A Face in the Crowd: Faramir

Chapter One - The Siege of Minas Tirith

Edit - I FORGOT TO INTRODUCE MYSELF AND THE STORY!! Resident Tolkien nerd here, just about balancing the obsession with my daily life. I have almost finished this three-part story, after four years (!). All of it so far is up on FanFiction, but the new, shiny, *edited* version is going up on here as three separate stories. It was my first ever fanfic at the time and completely took over any other writing projects, still does really. Thank you for checking it out, and I hope you enjoy it. If you've seen it over on FanFiction you'll know I love receiving reviews and being part of a writing community, especially amongst fellow LOTR fans, but I'm new on here so any tips on where to start and how to reach people will be most appreciated.

Should probably point out that this is pretty book-verse rather than movie, in that it covers a lot that the movies don't. All characters look like their movie counterpart in my head though, except for Faramir, who, for the purposes of this story, is how Tolkien described him. (Although not to say I didn't have a crush on movie Faramir at the time). Legolas and Aragorn are taller as well, while I'm at it.

*Some short sections of text in this chapter are taken from The Return of the King, property of J.R.R Tolkien & the Tolkien Estate. All of my fanfiction is not for profit.

For the second day the dawn brought no light, and Faramir, son of Denethor, was riding to his doom.

Darkness from the east was spreading, so thick that it blocked the light of the sun. The winged shadows were abroad, their piercing shrieks carrying from the skies above the plains, sending fear straight to the hearts of all who cowered below.

His thin face was grim, and the large grey eyes that looked warily out at the gathering crowd were stony. The last exchange with his father had left no doubt in his mind what he was fit for, and the words had followed him down through all the seven circles of the city.

I do not oppose your will, sire, Faramir had said. Since you are robbed of Boromir, I will go and do what I can in his stead – if you command it.

I do so.

Denethor had not even looked him in the eye.

Then fare well! But if I should return, think better of me!

A pause, then:

That depends on the manner of your return.

A cold wind swept short tendrils of dark hair around his neck, and he shuddered. He was not riding to victory - the Riders of Rohan had not answered the call to arms, and Gondor's only hope lay in the remaining men defending the river and the fields of the Pelennor, far too few against the numbers of the enemy he had witnessed amassing at the Black Gate. His father had sent him to his death.

The wizard, the one whom all still called the grey pilgrim though he now wore white, had counselled Faramir not to throw his life away by blindly following his Denethor's orders. He was needed, Mithrandir had said, for other things than war.

But now Boromir had fallen surely it was his duty to fight, to lead, nothing else? And he was no coward - he would rouse his men, fight to the last breath to defend his home. Though he could not help wondering if he would feel much fear, much pain, before the end.

The silence of the crowd was enough to unsettle even the bravest of his men. But Faramir did not feel fear. He knew what he had to do, now he was resigned to it. Indeed a strange calm was upon him.

Some of his company had a flower or token held in their hand - gifts of love, of hope, from mothers, little brothers, wives, children. There was no one to weep for Faramir, no tokens of love or protection for him to clench in his fist. He held the reins of his horse tightly instead, fixing his eyes on the edge of the city, concentrating on the sound of his beloved Celtir's hooves, clip-clopping out a regular rhythm. But he could not ignore the cries from the guard as they neared the great gate. Steel and iron protested as the great doors opened, the dull screech unwelcome in the silence.