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A red sky was peering through the curtains when Faramir woke, his limbs numb and a veil of sweat and fading slumber in front of his eyes. He opened his lips to speak, but his throat was sore, as if it had been slid open by a dagger and left drying in the sun for several days.
What had happened? He could hardly recall the last time he was awake, aiming for clear memory and receiving images of fire. Then, in the middle of the piercing flames, Faramir saw the face of his father, the grey teary eyes staring into his soul. The wrinkled lips cried out a name – his name. After that, nothing.
The young man shifted in his bed, turning his head to a guard that was fast asleep in a chair, a can of water next to him. Faramir was not in his room, though those walls seemed familiar, and so did the guard’s face. He could still not determine where it was or who kept watch over him. And there were more important things.
Gathering all his power, he reached for the can, his fingers scraping on the fine porcelain without reaching the handle that was turned away from him.
Should he wake the guard? Rather not, he did not want attention now, which he could not avoid once he asked for help. Besides, he did not want to display his lack of strength that he could not even explain to himself. It was better to think, all by himself, to find out what had brought him here.
Resting his head against the pillow again, he felt sweat running down his forehead. The small movement alone had spent all his strength and breathing alone seemed a task too heavy to endure. Did he have any reason to breathe, after all?
Closing his eyes, he remembered his brother, Boromir. He could think of the heartfelt laughter and the way he used to ruffle Faramir’s hair. He could even think of the name, but that was all. The face was lost, somewhere beyond the flames he could still feel on his skin.
He stared at the ceiling, tracing the ornaments in the marble with his eyes, yet his mind was elsewhere. He tried to remember where Boromir was, or at least, where he might be. Had he been in the flames? No, Faramir could not have forgotten that. Still, he had a faint feeling that Boromir was not here. Would never be. Had he died?
Thinking about it, Faramir came to the conclusion it had to be so. He could not explain it otherwise how he felt no need to look out for him, to stand up and start a search, or even only to wait. Neither did he feel this need with his father, as if he, too, had been taken beyond this world.
Valar, why did he, Faramir, remain? Why had he not been granted the sempiternal slumber that had taken his father and brother?
Faramir wished to cry, yet could not, for his eyes were dry now, a small crust building around them as he not even blinked, always staring up. Why be strong if none were left who cared?
He did not even bother to understand his current circumstances, as the sudden grief kept pulling him under the surface, like an undertow in an otherwise still sea, the veil of water closing above his head. The world swam before his eyes and had he not already rested on the bed, he would have crushed down on the tiles like the numbers of arrows on his people.
He now well remembered the battlefield, the cries and the shouts, the blades and the arrows, the hope and the despair. He remembered fighting and he remembered falling. After that, he remembered only the flames, engulfing him and his father, the steel of his armour trapping the heat relentlessly inside, even as he was thrown down from the pyre.
He did not remember the name of the one who saved him, nor could he recall his face – it mattered not. He would be furious without reason, he knew, for the one who intended to spare him from this cruel fate had stolen him from the arms of his father.
He remembered his love to be equally burning and painful as the flames, tearing him into pieces without claiming his life, for he still had to go on. He remembered wanting to prove himself, to show his quality, to receive but one gracious word. He never did.
He remembered how his father had looked at him, this last time, with love. For a moment, neither seemed to notice the fire, and neither turned their head. He would keep that memory in his heart, glad to have at least this one sign of love left. Alas, he had been saved! Dying by his father’s side would have been the greatest sacrifice, one that would no longer be ignored. At least in death, he would have received the love he so desperately yearned for. Now, it was gone.
Shaking with silent sobs, Faramir turned his head to the can again. He needed the water, if only to put out the flames on his skin, or to drown the memories he could no longer bear. Helplessly, he reached out a second time, just before his arms went limp and fell to his side, the slightly curled fingers hanging over the corner of the bed.
Very well, he would wait for death then. For any kind of chance he would be granted, be it dying with thirst, the final victory of Minas Tirith, or a dagger left by his bedside later on. He would find a way to reunite with his family. Father had been right; there was no hope left.
His eyes closed and his mouth hanging open, he waited. It would not take long, he assured himself.
Suddenly, he heard slow steps dragging over the floor. Then, he felt warm fingers on his cheek, stroking him softly.
“You must drink,” a voice muttered, and it was older than Faramir had expected, as the guard had looked quite young, only a few years older than himself. It did not sound like a suggestion. As the can pressed against his lower lip and the body of the can rested against his hurting chest, he realised it was none.
Still, he obeyed the command, swallowing the cool liquid that was brought to his lips. It eased the pain in his throat and made him forget about his plans for a second. He was startled by the certainty in this voice that he would do as told, by the unadorned clarity of the words.
As the can lifted from his chest and his stomach filled with water, he breathed in a little and started to cough.
Swiftly, the man by his side removed the can and helped Faramir into a sitting position, so that he could cough out the water from his lungs without being at risk to breathe it in again.
The arms that held him were warm and soft, and though they pressed against his burning skin, the grip did not feel painful at all.
Once he was done coughing, he attempted to lie down again, and the man lowered Faramir’s upper body steadily, so that he did not even feel a difference between the hands on his back and the soft feather-pillows.
“Thank you,” he mouthed, unable to speak louder.
“No need to thank me, my son.”
Faramir’s eyelids fluttered and opened, looking at one whom he had never hoped to see again. A smile lingering on the wrinkled lips, and tears shone in the warm grey eyes fixed upon him – a sight Faramir deemed a fever dream, for this was even more than he would have expected in his father’s lifetime, not to speak of beyond it.
Also did the old man wear white, a colour Faramir could not remember on his father. The robe he wore was a lot lighter than usual, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows as he stroked his son’s forehead.
“Father?” he whispered.
“Yes, my son, it is I.” He grasped Faramir’s hand with his own and put it on the young man’s chest, just where his heart beat under the thin tunic he wore.
“You’re dead,” Faramir stated, wishing to take his words back as his father lowered his eyes, a soft tremor in the withered hands.
“Yes, I am, for good or worse, at my own wish. It was my time to go, before the enemy could seize my heart as he had seized my mind, devouring it with every glance I dared at the palantir. I have brought enough sorrow and grief over Minas Tirith.” He raised his gaze again, looking Faramir in the eye with a tilted head and a sorrowful expression. “And over you.”
Now, hot tears ran down Faramir’s cheek, as he answered. “I would have shared your grief and sorrow, had you only asked.”
“I know, my son, but it is too late to turn back time. I apologise for my words and deeds of late, as my mind was dimmed by the dark shadow, yet I will not take this as an excuse. You had only done what was best for Gondor and I have returned it with cruelty, so I will not ask to be forgiven. It dreads me even now, beyond my time, to see what had nearly become. No, it was my own failing that brought me to this and your success in many matters that saved you from the same fate. Do not take it for granted, for I, of all, know best what happens to those things and people you take for granted, believing they will always be at your side. I had not thought of you ever dying, not even in my darkest hours shortly before unforgivable decisions were made, and as I believed you to be gone, it was my end. Do not throw away your life, as I would have in the madness that befell me, and as I have thrown away mine without purpose, in shame and guilt and despair.” Denethor pulled up Faramir’s blanket with his free hand and then dried the tears on his son's face with his own sleeve, not taking his gaze from his son.
Though the kindness for more unfamiliar, even eerie, Faramir could not stop himself from a weary smile. Whatever kind of fever had brought this dream, he was grateful, hoping it would stay for long or at least till the end. Whatever awaited him afterwards. “There is nothing to apologise for, father. I am just glad that you are here, at last.”
“There is and I have come to make my peace, now my days are over. And I shall hope you find your peace in the years to come, without the shadow of my unjust words looming over you. You shall become Steward of Gondor and you shall excel in this position as in every other in your life so far. Blind is the man who cannot see your qualities, and robbed of reason not to understand your deeds. You shall grow to a greater man than I ever was in my blind ambition to become king. I might not see the throne of Gondor to be yours, alas, yet I shall look upon you when the people praise the Steward who rebuilds Minas Tirith alongside a king of equal greatness.”
“The end is nigh, Minas Tirith is lost, as you have said. Soon, the forces of the enemy will run it down and kill everybody inside. There is no hope left, father, and I shall come to join you soon.” He drew his father’s hand to his mouth and put a kiss on the long, wrinkled fingers he would have loved to see around a sword’s hilt again. Alas they did not die together in battle! It would have been a truly great end; the line of stewards strong till death claims them. “And I very much hope your gaze shall never again be one of disappointment – I will assure it with all my might.”
“I should have never looked at you in disappointment in my life, for I was wrong to be disappointed only because you reminded me of Finduilas’ and, later, Boromir’s death. It is not your fault that I searched for the dead and ignored the living, looking for miracles where none existed, restraining my love for you so that it would not lessen the love for those I had no longer with me. Had it not been for you, my life would have found its end a long time ago, no later than the moment I received Boromir’s broken horn. There had been no other reason to fight other than keeping Minas Tirith intact to see the one son I had in my position, even if only shortly before the fall. Alas I deemed it all forlorn too fast, for even now, the city stands as it always has. The battle for middle-earth is about to begin and not even I can tell how it will yet – yet there is hope, Faramir! Hope! Do not give up yet, for it will be my last wish to see you as a steward, shall the battle be victorious. And if not, I ask you to fight to the last, to be a hero like your brother, for you two are truly alike, even if dismissed to be so by an old, battered man who could no longer distinguish between the poisonous words of the dark shadow and his own. If one of us has failed the other, it is I, for I have not fought to the last and not trusted in you enough to survive. I do not ask for forgiveness because I no longer deserve it, but I wish you to understand, if that is what you can give.”
The light from the window fell bright on the sunken eyes and even seemed to shimmer through – no shadow fell behind Denethor as he slightly moved to let Faramir drink again.
As his father had put aside the can, Faramir spoke again. “Take me with you, father, I do not wish to be here alone. I wish that the flames had taken us both, that there would be no need for fearing the fate of middle-earth to go either way, for none of those ways are the ones I wish to choose. There is no reason in staying behind, in fighting for a land that has taken all I could give and even more. Take me with you. I do not want to depart from you ever again.” He desperately clenched the hand he held, as if it could make his father stay. The more they talked, the more all this felt real – and if it was, he could not simply go the way he had planned to follow, for there were none to share it with. Little did Gondor matter, for it now had a king, one who could rule without a steward by his side.
“No, Faramir, you will stay and you will live. I bid you to use the time given to you, and I bid you to use it wisely, as you always had. You might not see me for many decades to come, however, you shall be sure I never leave your side and grant you all the love that I withheld for so long, looking upon you with a smile. I shall see you become steward, and I shall see you marry and raise your children in love and without a shadow in the distance. You shall grow old and never turn bitter, as has your father with grief, looking now back with sorrow, for there had still been much empty place for joy and kindness. And when the time comes, I shall take you into my embrace again.” He leaned over and left a kiss on his son’s still sweaty forehead.
Were it not for the familiar face and the old, deep voice, Faramir would have thought it was another man at his bedside, not his father. Was that how he had been in the years before the mourning, before he wore only black and spoke with hatred? Faramir would have loved to remember, yet he could only take it as something new, as if death had turned his father to the figure he had relentlessly searched beneath the cold exterior.
Should he dare to disobey, to force his father to take him back, now that he had finally changed? Faramir was tempted, as he never wished to lose him again, especially as he was now. It would also make him see his brother and his mother again, perhaps even more of those he had deemed lost. Yet he could not bring himself to refuse Denethor this last wish, even if it was folly. He would not live with his wounds for long, anyway, this he knew. He could make his way through the pain, some days perhaps, weeks at most, and please his father one last time. It would truly mean a lot to him, this Faramir could see in the grey eyes that no longer held back tears. He also felt the importance of the wish in the tremor in Denethor’s hands – one tightly covered by Faramir’s long, lithe fingers and the other caressing his cheek.
“Do this for me, my son, and I shall never ask anything of you again.” His tone was urged, nearly hastened, as if he was fearing to be gone the very next second.
Now, Faramir realised what had positively bothered him most. During their parley, his father had never once called him Captain or only by his name – he had addressed him as my son, words he had never hoped to hear again. “I would do all for you,” he finally said.
“I know this and I am grateful. Soon, a man will come who can heal you and wish you not to fight against the mending. If the battle goes well, time will separate us for long, and I believe that you will find joy again, and grow to see the beauty of this forsaken city rising from ashes like a phoenix, shimmering under sunlight and starlight, in spring as in autumn, with another white tree growing in our courtyard. And in old age, your forbearers will call you home, and there shall be no regret in your eyes, for I will not have you repeat the same mistakes.” Finding confusion in his son’s eyes, he added, “The dead know more than the living, and especially those that have spent much time observing the shadows.”
He would live. Faramir could still not believe this revelation. Yet his promise was made, even if once again based on the deceit of his father. Faramir smiled to himself, realising that Denethor had not changed in the core of his heart, even if it had grown softer and more repentant, and, most importantly, fond of both sons. He still used his wisdom and astuteness to give Faramir the illusion of a choice, only to be, in fact, a decision Denethor had long made himself, a command waiting to be given. Yet for the first time, he was using it to achieve not his own goals, for it was clearly written in his eyes that he yearned to take his son with him, as he had attempted on the pyre. Denethor was, after all, the greatest tactician Gondor had to offer.
Still, Faramir would not break his word. He would fight to mend and see the dreams of his family fulfilled, or at least try to. The loneliness and hurt or all these years were gone, as if burned by the flames that day on the pyre. From this moment on, he swore to himself, he would remember his father for this morning alone and not the years in the shadows, when he had hardly kept going himself, often at the expense of Faramir’s feelings. When his children would ask, he would tell them of Denethor’s strength and knowledge, of his tactics and the sacrifices he made for Gondor, for nothing else was now of importance. Now, at last, both had made peace with their past.
“One thing, father, I want to know. Why do you not ask for forgiveness?”
“Because I cannot forgive myself. Had I not trusted the words of the Dark Lord over my own son, we would still be side by side, and you would never have felt the need to search for love in a hollow heart.” He sounded rational, as if he was talking about the needed numbers of warriors for a battle.
“Then I ask you to forgive, as I do. There is no reason to be resentful, for you have granted me more than you can possibly believe. As you said, you cannot turn back time, but you can accept my forgiveness, and forgive yourself, for I would not want you to suffer now that I no longer do.” Now it was his turn to reach out for the wrinkled face, to swipe away the tears with shaky fingers as Denethor’s face moved nearer to ease the movement.
“So be it, my son. I thank you and I shall remember your mercy till the day we meet again, for then it shall no longer be your mercy ruling my heart but my love for you, one that you particularly deserve.” He leaned forwards and embraced Faramir, pressing his own cheek tightly against his. Then, he stood up, a sincere and solemn look on his face.
Praying for the moment to last just one more minute, Faramir grabbed his father’s hands with both his own, squeezing them tightly. “I always loved you, father.”
Denethor's lips curled up to a smile as he looked down. “So did I, my son, even if I did not realise.” After that, he faded into thin air, leaving like a shadow under the midday sun.
Still, Faramir felt something in his hands. Upon looking at it, he found it was the ring Denethor had always worn, a gift of his father who had received it from his own. Now, the heirloom went to Faramir, who swore to give it to his own son in time. But now, he would keep it as a treasure, as a direct reminder of this last conversation that had brought him more joy than he ever thought he could feel.
He would live, yes, and he would thrive. There was no reason now to fear the future.
Just as he put on the clunky ring, a ruby surrounded by titanium, as steadfast as the line of stewards, the door opened. A tall man, clad in brown and green clothes, raven-haired and grey-eyed, stepped in. He was accompanied by a fair elf with long blond hair, entirely clad in green, and a dwarf, the long red beard falling to his knees.
“My king,” Faramir said, trying to bow his head without straining himself too much. His voice felt much weaker now, as if the presence of his father had given him strength that had now disappeared.
The guard jumped up, visibly embarrassed that he had missed his new ruler’s first appearance, just woken by the words of the new Steward of Gondor.
The Steward smiled.