Into A Loving Embrace

Anduron watched as Faramir slumped lower in the saddle.  He had been riding asleep for nearly an hour now, and his captain had no plan to wake him, short of what he might have to do to keep him from falling completely off his horse.  He knew the boy had to be completely worn out; Anduron was exhausted and he had been getting twice the sleep Faramir had.  They had reached the Poros River three days ago and the security of their own lands but still Faramir had been unable to rest.  Anduron knew that although their safety had been assured once they crossed the river into Ithilien, the reason now was worry over Boromir. 

The older brother was gravely ill, his fever raging, his mind clouded. The Ranger captain could see the worry on Hethilin's face in the rare instances when the healer left his wagon for a few seconds. When Anduron had made his usual visit last night as they made camp he had watched as Hethilin repeatedly sponged cool water over the feverish face and body of the young Captain of Gondor and feared Boromir would not live to reach the White City.  He had urged Faramir to stay with his brother in the wagon, but he had refused, repeating woodenly that his duty was unfinished until they reached the city.  Privately Anduron suspected Faramir feared being present at what could become his brother's deathbed.  So Faramir stayed on his horse, the same little mount he had ridden from Harad, going to the healer's wagon often to check on Boromir and each time he returned to his captain only to report that Boromir's condition was unchanged.   

There were dark circles under Faramir's blue eyes, and tight lines around his mouth and Anduron could see that his lieutenant was now drawing on his last reserves of strength.  The head injury he had suffered at the caves was still hurting him, Anduron knew, despite the fact that Faramir said differently, and he was eating almost nothing and barely sleeping.   Soon there would be nothing left to sustain him and Anduron feared he would collapse from the strain.  He kept his eyes on the young man's lean frame as the horse plodded along. 

In the distance, a white speck glittering in the sunshine gave notice that they would be home soon.  The city of Minas Tirith gleamed like a miniature diamond to the west, a welcome sight for the entire company, no more so than the Rangers under Anduron's command.  He saw the eyes of the men stray to the city frequently as they rode; the glad smiles immediately followed by wary looks aimed toward first the healer's wagon and then the second son.  Anduron knew their thoughts for he shared them as well.  They were returning home with Boromir, true, even if badly injured, but Faramir, and those who had accompanied him, had gone into Harad without permission.  It was anyone's guess as to what kind of reception they would receive from the Steward.

Ahead of them, Anduron saw the curtain across the back of the healer's wagon suddenly twitch open and Hethilin stepped out.  He looked across the company, his eyes soon resting on Anduron and Faramir and jumped down from the step, quite nimbly for elderly man.  As he approached, Anduron could see him eyeing Faramir's sleeping form.  The older man raised an eyebrow at the captain and as he grasped the reins of Faramir's mount Anduron slowed his own horse, trying to read the healer's expression.

"My lord," he spoke softly, trying not to startle the sleeping man.  "My Lord Faramir."

Faramir's head jerked up and his eyes opened wide, staring at the healer for a moment before they focused.  When he saw the grey-haired man before him horror filled his face. 

"He's dead."  Faramir's voice was flat.

"No, no, my lord, he is better," Hethilin hastened to reassure him.  "The fever has broken, he is awake, and asking for you."  He smiled. 

Faramir looked at him uncomprehendingly before suddenly sliding from his horse and hastening toward the healer's wagon.  Anduron and Hethilin watched him go and exchanged glad smiles. 

"Maybe now he can get some sleep," said Anduron, shaking his head.

"Looked to me like he was sleeping here," Hethilin laughed, his worry about his patient now relieved.  "But I will try to keep him there for some real rest, if you don't mind." 

"Not at all."  Anduron grinned, feeling his own heart lift, a weight suddenly gone from it.  "Keep him as long as you like."

Reaching the healer's wagon Faramir climbed inside and went to the bed.  Boromir lay quietly, no longer tossing restlessly in the depths of feverish nightmares.  His eyes were closed, but they opened when he felt his brother take his hand, and he smiled. 

"Hullo," he said softly.

Faramir did not think he could trust himself to speak so he said nothing, merely squeezed Boromir's hand and returned the smile.  His brother looked at him for a minute, his green eyes still hazy from Hethilin's medicines.   "You look terrible," he finally said in a pleasant voice. 

Faramir grinned then.  "I have had a bad week," he said, reaching up to rest the back of his hand across his brother's forehead and finding to his relief it was indeed much cooler.  "How are you feeling?" he asked.

Boromir closed his eyes.  "Tired," he said.  He lay still awhile and Faramir silently took in the fading bruises and the thinness in his cheeks.  When Boromir opened his eyes he looked around him curiously.  "Where are we?" 

"In the healer's wagon," said Faramir.

Boromir's face was puzzled.  "Why, is someone injured?" 

Faramir looked around with a worried expression at Hethilin, who had entered the wagon quietly and was now moving his supplies around to make a little more room.  He gave Faramir a slight, reassuring smile.  "It is the medicine, it addles his wits, it will pass."

Faramir turned back to his brother, who was still looking at him inquisitively.  "Yes," he said softly, "someone was badly injured, but he is doing better, now."  He squeezed Boromir's hand again as the green eyes drifted shut.

"My lord?" Hethilin gave Faramir a gentle nudge as he sat on the edge of the bed.  "I want to change the dressing on the hip wound again.  No, wait –" he protested as Faramir started to stand up.  "Stay, just move up a little."  He pointed to the head of the bed where there were several extra blankets piled.  "Just make room there."  He frowned.  "Take off your boots, he does not need kicked."  Sighing, Faramir obeyed, pulling off his boots before sliding onto the bed.  He tried to push the blankets out of his way, but there were quite a few and he soon gave up and merely settled himself in among them.  Boromir groaned slightly as Hethilin helped him onto his side and started to loosen the bandage and the healer looked at Faramir.  Without being asked Faramir knew what he wanted, having helped Hethilin change the dressing several times before, and he shifted slightly, pulling his legs up and moving the pillow so that Boromir's head rested against him.  This time, however, Boromir knew he was there and reached up, groping with his hand.  Faramir immediately grasped it and put his other arm around his brother's shoulders.  "I am here," he said reassuringly.

Hethilin removed the bandage, nodding to himself with satisfaction to find the discharge on the bandage lessened and the redness and swelling beginning to fade a little.  As the healer busied himself cleaning and dressing the wound, Boromir's grip on Faramir's hand tightened and he grunted in pain. 

"I'm sorry, my lord," said Hethilin apologetically.  "I know it hurts." 

"Then stop," said Boromir tersely, bringing a smile to both the healer and his brother's face.  A cranky patient was always a good sign. 

"No, I cannot stop."  Hethilin finished and looked around, searching for his medicine chest.  Locating it, he mixed another draught of medicine in a cup of wine.  "My lord," he said, offering it to his patient. 

Boromir sniffed without opening his eyes.  "I don't want it."  

"You don't want to start hurting again, either," said Hethilin.  "And you will if you do not drink this." 

"Drink it," urged Faramir.  "You need to rest."  He did not see the amused look Hethilin gave him as he encouraged his brother to get the very thing he also badly needed.  

Boromir allowed Faramir to help him sit up a little and the healer to hold the cup to his mouth as he reluctantly swallowed.  As he lay back Faramir looked at Hethilin. 

"Should I go?" he asked quietly.  Hethilin pulled the blanket back over his patient and shook his head.  As he did so Boromir reached out his hand again. 

"Stay with me, little brother."  He smiled a little and relaxed against Faramir as his brother immediately sat back against the blankets and grasped his hand again.  After a while he spoke drowsily.

"Faramir?"

"Yes?"

"Am I the injured man?"  Faramir was confused for a moment until he realized it had taken all this time for their initial conversation to work through Boromir's drugged mind.  He hugged him gently.

"Yes, brother, you are," he said, his voice quiet. 

"Mmm."  Boromir's breathing was steady and even.   Hethilin's medicine worked quickly and he was already half asleep.  "…knew you would come…" he murmured after some time.  "She said you would…"

"Who?" Faramir asked even though he knew the answer.

"Girl…there was a girl…said you …coming…"  He stiffened suddenly.  "The man…with black eyes…"

"Shh, shh," Faramir comforted.  "He is not here."  He felt Boromir shudder slightly where he leaned on him.  "I am here, you are safe," he said and gently rubbed the tense shoulders until he felt the muscles loosen and Boromir's head lay heavily against him. 

Hethilin looked up from where he had been kneeling on the floor putting away medicines and supplies.  "I need extra water, my lord, will you stay with him until I return?"  At Faramir's nod he picked up a large jug and left the wagon. 

Faramir leaned back against the blankets and closed his eyes, unaware that Hethilin had placed them there precisely to make the corner of the bed more comfortable.  They made a soft backrest and Faramir couldn't help settling his aching body into them a little more.  He could feel Boromir's hand, now cool, still clasped in his, and hear the soft sounds of his brother's breathing, and for the first time in days he felt the tightness in him let loose.  The rocking of the wagon was comforting and the muffled sound of the men marching outside mixed with the creaking of the saddles and soft plodding of horses hooves made a soothing background drone.  Without realizing it Faramir was drifting off to sleep and he sank heavily into the blankets.  "I am here," he said softly, resting his free hand lightly on his brother's chest.  "You are safe."

Hethilin took as long as he possibly could to get the water, and when he came back to check on them in twenty minutes, they were both sound asleep.

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Anduron arched his back and stretched.  Only a few more miles to go, they should be home by evening, he thought.  The walls of Minas Tirith reared up ahead of them, beckoning them onward.  Beside him, Hethilin rode in companionable silence.  The healer had climbed onto Faramir's horse without complaint after finding his plan had been successful and the two men had ridden together for a long while, initially discussing Boromir's recovery, then Faramir, and then the several possible receptions their arrival in the White City might warrant.  Occasionally the healer would dismount to look in on the brothers, but it had been several hours and they still slept and he and the captain had both agreed to leave them as long as possible. 

Now as they rode along they could make out a small party coming fast across the Pelennor toward them.   Hethilin straightened in his saddle and gave Anduron a warning look. 

"Now we are for it," he said, only somewhat joking. 

Anduron looked at the approaching horsemen and felt his stomach contract nervously.  There were three horsemen and in the lead was a large black horse with a tall, well-built rider, and the standard-bearer beside him carried a white banner.  The Steward of Gondor had ridden out to meet them.

In the short time it took for him to reach the company, Denethor's eyes swept over the men before him, but did not find who he was seeking.   He reined his horse toward the Ranger captain halfway back in the group and turned his penetrating gaze on him as soon as he was near.

"Is he here?"  His grey eyes were demanding.  "The messenger said he was ill.  How is he?" 

Anduron bowed his head slightly before he answered his lord.  "Both of your sons are here, my lord.  Lord Boromir is injured, but recovering." 

Denethor's face showed his displeasure at the veiled rebuke in Anduron's reply but his concern over Boromir's injuries won out and he let it pass.  "How is he?"  Anduron looked at Hethilin and the Steward instantly turned his pointed gaze on the healer.

"He is better, my lord.  The fever broke this morning," said Hethilin.  He described Boromir's injuries and his subsequent fever and the stern face of the Steward blanched as he realized the severity of the wounds. 

"But he will live?"  Anduron thought he heard a catch in the sharp voice.

"Yes, my lord."  Hethilin's voice was reassuring.  "He will need time, but he will mend."  He paused, and Anduron noticed the lack of enthusiasm in his voice as he continued and hoped the Steward did not.  "Would you like to see him?"

"First I must speak with the Captain of the Ithilien Rangers."  Hethilin knew a dismissal when he heard one and giving Anduron a sympathetic glance he moved off, leaving the Steward and his captain alone.  Denethor looked at Anduron, his face cold.  "I should relieve you of duty right now," he said in a deadly voice.  "What were you thinking? Are you mad?  Going into Harad with a dozen men.  Why did you not wait?" He frowned at the captain.

Anduron opened his mouth and found himself at a loss for words.  How could he explain his actions when the Steward had not been there, could not know the look on his son's face that night by the fire.  He searched for a way to give some defense for the accusations he knew would be forthcoming against Faramir.  "We feared waiting would give them too much of a lead, that we might not be able to catch them once they had gotten so far ahead."

"We," Denethor weighed the word.  "We being… Faramir."   He snorted with disgust. "Do you take your orders from your lieutenant?  I have no doubt it was his idea and you merely followed."

Anduron felt the tension between them as he sought to answer his liege lord.  "My lord, he was going, I had two choices: watch him go alone, or go with him.  I took the course that seemed best to me."  Anduron stopped his horse and met the cold grey eyes across from him.  "I would not have been able to hold him back."

The Steward's mouth worked for a moment and he nodded in unwilling agreement.  "No, I suppose not, Faramir always does as he thinks best, he will take no counsel."  Anduron watched his eyes narrow.  "Yet he cannot just up and leave his post, much less take his captain with him.  There will be some kind of discipline, you can be sure."  He frowned again.  "In truth, he no doubt recognized the fault as his.  But for him, Boromir would not have been in Ithilien."

Anduron looked at him in shock.  "My lord, I hardly think it is Lord Faramir's fault if his brother decides to come to Ithilien." 

"Why else did he come except to see to his brother?"  Denethor's mouth twisted bitterly.  "Always Faramir has expected him to play the part of his nursemaid.  And now see where it has led."  He looked around him at the soldiers passing by.  "I notice he is not here with the others.  Is he hiding, trying to avoid me?"  He gave a short humorless laugh. 

"He is in the healer's wagon, my lord."  Anduron saw the surprise cross Denethor's face.  "He was also injured."

"The message said nothing about that," said the Steward, suspicion on his features.

"I believe it was Lord Faramir who wrote the message, was it not?"  Anduron asked, his tone sharper than he intended.  "He apparently did not include that news."

Denethor glared at him from hooded eyes, waiting.  "Well?" he said harshly when the Ranger captain volunteered no further information. 

"A blow to the head, my lord, and a sword wound."  Anduron paused.  "And very little sleep these last few days."

The Steward pondered the information as he started his horse moving again and the captain rode alongside him.  "Sword wound," he said thoughtfully.  "From the men of Harad?"

"Yes, my lord," said Anduron.  "We fought a small group when we took Lord Boromir back.  Lord Faramir killed three of them."  He slowed his horse as they reached the healer's wagon, hoping to defuse some of the Steward's anger before he spoke with Faramir.  "My lord, he has been an exemplary soldier for me, from the time he arrived.  He has never disobeyed an order, never given anything but his best effort."  The captain tried to make the father see the son through his eyes.  "His only thought for days has been to find his brother and return him to you."

Denethor grunted noncommittally and dismounted, followed closely by Anduron, who handed the reins of both their mounts to a soldier walking nearby. 

The Steward of Gondor grasped the back of the healer's wagon and pulled himself inside, only to stop suddenly; causing Anduron to bump into his back as he also entered the wagon.  Anduron apologized quickly, wondering what had caused his abrupt halt.  Looking at Denethor's stern face he was surprised to see the hard eyes soften slightly and the mouth, which always seemed to be compressed into a thin line, turn up in the slightest of smiles.

On the bed, Faramir was curled up in the nest of blankets Hethilin had made, Boromir's head still pillowed in his lap, his hand lying protectively across the elder brother's shoulder.  They were both sleeping, the limp, deep, heavy slumber of the very ill and those driven to the brink of physical collapse.  Identical bandages were wrapped around each fair head and in the shadowed light of the wagon they both looked thin and worn.

Denethor stood for a long moment.  So many times he had found them sleeping this way as boys, he thought, cuddled up together in the same bed, one's arm thrown over the other in a loving embrace.  Except something was different this time; this time it was the younger who was watching over the older.  This time it was Faramir who was keeping guard over his brother, keeping him safe and bringing him home.

Silently he took a step backwards, once again bumping Anduron, who quickly moved out of his way.  They stepped down from the wagon and Denethor turned to the captain, his face strangely pensive. 

The Steward reached for the reins of his horse and mounted, motioning for Anduron to do the same.  "Ride with me, Captain, and give me your detailed report," he said in a quiet voice.  "We will not disturb them.

"Yes, my lord."  Anduron bowed his head and climbed into his saddle to ride home with the Steward.

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TO BE CONTINUED