Summary: Faramir speaks to a dying soldier in camp. Please R&R.
A/N: Modeled on Chapter 13: Expedition to Van Buren of Rifles for Watie by Harold Keith. Don't sue me. Please.
Disclaimer: Only Andir belongs to me. The rest don't. I am merely borrowing them. Oh, and the things you see when you die is mine. Sort of. I don't think Tolkien wrote about that.
There was dried blood caught underneath Faramir's fingernails. Blood of the enemy. He wished he could wash it off, wash it off so he would not have to see it. But he could not find water anywhere in the camp. Faramir wished they were back in Henneth Annun. Perhaps in Henneth Annun, so many of his men would not have died.
Faramir walked toward to the healer's tent. There were wounded men lined outside the tent. Despite their injured states, those who could saluted him. He pushed aside the flap and the thick scent of blood wafter out at him. There was blood on the dirt ground, gently soaking into the earth. There was blood on the table. A body was on the table. Three broken arrows lay on the floor next to the table.
He went to the healer.
"How many?" Faramir asked, trying to keep his eyes off the dead man on the table. This man had died defending Gondor, defending himself. His eyes were still open. They were grey. Why did Faramir have to notice that? Why did he have to notice so many things about his men? It only made losing them harder.
The healer sighed, closing the open eyes of the corpse. "Thirteen dead, three wounded," said the healer flatly. He nodded to a young man in the corner. "Fourteen, unless Eru grants it that he lives," the healer added.
Faramir turned and faced the man the healer had indicated. He was young, about eighteen years old. Barely a man. Probably fresh from training. There was a bandage around his head; his arms were shiny with fresh blood--his blood, Faramir guessed--and crusty with dried blood. He was shivering.
"Poor lad," said the healer. He shook his head.
Faramir knelt next to the wounded boy. The boy must have felt his presence, because he opened his eyes. Faramir found that one eye was brown, the other was grey-blue.
"My captain," gasped the lad. His face screwed up in pain. "Forgive me. I did not fight as valiantly as you," said the lad. "Forgive me."
"Nay," replied the other. "You did good." Pause, pause. What was there to say to a dying person? "What is your name?"
"Andir," said the wounded one. "I am Andir." Andir's eyes widened. He grabbed Faramir's hand. Faramir could feel the sticky, gummy blood. "When I die, sir, promise me you will send my sword to my father. He is Thrandir the blacksmith. He lives in Imloth Melui."
Faramir lied, "You are not going to die, Andir. You are going to live. And when we return to Minas Tirith, the steward shall praise you for your strength and bravery." But Faramir thought, How terrible it must be to die young. How terrible.
Tears rolled down Andir's youthful face, leaving tidemarks. "Will you tell my father I am sorry?" whispered Andir. "Will you? Tell him I am sorry for running away from home, for lying about my age and joining the Rangers. Will you tell him that?"
"You don't need me to tell him, Andir," said Faramir, "because you are going to be well, and you can tell him yourself."
Andir's voice choked as he said, "You don't need to lie to me, Lord Faramir. I can feel that I am dying." More tears. "I don't want to die, captain. I don't." The grip of Faramir's hand tightened. "Please don't leave me, sir. I don't want to die alone."
Faramir was overcome with grief.
"Are you afraid of dying, sir?" asked Andir. Faramir saw Andir's eyes were closing. He tightly squeezed Andir's hand. Andir's eyes immedietly opened.
"No," said Faramir. "I am not."
"Why, sir?"
Faramir thought. Then he said, "Because I know it will not be painful."
Andir's voice grew softer, dreamier. A fear took hold of Faramir. Andir asked, "What will I see?"
"A tunnel," Faramir said, speaking like he was telling a story to a young child. "You float up that tunnel. And then, you will see clouds. And after the clouds, a garden. Angels live in that garden. You will never feel pain again. Nor will you think of earthly worries."
Andir's head drooped. "That sounds all right."
The healer came over. He had a cup of black stuff. He gently lifted Andir's chin. "Open up, young one," said the healer. Faramir watched Andir's throat bob as he swallowed the liquid. Faramir knew what it would do: it would speed up the dying process, giving less pain to the patient. When Andir had finished drinking, the healer gave Faramir a said look, then left to tend to the other patients.
Andir's breathing slowed. "Faramir," whispered Andir. None of Faramir's men ever called him by his name. "My sword is next to me," he said. "Promise you will send it to my father for me. In Imloth Melui. Ask for Thrandir the blacksmith. Everyone will know where he is."
Faramir felt tears coming. "I promise."
"And please tell him I'm sorry."
"I promise."
Andir's breathing became even slower. His grip on Faramir's hand lessened. "Could you hold my head up, captain?" asked Andir. "I want to see the angels when I am awake."
Clumsily, Faramir propped up Andir's limp form with his arms. Faramir found that Andir felt cold.
"Thank you..." Andir breathed. Then, his form slowly slumped against Faramir.
Biting back tears, Faramir gently released Andir's body. He picked up Andir's blade. He walked out of the healer's tent. Looking at his hand, he realized he had Andir's blood all over his hand. Faramir rubbed it into his skin, so the dead soldier will always be a part of him.
"Anborn," Faramir called to the nearest soldier. Anborn came and saluted. "Go to Imloth Melui--" Faramir paused. "Nay, never mind, Anborn. I will take this sword myself. Saddle my horse for me."
Anborn nodded. He walked in the direction of Faramir's tent, where his horse was waiting.
Faramir turned away. The moon was shining bright. What a beautiful night to die, he thought. He sat on a tree-stump. Faramir rested his head in his hands as the tears came.
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