Faramir Fiction Archive

Fresh Fuel for Charred Coal (R)

Written by Hurinhouse

15 January 2010 | 4894 words

Part 2

Like the wearing of a helmet made too small, his head felt a gripping, squeezing. And the foul taste in his mouth… when he swished with water, his stomach rebelled again to start the process anew, his muscles weak and quivering from the effort to lean over the side.

It had been five days since he’d heard the Horn, since Denethor had shot up the tower stairs and scoured the palantir. Three days since he saw Faramir shot down, abandoned by his supposed companions; abandoned by Thorongil. Denethor was not blind.

He’d spent the first day in the tower, scrambling for another view, hoping for a miracle. He’d seen the Halfling with his son in the woods. The creature had looked to be begging Faramir, trying to hand him something. Faramir had backed away, steering clear of the object. After what appeared to be an argument, the Halfling rushed upon the man, forcing their hands together.

A bright light had shot from their joined palms, seemed to suspend them in a mutual stupor for many moments, before they both fell to the ground, startled. Faramir stumbled, helped the Halfling stand, set something in the culprit’s hand. A knowing look passed between them before they both became alert, looked toward the east. Faramir pushed the Halfling away, and the coward ran, leaving what was left of Denethor’s heart alone in the woods. And now a half-wit carried Arda’s future away.

That’s when Denethor saw the new breed of orc descend upon his son, grotesque beasts of great stature and rudimentary weapons, with no comrades but two more of those tiny men to help. Why could not Fara’s place have been exchanged with that scrap of a would-be king?

Endahil had found him on the stone floor the next morning. Now he lay in his fine featherbed, a cutting counterpoint to the damp leaves he saw his son lie among during his last moments. He couldn’t find in himself the will to eat, despite Endahil’s constant attempts. He’d heard him turn countless messengers away, mostly with queries from council members. No doubt the greedy scoundrels lay in wait for his demise.

None of it mattered. He’d hand the Stewardship over to any cocky popinjay with the linage, for he had no son to leave it to.

In a dark corner of a roadside tavern, leagues south of the city, a nervous man met with a cut-throat. The servant had been selected for the task due to his ability to ride with haste and inquire with discretion.

At the dimly lit table he quietly stuttered out his lord’s request, then with shaking hands slid a blue linen pouch across the stained and gouged wood. The shadowed rogue opposite found a goodly sum inside, a sum that would grant him many dancing girls; or an estate in the country.

“M’lord and ‘is fellows… they think there’s no other way, mind. Say the country needs able leaders with war coming.”

Silent as the snow, the rogue finished his mead and left the table, pouch in hand.

Long quiet shadows felt reverent after passing through the bustling world of frantic servants outside. As he drew farther in, spiced soap and brandy washed over him in waves and he rocked back on his heels at the notion of incessant chess games and pony rides on strong shoulders. It was then Bálin saw the man lying in the bed, mattress plump with great down feathers encased in rich brocade. It looked softer than a scrap of canvas thrown over decayed logs.

He drank in the sight, with both longing and bitterness. He reveled in memories of tiresome tales of old, scattered with prized mentions of elves and warriors. Stern reprimands and a stinging backside. Hugs, tight as bears, and the look of love from a woman with kind eyes and intimate knowledge.

He shook the useless far-off dreams from his head and drew his knife. He had business to conduct. The older man opened weary eyes, flinched at the foreign movement in his room. Bálin found the edge of the bed and looked at the face, rough years carved into a soft life. It was handsome but unreadable. Disbelief, hope, fear, dread… recognition?

A weak hand reached out, “My Boromir?”

Bálin’s breath caught and he backed away. The dagger nearly slipped from his hand before he tightened his hold and lurched forward, placed the blade against the thin skin of his father’s neck. Denethor ignored the blade, his eyes following Bálin’s other hand. The man’s grip was faint, but he must have possessed some bewitchment for Bálin found himself unable to do anything but watch as his wrist was turned, mind caught in some trap that brought a prickling to his eyes.

Denethor gazed at the horse burned into Bálin’s flesh. “I knew. All this time, I knew you’d find your way home.”

Bálin fell upon his knees, knife clattered to the floor, cuffs swiping furiously at the moisture in his eyes like a school boy. He supposed he was one once. Denethor saw his cheek. His frown was more wonderment than disapproval. “You are the outlaw.”

“I am.”

“Is that why you did not come before now?”

“I am a villain, not a prince.” Denethor appeared to swallow doubt, studied his son, breathed in every ounce of him. It seemed to him that this great leader saw through him, into his soul, and grew in strength as he looked his fill. Bálin felt as a lost hound and he knew that this man would lead him to something beyond his measure.

“No longer,” Denethor replied, his voice firm, gaining vigor. He gestured to the hearth with a nod of his chin. “Above the mantel.”

Bálin rose, retrieved the sword that had been forged for him seven and thirty years prior. It was heavier than he was used to, but he was strong now these last years. Again he knelt by his father’s side, this time with head bowed, and repeated the words of fealty, words he had only ever heard his brother speak on that fateful day so long in the past.

His father accepted his pledge with a choked whisper, and when Boromir looked up, he could see joy balance behind Denethor’s lid.

“I thank ye for yer faith… Sir. I would that I shared it.”

Denethor gripped him, held him close. His eyes willed Boromir to listen, “You will find it. You are a Húrin.”

Boromir stared at his father for long moments, then stole back out into the night.

The bells rang a joyous rhythm every hour for three days. The melody lifted spirits, though without recognizing the notes, the citizens had no notion of the occasion. Some surmised the Lord Faramir was returned from his long journey to the north, a new cadence created to celebrate. Others guessed the old steward was announcing an engagement, a pressing need to forge heirs forcing him from his decades long mourning.

Some of the old codgers insisted the merrily bold air of the chime was the call of the Steward’s first son, Boromir, lost to Gondor as a child of six summers. Young folks with short memories shook their heads and laughed.

With a renewed strength the Steward had finally taken some of the soup his chamberlain had been pandering. He held a meeting in his chambers with his most trusted advisors. The first order of business was a moment of silence for a newly deceased council member, the lord found dead in his home the night previous, throat slit, a blue pouch full of coin in his hand.

The next order of business… the defense of Gondor.

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