Brilliancy – part 1

By skaia7

These characters belong to Tolkien. I am taking them out of the box to play with, and promise to put them back exactly as I found them when I'm finished. I make nothing from this endeavor.

This story is a companion piece to "A Game of Chess" by Altariel. Read that first.

The term "brilliancy" in chess means "a game containing a very deep strategic idea, a beautiful combination." I think this fits the story of Eowyn and Faramir.

Post traumatic stress disorder has been called other things in the past: shell shocked during World War I, battle fatigue in World War II, and "operation exhaustion" during the Korean War. In Altariel's story, she terms it "war-fettered." The disorder is characterized by severe flashbacks, recurring nightmares, panic and depression, emotional numbness and sometimes-violent behavior. To learn more, visit https/www2.arims.army.mil/rmdaxml/research/PTSD.asp

xxxx

A discreet cough caused me to lift my head from where Elboron and Morwen were playing with their wooden horses. The almost three and two year old children were spread out on furs, enjoying the warm crackle of the fire during the peaceful afternoon. Their dark heads did not lift with mine, but I gazed at the servant, a young Gondorian girl of no more than fifteen, as she blushed and dropped her eyes.

"Begging your pardon, my lady, but… the Lord Steward returns."

A stone dropped in my stomach, knowing what this must mean. It was far too early in the day, the pale winter sunlight streaming through the window telling me it was not half past the afternoon.

I rose as gracefully as my misgivings would allow. "Mira, please mind the children," I ordered quietly, and the girl bobbed in a brief curtsy of obedience as I brushed swiftly past her.

I slid speedily through the passageway, my mind racing with the necessary tasks. First on the list was to head to the kitchen for a handful of herbs, and then up the staircase that led to our chambers, tension creating furrows in my brow.

It was not yet a year since I had learned of Faramir's illness, and but six months since we had reconciled. In that time I had witnessed but two full-scale attacks that brought him home early from Council to the newly-completed Steward's House in Minas Tirith. This past summer in Emyn Arnen, where the beauty of the forest and the love of our family were finally bringing his troubled soul solace and peace, he experienced only weariness and headaches, and those but seldom. However, the fall and winter months here in Minas Tirith seemed to call forth the worst of his demons. The Council members were insufferable, the tension with the Haradrim mounting, and a solution not easily within our grasp.

Faramir had not come home last night, still with the Council in their endless post-war meetings, but I had not expected him until nearly suppertime, if not after. I sighed heavily, knowing I should have expected this when he did not come home. It has happened before that he would sleep in his office if the meetings ended late and were to begin early, but my intuition told me last night's meeting had probably not yet ceased… Exhaustion was chief among the causes for my husband's attacks.

I was not permitted to attend the Council meetings; apparently the women of Gondor were barred from certain rooms in the White Tower, the Council Hall chief among them, and neither Estel nor his Steward could risk alienating the nobles in this troubled time. This had caused the Queen and I both much grief, but we had made our peace with it, for now. Instead, Faramir had taught me much of his administrative tasks, and allowed me to handle many affairs from home while he attended the Council. I was quite pleased with this: it allowed me to be near the children while at the same time serving alongside my husband in affairs of state. Each evening, we discussed what had transpired during the day, our new alliance bringing us closer than I had ever dreamed husband and wife could be.

However, both my husband and I were taking as great a care with his health as we could, circumstances allowing. As the days of winter grew shorter, darker, I sensed the shadow stealing upon him again. The previous winters had been terrible for him, made all the worse by our quarrels and then my absence, and this winter looked as if it would also prove a great trial. I was learning – both by trial and error and by discreet inquiries of the healers - how to handle his attacks, and striving daily to mend the rift that we had created through misunderstanding and silence.

As I rounded a corner on the stairs, I saw him ahead of me, shoulders hunched, and leaning heavily on the iron railing with white-knuckled grip. I felt dread in the pit of my stomach, wondering how severe this bout would be, and if he would ever find true and lasting peace.

"Faramir," I called softly, wishing to alert him to my presence so as not to startle him. He paused.

I drew alongside him, wrapping one arm around his back and the other clasping his elbow, gently easing some of his weight onto myself. In the shadows, I could see his face was as white as his linen shirt, sweat beading on his brow, and deep lines of pain carved around his eyes. His eyes were wide, dark, and unseeing. It was easy to tell that he was struggling to retain his composure, years of training at Denethor's knee proving hard to move past. He issued a small sigh at my touch, and allowed me to support his tense body as we crossed the threshold to our bedchamber.

Once inside, I helped to ease him onto the edge of our bed, his arms resting on his knees and his dark head dropping down with a subdued groan. I moved first to pull the velvet curtains against the bright afternoon sun, knowing that light could worsen the headache. After a moment, my eyes adjusted to the mere firelight, and then I moved quickly but noiselessly to the hearth, where hot water and a tray of cups, bowls, and towels were standing ready. Whether it be for tea, a warm bath, or just such an emergency as this, I had instructed all the servants to keep a kettle of warm water always by our hearth, and was thankful they had been diligent in this task. I took a handful of herbs from my pocket, and one of the wooden cups, setting it on the stone floor as softly as I could. Another thing that provoked my husband's headaches was noise, and so I strove to move soundlessly.

I placed some healing herbs in the cup – willow bark, chamomile, peppermint - and left it by the fire to steep. Taking a wooden bowl, I then crushed some mint with my thumb before pouring in hot water, and set that bowl by the window to cool. Placing two other bowls before me, I brought out athelas from the king's own garden, bruising it gently before pouring hot water over this, as well. At once, a light clean fragrance began to fill the room, and I carefully carried each steaming bowl to rest on either side of our bed. Only then did I turn to my poor husband.

Faramir had not spoken since I had sat him down, and now had begun to tremble, his hands tucked under his arms as if for warmth. Pain stabbed my heart; this would not be a mild attack, and I wondered to myself what had brought it about. I knew if I asked he would tell me, both of us having vowed not to keep anything from each other.

But now was not the time to ask.

I knelt in front of him, first tenderly removing his boots, and then unlacing his tunic. A pang of pity stabbed me through when he flinched as I tugged his arms toward me in order to ease the black velvet off his shoulders, his breath coming in unsteady pants.

"Easy, my love," I murmured softly in the silence, ceasing my ministrations long enough to tenderly smooth his sweaty hair from his pale face, and caress his cheek. "Easy."

He leaned into my touch, anxious it seemed for any relief from the stabbing pains in his skull, from the tide of violent images that threatened to storm his weary mind. My hands felt cool on his fiery skin. I tossed his tunic aside, and then loosened the ties on his breeches, but did not remove them. They were soft, and my husband would appreciate their warmth.

Returning to the fire, I fetched the tea, blowing on it gently to ensure it was not too hot. I knelt in front of his shuddering form and folded his hands around the cup. They shook so badly that I had to help him guide the cup to his lips, and urged him to drain the healing mixture. When it was gone, I set the cup to the side, hesitating before making the next move.

I gazed at him in the dark, hearing his wheezing gasps for breath, seeing the tears that seeped from his closed eyes and made silent tracks on his cheek. He was cursing himself for his weakness, as he had done both of the previous times I had seen him thus. The knowledge that my kind, valiant husband had suffered so much, and continued to suffer, brought tears to my own eyes. I murmured soft words of love in the darkness (of precisely what, I do not know) and gently - slowly - folded my arms about him.

I had learned to be very cautious of his fragile state. In the first episode I witnessed, I had moved too swiftly to offer an embrace, and had inadvertently caused him to panic, his waking nightmare turning my arms into orc enemies bent on taking him down. I had released him quickly at his fearful cry, narrowly missing his wild swing.

This time, however, as my voice reassured him of his safety, of my love, and my arms moved slowly enough for his broken mind to track their progress, I found his head dropping to my shoulder, and I drew him into a warm embrace. A choked sob broke from the man in my arms, and I was forced to squeeze my eyes shut as the sound knifed through me.

How can he bear it? I wondered. How can he bear to relive the retreat over and again? I could not imagine hearing the scream of the witch-king repeated – as piercing and as real as the first time – for the rest of my life. It is bad enough when his dreams torment him in the night. Must they invade his waking thoughts, as well?

Grief nearly consumed me when I thought of him having to endure one of these spells alone… as he had done this past winter we had been apart. I don't think I will ever forgive myself for what I put him through. My left fingertips traced light whorls and patterns on the back of his sweat-damp shirt, my right hand nimbly drew its nails through the fine hair at the nape of his neck. All I could think to do was continue to croon softly to him, only dimly aware that I was gently rocking our bodies in a peaceful, soothing rhythm.

I closed my eyes, sighing, when I felt him begin to relax against me. Loathe as I was to release him, I knew the headache would deepen, and I must prepare to deal with the next phase of my husband's illness.

Taking him by the shoulders, I lightly pressed his shaking body down towards the mattress, turning him so that he ended up on his left side in the middle of the bed.

His eyes opened, shining with exhaustion and fear – wide and dark – in the dim light. At his terror-filled gaze, I gathered my courage and smiled in reassurance, allowing my love for him to pour forth from my eyes, willing it to flow out as a balm to his scarred heart.

"Do not fear, my love," I murmured. "I am here."

I lifted his legs, tucking them in before once more smoothing his hair back from his ashen face. I pressed a gentle kiss to his brow, which burned under my lips as if fevered. His desperate hand caught mine as I went to turn away, and gave a grateful squeeze. His other hand had traveled to his head, pressing hard against his brow. I squeezed back, tears pricking my eyes, concerned at how cold and clammy his hands felt, and how hard they shook.

I crossed once again to the hearth, and took up a soft cloth from the pile. I checked the bowl by the window and, finding it still a little warm, slipped between the window and the curtain, squinting at the sudden brightness of the harsh winter sun. I eased a small pane open to the chilly winter air. On the ledge there had gathered some snow, and I took two or three icy handfuls to add to the water until it was sufficiently cooled. The mint had steeped in the water, and so I discarded the leaves out the window before closing the pane against the icy draft.

Emerging from the velvet, I was even more anxious to see Faramir curled in on himself, both hands now pressed to his aching head, shaking as if from a violent chill and labored breath coming in harsh gasps. I hastened to him, setting the mint-water on the side table near the still-steaming bowl of athelas. Though the sweet fragrance, quiet darkness of the chamber, and the soft bed all helped, I knew that there was still a task or two more to accomplish before my husband would find the relief he desperately sought.

Removing my own slippers, I slowly eased myself down beside him, striving to maneuver our bodies without jarring the bed and causing him further distress. I leaned my shoulders against the headboard, a pillow behind my neck and my poor husband's pounding head on his own pillow beside me. I reached for the soft cloth, dipping it in the cool water and thoroughly wringing it out before gently wiping the sweat from his feverish brow. His face had turned gray, his neck beginning to acquire a flush. I wiped the cool cloth across his heated skin, his tremors beginning to subside into an occasional violent shiver, though his breath still labored. The one other time it was this bad, I sat beside him, bathing his face and threading my fingers through his dark hair until the herbs took effect, and he fell into an exhausted sleep. I had stayed all night watching over him and chasing the ensuing nightmares away. It seemed to bring him swifter ease, and so I hoped it would again.

But this time, he did something he had not done before. He took a deep, shuddering breath - as if gathering his strength - and raised himself up on his elbow beside me. Moving his body to lie along the length of mine, he wrapped his arms about my waist and settled his head against my breast. Thus situated, he released that breath in an unreserved sigh of relief, his arms tightening briefly about me before sinking down. He continued to tremble ever so slightly, and so I tugged the velvet quilt up and tucked it under his chin. I then folded the damp cloth, laying it over his brow and smelling the subtle coolness of the mint wafting in the air. I lay still, barely daring to breathe lest I disturb his tenuous peace, and in a short time his breath evened, telling me he had given in to his exhaustion.

The door creaked softly, and Haleth – the woman I had brought with me from Ithilien – entered with a crock of stew. She was the only one of the household servants allowed into our bedchamber. Now a widow, her late husband had also been war-fettered, and she knew well how to keep her silence. Nodding to me, she padded noiselessly to the fire and laid the crock on the hearth to keep warm. It would be waiting when the Lord Steward awoke. Bowing, she took her leave.

My hand rose to my husband's silken hair, lightly drawing my nails across his scalp and threading the soft strands through my fingers. In his sleep, he gave a sigh, and seemed to grow heavier against me. I myself sighed in return, knowing that the tea had finally begun its healing work.

My thoughts strayed to the children. They were too young as yet to understand my husband's affliction, and so would be looking for us at suppertime. Haleth would take them to hand, feeding them their dinner and playing games with them afterward. Her own babe had died soon after it was born, and her husband had not lived long enough to provide a second. It lifted her heart to spend time with Elboron and Morwen, and so I was not worried for their care.

I relaxed into the soft pillows, leaning my head back and reveling in the feel of his warm arms around me, his head pillowed on my breast…

…and sometime after, I fell asleep.