Grrr. NO MORE DISCLAIMERS EVERYONE KNOWS I DON"T OWN LORD OF THE RINGS!
wow! Three posts in one night! You are very lucky readers. Call it an early Christmas present.
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"Lord Boromir, wake up." Boromir groaned and tried to block out the voice. A hand shook his shoulder. "Lord Boromir, if you do not get up this instant I shall have to mix up an incredibly horrid tasting potion and forcibly pour it down your throat." His eyes flew open and he jumped quickly out of the chair. He groaned, his neck cramped from sleeping sitting down. As he rubbed his neck he glared at Iorwyn.
"May I help you?"
"Yes, there is a man at my door insisting on seeing you. I believe he is in the army, a sergeant I think. Will you please see him before he annoys me to death?" Since Boromir's mind was only just waking up, it took him awhile to process what she was saying. As Iorwyn continued to glare at him, he quickly realized that it would be much safer to go talk to the sergeant.
Boromir found the man standing outside the door, fidgeting. The sergeant jumped to attention when he saw Boromir. "My Lord, I followed your trail, per Lieutenant Hiron's orders. The Lieutenant wishes to know what your orders are, sir. Oh, and we found your horses and I brought them. Sir." Boromir, not being a morning person, stifled a yawn.
"Sergeant, tell Lieutenant Hiron to return to Minas Tirith and inform my father about the orc attack and my brother's injury. Faramir is not in any condition to ride, so we will stay here until he is better. Oh, you may take your horse with you, my thanks for its use." The sergeant looked relieved at Boromir's nonchalant attitude. The Lord of Gondor shook his head as the soldier left. The man probably thought he would bite his head off for having the healer wake him up. Boromir walked back into the small house where Iorwyn was busy making breakfast. She looked up as he entered.
"Is he gone?" Boromir nodded. "Good. I tried telling him that you were asleep, but every five minutes he would ask if you had woken yet. He wouldn't even come inside, said that he 'couldn't intrude on a lady's house. It isn't proper.' Silly pansy. Wouldn't breathe unless someone commanded him to." Boromir grinned at the healer's ranting. It faded instantly at her glare. Iorwyn continued speaking. "I don't believe that we have been properly introduced yet. My name is Iorwyn, daughter of Magni and Ioreth. My husband, Rendil, is visiting relatives in Dol Amroth and should be home today."
"A pleasure to meet you Lady Iorwyn. May I ask how my brother is faring?" At that, Iorwyn frowned.
"He has a fever and has not gained consciousness yet. I fear it may have to do with the poison, but I don't know what. Hopefully Rendil will return soon, he will know what to do." The still-grumpy-from-being-woken-up-and-having-to-deal-with-jumpy-soldiers Boromir wasn't thinking clearly and made the mistake of angering Iorwyn.
"I thought you were a healer? What kind of healer doesn't know how to deal with fever and poisons?" Iorwyn's glared at Boromir, who wasn't her favorite person to begin with, after he had ignored her pleas to help his brother ten years ago.
"Pardon me, my Lord but because, as a woman, I am not allowed on battlefields, there is no way to learn how to treat poisoned wounds. I treat children's broken arms, cuts, and bruises. The peasant people come to me because all the taxes your father levies on them drain them of the money they need to afford professionals. I work with the people suffering from mal-nourishment, typhoid, malaria, and other illnesses that the common people endure while you nobles sit in your upper levels, throwing out excess food while the people starve. You don't realize that your people are dying, while you live comfortably in your palace. Lord Faramir is the only noble I know who cares enough to try and help those less fortunate than he. He has been back only two years, spending most of his time in Ithilien as a soldier, yet he has managed to set up a program giving food to the hungry, and has ordered that all old clothes be re-tailored and distributed to the poor instead of being thrown out. You didn't know that did you? Perhaps you should pay more attention to your brother, you might learn something. You may even learn to respect your elders. Now if you will excuse me, I'm going to go chop firewood."
Several moments passed before Boromir moved again. He got the distinct feeling that Iorwyn didn't like him. Any anger he might have felt at her insults was crushed under the feeling of shock and shame that he hadn't really known or cared about his own people. What kind of Steward would he make if he didn't know how those under him lived? His history instructor had repeatedly reminded him that to rule without rebellion, one must care for the people. Yet he had never given them a second glance. Boromir glance at his sleeping brother. Faramir cared for the people of Gondor. Boromir set his mind to ask his brother how he could help when he woke up.
Rendil returned early that afternoon. Boromir, having skillfully dodged Iorwyn's glare for hours, was very happy to meet the surprised former guard. Knowing his wife's dislike for the Steward's Heir, Rendil was relieved to see that he was alive and unscathed. The veteran soldier was immediately led to Faramir who still burned with fever. Iorwyn informed her husband about the injury and how it had been treated. Rendil nodded approvingly when she mentioned the treatment for the poison. "The poison was most likely a kind of death-glob. It stays in the wound and doesn't spread, but grows and leaves the wound open to infection. The wine softens the glob and then the heat of the iron destroys it. Unfortunately, the infection usually stills occur, although to a lesser extent. Hissing-lilies and killweed mixed in a broth should bring the fever down. Do not worry, my lord, your brother will probably wake by tomorrow's dinner." Boromir breathed a sigh of relief. He saw Iorwyn glare at him and quickly moved so that Faramir stood between them.
'Stop that,' he told himself. 'What would Father think, you scared of an old woman?' Another glare and Boromir realized that even Denethor would cower in fear under Iorwyn's eyes. Now that he had time to think back, she had never looked at him kindly and her voice had always held a cold tone in it. He wondered what he had done to have her hate him so much.
"Dear, you should try to be more civil to him. He is the Steward's Heir." Faramir pulled himself back to consciousness to the sounds of Rendil and Iorwyn arguing. Not having the strength the open his eyes, Faramir just listened, happy to apparently be alive. At least, he didn't think that you could hurt in the afterworld as much as his body did now.
"Rendil, he could be the Grand Potentate of Valinor and the Walls of the Sun, I still wouldn't like him."
"Why?" Rendil and Iorwyn turned simultaneously at the sound of Faramir's soft voice. Both faces melted into relieved smiles.
"It is good to see you awake, my lord," they exclaimed in unison. The twin movements and speech seemed so funny to Faramir that he began laughing. Unfortunately, his shoulder did not feel in the mood to laugh and he quickly stopped when it protested. As husband and wife checked him over, Faramir returned to his question.
"Why do you not like my brother, Iorwyn?"
"He is haughty and insolent and disrespectful to his elders. He does nothing for the good of the people of Gondor except make war. I know he is trying to protect us from the foes in the East, but a country cannot fight if the people are hungry, Faramir. Lord Boromir does not understand that." While Faramir acknowledged these reasons, knowing them to be true, he felt that she wasn't telling everything.
"That is not the full reason why you do not like him." Iorwyn sighed.
"Ten years ago, I tried to tell him about what was happening to you. He would not listen. It pains me to think about what would have happened if Prince Imrahil hadn't shown up. I have never forgiven Lord Boromir for not listening."
Faramir smiled somewhat sadly. "He had no reason to believe you. I hid things well. Perhaps too well." He looked up at Iorwyn. "I never got to thank you for helping me then. I believe this is twice you have saved my life."
She patted his hand like a mother with a child. "Let's just not make it a recurring event."
Hating to break up the touching reunion, Rendil hesitantly spoke up. "My lord, I believe your brother will wish to know you are awake."
"Rendil, please, you are my friend. Call me Faramir." Just then Boromir walked in. He had been working outside to keep away from Iorwyn and came in warily to ask Rendil for help with the chickens. A grin came to Boromir's face at seeing his brother up and well.
"Faramir! I am glad to see that you are finally awake! You had us worried for a while there." He gently gave Faramir a hug, careful not to squeeze the young man's healing shoulder.
"Yes, well, I am feeling much better now, brother. We should be leaving soon, Father will not be pleased at our absence." Boromir frowned.
"Let him worry, you are not in any condition to leave. We will go home when I feel you are well enough."
"I agree with Lord Boromir," commented Rendil. "I would like you to stay here so that we can be sure there will be no ill after-effects from the poison."
Faramir could not hold back a smile at the three concerned and stubborn faces. "I believe I am outnumbered. Very well, as long as we don't impose on you, we will stay."
Faramir and Boromir stayed at Rendil and Iorwyn's house for five more days before returning to Minas Tirith. Several messengers had come during that time from Denethor demanding that Boromir leave for Minas Tirith immediately, but he refused, determined to stay with his little brother. Faramir knew that Denethor would not be pleased, but Boromir would not listen to his objections. Thus it was that the two brothers rode into Minas Tirith to meet with a very annoyed Steward.
~*~
A frustrated Faramir strode down the halls. Why couldn't his father say one nice thing to him, just one nice thing? As soon as they entered the palace, Boromir and Faramir were escorted to their father's study. Things went as usual. Denethor began berating Faramir for his idiocy while Boromir tried to defend his brother. Faramir himself never said anything in his own defense, knowing it to be useless. Yet it still hurt that his father hadn't even said that he was glad to see that he was alive. In fact, the Steward was just glad that it had been Faramir who had been hurt and not Boromir. Denethor hadn't said so in his words, for Boromir would not have stood for that, but Faramir read it in his father's eyes. Faramir balled his hands into fists, trying to control his anger. It wasn't fair! Why didn't his father love him? Tears began welling in his eyes, but he angrily kept them back. Faramir hadn't cried since the night when Lord Elrond had saved him from his dreams, and he wasn't going to start crying now.
"Faramir!" He stopped and turned to Boromir who was hastily trying to catch up with him. "Faramir, where are you going?"
"No where."
Boromir gave Faramir a skeptical look. "You have to be going somewhere. Please tell me." Faramir rolled his eyes at the puppy dog look his brother gave him.
"Very well, just quit looking at me like that, it's undignified." Boromir grinned in triumph. "I am going walking through the city. There are some people I would like to see."
"Can I come?" Faramir glanced quizzically at his brother.
"They are not nobles, they are peasants. I just want to make sure they are doing well, and see if they need any help."
"I know. Can I come? I want to help." Faramir saw a hopeful look in Boromir's eyes. He truly did want to help. Faramir's face broke into a broad smile.
"I would love your help, brother."
~*~
Denethor, Steward of Gondor, stepped silently into his youngest son's room. He sighed in frustration when he saw that Faramir wasn't there. The Steward knew that his words earlier that day had been harsher than needed and guilt had plagued him since. He had finally given in to his disapproving conscience and went to apologize to his son. Yet Faramir was gone. Denethor glanced around the room. Since Faramir spent most of his time as a Ranger in Ithilien, the room was stark, undecorated and empty of all signs of habitation. Denethor frowned. Not totally empty. The sun shone through the windows onto a desk cluttered with papers.
Almost unconsciously, the Steward walked over to the desk and began shuffling through the writings. Or, to be more precise, the drawings. The majority of the drawings were sketches with no color, yet the shading gave each picture a life of their own. Sunlight gleamed on the Tower of Ecthelion. An Ithilien Ranger strung his bow near the shimmering falls of Henneth Annun. Boromir fought a hideous orc whose evil glare caused a shiver to run up Denethor's spine. There was a picture of Denethor himself, seated on the Steward's Chair, head held high, as he listened to one of the nobles speaking. A young servant girl smiled as she scrubbed the palace floor. Denethor stared in shock as he realized that Faramir had drawn all of these. He was amazed at his son's talent, and a piece of his heart was moved at the emotion he felt radiating from each picture. Yet the dark voice rose up in his mind as he looked at another picture. Denethor had never met this . . . man. . . before, but he knew who it was. It was as the palantir had shown him years before. A stately elf stared at him from the paper, eyes seeming to bore into Denethor's soul. The Steward clutched the picture of Lord Elrond, his hands trembling in anger. This was the creature who took Faramir, tried to turn him against Denethor and Gondor. The dark voice spoke.
That elf twisted Faramir's mind. Faramir hates you because of him. Faramir was weak, he was easily deceived. You returned Faramir to his rightful place, but now you find that he still follows him*. These scribblings show that.
In a rage, Denethor threw the sketch of Elrond into the open fireplace and watched as the fire slowly consumed the picture. Not satisfied, Denethor threw each drawing into the fire, one at a time. The servant girl, Boromir, the Ranger, the Tower of Ecthelion, each burnt to ash. A crazed grin spread across the Steward's face as the pictures disappeared into the flames. Only one was left in his hand and he prepared to toss that one in as well, but stopped. He stared at the picture for seconds, for eons, trying to comprehend what he saw. On the page was Denethor kneeling on the floor. In his arms he held a small child, protecting the little boy from some outside danger. The Steward's mind reeled as he recognized the small boy. It was Faramir, not even five years old. The Faramir in the picture seemed to feel happy, safe, content... loved? The representation of Denethor gazed upon his son with a loving smile. The real Denethor gasped. This was Faramir's wish, his heart's desire. To have his father's love and protection, to be content and safe. Denethor's head spinned. He dropped the picture and ran away in confusion, heading to the secret room in the Tower to get his thoughts straight. The picture fluttered to the floor, only to be picked up by a breeze from an open window and flown to join the other drawings in the fire. The paper crinkled and slowly turned to ash, the picture of loving father and son destroyed by red flame.
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Don't know when the next chapter will come. Sooner, the more you ask. =D (can you tell I like the little grin-face? Can you even tell it's a grin?)
