Disclaimer: See previous chapters
Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I had a bit of a rough patch and by the time I figured out where to go next, my computer decided to die. So, here's my latest effort. Enjoy and review- pretty please? With anything you want on top?
Chapter Seven- War Wounds
When I was nineteen, I received my first battle wound. It was a knife cut, delivered by an Easterling, and it was not something I would easily forget. The wound, like the knife itself, was long, twisted and cruel, laced with a burning anger. I remember the moment he slashed me, how I was filled with such a terrible fear, how I fell to the ground at his utter mercy. Had some stray arrow not taken him down, I would have died during my first skirmish.
There was no one looking out for me, no one sworn to protect me. I was on my own in a strange company, surrounded by men that didn't even know I was Denethor's son. They didn't take much notice of me for good or ill, and had I died, it would have been an event of no great sorrow for them. I did not even have my first comrade until he found me after the battle, half buried beneath the Easterling's carcass.
"What's this? Are you yet alive down there?" he called. He bent over me, a look of childish anxiousness on his features. I knew his name was Anborn, but little more than that. I doubt if he knew my name at all, even the false one I served under for that first year. Still, it was with great care that he threw the body off me and carried my limp form to the camp healers.
For a day, I lay in the dirty camp as some devilish fever worked in my veins. I was only half-conscious and I remember little, save that Anborn offered to carry me to Minas Tirith. The healer, whom I had known as a child, recognized me and ordered me back to the Houses of Healing. I don't remember much after that, save that I woke up a week later to my brother's face.
"Gods, little brother, you certainly didn't go about getting yourself accustomed to wounds in any easy manner!" he quipped, after tenderly embracing me. My entire left side was done up in bandages and was very sore. "That would have had a lesser man dead!"
"I would have been, had not some stray arrow saved me. I did not kill my enemy, merely collapsed under him like some common soldier." I cast my eyes down. "You would not have even flinched."
Boromir sighed and lightly punched my shoulder. "I would have fallen down and cried for Mother. You underestimate what was inflicted upon you."
"A scratch," I muttered.
"Well, Fari, if that is a scratch, I will hate to see you get a real wound!" Boromir laughed and leaned back in his chair. He was a sturdy, handsome man of twenty four, and a good man at that. He was Gondor's darling, perfect in every way. And I was simply the leftovers.
"Has Father been to see me?" I asked, hoping to sound as casual as I could.
To my utter surprise, Boromir nodded. "Of course, every day. Fari, that is another fault with you- you think too much of your faults! Father does not despise you any more than he does me. You are his son, and it doesn't matter if you came first or last in a series of twenty! You are still his child, and what man could hate his own children?"
I felt a little better after that. Indeed, Boromir was right. Denethor came to see me soon after my brother left, and, to my surprise, was actually friendly.
"Does it hurt much?" was his first question. After I shook my head, he smiled and sat down. "Good, good, I will not stand to see you in any discomfort." Yet that was how he looked, squirming in his chair. "You are, um, rested, then?"
"Yes, Father, everything is well. The Healers do their job." I hesitated a moment. "Is there something you would ask of me?"
He looked taken aback for a minute, but then he relaxed. He suddenly looked old and vulnerable. It made me want to weep. This was not the Steward of Gondor- this was a man who had almost lost his son.
"No, I would just like to see that you are well. Boromir said you underestimated your wound, and you do! It is very grievous, and for a while, we feared for your life. It was poisoned, the blade, and..." He sighed and shook his head. "I am thankful that you are alive, my son. And I am sorry that I sent you to combat with no one to protect you. You could have died, and the blame could have been placed at my feet!"
"No, never!" I said, shocked by this expression. "I had to learn for myself! I was like any other soldier, and would have died had I not been lucky! I must learn to do better, to protect myself!"
Denethor sighed and shook his head. "Faramir, Boromir once told me you drive yourself to the point of excellence trying to impress me. Do not try, for you already do so."
"But I must continue! I will not fail you! I will be a remarkable son!" I said, a few stray tears gathering in my eyes.
"But you are, Faramir, truly, you are!" Father exclaimed before gathering me into a hug. Though he hurt my side, I did not complain, for this was too rare of an occasion. Things could only get better from there, I thought. The bitterness between us was over.
All this I recounted to Eowyn as I was getting dressed one morning. She had lightly traced the scar on my left side, faded and white, and inquired of its origins. I spoke a little more of Father then I wanted to, but it had been okay. That had been one of the better moments between us, and caused little pain.
"You have had so many wounds Faramir, so many, so young!" she exclaimed. "I did not expect the son of a Steward to be so marked."
"Does it make me all that unattractive?" I asked, a small pout on my lips. "Do you reject me now, seeing me as a scarred and hideous beast?"
She laughed, the sound of happiness, hers as well as mine. "I have been married to you a little over three years now. I do not care if you are scarred, and if I did, I would have mentioned it then! You are beautiful to me, always!"
"As you are to me," I said softly, cupping her cheek in my hand. In a lighter tone, I added, "As I'm sure some other little person will be to me as well!" My hand strayed over her recently swollen belly and she laughed.
"How can one be beautiful when they kick so much! I would think it would wear him out as much as he moves," she said, giggling.
"He is truly his mother's son. You are sure it is a boy, then?" I asked quietly.
"I cannot ever be sure, but I have high hopes and a mother's instincts. And do not worry if he is a she, for we can always make another one!"
"Are you so sure of that, sweet? It took us long enough to conceive this one, and I fear the delivery may be hard for you, being so slight and all. Besides, even if it were a girl, I would love her no less."
"A stunning father you will be," she said in a hushed voice as she kissed my forehead. "Now come, silly, you promised me a walk in the gardens an hour ago!"
And so we went, hand in hand, down to our garden. We had planted the majority of it and the mountain plants flourished in the climate. It was a lovely sight to behold, and we often took strolls there together. I placed my hand on the small of Eowyn's back protectively and guided her. She sighed and placed her head on my shoulder.
"I am not a weakling just because I am pregnant," she whispered to me.
"I will not take any chances with you. I know how wild you can be, and you would still be horseback riding if you could!"
She blushed and laughed a little. "I was bored, and it was merely a suggestion. How would I know that Rheis would react so negatively?"
And so we continued our stroll, talking of mundane things that we took small pleasures in. I had come to love the world of simple things and cherished the hours spent with Eowyn talking of nothing too important. She had become the center of my universe that was the Emyn Arnen. My golden sun.
Arms wrapped tightly around her, my head sank to her shoulder as we watched the sun climb into the sky. We exchanged a few chaste kisses, feeling obliged to do so with a baby around, even if it wasn't in the actual outside world yet. We sat down for a picnic lunch in the garden and were enjoying ourselves when I heard horses.
"That's odd," I said quietly. "The patrols are back earlier than expected."
"Perhaps they saw nothing and wished only to return home. Don't worry yourself Faramir, already your forehead is lined with wrinkles!"
But I could not sit and listen to my wife's words. Within minutes, the captain of my guard, Beregond, came hurrying anxiously through the gardens. He bowed shyly and nervously. "I am sorry to interrupt, my lord and lady, but there is a problem in Northern Ithilien."
Eowyn and I both started. "What kind of problem? Speak quickly, Beregond!" I urged, suddenly feeling tense.
He bit his lip and met my eye. "A band of orcs, sir, almost three hundred, remnants of Mordor. They are lost in the Emyn Muil, but seem to be trying to head south. I left a band there to watch them, but I thought you might want to decide a course of action."
"Indeed," I said softly. Since Elessar had taken up the throne, there had been a multitude of villages springing up in previously uninhabited parts of Gondor. Northern Ithilien was one of them. A roaming band of orcs was an extreme hazard to the citizens of those towns. I nodded and stood.
"Very well then. We shall set out with our soldiers to stop them. Send word to Minas Tirith just in case, and then get the men ready. We shall gather our forces and head out to defeat them."
Beregond nodded smartly and took his leave. I felt Eowyn grab at my tunic. "You will leave as well?" she asked sadly.
"I wish I did not have to, especially with the baby being so near, but I have a duty to my people," I said, stroking her golden hair.
"And you will see your duty done. Were I fit, I would go with you," she said with a faint smile. I was relieved that she understood duty and did not fight with me. How I loved such a strong woman!
"And I would try to say no, to my utter failure. I must rally the men. I am sorry that this ruins our day, love."
She met my eyes and kissed me, staring into me always. When she pulled away, she sighed. "Do what must be done, Lord and Prince of Ithilien."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------
The road was not too long, but I had not been on horseback in urgent need for some time. We rode hard, a company of five hundred men, racing towards the Emyn Muil. For two days we rode, seeing no signs that the orcs had advanced or even found their way out of the mountains. However, on the evening of the second day, we saw that they had indeed escaped the labyrinth like passages.
The orcs had gotten out of the Emyn Muil, and Beregond's company had tried to stop them. The fifty or so men were vastly outnumbered, and all but a handful were scattered about a deserted valley, dead. The survivors were trapped in the middle of a huge circle. It filled my heart with a swell of pride to see them still fighting. I ordered the charge.
I have never been a lover of battle. Some men love to kill their enemies; I dislike killing even a flower. Still, years of this had numbed me well enough, and with a calloused heart, I rode into the fray. The battle cries of the men were frightening, and a hundred of the orcs broke away and fled.
"Beregond!" I shouted. "Follow them! Kill them!" He nodded, taking a few scores of men to finish off the enemy retreaters. As he rode away, the orcs did not see that he was going to finish off their comrades; they thought he was retreating. They attacked with fresh vigor, their malicious curved smiles everywhere.
My men did me proud. They gave the awful things nothing to smile about. It was to my relief to see that our casualties were few so far. The battle was going well, if any battle can be thought of as going well if it occurs at all.
It was then, in a moment of victory, that I felt the shove from behind. A huge orc, more beastlike than any I had previously seen, had launched itself at my horse. Terrified, she bucked, and I found myself flying to the ground. As soon as I hit the dirt I was on my feet again, my sword in hand. The beast came towards me, a deadly and wicked smile on its grimy lips.
There was always a feeling of dread when I faced an enemy, but I quickly quelled my doubts. I had faced hundreds of orcs, and they had never gotten the best of me. We lunged at each other, my noble shining sword clashing with his dingy black club. I suddenly realized just how much bigger this enemy was than me, how much stronger. I felt fear, and I did not like it. I was tossed to the ground again, and the sharp pain in my back told me I had landed on something hard. Not waiting for the spasms to subside, I leapt up again, but not soon enough. The great dirty beast slashed at me with a lethal looking knife. Knocked and battered, I stumbled back as he lunged again. He was almost laughing now, a low and nasty rumbling in his throat.
He stabbed, and hit his mark.
I stumbled back, shocked, cradling my stomach. I had not expected him to strike so quickly and stealthily. This was all wrong. I was supposed to be at home with my wife, cradling a newborn son, watching the sunset. I was supposed to be tending my garden and reading in my study. I was supposed to be with my brother and father, fighting side by side for the country I loved.
But I was nineteen again, and though this wound was in a different place, it was still as deadly. There was no one to protect me, no royal guard. I fell to my knees and slumped over as the beast hovered above me. It was too much to hope for another stray arrow.
Author's Note: Sorry this took so long. I had a bit of a rough patch and by the time I figured out where to go next, my computer decided to die. So, here's my latest effort. Enjoy and review- pretty please? With anything you want on top?
Chapter Seven- War Wounds
When I was nineteen, I received my first battle wound. It was a knife cut, delivered by an Easterling, and it was not something I would easily forget. The wound, like the knife itself, was long, twisted and cruel, laced with a burning anger. I remember the moment he slashed me, how I was filled with such a terrible fear, how I fell to the ground at his utter mercy. Had some stray arrow not taken him down, I would have died during my first skirmish.
There was no one looking out for me, no one sworn to protect me. I was on my own in a strange company, surrounded by men that didn't even know I was Denethor's son. They didn't take much notice of me for good or ill, and had I died, it would have been an event of no great sorrow for them. I did not even have my first comrade until he found me after the battle, half buried beneath the Easterling's carcass.
"What's this? Are you yet alive down there?" he called. He bent over me, a look of childish anxiousness on his features. I knew his name was Anborn, but little more than that. I doubt if he knew my name at all, even the false one I served under for that first year. Still, it was with great care that he threw the body off me and carried my limp form to the camp healers.
For a day, I lay in the dirty camp as some devilish fever worked in my veins. I was only half-conscious and I remember little, save that Anborn offered to carry me to Minas Tirith. The healer, whom I had known as a child, recognized me and ordered me back to the Houses of Healing. I don't remember much after that, save that I woke up a week later to my brother's face.
"Gods, little brother, you certainly didn't go about getting yourself accustomed to wounds in any easy manner!" he quipped, after tenderly embracing me. My entire left side was done up in bandages and was very sore. "That would have had a lesser man dead!"
"I would have been, had not some stray arrow saved me. I did not kill my enemy, merely collapsed under him like some common soldier." I cast my eyes down. "You would not have even flinched."
Boromir sighed and lightly punched my shoulder. "I would have fallen down and cried for Mother. You underestimate what was inflicted upon you."
"A scratch," I muttered.
"Well, Fari, if that is a scratch, I will hate to see you get a real wound!" Boromir laughed and leaned back in his chair. He was a sturdy, handsome man of twenty four, and a good man at that. He was Gondor's darling, perfect in every way. And I was simply the leftovers.
"Has Father been to see me?" I asked, hoping to sound as casual as I could.
To my utter surprise, Boromir nodded. "Of course, every day. Fari, that is another fault with you- you think too much of your faults! Father does not despise you any more than he does me. You are his son, and it doesn't matter if you came first or last in a series of twenty! You are still his child, and what man could hate his own children?"
I felt a little better after that. Indeed, Boromir was right. Denethor came to see me soon after my brother left, and, to my surprise, was actually friendly.
"Does it hurt much?" was his first question. After I shook my head, he smiled and sat down. "Good, good, I will not stand to see you in any discomfort." Yet that was how he looked, squirming in his chair. "You are, um, rested, then?"
"Yes, Father, everything is well. The Healers do their job." I hesitated a moment. "Is there something you would ask of me?"
He looked taken aback for a minute, but then he relaxed. He suddenly looked old and vulnerable. It made me want to weep. This was not the Steward of Gondor- this was a man who had almost lost his son.
"No, I would just like to see that you are well. Boromir said you underestimated your wound, and you do! It is very grievous, and for a while, we feared for your life. It was poisoned, the blade, and..." He sighed and shook his head. "I am thankful that you are alive, my son. And I am sorry that I sent you to combat with no one to protect you. You could have died, and the blame could have been placed at my feet!"
"No, never!" I said, shocked by this expression. "I had to learn for myself! I was like any other soldier, and would have died had I not been lucky! I must learn to do better, to protect myself!"
Denethor sighed and shook his head. "Faramir, Boromir once told me you drive yourself to the point of excellence trying to impress me. Do not try, for you already do so."
"But I must continue! I will not fail you! I will be a remarkable son!" I said, a few stray tears gathering in my eyes.
"But you are, Faramir, truly, you are!" Father exclaimed before gathering me into a hug. Though he hurt my side, I did not complain, for this was too rare of an occasion. Things could only get better from there, I thought. The bitterness between us was over.
All this I recounted to Eowyn as I was getting dressed one morning. She had lightly traced the scar on my left side, faded and white, and inquired of its origins. I spoke a little more of Father then I wanted to, but it had been okay. That had been one of the better moments between us, and caused little pain.
"You have had so many wounds Faramir, so many, so young!" she exclaimed. "I did not expect the son of a Steward to be so marked."
"Does it make me all that unattractive?" I asked, a small pout on my lips. "Do you reject me now, seeing me as a scarred and hideous beast?"
She laughed, the sound of happiness, hers as well as mine. "I have been married to you a little over three years now. I do not care if you are scarred, and if I did, I would have mentioned it then! You are beautiful to me, always!"
"As you are to me," I said softly, cupping her cheek in my hand. In a lighter tone, I added, "As I'm sure some other little person will be to me as well!" My hand strayed over her recently swollen belly and she laughed.
"How can one be beautiful when they kick so much! I would think it would wear him out as much as he moves," she said, giggling.
"He is truly his mother's son. You are sure it is a boy, then?" I asked quietly.
"I cannot ever be sure, but I have high hopes and a mother's instincts. And do not worry if he is a she, for we can always make another one!"
"Are you so sure of that, sweet? It took us long enough to conceive this one, and I fear the delivery may be hard for you, being so slight and all. Besides, even if it were a girl, I would love her no less."
"A stunning father you will be," she said in a hushed voice as she kissed my forehead. "Now come, silly, you promised me a walk in the gardens an hour ago!"
And so we went, hand in hand, down to our garden. We had planted the majority of it and the mountain plants flourished in the climate. It was a lovely sight to behold, and we often took strolls there together. I placed my hand on the small of Eowyn's back protectively and guided her. She sighed and placed her head on my shoulder.
"I am not a weakling just because I am pregnant," she whispered to me.
"I will not take any chances with you. I know how wild you can be, and you would still be horseback riding if you could!"
She blushed and laughed a little. "I was bored, and it was merely a suggestion. How would I know that Rheis would react so negatively?"
And so we continued our stroll, talking of mundane things that we took small pleasures in. I had come to love the world of simple things and cherished the hours spent with Eowyn talking of nothing too important. She had become the center of my universe that was the Emyn Arnen. My golden sun.
Arms wrapped tightly around her, my head sank to her shoulder as we watched the sun climb into the sky. We exchanged a few chaste kisses, feeling obliged to do so with a baby around, even if it wasn't in the actual outside world yet. We sat down for a picnic lunch in the garden and were enjoying ourselves when I heard horses.
"That's odd," I said quietly. "The patrols are back earlier than expected."
"Perhaps they saw nothing and wished only to return home. Don't worry yourself Faramir, already your forehead is lined with wrinkles!"
But I could not sit and listen to my wife's words. Within minutes, the captain of my guard, Beregond, came hurrying anxiously through the gardens. He bowed shyly and nervously. "I am sorry to interrupt, my lord and lady, but there is a problem in Northern Ithilien."
Eowyn and I both started. "What kind of problem? Speak quickly, Beregond!" I urged, suddenly feeling tense.
He bit his lip and met my eye. "A band of orcs, sir, almost three hundred, remnants of Mordor. They are lost in the Emyn Muil, but seem to be trying to head south. I left a band there to watch them, but I thought you might want to decide a course of action."
"Indeed," I said softly. Since Elessar had taken up the throne, there had been a multitude of villages springing up in previously uninhabited parts of Gondor. Northern Ithilien was one of them. A roaming band of orcs was an extreme hazard to the citizens of those towns. I nodded and stood.
"Very well then. We shall set out with our soldiers to stop them. Send word to Minas Tirith just in case, and then get the men ready. We shall gather our forces and head out to defeat them."
Beregond nodded smartly and took his leave. I felt Eowyn grab at my tunic. "You will leave as well?" she asked sadly.
"I wish I did not have to, especially with the baby being so near, but I have a duty to my people," I said, stroking her golden hair.
"And you will see your duty done. Were I fit, I would go with you," she said with a faint smile. I was relieved that she understood duty and did not fight with me. How I loved such a strong woman!
"And I would try to say no, to my utter failure. I must rally the men. I am sorry that this ruins our day, love."
She met my eyes and kissed me, staring into me always. When she pulled away, she sighed. "Do what must be done, Lord and Prince of Ithilien."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ----------------
The road was not too long, but I had not been on horseback in urgent need for some time. We rode hard, a company of five hundred men, racing towards the Emyn Muil. For two days we rode, seeing no signs that the orcs had advanced or even found their way out of the mountains. However, on the evening of the second day, we saw that they had indeed escaped the labyrinth like passages.
The orcs had gotten out of the Emyn Muil, and Beregond's company had tried to stop them. The fifty or so men were vastly outnumbered, and all but a handful were scattered about a deserted valley, dead. The survivors were trapped in the middle of a huge circle. It filled my heart with a swell of pride to see them still fighting. I ordered the charge.
I have never been a lover of battle. Some men love to kill their enemies; I dislike killing even a flower. Still, years of this had numbed me well enough, and with a calloused heart, I rode into the fray. The battle cries of the men were frightening, and a hundred of the orcs broke away and fled.
"Beregond!" I shouted. "Follow them! Kill them!" He nodded, taking a few scores of men to finish off the enemy retreaters. As he rode away, the orcs did not see that he was going to finish off their comrades; they thought he was retreating. They attacked with fresh vigor, their malicious curved smiles everywhere.
My men did me proud. They gave the awful things nothing to smile about. It was to my relief to see that our casualties were few so far. The battle was going well, if any battle can be thought of as going well if it occurs at all.
It was then, in a moment of victory, that I felt the shove from behind. A huge orc, more beastlike than any I had previously seen, had launched itself at my horse. Terrified, she bucked, and I found myself flying to the ground. As soon as I hit the dirt I was on my feet again, my sword in hand. The beast came towards me, a deadly and wicked smile on its grimy lips.
There was always a feeling of dread when I faced an enemy, but I quickly quelled my doubts. I had faced hundreds of orcs, and they had never gotten the best of me. We lunged at each other, my noble shining sword clashing with his dingy black club. I suddenly realized just how much bigger this enemy was than me, how much stronger. I felt fear, and I did not like it. I was tossed to the ground again, and the sharp pain in my back told me I had landed on something hard. Not waiting for the spasms to subside, I leapt up again, but not soon enough. The great dirty beast slashed at me with a lethal looking knife. Knocked and battered, I stumbled back as he lunged again. He was almost laughing now, a low and nasty rumbling in his throat.
He stabbed, and hit his mark.
I stumbled back, shocked, cradling my stomach. I had not expected him to strike so quickly and stealthily. This was all wrong. I was supposed to be at home with my wife, cradling a newborn son, watching the sunset. I was supposed to be tending my garden and reading in my study. I was supposed to be with my brother and father, fighting side by side for the country I loved.
But I was nineteen again, and though this wound was in a different place, it was still as deadly. There was no one to protect me, no royal guard. I fell to my knees and slumped over as the beast hovered above me. It was too much to hope for another stray arrow.