Elegy of a Tormented Soul

The nightmares have never really gone away. It has been years now since Frodo destroyed the Ring but their faces still haunt me. Their deaths are an eternal burden on my conscience. Every night I see them- the dead, the dying- slain by Orcs whilst defending their keep, forsaken by their comrades such as I, if I could be so presumptuous as to count myself a comrade. I was their captain, they were my soldiers- they swore an oath of loyalty and service to Gondor and to me and I to them but what is an oath in times of war and despair? A few meaningless words dispelled by the suffocating stranglehold of fear and hopelessness…the weakness of men was truly exemplified that tragic day Osgilliath fell to the Dark Lord's army.

They follow me everywhere; their ghostly steps are fresh in my wake. Their voices echo in my mind- their dying words seared into my memory as vivid and clear as writing.

"We're outnumbered!"

"Pull back!"

"You'll never take Osgilliath!"

"Pull back!"

"This is for Gondor!"

"Pull back!"

Pull back… but it was already too late. We returned with less than half of the men we set out with. Those who weren't killed in that battle, were snatched up by the Nazgul as we desperately spurred our horses forward to Minas Tirith- the stronghold of Gondor and of my father Denathor, the Steward of Gondor. But I was mistaken to think we would arrive home to a hero's welcome. No- instead I endured the worst shame and anger that I had ever suffered. A thousand weapons of the enemy could not come close to the daggers my father's words drove into my heart. He favoured Boromir over me… he wished me dead and Boromir in my place.

Even in his death, I was still living in my brother's shadow. I was bitterly determined to prove myself to my father and to show him once and for all that I was as strong and courageous as my dead brother, if not more. The battle that ensued to reclaim Osgilliath had nothing to do with courage or strength. Osgilliath was a lost city- none survived. Except me.

As I lay in my bed, on the edge of death, a young halfling by the name of Perregrintook, or Pippin, told me of my men's fate, of my near fate and of the fate of my father.

"He's not dead! He's not dead!"

In the mindless haze that was near-death, I had vague recollections of his face as he looked at me one last time before he caught alight. Was that love I saw in his gaze, or was I just desperate to hear from him that I had his love as well as Boromir?

These questions have never left my mind, my steps are heavy- weighed down by the burden of the past, the burden I carry on my heart. So much death- all at my hands. So many men lost their lives to pay for my foolish pride and thirst to seek my father's favour.

They haunt me. They form the shadows on my face. No longer can I sleep in peace. I close my eyes and I am there, at that God-forsaken battlefield where we fought and lost to unsurmountable odds. My men falling like flies all around me, at the blow of the Orc sword, bodies littered everywhere both men and Orc, the water stained a deep, accusing red…
The souls of those lost in battle at my command surround me, suffocate me. In the steal of the night when everything is quiet, I can still hear their cries of pain as loudly as I was there. The darkness consumes me, it swallows me whole. There are times that I wish death had claimed me at Osgilliath. There I would have died an honourable death, fighting beside my comrades for Gondor, instead of living a coward, forever haunted by the ghosts of the past as I am now.

What am I now? A Steward of Gondor, like my father, under King Aragorn and Lady Arwen's rule. I am eternally grateful for their kindness and generosity.
"A war hero should be treated so" they say but I am no war hero. Merely a victim of sheer luck. By right I shouldn't be here. By right, I should have been buried beside my second-in-command at the place where he fell in Osgilliath.

Instead I am still here, alive, constantly tormented by the souls of the dead, nursing the wounds of war that even time cannot heal. This cannot be my fate. My fate is of my own choosing.

And I have chosen it.

--

"Faramir- what are you doing?" Eowyn asked as she entered. Ah, beautiful Eowyn, my fair light. Such beauty blessed by angels.

"What are you writing?" she asked curiously as she noticed the paper and pen in hand.

He set the paper down and placed the pen down beside it. He stood up to face his beautiful wife. He stroked her face lovingly. Such tenderness he did not deserve. Such beauty he should not have the honour of looking upon. She was unaware of what was hidden underneath his heavy cloak. He felt the reassuring weight of it pressing against his leg. The cold steel of my sword. Such coldness yet embracing warmth at the same time…its blade- my most faithful companion in battle, and now will bring me the solitude and peace I need…

"Where are you going?" she asked a third question as he started to walk out the door.

In the end… in the end I'm sure we will be reunited somewhere…but I can't be with you here… like this…
He turned to gaze upon her beauty one last time and smiled a vague smile she could not interpret.

"Nowhere my love"

~~

A.N. Okay this is my first LoTR "fanfic" so don't be too hard in your reviews okay? *winces as "reviewers" get ready to hurl rotten tomatoes*… well yeah… this was just a one-shot fic, the result of being bored at home by myself on a Saturday afternoon and being in a poetic mood. And don't blame me if it goes nowhere- things in my life tend to do that. So sue me, I'm crap ^^ and by the way… I don't think Eowyn is beautiful… I actually hated her up until she killed the Felbeast and Witchking… Faramir though… *droolZ* XP jokes…
Oh and I really don't know the conventional pairings so I just used one I kinda liked from the third movie…^___^ (although the only time you see them together is at the end… but ANYWAY…) R+R please!!