It was said that the One Ring beckoned each person according to their desire, and he was no exception. 

That night as they lay in Henneth Annûn—the Ringbearer under his protection, the Ring of Power within his easy reach—strange thoughts came to his mind. 

Three times he heard the temptation; four times, indeed, he was assailed; each one more perilous than the last. 

The first thought struck at his concerns for his father. 

Think of your father, wearied by duty. 

He has endured much; does he not deserve peace in his old age? 

He recalled his father sitting silently at the Steward’s chair, gazing at Boromir’s broken horn.  His father, who had even risked an encounter with the Enemy through the palantir,  in his search for knowledge which might aid Gondor. 

He laughed wryly.  Encounter with the Enemy?  The palantir had no danger compared to this: the very voice of the Enemy himself. 

“Nay,” he spoke, for he felt the need to utter the words, “if I present the Ring to my father, he will use it for the victory of Gondor.  Then he will be conquered by the Enemy, and that is worse than death.” 

He plucked a few notes on his harp to quieten his mind.  Soon he was playing a lament, piercingly beautiful though sorrowful, said to have its origins in Númenor. 

When the last notes faded, another thought came.   

Power and glory have no dominion over you; 

You shall wield It, for the very reason that you did not desire It.   

Then It shall be the power of good. 

It was as if a gentle voice whispered to him, and the words seemed wise. 

For a mad moment, he weighed this on his mind.  It was true that power and glory did not allure him.  Could this protect him from the lure of the Ring? 

This time, his upbringing was his shield.  For having grown up with a high and noble father, and a proud and fearless elder brother; he was not accustomed to thinking too highly of himself. 

“Nay,” he spoke again, “I am not deluded enough to think that I could wield the Enemy’s Ring and bend it to good, when even the wise Mithrandir and the mighty Elven-lords dared it not.” 

Swiftly another thought came, like an opponent that denied him a chance to regain his balance after a strike. 

Aye, you are wise to say nay.   

For once you taste supreme power, you might come to love it.  

But even if that should come to pass, is not your corruption a small price to pay for the deliverance of Gondor? 

This one was a sore temptation, for he had ever been ready to lay down his life for Gondor—had considered that a gain, even. What of laying down his virtue?  Even if he should succumb to evil, what of it, as long as the Enemy was conquered and Gondor victorious? 

As he mulled this over in his mind, out of habit his hand moved to the small book which he always carried with him when riding to battle—a book of lays of the First Age that had belonged to his mother. 

Perhaps the Powers took pity on him, for his mind wandered then to the Kinslaying at Alqualondë, and how, afterwards, all that the Noldor built in Beleriand had perished one after another, no matter how beautiful. 

“Nay,” he said, “nothing may survive for long, no matter how beautiful, if it begins with evil.  If Gondor’s victory was bought with my evil, she would cease to be.” 

Then again he heard the voice, but it was no longer gentle, and its harshness—he could feel the taunt—brought him some relief. 

Aye, steadfast son of Númenor, say nay to me. 

All will marvel and praise you for this! 

Tell me, have you not ever desired this: 

that people should praise you for being blind and deaf to glory?  

Upon hearing this—and truly it was as clear as if a living man whispered in his ear—he was stunned.  Clearly this Evil was a power beyond his might; for it tried to twist his deepest thoughts. 

He answered this with a laugh.  “Nay,” he said, “I do not desire such praise.  And people will not praise me; they will call me a fool for fleeing from such a powerful weapon.” 

Deciding it unwise to remain alone with his thoughts, with the voice, he rose and left his private corner, separated from the rest of the Company by a curtain. 

Quietly he walked to a spot near the waterfall and sat there.  The men on guard duty rose to meet him, but he shook his head and bade them stay. 

The sight of his men sleeping, the sound of water and his men’s snoring comforted him. 

He was not so different from other men after all, he thought.  His brother had loved and desired power and glory; he had counted himself fortunate to be free of the burden of such desires.  Yet that night he discovered that he, too, had desire.   

Somehow the thought comforted him.  He was an ordinary man, as weak as any other.  He was right, then, that the One Ring was a peril from which all must flee.  This evil shall never even come close to Gondor.   

In the morning the Ringbearer would continue his quest.  He would give the Halflings what provisions he could and send them on their way. 

Faramir had always been a careful man; he liked to have layers of defence.  So he stood up and came to the two men on guard duty. 

“Go and rest, Aegnor,” he said, “I will take the rest of your shift.”  Aegnor was one of the youngest rangers and that day’s ambush was only his second battle. 

As the grateful young man went to seek his rest, Faramir turned to the other man on duty (an older man, a champion of many battles) and grinned. 

“Time to regale me with your stories, Mablung.  Let us go near the water so as not to wake the others.” 

“Are we not in mourning, Captain? Ah well, our late Captain General (may he find peace) would never have minded good tavern stories.  So, there was this stray rider who walked into the Oak and Willow one night...”. 

... 

Acknowledgement: 

This story was inspired by the “Murder in the Cathedral” by T.S. Eliot.