Chapter XI – I Am Faramir

"You did what?"

"I left the Rangers, Father." Faramir kept his voice steady, although his heart was pounding heavily. "I told Captain Seregorn that I could no longer be a part of his company."

Denethor's rage seemed to light his very eyes with fire. "How dare you!" he roared. "Captain Seregorn accepted you out of kindness, despite your atrocious sword work, and this is how you repay him! Why must you always shame me with your pitiful excuses for getting out of any kind of hard work?"

Captain Seregorn was watching, his arms folded across his chest. Faramir glanced towards him hopefully. The Captain knew that Denethor had everything wrong, but he made no attempt to correct the Steward. Faramir was on his own now.

"Father, you told me that I was too weak for soldiering," said Faramir. "I-I know now that you were right. I am sorry, but I cannot be a soldier. I do not have the heart for it."

"You will be a soldier, and you will like it!" snarled Denethor. "I'll not have any son of mine be seen as a coward! If I must send you into enemy lands alone and unarmed to force you to fight, I shall!" He whirled away, storming towards his chair at the feet of the empty throne of the king. He sat down and stared haughtily at Faramir with the air of a mighty lord looking down upon the lowliest of his subjects. Faramir humbly lowered his gaze.

"You've killed a man, Faramir," said Denethor calmly. "The blame for his death lies with you and none other. You have shamed me beyond anything you have ever done. Your failure and ineptitude have resulted in a man's death. Had you done as I told you and trained more often instead of attending blindly to your studies, the boy would not be dead. You have disobeyed me for the final time, Faramir."

Faramir strained to hold tears back from his eyes. "Father, I—"

"Do not say that it was not your fault!" shouted Denethor. "You failed to fight adequately, and you failed to make the right decisions! Your errors in battle left a young boy dead! You let him die! You killed him!"

Faramir clenched his fists to keep them from shaking and struggled harder still not to cry. "I did not mean to—"

"No excuses!" Denethor bellowed. "No more excuses, Faramir! It is your fault! You killed him!"

"I—"

"Say it! Say that you killed him! Say that it was your fault!"

"I-I killed him." Tears spilled over and slipped down Faramir's face. "It is my fault. I killed him. I killed him…"

"Good," said Denethor coldly. "May the Valar take vengeance on you for your failings." He threw his hand in the direction of the door. "Get out. I do not wish to see you any longer. Await my judgment in the Tower, and do not come down until I summon you."

Faramir stumbled from the hall, and he did not see the look of pity that Captain Seregorn cast his way. He did not see anything until he reached his rooms in the Tower and threw himself onto his knees beside the bed. He had not prayed since his mother died, but now he found himself beseeching the Valar from the depths of his heart.

"Please, O great Valar, forgive me…" he mumbled, wiping away his tears as quickly as they came. "I killed him… It is my fault… It is my fault… Please, please forgive me… I will do anything…anything… Please…forgive me…"

"Faramir?"

Faramir did not answer. He felt Boromir kneel beside him and put his arm around his shoulders, but he could not stop silently begging for forgiveness.

"Faramir, whatever is the matter?" asked Boromir concernedly, trying in vain to comfort his little brother. "Please, tell me what is wrong."

"I killed him. I killed him. It is my fault." Faramir buried his head in his arms. "Father hates me. The Captain hates me. Mablung hates me. What have I done? Oh, Eru, what have I done…"

"What are you talking about?" asked Boromir. "Faramir, speak to me!"

"Aerandir is dead." Faramir's voice was hollow, completely empty of emotion. "Shot by an orc archer that I didn't kill. He's dead, and it's all my fault, Boromir."

"Orcs! In Ithilien?"

Faramir nodded and shuddered. "Outside Henneth Annûn…near the waterfall… We aimed for the archers first, but I didn't kill mine and it shot Aerandir. He's dead, Boromir. He's dead. I killed him. It is my fault…" He shook his head sharply. "I can't live with myself this way, Boromir. I won't be a soldier. I won't. He can't make me."

Boromir was shocked by Faramir's vehemence, and he could think of nothing to say. Instead, he tried to soothe his little brother as he cried. Faramir was comforted by his presence, but he knew that Boromir did not understand. Boromir could not understand. He was a soldier, and he loved it. Faramir was revolted by it.

"You should go," whispered Faramir. "Father will be wanting to see you…"

"Did he tell you so?"

"No, but he always wishes to see you." Faramir's voice echoed with the agony of his father's disdain for him.

Boromir stiffened. "I do not care what he wishes," he said angrily. "Has he done this to you, Faramir? Did he tell you that Aerandir's death is your fault?"

"It is my fault," Faramir whispered, closing his eyes. "Whether he tells me so or not, it haunts my heart… I cannot escape it…"

Boromir stood. "I will speak with him. You should not be burdened by this guilt, Faramir. Warfare is unpredictable. Aerandir's death is not your fault, and he should not make you feel this way."

"Boromir, please," begged Faramir. "Leave it alone. I hate to see you argue with him."

"He needs to hear it," Boromir insisted, frowning. He left Faramir's room, slamming the door behind him in his anger.

Faramir flinched and pushed himself wearily to his feet. He sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at his feet. This couldn't be happening. This couldn't possibly be happening… His world seemed to be falling apart from the inside, crumbling around him. Everyone he trusted had turned away, and all of his carefully constructed confidence had been shattered with a single orc arrow.

He took Aerandir's sword from beneath his bed where he kept it and slid it slowly out of its sheath. The blade shimmered softly in the moonlight that shone through the window at the other end of his room, so beautiful and so deadly. He ran his fingers experimentally along the edge and pressed just hard enough to draw a few beads of scarlet blood from the end of his finger. It was still sharp enough for battle, sharp enough to pierce a man's flesh easily…

"I do hope you are not thinking of doing something foolish," said a gruff voice from the doorway. Faramir turned his head quickly to see the wizard Mithrandir standing with his staff in hand, gazing evenly at the blade in Faramir's hand. It was the first time Faramir had seen him in many years, and suddenly he wished that the wizard had returned at any other time than this.

"Taking one's own life is an act of cowardice frowned upon by the Valar, Faramir."

"I-I was not going to do anything," Faramir stammered, dropping the blade onto the bed. Suddenly he was afraid of it, as if it had a will of its own that was urging him to a place he did not want to go. "I was only wondering…what it feels like to die." He dropped his gaze from Mithrandir's piercing blue eyes. "Is it cold? Can one feel one's breath leave the body? Does the darkness penetrate quickly like a dart or slowly like a poison?"

Strangely, Mithrandir smiled. "Let me tell you something about death," he said gently. Faramir moved aside on the bed for him to sit. "When a man dies, Faramir, the pain is only in his body, not in his soul. Though his body is broken, his soul remains whole, unaltered. It is a beautiful thing, death. The spirit sails over a great expanse of deep blue seas, past Eressëa, unto a land that in the Elvish tongue is called Valinor. It is another world there, where all turns to silver glass. This fragile world seems to roll away, and then you can see it…the shores of white followed by fields of everlasting green, stretching on forever beneath a swift sunrise…" Mithrandir seemed almost enchanted, for his eyes were clouded over and his smile grew. "And that isn't a terrible fate, Faramir. That isn't a terrible fate."

Faramir could say nothing. Once again he saw Aerandir's smiling face in his mind, but this time he was surrounded by a world of silver glass and white shores and green fields beneath a swift sunrise. It was a world absent of pain, and death became a thing of the past, long forgotten as a part of a time and a place that one no longer belonged to. Aerandir was…happy.

"Mithrandir…how do you know so much about death?" he asked slowly. "How do you know what Valinor looks like?"

The wizard's eyes twinkled. "I was not always as you see me now, bundled up in grey rags and walking this world bent upon an old staff." A distant look came into his eyes, and he sighed. "Olórin I was once, in a time that has been lost for many long ages. It was my name in the West, beyond the shores of this world."

Faramir stared in awe at the old man. "What are you, then?"

Mithrandir laughed, and his mystical air seemed to vanish. "I am a wizard, of course!" He tapped the side of his nose and winked, and Faramir had the distinct impression that there was much to this wizard that was hidden beneath the grey rags.

"The more important question, young Faramir, is: What are you? The time has come for you to decide what kind of man you are going to grow into. Will you be a puppet, bent beneath your father's oppression? Will you be a soldier, trained to kill without any thought or regard for those who meet your blade? Will you be a lost soul, wandering this world without purpose and with no knowledge of your surroundings?"

"Is it possible to be nothing?" asked Faramir quietly. He shook his head. "That is what I am. Nothing. I should leave Gondor. I bring nothing but shame to my father and my country."

"According to your father, perhaps," Mithrandir scoffed. "Growing into a man also means that you must look at things from your own point of view, not others'. You must form your own opinions, not just rely on the opinions of those around you."

"Truly, Mithrandir, I want nothing more than to be a scholar." Faramir laughed bitterly, mocking himself. "But what good is that? I read and I write and I learn music, but when it is put to the test what good is scholarship in battle? If I was a devoted soldier like Boromir, Aerandir would still be alive."

"For all you know, he would still have died," said Mithrandir sternly. "You cannot rewrite the past. If you truly wish to be a scholar, then you should devote yourself to your studies. It is a noble profession, one fitting of a lord's son."

"Not the Lord Denethor's son."

"The Lord Denethor has no right to force anything upon you." Mithrandir's eyebrows beetled angrily. "Only you can decide what kind of man you shall become."

"Then shall I lock myself away in the Tower and read until the world fades away and I can live with my conscience in peace?"

Mithrandir reached into his cloak and withdrew a book from some hidden pocket. He handed it to Faramir. "I have given you many books over the years, Faramir," he said, "but none so important as this one. I have waited to give it to you until I deemed you ready. I believe that with the death of your young friend, you have finally reached that point."

Faramir took the book carefully and opened the cover. The first page was blank. He flipped through the other pages and found nothing but empty white paper. "There is nothing written," said Faramir, confused.

"Wrong. There is nothing written yet. Remember, Faramir, that no matter how many books you read, you must still author your own life. Take it, write in it what you will. Someday I will return to read what you have written. Until that day, never stop writing. Your life will be enclosed within these pages, Faramir. It is up to you to write it the way you see it, not the way that others see it. It is the most important task that can be given to a man, and now I give it to you."

Faramir's eyes were captured by the blank pages. "How will I know what to write?" he asked. Mithrandir did not answer, and when Faramir looked up, the wizard was gone.

He stared at the book, tracing the lines on the cover with his finger. For many long hours he allowed his mind to wander freely, until at last, heavy with weariness, he fell into slumber.

It was late the next day when he woke, and Mithrandir's book was tucked carefully beneath his arm. It was the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes. He paused for only a moment, then took the book over to his desk, dipped his quill in ink, and opened to the first page. His hesitation lasted for only an instant longer, and then he wrote the date in graceful calligraphy:

26 Girithron, T.A. 3000

What does one say when addressing a future that did not yet exist? Well, he supposed they must know his name.

I am Faramir, son of Denethor, and—

And what? What could follow such a declaration? He was Faramir, son of Denethor. Did he exist beyond that definition? Was there a self hidden somewhere his father had not yet found?

Yes. There must be.

—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." So now I am going to write a story of my own—

Faramir's quill froze over the page for a second, then swept over the page to write the definitive phrase:

—my story.

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