Faramir Fiction Archive

Narsilion: The Rise of Osgiliath (NC-17)

Written by E. Batagur

15 July 2009 | 10405 words

Part 4

Four Hundred and Twenty Days Later

When he heard word that his consort had taken ill after a trip back to Henneth Annûn, Faramir left the White City with no escort and rode without rest. He arrived to find Éomer recovering from a fever. The fever had been strong, but Éomer had proven stronger.

“You worry too much,” Éomer had said as Faramir rested his head on his shoulder. He sat on the edge of Éomer’s bed.

“I’ll not lose you, Vasa,” Faramir had whispered.

He stayed then, throughout Éomer’s recovery. At last they were together in their home.

“I will return to my work in Osgiliath in a fortnight,” Éomer said as they watched the setting sun shimmer through the water fall. “Will you go back to the White City?”

“No, Vasa,” Faramir said softly as he nuzzled against Éomer’s neck and shoulder. He drank in his love’s fragrance. “I’m with you. We will go to Osgiliath… and we should visit Edoras as well. Éowyn is worried and Géoden would like to see his uncle.”

He watched Éomer smile after he mentioned his nephew. Géoden, son of Gimli, was a handsome child, if not a little short for his age.

“I catch a sniffle and you grow leery and apprehensive enough to follow me about…”

“Do not mock me, Éomer,” Faramir said growing serious. Lifting his head, he stepped out of Éomer’s embrace. “I am Prince of Ithilien and I do as I please; if that means staying by the side of my consort, then that is what I shall do!”

The smile was gone from Éomer’s face and his voice lowered to an angry whisper. “You do as you please, my prince, but I need not be watched or coddled. Do not mistake me for some frail damsel. Just because I am your consort doesn’t mean I am your dainty wife.”

“I would be a fool to mistake you for such.”

Éomer’s nostrils flared as he looked at Faramir with a gaze made of liquid fire. “Good,” he said deliberately, walking closer with a menacing glare. “I would hate to think that I am the consort of a fool; or worse, a fool is Prince of Ithilien.”

Éomer took a step back, giving Faramir one last glare. He then turned and stalked away. Faramir closed his eyes and sighed, his fury turning to irritation and melancholy. Éomer was a proud man. Faramir realized how his concern had been misinterpreted as belittlement. However, it was not to coddle Éomer that Faramir wished to stay by his side.

It was Faramir’s lonely heart that wanted to be with his Vasa. He tired of this separate life, divided by only a few short leagues from the man who was the love of his life. In this, Faramir wanted to hate Osgiliath. The city would tear the very heart from him. It had been working on that since long before that day.

“No more of me,” he hissed in anger to the city that had been the center of so many of his woes.

He found Éomer in his private chamber, penning a letter. His brow was still creased with the stormiest of frowns.

“I stay by your side because I would die if I were to be parted from you any longer,” Faramir said as he walked through the curtained doorway. “I stay by your side because my heart hurts. Too long have I been parted from my love, my Vasa. Too long has my heart gone without the joy of your sunlight.

“I hate Osgiliath!” Faramir hissed.

Éomer put down his quill and stood. He came about his desk to fold Faramir into his strong embrace.

“Do not say that, my heart,” Éomer whispered against his ear. “Osgiliath is my love for you. Can’t you see that? I would make it a jewel for you; bright and beautiful, like you are bright and beautiful. I’ve poured all my passion for you in every stone. It will stand for a thousand years hence, declaring that Éomer, son of Éomund, shall ever love Faramir, son of Denethor, though the world may end and the stars fall from the sky.”

Faramir held Éomer tightly to himself. He said no more.

Fifteen Years Later

Osgiliath stood strong and beautiful, the shining jewel of Boromir’s visions. The blue marble dome of the Rond Giliath could be seen from Minas Tirith when the noonday sun struck it. Lords and merchants made pleasure homes along the northern river from closer to Cair Andros. The royal family docked a pleasure boat on the Anduin there.

In the center of the great square stood a statue of Boromir, son of Denethor. He held his horn in one hand and his other hand rested on the hilt of his sword. His shield was strap to his back, and he looked as he did the day he had left Osgiliath for Rivendell.

“Remember this day, little brother,” he had said to Faramir, and Faramir had remembered.

The streets of Osgiliath were lined with flowers and fruit trees. The evenings were filled with music. It was once more the home of gracious civilization. It was the crown jewel of Gondor.

The Prince of Ithilien and his consort, the Earl of Osgiliath, however, chose to live just an hour’s ride south in Emyn Arnen, the ancestral seat of the Steward of Gondor.

The Elessar came to visit, riding to Emyn Arnen with his son, Eldarion. The prince came to renew his friendship with Géoden of Rohan, who was spending the summer season with his uncle to learn the finer points of being a warrior, a horse lord, and a rider for the Riddermark. The young man had brought with him his own charger, Galerunner. Galerunner was a descendant of Snowmane. And because Géoden was short, his legs barely fit the stirrups, but he rode the large charger boldly and without fear. Éomer was proud.

It was a fine summer evening with a sweet breeze coming off the river. To the north, the distant lights of Osgiliath shone like diamonds on the velvet darkness of the night. The Elessar took forth his old pipe, filling it thoughtfully. He lit it with a small twig of kindling from the fire.

The boys were in the stables talking and seeing to Galerunner. Éomer could guess that they would be bothering poor Firefoot’s rest as well. Géoden was enamored with his uncle’s blue roan. Firefoot would tolerate the young men. They meant no harm.

“The queen wishes to celebrate the jubilee in Osgiliath,” Aragorn said as he sucked on his pipe, causing the embers of Southfarthing to glow brightly. “She wanted to come herself to ask the Earl, but there was too much planning to be accomplished. She had to stay in the White City for a while longer.”

“A pity,” Faramir said softly. “Arwen is welcome to retreat here, if her heart desires. The cities are demanding. There is peace here in Emyn Arnen.”

Aragorn smiled. “We thank you. Now, what say you, Éomer of Osgiliath?”

Éomer bowed gracefully. “The queen’s wish is my desire, my lord. Tell me what needs to be done and it shall be done.”

Aragorn’s smile grew. “By your hand personally, no doubt. Be at ease, my dear friend. Your consent is all that is needed from you.”

“That you have above all else, my king,” said Éomer. “But be that as it may, I will muster the White Guard to cleanse the Anduin of corsairs and minions from Minas Mogul for leagues in every direction. I’ll let nothing disrupt the joy of the queen’s jubilee.”

Aragorn chuckled lightly. “As reliable as the sun rising in the east, I shall never doubt your resolve, Lord Éomer.” Aragorn looked to the north, up river. “My only regret is that Gondor could not have more men like you and the steward.”

“My lord,” Faramir said lightly. “If Gondor had more men like us, there would be fewer sons for the future.”

Arogorn nodded with a smile, but he reached into the pocket of his long blue and silver velvet tunic. He pulled forth a pale blue stone that shone with an inner light that was independent of the fire and lanterns that burned on the villa’s water porch, overlooking the river.

“Gandalf gave me this to give to you,” he said.

The White Wizard was gone from Middle-earth, departed with the elf lords to the undying lands. His presence was greatly missed by all who knew him. Éomer knew that Faramir and Éowyn were two of many who lamented Gandalf’s retreat on the western sea.

“What is this?” Faramir said as he looked down on the stone. Éomer came to stand at his shoulder to gaze on it as well.

“Take it, Lord Prince and Earl of Osgiliath. Hold it in your hands together.”

Faramir reached out slowly to obey his king’s command. Éomer’s hand joined his readily, and they took up the bright stone. Together, they cupped it, and its light became brighter still.

“This is the last gift of Fëanor the creator of the palantíri. Captured from the light of the holy trees, it is only a sliver of one of the sacred jewels, but its power is great. The Narsilion endures each age in harmony. If there had been discord in this house, the mighty star that lived in the stone would not have allowed me to enter.

“I believe Gandalf knew that the house of the Steward of Gondor would need an heir… a child born of the stars and not of the flesh. I know not how this will happen, but I know in my heart that it will.” Aragorn closed their hands over the stone.

Two Years Later

To the Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien and to his consort the Earl of Osgiliath, son of the Riddermark, came a babe, a son, who arrived in a small silver punt down the Anduin. There were those who said that this small miracle arrived not in a punt but upon the bronze and silver shield that had been carried by Boromir of Gondor. In this vessel with the tiny newborn were the mended horn of Boromir, and the heavy leather gauntlets of Théoden, items thought long buried and lost with their owners.

They named their son Théboron.

The End.

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