Notes: I am afraid I must jump now, my dear readers, to somewhat later in the story. I know exactly how you feel about skipping the parts in-between, for I feel the same way. Those parts should be written, and the actions and thoughts exposed, shouldn't they? But in my attempt to write about them, I now realize why Tolkien and all fanfic authors skip over those few days. The problem is simply that nothing much happened. Meals were eaten, plans made, skirmishes fought, and rest taken. Were I a master storyteller, I could no doubt read between Tolkien's lines and write something about those days. But I am only a humble fanfic writer, and therefore, dear readers, we find ourselves in Osgiliath.
As soon as I saw the scene in The Return of the King:EE where the soldier gets shot by the orcs, I knew I wanted to use it in this story. I'm sorry about the shameful blend of movie and book canon I've produced, but I really just like parts from both! So I took the best of both world, you could say.
In this chapter I focused mainly on Faramir's growing sense of inadequacy and failure. As his father blamed him more and more, he saw for real what failure there was in Gondor. To have someone blaming you, and yourself seeing what was happening—well, it's no wonder he blamed himself. Any captain would have, especially at this time.
Chapter Four: The Failing Fight
Faramir paced the wall steadily, his boots echoing in measured beats. Beats to match the beat of his heart, thumping ever-steadily in his chest. Beats to play with the voices below, hovering around the fires where men congregated, and create a musical rhythm. Beats to quell the fear in his breast.
Faramir had ever become more calm outwardly as he felt more panic inwardly. The bubbles of fear, rising to his brain and hoping desperately to be figured out, did nothing to his outward appearance. His footsteps never wavered in there steady pacing. His head, however, ached and throbbed after so long trying to strategize the best possible plan for saving his men. His only duty now, as the darkness closed in on them, was to cling to a false hope that he could hardly believe in anymore, and try with all his strength to save as many men as he could.
With Boromir gone, his burden had only increased, but he did not grudge it. He knew that his duty was to keep the hopes of his men alive now, and it was a sore task without his big brother. Faramir felt hopelessly inferior when it came to raising the troops' moral. Boromir had been a natural leader, and wherever he went, the men took heart just by seeing his boyish grin and proud eyes. He had been unparalleled as a strategist, too. Battles had been turned because of Boromir's ability to plan, and his reckless courage while fighting them. The captains had beset Faramir with questions of every shape and size as soon as he had set foot in Osgiliath, and now he knew what his brother had dealt with while he had hidden in Ithilien.
Faramir knew he could not do what his brother could, but someone had to try. Gondor had but one of her sons, now, and Faramir knew that the men were grasping—grasping for whatever hope they could find. If Boromir was no more, Faramir would do. They were kidding themselves, he knew that. Faramir could never quite lose hope completely, but he knew just how great the threat was, and he knew that all it took was one time. One slip of the sword. One wrong duck. One mistaken look.
It was the fact that so many lives depended on his orders that had, and always would, weighed on his mind. It caused him to think twice about every plan he made, every order he gave. He had told Boromir, once, that he could never forgive himself for letting so many men die under his command. Boromir had looked at him seriously—more seriously, in fact, than Faramir had ever seen him before or since. "Fama," he said firmly, using the childhood name Faramir still allowed him to use, "you can't blame yourself. If you do, you will go insane." Faramir knew he had been right, but it was still hard to release himself from the blame. And now that Boromir was gone, Faramir had yet another thing to wonder about. Could he have done something different to prevent his brother's death? His mind protested, assuring him that he could have done nothing; indeed, he had even tried to go in Boromir's stead, but Faramir pushed the comforting thoughts aside. He had no need for excuses.
Beat, beat, beat.
Faramir's mind ran faster and faster; his footsteps stayed steady. If only he could hold off the shadow a little longer. Just a little. It was becoming a game, now—keeping back the shadow for a few more days, giving the people of Minas Tirith a few more moments of life and laughter—if there was any laughter still in the White City. Faramir often wondered about the lands where there was still laughter in abundance. He knew there were such places; the land of the two hobbits, for instance, sounded as if it was steeped in laughter and mirth. Faramir's heart ached with longing to hear the sound of laughter without the hard tint of fear in it. He had never known laughter without that hard edge. For as long as he had been alive he had sensed an urgency, a scared longing in the laughter of his people. It was as if they knew the time for laughter had passed, yet they fought to keep the moments of mirth.
Faramir could not remember the last time he himself had laughed. Truly laughed; of course he had given the quick, harsh laugh of a man who finds his companion still alive after a battle. He had laughed appreciatively of another man's joke, spoken to quell fear. He had laughed in embarrassment and confusion. But he had not laughed really and truly for a long, long time. That's what I want, he suddenly thought, I want to laugh, just once, before I die. Just one more time.
Faramir stopped, suddenly realizing that his thoughts had run a thousand miles from where they were needed, and he shook his head back into submission. They were expecting an attack soon—the signs from Mordor could not be misread. He would speak with Rilbon about which side the orcs would likely chose first.
Up ahead, he could vaguely make out the shape of a man through the smoky gloom hanging over Osgiliath. A man in armor—new armor, by the glint and fit. It must be one of my rangers, he thought. They he saw the heavy cloak about the man's shoulders, and knew him at once. "Rochien," he said softly, "what holds your attention so closely?" Rochien's posture was as alert and taunt as the string on a bow. He did not even seem to notice Faramir's question. Faramir frowned. "Rochien?" he asked. "What do you see?"
He was almost beside the man now, and he sensed at once that something was not right. His hand was stretching out to grasp Rochien's arm and draw him back from the stone window when he heard the sharp song of a bowstring and Rochien fell back almost on top of him. Faramir was knocked off balance as Rochien crashed down the stairs, alerting men from their fires. Faramir saw Rochien's face as he himself was thrown against the stone wall; the ranger's eyes were filled with horror and surprise. Surprised by the suddenness of the attack, no doubt. Surprised that he could do nothing. Surprised that his end had finally come.
As the dust settled where the ranger had fallen, Faramir picked himself up and watched as men scurried to the fallen man's side. Faramir began down the steps, heedless of the slippery blood at the bottom of the stairs. The men seemed to part for him, all except Rilbon, who had taken Rochien's helmet off. His eyes were wide as he looked up at Faramir.
"He's dead," he said softly, his voice betraying the fact that he did not believe his own words. "The arrow was aimed well." He looked down again at the lifeless body of Rochien, then up at Faramir, as if pleading with his captain to tell him what to do. Faramir's throat went dry. He knelt beside the body and reached out with one hand.
"Oh Eru," he said hoarsely as his hand touched the still-warm face. His fingers traveled down to the shaft of the arrow, protruding from the man's chest. Somehow it had survived the fall without breaking. "Orcs," he whispered. "They are attacking." His mouth knew the truth before his mind did, and he didn't respond at once. The men shifted uncomfortably as he stared blankly at Rochien. Finally, Faramir whispered something in another language, and kissed the dead man's brow.
When he looked up, his eyes glinted with the light of the captain. "This can mean but one thing," he said in a soft, yet strangely hard voice. "Everyone to the river. Now."
The men obeyed without a word, and they turned as a body toward the place where the river and the city met and merged. Faramir hurried forward, urging his men to grab their arms and draw near the river. As he passed a fire closely gathered around by men, he caught sight of Tirinion, his eyes wide with confusion and fear. Faramir checked and turned toward him. Catching hold of his arm, he said, "Stay with me this night." If either made it out alive, Faramir wanted to be the one to tell Tirinion about his brother.
It was with grim silence that the men gathered at the river, hiding behind the stone arches and walls to surprise their surprisers. Faramir felt sweat break out on his face, and around him he saw the pale countenances and fearful eyes of his soldiers. For the millionth time, Faramir felt the same yawning grief at what his men faced. The familiar feeling that he was inadequate to lead them to victory grasped his heart, and he ached to think of the wives and families he was letting down. The men who trusted him so much would now see firsthand how little they could really trust him. He had failed them again. This time though—this time he had completely failed them. He had known they would have to face the orcs sometime, but he had hoped it would be on their own terms, and at their own time. Not in the middle of the night, surprised from sleep and rest and in their own city.
Faramir threw his back against a stone wall, his drawn sword cold in his sweating hands. He closed his eyes momentarily, then opened them to see Tirinion across from him. The ranger from Belfast nodded shortly, but in his eyes Faramir saw the same rank fear that was in every other ranger's eyes. The soldiers were used to this free-for all slaughter and close quarter fighting. The rangers were not. They were prepared to fight in the woods and trees, with bows and other missiles. No doubt the thought of fighting hand-to-hand with the orcs made them all the more certain of death.
Is this it, Eru? Faramir asked suddenly, his grip tightening. Is this where I make my end? If it must be my end, let me make it a worthy one. Let them not say of Faramir of Gondor that he died as a coward, and fought not bravely in his last stand. If, that is, there is anyone left to say anything.
Faramir's sharp hearing picked up a sudden sound of oars hitting water, and his heartbeat quickened. The orcs were upon them now, and all Faramir could think of was how long it was taking them to row into the little enclaves and land their boats. Surely they must be at the arches now! Then the first boat ran aground, and the night air was suddenly overtaken with the ugly screams and yells of the orcs. Faramir allowed the first few to pass by, using monumental self-control. Then, knowing his men would follow his lead, he threw himself out from behind the wall and attacked.
It was all red after that. Faramir could never remember that fight well—not the details, anyway. He could not remember where he was or the faces of the orcs he fought. He did not remember the screams of the dying men around him. All he could remember of that last, desperate fight, was the strange feel of his skin upon the handle of his sword, and the aching chasm of guilt in his heart.
He knew they hadn't a chance from the beginning. The orcs would only have been bold enough to attack as they did if they had enough troops to make it worthwhile. The fight very quickly became a rout, and the soldiers of Gondor fled before the orcs like chaff on the wind. Faramir tried to make a stand again and again, but it was not long before he was crying out for retreat. A pitiful few joined him on the horses, or what horses there were left. Some men fled on foot, but those were quickly killed. And then began the long race across the Pelennor.
In stark contrast to the battle, Faramir remembered almost every detail about that ride as long as he lived. He remembered the feeling of the horse's straining body, just as scared as he was of the fate which lay in store if they were caught. He remembered the sight of the faces of the men beside him, and he remembered glancing over and seeing Tirinion, blood pouring off his face, clinging to a horse. There was pain, somewhere, but Faramir didn't know why. And above all, the utter, overwhelming fear.
It was not the orcs Faramir feared. They had no horses and were easy enough to flee from. But they were not a hundred yards from the ruins before the sky was rent with the insufferable cry of a Nazgûl. Faramir's very flesh went cold, and it took all his remaining wits to hold himself and his horse in check. Other men's horses went mad, breaking loose from the frantic grasps of the men riding them and racing away in terror. Faramir's heart, so covered in fear and horror already, quailed at the sound and shadow the beasts cast on the men riding for their lives. But something in him would not give in. From somewhere in the deepest, strongest part of him, he found the courage to cry out, "Men of Gondor! Courage! Courage!"
At the sound of his voice, so strong and full in the terror of the moment, most of the men felt a new vigor return to them, and they found the courage for the last few terrible seconds to hold onto their steeds until the bright light of the White Wizard encompassed them and sent the Nazgûl away. Faramir remembered riding the last stretch with flagging strength, and as they rode through the gates he clung to his horse, endeavoring to sit as straight as he could. It was not until they clattered into the first level that he managed to catch some breath and fill his aching lungs. He raised his head, and saw that Tirinion was being taken down from his saddle, unconscious. It was then he noticed his own blood staining his chain mail and tunic, and, shifting in the saddle, realized that he too had been wounded. But there were more important things now. He did not know why Eru had spared him, but while he was alive there was more to do.
Gondor was not defeated yet.
Faramir guided his horse with aching arms to where Mithrandir was still sitting atop the mighty Shadowfax. Already, Faramir was ridden with guilt at how few had made it alive. He looked around helplessly as the men dismounted, many requiring help. Then he looked up into the face of Mithrandir. The wizard's eyes lit up as he looked at Faramir, and Faramir knew he was relieved to see him alive.
"So few, Mithrandir," he said hoarsely, "so few have made it alive." Faramir had felt since he was a lad that he could show Mithrandir his weakness, and Mithrandir would help. "They surprised us in the night, and we could not hold them off."
Mithrandir looked at Faramir's face and read his mind easily, etched onto his features as it was. Mithrandir had not seen Faramir for some time, and he found himself wondering at how burdened the young man looked. No doubt since his brother's death he had been forced to bear the rest of Gondor's problems on his slim shoulders. Impulsively, Mithrandir reached out a hand and laid it on Faramir's shoulder. "It is a miracle you brought any out alive, Faramir. The people of Gondor will rejoice greatly that you yourself have been spared."
Faramir bowed his head and struggled for a moment with the overwhelming grief that followed him from Osgiliath. When he looked up, his eyes were hard and clouded. "I do not know how we can hope anymore, Mithrandir," he said. "So easily have we been defeated this time—they now hold the gateway to Minus Tirith. I do not know how long we can hold them off." Faramir bowed his head again.
Mithrandir frowned, and his words seemed to him, who always had good words, useless in the face of this young man's sorrow and failure. "I do not know the fate of Gondor," he said softly, "but this I do know—Gondor has need yet of a strong captain to lead them. He will lead them."
Faramir laughed softly and looked up. "He will do what he can," he said, in keeping with Mithrandir's words, "but I do not know how much that will be."
The wizard felt a strange foreboding in Faramir's words, and he longed to comfort him somehow, but again, his words ran dry. Instead, he gave Faramir's shoulder a parting squeeze. "You must see to that wound, Faramir. Take care of yourself. No doubt I will see you in counsel, soon."
Faramir nodded slowly and turned his horse toward the stables.
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Faramir shut the door behind him and pulled his tunic over his head, discarding it on the floor. It was soaked in blood and would be good for nothing but the fire now. He looked down at his stomach in the dim light proceeding from the windows and hissed in pain. The wound wasn't very deep, but it was enough to prevent a bowstring from being drawn, and a horse from being ridden without wincing. He set to binding it up with a shirt he tore into strips from his clothes press.
When he was done, he went to the basin of water in the corner and, pausing for a moment to stare into the depths, splashed the cold water over his face. He lathered his hands and arms up to the elbows with a chip of soap nearby, absently rinsing them and drying his face, chest, and arms with a towel hanging nearby. Then he sat carefully on the bed and took off his boots.
His feet were purple from the long march, the patrols on the wall, and the hard fighting and riding. He was used to long hours on his feet, but the past few days had been grueling, with almost no time to rest. He wiped his face roughly. How long had it been since he'd been able to sleep for more than an hour at a time? Two days, three maybe.
Faramir brought his hands down from his face, looking at them for the first time in weeks. He'd never looked at his hands so candidly, before, and he examined the scars and calluses almost sorrowfully. His hands were so thin, compared to the other men's, but as he stretched them in front of his eyes, he realized how strong they were. Like a strand of mithril, he thought suddenly. So thin, yet so strong.
From where he sat, Faramir could see himself in a mirror hung on the wall, and he gazed at himself with something akin to fear. What had he become? He touched the dark circles under his eyes, the hard lines on his brow and his eyes, the taunt muscles over his shoulders and back and arms. Where was the boy who once looked into the same mirror, not so many years ago? Faramir peered closer, looking into his own eyes. Yes, there he was…but he was hidden so deep in the stern captain that even Faramir had a hard time seeing him. Again, with sudden force, Faramir wished he could laugh. Laugh like there was no tomorrow, and no men to lead. No father to please. No darkness creeping up on him. Maybe if he laughed, the hard, worried man would go away.
He stood, unable to bear looking at the man in the mirror anymore. He crossed to the window and looked out, casting his sharp gaze at the sky, clouded as it was with black, ominous clouds that seemed to spell the fate of the human race. With a groan, he tore his eyes away from them and looked down into the city, but it was of no more comfort to him. Men scurried here and there, speaking low and furtively with each other and disappearing into houses. The women had all been sent away, with the exception of several healers, and Faramir missed the warmth and gentleness they brought to the city.
Faramir turned away from the window, and again he was greeted by the man in the mirror. "No!" he said, looking away. "I do not know you anymore!" He dropped his head into his hands and moaned in physical pain—pain that reflected everything in his heart.
He had a meeting with his father in exactly one hour, and Faramir knew he should try to sleep before it. He was so weary he could not see straight, and he crossed again to the bed. He stared at it for a long moment, contemplating whether he would be able to fall asleep or not. Then, with an almost deathly fatigue, he dropped onto the bed and slept.
When he woke, forty-five minutes later, he arose and splashed his face in water again. Rubbing his face, he limped over to the clothes press and drew out a black tunic embroidered with silver threads, forming a white tree with seven stars above it. He rubbed the fabric with his thumb for a moment, his face thoughtful, before pulling it over his head and buckling a belt around his waist. He drew his boots on next, then stood and looked into the mirror.
The sleep had done little; he felt as deadly tired as he had an hour ago. His father would be blind if he did not notice the dark circles, lines of worry, and fatigue in his step, but Faramir tried to draw himself up as much as he could, and his eyes snapped with their familiar intelligence. Ignoring the strange impulse to laugh, Faramir took one last look at himself before walking out the door slowly.
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Notes: Da da da da! Next chapter is where it really (in my opinion) starts to get good. So review, and I shall try to post in only one week this time. Also, thanks to all those who reviewed, and to lindahoyland for the advice about my word problems:-)