Faramir Fiction Archive

The Last Beacon (R)

Written by J_dav

19 December 2009 | 5861 words

Title: ‘The Last Beacon’
Author: j_dav
Pairing: Faramir/Beregond.
Word count: Around 6000
Story Warning: Rated R/Adult, for mature themes and homosexual content.
Summary: The White Wizard has arrived in Gondor. Beregond befriends Peregrin Took, the Wizard’s companion. Together they watch terrified as Faramir leads the retreat from Osgilliath. In his fear, Beregond speaks more than he intends to and gives away his deepest secret; the love that he bears Faramir. That night, a despairing Faramir comes to him and Beregond gives his all to renew hope in his beloved lord. A 1st person narrative from Beregond’s perspective. Not exactly fluff, but I still hope that the recipient likes it.

Written for the Faramir Fiction Midwinter Swap 2009.

Request by AlexanderW: May I please request a “hurt faramir” who’s a bit angsty and needs a big hug and some healing (in various ways – ahem) with someone who’s quite sure of themselves – story. I’m actually in the surprising mood for it to have fluff in it… I’d be even more appreciative if we brought a certain citadel guard in (Beregond!) but this is not a definite inclusion, just a very desperate plea from me; Oh, and I love minor characters! yay, include them! right, thats quite enough now…

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The Last Beacon

“So near, so near.”

Peregrin, son of Paladin Took, broke off and lifted his eyes above the River, and I saw in his eyes the reflection of that vast and threatening shadow which had haunted my people all our lives.

“So near to Mordor?” I enquired quietly. “Yes, there it lies. We seldom name it; but we have dwelt ever in sight of that shadow: sometimes it seems fainter and more distant; sometimes nearer and darker. It is growing and darkening now; and therefore our fear and disquiet grow too. And the Fell Riders, less than a year ago they won back the crossings, and many of our best men were slain. Boromir it was that drove the enemy at last back from this western shore, and we hold still the near half of Osgilliath. For a little while. But we await now a new onslaught there. Maybe the chief onslaught of the war that comes.”

“When?” asked the brave Halfling in a hushed voice. “Have you a guess? For I saw the beacons last night and the errand-riders; and Gandalf said that it was a sign that war had begun. He seemed in a desperate hurry. But now everything seems to have slowed up again.”

“Only because everything is now ready,” said I, thinking of what my young lord had remarked during our last conversation. “It is but the deep breath before the plunge.”

“But why were the beacons lit last night?”

“It is over-late to send for aid when you are already besieged,” I lamented. “But I do not know the counsel of the Lord and his captains. They have many ways of gathering news. And the Lord Denethor is unlike other men: he sees far. Some say that as he sits alone in his high chamber in the Tower at night, and bends his thought this way and that, he can read somewhat of the future; and that he will at times search even the mind of the Enemy, wrestling with him. And so it is that he is old, worn before his time. But however that may be, my lord Faramir is abroad, beyond the River on some perilous errand, and he may have sent tidings.”

Perilous errand – Oh, but how I wished that he had been here, within the City, where his mere presence sufficed to bring new heart to our weary men! I hurried on, for I could not allow anyone to spot the weakness in my voice that emerged when I spoke of my beloved young lord.

“But if you would know what I think set the beacons ablaze, it was the news that came yestereve out of Lebennin. There is a great fleet drawing near to the mouths of Anduin, manned by the corsairs of Umbar in the South. They have long ceased to fear the might of Gondor, and they have allied them with the Enemy, and now make a heavy stroke in his cause. For this attack will draw off much of the help that we looked to have from Lebennin and Belfalas, where folk are hardy and numerous. All the more do our thoughts go north to Rohan; and the more glad are we for these tidings of victory that you bring. And yet,” I paused and stood up, and looked round, north, east, and south, “the doings at Isengard should warn us that we are caught now in a great net and strategy. This is no longer a bickering at the fords, raiding from Ithilien and from Anórien, ambushing and pillaging. This is a great war long-planned, and we are but one piece in it, whatever pride may say. Things move in the far East beyond the Inland Sea, it is reported; and north in Mirkwood and beyond; and south in Harad. And now all realms shall be put to the test, to stand, or fall – under the Shadow.”

Faramir had said that it would be the last war. The long defeat was coming to its inevitable end. Would our children be born to slavery and bonds? To convince myself, more than to reassure Peregrin, I continued speaking hurriedly.

“Yet, Master Peregrin, we have this honour: ever we bear the brunt of the chief hatred of the Dark Lord, for that hatred comes down out of the depths of time and over the deeps of the Sea. Here will the hammer-stroke fall hardest. And for that reason Mithrandir came hither in such haste. For if we fall, who shall stand? And, Master Peregrin,” I hesitated, wondering why I sought reassurance from one so different in kind, “do you see any hope that we shall stand?”

My companion did not answer. He looked at the great walls, and the towers and brave banners, and the sun in the high sky, and then at the gathering gloom in the East; and he shuddered, and my hope withered. And even at that moment the sun for a second faltered and was obscured, as though a dark wing had passed across it. Almost beyond hearing, high and far up in the heavens, a cry; faint, but heart-quelling, cruel and cold.

“What was that?” I asked fearfully, for Peregrin gulped and turned away. “You also felt something?”

“Yes,” muttered he uneasily. “It is the sign of our fall, and the shadow of doom, a Fell Rider of the air.”

Faramir was there, in Osgilliath and I feared he would never return to our City. I shuddered and whispered, “Yes, the shadow of doom… I fear that Minas Tirith shall fall. Night comes. The very warmth of my blood seems stolen away.”

His hand crept to pat my clenched fingers in a paltry, but sincere token of reassurance. Then he spoke quietly with the wisdom of one who has seen more than age warranted.

“My heart will not yet despair. Gandalf fell and has returned and is with us. We may stand, if only on one leg, or at least be left still upon our knees.”

My lord Faramir would have said the same. I fought back a hoarse sob and determinedly kept my gaze fixed upon our fluttering banners high above, underneath which my lord and his brother had once stood jesting.

“Tell me of your lord, Beregond,” Peregrin asked. “His name heartens the morale of men.”

This was one question that I could answer even in my deepest slumber. Faramir; the final beacon of our hope.

“My lord is bold, more bold than many deem; for in these days men are slow to believe that a captain can be wise and learned in the scrolls of lore and song, as he is, and yet a man of hardihood and swift judgement in the field. But such is Faramir. Less reckless and eager than Boromir, but not less resolute.” Then I remembered the stricken expression that had marred his visage on hearing about the advance of the Corsairs. Even he could not tarry the inevitable. “Yet what indeed can he do? We cannot assault the mountains of – of yonder realm. Our reach is shortened, and we cannot strike till some foe comes within it. Then our hand must be heavy!”

“When shall he return, Beregond? It would do the men good to see a leader they trust in, so says Gandalf and I know that the White Wizard is right.”

“Who knows if he will ever come back across the River out of the Darkness?” I whispered, my heart heavy with foreboding. “How I wish that I had been allowed to accompany him thither!”

“But I am sure-”

Suddenly my companion was stricken dumb. He cowered down with his hands pressed to his ears; but I had been gazing upon the smoke rising across the river and I remained there, stiffened, staring out with horrified eyes.

“Black Riders!” cried Peregrin. “Black Riders of the air! But see, Beregond! They are looking for something, surely? See how they wheel and swoop, always down to that point over there! And can you see something moving on the ground? Dark little things. Yes, men on horses: four or five. Ah! I cannot stand it! Gandalf! Gandalf save us!”

Another long screech rose and fell, and he threw himself back again from the wall, panting like a hunted animal. Faint and seemingly remote through that shuddering cry I heard winding up from below the sound of a trumpet ending on a long high note.

“Faramir! The Lord Faramir! It is his call!” I nearly wept and fell to my knees in despair. “Brave heart! But how can he win to the Gate, if these foul hell-hawks have other weapons than fear? But look! They hold on. They will make the Gate. No! The horses are running mad. Look! The men are thrown; they are running on foot. No, one is still up, but he rides back to the others. That will be my Captain: he can master both beasts and men. Ah! there one of the foul things is stooping on him. Help! help! Will no one go out to him? Faramir! My lord!”

With that I sprang away and ran off into the gloom, mad with terror. It must have been madness, for I saw a pale light spreading and the heavy shadows gave way before it; and then as it drew near I thought that I heard, like an echo in the walls, a great voice calling. I leant back against the cold stone fortification and buried my face in my hands as a clamour was heard in the streets leading up from the outer circles, and there was much cheering and crying of the names of Faramir and Mithrandir.

He lived.

Weakly, still ravaged by the slew of emotions that battled within me, I staggered to the streets and saw torches, followed by a press of people two horsemen riding slowly: one was in white but shining no longer, pale in the twilight as if his fire was spent or veiled; the other was dark and his head was bowed. They dismounted, and as grooms took Shadowfax and the other horse, they walked forward to the sentinel at the gate: Gandalf steadily, his grey cloak flung back, and a fire still smouldering in his eyes; the other, clad all in green, slowly, swaying a little as a weary or a wounded man.

I rushed to him, uncaring of propriety and laws and abruptly the pale face of Faramir turned to meet my stricken gaze. It was the face of one who has been assailed by a great fear or anguish, but has mastered it and now is quiet. Proud and grave he stood for a moment as he spoke to the guard. I felt as I had always felt; that he was one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Elder Race.

“Now I know why you spoke his name with love. He is a captain that men would follow, that I would follow, even under the shadow of the black wings,” Peregrin said softly as he came to my side and clasped my hand once more, grounding me with his reassurance.

“Yes, son of Paladin,” I murmured, “unto whatever end, even under the shadow of the black wings shall my people follow the lord. He is loved.”

Night had fallen uneasily upon the City. For once, there were no bawdy jokes or ribald banter to muster the spirits of those who kept watch upon the fortifications. Hooded gazes remained fixed apprehensively upon the dark mountains and the red fires that would herald the end. The taverns were closed and the many women of the night and transvestites who plied their trade upon the guards under the veil of the dark skies were nowhere to be seen.

It was time.

“You remain the one constant in a changing time, my valiant guard,” a voice weighed down by despair and resolute resignation told me.

He was of the blood of Westernesse. His stealth made it nigh impossible to alert oneself to his coming. I bowed deeply and when he made a small murmur of acknowledgement, I rose to meet the sad grey gaze of my lord. Under the flickering light of the many torches, he looked frailer than he had seemed during the day. The Steward used his son too harshly, forcing the secondborn to take upon himself the burdens of the firstborn who would never return to us.

“The Halfling is wise beyond his years,” my companion remarked softly, casting his gaze to the quarters where the Wizard and Peregrin resided. “All shall fade, he sang. ‘Tis true, is it not?”

“My lord,” I beseeched him, wanting nothing more than to bring back the slow, warm smile that never seemed to grace his lips anymore.

“Then tell me, valiant Beregond, what shall I speak of? Shall I speak of a father who grieves that I live while my brother has passed beyond these mortal burdens? Shall I speak of a Wizard who deems that my father shall fall to the weakness of those of the line of Isildur? Shall I speak of the dead eyes staring up at me with accusation writ large in their unseeing gaze as I rushed back, a coward, giving the fiends the River and the lands beyond the Rammas?”

“My lord, it is not your fault that-”

“Hush! And let me finish!” he cried out in weary anger. “Will it be always my lot to try and rise to fill the void that my beloved brother left in his wake? Will it be I who stands weary upon the last circle of our city when the fiends take our lands all? Will I be always called gentle, slow of action and as manly as a maiden?”

His face was flushed and his dark, grey eyes shone with the marring of his soul. What doubts had the Black Riders sown in his noble heart? I shuddered and averted my eyes in the face of his grief.

“He wishes that I was dead and Boromir alive!” he lamented to the cold stars that fought off the veil of gathering clouds. “I dearly wish the same too! I know I am weak, and yet what can I do?”

“My lord!” I exclaimed, daring to finally meet the stricken gaze. “It is not so! Your father has been blinded by grief. You know that he loves you! You remind him of the fair lady he loved, of your mother. He shall always love you!”

“Yet his words today spoke otherwise,” he said hollowly. “I fear he spoke the truth. Despicable indeed is he who cannot even hold what his brother wrested from the darkness! Alas for Osgilliath, and for Gondor, the unworthy son remains while the worthy has fallen!”

“You are worthier than anyone else, my lord!”

I did not know what made me reach to clasp his shoulder. His eyes widened and I hastily let my hand fall, terrified that I had given away more of my heart than I had ever intended. Something kindled in his dark eyes and he sighed.

“I thank you, Beregond.” He bestowed a kind glance upon me. “Yet I fear that my misgivings are too deep to be struck down by mere words, sincerely as they were spoken.”

“What would it take then, my lord?” I asked, truly worried by the cloak of despair that shrouded him. “We love you and your father loves you.”

He nodded absently and turned back to gaze upon the red fires that drew ever nearer. “Tomorrow, I ride for Osgilliath again, to avenge my honour and to regain my place in my father’s heart.”

I gasped in shock. “It is folly, my lord!” I fell to my knees and clasped my hands in imploration. “Please do not leave us again now!”

“My father’s counsel shall prevail, and I will gladly obey him,” he murmured, a strange resignation coming to darken his handsome features. He was aging before his time, even as his father had done.

This time, when I reached to grab his right hand, my gesture was completed. He sighed again and did not look down upon me, though his words were laden with peculiar intensity as he spoke.

“If I do not return, will he grieve for me, Beregond? Or will he closet himself in the Tower and consider my fall a casualty that was for the best? Perhaps he may even be relieved to be rid of a son who never met his expectations?”

His fingers curled of their own accord upon my grip and he sagged ever so slightly. I hardened my heart and tried to will in my unruly instincts that demanded to take him in my arms and whisper soothing words of comfort to his ears.

“You are tiring, my lord. I shall escort you to your chambers. Please, you need your respite if you are set upon riding again tomorrow.”

“I cannot bear to set foot within the family wing this night,” he confessed quietly, closing his eyes as if warding off great pain. “My brother, my mother and my poor, hurt father who is more wraith than one of the living – much have I lost. I would rather stand with you till dawn breaks.”

“Then let me take you to my chamber, though it shall pale in comfort to the palace. You must rest, my lord, for you are weary and in deep need of respite.”

He nodded uncaringly. “Do what you will, Beregond. My mind is too plagued by fear to think of how I pass the night. I fear our country sinks beneath the yoke; it weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash is added to her wounds.”

I did not reply to that, for he had echoed what lay unvoiced in my mind.

I led him to the small chamber I shared with Ingold, who was away in the north. He was quiet and his face remained a study in grim pensiveness. I sat him down upon the narrow cot and knelt before him, to take off his boots one by one. He sighed and bent down to aid me, murmuring a few half-hearted protests at my aid.

“Hush, my lord, and let me do this for you,” I whispered, daring to touch his knee. “You serve the city with all that you are, now let me serve you.”

He closed his eyes and leant back against the stone wall, allowing me to cast off his boots. Slowly, I rose and sat beside him, inhaling the deep scent of gore and of unwashed human body that plagued the air.

“I did not bathe,” he apologised. “The council meeting required my presence urgently and after that I came directly to the battlements.”

I did not reply, instead drawing a pail of stale, but clean water that had remained unobtrusive in a far corner of the dingy chamber. His eyes kindled in gratitude and he made an attempt to rise. But I stayed him with a wave of my hand and gathered the cleanest rags I could find to hand. Then I gently drew his arms up, and pulled off the tunic that clung to his body adhering to the sweat and blood that sullied his pale skin. He shivered and shifted uneasily when the wet, cold rag passed over his weary face, taking away with it the grime and the perspiration.

“Hush,” I said again, running my fingers through his hair as one would do through the mane of a stallion to gentle it. He nodded quietly and remained still as I passed the rag over his slender neck and well-formed collar bones. Bruises and scars marred his perfection even as doubts and fears marred his heart and I sighed at the toll of the conquering darkness.

“For one who wields the sword with such skill, your hands are gentle upon my body,” he said softly as the rag moved over his falling and rising chest.

“Is it unseemly for a warrior to have gentle hands?” I enquired as I ran the rag over the graceful arch of his spine.

His muscles flexed as he drew in a deep breath before saying thoughtfully, “No more unseemly than it is for a captain to have a gentle heart.”

“Then it is as well, for I love my Captain’s gentle heart, as does all of Gondor,” I said truthfully. “Would you consent to lie down, my lord, for I would tend to your lower body as I have done to your torso?”

“If it would be no trouble,” he said as he complied. “Your gentle hands and comforting words have granted me a measure of peace long craved and ill-inclined am I to lose it immediately.”

“Then you shall have both, my lord, as long as you wish them present.”

I helped him find his ease on the cot and then undid the belt that held his breeches. Carefully, I coiled it and set it upon the folded tunic. Then I drew down his breeches and he lifted his hips to passively assist me. My heart soared at the trust he had in me, in us all; the same trust that we placed in him, our last beacon.

He lay pliant and quiet as I tended to him, cleaning the grime off his feet and legs. He was a sinewy picture of strength as he rested upon the narrow cot, bare and vulnerable under the lone flickering candle that guttered in the wind which blew through the cowhide that barred prying from without through the solitary window. If these had been better times, he would have been feasting and wenching with his brother, hunting with our warriors and perhaps wooing a highborn woman of his father’s court or even taking a merry tumble or two with a discreet fellow of his company.

“What thoughts crossed your mind just now?” he asked drowsily as I drew a clean rag one last time over his noble forehead, letting my fingers linger on the frowning creases that marred the smooth skin.

“A whimsical flight of fancy, I desired to see you in better times, taking your pleasure in what appeals to you,” I said softly.

“Dear Beregond, this is the time to wear our armour, as my father does even in his sleep.” He lifted a hand and caressed my fingers that had come to a tentative rest upon his brow. “Yet there are pleasures left, and much that still appeal to me.”

“My lord?” I dared ask, drawn to voice those words by the slow kindling of sparks of passion within his dark, wise gaze.

“Well have you served me this day, valiant guard,” he murmured, “and it is not my right to ask more of you.”

“But it is my right to cede all that I am to you, my lord, and willingly do I cede. What would you have of me?”

“Gentle hands and comforting words would I ask of you.”

He cast his gaze to the lone candle and I watched, enraptured, as the flame lent a golden hue to his grey eyes. His voice was low and flecked with quiet need. The symbol of our gender that had lain passive and innocent thus far within its prison of the loincloth now stirred itself into interest under my gaze and he shifted uncomfortably.

“It would be my honour, my lord,” I said in a low, hoarse voice that brought alarmed eyes to meet my regard.

“It would exceed the bonds of honour, to take advantage of you thusly,” he said, his words warring with the slow heat of physical need that grasped him steadily in thrall.

I bent to press my lips to the warm, clean skin of his thigh, inhaling contentedly of the musk that pervaded about his body. Then I brought my hands to the loincloth, drowning out his protests by replacing them with soft curses as I kissed the quivering navel that formed the only marring of the smooth plane of his taut abdomen. His hands came to my head, urging me silently to proceed and I complied.

The candle stood the sole witness to what followed. His words were incoherent and coloured by need as I used my hands and then my mouth to gift him what little pleasure I could. When he bucked and called out my name softly as he fell into the abyss of passion’s aftermath, I dared look at him. He made a magnificent portrait, of pale skin that sheathed sinews beneath the seemingly deceptive fragility, of flushed features that still held true to the nobility of the lines of Westernesse and of dark, grey eyes that saw more than the most. Yet the shadows departed for a while and a wan smile lingered on his lips for the first time in many months as he slid into an easy, exhausted slumber with his fingers curled in my hair.

“Rest well, my dear lord,” I murmured as I gently disengaged his fingers from my mane and pressed a last kiss to them.

Quietly, I drew up the coverlet to his neck and smoothed back his hair before turning away to leave him to his slumber. I would stand guard outside the chamber and rouse him ere dawn. My heart clenched as I thought of the sunrise, for I feared that he would not return to us if he rode out this day.

“He shall return,” a guilt-ridden voice told me.

I jerked and turned, aghast, to face the prematurely aged features of the one to whom I owed fealty.

“Lord Denethor!” I hastily knelt and brought my hand to my heart.

“Rise, Beregond,” he said quietly. “I wished to thank you for succouring my son with words and comfort when I could not. I fear I have hurt him too deeply.”

I gulped, but did not protest. He moved past me and slid open the door. His features slackened and grief took hold as he sagged upon seeing his secondborn son on the pallet. With a wretched sigh, he walked into the chamber softly and knelt beside the cot. I watched, stupefied, as he murmured low words of paternal love and let his hand hover above the wan features of his son.

“Why do you hurt him when you love him?” I asked, trying hard to understand the inscrutable Steward.

“That is precisely why I must hurt my dear son,” he whispered. With a last pained glance at his son, he walked out and closed the door behind him. “He must live, renewed, while I seek my peace in death. He must not regret my passing, for I would not have his joy marred thus. I have seen far, farther than any. He shall live a full life, Beregond. Will you cleave to him?”

“My lord knows that I love his son,” I admitted the truth with more than a tinge of fear.

“And that is why I ask you to watch over him. Madness seizes me even as we speak. Save him from that. Be his friend and his guard. And when everything is renewed, if he ever wonders, tell him that his father loved him. I am, and was, and always shall be proud of him. I can never blame him for my firstborn’s death. I loved Boromir as deeply as I love Faramir. The stars are bright still, though the brightest fell. I would not lose Faramir. He is the last beacon of our city. Cleave to him, Beregond, I beg of you!”

“I swear to it upon all that I revere, my lord.” I bowed deeply. “But will you not speak to him before he leaves tomorrow?”

“We know what we are, but know not what we may be. But I know what my son shall be, and I will not be an impediment to the blazing renown that shall come as his due.” His eyes were dark with foresight and pain that I could not meet his heavy gaze.

“And,” he hesitated, drawing a small jewel box from the depths of his cloak, “would you give him when the time is right? It may help him understand that he had always my love. It is the ring that his mother gave me in days when life was not a burden as it is to me now. I am a man more sinned against than sinning and yet I do not complain, for it is my lot cast by fate. “

I received it numbly and before I could speak, he turned away, walking deeper into the recesses of the night, his path directed towards the Tower of Ecthelion where he would wrest his lonely battle with the will of the gathering darkness.

The King returned to Minas Tirith and the White Tree of Gondor was renewed. Days of glory and golden prosperity began.

I followed my beloved lord into Ithilien. There I was his guard, and captain of his men, and a loyal friend. Thus did I keep my word to his father as I had sworn to.

When my days waned, he would often visit my homestead, speaking near wistfully of the days of old when we had lived under the haunting shadow.

“Fear there was, my dear Beregond,” he would say, “and yet there was hope! When hope failed in us, we had companions who kindled it again in our hearts!”

And then sadness would come to rest in his deep eyes as he contemplated the past. It was upon what we both knew would be the last visit to my sickbed that he remarked quietly, “I wish that my brother had lived to see these golden days.”

My voice was weaker than it once had been. Yet I summoned my rapidly failing strength and asked, “Do you still regret it?”

“My father’s words haunt my dreams, Beregond,” he whispered, gazing sadly at his clasped fingers.

I knew the time had come. I asked him to open the chest that resided beside my cot. He did so, looking with curiosity upon the many oddities that I had collected in my life. “There is a small box in that, my lord.”

He gasped as his eyes came to rest upon the familiar coat of arms that was etched upon the lid of the box.

“Beregond,” he whispered disbelievingly.

“It is yours. Your father left it in my keeping before the enemy breached the walls of Rammas, before you returned to Osgilliath.”

His eyes shone with grateful fervor as he opened it and found the Ring cosily nestled within satin and a small note that was graced by his father’s strong, easily distinctive hand. I watched as a myriad of emotions battered his features before he finally lifted his eyes to meet my gaze. A smile graced his lips and understanding shone in those grey pools.

“He loved you,” I said gently. “He made me swear to protect you.”

“Yes,” he inhaled deeply. “He loved me enough to save me from his madness. And your love held me together when I was falling apart. I do not deserve to be thusly loved.”

“There you are wrong.” I raised myself to a sitting position ignoring the complaints of my weary limbs. “As Peregrin, son of Paladin Took, wisely said when he first saw you, before me is a man who shall command the love and allegiance of many men even under the shadow of black wings. Who cannot love a man who loves his countrymen with all that he is? Rightly did your father call you the last beacon of Gondor!”

He smiled, the dark perpetual shadows in his eyes forever disappearing to leave behind a tranquil serenity that turned him a thousand fold more handsome. And when he leant in to let his lips caress mine, I sighed and brought my fingers to his shoulders, letting his gentle words and touches soothe me into rest that would ease my passing through the dawning doors of beyond that awaited our kind at the end.

My life had been blessed, for I had had the privilege, the honour and the blessing to have been my lord’s guard, friend and companion. They say that not everyone can pass with a smile on their lips, regretting nothing that had transpired in life. But fortunately, I was not one of them, for I had served my lord well and I had finally dispelled the lingering sorrow that had cloaked the last beacon of Gondor for far too long.

A smile warmed my lips even as his soft voice raised in song warmed the core of my being, giving me the will and hope to gladly rush into the embrace of the unknown.

“Still round the corner there may wait

A new road or a secret gate;

And though I oft have passed them by,

A day will come at last when I

Shall take the hidden paths that run

West of the Moon, East of the Sun.”

References:

Denethor’s line – “I am a man more sinned against than sinning” (Act III, Sc. II, King Lear, Shakespeare)

Faramir’s line – “I think our country sinks beneath the yoke; It weeps, it bleeds, and each new day a gash is added to her wounds.” (Act 4, Scene 3, Macbeth, Shakespeare),

Ingold – a minor character who leads the company of men manning the walls of Rammas Echor. Referred to in Chapter 1, Book V, The Lord of The Rings.

‘Still round the corner there may wait… East of the Sun’ – a variant of Bilbo’s Walking Song that Frodo sings in Chapter 9, Book VI, The Lord of The Rings.

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