Summary: I am not afraid to die.
A/N: I used to be known as FANofFARAMIR, but I am now Faramir's Tumbleweed. Maybe just F. Tumbleweed... depends, actually. Anyway, despite the different name, I am still really the same person.
Warning: I think you should have a tissue handy, just in case. But I guarantee no tears. Book/movie canon.
Disclaimer: I own only Duhildir. The rest I am merely borrowing.
I am not afraid to die. I have never doubted that. I have eluded death so many times that it feels like a tiresome routine, a routine that must stop one day. And perhaps, if is best that if death finally catches up with me. I am not afraid to die; we all must die, sooner or later.
What do I fear? I fear his disappointment, his anger. I fear his voice saying to me, "You have failed me. Your brother would have seen that what was given to him was done right." I fear his eyes telling me that I would return to my apartment, nursing my wounds. And not just my physical wounds.
The shirt of mail seems to heavy. The breastplate clings to me. The helmet makes every noise sound like a worthless, empty echo.
I was and am not a warrior. Boromir was the strong one; he was the one that saw that what was given to him was done right. I wanted to be a scholar, someone learned in lore and music. But since the day I drew my first breath, I had a path paved out for me: to be a soldier and to defend Gondor. To defend her people, as the ones before me have done so.
The soldiers are kissing their wives and children and sisters and mothers goodbye. "You must come home," says the women. "I will," replies the soldier. Will he? No one is saying anything to me. They give me sideward glances, as if they are curious to see my face. No one says anything to me.
The soldiers greet me with a salute , as a sign of their obeisance. But what do they think of me?
"Every man should have a woman to share his bed, little brother," Boromir once said. "Perhaps we shall find one, you and I." Boromir never did find one. Perhaps there was a woman in the City who had loved him. Who knows?
It is warm as we ride down the ancient streets of Numenor. Will this be the last time that I ride through the beloved streets of Minas Tirith? Will this be the last time when I gaze upon the faces of her children, all so sorrowful yet hopeful? What is dying like? I imagine my death: A thousand orcish arrows fly out at me, and it stings. Yet, I ride on.
I do not fear death.
I am not afraid to die.
Someone calls my name. I turn. It is Mithrandir.
"Don't throw your life away so rashly or in bitterness," he says to me, a stern yet tender light in his eyes. "You will be needed here, for other things than war. Your father loves you, Faramir, and will remember it ere the end. Farewell!"
Liar.
The gates whine and creak as they open. The soldiers at the gate give us solemn, mournful looks. Do they know, like I do, that we are going into the jaws of death? Into the dark, dank pit of no return? Perhaps they will find our bodies, stricken on the field. And they will bear us up in great honor.
I turn back, at the last moment. Is my father staring down from the Citadel? Is he wondering when I shall return? If I shall return? I imagine a single tear making its lonesome way down his cheek - and I know that I am merely dreaming: my father does not cry. I do not remember him weeping when my mother died. He had kept his emotions bottled. Perhaps if he had cried, he would not be as bitter as this.
"I love you, my father," I whisper, turning back. There is as task now to be done, and I shall see that is done right. As Boromir would have done, if he were here now.
Why are you trying so hard to live up to me? Boromir asked me once. I should not be your benchmark, little brother. We are all wrought differently. You are meant for burying yourself in your dusty books, and I am meant for the battlefield. There are better men than I, Faramir.
Why am I?
The steady rocking of the horse reminds me of the great Pelennor before me. A wind sweeps down from the North, making shining, green ripples in the grass. The banners are flapping in the breeze. The banner of the Stewards, the banner of Minas Tirith. I imagine each of those banners lying shredded in the field. Honor lost.
Doom drove them on. Darkness took them,
horse and horseman; hoofbeats afar
sank into silence: so the songs tell us.
I play this verse over and over again in my head until my ears are ringing with it. Boromir had taught it to me when he returned from his first two months of training. "We are both lords, little brother," he said when he had finished. "We are going to make the men of Minas Tirith proud, both of us. We'll make our father proud of us, won't we?"
I have failed him, I thought to myself. Perhaps by my death, I can redeem what I have failed to accomplish.
I drew my sword, its ring resounding over the pounding of hooves. The world seems to darken before my eyes, and I hear men drawing their swords. Spears and pikes glisten in the morning sun. But there is the copper of fear in my mouth.
"For Gondor!" I cry at the top of my voice. "For Gondor and for the White Tree!"
"For Gondor!" the men cry back at me. They are excited, and the horses smell battle in the air. They stomp and ride faster. I kick my horse into a full run, and the men are still crying, "For Gondor! For the White Tree and for the Lord Faramir!"
For the Lord Faramir...
It's too late. I cannot turn back to look at them. The horses are whinnying. Thunder is pounding on the ground, kicking up dust, flattening grass.
Osgiliath, Citadel of Stars.
For Gondor and for the Lord Denethor. I whisper, "Father."
I see orcs, the faces of enemies. Goblins, hobgoblins, and the foul faces of our enemies. They are smirking. They have blood on their faces. Perhaps they have been feasting on the flesh of the comrades already fallen there. They will not feast on me and be drunk on my blood. I will make this a worthy end. They are fitting their foul arrows to the black bows.
"If I should return, think better of me, Father," I had said. I had hoped, then. How am I to hope now? Hope is gone.
"That will depend on the manner of your return," said Father. I will not return; and I shall not see the pride in his face as he embraces me and says, "Well done, my son," as he always did with Boromir.
Somewhere above the thundering of hooves and crying of men, I hear someone yell, "Fire!"
The twang of bowstrings.
There is a searing pain in my side. I hear the last cry of several men behind me. They fall off their horses and are crushed by the oncoming ones. Are people watching us from the City? or is it too great a distance? What will my father say when the men bring my mangled, battered corpse to him?
I yank out the arrow from my side, only to have another implanted in my chest. More death-cries.
"For Gondor!" shouts a man.
Is it really worth it, to be fighting for Gondor?
From the corner of my eyes, I see a banner fall. Honor lost...
By some miracle, we ride into Osgiliath. There are at least a century of men behind me. We cry, filling Osgiliath once more with the cry of her children. I crush an orc under my horse's hooves, and black blood spurts up.
The nightmare has begun, I think as I see another wave of orcs coming to relieve the ones at the front. I utter a prayer to Eru, and I fight.
I am not afraid to die.
We fight and fight. I do not know how long we fought. But my limbs are aflame with the fire of weariness. I look around. Half the men have fled in terror or are dead. But there are still some alive. The fate of all of us lies in my hands. I wipe blood from my face and I cry, "Retreat! Retreat! Retreat to the Causeway Forts! Retreat for all you hold dear!"
What do I hold dear?
We spend the night in fear. The injured men fight hard not to cry out in pain. I cannot sleep, fearing that an assault will be let loose upon us and I shall not be ready for it.
"Lord?" asks one man. "What are we waiting for?"
"Daylight, or some form of movements from the enemies," I reply. I cannot retreat now. I cannot and must not return to Minas Tirith. I cannot face him. If need be, I will send the men back, but I shall stay to fight to bitter's end.
I am not afraid to die.
Daylight brought Harads down upon us. The men, weary as they are, fight. I draw my sword, notched and already somewhat blunt. I hold back and then, there is a stinging fire in me. "For Gondor," I whisper, trying to make my body obey.
I fight until a darkness closes in, and I see no more. They will feast on my flesh and be drunk with my blood.
I am not afraid to die.
I have failed him.
It seems like an age. I hear the garbled talk of the orcs, and I hear the cries of the men, of those not quite dead. They are eating them, I am sure of it. It will not be long until they come for me, devour me.
One thing the enemy can never take from us, said Boromir as we sharpened our swords, is our spirit, little brother. They can never take the burning loyalty in us. Remember that.
You are wrong, my brother. My beloved brother. For once, you are wrong. They have taken it from me. They have for a long time.
I am not afraid to die.
"Amroth for Gondor! Amroth for Faramir!" New voices; a familiar language. I hear noises all around me, but I cannot open my eyes: they are stuck together by dried blood. Slash, hack all around me. "Amroth for Gondor! Amroth for Faramir!"
A voice. A familiar, soft voice. It is my uncle, Imrahil. "Faramir," he says. "Oh sweet Valar. What was Denethor thinking?" My uncle curses blindly. I feel a laugh wanting to emerge, but I have not the energy to open my mouth and let it loose. My chest heaves, but my ribs hurt. The laugh dies away.
Cool water on my eyes. A gentle hand wipes at my eyelids. I open my eyes. Everything is so hazy; everything is fuzzy at the edges. I see my uncle above me. There is another soldier next to him. There is concern written on their faces.
"This might hurt," says my uncle.
I am not afraid to die. I am not afraid of pain.
But the next thing I feel is a fire leaping up my chest. I cry out in pain. For the first time in years, I feel tears springing to my eyes. My uncle snaps an arrow into half and casts it aside. The soldier is now washing my forehead. It feels soft and tender. Perhaps the enemy has caved my skull in.
I am not afraid to die.
"We cannot stay here," says my uncle. "Duhildir, help me."
Duhildir carries me over my shoulder. I open my eyes a little further, and I smell sulphur and smoke. And perhaps, the smell of charred flesh. I see dead bodies: orc, a son of Gondor, a son of Amroth. Enemy, brother, friend. I want to cry and sleep at the same time, and I cannot decide which to do first.
Fate decides for me. I sleep.
A/N: Please R&R!
Did y'all cry?
