Disclaimer: I own nothing.
Author's Note: To anyone reading Reborn, it will be delayed a bit because some of the characters, no, not Fin and Alex, but other ones, are being stubborn and not communicating well. Within this week, I hope. As always, thanks to Mandi for putting up with me. muah
This chapter is part of an arc that changes everything. It's unpleasent and it was unpleasent to write but I had to write it. You've been warned. And I'd really, really like to hear what people think of this so, pleasepleasepleaseplease review!
Chapter 9
"You are early, Faramir," Angon, the master at arms commented, looking up from his task. He shot a disgusted look at the armor; it was nearly beyond use.
He frowned at his pupil, not his best, not at the sword, but damned if he did not give his all for it every moment he was on the field. The boy looked startled to hear him speak, the eyes that raised to meet his were slightly glassy, as if tinted by fever. He was pale and could not seem to quite focus properly.
Angon snorted; it was like Faramir to try and go on as if he were perfectly well when he was not but he thought they had overcome that particular stubbornness of his. The first time Faramir had come the training yards sick, and badly so, he had tried, vainly, to hide it. Angon had sat the boy down and had a talk with him about how life threatening it was to hide illness or injury when out on patrol or before battle. It would not just threaten his life, Angon had explained, but the lives of his fellows to hide such things from a superior officer.
Faramir had been sent back up to the Citadel, face burning red with embarrassment, and Angon thought a developing fever as well. To the master at arms' great displeasure he was back before the practice ended, flushed, weaving and looking miserable. His father had sent him back.
Angon put him in his work room, where he fixed the training weapons and armor, and told him to try and sleep. At the end of the lesson, he sent a message demanding the Steward's presence on the training grounds. He checked on Faramir as he waited for the Steward's arrival. The boy was sleeping fitfully on a pile of mats that needed to be stuffed again; a spattering of colour on his cheeks and sweat in his hair. He grimaced but he had suspected as much, it was the season for colds and fevers, most of the cadets would miss a day or two in the coming months. Faramir took sick rarer than most but when he did it hit him good.
It was his job to see the boy would not get himself killed when he was sent into battle; he did not need to train the boy out of any more fool habits than he already had! The master at arms was not planning take issue with the Steward in front of an audience but he would take issue with him for this. It was a lesser known fact of Gondorian law that the master at arms ranked above any man in the army and was on par with the Steward while on his training grounds. When it came to his cadets none could gainsay him and exceptions were rare.
So when the Steward arrived he got a similar talk to the one his son had endured, only more forceful because Angon thought the Steward should know better. He had served with Angon during his time in the army, before Angon had become master at arms and he had become Captain General. Denethor was more shamefaced than he had been in years when he left that meeting. Since then, Denethor had not meddled with his son's training, even if Angon knew he caught flak at home for not being the best at the sword in the class, and he had not turned up sick again.
Faramir wavered suddenly, weaving as if his feet were about to desert him. Angon swore and grasped him by the shoulders. He did not care a wit about how noble birthed the boy might be, if he was that ill he had no business being there, and he would bloody well carry him up to the House if need be.
Faramir started at the touch and made a low, ugly sound in the back of his throat. He blinked owlishly at the master at arms, as if coming out of a deep sleep and was suddenly trembling fiercely.
"Lad? Are you sick? You with me, cadet?" Angon thought to shake the boy once, firmly, to snap him out of it but thought better of it in the next moment. The shaking did not cease but Faramir's eyes almost managed to focus.
"No but I...I need to speak with my father," Faramir swallowed hard. "I must...I must, now!"
Angon pursed his lips and nodded sharply once. He was not sure what was wrong with the boy but somehow doubted he could deal well with it. "Go on then."
"I will try to come back before the lesson has ended," Faramir told him, holding himself stiffly.
"Good lad, go quickly now," Angon told him. He shook his head as Faramir, still white as marble and shaking, dashed off. He had not meant for him to run, not looking as if he were about to faint!
Angon sighed and shook his head. The boy would be back, if he said he would he would be. Angon had come to expect such things from the Steward's youngest son.
Denethor's vision was doubled for the pain in his head. He should have simply not risen that morning, stayed in bed and rested only...he had not touched his bed to stay in it. The past three days had been but a blur of his work in the day and his.. snooping at night, above the city.
He was loath to call is that. At first he had only used the palantír to observe Orcs and Easterlings on the borders of his land, which was not snooping as they had no business being in the land. Only recently, the past few days, had his gaze turned to others, rivals, allies, even kin! That was snooping, no matter how much he hated it.
He could not tell when it had begun, this urge to check on the other lords of Gondor. What were they doing? With whom? Denethor knew he had enemies, any with power did, and here was the tool observe them. Was it not his right as Steward to know what went on in his land? There were certain lords who sought to diminish his power and increase their own. This could not be tolerated. Denethor would have opposed it in a time of peace; it could absolutely not be allowed as they were gearing for war against their nameless, faceless foe.
So he watched, after dark, he would not let it interfere with his duties, he could not allow that. He watched who went to whom in the night, looked for out of place meetings, for suspicious behaviour, for any warning he might have. He had found little so far but he knew to be patient. Such things were not rooted out in a single night and how many were there that needed watching?
Last night he had spent much time observing his kinsman, the Prince of Dol Amroth. Denethor could not remember entirely why he had been suspicious of his late wife's brother then. Imrahil had never shown himself untrustworthy, if he had been foolish in his younger days. But he had great power, was a Prince, even, and great power tempted the bearer with the desire for more.
All he had gathered, though, was that Imrahil's youngest son was not an easy child to deal with when he did not want to go to bed yet. It had been a waste of time, which did not improve his mood. For all he knew he had missed something important watching Imrahil deal with putting a fussy toddler to sleep and looked about as haggard as he felt.
So lost in his thoughts and the pulse of pain in his head, Denethor did not hear the hurried footsteps nor the creak as his study door opened. Faramir did not pause to knock. He did not think of it, only getting to his father who could surely explain this. He had said to always come to him with this and Faramir was so disturbed by this new development he was shaking.
Denethor's head snapped up as the door snapped shut behind his youngest son. He glared at the boy who was supposed to be at sword practice, Denethor knew. He was not so remiss as to forget what class he thought his son most likely to play truant to, even if the assumption was incorrect. He obsessed on Faramir's attendance to his weapon's classes, which was perfect save for three days, two of which he had withdrawn Faramir from class for state functions.
The ache in his head increased as rage overtook him. It had been building all morning as paranoid thoughts invaded his tired mind and now that he found himself with a target something snapped. He rose, shaking with anger but Faramir, still distressed over what he had seen, did not notice.
"Father! Father, I..."
"BE SILENT!" Denethor roared, eye blazing with untold furies.
Faramir froze in place, eyes wide. He was sweating from the near run up to his father's study and still trembling because he could not stop, not until his father explained to him what he thought had happened, what he thought might, maybe, had been...
The slap sounded as a thunderclap in the quiet of the room. Faramir stumbled back in shock, tripped, and fell to the floor. He reached back to stop himself and his wrist twisted painfully beneath him. He gave a short gasping cry and spots danced before his eyes.
For long moments he could not react, could not think how to react. The pain from his wrist stole his breath away and his cheek burned. He did not think. He could not think. All he could do was lay there until the shock wore off.
He would have expected... He did not know what he would have expected. He had never thought, the situation he found himself in was not something he could fathom but the hand print he could feel on his cheek burned hotter because his father did not move to help him as he lay there shaking with pain and shock.
And when Faramir finally came back to himself enough to raise his head and look at his father Denethor was staring at him as if he had never seen him before.
A sob rose up in Faramir's throat and he viciously bit it back down. The air felt thick. He could not breathe. He could not think.
He did not remember pulling himself to his feet, arm clutched tight to his chest. He did not remember fleeing the room, nor if he encountered any as he skidded through the halls. He became aware only when he stumbled into the darkness of the never used study and nearly tripped again, this time over the cloak his brother had forgotten there last night.
He sank to the floor and pulled it about him, looking about wildly for a moment, sure he would hear quick angry footsteps coming after him at any moment.
The silence remained. He clutched the cloak closer with his good hand and gave in, sobbing harshly into the soft folds until his lungs ached and his head pounded and he fell into an uneasy sleep.
When Faramir did not return to sword practice Angon worried and worried further when he was absent for the rest of the afternoon. No word was sent, as he knew it should have been if Faramir had been unable to return as he said he would. Hurins were, in his experience, always good on their word. For Faramir to not return meant something had happened to him; the image of the boy collapsing in some alley on his way to the Citadel sent a shiver through his old bones, not only because it was the Steward's son missing but because he was genuinely fond of the cadet, as much as he could be knowing he was training the boy to be sent off to war.
He thought to send one of the cadets up to the Citadel when their lessons ended, thinking perhaps a messenger had not been sent because Denethor had deemed it unnecessary, if Faramir had been ill enough he may have forgotten to tell his father, after all. The booming laugh of the arm's rising star, home still recovering from his injuries and coming to the training grounds as he did daily to build up his strength again, presented him with a much better, and more discreet, option.
Angon had trained Boromir, he knew how close the brothers were simply from all the times Faramir had come to watch his brother train or stayed behind for wait for him after his own earlier lessons. Boromir's devotion was no less; Angon had often granted him use of the training grounds to teach his little brother when the cadets were done for the day.
Here, then, was the one person who could always find Faramir and he was soldier enough not to panic or make a fuss where one was most definitely not wanted. Angon, though, knew how worried he would be.
"You look as if another cadet has snapped five bows in one lesson again. None of your current students, I hope, can be as awful as I with a bow and arrow," Boromir joked, grinning broadly, as he spotted the master at arms and his long face.
Angon smiled thinly. "No, you, I fear, shall ever hold that record but I do have a student missing this day."
Angon saw Boromir's eyes cast about the departing cadets. It took him no time to label who was missing. His lips disappearing into a thin line.
"He was ill, I think, before class but it was a strange thing," Angon paused. "His eyes were distant and he seemed...removed, somehow. He said he had to speak with your father but that he would return before we put away swords for the day."
"I should go find him then, if only to ease your worries," Boromir said, trying to still the pounding of his heart. Faramir always kept his word, he would have returned even if he was sick, or had a message sent to the training grounds. "I shall see to it you are sent word once I have seen him."
Boromir went first to his father's study when he reached the Citadel. Denethor was there, pacing and muttering to himself. He looked frazzled, his robes were dusty and there was something about his eyes, something of fear, something of a lost quality that frightened Boromir. That his father was surprised to see him come striding through his study doors without knocking was saying something. Boromir never knocked, had not since he was a boy, yet his father always knew he was coming, could always tell by the tread of footsteps, he said, no matter how absorbed he was.
Yet this time he had not. Boromir shivered but did not pause.
"Did Faramir come to see you? Angon said he was ill and seemed worried. Is he alright?" Boromir asked, not bothering with a greeting, he felt such dread welling up inside him.
"I..." Denethor looked at his eldest with bewildered eyes; Boromir shivered again. "He came to see me, yes, and I... behaved badly I... frightened him and he...left quickly and now I cannot find him."
Denethor broke off and looked away from his son. He walked to the fireplace and stared vacantly into the flames. "I hurt him, I believe."
He turned back to his son but could not read Boromir's eyes. They were dark and he was pale; Boromir said nothing to him. Denethor lowered his head and looked away.
Boromir turned sharply and left. He had words for his father, oh he had words for him, but first he would find Faramir. Find him and tend to him, he only hoped whatever wounds his father's words had inflicted had not gone too deep.
He found Faramir in the first place he looked. It was too cold to hide long in their mother's ruined garden, especially without a blanket or a brother to huddle beneath it with, though he would not put it past Faramir to go and stay there. He hoped to find he had taken refuge elsewhere, a warmer place, as indeed he had, but finding him hurt more than Boromir had expected.
He felt heart sick looking at his little brother. Faramir looked like a child, curled up beneath his cloak, but as Boromir pushed the folds back so to better see his face he knew that childhood was but a dream now.
Faramir's face was pale and troubled even in sleep. Dried blood marred his face from where the force of their father's hand had made his nose bleed. Boromir reached out, stroking his hair tenderly and without speech. He felt tears threaten. He knew not how to deal with this.
"Faramir," he said quietly. He raised his fingers to stroke his cheek, biting his lip as he thought better of it and rubbed his shoulder instead. "It is time to wake, little brother. Wake, Faramir."
Faramir wrinkled his nose. He stirred, jarring his wrist as he did, the pain startling him. He lurched up, crying out and clutching his wrist tightly to him.
"Easy, easy," Boromir soothed. It took a moment for Faramir to recognize him; he slumped when he did. "Where does it hurt, brother mine?"
"My wrist," Faramir mumbled, looking dazed.
Boromir eased it away from Faramir's chest gently, making a low noise that was meant to be soothing when Faramir flinched and fidgeted, trying to distract himself from the pain. The wrist was darkening with bruises and even without prodding it Boromir could tell it was very tender. He winced in sympathy.
"Sprained, if not broken," Boromir said quietly. "A healer needs to see it."
"I cannot go to the Houses," Faramir said, that realization startled him, Boromir saw so in his eyes, bewildered eyes and nearly gave a start himself as he realized how like they looked to their father's. "Boromir, I cannot go to the Houses with this. I cannot."
"The healers take oaths that keep them from gossip," Boromir reminded him.
"But the other patients do not and who will stop their tongues. Someone might see me, I cannot..." Faramir looked away. "I cannot be seen. You know this as well as I."
That his brother should have to consider such a thing as he sat there, looking so lost and so... so still, so suddenly accepting, made Boromir wish to show the world what had been done, show the healers and their patients, the soldiers, the other Lords, their uncle, perhaps most he wanted that. Only how would that hurt Faramir? Too much, Boromir knew and... to be of the Steward's family meant certain things. His brother said right when he said such a thing needed to be hidden.
But hidden only for now. What became of this was not for their father to decide any longer, Boromir would see to that. No, this... this put him in the position of dictating their course, and he would be damned if he let his brother be hurt further.
"I will send for a healer," Boromir heard himself saying. "The Tower Guards will say nothing, they pass no tales of the Steward, ever."
How he hated himself for the words! It felt too much like a validation of what their father had done, keeping it secret like this, but what could he do? He could hardly challenge Denethor, he had no desire to oust his father from the Stewardship and bringing this to light would do so, darken the hearts of their people against him. He could not do that, not in these times, it risked too much. Despite all, Denethor was a good Steward, better than Boromir could hope to be at present with all his nineteen years. It could not come to that and so meant secrecy was required.
"Stay with me, in my rooms, until we have figured out what to do," Boromir said. Faramir looked up at him with too many questions in his eyes for his brother to answer. He cupped his little brother's bruised face instead, hands gentle. "I will not have you hurt again, brother-mine."
Faramir rested his head against him, his hand curling tightly in his brother's shirt. "I do not understand what I have done for him to... I do not know what to do now. I know he does not look at me as he looks at you, his eyes are not the same upon us, but he has never struck me before. Not like this and... Boromir, he looked as if he might have done more, had I not fallen and then fled."
He pushed his head against his brother, hiding his face. Boromir felt him tremble and felt warm tears against his neck.
"I will protect you, brother-mine, from everything, even him, if I have to, you know this. We will survive; we are Hurins, it is what we do."
"I do not wish to cry for him," Faramir muttered and Boromir looked down to see his face flushed and red. His teeth were gritted against the sobs that wanted to spill forth. "These foolish tears..."
"No tears of yours are foolish to me," Boromir told him, holding him for long moments when Faramir did not resist but instead shoved his face into Boromir's shoulder and he shook violently but he did not cry, he could not give that any longer. "I love you, my brother, and whatever else shall happen that will not change. It will never change; the moment the last breath leaves my body I will think of you and love you as it has been since the first breath was drawn by you."
Faramir shivered in his arms but Boromir only held him tighter a moment before drawing away, wiping the final tear tracks from his brother's face and getting him carefully to his feet. "Come, you need rest and healing. I will see you get it. And will you tell me what happened?"
"I do not know," Faramir murmured, looking at his brother as if searching for answers. "Truly, I do not know."
"...And he struck me. I do not understand why or what I have done," Faramir finished. "I can only think I displeased him because I did not knock or because I was not at weapons class but...He has never struck me before and I have done worse."
"As have I," Boromir agreed, frowning. "Why was it you left sword practice? Angon said you were ill."
Faramir sat up very straight suddenly, wincing as his bound wrist was pulled quickly from his brother's gentle grasp. "I never returned."
"I have sent a messenger. He was worried for you," Boromir told him, scowling as he took back his brother's wrist, examining the healer's work. It was not bad, it was very good, but Boromir was wary of all healers, especially of late since he had recently been in their clutches.
"I meant to go back," Faramir said.
"It is understandable why you did not," Boromir told him.
"Will it be? We cannot say... We have to think of something to say, some story. No one can know of this," Faramir reminded him.
Boromir pursed his lips. "We will think of something but I will... speak to father first. We will find a reason for you to have not returned. But why did you leave in the first place?"
Faramir swallowed. "I believe I had a vision."
"In the waking hours?" Faramir nodded and Boromir sighed. "We knew it was a possibility. Uncle has them when not in dreams. What was it you saw?"
"I..." Faramir shivered. "I saw, I think, your injury, how it happened."
He proceeded to describe Boromir's wounding in more detail than Boromir himself remembered, having been sorely hurt and then unconscious. He had been told, in full, what had happened and had kept the telling from his brother, who had, he learned, seen too much in the Houses as it was.
When Faramir had finished the tale he was trembling, pressing his wrist tight against his chest and Boromir was squeezing his other hand so hard it hurt. Faramir was biting his lip to keep tears from falling. "He promised me he would never be angry with me for a vision, no matter what I saw. He promised he would never turn me away."
"Oh Faramir," Boromir murmured. His grip on his brother's hand lightened to a caress. "He is a fool, a mean fool."
Faramir laughed painfully, startled by the comment. Boromir half-smiled. "You are still cold. You need to warm up. The King's study is drafty from disrepair and you stayed there long. Here."
He settled his warmest cloak about his brother like a blanket. The one Faramir had spent the afternoon huddled under he would give away or burn for it was now stained with the blood and misery of the dearest person to his heart.
Faramir made no protest as he settled into a chair before the fire. He was cold, too cold to even shiver, but it was a cold he thought might go too deep for fire to touch. Boromir's calloused hands touched his shoulder gently and he looked to his brother. His eyes were sad; Faramir wished it were not so. "I will go fetch us dinner. You will be fine for that time?"
Faramir smiled faintly and nodded. "Thank you, brother."
Boromir smiled just as slightly and bent down on impulse to kiss his brother's brow. "I will not be long."
Boromir just missed, as he made his way to the kitchens, crossing paths with his father, coming to his eldest son's rooms because no word of his youngest had yet been sent to him.
lindahoyland: I'm glad you liked it so much. Boromir did get very wise on me there and Elrond completely took control. You were right about something bad happening. I'd love to say the worst is over but…I will say nothing else physical will happen.
Shallindra: More Boromir, who rocks. Mandi very much dislikes Denethor after this chapter.
Aranna Undomiel: Glad you've liked it so far! I hope you keep reading it!
Redone: Glad you liked me playing with other characters so much! We're back to the boys of Gondor for a little bit. The dream meetings will be back, but not for a little bit.
Zammy: Thank you!
shie1dmaidenofrohan: Another update! Huzzah! We'll come back to Elrond, don't worry, I just wanted to deal with this story line before going back to that subplot. Mixing it up is too confusing. Boromir is very careful about how much he fusses over Faramir now that Faramir's older, mainly because otherwise Faramir yells at him and gets all pissy. He is a teenager after all.
elvingirl3737: Thank you! Hope you still like me after this portrayal of Denethor…there's more to this than has been said yet though, don't give up on me!
Jedi Buttercup: :Passes over a tissue: Elrond was making me cry. Elrond is one of the only characters who can do that. He's such a damn tragic character when you think about it. The past of ME effects it so much I don't see how you can't deal with it in stories, especially dealing with the brothers Gondor and Elrond's brood. It just makes up too much of who they are, you know?
I will get back to Elrond soon, promise, but mixing up the story lines was just too damn confusing. Can you guess the event, there's a succession of them but the biggest has already happened, that changed everything?
Faramir hasn't always been my favourite but he has always been top two with Eomer. I must say Eomer got a boast in the movies because Karl Urban is just…oh my. So is David Wenham even if he's not quite the Faramir I used to picture. Book Faramir is my favourite of the two Faramirs, and there really are two!, but David Wenham is always very nice to watch!
