Sorry, friends, for the delay in posting. Writer's block to the nth degree, I fear. Please read and review, and if there is a scene you would like to see, please let me know. Perhaps you can jog this wretched block for me. As usual, none of it is mine. Else I would have Faramir fixing my broken garage door opener.
Shafts of sun shone through the high windows of the Tower Hall in dust-filled motes, lighting the statues of dead kings in stark relief. The glow warmed the marble floors, sending up glints like sparks as it struck the golden inlays, swathing the room with creamy golden light. But as the light passed on the floors dulled, darkened, shrouding their brilliance in the shadows. They swept across the room, lengthening as the afternoon wore on, creeping ever nearer to the foot of the king's dais.
Faramir sat silently in the gloom, watching the journey of the sun across the vast hall. He sat not in his rightful place, the Seat of the Steward, but in a simple wooden chair, straight-backed and unadorned. His hand lay loosely across his knee, upon which rested the Rod of the Steward, gleaming white against the mirk. His gray eyes roamed the room, resting upon each king's statue in turn. There was Telemnar, his face lined with deep crags and his eyes serious as though remembering the plague that laid low his family and his people. Further on was Ondoher, ever young in his stone facade, his legendary merriment captured by a slight crinkle in the corners of his eyes, ignoring his dark fate at the hands of the Wainriders. Every face a story, a death, yet who remembers them now, as doom knocks at the gates, thought Faramir. As his eyes fell finally upon the stern visage of Earnur, last king of Gondor, he thought, What would Earnur have done in my stead? He would not have sat in gathering darkness, letting his men march away to fight his battle. He would fight like a madman, to his last breath. Maybe even beyond if Lord Aragorn's story of the army of the dead is true.
Faramir did not move even as his ears caught the distant scuff of bootsteps on stone. His heart sank a bit for he wished only to be alone, but the massive doors of the hall swung open, noiseless on their well-kept hinges, and a dark figure stepped in, backlit by the fading afternoon light. Faramir watched wordlessly as Aragorn walked slowly along the row of statues, pausing at each to take in the features of every face, drinking in the images of his ancestors like a man long denied water. As his eyes alit at last upon Earnur, Aragorn broke his silence. "The last of the line of ancient kings. Humiliated by the Witch King, he allowed his pride to drive him to doom, to fight a battle he knew he could not win. He chose to die rather than endure imagined disgrace. He put his own pride ahead of the good of the people, and thus he failed them." Aragorn's eyes never left the dark stone face. "A mark of wisdom is knowing when one must leave conceit behind and do what is best for one's charges."
Faramir quirked a mirthless smile and shook his head slightly. "Man is so smitten with arrogance, is he not? He thinks so highly of himself."
Aragorn's reply was quiet and Faramir had to strain to catch his words. "But by the same token, a man should never short himself. He must know who he is, and be satisfied with it. A man who fears his destiny is useless to everyone." Aragorn was still staring into the face of Earnur, and suddenly Faramir had a strange sense that Aragorn was not referring to him.
Faramir sat mutely for a long moment, his mind racing to the moment that he realized Aragorn's true identity as King of Gondor. It was full of mixed emotion, from sadness to pride to, strangely, relief. He felt as though a load had been lifted, yet that feeling seemed a betrayal to his father. Denethor's truest pride was that he would pass the rule of Gondor to his sons, but Boromir's fall laid a strange and heavy burden upon Faramir. Denethor made it clear that he feared that Faramir was not worthy of the title of Steward, and Aragorn's appearance meant he would never be proven right. Yet being left behind for the final conflict would in some way be an admission of failure, a point that Denethor would have been keen to make. In his mind's eye he could see the look on his father's face, a mix of triumph and loathing. Shaking the image from his head, Faramir broke the heavy silence. "I shall speak plainly, my lord," he said, and marveled at how unfamiliar it was to call anyone but his father lord. "I do not wish to miss this final engagement. To watch my men march away might be more than I could bear. I ask that you allow me to ride forth with you. Do not leave me behind, lord, I beg you."
Aragorn's dark gaze flicked from the statue to Faramir. "Should this battle go ill the people who have been scattered shall need a leader to look to. They shall need a guide in whom they can place their entire trust, for the future shall be dark indeed." His eyes softened slightly but Faramir did not see, for he had cast his gaze again upon the floor. "I have spoken long with the captains of this city. They think highly of you, Faramir, and told me that they would follow you to the gates of Mordor to battle Sauron himself."
"All the more reason for me to ride with you, lord," interrupted Faramir, anguish twisting his mouth. "If I can give them courage for this terrible moment I shall have proven my worth."
Aragorn shook his head. "Yet if the tide turns against men, Sauron shall come to the gates of Gondor. It is then that our people will need their greatest courage, and not only men, but women and children. They shall need you, Captain, in those darkest of moments, for they love you and would follow you wherever you led. I have not yet earned that trust, so your men do not follow me from love, but from duty. But love may save our people, if I fail in my journey. You must stay here, as hard as it seems, in case I fail, for then Gondor's hope lies with you." Aragorn paused, weighing his words. "You will rule Gondor, should I not return. The line of the Stewards must not end with you."
Faramir met Aragorn's eyes, his face grieved but resigned. "I understand my lord. Think not less of me that I pled to ride forth with you. Perhaps Earnur's blood runs somewhere in my veins and my pride would not allow me to see where my true duty lies."
Aragorn smiled. "I would question you if you did not wish to ride with us. But where Earnur failed, you have succeeded, for you understand that the good of the people is higher than your own sense of honor."
Faramir nodded, absently running a hand across his forehead. "What would you have me do, lord?" he asked.
Aragorn's jaw tightened and he lifted his chin. "I would have you take your rightful place, Steward of Gondor." Faramir's face paled and before he could stop himself he shook his head. Aragorn's brow furrowed and he softened his tone. "Your father was a hard man, Faramir. Yes, I did know him, and knew the power of his voice, of his animosity. And Boromir told me of his ill-treatment of you. But you mustn't allow the memory of his disapproval to destroy your spirit. You have the power to be the greatest steward that Gondor has ever seen, if you can unearth your own value in your heart." He paused, searching for words. "I will release you from the post, if you wish it, though it would cause me much regret. But you must remember that the shadow of your past can destroy you, or it can give you strength. You must choose."
Faramir did not stir in his wooden chair, his gaze focused upon some distant point beyond Aragorn's shoulder. His father's face was fixed in his mind, distaste curling his mouth into a sneer of derision, wordlessly proclaiming his disgust with his youngest son, his rage that Faramir should be the one to take up the Rod of the Steward. But with a sudden rush of warmth Faramir's thoughts turned to his brother, his best friend, and the look of pride that he had prized and sought so jealously. A smile tugged his mouth for he could hear Boromir's voice in his head. Brother, do not be a fool. You know your place and what you must do. You must redeem the memory of our family, for only you could resist the power of the ring, and thus only you remain. Reclaim the honor of our house.
Wordlessly, Faramir rose, pushing the wooden chair away with unfeeling hands. He stood in front of the Seat of the Steward, staring down at it, his soul conflicted. But he summoned again the face of Boromir, turned, and sank slowly into the throne of his father. Aragorn met his eye and nodded, then turned without a word and strode purposefully away, hands locked behind his back, and Faramir suddenly realized with a grim smile that Aragorn's sole purpose in coming to the Hall was to persuade him to take his place on low step of the dais. Faramir leaned back into the seat, the cool of the marble seeping through his tunic, and he surveyed the room from his new perch. It felt odd, but not wrong, and afforded him a new view of the high window at the rear of the room. The last light of the setting sun fingered its way through the leaden glass, casting a last patch of warmth on the stone floor, and it shone like hope.