Dawn. Boromir’s soldiers were already ready to depart. Most were merely waiting for the Captain-General’s orders and were lounging about, laughing easily. Obviously to many, an easy victory was expected.
Faramir gripped the cold stones of the balcony overlooking the level where the army was assembling. He could see his rangers in the far left corner of the level, already ready. Unlike the soldiers, the rangers were quiet, hidden in the shadows. Some were checking their bows – most were sitting, silently observing, their grey eyes glinting in the shadows.
Still rangers … despite being in the safety of the city.
He ducked his head and closed his eyes. Ah, for all the preparation that Boromir had invested in this campaign … why was his heart still troubled? No matter how much he reasoned with himself about the safety of Endh Aes, his heart was not convinced that he should go to battle by Boromir’s side, away from Endh Aes.
But what else can I do? What foolishness do I entertain, to walk away from the battle just as I am about to enter it? What will my men think of me? What will Boromir … what will father think of me?
Ah, but he already knew what his father thought of him. The second son, the son that will always fail him.
He sighed. What useless thoughts to entertain. He knew that there was little that he could do to change Denethor’s regard of him. His father had made up his mind about his younger son a long time ago.
It is done, then. I shall ride with Boromir. It is the only thing I could do.
Lifting his eyes from the soldiers, Faramir made to walk towards the gate to join his men when he saw that a little girl was blocking his path.
Words of query died in his lips when he saw her bony frame, and the dark, ratty hair that hung in clumps around her face. But it was her eyes that arrested him. Pale grey eyes – Numenorean eyes – that were devoid of life.
What was she doing here, a creature of misery, when in Minas Tirith food was aplenty and the cloth rich?
He reached out for her, but she turned and walked, nay, floated ghost-like down towards the gate.
His heart hitched in terror.
A wraith!
But as if compelled by an unseen force, his feet moved and he found himself following the girl through the gate.
And it felt as if he stepped through a liquid curtain, and the very air of the world shifted and swayed.
It was the lamentations that he heard first. Songs sung in Sindarin, heavy with grief.
A nobleman had died, thought Faramir. For it is for a man of such rank that Sindarin would be used.
A grey pallor seemed to shroud the city of Minas Tirith. Its once-white walls were grey with dust and filth, and he saw that the tattered banner of Gondor hung at half mast from a parapet.
Faramir whipped his head around in horror. No!
Boromir … father?
And he realised then that there were people lined up on the streets. And like the girl, their eyes were blank and empty, their faces gaunt with hunger and their bodies wasted from starvation, disease or both. These were the refugees of a war or a disaster, not the citizens of Gondor! Yet some carried the proud crest of the Stewards in their hands, a sign of respect when one of the Stewards had died.
The mists retreated, the crowds disappeared, and a bier appeared before him, flanked by soldiers in tattered robes and armour. And he knew instinctively who it was.
Father …
He wanted to go to him, but he was paralysed, for another figure appeared, floating ephemerally beside the bier. There was no mistaking who it was … the fair hair … the Horn of Gondor by his side.
Boromir … he stood there, his once royal red cloak tattered and torn. Always he had held his head high and proud – as if to say that he was certain always that he could conquer whatever adversaries that come his way. But now, the head was bowed in defeat and grief.
“Boromir …” Faramir whispered.
And as if he heard him call, the apparition of his brother turned, and Faramir nearly fell to his knees horror.
He was looking at a skeleton … a living one; whose body had been so ravaged by starvation that it had turned on itself, eating whatever reserves it had. Dark circles were beneath Boromir’s hollow eyes and his cheekbones jutted sharply on a ravaged face. And the pride that he once carried was gone, replaced by despair and terrible want.
Gondor was dying. Boromir was dying.
“Boromir!” Faramir cried out, lurching towards the apparition.
And the mists came and his brother was hidden behind them.
The starving city of Minas Tirith vanished and he was in the present once more, surrounded by the bustling army of Gondor going about the business of battle preparation.
“Captain?” came a concerned voice.
“Anborn,” he murmured in recognition. He turned to meet the man and saw his lieutenant’s concerned face. The young man, his expression grave as always, bowed in acknowledgement, but he kept his eyes on his captain. He had no doubt witnessed his strange behaviour.
But his rangers were used to his strange visions, even if they did not acknowledge it out loud. It was an open secret and something which was discussed in hushed, awed tones – that their Captain had purer Numenorean blood running in his veins and had the foresight of their ancestors. Often they went into battle, no matter how strange the hour or place, without question by his side because they knew his visions were true.
The men thought that he did not know about their whispers, but Faramir’s ears were keen. He, however, made no issue of it. He was merely glad that they did not share this “secret” to those outside the group.
“Captain … what did you see?”
Faramir raised an eyebrow at the question. Aye, they knew of his visions and dreams … but never have they asked him about it before.
“Anborn …” he bowed his head, awed by the decision he had to make. No, he decided. I shall not drag my Rangers into this. I need not burden them with this knowledge, not at the eve of battle when my brother needs their skill and concentration so much.
He forced a smile and shook his head. “For a moment I thought I saw my brother in this mess. I was concerned that he had not armoured himself yet, that is all.”
Ah, it was a pathetic lie and Anborn was not convinced at all. His frown grew deeper and Faramir could see Anborn’s grip on his bow tighten as if in anxiety. He would not allow it.
“Rejoin the company, Anborn. We are late and we need to depart now. Tell the men to start on their journey.” He made to leave, but Anborn stopped him.
“Captain! Are you not coming with us?”
He had to play it well this time. No more flimsy stories. He turned, a confident smile on his face. “I need to be with my brother, at the hour of his greatest need. I shall rejoin you later. Go. Time is short.”
Doubt settled into Anborn’s face, and Faramir saw a war going on in the Ranger’sheart: should he obey his Captain or should he listen to what his heart was telling him?
Loyalty to Gondor and years of military training won, and Anborn bowed shortly and left.
Now it was Faramir’s lot to face his brother alone.
Biting his lip, he made his way to the Steward’s stables, where Boromir was surely preparing to ride out.
* * *
Their father was by Boromir’s side, and Faramir could see from Denethor’s expression that he was pleased with Boromir – as always. A rare, big smile brightened his normally grave expression and he was speaking to Boromir in animated tones.
Although he was proud that Boromir had Denethor’s favour, Faramir could not deny the significance; Denethor had come to see Boromir off, while his younger son – who had supposedly left an hour earlier – had not received such a privilege.
The stab of pain at this act of casual disregard came swiftly and just as swiftly Faramir quenched it. No use pondering such things now … just as it was unfortunate that his father would witness what Faramir had to do in the next few moments. But sharp looks and cruel words from Denethor were nothing new to Faramir. He will endure it as always. It was Boromir’s reaction that worried him.
His brother noticed his presence first. A look of puzzlement came into his face then and when Denethor noticed it, he followed his gaze to Faramir. He frowned with disapproval.
Faramir felt his heart wilt from trepidation at his father’s expression, but he steeled himself. The image of his father’s bier and Boromir’s starving face came to his mind and he found himself walking towards Boromir, staring into his brother’s healthy, proud face – as if to anchor this reality into his mind.
“Boromir,” he said in acknowledgement.
Boromir did not return it. When he spoke, his tone was stern: “Why are you still here? You should’ve left at least an hour ago!”
“Forgive me. I was … delayed, and as a consequence my men were delayed as well. But they left a moment ago.”
He could see that his brother was not pleased by the news. Boromir was exacting when it came to discipline; he did not tolerate carelessness or laxity of any kind from his men, much less from his brother.
“Just because you are my brother, does not mean you can be lax, little brother! Every minute counts – you know this!” he said sternly.
He nodded, finding his head suddenly too heavy to lift.
“Explain yourself, Faramir,” Denethor growled. “Unlike your brother, I am not content with your explanation.”
What happened, Father? He thought humourlessly. I saw the future of Gondor. I saw her people starving and dying on the streets from hunger and disease. I saw the flag of Gondor in tatters and I have foreseen your death!
“I must … apologize, Father … Boromir.” He could not meet their eyes, but he gave Boromir a reluctant, brief, gaze. “I cannot join you in this campaign.”
Stunned silence from both Boromir and Denethor.
His heart thudded frantically from nervousness. But ever did he keep the image of his dying brother before him. If he is to suffer shame or his father’s wrath to prevent that future, he will gladly go through it.
“And your reason?” That was Denethor. Boromir was perhaps too stunned to say anything at the moment.
“I need to defend Endh Aes,” he said simply. He did not know how to explain the entire situation to his brother and Denethor. It would probably take hours. Brevity is probably the best solution, albeit a less satisfying one.
He felt every eye on him – even the stable hands had stopped their work to listen – but nothing burnt more than Boromir’s gaze. Reluctantly, he met his brother’s eyes again. They smouldered with anger and betrayal.
“What is this, brother? A Captain of Gondor withdrawing on the eve of battle? Never have I heard of this, not in all the history of Gondor. But perhaps I am ignorant – you are, after all, a more learned man than I, Faramir. Perhaps you could fill the gaps of my memory?”
Faramir flinched at the cold mockery that laced his brother’s words. How like Denethor Boromir had seemed then. Faramir had bore Denethor’s scorn all these years but never had he endured such coldness from Boromir. Never had he spoken to him this way.
“Your brother speaks true, Captain,” said his father. Faramir flinched once more. How his father loved to mock him by his title. He turned his head slightly towards the Steward. “Your plan … your foolish plan … has no reason. To defend Endh Aes, far from the threat of Easterlings and Umbar … I see no other reason except that you are afraid.”
Someone gasped at that slight. It was then that Denethor barked: “Leave us. All of you! Boromir, stay.”
Faramir stood very still as Denethor walked towards him with Boromir at his side. Never had he felt more alone. Always Boromir was quick to defend him against his father’s wrath, but now Boromir was Denethor’s ally. Ah, to be afraid of your own kin!
“Faramir,” Boromir said, his voice suddenly gentle. “Come, just tell me why.”
He lifted his eyes to Boromir, torn between telling him the truth to his fear of being mocked by Denethor for his dreams. Boromir knew of his dreams and visions, but he merely tolerated them as amusements, nothing more. And Faramir had never insisted upon their truth . Denethor … he had never told the Steward of his dreams.
“Boromir, I know Endh Aes will be attacked because I dreamt it,” he whispered. If he is to be mocked by Denethor, then so be it. He would prefer that to lying to his brother.
“A dream?” Boromir was incredulous. “It is just a dream! How can you let it dictate your actions? You’re a Captain of Gondor, not a superstitious fool!”
Denethor, however, was strangely silent. He watched his younger son with his piercing grey eyes, his brows heavy with a frown.
How can I explain my certainty, brother? How can I explain the screams and the smell of burning flesh which haunts my dreams? Faramir thought in despair. He willed the tears behind his eyes to disappear and steeled his voice. “I will go to Endh Aes. Malbug and Anborn are more than adequate commanders. The rangers will serve you well.”
He turned to leave, but Boromir’s angry voice stopped him.
“If you leave with this purpose in your heart … there will be consequences to pay, Captain.”
Faramir closed his eyes as despair gripped his heart. He turned to Boromir.
“We have to do what we must, Boromir,” he said softly. He gave his brother a nod and left as quickly as he could, before he could give further grief to his brother.
* * *
Why? Why must we part the way we did? Boromir bit his lip in a vain attempt to stem his fury. He knew that he had been too harsh with Faramir, but his blatant desertion wrenched his heart. Did he not know the consequences of desertion? He would be stripped of his rank, dishonoured! Did he want to prove our father right? That he is a failure? Did he not know how much I needed him by my side in this battle?
“Boromir.”
“Father,” he answered, his voice grim in his ears.
“You must ready yourself for battle. Your brother will be dealt with accordingly once he returns.” Denethor waved him away and Boromir saw that his face wore the countenance of one who was distracted.
He left and his heart was troubled. It was not the thought of Faramir’s punishment that troubled him. Somehow, his heart was heavy with a sense of foreboding; a shadow of doom seemed to hover in the air.
* * *
Faramir left the stables with his horse and did not look back until he passed through the main gates and then out into the open fields of the Pelennor. When he reached the hill overlooking the Pelennor and beheld the white grandeur of Minas Tirith, he finally allowed his silent tears to fall.
It was a hopeless course he was taking. There were only 15 rangers left in Ithillien, all recalled from leave because of the coming charge. Taking them from Ithillien to Endh Aes would mean leaving Ithillien defenceless. It was a treasonous act to abandon the outpost without the consent of the Captain-General or the Steward. Furthermore, his dreams had showed him a large army of orcs – they would most certainly outnumber his rangers. The only hope he had of getting the upper hand was to call the Gondorian Guard from the outlying posts around Endh Aes to come to his aid – but again, they will not leave their posts unless commanded to by the Steward or Boromir.
So, he is alone in this.
What chance has he, a man with a mere 15 men against the forces that will come against Endh Aes? Can they win the battle? He was afraid … afraid of the impossible battle ahead of him and afraid that his men would fail. But he cannot fail! The Valar had shown him this vision for a reason, and it is his task to prevent the bleak future from happening.
Angry at his doubt and fears, he brushed his tears away brusquely and turned his horse away from Minas Tirith. As they raced across the Pelennor towards Ithillien, Faramir willed himself not to look back even though he realised that this could be the last time he would witness the beauty of the White City.
For Gondor, I will endure shame and dishonour. For Boromir and Father I will brave death!