A/N: I hope that I haven't bored you all too much by dragging this out. I appreciate all of your reviews and kind words!
Chapter 9
There was a wain that had been half-emptied of its load of hay awaiting Faramir's arrival in Osgiliath, and Boromir directed the litter- bearers with an iron tone as they gently eased the wounded Man into the back of it before the warrior climbed in himself. He turned to offer the woman a hand, but she refused it and gracefully leapt unaided into the cart.
"Sit," he commanded her unnecessarily, and she did, sinking into the hay in the farthest corner of the wain from the wounded Man. Boromir grunted his approval as he sat down next to his brother, softly stroking Faramir's face as one of the other rangers climbed in, took the reins, and began to drive the cart forward as slowly as he could, making an effort not to incur Boromir's wrath by jostling his brother too much as the entire group moved forward upon the road. They eventually passed through the gate of the Rammas Echor, and onto the Pelennor Fields.
The going was agonizingly slow, and though his worry had not lessened, Boromir was curious enough about the black-clad figure here with him that he felt compelled to speak to her.
"I see as I gaze upon my brother's face that, indeed, he feels little pain, for he seems so much more at rest now. How did you achieve this?"
"It is something that I have always been able to do, but I know not how to explain it to you." There was an uncomfortable silence before she ventured a question of her own. "Where shall you take him when we arrive in the city?"
He glared at her suspiciously before he shrugged and answered, "To the Houses of Healing, where he shall receive the finest care that can be procured within the White City."
"Of that I have no doubt." She considered adding, "but he shall die anyway," but she decided against it, unwilling to upset the warrior more than he already obviously was. Instead, she sifted through the memories that she had received from Faramir, trying to use the knowledge to plan a course of action. She found that besides the brother, there was a father, and he would probably be a bigger impediment than even Boromir was.
The relationship that Faramir had with his father was very complex, and judging by Faramir's memories, it seemed quite terrifying. Time and time again, the ranger had been the recipient of physical abuse and emotional neglect at the hands of this Man, and Faramir felt only anxiety and a wish for peace when in his father's presence. For some strange reason, the father only showed love and acceptance to the eldest, while the youngest had to satisfy himself with leftover crumbs.
It was such a foreign notion to her, this way that the father treated his son, for her own father had been very loving to her, and she missed him terribly since he had been murdered in Mordor. She thanked the Valar daily that they had parted on good terms, never having wasted any time on ill will between themselves. She wondered how long it would be before Faramir would have to suffer at his father's hands again.
With a heavy heart, she knew that if she was unable to help him soon, it was certain that he wouldn't.
Denethor had done little but worry since Boromir had departed Minas Tirith. He had kept a close watch upon the Pelennor knowing that any group of soldiers approaching would be seen easily at a great distance from these high windows in the Citadel. But eventually his ministers had suggested that they should reconvene the council upon the morrow since the Steward of Gondor was obviously very preoccupied by the disappearance of his son, the Lord Faramir. Denethor had agreed halfheartedly at the time, but now he wished that he had made a better attempt to muddle through the council session, for now there was nothing to do but dwell upon his absent sons.
Sighing heavily, he stepped out of his study in the steward's residence and stood uncertainly for a moment. "Denethor, you truly are a fool!" he scolded himself before he stepped aimlessly down the corridor, wandering really, eventually finding himself before Faramir's rooms. Never had he bothered to explore his youngest son's rooms before, though often he had wondered what he might find within them. After taking a lamp from the table in the corridor, he pushed open the door and went to the windows, pushing apart the heavy crimson drapes, allowing some daylight into his son's sitting room.
Though his son had not stepped one foot within this room for at least six months, it was unmistakably remained Faramir's. The walls were covered in shelves that were loaded with books, tomes filled with the details of ancient battles and books about nearly every culture upon the world. Whence did he acquire all of these books? Long ago, Denethor had forbidden Faramir to visit the library in the Citadel anymore, citing that the time wasted there could be better put to use in weapons practice. It seemed, however, that his son had more than made up for having his library privileges taken from him. Sitting upon a dusty red couch, Denethor picked up one of the books that had been left upon the low table before him, surprised to discover that the thin volume was a book filled with Sindarin love poetry. After flipping through the pages for a few moments, the steward opened the front cover and discovered from the inscription written there that this was a book that he had given to his beloved Finduilas before they had been married. Why can I not remember this book? She must have gifted it to Faramir before she. . . .
No, he couldn't think of that now. Too much despair would send him back into the familiar rage that he felt whenever he thought too long upon the unfortunate portions of his life. No, he had reserved this time to dwell upon his youngest son. Setting the book aside, he rose, drawn to a framed sketch hanging upon the wall. The subject was Boromir, and when he saw the signature at the bottom, Denethor delighted to realize that Faramir himself had drawn it. It was a very good likeness of his eldest son standing beside his mount, both dressed in full battle armor. There were other sketches, their subjects varied, but the steward was drawn back to this picture. He had never known that Faramir was such a talented artist.
In the corner of the room rested both a lute and a harp. Denethor had never heard his boy play either of these instruments and wondered briefly if he was as talented with them as he was with parchment and charcoal. He felt a certain sadness then that Faramir had been forced to leave so much of what he loved behind to become a ranger, but it was a necessity in these times. Faramir had been skilled enough with a sword to fight in the regular army like Boromir, but he was also very talented with a bow, so he was sent to the rangers, where both silence and stealth equaled survival.
Before he could further explore Faramir's rooms he glanced out of the window and noticed a small group of what appeared to be rangers slowly approaching the city upon the road from Osgiliath. Motionlessly, he watched for a long time as they crept ever nearer, realizing that the reason for their slow progress was that the mounted rangers were escorting a cart. Grief twisted his heart as he slowly realized that it might now be too late to make peace with his youngest son.
Faramir, my son! Denethor knew that his boy's condition must be bad if they were escorting him home thusly, and he prayed to the Valar that Faramir yet lived as he departed his son's rooms and hurried to the throne room in the Citadel, so that no one would have to search for him throughout the city to bring him whatever news awaited him.
Chapter 9
There was a wain that had been half-emptied of its load of hay awaiting Faramir's arrival in Osgiliath, and Boromir directed the litter- bearers with an iron tone as they gently eased the wounded Man into the back of it before the warrior climbed in himself. He turned to offer the woman a hand, but she refused it and gracefully leapt unaided into the cart.
"Sit," he commanded her unnecessarily, and she did, sinking into the hay in the farthest corner of the wain from the wounded Man. Boromir grunted his approval as he sat down next to his brother, softly stroking Faramir's face as one of the other rangers climbed in, took the reins, and began to drive the cart forward as slowly as he could, making an effort not to incur Boromir's wrath by jostling his brother too much as the entire group moved forward upon the road. They eventually passed through the gate of the Rammas Echor, and onto the Pelennor Fields.
The going was agonizingly slow, and though his worry had not lessened, Boromir was curious enough about the black-clad figure here with him that he felt compelled to speak to her.
"I see as I gaze upon my brother's face that, indeed, he feels little pain, for he seems so much more at rest now. How did you achieve this?"
"It is something that I have always been able to do, but I know not how to explain it to you." There was an uncomfortable silence before she ventured a question of her own. "Where shall you take him when we arrive in the city?"
He glared at her suspiciously before he shrugged and answered, "To the Houses of Healing, where he shall receive the finest care that can be procured within the White City."
"Of that I have no doubt." She considered adding, "but he shall die anyway," but she decided against it, unwilling to upset the warrior more than he already obviously was. Instead, she sifted through the memories that she had received from Faramir, trying to use the knowledge to plan a course of action. She found that besides the brother, there was a father, and he would probably be a bigger impediment than even Boromir was.
The relationship that Faramir had with his father was very complex, and judging by Faramir's memories, it seemed quite terrifying. Time and time again, the ranger had been the recipient of physical abuse and emotional neglect at the hands of this Man, and Faramir felt only anxiety and a wish for peace when in his father's presence. For some strange reason, the father only showed love and acceptance to the eldest, while the youngest had to satisfy himself with leftover crumbs.
It was such a foreign notion to her, this way that the father treated his son, for her own father had been very loving to her, and she missed him terribly since he had been murdered in Mordor. She thanked the Valar daily that they had parted on good terms, never having wasted any time on ill will between themselves. She wondered how long it would be before Faramir would have to suffer at his father's hands again.
With a heavy heart, she knew that if she was unable to help him soon, it was certain that he wouldn't.
Denethor had done little but worry since Boromir had departed Minas Tirith. He had kept a close watch upon the Pelennor knowing that any group of soldiers approaching would be seen easily at a great distance from these high windows in the Citadel. But eventually his ministers had suggested that they should reconvene the council upon the morrow since the Steward of Gondor was obviously very preoccupied by the disappearance of his son, the Lord Faramir. Denethor had agreed halfheartedly at the time, but now he wished that he had made a better attempt to muddle through the council session, for now there was nothing to do but dwell upon his absent sons.
Sighing heavily, he stepped out of his study in the steward's residence and stood uncertainly for a moment. "Denethor, you truly are a fool!" he scolded himself before he stepped aimlessly down the corridor, wandering really, eventually finding himself before Faramir's rooms. Never had he bothered to explore his youngest son's rooms before, though often he had wondered what he might find within them. After taking a lamp from the table in the corridor, he pushed open the door and went to the windows, pushing apart the heavy crimson drapes, allowing some daylight into his son's sitting room.
Though his son had not stepped one foot within this room for at least six months, it was unmistakably remained Faramir's. The walls were covered in shelves that were loaded with books, tomes filled with the details of ancient battles and books about nearly every culture upon the world. Whence did he acquire all of these books? Long ago, Denethor had forbidden Faramir to visit the library in the Citadel anymore, citing that the time wasted there could be better put to use in weapons practice. It seemed, however, that his son had more than made up for having his library privileges taken from him. Sitting upon a dusty red couch, Denethor picked up one of the books that had been left upon the low table before him, surprised to discover that the thin volume was a book filled with Sindarin love poetry. After flipping through the pages for a few moments, the steward opened the front cover and discovered from the inscription written there that this was a book that he had given to his beloved Finduilas before they had been married. Why can I not remember this book? She must have gifted it to Faramir before she. . . .
No, he couldn't think of that now. Too much despair would send him back into the familiar rage that he felt whenever he thought too long upon the unfortunate portions of his life. No, he had reserved this time to dwell upon his youngest son. Setting the book aside, he rose, drawn to a framed sketch hanging upon the wall. The subject was Boromir, and when he saw the signature at the bottom, Denethor delighted to realize that Faramir himself had drawn it. It was a very good likeness of his eldest son standing beside his mount, both dressed in full battle armor. There were other sketches, their subjects varied, but the steward was drawn back to this picture. He had never known that Faramir was such a talented artist.
In the corner of the room rested both a lute and a harp. Denethor had never heard his boy play either of these instruments and wondered briefly if he was as talented with them as he was with parchment and charcoal. He felt a certain sadness then that Faramir had been forced to leave so much of what he loved behind to become a ranger, but it was a necessity in these times. Faramir had been skilled enough with a sword to fight in the regular army like Boromir, but he was also very talented with a bow, so he was sent to the rangers, where both silence and stealth equaled survival.
Before he could further explore Faramir's rooms he glanced out of the window and noticed a small group of what appeared to be rangers slowly approaching the city upon the road from Osgiliath. Motionlessly, he watched for a long time as they crept ever nearer, realizing that the reason for their slow progress was that the mounted rangers were escorting a cart. Grief twisted his heart as he slowly realized that it might now be too late to make peace with his youngest son.
Faramir, my son! Denethor knew that his boy's condition must be bad if they were escorting him home thusly, and he prayed to the Valar that Faramir yet lived as he departed his son's rooms and hurried to the throne room in the Citadel, so that no one would have to search for him throughout the city to bring him whatever news awaited him.