DISCLAIMER: I do not own Lord of the Rings
Summary: After an uneasy dream waked him from his sleep, Faramir is called to the banks of the river where he makes a startling discovery.
Drip—drip—drip—drip—
Water trickled down the cavern wall steadily and filled every fissure in the ancient rock with crystalline liquid. A stream flowed down the center of the cave, running smoothly to the great pool below. Moonlight flooded the cavern, illuminating the water into living silver.
The soft grunts of sleeping men echoed around the room, mingling with the lulling tinkle of falling water. Faramir stirred uneasily in his sleep, waking suddenly in panic. Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he rose from his bed, walking quietly between the rows of sleeping soldiers toward the Curtain.
The moonlight had transformed the valley below into a sparkling wonderland. The wind was gresh, cool and clear. Faramir observed the surrounding world in silent reverence. Water flowed, rushing soothingly, men snored, the steady drip—drop, plip—plop sang its song of peace.
But he remained ill at ease, chilled to the bone, and wary. Finally succumbing to the lull of night, he turned to head for his bed.
Away in the distance, barely audible above the rushing of the falls, a clear horn sounded. Faramir started. Surely that was the Horn of Gondor! He knew the note well, for verily he remembered the mighty tone that resonated around the world when Boromir sounded it.
He ran into the cave, grabbing his cloak and weapons, and hurried down the winding corridors to the woods below.
The horn sounded again, floating over the forest from the River Anduin. Faramir hastened to it, scrambling blindly through the unfriendly trees.
He came to the river, and lo! Gliding silently through the water was a ghostly vessel, an image of unwordly splendour, a marvel to look upon and a horror to behold. Faramir could not tear his eyes away from it. Hours it seemed, yet the boat floated wistfully onward, never diverted from its destined course, oblivious to the pull of time.
Faramir waded into the water and peered over the port side of the vessel. Eyes closed as if deep in slumber, the pale form of a mighty man lay cradled within the ship. Farmir gasped; there was his brother, so long away, now returned to the land of his sires. But in his face there was a change, an unyielding beauty, a brightness of spirit though all else was black. At the warrior's feet lay the cruel weapons of his vanquished foes.
"Boromir!"
The cry echoed past the river's end and down to the sea, but no answer came.
The vessel sailed onward and Faramir, consumed by his grief, stumbled forward and threw his body to the dry bank. There he lay, tears streaming down his face, and there on the banks he slept.
The faint lingering note of a horn long forgotten sounded in the distance. Faramir awoke to the lapping of water at his hair. He stared for a moment up at the bright blue sky, then he turned and gazed down the river. There, half submerged in sandy soil, was a horn girted with silver. It was cloven in two.
Summary: After an uneasy dream waked him from his sleep, Faramir is called to the banks of the river where he makes a startling discovery.
Drip—drip—drip—drip—
Water trickled down the cavern wall steadily and filled every fissure in the ancient rock with crystalline liquid. A stream flowed down the center of the cave, running smoothly to the great pool below. Moonlight flooded the cavern, illuminating the water into living silver.
The soft grunts of sleeping men echoed around the room, mingling with the lulling tinkle of falling water. Faramir stirred uneasily in his sleep, waking suddenly in panic. Perspiration beaded his forehead, and he rose from his bed, walking quietly between the rows of sleeping soldiers toward the Curtain.
The moonlight had transformed the valley below into a sparkling wonderland. The wind was gresh, cool and clear. Faramir observed the surrounding world in silent reverence. Water flowed, rushing soothingly, men snored, the steady drip—drop, plip—plop sang its song of peace.
But he remained ill at ease, chilled to the bone, and wary. Finally succumbing to the lull of night, he turned to head for his bed.
Away in the distance, barely audible above the rushing of the falls, a clear horn sounded. Faramir started. Surely that was the Horn of Gondor! He knew the note well, for verily he remembered the mighty tone that resonated around the world when Boromir sounded it.
He ran into the cave, grabbing his cloak and weapons, and hurried down the winding corridors to the woods below.
The horn sounded again, floating over the forest from the River Anduin. Faramir hastened to it, scrambling blindly through the unfriendly trees.
He came to the river, and lo! Gliding silently through the water was a ghostly vessel, an image of unwordly splendour, a marvel to look upon and a horror to behold. Faramir could not tear his eyes away from it. Hours it seemed, yet the boat floated wistfully onward, never diverted from its destined course, oblivious to the pull of time.
Faramir waded into the water and peered over the port side of the vessel. Eyes closed as if deep in slumber, the pale form of a mighty man lay cradled within the ship. Farmir gasped; there was his brother, so long away, now returned to the land of his sires. But in his face there was a change, an unyielding beauty, a brightness of spirit though all else was black. At the warrior's feet lay the cruel weapons of his vanquished foes.
"Boromir!"
The cry echoed past the river's end and down to the sea, but no answer came.
The vessel sailed onward and Faramir, consumed by his grief, stumbled forward and threw his body to the dry bank. There he lay, tears streaming down his face, and there on the banks he slept.
The faint lingering note of a horn long forgotten sounded in the distance. Faramir awoke to the lapping of water at his hair. He stared for a moment up at the bright blue sky, then he turned and gazed down the river. There, half submerged in sandy soil, was a horn girted with silver. It was cloven in two.