AUTHORS’ NOTES:  The good news is that this story will be finished.   The bad news is that Real Life is taking up a lot more of both authors’ time, so chapters cannot be finished and posted as fast as we once did. 

A big Thank-You to all of our readers for hanging in this far, especially those who take the time to review!

What Has Gone Before:  Faramir used the Stone of Silence, the same elf-forged green stone with which Saruman once ensorcelled him, to help Aragorn awaken Eldarion from Saruman’s spell-induced sleep.  Aragorn was so invigorated by his son’s restoration that he also healed Faramir’s damaged leg, with the help of the wizard Pallando the Blue. 

All of Minas Tirith rejoiced at the revival of the King’s son.  While Faramir was getting some well-deserved rest, his second son Cirion had a nightmare that their home in Emyn Arnen was attacked and a tall white-haired man made threats.  The next day, Faramir learned that Cirion’s dream had come true; Emyn Arnen was attacked by Easterlings who ransacked the White Hall, killed a few people, and made off with Eowyn’s favorite broodmare.  Aragorn persuaded Faramir to come to Council and get his name cleared before rushing back to Emyn Arnen.  Eldarion’s account of having been taken captive by Saruman and Faramir’s heroism put to rest all suspicions of Faramir’s treachery.  Aragorn gave Faramir a shiny new sword named Defender, which touched Faramir and really impressed Eowyn.  Then Faramir left to check out the damage to his home, as Gondor and Ithilien prepare for war against the Easterlings and the mysterious wizard, Alatar the Blue, who has stirred them to attack the Kingdoms of the West.

Chapter 18

Clashes

“And so, my friend, Gondor must go to war once more.”  Faramir stood in the glade where Beregond had been buried after his body had been carried back from Mordor the previous autumn. The loyal captain of the White company had been laid to rest here with great honour by the King.  Faramir had been too badly hurt to leave his bed in the Houses of Healing; and so had been unable to attend the ceremony.  The Steward still regretted that he had not fulfilled the promise he had given Beregond, as his friend died in his arms, that he would bring him home.  He had therefore made a second vow to himself that he would attend the captain’s grave whenever he was in Emyn Arnen.

A light spring rain drizzled down from the sky, coating the trees with water, trickling new life into branch and bud and dry winter grass.  Faramir found the cool of the forest a welcome change from the strength-sapping heat of Minas Tirith.  Though he wore the hood of his cloak to cover his head, the rain did not bother him.  He had endured far worse soakings and storms than this mild downpour.

Faramir focused on the mound before him, covered with lilies of the valley and surrounded by white stones.  One long gray stone at was etched with the runes that signified Beregond, son of Baranor, Captain of the White Company.  He squatted next by the stone and touched it as he continued.  “How I wish you were still here to guard my back, Beregond.  You were the most loyal captain; and a most true friend.”

Faramir rose with a long sigh.  A drop of rain landed on his nose and he rubbed it away absently, his mind still musing elsewhere.  “Soon I shall take your sons with mine as we ride into danger.  It all seems to come down to lineage, my friend, fathers and sons.  Because you defied my father, I lived to have sons myself.  I once found it hard to do a son‘s duty, but now I know how much more arduous it is to be a father.  I promise you that I will watch over your sons as I watch over my own, and bring Bergil and Borlas home.  Wait for me beyond the Halls of Mandos, Beregond; for you and I and Boromir shall be eternal brothers."

Faramir lingered a few minutes longer, savoring the tranquility of the glade.   Once he left the quiet junipers and oaks, he would know little peace until a war had been fought. 

The last three days had been filled with industry fueled by need.  The settlements of Emyn Arnen were devastated by enemies who came under cover of darkness and left a trail of grief in their wake. 

Thirty of Faramir’s own people had died:  nine White Guards, three grooms, his seneschal Baran, the stable-boy Tuor, two kitchen maids, and others old and young.  As Faramir feared, the blacksmith had been cut down as he strove to defend his pregnant wife, Ardith.  Faramir had sworn that Ardith and her unborn child would have shelter and employment from him for all of their days.  Anborn‘s younger brother Halmir had fallen in the fight at Nan Galen, the village through which the Easterlings had come.  Homes and livestock had been lost.  Sixty  people had suffered injury.  Pelendur, acting-Captain of the White Company, had come close to death and would not be able to fight again for many weeks, if at all.  The Easterlings had seemingly divided their force to distract most of the Company while they attacked Tham Fain; then scrambled over the walls that girded the great house. 

The Easterlings had fired some of the wooden outbuildings in order to cover their escape.  The burned buildings included stables housing a number of the fine horses that Eowyn had bred and loved.   Most of the herd had been out to pasture, but two mares late in foal had perished in the fire along with a number of older, slower horses.  Windfola had been led out to safety by young Tuor before the stable-boy was slain.  The pride of Eowyn’s herd, her favorite mare, Steelsheen, granddaughter of Shadowfax, had evidently survived the fire.  The pregnant mare had been seen alive, being led away by the Easterlings’ blood-soaked captain.  A merciful rainfall had doused the fire before it spread to the orchards. 

Tham Fain, Faramir and Eowyn’s White Hall, had been ransacked.  The Easterlings had almost certainly come for the Stone of Silence; they had pillaged much of the interior to find it.  Furniture was overturned or broken beyond repair, paintings and tapestries destroyed.  Faramir’s library had been ransacked, the shelves toppled and his beloved books strewn all over the floor.  Even the children’s toys had been squashed underfoot.  The house-dogs had not been spared.  All had been killed, from the old lame dog to the children’s frisky puppy and his dam, who had been Faramir‘s hunting companion.  Faramir felt a twinge of guilt that he grieved for the dogs when too many of his people had been hurt or slain. 

Eowyn would rage over the loss of her horses.  The children would mourn the killing of the dogs.  And they all would weep for the people who had been slain.

Faramir was angry.  The villagers and his own servants had come to Emyn Arnen to build peaceful new lives after the terror of Mordor had ended.  They had deserved prosperity in return for their hard work; and instead they had been attacked, hurt and killed.  Faramir had always hated above all things to kill for the sake of killing; but these deaths demanded vengeance.  As Prince of Ithilien, the dead were his and no other's to avenge.

Faramir had set himself quickly to his tasks.  He had officiated at funerals, done his best to comfort all the slain ones‘ living kin and assure them that they would be sheltered until permanent homes could be found, converted the great hall of his home, once it had been cleaned, into a place of healing, and had begun the reconstruction of the burned buildings. He ordered that temporary fortifications be built to protect the five villages of Emyn Arnen, and had farmers and vintners who dwelled farther afield summoned back into the hills for their own safety.  But his hard work in the four days since the attack did not lessen Faramir’s restless anger.  He had allowed his land to be invaded and his people to suffer.

He had sent scouts throughout the surrounding forests and beyond for some sign of where the enemy had gone.  Tracks indicated that most of the attackers had quickly fled eastward, where Faramir knew their army waited beyond the Ephel Duath.   Yet there were other signs, footprints and recently quelled fires, told Faramir that a small group of Easterlings had hidden, on foot, in the forest below the hills as late as yestereve.  Damrod, who commanded the White Company’s Scouts, had tried to attach a squadron to Faramir’s own person every time Faramir stepped foot out of Tham Fain, but Faramir had balked.  Members of the White Company were better employed fortifying the White Hall and the villages, and searching for the Easterling stragglers,  than shepherding him.

There was no more time to linger at Beregond’s grave, Faramir reminded himself. 

As he rose, the sound of a large number of birds flying up quickly from the trees caught his ear.  It was sudden, too sudden!  Faramir whirled around, hand on his sword, to see perhaps a hundred jays and sparrows erupt into the sky, filling the air with their cries.  He also saw a man, clad in skins and leathers and studded vambraces, running at him, brandishing a good-sized axe in his right hand - an Easterling! 

Faramir had Defender raised above his head before the axe-man reached him.  He sidestepped quickly as his attacker brought down the weapon, landing a quick blow to the man’s upper back with the edge of the blade as the axe-man passed him.  The momentum of the Easterling’s swing had pulled him forward; and Faramir moved back as the warrior rolled away and came up with the axe in his massive hand.  Faramir had just enough time to note that the axe seemed the same type that the Easterlings had borne before the Enemy’s downfall--with a shaft of nearly three feet and a heavy blade more suited for cleaving than for throwing.  He switched to a one-handed grip on his sword and brought forth his dagger in his other  hand.

“Avsheku torsa!”  Faramir cried, returning to a guard position and circling the man.  He had learned a few phrases of Akkadi, a tongue  common to the Eastern lands, from Pallando during the meal they had shared after Eldarion awakened.  “Avsheku torsa, u ba-kairi!”  Hopefully he had just said End battle and you will live!   

His attacker cocked his head and growled.  Faramir wondered whether he had offered quarter or had just declared that the axe-man liked to wear women’s clothing.  Pallando had merrily recalled several Akkadi insults between draughts of ale; and Faramir had tried not to confuse them with the more important phrases he had wanted to learn. 

The Easterling charged again, raising the single-bladed axe high above his head, preparatory to bringing it down upon Faramir’s bare head. It was too late to try to take his foe alive, as he would have preferred, Faramir realized.   He was alone here, easy prey if other Easterlings soon came in force.  Time to end it!  Faramir lunged straight at the man’s upper body, chopping the man’s forearm with Defender to throw off the axe’s downward path and following the stroke with a short dagger-stab to the poorly armored inch between collarbone and the base of the neck.  

Blood spurted from the wound.  Faramir pulled out the dagger from the writhing man, then twisted quickly as the axe shuddered down upon him, loosed at last from the Easterling‘s dying grip.  Not quickly enough!  The axe bit into his right shoulder, causing Faramir to grunt with pain.  

Fortunately, the steel edge of his pauldron bore the brunt of the stroke.  Faramir could still use his arm and shoulder, though both ached fiercely.   He staggered back, panting, and watched the man who would have killed him gurgle out his last, desperate breath. 

Suddenly feeling all of his fifty-two years, Faramir sank down on the wet grass beside his assailant. 

“It has been a long time since I have killed a man” he said silently to the Easterling.  “And a long way for you to come and die for no good reason.”  Sighing, he reached out and closed the man’s staring eyes.  It would not be long before he would have to kill many more.

Faramir stood up again somewhat stiffly, and wiped the sword and dagger on his cloak.  He sheathed both blades, then blew three swift notes on his horn. 

A horn called back in answer, from a league or so away.  A few minutes later, ten green-garbed Scouts flew out of the woods, led by Morfin, son of the retired Ranger Mablung and one of Faramir’s most determined watchdogs. 

“My lord!”  The curly-haired lieutenant called, hurrying to Faramir’s side.  “What has happened?  We heard your call.   Ah, you bleed!”

“Nay, I am well, Morfin” Faramir answered, embarrassed by the concern from a young man not yet born when he had first patrolled Ithilien.  “The blood is not mine.”  He gestured toward the fallen Easterling.  “Bear his body away for burial with his countrymen.”

He moved to follow as the Scouts busied themselves with wrapping the body, then stumbled.  He was still tired from the fight, brief as it had been.

Then Morfin reappeared, and took Faramir’s elbow, an especially irksome look of worry on his face.  “My lord, you are weary.  Let me call for a horse to bring you home.”

“Morfin, you are my lieutenant, not my nursemaid,” he reminded the youngster.  “I am well!  Save your clucking for those who are truly hurt.” 

Morfin smiled, respectfully but absolutely unrepentantly.  “My lord, if you are hurt, not only do I answer to my duty as your liege-man and officer, but I answer to Commander Damrod, who bade me follow you this day, to my father, who bade me look to you always, and to the Lady herself, who bade us bring you back to her whole or face her wrath.  And I would rather fight a hundred Easterlings single-handed than face the wrath of Eowyn Wraithbane!”

Faramir could not help but laugh.  “So would I, young Morfin.  But let us pray that it is only fifty Easterlings, or less, if we fight alone.”

The Scouts moved out of the meadow, to the twittering of birdsong.  The rain had ceased; and the rising day-heat promised a warmer day in later hours.  Faramir suffered his men to surround him, keeping step as they hurried through the wood.  He would see to his bruised shoulder later.  He would have to train himself up to greater speed and fitness.  Not so long ago he would have moved too fast for the blade of the axe to touch him at all as its wielder flailed about in death-throes.  It had been months since he had faced a soldier’s routine and a soldier’s battleground, and that after years of peace.  As Prince and Captain, he must be an exemplar, not a burden.  After all, it was more his duty to protect all his men than it was theirs to play the mother hen with him.  Especially these eager lads of barely twenty-five years, who had seen occasional skirmishes but little of real war.

“We would have reached you earlier” Morfin said at Faramir’s elbow.  “But we surprised yon Easterling’s fellows.  There were only ten of them.”

“Were you able to take any prisoner?  And were any of our men hurt?”

“Eldacar and Tarcil were wounded, but not gravely.  I sent them back to the garrison.  We tried to take prisoners; but the Easterlings fought like cornered Orcs and would not yield.  Those that survived managed to take some poison they had on their person, before we could stop them.”

Faramir fought down the urge to smile.  Morfin had only seen orcs once in his young life; when the White Company  had fought a band of orcs who were trying to pillage the farmlands.  The young bowman had been very quickly wounded and taken from danger, and gained more attention from the village girls than actual experience in battling orcs.  If Faramir had his way, all such invaders would stay far from Gondor’s borders and Morfin would use his notable skills with a bow to hunt game in the abundant forests.  But he knew that complete peace would not come for many years.

The Scouts and Faramir walked swiftly and silently through the wood.  Then the clatter of hoof-beats brought them to instant alert.  Fortunately, the five riders who came out of the forest were White Guards, with Borlas, son of Beregond, at their head. 

“My lord, we heard your horn” said Borlas, a tall, dark-eyed young man of twenty-two  with his father’s air of quiet strength.  “Is all well?  Lord Faramir, there is blood on your face!  Are you hurt?”

“I am quite well, Borlas”  Faramir answered.   Did he appear so decrepit that boys he remembered as swaddled babes now wished to pamper him?  He should probably be grateful that they were not trying to shove him into a cushioned chair with a shawl and a cup of honeyed tea!  “I had an argument with an Easterling”, he continued, gesturing at the cloak-shrouded body carried by  the most burly Scout.  “He insisted on finishing it with his axe; so I had to finish him.”

Borlas smiled and chuckled appreciatively.  The tense faces of the other Guards and Scouts lightened, as Faramir had intended.

“My lord, the King has sent word to you”  Borlas announced, handing Faramir a sealed roll of parchment.

An hour later, Faramir set forth from Emyn Arnen, a rider having preceded him to announce his return, as Aragorn had requested.  The King had asked that Faramir return to the City if he were able, there to speak further of the preparations for war. Legolas and Gimli had apparently arrived in force and the Rohirrim were on the march.

Faramir and his White Guard escort rode over the rebuilt bridge from Osgiliath to the Rammas Echor.  The new bridge below Osgiliath would have quickened the trip to the City; but Faramir wished a quick inspection of the garrison, which stood now in excellent readiness.   He could not help be reminded, as they crossed, of that terrible night so long ago, when he and Boromir had battled on this very bridge; and his brother’s relentless courage.  Although whole days could sometimes pass when he did not think of Boromir, the joyous memories and the sorrow of the loss never truly left him. 

They passed through the gate of the Rammas Echor and began the final leg of the journey down the main road through the townlands on the Pelennor.  Faramir slowed the pace; hearing a horn-call in the distance.  Squinting in the mid-day sunshine, he discerned a party of horsemen riding to meet them.  That particular sequence of notes was the King’s own, no one else would use it. 

Hoping all was well, Faramir resumed the ride, urging his mare to a trot.  His big warhorse, the incongruously named Daisy, had been left in Ithilien in preparation for the long march that they would soon undertake. 

Three riders broke from the King’s party and raced ahead on the road, which had cleared of other riders and wains at the sound of the horn.  For a few minutes, the black, white and bay horses kept apace in a gallop, then two took the lead.  Faramir recognized Aragorn even as the King pulled past the other rider and rode towards him, leaning into his mount’s neck and giving the black horse its head in a seemingly effortless gallop. 

Faramir’s concerned waned as the King neared him.  For Aragorn was smiling, nay, grinning, while he slowed the black horse to a canter, then a trot, and approached the Steward’s party.   Half a horse-length behind him rode Legolas on a white steed that he commanded by the touch of his hands, without saddle or bridle.  The elf-lord of Eryn Gelair  looked as if he was fresh from a short walk around the Citadel, his fair hair smooth, his garments fresh, and his smile untroubled.  The King of Gondor and Arnor was wind-tossed, his hair streaming out under the silver circlet on his brow.

“Faramir!”  Aragorn cried, laughing, barely winded by his exertion.  “I greet you here, my friend.  The Tower Hall is stifling this day; and it has been too long since I had a good ride.”

“Well met, Faramir”  Legolas spoke more in more decorous tones.  “Though I would it were for a less fell purpose.”

“How fares Emyn Arnen?” Aragorn asked, his face smoothing.  “Your message of yestereve indicated that the hills at least are clear of Easterlings.  I thought you could be spared to return to the City for our counsels.”

“Gimli has come from Aglarond as well” said Legolas with a light smile;  “though he preferred to avoid meeting you on the back of a horse.”

“Hail, Legolas”  Faramir smiled at the Lord of Eryn Gelair.  “I do remember how Gimli prefers to use his own legs.  My lord,” he turned to Aragorn; “ Emyn Arnen is indeed secured.  There was but one party of Easterlings found; and they all died rather than surrender.”

Aragorn frowned.  “You are blood-stained, Faramir.  “Did you think to rest your newly healed leg by hunting Easterners?” 

Several subdued chuckles were heard from Faramir’s Guard; as well as murmurs about Faramir’s superior hunting skills.  “Lord Faramir killed a mighty Eastern axe-man, Lord King” Borlas announced unasked.

Faramir shot a warning glance at Beregond’s son; and Borlas  had the grace to look ashamed at his impertinence.   Faramir and Aragorn were both about to speak, when another rider trotted up to them.  It was Eldarion.  Faramir recognized the lad’s mount as the bay he had seen under the third rider who had broken from the King’s party.  Faramir was concerned when he noticed the boy was struggling for breath; though Eldarion’s steed, a fine young mare, showed no sign of fatigue.  At least the lad seemed in good spirits:  he was smiling; and his face was red from exertion.

“Hello, Eldarion”  Faramir hailed the young prince.  “It is good to see you riding again.”  He was rewarded by a rather sheepish grin from Eldarion, before the boy nodded to him, still breathing too heavily for normal speech.  Faramir knew better than to ask him how he felt; lads of Eldarion’s age embarrassed easily.

“That was a good ride, though a bit short”  said Aragorn.  “Come, my friends, let us turn back to the City.  Faramir, please ride beside me; I would apprise you of  plans made while you tended to Emyn Arnen.”

The White Guards formed up to the rear of the Tower Guards, Eldarion and Legolas.  Aragorn and Faramir rode slowly a few horse-lengths ahead of their escort.

“I rejoice to see you and Eldarion spending more time together” Faramir said.  “I have not seen him ride out with you to meet anyone in years.”

Aragorn frowned slightly.  “In truth, mellon-nîn; he rode out with me today because he wished to see you.”

“Surely not!  That is a boy who is most happy to ride with his father.”  Faramir remembered all too well how a father could harbor resentment towards a son who turned to another elder for counsel.  Aragorn had never been miserly with his children’s affections; but it was best to let him know that Faramir would not try to usurp Aragorn’s place with his only son. Especially not now, when Aragorn was trying to forge a stronger bond with the boy.

“Be easy, Faramir” Aragorn said, smiling ruefully.  “I am very proud of my boy; he has foresworn his former slothful ways.  Today, though he was tired from sword practice this morning, he heard that I was going to ride out and meet you; and begged me let him come.  He admires you greatly.”

Aragorn glanced back at his son, who rode beside Legolas.  “I do not mind; in fact I am pleased that he reveres you.  Eldarion is most anxious to spend time with me, to learn from me.  I am overjoyed, do not mistake me.  But I cannot be with him as much as I would like.  I cannot spare the time now, as we must prepare for this war.  I am fortunate to find but a few minutes each day other than during a meal to spend with my boy.  And I still worry for him, Faramir.  If you could help him, I would be most grateful.  Or just listen if he comes to you for counsel.”

“Of course I will gladly help Eldarion, should he need it”  Faramir assured Aragorn.  “But what may I do for him?  He is well, is he not?”

“Yes, but he is not regaining his strength as fast as I had hoped.  He is trying hard.  Too hard, I think; he tires quickly.  He begs the arms-master for more time; and Hallagon is as busy as I am these days with the arming of the Guards.  The friends he had are either home with their fathers or uninterested in training with him, preferring to sport in the taverns.  I only know what has happened because Eldarion told his mother; he was ashamed to tell me.”

“Sometimes boys his age find it hard to talk to their fathers.”  Faramir mused, remembering how Elboron had kept silent about his worries that his voice would never change.  Lads of that age were shy, wary creatures, their bodies surging towards manhood yet their hearts still boyish and uncertain.  “But it is good that he wants to please you.  Have you told him how proud you are of him?”

“Yes, more than once.  I think something else is driving him; yet I know not what.”

“I do not think you should press him” Faramir suggested. It still felt odd to advise Aragorn in such matters.  He was hardly an authority on fatherhood.  He had been rather afraid of that duty before Elboron’s birth.  That fear had lasted until Faramir had held his child for the first time.  He had then realized that he would not only die to protect the tiny babe, but he would live to rear him.  Faramir had been very fortunate.  The children had been healthy, their mother strong and clever.  He had often felt, like a shield at his back, the echo of his brother’s encouragement during Faramir’s own childhood.  So he had managed to become the father his sons and daughters deserved.

“You are probably right” Aragorn spoke again.   “But I wish Eldarion to strengthen before he joins us on the campaign against the Easterlings.  It will be a long march; better for him if he begins it on an equal footing with the other lads, or close to it.”

“Eldarion comes with us?”  Faramir was shocked.  “You would risk yourself and your heir in the same war, where Reunited Kingdom could lose both of you?  We already risk leaving Gondor leaderless by both of us going forth on the same perilous venture.” 

“Imrahil stands ready to assume command in our absence, as he has before.”  Aragorn replied.“  He looked once more upon his son. 

“He begged me to let him come, Faramir”  Aragorn said quietly and proudly.  “He said he had to prove himself; and he could not stay safe in Minas Tirith when other lords’ sons rode to war.  I thought on his words; and he does speak truly.  Also, it is entirely possible that while we ride eastward, Alatar could send forces to attack the City, or Ithilien, in hopes of capturing our families.  I will leave hundreds of Guards behind, and I know you will leave Ithilien defended; but Eldarion might be safer surrounded by the armies of Gondor, Rohan and our elven and dwarven allies, at least until the battle joins.  The other pages and younger esquires will at least be guarded during the battle.  And should we lose, Eldarion will face great danger whether he is in the tents behind the rear guard, or in the Citadel with his mother.   So I will take my son with me; at least for the term of the campaign.”  Aragorn’s tone brooked no argument.   

“I named an heir after Eldarion”  Aragorn continued.  “By Arwen and the midwife’s best recollection, Rian preceded Nimloth into the world by an hour.  Council has now declared Rian as Eldarion’s heir until he sires children of his own, and pledged to uphold her claim.   She and Nimloth will continue my line should Eldarion and I fall.  But I intend to defeat Alatar and his army, and return with my son.”

“As do I” Faramir agreed.  He would take Elboron and Cirion to war with him; Bron as his aide and Ciri as his page.  If none of them returned, Aldor, a grave and studious child of six, would become Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor in Faramir’s place.  Though of course, Eowyn would rule Ithilien in their son’s name until Aldor came of age; and Imrahil would similarly hold the Stewardship.  Pushing aside such necessary but melancholy concerns, Faramir spoke again:  “I will talk to Eldarion, try to draw him out, before we all ride out eastward.  And when shall we leave?   What strength of arms do we take, and what shall be left to defend Gondor?  Tell me all that I have missed these last days.”

“We have word that Eomer has departed Dunharrow with a mighty force of Rohirrim, some eight thousand strong”  Aragorn answered.  “They should arrive in two or three days; they wish not to tire the horses before the journey.  The Tower Guard is ready; the lords of the fiefs have called forth their troops; Legolas brings three hundred elves from Eryn Gelair, and Gimli has brought a like number of stout dwarves.  I expect a force of Dunedain from the North to arrive tomorrow.  Erchirion prepares the fleet to patrol the southern waters, lest the Umbari seek to take advantage of our departure.    And I called a council today, with Pallando.  The wizard still has much to tell us of the land where we will fight, and the weapons and armies we will face.  We are still deciding what force to leave behind to protect the City and the garrisons, but the lords have already withheld what was judged needful to guard their own lands .”

“I hope you will rest your leg this night, Faramir”  Aragorn added, with a stern look.  “I will need all my captains in full strength before we ride out to the East.”

“As my lord and healer wishes”  Faramir ceded.  “I shall try to rest.  But my leg truly is better, thanks to your help.  I cannot tell the difference between it and the other anymore.  Will this day’s meeting be another session of the Great Council?”

Aragorn gave a less than kingly snort.  “I held the final session yesterday.  We are thankfully done with such panoply for another year.   I must tell you, though, Faramir; Elboron spoke most well in your place at the Great Council.   He convinced the City Fathers to begin working in concert with the Guild Masters to continue the plans for the repairs to the sewers; with luck they shall start work in a few weeks, for the work will be easier with some of the people gone to war.  They were all most impressed by Elboron’s bearing and skill at discourse.”

Faramir found himself smiling broadly.  “My thanks for such praise.  Elboron knows that I believe the work on the sewers, though difficult, must be undertaken soon to prevent outbreaks of pestilence in the future.”

“That is exactly what he said.  You have a fine son, Faramir.  Elboron is a credit to his sires; and one day he and my son will stand forth in Council together in our place.  I hope Eldarion will cast as good a reflection on his father as Elboron does on his.  Meanwhile, I would have you bring Elboron with you to our war-council this day, in my Chamber of Audience at the eighth hour; as I shall bring my son.  I have called the captains, and Legolas and Gimli, and Pallando, as I said.”

“I will bring Elboron.”  Faramir replied, “And be assured, Aragorn; Eldarion is most definitely his father’s son, though much younger and far less grim.”

“And more handsome!”  Aragorn said, grinning.  “Thanks to you, I will be able to watch him continue to grow.  But I am not yet ready for my dotage.  Come, let us race!”

Faramir laughed, and called to Legolas to join them.  The King of Gondor, the Steward, and the Lord of Eryn Gelair quickly turned their horses to form a line, then shot for the Great Gate like three arrows from a longbow.

The afternoon sun rode high in the sky, shimmering through the haze above the City.  The pleasant breeze he had felt on the Pelennor had ebbed.  Faramir stood in the shade and watched his two eldest sons sparring across the practice ground on the sixth circle.  Eowyn had told him where to find the boys. 

Elboron towered over his little brother from the vantage point of four additional years and the tall, powerful frame he had inherited from Boromir and Eomer.   Cirion awaited the changes to his still childish body which would hopefully fill him out, raise his height, and give him strength.  In a straight swordfight, Elboron would have dispatched his brother easily, since the reach of his sword arm was far superior.  But this was not a straight fight.   Elboron had brought his brother here to distract him from news of the attack on Emyn Arnen; and he hoped to raise Cirion’s confidence rather than weaken it.  So he let his younger brother come to him, giving ground and teaching quietly as he did so.  Cirion was a mass of wild hair and flashing sword, desperately pushing forward with great determination.

Faramir stood and watched, unable to suppress the memory of a similar hot, still day when he had fought as Cirion did and Boromir had played the teacher’s role that Elboron filled so ably now.  Cirion and Elboron sparred with un-edged swords like the ones that he and Boromir had used, lightweight blades made specifically for the training of the Steward’s sons.  Faramir wondered if the swords in his sons’ hands today might be the very same blades that he and Boromir had used all those years ago.

“Fathers and sons,” Faramir muttered to himself, his right hand moving to touch his other arm above the elbow.  Boromir had unintentionally struck him hard enough to inflict a clean flesh wound, despite the sword’s being blunt.  Faramir had been distracted by the sound of their father clearing his throat behind them, and had not seen Boromir’s stroke quickly enough to block or dodge it.  Pain had flared and blood had flowed.  Surprised, ten-year-old Faramir had been unable to stop his eyes from welling up with tears.  What he remembered most vividly was the disdain in the Steward’s eyes when he beheld his younger son’s show of emotion.  The wound was long healed and no scar remained. Yet the pain of the memory still stung Faramir worse than the bite of Boromir‘s sword; as had their father‘s moment of scorn all those years ago.  Such was the strength of the chain that bound sons to fathers and fathers to sons.

Unwilling to relive the scene in a different role, Faramir waited quietly as the fight continued.  Bron had begun to master the use of a hand-and-a-half sword, and was quite skilled with the short sword he had wielded in the battle at Saruman‘s tower last Fall.  Cirion could only best Elboron in a fight without rules.  On a real battlefield, the younger boy might be able, with luck, to bring his considerable agility into play.  And even at the age of eleven years, Cirion was a relentless fighter with knife and bow even at his young age. As a swordsman, he was still no match for his taller brother.  Faramir sighed, knowing that soon his boys would see real battle.  Behind the lines with the other pages, guarded by more seasoned soldiers, Cirion should be safe.  But he would see the carnage of war as gaping wounds on the bodies of friends and possibly kin, not just cuts on a practice field.  And Elboron would fight as a man and warrior.  Faramir recalled wistfully the days when Bron and Ciri battled with their toy soldiers, safe by his hearth, damage limited to wooden knights and horses.  Not for the first time nor for the last, Faramir wished that he could halt the march of time.

“Move your feet more, Ciri,” Elboron advised.  “Follow through quicker!”  Faramir could tell that Cirion was allowing his temper to slow his footwork, which was usually quite fast.

“I am!” Cirion retorted angrily.

Cirion attacked again.  Elboron stepped deftly to the side, rolling his wrist so that the point of the sword drew back in in a circular motion as Cirion’s blade drove towards his brother.  Elboron continued the stroke, bringing his blade downward in a push against the other side of Cirion’s blade.  The force of Elboron's parry knocked the younger boy’s sword from his grasp.  It fell to the ground with a dull thud. 

Cirion panted, his eyes resting despairingly on his sword.

“That was good, Ciri,” Elboron said. 

“Good?” the younger boy responded with dejection.  “I fell for an easy trick!

“Don’t be discouraged, Ciri,” Faramir said.  Two red and sweating faces turned towards him as he stepped forward to stand between his sons.  “Sword-work is not learned in a day or even a year.  You are making good progress.”

Cirion continued to look unconvinced.  “I would make faster progress, if Bron sparred with me once a day instead of once a week.”

“I have told you, brother, I have not the time, especially now.  How goes it at home, Father?”  Elboron asked, carefully wiping his blade on a linen towel before sheathing it. 

Faramir looked carefully at his sons, marking Cirion’s narrowed eyes, pout, and slightly hunched shoulders.  The boy was angry and worried, and, being Cirion, craved the release of activity, preferably one that involved breakneck motion.  An idea began to take shape in Faramir’s mind.  “The White Hall is burdened with our wounded for now, but we will survive the blow the Easterlings dealt us.   The hills are secured, and the villages did not take much harm.  Elboron, you must go home and change; the King requests you attend our war-council later today.  I will join you soon.”

Elboron threw a glance at his younger brother, whose pout had deepened at mention of the war, and then looked back to his father.

“Of course, Sire,” he responded and moved to obey.

Faramir watched him leave and then turned back to the boy beside him.  “You look hot, Ciri,” he said.  “Come let us sit in the shade for a while and share some water.”

Cirion said nothing but followed his father to sit beneath one of the bay trees bordering the practice area. As he walked he dragged his sword through the dirt behind him.  Faramir gave him a pointed look, prompting the boy to pick up the blade, wipe it on the towel that Elboron had dropped, and then sheathe it.  Normally, Cirion took good care of the weapons he used, far better care in fact than he took of his clothes or footwear. 

They sat quietly for a while, Faramir passing his water-skin to his son.  As the silence continued, Cirion began to fidget.  Finally he said, “Did Mother ask you to speak to me?”

“She is worried for you”  Faramir responded, remembering Eowyn‘s words when he returned to their apartments two hours ago.

Cirion balanced his sword between his knees.  “She need not be,” he mumbled.

“Your mother has a strange notion that you blame yourself for the raid on Emyn Arnen.  She seems to think that you believe I will blame you for it also,” Faramir said.

Cirion’s troubled blue eyes looked up at his father for the first time.  “Do you not?  They only attacked us after I killed that Easterling ”

Faramir sighed.  Would that he could keep Cirion a heedless boy, rather than speak to him of killing and war!  “When you fight as a soldier, Ciri, you quickly learn that you cannot afford to stop and ponder the outcome of past action during a battle.  During even the easiest of skirmishes, you must bear down entirely on the immediate fight.  You do not have time to worry as an orc raises his pike to slice open your gut. Your life and those of your comrades will depend on your thinking quickly of two things:  how to survive and how to win.  Strategy and tactics are important, but sometimes you have to follow your instincts.  That’s what you did in the tunnel at Mordor, my son.  Your speed in slaying the Easterling might have saved both of our lives, as well as the life of our future King.”

Cirion pouted.  “But if I had not killed the Easterling,  maybe they would not have attacked Emyn Arnen.”

“Perhaps,” Faramir agreed.  “But if you had not killed him, we would not have retrieved the stone that has saved Eldarion.  To find it, we may have had to go to war with the Easterlings anyway.  I doubt very much that Eldarion could have survived the wait; he was already fading when the King and I finally used the Stone of Silence to awaken him.”  Faramir sighed deeply.  “What is done is done, and past.  You cannot alter the past, Ciri, you have to simply make the best of whatever has occurred.  It is never easy and sometimes it is not fair but that is part of growing to manhood.  The child looks always for things that are easily seen and defined; it is night or it is day, but the man must walk in the grey watches of the dawn or twilight when things are not as clear, and he must still look to do what is right.  When you understand that lesson you take another step on the path leading you to be a man and a warrior.”

Cirion nodded slowly.  “I think I understand,” he said softly.  He looked away from his father, licking his lips nervously.  “But my dream…” he continued haltingly.  “Are you sure it did not cause the attack?  I heard Tuor cry out in the dream, and now he is slain, and Baran, and all the others.” 

Faramir gazed at his son, remembering how he had once asked Boromir a similar question; following their aunt’s death a week after he had seen her slip and fall in a dream.  He had thought that the more thoughtful Elboron would be the one to inherit his dreams of past and future; yet his eldest son’s dreams were mercifully ordinary.  How could it be that this whirlwind of a boy, who hardly lay still or stopped talking long enough to truly sleep, could see the future in his dreams?  And would he one day see the dreadful wave that consumed the island of their longfathers?  

“Nay, fear not, little one” Faramir answered, echoing Boromir’s words of forty years before.  “The Easterlings would have raided our home and slain our people whether you dreamed of it or  not.”  He placed a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, and felt Cirion lean against him as the boy had not done in over a year.  He wished he could spare Cirion this burden, borne down through the blood of Dol Amroth that flowed through Eowyn’s veins as well as his own.  And he wondered if the new heir to the House of Eorl, Eomer and Lothiriel’s infant son Elfwine, would one day dream of things to come.

Cirion gulped.  “I saw flames in my dream,” he said softly, “In Emyn Arnen.  And I saw a man I had never seen before, very tall, with white hair and an evil look!  He said he would cast down my house and take the White Lady…take Mother…as he took her mare!”

“No one is going to take your mother, my son”  Faramir assured the boy.  He wondered at the  fearsome stranger in his son’s dream.  He would ask Pallando about the appearance of their adversary, the wizard Alatar.   But he said nothing of that to Cirion.  “And that was what made you decide that the attack was your fault?” he asked his son gently.

Cirion’s eyes were wide and imploring.  Saying nothing, he nodded. 

Faramir reached across and hugged his son to him.  “It was not your fault, Ciri,” he said, letting the boy’s head rest buried in his chest and slowly stroking his hair.  “This strange dreaming is a trait that runs in our family, that is all.  It came from our Elvish ancestress, the Lady Mithrellas, the mother of the first prince of Dol Amroth, or so 'tis said.  Your mother has some of that blood as well, from her grandmother, who was kin to Uncle Imrahil.  You might have more dreams, of the past as well as the future.”

Cirion lifted his head.  “Will those dreams of the future all come true?” he asked.

Faramir sighed.  “Sometimes they do reveal the future.  Sometimes they show only what might come to pass, warnings of dangers that can be prevented.  I do know for certain that you must not consider yourself at all responsible for the attack on Emyn Arnen.   I  most certainly do not!”

“Then you will let me ride with the army when you go?”  Cirion asked.

Despite himself Faramir smiled.  “Is that what this fuss was all about?” he breathed.  “You feared I would be so wroth with you I would keep you from your first battle!  And I believed you had developed a guilty conscience!”

“I did feel guilty!” Cirion argued.  “But I felt more fearful that I would miss the battle!”

“Cirion!” Faramir said, shaking his head.  Cirion’s words and face had revealed that the boy had thought himself to blame for the Easterling attack.  This new ploy of missing the battle was a mask to cover unaccustomed deep emotions.  So be it, Faramir was not about to reveal to his son that he had found what Cirion had sought to hide.  Such discretion was one of the skills he had mastered in guiding the Great Council and raising children.

He pulled him close again but Cirion began to wriggle.  “Father,” he said pulling away. “Someone might see us!”

Faramir released him.  “Then we are agreed?” he said.  “The attack was not your fault, and you will ride with me as my page?”

Cirion nodded as he stood up.  As far as he was concerned the conversation was now over; his guilt forgotten; and he had better things to do than linger in the shade being hugged by his father!

But Faramir was not yet finished with Cirion.  He had to propose the idea that had struck him a few minutes ago.  “Cirion, I have a favor I would ask of you, concerning a matter of state.”

Cirion dropped his lower jaw in wonder.   A matter of state!  His father had never wanted a favor from him; it was always Elboron who was asked to help with important tasks.  “Yes, Father?”  he asked excitedly.

“You know that Eldarion was ill for many months, and has just recently been restored to us.”

“Of course, Father!”  Cirion replied.  “You saved him with the Stone of Silence, as you told us.”

“In truth, the King saved him, with my help.   But it seems that even a week later, Eldarion still has not recovered as well as he should.  His father worries for him, and so do I.  Eldarion is the heir to the throne of Arnor and Gondor; if he appears ill in public, our enemies might assume that there is a grave weakness in the house of Telcontar.  So we must help Eldarion regain his strength as soon as possible; for it is planned that he ride with us along with the others Lords’ sons, including you and Bron.”

“I understand.  But what do you want me to do?”

“You have known Eldarion all your life.  He wants to advance his skill with the sword and other weapons.  More than that, he needs to run and ride every day.  Neither the King nor the arms-master can spare the time to work with him; they are busied with the preparations for the war.  We need someone who knows Eldarion, someone who is quick and strong and also young, and can both teach him and play games with him, help his limbs grow strong again.  I can think of no one better than you to trust with the health of our future King.”

Cirion’s eyes grew large again.  “Me?”  He squawked.  “This is new!  Mother won’t let me touch the glass goblets because she fears I’ll let them drop and break.  You want me to be nursemaid to the King’s son?”

“Not a nursemaid, Ciri.  Be Eldarion’s friend and comrade.  It will be more play than work.”

Cirion stood up very straight and grinned.  “You mean you truly wish me to run foot-races, spar with wooden swords, go out riding, with Eldarion?   Sport with him for hours every day  and not worry about breaking anything or missing lessons?”

“You will take pleasure, I am certain.”  Faramir grinned back, and started to walk back toward the Citadel with Cirion at his side.  “But you must also be patient and a little careful.  Try not to let Eldarion become discouraged when you outdo him.  You must push him to keep pace with you without breaking his spirit.  And, I trust, without breaking his bones, Cirion.”

“I understand, Father!  It will be like training my colt.”

Faramir subdued an urge to sputter.  “There is perhaps a certain similarity between the tasks; though Eldarion’s line is greater than even that of Arrow’s Mearas lineage.”   

“Not that much greater” insisted Cirion, sticking out his chest and strutting at Faramir’s side.  “Arrow is three-parts Mearas, sired by Brego out of Snowmane’s daughter Greycloud; whose dam was…”

“Leave off, I pray you” Faramir entreated, laughing.  “Or we shall be here all day; and I must go confer with the King.  But what shall I tell Eldarion if he asks me why you want to sport with him?  He would feel distressed if he believes you befriend him at my command.”

“Hmmm.”  Cirion furrowed his brow.  “You could tell him that my other friends are going to war and are too busy to play, as is my brother.  It would not be a lie; I know that you hate falsehoods.”

“Well done!”  Faramir told his son.  “I am most proud of you, Cirion.”

His second son turned red and squirmed, smiling up at Faramir.  “ Can I go on ahead, Father?  It is almost time for the nuncheon and I’m hungry.”

“Certainly.  I will see you later” Faramir replied.  “And remember what you have promised me this day.“  He watched the boy turn and run, fast as a red fox, up the roadway toward the distant first circle and the Citadel where his meal awaited.  Eldarion would be hard-pressed indeed to catch Cirion; and would strengthen his laggard muscles as he tried.

As Faramir watched Cirion run, he felt again the earlier sense of Boromir’s memory, so strongly that it was almost a beloved presence.  A breeze came up and furled his cloak.

 
“Boromir, my brother,” he whispered to the wind.  “Thank you for teaching me the words a father should say, so I may pass them on to my own sons.”

To Be Continued

AUTHORS’ NOTES II: 

Branwyn and her martial-artist husband helped enormously with the fight scenes in this chapter - thanx much!

The language Akkadi, and the words Faramir spoke in that tongue, are an invention of the authors, so don’t blame JRRT for them.  We took the name Akkadi from the Akkadian land and languages of ancient Mesopotamia in our own world. 

Erchirion, who is currently in charge of the fleet of Gondor, is Faramir’s cousin and the second son of Prince Imrahil, mentioned in History of Middle-Earth vol. 10 “The Peoples of Middle-Earth“.

The Elf Lady Mithrellas who Faramir mentions as being the foremother of the Dol Amroth line is not mentioned specifically in LOTR.  Legolas pegs Prince Imrahil as having elven-blood in his veins when he first meets him in The Last Debate in ROTK (the book!).  It is said, in History of Middle-Earth vol. 10 “The Peoples of Middle-Earth“, that there was an elf-lady, Mithrellas, who became lost in the woods of Belfalas and was sheltered by Imrahil’s distant ancestor, Imrazor the Numenorean, with whom she had twins, a boy and a girl, before vanishing.  JRRT did not credit the Dol Amroth line as the source of Faramir’s unusual dreams, but other fan fiction writers have done so (notably Isabeau of Greenlea, whose stories can be found on this site, and who has given us permission to use an idea quite similar to her own) and it seems a reasonable extrapolation.  Eowyn’s grandmother (the wife of King Thengel of Rohan) is identified as Morwen of Lossarnach in Appendix A of ROTK; and further specified to be distant kin to Prince Imrahil in Unfinished Tales.

Coming Up In Future Chapters:  Two words that strike terror, or at least exasperation and some irritation, into the heart of Faramir - Éomer King!   Or, guess who’s coming to dinner with several thousand comrades?  Will there be enough food for the Rohirrim and Pallando?  Not to mention new ways for Cirion to get into trouble…