Summary: Faramir battles with angst and self-denial after he fails to recapture Osgiliath.
A/N: This chapter is up! I know that excerpt of the song has nothing to do with the story, but I thought it is meaningful.
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters. So there.
Any moment
Everything can change
Feel the wind on your shoulder
For a minute
All the world can wait
Let go of your yesterday
--Fly
I open my eyes; the last image of my dream fades. It is still dark. The night is old. It will be dawn in three or four hours, I reckon. I do not move. I lie on my back and stare at the stone ceiling above me. When I was younger, I used to have terrible fears that a stone might come lose and crush me in my sleep.
My mind is all jumbled up. The past few days spent speaking, walking with Éowyn has caused much restlessness within me. I cannot find words to express myself, and each moment with her, I have to force words out. Words that truly come from within me, but sound strange in my mouth. I talk about hope, when at times, I feel that there is no hope. I talk about death. I talk about how I fear it not, but now, I am doubting that. Clearly, Éowyn enjoys speaking with me. But do I enjoy doing the same?
Ever since Boromir perished, I have feared having time to myself. When I am alone, I think. And when I think, I churn up old thoughts. Thinking, to me, is like rain churning up old mud on the river-bed. I think about the happier times with my father, before the death of my mother, before he became a bitter, withdrawn man. Always speaking about how I am nothing like my brother Boromir, speaking about how I do not have courage to my lord's will. Wizard's pupil. Under his words, a finger pointed.
Did I love my father? I did. I believe I did. But so many things that I believe in all fade away. There was a time when I believed that someone might come and draw my father from his bitterness. Alas, he was bitter until the day of his death.
Why did he try to burn me with him? Did he really hate my so much?
I think and think and think about this. Memories flash before my eyes, and I feel like weeping. These memories are all that is left of my family. I want the memories to go away, so that I can be rid of the past and so that I can move on.
Move on to what, little brother? Boromir asks me. I hear his voice in my head.
To another life, I say to him. To another life where I can forget that I had a father that sought to burn me while I was yet breathing.
He was breathing, too, Boromir reminds me. You must understand, little brother: at the time, the world seemed bleak, and the Enemy's victory seemed imminent. Father truly believed that there would be no dawn for Minas Tirith. He wanted to die before the Enemy broke in. And he wanted to take you with him, so that you would not be slain in your bed.
I ponder this for a while. I do not want to admit it. Stop speaking up for him.
Boromir seems to ignore me. You cannot be rid of the memories, Faramir. They are a part of you. You can lose them, but you can never be rid of them. Do you understand?
Frustration. No, I do not.
I feel Boromir smile. You will. You are very smart, Faramir, whatever our father might have said when he still walked among the living. You are smart. You will understand.
The next morning, I go to the gardens. I find that a wind had risen in the night from the North. It is still blowing down. It does not lift the grey, dreary mists surrounding the lands. I feel the mantle under my arm, and I think of my mother. I remember her smiling face and her dark curtain of hair. I think of Boromir's words again.
You cannot be rid of the memories, Faramir. They are a part of you. You can lose them, but you can never be rid of them.
I think of the time Father brought us to Dol Amroth for the summer.
"Mamma! Mamma!" Boromir cried, carrying me piggy-back. "Faramir has stepped on a piece of coral!"
Mother stood up, left her sewing, and came to us. Boromir put me on the sandy ground. I lifted my left foot. There was blood streaming down the sole, and it dripped onto the sand. Mother sighed sympathetically. She said, "Boromir, help Faramir into his room."
Boromir piggy-backed me once more into my room, where he carried me to the bed. There was blood on the sheets now. Mother came in carrying ointment and bandages. She places my bloody foot onto her lap, not caring that tbe blood was being absorbed into her gown.
I sat grimly as she pulled out a piece of coral. It hurt, but I wanted to be brave for her. It stung when she rubbed the ointment. She smiled as she wrapped my foot. When she was done, Mother gave me a hug. She kissed my forehead. "That was for being such a brave boy," she said, smiling, "for not weeping."
"Thank you," I said, hopping off the bed and carefully testing my foot. Satisfied, I ran to join Boromir at the beach again. I heard the ring of Mother's laughter following me down the hall as I went back into the sun.
It is like I have forgotten that there was a time of joy in my family.
"Faramir," calls a familiar voice behind me. It is Éowyn. When she is standing next to me, I show her the mantle. Her face shows surprise as she takes it from me. She strokes the material and says, "This cloth is good. Is it yours?"
"No," I say. "It is yours now."
Éowyn's face threatens to light up in a smile, but she says, "I cannot accept it."
"You must," I say. "The day is cold. I do not want any blame for letting you catch pnuemonia." I force a smile, and Éowyn accepts it. She puts it on. Suddenly, I am captivated by her. Her gold hair spilling past her shoulders, and the way her pale skin is a stark contrast to the blue cloth.
Éowyn looks northward. Her eyes have a distant look in them, and I sense that she is searching for something.
"What do you look for, Éowyn?" I ask, taking a step nearer toward her. I look north and try to search for what she is looking for.
"Does not the Black Gate lie yonder?" she asks. I nod. "And must he not now be come thither? It is seven days since he rode away."
"Seven days," I say to myself. It has been one week, I think. "But think not ill of me, if I say to you," I say: "they have brought me both a joy and a pain that I never thought to know. Joy to see you; but pain, because now the fear and doubt of this evil time are grown dark indeed." Éowyn's face darkens. "Éowyn, I would not have this world end now, or lose so soon what I have found."
Éowyn looks at me, her brows slightly depressed. "Lose what you have found, lord?" she says, a grave look in her eyes. "I know not what in these days you have found that you could lose. But come, my friend, let us not speak of it! Let us not speak at all. I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me, I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I want for some stroke of doom."
I find myself thinking of my mother. Boromir had once said that when Mother was alive, she had feared the shadow stretching from Mordor across the Anduin. She feared for us, Boromir had said. Was she, too, waiting for the stroke of doom?
"Yes," I whisper, "we wait for the stroke of doom."
The wind slowly dies. There is not a sound to be heard. It is as if the wind has persished, voice has been silenced, bird is extinct, every leaf has been burned, and breath has been stopped. Time has frozen, I think.
Without thinking, I take her hand and she holds it.
A soft cry passes Éowyn's lips as the walls of the City quivers with a tremor.
"It reminds me of Numenor," I say despite myself.
"Of Numenor?"
"Yes," I say, half to myself, "of the land of Westernesse that foundered, and of the great dark wave climbing over the green lands and above the hills, and coming on, darkness unescapable. I often dream of it."
"Then you think that Darkness is coming?" Éowyn cries. "Darkness Unescapable?" She draws close to me, and I place a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She seems grateful for this.
"No," I say softly. I look into her face, at her porcelain-white skin and grave eyes. How could a lady as beautiful as her be so devoid of love, of hope? She deserves more than this. "It was but a picture in my mind. I do not know what is happening. The reason of my waking mind tells me that great evil has befallen, and we stand at the end of days. But my heart says nay; and all my limbs are light, and a hope and joy are come to me that no reason can deny! Éowyn, Éowyn, White Lady of Rohan, in this hour I do not believe that any darkness will endure!"
And I find that I mean it.
I kiss her brow. Embarrassed, I turn away.
A new wind rises and blows.
The Sun unveils herself; the Shadow departs. The light of the Sun shine upon the waters of the Anduin, making it shine like silver. Suddenly, we hear a strange noise: In all the houses of the City, a thousand voices rise as people sing.
I feel Éowyn's hand tightens around mine.
At noon, someone cries, "Look!" I look, and I see an Eagle, greater than any I have ever seen. He cries in a loud voice:
Sing now, ye people of the Tower of Arnor,
for the Realm of Sauron is ended for ever,
and the Dark Tower is thrown down.
Sing and rejoice, ye people of the Tower of Guard,
for your watch hath not been in vain,
and the Black Gate is broken,
and your King hath passed through,
and he is victorious.
Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life.
And the Tree that was whithered shall be renewed,
and he shall plant it in the high places,
and the City shall be blessed.
Sing all ye people!
And the people sang.
But I did not.
I am not free.
Not yet.
A/N: As usual, please R&R!
