Two of Swords II: Queen of Cups
Minas Tirith, summer 2999
It was a long time before Faramir became fully conscious. There was an eternity of drifting, being consumed with a fever so hot it felt like bathing in flames. He did not feel the wound on his arm but he though he felt his mother calling his name, he could even smell the scent of roses and mint baked in sunshine she always had after tending her summer garden.
"Mother," he called weakly, "is that you?"
A soft, female voice answered, "Shhh...sleep now, my love."
He could feel her put her hand on his forehead and he sunk into the sort of sleep that has no dreams or nightmares, just velvety blackness. If he had any visions during this time, he did not remember them when he regained consciousness. There were times when he was semi-aware and he could remember being given juice to drink and damp cloths being placed on his feverish brow. Sometimes it seemed as if he was a child and it was his mother who tended him.
The first face he saw upon awakening almost confirmed this feeling and made him feel as if he was still in a dream. It was the face of a beautiful, golden-haired woman.
"Mother," he asked in a hoarse voice, "am I dreaming?"
"No, sweetheart," she answered, "you have finally returned to us and I am not your mother but your aunt Ivriniel."
Faramir saw that it was indeed his aunt for the woman he saw had attained a much greater age than had been allotted to his mother. He knew there had been some rivalry between the sisters over his father but the care she had lavished upon him during his childhood in Dol Amroth and the sadness in her voice when she mentioned Finduilas were proof that Ivriniel had loved her younger sister deeply enough that the distance of eleven years could not diminish the sorrow of her loss.
He thought of something and, in a stronger voice said, "Aunt! What are you doing in Minas Tirith?"
"To care for you, silly boy," she replied, "You have been very ill for just over two weeks. Even the skills of the most able healers, and surely Master Finlay counts as one of these, are not sufficient for the recovery of body and mind. The love only close family or the rarest of friends can give you makes that possible, Fari. You father can not provide that."
Her voice was cold and her eyes were dangerously narrow when she spoke of Denethor. Her youthful infatuation with the Steward had long given way to barely contained hatred because of his treatment of Faramir.
Hoping to lighten her mood, Faramir asked, "Is Cuilinn here?"
She smiled at the mention of her husband's name and responded, "Yes, he is. I told him sending you back into Denethor's clutches was foolish. I advised Imrahil of this as well. He feels quite guilty about it now, the dear man."
Faramir sighed and said, "Aunt, it was the fever, not the scratch on my arm, which has had me in bed for two weeks and the fever started the night before I received this wound."
"That does not excuse his actions, Fari, and I would call that more than a scratch, even if it is hardly a dangerous injury," she snapped.
She would have said more but Catriona, Master Finlay's little niece came in looking nervous. She was still a child but was able to assist her uncle in numerous small ways. She was usually hard to rattle, especially for such a young maid. She whispered her message to Ivriniel and quickly left the room with the Princess of Dol Amroth following her with a determined stride.
The mystery of what had caused his aunt to leave the room became clear when Faramir heard raised voices coming from the adjoining hallway. Faramir had hoped that he would see Boromir but Boromir was not the one arguing with their aunt in the hallway.
"Woman," roared an angry male voice, "how dare you interfere with me in my own city! If you were not a Princess of Dol Amroth, I would have you whipped and imprisoned for such impudence! "
"And, Lord Steward," said Ivriniel, in a voice dripping with cold fury and an emphasis on the word steward, "if you were not who you were, Imrahil would not let someone who hurt his nephew as you did to go unpunished."
"You are a fine one to issue threats," sneered the Steward, "and are nothing but the wife of a bastard!"
The sound of Ivriniel slapping Denethor was clearly audible to Faramir. He knew his aunt's temper and was not at all surprised that she had answered that insult with violence. He felt greater anger at his father for that slight to his aunt and her husband than he did for the slash on his arm.
"For that," said Denethor in a low, dangerous voice Faramir could barely hear, "I would kill a man."
"I am not a man, Steward," replied Ivriniel, "and, remember, Cuilinn is your brother as well as my husband."
"Half-brother," muttered the Steward.
Faramir sighed and shouted, "Enough! Let him come in, aunt."
The Steward and the Princess entered the room. To Faramir's satisfaction, they both looked somewhat abashed.
"Faramir, I do not want to leave you alone with him," she replied.
In a firm voice, Faramir said, "It is my wish, aunt. Please go find Boromir for me. Tell him I am awake and wish to see him."
He sat up straighter in his bed, turned toward Denethor, and asked, "What would you say to me, my Lord?"