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Note: According to the book, Denethor should be fairly familiar with Mithrandir, because he has visited Gondor many a time. However, the wizard is not well-liked by the Steward.
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The day dawned cold and bright over the city of Minas Tirith. A thin ray of light flickered slowly through the window of Boromir's room, creeping along the floor until it spilled across the sleeping face of Faramir. The small boy awoke with a start. For a moment, he felt confusion racing through his mind. Where was he? Why wasn't he asleep in his own bed?
Faramir jerked himself up; then, as he felt Denethor stir, his memories came flooding back. He recalled the horrifying events outside the well, the swift procession back to the tower, the look of dispair on his father's face when he saw Boromir's face. The boy shuddered, wishing he was still asleep, in the blissful emptiness that had filled his mind.
Denethor, realizing that Faramir was now awake, shifted his mirthless gaze upon his younger son. He sighed as he saw the pained expression on the boy's face, and attempted to comfort him, though his sad heart defeated any attempts for a cheerful tone. "Good morning, my son," he whispered to Faramir. "I see you are now awake again. Perhaps you should go to the kitchens for awhile and get something to eat?"
The small boy shook his head, for he did not wish to leave his brother, despite the gnawing hunger he began to feel in his stomach. He'd refused all food since the previous afternoon. "I'm not very hungry," he began, but a sudden noise from his belly showed his words to be false.
Denethor managed a short chuckle, but then his face became grave once again. "You are hungry, little one. Go get some food. Do not worry, Boromir will still be here when you return."
Faramir looked at his father, slightly skeptical. "Promise?" he asked solemnly.
"Of course. Do not worry yourself. Go now."
Though he was only partially satisfied with his father's answer, Faramir nonetheless climbed out of Denethor's lap, and slowly dragged his feet towards the door. He turned back for a moment in the doorway, unhappiness spilling out of his gray eyes.
"It will take only a moment for you to eat, Faramir. Go now."
Forcing himself to face the door, Faramir pushed it open slowly, and stepped out into the brightly lit hall on the other side.
********
Throughout the night, Boromir had fallen victim to severe coughing fits. Now, in the early hours of dawn, Denethor felt his son's forehead once again. How hot it was! It seemed as if the harsh rays of the sun were burning in Boromir's body. Streams of sweat ran down his face, and he was quickly becoming dehydrated. Unfortunately, try as he might, Denethor could not get the boy to drink. He wavered between consciousness and unconsciousness, but he never awoke fully enough to take even a sip of the cool water offered to him. The Steward tried again and again to get his son to drink, but he was unsuccessful, and he did not dare attempt pouring anything down his throat, lest Boromir choke to death.
One of the healers whom Denethor had summoned the previous afternoon quietly entered the room. He carried in his hand a golden goblet, containing one of the most powerful medicines he possessed. The healer set it down on a table adjacent to the boy's bed, then spoke.
"Is he any better, my lord?" he inquired of the Steward.
Denethor wished he could say yes, his son was better, and the threat of death has passed. Instead, he answered, "Nay," he voice shaking ever so slightly.
"I feared that would be your answer, my lord. Therefore, I have prepared a special healing medicine for your son, but it can only take effect if he drinks it soon." The healer motioned to the goblet, then, seeing the distress in the Steward's eyes, he softly added, "Shall I send for somebody?"
"Nay."
"A friend, perhaps? One of your men?"
Frustration gave Denethor's voice an angry glint. "Nay!"
"All right then. I shall leave you in peace." The healer quickly exited through the door, his eyes downcast. The Steward turned his gaze to the goblet, then back towards his son. He would try once again to get Boromir to drink, though in his mind, he had little hope left for him.
********
Faramir plodded through the great hall, towards the kitchens. Distress ran wildly through his veins, and at every moment he had to force himself not to run back, crying, towards Boromir's room. To take his mind off his utter dispair, he focused on the smells of warm food that reached his nose, which he had to admit, were fairly intriguing. His stomach let out another growl, begging for something to eat.
"I am pretty hungry," he mumbled to himself. "And Daddy promised Boromir would still be there when I got back."
The mention of his brother made him sad again. He wandered into the kitchens, eyes fixed on the floor as a few tears ran down his cheeks. Faramir told himself that he would eat swiftly, then immediately return to his father and brother.
So absorbed was the boy in his unhappy thoughts, that he did not notice the stranger who strode into the kitchens until it was too late. Faramir gasped, startled, as he stumbled straight into a tall person wearing a long, grayish cloak.
"What's this?" cried the stranger, with an amused look on his face. He grabbed the boy's shoulders to prevent him from falling, and steadied him. "I arrive at the great tower in Minas Tirith, home of the Steward Denethor, and a strange sort of hobbit greets me!" He gave Faramir another glance. "Ahh!," he teased. "My eyes must be going on me, for you are no hobbit, but a child of Men."
Faramir's eyes attempted to focus on the person who had spoken. He saw a strange man, tall and keen eyed, with a long flowing beard that matched perfectly with his white hair. The boy was confused, for he had not seen anyone resembling him in Gondor, or even amongst the occasional visitors of Rohan, or the prisoners from Harad. And what was that strange thing he said? A hobbit? Faramir had never heard of such a thing.
The stranger seemed to notice the unhappiness deep in the boy's eyes, partially hidden by the puzzlement spread across his face. He spoke again, softly, with a more serious tone. "I am called Mithrandir, the wizard, and I arrived here only a moment ago, to speak to the Steward. Who are you, my lad?"
Faramir was still examining the newcomer, but something told him that Mithrandir was not evil. Unusual, yes, but not intending any harm. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor," he answered, softly.
Mithrandir stared at Faramir with surprise. "You are the Steward's son?" He looked over the boy again, more carefully this time. "Well then, Faramir, might you lead me to your father? I have traveled a great distance to see him, and I must speak to him concerning a matter of tremendous importance." He waited for a response.
"You can't see him," replied Faramir. "He....he....he is with my brother. Boromir fell into a well yesterday, and he's very, very sick." A small sob escaped from him.
The wizard looked thoughtful. "Ahh," he murmured, mostly to himself. "That explains the lad I saw leaving moments ago. He seemed to be crying something about a well...and how it wasn't his fault." Mithrandir stopped suddenly when he saw the tear brimmed eyes of the boy staring at him. "I'm very sorry to hear about your brother," he said softly. "But, he still lives, you say?"
"Aye." Faramir's answer was barely more than a whisper.
"Well, perhaps there is something I can do to help him...." The wizard's voice trailed off for a moment; then he continued. "Lead me to him, Faramir son of Denethor, and I may have something to aid in his healing."
A tiny beam of hope shone in Faramir's eyes at these words. Maybe Boromir was not doomed to die... The boy immediately straightened himself, and, without a word, gestured for the wizard to follow him. With his hunger forgotten, at least for the moment, he lead the stranger back towards his brother's room.
********
Denethor was startled when he heard quick footsteps approaching Boromir's room. Surely Faramir could not be finished eating yet? He had sent the boy away only moments before.
The Steward stood up when his younger son entered, surprised by the strange, almost eager look on his face. Behind him came what appeared to be a man, clad in a worn gray cloak, and carrying a wooden staff. Denethor recognized him immediately, for he had seen the likes of him before.
"Mithrandir," he stated, calmly, although there seemed to be a slight, steely undertone in his words. "What brings you back here to Gondor?"
The wizard spoke. "I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, but at the current time, it seems as though it must be laid aside." He gestured towards Boromir, whose harsh, rapid breathing filled the small room.
"I am capable of caring for my children." The Steward's voice rose slightly.
"Denethor, he is dying. Even from where I stand I can hear his shallow breaths, and see the sweat pouring down his face. But I do have knowledge of herbs and their healing properties. Perhaps I can help him." He paused.
The Steward had a hopeless look on his face. He seemed to be caught between his dislike for the wizard, and his pain over the thought of losing his son. Denethor shifted his glance over to Boromir, and realized that Mithrandir spoke truthfully. The Steward had not been able to get his son to drink any potions, or even water. Without help, he might be dead within the day. With a heavy heart he sighed; then said, "All right, Mithrandir. I cannot say your visit pleases me greatly. However, if you can save my son, I shall have something to thank you for."
********
A few moments had passed since the Steward gave leave for the wizard to attempt to heal the ailing Boromir. Now, Mithrandir, with a little help from Faramir, was creating some sort of potion with a powerful, scented plant. The small boy had hope in his eyes, though his face was still haunted with unhappiness. However, despite his feelings, he managed to do a satisfactory job assisting the wizard.
Soon, the smell of the potion wafted through the entire room. Faramir inhaled it sharply, and sensed its power. Denethor still looked grim although, when he caught the potion's scent, even his downcast eyes brightened a little. The Steward had listened carefully whilst the medicine was prepared, and he spoke again as it was completed.
"I will give it to him, but I know not if he can drink it. Boromir had not taken any water or medicine in many hours now." Sorrow was in his voice, mingled with his frustration.
Mithrandir nodded silently, and carefully filled a small cup with the potion. "Here," he said, placing it in the Steward's trembling hands. "See if he can take it." Then, he stood back, and silently watched. Faramir crept over to the edge of Boromir's bed.
Slowly, Denethor lifted his elder son's head. "Boromir?" he whispered. "Wake up now; you must drink this."
There was no response. "Boromir?" he said again.
Still no response.
Denethor tried once more. "Boromir? Boromir, please wake up! You must take this!"
Perhaps it was the strange, powerful scent of the potion that finally succeeded. Or, perhaps it was simply the sound of Denethor, the proud Steward of Gondor, forced to plead for his son's life. Nonetheless, Boromir suddenly stirred. His tired, feverish eyes fluttered open. "Father?" he inquired weakly.
Hope spread across Denethor's face, and tears were in his eyes. "Hello, my son," he whispered. "You need to drink this now." He gently tilted the contents of the cup into Boromir's mouth. With the remainder of his strength, the boy swallowed the strange potion, then closed his eyes once again. The Steward lay his son's head back down upon the bed, and set the cup on the nearby table.
Faramir was smiling slightly now. Denethor caught the happiness in his younger son's eyes, and spoke to him. "Boromir may yet live, Faramir. Now I have seen a beam of hope in this dark day. He may yet live."
"He will live, Daddy," Faramir replied.
Note: According to the book, Denethor should be fairly familiar with Mithrandir, because he has visited Gondor many a time. However, the wizard is not well-liked by the Steward.
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The day dawned cold and bright over the city of Minas Tirith. A thin ray of light flickered slowly through the window of Boromir's room, creeping along the floor until it spilled across the sleeping face of Faramir. The small boy awoke with a start. For a moment, he felt confusion racing through his mind. Where was he? Why wasn't he asleep in his own bed?
Faramir jerked himself up; then, as he felt Denethor stir, his memories came flooding back. He recalled the horrifying events outside the well, the swift procession back to the tower, the look of dispair on his father's face when he saw Boromir's face. The boy shuddered, wishing he was still asleep, in the blissful emptiness that had filled his mind.
Denethor, realizing that Faramir was now awake, shifted his mirthless gaze upon his younger son. He sighed as he saw the pained expression on the boy's face, and attempted to comfort him, though his sad heart defeated any attempts for a cheerful tone. "Good morning, my son," he whispered to Faramir. "I see you are now awake again. Perhaps you should go to the kitchens for awhile and get something to eat?"
The small boy shook his head, for he did not wish to leave his brother, despite the gnawing hunger he began to feel in his stomach. He'd refused all food since the previous afternoon. "I'm not very hungry," he began, but a sudden noise from his belly showed his words to be false.
Denethor managed a short chuckle, but then his face became grave once again. "You are hungry, little one. Go get some food. Do not worry, Boromir will still be here when you return."
Faramir looked at his father, slightly skeptical. "Promise?" he asked solemnly.
"Of course. Do not worry yourself. Go now."
Though he was only partially satisfied with his father's answer, Faramir nonetheless climbed out of Denethor's lap, and slowly dragged his feet towards the door. He turned back for a moment in the doorway, unhappiness spilling out of his gray eyes.
"It will take only a moment for you to eat, Faramir. Go now."
Forcing himself to face the door, Faramir pushed it open slowly, and stepped out into the brightly lit hall on the other side.
********
Throughout the night, Boromir had fallen victim to severe coughing fits. Now, in the early hours of dawn, Denethor felt his son's forehead once again. How hot it was! It seemed as if the harsh rays of the sun were burning in Boromir's body. Streams of sweat ran down his face, and he was quickly becoming dehydrated. Unfortunately, try as he might, Denethor could not get the boy to drink. He wavered between consciousness and unconsciousness, but he never awoke fully enough to take even a sip of the cool water offered to him. The Steward tried again and again to get his son to drink, but he was unsuccessful, and he did not dare attempt pouring anything down his throat, lest Boromir choke to death.
One of the healers whom Denethor had summoned the previous afternoon quietly entered the room. He carried in his hand a golden goblet, containing one of the most powerful medicines he possessed. The healer set it down on a table adjacent to the boy's bed, then spoke.
"Is he any better, my lord?" he inquired of the Steward.
Denethor wished he could say yes, his son was better, and the threat of death has passed. Instead, he answered, "Nay," he voice shaking ever so slightly.
"I feared that would be your answer, my lord. Therefore, I have prepared a special healing medicine for your son, but it can only take effect if he drinks it soon." The healer motioned to the goblet, then, seeing the distress in the Steward's eyes, he softly added, "Shall I send for somebody?"
"Nay."
"A friend, perhaps? One of your men?"
Frustration gave Denethor's voice an angry glint. "Nay!"
"All right then. I shall leave you in peace." The healer quickly exited through the door, his eyes downcast. The Steward turned his gaze to the goblet, then back towards his son. He would try once again to get Boromir to drink, though in his mind, he had little hope left for him.
********
Faramir plodded through the great hall, towards the kitchens. Distress ran wildly through his veins, and at every moment he had to force himself not to run back, crying, towards Boromir's room. To take his mind off his utter dispair, he focused on the smells of warm food that reached his nose, which he had to admit, were fairly intriguing. His stomach let out another growl, begging for something to eat.
"I am pretty hungry," he mumbled to himself. "And Daddy promised Boromir would still be there when I got back."
The mention of his brother made him sad again. He wandered into the kitchens, eyes fixed on the floor as a few tears ran down his cheeks. Faramir told himself that he would eat swiftly, then immediately return to his father and brother.
So absorbed was the boy in his unhappy thoughts, that he did not notice the stranger who strode into the kitchens until it was too late. Faramir gasped, startled, as he stumbled straight into a tall person wearing a long, grayish cloak.
"What's this?" cried the stranger, with an amused look on his face. He grabbed the boy's shoulders to prevent him from falling, and steadied him. "I arrive at the great tower in Minas Tirith, home of the Steward Denethor, and a strange sort of hobbit greets me!" He gave Faramir another glance. "Ahh!," he teased. "My eyes must be going on me, for you are no hobbit, but a child of Men."
Faramir's eyes attempted to focus on the person who had spoken. He saw a strange man, tall and keen eyed, with a long flowing beard that matched perfectly with his white hair. The boy was confused, for he had not seen anyone resembling him in Gondor, or even amongst the occasional visitors of Rohan, or the prisoners from Harad. And what was that strange thing he said? A hobbit? Faramir had never heard of such a thing.
The stranger seemed to notice the unhappiness deep in the boy's eyes, partially hidden by the puzzlement spread across his face. He spoke again, softly, with a more serious tone. "I am called Mithrandir, the wizard, and I arrived here only a moment ago, to speak to the Steward. Who are you, my lad?"
Faramir was still examining the newcomer, but something told him that Mithrandir was not evil. Unusual, yes, but not intending any harm. "I am Faramir, son of Denethor," he answered, softly.
Mithrandir stared at Faramir with surprise. "You are the Steward's son?" He looked over the boy again, more carefully this time. "Well then, Faramir, might you lead me to your father? I have traveled a great distance to see him, and I must speak to him concerning a matter of tremendous importance." He waited for a response.
"You can't see him," replied Faramir. "He....he....he is with my brother. Boromir fell into a well yesterday, and he's very, very sick." A small sob escaped from him.
The wizard looked thoughtful. "Ahh," he murmured, mostly to himself. "That explains the lad I saw leaving moments ago. He seemed to be crying something about a well...and how it wasn't his fault." Mithrandir stopped suddenly when he saw the tear brimmed eyes of the boy staring at him. "I'm very sorry to hear about your brother," he said softly. "But, he still lives, you say?"
"Aye." Faramir's answer was barely more than a whisper.
"Well, perhaps there is something I can do to help him...." The wizard's voice trailed off for a moment; then he continued. "Lead me to him, Faramir son of Denethor, and I may have something to aid in his healing."
A tiny beam of hope shone in Faramir's eyes at these words. Maybe Boromir was not doomed to die... The boy immediately straightened himself, and, without a word, gestured for the wizard to follow him. With his hunger forgotten, at least for the moment, he lead the stranger back towards his brother's room.
********
Denethor was startled when he heard quick footsteps approaching Boromir's room. Surely Faramir could not be finished eating yet? He had sent the boy away only moments before.
The Steward stood up when his younger son entered, surprised by the strange, almost eager look on his face. Behind him came what appeared to be a man, clad in a worn gray cloak, and carrying a wooden staff. Denethor recognized him immediately, for he had seen the likes of him before.
"Mithrandir," he stated, calmly, although there seemed to be a slight, steely undertone in his words. "What brings you back here to Gondor?"
The wizard spoke. "I have a matter of great importance to discuss with you, but at the current time, it seems as though it must be laid aside." He gestured towards Boromir, whose harsh, rapid breathing filled the small room.
"I am capable of caring for my children." The Steward's voice rose slightly.
"Denethor, he is dying. Even from where I stand I can hear his shallow breaths, and see the sweat pouring down his face. But I do have knowledge of herbs and their healing properties. Perhaps I can help him." He paused.
The Steward had a hopeless look on his face. He seemed to be caught between his dislike for the wizard, and his pain over the thought of losing his son. Denethor shifted his glance over to Boromir, and realized that Mithrandir spoke truthfully. The Steward had not been able to get his son to drink any potions, or even water. Without help, he might be dead within the day. With a heavy heart he sighed; then said, "All right, Mithrandir. I cannot say your visit pleases me greatly. However, if you can save my son, I shall have something to thank you for."
********
A few moments had passed since the Steward gave leave for the wizard to attempt to heal the ailing Boromir. Now, Mithrandir, with a little help from Faramir, was creating some sort of potion with a powerful, scented plant. The small boy had hope in his eyes, though his face was still haunted with unhappiness. However, despite his feelings, he managed to do a satisfactory job assisting the wizard.
Soon, the smell of the potion wafted through the entire room. Faramir inhaled it sharply, and sensed its power. Denethor still looked grim although, when he caught the potion's scent, even his downcast eyes brightened a little. The Steward had listened carefully whilst the medicine was prepared, and he spoke again as it was completed.
"I will give it to him, but I know not if he can drink it. Boromir had not taken any water or medicine in many hours now." Sorrow was in his voice, mingled with his frustration.
Mithrandir nodded silently, and carefully filled a small cup with the potion. "Here," he said, placing it in the Steward's trembling hands. "See if he can take it." Then, he stood back, and silently watched. Faramir crept over to the edge of Boromir's bed.
Slowly, Denethor lifted his elder son's head. "Boromir?" he whispered. "Wake up now; you must drink this."
There was no response. "Boromir?" he said again.
Still no response.
Denethor tried once more. "Boromir? Boromir, please wake up! You must take this!"
Perhaps it was the strange, powerful scent of the potion that finally succeeded. Or, perhaps it was simply the sound of Denethor, the proud Steward of Gondor, forced to plead for his son's life. Nonetheless, Boromir suddenly stirred. His tired, feverish eyes fluttered open. "Father?" he inquired weakly.
Hope spread across Denethor's face, and tears were in his eyes. "Hello, my son," he whispered. "You need to drink this now." He gently tilted the contents of the cup into Boromir's mouth. With the remainder of his strength, the boy swallowed the strange potion, then closed his eyes once again. The Steward lay his son's head back down upon the bed, and set the cup on the nearby table.
Faramir was smiling slightly now. Denethor caught the happiness in his younger son's eyes, and spoke to him. "Boromir may yet live, Faramir. Now I have seen a beam of hope in this dark day. He may yet live."
"He will live, Daddy," Faramir replied.
