Erchirion had been waiting for some time in the library at the Steward’s house, when the Steward finally returned.
“Took you long enough, cousin,” Erchirion said with a wry grin, as Faramir appeared in the doorway. “With the time you took, one might think you escorted the Lady all the way back to the First Circle, not merely to the Houses of Healing.”
“You did not tell me you were coming. We could have walked together,” Faramir said. Erchirion narrowed his eyes in disbelief. Laughing softly, Faramir added. “Or perhaps not. I thank you for your consideration.”
Erchirion shook his head. “You, in love! I never thought this could happen. Boromir would have teased you to no end.”
“He would. And he would have liked her.”
“For sure. A sister-in-law with whom he might have crossed swords? And one who looks at you the way she does? He would have approved wholeheartedly.”
Faramir smiled. Warmth and sorrow mingled in his eyes at the mention of his brother. “Will you stay the night? I will have Meldis prepare a room.”
“She already has, while you were off on your journey to Ithil and back again.”
Faramir chuckled and tossed a cushion at Erchirion, which he deftly caught.
“Do you mind if we just sit here and talk?” Faramir asked, settling beside him on the settee. “I do not think I am up to playing chess or cards or having any more drink.”
“I am not fit for anything requiring thought. Drank too much. Why not we sit here and you read something to me, if you would?”
This was getting rather obvious, Erchirion realized. He was sure Faramir knew what he was doing. But Faramir seemed happy to play along, which was an improvement. His cousin must learn to receive—and not only to give—understanding and devotion.
“Any particular lays or treatises you would like to hear?” Faramir asked.
“Not verses,” Erchirion said. “Tomorrow the minstrels will drown us in them.”
“Chronicles of Andunië? The Wealth of the Kingdom? Or Belecthor’s Military Strategy?”
Erchirion gave a nod at the last suggestion.
Faramir took the book from a shelf and returned to his seat. He began reading aloud, his voice steady and familiar, reminding Erchirion of the times when Faramir had read him bedtime stories or expounded on various lore.
“War is a matter of vital importance to any realm, a matter of life or death, the road to survival or ruin. It must be studied thoroughly...”
As Faramir read the familiar texts, he seemed to relax. Leaning back, Erchirion, too, felt the weariness of the day ease from his shoulders. The cool night air drifted in through the half-open windows, carrying the fragrance of blooming flowers, the scent of citrus trees, and the faint aroma of warm stone which had soaked up the sun all day.
A few more chapters, Erchirion thought, then we could call it a night. His cousin was not brooding; his mission seemed a success.
“To shatter your enemy’s plans is the highest skill,
To disrupt their alliances is next,
To strike their forces comes after,
And to lay siege to their cities is the last resort—
A desperate act, costly and crude...”
Erchirion shifted in his seat, thinking of the Enemy’s relentless march towards Gondor. “It was not so desperate for the Dark Lord,” he quipped. “His army outnumbered us by so much, that a siege did not seem a folly.”
“But it was still a last resort, I believe,” Faramir replied, “and costly. Minas Tirith has enough supply to withstand months of siege, and where will the Enemy’s army get their supply from? We made sure nothing was left for them to forage at the Pelennor.”
“He counted on breaking our will,” Erchirion said, “which his foul Captain almost succeeded in doing.”
Faramir nodded and read a passage which aptly described what Erchirion just said.
“The finest victory is a bloodless one,
Where cities stand unscathed,
And armies yield without a fight.
This is the summit of strategy,
The art of bending the will without breaking the body.”
Faramir paused, then he flipped through the book to find a particular passage.
“Defence-in-depth, also called layered defence, weaves a tapestry of resistance, not content with a strong solitary line to hold back the tide.
“Instead, it crafts a series of fortifications, each one a thorn in the side of the advancing foe. As your enemy struggles through layer after layer, their strength wanes, their resolve falters, until they are left with no choice but to retreat, exhausted and defeated.
“It seeks to slow down and damage the assaulting enemy, to buy time at the expense of yielding some space, if necessary.
“In recent years, Gondor has adopted the strategy of layered defence,” Faramir continued to recite, this time not from the book but from memory. This was one of the first lessons taught in Minas Tirith’s army training.
“After the fall of Minas Ithil, the layers of defence are:
first, the forces in Ithilien,
second, the Anduin, anchored by the posts at Osgiliath and Cair Andros,
third, the Rammas Echor and the Causeway Forts,
fourth, the Pelennor Fields,
fifth, the city of Minas Tirith, which itself has seven layers of defence.”
Erchirion rested his elbow on the settee’s arm and propped his head on his hand.
“This strategy suited Gondor well because the southern regions, where a large part of our strength comes from, are many leagues away from Minas Tirith,” he took up the narration. “Similarly, in the North, Rohan is many days’ ride away. The longer Gondor can delay the Enemy’s advances, the more reinforcements we can gather.”
“The Steward followed this strategy diligently,” Faramir said, his gaze drifting to the night sky. “We had withdrawn our forces from Ithilien, so Anduin became the outmost line of defence. The Steward knew this, so he sent forces to fortify Osgiliath.”
To Erchirion it seemed that Faramir spoke more to himself than to anyone else. But presently, Faramir turned to him. “There was nothing wrong with that decision,” he said, looking straight at Erchirion, as if challenging him to question that statement.
Erchirion began to regret his choice of reading. Should have chosen the safer tales of Silmariën and her proud descendants, he thought. But he stopped himself. For Faramir seemed to wish to speak about this, if perhaps unconsciously, and was not that the reason he had come tonight? That Faramir should not be alone with his imaginative mind, on the eve of surrendering his rod?
Erchirion straightened his back and returned Faramir’s gaze. “The decision was not without merit, though there was also a sound basis for deciding otherwise,” he said carefully.
With more conviction he continued, “And as I said in my letter, no one should dispute the outcome of that decision: if you had not delayed the enemy as you did, cousin, they would have ravaged Minas Tirith before Rohan or the King came.”
Faramir nodded, his eyes resolute. “My men’s lives were not lost in vain.”
The night air grew chill. Faramir rose and close some of the windows. Standing against the windows, his hands on the sill, he spoke again. “The Steward knew the strength of the advancing army from Mordor. He was aware that the forces he sent to Osgiliath would likely suffer heavy losses, but holding the layers of defence was necessary for the City’s survival.”
Erchirion looked at Faramir’s composed face. Was Faramir actually defending his father’s decision? Erchirion and Amrothos (and Imrahil, though not as loudly) had sworn and cursed at Denethor for sending Faramir to Osgiliath.
Faramir continued calmly, as if they were discussing mere strategies from a book, rather than a real command that had nearly cost him his life. “It was ruthless, certainly, to send his son. But the Steward of Gondor did what he must, for the defence of Gondor, even at the risk of losing his son.”
Again he looked intently at Erchirion. “Father chose his duty over me; I gave him my assent to do so. I would go so far as to say that I am proud that he did so.” His voice was no longer so even as he said the last sentence. His hand caressed the Steward’s ring on his finger, perhaps without realizing it.
Erchirion shook his head, bristling with indignation on behalf of his noble cousin. Faramir’s understanding and tenderness towards his father seemed impossible to reconcile with the said father’s ruthlessness.
“Why did you go willingly, Faramir?” Erchirion could not help asking. The Dol Amroth siblings loved their Minas Tirith cousins fiercely, and Erchirion had looked up to Faramir since childhood. “Worse than the thought of losing you was the knowledge that you would lose your life needlessly, because of your father’s blind command.”
Faramir looked at him gratefully. “I have always treasured your love, Erchirion. But how could you call it a needless death if it was to buy Minas Tirith some time until the succouring forces arrived? Or do you think the Steward should have commanded another Captain to go? Is his life worth less than mine?”
“Nay, and you were the best Captain he had. Who else could have managed that retreat like you did? That retreat should be expounded in Minas Tirith’s army training.
“But that was not my question. You said you gave your Father your assent. And indeed, you offered to go, though at the taunt of courage. Why? Why did you have to take that bait?”
Faramir straightened and his eyes flashed. He was gentle and mild-mannered most of the time, that Erchirion had forgotten how fearsome he could look when he allowed his anger to show.
“Bait? You know me better than this, Erchirion.”
His voice rang out firmly. “I offered to go because he was my lord and my father, and I would do all I can to carry out his will.”
“O, Faramir!” Erchirion exclaimed in a burst of exasperation.
Faramir raised his hand, stalling Erchirion’s protest. “You see, only the day before, we had debated about the One Ring. Father thought it a folly to send such a powerful weapon straight into the Enemy’s hands. I believe I did the right thing in letting the Ringbearers go—I would have said this even if their Quest had failed and we had all perished. But I was sad that I defied my lord’s will, and I fervently wished to carry out his will in other matters, as long as it did not go against my conscience.
“So the next day, when he strongly expressed his will to defend the outer defences, after I weighed it in my mind that this strategy could benefit Gondor (though not the only strategy), how could I not offer to go?”
“O, Faramir, Faramir!” Erchirion exclaimed, throwing his hands above his head. “Could any man ever merit such devotion from his son? Can you not, for once, think of yourself? You have every right to be angry—and defy him!”
“But I was angry,” said Faramir, as though the fact should have been plain. “Father did not err in sending me, but he was wrong in how he sent me.”
Erchirion felt slightly better knowing that Faramir blamed Denethor for something.
“I was angry, otherwise, I would have offered to go, without prodding him to command me,” Faramir said. “And you spoke of devotion, Erchirion? In the morrow, I am going to defy another wish of his.”
Erchirion gazed at the ceiling. How could a cold, stern man like Denethor be rewarded with sons like Boromir and Faramir? Or perhaps the answer lay in the question. The father who raised such noble sons and inspired such devotion in them, he thought, must have more in him than the stern and cold façade he showed. Was there ever a family nobler and sadder than Denethor and his sons?
“I had guessed something happened between the two of you before that day,” Erchirion said. “Even in his worst temper, Uncle Denethor had never been that harsh.” Or deliberately hurtful to you, he was going to say, but he did not wish to hurt Faramir further.
“So it was about the Ringbearers. Frodo and Sam told me their encounter with ‘the wise and fair Captain Faramir’. It displeased your father that you let them go?”
Faramir returned to his seat. “That I let the Ring go, that I acted so mightily like a king of old who sat in power and peace,” he said, smiling grimly. “In desperate hours, gentleness may be repaid with death, Father said. His harsh manner the next day—you could even say he chose his last words to hurt me— perhaps he wished to teach me a lesson, that I have to pay my generosity with death, not only mine but also my men’s.”
Erchirion’s disdain must have been visible, for Faramir added, rather sternly, “Have pity, Erchirion. Remember the desperate situation he faced: the Enemy closing in while his army had dwindled, his heir dead, and his surviving son had loftily rejected a powerful weapon. And pity we must have, lest we should harden our hearts and fall in the same mistake as the late Steward.”
Erchirion closed his eyes, trying to find pity for his stern uncle, or at least to think of something good about him.
With some reluctance, he finally said, “His timing in releasing and calling back the sortie was impeccable, that much I will admit. We routed the enemy forces without losing many of ours.”
Though again, how could a father so ruthlessly wait until the right moment to rescue his son? Erchirion counted himself fortunate that neither he nor his father was the ruler of Gondor.
Faramir’s voice brightened slightly. “Was it so? Knowing this brings me some comfort, for it shows that he was doing his duty of defending the City, except at the very end.”
Faramir patted Erchirion’s back. “Let us call it a night. We have to get ready early tomorrow.”
Erchirion nodded, his eyes still closed. He was rather ashamed—some comfort he had been to his cousin tonight! How had the pleasant night turned into a conversation about Uncle Denethor?
“Erchirion?” Faramir called gently.
He opened his eyes and reluctantly met Faramir’s gaze.
“You have my gratitude,” Faramir said. “I am glad you are here with me tonight.”
Erchirion let out an awkward chuckle. Perhaps it was Faramir’s gift (or doom?) to give pity and understanding far more than others could ever give him.
“Would you do me another favour?” Faramir asked. “Tomorrow when the Steward’s banner is lowered, would you stay close to me?”
Erchirion blinked in astonishment. Faramir rarely asked anything for himself.
“I will be right behind you, Faramir. I would have followed you even to Angband, I hope you know that.”
He was rewarded with a rare smile that reached the eyes and made the grave face radiant.
Then Faramir put his arm around his shoulders and together they left the library.
“I should have chosen the boring Chronicles of Andunië...”
“Boring? Which version did you read? I will read it to you next time, I dare you to call it boring afterwards...”
...
Acknowledgment:
The texts that Faramir read to Erchirion are paraphrased from Sun Tzu’s “The Art of War”.
Faramir and Erchirion’s discussion on defence-in-depth is inspired by and paraphrased from an article on the Siege of Gondor in the blog “A Collection of Unmitigated Pedantry” by Bret Deveraux (https://acoup.blog/2019/05/17/collections-the-siege-of-gondor-part-ii-these-beacons-are-liiiiiiit/)
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