Faramir Fiction Archive

Out of Memory and Time (PG-13)

Written by Shireling

30 March 2008 | 58682 words

Chapter 4 – For whom the Bell Tolls

Every bell in the city was silenced. The very walls and stones seemed to shrink beneath the collective anxiety of a city in fearful waiting. Every citizen held their breath for the strike of the great Citadel bell that would announce the King’s fate; the slow sonorous tolling to announce his death or the wild joyful peal to herald his recovery.

Ten Days!

It had been ten days since the newly repaired city gate was opened in the middle watch of the night to allow the King’s Guard entrance with their stricken burden. They had all but killed their horses in their desperation to get the King back to the city as quickly as possible. In Captain Beregond’s arms the King lay insensible, his wits lost to fever and blood loss and pain.

The troop halted at the stables in the sixth circle but against custom, Beregond urged Roheryn up through the long lamp-lit tunnel and right up to the doors of the Citadel. Only when the Queen and Prince Imrahil and the Warden of the Healing Houses appeared would he release his burden into the Warden’s care

“My Lord Prince, I must beg your leave to enter the city. I am still under sentence of banishment… without your permission to remain I will face arrest and imprisonment.” Beregond stood to attention, kept on his feet by sheer willpower alone, so great was his exhaustion.

“You have my permission and my thanks, Captain. You will remain within the Citadel under my protection until the King is restored to health.” Beregond saluted and staggered to sit on the wide marble steps as the King was carried inside. Imrahil called for assistance and two Guardsmen helped the exhausted Captain to his feet. Imrahil gave orders for them to escort Beregond to his own quarters and bade them instruct his own valet to see to the Captain’s comfort.

“Beregond, I will need to talk to you as soon as I have seen how things go with the King. When you have bathed and eaten start making out your report. Is there anything urgent I need to know in the mean time? Is the kingdom secure?”

“Yes, Sire, The kingdom is secure. We were attacked by a band of outlaws; they were well armed and well organised but they do not pose a risk to our borders. Lord Faramir has taken a force in pursuit of them,” Beregond confirmed.

“Good. He knows the area well. Go and rest, man. I will be back shortly.”

It was several hours before the Warden emerged from the Royal Chambers to announce to the assembled councillors that they had successfully removed the arrowhead from the King’s shoulder and that the King was now resting under the influence of powerful pain-relieving medicines. The wound itself, though serious, was not judged to be life threatening but the patient was already showing symptoms that suggested that the weapon had been tainted.

With the King incapacitated and the Steward absent, Prince Imrahil continued to hold the reins of power. He was well liked and trusted by the council and he knew enough about the ordering of the city and the realm that he could keep things running smoothly. It was after dawn before he finally managed to speak to Beregond and learn the full details of what had occurred. When he finished his account Beregond took the broken sword hilt from where he had tucked it into his own sword belt for safe keeping and handed it to the Prince.

“Lord Faramir seemed most anxious that this should be kept safe, Sire.”

“It is indeed the sword gifted to Boromir by Steward Denethor on his coming of age. Faramir has so little to remember his brother by, I can understand why he was so desperate to retrieve it… though he will pay dearly for the risks he took! If the King is not fit to take him to task when he returns then I shall take the privilege.”

“I too would like to take the opportunity to express my disapproval, Sire. He deliberately kept much from me.”

“As was ever the case, my nephew did not consider his own safety in this matter… he still has much to learn.”

“And many willing to teach him, if I may make so bold ,Sire.”

“Too true, Beregond. Too true.”

“If you are done with me, Sire, I would like to request permission to return to Cair Andros as soon as possible. Lieutenant Damrod was evacuating the wounded back there and I am sure that some will require more attention than the Garrison is equipped to deal with.”

“Of course. I will arrange to have wagons sent to move them more easily. Take a healer or two with you to start treating them… I will ask the Warden to appoint those he feels most suited to the task.”

“Thank you, Sire, that will be a weight off my mind. As yet we only have medical orderlies at the Garrison and I fear some of the injuries will be beyond their skills.”

“What is your intention once the situation in Cair Andros is settled?”

“I want to send more reinforcements out after Lord Faramir. He only has a small troop with him. Damrod knows the area and would be my choice to lead a relief troop.”

“A good idea. He has also known my nephew since he joined the Rangers as a cadet… he will know how to keep the young hot-head in line,” Imrahil chuckled.

“Not for the first time, by all accounts!”

“Yes, Boromir tasked Damrod with the safety of his little brother… much to Faramir’s eternal disgust. Go then with my blessing. Send word of any news and send Faramir back to the city as soon as he returns, under escort if necessary!”

“Yes, Sire. If he resists I will escort him myself… tied over the saddle, if necessary,” Beregond assured him.

“Consider your banishment suspended until further notice. I will give you a letter of safe passage and will notify the Guard Commander that you are to report directly to me until further notice.”

“Yes, Sire. Thank you for your confidence in me, Sire.”

“You have earned it and I will make sure the King gets to hear of it as soon as he wakes.”

Beregond saluted and turned on his heal to make ready to leave.

For ten agonisingly slow days Arwen, Imrahil and the Warden stood vigil at the King’s bedside but besides keeping the ailing Monarch comfortable there was little they could do to ease his symptoms. None of their potions or poultices seemed to have any effect on the wound or the infection slowly poisoning his body. Even the Queen’s Elven heritage could not protect her from the exhaustion of such a prolonged vigil. Imrahil tried to snatch an hour’s sleep when he could between his duties to the realm and his attendance on the King.

True to his word, Beregond sent word when he reached Cair Andros; there were two more deaths and several injured troops to be transported back to the city for expert care. He also reported that Lieutenant Damrod had led a large contingent south to intercept Lord Faramir’s troop.

Hope for the King’s recovery had almost faded when a dust trail was spotted in the north. Anxious eyes watched as the three horses came into view and galloped at speed towards the newly restored gate.

Never had the Queen been more delighted and relieved to set eyes on her brothers or their companions, Prince Legolas and his friend Gimli. She wasted no time on explanations, barely giving them time to wash away the dust of the trail before ushering them into the King’s chamber.

Sensing the seriousness of the situation, Elladan requested permission from the Warden to oversee the King’s treatment, explaining that he had been trained in the healing arts by his father, Lord Elrond. His intervention came not a moment too soon as the crisis reached its peak. He bathed and reopened the wound, excising and draining a large abscess that had formed deep under the partially healed scar. With the wound cleaned out and repacked with an athelas poultice all four Elves joined hands, helping Elladan channel his healing power into his foster brother’s fevered and weakened frame, chanting Elvish blessings until, with a cry, the King awoke, his fever finally breaking.

The joyful pealing of the Citadel bell was soon taken up by ever bell in the city as the citizens rejoiced over their Monarch’s deliverance.

Later over supper Imrahil related to the Elves and Gimli all the circumstances leading up to the skirmish and explained how Estel had come to be injured. They all listened to him intently, only interrupting to clarify points in his narrative.

“And what news from Faramir?” Legolas asked at the end of Imrahil’s explanation.

“We have heard nothing from him personally. Beregond has sent a large troop under the command of Lieutenant Damrod to reinforce Faramir’s original men and to route out the bandits. From Beregond’s report it sounds as though we are dealing with a large group of outlaws whose main target seems to be horses… there is little else in Ithilien worth stealing and the supply boats on the Anduin are too well defended to make them easy prey,” Imrahil explained.

“And what of Faramir? What of his frame of mind? Surely it wasn’t sensible for him to lead the hunt for these outlaws given the strain he had been under,” Elladan questioned.

“He gave Beregond no choice. The first priority was to get the King back to the city and to evacuate the wounded. He organised that most efficiently… and he has commanded troops in that region for many years, none know the area better than he does.”

“But if I know Faramir he will hold himself responsible for the injury to Estel, especially as Estel was only there to make sure he was alright.”

“Beregond expressed the same concern but there was no time for discussion.”

“So Faramir has set off on this mission mired in guilt and fired up for revenge! I fear that is not a good combination,” Legolas made no attempt to disguise his concern. “Elrohir, what say you to a little excursion down to Ithilien?” he suggested, wanting to take some positive action to alleviate his worry.

“An excellent idea. Is that alright with you, brother?”

“Yes, I will stay and make sure Estel’s recovery proceeds swiftly… I’ll likely have to sit on him in a day or two just to keep him in bed.”

“Not a good patient, then?” Imrahil asked.

“No. The very worst… after my twin and Legolas that is. We’ve had to resort to tying them to their sickbeds before now,” Elladan confirmed

“And you are no better, brother,” Elrohir commented, cuffing his brother.

“Shall I accompany you, Laddie?” Gimli asked, keen to see some more action and unwilling to let his Elven friends go off adventuring without him. “ From the sounds of it, young Faramir is in need of a stern talking to… You have obviously been too lenient in the past.”

“Master Gimli, do you not think us capable of dealing with one errant youngling!” Elrohir asked in a tone that made his brother wince.

“Peace, Laddie. It wasn’t a criticism but it seems to me that you Elves and Aragorn have both attempted to guide him in the past, as have you, My Lord, but it seems clear that the essential message of your guidance has slipped the boy’s mind. I would look on it as an honour to offer him the ‘blessing’ of a little dwarven advice.”

“I’m sure it is a message he would not soon forget, Gimli,” Legolas remarked, “but I believe in this case it might be better if you stayed in the city to offer Arwen and Estel some support. We will be riding long and hard and we will travel swifter alone.”

“Aye, maybe you’re right; long days bumping behind you on the back of that beastie and chewing on your hair quickly lose their appeal,” Gimli groused.

“And if young Faramir is still in need of some further guidance when we get him back to the city then you may join the queue of those willing to guide him,” Elrohir offered with a grin.

The two Elves had no chance to begin their expedition at first light as they had planned. Circumstances of a devastating nature unfolded, heralded by a commotion that drew them from their rest while dawn was only a promise on the horizon.

They emerged from their respective chambers to find two weary and travel-stained soldiers waiting to be shown into Prince Imrahil’s office. The prince himself appeared not a moment later, his features still heavy with sleep, Tamir helping him to don a warm robe over his nightshirt.

The Prince’s demand for an explanation for his rude awakening died on his lips as he registered the grey, shattered expressions of the two officers. Without a word he ushered them into his chambers and summoned a page to organise refreshments while Tamir raked and stoked the fire back to life.

Beregond was shaking with shock and emotion and Damrod made no attempt to shield his swollen eyes or tear-streaked face from the Elves or the Prince. Tamir poured brandy into two small glasses and handed one each to the troopers. Allowing the spirit to fortify them and giving them a moment to compose themselves, Imrahil took the opportunity retire to his bedchamber and dress.

By the time Beregond was ready to report, the Queen and Gimli had arrived in answer to Imrahil’s summons. The Captain managed to compose himself, pulling back into the rigid formality of protocol. He drew himself to attention, facing his now very anxious audience.

“It is my duty to inform you, Sire, that Prince Faramir’s troop… that the troop sent out under the command of Prince Faramir to deal with the insurgence in Ithilien… came under-under attack…” Beregond ran out of words and he buried his face in his hands. When it was obvious that he was too distraught to continue, they all looked to Damrod for the answer to the questions they dare not voice.

“It was a rout, Sire. A massacre… the whole troop…!” However bad they had expected the news to be none of them could have contemplated the enormity of the news. Arwen was weeping, her two brothers at her side and Tamir paled so quickly that only Legolas’ swift reflexes prevented him from collapsing to the floor. Imrahil reeled with the shock.

The deafening oppressive silence of the chamber was broken only by the soft sounds of weeping and the spitfire crackling of the wet logs in the grate. Of them all Gimli maintained the illusion of composure, taking charge of pouring hot sweet tea for them all and wrapping blankets around the shoulders of the two distraught soldiers.

“You’d better tell us it all, Laddie!” Gimli said gruffly, rubbing his hand across the dampness of his cheeks, “now that we know the worst!”

“Aye, Sir,” Damrod said. “I reckon it is my tale to tell.” They all sat in stunned silence as the Lieutenant began his narration.

“We set off from Cair Andros as soon as the wounded were dealt with,” he explained. “It didn’t take us long to retrace our trail back to the river where we were first attacked. It was easy to follow the tracks of so many horses, even without the Ranger’s signs Lord Faramir left to indicate his passage. The trail moved east away from the river into the lower reaches of the hills above Emyn Arnen; we crossed the Southward Road and up into the foothills of the Èphel Duath. You have to understand, Sire, that those mountains are riven with valleys and dells that snake up into the higher slopes which are themselves riddled with caves and caverns. My knowledge of that southern area is sketchy; that part of Ithilien was abandoned to the enemy long ago… long before Captain Faramir took command of the Rangers.”

“I know, Damrod. Even Gondor’s finest couldn’t hope to hold that area given the shortage of manpower and the difficulties of supply,” Imrahil assured him.

“Well, we followed the Captain’s trail and we came across what had obviously been some sort of hideout for the bandits, the caves were provisioned and there were large corrals against the cliff walls. The place had been abandoned in a hurry but there was no sign of a fight, so I reckoned that they were expecting trouble and had shipped out. The tracks were so confused with the passage of so many hooves that it was difficult to work out which trail to follow. The enemy had split up, one group driving the horses up the valley of the River Poros into the mountains towards Mordor and the other following the river south towards the Crossing’s of Poros, where the Harad road crosses the river. We found a sign from Lord Faramir indicating that he had gone south and so we followed. The trail took us due west back towards the Anduin south of Pelargir. We rode hard, Sire and we seemed to be gaining on them… but we were too late…!”

“Go on, Damrod,” Imrahil urged.

“They rode into a trap… in a valley where the Poros and the Anduin meet… a rocky gully hidden on the approach by a thick stand of trees… there was no way out and the battle was over long before we got there, Sire.” Damrod struggled for composure; Beregond squeezed his shoulder by way of encouragement.

“They were all dead, Sire, them and two of their horses.”

“Killed in battle?” Legolas questioned desperately, more in hope than expectation, knowing how the men of the south treated prisoners.

“No, Sir. Some were badly injured from the battle but they all had their throats cut and were dumped in a pile beside the butchered carcasses of the two horses.”

“Butchered?”

“Yes, Sir. Butchered for meat… one was Lord Faramir’s Snowmane,” he sobbed.

“And the other horses?”

“No sign of them. The men’s bodies had been stripped of weapons, armour and valuables and the saddles and tack of the downed horses were also missing.”

“And Lord Faramir?” Imrahil asked quietly.

Damrod cast a quick glance towards the Queen who was still sitting, pale and quiet between her brothers.

“Do not spare me, Damrod. I would hear all you have to tell, for I will have to explain all this to the King when he is fit enough to hear it,” Arwen begged. Damrod looked to the twins for confirmation and after a brief but silent communication they both nodded their assent.

“There were twelve bodies accounted for… but no sign of Lord Faramir.”

“Then he may yet be alive,” Gimli choked.

Damrod shook his head sadly and pulled a bundle from inside his tunic. He spread the torn and bloodied garment over his knee; they could all see the emblem of the white tree embroidered over the breast of the fine linen undershirt. He then took his day-book from his pocket and extricated a handful of hair, its red-gold hue blackened with blood.

“He was put to torment! A favoured trick of the Haradrim. From what I could read of the signs he was stripped and shorn and pegged out on the ground and whipped… I suspect they also made him watch as they killed his troop one by one… but that is only a guess on my part, having seen the results of their actions before.”

“Perhaps he was taken hostage? Perhaps we may yet arrange his release?” Arwen offered, hopefully.

“No, Ma’am. I wouldn’t want to give you false hope; by the time they finished with him he would have had no value to them as a hostage and they wouldn’t burden themselves with an injured prisoner… they travel light.”

“So where is his body?” Imrahil demanded

“We did search, Sire. My men are still in the area searching, they will leave no stone unturned for their Captain, Sire. He could be buried to hide the evidence or they could have thrown his body into the water to let the river do their dirty work for them. We will keep searching… but I have no hope that we will find him.”

“And the bandits?” Legolas asked.

“Their tracks stop at the river but whether they escaped by boat or crossed the river into Lebennin I don’t know. I commandeered a passage from the Pelargir in one of the swift river boats up to Osgiliath and was fortunate enough to find Captain Beregond there. I left word with the Garrison Commander at Pelargir and he is sending out messengers to the Lords’ of Lossarnoch, Lebennin, Lamedon and Dol Amroth asking for assistance. I hope I did right, Sire?”

“Yes Damrod. And I thank you for your efforts, I know how difficult this has been for you, Lord Faramir was a good friend wasn’t he?”

“The very best, Sire… and one of the few who survived… we won’t see his like again, Sire.”

“You both need to go and get some rest,” Imrahil instructed.

“I’d like permission to return to my troop, Sire.” Damrod requested

“When you are rested. Exhaustion is no state in which to speed into dangerous territory,” Imrahil said firmly.

“But, Sire…!”

“That is an order, Lieutenant. Captain Beregond, you will remain in Command at Osgiliath and oversee operations and you will ensure that your troops do not overtax themselves or indulge in reckless actions, no matter what the provocation! I look to you to maintain the high standards of discipline Lord Faramir always insisted upon. We will not allow Gondor’s forces to sink to the level of the scum we are seeking. Because, believe me, I will not rest until they have all paid the price of their actions.”

Imrahil turned to Tamir; the shocked and pale faced Adjutant pulled himself together with great effort. “What would you wish of me, Sire?”

Kindly, the Prince gave the youngster a quick hug of reassurance. “Please see to it that Captain Beregond and the Lieutenant are shown to guest quarters and that they are made comfortable. When you have broken your own fast, I will see you back here. If you are willing, I would ask you to remain in my service until… until we have the situation here more settled.” It was the first time the Prince had allowed his own grief to show and it was Tamir who, with a disregard for protocol but a degree of compassion hugged the Prince back.

The King’s grief on hearing of the tragedy was terrible to behold; his anguished cries echoed through the unnaturally silent corridors of the Citadel. The news of the Prince’s fate soon spread throughout the city and the people mourned the loss of their beloved Prince.

As winter gave way to spring, news of the tragedy reached Edoras and Éowyn insisted on travelling to Gondor to await news, never giving up hope that each dawn would bring tidings that Faramir had been found.

For months the Elves and Gimli relentlessly marshalled the troops of Ithilien, Lebennin and Lossarnoch, combing both banks of the river in search of information. Dozens of thieves and cut-throats were picked up and taken to the city for questioning and trial. The efforts of the searchers cleared the land of outlaws but there was never any indication that those caught were involved in or knew about the Prince’s fate. The populations of the jails and the chain-gangs increased and the gallows were put to use for the worst offenders as the King meted out stern justice. As a result of the clean-up, Ithilien was once again considered safe enough for a few brave souls to stake a claim and set up homesteads and farms and Ithilien began to come back to life, though the Prince of that land was not there to witness it.

But as the year drew to a close the King and his councillors finally accepted that Gondor had lost the last scion of the House of Hurin. King Elessar refused to appoint a new Steward, instead he created a new post, that of First Minister, and begged Prince Imrahil to accept the post and support him. Imrahil, heeding the King’s request and recognising the heart-felt plea behind it, formally handed over his title and responsibilities in Dol Amroth to his Heir and took up permanent residence in Minas Tirith.

Éowyn also stayed in Gondor, though her visits to the White City were few. She made her home in Emyn Arnen, overseeing construction of the Manor Faramir had designed for them both and assisting Beregond in organising the relocation of the Garrison of the White Company to its new base close to the Manor. She insisted that Faramir’s personal Standard flew atop the roof and that a brazier be kept constantly alight on the tallest tower to light travellers home.

As Yule approached, Arwen broached the subject of a memorial to Faramir and this led to a discussion amongst those closest to the royal family about the lack of an official memorial to Denethor or to either of his sons, all of whom had sacrificed their lives in the service of Gondor. The House of the Stewards in the Hallows, rebuilt and refurbished, became the site of a ceremony to honour these three dedicated Sons of Gondor.

On the longest night of the year a great procession, led by the King and Queen, moved silently down the stairway of Rath Dinen to hold a solemn vigil. The chill and gloomy chamber was warmed by the light of many candles and the heat of a ring of braziers. Under the great dome of the House of Stewards three marble tombs lay side by side, each angled like the spokes of a wheel towards the centre of a raised circular dais. Set into the marble in the centre of the dais was a small well edged with Mithril and precious stones that held the flickering light of a perpetual flame, symbol of the unfailing loyalty and sense of duty of these three honoured Sons of Gondor.

In the centre, the tomb of Denethor, its shining marble still stained and cracked from the heat of the funeral pyre that had taken his life when the spite of the Dark Lord had finally overpowered his mind. The tomb was draped with the Standard of the Steward and placed reverently atop, his plain mithril Circlet of Office and the sword gifted to him by his father, the Steward Ecthelion, on his coming of age.

To the right of Denethor’s tomb, the tomb of Boromir, draped with the flag of the Captain of the Tower Guard and topped with the sword hilt and shield rescued from the river and the vambraces, etched with the symbol of the white tree, taken from his body with honour at Amon Hen.

Finally, to Denethor’s left, the tomb of Faramir, draped, not with his standard but with the midnight blue cloak that had once belonged to his mother and that he had gifted to Éowyn. Arwen placed a bouquet of white lilies beside the Prince’s circlet and the White Rod, symbol of the Steward’s authority. Éowyn placed a small crystal and mithril lantern inside the circlet and whispered her own silent plea into the darkness.

With the private ceremony over, the Royal party and the other dignitaries returned to the Merethrond for a formal banquet. Before the meal commenced the King drew Éowyn to her feet in front of the gathered throng and proclaimed her Princess of Ithilien, investing in her all the powers and honours formally held by Faramir.

“I will not take his place,” she hissed, even as the King placed the circlet on her brow.

“I do not ask you to take his place, My Lady. But you have proven your dedication to the land he loved above all other and who better than you to oversee his vision fulfilled?” Estel said gently.

“And what if I wish to return to Rohan or to marry, My Lord?”

“Then it will be held in trust for your children,” he assured her. “Faramir loved you and he wanted to see you settled. You may stay or go as you please but Ithilien will always be there waiting for you.”

“Did you know about this, Brother?” she spat so quietly that only those nearest could hear.

“Yes, Sister. Rohan is the land of you birth, of your past, but Ithilien is your promise of the future. Soon, if my wish is granted,” he said casting a glance to where Prince Imrahil was talking to his daughter Lothiriel, “I will have a Queen by my side…”

“You wish to be rid of me!” she accused.

“Peace, Éowyn. You are my only remaining family, of course I do not want rid of you. You will always have a special place in Rohan and in my heart, but I deem you will no longer be happy to be trapped in the Royal Cage of the Meduseld,” he explained, hugging her until her anger subsided.

“I will consider your offer, Sire,” she said, once again addressing King Elessar. “But do not think to organise my life for me like some troublesome chattel. I will nurture Ithilien as Faramir would have done and I will not take kindly to interference,” she warned him.

“And what of neighbourly guidance and support?” asked Legolas, who had plans for his own Elven settlement in northern Ithilien.

“You are a good friend, Legolas,” she said cupping a cold hand to his cheek and dropping her head forward until their foreheads touched. Finally she allowed her tears to fall, tears she had held back for so many months as she waited in vain hope for news. Arwen, seeing her distress, ushered her into a quiet chamber until the paroxysm of grief eased.

“Am I the only one to believe, to hope he is still alive, Arwen?” Èowyn pleaded.

“Why are you so sure?” Arwen asked

“I cannot explain it… but I still feel a connection to him. When Théodred was killed I knew he was gone long before the messenger came,” Èowyn explained.

“Then you must hold on to your hope. Some things cannot be explained. Our hearts love where they will and we must learn to listen,” the Elven Queen assured her.

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