Chapter 38
"Sorry, Captain," the boy answered, mixing apology with a rueful kind of pride Garad knew well, being a big brother himself. "But I've got to baby-sit."
"Garad's not doing much at the moment," Boromir said, with a grin of pure evil. "He can help you."
Garad laughed, settling back on his pillows with another yawn. He had no worry about being saddled with a babe in arms, not with Boromir standing beside him.
"We're not supposed to bother you," Ciran said, taking a step closer, but not coming properly into the room.
"No bother," Garad told him. "I can use the company."
The boy glanced at Boromir, received a confirming nod, and came in quickly.
"Brindil isn't taking too well to being the 'old' baby now," Ciran explained to Boromir, jostling the toddler on his hip as he glanced at Garad. "So Thiliel is helping Mother with Eowyn, and I'm looking after Brin while Father is resting."
"Eowyn?" Garad repeated.
"Eomer was called upon to give the name of the loveliest girl he knew, as he was the hero of the hour," Boromir explained, his eyes dancing with merriment.
"Smart answer," Garad nodded. "Unless he's in a rush to wed."
Boromir laughed. "I think his pride in his sister was a greater factor than caution. He could have named her after his mother."
"True enough," Garad agreed, holding out his hand to Ciran. "I am told I have you to thank for my Captain's life."
The boy blushed like a ripe tomato, ducking his head to hide his pleasure. "I didn't do much," he protested. "I just yelled, that's all."
"Ah, so you're officer material," Garad said dryly. The boy blushed even harder when Boromir laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
"He did a damn sight more than yell," Boromir assured them both.
"You'll have to tell me all about it," Garad told Ciran. He managed to stifle his yawn this time, buoyed by the prospect of finally having someone who just might tell him what he wanted to know, rather than what was best for him to know.
"You're supposed to be resting," the boy answered, his attention momentarily distracted from the traction apparatus he was studying.
"I am resting," Garad assured him. "Memorizing it?" he asked with a smile, lifting his chin at the boards and ropes and pulleys.
"It's interesting," the boy answered with a one-shouldered shrug. He was having a little trouble keeping hold of his sister, mostly because she was playing peek-a-boo with Boromir. "It almost looks…. Well, it kind of looks like a trebuchet."
"Similar principle, though they only threaten to fling me through the window with it," Garad told him, distracted himself by the Grand Flirtation carrying on before him. If Beregond had been awake, bets would have been silently flying in sign language as to how long it would be before Boromir had absconded with the child.
That thought took his mind where he didn't want it to go, and he forced himself to smile encouragingly at Ciran. The boy was surrendering his sister to her suitor with a combination of relief and reluctance that spoke volumes about his essential character.
"Have you ever fired a trebuchet?" Ciran asked eagerly.
"A few times, but I'm an archer, not an artilleryman." Sliding a glance at where Boromir was flying little Brindil over his head to her delighted giggles, he asked, "I'm feeling hungry, Cir. How about you?"
"I'm all right," the boy answered, but his stomach betrayed him, rumbling at the mention of food. "I can wait until supper," he said, frowning in the direction of the growl. Yes, the boy would have known lack of food, and with so many other, younger mouths to feed, he would have learned to lie about his own hunger. No wonder Boromir had taken him under wing.
"Well, I can't," Boromir said, demonstrating how famished he was by gobbling up Brindil's bare little toes. She squealed happily, and Garad cast a hopeful glance over at Beregond, but he didn't move even with that ear-splitting provocation.
"Shall we raid the pantry?" Boromir asked the babe now settled in his arms. "Would my Honey like a honey cake?"
Brindil allowed as to how she would with an open-mouthed kiss on Boromir's chin.
"We'll be back," Boromir told them, disappearing out the door.
"The Valar only know what he'll come back with," Garad sighed.
"I should go with him," Ciran said, clearly torn between fascination and duty. "She might take a turn, and scream the house down, if I'm not there."
"She won't," Garad assured him. "Trust me, she's in love."
"He should get married," Ciran said, shaking his head; "No matter what his father says."
Garad hid his surprise behind a raised hand and a cough. He looked to have hit a Mithril vein with his chosen informant.
Ciran shot him a glance, and it was clear he was wondering if he had said something he shouldn't have. "Is he really the Captain-General of Gondor?' he asked, his voice lowering in confidence.
"And the High Warden of the Tower Guard," Garad confirmed.
Ciran thought about that for a few moments, then sighed. "I suppose if your father is the Steward, you just can't go getting married when you feel like it."
"We'll talk about that later," Garad told him, making a mental reminder to do just that. "But now, why don't you tell me what happened to my Captain? I'm afraid I don't remember much…."
SCENE BREAK
The distant sound of laughter and conversation drifted into the ward. The Men of the garrison and its new refugees were giving a fare-thee-well to those who were leaving in the morning to fight the Corsairs of Umbar.
Faramir had done his turn at the party earlier, accepting the thanks and cheers offered to him with a lift of his tankard and an embarrassed bow. Thankfully, Boromir hadn't made him stay much longer than that, allowing him to slip away from the revelry for a change.
Then again, this wasn't a formal acknowledgment of a victory won and thus a power-struggle between Denethor and Boromir, but the camaraderie of those on the front lines about to go into harm's way together. Boromir understood that for Faramir, this time was best spent with his Square, in quiet thinking and the careful preparation of his gear.
A particularly loud moment from the party burst into the room, startling in its volume, and Faramir automatically looked at Beregond. Unfortunately, his friend slept on, oblivious.
Sighing, Faramir set one of his boot daggers and his sharpening stone and oil aside and rose.
"Is he stirring?" Garad asked, no doubt hoping his restricted movement had prevented him from seeing something Faramir had noticed.
"No," Faramir sighed. Putting his hand on the back of Bear's head, he Searched for his spirit, and found it right where it should be.
"Can you do anything?" Garad asked him, as he had not asked Faramir until now, until this moment when their separation loomed.
"His spirit doesn't wander. He just doesn't wake."
"I can't blame him," Garad muttered. "Considering what he thinks is waiting for him when he does…."
"You mean lying about in his Lady's arms while the rest of us grunt around in the wet and the muck in Ithilien?" Damrod asked him, neatly cutting off that particular means for Garad to torture himself.
A knock on the door jamb heralded the arrival of Liel. "May I come in, Gentlemen?" she asked.
Faramir turned to the door with a welcoming smile. Damrod put down his quiver and rose, both in respect for her and to assist Garad in sitting up higher than the wedge pillow allowed.
"Of course, Your Grace," Faramir answered for them all, giving her a formal bow.
"Still no change?" she asked, coming into the room to go to Beregond.
"Not yet," Faramir sighed, stepping back to give her room and watch her work. It was a trifle incongruous to see her acting like a healer, for she was dressed as a Princess tonight. He noticed her dress was woven of wool rather than the silk the nobility of Minas Tirith was accustomed to wear, and the buttons that ran down its front were made of the same cloth as the dress, instead of being made of gold or silver, but not even the richest smuggler in Minas Tirith could boast anything half so precious as the circlet she wore.
Elegant, ancient, crafted of Mithril, it rose like the prow of a great ship above her forehead into the Star of Eärendil. A single jewel cut by a long-dead Dwarven hand sparkled blue and white in the center of the star, a sign of her allegiance to the mythical High King of Eriador and the equally mythical King of Gondor
She wore it rarely, and he was surprised she had brought it with her, until he had seen the light of it reflected in the eyes of the Men and Women who had lost everything but the birthright it represented and in the pride of the old soldiers and young boys who thought themselves forgotten, the least of Gondor.
With her own sigh, Liel stroked the back of Beregond's head. "He is growing stronger. He should have woken by now."
"He will in his own time," Damrod said, rather sternly. "Beregond is better than most with Meridian healing, and as your Grace well knows, they often take their own sweet time recovering."
"That's true enough," Faramir agreed, raising an eyebrow at her to remind her of her own infrequent coma-like convalescences. "The Valar know you've aged me beyond my time with that trick!"
Laughing, she fussed with his collar, straightening his shirt on his shoulders. "I've discussed this with Boromir. Elena and I shall remain here, until Beregond is recovered enough to move. My Lancers will stay as well, as will the refugees, until word comes as to the disposal of the Pirates. Cair Andros may yet need the extra man-power."
"A good plan," Faramir agreed, understanding the true meaning of it. There would be no chance for word of the ambush to leak to ears that might not have the best interests of Gondor in their hearts, be they in Osgiliath or Minas Tirith. He knew his Uncle Imrahil would behave accordingly, no doubt taking his ships out to "practice" riding the tide and the wind upriver, as he often did. Boromir had at last learned to be wary of their father.
"You will all have an early night?" she asked them, taking them in with her glance.
"Yes, Your Grace," they chorused, and for once, they meant it. The skills of Rangers would be needed and quickly, for scouting was difficult enough with a full Square.
"Good," she said, giving Garad a thorough visual inspection, though Damrod's presence saved him from the full going-over. "I will see you on the morrow."
"Sleep well," she told them.
Faramir hugged her, giving and accepting a kiss on the cheek, a liberty the company allowed them both to take.
"Have a good night," he wished her, knowing from experience that sleeping was the last thing she would be doing.