Helper and protector
' Yet he felt in his heart that Faramir, though he was much like his brother in looks, was a man of less self-regarding, both sterner and wiser.'
Frodo's view on Faramir. Exerpt from The Two Towers, book IV, chapter five.
The whispering of the wind against my ears. The soft rustling of leaves. The sun shining on my face. Today it is sunny, as it hasn't been for many days before.
Yet, it does little for my own comfort.
The shadow moves ever westwards, and clouds my mind. I feel lonely, and silently I fear the loneliness. It has been two years, but the loss of my wife still pains me as strongly as if it were but yesterday that she passed from this world. My sons seem to have recovered, though. I can see them from the tower as I work.
My oldest son, Boromir, is practising his sword-skills. His sword-master says he's improving rapidly. He has great strength for one so young. My youngest, Faramir, does not improve that much. His teacher told me yesterday, he has little interest in taking up the sword. He misses his brother's enthusiasm in battle, not to mention he hasn't the built for it. And now, he has the notion in his head to be a historian in his later days. I told him, as patiently as I could, that this wasn't an option. The great sons of Gondor can be historians in their own time, but they are the heirs of Gondor before all else. The guiding lights of a nation. A nation on the edge of a dangerous land that poses a continual threat to the very existence of Men, Elves and other races that inhabit this Middle-Earth. And besides, what good is history if you do not life to see it and record it?
The boy seemed to understand, but I still catch him in the library at times. Going through old scrolls, learning an Elven-tongue or dreaming away when staring out the window at some invisible place or other. I just can't understand what moves him, though he is much like me at times. The way he looks at people like looking through them scares me as much as it interests me. He feels less like a son, and more like a stranger in my own home the more I dare think upon it. Yet he is my son, and Boromir's younger brother. There is a lot of brotherly love between them, and Boromir is always ready to defend him when the older boys scold him for making an impertinent remark about something they said. In a way, I suppose they are both brave young men. So happy in their youth and innocence. They have not seen what I have seen, and I hope they never will…
' Faramir! Brother! Come here!'
A young boy looked up and smiled at his older brother. When Boromir was this excited, something interesting was definitely afoot. He stood up, put down the scroll he had been reading and ran towards his anxious-looking brother.
' What is it, brother? Have you caught something for dinner?'
The older boy smiled.
' No, still no stag. Not even a skunk or a small bird! We'll just have to make do with what we usually have.'
The young boy seemed disappointed.
' Then, what were you so anxious about? Not another dead orc, I hope? They smell horrible, war-trophy or not.'
At this, Boromir laughed heartily. He messed up his brother's hair. The young boy laughed and jumped back out of harm's way.
' No, little brother. This is something you will enjoy. He's back.'
' You mean…?'
' Yes, him. Mithrandir is in his quarters right now, and he would like to speak with you.'
The young boy was overjoyed by this news, and he ran immediately to meet his friend. The man who had looked down on this scene merely turned away from the window to work again. Boromir saw this. So strange, he thought to himself. He is our father, yet he can not love us both.
Faramir ran down some stairs, passing guards and merchants on the way. He took turns here and there, walked up other flights of stairs till, at last, he reached his destination. He knocked on the door. He heard shuffling within, and after a short period the door opened to reveal an old man in grey robes. He had a twinkle in his eyes and a big grey beard. Faramir walked up to him and gave him a hug.
' Mithrandir! I have missed you much since you last came here. Why did you not send word of your coming, so I could've been at the gates to welcome you?'
The old man laughed.
' Please, master Faramir, I am not worthy of such a welcome. Knowing you, I probably would've seen the entire guard of the citadel at the gates to give me a royal welcome. I would rather have peace when I arrive.'
'I wouldn't have used the whole guard! Only two columns. That wouldn't have been a royal welcome at all. More like a' hello, nice to see you are still breathing!' kind of welcome.'
At this, Mithrandir smiled. He motioned for the boy to sit down at the only table in the small room that was the wizard's quarters. As Faramir sat down, Mithrandir searched for his pipe.
' I'm joyous to see you in such high spirits. I hope your brother is well?'
' As well as can be expected. He practises a lot with the sword these days. He seems to like it, though I think he does it in part to please father.'
' Possible. How is your father these days?'
Faramir fell silent. When at length he spoke, his voice was strangely flat.
' I see so little of him these days. And when I do, he hardly speaks to me. If he does speak to me, though, it is mostly to scold me or ask me about Boromir. He seems to care little for my welfare, if he cares at all.'
' Such harsh words.' The old man had taken out his pipe, and was peacefully blowing smoke-rings.' Your father cares for you, Faramir. Though not as openly as he does for your brother. He was never a man of many words, and that has not changed over the years. There is much to see in his looks, Faramir.'
The boy sighed, and looked at the ground.
'I see nothing but contempt in those looks. He looks at me like I'm otherworldly. Like we are not even kin. Does he really love me, Mithrandir?'
' Yes, he does. Do not ever doubt that! You are his son, Faramir. If he had a choice of you dying or him, he would give his life to protect you.'
' Willingly?' The boy said, doubt sounding in his voice.
' Of course.' The wizard answered.
The young boy's face brightened a bit as he looked up at his friend. The wizard got up from his seat.
' I just made a nice pot of tea. Would you like to join me, Faramir?'
' Yes, please! And then you must tell me of all the places you have visited since you were away. Have you visited the elves again? I love to hear stories about them! You make them sound so wonderful and strong!'
' Then I shall tell you a story from when I was young.' The wizard said, as he sat down on the wooden chair opposite Faramir's.
' Were you ever young?' The boy said, his voice filled with mock disbelief.
The wizard laughed, as he gave Faramir a hot cup of tea. They sat together till the sun hit the ground and it was Faramir's time to go home for dinner. They waved their goodbye's as the young boy ran back to the citadel. When, at last, he arrived he turned out to be late. His father scolded him, and Faramir did his best to hold back his tears during dinner. He did not apologise, for it was of little use. His father would just look at him with those stern eyes and tell him that excuses were meaningless since the damage had already been done. Sometimes, he would get angry and think bad thoughts about his father. He tried not to, though, because the only one who would feel bad then would be himself. He would just hide out in the library, as usual, until the feeling would pass.
He ate his dinner swiftly, excused himself and took the many flights of stairs to what he called "his refuge". It was a corner in the library that even his father didn't know about. He had often found interesting literature lying there. Sometimes, it would be a historic tale of a battle. Or poetry. Sometimes a journal. What was strange, though, was that he never found the same things laying there. Someone would place things there for him to read. Or so Faramir thought. He never complained, though, since whomever did this knew exactly what the young boy wanted to read. Imagine, someone I don't even know is better acquainted with my interests and tastes then my own father! Faramir thought glumly. But this feeling soon passed, as he became enraptured in one of the scrolls that he had found laying there this time.
Late again! Well, at least he doesn't make excuses this time. I can already guess what they are. He was with Mithrandir, and he completely forgot about the time! It is always like that.
Not that it surprises me in the least, since I am not much of a father to him as this Grey Pilgrim that continually haunts me with advice or evil tidings. Not that anything he says tells me things that I have not already seen for myself. He beautifies the horrible things that happen. Wraps them up in a pink cloud. Him and his sugary web. I know what he's hiding! I've known it all along. But he will not ensnare me that easily with sugar-coated stories and fairy-tales. I know what sinister plan he has yet to unravel before me.
And I shall be waiting for it.
I will not be supplanted by some ranger from the North!