to his heart, the rumble rolled across his covers to echo off the walls
of this cave. He held his breath, listened again. Again it sounded.
Once. Twice. Three times. A mutter, a grumble, an indelicate snort
and all went still. Awake, Rangers were silent. Asleep they fell to
the level of other men. Faramir turned over, pulled the blanket high
on his shoulder, closed his eyes and allowed his dreams to take him.
This time Faramir sat up straight, blinking at the full moon streaming
in the window. Window? Where he remembered a bench, stood a chair,
shelves, a wall hanging. Where his mind wanted to place the table
which held maps he and Boromir studied together the times fortune
placed them both at Henneth-Annun, sat a carved chest, ornate, after
the fashion of the Haradrim. Spoils of war, Boromir called it when he
first dropped it in his chamber. Faramir feigned disinterest, but in
secret, while all slept, he took the time to trace the carvings, admire
the intricate patterns — nights like tonight when memory and time
converged, the sound rasping across his ears.
He yanked the quilt from the bed and wrapped it around him to sit by
the chest now. He mourned the loss of sleep. Night after night the
noise came, resisting his best efforts. Warm milk did not help.
Strong drink did not help. A passionate tryst did not help. Even
reading the long chronicle of the begats of the Kings of the West did
not help. Faramir pulled paper and ink from the desk beside, huddled
into his quilt, dipped the nib and wrote:
"Who knew so sonorous a noise would flow from so small a thing? The
memory and its reality fain chills my spine. We took our oaths.
Forever unto eternity we promised, but I did not think that night would
uncloak the price I had to pay. It's the trumpet of mumakil, the beat
of fell wings, the thud of Grond which haunts my dreams and drives me
from my bed. I would not that we were separated, my boon companion and
I. But whether my revelation shall be greeted with cold disdain or
compassion, in the morning, I must tell my fair one, that she really
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.