Faramir

Character Information:

Name: Faramir

Date of Birth/Age: TA 2983 (35)

Place of Birth: Minas Tirith, Gondor

Gender: Male

Race: Half-Human

Nationality and Current Home: Gondorian, currently based in the military camp in the ruins of Osgiliath

Occupation: Soldier and kennel-warden

Physical Appearance:
Faramir is a tall man, a man of Gondor, resembling the Captain General of Gondor (whom he serves), Boromir, in many ways. However, he is somewhat smaller in stature, with shoulders less broad, and lighter in coloring, gentler in voice and manners. He has the lean figure and strong arms of an archer of Men and a bearing and strange air of high, long forgotten nobility that contradicts his otherwise more ragged features. These features can appear proud and stern when relaxed or lost in thought, but never bitter. They are fierce when angered and glow with gentle warmth during moments of joy and happiness.

Owed to undoubtedly at least some amount of Númenórean blood, he seems younger than his years would suggest. The tiny wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and mouth are thin and few, caused by grief and laughter rather than age. No sign of grey or a thinning of hair can be seen in his beard, which he usually keeps short, but somewhat unkempt, a dirty shadow on tanned skin that appears fair, but drained of light and color in winter and a tanned washed-out gold in summer, with a dash of pale freckles under the eyes and over the nose. Somewhat shaggy and neglected at times his shoulder-length hair remains thick and can be described as either a dark shade of blond or a light shade of brown, with scattered coppery highlights.

He is missing the index finger of his left hand, cut off as a symbolic punishment for poaching, as well as parts of his ears, slit for thievery. Otherwise his wounds heal well and quickly, seldom leaving scars behind.

His keen eyes are of the very peculiar shade of blue and grey that the sky takes on whenever a storm draws near or begins to clear up, and in their depths they seem to hold an old wisdom and sadness uncommon among Men of this Age.

If given a choice he prefers simple, practical clothing that allows him to blend in with his surroundings and light armor to heavy plate. As a soldier he can often be seen wearing the same uniform as his brothers-in-arms, a simple tunic, hooded cloak and leather boots as well as the leather armor of Gondorian archers, embossed with the white tree of Minas Tirith. He does, however, cut a quite striking figure in finery, even if it makes him visibly nervous.

His weapon of choice is the longbow. He does, however, also carry an unnamed Gondorian longsword, and a hunting knife.

Abilities and Talents:
While perhaps not wise, Faramir can certainly be described as street-wise. He can barely write and can only read the letters that fascinate him in books and scrolls with much effort, but he knows how to easily read the hearts of others and understands the desires of both beast and men. Most languages he may never have learned, but intonation and non-verbal clues tell him much. He forgets names and faces easily, but remembers specific moments and statements in great detail. Guarding his Captain he watches their surroundings carefully and notices tiny changes and inconsistencies immediately. It is rumored that he can even see beyond, into the World of the Unseen, the world of spirits, thoughts and dreams.

Eloquent as he can be when he does speak, he struggles greatly with finding the right words when faced with sickness and death. Even Boromir he rarely visits whenever the other is committed into the care of healers. Few are the times when he himself had to battle illness, serious injuries or infections, far more often it seems that sickness passes him by and that what weakens others does not affect him. At the same time he seems more susceptible to a pain of a different kind. While the faces of the dead fade from his mind mercifully quickly, he never forgets the manner in which they died and how it felt when their light faded and all became quiet where they had once been. Often he seems restless, haunted and reluctant to sleep. The cold seems to consistently affect him more than others, fire and warm sunlight often do not suffice to keep him warm. He sleeps little and dreams dark, sometimes of terrors that will come to pass soon after.

His steps are quiet and his movements agile, his arm strong. Despite a missing finger his hands are still quick and his skills with bow and sword quite passable. He is a talented horseman and his loyal hounds follow him unquestioningly. Whether out in the wilds or the winding streets of a city he knows how to find his way. The maps he draws have proven useful in the past.

Swimming is something that he has never learned, while he is a hunter he is no cook or talented craftsman, and while he knows how to handle the one or other poison and patch up superficial wounds he is no healer. He likes music and his voice is pleasant, sometimes speaks words with poetry without meaning to or noticing, but he never learned how to sing or play any instrument. Dancing, too, does not seem among his talents. Though, he has never tried to find out and no real interest in doing so.

Like his hounds he is one thing first: a protector and guardian of others. This is where his talents lie, and his greatest weakness.

Personality:
The first detail that one will likely notice about Faramir is how quiet he is, how patient and decisive he seems, watching, waiting, always an eye on his Captain. Even though he is generally polite, something seems strange about him, as if he knew something, expected something, but refuses to speak of it. Sometimes he will leave in the middle of a conversation or the middle of the night, only to return a while later, having done something somewhere that others will learn off only much later when it proves vital, without any explanation. Such behavior has greatly disconcerted others in the past.

Otherwise he listens carefully and speaks little, seems almost reluctant to do so in front of strangers, distrustful, expecting to either be ignored or accused, like a stray that has been chased off one time too often. Despite this he enjoys the company of others and does neither like silence nor loneliness. He prefers to hear others speak or move about around him or in some distance, even if they do not speak to him or barely even notice him.

He hides his curiosity, but cannot suppress it completely. In the right company and among trusted friends he becomes more light-hearted and can be downright charming. His laughter is rare, but bright, his smile is warm, his touch gentle and his hug fierce. Whatever there is to learn he tries to learn, the foreign and strange do not repulse, but draw him. At the same time he can be stubborn, superstitious and does hold onto prejudices and old grudges far longer than most. The same holds true for friendships, loyalties and love. He is hard to convince, but once won even harder to lose.

Despite or perhaps because of having grown up among less inhibited and reputable folk, he has never been a criminal, a thief or cheat, and can be rather prude, blushes easily and does not truly know how to handle compliments or overly friendly and forward advances. He has never truly been in love and does not look for a partner or long for a family of his own. His duty, for the time being, seems enough to keep him contented.

Cleanliness, warm baths and pleasant scents are something that he enjoys, but has long given up all hope on. His daily life leaves little room for such frivolous pursuits. Similarly he has a great interest in books and scrolls, the lore and legends held within, but his reading skills are lacking and so far there has been too little time and opportunity for him to improve. When it comes to food he requires surprisingly little and is not picky, but prefers everything else over anything overly sweet. If it is offered he will gladly accept a pipe or strong drink. He can certainly hold his liquor, far better than most, but tends to also drink too much and too often entirely. By doing so he tries to forget the grim reality of his home and bloody occupation, to numb the silent, empty coldness that the ever present death around him and the looming shadow from the East make him feel. Being cold is something that he detests in general and though he will not admit it, he is afraid of deep water and the dark. Loss is not something that he handles well, despite many years of experience, and even killing an enemy as horrifying as an orc still fills him with dread and deepest regret, rather than a sense of victory. At the same time he fears the moment when it no longer will.

He does not enjoy battle, fights or competition for their own sake and has little interest in the pursuit of glory. He dislikes pointless confrontation and will try to avoid it. Lies and deceit are not something that he employs if he can help it, but will with surprising talent if it serves to prevent worse. Instead of lying, however, he is far more likely to avoid having to give a direct answer or remain quiet.

When truly angered and desperate he may show yet another side of him, resembling that of a growling, snarling beast, reckless, furious and ferocious. A methodical archer and talented tactician, cunning, swift and hardy, honorable, merciful and just, he is also fully capable of defending those that he loves with claws and teeth if need be. Yet, he is hard to anger and easy to calm.

When it comes to others he can be extraordinarily far-sighted, but at the same time utterly blind when it comes to his own well-being and achievements.

Life History (so far):
Here is a story, one you might not have heard, about the lady Finduilas of Gondor and the love that she found during dark times in a hidden place, and the child that she lost, not in labor, as they say, but in a silent alley, on the steps to the lowest circle of the White City.

Her husband had loved her and she loved him, there is no doubt, but in the fiery shadow of Mordor and so far from the gentle sea she grew weak and withered like seaweed on the harsh stone. He could not bear seeing her so. His efforts to defeat the enemy grew more and more desperate, took more and more of his own strength and the time that he had to spare.

She found a different light then, for a time. A stranger, a visitor, a traveller. He was no Man and knew little of her plight and relations. All he saw was dying beauty, lost and forgotten in a lonely garden. He cradled it gently, protected it from the shadow and the cold, nurtured it, once more made it bloom in all its glory. And then he left and never knew of the seed that he had sown.

She, too, forgot for a time, until it grew and moved under her heart. She could not know for sure and decided to lie if need be. No one knew of her secret, of the male who she had met and loved, who had not been her husband, who had not even been a Man. There was hope, for a time, until the child was born and it became clear to see that it did not belong to her husband, to her people, not even to herself if she wanted it to be happy and safe.

Lady Finduilas cried when she gently wrapped the little boy, the second son she had born, into warm blankets and put him into his brother’s arms to calm him one last time. Then she handed her precious bundle to a loyal friend, trusting him to take the child to his true father and his people who should still be near, camped outside the city walls.

He never reached the final gate. On the steps to the lowest circle of Minas Tirith he was attacked and fell, snapped his neck, clean through. The child did not cry and no one cared. Only a stray dog cautiously drew near eventually and when it pushed against Finduilas’ precious bundle with its snout the child within whimpered silently, reminding it, perhaps, of its own hidden litter. It took the child and carried it off. While it survived, Finduilas never learned of it and died, some say, of grief.

Life is hard on the streets of the lowest circle of Minas Tirith, especially without parents and a home. And while “son of a Khandrim whore” usually is considered as great an insult as “son of a stray bitch”, one man at least owes his life to both and has his very own reasons to laugh about it. Whether or not the woman who took Finduilas’ child on as her own truly was of Khandrim descent or only pretended to be, in order to appear more interesting, matters little. The stray dog certainly was a stray dog, but a gentle and clever one, quite liked by the humans whose house she had built her nest behind. For several days she must have taken care of her newest pup, when one of those humans found it and convinced her to give it up. Though, never entirely. For as long as she lived she watched the child closely and was never far from him.

The Queen of Khand, as she called herself, or Barathī, as a select few called her, watched the child less closely. However, she, who had never been able to bear children herself, made sure that he was cleaned and fed, like a human child should be, and as he grew up she taught him what she could and made sure that others taught him the rest. Often she would take him to the higher circle with her. There she had him wait in the hallways of the great citadel while she entertained her customers. Incidentally this was a spot where he would attract the attention of scribes and scholars rushing to and fro between the different wings of the extensive library. He was a quiet child, curious and polite, wide-eyed. It did not take long for the old librarian to take the young boy under his wing, allow him to help out here and there, teach him the very basics of written words, and for someone else, another boy, just a little older and better off, to find a friend in him. It was that boy, the Steward’s son, who gave him a name. One that was meant to sound much like his own: Faramir. It was him who introduced the quiet young one to the great wizard, Mithrandir, and who spoke for him for the longest time because Faramir did not dare to utter even single word in the presence of a being so mighty.

The two children, the Queen’s son and the Steward’s, lost sight of each other again all too soon. Yet, Faramir kept his name and treasured these memories. And, it seems, Boromir did not forget either. For when a young man, a poacher, thief and murderer, as the accusation stood, was about to be executed, Boromir recognized him and stepped in. He demanded answers and proof where they were lacking. His voice was the only one that defended the accused, and it was loud and angry. It won.

Faramir was no murderer, no poacher, not even a thief. He had known the victim, a local hunter, and found him dead near his house. They had argued the day before, because the hunter had refused to take an apprentice with such a questionable background, yet had been perfectly fine using his skills to ease his workload before. The true murderer was never caught and Boromir feared for his friend’s safety and future. He recognized his talent with the bow, valued his loyalty and willingness to learn, and when they came for their presumed murderer again Boromir named him one of his soldiers and his own responsibility.

Faramir trained hard to prove worthy of such trust and devoted himself to protecting Boromir and, subsequently, the people and country that his Captain lead and had sworn to defend. At first he was seen as an unwelcome addition among the other soldiers. His ears were marked as those of a thief, one of his fingers cut for the same reason, he had no parents or family to speak of, spoke little, behaved oddly at times, and eventually moved to sleep in the kennel, among the fierce hounds that he began to train for the Steward’s son.

Even Steward Denethor himself became suspicious of his son’s protégé and had him appear in front of him more than once. There the young man proved nearly as shrewd as the old regent, albeit gentler and more careful. He spoke little, but when he spoke he chose his words with care, and when he declared his love for Boromir and his wish to serve and protect him, Denethor had little doubt that he meant it.

While he and the Steward would always regard each other with mutual suspicion, Faramir soon made another, unlikely friend. A young hobbit, whom Mithrandir had expected to meet in Minas Tirith on urgent business regarding an ancient artifact that she had unearthed on one of her many adventures, but who had not appeared at the appointed time where she should. Reluctant at first, Faramir eventually agreed to find her, and he did find her in rather dangerous company, drinking in a shady inn. Worried that she might endanger herself he all but forced her to accompany him. Something that she did not take well and that he had to apologize for with many more drinks and unpleasant truths about his person. Drunk as they were, however, they began to forge a friendship that would enrage and puzzle many, even after they had long sobered up. The careful, stern and quiet Gondorian and the wild, joyful and mischievous hobbitess.

Oddberry remained special among many friends to come.

Over the years suspicion turned to respect, respect to camaraderie and friendship. Faramir became well liked among soldiers and servants, nobles and peasants alike. As did his brave war-hounds who were never far from him and saved many a life in battle and outside of it. Ever he remained at Boromir’s side. Even in looks they seemed to grow more similar over time. More than one mistook one for the other. Yet, never was there any jealousy or rivalry between them. To Faramir it did not seem possible that anyone could rival his Captain, and Boromir knew well his own worth.

They fought side by side during many battles and skirmishes, during the last of which they defended Osgiliath from an attack of superior forces from Mordor, lead by a Nazgûl. They fought hard to hold the Eastern part of the ancient city, but were forced to withdraw. They and only two others were the only survivors of those who held the last bridge over the Anduin. Realizing that the Eastern bank was lost, they collapsed the bridge and swam across the river to safety, thus holding and securing the Western part of Osgiliath for Gondor. While Faramir's arrows provided cover-fire until the last moment, Boromir later pulled the younger man, who was not only a terrible swimmer but truly afraid of deep water, ashore.

Still, Denethor all too well remembered a rival from his own youth, a commoner who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere, risen to general in his father’s army and stolen Ecthelion’s favor as well as the praise of their men. That man, too, had been a pupil of Mithrandir’s, back in the days. For these reasons and more the Steward forbid his son from taking Faramir along when he sent him and some men to Rivendell after a fateful dream.

Yet, his order was not heeded. Faramir’s seven hounds did not sleep in their kennel that night and an additional horse was missing from the stables.


Important Changes Compared to Canon:
- Faramir is not Denethor’s son and did not grow up as Boromir’s brother
- Accordingly his biography is somewhat different
- He lacks some of the known skills, talents and character traits
- Faramir accompanies Boromir to Imladris



General Information:

Writer: Rain

Avatar and Signature: Mostly my own. The avatar uses a hyper-modded ancient Skyrim custom character as basis + photoshop magic. Signature is a photo I took of some of my own stuff + photoshop magic.