Disclaimer: I do not own Lord of the Rings or any characters and/or places
thereof
Author's note: If anyone has a problem with this story I invite them to take it up with me, preferably on a fairer ground (instant messaging or e- mail, perhaps), but if anyone has qualms I'm open to discussion, provided it is a discussion between equals.
*****
The fire flickered across the sleeping form of Faramir of Gondor. Two wizened old men sat by the fire, smoking their pipes in silence. Crickets played. An owl cried. The sleeping boy shifted and cried out as an injury was aggravated.
"He will not make it to Imladris," Mithrandir said.
Above the stars splattered across the nighttime sky, glistening and shining over the world. Thorongil sighed and glanced upwards, calmed by the presence of so many entities greater than himself. "We are not a day away," he answered. "He has made it so far, why should his strength fail him now?"
"Because Faramir is no imbecile, Aragorn son of Arathorn. He knows we will seek to plant in fairer earth the roots we have ripped from the stone of Minas Tirith. He wants to go home."
Thorongil answered, all the while knowing the truth, "He has spoken no such desire."
Mithrandir raised one bushy eyebrow to this but said nothing. Faramir spoke little but slept often on their journey, occasionally Thorongil gave him a sleeping draught when the boy shouted or cried through dreams. Though Faramir never specifically expressed the want to return to Minas Tirith, he clearly had not adjusted to being away. But the journey had been a relatively short one, lacking in time enough for the boy to adjust at all.
"You would send him back to his father, to his death?" Thorongil asked in response. "At least in Imladris he will be safe."
"Yet unhappy."
"Have you heard of my youth in Imladris? I cried every night for nearly a year. These things take time, and time is one thing we have. The Enemy--" Thorongil glanced at Faramir, who slept soundly, and lowered his voice, "the Enemy regains power, but we know this only on the basis of an Orc statistic. Until He shows greater foes--"
Mithrandir interrupted, "Are you saying that to give young Faramir a happy childhood we ought wait until He comes knocking on our doors, Thorongil? Have you lost perspective so?"
Without realizing it, the two had leaned in close to each other and lowered their voices to keep the conversation absolutely private. "No. I am saying that at the moment there is nothing much we can do, and Faramir may yet be so lucky as to grow up in a time of peace. His childhood is over."
The wizard opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a howl into the night. The two stood up at once and drew their swords, attentions split between the Orcs and the boy. "We should go," Thorongil said, "outrun them, keep the boy safe."
But even as he said it he knew they could not make it in time; another howl split the air too close for comfort. "Is he under your potion?" Mithrandir asked.
"No. Hold them off for a moment." Thorongil knelt beside Faramir and shook him. "Faramir, Faramir you must wake," he called softly. The boy blinked and squinted, signs at least that he no longer slept. "Listen, Faramir," Thorongil said, and Faramir paid attention although the words were slow and slurred to his ears. "There are orcs not a mile away. Can you climb?"
"Climb?" Faramir did not understand.
"Into that tree there," Thorongil specified, "for your own safety. Come on!" He half-helped, half-pulled the boy to his feet. Faramir stumbled over tot he tree, hardly aware of his surroundings. For the past. . .how many days had it been? Fifteen, perhaps? More?. . .he had been sleeping, and so accustomed his body not to moving about and his mind not to thinking.
In fact, Faramir made a point of not thinking. He woke, ate, and slept, all without a conscious thought. This act could not be described by difficult so well as near impossible, for to focus on the act is of itself negating the act in the human search for reason that would know why one is not thinking. One must stop one's mind completely, as in killing: one can easily swing his sword through the neck of a foe, but when one thinks: 'I have killed a man' one is enchained and sickened by the act, and cannot do it again.
But as thinking was required, Faramir funneled his thoughts to the tree, clasping this branch and hauling his feet up, the ground falling away below him. The clash of metal on metal reached his ears, but meant nothing until Faramir felt a heavy hand clasp his ankle. The boy gasped and clutched onto a thick branch as the foul creature below jerked on his ankle.
"Faramir!" He was holding for all his worth onto the branch, his arms and cheek being scraped raw, and his stomach where his tunic had been pulled up by being yanked along the rough bark. He was weakened but not giving up; Faramir of Gondor was no stranger to pain!
It was Thorongil who slew the Orc, realizing belatedly that the grip on Faramir's ankle would not relax in death. With all haste the Ranger grabbed the Orc's hand and pried open his fingers. The boy remained frozen, staring. "Faramir, go!" Thorongil shouted, snapping him out of the trance.
Faramir realized what a coward he was, but nevertheless climbed higher. As swords clanged below Faramir hid his face in the treetrunk, wincing as the dull thudding sounds betrayed the falling of bodies. He remembered the old trick and held his breath, becoming invisible. "One," he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut, "two--" A thud interrupted Faramir, and he had to look.
What he saw frightened him so that he buried his face and counted, "One-two- three-four-five-six-seven. . ."
"Faramir? Faramir, are you all right up there?" The voice sounded worried but not rushed. Faramir tried to answer, but could manage only a squeak. "Faramir?"
"I-I am all right," he called.
"It's safe now, come down from there!"
"All right."
Faramir carefully picked his way down from the tree, choosing each foothold with great care. Having survived the Orc encounter, he had no wish to fall and break his neck now. The ground below him was littered with the bodies of Orcs in such multitude (a number increased by his fear) that Faramir wondered at the two men who had slain them.
Now, Faramir was not an average boy, because of circumstance and because he was just plain smart. Whoever gave Faramir his mind gave him a mighty gift. Throughout the entire night, hiding in the tree, Faramir had not thought once about home, of his father or Boromir, or, indeed, about very much at all. He was master of his thoughts.
But when he hopped the last few feet to the ground and saw Mithrandir tying a makeshift bandage around Thorongil's wrist, he felt. . .fond. This was not the usual fondness for Mithrandir, whom Faramir had many years known and trusted, but for, much to the boy's surprise, Thorongil. The rough Man had something to him, as difficult to detect as his sorrow and his contentment, but it was there. Faramir felt as though his heart was softening within his chest.
"Are you hurt, Faramir?" Mithrandir asked as Thorongil cracked the bone in his wrist beneath the "bandage."
"I am fine," he answered, forgetting or ignoring the scratches on his arms and stomach. Now fabric covered those areas, and his cheek, where it had been scraped, was not badly hurt. Pain could not penetrate the shock Faramir felt now, at the realization that he had grown -fond- of this Ranger.
"Good. We will ride through the night," Thorongil answered. "This place is not safe, and if the horses will ride swiftly until dawn we may yet reach safety ere a new day comes."
Mithrandir's sentiments for this plan were written all over his face, but he did not voice his objections. He helped Thorongil tend the horses and pack what had been unpack, though there was little of this. Faramir aided where he could. They did not speak; the stench of dead Orc and the threat of carrion birds propelled them, and the work was finished quickly.
The stars showed no longer through the thick sky of clouds above their heads. This was given many ominous looks. "Let us hope we are not caught in the storm, for it does appear we ride into its heart," Mithrandir said, and the horses broke into a gallop. Faramir was jolted forward in surprise, then gained rhythm and promptly fell into a deep sleep.
*****
To be continued
Lirenel: I considered that, also, but someone (I think it was Galadriel) said in Fellowship of the Ring that Aragorn had not been to Lothlorien forest in eight and thirty years.
Galorin: Oh, but of course!
Diamond Took: Denethor's reactions will be in this story but not for a while.
Pendragon_Xanatos: Thorongil IS Aragorn. He fought for King Thengel of Rohan under that name, and was referred to Steward Ecthelion, so used the same name in Gondor.
Thanks to everyone for reviewing!
Author's note: If anyone has a problem with this story I invite them to take it up with me, preferably on a fairer ground (instant messaging or e- mail, perhaps), but if anyone has qualms I'm open to discussion, provided it is a discussion between equals.
*****
The fire flickered across the sleeping form of Faramir of Gondor. Two wizened old men sat by the fire, smoking their pipes in silence. Crickets played. An owl cried. The sleeping boy shifted and cried out as an injury was aggravated.
"He will not make it to Imladris," Mithrandir said.
Above the stars splattered across the nighttime sky, glistening and shining over the world. Thorongil sighed and glanced upwards, calmed by the presence of so many entities greater than himself. "We are not a day away," he answered. "He has made it so far, why should his strength fail him now?"
"Because Faramir is no imbecile, Aragorn son of Arathorn. He knows we will seek to plant in fairer earth the roots we have ripped from the stone of Minas Tirith. He wants to go home."
Thorongil answered, all the while knowing the truth, "He has spoken no such desire."
Mithrandir raised one bushy eyebrow to this but said nothing. Faramir spoke little but slept often on their journey, occasionally Thorongil gave him a sleeping draught when the boy shouted or cried through dreams. Though Faramir never specifically expressed the want to return to Minas Tirith, he clearly had not adjusted to being away. But the journey had been a relatively short one, lacking in time enough for the boy to adjust at all.
"You would send him back to his father, to his death?" Thorongil asked in response. "At least in Imladris he will be safe."
"Yet unhappy."
"Have you heard of my youth in Imladris? I cried every night for nearly a year. These things take time, and time is one thing we have. The Enemy--" Thorongil glanced at Faramir, who slept soundly, and lowered his voice, "the Enemy regains power, but we know this only on the basis of an Orc statistic. Until He shows greater foes--"
Mithrandir interrupted, "Are you saying that to give young Faramir a happy childhood we ought wait until He comes knocking on our doors, Thorongil? Have you lost perspective so?"
Without realizing it, the two had leaned in close to each other and lowered their voices to keep the conversation absolutely private. "No. I am saying that at the moment there is nothing much we can do, and Faramir may yet be so lucky as to grow up in a time of peace. His childhood is over."
The wizard opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by a howl into the night. The two stood up at once and drew their swords, attentions split between the Orcs and the boy. "We should go," Thorongil said, "outrun them, keep the boy safe."
But even as he said it he knew they could not make it in time; another howl split the air too close for comfort. "Is he under your potion?" Mithrandir asked.
"No. Hold them off for a moment." Thorongil knelt beside Faramir and shook him. "Faramir, Faramir you must wake," he called softly. The boy blinked and squinted, signs at least that he no longer slept. "Listen, Faramir," Thorongil said, and Faramir paid attention although the words were slow and slurred to his ears. "There are orcs not a mile away. Can you climb?"
"Climb?" Faramir did not understand.
"Into that tree there," Thorongil specified, "for your own safety. Come on!" He half-helped, half-pulled the boy to his feet. Faramir stumbled over tot he tree, hardly aware of his surroundings. For the past. . .how many days had it been? Fifteen, perhaps? More?. . .he had been sleeping, and so accustomed his body not to moving about and his mind not to thinking.
In fact, Faramir made a point of not thinking. He woke, ate, and slept, all without a conscious thought. This act could not be described by difficult so well as near impossible, for to focus on the act is of itself negating the act in the human search for reason that would know why one is not thinking. One must stop one's mind completely, as in killing: one can easily swing his sword through the neck of a foe, but when one thinks: 'I have killed a man' one is enchained and sickened by the act, and cannot do it again.
But as thinking was required, Faramir funneled his thoughts to the tree, clasping this branch and hauling his feet up, the ground falling away below him. The clash of metal on metal reached his ears, but meant nothing until Faramir felt a heavy hand clasp his ankle. The boy gasped and clutched onto a thick branch as the foul creature below jerked on his ankle.
"Faramir!" He was holding for all his worth onto the branch, his arms and cheek being scraped raw, and his stomach where his tunic had been pulled up by being yanked along the rough bark. He was weakened but not giving up; Faramir of Gondor was no stranger to pain!
It was Thorongil who slew the Orc, realizing belatedly that the grip on Faramir's ankle would not relax in death. With all haste the Ranger grabbed the Orc's hand and pried open his fingers. The boy remained frozen, staring. "Faramir, go!" Thorongil shouted, snapping him out of the trance.
Faramir realized what a coward he was, but nevertheless climbed higher. As swords clanged below Faramir hid his face in the treetrunk, wincing as the dull thudding sounds betrayed the falling of bodies. He remembered the old trick and held his breath, becoming invisible. "One," he whispered, his eyes squeezed shut, "two--" A thud interrupted Faramir, and he had to look.
What he saw frightened him so that he buried his face and counted, "One-two- three-four-five-six-seven. . ."
"Faramir? Faramir, are you all right up there?" The voice sounded worried but not rushed. Faramir tried to answer, but could manage only a squeak. "Faramir?"
"I-I am all right," he called.
"It's safe now, come down from there!"
"All right."
Faramir carefully picked his way down from the tree, choosing each foothold with great care. Having survived the Orc encounter, he had no wish to fall and break his neck now. The ground below him was littered with the bodies of Orcs in such multitude (a number increased by his fear) that Faramir wondered at the two men who had slain them.
Now, Faramir was not an average boy, because of circumstance and because he was just plain smart. Whoever gave Faramir his mind gave him a mighty gift. Throughout the entire night, hiding in the tree, Faramir had not thought once about home, of his father or Boromir, or, indeed, about very much at all. He was master of his thoughts.
But when he hopped the last few feet to the ground and saw Mithrandir tying a makeshift bandage around Thorongil's wrist, he felt. . .fond. This was not the usual fondness for Mithrandir, whom Faramir had many years known and trusted, but for, much to the boy's surprise, Thorongil. The rough Man had something to him, as difficult to detect as his sorrow and his contentment, but it was there. Faramir felt as though his heart was softening within his chest.
"Are you hurt, Faramir?" Mithrandir asked as Thorongil cracked the bone in his wrist beneath the "bandage."
"I am fine," he answered, forgetting or ignoring the scratches on his arms and stomach. Now fabric covered those areas, and his cheek, where it had been scraped, was not badly hurt. Pain could not penetrate the shock Faramir felt now, at the realization that he had grown -fond- of this Ranger.
"Good. We will ride through the night," Thorongil answered. "This place is not safe, and if the horses will ride swiftly until dawn we may yet reach safety ere a new day comes."
Mithrandir's sentiments for this plan were written all over his face, but he did not voice his objections. He helped Thorongil tend the horses and pack what had been unpack, though there was little of this. Faramir aided where he could. They did not speak; the stench of dead Orc and the threat of carrion birds propelled them, and the work was finished quickly.
The stars showed no longer through the thick sky of clouds above their heads. This was given many ominous looks. "Let us hope we are not caught in the storm, for it does appear we ride into its heart," Mithrandir said, and the horses broke into a gallop. Faramir was jolted forward in surprise, then gained rhythm and promptly fell into a deep sleep.
*****
To be continued
Lirenel: I considered that, also, but someone (I think it was Galadriel) said in Fellowship of the Ring that Aragorn had not been to Lothlorien forest in eight and thirty years.
Galorin: Oh, but of course!
Diamond Took: Denethor's reactions will be in this story but not for a while.
Pendragon_Xanatos: Thorongil IS Aragorn. He fought for King Thengel of Rohan under that name, and was referred to Steward Ecthelion, so used the same name in Gondor.
Thanks to everyone for reviewing!