Leaving the House

The Houses of Healing, 26th March 3019 T.A.

Faramir lay on the bed and watched the boys pack his possessions. Ten days here, and his sick room had acquired a remarkable amount of clutter – clothes, papers, maps, books. He had taken out a few of the more sensitive documents, and the book that he was reading, and retrieved also his shaving kit. These he would carry. Everything else could be sent on home.

It was very early in the morning. He had spent the night before with his Rangers, celebrating the unlikely victory and their even more unlikely survival. His head was in much better shape than he deserved, and he knew that he now ought to get down to work. People would be returning soon to the City. There was very little food, and not all their homes were in order. And then there was the small matter of the coronation…

There was a tap at the door and the Warden entered. He eyed the new Steward, stretched out on the bed, and frowned. "I can't persuade you to stay?"

Faramir shook his head.

"Ten days ago you were on the brink of death—"

"And now I am not."

The boys finished their task, and left, carrying the boxes between them. The Warden over to the bed, and gestured at Faramir's shoulder. He loosened the ties on his shirt, and allowed the Warden to examine him.

"See?" he said. "Much better."

"Hmm. My advice would be to stay at least another day or two—"

"I cannot." He fastened his shirt again, and reached for his tunic, slipping it on carefully so that he did not jar himself. The Warden offered him a small wooden box. "Salve for your shoulder," he said, "and a sleeping draught or two, should the need arise. Send to me directly if you want more."

Faramir nodded, and took the box. He stood up, picked up his belongings, and was ready to go. "One question, Eradan – where is my sword?"

The Warden shook his head. "It is a rule of the house that all blades should be for healing purposes. I doubt it ever came here."

Which meant thinking about the time before his arrival here, tracking his movements through those hours... Faramir sighed, and made for the door. The Warden looked at him thoughtfully. "It is usual to for me on the departure of a patient to commend them to somebody's care—"

"I shall take care of myself."


He walked slowly up to the seventh level, enjoying the still quiet morning. As he passed the Tree, the guards saluted him. Holding his possessions in one arm, he returned the gesture – and then remembered that custom dictated that the Lord of the City did not do that… This will take some adjustment, he thought.

Delaying the inevitable for a little longer, he walked along the prow. At the very far end, he stopped at the battlements to look out East across the wreck of the Pelennor. There was the next task, and the next, and the next... He thought about the last time he had stood here, less than a month ago. He had been with Father, and they had heard the sound of a horn carried in on the wind from the North. And now Father was gone too. How was that possible? Denethor was the stone of the City; the very bones of Gondor. How could he be dead?

Standing high, looking out, Faramir suddenly felt terribly alone. He wished, suddenly, to be back in the House, waiting to join the Lady for breakfast. He longed to see her again. He would struggle to find time over the coming days. He would want to go to her, and some new task would intervene, some new duty, some new call upon him. Soon she would leave. She would head to Cormallen, to her brother, and then to Rohan, and he would remain here, alone.

"Come now," he murmured to himself. "All shall be well. And you have work to do."


He walked across the Court. He intended to go home first, to see how things stood there. Crossing the Court, he remembered walking the other way – from the Tower down to the stables to ride for the river. He thought of what Pippin had told him; that when he was brought back his father had sat beside him hoping to hear one last word. He fervently wished that this was possible.

I wish I could speak to you one more time. I wish that I could tell you that I love you. That it was my honour to serve you.

How would it be over the coming days and weeks? He sensed, sometimes, from people around him, the relief that Denethor was not here to cause obstruction. They did not say this to him, of course, but he knew their thinking. This was part of what made being with Éowyn so restful. She knew nothing about Father. She only knew that he mourned, and she understood. Would his father simply disappear? Would all that strength and courage and sacrifice be forgotten, overwritten by the last grim months and the final awful hours? He was not sure he could bear that.

He came to the door of his home. He must find a way to live here now somehow, he thought, live without them. They were gone, and could not return to him, except in memory. He knew – he had observed again and again – how his family differed from others. But they had been his, he had been theirs, and he had loved them above all.

The door opened ahead of him. He ducked his head below the lintel and went inside. Looking up, he saw the whole household gathered in the hall and on the stairs, waiting to welcome the master home from war. All of them, from some who had known him his entire life, down to the very youngest, a maid of fifteen. He looked at them in astonishment. "What, did you all stay behind? Through the siege? All of you?"

A quiet murmur passed around. Haleth, the housekeeper said, with gentle admonishment, "We stayed to look after him, my lord."

Tears sprang into his eyes. Before he knew what was happening, he was drawn inside. Soon enough he found himself in the study, at his father's desk, his papers before him and his breakfast beside him. The box of papers that he had sent ahead stood nearby. His sword was propped up against it. There was a fire crackling warmly in the hearth. He had come home.


Altariel, 1st October 2018