Faramir Fiction Archive

For Gondor (PG-13)

Written by Wyndhamfan

13 February 2012 | 4273 words | Work in Progress

Title: For Gondor
Author: Wyndhamfan
Genre: Angst, Action/Adventure
Characters: Faramir, Boromir, Denethor
Rated: PG-13

Summary: A terrible dream haunts Faramir; a dream that points to the doom of Gondor. Faramir is forced to go against his brother and the decree of his father Denethor to save Gondor from a terrible fate. (Movie-verse, though I try to keep to canon as best as I can)

Disclaimer: Nope, Faramir, Boromir, Denethor and other LOTR characters do not belong to me. This story is written for non-profit purposes.

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Chapter One: Blood Red

It always began with a scream.

And despite knowing what he would see, he could not stop himself from watching the horror of it all.

And the woman, her hair stained with the blood of those who were killed around her, screamed again. She held out her hands – always she held out her hands – and she begged for mercy. And a boy, his eyes empty, with tear tracks running down his soot-stained cheeks. Fire surrounded them both.

“Please! Help us! Help us! Why won’t you help us?” the woman screamed. Her eyes met his. It was then when he became paralysed. He wanted to go forward to help the woman, but his body would not move.

Their screams mingled with laughter, loud and shrill in his ears, but he couldn’t cover his ears and he couldn’t turn away. By the Valar, it took so long for the screaming to stop.

Faramir recoiled from it all and suddenly he was lifted up; he flew above the fields. He saw that they were burning; miles and miles of it.

The sustenance of Gondor is gone. Winter will come. Men will starve. Gondor will fall!

He knew not who spoke, and he was filled with too much fear to wonder for long, for he was flying too high and he could not stop. And his gaze travelled upwards.

The moon was blood red.

“No!” Faramir breathed as he jerked upright in his bed. He shivered violently from the cold – whether from the horrors of the dream or from the cold air in his room, he knew not – and wrapped his arms around his body.

It took him a moment to recollect where he was. He was in Minas Tirith, summoned by his father, the Steward. He had ridden long and hard from Ithilien because the summons were urgent; it had the scent of war on it. And although he had longed to visit Boromir when he finally arrived at Minas Tirith late at night, he knew that Boromir needed rest, especially after the devastating attack on his men a fortnight ago.

The dream had stolen whatever desire he had left for sleep. He quickly put on a simple tunic and grabbed his bow which lay by his side. Perhaps an archery practise could take his mind off the disturbing dream.

As he walked towards the practise range on fifth level of the city, his mind still dwelt on the dream.

This is the fourth time I’ve had this dream. And it has become worse. Ever do I see the boy burning; even in my waking hours do I smell the stench of burning flesh.

Faramir recoiled at that thought. He turned towards the moon as he always did after the dream, to check if it was blood red. It was not. Nor was it red the last three times he checked. Tonight, the moon was barely full, and it was bright and yellow – the same moon that he had watched all his life.

An old Gondorian wives’ tale said that the moon once turned red during the battle between the Alliance of Men and Elves with the minions of Sauron in the Second Age. “The moon became drunk with the blood of elves and men, and it turned bloody from it,” Ioreth, the aged healer, used to tell him as a child during his rare visits to the Houses of Healing.

I am now certain that the burning fields I saw were the Fields of Enedh Aes. Will it come to pass? He wondered. Then he frowned and wondered in despair: When will the dreams end? Must my life ever be plagued by such things? Isn’t it enough that I dream of Númenor’s fall?

For the nightmares were robbing him of strength and alertness. And alertness is something a Ranger could not afford to lose. Only yesterday, while tracking a group of Southron men, he had suddenly heard the boy’s screams. Shocked by the sudden intrusion, he had nearly released the arrow he was aiming at the enemy party. If he had done so, the enemy would have known their position and the element of surprise would have been gone. His rangers, so few in number, would have suffered for it. He could not afford such carelessness. Not in Ithilien!

And he was weary, so very weary of the screams.

A sudden sound to his right made him ready his bow. Then he chuckled when he saw who it was.

“Why, little brother? Did you think I am an enemy from Mordor?” Boromir said, a big smile on his face, as he walked towards Faramir.

“No brother. You’re far too shiny!” He rapped Boromir’s armour and lifted an eyebrow. “What are you doing, walking around in armour in the middle of the night?”

“Middle of the night? Brother, it is nearly dawn! And the council will meet in an hour. Besides, I can’t sleep. What else can I do?”

Although his brother’s words were light, Faramir detected heaviness in them. He watched Boromir; he noticed the lines of weariness around his eyes and the tightness of his smile. Aye … his brother was still grieved over what happened two weeks ago. Ai, who wouldn’t be?

“Brother. Have you been sleeping well?”

Bromir looked surprised at the sudden change of topic. Then he snorted. “Ever do you try to look into my heart, little brother. I’ve had enough of that from father the last two weeks.”

Faramir looked away, unsure of how to respond to that. He turned when Boromir placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry, Faramir. My words were rash.”

Faramir gave Boromir a small smile. “You are grieving. I will not fault you for that.”

The tightness around Boromir’s eyes increased. “Come. Walk with me,” Boromir murmured.

They walked in silence for a time … until they reached the edge overlooking the Pelennor Fields. Faramir shivered, thinking about the burning fields of Enedh Aes, but forced himself to think of his brother instead. Boromir needed his support in this difficult time most.

“You’ve heard about my southern garrison?”

Faramir nodded. “Yes. It was attacked by the Corsairs.”

“And Easterlings using their ships to traverse the Anduin,” Boromir whispered bitterly, his eyes fixed on the crossroads of Pelennor. “The outlying villages were burnt to the ground. My men fought valiantly but by the time word reached me in Osgiliath, and by the time I brought reinforcements, many were dead. It is the manner of their deaths that angered me! Nay … it sickened me.”

Faramir frowned at that. All he had heard was that Boromir’s men had suffered great losses and Boromir had been denied the chance of even fighting the enemy. He had heard that Boromir was also grieved by the number of villages that were destroyed.

“These monsters – be it Easterlings or the men of Umbar, I do not know – they tortured my men for hours, Faramir!” Overcome, Boromir turned away from him. Faramir saw that his were shoulders shaking from tension.

When his brother turned back, Faramir shivered in anxiety at the depths of hatred he saw in his eyes. It was a hatred that thirsted for vengeance.

“They were tortured, Faramir,” Boromir said again, his voice low with controlled fury as if the reality of it was too much for him. “For hours. For they did not bleed to death immediately, and there were several little pools of blood beneath their bodies. When the enemy had tired of their sport, they -”

“Enough,” Faramir rasped, closing his eyes and turning away in despair. His nightmare was still fresh in his mind; Boromir’s recollection only worsened the faint screams of the boy that suddenly returned to his ears.

“I know not what to tell the families of my men,” Boromir whispered, anguish heavy in his voice. He sighed. A sudden wind from the north flung his blonde hair away from his face. “We’ve seen so much war, little brother. But never have I felt such thirst to inflict pain on the enemy.”

Faramir opened his eyes, stared at the Pelennor.

“Gondor’s enemies are getting bold. Ever do they press against us! I would see them pay for this … slight.”

“Our needs grow desperate,” Faramir murmured, more to himself that to Boromir.

“Yes, it does. But we shall see Gondor’s glory return, Faramir. We will!”

Will we, Boromir? Faramir wondered. Our numbers are few, and Gondor’s men grow exhausted from never-ending battles. Her enemies are many, her allies, few. Rohan is distracted – its King turned inward with grief. Who would come to aid us in this desperate time?

But he did not want to add to his brother’s grief, so he said, “Yes, we shall Boromir.”

“The Corsairs and the Easterlings will pay for their folly, Faramir,” his brother’s blue eyes glinted with malice. It made Faramir uncomfortable. “For this time, we shall strike first!” Boromir clasped Faramir’s shoulder. “And with my brother at my side, we shall not fail!”

It should fill him with pride that Boromir wanted him to fight by his side and that he regarded him so highly, so why is he filled with dread instead?

And his gaze travelled to the moon, and ever it teased him with prophecies of a future that may come to pass.

Chapter 2: Conflict between brothers

The sense of disquiet grew in Faramir during the council. Dressed as he was in his formal black tunic of rich silver embroidery, he felt as if the walls of the great hall were closing in and that his garb was choking the breath out of him.

“Our spies say that the Easterlings and the Corsairs are planning another attack. It is a force of a few thousand men heading towards the southern part of the Anduin. They plan to attack the villages further downstream – no doubt hoping to loot and destroy the villages that escaped their attention the last time,” said Boromir.

The council and the Captains of Gondor had gathered around a large table in the Hall. A large map was laid out on the table, which was used heavily by Boromir to explain his strategy. Lord Denethor stood facing away from the table, his brow heavy in deep thought.

The villagers are to be moved out. The soldiers will lie in wait in the villages for the raiding party. And since the villages are flanked by low-lying hills covered with thick forests, Faramir’s rangers will be needed to harry the enemy into a ready trap.

“My men are few, Boromir,” he cautioned. He saw his brother frown heavily, frustration shining in his eyes. Lord Denethor, meanwhile, shifted his gaze ever so slightly to his younger son. The grey eyes were sharp disapproval. As always. Faramir swallowed and returned his gaze to the map instead

“I will not ask you to withdraw too many men from Ithilien, Faramir. What I need are good archers who will push the enemy into the trap we have planned. Around twenty at most.”

Faramir felt the disquiet turn into panic. I need those men to protect Endh Aes! The thought was so startling because it had never occurred that he should protect the farmlands before. And every soldier in the Gondorian army knew that Endh Aes was impenetrable – it was far from the Anduin and isolated from the routes used by the enemy – orcs, Haradrim or Easterlings. It was the most peaceful and well-protected part of Gondor. If the enemy wanted to attack Endh Aes, they would have to first get past the watches at the Anduin and later, Minas Tirith. If they came from Rohan, which was most unlikely since the horse lords would never allow orcs to traverse their lands so freely, they still had to go through numerous watches and fortresses to get through. It was difficult to attack, and the effort would take months of combat.

The councilmen and the Captains shifted uneasily at his long silence, some looking at each other in discomfort.

“Do you mean to deny me your men, Captain?” Boromir asked quietly, fixing his blue eyes steadily on his. His tone was too much like Denethor’s for his liking.

Faramir shook his head immediately. “No … no, I do not mean that … my Lord.”

Boromir raised an eyebrow at his mode of address. Faramir had to admit that it was his little revenge at Boromir calling him Captain.

“I merely …” he cleared his throat and fixed his eyes on Boromir’s steadily, hoping that his anxiety would not show through. “I mean that Gondor has many excellent archers besides the Rangers.”

“Who will be needed on the ground. The Rangers are best at harrying the enemy; my men are best on the ground,” he said.

It was his turn to shift uneasily. Boromr spoke to him patiently, but it was clear that he was irritated that Faramir would question his battle strategy. But in truth, Faramir was desperate to hold on to his men; the illogical drive made him pause again. He tried to find a reason for his strange urge but no answers came.

“Of course, brother. I … I will give you my best men.”

“And you will be one of them.”

It was not a request.

“Yes, of course” he said, hoping his voice sounded certain.

But in reality, he felt as if he was making a terrible mistake.

Their father, on the other hand, watched the uncomfortable exchange with heavy disapproval.

The Steward’s sons were expected to dine with their father every night after their return to Minas Tirith. Faramir dreaded this duty, as it was always fraught with tension and uncomfortable silences – at least for his part. Boromir often tried to defuse the tension by deflecting Denethor’s attention from Faramir to him by regaling tales of successful battles. It worked, for most part, but tonight, Faramir knew that he would not be spared as Boromir was too preoccupied with the coming battle for such word games. Of course, he was also still probably angry at what he did this morning.

They dined in stilted silence for many minutes. Then the Steward, while cutting into a piece of meat, said in a low voice: “I trust that you are in agreement with your brother now, Faramir?”

Faramir took time to chew, willing his heart to stop beating so fast. He cast a discreet glance at his brother, which Bromir returned, but Faramir could not read what was behind his eyes.

“Yes, father,” he said after a while. He readied himself for the cutting words that were sure to come.

“It would not do for the two captains of Gondor to disagree so publicly,” Denethor said, giving Faramir a steely glare. “You are my sons, and you are to show unity at all times. If you disagree with your brother, Faramir, disagree in private before you air your unpleasantries in public.”

“Father-” Boromir protested.

Denethor had only to shift his sharp glare to his oldest son for Boromir to be silenced. When Boromir looked down at his plate in dismay, Denethor returned to pierce Faramir with his glare.

“When your brother is Steward, am I to expect a challenge to his rule from you, Faramir?”

The question stabbed Faramir’s heart, for Denethor was questioning his loyalty to his brother – whom he loved more than life.

“I will rather die than betray him. Father,” his voice trembled despite his best efforts to stay calm. How lowly must his father think of him, to think that his son was capable of such treachery!

Silence for a long time, then Denethor returned to his meal and said, “Good. Be sure to remember your words, Faramir.”

Faramir concentrated on his meal, ignoring the presence of those around him, so he did not notice Boromir look anxiously at him.

He watched the moon again, willing his heart to stop stabbing him with unease at the thought of saying yes to his brother’s plan. Defend the southern part of the Anduin – it was a good plan, a very noble plan. It could tilt the never-ending war to Gondor’s favour. Yet he knew it was wrong. It was the how and why that he found difficult to explain.

He shifted his stare to the distant horizon of Mordor. How you haunt us, Mordor! How you plague us with your plans!

He had once lamented to Mithrandir, on one of his rare visits, about how he wished he was not the Steward’s son. He didn’t want to be Boromir, and yet he did not want to be Faramir either. As the Steward’s son his responsibility was to wage war against Gondor’s enemies – he hated war, despite how good he was in the use of bow and sword. He wished only to study the fascinating lore buried in the ancient library’s archives. And he did not want to bear the wounds of war or his father’s disappointment.

“Sometimes I feel like I would break in two from these burdens,” he had said. He had been 16 that summer, newly minted as a soldier of Gondor. Although he had performed well, and his commander was pleased, he had hated the thought of ending another’s life – even if he was the enemy. He had killed ten men of Harad on his first few months as a soldier, and Boromir had congratulated him for his skill. He didn’t feel any joy from Boromir’s praise, and his father had looked into his heart then and scorned him for his pity.

“Would the Men of Harad offer you their pity, Faramir? They would rather slit your throat. Your thoughts are foolish!” the Steward had hissed.

Mithrandir had placed a gentle hand on his head and murmured, “You were born for a time such as this, Faramir, son of Denethor. There would come a day where you will put down your sword. But until then, you have to defend Gondor with a sword and bow. But do not scorn your pity for the men you killed, Faramir.”

He had looked at Mithrandir uncertainly then – for he had not told Mithrandir about his thoughts.

Mithrandir had given him a kind smile. “For it is this quality that makes a fine leader. And Gondor will have need of your leadership in the future.”

Faramir sighed at the memory, and closed his eyes as he enjoyed the cool breeze. Enigmatic words. Mithrandir always teased him with half-glimpses of the future. Yet, strangely, they brought him great comfort.

Of course, Father hated my friendship with the wizard and wanted me to have nothing to do with him. He sighed at that thought. His father expected total obedience from him in that matter (actually, in all matters) but he could not offer it. How could he turn away from a great friend like Mithrandir? So this continues to be one of the many sore points between them. He turned his thoughts elsewhere.

If it is my fate to kill for Minas Tirith I will gladly do so – if it means the safety of my father and Boromir … and the people of Gondor.

Yet, what is Minas Tirith but a duty to him? It was not home. Home was a place where you could find comfort and love, and he found little behind these stone walls. If so, home is where Boromir is, but he is often not here.

Up here, in the privacy of his room, safe from his Father’s piercing gaze, could he think such thoughts. Too weary to go on thinking, Faramir retreated to his bed, praying that his dream would not return.

The nightmare had returned.

And with greater ferocity. The screams were still ringing in his ears as he rushed out of his room, tunic badly fastened, hair flying around in a mess, heading towards the eastern side of the courtyard surrounding the family apartments. Shoulders shaking, Faramir clutched the balcony beams, willing the screams to leave.

He was making a mistake. He knew it deep in his heart now.

All his life he had this gift. When he was but a child of three he had foreseen his mother’s death and when he told his father of it Denethor had glared at him and bade him to stay silent. His mother Finduilas died two years later, and Denethor had looked at him strangely since. Over time, the strange looks became sharp words, and ever were they separated by a huge gulf that he could never cross. It was his dreams and visions that had caused this rift between them, and his father perhaps thought of him as an evil oracle who spoke only of doom. So he had since kept his dreams to himself – even Boromir was not told.

For he did not want his brother to turn away from him as well.

The doom of Gondor.

He covered his face with his hands and wanted to weep, but he could not. Weeping wasted time that he could not spare.

I’m making a mistake.

“Are you all right, Faramir?”

Startled, Faramir reached for the dagger hanging at his side instinctively. A hand held his and Faramir realised that it was Boromir.

“You seem troubled brother.”

How he longed to tell Boromir … but would he even understand? Boromir was a man of absolutes – he would not believe in shady dreams of half-seen prophecies. And furthermore, how could he burden him with more troubles?

So he remained quiet. Boromir sighed at that.

“Father loves you, you do know that?”

Boromir reminded him of that often. Faramir wished that he could believe him, for he saw so little evidence of his father’s love.

“So you tell me often. If only it was true,” he said bitterly.

“Faramir! He loves you. Do you think I lie?”

“Father thinks I could,” he replied shortly.

“But I do not. I know where your heart lies, and I know you will never betray me.” Boromir gripped his brother’s shoulder with a firm hand to emphasise his point, but Faramir merely gave Boromir a faint smile before returning his gaze to the Pelennor. The breeze blew his reddish hair across his face, obscuring his vision for a moment. He did not bother to brush it away. Boromir sighed after a while.

“Truly, what troubles you brother? Is it my strategy? Are you angry that I’m taking some of your men?”

Faramir’s eyes widened at that. “Boromir! You know my men are yours if you just command it. And … you know I can never stay angry at you for long.”

“And for that I am lucky,” Boromir smiled, then shifted uncomfortably. “I am sorry for my …” he coughed. “…impertinence at the council this morning.”

“Impertinent? You?” he laughed, partly because he was glad for the change of subject, but mostly because he suddenly had an image of Boromir as a sullen, pouty child. Then, more seriously he said: “You are burdened by your men’s deaths, Boromir. And weary. I wish you would rest and not worry so much. You know I will be behind you. I will always be with you, Boromir!” he gripped his brother’s shoulder. “If it ever comes to a choice … I will gladly sacrifice my life for you.”

“Faramir!” Boromir hissed, alarm in his eyes.

“And,” Faramir interrupted before Boromir could object, “I know you would do the same for me.”

Boromir grunted. Faramir knew he was struggling to find words to express his dissatisfaction at the idea that Faramir would die for him, but Faramir had driven him to a corner. If he had said as much, it would deny Faramir’s sense of honour and Boromir was too much of a soldier to do that.

“Come,” he patted Boromir’s shoulder. “I have something to show you.”

He led his brother into his room. He took out a box, which had been resting on his table, and handed it to Boromir.

Boromir’s eyes widened at what he saw inside. He took out the vambraces reverently and studied it with rapt eyes. They were two-piece leather vambraces with the Tree of Gondor, worked in silver, as its adornment. “The workmanship is excellent, Faramir,” he murmured in wonder.

“It is Master Adlith’s work.”

“I recognise it,” Boromir agreed, still admiring the vambraces.

“I notice that you often wear your steel vambraces while hunting – despite complaining that they were uncomfortable. I thought you needed real leather vambraces,” he grinned, amused at the look of pure delight on his brother’s face.

Boromir laughed and enveloped Faramir in a hug. “It’s a wonderful gift, Faramir! I will wear it gladly at all times.”

Humour sparkled in Faramir’s blue eyes. “It would look rather odd with your armour, however.”

Boromir merely slung an arm around Faramir’s shoulders. “Come! Let us drown ourselves in ale, little brother. I hear the tavern calling.”

Faramir gladly followed, and for an evening, he forgot his troubles.

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