THE GIFT OF MEN

Paola Cartoceti

    The Gift of Men... so the Elves called it, when the Men of old lived in harmony with them and the Earth and the Valar and all the other peoples and living things. A Man could serenely grow old, then, and when the years of his life were lived fully, he could lie himself down and choose to die in peace. But then came the Fall, and Nśmenor disappeared under the Sea, like he had dreamed of countless times, and few Men, in these times of strife, even lived to old age to put that ancient ability to the test.
    Such were Faramir’s thoughts as he walked silently the grass of Ithilien among the trees, thoughts unfit for a young man whose occupations should not have included patrolling the borders of his country under the shadow of Mordor. His trained senses worked on their own to scan his surroundings, alert to any unusual sound, any alien trace; but his mind dwelled painfully on the darkness that had filled him only a few days before. Death had not been a gift for Boromir - because Boromir was dead, his brother had no doubt about it. The distant call of the horn from the North, the vision, the recovery of the shards of the horn... Faramir could feel in his bones and his insides his absence from the world, and wherever his spirit had gone, it was out of his reach. Yes, Boromir had died, his brother knew not how, but he had been in the full bloom of his life, all his future stretching out in front of him, all his life to live in its joys... And Faramir was still alive, and had never felt so lost in all his life, not even when he had mourned his mother Finduilas with all the desolate desperation of a little child, unheeding of Boromir’s attempts to comfort him...
    As he kept observing the silent landscape under the thin sun of the East, he leaned against a tree, his shoulders bowing under the weight of his grief. He looked around, and realized that in his reverie he had wandered far from his ranger companions. He gripped his bow tighter and narrowed his eyes. He distinguished the shapes of his men among the trees – only he or another ranger of Ithilien would have been able to tell the greens and browns of their clothes from the moving shadows of the woods.
    Suddenly he heard a noise, and it was not one of his men, or a creature of the undergrowth. Faramir did not show outwardly his alarm. He looked around from under his hood but saw nothing. He kept walking, because that way he would provide a more difficult target. He moved his bow to his left hand and his right fell to the buckle of his belt. He pretended to adjust it, but kept the hand close to the hilt of his sword.
    He may have strayed too far, but he was too experienced to fall into a trap. He was aware of the attack an instant before it happened. The figure crashed out of the woods with a raised sword and threw itself against him but slashed only the empty air. Faramir had crouched down and slammed into the attacker’s knees, drawing his sword and yelling "Alarm!" If other warriors were among the trees, they could attack his men... The enemy fell back but quickly rolled away from him – a rash warrior, but fast and not unskilled, a man of Harad, wrapped in brown and reddish clothes and armed with a vicious curved sword. Faramir dashed to disarm him, and grabbed his left hand which held a thin dagger with a serpentine blade; the black-masked Southron warrior was in an unfavourable position to hack at him, but managed to slam the hilt of his sword towards Faramir’s face. He reared back, avoiding the blow, and the uneven fight was through. The tall Man of Gondor stopped the hilt with his other hand and trapped the attacker with his weight. "Do not move," he hissed. The dark eyes beneath his smouldered with venom.
    Steps behind him, and he caught a glimpse of Mablung and Damrod and the others rushing to his help, and Madril, cousin of his father, covering their backs. "Captain Faramir, what happened?"
    "Look sharp," Faramir replied, as his men took the warrior out of his hands. "There must be others around." He rose quickly, ready to fend off another attack, but the forest around him yielded only the usual hootings and chirpings, and the heavy breathing of the prisoner.
    "I think he was alone," said Madril of the sharp eyes. "Though for what reason, I cannot tell."
    "We must kill him," Damrod said. "He has to be a spy."
    Faramir looked at the warrior now held fast by two of the rangers. "Possibly," he replied heavily. Killing was bad enough already, but the brand of killing dealt by him and his party, cold-blooded and insidious, was especially bitter in his heart. "But first, I want to look at his face." He did not want to spare himself that pain. He did not want to go on fighting with the reassurance that his foes were mindless minions of the Dark Lord. He wanted to be aware of what he would be taking away when he took this man’s life. It was only fair that he took on himself a part of the pain he inflicted.
    He stepped towards the still struggling prisoner. He held out a hand, grabbed the headcloth and pulled it away along with the black cowl that covered the man’s face.
    Only, it was not a man. It was a woman, and moreover, when they recognized her, despite the tousled hair and the dirty face, all the men of the party stared in shock and wonder, and Faramir felt like something hard had smashed into his chest. Such was their surprise that the woman freed herself in a wild surge from the hands of her two staggered captors and with a growl she rushed at Faramir, hitting him in the face with her fist and slamming him back on the ground in surprise with all the force of her rage and her pain. It took not two but four men and Faramir himself fighting with all his strength to keep her from latching her hands on his throat, and pull her away.
    Still stunned, Faramir struggled to his feet, wiping the blood from his short beard with the back of his gloved hand. The men around them looked on with wide eyes, and some seemed on the verge of falling on their knees. Parn, who was very young, had tears in his eyes. Pain and confusion were in all their hearts, and in Faramir’s raged an even wilder storm.
    The Captain of Gondor walked towards the struggling woman, held by the rangers like one could try to restrain a lightning bolt. He stood in front of her and looked at her fair face, ravaged by grief and the hardships of a trek through the wilderness. He took in her Harad clothes, her deadly weapons lying on the ground, the light pack on her back. Uncaring of the incongruousness of his gesture, and wishing to the Valar that there was another explanation of what had just happened beyond an especially cruel trap of the Enemy, he bowed deeply to her, then straightened. In a hushed voice, he asked: "What brings the Lady Morwen of Dol Amroth to this place, and in this guise? And what madness possessed you, that you should try to take my life?"
    And as he spoke he knew the answer, and it saddened him and made him despair of ever seeing the end of the struggle with Mordor, if such evil dwelled in the hearts of those who should have stood strong against it. Lady Morwen did not answer, but writhed and hissed, trying to get free again.
    Sadly, Faramir nodded at his men. "Tie her up," he said. "We cannot stay here. We’ll take her back to Henneth Annūn."

    That evening, the men sat in the caves beyond the shimmering waterfall glinting with the red of sunset, eating in silence the game they had caught while coming back. The sentinels were troubled as they looked out into the night. Questions hung heavy in the air, and Faramir, after seeing that everything was in order, decided he would try to look for the answers.
    Lady Morwen sat in a corner of a secluded cave, her hands tied behind her back and chained to an iron ring strongly fixed in the rock wall. She half lay with her head on a low rock, tired and empty. She had failed; and now there were no more certainties in her heart, as she had not accomplished her mission and had not considered seeing another sunset. She hoped that Captain Faramir decided to apply a swift justice on her – but no, he was far too noble and merciful, she thought bitterly. He would send her back to her family, maybe he would even find a way to cover up what had happened. And she did not know when she could find another chance to accomplish what she had set out to do. The war would get in the way, maybe even rob her of her quarry; and her own energy of retribution seemed to have been all spent that afternoon in her first and only attempt on Captain Faramir’s life. Now she lay exhausted and barely holding at bay those demons she had hoped would be dead with him.
    She heard footsteps and lifted her head. The son of Denethor – what cruel irony that these words could still be spoken of a living man! – walked in slowly, looking at her with a sad frown on his face. His face... She tried to look away, because that look was unbearably painful to her, but at the same time she needed to make him see her eyes, to challenge him with her hatred.
    Faramir stopped and looked down at her, his hands hanging down at his sides. "Is your loss not my loss also, Lady?" he asked in a whisper. "Must you want revenge on me for the sin of being still alive?"
    Morwen gritted her teeth so hard they crackled. "Speak not to me of loss," she growled. "You, you should have gone there, to Imladris, in search of those wild dreams of yours. The Sword that was broken, Isildur’s Bane, the Halfling... Why did you not go hunting for legends yourself? Why did you let him go alone?" Her voice broke.
    Faramir shook his head. "Boromir would not let anyone go in his place... and least of all me."
    Morwen sneered. "I believe you. He probably thought you would make a fool of yourself." She hated herself for what she was doing, because she was finding no comfort to her gnawing pain in the pain she was inflicting to him.
    Faramir closed his eyes and turned his face away, giving her the hard blade of his profile. His hair fell on his cheek, on his knitted brows, and that simple gesture stabbed her like a barbed spear. Then he again turned towards her, and it was his own face again, Finduilas’ soft oval line of the cheeks and gentle mouth, as Morwen knew her from the portrait of Denethor’s wife in the hall at Minas Tirith, and that brittle look in her eyes which had never been Boromir’s.
    "I thought you knew my brother," he said simply, with no animosity. "You were one of the three living persons who knew him best. He did not let me go to Imladris because my words inflamed him for some reason I could not even fathom. It was as though an unrestrainable force was upon him. And he forbade me even to think about going in his place. To me he did not acknowledge that obsession, perhaps he was not even aware of it, but he forbade me to go by saying that he loved me too much to send me into such blind peril..."
    "Loved you!" she spat, reaching out wildly for a shred of the hatred which had sustained her. "Yes, and he probably was the only person in Middle Earth who did! You have seen... you have heard your father. He though you were expendable."
    The expression on Faramir’s face was unbearable. "He did, and he was right, I suppose. Lady, I do wish with all my heart I had died in Boromir’s place. I would give my own life in a heartbeat, I would condemn myself to the most horrible of deaths, if only he could walk again alive. Does this not comfort you?"
    Morwen had been fighting tears all the while, and now they spilled down her cheeks, and she could not wipe them away with her tied hands. Because her heart leaped at the thought of such a deal with the Valar, and then sank again. Boromir would have been shattered if destiny had worked the other way around. He had indeed loved his little brother like a piece of himself, the shy lad who hurriedly disappeared when she was around and who broke into a smile only when Boromir promised he would teach him something in the art of hunting and travelling in the wild; the courteous young man who bowed to her in the corridors of the palace when she came to visit; the reluctant warrior who had set aside his books and had taken up the sword and the bow to defend his country, and trained all day in the courtyard to the limits of his endurance, barely noticed by her who was increasingly taken by other interests as she grew up and understood with joy that the reason of state would go exactly towards the realization of the dreams of all her young life.
    "Nay, it does not comfort me, Lord Faramir," she snapped back, holding the tremors away from her voice, "nothing can comfort me, when I think that we would be married this spring, once he came back from his journey. But he never came back!" She swallowed a sob.
    Faramir’s voice was as beleaguered as hers. "But it was not my fault, Lady, that he did not come back," he entreated her. "Though we still not know how, it was the Enemy who brought his fate upon him."
    Morwen hardened her eyes and her voice. That conversation was devastating to her, for the pain it evoked, for the bewilderment it seeded in her mind. "As you said, Lord Faramir, you are still alive," she said. "Your presence is painful to me. Please leave."
    Faramir straightened his shoulders, and his gaze grew colder too. "Very well, my lady," he said. "I cannot bring you back to Minas Tirith. We are going South, and we will not stop in our patrolling. I will take you to Pelargir, and there find an escort to bring you back to your father." He gave her a nod of parting, then turned and left the cave.
    Morwen sank back against the rock, more worn out and drained than before.

    They walked all the following day, along the Anduin for a while and past Osgiliath, before beginning to skirt around the Emyn Arnen, perilously close to the foot of the Ephel Dśath, heading for Southern Ithilien. They took Morwen with them, her hands still tied behind her back and a rope around her ankle too. Mindful of her needs, they untied her hands at sword’s point when they had to give her a little time away from them. But the fight seemed to have gone out of her.
    They saw not a trace of enemies all that day, when they stopped by a small stream, and made camp with the uttermost care, because at night the Eye grew more dangerous and their foes bolder. They made a small fire, aware that it could keep away some of their enemies and draw others. They had not heard about the Ringwraiths for weeks, since they had known they were riding north on their wretched steeds. But the hills were often overrun with Orcs, and these would not be afraid of fire.
    Madril and Faramir were standing on a rocky outcropping, looking out as the watchmen took their places and the others prepared for sleep. Faramir looked at his kinsman. "What worries you? You have been uneasy all day."
    Madril looked up at the dark air. "There is something foul about us," he replied glumly. He turned towards the only place they always tried not to turn their gazes to, the strip of unquenchable fire on the eastern horizon among the jagged peaks of the Ephel Dśath, the smouldering red of Mordor. "I cannot tell what it is."
    "We will be ready for anything," Faramir replied.
    "Having to protect the lady is a liability, you know," the older man said softly.
    "What was I supposed to do?" Faramir snapped. "Cut her throat as she tried to do to me? We were not able to go back to Minas Tirith for a number of reasons."
    "Heading towards Pelargir fits well with our mission," Madril convened. "But we have to think what to do with her in case of an attack."
    "Give her back her weapons and turn her loose on the Orcs."
    "You are surely jesting, Lord Faramir. She would rather turn on you."
    "I do not think so," Faramir replied, but had no time to expand on that, because Parn came up running silently in the night.
    "Captain Faramir! We spotted them. Half a league east of here, coming towards us through this valley!"
    "Mordor Orcs, or this cursed new devilry of Saruman?"
    "Orcs, sir. I do not think they sniffed us yet. I would say they are on an errand themselves."
    "To the Harad Road if they follow this path, no doubt," Faramir said, starting back to the camp. "Sending messages of the Enemy to the people of Harad. He is gathering his forces. I fear dark times are upon Gondor and the free people. Would that Rohan could stand, and that we could send help to them... and that the Rangers of Arnor were stronger!" He reached the camp and quickly gestured to his men. "Put out the fire! Take cover up those rocky hills, and be ready with your swords and bows. A company of Orcs is approaching, and if we can we will stop them from delivering whatever foul message they carry. Go!"
    Faramir personally took up Morwen’s rope and dragged her on her feet. Her eyes were shiny with alarm and defiance, but despite his earlier words he did not feel ready yet to put a sword into her hands. They climbed quickly the rocks, he seeing that she did not stumble and injured herself with her hands tied, and at last he motioned her to a small hollow barely visible in the light of the moon. "Do not move," he warned her, then checked where his men had taken position, and looked out to see what was happening beneath them.
    The sight made him shudder. There were at least two hundred Orcs trotting darkly and noisily along the moonlit path. His company of fifty would maybe inflict heavy losses to them by day on a familiar terrain and get away with it, but here he did not dare to give the order. And the implications of that scene were even more terrifying. What kind of an army was the Dark Lord building if he could afford to send away such a numerous party? What kind of war was he preparing to wage?
    Frozen among the rocks, he saw the Orcs stop at their campsite. Orcs were not subtle searchers; maybe they would smell the ashes, but the rangers had been careful to wet them and scatter them among the earth, and it was doubtful the foes would realize someone had been there only a few minutes before. And the rangers were downwind, so much that the foul stench of the Orcs carried perfectly up there. Faramir motioned his men to keep hidden and waited for the foes to resume their march.
    But they did not. Under Faramir’s horrified eyes, they exchanged some guttural orders and a group detached from the main company and started climbing the rocks.
    Hurriedly, Faramir gestured caution to his men and backed up into the hollow. He looked at the still-tied Morwen, but there was no time to free her. He put his finger to his lips, drew his sword without a sound and already the shadows of the Orcs were passing among the rocks.
    Faramir lay there flat on the ground, sword in his hand. Huddled in the dark, Morwen watched the gruesome shapes pass barely a few paces from them. The stench made her gag. She fought to keep still and silent. She did not care if she died. She was not supposed to care if Faramir died, quite the contrary. But when, after what seemed like a very long time, she saw him lift his head, stare at the rocks now empty and get back on his feet and walk out, she almost screamed after him. He could not leave her tied there with Orcs on the prowl! He could not...
    Faramir came back almost immediately, his stance more relaxed though still watchful. "I do not think they will come back," he said, dropping to a crouch. "They just sent some scouts on the rocks for safety, but then went on towards the South." He sighed tiredly. "Yet I cannot trust fate. Something is afoot here, and I fear more enemies will be around. We will go on by full daylight."
    He stretched out his legs and leaned more comfortably against the rock wall. "Try to rest, now," he said softly.
    "Untie my hands."
    Faramir looked up at her, his face stern. "I cannot."
    Her eyes were wide in the effort of watching him in the dimness. "We are all in the same quandary. Do you not trust me, Captain Faramir?"
    "Should I, after what you have done to me?"
    Morwen bit her lip. The scare of the Orcs and the knowledge of being in the hands of the only man who could fight them had quenched her hatred even further, though not her grief. She closed her eyes. "I have mourned your brother as I could. I still do. I may have make a mistake in trying to assuage my sorrow by taking it out on you."
    She opened her eyes, and Faramir was still looking at her. "I believe you."
    "Do you really?"
    "Yes. I know what sorrow can do. I thought I was going crazy."
    "I did go crazy. I think I am crazy. Maybe you are right in not wanting to free me."
    Faramir pulled up his knees and hugged them, leaning his head back against the rock, his hair falling back from his face; a gesture so familiar that Morwen’s heart writhed in pain. Her throat was parched, but she did not want to look weak by asking for water. Her chest heaved in thirst and anxiety and she let out what sounded like a sigh.
    Faramir turned and looked at her. She suddenly was aware of his probing gaze and of her vulnerability. She tried to search for a trace of hatred within herself, for other cutting words to hurt him, but found nothing. Faramir put a hand on the ground and moved closer to her. "Shall I bring you something?"
    Morwen shook her head hurriedly. His question was innocent, like his eyes, but her heart suddenly beat as though it could burst out of her. She tried to slow her breathing. She did not want to react like this, not with him of all people, but it was stronger than her will, made cruder by the danger, by her helplessness. Faramir had to notice she was trembling. His gaze fell in a different way on her. She was still wearing Harad clothes, of course, which were not becoming, but it did not seem to make any difference to her or, astonishingly, to him.
    Morwen closed her eyes, utterly confused. She could not cry out, not with Orcs crawling everywhere, but then she was not even inclined to do it. She should have been horrified at the thought of a captor taking advantage of a bound prisoner, but this was Faramir, and he was not the kind to even think about it... the fact that he could indeed think about it, that in fact he was thinking about it by all evidence, only enticed her. She did not want him to get closer, and yet she craved his touch. She imagined it would be gentle and ardent, even though she had always thought of him as the ice to Boromir’s fire. She quivered at the brush of his fingers on her cheek and tried to crawl back even though she wished he would go on. It was easy to imagine it was Boromir’s hand, Boromir’s warm presence at her side, Boromir’s kiss...
    Faramir had not kissed her. He had even dropped his hand. When she opened her eyes, he was sitting further back from her, though he was still staring at her with those eyes that were like his brother’s and yet were not.
    Drunk with danger and death as with a bitter wine, Morwen looked on him and found him desirable. "Untie my hands, Faramir," she repeated in a breath.
    "I would not, anyway," he replied, to her surprise. The heady poison was working on him too, making him talk in a dreamy, lilting voice, his clear gaze distant and fey. "I would want to kiss you and caress you until dawn, my lady, and not want a thing in return. I would not want you to even move for me."
    It had to be a dream, she thought, growing warmer inside. Faramir, talking like this? "But I would want to embrace you," she replied. "And besides," she added, with the logic of dreams, "my hands would hurt."
    "That is why I will not," he concluded, "though I have loved you, Lady of Dol Amroth, since I first laid my eyes on you and you fought with me over a toy horse until our nannies had to separate us."
    Morwen went cold, then hot, then laughed aloud and forced herself to be silent or Faramir’s men would be puzzled indeed. Finally her eyes filled with tears. "Why did you never tell me? Why do you tell me now?"
    "Because there was no need to, since you always preferred my brother, like everybody did," he replied, with simple dignity and guileless sincerity. "And now... now a shadow is upon us, and the lives of Men have grown brief..."
     She barely stifled a sob, but, to her growing bewilderment, Faramir did not. He bent his face on his hands and started crying like a child, until he even pressed his fists on his mouth and let out a keen wail of pure despair and sorrow under Morwen’s astonished and pained eyes.
    That was enough to have Madril come running. "Captain Faramir? Are you well?" He too stopped among the rocks and stared down at his lord in tears, and at Morwen, as though he expected to find her slipping a knife between Faramir’s ribs.
    Faramir straightened up, ran his hands on his face and through his unkempt hair. To her eyes he was still shaking with the need to cry, but he managed to look up at his lieutenant. "I will be well, my kinsman," he said.
    Madril nodded, gave a last warning glance to her and went back to whatever refuge he had found with the others. Faramir got hold of himself, but he looked so bereaved she could not stop tears from running along her cheeks. "Faramir..."
    He sighed, looked at her, swallowed and got up on his knees. He searched for something on his belt and unsheathed her own serpentine knife, a heirloom from the South, and extraordinarily sharp. She had not realized he wore it on himself. He moved to her and with a quick gesture cut her ropes. She was beginning to sob at that point, and her arms hung stiff and sore at her sides. He took her hands gently and freed her from the remains of the ropes, rubbing her wrists. She kept crying. At last he embraced her, his own tears running freely. They hugged hard and cried, kneeling on the rocky floor, until fatigue and sleep overcame them.

    When Morwen woke up at dawn, she was still bundled up against Faramir. Her nose was clogged and her mouth woolly, and she was dying of thirst. She raised her eyes at his face, peaceful in sleep, and stared for a while, before she even remembered he was supposed to remind her of her lost love. And at that point the pain came back, and with it guilt, even though they had only mourned Boromir together, and she slipped out of his arms. But she sat against the rock and watched him, watched the way his hair curled for being uncombed, and how his lips parted slightly, and the shadow of his eyelashes on his cheek and a smattering of freckles across his nose that she had never noticed.
    When he stirred, she got up before he opened his eyes and walked out of the rocks, shivering in the cold grey morning air. She found Madril a few paces away, arms crossed, looking out at Mordor. He gave her a sideways glare. She walked up to him and glumly watched with him a while. "Captain Faramir is a noble and righteous man," she pointed out.
    "Of course he is," Madril replied diffidently.
    There were other words Morwen wished to say, but it was hard, under the baleful gleam of Mordor. And at that moment Faramir too came out of the shelter of rocks, blinked at them, looked around to check all was in order, then yawned, stretched noisily and stalked away scratching the back of his neck. Morwen found herself smiling, then closed her eyes and asked for a ghost’s forgiveness.

    "We cannot go on this way," Faramir said. He was sitting cross-legged on the grass with his most trusted men, while the others stood guard or waited around. A map lay between them. "This place is crawling with Orcs. And not only that, as I fear we all have felt." Many nodded. Morwen sat a few paces away, silently. They had not given her weapons back yet.
    "We have to go back North," Mablung said. "We accomplished our mission... we tried to scout Southern Ithilien and discovered it is an unsafe place."
    Faramir sighed. "It would take a much larger army to keep this place safe," he said. "And we cannot afford to move men away from our other borders. We will have to retreat to Henneth Annūn and be content to defend Minas Tirith from that side."
    "How about the Lady Morwen?" Madril said.
    "We will bring her to Minas Tirith," Faramir replied without a glance, as though his confession and his actions of that night had been only a dream. "For what concerns me, I found her wandering in the woods, crazed with pain for the death of her betrothed, my brother. With some luck, we will manage to clothe her in female garments before giving her back to her kinspeople in Minas Tirith, and they will bring her back to Dol Amroth. Any questions?"
    They all looked at him as though their captain were mad, but there really was no other way. Revealing that a noblewoman from Prince Imrahil's land had tried to kill the surviving son of the Steward of Gondor, while probably not harmful to the lady considering her bereaved state, could be detrimental to diplomacy, at a time when union among the enemies of the Dark Lord was so important and so difficult.
    "Very well," Faramir concluded, rising. "Let us go at once, then."
    "These are good news," young Parn said. "I was really beginning to be restless out here, I do not know why."

    They made a much slower way coming back, avoiding bands of Orcs that seemed to be everywhere. At night, they found an abandoned farm and stopped there to rest. The men were extremely troubled by now. Faramir himself was snappish and cold, and Morwen’s tormented soul found some comfort in berating him once again in her mind. Sometimes she felt pushed away by his ice; she missed Boromir’s fire, but it was a more sedate pain now, less desperate. Mourning him with his brother, finding forgiveness, had been good to her. With this, Faramir had ended his usefulness in her life and she almost felt ready and even eager to go back to her father and her brothers and sister and start a new life – if the war would allow it.
    The farm seemed abandoned recently, though there was no trace of violence. Morwen hoped the family had found refuge in Minas Tirith when the threat of the Orcs had become heavy. She walked through the small rooms, looking for those female garments that seemed to Faramir an unavoidable requirement for her respectable return home. Boromir had always loved that adventurous side of her. Boromir would have come to love her much... Even though she knew well enough he was more interested in war than in her, and that the long-arranged wedding was the answer to her dreams more than his - he had been a good man, fond of her and proud of her love, and they would have been happy.
    She sighed, missing him keenly, and forced herself to go on with her search, finding a strange comfort in it. She found a saffron dress that more or less fitted her, and changed into it, keeping part of her Harad clothes underneath because who knew when they could come useful. She even found a comb to run through her knotted curls.
    She came back into the main room where the men had lit a fire and sat talking and eating venison. They all looked at her, not really displeased with the sight. Faramir’s mood improved visibly. She twirled on herself, opening her arms, and some laughed and clapped. Self-consciously, she gathered her gowns again and looked at the floor with a small smile. "Captain Faramir," Parn said, receiving an impatient but amused glance from his lord, "a lady in our company would make us look better, do you think you can keep her from trying to kill you so that..."
    They all fell silent, and all smiles faded.
    It was still not a noise, not even a feeling. It was a subtle change in the air, and all looked up for some reason, though the night was perfectly still and above them should have been only stars over the roof.
    Then they began to hear it. It was distant, faint, like the beating of a heart. Slow, steady, getting stronger. A ranger gasped. Another, a big grown-up man, let out a whimper. It was a sound that had never been heard in that place or by them, and it filled them with terror. Now it was clearer, closer.
    Whoosh.
    Whoosh.
    Whoosh.
    Something was approaching. Something whose wings beat hard and black against the night. By accident, just then a log on the fire rolled away with a thump and a shower of sparks. Faramir flinched sharply. The flames died down somewhat. The Captain of Gondor jumped up to stoke them.
    A scream filled the air above them, inside the small house, inside their brains and their bellies. Morwen began shaking uncontrollably and held out a hand towards the table.
    The scream echoed again, as though the thing, whatever it was, had been in the room with them. A man cried out and fell on his knees. Others threw themselves blindly on the floor.
    Faramir pushed himself bodily away from the mantelpiece and towards the door. Morwen realized what he was about to do. "Faramir, no!" she cried. But his face was set, his hand on the hilt of his sword. He drew it and pushed the door open.
    Bent double over the table, struggling not to faint, Morwen only saw the reaction on his face. His eyes wide with horror, his teeth chattering in the effort of holding a shriek inside, his fingers digging into the door frame. The hand holding the sword had almost released its grip, forgotten. The scream once again, and the sword fell from his hand and luckily the shattering echo from the sky lasted long enough to cover the noise, or the winged horror would surely turn and came back for them and destroy them. Thoughts of the old legends, of Ancalagon the Black and Glaurung and Smaug came to her, and she sank to the floor, hugging the leg of the table. There was not a single man still standing, no one but Faramir, grasping the door frame with all his strength as his face seemed devoid of every life now, except his feverish eyes.
    Morwen tried to crawl towards him. A man groaned, he had fainted – it was Parn. Madril like her was struggling to keep on his knees long enough to reach Faramir. They staggered to the door, because whatever was outside was not terrible like leaving their captain to stand alone in front of it without even having a look at it. Finally a handful of men and Morwen made their way to Faramir and looked out with him, crowding around him. The thing was going away. They only saw the enormous wings, beating slowly with that awful rustle, a hanging tail – maybe a black figure on it? It disappeared, far over the hills, towards the South.
    Faramir’s hand was as cold as ice to Morwen’s. He stirred and breathed out, though he found it difficult. He acknowledged her support with a squeeze, then pushed away from the door and walked out on trembling legs to see how his men who were outside were faring. They all had taken refuge under bushes and benches. At the end all were accounted for, though many had thrown up and some had soiled their pants. Parn was ashamed for having fainted.
    Faramir gathered them all into the farm. "You did your best," he said, and still his voice was shaking. "We faced it. I saw it fairly close." He swallowed. "The Nazgūl are back. Now they ride winged steeds, foul beasts of prey like ancient reptiles." He caught his breath. "But we faced it. Their weapon is fear, but now we are ready. Next time we will not be so scared." Men looked harrowed at the thought of "next time". Faramir nodded sadly and patted Parn’s shoulder. "Yes. This is what we will be fighting from now on. Well. We will fight it, as we always did. Will we not?"
    "Yes." "Yes, Captain." "For Gondor and the free world." Words came out hurried but sincere, and Morwen suddenly realized something, something so staggering that her knees still somehow refused to keep her up.
    They all spent the night in the farm, huddling together, not sleeping until the dawn came and the light made them feel a little safer. Morwen woke up by Faramir’s side, wrapped up in his green cloak, and made a decision.

    That evening, they rounded again the sides of the Emyn Arnen. They stopped for the night in a small outpost. The guardians there were overjoyed to see them. They spoke of fell wraiths and horrible noises in the night.
    Faramir was shown a small room with a door facing west, the old room of the commander of the outpost before he was killed by Orcs. They ate downstairs with the garrison, then prepared for the night.
    Morwen was still washing her bowl at a small spring outside when Faramir came to her. He touched her shoulder lightly and when she stood he bowed to her, respectful and distant. "Tomorrow we will leave you close to Minas Tirith, my lady," he said. "I will give you your weapons and forget everything that has passed. Have a good sleep, now. We are all very tired and tomorrow will not be an easier journey, even though our home is almost in sight. Good night, Lady Morwen." He turned and started climbing the outer stairs towards his room.
    "Faramir! Wait." She lay down the wooden bowl, running her wet chilly hands into her clothes, and ran up after him.
    At the top of the stairs he turned, drawn and grim, a small bitter smile twisting a corner of his lips. "I am sorry, my lady, but I am too tired for attempts on my life."
    Morwen closed her eyes at the momentary stab of pain and guilt. "What madness," she whispered. "What folly did my grief bring me to. Nay, my lord Faramir. I want my weapons back now, and rest assured that I will not use them against you."
    Faramir looked at her and slowly nodded. "Yes; it would be wiser for you to be armed, even so close to the city. There is no reason to keep you restrained now, since you came to your senses; and should there be another attack, you must have the means to defend yourself." He turned and opened the door to go inside and fetch her weapons.
    Morwen stepped over the threshold of the room and shook her head. "I do not want weapons to defend myself, my lord. I want to be able to help your people. I want to fight for Gondor." She raised her eyes to his. "And for you."
    Faramir’s brows drew together in a deeper, puzzled frown. "For me?"
    At that hour the light of the sunset enveloped Morwen’s figure in a fiery glow, her face shrouded in shadows. She nodded, and stepped up to lay a hand on his shoulder just as he lifted his hand and gently took her elbow, as though to warn her away, but it was too late. They kissed softly, wonderingly, then he turned her slightly to see her face in the light of the sun. "This is madness indeed," he whispered, looking into her eyes. "’Tis my brother you want, ‘tis him you see..."
    "I do not know anymore who I want, when everything is crumbling around me," she replied. "But I know I see the man who stood last night on the threshold of that farm and faced an unnamed terror while we all cowered in fright."
    Faramir smiled, softly now, sadly. "I was cowering in fright too... and all of you were as brave as could be expected, all of my men, and you among them. And had Boromir been here... he would not have simply looked out of the door, he would have rushed out with his sword drawn..."
    "And died bravely," Morwen finished. "As he did a few days ago."
    "We still do not know."
    "I am sure he was brave," Morwen replied, her voice failing, and tears welled in her eyes at the thought of him. At that sight, Faramir’s eyes too grew misty, and he was beleaguered anew by his grief. Shaking, they held each other. "My loss is your loss," Morwen added gently. "I will help you bear it."
    "I have never even dared to dream it," Faramir said in that reckless moment, "but so many thoughts of desperation have crossed my mind since my brother died... thoughts of claiming your hand from your father in his name... but then I recoiled in shame, knowing it would only be my desire and not my loyalty towards Boromir, and that justly I would be second in your thoughts forever, even if I carried out my wish..."
    "You are not second to anyone," Morwen replied in a breath. "You are alive, Faramir, alive! and may the Valar keep you for long, as they used to say of old in Nśmenor. And as they did in Nśmenor before the Fall, you do not need my father to grant you my hand."
    Their hearts beat so loud that Faramir almost had to read her words on her trembling lips. He kissed her again, then, taking her hands solemnly, he whispered a phrase in a soft ancient tongue, the Quenya language of the Elf-friends when the world was still young; and Morwen replied in kind.
    Their shadows melted together in the frame of the door as the sun flared out red for the last time above the lower ridges of the Emyn Arnen and the Mindolluin beyond. And then the gleam died, the shadows fell fast from the hills and reached their refuge, and Faramir stepped to the door, still holding Morwen’s warm hand. Before he closed it against the cool of the evening, he smiled at her tenderly in the fading light, and in the darkness that followed Morwen searched for his smile with her fingertips.
    Outside, the rangers of Ithilien set the watches of the night and prepared their pallets, walking softly and talking in low voices and careful not to make noise, lest they disturbed the peace of the Captain of Gondor and the Lady of Dol Amroth.

    Finally, the rocks of Henneth Annūn rose again before them. They had marched all morning and they were exhausted. The waters of the Anduin would have gleamed bright under the light of noon, but the sky was cloudy, the sun hidden.
    They had briefly stopped on the other side of the Emyn Arnen so that Faramir could dispatch messengers to Minas Tirith and tell Morwen’s family she was safe and well. The two had been mostly apart that day, Faramir keeping an eye on his tired men and she walking in a silent daze, but whenever their gaze met, whenever their hands touched their smile could have lit even a darker day than that.
    "I wish I could take you to a safer place," Faramir said, walking closer to her. "I wish you had accepted to go to Minas Tirith... but alas, so close under the shadow of the Enemy, who can say where it is safer?"
    "I am safe with you, Faramir," Morwen replied with a smile. She had changed back into her male clothes for the march, and her sword and rapier hung at her belt.
    "I still wish you did not have to fight," he sighed. "A woman should not suffer this..."
    "But you do. And so will I. If we manage to travel again to Southern Ithilien with greater numbers, my knowledge of the South will help you."
    Faramir looked at her proudly, and the admiration in his gaze was enough to dispel all fatigue in her. She looked forward to a quiet evening in his refuge beyond the waterfall...
    "Nazgūl!"
    Even before they looked up in alarm they heard the ominous beating of wings. Morwen’s heart shot in her throat. The foul beast was approaching from the east, its very presence a slur against the green living grass and the beauty of the waters.
    "We will not run today!" Faramir shouted, taking down his bow from his shoulder. "Fight, men! Stand against the winged wraith! Do not let it get close to the city."
    Now they all could see it clearly, and the sight struck terror in their hearts, but they resisted. All the bows were in their hands now, and they unleashed a hail of arrows against it, their aim still shaky but their strength undiminished. The beast swooped towards them and reared back, then started circling for another plunge. The scream shattered the skies, but in the light of day the men grimly withstood it.
    Frustrated, Morwen looked up, shaking her useless sword. She did not have a bow and she doubted the Nazgūl would come any closer to that nest of stinging bees – if not to try and take out some of them. What to do? Stay close to them, ready to defend them, or...? She looked around feverishly, and saw Henneth Annūn looming closer than it probably was. "I am going to look for help!" she called. "If we can take it down, it will be a great blow to the Enemy!"
    Faramir turned, saw her start at a run. "No!" he called desperately. "No, Morwen, they will hear us anyway, come back!"
    Morwen heard Faramir’s voice but kept running. She threw a glance over her shoulder and the sight terrified her. The beast had noticed her detaching from the group. A mistake, in the presence of a predator, and she should have known. It was too late to do something about it. As the beast swooped on her she threw herself down among the rocks. She heard the talons rake the stone above her. She was staggered by the stench, deafened by the scream, scared out of herself but unharmed. Unthinkingly, she got back on her feet as the beast turned overhead, and started running again towards Henneth Annūn, her mind clouded in her single-minded intention to bring help to Faramir.
    Something slammed into her back. Only a physical blow, for the moment, with no pain, yet suddenly she was on her hands and knees and the great shadow was passing over her. The scream again, more anguished now. Someone must have hit the beast. Morwen heard the ominous beating of the wings growing fainter, but then everything was growing fainter around her, light and sounds. She fell onto her side, her head dropping on her arm. She saw them run towards her, Faramir stumbling with fatigue a few paces from her and frantically crawl towards her, grabbing her, looking at the wound on her back. "Superficial," he said, frightened relief in his voice. "We will take you home, Morwen, it is close, we will treat you and..." He stopped suddenly. There was silence around them. Worried for him, she turned her head with difficulty and saw him pick up from the ground the twisted hilt of a dagger without the blade.
    She knew its meaning. Everybody did, and they stood around in silence. She could hear only Faramir’s harsh breathing as he dropped the hilt and looked at her shaking his head, staring with wide restless eyes.
    "Athelas," he whispered. "Quick. Find it, everybody. There has to be some around here." As the rangers scattered around he began to gather her in his arms. "We will bring her to Henneth Annūn..."
    Madril dropped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "It would take an Elf Lord to save her, my Captain," he said softly.
    Morwen huddled against Faramir’s chest. Everything was growing colder and she did not really care. She welcomed the silence and stillness. There was regret in her at the thought she had only just discovered how warm his arms were, how sweet his mouth, but she was tired, so tired...
    Faramir had to know what was happening. He was a wizard’s pupil, after all. As he gazed on her ashen face, her eyes growing glazed, he did not need Madril’s words, the older man’s only means of comfort. "She will become a wraith," the ranger said. "We cannot cure her..."
    Faramir shook his head harder. A stifled "no" escaped his lips. And yet there was only one thing he could do for her, and he had to do it fast, if he wanted her to simply die – simply! – and let her spirit reach the Halls of Mandos in peace...
    He looked down on her, wanting to fight, to do all he could to keep her alive a little longer, to feel her warmth in his arms, but he knew there was no hope, and every moment was more dangerous. He could not imagine her warm, defiant spirit trapped in the lightless and colourless world of wraiths, maybe forever.
    He smiled through his tears and his deathly despair. He lifted her head, hoping she could still see him. He saw her eyelashes flutter, her lips curve in a soft smile and form his name. Gently, he supported her head and whispered words of promise and devotion to her, the echo of the ancient words they had spoken the night before, and bent to kiss her with all his tenderness. As he did so, his hand dropped to her belt and pulled out her sharp Southern blade.
    Morwen did not even feel the tiny cut. She only felt the growing cold, but it was not a sick alien cold anymore, it was rather like snuggling under a warm cloak and waiting for sleep and the comfort of another’s closeness to dispel the nightly chills. Strangely, her vision was shrinking, a ring of darkness enveloping it until all she could see was Faramir’s gentle face, his smile, his loving eyes. And then slowly he faded too, and the last thing she felt, before everything really faded away, was a light touch on her lips, like drops of rain, his tears.

    Madril stood at a distance, bereaved, helpless. He watched his young captain hold the Lady of Dol Amroth in his arms until she was dead. He watched his sleeve grow dark and drenched with her blood, her body go limp. It was dangerous to stay, and slowly the others were coming back, after their fruitless, useless search, and stopping in front of the scene. Faramir’s face was impossible to watch. Madril tried to get closer and take the body, or at least spur him to get up and leave, but Faramir just bent jealously over her with a growl and stayed there, rocking her and crying, his sobs becoming screams of despair. Madril closed his eyes and cursed the Enemy with all his might, knowing there was no way they could win, no way they could inflict on Him the same bottomless and shattering pain, even in victory, because He was not able to feel as frail warm-hearted creatures did. The ranger wished there was something they in turn could take away from the Dark Lord to make Him die of sorrow, but he did not really believe it. He could only stand there and wait with the others, hoping no foe came upon them, hoping Faramir did not go mad with grief or succumb to a crushed heart. At length they succeeded in making him get up and carry the body back to Henneth Annūn, though he did not allow anybody to touch her and did not accept any sleep, composing her and standing vigil with her till the dawn.

    The earth seemed to have been barely disturbed. Faramir had replaced the grassy sods he had so carefully cut away before digging the grave. There was the slightest of elevations, not even a mound. Her body had been so light in death, so fragile, though she had been tall and strong and fair in life.
    He looked up and turned his gaze towards the Anduin. Drawing breath was difficult. He walked to the calm waters of that spot he had chosen, full of flowers and green trees. There was no time and no ease to give her body back to her family. They would mourn later, hopefully, when a truce of any kind came to them. Faramir had much to tell her people, and hoped it would be of more comfort to them than it was to him.
    The water of the great river lapped around the sole of his boots over the pebbles. Faramir stared at the widening circles, at the current faster in the middle, rippling under the rising sun. "Was she meant all the time to come back to you?" he said. "Could she not just live in peace, away from you and me... even though this way we would never have known her? How will she welcome me in the Halls of Mandos at the end of it all... as the brother I should have been to you both, as the man who comforted her for a brief moment? Oh, Boromir... will you keep her safe, will you take care of each other?..."
    No tears fell, not anymore. He heard a step behind him approach and stop. He straightened, then turned, his eyes dead.
    "Captain Faramir," Mablung said. "As we feared, there are movements from the South. A fresh troop of Haradrim is approaching. We could see two mumakīl at least. We can ambush them if we hurry, and deal great losses to them."
    Faramir nodded briefly. He started walking up the banks of the river.
    "There is something more," Mablung added in a lower voice as the captain got closer. "Scouts have reported of strange creatures in the woods. We could not apprehend them yet, but we are hunting for them. Parn says they look like... like the Halflings of the legend, sir."
    Faramir’s eyes lit up briefly, then dimmed again. "Very well. We shall see. Go." They walked back towards the camp. He turned only once towards the grave under the trees, then stepped over the rise and was gone.

The End