Word Count: 1,184
Disclaimer: The characters of “The Lord of the Rings” were created by J.R.R. Tolkien, not by me, and I do not claim otherwise. No copyright infringement is intended, as I am writing this story for love, not for money. I do not believe the good professor would want anyone to sue me.
Rating: K+, for mention of canonical character deaths
Summary: Five letters written by Faramir, four of which he never sent, one of which he did.
My dearest Mother:
It has been fifteen years now since your death, and yet I still think of you every day. Sometimes as a boy, I would talk to the servants about you, the servants who had known you when you lived and with whom I could share memories of you. But I was soon made aware that Father did not approve of that, and so for years now, I have never spoken of you to anyone save Boromir, and not often even to him. We both miss you sorely. I think Father does too, and perhaps that is why he never speaks of you, or wishes to hear you being spoken of. While the thought of you comforts me, it grieves him, even now. Did your death demonstrate to him that there are things beyond the control even of the Steward of Gondor?
Would Father be less grim if you had lived? Would he and I be closer than we are, if you were here to smooth things over between us? Tomorrow I am to begin my first captaincy, over Rangers in Ithilien. Would you be proud of me, Mother? If you had lived, would you have guided me, and perhaps even your husband, and thus I might be less of a disappointment to Father?
There is no way to know. But know this, Mother: I hold you in my heart still. And wherever you are beyond the circles of this world, I trust that you have not forgotten me, and that you know how much I still love you.
Boromir, my beloved brother:
A dream came to us both, instructing us to “seek for the sword that was broken, in Imladris it dwells.” As the elder brother, you demanded the right to embark on that quest. Would that you had left it to me, or that neither of us had ever dreamed such a dream. For I saw the boat on the river, bearing your body to the sea; and while your visage was more beautiful than ever it was in life, I knew that I would see you no more in this world. Two hobbits passed through Ithilien, and while they told me what they could, they still left me with more questions than answers. I fear that Isildur’s Bane served to be too sore a trial for you.
Father is sore stricken with grief. I grieve too, but I accept that you have moved beyond the circles of this world. Our father cannot accept comfort, nor can he give it. He wishes that our places had been exchanged, this I know. But how can I blame him for that, when I wish the same myself? He sends me on a mission from which I can hardly hope to return. I will die obeying the Steward and defending the city and the people we both loved. But in that final charge, I will be thinking only of you, and how we will be together again soon, and need never be parted again.
Had you gone mad? We had stores for a long siege, promised help from Rohan, and Minas Tirith is so constructed that any enemy who attacked the city would have to fight his way up level by level, even if he succeeded in breaching the city wall. Our men, our people fought valiantly to repel intruders, and yet, one vision in the palantir was enough to make you seek death? You would have immolated yourself, like a heathen king of old, and taken me with you? You, who had little wish to have me near you in life, refused to part with me in death?
What was it you saw in the palantir? Were the sight of the black ships and the fear of what they would do to Gondor enough to make you lose all hope? Or was it the fear of the man who had taken command of them, the man whom you long suspected of being the rightful king? Did you take your own life, and try to take mine, because you feared our deaths at the hands of Sauron, or was it because you feared having to bend the knee to a man who, if rumors be true, had once been your rival? And did you wish for me to die with you because you refused to bear the thought of a son of yours surrendering the White Rod, even to the King returned?
No. I have been told that you were mad, and I must believe that, for a madman is not responsible for his actions. Perhaps, if I continue to believe that, then someday I can forgive you.
To the Beauteous White Lady of Rohan:
You are a lady most fair, beauteous, high and puissant, a shieldmaiden and the daughter of kings. You also love another, this I know, a man who is high above me in rank. So at present, I shall not speak of my love for you. For I do love you, Eowyn of Rohan, and if you would love me in return, I should think myself the happiest man in Arda.
For now, that is too much to hope for. But hope has long been my comfort and my companion, even when any rational man would despair, so having you near, being able to walk and talk with you each day, is enough. The war has not yet ended, and we live still in the shadow of Mordor, but I do not believe that the Shadow will endure. Goodness will triumph in the end. Until that happens, we both live from day to day, and I shall continue to govern this city in the King’s place.
And while it may not be my duty, precisely, if at times I succeed in bringing a smile to your lovely face, or even more wondrous, make you laugh, then, Eowyn, I shall consider my accomplishment to be a high one, indeed.
To my Lord Aragorn Elessar, King of Gondor and Arnor, Wielder of the Sword Reforged, Greetings:
Lord, you are not only the savior and king of Gondor; you are my healer, as well. I welcome your triumphal return to the city not just as a Steward who surrenders his Rod of office to the rightful ruler, but as the man whose life you saved. You healed me, my lord, and you also healed the woman I love, the woman to whom I shall soon plight my troth in marriage.
For any of those reasons would I willingly bend the knee to you. But not only are you king by right and by deeds of arms, you have brought life and true hope to Gondor, as you returned life to the Lady Eowyn and myself. Soon, upon your triumphant return to Minas Tirith, I shall welcome you at the city gates as the Steward of Gondor. But as Faramir, as a man, I promise you now that I shall ever be “Arandur,” King’s Servant. Sincerely, Faramir son of Denethor, of the House of Hurin, Steward of Gondor