Author's Note: This is a newly updated version of Chapter IV (updated 5.30.08) that differs markedly from the original. To find out more about why the changes were made, please see my author profile. To reread the original version of Chapter IV, follow the link provided in my author profile. I would love to get messages from you all about what you think of the new chapter and whether or not you think it is better than the original. In the meantime, enjoy! May the hair on your toes never fall out! - Minyasta
Chapter IV – Noble Standards
26 Girithron, T.A. 3000
I am Faramir, son of Denethor, and stories have been my refuge for as long as I can remember. Mithrandir, my faithful mentor, has taught me the art of the Elvish language and given to me as many books as I can devour. When last we spoke, he said this to me: "Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life." It is with this purpose in mind that I now compose a story of my own—my story.
I have no knowledge of how to begin, and so I must apologize for my initial uncertainty. It is difficult, I believe, for a man to determine when his life truly commences. Few men tell a tale that begins at birth; most choose some definitive point in their later lives that demonstrates the essence of their character. For myself, I know not when that moment came, if indeed it has come at all yet in my brief lifetime.
In less than two months' time I will pass my eighteenth year, yet I do not know if I can consider myself a man. The qualifications for that privilege differ depending upon the judge of the qualifier. Were I to judge myself, I would find myself lacking in the bravery, strength, surety, and wisdom that characterize great men like my father and brother. I have won no contests of swordsmanship, taken no women to my bed, and counseled no great lords. I have made mistakes that will forever mar my spirit, and I have proven myself wanting as the son of the Steward of Gondor.
The first memory I have of my failure to meet the noble standards expected of me is of an incident that occurred in my twelfth year. At that time, I still harboured the belief that I might somehow earn my father's praise if I strove hard enough to improve myself. What a fool I was then, to believe that the Lord Denethor could ever come to be as proud of his second son as he was of his first. That day, I realized that despite my efforts, I could never measure up to Boromir in any way, for in my misguided naïveté I constantly brought only dishonor to the Hùrin name.
-+-+-+-+-+-
"He's afraid!" sneered the young noble. "He won't do it, Duilin!"
"You're right, Derufin—he won't. Because he's a coward." Duilin grinned cruelly, but Faramir just ignored him and kept his eyes fixed on his book. Derufin, the younger bully, swung up into the lower branches of the old, twisted oak and leered down at Faramir from above.
"So perished Arvedui Last-King," Faramir muttered, just loud enough for Duilin and Derufin to overhear, "and with him the palantíri were buried in the s—"
Duilin kicked Faramir's book out of his hand, and when Faramir stood up to get it, Duilin shoved him to the ground again. "Reading books, instead of fighting like a brave man!" Derufin laughed, then hissed, "Coward."
"The fact that I am not foolhardy enough to try to saddle a wild stallion does not make me a coward," said Faramir quietly, brushing dust off his new tunic as he stood. "Anyone possessing basic reason would agree with me on that point. Perhaps 'reason' is a foreign term to you, Duilin."
"You'd better watch your mouth!" snarled Duilin. "This time your hero brother isn't here to save you!"
Faramir raised an eyebrow but said nothing in reply. He did not need Boromir to protect him from the likes of Duilin and Derufin, two arrogant brats who bullied anyone smaller than themselves for mere sport. Besides, Faramir knew that Duilin would not dare to strike the son of the Steward. The boys' father, Lord Duinhir, would have beaten them both quite soundly had Duilin been so carelessly disrespectful as that. Even if Duilin had had no fear of a beating, he would not have risked jeopardizing his inheritance.
Duilin sauntered over to Faramir, an ugly sneer twisting his face into a cruel mask. Derufin continue to chuckle and guffaw from his position in the tree. Faramir stood expectantly, tense despite himself, watching Duilin with his eyes. All of a sudden, the other boy scrunched up his face and drew a fist back as if ready to strike. Faramir flinched and recoiled automatically, and the two brothers laughed.
"How very shaky for one with such reason," taunted Duilin. "Did you not know in your endless wisdom, Faramir, that I would not hit you?" Faramir was silent, watching. "What's wrong, Faramir? Don't you have something witty and clever to say?" Still, Faramir said nothing. "Answer me when I'm speaking to you!"
Faramir straightened his back, tightened his jaw, and leveled his glare straight into Duilin's eyes without saying a word.
"I said, answer me!" Duilin growled, pulling back his fist again. This time, Faramir did not flinch. Pain burst in his face as the punch connected solidly with his cheekbone and nose. Dizzy, Faramir dropped to his knees and put a hand to his nose, feeling the slick, sticky blood that was dripping from it. His eyes began to water, and all he could hear was Duilin and Derufin's jeering laughter.
"You…you hit me!" Faramir gasped, incredulous. "I'm bleeding!"
"So?" Duilin asked lazily, eliciting another snicker from Derufin.
"I-I'm going to tell—!"
"Going to tell who?" Duilin scoffed. "Running to your big brother again, little Farry? You know, one day he's going to get tired of having to save you all the time."
"I don't need him to save me!" Faramir retorted heatedly.
"Then who were you going to tell? Your father?"
Faramir's ears reddened under Duilin's haughty gaze. "Don't bring my father into this…"
"Why not? If you didn't mean your father, then who did you mean? But then, we all know you would never tell Denethor anything, don't we?" Duilin's intelligent, devious gaze pierced Faramir. "You know what he thinks of you. You're a coward."
"I am not a coward!"
"Coward! Coward!" echoed Derufin, cackling stupidly.
"Stop it!" snapped Faramir. "My father doesn't think I'm a coward!"
"Are you calling your father a liar, then?" Duilin asked with a grin. "Because everyone knows you're a coward."
"I am not a coward!"
"Then why don't you prove it for once, instead of hiding behind big, strong Boromir?"
"Very well! I accept your challenge!" cried Faramir, leaping to his feet. "In the name of my honor and that of my father, I will saddle the stallion!" A look of quiet triumph passed behind Duilin's eyes, and for a moment Faramir paused. Perhaps he had made a mistake…
"Damnit, boy, won't you ever learn to stand up for yourself—for me, your father?" Denethor's voice rang in his head. "When will you begin acting like the noble-born son you are?"
No. He had not made a mistake.
"Bring me to him," Faramir added quietly.
Duilin and Derufin led Faramir down to the lower levels of Minas Tirith, to the fenced-in paddock behind the stables where the wild stallion was being kept. Duilin made repeated shushing gestures as they slinked past the handlers who were sharing a pint of beer in the stables.
"There he is," whispered Duilin, pointing. "The unbreakable stallion of the Rohirrim…"
The smoky-grey horse was tied securely to a post in the middle of the paddock. He bucked and whinnied violently, yanking at the rope that held him fast, but the bonds did not give way. Faramir heard the anger behind the horse's grunts—anger towards his captors, who had taken him from his home on the great plains of the Westfold of Rohan.
Faramir closed his eyes, inhaled deeply to calm his racing heart, and climbed over the paddock fence.
The stallion's eyes grew wide, and he screamed and kicked and thrashed feverishly. Faramir clucked his tongue softly.
"Silly horse," Faramir teased in Sindarin. "Why do you shy away from me so? Do you not know, silly horse, that I am here to show you the kindness of my heart? You have had no Master as of yet, but by my father's honor, I shall master you."
Hooves flew in Faramir's direction as he drew near, and he shrank back in fear. He heard the two boys behind him snort derisively. His hesitation lasted for a moment longer before he released his dread and replaced it with the firm conviction of his ability to tame the wild creature before him. He had no choice. He had to prove, once and for all, that he was not a coward and a dishonor to the name of Hùrin.
"By my father's honor, I shall master you," he repeated, more gently. A smile fluttered across his lips, and he began to sing softly to the creature that flailed in his presence.
"Silver flow the streams from Celos to Erui
In the green fields of Lebennin!
Tall grows the grass there. In the wind from the Sea
The white lilies sway,
And the golden bells are shaken of mallos and alfirin
In the green fields of Lebennin,
In the wind from the Sea!"
The creature was visibly calmed by the sweet melody of his voice, and when Faramir saw that his approach was working, he moved swiftly on to another song in his repertoire. The horse seemed to stop its crazed motions and almost listen, its head cocked to one side, its ears pointed and attentive. And while the stallion was thus occupied, Faramir reached gently for the rope that tied the horse to the post.
The knots came undone easily in his clever fingers, and Faramir slipped the rope slowly out of the iron ring that held it fast, singing all the while. He could hear Duilin and Derufin gasp in astonishment behind him and knew that he had saved his pride and that his father's, and that he need not go further. All logic and reason told him that he should retie the rope and take his leave of the stallion of the Rohirrim, but for the first time in his life, Faramir thrust aside all of his preconceived notions about right and wrong.
What would Denethor or Boromir do, if they were here?
Faramir knew the answer before he'd even finished asking the question of himself. If his father or brother were here, they would break the stallion and ride upon its back, so that there would never again be any question of the validity of their honor. If that was what they would do, then that was what Faramir would do.
Still singing, Faramir grabbed a saddle that lay nearby and slowly, gingerly, slid it up over the back of the proud horse and buckled it deftly. The horse stamped but made no move to stop him. He snapped other buckles and clips into place easily, and though the stallion whinnied once or twice in confusion or frustration, there was no violence.
Faramir steadied himself, swallowed, and stepped his foot into the stirrup. The majestic animal was still beneath him, and as Faramir's lilting voice drifted upward, he swung with fear in his heart up on top of the stallion.
The horse snorted in surprise to feel the extra weight on his back, and he released a braying sound of fear and anger that startled Faramir and caused him to lose his footing in the stirrups. The stallion's front hooves lifted from the ground and pawed the air, tossing Faramir from his back. Faramir landed hard on his side, and the impact left him panting in terror and pain. The horse bucked and ran for the fence of the paddock, the rope that had restrained him trailing behind like a runaway leash. With one great bound, the Rohirric stallion cleared the fence and galloped off down the cobblestoned street.
Duilin swore loudly and grabbed his brother by the arm. "Come on, let's get out of here!" he hissed, as the sound of footsteps and the handlers' angry voices drew nearer.
Faramir scrambled to his feet, clutching his side painfully and wheezing. "Wait…Wait for me!" He ran to the fence and reached over it, catching the sleeve of Derufin's tunic before the brothers could run. "Wait!"
"Get off me!" said Derufin, shoving Faramir to the ground. Laughing, Duilin and Derufin fled and were quickly hidden from view by the crowd of onlookers who'd come to see what the commotion was about.
Woozy from the pain in his side, Faramir staggered to his feet and tried to slip over the paddock fence, but a thick, meaty hand caught him by the scruff of his neck and dragged him back.
"You!" one of the handlers shouted into Faramir's face, his breath stinking with ale. "You untied the Rohan hos'!"
"I-I… No! I mean… It was an accident!" Faramir stammered, tears in his eyes.
"Aren't you Faramir, Lord Denethor's son?" asked the other handler, who seemed to be slightly more sober than his counterpart.
"Y-Yes," Faramir croaked out.
"Good," grunted the first handler. "Saves me a trip that woulda been spent goin' to tell Denethor that his hos' was stole."
"No, I-I wasn't stealing it!" Faramir tried to explain frantically. "It wasn't my fault!"
"Oh, yeah? Who's fault was it, then?"
"It was—" Faramir stopped himself in mid-sentence, realizing that if he told the handlers about Duilin and Derufin, he would be scorned as a coward and a tell-tale. Anyway, there was no point. No one would believe him. Faramir hung his head and stared at his feet in silence.
"Tha's what I thought."
"Let's bring him to Denethor."
:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:
"What in the name of the great Valar were you thinking?" bellowed Denethor, spittle flying from his lips in fury. "You could have been injured! You could have been killed! Worse, you could have injured the beast! That horse is a prided stallion of Rohan, purchased at great cost by Lord Duinhir! It was a gift, to me! You had no right to touch it!"
Faramir was outwardly calm despite the twinge of anguish that shuddered through his frame. "I have already apologized for my transgression," he said quietly. "What is it you want from me, Father?"
The Steward backhanded his younger son, hard. Faramir turned his head in pain and surprise at the sting, staggering sideways. His father hadn't struck him since he was a very young child—since before his mother died.
"Ask that not of me," Denethor replied, his voice shaking. He flung his arm in the direction of Lord Duinhir, who stood against the far wall, watching.
Faramir held his chin high, bowed to his father, and turned to face the disdainful stare of Lord Duinhir. Faramir's innards were clenched with nerves and remorse. He had done nothing except to stand up for himself, and yet he was being disciplined. Where had he gone wrong? How could he have disappointed his father again? Only by a tremendous effort was he able to ask evenly, "What is it you want from me, my Lord?"
Lord Duinhir's gaze was not a friendly or a sympathetic one. Rather, it was the cold, distant gaze of a man who was privileged and all too aware of having been insulted. His body had long ago been made thick and lazy by much good food and wine, and his heavy hands were laden with gold and silver rings that Faramir knew had probably left many a scar on the faces of the man's two sons as well as his many servants.
"You have disparaged my honor, young lord," Lord Duinhir began brusquely.
"I did what I did to defend my honor," Faramir corrected austerely, his eyes flashing with sudden anger. Why did no one understand?
"Don't speak back with impudence," Denethor snapped.
"What do you mean?" Lord Duinhir asked, narrowing his eyes.
Faramir paused, but he could not lie to Lord Duinhir in response to a direct question. "Your sons, Duilin and Derufin, called me a coward, thus challenging my honor and that of my father, the Steward of Gondor." Faramir's eyes flickered surreptitiously towards Denethor. His father's face was inscrutable. "It was Duilin's idea that I try to saddle the horse. When I refused, he struck me and said that I—"
Suddenly, Lord Duinhir grabbed Faramir by the arm and turned him forcibly to face Denethor.
"Denethor, your son is lying." Duinhir's eyes bored deep into the Steward's. His grip on Faramir's arm was bruising. "My sons would never lay a hand on the Steward's issue, nor would they involve themselves in such a petty attempt at theft."
"It wasn't theft!" cried Faramir, his eyes now pleading with his father. "I would never steal anything belonging to you, sire, or to anyone in all Gondor!"
"Hold your tongue, boy," Denethor ordered coldly. "Of course, Lord Duinhir, my son will be punished for his crimes."
"And I shall be the one to punish him," Duinhir replied, shedding his ornate overcoat. He held out his hand to a servant who stood nearby. The servant offered up a slender, pliable rod, which Duinhir seized and flexed experimentally.
"The penalty for theft in this city is seven lashes." Denethor's voice was as chill as a wintry blade of steel. "So that is the penalty he shall be dealt."
Faramir saw the sharp flicker in his father's eyes and read it for what it was—hatred. Hatred of insubordination, hatred of disloyalty, and most of all hatred of weakness. And because Faramir embodied those three things at this moment, it was hatred of him, too. Faramir clenched his teeth to hold back a sob as fear and confusion engulfed him. Why did his father not understand? Did he not realize that everything Faramir had done today had been done for him?
Faramir pulled his tunic off over his head so that his bare back was exposed. Duinhir pushed him forward against a table so that the young man's palms dug into the wood and his back arched. Duinhir raised the rod and brought it down in a smarting blow against Faramir's flesh. The young lord flinched and closed his eyes. A shudder of pain passed through his frame, but he didn't allow himself to react. He had to prove to his father that he could be strong. He was not a coward.
"One."
The second lash struck in the same place as the first, where the skin was already beginning to bruise. Faramir found his eyes tearing even though he strove against it. Denethor's head jerked slightly as though in an attempt to look away, but his eyes were caught by the pain on his younger son's face.
"Two."
With each successive smack of the rod, the pain grew. Faramir bit his lip against outcry as Duinhir slowly counted off each singular lash. Three... Tears trickled down Faramir's face, and his entire body shook. Four... His face was distorted with anguish, and he waited and waited for his father to say something, to stop it, but nothing happened.
"Five."
The next whack of the rod brought a large, red welt to the skin, and the cry that Faramir had withheld now exploded from his lips. His knees gave out beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor. Duinhir grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and shoved back up against the table.
"Six."
Faramir buried his face in his hands, writhing against the sting of the blows. Sweat trickled down the crevasses in his skin, and he had to force himself not to sob. As the last thwack of the cold, terrible rod resounded against his body, Duinhir snorted derisively and finally released him. Faramir fell and gasped for breath, his face red from the pain.
"Seven."
Duinhir slipped his overcoat back over his shoulders and returned the rod to the servant. With a quick bow to Denethor and nothing more, Duinhir turned and marched from the hall. Before he had exited through the great doors, Faramir heard the lord say to his attendant, "I would have expected better than lying and thievery from a child of Hùrin descent…"
Denethor stiffly watched Duinhir leave and then turned to his son. "Faramir." His voice was hardly louder than a whisper. Faramir squeezed his eyes tightly shut but did not answer. "Look at me when I speak to you, boy! Look at me!"
Faramir wiped sweat from his brow and lifted his head. "Yes, sire?" Faramir brought himself with difficulty to one knee in proper reverence and tried to keep as still as possible to keep from pulling at his sore and bruised back.
"Once again you have humiliated me with your…your…"
"My what?" Faramir dared to ask.
"YOUR CHILDISH INSOLENCE!" Denethor roared. The room fell deathly silent, and Faramir's eyes fell. "Your petty rebelliousness! Your constant defiance! Have you forgotten the oath you swore to me, now three years past? 'Fealty with love, valor with honor, oath-breaking with vengeance.'"
Breathing hard, Denethor stared at his young son for several minutes as he calmed himself. Faramir did not dare raise his eyes again, lest Denethor see the tears of pain and sorrow that had gathered there.
"This was your vengeance, Faramir. For your sake, I would not forget it. I will not tolerate such waywardness in a son of mine. This is the last time you will disobey me, or you shall disgrace my name no longer."
Every fiber of Faramir's body was screaming for him to explain himself, to make it clear to his father that Duilin and Derufin had been responsible for the challenge, and that Faramir had thought to be brave by not running away or calling on Boromir to help him! Why, Father, Faramir longed to ask, why do you not understand? Finally, at a loss for the necessary words, Faramir swayed and leaned against the table for support, his thin frame throbbing with pain.
"Come," said Denethor sharply. "You look a shameful mess. Get you gone to the healers, boy." When Faramir didn't move, Denethor stepped forward to help him to his feet. Faramir looked up at his father with searching eyes. There wasn't even the slightest glimpse of fondness behind the stone wall that was Denethor's gaze. If anything, the emotion that Faramir saw there now was disdain.
"I-I was telling the truth, Father," he blurted out suddenly. "Duilin and Derufin were there, and we weren't trying to—"
"Silence," Denethor ordered, his voice low and dark. "To the healers, I say. I will expect you back in time for supper, so hie you thither."
Stunned, Faramir stared at his father for another minute, yearning to discover what action on his part would have pleased Denethor. Perhaps, he thought forlornly, nothing he could have done would have changed anything.
"Yes, Father."
-+-+-+-+-+-
After that day, I knew that my father would never look at me the way he looks at Boromir, with pride and affection. I was to be judged on an entirely different level, so that even if Boromir and I were to behave exactly alike, I still would be the lesser son. I do not blame Boromir for this; it is not his fault, after all, that I was not born a warrior like him and my father. I know that I will never equal Boromir in his military prowess or in his rapport with the men. I only hope that one day I may hold my father's respect, even if only for a fleeting moment in time.
As I reflect upon it now, I realize that I needed that beating at the hands of Lord Duinhir. It gave me the drive to defend myself when I couldn't rely on anyone else, not even family, to stand up for me—when my father did not wish to and my brother was not there. I learned to protect myself as a man ought. It is a lesson that has sustained me on more than one occasion in the five years since I learned it.
Yet though my determination was strengthened by this lesson taught me in my twelfth year, my poor judgment has remained a constant reminder of my failings as the son of a great lord. Perhaps it is not that I am incapable of meeting my father's noble standards, but rather that I in my recklessness consistently take the wrong course of action. Such impaired judgment is a worse fault than any physical impediment; for though weakness of the body may harm only oneself, weakness of the mind often harms the innocent passerby, as well…
Note: The song Faramir sang to the horse was taken from The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Chapter 9 – The Last Debate).
Girithron
(December)