Title: Fate Spares Him For Some Other End
Author: Adalanta
Email: adalanta14@yahoo.com
Rating: PG-13 for a few gruesome images (especially in this chapter)
Characters: Boromir, Faramir
Categories: Angst, Drama
Summary: Caught alone in the wilderness, the sons of Denethor are suddenly attacked by a band of orcs, leaving one brother gravely wounded and the other to ensure his survival.
Disclaimer: Boromir and Faramir are Tolkien's. The situation is mine.
Note: Thank you all very much for your reviews! Each and every one is appreciated and cherished (and given a little dance of joy). Please, please, keep reviewing! Oh, yes, before I forget. Daughter of Olorin – I couldn't agree with you more about the Extended Edition DVD. All Hail Boromir! He may be dead, but he isn't gone (especially in our hearts).
Fate Spares Him For Some Other End
Chapter Two – Necessary Illusions
The supplies were placed strategically around him: hunting knife unsheathed by his right hand on the short, coarse grass, several bandages made from his torn undershirt to the right of the knife, and a rough brown blanket by his left hand, ready to cover his brother once the procedure was over. His thick, dark-blue cloak lay bunched up under Faramir's right cheek, a makeshift pillow that appeared to be the only source of comfort he could provide in the wild. And finally, two large stones about three hands high and wide rested one behind the wounded man's back and one before his stomach, intended to prop him up, and thereby freeing both of his hands for the horrible task ahead.
Preparations now complete, he spoke in a low voice by Faramir's head, explaining what he was about to do, hoping the young man would understand his words through the lethargy that had taken over in the last few minutes. "Faramir…brother, the arrow must be removed for it is unsafe for it to remain inside any longer." He paused and was surprised to receive a weak nod in acknowledgement. "But it is in too deep…I cannot just pull it out."
Faramir moaned faintly and struggled to open his eyes, a battle that was hard fought but ultimately won. He stared straight up at him and seemed to peer into his very soul. Understanding mixed with pain and nervousness in those gray depths, but fear was nowhere to be found in them.
Boromir felt a bolt of pride flash through him at his little brother's bravery, a feeling that slightly eased his dread at the upcoming ordeal and the terrible, agonizing pain he was about to inflict upon his own flesh and blood. "You understand what I must do, do you not?" he continued softly, slightly unnerved by the steady gaze, wanting – needing – his brother to understand exactly what was about to happen. "I will have to snap off the back and push it through, Faramir. There is no other way in which to remove it. And it must come out."
"I…understand," Faramir answered in a weak but clear voice. "Do it."
Overcome by emotion, he nodded wordlessly and took up his position, kneeling in front of the younger man's shoulder near the back of the arrow. He took a moment to close his eyes and take a deep breath to steady himself, trying to control the churning in his stomach and the slight trembling in his hands. It must be done, it must be done, it must be done, he repeated over and over, a mantra intended to convince his heart of the truth that his mind already knew. Then, he opened his eyes, took another deep breath, and began his task.
Grasping his knife firmly, he used the sharp blade to cut through Faramir's heavy, green tunic and his white, blood-splattered undershirt. Though the cloth ripped relatively easily for the most part, exposing the thick, wooden shaft beneath, he was forced to pull at the small piece that stuck to the base of the wound to slip his knife under it and slice it off. He gritted his teeth as Faramir stiffened and moaned as the shaft was touched, though he did not jerk away.
Once the stubborn piece was removed, he could, for the first time, see the entrance point clearly and the black wood that protruded gruesomely out of his brother's white skin, a sight so revolting that he nearly turned away. He had witnessed such a thing before, had indeed seen this same operation performed…but never on someone so dear to him as his own brother. Uncertainty filled him, causing him to pause in his ministrations, and consider all that lay before him.
It was then that he realized the truth of the matter.
He could not bring himself to harm his little brother – could not cause him more pain even if it was to save his life.
And yet he had to. He could not just sit idly by and watch him die.
There was only one way he could perform the operation. He had to pretend – no, convince himself – that the body on which he worked was not his brother, but some soldier that remained on the field of battle after the attack had ended, someone he had only just met that required his aid.
This is not Faramir, he told himself firmly. It is just a man, a soldier…
Only then could he continue on, looking only at the arrow and the wound…and never at the anguished face that rested upon his cloak.
Steeling himself for the inevitable reaction, he grasped the arrow with both hands, one near the skin and the other a few inches up the shaft, and exerted pressure on the top half. The last eight inches of the arrow snapped off with a loud CRACK, accompanied by an agonized, gut-wrenching cry from the body before him. Boromir dropped the splintered piece and grabbed hold of the injured man, trying to keep the writhing body still, all the while hearing his gulping, wheezing breaths and mindless moans.
Finish it! Finish it now! His mind shouted the order to his shaking hands, and he complied only a moment later, gripping the remains of the protruding shaft tightly in his right hand and shoving it further into the shoulder. His left hand was braced behind the shoulder, pushing the man onto the arrow at the same time, creating an immense pressure from both ends in an attempt to finish the procedure as rapidly as possible.
For Boromir, the next few minutes took on a nightmarish quality, filled with ghastly images and sickening sounds that he knew would haunt him forever in a small, hellish corner of his mind.
The warm blood that flowed over his hands, welling up from wounds both in front and behind.
The raw, tortured screams torn from the young man's throat, filling the air with the sounds of utter torment.
The body bucking beneath his restraining hands, the muscles wound so tightly that they seemed ready to snap at any moment.
The bloody arrow shaft that was so slick that his hands slipped and slid off it, forcing him to wipe the crimson liquid off on his own tunic before grasping hold of it once again from behind.
The wet, sucking sound of the arrow as the last of the shaft popped out of the pale, blood-covered body.
And the last agonized, tormented scream as the man arched his back against the excruciating pain, and then went completely and utterly still.
Without thinking of or even considering the abrupt stillness, Boromir seized the thick bandages he had laid nearby and held them over the bloody entrance and exit wounds, pressing hard to stop the bleeding…or at least slow it. Only when the bandages were in place did he glance down at the chest below him to check if the man was still breathing.
He was.
Barely.
He finished securing the wounds as quickly as possible, wrapping several strips of cloth around his chest and shoulder to keep the thick bandages in place, and then shoved away the rocks propping him up, lowering him carefully to the ground where he could rest flat on his back. Grabbing the brown blanket off to his left, he covered the prone body, pulling the dark cloth all the way up to his chin…where he saw the deathly pale face…of Faramir.
The illusion that he had woven about himself to insolate his mind from the truth was instantly shredded. He could no longer pretend that what he had just done had been to a stranger…but had instead been done to his own kin.
He nearly broke then.
The guilt and fear that had remained dormant – bottled up inside – was instantly released. Looking down at his hands, he saw reddish-brown stains of his brother's blood and smelled the sick, coppery scent that filled the air. He felt as if he were blindly teetering on the edge of a great precipice, wobbling, unsure of which way to move for safety…for sanity…for life.
You cannot fall apart now, a voice inside his mind spoke calmly. Faramir needs you – now more than ever. Stay strong. Do not give in to despair.
He allowed his eyes to close, clinging to the calm, reassuring voice – a voice that seemed oddly familiar. He knew that voice, remembered hearing it years before when he had been but a child, comforting young Faramir during a vicious storm that had besieged the White City. Faramir had been so young, only six years old, the memory of his mother's death still a raw wound upon his soul, even though nearly a year had passed. His little brother had sobbed for hours…from the frightening storm, from the agonizing pain of loss, and from the harshness of life. Boromir had nearly given in to despair, then, so distressed over his brother's pain that tears had stung his eyes. He had cradled Faramir in his arms and leaned over him, the tears slipping down his cheeks, feeling his heart grow cold and hard and heavy within his chest. A part of him had been slipping away, disappearing into the rainy, wind-blown night to be dashed to pieces…and lost forever.
He had made no attempt to stop its flight.
Then the voice had called his name and told him not to be afraid, that he was needed and loved – most of all by his brother – but by others as well, that he could not give in to despair. The voice had filled him with quiet strength and had seen him through that harrowing night and into a new, glorious dawn that was so filled with hope that it seemed as if the sun had risen just for him.
And now, some twelve years later, the voice had returned to do the same thing. It chased away the despair and filled his exhausted, drained body with hope and strength, allowing him to continue on, even after he had all but given up.
Slowly opening his eyes, he stared down at the silent body of his brother, studying his pale face, and reached out to brush the sweat-dampened hair off of his forehead, frowning at the cool, damp feel of his skin. Faramir was far from well, and he had the sinking feeling that the situation would become worse before it grew better. But at least now he had the strength to face what was yet to come.
TBC…