Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places
thereof
*****
Thorongil knocked lightly before entering the room unnoticed, a shadow on shadows. For a moment he stood, blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the weak light. The door leading to the small balcony where Faramir earlier toyed with his small flute stood open, the air of the now-chill night pouring into the room in gusts. The boy himself, as Thorongil saw by the moonlight, lay on his stomach, blood gleaming on his bare back.
Thorongil had not delivered Denethor's letter. Instead he had followed Faramir, kept a safe distance from the boy as they wound through corridors, then marked in his mind the place where the Steward's youngest son slept. Now he had returned to treat the wounds from which blood had stained Faramir's cloak and tunic.
"Oh, child," he muttered. How could anyone do such a thing to their own offspring? "Faramir?" he asked, raising his voice a little. When the boy made no reply, Thorongil moved closer to the bed. Perhaps it was best if Faramir slept through this. Setting the supplies in his arms on the ground, he dipped a flannel cloth in a bowl of water and began dabbing at the blood covering Faramir's back. As flesh began to appear beneath blood, the boy stammered into waking.
"What. . .who is that?" Faramir asked, confused. The world was slurred. "What are you doing?" Through his syrup-focus, he was aware of someone touching his back gently, not to harm him. What was happening? He was so muddled!
"It is Thorongil," he replied honestly. "Faramir, if you will allow me, I would like to tend your wounds. They will heal more quickly with the right herbs."
"No!" Faramir exclaimed, alarmed, turning to face Thorongil. What Thorongil did not know was that the dirty words Faramir had spent years denying, the utter hatred Denethor laid so plain, had broken the boy's spirits at last. Hours of contemplation reached to only one answer: Denethor told the truth. Faramir believed that he was indeed a useless, meaningless drain on his family. Help had come, but it had come too late. "No, you mustn't! He would be angry, and I deserve the hurts. Father punishes me because I am a bad boy."
Thorongil's stomach contorted at these words, and he wanted to be sick. His voice was hardly more than a whisper as he said, "No, Faramir. No, you must not think such things."
"If you make the hurt go away, I would not know right from wrong. Every father disciplines his son."
Thorongil shook his head. "Not like this, Faramir. No father has the right to leave his son. . ." he realized in the nick of time that 'so mutilated', while it would finish his sentence properly, would not make Faramir feel any better. "So upset and in such pain," he finished at last, keeping Faramir without blame.
Faramir thought on this. It did hurt an awful lot, not a dull ache but sharp darts of intense pain . . ."Perhaps if you helped the ouch go away just this once," he submitted.
"Good choice," Thorongil said. "Lie down." Faramir did as he was asked, and Thorongil finished clearing away the blood, then, though he had not Athelas to help this child, did the most he could with the given wants. Faramir kept silent throughout, though he winced when a shockingly cold healing salve came into contact with an open and painful injury. "You poor boy," Thorongil muttered, quietly so that Faramir could not hear. He pitied the boy more than anything. To be so beaten and abused, and by someone so near to your heart nonetheless!
"There," Thorongil whispered to Faramir. "I have done what I can. May Este complete this task." Faramir was again silent, and Thorongil left the room as quietly as he had come: naught but a whisper.
In the corridor, Thorongil paused. Something felt wrong. Was someone here? Though he gazed about, Thorongil could see no one, and so, deeming himself safe, slipped away, back to the quarters where an angry wizard awaited him. "What in all of Iluvatar's realms have you been up to?" Gandalf asked. "The Steward is ill of temper."
"I saw to his son," Thorongil replied, too tired and heavy of heart to lie.
"As I feared you might," Gandalf replied with a calm nod. "So long as Faramir does not speak to Denethor of this, there is nothing to fear. But did you have to, Thorongil? This will il-pleased Denethor, should he hear of it. Ears and eyes are never where they are completely expected."
In the corridor outside of Faramir's room, Boromir stepped into the torchlight. He had seen Thorongil leave earlier, had held his breath so that he made not a sound and the Ranger had not detected him, his mind on other things. Boromir did not trust Thorongil, and especially did not trust him not to hurt Faramir. What would a stiff, heartless old man know of the gentleness and tenderness of Faramir's young soul?
With less caution Boromir entered his brother's room, light banishing the darkness in an immutable flood. Was Faramir not cold? Boromir shivered, then moved to close the door to the outside world and stop the night air entering the chambers. Faramir should have known better; he was prone to illness.
Other than that open door, nothing seemed at all out of the ordinary. His suspicions calmed, Boromir moved to the bed, meaning to raise the coverlet of his brother. It was then that he noticed the weals and sores on Faramir's back. "My brother. . ." Boromir gasped. Then he had been correct all along! It was as he feared. "Oh, Faramir," Boromir lamented, "that you should take such pains. My brother, I will protect. He will never touch you again."
*****
To Be Continued
Galorin: But Strider is moving within his boundaries, as you saw in this chapter. Perhaps he cannot take Faramir out of danger forever, not just yet, but he can give him hope.
Joshua Nenya: Thanks. . .stories, actually. The "'s" indicates possession. (English is hard to learn, I know, but thought that might be helpful)
Angel of Harlem: Between you and Denethor, my poor protagonist will not survive at all!
Eowyn: Faramir's wrist was bruised by Denethor. The bruise is shaped as such to betray this. As for Boromir, you shall see. Mwu ha ha. I cannot believe you were unable to keep your mind out of the gutter for FOUR chapters! As you say, sigh. . .
Author's note: Este heals, she is one of the Valar. When Thorongil says "May Este complete this task", he invokes the name of the goddess that she will heal Faramir to a degree he cannot achieve.
*****
Thorongil knocked lightly before entering the room unnoticed, a shadow on shadows. For a moment he stood, blinking, as his eyes adjusted to the weak light. The door leading to the small balcony where Faramir earlier toyed with his small flute stood open, the air of the now-chill night pouring into the room in gusts. The boy himself, as Thorongil saw by the moonlight, lay on his stomach, blood gleaming on his bare back.
Thorongil had not delivered Denethor's letter. Instead he had followed Faramir, kept a safe distance from the boy as they wound through corridors, then marked in his mind the place where the Steward's youngest son slept. Now he had returned to treat the wounds from which blood had stained Faramir's cloak and tunic.
"Oh, child," he muttered. How could anyone do such a thing to their own offspring? "Faramir?" he asked, raising his voice a little. When the boy made no reply, Thorongil moved closer to the bed. Perhaps it was best if Faramir slept through this. Setting the supplies in his arms on the ground, he dipped a flannel cloth in a bowl of water and began dabbing at the blood covering Faramir's back. As flesh began to appear beneath blood, the boy stammered into waking.
"What. . .who is that?" Faramir asked, confused. The world was slurred. "What are you doing?" Through his syrup-focus, he was aware of someone touching his back gently, not to harm him. What was happening? He was so muddled!
"It is Thorongil," he replied honestly. "Faramir, if you will allow me, I would like to tend your wounds. They will heal more quickly with the right herbs."
"No!" Faramir exclaimed, alarmed, turning to face Thorongil. What Thorongil did not know was that the dirty words Faramir had spent years denying, the utter hatred Denethor laid so plain, had broken the boy's spirits at last. Hours of contemplation reached to only one answer: Denethor told the truth. Faramir believed that he was indeed a useless, meaningless drain on his family. Help had come, but it had come too late. "No, you mustn't! He would be angry, and I deserve the hurts. Father punishes me because I am a bad boy."
Thorongil's stomach contorted at these words, and he wanted to be sick. His voice was hardly more than a whisper as he said, "No, Faramir. No, you must not think such things."
"If you make the hurt go away, I would not know right from wrong. Every father disciplines his son."
Thorongil shook his head. "Not like this, Faramir. No father has the right to leave his son. . ." he realized in the nick of time that 'so mutilated', while it would finish his sentence properly, would not make Faramir feel any better. "So upset and in such pain," he finished at last, keeping Faramir without blame.
Faramir thought on this. It did hurt an awful lot, not a dull ache but sharp darts of intense pain . . ."Perhaps if you helped the ouch go away just this once," he submitted.
"Good choice," Thorongil said. "Lie down." Faramir did as he was asked, and Thorongil finished clearing away the blood, then, though he had not Athelas to help this child, did the most he could with the given wants. Faramir kept silent throughout, though he winced when a shockingly cold healing salve came into contact with an open and painful injury. "You poor boy," Thorongil muttered, quietly so that Faramir could not hear. He pitied the boy more than anything. To be so beaten and abused, and by someone so near to your heart nonetheless!
"There," Thorongil whispered to Faramir. "I have done what I can. May Este complete this task." Faramir was again silent, and Thorongil left the room as quietly as he had come: naught but a whisper.
In the corridor, Thorongil paused. Something felt wrong. Was someone here? Though he gazed about, Thorongil could see no one, and so, deeming himself safe, slipped away, back to the quarters where an angry wizard awaited him. "What in all of Iluvatar's realms have you been up to?" Gandalf asked. "The Steward is ill of temper."
"I saw to his son," Thorongil replied, too tired and heavy of heart to lie.
"As I feared you might," Gandalf replied with a calm nod. "So long as Faramir does not speak to Denethor of this, there is nothing to fear. But did you have to, Thorongil? This will il-pleased Denethor, should he hear of it. Ears and eyes are never where they are completely expected."
In the corridor outside of Faramir's room, Boromir stepped into the torchlight. He had seen Thorongil leave earlier, had held his breath so that he made not a sound and the Ranger had not detected him, his mind on other things. Boromir did not trust Thorongil, and especially did not trust him not to hurt Faramir. What would a stiff, heartless old man know of the gentleness and tenderness of Faramir's young soul?
With less caution Boromir entered his brother's room, light banishing the darkness in an immutable flood. Was Faramir not cold? Boromir shivered, then moved to close the door to the outside world and stop the night air entering the chambers. Faramir should have known better; he was prone to illness.
Other than that open door, nothing seemed at all out of the ordinary. His suspicions calmed, Boromir moved to the bed, meaning to raise the coverlet of his brother. It was then that he noticed the weals and sores on Faramir's back. "My brother. . ." Boromir gasped. Then he had been correct all along! It was as he feared. "Oh, Faramir," Boromir lamented, "that you should take such pains. My brother, I will protect. He will never touch you again."
*****
To Be Continued
Galorin: But Strider is moving within his boundaries, as you saw in this chapter. Perhaps he cannot take Faramir out of danger forever, not just yet, but he can give him hope.
Joshua Nenya: Thanks. . .stories, actually. The "'s" indicates possession. (English is hard to learn, I know, but thought that might be helpful)
Angel of Harlem: Between you and Denethor, my poor protagonist will not survive at all!
Eowyn: Faramir's wrist was bruised by Denethor. The bruise is shaped as such to betray this. As for Boromir, you shall see. Mwu ha ha. I cannot believe you were unable to keep your mind out of the gutter for FOUR chapters! As you say, sigh. . .
Author's note: Este heals, she is one of the Valar. When Thorongil says "May Este complete this task", he invokes the name of the goddess that she will heal Faramir to a degree he cannot achieve.