"Osgliath was overrun," Faramir says, looking down into his wineglass. "A year ago we held it, and under my brother's leadership we kept it from being reclaimed. But that was merely a trial to test our numbers, and the Enemy retook it not long since, filling it with his forces to send on to the Pelennor. To attempt to retake it now was to walk into the heart of his army, poorly positioned, outnumbered by at least ten times what we could bring to bear, and likely more."
He lets out a long breath. "It was little more than a suicide mission, and all knew it--yet the Lord of the City ordered that it be done, despite all counsel. Only the day before he had bemoaned the fact that it was Boromir who died while I lived, and now he sent me to do what he believed Boromir could have done, though I would swear even my brother could not have retaken Osgiliath in such circumstances. And such was my love and loyalty that I would let him spend me thus, whatever the cost to myself. Despite knowing that even if I succeeded I had no guarantee of...anything, if I returned."
A brief, bitter smile crosses his mouth. If. He had managed to keep faith that the war might yet be won, but lost all hope he would live to see it, and most of his desire for it. His hand clenches harder around hers, though he does not realize it. To accept your own death is not the same as to long for it, but still it was a dark thing. "Being ordered needlessly to my death I might have forgiven, perhaps. But to take my men, to fling them like grains of sand at an ocean of horror...to see them look to me still with hope, with faith that I might yet claim some measure of victory from such impossible odds..."
Faramir closes his eyes, rubs them and his forehead. "If he had asked me to ride out alone, to face all the hordes of Mordor unclothed and with only a stick to defend myself with, I would have done it more willingly. As it was, Mithrandir counselled me not to throw my life away rashly or with bitterness, and to that I held. Osgiliath could not be taken, but yet I might hold the fords and the Anduin, and prevent the Enemy's movement that way. I did my best, and we made the Enemy pay, if not as dearly as I had hoped or my father expected. But there was no victory against such numbers, especially not when led by the Black Captain, who brought unfathomable fear with him. He it was who was our chief difficulty, for the despair he wielded was so great men would fall to their knees, or flee screaming, and so be lost. To keep them in some semblance of order that they might retreat became my task, and I remained behind until the last to do it."
Faramir shudders at that, for he remembers too well the Shadow swooping overhead, the screams of malice echoing in the night...Èowyn is not the only one who dreams dark dreams of the Witch-king of Angmar. He wonders sometimes if she truly realizes just how dread a creature she defeated, or how grievous was the damage he dealt before he was felled by her hand. Armies fled before the Black Captain, but not Èowyn of Rohan. He does not wonder that it cost her dear.
But that is a subject for another time, and Faramir is taking too long at this, delaying the main. He shrugs a little and reaches for his goblet again, taking a sip. "At some point I was hit by a dart, one marked with poison, though Lord Aragorn told me later it was days of fighting the Black Breath that did the greatest damage. At any rate I was brought back into the city unconscious and fevered, and then--" He breaks off abruptly, takes a breath. "I told you of it, I think. For near on a day my father sat by my side, saying nothing, giving no orders, waiting only to see if I lived or died. Then he regretted his actions, regretted the things he had and had not done. Only then, when I could not see or hear him, or know of it. The defense of the city he neglected, giving himself entirely over to despair. And despair took him indeed, despite all his iron will and sternness and strength."
1/2
He lets out a long breath. "It was little more than a suicide mission, and all knew it--yet the Lord of the City ordered that it be done, despite all counsel. Only the day before he had bemoaned the fact that it was Boromir who died while I lived, and now he sent me to do what he believed Boromir could have done, though I would swear even my brother could not have retaken Osgiliath in such circumstances. And such was my love and loyalty that I would let him spend me thus, whatever the cost to myself. Despite knowing that even if I succeeded I had no guarantee of...anything, if I returned."
A brief, bitter smile crosses his mouth. If. He had managed to keep faith that the war might yet be won, but lost all hope he would live to see it, and most of his desire for it. His hand clenches harder around hers, though he does not realize it. To accept your own death is not the same as to long for it, but still it was a dark thing. "Being ordered needlessly to my death I might have forgiven, perhaps. But to take my men, to fling them like grains of sand at an ocean of horror...to see them look to me still with hope, with faith that I might yet claim some measure of victory from such impossible odds..."
Faramir closes his eyes, rubs them and his forehead. "If he had asked me to ride out alone, to face all the hordes of Mordor unclothed and with only a stick to defend myself with, I would have done it more willingly. As it was, Mithrandir counselled me not to throw my life away rashly or with bitterness, and to that I held. Osgiliath could not be taken, but yet I might hold the fords and the Anduin, and prevent the Enemy's movement that way. I did my best, and we made the Enemy pay, if not as dearly as I had hoped or my father expected. But there was no victory against such numbers, especially not when led by the Black Captain, who brought unfathomable fear with him. He it was who was our chief difficulty, for the despair he wielded was so great men would fall to their knees, or flee screaming, and so be lost. To keep them in some semblance of order that they might retreat became my task, and I remained behind until the last to do it."
Faramir shudders at that, for he remembers too well the Shadow swooping overhead, the screams of malice echoing in the night...Èowyn is not the only one who dreams dark dreams of the Witch-king of Angmar. He wonders sometimes if she truly realizes just how dread a creature she defeated, or how grievous was the damage he dealt before he was felled by her hand. Armies fled before the Black Captain, but not Èowyn of Rohan. He does not wonder that it cost her dear.
But that is a subject for another time, and Faramir is taking too long at this, delaying the main. He shrugs a little and reaches for his goblet again, taking a sip. "At some point I was hit by a dart, one marked with poison, though Lord Aragorn told me later it was days of fighting the Black Breath that did the greatest damage. At any rate I was brought back into the city unconscious and fevered, and then--" He breaks off abruptly, takes a breath. "I told you of it, I think. For near on a day my father sat by my side, saying nothing, giving no orders, waiting only to see if I lived or died. Then he regretted his actions, regretted the things he had and had not done. Only then, when I could not see or hear him, or know of it. The defense of the city he neglected, giving himself entirely over to despair. And despair took him indeed, despite all his iron will and sternness and strength."