[fic] Left Behind (Faramir, PG)
Left Behind
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (movieverse)
Rating: PG
Ship: Faramir/Éowyn
Summary: "The city is in your keeping, for you are Steward."
“This day we march for the Black Gate,” the King of Gondor said. “We go not to wage war, for it cannot now be won by force of arms, but to buy time for Frodo. The city is in your keeping, for you are Steward.”
Faramir half-rose from his chair and the words sprang to his lips-- “But what of my father?”
Aragorn looked at him gravely. “Your father,” he said gently, “is dead.”
The slate-coloured eyes dimmed, but only for a moment, and the young man shook his head. “I know. I saw him in the fire, but thought--or hoped--it was a dream.”
_________
The Citadel was full of dreams, Faramir thought as, later, he walked listlessly through the private chamber of the Lord of the City that only days ago had been his father’s and was now his. The flagstones rang with his footfalls; the sounds scurried into the shadow-darkened corners of the chamber and sent their echoes back to him.
Dreams and the shards of memories both real and half-imaged. Now he was five years old, now ten, now twenty-five, now thirty-five. Now he was with his mother, now his brother, now his father.
“I had the dream again, Mama. We were in a cold dark chamber. We were there together, but I could not see you. What does it mean, do you think?”
“Faramir! Where do you think this tunnel goes?”
“Under the city, I should think. Oh, let’s not go in there, Boromir. There are ancient things down there. Dead things.”
“I do not fear dead things, nor anything living. Come, I have my sword. Bear the torch, and don’t lag behind.”
“I am not afraid, either!”
“Good, then. Prove it. Go first, little brother.”
“In truth, father, it was my fault. Be wroth with me, and not my brother. To explore the tunnel was my own idea. He would have dissuaded me.”
“And yet he did not. He followed blindly. You showed bravery, he meekness. And when the tunnel collapsed… No, I shall not think on that. I could not have borne your loss, Boromir.”
“But are you not proud of Faramir, my father? To be made captain at such a young age is an honour.”
“You were younger when you attained that rank.”
“Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?”
“Yes, I wish that indeed.”
“I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought--not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.”
“I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead--if you command it.”
“I do so.”
“Then farewell! But if I return, think better of me.”
“That depends on the manner of your return.”
Then all the memories cracked and went up in a blaze of fire.
The fire had not been a dream. He had been burning inside and out. In the flames he had seen the faces of Finduilas his mother, Boromir his brother, the hobbits Frodo and Sam and the creature Gollum, those men under his command who had fallen at Ithilien. Last of all he had seen his father’s face, and it had been strange, for it had seemed to him that Denethor had been on fire as well.
He has come for me, Faramir had thought dimly. I failed him, but he has come anyway and will take me from here.
The fire had been real.
Denethor had looked at his younger son and his mouth had shaped three syllables. Whether together they had formed the name of his mother, or his brother, or himself--or something else--Faramir did not know, would never know. When next he had awoken it had been to the anxious face of the King.
The King had returned and restored him to life. Then he had gone again to face the Enemy on his own turf and left in Faramir’s keeping his battered city of Minas Tirith. Of the fact that he had not been asked to accompany his liege, Faramir was acutely aware. That it was his injuries and not his lack of valour that bound him to this place Faramir knew as well, but the knowledge did not raise his spirits.
And so he walked about this haunted chamber, issuing commands to those of his men who had also remained, but not venturing forth into the city streets, unwilling for the time to look upon the ruin and devastation that was his inheritance.
“My lord,” said a woman’s voice, interrupting his silence, and turning, he beheld the Lady Éowyn of Rohan who like him had been wounded in battle and who like him had been left behind by those who had ridden for the Black Gate. Among them, he knew, was her brother King Éomer. He had seen her once since waking in the Houses of Healing, and then he had thought her fair, but cold. “My lord,” said Éowyn, “there is much unrest in your city. The people, marking your absence, fear that you have again fallen ill. This and concern for their kinsmen who have gone to fight with the King, cause them to lose heart. It would do them good to see you, to know that they have not been abandoned.”
He studied her as she stood in the chamber doorway, straight and slim as a blade, with the bright hair tumbling about her shoulders, and it came to him as though from a great distance that she was in fact the fairest woman he had ever beheld. The brittle frost in her grey eyes pained him as it had not before, and touched something deep inside him, and suddenly he longed to take her pale cheeks between his hands, to breathe into her some of his fire and take from her some of her chill.
“My lord?” she said again, after several moments had elapsed.
He started and glanced one more time about his father’s chamber. This place was a barrow, he thought, and not a place for him--or for her, for they were both living despite their hurts and sorrows. He turned back to her and said, “I will go with you, Lady.”
She did not smile then, but he knew with sudden certainty that she would some day and that he had to be the reason. Now she merely inclined her head slightly, then turned and made to leave. He hastened after her, caught up, and together they walked from the chamber and toward the light.
12/25/03
Fandom: Lord of the Rings (movieverse)
Rating: PG
Ship: Faramir/Éowyn
Summary: "The city is in your keeping, for you are Steward."
“This day we march for the Black Gate,” the King of Gondor said. “We go not to wage war, for it cannot now be won by force of arms, but to buy time for Frodo. The city is in your keeping, for you are Steward.”
Faramir half-rose from his chair and the words sprang to his lips-- “But what of my father?”
Aragorn looked at him gravely. “Your father,” he said gently, “is dead.”
The slate-coloured eyes dimmed, but only for a moment, and the young man shook his head. “I know. I saw him in the fire, but thought--or hoped--it was a dream.”
_________
The Citadel was full of dreams, Faramir thought as, later, he walked listlessly through the private chamber of the Lord of the City that only days ago had been his father’s and was now his. The flagstones rang with his footfalls; the sounds scurried into the shadow-darkened corners of the chamber and sent their echoes back to him.
Dreams and the shards of memories both real and half-imaged. Now he was five years old, now ten, now twenty-five, now thirty-five. Now he was with his mother, now his brother, now his father.
“I had the dream again, Mama. We were in a cold dark chamber. We were there together, but I could not see you. What does it mean, do you think?”
“Faramir! Where do you think this tunnel goes?”
“Under the city, I should think. Oh, let’s not go in there, Boromir. There are ancient things down there. Dead things.”
“I do not fear dead things, nor anything living. Come, I have my sword. Bear the torch, and don’t lag behind.”
“I am not afraid, either!”
“Good, then. Prove it. Go first, little brother.”
“In truth, father, it was my fault. Be wroth with me, and not my brother. To explore the tunnel was my own idea. He would have dissuaded me.”
“And yet he did not. He followed blindly. You showed bravery, he meekness. And when the tunnel collapsed… No, I shall not think on that. I could not have borne your loss, Boromir.”
“But are you not proud of Faramir, my father? To be made captain at such a young age is an honour.”
“You were younger when you attained that rank.”
“Do you wish then that our places had been exchanged?”
“Yes, I wish that indeed.”
“I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought--not if there is a captain here who has still the courage to do his lord’s will.”
“I do not oppose your will, sire. Since you were robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead--if you command it.”
“I do so.”
“Then farewell! But if I return, think better of me.”
“That depends on the manner of your return.”
Then all the memories cracked and went up in a blaze of fire.
The fire had not been a dream. He had been burning inside and out. In the flames he had seen the faces of Finduilas his mother, Boromir his brother, the hobbits Frodo and Sam and the creature Gollum, those men under his command who had fallen at Ithilien. Last of all he had seen his father’s face, and it had been strange, for it had seemed to him that Denethor had been on fire as well.
He has come for me, Faramir had thought dimly. I failed him, but he has come anyway and will take me from here.
The fire had been real.
Denethor had looked at his younger son and his mouth had shaped three syllables. Whether together they had formed the name of his mother, or his brother, or himself--or something else--Faramir did not know, would never know. When next he had awoken it had been to the anxious face of the King.
The King had returned and restored him to life. Then he had gone again to face the Enemy on his own turf and left in Faramir’s keeping his battered city of Minas Tirith. Of the fact that he had not been asked to accompany his liege, Faramir was acutely aware. That it was his injuries and not his lack of valour that bound him to this place Faramir knew as well, but the knowledge did not raise his spirits.
And so he walked about this haunted chamber, issuing commands to those of his men who had also remained, but not venturing forth into the city streets, unwilling for the time to look upon the ruin and devastation that was his inheritance.
“My lord,” said a woman’s voice, interrupting his silence, and turning, he beheld the Lady Éowyn of Rohan who like him had been wounded in battle and who like him had been left behind by those who had ridden for the Black Gate. Among them, he knew, was her brother King Éomer. He had seen her once since waking in the Houses of Healing, and then he had thought her fair, but cold. “My lord,” said Éowyn, “there is much unrest in your city. The people, marking your absence, fear that you have again fallen ill. This and concern for their kinsmen who have gone to fight with the King, cause them to lose heart. It would do them good to see you, to know that they have not been abandoned.”
He studied her as she stood in the chamber doorway, straight and slim as a blade, with the bright hair tumbling about her shoulders, and it came to him as though from a great distance that she was in fact the fairest woman he had ever beheld. The brittle frost in her grey eyes pained him as it had not before, and touched something deep inside him, and suddenly he longed to take her pale cheeks between his hands, to breathe into her some of his fire and take from her some of her chill.
“My lord?” she said again, after several moments had elapsed.
He started and glanced one more time about his father’s chamber. This place was a barrow, he thought, and not a place for him--or for her, for they were both living despite their hurts and sorrows. He turned back to her and said, “I will go with you, Lady.”
She did not smile then, but he knew with sudden certainty that she would some day and that he had to be the reason. Now she merely inclined her head slightly, then turned and made to leave. He hastened after her, caught up, and together they walked from the chamber and toward the light.
12/25/03