Chapter 2 ;The Sword that was Broken

In the city of Minas Tirith, the long, miserable months of winter were nearly at an end. The winter had brought great hardship to the people of a land torn apart by long years of war. Even in the face of victory bellies still had to be filled and that was an almost impossible task given that the crops had been ruined and the farm animals killed or looted by the enemy during the last desperate weeks of conflict. Fuel, too, was in short supply, making cooking and heating damaged homes more difficult. It was the harshest winter in living memory; only as February drew to a close was the Pelennor finally free of snow, allowing the store masters to put away their sleds and bring out the bigger, heavier carts.

It seemed to the people that the Deities were still seeking to punish them for some imagined failing, visiting sickness and despair upon residents who had little resistance left to offer. Only the generosity of their allies to the south had kept the people from starvation. All winter a fleet of boats had braved the weather and the threat of ice in the river to supply essential food and supplies to Gondor and to the suffering Rohirrim further north. Prince Imrahil was the chief benefactor and the other Lords whose lands had not been overrun by the Dark Lord’s minions offered supplies from their own stores.

For the Steward of Gondor, Prince Faramir of Ithillien, those last weeks of winter had been particularly difficult.

The King and Queen had worked especially hard to ensure that within the Citadel the Yule celebrations had been memorable. Many family guests had braved the awful weather to join in the first Yule of the King’s reign; the Queen’s brothers, Prince Legolas and his dwarven friend Gimli and from Belfalas, Faramir’s only remaining family, Prince Imrahil and his three sons and one daughter. Only the absence of Éowyn had dampened Faramir’s enjoyment of the holiday season and for a few heady days of merriment and celebration Faramir was able to lock away his ever-present grief over the death of his brother.

But with the turning of the year the guests had said their farewells and returned home to their own lives, leaving the Citadel echoing to the sound of silence. Faramir threw himself into his work, taking on not only his own duties but also shouldering many of the tasks usually undertaken by the King. He hadn’t been asked to relieve the King of his burdensome duties; it was his own decision, to allow the recently married King to spend more time with his bride. With no visitors to distract him and the weather too foul to allow for journeys outside the city, the Steward felt he had perfect reason to fill his days with work and to avoid the temptation to brood over his losses.

As a strategy it was very effective, his days began before dawn and continued until long after dusk. There were endless meetings about the process of reconstruction and of re-establishing and repopulating the farmlands surrounding the city; meetings about the supply and distribution of aid, of re-housing the homeless, of homing the orphans, the cripples and the destitute. There were councils and assizes to preside over, the military to reorganise and security to oversee; the list seemed endless. Many times he worked himself to a standstill and only the thoughtful and discrete assistance of his adjutant, Tamir, kept his days from descending into chaos. Tamir saw to it that meals were provided for him and that, where possible, they were eaten, though as the days and weeks passed it was Faramir’s hounds who gained weight as the Steward began to fade.

It wasn’t that there was any deliberate neglect on the part of his friends but with Estel preoccupied, Imrahil away in Dol Amroth and Legolas and Gimli away travelling there was no one to notice what was going on.

As the weeks passed another factor began to have further impact on the wellbeing of the Steward. . .Boromir began to inhabit his dreams.

The first time it happened Faramir was woken from his nightmare by Tamir who had been roused by his cries. On waking he couldn’t remember the substance of the dream, only that it concerned Boromir and that it had been distressing. Faramir dismissed Tamir with his thanks and tried to order his own distress. No matter how hard he tried he could not recall the details of the dream but a few nights later the dream returned to haunt his sleep. This time he woke alone, his heart pounding and his face wet with tears; he was relieved that he had not disturbed his sharp eared adjutant, he kindled a lamp and attempted to read to distract his mind but the distress of his dream would not give him peace and he paced the floor until it was time to begin the day.

He began to dread the night time and fear these nightly visitations into his dreams. He was tired, so very, very tired and yet he could not allow himself the luxury of sleep. He had Tamir clear an hour in his schedule every afternoon so that he could retreat to his mother’s garden and doze for a while in the winter-sleepy sanctuary. It helped a little but it was not enough to negate many hours of lost sleep.

Tamir knew what was going on but there was little he could do in the face of his Lordship’s intransigent refusal to discuss the matter. For a few more days he had to stand back and hope that Lord Faramir would see sense and seek help, either from one of the healers or from the King himself. That was Tamir’s hope but he knew in his heart that it would not happen. Finally, Tamir admitted to himself that he had no choice but to intervene; he had a duty of loyalty to Lord Faramir and in this instance that meant overriding his need for autonomy; Tamir had given his word to the King that he would guard Lord Faramir’s wellbeing and he could no longer ignore his Lordship’s obvious distress.

After a particularly long and tedious session of the assizes during which Tamir had noticed the Steward struggling to maintain both his concentration and his temper he decided to act. On the pretext of delivering some documents to the King’s secretary, Tamir made his way to the Royal apartments. The over-zealous scribe promised to forward the documents to the King, but Tamir was insistent that he should hand them over personally. A battle of wills would have developed but for the fact that at that moment the King himself appeared.

“Good afternoon, Sire.” Tamir bowed.

“Tamir, welcome, it is good to see you. Is all well?”

“Lord Faramir had these reports prepared for you, Sire. I offered to deliver them.” Tamir avoided answering the King’s question and held out the pile of documents

“Are they important?”

“Matters of State Sire!” With a telling glance to the scribe Tamir held the King’s gaze, trying to signal to him a silent message. Estel caught on and ushered him through to his chamber, shutting the door to give them some privacy. The King settled at his desk and briefly perused the documents.

“Tamir, I thank you for your diligence, but these hardly seem to me to be urgent.”

“There are matters that need to be drawn to your attention, Sire.”

The King regarded the Adjutant keenly, noting his tension. “Tamir, are you trying to tell me something, without telling me what it is!” The King queried.

Tamir’s shoulders slumped in relief. “Yes, Sire,” he confirmed.

“So your concern has nothing to do with these papers specifically?”

“No, Sire.”

“Does Lord Faramir share your concern?”

“No Sire. . .he thinks my concern is unwarranted.”

“You have discussed these concerns with him?”

“Yes, Sire. He told me not to worry. . .that it would sort itself out.”

“And you don’t believe him.”

“I believe that he believes it, Sire. . .I also believe that should you learn of these concerns you would be most. . .most. . .!” Tamir seemed lost as to how to explain without breaking his Lordship’s confidence. The King regarded him with a gentle grin.

“Let me take a guess, Tamir. Over recent weeks my diary has been particularly light. Was I mistaken to think this is just a particularly quiet time of year?”

“No, Sire. The business of State has not lessened, in my humble opinion. Lord Faramir has been ‘particularly’ busy, Sire.”

“To the point of overdoing it?”

“If I might be so bold, Sire. I believe Lord Faramir could do with an evening away from his office. A social evening. . .perhaps even an official invitation. . .”

“Very perceptive of you, Tamir. I believe you might just be right. I will ask the Queen to issue a personal invitation for the Steward to join us for supper!”

“Would you like me to deliver it, Sire?”

“No, Tamir. I will send it through official channels. . .and I will ensure he understands that this is an official invitation, just in case he decides his other duties are too important to put aside.

“Thank you, Sire. It has been very awkward. . .I don’t like to go behind his back . . .but I don’t think he always sees his own predicament too clearly. . .if you take my meaning.”

“Don’t worry, Tamir. And thank you for bringing this to my attention.” Tamir saluted and took his leave, leaving Estel to ponder on what exactly his young Steward had been up to. He set out to discover just what had been happening during his unofficial, extended honeymoon. What he learned worried and saddened him.

*********

Faramir was adept at projecting an image, a skill he had learned over a long lifetime of deflecting his father’s hostile notice. He dressed with care and even went out for a brisk walk along the walls to allow the cold wind to put some colour in his cheeks. He was dreading this evening because he knew that it would be almost impossible to hide his present state for either Estel or Arwen. He wondered if perhaps word had reached the King of his poor performance in the day’s assizes or if he had made some other error. It was with great trepidation that he approached the Royal chambers and waited to be announced.

There were no other guests and to Faramir’s surprise the food platters were all laid out on warming plates; the servants were dismissed and Arwen served them. Conversation over dinner was light-hearted and Faramir allowed himself to relax back into the welcoming presence of his friends. He had no head for alcohol so he only sipped at the strong sweet wine, hardly noticing that his glass was kept topped up as the evening progresses. With the meal over they made themselves comfortable by the fire.

Neither Arwen nor Estel were deceived by Faramir’s attempts to hide the extent of his exhaustion, they could see how his tunic hung loosely from his diminished frame and no amount of windswept glow could erase the gaunt hollow-eyed testament to weeks of overwork.

Estel hoped that given the depth of the bond and understanding they had reached in the past, Faramir would open up to them and air whatever it was that was causing him such distress. But the progress Estel had made in befriending and supporting his diffident Steward appeared to have been forgotten, buried under weeks without proper sleep and long days crammed with over zealous duties. In his desperation to avoid revealing what he saw a shameful weakness, Faramir had fallen back onto his old coping strategies, becoming insular and ruthlessly self-sufficient.

It was Arwen who played the opening gambit. “Faramir I understand I have you to thank for allowing Estel and me so much time together since Yule”

“My Lady?”

“I understand that you organised for Estel’s diary to be freed up of all unnecessary duties. It was very kind of you to indulge us so thoughtfully.”

“I-I. . .don’t. . .!”

“Faramir accept our thanks as is your due,” Arwen said, taking his hands and preventing him from making his retreat. Every fibre of Faramir’s being came to alert and screamed at him to escape quickly before the full depth of his predicament was revealed to his friends.

“It was kind, though I fear both Estel and I have reason to fear that you have done too much.”

“It was my pleasure, My Lady. Your thanks are much appreciated but totally unnecessary. . .I was just doing my duty.” Faramir assured her, trying, unsuccessfully to extricate his hands from her grasp.

“Arwen is right, Faramir. It was a great kindness but it has been achieved at too great a cost. Why did you not tell me of your plans to take over my duties,” Estel demanded, though his words were gentled but the concern in his voice.

“I wanted you to enjoy a few weeks of peace without worrying about your duties. . .you have had no time to yourself since you came here. . .and for goodness knows how long before that. . .you deserved a few days of peace and quiet.” Faramir explained.

“A few days would have been a treat but this has been going on for weeks. . .I only realised today just what you have done. . .and from the looks of you it has been a few weeks too many. We have discussed in the past my feelings about you pushing yourself beyond your limits, haven’t we?”

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir confirmed miserably

“And there is more to this than just overwork, isn’t there?”

“I don’t know what you mean!”

“Faramir, you look like death warmed over! Do you have a fever?”

“No, Sire. I am quite well. . .I have just had a lot on my mind.”

“Are you sleeping?”

“I try to catch an hour’s rest in the afternoon, Sire,” Faramir explained, defensively.

“But you didn’t answer my question, Faramir. Are you sleeping properly?”

“No, Sire.”

“And what is preventing you?”

Faramir answered with just a shrug of his shoulders. “You don’t know or you’re not prepared to say?” Estel asked. “Why did you not seek assistance? You know that tiredness is not conducive to health or concentration.”

“Have I failed you in some way, Sire. . .Have I failed in my duties?” he asked miserably. “Am I in trouble, Sire?”

“Faramir, your only failing is in not trusting us, in shutting us out of your troubles,” Arwen explained gently, giving Estel time to get his frustration under control.

“No, Faramir. In all fairness I cannot be angry when I am more than culpable for your predicament. I have been neglectful of my responsibilities. I should have realised what was going on; that you were shouldering far too heavy a burden. But you are on notice, Faramir. I will not tolerate you putting your health and well being at risk, not even to give me a holiday,” Estel explained, pulling the Steward to his feet and shaking him gently to emphasise his point.

“Be thankful that Legolas is not here, Faramir, I believe he would not be so lenient,” Arwen offered, wishing them both goodnight and retiring to leave them to finish their discussion.

“Perhaps not so lucky! If Legolas had been here he would never have allowed you to get into this state. I am sorry, little brother, I should have been more attentive.”

“You had other things on your mind, Estel. . .I was only looking out for my own interests after all. . .come the summer I will be the bridegroom and will be looking to you to relieve my workload!” Faramir joked, feebly.

“Come summer, you and Éowyn will be banished to Dol Amroth for your honeymoon,” the King assured him, “Imrahil has already issued the invitation!”

“Oh!”

“Oh, indeed. It was the only way to ensure that Éowyn actually gets to spend some time with you. Now, it is time for you to get some rest.” Estel retrieved a small glass vial from the mantle and poured the contents into Faramir’s glass. “This will help you to sleep!” Estel watched to ensure that Faramir drained the glass and then escorted him back to his chambers.

“Faramir, you will spend the next two days resting. I will leave word with Tamir and your staff that you are not to be disturbed. . . .and Faramir, I will be checking up on you. . .do not test my resolve on this!”

“Yes, Sire,” Faramir yawned.

Whatever was in the King’s potion, it packed a formidable punch, Faramir practically fell into bed, sleeping the clock around and not waking for a full thirty six hours.

*******

With the King once again taking the reins, the pressure on Faramir eased to a bearable level. Regular hours and the royal couples’ insistence that he take time to relax and to enjoy their company went some way to help him cope with his duties. But deep down the familiar drag of old grief’s continued to plague the Steward. He found it easier to push the grief away but it could not be banished.

And the dreams continued.

It was almost as if Boromir was trying to tell him something, but every morning when he awoke the content of his dreams evaporated, leaving him just the impression of Boromir’s voice and an overwhelming sense of distress. The harder he tried to remember the harder his head pounded, the details slipping further away.

When Beregond sent a request from the garrison at Cair Andros seeking permission to mount an expedition into South Ithillien to investigate an increase in the incidence of lawlessness, Faramir brought it to the attention of the King and petitioned to be allowed to join the White Guard in their task. He sited his own personal knowledge of the area and the fact that there were very few surviving Rangers within Beregond’s newly formed force who knew the area well. His arguments were persuasive and Estel could see that Faramir was keen to escape from the city for a while. Even more than the White City, Ithillien was the home of Faramir’s heart and the area he had chosen in which to build a home for Éowyn. Estel wasn’t entirely happy that Faramir had regained his full strength but he could see how much it meant to his Steward to travel back to the lands he had spent so long protecting and so he gave his consent, though he did suggest that it might to be wise to delay the expedition until Legolas and Gimli returned from their visit to Eryn Lasgalen. Faramir did not take well to the suggestion and in the end Estel agreed to allow him to leave with the next relief caravan. Estel’s final instructions to Faramir were a stern warning to take care and an admonition that Beregond was under orders to ensure that he did so.

********

When the message came back to the Citadel that Lord Faramir and his escort had arrived safely, Estel told himself to put his apprehension to one side but the persistent feeling that he was overlooking something important niggled at him. He sent word to Beregond to be especially vigilant and that he wished to be kept informed regularly of their mission.

Faramir’s first task was to travel to Emyn Arnen to oversee the progress made on his new manor house. Little building had been done over the winter but the masons and the carpenters had spent the cold months cutting and shaping wood and stone so that progress would be swift when the weather improved. The foundations had been laid out and it was possible to discern the layout. Faramir sketched both the plans and an image of what the completed building would look like and sealed them within a letter to Éowyn, giving them and a message to Estel into the care of the messenger leaving for the city.

Upon returning to Cair Andros, Faramir, Beregond and the officers of the White Guard held a council to plan their campaign. There was much to discuss. Beregond’s command had been strengthened and was now a mounted force made up of men drawn from many of the platoons decimated during the war. The few remaining Rangers of Faramir’s former command had been integrated into this new force, their expertise and knowledge of the lands of Ithilien a welcome addition to the largely inexperienced ranks. The captains poured over maps and discussed the little intelligence they had acquired of the bandits who threatened the peace and security of the region.

They talked on into the dusk and after awhile Faramir found the voices washing over him. It was stuffy in the chamber and Faramir noticed a fly buzzing and bumping against the casement. He motioned one of the men to open a window. He watched the fly’s progress as it moved closer to freedom. When the insect finally made its escape, Faramir followed its progress.

Out of the window, he took flight soaring in tight circles, ever upward until the building and the island it rested upon were as toys below him. Onward and upward he circled on a rising updraft; he could feel the wind against his face and limbs but he felt no chill. The stars were pinpricks of jewelled light above him and on the horizon the slender crescent moon peeped over the snow capped mountain. On his flight he followed the silver ribbon of the river northwards, the sky inexplicably lightening as he followed its path. He floated downward as he approached the Falls Of Rauros, their misty plume blotting out the sky. He flew through the mist until he emerged into sunlight on the other side. He saw two grey boats on the water above the falls; he recognised their elven design. From one boat he heard an elven lament and saw a ranger, an Elf and a dwarf bid farewell to a fallen comrade. He circled down, ever nearer to the other craft and settled gently on the prow.

Boromir lay in the boat, his face at peace as it had been so rarely in life. The grime and blood of battle had been cleansed for his face and his hair brushed to a golden halo about his head. His battle-scarred hands were joined across his breast securing the hilt and shards of his broken sword, his round shield lay upon his legs and the weapons of his enemy were piled at his feet.

As the funeral boat was washed ever closer to the falls the eyes of the corpse opened and the beloved face turned to regard him. ‘Brother’ he heard the word in his head but Boromir’s mouth had not moved. ‘Brother, why have you abandoned me? Why have you ignored my pleas? Have I fallen so far from grace that you would not now give me peace?’

“Boromir, My Brother. There is no disgrace, you acquitted yourself with honour. Estel has come into his legacy. The battle over evil is done. We are victorious and the King has returned. Rest in peace now, my brother. Your companions are all safe.”

“And am I forgiven, My Faramir?”

“You need no forgiveness. All is as it should be. I miss you so much, Boromir.”

“Be happy, little brother. We fought a lifetime for this day. Do not let it be spoiled by

grief.”

“My Lord!”

As the little boat was swept over the falls he flew up through the mist. “My sword, little brother! Retrieve my sword that it may rest in the Hallows.” The plea faded into the roaring of the waterfall.

“My Lord! Are you unwell? Lord Faramir can you speak to me?” Beregond’s increasingly agitated call drew him back to the council chamber. His head pounded in agony. He was laying on the floor his head resting in Beregond’s thigh. He knew that if he moved he would be sick. Someone held a glass to his lips and he swallowed down a sip of sweet red wine.

“What happened, my Lord?”

“A dream. . .it was nothing, just a dream,” he whispered.

“No, Sir. Not just a dream. You were not asleep.”

“A memory, then. Do not fret, my friend.”

“And who were you talking to? Who visited you in your memory? You spoke of a sword?”

“Boromir. It was Boromir.” Faramir closed his eyes.

“We must get you back to the city, Sir.”

“No!”

“But we must let the King know what has occurred. He will want to know!” Beregond

protested.

“You must do as you must. . .but we leave at first light as planned. I will not disrupt our plans on account of a memory.”

“Sir, forgive me, but I am not sure that you should even be accompanying us!”

“That is not your decision to make, Captain.”

“I could make it my business! I am under express orders to ensure your safety!”

“And how does a dream affect my safety? You are over reacting, Beregond,” Faramir wheedled, getting to his feet and brushing off his tunic. “I am quite well and will be even better to get out into the forests that I love. If you send me back to the city I surely will go mad. I need to get out, Beregond. . .please do not take this chance away from me.”

“Very well,” the Captain agreed, reluctantly, “but you must promise me that you will confide in me if you have any more of these dreams.”

“You worry too much, my friend.”

“I’ll have your word, Sir,” Beregond insisted, his face set in a determined expression that reminded Faramir that the King had never yet rescinded his order giving the Captain authority over the Steward's wellfare.

“Very well, Captain Beregond, I give you my word that should I be visited by any more waking dreams I will be sure to tell you.”

“Dreams, whether waking or otherwise or any other manifestations of distress, Sir!” he clarified, much to Faramir’s discomfort.

“As you wish,” Faramir nodded reluctantly.

********

Beregond’s missive to the King was delivered at about the same time as the unexpected but welcome signal that The Royal Swan, bearing Prince Imrahil’s personal cipher, had been sighted and was docking at the Harlond. Estel and Arwen hastened down to the city gate to welcome the Prince personally and escort him up to the Citadel.

It was a joyful reunion, all the more pleasant for being unexpected.

“And where is my Nephew hiding himself?” Imrahil asked as he took tea with the Royal couple in their private sitting room.

“I’m afraid you have missed him. He left for Cair Andros several days ago. He is leading an expedition into Ithilien,” Estel explained. “We have been receiving word of increased banditry in the areas south of the Morgul Road. Faramir is particularly keen to make the area safe so that the process of repopulating the area may proceed. . .it is a fertile area and we need to get the farms and homesteads re-established as quickly as possible.”

“So, he is alright then?” Imrahil asked

“Yes, I believe so. . .why, do you have reason to believe otherwise?” Estel asked the Prince, his own sense of apprehension surfacing again.

“Only that his letters have been a little. . .subdued of late,” Imrahil explained. “What, Estel? What has he been doing? I recognise that look.”

Estel felt compelled to explain to Imrahil what had been happening with his Steward since Yule and his own part in Faramir’s recent predicament.

“And you allowed him to go on a dangerous expedition?”

“I had no reason to deny his request. He knows the lands if Ithilien better than any man alive. He is an experienced and canny commander, well versed in the type of actions required to deal with thieves and bandits. I do not doubt his abilities.”

“It is not his abilities that are in question here but his state of mind!”

“Imrahil, what is it you are so worried about?” Estel demanded.

“You said that he was having trouble sleeping and that he was troubled. . .preoccupied.”

“Yes, he was overworking.”

“Taking on more work than he needed to?”

“Yes, I suppose so. Why?”

“Grieving?” Imrahil questioned. “Tell me, Estel, what was happening just one year ago?”

Estel realised where the conversation was going. “Amon Hen! The anniversary of Boromir’s death! How could I not have realised!” Estel berated himself.

“And not only the anniversary of his death but the anniversary of his birth as well; they fall within a few days of each other. Little wonder my nephew has been preoccupied. Boromir must have been much on his mind of late.”

“I wish Legolas were here. I no longer feel comfortable about Faramir being out in the wilds.”

“Beregond will look out for him. He is a good man and devoted to the Steward.”

“Beregond is new to his command, the majority of his troops are inexperienced; Faramir is the expert and if he is compromised who then will lead them!” Estel paced, unable to quell his growing anxiety. “Imrahil, I must ask you a great favour.”

“What would you wish of me, Sire?”

“I am going to take a squadron to reinforce Beregond’s troops. I wish to see and assess for myself the threat to our lands. . .and I want to be there to rein in any foolish actions by my Steward.”

“Do you wish me to accompany you, Sire?”

“No. No, I would ask you to remain here in the city in my stead. You know the city and the councillors and they know and trust you. I do not expect to be gone long, a week or two at the most.”

“And how will you explain your actions to Faramir, Estel? He will undoubtedly judge that you do not have confidence in him?”

“He will be too busy explaining why he sought to hide his distress from me to worry about that!” Estel said grimly, rubbing his hands together in anticipation of his Steward’s explanation.

“I hope your ‘discussion’ with him will wait until you can find somewhere with a little privacy. . .it would not be wise to compromise the dignity of his office in front of his men.”

“Worry not, ‘Uncle Imrahil’, I will guard his dignity. . .even as I roast his stubborn eardrums,” Estel promised.

******

When the King’s troop finally caught up with the White Guard Company a few hours after dawn they found the campsite in some disarray. The young Corporal left in charge of the camp nervously saluted the King and took the reins as the King dismounted.

“What is going on here?” he demanded. “Where are Lord Faramir and Captain Beregond?”

“Captain Beregond is organising the search, Sire. He and Lieutenant Damrod have each taken a search party,” the youngster explained.

“What are they searching for?”

“Lord Faramir, Sire. . .!”

Any further questions were halted by a whistled signal from the direction of the river. Estel recognised the signal and breathed a sigh of relief, for it signalled a successful search. He deployed his troop to set up defensive positions around the camp. A few minutes later Beregond’s party returned followed a few minutes later by a messenger from Damrod.

“Sire, Captain,” the soldier saluted, “We have found Lord Faramir at the river. He is alive and unharmed but Damrod is unsure how to approach him. . .he seems. . .unwell.”

“Explain yourself, Man!”

“Lord Faramir seems unaware of his surroundings, Sire. . .almost like he’s in a trance or-or. . .”

“Take me to him!” the King demanded.

As he approached the river he spied Faramir sitting waist deep in the shallows of a still backwater. Damrod was kneeling on the bank, watchful but silent. The King signalled everyone else to move back as he moved in next to the Lieutenant.

“What is happening, Damrod?” The King whispered.

“He was like this when we found him, Sire. I called to him but he doesn’t seem to hear me. . .almost like he still sleeps. He is clutching something but I can’t get close enough to see what, but from the looks of it there is other wreckage in the reeds. . .I pulled this out, Sire,” It was an artefact Estel recognised only too well, a battered and rusty shield, it’s distinctive decorative leather-covered face dented and ripped from long emersion in the water.

“See what else you can find, Damrod. I will see to Lord Faramir,” Estel instructed. He dropped his cloak onto the bank and waded into the icy water. Faramir didn’t respond to his call nor to the King’s hand upon his shoulder. “Have my pavilion set up and build up the fire!” he called as he lifted the huddled form from the water and struggled back to the bank. Damrod wrapped the King’s cloak around the Steward as the King carried him back to the camp.

Faramir only stirred when they tried to pries his find from his grasp. He struggled violently, curling himself over to keep the artefact safe.

“Peace, Faramir. All is well. Look at me Faramir. Look at me. It is Estel. You are quite safe. Show me what you found,” Estel soothed.

“I found it. . he told me where to find it. Boromir told me. . .The Hallows. . .he asked me to set it in the Hallows. . .I saw him! Spoke to him! Estel, I saw him. . .” Faramir opened his arms and clutched to his chest was the hilt of Boromir’s sword.

“Rest now, Little Brother. Let us get you out of these wet clothes and get you warm.”

“The sword!” Faramir panicked when the sword was taken from his hands.

“It will be well guarded until you are fit to take charge of it. I will give it into Beregond’s care, is that alright?” Faramir nodded and slipped into exhausted sleep.

At dusk, having escaped any detrimental effects from his night time escapade and prolonged dunking, Faramir found himself facing an interview with a very irate Monarch. The pavilion gave only the illusion of privacy so the interview was conducted quietly but Faramir was under no illusion of the King’s anger at his behaviour and disappointment that he had failed to confide in him.

“But, Sire. I found the sword. . .just as Bor. . .my dream showed me.”

“Faramir, you slipped out in the night, without guard or backup, in an area known to be infested with cut-throats and thieves!” Estel raged, quietly. “Do you think any artefact, however precious, is worth your life?” Do you think Boromir would have permitted you to take such a risk?

“But, Sire!”

“No, Faramir. If you had but confided in someone, anyone, you could still have retrieved the sword without putting your very life in danger.”

“If I had said Boromir was coming to me in dreams it would have been seen as confirmation that I am as tainted as my Father, that the madness that felled him had been passed to me!”

“Do you really have so little faith in me, Faramir,” Estel said sadly, shaking the younger man in his frustration. “I know of your bond with Boromir and of your ability to dream true. . .I would have supported you.”

“Forgive me, Estel. I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as you will be when I get your stubborn backside back to Minas Tirith!” Estel promised. “We will leave at dawn.”

“But what about the expedition? We have reason to believe we are on the trail of a significant group of outlaws hiding out just south of here. . .there are cave systems in the foothills south of Minas Morgul.

“Beregond and the White Company will continue the mission. You will return with me.”

“But, Sire!”

“That is an order, Captain.”

“Yes, Sire. May I be excused, Sire. With your permission I will check the watch and then retire.”

“You will retire now. Beregond will see to the watch,” Estel ordered. Acutely conscious that he had upset and disappointed the King, Faramir offered no further objections. He lay awake long into the night contemplating how quickly he had lost the King’s good opinion.

The attack came an hour before dawn. The watch was taken by surprise and a few troops fell before the alarm was sounded. The King’s forces were swift to mount a vigorous defence and a fierce battle ensued. The attackers were heavily armed and well organised and comprised of Haradrim, Easterlings and men of Gondorian descent.

The White Company formed an outer defence and Faramir joined the King’s own guard in protecting the King. The fighting was bloody and many troops and outlaws took fatal wounds. The troops were just beginning to get the upper hand when Faramir yelled a desperate warning as one of the outlaws raised a longbow and took aim at the King. The Steward lunged forward as the arrow was loosed and time seemed to slow as the deadly dart tracked to its target. He managed to get to Estel and push him aside but he was not quick enough. The dart struck the King and he fell to the ground, the vicious arrow protruding from his back.

Faramir stood over the fallen King and called his forces to him. The attack on the King seemed to galvanise the troops to greater efforts. The outlaws were repelled and they retreated. Faramir ordered that the troops all remain and not to go after the fleeing bandits; his first and only concern for the fallen king. Faramir and Damrod held the King still as Beregond cut through the shaft of the arrow; Estel finally regained consciousness as they secured a thick pad over the wound in his shoulder. The wound was serious but the King’s life did not appear to be in immediate danger.

“We must get the King to safety. He needs to be treated back in the city. We cannot risk trying to remove the arrow out here,” Faramir said as he supported the King against his chest. From the King’s saddlebag, Beregond retrieved a satchel of healing herbs and brewed an analgesic draught.

“Estel, drink this,” Faramir coaxed.

“The men! What happened?” Estel gasped, his eyes tracking as the troops milled around dealing with their own dead and injured and dispatching the enemy wounded.

“The outlaws have retreated; we have taken losses and several injured. Our priority is getting you back to safety.”

“What about the injured.”

“Let me worry about that. I am used to dealing with situations like this,” Faramir assured him, pushing aside his own overwhelming guilt at being responsible for getting the King into the situation.

As the King succumbed to the sedative effect of the potion, Faramir, the King still cradled in his arms, called the officers to him and outlined his plans.

“Beregond, you will take the King’s mount, Roheryn; he will have no difficulty bearing you and the King. You will ride hard for Minas Tirith accompanied by the Royal Guard. I will take a small force and track the outlaws. Lieutenant Damrod, you will take command of the remainder of the troops and will return to Cair Andros with the injured. Do we have enough horses to carry the dead?”

“Our own fallen, yes, but not the bandits,” Damrod offered.

“Then we will build a pyre. It will be a warning to their compatriots of what awaits them when they are caught. There is only one punishment for treason and I will personally light the faggots under their pyres!”

“Lord Faramir, would it not be better if you accompanied the King,” Beregond asked.

“No. I trust you with the life of the King. I am the one who knows this area better than anyone. I will track down these scum and see them punished and their stain wiped from the face of Arda!”

“My Lord, please reconsider! With the King. . .injured, the people will look to you for leadership. The Queen will want your support. Let me go after them. Your place is in the city.”

“I will clear up the mess I created. I am the reason the King was out here in the first place. If I had not. . .No! You will do as I ordered. Prince Imrahil is in the City, he will ensure that all is as it should be until. . .if-if. . .when the King recovers.”

“Faramir, you are not to blame for this,” Beregond insisted, dropping all formality in his effort to get through to his friend and Captain. “Do not take on that burden,” he pleaded but he could see that his pleas fell on deaf ears. Faramir had closed himself off to all but his guilt and what he saw as his duty.

“Mount up, Captain Beregond. The King’s very life lies in your capable hands. Do not fail your King!” Faramir pressed a final kiss of blessing to the King’s brow and lifted his unconscious form up into Beregond’s arms. “Ride hard. I will return within a week, maybe two. Tell the King. . .ask him to forgive me!” He slapped Roheryn hard upon the flank and the King’s mount shot forward and galloped away surrounded by the Royal Guard.

TBC