Faramir Fiction Archive

Ignite (R)

Written by Hurinhouse

01 March 2010 | 8657 words

Chapter 2

The beat of his heart pounded in his ears, the rhythm warring with the steady stamp of the horse’s hooves. Denethor dare not take Silpion with him, for though grand, she was soft, and could not turn quickly like the cavalry horses. He could feel the men’s eyes burning his back, confusion and fear driving them to blindly follow their leader into a hopeless fight.

His thoughts were still spinning from the sight of his eldest captured by Thorongil. Orthanc, perhaps? He’d been able to make out hammocks in the dark of the palantir, similar to those in the cells here below the citadel. The quarreling was not overly violent, nor desperate, but heated, and he thought he could detect more than anger in Boromir’s face. A scheme perhaps? The boy seemed clever.

The knowledge that both his sons were alive drove him to expend every last ounce into preserving the city. This distant son of Isildur was clever if his plan was to use Boromir as hostage for his claim. But Denethor knew his duty. He would give the palantir itself to have his son back, but he could not give Gondor.

So it takes forty years for a king to claim his throne? So be it, but it would be short-lived. Death was coming to them all. Rohan had sustained a surprising advantage, but Denethor knew Corsairs were on the way. Gondor would go down fighting with the horselords until the last brave man drew breath. Faramir would be gone before one orc or Wildman got through the gates, Endahil was well-versed.

The enemy came into view and Denethor felt a surge through his limbs that he’d forgotten. It startled him for a moment, and then he leaned into it, embraced it, rode upon its wave to charge forward. “For Gondor!”

Endahil had been at Denethor’s side all of Faramir’s life, loyal to the steward alone. Faramir could scarcely recall a time when the old man was not blending in with the walls and reminding him by example of his duty to his father. This was why it was difficult to believe Endahil was truly setting him free. “Endahil, did Father send-”

“You should be fighting next to the Steward. Go.”

His horse had nearly slipped on the cobbles on the way down circle, so fast he rode. He’d found his father easily, as the standard bearer stuck to the Steward like honey. Denethor easily slew orcs and wild men, using common sense rather than a brute strength he no longer possessed. He had nearly skewered Faramir before he realized who he was. He stared at his son for a mere second before positioning himself so that they could fight back to back. “Endahil will get no salary increase this year.”

Father and son made a deft team, cutting through savages and demons like a river raging through dry beds. A thrill ran through Denethor’s heart at this chance he never thought would come. When Faramir was eight, Denethor had taken him on his first hunting trip. The boy was crushed at the thought of killing a creature for “no good reason” and refused to do so for several months. Denethor explained that the people under their care needed the meat, as well as experienced hunters to find it, but he let the matter drop for a time.

When next he took him out, Faramir shot at rabbits and fowl as he’d been taught, though it took him a time to hit a moving target. When he finally prevailed, from the shadow of an oak Denethor watched him stroke dead fur, tears coursing down ruddy cheeks, apologies offered in a soft tone meant only for the animal.

Today he saw that same pity in his son’s eyes. But pity did not deter skill. Faramir was cunning. He held back while his opponent made wild lunges, expending little energy to finish the villain when it came into position, all the while arraying himself for the best shot at the next.

All this in a speed that was dizzying. Denethor found nary a moment to wipe the moisture from his face as he dispatched each enemy, but when the black sails were come into view his steps faltered, his legs suddenly sluggish. The tide had been turning but even with Théoden’s help, they would not have enough numbers to defeat a corsair army. His thoughts gathered on the collar of Faramir’s chainmail, noting to memory the barest spot of his son’s throat. When the time came, he’d need no obstacles to impede his blade.

“My Lord! Black sails!” The standard bearer pointed to the Harlond, not far from where they fought.

A horn bellowed there. Where he expected to see heinous pirates carrying cutlasses, a handful of northern rangers took the field, led by a figure Denethor recognized instantly after thirty some years.

Thorongil, or by rights, Aragorn, son of Arathorn. Denethor scathed at the sight of him, though a kinstrife would do nothing but hurt Gondor now, even if they came through this battle alive.

Yet it wasn’t the absent king that took his attention, but that man’s companion. A flutter tingled in his heart, a giddy high he hadn’t felt in decades. Boromir fought in a loop from one enemy to the next, without pause to assess or to breathe. He swung the blade with every ounce of his body and shouts of the Outlaw fighting with the Dead made their way across the field to Denethor’s ears. He noticed then the silhouettes descend from the ship, alight in gossamer colors, gliding at great speed toward the orc army.

Aragorn followed Boromir into the fray. So the northman had not captured Boromir, but rather the other way round.

“Father!”

The blow came from his left, his own son knocking him sideways, causing him to trip on the last Haradrim he’d slain. He came up swirling round, blade instinctively slicing air, to see Faramir hit the ground beside him, a southron dart embedded in his shoulder. His vision swam, memories of Faramir’s stand in the woods so far north, when Denethor could do nothing but watch. Not so today.

His guttural cry did little to scare off the incoming Wild Men, but his thrashing blade caused enough damage to ensure revenge. As he stood guard over Faramir, his usual savvy and clever footwork took back row to a sudden bloodlust he’d never experienced, even in his youngest battle days. One by two by one again, he tore into the Haradrim as they came forth, carving gaping caverns into their bodies, blood and gore mingling with the beads and jewels that hung from their flesh.

The sharp sear in his breast pulled him out of his blinding high and he looked down. He’d seen many chests with swords buried, but never at this angle. He took satisfaction in gutting the Wild Man who’d skewered him before the world tipped beneath his own feet. Once his head hit the ground, no enemy bothered to touch him. His eyes sought his elder son, across the field in a fury of steel and flesh and blood. Denethor had known the boy would be spectacular. His birth day had brightened the city, as if the sun shone directly through his wide new eyes, sparkling in challenge to all that was wrong with the world.

A fresh wave of pain took him and he turned his head to look at Faramir’s pale face. He would have made a grand and just steward, had Boromir not found the king. Boromir had brought the wrong gift. Faramir had turned the true gift away.

A sudden wind rushed over him, transparent robes of old soaring past, leaving slaughtered orcs and Haradrim in their wake. Denethor spared a missive of gratitude that he’d not had to deliver his son’s gift of mercy. Then darkness led him away.

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