DEFINING MOMENT

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-three

TA 3019

Minas Tirith

The morning was brown when Faramir awoke to his father's summons. He felt as if he hadn't slept at all. It mattered not. His father wished him dead. He dressed himself woodenly. He didn't feel hungry. He only felt the overhanging doom over his life—and Gondor.

He stood before his father and all the lords and captains of Gondor. Their situation was dire. Their forces were too weak to start the war—they must wait for Mordor to strike first. And Rohan still had not come.

"The Enemy must pay dearly for the crossing of the River," Denethor said bitterly. "He will fight for Osgiliath, same as last year when Boromir denied him the passage."

"But my lord," Faramir could understand his father's judgment, yet his father had not been there. Osgiliath was weak. His men couldn't overtake it. "We will rue that exchange. For we cannot afford to lose a company. And should the Enemy win, my retreat will be perilous."

His uncle Imrahil looked at Denethor disapprovingly. "Faramir has said there are great armies going to the Black Gate. More than one host will come from it, and they will not simply focus on Osgiliath."

"Much must be risked in war," Denethor snapped, his dark eyes flashing. "I will not yield the River and the Pelennor unfought. Is there a captain here who has the courage to do his lord's will?"

The lords about him were silent. No one was willing. For it was a fool's errand—suicidal. What had possessed his father to command this? Faramir drew in a deep breath. His father was bating him—comparing him to Boromir. For Boromir would have gone—fearlessly and bold.

"Since you were robbed of Boromir, sire," he said, willing his voice not to shake, "I will go and do what I can in his stead."

"I command it," Denethor said, barely even looking at Faramir. His eyes were trained on the great carven kings in the hall.

Faramir turned and bowed to his father. Perhaps this would be his last time. His last time to see his father. His last time in the beautiful White City. His last time.

"Should I return, think better of me, father," he said softly, his eyes filling with unwanted tears.

"That depends on the manner of your return," Denethor grunted.

He left the Council, limping still. Each step pained him, but it was nothing compared to the pain of his father's rejection.

It mattered not. His focus was solely on saving Gondor. What little he could do, he would. Even if it meant giving his life.

He saddled his horse, and took with him men who were willing to go. He rode through the quiet, dark streets of Minas Tirith. Glory, beauty, wisdom, gone. He set his face towards Osgiliath.

The people did not cheer as he rode. They threw white flowers on the cobblestones. Goodbye.

"Faramir!"

Faramir didn't turn around. It was only Mithrandir, after all.

"Do not throw away your life so rashly!" he cried.

Faramir could not look at him. He'd been accused of being a wizard's pupil. "Where does my allegiance lie if not here?" he asked bitterly.

His father, his lord, had given a command. Aye. It was death. Yet he had to hold. But even as he tried to smooth the death sentence over, he knew it was all a lie. It was a hopeless mission. His last.