The first rays of sunlight filtered through the thin, gauzy curtains and delicately kissed Alana's face, coaxing her from her restful sleep. She woke with a contented sigh, a blissful smile gracing her lips as she basked in the peaceful tranquility of the morning.
Her body felt pleasantly sore, a lingering reminder of the passionate night she had shared with Faramir. She stretched luxuriously, savoring every sensation that still lingered within her. With a soft exhale, she reached out for her lover, expecting to feel his warm, solid form beside her. But all she encountered was cool, empty sheets, reminding her that their time together had come to an end for now.
Puzzled, she sat up, hugging the covers to her bare chest. The door to the room opened suddenly. Faramir stepped into the room, a tender smile gracing his handsome face as his eyes met Alana's. In his hands, he carried a tray laden with a sumptuous breakfast - eggs, bacon, and the most wonderful smelling bread.. The aroma wafted through the room, mingling with the scent of their lingering passion.
"Good morning," Faramir greeted her, his voice soft and filled with adoration. He set the tray down on the bedside table and perched on the edge of the bed, reaching out to gently caress Alana's cheek.
Alana leaned into his touch, her heart swelling with the depth of her love for this man. "Good morning" she murmured, capturing his hand and pressing a tender kiss to his palm. "This is…nice."
Faramir's eyes sparkled with mischief as he leaned in closer, his lips a mere breath away from her lips. She leaned in, basking in the feeling of his lips on hers.
"I also had your friend bring down your pack." Faramir said, gesturing to the worn pack that was sitting on the floor beside the table. Alana's eyes widened in surprise as she glanced at the familiar pack. She had almost forgotten about her journey and the quest that lay ahead of her. The blissful moments with Faramir had temporarily erased the weight of her responsibilities.
With a sigh, she pulled away from Faramir's embrace and slipped out of the bed, the cool air caressing her bare skin. She padded over to the pack and crouched down, rummaging through its contents until she found the clothing that she wanted. A simple pair of pants and a tunic was all she would need until she could fetch her armor from her chambers. She knew she couldn't linger here much longer, no matter how much her heart yearned to stay in Faramir's arms.
Faramir approached her from behind, his strong arms encircling her waist as he pressed a gentle kiss to her shoulder. "I know we must go," he whispered, his breath warm against her skin. "But know that you will be in my thoughts as this war plays out. I fear I've grown rather attached." Alana chuckled at his choice of words.
Alana turned in Faramir's embrace, draping her arms around his neck as she gazed into his eyes. "I fear I've grown rather attached as well," she admitted softly, a wistful smile playing on her lips.
"Now you should put some clothes on before I clear this table and ravish you upon it." Faramir whispered in her ear. She blushed crimson pushing him away. He chuckled, giving her behind a light smack.
With nimble fingers, Alana hastily dressed, her cheeks flushed from Faramir's bold words that still echoed in her mind. She could feel his intense gaze upon her, a mixture of desire and amusement flickering in his eyes.
"My father has summoned me," Faramir informed her.
"I'll come with you," she replied quickly, finishing the laces on her trousers. Before darting towards the door to join him, she snatched an egg and a piece of bread from the plate he had brought. The scent of fresh bread filled her nostrils as she took a bite, relishing its warm and comforting taste before following Faramir out into the bustling streets.
As they made their way through the winding streets of the city, Alana couldn't help but notice the tension in the air. The people they passed wore expressions of worry and fear, their hushed whispers carrying tales of the impending war. Faramir walked with purpose, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, ready to face whatever challenges lay ahead.
The towering spires of the citadel loomed before them as they approached the grand entrance. The guards, clad in gleaming armor, bowed their heads in respect as Faramir and Alana passed through the heavy wooden doors. The cool stone walls seemed to absorb the sounds of their footsteps, creating an eerie silence that hung in the air.
Alana lingered silently by the doorway, her gaze fixed on Pippin as he swung his feet back and forth from the high stone bench. The oversized Citadel Guard uniform hung loosely over his small frame, causing him to appear even more diminutive than usual. His face was etched with uncertainty as he muttered to himself, eyes locked on the ill-fitting tunic.
"What were you thinking, Peregrin Took? What use could a hobbit possibly be to a great lord of men?"
The sight tugged at Alana's heartstrings. Though she had grown accustomed to the chaos that accompanied Pippin, she had also grown fond of him. Seeing him doubt himself triggered a protective instinct within her. She was about to approach and offer some words of encouragement when the door at the far end of hall creaked open.
Faramir entered, his movements measured and composed as he commanded the attention of everyone in the room. His presence radiated a quiet authority, yet there was a tenderness to him that sharply contrasted with his father. Alana had noticed it before - the way Faramir led not with force but with empathy and understanding. She stepped back, giving him space to speak first.
In his calm and gentle voice, Faramir addressed Pippin. "You have done well, Peregrin. An act of generosity should never be met with cold judgment."
Pippin hopped off the bench, standing at attention as Faramir approached. Alana remained nearby, observing their interaction with admiration. Faramir had a way of making people feel seen and valued in ways that his father never could. It was a trait she greatly respected.
"You are to join the Tower Guard," Faramir announced, stopping in front of Pippin and adjusting his uniform.
Pippin glanced down at the oversized attire, still uncertain. "I didn't think they could find any livery that would fit me."
Faramir let out a warm chuckle, his eyes softening with nostalgia as he gazed at the small wooden sword in Pippin's hands. "It once belonged to a young boy of the city," he began, a hint of amusement in his voice. "A very foolish one who wasted many hours slaying dragons instead of attending his studies."
Pippin's face brightened with curiosity and admiration. "This was yours?" he asked, eyeing the intricately crafted design of the toy sword.
Faramir smiled gently, his gaze turning wistful. "Yes, my father had it made for me," he replied, his voice laced with bittersweet memories.
Pippin puffed out his chest, trying to appear dignified in the too-large uniform he wore. "Well, I'm taller than you were then," he declared proudly. "Though I'm not likely to grow anymore - except maybe sideways."
Laughter echoed through the hall, a welcome break from the heavy atmosphere of war that hung over them. Even Alana, who had been standing silently by Faramir's side, couldn't help but join in with a soft chuckle. It was a rare moment of levity, one they all cherished deeply.
But as the laughter subsided, so did Faramir's smile. His gaze turned distant and troubled, memories of his father and brother pulling him back into the weight of their family's legacy. He looked away, his voice growing quieter now.
"It never quite fit me either," Faramir confessed softly. "Boromir was always the soldier - they were so alike, he and my father. Proud, stubborn, but strong."
Alana felt a familiar tension return to the room. She had witnessed this before - how even the smallest mention of Boromir or Denethor would trigger a flood of memories for Faramir, and with it, the weight of expectations he could never quite meet. She stepped closer, her hand gently resting on his arm in a silent show of support.
"Your strength is different from Boromir's, Faramir," she said softly, her voice steady but filled with emotion. "You don't need to be like him to prove yourself. You see things clearly, with wisdom and compassion. That's what truly makes you strong."
Faramir's piercing gaze met hers, his eyes filled with a mixture of gratitude and sorrow. Alana could see the pain etched into his features, the constant struggle to live up to the expectations of his stern father. She had always admired Faramir's unyielding perseverance, but she couldn't help but feel a pang of sadness knowing that it stemmed from such deep hurt.
Pippin, ever the optimist, chimed in with a small but sincere smile. "She's right. You have a different kind of strength. And one day, your father will see it."
Faramir's lips curved into a faint smile, but the sadness lingered in his eyes. "Perhaps," he said softly. "I can only hope."
Alana's hand instinctively tightened on his arm, offering him quiet support in the midst of their conversation. She had known Faramir for years, and could sense the weight he carried on his shoulders, the shadow that Boromir's death had cast over his relationship with their father. "Boromir may have been the warrior Denethor admired," she said gently, "but you are the leader Gondor needs now."
Their gazes locked for a moment, and there was an unspoken understanding between them - years of shared battles, of silently supporting each other through struggles that only they could truly comprehend. Alana knew what it felt like to be overlooked and underestimated, constantly fighting for recognition from those who held power over them. In that moment, she and Faramir shared a bond that went deeper than words.
Meanwhile, in the main hall, Alana stood at the edge of the room, her cloak drawn tightly around her as she watched the proceedings unfold before her. Pippin knelt before Denethor's imposing chair, his small form looking even smaller in comparison. His voice trembled as he began to speak, and Alana could feel the weight of the moment bearing down on him. As much as she wanted to offer him reassurance, she knew that it was not her place - not now, not in front of their father.
"Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, in peace or war, in living or dying, from…" Pippin hesitated, casting a quick glance at Denethor, who watched him with a cold smile. The pause lingered just long enough for everyone in the room to feel the tension. Alana held her breath, willing Pippin to continue.
"…from this hour henceforth, until my lord release me or death take me."
"And I shall not forget it," Alana held her breath, aware of the cold smile on Denethor's face as he watched the hobbit. The pause that followed was tense, each person in the room feeling it in their bones. Pippin hesitated briefly, but then continued on with his vow.
The Steward rose from his seat, approaching Pippin with a deliberate grace. His smooth voice carried no warmth as he spoke.
"I shall not forget it," he said, extending his hand to Pippin. The ring on his finger glinted menacingly as he held it out. For a moment, Pippin faltered, but then he bowed his head and kissed the ring, clearly uncomfortable under Denethor's gaze. Alana tightened her grip on her cloak, feeling the tension crackle in the air.
With a single finger, Denethor lifted Pippin's chin and gazed at him with an empty smile. "Fealty with love," he said before turning away to the table laden with food. It was as if the small ceremony had never happened; Denethor's attention was already elsewhere. Alana couldn't help but feel frustrated at how easily her lord dismissed Pippin's loyalty, as if it meant nothing to him.
"Valour with honour," Denethor continued, pouring himself a goblet of wine. His eyes flickered towards Faramir, standing silently at the side of the hall. "Disloyalty with vengeance."
A sharp pain shot through Alana's chest at Denethor's words. She knew exactly who they were directed towards - Faramir. It was always like this - compare him to his brother, hold him to impossible standards, never acknowledging the man standing right in front of him. Alana bit her lip, fighting the urge to speak out. She knew her place in this hall and it wasn't her battle to fight.
Denethor lowered himself into his chair with a calculating expression, his sharp eyes surveying the room with a hawk-like intensity. "I do not think we should so lightly abandon the outer defenses," he said, his voice laced with skepticism. "Defenses that your brother long held intact."
Beside her, Faramir tensed, though his face remained stoic. Alana could feel the tension radiating from him, knowing all too well how much it pained him to constantly be compared to Boromir's heroic legacy - a legacy that their father wielded as a weapon.
Faramir's voice was steady, but the strain in it was evident. "What would you have me do?" he asked, his tone tinged with frustration and inner turmoil.
Denethor swirled his wine nonchalantly, dismissing Faramir's concerns. "I will not yield the River and Pelennor unfought. Osgiliath must be retaken."
Alana felt her breath catch in her throat at his words. She knew what this meant - Osgiliath had already fallen. It was now overrun with Orcs, a lost cause. To send Faramir back there would be nothing short of suicide.
Glancing at Faramir, she saw the tightness in his posture and the quiet resignation that had settled over him."My lord, Osgiliath is overrun," Faramir stated firmly, his voice betraying only a hint of the despair he must have felt upon witnessing the ruin first-hand and barely escaping with his life.
Denethor's gaze turned cold as he looked at his son. "Much must be risked in war," he declared callously. "Is there still a captain among us who has the courage to do his lord's bidding?"
Alana's chest tightened, her heart aching for Faramir. She could feel the weight of Denethor's accusation hanging heavy in the air, bearing down on her beloved. Though she wanted to speak up and defend him, the words caught in her throat and all she could do was watch as Faramir struggled internally, torn between his duty and the knowledge that his father was sending him to certain death.
The weight of unspoken pain carried in Faramir's voice, like a river swollen with sorrow. "You wish now that our places had been exchanged," he said quietly, his words heavy with the burden of years. "That I had died and Boromir had lived."
Tears stung Alana's eyes as she watched him speak. She knew all too well the sting of a father's favoritism, the wound that never fully healed. It was a wound Denethor had reopened with his callous words.
"And do you wish that as well, my lord?" Faramir's tone was steady, but she could see the hurt behind his facade.
Denethor didn't hesitate in his response. "Yes, I wish that," he said with no hint of remorse in his voice.
A sharp exhale escaped Alana's lips, but she remained silent. This wasn't her fight—not here, not in front of Denethor. Her heart ached for Faramir, but she knew she couldn't interfere.
Faramir stood there, his face unreadable as he processed his father's words. Then, with a quiet bow of his head, he spoke in a tone of quiet resignation. "Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will do what I can in his stead."
He turned to leave, and Alana's heart sank. She knew what this meant—Faramir was going to Osgiliath. She wanted to chase after him, to plead with him not to go, but she remained rooted to the spot.
Faramir paused at the doorway, his voice filled with desperation and longing. "If I should return," he said softly, "think better of me, Father."
But Denethor's response was cold and dismissive. "That will depend on the manner of your return."
Faramir's broad shoulders slumped for just a moment, the weight of his duty and the impending danger ahead taking its toll. Alana stood nearby, her throat constricting with unshed tears as she watched him steel himself for what was to come. She wanted to reach out and hold him, to provide any semblance of comfort she could, but she knew he needed to face this alone.
With a determined step forward, Faramir led the way into the great hall where Denethor awaited them. His stern gaze flicked towards Alana, his voice cutting through the heavy silence.
"The girl stays here," Denethor said firmly, his eyes holding a steely determination. "You go alone."
Alana's heart seemed to stop as she turned towards Denethor, pleading silently with her eyes. But his resolve was unbreakable - he would not allow her to accompany Faramir on this dangerous mission.
She stood frozen, her trembling hands clenched at her sides. Every instinct in her screamed to fight against this decision, to argue for her place by Faramir's side. But she knew it was futile - Denethor had spoken and there was no changing his mind. With a bitter taste in her mouth, she forced out the words:
"As you wish, my lord." Before turning to follow Faramir out of the hall and into the unknown dangers that awaited them outside.