Work and Love
Minas Tirith, morning of the 20th March 3019
A Southron dart, the Warden had said, but Faramir knew what in truth had hit him. The dreary feeling, the emptiness, the sudden spasms of terror… The Black Breath, the healers called it, the cold grey slide into despair. Then there were the other symptoms, particular, he knew, to his own case. The pressing need to sit with his back to the wall. The overwhelming sadness of being the only one left. The dreadful combination of grief and relief that there was to be no meeting with his father…
The cure for the first of these, his wound, was simple enough. Rest, not overtax himself, take whatever draughts and remedies were offered – in short, obey the healers. He followed his instructions as dutifully as ever. Already he was better in his body; each day he moved more easily and he knew his strength was returning. But the cure for everything else was work. This is something of a quandary, he thought.
Left to his own devices, he would by now be immersed completely in his new role, securing the City's defences and preparing for the inevitable. But the Warden had indicated clearly that he did not consider this wise. Húrin of the Keys commanded the men left behind, and a more able ally Faramir could not ask for. Each afternoon Húrin came by briefly to give the new Steward his report, and each time he rose to leave, he would say, "You must not worry, my lord. Get well." Get ready, he meant. They would need all their strength, at the end. Another hopeless battle. At least he was practiced.
But between the Warden's commands and Húrin's competence, he was left without purpose. Put plainly, there was no real duty for him to perform, not even the task of sitting and listening to another in the hope that this might alleviate their cares. This was what had turned his captaincy from burden into source of deep satisfaction: knowing that simply his attention could help men in trouble or distress. He had been glad to give in this way; he would gladly have done the same for his father, particularly in the last years, but the service had not been required. None of this was possible now. There was no one to take care of but himself.
He made a fair effort, since it was not in his nature to perform any duty badly, but he had trouble summoning enthusiasm. After five days' practice, he could make the task of getting ready for the day take up a sizeable portion of the morning. He brought his full attention to bear upon each simple act: eating, washing, dressing. He would sit down for a while after this – back to the wall, eyes shut – and, when he had recouped himself, would go and walk in the garden. In the afternoon he slept for a while, gratefully, since this combined the duty of healing with blessed oblivion, and then he would try to fill the time before Húrin arrived with reading or writing. Someone – Beregond, he suspected, before he had left for the Black Gate – had gone to his home and brought back books and his little writing desk. But the books did not distract, and there was nobody to write to. His family was dead, as were most of his friends, and everyone left had gone away. By evening his mind would start to drift – to the fords then the forts then the field, to pondering how fire must feel, to the imminent end of the world… The healers' sleeping draught was welcome.
That morning was the same, and so, he assumed, would be the afternoon and evening, and on until there were no days left to speak of. Partway through shaving, a tremor shook him; he remembered the wingbeats of the monster overhead, its foul breath, and its shriek, mingled with the cries of the dying… Carefully he put down the blade, not trusting his hands, and gripped the side of the washstand. He had found, on previous occasions, that turning his attention to some small aspect of his immediate surroundings helped – this time it was the rough wood of the table, which he rubbed against his thumbs, and the clean scent of his soap. He took deep, steady breaths. In a short while the trembling had passed, and he found himself thinking, I might not be equal to this task. I might not be sufficient.
The garden, when he got there, was empty. He did his usual circuit, looping round flower beds and coming to sit in the shade of a tree. Its trunk was solid against his back. He saw a little white flower by his hand. Coming to lie on his side, propped up on one elbow, he stared at it: a snowdrop, surely amongst the last, so late as to be out of season. He tapped it gently with his fingertip, and its drooping head bounced and danced. Suddenly the sheer unlikeliness of his own survival, his continued presence in the world, came to him, both awful and humbling. He rose, brushing the grass from him, and walked over to the wall to look east. How long now, he wondered. A week? Five days? A lifetime and no time, all at once. The clouds overhead passed, and he raised his face to feel the warm spring sun. New life coursed through his veins. Behind him, the Warden was calling his name. He turned, a man full ready for an arrow to strike.
Altariel, 9th August 2018