The room was silent.

Every so often, anxious feet thumping on hard tile would echo down the hallway, but otherwise, all was still. So still that he felt as if he was not allowed to breathe.

As he stared at the white ceiling above him, his mind drifted back to the last few days. Most of them were blurry. Snatches of reality emerged only if he really concentrated, which was exhausting. He remembered a million flying arrows . . . the distressed cries of horses and fallen men . . . and fire ripping through his gut . . . fire . . . He remembered fire, and the faint smell of burning wood, and . . . his father's voice, distant. But then reality was less vivid. It blended into a mess of blood, bandages, and too many faces of concerned strangers . . . but one face stood out.

The king had come and called him back from the edge of death. He had not been as striking as expected, but the rough appearance told of much experience, and the profound eyes spoke of Numenorean decent and great valor. Vaguely, the remembrance of choking out, "What does my king command?" returned. What a state to be in to finally meet the king. If only he had been in better health . . . but the memory also contained instructions: "Awake and no longer be in darkness. Eat, rest, and improve."

Again, the silence filled the air, his thoughts stilled.

If the king bid him wake, that is what he would do. Slowly, he rose from his bed, grimacing at the pain in his ribs, but he would not lay idle anymore. Unconsciousness had stolen days from him, and sleep held no peace at the moment.

"My lord, Faramir?" A healer had heard his efforts from the hallway and come in to investigate.

Faramir looked up at her, feeling ridiculous but not any less convicted to rise. "I could not bring myself sleep any longer. I wish to walk around a while, if I may."

She appeared as if she were about to object, but then said, "Wait here a moment, my lord. You have not yet risen from your bed, and I would hate to leave you without a support."

He nodded, and she left the room. Certainly, she would have dissuaded him? But perhaps she had seen something beneficial in the freedom to roam that he had not yet discovered. How many others, he wondered, had given her the same request? How many others were in the Houses? . . .

His mind turned suddenly to the men who had ridden with him out to Osgiliath. He had to sit down again.

Returning with a wooden crutch, the healer noticed the grief smeared across his face and hesitantly set it by the door. "My lord?"

Faramir's eyes bolted to her concerned face. She could barely keep herself from gasping at the pain she saw there. ". . . I will just leave this here, my lord . . . in case you should need it . . ." Then she curtseyed hastily and left the room.

He spotted the crutch leaning against the wall.

Though the dark is great, I will fight to heal . . . if not for me, but in honor of my men . . .