I awoke feeling a wonderful sensation of someone's warm arms around me. That someone was carrying me, and, for once, I did not want to pull away. I felt unexpectedly safe and comfortable, so comfortable that I allowed myself to smile and snuggle close to the broad chest.
"Now that is a nice surprise!" my father's voice teased. I was wide awake in an instant.
He was laughing quietly at my astonished face.
"Thíri, you are growing up, thank goodness. I rather expected you to fight madly to be set on the floor, but here I see a daughter I have been dreaming about for my whole life!"
I hit him on the chest indignantly, striving to stand on my own feet.
"Put me down!"
He sighed in mock relief. "My girl, finally back. I was starting to feel concerned. They might have shown me to a wrong room."
I shook my head, trying to remember what had happened before. Then, in a horrible rush, it all came again, the battle, the rebuke from the Warden, Faramir…
"It is over?" I gasped, grabbing him by the shoulders. "The battle? Is it? And…and Faramir… no, I know that, he must be dead by now… Where is Elphir, is he all right? Father?"
He put a hand over my lips, blocking all further speech. "So many questions, girl! One at a time, fine?" I nodded obediently. He gave me a mock frown again. "I wonder what the healers have done to you. If they just gave you some potion, I would dearly love to have a barrel of that when back at home."
"Father!"
"On second thought, no, it seems too weak to deal with you," he went on nonchalantly.
Finally, he took pity on me. "All right, Thíri, there you are. The battle is over, and – we won! Elphir is safe and whole, though he banged his head on the door mere minutes ago and will likely have a big bruise."
"Oh…" I was lost for words, an occurrence very rare. Then another thought hit me. "You did not say anything about Faramir. How…how…does he still…live?"
"He did when I last saw him," my father said softly. "I found you lying asleep beside him, holding his hand… but he still breathed."
I sighed deeply. It was all as I wanted – almost all. My father and brother were unharmed, the battle had been over, and our armies were victorious, and the Darkness had not prevailed yet now… I remembered my frightened promise and wondered at how scared I must have been to say such foolish things, if only in my mind, to wish to die. But Faramir, why did he have to perish just when things were taking a turn for the better? It seemed so cruelly unfair on him, so untimely. Even the manner of his death – not really in battle, but the slow fading, all the while fighting for breath, wandering where none could reach…
I came to with a shudder.
"You are tired," my father observed.
"Not really," I protested. "Is there no way to save Faramir, Father?"
He shrugged helplessly. "The Lord Aragorn might help, though I very much doubt he will have the time. He himself is so weary after the ordeals he has had to face."
"Who is Lord Aragorn?" The name did not ring a bell.
"He is the Heir of Isildur himself," my father replied.
"No!" I took a step back, astonished beyond any measure. "The King has returned?"
Father just nodded solemnly, and, as was my wont, I had to spoil the pleasure for him. (Why, I wonder now?) "I cannot but be just a little bit glad for poor Uncle. He would have a fit were he here for the news! Good for him to be dead."
Father shook his head sorrowfully. "And you said you liked him. Really, Lothíriel, sometimes I wonder if I have been rather a poor father to you. Can you show at least a slightest grain of respect for the dead?"
"Not if they send my cousins to slaughter prior to their death," I retorted angrily. "Can I see Faramir? You should not have taken me from him. The Warden said I had to stay. The warden himself I hate, but I was going to do that for Faramir. Better me at his side than those monstrous matrons, one could easily mistake them for some Orcs of Mordor."
For a while, Father just stared at me in indignation, then suddenly laughed and threw an arm round my shoulders.
"It is good that I brought you here, Thíri," he said. "You have just given me a wonderful sense of home-coming. It is nice to see that certain things will never change."
There seemed to be a whole pack of people in Faramir's room. Mithrandir, of course, and the Halfling, Pippin, I guessed, and a Tower Guard hugging a small boy, healers and nurses… Ha, all the talk about a sick man needing peace, I thought. There was a pleasant scent about the room; I involuntarily took a step forward, drinking it in, all the more welcome after the stifling sensation of the hours before. Well, when I come to think of it now, it was not a scent, just a freshness that made my nostrils widen (my brothers would tease me mercilessly for this unconscious habit). I squeezed past others, earning an indignant hiss from Ioreth, a lady who could talk you to death if you let her, and finally saw Faramir.
He was lying on his bed still, but now he was awake, and seemed to be exchanging some words with the tall dark man, wearing rather shabby clothes. I noticed that Faramir was now rather pale, even with his suntan, his face still sweaty, dark shadows under his eyes; but he was smiling, smiling an almost childish smile of joy and relief, and when I wriggled nearer, I saw that the man was returning the smile with his own, though his face was almost ashen with fatigue.
He said something else, very quietly, then gave Faramir's hand a gentle squeeze and made to leave. In the doorway, he stopped and said, "There are much too many people here that a sick man can endure. I would ask you to leave now. The Lord Faramir is safe, he only needs a little peace and quiet to recover from both the shock and the wound."
The Tower Guard and the boy looked very reluctant to comply, but there was a ring of metal in the man's voice, so they had to do what was asked of them, or rather ordered.
The man's gaze rested on me. He was handsome, even I had to admit that. He had black hair with a little grey in it, and his eyes were light grey, very keen, even piercing. I looked down to his hands; they were nice hands, with long lean fingers, not too much disfigured by the sword; I could easily imagine him playing a harp, and then his eyes would be dreamy and soft…
I felt slightly ashamed with these thoughts. I had guessed by that time that the man was the famed Heir to the throne of Gondor, and there I was, studying his hands and imagining stupid things… horrible, childish indeed. I straightened my back and said, "My lord, I think someone has to stay with the Lord Faramir and see to his needs. I, as his family, appear to be the most suitable one for the task."
I guess I did sound a bit haughty, for my father covered his eyes with his hand, as if to block out the horror. The King-to-be lowered his head; I suppose he did that to hide a smile. Finally, he spoke, in a rich and pleasant voice, "It occurs to me, lady, that the person the most suitable for the task would be a nurse, be she family or not."
I saw Father suppress a smile; indeed, everyone else seemed to be doing the same. Oh, no, I groaned inside. Why did I always have to make such a fool of myself? I was about to flee when another voice, a much weaker one, sounded from behind my back, "Please, let Lothíriel stay, my lord. Healer or not, she has already proved of use."
I turned around and met Faramir's eyes. He smiled at me encouragingly, then went on, "I am certain I felt her presence when I was…away, and it helped me greatly not to slip further into darkness. But for her, my lord Aragorn, you might have found it impossible to bring me back."
I felt I was blushing and hated both Faramir and myself for that. But I could not but feel grateful to him for helping me out of this rather awkward situation. And for using my full name rather than that childhood version. I lifted my head proudly and faced my father and the rest of them.
"All right," the man consented. "Stay here then, my lady. And look after the Lord Faramir well. He will still be needed here."
After they all finally departed, I was left eye to eye with my cousin. Suddenly, all my resolve faded. I felt my legs quake and sat down on his bed heavily. Faramir reached for my hand and took it gently.
"Feeling better?" he asked compassionately.
"Yes," I nodded. Was I not the one to ask such questions of him? "Would you like me to fetch something?"
"Please, I am so thirsty," he whispered.
I rushed to the jug on the small table, poured a cup of water from it and handed it to Faramir. He gave me an apologetic smile.
"I am sorry, Thíri, but I think you will have to help me drink. I doubt I can hold the cup."
I sat on the bed, holding the cup in my right hand, and he tried to prop himself up on the elbow of his good arm, but failed; he was too weak for that. Then, I attempted to slip my left hand behind his head to lift it a little. I was not skilled enough to perform the task successfully, so I tried to help myself with my other hand. To my great dismay, in doing this I somehow forgot I was holding the cup and spilled the entire contents onto the bed.
I groaned and wrung my hands helplessly. "Oh, Faramir, I am so sorry! That was so clumsy! I…I will try and fetch someone to change the bedclothes…" I stopped, realising it was I who was supposed to do the task. I groaned louder still and hid my face in my hands, feeling an overwhelming desire to weep.
Eventually, I decided against it. What was the use of tears now? I managed without them earlier, and the circumstances had been much graver then. With a sigh, I took my hands away from my face and saw that Faramir was laughing.
I felt all the blood rush to my face. "And what is so funny about this, may I ask?"
Faramir's face was almost as red as it had been when he was feverish. "It…it is good to have you here, Thíri," he gasped, exhausted. "You are so impossibly refreshing. With you here, I am sure I will recover my strength in no time."
"You are wet all over," I grumbled. "I think cleaning the latrines would suit me much better. But then, I would not be so refreshing, at least not literally."
Faramir burst out laughing again. I joined him shortly, for the whole situation did look rather amusing.
"I must go and find some bedclothes," I said finally.
"No, Thíri, it is not that bad. You spilled the water only on the blanket, and that is thick enough, so the water did not soak through."
I gave a relieved sigh. He smiled at me again, and then, all of a sudden, as if a cloud shadowed his face.
"Thíri," he started, hesitantly, his breathing ragged, "where is my father?"
This was worse than the wet blanket. This was worse than anything. I just stared at him, robbed of any speech, wishing for someone, anyone to be here to share this with me. My heart pounded so hard that in a moment I felt like one powerful throbbing something, my stomach tightened, my hands covered in sticky sweat. I wiped them on my skirt and noted they left dark moist smears on the lavender fabric.
I let my eyes wander around the room, not wanting to see the pleading look in Faramir's eyes, not for another moment. There was a crack in one of the walls… and some cobweb in the corner under the ceiling… and a dirty handkerchief someone had left under the table… My eyes stuck to it desperately, and I found myself wondering whom it had belonged to… maybe a wife sitting at her husband's bedside, wiping off her tears with the piece of linen…
"Thíri…" came the anguished whisper from the bed.
I turned to him abruptly, feeling my stomach go tighter still. "He is dead," I said, my voice shrill and rough.
He stared at me for a while, then turned his gaze to the handkerchief under the table. I saw him swallow painfully; then he closed his eyes and gave a shuddering sigh, close to a sob.
I watched as tears appeared from behind his lowered eyelids, rolling silently down his temples. Suddenly, surprising me with his strength, he rolled over to his uninjured side, buried his head in the pillow and shook all over with heart-rending sobs.
I was stunned, petrified, and I wanted my father to come and help me out. Please, I do not know how to give comfort; I am afraid!
As a one blind, I stumbled towards the exit, into the hallway, and fled.
TBC