Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places
thereof. I'm just having fun writing these stories, no profit is being
made.
*****
Thorongil stiffened as the wind rustled the leaves around him, slithering like a snake through the grasses, leaving no trail. His face could not easily be read: he seemed displeased, or apprehensive, or perhaps worried. Perhaps he was even afraid, a little, but this is not likely, for though capable of fear he rarely experienced this emotion: such was the Ranger's mien. Something, though, stirred badly within him, for his eyes swept briefly across the field, then darted back and again across the walls of Minas Tirith.
"He will come." Mithrandir held a more relaxed posture, though he too worried. What could be done? His was to wait and see; the wizard appreciated this. What he did not appreciate was Thorongil having made such a plan without consulting him.
Success of this plan neared the value of necessity: for Faramir, it might well prove such. The alternate possibilities were many: these Thorongil was familiar with. Suppose the plan fell through? Suppose he and Mithrandir were betrayed, what then would become of them? Supposing. . .
Then these musing were stopped by the sound of faint hoofbeats, and a horse appeared through a narrow gap in the great door to the First Circle of Minas Tirith. At a slow trot the horse approached, the bulky form of a rider atop it swaying a bit. Thorongil nodded, discerning the identities of the double riders. "You are correct in your trust of him, Gandalf."
No more did they speak until Boromir called his horse to a halt beside Thorongil's, nose to tail. Faramir, whose body rested before his brother's, seemed in a deep sleep: his head lolled awkwardly and his eyes did not open. Without a word Boromir lifted his brother and passed the boy to Thorongil, awkwardly placing the child in the saddle ahead of the Ranger. "You have told him everything?" Thorongil asked. "Why does he sleeps?"
"I. . ." Boromir wrestled with his conscious, and at last decided upon an untruth in place of a lie. "I have told him everything. Yours is his safekeeping now."
"And safe shall he be kept, and out of harm's way," Thorongil promised, and for a moment he and Boromir met each other's gaze and silently a promise passed between them, until at last Boromir could take no more and was forced to look away.
"Please look after him," Boromir whispered, and to Thorongil's surprise a tear slid down his cheek. "Please. He's a very special boy." Such was the society of Men, particularly that of Boromir's house, that the boy felt shame in this proclamation, as though loving his brother was an offense punishable by law and worthy of social exile. Yet what dwelled in his heart dwelled regardless of his wishes and want-nots, and would not be swayed.
"Your brother will be safe with us," Thorongil promised. Boromir nodded, his face turned down. "Boromir. You are doing the right thing. There is no reason to be ashamed."
Blinking away tears, Boromir stared into Thorongil's eyes angrily, as though boring a hole in the older man's skull. "I have broken the law of my father's kingdom. I am stealing and kidnapping. Do not tell me this is right. Take care of my brother." Boromir unfastened his cloak and draped the garment over his brother. "Now get out of here! You think we will fare any better caught at this?" With that he jerked at the reins and wheeled his horse around, setting off for the city at a decent canter.
Thorongil watched the boy go, wishing he could have said the right thing, anything to make Boromir feel better. Another part of him wished the moon were not full, that the orb might cast a lesser light and they might easier slink into the shadows.
"Let us take our leave of this place," Mithrandir said. "There is little time to waste."
For the first time Thorongil found himself looking about at his surroundings, feeling watched by the trees and the grass blades and the quieted city, all shadows cast over with a silver blanket. Where were the hidden eyes? Why did no birds cry?
"What ever you are seeking, unless it be your death, tarrying here will not aid you in finding it!" Gandalf commented irritably, a few paces ahead of Thorongil. Sighing, the man nudged his horse into a walk beside the wizard. Usually Gandalf treated him as an equal, this sudden chiding gave him the feeling of a child. Once Thorongil was even with him, Gandalf muttered to his horse, and broke into a canter. Thorongil was quick to imitate, holding Faramir steady to keep the boy from waking. Let him have his sleep, the Ranger thought, for as long as possible. Tomorrow will be a difficult day for him.
Within Minas Tirith, Boromir did not allow himself to cry. He lifted Faramir's wooden flute and fingered it, knowing he would never have the skill to play it, and even if he did no, he would not dare disturb the instrument with his rough tunes. Something more than a boy had gone from the white city. A spirit had left, a gentle, loving spirit, a spirit which might now live that it was out of danger.
Nevertheless, Boromir missed his brother. He felt awful, as a kidnapper. After all, he had chosen the place and time, he had asked for Thorongil's help, chosen to smuggle Faramir out of the city. He knew it all for the best. The head cannot meddle in the affairs of the heart, for in this area it knows nothing, and can know only nothing. Boromir's head told him that his actions had been just. His heart sought other things: ways in which Denethor had not been in the wrong. Though willing to defend Faramir, Boromir wished he had been able to do so without harming Denethor.
"Oh, Faramir."
Boromir held the flute tighter in his hands, shaking with a surge of anger. "How could you have done this, Faramir? Why did you not simply placate him? Why did you have to tear our family apart?" In a fit of rage Boromir found himself stronger than usual, and grasping the wooden flute too tightly he shattered it into a thousand little pieces. As the splinters lodged in his hands, he began to sob.
"Faramir, I am so sorry," Boromir whispered, the pain having taken his anger all away. He sunk onto his brother's bed and began to pick the wood fragments from his fingers and palms. "I know you tried very hard, Faramir, I know he would not be appeased. Forgive me. You did not destroy our family." With a hiss Boromir drew one particularly large shard from his palm, then inspected the bloodied flesh. No fragments of wood remained.
"I miss you so much, brother," Boromir confided, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders heaved. "I miss you already. Brother, I love you." Tears are weakness, thought Boromir, recounting something his father often said to him and to Faramir, yet as the salty water of his eyes mixed with the red blood of his heart Boromir could not find the place within him to bring forth shame. He loved his brother, and already missed his brother. True were these things he said, and for once Boromir would not deny truth in favor of lies. "I will cry if I want to cry," he said through clenched teeth.
For Boromir it was a moment of great significance, when the truth of his actions struck him. Truly he understood then that he had broken his father's laws and could be killed for it, that he might well never see his brother again, indeed had lost his most beloved companion to a practical stranger, and that while Faramir was gone Boromir was not, and his would be the duty to look after the truth and keep it safe, if hidden. Boromir regretted lying to Thorongil, and realized on reflection that the Ranger should know the truth, but this act could not be undone, and soon enough Thorongil would know. His now was the responsibility of finding the right lie to cover his innocence, and to look after Thorongil's reputation, if he could.
Whose great joke was it, that doing what was right could prove so difficult?
*****
To be continued
Lirenel: Thorongil left because he had no choice, he had been ordered to leave. Sometimes, though there are things we wish to do, we cannot do them. In Thorongil's instance, helping Faramir was not an option.
Fire Pendant: Well, I cannot speak for Tolkien, however the reason's for Denethor's being so terrible in this story will be explored later on.
Galorin: And thank YOU! You really do help me keep going. There's not much of a response I have to give you, just to let you know how much I appreciate your saying what it is I'm doing right and wrong.
Author's note: I have seen Return of the King. . .and it is good!
*****
Thorongil stiffened as the wind rustled the leaves around him, slithering like a snake through the grasses, leaving no trail. His face could not easily be read: he seemed displeased, or apprehensive, or perhaps worried. Perhaps he was even afraid, a little, but this is not likely, for though capable of fear he rarely experienced this emotion: such was the Ranger's mien. Something, though, stirred badly within him, for his eyes swept briefly across the field, then darted back and again across the walls of Minas Tirith.
"He will come." Mithrandir held a more relaxed posture, though he too worried. What could be done? His was to wait and see; the wizard appreciated this. What he did not appreciate was Thorongil having made such a plan without consulting him.
Success of this plan neared the value of necessity: for Faramir, it might well prove such. The alternate possibilities were many: these Thorongil was familiar with. Suppose the plan fell through? Suppose he and Mithrandir were betrayed, what then would become of them? Supposing. . .
Then these musing were stopped by the sound of faint hoofbeats, and a horse appeared through a narrow gap in the great door to the First Circle of Minas Tirith. At a slow trot the horse approached, the bulky form of a rider atop it swaying a bit. Thorongil nodded, discerning the identities of the double riders. "You are correct in your trust of him, Gandalf."
No more did they speak until Boromir called his horse to a halt beside Thorongil's, nose to tail. Faramir, whose body rested before his brother's, seemed in a deep sleep: his head lolled awkwardly and his eyes did not open. Without a word Boromir lifted his brother and passed the boy to Thorongil, awkwardly placing the child in the saddle ahead of the Ranger. "You have told him everything?" Thorongil asked. "Why does he sleeps?"
"I. . ." Boromir wrestled with his conscious, and at last decided upon an untruth in place of a lie. "I have told him everything. Yours is his safekeeping now."
"And safe shall he be kept, and out of harm's way," Thorongil promised, and for a moment he and Boromir met each other's gaze and silently a promise passed between them, until at last Boromir could take no more and was forced to look away.
"Please look after him," Boromir whispered, and to Thorongil's surprise a tear slid down his cheek. "Please. He's a very special boy." Such was the society of Men, particularly that of Boromir's house, that the boy felt shame in this proclamation, as though loving his brother was an offense punishable by law and worthy of social exile. Yet what dwelled in his heart dwelled regardless of his wishes and want-nots, and would not be swayed.
"Your brother will be safe with us," Thorongil promised. Boromir nodded, his face turned down. "Boromir. You are doing the right thing. There is no reason to be ashamed."
Blinking away tears, Boromir stared into Thorongil's eyes angrily, as though boring a hole in the older man's skull. "I have broken the law of my father's kingdom. I am stealing and kidnapping. Do not tell me this is right. Take care of my brother." Boromir unfastened his cloak and draped the garment over his brother. "Now get out of here! You think we will fare any better caught at this?" With that he jerked at the reins and wheeled his horse around, setting off for the city at a decent canter.
Thorongil watched the boy go, wishing he could have said the right thing, anything to make Boromir feel better. Another part of him wished the moon were not full, that the orb might cast a lesser light and they might easier slink into the shadows.
"Let us take our leave of this place," Mithrandir said. "There is little time to waste."
For the first time Thorongil found himself looking about at his surroundings, feeling watched by the trees and the grass blades and the quieted city, all shadows cast over with a silver blanket. Where were the hidden eyes? Why did no birds cry?
"What ever you are seeking, unless it be your death, tarrying here will not aid you in finding it!" Gandalf commented irritably, a few paces ahead of Thorongil. Sighing, the man nudged his horse into a walk beside the wizard. Usually Gandalf treated him as an equal, this sudden chiding gave him the feeling of a child. Once Thorongil was even with him, Gandalf muttered to his horse, and broke into a canter. Thorongil was quick to imitate, holding Faramir steady to keep the boy from waking. Let him have his sleep, the Ranger thought, for as long as possible. Tomorrow will be a difficult day for him.
Within Minas Tirith, Boromir did not allow himself to cry. He lifted Faramir's wooden flute and fingered it, knowing he would never have the skill to play it, and even if he did no, he would not dare disturb the instrument with his rough tunes. Something more than a boy had gone from the white city. A spirit had left, a gentle, loving spirit, a spirit which might now live that it was out of danger.
Nevertheless, Boromir missed his brother. He felt awful, as a kidnapper. After all, he had chosen the place and time, he had asked for Thorongil's help, chosen to smuggle Faramir out of the city. He knew it all for the best. The head cannot meddle in the affairs of the heart, for in this area it knows nothing, and can know only nothing. Boromir's head told him that his actions had been just. His heart sought other things: ways in which Denethor had not been in the wrong. Though willing to defend Faramir, Boromir wished he had been able to do so without harming Denethor.
"Oh, Faramir."
Boromir held the flute tighter in his hands, shaking with a surge of anger. "How could you have done this, Faramir? Why did you not simply placate him? Why did you have to tear our family apart?" In a fit of rage Boromir found himself stronger than usual, and grasping the wooden flute too tightly he shattered it into a thousand little pieces. As the splinters lodged in his hands, he began to sob.
"Faramir, I am so sorry," Boromir whispered, the pain having taken his anger all away. He sunk onto his brother's bed and began to pick the wood fragments from his fingers and palms. "I know you tried very hard, Faramir, I know he would not be appeased. Forgive me. You did not destroy our family." With a hiss Boromir drew one particularly large shard from his palm, then inspected the bloodied flesh. No fragments of wood remained.
"I miss you so much, brother," Boromir confided, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders heaved. "I miss you already. Brother, I love you." Tears are weakness, thought Boromir, recounting something his father often said to him and to Faramir, yet as the salty water of his eyes mixed with the red blood of his heart Boromir could not find the place within him to bring forth shame. He loved his brother, and already missed his brother. True were these things he said, and for once Boromir would not deny truth in favor of lies. "I will cry if I want to cry," he said through clenched teeth.
For Boromir it was a moment of great significance, when the truth of his actions struck him. Truly he understood then that he had broken his father's laws and could be killed for it, that he might well never see his brother again, indeed had lost his most beloved companion to a practical stranger, and that while Faramir was gone Boromir was not, and his would be the duty to look after the truth and keep it safe, if hidden. Boromir regretted lying to Thorongil, and realized on reflection that the Ranger should know the truth, but this act could not be undone, and soon enough Thorongil would know. His now was the responsibility of finding the right lie to cover his innocence, and to look after Thorongil's reputation, if he could.
Whose great joke was it, that doing what was right could prove so difficult?
*****
To be continued
Lirenel: Thorongil left because he had no choice, he had been ordered to leave. Sometimes, though there are things we wish to do, we cannot do them. In Thorongil's instance, helping Faramir was not an option.
Fire Pendant: Well, I cannot speak for Tolkien, however the reason's for Denethor's being so terrible in this story will be explored later on.
Galorin: And thank YOU! You really do help me keep going. There's not much of a response I have to give you, just to let you know how much I appreciate your saying what it is I'm doing right and wrong.
Author's note: I have seen Return of the King. . .and it is good!