Summary: While Ar-Pharazôn dreams in his eternal sleep in the Caves of the Damned, Faramir of Gondor dreams of dark waves and prophecies. Can their fates touch, and what will come of it? 3rd place in Teitho: "Dreams"

Rating: K+

Disclaimer: Not mine. Tolkien's.

Note: This story is based on different Tolkien's writings, including the older versions of the legendarium in the History of Middle-earth.

Beta: Cairistiona

Dreamers

The laughter of children sounded in the sweet, fragrant air. Many voices, merry and yet serious, for playing is a serious matter for those who are just discovering the world. There were girls and boys, clad in nightgowns, and all seemed busy with play: some building a house in the branches of a great tree, others singing, tending to the colourful flowers, dancing upon the green grass or, those of a more quiet nature, sitting under a tree and listening to the music in the air or stories told by a high lord and lady, clad in white. Evening was in the air, the warm, golden moment between day and night. It was always evening here, in this fairy-tale country.

In awe, the boy looked around. The other children seemed to be quite at home here, laughing merrily in their play. In the middle of the lush greenery and bright flowers, there was a cottage. It looked very old and new-built in the same time. White and gold it was, and the evening made the colours soft and welcoming. It seemed to the boy that there was a strange magic in the air, one that made one want to weep and laugh at the same time, feeling old like all ages of the world and yet fresh and new, ageless. Immortal…

The white-clad lord looked up, and smiled at him. The same light was in his eyes, the peaceful light of a warm evening, the last rays of sun mixed with the first stars. "Welcome to the Little House of Play, Pharazôn…"

"It is not your fault, brother…" the dark-clad Vala said quietly.

"Oh Námo, is it not?" Irmo, the second of the Fëanturi brothers, sighed. "I built Olórë Mallë, the Path of Dreams. I built the Little House of Play for the children of Men so they can come in their dreams and see the Blessed Realm, and know it in their heart even if they won't remember it in the waking world. I wanted to show the beauty and light to all, to give those who are willing to walk the Path to the end a memory of hope and purity that will last even when their world darkens. I never thought…" His voice broke, and he hid his face in his palms.

"Of course you did not." Námo put his hand on his brother's shoulder, and his touch was surprisingly warm. "You could not know what…" He paused, for he did know. He was the only one who knew all the paths of fate, but rarely did he ever speak of it to anyone – not even to his brother. It was a heavy burden sometimes. He shook his head, and smiled gently. "You could not know that Ar-Pharazôn would try to find the way back, when the paths of childhood are obscured in the mist of maturity. But it is not your fault. It was Sauron who touched that secret stirring in him. It was the honey-dipped lies of Aulë's former apprentice that made the king of Númenor remember the land from his dreams, and long for it. If you want to lay the blame on yourself, then you might as well lay it on me."

"How so?" Irmo looked up, studying the pale face of his brother intently. "You have done nothing wrong."

Námo smiled sadly. "No, not wrong. Nothing of what I do is wrong, and yet they are afraid. Of me, and of the path I built."

"The Qalvanta…" Irmo whispered. "The road of Death."

"Yes. Just like Olórë Mallë, it leads to Valinor. But unlike it, there is no return, and for the Second-born, it continues beyond my halls. And they fear it. They fear me."

Irmo shook his head. "They fear the unknown. They mistake the guide for a judge."

"I knew they would, when I built it." Námo shrugged. "Still you could say it is my fault. Ar-Pharazôn did not want to take my road. He did not want to accept the Gift of the One, and sought a way how to change the very nature of the world for it."

"He succeeded…" Irmo remarked bitterly. "But not in a way he hoped."

"He succeeded indeed," Námo nodded. "No ship from Mortal shores will ever reach Valinor again. Only the Straight road remains, for those returning home." There was a strange wistfulness in his voice when he spoke about returning, and Irmo knew how deeply the fate of the Exiles in Middle-earth touched his brother, for he has been the voice of their Doom.

"Only the Straight road," Irmo echoed. "And Qalvanta. It was a mistake to build another way. I will block Olórë Mallë, and no Mortal child will ever walk it again." Yet there was pain in his face as he spoke the worlds, for he loved the children of Men and their play deeply.

"Do it, brother." Námo looked into his eyes. "But do not tear down the Little House of Play. Its time may yet come again…"

For a long time Irmo looked at his brother, wondering what the Lord of Mandos might know. But Námo didn't tell anything.

The boy ran along the coast. He didn't have a goal, didn't know where he was running. He just wanted to get away – away from this place, from this time… from himself. Somehow, he knew the direction.

He stopped before several great boulders, hesitating. It was wrong. There should be a path, but there was none – just these heavy stones, blocking the way. He stood there for some time, frowning. But the longing to get away was too strong, and he could not stay or go back. He reached for the boulders, and began to climb.

It was a hard way for the little hands and feet. He fell and scraped his knees. For a moment, his lip quivered and tears threatened to well in his eyes. But then he set his jaw, and tried again. Again he fell. Again he tried. Once it was an impassable obstacle, but now, the boulders were weathered by time, by the salty breeze from the Sea, and the cracks in the rock created footholds where there were none before.

Step after step he climbed, until the boulders were behind him and the path before – a lane with deep banks and great overhanging hedges. Tall trees whispered beyond the hedge, and fireflies flickered in the grass. His step was light as he walked that path, and it seemed as if almost no time passed until he reached its end. There stood a high gate of lattice work shining golden in the dusk, opening up to winding paths leading into the fairest garden. And in the middle of the garden, he could see a white cottage.

The boy passed the gate, and then stopped hesitantly, and looked around. A warm evening was in the air, and the colours of the garden were soft and welcoming. Music sounded seemingly from nowhere, and birds sang sweetly to its tones. Yet there was a strange silence lying upon the garden - as if it was used to many merry voices, but nobody spoke there now.

Somebody was there, though, awaiting him. A white clad lord with kind eyes walked to meet him. "Welcome to the Cottage of Lost Play, Faramir," he smiled at the boy.

Little Faramir made a step forwards, looking at the lord with wide, earnest eyes. "Who are you? And why is it lost?"

The Vala shook his head good-heartedly. "I am Irmo, or Lórien, the lord of dreams. And the play is lost, for no children come here anymore. Besides you. How did you find the way?"

"I…" Faramir bit his lip. "I just wanted to get away. Somewhere where… where such things don't happen…" Tears welled in his eyes again, of a much deeper pain than when he scraped his knees.

"What happened, little one?" Irmo knelt before him, healing the scrapes, but not moving his eyes from the child's face.

"My mother… she…" The tears ran freely now, and Irmo embraced the boy.

"Shhh… Easy, little one. Your mother is fine now. My brother is a kind guide…" He held the boy while he wept, and dried his tears. A long time passed, but in this garden, it was still evening. Finally the tears abated. "You are a brave boy to have found the way," Irmo whispered, then paused. "Would you like to see the garden?"

Hesitantly, Faramir nodded.

Ar-Pharazôn dreamt. It was not death, and it was not living – it had to be a dream then. He did not remember falling asleep though. He remembered the shores of Valinor beneath his feet, the marching of a mighty army under his command – the trumpets and banners. Then the very ground opening under their feet, the hills falling down to crush them, waves rushing to swallow them. Then... nothing.

The Caves of the Damned was the place called. He did not know it. He slept there, together with his army, being denied both life and death – the Gift he despised – until Dagor Dagorath and the end of the world. Yet in the sleep, he dreamed.

Sometimes, he dreamed of the past. Gold and red it was – red like the sweet wine of Númenor, like blood… He dreamed of Sauron, who wore a fair face as Annatar. Sweet were his words – sweet like that wine from a golden chalice, yet with a lingering taste of blood. He dreamed of Tar-Míriel, and of ships and spears, blowing horns and wind in the sails.

Sometimes, he dreamed of other things – people he never met in life, places he never saw. But one dream always returned. Now he dreamed it, as well.

He stood in a high place, and saw a great wave coming. Like an ominous wall of darkness rushing from the sea, swallowing green hills and white cities, climbing higher and higher… There was nowhere to escape, nowhere to run anymore. The land drowned in the fury of the Sea. Dark water touched his feet, rising…

-oOo-

"No!"

Faramir awoke in cold sweat. He was drowning in a dark wave. He couldn't breathe... No, no. It was just a dream. That dream again…

Darkness was around him. But it was not the absolute darkness like in the depth of the Sea. Not the Darkness Unescapable… The sky was clouded, but still some light came through the open window, and the curtains moved in a night breeze. When he looked closely, he could make out the outlines of the table and chair in his room. Still it took him a few moments until his racing heart calmed.

That dream. The fall of Númenor. It returned to him often, always the same, always frightening. World falling into darkness. He had to think of the dark power rising in the East and wonder if the nightmare would come true. And, just like every time the dream returned, he promised himself that he would do everything he could to prevent it.

"I did not send that dream…" Irmo shook his head, "Neither does it come from his own mind."

"I know," Námo nodded.

Irmo sighed. "Of course you do," he said tiredly. "So tell me, where did it come from?"

Námo was quiet for a moment, looking into the distance. "From one sleeper who will not wake until the end of the world," he said finally.

"Ar-Pharazôn…" Irmo whispered. "The mind of the boy is open to his dreams…"

"He is not a boy anymore, brother," Námo said earnestly. "And dreams from the West really come easy to him, unlike others, whose minds are confined within self-imposed borders. Manwë wants you to send him a message."

"A message from the Elder King himself?" Irmo looked at his brother in astonishment.

"There might be no path between the Outher Realms and Valinor from which one can return, but the Elder King does not forget what is happening there. The Istari are his messangers, and on the breath of the wind, under the wings of night, he speaks to mortal Men, although they do not know from whence the voice comes. But he knows this one is special to you, so he wants you to deliver his message."

"I will," Irmo bowed his head.

-oOo-

That night, Faramir dreamt again. It was an uneasy dream, for his sleep was light and unrestful – the few hours were just a hard-won reprieve from the fights brewing in Osgiliath. The Enemy was on the move. None of the knights of Gondor rested well that night.

In the dream, he was standing upon the walls of Minas Tirith. He was looking to the East, and the sky grew dark and there was a growing thunder, but in the West a pale light lingered, and out of it he heard a voice, remote but clear, crying:

Seek for the Sword that was broken:
In Imladris it dwells;
There shall be counsels taken
Stronger than Morgul-spells.
There shall be shown a token
That Doom is near at hand,
For Isildur's Bane shall waken,
And the Halfling forth shall stand.

The next morning, Osgiliath was taken. He and Boromir barely saved their lives by swimming. The darkness rose and reached to the river, threatened to overtake them. But the White Tower stood firm, for the price of blood and sweat of her men. In the next night, the dream returned. Then again and again, and once it even came to Boromir as well. Faramir knew Gondor could not resist the darkness forever. He decided he had to seek this Imladris and the counsels it could offer…

Maybe it was night. In was always dark here, but he did not know it. He slept. For an Age of the world already he slept, and didn't know anything. Time did not flow here. But that night, Ar-Pharazôn dreamt again.

Sea was around him – wide, infinite, and strangely calm after the dark wave that was still in his memory. It was grey under the grey sky, and it was quiet. No crying of gulls, no waves beating into a rocky shore. There was no shore. He was in the middle of the sea, an infinite horizon of water stretched to every side from him.

Yet he stood upon firm rock, just below the white crests of waves, driven by the wind. He looked down, and glimpsed a mass in the depths, a mighty peak towering from the bottom of the sea. His throat constricted when he recognized the place. He was standing upon the peak of Meneltarma, and the land beneath the waves was once Númenor, but now it was Atalantë – "Downfallen".

He stood alone in the middle of the waste ocean, under the grey dome of sky, and the waves washed his feet. So small he felt, so alone…

Suddenly, he saw a little boat carried by the waves. It was grey, just like the sea below and the sky above. Slowly the waves cradled it, driving it to the place where the kings of Númenor once gave their prayers to Ilúvatar. That was a long, long time ago, before their pride silenced those prayers. Now the last king stood there in a dream, and awaited a grey elven boat.

It came closer, and he saw that the boat was full of water, but a dim light shone through it. And there lay a warrior with his hands crossed upon his breast on the hilt of a mighty sword. His long hair flew freely in the water like a crown around his head, and many dark weapons were at his feet – the trophies of his last battle. For the sword in his hands was broken, and the warrior was dead. His face was calm and peaceful, eyes closed in eternal sleep in the cold embrace of the Great Sea.

"Who are you?" Ar-Pharazôn whispered, for he saw nobility in the man's features, similar to the Númenoreans of old.

He did not expect an answer, but he heard it in his mind: "I am Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor."

He turned around, but didn't see anyone else. Just the boat stopped on the rocks of Meneltarma that were right beneath the surface. And then, in the next moment, he could see the man in his mind, sitting on the brim of the boat, and looking at him intently. "I was told to wait at the beginning of Qalvanta, for that is where I could meet you."

"Why did you have to speak to me?" Ar-Pharatôn asked, his voice betraying his nervousness.

An echo of a smile appeared on the man's lips. "I was told a decision awaits you. But what decision, or when it will come, that is not in my knowledge. I am just glad I can speak to someone, for the last time."

Ar-Pharazôn shivered. "Are you not afraid?"

"Afraid?" Boromir studied the word as he repeated it slowly. "Afraid… No. I'm not."

"But you are going into Death…"

"There are worse things to fear then Death. One of them… my own mistake. No, death was kind to me. I could amend the mistake by it."

Ar-Pharazôn watched him for a long moment, thinking of his own mistakes.

"It was a mistake from the beginning," Boromir continued, speaking more to himself than to his listener. "It was my brother's dream, not mine. Faramir had to go on this quest. He would have passed the test where I failed. Yet I insisted on going in his place, for I thought the road too hard and perilous. I wanted to protect him. Little did I know of the peril laid before me, of Isildur's Bane, that almost became Boromir's Bane as well."

"I have known Isildur…" Ar-Pharazôn said quietly. "But I do not know of his Bane."

Then Boromir told him about the kingdoms of Gondor and Arnor, and the Last Alliance that had overthrown Sauron, and about the new rising of the Dark power, and the finding of the One Ring.

"Sauron…" Ar-Pharazôn muttered when hearing about the one that he once knew as Annatar, but it was not clear from his voice what he thought.

"Maybe the Ring would give me power to defend Gondor," Boromir finished his talking, "but the price would have been my own soul – now I see it clearly. And I see that destroying it is the only way the evil can stop. It would give me immortality… but death is a much better choice, considering the price."

Ar-Pharazôn said nothing to that, only looked at Boromir in astonishment. But the warrior had already turned away. "Death is calling me now," he said. "Farewell…"

Then there was no one – just the boat with the body of the Son of Gondor, resting finally after its long journey to the place where the kings of Númenor once spoke to Ilúvatar.

Never more returned that dream to Ar-Pharazôn, but Boromir's words echoed in his mind for the long Ages of his enchanted sleep.

Faramir was trapped in dark, feverish dreams. Black wings of despair covered him like a heavy blanket, like the murky waters of a bottomless marsh closing above him. It was like the great wave from his other dream, but it felt too real. The pain was real. The wave hit and swept him away, throwing him mercilessly into the depths of hopeless darkness. He struggled to breathe, to swim, but the dark currents tossed him from side to side. The whirlpool of pain and despair. The Black Breath.

"Father!" he called. He was a child scared by nightmares, and only his father could make them go away. If only he would come to him, would care for his son…

The wave buried him under its mass, and he sank to the bottom of the Great Sea. Dark depths and crushing pressure. Somewhere deep, deep under the surface of the waking world, he reached the bottom, and felt the stones under his feet. Then the darkness turned to fire. Ash and smoke filled the world, and the flames licked his limbs. He burned. Through the haze of flames , he could hear a voice: "...soon all shall be burned. The West has failed. It shall all go up in a great fire, and all shall be ended. Ash! Ash and smoke blown away on the wind!"

He broke the surface for a moment. "No!" he wanted to cry out, but he had no more strength for it. He burned – from outside, from inside. For a moment he recognized his father, but madness was in his eyes, and he was burning, bony hands clutching a smooth round stone, devoured by fire. Ash and smoke… Then he sank into darkness again, and his father wasn't there anymore. It was a bare land, covered with sharp stones, and fires burned in the valleys. Ash and smoke was in the air, and the sky was black like a blanket of despair.

He walked the dark valley, although his feet were heavy like lead. Somehow, he knew that there was a path, like he knew where should lead the path of Olórë Mallë. He remembered the land he saw in dreams as a child. He knew there was another path to that land, although it did not end at a white cottage under a warm evening. No, it was a darker path, and shorter. It only passed that land, and continued – but where did it lead, no one of the living knew. Maybe there he will meet with Boromir again…

He knew the way. The Qalvanta stretched before him. Leading away from the land of ash and smoke. But before he could make the first step…

"Faramir!"

A voice called him. He hesitated.

"Do not take that way, Faramir! Not yet!"

He turned. In the middle of darkness and fire, he saw light. A man stood there, and star was upon his brow.

"My King…" he whispered in astonishment, for before him was a king of Númenor in his glory. The dreams of the great wave returned to him, but now he saw hope amidst the darkness swallowing the land. A white ship, flying upon the waves like a silver arrow, escaping the wrath of the waves. The line of Elros Tar-Minyatar, those who didn't fall into the golden lies, but remained faithful. So Faramir beheld the returning king. Power was in his hand and wisdom upon his brow, but in his eyes, there was kindness, as he called him again.

"Come, Faramir! Awake from the dark dreams, and be healed!"

And so he did.

The sky was red, the colour of blood. The earth trembled. Mountains crumbled. It was the last day, the day of Doom. Horns sounded, calling to battle. The Last Battle – Dagor Dagorath. This was the end, the end of the world.

The Cave of the Damned opened, and red light filtered through the cracks. To the sound of the horns, Ar-Pharazôn awoke. His army was at his side, and his sword in his hand. A battle awaited him: one with the sword, and one inner – a decision.

And so, beyond the bloody sky of Arda's last day, Ar-Pharazôn decided his fate. He clutched the sword in his hand, and gave his army the order for attack, charging in the first line. In the Last Battle, he fought on the side of the Light.

A/N: I took a few artistic liberties for this story: it is said that Olórë Mallë was blocked forever with impassable rocks when the Elves left Valinor for the great war against Morgoth. It made more sense to me if the path was blocked after the fall of Númenor and the hiding of Valinor. And it seems those rocks were not that impassable after all, at least an Age later…