Boromir woke up with a jolt in the dead of night, gasping for air. A fit of coughing seized him, and his lungs felt as though they were on fire. For a moment, he simply lay in bed, choking on the liquid that still lingered in his airway. His eyes were wide with fear, and he believed he was still inside the darkness of the well, drowning in the icy water.
Suddenly, his coughing fit subsided, and he took a few ragged breaths to calm himself. A hand reached over to Boromir, and gently lay on top of his burning forehead. "It's all right now, my son," a deep voice murmured. "You are safe here."
Boromir felt extremely disoriented. He recognized the voice that spoke to him as Denethor's, but where was he? How did he escape the clutches of the well, and why did he feel a great weight across his body? The boy struggled briefly to rise, but his father stopped him.
"Not now, not now. You need to rest."
Boromir ceased in his attempts to get up. Instead, he blinked a few times, then strove to speak. a few choked words emitted from his raw throat. "Father, where am I?"
Denethor answered him softly. "You are in your own room, in the tower, and it is now the middle of the night.
The Steward paused as another coughing fit wracked the boy's body, and sighed. Boromir had managed to evade death inside the well, but now, hours later, he still had trouble drawing breath. Denethor also noticed the flushed appearance of the boy's skin, visible even in the dim light.
As Boromir became quiet again, Denethor continued speaking. "I was attending to some business here, in the tower, when suddenly a small group of people entered the hall. One man at the front carried you in his arms. He told me that you had fallen into a well, and nearly drowned." Denethor stopped once more, and sighed. He did not mention the fearful cries of Faramir, as he had struggled in the arms of the woman carrying him, or the terrified expression on the face of the other boy present. The other boy- Beregond was his name, had mentioned something like, "I didn't mean to miss catching the rope! Is he all right? I didn't mean anything!"
Boromir seemed satisfied with this description of events. Or, was it satisfaction that caused him to close his eyes and drift into sleep? Perhaps he was overcome with sickness and exhaustion.
Denethor felt his son's forehead again, giving the boy a worried glance. A fever appeared to be burning in his body, and his breath rattled in his chest.
********
About an hour later, Denethor stepped out of his son's room for a moment. A terrible shadow was growing in his mind, and he feared the worst for Boromir. Two of Gondor's finest healers had attended to the boy earlier that day, but their news was grim. It appeared as though Boromir had spent several minutes underwater, and only the swift work of his rescuers had brought him back from the brink of death. Unfortunately, some of the icy well water yet remained in his lungs, causing a shortness of breath. There was no telling the full extent of the damage to his respiratory system. The boy had also been thoroughly chilled from the conditions of the well, and now seemed to pay the price with an ever rising fever.
The Steward, the most powerful man in the whole of Gondor suddenly felt very weak. He felt that he might lose his eldest son at any time, yet there was nothing he could do except comfort the boy, and hope.
********
In a different room of the palace, Faramir was sitting up in bed. He was not in his own room, and the unfamiliar surroundings, coupled with the horror of the day's events made sleep impossible. Thus, the boy remained awake throughout the hours of the night.
Overall, Faramir was extremely uneasy. When he arrived at the tower in the afternoon with the others, he had been whisked away suddenly, away from the men, away from his father, and away from his brother. A tower guard had simply grasped his hand and pulled him to another place, while he struggled in vain against the iron grip. Now, he began to feel increasingly unhappy, not to mention slightly suspicious. Why would they not let him remain with Boromir?
An evil answer seemed to play over and over in his mind. "Something's wrong," he thought to himself, many times during the later hours of that day, and night. "Something is very wrong, and they don't want me around."
Suddenly, another thought occurred to the boy. "Boromir is dying. That's why I can't see him."
He shook his head vigorously at that, but still, it rushed through his mind again. Inside his head, Faramir argued with himself.
"He's dying."
"No, he's not!"
"He is dying, and you know it."
"No!"
"Yes."
Faramir sobbed. No matter how he tried to answer the evil thought, it would not satisfy him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly saw himself, standing outside the walls of Gondor. The grass was blowing, just like it had on that day he snuck away with Boromir, months ago. However, there was a cruel edge to the wind, and it seemed to be laughing at the unhappiness of the small boy. He walked a few feet; then stopped when he saw what appeared to be a tomb. Faramir knelt down on his knees, gazing at it's carved face. The boy could not read the words engraved upon the tomb, but in his heart, he saw his brother's face.
"NO! NO! NO!" cried the boy as his eyes snapped open. He scrambled out of the strange bed where he sat, and bolted out of the room.
********
Once again, Denethor was back besides the bed of his eldest son. He sat wearily in his chair, listening to the raspy breathing of Boromir, and occasionally feeling his burning forehead. The boy was slowly worsening. He woke up each time a coughing fit enveloped his body, but his gray eyes were glazed over from fever. Boromir could no longer speak. He simply moaned each time Denethor attempted to give him a drink, for even the cool water did not go kindly down his raw throat.
As the minutes passed slowly by, the Steward sank further and further into dispair. He had always imagined both of his sons, growing up into strong, proud Men of Gondor, and performing valiant deeds in battle. Now, it seemed as if only one might make through the next few days. A single tear trickled slowly down the man's cheek; then he buried his face in his hands.
Suddenly, a small noise brought him back to his senses. Denethor looked up abruptly, and saw a tiny shadow run into the dim room. Faramir, he thought vaguely. He simply watched as the young boy reached his brother's bed, and touched the older boy on the face.
"Boromir?" Faramir's uncertain whisper reached the Steward's ears. "Boromir? Come back, Boromir. Why are you so hot?" He began to cry to himself.
Denethor then spoke. "Faramir," he said. The boy jumped up, startled by the words. Apparently, in his hurry to reach the bed, he had failed to notice his father in the room. "Faramir, you should be asleep."
The young boy looked up at his father, silent for a moment. Then, to Denethor's great shock, he spoke. "Daddy, is he going to die?" he asked, gazing into the Steward's eyes.
Denethor had not expected his younger son to even speak to him, for he rarely did, and at first he did not comprehend the question. Then, it suddenly hit him, like a tremendous weight. He glanced for a moment into the bright eyes of Faramir, and found that he could not answer. Instead, his normally stern self-control left him for a second time. He looked away from the sad glance of his son, and buried his face in his hands once again.
Faramir did not like the empty, hopeless expression he saw in Denethor's face. The father whom he'd always held in awe, whom he'd even feared at times for the stern look in his eyes, seemed to be falling apart. The boy ceased his crying.
"Daddy?" There was no answer.
The younger son tried once more. "Daddy?" There was still no answer.
Faramir caught another glimpse of the grief in Denethor's eyes. Sadness seized the boy; but this time he did not give into his tears. Instead, he slowly approached his father, and crawled into his lap. Then, he spoke one last time.
"Daddy, I'm here."
For several moments, Faramir simply sat still, hugging his father in an attempt to bring him a light, a tiny light that might pierce the darkness he sensed in Denethor's heart. Feeling some small ray of peace at last, the boy eventually gave into sleep.
Thus, the three passed the rest of the night. Boromir still slept feverishly in his bed, seized by coughing fits now and then. Faramir rested in his father's lap, comforted by the feeling that he was now closer to his family. Finally, Denethor sat up in his chair, beginning to overcome his dispair as he watched over his eldest as he slept, and gently held his youngest in his arms.
Suddenly, his coughing fit subsided, and he took a few ragged breaths to calm himself. A hand reached over to Boromir, and gently lay on top of his burning forehead. "It's all right now, my son," a deep voice murmured. "You are safe here."
Boromir felt extremely disoriented. He recognized the voice that spoke to him as Denethor's, but where was he? How did he escape the clutches of the well, and why did he feel a great weight across his body? The boy struggled briefly to rise, but his father stopped him.
"Not now, not now. You need to rest."
Boromir ceased in his attempts to get up. Instead, he blinked a few times, then strove to speak. a few choked words emitted from his raw throat. "Father, where am I?"
Denethor answered him softly. "You are in your own room, in the tower, and it is now the middle of the night.
The Steward paused as another coughing fit wracked the boy's body, and sighed. Boromir had managed to evade death inside the well, but now, hours later, he still had trouble drawing breath. Denethor also noticed the flushed appearance of the boy's skin, visible even in the dim light.
As Boromir became quiet again, Denethor continued speaking. "I was attending to some business here, in the tower, when suddenly a small group of people entered the hall. One man at the front carried you in his arms. He told me that you had fallen into a well, and nearly drowned." Denethor stopped once more, and sighed. He did not mention the fearful cries of Faramir, as he had struggled in the arms of the woman carrying him, or the terrified expression on the face of the other boy present. The other boy- Beregond was his name, had mentioned something like, "I didn't mean to miss catching the rope! Is he all right? I didn't mean anything!"
Boromir seemed satisfied with this description of events. Or, was it satisfaction that caused him to close his eyes and drift into sleep? Perhaps he was overcome with sickness and exhaustion.
Denethor felt his son's forehead again, giving the boy a worried glance. A fever appeared to be burning in his body, and his breath rattled in his chest.
********
About an hour later, Denethor stepped out of his son's room for a moment. A terrible shadow was growing in his mind, and he feared the worst for Boromir. Two of Gondor's finest healers had attended to the boy earlier that day, but their news was grim. It appeared as though Boromir had spent several minutes underwater, and only the swift work of his rescuers had brought him back from the brink of death. Unfortunately, some of the icy well water yet remained in his lungs, causing a shortness of breath. There was no telling the full extent of the damage to his respiratory system. The boy had also been thoroughly chilled from the conditions of the well, and now seemed to pay the price with an ever rising fever.
The Steward, the most powerful man in the whole of Gondor suddenly felt very weak. He felt that he might lose his eldest son at any time, yet there was nothing he could do except comfort the boy, and hope.
********
In a different room of the palace, Faramir was sitting up in bed. He was not in his own room, and the unfamiliar surroundings, coupled with the horror of the day's events made sleep impossible. Thus, the boy remained awake throughout the hours of the night.
Overall, Faramir was extremely uneasy. When he arrived at the tower in the afternoon with the others, he had been whisked away suddenly, away from the men, away from his father, and away from his brother. A tower guard had simply grasped his hand and pulled him to another place, while he struggled in vain against the iron grip. Now, he began to feel increasingly unhappy, not to mention slightly suspicious. Why would they not let him remain with Boromir?
An evil answer seemed to play over and over in his mind. "Something's wrong," he thought to himself, many times during the later hours of that day, and night. "Something is very wrong, and they don't want me around."
Suddenly, another thought occurred to the boy. "Boromir is dying. That's why I can't see him."
He shook his head vigorously at that, but still, it rushed through his mind again. Inside his head, Faramir argued with himself.
"He's dying."
"No, he's not!"
"He is dying, and you know it."
"No!"
"Yes."
Faramir sobbed. No matter how he tried to answer the evil thought, it would not satisfy him.
He closed his eyes for a moment, and suddenly saw himself, standing outside the walls of Gondor. The grass was blowing, just like it had on that day he snuck away with Boromir, months ago. However, there was a cruel edge to the wind, and it seemed to be laughing at the unhappiness of the small boy. He walked a few feet; then stopped when he saw what appeared to be a tomb. Faramir knelt down on his knees, gazing at it's carved face. The boy could not read the words engraved upon the tomb, but in his heart, he saw his brother's face.
"NO! NO! NO!" cried the boy as his eyes snapped open. He scrambled out of the strange bed where he sat, and bolted out of the room.
********
Once again, Denethor was back besides the bed of his eldest son. He sat wearily in his chair, listening to the raspy breathing of Boromir, and occasionally feeling his burning forehead. The boy was slowly worsening. He woke up each time a coughing fit enveloped his body, but his gray eyes were glazed over from fever. Boromir could no longer speak. He simply moaned each time Denethor attempted to give him a drink, for even the cool water did not go kindly down his raw throat.
As the minutes passed slowly by, the Steward sank further and further into dispair. He had always imagined both of his sons, growing up into strong, proud Men of Gondor, and performing valiant deeds in battle. Now, it seemed as if only one might make through the next few days. A single tear trickled slowly down the man's cheek; then he buried his face in his hands.
Suddenly, a small noise brought him back to his senses. Denethor looked up abruptly, and saw a tiny shadow run into the dim room. Faramir, he thought vaguely. He simply watched as the young boy reached his brother's bed, and touched the older boy on the face.
"Boromir?" Faramir's uncertain whisper reached the Steward's ears. "Boromir? Come back, Boromir. Why are you so hot?" He began to cry to himself.
Denethor then spoke. "Faramir," he said. The boy jumped up, startled by the words. Apparently, in his hurry to reach the bed, he had failed to notice his father in the room. "Faramir, you should be asleep."
The young boy looked up at his father, silent for a moment. Then, to Denethor's great shock, he spoke. "Daddy, is he going to die?" he asked, gazing into the Steward's eyes.
Denethor had not expected his younger son to even speak to him, for he rarely did, and at first he did not comprehend the question. Then, it suddenly hit him, like a tremendous weight. He glanced for a moment into the bright eyes of Faramir, and found that he could not answer. Instead, his normally stern self-control left him for a second time. He looked away from the sad glance of his son, and buried his face in his hands once again.
Faramir did not like the empty, hopeless expression he saw in Denethor's face. The father whom he'd always held in awe, whom he'd even feared at times for the stern look in his eyes, seemed to be falling apart. The boy ceased his crying.
"Daddy?" There was no answer.
The younger son tried once more. "Daddy?" There was still no answer.
Faramir caught another glimpse of the grief in Denethor's eyes. Sadness seized the boy; but this time he did not give into his tears. Instead, he slowly approached his father, and crawled into his lap. Then, he spoke one last time.
"Daddy, I'm here."
For several moments, Faramir simply sat still, hugging his father in an attempt to bring him a light, a tiny light that might pierce the darkness he sensed in Denethor's heart. Feeling some small ray of peace at last, the boy eventually gave into sleep.
Thus, the three passed the rest of the night. Boromir still slept feverishly in his bed, seized by coughing fits now and then. Faramir rested in his father's lap, comforted by the feeling that he was now closer to his family. Finally, Denethor sat up in his chair, beginning to overcome his dispair as he watched over his eldest as he slept, and gently held his youngest in his arms.
