Faramir Fiction Archive

The Flame That Burns Within (R)

Written by Eora

23 December 2012 | 12161 words

A year ago, and Faramir had not so much as given him a second glance. Beregond had been looking at him though, quietly, unseen beneath the white feathers of his helm. When he was posted to the throne room and saw the lord Faramir and his father together, talking about this movement of men or that fortification, when the steward would dismiss his son’s ideas so passively and Faramir would never argue, Beregond felt sorry for him, though there was not much he could do. He should not even have been listening, but he grew to enjoy the sound of Faramir’s voice, low, rich, steady even when in reply to a veiled comment from his father. It was often quite difficult to watch if Boromir was present for then the contrast in Denethor’s demeanour toward his two sons was all the more stark. And yet, Faramir was loyal. Beregond could see in this gentle-natured man no desire for warfare or the glory of battle but he did his father’s will out of what, love? Or the need for it?

And then, Beregond found his duties reassigned, and he was put to patrolling the walls of the citadel, and standing guard at the gateway that opened onto the great rampart, the terrace where the White Tree stood shaking its bony branches in the wind.

And then, one day, Faramir came to him.

“Guard,” he had said, and Beregond looked up from where he had been, admittedly, daydreaming, staring at his feet. The lord Faramir was approaching him across the forecourt, no doubt to reprimand him for letting his mind wander. Beregond straightened and bowed his head.

“My lord?”

“I am going up into the Silent Street, into the Stewards’ Houses; will you accompany me?” He was standing before him, not too far, and Beregond almost smiled at the way he asked when he could have commanded.

“As you wish, my lord.”

Faramir nodded, and turned on his heel and Beregond followed a pace behind. “There has been some damage to the roof in one place where shale has fallen from the cliff face above, and the recent rains have not helped; there will be nothing too morbid about this excursion.” Faramir was speaking over his shoulder, and Beregond thought about keeping stride with him, but it did not seem right. He was not Faramir’s friend, or his equal in rank, and would never be. He did not know what to say; he nodded back, and Faramir turned his head away. The rest of the journey was spent in silence. Why Faramir needed guarding while inspecting a faulty roof Beregond did not have the authority to question out loud.

Beregond liked men. He liked Faramir. But that was where it ended. He was not a fool; he knew that his pity for Faramir stemmed not only from common decency at the unfair treatment his lord appeared to merit but also from an attraction he could not truthfully call wholly platonic. But, being no fool, Beregond knew that nothing would ever come of this. No friendship, nothing. But it was nice, he thought, to have a moment with his lord alone, and perhaps pretend later that Faramir favoured him. He was certainly handsome enough, even if Beregond knew little of Faramir’s personality, his opinions, his thoughts and habits that he did not display in the throne room. Beregond found himself staring at the back of Faramir’s auburn head, and thought sadly to himself, I would be lucky to find someone as fine as this who might fall in love with me.

The Silent Street was, as ever, deserted, and the door to the Stewards’ Houses was locked, and when tried, very unwilling to open once Faramir produced the key. It took the both of them with palms flat on the dark wood, pushing with arms straight and knees bent, to heave the door open and allow the cool, musty air of the mausoleum assail their nostrils. Beregond picked up his spear from where he had leant it against the wall, and readjusted his helm. Faramir looked at him before they crossed the threshold.

“You can take that off if you like; I know it’s far from comfortable.” Beregond complied, his thick brown hair spilling down either side of his face, flattened and full of kinks. He lay the great winged helmet by the door on the inside, and followed the sound of Faramir’s footsteps into the gloom, his guards‘ cloak swishing on the floor like the sigh of the ocean.

“There,” Faramir pointed up at a corner of the roof. Beregond squinted; it was dimly lit, and Faramir had not brought a candle. He could see however where the wooden joists had become damp with the rain, and further along, where a small hole threatened to become a larger one. On the floor, and scattered over the unseeing marble eyes of the long-dead past steward whose effigy was carved atop his coffin, were motes of dust and gravel, having fallen from on high.

“Is it safe?”

Faramir had wandered away, eyes trained upwards. “For now, I should think. But it will need to be seen to. Everyone here is dead but it does not seem right to me that this place should fall into disrepair.”

He spoke bluntly, and Beregond tilted his head in curiosity. “Everyone except us,” he found himself saying, and Faramir laughed.

“Precisely.” He faced Beregond, a strange light in his eyes, or so Beregond imagined. “Though sometimes I hardly feel alive at all.”

“I…do not get your meaning, my lord.”

Faramir smiled sadly, glancing away and then back again. “Ah, ‘tis nothing.” He walked back toward the guard, circling him, appraising the roof-damage from a different angle, or, as it felt, appraising Beregond himself. Beregond fought the urge to twist his head in pursuit, and then Faramir’s hand landed on his shoulder lightly, and the steward’s son said, quietly; “I do not suppose you are lonely, guard?”

As if his blood had turned to glaciers in his veins, Beregond froze. Was this a proposition? No, of course not! An unusual, but innocent question, twisted by Beregond’s own private fancies. But how to answer? Faramir was astute, sensing his struggle. Beregond could see him in his peripheral vision, looking at him. “In what sense?” he managed, at last.

“I suppose in the sense that I hardly have much reason for an armed escort when visiting a crypt.” Faramir’s words were bold, candid, but his tone was unsure. “I have seen you in the throne room.” And then, as if fear took hold of him, he let go of Beregond’s shoulder and paced away again, leaving Beregond staring after him in a mix of confusion and sudden longing.

What did he have to lose? They would probably only strip him of his rank and duties, maybe cut off his bollocks if he was lucky, but Beregond saw his hand reaching out toward Faramir from behind, heard his own footsteps on the paved floor, saw the blaze of terror in his lord’s eyes before it melted into something quite indefinable as he let Beregond kiss him, and Beregond lost all knowledge of his knees as Faramir kissed him back.

What on earth was he doing? In a burial chamber no less! Faramir’s kiss was so timid and then all at once so hungry, pushing into him, his hands all over Beregond’s face and chest, pulling at his armour, fingers tangling painfully in his hair. And Beregond, afraid at first of doing likewise to Faramir soon lost his reservations and let his tongue slide over his lord’s, and felt just how soft his copper hair was, and found pleasure in the sharp scrape of his unshaven cheek.

Faramir pulled away for an instant, face an inch away, eyes on Beregond’s lips as his index finger ran over them. “I’ve never…” He was panting softly, and he was frightened, Beregond realised, of this, of discovery, of the admission. And then again, only this time with a note of wonder, of long suppressed need; “Oh, I’ve never…” And he kissed him again, and Beregond was lost in it all. A confession of inexperience, and the joyful disbelief that this was happening. Beregond was twenty-nine; he knew Faramir to be older, mid-thirties? I hardly feel alive at all, he had said. How long had he gone without telling anyone of these desires? Without giving in to his nature, without living?

Beregond had the horrible realisation that maybe he really was the first man Faramir had-…and then he forgot it all, because Faramir was pulling him down between two tombs and he could see, oh gods, in the faint light, in the shadows, he could see Faramir was aroused and that was it. Beregond was going to do this; the gods had for some reason dealt him this unexpected opportunity and he was going to take it, knowing full well that Faramir would likely never even acknowledge him further from this day hence.

“Here?” he asked.

“Here,” Faramir answered, sounding certain even if he did not look it.

“My armour,” Beregond muttered, sitting back and willing his fingers to work the buckles of his chest-plate. Faramir seemed torn between watching him undress and helping him; after a moment or two of Beregond’s struggles his hands dove beneath some extraneous piece of mail and began loosening the fastenings around Beregond’s ribs. The chest-plate fell to the floor with a sharp clang, and Faramir was kissing his throat and neck, not quite frantically, but in a way that made Beregond think that Faramir was trying to keep himself convinced that he wanted this, that he could go through with it, that it was alright.

He himself had lost all qualms. His own erection was pressing up against the gods knew how many layers of underclothes, breeches and chain-mail and he was half lying on Faramir now, rutting against him uncomfortably. It had been a long time since he had been with anyone, and he had never thought he might aim so high and yet hit the target. They kissed, and it was passionate. Beregond dared reach down, his fingers knotting into the lacings of Faramir’s tunic, tugging at them almost half-heartedly, not wanting to take too much of a liberty but Faramir shifted, allowed him room, and so Beregond set to work, blindly untying knots and sliding a hand up beneath the hems of his jerkin and undershirt once freed to sit flush against the smooth skin of his belly, the hair there dandelion-soft. Faramir moaned and grasped at him.

“Will you do it?” he said, eyes desperate. Beregond did not know what he meant until a hand clamped around his own and there was a whisper in the deathly air, full of curious fear. “Will it hurt?”

“Do not tell my father.”

It was all Faramir had said to him afterwards. He had not seemed regretful, or dismissive. But after they had lain for a moment or two, catching their breath, Faramir had said that, quietly, in Beregond’s ear. His hand had smoothed out the guard’s tousled hair. It was almost affectionate, and Beregond wanted to do something in return, kiss him on the cheek perhaps, but that seemed too much. Instead, he lay with his head near his lord’s, and with his hand on his lord’s chest.

It would have hurt. Beregond had reassured him, prepared him as carefully as he could, spitting on his fingers in lieu of oil but he knew it would have hurt. He could imagine the grimace on Faramir’s face, and heard in his breath the gritting of teeth and felt the tension of muscles beneath him. But at the end, Faramir had cried out and spent himself, and when Beregond followed suit shortly after and climbed off of him Faramir pulled him close and kissed him a last, shaking, time; thank you?

Beregond remembered the first time he lay with a man, a hurried tumble in a stable somewhere a decade ago. His lover had had red hair, and Beregond surmised that this must have been what drew his eye to Faramir in the first place. Not that it mattered. Faramir sat up and then stood up, turning slightly away from Beregond as he put himself back into his breeches and began making himself presentable. Beregond lay back on his elbows for a moment more, the cool air of the room, now altered with a memory of lust, made the exposed skin of his midsection and thighs prickle.

“Remember your helm,” Faramir said to him, before stepping out from between the tombs and disappearing from view. His footsteps could be heard receding, and then halting altogether, probably waiting by the door. Beregond sighed, and rose.

They spent the journey back to Beregond’s post in silence.

The last he saw of Faramir on that day was a half-smile, a nod, and then the back of his coppery head as he returned to the citadel, and Beregond shivered in the breeze that clattered through pale white branches.

The second time Faramir came to him was different. This time, he talked.

“I do not usually like to command folk to do anything, but you really must not breathe a word of this to anyone.” This was spoken as Beregond passed through the door that Faramir held open for him. This time he was not so weighed down with armour and weaponry; in the middle of his evening meal a messenger had come requesting that Beregond make his way to the apartments of the lord Faramir forthwith, and so here he was, standing in a simply-furnished drawing room in shirt, surcoat and breeches. Faramir closed the door behind him, and there was a noise that may have been a lock turning, or just an unwilling latch being persuaded to close.

“I am at your command, my lord,” Beregond offered, giving Faramir a slight bow as the other man came into his line of vision again.

Faramir made a noise, a soft ‘mmhmm‘ before gesturing to an occasional table. “Wine?”

“No, thank you, my lord. I am on duty later.” Beregond tried not to look uncomfortable but it was difficult; Faramir’s gaze was heavy upon him. His lord did not ask him to sit, but neither did he himself take a chair.

“May I be frank with you?” Faramir began pacing the room, a slow circuit that slowed even further when he passed by the large window opposite. He was facing away when he spoke, and Beregond had free rein to study his lord’s manner, his stance, his looks, without fear of being caught doing so. Perhaps Faramir was even inviting him to do as such. “I am not the sort of man who usually partakes in such…unplanned liaisons.” It had been almost a month since their encounter in the crypt, and Beregond had mostly filed it away in his mind as something enjoyable, interesting, but ultimately not likely to reoccur. He had not seen his lord Faramir again until this very day, in the throne room or otherwise. “To be brutally honest, I do not really know why I wish to tell you this,” Faramir went on, leaning his hands on the window ledge and giving Beregond a view of the back of his wavy-haired head.

“You can command me to keep my silence, but I am also a man of honour. I do not go spreading gossip.”

“Well, I had hoped,” Faramir threw him a wry smile over his shoulder. “And it seems I was proven right. You have to understand that you are the first man I have ever slept with, and while you need not fear that I ascribe some sort of holiness to our union, or worship you as the taker of…well, you gather what I mean, I would ask hat you understand that I am not yet accustomed to seeing myself in this way. To accepting myself-” He stopped there, abruptly, and looked up at Beregond. His expression was one of uncertainty, quite unbecoming on the face of one who was meant to command him. Quietly he said: “But in recent times it has become more than apparent to me that that is my nature.”

Beregond’s thought were slowly making sense of it, confusing, inexplicable as it all was. “Some men prefer other men,” he said, “It is common enough for soldiers to seek one another now and again. It is no bad thing.”

“And you? Do you seek others out for pleasure, or from loneliness, or is it in your nature to find no attraction in women?”

He had never been spoken to so openly about such things, and nor had Beregond discussed something which he had given little thought to other than that it must remain mostly private with anyone else, much less someone of so high a position in the court, whether he had slept with them or not. “I think it is my nature also, my lord,” he said finally. Faramir seemed satisfied with that.

“I have never had a lover, you know. I mean, there have been women who stood by me for a long time, but I speak of that circumstance that soldiers often find themselves embroiled in; whereupon one wants certain things but not others.” He gestured to the chair, finally, and Beregond sank into it. “Do you know of what I speak?”

Beregond pursed his lips. “The need for the touch of another, the satisfying of desire, but you do not want commitment, nor publicity.”

Faramir smiled. “Yes.” And abruptly, his expression changed; Beregond could not quite name it, but there was a fleeting glimpse of something in Faramir’s eyes; sadness, no, he was forlorn. Something was really not quite right within those depths, some great dissatisfaction that his lord could not quite articulate, and certainly not to someone of Beregond’s standing. But then, he did just that. “Reconciling my nature within myself is my own business, and what I am going to ask you is not a command; you can certainly refuse me. But-”

“-you wish to know if I might lie with you, on occasion. Or be with you, or listen.” Beregond found his words falling from his tongue as if without his awareness, things that were tender far beyond the requirements of their thus far short-lived acquaintanceship. Faramir’s eyes narrowed, but it was not a cold look he gave the guard, more one of peculiar intrigue. He was half-sitting on the window-ledge, his hair pushed behind his ears.

“You are quite astute.” And Beregond found himself smiling despite himself. It spoke volumes of Faramir’s character that he might again ask , and this time almost timidly, what he had the right, no matter how inappropriate, to command. That he would seek Beregond out, beseech him in such a way, when most men would just get drunk and fall upon one another repeatedly. Beregond wondered if Faramir was attracted to him or if he was merely a safe option, secure, someone to experiment with that would not betray him. And what assurance did Faramir even have that Beregond would not speak out? The guard was under the ultimate command of his father, the steward, when it came down to it, after all.

But if Beregond had decided if could not keep Faramir to himself he would certainly keep his secrets. And that was how it really began.

They made love in a bed, this time, one of the few times the chance could be taken. And afterwards, Faramir was less skittish than before, and even lay awhile with his arm looped around Beregond’s shoulders, holding him loosely against his chest and side as if he was taking stock of the situation, and finding nothing inherently terrible about having another man under his sheets. Beregond laid his cheek on Faramir’s shoulder, and was not dislodged, although Faramir made no effort to meet his eye.

“I saw you in the throne room.” Faramir had said this before; now, apparently, the thought would continue. “I do not know if you knew I noticed you but I did. I saw you looking at me, and I wondered. A fleeting fancy, foolish. But in the end not so. I was right. It was I that changed your duties. I did not want my father’s nonsense to dim your view of me before I had the chance to seek you out.”

Beregond dared not draw his hand down across Faramir’s chest, though the temptation entrapped him. Ginger chest hair, delicate freckles, the darkening here and there of tanned skin, a scar where an arrow had grazed his shoulder. Faramir was narrow-hipped, lean, his wrists and hands were elegant and his shoulders broad. His face was kindly when not stern; he was young and clever and easy to like. Beregond was madly attracted to him, and now suddenly he was opening up, saying things Beregond was not sure he would say to many people. He decided to speak boldly. “Do you think I am the sort of man who believes everything he hears?”

“I would hope you believed what I have told you this evening.” Faramir’s hand moved, trailing fingers drew random patterns in the dark dander-hair of Beregond’s lower back. “I find you handsome. Do you believe that?”

“I know not my own beauty but I believe you find me thus.” Beregond bit his lip. “I also know not what you know of soldiers’ liaisons but I am not the sort who would lie with another without first finding that other to be comely. By which I suppose I aim to say that I think you do not know your own worth-”

The index finger of Faramir’s free hand landed lightly upon Beregond’s lips. “Enough.” And though his tone was not particularly harsh there was an aloofness that settled upon him, and he shortly rose from the bed and began dressing, though only in breeches and undershirt. Beregond sat up, dishevelled. What he had meant only as a convoluted compliment of Faramir’s looks had been diverted at a touchy moment.

“Forgive my-”

“Come,” Faramir beckoned, holding out his clothes, but there was a gentleness in his features again that gave Beregond the hope that he had not overstepped the mark by too far a distance. As Beregond took them from him Faramir’s hand clasped his own briefly. “If my father were to find out about me it would not bode well for you either.” And Beregond understood that fear, and nodded.

No commitment, that was what Faramir had wanted. And Beregond could do that easily; he had done so in the past without issue. But the trouble was that whenever he did not see Faramir- for Faramir was more and more frequently now out on scouting missions or posted at Henneth Anun for weeks on end- he found his thoughts centred upon him almost to the point of distraction. And then, it got worse, and he knew he was in something quite deep. Bad enough was the missing him, but now, when his lord was away Beregond began worrying about his safety. What if he were injured, or the gods forbid, killed on a mission? Logically Beregond knew that even though Denethor’s affections seemed misplaced in regards to his younger son Faramir would certainly not be sent out with no protection, but still, awake at night Beregond lay, counting down the days until Faramir’s safe return, and then, counting down the days until he might be with him again.

For it was never certain. More than once Faramir had passed him in the corridor without acknowledging him. He might be home for what felt like months before the summons came, or before he found Beregond and asked him to accompany on some imaginary errand. Sometimes he did not come at all, and would leave again for Ithilien or the ruins of Osgiliath without so much as a stray glance in Beregond’s direction. Such was the nature of their relationship, and Beregond hated it because he no control over anything and also because he was falling in love with him.

When Faramir was near he was so reachable and yet so distant. Beregond could not speak to him without first being addressed by him, could not go to him when he felt the need, could not so much as sustain eye contact with him for fear of discovery, or more likely, chastisement for his perceived impertinence. He wanted to know desperately what went on in that throne room that bade Faramir come to him afterwards with eyes like stone and few words of affection, though his caresses were no less gentle. There would be a look he would give him, an inclination of his head that Beregond knew meant come with me, and thereafter they would shortly lie together, or more often than not, stand, and rut against the wall of an old, little-used book store, or over the desk of Faramir’s study, spilling ink. They drank wine on occasion, when Beregond was freed from his duties for an evening, and talk would soon devolve into kissing that felt far too loving for Beregond to assume that Faramir felt nothing for him above base lust. Perhaps Faramir was merely that sort of lover, favouring intimacy over animalism but Beregond did not dare question his unexpected tenderness.

Love. He had never considered love before. Beregond imagined, in the moments before sleep, a world where he and Faramir might be together openly, might love one another, might be happy. Did Beregond make Faramir happy? He could never be sure he was not merely a method of release.

As the months went on their coupling became more frequent until at one point it was thrice a week or more, now more often than not a hurried hidden encounter somewhere not entirely comfortable, and usually with breeches around ankles and no bed in sight. Beregond did not care. Unrest was growing, a shadow in the east, and Faramir’s duties bade him leave the city more and more often. Suddenly, Beregond found himself assigned to the personal guard of the steward’s sons, and even though that meant that he was just as often safeguarding the elder of the two, the reality was that wherever Boromir went, Faramir was usually not far away when both brothers were in residence in the citadel. Beregond enjoyed these few weeks of relative security, when Faramir was ensconced in map-rooms and in meetings, and Beregond had all the day to stand and watch his lover‘s auburn hair bob up and down upon his shoulders as he nodded in agreement or bent to study the outline of a mountain pass upon parchment. Listening to his low voice strategizing was almost as good as hearing delicate nothings uttered into his ear, and Beregond often daydreamed that Faramir was talking to him alone, telling him the plans for Osgiliath, and they would protect it together, just the two of them.

One day, war-addled months later, terrible news flitted quickly through the corridors of the citadel. Beregond had been dreading this day, had felt sick to his stomach since he had heard the mixed stories of how Faramir had ordered a retreat from the old capital, how he had forfeited a great weapon that might have been used against the enemy, how he had shamed his father and the memory of his brother. It was all unclear what exactly had gone on; again, Beregond was not in the throne room while Denethor had spoken with his remaining son. The news of Boromir’s death had come hard to the soldiers of the citadel; he was much loved, and it was all the more heartrending upon seeing the lord Faramir’s grim face when he himself returned to face his father. The fact that Boromir had died in the attempt at bringing this weapon, a ring of power some whispered, only made Beregond’s heart ache further. That Faramir, in the never-ceasing struggle to gain his father’s approval, had willingly given up the very thing his beloved brother had died trying to claim hinted at untold and unknown conflict within Faramir’s own breast. A curious man, a selfless, unchangeably good son; the better son, Beregond, and others, did not say aloud.

Then came the unbelievable word that Faramir was leaving again, this time to retake Osgiliath. Surely this was hearsay, some optimistic nonsense? Beregond saw him once before he left, by chance only, as he himself was leaving the armoury he saw Faramir round the corner at the far end of the corridor and approach. His face was unreadable. There was no-one else around, and Beregond, for once, felt it acceptable to call out to him.

“My lord?”

“Not now,” came the reply, but it was said softly, with resignation. Faramir entered the armoury; his own armour was in his chambers, Beregond had seen it himself, but Faramir was picking through the spears that were hung along one wall, checking each shaft’s length and weight before replacing it and going onto the next one. Beregond was already overdue for his post, but he could not leave yet. He stood on the threshold.

“Is it true? Are you going to re-take the old city?” A stupid, child’s question, and Beregond was not surprised when Faramir ignored him, but neither was he deterred. A dark sense of foreboding was roiling in his belly. This was madness, whether on the part of Denethor for ordering such a thing or if it was Faramir’s own insanity for doing it. He stepped into the room, removing his helm. His dark hair fell across his eyes and he shook it away.

“Faramir,” he said, for the first time knowing that name upon his tongue, “You must not go to Osgiliath. It is certain death.”

The spear was finely wrought, a sickly iron spike atop a sturdy wooden length; Faramir held it upright, looking up at the deadly point before glancing at Beregond. “Unlike some who might feel that avoiding orders is something that will be overlooked in wartime, I do as I am bid. Certain death or no.”

Faramir’s comment, likely hinting at the fact Beregond was clearly still not at his post, did not sway the guard into making an exit. Instead, he went to Faramir, standing as close as he dared. “Surely you do not wish to die?”

“My brother is dead, my city in ruin, my father is mad. If death is my future, then I pray that it come from some attempt to do good.” He looked down, an infinite sadness descending upon his person that Beregond felt press upon his shoulders also. Not even Faramir‘s candour could lift it. “I will lead what remains of my men to Osgiliath, there to meet my fate, one way or the other.”

And me? You will leave me to mourn you? I love you. I love you! Beregond could not say these things, and Faramir did not appear to sense the thoughts coursing through the other man’s being. Faramir raised his hand and placed it upon Beregond’s cheek. “I know you wanted it differently, but here our paths must split.”

There was a hint there, a flicker of perception; Faramir knew. “Don’t-” Beregond managed, but Faramir’s fingertips were upon his lips, and he could do nothing. The steward’s son’s eyes were shining, his face gentle.

“See to your duties, guard, and do not fret over me.”

He had never asked, never expected there to be commitment, or any promises. It was different, now, though, and Beregond knew it was useless but it did not halt his tongue. “When will I see you next?”

Faramir had walked to the door, spear in hand, a young man trapped by fear, duty and love. He turned in the doorway, his thumbnail scratching at the wooden shaft of the spear absently. “If war has its way, soon, I suspect. Whether in this life or the next.”

And then he was gone.

Everything was in uproar. Dark skies loomed, the taste of smoke filled the air and the city felt as if the very stone was drawing back and bracing itself. Walls shuddered, the sounds of commanding shouts, of many quick footseps, of doors slamming, of swords scraping against shields, of arrows clattering into quivers, of weeping. It was inescapable. Beregond stood at his post and watched as the White City readied herself for the onslaught. In the distance, over the walls, the dark armies of Mordor gathered, a hateful sea of misshapen evil and destruction. Ogres bellowed, the shriller cries of the goblins echoed out across the Pelennor, now desolate of farm labourers, families, workmen who now took refuge behind white stone. Beregond was afraid. Minas Tirith was designed with siege in mind, but looking out upon that army, upon those war-machines, it did not seem to him that the city would stand for very long. Certainly, he knew, there was no legion within its walls to match that which approached with slow inevitability.

The horde was still a long way off; it was early morning now, and the first orc arrows would fall short of their targets for many hours yet. There were no out-riders or scouts; between the front-lines of the orc horde and the great first gate of the white city none walked. The day crept toward noon and Beregond waited. Nothing was happening, not at this level. He stood on the great rampart, looking down at the men and women rushing to and fro in preparation and terror. He wanted to help but he had been ordered to remain where he was with his three fellow guards, as if the four of them alone might stop rampaging goblins from breaching the citadel itself. Beregond supposed he might act as an early warning, rushing to tell the steward his time was nigh, but he also supposed he would die on the end of an Uruk-hai blade long before he thought about running for the White Tower.

There was some sort of activity down below that caught his eye. A lone rider was cantering at full pelt from the east; surely no orc messenger here to parley? From the height of the rampart it was impossible to make out anything other than the vaguest shapes of horse and rider, but whomever it was seemed to feel there very flames of Orodruin upon his mount’s heels, spurring it onwards relentlessly lest death claim him if he should slow. It occurred to Beregond sluggishly that the lone figure was racing from the direction of Osgiliath; surely not? And then he found himself leaning over the wall, as if the two or three feet gained might give him clue as to the identity of this mystery rider. Surely not, Beregond thought, I stand in disbelief at something that I pray is true. The gates, open the gates, he thought, and they must have done so, the incoming traveller must have been an ally for down below there was activity, and two mounted men were riding out to meet him. As if seeing a friendly reception was enough the approaching man suddenly slumped in the saddle, and fell forward over his horse’s neck, staying mounted likely only because of chance and the aid of the stirrups.

“Beregond! To your post!” Another guard was calling him sharply. Messengers were racing to and from the citadel doors in quick succession. Something was going on besides the imminent attack.

“A moment!” he shouted. “Something is happening; there’s a rider- oh! He has fallen!” The two greeting soldiers had caught up with the stricken rider in time to half-catch him as he finally lost his seat, his own mount slowing to meet the two oncoming horses.

“Something is happening here, Beregond! The steward descends, see to your post. No-one cares about your rider!” That was not true, Beregond thought, that would never be true. But he tore himself from the wall and ran back to the gateway he was meant to be guarding. Minutes later, Denethor emerged from the great door of the citadel, face both thunderous and distraught. Beregond tried to avoid his gaze, but the steward looked at no-one as he stood by the White Tree, flanked by his personal guard and trailing servants, all pale-faced and unsure. What they waited for became clear in short order. A clatter of hooves upon stone, and horse and rider burst through the gate, past Beregond, stopping just short of the steward and his hangers-on. It was one of the mounted men sent out to meet the rider, Beregond was certain of it, and yes, and oh gods, here he was, riding pillion with the soldier only he was being held upright by one arm, head lolling back upon the shoulder of the horseman.

“Dead.” The word was a question and an answer. Everyone was looking at the steward, whose expression amounted to the closest thing to grief Beregond could imagine forming upon those features. And then, as if Beregond needed the confirmation that the copper-haired young man now being carefully lowered to lie upon a bench was any other, Denethor fell to his knees and said, in a voice that was the end of life itself; “My son.”

Beregond wept bitterly at his post; if anyone was even bothered to take note of him in the pre-siege chaos they might assume he was crying from fear, which, after a fashion, was true. But while the men did love Faramir, and would be saddened to know of his passing, no-one would know just how Beregond loved him, and how high the cost of his death would come to him.

There was some sort of commotion near the citadel doors. The guard that had chided Beregond for straying from his post emerged looking conflicted. Beregond called out to him.

“What news?” His voice was thick with grief, but the other guard, sandy-haired, a little older, made no comment on it.

“The steward-” And then he halted, as if unsure whether or not what he was about to say was appropriate. This guard- what was his name?- was not particularly a friend of Beregond’s, but they did not quarrel, and shared small-talk on occasion when chance found them sharing the same patrol. Beregond gestured at him, desperate for any news to distract him from his newborn grief. It pained him to realise that he would likely not live long enough himself to mourn Faramir properly. All he had right now was the panicky upset, the horror, the shock. There was small solace in knowing he might be reunited with Faramir in the next world, if Faramir chose to wait for him. Beregond did not think it likely.

The other guard- Anselm was his name!- looked fretful, as if about to divulge something that he had been forbidden to speak of. It turned out to be exactly that, more or less. Quietly, as quietly as one could in the midst of the pre-siege chaos, he stepped closer to Beregond and told him something that made the young guard’s heart hammer in his chest hard enough to cause him alarm. “The steward, he’s taken the lord Faramir to the Stewards’ Houses, his personal guard are with them, no-one else is allowed near. He plans to burn him on a pyre.” His eyes grew wide. “I know not what to do, Beregond; they say in his grief the steward ignores all words of reason, he cannot see that he will be killing his only remaining son.”

Beregond grabbed his arm. “What madness do you speak of? I saw our captain with my own eyes, felled.”

Anselm looked distraught. “But he lives!” All of this, Beregond decided later, must have been figured out and noticed some time between Faramir’s disappearance into the citadel and this very moment, at all of which Beregond had not been present. “He lies as if dead but he is alive, only just. A deathly sleep, I heard from lord Denethor‘s attendant, but he was ordered from the crypt before he could bring it to notice.”

Beregond almost shook him, half stepping away toward the tower door. “Why are you standing there man! We must do something!”

“We’ve been ordered to remain at our posts, Beregond.”

It was barely believable. “Stand here while a good man is killed by folly?”

Anselm looked grim. “I do not want the lord Faramir to die but it is not in our hands to do anything about it. Look out there, Beregond.” He gestured toward the edge of the rampart, far distant. “Our own deaths approach, and the gods will be merciful to grant us them quickly. Faramir will not live out the day; it matters not if we disobey orders or not. Ultimately it will come to nothing. None are admitted to the Houses on the steward’s orders, the guard is at the door.”

Beregond listened to all of this and felt as if he himself were on fire. He could not just stand here, he could not leave Faramir to die because he did nothing. Better, he thought, to die on the spear of a fellow guardsman in the attempt than to remain here and know that he did nothing to spare the man that he loved so well. When he met Faramir in the afterlife, would he not be displeased to know Beregond waited for his death on the rampart, and did nothing? How could Beregond even hope to gain his love beyond life if he stood by and followed orders. He bolted for the door, Anselm calling out after him, giving chase.

“Get back!” Beregond called over his shoulder. No use the pair of them being brought to justice, but Anselm dogged his heels all the way through the citadel. The gateway to the Silent Street loomed, and Beregond was running flat out, the guards in the distance visible only as blurred figures, jolting with each step, armour shining in the early light. Somewhere behind them, a great low boom reverberated through the city; the siege engines were in range. People were dying already, and it angered Beregond beyond reason to think that the steward wasted time on this ill-gotten funeral; even if Faramir was really dead surely it could wait. The defences needed to be seen to, defences that Beregond himself had freely abandoned. He ran on. Anselm grabbed at his arm but was shaken off.

“Hold!” One of the door guards stepped forward, spear held out to bar his way. “Back to your post, guard. None are to enter here. Begone before your absence is noted!”

“He’s alive!” Beregond shouted, barely able to make his voice carry the words. “He’s alive, he’s alive! Let me pass! He’s going to kill him!”

It was half-nonsense, and the guard at the door did not look the type to bother deciphering it. “We have our orders, back to your post! Do you not hear the walls shake? See to your duty!”

Anselm slid to a halt behind Beregond and pulled his arm roughly. “Come now Beregond, we must away now. It is too late.”

The windows of the Stewards’ Houses suddenly lit up from within; red gold flicker-flame reflections that danced and taunted Beregond from where he stood on the wrong side of the door. It was too late. He was too late. Beregond faltered, panic delaying him. The door guards looked at him sternly. Anselm pulled at his arm again. The city shook once more.

What happened next, Beregond could never quite remember clearly. He fell forward, or ran, dislodging Anselm and hefting his spear towards the door-guards, shaft first, striking the shoulder of the leftmost man and shoving him aside. Something struck him on the side of the face and his vision blurred- a fist, the butt of a dagger, he did not know, nor did he pause to find out. The doors were not locked, and he pulled them open, a wave of warmth sweeping across his face and his rapidly blackening eye. Someone shouted his name, and then again, angrily, urgently. Ahead, Beregond could see flame and smoke and people looking down at this sudden disturbance at the end of the hallway. The pyre. There was a pyre, burning madly, but it could not be too late, the gods could not let this happen. Beregond prayed, Lend swiftness to my feet and strength in my bearing, let me carry him from this place and then let what punishment I deserve rain upon me, but grant me his safety. You created me thus, and I love him.

A struggle, shouting, arms grabbing him, hastened footsteps. Beregond’s spear was wrenched from his hands and he grabbed at his sword as it tangled between his legs. He called out, something useless, stop!, perhaps, or wait, or I love him!, for all the good it did. No-one paid him any heed, save to prevent his approach. He lashed out with an arm, blade in hand; it connected, and something fell heavily behind him but Beregond did not look back. Suddenly, he was freed of obstruction; a pathway opened up to him leading toward the furnace and toward Faramir. Faramir, Faramir who indeed lay amongst the flames, not yet consumed by them. It was then, suddenly, for the first time, that he saw Denethor.

The look in his eyes was something that chilled Beregond’s heart despite the heat from the fire. Cold dead ice, and they looked upon Beregond absently, as if disdain was too good for him. Tears streaked his face and suddenly all bitterness seemed to melt from him, seeping away, replaced with sorrow and hopelessness. Beregond had no time to question this, no time to check if his own actions made any more sense than what was happening before his eyes. He leapt onto the pyre, or tried to. The wood was stacked tightly, he could not get a foothold and the flames lashed at his face, driving him back. Through them, he could see Faramir, prone, unmoving, not yet touched by fire but there could only be moments before he was burned.

Beregond threw his helm off, the metal scalding his sweat-streaked face, and tried again. This time he clambered desperately, hands clasping at wood that was blackened and sooty, fingers burning, feet slipping. The fire roared. The heat was unbearable. Denethor was saying something, a eulogy, something solemn and terrible and Beregond ignored him; the rush of flame towered above him suddenly, and he barrelled through it, trying to shield his face. He could smell singed hair, fear, death. Faramir lay before him, there were but heartbeats to spare. Half-stumbling, Beregond grabbed at his shoulders, his arms, any part of him, and heaved him up, intent on hoisting him over his shoulder somehow and carrying him off. In reality, his footing gave, and he fell half onto Faramir, who still had not moved, nor given any real sign of being alive. Beregond panicked; surely he must now see this through, however little guarantee he had. People were shouting, he could hear Denethor’s voice in his head, cursing him, cursing the gods, cursing Faramir. Beregond pulled roughly at his fallen captain, rolled sideways and fell through the flames and knew no more.

He thought he might awaken in a healer’s bed, or imprisoned, but he must have only lost consciousness for a few brief moments. Beregond’s head pulsed with pain. He lay on his back on the stone floor of the mausoleum; smoke clouded the air, the fire still burned.

“He’s dead! Gods, he’s killed him!”

The voice cut through the black air like a mithril blade. Beregond sat up; the room span, he could see nothing, could feel only pain and panic. Faramir, where was Faramir? Oh gods, let this not have been in vain! A sharp, violent hissing; someone was throwing water onto the pyre. The smoke billowed, thick and choking. Through it he could see someone being carried toward the doors, head lolling back, damp hair swinging. Was it he? And then, he saw Anselm, lying on the ground in a pool of dark blood. Guards stood over him, someone was kneeling beside him. Beregond could see where his throat had been caught with a blade at an unlucky angle. And then Beregond realised he had killed him. When he thrust his arm out blindly, holding his sword. He had killed him. He had done this. The world span. Thunder boomed above, or was it the walls crumbling? Beregond fell back upon the ground, and prayed for death.

It was quiet in the wards. The moon shone gently over the sleeping, and Beregond sat awake and watchful beside the bed of Faramir of Gondor.

They had let him remain. In the aftermath, even though everyone knew what he had done, they let him stay beside his captain while the city recovered. What harm would he do to the man he had sacrificed so much to save?

He had been here for days now, ever since he trailed after those carrying Faramir to the Healing Houses, ever since the king had brought him from the shadows, ever since the war’s end. That day, that terrible day of battle and loss. The lord steward Denethor had somehow perished in the flames, throwing himself after his son, perhaps, but Beregond did not know for certain. Beregond’s left eyelid was swollen, purple when he had briefly glanced in the reflection of his helm, and refused to open. He could taste blood on his tongue whenever he swallowed, and pain throbbed in his jaw, a broken tooth most probably. An inconvenience; at least he was alive. He thought of Anselm and wept, feeling worse for the uselessness of tears, remorse crippling him. What could he say? How could he make recompense? He sat here, in silence, and prayed his own death would be a merciful one.

Faramir was alive. He lay there, in the bed, with bandages covering his bared chest and shoulder, wrapped around his forearms and hands. His face was peaceful but drawn, and the shadows hung heavily around his closed eyes. His hair was uncombed, the ends burnt. His breathing was shallow but steady, his expression one of deep slumber. Too close to death for Beregond’s liking, but there was naught he could do now. The king had been and gone, and now was the time for rest. He looked at Faramir, and wondered if they might ever speak again. If Faramir knew what had happened, if they would tell him the truth. If he might find it in his heart to forgive then man who killed out of love, if he might smile upon him once more before Beregond knelt before the decisive blade of Narsil.

The soft sounds of the Healing Houses drifted through the hallways; war was over, but nurses padded the corridors, pestles ground athelas into salves all night, the injured moaned in their sleep, there was quiet weeping, the scrape of a chair, the snap of a blanket shaken out, the muffled fluffing of pillows. Beregond put his head in his hands, mindful of his eye, and thought of Faramir. He was sick with him, unable to think on anything other. He should be sitting here, beside himself with remorse, sick with guilt if nothing else, and Beregond knew that he was. But his heart was still set upon the path it had directed him onto the moment he heard of Faramir’s slim chances, and it seemed his heart cared not for anything other than its own satisfaction.

Faramir’s fingers upon his lips. He remembered that. His eyes, creased in a too-rare smile. A laugh in the darkness, arms holding him against a broad chest. His heartbeat against Beregond’s cheek. And the not so pleasant memories; his dismissal, his distance. The way he would ignore Beregond for weeks, perhaps only from necessity, or uncertainty, but still it hurt to have Faramir’s gaze not even waver toward him as his captain passed him in the hallway. Tears stung Beregond’s bruised eye. He had never heard his name fall from Faramir’s tongue.

He meant nothing to him. He was going to die for unrequited love.

Someone was touching his hair. Abruptly, Beregond realised he must have fallen asleep, head upon arms folded upon the bed near Faramir’s midsection. Fingers were smoothing out his tangled locks, very slowly. He dared not move, but his breathing changed, and it would have been noted by a ranger of renown.

“You were there.” His low voice, his sad voice. “In the fire. I saw you, as if from a great many leagues away.” A strand of hair was wound around a forefinger and released. Beregond said nothing. “I saw you run toward me. It was a dream, a dream of shadow and flame, and you in shining silver.”

Beregond swallowed hard and turned his head upon his arms, looking up at Faramir and suffering the lightest touch on his sore cheek from a thumb-tip. His tears flowed relentlessly and silent. “You should rest yourself my lord.” Was that it? Was that all he could say? Gods, Beregond thought, why can I not muster the courage to just tell him, only once?

Faramir hand was shaking a little, and he appeared very frail. “Why are you here?”

“I-…” I love you. I love you.

“My father is dead. My brother is dead.” Faramir looked down, his eyes now hidden in deep shadow. His hand stilled on Beregond’s shoulder. “Were it not for you, I would be with them now.”

How to know if this was an accusation or a blessing? Faramir’s voice hid all. Beregond sat up gently, intent on speaking now, on telling Faramir his heart’s wish, if only so that he might face his own end with one less regret. “My lord, I need to tell you something.” It always began like that, did it not? The foolish tumble of admission.

“Beregond, you must not fret over me.” Beregond looked up sharply. Faramir’s eyes were now clear, brimming with concern and grief. His hand lifted, and Beregond caught it in his own. Was it wrong of him to suppose Faramir had not until now bothered to learn his name? More that he had always known, Beregond guessed, and chose his moments well. “Rest now, I see a bed yonder. I need to sleep also, but would slumber more easily knowing I was under your watch.”

“But-” Beregond fumbled, looking at Faramir’s hand in his own. “I cannot watch over you and sleep!”

Faramir almost smiled, a glimpse of the old, hidden self. “Dream of me then; if that is what you want.”

It was all he was going to get, clearly. Beregond let Faramir’s fingers slip from his own, and made his way to the empty bed.

“This man wilfully abandoned his post and killed his fellow guard-”

“I did it not on purpose; I was trying to-”

He was silenced with a sword-blade at his throat. Beregond duly bit his tongue. It seemed no-one cared that he had only done what he did out of the love for his lord and captain. In truth, he knew not why he spoke out; he deserved what was coming to him, the silver-sickle blade of the executioner, probably this very day. The trial was due to begin in an hour’s time, and he sat here, in an ante-room to the throne room, wrists bound and harassed by the guards of his company. It seemed so useless to sit and wait here, and then parade himself before the king and who knows else of the council and noblemen and court and go through sentencing. He wanted it over with.

Eventually he was pulled roughly to his feet and manhandled to the throne room door. He took a breath, ready for the catcalls and jeering, the shouts of anger and malice, and the fearsome gaze of this new king. Instead, the doors opened onto a room almost entirely devoid of folk. Ahead of him stood the great throne, seated upon it, the king, crowned and robed in rich dark velvets, the glint of armour hinted at beneath. Upon his knees rested Narsil, ominous. Beside him was an empty chair, and leaning toward him, uttering something into his ear, was Faramir. Both looked up as the doors closed behind Beregond, and it took a moment for the guard to realise his own escort had left him alone, and that he should probably approach his judge and jury, if that was what they were.

“Beregond, son of Baranor, you are brought before me on this day to face due punishment for your actions during the siege of the city. You abandoned your post, and you killed your fellow guardsman who did naught to harm you. You did all of this, in the attempt at preserving the life of my steward, the lord Faramir. What say you to this? Have I been apprised of events correctly?”

Beregond could not find his voice. The king, this Elessar, was supposedly a kind man, but his eyes were unreadable, his face set grimly with no hint of softness. Beregond supposed it was not an unkind face, but he did not look gentle, and Faramir, now seated again, hands still bandaged, the burnt ends of his hair trimmed shorter, did not look at either of them. When Beregond did not speak, the king inclined his head.

“Whether or not you confirm the account there are numerous witnesses. The steward Faramir has also given me his account of what occurred. You have him to thank for this more intimate trial, when I believe tradition calls for an open court in such matters.”

Beregond looked at Faramir, who did not react. What were Faramir’s doings in all of this? “I-… I thank you, my lord,” he stammered, and then looked down, feeling a fool as well as everything else. A small mercy, but with the same, inevitable result.

Elessar shifted in his seat, leaning forward over his blade. He had a stern face, but there glimmered wisdom in those steely eyes. “What say you, Beregond, on your actions? Why did you do what you did? Why does one of my guards’ family now mourn him bitterly?”

“I have no excuse for the death of my-…of Anselm, your grace.” Beregond began, looking at his feet. “In truth it was an accident, I meant not to kill him, but I do not deny that his death is upon me, and I am solely responsible. He did naught but his duty, when I fled from the same.”

“But do you not have conflicting duties, Beregond? New orders to remain at your post, to guard the citadel, to prevent attack, and your standing command to protect your captain, namely, this man seated here.” Elessar gestured to his left, at Faramir. Beregond did not understand this direction of questioning.

“Yes, but-…that cannot excuse murder.”

“No. It cannot.” Beregond looked up at the king. “And while I cannot indeed excuse this loss of life, I do not call you a murderer, Beregond. Did you plan to kill Anselm?”

“No, your grace.”

“I do believe that.” Elessar said simply, and leant back. “Continue, Beregond, with your reasoning.”

He could tell the king he did what he did out of duty, or he could tell the truth. “Your grace, and, my lord,” he glanced at Faramir, who was watching him now with something akin to mild interest. “Why I ran from my post, why I…why I did what I did, why pulled my captain from the flames… I did it, I did those things out of love, only.” He tried to think of something else he could say, some embellishment, some elaboration, but in the end Beregond looked down at his feet again and sighed. “I accept my punishment, your grace, and beg only that it is done swiftly.” At least, he thought, he had the courage to ask for that.

There was a very long silence. Eventually, the king looked at Faramir. “And what say you on this, lord steward?”

“I see no reason why he would do these things.” Beregond felt his heart crumble, and then he looked up in incomprehension as Faramir went on. “I see no reason why he might risk everything for me, when I have not been kind to him. He says now that he loves me, and I have given him no reason to love me. No words of affection, no promises, no security. I ignored him. He came to me only when I wished it. I deserve not to be sitting here today due to this man’s love.” If Elessar had not worked out by now that they both referred to love that was not platonic then he was a fool, but risking a look at the king told Beregond that this man was indeed wise. He seemed a little surprised, but otherwise gave no reaction, watching Faramir intently. Faramir sighed. “I do not know why he loves me, your grace.” His eyes were filled with sudden sadness. “I do not have the right to ask for leniency either. I can only say that I have few folk left save this man to love, and I do love him.”

Beregond’s heart hammered in his chest. A tear spilled from his good eye, sliding down his cheek embarrassingly. Elessar nodded to himself, deep in thought. Faramir looked at his hands.

“You spoke to me, before, steward Faramir, of your wish to dwell in Ithilien, and do your work there, did you not?” Faramir nodded. The king straightened, coming to a decision. “Beregond, the punishment for the killing of a fellow guard, and for the desertion of your post, is death.”

“Yes, your grace.” Beregond almost thanked him, but Elessar spoke again before he could muster the words.

“Beregond, son of Baranor, you are not a wicked man, but I cannot, as king, let you go without penalty. From this day you are hereby stripped of your rank and banished for the remainder of your days from the city of Minas Tirith. You may not roam freely in Gondor; however you may settle wherever you wish outside of the borders of this kingdom. Any heirs you may produce will not come under this exile. The single exception is this: should you wish to make a home in the hills of Emyn Arnen, I will not prevent it, but you will be bound by the borders of that place and cannot wander abroad without escort.”

Beregond gaped at the king. Faramir looked as if he were about to stand up, confusion, uncertainty, disbelief all battling upon his face. Elessar did not smile, but his expression softened by a degree.

“You have two days to sort your affairs, Beregond, and then you will be escorted from the city on foot. Steward Faramir, will you please take Beregond to his quarters so that he may gather his belongings.”

Faramir seemed as surprised as Beregond; he stood, eventually, and moved over to him, but seemed unsure of how to touch him, whether to put a hand on his shoulder, or to guide him by the arm. He looked at Beregond, and Beregond looked at him. There could be no misinterpretation by Elessar of the emotion present in that shared gaze.

“Come,” Faramir said, and lightly touched his bound hands.

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