyes immediately bit into him, "Of course they knew. They were trying to provoke us. They crossed Harnen, invaded Harondon and destroyed Reenatirion. Enough to call for a war."
Boromir subconsciously clenched his fists, "But why! They ensured we would react, but why?"
"They are prepared for our arrival. Their number is small, but they are convinced that they will finally be able to defeat us. They are Haradrim. They may not be very intelligent, but they have stout hearts."
"That is folly. We are able to build up an army of at least two thousand men and crush them to nothing at any time!"
"They obviously need to be reminded of that. Take six hundred men and leave for Hyarmen in two days. You will take Faramir with you and all lads fit for duty from the orphanage."
Boromir froze and dread drenched him, "But that is a suicidal task!"
Denethor looked at him with a cold edge in his steely eyes.
"As you said. They need to be reminded of our strength and there is nothing more degrading for a Haradrim than to be defeated by an adversary who is seemingly much weaker. I am sure we would not hear from them for the next few years and we would be able to evade the war at the same time."
The logic was cold and appeared almost perfect, almost.
"I cannot lead there a bunch of children there and let them fight the Westerlings."
"There would be only twelve orphans in your group and Faramir. All the other men would be of your free choice. I have full trust in my captains."
Boromir smirked. A dry remark was itching at his tongue and probably for the first time in his whole life he started to understand how Faramir must have felt, fighting battles he simply could not win. But Boromir did not intend to give up,
"Why do we have to take the youths?"
"They live in the orphanage and are bred to become soldiers one day. It is time for them to have their first experiences. They have to start somewhere, just like all others."
It sounded oh so logic.
"And what of Faramir!"
The Steward's brow flew up high and Boromir was ironically relieved that at least when his son was in question Denethor showed a little humanity, though it was only in the form of a small sigh of confusion.
"What of him. He has been truly sick, but he is fine again now. He would soon have joined one of the companies anyway. He proved more than satisfactory in the yearly tournament and I see him fit for duty."
Boromir blinked disbelieving, "This would not be a skirmish, but a massacre!"
"He must soon learn that the life of a soldier is not easy soon, if he wants to lead a company sometime."
Boromir had tried to win this war for his brother's sake but now he was speechless. Defeated on all fronts. "Very well then. We shall leave as planned."
The Steward nodded contently and Boromir had to do everything possible to hide the defeated manner in which his shoulders hung down, "I will prepare everything necessary and inform the companies I intend to lead as well."
"Thank you, you may leave, Captain."
Boromir turned on his heels and strode out of the room. He had to tell Faramir.
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He looked up and pondered where his brother could be. The sun was already high and Faramir had most likely finished his early sword practice already, which was supposed to bring him back to shape after the terrible sickness. Boromir considered a few possibilities and then decided to look for his brother in Faramir's room.
He will have his nose stuck in a book or similar trumpery.
Boromir halted a little in his walking and shook his head slightly.already resemble my father in opinions as well.
That certainly was not a pleasing revelation.
It is my anger speaking for me. At least in this I am not like my father. As long as I preserve my emotions, I am more human.
The thought that occurred to him seemed even more preposterous than the previous one.
As if father was inhuman. He has a deficiency concerning humanity, but he still...
Boromir shook his head again, he did not need to judge or defend his father before himself. If nothing else, Denethor was still his father, the Steward of Gondor - a man both respected and honoured.
Although he was not very eager to bring the news to Faramir, he was almost relieved when he stood before his brother's chamber and so could end his inner struggle.
He knocked, "Faramir are you inside?"
His voice was echoing strangely in the usually empty wing of the House.
Without bothering to knock again, Boromir entered. He hoped that Faramir was inside. It would not be the first time he had not heard him knocking because of some interesting tale he was reading.
But not this time. The room was empty. There were no opened books on the table and the window had been opened since the early morning.
Boromir frowned; he had hoped that Faramir would be here, yet he obviously was not. There was one other place where his brother could be. He left the chamber and proceeded further into the wing, soon coming to a stone spiral staircase leading down beneath the level of the ground where the larger part of the Great Library of Minas Tirith was located.
The stairs look as if they would never end; Faramir's words crossed his mind when he looked at it.
He hoped that there would be more torches along the way so he would not break his neck.
Boromir sighed, but then slowly moved down the hard flights. He had not much luck with the light.
Obviously, the warden did not believe that anyone would be foolish enough to share Faramir's excitement for old lore and so there were only a few fixed torches on the way down.
Although it was all stone around him, his steps were not echoing as his voice had in the upper part of the House before.
The air was cold here, but not damp. Nevertheless, Boromir did not feel comfortable enclosed in the tight space. If two men met on the staircase, they would hardly be able to pass each other by.
Finally the dark passage opened into a surprisingly airy and open space richly lighted with many torches.
There in the middle of everything Faramir sat. Among the scrolls and books he appeared small, but despite that it seemed as if he somehow belonged there and ruled everything. Everyone has one's own reign.
Faramir raised his eyes for a moment and spotted Boromir, surprised he stood up and exclaimed,
"Boromir, why are you here? Something happened? Can I help you?"
"Is this what you think of me, brother mine? That I visit you here only when there is threatening a danger?" Boromir replied dryly.
Faramir flushed, "Of course not! I was only taken aback," then he frowned, "and yet I can tell from the look on your face that something has happened. Tell me."
Boromir smirked and sat down, "This morning a messenger arrived from Harondor. Haradrim had crossed Harnen. They attacked Reenatirion and destroyed it. No one survived the attack, except one messenger who died immediately after his arrival in Minas Tirith. We must take six hundred men and leave immediately for Hyarmen to settle the fights."
"I am not surprised that Harad awoke again. She has been brewing for long. And you tell me we must go there to settle the matters. Their power must have been great if they managed to defeat Reenatirion, how are we supposed to do that with only six hundred men?"
Boromir followed Faramir's thoughtful look directed at the back of one of the many books in the shelves.
"That is not all."
Faramir lifted eyebrow, "Is it not? Even without the skilful eye of a warrior I can see that if we do not get help from Southern Ithilien or another company, it would a slaughter and not a battle. How can there be more to it?"
"There are going to be twelve lads from the orphanage who will join us and fight as well."
Faramir stood up abruptly and his wooden chair rambled on the stone floor, "That is abhorrence. Shall boys fight men's wars in Gondor?"
Boromir despite himself smirked, "May I remind you, brother, that most of the orphans are older than you are?"
Faramir smirked and sat down again, "May I remind you that they did not have more than basic fighting lessons? To send them with us would be sentencing them to death!"
"Keep a cold head, Faramir. Reenatirion was a good fort, but there were only three hundred and five men. As the messenger said, there were approximately eight hundred Haradrim. They did not have a chance. But I believe with six hundred good men, we could do it."
Faramir cocked his head to the side as if counting and then reluctantly nodded, "Yes with Reenatirion for support, it might be possible."
"The fort was destroyed, completely. We cannot count it as a backup. It would be most likely be a fight in an open space without any help for them or for us," Boromir's pragmatic voice softened a little, "I know you have strong feelings about it, but please, keep them to yourself."
Boromir immediately saw that his words had not the intended impact.
"So you think it is right when we rob them of almost every chance of survival because we want to give the Haradrim a lesson?"
Faramir laughed almost bitterly when he saw the elder man's expression, "Brother! Did you really believe I would not see through this plan the instance I heard it? Such a foul idea can only come from Denethor's mind."
"I do not think you are right. The plan is indeed very audacious, but not impossible. And the orphans have everything has each usual soldier has when he joins his first company. They are well bred, have their clothes, they will get armour and were taught to wield a sword."
This time Faramir considered his words a little longer, then he silently replied, "You may be right. I probably feel sorry for them because they do not have the chance to choose."
"Even if they had, most of them would become warriors. Minas Tirith is a beautiful city, but she is not known for her beauty, but as a stronghold."
Boromir had seen that although he had not convinced Faramir completely, there was much less temper within his younger brother now.
I am of the same opinion, brother. But we cannot make our feeling rule us. Those who stand at the top stand there alone. We must give our feelings in exchange for our heritage, which we just cannot disclaim.
Faramir stood up from the book and closed it. He stuck it into one of the shelves and moved out of the library. Boromir did not follow him, for he saw that his brother was not prepared for company now. When Faramir stood under the staircase, he turned back a little and murmured, " It leaves a bitter taste in my mouth."
Then he swiftly walked up the spiral staircase and had soon disappeared from Boromir's sight.
Boromir looked at the torches around him and sighed into the empty chamber.
"I know, for there is bile in my mouth as well."
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Reenatirion- a watch tower, an outpost by the river Harnen watching over the activity in Harad.
Hyarmen- the most southern lands of Southern Gondor(Harondor)
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minnie- Yeah to be honest I am with the sequel surprised a little myself. I only planned this one chapter and it started to grow and grow...;)
Siberia-I am glad that you like my Minas Tirith stories, I hope that I wasn't by criticisin your stories very harsh and that my suggestions would help you to get even better. But don't forget, those are only suggestions and are only a matter of opinion. Thak you that you stopped by.
Alex-thanks, I try because I like Boromir and Faramir as well. They are both soo different and sooo great...that's why they are such a good theme to write about.
Inyx-Inyx,hmmm Inyx, seems like the name of this lady rings a bell by me, it should shouldn't it. Hi Inyx, I welcome you to my next story and I hope you will enjoy it just like all the others. I hope that you will have time to read it by your punishing schedule :))
Xenabard-Hi, seems like someone from Brothers of Gondor forum had found here a way :) I am very glad that you like the story. I try :) See ya in the forum
Acacia - I immediately recognised your name as one of the reviewers from Thy father's son. I am honoured that you found the story that good to read a sequel. I, to be honest, after rereading TFS had to rewrite it a little and I am sure that the next time I see it I will rewrite it again, the curse of being a detailist.
If you have any questions or didn't like something, just drop me a line I will surely respond. Constructive criticism is more than welcomed.