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Title: Hope Prevails
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9200 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”
In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.
Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.
~
The deep, resonant tones of Boromir’s horn had sounded late afternoon, piercing through the veil of the forests where Faramir and his Rangers had been mired, mid-battle with the Haradrim.
Faramir had ached to throw down his arms upon hearing the horn. To rush to Boromir’s side and give him the aid he was sure his brother sorely needed. As it was, he had been caught in his own skirmish after an ambush gone awry—one of the trenches dug to snare the Haradrim’s towering, tusked mûmakil had not been deep enough; they had underestimated the number of the enemy passing through; several of their traps had not sprung—and the Rangers had descended upon the enemy, only to find that instead of being scattered by chaos and confusion, the enemy was ready and waiting. All Faramir could do was fight for his own life, hoping against hope that the voice of Boromir’s horn would not go unheeded.
Could only hope his brother had stalwart companions of his own that would come at his call.
The Rangers regroup at Henneth Annûn after, to count their losses and better prepare themselves for the next battle, but as night draws near, Faramir finds himself wandering toward the banks of the Anduin. Takes a seat along sand and silt to watch the moon’s light reflect upon the water, just as he reflects upon the day’s events. He wonders how they will make up for the loss of Rangers in today’s fight, the losses few but dear. How best to adjust their tactics, in case their best-laid plans fail, as they had today.
Before long, however, his thoughts turn to Boromir, spurred by the knot of worry and fear that has taken hold in his chest since hearing the horn’s cry; he wonders at the circumstances behind Boromir’s call for help. If his brother is well now, and safe. Or if he had been alone, calling for aid that would not come, or worse, could not come in time.
The sound of something rattling against the riverbank, a muted melody not unlike the chime of hollowed bones struck together, catches Faramir’s attention. He rises to inspect the source of the sound, but upon nearing it, stops in his tracks, breath catching hard in his throat—until Faramir forgets how to breathe altogether.
There, tangled in the wild weeds of the riverbank and cloven in two, is Boromir’s horn.
No, thinks Faramir, as the two slivers float along the water, striking each other now and then with the ebb and flow of the river. No, no, no—it cannot be.
And though he wishes for nothing more than to plunge into the river, to seize Boromir’s horn and cradle it in his arms, Faramir wades into the bone-chilling water, slow. Remains careful not to disturb the weeds, lest the current carry the horn away again, bearing it to shores where Faramir cannot follow.
With patient, skillful fingers, Faramir sifts through the reeds to untangle the horn. Gathers the sundered horn into his arms and cradles it, gentle, as he makes his way ashore; he needs hardly glance at its silver tip, its finely etched rim, to know this relic is indeed the heirloom of the house of the Stewards of Gondor. Had seen Boromir wear it proudly at his hip for long years.
A smear of blood, days old and dull, runs the length of the horn, and Faramir traces it with a thumb, gleaning what vestiges of Boromir’s life from it he can. Stares at the horn, numb. He had all but told Boromir of his dream, hoping to dissuade him from his journey, or at the least wait until they could set out for Rivendell together. But time had been of the essence, and Boromir had to leave, regardless, and all Faramir could do was hope for his safe return. Trust that his dream, of Boromir cold and pale and lifeless within an Elven boat would not come to be. That it had merely been a test of his faith, or if Boromir were to know of it, of his, if in fact the Valar were fond of such trials.
Now, however, faced with the horn of Gondor bloodstained and broken, Faramir knows in his heart his brother has fallen.
There is no body, Faramir thinks, a seedling of hope pushing through his grief. I did not see my brother, dead. And there have been no reports of a strange Elven boat passing through Gondor or gracing their shores.
But Boromir would not have given up his horn, even on pain of death, and Faramir knows better than to hold onto false hope in times such as these.
He does not allow himself to fall to his knees by the banks of the Anduin, with its unforgiving surface of stones and sand and silt. Does not grieve with a wailing lament, here, or in front of his men, even if they all know what the sundered horn means. Even if they surround him as he winds his way, unseeing, through the caverns of their hideout, all of them clasping his shoulder or patting his back in silent consolation.
But later, in the solitude of his own sleeping quarters, a natural alcove hewn from the rock face itself, Faramir presses the two pieces of the horn, all that he has left of Boromir, to his chest, the heart beating within sundered like Boromir’s horn. Weeps softly, his tears soaking the sleeve of his tunic.
Worthless, Faramir decides of his sorrow, his tears. Tears would not bring his brother back, or he would gladly fill the Anduin with sacrifice enough to bring his brother back to life.
At that thought, Faramir clutches the remnants of Boromir’s horn tighter to his chest, as if it can heal the raw, painful ache that resides there. He knows he must give the pieces of the horn to his father in time, to relay the news of Boromir’s passing. But for now, he keeps the pieces for himself. Would keep them forever, if he could.
Would have kept Boromir, by his side, if he could.
I need you, thinks Faramir, desperate. Your guidance. Your counsel. But most of all, the warmth of your laughter. The heat of your fevered touch. The sight of your mouth, kiss-swollen and red, and your hair, tangled, after we have loved one another, that makes me want to run my fingers through it time and time again.
Faramir swallows hard, around the knot of anguish in his throat. You promised, Boromir, he remembers, bitter. You promised you would return.
But all the promises in the world mean nothing, if the Valar do not allow it.
He lets himself sob quietly, clasping the horn to his chest. And if his men hear him, they say nothing of it after, because tonight, the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers is only a man, grieving a brother, a loss, and that is a feeling they know all too well.
~
“Captain Faramir.”
Faramir looks up from the map that he and Madril, his second-in-command, have been poring over in private conference. Their scouts have reported ill news, of Saruman leading troops from Isengard against Rohan, and Sauron marshalling his own in Mordor, and it is only a matter of time before both armies turn against Gondor. “What is it, Damrod?”
Damrod inclines his head in the direction of the main cavern. “The Halflings we captured have been brought blindfolded to the hideout, as you requested. Mablung and I can interrogate them, if you wish.”
“I will speak to them,” Faramir says, but he nods at Damrod, grateful. He leaves Madril to contemplate how best to counter Saruman and Sauron’s troops for now, and makes his way to the mouth of the caves.
As he winds his way through the tunnels, Faramir muses on how the appearance of the Halflings has been a breath of fresh air, a break from the monotony of his days. His time until now has been divided between ambushing the Haradrim, their numbers continually marching from the east, and dispatching rangers to defend Osgiliath, though it seems of late that all of these tasks blend together. As if Faramir does each from a great distance, far removed from the men he commands, his orders and actions performed through a dense, grey fog.
His world had lost all color, all of it fading into a meaningless grey since the finding of Boromir’s horn. And while he had wondered what killed Boromir in the end, knowing his brother would not have been felled so easily, had wondered if Boromir’s murderer was in the next Orc, the next Harad he cut down, he felt no pleasure in the killings; like all else, they were simply performed through the haze of grey, his movements by rote and his reflexes instinctual. Often slow-seeming, as if Faramir was trying to wade through mud, or move underwater.
But the appearance of two Halflings, found skulking in the grass during one of the Rangers’ ambushes short days ago, had shaken color into his being, painting swift, broad strokes of it over the drab landscape of his life. The novelty was in their rarity: Faramir had only ever read and heard of Halflings from Mithrandir, living in their idyllic, green lands, their lives fraught only with the perils of poor harvests and improper grading of pipeweed.
What business do two Halflings have in Ithilien, so far from the Shire? Faramir had wondered aloud, at the sight of the child-like beings his men had captured.
We are bound to an errand of secrecy, the pale, waif-like one had said. Those that claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us.
The enemy? Faramir remembered his bitter words to them, then, as he turned over the dead Harad before them: His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is, where he came from, and if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home, and would he not rather have stayed there…in peace.
How many, like his brother, had been driven by lies and twisted threats to ride so far from home? How many had died as Boromir had, alone but for the company of fellow soldiers, perhaps not even that?
My place is here with my people, Boromir had said, his gaze meeting Faramir’s as he turned from their father, all those months ago. Not in Rivendell. Yet to Rivendell he had gone, to bend to their father’s whim, to keep Faramir safe, and all that remained of him was his blood-streaked horn, sundered, like Faramir’s heart.
War will make corpses of us all, Faramir had decided.
He takes a seat before the Halflings now, noting their bound hands. If he deems them to be harmless from his interrogation, he will consider having those bonds removed. As it is, the Halflings appear exhausted and afraid, but resolutely defiant, as if some hidden purpose drives them, giving them strength.
“My men tell me that you are Orc spies,” Faramir says without preamble.
“Spies?” shouts the heavyset one, incredulous. “Now wait just a minute—”
“We are Hobbits from the Shire,” says the Halfling with the mess of brown curls, quickly. “Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.” He nods toward his fellow traveller.
Faramir regards them solemnly, silent. He will not be the first to give anything away.
“We set out from Rivendell with seven companions,” Frodo volunteers, filling the silence as Faramir hoped he would. “One we lost in Moria, two were my kin…”
Rivendell! Faramir’s heart leaps in his chest. Then Boromir might have been in their company! It was to Rivendell he travelled, seeking our dream’s meaning and the weapon of the enemy, by attending Lord Elrond’s council.
“…and two men,” Frodo continues. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir, of Gondor.”
Faramir fights to hide the sting of tears at his eyes at the mere mention of his brother. Breathes in, deep, to regain his composure. Not only has Boromir been in their company, he traveled with these Halflings, for a time! “You were a friend of Boromir?” he asks coolly, despite his heart beating double time in his chest.
Frodo blinks, as if unsettled by the question. “Yes,” he says finally, “for my part. Though I have not seen him since our parting at Amon Hen.”
“It would grieve you then,” Faramir says, “to learn that he is dead.” He forces the words out, harsh, to gauge their reactions. The Halflings appear properly shocked, Frodo especially.
“Dead!” Frodo exclaims. “How? When?”
“As one of his companions, I had hoped you would tell me,” says Faramir. He decides not to speak of the cloven horn, keeping it to himself for now—just as he hoards the pieces for his own, instead of giving them to his father. “The river Anduin saw fit to send me a symbol of his passing,” he offers instead. “But more than this, I know it in my heart.” Faramir swallows, tight, against the knot forming in his throat. “He was my brother.”
He sees something like sympathy flicker through the Halflings’ eyes at the way his voice breaks on brother, and berates himself for this weakness he has shown, in unproven company.
Despite his compassion, Frodo seems genuine in not knowing anything. Samwise, however, or ‘Sam’, as Frodo has called him, casts his eyes upon the cave floor. There is guilt implicit in his gaze for all of a moment, before he straightens his back. Stares defiantly at Faramir, unwilling to share what it is he knows.
With a sigh, Faramir rises to his feet and turns from them; he will find out what he needs to know from the Halflings in time. There are more pressing matters at hand in the meantime, and much to do, like the formulation of plans on how best to fight Sauron’s ever-increasing army, and the distribution of their already diminished Rangers throughout Gondor.
“Well? Did you learn anything from the Halflings?” Madril asks, when Faramir returns to the cavern designated as the council room.
“Besides the fact that they are not Orc spies?” Faramir snorts, shaking his head. “Nothing of note. Though there is one thing…they said they set out from Rivendell. That they travelled with Boromir for a time, before their parting at Amon Hen.” Faramir pauses, thoughtful. “Do you think…”
Do you think I might have made it to his side?
They had been in northern Ithilien the day Boromir’s horn sounded, when the ambush against the Haradrim had taken a turn for the worse. And though Faramir knows it would have been impossible to hasten to Boromir’s aid that day, he still feels at fault. Boromir must have been so close to home; if only Faramir had ventured farther north with his Rangers, if only they had covered more ground, Faramir might have saved him, and his brother would still live—
“Faramir,” Madril says, quiet. He opens his mouth, as if to offer words of comfort, but knowing Faramir does not want pity, shuts it again. Keeps the words that Faramir knows his men have ached to say to him, to himself. Let him go, Faramir, Madril seems to say, regardless, with the downward cast of his eyes, the tug of a frown at his mouth.
Faramir recognizes that look; he has said such words to his men enough times, knowing they meant little in the face of overwhelming grief.
In the end, Madril claps an awkward hand to Faramir’s back instead, and unrolls a piece of parchment, dark with routes plotted in ink for the movement of troops and armaments. “I have devised a new strategy of attack,” he says. “One I hoped you would look over before we enact it. It should help us if in fact the fight comes to us on both fronts—from Isengard and Mordor.”
Faramir sighs, glad for this temporary reprieve from his grief. Besides, needs must, for Sauron’s army will not stop its advance for the sake of his loss.
Later, when his men have a small, subdued celebration of sorts—they have taken out another Haradrim band and not one, but two of their colossal mûmakil this time—Faramir joins in, but takes no pleasure from the weak, malted drink. Takes only the barest hint of it in the company of his men. The entire affair serves only to emphasize how his hope of a sharing a celebratory drink with Boromir ever again is gone now, and after the mandatory first toasts, Faramir chooses instead to retire to his chambers. Sits with the cloven horn, as he does most nights now, and presses the two halves together, turning it over in his hands, again and again.
I should have gone in your place, Faramir thinks. Or gone with you. I might have saved you, had I been by your side. He presses a thumb, pensive, to the streak of blood along the horn’s length. What happened, out there in the wild lands? How did you fall, in the end, that none could come to your aid in time?
But the horn tells no tales, besides the one Faramir already knows. Provides not the warmth of Boromir’s kiss or the heat of his touch. And before long, the pieces fall apart again, reminding him, not for the first time, how very alone Faramir is. Of how Boromir has been cleaved from his side, much like this horn.
At this, he curls beneath his thin, worn blanket and weeps, softly, missing Boromir so much the wound in his heart physically aches. Remembers how, when last he had wept like this, it had been when their mother passed. Boromir had held him then, folding his arms around Faramir, his warmth a comfort and barricade against all the hurt and pain.
Who will hold me now, Boromir? Faramir thinks, his fingers twining tight through the horn’s corded rope. Now that you are gone?
And not for the first time, Faramir passes the night with the horn cradled to his chest, holding it and holding on, the way he will never hold Boromir again.
~
Faramir has grown used to the roar of the waterfall that obscures Henneth Annûn’s entrance, and the drip of the caves deeper in, but never before has either been drowned out by the sound of constant chatter.
“Your opinion of this strategic new route through Ithilien?” Damrod wants to know, a map in his hands as he follows Faramir to and from the council room.
“What do you think of this mixture?” Mablung asks after, barging into Faramir’s sleeping quarters with a mad grin. He shows Faramir a sour-smelling, black powder he has concocted, meant to scatter the enemy through its explosive power, and gives the flask an absent-minded shake, despite Faramir’s look of horror that he should not do that here. “This should augment our bows nicely.”
When even Anborn appears, with inane questions about arrow fletching while Faramir is relieving himself, Faramir begins to suspect his Rangers are conspiring. As if they are taking turns to watch him, afraid of him doing something drastic in his grief. Only then does it occur to him that he has been less than successful in hiding his sorrow; perhaps the deep echoes of the caverns at night or a particularly heartrending sob had given him away.
He bears Anborn’s questions and Mablung’s attempts to draw him into conversation with a patience he had not known he possessed, however, and finds that their constant company is actually a comfort, trying as it is.
“Mablung,” Faramir tries later, when he is replenishing the candles on their worktables and Mablung hurries over to help light them, both tasks easily done by one. He clears his throat. “About this endeavour of yours and the others, which—” Faramir eyes Madril over by the crude explosives, subtly straining to listen in on their conversation while examining a map at the same time, “—I am sure Madril has initiated. I appreciate your concern, but it is no longer necessary.”
“What endeavour?” Mablung asks, his eyes wide, the very picture of innocence.
“This business of you and the others following me about. There is no need for it; I have no plans as of yet to join my brother.” Though the thought has crossed my mind, many a night. Faramir conjures what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but his expression must seem stilted and strange, because instead of being relieved, Mablung looks even more worried. Casts his eyes about in a panic for Madril, ringleader of this brood of mother hens, as if to say Our ploy has been discovered, what now?
“Captain Faramir!” Anborn calls, hurrying over from behind a corner.
Faramir silently thanks Anborn for saving him from a conversation that was likely to be more than awkward. “What is it? Have you found something?”
“We have,” Anborn says. “The creature the Halflings were traveling with was sighted mere moments ago in the Forbidden Pool.” He furrows a brow. “I found it bashing a fish against a rock and sorting through its entrails, its execution of the fish set to song.” There is another pause, before Anborn stifles a grin. “Shall I sing it for you? The creature seems especially fond of the words ‘juicy’ and ‘sweet’.”
“That will not be necessary,” says Faramir, holding up a hand to forestall an attempt at the song, though he appreciates Anborn’s efforts at making him smile.
Together with the others, Faramir rounds up the Halflings they have kept captive for now, rousing them from their sleep to draw the creature out from the pool.
It seems docile enough at first, but by the time they have captured it, it struggles and screams from within its bonds, flailing as if possessed by all the cursed spirits of the earth. Faramir feels a measure of sympathy for it, but his instinct tells him that this being is the key to what Frodo and Sam are doing in these lands.
“Where are you leading them?” Faramir asks of it, when they have freed it and cornered it in one of the smaller caverns.
The creature, lean of limb and sparse of hair, with skin a mottled grey, is a pitiable thing, curling in on itself and whimpering. Bemoaning its fate. It answers no questions, however, and Faramir presses closer to listen to its ramblings, catching among its growls of Master tricksed us and answering whimpers of Master is our friend! the words Filthy little hobbitses, they stole it from us.
“What did they steal?” Faramir encourages, gentle. “What is it they took from you?”
“My…precioussss!” it snaps, baring rotted teeth, a look of pure hatred in its bloodshot eyes as it imbues its answer with all the venom it can muster.
Precious. The word brings to mind the memory of Mithrandir, Faramir’s old tutor, from when he had come searching for something within the archives of Minas Tirith. It had taken him long years, even with Faramir’s occasional help, to find what he was looking for: a scroll, written by Isildur, the last known owner of the Ring of Power, documenting its finding. Mithrandir had been troubled by the scroll’s contents, that much was evident.
“It is precious to me,” Mithrandir had read aloud, his eyebrows rising as he echoed Isildur’s words from an age past, “though I buy it with great pain.” He had turned to Faramir then, alarmed. It is as I thought, Mithrandir said. The One Ring has been called precious before. By those who have wielded it, or have been influenced by its power.
The wizard had not tarried long after that, gathering his belongings in a rush and saying he was due to visit an old friend, but not before Faramir had worked out what troubled Mithrandir so, what urgency hastened his flight from Minas Tirith: the ring must have been found, or was hidden somewhere in safekeeping, but could remain veiled no longer.
The ring, Faramir thinks now, his world upended completely at the revelation. Isildur’s Bane. The very thing that our father bade Boromir bring home. There is a roaring in his ears, like the crash of waves upon a shore, and the beat of his heart is deep, foreboding, the ominous percussion of a war-drum, drowning out the sound of all else.
Before he knows it, he has found the Halflings where they sit waiting, and their eyes widen, fearful, from the sword he has drawn from its scabbard.
“So this is the answer to all the riddles,” Faramir muses, advancing deliberately toward Frodo. He lifts the ring from where it sits beneath Frodo’s shirt with the point of his sword. Watches, mesmerised, as the glint of gold catches against cold steel. This is what Boromir died trying to bring home.
This, Faramir thinks, amid the strangely tempting whispers that seem to emanate from the ring itself, is what took my brother from me.
He can see Frodo cringing away from him, hear Sam’s distant pleas, saying that their quest is to destroy the ring—which is the logical action to take, because it is this thing his brother had set out to search for, this thing that had led to his death—but something darker calls to Faramir now, louder, something that drowns out even his deepest desire, which is to know what happened to Boromir in his last moments, because it kills him to not know.
Anything you wish shall be yours, the ring seems to whisper, its tone soft, sibilant. Recognition from your father. Your people. You shall be the pride of Minas Tirith itself—nay, of Gondor. You need only stretch out your hand and wield me. Name your desire, Faramir, Captain of Gondor, and your wish will be my command.
Give my brother back to me, then, Faramir snaps at it in return, in the same peculiar thought-speech. The ring silences at once, mercifully, its dark voice receding from his mind. An overwhelming sense of relief washes over Faramir, that he has beaten this entity’s dangerous call, that he has remembered what is most important in his life, when Damrod startles him from his daze.
“Captain Faramir,” says Damrod, his hand closing tight, urgent, over Faramir’s shoulder. “Osgiliath is under attack. “They look to us for reinforcements.”
“Prepare to leave,” Faramir commands, eyeing the Halflings, thoughtful, as Damrod hurries away to gather their men.
Battle is upon them again, too soon after the last, and from that, the decision is made for them; Faramir knows they have not men enough stationed in Osgiliath to repel the attack, and hardly Rangers enough to spare as reinforcements—not with the recent defeats and the enemy’s ever-increasing army. Osgiliath is under attack, and this time, I will not have my brother by my side.
“The ring will go to Gondor,” Faramir declares, with a heavy sigh. Osgiliath has dire need of its power now. Besides, Boromir had died trying to bring this weapon home, and it is up to Faramir to see it through.
Seeing the look of anguish in Sam’s eyes, however, Faramir cannot help the niggling feeling that he has played right into the ring’s plans. That the ring has twisted his sentiment to its own will. But the rest of the Rangers have begun to gather at his command, and by then it is too late to do anything besides start the long, arduous trek to Osgiliath.
~
“Look!” Damrod shouts, as their company nears the once-capital of Gondor. He points to the plumes of thick, dark smoke billowing from Osgiliath’s highest towers. “Osgiliath burns!”
His eyes are sick with dread when he turns to the others. Faramir can see that even Mablung and Anborn, the most steadfast and optimistic of his Rangers, shiver in the evening chill, made all the colder by the grey and overcast sky.
“Mordor has come,” says Madril grimly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He looks toward Faramir, as if awaiting instruction.
Is the ring truly our last hope? Faramir wonders, at the sight of the once-proud city, being reduced now to rubble and ash before their eyes. Is there truly no other recourse than to put our faith into what seems a mere bauble, its allegiance yet unproven?
As if he has heard Faramir’s doubts, Frodo turns to Faramir. “The ring will not save Gondor,” he says. “It has only the power to destroy.”
Some part of Faramir knows Frodo speaks reason, that his words ring true, from all that Faramir has observed: the wretched thing the creature who had carried for it long years had become, the strange, untimely demises of those who had wielded it.
The brother it had torn from him.
Again, however, the oddly errant thought comes to him, making his decision for him: Boromir died to bring home this ring. I must finish what he started. “Hurry!” Faramir commands. He sprints ahead, motioning for the other Rangers to follow, deaf to Frodo’s cries and pleas to free him.
By the time Faramir and his company of Rangers arrive at Osgiliath, the city appears worse than the state they left it in: debris of crumbled walls and parapets litter the major thoroughfares of the city, and the dead—too many of them soldiers of Gondor, in their broken and battered silver armour—are scattered like leaves among the ruins.
“Captain Faramir!” the remaining troops cry, rallying around the Rangers, as if they are a welcome sight, a symbol of hope in such dark times. Perhaps the only beacon of hope.
No. Not the only, Faramir thinks grimly. They have the ring now, despite how they came by it. “We will take the Halflings and the item they carry to my father afterwards,” he announces to his men. “It is the weapon that will change our fortunes in this war.”
He almost wishes they were before his father now, that he might say Faramir sends a mighty gift. To fill the words with a spite he had not even known he possessed, and hurl Denethor’s words to Boromir, Bring me back this mighty gift, in his face. To show him what was left of Boromir’s horn, that he might see his folly—that he had bartered one of his own blood for this bauble.
Some darker part of Faramir whispers though, that this glory, for bringing the ring to Minas Tirith, will be his, but he attributes that to the natural pull of the ring. Strangely enough, its voice is dimmer now, hesitant and unsure, and Faramir finds it easier to fight its pull, though it unsettles him that he knows not why that is. Perhaps the ring has found another, of higher rank or darker spirit to lure to its aid.
A sorrowful cry rises, not far from where they stand—the despairing sound of Gondor’s soldiers once again engaged in battle, sending a frisson of fear along Faramir’s spine.
“For now, we have need of the ring’s strength here,” Faramir amends quickly. He motions Madril toward the Halflings with a curt nod. “Do what you must to make them draw forth the ring’s power,” he says, resigned, and starts forward to lead the other Rangers into the fray.
Madril furrows his brow, as if dismayed at the thought of threatening beings no taller than children. “Faramir,” Madril says, hesitant. “Perhaps there is another way we might—”
“You want to know what happened to Boromir?” Sam shouts, sudden, struggling against his captors. His outburst draws Faramir’s attention for once, and Faramir feels a pit of shame settle in his stomach, that only the mention of Boromir makes him turn a more willing ear their way. “That’s what you’ve been after all along, isn’t it? Keepin’ us here, when you could’ve just taken the ring! When you could’ve just killed us!”
Faramir does not correct his misconception—murder is not in his nature, especially not for something such as the One Ring—but there is a grain of truth in Sam’s words. He watches as Frodo tugs weakly at Sam’s sleeve, mouthing No, Sam, as if what he will say next is too cruel. As if he is keeping Sam from saying something he cannot take back.
“You want to know why your brother died?” Sam continues, regardless, twisting out of Frodo’s grip. “He tried to take the ring from Frodo! After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to kill him!” The revelation sends Faramir reeling, but nothing is as damning as Sam’s final words: “The ring drove your brother mad!”
No! thinks Faramir vehemently. Not Boromir. Not Boromir, for he is strong. And if he had failed, had succumbed to the lure of the ring, would that I had been there to be his strength. To break its dark enchantment over him.
He wonders what lies the ring told Boromir, what dark things it had promised his brother, to snare him so completely. Wonders what Boromir thought of in his last moments. What was in his heart.
Did you think of me before the end, brother? Faramir thinks, his own heart twisting in his chest. He hopes Boromir remembered the love they shared; that perhaps the thought of Faramir himself, of all they cherished between them, had eased his passing.
The terrifying shriek of the Nazgûl sounds overhead, shaking Faramir from his stupor instantly.
“Wraiths!” wails the creature they keep captive. “Wraiths on wings!” It twists and writhes against its bonds, forgetting to take cover even as the dreadful beat of wings follows swiftly after. As if hoping the Nazgûl’s presence is distraction enough for it to slip away.
Faramir thinks to take up the call of Nazgûl! to warn the others, to—
The Nazgûl attacks, its baleful shriek splitting the air like a war cry as it drives its fell-beast into a nosedive toward the company of Rangers. Makes them scatter like ants among the rubble. Even from behind a broken section of the battlements, Faramir can feel the chill of its presence settle deep into his bones, a cold, pervading fog that seeps through the layers of his tunic, leeching him of all warmth and hope and happiness, such little as he had.
He peers around the corner, before doubling back instantly behind the wall, the fell-beast’s gaping maw only inches away. There will be time to remember Boromir later, he thinks. For now, there is only time to focus on survival.
Faramir is searching his surroundings for a better vantage point, a higher section of wall, even a remnant of tower still standing from which to snipe the fell-beast, when he spots Frodo and Sam cowering together in a corner. Hurries over, quickly, quietly, and herds them beneath a safer set of archways, yet unbroken.
“Stay here,” Faramir commands. When Sam scowls at him in spite of the attempt to help, Faramir sighs; they will have words later, Faramir with the explanation that he had not truly meant them harm, and Sam with—no, Sam had said his piece, and however bitter and cruel the words were, they have given Faramir a sense of closure, even if he has not the time to mull them over right now. “Stay here,” Faramir says again, in case the stubborn Halflings have the foolish idea of running out among the enemy in a bid to escape. “And keep out of sight!”
With that, he slips away to join his Rangers against the new onslaught of Orcs storming into Osgiliath.
The Orcs brandish crude, curved blades and axes and maces, each of their blows meant to kill, each Orc in the fray in a wild battle-frenzy, as if bolstered by the Nazgûl’s shrieks. Their guttural war cries—primal and raw, like something from the early darkness of the world—rise to a fever-pitch as they advance upon soldiers and Rangers alike, and Faramir is very nearly tempted to sink to his knees, to press hands against his ears in order to escape the vicious grating, the sound of The enemy is near, the enemy is here.
Easy, Faramir. You have this in hand, Faramir remembers then. Kind words from Boromir, when Faramir had just started his training at the barracks, and been beaten down by opponents both larger and stronger. Boromir had stood behind him afterward, guiding his hands in the motions of the swordplay Faramir knows so well now. Watch for their weaknesses, and aim your strikes. Make each one count.
Faramir stands taller, straighter, at the memory. Watches these Orcs in their mad charge toward him and his company; like their predecessors, the Orcs’ armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arm, and Faramir raises his sword, brings it down, across, in sharp sweeping motions, cleaving heads from necks, and limbs from torsos, as wave after wave of the enemy rushes at them, around them, like a tide swelling violent along a shore. He lunges in for a kill, parrying as he needs.
Summons his courage, in the face of the terror the Nazgûl’s shrieks strike into his heart and the sheer numbers of the enemy, from the memory of Boromir—the warmth of his hands, the solid strength of his sword swings, the flash of pride in his eyes when at last Faramir had mastered the strokes, honed his battle instincts and triumphed over those who only used brute strength—
Faramir raises his sword nearly too late to block the swing of a mace, spiked and blood-soaked, toward his head. Even as the blow glances off his sword, his arm is numbed by the brutal impact
numb cold dead
and only by the quick support his other arm gives does he manage to dismember the hulking Orc before him, lopping off its right arm as it makes to swing its mace again. The weapon somersaults into a cluster of smaller Orcs, with arm still attached. Faramir tears through the Orc’s left arm as it reaches out to throttle him with thick, grimy fingers, until the appendage hangs by bare threads of sinew, the bone slashed clean through. With no other option, the Orc lunges at him, its maw open wide, fetid air from its breath blasting Faramir in the face as it forces him up a ruined stairway.
I cannot get a clean swing in such close quarters, Faramir panics, his fingers closing on crumbling stone as he backs away from the creature, his back pressed too close to unyielding walls. He strikes at its legs, hoping to cut it down at the knees, but his sword glances off its armoured legs, ineffective.
Suddenly, the heel of his boot slips on the shattered stone and Faramir lands hard on his back, the wind knocked from him. The Orc, sensing its advantage, leaps at him, and Faramir wrenches his sword upward, desperate, a last valiant effort, but the angle is all wrong, it will not pierce through—
The Orc collapses against Faramir, a great and heavy weight, Faramir’s sword having found its mark. Plunged deep within the creature’s chest from the weak armour beneath its arm.
Faramir forces it backward and lops its head off, turning away from its unseeing eyes; they are persistent creatures, and he shudders to think of how many more he must yet kill, for the sake of protecting his comrades. His home.
Just then, the Nazgûl lets loose another ear-splitting shriek, and Faramir’s heart leaps at this opportunity; here, on these ruined stairs that the Orc had driven him into, is the vantage point he had sought. He takes the steps two at a time, finding the highest point, but then the Nazgûl is right there, an arrow’s flight away, and Faramir watches the wraith lean forward in anticipation, stretch forth its hand for—
Frodo, that is Frodo up there—the ring, the Nazgûl wants the ring
All at once, it strikes Faramir that the ring has only ever wanted to return to its master. That it will indeed turn the tide of the war, but never in their favour. It had whispered its promises and secret seductions like the sirens of old, but ever had they been lies and empty assurances, tailored to its wielder and those around it. Ensuring it would pass from one owner to the next, until it found its way back into Sauron’s hands.
It is indeed an evil entity; no object that could have snared his brother so completely could be good.
As Sam tackles Frodo to the ground, keeping the ring out of the Nazgûl’s reach for just a moment longer—he had been honest about their quest to destroy it, Faramir realizes now, and Frodo too—Faramir is already nocking an arrow in his bow, letting it fly. Sinks it deep into the chest of the Nazgûl’s mount, darkly satisfied at the rasping screech the fell-beast makes as it retreats. The wounded thrashing of its wings.
With the Nazgûl’s retreat, the Orcs are left leaderless, lost, and they beat a hasty retreat of their own to the eastern shores of Osgiliath, lands long appropriated for their ill use.
Faramir furrows his brow and frowns, finding revulsion and puzzlement both in the abrupt shift in their mission. He recalls Boromir’s observation that the Orcs’ courage came from their numbers—that they drew strength from a strong lead, a commander that would herd the writhing, twisted masses, but scattered like mayflies in the absence of one. Yet another part of him wonders if this attack, and the many before it, were simply the enemy’s test of their defences. A probe to determine the strength of Gondor’s armies before bringing the full might of Mordor against them.
Sauron knows now that we do not have the strength to repel him, Faramir thinks bitterly. And our only hope lies now in the ring; not in its assistance, but its destruction.
By the time Faramir returns to the Halflings, he finds Sam in the middle of his reassurances to Frodo. Not empty platitudes meant to console, but words to stir Frodo’s courage, giving him the will to summon his own.
“In the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow,” Sam says. “Even darkness must pass. A new day will come.”
Even darkness must pass, thinks Faramir, the words striking the very heart of him. He leans against a ruined battlement for support. A new day will come. Sam’s words loosen something in his chest, the twisted coil of hurt and dread that has dwelled there since he learned of Boromir’s death.
“And when the sun shines,” Sam continues, “it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”
“What are we holding onto, Sam?” Frodo asks. He sounds all forms of tired, especially the soul-harrying kind Faramir has felt all his life.
“That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.”
Faramir swallows hard; Sam’s words have bolstered his own courage as well, banishing the last of the ring’s compulsion upon him. Lets him fight off the yearning to hoard this ring for the city, for Gondor, simply because Boromir had given his life for it.
The only decision he needs make now is whether he has it in him to be the better man. To let Sam and Frodo go and continue their quest to destroy the ring, and put an end to the very thing that had led to his brother’s death.
A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality, he muses.
His father’s words, these, had been meant to be cruel, but always Boromir had turned them against Denethor, using the words, kind, when he said, You have shown your quality, Faramir, in all that you do. And I know it to be of the very highest.
How Boromir had always had faith in him, even when their father did not!
I will do what I judge to be right, Faramir decides, finding courage from within himself, as he makes his way toward Frodo and Sam beneath the shambles of archways. There is good in this world. And it is worth fighting for.
The Halflings look up as he approaches, and Sam steels himself for more conflict, angling his body between Faramir and Frodo. His hand rests on the dagger at his waist, cautious.
“I think,” Faramir says slowly, as he kneels before them, “that at last we understand one another, Frodo Baggins.” He recognizes their quest at last; understands the burden that Frodo bears. Nods gratefully at Sam, for the closure his caustic words have given Faramir. The closure their quest itself will bring to him. “Samwise Gamgee.”
Madril, who has come to stand at Faramir’s back, clears his throat.
“You know the laws of our country,” he warns, in light of Faramir’s implicit promise to free the Halflings. “The laws of your father.” His words ring hollow, however, the lines of tension in his face relaxing in relief. As if he thinks Faramir, too, is doing the right thing. He pauses, the shadow of Denethor’s legacy hanging heavy still upon them. “If you let them go…your life will be forfeit.”
Moved by Sam’s words, Faramir would rather defy such laws; would be caught striving to be some of the good in this world than cower behind inaction. “Then it is forfeit,” Faramir declares. He nods to the Rangers restraining Sam and Frodo. “Release them.”
Only after, when he spots Madril and Anborn sharing a look, conferring wordlessly before eyeing several other Rangers, does Faramir realize how that sounded: that he declared his life forfeit because his brother was dead.
While their worry is not entirely unfounded, Faramir sighs; from his careless comment, their watch over him is likely to grow more stringent, and the recruitment of Rangers to their cause doubled. For now, he makes his escape by guiding Sam and Frodo to the secret way out of the city, the old sewer that runs through Osgiliath
“Captain Faramir,” Sam says, before he and Frodo leave through the old tunnel. His nose and cheeks are smudged with grime, but his grateful beam toward Faramir shines all the brighter for it. “You’ve shown your quality, sir—the very highest.”
Faramir manages a wisp of a smile at this, this small reminder of Boromir in Sam’s words, and nods in acknowledgment. “Go,” he says. “Go with the goodwill of all Men.” He watches them trudge into the long dark of the tunnel, hoping for their safe passage. Hoping that they can trust the creature that claims to lead them by secret pathways into Mordor.
Never has the fate of so many been entrusted to so few, he muses.
Faramir wonders if he should have posted a Ranger to accompany them, at least until they reached the borders of Mordor. But his men do not know the ways through the mountain passes, and the Halflings have too sore a need for secrecy to suffer the company of an ill-prepared Ranger. And the most compelling reason, one that warns him against aiding them further than he already has, is that he senses this journey is their own.
We each have our own journeys to make, Faramir decides in the end, turning away from the tunnel.
And our own burdens to bear.
~
Faramir and his Rangers spend the remainder of the day salvaging what weaponry they can from the dead. Move stone and ruined battlements away from pathways, to make the crossing through the battered remains of Osgiliath easier for Gondor’s armies.
He is just about to command their return to Henneth Annûn before the light of day fades, when one of his Rangers, a new recruit, comes riding into the city, both rider and horse breathless in their haste. Rador had been posted as a lookout, to patrol their side of Osgiliath and keep watch for the return of the Orc bands.
“Captain Faramir!” he calls, dismounting in a hurry. He nearly falls on his face when his foot catches in the stirrup.
Faramir steadies Rador with a hand before he plummets to the ground. “What is it, Rador? Are you hurt?” Faramir asks, worried. He had thought a position in the patrol would allow him to gain experience without pitting him against the Orcs in battle immediately, but—
“Your brother!” Rador exclaims, when he has regained his balance. He rummages through the pouch at his belt. Produces a scroll, worn from the elements, that is bound by a simple leather cord. “This was taken from a messenger who was on his way to Minas Tirith. Since the letter was addressed to you, we intercepted him and brought it to you. Captain Faramir, your brother—”
“He lives,” Faramir says immediately, his heart soaring in his chest. It is a statement he wishes to be truth more than a question. He knows his hands are gripping Rador’s shoulders too tight, shaking him when Faramir knows has no right to. “Please,” he whispers, desperate. “Tell me he lives.”
There could be no news more ill than that of Boromir’s death, his sundered horn a token that had filled Faramir’s heart with dread. And now, his Ranger’s breathlessness and haste could only mean that—
Rador nods, pressing the letter into Faramir’s hands, and try as he might, Faramir cannot stop the tremor in his hands, even as his fingers close around the missive of hope, tight.
“The messenger told me that Lord Boromir had taken a grievous injury, but that he is resting and recuperating in a small fishing village near the Mouths of Entwash.” He pauses. “They have requested that soldiers from Minas Tirith be sent to retrieve him.” At this, Rador gives Faramir a wry smile, his eyes darting to the addition of new ruins to Osgiliath from the last battle. “At our earliest convenience, of course.”
Faramir nods, thanking Rador before dismissing him. Reflects on how perhaps the old adage rings true, that one good turn deserves another, and for the first time in days, allows himself to hope. “Madril,” Faramir says, motioning the Ranger over. “Our defenses. Will they hold?”
Madril’s brow furrows as he pauses, considering. “We can hold the city until—” He smiles, wan. “Our defenses will hold. For another three days, at least.”
It is a lie, and Faramir knows it; he hears it in Madril’s voice, sees it in the tremor of fingers clenched around his sword hilt. Even coupled with the forces of the warriors from Gondor, the Rangers could only hold Osgiliath for another day or so. If luck held, at least until Faramir could return.
But Faramir wants so very much to believe, that he sets off regardless, the thought of Boromir, Boromir, Boromir leaving him blind to all else. Other matters—the fate of Osgiliath, how he will find the obscure fishing village, and how he will even make the journey there alone when Orcs crawl along every path and causeway from here to the Eastfold—are so very far from his mind. Instead, they are dwarfed by thoughts of whether Boromir is safe where he is. If he is well. If he is cared for.
Wait for me, Boromir, Faramir thinks, his heart buoyant with joy. I am coming for you.
He had found it curious that his dream of Boromir dead, sailing out to the sea in a light-filled craft, had not plagued him in the nights since the sounding of Boromir’s horn. As if something had happened to chase away the reality of that vision. Had changed it somehow. But as much as Faramir had wished for this to be true, he had quashed the tiny seedling of hope in his heart. Had thought it better to have assumed the worst and be wrong, than to hope for the best and be met only with heartbreak and sorrow.
Now, though—now, Faramir’s heart soars, and he hums absently as he goes about filling his water skin. Securing provisions for his journey.
Soon he will have his brother by his side again, and together, they can accomplish anything.
With his supplies gathered, Faramir stops by the tower where Madril and several other Rangers are stationed. By now, all the Rangers have heard of Boromir’s miraculous survival, and they cluster around Faramir with words of encouragement and wishes for his safe journey. Faramir acknowledges their wishes with a grateful smile, before clapping a hand on his most trusted advisor’s shoulder.
“Madril. I must set out for the Eastfold tonight, to find my brother,” says Faramir. “I shall entrust the Rangers’ command to you in my absence.” He squeezes Madril’s shoulder, silencing him, when Madril opens his mouth in protest. “There is no man better suited to this task than you,” Faramir adds, beaming. Grizzled as he is, Madril still has fight in him yet, and the benefit of battle and commanding experience beyond even Faramir’s.
Madril nods, his hand coming up to meet Faramir’s where it is clasped to his shoulder. “I wish you luck on your journey, then.” After a moment’s pause, he says softer still, “I hope you find your brother well.” There is something like sympathy in his eyes, that makes Faramir wonder if he knows just how long Faramir had wept in nights past. He has no time to dwell on that, however, as Mablung and Damrod bar his way before he leaves.
“Captain Faramir,” Damrod tries, hesitant. If Faramir did not know better, he would almost say Damrod, ever the worrier, was wringing his hands like a lovesick maiden. “I cannot, in good conscience, let you brave these lands alone. Even if it is to bring back your brother. I mean, I am sure Lord Boromir will be an asset on the way back, but—”
“What Damrod means,” Mablung says hastily, clapping Damrod and Faramir on the back both, “is that we are coming with you. Whether you wish it or no.”
Faramir grins, heartened by the concern of his friends, poor as they are in hiding it. “Let us make haste then,” he says, as he helps them corral several riderless horses for the journey. “Boromir has never been the patient sort, and I am sure he is eager to return to us, as Minas Tirith is ever in his thoughts.”
And if Mablung and Damrod share a purposeful look, as if to debate who is really the impatient one of the brothers and what is truly in Boromir’s thoughts, Faramir pretends not to see.
(tbc - Chapter 4)
End Notes
This is my take on some of the motivations movie!Faramir might have had; why he’s at first adamant about the ring going to Gondor, as opposed to book!Faramir who simply starts off saying he “…would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and [he] alone could save her”.
OST:
- Faramir, Upon Finding the Horn of Gondor: Brother, My Brother – Adele McAllister. A beautiful gifset based on lyrics from this song can be found here.
- Faramir, Alone In His Grief: I Can’t Love You Back – Easton Corbin.
This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (Movies)
Pairing: Boromir/ Faramir
Rating: NC-17
Words: 9200 (76900 total)
Summary: “You are a warrior,” says Aragorn. “Of Gondor.” His hand closes tight over Boromir’s shoulder, as if lending Boromir his strength, tethering him to life. “Is there one for whom you fight? A lady-love?”
In his agony from the Uruk’s wounds, Boromir’s answer is entirely too honest. “A brother,” he gasps. “I have a brother.” In arms, in blood, and in bond.
“Then think of him, and live,” Aragorn commands. “He will look for your coming from the White Tower, and you will return home to him.”
A/N: Boromir Lives AU. Boromir survives the events at Amon Hen and reunites with Faramir, but together, they face an even greater peril still.
Incorporates a mixture of both movie and book canon, for a gentler version of what could have been. OST notes will be included at the end, for a sample of the official LOTR tracks and other independent pieces that inspired certain scenes or that scenes were written to.
The deep, resonant tones of Boromir’s horn had sounded late afternoon, piercing through the veil of the forests where Faramir and his Rangers had been mired, mid-battle with the Haradrim.
Faramir had ached to throw down his arms upon hearing the horn. To rush to Boromir’s side and give him the aid he was sure his brother sorely needed. As it was, he had been caught in his own skirmish after an ambush gone awry—one of the trenches dug to snare the Haradrim’s towering, tusked mûmakil had not been deep enough; they had underestimated the number of the enemy passing through; several of their traps had not sprung—and the Rangers had descended upon the enemy, only to find that instead of being scattered by chaos and confusion, the enemy was ready and waiting. All Faramir could do was fight for his own life, hoping against hope that the voice of Boromir’s horn would not go unheeded.
Could only hope his brother had stalwart companions of his own that would come at his call.
The Rangers regroup at Henneth Annûn after, to count their losses and better prepare themselves for the next battle, but as night draws near, Faramir finds himself wandering toward the banks of the Anduin. Takes a seat along sand and silt to watch the moon’s light reflect upon the water, just as he reflects upon the day’s events. He wonders how they will make up for the loss of Rangers in today’s fight, the losses few but dear. How best to adjust their tactics, in case their best-laid plans fail, as they had today.
Before long, however, his thoughts turn to Boromir, spurred by the knot of worry and fear that has taken hold in his chest since hearing the horn’s cry; he wonders at the circumstances behind Boromir’s call for help. If his brother is well now, and safe. Or if he had been alone, calling for aid that would not come, or worse, could not come in time.
The sound of something rattling against the riverbank, a muted melody not unlike the chime of hollowed bones struck together, catches Faramir’s attention. He rises to inspect the source of the sound, but upon nearing it, stops in his tracks, breath catching hard in his throat—until Faramir forgets how to breathe altogether.
There, tangled in the wild weeds of the riverbank and cloven in two, is Boromir’s horn.
No, thinks Faramir, as the two slivers float along the water, striking each other now and then with the ebb and flow of the river. No, no, no—it cannot be.
And though he wishes for nothing more than to plunge into the river, to seize Boromir’s horn and cradle it in his arms, Faramir wades into the bone-chilling water, slow. Remains careful not to disturb the weeds, lest the current carry the horn away again, bearing it to shores where Faramir cannot follow.
With patient, skillful fingers, Faramir sifts through the reeds to untangle the horn. Gathers the sundered horn into his arms and cradles it, gentle, as he makes his way ashore; he needs hardly glance at its silver tip, its finely etched rim, to know this relic is indeed the heirloom of the house of the Stewards of Gondor. Had seen Boromir wear it proudly at his hip for long years.
A smear of blood, days old and dull, runs the length of the horn, and Faramir traces it with a thumb, gleaning what vestiges of Boromir’s life from it he can. Stares at the horn, numb. He had all but told Boromir of his dream, hoping to dissuade him from his journey, or at the least wait until they could set out for Rivendell together. But time had been of the essence, and Boromir had to leave, regardless, and all Faramir could do was hope for his safe return. Trust that his dream, of Boromir cold and pale and lifeless within an Elven boat would not come to be. That it had merely been a test of his faith, or if Boromir were to know of it, of his, if in fact the Valar were fond of such trials.
Now, however, faced with the horn of Gondor bloodstained and broken, Faramir knows in his heart his brother has fallen.
There is no body, Faramir thinks, a seedling of hope pushing through his grief. I did not see my brother, dead. And there have been no reports of a strange Elven boat passing through Gondor or gracing their shores.
But Boromir would not have given up his horn, even on pain of death, and Faramir knows better than to hold onto false hope in times such as these.
He does not allow himself to fall to his knees by the banks of the Anduin, with its unforgiving surface of stones and sand and silt. Does not grieve with a wailing lament, here, or in front of his men, even if they all know what the sundered horn means. Even if they surround him as he winds his way, unseeing, through the caverns of their hideout, all of them clasping his shoulder or patting his back in silent consolation.
But later, in the solitude of his own sleeping quarters, a natural alcove hewn from the rock face itself, Faramir presses the two pieces of the horn, all that he has left of Boromir, to his chest, the heart beating within sundered like Boromir’s horn. Weeps softly, his tears soaking the sleeve of his tunic.
Worthless, Faramir decides of his sorrow, his tears. Tears would not bring his brother back, or he would gladly fill the Anduin with sacrifice enough to bring his brother back to life.
At that thought, Faramir clutches the remnants of Boromir’s horn tighter to his chest, as if it can heal the raw, painful ache that resides there. He knows he must give the pieces of the horn to his father in time, to relay the news of Boromir’s passing. But for now, he keeps the pieces for himself. Would keep them forever, if he could.
Would have kept Boromir, by his side, if he could.
I need you, thinks Faramir, desperate. Your guidance. Your counsel. But most of all, the warmth of your laughter. The heat of your fevered touch. The sight of your mouth, kiss-swollen and red, and your hair, tangled, after we have loved one another, that makes me want to run my fingers through it time and time again.
Faramir swallows hard, around the knot of anguish in his throat. You promised, Boromir, he remembers, bitter. You promised you would return.
But all the promises in the world mean nothing, if the Valar do not allow it.
He lets himself sob quietly, clasping the horn to his chest. And if his men hear him, they say nothing of it after, because tonight, the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers is only a man, grieving a brother, a loss, and that is a feeling they know all too well.
“Captain Faramir.”
Faramir looks up from the map that he and Madril, his second-in-command, have been poring over in private conference. Their scouts have reported ill news, of Saruman leading troops from Isengard against Rohan, and Sauron marshalling his own in Mordor, and it is only a matter of time before both armies turn against Gondor. “What is it, Damrod?”
Damrod inclines his head in the direction of the main cavern. “The Halflings we captured have been brought blindfolded to the hideout, as you requested. Mablung and I can interrogate them, if you wish.”
“I will speak to them,” Faramir says, but he nods at Damrod, grateful. He leaves Madril to contemplate how best to counter Saruman and Sauron’s troops for now, and makes his way to the mouth of the caves.
As he winds his way through the tunnels, Faramir muses on how the appearance of the Halflings has been a breath of fresh air, a break from the monotony of his days. His time until now has been divided between ambushing the Haradrim, their numbers continually marching from the east, and dispatching rangers to defend Osgiliath, though it seems of late that all of these tasks blend together. As if Faramir does each from a great distance, far removed from the men he commands, his orders and actions performed through a dense, grey fog.
His world had lost all color, all of it fading into a meaningless grey since the finding of Boromir’s horn. And while he had wondered what killed Boromir in the end, knowing his brother would not have been felled so easily, had wondered if Boromir’s murderer was in the next Orc, the next Harad he cut down, he felt no pleasure in the killings; like all else, they were simply performed through the haze of grey, his movements by rote and his reflexes instinctual. Often slow-seeming, as if Faramir was trying to wade through mud, or move underwater.
But the appearance of two Halflings, found skulking in the grass during one of the Rangers’ ambushes short days ago, had shaken color into his being, painting swift, broad strokes of it over the drab landscape of his life. The novelty was in their rarity: Faramir had only ever read and heard of Halflings from Mithrandir, living in their idyllic, green lands, their lives fraught only with the perils of poor harvests and improper grading of pipeweed.
What business do two Halflings have in Ithilien, so far from the Shire? Faramir had wondered aloud, at the sight of the child-like beings his men had captured.
We are bound to an errand of secrecy, the pale, waif-like one had said. Those that claim to oppose the enemy would do well not to hinder us.
The enemy? Faramir remembered his bitter words to them, then, as he turned over the dead Harad before them: His sense of duty was no less than yours, I deem. You wonder what his name is, where he came from, and if he was really evil at heart. What lies or threats led him on this long march from home, and would he not rather have stayed there…in peace.
How many, like his brother, had been driven by lies and twisted threats to ride so far from home? How many had died as Boromir had, alone but for the company of fellow soldiers, perhaps not even that?
My place is here with my people, Boromir had said, his gaze meeting Faramir’s as he turned from their father, all those months ago. Not in Rivendell. Yet to Rivendell he had gone, to bend to their father’s whim, to keep Faramir safe, and all that remained of him was his blood-streaked horn, sundered, like Faramir’s heart.
War will make corpses of us all, Faramir had decided.
He takes a seat before the Halflings now, noting their bound hands. If he deems them to be harmless from his interrogation, he will consider having those bonds removed. As it is, the Halflings appear exhausted and afraid, but resolutely defiant, as if some hidden purpose drives them, giving them strength.
“My men tell me that you are Orc spies,” Faramir says without preamble.
“Spies?” shouts the heavyset one, incredulous. “Now wait just a minute—”
“We are Hobbits from the Shire,” says the Halfling with the mess of brown curls, quickly. “Frodo Baggins is my name, and this is Samwise Gamgee.” He nods toward his fellow traveller.
Faramir regards them solemnly, silent. He will not be the first to give anything away.
“We set out from Rivendell with seven companions,” Frodo volunteers, filling the silence as Faramir hoped he would. “One we lost in Moria, two were my kin…”
Rivendell! Faramir’s heart leaps in his chest. Then Boromir might have been in their company! It was to Rivendell he travelled, seeking our dream’s meaning and the weapon of the enemy, by attending Lord Elrond’s council.
“…and two men,” Frodo continues. “Aragorn, son of Arathorn, and Boromir, of Gondor.”
Faramir fights to hide the sting of tears at his eyes at the mere mention of his brother. Breathes in, deep, to regain his composure. Not only has Boromir been in their company, he traveled with these Halflings, for a time! “You were a friend of Boromir?” he asks coolly, despite his heart beating double time in his chest.
Frodo blinks, as if unsettled by the question. “Yes,” he says finally, “for my part. Though I have not seen him since our parting at Amon Hen.”
“It would grieve you then,” Faramir says, “to learn that he is dead.” He forces the words out, harsh, to gauge their reactions. The Halflings appear properly shocked, Frodo especially.
“Dead!” Frodo exclaims. “How? When?”
“As one of his companions, I had hoped you would tell me,” says Faramir. He decides not to speak of the cloven horn, keeping it to himself for now—just as he hoards the pieces for his own, instead of giving them to his father. “The river Anduin saw fit to send me a symbol of his passing,” he offers instead. “But more than this, I know it in my heart.” Faramir swallows, tight, against the knot forming in his throat. “He was my brother.”
He sees something like sympathy flicker through the Halflings’ eyes at the way his voice breaks on brother, and berates himself for this weakness he has shown, in unproven company.
Despite his compassion, Frodo seems genuine in not knowing anything. Samwise, however, or ‘Sam’, as Frodo has called him, casts his eyes upon the cave floor. There is guilt implicit in his gaze for all of a moment, before he straightens his back. Stares defiantly at Faramir, unwilling to share what it is he knows.
With a sigh, Faramir rises to his feet and turns from them; he will find out what he needs to know from the Halflings in time. There are more pressing matters at hand in the meantime, and much to do, like the formulation of plans on how best to fight Sauron’s ever-increasing army, and the distribution of their already diminished Rangers throughout Gondor.
“Well? Did you learn anything from the Halflings?” Madril asks, when Faramir returns to the cavern designated as the council room.
“Besides the fact that they are not Orc spies?” Faramir snorts, shaking his head. “Nothing of note. Though there is one thing…they said they set out from Rivendell. That they travelled with Boromir for a time, before their parting at Amon Hen.” Faramir pauses, thoughtful. “Do you think…”
Do you think I might have made it to his side?
They had been in northern Ithilien the day Boromir’s horn sounded, when the ambush against the Haradrim had taken a turn for the worse. And though Faramir knows it would have been impossible to hasten to Boromir’s aid that day, he still feels at fault. Boromir must have been so close to home; if only Faramir had ventured farther north with his Rangers, if only they had covered more ground, Faramir might have saved him, and his brother would still live—
“Faramir,” Madril says, quiet. He opens his mouth, as if to offer words of comfort, but knowing Faramir does not want pity, shuts it again. Keeps the words that Faramir knows his men have ached to say to him, to himself. Let him go, Faramir, Madril seems to say, regardless, with the downward cast of his eyes, the tug of a frown at his mouth.
Faramir recognizes that look; he has said such words to his men enough times, knowing they meant little in the face of overwhelming grief.
In the end, Madril claps an awkward hand to Faramir’s back instead, and unrolls a piece of parchment, dark with routes plotted in ink for the movement of troops and armaments. “I have devised a new strategy of attack,” he says. “One I hoped you would look over before we enact it. It should help us if in fact the fight comes to us on both fronts—from Isengard and Mordor.”
Faramir sighs, glad for this temporary reprieve from his grief. Besides, needs must, for Sauron’s army will not stop its advance for the sake of his loss.
Later, when his men have a small, subdued celebration of sorts—they have taken out another Haradrim band and not one, but two of their colossal mûmakil this time—Faramir joins in, but takes no pleasure from the weak, malted drink. Takes only the barest hint of it in the company of his men. The entire affair serves only to emphasize how his hope of a sharing a celebratory drink with Boromir ever again is gone now, and after the mandatory first toasts, Faramir chooses instead to retire to his chambers. Sits with the cloven horn, as he does most nights now, and presses the two halves together, turning it over in his hands, again and again.
I should have gone in your place, Faramir thinks. Or gone with you. I might have saved you, had I been by your side. He presses a thumb, pensive, to the streak of blood along the horn’s length. What happened, out there in the wild lands? How did you fall, in the end, that none could come to your aid in time?
But the horn tells no tales, besides the one Faramir already knows. Provides not the warmth of Boromir’s kiss or the heat of his touch. And before long, the pieces fall apart again, reminding him, not for the first time, how very alone Faramir is. Of how Boromir has been cleaved from his side, much like this horn.
At this, he curls beneath his thin, worn blanket and weeps, softly, missing Boromir so much the wound in his heart physically aches. Remembers how, when last he had wept like this, it had been when their mother passed. Boromir had held him then, folding his arms around Faramir, his warmth a comfort and barricade against all the hurt and pain.
Who will hold me now, Boromir? Faramir thinks, his fingers twining tight through the horn’s corded rope. Now that you are gone?
And not for the first time, Faramir passes the night with the horn cradled to his chest, holding it and holding on, the way he will never hold Boromir again.
Faramir has grown used to the roar of the waterfall that obscures Henneth Annûn’s entrance, and the drip of the caves deeper in, but never before has either been drowned out by the sound of constant chatter.
“Your opinion of this strategic new route through Ithilien?” Damrod wants to know, a map in his hands as he follows Faramir to and from the council room.
“What do you think of this mixture?” Mablung asks after, barging into Faramir’s sleeping quarters with a mad grin. He shows Faramir a sour-smelling, black powder he has concocted, meant to scatter the enemy through its explosive power, and gives the flask an absent-minded shake, despite Faramir’s look of horror that he should not do that here. “This should augment our bows nicely.”
When even Anborn appears, with inane questions about arrow fletching while Faramir is relieving himself, Faramir begins to suspect his Rangers are conspiring. As if they are taking turns to watch him, afraid of him doing something drastic in his grief. Only then does it occur to him that he has been less than successful in hiding his sorrow; perhaps the deep echoes of the caverns at night or a particularly heartrending sob had given him away.
He bears Anborn’s questions and Mablung’s attempts to draw him into conversation with a patience he had not known he possessed, however, and finds that their constant company is actually a comfort, trying as it is.
“Mablung,” Faramir tries later, when he is replenishing the candles on their worktables and Mablung hurries over to help light them, both tasks easily done by one. He clears his throat. “About this endeavour of yours and the others, which—” Faramir eyes Madril over by the crude explosives, subtly straining to listen in on their conversation while examining a map at the same time, “—I am sure Madril has initiated. I appreciate your concern, but it is no longer necessary.”
“What endeavour?” Mablung asks, his eyes wide, the very picture of innocence.
“This business of you and the others following me about. There is no need for it; I have no plans as of yet to join my brother.” Though the thought has crossed my mind, many a night. Faramir conjures what he hopes is a reassuring smile, but his expression must seem stilted and strange, because instead of being relieved, Mablung looks even more worried. Casts his eyes about in a panic for Madril, ringleader of this brood of mother hens, as if to say Our ploy has been discovered, what now?
“Captain Faramir!” Anborn calls, hurrying over from behind a corner.
Faramir silently thanks Anborn for saving him from a conversation that was likely to be more than awkward. “What is it? Have you found something?”
“We have,” Anborn says. “The creature the Halflings were traveling with was sighted mere moments ago in the Forbidden Pool.” He furrows a brow. “I found it bashing a fish against a rock and sorting through its entrails, its execution of the fish set to song.” There is another pause, before Anborn stifles a grin. “Shall I sing it for you? The creature seems especially fond of the words ‘juicy’ and ‘sweet’.”
“That will not be necessary,” says Faramir, holding up a hand to forestall an attempt at the song, though he appreciates Anborn’s efforts at making him smile.
Together with the others, Faramir rounds up the Halflings they have kept captive for now, rousing them from their sleep to draw the creature out from the pool.
It seems docile enough at first, but by the time they have captured it, it struggles and screams from within its bonds, flailing as if possessed by all the cursed spirits of the earth. Faramir feels a measure of sympathy for it, but his instinct tells him that this being is the key to what Frodo and Sam are doing in these lands.
“Where are you leading them?” Faramir asks of it, when they have freed it and cornered it in one of the smaller caverns.
The creature, lean of limb and sparse of hair, with skin a mottled grey, is a pitiable thing, curling in on itself and whimpering. Bemoaning its fate. It answers no questions, however, and Faramir presses closer to listen to its ramblings, catching among its growls of Master tricksed us and answering whimpers of Master is our friend! the words Filthy little hobbitses, they stole it from us.
“What did they steal?” Faramir encourages, gentle. “What is it they took from you?”
“My…precioussss!” it snaps, baring rotted teeth, a look of pure hatred in its bloodshot eyes as it imbues its answer with all the venom it can muster.
Precious. The word brings to mind the memory of Mithrandir, Faramir’s old tutor, from when he had come searching for something within the archives of Minas Tirith. It had taken him long years, even with Faramir’s occasional help, to find what he was looking for: a scroll, written by Isildur, the last known owner of the Ring of Power, documenting its finding. Mithrandir had been troubled by the scroll’s contents, that much was evident.
“It is precious to me,” Mithrandir had read aloud, his eyebrows rising as he echoed Isildur’s words from an age past, “though I buy it with great pain.” He had turned to Faramir then, alarmed. It is as I thought, Mithrandir said. The One Ring has been called precious before. By those who have wielded it, or have been influenced by its power.
The wizard had not tarried long after that, gathering his belongings in a rush and saying he was due to visit an old friend, but not before Faramir had worked out what troubled Mithrandir so, what urgency hastened his flight from Minas Tirith: the ring must have been found, or was hidden somewhere in safekeeping, but could remain veiled no longer.
The ring, Faramir thinks now, his world upended completely at the revelation. Isildur’s Bane. The very thing that our father bade Boromir bring home. There is a roaring in his ears, like the crash of waves upon a shore, and the beat of his heart is deep, foreboding, the ominous percussion of a war-drum, drowning out the sound of all else.
Before he knows it, he has found the Halflings where they sit waiting, and their eyes widen, fearful, from the sword he has drawn from its scabbard.
“So this is the answer to all the riddles,” Faramir muses, advancing deliberately toward Frodo. He lifts the ring from where it sits beneath Frodo’s shirt with the point of his sword. Watches, mesmerised, as the glint of gold catches against cold steel. This is what Boromir died trying to bring home.
This, Faramir thinks, amid the strangely tempting whispers that seem to emanate from the ring itself, is what took my brother from me.
He can see Frodo cringing away from him, hear Sam’s distant pleas, saying that their quest is to destroy the ring—which is the logical action to take, because it is this thing his brother had set out to search for, this thing that had led to his death—but something darker calls to Faramir now, louder, something that drowns out even his deepest desire, which is to know what happened to Boromir in his last moments, because it kills him to not know.
Anything you wish shall be yours, the ring seems to whisper, its tone soft, sibilant. Recognition from your father. Your people. You shall be the pride of Minas Tirith itself—nay, of Gondor. You need only stretch out your hand and wield me. Name your desire, Faramir, Captain of Gondor, and your wish will be my command.
Give my brother back to me, then, Faramir snaps at it in return, in the same peculiar thought-speech. The ring silences at once, mercifully, its dark voice receding from his mind. An overwhelming sense of relief washes over Faramir, that he has beaten this entity’s dangerous call, that he has remembered what is most important in his life, when Damrod startles him from his daze.
“Captain Faramir,” says Damrod, his hand closing tight, urgent, over Faramir’s shoulder. “Osgiliath is under attack. “They look to us for reinforcements.”
“Prepare to leave,” Faramir commands, eyeing the Halflings, thoughtful, as Damrod hurries away to gather their men.
Battle is upon them again, too soon after the last, and from that, the decision is made for them; Faramir knows they have not men enough stationed in Osgiliath to repel the attack, and hardly Rangers enough to spare as reinforcements—not with the recent defeats and the enemy’s ever-increasing army. Osgiliath is under attack, and this time, I will not have my brother by my side.
“The ring will go to Gondor,” Faramir declares, with a heavy sigh. Osgiliath has dire need of its power now. Besides, Boromir had died trying to bring this weapon home, and it is up to Faramir to see it through.
Seeing the look of anguish in Sam’s eyes, however, Faramir cannot help the niggling feeling that he has played right into the ring’s plans. That the ring has twisted his sentiment to its own will. But the rest of the Rangers have begun to gather at his command, and by then it is too late to do anything besides start the long, arduous trek to Osgiliath.
“Look!” Damrod shouts, as their company nears the once-capital of Gondor. He points to the plumes of thick, dark smoke billowing from Osgiliath’s highest towers. “Osgiliath burns!”
His eyes are sick with dread when he turns to the others. Faramir can see that even Mablung and Anborn, the most steadfast and optimistic of his Rangers, shiver in the evening chill, made all the colder by the grey and overcast sky.
“Mordor has come,” says Madril grimly, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. He looks toward Faramir, as if awaiting instruction.
Is the ring truly our last hope? Faramir wonders, at the sight of the once-proud city, being reduced now to rubble and ash before their eyes. Is there truly no other recourse than to put our faith into what seems a mere bauble, its allegiance yet unproven?
As if he has heard Faramir’s doubts, Frodo turns to Faramir. “The ring will not save Gondor,” he says. “It has only the power to destroy.”
Some part of Faramir knows Frodo speaks reason, that his words ring true, from all that Faramir has observed: the wretched thing the creature who had carried for it long years had become, the strange, untimely demises of those who had wielded it.
The brother it had torn from him.
Again, however, the oddly errant thought comes to him, making his decision for him: Boromir died to bring home this ring. I must finish what he started. “Hurry!” Faramir commands. He sprints ahead, motioning for the other Rangers to follow, deaf to Frodo’s cries and pleas to free him.
By the time Faramir and his company of Rangers arrive at Osgiliath, the city appears worse than the state they left it in: debris of crumbled walls and parapets litter the major thoroughfares of the city, and the dead—too many of them soldiers of Gondor, in their broken and battered silver armour—are scattered like leaves among the ruins.
“Captain Faramir!” the remaining troops cry, rallying around the Rangers, as if they are a welcome sight, a symbol of hope in such dark times. Perhaps the only beacon of hope.
No. Not the only, Faramir thinks grimly. They have the ring now, despite how they came by it. “We will take the Halflings and the item they carry to my father afterwards,” he announces to his men. “It is the weapon that will change our fortunes in this war.”
He almost wishes they were before his father now, that he might say Faramir sends a mighty gift. To fill the words with a spite he had not even known he possessed, and hurl Denethor’s words to Boromir, Bring me back this mighty gift, in his face. To show him what was left of Boromir’s horn, that he might see his folly—that he had bartered one of his own blood for this bauble.
Some darker part of Faramir whispers though, that this glory, for bringing the ring to Minas Tirith, will be his, but he attributes that to the natural pull of the ring. Strangely enough, its voice is dimmer now, hesitant and unsure, and Faramir finds it easier to fight its pull, though it unsettles him that he knows not why that is. Perhaps the ring has found another, of higher rank or darker spirit to lure to its aid.
A sorrowful cry rises, not far from where they stand—the despairing sound of Gondor’s soldiers once again engaged in battle, sending a frisson of fear along Faramir’s spine.
“For now, we have need of the ring’s strength here,” Faramir amends quickly. He motions Madril toward the Halflings with a curt nod. “Do what you must to make them draw forth the ring’s power,” he says, resigned, and starts forward to lead the other Rangers into the fray.
Madril furrows his brow, as if dismayed at the thought of threatening beings no taller than children. “Faramir,” Madril says, hesitant. “Perhaps there is another way we might—”
“You want to know what happened to Boromir?” Sam shouts, sudden, struggling against his captors. His outburst draws Faramir’s attention for once, and Faramir feels a pit of shame settle in his stomach, that only the mention of Boromir makes him turn a more willing ear their way. “That’s what you’ve been after all along, isn’t it? Keepin’ us here, when you could’ve just taken the ring! When you could’ve just killed us!”
Faramir does not correct his misconception—murder is not in his nature, especially not for something such as the One Ring—but there is a grain of truth in Sam’s words. He watches as Frodo tugs weakly at Sam’s sleeve, mouthing No, Sam, as if what he will say next is too cruel. As if he is keeping Sam from saying something he cannot take back.
“You want to know why your brother died?” Sam continues, regardless, twisting out of Frodo’s grip. “He tried to take the ring from Frodo! After swearing an oath to protect him, he tried to kill him!” The revelation sends Faramir reeling, but nothing is as damning as Sam’s final words: “The ring drove your brother mad!”
No! thinks Faramir vehemently. Not Boromir. Not Boromir, for he is strong. And if he had failed, had succumbed to the lure of the ring, would that I had been there to be his strength. To break its dark enchantment over him.
He wonders what lies the ring told Boromir, what dark things it had promised his brother, to snare him so completely. Wonders what Boromir thought of in his last moments. What was in his heart.
Did you think of me before the end, brother? Faramir thinks, his own heart twisting in his chest. He hopes Boromir remembered the love they shared; that perhaps the thought of Faramir himself, of all they cherished between them, had eased his passing.
The terrifying shriek of the Nazgûl sounds overhead, shaking Faramir from his stupor instantly.
“Wraiths!” wails the creature they keep captive. “Wraiths on wings!” It twists and writhes against its bonds, forgetting to take cover even as the dreadful beat of wings follows swiftly after. As if hoping the Nazgûl’s presence is distraction enough for it to slip away.
Faramir thinks to take up the call of Nazgûl! to warn the others, to—
The Nazgûl attacks, its baleful shriek splitting the air like a war cry as it drives its fell-beast into a nosedive toward the company of Rangers. Makes them scatter like ants among the rubble. Even from behind a broken section of the battlements, Faramir can feel the chill of its presence settle deep into his bones, a cold, pervading fog that seeps through the layers of his tunic, leeching him of all warmth and hope and happiness, such little as he had.
He peers around the corner, before doubling back instantly behind the wall, the fell-beast’s gaping maw only inches away. There will be time to remember Boromir later, he thinks. For now, there is only time to focus on survival.
Faramir is searching his surroundings for a better vantage point, a higher section of wall, even a remnant of tower still standing from which to snipe the fell-beast, when he spots Frodo and Sam cowering together in a corner. Hurries over, quickly, quietly, and herds them beneath a safer set of archways, yet unbroken.
“Stay here,” Faramir commands. When Sam scowls at him in spite of the attempt to help, Faramir sighs; they will have words later, Faramir with the explanation that he had not truly meant them harm, and Sam with—no, Sam had said his piece, and however bitter and cruel the words were, they have given Faramir a sense of closure, even if he has not the time to mull them over right now. “Stay here,” Faramir says again, in case the stubborn Halflings have the foolish idea of running out among the enemy in a bid to escape. “And keep out of sight!”
With that, he slips away to join his Rangers against the new onslaught of Orcs storming into Osgiliath.
The Orcs brandish crude, curved blades and axes and maces, each of their blows meant to kill, each Orc in the fray in a wild battle-frenzy, as if bolstered by the Nazgûl’s shrieks. Their guttural war cries—primal and raw, like something from the early darkness of the world—rise to a fever-pitch as they advance upon soldiers and Rangers alike, and Faramir is very nearly tempted to sink to his knees, to press hands against his ears in order to escape the vicious grating, the sound of The enemy is near, the enemy is here.
Easy, Faramir. You have this in hand, Faramir remembers then. Kind words from Boromir, when Faramir had just started his training at the barracks, and been beaten down by opponents both larger and stronger. Boromir had stood behind him afterward, guiding his hands in the motions of the swordplay Faramir knows so well now. Watch for their weaknesses, and aim your strikes. Make each one count.
Faramir stands taller, straighter, at the memory. Watches these Orcs in their mad charge toward him and his company; like their predecessors, the Orcs’ armor is weak at the neck and beneath the arm, and Faramir raises his sword, brings it down, across, in sharp sweeping motions, cleaving heads from necks, and limbs from torsos, as wave after wave of the enemy rushes at them, around them, like a tide swelling violent along a shore. He lunges in for a kill, parrying as he needs.
Summons his courage, in the face of the terror the Nazgûl’s shrieks strike into his heart and the sheer numbers of the enemy, from the memory of Boromir—the warmth of his hands, the solid strength of his sword swings, the flash of pride in his eyes when at last Faramir had mastered the strokes, honed his battle instincts and triumphed over those who only used brute strength—
Faramir raises his sword nearly too late to block the swing of a mace, spiked and blood-soaked, toward his head. Even as the blow glances off his sword, his arm is numbed by the brutal impact
numb cold dead
and only by the quick support his other arm gives does he manage to dismember the hulking Orc before him, lopping off its right arm as it makes to swing its mace again. The weapon somersaults into a cluster of smaller Orcs, with arm still attached. Faramir tears through the Orc’s left arm as it reaches out to throttle him with thick, grimy fingers, until the appendage hangs by bare threads of sinew, the bone slashed clean through. With no other option, the Orc lunges at him, its maw open wide, fetid air from its breath blasting Faramir in the face as it forces him up a ruined stairway.
I cannot get a clean swing in such close quarters, Faramir panics, his fingers closing on crumbling stone as he backs away from the creature, his back pressed too close to unyielding walls. He strikes at its legs, hoping to cut it down at the knees, but his sword glances off its armoured legs, ineffective.
Suddenly, the heel of his boot slips on the shattered stone and Faramir lands hard on his back, the wind knocked from him. The Orc, sensing its advantage, leaps at him, and Faramir wrenches his sword upward, desperate, a last valiant effort, but the angle is all wrong, it will not pierce through—
The Orc collapses against Faramir, a great and heavy weight, Faramir’s sword having found its mark. Plunged deep within the creature’s chest from the weak armour beneath its arm.
Faramir forces it backward and lops its head off, turning away from its unseeing eyes; they are persistent creatures, and he shudders to think of how many more he must yet kill, for the sake of protecting his comrades. His home.
Just then, the Nazgûl lets loose another ear-splitting shriek, and Faramir’s heart leaps at this opportunity; here, on these ruined stairs that the Orc had driven him into, is the vantage point he had sought. He takes the steps two at a time, finding the highest point, but then the Nazgûl is right there, an arrow’s flight away, and Faramir watches the wraith lean forward in anticipation, stretch forth its hand for—
Frodo, that is Frodo up there—the ring, the Nazgûl wants the ring
All at once, it strikes Faramir that the ring has only ever wanted to return to its master. That it will indeed turn the tide of the war, but never in their favour. It had whispered its promises and secret seductions like the sirens of old, but ever had they been lies and empty assurances, tailored to its wielder and those around it. Ensuring it would pass from one owner to the next, until it found its way back into Sauron’s hands.
It is indeed an evil entity; no object that could have snared his brother so completely could be good.
As Sam tackles Frodo to the ground, keeping the ring out of the Nazgûl’s reach for just a moment longer—he had been honest about their quest to destroy it, Faramir realizes now, and Frodo too—Faramir is already nocking an arrow in his bow, letting it fly. Sinks it deep into the chest of the Nazgûl’s mount, darkly satisfied at the rasping screech the fell-beast makes as it retreats. The wounded thrashing of its wings.
With the Nazgûl’s retreat, the Orcs are left leaderless, lost, and they beat a hasty retreat of their own to the eastern shores of Osgiliath, lands long appropriated for their ill use.
Faramir furrows his brow and frowns, finding revulsion and puzzlement both in the abrupt shift in their mission. He recalls Boromir’s observation that the Orcs’ courage came from their numbers—that they drew strength from a strong lead, a commander that would herd the writhing, twisted masses, but scattered like mayflies in the absence of one. Yet another part of him wonders if this attack, and the many before it, were simply the enemy’s test of their defences. A probe to determine the strength of Gondor’s armies before bringing the full might of Mordor against them.
Sauron knows now that we do not have the strength to repel him, Faramir thinks bitterly. And our only hope lies now in the ring; not in its assistance, but its destruction.
By the time Faramir returns to the Halflings, he finds Sam in the middle of his reassurances to Frodo. Not empty platitudes meant to console, but words to stir Frodo’s courage, giving him the will to summon his own.
“In the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow,” Sam says. “Even darkness must pass. A new day will come.”
Even darkness must pass, thinks Faramir, the words striking the very heart of him. He leans against a ruined battlement for support. A new day will come. Sam’s words loosen something in his chest, the twisted coil of hurt and dread that has dwelled there since he learned of Boromir’s death.
“And when the sun shines,” Sam continues, “it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, Mr. Frodo, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.”
“What are we holding onto, Sam?” Frodo asks. He sounds all forms of tired, especially the soul-harrying kind Faramir has felt all his life.
“That there's some good in this world, Mr. Frodo. And it's worth fighting for.”
Faramir swallows hard; Sam’s words have bolstered his own courage as well, banishing the last of the ring’s compulsion upon him. Lets him fight off the yearning to hoard this ring for the city, for Gondor, simply because Boromir had given his life for it.
The only decision he needs make now is whether he has it in him to be the better man. To let Sam and Frodo go and continue their quest to destroy the ring, and put an end to the very thing that had led to his brother’s death.
A chance for Faramir, Captain of Gondor, to show his quality, he muses.
His father’s words, these, had been meant to be cruel, but always Boromir had turned them against Denethor, using the words, kind, when he said, You have shown your quality, Faramir, in all that you do. And I know it to be of the very highest.
How Boromir had always had faith in him, even when their father did not!
I will do what I judge to be right, Faramir decides, finding courage from within himself, as he makes his way toward Frodo and Sam beneath the shambles of archways. There is good in this world. And it is worth fighting for.
The Halflings look up as he approaches, and Sam steels himself for more conflict, angling his body between Faramir and Frodo. His hand rests on the dagger at his waist, cautious.
“I think,” Faramir says slowly, as he kneels before them, “that at last we understand one another, Frodo Baggins.” He recognizes their quest at last; understands the burden that Frodo bears. Nods gratefully at Sam, for the closure his caustic words have given Faramir. The closure their quest itself will bring to him. “Samwise Gamgee.”
Madril, who has come to stand at Faramir’s back, clears his throat.
“You know the laws of our country,” he warns, in light of Faramir’s implicit promise to free the Halflings. “The laws of your father.” His words ring hollow, however, the lines of tension in his face relaxing in relief. As if he thinks Faramir, too, is doing the right thing. He pauses, the shadow of Denethor’s legacy hanging heavy still upon them. “If you let them go…your life will be forfeit.”
Moved by Sam’s words, Faramir would rather defy such laws; would be caught striving to be some of the good in this world than cower behind inaction. “Then it is forfeit,” Faramir declares. He nods to the Rangers restraining Sam and Frodo. “Release them.”
Only after, when he spots Madril and Anborn sharing a look, conferring wordlessly before eyeing several other Rangers, does Faramir realize how that sounded: that he declared his life forfeit because his brother was dead.
While their worry is not entirely unfounded, Faramir sighs; from his careless comment, their watch over him is likely to grow more stringent, and the recruitment of Rangers to their cause doubled. For now, he makes his escape by guiding Sam and Frodo to the secret way out of the city, the old sewer that runs through Osgiliath
“Captain Faramir,” Sam says, before he and Frodo leave through the old tunnel. His nose and cheeks are smudged with grime, but his grateful beam toward Faramir shines all the brighter for it. “You’ve shown your quality, sir—the very highest.”
Faramir manages a wisp of a smile at this, this small reminder of Boromir in Sam’s words, and nods in acknowledgment. “Go,” he says. “Go with the goodwill of all Men.” He watches them trudge into the long dark of the tunnel, hoping for their safe passage. Hoping that they can trust the creature that claims to lead them by secret pathways into Mordor.
Never has the fate of so many been entrusted to so few, he muses.
Faramir wonders if he should have posted a Ranger to accompany them, at least until they reached the borders of Mordor. But his men do not know the ways through the mountain passes, and the Halflings have too sore a need for secrecy to suffer the company of an ill-prepared Ranger. And the most compelling reason, one that warns him against aiding them further than he already has, is that he senses this journey is their own.
We each have our own journeys to make, Faramir decides in the end, turning away from the tunnel.
And our own burdens to bear.
Faramir and his Rangers spend the remainder of the day salvaging what weaponry they can from the dead. Move stone and ruined battlements away from pathways, to make the crossing through the battered remains of Osgiliath easier for Gondor’s armies.
He is just about to command their return to Henneth Annûn before the light of day fades, when one of his Rangers, a new recruit, comes riding into the city, both rider and horse breathless in their haste. Rador had been posted as a lookout, to patrol their side of Osgiliath and keep watch for the return of the Orc bands.
“Captain Faramir!” he calls, dismounting in a hurry. He nearly falls on his face when his foot catches in the stirrup.
Faramir steadies Rador with a hand before he plummets to the ground. “What is it, Rador? Are you hurt?” Faramir asks, worried. He had thought a position in the patrol would allow him to gain experience without pitting him against the Orcs in battle immediately, but—
“Your brother!” Rador exclaims, when he has regained his balance. He rummages through the pouch at his belt. Produces a scroll, worn from the elements, that is bound by a simple leather cord. “This was taken from a messenger who was on his way to Minas Tirith. Since the letter was addressed to you, we intercepted him and brought it to you. Captain Faramir, your brother—”
“He lives,” Faramir says immediately, his heart soaring in his chest. It is a statement he wishes to be truth more than a question. He knows his hands are gripping Rador’s shoulders too tight, shaking him when Faramir knows has no right to. “Please,” he whispers, desperate. “Tell me he lives.”
There could be no news more ill than that of Boromir’s death, his sundered horn a token that had filled Faramir’s heart with dread. And now, his Ranger’s breathlessness and haste could only mean that—
Rador nods, pressing the letter into Faramir’s hands, and try as he might, Faramir cannot stop the tremor in his hands, even as his fingers close around the missive of hope, tight.
“The messenger told me that Lord Boromir had taken a grievous injury, but that he is resting and recuperating in a small fishing village near the Mouths of Entwash.” He pauses. “They have requested that soldiers from Minas Tirith be sent to retrieve him.” At this, Rador gives Faramir a wry smile, his eyes darting to the addition of new ruins to Osgiliath from the last battle. “At our earliest convenience, of course.”
Faramir nods, thanking Rador before dismissing him. Reflects on how perhaps the old adage rings true, that one good turn deserves another, and for the first time in days, allows himself to hope. “Madril,” Faramir says, motioning the Ranger over. “Our defenses. Will they hold?”
Madril’s brow furrows as he pauses, considering. “We can hold the city until—” He smiles, wan. “Our defenses will hold. For another three days, at least.”
It is a lie, and Faramir knows it; he hears it in Madril’s voice, sees it in the tremor of fingers clenched around his sword hilt. Even coupled with the forces of the warriors from Gondor, the Rangers could only hold Osgiliath for another day or so. If luck held, at least until Faramir could return.
But Faramir wants so very much to believe, that he sets off regardless, the thought of Boromir, Boromir, Boromir leaving him blind to all else. Other matters—the fate of Osgiliath, how he will find the obscure fishing village, and how he will even make the journey there alone when Orcs crawl along every path and causeway from here to the Eastfold—are so very far from his mind. Instead, they are dwarfed by thoughts of whether Boromir is safe where he is. If he is well. If he is cared for.
Wait for me, Boromir, Faramir thinks, his heart buoyant with joy. I am coming for you.
He had found it curious that his dream of Boromir dead, sailing out to the sea in a light-filled craft, had not plagued him in the nights since the sounding of Boromir’s horn. As if something had happened to chase away the reality of that vision. Had changed it somehow. But as much as Faramir had wished for this to be true, he had quashed the tiny seedling of hope in his heart. Had thought it better to have assumed the worst and be wrong, than to hope for the best and be met only with heartbreak and sorrow.
Now, though—now, Faramir’s heart soars, and he hums absently as he goes about filling his water skin. Securing provisions for his journey.
Soon he will have his brother by his side again, and together, they can accomplish anything.
With his supplies gathered, Faramir stops by the tower where Madril and several other Rangers are stationed. By now, all the Rangers have heard of Boromir’s miraculous survival, and they cluster around Faramir with words of encouragement and wishes for his safe journey. Faramir acknowledges their wishes with a grateful smile, before clapping a hand on his most trusted advisor’s shoulder.
“Madril. I must set out for the Eastfold tonight, to find my brother,” says Faramir. “I shall entrust the Rangers’ command to you in my absence.” He squeezes Madril’s shoulder, silencing him, when Madril opens his mouth in protest. “There is no man better suited to this task than you,” Faramir adds, beaming. Grizzled as he is, Madril still has fight in him yet, and the benefit of battle and commanding experience beyond even Faramir’s.
Madril nods, his hand coming up to meet Faramir’s where it is clasped to his shoulder. “I wish you luck on your journey, then.” After a moment’s pause, he says softer still, “I hope you find your brother well.” There is something like sympathy in his eyes, that makes Faramir wonder if he knows just how long Faramir had wept in nights past. He has no time to dwell on that, however, as Mablung and Damrod bar his way before he leaves.
“Captain Faramir,” Damrod tries, hesitant. If Faramir did not know better, he would almost say Damrod, ever the worrier, was wringing his hands like a lovesick maiden. “I cannot, in good conscience, let you brave these lands alone. Even if it is to bring back your brother. I mean, I am sure Lord Boromir will be an asset on the way back, but—”
“What Damrod means,” Mablung says hastily, clapping Damrod and Faramir on the back both, “is that we are coming with you. Whether you wish it or no.”
Faramir grins, heartened by the concern of his friends, poor as they are in hiding it. “Let us make haste then,” he says, as he helps them corral several riderless horses for the journey. “Boromir has never been the patient sort, and I am sure he is eager to return to us, as Minas Tirith is ever in his thoughts.”
And if Mablung and Damrod share a purposeful look, as if to debate who is really the impatient one of the brothers and what is truly in Boromir’s thoughts, Faramir pretends not to see.
(tbc - Chapter 4)
End Notes
This is my take on some of the motivations movie!Faramir might have had; why he’s at first adamant about the ring going to Gondor, as opposed to book!Faramir who simply starts off saying he “…would not take this thing, if it lay by the highway. Not were Minas Tirith falling in ruin and [he] alone could save her”.
OST:
- Faramir, Upon Finding the Horn of Gondor: Brother, My Brother – Adele McAllister. A beautiful gifset based on lyrics from this song can be found here.
- Faramir, Alone In His Grief: I Can’t Love You Back – Easton Corbin.
This entire fic is a labor of love, so if you’ve enjoyed it, or it moved you in some way, I’d love to hear from you!
