Chapter 2

"Ouch!"

Faramir finally allowed himself to release the laugh he had been holding for what seemed ages.

"This is not so very funny, Captain," there was reproach clear in Damrod's voice as he stuck his unfortunate finger in his mouth.

Faramir sighed comically.

"You are behaving like a child, Damrod," he said.

"I am not," the man objected. "Why all the fuss over a thing that small? It is just a splinter of wood!"

Faramir cocked his head at the Ranger.

"Because," he explained patiently, "a thing that small beneath your fingernail could cause infection to start and spread further, and I am most unwilling to see you without your sword hand. Now let me finish it."

He readied his hand with a needle that served as a tool to extract the aforesaid splinter. Damrod sighed resignedly and held out his hand.

Faramir worked silently for a minute or too, and finally gave a contented nod.

"There you are," he announced, holding the little piece between the tips of his fingers. "Now go and stick your fingertip in boiling water for a moment."

The expression on Damrod's face clearly suggested that he thought his Captain completely and irretrievably insane.

Faramir groaned.

"I am not asking you to keep it there for an hour, man! Just dip it into it quickly, it is quite a good way to prevent inflammation! Any village woman could tell you that!"

"All right," Damrod consented, still quite doubtful.

After he had left, Faramir chuckled softly to himself. Warriors were strange people. They could conceal the most grievous wounds for days, if need be, and moan and complain over mere trifles.

As he was getting to his feet, a slight stinging in his side made him wince. Indeed, he thought with a smile. Only a short time ago, Damrod had made a frightful fuss over his wound, insisting that his Captain should be taken to Minas Tirith and examined by a healer.

As to Faramir's judgement, there had been nothing that serious about the wound. He had seen worse…

No, not much worse, he admitted. He had been a little scared himself when he had looked at the ugly gaping gash in his side, pouring with blood. More than a little scared. He had never been wounded like that before. What was worse, his limbs suddenly had suddenly gone numb and cold, and he had had to fight a surge of panic as he realised that he could not fully control the movements of his body. He had actually felt death hovering over him…

Faramir shook himself awake. Well, it had all finished. He had been right not to agree to be transported back to Minas Tirith, after all. As if they did not have enough cares there… Besides… he certainly did not wish to appear weak under the scrutinising gaze of his father. The Steward did not need soldiers who would fret about every scratch they got. Even less did he need commanders like that.

Slowly, he directed his steps towards the lively group of Rangers taking their midday meal. Damrod was sitting slightly apart, his unfortunate finger in his mouth. He appeared to still be an object of his comrades' merciless teasing.

"Hey, Damrod!" someone called. "Still sucking your finger? We have to check your bedroll some time! Maybe you have a toy somewhere there, to hug when the night is very dark!"

Damrod muttered a couple of words that in a more civil language would mean "get lost".

Upon seeing Faramir approaching them, the Rangers quieted a bit, though there still were broad grins on most faces.

"Confess it, Captain Faramir," someone said, "you have just had your little revenge on Damrod, for that stitching of his that he had to perform on your side!"

Faramir smiled, reaching for the food.

"I am sure I did nothing of the kind… at least I had no such purpose, Anborn," he said, munching on a piece of rather stale bread. "And Damrod's stitching was remarkable. I doubt there will even be a scar."

"Small wonder," Damrod interjected with a hint of pride in his voice. "My mother is a seamstress, and I was very interested in what she was doing when I was a boy."

Naturally, he had to endure another round of teasing, but seemed to have taken it with far less hurt.

"I am beginning to think that you rather enjoyed sewing me up," said Faramir with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. "I have to apologise, my friend, but I am not very eager to provide another opportunity to you."

Damrod looked genuinely horrified.

"That…that I should wish for such…you must not make such jokes, Captain. I shall never want to see you like that again! And you should have listened to me then. To all of us! Just think of the risk you were taking…"

Faramir threw his hands up, laughing.

"Please, Damrod, you must not start it all over again, all right? I am alive and kicking, you would make a great healer in time, and there is no need to think of 'might have beens'."

Damrod looked unconvinced, but he knew better than to argue his case with his Captain, whose gentle nature never interfered with his authority – and his stubbornness.

"Have all the patrols reported?" Faramir asked.

"Yes, Captain Faramir. It seems to be quiet for now."

"Good," Faramir sighed, relieved by what seemed another peaceful night. As far as he could judge, there had been too many peaceful nights. Perhaps, somewhere, the forces were gathering for another blow… perhaps he should send out the scouts further… but not just now. They had been pretty tight, the climax coming with that unfortunate ambush when they had appeared to make a grievous mistake as to the enemy's numbers…it had cost them some men, their healer included…it had nearly cost him his life…

Having dismissed the young Ranger, Faramir headed for the waterfall.

The rays of the sun still lingered upon the ever-falling droplets, though the rainbow that never failed to fascinate him was gone. Now the water rushed down in cascades of liquid fire, of rich reddish gold hue. Faramir seated himself on his favourite round stone a little aside and gazed towards the water.

Once again, he wondered at the wisdom of choosing the place as the shelter for his Rangers. The soothing effect of the quiet rustle of water, of its eternal swift movement was a thing most appropriate and desirable for those who came here after a battle. Particularly because battles were a dirty business…

He sighed, leaning on the rock and closing his eyes. Quite unexpectedly, he wanted to be back in the White City, and wondered at that. Most of the time, he enjoyed being in Ithilien. Today, though…

He thought of his father and frowned. The last time he was in Minas Tirith, Denethor had been in a remarkably vile mood. Faramir had not felt particularly hurt by that; the Steward had not looked very well. Faramir had been foolish enough to advise him to see a healer about his headaches.

He smiled at the memory of his father's reaction. He had been angry at the time; now, however, all he could do was compare it to his own unwillingness to seek help. What a pair of obstinate fools they made…

"Captain Faramir?"

He turned around abruptly, to find himself face to face with a young man he faintly remembered served in the City. The man was all dusty and looked rather weary.

As Faramir offered no greeting (having been somewhat distracted by his musings), the messenger ventured to say:

"I have just come from the White City…with tidings from my Lord Steward. He said the matter was urgent, so I did my best to get here as quickly as was possible."

Faramir grew more alert.

"Has anything happened in the City?" he enquired, barely concealing his concern. "Is…is my father all right? Or…are the tidings about Boromir?"

The messenger shook his head.

"I have not a clue, my lord. There is a letter from the lord your father."

Aware of several pairs of anxious eyes watching him from where the rest of the Rangers were grouped, Faramir schooled his features into a more or less calm expression and extended his hand for the letter.

He noticed the slight shaking of his hand and called himself a fool. Surely, had something grave happened, the messenger would know?

"You may be free for now," he said to the man. "Go and take some food, and rest. You are weary. I shall write the answer tomorrow, and you can take it back – that is, if the matter can wait until the morning."

The messenger eyed him doubtfully, before saying, "My lord Denethor said that he did not wish for an answer."

"What?" This time Faramir could not keep from an astonished exclamation, which drew still more alarmed glances to him.

"He said you would understand when you read the letter, my lord," the man explained.

With a wave of his hand, Faramir quieted him and slowly broke the seal and unfolded the parchment.

"What is this all about?" Anborn whispered worriedly.

"I wish I knew," Damrod replied, his eyes never leaving their Captain.

Faramir was just unfolding the letter, a slight frown creasing his brow. The Rangers could not hear any words, just follow the change of emotions on his face, and that was a thing highly unusual, for Faramir, as a rule, was very successful at concealing those.

As he started to read, the frown was slowly replaced by an expression of total disbelief.

Finally, he raised his eyes to look into the messenger's.

"My…my father wrote this?" he breathed, his eyes as wide as saucers.

The poor man shuffled his feet uneasily.

"Well…" he started, then checked himself.

Faramir never broke the enquiring gaze.

The man cleared his throat.

"M-my lord Faramir… I was first sent for and found my lord Steward in his study… sitting at his desk. He… he looked deep in thought… and there was a letter before him, but it was not sealed. I was prepared to wait and then take it, but the Lord Denethor ordered me to leave and return half an hour later… that was when he gave me the letter and told me to ride as fast as I could."

Faramir stared at the letter in his hand again. He then turned and took the few paces to the Rangers.

"Damrod, you will remain here in charge for the next few days," he said unusually brusquely.

There was agitated murmur from the Rangers.

"Captain Faramir…" Damrod ventured, "is aught amiss?"

Faramir's eyes mirrored his own puzzlement, however hard the young Captain tried to conceal it.

"Well," he said finally, "it appears I have to report to the Steward of the City shortly."

Later, when everyone was asleep, he took the letter and came out of the cave and into the light, to have a chance to read it in private.

The surprises started straight away:

"Faramir, you young fool…"

TBC

Yes, I have decided to continue it! I have changed the first chapter a bit, as you may have noticed. Reviews are more than welcome!