Faramir Fiction Archive

For Gondor (PG-13)

Written by Wyndhamfan

13 February 2012 | 4273 words | Work in Progress

Title: For Gondor
Author: Wyndhamfan
Genre: Angst, Action/Adventure
Characters: Faramir, Boromir, Denethor
Rated: PG-13

Summary: A terrible dream haunts Faramir; a dream that points to the doom of Gondor. Faramir is forced to go against his brother and the decree of his father Denethor to save Gondor from a terrible fate. (Movie-verse, though I try to keep to canon as best as I can)

Disclaimer: Nope, Faramir, Boromir, Denethor and other LOTR characters do not belong to me. This story is written for non-profit purposes.

---

Chapter One: Blood Red

It always began with a scream.

And despite knowing what he would see, he could not stop himself from watching the horror of it all.

And the woman, her hair stained with the blood of those who were killed around her, screamed again. She held out her hands – always she held out her hands – and she begged for mercy. And a boy, his eyes empty, with tear tracks running down his soot-stained cheeks. Fire surrounded them both.

“Please! Help us! Help us! Why won’t you help us?” the woman screamed. Her eyes met his. It was then when he became paralysed. He wanted to go forward to help the woman, but his body would not move.

Their screams mingled with laughter, loud and shrill in his ears, but he couldn’t cover his ears and he couldn’t turn away. By the Valar, it took so long for the screaming to stop.

Faramir recoiled from it all and suddenly he was lifted up; he flew above the fields. He saw that they were burning; miles and miles of it.

The sustenance of Gondor is gone. Winter will come. Men will starve. Gondor will fall!

He knew not who spoke, and he was filled with too much fear to wonder for long, for he was flying too high and he could not stop. And his gaze travelled upwards.

The moon was blood red.

“No!” Faramir breathed as he jerked upright in his bed. He shivered violently from the cold – whether from the horrors of the dream or from the cold air in his room, he knew not – and wrapped his arms around his body.

It took him a moment to recollect where he was. He was in Minas Tirith, summoned by his father, the Steward. He had ridden long and hard from Ithilien because the summons were urgent; it had the scent of war on it. And although he had longed to visit Boromir when he finally arrived at Minas Tirith late at night, he knew that Boromir needed rest, especially after the devastating attack on his men a fortnight ago.

The dream had stolen whatever desire he had left for sleep. He quickly put on a simple tunic and grabbed his bow which lay by his side. Perhaps an archery practise could take his mind off the disturbing dream.

As he walked towards the practise range on fifth level of the city, his mind still dwelt on the dream.

This is the fourth time I’ve had this dream. And it has become worse. Ever do I see the boy burning; even in my waking hours do I smell the stench of burning flesh.

Faramir recoiled at that thought. He turned towards the moon as he always did after the dream, to check if it was blood red. It was not. Nor was it red the last three times he checked. Tonight, the moon was barely full, and it was bright and yellow – the same moon that he had watched all his life.

An old Gondorian wives’ tale said that the moon once turned red during the battle between the Alliance of Men and Elves with the minions of Sauron in the Second Age. “The moon became drunk with the blood of elves and men, and it turned bloody from it,” Ioreth, the aged healer, used to tell him as a child during his rare visits to the Houses of Healing.

I am now certain that the burning fields I saw were the Fields of Enedh Aes. Will it come to pass? He wondered. Then he frowned and wondered in despair: When will the dreams end? Must my life ever be plagued by such things? Isn’t it enough that I dream of Númenor’s fall?

For the nightmares were robbing him of strength and alertness. And alertness is something a Ranger could not afford to lose. Only yesterday, while tracking a group of Southron men, he had suddenly heard the boy’s screams. Shocked by the sudden intrusion, he had nearly released the arrow he was aiming at the enemy party. If he had done so, the enemy would have known their position and the element of surprise would have been gone. His rangers, so few in number, would have suffered for it. He could not afford such carelessness. Not in Ithilien!

And he was weary, so very weary of the screams.

A sudden sound to his right made him ready his bow. Then he chuckled when he saw who it was.

“Why, little brother? Did you think I am an enemy from Mordor?” Boromir said, a big smile on his face, as he walked towards Faramir.

“No brother. You’re far too shiny!” He rapped Boromir’s armour and lifted an eyebrow. “What are you doing, walking around in armour in the middle of the night?”

“Middle of the night? Brother, it is nearly dawn! And the council will meet in an hour. Besides, I can’t sleep. What else can I do?”

Although his brother’s words were light, Faramir detected heaviness in them. He watched Boromir; he noticed the lines of weariness around his eyes and the tightness of his smile. Aye … his brother was still grieved over what happened two weeks ago. Ai, who wouldn’t be?

“Brother. Have you been sleeping well?”

Bromir looked surprised at the sudden change of topic. Then he snorted. “Ever do you try to look into my heart, little brother. I’ve had enough of that from father the last two weeks.”

Faramir looked away, unsure of how to respond to that. He turned when Boromir placed a hand on his shoulder.

“I am sorry, Faramir. My words were rash.”

Faramir gave Boromir a small smile. “You are grieving. I will not fault you for that.”

The tightness around Boromir’s eyes increased. “Come. Walk with me,” Boromir murmured.

They walked in silence for a time … until they reached the edge overlooking the Pelennor Fields. Faramir shivered, thinking about the burning fields of Enedh Aes, but forced himself to think of his brother instead. Boromir needed his support in this difficult time most.

“You’ve heard about my southern garrison?”

Faramir nodded. “Yes. It was attacked by the Corsairs.”

“And Easterlings using their ships to traverse the Anduin,” Boromir whispered bitterly, his eyes fixed on the crossroads of Pelennor. “The outlying villages were burnt to the ground. My men fought valiantly but by the time word reached me in Osgiliath, and by the time I brought reinforcements, many were dead. It is the manner of their deaths that angered me! Nay … it sickened me.”

Faramir frowned at that. All he had heard was that Boromir’s men had suffered great losses and Boromir had been denied the chance of even fighting the enemy. He had heard that Boromir was also grieved by the number of villages that were destroyed.

“These monsters – be it Easterlings or the men of Umbar, I do not know – they tortured my men for hours, Faramir!” Overcome, Boromir turned away from him. Faramir saw that his were shoulders shaking from tension.

When his brother turned back, Faramir shivered in anxiety at the depths of hatred he saw in his eyes. It was a hatred that thirsted for vengeance.

“They were tortured, Faramir,” Boromir said again, his voice low with controlled fury as if the reality of it was too much for him. “For hours. For they did not bleed to death immediately, and there were several little pools of blood beneath their bodies. When the enemy had tired of their sport, they -”

“Enough,” Faramir rasped, closing his eyes and turning away in despair. His nightmare was still fresh in his mind; Boromir’s recollection only worsened the faint screams of the boy that suddenly returned to his ears.

“I know not what to tell the families of my men,” Boromir whispered, anguish heavy in his voice. He sighed. A sudden wind from the north flung his blonde hair away from his face. “We’ve seen so much war, little brother. But never have I felt such thirst to inflict pain on the enemy.”

Faramir opened his eyes, stared at the Pelennor.

“Gondor’s enemies are getting bold. Ever do they press against us! I would see them pay for this … slight.”

“Our needs grow desperate,” Faramir murmured, more to himself that to Boromir.

“Yes, it does. But we shall see Gondor’s glory return, Faramir. We will!”

Will we, Boromir? Faramir wondered. Our numbers are few, and Gondor’s men grow exhausted from never-ending battles. Her enemies are many, her allies, few. Rohan is distracted – its King turned inward with grief. Who would come to aid us in this desperate time?

But he did not want to add to his brother’s grief, so he said, “Yes, we shall Boromir.”

“The Corsairs and the Easterlings will pay for their folly, Faramir,” his brother’s blue eyes glinted with malice. It made Faramir uncomfortable. “For this time, we shall strike first!” Boromir clasped Faramir’s shoulder. “And with my brother at my side, we shall not fail!”

It should fill him with pride that Boromir wanted him to fight by his side and that he regarded him so highly, so why is he filled with dread instead?

And his gaze travelled to the moon, and ever it teased him with prophecies of a future that may come to pass.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/for-gondor. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!