A/N: Here's a longer chapter for you, Rosie26! Thanks for all the great reviews everyone!
Chapter 11
It was not long before a messenger, out of breath, arrived in the throne room, quickly bowing before Lord Denethor. The servant observed the accepted protocol by kneeling before the steward and kissing his ring before he spoke.
"Lord Steward, your son Faramir has been found in the forest of South Ithilien and has been taken to the Houses of Healing. It appears that he has been captured and tortured by a band of orcs, my lord."
"What is his condition?"
"It is grave, my lord."
Denethor rose and dismissed the messenger from his presence. It took him only a minute to master his emotions before he summoned his guards to his side. Together they moved through the halls of the Citadel, taking the tunnel down to the sixth tier of the city, emerging from it very close to the edge of the gardens that surround the Houses of Healing.
It was not right that the sun had shone so brightly today when his son had lain badly wounded, he thought. As he entered the building, he steeled himself for what he might find. Boromir met him in the corridor before the door that led to his youngest son, and Denethor nearly lost his composure at the bleak expression upon his eldest son's face.
"Father." Boromir nodded to his father.
"How is he, son?"
"Not well, I am afraid, Father."
Why does he not look me in the eye when he speaks? "Speak plainly, Boromir!"
Boromir sighed. "He is dying, Father."
The blood drained from Denethor's face as he closed his eyes. No! This cannot be happening! Not again! He felt Boromir's hand upon his arm, steadying him. Though he wanted nothing more than to embrace Boromir and weep for all of the lost time, it was not befitting the Steward of Gondor to do so. Opening his eyes, he shrugged off the hand and stepped through the door without hesitation.
Inside of the well-lit room was a bed surrounded by three healers, all working quietly. Only one looked up from her work: Ioreth.
"Lord Denethor, you cannot be in here now."
She started to usher him from the room, but he stilled her with a look. "I would not abandon my son in his time of need, Ioreth. Continue your work, and I shall quietly watch from here."
Ioreth nodded. "Of course, Lord Steward." She returned to the bedside as he tried to catch a glimpse of Faramir's face. All that he could tell from his position near the door was that his son was resting upon his side. Occasionally he could be heard to moan or hiss in pain as the healers manipulated his broken body back into some semblance of normalcy.
There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere of the room, and Denethor shuddered inwardly when he looked to Ioreth's face. It was the first time in all of the years that he had known the woman that he didn't see any hope for his son in her features. Boromir had been right; Faramir was dying.
She curtly dismissed the other healers before she beckoned the steward to a chair at his son's bedside, and she moved to her patient's back, beginning to tend the wounds there. Denethor's fear almost overcame him as he finally saw his youngest son's battered face in profile against the pillows, the black bruises around his neck showing in stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. Slowly the steward moved to the chair, composing himself as he did, and when he sat, he had a smile upon his face for Faramir.
"My son," he called softly, and the grey eyes opened slowly. They widened a moment in seeming disbelief, before filling with wariness, as the lieutenant took a shuddering breath.
"Father, please . . . forgive my . . . lateness," whispered the ever- dutiful ranger.
"It matters not, Faramir." He took a moment to look over his son's wounds, noting the splinted ankle, the hand swaddled in linen, bandages swathed across his ribs. He wondered what Ioreth was tending that took so much of her attention. Faramir gasped in sudden agony as Ioreth began to dab a healing salve onto his wounded back, and his father asked, "Is the pain very unpleasant, my son?"
Faramir swallowed convulsively, trying to find his voice, but merely nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His father took up a cool, damp cloth from the table next to the bed and patted it gently against his son's damp brow. "Shh, be hush, and listen well, my boy," said Denethor, stroking the dark hair away from his son's face, as Faramir watched him and waited, silent but for his panting breaths. "So much you resemble your mother," the steward murmured almost to himself. Again the grey eyes widened briefly in surprise before Denethor's demeanor became much more serious.
"I am told that your condition is not good, Faramir. Your very survival is in doubt." The ranger nodded, his anguished expression unchanged. "But I wish you to know that my words to you today do not wholly stem from that. Before I knew. . . . Before now, I felt that I needed to say something to you in a manner of apology, for I have treated you abominably throughout the years."
Faramir bit his lip against the fierce pain, and the tears finally spilled from his eyes as Denethor continued speaking, all the while stroking the cloth gently over his son's face. "Ever have I blamed you for what happened to your mother. After you were born, she never was the same again. Your birth was a particularly difficult one, and it was a long labor in the heat of the summer. It took nearly all of her strength to deliver you into this world, but she did it gladly and without complaint, for she loved you from the moment that she knew you were coming. But she grew ill soon after, and she lingered, I think, only because she wanted you to grow up having some idea of what she was like before she . . . departed us.
"It seemed to me that everything she did in her last years was for you, for you were a rather needy baby. Ofttimes you were ill, and it was all she and your nurse could do sometimes just to pull you through. On two separate occasions, when you were very young, I can recall Ioreth here warning me that you might not live through the night. But in the end, you were much stronger than any of us knew, and you lived despite the grim outlook for your survival.
"Through everything, I worked ceaselessly as the Steward of Gondor, relying heavily upon your mother to raise you boys to an age where you would be able to assume your duties as Sons of Gondor. I took her for granted, my boy, and I was a fool."
Denethor paused long enough to make certain he would not lose his composure before he continued. "After she was gone, I found myself without purpose. The only things I have ever known is being a soldier and being a steward. Your grandfather, Ecthelion, was a poor example to me, as he treated me much the same as I have treated you. So I had no idea how to be a father to you two boys. Luckily, Boromir was of an age that he could begin training for his adult life, though ten was a rather young age for that. But it was all that I knew to do with him, so I pressed him into it early, and he thrived upon it.
"You, however, were a different story. You were so little. I can yet remember standing at her grave side those many years ago, wondering what I should do with you. We were nearly strangers, you and I. We still are, I suppose." He grinned at Faramir, and again his son looked surprised. "I knew not that you are such a gifted artist. I knew not that you are a musician. I did know that you loved to read but not that your love of books is so great that you have hoarded more than a few titles within your own rooms!" He stroked Faramir's cheek with his fingers as alarm showed plainly in the silvery eyes, but Denethor smiled slightly, answering the unspoken question. "Yes, I entered your rooms without your permission. Fear not! I was not displeased by what I found!"
The steward sobered suddenly. "Ever have you been exceptionally wise for your years, but still I knew not what to do with such a young child, so I spent the lion's share of my time with your brother and left you to fend for yourself amongst your various nurses and teachers, most especially Mith . . . but, no, I shall not mention the wizard's name now." He brushed aside his anger and continued. "Oft you would come to me under some pretense so that you might merely receive some attention from your father. Many times I sent you away from me, to my great shame, unwilling to even listen to your voice. Ofttimes I did not send you away, to my even greater shame. If I had owned the patience, I would have listened to you when you spoke to me, no matter how trivial the subject might have seemed to be at the time. Instead, I allowed your attempts to draw my attention away from Boromir to anger me, and I took it out upon you. I wish with all my heart that I could change the past and so take some of the scars of my anger away from you." He sighed.
"As you grew, I expected that you should be able to assume your duties at the same age that Boromir had. But, alas, you are not your brother. You are Faramir of Gondor, and I should have treated you as such. Instead, I saw a boy who was weak and incapable. When I tried to treat you as I had Boromir at ten, I found that you were not ready for adulthood like your brother had been. It was a simple fact, but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead I attempted to mold you into his likeness, taking away your time in the library to encourage you to practice with your sword more often, forcing you sometimes to keep at it all night." Denethor patted his son's hand. "But you know all of this already, Faramir, for you have lived it."
He lowered his voice as he leaned closer to his son's face, fascinated that the boy's eyes even had tiny blue flecks within the grey just as Finduilas' eyes had. "The main thing that I wish you to know is this. Though you are headstrong occasionally and stubborn often, what happened to your mother was not your fault. What happened when I tried to press you too quickly into adulthood was not your fault. Many of our disagreements have been due to my shortcomings, my failings. You have been the best son that you could be to me through the years. I am proud of you." Then in a softer voice, he added, "I love you, Faramir. Never forget the day that your father finally admitted your worth to you, my boy."
Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if this was but a dream. At last, finding his voice, he said, "I shall . . . not, Father, not . . . for as long . . . as I live."
Denethor smiled. "I am glad of that." He turned his attention to the woman behind his son. "Shall I stay while you finish tending his wounds, Ioreth?"
She nodded, smiling through her own tears. "I think your presence shall be a great comfort to your son, Lord Denethor."
Chapter 11
It was not long before a messenger, out of breath, arrived in the throne room, quickly bowing before Lord Denethor. The servant observed the accepted protocol by kneeling before the steward and kissing his ring before he spoke.
"Lord Steward, your son Faramir has been found in the forest of South Ithilien and has been taken to the Houses of Healing. It appears that he has been captured and tortured by a band of orcs, my lord."
"What is his condition?"
"It is grave, my lord."
Denethor rose and dismissed the messenger from his presence. It took him only a minute to master his emotions before he summoned his guards to his side. Together they moved through the halls of the Citadel, taking the tunnel down to the sixth tier of the city, emerging from it very close to the edge of the gardens that surround the Houses of Healing.
It was not right that the sun had shone so brightly today when his son had lain badly wounded, he thought. As he entered the building, he steeled himself for what he might find. Boromir met him in the corridor before the door that led to his youngest son, and Denethor nearly lost his composure at the bleak expression upon his eldest son's face.
"Father." Boromir nodded to his father.
"How is he, son?"
"Not well, I am afraid, Father."
Why does he not look me in the eye when he speaks? "Speak plainly, Boromir!"
Boromir sighed. "He is dying, Father."
The blood drained from Denethor's face as he closed his eyes. No! This cannot be happening! Not again! He felt Boromir's hand upon his arm, steadying him. Though he wanted nothing more than to embrace Boromir and weep for all of the lost time, it was not befitting the Steward of Gondor to do so. Opening his eyes, he shrugged off the hand and stepped through the door without hesitation.
Inside of the well-lit room was a bed surrounded by three healers, all working quietly. Only one looked up from her work: Ioreth.
"Lord Denethor, you cannot be in here now."
She started to usher him from the room, but he stilled her with a look. "I would not abandon my son in his time of need, Ioreth. Continue your work, and I shall quietly watch from here."
Ioreth nodded. "Of course, Lord Steward." She returned to the bedside as he tried to catch a glimpse of Faramir's face. All that he could tell from his position near the door was that his son was resting upon his side. Occasionally he could be heard to moan or hiss in pain as the healers manipulated his broken body back into some semblance of normalcy.
There was a sudden shift in the atmosphere of the room, and Denethor shuddered inwardly when he looked to Ioreth's face. It was the first time in all of the years that he had known the woman that he didn't see any hope for his son in her features. Boromir had been right; Faramir was dying.
She curtly dismissed the other healers before she beckoned the steward to a chair at his son's bedside, and she moved to her patient's back, beginning to tend the wounds there. Denethor's fear almost overcame him as he finally saw his youngest son's battered face in profile against the pillows, the black bruises around his neck showing in stark contrast against the paleness of his skin. Slowly the steward moved to the chair, composing himself as he did, and when he sat, he had a smile upon his face for Faramir.
"My son," he called softly, and the grey eyes opened slowly. They widened a moment in seeming disbelief, before filling with wariness, as the lieutenant took a shuddering breath.
"Father, please . . . forgive my . . . lateness," whispered the ever- dutiful ranger.
"It matters not, Faramir." He took a moment to look over his son's wounds, noting the splinted ankle, the hand swaddled in linen, bandages swathed across his ribs. He wondered what Ioreth was tending that took so much of her attention. Faramir gasped in sudden agony as Ioreth began to dab a healing salve onto his wounded back, and his father asked, "Is the pain very unpleasant, my son?"
Faramir swallowed convulsively, trying to find his voice, but merely nodded, his eyes glistening with unshed tears. His father took up a cool, damp cloth from the table next to the bed and patted it gently against his son's damp brow. "Shh, be hush, and listen well, my boy," said Denethor, stroking the dark hair away from his son's face, as Faramir watched him and waited, silent but for his panting breaths. "So much you resemble your mother," the steward murmured almost to himself. Again the grey eyes widened briefly in surprise before Denethor's demeanor became much more serious.
"I am told that your condition is not good, Faramir. Your very survival is in doubt." The ranger nodded, his anguished expression unchanged. "But I wish you to know that my words to you today do not wholly stem from that. Before I knew. . . . Before now, I felt that I needed to say something to you in a manner of apology, for I have treated you abominably throughout the years."
Faramir bit his lip against the fierce pain, and the tears finally spilled from his eyes as Denethor continued speaking, all the while stroking the cloth gently over his son's face. "Ever have I blamed you for what happened to your mother. After you were born, she never was the same again. Your birth was a particularly difficult one, and it was a long labor in the heat of the summer. It took nearly all of her strength to deliver you into this world, but she did it gladly and without complaint, for she loved you from the moment that she knew you were coming. But she grew ill soon after, and she lingered, I think, only because she wanted you to grow up having some idea of what she was like before she . . . departed us.
"It seemed to me that everything she did in her last years was for you, for you were a rather needy baby. Ofttimes you were ill, and it was all she and your nurse could do sometimes just to pull you through. On two separate occasions, when you were very young, I can recall Ioreth here warning me that you might not live through the night. But in the end, you were much stronger than any of us knew, and you lived despite the grim outlook for your survival.
"Through everything, I worked ceaselessly as the Steward of Gondor, relying heavily upon your mother to raise you boys to an age where you would be able to assume your duties as Sons of Gondor. I took her for granted, my boy, and I was a fool."
Denethor paused long enough to make certain he would not lose his composure before he continued. "After she was gone, I found myself without purpose. The only things I have ever known is being a soldier and being a steward. Your grandfather, Ecthelion, was a poor example to me, as he treated me much the same as I have treated you. So I had no idea how to be a father to you two boys. Luckily, Boromir was of an age that he could begin training for his adult life, though ten was a rather young age for that. But it was all that I knew to do with him, so I pressed him into it early, and he thrived upon it.
"You, however, were a different story. You were so little. I can yet remember standing at her grave side those many years ago, wondering what I should do with you. We were nearly strangers, you and I. We still are, I suppose." He grinned at Faramir, and again his son looked surprised. "I knew not that you are such a gifted artist. I knew not that you are a musician. I did know that you loved to read but not that your love of books is so great that you have hoarded more than a few titles within your own rooms!" He stroked Faramir's cheek with his fingers as alarm showed plainly in the silvery eyes, but Denethor smiled slightly, answering the unspoken question. "Yes, I entered your rooms without your permission. Fear not! I was not displeased by what I found!"
The steward sobered suddenly. "Ever have you been exceptionally wise for your years, but still I knew not what to do with such a young child, so I spent the lion's share of my time with your brother and left you to fend for yourself amongst your various nurses and teachers, most especially Mith . . . but, no, I shall not mention the wizard's name now." He brushed aside his anger and continued. "Oft you would come to me under some pretense so that you might merely receive some attention from your father. Many times I sent you away from me, to my great shame, unwilling to even listen to your voice. Ofttimes I did not send you away, to my even greater shame. If I had owned the patience, I would have listened to you when you spoke to me, no matter how trivial the subject might have seemed to be at the time. Instead, I allowed your attempts to draw my attention away from Boromir to anger me, and I took it out upon you. I wish with all my heart that I could change the past and so take some of the scars of my anger away from you." He sighed.
"As you grew, I expected that you should be able to assume your duties at the same age that Boromir had. But, alas, you are not your brother. You are Faramir of Gondor, and I should have treated you as such. Instead, I saw a boy who was weak and incapable. When I tried to treat you as I had Boromir at ten, I found that you were not ready for adulthood like your brother had been. It was a simple fact, but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead I attempted to mold you into his likeness, taking away your time in the library to encourage you to practice with your sword more often, forcing you sometimes to keep at it all night." Denethor patted his son's hand. "But you know all of this already, Faramir, for you have lived it."
He lowered his voice as he leaned closer to his son's face, fascinated that the boy's eyes even had tiny blue flecks within the grey just as Finduilas' eyes had. "The main thing that I wish you to know is this. Though you are headstrong occasionally and stubborn often, what happened to your mother was not your fault. What happened when I tried to press you too quickly into adulthood was not your fault. Many of our disagreements have been due to my shortcomings, my failings. You have been the best son that you could be to me through the years. I am proud of you." Then in a softer voice, he added, "I love you, Faramir. Never forget the day that your father finally admitted your worth to you, my boy."
Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, wondering if this was but a dream. At last, finding his voice, he said, "I shall . . . not, Father, not . . . for as long . . . as I live."
Denethor smiled. "I am glad of that." He turned his attention to the woman behind his son. "Shall I stay while you finish tending his wounds, Ioreth?"
She nodded, smiling through her own tears. "I think your presence shall be a great comfort to your son, Lord Denethor."