Later, Tamar went searching for clothes. His robe was grimy and barely decent, and she could tell that he was self – conscious as he sat, a little awkwardly at the table in a rectangle of afternoon sunlight, brow creased in deep thought. Reluctant to break his reverie, she left him and slipped away into her bedroom determined to find him something more suitable to wear. The problem of what to do with him weighed heavily on her mind. She should, she knew, report him to the police, list him as a 'found' person. (There should, she reasoned, be a 'found' persons list as well as a missing persons list…) He had a quality about him, though, which made her reconsider. He was not so much lost as moved, not quite Real, not entirely Unreal. She frowned and sighed, frustrated by her own indecision. Very well then, since he seemed to be harmless for the moment, she would let him remain unmolested by outside intrusion until such time as the issue became forced. 'Frank' he would be until he chose otherwise. She delved deeply into a pile of clothes on the floor of her wardrobe. Her clothes never seemed to stay put away, preferring instead to dwell in happy community on her floor. Intent as a pig after truffles, she pursed her lips in consideration as she pulled out an oversized tshirt and a pair of sweat pants that had been too big even for her generous frame. The tshirt was navy, and the sweat pants an unfortunate shade of grey, not quite dark grey, not quite pale grey. She had work them once, rolled up and baggy, when she had first moved to the cottage, to unblock some drainage ditches to the rear of the property. They had mostly recovered in the wash but still bore some serious stains as a testament to their mistreatment. Still, they were the largest clothes she had, and would just have to do. She draped them over one arm, and scooped the rest of the clothes back into the haphazard pile. She stood, and looked about the room in a moment of self indulgent satisfaction. It had been the first room she had finished in the cottage, its walls a lavender colour, the board floor painted a pale ice green to match the curtains, which had been the result of left over fabric from the bedspread. She smiled to herself, then turned her back on the room and went back to the kitchen.
He was sitting where she had left him, the remains of his meal on the plate before him, lost in concentrated thought. When she entered, he looked up and gave his lopsided smile.
"I have clothes for you to try on," she said, gesturing to her bundle. "I'd like my robe back, eventually."
He nodded, and peered curiously at the garments she handed him, feeling the fabric.
"It's soft," he said at last.
"Go into the bathroom and try them on. They're the biggest I've got, but they should fit at least enough for you to be comfortable, I think."
He rose, and brushed past her into the small bathroom, emerging a few minutes later wearing the outfit. The tshirt was fine, the pants a little short, and a little small, but still serviceable.
Tamar nodded. "They'll do for now. Tomorrow I can hit town and get you some new clothes."
He paused, and looked uncomfortable.
She raised her eyebrows in enquiry.
He cleared his throat, and looked down. "I… I thank you for your kindnesses, lady. I think… I feel almost like a man again."
Tamar reached out and took his hand in sudden sympathy. It was large and calloused hard in her own.
"Hey. No problem, okay?"
He looked discomfited for a moment. "What does that word mean? Okay?"
She stared at him for a moment in surprise. "It means… um, good or fine."
"Then," he replied, "you… are okay."
Tamar laughed out loud.
"Well thankyou."
That night, he slept. She had made him a pallet on the clear spot of the floor of the second bedroom, a pile of blankets and cushions that was comfortable enough. His body told him that a soft bed was a luxury, feeling almost uneasy as he settled into the makeshift mattress. He closed his eyes, and sleep took him immediately and suddenly.
He was seventeen, and in a garden… no, a wood. Green and brown around him, unclear but solid in context. The air smelled of resin and leaf litter, and the ground was soft beneath his booted feet. He was crouching by a tree… hiding?… a sword resting easily in his hand. He was alert, listening, anticipating…
The attack was sudden when it came, the smaller figure bursting out at him from behind in a flurry of brown leaves tossed up into whirlwind. It hit him with a thud, cannoning into his chest and belly and yelling in a cracked voice as it pummeled him with a tree branch.
"You're dead! I killed you!" the figure cried gleefully. As he sat up, rubbing his chin where a stray blow had caught it, he smiled and laughed.
"Very good, Faramir. Very good indeed. One day you shall truly become a great captain for Gondor!"
The figure resolved itself into a younger boy, collapsed against a tree root, still clutching his bit of branch, cheek smeared with mud in a childish imitation of the camouflage worn sometimes by older warriors. Faramir was laughing, his red brown hair flopping into his face.
He stood, and reached for the child, hoisting him up by the lacing of his jerkin, and ruffling his hair in rough affection.
"Come, captain of Gondor, we must return to the others before you are missed."
A small face turned up to his.
"Captain of Gondor?" the boy asked. He squinted upwards, considering. "But I shall be taller than you, brother, and much handsomer."
The older youth laughed, and landed a soft punch to his brother's small chin before taking his grubby hand and dragging him along a forest path…
When he awoke, the memory of the dream slipped quickly away, leaving him with nothing but disjointed images and a tangy metallic ache of loss and grief. Again he slept, but did not dream more that night.
He awoke again, quickly, when dawn's indigo haze entered through the curtainless window and lightened the room to a pale gloom. He became aware of a warm body beside him, and rolled over. Chulainn's great grey head rested on the pillow next to his, small blissful snores coming from it. The dog shifted slightly and opened his eyes, glaring balefully at Frank before flopping over and taking much of the blanket with him. Frank sighed and yawned, and stretched where he lay, his joints aching slightly from the position in which he had slept. He hauled himself up to stand, and stretch again. The air was cool, but not chilly, as he considered for a moment, then kicked some more blankets over the slumbering dog before pacing out into the kitchen. Tamar's door was closed. He paused before it, listening intently, but hearing nothing to suggest that she was awake. In the bathroom, he regarded the silver valves for a moment before cautiously turning one and producing a stream of cold water. He splashed his face, and stood to regard himself in the mirror. He met his own gaze, cool blue grey eyes reflected and reflective, somber in the half light. Whose eyes? Frank was a name, but not a name he felt was his own. He lifted his shirt, and examined the scars on his torso, now healed over and turning to scar tissue. Concerned, the thought came to him that they seemed to be healing over too quickly. He lowered his hem, and frowned at his reflection, which remained silent and as bemused as he.
Outside, the air was crisp and the horizon smudged pale grey and mauve beyond the trees to the rear of the cottage. He stood outside in bare feet on the path which led from the back door, past Tamar's vegetable garden, to a few old tumbledown sheds and outbuildings. The leaves of the trees were brown and russet red, and stirred a memory, dreamlike behind his eyes. He blinked, and it went away. A sound from behind him made him start and turn. Chulainn stood in the open door behind him, snuffing appreciatively at the morning air. He looked at Frank and made a low chuffing sound in his chest, and came forward to stand beside him. Frank absently scratched his ears and shivered in the morning chill as he gazed away, toward the rising sun. What manner of man was he? Silently, man and dog stood together in the dawn, each thinking his own thoughts.
Just outside the back door of the cottage, between the green door and the slightly ramshackle vegetable garden, was a stump, old and large and grey, mutilated and shaped by countless gashes and nicks in its surfaces. Stuck firmly in the top of it was an axe, long handled and well worn. Beside it lay a few small piles of kindling, and a larger pile of uncut wood. Frank grasped its significance immediately, and, muscles restless, gripped the axe haft in one hand and pulled it free. He swung it experimentally a few times. It felt good in his hand, solid and capable, smooth spots worn along its length by repeated use. He pulled a smallish log free of the pile, and balanced it on the stump. With two direct blows, he split it along its length into two pieces of firewood. Grinning, he tossed them to one side, and reached for another length of log.
At length, he had a fair sized pile of firewood chopped and stacked where the jumble of uncut logs had been. He stood upright, axe still in hand, and wiped sweat from his brow. He felt good – alive – his muscles warmed and comfortable from the exertion. He was still, the cool autumn air on his face, and his feet cold on the earth. A small brown bird alighted for a second on the stump, regarded him sternly from tiny black eyes and darted away. He smiled. For a moment, he was utterly content, and still within himself, all questions and puzzles forgot in favour of the scent of the earth and the resinous aroma of the wood heavy in the early morning.
Chulainn barked from the stand of apple trees by the corner of the building, and Frank grinned in reply. Chulainn barked again, and Frank became aware of the crunch of footsteps steady on the gravel, approaching the cottage from the other side. His grip on the axe handle tightened, and he listened, breathing steadily but lightly. A tuneful whistle, and a clinking sound accompanied the footsteps. They drew closer, and Frank felt his muscles bunching and moving of their own accord, hefting the axe a little higher. His eyes widened, and his lips grew tight, as warmth coursed through his veins. This felt… right, this waiting, this weapon, this bloodrush and sweat. The footsteps and whistling grew closer, almost to the corner of the cottage. Frank paused, action stored in the memory of his body, awaiting release. A man, short and dark, wearing a blue shirt and pants, carrying a basket containing several bottles of white liquid. He was whistling, and looking about him. He looked up as Chulainn bounded from the trees to meet him, tongue lolling, and tail waving. Catching sight of Frank, he froze still, and blinked, dropping the basket as Frank drew himself up to his full height, his knuckles white on the dark wood axe handle. The man blinked, once, twice, and Frank felt an icy spot between his eyes, and for a moment the man's brow blazed silver in the morning light. Distracted, Frank loosened his grip on the axe handle. The man's eyes widened.
"My Lord," he stammered. "My Lord, it's you! But how…"
Frank narrowed his eyes. "Tell me who you are," he commanded. The man swallowed.
"K – Kored, my liege. Of Gondor. Your man for many seasons. Do you not know me?"
Frank shook his head in confusion. "I do not."
Kored cleared his throat.
"It is you, I am certain. My Lord Boromir, heir to Gondor! Do you not know yourself?"
A rustle at the door beside him made him turn his attention for a second. Tamar stood there, her face unreadable as she watched him.