It was late. Most of
had emptied by now. They still remained – this weary group – though most of their own conversation had softened to a gentle hum. They were contented now to sit and drink in silence.
Faramir knew little of these Men. They were of his brother’s Guard, and he rarely met with them if not those occasional visits he paid to Osgiliath or Minas Tirith. Nay, his battles were fought in stealth, in silence, under the cool trees, with the forest singing a quiet song in his ear, instructing him. Today, he had told Mablung and Damrod to return with the Rangers, to stay with the wounded, to send the letters to any bereft families. And Faramir had gone forth to Minas Tirith with his brother, intent on speaking with their father, on seeking his counsel. For, apart from Boromir’s report on Osgiliath, Faramir had also another concern…
He shook away the creeping feeling – that prickling of the skin on his skull; it happened whenever he thought of it – and instead adjusted himself to let Boromir pass. His brother fell clumsily back into his seat, chuckling slightly and grabbing Faramir’s shoulder to pull himself up.
Yet Faramir could not keep it to himself. Not anymore. And so as soon as Boromir was somewhat upright, Faramir leaned in, brought his face close.
“Aye?” Boromir asked in mock gravity.
“I need to speak with you.”
“’Tis an important matter. ‘Tis…” he glanced around, “’tis a private affair.”
Boromir’s lips quirked. He whispered, slurring, “Speak softly then.”
An exasperated sigh. But Faramir relented, brought himself closer, and Boromir arched his head over, curious.
“I have dreamt… something strange.” Faramir watched for Boromir’s reaction, saw that his older brother was still half-smiling, waiting for more. Faramir continued, “I believe it to be a riddle. ‘Tis like a chant, speaking within my mind as I sink into sleep. And e’er on, again and again, it is the same.”
Boromir’s half-grin widened. “Does it involve a fair strumpet?”
“Nay, nay,” Faramir hissed, “nay, brother, do not jest. ‘Tis a riddle, I am sure of it. I wish to speak with father of it.”
Boromir eyed him skeptically. Finally, leaning forward, so that Faramir could smell the alcohol on his tongue, he whispered, “What does it say?”
And so, Faramir inhaled, glanced around, and began to repeat softly:
This is a work of fan fiction, written because the author has an abiding love for the works of J R R Tolkien. The characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of the Tolkien Estate, Tolkien Enterprises, and possibly New Line Cinema, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of the said work. The author will not receive any money or other remuneration for presenting the work on this archive site. The work is the intellectual property of the author, is available solely for the enjoyment of Henneth Annûn Story Archive readers, and may not be copied or redistributed by any means without the explicit written consent of the author.