OK, I did this story for English class, and I will let you know what the grade was... later. As it is, I am too impatient to wait and post this later. This is the War of the Ring, up 'til Osgiliath, from Faramir's eyes. This is also one reason why "Seriously? Why Me?" has been a while in the updating…
Let me know whatcha think!
I am still shaken by the vision I had. My brother, laid in the soft grey wooden boat, in the peaceful repose of death. The one I had looked up to all my life, the one who had been my protector, my guardian, the one who acted as my father when my true sire rejected me, never returning to his home, save in dreams. My heart clenches at the terrible thought.
The cursed enemy is approaching. I can hear their clumsy crashing through the garden of fair Ithilien, their monstrous mumakil ravaging the edible trees. I wince as they come close to trampling two of my followers.
A bird call. All of my men are finally in position. Now is as good a time as any to open battle. I release my first arrow, the signal for the other archers.
Screams sound from the Haradrim as their men fall dead. The stench of freshly spilt blood reaches my nose, but I am a warrior. I am not weak. I can stand the smell, even if my stomach roils at the thought of killing more men. I was never the son meant to be a soldier. That was my brother's duty. He was better able to stomach killing then I was.
Shoot. Draw. Notch. Pull. Shoot. My body settles into a rhythm, learned from more battles than I kill to remember. I detach my mind from the deaths around me. I force myself to not think about the lives of possibly conscripted soldiers I am ending.
A mumakil breaks away from the rest of the horde, trampling its own masters in the wake of its wrath. I draw my next arrow, aiming for one Harad soldier who seems to have a good grip on the beast. I fire as the spawn of Mordor reaches the small knoll to the north. I can hear the scream suddenly cut off as the archer's body hits the ground hard.
I can hear one of the new recruits, Darantir, frantically tugging my arm. He whispers that something suspicious has been seen, near the hill where the Haradrim archer now lays dead. I follow him, alert for danger.
I arrive in time to hear a soft, gentle voice. "Come on, Sam!" I hear the softest of footsteps before a person no taller than a child comes around the birch trees, immediately bumping into another soldier. A shout alerts me to another small being, presumably Sam, drawing his sword and rushing to the first one's aid. It takes Anertil only a moment to throw him to the ground, placing his sword at the small one's throat.
The one on the ground frantically cries out, "Wait! We're innocent travelers!"
An innocent traveler? No one travels in these lands, so near to Mordor, unless they are Gondorian soldiers or allies of Barad-Dur. I proceed to inform him of that fact. "There are no travelers in these lands, only servants of the Dark Tower."
The first small one speaks. "We are bound to an errand of secrecy! Those who claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us!"
"The enemy?" I step over to the body of the dead soldier. Now that I see him, I realize he is young, only about my age. Thankfully, his eyes are closed, his face relaxed in the embrace of death, the only sign of violence the blood trickling out of his mouth. "His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem." I pause, feeling anew the grief at such needless death. "You wonder what his name is......where he came from, and if he was really evil at heart… what lies or threats led him on this long march from home… if he would not rather have stayed there......in peace. War will make corpses of us all." I let my bitterness at the past few days leak into my voice. Boromir's death, this battle, the gathering of all Sauron's forces, these two spies… I give a sharp order to my soldiers. "Bind their hands."
"Take them to my father." As Glaeril started to drag away the two Halflings, I add, "Tell him: 'Faramir sends a mighty gift.'" I do my best to ignore the incredulous look he gave me. "A gift that will change our fortunes in this war."
I am about to turn away to the battle for Osgiliath when Sam's voice stops me. "Do you want to know what happened to Boromir? Do you want to know why your brother died?!" I turn to face him, my pain evident on my face. Sam continued his rant. "He tried to take the Ring from Frodo, after swearing an oath to protect him! He tried to kill him!" He pauses for air. "The Ring drove your brother mad!"
My shock is overwhelming. This harmless looking Ring, borne by the smallest of the Valar's creatures, drove my own brother insane? The brother who had been my idol in childhood? I am jolted out of my thoughts by the shout, "Look out!" A well-aimed boulder from the eastern shore crashes into the tower above me. I involuntarily wince, hoping no one was up there.
"Mr. Frodo?" I turn back to my prisoners at Sam's voice. I am shocked at Frodo's appearance. He hasn't been acting quite right since I tried to take the Ring from him. My alarm increases when I hear his ghostly voice. "They're here. They've come." His eyes are rolling back in his head, he is acting like a… like a wraith.
I never get the chance to question what happened. The ghastly, ear piercing, blood chilling shriek alerts me to the new danger at hand. I scream a warning, even though all my soldiers know that sound. "Nazgul!!"
It occurs to me that I should hide my captives. Grabbing a Halfling with each hand, I force them to an archway, shoving them against the wall. The gangly creature, Gollum cowered against a wall, wailing almost more than the Nazgul did. I give them directions to keep out of sight, before I run back to my men, yelling for them to take cover.
A few minutes later, I look up to the wall, my heart lodging in my throat at seeing Frodo standing, almost motionless, before the hideous fell beast of Mordor, with the black-cloaked figure on its back. I could see Sam running up behind him, terror on his face. Frodo is holding up something before the Nazgul, but I can not see what it is. I have a suspicion it is the Ring.
I grab my bow and notch an arrow. I must do something to help him! I know the legends of the One Ring. I know letting Sauron retrieve it will result in the death of all Middle Earth. I can not idly stand by! I will do my brother's duty. I will not fail Frodo. I will protect him!
Sam tackles Frodo, dragging him to the ground. I choose that moment to fire my arrow. It is a clean hit into the creature's shoulder. I am rewarded with a roar of pain from the beast and the Nazgul's retreat.
Yet, I can not move. I am frozen, watching Frodo pull a sword on Sam after the fall down the stairs of the wall. I faintly hear Sam begging for his life. I see Frodo collapse to the side, the Elvish-looking sword falling from his limp hand. "I can't do this, Sam." His voice sounds old, and weary.
Sam sighs as he gets up, watching the Nazgul retreat to the black mountains of Mordor. He begins to speak. "I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories, Mr. Frodo. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines, it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. Because they were holding on to something."
"What are we holding onto, Sam?" I feel a great deal of empathy for Frodo. I have asked myself the same question countless times in the past, especially after Boromir left for Rivendell.
Sam turns and helps Frodo to his feet. "That there is some good in this world, Mr. Frodo, and that it's worth fighting for."
My shame is overwhelming. How could I have taken these two Halflings prisoner in the manner that I did? How could I have fulfilled the curse of Men, by being weak of will and abundant of pride? My heart is stirred by Sam's words as he speaks. I have reached a decision. I kneel before Frodo. My throat is tight with held back emotion. "I think at last, we understand one another Frodo Baggins."
Glaeril speaks to me, interrupting my words to Frodo. "You know the laws of your country, the laws of your father!" I stand up to face him as he continues, "If you let them go, your life will be forfeit!"
I look at the Halflings. They return the gaze with a look of pleading, for their freedom, for my aid. I can not allow my father to get his hands on them. "Then it is forfeit. Release them."
I stand beside Glaeril, looking out over the Anduin. The fog camouflages the water, making the city look like something out of a wraith world. Perhaps the Paths of the Dead in Rohan look like this.
Glaeril give me an update on the surroundings and guard placement. I sincerely hope that we are not attacked, despite the reassuring reinforcements.
My thoughts drift to Frodo and Sam. They left Osgiliath yesterday, the same day as that accursed pillar of evil light came from Minas Morgul. I was dismayed to hear that Frodo planned on following the cursed road to Cirith Ungol, with that twisted Gollum. I could only hope that the light did not mean the Halfling's discovery.
A cry brings me to the present. I hear armour thudding down the stone stairs. The sight that meets my eyes, of Anteril with an arrow sticking out of his chest makes my blood run cold. I have to come to a harsh conclusion; "They're not coming from the north!"
We have only minutes to position ourselves along the banks of the river. I catch a glimpse of the first Orc-boat to appear out of the mist and force myself to not cry out in shock. I see torch-lights behind the first boat, telling of an unimaginable fleet.
Glaeril stands against the pillar in front of me. He nods, awaiting my signal.
I tense as the first Orcs charge past. I let them go through, in an attempt to catch next ones off guard. I finally leap out, shedding first blood. I hear the shouts of my men behind me.
We are vastly outnumbered. But we must fight. It is the only thing we can do.
Dawn has crept over the ruins of Osgiliath when I finally give the order to retreat. We can not win. We must flee to Minas Tirith. The Nazgul's screams above me only encourage my men to flee. I vaguely see Glaeril fall beside me, but I am not foolish enough to go back for him. At least one son of the Steward must survive.
A horse runs by me, in full panic. I manage to climb onto its back and steer it towards the western gate of Osgiliath. Every single horse now has a rider, and more men run beside, fear lending speed to their feet.
It is not enough. The Nazgul are sweeping down, picking up horse and rider with one claw of their fell beasts. I duck as a beast flies over me, narrowly missing my head.
We are lost. We are going to die. Gondor and the world of Men will fall. I will join my brother in the embrace of death.
A white rider appears from the city. His horse is faster then any of ours. The white staff lifted above the rider's head emits a beautiful, wholesome light that drives away the Nazgul. My relief is shared by all my soldiers.
Can it be… Mithrandir? It is! We are saved!