Notes: I don't know how many of you read the last chapter, because I removed the notes at the beginning and added the fourth chapter. The number of chapters stayed the same, so if you were confused and missed it, make sure you go back and read it now.
Chapter Five: A Dotard and a Traitor
Faramir knew as soon as he walked through the door that the interview would not go well. Denethor sat in his chair, watching his entrance like a hawk. Faramir knew, from long experience, that the expression on his father's face brooked no disagreements, and he knew that his news would not be well accepted. The news, he realized, had already been brought to Denethor by his sheer presence, among other things. It was the explanation of the news that Denethor would find hard to agree with.
"Greetings, father," Faramir said as he limped toward him, trying to ignore the way the guards stared at him. He knelt briefly and laid his arm across his chest in respect, then rose. "You are wounded," Denethor said as his son struggled to rise.
"Just a flesh wound," Faramir murmured. "Nothing of consequence."
"Sit," Denethor said, extending a hand toward a low chair at his side. He gestured to one of the Paiges who stood nearby, beckoning him forward. "Bring food and drink for my son," he said brusquely.
Faramir, whose attention had been on his father alone, turned and saw for the first time that Mithrandir sat in the shadows, and behind his father's chair waited the last kind of person he would have expected. A Halfling, looking a startling amount like those he had set free not many days ago, looked up at him with large, brown eyes, filled with curiosity and wonder. He was clothed in the black and silver clothes of a guard—clothes, Faramir realized in a flash of remembrance, that had belonged to him long ago. So startled was Faramir that he involuntarily took a step backwards, uncharacteristically letting his emotions show.
"You have seen others like Peregrin?" came his father's voice, and Faramir's eyes met those of Mithrandir. The wizard's eyes were knowing and full of caution, and Faramir nodded slowly. "Yes," he said, seating himself heavily, despite his attempt to appear nimble. "A few days ago." Denethor did not question his son further, as the Paige brought a tray of white bread and fruit and set it on a low table beside Faramir. As Faramir hesitated, Denethor gestured toward the tray impatiently. "Eat," he said gruffly.
Faramir's appetite, which had been so depleted recently, suddenly returned with vigor, and he ate much of the light food beside him. Neither his father nor Mithrandir talked while he ate, but he caught frequent stares from the hobbit behind Denethor's chair. The little man's eyes seemed to be clouded with what looked to Faramir like pity mixed with a good deal of awe, and Faramir was not sure whether to be annoyed or amused. He spared little thought on the hobbit, though, for his mind was fixed on the things he must say to his father.
When he was done eating, he began his report on what had happened, beginning with the removal of most of his rangers from Ithilien to Osgiliath. He spoke of his plans for attack, which had been so suddenly and disastrously brought to an end with the surprise attack of the orcs and the men of Gondor's brave stand. He spoke with an irrepressible shudder of the flight across the Pelennor under the shadow, and then his voice ended, and the silence that filled the room beat down on him. He had long been able to read the thoughts of men; he had even longer been unable to read his father's thoughts. As the minutes passed and his father sat drenched in silence, he grew uneasy and raised troubled eyes to Mithrandir.
The wizard had sat, unspeaking, for the duration of Faramir's report, and at times even appeared to be asleep, but Faramir knew him well enough to know he was not. Now Mithrandir's eyes looked at him, full of caution and encouragement, and Faramir knew that he was pleading with him not to say too much. Faramir would heed the wizard's warning, for he knew that his father was a demanding ruler, but some things would have to come out nonetheless.
It was with little surprise, then, that Faramir watched Denethor raise his eyes to his son's and say, "You have shown surprise upon seeing the Halfling in my service; you have seen others like him. It was not in the days of your youth, or when you traveled to other lands. What has passed between you and Peregrin's people?"
Faramir cast another look at Mithrandir, and despite the heightened look of warning, Faramir knew he had to tell his father the truth. "I took two hobbits into my care two days ago, in the wilds of Ithilien. They were traveling across the land towards Mordor; with them was a third companion, a gangling creature that boded, I must say, no good. I brought them to our hide-out and questioned them."
Denethor sat forward in his chair, his hands gripping the arms. "And what did you find? Speak plainly."
Faramir ducked his head, looking up to meet Mithrandir's eyes once more. "They…" he hesitated as he looked back at his father, "they carried with them a powerful weapon—one which could destroy the one who claimed it. I must say I was surprised at the hobbits' strength, in the face of such power. I—I let them go their way."
Denethor breath came in a gasp; Faramir's eyes flew to Mithrandir's. The wizard seemed to sense the helplessness the young man felt and his eyes held encouragement this time. Faramir was grateful they held no reproach. His father, however, turned blazing eyes on him.
"You would sit here and report to me that you let them go? That you, a captain supposedly with Gondor's interests first in your heart and head have let our greatest weapon, and perhaps only hope slip between your fingers? Did I not know your own interests, I would label you a fool, Faramir."
Faramir stung under his father's words, but he continued to look levelly at him. "Father," he began, "I did not—"
"Do not defend yourself to me, Faramir. I know the desires of your heart. By turning free the Halflings, you desired to show yourself high and puissant—beyond the reach of ordinary desires and wishes of men. And do not think I have not noticed your frequent glances to the wizard; I am no dotard, Faramir, at least not yet. No doubt it is his counsel that has convinced you that this weapon would be too much for one man, or even a score to wield; ever you styled yourself as his pupil." Denethor paused for a moment, fixing his son in his cold, unforgiving glare. "You have chosen a side, my son. But in your folly and search for renown, you have chosen the side that will ruin us all."
The silence in the room was unbearable. Pippin, standing behind Denethor's chair, looked from Faramir to his father to Mithrandir in confusion and horror. Could it be that the young captain had really ruined them by sending Frodo and Sam off to fulfill their mission? Mithrandir's eyes were shut tightly—Pippin would get no tale from him. But Pippin trusted Mithrandir more than he trusted this Lord Steward. And the young man had an honest look about him; Pippin had liked him from the first glimpse he had of him.
The tension in the room heightened as the seconds ticked by. Faramir's head was bowed, and there was no emotion coming from him except where his hand, hanging down on the side of the chair where his father could not see, was balled tightly into a fist. Mithrandir's eyes were still shut, and other than the frown on his lips, he looked peaceful. Denethor stared coldly at his son. Only Pippin moved, shifting uncomfortably in the silence, wishing to say something, but knowing enough to keep his silence. Finally, Faramir spoke.
"I can speak for myself only," he began, and his voice was soft and flayed, as if he had been struck. "and even of that I cannot say that I know what I did was right. But I have always followed what I knew as truth, and have trusted the instincts and foresight that have been forced to become mine. I do not know if mine was the right decision, for I have not the power to see into the future and judge which actions were good and which misguided. I know simply that I chose what seemed to me to be the right path. Gondor is not weak, father. Yes, Gondor has great strength in her yet. But I will not risk the ruin of everything Gondor has left for power that would only corrupt. You cannot ask me to go against my heart or my judgment, father. If what I am is not sufficient for the will of Gondor, then Gondor must not follow me. I have done what I thought best, and no more."
The young man's eyes stared levelly into Denethor's, in a quiet challenge. His voice, which had started his speech so vulnerably, had ended it with such a note of strength and dignity, that the room seemed to shake with the quiet force of his words. In his chair Mithrandir opened his eyes, and a smile turned the corners of his mouth up, ever so slightly.
Denethor stared back at his son. "You cannot excuse yourself to me, Faramir."
"I will not beg forgiveness for my actions," Faramir said, his once more quiet voice at odds with his forceful words. "I can only accept the consequences."
Even Denethor seemed surprised for a moment, and he glanced away; his mood returned momentarily. "Alas that Gondor has lost him who led her so nobly!"
"Alas," Faramir said, looking down suddenly, "for Boromir, my brother, whom I too loved." The room once more fell silent, until Faramir looked at his father again. "You wish, now," he began, and his voice was one of a man who has thought long about his words but only just found the courage or reason to say them, "that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived."
It was not a question, but Denethor found reason to answer nonetheless. "Aye, I wish that."
It took Faramir an age to rise to his feet from the low chair, but when he did he did not flinch from his father's look. For a moment Faramir seemed to be searching for something—mercy, perhaps, or some glimmer of love—but the gray depths of Denethor's eyes held nothing but cold, calculated disdain. "Since you are robbed of Boromir," Faramir said in a voice that seemed too loud, "I will do what I can in his stead."
The bow took even more effort than the rise from the chair, but when he had done it, Faramir began limping toward the door. The wound, which he had forgotten about while he was seated, ached now, but he would not let it cross his mind. Nothing but battle strategy and troops would cross his mind now.
There was nothing else left to him.
Pippin scurried across the sunlit courtyard, his mind filled with thoughts and half-felt feelings. Above the chaos of his mind, one emotion stuck out vividly above the others—a feeling of utter helplessness. What could he, a hobbit who caused more trouble than good, do to help such a great, shining city and such great, powerful men? Yet the sense that these men needed help more than anyone imagined was so powerful that he could not shake the urge to do something.
Yet why should he even care? He barely knew this young captain; the man had not even been in the city two full days, and already he was feeling obligation toward him. The man could take care of himself, anyway—a man like that was born ready to take care of himself. But Pippin's heart told him otherwise, and the more he thought of the captain's situation, the more he was saddened by it. To be so unfeeling towards ones own son! It was beyond Pippin's comprehension. The interview yesterday had been bad enough, but the orders today—those were simply unthinkable. Yet what was the captain to do? He had to obey orders, and Pippin could tell by looking in the young man's eyes that he had accepted his fate.
Why can't you accept it? His mind asked him. What have you to do with this man anyway? But his heart continued to tell him that there was more of the story to unfold, and that this man was worth more than he was being treated as.
As he crossed the courtyard, lost in his own thoughts, he almost missed seeing the solitary figure that stood at the wall, looking out over the city. Almost, but not quite. Pippin stopped, staring at the tall man, and instantly recognized him from the way he bore his shoulders and head. It was the captain Faramir, though what he was doing was beyond Pippin. He seemed to simply be standing there, looking. Pippin immediately turned to keep going, but again that little voice told him that there were things this man was hiding—things that no man should have to bear alone. Pippin's steps turned toward the figure.
"Greeting, master hobbit," Faramir said, turning to meet Pippin. "Do you also seek the warmth of the afternoon sun?"
Pippin was at first astonished by how genial the man looked, and how pleased he seemed to be to see him. For a second he wondered if he had misjudged this man, and whether what he thought of him was wrong. But then Pippin looked into his eyes, and he saw what the man could not hide, not even with the best acting—pain. For a split-second Pippin had the impression that this man was so filled with pain—hidden pain—that it was finally spilling out and showing itself, though he was trying hard not to show it.
"Yes," Pippin said, with a smile of his own, "it's nice, isn't it? I mean, with so much shadow and all these days, it's nice to see the sun shining."
Faramir nodded and turned back toward the city. "It seems the sun would shine on the days it feels the inhabitants of earth most need it. All seems so dark and hopeless, yet still there comes a glimmer to our hearts that we do not ask for."
"Do you see hope for us?" asked Pippin, looking up at the young man. Faramir was silent for a long time.
"My mind tells me that there is no hope for mankind—that the forces of evil in this world are too great, with too much power. Yet my heart—" he broke off sharply and laughed. His laughter had a hollow sound. "But why should we listen to our hearts, which so often speak nonsense?"
Pippin noticed the way Faramir's hands clutched the edge of the wall, as if he was clinging to something unseen, hoping to keep something that was slipping from his grasp. Yet his face was so void of emotion that Pippin almost felt fear. Suddenly, the sense of helplessness returned—after all, what could he possibly do to help this man? "I'm sure if anyone can do something great out there, you can," he finally said, but his words sounded empty in the sunlit air, so he tried a different approach. "Your brother was a great man," he blurted out, and immediately regretted it.
Yet instead of turning angry or even sad eyes on him, Faramir simply turned to look at him steadily, with a softer expression in his eyes. For a moment he studied the hobbit, and then said, "You cannot fix the whole world, master Peregrin. Though it is valiant to try."
Pippin bowed his head. "I must try," he said. "There is so little I can do, and so much that my friends can, that I have to try to help someone."
Suddenly the captain stooped down to his knees and laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder. The hobbit looked up into gray-green eyes that were suddenly filled with emotions, each vying to be foremost. "Perhaps the world needs to be reminded that there is still untouched good left in it," Faramir said with a voice steeped in regret and acceptance. "Perhaps men need to know that hope and light is not gone completely, and never will be. That is your mission, Peregrin. And I for one think that you will succeed in that endeavor." He smiled at Pippin, and the hobbit was astonished to see the way his entire face changed with that genuine smile; his face seemed to lose ten years of worry, and his eyes danced. Pippin had a sudden, odd thought that he had never really known what it was like for eyes to dance until now, as he looked at this man's eyes—this man who had no reason to smile, and yet smiled nonetheless. And Pippin's heart rose in the face of Faramir's joy, and in the thought that he had done some small thing to help him.
"It seems that is all I can do," Pippin smiled, "I'm not a very good soldier." He looked down at the ill-fitting uniform and smiled sheepishly. "I didn't think they would find any livery that would fit me."
Faramir's glance fell to the uniform too, and his gaze turned thoughtful, though no less light of heart. "It once belonged to a young boy of the city. A very foolish one who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending to his studies," he said softly.
"This was yours?" Pippin asked, his eyes widening.
"Yes, it was mine," Faramir smiled. "My father had it made for me."
Pippin grinned. "Well, I'm taller than you were then. Though I'm not likely to grow anymore, except sideways." He chuckled, and Faramir smiled.
"It never fitted me either. Boromir was always the soldier. They were so alike, he and my father. Proud. Stubborn even. But strong." Faramir's voice was no longer wistful, but filled with a determined, calculated edge.
Pippin hesitated for an instant, but knew what he was about to say would make a great deal of difference to the man in front of him. "I think you have strength—of a different kind. And one day your father will see it."
Faramir gazed at the hobbit for a long time, and then finally got to his feet. "Thank you, master Peregrin. I think you have shown me what I was looking for."
Pippin raised his eyebrows. "What is that?"
"Why." Faramir said the single word with a slight smile and turned toward the hobbit once more. "That is what I was looking for. And I have found it." At Pippin's confused look Faramir looked back out over the city and waved a hand toward it. "Why they are worth it. Why this world is worth it." He looked back at Pippin, and this time the hobbit could see the grief in his eyes. "You have never ridden to battle, Peregrin, but you must understand that a man needs a reason to fight. A reason to go willingly into battle and possible death. It can be as slight a thing as an order from a commander he trusts, but there must be some reason. I have found mine in the reminder that—that there is more to this world than we can immediately reach out and touch."
Pippin at once felt an overwhelming sadness, but the thought that he had helped this man in any way made his heart grateful. "There is always someone who cares about someone," he blurted out, and then turned and fled across the courtyard. Faramir watched him go with a smile hovering about his mouth, then turned and looked out past the city, past the grassy plains of the Pelennor, to the twinkling lights in Osgiliath.
His shoulders stooped once again.
Notes: You'll notice that I kept the entire conversation between Pippin and Faramir from The Return of the King, the movie. That's because I like it so much! It fit perfectly into this little scene, here.
Up next--Imrahil and Faramir on the battlefield...