Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places
thereof
*****
Distracted by his thoughts, his wishes to help the Steward's young son and his anger at the loss of so many pleasant memories of young Boromir, Thorongil heard nothing as he approached the Steward's study: had he been more alert, his actions would have been much changed. For many yeas he would reflect on this, and wonder if things would have been better, or perhaps if they would have been worse, had he not been absorbed in his own mind.
Within the study, Faramir struggled to stay conscious. There was blood all over him, blood matting his hair and leaving streaks on his face and staining his palms. Where did it come from? The boy wondered, did he bleed all of this blood? How did his hair come to be so saturated? Staggering, his chest heaving with every breath, Faramir tried not to look upon the imposing figure of the Steward of Denethor. "Father," he implored, "Father, please." The leather belt snapped across his back, and Faramir felt his head loll to the side. He fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer through weakness and pain.
The child knew--for though this was an untruth, he held it for reality-- that he was wrong to plead. He was a weak child and Father was helping him, making him strong. If he was not such a bad boy, if he was more like Boromir, then Father would not have to go to such extents. Nevertheless, Faramir begged, for the pain overcame him.
"Stand up, boy." The cold words hardly registered in Faramir's mind; his own death was upon him, what was one more futile command? Slow were the syllables in his head, and they pounded within his brain. "Stand up!" The shout brought Faramir back to his senses, and though hateful of himself he was human, and his nature fought to survive. Slowly, too slowly, Faramir sought to climb to his feet--he felt himself rising and realized by the pain that he was being hauled up by a handful of his hair. It hurt so badly that he could not help from crying out.
The study held little furniture in it, only a desk covered with papers and the like. An large decanter rested empty on its side, a second sign to Faramir (the first being the severity of his current correction) that his father had imbibed. Two windows gave light to the chamber, but because these were set very high in the wall one might see a catch of the sky through them, but more difficult would it be to see in.
"Father, please, stop!" Faramir raised his hands in a futile attempt to fight against his father. Fat tears rolled through the blood on his cheeks, and he saw Denethor open his mouth with an ugly reply, but he stopped and dropped his son to the ground as someone entered the room.
Thorongil took in the scene at once: the battered child, the purple-faced Steward, the empty decanter. His heart caught in his throat: at that moment he wanted nothing more than to approach the Steward and smack him once, as hard as he could, and tell him to leave the poor boy alone! Thorongil collected himself and evaluated the best plan of action. Then he stepped over to the Steward's desk, keeping his eyes on the ground. "I bear this letter from the King of Rohan, my lord," he spoke clearly, "and beg your pardon at the early departure of myself and my companion, Mithrandir." Briefly he raised his eyes to meet the Steward's gaze, and as he turned and swept his eyes back to the ground he met the pathetic, imploring watch of young Faramir, and tears prickled his eyes, for he could do nothing to help the boy.
When the door closed behind Thorongil, Faramir felt as though all hope had fled the room with him. Pain-fires in his back returned one thousand fold, and he closed his eyes, never intending to open them again.
In the corridor, Thorongil looked up and saw Boromir approaching. In his raw emotional state, his anger got the better of him: "Are you pleased, my lord Boromir, that I am leaving? I asked your trust as once your captain and you were loath to grant it. See now! You may be short one brother for this reason!"
Boromir, hardly expecting this, stared at the old Ranger in shock. If he had hurt Faramir again, Valar help him. . .But before Boromir could collect his thoughts enough to respond with more than an angry splutter, Thorongil walked sadly down the corridor. The son of a steward ran in the opposite direction, not after Thorongil but to speak to his father, to tell him: Father, Thorongil threatens Faramir. Surely Denethor would have him branded a criminal, executed if caught, certainly! A perversely pleased smile crossed Boromir's face, though some sadness registered within: he did remember Thorongil from those years ago, and not unkindly either. The older man had changed, and this was indeed a pity.
When Boromir reached the Steward's study, he opened the door without speaking or knocking, so thorough was his anger. Yet the sight that greeted him misdirected this emotion, for there was Denethor, his face changing hues with anger or drink, and Faramir, more than beaten, more than bruised, not even conscious. Thorongil spoke the truth all along! Boromir's head was reeling. He wished for another explanation, but the scene before him was all too clear. Swallowing hard to keep from crying out, Boromir left the study, closing the door quietly behind him.
*****
To be continued
Emerald Phoenix: Boromir did not know that Faramir had been beaten up before that one night in chapter five, so as far as he is concerned it's completely plausible that Thorongil should be the culprit.
Diamond Took: Yes he is Aragorn!
Embe Stryder: Faramir is twelve, Boromir is seventeen.
Sorry for the short chapter. . .I may not get another up for a while, I've finals in a week, but after that I have eleven weeks off school, so there will be plenty of updates then! Review if you liked it, don't if you didn't.
*****
Distracted by his thoughts, his wishes to help the Steward's young son and his anger at the loss of so many pleasant memories of young Boromir, Thorongil heard nothing as he approached the Steward's study: had he been more alert, his actions would have been much changed. For many yeas he would reflect on this, and wonder if things would have been better, or perhaps if they would have been worse, had he not been absorbed in his own mind.
Within the study, Faramir struggled to stay conscious. There was blood all over him, blood matting his hair and leaving streaks on his face and staining his palms. Where did it come from? The boy wondered, did he bleed all of this blood? How did his hair come to be so saturated? Staggering, his chest heaving with every breath, Faramir tried not to look upon the imposing figure of the Steward of Denethor. "Father," he implored, "Father, please." The leather belt snapped across his back, and Faramir felt his head loll to the side. He fell to his knees, unable to stand any longer through weakness and pain.
The child knew--for though this was an untruth, he held it for reality-- that he was wrong to plead. He was a weak child and Father was helping him, making him strong. If he was not such a bad boy, if he was more like Boromir, then Father would not have to go to such extents. Nevertheless, Faramir begged, for the pain overcame him.
"Stand up, boy." The cold words hardly registered in Faramir's mind; his own death was upon him, what was one more futile command? Slow were the syllables in his head, and they pounded within his brain. "Stand up!" The shout brought Faramir back to his senses, and though hateful of himself he was human, and his nature fought to survive. Slowly, too slowly, Faramir sought to climb to his feet--he felt himself rising and realized by the pain that he was being hauled up by a handful of his hair. It hurt so badly that he could not help from crying out.
The study held little furniture in it, only a desk covered with papers and the like. An large decanter rested empty on its side, a second sign to Faramir (the first being the severity of his current correction) that his father had imbibed. Two windows gave light to the chamber, but because these were set very high in the wall one might see a catch of the sky through them, but more difficult would it be to see in.
"Father, please, stop!" Faramir raised his hands in a futile attempt to fight against his father. Fat tears rolled through the blood on his cheeks, and he saw Denethor open his mouth with an ugly reply, but he stopped and dropped his son to the ground as someone entered the room.
Thorongil took in the scene at once: the battered child, the purple-faced Steward, the empty decanter. His heart caught in his throat: at that moment he wanted nothing more than to approach the Steward and smack him once, as hard as he could, and tell him to leave the poor boy alone! Thorongil collected himself and evaluated the best plan of action. Then he stepped over to the Steward's desk, keeping his eyes on the ground. "I bear this letter from the King of Rohan, my lord," he spoke clearly, "and beg your pardon at the early departure of myself and my companion, Mithrandir." Briefly he raised his eyes to meet the Steward's gaze, and as he turned and swept his eyes back to the ground he met the pathetic, imploring watch of young Faramir, and tears prickled his eyes, for he could do nothing to help the boy.
When the door closed behind Thorongil, Faramir felt as though all hope had fled the room with him. Pain-fires in his back returned one thousand fold, and he closed his eyes, never intending to open them again.
In the corridor, Thorongil looked up and saw Boromir approaching. In his raw emotional state, his anger got the better of him: "Are you pleased, my lord Boromir, that I am leaving? I asked your trust as once your captain and you were loath to grant it. See now! You may be short one brother for this reason!"
Boromir, hardly expecting this, stared at the old Ranger in shock. If he had hurt Faramir again, Valar help him. . .But before Boromir could collect his thoughts enough to respond with more than an angry splutter, Thorongil walked sadly down the corridor. The son of a steward ran in the opposite direction, not after Thorongil but to speak to his father, to tell him: Father, Thorongil threatens Faramir. Surely Denethor would have him branded a criminal, executed if caught, certainly! A perversely pleased smile crossed Boromir's face, though some sadness registered within: he did remember Thorongil from those years ago, and not unkindly either. The older man had changed, and this was indeed a pity.
When Boromir reached the Steward's study, he opened the door without speaking or knocking, so thorough was his anger. Yet the sight that greeted him misdirected this emotion, for there was Denethor, his face changing hues with anger or drink, and Faramir, more than beaten, more than bruised, not even conscious. Thorongil spoke the truth all along! Boromir's head was reeling. He wished for another explanation, but the scene before him was all too clear. Swallowing hard to keep from crying out, Boromir left the study, closing the door quietly behind him.
*****
To be continued
Emerald Phoenix: Boromir did not know that Faramir had been beaten up before that one night in chapter five, so as far as he is concerned it's completely plausible that Thorongil should be the culprit.
Diamond Took: Yes he is Aragorn!
Embe Stryder: Faramir is twelve, Boromir is seventeen.
Sorry for the short chapter. . .I may not get another up for a while, I've finals in a week, but after that I have eleven weeks off school, so there will be plenty of updates then! Review if you liked it, don't if you didn't.