Faramir Fiction Archive

Lingering Shadow (G)

Written by Shireling

21 May 2008 | 8798 words

Title; Lingering Shadow
Author; Shireling
Rating; G
Summary: A face for the past haunts Faramir and threatens his newly found happiness
Genre: mystery/ Drama
Disclaimer: Not mine, no matter how hard I wish!

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Chapter 1

Faramir, Steward of Gondor was a happy man. He had finally discovered a position and a role for himself that was not at odds with his nature. He had discovered, to his surprise, that he possessed a natural talent for administration, a talent he wielded with a firm but temperate hand. He had the happy knack of being able to guide and encourage those who worked with him to achieving more than they thought themselves capable; he was quick and generous with praise and gentle and diplomatic when pointing out mistakes and failings. He had earned the respect of his fellow councillors, even the old guard of Denethor’s council who were reluctant to change allegiance and forget old grievances. The new King was keenly aware of his Steward’s strengths and regarded the younger man with great respect and affection, an affection shared by all of those of the King’s closest circle of friends and family.

As the first anniversary of the King’s reign drew near, Faramir had taken upon himself the responsibility of overseeing the planned festivities. A ceremony of remembrance was planned to be followed by a festival to celebrate the recovery of the Gondor under the King’s benevolent care. A colourful city of tents and booths had sprung up on the Pelenor to accommodate the great influx of citizens expected to attend. Fire pits were already smouldering, barrels of ales were ready to be tapped and the temporary city was buzzing with activity and anticipation.

Having completed his final tour of inspection, Faramir, accompanied by his adjutant, Tamir, began the slow walk back up through the city gates, passing back and forth through the levels of the city. As they approached the Houses of Healing on the sixth level Faramir took a detour into the tranquil gardens and took a seat on a bench in the shade, indicating to Tamir to join him.

“Well, Tamir, have we forgotten anything?” he asked, closing his eyes and turning his face towards the sun.

“No, sir, I don’t believe so,” the young man replied, going through the sheaf of parchments and lists in his hand and ticking off a few final details. “Was there something I have overlooked, Sir?”

“No,” Faramir smiled at the youngster’s worried expression. “Relax, Tamir, it is all done. I have never seen the city looking better. Everything is ready.”

“You should rest, Sir. Tomorrow will be a long day and you will be kept busy.” Faramir no longer fretted over the youngster’s habit of mothering him. Tamir wasn’t the only one who thought he needed a keeper; both Arwen and Estel treated him like an indulged younger sibling, a habit also taken up by Legolas and Gimli and by the Queen’s Elven brothers. The habit stemmed from his initial slow recovery from his injuries and he took their fussing with good grace.

“I promise to be good, to eat my greens and go to bed early!” Faramir teased.

“See that you do, Sir. I promised Prince Legolas that I would not let you work too hard,” the youngster replied, seriously.

“Well, I wouldn’t want to get you into strife with the Prince.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“I have one last errand for you, Tamir, before you go off duty. Would you go and check with the Warden that his preparations are complete and that he has enough staff on duty for tomorrow.”

“Do you expect trouble, Sir?”

“No more than usual when the ale flows freely. The healers will have a pavilion set up near the main gates to deal with casualties and the garrison will have extra patrols in the city and the campground… I don’t expect more than sore heads and bruised knuckles,” Faramir explained.

“Very well, Sire. I will see to it and bid you goodnight.”

“Good night, Tamir.” Faramir watched until the youngster disappeared into the healing halls and then made his way to the courtyard of the white tree.

The Guards on duty, no longer masked by the King’s command, stood impassively as the Steward approached the sapling. The tree was already as tall as Faramir and the slim branches were heavy with fragrant blossom. As he stood in its shadow a gentle breeze ruffled the leaves and a single perfect bloom fluttered like an offering to his feet.

It was cold in the House of the Stewards in the Hallows and Faramir pulled his cloak tight about himself to keep out the chill. If anyone had asked the Keeper of the Hallows he would have reported that Lord Faramir was a frequent visitor. He had supervised the rebuilding of the fire damaged chamber and had had the marble tombs cleaned and repaired. Only the Steward and the King and his closest companions had been present when the tombs of Denethor and Boromir had been dedicated and, though both tombs were technically empty, there significance to the grieving Steward was not underestimated by those who cared for him.

Faramir placed the single blossom on his brother’s tomb and stood, head bowed, in silent salute.

“Well brother,” he whispered finally, sliding down to sit on the marble step, “it is all done.” He didn’t expect an answer but he still found comfort in his one-sided communication with his first ever and most supportive mentor.

“I wish you could see the city, Boromir, it is so beautiful… I really believe we are on the road to recovery. The gates are finished and the repairs to the first and second circles are all but complete. Finally the city is free of those dreadful hovels behind where the old barracks stood. I hope father would have approved… I know he always despaired of the poverty and deprivation of those forced to endure that misery… he always hoped to one day see all of the citizens comfortably housed.”

“I wish you could have seen the city prosper. I know in my heart that at the end you had confidence in Aragorn to see our beloved city restored. He has done us proud, my brother. He is a good man and a good friend.”

“I wish I could be sure that you can see me now, that I could convince you that I am content… no, that I am happy! Happy as I never expected to be. I am to marry soon, my brother, and the only thing that mars my happiness is that you will not be there to tease and torment and support me in my happiness.”

“I wish you were here, Boromir. Tomorrow when we remember those who have gone, you will be in my heart… I will look up to the ramparts and I will imagine you there… do not forget me, my Boromir.”

As often when he visited the Hallows, Faramir lost track of time and it was Legolas who finally tracked him down. He made no comment as he gently shook the young Steward awake and helped him to his feet when his cramped legs protested the movement.

“You missed supper… again!” the Elf chided as the two made their way back towards the Citadel.

“Forgive me…”

“There is no need to explain, my friend. Boromir is much on my mind as this anniversary approaches, though I doubt he would approve of you neglecting your own comfort and wellbeing just to keep him company.”

“No, he would likely have blistered my ears for such waywardness!… but I will have little time to pay my respects on the morrow and I would brave worse than his bluntest tirade to neglect my duty to him… or my father.”

“I do not question your diligence, my friend, but your absence was noted and Arwen and others were concerned.”

“I will apologise to her majesty…”

“She does not expect apologies but I doubt not that she will fuss and cosset you… I’m afraid that until she has a babe to focus her maternal instincts upon that you will continue to inhabit the role of her surrogate offspring!” Legolas teased.

“I suppose to her I am a mere youngster,” Faramir grimaced wryly.

“She is very fond of you and has great respect for all you have achieved. I know that she greatly appreciates all you have done to support Estel over this past year. You have both accomplished great things.”

“I am happy to serve His Majesty.”

“No, Faramir, you do far more than serve. Estel could not have succeeded as he has without you. All of Gondor follows your lead; you have eased the transition from Stewardship to the Crown seamlessly. You could have rejected his claim or stepped away and allowed him to struggle to win popular acclaim. You lead and the people of Gondor trust you enough to follow and for that Gondor owes you a huge debt of thanks.”

“He was the King… I never doubted that from the moment I set eyes upon him. I could no more have turned my back on him than I could have denounced my brother… I just wish Boromir could have seen him crowned.”

“I believe that somewhere from beyond the veil Boromir and Denethor can see and approve of what you have become. Boromir loved you and he knew your qualities and even your father, for all his faults and frailties, recognised his love for you at the end. They have every reason to be proud of you, Faramir… as do we all.”

They continued on in silence until they reached the courtyard both lost in their own thoughts. Legolas sensed that Faramir had more to say and that he was almost reluctant to voice his thoughts. “What troubles you, my friend?” he asked at the continued silence.

“I am not troubled, it is just that… Do you ever wonder if you… if you deserve to be happy?” he blurted out.

“No. Happiness is a precious gift of the Valar… it is our responsibility to embrace that grace and celebrate it to the full,” Legolas explained. “Do you doubt your right to be happy, Faramir?”

“NO. Oh, no… it is just that I never expected it and now, sometimes, I feel so full of it that I fear I will explode… and then I feel guilty that others, who deserved happiness, will never get to experience the blessings that I have been granted…”

“Boromir would be happy to know that you have found joy, Faramir.”

“Yes I know, but he had so little joy or pleasure in his life… and he deserved more!”

“And who is to say he has not found it? Do not allow your doubts to mar your own peace of mind. Trust, as I do, that he will have found his reward for his honour and valour in the next life… trust that the Valar will recognise his worth.”

The ceremony of remembrance and the celebrations that followed passed off without a hitch, and if his friends noticed the occasional melancholy glances that Faramir flashed up to the battlement, they made no comment, though the wordless support of his friends soon banished his brief sadness. It was an occasion for celebration and the festivities lasted long into the night. As the Steward had predicted, the healers were kept busy but only with twisted ankles and knocked heads and bruised knuckles; the cells of the jail housed a few drunken louts removed from the festivities by the marshals’ and guards to sleep of their over-indulgence.

Only one incident jarred the occasion for Faramir and it was so transitory that afterwards he passed it off as his imagination. It was nothing more than a face glimpsed in the crowd. Even as he registered the familiarity of the face the man disappeared from view. It was a face from the past, though the features were blurred and hidden behind ragged whiskers. And then reason caught up with him and he knew he was mistaken, for the man he thought he recognised was dead.

Faramir had put the incident from his mind as he accompanied his friends amidst the revelry and only as he lay in bed did he recall the incident but still it made no sense and he dismissed it as coincidence.

But that night in his dreams he was back at Henneth Annûn in his earliest days at the refuge. There were so many familiar faces, men who had lived and died so long ago that only in the dreamscape could he remember all their names. There was nothing frightening or sinister in his dream, just the ordinary lives of men living and fighting in extraordinary circumstances; men mending weapons and armour, sleeping, tending wounds, washing socks, reading or writing letters, men leaving on patrol and never returning… just an ordinary day for the Rangers and Faramir woke with tears on his pillow.

At break of fast his friends noted his pallor and subdues manner with concern but he dismissed his difficulties as a result of too much wine the night before. Legolas, who had spent the previous evening with him and knew he had drunk little, shook his head to dismiss his claim but his friends allowed Faramir his small deceit.

As had been previously arranged, Faramir was engaged to attend upon their Majesties as they toured the markets along with Legolas and Gimli. All the friends were conscious of Faramir’s distraction as they toured the bright and gaudy stalls but the Royal couple were warmly greeted by the merchants and citizens and only the small guard detail kept the eager crowds at bay. The King and Legolas were engrossed by the wares of a master saddler and as they examined the beautifully worked leather the Queen turned her attention to the exotic herbs and spices of a swarthy stallholder from the south. With the guard detail split between the Royal couple, Faramir and Gimli stayed close to the Queen.

To onlookers it appeared to be an accident. The cloaked man lurched from the crowd and stumbled into Faramir, knocking him off balance and into the Queen. Gimli managed to steady Arwen before she fell but Faramir and the man landed sprawled on the cobbles. As Faramir lay winded on the floor the cloaked man hissed a whisper to him so quietly that only Faramir caught the words…”Remember the Rangers!”

By the time Faramir had regained his feet the man had gone but he had left behind a token of his presence. Faramir reached into his right boot and pulled out a long thin stick; he had felt it pushed home as he was helped to his feet.

“Where is he?” he demanded, ignoring his friends’ concerned enquiries as his eyes frantically searched the crowd for signs of the man.

The incident had been so brief that Estel and Legolas had been unaware of the commotion and of Faramir’s obvious agitation.

“Guards, to the King and Queen!” Faramir ordered as he dashed off into the crowd leaving his stunned friends no option but to stare after his retreating figure. The order galvanised the guards into action and they ushered the Royal couple towards a quieter more defensible position.

“What is it? What is happening?” The King demanded as he and Legolas instinctively moved close to protect Arwen and Gimli unhooked a small axe from his belt. Realising who was missing from their party he ordered the guards to halt at the edge of the market square and they all turned to scour the vicinity as Arwen explained what had occurred.

“Did he threaten you?”Estel asked Arwen anxiously.

“No, I am sure it was just an accident. He never touched me,” she assured him. “He stumbled against Faramir who lost his balance and bumped into me… gallant Gimli’s speedy reflexes saved me from a fall… the poor man was gone in a flash.”

“And did he speak?”

“He muttered something to Faramir… an apology I suspect… and then he was gone.”

“So why the alarm? If it was an accident and he meant no harm why did Faramir react as he did?”

“Faramir is very protective. I’m sure he just wanted to check for himself that there was no sinister motive.”

“Did any of you recognise this man?” the King demanded of the guards.

They all shook their heads but it was the Guard Commander who answered. “No Sire, but there are many strangers in the city for the celebrations. I never glimpsed his face but his cloak was ragged and he moved uneasily like he was in pain or crippled in some way.”

“Very well. Tell the Master-at Arms to double the patrols and have them keep watch for Lord Faramir; he is to be given an escort and is to report to me in the Citadel,” The King ordered. The guard commander tasked one of the guards to deliver the revised orders and the Royal party returned to the Citadel.

Faramir only waited long enough to ensure that Arwen was safely guarded before he set off in pursuit of the cloaked stranger. He wasn’t sure if anyone had overheard the man’s words but he was certain that the encounter had not been accidental. He was not sure of the motive but the man had made no attempt to reach the King or Queen, he could only deduce, therefore, that he had been the man’s object.

He dashed through the crowded marketplace but his frantic searching was in vain, he spied no glimpse of the cloaked stranger. Eventually he paused against a wall to get his breath and turned his attention to the stick still clasped in his hand. The straight, smooth stick was slightly shorter than the length of his forearm and was unadorned except for notches at either end; it was an arrow shaft, the same as the many hundreds he had prepared and fletched over the years… but this one had no markings nor any sign to indicate who had worked it. He couldn’t suppress the shudder as the phantom face flashed across his memory.

Faramir evaded the guards for several hours as he continued his search. He trawled the taverns and bawdy houses, the pie shops and ale stalls but despite his best efforts he found no trace of the man.

As he trudged wearily through the fourth level gate on his way back up to the Citadel, he acquired a guard escort and his attempts to dismiss and then to order them away proved unsuccessful.

“Beg pardon, Sir, but we have orders from the King that we are to see you directly to the Citadel!” the young sergeant explained to him sheepishly.

“You have my word that I will proceed there directly, sergeant,” the Steward assured him.

“Aye, Sir, and with an escort you will not be delayed, Sir,” the uncomfortable soldier explained, clearly determined to see his orders completed. Faramir grinned in weary acknowledgement that he had been out-manoeuvred and gave in graciously, though he protested more vigorously when the guard detail increased in size at every gate they passed through. By the time the party excited the lamp-lit tunnel he was surrounded by twelve guardsmen. The parade came to a halt at the base of the Citadel steps where a welcoming committee awaited them.

“Sire,” The sergeant saluted.

The King acknowledged the salute. “You finally found your quarry, sergeant?”

“Yes. Sire. Though I must report that our search was only successful because Lord Faramir was returning of his own volition,” the soldier reported.

“His Ranger skills at evasion and stealth have not deserted him, I deem. I would have you convey to the Master at Arms that our troops could use increased training in search and surveillance,” The king requested before dismissing the troops with his thanks.

Only when the soldiers had gone did he turn his attention to his Steward. “ Lord Faramir,” he began formally, “ I will see you in my study and hear your report on today’s occurrences.”

If Faramir suffered any apprehension about his upcoming audience with the King he displayed no outward expression of it. He made a brief detour into his own study to remove his cloak and tuck the arrow shaft into his top drawer. He washed his face and combed damp fingers through his hair to make himself presentable before proceeding to his appointment.

It was a private meeting and therefore not hampered by protocol, though the Steward graced the King with his obeisance, as was his ingrained custom. Estel accepted the salute, stepping forward to grasp the younger man by the shoulders and locking eyes with him.

“What were you thinking!” he finally demanded, shaking Faramir with exasperation. “Are you hurt?” Estel ran anxious hands from shoulders to wrists seeking injuries and all the time trying to ‘read’ his friend’s state from his expression.

“Peace, Sire. I am quite well. A bruised knee and a skinned palm from the cobbles, that is all… you have inflicted worse when we spar,” Faramir assured him with a smile.

“Peace! You run off alone after a possible assassin an you caution me to peace!”

“Estel, it was nothing more than an accident… a blunder. You and Arwen were well guarded…”

“And who was guarding you!” Estel interrupted. “Why did you chase after him? And why seek him for so long?” Estel demanded.

“I didn’t have time to explain. And how could I have asked others to search? Only I got a glimpse of him and what description could I have given… .a ragged stranger, possibly with a limp!… that would have fitted any one of dozens of men in the city here for the celebrations.”

“Arwen was worried,” Estel exclaimed, causing Faramir to smile gently at his friend.

“I will, of course, apologise for my thoughtlessness, it was never my intention to worry any of my friends.”

“Aye, Legolas is less than pleased with you, too!”

“Then, with your leave, I will go and make my apologies and endeavour to smooth any ruffled feathers.”

“Faramir…” Estel began as Faramir turned to leave.

“I know, Estel… .I promise to be more careful.”

“You know you can come to me if you have any concerns… if something is troubling you…”

“He is hiding something!” Legolas offered later that evening as he and Gimli sat with the Royal Couple, sharing a bottle of wine.

“He has something on his mind, certainly,” Arwen agreed.

“And you think it had something to do with the incident in the market?” Gimli asked.

“Only yesterday he was telling me how happy he was, even though thoughts of Boromir were much on his mind, and today there is a shadow in his eyes… he thinks to hide it but something is troubling him.”

“Have you asked him about it, Legolas?”

“Aye, and he denies any worry.”

“Perhaps it is of a personal nature. Perhaps he is fretting about Èowyn,” Arwen suggested, “it is months since they saw each other.”

“I do not doubt that it is personal but I do not believe that it has to do with Èowyn… what can have changed there since yesterday?… except what happened in the market.”

“So what do we do?”

“I have instructed the Commander to keep up the extra patrols and to have the guards to be extra vigilant, especially when Faramir is abroad in the city. With any luck the situation will settle when the city returns to normal.”

“And I will keep a close eye on our young Steward,” Legolas offered. “I think his claim that he was in need of an early night was probably prompted more by a desire to risk closer scrutiny than it was about being tired.”

“He is too astute to think he can hide his concerns from us.”

“He knows that we worry about him… I wonder sometimes if he finds our concern a little overwhelming?” Arwen mused.

“Maybe, but he also thrives on the care and attention.”

“You think he is seeking notice?”

“No,” Arwen laughed. “No, but he finally feels safe within our circle. He will come to us when he is ready.”

Faramir quashed his discomfort at having misled his friends but he needed to attend to some business down in the second circle and he wanted to slip away without attracting attention. He occasionally arranged to meet up with some old Ranger colleagues in a cosy Inn to reminisce about their shared past and about absent friends. Tonight was not a pre-arranged meeting but he was sure that Damrod and a few others would be in the city for the celebrations and would gather together at the Ancient Mariner for the evening.

He was not mistaken, he found five old comrades in a nook by the fire and they welcomed him gladly. He made no attempt to hide his identity from the rest of the patrons, this was a soldier’s inn and the patrons recognised his right to be there. Faramir sank his first pint in one go to the cheers of his comrades who all had a head start on him judging by the empty jugs littering the table. But from then on he was much more careful, not wanting to dull his wits.

Soon Faramir was able to steer the conversation to old comrades and the mood became melancholy. Of the five men present, only Damrod was still on active duty; Daris and Gregor had both retired; Mablung had lost three fingers on one hand and could no longer wield either bow or sword and Forrel had lost an arm. They talked of many lost friends and eventually Faramir was able to bring up the name he was interested in.

“And brave Anborn… he was the best shot I ever encountered,” Faramir commented.

“Aye, brave and fearless,” Damrod agreed to the nods of the others.

“My last sight of him was at Osgiliath… he threw down his bow and leapt in amongst the scum, screaming death and defiance… he was leaping over the dead to get to new targets,” Mablung explained.

“So he fell defending Osgiliath?” Faramir asked.

“Yes,” Forrel confirmed, “I saw him fall even as the order went out to retreat.”

“So, was his… was he amongst those who the enemy defiled and used to terrorise the city… was he beheaded?” Faramir asked.

“I don’t know,” Damrod explained sadly.

“Who would know?” Faramir felt guilty for prolonging a conversation that was clearly distressing for his comrades but his need for answers was too great for him to let the matter rest.

“Lord Húrin would be your best bet,” Mablung suggested, “he was responsible for compiling the casualty lists.”

Faramir could no longer prolong the distress for his friends, he had all the information he was likely to get and what he had learned had only added to his confusion. He no longer held back as the mugs were refilled and he did his best to catch up with his friend.

It was Legolas who half carried him back up through the city after the duty guards had reported his destination back to the Citadel and the Elven Prince had offered to retrieve him.

Chapter 2

Estel and Legolas thought to bring aid and comfort to Faramir when he failed to appear at the break of fast but on reaching his quarters they found only Tamir.

“I’m sorry, Sire but if you wanted Lord Faramir you have missed him,” the young Adjutant explained after offering a salute.

“I am surprised he is even conscious yet, given the state he was in last evening,” Legolas commented.

“Was my Lord ill, Sir?”

“Not ill, but by the time I dragged him from the Ancient Mariner he was all but senseless,” the Elf explained.

“He was there last night!” Tamir exclaimed in disbelief, checking the previous day’s entry in the Stewards diary. “I don’t understand…”

“How did he seem this morning?” the King asked the worried youngster, kindly.

“Rather pale and quiet… and when I asked him about this… well, he was clearly rather shocked,” Tamir picked up an arrow from the desk and held it out to them. It appeared to be a standard arrow except that it was fletched with pure white feathers.

“And this was all?” Legolas asked, examining the arrow but finding no other marks upon it.

“It had a piece of ribbon or cloth tied around it… Lord Faramir looked at it and then tucked it into his sleeve… I’m afraid I didn’t manage to see what was written on it, Sir.”

“And where is Lord Faramir now, Tamir?” the King enquired.

“He asked me to cancel his morning engagements and said he had something important to do.”

It was midmorning before Faramir requested an audience with the King but rather than being shown into the audience chamber he was ushered into Arwen’s solar.

“Forgive the intrusion, Sire but may I speak with you,” Faramir asked formally.

Faramir, you look dreadful!” Arwen exclaimed before Estel could reply, pushing him down into an easy chair by the fire. “Unless this is a matter of life and death then it must wait. Have you eaten?” she asked, noting his pallor and the slight tremor of his hands.

“My Lady, please…” he begged but she was adamant and neither Estel nor Legolas seemed keen to interfere.

“Legolas would you ask the Page to organise a tray for Lord Faramir and, Estel, do you still have that draught you prepared for our young friend earlier?” Faramir was powerless to evade her ministrations; she had tucked his arm through hers and held him in place.

“My Lady, there is no need…”

“Hush, Faramir. Whatever is afoot will wait until we have seen to your ease.” Faramir admitted defeat in the face of her determination. He swallowed Estel’s potion and did indeed feel better for a cup of tea and a snack of warm bread and honey.

“Now, Faramir, would you like to tell us what has occurred to cause you such unease,” Legolas began, “for it is only two days ago that you were expressing to me how happy you were and now that contentment has vanished.”

It took Faramir a moment before he was ready to answer and when he finally spoke his response surprised his audience. “I am beginning to fear for my sanity!” he explained.

“Oh, Faramir,” Arwen hugged the subdued Steward, “you are the most sensitive and astute man I have ever met! What has happened?”

“I have seen a dead man walking… and I fear it is no benevolent spirit!”

“Have you been threatened?” Estel demanded.

“Not in so many words but I have seen the phantom twice and he or it gained access to my study.”

“Start at the beginning, Faramir and let us try to unravel this mystery.”

“I saw him first in the crowd at the memorial ceremony… I recognised the face and the stance but when I looked back he was gone… and I realised that I must have been mistaken because the man I thought I recognised was dead.”

“And that night?” Arwen queried.

“That night I dreamt of Henneth Annûn and I saw him as he was when I first joined that brigade.”

“And the man who knocked you over?” Legolas asked

“Him again… at least I thought it was, though I never got to see his face clearly… and he spoke to me… he told me to ‘remember the rangers’. He also tucked an unfinished arrow into my boot.”

“So last evening you slipped away to see your old Rangers to see if they could help you to unravel this mystery.”

“Yes, but they only confirmed what I had thought. One of them had seen him fall at Osgiliath… he was not amongst those who joined the retreat. He is listed as dead… that’s where I went today, to check the honour roll with Lord Hurin. Anborn is dead, he was killed at Osgiliath… and yet…”

“And what about the arrow you found on your desk?” Arwen asked.

“It was there when Tamir reported for duty but none of the house staff nor the guards can account for how it got there… and this was tied around it,” Faramir drew a ribbon of cloth from his sleeve and smoothed it out until they could all see the word ‘TRAITOR’ scrawled across the grubby fabric.

“Faramir, while I have no difficulty in believing in ghosts, especially given our encounter with the Army of the Dead, I do not believe that your stalker is a phantom. The man who knocked you down was of flesh and blood… Do you believe it to be Anborn?”

“My head tells me it is impossible but my heart… Why, if it is Anborn, has he only now revealed himself to me? Why has he not sought out his friends? The Rangers were the only family he had, he lived for Gondor and the Rangers… and why does he accuse me of being a traitor? We were friends… he taught me all I know about being a Ranger.”

“The war damaged many things and many people in ways we cannot even begin to comprehend. We need to find this man, whether it is Anborn or not, and seek out his intent,” Estel explained.

“He has, as yet, offered me no harm, but if I am his target and he holds a grudge against me then I endanger you all by my presence,” Faramir asserted

“You are well guarded, Faramir and now that we know to be on alert, the security in and around he citadel will be strengthened,” Estel assured him.

“He got into my chambers without detection!… I would request your permission to remove myself from the city, Sire.”

“Out of the question. No!” Estel’s response was unequivocal

“Where would you go, Faramir?” Arwen asked, attempting to diffuse the sudden tension in the room

“To Osgiliath. That is where my search must begin and if I find no sign of him there then I will extend my search to the refuges in Ithilien.”

“Why not begin your search in the city? Surely that would be a better place to start,” Arwen offered.

“If it is indeed Anborn, or any other of the lost Rangers, then I do not believe they can have been resident in the city for the past year, undetected. Anborn’s home was Ithilien and he was lost at Osgiliath… I will start my search there.”

“I will not allow it, Faramir. You are too important to Gondor to risk on such a mission. There are others who can take on the task… Beregond or Damrod could easily lead such a mission. I can not risk you,” Estel asserted, his voice sharpened by his concern.

“And I cannot allow others to take on a risk I am not prepared to face!” Faramir answered, equally sharply. “Besides, I know those lands better that anyone and he is more likely to reveal himself to me… it is obviously me he has an issue with . .though I cannot imagine what I have done to warrant his wrath.”

“Regardless, I still say no. I will not countenance such a scheme,” Estel asserted, giving Faramir no option but to let the matter drop, though it was clear to all present that he was unhappy with the ruling.

“If you will excuse me, Sire, I have neglected my duties for far too long this day.” He bowed to Arwen and nodded a salute to the King before turning on his heel and leaving.

“Perhaps there is another option,” Legolas offered to break the awkward silence that settled over the occupants after Faramir’s frosty departure. “Why do you not permit me and your brothers to accompany our Steward on his quest for this man? Between us we will be able to keep him safe if the man’s intentions do turn to violence.”

“But Elladan and Elrohir are planning to travel back to Arnor to rejoin the Dúnedain,” Arwen explained.

“I’m sure they would delay their departure for a week or two, especially if they sense this venture offers them some action. They have been fretting about lacking a role now that the lands are no longer threatened by the enemy’s minions.”

“I will put the matter to them when they return for supper and if they agree we will discuss the matter with Faramir and decide how to proceed.” Estel conceded.

Osgiliath was a ruined shell; the destruction had gone too far to be repaired. The only structure to have been rebuilt was the bridge that spanned the river. But there were still many workers employed to clear away the rubble and to salvage whatever could be utilised in the renovations of Minas Tirith and the ruined dwellings on the Pelenor and in building the new garrison in Emyn Arnen for the White Company. Faramir and his Elven escort stayed the night on the outskirts of the worker’s encampment but their enquiries elicited no positive information of the man they sought. Nor did the ruined city give up any secrets; even a year after the battle bodies were still being discovered as piles of stone and rubble were cleared but the foreman’s records were of no help.

As they moved into Ithilien the Elves gave Faramir the lead as he was the authority on the territory. As they had agreed with Estel, they planned to base themselves in the abandoned refuge in Henneth Annûn and from there to search the land for the phantom Ranger. Faramir half expected the man to be using the refuge himself as it was the most well equipped of all the Ranger’s hideout; they checked every cavern within the refuge but there was no sign that anyone had been using the base.

While Elladan and Elrohir set about coaxing a blaze in the central fire pit, Legolas and Faramir scavenged the supply caves.

“Have you thought about what to do if we find this man, Faramir?”Legolas asked as they watched the last flashes of the sunset through the waterfall.

“I hope that a discussion will be enough for there to be an understanding between us. I wish him no harm and, if it is Anborn, then I would wish to restore him to his comrades… he was a good and loyal friend to me and a fine soldier, I would like to understand what has happened to him and why he has not come home. He is owed an honourable pension and he deserves recognition for his services to Gondor.”

“And if it is not Anborn?”

“Then I still need to know who he is and what his grievance is with me.”

Over three days they checked out a dozen sites used by the Rangers; some were caves, some flet-like platforms set high amongst the foliage of forest trees and two were little more than tumbled boulders piled together by rock-falls in ages past. They also searched the ruined farmsteads that littered the land. They found no sign of the man they sought.

On the fourth morning Elladan and Elrohir left the refuge before dawn to fish downstream from the Forbidden Pool to supplement their dwindling supplies. Leaving Faramir to sleep, Legolas climbed the long stairway out of the refuge to attend to the horses.

The Ranger had not lost his skills nor his cunning, though his mind was mired in dark thoughts and imaginings. He knew little of the passage of days or weeks; he functioned mostly on instinct, scavenging and hunting just enough to keep himself alive. He had brief flashes of lucidity but mostly all he knew was despair.

Pain was his only constant companion. Pain and a growing hatred of the one who had betrayed him… who had betrayed them all.

He had planned well. For three days he watched the comings and goings of the Ranger and the three Elves from his hiding place overlooking the entrance of the refuge. He waited patiently until he could get the traitor alone. He watched as the three Elves left the refuge and grasped the opportunity to implement his plan. He crept from his hiding place and descended the long flight of steps, allowing the pain in his crippled leg and his simmering anger to keep him focussed on his task. He closed in on his quarry, finding the traitor asleep, cocooned in blankets by the embers of the fire. The sound of the waterfall masked his approach.

Faramir stood no chance against the assailant; by the time he was fully awake he found himself pinned on his front with a knee in his back and his hands tied behind his back. As he opened his mouth to call out a wad of cloth was forced into his mouth, gagging any sound and making it a struggle to breath. His panic increased as a hood was pulled down over his face and his ankles were bound together. The assailant dragged his subdued prisoner by his heels through the refuge in to a storage cavern and thence into a tiny niche, the entrance to which was concealed by shadow. On the initial search of the caverns, Faramir had checked this cavern; the Elves were unaware of its existence. Bound and gagged and dazed Faramir was unable to struggle and his assailant left him briefly, returning to the main cavern to pack up and remove Faramir’s pack and weapons and scuffing out the drag marks on the sandy cavern floor. When he returned to his prisoner he squeezed in beside him and waited.

The three Elves made no attempt at stealth as they returned to the cavern. At the sound of their voices Faramir felt the edge of a blade pressed against his throat. He heard the playful calls of the Elves turn to concern as the realised that he was missing. From beneath the stifling hood Faramir couldn’t see the flare of torchlight as the Elves searched the caverns for him but he did feel the bite of the blade pressed more firmly against his skin and he forced down the panic that made his breathing a struggle.

After what seemed like an eternity he heard the Elves’ discussion as they concluded that he was not in the caverns and had slipped past them to continue the search on his own. They gathered their own belongings and left to search for their errant Steward in the woods of Ithilien.

When he was sure the Elves had departed the assailant dragged Faramir from his hiding place and into the main cavern. He forced Faramir up onto his knees and retied his hands above his head, securing his bonds to a hook in the wall before frisking the Steward and retrieving the small dagger from his boots. Only then did the assailant remove the hood and allow Faramir to see his face.

Faramir recognised Anborn at once; though the sad wrecked figure held little resemblance to the friend he had last seen at Osgiliath. For the briefest of moments their eyes met but the moment was shattered as a hand flashed towards him and his head was knocked sideways by the strength of the blow.

“Traitor!”

It was the word more than the blow that made his eyes water. He shook his head both to clear it and to deny the accusation, unable to voice his denial by the gag that kept him mute.

Faramir lost track of how long he knelt there as Anborn raged at him. As the former Ranger prowled the confines of the cavern with pained, agitated steps Faramir caught a glimpse of his ruined features, the bubbled scarred contours made more grotesque by the flickering torchlight. Faramir could make out little of the man’s incoherent raving but the threat of violence was always present; several times Anborn forced the knife up against his throat.

Unable to communicate with his assailant, Faramir was rapidly losing hope of ever escaping his tormentor. Behind the gag he was desperately thirsty and when Anborn took a swig from his canteen Faramir could only plead with his eyes for relief.

“A last drink for the condemned man!” Anborn hissed, even as he removed the gag and tipped the container. Most of the water sloshed down Faramir’s chin but enough went into his mouth that he could swallow and ease his parched throat.

“For what am I to be condemned, Anborn?” Faramir croaked. “How have I offended against you, my friend?”

“Traitor! Traitor! TRAITOR!” the man yelled, punctuating each repetition with a stinging slap.

It was at that moment that Faramir caught a hint of movement from the shadow of the stairway behind Anborn’s back. With an almost imperceptible shake of his head and a silently mouthed ‘hold’ he hoped to delay his Elven rescuers until he had elicited Anborn’s motivation for his assault.

“Anborn,” Faramir focussed his attention onto his captor, “Anborn, even a condemned man has a right to know what he is convicted of?”

“Steward’s orders… Killer… hold Osgiliath… Our duty… Hold the River. Steward’s orders… mad man’s orders…” Anborn raved… ”So many dead… Steward’s orders!”

Faramir could have wept but he held back his grief. Now he understood Anborn’s delusion… the broken man thought Faramir, The Steward, was the one who had sent the Brigade to it’s doom, had deliberately sent the men to their deaths, that his friends and Captain had fallen to the enemy to avenge the Steward’s spite. His poor, demented mind did not recognise Faramir, he could see only his title.

“Anborn, who am I? What is my name?” Faramir asked

“Steward!” Anborn spat, “ You sent us to die!”

“Anborn, look at me,” Faramir ordered, his voice taking on the authority of command. When the man returned his gaze Faramir continued more gently. “Anborn, I am your friend, your commander. I am Faramir.”

“You Lie!” Captain Faramir fell to the enemy… He called the retreat when we were overrun… he tried to save us… I heard the enemy cheer when he fell.”

“I fell to an arrow as we retreated but I was rescued by the Swan Knights, by my Uncle. I am the Steward now, Anborn but I am Faramir, who you once nicknamed ‘Cub’. My father, Steward Denethor is dead, Anborn, he died during the siege.”

“You are the Steward… traitor.”

“I am Faramir, your friend,” Faramir asserted as Anborn dropped to his knees and began to tear at his hair. “Brave Anborn, do you know me now?” Faramir asked gently and as the two men locked eyes Anborn, in a brief moment of clarity echoed ‘my friend’.

The Elves moved in swiftly. Legolas released Faramir as the twins took charge of Anborn. But he put up no resistance; all the fight had gone out of him in that moment of recognition.

Legolas anxiously checked his friend for injuries but he had taken no great harm; his face and wrists were bruised and there was a thin rivulet of dried blood on his neck. Impatiently shaking off the concern of his friend, Faramir moved to crouch before his kneeling assailant but his former comrade had retreated back into the darkness of his shadowed mind. The ruined features were blank and the eyes dead. Faramir looked to Elladan for explanation.

“He is a sick man, my friend. He is fevered and malnourished and in great pain and I can only hazard a guess as to what ails his mind,” the Elf explained sadly.

“Is he battle sundered?” Faramir asked, “There are many men whose spirits were broken by what they experienced in the conflict. Is that what ails him?”

“The blow that caused his facial injuries may have injured his mind… but I believe you have personal experience of what ails his spirit,” Elladan explained sadly. “I helped Estel with the injured in the aftermath of the battle of the Pelennor. I believe this poor wretch remains under the influence of the Black Breath.”

“Can you help him?”

“Not here and not without Estel’s assistance; only he has the gifts to counter the fell influence.”

“Then we must take him back to the city with all haste.”

“Faramir, this man would have killed you!”

“He is sick, Legolas. He spent all his life fighting for Gondor and I left him to die. I will not abandon him again. He is my friend.”

The funeral for Anborn was a quiet affair; Damrod, Mablung, Forrel and the few former Ranger’s who still resided in the city came to pay their respects as Faramir stood by the grave in the company of Estel and Gimli and the three Elves.

Estel and Elladan had battled for two days to save the stricken Ranger but the darkness afflicting his spirit was too firmly entrenched to be overcome, even by the King’s healing skills or the potent effect of Athelas. When Elladan assisted an exhausted Estel from the sick man’s chamber, Faramir knew that the battle had been lost. He slipped away to the Hallows to grieve for his friend and for all the other Rangers whose lives had helped to bring victory.

He grieved alone, too bereft to allow healing tears to fall or even to commune with Boromir and share the burden of another loss.

“He is at peace,” Legolas whispered, his hands on Faramir’s shoulders, turning the grieving man to face him.

“He deserved more! He deserved better!” Faramir ground out, bitterly.

“Yes, he did. But you are not responsible for his death, Faramir.”

“I abandoned him and so many others. How do I live with that knowledge?”

“You did your best to save as many as possible. You could not save them all… you are but one man.”

“Thank you for your company, Legolas, but I would like to be alone now,” Faramir said stiffly, turning from his friend back to face his brother’s tomb.

“No. You have been long enough alone. Damrod has organised a gathering in the Ancient Mariner to toast Anborn’s memory and I have been tasked with seeing you get there and get home safely afterwards.”

“Thank you, but I am not fit for company.”

“Is that so!” Legolas had no difficulty in picking Faramir off his feet and draping him across his shoulders, his wrists secured in one hand and his knees in the other.

“Legolas, put me down.” Faramir’s attempts to struggle were totally ineffectual but he continued regardless.

“Aye, sometimes you stubborn humans do not know what is best for you. You must allow those of us who are older and wiser to guide you.”

“Legolas, I demand that you put… me… down!”

“I will accede to your wishes when we get down to our destination.”

“Please, Legolas… I’ll behave. I’ll do what you wish, I promise but please put me down,” Faramir begged, accepting defeat in the face of his friends determination.

“Very well,” Legolas conceded as they approached the gateway out of the Hallows. He dropped Faramir to his feet but kept an anchoring arm across his shoulders.

From the balcony of their chambers, Estel and Arwen watched as the two friends began the long descent down to the second circle.

“I fear this has been a major set-back for Faramir,” Arwen said sadly.

“A set back, but I hope not a major one, not if he accepts the help and support of those around him,” Estel offered. “It would have been easier for him if we had been able to learn something of Anborn’s story but the poor man was too far gone into darkness… he never uttered a word and I could learn nothing of how he had survived for this past year,” the healer King explained sadly.

“Will Faramir be alright?” Arwen asked.

“No doubt he will require a hangover cure come morning but Legolas will keep him safe and it will do him good to spend some more time with his Rangers remembering their lost comrades. He will find it easier to accept his losses if he speaks about them.”

Arwen nodded in agreement and then a sudden worry crossed her normally tranquil features. “And who will keep Legolas safe?” she enquired with a grin.

“Gimli is already down at the Inn and I heard him putting our Elven Prince on notice before he went to retrieve Faramir. The twins and I will wander down later. Between us we should be able to keep the youngsters in order.”

Arwen’s raised eyebrow gave an indication of her thoughts on the matter “In that case I will forewarn the duty guard and make up an extra large batch of that hangover cure!”

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