Warning: There is some mild violence in this chapter. I don't like going overboard, but it does involve some blood, and I would not like to distress any of my readers.

Chapter VII – A Knife in the Dark

Faramir hardly ate through the entire meal. He could hear Elboron and Eldarion laughing, exchanging the high points of their day, and his hands shook. This was the day when everything would change. Everything that he had strove for over the past twenty years would become virtually meaningless. His family's birthright over hundreds of years would be demolished. His son would lose his inheritance, and Faramir would lose the respect of Gondor.

Was there still time to change his mind? Faramir glanced up at Aragorn and saw the King's eyes meet his for only a fraction of a moment. They seemed to say, 'Yes, Faramir, there is still time.' Faramir looked away again. He knew that he had no choice in this matter. What must be done must be done, no matter the consequences.

With a start, Faramir realized that Aragorn had stood up. The hall immediately fell silent, and the King opened his mouth to speak. Faramir felt his heart leap into his throat. Was this really what he wanted? To surrender the duty he loved?

Yes, he thought sternly. Yes. There was no other way.

"Good people of Gondor," Aragorn began regally. "I have two very important announcements to make this e'en. Firstly, it is with a grim heart that I must inform you that Gondor has declared war against the Variags of Khand on behalf of our allies the Haradrim." Whispers and glances flew about the feast hall, and Aragorn waited until they had quieted themselves. "This decision has been reached by an overwhelming majority vote by the Council. In no more than three years hence, we shall engage the Variags in combat."

Faramir could feel some of the eyes in the hall on him, as if they wondered how the Steward of Gondor, a well-respected man who was known for his revulsion towards warfare, could have allowed this vote to pass.

"Eldarion, did you hear?" Elboron was whispering excitedly. "War! Real war! Not training, but real battle!"

A twisting, wrenching feeling of sickness in Faramir's gut turned him pale. Elboron would be going to war…

"Secondly, I have an pronouncement unhappier still to give on behalf of the Steward Faramir." Aragorn's brow was lined with a deep frown, and still more whispers began to circulate. Elboron gave his father a strange look, but Faramir could not bear to meet his eyes. "For twenty years Faramir has been Steward of Gondor, governing his duties and his princedom with wisdom and skill. It is now my deepest regret to inform you of Faramir's decision to step down from the Stewardship."

The whispers exploded into cries of disbelief, and Faramir closed his eyes. He could hear the quick gasp of breath from Elboron, the shock, followed quickly by anger. Without saying a word, Elboron stood and stormed out of the feast hall unceremoniously, leaving Eldarion behind in a daze.

The King's hand fell on Faramir's shoulder. "Go to him," said Aragorn firmly, his eyes hard. "Explain, if you can. You owe him that much."

Blindly, obediently, Faramir followed his son out of the feast hall and into the pouring rain outside in the Citadel. He was drenched to the bone within a matter of seconds, and he wiped the rain out of his eyes to see Elboron still walking briskly away from him in the direction of the guardhouse.

"Elboron!" Faramir called after him, shivering. Elboron did not turn, so Faramir hurried after him. "Elboron, please, listen—"

"What should I?" snapped Elboron, not even bothering to look at his father.

"Because I owe you an explanation, or an apology at least," said Faramir. A flash of lightning lit the sky, followed an instant later by a crack of thunder. The rain seemed to come down even heavier than before, dumping buckets of water on Faramir and Elboron.

"I want neither," said Elboron bitterly. "You don't have to explain. I understand. Your grief has weakened you, and you can no longer carry the burden of the Stewardship." His voice was thick with sarcasm. "I understand."

Faramir wanted to chastise Elboron for speaking to him with such a tone, but his guilt made him swallow it silently. "It isn't just that, Elboron. I-I have been suffering from these horrid nightmares for months—"

"Nightmares, visions, yes I know." Elboron was beginning to raise his voice. "You can't cope with it. You can't handle it. Whatever it is, fine. I don't care."

"But you do care," Faramir insisted.

Elboron laughed. "No, Father, I really don't."

"Then why are you angry with me?"

"Because you didn't tell me!" shouted Elboron, finally turning around to face Faramir. The anger that flickered in his eyes forced Faramir into silence. "You don't even have enough respect for me to talk to me about it! You have stolen my inheritance, my birthright! Honestly, I don't really care because I never wanted to become the Steward, but it's the principle of the matter! How could you have such disregard for me as to ignore my part in this? I am your son! Your heir! I have a right to know if you decide to take away my inheritance!"

"I-I didn't know how to tell you," Faramir admitted weakly.

"How convenient," snapped Elboron. "Next time act like a real man instead of just a…a politician, and have the courage to speak to your own son!" He whirled, stomped into the guardhouse, and slammed the door shut in his father's face.

The lanterns hung above the guardhouse door swayed and creaked in the howling wind as the rain kept pouring down. Faramir pulled his sodden cloak about him tighter, but it did nothing to keep out the cold rain. It streamed through his hair and into his boots and down his face. He did not even know whether or not he was crying.

The look in Elboron's eyes… Faramir was sure that he had seen it before, but he could not recall when or where. It was a look of hatred, of anger, and of disappointment. It cut Faramir deeply, as though it was slicing open a long-forgotten wound that had never quite healed…

"Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead—if you command it."

"I do so."

"Then farewell! But if I should return, think better of me!"

"That depends on the manner of your return."

Faramir stumbled and leaned against the outer wall for support, gasping. That look…the hatred… He shuddered uncontrollably. The look on Elboron's face… He had last seen it in his father's eyes, the very last time that Faramir had seen his father alive. How had he failed so totally as a father that the same loathing, the same disdain, was reflected in his own son's eyes? Faramir buried his face in his hands and sobbed in shame and grief, the rain beginning to fall even harder. He had lost everything else… How had he lost his son?

The last thing Faramir remembered was collapsing slowly against the wall and falling into a shallow, troubled sleep even as the rain pounded around him.

Faramir was in the hazy middle stage between dreaming and wakefulness. He could feel that he was warm and dry, and a soft pillow rested beneath his head, but he did not open his eyes. Some horrible thing awaited him if he woke up. Nothing was as it should be. Everything felt out of balance, crooked, as if something had been thrown out of place and everything else was inclined to accommodate and bend and twist somehow. Instead of waking, he forced himself back into sleep.

Faramir gasped and opened his eyes, but he did not find himself in his chambers, warm and dry. Instead, he had opened his eyes onto a sight that filled his heart with dread. He stood upon a darkened plain, and before him lay a crumbling city of stone throughout which swarmed a great, black horde. A dim sun sank ever lower in the west, and everything seemed to fade and die. In the growing dark he could see nothing, but two voices swirled around him as if the faces lingered just beyond the black curtain of dusk.

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"If what I have done displeases you, my father, I wish I had known your counsel before the burden of so weighty a judgment was thrust on me."

"Would that have availed to change your judgment? You would still have done just so, I deem. I know you well. Ever your desire is to appear lordly and generous as a king of old, gracious, gentle. That may well befit one of high race, if he sits in power and peace. But in desperate hours gentleness may be repaid with death."

"So be it."

"So be it! But not with your death only, Lord Faramir: with the death also of your father, and of all your people, whom it is your part to protect now that Boromir is gone."

"Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?"

"Yes, I wish that indeed…"

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Brutally, Faramir was thrust into the mad rush of warfare, running, slicing, panting, dodging. Sweat sprang out upon his brow and soaked his leather armor. His lungs seemed to be on fire with the pain of drawing each breath, and he felt as though he would collapse from fatigue. He could hear himself shouting: "Retreat! Retreat! Fall back to Minas Tirith! Fall back!" No one was listening to him! No one could hear him over the terrible screeching of the Nazgul and the roar of the orcs! They would die! They would all die!

Faramir felt something brush past his shoulder, and he turned to face what he thought was an orc. Instead, he saw a young maiden with billowing blonde hair rushing past, towards a ruined staircase that led higher in the abandoned city.

"Éowyn!" he cried, his heart feeling a crush of panic. He fought his way towards her, cutting down anything in his path. Finally he reached the staircase and vaulted up three steps at a time. At the top, he saw that she was still running away from him, down a dilapidated corridor. He sprinted after her, desperately trying to catch up with the dress-clad figure ahead. She turned a corner and disappeared from his sight for a moment, and as he charged around to meet her his eyes were met by a sight more horrifying than anything he had ever seen.

Two orcs held her, one around her waist with a blade to her throat, and one by her wrists pulled behind her back. Bloodstains spotted her delicate gown and her beautiful pale face. They were touching her, and it made him seethe with anger and hatred.

"Faramir," she gasped. "You must go back! You cannot save me now! Go back! You must fight for yourself!"

"I won't leave you!" cried Faramir. "I have spent too long trying to find you! I won't abandon you to them, to death!" He held out one shaking hand, and the orcs gnashed their teeth and growled. "Please…Éowyn…" Tears mingled with sweat and blood on his face. "Return with me. Please…"

Éowyn shook her head. "I love you too much to see you do this for me! Go back! I must defend myself now!"

"No." Faramir shook his head. "No, I won't let you. I can't let you. Éowyn, please!" He took a halting step forward, and though the orcs snarled again they made no move to stop him. He brought his face close to hers, his heart thudding loudly in his chest. "Éowyn…" Tenderly, he brought their lips together and kissed her warmly and desperately. At her touch, something seemed to drain from him, pushing him beyond his limits of exhaustion.

Éowyn's eyes widened suddenly, and she pulled away. "Faramir, behind you!"

Faramir whirled and saw the orc just as it drew back its black blade…

Faramir opened his eyes and saw the dagger just as it plunged down towards his heart. He gasped and twisted away at the last second, and the blade pierced deep into his left shoulder. Pain rushed through his body, and he grabbed the wound instinctively, feeling warm blood rushing over his fingers. Faramir struggled from beneath the layers of blankets that covered him, too shocked to cry out. The man wielding the dagger made no sound, but he moved to strike again. Years of training rushed back to Faramir within an instant, and he seized the man's wrist and kicked out at just the proper angle to break his elbow cleanly. The man groaned in pain and pulled back, dropping the dagger to the floor.

Another dagger quickly appeared in the man's left hand, and as he brought it down for another blow Faramir rolled off the bed and onto the floor. Automatically he groped in the dark for the hilt of the dagger, his heart racing with adrenaline. He caught hold of it at last and leapt to standing to defend himself against his attacker. Before he could do anything, the man dealt a heavy blow to the crown of his skull with his dagger's pommel. Faramir felt his senses leave him, and he collapsed to the floor. Over the deafening ringing in his head, he could barely hear the man's quiet footsteps approaching him.

A face suddenly swam into view in the blackness behind his eyes: Éowyn. She was solemn and grey-faced, and her beauty seemed diminished by anxiety.

"Fight, Faramir!" she urged him. "You cannot let it end this way! Fight!"

Faramir's eyes blinked open, and he realized that he was still holding the hilt of the dagger. The sound of the man's blade slicing through the air gave Faramir enough warning to dodge, and then he lunged forward and thrust his dagger between the man's ribs. The man made a choking sound in his throat, releasing his hold on his dagger, and staggered backwards before crumpling to the floor.

Bed. Knife. Assassin. Blood.

Aragorn burst into Faramir's chambers, followed closely by a pair of guards. In the light of the torch that one of the guards held aloft, he took in the room with a single sweep of his eyes. A man dressed in dark clothes lay dead on the floor, a dagger piercing his chest. A pool of blood lay beneath him, and another stained the blankets covering the bed. Standing above the dark man was Faramir, his hands covered in blood, shaking and staring at the man at his feet.

"Take care of the body," Aragorn ordered gruffly. The guards obeyed immediately, and Aragorn moved over to his friend. "Faramir?" He laid a hand gently on Faramir's shoulder, but he did not seem to acknowledge Aragorn's presence. "Faramir?" he said again, lowering his voice further. Faramir made no answer.

Aragorn put his arm behind Faramir's shoulders and guided him silently from the room. In the better light of the passage outside, Aragorn saw that Faramir was wounded in his left shoulder, and he was pale from shock and blood loss. Aragorn swiftly escorted his friend to the Houses of Healing where they cleaned the wound and bandaged it quickly. The dagger had just barely missed the scar tissue from the arrow wound Faramir had suffered long ago during the War.

The healers were more concerned about Faramir going into severe shock than about the wound itself. Aragorn stood back and watched as they loosened his clothes and heated the fire nearby to keep him warm, although he was already sweating heavily. Faramir's face was still deathly pale, and he seemed to be barely breathing at all. His lips had turned slightly blue. His pulse was rapid but weak. Aragorn waited anxiously at his bedside, knowing that Faramir's condition was very serious.

No one had bothered to wash the blood off of Faramir's hands. When the healers began to drift away, worried but unable to do more, Aragorn asked for a bowl of hot water. As soon as Aragorn began to dip Faramir's hand into the steaming water, he gasped and pulled backwards, his eyes springing open.

"Hush, mellon nin," said Aragorn soothingly, his brow creasing with concern. Gently, he took Faramir's hand again and lowered it slowly into the bowl, and Faramir relaxed slowly. "You are safe now. I am not going to let anyone hurt you." He carefully scrubbed Faramir's hands clean of the encrusted blood, and Faramir shook badly. The look behind his eyes was one of such horror that Aragorn himself was frightened by it.

"He…he tried…" Faramir struggled to speak, his breath coming in little gasps now.

"Shhh, do not speak," said Aragorn, trying to ease Faramir's panic. "No one is going to harm you now. Do not speak…"

Faramir choked. "I-I did not mean…"

"Shhh…"

"Éowyn!" Faramir's eyes widened, and he coughed violently. "She…she saved me, Aragorn! She—!" He was cut off by another coughing fit, and Aragorn helped him to sit up. The color was beginning to return to his cheeks, and when Aragorn held his wrist he felt a stronger pulse. Faramir winced at the pain in his shoulder and regulated his breaths awkwardly so as not to cause it further pain.

"She spoke to me in a dream," he continued weakly. "She warned me! She…she woke me up! I-I would be dead, Aragorn! Dead!" Huge, round tears fell from his eyes. "I-I didn't mean to… But I had no choice… And…and…" His voice faded as his weariness began to catch up with him. "It was me, Aragorn," he said hoarsely. "My vision… It-it was me! I-I thought it would be you…but…"

Aragorn put a hand on Faramir's brow, trying to calm him. "Yes, I know," he whispered. "I should have known. You spoke of royal blood being spilt, of a ceremony fit for a king or a prince. You are the Prince of Ithilien, Faramir. Not royal blood physically but by title. I am sorry I did not realize sooner…"

Faramir shuddered with suppressed sobs. "I-I do not understand… Why does everyone hate me? What have I done to deserve so much hatred?"

Aragorn closed his eyes in pain. This was a ghost of Faramir's past that he could not fight, not even if he had known how. "I do not know, Faramir," he said, brushing back his friend's raven hair. "I do not know."

mellon nin

(my friend)

Authors Note: This chapter title "A Knife in the Dark") was taken directly from The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring, Book I, Chapter 11: A Knife in the Dark.