With special thanks to my dear friends Cressida and Astara, for their great help and continuous support! Without them, I am sure I would never have had the courage to go on!
Oh, I have just realised that the name Aeviel has appeared in a fic I have read, though I don't remember it or the author's screen name. Please, if you are reading this and are not happy with it, just contact me and I will be happy to either write something like an acknowledgement or change the name, though I like it so much!
Chapter 3
"Father?"
Faramir opened the door to the office hesitantly, sticking in his head – much like he had used to do when he was a boy. He wondered at this absently; however, the whole story with the letter was very much out of ordinary.
As they had been riding to the City, he had kept asking himself what his father could have possibly had in mind while writing his last piece of correspondence. It was harsh – but not unpleasantly so. In fact, it had made Faramir smile to himself, and not ungratefully. The figures of speech they had been using for years now had wearied him considerably, and, but for that angry piece of writing, he would have never realized how much.
Whatever the tone, it seemed to him he could easily discern worry behind the words. He smiled, remembering the dressing downs both he and Boromir had received when they were children. Yes, there had been harsh and angry words, but there had always been that first anxious glance, that grip of a slightly shaking hand on a shoulder, asking silently, 'Are you hurt, son?' For only the worst of their adventures had been brought for the Steward's consideration. Like rope-climbing down the walls of the Sixth Circle…
Right before entering the study, he had suddenly found himself missing those scoldings so acutely… and had smiled to himself, assured that he would get another one right away. Why, he was awaiting it very eagerly…
Denethor's eyes lifted slowly to meet his, and his heart sank. They were as cold and hard as ever, and the shadows of the evening made his father's face look sterner still than was its wont.
"Have you forgotten how to knock, Captain Faramir?" he asked sarcastically, the humour never reaching his eyes.
For a moment, Faramir seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. So…everything was as usual. He could trace not a shade of concern in that icy cold penetrating glance…
Slowly, he collected himself. Of course, things had to be so, and he was a fool to expect anything else.
"I apologise, my lord. I am come at your command," he said quietly, suddenly feeling the stinging in his side again. It was strange, for even the long ride to the City had not jarred the wound…
"Sit," Denethor indicated the chair opposite himself.
Faramir obeyed mutely, doing his best to look impassive.
"So you are here at my command! There are things I wanted to discuss with you, yes. Captain, I recollect that I have long expressed my wish to be aware of every happening in the Company you are in charge of. Am I right here?"
"Aye, my lord," Faramir answered, meeting his father's gaze steadily. This game he knew well enough…even too well to feel as hurt as he did now. But he had not expected having to play it once again, not after that letter. He had hoped so much to feel just a little warmth…he would have preferred rage to this calm exterior – which apparently went deeper.
Denethor paused, seemingly to arrange a pile of loose sheets on his right. Faramir almost gave a bitter laugh at the well-familiar tactics. How could he have been so naïve as to imagine that his father's message carried anything other than a rebuke? Was he that desperate for the show of affection? To even start seeing things that were not there?
"Then," the Steward continued with deceptive softness about his voice, "how can it be that I learn of a serious wound its Captain gets not immediately after it happens?"
"But Father…" Faramir made another attempt, "I did not deem it reasonable…"
Denethor cut him short, raising his hand.
"Captain Faramir, allow me to be the judge of what is reasonable and what is not concerning our military. You have not forgotten who your liege lord presently is?"
"I have not, my lord," Faramir replied, reverting to the formal tone again.
"Oh? I am glad of that," Denethor sighed with mock relief. "Much as I should like to continue this highly entertaining conversation, it is getting late. We shall have an opportunity to talk about this further tomorrow. Meanwhile, your supper will be served to you, and you may retire to your chamber. It has been made ready for you. However, first thing on the morrow, you will visit the Houses of Healing and have your wound examined. I am loath to send a wounded Captain to command one of the most important companies in Gondor."
Faramir stood up and bowed, then turned to go. At the door, however, he turned around again, as if about to ask something.
"You have my leave, Captain Faramir," Denethor said coldly.
After he left, Denethor banged both fists on the desk, barely stifling a curse.
What had made him hurt his son so? For Faramir was hurt, than he had noticed, though the young man had done his best to conceal it.
Perhaps it was all the worry that he had had to endure while awaiting either his son or any tidings of him, in case the wound was graver that he thought. He had half-expected him escorted to Minas Tirith, even brought in a wagon, and had even been fully prepared to send healers to Henneth Annûn. And yet… there he was, suntanned, not a trace of sickly pallor about his face, his movements as swift and graceful as ever, eyes shining as if in anticipation of…what? In addition, he had ridden on his own!
What a relief it had been… and what a surge of irrational anger he had experienced towards his younger son, for putting him through it all!
Denethor lowered his head, clapping a hand to his brow. He had not wanted their conversation to be like this…
Had he maybe tried to talk to him longer—but no, the boy had to have some sleep. It had been a sound idea, to send him to his chamber. After all, however good he looked, he had just made a long and tiresome journey and needed his rest.
What is done cannot be undone, Denethor thought with a sigh. Leastways, Faramir would see a healer.
Faramir lay curled on his side, trying to sleep.
He had barely taken a bite of the supper that he found awaiting him in the chamber, though something in his mind registered briefly that the food had been chosen very carefully to suit his taste. There was even his favourite mushroom stew…perhaps the cook still remembered what he preferred. That night, however, his throat seemed to close against any swallowing motion.
He was angry mainly at himself. He should not have expected any special treatment from his father. Why, he had never dreamed of that before getting the damned letter!
He pushed himself to a sitting position and reached to the bedside table, where the sheet of parchment had been lying the whole evening.
"Faramir, you young fool,
It grieves me indeed that you may sometimes do things like this. Whatever made you hide the fact that you have been wounded? Even setting aside your being my son, such happenings have to be brought to me, as they concern the state of affairs in the military in general. You are not a common soldier; however reckless your brother might be, he would see danger where it is and not try to act a hero when there is no need for this; I should rather call it acting an ass.
Should anything like this happen to one of your men, would you not want to see that he is safe and in good hands of a healer rather than lost in the wild with no proper medicines – especially if there is a good possibility to get him into the City and proper care? If not, then I shall call you a poor commander, Captain Faramir. And if you refuse to do that for yourself, then I shall repeat myself – you are a damned fool, my son!
Now, I will see you in Minas Tirith as soon as possible, to provide me with an explanation of this whole matter, and you had better make it good! As your commander, your liege lord, and your father, I deem I have a right to demand it! Also, you will go to the Houses of Healing, to ensure there are no serious consequences of your stupid conduct.
You will leave Henneth Annûn with the messenger, the morning after the letter arrives. Choose whoever you consider best to leave in charge while you are absent.
Father"
"Why did you have to write this, Father…" he whispered, trying hard to swallow the lump in his throat. Helpless rage surged inside him, and he crumpled the letter into a ball and threw it across the room.
Probably all his knowledge of books and lore had not taught him anything. Perhaps he had tried – and quite unjustifiably – to peer beyond the words and find something that was not there at all. After all, he had received a reprimand, and as to the tone of it – perhaps his father had had one of his headaches while writing it!
He curled in the bed again, but after a moment got out and went to pick up the crumpled letter. He put it back onto the table, smoothing it as best he could, and lay down once more. Finally, exhaustion, of both body and soul, took him, and soon he was fast asleep.
His sleep was too sound for him to awake when the door opened to let Denethor in. The Steward regarded his son for a long moment, then bent down and gently brushed the hair from his face, stroking Faramir's cheek lightly with the back of his hand.
A sigh escaped him as he spotted the letter lying on the small table, as well as the condition of it.
"Why, that Ranger of yours must be a born healer!"
Faramir smiled faintly.
"He is," he acknowledged.
Maelnor, the young but very good healer who had been examining him, clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Well, nothing more that I have to do here," he said. "The wound must have been bathed properly, and the stitching is remarkable. Add to this your age, Captain, and you will have the formula of a perfect healing."
He frowned at the absence of any reaction from Faramir, then turned the young man's face towards himself, taking it in.
"Still, you do not look very good to me," he pondered. "Have you had a good sleep?"
"I have," Faramir nodded.
"Much too pale for my liking…and a little brooding. Have you told me the whole truth? Perhaps that wound is still bothering you? Though it should not be… no inflammation here, even the scar tissue has started to pale…"
"I am all right," Faramir said with a measure of irritation in his voice.
Maelnor eyed him critically; he was not in the least hurt by his charge's reaction, being quite accustomed to having wounded soldiers around.
"Fine, then," he shrugged. "But I very strongly insist that you wait here for a little more and drink the brew I am going to make for you. An assistant will bring it here."
"Thank you, Master Maelnor," Faramir replied.
Enveloped in his thoughts, he barely noticed the woman who entered the room shortly after Maelnor left, until she called softly, "My lord?"
Faramir looked up, a trifle embarrassed, and blushed as she smiled at him a habitual nurse's smile. The woman was in her late twenties, just a couple of years older than himself, with a pretty round face framed with dark wavy hair. She was wearing a white apron, starched and crisp, and in her hands was a tray with several mugs on it.
He smiled in return, and she took a step towards him, prepared to offer him his brew, when suddenly the door was flung open, and what looked to Faramir quite a big yellow ball shot into the room, crying, "Mummy!"
The nursemaid seemed absolutely composed; she just held her tray up so that the new arrival would not upset it. The latter, who appeared to be a chubby little girl, promptly bumped into the cot on which Faramir was sitting and sat on the floor, rubbing her brow.
Faramir could not help a gasp of concern, afraid that the child might have hurt herself. The mother, however, just sighed and, placing her tray on the table, looked down at her daughter.
"Elabeth," she sighed, "I thought I had asked you to wait for me, not run after me!"
The child shook her head reproachfully.
"I didn't run after you," she said. "I ran after kitty."
"I wish you had left that cat at home, just once," the mother sighed again.
She took a mug from the tray and offered it to Faramir, whose gloomy mood brightened considerably upon observing the scene. He drank the brew, grimacing at the bitter taste.
The little girl had been watching him as he did.
"Bad?" she asked, pointing to the mug. "Mummy gives me such bad things when I am ill. And puts me to bed. Are you ill?"
"Just a little," Faramir admitted.
"And your Mummy put you to bed too?"
"Elabeth!" her mother gasped in horror.
Faramir laughed.
"No, little one, not quite so. See, I do not have a Mummy to do such things."
"Ah," she nodded. "And I don't have Daddy. And you?"
Faramir glanced towards her mother, whose face darkened with a remnant of old grief.
"Yes, I do," he said, smiling at the child.
"Oh, good," she said. "It's so bad if you are all alone!"
"It is indeed," Faramir replied softly. "But you have your Mummy…and your kitty, too!"
As if echoing his words, a loud miaow was heard from the hallway.
"Kitty!" Elabeth cried, jumping up and dashing out of the room. Faramir laughed.
"Apologies, my lord," the nursemaid said, fiddling with her apron. "I told her to stay at the kitchens, but she keeps running off, with that kitten of hers or without it… and there is no one I could leave her with at home…"
"It is no matter," Faramir smiled. "You have a very pretty daughter, Mistress…"
"Aeviel," she said. "My name is Aeviel. Oh, but she is such a nuisance here! Cannot sit still for one minute! I used to leave her with my late husband's mother, but she died not long ago, and I cannot afford a nurse for Elabeth, so I just take her with me… Last time she ran off, she gave me a real fright. I went to the Citadel, to see my brother who is a Guard there, and she somehow escaped, and appeared when I really considered seeing my brother's captain about it, with a sheet of parchment. Later told me that 'kitty' had escaped first."
She produced the sheet from somewhere behind her apron. It was covered in shaky writing. Faramir noticed the word 'mother', written in big letters, and the rest were 'mummy', written over and over, first, as far as he could judge, with the help of an adult, and then independently.
"This is really good parchment," Faramir said, feeling its texture. "My father himself uses something like this. Where did she get it?"
Aeviel sighed.
"She said a lord taught her how to write 'mummy'. She was bursting with pride when she gave me this!"
"I can well believe it," Faramir laughed, "Must have been one of the Steward's clerks."
After she was gone, he continued laughing quietly, having noted with amusement that Aeviel herself had to be rather proud of her child's first successful attempt at writing. Otherwise, why show him that parchment?
He smiled and lay back onto the cot.
TBC
Thank you for your oh so lovely reviews! I appreciate every one so much! I hope it is a treat for those who wanted to know what was in the letter (though I very seriously considered the idea of never giving the text!).
This story will have one more chapter; as to when it is going to be posted, I cannot say. I am planning to go on holiday for two weeks, and I doubt I will be able to have it ready before leaving. Most probably, it will be here after 24 August. Sorry about that!