Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any recognizable characters
and/or places thereof
*****
Mithrandir and Thorongil rode for many hours. Their horses' hooves flew from the ground through the night. The moon sunk lower, coming nearer the horizon. The sky tinged to a lighter of the midnight velvets, the deep, forever blue which rings before dawn. On they rode as navy turned to soft gray, as a cover of ash hanging just below the sky, impossible in that the sky is not a solid layer but a constant, expanding thing. Pinkness chanced a shy glance over the horizon, then began to climb. At last blue came, and with it the sun. Mithrandir and Thorongil rode.
Faramir remained before Thorongil all this time, and he did not wake. His body lolled much at first, but Thorongil found the proper manner in which to move that Faramir would be jostled the least. It was much like music, he reflected, the association of a mourning tune with another, a pleasant melody with its harmony, flute to fiddle. So was motion.
The sun continued to rise; Thorongil found himself gazing over his shoulder and at his shoulder to keep track of the time, worrying: were they being followed? By noon drops of sweat rolled down his back and the horses heaved, but they continued on. Two hours passed before the riders came to a halt along the banks of a stream jetting off of the Anduin.
Thorongil paused, uncertain. He had been in a similar situation before, but in said circumstance he had been in Faramir's position. How now did he dismount while retaining a hold on the boy? "If you lift the child down, I will take him from you. Then you may dismount unburdened," said Mithrandir, who stood beside Thorongil's horse, his own mount standing by the stream.
Gratefully, Thorongil gently hauled the body of Faramir off his horse and handed him to Mithrandir, then jumped from his horse. "Good horse," the Ranger said, slipping the saddle off the animal quickly and freeing the mare of her bridle. She did not begin to drink at once, as Thorongil expected: if she did not cool down, the water would only hurt her. "I'll tend you as you deserve later, my friend," he promised.
"Thorongil," Mithrandir called, "your help may be necessary here."
The Ranger strode over to the wizard, who had placed the body of Faramir on the ground. This first glimpse of Faramir in full sunlight startled the Ranger and angered him. The boy's lips showed the hard tissue of healing cuts. A welt ran from just above his lip and disappeared under his hair on Faramir's left cheek, and his right eye was swollen shut. His left eye remained lightly closed.
"He will not waken," Mithrandir said to Thorongil. "I have shaken him and called his name; the child is not sleeping."
"What shall we do?" Thorongil asked. "If he is not conscious, and we have not the athelas weed to aid him, how are we to waken him?"
Mithrandir looked at his comrade and replied, "We must await his awakening, and hope it comes swiftly! In the meantime, let us see to his wounds."
"This at least explains the look on Boromir's face at his words, 'I have told him everything.' You have told him, Boromir, and he has heard nothing." Thorongil knelt beside Mithrandir and Faramir and drew a knife from within his cloak. Careful to avoid the boy's skin, Thorongil cut away Faramir's tunic that they might have a look at his wounds.
Mithrandir recovered first from the sight. "You poor, valiant child," he muttered. Faramir's chest and belly had been wrapped completely in bandages, but on their long ride some wounds had reopened and now blood soaked the bindings. These were cut away by Mithrandir as Thorongil shredded Faramir's tunic for new bandages.
Beneath the linen strips, Faramir's body was covered in scars and welts. Some oozed blood still, other simply were, huge purple, black and red marks on the boy's skin. One thin line had cracked open the boy's right nipple, and this bled slowly. The thing was a horror to behold, but neither of the aged onlookers drew away.
"Let us clean the wounds," Thorongil said, "then we will bind them once more."
This they did, taking cares as they dabbed wet cloths on the bloodied areas, then carefully dried Faramir's wounds. He remained a painful sight to behold, but not as awful as before. Now using Boromir's cloak to keep the dirt away they turned Faramir onto his back and the wounds here were cleaned, also, and dried before Mithrandir and Thorongil wrapped Faramir with their makeshift bandages.
"We will need aid before we reach Imladris," Thorongil said with a wary look towards Faramir.
"Who can we trust? Even Lord Elrond is but a hoped ally in this quest you have undertaken, Thorongil." Mithrandir's words held truth in them, and though Thorongil was angered it was not at Mithrandir. Instead, his anger was with Denethor, for hurting Faramir and for placing them in such a predicament, and with himself for an inability to remain uninvolved.
"Then we ride for Rivendell," Thorongil decreed. "We ride hard and fast."
Mithrandir looked at him, scrutinized the Ranger, then said, "Even horses of Rohan cannot take such great speeds; it is nearly two hundred leagues to Imladris. You must be reasonable."
"Mithrandir, I have kidnapped a steward's son and become an outlaw in what is rightfully my own country. And you say be reasonable? Let us travel ten leagues in a day, these are Rohirrim horses and will manage it. At this pace it will be no more than twenty days to Imladris. Faramir is strong. He will make the journey."
"If he cannot? If the horses cannot, what then? You overestimate us, Thorongil."
"We must flee before we are captured and killed; this I know for sure." Thorongil raised his voice, but nevertheless his tone remained below a whisper. "My father taught me that life is much akin to archery: one must aim high to hit a distant target, for if one aims directly for the target one's arrow will strike too low."
Mithrandir looked at the man and saw something new in him: youth. Thorongil knew not his limitations, completely oblivious to "cannot" and his own inabilities. By this token every youth is capable of amazing feats, perhaps because of confidence and perhaps because of a lack of fear. Perhaps every adult undermines himself by a lack of faith, by believing he cannot. Thorongil believed he could, and so, quite likely, he could.
"All right, Thorongil. We will do this."
Thorongil smiled his thanks, then realized a new problem. "Faramir needs a tunic to wear," he said. "He cannot ride the distance half-naked." The two looked at one another, then Thorongil chose one of his own tunics and together they dressed the unconscious boy. Faramir looked to be drowning in the deep blue fabric, but it was better than nothing and so they allowed this condition to remain.
The horses, having had their fill to drink, had wandered off to graze nearby. Mithrandir and Thorongil tacked the grudgingly obedient mounts, then led them back to collect Faramir.
"You should take him now," Thorongil commented.
Mithrandir nodded and was moving to lift the boy when Faramir seemed to move. It was a slight movement, just a twitch of the eye, but enough to cause wonder. The wizard, uncertain, asked quietly, "Faramir?"
"Where. . .Mithrandir?" Grey eyes squinted through slitted lids as Faramir recognized the wizard, who smiled kindly. "What's going on?"
*****
Author's note: In relation to distances, remember, this is Middle-earth. In The Two Towers, Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn ran forty-five leagues in three days, which is nearly one hundred sixty miles. As for the Gondor to Imladris distance, I did my best there, and if it's terribly off feel free to correct, but please do so kindly. Flames are not appreciated.
Galorin: I was never overly fond of Boromir in the books (actually, I'm a bit soft on the character Galadriel), but nevertheless I've tried to portray him accurately and am glad a Boromir-fan approves!
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I loved hearing from you all! Updates will hopefully be more often now I'm on break.
*****
Mithrandir and Thorongil rode for many hours. Their horses' hooves flew from the ground through the night. The moon sunk lower, coming nearer the horizon. The sky tinged to a lighter of the midnight velvets, the deep, forever blue which rings before dawn. On they rode as navy turned to soft gray, as a cover of ash hanging just below the sky, impossible in that the sky is not a solid layer but a constant, expanding thing. Pinkness chanced a shy glance over the horizon, then began to climb. At last blue came, and with it the sun. Mithrandir and Thorongil rode.
Faramir remained before Thorongil all this time, and he did not wake. His body lolled much at first, but Thorongil found the proper manner in which to move that Faramir would be jostled the least. It was much like music, he reflected, the association of a mourning tune with another, a pleasant melody with its harmony, flute to fiddle. So was motion.
The sun continued to rise; Thorongil found himself gazing over his shoulder and at his shoulder to keep track of the time, worrying: were they being followed? By noon drops of sweat rolled down his back and the horses heaved, but they continued on. Two hours passed before the riders came to a halt along the banks of a stream jetting off of the Anduin.
Thorongil paused, uncertain. He had been in a similar situation before, but in said circumstance he had been in Faramir's position. How now did he dismount while retaining a hold on the boy? "If you lift the child down, I will take him from you. Then you may dismount unburdened," said Mithrandir, who stood beside Thorongil's horse, his own mount standing by the stream.
Gratefully, Thorongil gently hauled the body of Faramir off his horse and handed him to Mithrandir, then jumped from his horse. "Good horse," the Ranger said, slipping the saddle off the animal quickly and freeing the mare of her bridle. She did not begin to drink at once, as Thorongil expected: if she did not cool down, the water would only hurt her. "I'll tend you as you deserve later, my friend," he promised.
"Thorongil," Mithrandir called, "your help may be necessary here."
The Ranger strode over to the wizard, who had placed the body of Faramir on the ground. This first glimpse of Faramir in full sunlight startled the Ranger and angered him. The boy's lips showed the hard tissue of healing cuts. A welt ran from just above his lip and disappeared under his hair on Faramir's left cheek, and his right eye was swollen shut. His left eye remained lightly closed.
"He will not waken," Mithrandir said to Thorongil. "I have shaken him and called his name; the child is not sleeping."
"What shall we do?" Thorongil asked. "If he is not conscious, and we have not the athelas weed to aid him, how are we to waken him?"
Mithrandir looked at his comrade and replied, "We must await his awakening, and hope it comes swiftly! In the meantime, let us see to his wounds."
"This at least explains the look on Boromir's face at his words, 'I have told him everything.' You have told him, Boromir, and he has heard nothing." Thorongil knelt beside Mithrandir and Faramir and drew a knife from within his cloak. Careful to avoid the boy's skin, Thorongil cut away Faramir's tunic that they might have a look at his wounds.
Mithrandir recovered first from the sight. "You poor, valiant child," he muttered. Faramir's chest and belly had been wrapped completely in bandages, but on their long ride some wounds had reopened and now blood soaked the bindings. These were cut away by Mithrandir as Thorongil shredded Faramir's tunic for new bandages.
Beneath the linen strips, Faramir's body was covered in scars and welts. Some oozed blood still, other simply were, huge purple, black and red marks on the boy's skin. One thin line had cracked open the boy's right nipple, and this bled slowly. The thing was a horror to behold, but neither of the aged onlookers drew away.
"Let us clean the wounds," Thorongil said, "then we will bind them once more."
This they did, taking cares as they dabbed wet cloths on the bloodied areas, then carefully dried Faramir's wounds. He remained a painful sight to behold, but not as awful as before. Now using Boromir's cloak to keep the dirt away they turned Faramir onto his back and the wounds here were cleaned, also, and dried before Mithrandir and Thorongil wrapped Faramir with their makeshift bandages.
"We will need aid before we reach Imladris," Thorongil said with a wary look towards Faramir.
"Who can we trust? Even Lord Elrond is but a hoped ally in this quest you have undertaken, Thorongil." Mithrandir's words held truth in them, and though Thorongil was angered it was not at Mithrandir. Instead, his anger was with Denethor, for hurting Faramir and for placing them in such a predicament, and with himself for an inability to remain uninvolved.
"Then we ride for Rivendell," Thorongil decreed. "We ride hard and fast."
Mithrandir looked at him, scrutinized the Ranger, then said, "Even horses of Rohan cannot take such great speeds; it is nearly two hundred leagues to Imladris. You must be reasonable."
"Mithrandir, I have kidnapped a steward's son and become an outlaw in what is rightfully my own country. And you say be reasonable? Let us travel ten leagues in a day, these are Rohirrim horses and will manage it. At this pace it will be no more than twenty days to Imladris. Faramir is strong. He will make the journey."
"If he cannot? If the horses cannot, what then? You overestimate us, Thorongil."
"We must flee before we are captured and killed; this I know for sure." Thorongil raised his voice, but nevertheless his tone remained below a whisper. "My father taught me that life is much akin to archery: one must aim high to hit a distant target, for if one aims directly for the target one's arrow will strike too low."
Mithrandir looked at the man and saw something new in him: youth. Thorongil knew not his limitations, completely oblivious to "cannot" and his own inabilities. By this token every youth is capable of amazing feats, perhaps because of confidence and perhaps because of a lack of fear. Perhaps every adult undermines himself by a lack of faith, by believing he cannot. Thorongil believed he could, and so, quite likely, he could.
"All right, Thorongil. We will do this."
Thorongil smiled his thanks, then realized a new problem. "Faramir needs a tunic to wear," he said. "He cannot ride the distance half-naked." The two looked at one another, then Thorongil chose one of his own tunics and together they dressed the unconscious boy. Faramir looked to be drowning in the deep blue fabric, but it was better than nothing and so they allowed this condition to remain.
The horses, having had their fill to drink, had wandered off to graze nearby. Mithrandir and Thorongil tacked the grudgingly obedient mounts, then led them back to collect Faramir.
"You should take him now," Thorongil commented.
Mithrandir nodded and was moving to lift the boy when Faramir seemed to move. It was a slight movement, just a twitch of the eye, but enough to cause wonder. The wizard, uncertain, asked quietly, "Faramir?"
"Where. . .Mithrandir?" Grey eyes squinted through slitted lids as Faramir recognized the wizard, who smiled kindly. "What's going on?"
*****
Author's note: In relation to distances, remember, this is Middle-earth. In The Two Towers, Gimli, Legolas and Aragorn ran forty-five leagues in three days, which is nearly one hundred sixty miles. As for the Gondor to Imladris distance, I did my best there, and if it's terribly off feel free to correct, but please do so kindly. Flames are not appreciated.
Galorin: I was never overly fond of Boromir in the books (actually, I'm a bit soft on the character Galadriel), but nevertheless I've tried to portray him accurately and am glad a Boromir-fan approves!
Thank you to everyone who reviewed, I loved hearing from you all! Updates will hopefully be more often now I'm on break.