Boromir felt weak. He hated feeling weak. "What is going on out there?" Boromir grumbled sleepily. He was still only just aware of his surroundings, and not feeling much up to delving into any memories that might give him a clue to anything beyond his own comfortable bed. He wanted peace and quiet because straining to hear things going on outside meant straining to think what those things he heard were and why whatever was happening… was happening.
"My Lord, please rest easy. You ought not to be so agitated," said a young girl with a Lossarnachian accent who was obviously no one to be telling someone else not to be agitated while she herself was in every respect petrified. She brought him another cup of water and after drinking it down Boromir was beginning to think straight again.
"All right, now tell me what is going on out there?" he said.
She looked at him for a moment as if trying to figure out how to tell this man the truth (one did not speak lies to the son of the Steward) without telling him the truth (if he knew he would leave the bed and be on the field in an instant, and she had been instructed to make sure he stayed where he was). "There's… a skirmish, my lord," she said, hoping she downplayed that enough.
Boromir stirred as if he would get up and go have a look for himself, but then he stilled and lay quiet for a while. No, that was no skirmish. He was remembering things now. He'd been in Osgiliath with Faramir, there was to be a fight, and though he was not feeling all that primed he meant to fight his heart out, or rather fight his heart back… his honor back. And more than that, he remembered very clearly why he needed to regain his honor. Boromir turned over and closed his eyes in resignation. After some while, he looked back over to the frightened girl. "I am in pain, is there not something you can fetch me?" There was pain in his eyes, that much was sure. "Yew extract, have you?" Boromir was fairly certain that this young serving girl would not know how lethal Yew was. He himself had only learned it when Faramir told him that Elves made bows of Yew because of its symbolic deadly quality.
The girl nodded and hurried to do as bid. She returned with a large phial of liquid, which Boromir asked her to leave by the bedside. "Thank you," he said quietly and sincerely. "You needn't stay with me. I see I've done some injury to my ankle because I can not move it without pain, so I do not think I shall be going anywhere. Why do you not go on to the Houses? I am sure they need all the help they can get and now that I have my wits about me I can take care of myself." He paused for a moment then asked, "Where is my father?"
"I know not, my lord, I've not seen the Steward since yesterday," she said.
Boromir sighed and said, "if you see him, ask him to come to see me, if he is able. If not, just tell him… that I love him."
The girl nodded reverently and left the room. Boromir picked up the glass bottle and held it for a while. Pulling out the cork he breathed in the vapor, finding it both flower- and wood-like, but with a very unpleasant tinge to it, sour and acid. Mustering his will he drank the fluid down in full. He lay back, telling himself that he would not cry for help, nor whimper in fear when the darkness closed in. He had no idea how this stuff would affect him and he was determined to ride out whatever pain there was, but he hoped that it would be quick about it.
He lay still for a while, wondering if his father would come to him. Denethor was likely in the middle of the battle, Boromir knew, but he hoped against hope that the girl would be able to impart his message somehow.
Boromir thought of many things, of the young Hobbit who looked up to him, not just because the little fellow was half his size, and had shown him such kindness when he felt lost and overwhelmed in Rivendell. He thought of how Frodo had seemed wary of him all along. It made him wonder that such a simple people as Hobbits were they could see right through to the heart of a person with such ease. Pippin had seen past his bluff, soldier's exterior to the heart of him that was happiest when he was protecting those weaker than himself. Frodo, however, and likely because of the Ring, had seen the heart of him that desired the power to protect more of those defenseless people and to see glory restored, whatever the cost, the side of him that insisted good enough was never enough for Gondor. That he did get from his father, despite spending his most formative years in Dol Amroth.
'Whatever the cost,' he thought to himself. Only now was he seeing that the price of taking the Ring in hopes of saving Gondor had been his integrity. He had broken his word, an oath he had sworn, that he would protect Frodo as long as their roads were together. Oh, but if only that was all he had done. He knew he had injured the Hobbit when he took the Ring, how badly he did not know, for apparently he was able to carry on and had come to Faramir in Ithilien to retrieve the Ring.
Faramir, yet another reason for him to detest himself, he had failed him most of all, the little brother that he had wanted for as long as he could remember. He had sworn to Faramir that he would take care of himself, that he had clearly failed to do or he would not have fallen under the curse of the Ring, so he thought.
He also swore that he would look out for Faramir's father. He had tried to do that in the beginning, but after Faramir parted from them at Tharbad Aragorn had withdrawn somewhat and became rather unapproachable. Boromir could not help but resent this behavior in the one who he knew was the heir to the Throne of Gondor. A powerful leader he could respect, but not this grim and sullen Ranger who led, and led well, but did it grudgingly.
Now, though, he lay in his bed feeling himself grow sleepy and was thankful that he might die not as painfully as he thought after all. He wondered now who he was to question the man destined to wear the Crown; after all, Aragorn obviously had infinitely more honor than he himself had. Now he hated himself vehemently for failing the one man he should have been most loyal to. Suddenly he hoped that this father would not have a chance to come to him, as he realized that this "easy way out" was to be his final dishonor. What had made him take that stuff? All of his life, since his mother's death, he had dreaded the thought of dying young in his own bed; if he was to die early he wanted it to be on the field of honor, not like some craven coward.
"I am sorry, Faramir, to have failed you and your father so, and I am sorry to you, father, that I lost the honor you prized so in me and brought our House to disrepute," Boromir whispered to the air as he succumbed to the blackness. His one comfort was that he knew the scale of the War being waged and he knew that there was incredibly little chance that anyone would survive to know of his final weakening anyhow.
ooo
Aragorn walked through the Houses, his hood still up and his grey cloak pulled tight about him. He did not want anyone to see or know him yet, for he knew that the time was not right for him to be in this City again. Yet, when Gandalf had told him that Faramir was stricken and growing nearer to death all the time, Aragorn practically ran through the streets. Pippin had greeted him at the door to the Houses of Healing with such trust and confidence that it gave Aragorn some measure of hopefulness.
As he walked through the place being led by Gandalf, that hope diminished. Every room was filled with injured men, they were grouped according to their condition: those of gravest condition were in beds, some two to a bed, three in the case of children, mostly because it was easier to lift a dead body from a bed than up off the floor; those in less severe condition were taken to lay upon "mattresses" on the floors of every room that could be spared; anyone who was in merely serious condition was seated against the walls in the hallways.
Aragorn was led passed the room where Merry had been brought andit tore at him to see this brave little one suffering so. A bit on down the hall, Gandalf pointed out to him the room occupied by Éowyn. It startled him that she was here, Éomer had said nothing of his sister's injury, let alone that she had come with them. Aragorn turned to Éomer in question, but he preempted him, saying, "I know I am suppose to be…," Aragorn read and understood that pause, the words sticking in Eomer's throat much as similar words had often stuck in his own throat, "King of Rohan… but I also know that there are others here besides myself." Aragorn clapped a hand to his shoulder and nodded in silent thanks as Éomer left them to go to his ailing sister.
It was when Gandalf finally led him into Faramir's room that his heart dropped out of him. His son lay there looking as if he was already gone. A woman was sitting beside him continually bathing his face with cool water and Aragorn gently took to the cloth from her hand, his cloak now removed, and said softly, "he is my son."
He need not have told her that though, Mithrellas remembered clearly the Ranger who had helped her best friend get through the delivery and, next thing she knew, both the Ranger and the baby were gone. She knew why, for her friend had confided in her and she kept the secret all these years.
There were others there, another woman and an elder nurse, and a young boy. These people were all here attending his son, Aragorn thought, when there were so many others out there. He was sure it had something to do with this rumor that Boromir had named Faramir his heir in his last written statement before they left for Imladris.
For Aragorn it took all of his rapidly flagging will first to ignore those about him, including Gandalf and Imrahil, who had gone surprisingly still when he heard Aragorn say to Mithrellas that Faramir was his son, and second to not grasp his son and weep until he exhausted himself even further. For years, Elrond had been telling him that he had this ability and had been instructing in how he could literally passing his strength to another. Instructing only, not practicing, for it was danger to try it unless the patient was but a hair's breadth from death already. The only sign of life at all that Aragorn could discern in his son was his raging fever. How, Aragorn questioned himself, could he ever have enough strength after that battle to bring back his beloved son?
He was terrified, utterly terrified, of failing this time, when his son most needed him. He was already more than exhausted and felt that he had no strength left. He would need athelas for this and turned to the eldest woman, asking her if there was any kept in store. As he stood by listening to her prattle on as his son lay dying and his exhaustion was making him a bit irritable. At least he was not the only one, for Gandalf backed up his order to make haste in fetching some athelas, threatening that Shadowfax would "show her the meaning the haste." That seemed to startle the old woman into action and Aragorn then asked the other two ladies to boil water as he looked at the wound that had reportedly taken his son down as he rode back from Osgiliath.
The wound was healing well, but that did not hearten Aragorn, just the opposite, for now he knew that this was the work of the Black Breath, combined with some deep-rooted grief. Yet he was intensely proud of Faramir. Gandalf had said that Faramir rode back out to Osgiliath in honor of Boromir, moreover, Aragorn knew that a lesser man would never have lasted so long serving in Ithilien, living practically directly under the encroaching Shadow of Mordor.
Finally, the senior herb-master of the Houses came along and Aragorn was again treated to a history discourse on kingsfoil, athelas, asëa anarion…. It only served to make the Ranger wearier yet and, seeing this, Gandalf shouted at the old healer to find someone wiser who kept the stuff. More than anything, Aragorn just felt like crying and yet he couldn't do it. So often he felt as if he'd lost the art of feeling since leaving Imladris at 20, Elves never stared at, felt uncomfortable around, or made to feel uncomfortable anyone who shed tears, but it was not so in the world of Men.
"Oh, father, where are you now?" Aragorn murmured under his breath. Shutting out everything but Faramir, even his own heartbreak, Aragorn took his son's limp hand in his and grasped gently but urgently, laying his other hand on Faramir's brow. He concentrated deeply; closing his eyes he began to call to his son, audibly at first, then softer and softer, seeking a mental connection and trying to "feel" his way to his son.
Aragorn found himself in a dark vale, alone and shivering, fear stole upon him but he forced himself to stay strong. "Faramir!" he called, over and over. It felt like he had walked there for an hour and weariness was heavy on him when he stopped and sat under a tree, which was not green, but black and foreboding. "Faramir," he said again, this time more of a sob than a call, "please do not leave me again, my son." Aragorn now began to lose all hope. A black fog began to rise and the very scent of the vapor was as tangible despair. He stood again and continued walking, calling Faramir, though as he walked the black fog grew thicker about him, so much so that it seemed to deaden his cries almost as they left his mouth. Aragorn no longer had any hope of even seeing a path before him and again he sat down, in the middle of the "road" for all he could tell. He lay down then, trying to avoid breathing the fog that was choking him, stealing his breath in his throat. He could feel his will to live diminish as the fog became thicker, closing over him and suffocating him.
Those in the room looked on in utter horror as Aragorn's countenance became noticeably grey. Gandalf reached out and put a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, trying to get him to stop before both father and son ended up dead, but Aragorn did not react to the touch at all.
Aragorn lay prepared to die when he heard a very distant voice; he could only just make out the words spoken in Sindarin. "Seek not the mind, but the heart,"pressed a wise voice. It took Aragorn a moment to understand, but then he heard the voice again, louder this time, saying, "tolo dan na ngalad!"
"Heart," Aragorn whispered to himself in what seemed to be a dying breath. Suddenly he understood though and now concentrated all his will upon seeking not a mental connection with his nearly lost son, but an emotional one, the same connection that they had all along and had shared since his very birth. Now he felt the air stir and the fog driven back from him. He rose again and shouted again for his son, he called louder each time, knowing now that he was heading in the right direction.
Off in the distance he could hear Faramir calling for him as well and he began to run toward the sound of his son's cries and... the quacking of a baby duck? The faster he ran the faster the evil fog fell away and soon he saw Faramir up ahead, running toward him as well. They met in a tight and strong embrace. "I knew you had come, father, when I felt an acorn fall on my shoulder," Faramir said through his tears. "Take me home, please, adar!"
Just then, Bergil came running back into the room with a handful of dry athelas leaves. Gandalf feared that it would be for naught now, and he was certain that Aragorn could not be pulled out of his trance now, certainly not be a Mortal child. But when the boy held the leaves toward the strangely clad Ranger, saying that he hoped that what he was able to find would be enough to help, Aragorn turned, with a smile, as if he had been with them all along, and bid the boy to stay and be comforted, for the worst was over now and he hoped that as many as possible would benefit from the aroma of the athelas.
Taking the leaves, Aragorn was comfortable enough with the procedure from there and he let the natural vapor fill the room with an air of cleanliness and wellness. Aragorn was endlessly thankful for the strength it lent him and he held the bowl near enough for Faramir to breathe in. In but a moment, Faramir revived and saw his father beside him and love shown brightly in his eyes. Faramir was also now aware of those around them and, with his thought as quick as ever, professed his faith in his father, saying, "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"
ooo
tolo dan na ngalad - come back to the light.
linda: I too feel sorry for weary Aragorn, i totally understand him! I do so hope that this modest verison was up to your standards.
steelelf: Thank you kindly!
Elenhin: Sorry to hear about the rain, but do not fret, the Perseids come every year, without fail. I have to say that it has been so hot and dry here that i am ecstatic every time the crows say "rain!" I did indeed find Boromir, but what has become of him now i shall not say... yet. I have not yet found Elladan either, and that shall have to wait until the next chapter as well. For now, though, sleep is needed if i am to write anything coherent any time soon.