Chapter Four: Becoming the Steward

Think of Frodo, Faramir told himself as he settled back into the bed after Mithrandir's departure. Don't think about the crushing news of the past night. If he could follow Frodo in his dreams, the knowledge of the halfling's whereabouts would put Minas Tirith at an advantage. So Faramir tried to picture the face of Frodo, Son of Drogo. However, his sleep was long, and uneventful. And toward the end of the uneventful sleep, the smell of food that awakened him. When had he last eaten? How many days?

“Fresh crusty bread, cream, and jam. And bacon is on its way.” He opened his eyes. The room, his refuge in the Houses of Healing, was not the vague smokey space that it had seemed at his first awakening. Rather, he had been closeted in fairly large quarters, with chairs beside his bed and a table beneath the wide bay window directly in front of the bed. Morning sunlight streamed into the space, filing it with hope. At the table, a young nurse set down a tray of foods. She smiled at him a little shyly as she came forward.

“My name is Nienor, my Lord Steward. It is good to see you awake and hungry. Do you take kavay or tea?” Nienor, hmmm, Faramir, thought. She did not seem like his concept of the tragic woman of the myths he had learned as a child. Her brown hair was rolled up in a crescent across the top of her head and secured by two large pins. Her face was broad, plain featured, her nose turned up, a fairly ordinary woman not many years past twenty. Yet to Faramir at that moment, she was as lovely as Yavanna herself, offering foods and the aromatic kavay, brewed far smoother than could ever be found at the typical ranger's camp.

And, amazingly, he was strong enough to sit up against the soft pillows. First eat the warm bread, then have the kavay, he told himself.

“If you can manage your breakfast, then I will take my leave for a bit,” the nurse said. “The Captains of the West ride out of the city at noon, and I would watch them go.” When he nodded she headed to the door, but turned around for a moment. “I am glad you are staying with us in Minas Tirith, my lord,” the nurse said humbly, then took her leave.

Faramir sat there for awhile, carefully applying the jam and cream to the bread, and then eating very slowly. To his dismay, he found the task of eating very difficult, indeed. His shoulder was stiff and troublesomely painful with the simple act of applying jam. As he let the soft bread linger in his mouth, the horrible revelations of yesterday slowly intruded upon the sunny day. His stomach that had seemed so deprived suddenly was a hard fist that threatened to reject what normally would have been an appetizing breakfast.

His father went to his death a suicide, driven mad by his own ambition and the insidious intervention of the Dark Lord into the affairs of the Steward's house. Faramir felt too bereaved to chew. The bitter thoughts churned in his mind. And when the Lord Denethor finally admitted the love of a father for his younger son, that son was unconscious and about to become a sacrifice to his father's grief. No fond words for Faramir to remember Denethor by.
And what of the true manner of his father's death? Pippin had not described it. He had been placed on a pyre—that much Faramir could figure out—and Denethor had applied a torch to the kindling. And after that? What was the true story of Denethor's death and where were his remains? What must be done for a burial and memorial? And what of this palantir of Anor that had manipulated the Steward's mind for so long? The very thought of all these questions made him want to sink back into dreams, even if dreams too often were tormenting.

Then there was Boromir--beloved brother, valiant, mighty in war, foolhardy, and fun. The pranks of youth and the council of their adulthood was gone, destroyed forever in a battle somewhere on the northeast reaches of Gondor. Who now was left to hear the words from the deep reaches of a troubled younger brother's heart?

Their mother Finduilas was just a memory and an artist's image sitting on a table by Denethor's bed. Faramir had no immediate family left, no more siblings, and no wife, for he and Boromir had spent their adult lives protecting Gondor from the ever-growing menace to the East. Marriage was a matter only brought up every few years or so, most often by their father. And children? If the brothers had any by-blows, their mothers had never spoken up and demanded recognition and compensation for the offspring.

Who remained of his company and his friends? Most of the Rangers posted at Henneth Annun had died in the retreat from Osgiliath and the tragic attempt to retake that beauteous ruin. Among them were most of his friends who hadn't died in earlier battles. Who was left? Who remained that he could call friend in this city for which his family had sacrificed their lives?

Poor, pitiful me, Faramir finally reproached himself in an attempt to stop the grief from churning. He watched the steam rise from the cup of kavay. Though his heart was steeped in misery and guilt, surely he nevertheless deserved to indulge in this Ranger's simple pleasure. He took a sip, then some more, finding that the warmth and the robust taste of the hearty drink penetrated the darkness in his heart.

As Faramir sipped his hot drink, a knight bounded into his room, interrupting the his tortured thoughts. The visitor was an exceptionally tall, broadly muscled man. An ornate silver breastplate engraved with a graceful ship in the form of a swan spanned the knight's barrel chest. Faramir's heart leapt. The soldier's magnificently worked helm bore the half-unfurled wings of the swan on its sides. The curved neck and proud face of the huge bird rose in the center, anchoring the lowered visor. With a quick gesture, the man pulled off his helm, discarding it on a chair. In two great strides, he was at Faramir's side, leaning over and kissing the bedridden man's brow.

“You've come. You're here,” Faramir gazed at his uncle, feeling a small stroke of hope do battle with his gloom. Imrahil of Dol Amroth met his nephew stare for stare, holding Faramir's shoulders for a second, before he situated himself on the bed, at Faramir's side. Imrahil's black hair was streaked with more gray than Faramir remembered. The Prince still favored a shortish hair style in the unlikely shape of an overturned bowl. His face was clean shaven, as was the manner of the men of Dol Amroth. How long had it been since Faramir had seen his mother's brother? Why had he never noticed the wrinkles at the corners of the thin-lipped mouth and in the corners of the grey eyes that Faramir knew were carefully assessing him?

"I trust that you will recover completely, though I must say that I have seen you on better days,” Imrahil chuckled ruefully, but then became grave. “I deeply regret that Dol Amroth could not join in the defense of the city until after your father's death. All our forces were engaged in a sea battle with an armada of Corsairs--evidently paid mercenaries of Sauron, the lot of them. Yet we found unlooked-for aide from Lord Aragorn. He came to us at the head of a ghastly horde of spirits, bound by an oath made to Isildur thousands of years ago. It was quite remarkable.”

“Aragorn can command ghosts?” Faramir was amazed. “Who could imagine that a man of these times would have such extraordinary abilities? He seems to have walked out of legend.”

“Yet I knew him in my youth, though he served your grandfather under the name of Thorongil,” Imrahil said. “He was friendly to me, but your father ever saw him as a rival.”

The Prince continued, “With the help of the ghostly army, we made short work of the Corsairs and commandeered their ships to Minas Tirith. Seven hundred knights of Dol Amroth accompany me. Most will remain here to support the defense of Minas Tirith, should matters go ill. I have instructed them to take orders specifically from you, now that you have awakened and are more or less lucid.”

“And what of you?” Faramir asked, feeling dread creep upon him.

“I go with a contingent of 20 who volunteered to accompany Aragorn to the Black Gate,” Imrahil said simply. “I freely gave my oath to Aragorn as my liege lord, nephew. If we all survive, I will recognize him as king, as I was told you also have done. So I ride with Aragorn to acknowledge this oath and the debt that Dol Amroth owes him for ridding our harbors of the Corsairs.”

Imrahil stopped and seemed to be waiting for Faramir's reaction. When there was none, the Prince of Dol Amroth continued, “The Stewards have ruled our land for a thousand years yet none of the Steward's family could ride with this desperate host. None except me, though my tie to your house is by marriage, not by blood. So in my way I also wanted to represent you, who remains of that family.”

The Prince leaned in toward him and said in a hushed voice, “The Tower Guards have sealed off Denethor's quarters but they let me enter, no doubt due to our kinship. On your father's bed side table, before the woodcut image of your mother, your father left the tokens of his office. He left them behind, perhaps for later generations to see.” Faramir gasped. A chill ran through him.

Imrahil turned his head to look into the hall. “I'll be back in a few minutes.”

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Before Faramir had much time to consider Imrahil's words, the Prince returned in the company of a young lad: “This is Hyermandecil, whose father recovers in a ward down the hall. Young man, help me to assist Lord Faramir to his feet.”

“Please call me Hyer,” the youth said with a trace of bashfulness. He gaped at Faramir, most likely astonished that he'd been called to the bedside of the Steward's son. “I'm pleased to meet you, my Lord Faramir. Truly pleased. In fact, I can't wait to tell my friends.”

Somewhat embarrassed by Hyer's outpouring, Faramir willed himself strong enough to get out of bed unaided. Though once on his feet, he needed to steady himself by resting his good hand on Hyer's shoulder.

“Hyer, bear witness to what transpires now,” Imrahil intoned gravely. He reached into his knight's pack and withdrew the White Rod. “Here is the symbol of the Steward's authority,” he placed the rod on the bed. “And here is the ring of Mardil Voronwe.” Faramir's left hand clung to Hyer's shoulder for balance, as Imrahil took his right hand and placed the onyx ring of the Stewards on his index finger. To Faramir's surprise, the ring was a trifle tight.

“Go now, boy,” Imrahil ordered. “Be prepared to tell anyone that you know that the symbols of the Steward's authority survive and that you have witnessed Lord Faramir receiving them.”

“Oh, I will, Prince Imrahil, sir. And Lord Faramir, if you feel lonely, my father is in a ward just down the hall. It would thrill him to meet you. My dad's saddlery outfitted Lord Boromir's troops.”

“Why, I'll come and visit him,” Faramir brightened as he carefully slipped back onto the bed. The boy turned on his heels and disappeared.

Faramir looked long at his uncle's face, seeing a man who had triumphed in many sea battles over the many decades, yet who would be off soon, to a battle on land from which Imrahil might not return. At length, he spoke, “I am astonished at the lad's words, Uncle. I sent two hundred men to their deaths. They trusted me, but now I am the last of the company left alive.” He felt the level gaze of Imrahil, watching, evaluating his words. “Their families should hate me and resent my assumption of this ring and rod.”

“Those who marched with you loved you and respected the authority of your father. That's why they followed you. And I suspect that most of the people of Gondor still love you, Red,” Imrahil countered gently. “The only one who doubted your ability as a leader was your father. And he sowed those seeds of doubt in you. You might doubt your ability to lead our country, but I don't. Hyer and his father don't doubt you either. They are counting on you. I declared Lord Aragorn as my liege lord, yet my heart still lies with the House of Hurin and my beloved older sister's son.”

Imrahil grabbed Faramir's hand, “This is your chance, nephew. The final battle might very well be at the gates of this city. For myself, I breathe easier just knowing that you will lead should we fail, and Minas Tirith becomes the place where the West makes its last stand.”

He leaned forward and kissed Faramir's brow, “Oh, and one thing more, Red, see to your appearance. I realize that your living situation was far different as a Ranger in the field, but you are Steward now. You must now look the part. Put some effort into your appearance.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, Faramir found himself grinning, briefly remembering how Imrahil used to scold Boromir and himself for having slovenly grooming. He took one last look at his uncle, always impeccably turned out though he must be nearing 65. Imrahil grabbed his beautiful helm and departed to a fate no one could foretell.

What is the state of the city? Faramir wondered, feeling the exhaustion that plagued him return not long after Imrahil's visit. There must be plenty to do to re-fortify Minas Tirith, but where to start? He closed his eyes and slowly considered matters. So many had died. Who were the survivors, and would they follow his lead in rebuilding the city? 199 were dead because they had followed him to Osgiliath, or so he had been led to believe.

In his mind he saw the Witch King on that terrible day. He heard the despicable wraith hiss, “They're all dead. Go home and tell that to your deluded father, you incompetent weakling. Tell him Angmar has won. And only after that do I give you permission to die.” He felt the pain of the Southron's dart as it pierced his neck. “No,” Faramir answered back this time. “No! You are dead by the hand of woman and hafling. Your dust combines with my father's on the Pelennor fields. Your forces are defeated but I am not. None of your ilk can defeat us. I will rebuild the Great Gate!” His eyes flashed opened as he sat up violently.

A woman screamed. It was the nurse Nienor who had evidentally been in the room while he was asleep. She raised her hand to her mouth and ran from the room. Faramir collapsed against the pillows, surprised and shaken. The room was lit by candlelight. He realized that it was evening
The Chief Nurse Ioreth came into his room, carrying a lantern. Nienor crept up behind her. “See here, Lord Faramir, you've scared the poor girl,” Ioreth chided him as though he were five years old. “She fears the look in your beautiful eyes.”

Which Faramir closed automatically as he sighed, “I'm so sorry, Nurse. I scared myself, too.”

“Oh, you didn't scare me, my Lord Steward,” the young woman stepped out from behind Ioreth's broad frame and figgeted, eyes downward. Her face was red. She seemed to be trembling, but she spoke clearly, “That is, I was afraid you were getting worse in your illness.”

My illness? Faramir thought. “See here, good Dame Ioreth, I must know what is going on with me and when I can be free of this bed,” Faramir demanded though he intentionally kept his voice soft. “Bring the Warden to my room, if not this evening, then tomorrow. I will lie here inert no longer.”

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This "movie verse" chapter was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal.

Prince Imrahil was not cast in the films. However, I have a great love and respect for the Tolkien canon, and couldn't resist casting Imrahil in my story. He's one of my favorite minor characters. To remain true to Movieverse, I left Im out of the Siege of Gondor. But to also remain true to canon, I'm sending Imrahil off to the Black Gate with Aragorn. I hope you like my version of the Prince. I promise that he'll return later.