Faramir's Verse by losselen

Faramir's Verse

Read Faramir's Verse

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There is a crack, a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in

-“Anthem” by Leonard Cohen

 

The morning was warm and very fine.

Faramir, being now Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, put aside his duties for the day and sought the company of Gandalf. He found that though Gandalf had been offered larger quarters closer to the Tower, he had taken again to the small rooms he once shared with Pippin in the old guesthouses, saying that it was quieter, and that he preferred the easterly view.

They took a small meal as the Sun climbed through the window, and their talk wandered between the matters of Gondor and the City, the telling of the Quest of the Ring, and eventually turned to other matters which Faramir had long desired to know.

“Do you remember, Mithrandir, that you said to me on the eve of the great battle: ‘Your father loves you, and he will remember it ere the end’? And so I went to Osgiliath with those words in my ear. I will not deny that I went in bitterness, for you read me true. I’m afraid I had come close to despair.”

Gandalf looked now thoughtfully at Faramir, and lit his pipe.

“Yes, Faramir, I remember it well. I’ve waited for you to come to me with questions.”

“And so I had hoped you would be willing to answer them. But chiefly I came to thank you for my life, for though the King drew me back from the darkness, it was you who drew me back from the fire.”

“No thank is needed, my dear Faramir,” Gandalf said, clasping Faramir by the shoulder. “No one would have done nothing while wickedness would destroy a worthy man. But you should really thank Pippin, who told Beregond and ran to tell me in that hour, and thus you were saved. Indeed you know much already—and though I begrudge you not its telling, this tale is grievous, and more still for the fate of Denethor.”

Faramir was silent for a while. “I learned much already, yes. How came Denethor to his end, no one would tell me plainly at first. But I learned bits from Beregond even as I rested in the Houses of Healing, ere he rode away with the host. He was reluctant to tell me, but I’m afraid I pressed him. And though he told me not much, I pieced more together in the days after, from talking with Master Meriadoc, and knowing that Beregond went in parole from his station as one that had defied his commander. And so I made my guesses and asked no more. Something lay between him and my father, though I knew not yet what.”

“Blame not Beregond or the others. It was I who bade him and the Warden to keep the full tale from you, at least for awhile.”

“Perhaps that was wise, for I feared that I was not in full mastery of my mind in those days of Shadow when the memory of the Black Breath was still fresh.

“But then it came to be that beyond all hope the Shadow passed, and Elessar was to come to the City, the King returned. And for a while I paid it no more mind. And yet there was work to be done, and many records and tokens to retrieve from this hall or that store, and I came some time to Fen Hollen and saw not the porter there. I saw then that the Rath Dínen was in disarray, and the House of the Stewards burnt, its dome fallen. I learned there was turmoil in the Hallows which took the porter’s life, though what enemy assailed it, none would say.

“So ere he went away to the Field of Cormallen I asked again of Master Meriadoc the tale of his kinsman. He told me then in full what he would, that Denethor was slain by his own hand and the hands of those bound to his service perforce, save for Beregond who defied the orders. And that the burning in the House was for a funeral, but moreso a pyre for men yet living. Even as the horns of the Rohirrim rang out in the valley, it was then that Denethor burned as if a king of Men in the long days of Shadow before ever came a ship from the Sea.”

Faramir paused, as if afraid of his next words. “And that the pyre was also for me.”

Gandalf’s face was full of sadness and pity, “Even in the long work of the Enemy, this deed was among the most grievous.”

“I went away in bewilderment. It seemed to me that all my old fears had taken life. But had I feared this? That my father, so high and stern, would fall thus? I did not know. When the Shadow pressed and our peril increased, yet so did his pride, as if annealed to a steel hard yet brittle. I had feared for him often when I thought I could read somewhat of his mood. In those days all I thought of my father was colored by my own bitterness at our estrangement, and doubtless also his dealings with me.

“But this deed, this madness by fire. I could not believe it, in truth. Yet everywhere I turned in the City there was the shadow of him, for I was now heir and he was lord for five and thirty years and his hand lay heavy over the realm and all my life.”

“Denethor was not always such a man as you’ve known him, Faramir. He was a great lord in his younger years, and loved the City in his keeping. And as I said on that day, he loved you after his fashion.”

“As did I. A small funeral I already held for him, at a month since his passing and ere the Return of the King. For he and Boromir both. It was a sad note among the days of joy and preparation. The House of the Stewards is stained with the fire, and its dome is broken. I fear it shall never be returned to what it was before.”

At length, Faramir spoke again with tears in his eyes. “Alas for my father who sought the pyre.”

Gandalf sighed, and the smoke of his pipe drifted through the open window. “The madness of your father was not wrought only by his own hands, Faramir. You know this. The prowess of the Enemy was a deceit unto itself, and in all his dealings with Elves and Men, deceit was ever chief among all his powers of old. Though those who fell under its shadow are not blameless, blame them not overmuch, if they fell because of love. Denethor in the end, for he loved the City, and Boromir, and he loved you. What blame can I place on love, save that its deeds were not checked by patience and wisdom, and that the Enemy twists even love to his own ends?

“As for Denethor—he was a lonely man, lonely as he thought a great lord should be. And in his loneliness and his pride, he fell for the deceit of the Enemy to the overthrow of hope. It was not the deceit of his mind, not the deceit of spies or war-figures or strategems, but a deceit of his heart in which he forgot that Gondor stood not alone in opposition to the Dark Tower, much as he thought of himself. Other powers still dwelled in Middle-Earth and beyond it. I think he also forgot that Gondor is not a bulwark only. This deceit was long in the making—and the dark strands stretch ever back the ages in the history of Gondor—far beyond the reckoning of Denethor.

“In your work in the House of the Stewards, did you find the Anor Stone that Denethor revealed to me in hist last hour? In your speeches with Pippin perhaps he would not have told you of it, for he, too, had been tempted by one of the Stones of Gondor. But that is another tale.”

“Of the Stone both Boromir and I had long suspected, I longer than he, for it is said that the Twenty-sixth Steward had always been far-sighted. At the beginning of my suspicion Boromir would say that father had spies that we knew not of, or that father would spend long hours in the Tower piercing the strategems of Sauron with his mind alone, yet I thought always that my father was canny, and he was defensive of his sources. But Boromir saw him once, and found me, and we puzzled out that the Anor Stone had been moved within the Citadel.” Faramir gripped now his goblet. “Yet we said naught to my father as we should have done. I should have done more to dissuade my father, and stayed perhaps that which came to pass!”

Gandalf looked at Faramir through his thick eyebrows, and sighed, and stood to tap out the remnants of his pipe by the fireplace.

“What ever you or Boromir would have said or done, it would have been to no avail. Never should have Denethor gone to the high chamber in the Tower of Ecthelion where it lay!” Gandalf said now, his voice now stern, and yet strangely moved. “It had been kept there, in all the long years of your forefathers, unlit and hidden, untouched by the hands of Men since first the Nazgûls took the Tower of Isildur and found all the secrets of Gondor within its keeps. Long the Anor Stone slept, while Sauron pored deep over the Ithil Stone, of which it was the sister, and the affinity between them he sought to use to his advantage. And who can say what day or hour drove the feet of Denethor towards that room, knowing full well its peril? Years it must be, I now marvel.

“Whatever insight Denethor thought the Stone could yield without being revealed himself, no matter what advantages it might have won for Gondor, it was folly to think that he can outmaneuver Sauron by will. And his last madness was the evil fruit of a garden that he long tended.” Gandalf sighed again, but even as he did so, he sat down, and this time he touched Faramir on the shoulder. “But that is just what an old man would say to one that he once considered friend. And I’m sorry, they should not have been the words to say to you, who still grieves his father.”

“Nay, Mithrandir. No grief can gainsay what is plainly true. Do I not know too well the pride of Denethor?”

“Then let us grieve for Denethor, that the days, such as he found, were dark and bitter, and he lost your mother early and you and Boromir had to speed to manhood, and he saw no way to face them than to harden or shatter. He had long ruled in honor and wisdom, though his wisdom was clouded at his end.”

“But what of the Stone? I have come to you chiefly because workers recently found it amongst the rubble of the House, and I bade them leave it untouched, not knowing what else to do.”

“So you have found it. Aye, a fire cannot destroy that which was made in the Elder Days in the West. The Stones held no evil in their beginning, being things that came out of the Ship with Elendil the Fair, and nor have they been wholly corrupted by Sauron. And yet, you are right to have been cautious. I do not rightly know myself what it now contains, and what it will show its user.”

At this Gandalf’s voice softened. “My dear Faramir, my Age has ended. Soon shall begin the Age of Men, and what Men will do with what is given to them is now entirely in your hands. But one last counsel I will give you on this matter: find Aragorn your King, who is the rightful owner of the Palantíri by inheritance, and ask of him what aught to be done for Anor Stone.”

At this Faramir bowed, and thanked Gandalf, and went forth from the guesthouses.

A few days hence, Faramir paid a visit to the King in his study.

“My lord Prince, what do you need?”

“My King, I have a matter which requires your advice and aid. Soon will come two months since the passing of my lord father. A small funeral I held before the Coronation to lay his remains in tomb. But as his heir, even were he not a high lord of the realm I should have gathered the folk of the City in a ceremony and mark our mourning on the month. But in the days after the passing of the Shadow, there was so much joy and and so much to do for the mending of realm and folk. And lay yet in the House of Kings the body of the King of Rohan, and returned was the King to Gondor. How should I have insisted for the mourning of Denethor, who fled the city’s last defenses when so many others were slain at her fields and gates, high-born and low?

“But he was lord of the City for long years, and the City loved him in their manner. I have commissioned his funerary image and saw to it that the remnants of the fire were cleared from the House of the Stewards, but one matter remains that we have discovered amongst the ruins of the pyre.”

“Oh?”

“It is the Anor Stone. It was found in a garden plot beside the gate to the House, already half-buried by the spring rains. It must have been rolled or kicked there by heat and commotion of the fire. It is on this matter that I require your wisdom, for you have had dealings with the Stone as no other has. I’m afraid to continue work in the House without its removal. And yet, where to?”

Aragorn nodded, and looked down now at his desk in consideration, and presently said, “Indeed, I knew of the fire in the Hallows from Gandalf since the night when I came into the Houses of the Healing. I think you knew of it also, even on that night, for your dreams were dark and full of flames. Gandalf told me then of the Stone, but there was no time to deal with it or the remains of Denethor, with the War still hanging in the balance.” So saying Aragorn looked up at the Prince, and saw that Faramir blanched. “I am sorry to bring up unhappy memories. But the matter remains. Let us meet tomorrow in the House of the Stewards, where I can best judge what will be done.”

The next afternoon, Aragorn went from the Citadel into Rath Dínen.

In their silent Houses the Kings and Queens of Gondor were laid graven upon coffins. In white marble they lay reposed, on their brows their winged crowns and at their hands the tokens of their lives and reigns. Some tombs were set on sumptuous platforms carven with countless figures and some where canopied with balustrades of gold and silver. Gilt their gears were, and set with jewels were their crowns and swords in death, and through the open windows of the House they looked westward upon the uprisen of knee of Mindolluin, and westward they looked to Númenor that was, and Elvenhome that is, and beyond, what shall ever be.

But in the Houses of the Stewards, there were no crowns or swords, no gold or splendor, only tombs and daises, and the dead Stewards carven in state, and names, and dates, and dedications. Marble vines and fresh flowers wreathed the tombs and dark shrouds lined the walls that were now singed. Only the figure of Mardil the Steadfast stood sternly in a high apse in the northern end of the House, his right hand pointing westward and his left hand outstretched toward the east in a gesture of abjuration.

Years unnumbered it was since the House was first built, but now its darkness was pierced, and from high above light streamed in where the vaults failed or the walls crumbled, and that which was lit was set aglow in the sad gloom, and presently a ray of Sun glanced upon the eyes of Mardil and flooded his scorched visage.

The marks of the fire climbed all the way to the top of the high walls, and on the eastern side of House, the shell of the dome had cracked completely and caved in a jagged line along its clerestory windows. Dark ash was everywhere, and plumes of grey air rose up at the King’s every movement. Tents were raised above the gravestones to protect them from rain, but many of the old Stewards near the pyre were covered completely in grime. And though slow work had begun to clean the House, the ruins of the fire still lay astrewn all about them.

“My King, you come.”

“Yes, I have come. I have not come to this place since long ago—and it is a grief to see it like this.”

Faramir stood in a section in the back chambers most of the walls were still intact though the ceiling was gone. He spoke in a hushed voice that would have once echoed in silence of the House, but now seemed thin and unsteady within the cold open air. Before him was a niche with three dark tombs sunken in the ground. On the left could be read: Finduilas of Dol Amorth, Lady of Minas Tirith, Beloved wife and mother. On the right, with letters less worn: Boromir of Minas Tirith, Captain-General and High Warden of the Tower, Beloved of his City. Between them the third tomb was laid, raised higher than the rest, and covered with a dark velvet pall trimmed with gold. At the top of the niche was newly carved: Denethor II, Twenty Sixth Ruling Steward of Gondor. No figure was on it, and flowers, white and gold and blue, lay on all three tombs.

Aragorn went to the Prince, and in his hand was a bouquet of white alfirin that he laid on the central tomb.

“Here lies Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor. May the Valar keep him.”

He bowed lowly with his hand upon his breast in a gesture of obeisance.

The warm spring Sun reached here, too, peering above the tops of the roofless walls and onto the tent over the grave of Denethor. A troop of sparrows noisily flitted atop the now exposed columns, where the boughs of the great yew tree that grew in the yard outside swayed now and again into view.

The two men stood in silence for a long time. And at last, Faramir repeated, bowing. “Here lies Denethor, Lord Steward of Gondor. May the Valar keep him.”

“I had not thought the damage was this great,” said Aragorn. He looked up now at the broken ribs of the dome, and all the scorched stoneworks, and the melted glass, and the crumbled bricks that lined the entablature.

“It is indeed great. Two year’s work of the City’s best stonemasons it would need, if not more. But our arts in stonework has dwindled since the days of Herion when the great dome was first built, and perhaps no repair can be made to make it whole again. And yet the dome is not foremost in my plans, for the Great Gate, and the First Circle, and all the dwelling places of the people of the City remain chief in my concerns.”

“That is as it should be, for the needs of the living are greater than any remembrance of the dead. As for the rebuilding of the dome, however, I think that the folk of Gimli, if they choose to dwell in the City for a time, can lend aid. But this is not the matter that brought me here—where is the Palantír?”

“It is here, Sire.” Faramir pointed now to a platform nearby, upon which rested a dark spherical shape beneath a black cloth. “It is wrapped in cloth, as I bade the workers of the Houses not handle it directly lest any ill memories lingered within. As for me, I am loath to even look upon it covered.”

“I understand your reluctance, Lord Faramir. It is wise, in any case, for the Seeing Stone is still perilous, even if the evil that once tainted it has been vanquished. Malice was poured into it, and it will no longer reveal the world to its wielder unclouded. I fear it will never serve the realms of Men again, at least for a long while. None of the Stones shall, I deem, save the Stone of Elendil in Elostirion near Mithlond that looks only to the West that is lost.”

So saying Aragorn went to the platform and bent his hand towards the dark shape, though he did not yet touch it. “I have looked into one once. Not this the Anor Stone, but another of the Stones of Gondor that Saruman had rousted from the keeps of Osgilliath. From it I learned of the peril of the southern fleet.”

And now he lifted the dark cloth. Lo! Faramir saw that the Stone was still with a glassy darkness that seemed to consume all light that came upon its surface. He quickly turned away.

“It is said that these were fashioned by the hands of Fëanor himself in Elder Days in the Blessed Realm, when still flourished the Trees of Valinor whose light flowed unmarred by evil in the world. The Noldor gave some to Men when friendship was still given to the Elves who sailed to Númenor from Tol Eressëa. And they were kept by the Faithful, and as heirlooms they were passed down in secret by the Lords of Andúinë, second only to the living tree of Nimloth and her seed.

“And yet it was with the aid of the Stones that Saruman and Denethor were both ensnared by Sauron. Alas, that the things that were once bright can dwindle thus!”

Faramir found that even the name of Fëanor, greatest of the Noldor, that in other time and place would have seized his heart, was not enough to stir him to turn his face towards the Stone.

“But the hours I spent wresting the Stone from the power of Sauron I deem among the hardest in my long life of hardship.” And Aragorn’s voice was now grave. “And Denethor must have grown even harder than what I remembered of him—how many days did he gaze into it? How many years?”

“I know not how many, nor what he learned, save that by Gandalf’s reckoning it was a long habit.”

Aragorn lowed his hand and closed his eyes, and as he touched the Stone its glassy darkness whirled into life. Within it came a light like the eddy of a silent flame that danced within the orb, and yet Aragorn’s fingers shook where they rested on the Palantír, as if it was hot to the touch, and the face of the King became stern and sad. A long moment he seemed to strive with some unseen will, and his hand seemed to be moving upon the Stone and yet at the same time was utterly still. The Stone’s light shifted, and flared, but the yellow and red flames never changed their color.

Slowly Aragorn lifted his hand again.

The flames within the Stone, it seemed to Faramir, bent towards the retreating hand of the King as if still eager of the contact, lingering where they were last touched, and then they waned and were no more.

“So it is as I fear. The Anor Stone will show no more, save the burning hands of Denethor in his last hour.”

“The hands of Denethor,” Faramir repeated.

“If you would look into it, my lord Prince, then I will not hinder you, for it is your right. I cannot read much in the Stone. It is full of flames. In grief went Lord Denethor, Steward of Gondor!”

Long Faramir stood in silence. Then he stepped towards the Stone, and slowly raised his hand as if to touch it, but did not. The Stone was as dark as a well. And slowly an image came to Faramir’s mind, of the memory of a dark valley, and dark figures saying dark words, and slowly he felt a suffocating smolder as if somewhere faraway a fire still burned without a flame. Quickly he retreated his hand, and unsteadily he said. “I do not think I have the heart to see what you saw, my King. Not in this hour, in this House, with the grief so near.”

“Then maybe in some later day, if you still desired it, when you are more at peace.”

“And yet, maybe never.”

Aragorn sighed and picked up the Stone by its wrapping cloth. “Come, Faramir. Let us not stand in ceremony. I think words are due between you and I, and not only those between a King and his Steward.”

Wearily the King and Prince sat down next to each other on a long bench cleared of ash near the niche of Denethor.

From below the mountain came the tolling of bells, marking the fourth hour of the afternoon. The Sun was now low in the sky. Through the broken shell of the dome they saw the shinning white spike of Mindolluin. And from other end of the House came the soft cooing of mountain doves, and the sudden whirr of wingbeats as they took flight.

Faramir said, “So the birds still keep company the forefathers of Húrinionath! I have to confess, sire, that the breaking of silence in this House is a comfort to me as it should not be. I have never liked it here in the Houses of the Dead. Not for their somberness, but because it seemed to me that the Kings of old loved their tombs more than the houses of the living. But maybe as a new Age comes, both Sun and life should again enter the Houses of the Dead.”

Aragorn here paused, and looked at Faramir intently, and said, “So like you are to her, my lord Prince. She said the same of these Silent Streets.”

Faramir looked up, puzzled. “To whom, my king?”

“Finduilas of Dol Amroth, your mother. I knew her, for a time.”

Confusion and amazement came slowly into Faramir’s eyes. After a long silence, he said, “And very like Mithrandir you are, Sire, as Merry had said. By your words today you speak as if you have come to this place before, a Hallow of the City that is not afforded to visitors, and only open to the leaders of the City on holy days of mourning. And so it must be true! The old councillors have told me—those who were but boys in the days of my grandfather—that you are like one who has been to the City before. Then surely you are the same captain who led the ambush in Umbar decades ago, only to depart therewith unthanked. If so, then sire, all your deeds are a wonder to me, for the name of Thorongil I have long known,” and so saying Faramir stood and bowed with his hand upon his breast.

But Aragorn stayed him, saying, “Say not unthanked, my friend. For duty needs no thank. Say rather that I longed for the lands of my home, and that I was charged with other errantry. Yet it is not without sorrow that I went, for Gondor became home to me also, one who has lived long as a wanderer in strange and dangerous lands. So it is that I have returned, not only as the Heir of Isildur, but as Thorongil the soldier of Gondor, for we are one and the same.”

Suddenly Faramir felt very young, sitting among the ruins of his kin next to the King who healed him from dire sickness, and it seemed that even beyond the facts of his high lineage and the valor of his deeds in the War, Aragorn was greater still.

“And yet, so understanding you, my king, do I understand the mood of my father in his last hours. Of what fey mood took him, stirred by the malice of the Enemy. It was not only my illness, or despair at the breach of the Gates, or even the coming of terror of the Witch-king, but also the thought that one is coming whom he long dreaded. It is plain to me that Denethor knew well your claim, and resented it. I do not think my father liked you in his day, for of Thorongil he had naught to say. Were it not for the direness of the War, he would have done his best to thwart you.”

“Then I, for my part, would have not come nor made any claim, lest Gondor be sundered in strife.”

At this Faramir’s gaze went toward the northern side of the House, at a tall obelisk that marked the tomb of Húrin of Emyn Arnen, who was Steward while the Kings of Gondor still lived. “Húrin it was who took helm of the realm when Minardil was assassinated in Pelargir, and thus began the Stewards of Gondor and my House. Ages long it has been since the Kin-strife tore Gondor in twain and Umber was lost. But even if there were no Dark Lord in the East and no Haradrim in the South, I don’t think Gondor would withstand another such strife again.”

“Nor would Denethor have risked it. But neither he would have been satisfied by my claim. Many of the lords of Gondor would have followed him, for he was a wise and just lord in his own way. His was a bitter death. Yet it is not lost on me that the peace of my Kingship was gained in part by your grief, Faramir.”

“It maybe so. But Denethor made his choices, and took such paths as he thought was best for Gondor, he bore both the rewards and the risks—he and all of Gondor. Yet if I were put in his stead, who can say that I could have make better?”


“In my youth when I first met him, he was not as you describe him. He was less dour and more keen for counsel. And great love he had for your mother and your brother who was but a babe when I was still in the City. It was grief to me to learn that she had died so young.”

Faramir added, “Mithrandir said the same,” but said no more.

The Sun hung now low and deep behind the shoulder of Mindolluin, and long shadows, blue and dusky, stretched over the tomb of Denethor.

After a long while, Faramir stood, and walked back to the niche of his father, but this time he looked upon the graves to either side, of his mother on the left and his brother on the right. “It seems that I am to collect the debts of my kin today. I would ask one more favor of you, my King.”

“Yes, Faramir?”

“Would you tell me of Boromir, my brother? You were there, I guess, at his last hour. And I have long desired to know his last words.”

Aragorn took some time to reply. A wind rose from the heights of the Mountain, and wavered in the boughs of the yew tree outside. They both felt the chill of the waning of the day.

Aragorn sighed and said, “I would that I had my pipe, and I would that we were not in the Hallows of Gondor, that I may tell you the tale with more satisfaction. And yet the tale would still be as sad, and no less for he was your brother.

“We were now come from Lórien by water to the cataracts of Anduin, and as the River divided the road east and west, I did not yet decide my course: to follow Frodo and the Quest in the east, or take the western bank and come by the roads of Rohan into Gondor. In the end, the decision was made for me, for we lost Frodo in the woods, and in the search for him I lost Sam, and suddenly from the trees came the horn blasts of Boromir.

“You may have heard already from Pippin of Boromir’s defense of him and Merry. But it was I who saw him last. Hearing his horn near the high seat on Amon Hen, I ran downhill to render him aid. Alas, I was too late. I found him by a tree, at his feet a sea of slain foes, and he was already pierced with many arrows. He spoke then his last words. The full truth of what he said I have not told anyone.”

Then, to Aragorn’s surprise, Faramir spoke. “And yet, lord, I think already know it, at least in part, that he had something to do with the Ring.”

“Oh?” Aragorn said. He sat gazing up at Faramir for a while, thinking. “Did Frodo tell you, then, when you met in Ithilien?”

“I asked much of Frodo when we chanced upon them in the wilds. The tidings of my brother were foremost in my thoughts.” Faramir said. “What an age ago it seems now to me, though not three months has passed since. Of Boromir Frodo said as much as he judged was wise in that dire hour, which was very little.

“It was Sam who said it, in the end.” Faramir said ruefully, glancing at the King. “Vividly do I remember. ‘It’s my opinion that,’” Faramir began, rather faithfully capturing Sam’s Northern speech, “‘In Lórien he first saw clearly what I guessed sooner: what he wanted. From the moment he first saw it he wanted the Enemy’s Ring!’ And so the Quest was revealed to me by the words of master Samwise. But blame him not, for he was weary and sorely tried—I can only imagine how sorely.”

“So you knew of the Ring all along,” Aragorn said in astonishment. “Then you know the chief part of what your brother said to me,” he continued. “He was bitterly ashamed of the deed, and rued it to his end.”

Aragorn was now looking not upon Faramir or the things of the House, but at some far off sight within his memories, and he said with a low sad voice: “His last words I remember vividly, and shall for the rest of my life: ‘I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid. They have gone: the Halflings: the Orcs have taken them. I think they are not dead. Orcs bound them.’ And at last he said, ‘Farewell, Aragorn! Go to Minas Tirith and save my people! I have failed.’

“It was then that I learned of the whereabouts of Merry and Pippin. I, too, in that hour tasted despair, for the Quest, I deemed, was doomed. No less because of my ill choice. And yet Boromir’s last words laid on me a spell of hope. What hope had Boromir for Minas Tirith? Vain, yet a kind of hope. That what aught to be done, still shall be done, no matter if we fail and perish in the deed. I resolved then that we must pursue the captors of Merry and Pippin, and to to come at last to Gondor and declare openly for the first time my rightful name and title.”

“Then he had not failed, nor died in vain,” Faramir said slowly as he lowered his palm upon the tomb, and it seemed the words troubled him to say.

Aragorn now went to stand beside his Steward. “We had no time for a land burial, for we had our quarry, with only our feet to chase them and already hours behind. We laid the body of Boromir on a boat and sent him over the Falls of Rauros. And three staves sang we, for his sending.”

“And so came a ship to me in the reeds and streams nigh Osgiliath, and it was no seeming.”

If Aragorn was amazed to hear of this, he showed no sign.

“Alas, that here lies all my kin. My mother long departed. Boromir overthrown by lust for the Ring. Denethor slain by his own hand. Beneath the broken House of the Stewards I have now collected the latest legacy for the House of Húrin, of shame and grief. And yet, so be it, for what has passed can now but be. And the House will be mended, with new folk and new hands, and that which was broken can sometimes be made better.”

Not for the first time did Aragorn look on the young lord, and love for him welled in his heart. He clasped Faramir on his shoulder, and said, “Faramir, you speak my thoughts. Of the repairs to the dome I will speak with Gimli and have his counsel on the stone work. But as for the mourning of the dead, I shall set aside a day after Midsummer, when we will gather all the folk of Gondor to mark the passing of Denethor and Boromir his heir, and all the dead of the War.” Then walking back to the bench and picking up the wrapped Stone, he said, “The Palantír I will take with me. It shall not remain in the Hallows, so near to Denethor to whom it was bane. Yet it is verily a high heirloom of the House of Elendil, and though its uses have shrunk, it shall still be kept in a place of honor. I will return it myself to the Tower of Ecthelion in the royal apartments where it was long kept.

“But will you not come with me? Let us climb to the highest place in the tower, and gaze on the land and feel the North Wind upon our faces. Then maybe from that high place we shall catch a glimmer of the cataracts of Anduin, where golden Rauros makes his song.”

So they went, the King bearing the Stone and the Prince beside him, and up the long steps of the Tower they climbed, while Aragorn told more stories of the last days of Boromir and Faramir listened.

And as they came out of doors of the high tower a wind was mighty upon their faces, sharp and keen, as if it had heard their words and brought the memory of Boromir to their ears.

Below them the spring grass rolled as the wild wind ran over the Pelennor like a tireless harper’s hand. The last light of the Sun shone on the River as it bended its course while the white Road rose and fell like a slender ribbon through the shivering grass. Here and there, the dark wastes of battle still dotted the field. And a memory suddenly sprang to Faramir’s mind, of watching over the high ramparts of the Citadel on a bright July morning as a dark lone rider disappeared over the long grass.

Softly at first, then growing louder, Aragorn beside Faramir chanted a verse from the song he had sang on that day by Parth Galen when the Quest seemed before him doomed:

His head so proud, his face so fair, his limbs they laid to rest;
And Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, bore him upon its breast.
O Boromir! The Tower of Guard shall ever northward gaze
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.

And hearing this, Faramir climbed to the highest steps of the balcony of the Tower and searched the grey lands, shading his eyes in the westering Sun. After long, he raised his gaze to the sky and sang this stave:

From the tower’s rampart I stand today, upon the highest mast
And look across the flowing field to hilltops where you passed.
O’er streams and fens you rode away, over mountains tall,
Through caverns deep in northern lands, where the shadows fall.

At last you came to me again, on water welling high
That lapped within the Elven-ship beneath the starry sky.
O Boromir! You came and went, upon the river deep.
So swift the rolling Anduin sent you in your sleep.

What stormy sea did find you then, what heaving wave had tossed
your boat upon the foundered shore? Forever you are lost.
But northward I shall ever look, bewildered on the ways
To Rauros, golden Rauros-falls, until the end of days.

And so singing Faramir wept.

Perhaps he saw at last in his heart an image of what he long wondered in grief, of the last moments of his brother whom he loved. And then maybe to him came also an echo of what lay in the mind of Boromir, in mortal peril within the distant sights of his city as horn calls ebbed in the desolate wood. And in later years when Faramir journeyed there himself, he built a cairn on Parth Galen with the men of the White Company, and thereafter it was called Sarnas Hador, the Cairn of the Warrior. But little more he said that day on the Tower, though oft he would return to gaze northward, following the ribbon of Anduin, through mist and cloud and over gleaming waters to yonder norland where shone the shroud of golden Rauros.

And the song of Faramir rang out clear and far so that all in the Courtyard below heard his words as they gazed up amazed. They looked on as the two lords stood atop of the Tower, the white cloak of the King flying in the westering Sun, flickering with the red of dusk as if the Tower of Ecthelion was lit by a wavering flame. And wonder woke in all who beheld them, and they thought they heard the thundering music of a waterfall whose changeful voice blended with the song of Faramir, and pity welled in their hearts for the captain they had lost, but also hope, for the land about them seemed an emerald rolling sea, and the City a white ship risen out of the endless tide of time, and at its prow a lamp had lit, and sable pennants in the gleaming mithril of the King streamed out into gathering darkness.

 

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Chapter End Notes

 

1. The story began with the thought that the voice in the Lament of Boromir, though written by Aragorn and Legolas, has always been Faramir’s. And that though there should be no accounting for the East Wind, it still seemed fitting that the last verse was left unsaid—that is, until Faramir can make it himself. And therefore a whole story grew around it for the image to make sense.

 

2. I wasn’t very clear about how strict and literal the silence of “the Silent Street” truly was. Indeed, the idea of using utter silence as observance and obeisance could have been inherited from the Númenorean practice of the Three Prayers, in which the celebrants would climb in complete silence up the high peak of Meneltarma where only the King was allowed to utter a prayer to the Valar. If such is so for Rath Dínen and the Houses of the Dead, it would seem fitting that this silence be broken by Aragorn and Faramir, for I’ve always interpreted that the elaborated funerary customs of the Gondorians are in a sense perverse and self-worshipping, and thus an echo of the Fall of Númenor itself. And that the presence of the living in the Houses of the Dead is perhaps not an intrusion but assertion that the continuation of life can only be achieved through the deeds and remembrances of the living, not the tending of stones.

 

3. The image of the Houses of the Dead came chiefly from the tombs of the French Kings in the nave of the St. Denis Basilica, as well as the domed tombs of the Muslim sultans, especially the Tomb of Sultan Ahmet in Istanbul, in the same complex as the Blue Mosque.