A/N: Here's another quick (and short) chapter for you all. It's gonna be a
busy weekend so I probably won't post another until Sunday night or Monday.
And for anyone who cares, I have just started on my sequel to "The River
Poros". So, now I'm writing three stories at once, and I have another
hovering in the back of my mind. Feeling a little dizzy here. . . .
Enjoy! And thanks for the great reviews!
Chapter 15
"Father," began Boromir. "There has been a misunderstanding. Ioreth thought when I sent for her that Faramir had taken a turn for the worse, but that is not true. In fact, he is much improved." At the moment, Faramir did not look particularly improved. His eyes were closed, and what little color that had returned to his face had long fled.
"Who is this?" growled Denethor, indicating the Elf with a jab of his finger.
"She is a friend, Father," murmured Faramir, who otherwise did not move.
"She is an Elf!" roared the steward when he spied her pointed ear. "What is going on here?"
Boromir spoke as if to a child, "Father, this Elf saved Faramir's life!"
"What nonsense is this? She is insensible!" He whirled to face his youngest son. "What have you to say about this?"
Faramir warily opened his eyes and looked unwaveringly upon his father's angry face and said in hoarse but quietly steady voice, "If it had not been for her intervention, I should be dead now, Father."
Denethor moved closer for the attack. "What was that, Son? Did you speak? How dare you try to mislead me about the seriousness of your condition?! I thought to come here only to have enough time left to say my goodbyes to you!"
"Father. . . ."
"Hush you, Boromir!" He then turned his wrath upon Ioreth. "I thought that there was no hope for him!"
"My lord, his condition is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I, too, thought that there was no hope," she said quietly, wringing her hands in obvious discomfort. Denethor regarded her silently for a moment.
"You may go, Ioreth."
The healer nodded and bowed stiffly before she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Immediately Denethor moved to stand before Boromir, interested in the warrior's burden. "Who is this Elf then? A patient here? Why was I not informed that an Elf had entered my city?"
"It is my fault, Father," explained Boromir. "I brought her to Minas Tirith without your knowledge."
"And why did you do such a thing? You know that Elves cannot be trusted!"
Boromir was more than willing to lie to his father for Faramir's sake, for he had done it often in the past. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Faramir cut him off.
"I should have thought that you would be happy to see me yet alive, my lord."
Denethor raised an eyebrow as he turned again toward his youngest son. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, sir, that you are overreacting. I am much better, and if you would only listen, I can explain what has happened."
The steward was instantly beside Faramir's bed, his hands clenched at his sides. He leaned down and shouted, "Speak plainly, whelp! I grow weary of your never-ending deceit!"
Boromir tried to draw the unwanted attention back to himself. "Father, please have a care! He remains injured, even if he is not in danger of dying any longer."
The steward moved to the door of the room before he spoke. "It appears, Boromir, that your hands are full. Perhaps you should deal with your own burden first before you try to take on those of your brother."
Little does he know! Boromir thought as his father opened the door for him, ushering him into the hall and slamming the door soundly behind him, turning the lock, leaving his eldest son standing in the corridor.
Boromir sighed and walked down the hallway a short distance to the unoccupied room next door. After entering, he gently laid the Elf upon the bedclothes and then sat in a nearby chair wondering what he should do now. The warrior was exhausted, and he felt his weariness pulling at him now that he knew Faramir would live.
"Denethor!" The word was a curse upon his lips. "You know," he said quietly to the insensible Elf, "I loathe saying it aloud, but it might have been better for Fara had you allowed him to die. Never have he and Father gotten along. Father treats him worse than a dog, in fact." He moved his head from side to side, attempting to stretch the muscles in his neck, trying desperately to relax.
"I thought eventually Father would warm up to Fara," he muttered. "After all, Faramir has done everything that the Lord Steward has ever demanded of him, and he has done it well. Why does the Man refuse to see?" Boromir leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows upon his knees before burying his face in his hands. The moan that escaped his lips soon turned into a growl of wrath, and he stood quickly, pacing the floor just as he had done in the corridor earlier. "And always I am the one caught in the middle, trying to smooth Father's ruffled feathers, trying to ease Faramir's hurts. Cannot they see how difficult their relationship is for me?"
With a sigh, he flung himself back into the chair, rubbing his face with his hands. "Would that I had been the one to collapse into a heap upon the floor!" he moaned. "Eru knows I could use the rest." As a soldier who had seen many years of service, Boromir had acquired the ability to sleep anywhere and anytime, so he arranged his large frame into the pitifully small chair, and allowed himself to doze, hoping Lachdúliel would awaken soon.
It had only been an hour at most when he heard Faramir's anguished cry, "Father, please!"
Chapter 15
"Father," began Boromir. "There has been a misunderstanding. Ioreth thought when I sent for her that Faramir had taken a turn for the worse, but that is not true. In fact, he is much improved." At the moment, Faramir did not look particularly improved. His eyes were closed, and what little color that had returned to his face had long fled.
"Who is this?" growled Denethor, indicating the Elf with a jab of his finger.
"She is a friend, Father," murmured Faramir, who otherwise did not move.
"She is an Elf!" roared the steward when he spied her pointed ear. "What is going on here?"
Boromir spoke as if to a child, "Father, this Elf saved Faramir's life!"
"What nonsense is this? She is insensible!" He whirled to face his youngest son. "What have you to say about this?"
Faramir warily opened his eyes and looked unwaveringly upon his father's angry face and said in hoarse but quietly steady voice, "If it had not been for her intervention, I should be dead now, Father."
Denethor moved closer for the attack. "What was that, Son? Did you speak? How dare you try to mislead me about the seriousness of your condition?! I thought to come here only to have enough time left to say my goodbyes to you!"
"Father. . . ."
"Hush you, Boromir!" He then turned his wrath upon Ioreth. "I thought that there was no hope for him!"
"My lord, his condition is as much of a surprise to me as it is to you. I, too, thought that there was no hope," she said quietly, wringing her hands in obvious discomfort. Denethor regarded her silently for a moment.
"You may go, Ioreth."
The healer nodded and bowed stiffly before she left the room, closing the door softly behind her. Immediately Denethor moved to stand before Boromir, interested in the warrior's burden. "Who is this Elf then? A patient here? Why was I not informed that an Elf had entered my city?"
"It is my fault, Father," explained Boromir. "I brought her to Minas Tirith without your knowledge."
"And why did you do such a thing? You know that Elves cannot be trusted!"
Boromir was more than willing to lie to his father for Faramir's sake, for he had done it often in the past. But as he opened his mouth to speak, Faramir cut him off.
"I should have thought that you would be happy to see me yet alive, my lord."
Denethor raised an eyebrow as he turned again toward his youngest son. "Meaning?"
"Meaning, sir, that you are overreacting. I am much better, and if you would only listen, I can explain what has happened."
The steward was instantly beside Faramir's bed, his hands clenched at his sides. He leaned down and shouted, "Speak plainly, whelp! I grow weary of your never-ending deceit!"
Boromir tried to draw the unwanted attention back to himself. "Father, please have a care! He remains injured, even if he is not in danger of dying any longer."
The steward moved to the door of the room before he spoke. "It appears, Boromir, that your hands are full. Perhaps you should deal with your own burden first before you try to take on those of your brother."
Little does he know! Boromir thought as his father opened the door for him, ushering him into the hall and slamming the door soundly behind him, turning the lock, leaving his eldest son standing in the corridor.
Boromir sighed and walked down the hallway a short distance to the unoccupied room next door. After entering, he gently laid the Elf upon the bedclothes and then sat in a nearby chair wondering what he should do now. The warrior was exhausted, and he felt his weariness pulling at him now that he knew Faramir would live.
"Denethor!" The word was a curse upon his lips. "You know," he said quietly to the insensible Elf, "I loathe saying it aloud, but it might have been better for Fara had you allowed him to die. Never have he and Father gotten along. Father treats him worse than a dog, in fact." He moved his head from side to side, attempting to stretch the muscles in his neck, trying desperately to relax.
"I thought eventually Father would warm up to Fara," he muttered. "After all, Faramir has done everything that the Lord Steward has ever demanded of him, and he has done it well. Why does the Man refuse to see?" Boromir leaned forward in the chair and rested his elbows upon his knees before burying his face in his hands. The moan that escaped his lips soon turned into a growl of wrath, and he stood quickly, pacing the floor just as he had done in the corridor earlier. "And always I am the one caught in the middle, trying to smooth Father's ruffled feathers, trying to ease Faramir's hurts. Cannot they see how difficult their relationship is for me?"
With a sigh, he flung himself back into the chair, rubbing his face with his hands. "Would that I had been the one to collapse into a heap upon the floor!" he moaned. "Eru knows I could use the rest." As a soldier who had seen many years of service, Boromir had acquired the ability to sleep anywhere and anytime, so he arranged his large frame into the pitifully small chair, and allowed himself to doze, hoping Lachdúliel would awaken soon.
It had only been an hour at most when he heard Faramir's anguished cry, "Father, please!"