Must a Captain always be a pawn? The White Bishop shows his hand but perhaps too late
March 10/11
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'Much must be risked in war.'
With his father's goading words ringing like a passing-bell, Faramir walked out of the shrouded hall and into the brown twilight of that false and dreadful day.
The Tower guard saluted as he passed. He nodded once, forced his shoulders to face the east and stood at the topmost step, looking out across the Pelennor. The town-lands were quiet and empty, shorn of their usual industry and brown for it was not yet truly spring. In the distance Anduin lay shrouded in the mist, Osgiliath's fair ruined spires and graceful dome rose as spectres looming in the night. The sigh set a deeper chill within his bones: not of the body nor Mindolluin's famous fogs but of remembrance.
A broken bridge. A bloodied moonstone. A high-prowed little boat. Moments in time he would not get back again, had not the leisure to think about, for all about him was rushing forward, inexorably, to its end. Could it be that by the end of that fateful day he would walk another hall beyond their shores? See his brother once again?
No….that way lay only a sickness of the heart and he had no time.
A sweet silver bell chimed the early morning hour from within the Tower and Faramir looked up. There was much yet to do, to organize the men and he needed to think, to move, to devise some strategy that would not see them tumbled like shells before a black and writhing wave. And so he passed down through the city's circles, stopping first to see him men in the wards then at the barracks to speak to his Captains. There the sea of half-familiar faces were already scurrying to and fro. Toric, Boromir's Captain in Osgiliath, as he expected, had swiftly organized the men directly the order had come down. Madril of course had grumbled loudly (and to his satisfaction blushed) about his swift promotion to Captain of their company. It was long overdue and was the one note of pleasure, the one good thing, that dispelled the taste like ashes in his mouth.
He carried his friend's rare smile with him throughout the busy morning hours.
The eleventh bell found him down upon the second circle: the market street, now strangely quiet for all was to be cleared by noon that day and already the wains with the old, the sick, the women and children were on their way. He needed to speak with Duinhir and Hirluin, to discern what of their footmen might join his companies, and so focused was he on his present errand that he nearly missed the proud bones and skin like ivory, the bright auburn hair above the dusty, simple gown.
"Amerith?!"
The lady was the plainest dressed that Faramir had ever seen. Her dress was simple linen, her face had no paint or powder and a quill was tucked behind her ear. Streaks of dirt dusted one pale cheek.
"Darling. What a welcome sight." As Amerith turned, parchment scroll in hand, her sudden smile lit the darkened day.
Heedless of the watching guards, Faramir scooped her into a swift, sure hug. "What are you doing here?" he asked. "I did not see you in the morning's council?"
The lady pulled back, just enough to tilt her head and catch his gaze. The green eyes he knew so well flashed briefly, part annoyance and part amusement. "Denethor has at last tired of my dulcet tones. He has barred me from the hall."
Faramir laughed, knowing there was a wild bitterness in the undertone. "Then you will not know that my censure is complete. That I am to do what even my brother failed to do. Re-take Osgiliath. With half the force and ten times the enemy."
Her eyes widened, round and white with shock. "But that is impossible!"
"Indeed," he replied, glancing around and suddenly remembering they stood within the street. He dropped low his voice for just the two of them. "Even now I go down to our fiefs and conscript more stalwart souls to what seems an exchange we can only rue." He heaved a quiet sigh and tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. "I must obey. But it is with a very heavy heart. Not least for what I may not live to see again."
"Do not speak so!" Amerith cried, placing her dusty fingers across his lips to stop the words from tumbling out. He did not need to read her thoughts to know she was aghast at the bleak tenor of his words. "Tulkas might hear."
"My lady, if we are relying on superstition to keep us whole then we are well and truly sunk," He nodded to the detritus all around. The stalls of the market were being dismantled all around. Perched outside the stone walls of the Inns and stable-houses they were vulnerable. Well within range of the Enemy's catapults and a hazard that must go. "I see that the City has made plans in the unlikely case we fail?"
She chose to ignore the irony in his voice. "Yes and first among them remove what ever we can that is flammable from the lower circles. We shall succeed if I can get these youngsters to pull in harness." She nodded, mouth quirking slightly, at the team of young boys carrying spars of wood and heavy sacks to load a cart. "It should be no more difficult than spreading rumours at a ball, but I find I keep having to be somewhat more direct."
This time his laugh was free of taint. "I have total faith you can coax any male to your whim."
"Present company excluded." The light grey eyes lit briefly at her retort but all too quickly turned serious again. "Fewer came from the outlands than we had wished. Word of the fleet from Umbar had sped before them."
She nodded. "Yes I have had word from Lennart's men. My nephew keeps a force to defend Lebinin's fields and towns, though I suspect he would fainer see action here. He is young enough to see glory in the fight."
"My Lord?" a young voice interrupted. One of her charges had paused beside and tugged lightly at his sleeve, shifting his feet nervously but waiting politely for attention.
"Yes lad?" he replied, eyeing the tall boy who stood, all bony limbs and thin, high cheekbones, dark hair hidden by a woollen cap. Something about him was familiar, but at that moment he could not think quite what.
"Begging your pardon, sir. I'm Bergil, Beregond of the Tower Guard's son. My mam asked Father to bid 'Valar guard and guide you' Sir. But I thought, in case that he forgot…" The words that had poured in a rush drifted off.
Faramir smiled and out of the corner of his eye saw Amerith's mouth twitch beside. Beregond most certainly had other things on his mind than greetings for his Lord. But the thought and gesture were very kind in day that had precious little kindliness about it.
"Thank you lad for your blessing and your toil." Faramir placed one large hand upon a thin shoulder as the boy beamed with pleasure. "I should imagine your mother would have preferred you left with her. But we are grateful that you also work to keep the City safe."
"Oh no sir. I wouldn't hear of leaving. I'm nearly tall as da's shoulder now..I can…."
What more Bergil would have said they never heard. Just then a shuddering cry arose. A winged shadow, a Nazgul, circled like some hideous hunting eagle high above and suddenly swooped low over the City just out of bowshot. Folk around cried out in terror or were struck dumb even as they stood. By instinct Faramir reached for the boy but Bergil only started hard: the brave lad held his ground where grown men quailed at the sight. Amerith, trembling, clutched his hand and together for a moment they watched the foul thing turn above, before, with a screech of poisonous despair, it broke off and wheeled away.
They were being watched and nothing could be kept secret very long.
"Quickly now," Amerith finally found her voice and started her young charges out of their frozen state. "Load the carts and then away yourselves, back to the barracks." Around, there was a flurry of coltish limbs and the lads redoubled their efforts, keen to be safe and out from evil prying eyes.
Faramir shivered, rubbed his hands along his sleeves, but did not break his gaze until the creature was the barest smudge of black above the dark brooding Ephel Duath. "The enemy too has need of intelligence but his methods are rather more direct. Praise be the thing is gone. The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away."
Amerith nestled against his chest, willing a lightness she did not feel to seep into his clammy skin. "The days have darkened dear heart and you are a shadow of yourself."
She raised up a hand and held his cheek in comfort. They both knew it was as much for her as him. "Get some rest if you can before you go."
But he was already shaking his weary head, pulling her hands away, setting a distance between to ease the pain of separation. "We are in haste. They must know that we are coming."
There will be no rest for any of us now but in the grave…
Of course Amerith read his thought. It was careless of him not to shield her from his weakness and now the tears began to fall, to rain hot salt through the dust upon her cheeks.
Valar. He did not want to leave her this way, heart-sick and believing he had no hope. "Do not mind me, I am not myself and weariness makes the world darker than it is."
He had followed the heart's bitter truth that he would have her think a lie with something not quite a falsehood and not quite real. She nodded, accepted it for all her due and raised her shoulders once again, every inch the proud duchess who also knew the bonds of duty.
"Those are my men that you lead Faramir of Gondor. Bring them home. Bring yourself home."
"I will try."
He walked on, down past the preparations for a siege he could not stop, trying his hardest not to shudder when a metal pole dragged across the cobblestone and sounded exactly like a sharpened claw.
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~~~000~~~
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Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth knew instinctively where he might find his nephew in that time. All was held in readiness below the Citadel. The companies armed and briefed. All that remained was for their acting Captain-General to lead them out, to desperately throw the dice and pray the coin was not too dear. He did not envy Faramir this command, and though the brandy bottle and glasses in his hand were the excuse, there were things that needed to be said, some words of comfort given before it was too late.
It was all he could think to do.
As expected his nephew's door was not locked. The older man slipped through and into the hushed and haphazard space, methodically picking up discarded clothes and scrolls as he made his way to the open terrace door and walked out into his sister's winter garden.
The green and usually sunlit space looked south toward the sea (not east, not ever east) and held still echoes of her artist's eye throughout. The flowers had been chosen for their winter cloak and colour, shrubs to stay green throughout the year, seed pods to attract the hungry birds. Over by the great cedar tree there would be the first croci of the spring. It was a lovely space but one that made his heart clench every time.
Spurred boots crunched softly on the torch-lit gravel path as the world fell away, back to a day when they had picked winter aconite and roses to lay about her feet. A day when his larger hand had gripped a little one, when his eyes had seen that there was another who understood all too well.
Now at least there was some semblance of a moment's peace. The lofty helm of Mount Mindolluin lifted high above even if its snowy cloak was dimmed and the lost little boy of long ago sat, alone, upon the bench beneath the cedar tree. Now a man, full grown and with a man's duty and his cares, the wise little boy still had uncommon wisdom for his years. And a heart to try to be what his proud father wanted.
Though neither of them always knew what that was.
Idly, lost in thought, Faramir shredded leaves from off a laurel switch: unheeding that the glossy bits now scattered across the perfect tidy stones. Imrahil smiled at the sight, reminded of the room through which he had just passed. Boromir had been tidy, had inherited the Hurin looks and need for order in his space. Faramir, though like him in looks, was the opposite in personality, was truly their mother's son. He could picture Finduilas's dressing table as girl: its scent bottles, creams, combs, and hair slides all a perfect jumble of enthusiasm. Just like her studio, that wild riot of colour and threads and pots and brushes. Too many ideas to contain their medium to a settled space.
How, he wondered, had the discord between his brother-on-law and nephew become so fundamental that the characteristic Denethor had seen in his love as endearing in his youngest son was became a personal affront? The father felt that for the son to be naturally untidy was a sign of weakness and a deliberate one at that. A failing to accept an important lesson, influenced perhaps by a slightly disheveled wizard.
He shook his head, regretfully. There was nothing to be gained by gathering wool. It was time to do what little he could to help.
"I thought I might find you here."
Not waiting for the young man's response Imrahil set the glasses on the bench, pulled the cork and poured two large measures out. Faramir accepted the amber liquid but did not wait for a toast or a benediction. He nodded and drank it down in one quick gulp, held out the cut crystal glass for a second round.
"It is my private stash."
"I have no doubt," He watched Faramir grimace as another large swallow burned fire through his throat. "It is very smooth for something so very strong."
"That way you will remember it." mused Imharhil, willing that for once it would help. He polished off his own and sat, arranging his swordbelt within his robes. "Mithrandir would scold me if he knew I was keeping you from some solitude. He is yet about the City, marshalling the defences."
A small smile spread slowly across his nephews's lips but he did not speak. The green withering pile at his feet held all the importance in the world, was toed silently with a scuffed and dusty boot.
"The City is emptied," observed Imrahil, as if it were truly news, "Everything is in readiness. The Warden of the Keys assures me the Gates will be shut soon. Supplies and arms have been already stowed beyond Rath Dinen's secret door." He knew he was chattering, filling the weighty space of unhappiness and emptiness with words but he could not stop himself. It was not like him but he too was furious and in shock at what had happened in the hall. That Denethor had not given him leave to speak. Would not hear him defend the son he had just criticized.
The frustration bubbled up like a sulphurous spring.
"Sometimes I think he does not deserve a son like you."
His sister's sea grey eyes lifted quickly up, caught the glow of a torch lit against the evil twilight, and in their bright, smiling light of gratitude something sharp and darker coalesced.
Imrahil knew he had the Gift. It was most often a painful thing: a sword without a hilt, as liable to cut the wielder as the foe and rarely clear.
He gasped, for he had thought the darker dreams were all behind.
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A boy, pale faced and silent, lying limp within in his arms; raven-dark hair splayed across his shoulder. Dol Amroth's pink petals of apricot fluttering in the breeze. Fear squeezing hard his heart within his chest as he strides quicky as he dares, calling for aid The boy has jumped too many steps and landed badly. His sister's smile of relief when he awakens in the morn.
The fragrant air dissolves. Fume and fear seep into his lungs and this time the hair splayed across his shoulder is streaked with grime and blood. Long limbs drape across his lap. He holds them tight for the steel that encloses them is not proof at every joint, blood from the arrows trickles down, makes rivulets in the dust.
"Your son has returned.."
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When sound and light returned again Imrahil found his nephew, white-faced, staring at his shaking hands. The sight of a vision unnerved him too. The older man swallowed hard, clenched his hands tight together and declined the offer of another shot of brandy.
"What?" Faramir began, but he swiftly shook his head, did not wish to think right then what the vision meant.
"I wish that Boromir were here."
The young man's quiet words were not a statement of fear, of needing one who made one brave. Imrahil knew, for he felt it too, that it was but a simple statement of the heart's need, of the need to name the name, to hear it free upon the air. For a moment it brought a memory of lightness, of the big, bold man who was keeper of his sister's merry laugh. But then the hurt sank in, the sound cut and perhaps they needed to feel that too…
He raised a hand to squeeze hard a still linen-covered shoulder. It felt indistinct though he knew the steel inside. "So do we all. The world is greyer for his loss."
A simple nod was all that time could give. "I cannot rest. I devise and discard tactics endlessly round in circles. How can I keep them whole Uncle? None of us is so foolish to think we can beat such greater odds. The retreat of those that we put out past the Forts will be perilous."
"I can only surmise you simply must hold off as long as you are able…"
The younger man scrubbed a hand wearily across his face. The darkness smudged the shadows below his eyes a deeper tone of grey. "This fume, this storm of the Enemy, will make conditions dark and difficult."
Imrahil's lips twitched irresistably. "No darker than those within the hall."
Faramir's laugh was short and sharp. "It is a wonder they can work in there at all. Father's scorn is so thick I am surprised the Council can breathe or see."
Valar be praised. Perhaps the jest had helped, had brought a quiet breath before the plunge. He let the silence stretch, not too long for he knew his nephew was resolute as any man of war. "I know there will be little time after this. I have heard the rest of his plan, Faramir. Denethor will hold us abeyance, seven hundred men and horse, should the need for a sortie come. "
Faramir only nodded tiredly, rubbed a now trembling hand through his hair, a gesture so like Boromir's his uncle almost gasped. The bottle and a glass were passed quickly back.
Imrahil opened his mouth to speak but hesitated, watched an uncommon third shot go down. He had been shushed by the Lord of the realm and had obeyed; felt keenly that to have kept his silence had let down the man who sat before him now. Whom he loved as if he were is own.
What could he say to help?
"I know, " he began, voice a little rough, "it is our nature to not know our own beauty or our worth until reflected back by the mirror of another. Fara, he knows your courage…"
"Does he?" Something just a little fey glinted in the clear grey gaze. "Just yesterday, even as I sat trembling after Shadow, I let my fatigue overtake me for a minute. I asked a foolish question and got the answer I deserved."
"Which was?"
"That he rathered that I had died and Boromir had lived."
A sharp, shocked gasp rushed out and with it his sense of surety. "He did not!" Imrahil stared wide-eyed as the raven locks waved, nodding. "Nay, lad, none deserved that answer. I can only hope that he is overset by grief and black despair. He did not mean it Faramir, Not in his heart." But even as Imrahil wanted Denethor's words to be misconstrued but he knew it to be the biting pain of truth. Damn the man. Damn him to give so few and thin words of benediction yet heap scorn as though it had no weight. Must he undermine his son at every turn? What could possess the Steward to speak so and on the verge of battle?
""How can he not see that I have done all I could, that he asked, even against my better self?" Faramir asked but then snorted wryly. "Another son of Hurin to disappoint their father. Prophetic name was it not? But he, I understand, was the one to choose it. Though I, unlike my namesake, will be loyal and obey my father's orders for the battle."
At that rejoinder Imrahil could not leave off the magntitude of what must be done. ""Is this madness or genius? I do not know. Mayhap both. A little of each is needed when all is dark."
"How should I accept it Uncle? From a regard so evidently warped ? Perhaps he is truly mad with need."
Imrahil quickly shook his head. "I know his thirst for knowledge, his endless hours in the Tower, and now his grief, have sucked the very life from him. He is old and worn before his time. But mad. I hope not for all our sakes. If Ecthelion were here he would say respect strength not power. That strength comes from conviction. If he is truly mad there is no longer conviction left within him. But I do not think so. Truly I do not."
Imrahil meant every word, yet they did not stop him feeling sick at the thought of what Faramir and the men must do. He leaned over and clapped a steadying hand for both of them upon the younger man's knee. "You lad have always had the luck of someone dipped in the Singing River. You will come through it."
From high the Tower the hour bell sounded once again.
"I must go….."
Both men rose and then reflexively looked to the east, to the blood red haze, the ever-growing carmine thunder on the horizon
Silent words of strength were given through a handclasp.
"We will be ready. Listen for our horns when you have need." And then, because one did not say good luck to either a sailor or a soldier before the fight the Prince hugged his nephew hard and wished him what he truly hoped would come.
"Be at peace,"
"I will try."
It was the second time that day Faramir had said those words.
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.~~~000~~~
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The barrack's stable was dim in the bleak false night of that darkened day, shrouded by the same creeping gloom that hid the enemy, and with the muster of the men, quite empty.
Faramir was the last man to saddle up. He was late to find Mithros having rushed to ensure all the captains had their orders and that every detail was in place.
He stepped cautiously around a discarded piece of tack and whistled to his mount. All through the morning the gloom had deepened. Now, the only lights were the torches in the city and the myriad red fires that dotted Anduin's fair far shore. The thought of that once beautiful, rose-strewn, colonnaded bank fouled by a thousand Orc-feet clenched in his heart. A thousand. If only it could be that. The scouts who had bravely pierced the gloom had counted more than twenty thousand swarming like beetles on the shore. They were a black and heartless wave that would pour across the river, climbing over each other's backs in their slavering haste to kill.
Hopeless, it was hopeless and well he knew it.
Mithros, catching his master's bleak disquiet, shook his great grey head and whinneying nervously. The breeze was yet from the east, and a taint of smoke rode upon the wind and unnerved him as it did his rider.
"Shh..old friend," he soothed, striving to put a tone of wry amusement in place of resignation and patting the stallion's heavy winter coat. It had lightened with the years, was now more white than dabble-grey, and glowed ghostly in the gloom.
"The breeze is foul but no fouler than Renil's hangover tonic. We both need to find our hearts in this." He scratched lingeringly at the exact spot on the stallion's poll that itched in the drying air of winter, grinned for a moment as Mithros's warm huffing sigh rose in the cooler air.
At least there was one soul he could make happy in the world.
Faramir bent, tightened the girth carefully and straightened up, pulling at his collar with one heavy gauntlet. He had been ranging for so long that the weight of the heavy armor was uncomfortable, unfamiliar, and an unwelcome reminder of the last time he had fought in Osgiliath's ruined streets. With his brother at his side.
For a moment he rested his forehead against Mithros's warm musky flank, trying to gather his whirling thoughts.
As much as his father's words had hurt, in his heart of hearts Faramir knew they were more agreed than not. He too wished to turn back that year, to be even now in some far flung valley while Boromir led the men, not wishing futilely that their last words had been ones of hope, or love or sweetness. For some it would have been a little thing, quite automatic, but for a father who held their crumbling world too tightly in his hands, it was, of course, too much. He might fail, might stain the river red with his blood, but history could not be turned.
You were just like me with one who was disappointed in you.
Faramir looked down, impulsively scuffed a toe against the dusty stones. "Nothing that men make is fated to last forever." So Mithrandir had was a silly impulse to wish to leave a mark behind. His raised his heel again but before he could quickly erase the smudge he heard another scrape of boot.
A long black cloak hovered in the gloom. He had not expected a visitor and for an instant he thought it might be Imrahil again but the figure was too tall, too plainly dressed and the hand that reached to pull back the hood was older, lined by care and struggle of which he would not speak.
Valar not again.
His stomach sank.. Had the morning's words not been enough? In no mood to be followed by his father's lashing tongue he turned to pointlessly to adjust Mithros' cantle once again.
The startling soft touch of a hand upon his face drew all his attention up.
Denethor did not let go his cheek, the thumb that stroked once along his jaw was dry and calloused, caught in the stubble of the beard he had not had time to shave. Where and how were the first word's that ridicously came to mind. Denethor had not swung a weapon in many years but there was no mistaking the source of the roughened patch of skin. It was a sword callous. When in all the over-taxed hours of the Steward's day had his father found time to train?
His father coughed and quietly cleared his throat. The light of a torch reflected in the inch of mail glimmered below his throat. Faramir looked up from that light to hold the shining silver gaze.
"I did not mean it to come out so…"
Hope bloomed at his father's hoarse, low words. The son looked upon a face both familiar and unknown at once, searching for a sign, some augur of the truth. For the first time in many weeks the aged, noble brow he had bowed to looked smoother, somehow less set, as if an emotion other than desperate need and grief had crept in and ironed out the furrows. Could Imrahil, in his wisdom have the right of it? His father, known for his careful circumspection, had spoken untimely, had not meant what he had said?
"I could not speak before the council, could not reveal all that I knew, " explained Denethor, eyes blazing like a meteor in the winter's sky. "We must risk a move.. We need time, Faramir. If you can delay the attack by but hours we may survive. Even hours count. I have seen…. something."
"What?" he asked, wonderingly, images of sails and kings and white-winged crowns flitting like motes of sunlit dust across his mind.
"I cannot say." His father shook his head, raised his hands to grip like iron bars across his arms. "I do not ask this lightly, Faramir. I know the price that must be paid but I have Seen the Muster gathering. Rohan will come but there is so little time. You must do this. You are our House now."
Our house.
For a moment Faramir closed his eyes to ease the swift, aching pain. He was a fool. So wanted the touch, the words, to mean something more but here, even now on the bink of death, he was to his father but the House of Hurin. Not Denethor's son. Here in the gathering darkness those fathomless eyes did not see him,only a pawn that had still to move . It would not have mattered had it been high noon on a cloudless summer day. No light could change the warp of his father's poor regard. So much of a gulf now lay between that no word or act could bridge the gap.
Roughly he shook off his father's grip, gathered Mithros' reins into his hands.
Denethor stood unmoving, watched coolly while he backed the great warhorse out of the stall. The ring of Mithros' heavier war shoes on the cobblestones echoed loudly off the walls.
Faramir moved a pace, led the stallion toward the faint light of the stable door, but paused. The quiet of expectation stretched. The silent void, the emptiness inside had set, hard as stone and nigh as chill. It was a salvation, could not matter where he was bound to go.
He bent his head, sighed and turned at last to hold the dark grey eyes, hard and glittering, in his lighter ones.
Spoke then because the numbness in his heart had spread and more than anything in that moment he needed to feel. Even if it all it was...was bitterness.
"I will do it Father. But not for you.
I will do it because I believe it may be right."
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A/N: Knowing that the relevant chapter was a while back I thought I'd remind everyone of what Faramir refers to in the last scene. "You were just me with one disappointed in you" refers to the conversation Ivrenna and Denethor had at Adrahil's funeral. That Echthelion mistrusted and resented Denethor because of his mother's actions, and now Denethor mistrusts and resents Faramir because of his mother's death and their similiarities. Sometimes history repeats despite our best efforts.
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed last month and especially to ck and Guest for their guest reviews. Your encouragement and comments are just a thrill. Thank you also to Zaconator and Zacki who favourited this past month!
Once again my thanks go out to the ladies of the Garden of Ithilien. To Annafan for beginning beta'ing my chronic comma problem (grin) and to her and Artura and Thanwen for their helpful comments and encouragement.
Next up:
Ch 23: Madril ponders their options as they wait for the assault, Gandalf counsels Faramir and Gondor's Captain finds a way to give hope to the men
Ch 24: Pawns of the Outcome: the retreat across the Pelennor and Denethor finally learns the truth...
and then...*bounces excitedly*
Ch 25: The Houses of Healing