Chapter XVII – Whispers to the Wind

"Sir! We need orders!"

"Take the western ridge from this direction," Elboron was telling his lieutenant, indicating the movement on the map that was spread haphazardly across an upturned crate in front of him. "You may not retreat. You must take the ridge at all costs. Am I understood?"

"Sir! Orders!" shouted the hysterical voice above him.

The lieutenant nodded, clenching the hilt of his sword. "Understood, sir," he said and sprinted along the narrow trench floor in a half-crouch to reach his men on the other side of the battlefield.

Elboron wiped sweat and grime from his brow, barely flinching at the clamor of the battle and the sound of whizzing arrows and screams from overhead. At last, he turned to face the frantic officer who had retreated to the brink of the trench and was staring down at Elboron in panic.

"Push forward!" roared Elboron, in no mood for skittish officers. "Drive toward the ridge! Lieutenant Carthôl will be pushing towards us from—!"

An arrow pierced the officer's chest, and he fell into the trench with a groan, lifeless. Elboron cursed and climbed out of the swampy, mud-choked hole and into the front line. A ragged line of soldiers was pushing haltingly forward, urged on by an officer who was shouting himself hoarse. A tide of Variags threatened to overwhelm their position. If Carthôl could not take that ridge…

"Borodin!" shouted Elboron over the clanging, screaming, hissing cacophony of battle, coming up behind the officer. The man turned towards him, and Elboron stopped short when he saw the chalk-white face of his friend. Borodin's breath was coming in quick, pained gasps, and his eyes were shot through with pain.

"You're wounded!" cried Elboron in alarm as his friend collapsed against him. Blood was streaming from a wide opening in Borodin's side, too much blood. Elboron guided him to the ground behind an overturned horse cart and pressed down hard on the wound, but it bled through his fingers.

"Elboron…the line! The line, it's breaking!" Borodin choked out. "Hold them! You have to hold them! G-Go! Leave me here, and just go!"

"Boro—"

"For Eru's sake, go!"

Elboron left Borodin with his canteen of water and hastened to the front line, where the soldiers were wavering and pushing onward haltingly against the Variag onslaught. Elboron's sword sliced through the belly of one enemy, and he knocked the teeth out of another with the pommel.

"Toward the ridge!" Elboron cried, wiping blood from his eyes. "Toward the ridge! Onward, as Gondor's sons! Toward the ridge!" With a cry of defiance, Elboron charged across the empty ground that stretched between them and the next wave of Variag warriors. Blood and sweat and mud and tears blinded him, and he fell into the fight with grim fear in his heart, knowing that behind him Borodin lay dying…

I gasp as I wake with a start, sitting upright in my bed. I pass a shaking hand over my brow and struggle to regain my breath. In front of my eyes, visions are still flickering like ghostly memories, old horrors I thought I had forgotten.

I have never before dreamt of war in such a nightmarish way—the heat of battle, the blood, the deafening roar, the pain… For these past fifty years I have scarcely thought of Borodin, my old friend, who succumbed to his wounds that day beneath the dusky clouds of Khand.

Borodin…

We were scarcely more than schoolboys then. I had just passed my eighteenth year; Borodin, his nineteenth. We had thought war to be a wondrous thing, before we were sent to the front, I as a captain and he as my ancient. The campaign in Khand was one of many that would erupt over the course of the next half-century, in what has become known as the Great Eastern War. Borodin died only four months into his service in the army. I still live on, now in my eighty-first year, old enough to watch my fifteen-year-old son march on the battlefields of Nurn in Mordor.

Great Eru, have I condemned my son to death, to misery and abjection? My heart is besieged by the disquieting news written of my son in Eldarion's letters, of the homesickness that renders my Barahir seclusive and wretched. It is my guilt in this matter that now forces me to relive before my mind's eye these horrific memories of the battlefields of my youth. I cannot close my eyes without picturing the pale face of my son amidst the bleak, war-scarred desolation that is Mordor. How could I have sent him hence, to a dark hell that turns even the most optimistic of souls to sorrow and despair? How could I have sent him hence, a mere boy of fifteen, to combat the very evils which plague my nightmares still?

My conscience holds me prisoner within my mind. I will find no rest tonight.

I rise, wrapping my robe about me as I step out onto the balcony. A warm, sleepy spring breeze envelops me, fogging my mind with weariness. Slowly I breathe in and out, my eyes flickering closed. The sun's shimmering rays have not yet risen over the horizon, and the Pelennor Fields spread beneath me are wreathed in shadow and mist. It is easy in the darkness before dawn to imagine a time when the Pelennor were besieged by tens of thousands of orcs and cruel beasts under the shroud of eternal midnight, the air thrumming with the wingbeats of the fell steeds of the Nazgûl. It was a battle fought many long years before my birth, the battle in which both my father and my mother were wounded nigh unto death and so met one another in the Houses of Healing. Yet though the siege of Minas Tirith has long since passed into history, I remember even from my years as a child and an adolescent the terrible scars rent over the earth between the Anduin and the White City, like great welts across the face of the land.

Now, decades later, verdant grass grows yet again over the Pelennor, and the old scars of battle have been forgotten by many who dwell within the walls of Minas Tirith. There are few now who remain who may recall the great battles of the War of the Ring. My father was one of the few remaining captains of the Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and now he, too, has passed into the realm beyond the living. The unsung heroes of the War of the Ring are one by one disappearing from Middle-Earth, along with an entire generation that lived under that great Shadow which now lies in ruinous extinction in the desolate, decaying wasteland that is all that remains of Mordor.

War now is different, fought for purposes which even the generals poorly understand. From time to time, grieving citizens who have been bereaved by combat of a son, father, brother, or nephew approach the King with petitions to end the Great Eastern War which began in the avaricious pursuit of the precious mithril mines of Khand. Every man in Gondor, even the King, is aware that this was the purpose that guided the Council's decision to go to war. Nevertheless, it is beyond the King's authority to withdraw the troops from the distant battlefields. Now that the war has spilled into Nurn, one of the regions of Mordor which were surrendered to Sauron's repentant servants, the armies of Gondor have no choice but to remain until the inhabitants of Nurn, our allies, correct their mistakes and end the civil war which now ravages their land. There is no foreseeable end to this conflict. My father's generation could not end it, and neither could my own generation. I pray to the Valar that my son's generation, yet young, will learn to overcome the burden of war and end the strife that was so futilely begun over six decades ago.

Upon the thought of my son, my gnawing guilt returns to me tenfold, seeping into my very bones. It seems that my mind will not be distracted away from that anxiety which is foremost in my thoughts.

I never intended to make Barahir suffer. Indeed, I thought I was doing what was best for him. Children need structure and discipline in their lives, and the army is the best method of attaining such qualities. I expected Barahir to adapt well to life as a soldier. The age of nine was, perhaps, younger than the norm for entry into the Tower Guard, but as the son of a general it seemed only fitting.

Oh, how he has changed in the six years that I have been away at the war… I barely recognized him when I saw him upon my return to Minas Tirith, following my father's death. In such a short time, he somehow grew from a tiny boy trotting eagerly after his grandpapa into a man of fifteen, quiet and subdued, duty-bound with honor and near flawless in his swordsmanship. I am so very proud of him, and of everything he has accomplished. I hope that, wherever he is, he knows that.

Fear creeps suddenly into my heart. Did I ever speak those words to my son? I am proud of you. Dear Eru, did I even ever say to him, I love you? I cannot now recall if the phrase ever left my lips in his presence, though of course it is true! What if, as he sleeps beneath the shaded stars of Mordor, he weeps for not having heard a word of praise from me? Ohhh, how my heart aches with the guilt of this thought! If only, if only there was a way to know for certain, to contact him, to tell him that I love him! In my heart I know that were I to commission a runner to carry a letter for Elboron to the front, my son would cast aside the note even upon seeing my seal.

As my mind throbs with aching remorse, my body grows stiff and sore in protest against my midnight rising. Shifting my gaze from the plains below, I look at my vein-webbed hands, spotted with age. They clench and unclench seemingly of their own volition, itching to wield a sword once more. Alas! How my heart wishes to return to the front, to the men whom I commanded for over six years in Mordor.

Once again I am filled with bitterness for my entrapment here as Steward. How loathe I am to spend the remainder of my days pent up in the city! I am fond of Elessar, and he has been in many ways more like a father to me than my own father, but to feign to be enthusiastic about my new role as his Steward rather than his son-in-law is a daily trial which churns the resentment in my heart. I am a soldier, not a politician!

Faramir was a scholar, not a soldier, yet he sacrificed himself to his country in a selfless act of courage and patriotism which I have never seen matched even in my many years as a general. He hated and feared war, and yet he became the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers and nearly gave his life defending Minas Tirith from assault.

Knowing this, how can I justify my petty bitterness over being given the honorable title of Steward of Gondor? Should I not sacrifice myself as did my father, becoming the man my country needs me to be? There are plenty of generals and strategists in Gondor of late, but few skillful diplomats there are who are capable of providing the political negotiations which are Gondor's only hope of reaching a swift and decisive end to the war.

On the other hand, am I even capable of providing such political leadership? My diplomatic skills are few, if any, for I have always preferred to solve matters by the sword rather than by the quill. I often speak rashly and impulsively. I have no concept of political subtleties; things are better when they are bold and blatant, not concealed and secretive. No wise king would seek my counsel, least of all the King of the united realms of Gondor and Arnor! Why is it, then, that Elessar has allowed my appointment to the post left vacant by my father's death? Was it simply assumed that I would take up Faramir's role in the governing of Gondor, a dictate of tradition taken for granted, or is the King capable of seeing some quality in me to which I am blind?

"Ada!" I whisper breathlessly into the wind. "If you can hear me…if you have not left us yet…tell me what to do! I am lost, ada! I know that I must do what I judge to be right, but I…" I draw my breath slowly and shakily. "…I am not you. I am your son, but I am not you. Please…tell me what I must do! Give me a sign…a symbol…anything!"

My entreaty echoes into the soft silence before dawn, unheard, unanswered. I begin to weep, surprising even myself with my tears. This pain, this uncertainty, is killing me. I try to summon to my mind an image of my father's face, but the details appear blurred and unfamiliar; the features, inexact. I can no longer recall his noble countenance as I was once able, and the realization makes my heart throb with grief. I miss him. I miss the days of my youth before my mother's death, when he and I would pass the hours playing games of chess or dagor serni, and he would laugh when I beat him. I miss the man I looked up to, my idol, the man who was invincible to doubt and fear, who was invincible to everything. I miss the pride I used to feel when I called myself Elboron, son of Faramir.

"What happened between us, ada?" I ask the wind. "What made us grow so far apart? I could have learned so much from you. There was so much you never told me about yourself. Had I shown myself to be more open, would you have confided in me? Would you have shared with me the history of your past, which now I must piece together from the writings of your youth? Would I have listened, when you advised me?" My voice is choked with my tears. "If I could have anything…I would have your forgiveness, ada…" I close my eyes as another warm wisp of air blows across my face. "Please…"

A flicker of warmth, like a tongue of flame, suddenly burns in the heart of my chest. It shivers and wavers, but it does not go out. Slowly, afraid despite myself, I open my eyes. The sun is rising above the horizon now, and molten gold spills across the Pelennor, lighting the glistening Anduin as with fire. Below, a cock crows. Night surrenders her vigil to the renewed watch of Day, and beautiful pinks, oranges, and reds splash across the sky. The wind whistles in the heights above Minas Tirith, and a gentle breeze wafts over me. For the second time, I have the fleeting sensation of a hand upon my shoulder, a hand familiar to me. I turn with a start, but no one is there. The sensation begins to dissipate just as quickly as it came.

"Ada…!" I breathe, begging silently for the spirit to stay, but it is already gone. The wind still blows eerily over the forested mountains, as if it, too, mourns the departure of that indiscernible presence—the presence of Faramir, Captain of Gondor.

Ada

(Father)

dagor serni

(battle stones)

Author's Note: The Elvish game that I call dagor serni here is based on the Chinese game called Go. It is similar to chess in that it is a game of strategy, but at the same time it is nothing like chess because the object is to secure territory, not to capture your opponent's pieces. Sort of a lovely little metaphor for the difference between Eastern and Western philosophy.