The Last Word

Chapter1

Faramir stood outside the closed door to Boromir’s chambers and lifted his hand to knock, forgetting for a brief moment that there was no need. There would be no answer, now or evermore.

The young Steward’s eyes glittered with unshed tears, and his courage almost died in the face of his grief, but he so desperately needed some contact with his brother, even if only in spirit, that he forced himself to take a deep taking a calming breath before he dropped his hand to grip the door knob, turned it and stepped silently into the chamber.

There was no one inside to grumble feigned annoyance at being disturbed or to playfully throw a pillow at the intruder. There was no one with a ready smile and strong arms who was ever willing to draw his younger brother into an affectionate embrace. Nor was there anyone to tease his younger sibling with false claims that of the two, the ladies of Gondor naturally much preferred to seek the favours of his handsome and courageous elder.

Whilst he was still in the House of Healing, Aragorn had sent word that all that remained of Boromir’s possessions had been brought here, and it took Faramir but a glance to find the weather worn travel pack resting on the end of the bed.

The  once Captain of Ithilien’s Rangers understood full well the need  to travel as unencumbered as possible, so too had Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli during  their pursuit of the foul creatures who had taken Merry and Pippin. Faramir was proud that his brother had gained the respect of the three hunters and was more than grateful that at least a few of his brother’s possessions had found their way home.

With a tender reverence he removed the wooden comb had been a favourite necessity in Boromir’s eyes, and a source of jesting from his less well kempt younger brother. There was also the clasp that had belonged to their mother and that Boromir carried with him always, and a scroll that revealed a crude drawing of what Faramir could only guess was Rivendell. The last item was a cloth covered package, that once unwrapped revealed the gift the scholarly ranger had given to his brother to take on his long journey in search of the legendary Lore Master and hopefully answers to the riddle of their dreams.

Faramir had been disappointed but not really surprised when Denethor had refused him permission to make the trip to Rivendell. Boromir was well aware of his brother’s insatiable thirst for knowledge and curiosity about the Elves and, although he was a warrior not a scribe, he had nonetheless offered to keep a record of all he saw had heard whilst in Rivendell. Without even opening the cover, Faramir knew he had done so, for he had never refused his beloved younger brother anything.

Faramir inhaled the faint scent of Boromir that still lingered embedded in the leather cover and then, closing his eyes, he lifted the journal that bore the symbol of the tree and stars on the front to his lips and kissed it softly.

Sorrow and grief overwhelmed Faramir and he allowed his tears to fall freely until he could cry no more. Feeling drained, yet keeping the journal close to his heart, he moved to the cabinet that was used to store several skins of his brother’s favourite wines, and selecting one, he settled himself in the armchair by the window and turned to the first page and began to read.

“Little brother,

 As promised, I am writing in the journal you gave me. Had you  your wits about you when you were helping me prepare to leave instead of bemoaning the unfairness of Father’s decision, you might have remembered to pack quill and ink as well as the book, and I would  have been able to begin making this record sooner, although as I think on it further, it would not have been wise to become distracted whilst travelling alone.

 My words may not be as eloquent as a scholar’s, nor my descriptions as poetic as yours undoubtedly would be, but I will do my best…

 I have finally arrived in Rivendell after 110 lonely, miserable and arduous days of travel. Never again will I speak ill of your forests, for compared with some of the paths I was forced to take, they are mere gardens, well suited for an evening stroll.

The elements conspired against me for most of the journey as well and I arrived in the grey light of dawn with my clothes ragged, covered in mud, and looking more like one of your rangers than the refined son of the Steward that I claim to be. Fortunately only a few Elves were about, and it was Master Elrond himself who greeted me and showed me to my chambers.

I can not begin to describe the bliss of sinking into the warm water of a proper bath, or the taste of my first decent meal since leaving Minas Tirith. You will likely find this amusing, since you so often tease me about my grooming, but I managed to lose most of my belongings on  the way here and I fear that the sight of the bedraggled clothes that I must still wear will be a source of  shame.

Ah well, it could not be helped and ‘tis a mercy that Father is not here to see it!

I know you will not read this advice until I return, but I miss our conversations and feel as if I am speaking with you as I write.

 I regards to Father, dear Faramir,  ignore his disparaging remarks if you can, and remember that I have every confidence that you will perform the role of leader of our army with the  honour, valour and skill in battle that I know you possess. Even if he refuses to admit it, I can attest to the fact that there have been many times when your insights and strategies, not to mention the skill of your archers, have swayed a skirmish in our favour. Never doubt that my soldiers love and respect you as much as your rangers do, as much as I do and, even though you do not believe this, as much as our father does somewhere deep in his heart.

I know you are wondering what Rivendell is like, and from the little I have seen so far, it is indeed as beautiful as Mithrandir says. As I travelled closer to the valley where it is hidden, a definite sense of peace and tranquillity settled over me, and for the first time in my adult life I feel safe. There are no dark creatures lurking in the shadows, no dank and poisonous fumes to breathe, and no orcs or wild men waiting in ambush. I know what you are thinking, but have no fear, I am no fool to be lulled into complacency. I have no wish to feel cold steel slicing my flesh and even now my sword is ever ready to be drawn.

When I have time I will explore as much as possible but for now I must take my leave for I have been granted an audience with Master Elrond, which is of course the reason for my journey. I hope he can provide me with the answers to the riddles posed by the dreams that have been haunting your sleep and the one I shared recently.

Gondor needs aid, no matter what form it takes…and   I vow I will do what I must to see that our hope does not fade and that we are not defeated. While I still draw breath, I will not let the WhiteCity fall to the Dark Lord…

Faramir closed the book, the haze of tear filled eyes making reading any more at the moment impossible. There were many more pages filled with Boromir’s handwriting, but they could wait for another day.

“I miss you so much, Boromir. I love you, my brother, but wherever you are, know that you did not die in vain,” he whispered sadly to the shadows.

 

The Last Word.

Disclaimer: LOTR belongs to the creative genius of JRR Tolkien, not me.

Chapter2/?

The echoes of the song of the silver trumpets that heralded the dawn faded on the warm summer breeze and awoke Faramir from his slumber. He opened his eyes and stretched lazily, feeling fully rested since for the first time in days too many to number, his sleep had been untroubled. He did not need to search his heart too deeply to know that the tenuous link to Boromir that his lost brother’s journal provided was at least in part the source of his newfound inner peace.

His tears the night before had washed some of the darkness of his grief away, and as he walked out onto his balcony to watch the unfurling of the flags atop the tower, he imagined he could hear Boromir’s voice whispering with much pride how beautiful his beloved city was as it glittered like a jewel in the early morning light.

“Aye beautiful and safe, and home once more to the King,” the young Steward thought in reply as he stepped back into his chamber and set about his morning ablutions, his mind now on the book that lay waiting in the next chamber.

Faramir had decided that journal should only be read in the privacy of Boromir’s chambers and he fully intended to spend the rest of his day there once his bandages had been changed by the Healer. And, he reminded himself with a smile, after he had taken his lovely Éowyn for the promised walk in the gardens. Although his heart ached with sadness at the loss of both his brother and his father, it had also been filled with unexpected joy when he won the fair shield maiden’s love.

It was sometime after the noon meal before Faramir was free to return to his reading and rather than sit in the armchair, he settled himself comfortably on the bed, his head and shoulders propped up against the pillows. Taking his cup of wine from the bedside table he raised it in silent toast. He could so easily imagine Boromir leaning back in a relaxed pose at the other end of the bed, quill in one hand, the journal resting on his thighs and his eyes smiling at his younger brother over his own raised cup.

 

Ah Faramir,

 

 This will be brief for I have just retired for the night. ’Tis past midnight as I write and you know how dearly I covet my sleep!

 

I wish you were here to share a cup or two of wine with me, the day has been so full of eye opening surprises that I am sorely in need of familiar company. My thoughts are in turmoil and I have learned so much that I do not know where to begin…

 

My audience with Elrond (as I have leave to call him I will have you know, in case you were thinking to accuse me of being less than respectful to the Peredhel) was not in private as I expected, but ‘twas a meeting of people of many races who had come to Rivendell as I did, to seek counsel or to deliver ill news. Today I have met Elves, Dwarves, Dúnedain and Halflings and no doubt you would find one and all fascinating.

 

By the way, did you know that our Mithrandir, who enquired after your well being, I might add, is known also as Gandalf, at least to the ones assembled here. I wonder how many other names he uses?

 

“But what of our dream, did you learn the meaning of the words of the riddle?” I can almost hear you asking, your face alight with anticipation and impatience.

 

Aye, the puzzle is solved. I have found Imladris and the Sword that was broken, and sat through one of the longest council meetings I have ever attended. I have learned that Isildur’s Bane is in fact the Ruling Ring that he cut from Sauron’s hand, and that it is now in the possession of the Halfling, Frodo Baggins.

 

Of course there was much more said but I am afraid I am not inclined to write it all down. I promise to tell you every word spoken when I return, but there is one thing I must tell you, only so that once written I will be able to believe it myself.

 

The name of the one who carries the shards of Narsil is Aragorn son of Arathorn. He is a ranger of the North and claims to be Isildur’s heir, and the last of the House of Elendil.

 

I have no reason to doubt the word of Mithrandir or Elrond who attest to the validity of his heritage, but do you realise what that means? If he is who he says, then he is in fact our King! 

 

Can you imagine how Father will receive this news? He has always been possessive of his role as Steward, even more so of late, and where I once believed he would have welcomed Aragorn with fealty, I do no longer. I do not mean to speak harshly or with disrespect of our sire, but there is no denying that he is unlikely to feel inclined to accept the return of the King.

 

I am afraid he will have little choice in the matter for Aragorn has agreed to travel to Minas Tirith with me and once our people learn who he is and that he carries Elendil’s sword, surely our fading hope that the Dark Lord will be defeated will be renewed. He was defeated once in battle and so he can be again!

 

Unfortunately  our people are unaware  that it was Isildur’s weakness that allowed the ring to control his greed and prevented him from making the victory complete so many centuries ago. Not only did he sever the ring from Sauron’s hand that day, but his refusal to relinquish to the fires of MountDoom also severed all trust between Elves and Men…

 

For my part, I believe that were we were given Isildur’s Bane to use against our enemies, the battle would even more easily be won. However, it is said that none can wield the ring but its dark master and Elrond insists that the only way to forever rid Middle-earth of Sauron is to destroy the ring. I feel uneasy about entrusting this task to the Halfling, but I have done my duty and vowed that Gondor will abide by the decision of the council.

 

But enough of this for now… my eyelids are heavy and I can no longer resist the lure of this comfortable bed…good night, little brother…

“Sleep well, Boromir...” Faramir whispered in reply, wishing he could have assured Boromir that Elrond had been correct to insist the ring be destroyed. The war had been fought and won, this time a sound victory accompanied the sorrow and loss that were the price to be paid.

Feeling the need for some quiet contemplation, Faramir carefully marked his place, put the journal aside and settled back against the head board, and mulled over his brother’s words. He agreed with Boromir that Denethor would have resisted yielding  rule of Gondor to Aragorn, but then his father was clearly not himself even long before his eldest son had left in search of Imladris.

Faramir felt a strange sense of relief that his brother had not witnessed the insanity of their father’s final hours, hours of which his only memory was of fire and agony and the heartbreaking regret in Denethor’s eyes in the one moment of clarity before his death.

Although twilight was slowly descending, he was again eager to continue reading and his hand had just reached for the journal when there was an unexpected knock at the door.

“The Lady Éowyn is visiting with her brother and bid me deliver you this tray and asks you to remember that you must eat to keep up your strength,” said the young kitchen maid who stood outside, offering the meal tray with a nervous smile hidden beneath downcast eyes.

“Thank you, and please tell your Lady that I will do as I am bid,” he replied, the gentleness in his voice having a calming effect on the maid who looked directly at her lord  then curtseyed politely before hurrying away.

Faramir set his meal aside for later, lit several candles so that he would have enough light to read by when night fell and returned to the place he had marked in the journal.

 

Chapter 3/?

My learned brother,

Before you think poorly of me as a historian (which of course we both know I am not), I am well aware that one should record the date of one’s journal entries but doing so would make me feel obligated to write every day, and I am sure you would not have me feeling guilty for missing a day or two if I have nothing much to say?  

Nor may it always be possible to write every day, especially since I am to spend the next few travelling with Aragorn. He has summoned his patrol leaders to a meeting place that he tells me is a day’s ride north of Rivendell, and asked if I would accompany him and I have agreed.

 Undoubtedly our uncrowned king means to spend some time becoming better acquainted with his Steward’s son and I welcome the chance to do so. Aside from a less than friendly discussion about the achievements of my men of the south as opposed to his rangers here in the north,  we have only spoken briefly once or twice at table.  

I am curious as to why he, and his forefathers, chose to remain in exile. Why, if the Elves have no love for Men, they nonetheless provide a safe haven for them?

 Perplexing and disquieting questions, do you not agree?

Faramir looked up from the book and nodded. Those same thoughts had crossed his mind. Boromir was clearly sceptical about everything he had learned and it was obvious that Aragorn and the Elves had won neither his brother’s trust nor respect as yet, both being difficult to earn. Faramir had no doubt that at some point Boromir would simply ask his questions of the Dúnedan, the eldest son of the  Steward  had little patience for the subtleties and intrigues of his father’s court.

Faramir knew his brother well, but was unable to say the same of Aragorn and wondered if Boromir’s directness had been welcomed or if a confrontation had arisen between the two men. If it had, he was certain Boromir would have made mention of it and if not, Faramir could always ask his king. Not that it really mattered now, he told himself with a sad sigh.

Enough of my dark thoughts for now, I have some news for you on a much lighter note.  

It seems there is sound basis for the tales we heard as children about Elves. They are indeed uncommonly fair of face, mysterious in their ways, definitely possessed of elegance and grace, and of the ability to move so swiftly and silently as to remain unseen by Men.

How do I know this last you may wonder?  

It must be so because when I awoke this morning I discovered that my travel clothes had been taken away and replaced with several sets of clean garments  a note pinned to one of the tunics  informing me that my clothes would be returned once they were laundered and repaired.  

I can not count the number of times I have been accused of disturbing the rest of my soldiers when the slightest rustling of the bushes is enough to put me on my guard yet I neither saw nor heard anything during the night.  I am certainly grateful for the clean clothes yet can not help but feel a little discomfited to think that someone could enter my bedchamber and walk right up to my bed without waking me…aye, there was also an invitation left on the table beside the bed, requesting me to join the lady of the house, Elrond’s daughter Arwen, in her parlour for breakfast.  

 I sincerely hope it was not she, nor any other lady who delivered it…naked as I was beneath the bed sheets that were barely covering my dignity!  

Cease your sniggering, Faramir! …

(as indeed he was, in fact he was laughing heartily at the blush of embarrassment he knew would be burning his brother’s cheeks and the frown of annoyance that would be creasing his brow as he wrote. Boromir was no innocent when it came to bed play, but he had a sense of decency and modesty.)

… the thought is no more amusing for me than the time you were caught swimming naked by several of your lady friends…

Faramir laughed again and wished he could have reminded Boromir that he had in fact intended to be caught, at least by the one young lady he had taken a liking to that summer. She was supposed to have come alone, and she had, but her friends also chose that particular time to visit the swimming hole.

Faramir felt his eyes widen with shock. All these years he had considered it simply an unfortunate coincidence,  but  at the back of his mind he heard Boromir’s laugh and knew with surety  that his brother had somehow arranged for the others to be there. Faramir closed his eyes and shook his head in exasperation at his own youthful folly.

I tell you, my brother, Arwen is the most beautiful being I have ever had the fortune to meet. Her hair is long and black, her eyes sparkle when she smiles and her voice is as soft as silk. We spoke of the little things at first, and I learned that she has two brothers, twins, who she obviously loves dearly and in turn I told her about my adorable if not sometimes irritating younger brother. For reasons unknown to me, she was keenly interested in hearing about the Rangers of Ithilien and  their Captain and when I had answered her questions, she asked me to describe Minas Tirith in detail.   

After breakfast we spent a very enjoyable morning touring the Last Homely House and I hate to admit this, but although Father’s reasoning was false, he may have been wise to refuse you permission to come here.  

The library is enormous and filled with more books and scrolls than you would be able to read in several lifetimes. There are several huge galleries, one with paintings depicting the history of the Elves lining its walls,  another filled with all kinds of exquisitely crafted artefacts, and a third housing the more than impressive array of weapons and armour used in battle by the Elves. I begin to understand your fascination for these people and I think it will take me many days to fully explore these places fully.  

I do not mean this unkindly but I am certain you would have soon become lost in the wealth of history books, likely forgotten the reasons for your arrival here and possibly never returned home!

Faramir scowled with feigned irritation at the absent brother who knew him so well!

Of course Boromir was only teasing, a favourite pastime of his, but there was a ring of truth to his words.  On more than one occasion Faramir recalled disappearing into the depths of the library, becoming so absorbed in a book that he ignored the dinner bell or a session of sword practice with his brother. He did not really mind eating his meal cold as Denethor would insist as punishment for his tardiness, but he had been less than pleased the time he found himself hauled over Boromir’s shoulder and carried to the training grounds like a recalcitrant child.

Boromir took his training seriously at all times, and Faramir had been soundly defeated in the ensuing sparring match. Of course, being the loving brothers they were, and after sharing too many tankards of ale, they both apologised profusely for their behaviour. The more in their cups they became, the faster the embarrassment and irritation was forgotten and the whole incident was suddenly uproariously funny, Faramir recalled with a smile that reached his eyes for the first time in many months.

However, as compelling as I found both Arwen and the wonders she showed me, I would have much preferred to have been asked to participate in the meeting in Elrond’s study.    

Aragorn, Mithrandir, and even Frodo were closeted away with him, discussing the plans for the scouting missions that were to be undertaken to ensure the safest route for our journey south. I do not know the lay of this land, but I am certain I could have provided some useful comments or advice. At the very least, I would have had the chance to learn more of the dangers that lie ahead.  

I do not know if my discontent was written on my face or if my thoughts were being read, but I was astonished when Arwen assured me no slight to my experience in our war against Mordor, or my abilities as a warrior and leader of Gondor’s army,  was intended and that such would be called upon during  the months ahead. Kind words but speaking honestly, I still feel uneasy, as if something is being withheld from me, that I am not being told the entire truth. Perhaps the ring can be used in some small way to aid Gondor?    

Boromir was first and foremost a soldier, and would always be so. There had never been a more fearsome, skilled nor courageous warrior in all of Gondor than Boromir, Faramir sighed, his heart bursting with his pride in his brother. 

Ah, Aragorn has arrived so I will bid you farewell for a few days… I wonder if we will ever become friends in time or simply tolerate each other for the sake of Gondor.

The darkness of night had long since shrouded the city, Faramir noticed as he rose from the bed and stepped out onto the balcony to take a breath of the fresh evening air. He hated the thought that Boromir had already begun to show signs of being seduced by the ring. He had no basis for his distrust of Aragorn or the Elves, for that matter, but the seeds of suspicion were already taking root.

 Faramir was no fool, he knew his brother was not evil but his inner strength and resilience had its limits, as did every man’s.  And there was no doubt that Boromir’s obsession and need to protect Gondor, whilst an honourable goal was quickly becoming his weakness.

The warm evening breeze that gently caressed Faramir’s hair, was almost lulling him to sleep where he stood, reminding his still healing body of its weariness. Quickly finishing the meal Éowyn had sent earlier, he returned to the comfort of the soft mattress of the bed that had been his brother’s, anxious to learn more about the relationship between Aragorn and Boromir from the journal.

However, such was not to be this night, for he had barely read a few lines before his eyes closed and he drifted into much needed slumber, and a dream of a certain son of Gondor, whose laughter still echoed in his heart and whose eyes glittered with mirth as he held his younger brother’s clothes aloft and threatened to throw the garments into the swimming hole.

Chapter4/?

Faramir awoke to find the chamber bathed in the soft glow of moonlight and through the open balcony doors he could see stars still glittering brightly in the night sky. His ranger instincts told him it was probably almost midnight and so he had only slept for a few hours, yet he felt fully refreshed. He had not intended to spend the night in Boromir’s chamber but he was reluctant to leave until his curiosity was satisfied as to how Boromir and Aragorn were faring. To that end, he left the far too comfortable bed and once again settled himself in the armchair by the window, ready to continue his reading.

 Although I said I would be gone a short while, ten days have passed since I last wrote to you, my dear Faramir, and I will explain why in a moment, but first I am sure you are anxious to learn what I think of our uncrowned king. Aye, I now believe he is who he claims to be.  

There was ample time for Aragorn and I to become better acquainted as we rode to the meting place. Our journey was untroubled, for no orcs or other dark creatures are to be found within the borders of Rivendell, or so Aragorn proudly claims.  He says Elrond’s power and that of the many ancient Elves who live here keeps them at bay, as do the might of Lord Glorfindel’s sword and the vigilance of the warriors under his command. I Undoubtedly this has been true, but we both know that the Nazgûl are still seeking the ring, and they know where the Hobbits are taking refuge so we are both kept  a watchful eye on the road as we rode.  

At first we spoke little, commenting only on the coolness of the day, how winter was fast approaching, my impressions of Rivendell and meeting people of other races for the first time. We both asked simple questions requiring simple answers, yet allowing us to develop a rapport and to learn a little about each other as ordinary people before we delved into the complexities of our roles in life.  

When talk turned to battle and the darkness that hovers over Middle-earth, we soon learned that we share a similar sense of duty, of anger at the needless destruction and the devastated lives left in the wake of attack. We detest the forces of evil and the one who is their master and freely admit to be willing give our very lives for those we love dearly as well as those who look to us for protection from the darkness.  

I swear to you, brother, when I mentioned that I would regret the day one as lovely as Arwen was forced to face the consequences of war, Aragorn actually blushed and smiled a lover’s smile at the mention of her name. It seems our king is in love and I could not resist the chance for a subtle bit of teasing. I told him that I rather fancied her myself and he simply glared at me and told me her heart belonged to another.  

“A Man who would be King, perhaps?”  I asked him with a friendly slap on the shoulder. He simply looked at my hand a moment and then shrugged.  

“Aye, so I am told,” he said and then we both started laughing at our adolescent-like silliness.  

By the time we stopped to allow the horses to rest and to take some refreshment ourselves, we were still joking and laughing merrily over tales we each had to tell of youthful misadventures.  

It was not until we sat in silence in the shade of the trees, enjoying our pipes for a while after our meal that my thoughts turned to the more serious questions that were still bothering me, the ones I told you of earlier.  

Feeling as if I was being watched,  I looked up to find worldly wise, and strangely ageless  grey eyes studying me, then holding my gaze for a few moments, as if searching for a hint of trust or friendship or perhaps something else… something  he wanted to know of which I am not certain.

 I suffered his scrutiny unflinchingly and  allowed him to see that I had nothing to hide, including my misgivings, and he nodded as if he had found his answers, then smiled encouragingly and bid me ask whatever I needed to know.  

So I did.  

It was almost twilight before he finished speaking of the history of the Kings of Men, and the rise of Sauron as he took back the rings he had made and sought relentlessly for the ruling ring. He spoke of the revenge sought on the heirs of Isildur, as well as the Elves with who Sauron had been at war for many millennia. He told of the  decline of the kingdom in the north after the loss of their last King at Minas Morgul and how his son had taken the role of Chieftain of the Dúnedain, secreting his sons  safely out of harm’s way in Rivendell until they were called upon to inherit the title.  

When I pointed out that harbouring the sons of Isildur’s heir was likely to  place Rivendell in Sauron’s eye, Aragorn agreed but rendered me speechless when he explained that no matter what folly or weakness they displayed, the descendants of the first King of Númenor, his brother Elros, would always be welcome in the house of Elrond.

 I told him I believed that protecting one’s kin, no matter how distantly related, nor the risk,  was a motivation I could understand and respect, and I would afford Master Elrond the honour of giving him mine. Aragorn was delighted to hear this, for it is plain to see that he truly loves the Peredhel as a son loves his father.  

I have much more to tell you, little brother, but must take a rest. Writing is causing my injured wrist to ache… as you can no doubt tell from the scrawl on this page…  

Faramir knew much of the history of Men, for the books in the library were filled with tales of the lives and deeds of kings of old, but he had never made the connection between the first King of Men and Master Elrond. It was fascinating information, and raised many questions in Faramir’s mind, most of which he would have to rely on Mithrandir to answer, if the wizard was so inclined.

As he ran his fingers over Boromir’s usually flawless handwriting he agreed the letters were starting to look more like something a young child might write, and he felt a pang of guilt that his brother was even attempting to do so if he was injured. How and where did it happen, he wondered, and how serious was it? Knowing that Boromir’s explanation would be sure to follow, Faramir turned his thoughts back to Aragorn.

Unlike Boromir, he had never doubted that Aragorn was indeed who he claimed to be. Faramir had felt it in the healing hands that eased his body’s pain and heard the truth in the soothing voice that had brought him back from death. He had awoken from the darkness, looked straight into his king’s eyes that were anxiously watching him and declared his fealty.

That it had taken more time to convince Boromir came as no surprise. His brother was one who held stubbornly to his beliefs or opinions, as the many arguments he had had with both Denethor and Faramir over the years proved. However, he also had a quick and clear thinking mind so that when faced with undeniable truth, he would smile at the folly of his own misguided notions and accept defeat in a manner far more gracious than one who did not know him well might expect.

Ah, Faramir I am back at my desk and ready to seek your sympathy for your poor wounded brother. Master Elrond rubbed a soothing salve into my wrist and gave me a small cup of miruvor.  Some kind of elvish magic potion is how I would describe it for I had barely taken a decent mouthful when my aches and pains subsided. I wonder if Aragorn knows how to brew it? Our uncrowned king is not only a ranger, heir to the throne but also a skilled healer as he certainly proved the day after we arrived at the encampment.  

It was well after dark before the last of the captains arrived, and we spent a merry evening around the campfire, singing drinking songs whilst pretending that our water was wine and feeling grateful that there were no ladies present to hear the bawdy stories that were told. All too soon it was time to seek our bedrolls and rest, but the peace did not last long for a scout from one of the Rivendell patrols arrived, breathless and with several scratches marring his perfect skin.  

I did not understand a word he said, since he was speaking in Elvish, Sindarin to be exact, Aragorn told me when I enquired later. At the moment he was clearly in no mood for idle chatter and I certainly understood the fire of anger in his eyes when he explained that orcs had dared to try and breach the outer defences of Rivendell. The experienced patrol leader who had  discovered their trail realised there were far too many for a small group of Elves to handle, no matter their stealth of movement and their skills with weapons, so  knowing where the rangers were meeting,  he wisely sent for help.  

We travelled all night and most of the next day, finally meeting up with the Elves as the first stars appeared in the night sky. We moved stealthily to the overhang from where we could keep a watch on the orcs in the gully below.  

Even when Man and Elf joined forces for this battle, I feared our numbers were too small to achieve victory, but then I had never seen Elves fight. It is a fearsome sight, their eyes glittered dangerously as blades flashed, arrows hit their mark and the screams of the dying orcs echoed into the night. Finally not one remained alive and the fighting ceased.

It was a fierce and bloody battle, my brother, and over much faster than I thought possible. All the orcs were dead but no Elves were lost, although there were a few with nasty cuts that needed stitching. Without any discussion, Aragorn assumed the role of healer.  

Any way, I digress.  It was during this short but violent battle that I was injured. Aragorn was being attacked by three at once, and in my haste to go to his aid, I tripped over one of the fallen orcs, and fell heavily on my right arm. I sprained my wrist but continued fighting, using my sword in my left hand instead. Not nearly as effective as my usual grip, but I managed to send several orcs to their doom.  

Poor brave Boromir, Faramir thought with a smirk that signalled amusement more than sympathy, all though he felt both. He could just imagine how hard his brother would have been trying to impress the others with his skill as a swordfighter, only to have it all be for naught, at least in Boromir’s eyes, when he fell and injured his wrist and his pride.

After we returned to our encampment,  Aragorn thanked his men with a firm yet almost affectionate grip on every shoulder, offering each praise for his  skill with the sword or bow, whichever was the weapon of choice. He reaffirmed that he would be proud to fight and die alongside any one of us and specifically thanked me for saving his life, which I suppose I did, although I acted mostly on instinct. “Tis what happens in the heat of battle… action taken with no thought of neither personal danger nor reward.  

We journeyed slowly back to the campsite to give our injured time to heal and I took the chance to observe this more ‘gentle’ side of the Man. As I watched him over the next few days, I was struck by not only his affection and respect for his Men, and theirs for him as well. There is a certain reserved yet regal air that surrounds him, and I sometimes sense almost a reluctance to take the crown even though the Dúnedain are already his loyal subjects. He knows this, and admitted that sometimes the expectations that are placed upon him due to his heritage and his as yet unfulfilled destiny serve only to turn him from the path he knows he must take.

How terribly difficult it must be to have such a huge responsibility as he does looming over his head. Added to that is the fact that should he die without leaving an heir, the line of Kings will be truly broken.  

I can not imagine how hard it would be to live with the knowledge that I was the last of my House. Can you, Faramir?  

There was so much meaning in those few words, and the sorrow and grief of his losses stabbed deep into Faramir’s heart, the intense pain shocking him into immobility. He let the book slip slowly from his hands, the dull thud of heavy leather hitting the hard tiles the only other sound in the chamber aside from the heartbreaking sobs of the sole heir of the house of Denethor.

 

Chapter 5

Faramir was so lost in the depths of his melancholy that he was oblivious to the soft click of the lock as the door to Boromir’s chambers was opened and closed., nor did he sense the presence of another until a gentle had rested on his shoulder. The unexpected touch caused him to rise hastily from his chair, fear and astonishment in his tear filled eyes. He drew a couple of ragged breaths and tried to slow his racing heart beat.

“I am sorry, nephew. I did not mean to startle you so. I saw the light under the door and knowing you would be in here, came to see how you are feeling. Your face is as white as the winter snow, are you ill or did you simply think that I was someone else?” Imrahil’s voice was filled with compassion and affection, and his last words were surprisingly close to the truth. For a brief moment, Faramir had thought his brother returned, at least in spirit if not in person.

“I am not ill, but for the pain in my heart and aye, for a brief moment there I almost believed you were Boromir,” Faramir sighed sadly as he slowly regained his composure. There was still much grief and anguish, in the younger man’s words, as was to be expected, Imrahil thought as he instinctively drew his distraught young kinsman into his arms, offering a comforting embrace, the kind a father gives his son in his moment of need. Sometimes, Imrahil thought, no matter his age in years, the child within needed the security and reassurance only a parent can give.

It was the kind of embrace that Faramir yearned for and had not experienced from Denethor for many more years than he cared to remember and he smiled as he relaxed against his uncle’s strong chest and simply enjoyed the feeling of being held close and loved.

“Would that I was our beloved Boromir rather than merely your aged uncle,” Imrahil said, affectionately squeezing Faramir’s shoulder to take the sting from the mention of Boromir, although the wise Prince of Dol Amroth knew here was no sense in avoiding using his name or in speaking about Denethor. He placed a tender kiss on his nephew’s troubled brow and then released him when something caught his eye.

 “I would ask you what you are doing alone in here in the middle of the night, but I think I can guess,” he said answering his own question as he bent down to pick up the journal. “I take it this belonged to your brother? I recognise his handwriting.” Faramir nodded.

“It is Boromir’s journal, the one I gave him so that he could record some of his adventures as he travelled the countryside, looking for hope for Gondor on the strength of a dream. Aragorn saved a few of Boromir’s personal possessions and fortunately this was one of them,” he explained and took the book from Imrahil’s hands with a possessiveness that spoke of his unwillingness to share his brother’s memories with anyone as yet. It was a feeling all too well understood by the elder man and he saw a way to ease the suffering of his long dead sister’s youngest son.

“Did you know that I kept every letter my beloved sister wrote and that after she died; they were the only salve for my raging grief. Whenever I felt I was becoming overwhelmed by my despair, or simply missed her more than I could bear, I would go and sit in Finduilas’s favourite armchair in the library and read them over and over again. It is as if her words brought her back to life,” he said, closing his eyes briefly against the grief that although had diminished with time, was nonetheless still a dull ache in his heart.

“Aye, as I read I can hear Boromir’s voice, sees his cheerful smile and the wicked gleam in his eyes when he teases me, and the darkness around my heart lifts until I read something that …”

“…tears it in two,” Imrahil finished for him his words full of understanding. “Your brother loved you very much, he would never have intentionally caused you pain. Do you want to tell me what he said that hurt you so?”

“Nay he did not intend to. But the words caused me to see something unsettling. I know he could not have foreseen the future, but he was speaking of Aragorn being the last of his line and wondered if I had any idea how that would feel. Until that moment I had not realised that I have also become the last of my House,” Faramir’s voice sounded choked and he stopped speaking, trying desperately to hold back his tears.

“Weep if you need to child, but think on this… you may be the last your father’s House, but there is always hope you will sire an heir or two one day,” Imrahil said with compassion as he again enfolded Faramir in his arms. “You are not alone, for you have me, your cousins and other kin in Dol Amroth and more importantly if I am not mistaken, soon you will have a lovely young wife. You are planning to wed Éowyn, are you not?”

“If she will have me and if Éomer will give me her hand,” he replied, love lighting his face as he thought of his beloved.

“Then perhaps it would be wise to spend a little less time looking to the past and consider the future instead. Spending more time courting your lady might be wise, as well as extremely pleasant,” the elder man suggested with an affectionate smile. Faramir nodded and walked over to the bedside table and placed the journal there for safe keeping alongside the other items that were Boromir’s.

“Is that the clasp Boromir gave to your mother when he was but a young lad?” Imrahil asked as he looked over Faramir’s shoulder at the finely crafted hair clasp.

“Aye and he has carried with him ever since she died. I remember he caused quite uproar when he worked as a stable boy for a week to earn the coin to buy it at the market.” Faramir said smiling fondly at the memory of a defiant young Boromir, his even younger brother at his side, both with hands on hips and craning their necks upwards so they could glare at their father while Boromir bravely told Denethor he wanted to earn the money to buy Finduilas the clasp she had admired the last time they had been to the markets. Denethor had offered to give Boromir enough to purchase it, but his stubborn and proud brother had refused, insisting he wanted to earn the price himself no matter how menial or below his station was the task.

Faramir clearly recalled how their father’s eyes had glittered with anger at the defiance and how his smile had turned slightly cold when he nodded his agreement, saying he would find suitable employment for his son. Later that day the stable master had sent for Boromir and explained his duties.

“Finduilas wrote of how proud she was of your brother, and how touched her heart was by the love and unselfishness in his gesture, especially when he gave you a small portion of his earnings so that you could buy her a present as well.”

“I did help him a little, I carried his water skin!” Faramir exclaimed with mock indignation as he took a small wooden thimble from his pocket and held it up for his uncle to see. It was very plain, but had been well loved and constantly used for a few short years.

“Ah, your mother cherished that as well,” Imrahil said to Faramir, who smiled happily at the memory of a more pleasant time. “She also told me that the jeweller was so overly generous in accepting the coin that was a meagre portion of the price he was asking for the clasp, that she had insisted Denethor makes up the difference in the cost.”

“I did not know that, but I imagine Father was none to pleased with that bargain,” Faramir said feeling a new respect for the mother he had barely known.

“I expect not, but he loved your mother dearly and would have done anything for her. Speaking of love, this family heirloom, as the clasp has become, would make a most fitting betrothal gift, would it not?” Imrahil suggested and was rewarded with a pleased nod from his blushing nephew.

“I am more than grateful for your love and concern, Uncle and I promise I will pay Éowyn more attention, but I can not abandon Boromir just yet. This journal is the final farewell he and I were denied.”

“I understand and I will bid you a good night, dear Faramir,” Imrahil said, kissing his nephew’s cheek as he took his leave.

“Good night, Uncle,” Faramir replied, offering a quick hug in return. Alone once again, ‘but not really alone’, Faramir thought, feeling more at ease and content than he had in many months he picked up the journal and settled back against the pillows. Deliberately avoiding the last few lines on the page, he began to read further.

Faramir, as a Ranger who likes to rise before the morning dew has even fallen, and brother of one who thinks noon a reasonable time to rise if duty does not call, you will find this difficult to believe, but the grey light of dawn is just now lighting the sky as I write this.  

Aye, I have no responsibilities here and was not duty bound to leave my bed early, but I did nonetheless just to bid Aragorn and his rangers farewell as they left to scout their assigned areas to the north. Legolas, the Elf, who is to travel south with us, joined one of the patrols headed towards the borders of his home in Mirkwood. I would willingly have gone with Aragorn but for this accursed sprain.  

It is peaceful and quiet at this hour, and I find I am in the company of Mithrandir who is also an early riser, whether by design or habit I am not certain. I welcomed the chance to have a few words with the wise one and even now he sits on my balcony, smoking his pipe and contemplating only he knows what.  

We spoke mainly of the south and naturally the first question I asked him was if he had heard how you were faring.  He had no news for me, for it has become too dangerous for messengers to travel between the north and south unless in urgent need. He did say that Elrond has received word that orcs are making daring if not futile forays into the Golden Wood so it is likely the attacks in Gondor have not diminished. This is ill news indeed for it means Sauron’s power is increasing.  

 Mithrandir also said that he suspected the situation in Minas Tirith had not yet changed for the worse, which immediately suggested to me that it would do so in the future. I said as much and our dear friend nodded his agreement and then refused to elaborate, saying there was more than one possible outcome so there was no point in indulging in useless speculation.  A typically enigmatic answer and one of the kinds that always frustrates and angers Father and I am beginning to understand how.  

We also spoke of the impact of the return of the King, and aside from giving our people hope when they see Elendil’s sword and his heir back in the White City, his arrival  would signal it was time for the Steward to  relinquish his rule. Although it would be his duty to do so we agreed that Father may not readily accept this change without some conflict arising between the two. Such enmity would certainly be to Sauron’s advantage, I fear.  

I can only hope that they would both realise this and at the very least make a pact to resolve their differences once the Dark Lord’s armies have been defeated. It may fall to you and me to act as mediators, my brother, but I am certain that together we will ensure a united front is presented to our enemies.  

I have rarely seen our wizard friend angry, but he was furious when I suggested that perhaps it would be wiser to take the ring to Gondor, and practically ordered me to disabuse myself of the notion that one of us, either myself or maybe Aragorn, since he is of Isildur’s bloodline, could wield it in some small way.  

 He scoffed with contempt and accused me of being a naïve fool if I thought for one moment we could hold it to ransom, so that in the face of certain defeat, we could offer the ring in exchange for keeping the City safe as I had suggested.  

On reflection that was a rather stupid notion since it depends entirely on Sauron being honourable and trustworthy and I do not need Mithrandir to remind me that our foe is neither of those. I do not know what I was thinking, or why I would voice such a ridiculous solution. All I can say is that it seemed quite reasonable at the time.  

Speaking of the enemy, how fare the defences of Osgiliath? Do they hold or is the city in danger of being overrun again? I wish I was there to hear your answers, and I will be in a few months’ time, so make sure the ale barrels are full and the roasts are ready to be put on the spits!

Ah, I hear the bell that signals the morning meal, and as Mithrandir has wisely suggested we should hasten to table before the Hobbits make their way there. They certainly enjoy their food and mange to eat a great deal at each of the many meals they partake of in one day.  

Mithrandir sends you his greetings and bids me tell you he looks forward to seeing you again soon, as do I, my dear little brother.

 

Chapter 6

Faramir felt a vague sense of unease as he read the last few paragraphs of the journal and was unsure why, so he read the words again, the furrows on his brow deepening with concern and alarm. The only time he could recall hearing Mithrandir showing such a harsh attitude to anyone was when he had been speaking with Denethor with whom it was no secret he shared a relationship based on mutual animosity and distrust.

As he read the few disturbing lines for the third time, he found it increasingly hard to believe his brother’s admittedly foolish idea regarding the ring was the sole cause of Mithrandir’s rarely displayed anger, especially since he knew the wizard was fond of, and held Boromir in high regard.

Well, he would just have to seek Mithrandir out tomorrow and ask him for an explanation… or later this morning, Faramir corrected himself as he noticed the sky had begun to turn from the black of night to the dull grey of dawn. Yawning tiredly, he suddenly realised how physically tired and emotionally drained he felt and he decided it was time to retire to his own chamber.

Faramir’s head had barely touched his pillow when his eyes closed and he drifted into much needed slumber that was disturbed several hours later by the Healer who had come to remove the last of his bandages. It was such a delight to be released from the restraining cloths, and the need to keep them dry when he tried to bathe that the Healer had barely left the chamber before Faramir had his bathing tub filling with hot water. A few healing herb were added to the water and with a deep sigh, he sank gratefully into the cleansing and soothing warmth. He had just begun to relax fully when the sharp rapping of a wooden staff on his chamber door and a cheery call for permission to enter signalled the arrival of Mithrandir.

“I am in the bath, and will be for some time yet, Mithrandir,” Faramir called in reply, making his intention plain.

“By all means stay where you are young Steward, we can talk while you bathe,” the wizard said, inviting himself into the bathing chamber and sitting on the small stool that was next to the tub.

“What is so urgent that it cannot wait until I have finished?” Faramir asked with a long suffering roll of his eyes and a welcoming smile that indicated he did not really object to the wizard’s presence. There had been many times when either he or Boromir had kept the other company in such a manner, for they had learned that their bathing chambers were the best place to hold private conversations.

“I hear that you have been reading Boromir’s journal, and I suspect you may have some questions that perhaps I can answer,” Mithrandir replied with a knowing glance at his young friend.

“Have you read it already?” Faramir asked his eyes glittering with anger at the thought that even as dear a friend as he was the wizard had invaded his privacy.

“Faramir! How could you think that I  would do so  unless given leave by Boromir or you,” the Mithrandir  replied, sounding wounded and making Faramir feel a little guilty for his misplaced distrust.

“I did not mean to offend, but I consider these writings to be a private conversation, although very one sided, between Boromir and me. Please accept my apologies. I do have one question,” Faramir said as he poured a jug of water over his newly washed hair to remove the lather. Mithrandir nodded, indicating he was listening.

 “What did Boromir do or say to make you so angry with him in Rivendell?” This was clearly the question the wizard had been anticipating as indicated by his complete lack of surprise.

“Ah, so he told you about our conversation regarding the ring. I thought he might,” the wizard said sounding pleased to have assumed correctly.

“Aye and I admit I found his suggestions to be rather ludicrous myself, but surely they did not warrant such a harsh rebuke?” Not only were they ludicrous, but spoke of a very poor battle strategy which no one could ever accuse his renowned brother of devising, at least not knowingly. It was the admission that he did not know where his thoughts were at times that would have really worried Faramir had he been there.

“Perhaps not, but he was clearly not himself when he made them and I needed to make him see his own folly and rage is often a good eye opener.  I believe his strange ideas may have been the result of the ring trying to tempt him, to control him, so it was the insidious ring and its evil master with whom I was angry, not Boromir.”

“That would certainly explain his own confusion about what he had said,” Faramir agreed. “But if you even suspected he was being lured by the ring, why did you not tell him? Why did you permit him to travel within reach of its power? Why did you let him walk unknowingly down the path that led to his death?” He whispered hoarsely his voice filled with a mix of anguish, frustration and anger.

“It was already too late, the ring had taken hold deep in his mind by the time I realised what afflicted him. I could only hope that he was strong enough to resist its influence, because telling him would have made no difference. He would not have believed me, the ring would have convinced him I was lying, trying to take it for myself. For all the power that I possess, I could not control the influence the hateful thing had over Boromir, Frodo, Bilbo or anyone else for that matter,” Mithrandir explained.

“And even Master Elrond could not convince Isildur to destroy it and he had only held it a short time,” Faramir muttered under his breath as he recalled part of what he had read earlier. “But could he not have stayed in Rivendell, away from the ring?” he asked, accepting the towel Mithrandir handed him as he stepped out of the bath.

“Would the stubborn Boromir we know and love have been content to stay in safety when his city was under threat and the ring was still calling to him, offering him false hope?”  Mithrandir asked, not needing to hear the answer that was obvious to them both.

 “It was far better that he travel with us, rather than having him follow in our shadows waiting for a chance to take the ring from Frodo. Believe me, Faramir, I thought of Boromir as an honourable man with remarkable courage and strength of will, and I dreaded seeing him succumb to the darkness as the days wore on. But there was nothing to be done, the fate of us all has already been sung and neither the words nor the melody can be changed.” There was no argument that could be made against this, Faramir was reluctantly forced to admit.

“Perhaps he would not have been lost had I been there to talk with him, for judging by what I have read so far, he was sorely in need of my support,” he said, taking the blame onto himself , almost  learning first hand what it took to anger Mithrandir.

“What nonsense you speak, Faramir! You may have been able to ease his fears and even talked some sense into him, but in the end he would have turned against you and his fate would have been the same. Besides, you had more than enough to contend with here in Minas Tirith,” the wizard reminded his young friend who was suddenly looking decidedly too pale for Mithrandir’s liking. “You are still suffering the after effects of your ordeal, Faramir. Perhaps it would be best if you did not further risk your health by spending all night reading your brother’s journal which will undoubtedly become even more distressing towards the end.”

“I know how he died, Mithrandir, but I wish to understand why, and only he can answer those questions. I know his words and thoughts will be painful to read, but it will be a bittersweet pain that I will gladly endure for one last glimpse of my brother. I will not desert him in his hour of darkness, for no matter how deep into the abyss he falls, to me he will still be the Boromir I know and love… just as Father always was,” he added, speaking the last words with a tenderness Mithrandir had not expected to hear from one who had suffered so much at his father’s hands.

“As you wish, but please try and take some more rest now. I will have a meal tray sent from the kitchens and perhaps ask Éowyn to call on you?” Faramir nodded to all but the last.

“Aye, I would like to see her, but not while I am like this. I will do as you suggest and hopefully I will be well enough to join you all for the evening meal,” he replied with a smile of affection for the wizard that did much to ease his concern for his young friend.

After an hour of tossing and turning unsuccessfully trying to get comfortable enough to sleep, Faramir found himself back in Boromir’s chamber, engrossed in the next entry in his brother’s journal.

Well, brother, Mithrandir and I managed to finish our morning meal just as the Halflings arrived and deciding it was time I made their acquaintance, I begged an introduction from our mutual friend. I had already briefly met Bilbo, the former bearer of the ring, and of course Frodo, his nephew who now carries it,  at the council meeting and so I needed only to be introduced to Sam, Merry and Pippin as they prefer to be called.  

What a delightfully charming and friendly folk these Halflings are, Faramir! And Mithrandir did not exaggerate the amount of food they can eat, especially Merry and Pippin to whom I took an instant liking, that was returned warmly. Never before have I laughed so much at the morning meal for these two were constantly jesting and teasing one another as well as everyone else in sight.  

The Elves take little notice of their antics at the table, antics such as a brief food fight that I can not imagine Father tolerating for one minute and no doubt he would be stunned by the behaviour of Bilbo, the elder Baggins. H e at least  might  expected to have some sense of decorum, and  a measure of control over his younger kin, but rather then insisting they temper their behaviour joined in with  a few  humorous stories of his own. Only Frodo and Sam seemed a little reserved, but the younger Baggins is still recovering from his fight with death and Sam has taken the role as his protector very seriously. Also they were both a little wary of me when I asked to see the ring again, for reasons I can not fathom. I was merely curious to see it up close.  

“Oh Boromir, be careful!” Faramir whispered, knowing full well it was a warning that came much too late to ears that no longer heard.

After they had eaten their fill, at least until second breakfast, as Pippin cheerfully informed me, I found myself agreeing to spend the morning with the two younger Halflings. Frodo and Sam did not join us, instead they helped Bilbo back to his chambers for some rest, for he is quite frail and freely admits he  is nearing the end of his days. I will take the time to visit him later but for now I am being forcefully dragged out into the gardens.  

 Merry, Pippin and I  spent an extremely enjoyable morning together, exploring the many gardens  around the Last Homely House, and when I commented that my younger brother would be disappointed that he was not here to see the beauty of the  place he dreamt of,  they moved aside for a private conversation after which Pippin disappeared, returning  several minutes later with a sketch pad and some charcoal. He had also apparently detoured poast the kitchens for he had carried several warm pastries wrapped in a cloth. I suspect the cook may be wondering where her pies have gone, but they are delicious.  

Now as you know, I have no talent for drawing, unless it is maps or battle plans, nonetheless, I was somehow convinced to add a few lines to the picture of Rivendell my new found friends drew for you. They agreed I was less than talented as an artist, but were pleased enough with the pathway and the stone archway that serves as a gate that I drew. If you look closely at the steps in front of the main building, thanks to Merry, you will see a picture of me drawing with two inquisitive heads peering over my shoulder.  

Faramir put the journal aside and reached for the rolled up parchment he had practically ignored until now and opened it out to study the drawing more closely. He tenderly traced a finger over the tiny picture of his brother that was small but an excellent likeness, his heart almost bursting with joy when he saw Boromir’s carefree smile. He silently thanked the two who sat either side for bringing such delight to his troubled brother’s face.

Faramir was so pleased he would now be able to thank Merry and Pippin in person and knowing how deeply in their hearts they still held their affection and grief for Boromir, he decided he would take the drawing to the evening meal.

 I have never had such an interesting and amusing conversation with people I hardly know, and after the first hour or so, I was so relaxed in their presence that I felt as if we had been friends  all our lives. Between the two of them there was not a moment’s silence and when they were not extolling the virtues of everything in the Shire, its ale, the pipe weed, the people and of course their own mischievous ways, they were asking me about the Men of Gondor and our White City, including I hasten to add, what kinds of ale we serve in our taverns and how many pretty bar maids I know. Make no mistake should you meet any of the Halflings, Faramir, they have the height of children, but they are all grown adults, filled with a love of  life and unmarred in many ways, but adults nonetheless.  

If you need further convincing, just ask to hear some of their drinking songs!  

 I now understand Mithrandir’s sorrow at having this last peaceful realm brought into the harsh reality of danger and war that we all face.  

Thanks to the vigilance of the Rangers , they have never had to confront the evil that exists elsewhere, until the appearance of the Nazgûl  that is, and although they are naïve and inexperienced in battle, they certainly do not lack the courage to defend their home and loved ones. And this is as it should be, do you not agree?  Had I not already offered my protection and vowed to journey south with the ring bearer, I would have done so now, for I wish to see no harm befall these folk.  

“And in the end they could ask for no better champion than Boromir of Gondor,” Faramir thought sadly. Aragorn had recently told him that in his last moments, Boromir had broken free of the thrall with which the ring held him and died honourably and bravely in his desperate attempt to save Merry and Pippin. Remembering this as he read the journal would make the gradual loss of his brother’s inner battle easier to bear, of that Faramir was certain.

 

Chapter7

The dining hall in the Healing House was not overly large or grandly furnished, but on one side there were a series of archways that served as both doors and windows and which were open to the gardens and the warm, sweetly scented air of late spring. There was a single table that ran the length of the room, seated at one end were several of the Healers and other patients, while gathered around the other Faramir was pleased to see Imrahil, Éowyn and Merry, His lady and the Hobbit were engrossed in some secret exchange and apparently quite amused by whatever they were discussing, judging by the smiles and giggles he observed.

However the giggles were replaced by delighted smiles and words of welcome when Imrahil rose and pulled a chair out from the table and invited Faramir to sit next to him. He accepted the offer only after he greeted Éowyn with a few whispered words of endearment and a brief kiss of her sweet lips. She blushed at the slightly less than proper behaviour, but paid it no further mind when she saw the indulgent smiles of those around her that plainly spoke of the relief and joy all felt to see Faramir so happy in her presence.

“I was expecting to see Pippin and Mithrandir here this evening as well,” he commented to his uncle, whose smile faded slightly, knowing the news he had to impart would not sit well with his nephew.

“Where are they? Is something amiss, Uncle?” Faramir asked sensing his uncle’s unease.

“Pippin and Mithrandir have returned to Aragorn’s camp, as I must do shortly. We begin our march towards the Black Gate at dawn,” he replied seeing no reason to be less than truthful.

“Why? Is the war not over?” Faramir asked suddenly feeling very confused at Imrahil’s slow shake of his head and the concern in his eyes. “Nay?” He asked with disbelief in his voice. He had truly believed it was.

“Nay it is not. The siege of Minas Tirith has ended and the dark forces have retreated, but the ring is not yet destroyed. We have been biding our time and gathering our forces and thanks to the information you provided for Mithrandir before you were…injured…” Imrahil said, choosing his words carefully and schooling his thoughts so that Faramir would see no hint of the horror his uncle still felt at what madness had driven Denethor to do.

“He now believes Frodo and Sam are close to achieving their goal so Aragorn has used the palantir to challenge Sauron, to distract him from learning of their presence, and we must seize the advantage and march on Mordor,” he explained sounding very much the experienced military leader of armies that he was as well as being a ruler.

“I want to join you in this battle,” Faramir said simply. He did not need to add the words, ‘for Boromir’ for his eyes glittered dangerously with thoughts of revenge.

“That is not possible. As a soldier and a leader you must realise that you are still unfit for a long march into battle and as the Steward of Gondor you are needed here to prepare for the King’s return. If another attack occurs, injured or not, you are the one who must lead the defence of the city. Keeping Minas Tirith from the hands of the enemy is the best way you can honour Boromir’s memory and extract revenge on the one who would see it fall.”

 “I understand and I will respect the deeds of both Boromir and our King by gladly doing as duty demands,” Faramir replied, accepting the responsibility that now lay upon his shoulders with the pride and dedication Imrahil had fully expected his nephew would show.

“Then I will see you when I return, my dear Faramir,” Imrahil said as he rose to take his leave. Faramir stood as well so that he could embrace his uncle.

“See that you do return safely Uncle, my heart can not bear to suffer another loss,” he said, voicing his greatest fear. Imrahil’s eyes reflected his understanding of Faramir’s words and he nodded reassurance then kissed the younger man’s brow, and smiled a fond farewell as he strode from the hall.

“What have you there?” Merry asked, drawing Faramir’s attention away from the now empty doorway and pointing at the rolled up parchment with his fork before using it to spear another large slice of roast beef.

“What… oh this… ‘tis something of Boromir’s that I wish to thank you and Pippin for making,” he replied as he cleared a space on the table and unrolled the drawing.

“Oh this is a lovely place, where is it?” Éowyn asked as she moved to Faramir’s side to take a better look.

“This is the gateway to Rivendell, drawn so beautifully by our dear friend, this is the Last Homely House, and these two handsome creatures seated on the steps beside the brave son of Gondor are Pippin and I,” Merry boasted haughtily, raising his eyebrows as if daring them to dispute his claim. Éowyn and Faramir both laughed merrily.

“It is an excellent likeness of my brother and he wrote that you and Pippin are the ones who drew it. Apparently you are both graced with good looks and artistic talent,” Faramir teased.

“Not to mention great bravery in battle and skill with the sword, as well. These hobbits are remarkable beings,” Éowyn added in all seriousness.

“Aye we are,” Merry agreed shamelessly. “But any skills with weapons that Pippin and I possess are thanks to Boromir, who taught us well,” he acknowledged, raising his tankard of ale as he offered a silent toast to the fallen one.

Faramir and Éowyn did likewise. Faramir was about to ask Merry to tell him of Boromir’s lessons when he was distracted by a soft hand covering his and a sweetly voiced request to take a walk in the gardens brushing against his ear.

“As you wish, lovely one,” he told Éowyn as he kissed her fingers and allowed her to lead them outside. Merry smiled at the happy couple, pleased that his Lady had found one whose heart was free and very willing to return her love. He carefully rolled the drawing up and set it to one side, eager to finish enjoying his meal before returning the picture to Faramir’s chamber.

Concern for those who had gone into battle once more prevented Faramir from taking any rest that evening, so after he had escorted a weary Éowyn to her chamber, he decided to read some more of the journal. It was such a lovely warm night that, instead of staying indoors, he chose to sit out on the balcony.

Faramir, I must apologise for not making any entries in this journal for quite some time, but for the last few nights  I have had a very disturbing dream and have been preoccupied with trying to discern its meaning.  

 Perhaps if I tell you of it I will be able to think more clearly.  

In this dream, which is more akin to a nightmare really, I see the White Tree burning and no matter how much water I throw on it, the flames are not quenched. I become frantic and look around in search of the King’s Guards to help me, but there is no one there. In my desperation, I cover the fire with my cloak, only to watch it turn into cinders that are taken on a foul smelling wind and scattered over the city, setting it alight. It is at this point I usually wake up, my heart racing wildly and tears of anguish and despair on my pillow.  

Has the city fallen in my absence? Or is this some portent of the doom for Minas Tirith? I have no answer, but I do know that I sorely miss your compassionate ear and your insight.  

What would you say to ease my fears, fears that I can not voice to anyone but you who knows me so well? Do I know you well enough to answer for you?  

Perhaps you would say that my imagination was merely creating the scene I dreaded most, the fall of our city and the loss of hope of our people? Aye that might be so, I would reply, for this peace and light in this place only makes the turmoil and darkness of my home seem even more real and my fears well founded.  

But nonetheless false, you would insist, have you not found our King who bears our hope in his blood and the sword of Elendil? The Halfling who will take Isildur’s Bane to its doom?  

 Indeed I have, my dear little brother, but  when I lay awake in the darkness, the smell of burning wood in the air, the wisdom of  your words eludes me and I can not help but be filled with despair. Were it not for those delightful Hobbits I have befriended, my days would likely be as dark and full of anguish as are my nights…  

Faramir closed his eyes against the pain he felt for Boromir’s turmoil and he well understood Mithrandir’s anger, for there was no doubt the nightmares were some manifestation of the ring’s dark power. Boromir’s love for Gondor and Minas Tirith was being used as a weapon against him, and even if he did not already know the outcome, Faramir would have been forced to admit that it was indeed the one weapon that could break down his brother’s defences and bend him to its will.

Ah, another lovely day in Rivendell, but I am beginning to think I have seen too many. I need to find some interesting way to pass the time and relieve my boredom.  

Some of the Elves offered to take the four younger Hobbits fishing in a stream that runs safely within the influence of Elrond’s powers. I am no fisherman, and so declined the invitation to join them, preferring to accept old Bilbo’s offer of afternoon tea and a quiet chat.  

I admit my decision was partly coloured by my curiosity about the ring and how it had affected him all the years he had carried it, but  I was also interested to discover more about the reason for the barely concealed  animosity that exists between Legolas and Glóin, the father of Gimli, the Dwarf chosen to be one of the Nine. Mithrandir was not inclined to discuss it but told me if I was really interested in events long past, I should read Bilbo’s book.  

There was no need, for the elder Hobbit was more than willing to tell the tale. Very simply, Legolas’s father, the King of Mirkwood imprisoned the Dwarves Bilbo was travelling with, Glóin included, for trespassing in his realm and threatened to keep them locked in his dungeons until they offered a reasonable explanation for their presence.  

“Tis the same way Théoden treat intruders into Rohan, and I see nothing wrong with it as a means of defence, bit it makes the feud between the sons understandable. We would be most annoyed with anyone who imprisoned our beloved Father.  

Indeed we would Boromir, whether the prison is cold stone or the chains of evil influence and control, Faramir answered, thinking of the power that had sent his father into madness from which death was the only release.  

Our conversation then turned to the ring and Bilbo could not help but brag a little that he had used it to help the Dwarves escape from under Thranduil’s nose, and then again many years later to make his exit from the Shire. 

(You see, dear Faramir, it makes the wearer invisible! What a boon that would be! One could use it to spy on the enemy leaders as they were making plans and none would be the wiser).  

Bilbo also claimed that the ring had  not affected him, and I saw no sign that he has turned to evil, nor has he taken it back to Sauron as Elrond fears may yet happen should Frodo lose the ring to those that seek it in their master’s name.   

I think the ring had little power over Bilbo, and now Frodo, because of the Hobbits’ innate goodness and the fact that they   have no inclination or reason to do anything remotely evil, or physically harmful. I can not imagine any of them deliberately killing anyone else, innocent or not, as sometimes the rest of us have done in the course of battle.  

I think that is their strength, and recognising it, I am certain I could hold the evil at bay whilst I used the ring for good… for putting out the fire.

Faramir had to admit that there may be some truth to his brother’s words, but he could also see that Boromir was trying to twist the facts to justify the use of the ring whilst totally disregarding its ultimately darker purpose.  

Good news, Faramir!

“…I used the ring for good… for putting out the fire.”

This was the thought running through my mind when I fell asleep earlier tonight, and for once the nightmare did not trouble me, and in fact it changed into a good dream.  

It still begin with the White Tree burning, but tonight I was able to put out the flames, not with water, but with a rain storm that I suddenly found I had the power to summon. It was such an exhilarating feeling to be able to keep the Tree and the city safe, and with so little effort. At first I had no idea from where I drew this power, but an image of the ring, shining beautifully in the glow of a warm fire came to mind and my answer was revealed.  

Faramir slammed the book shut and carelessly threw it on the bed in his rage and his disappointment that Boromir seemed so easily swayed. He had believed his brother to be stronger than that, but it seemed he was inflicted with the same weakness as Isildur. Hoping that perhaps it just a momentary lapse, he picked the journal back up and turned to the next page, almost as afraid to read on, as he was not to.

Please do not hate me, Faramir!  

I have just reread that last entry in the calm light of day and can not recall writing it, although it was probably immediately after I awoke from my dream and was not thinking clearly. Who knows what scattered thoughts wander in our minds making us do and say things in our dreams that we neither mean nor intend to act upon in real life? Things such as, if I understand what the madman who wrote that nonsense was saying, that I was considering taking the ring.  

 How would I do that if not by harming Frodo in some way? I am no murderer nor am I a thief!  

I did not give my word lightly when I promised the council that Gondor would help see the ring destroyed and so I shall and upon my honour, I am more determined than ever to do so!

“I hope you never forgot that I would always believe you, and believe in you, dear Boromir. I wish I could have told you how proud I am of these attempts to maintain your honour in the face of such overwhelming evil, of your unspoken hope that you will vanquish the cause of your turmoil before your inner strength fails and darkness takes you,” Faramir whispered sadly to no one, voicing the thoughts that filled his mind and made his heart ache with their futility.

 

Chapter 8

Several days passed before Faramir found the courage to continue his reading. It seemed that hearing of his brother’s gradual submission to the will of the ring from the others who had seen it was far less painful than actually than sharing the doubts and fears expressed in his brother’s own words.  Boromir’s need to speak of the disturbing dreams nonetheless called to Faramir’s heart and even though the path ahead might be hard to bear,  he knew he would have taken Boromir’s hand and led him through the darkness had he been there, and he could do no less now.  Love and concern for his brother won the inner battle and, putting his apprehension aside, Faramir turned to the next page.

Are you still reading this, Faramir? Of course you are, although I would not blame you if you chose to ignore the dark and frightening soul your brother has been the last few days.  Rest assured I am no longer possessed by dread or despair, for I feel as if I have had a great weight lifted from my mind.  I will try to ease the fear I know I have put in your heart as well, for you have to remain strong for Gondor in my stead and I would never forgive myself if your concern for me overwhelms you.

Faramir, I think that perhaps it was merely boredom and guilt at my absence from Minas Tirith that was the cause of the trouble. I suddenly realised that I had allowed myself to be lulled into inactivity by this peaceful place. Perhaps it was guilt that I had failed to maintain my battle readiness that had been the cause of my unrest. I am a soldier and find it unsettling to have no foes to face, for that is what I am accustomed to. How can I defend Gondor if I have not taken up my sword, even if only in mock battle, for weeks on end?  

Boromir’s frustration was something Faramir could well understand, and he had learned long ago what an ill tempered creature his elder brother could become when injury prevented him from leading his army, or even leaving his bed for a few days. Add to this the guilt Boromir was feeling, and Faramir decided it was little wonder that his brother was susceptible to dark dreams. He also knew there was more to it, but Boromir obviously did not, and he was content to ignore the whole truth in the face of his brother’s improved mood.

As I write this I realise I have been remiss in the true intent you had for this journal and so I will try to describe to you the beauty of Rivendell.  

 As richly decorated, finely crafted  and as full of grandeur as every part of the buildings are, so are the grounds and the surrounding woods equally so. In some ways I am reminded of your forests in Ithilien, and marvel that the Elves who live here  may in fact be descendents of the very ones whose spirits you claim whisper to the trees on warm summer nights. Even your waterfall at Henneth Annun is more elvish than not. Laugh at my whimsy if you wish, but let me explain why I say this.  

It has become my habit to join the ever cheerful Merry and Pippin, and somewhat less so Frodo and Sam, for the morning meal, or ‘first breakfast’ as my Hobbit friends name it, after which we move outside for a quiet smoke of our pipes (we do not do so indoors because the Elves have mad it plain they are not partial to pipeweed, nor the smoke). So it was somewhat f a surprise that  Arwen came to speak with us, but then I suppose perhaps it should not have been so, for if she and Aragorn are lovers, no doubt she is well used to him indulging in the same habit. He likes his pipe too, so I discovered.  

As it happened, she had come to inform Frodo and the others that dear old Bilbo was feeling unwell today and with an exchange of looks, that spoke of concern and much affection for the their elder  they decided to spend the day keeping him company. I am of two minds as to whether this would have been beneficial for the old Hobbit, for even I find Merry’s and Pippin’s company, draining at times, but there is no better medicine than having one’s family and loved ones nearby when you are ill.  

I know I appreciate your company at such times, even if I am a grumpy patient as I know you are thinking, little brother!  

 Finding myself suddenly bereft of company, I was delighted when Arwen invited me to take a walk with her. Never one to refuse a pretty lady, as you well know,  naturally I accepted and found myself being led to a small clearing atop a rise that allowed an unspoiled view of several of the waterfalls that are a feature of this valley.  

The waterfalls here are nothing like those at Rauros, they much narrower and rather than thundering and roaring into the river below, they fall almost gently and with an elegance and the soft susurrant sounds of whispered sighs. They remind me of   the Elves who live here, with their almost a delicate beauty that hides a hidden strength, for the waters have the power to wear away the rocks below. So too does the waterfall that keeps you and your rangers safe. Arwen thought it was a lovely description and agreed it sounded as if the Falls at Henneth Annun were also elvish  

By the same token, those of Rauros were not unlike Men, she decided.  Like Men, they are strong, enduring, possessing a rugged beauty and an untamed and sometimes wild spirit. No doubt she was thinking of Aragorn in particular, but I agreed that there was much truth in her words.  

See, Faramir, I can be poetic when I choose!  

As we sat and watched the cascading water, swapping tales of our childhood and our brothers, and one or two of a young Aragorn, I found myself able to speak more freely with her than I would have expected, and was soon telling her of my troubled dreams. Arwen suggested it might be wise to seek Elrond’s counsel, in fact, she insisted, and took me directly to his study immediately on our return.  

If this lady is to one day be our Queen, then we will be truly blessed, Faramir, for she is as wise and compassionate and almost as beautiful as our mother.  

At first I was reluctant to tell Elrond of the darkness troubling my sleep, and he must have sensed this for he asked no questions but set about examining my wrist instead. The sprain has healed and the bruising almost gone, but he suggested that I needed to exercise it, to regain my full strength. Imagine my utter astonishment when he told me that sword practice would be best.  

“Nothing too strenuous, mind you, for the muscle must be strengthened gradually.”  

 I could not hide my look of disbelief when Elrond went on to explain that whilst Lord Glorfindel was away, he was in need of a sparring partner and would I like to meet him on the training grounds each morning to fulfil that role.   

“I will ensure that you do not throw caution to the wind and injure yourself again,” he teased and I wondered how he had come to know me so well in such a short time.  

 I could barely voice a reply at being granted such an honour, for that is indeed what it is to me. Even if he is only acting in his role as Healer, sparring in place of the legendary Lord Glorfindel is a thought I never dared entertain, although, as you most likely recall, I often wished it could be so when, as boys,  Mithrandir told us tales of the battles of long ago.  

Coincidence, or was it destiny, was a strange thing indeed, Faramir mused, smiling as he did indeed recall their childish games of make believe. Sometimes he pretend to be a wood elf, having imaginary conversations with the trees, learning to climb with stealth of movement and practicing with a toy bow while  his brother was far more interested in duelling with wooden swords and spears and imagining himself  fighting evil creatures to save his city.

  

Once we were on the training grounds I also realised how much I needed the discipline and challenge of a sparring match, and just how weak my sword arm had become.  I quickly became well aware that I was no match for Elrond, nor had I expected to be, but I fought to try and best him until exhaustion overtook me nonetheless.  

It was an exhilarating experience Faramir, which made me feel far more alive than I have done since I battled the orcs with Aragorn.  I can already feel the strength returning to my wrist and due to Elrond’s skill as both a healer and a swordsman, I have suffered no pain.  

 In my excitement, I completely forgot that I was going to mention my dreams, but somehow he was already aware of them for he asked me how well I was sleeping. I told him  all that I have already told you and he listened in silence, his eyes looking into my very inner self, but he made no comment or judgment about whatever he found there when I had finished speaking. Instead he seemed relieved when I told him that I would not allow the voice of doubt to sway me from the path I had agreed to follow.  

“You are an honourable Man, son of the Steward, and I know you mean well, but darkness that not even the power of the Elves can control lurks everywhere. Be ever on your guard,” he warned me as he handed me a bottle containing a potion that would allow me to sleep dreamlessly.  

Faramir considered it unlikely in the extreme that his brother would resort to taking a sleeping potion, but he was relieved beyond measure that Boromir was back to his usual self, at least for now. There was no denying he did not remain so, but his brother was currently winning his battle with the unseen enemy and his suffering had eased.

It was a small comfort, but at least for tonight Faramir knew that his own sleep would also be untroubled. Careful to mark his place, he closed the journal, snuffed the candles out and turned to leave but not before wishing his brother a good night.

“Sleep well, Boromir, wherever you are,” he whispered, kissing his own fingers then tracing them lightly over the unused pillow.

 

Chapter 9

As he made his way back to his chamber, Faramir allowed himself to acknowledge, for perhaps the first time, that when he had written the journal, Boromir had no inkling of what the future held, or that his days were numbered. He briefly wondered if his brother would have been as forthcoming had he known the fate that awaited him, or if he would he have said nothing of his dreams as he tried to shield Faramir from the pain and grief to come. Definitely the latter, as his beloved protector had always done, Faramir answered his own question without a second thought.

Wrapped in the warmth and love of memories of the many times his brother had risen to his defence, either against the cruelty of the elder boys who scoffed at his love of books over battle, when Denethor’s harsh words made him question his own worth or when he was facing a killing blow from an enemy of Gondor, Faramir slept easier that night. He awoke refreshed and eager for another meeting with Boromir, as he had come to think of his reading time.

Little brother,

I am rather ashamed to say that it has been several weeks since last I wrote in my journal but aside from my occasional walks in the garden with Arwen, very little of note has happened. 

 I am relieved to say that the nightmares and dreams ceased the same day I began training with Elrond. My sleep is now untroubled and I have had no need of sleeping potions, also my wrist is back to full strength.  

Relief flooded Faramir’s heart as well, for the thought of Boromir spending the last months of his life suffering any physical hurt or deep, mental anguish was even now very distressing. 

So what shall I write about? I know, I will tell you something of Gimli, and how he came to be part of our little training group.  

 We had spoken briefly at some of the evening meals, but for the most part the Dwarf preferred to take his meals in his chambers. No doubt he feels out of place and alone here amongst the Elves since his father and the other Dwarves left for Erebor almost directly after the council meeting.   

During my wanderings I encountered him in the weapons gallery, and we spent several hours studying the intriguing array of elvish weaponry.  We share a love of swords, knives, spears and armour and although he would never voice his opinion openly to the Elves, he agreed with me that the craftsmanship was outstanding. We both eyed some of the pieces with envy and he admitted that at one time the Dwarves had been almost as equally skilled in the smith craft, but regretfully were no longer.  

Once we realised we had at least one interest in common, we found others, such as our separate battles to keep our homes safe, and, of course, our commitment to the council to be a part of the Nine, a tenuous friendship developed and I even managed to convince him to visit the forge with me when my sword needed sharpening. To say that Gimli was impressed with the work of the Elvish smiths would be an understatement, and sensing a certain kinship with  a like minded lover of their craft, the Elves who work there invited him to visit whenever he chose. I am not certain, but I believe he has done so once or twice.   

We now take our meals together, and  if I am to be honest, my peaceful slumber may be attributed in part to the fact that my evenings have been spent in the Hall of Fire, sharing a few tankards of ale with the Hobbits and Gimli.   

“Only a ‘few’ tankards?” I hear you ask as in my mind’s eye I see you smirking and shaking your head in disbelief.  Aye, ‘tis true and although I know you and I have shared too many on more than one occasion my little brother, I freely admit that trying to match the thirst of any of my current drinking companions would be pointless and likely render me insensible!  I find myself nearly in that state simply from laughing until tears fill my eyes from the  amusing way  they tell their outrageous tales, and the amount of ale that is required  to wet my throat when it becomes dry and hoarse from singing along with their jolly songs.   

I suspect the Elves do not fully appreciate the display of rowdy tavern behaviour from people of three such different races, for they never join in the fun despite numerous friendly overtures.  Gimli says they refuse because they do not like Dwarves, and I suppose there is some truth in that, but Mithrandir has no such reservations as long as we keep his wine cup filled and allow him to sing with enthusiasm in place of a voice that can barely carry a tune.   

Do not scowl at me, Faramir, I am very fond of our wizard friend, and hold him in high regard despite his musical talent.  

Faramir could not help but smile sadly as he indeed forced himself to stop scowling, not because of any unintended disrespect towards Mithrandir, but because Boromir knew him too well at times.  The closeness that he and his brother shared was easily felt in the references made to intimate details of moments known to no other, moments that would be sorely missed, and it was this loss that caused his heart to ache even more.  

Their apparent disdain with our evening revelry is not all I have learned about these Elves, I can also tell you that many have an insatiable curiosity, especially when something unusual occurs in Rivendell.   

Oh and a ‘penchant for gossip’ as Mithrandir was heard to jest by those around us although he was only whispering… (Elves also have excellent hearing!).  

‘Not unlike your own’, I was  tempted to retort, but held my tongue when he glared at me as if he knew what I was about to say.  

Which no doubt he did, if not the actual words, then surely the intent, Faramir thought. He could so easily see the slight curve of the lips and the wicked gleam in Boromir’s eyes that signified gentle teasing was on his mind.

The keen perception or insight or whatever ability it was that allowed the wizard to know  the essence of one’s thoughts at times was one of the reasons for Denethor’s distrust. Refusing to allow his grief over his father’s death to overwhelm him and spoil his time with Boromir’s memories, Faramir turned his attention back to the journal.  

Perhaps that is why the training grounds have become rather popular of late, at least according to Elrond. To see their lord practicing the sword with a Man must have been a sight not to be missed, although I believe he and Aragorn have done so on occasion.  No matter, I care not if there is an audience, for I am more interested in learning the   skills and techniques that Elrond had graciously offered to teach me so that I can pass them on to you and our dear Sword Master when I return.

I know you prefer the bow, and I am told that Legolas has no equal in Mirkwood when it comes to archery so perhaps if he decides to travel all the way to Minas Tirith he might be persuaded to show you some new skills as well. I will certainly mention the idea once we have become better acquainted, which will undoubtedly happen during the journey south…

Whilst Elrond and I attract some attention of a morning, ‘tis only after the noon meal that most of the spectators attend the training grounds, for this is the time I devote to teaching Merry and Pippin the sword. They are but novices when it comes to wielding their ancient weapons, but what they lack in experience they certainly make up for with a genuine desire to become, to use Pippin’s words,  ‘proper warriors like you, Boromir’.

 At first they were rather offended that I asked for wooden practice swords, but soon decided that a bruise or two was far preferable to a cut from a sharp blade. As their confidence grows, I am pleased to say that so does their skill, both with the weapon and with planning their attacks. As old Bilbo pointed out, his eyes crinkled with amusement, those two have quite a knack for extricating themselves from unwelcome situations with as little harm to themselves as possible and the’ strategic’ thinking needed to do this will serve them well. I could not agree more!or my part, I would not see any of my friends  injured or falling in battle and am determined to ensure the Hobbits  can defend themselves should the need arise. Sam and Frodo seem less interested but Merry assures me that he and Pippin will not ensure they at least learn the basics, even if they have to stage a mock battle to do so. Their love and desire to protect their kin is heart-warming and one of their greatest strengths, but I certainly would not care to have to defend myself against their combined onslaught!  

The notion of his brother retreating from an attack by anyone, including two fearsome Hobbits was just too ludicrous for Faramir to imagine. He had never seen his brother afraid to face his attackers, no matter the number nor how close death may have been lurking. Boromir would fight to his last breath if needed and he would have been so pleased and proud to know that his lessons had achieved the desired result.

 Merry and Pippin had indeed become ‘proper warriors’.  

 Anyway, to get to the point, one day I noticed that Gimli was also watching me sparring with Merry and Pippin and I suggested that he join us and add his expertise with the battle axe to the training sessions. He agreed and I commended his decision for being well considered, not only because there is much they can learn from Gimli, but because we need to know we can rely on each other in battle should orcs and such cross our path. There will likely be many dangers lurking in the bushes; we do not need them hidden in our midst as well.  

The ominous words made Faramir cringe and a cold shudder almost made him drop the journal. ‘But that was where one of the greatest dangers did lie, my brother, and the one our friends have yet to face and defeat,’ he whispered as his thoughts turned briefly to those marching on the Black Gates.

 

Chapter 10

Ah Faramir, 

I wonder what time of day will find you reading this journal. If I had to guess I would say in the quiet stillness of late at night, which would indeed be most fitting since it is well after midnight as I write.   

My nights have been neither still nor quiet of late. Fear not, I remain untroubled by dreams, it is only the commotion in the courtyard below my balcony that is the reason my slumber has been disturbed.  The scouting parties Elrond sent forth have begun to return, although why they choose such an unwelcome hour to do so is beyond me!   

However, I suppose I should be pleased to see them no matter the hour because their presence means it will not be much longer before we are making preparations to depart. And not a moment too soon as far as I am concerned, I have been away from Gondor far too long and homesickness is beginning to overwhelm me!  

The WhiteCity calls to me and I am eager to ride through the streets of my beloved Minas Tirith and to see hope rekindled in the eyes of our people when they discover who it is I have brought home.  

But more than that, and I know I do not often speak the words that are in my heart, I feel the need to tell you that I love you, my brother. I miss you and Father, and hopefully only a few more months will pass before we are together once more…  

Here the entry trailed off as if Boromir had become too emotional to write, which Faramir thought likely. Although always willing to share an affectionate embrace with his brother or Denethor, Boromir was less inclined to openly acknowledge his deeper feelings by putting them into words whether written or spoken.

 That he had done so now spoke to Faramir not only of the bond they shared as brothers, but also of the loneliness Boromir was feeling so far away from all that he loved. Unable to clearly make out the words through his suddenly blurred vision, Faramir put the journal aside until the tears of sadness and a grief that was still so close to the surface finally subsided.

Little brother,  

You know I would deny you nothing within my power to give, so I wish to apologise for being less than committed to fulfilling your simple request.  I am pleased to inform you that, after many weeks of neglect, this is the second night in a row I have taken up my quill. But I warn you not to become too elated, for I admit I do not expect this sudden display of conscientious behaviour to continue indefinitely.  I have just reread last night’s entry and see that I failed to tell you the interesting news from this morning…  

Faramir could not help the small affectionate smile that curved his lips and the amused gleam that briefly lit his eyes at his brother’s unnecessary apology.  Boromir had more than met his expectations in keeping the journal thus far, although Faramir would certainly have led him to believe otherwise for a while when he returned… had he returned… just as he would have teased his brother for continuing this entry as if his little emotional outburst of the night before had not happened. Faramir allowed his imagination to wander and he knew that after an exchange of words of mock indignation, they would have settled their less than serious argument with a warm embrace and a tankard or two of ale.

… I had seen Glorfindel’s scouting party had return the night before so I went to the training grounds  expecting to practice on my own  now that Elrond’s usual sparring partner was once again available.  Indeed he was not there, but to my surprise, Glorfindel was, sword in hand, offering to continue my lessons in his lord’s stead. I could not refuse such a gift, nor does it seem, could I find my voice, so dry had my mouth become as I felt the power and might that emanated from within this formidable and ancient elf warrior.   

“Why?” I heard a very small voice that hardly resembled my own ask.   

 I know I am often accused( and rightly so at times, I will admit) of speaking without thinking and even now I can not help but cringe at how this foolish  and ungrateful  that must have sounded.  Glorfindel was gracious enough not to say so but instead  explained that Elrond and Mithrandir were otherwise occupied  listening to the reports of the various patrol leaders who had arrived in the early hours of the morning.  

Mithrandir’s claims as to this fearsome warrior’s abilities were no exaggeration and whilst Elrond is a highly skilled swordsman, there is no doubt that Glorfindel is a master of the art.  After only the first exchange of blows I knew that had the contest been a real battle, I would already be lying on the ground bereft of my weapon and mortally wounded! Our vast difference in skill notwithstanding, we nevertheless fought a rigorous sparring match that left me breathless and exhausted and, it pains me to say, Glorfindel with nary a golden hair out of place!     

Laugh at me if you will, Faramir but I imagine you will be equally outmatched should you challenge Legolas to an archery contest.  

Faramir was indeed laughing at the image his brother described of his slightly dented and affronted pride. And he had already heard so many accounts of the Wood Elf’s skill with the bow that he needed no contest to prove that he was no match for Legolas.

As we made our way to the bathing pool I began wondering why such a seasoned warrior as Glorfindel had been overlooked as a member of the Nine in favour of Legolas, who is surely much younger and far less experienced in battle. I know such a decision would not have sat well with me and after having already shown my less than tactful nature, I decided it could do me no harm to ask the question of my sparring partner.

 “Ai, but you already know why,” Glorfindel replied with an enigmatic wink. My puzzlement was obvious but he offered no further explanation, as if his words were answer enough.  They might have been had he been speaking to an Elf and not a Man.  

I find it most irritating that Elves favour vague responses, much like those given by our wizard friend, and can only hope that perhaps Aragorn or Legolas can enlighten me.

 I see that they have both just safely arrived…  

Faramir yawned tiredly and put the journal aside and stepped out onto the balcony, stretching his arms above his head as he inhaled the cool night air. He was feeling in need of sleep, but was loathe to stop reading just yet because his curiosity mirrored that of Boromir’s. He knew that his brother’s questions would not remain unanswered for long and hoped that Boromir would spend some time putting his insights and thoughts into words. He was not disappointed.

Can you believe this, Faramir?  

This is the third day in a row that I have found the time and inclination to write in your journal!  I seem to be making up for all the days I missed before, or perhaps for those I will miss as we travel for there is not likely to be much opportunity to write once I leave Rivendell. Enjoy it while it lasts, little brother.  

The amused smile on Boromir’s face was so easy to see in his words and Faramir returned it in kind.

For the first time since the council meeting, the Fellowship were all together for the evening meal, and despite  the barely concealed animosity between Legolas and Gimli that was expertly tempered by Mithrandir’s words when needed, we all had a most enjoyable time.  After the meal, Aragorn drew me aside and invited me to join him and Legolas in his chambers for a quiet cup of wine and some private conversation. Leaving the Hobbits, Gimli and the wizard to continue their merry making, I readily agreed and am glad I did so for he willingly informed me of what little news had been discovered by the scouts.  

There was not a great deal to be learned other than that there was no sign of the Nazgûl along the Bruinen, although the bodies of the horses they rode were found. I also discovered that we would not depart until Elrond’s sons had returned from wherever it was they had been sent.   

We spent the night discussing the various strategies we each employ to protect our lands as well as those tactics we had discerned of the Dark Lord’s forces. After hearing Legolas tell of the constant battle to hold back the encroaching darkness that was invading from Dol Guldur I began to understand that I did know the answer to my own question.    

The reason for choosing him from all the Elves at the council, and in Rivendell for that matter is that he is the only one with centuries of experience in dealing with the threat as it now stands. And as Aragorn pointed out, he is a warrior of noble birth, but unlike Glorfindel who has fought the Witch King, remains unknown to the minions of Sauron and will be unlikely to attract unwanted attention. The safety of those we protect will be dependant upon secrecy and anonymity almost as much as upon our skills as warriors.  

Already I feel a certain kinship with Legolas, who fights for his home with the same fierce loyalty and devotion as do the Dwarf and I. But whilst the tenuous friendship that formed when Aragorn and I first met continues to grow, I feel uneasy about our future King. I do not doubt that he will do his duty, but there is also no denying he is reluctant to claim the crown. Once or twice I have seen a flicker of fear in his eyes when we speak about it, not fear of the responsibility, for he is a proven leader of the Dúnedain, but, I think, a fear of his inner self. Of course I could be allowing myself to see something that is not there, for I know I would find the task he faces daunting and I have had the benefit of being raised as heir to a ruler.  

I do not wish to dwell on what might be merely my own imaginings, Faramir, so I will say no more. I will leave you to make your own judgment when you and Aragorn meet.  

Today has been most intriguing and enlightening and I think that at last I begin to understand the full import of the need to rid Middle-earth of the darkness that is not confined to Gondor, though it often seems that way to us.

Faramir closed the journal and sighed heavily. Boromir’s uncertainty over Aragorn’s apparent lack of self confidence or whatever insecurity his brother sensed in the man would not have been easily overcome, especially if he came to believe a reluctant King was of more harm than good to Gondor. It was obvious from his previous nightmares that the ring had been attempting to influence Boromir, and Faramir could not help but wonder if these feelings had  really been his brother’s or  had been the early signs  of a more subtle and insidious approach to lure Boromir into darkness and treachery.

 

Chapter 11

Greetings and very good news, my dear little brother! I will soon be on my way home!

Elrond’s sons have finally returned and it is now a mere seven days before the Fellowship leaves Rivendell. Preparations for our journey are well in hand, and today was indeed one of great importance, for another part of our dream was realised. The Elvish smiths have reforged the shards of Narsil, the sword of Elendil, into Andúril, the Flame of the West, as Aragorn has named the sword of the King of Men.

And make no mistake Faramir that is exactly what it is, for although my own sword is also steeped in history it does not have the same hidden power as does Andúril. Once the blade was remade, I was very eager to examine the craftsmanship, as, I hasten to add, was Gimli who had spent the whole day at the forge watching the Elves work… (He remains most impressed and perhaps even a little envious of their skill I suspect).

Anyway, when Aragorn handed me the sword so that I could take a closer look at the symbols and elvish runes that are engraved on it, his hand and mine brushed briefly on the hilt and I felt a tingle that I took to be a hint of the power and might that remains a part of the blade. In the space of but a single heartbeat I sensed a faint echo of the mixture of grief, desperate courage and finally, elation that could only have been Isildur’s as he cut the ring from Sauron’s hand and a fading echo of the dark one’s scream of rage at his defeat.

“He will not have forgotten this blade, no matter what name it bears,” I said, with awe in my voice, my hope soaring that this would give us an advantage over our enemy when we reach Minas Tirith. Aragorn must have sensed what I was thinking because he held my astonished gaze and nodded his understanding.

“Nay he will not and I can only hope that he will not have forgotten to fear the one whose bloodline gives him the power to wield it,” he replied, unable to hide the unmistakable glimmer of majesty of his ancient blood line that briefly flickered in his eyes. I reverently placed the sword back in his hand and as he sheathed it, he breathed a sigh of resignation, indicating to me that he remains reluctant to accept that it is he alone who could do so.

My instincts tell me that there is much more to Aragorn’s reclaiming of the crown than the simple act of returning to Minas Tirith with Andúril yet it appears that I am not the only one with misgivings, he has some of his own. Dare I risk destroying the last of our people’s hope by bringing them a King who has willingly remained in exile until now?

I sought out Mithrandir’s counsel but he was as mysterious as always and had little to say other than the answers to my questions were Aragorn’s to give, and I can only hope that before we reach our journey’s end the King and his Steward’s son will develop a closer friendship and enough mutual trust for all answers to be provided.

(I know that Mithrandir favours you over me and I wonder whether you ever receive a straightforward reply from him when you ask a question. Satisfy my curiosity when you read this, if you will).

I have learned that it depends entirely on the nature of the information being sought as to how Mithrandir answers, my dear brother. You are wrong to believe that he favoured me over you, for I asked if it was so once. He simply shook his head and without hesitation declared that he was equally fond of us both, Faramir replied with a sad smile.

Have I ever told you how valuable I have always found your counsel, my brother? I would be speaking less than the truth if I did not admit that we do not always look on things with the same eyes, but it is those very differences that provide balance to my judgments, and yours as well I believe. I need such a discussion as we would be having if were you here now.

But enough of my ramblings, at least until I return home, eh? I know you will have our favourite wine, and your ears at the ready as you always do.

Faramir smiled at the hint of joviality in the words and the implication that Boromir intended to make good use of his brother’s willingness to listen had he returned safely to Minas Tirith with Aragorn as intended.

He put the journal aside for a few moments and allowed himself to imagine the scene that would have occurred on Boromir’s arrival. It was one he had seen often in the years gone by and was so easy to picturein his mind that he almost felt his brother was still alive. Nay, he wanted to believe it so much that he pushed aside the truth of the haunting image of the grey elvish boat floating down the Anduin bearing its precious cargo to its unknown destination.

The streets would have been lined with cheering crowds, the pathway strewn with flowers as their beloved Boromir rode through them on his way to the citadel. When he at last walked through the gateway, Faramir would have ignored propriety and rushed to greet his brother with a warm embrace and perhaps even an affectionate kiss to the cheek Denethor would have welcomed the arrival of his eldest son in the same manner and then turned his attention to Aragorn.

After they had been introduced, the Steward would have observed the required formalities in the manner expected but not without obvious displeasure. There was no doubt that his father would be less than welcoming to Aragorn, but that was all Faramir would admit, not having the heart to think anything more disrespectful of his late father. Whatever response ensued towards the uncrowned King and his claim to the throne would have been dealt with later.

All would have partaken of a meal in the Steward’s private dining chamber and undoubtedly the conversation would have centred on the ongoing battle with the Dark Lord. Afterwards Faramir would have likely been given the task of showing Aragorn to his chambers while Denethor listened to Boromir’s report.

Then, in response to the unvoiced invitation he would have seen in Boromir’s eyes, Faramir would have gone to his brother’s chambers, poured the wine and waited to share an evening of memories and laughter as they exchanged more personal news, read and discussed the journal together, and laughed the rest of night away when too many cups of wine had been consumed.

As pleasant as this fantasy was, it was also becoming too painful to bear. Faramir was well aware that the reality was harshly different and rather than dwell on what might have been, he opened the journal and returned to the record of his brother’s last journey.

Faramir,

I can not tell you how relieved I am that at last I will be heading home later today!

Aye, the day has finally come when Elrond and Mithrandir are satisfied that it is as safe as it will ever be to make our way south. Neither they, nor Aragorn or I believe the danger has passed, but we must take advantage of the enemy’s retreat, even though we all agree it is merely the calm before the storm.

I am afraid this will be only a short entry Faramir for we leave Rivendell to travel under cover of darkness tonight, as we will do every night, resting during the day when orcs and such do not venture into the sunlight. We also must travel with packs as light as possible so that we remain unencumbered should we need to defend ourselves, which certainly makes good sense. I admit that in my eagerness to be on our way, I have had my pack ready since the day Elrond’s sons returned, and have only to add this journal to it.

Of course, not being forgetful like a certain younger brother, I will be certain to remember to pack my quill and ink.

Faramir chuckled and was sorely tempted to behave like a very much younger brother and poke his tongue out at Boromir’s teasing words.

I believe I mentioned your oversight to Bilbo when, during one of our conversations, I told him that I was keeping this journal, an undertaking of which he heartily approves. We have become friends, and told me that although he has every confidence that Aragorn and Mithrandir will do their best to see Frodo is safe, he is also grateful for the protection I offer them all, but Merry and Pippin in particular. Nonetheless I was pleasantly surprised when he presented me with a gift at the morning meal some days later.

“I recall you telling me your brother neglected to pack ink and quill and would not wish you to do the same. No doubt he would tease you endlessly if you repeated his error,” he told me, smiling with amusement as he handed me a very small skin pouch of a size that would fit in my tunic pocket. I could not help but agree you would, and it gave me a very warm feeling to know that someone who had never met you could see my brother so well through my eyes.

What was the gift you ask? At first I was unsure and studied it curiously for a few moments, jesting that it was far too small to hold much water, and laughing when Bilbo scolded me for being foolish. He told me that it contained a special ink made by the Elves that would not freeze even in the cold of winter, and then proceeded to offer a few words of wisdom reminding me of how much it would mean to you for me to continue making entries. I thanked him and replied that on a journey such as the one we faced, it was not likely that there would be time or opportunity to do so and he nodded his head sadly, saying Frodo had told him much the same. I gathered he was most disappointed that his nephew had decided not to keep a diary and so said nothing more.

As I said, I am uncertain as to when or if I will be able to make another entry, so until we meet again, little brother, I bid you a fond farewell.

Wondering how much more Boromir had written as the journey progressed, Faramir flicked idly through the remaining pages, pleased to see there were several more, but his delight was quickly replaced by dismay as he neared that last pages. A cold shiver ran down his spine when he saw that his brother’s flowing script was slowly becoming almost unrecognisable.