A/N: I'M BACK! And I'm back with another Faramir oneshot. I realized too late that I based the first scene of this story on the movie instead of the books, but oh well. Primarily, though, this will be bookverse, not that it really makes much of a difference, as there is no unoriginal dialogue. Not true. All the songs are unoriginal. They belong to Tolkien. However, Denethor dies nobly, as he does in the book, rather than going and running off that stupid cliff.
Walking Home
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
They were all there together again. They were all happy again. Nothing could go wrong for them ever again, it seemed. They were the heroes of Middle-Earth, it seemed. All of them.
All eight.
It was necessary to remember that there were but eight. Whither wandered the ninth? he wondered not for the first time. But the same answer replied that ever did. Boromir of Gondor no longer walks this land. Boromir the Fair has passed into Mandos' Halls, where he shall feast eternally.
Faramir sighed as he watched this happy scene of the eight beloved friends gathering for the first time since they had been separated, so many months ago. It was almost easy for him to forget that Boromir belonged there. Almost. He had never seen his brother among these men. They somehow seemed for Boromir the wrong companions. No, rather, Boromir should have been on this side of the threshold. Standing there with Faramir, and watching this beautiful sight.
Instead, surrounding him were random people for whom he did not care in the least. Of course, there was the man who saved his life here, and the man whom he saved there, but at some point, it wasn't enough. Such would be enough to bind two people together for life, but not as brothers. That was what Faramir missed. A brother.
His brother.
He pushed his way through the crowd, wanting to get some fresh air. He could no longer take pleasure in watching the Fellowship of the Ring reunite, for it left a hole in his heart. The Fellowship would never reunite. Not for all the lives in Arda could they reunite again. Just as Faramir would never reunite with his own brother. It was the duty of war. Steal as many loved ones as possible. Somehow, though, one of them remained alive. One was always left to remember the dark fates of those he loved. There would always be that gap in the Fellowship. It will never have the strength that it once boasted. That day at Amon Hen, the worst happened. Boromir of Gondor died. His horn was broken. And with that horn, the bonds of fellowship that bound them together failed. Frodo and Sam left, Merry and Pippin were captured, and Boromir died. There had been a death. Because of that, they would never be healed. Not even after time. For there was still something missing that could not grow back.
And it was missing in Faramir too.
He looked up and realized that once again he had wandered to Fen Hollen. The house where his father now resided. The house where his brother should reside. The house of the dead.
He was not surprised that he was here, as he often came upon these gates and stared through them, thinking of the men—and most particularly the man—that lay beyond. He did not return on his own volition, but that of something else. Something, whether it be insanity or desperation, drove him ever to Fen Hollen.
He approached the gates and sighed. The man guarding those ever silent houses tensed, and raised his spear. Faramir paid him no heed as he continued to advance on the gates and settle down on a rock, which would give him a clear view of what lay beyond.
What did he expect? He wondered. He held not illusions that such things as his father might return from the dead, as much as he wished to hope for such. He, unlike many, did not waste time with impossible wishing, for such brought him too close to what he truly desired. Such would render him more wounded than he would have been had he never given thought to the idea.
But still, the hope that he might truly give his brother the respect that he deserved would almost be worth breaking that barrier that Faramir had so carefully set into place. He just wanted to see his brother again. He knew that it could never happen, but the idea…
He sighed again and rose from his stone. No more thinking upon that which was lost. At least not for today, he decided. He'd done enough of that already for one day. Now there was much else that required his attention.
He smiled softly as he entered the citadel. Everyone was bustling around, preparing for the return of the King. He headed towards his study and glanced around at the paperwork that awaited him. So much. So much indeed.
Even at the knock on the door—hours later—Faramir did not glance up again until his study door suddenly swung open. He looked up, rather startled, and was hardly surprised to see Eowyn standing in the doorway. With a hand on her hip, leaning against the frame, she clucked her tongue and sighed.
"Faramir, it's after midnight. You must go to bed. Did you realize that you skipped dinner again?"
He sighed and looked back down at the form he was filling out. "No, I didn't. I just got caught up in my work. I'm sorry. I'll finish in another minute."
Eowyn rolled her eyes. "Faramir, this cannot be healthy! I am not even married to you yet, and I know precisely where you will be at midnight, and it's not safely asleep in your bed! I don't want to have to worry about the fact that you can't take care of yourself. What are you going to do when I leave for home, Hm? Faramir, I am really worried! You do not need to please him anymore, love!"
He looked up, his throat tightening suddenly. At first he didn't know how to respond. He almost wished to yell at her, so as to escape the horror of what she said. He hated it when she read his true reasons for doing things. He hated when she brought what he unconsciously thought to the surface, where he would have to face them, once and for all. He was never able to face them though, so he would always evade her. He knew that it bothered her. He fought the urge to do so as long as possible, but ultimately he never had the strength to change. To face the truth.
But tonight he was tired. He wasn't even going to try to fight himself. He would evade her and escape. At least for tonight.
"Eowyn, I'm sorry. I'll go to bed as soon as possible. Let me finish this one form and I will stop for the night. You're right. I need to stop this. I'll start paying better mind to the time."
They both knew that it was a false answer. But there was nothing that could be said about it. Eowyn just looked at him with her sad grey eyes—doe-like even—and started to turn away. She stopped, and her hand ran almost unconsciously across the wood end of the bookcase that stood next to the door.
She then said softly, so softly that Faramir was unsure whether she said it or just thought it, "Why do you fight your feelings, love? Your father is dead, and there is nothing that you can do about it. But you know this." She hesitated. "And Faramir? Your brother is dead. You have to face that. I know it's hard, but try to realize that you cannot fight the truth forever. When you go to bed, you lay awake thinking about him. It's easier for you to immerse yourself in your work. I know this. But you have to do what you have to in order to bring yourself to peace with your ghosts. Your brother can never rest in peace if you keep bringing him back into your struggles."
He blinked at her. He was stunned. It was not a comment meant for winning the battle that they had just fought. She let him win that. This time she just sincerely wanted to guide him in his fight against his demons. Yet he didn't know how to do as she said. When he finally came out of his state of shock, Eowyn was gone.
It was all like a dream.
But it wasn't a dream. Not yet. Until Boromir walked through the door and told him off for sleeping in his study it would never be a dream.
Your brother is dead. You have to face that.
No. No he didn't. Not yet. He could go another while before he had to face it all. He couldn't believe that any of this could really happen. And he didn't have to do what he couldn't. At least not yet.
So he let himself think it was a dream. For his own sake. Why not? It was still a dream. All of it. Boromir would walk through the door, making it all fade away, the way dreams do. It didn't matter which dream it was. It always faded by the next morning to the point that it took such strain of which your tired morning brain was incapable to actually remember the dream. He wouldn't have to remember by the morning, so why did he remember now?
Forget it all.
He sighed tiredly and lay his head down on the table. Why was Eowyn so right? Why were his demons so hard to fight? Why couldn't they just go?
They can never rest in peace if you keep bring him into your struggles.
What was that supposed to mean? What was he supposed to do that he wasn't doing? He wasn't fighting Boromir anymore, yet his ghost haunted him. It was like something wasn't finished. Like he was waiting to help his brother. Waiting to see him walking home.
But of course it was all silly. His brother had been buried—without the body of course, but buried nonetheless, —the rituals had been performed, and his brother would never come back or ever need his help again.
In fact, Boromir had never needed Faramir's help. It was always the other way around. When had he ever provided useful to his brother? He didn't know. Perhaps that was it. Boromir had died having always given and never taken. It was a noble death, to be sure, but for those selfish enough to yet live, it seemed cruel and unfinished. Faramir felt as though he had never gotten the chance to give to Boromir, and that he must ere everything could rest in peace.
Faramir also felt that he should have died in his brother's stead.
It was not just his father's words that made him think this. He had come to terms with most of his past with his father by now. In fact, he had thought thus long before he ever asked his father's opinion. He had never given. He had always received. It seemed selfish. So shouldn't he go first? Shouldn't Boromir be here, engaged to the fairest lady that yet walked the earth? Shouldn't he have been the one who fell to the Uruk-hai?
He remembered what Frodo told him, just before they parted ways. He told Faramir what happened between him and his brother. He told him that he wasn't entirely surprised about Boromir's end. He also told him that he thought his brother a noble man, but warned him that any attempt at taking the Ring could have dire consequences.
And indeed it did. So Frodo thought that Faramir ought to have lived. That Boromir died because his strength failed for one instant. But did that mean that Faramir's had never failed? It could not. Everyone has a weakness. And the weakness tends to show itself over and over again. He had failed not once, but many times before.
Why Boromir? Faramir sighed and rose from his desk, leaning over quickly to blow the lantern out that had lit his office so well, as he thought of these questions. Picking up the small candle that he brought back to his desk every morning—because he knew that he would need it that night—he lit it on the center of the three large candles on his mantle, and then blew their flickering flames out.
Why Boromir? Was there ever a reason why one should die and another should not?
And why couldn't he at least be home, so that Faramir could mourn him properly? Why couldn't he be home so that his soul would be safe, and there would be no why? There would be no "Could something have been different?" There'd be no questions. He would slip away peacefully the way he was meant to.
Holding his candle as far from his body as possible, Faramir carefully unlocked his door and sighed, finally glad to be back in his room. Finally glad to be so close to rest. It mattered not that he would not rest. He would only be plagued all night with guilt and loss. He could pretend for now that he was going to sleep well. He could pretend that Boromir would wake him in the morn.
As he knew he would, Faramir lay awake for many hours counting the bell chimes and listening to the watches change. Yet now—he didn't know what time it was—he wondered if it was possible that he had fallen asleep. He knew that it was ridiculous to wonder such, as generally he took that as a sign that indeed he was not asleep, and he was sitting up in his bed for absolutely no reason at all. Yet some part of his brain insisted that he was asleep, and that he should wait for the dream to continue.
His room was dark, the fire having long burned out. Faramir was debating rising and rebuilding it himself, or if he should just leave it. It was his cold against his fear. The cold had almost won, and Faramir was shifting in his bed to rebuild the fire, When he saw something from the corner of his eye. Turning his head towards the window, he saw fully there what he thought that he had seen. A man was walking into the city—in the dead of night—without being stopped.
While this could be dangerous, Faramir was more concerned about what the man was doing. Before he knew what he himself was doing, he was rushing down the stairs of the citadel, desperate to reach the man before he disappeared. All questions of reality and para-reality were gone. All questions of cold were gone. All questions of fear were gone. Now all he had was his desperation to see this man before he too was gone.
On the steps into the citadel the two paths crossed. It took him several seconds of staring at the man—unbelieving that they had finally found each other—to finally realize that he was supposed to know this man. And indeed, he did know him. Still not believing that any of this was happening at all, Faramir did the only thing that made sense at the time, or any time really, to do.
He embraced his brother.
Several minutes passed as the two siblings held each other and cried into one another's shoulders. Finally, Faramir drew back and whispered his brother's name.
"Aye, 'Miri, it's me. I came home."
"What happened to you brother? How did you get here?"
"I walked. I walked all the way to see you."
"But why?"
"Because you needed to say goodbye."
That was his only answer. He started to stroke Faramir's hair as the younger began to cry again. Faramir mumbled incoherent pleas to not leave him again. That he needed his brother. He was only answered with shushes and "it'll be all right,"
The brothers stayed there, saying nothing, for many hours. This was how they said goodbye. They saw it. Both Faramir and Boromir had always known that Goodbye was too powerful an emotion to be tied down to mere words. Both knew now that there wasn't a way for them to tell each other everything that they felt. It would only make it sound insincere and unfeeling to try to express what they were thinking. But everything was mutual. They both felt it. They didn't need words.
Finally, he rose and said only, "I must go now."
Faramir shook his head and said, "You haven't been given a hero's welcome. You must give me some way to welcome you home."
The hero's welcome. It was a tradition in Gondor to welcome their heroes with a special rite. It was only done for heroes who returned alive. There was another rite for those who were not so fortunate. But now his brother was alive, in a sense, so Faramir knew that he had to perform the rite.
His brother nodded. "Welcome me home with this. This shall represent my body."
He gave his brother a flat, rectangular, and blank clay pendant that he had been wearing around his neck. Somehow, Faramir hadn't noticed it before now, but he nodded and accepted it.
The older Hurin turned and started away, his tattered pants blowing in the wind, before he turned to face his brother again. "Keep me safe, Brother," he said.
Faramir nodded and smiled slightly. He was shaking, and he didn't know if it was cold or the horror of being left alone by his brother. His stomach turned at the thought of getting up in the morning, and going back to normal. Somehow, he knew that things would go back to being the same as they ever were.
Forcing his feet to work, Faramir ran and grabbed his brother by the arm, throwing his own arms around his brother's shoulders. "Don't leave me…" he whispered into the ragged tunic. "Please, don't leave me. I should have died. I can't go back. Let me have died instead."
His brother pushed him away, which startled Faramir at first. "Faramir, you shouldn't have died. We both deserved our fates. And how do you expect Eowyn to lose you? Faramir, believe it or not, you are needed. You're not only here to live, you're here for others to live also. You must raise your son. You must raise your daughter. If you are unsatisfied with the life you have lived until now, then bless the Valar that you have a chance to change that. If you haven't given, then give to them. Do not regret. Correct. Now, go inside before you catch cold. And for the Valar's sake, do not be so afraid of fire that you cannot bear to rebuild your own fire. The fire in your heart, I mean. But the fire in your room too. You'll be sure to catch your death either by work or cold if you don't let go of the past. Please, Faramir. I'm all right. You should be happy. You have found the most beautiful woman, and she makes you happy. And you make her happy. So be happy. Don't forget, but stop dwelling."
Faramir nodded and sniffed a little, biting his lip to keep from sobbing. His brother smiled sadly and turned away, lest he too be overrun with tears. Before he knew it, Faramir was staring at an old house—the candle in the window having been just blown out.
The next morning, Faramir woke in his own bed. Not remembering returning from outside, after the incident with his brother's dead spirit, Faramir realized that he had dreamed the whole thing. It was something about what Eowyn said, he was sure. He had read something about that. That people often dream something based off of what had happened the previous day. It was the memory sinking into the person's long-term memory. Yes, he was sure that was what happened.
A knock came on his door, the quick three taps that the servants usually gave. Pulling his robe over his shoulders, Faramir moved towards the door. He noticed that the fire was still out, and decided that he wouldn't bother rebuilding it, as he wouldn't be back in his room until late that night. Opening the door with his right hand, he was surprised to find Beregond standing outside, with the breakfast tray.
"Beregond, I…"
"I know, milord. Eowyn wanted me to check on you. She felt that it wouldn't be appropriate to do it herself, as it is still quite early in the morning and anyone who saw her leaving your chambers at this time would immediately suspect that she had been there all night, so she suggested that I do it."
He nodded and opened the door wider to let Beregond in.
"Milord, are you feeling all right? You look pale. Eowyn said that you had an argument last night, and that you've been working too late again. She said that she was really beginning to get worried."
"I'm fine," he assured his friend.
"Well, then I'll be on my way."
Faramir nodded.
"By the way, milord—meaning no disrespect of course—what it in your left hand?"
Faramir glanced down at his hand, and realized that indeed he had been clutching something all night. He opened his palm slowly and saw there a flat, rectangular, blank pendant made of clay. He closed it just as quickly.
"Nothing. Nothing at all."
Beregond raised his eyebrows and then nodded. Then he was gone.
Faramir sat down with a sigh. Did this mean that it was not just a dream? What on earth was it? Did that mean that Boromir was out there somewhere? No, it couldn't be that. For it was not really Boromir. It was his spirit. No longer tied to the person who was Boromir, it was the nameless spirit of Faramir's brother. He even knew that then. He never called his brother by his name save once, when he first saw him.
A hero's welcome.
Very well.
He closed his eyes, and tried to remember it. He knew that he had to draw a white tree on the person's face—to say that all in Gondor would have been lost without him, in a sense, he was Gondor—and then he had to say the words of thank you. Then on the other side of his face, he would draw a star—to summon the blessings of Elbereth—and say the words of blessing. Then, on the man's forehead, he would draw a house, and say the words of welcome.
The major problem was that he didn't know the words.
He reached back into his memory, until he thought of something that might be appropriate. The lament that Aragorn and Legolas had sung for Boromir at his death—recounting his journey—a song from Rivendell, where Boromir's downfall began, and a song of home, that he had been taught by a friend.
He drew three lines with red ink on the pendant. A horizontal line across the exact center, and then a vertical line dividing the bottom half into two pieces. In the right square, he drew the tree. Blossoming and alive. Whispering, barely audible, he said,
"Through Rohan over fen and field where the long grass grows
The West Wind comes walking, and about the walls it goes.
'What news from the West, O wandering wind, do you bring to me tonight?
Have you seen Boromir the Tall by moon or by starlight?'
'I saw him ride over seven streams, over waters wide and grey;
I saw him walk in empty lands, until he passed awayInto the shadows of the North. I saw him then no more.
The North Wind may have heard the horn of the son of Denethor.'
'O Boromir! From the high walls westward I looked afar,
But you came not from the empty lands where no men are.'
From the mouths of the Sea the South Wind flies, from the sandhills and the stones;
The wailing of the gulls it bears, and at the gate it moans.
'What news from the South, O sighing wind, do you bring to me at eve?
Where now is Boromir the fair? He tarries and I grieve.'
'Ask not of me where he doth dwell --- so many bones there lie
On the white shores and the dark shores under the stormy sky;
So many have passed down Anduin to find the flowing Sea.
Ask of the North Wind news of them the North Wind sends to me!'
'O Boromir! Beyond the gate the seaward road runs south,
But you came not with the wailing gulls from the grey sea's mouth.'
From the Gate of Kings the North Wind rides, and past the roaring falls;
And clear and cold about the tower its loud horn calls.
'What news from the North, O mighty wind, do you bring to me today?
What news of Boromir the Bold? For he is long away.'
'Beneath Amon Hen I heard his cry. There many foes he fought.
His cloven shield, his broken sword, they to the water brought.
His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.'
'O Boromir! The Tower of Gaurd shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.'"
In the left space, he drew the star.
"A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
Silivren penna míriel
O menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-díriel
O galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
Nef aear, sí nef aearon!"
Finally, in the final piece. Where the forehead should be, he drew a tiny house. Altering the words slightly, to fit his brother, he whispered one last time.
"In eastern lands beneath the SunThe flowers may rise in Spring,
The trees may bud, the waters run,
The merry finches sing.
Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night
And swaying beeches bear
The Elven-stars as jewels white
Amid their branching hair.
Though here at journey's end you lie
In darkness buried deep,
Beyond all towers strong and high,
Beyond all mountains steep,
Above all shadows rides the Sun
And Stars for ever dwell:
You will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell."
He then pressed his lips to the drawing of the house, and the rite was done.
He noticed that the leather cord on which Boromir had worn the pendant was gone, so he strung one of his own through the blackened hole in the center. When he did, however, he noticed something was written on the other side. Tiny letters read these two verses:
Still round the corner there may wait
A new road or a secret gate,
And though we pass them by today,
Tomorrow we may come this way
And take the hidden paths that run
Towards the Moon or to the Sun.
Home is behind, the world ahead,
And there are many paths to tread
Through shadows to the edge of night,
Until the Stars are all alight.
Faramir smiled at this, recognizing the penmanship, and slipped the pendant over his neck and tucked it into his shirt. Rising to his feet, he left the room.
He spotted Eowyn down the hall, and hurried to catch up with her. She looked surprised when he kissed her on the cheek, and looked at him suspiciously. He just grinned at her. He felt lighter than he had in days.
He saw the eight Fellowship members up ahead, but it didn't bother him. Eight. That was all that was left. Of the Fellowship anyway. Boromir didn't exist anymore. But his spirit had walked all that way to see him again, and Faramir had gotten a chance to welcome him home.