A Long Ride Ends With A Knife
They rode throughout the night, guided by a brilliant moon. When Faramir had said he would ride as if the enemy were on his heels, he had spoken truthfully, never slackening the pace of his mount once they left the cavern. Anduron stayed beside the young Lord of Gondor as he urged his horse across the sandy plains of Harad. He could feel his pony beginning to tire after an hour or so, but when he glanced alongside him he could tell from Faramir's face there would be no stopping any time soon.
The rest of the Ranger company followed close behind, each man clinging to his mount with the same determination as his officers, flattened to his pony and pounding through the sandy soil. The moon hung above them in a clear sky, so dazzling that the desert ahead of them was awash in silver light. Anduron could see trees, rocks and the rolling landscape as if it were already day. He could see the Rangers strung out behind him, their expressions serious as they hunched over their horses.
Faramir knew his horse was weakening, but he drove it onward, his arm curled tightly around his brother, his face bleak and harsh in the moonlight. His skull was pounding and he could feel the throbbing headache as it overtook over him, trying to lure him into slowing down, resting for a moment. He tried shaking his head slightly to clear it, but only succeeded in increasing the intensity of the pain. A faint moan came from his brother and his mouth tightened as Boromir's head bobbed against his shoulder. Kicking the horse in the ribs he forced it forward into the night.
It was after sunrise when they finally slowed. Ahead of them Anduron could see a sheltered gully, edged by some large boulders and surrounded by trees and bushes. Guessing they had a good chance of finding water there, he pointed it out to Faramir. "We need to stop there, my lord, the horses must rest and have water."
Grudgingly Faramir agreed. They came to a stop beside the largest rock, and the Rangers gratefully slid from their lathered mounts, the horses lowering their heads and blowing out great gasping breaths. Anduron and Isilan caught Boromir when Faramir released his hold on him and gently carried him over beneath one of the larger trees and laid him in the sand. Turning, Anduron saw Faramir get down from the horse and clutch the stirrup for a moment, resting his head against the pony's sweaty shoulder.
"My lord?" he moved swiftly to help, but was waved away by the younger man.
"I'm all right, Captain." Faramir straightened. "Just my head and that is to be expected." He glanced toward the tree. "How is he?"
"The same;" said Anduron, "feverish, insensible."
"Good," said Faramir. "I hope he never remembers this night." For a moment his mouth trembled as he looked at his captain. "He kept moaning." Faramir's voice broke and he looked away, his blue eyes troubled.
Anduron frowned, knowing the self-accusations that were filling Faramir's head. He shook his head as he faced his lieutenant. "We did the right thing, my lord. We have come nearly forty miles; we can be across the river and in Ithilien tomorrow."
Faramir said nothing and Anduron knew he was thinking about putting his brother back into a saddle. Deciding not to press, he motioned Faramir towards the tree. "Go see to him." He watched as his young lieutenant walked away, noting the way his steps dragged through the sandy soil.
The rest of the Rangers and their horses each had a drink of the cold water that bubbled from beneath the smallest boulder as they spread out among the trees to rest while Anduron placed two guards, determined not to make the same mistake the Haradrim had made. The morning air was chilly, but Anduron knew it would not be long before the sun was high enough in the sky to turn the desert into an oven. He moved among the men, encouraging them, making sure each had some water and a shady place to relax.
Faramir sank down beneath the scraggly branches of the tree with a tired grunt and rubbed his head. He could not remember ever being this tired before and now that he had time to think about how his head felt, he could feel the nausea crawling through him. Taking a deep breath, he steadied himself and reached over to carefully pull Boromir into his arms, moving slowly to avoid hurting him. His brother's muscles were as tense as if he were still bracing himself against the movement of the horse.
"Boromir?" He called his name anxiously, searching the flushed face. "How are you, brother?" He heard a slight catch in his brother's ragged breathing and looked down as pain-filmed green eyes opened and met his.
"Faramir?" The voice that answered him was thread thin.
"I'm here," Faramir whispered, pulling the cloak closer about Boromir's body as he felt him shiver. "I'm sorry you had to ride…" his voice faded as he saw his brother's eyes drift closed again. He held him close, feeling the heat of his fever against his chest.
"Sir?" He looked up to see Isilan offering him a freshly filled water flask. "It's a little gritty, sir, but it's good and cold."
"Thank you," said Faramir, taking the flask. He held it up to Boromir's lips. "Drink some water," he said quietly, letting a small amount run into his brother's mouth. The wounded man took a few small swallows but then turned his head away. Faramir made sure the flask followed. "A little more," he encouraged, trickling another mouthful between his lips. He managed to get several more swallows into him before Boromir gave a small sigh and relaxed against Faramir, his head resting on his brother's shoulder.
Faramir took a drink from the flask, savoring the sweet wetness. The water was cold, cold enough to make his teeth hurt and increase the pounding in his head. Taking another drink, he closed his eyes and settled back against the tree, letting the flask rest against his leg. He could feel Boromir's solid weight against him and it was somehow reassuring, even as he worried over the fever. He held him tighter and vaguely stroked Boromir's shoulder through the woolen cloak with one hand as weariness swept over him in great waves, slowing his thoughts, shrinking his surroundings until only he and his brother existed.
"My lord." The captain hunkered down beside his lieutenant.
The slight jerk before Faramir opened his eyes told Anduron he had been asleep.
"How are you feeling?" Anduron asked the question even as he looked Faramir over, noting his hollow-eyed appearance.
"Well enough." Faramir shook his hair from his eyes and gingerly rubbed the back of his head with his free hand before lowering it to touch Boromir's cheek where it lay nestled against his breast. "He's burning up," he said, worry in his voice.
Anduron nodded and rested his own palm against Boromir's bruised face. "We need to get that arrowhead out of him," he said in a low voice, watching as Faramir smoothed the blond hair back and frowned.
"I have to get him home," Faramir pronounced it like a death sentence. "If I do not get the arrowhead removed, this fever will kill him. I have to put him back up on a horse and ride for Gondor, now" The look he gave Anduron was one of despair and resolve.
Anduron started to disagree, to reassure him that they had time, but when he looked at the unconscious man before him, he hesitated. In just a few days he had lost a lot of weight, his ribs and collarbones were beginning to be noticeable. According to the girl, he had eaten very little while in her care, mostly drinking water, and not enough of that. Now the fever was burning the flesh away from him and it was evident that it was worsening.
The Ranger Captain laced his fingers together and regarded his young officer. "It is another two days hard riding at least to Minas Tirith. You cannot run a horse that far without killing it."
Faramir shook his head. "I only have to reach the river."
Anduron cocked an eyebrow at him questioningly. His young lord gave him an odd look, surprised that he did not understand and proceeded to explain.
"My father will have sent reinforcements and they have had time to reach the river. A regular troop of any size from the army will have a healer with them." Faramir dropped his gaze to his brother's still face before he continued in a bleak voice. "I must reach the river by tonight or I fear I will have no need of one."
"By tonight?" Anduron was skeptical. "The river is probably another fifty miles, Faramir. The horses cannot keep the speed needed to get there by tonight, not the way they have been run already." He could see the hard glint appear in Faramir's eye and shook his head in exasperation even as he felt sympathy for the young man. "My lord, if you run the horses to death before we reach the river we will be trapped here in the desert, and then he most assuredly will die."
Faramir's face was stony. "I understand, Anduron. But I do not have time to wait." He looked down at Boromir. "He does not have time." He dropped his head a moment, resting his cheek on his brother's head. When he looked up he gave a small nod. "Let the horses rest for a while," he said, closing his eyes and leaning back against the tree again. "We can leave again in a short while. The ponies will just have to do their best."
Anduron looked at his lieutenant and knew they would push for the river tonight. He felt again the affection he had for the young man, and thought to himself that while he looked younger than his twenty years he had the grit and determination of few men the captain had known. He stood up and squeezed Faramir's shoulder. "We will make the river, my lord, we will see to it."
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Faramir felt his horse stumble and jerked the reins, pulling the animal's head up and somehow it righted itself and kept from falling. He knew the little black horse was at the end of its strength. They had been riding for hours and having had only the shortest of rests since their time in the gully earlier even the tough little desert ponies were at last beginning to weaken. Two others had faltered in the last hour or so, one falling so hard that the front leg had snapped and the Ranger on him had been pitched into the sand. There was nothing they could do except slit the animal's throat and ride double. The second pony had not broken its leg but had been limping so badly that they pulled the saddle from it and left it behind, another pony being forced to carry twice the load.
Faramir could spare no sympathy for the ponies. His only thoughts were centered on the feverish man before him in the saddle, the man who even now was lying against him heavily, so hot that the heat seemed to radiate from him, who no longer moaned in anguish but had slipped into a deadly silence. Faramir gritted his teeth and dug his heels into the pony's sides, ignoring its labored breathing. Flecks of foam dripped from its mouth, covering its chest and neck, yet still he pushed it to continue.
His captain was beside him, his own black horse struggling to keep up the pace. Three times since they had left the gully Anduron had insisted they stop and let the ponies catch their breath, fearing they would collapse beneath them, but Faramir had forced them to keep such a quick pace that they were still nearly spent. It was close to five hours since they had left the gully, and Anduron had not moved from his place on Faramir's left the entire time. He knew Faramir would run all of the ponies to death to get Boromir back to Minas Tirith if he had to, and it was beginning to look like that was going to happen. Anduron had seen his lieutenant's face harden when he had mounted his horse the last time with his brother before him, and had understood Faramir would do whatever it took to reach the river. Anduron and the rest of the Rangers knew there would be no more stopping and they pressed themselves close to the ponies' necks and demanded more than flesh and blood could give for very long.
It was late in the afternoon and the sun seemed to pound down on them with boiling heat. Faramir could see it shimmering off of the sand and rock in front of him, the waves dancing before his eyes. He could feel it baking what little remaining strength he had out of him, turning his resolve to hopelessness and his mind to dust. Beside him Anduron leaned over his pony's neck, his eyes narrowed against the glaring white rays, while the men behind him rode silently, their faces covered in sweat and dirt, their eyes betraying their own fatigue.
Faramir could feel Boromir's limp body sway with each movement of the pony, his heart thumping against his chest in a rhythm far more rapid than it should be and he knew the infection was burning throughout him. He hugged his brother closer to him, feeling the fear that he had kept in the back of his mind push to the front. The fear that had stalked him ever since he had seen him lying on the floor of the cave. The fear that whispered that Boromir would die whether he reached the Poros or not.
The pony suddenly stumbled again and Faramir feared he and his brother would be tossed into the desert soil. He braced his body, but the animal managed to right itself and started up a steep hill. Faramir looked around and saw a clump of trees and a scattering of round bushes; it looked familiar somehow and he realized he remembered the hill from the first day they had crossed into Harad. It was close to the river, they would be there soon. "Soon," he spoke the thought aloud to Boromir, knowing he did not hear.
The pony struggled to the top of the hill, its legs trembling and head hanging, it would not last much longer. He let it rest for a moment so it could catch its breath. Hearing a soft groan from his brother Faramir looked down to reassure himself he was all right when he heard Anduron's glad shout.
From the hilltop they could see the Poros River in the distance, and on this side of its waters scores of men were gathered while others could be seen still crossing, and floating high above them all was a black banner with the Tree of Gondor.
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Faramir watched anxiously as the healer gently moved his hands over Boromir, carefully examining each injury. He was a tall, thin man with steely gray hair pulled back in a leather thong, of an age anywhere from fifty to seventy-five, it was impossible to tell. His long sensitive fingers took their time as they traveled over the wounded man, cautiously probing and searching each cut and abrasion.
The healer's wagon was small, but large enough to carry himself and his herbs and medicines, all neatly arranged in small boxes and chests, with adequate room left to hold a bed for an injured man. A heavy canopy covered both sides and the top of the wagon while lighter curtains hung from both the front and back, shielding those inside. Now Boromir's bloody breeches and the Ranger cloak were balled on the floor under the bed where he lay motionless. Faramir crouched uneasily on the corner of the mattress near his brother's head, trying to keep out of the way.
The wagon lurched and bumped along, already on its way to Minas Tirith, escorted by a company of Gondorian soldiers and the Ithilien Rangers. The rest of those sent from the city, nearly three hundred men, had fanned out along the Poros River to guard the borders of Gondor against any other Haradrim raids.
The healer straightened, pressed his long fingers together and looked at Faramir. "The other wounds are not so dangerous, but the arrowhead is causing the infection. It is buried quite deep, my lord. That is the first thing that must be tended."
Faramir nodded. "Can you cut it out, Hethilin?"
"Yes," said the healer, "but it will be tremendously painful." He pondered the injured man before him. "That is a common place to hit bone," he said thoughtfully. "If it has buried itself in the bone, as I suspect it has, it will be excruciating."
Faramir looked down at Boromir's bruised face, heard his shallow, rapid breathing. He had not moved or made a sound since Faramir and Anduron had carried him into the wagon. Faramir reached over and pressed his hand against the hot skin. "What about the fever?"
"I have medicine for that, my lord. It will take time, but it will help, once we have removed the arrowhead." Hethilin sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hand on Boromir's chest, feeling his heartbeat. His face was grave. "The fever has left him very weak; it will be hard on him."
Faramir closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. He was so tired. Could he subject his brother to further torture? Did he have a choice? He felt the thoughts working through his mind sluggishly. Hethilin watched him, his lined face full of sympathy and a healer's natural concern for the sick and injured. When Faramir opened his eyes Hethilin said simply, "My lord, it must be done. The arrowhead has corrupted the flesh and is spreading its poison. It must be removed before the infection becomes strong enough to kill."
The young Lord of Gondor hesitated only a moment before nodded his head in surrender. "What do you want me to do?"
Hethilin turned and went to the rear of the wagon. Opening a large chest he pulled out a leather-wrapped bundle. "You will have to hold him down while I cut." He looked back at Faramir. "I have no medicine to help that kind of pain." He pushed open the curtain that covered the back of the wagon and Faramir could hear him speaking to someone outside.
Faramir swallowed and leaned over to slide his hand beneath his brother's head, lifting it slightly. "Boromir." There was no response, but when he spoke the name again the green eyes opened slightly, glazed with fever. Faramir searched for a sign of recognition, but saw none. "Boromir, we have to cut out the arrowhead." He hoped his brother understood some of what he was saying. "Do you hear?"
Boromir's eyes focused on his brother for a moment before they filled with panic as the words filtered through his pain and exhaustion. "Please don't…" he said, his voice so weak Faramir could barely hear him, "don't…" his eyes rolled eerily up into his head as he fell silent and his head sagged into Faramir's hand, his breathing resuming its harsh rhythm. Faramir bit his lip and carefully lowered Boromir's head to the pillow, realizing with horror that his brother was going to have to endure more torment before he could rest.
Hethilin let the curtain drop and brought the bundle he had retrieved back to the bed. Unwrapping the leather, he revealed various sharp knives of different sizes. Searching through them he held up one judgmentally, then another, then a third before finally deciding on the first. Faramir found himself suddenly feeling sick and quickly looked away.
The curtain was pushed aside again and Anduron climbed into the wagon, finding little room. Hethilin gestured toward the foot of the bed and Anduron nodded. The healer turned to Faramir. "Ready?"
Faramir pushed his own pain and fatigue as far away as he could and scooted up on the bed. Hethilin cautiously turned Boromir on his side, facing his hip outward, exposing the wound, now a hideous mess of blood, pus and inflamed, angry flesh. The edges of the entry wound had started to turn black and Faramir bit back the stricken sob that rose up in his throat. The healer put a hand on the lean shoulder of the young man beside him, his slim fingers surprisingly strong. "My lord, I am here to help him." Faramir shuddered slightly and nodded. He heard Boromir groan slightly and leaned over and spoke his brother's name, "Boromir, hold on to me."
He settled himself against the side of the wagon and pulled Boromir's head onto his lap, wrapping one arm around his brother's shoulders and grasping his upper arm with the other. How many times his own head had been gathered into his brother's lap when he cried as a child, he thought to himself. How many times in his life had he turned to Boromir for consolation? Always it had been the elder who comforted, who strengthened the younger. Until now. He felt his heart lurch as he placed Boromir's arms around his waist. "Hold on," he said again to him, nodding at Hethilin to begin. Faramir felt the hands around him convulse weakly, catching a fold of his tunic within them. Anduron moved down to straddle Boromir's legs, using his weight to hold him immobile.
Taking a deep breath, Hethilin boldly cut into the irritated flesh and muscle beneath him. Blood sprang up, along with a thick, curdled stream of greenish-yellow matter. In Faramir's arms, Boromir gasped and jerked, his face contorted in a grimace. His body arched and bucked in an attempt to avoid the knife and the agony it caused, but his younger brother held him tightly, while Anduron bore down hard, both of them effectively keeping him pinned beneath Hethilin's ministrations. Even weakened, Boromir was a strong man, especially as he sought to escape of pain of Hethilin's knife, and it took all of his brother's strength to hold him. Faramir hoped somewhere in his feverish mind he knew it was necessary, that he understood why his little brother forced him to endure such misery. "I'm sorry," he said in a low voice.
Hethilin had cut out many arrowheads during his years of service to Gondor, and he worked his knife expertly, his eyes narrowed in concentration as his hand searched the bloody opening he had made. Using the blade of the knife to push the edges of the cut apart, he slid his fingers deeper into the incision, causing fresh streams of hot blood to pour forth. He could feel the sliminess of infection deep in the wound, and clots of pus were driven to the surface by the rushing blood. Boromir writhed and moaned, trying desperately to pull away from the torture, but Anduron and Faramir held him firmly, although Anduron could tell by the look on Faramir's face it took all he had in him to remain still.
A stifled cry finally broke from Boromir's throat. A low, ragged groan that hung in the quiet air of the healer's wagon, followed by others, each one gaining strength until at last a raw scream rang out.
Faramir buried his face in the matted blond hair pressed against his thigh and closed his own eyes. "Hold on," he whispered, "hold on." Boromir's fingers dug into his back spasmodically as he screamed again, the sound weaker than before. "Almost finished," Faramir promised, raising his head to meet Hethilin's gaze, the look in his anguished blue eyes begging the healer to make his words true.
Setting his jaw, Hethilin spread the wound with his fingers, letting the blood run down Boromir's body and onto the blanket beneath him. The healer jammed the knife down through flesh and muscle until he felt it grate against bone. And something else, something metallic. He closed his eyes, now, working by feel, edging the knife under the object, willing it to be released from the living bone. At last he felt the tip of the blade catch, and he levered it downward, reaching in with his fingers and grasping the arrowhead that suddenly came into his hand. A final scream was torn from Boromir as Hethilin pulled the bloody Harad arrowhead from his body. He collapsed against his brother, his body trembling and soaked with sweat.
Faramir held him tightly in his arms, stroking the hot head with his cheek and talking in a soft, comforting voice. "There, it's done, it's over." He swallowed down the queasy lump in his throat, feeling the shuddering in the taut shoulder muscles that he embraced and the identical spasms in his own. Boromir remained motionless, sprawled across his brother's lap, his eyes closed and his breath coming in gasps. Anduron released his hold and sat back as he wiped a shaky hand across his own sweaty face.
The healer quickly trimmed off the blackened flesh and cleaned the wound with water and dark red liquid from a round bottle before packing the gaping hole and pressing down hard to stop the blood that was soaking through the cloth.
"I cannot sew this shut, yet. The infection will need to drain for a few days," he said as he held the dressing against the bloody wound. In a short while the bleeding slowed and he tied on a clean bandage. There was only a slight tremor from Boromir as he continued to lie limply across Faramir, his head resting on his leg, his arms still wrapped around his brother's slim waist. Faramir kept his own hold on his brother and murmured quiet words of encouragement in his ear.
When Hethilin was finished with the hip, he and Anduron gently turned Boromir over, pulling his arms from around Faramir's waist and returning his head to his brother's lap as the healer took the same bottle of red liquid and thoroughly cleaned the gash across the ribs. Boromir moaned slightly in distress and Faramir reached down and squeezed his burning hand, feeling the weakness in the slight squeeze that was returned. He could see the dark stain of blood on his own breeches where Boromir's head had been pressed against him.
"His head –" Faramir parted the matted hair slightly.
Hethilin glanced up from his patient and nodded. He finished bandaging the rib wound and moved beside Faramir. Searching through the blood and blond hair he found the long cut, seeping blood and flecked with sand and dirt. Pressing his lips together he rinsed the cut several times, flushing it clean before he reached for a small box and took from it a needle and thread. With steady movements he neatly stitched the cut closed, Faramir's hands holding the blond head quiet in his lap. Afterward, the healer covered the gash with brown ointment and another bandage.
Taking a basin from the front of the wagon Hethilin poured in water from a nearby jug, and dropped in a fine mesh bag of powdered herbs. As they soaked the water turned a pale brown and Hethilin moistened a soft cloth and proceeded to wash the blood and dirt from as much of Boromir's bruised body as he could. The herbs smelled sweet and Faramir saw his brother's face begin to soften and look peaceful.
"This will help the sunburn, too," Hethilin said quietly as he rinsed the cloth and continued wiping the herbal water across the red, cracked skin on Boromir's shoulders.
Finally the healer opened a small box he had pulled from a shelf at the front of the wagon and drew out a tiny, brown bottle. He took a cup and poured in a small bit of wine from another graceful bottle nearby. A generous splash of whatever was in the brown one was added to the wine and he handed it to Faramir. "He needs to drink this. It will help the fever and the pain."
Faramir raised his brother's head up and let him lean back against his chest. "Boromir." A weak groan was his only answer. He placed the cup against his brother's lips. "Come. Drink this." The wounded man did not resist as Faramir tilted the cup and let the liquid run into his mouth. A few fitful swallows and it was gone. "Good," said Faramir, "well done." He gently returned his brother to the clean blanket Hethilin had placed beneath him.
When Hethilin saw he was finished he retrieved the cup and looked at Faramir. "We have done what we can; now it is up to him." He pulled another blanket up from the foot of the bed and covered his patient. "He needs to sleep."
Faramir watched his brother's face closely, but it was quiet and still, now, and when he spoke to him, there was no answer. He stood up reluctantly.
"Let him sleep," said Anduron, who had seen enough battlefield injuries to know there was little else they could do. He saw the worry in his lieutenant's face. "Just give him some time," he said, his voice gentle. "He's young and tough, he'll be all right."
Faramir noticed Hethilin said nothing and he shot an intense look at the healer. The gray-haired man tucked the blanket around Boromir as he got to his feet. "I am concerned," he confessed. "He is weak and his fever is very high."
"Will he live?" Faramir's blue eyes drilled into those of the healer.
Hethilin hesitated. "I believe so, my lord. But the next day or two will be a dangerous time." Dread flooded the younger brother's face. "Do not fear," said the healer, "I will keep watch over him. Right now he needs to rest. And you, my lord, also need looking after." He looked at Faramir with concern and reached for the bloody strip of cloth circling Faramir's head. "Let me look at you."
"I am fine," Faramir went to brush his hand away but Hethilin caught it and looked at the younger man soberly. "My lord, you are not 'fine'". He firmly pushed Faramir's hand back down and pulled the torn bandage from his head. "Let me see this. Sit down." He pointed to a wooden box beside the bed and Faramir obediently lowered himself. "Lean forward," Hethilin said brusquely. He probed the lump at the back of Faramir's head, brushing aside the red-gold hair to get a better look and listening with interest to the stifled groans coming from the lieutenant who was 'fine'.
"You probably have a concussion," he said, shifting his eyes from Faramir to Anduron, still standing by the curtain. "And that cut is deep. Here." Taking up his medicines again he proceeded to clean and bandage Faramir's head as he had his older brother's.
"There is a sword cut on his arm, also," said Anduron quietly, calmly returning Faramir's annoyed stare. The healer waited while Faramir revealed the blood-stained bandage and motioned for him to pull off his tunic, clucking his tongue at the red, slightly swollen edges of the gash that was soon revealed.
"You cannot ignore even the slightest wound, my lord. They are all dangerous." He looked the wound over thoughtfully. "This should be stitched."
"It is fine." Faramir went to stand up, only to be forced down again by Hethilin.
"My lord, let me do what is needed." Receiving no further resistance, Hethilin quickly threaded a needle and in a matter of seconds had put in five precise stitches, tactfully ignoring Faramir's small gasps each time the needle slid through the flesh. When he was finished he smeared on a layer of brown ointment and looked into Faramir's eyes seeing weariness and pain there. "You should rest, my lord."
Faramir shook his head, shutting his eyes for a minute in response to the shooting pain that produced. "I can rest when my brother is well and safely home." He stood up, pulling his tunic back on and walked toward the back of the wagon. "You will stay with him? I will come check on him often." he turned to Hethilin, who nodded in agreement.
Anduron stopped him at the curtain. "Faramir, what are you doing? Stay here, stay near to you brother, get some sleep."
Faramir looked at him, then back at his brother lying motionless on the bed. "I cannot rest. My duty to my father is not fulfilled until Boromir is well and back in Minas Tirith. Until then, I am responsible." He pulled the curtain back and started to step through it.
"My lord." Hethilin stepped forward and placed the arrowhead in Faramir's hand. He rolled the metal point between his fingers thoughtfully, his gaze locked on his brother's pale, drawn face. Without a word he stepped down from the wagon.
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TO BE CONTINUED