The halfing who had named himself Frodo Baggins was hiding something; of that, Faramir was in no doubt.
When he had made passing mention of their third companion, the pasty, ill favored looking creature that scampered away with his and his men's approach, Frodo had at once denied existence of such a being but not before Faramir caught the sidelong glance given to the halfing by his so-called gardener, Samwise Gamgee, as he did.
It was no more than a quick darting of the eyes but it was enough to warn Faramir that Frodo Baggins of the Shire was lying.
Nonetheless, Faramir did not wish to kill the two halflings. Or rather, he did not wish to kill Samwise Gamgee for there was a certain something in the latter which impressed the human man. A reserved admiration for the plump hobbit who had glared defiantly back at Faramir, in spite of his obvious fear.
What was even more obvious was his fierce devotion to this Frodo Baggins and that, Faramir could value. Loyalty was a quality he cherished well.
Yet, he will kill them without regret if they proved to be indeed spies for the White Wizard. But their deaths would be swift and painless, that much he could and would do. Then he had heard Frodo speak of the Fellowship in an attempt to prove the their identities and his heart had lurched painfully, unseen claws clutching around it with knife-bright clarity, when the name of Boromir passed through the hobbit's lips.
Boromir. Dead now, as he afterward told the two hobbits with bitterness and anger even as he schooled his expression to impassiveness. It would not do for a Lord of Gondor, much less the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, to show unforgivable weaknesses in front of strangers and his own men.
The Steward of Gondor would not approve.
With the hobbits now safely guarded in another room, Faramir took a brief respite from the pressing menace of Saruman's amassed forces of accursed Orcs who, even at that very minute, were marching with single-minded purpose towards Mirias Tirith, intent on scouring the city to the ground.
He retreated to a private part of the caves and settled upon the hard floor. The ever-present roar of the waterfalls, echoing ghostly throughout the caverns, accompanied his thoughts as he leaned his head back against a harder granite wall. He closed his eyes with weariness.
Sleep did not come. Instead, memories surged unbidden to the fore and crowded his mind with their shadowy presence. He was unable to ignore, unwilling to heed, but helpless to stem the tide.
So he remembered the day he brought the chilled body of his brother back to their father.
He rode with all the speed his horse could muster, driving the steed to great, harsh pants of exertion. Another time, he would have taken pity upon the poor beast and relented his pace but when the news was carried forth to him, he knew that he had to see it with his own eyes before he would believe. Belief, nowadays, was a dearly bought item and he would not give it easily.. .even if he woke a few nights past, sweating profusely, sheets twisted during when he was deep within the throes of his agonized dreams.
Ill dreams that showed him images he would rather forget but which stayed with him, the taste of foreboding sour upon his tongue and the dying bellow of a horn, sounding a death before it cleaved, reverberating ominously long after he was awake.
And then what he feared most came to pass. One of his men stumbled to Minas Tirith and told him of what a band of soldiers had found near Osgiliath by the bank of a river. The man would not say more but his white face and sorrowful expression was all he needed to know.
He called for his horse and without waiting, rode out of the gate of the city alone, as the banner of the Stewards of Gondor rose high behind him upon the Tower of Ecthelion.
As he reached his destination, he sprung down from his exhausted steed and paid no heed to the small gathering of soldiers who cleared a path with respect. The boat was of Elvish make, plain though elegant, but it was what laid within the shelter of wood that drew his gaze. Every step he took nearer, he felt his heart grow ever more cold and leaden.
Boromir's horn, which he had dreamt as it sounded its last knell, was broken irrevocably as it lay next to the body, and his heart then did turn to stone.
No sound he made as he carried his brother up, the weight a chilled burden. None offered to help for they knew it was his duty to bear and with some difficulty he hefted himself and the body of Boromir upon the steed. As he did so, he could smell the sea-wet fragrance of his brother's hair, soaked still from the long journey from Anduin.
Though tired beyond measure, the beast slowly managed to bear the doubled load back to Minas Tirith.
Back to their father. Who wept with despair as he cradled the icy, indifferent corpse of his eldest son and mourned his passing.
He stood by close, and his face was shut in as winter and he did not weep. Some who saw, whispered among themselves that the second son was secretly gladdened, for was it not well known that Denethor had lavished all his hopes and affections upon Boromir?
None saw, in his hand, he clutched the broken horn with clenched fingers and after, hung it around his body, though useless it was now, and kept it with him always.
Faramir's hand reached down and felt the familiar shape of the horn around his fingers, hanging from his belt, and opened his eyes as the memory receded. Staring sightlessly, he gazed at nothing, his expression detached and distant.
When his man came and whispered something low in his ear, awareness then flooded back into his eyes. He nodded, acknowledging his understanding.
So, the hobbit had proved himself to be lying. They have found the elusive third member of this strange party. The spindly creature with skin the color of the dead and limbs like a frog. For some reason unknown, it had ventured into the Forbidden Pool for food, not knowing, or perhaps it was drawn, to the place where his companions were held captive.
No matter. The hobbit lied and Faramir was determined to find out why. He could sense a mystery weaved around those three. A portent of inexplicable power that could tip the balance of the war of Mordor and Isengard against Gondor. He could not explain his intuition, nor of those obscure previous premonitions that he both welcomed and loathed for he did not understand whence they came, but had come to accept them as a man accepts death as the final, inevitable journey.
Boromir once told him that his dream visions were a gift, his eyes eager and alight to reassure his brother. He did not think so anymore now. A cursed gift was more like it. If it had not been for his dreamings, Boromir would not have traveled to Rivendell and thus, there, rushed to meet his doom.
It was his fault; he knew that. As did his father, which was why Denethor had sent him to the borders of Ithilien. To guard and prevent it from falling into the Dark Lord's hand was the official explanation given but Faramir understood it was exile. Punishment for his brother's death.
Except, he was almost glad to go. For at every part of Minas Tirith, he felt the unbearable presence of Boromir's shade, hounding him relentlessly until he could not draw breath. Standing, he walked to where the hobbits were kept. Silently, making no sound, as a Ranger was adept at, he woke Frodo. He took care not to rouse Samwise who, doubtless, would spring at him like a mother cat protecting her litter.
With glazed eyes that blinked a few times, the hobbit then peered fearfully up at the man, wondering perhaps if he was to meet his end at the keen edge of a sword.
Faramir merely indicated he was to follow and only one word was spoken, 'Come.'
"Come, Faramir! Where are you? Stop this hiding and show yourself!" His brother's clear voice shouted, edge of impatience and exasperation tingeing the tone.
He did not want Boromir to be angry with him, the thought was too intolerable. Boromir was the only one in Minas Tirith who listened to him. Listened to his fears and aspirations. Who talked to him as if he were a true person and not the Steward's unnecessary second son.
If it were not for Boromir, life in his father's house would be harsher and bitterer. As it was now, he could bear the slighting glances, the subtle scorn, for Boromir's sake. Those who knew the two brothers well were often surprised at the close bond they shared between each other, for Denethor had made it quite obvious to all that he had no use for his next scion, preferring instead to fasten all his hopes upon Boromir.
"Here," he said quietly as he strode from the hidden crevice between the battlements. The strong winds whipped Boromir's tawny hair around his face, which was already losing much of its previous boyishness and gaining the aspect of a man with a hint of bearded stubble around the chin.
Five years came between them so he himself still retained the gawky, gaucheness of youth with limbs that sometimes got in the way of movement. But Boromir never laughed when that happened, when he stumbled during sword practices and almost beheaded himself with clumsiness. His brother would just patiently heave him up upon his feet once more and go through the swordplay motions until he got it right.
Boromir would never laugh at him.
"Father has summoned you to his side," Boromir told him.
He flinched and the other man saw it.
"You cannot hide forever." Understanding filled Boromir's eyes. And a brusque kindness. "He cares, in his own way, even as you think he does not."
"Perhaps," he muttered without conviction, choosing to look over the battlements instead, where the White City was laid before his eyes like a great glittering bauble. "If he has affections for me, then he does so without seeing me. No one sees me..." One day, he shall diminish into the darkness and no one will even know. Or care.
He felt his brother's hand on his shoulder, giving warmth and comfort. Giving attestation that he was real, and of flesh and of blood.
"I see you, Faramir," Boromir pledged an oath to him. "I will always see you."
The hobbit carried the ring upon a silver chain around his neck. The Ring of Power that Saruman and the soulless Nazgūl were so frenziedly hunting for. Such a deceptively plain looking thing, a thin band of gold, shining with a luster of its own when shimmering light from the moon struck it, just so, and seemed to suck the luminosity greedily for its own. So close and if he dared to lay his hand upon it, all of Middle-Earth could be his to save or lay waste unto as Sauron was doing now.
Sauron. With the ring, he could crush Sauron's armies and deliver Gondor from its encroaching peril.
And perhaps he...perhaps his father would extend forgiveness when he rode into the city with the Dark Lord's head riding high upon his saddle while the horns of Minas Tirith would sound once more with the eons-old cry of victorious triumph for him and only him.
For a brief shining instant, Faramir's mind swam with majestic visions of such enormity that stole his breath away. The ring beckoned and seemed to whisper to him through its dull-gold sheen of seduction and sang of possibilities so sweet he could taste it through his skin.
Hold me within the warm flesh of your palm and all that you wish for shall be yours for the taking. Put me on and you will be greater than even he who dwells within Mordor... it called to him, he could hear its sibilant hisses, sliding boneless through his mind with sureness, piercing his every thoughts. And bringing visions he had not known had previously existed within him and now craved to reality with a compelling desire.
His reflection in burnished gold stared back and as his eyes flickered reluctantly away from the ring, he noticed Frodo Baggins gazing at him.
Such a tired, wise, and somehow, sad, look it was. As if the hobbit knew precisely what was swiftly tumbling through Faramir's mind at that moment.
Samwise Gamgee's expression was simpler to read and thus, to bear. His stare was full of fearful alarm as he gradually inched towards Frodo to shield his friend. Which changed to hope as he pleaded for Faramir's aid to destroy the ring.
Do not look at me so. Do not look at me, Faramir thought with a stab of startling anguish and he knew not why he felt so, only that Frodo's empathy was unendurable. As unendurable as the unalterable knowledge that Boromir was dead and he would never again lay eyes upon his beloved brother when life, not death, surged strong and wild in that fierce, resolute visage.
The alluring whispers of the ring lessened momentarily as the terrible grief howled around him to shred him apart and Boromir's ashen face stared accusingly at him. Yet, his countenance showed none of his turmoil as he told his men to bring the hobbits and the wretched one called Gollum away.
For they shall, all of them, leave for Osgiliath when dawn broke across the leavening sky.
"Gondor shall be great again and so shall the races of Middle-Earth pay homage to the White City when that happens, I swear it." Boromir's face was alight with eagerness and fervent conviction as he spoke his hopes. "Tomorrow, my path is set for Rivendell.
Elrond of the Elves has called for a council of men, dwarves and elves though I know not why but I shall go. Mayhaps he will know the significance behind those dreams of yours and the meaning of Isildur's Bane."
He said nothing in return, only nodded. Like their father, the restoration of Gondor to its former glory as in the early days of the High Kings, was a concern bordering on obsession for Boromir.
His dreams of late were troubled and murky. He had told Boromir of them and since had regretted doing so, as his brother would speak of nothing else for days. Worry was foremost on his mind when he noted the light of ardor that would sometimes shine piercingly in his brother's eyes when he lingered on Gondor's past glories. He did not like it for Boromir's passion was too akin to fanaticism.
His unease, strange and restless, grew even though Rivendell held no ill will towards Gondor. The ancient alliance between the Elves and Men was long sundered but, other than their aloof demeanor, Men did not know the Elven race for any enmity towards them.
Still, his apprehension would not leave and he became vexed with his own womanly anxieties. Boromir was a man grown and a warrior, tested and tried countless times over. "I charge you to receive my duties when I am departed," Boromir said gravely. "He is no longer young and his burdens weighs heavily upon his shoulders. Will you not help our Father?"
He does not need my help. He thinks only of you. These bitter thoughts he nearly betrayed but held his tongue, wishing no discord to cast a pall over the last evening with Boromir. The Elven sanctuary was many days' journey away and who can know at what time they will see the other again?
As Boromir heaved more responsibilities of stewardship of Gondor from Denethor unto himself, in eventuality of the former to take over the position, he had seen less and less of his brother. He knew it was unavoidable as he too had new obligations to bear since he was no longer an unbearded boy but a Ranger in training.
Nonetheless, he missed the talks he and Boromir shared in the old days. And he will miss that presence which had always given him succor and refuge when he needed them sorely.
He missed his brother with a sharpness that cut like the deepest wound sometimes. It terrified him to feel so. It terrified more to wonder what if Boromir became known of these feelings and scorned him for them.
So much doubts, and strange wantings for things he did not understand, thrumming through him, as a caged bird would beat its wings futilely against the walls of its prison. As he pondered, hands that moved of their own will reached to bind arms around his brother.
"Faramir?"
He realized he was crying, much to his searing shame. Tears that soaked into Boromir's clothing as he buried his face within the crook of his brother's neck, the rasp of stubble rough against his cheek, and mortified for this unforgivable weakness shown. They were alone, for that he was glad. That none living was present to witness his humiliation.
He laid one hand against Boromir's chest to feel the beating of the organ beneath clothing and skin, a mark of life so rich and powerful, which none could withstand and his troubles eased a little.
Just then, he felt his brother's hand upon his head, caressing his hair, gently like soft rain falling.
"You are and always will be Faramir, brother to Boromir. Know that and carry it with you wherever your path may take you," was said with quiet certainty.
He could not speak. He knew. It was not rejection but neither was it acceptance. He had been offered the constant, loyal devotion of a brother to another brother. The truth of those words bringing, at once, understanding, aching sorrow and great love. To demand for more would be foolish indeed and unwise.
Hence, he asked nothing else.
Faramir stood upon the ruins of Osgiliath, on a high crumbling balcony jutting out of a charred building that had been beautiful once.
It was the exact position where Frodo Baggins had nearly offered himself and the ring as a sacrifice to the Nazgūl in a bid to end the ever-growing madness raging inside his mind. An insidious insanity and loss of self which Faramir knew now that he had escaped by a mere hand's breath.
As it was, pity and compassion welled in him for the one designated as the Ringbearer, realizing the impossible burden that Frodo bore faithfully.
Although, not alone. Not as long as a Shire gardener of roses walked by his side. Faramir smiled briefly. The smile was swift gone with the wind as it wailed past his face, choking of fire and smoke.
He did not regret letting the two hobbits and Gollum go though he had been warned the price of doing so was his life in exchange. If death was to be the path to take, then so be it. He will tread the shadow ways to the vaulted halls of his ancestors, knowing that for once, Faramir of Gondor had done what his heart had showed him to be true.
"You have made me proud."
A voice, familiar and which immediately brought with it, such pain and hurt, sounded by his side.
He turned to face his brother's ghost.
No longer tomblike pale with reproachful eyes, Boromir looked as he did on the day he left for Rivendell, clad richly in splendid garments and fur. His bearing was tall and regal as befitted a warrior of Gondor. Boromir's face was stern but the dark eyes held warmth. A silver horn, whole and unbroken, hung at his side and seeing that, Faramir's fingers unconsciously stole down to touch his own shattered image of the same object. "Boromir," he whispered in greeting.
"You have escaped the enticement of the accursed Ring. I did not. I listened to its pleasurable lying promises and almost did a great wrong to one whom I had sworn to protect."
"I know. Samwise did tell me...Boromir, I am sorry."
"You have proved a far worthier successor to our father's seat than I."
"No." He shook his head in denial. No man could equal Boromir, not in life nor in death. "It is so. Do not grieve for me much. For I have redeemed my deed of madness with my death. The soil of Parth Galen is soaked with the black blood of many Uruk-hai that I slewed for atonement."
The words would not come out, no matter how he tried. Words of abiding affections and of the bond between brothers that lingered though one was still mortal and the other, no longer Man but a faint apparition of memories.
The harsh expression softened and Boromir nodded.
"Remember me well, Faramir, and do not forget," the one who will not return uttered finally before he was gone, as if he had never been.
"I will not forget," his vow sang to empty air. "I... I love you, my brother."
Silence replied and it did not matter if he had been dreaming awake. If it were a dream, it was a good one.
Afterward, when the tears dried to streaks of dirt upon his cheeks and anguish and joy in equal measures ran their dueful course, Faramir gripped the shattered horn and went forth, tall of bearing and princely of features, to meet his destiny.
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