Chapter 22

Denethor locked the door to his room and ordered not to be disturbed under any circumstances.

His son was dead. Boromir, his eldest, was dead. It was enough to lose Finduilas, the love of his life, but now, his son was gone.

The scout who reported Faramir's actions had brought the cloven horn back to him. It was the final proof.

Was it because of him? Did Denethor push his son to travel to Rivindell and cause his death?

Denethor shook. He collapsed next to the window and wept. He wept for his son.

The feeling of his heart couldn't be explained. It wasn't grief…or maybe it was. Guilt ransacked his soul. If he didn't push the bar too high for Boromir to reach, if he didn't insist that he be the perfect warrior, he'd still be alive.

What if Faramir went instead? If Denethor didn't intrude, would Boromir still be alive?

"Son, would you forgive me? Please! Forgive me!" Denethor whimpered. "Oh, son I'm so sorry!"

Denethor cradled the horn next to him. His son…Boromir was gone. It had taken so long to sink in. "Boromir, you were right. Your brother should have gone!"

Osgiliath was lost.

The once proud city was now crushed to rubble, filthy Orcs filling the streets. It was lost.

Faramir bolted on his horse back to Minas Tirith. His men had fought hard throughout the night but there were just too many Orcs. Now, the Nazgûl were closing in on them.

Faramir couldn't let the Nazgûl come near the White City; he supposed that they may be able to hold them off with the catapults, but it was a next to nothing chance. They'd overtake the city, claim it for Mordor, and all would want death before it happened.

We are not done! Gondor will survive! We will see the return of our king before our city fades! Faramir told himself. He prayed this prayer the whole ride back. His hands shook as he held the reigns. His teeth chattered. It would not happen!

The Nazgûl wings swept men off the ground, only to meet a harrowing death once they landed. Some were lifted then dropped. They all screamed.

Faramir pushed his horse forward, like his surviving men.

Out of the corner of his eye, Faramir saw a bright light. It drove the Nazgûl away. Not caring what it was, Faramir sighed and rejoiced in relief. He could've leapt for joy. Minas Tirith's gates were a short distance away. He rode into them, and beside him rode a magnificent white steed.

Faramir led his horse to the stables, smiling at all of the rejoining of wives and husbands, mothers, fathers and sons, and brothers.

A familiar voice came from the white steed, direction evident. "Prepare yourselves. The fight has only begun."

"Gandalf?" Faramir gasped. He slipped through the horses and men until he snatched the...white cloak?

Gandalf turned. "Ah! Faramir, how good to see you."

"Same to you."

Shadowfax shuffled to avoid a man's clumsy fall, and Faramir gasped at the passenger Gandalf was carrying.

A Halfling. He was younger than Sam and Frodo. He looked at Faramir with a sort of...curiosity and fright.

"Hello, sir," he cautiously said.

Faramir stared at him, wondering why such a young thing was in a crumbling city.

"Faramir, this is not the first time you've seen a Halfling?" Gandalf asked.

Faramir snapped back into the present. "No. No, Gandalf it's not."

The Halfling's face lit up as if with the glow of candlelight. "You've seen Frodo and Sam! You have! You've seen them! Gandalf, Gandalf he's seen them! They're alive!"

Gandalf nodded, smiling, thrilled.

"Gandalf!" Faramir warned. "There's bad news! They've taken the path of Cirith Ungol."

Gandalf's joy was murdered in an instant. "The path of Cirith Ungol?"

Faramir never heard Gandalf's voice more hopeless. He cringed. He should never have let Frodo and Sam take that path.

Apparently, the Halfling had sensed Gandalf's distress. His eyes filled with fright and he shook. "What's wrong? What's that path?"

"Faramir, meet me in the gardens. Tell me everything."

Faramir nodded.

"Will someone tell me what's happening?" the Halfling almost shouted. "What's wrong with my cousin?"

Gandalf rode away.

Faramir felt his heart leap out to the Hobbit. This was one of the cousins that Frodo had left behind. And now, because of Faramir, they might never see each other again.

Gandalf and Faramir, as planned, strolled among the gardens. The gardeners were in another part of the haven, so they had at least a smidge of privacy.

"I thought that there'd be no harm. Sam will never let anything happen to Frodo." Faramir didn't know why he was arguing. The wizard was staring straight ahead, showing that he already made up his mind.

"I am aware of that," Mithrandir said, "but there is still reason to worry. Frodo carries a dangerous weapon."

"I know."

"You know?"

Faramir looked to the path he was treading. "I nearly stole it from him."

Gandalf halted. His face spoke worry and surprise at once. "What transpired? What did you do?"

"I nearly took the Ring. But I let them go."

"The Ring was still in Frodo's possession?"

"Yes."

Gandalf smiled. "Thanks to you, we now have a chance. It may be slim, but they now trek Mordor. They are close."

Faramir didn't know what to say about that. He felt like he had done a horrible thing. "I wanted the Ring, Gandalf. I was willing to kill for It."

"So is every being in this earth. I myself was tempted."

Faramir didn't mean to gape. Gandalf, however, found it amusing and chuckled. "You are one of the few in this earth with strong willpower. Because you refused the Ring, we have this chance. Remember that." Gandalf's eyes still spoke some danger was waiting for Frodo and Sam, but he hoped his words carried some meaning.

Faramir nodded. "Gandalf, I have to ask. Why are your clothes now white? And you hair?"

Gandalf merrily laughed. "Many have asked that question. I suppose it would have been better if I could be Saruman the White in my grey cloak."

"Pardon?"

"Gandalf the Grey is dead. He died fighting the Balrog. Because our greatest Wizard, Saruman the White, has fallen, I have returned for one reason only. I have taken his place."

Faramir nodded. "That doesn't make sense, Mithrandir."

Gandalf laughed. "It would be a miracle if anyone understood it."

Faramir grew more frightened with each step he took. He was seeing his father for the first time since Boromir died. But he knew there would be no shared tears this visit. Denethor would surely beat Faramir for what he had done. Disobeyed orders! Gave away the Ring! He supposed his father would be most lethal regarding the Ring. His stomach lurched with fear.

As he neared the throne room, he heard distinctive mumbling. He thought he heard that voice before.

He silently peeked past the corner and smiled.

There paced Frodo's cousin, dressed in Gondor livery, appearing to be stressed.

He said, "In peace or war, in dying or living…no! in living or dying from this point forward 'till my lord release me or death take me! Yes, I got it!"

Faramir couldn't help but chuckle. He rounded the corner and asked, "Practicing?"

The Halfling started. "Yes."

"What is your name?"

"Everyone calls me Pippin," the small one said with a smile.

"I am Faramir."

"Boromir's brother?"

"Yes."

"He was a good man. He saved my life more times than I can count."

"I am glad." Faramir smiled. Pippin was looking awkward, like he had no idea how to talk to him. "What were you practicing?"

"The swearing-in speech. To honor Boromir's death I'm…enrolling in the Steward's service, to pay the debt."

"Debt?"

"He died saving my life."

Faramir smiled. So Boromir had died doing something honorable. He assumed Sam didn't know about it because they separated before then. Frodo had said that he didn't know that Boromir died. "It is an honorable thing that you do."

"Thank you. But…"

"Yes?"

Pippin stammered, "I don't think that I can do it. What can someone like me offer a great Steward?"

Faramir smiled. "If you're doing this for honorable reasons, then that worry doesn't matter."

Pippin looked down, a bit embarrassed, and then smiled. "Thank you. Are you going to see your father?"

Faramir cringed. "Yes. I fear the worst. I've been a weak fool."

"You have strength. And bravery."

Faramir scoffed. "How do you know?"

"Gandalf told me how you helped Frodo and Sam. Thank you."

Faramir shuffled his feet, impatient for the page to summon them in. "I can only hope that my father feels as you and Gandalf do."

Pippin had been sworn in. He was now standing by Denethor, performing his duties as a page.

Now it was Faramir's turn.

"Captain Faramir," Denethor croaked. He was pale, old, withered. He was not the same man.

"Milord."

"The outer defenses of Osgiliath must be reclaimed. We will show Gondor's power."

"Milord, Osgiliath is overtaken. Countless Orcs outnumber any amount of men we could send out…"

"Rubbish!" Denethor shouted. "Send out the men."

Faramir felt trapped. His father told him go, but his mind told him to stay. Retaking Osgiliath was hopeless; he knew that in heart and mind.

"Faramir," Denethor warned. "I gave you an order! Go and send the men!"

"Milord, it is impossible to retake Osgiliath." Did those words just come out of my mouth?

Denethor shot up and shouted, "I ordered you to retake it! Do so!"

Faramir had seen this side of his father before. "In my opinion, milord, it is folly to attempt this!"

"Boromir would be out there by now!" Denethor shouted. "He would give me the Ring! He wouldn't leave it with some half-witted Halfling!"

Pippin almost spoke up, but thought better of it at the last minute. Hastily, he literally bit his tongue, hoping for a happy ending.

"Boromir was consumed by the Ring!" Faramir shouted. "He almost died because of it!"

"He'd be strong enough!"

"It makes us weak! It needs to be destroyed!"

"You dare oppose me? You who lose Osgiliath in the first place…twice!"

Faramir was catching his breath. He said quietly, "Father, I…"

Denethor shrieked, "Your brother would win this for me!" Shaking, Denethor collapsed to the ground.

"Lord Denethor!" Pippin cried, scurried to help his lord.

Faramir got there first. He grabbed his father's shoulders, pulling him up. "Father, let me…"

Denethor backslapped him.

Faramir froze. In twenty-six years, his father never hit him. Why now?

Denethor, shaking, stood. His gaze was something Faramir never wanted to see again. The coldness and hate flashed from them like lightning.

Denethor continued, "Your brother would be the one to win this war. You brother would sit in that chair! Your brother would do my will!"

Stop it! Faramir pleaded in his heart. Stop it! Stop it!

Whether or not Denethor heard, he calmed and limped to his chair. Pippin offered to take his hand, but Denethor shooed it away.

Silence hung in the air.

Faramir broke it, after he realized everything his father was feeling. "You-you wished I'd gone to Rivindell. You want Boromir to live and me to die. You would like us to be switched."

Denethor gripped the arms of his chair, stared out the window. "Yes. I want that."

Faramir froze in time. He paid no attention to Pippin's flabbergasted expression.

Of all the stabs Denethor gave Faramir, of all the emotional welts, hurried slaps and every hurtful thing, those four words hit him the hardest. They stung. A thousand swords tore his heart in pieces. Suddenly, the slap felt a hundred times harder.

They killed him. He stood there, dead. He couldn't find his voice.

Finally, he growled, "Since Boromir cannot please you, I'll take his place."

Faramir turned to exit the throne room. But he turned back and pleaded, "When I return, think better of me."

"That will depend on how you return."

Faramir felt an arrow pierce his heart again.

He hurried out of the throne room, commanding his tears to halt. He clenched his teeth, trapping any hot words that might escape.

I hate him! I hate him! Father, I hate you!

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