The stars shone brightly, clear gems in the never-ending backdrop of night. The air was crisp and sweet, as befitting a March evening; Faramir, Steward of Gondor, could not sleep. For the past few weeks his slumbering hours had been possessed by old visions- his first dream, of the great wave rolling over Númenor in the West, and then others of the War of the Ring. The stench of battle, bodies piled around him, while men groaned in agony, dying in a field of blood. Nazgûl on hideous steeds, swooping low as their unsettling cries echoed across the plains. And now, after Elessar's funeral, came a persistent nightmare: his fevered days in the House of Healing, time spent wandering through a senseless world of shadows. He stumbled aimlessly in confusion and despair, yet now there was no cure. The King lay near the banks of the Anduin, his hands lifeless and dead.
He needed rest and solitude. So he took to the streets of Minas Tirith, pacing out his worries in the stillness after midnight. He walked past empty shops and shuttered houses, focusing on the mundane, unnecessary details about him. He had never realized before that the wall outside the Fourth Gate contained fifty-three bricks.
It was not merely his troubled mind that had driven him to roam past familiar sights. He missed his home in Ithilien, set in the center of a newborn land. The town in Emyn Arnen lacked the busy activity of the White City; it was peaceful. There were no painful remembrances hidden in its young architecture and still-unfinished towers. Almost a chance to start again, designing and planning something that would live on when all recollection of his name had faded.
Now, he was needed in his birthplace. Everything about him brought back thoughts from his childhood: of his hopeless mother, a frail whisper of beauty; his grim father, ordering and condescending in the same breath; Boromir, protecting him like a true older brother. So much pain, in those days before the Shadow was defeated. How was he to know that the future was any more promising?
He directed his hesitant steps towards the eastward wall, hoping for a glimpse of the Pelennor and beyond that, the river. But his interest was riveted by a regretful tune that sounded somewhere further up the road:
In bonny Bree I saw a lass
With hair as brown as wood;
And so I said I'll wed this lass
If ever a perian should.
Faramir shook his head in disbelief. It was undoubtedly the voice of a halfling; an intoxicated one, judging from the awful melody and meter of his song. He glanced around but saw no one.
She smacked me and she told me off
With eyes as cold as ice;
But I just kissed that maid and said
I'd make her yet my wife!
He winced. It also did not rhyme. He corrected himself: there was a very inebriated hobbit somewhere in his proximity.
She kicked me and she pushed me 'round
But I nev'r gave in;
And, lo- behold! She fancied me
And look what jewel I win!
Pippin staggered into view, his eyes glassy and his hair disheveled. He squinted at the dark figure in front of him, and a plastered grin slowly spread across his face as he became aware of his surroundings. "My lord! I warn thee that women are vicious serpents. Don't let them take a foothold or they'll smack you with household objects. Like oliphaunts."
"Peregrin, you are drunk."
"No, I'm just happy." He lolled his head to one side and tried to balance on a single foot. "The Queen booted me and Merry from her presence rather abruptly, so I needed some way to pass the time. I think I lost him, though."
"Who?"
"Merry. Who else? He found some visitors from Rohan and was talking on and on."
Faramir frowned. "Why did she make you leave?"
"Who?"
"The Queen Éowyn. Did your ingenious plot to raise her spirits not proceed as planned?"
Pippin grimaced; a slightly odd expression, for his reactions seemed to have slowed due to some aftereffect of the alcohol. "Oh, it was all dandy at first. She seemed happier. But then we mentioned something, and she became a little upset. Can't imagine why."
He eyed the small man suspiciously. That statement did not sound encouraging. "What exactly did you say to her?"
"Well, Merry and I had been thinking that since Strider's gone, Éowyn really needs someone for her. I wouldn't want Diamond to raise two children on her own. So I just dropped a few hints."
"Excuse me?"
"It wasn't that bad!" Pippin cried. "Only a few comments about how the Steward of Gondor is a good man. I can't quite remember what I said. Did you know that bartender gave me three pints for the price of one?"
Faramir felt a growing horror inside him. The halflings were trying their hand at matchmaking? The White Lady's husband had not even been gone a week, and already they were attempting to interfere. Besides which, she could not still return his affections. That had been eighteen years ago. He loved her, pitying her sorrow and her tragic fate. But it would never come to be. So many things had gone astray; no path led to a simple denouement. The world was not comprised of absolutes, like he had once believed, but millions of in-betweens. Marriage had no place in his life.
"Peregrin Took, I am ashamed of you. Have you no tact?"
The hobbit's jaw dropped. "I wasn't alone on this! Sam and Merry came up with the idea too!"
He sighed. "I can deal with my own problems. I do not need your assistance in any aspect of my existence."
"That's what they all say. Just wait. One day, you'll thank me, when-"
A slightly steadier-footed halfling appeared in the distance, screaming and waving his arms. "You stupid Took! You never paid for those drinks!"
Pippin stuck out his tongue indignantly. "What a niggard. Have a pleasant evening, my dear Steward."
Faramir slumped against the wall, reminded of his exhaustion. They would be the death of him one day, he was certain.
He was walking without any sense of direction, trudging down the street with unseeing eyes. He did not know why he had left the Hall of Kings, or what reasoning drove him to seek solitude. But something was gnawing at his mind, ever since the King Elessar had revealed the story of his father's death. Not grief so much as confusion. He needed answers, explanations to his rolling disorientation. He needed peace.
Faramir found himself taking a familiar path down the eerie Silent Street. His steps echoed strangely, resonating against ancient structures, shrines that bemoaned the mortality of man. Ahead, he saw an enormous pile of stones and rubble lying where had once been the House of Stewards; chaos in the midst of strict order. Reconstruction of the building would not begin for many days.
His pace slowed as he neared the wreckage and studied the rock and ash. His father had come here, seeking an end to his line. He had only succeeded in destroying himself. A death of torment and anguish, burning as the scalding flames separated him from the son he had always scorned.
Gandalf had spoken truly. Denethor did recognize his love, albeit too late. But it had been a twisted emotion; suppressed for years, then fierce and almost animalistic when it finally emerged. His father's decision had been desperate, the act of a crazed and tremulous mind. It pained Faramir to envision his father in such a way.
He sank down on a rough block; uncertainty bore into his thoughts so strongly that he barely noticed the sharp sensation of the jagged corners cutting into his leg. Why had his father done it?
It seemed madness, to separate yourself from the only one you still had to love. And yet there was an odd logic behind it. As Gondorian culture decayed, preservation of the dead became more elaborate, more complex. Mandos's gift was once again a curse. The fallen were locked in graven tombs, embalmed in the likeness of vitality but sleeping in the cold rigor of death. Men tried to save those who were already lost to this world.
Perhaps Denethor was right, to erase all remnants of his being. Why hold onto that which is temporary? The body, while the container for one's soul, had a limited purpose. In the fires that ravaged the House of Stewards, his father had been transformed into dust and ash; life returning to its original state. Perhaps his actions, though not right, were not exactly wrong either. Everything was so bewildering.
"Your father was a good man."
Faramir turned, slightly shaken by the voice whispering beside him. Elessar smiled apologetically. "I am sorry if I startled you. You seemed lost in your thoughts."
"I was merely trying to resolve some problems. Learning about my father's death has created more questions I have no response to. I just cannot believe what he did."
The King shook his head. "Denethor was strong. Sauron was not able to break him, but he did find ways of influencing the Steward. Hopelessness was his undoing."
Faramir kicked at a pebble with the toe of his boot, and sighed. "I am the only one left. First Boromir, then my father. Actually, my brother's fall was not surprising. He longed for glory, and would have committed any deed for Gondor's augmentation. The temptation of taking Isildur's bane for his own benefit proved to be too great."
"Yes. The Ring's greatest power was in focusing on one's strongest desire and than corrupting it for the Dark Lord's purposes. In Boromir's case, it offered him the chance to be Gondor's savior. But he did redeem himself ere he died."
He looked at the older man and nodded. "Boromir was a hero, in our people's hearts. And in mine. He will never be forgotten."
"I will make sure of that." Elessar fidgeted with his cloak's brooch, then glanced up to stare at Faramir's face. "What would the Ring have promised you?"
"I know not, my lord- doubtless, something out of my reach."
He twisted away from the King's gaze hastily, but those grey eyes raked into his soul with clearer insight than a palantir.
And in that moment, he became conscious of one fact: Elessar knew.
tbc