The Ring comes to Gondor
He felt the movement of the horse beneath him, his hands tight on the reigns, the wind blowing back his long dark hair. High above, he could feel the Nazgul circling. They could sense the Ring on its chain around his neck. If their Master commanded it, they would swarm down upon him, and reclaim his prize, but for now they waited and watched; their malice hung in the air like the acrid smell of smoke. The men behind him were unnerved, but Faramir had always been able to master man or beast, and they followed him silently, controlling their restless mounts as best they could.
Faramir's eyes flickered upward to the winged shapes, small but threatening in the distance, and back to the white walls of Gondor, coming closer with each passing moment. They were within reach. Even if the creatures attacked, Faramir was confident that, riding flat out, he could still reach the city gates in time. He might have to leave his men behind, but their loss would be a small price to pay for the power the Steward would wield with the Ring in his hand.
The voice in his head seemed to rise from his own thoughts, giving them shape with soft silky tones. "You would give it to your father, when for your whole life he has given you nothing? The Ring came to you, not your father. It was you who slew the two pheriannath who would have taken it to the Dark Lord himself. You will hold it and command the armies as Captain-General. The Steward will listen to you now."
This is not what you want brother, Boromir thought urgently. Our father will fear you, and hate you in his fear. He will not rest until the Ring is his, and then it will have our whole family. The line of Stewards will end in disgrace and the King will inherit a broken shadow of a country.
Faramir stared intently toward the high tower that crowned the city, as if his gaze could pierce the stone walls and transfix their father where he sat. His thoughts were dark. Whether, by the power of the Ring, his eyes could have seen even through the thick walls of the citadel he did not know; his glance was caught instead by a face that stared at him from the high wall; the face of someone barely tall enough to peer over the embrasure.
Pippin! Boromir felt his breath catch. He is standing on the spot where Faramir stood to watch me ride out to Rivendell. He looked painfully small against the stones. Faramir's eyes, magnified by the Ring, could see clearly the details of the hobbit's face. It smote Boromir's heart to see the grim and resolute expression where once he had seen only wonder and innocence.
Faramir paused; another perian. For a moment he saw before his eyes the face of the Ringbearer as he had last seen him, pale and cold on the bloodstained floor of Henneth Annun. This then was clearly one of the Ringbearer's kin. He saw the wide eyes fixed upon him; read both hope and hesitation in them. The boy could feel that something was wrong, but he did not yet know what. Soon he would realize that Faramir carried the Ring, and he would begin to guess at the fate of his cousin.
Faramir dropped his gaze back to the great gates of the city, but he could still feel the perian's eyes upon him as he rode on. The lad can be made to understand. He is still young and malleable. It was an accident, no more, but it was guided by the hand of destiny. He was sorry for the deaths of Frodo and his faithful servant of course, but they would serve a higher purpose. Faramir would make sure of that. The boy will understand. The small face drew his eyes again. The young one was hiding something, something that Faramir needed to know.
The vision struck without warning. He was leaning against a tree, gasping for breath. There was an orc arrow in his side, spreading pain throughout his belly. There were two other arrows lodged in his ribs. He could feel them cut into his lungs every time he drew in air. He looked over to where Pippin hung, limp and painfully small, slung across the shoulders of a large orc. He had defended himself as well as he could, but he had been overwhelmed. Merry had kept the orcs back for a while, separating a few hands from their owners in the process, but when Pippin fell, his back was left undefended. He was grabbed roughly from behind and his sword wrenched from his hands. He continued to struggle until he was clubbed in the head with the hilt of his own blade. He slumped back into the arms of his captors, a line of blood dripping down his face. Boromir saw a red haze rising to cloud his vision. He did not know if it was anger or impending death, and he did not care anymore. He would continue to fight with all the strength that remained in him. He gripped his sword and raised it with great effort.
Faramir looked at his hands, clenched white with shock on his horse's reigns. Boromir had not died trying to take the Ring. He had died defending the Ringbearer's kin; and now the little one was honoring his debt to his fallen defender. There was no doubt in Faramir's mind that the boy was willing to die to defend Boromir's home. A feeling stirred somewhere in Faramir's heart that he did not dare to identify. He pushed it down with a surge of anger. He dares to take Boromir's place. If he was not so weak, Boromir might yet live. The perian's sense of honor was strong. He would die to avenge his cousin, and so die he must. All the halflings must die. He would learn the location of the last remaining cousin from this one, and then he would kill them both.