The Knight Without A Sword

He stared at the cold slab of stone in front of him. Heard someone speaking solemnly. Saw people closing their eyes, tears, handkerchiefs being held to faces.
He stared at the white body lying on the black stone. The crackling of the little fire burning in front of the stone was loud, almost deafening. It was now burning fiercely with a rage that he himself felt welling up from within him. Why? Why did it have to end this way? He felt tears coming to his eyes, a deep sorrow overwhelming his senses. She was all he had, all he held dear in this forlorn world. And now she had been taken away. He let the tears come, slowly at first, then in an ever-flowing stream coursing down his cheeks, an outburst of misery. Summer was gone, winter had come. He fell to his knees – they were too weak to support the weight of their master and the burden he carried on his shoulders. He stared deep into the fire, and thought he saw the flicker in her eyes, the one he had loved so much. But there was nothing there – it was just his imagination, again. The last few days had passed in a blur of images, his mind playing tricks on his eyes. He saw her everywhere.
Somewhere in the far corners of his mind, he heard the solemn voice come to a stop. Felt strong arms pulling, lifting him to his feet. Felt a strong hand under his jaw, felt the hand turning his head, forcing him to look into the face of the one who had held him up.
“Faramir. It’s time.” There was a look of sympathy in his big brother’s eyes. He hadn’t realized the ceremony had come to an end. Hadn’t realized the fire had burnt down to glowing bits of coal and ashes.
Slowly, he took a step forward. Someone – he didn’t know who – placed a knife in his hands. It was a small knife, the hilt white all over but for a thin strip of black running around, encircling the handle of the knife. She had always loved that little knife.
Slowly, he bent down and knelt beside the fire, in front of the big black stone where her body laid. He was so close, his trousers nearly caught on fire, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore. With the tenderest of gestures, he reached out and pulled up a lock of her long hair with his fingers. The fire was still smouldering, glowing brick red, the fire within them had not died down yet, and he was kneeling so close, it made red welts, blisters, form on his arms, but he didn’t care. His love had been taken away, let his life be, too. He held up the knife, poised over the body. Slowly, he brought the knife down and sliced at the lock of hair he held in his other hand. It came away smoothly, and he dropped the knife to the floor, his eyes fixed on the lock of hair. He tied it with a bit of silk, folded the hair into a neat semi-circle, and placed it inside his shirt, right next to his heart. There was no other place it belonged more, than right there next to his broken heart. She herself was already a part of his heart.
Slowly, he rose to his feet, and bending over, brought his lips to hers. She was so cold. “Lairëan…” he spoke, his voice a hoarse whisper, broken by the hysterical shouts of despair and heart-broken tears that had followed her death.
Still staring at her, he placed his arms under her limp body and lifted her up from the black stone. He held her close, and walked away from the watching crowd of people. He felt a deep anger rising from within. These people did not care for her – they did not love her like he did. They should not be crying for her. They should not have even come.
He continued walking, cradling her in his arms, lost in his thoughts of long ago, and before long found himself standing beside a little stream. The trees stood tall around them, providing a sort of little hide-away in the woods. Everything had a sort of ethereal feel to them, almost as if they had stepped into a dream. This was her favourite place in the whole of Gondor. It was their place. They had spent many happy days here, hidden away from the rest of civilization. Lairëan had especially loved the waterfall drop that came after the stream. He walked to the very edge of the stream and put her body gently down on the grassy ground. He looked around, and saw an oddly-shaped tree trunk – it was shaped strangely like a boat. Strange, he thought. It was almost as if nature was bidding farewell to his love. He pulled the tree trunk over, and again, lifted her body up. He placed her into the hollow of the tree trunk. It was a perfect fit. He sat there for a long time, kneeling on one knee, just staring at her. He knew she would have wanted this. She had told him so before. The memory seemed so far away, almost like another dream.
He bent down, and lifted her head, bringing his lips to her forehead. Planted a tender kiss on her white head, her pale cheeks. Felt something inside him break. His heart, perhaps… He opened his mouth, whispered into her ears, “Goodbye, Lairëan… Goodbye, love. Wait for me. I will surely follow after you…”
Then slowly, he stood up, and pushed the tree trunk with her body in it to the water’s edge. He gave another push, and watched as the wooden boat glided gently on the water’s surface. He watched as the boat went down the stream, seeming to perform a last dance of nature as it twirled and rocked on the water’s rhythmic waves.
He watched until there was nothing left to see of the boat. Then he turned on his heels and ran, his legs pumping the ground, headed for the secret place that she had shown him so long ago. He finally reached a hill that gave way to a sudden drop into the sea. It was nothing more than a rocky edge, but it overlooked the sea, had a scenic view of the setting sun, and most importantly for him right now, he could see clearly the waterfall that she had loved so much. He waited for a while, wondering if perhaps he was too late. A feeling of despair threatened to overwhelm him. Then he saw a dark shadow floating into view. It was the little wooden boat. He stared as it went slowly over the waterfall, and disappeared into the depths of the sea below.
His emotions took over. A fresh stream of hot tears burst forth as he shouted with every last bit of remaining strength, “Lairëan!” The shout echoed all around, returning to him, ringing in his ears. It was as if a sword had been plunged right through his heart.
Perhaps it really took every last bit of his strength to shout, because suddenly everything whirled about him, the world went black, and he felt himself crumpling to the ground. He heard voices, familiar voices, but still he couldn’t, wouldn’t stir.
“Faramir, wake up.”
It was her voice. His eyes popped open, only to find his brother looking down at him. So, his mind was playing tricks on his ears now, too. Boromir peered closer, his face etched with concern. “Faramir?”
“How long has it been?” He found himself lying in a big bed, covered with warm blankets. Lamps had been lit, and the windows thrown open so that a cool breeze blew through the vast room. He was back in his own room. His voice was back to normal, too.
“Ten days,” his older brother answered. “We found you on a hill, unconscious. What were you doing there?”
Faramir looked away. “Saying goodbye.” He saw the pity on his brother’s face, and hated it. He deserved pity not. It was his fault she was dead. He had broken his promise. The promise he had made her when they were but little children. It was so clear, as if it had been but yesterday.

“I’m only going away for two days,” a ten-year old Faramir had said, excitement clear in his eyes. “Father’s bringing Brother and I to Ithilien.”
The look of sorrow on the seven-year old girl’s face had been painful to behold. But he had left anyway, and had returned two days later to chaos and disaster. An army of marauding Easterlings had attacked the little village where she had been staying, and not one person had been left alive. He had been frantic with panic, crying as he walked amongst the dead, approaching every small corpse on the scorched earth, turning them around to see if the dead body was that of his playmate’s. They couldn’t find her body for four days. His father had been furious with him and his endless pestering for the search to be intensified, his father had said there was no use, they were all dead, but he didn’t believe it, not one bit. Something in his little boy’s heart had told him to keep on searching. They found her by a little stream, sitting down beside it and staring deep into the waters. She was on the brink of starvation, her eyes large and lifeless, and she had not even noticed their arrival. But when she saw Faramir, she had wailed one word, which had burrowed itself into his memory from that moment onwards, “Fair!” He had run to her and enveloped her in a big bear hug. He had cried, begging her forgiveness for leaving her alone to this disaster, and saying all the time under his breath, “I’m never gonna leave your side. I’m never gonna leave your side again!” They had brought her back to Gondor, and they had grown up together, their childhood friendship blossoming into teenaged love, and finally culminating in an engagement.
He had loved her with his entire being, and she was the most precious thing in his young life. And to her, he was her hero. He was her everything, and no one could compare to her Fair, as she used to call him. Everyday, after lessons from the Gondorian elders, he would run across town to meet her. She lived in a little hut by herself, and everyday she would wait for his arrival. Then they would sit down by the little stream, or go to her secret hideout in the woods, or to the hill overlooking the sea, and they would talk about anything and everything, and simply enjoy each other’s company. She was the reason he woke up every morning, and she was the one who could put a smile on his face even on the darkest days when his father had scolded him. But things were not as smooth-sailing as he would have liked it to be. Lairëan was not beautiful, but there was just something about her that made most of the village boys harbour secret crushes on her. Many a time, Faramir had had to fight off other boys who thought they stood a chance with the enchanting Lairëan. For indeed, she was enchanting. She did not follow the standard Gondorian ideas of beauty, but her features came together to give her a beauty of a different kind. Indeed, during her late teen years, it was no rare thing to find young men hiding behind corners, staring at her. It used to drive Faramir up the wall, and she would laugh at him. For he need not have worried. The truth was, the village boys never stood a chance. Not then, not ever. Her Fair was all she ever needed, all she ever thought of. He was her fair Faramir. And in his eyes, she was the most beautiful creature to ever walk the face of the earth. He loved her wavy black hair, it reminded him of a cool summer’s night. And he loved her smile, it reminded him of music and rainbows. But most of all, he loved her gray eyes. They shone so when she stared at him – they reminded him of stars in a clear winter’s sky.

But all this was lost, lost in her death. He closed his eyes in anguish, held his bandaged hands over his face. He had sustained serious burns from kneeling so close to the fire, and he winced every time a muscle in his arms and hands moved. But he savoured the pain, it comforted him. The pain almost matched the longing he felt in his heart. Almost, but not quite.
He got up and dressed himself, then let his mind lead him to whatever path it chose. He found himself walking down the streets of Gondor. Found himself recalling times gone by. It tore through his heart whenever he thought of her, but he held on, he didn’t want to let her go. He didn’t want to forget a single thing about her. The memories of her made him cry, and he cried unabashedly, salty tears rolling down his cheeks as he stumbled through the streets. Frightened mothers pulled their children away from him and quickly rushed past him, taking the effort to avoid his path even if it meant a longer walk. He felt a drop of water land on his shoulder. He let out a laugh, not a happy one. So now he was the village madman, the madman of the city. The Steward’s son was a lunatic! He laughed some more. It was true, then, what he had been told. A man could lose his mind, living in the pain.
The rain started to pour. People rushed for shelter, but he did not. He did not care, nothing mattered anymore. He felt like a heart without a home, like a ship beneath the waves. He was like a knight without a sword – he was lost. The sky poured down on him, rivulets of rainwater running down his face, mixing with his tears. Misery engulfed him like a dark blanket. He fell to his knees and rested his head against the ground, pounded his fists against the gravel and stone. And in the middle of the Gondorian streets, the youngest son of the Steward of Gondor started to shout in pain, howling, his heart breaking with every memory of his dead love.

He lay in his bed, his eyes staring into space. He didn’t know how many days had passed – everyday felt like the same since she had gone away. His brother had come to talk to him, even his father, but no matter who came, there were still no words to describe how much he missed her. There was one day, when he had felt better, where he had gone back to that hill that overlooked the sea. He had sat there for hours, watching as the sun slowly went down. He had sat there, holding his knees close to his chest, and replayed the fateful day when Lairëan had died.

“The orcs are coming!”
“Sound the alarm!”
“Call forth the Gondorian knights!”
And the Gondorian knights had come forth, with the Captain Faramir at its helm. It had been a fierce battle, a battle they had not expected to win, and he definitely hadn’t been certain if he would return. Lairëan had been there, alongside the men, begging Faramir to let her ride with them.
“I can fight!” she had said. “You know I can fight!”
Faramir sighed. “I know you can fight, Lairëan. But my answer remains the same. You will not fight. You will stay here, with the women and the children, and lead them to safety if need be.” He leaned in closer, pulled her to his chest in a hug. “The men are going, Lairëan. All the men. If none of us returns, the women and the children will need a leader. You will be that leader.”
“I am no leader! I would be able to serve better on the battlefield than here!” She swung her arm around, gesturing at the crowd of fearful women and crying children.
He was silent. Gently, he lifted her head to meet his gaze. “Lairëan, you are my love, my life. I want you to be safe.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. Softly, so soft he could barely hear, she said, “I want you to be safe, too. I want you to come back.”
He smiled. “Remember, I made a promise to you. I gave you my word. I’m never going to leave your side, so whether you want me or not, I’ll be coming back for you.”
She had smiled then, and he had left with the other knights, all ablaze in their silver armour and sharpened swords. He had turned to look at her for one last time, had given her a grin and a wave, and she had smiled back, standing out amongst the other waving women like a rose amongst thorns. He had felt a sharp pang run through his heart, a shiver travel down his spine. Now, looking back at that memory, he chided himself for not heeding his gut feelings. They had never failed him before, had never lied to him, but he had been too occupied with thoughts of war strategies and battle to stop to think. He had dismissed those feelings as pre-battle anxiety, but now he knew, they were actually trying to tell him something else. They were trying to warn him.
It was in the midst of battle, and a certain Gondorian knight had caught his attention. He had been watching, in the midst of slaying orcs, and had admired the knight’s valour and courage. But something about the knight, something about his fighting style, was oddly familiar. The way he held his sword, the way he ran, and the way he moved – all strangely familiar. Then Faramir had seen his eyes, or rather, as he suddenly realized, her eyes, and he knew instantly it was no Gondorian knight. It was Lairëan! He marched towards her, determined to protect her, effectively immobilizing any orc that stepped into his path. Just as he was about to reach her, catastrophe struck. He was but a few feet away when a giant of an orc came charging at Lairëan, bore down on her, and brought down a heavy-looking axe upon her. She reeled under the impact, a spray of red-hot blood hitting his face. Everything seemed like a dream from then on. He remembered screaming her name, remembered running the last few feet between them and beheading the orc, and remembered catching Lairëan in his arms as she fell to the ground. Strange, how in those few crucial moments, not a single orc chose to kill him. He had removed her helmet, and black wavy hair tumbled to the ground. Indeed, it was his Lairëan. Her last moments were brief. Neither spoke much – they had reached a stage where words were unnecessary. They just gazed at each other, love in her eyes, tears in his.
“Why?” he mouthed the words, finding himself suddenly unable to speak.
“Because I love you,” she whispered. How long he sat there, holding her dead body, he did not know. All he knew was that he was now holding her, and he did not want to let her go. Around them, the battle raged on. He heard nothing, saw nothing, was aware of nothing. The knights fought hard, the orcs were killed, and finally Gondor was victorious. The survivors cheered hard and long, but he did not hear a single sound. All he could hear was the beating of his own heart. He leaned his head against her heart. He was never going to leave her side again. Not now, not ever.
The reality of her death only hit him hours later, when the knights had returned home, and his brother had come to bring him back.
“Faramir, it’s no use,” Boromir had said, putting a comforting hand on his shoulders. “She’s dead.”
Only then, did the world come rushing back, the call of the wind flooding his ears. His Lairëan was gone.
“NO!”
The sound of his screams did not even come close to matching that of his breaking heart.

Five years later saw him in an almost similar situation. Lying in a bed, staring into space, injured. Then something – his gut feelings – had told him to go down to the gardens. He was walking amongst the trees, contemplating the fate of Gondor and all of Middle-Earth, when suddenly he saw another person in the garden. But it was a she. For a while, he thought he was seeing Lairëan again, with her hair loose and her eyes gazing at the stars above. But then he blinked, and saw that this woman had golden hair, not black, and that her eyes were a sorrowful blue, unlike the joyous gray of Lairëan’s. He stared at this woman, the Shieldmaiden of Rohan. He had heard so much about her, how she had gone into battle, disguised as a man, and how she had slain the Witchking of Angmar. As he stared at her, he smiled. She reminded him so much of Lairëan – the way she stood, the way she moved, the way she stared defiantly into his eyes, not caring who he was. Not caring that he was a nobleman. Five long years had passed, and now, thoughts of Lairëan only made him smile. Memories of her brought no more pain. She had been so beautiful, and he thought he would never meet another who could make him smile again, the way he did when he was with her. He stared at the woman with the golden hair again, and he smiled. Perhaps he had thought wrong. Perhaps he would smile again, like he used to. He smiled yet again, mustered his courage, and started walking towards the fair maiden in front of him.
He knew. He felt something tugging at his heart. He walked some more until he stood directly in front of the maiden, close enough to hear her breathe. Her icy blue eyes continued to stare at him. There was no fear in them. Deep inside, he knew.
The knight had found his sword. He was home.

Completed Friday, 8th April 2005

Print Friendly, PDF & Email