SHADOWS OF THE PAST

by Soledad

Disclaimer: The main characters, the context and the main plot belong to Professor Tolkien, whom I greatly admire. I’m only trying to fill in the gaps he so graciously left for us, fanfic writers, to have some fun. Only the Lady Indreâbhan, Angharad and her son belong to me.

Rating: PG-13

Author’s notes: This is a birthday fic for Adara, who wanted something with Faramir and Boromir. Despite certain parallels, this story was not inspired by Elizabeth Wyeth’s excellent “Ilrhenir, son of Aragorn”, a tale that I love and admire. This one has its root in Book Four of my Boromir series, “The Bitter Gift of Compassion”. You can find that series on my website or in the Edhellond archive. Angharad's name was borrowed from Larry Alexander's Prydain-books, of course. I'm horrible with names.

My heartfelt thanks go to Altariel for beta reading.

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“I was no complete innocent, of course. No Man could live without relief over forty years, not even at times of peace; less so at times of war. And what else but war had I seen my entire life? Death had always been too close for denying myself some crude comfort.

So, they had been others, yes. Cheap war whores who tried to survive by serving the needs of hungry soldiers at the rand of battlefields. Grief-sickened widows in half-destroyed dwellings, seeking a little warmth for their empty beds and mayhap some safety in strong arms, for one night or two. And hollow-eyed, broken young women with no hope for a husband or a family, for the ones who could have given them a life they would deserve, had fallen in battle.

I took what they had to offer and gave them what little I could give, for it would have been cruel to deny them those morsels – or myself. But it always left a bitter taste in my mouth, and I prayed to the Valar that no unfortunate child be born of these sad encounters.”

(Boromir in “The Bitter Gift of Compassion”, Chapter 3: Afterthoughts.)

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

[Emyn Arnen, in the year 2 of the Fourth Age]

Despite being a fortress, the castle in Emyn Arnen had the aura of a summer residence about it. Which it had been of course, originally. The summer palace of Gondor’s Kings, nestled among the hills of Emyn Arnen, guarded by Minas Ithil, way back, when Isildur’s city was still strong and beautiful.

Therefore, its ancient walls still bore a striking resemblance to the monolithic building style of Númenor, even after all those hundreds of years while it lay abandoned and broken to a great part.  It lay in a wide valley, protected by the very hills from every side, and the only way to approach was a narrow gap, guarded by two larger-than-life stone figures carved in the likeness of Isildur and Anárion, both of them leaning on their great swords, the tip of which touched the socket before their feet. These stone Kings were the Pillars of Argonath not unlike, though, of course, much smaller in size – and they were just as old. They had been carved at about the same time.

Between them one could step into a roofed gateway, carved in once white stone that was now grey and withered from high age. This lane was paved with flat stones and so narrow that no more than two horses (or one carriage) would be able to pass through at the same time. At the other end of this gateway left and right small gatehouses stood, and armed gatekeepers stood before these, with more armed guards waiting for their turn in the houses themselves.

The valley beyond the gateway was almost heart-shaped, by some odd mood of nature, tapering towards the East, where a strong watchtower crowned the highest hill, encircled by two rows of impressive battlements of withered grey stone, repaired and partially re-built by the skilled hands of Dwarven stone-masons during the last four years. This was the home and the garrison of the White Company, the Guard of Faramir Prince of Emyn Arnen, commanded by their captain, a valiant warrior named Beregond.

The Prince himself, however, and his wife and their whole household, dwelt not in the fortress itself. On the opposite side of the valley, crowning the westernmost hill with its protective wall like some white jewel, a spacious villa stood, built on terraced levels. From the heavy, iron-bound oak gates of this outer wall a broad road, paved with white stone, led to the fortress. On this road, lined with ancient fountains and statues, many of which were still waiting for some eager and inspired Dwarven artisan to repair them, the troops of the White Company rode to the house of their Prince to change guard four times every day.

Upon the different levels of the castle beautifully planted gardens offered solace for the weary spirit, lit by silver lamps, and shadowed by wondrous Elven trees, sweet scented and bearing flowers no-one save those who had the chance to visit Edhellond had ever seen, and sounding with the music of fountains made of white marble.

These gardens were the work of none lesser than Legolas himself, Lord of the Silvan Elves who moved from Greenwood the Great to Ithilien. The lands had made great progress regaining their beauty of old, thank their tireless labours, for they had not only been planting and gardening ever since the fall of the Dark Lord, but also singing to the trees and using other arcane Elven methods (Faramir found it better not to ask which ones) to heal the lands from the damage done by Mordor’s minions over all the centuries.

Great progress they had made indeed, but their masterpiece had been the terraced gardens of the palace. They had brought saplings from Edhellond, saplings of trees that only grew in that Elven haven east from the Great Sea and planted them in the garden courts, together with certain rare flowers, giving the whole palace a decidedly Elven look, which made Faramir very content. After a long day, heavily loaded with the burdens of duty, he liked to rest a little under the fragrant trees. It amazed him how quickly they grew, suspecting some Elven magic behind it (Silvan Elves were less reluctant to put their unique connection to nature to good use than their Sindarin cousins), but he found great delight in them nevertheless.

He wished sometimes that his wife would share his enjoyment. But the Lady Éowyn, though well-versed in the tongue and the letters of Westernesse by now, showed little interest in lore and quiet contemplation. Fortunately, she had found a good friend in Legolas and often rode out a-hunting with the Silvan Elves, and Faramir was glad for it. He knew that Éowyn would whither and die, caged in the castle, despite of the airy beauty of their house, and though Ithilien was still far from being perfectly safe, he knew that in the company of the keen-eyed, war-probed Silvan folk his wife would not be in any danger.

Her pregnancy and the birth of Elboron put an end to these activities for a time. But now that the child needed the presence of his mother not quite so often anymore, Legolas came to Emyn Arnen more frequently again. He, too, had a great interest in horses, and who would have been better suited to discuss the finer points of horse-breeding with him than the White Lady of Rohan? The two could discuss the damned beasts for hours – Faramir was rarely able to sit through one of their intense session, most of which ended up on the well-protected, green meadows on the northern site of the road, putting theory to practical use.

But there were other things in which Legolas proved to be helpful. While Éowyn was no great friend of books, she loved to sing, and slowly, little by little, the Elf coaxed her into playing the harp again. Legolas was not very good with the noble instrument himself – he preferred the flute, never failing to mention how mediocre a player he was compared with his father’s talent – but his newly wed wife, the Lady Indreâbhan (whom he and all his people called Ithilwen, aside of formal occasions) showed a true gift indeed. Thus during Éowyn’s pregnancy the Elven Lady became a frequent – and very welcome – guest in Emyn Arnen, and the two ladies spent much time together.

Now that Elboron had passed his first year, Éowyn was able to look after her horses again, and Faramir was glad about it, for despite pleasant company, the forced passivity was not good for his lady. Though Éowyn softened considerably and even seemed to find her right place in this new, more peaceful world, Faramir was all too aware how much she needed some work on her own, something to accomplish, aside of her domestic duties. Horse-breeding offered an excellent field for just that, and as good horses were sorely needed by the border patrols, she could have the fulfilling certainty that she was doing something important. Something that she could do better than anyone else in Emyn Arnen.

It would have been difficult without Angharad, of course, and Faramir could not thank the Valar often enough for sending this reliable woman across his way. One of the very few survivors of Halabor, a small village near Cair Andros that had been destroyed by some random Orc company a few years before the Ring War, Angharad daughter of Ragnor came to Minas Tirith to work in the Houses of Healing, as she had some basic training and some skills as a healer. She worked for the herb master and mostly at night, as she was said to have a young son whom se had to bring up alone.

She was supposed to be one of the countless war widows, even though she wore no rings, and Faramir was not certain whether she had truly been married at all. Not that he cared much. He knew the things that could happen at wartime, and who was he to question the past of such treasure? This short and stocky woman, whose small eyes and reddish brown hair spoke of some Dunlendish blood, could work without sleep for days, rarely lost her temper, but had no fear to speak her mind when Éowyn was being unreasonable. And, surprisingly, the Lady of Emyn Arnen often gave in to her, for she had a natural authority that came not from her mature age alone (Faramir guessed that she might be of his age or even a little older) but also from the long experience in dealing with difficult patients and a headstrong child of her own.

Strangely though, Faramir had no chance to take a closer look at this child himself. He knew from Beregond that the boy was of the same age as Bergil, give or take a year, for the two younglings had become fast friends after both families had moved to Emyn Arnen, and that young Ardamir⁽¹⁾ – what a strange name it was for a child of common birth! – could be difficult at times, stubborn and prideful and quick to anger. But he seemed to avoid the Prince of Emyn Arnen, and he was very good at it.

Sometimes Faramir was almost tempted to order the boy to appear before his presence – he had the right to do so, after all, and all this hiding made him a little uncomfortable. But something deep in his heart kept him from doing so. Once he even discussed the matter with Legolas, and the Elf, too, advised against it.

“When the proper time comes, you will learn all that is there to learn about him, of that I am certain,” he said, and Faramir left the matter alone. For the time being.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Was it Elven foresight or had the accumulated wisdom of a long life shown briefly, Faramir knew not, but once again, Legolas proved to be right. For when on this particular day the Prince of Emyn Arnen took a break from his duties and walked down to the practicing range to oversee the fighting lessons of his esquires, he had a most unexpected encounter.

Bergil was there, of course (he had been preparing himself to follow his father’s footsteps since the end of the war), and other boys whom Faramir knew: the sons of his Ithilien Rangers mostly, but also a few others, whose fathers had joined the White Company and followed their beloved Lord to his new home. All in all mayhap two dozen of them, who one day might become knights in the Prince’s court.

And there was a youngling, lanky yet already showing the signs of future heavy muscles, with his dark locks shorn over already broad shoulders, whom Faramir had never seen before. He wore the simple garb of the common folk, and from his apparent closeness to Bergil the Prince guessed that he had to be Angharad’s son.

The boys were occupied by the Armsmaster, thus Faramir was able to approach them undetected, his eyes never leaving the youngling who stood on the side, with his back to him, watching Bergil’s practice with the sword. Time and again his hand twitched as if wanting to correct a wrong move, but of course he could not ask to try his skills with the other boys who were high above his own stand. Only when Master Númendil noticed the Prince’s presence and called a hold to greet him, did the boy turn in visible panic – and Faramir’s heart all but stopped.

Ardamir’s hair had the slight reddish hue of his mother’s, but his clear eyes were grey, like those of any pure-blooded Dúnadan. And his face was one that Faramir knew all too well. It had been more than thirty summers since he had seen a face almost identical with this youngling’s, yet he could never forget it.

For it was the face of his own brother, when Boromir had been about the same age.

It lasted but a mere moment, and then the boy fled in absolute horror. Apparently, his mother forbade him to show himself before the Prince, knowing that Faramir would recognize his features at once. And until now the boy had been really good at hiding. But now the truth was out in the open, and Faramir knew that he will have to have a long, serious conversation with Angharad.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Angharad took the news that she had been found out with remarkable calmness.

“I knew I could not hide him from you forever,” she said simply. “He looks the one who sired him more and more alike with every passing summer. ‘Twas only a matter of time.”

Faramir eyed the woman warily. Angharad looked older than ever to him, and he suspected that she actually might be about forty, if not even more. Which meant she had not been very young back then, if one considered the custom of the common folk to marry in their early tweens.

“Why did you hide him from us then?” he asked. Angharad shrugged.

“What good would it have done if I told you? I had not even known myself at first who the man was with whom I shared my bed when our village was wiped out. It happened in the aftermath of battle; we were both weary and desperate to feel that we were still alive. It just… happened.”

Faramir nodded absently. He knew that his brother had had the one or other brief encounter during the war – they all had. Living under constant warfare did that to people. So no, he blamed this brave and lonely woman not. He only wanted to know why she handled the whole thing the way she did.

“Tell me about it,” he said; at Angharad’s frown he grinned wryly. “Nay, I want not to hear any details. I just want to know how it came to happen and how you learned whose son you have birthed.”

“I lived in Halabor, as you know, Lord,” began Angharad slowly. “There were not many of us left, for most of our people had fled slowly but steadily during the long years of war; first of all those who had families. But my mother and grandmother were old and not willing to leave, nor did most of the older people. And since I was a healer, I felt I had to stay, too, even after my own family had passed over. I was alone and had nothing to lose. At least there I was needed.”

She paused, staring at Faramir with unblinking eyes. Those eyes were rather small and greyish-blue; she was no beauty by any rate, but Faramir could feel her quiet inner strength.

“I think not that you remember the perishing of Halabor,” she finally continued in that same even, strangely flat voice. “I doubt that even  your lord brother remembered longer than a day or two. ‘Twas not even a true battle; just a short, bloody skirmish for him and his men. A skirmish that they won with only a few casualties and with relative ease. For me, it was the longest night of my life.”

She paused again, her eyes darkening to shadowy grey as she relived that night of horrors… most likely not for the first time.

“The order to leave our village had come from the garrison of Osgiliath,” she began again with obvious effort. “We were only waiting for an escort. We knew not, of course, that the men who had been sent out to protect us had run into a trap and been slain. But when they did not come on time, we became frightened and decided to hide the old and the weak for the night while some young lads rode away to look out for the soldiers. We never saw them again. My house was a little further away from the middle of the village, and it had a deep stone cellar, so they brought all those who could not defend themselves to me, and I was asked to take care of them, as it was my trade anyway.”

She swallowed, visibly fighting back the urge to get sick.

“The Orcs came shortly after nightfall,” she continued tonelessly. “I sat with a dozen frightened old people and a few small children in my cellar. It was deep, but not deep enough to keep out those harsh voices, the roaring and the sounds of fighting above our heads. We could not imagine whom they were fighting, as there were barely any left in our village who could wield as much as a pitch fork. But I guessed that at least one of our messengers must have come through, for I heard the clinging of swords. For a moment, I even began to hope that we might survive, after all. Then I smelled the smoke.”

She began to shake uncontrollably from the intensity of her memories, and Faramir was about to lay a comforting hand upon her arm, but her icy look stopped him. Angharad wanted not to be handled like a frightened maiden – she was old and strong enough to face her own fears.

“I heard a strange, hissing noise from above, and I understood that my house was burning,” she spoke evenly. “The smoke began to fill the cellar. The old people passed out, one after another, and I knew they will die if I did not open the trap door. The children were already crying in fear, their high-pitched, sharp cries loud enough to betray our hiding place; thus it mattered not if I opened the door or not. So I climbed up the ladder and tried to toss it open – but it moved not. Someone was standing on it, and I had not enough strength to toss him over with the door. I began to hit the wood with my fists, ‘til finally that person moved away and tore the door open himself. The first thing I saw were a pair of riding boots and I knew that against all hope, help had come, after all. Then two big hands grabbed my wrists and a tall, strong man yanked me out in the open, and he called for his men to bring out the others, too. Four of the old people were dead already, either the smoke or the fear had killed them, but at least the children were safe and sound, and the rest of us had some hope. No-one else from Halabor survived.”

She stared into the empty air and Faramir dared not to bother her with more questions. He remembered riding through Halabor on his way to Cair Andros several times. It had been such a small, unimportant village, only a few hundred people had lived there. Yet for Angharad it was the whole world – the place where all her ancestors ad lived, all her friends; where she had spent most of her life. And now it was gone, and even though they had defeated the Darkness, for this woman there was no returning home.

“What happened after that?” he asked gently after quite some time.

“Our old people were laid out in rows outside the burning house,” replied Angharad, “and while some of he soldiers guarded them, I was called to the Town House to take care for their wounded, for I was the only healer available. I cleaned and treated their injuries, Then I went to their Captain to talk to him about the further fate of our people. And when I was there already, I saw that he could bathe and rest and got something to eat, for battle-weariness showed clearly on his face. And we ended up in bed together. On the next morn, the soldiers returned to Osgiliath, and I was sent with the handful of survivors to Lossarnach, for I had some distant relatives there. ‘Twas about a moon later that I realized I was with child.”

“And you never knew who the father of your child was?” asked Faramir. She shook his head.

“He never told me his name, and I have not seen him again ‘til Ardamir turned three. I came to Minas Tirith to live with Beregond’s family, for we are distant cousins – very distant ones – and I worked for the herb master in the Houses of Healing as you know. Then he was brought in with a wound, and that was when I finally learnt his name – and who he truly was.”

“And you chose not to tell him about his son?” Faramir shook his head. Angharad shrugged.

“Should I have gone to him – or to your father, the Lord Steward – presenting a bastard? What for? He did not even recognize me – you truly thing he would have believed me?”

“So your son does not have his name because of Boromir?”

“Not at all; as I said, I did not even know the name of his father back then. Ardamir is named so for he is for me the greatest treasure on earth and for no other reason.”

“Does he know who his father is?”

“Nay; and if I could have my way he would never learn about it. He would be much more content growing up in his own stand, believing that he was sired by my husband-to-be who fell in battle.”

“Had there ever been such a man?” asked Faramir. That earned him another icy look.

“Of course. We had been engaged for three years by the time he was slain. And I was no virgin either when I shared my bed with your brother. Ardamir came a bit early, so he could be thought for my groom’s son – if not for his likeness to his true father. That is something I have not taken into consideration.”

“What are you going to do now?” asked Faramir. “Just as I have noticed his likeness to Boromir, others will certainly do, too.”

“I know not,” sighed Angharad. “I just know not. I thought I have planned out every little thing – except this one.”

“You cannot hide him forever,” said Faramir slowly, “though as long as he is here where people knew not my brother all too well, he might be safe. Was this the reason you brought him here?”

“Part of it,” replied Angharad tiredly. “Yet I also wanted to tell you the truth some day, my Lord. Someone needed to know, in case something happened to me. I wanted to ask you to protect him, should I not be able to do so anymore. Even if he never learned that the two of you share the same blood.”

“I think not that he can blend in with the common folk much longer,” said Faramir. “We need a better solution. If you allow me, I shall take him as one of the esquires. He would receive the same training as his friend Bergil. That way he can learn much of what he would as a legitimate son, without giving his heritage away. Then, if he proves himself (and I doubt not that he will), I want him as Elboron’s armsmaster and chief guard.”

Angharad tried to protest, but Faramir’s raised hand silenced her.

“I understand that you dislike the idea of him being a soldier, but trust me in this: if my brother’s blood is as strong in him as I think it is, he will not be aught else but a warrior. He is so much like Boromir was at the same age, ‘tis almost frightening. And at least this way he will always belong with the family.”

“Do you intend to tell him the whole truth?” she asked.

“I fear that is inevitable,” answered Faramir. “He has a right to know, and I also deem it would be better if his heritage were known in the family. At least allow me to tell about it the Lady Éowyn.”

“I cannot hinder you in doing as you see it fitting,” said Angharad with another shrug, “but your lady wife will be furious about my deceit – for that is what she will see in my silence. However, this is your house, Lord, and if it is your wish that I leave it, I shall do so, finding comfort in the knowledge that my son will be protected.”

“Why should I want you to leave?” asked Faramir in bewilderment. “You and Ardamir are all what is left of my brother – regardless of the fact that the boy’s begetting was not intended, you are family now. Boromir would want you to stay with us.”

“His wishes do not rule my life,” she answered, turning cold again. “They never did. I owe him nothing.”

Faramir nodded, suppressing a sigh and a smile. Despite their differences in age and looks (for Angharad could easily be Éowyn’s mother), the two women were so alike in their fierce pride and stubborn independence. He had to tread with care here.

“That might be true,” he said, “yet I believe you owe your son to have his mother as long as possible. ‘Tis bad enough that he had to grow up without his father, though I intend to take him into fostering care as I did with the children of my fallen Rangers. Do not take the love of a mother from him; and you do love him very much, do you?”

“He is all I have,” replied Angharad simply, confirming Faramir’s suspicion about her not being an overly sentimental woman.

“Then do us all the favour and stay,” he said, “and let the tempers of my lady wife being my concern. She and Boromir were close, even though they knew each other for a short time only. She will be glad to have his son with us.”

“Mayhap she will,” she answered doubtfully, “but would she want me to remain here?”

“She is from the Riddermark,” Faramir shrugged. “The Rohirrim have a more… sober view on the world than the fine ladies in the King’s court. I ask you to stay. Your son needs you. And we need you, too.”

Angharad thought for a moment, her smooth face not betraying any thoughts or feelings. Finally, she gave a simple nod.

“I shall give it a try,” she said. “For now.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

“Indeed, the boy looks very much like his father,” mused Legolas. He was sitting on the low wall of the training court, watching Ardamir’s swordfight practice; “and not in his looks alone. There is something in his movements... he is most definitely born to be a swordsman, not an archer. Though some archery practice might not harm, either.”

“He has had some,” replied Faramir, watching the youngling with a critical eye; “but just like my brother, he will never be better than mediocre with the bow. The sword is his true weapon… though I would not mind if he learned some knife-work, too. Unfortunately, Master Andrahar cannot leave Dol Amroth for a number of reasons, and I cannot send the boy there. Too many people there still remember what Boromir looked like at his age.”

The Elf laughed. “If you need someone to teach him how to wield a knife, my Lord Prince, I shall be glad to offer my services as armsmaster. After three thousand years I am certain that I can handle my knives reasonably well.”

“Besides, it would give you a good idea about teaching young boys for the time when you have children of your own,” said Faramir with a grin.

To his surprise, Legolas’ eyes became clouded.

“Lady Ithilwen and I decided not to have any children as long as we tarry on Middle-earth,” he answered. “Sooner or later, I shall succumb to the sea-longing, and we will have to leave, if we want or not. I wish not for my children to lose their home, too. In Elvenhome, they can be born in peace and safety – and remain on the place of their birth.”

Faramir cast him a compassionate glance.

“This is truly tearing you apart, is it?” he asked, and the Elf nodded slowly.

“Not me alone; Elrohir, too, suffers from it, but wants not to leave as long as his brother dwells among us. The love of the Elves for their land and their work is deeper than the deeps of the Sea, and their regret is undying and cannot ever be wholly assuaged⁽²⁾. Not even the joys of the Blessed Land could make us forget these shores where there will be no return for us. You cannot imagine what a gift death, that all mortals fear so much, in truth is.”

With that he rose gracefully and left, leaving Faramir alone to ponder over the ups and downs of mortal life.

~Fin~

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End notes:

(1) Originally the mother-name of Eärendil.

(2) These words were spoken by Galadriel to Frodo.