Post by Admin on Jan 9, 2021 2:39:55 GMT
Author: TimeDetonated
Rating: T
Summary: He was pretty sure this was the worst day of his life. Until night. Then it was the most important.
"There, spelled out in numbers, letter, and decaying pages was the doom of his country, the country that he would give his life to defend. And there was nothing he could do.”
“Blood. Here and there, in the snow, there was a little trail of blood.“
The darkness of the sky outside was slowly increasing, no doubt soon the match the inside of the dimly lit chamber where a man sat alone, hunched over a desk where a lone candle was illuminating the room. It appeared that his position was familiar to him, having sat in the hard wooden chair writing letters countless times before.
The scratching of a quill and the occasional rustle of fabric as the man adjusted his position were the only sounds that combated the lonely silence in the stone camber.
The door to the room was not but a tattered hanging of brown cloth, no doubt put there years ago by the captains before him. It only servers to give the illusion of privacy, the thought reinforced by the smell of burning wood and the sound of men laughing raucously that floated into the small room.
Shadow and light from the bigger chamber danced in the doorway where it caught the weary mans eye, entrancing him as his head turned in the dark, half illuminated by the flickering of a candle.
His face was weathered and tired, no doubt having seen countless battles and horrors of war, backed up by marks visible on his face, both old and new. His eyes were a shade of grey like the stormy seas of Numenor, coming together with his finely chiseled features and dark hair to show of his decent.
There was a certain wisdom and deep set knowledge about him, and a lingering sadness could be seen in his eyes, something that could easily be attributed to his time spent as a soldier, but to a finer eye could be recognized as something else entirely.
As he stared intently at the shadows, one could see a conflict building in his eyes, deep and dark thought swirling before he quickly turned away, greasy black hair flashing in the light as he remembered what he had been doing.
Dipping his quill in his nearly empty ink jar, he made a quick mental note to search the store room for a new one later before he returned to his writing.
The reports, the numbers, they all ran together now even as just moments before they had seemed to stand out in a starkness. Black against white, corruption against innocents.
To anyone else the numbers wouldn’t have made sense, to anyone else they would just be symbols on paper, but to him they meant a world of difference.
An aching hand came up to massage his weary brow as he held his paper up to the light to read. His work was there, all of it, done countless times under duress, disbelief. In his heart he had always known that it was true, but he had never really accepted it, accepted how bad things had gotten. Maybe if he'd received monthly reports, ledgers like he'd wanted, he would have know, would have seen it coming, even if he couldn't do anything to stop it. And he knew now that he couldn't. Living out here in the wilderness, that was too much to ask. They would be lucky if mail came once every month.
Even then, more oft than not he would not receive any news of his country, more inclined to be handed orders and reports of the other military bases scattered about. Sometimes there might be a letter from his brother, and as cherished and heartwarming as they where, the information they provided on the state of his country was scarce at best.
The letters revealed all. Always his gaze returned to the page, the rapidly decreasing numbers. The reports hadn't lied, as much as he had hoped they might. There was no deceit in their quick and efficient manner. When they had first arrived, he had just sat in his office, unmoving as the conclusions in his head began to grow, his speculation of what was to come until he realized that mid day had passed and the sun had set.
It hadn't taken long to recover his old ledger that he had kept. Nothing of use was ever thrown away in Ithilien, and now its crumbling yellow pages proved invaluable.
Lined up side by side, old and new the ledgers had connected the dots, painted the picture of what to him was surely a prediction of the end.
There, spelled out in numbers, letter, and decaying pages was the doom of his country, the country that he would give his life to defend. And there was nothing he could do.
He'd spent time thinking about it, ages of time; How to fix his country, how to make it right, restore it to the glory that she deserved as the shrine to Numenor. Over time it had become a dream, an obsession.
He knew it was foolish, this hope he held. It couldn’t get him anywhere except to disappointment. He knew it made him a hypocrite. He spent time going out of his way, talking to his men, making sure they held up hope, even as he kept none for himself, crushing it down as his father’s words from long ago echoed in his mind.
There was no king. The line was broken and he was a fool. Yet no matter how many times he repeated those words to himself, the foolish hope kept a firm grip in his mind.
It was children's tales, really. Read to him by his mother of the kings of old that as he got older grew into more of a hobby. He could be found in the library, researching stories of the glory of Numenor, the line of the king.
The king’s return could fix all of this. The man from legend. His eyes drifted back towards the reports.
The decline had been happening slowly for years now, and so he had missed it. On the pages, buried deep under useless information was the complete tale, the picture of the downfall.
It was always all in the numbers. His scholarly mind had made quick work of it. They yields yearly from the crops, the livestock, even the quality of the water and the weather had been affected. The land was being poisoned. Saurons return hadn't just brought fear and war with him, but he had brought a great evil that seeped into the land and destroyed all around.
The evidence could be seen clearly in Ithilien, and he had known it for a great many years, but he never thought that Saurons grip could reach as far as Lamedon, or Belfalas.
‘The king could fix this...’ His traitorous mind intoned again, causing his hand to fly up to his eyes in frustration, shutting the lids tightly as he tried to force the thoughts away.
He could almost see his mother’s graceful manner, her beautiful form on his eyelids, sitting beside his bed when he was younger and reading him the Elvish tales from the lost lands...
"Sir!!"
His mind flew back to the present from where it had been wandering, his back suddenly ridged with attention at the new intrusion into his bed chamber that he knew he should have sensed.
His eyes were wild with surprise and concern as they focused on the new presence in his room.
His abrupt entrance left the cloth serving as his door tangled in on itself, allowing a bit more light into the chamber, and illuminating the familiar form of his lieutenant Damrod.
He had been sent out on an earlier patrol, but there was no way he should be back yet. The borders could not possibly all be checked by late evening
His brown curly locks were grizzled and blown back from the wind, slightly damp and half frozen. His clothing was equally wet, small clumps of snow still clinging to his form, no doubt from where he had been crouching in it, unmoving for hours on his watch. Faramir pushed himself out from his desk, the legs of the chair scrapping against the stone as he stood up.
"Damrod, what news do you bring? Are you yet still uninjured?" concern leaking into his tone, for the man’s chest before him was heaving with the effort of pulling in air, no doubt from having run here, and he was leaning against the wall as he tried desperately to catch his breath.
The captains mind cleared the second grey eyes met green, and he could read the urgency in them, putting a comforting hand of the man’s shoulder.
"C-captain." he started his voice weak as he appeared to be struggling to get the words out. "The patrol...”
His eyes looked into Faramirs hesitantly, afraid of what to say.
"Damrod, if something has happened then I would have you tell me..." said the captain, fear growing in his heart as he took a slow step back to observe the man, moving his eyes from the form that was now beginning to shiver in the doorway.
The other man opened his mouth, trying to find the right words while possibilities swirled in Faramirs head. Were Orcs sighted? Were they attacked? Worse still, had the Orcs crossed the Anduin and into Lossanarch?
Faramir began to get jittery, waiting for his trusted lieutenant and friends to finally tell him what had happened. It wasn’t that he was impatient or insensitive to his friend’s duress, but it something had happened to the patrol, or Orcs were coming this way, then it was key that he knew, as much as he hated to push the situation.
Then it dawned on him.
“Damrod…” he said softly, quietly. Hoping and praying for his friend to prove him wrong. “Where’s the rest of the patrol? Why aren’t they here….reporting with you?”
It was then that he saw the tears glistening in Damrods eyes, and that truly scared him, for not once during all his years as a soldier had Damrod broken down. Faramir was always the one leaning on him, no matter what had happened.
Then the dreaded words had met Faramirs ears. One of the things he had feared most as a captain.
“Their all dead sir.”
Ten men. Ten men that he had served with for years. 5 he had known since he had arrived here, 2 new recruits, barley even knew how to sneak through the forest, and 3 were some of his closest friends.
Faramir was moving before he even knew it.
The orders issued from his mouth in a blur that he would not remember later as he strode forcefully into Henneth Annun’s main chamber. That part of his brain, the part was making him want to collapse into a corner and forget all that happened, grieve his friends, his country, was shut off. He had turned it off. Now wasn’t the time. It was never the time.
Men scurried about him, echoing his words, yelling to get their armor on, ready their weapons. Faramir barley heard them as his mind was working out all the possible situations they could be walking into, his brain whirling though countless scenarios, positions.
The men were almost ready, assembling at the front of the cave in the chaos, some of the younger once glancing towards him with fearful eyes, asking for guidance and leadership, hope.
Hope. How funny it was, for him to be in the position of leader now, meant to inspire men and protect a country that he knew was already doomed. Was it his fate, the rest of his days to stay in Ithilien, in his beloved forest that was ever growing darker and infested with servants of the dark land, while his country fell and he was forced to watch all his friends, anyone he had ever cherished, die?
Yes. His mind answered. That was how it was in war, be you losing or wining. That was his fate, and to him, it was far worse than death.
His eyes scanned the camber, seeing that all preparations were being done, when his eyes caught those of Damrod’s, now half laying, half sitting against the wall just outside his room that he had occupied moments before. Anborn was scuttling around him worriedly checking his injuries and asking questions that Damrod didn’t even answer.
The lieutenant held his gaze, his face hard and the trust in his green eyes was enough to harden his resolve. He had to fight for his men. Damrod nodded at him once, and Faramir nodded back, a subtle agreement now held between them before Damrod turned away to answer a now distraught Anborn, and Faramir turned to leave for war.
They were creeping through the underbrush, the forest around them eerily silent, only to be broken by the occasional snapping of a twig or crunch of snow, followed by the cursing of some new recruit and glares from the older and more battle hardened rangers.
Faramir was leading the group of 30 or so men towards the general area of where Damrod and his patrol had been intercepted. He had left 15 men back at the base; not counting Damrod or Anborn who he sincerely doubted would be getting any work done over Anborn incessant lectures.
The forest was beginning to gradually thin out as they neared ‘Tamirs Clearing’, being named after the young recruit who had discovered it when running from Orcs. The clearing was just large enough to house a very small village, not counting the farm land that it would no doubt have.
Faramir held up his right hand, clenched in a fist to indicate the rest of his men to stop, which they did almost immediately. The clearing could be seen just up ahead, and he dared not get any closer for fear of his men. Damrod’s patrol had been ambushed, that was the only way that so many of them had fallen. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen again.
There were no signs of footprints in the snow, from the rangers or the Orcs. It would have been natural for the rangers to avoid the snow, and easily enough for the Orcs as large parts of the forest was free of it. As happy as the captain was to know that it would be easy for his rangers to avoid leaving tracks, he still cursed slightly that it could be so easy for the Orcs.
Still all crouched down in the wood, he made a quick hand gesture for them to spread out, but keep to this general area, knowing that if they were ambushed, they would all need to be close enough to engage in attack swiftly.
Shivering from the cold slightly, Faramir began creeping slowly forward, scouting ahead and leaving his men behind. Scouting was the most dangerous task, and in this situation it was not something that he could ask his men to do.
His earlier thoughts of country were not settled into the back of his mind, pushed away by what was at this moment more important. He had to make sure his men got out alive, and the Orcs were eliminated before they could cross over the Anduin.
The further he crept away from the group and towards the clearing, the quieter the forest got, and the more he could sense the stain upon the land. Yrch. They were close. The forest seemed to darken considerably, even now in the middle of the night. He had to get a good view into the clearing, it had happened before when Orcs had used it to set up camp.
He looked around for a good tree he could climb to see into the clearing and get a bird’s eye view. Moving towards a sturdy oak tree, he stopped. Something standing out starkly in the little tufts of snow caught his eye. He moved forward to investigate, and as he leaned over the slight discoloration he stopped.
Blood. Here and there, in the snow, there was a little trail of blood. Abandoning his idea of climbing the tree, he slowly started to move forward even though he didn’t want to , every bone in his body protesting, following the drips that slowly seemed to dot the snow more frequently and in greater number. He began to feel a greater and greater sense of foreboding. He had barely moved ten feet when he froze and fear filled his heart.
The moonlight that had been reflecting across what little snow had made it through the tree line here and there suddenly vanished as the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and the world was plunged into darkness. For what seemed like minute’s time stopped, and Faramir held his breath. Nothing in the forest seemed to move, and he held perfectly still.
Somewhere in the woods it was what the Orcs had been waiting for.
Faramir couldn’t see an inch in front of him, but he had to move. He knew Orcs had good eye sight at night, and he couldn’t stay in one place too long, regardless of if he knew where he was going or not, even though that could be equally dangerous. The fact that he had just seen a trail of blood in the snow didn’t help the situation and he didn’t want to wait around for whatever had caused it to come back.
He could try to get to the tree. It was one of the safest options at this point, and he knew not where anything else was. He had to be careful though, stepping in something like a rabbit whole and incapacitating himself would get him and his men nowhere. He tried to remember, wracking his brain for where exactly the tree had been, going back to the scene that had been before his eyes moments before and pulling it to the front of his mind.
Starting forward slowly, hesitantly with his arms out slightly in front of him he began to creep forward in the pitch black darkness, still staying silent with the skills he had learned from years of being a ranger. He walked for what seemed like miles, but in reality could only be about 7 feet. Where was the tree? It had to be here somewhere…What if he couldn’t find it? What if he was lost out here in the dark?
He knew he had to keep a calm head, but he couldn’t help but feel the pit that was growing in his stomach and the panic that was beginning to rise. He jumped when he heard a noise, his heart in his throat, only to realize it must have been the wind whistling through the bushes.
Then, blessedly his hands met rough bark. He couldn’t help but letting out a soft gasp in surprise at the contact and then hugging the tree. His anchor.
And then, the light came back. He sent out a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar as the moon moved out from behind the clouds and allowed some light to filter through the tree tops. It had only ever happened once before during his time as a ranger when he had been plunged into darkness in the wood because of a lack of moon…and that time had been….
He froze as the realization hit him, and suddenly he could hear footsteps behind him, so soft that only someone who had been trained to hear them could make out. He turned just in time to see a blade swinging at his head. He ducked.
Faramir hit the ground in a roll, at the same time pulling the dagger from his bracer, the sword gifted to him by Imrahil being too difficult to get at during the roll. Coming to a stop and launching himself to his knees in one fluid motion, he held his small and beautify crafted dagger up to block the crude sword currently swinging yet again at his head from a new Orc, the former whose sword was still struck in a tree where it had been poised to chop off his head.
They fought for dominance for but a few seconds before the Orc won over his opponent who was still on the ground, and raised his sword up to swing. Faramir used the precious few seconds he had, to whistle.
It was a soft three toned bird call that was high pitched enough to carry throughout the forest, before he threw himself yet again to the side, narrowly missing being cut in half.
The dagger fell out of his grasp, but by the time he had resurfaced from the ground, this time springing to his feet, he had his sword out. The familiar leather wrapped handle was in his hand, and he squeezed it reassuringly, reveling in the familiar weight of it as he faced down his attackers.
There was off course no time to count them, but this was most likely a scouting group from the Orcs they had originally come out to slay, and it was with a sinking feeling that he realized that they had come out of Tamirs Clearing, where they would no doubt be many more.
The same Orc that he had only just narrowly dodged threw itself at him, and only seconds later the monster was inches from his face, its warm and putrid breath hitting his nose before it fell to the side, Faramirs sword pulling quickly out of its belly.
The other Orcs growled before also advancing at him. He parried and blocked, dancing around the clearing for what seemed like hours. Where were his rangers? He flicked his sweat soaked hair out of his eyes, the salt leaving a burning sensation as he blocked yet another sword blow.
Then he heard whistling. Or rather, a bird call.
Faramir dropped, and arrows streaked across the clearing, a dead weight landing on top of him. He need only lie in the cold snow that was slowly seeping into his clothing for a minute and cooling his overheated body before the Orc was yanked off him and he was being pulled to him feet by the familiar faces of his rangers.
He barely had time to collect himself before Mablung strode up to him and clapped him on the shoulder, asking various questions to see if he was indeed alright and handing him back his dagger.
He nodded, taking the dagger and looking into the waiting faces of his rangers who had their bows in hand, counting them and making sure that they were all there.
“Mablung, the Orcs are in the clearing. We need to move now before they begin to wonder why their patrol has not returned….” Faramir said, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the carnage behind him.
His friend nodded, turning to the group and whispering something, before all but him and Faramir began to rush off.
Mablung was waiting for his captain to come with him, but when the man didn’t move and appeared to be staring through the ground, Mablung became worried. He strode up and put his hand on the young captains shoulder who jumped in surprise, his eyes darting up to meet Mablungs.
“Are you sure your ok?” the man asked in concern.
The captain nodded before rushing off to join the rest of his men on the edge of Tamirs Clearing before Mablung could ask him anything more.
They were slowly advancing on the snow covered plain, their swords not yet drawn to keep the moonlight from glinting off of them. They had left ten men on the edge of the clearing, and 20 were with advancing on the Orc camp that could be barley seen in the darkness.
If they had the choice, they would have waiting until day to attack, but the Orcs could have moved off by then, and even if they didn’t then they would have discovered their missing patrol and the rangers chance at a sneaking up on them would be lost.
Mablung had guessed that there were about 100 Orcs in the clearing. It should be an easy battle for them, but in the snow and dark out in the open it would prove more difficult.
They had told the rangers to wait 5 minutes before firing, and the time was almost up. They were all counting down in their heads, and when they neared the camp, they slowed and crouched low to the ground. They were on the opposite side of the camp as the archers, giving them a large advantage over the enemy.
When they archers fired they would step out from the woods and the Orcs would charge at them, only to be met from an attack from behind, allowing enough time from the archers to draw their swords and join the Frey, there being too much of a risk in having them fire at the Orcs in the darkness when they could easily hit one of their own.
15…14….13….12…11
The rangers drew their swords slowly, the soft sound of metal on metal greeting their ears as they were pulled from the sheaves. The cold icy wind was biting into their faces even though they had scarves pulled up over their mouths and nose, their hoods up.
5…4…3…2..
Faramir didn’t even think he was breathing, the familiar butterflies fluttering in his stomach as they always did before a battle.
1.
It was the soft whoosh of arrows, the sound amplified by the growing anticipation that started the battle, soon to be followed by the clash of steel and the screams of the dying as the green land was slowly stained red with blood.
Orc bodies were all around him, some having met their end by the sharp tips of carefully crafted arrows, others from the slick blades of daggers and swords.
They had been fighting for hours, and the Orcs seemed to just keep coming.
Somehow, the battle had pushed him to the opposite end of the clearing from where he had started, his blade meeting Orc after Orc, cutting through them relentlessly as the sounds of battle filled his ears all around, the horrible screams of the dying everywhere.
His arms were shaking more and more with each blow that he blocked, each time that he swung it became harder and harder to lift his blade, yet he still remained mostly uninjured apart from a few scratches and scrapes here and there.
As his blade came down again over the head of another unfortunate Orc, his eyes came up to only to meet an equally horrible site. His friend Mablung was on his knees before a considerably large Orc who had knocked him down, his sword just out of reach, and the Orc about to strike him down.
Faramir reacted without thinking, and soon his dagger was imbedded in the now choking Orcs neck from where he had thrown it. Mablungs eyes meet his for a second in thanks, before he was scrambling to his feet, grabbing Faramir dagger for safe keeping and his own sword before jumping back into the fray.
That was the last Faramir had seen of his friend for the rest of the battle and he sincerely hoped that he was alright.
The fighting continued until long after his hands had grown numb from the cold even as sweat poured down his face from exertion. His blows grew steadily more and more clumsy as his energy left him. His head ached from where he had taken a blow to the temple and his ears rung.
His breath came out in heavy pants yet he kept going, kept pushing himself even as his entire body was shaking like a leaf and his lungs burned. The battle blurred into senseless fighting. Orc after Orc after Orc.
He was stumbling now, barley even fighting. After a deadly swing at an Orc he overbalanced, almost tumbling over.
Almost.
Everything came back. All his senses reached peak again as a burning hot pain ripped through his side that sent him to his knees. The sounds of battle rushed back as he sat there, just breathing as his world was overcome with pain, crashing down on him.
Then, another arrow came, piercing his shoulder and sending him down to the ground, one hand flying out to support him, the other clutching at the offending object.
He heard screams. All around him they came back. All he could hear was screams, see dying. His men. His men dying.
All around him there were bodies.
He had led his mean to their deaths hadn’t he? He had condemned them.
His mind was growing fuzzy as his warm blood, a stark contrast to how cold his body felt, spilled out of him. He could barley even think, his thoughts jumbled.
It was his fault his country had failed…..his fault his men were dying. He was worthless…it was better if he died here…..
He collapsed onto his back then, and time seemed to drift as he was lost amongst the bodies. Soft shouts of joy seemed to drift from afar, but he could barely make them out.
Soon the voices grew closer, calling his name, but he ignored them. Ignoring the distraught cries that drifted from above him, ignored the hands pushing on his wounds, and ignored the familiar voices pleading at him to live.
It was all his fault. He didn’t deserve this.
His eyes drifted, his mind wandered.
Before he died...One last time…he wanted to see the sky.
And when he looked up, he saw stars, a beacon in the night sky, the light in the dark and his heart swelled with hope and the weariness left him, even amid the battle cries and death that were still fresh in his mind. And he knew somehow, somehow, that his king would return. His land would be healed and his home restored. He just had to hold out a bit longer, and he would. He would keep fighting even in the end and bitter despair, even as his father’s mind decayed and his brother left for mandos.
"For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"
Rating: T
Summary: He was pretty sure this was the worst day of his life. Until night. Then it was the most important.
"There, spelled out in numbers, letter, and decaying pages was the doom of his country, the country that he would give his life to defend. And there was nothing he could do.”
“Blood. Here and there, in the snow, there was a little trail of blood.“
The darkness of the sky outside was slowly increasing, no doubt soon the match the inside of the dimly lit chamber where a man sat alone, hunched over a desk where a lone candle was illuminating the room. It appeared that his position was familiar to him, having sat in the hard wooden chair writing letters countless times before.
The scratching of a quill and the occasional rustle of fabric as the man adjusted his position were the only sounds that combated the lonely silence in the stone camber.
The door to the room was not but a tattered hanging of brown cloth, no doubt put there years ago by the captains before him. It only servers to give the illusion of privacy, the thought reinforced by the smell of burning wood and the sound of men laughing raucously that floated into the small room.
Shadow and light from the bigger chamber danced in the doorway where it caught the weary mans eye, entrancing him as his head turned in the dark, half illuminated by the flickering of a candle.
His face was weathered and tired, no doubt having seen countless battles and horrors of war, backed up by marks visible on his face, both old and new. His eyes were a shade of grey like the stormy seas of Numenor, coming together with his finely chiseled features and dark hair to show of his decent.
There was a certain wisdom and deep set knowledge about him, and a lingering sadness could be seen in his eyes, something that could easily be attributed to his time spent as a soldier, but to a finer eye could be recognized as something else entirely.
As he stared intently at the shadows, one could see a conflict building in his eyes, deep and dark thought swirling before he quickly turned away, greasy black hair flashing in the light as he remembered what he had been doing.
Dipping his quill in his nearly empty ink jar, he made a quick mental note to search the store room for a new one later before he returned to his writing.
The reports, the numbers, they all ran together now even as just moments before they had seemed to stand out in a starkness. Black against white, corruption against innocents.
To anyone else the numbers wouldn’t have made sense, to anyone else they would just be symbols on paper, but to him they meant a world of difference.
An aching hand came up to massage his weary brow as he held his paper up to the light to read. His work was there, all of it, done countless times under duress, disbelief. In his heart he had always known that it was true, but he had never really accepted it, accepted how bad things had gotten. Maybe if he'd received monthly reports, ledgers like he'd wanted, he would have know, would have seen it coming, even if he couldn't do anything to stop it. And he knew now that he couldn't. Living out here in the wilderness, that was too much to ask. They would be lucky if mail came once every month.
Even then, more oft than not he would not receive any news of his country, more inclined to be handed orders and reports of the other military bases scattered about. Sometimes there might be a letter from his brother, and as cherished and heartwarming as they where, the information they provided on the state of his country was scarce at best.
The letters revealed all. Always his gaze returned to the page, the rapidly decreasing numbers. The reports hadn't lied, as much as he had hoped they might. There was no deceit in their quick and efficient manner. When they had first arrived, he had just sat in his office, unmoving as the conclusions in his head began to grow, his speculation of what was to come until he realized that mid day had passed and the sun had set.
It hadn't taken long to recover his old ledger that he had kept. Nothing of use was ever thrown away in Ithilien, and now its crumbling yellow pages proved invaluable.
Lined up side by side, old and new the ledgers had connected the dots, painted the picture of what to him was surely a prediction of the end.
There, spelled out in numbers, letter, and decaying pages was the doom of his country, the country that he would give his life to defend. And there was nothing he could do.
He'd spent time thinking about it, ages of time; How to fix his country, how to make it right, restore it to the glory that she deserved as the shrine to Numenor. Over time it had become a dream, an obsession.
He knew it was foolish, this hope he held. It couldn’t get him anywhere except to disappointment. He knew it made him a hypocrite. He spent time going out of his way, talking to his men, making sure they held up hope, even as he kept none for himself, crushing it down as his father’s words from long ago echoed in his mind.
There was no king. The line was broken and he was a fool. Yet no matter how many times he repeated those words to himself, the foolish hope kept a firm grip in his mind.
It was children's tales, really. Read to him by his mother of the kings of old that as he got older grew into more of a hobby. He could be found in the library, researching stories of the glory of Numenor, the line of the king.
The king’s return could fix all of this. The man from legend. His eyes drifted back towards the reports.
The decline had been happening slowly for years now, and so he had missed it. On the pages, buried deep under useless information was the complete tale, the picture of the downfall.
It was always all in the numbers. His scholarly mind had made quick work of it. They yields yearly from the crops, the livestock, even the quality of the water and the weather had been affected. The land was being poisoned. Saurons return hadn't just brought fear and war with him, but he had brought a great evil that seeped into the land and destroyed all around.
The evidence could be seen clearly in Ithilien, and he had known it for a great many years, but he never thought that Saurons grip could reach as far as Lamedon, or Belfalas.
‘The king could fix this...’ His traitorous mind intoned again, causing his hand to fly up to his eyes in frustration, shutting the lids tightly as he tried to force the thoughts away.
He could almost see his mother’s graceful manner, her beautiful form on his eyelids, sitting beside his bed when he was younger and reading him the Elvish tales from the lost lands...
"Sir!!"
His mind flew back to the present from where it had been wandering, his back suddenly ridged with attention at the new intrusion into his bed chamber that he knew he should have sensed.
His eyes were wild with surprise and concern as they focused on the new presence in his room.
His abrupt entrance left the cloth serving as his door tangled in on itself, allowing a bit more light into the chamber, and illuminating the familiar form of his lieutenant Damrod.
He had been sent out on an earlier patrol, but there was no way he should be back yet. The borders could not possibly all be checked by late evening
His brown curly locks were grizzled and blown back from the wind, slightly damp and half frozen. His clothing was equally wet, small clumps of snow still clinging to his form, no doubt from where he had been crouching in it, unmoving for hours on his watch. Faramir pushed himself out from his desk, the legs of the chair scrapping against the stone as he stood up.
"Damrod, what news do you bring? Are you yet still uninjured?" concern leaking into his tone, for the man’s chest before him was heaving with the effort of pulling in air, no doubt from having run here, and he was leaning against the wall as he tried desperately to catch his breath.
The captains mind cleared the second grey eyes met green, and he could read the urgency in them, putting a comforting hand of the man’s shoulder.
"C-captain." he started his voice weak as he appeared to be struggling to get the words out. "The patrol...”
His eyes looked into Faramirs hesitantly, afraid of what to say.
"Damrod, if something has happened then I would have you tell me..." said the captain, fear growing in his heart as he took a slow step back to observe the man, moving his eyes from the form that was now beginning to shiver in the doorway.
The other man opened his mouth, trying to find the right words while possibilities swirled in Faramirs head. Were Orcs sighted? Were they attacked? Worse still, had the Orcs crossed the Anduin and into Lossanarch?
Faramir began to get jittery, waiting for his trusted lieutenant and friends to finally tell him what had happened. It wasn’t that he was impatient or insensitive to his friend’s duress, but it something had happened to the patrol, or Orcs were coming this way, then it was key that he knew, as much as he hated to push the situation.
Then it dawned on him.
“Damrod…” he said softly, quietly. Hoping and praying for his friend to prove him wrong. “Where’s the rest of the patrol? Why aren’t they here….reporting with you?”
It was then that he saw the tears glistening in Damrods eyes, and that truly scared him, for not once during all his years as a soldier had Damrod broken down. Faramir was always the one leaning on him, no matter what had happened.
Then the dreaded words had met Faramirs ears. One of the things he had feared most as a captain.
“Their all dead sir.”
Ten men. Ten men that he had served with for years. 5 he had known since he had arrived here, 2 new recruits, barley even knew how to sneak through the forest, and 3 were some of his closest friends.
Faramir was moving before he even knew it.
The orders issued from his mouth in a blur that he would not remember later as he strode forcefully into Henneth Annun’s main chamber. That part of his brain, the part was making him want to collapse into a corner and forget all that happened, grieve his friends, his country, was shut off. He had turned it off. Now wasn’t the time. It was never the time.
Men scurried about him, echoing his words, yelling to get their armor on, ready their weapons. Faramir barley heard them as his mind was working out all the possible situations they could be walking into, his brain whirling though countless scenarios, positions.
The men were almost ready, assembling at the front of the cave in the chaos, some of the younger once glancing towards him with fearful eyes, asking for guidance and leadership, hope.
Hope. How funny it was, for him to be in the position of leader now, meant to inspire men and protect a country that he knew was already doomed. Was it his fate, the rest of his days to stay in Ithilien, in his beloved forest that was ever growing darker and infested with servants of the dark land, while his country fell and he was forced to watch all his friends, anyone he had ever cherished, die?
Yes. His mind answered. That was how it was in war, be you losing or wining. That was his fate, and to him, it was far worse than death.
His eyes scanned the camber, seeing that all preparations were being done, when his eyes caught those of Damrod’s, now half laying, half sitting against the wall just outside his room that he had occupied moments before. Anborn was scuttling around him worriedly checking his injuries and asking questions that Damrod didn’t even answer.
The lieutenant held his gaze, his face hard and the trust in his green eyes was enough to harden his resolve. He had to fight for his men. Damrod nodded at him once, and Faramir nodded back, a subtle agreement now held between them before Damrod turned away to answer a now distraught Anborn, and Faramir turned to leave for war.
They were creeping through the underbrush, the forest around them eerily silent, only to be broken by the occasional snapping of a twig or crunch of snow, followed by the cursing of some new recruit and glares from the older and more battle hardened rangers.
Faramir was leading the group of 30 or so men towards the general area of where Damrod and his patrol had been intercepted. He had left 15 men back at the base; not counting Damrod or Anborn who he sincerely doubted would be getting any work done over Anborn incessant lectures.
The forest was beginning to gradually thin out as they neared ‘Tamirs Clearing’, being named after the young recruit who had discovered it when running from Orcs. The clearing was just large enough to house a very small village, not counting the farm land that it would no doubt have.
Faramir held up his right hand, clenched in a fist to indicate the rest of his men to stop, which they did almost immediately. The clearing could be seen just up ahead, and he dared not get any closer for fear of his men. Damrod’s patrol had been ambushed, that was the only way that so many of them had fallen. He wouldn’t let the same thing happen again.
There were no signs of footprints in the snow, from the rangers or the Orcs. It would have been natural for the rangers to avoid the snow, and easily enough for the Orcs as large parts of the forest was free of it. As happy as the captain was to know that it would be easy for his rangers to avoid leaving tracks, he still cursed slightly that it could be so easy for the Orcs.
Still all crouched down in the wood, he made a quick hand gesture for them to spread out, but keep to this general area, knowing that if they were ambushed, they would all need to be close enough to engage in attack swiftly.
Shivering from the cold slightly, Faramir began creeping slowly forward, scouting ahead and leaving his men behind. Scouting was the most dangerous task, and in this situation it was not something that he could ask his men to do.
His earlier thoughts of country were not settled into the back of his mind, pushed away by what was at this moment more important. He had to make sure his men got out alive, and the Orcs were eliminated before they could cross over the Anduin.
The further he crept away from the group and towards the clearing, the quieter the forest got, and the more he could sense the stain upon the land. Yrch. They were close. The forest seemed to darken considerably, even now in the middle of the night. He had to get a good view into the clearing, it had happened before when Orcs had used it to set up camp.
He looked around for a good tree he could climb to see into the clearing and get a bird’s eye view. Moving towards a sturdy oak tree, he stopped. Something standing out starkly in the little tufts of snow caught his eye. He moved forward to investigate, and as he leaned over the slight discoloration he stopped.
Blood. Here and there, in the snow, there was a little trail of blood. Abandoning his idea of climbing the tree, he slowly started to move forward even though he didn’t want to , every bone in his body protesting, following the drips that slowly seemed to dot the snow more frequently and in greater number. He began to feel a greater and greater sense of foreboding. He had barely moved ten feet when he froze and fear filled his heart.
The moonlight that had been reflecting across what little snow had made it through the tree line here and there suddenly vanished as the moon disappeared behind a cloud, and the world was plunged into darkness. For what seemed like minute’s time stopped, and Faramir held his breath. Nothing in the forest seemed to move, and he held perfectly still.
Somewhere in the woods it was what the Orcs had been waiting for.
Faramir couldn’t see an inch in front of him, but he had to move. He knew Orcs had good eye sight at night, and he couldn’t stay in one place too long, regardless of if he knew where he was going or not, even though that could be equally dangerous. The fact that he had just seen a trail of blood in the snow didn’t help the situation and he didn’t want to wait around for whatever had caused it to come back.
He could try to get to the tree. It was one of the safest options at this point, and he knew not where anything else was. He had to be careful though, stepping in something like a rabbit whole and incapacitating himself would get him and his men nowhere. He tried to remember, wracking his brain for where exactly the tree had been, going back to the scene that had been before his eyes moments before and pulling it to the front of his mind.
Starting forward slowly, hesitantly with his arms out slightly in front of him he began to creep forward in the pitch black darkness, still staying silent with the skills he had learned from years of being a ranger. He walked for what seemed like miles, but in reality could only be about 7 feet. Where was the tree? It had to be here somewhere…What if he couldn’t find it? What if he was lost out here in the dark?
He knew he had to keep a calm head, but he couldn’t help but feel the pit that was growing in his stomach and the panic that was beginning to rise. He jumped when he heard a noise, his heart in his throat, only to realize it must have been the wind whistling through the bushes.
Then, blessedly his hands met rough bark. He couldn’t help but letting out a soft gasp in surprise at the contact and then hugging the tree. His anchor.
And then, the light came back. He sent out a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar as the moon moved out from behind the clouds and allowed some light to filter through the tree tops. It had only ever happened once before during his time as a ranger when he had been plunged into darkness in the wood because of a lack of moon…and that time had been….
He froze as the realization hit him, and suddenly he could hear footsteps behind him, so soft that only someone who had been trained to hear them could make out. He turned just in time to see a blade swinging at his head. He ducked.
Faramir hit the ground in a roll, at the same time pulling the dagger from his bracer, the sword gifted to him by Imrahil being too difficult to get at during the roll. Coming to a stop and launching himself to his knees in one fluid motion, he held his small and beautify crafted dagger up to block the crude sword currently swinging yet again at his head from a new Orc, the former whose sword was still struck in a tree where it had been poised to chop off his head.
They fought for dominance for but a few seconds before the Orc won over his opponent who was still on the ground, and raised his sword up to swing. Faramir used the precious few seconds he had, to whistle.
It was a soft three toned bird call that was high pitched enough to carry throughout the forest, before he threw himself yet again to the side, narrowly missing being cut in half.
The dagger fell out of his grasp, but by the time he had resurfaced from the ground, this time springing to his feet, he had his sword out. The familiar leather wrapped handle was in his hand, and he squeezed it reassuringly, reveling in the familiar weight of it as he faced down his attackers.
There was off course no time to count them, but this was most likely a scouting group from the Orcs they had originally come out to slay, and it was with a sinking feeling that he realized that they had come out of Tamirs Clearing, where they would no doubt be many more.
The same Orc that he had only just narrowly dodged threw itself at him, and only seconds later the monster was inches from his face, its warm and putrid breath hitting his nose before it fell to the side, Faramirs sword pulling quickly out of its belly.
The other Orcs growled before also advancing at him. He parried and blocked, dancing around the clearing for what seemed like hours. Where were his rangers? He flicked his sweat soaked hair out of his eyes, the salt leaving a burning sensation as he blocked yet another sword blow.
Then he heard whistling. Or rather, a bird call.
Faramir dropped, and arrows streaked across the clearing, a dead weight landing on top of him. He need only lie in the cold snow that was slowly seeping into his clothing for a minute and cooling his overheated body before the Orc was yanked off him and he was being pulled to him feet by the familiar faces of his rangers.
He barely had time to collect himself before Mablung strode up to him and clapped him on the shoulder, asking various questions to see if he was indeed alright and handing him back his dagger.
He nodded, taking the dagger and looking into the waiting faces of his rangers who had their bows in hand, counting them and making sure that they were all there.
“Mablung, the Orcs are in the clearing. We need to move now before they begin to wonder why their patrol has not returned….” Faramir said, quickly glancing over his shoulder at the carnage behind him.
His friend nodded, turning to the group and whispering something, before all but him and Faramir began to rush off.
Mablung was waiting for his captain to come with him, but when the man didn’t move and appeared to be staring through the ground, Mablung became worried. He strode up and put his hand on the young captains shoulder who jumped in surprise, his eyes darting up to meet Mablungs.
“Are you sure your ok?” the man asked in concern.
The captain nodded before rushing off to join the rest of his men on the edge of Tamirs Clearing before Mablung could ask him anything more.
They were slowly advancing on the snow covered plain, their swords not yet drawn to keep the moonlight from glinting off of them. They had left ten men on the edge of the clearing, and 20 were with advancing on the Orc camp that could be barley seen in the darkness.
If they had the choice, they would have waiting until day to attack, but the Orcs could have moved off by then, and even if they didn’t then they would have discovered their missing patrol and the rangers chance at a sneaking up on them would be lost.
Mablung had guessed that there were about 100 Orcs in the clearing. It should be an easy battle for them, but in the snow and dark out in the open it would prove more difficult.
They had told the rangers to wait 5 minutes before firing, and the time was almost up. They were all counting down in their heads, and when they neared the camp, they slowed and crouched low to the ground. They were on the opposite side of the camp as the archers, giving them a large advantage over the enemy.
When they archers fired they would step out from the woods and the Orcs would charge at them, only to be met from an attack from behind, allowing enough time from the archers to draw their swords and join the Frey, there being too much of a risk in having them fire at the Orcs in the darkness when they could easily hit one of their own.
15…14….13….12…11
The rangers drew their swords slowly, the soft sound of metal on metal greeting their ears as they were pulled from the sheaves. The cold icy wind was biting into their faces even though they had scarves pulled up over their mouths and nose, their hoods up.
5…4…3…2..
Faramir didn’t even think he was breathing, the familiar butterflies fluttering in his stomach as they always did before a battle.
1.
It was the soft whoosh of arrows, the sound amplified by the growing anticipation that started the battle, soon to be followed by the clash of steel and the screams of the dying as the green land was slowly stained red with blood.
Orc bodies were all around him, some having met their end by the sharp tips of carefully crafted arrows, others from the slick blades of daggers and swords.
They had been fighting for hours, and the Orcs seemed to just keep coming.
Somehow, the battle had pushed him to the opposite end of the clearing from where he had started, his blade meeting Orc after Orc, cutting through them relentlessly as the sounds of battle filled his ears all around, the horrible screams of the dying everywhere.
His arms were shaking more and more with each blow that he blocked, each time that he swung it became harder and harder to lift his blade, yet he still remained mostly uninjured apart from a few scratches and scrapes here and there.
As his blade came down again over the head of another unfortunate Orc, his eyes came up to only to meet an equally horrible site. His friend Mablung was on his knees before a considerably large Orc who had knocked him down, his sword just out of reach, and the Orc about to strike him down.
Faramir reacted without thinking, and soon his dagger was imbedded in the now choking Orcs neck from where he had thrown it. Mablungs eyes meet his for a second in thanks, before he was scrambling to his feet, grabbing Faramir dagger for safe keeping and his own sword before jumping back into the fray.
That was the last Faramir had seen of his friend for the rest of the battle and he sincerely hoped that he was alright.
The fighting continued until long after his hands had grown numb from the cold even as sweat poured down his face from exertion. His blows grew steadily more and more clumsy as his energy left him. His head ached from where he had taken a blow to the temple and his ears rung.
His breath came out in heavy pants yet he kept going, kept pushing himself even as his entire body was shaking like a leaf and his lungs burned. The battle blurred into senseless fighting. Orc after Orc after Orc.
He was stumbling now, barley even fighting. After a deadly swing at an Orc he overbalanced, almost tumbling over.
Almost.
Everything came back. All his senses reached peak again as a burning hot pain ripped through his side that sent him to his knees. The sounds of battle rushed back as he sat there, just breathing as his world was overcome with pain, crashing down on him.
Then, another arrow came, piercing his shoulder and sending him down to the ground, one hand flying out to support him, the other clutching at the offending object.
He heard screams. All around him they came back. All he could hear was screams, see dying. His men. His men dying.
All around him there were bodies.
He had led his mean to their deaths hadn’t he? He had condemned them.
His mind was growing fuzzy as his warm blood, a stark contrast to how cold his body felt, spilled out of him. He could barley even think, his thoughts jumbled.
It was his fault his country had failed…..his fault his men were dying. He was worthless…it was better if he died here…..
He collapsed onto his back then, and time seemed to drift as he was lost amongst the bodies. Soft shouts of joy seemed to drift from afar, but he could barely make them out.
Soon the voices grew closer, calling his name, but he ignored them. Ignoring the distraught cries that drifted from above him, ignored the hands pushing on his wounds, and ignored the familiar voices pleading at him to live.
It was all his fault. He didn’t deserve this.
His eyes drifted, his mind wandered.
Before he died...One last time…he wanted to see the sky.
And when he looked up, he saw stars, a beacon in the night sky, the light in the dark and his heart swelled with hope and the weariness left him, even amid the battle cries and death that were still fresh in his mind. And he knew somehow, somehow, that his king would return. His land would be healed and his home restored. He just had to hold out a bit longer, and he would. He would keep fighting even in the end and bitter despair, even as his father’s mind decayed and his brother left for mandos.
"For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"