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1. The Return Home
The four horses raced swiftly along all through the day egged on by
their riders, slowing down only when the lengthening shadows of the
twilight impeded progress through the thickly wooded plain they were
traversing. All was silent around them, barring the rustle of leaves.
Bits of pale sunlight glinted through the trees, the only bright spots
in the gloomy forest, as the spent horses now trotted slowly through
thick undergrowth.
All four riders were grim faced, a reminder of the events of the past
day. The golden haired Elf leading the procession skilfully negotiated
his horse through the trees, his fellow travellers following; two dark
haired men and a Dwarf. It was the Dwarf who noticed his dark haired
companion’s trouble. He swiftly urged his steed forward, albeit
with a little difficulty, cursing the day he had left the safety of
the ground in favour of an equine repose, and caught up with the two
leaders.
“Aragorn,” he whispered slightly. Aragorn turned back to
face his friend, worry edging his eyes, the strain of the last few days
had taken its toll on him, as on all of them.
“What is it, Gimli?”
“We must stop for the night,” the Dwarf stated emphatically.
The Elf at the lead turned around frowning,” We still have a
long way to go,” he pointed out, “We must make up for lost
time.”
“Legolas, Faramir cannot go much further,” Gimli interrupted
him, “He is tiring, although he won’t say it.”
Aragorn turned around to see the fourth of his party, the younger man
had been bringing up the rear of the party and now with Gimli having
ridden up front he had fallen back a little more. He felt a little guilt
surge through his heart as Faramir looked up from his horse having suddenly
realised that he had fallen back, and urged his horse ahead a little.
“Gimli is right,” Legolas told him, “He should get
some rest. We have ridden hard all through the day, and most of last
night,” Legolas felt a slight shudder as the events of the last
night came rushing back to his mind. Faramir had caught up with them
by now, his face hooded and lowered as indeed it had been all through
the day.
“We are going to stop for the night,” Aragorn told him.
“There is a clearing a little way ahead,” Legolas added.
Faramir jerked his head up the hood still shadowing his face and replied
to his King, “But my lord, we must move on.”
“No,” Legolas stated blandly, “No sense moving on
now, it is getting darker, and I will not let this beautiful horse injure
herself in this dense growth.”
Faramir opened his mouth to protest, but Aragorn spoke before him,
“Yes, Legolas, and some of us are tired too,” he said mildly.
They had slept for barely two hours the night before.
Faramir shrugged. Part of him was glad to get a rest, he could barely
hang on to his horse, the other part just wanted to get out of this
accursed forest, into the light, warm sunlight, but then he reminded
himself it was evening, and realised he’d almost fallen off to
sleep. The concentration he’d maintained all day long was slipping
off, and an immense weariness was washing itself over him. He had had
next to no sleep last night, what little he had had been plagued by
nightmares, the same old ones and a terrible new one that he knew would
never leave him again. He immediately blocked the thought out of his
mind. He pushed his hood off, and ran a hand through his hair tiredly,
nodding at his companions.
Gimli smiled to himself from behind him. He’d been watching him
for a while and had noticed the tired stoop of the shoulders. More than
once he had thought that his new friend might slip off his horse.
Aragorn took in the face of his young Steward as it turned towards
him. He’d expected to see a sense of betrayal in the grey eyes,
or anger or disappointment. But what he got to see instead was shame
and a sense of failure. And pain. But it was only for an instant, then
the face dropped again.
The clearing was not far, and they reached it very soon. Legolas jumped
lithely off his horse, glad that his injuries from yesterday’s
ordeal were healing normally. He shook his head slightly trying not
to think of it, of how inadequate and helpless he’d felt all the
while. He noticed Faramir dismount slowly, unsteadily, refusing Aragorn’s
proffered arm, and the feeling intensified. Aragorn had caught Faramir
by the arm by now, and was helping him sit down against a tree. This
time the help wasn’t brushed away. The hood of the cloak stayed
on and the head sunk slightly to the chest. The Steward looked so spent
that it sent another rush of guilt running through the Elf.
Gimli was setting about gathering firewood while Aragorn checked the
supplies, and Legolas tethered their horses talking quietly to the creatures
in Elvish soothing them after their hectic and tiring day. Faramir raised
his head and then stood up, a little too quickly, swaying slightly as
he did so. The Dwarf’s strong arm came up to support him as he
leaned back against the tree, and shut his eyes to stop the world revolving
in front of him.
“And what do you think you are doing?” Gimli asked the
man.
“I’ll help you gather firewood,” the reply was soft.
Gimli shook his head intending to refuse help but Faramir brushed past,
and began to gather dry wood. A warm fire was blazing away soon, and
the travellers began to revel in its warmth as they ate a meal of bread
and fruits around it, the dancing flames hypnotically calming them,
and taking their cares away, all except one. Faramir picked at the meagre
meal and then gave up entirely after going through a single chunk of
bread and a few pieces of fruit. He was leaning against a tree, willing
himself not to sleep; he couldn’t face his dreams again. Silence
reigned except the sound of the fire, and a brook nearby where they
had gotten water.
Aragorn sighed as he looked at the young man’s hooded face. The
face that looked so much like his brother’s. And Aragorn had been
powerless to save Boromir from death. He himself had healed Faramir
though, after the siege of Gondor, so that it hurt him even more to
watch him like this. The ordeal yesterday had only worsened his bleak
mood, which had been festering for a few weeks now.
Ever since the Lady Eowyn had left Gondor, Faramir had slipped into
a quiet kind of moroseness. He had looked intensely lonely, and it was
not difficult to figure out that he missed his brother and father. He
spoke little, and shunned company, even that of Mithrandir. The King’s
servants had watched the young man grow up, and were only too ready
to comment on his change. He slept little, they said, spending most
of his time on the balcony of his room watching the stars. He did not
even visit the library, his old favourite haunt; the books there were
beginning to gather dust, and he never stepped near the place where
his father had burnt himself and almost taken him along. While the fellowship
looked upon him as a friend and brother, and he reciprocated the feeling,
they could not replace in his heart his only brother Boromir, who had
died during the fellowship’s journey. Or his father, whom he had
loved unrequited. The details of his father’s suicide had been
a hard blow. With Eowyn at his side he had coped, he had laid aside
the unhappy thoughts and held her hand, looked at her face, and had
loved and felt loved in return. Without her, he felt all the pain he
had left buried deep inside come rushing back.
It was this behaviour that had prompted Gandalf to advise Aragorn to
let Faramir come along on this trip. Aragorn had been loathe for both
him and Faramir to be absent at the same time, but had followed Gandalf’s
advice that the young Steward needed a change of atmosphere. If anyone
should stay back, Aragorn should, he was King of the realm. But Aragorn
found the city stifling too, and had wanted one trip out into the wilderness,
albeit a very short one. Gondor was left in the hands of Prince Imrahil
and Mithrandir. And the four had set off on their journey towards a
small valley not far from the mountains surrounding Mordor where a few
small settlements had been formed by some of the slaves from Mordor.
It had been an enjoyable journey, Legolas and Gimli having accompanied
their friend without hesitation. They both liked Faramir, and all three
wished strongly that they had saved his brother’s life. Faramir
too had perked up considerably once away from the city which now held
such unhappy memories for him. They had reached the settlement in time
and found everything to their satisfaction, the settlers too happy that
the King and Steward both cared enough to visit them in person. It was
on the way back that everything had gone wrong, and Aragorn was now
compelled to berate himself. As King his duty was to look after his
subjects and now one of those subjects had been hurt terribly and he
had not been able to prevent it.
“He should sleep,” Legolas said softly inclining his head
in the same direction.
Aragorn nodded, and picking up a small kettle of hot water, crushed
some herbs in it. He poured some of the resultant tea into a bowl, and
walking over to Faramir, lightly touched him on the shoulder. Faramir
jerked up and shied away, the hood fell back and revealed a terrified
face that relaxed after seeing that it was only Aragorn. The firelight
played on the strained expression of his face creating shadows that
added to the strangely hunted look he had displayed all day.
“My lord.” The eyes strayed downwards again.
“Drink this, and then I will see to your injuries,” Aragorn
put an arm around his shoulder, wishing Faramir would stop being so
formal but knowing that would not happen right now.
Faramir stared at the bowl, the brownish liquid looked totally unappetizing,
and cast a wary eye at his King, “What is it?”
“It’ll help reduce the pain,” Aragorn said soothingly.
“It’ll put me to sleep,” Faramir stated flatly.
Aragorn sighed, “That too.”
“Will you wake me up for my watch?”
Gimli looked up from his dinner plate with a frown, while Legolas raised
his eyebrows. Aragorn however simply nodded. He had no intention of
doing any such thing but if saying so would get Faramir to drink up
the tea, then he would say so. Besides, the brew was so potent he’d
sleep deep for the next few hours.
Faramir drunk up the brew, and then hugged his cloak tighter around
him. Aragorn reached out to remove it, “I need to tend to your
wounds,” he said patiently.
The younger man’s breathing became a little ragged, as the cloak
was gently removed off his shoulders, and he was pushed onto the ground.
Legolas bunched up the cloak, and Aragorn gently lowered him onto the
makeshift pillow. He had screwed his eyes shut tight. But the moment
Aragorn hand brushed against his torn shirt to remove it, the grey eyes
flew open in terror.
“No!”
“Sshh…” Legolas said softly holding him back, “It’s
only us.”
“I’m sorry,” it came out soft, almost sobbing. Gimli
brought some hot water for Aragorn to use, and then helped him undress
Faramir.
Faramir had shut his eyes tight again, trying not to flinch every time
someone’s hands touched his bare skin. He kept reminding himself
these were his friends, but even then he could not hold back a small
whimper when his clothes had been taken off, as the memories of the
day before assaulted him. Tears of shame coursed down his cheeks; he
felt like a coward, but could do little. Aragorn heaved a sigh of relief
when the brew finally took effect sending his patient into a deep slumber.
He wished he’d given him some last night; the nightmares had woken
them all up, and he knew the Steward hadn’t gone back to sleep
after that.
The wounds had been tended to the night before, so all Aragorn had
to do was reapply some salve, and reassure himself that they were healing.
He pressed his lips tight at the sight of the livid bruises and marks.
But, it was nothing compared to the mental and emotional anguish inflicted.
They worked rapidly, and then redressed Faramir, covering him with
thick blankets to ward off the growing chill. Aragorn checked on Legolas’
injuries, satisfying himself that they were healing and then the three
friends sat around the fire for a while dividing up the watch.
Legolas looked at the sleeping figure and said sadly, “That is
twice I have failed him.”
“We,” growled Gimli.
“It’s not your fault,” Aragorn told the Elf, “If
we had come sooner…”
“But you came soon enough to get us out alive,” Legolas
said, “ I was there. I should have done something.”
“You still haven’t told us how you got captured by those
bandits,” Aragorn said. There had been little time to swap stories
yesterday, they had been in too much of a hurry.
Their company had split in two near a small but dense wood on the way
home the morning before, since on awakening, they had noticed the presence
of strangers not far from their camp. At the same time, they had spotted
other tracks in an opposite direction, and had therefore split up to
investigate. Peace was still a fragile commodity in the middle earth.
Legolas began to describe how Faramir and he had left their horses
in camp and headed towards the strangers’ camp.
A scream cut off his voice mid-sentence.
2. An Ill-fated Encounter
The brew had not been that potent after all. It was understandable,
Aragorn felt, frustrated. After all it needed to simmer in hot water
for long to take real effect. Faramir was now shivering, and delirious.
Every now and then he mumbled something unintelligible, interspersed
with cries for his father or brother. And with each cry he intensified
his struggle against the hands holding him down, pushing away the blankets
exposing him to the chill.
Aragorn laid a palm against his forehead, frowning as he felt the heat
radiate from the now pale skin. More cries ensued. Pleas for a father
who would never return came out of the feverishly moving lips. Over
and over again, Faramir screamed for his father, and then screamed for
Boromir telling him he couldn’t see his father.
It took Legolas and Gimli all their strength to hold down the writhing
fever racked body of their friend as Aragorn went through their depleting
supply of herbs, until he found what he wanted. More water was boiled,
all the while the cries resounding through the tiny clearing.
Boromir, help me please… Boromir…
Father…
Gimli had grabbed a wet rag and was trying to wipe the hot face with
it. They had tried to wake him up, but the brew had worked enough to
leave him at least half asleep.
Aragorn waited till the water had heated enough and then quickly prepared
an infusion. Filling the bowl again, he knelt down next to the Steward
and taking his head in his lap tried to get him to ingest it. Most of
the liquid trickled down the neck onto the chest, causing more whimpers
for it was hot. Finally a sufficient amount taken in, Faramir slipped
back into quiet slumber.
“Now tell us… after we split up what happened?” Aragorn
asked Legolas. Faramir had been moved closer to the fire, still wrapped
in blanket and their cloaks. The three friends sat near him, watching
him sleep.
Legolas closed his eyes and leaning back against a fallen stump, began
reciting his tale in a grim tone.
The parties having separated, Faramir and Legolas began to walk silently
along the track left by the strangers. They had reached their camp soon,
and were watching them from behind a few bushes atop a small hill above
the camp to see whether they looked harmful or not. Faramir had even
then been intensely quiet, saying little.
It was a small party barely three men, who had obviously spent much
of their time outside. They were large and thickset, and spoke a much
coarser version of common tongue than Legolas had ever heard. What happened
next had been completely unexpected. One of the men aimed an arrow wildly
into the forest as if to test his bow, sending up flocks of birds rising
and small animals scurrying. The next thing the two friends realised
was a group of rabbits racing through their feet. They had jerked up,
Faramir had lost his balance, and even Legolas’ quick reflex action
and outstretched arm couldn’t stop his fall. He rolled over numerous
thorny bushes, a few large sized rocks, and landed literally at the
feet of the men below, winded, bruised and scratched.
The leader of the pack, for he seemed such, pulled him up.
“What have we here now?” he asked leerily, shaking the
ranger roughly.
Faramir was still recovering his breath, when the leader looking up
spotted Legolas darting through the trees above, and yelled at his men
to follow him. Legolas had stayed his ground having no intention of
leaving the man there, and had fought skilfully but size had won out
eventually, as three men attacked simultaneously.
“An Elf!” the leader shouted.
Elf and man, both captured, stood proudly in front of the leader who
now held a wicked looking dagger in his hands.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Faramir demanded, angered
by the treatment meted out to them.
“Haldorn at your service,” the man gave a mock bow, and
continued, “and my men, Dorgon, Faldor and Taldor.”
“What we want, are your belongings, everything you have,”
he said continuing to smile horribly.
“We have few belongings,” Faramir growled.
“Ah, but you will in your camp. Where is it?”
Faramir glared silently.
“Elf, where is this here camp?”
Legolas remained silent too.
“They are from Gondor,” Dorgon said, “ I recognise
the clothes.”
“Who are you?” Faramir growled hoping to distract attention
from Gondor. No one must know who they really were.
“We are just poor wayfarers,” Haldorn’s voice still
held the mocking influence. His clothes were new as though recently
brought, and a huge ring glinted off one finger.
Bandits…Legolas hissed softly, almost imperceptibly.
They knew of them, small groups of men who travelled about making life
troublesome for other travellers.
“What do we do with them?” Faldor asked, “After we
find their camp.”
“Hold them for ransom,” Haldorn announced triumphantly.
With that he swung a bunched fist at Faramir’s stomach taking
him by surprise and sending him down on his knees gasping in pain. Faldor
had grabbed Legolas meanwhile and was twisting his arm behind his back.
“Elf, where is your camp?” Haldorn kicked Faramir in his
chest, and then repeated his action twice. He had continued the kicking
for a few more minutes, and then tiring of this had had them bound up,
while he and his men ate their lunch.
Faramir lay slumped against the Elf prince trying to get back his breath,
ignoring the stabbing pains emanating from all over his protesting body.
“Strength, my friend, be strong,” Legolas whispered. He
was angry with himself, as he could see now way out of their predicament.
The ropes were tied too tight, and he had little idea how Aragorn and
Gimli may be faring. Faramir nodded listlessly.
After the bandits had eaten, they resumed their game, trying this time
to hit Legolas so Faramir would answer. It did not work. Legolas endured
the beating stoically. Faramir felt as though each kick and slap was
being inflicted on him, but managed to stay silent.
He himself received a few more beatings. By now it had become obvious
that the beatings were more for the sake of beating and less for knowledge
of their camp.
Through a hazed mind Faramir realized that a pungent odour floated
in the air. He remembered the drink he’d seen them imbibe with
their meals, a local ale that worked strongly and swiftly. Haldorn was
shouting now, and Taldor was whipping him with a belt from his tunic,
while Faldor kicked him over and over again. Dorgon was doing the same
to Legolas, with ferocity, having heard tales of their “powers”,
and finding little resistance due to the circumstances.
“Enough!” Haldorn shouted suddenly. His men halted confused.
Haldorn leered down at them, “If we do not get their money, we
can still get something else…”
His men waited.
“It is long since I bedded a woman,” Haldorn said slowly,
“Not since we entered the forest land.” He licked his lips
in anticipation, and both Elf and man froze at his tone even before
they had registered his words.
“The Elf?” Dorgon asked warily.
“No, no. Elves have powers,” Faldor whined.
Legolas tried to move as Dorgon was distracted but the ill-treatment
had made his movements sluggish. Haldorn had grabbed a rock and aimed
it at his head. It struck sending the Elf down.
Faramir yelled when he saw his friend fall, and tried getting up. Instead
he was pulled roughly up by Haldorn, who grabbed his tunic with one
hand and slapped him across his face with the other. The sharp slap
dazed Faramir, as he remembered the hard hand of another man, a frequent
occurrence in his younger days. The sudden reminder of Denethor distracted
him so much that it took him some while to realize that Haldorn’s
smirking face was very close to his. His cracked lips leered out at
him as they came down on his mouth.
He jerked violently back reflexively crying out, angering Haldorn.
A punch to his stomach ensued. The cry penetrated Legolas’ dazed
mind, and he raised himself up as much as his bound hands would allow,
“No…” he croaked out.
Dorgon pushed him down and held him there.
“You hold him there, Dorgon, your turn will come,” Haldorn
cackled, as he once again pulled the ranger up, this time tearing at
his tunic, and dragged him away behind a tree.
The sound of sharp slaps followed, the whooshes of a belt through the
air, and the cries of the Steward rented through. Legolas wriggled frustrated
enduring more kicks from Dorgon. The sound of clothing being ripped
numbed his mind, as he heard the horrified protests of his friend filter
through. Legolas shouted and with a burst of energy kicked out at Dorgon
screaming madly. Faldor raced up and delivered a kick to his head. The
last thing Legolas heard before blacking out was the sound of new voices
shouting. Aragorn and Gimli… he thought before darkness enveloped
him.
3. Help at Hand
The fire was dying down, leaving glowing embers and ash as night fell
dark, and brooding over the little clearing. The three grim faced figures
sat talking and listening, every now and then casting an eye on their
resting companion, and ensuring that he remained comfortable.
Once Legolas finished his narration, Gimli rose, and bringing another
handful of wood fed it to the fire. Eager flames rapidly devoured the
dry wood, and a fresh cackling sound was the only noise to interrupt
the stillness of the night. Aragorn checked on Faramir again, frowning
when he realised that his friend was still flush with fever. But he
seemed to be sleeping comfortably now.
“How did you find us?” Legolas asked after he had finished.
“We followed the tracks into the woods, but it was just a travelling
party on its way to Rohan,” Gimli said slowly, “They told
us they had narrowly escaped an attack by a group of bandits. Their
directions pointed the way you had set out, so we followed as soon as
we could.”
It was not a moment too soon, as they had realised. When they reached
the hill Legolas and Faramir had used as a look-out point, they had
heard shouts, and then the terrified yells from Faramir. A quick glance
had shown Legolas being held prisoner, but no sign of Faramir, although
he could be heard.
They raced down taking the three men by surprise, but not quick enough
to save Legolas from being knocked out. Gimli raised the wooden end
of his axe and brought it down on the head of the man who had hurt his
friend, while Aragorn drew out his sword, and defended himself from
Dorgon who had also pulled out a blade. Dorgon was no warrior though,
his strategy had always been to attack the weak and defenceless, and
was knocked out almost immediately. Taldor faced the same fate.
Gimli meanwhile had followed his ears, the shouts came from behind
a tree. Haldorn had ripped open Faramir’s shirt, and had meted
out the same treatment to his leggings while his mouth covered Faramir’s
choking off the shouts. Haldorn stood up and pulled down his leggings
turning the Steward over, oblivious to his weakened flailing, giving
him more kicks as he did so, rendering him nearly unconscious.
Gimli burst onto the scene just as Haldorn grabbed his barely conscious
prisoner roughly by the shoulders, and threw himself on him.
Faramir lay on the ground, hands still bound together, covered in welts
and whip marks from Haldorn’s huge leather belt, some of the marks
bleeding where the tiny metal beads on it had come in contact with the
skin. The enraged Dwarf took in the scene instantly, and promptly attacked
Haldorn just as the bandit threw himself onto the hapless man.
Haldorn turned around in surprise and fury, amazed to see a Dwarf.
“So many creatures in these woods…” he smirked, as
he defended himself against the Dwarf.
Aragorn meanwhile was untying Legolas and helping him up. He had regained
his senses now, and was trying to stand up. “Go help Faramir,
Haldorn… the man will hurt him… “
Aragorn continued to support Legolas however and the two made their
way over to the clump of trees where Gimli had managed to gain the upper
hand in his fight with Haldorn. He now threw all his energy and fury
into the onslaught, and dashed the man against a huge rock nearby, rendering
him unconscious.
Aragorn was untying Faramir, who lay bleeding and bruised, his clothes
bunched around his bare body, shivering as a chilly wind suddenly rose
up across the forest. His breathing was raspy, and in his semi-conscious
state he seemed to be half-sobbing, half shouting.
“Boromir, help me…” the wail stunned the three friends
into silence as the memory of the dead man returned to them forcefully,
brought out in the agony and trauma of his brother.
“Sshh, I am here, my friend,” Aragorn soothed him as though
speaking to a child, which was how the much younger Steward felt to
him right now, as he lay trembling on the ground. He held out his hands
to gather him up, and Faramir, who had opened his eyes now, saw dark
hair and grey eyes, and sobbed incoherently once more, thinking it was
his brother in front of him, and everything had been a bad dream.
Then the haze faded and he saw his King’s face, confusion riddled
his own visage. He was lying on the cold earth, a wind blowing around
him, stinging his flesh, he looked at himself, realizing his clothes
were no longer covering him, and then remembered what had happened barely
minutes before. Terror struck his eyes, and he gasped, trying to move
away from the figures around him. His leggings wrapped around his ankles
prevented him from getting very far, and he tripped and fell on the
ground hard.
“It is alright,” Aragorn repeated softly, “It is
I, Aragorn. No harm has befallen you, and no harm ever will, I would
not let that happen. I promise you, I would not let that happen.”
He reached out for the man once again, worry crossing his face as Faramir,
edged away some more, eyes frantic with fear and burning with what looked
like shame.
“I am sorry, my friend,” Legolas knelt by Faramir, who
had gathered up his clothes, and covered himself with them, embarrassment
writ large on his fearful features.
Faramir stared up in surprise at Legolas and then dropped his eyes
almost immediately, ashamed to look up at the brave warriors who had
fought in the war of the ring while he lay in the Gondor. He had done
nothing, while these men had fought the enemy and triumphed. And now,
he had let himself be captured by slipping down that hill, got Legolas
captured and beaten, and now he had been found in this humiliating position.
He dreaded to think what might have happened, he had escaped by a proverbial
hair’s breadth.
The dull colour of shame filled his cheeks, and his bare shoulders,
“I am sorry, Legolas, it was my fault.”
The Elf gaped, and Faramir, his eyes on the ground taking silence for
concurrence continued, “I slipped and we were captured, I’m
sorry I could not stop them beating you.”
Gimli and Aragorn stared at each other, while Legolas coming out of
his shocked stupor swiftly went up to Faramir, whose shoulders were
now heaving. He was angrily trying to wipe his tears as the events of
the last few minutes registered in his mind. That man… he had
kissed him…he had tried… Faramir could not even bear to
think of it… he could still smell the reek from the man’s
breath, and feel his hands as he had felt him up, while undressing him,
the leery smile adorning his face stayed imprinted in his mind.
He had done nothing, he … the son of the Steward of Gondor, now
himself a Steward, he had done nothing, he did not deserve to be Steward,
he did not deserve to call himself a soldier.
His father was right, he was not like Boromir, brave and valiant, he
was a coward… Gondor would never have been safe in his weak hands…
Someone was touching him, touching his skin, he jerked up, intending
to fight out this time, but instead a warm embrace enveloped him, “I
am sorry my friend. I could not help you when you needed my help.”
Legolas’ eyes filled up as he saw how distressed his friend was.
“No…” Faramir continued weakly, wincing as the rough
cloth of the Elf’s jerkin brushed his raw wounds, “My fault,
all mine, you are hurt, my fault… mine… I am sorry, my fault…”
the words came out soft and raspy, accompanied with half sobs, half
gasps.
“Sshh… It will be alright, do not worry, I am not hurt,
it is not your fault,” Legolas spoke softly, soothingly. Aragorn
picked up Faramir’s discarded cloak and wrapped it around the
trembling man’s heaving shoulders, as Legolas continued to speak
to him. Gimli gathered up their fallen weapons.
Faramir finally straightened up, shrugging off Legolas’ help.
He adjusted his clothes and his cloak, grimacing at the torn condition
of his tunic, his mind still in a fog. The thought of Haldorn pressing
him down to the ground made him feel like throwing up, and when he finally
stood up slowly, he fainted.
The Elf caught him as he sagged down, noting the state of his back
and chest, where the welts were still bleeding. Gimli came forward and
took the man in his arms; Legolas needed to take care of his own injuries.
They left the bandits as they were; knowing they could not do much
while they were in these forests. Their injuries would not let them
move much for now, and Aragorn intended to send out a patrol to capture
them on his return. They walked back to camp as quickly as possible,
they needed to get back to the White City soon, the King could not stay
away so many days, when his subjects needed him.
On the other hand one of his subjects needed him now. Faramir lay in
Gimli’s arms, his head falling back, and Aragorn was reminded
of the day he had found Boromir dying from Orc arrows. He had decided
that he would look on Faramir as a brother.
When they reached the camp, it was already dusk, the shadows were lengthening.
Their horses neighed first in pleasure and then in anxiety, aware that
something had happened as the tension from the men radiated through
to the sensitive creatures. Legolas moved over to calm them down, and
see that they had eaten enough and had enough water.
Gimli lay the silent figure down on the grass in their camp, and as
he did so, Aragorn felt the guilt stab his heart as he looked at the
wounds inflicted on the man. He tended to Legolas’ wounds first,
while Gimli made the fallen man comfortable on the soft grass of the
clearing and covered him in blankets. He was glad to see that Legolas’
wounds were not big ones, the Elf himself was confident they would heal
on their own and soon, as they did for elves.
They had then worked on the sleeping man, cleaning out and dressing
the wounds, grimacing at how deep some of the welts were; the metal
pieces on Haldorn’s belt had actually been small spikes. Grime
and dust had entered the cuts, and cleaning them thoroughly had been
necessary. Faramir had awoken midway, and lashed out at first, before
realizing he was not in danger.
He said nothing; simply letting them work, closing his eyes and not
looking at any of them directly, ashamed at his cowardice. But to his
friends it felt as though he felt betrayed, and they berated their inaction.
Gimli had prepared some food, a meagre soup from some roots he had
found, and bread from their depleting supplies. Faramir had refused
at first, but the other three would not allow it. Aragorn had forced
him to have the soup, and he had finally taken it. To his surprise it
stayed down.
“Sleep now,” Aragorn had said after he had drunk the soup,
but refused the bread, “for we must leave early.”
“We are behind, are we not?” Faramir had asked. He knew
why.
“Yes, and we must make up for it tomorrow, but only if you feel
well enough.” Aragorn told him as he took the empty bowl from
him. He could see pain reflected in the young man’s eyes, although
he himself was trying his best to mask it. Even the slightest movement
extracted a wince, albeit a tiny one, for Faramir would not own up to
the pain. But it was obvious to the watchers that he was in considerable
pain, as the lashing and beating took its toll on him in addition to
the mental fatigue caused by events long before that day’s.
“I am fine, my lord,” Faramir said anxiously, his eyes
on his hands.
“No, you will not be fine till you have had enough sleep, we
will not have you falling off your horse,” Legolas added.
They had watched him fall asleep, and when satisfied that he was resting,
the three friends lay down and let sleep claim them with her usual soothing
calming effect, until the cries had woken them up.
4. Bravery and Valour
Faramir had obviously been in the grip of a very violent nightmare
the night before. His screams had woken everyone up. He had yelled over
and over for his brother, and even when the three friends tried to comfort
him, he would not be satisfied. His brother was all he asked for, over
and over and over again. He screamed each time he was touched, and lashed
out violently, the blankets were thrown off, the cloak lay in disarray
and through the ripped shirt it could clearly be seen that some of the
healing wounds on his chest were now bleeding again as Faramir twisted
and turned and thrashed violently on the hard ground.
When he had finally woken up his eyes held the look of a scared rabbit
caught in a trap, his breathing came hitched and in short gasps, and
silvery tears flowed down his pale cheeks.
“Faramir, it is alright, you are safe,” Aragorn whispered
quietly, helping up the younger man, and holding onto him despite his
struggles to break away. Harsh sobs racked his friend’s fame as
Aragorn held the trembling body, the mind still hovering over past events
not yet willing to enter the present. Finally, however, the soft and
quiet words managed to calm down the Steward, enough to make him move
out of his King’s embrace and speak.
“I am sorry I woke you,” he had said quietly, wiping at
his tearing eyes furiously. The gentle words of unnecessary apology
had struck his companions greatly.
They had returned to sleep after that, after comforting their friend
as much as he would allow them. He would shy away from touch, but let
them cover him up and talk to him gently. But, he did not sleep after
that.
The others got a few hours’ rest, then they set off, driving
the horses hard. Legolas had suggested he ride with one of them but
Faramir had said he’d manage. He spoke only when spoken too, and
rode as hard as anyone else the whole day, not even once complaining
about his injuries.
The narratives completed, the three friends planned out the next day.
They would require another day’s hard riding to reach Minas Tirith.
“Will he be able to withstand it one more day?” Gimli asked
looking at the sleeping man. He had been riding by Faramir most of the
day. At first he had been the one trailing due to his little experience
on horseback but as the day progressed Faramir began falling back, as
his injuries took their toll. Gimli, riding by him, had thought more
than once that the man would faint, one reason he had stayed abreast
with him after that. But Faramir had stayed awake, and had ridden as
fast as was required as though seeking to atone for yesterday’s
delay all by himself.
Aragorn sighed, “I do not know Gimli, he is hurt and tired. We
must see in the morning. If he cannot ride we will not ride. We will
stay for I will not let any harm befall him. We lost his brother, that
is bad enough.” He stated emphatically, looking at the tired face
of the sleeping man he realised he valued not just as a friend but also
truly as a brother.
Aragorn was grateful for the ease with which Faramir had accepted him
and his position as King without hesitation, and not even that, but
had also accepted him as a friend, and in fact as good as a brother.
He looked at the figure lying on the ground, looking much younger than
his years. He had heard much of Faramir and his valour in defending
Gondor from the dark forces, how he had obeyed his father and led the
forces of Gondor in the fields of Pelennor, before being struck on the
field. All he had asked was that Denethor think better of him, of love
from his father he had given up on long before. He was still the same,
not giving into his grief so he could help Eowyn, not giving into his
grief when Aragorn was crowned, showing little of what he went through.
Boromir, whenever he had spoken of his brother to the Fellowship on
their journey, had spoken with love and great affection of this gentle
natured being who was yet brave and ever loyal. He had given unquestioning
loyalty to his father, the Steward, and now he gave the same to his
King. Once Faramir had accepted Aragorn as his liege the moment he entered
the White City, all dissenting voices in the city were silenced irrevocably.
To see that courageous figure now as scared as a child due to the actions
of a boorish man angered the King greatly. He knew Faramir had not gone
back to sleep after waking up the night before; the lines on his face
testified to that. That was why he had given him herbs designed to cause
sleep.
“You must not let him ride alone tomorrow,” Legolas said,
“He is much too stubborn, if he had ridden with one of us, he
could have slept more.”
“He will need much rest,” Aragorn agreed, “When we
reach the city, I will ensure he stays in bed for some days. He has
many worries without adding the weight of his daily work.”
“He loved his brother much,” Gimli observed.
“Yes.”
“And his father too.”
“Yes.”
“You must look after him.”
“Yes.”
They lat down to sleep after that taking turns at the watch, and waking
up in a few hours at the first crack of dawn, Faramir having spent those
measly few hours in quiet slumber. Aragorn checked over Legolas’
nearly healed injuries once again, and then moved on to the Steward.
Faramir was now awake, glad to have gotten even the little sleep he
had gotten the night before due to the brew he had ingested. He had
had very little sleep the night before. After waking up from his terrible
dreams, he had lain awake, watching the stars searching for succour
but finding none.
Instead he lay tormented by the same thoughts that tormented him when
asleep. The only difference being that while awake he could control
himself from crying and shouting and waking up his companions. However
this night Aragorn’s herbs had put him back to sleep even after
his dreams had woken him up, and he was glad of that. For he knew that
by not sleeping enough he would only be more sluggish, and thus delay
the company even further.
Aragorn pulled off the tunic and looked at Faramir’s wounds.
The cuts were healing very slowly, his chest and back now riddled with
black, blue and other multicoloured marks. The skin felt a little warm
to touch but that was likely because of the stress the body had gone
through. Faramir sat stoically through the ministrations, except the
odd hiss of pain or a wince or two, head bowed low at all times, refusing
to look Aragorn in the eye.
“Will you be able to ride today?” Aragorn asked gently
as he finished tending to the man and helped him pull the tunic back
on.
Faramir nodded, “Yes, we must move on. You are required in the
city. We have tarried here too long.”
“You will not ride alone today,” Aragorn told him, and
raising a hand as Faramir’s head jerked up suddenly, mouth open
to speak, said very firmly, “You have not the strength.”
“But my lord… “
“As your King, I command it,” Aragorn interrupted him.
Faramir stared at him for a second and then, “As you say, my
lord.” His eyes had suddenly filled up, and he could not hide
the tears before he swiftly moved his head away. He remembered the last
conversation he had had with his father. He had commanded him to defend
the Pelennor.
“Ah, my friend,” Aragorn , moved and concerned simultaneously,
put a hand on Faramir’s shoulder, “I did not mean for the
words to sound harsh. You are hurting, are you not? But you are weak,
and I will not let you get hurt worse.”
Faramir still struggling to cope with the memory of his father could
only nod slightly. He had obeyed his father, and his father had finally
displayed his love, by trying to take him away from a seemingly terrible
future.
When he managed to compose himself, he got up and helped Gimli clear
up their camp. He was not surprised to hear that he would ride with
Legolas, for he was the most skillful rider among them. His own horse
followed the party obediently enough. Legolas had a knack with horses;
they listened to him.
Faramir got onto the huge mare, not with little difficulty, stiff joints
crying for attention, healing muscles protesting, and every welt, cut
and bruise on his body asserting its presence. He bit back a sob as
he scrambled on in an ungainly, awkward manner.
Legolas sat behind him. He wanted the man where he could see him, knowing
he might not have enough strength to stay atop on his own.
Faramir hugged his cloak tightly around him trying to stay calm. But
he felt suffocated with the tall Elf brooding over his shoulder, and
the swift motion of the horse made him nauseous. He felt very cold and
his head throbbed. He kept telling himself it was his friend behind
him, and he was safe but it did not make the headache go away.
When they finally stopped around mid-day for the horses to drink water
and to eat some fruit and bread, the sun was high up but Faramir still
felt cold, so he wrapped his cloak tighter and waited for Legolas to
dismount first.
Then he dismounted from the horse, the pain still assaulting him everywhere
and tiredness seeping into his mind. He let one foot hit the ground
and then another, and then greeted the enveloping darkness as he crumpled
to the ground in a faint.
5. Those that Remain
Legolas rushed forward and caught up the fainting Steward of Gondor
for the second time in three days. He gently lay him down on the ground,
and pushed the hood of the cloak away from the face. The skin of his
forehead felt warm to touch, and the man shivered a little as the clasp
of his cloak was undone.
“He is not well,” he told Aragorn who had joined them by
now.
Aragorn pushed up Faramir’s tunic to uncover his chest. The injuries
had not improved much; Faramir’s healing was very slow. He placed
a hand against the chest, frowning at the warmth radiated.
Gimli brought him a cloth and bowl of water. Aragorn dipped the cloth
in water, and began brushing the Steward’s face with it, trying
to wake him up.
Faramir felt the wetness of the cloth against his face, and was immediately
transported to the memory of Haldorn licking his face in anticipation.
He had tried to cry out, but Haldorn had immediately brought his mouth
on his, choking back his cries. His hands had wandered all over Faramir’s
bruised chest, pinching and scratching, and then down to his leggings.
Tears had streamed down his face, and he had whimpered all through as
the leggings were yanked down, his hands bound, and body aching all
over, and he could do nothing. He had been roughly thrown onto his stomach,
and then had heard the noises of a scuffle. It was not until later that
he had realised what all had happened. But even then, the experience
had unnerved him and left him scared. It scared him that he could have
been defenceless, and so, when he felt the wetness slap against his
face now, he immediately lashed out in anger and pain. His arms flew
out violently and his legs kicked.
Legolas’ elven reflexes came to his aid and he ducked an outstretched
leg just in time, but Aragorn and Gimli got clouted on their chest and
face respectively. Faramir screamed in anger, and a cursing Gimli promptly
rushed forward and pinned his hands down while Aragorn sat up rubbing
his chest.
Legolas moved up to the sobbing man.
“Gimli, let go of him, you are scaring him,” he said sharply,
as he watched Faramir writhe unable to move his arms, panicking at the
situation, not knowing what to expect.
“No, he’ll hurt himself,” Aragorn said sharply.
Elf and man sat by their friend, and tried to rouse him, calling out
to him. Finally, they were able to get through and rouse a very dazed
Faramir. He woke to the concerned faces of his companions peering at
him, and realised that he had been in a stupor.
He struggled to sit up, with Legolas helping him, and lay leaning against
the Elf’s chest, as he tried to catch his breath. His head was
pounding miserably and he felt cold. Legolas picked up his cloak from
the ground and wrapped it around his shoulders. He hunched gratefully
into it, savouring the protection it afforded.
“What happened?” he asked tiredly.
Gimli rubbed his swelling chin thoughtfully, “You fainted,”
he said.
Faramir stared uncomprehendingly at him. And then blushed at his weakness
as he remembered the tiredness falling over him when he’d gotten
off the horse.
Aragorn sat in front of him, “You cannot travel in this state,”
he said firmly.
“It was just tiredness,” Faramir assured him, trying to
ignore the pain radiating from behind his temples.
“You are running a mild fever,” he was told.
“We are not far from Minas Tirith now,” Faramir insisted
again, “I can ride, we must get back. The councillors were not
happy when you left. They will be even less so, that we return some
days later than promised.”
“Imrahil and Mithrandir will see to that.”
“Please my liege, we must leave these forests soon,” Faramir
begged. He was tired, so tired, but there was much work back in Gondor.
This was no time for weakness, his mind told him.
Aragorn sighed, “We will leave soon, but you will rest here for
some time. Until you are able to stand up on your own, we are not leaving.”
Faramir could barely sit up on his own. He was leaning heavily on Legolas
now, and at Aragorn’s words, he tried to move away but swayed
and fell back again.
“The horses are tired too,” Gimli added, raising a laugh.
A ghost of a smile flickered across Faramir’s face, and Aragorn
felt strangely uplifted seeing it, as he leaned back and ate some of
the food Gimli had pulled out of their supplies.
He realised suddenly that he had hardly ever seen Faramir smile. A
few times a smile had crossed the face was when Eowyn had been with
him. But after her departure to Rohan, never. After the ring had been
destroyed, it had been all laughter and joy for the inhabitants of Minas
Tirith except the young Steward. He had mourned his loss silently and
mourned alone.
Gimli noticed it too, “So, the human can smile,” he declared
smiling himself.
“There was little too smile about in Gondor for many years,”
Faramir said sleepily, “The enemy was always near, very near.
We lost many good men, so many good men.”
“Yes, but their sacrifice will not go in vain now that those
they left behind can laugh and be happy with little worry,” Legolas
said. He understood what Faramir was trying to say. His own realm of
Mirkwood had been under threat from the darkness for many years.
Faramir would only shake his head in response.
“They were brave men,” he said finally.
Aragorn knew what he was thinking about. A meeting of the White City’s
council two weeks ago had ended in acrimonious words. One of the councillors,
a trusted lieutenant of Denethor’s in his heyday, had taken strongly
to some of Faramir’s suggestions. In not so many words he had
managed to indicate that he though of Faramir as a poor second best
in the Steward’s chair.
Faramir’s face had clouded over as he had remembered what his
father had said before the siege of Gondor; that he would rather have
had it that Faramir had gone to Rivendell in Boromir’s place.
Aragorn had been greatly angered then. He had not missed the whispers
by the former Steward’s trusted men. All had been encouraged by
Denethor’s own behaviour to treat Faramir as a poor alternative
to the stewardship with some even going on to suggest that Faramir had
plotted to send Boromir to Rivendell in his stead for his prophetic
dreams had foretold death in the journey. Whether these slanderous tales
reached Faramir’s ears or not was yet unknown, but there was no
doubt that he looked more tired after all these happenings. Aragorn
had resolved to retire all those councillors. In the time he had gotten
to know his Steward he had developed a fond liking for him, and respect
for his thought and opinion, and he valued him at his side.
He had also heard of Denethor’s deteriorating relationship with
his youngest son. They had differing viewpoints often, and the father
had gone so far as to hit the son more than once. It explained Faramir’s
reticence and habit of thinking carefully before speaking.
“There is no shortage of bravery in Gondor even now,” he
said firmly.
Faramir shook his head again. He moved away from Legolas as he tried
to sit up on his own. He could manage it if he curled up his legs to
his chest and rested his head on them.
“Boromir said you were very brave,” Gimli said suddenly,
leaning forward, “That he knew Gondor would be safe in your hands,
for you would protect her with your life.”
“But I did not,” Faramir pointed out, raising his head
to look at his friends out of sorrowful eyes, “I am alive.”
He smiled bitterly looking at the ground.
“What foolishness is this?” Gimli retorted, “You
are alive, so is Gondor, it lives because you live.”
“It lives because the King has returned,” Faramir said
simply.
“But the King needs his Steward,” Aragorn told him quietly.
“I am not the right man for the realm, my lord, “ came
the serious reply, “You need one of courage and valour.”
“I have one such, he is my Steward,” Aragorn insisted.
“I am a coward,” Faramir spat out, “I cannot defend
myself, how will I play a part in defending the realm?”
“It is not you, it could happen to anyone,” Legolas said
soothingly, placing hand on the man’s shoulder, “It was
the circumstances, and the same circumstances sent us our friends before
you could fall to harm.”
Tears were glistening on Faramir’s cheeks now.
“No, another would not have fallen, such as I did. Another would
not have been captured to be a – a plaything….” Faramir
broke off with a sobbing gulp. He was feeling really terrible now. Headache
and tears combined to make him feel more ill.
“What may have happened is unknown, Faramir, it is not for us
to know these things. But know this; you are no coward, you who fought
off the Southron forces and Orcs and held Gondor against them. Such
is not cowardice. You were weakened that day, and you must stop feeling
it is your fault,” Legolas said in the same soothing voice, clasping
the tired and hunched shoulders.
“You are alive and that is important, your people love you and
that is true. Now rest yourself for some time, for all this talk and
needless worrying will only tire you more,” Aragorn added sincerely.
The tired eyes closed slightly, still unconvinced of what the others
were saying, and Legolas soon found himself holding onto the half asleep
figure of the Steward who had slumped into his arms. It seemed to comfort
him so he remained that way till the breathing evened out, and he was
sure that the sleep was a peaceful one. He laid his friend back on the
ground with his own cloak for a pillow, and wrapped him in his cloak.
6. Home is not Afar
Faramir felt himself slumping against Legolas’ arms. His tired
body and beleaguered mind begged for the sweet release of dreamless
sleep, but found it impossible to give. But his friend’s embrace
brought to him memories of his brother consoling him after his interviews
with his father. With each passing year these had gotten worse and worse,
as father and son found themselves disagreeing regularly. Faramir rarely
answered back to his father, preferring to digest his harsh words quietly.
But it seemed Denethor did not appreciate the silence either. More often
than not, he had been at the receiving end of his father’s hand.
Such encounters would take place in the privacy of the Steward’s
study, but if any harsh words were said in Boromir’s presence,
he would soon be at his brother’s side to console him, after having
confronted his father over it. But even Boromir’s words would
not induce any overt display of affection from his stern father.
It had however served to make the two brothers very close to each other,
and even when Faramir grew older and began to serve in Gondor’s
army like his brother, he looked forward to the few opportunities he
got to meet his brother; his one support from his childhood days.
“He fails to understand you, that is all,” Boromir would
repeat each time he had found him sitting in his room miserable after
a conversation with his father, “He loves you, but he does not
understand you. Never forget, he loves you.”
It was very easy to forget. The harsh words continued, but words of
love never came. When they did come, finally he had been lying in a
fever, unable to hear them.
The thought of the old days with Boromir made him relax and in his
half-asleep state, he soon felt himself being lowered onto the ground
and covered with a soft warm cloak.
Soft voices bade him sleep, and he tried to respond but found himself
unable to, finally giving into the wave of slumber that washed over
him, lulling him into dreams of days gone by that made his heart ache
with a deep sorrow.
“Sleep my friend,” Legolas whispered quietly into his charge’s
ear as he tucked his cloak under him. The grey eyes flickered briefly
in gratitude, and then shut in a wan face marred by purpling bruises,
and dark ridges of tiredness lining it. It was a face that looked young
and old at the same time.
Young from an aching vulnerability caused by the loss of ones held
dear, and by haunting memories of many things; of losses and regrets.
And old by the tiredness that marked it, by the look in the eyes that
indicated they had seen much that had caused hurt, physical and emotional,
by the lines that showed up the stress of expectations shouldered since
a very young age, of continually trying to live up to them and beyond,
of seeking an elusive object that was practically unattainable. To an
Elf who had seen some three millennia, such a look was disturbing in
one who had lived a little more than three and half decades. It was
a look of one worn out, but trying to hide it. Of one who hurt deep
inside but shrank from telling another.
Once the horses had been fed, and a warm fire kindled, Aragorn leaned
over Faramir and placed his hand on his brow, noting the warmth radiating
off it. He noticed the faintest of tremors crossing the sleeping man’s
face. A few soft whispered words however had him relaxing once again.
He sat and watched the man for a while to make sure he was all right,
“What shall we do?” Legolas’ query brought him out
of his reverie.
Aragorn sighed, “We must get back to Minas Tirith soon, but I
cannot let Faramir exert himself. He is unwell.”
“And if we wait for him to recover?” Gimli asked.
“It looks not like he will recover very soon,” Legolas
said softly.
“No,” Aragorn agreed, “He is fatigued and not just
because of what happened now, but events of old.”
Loneliness and despair, his mind told him, and he was angry with himself
yet again for not noticing that one who had become dear to him was aching
so much.
He continued unhappily, “Yet, we must needs get back to the White
City, for I am loathe to spend more time in these woods. We will ride,
and we must carry him with us.”
Legolas nodded, “He will heal better once back in the city.”
“Then let us make haste and leave,” Gimli replied.
The sleeping man once again lay in his elven friend’s arms as
the horses thundered towards their home, across the thick woods, his
own horse among them rider-less but carrying his pack. Every now and
then he murmured something and seemed to be dreaming again, but Legolas
would quietly whisper in his ear, bidding him to rest, and he would
fall back to sleep again, resting his tired mind and injured body. His
cloak had been wrapped around him to keep him warm but he still shivered
spasmodically. Legolas could feel warmth radiating off the man’s
skin but could do little to help other than ensure that he was comfortably
placed and not jolted overly much by the motion of the steed. Faramir
moaned slightly in his sleep, his breath coming out hot and fevered.
“How is he?” Aragorn asked when they slowed down to negotiate
a narrow gorse filled path. The sun was high up in the sky by now, and
they would soon have to stop for water.
“He is still a little fevered,” Legolas said quietly.
“Perhaps I should carry him awhile,” Gimli suggested, “your
horse may be tiring.”
“No, let me carry him,” Aragorn said, “It’ll
be a easier for me to handle a rider.”
Legolas nodded. Narwe was tiring. She was a new horse, and unused to
carrying a deadweight human. Faramir’s own horse was equally unused
to two riders. Aragorn’s horse was certainly much stronger.
“We can stop at that clearing by the stream, the horses can refresh
themselves too,” he said pointing towards a small place by a gurgling
stream not far off.
Aragorn nodded, and spurred his horse ahead.
When they reached the clearing, he jumped down, and went up to Narwe
to help Faramir down. He was waking up now, the stiffness from his sitting
position all morning, inciting more pain across his injured frame.
He slid off the mount, biting his lip, trying not to cry out in agony,
and almost stumbled onto his knees, prevented only by Aragorn’s
strong arms pulling him up.
The action brought him to his full senses, and he stood up carefully,
looking around carefully, trying hard not to wince as pain flooded his
senses. Hours of being in the same position had cramped his muscles,
and even the thick cloak had not been enough to keep away the cool wind
generated by the swift galloping.
“We are nearly there, are we not?” came the hopeful query.
The lay of the land was beginning to look familiar.
“Yes, we should be there by nightfall,” Aragorn said, his
arm still offering support.
“That is good,” came the relieved reply.
“You will ride me the rest of the way,” Aragorn told him.
“But I am awake now,” the Steward protested, straightening
himself in an attempt to appear healthier, “I can ride alone.”
Aragorn shook his head, “No,” he said shaking his head,
”You are feverish, it will be better you ride with me.”
Any further conversation was prevented by Legolas holding up his hand,
indicating silence. The other three looked at him in askance, unsheathing
their weapons at the same time. Faramir moved towards his horse, and
pulled out his sword from his gear, he did not think he would be able
to wield a bow. Within minutes they could hear the sound of horses hooves
thudding towards the clearing, as they stood tensed waiting to see who
the new arrivals were. The sound of a voice floated towards them that
made them all start when they recognised it.
7. Unforeseen Travellers
Faramir paled involuntarily at the sound of the voice resonating through
to the tiny clearing. The same voice that haunted his nightmares now,
came out loud and clear. Beside him, Legolas had stiffened in the act
of grabbing his bow, while Aragorn’s lips tightened in a thin
line and Anduril gleamed in the sunlight as the King’s grip on
his sword handle tightened. A soft curse broke out from Gimli, and he
automatically moved towards the Steward, who stood as still as if carved
from a block of stone.
Faramir held himself still, telling himself over and over again to
forget everything and concentrate on what would happen. He was ashamed
to find himself feeling something akin to fear at the sound of Haldorn’s
voice the nearer it reached. Fear was a new sensation to him, for though
he may have had a love for learning, he was a good soldier too, willing
to risk all for the sake of the land he loved. Even his father he had
not feared, merely despaired of.
He shut his eyes tight for a fraction of a second before pursing his
lips and returning his thoughts and full concentration to the situation
at hand.
“‘Tis them,” Legolas hissed.
“How?” That was Gimli, annoyed that he hadn’t succeeded
in putting out the bandit for a longer time. He was in fact quite surprised.
Even if they had recovered, and likely they had, being men of the road,
to have caught up with the company, even at its slower rate of travel,
was be no mean feat.
The answer came around the clearing soon enough, when five men rounded
the clearing riding truly magnificent horses, the likes of which could
come only from the land of Rohan, where the men reared some of the best
horses to be found in the middle earth. Swift of foot, and strong, they
were an asset to anyone fortunate to own them.
And the owners now seemed to be Haldorn and his men. He seemed to have
been joined by two more, and it occurred to Aragorn that he had forgotten
that there might have been more men with him, who had not been there
when they met the other day.
It did not take more than the smallest glance to show how Haldorn and
his men had come by such horses, telltale bloodstains now dried, and
caked on their clothes, as well as on the horses’ saddles told
the tale., and the company from Gondor found themselves angered not
just over their past experience with these foul men, but also for the
sake of the poor unfortunates who might have been waylaid by them, and
readied themselves to fight.
The element of surprise now lay with them, having an idea as to what
they were to face, but to the five bandits who rounded into the clearing
the sight was one to raise consternation. The horses came to an abrupt
halt rearing up slightly.
“You, again!” the coarse accents unnerved the young Steward
who found himself gripping his sword tightly, ignoring protests from
each and every muscle in his worn and injured body.
The men in front of him had a lot to answer for.
“We should have thrown you into the river while we had a chance,”
Gimli growled, rushing forward, to take advantage of their shock.
Haldorn smirked, his hand going up to a crude bandage tied around his
head as he dismounted, “We meet again, my dwarven friend, come,
I have much to say to you.” He drew out a sword to defend himself,
and his friends followed as they jumped off their horses, warily facing
the Gondorians. The horses obviously were not all they had made away
with.
A leery smile came Faramir’s way, but he ignored it, pushing
everything to the back of his mind.
The sound of metal hitting metal resounded as sword met axe, and it
seemed that was all the others had been waiting for. Moving out of their
spots they raced to the attack. Legolas found himself forced to drop
his bow, and take to his knives, as Taldor rushed at him with a sword.
He was a better fighter than his other companions had been, and Legolas
found himself using all his elven skills to keep him at bay.
Aragorn found himself battling not just Dorgon but the fifth man too.
Dorgon though had still not lost his ineptness at battle with a stronger
opponent and fell to the wayside soon; leaving him to take on the second
new entrant who, like his friend, was a good fighter.
But he was not and never would be as good as the King of Gondor, who
soon realised that all it would take would be a few more judicious moves
to get his man. And then, he could move on to help Faramir with Faldor,
for out of the corner of his eye he could see that Faramir was having
trouble, even though his opponent was injured and not fighting well.
Faramir’s back and shoulders seemed to him to be on fire. His
limbs were still very stiff, and his movements were awkward and ungainly.
Pain dulled his senses, and a numbing tiredness ached to take over his
body. He grunted and his breath came out in short raspy sobs.
His discomfort did not go unnoticed by his rival, who decided to sue
his relative strength, in place of lack of skill. Instead of aim, he
relied on brute strength to push the young Steward into tiring himself
out even more.
Metal flashed in the air, and the clanging sounds resonated through
the clearing, mingling with grunts of pain, causing frightened birds
to abandon the trees in favour of the skies.
Legolas used both knived hands to equal advantage, skilfully countering
every move his opponent made. A small knife, though, would not hold
out against the long blade and so he decided to adopt a different approach.
He danced his way away from his opponent towards the stream nimbly
leaping onto the slippery rocks that had been smoothened by the constant
movement of water over many, many years. He kept his balance with practiced
ease, placing his feet lightly on the surface, drawing Taldor closer
and closer to the water’s edge as he weaved his knives in and
out defending with one hand and parrying with the other.
His attacker finally managed to fight off one parried thrust from the
knife as it snagged o his tunic sleeve, using the momentary distraction
to lunge at Legolas. The blond Elf swerved, though not soon enough,
as the sword point nicked his shoulder. He hissed at the sudden, sharp
pain, his eyes narrowing, as he lunged with his free knife, as the sword
retracted, inviting the man to leap sideways. His ploy worked, for the
next moment the man was floundering in the stream, the currents throwing
him back upon the rocks, while his sword fell out of his hand to be
carried swiftly downstream by the swift current.
Even with one shoulder injured it too Legolas no time to ensure his
opponent could not fight back. He moved to help his friends now.
Haldorn had attacked Gimli with a ferocity brought out by his memory
of their last meeting. And the Dwarf after two days of hard work at
his least favourite activity, was stiff and saddle sore. He defended
himself adeptly however, and the fight looked evenly poised, until Dorgon
who for a few seconds had lain where he had fallen after being wounded
by Aragorn’s sword, found Gimli backing towards him. A movement
of his foot was all it took send the Dwarf toppling over, and when Legolas
turned towards his friends it was to see Gimli falling headfirst backwards
onto the ground, and Haldorn and Dorgon jumping at him simultaneously.
He reacted immediately, rushing to his friend’s defence, even
as Aragorn continued parrying with his opponent, slowly but surely gaining
an upper hand, over the relatively inexperienced combatant, and a tiring
Faramir desperately lunged at Faldor, with his strength ebbing slowly
away.
Legolas leapt onto Dorgon’s back, tearing him away from Gimli,
and pushing him onto Haldorn, sending all three sprawling onto the ground.
He bit back a cry as he hit the ground on his injured shoulder, and
swiped his knife at the nearest figure. Gimli lay where he’d fallen
half dazed, pain marring his face.
Legolas found himself struggling with in unarmed combat with Dorgon,
his other knife lay somewhere in the melee, as did Dorgon’s weapon.
Haldorn rolled away towards where Faramir was panting as he stood over
his fallen opponent. The last well-aimed lunge had found its mark, and
Faldor dropping his weapon and clutching his sword arm in pain, had
fallen against a tree and knocked himself out. Seeing the exhaustion
writ plainly on the Steward’s face, now grey with fatigue and
pain, Haldorn jumped at him, grabbing Faldor’s fallen sword.
“We meet again, my friend,” he whispered softly, advancing
on to the man.
A brief look of panic flitted across Faramir’s visage, his breathing
sounded shallower, but then suddenly his face took on a firm countenance,
as he ducked the outstretched thrust, and fought back.
Faramir willed himself to forget his tiredness and pain, as he faced
the bandit. This time he intended to fight back. He had fought stronger
forces than this man. And the sudden grimness on his face, and the hardening
of his jaw gave Haldorn a preview of his capabilities, as the Steward
attacked him with a new found energy thrusting fiercely, and causing
him to back away.
Gimli shut his eyes and opened them again refocusing on the blue vastness
of the sky above rimmed by a few leafy green treetops, and then cursed
as he remembered how that fool of a human had tripped him over; the
same one who was fighting the Elf right now. Deciding that two could
play at the same game, he lunged himself at the two of them, yanking
the human away forcefully. Dorgon was caught in surprise, and had no
answer to return, as the Dwarf clipped him on the side of his head.
“Thank you my friend,” Legolas smiled as he helped the
Dwarf up once he’d finished.
Gimli grunted in response, as they turned to help their friends. Aragorn
had felled his man by now, and was advancing on Haldorn drawing him
away from Faramir, who seemed to resent the undue intrusion, for he
had now endowed Haldorn with various cuts on his sword arm, which had
slowed the bandit down considerably. He himself was drawing every ounce
of strength he had reserved in him, fighting with a ferocity that surprised
even his onlookers. With sudden alacrity, he sidestepped a blow from
his attacker sending him off balance, and then taking advantage of that
lunged at him.
“Help Gimli and Legolas,” he grunted out to Aragorn who
was advancing in his direction. A swift thrust at Haldorn’s side
forced him to fall to the ground dropping his weapon. The man half lay
half crouched on the ground groaning in pain clutching his side, and
Faramir took a slow step backward.
Aragorn moved towards him, as he kept his eyes on Haldorn, waiting
for him to rise.
“You are hurt,” he commented to his other two friends as
they joined him, Legolas with his shoulder bleeding, and Gimli, with
an ugly gash on his head. Faramir stood by swaying tiredly, wondering
whether a wash in the stream would help him feel better.
“I am all right,” Legolas retorted, clutching his shoulder
tightly, as he went towards Haldorn and looked at him in distaste, “We
should tie them up and take them along as prisoners,”
“They’re a danger to travellers on this route,” Gimli
growled in agreement.
“Yes, that is what I was thinking,” Aragorn commented,
as the four companions stood pondering over what to do.
A sound reached Legolas’ sharp elven ears causing him to suddenly
turn around, and look towards the stream, sending a sharp skewer of
pain through his shoulder.
“Aragorn!” he shouted in warning, leaping to his friend’s
defence, ignoring his own pain.
But Faramir being closer, got there before him, shoving his King out
of the way of the knife thrown by Talgor whom Legolas had left unconscious
by the river.
8. Home
The next few seconds were riddled with confusion, and it was to the
credit of Legolas and Gimli that things did not get out of hand. Legolas
seeing Faramir push Aragorn out off the way, decided to stop Talgor
instead. He grabbed the first stone he could lay his hands on, and aimed
it at the man who was laying half in and half out of the water. The
well-aimed missile hit him at the side of his head. Gimli meanwhile
had taken it upon himself to ensure that none of the other three men
got similar ideas. He grabbed a coil of rope from one of the packs and
took to tying up the only conscious one of the lot.
“Are you alright?” he asked the two men lying on the ground,
a little worriedly as he had no idea whether the knife had found its
mark or not.
Faramir sat up tiredly and slowly. The lunging motion had pushed his
weary body to more lengths after his tiring fight, and he could feel
a dull, intense ache in his worn muscles. He looked towards his King,
alarmed to notice that he lay where he fallen, eyes closed.
He bent forward to see if Aragorn had been hit, and felt a sharp sting
of pain in his upper right arm, realizing then that the knife had nicked
him leaving a small but profusely bleeding cut. He ignored it and reached
for his King once again.
“Sire?”
“Aragorn,” Legolas called out, worried when he saw his
friend hadn’t moved.
They got a slight grunt in reply, but the eyes remained closed.
“Aragorn,” Gimli called out from where he stood glaring
balefully at the now bound Haldorn as though daring him to try anything.
Aragorn grunted again, and then opened his eyes, and tried sitting
up, he had fallen flat on his back, and had felt winded.
“Aye, I am fine,” he replied, “I just had the breath
knocked out of me,” he explained to his worried companions.
He raised himself and looked towards his Steward who knelt next to
him, grey eyes laced with concern and fear, now replaced with relief,
his face ridged with lines of sheer exhaustion.
“Thank you Faramir,” he said gently, “You saved my
life.”
The younger man shook his head, “No – I, it is my duty,
I would do that anytime,“ he stammered.
Legolas sighed quietly in relief and went up to his friend to help
him up, “You had me worried,” he said reproachfully, “You
are not hurt, are you?”
“Only my pride, I am getting old,” Aragorn said mournfully.
Gimli snickered derisively as he bound up the other men, and muttered
a few vague words, the only clear word being ‘Elf’.
Legolas snorted in reply, his keen ears having caught the exact words,
while the two men grinned as the banter between the two automatically
raised their spirits, despite their injuries.
Aragorn said standing up, and stretching himself, “Legolas, you
are hurt, and Gimli too, let me tend to your wounds, and then let us
move on. We will take the prisoners along, and hand them to the first
patrol we come across.”
“It is the tiniest scratch, Aragorn,” Legolas assured him,
as his friend examined his shoulder.
“It needs to be washed, Gimli’s head too,” Aragorn
said.
Legolas snickered at that, and received a glare from his dwarven friend.
“Faramir, are you all right?” Aragorn ‘s sharp voice
forced the Steward to look up from where he still knelt. He nodded tiredly,
and stood up ignoring the lightheaded feeling assailing him.
“I am fine, my lord,” he said joining his companions by
the stream, where Aragorn was binding up Legolas’ shoulder, while
Gimli bathed the cut on his forehead.
“You are hurt,” Legolas’ eyes narrowed, as he noticed
the dark stain spreading across the young man’s sleeve.
“’Tis just a scratch,” Faramir replied, as he knelt
next to Gimli, and took a handful of water to wash his face with. The
cool refreshing feel of the water helped reduce the tiredness more than
a little. He sighed.
“Let me see that arm,” Aragorn demanded from behind him.
“What of the prisoners’ wounds?” Faramir asked.
“I will see to them after seeing to you,” his King replied.
He cut off the sleeve with a knife, and looked at the wound, “It
is a flesh wound, but it may hinder you for some days if you need to
use a sword.”
Aragorn swiftly bound it up, and then looked closely at Faramir, taking
in the pain and weariness written on his face. He had seen Faramir fight,
and was sure he had strained his healing wounds.
“You could have been seriously hurt,” he chided gently.
Faramir shook his head tiredly, “That would have been a small
price when I owe you my life,” he said quietly.
“I ask no price for that, ‘twas a simple remedy, though
long forgotten,” Aragorn said as he helped him up, and then clutching
him tighter as he swayed a little, added pertly, “Save that you
obey me when I tell you to rest well.”
“I feel much better now,” Faramir said calmly.
“You do?” Aragorn growled leading the way back to the horses,
“I thought you might have hit your head,” he added at Faramir’s
questioning look, “Why else would you have gone and thrown yourself
in the way of a knife?”
“If I hadn’t, Legolas or Gimli would have,” Faramir
said, smiling in reply.
“Elf, I’m ashamed at you,” Gimli grunted, “You
let a man best you.”
Legolas simply glared at his friend in reply, but smiled warmly at
Faramir, “Thank you for saving my ageing friend, Faramir, that
was a very brave thing to do.”
Faramir shook his head, feeling slightly embarrassed but the Elf continued,
“Of course the Dwarf here would never have reached in time!”
They checked on their prisoners’ injuries and then hoisted them
onto their horses, and set off with them for Minas Tirth at a steady
trot.
“We can leave them with the first patrol we come across, we are
not far from the area they cover, and they can bring them in,”
Aragorn announced, “Or they will simply slow us on our way.”
And so, as soon as they came across a party of rangers from Gondor,
they handed their prisoners over to them, much to the surprise of the
patrol, who least expected to see their King and Steward hand them a
party of semi-conscious, unruly looking men.
It was a few hours after that they reached Gondor, Faramir was riding
his own horse now, he had insisted on doing so when they had stopped
for a breather not far from the White City, and had mounted him before
anyone could protest.
“I am fine now,” he had reiterated.
“You are ill,” Aragorn said pursing his lips in a thin
line.
“I will not be carried into Minas Tirth like some weakling,”
his Steward retorted.
“Weakling!” Aragorn nearly shouted, and would have gone
on if Legolas hadn’t placed a hand on his shoulder, and signalled
him to let the Steward be.
Aragorn had finally assented but with bad grace, and Gimli had looked
on disapprovingly.
It had struck Legolas that Faramir did look a lot better now, he still
looked exhausted but at the same time he looked calm, and the Elf was
suddenly glad that they had met the bandits again, and that his young
friend had managed not to let self-doubt conquer him at a crucial time.
It was darkening as they entered the city, so that they entered the
city quietly and without fuss and rode up to the citadel, where they
were met by Mithrandir and Prince Imrahil, who looked relieved to see
them back.
“It is good to see you fine, we were getting worried,”
Imrahil told Aragorn as he dismounted. Aragorn smirked as the other
three got off their horses slowly, Gimli handing Faramir an arm that
was immediately refused.
“Fine!” the King snorted, as Faramir dismounted and then
leant against his horse trying to regain his breath, “Of course
I am fine, but I cannot say the same for my friends here.”
“What happened?” Imrahil asked, moving towards his nephew,
worry and concern betrayed on his countenance.
Faramir shrugged, holding onto the nearby wall for support now. His
legs felt intensely weak, and the aches in his body were still screaming
at him, “We caught a few horse thieves,” he told his uncle.
They entered the citadel after that, and the healers were called, and
the three friends were tended to, with Aragorn hovering over them, gloating
in his position as the only unscathed member of the party. He managed
to convince the healer to announce a two-week rest period for his scowling
Steward.
“Two weeks?” Faramir muttered tensely to his King who stood
over his bed, watching him drink a brew viler than some dwarven ale.
His sword arm lay in a sling, and they had bandaged his chest and back,
and then diagnosed him with a cold, forcing him to drink the strange
liquid and covering him with a mound of blankets. He sank drowsily in
as the pain in his weary body ebbed gradually away as the brew began
taking effect.
“Aye, two weeks, for at the end of two weeks, I marry, and it
would do no good to have you absent,” Aragorn said in reply, smiling
cheerfully at the sulking young man.
Gimli shrugged, and placing an arm on the relatively uninjured left
shoulder of his friend bade him get better soon, and Legolas smiling
warmly at him said soflty, “Boromir would have been proud of you.”
The End
