The Hobbit and Lord of the Rings one shots and Imagines Book II

Sacrifice - Faramir x Reader

She fought, not caring if she died. Slicing through orc after orc. Their black blood splattered across her face and armour. Her body already soaked with sweat, as it screamed at her; begged her to stop. To cease wielding the sword that was the only thing that was keeping her head on her shoulders, and her limbs attached. As she moved from one fight to another, the sound of steel on steel, and the dying cries of men and orc alike filling the air; she couldn't help but think that perhaps she should just lower her blade and let it all end. Afterall, she had lost the only thing......the only person that meant anything to her; so, why go on. It better to be with him in whatever afterlife there may be, than spend the rest of her days, in this world, alone. But no; the thought quickly shaken from her head once again, as she hit one orc with the hilt of her sword before turning to slice the belly of one that had tried to attack her from behind; then back to finish off the first. Its head plopping onto the bloody ground beneath her feet, as she sliced it from its neck.

If he had been there, he would have been right by her side......no, what he would actually have done was try to push her behind him every chance he got, so that he could protect her from anything and everything that dared to come through the gates of Minas Tirith. In fact, he would probably have tried to persuade her to hide away with the other woman and children. He would have told her that he could not lose her; that she was the only thing that he had, the only one that loved him, now that his brother had gone. But instead of being there; instead of giving her a reason to keep fighting, he had been sent on a fool's errand by the vile creature that dared to call himself, his father. Sent to ride with his men, across the Pelennor Fields in vain attempt to reclaim Osgiliath from the orcs that had invaded it. She only able to watch, from an upper level, as his lifeless body had been dragged back to the gates by his horse. His body pierced by two arrows. Her knees giving way beneath her, as she watched the guards carry him away on a stretcher towards the Tower Hall. A loud sob leaving her lips, as she knew that she would never get to see him again. As she realised that she would never get to touch him again. To place her lips to his, before his funerary pyre was lit.

Denethor hated her, as much as she hated him. The Steward spending many years doing his best to keep her and Faramir apart. In fact, as far as she could see, Denethor would do anything to keep his youngest son away from anything that made him happy. It as if seeing Faramir smile, laugh, was some kind of an afront; an insult that he would not stand for. Denethor always making out that Faramir was not good enough, that he was not as worthy as Boromir, because he would rather get lost in books, and listen to the tales that Gandalf had to tell, than be the so-called, true soldier, that Boromir was. So, ever since his youth, Faramir had done all he could to try and prove himself to his father; to show that he could be every inch the warrior that his older brother had been. The warrior that everyone else could see he was. Yet no matter what he did, it was never good enough; it would never be good enough. And now he was dead. The only man that she had ever loved, would ever love, had given his life to try and make his father see that he was as good a son, as Boromir.

Again, she spun around; an arrow skimming past her cheek as she moved. She was sure that it had cut her cheek. She was sure that she could feel her warm blood trickle down her face; but that didn't matter, it was not her first scar, and if she lasted the day, then it might not be her last. A roar coming from her lips, as her sword cut through more orc flesh; ignoring the sweat that now ran into her eyes and made it difficult for her to see. But she needn't see clearly to distinguish between orc and man, between friend and foe. A dagger pulled from her side, to join her sword. Both weapons now ending the worthless lives of the servant of the eye that sat, ever watching, atop the great black tower.

Suddenly, everything seemed to go quiet. The battle still raging around her, but now she could hear nothing. In fact, she could feel nothing. Not the cold, not the dull throb from the cut to her cheek. Not the pain that gripped her heart like a vice, because of Faramir's death; nothing. Her legs suddenly giving way beneath her, as she fell heavily to the ground. A gasp leaving her lips, as she saw the pool of crimson that began to surround her.