Chapter Three: Faramir

Faramir walked along the unpaved road, scuffing his feet in the dust, observing the movements of small animals and birds as they heard him coming. If Boromir were here, he thought, he'd be attempting to shoot them with his bow. And if Denhamir were along, he'd be devising much more painful ways for them to die.

The trouble with Denhamir, he reflected, was that he thought about things just enough to get insane ideas, and not enough to regret putting them into action. He was an odd combination of his two older brothers, Boromir brash and heroic, Faramir no less heroic but much more introspective. Actually, Faramir amended, the one thing lacking in Denhamir was a desire to be a hero, to save—

Well. Anything, really. Denhamir was most concerned with himself, a tendency that should have been curbed when he was younger but which nobody had bothered to do anything about. The position of spoiled little brother was perfectly well filled, rounding out the family, really. A controlling father, an outspoken eldest son, a self-centred, vastly intelligent youngest son— and the middle one.

Someone threw a rock and it thudded to the ground about half a foot away from Faramir's foot. It was a large rock. He looked at it for a minute, then swung round and searched for the culprit.

Denhamir stood behind him, a slight smile on his angelic features, shoulder-length, sun-
bright hair blowing in the slight breeze. "You have to admit," he said, "I'm getting better."

"Better? You might have hit me that time."

"Don't fret, brother. I wouldn't hurt you. Not with a rock, anyway." Denhamir's countenance was filled with a bright, open grin. "I need you around, you see, as a sort of— safety."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, suppose something were to happen to Boromir?"

"Suppose something were."

"You'd have to be there to walk in Father's steps as Steward. I certainly wouldn't want the position."

Faramir shook his head and began to smile. "Yes, you certainly need me for that purpose. And dare I hope that you might enjoy my company a little? I am the one who defended you when you were little, and taught you to ride."

Denhamir's grin faded, and he came to walk alongside Faramir. "Speaking of horses," he began, "Boromir is in secret conference with Father at this moment. Do you know what it is all about?"

Faramir considered gravely before answering. "It may have something to do with the spoils taken, of the last battle—"

"No, its not that, Boromir asked him and Father said it wasn't."

"Well— I do not know, in truth, Denhamir. It may have something to do with the civil unrest that is arising to the north, or perhaps the wars that have been happening more and more frequently as the forces of evil—"

"Oh," said Denhamir dismissively. "Politics."

"It's not all politics, little brother. And every man has a responsibility to know the facts about the world's situation. Especially a soldier of Gondor, one who will soon be an officer, and may one day take on even more serious duties."

"I told you," said Denhamir, "I'll keep you and Boromir around for surety against my taking on the role of Steward."

Faramir shook his head. "No, Denhamir, if you are an honest man worth the exertions of your ancestors, no amount of safeties will keep you from fulfilling your responsibilities."

"Well, perhaps—" said Denhamir, but didn't finish his thought. Instead he went off to another, though related, subject. "Do you think this big war the soldiers talk of will come to pass?"

"I honestly cannot say," said Faramir gravely, "but it is true that the situation is getting— uncomfortable."

"And what of the Ring?"

Faramir looked at him swiftly, but Denhamir's eyes were on the path in front of them. "What do you know of the Ring?"

"Only that Father mentions it with a certain tone, I cannot tell exactly of what, and what the soldiers say when they think I'm not paying attention."

Faramir thought that, someday soon, he would have to find some way to stop people from treating Denhamir like he was still a child. Before that, though, he would have to find some way to stop Denhamir from acting like he was still a child, and so he sighed heavily and said, "What do they say?"

"They say," said Denhamir quietly, "that the Ring will come to one worthy to lead, and he will deny it. That if the Ring falls into the hands of the Enemy, all is lost. That the Ring brings great power to the bearer."

Faramir nodded, but spoke not a word.

Denhamir looked up and his tone was lighter and louder once more. "What makes them the Enemy, anyway?"

"What do you mean?" asked Faramir, slightly shocked. "They are the Enemy. They have done everything possible to create a situation in which we must needs be at enmity with them in order to fight for some sort of decent life. They are the enemies of everything good in this world. They are—"

"The Enemy?" suggested Denhamir scathingly.

"Well, yes."

"How did I guess?"

"I— I don't know," Faramir admitted. Denhamir shot him a look and said,

"Who defines 'evil' ?"

"What do you mean?"

"Stop asking me 'what do I mean?' I mean, Who defines 'evil?'"

"I don't have the slightest idea," said Faramir, giving up.

"Do you mean to tell me," said Denhamir rapidly, "that we are supposed to go and fight the forces of evil when we don't even know what evil really is? Or what evil they are perpetrating? How do we know that the ones who defined evil aren't actually evil? Perhaps we've been going about things the wrong way entirely and evil is good?"

Faramir sighed yet again, and walked on a little faster. "You speak too fast for me, little brother. Go off now, and convince yourself of the goodness of the world if you must. But do not speak of it to me. I have a slight headache."

He also had a bruise on his temple, most likely from Denethor. The night before, their father had been in rather a bad mood. Denhamir observed this and, with uncharacteristic consideration for his brother, refrained from commenting on it. He merely touched Faramir briefly on the shoulder and then walked off towards the town.

Behind him, Faramir sat down on the side of the road and stared sightlessly at the grass, as was his custom when engaged in deep thought.

Who defines good and evil?

How do we know— ?


Boromir walked out of the Great Hall and was quickly accosted by his youngest brother.

"Boromir—"

He smiled at Dehamir and touseled his hair. Denhamir ducked.

"Ho, brother!" said Boromir.

"Ho?" repeated Denhamir.

"Ho!"

"Alright. Tell me, Boromir, what was the ever-so-secret conference with Father about?"

"It wasn't ever so secret. He called me out in front of all the soldiers, did he not?"

"Even so, brother. Will you not tell me?"

"I could tell you—" said Boromir jovially. "But it'd be much more fun to make you guess. Go on, guess, little brother."

"I guess," said Denhamir keenly, "that it has something drastic to do with the proposed War of the Ring, and your leaving here on some sort of mission."

Boromir farted in surprise. "How did you know, brother?"

"Because, brother, whilst you were cloistered in Father's inner chamber, I was taking a walk with our brother."

"Faramir?"

"Yes, brother," said Denhamir, gritting his teeth. "Our only other brother, Faramir. I say I was taking a walk with him—"

"Why?"

"I needed the exercise." Somehow it had slipped Denhamir's mind that Boromir could at times be maddeningly dim. For "at times" read "most times." "And we discussed this War of the Ring—"

"Did you," said Boromir, fondling his beard and nodding slowly. "Did you."

Denhamir waited for this something to come from this apparent deep cogitation, but Boromir didn't go on, just waited with a deceptively bright, alert look for Denhamir to take up the thread of conversation once more.

"And so it came to my mind that perhaps your meeting with Father would have something to do with this war. And its obvious you are going somewhere."

"Is it?" said Boromir, amazed.

"You are wearing your traveling cloak," said Denhamir, and sighed.

"Oh yes." Boromir frowned down at himself, then looked at Denhamir and smiled. "You're quick, little brother, very quick."

"Thank you. Now will you tell me where you are going?"

"I'm going to the house of Elrond, to discuss certain serious matters."

Denhamir shook his head and looked at Boromir disgustedly. "Is that all Father told you?"

Boromir shrugged. "And if it is, what has that got to do with you? Why are you so keen on knowing everything that is going on, Denhamir?"

Denhamir thought, and smiled a little. He tilted his head to one side, a habit he had learnt in his childhood and which had not failed him yet. "In order that I may be well informed about the world, of course, Brother. Do you not know that I am to be a soldier of Gondor in my own right? And as such, I would of course wish to know the positions we hold, and the missions we undertake. Does that not make sense, Brother?"

Boromir's smile widened. "Of course it does. Would you like me to ask Father if you can come with me, Denhamir? It is a few days journey at least, and you have never gone so far from the city of your birth. It would be a learning experience."

Usually, Denhamir reflected, when someone older than he said it would be a "learning experience," they meant he wouldn't enjoy it at all. Boromir said it as an enticement. Denhamir had no objection to learning, as long as he was learning about a subject he was interested in. This meant he did very little learning at all, since he approached everything with the simple question: How will this affect me?

"Its an idea, certainly," he said finally. "Do you think Father would object?"

Boromir's smile faded as he thought about this. In truth, it was extremely likely that Denethor would object to his youngest son going on such an adventure—

"Because if so," Denhamir went on, "you could simply authorize it yourself, and I could meet you once you are outside the city gates."

—on the other hand, Boromir was of course in a position of authority himself, and as such did not need, strictly speaking, to ask Denethor's permission about who he brought with him. Boromir worked this out to its logical conclusion and bestowed another smile on his brother.

"Of course you shall come with me. We leave in two hour's time. Be outside the city gates with a good horse and provisions."

"And a change of clothing?" suggested Denhamir.

Boromir's forehead wrinkled as he considered this. "What for?"

Denhamir smiled gently. "Never mind."


Journeying to Rivendell wasn't an unusual experience for the youngest son of the Steward, despite the fact that he'd never crossed over the land before. Much like any travel made with his brother Boromir, it was entirely taken up with riding the horses ragged and looking for small animals to practice shooting at.

Boromir wasn't a bad shot, exactly. He was just very enthusiastic.

After he'd pinned the third ground squirrel by the tail, and his servant Athel was attempting to free it, he turned to Denhamir with a laugh.

"A good shot, was it not, brother?"

"I've been studying a concept known as evolution," said Denhamir dreamily, "and if the theories are correct, with you around the ground squirrels will learn to be born without tails."

"But it was a good shot?" inquired Boromir hopefully. Adulation in all its forms was what he lived by. It made his life worthwhile. Well, that and pot-shotting small mammals.

"The bow and arrow, as weapons, are so barbaric," said Denhamir, "that they truly are perfectly suited to your somewhat limited grasp of civilization as we know it." He accompanied this with a smile, causing Boromir to decide it was a complement instead of an insult. Boromir beamed.

"Lord," said Athel respectfully, "the arrow has gone at least a foot and a half into the ground and I cannot free it."

"Leave it, then," said Boromir carelessly. "I have others."

"But Lord, your quarry—"

"My what?"

"Your prize—"

"What?"

"The ground squirrel," supplied Denhamir, not wishing things to get unnecessarily complicated. It was too late for that, however. Boromir had decided to think things out for himself.

At long last his brow cleared. "Oh," he said ingeniously, "the ground squirrel."

"Yes, Lord."

"The ground squirrel what I shot."

"Yes, Lord."

"That."

"Yes, Lord."

By this time Denhamir had swung down from his saddle, becoming briefly tangled up in his stirrups. He'd gotten down on the wrong side, though, away from Boromir and Athel, and comforted himself that his trouble with the stirrups had gone unnoticed. Quickly he sidled over to the ground squirrel and stared down at it, tipping his head to one side.

"Are ground squirrels good to eat?" Boromir wanted to know.

"My Lord—"

"Look, would you stop calling me that?"

"But your father—"

"I don't care what Father says, I don't wish to be referred to as 'Lord' till I'm actually a Lord." Boromir settled his shoulders and harrumphed. "Only makes sense."

"Sir," said Athel carefully, "on our last expedition against the Evil Sons of the Desert—"

"The Naharrim?"

"Yes, Sir, even so. As I say, on our last expedition, Sir will recall, we attempted to eat a ground squirrel with somewhat disastrous results."

"Oh yes." Boromir frowned in thought. "We lost that battle, did we not?"

"Yes, Sir, seeing as four of our six men died from the ground squirrel."

"Ah. So— not good eating, then."

"Not without some sort of antidote ready, Sir, no."

"So leave it. Kill it, and lets move on."

"No need," said Denhamir, swinging himself up in the saddle once more.

Boromir stared at him. "Why not?"

"It has already died."

"Oh. How convenient."

Yes, thought Athelscrutinizing the ravaged body of the ground squirrel, it is certainly, irrevocably dead.

But Boromir gave the order to move on, and the misgivings of the servant went unnoticed and, soon enough, were forgotten even by Athel himself.