They're not mine. They belong to JRR Tolkien, the only Lord of the Ring, ifyou really think about it. Please read and review.
Faramir gusted a sigh as he stood at the peak of the city. Far below he could see the armed host massed, tiny soldiers on tiny horses on their way to fight a foe bigger than all of them combined. The dying light of the evening cast long shadows on them, like shades of the dead lurking. His heart constricted as if by a fist as he thought of his men riding off to bloodshed without him, for he felt that many, if not most, would not return. He tilted his chin to the sky, surveying the long horizon upon which there lay a deepening cloud, black like the smoke of a funeral pyre, dark like a night without moon or stars. A wind washed over him, carrying the unmistakable smell that had hung in a pall over the city for days. It was unique, one of a kind. It was death on the air.
Turning from the sight of war, he slowly walked back toward the Citadel, hands clasped behind his back. Doing so pulled at the muscles of his chest, making them twinge in protest, for he was still healing, but he ignored it. "Pain is weakness leaving your body." Denethor's words sprang to Faramir's mind and he smiled without mirth, his mouth twisting at the corners. "You mewl like a foundling, boy. Show your worth, hide your pain."
Faramir's feet carried him without thought, wandering aimlessly across stone cobbles, through shadowed alleyways, until he blinked to find himself standing, staring at Fen Hollen, the Closed Door, behind which ran the Silent Road. There was no porter to be seen, for who stands to guard the dead when death itself stalks? The door, huge and ancient, carved with the faces of many proud dead men, stood like a guard itself, solid, unmoving. Faramir stared at it a long moment, imagining whispers from the dead beyond, beckoning. They would have him yet, they hissed, for next time they would not be robbed of his bones. His hand strayed to his belt, from which hung many keys. They had been taken, covered with char, from the body of his father and pressed into his hands when he awoke from his dark sleep, his birthright reduced to a handful of cold metal. To this he had added the key to Fen Hollen, wrested from the cold grip of the porter who had died following Denethor's orders. Devotion to the utmost. His fingers caressed the keys, touching each one in turn, until they rested upon a large key, wrought in silver with the image of a barren tree. As he looked down his eyes fell upon a dark stain upon the stones, a blot marking where a young man's life had oozed away.
Almost without thought Faramir lifted his hand and fitted the key to the door lock, listening to the mechanisms in the door as he turned it. Each click and knock sent a stab of fear through him, curling his stomach in on itself, stopping his breath. He knew what lay beyond the doors. Finally the key stopped turning and he felt the door swing slightly inward as if beckoning him on. Faramir's mouth formed into a small 'o' as he took a steadying breath, eyes unfocused, heart hammering. He knew what lay beyond. He pushed the door and it swung freely open, revealing the passageway beyond, which led, he knew, curving and curling, to the stone porch of the House of Stewards. He knew what lay beyond. Yet still he stepped through the arched doorway, staring ahead with pain filled eyes. Death lay beyond. His father lay beyond.
As he walked on, sometimes with unsteady steps, he took in the shadows that were cast by the stone gables across the cobbled street. Light, dark, light, dark, light, dark, like a hundred dawns and dusks strewn across the ground, like the days of the dead kings ahead, spread for the counting. Unending, light and dark, Rath Dinen twisted away out of sight, down to the last doors of doom, of death. On he followed, drawn like a moth to a lantern in the night. Around the last bend he espied the mammoth dome of the Houses of the Stewards standing silent, guarding its dead. Faramir stopped at the base of the steps, looking upward into shadow at the silent stone hall where a father had tried to kill his son. And as a breeze whispered over him, whirling down the alley, Faramir faltered, for he could smell on the wind the dreadful scent of burned flesh. A sudden moan escaped him, horrified him. "Oh," he groaned, "How could you?" His knees weakened and he began to stumble, but a strong hand caught his elbow and guided him to a seat on the steps.
After a long moment with his face buried in his hands, Faramir raised his eyes and met the gray-eyed gaze of Beregond. The soldier was clad in silver armor and cloaked with green and silver. He carried in his arms a plain silver helm, not the Numenorean sea-helm which distinguished the Guard of the Citadel, and his cloak was plain, unadorned. There was a grim set to his mouth. "Rest a moment, my lord," he said, kneeling awkwardly at Faramir's side. "Perhaps you are not well enough to be out so far from the Houses of Healing."
Faramir gave a wry smile. "I felt I could not lie abed when war has come. My feet begged me to roam and my mind would not rest, so I thought I would see what I could of the war host." He looked at Beregond's clumsy position and motioned to the steps next to him. "Please." With a deep sigh and the creak of armor Beregond settled to a seat at Faramir's side. "Should you not be with your men? They need their leader, my friend." Beregond set his jaw and Faramir could see the dull cast of sorrow in his eyes. There was a long pause, and Faramir felt a clutch of fear grow in his stomach. Finally Beregond spoke, in a voice barely audible.
"If I am to be honest, I know not for how long I shall be with them, lord. Even if I live through what is to come my life is forfeit, for I left my post at time of battle and killed in the sacred Hallows. It is perhaps best that I do fall in battle, for then my son shall not live with the stain of having a father put to death for dereliction, for murder." At mention of his son Beregond's eyes grew bright and his face pale. "I only wish he need not know that his father was a traitor to his post."
"Beregond, my friend, brave man of Gondor, you are not a traitor." Faramir gripped Beregond's shoulder and sought his eyes. "If not for you I too would be dead, consumed by that fire of madness that killed my father."
Beregond looked steadfastly at his hands. "I weep for the men I killed, who were so devoted to their master. They stood before me and defied my sword, willing to die to follow his commands, however mad. Unquestioning devotion while I denied my duty."
Faramir's own heart twinged with sorrow as he thought, "Alas that brave blood was shed to save only me."
"Ah, Lord Faramir, is this the end of us all?" The bluntness of Beregond's question roused Faramir from his thoughts. "Can men overcome this horror? Evil is strong, so strong..." Beregond shook his head. "Will my son see the glory of Gondor restored? Or will he look back on these days as the twilight of his people? Will he live to look back at all?" Questions poured from him like water, words tumbling out one after another and his hands clutched one another, gnarled and grasping in his despair.
Faramir paused, his heart pained for his comrade. "It is your lot to fight to the end, dear Beregond. It is difficult to see the light, to know whether dawn will follow this long night. But you must fight for your son. Perhaps the blood of Gondor can wash the darkness away and bring a new day for the children." He forced a chuckle. "I long to go with you on this great adventure, friend, but it is my lot to stand and watch you all march away. How empty the city will seem, for first the women and children fled and now the men go out to battle. I don't know if the city has ever seemed so lonely."
Both men lapsed into silence, absorbed in their own thoughts and unable to speak any more of what was in their hearts. Finally Beregond nodded and stood, then helped Faramir to his feet. His eyes sought to meet Faramir's. Deep lines etched his mouth, and his eyes were again bright. "My lord, I am loathe to ask you this favor, but my heart would be eased if I knew."
"Anything, friend. I owe you my life." Faramir took Beregond's hand in his own.
After a short moment, Beregond said quietly, "I ask that you look after my son. Whether I lose my life in battle or lose it to the traitor's gallows, I would die knowing he will be well raised. His mother can take good enough care, but he must have someone teach him to be a man. He has a grandsire at Lossarnach, but old men are not meant for raising rambunctious young lads. Through the years I have known you, you have proved yourself to be a man of quality. Please teach him to be a man of whom I could be proud."
Quality...quality...The words echoed in Faramir's head and he gripped Beregond's hand all the tighter. "I shall see to it that Bergil grows into a man that any soldier of Gondor would be proud of. If he is half the man his father is, there is no need for fear." Beregond's chin quivered and Faramir, abandoning all pretense of lordship, grasped his friend in a crushing embrace. "Be safe, my friend. Come back whole for your son, and for me."
Beregond clapped him several times on the back, harrumphing to cover his shaky breaths. Faramir released him and Beregond looked at his face for a long moment. Then he said in a quiet voice, "I would do it again, you know. I would save you again." With that he turned away, dashing at his face, and walked swiftly up Silent Street toward the Closed Door. Faramir looked after him, pursing his mouth against the tears. He sat down again on the cold stone steps and shut his eyes. Above the scent of death and flesh on the air, the odor of fire and filth, he could smell the river. The river smelled like life.