Faramir shivered as he walked through the fifth circle, pulling his cloak tighter around himself. He had been out for hours, supervising the remaining repairs, and the gentle drift of the first snowflakes of the year had been a welcome sight—at least at first. When he had left the citadel in the early morning hours, the sky a damp pink to the east, the snowflakes fell in large, lazy clumps, dappling the sky blue-grey and layering over the horizon in gauzy strands. He had stood on the battlement for a long while, watching to the east and Mordor, where the skies would darken no longer.
In the hours he had been out since, touring the lower circles and inspecting the wall, the weather had changed. The snow no longer drifted peacefully but caught hard and steely on the wind, pelleting down like small pebbles, stinging and burning with cold. It was no large matter to Faramir—he had endured many a harsh winter in Ithilien, with less shelter than could be afforded by city walls and narrow streets. Yet still, when the skies opened such as they had in Ithilien, one might take refuge in Henneth Annûn. Patrols would be short, and the men would change out regularly to warm themselves. The caves were kept stocked always with dry wood, and when the heavy snowfall and darkness might mask smoke, they could huddle around the fire, trading warmed ale when they had it and hot water when they did not.
Faramir did not wear the heavy wool they had worn in Hennuth Annûn. He wore finer things, not quite so rich as Boromir or his father had worn, but still fit for his station. The rich black velvet tunic may have kept one warm inside the halls of the citadel, but it did little against the cut of the wind and the gathering snow, which sunk heavily into the thick plush and stuck cold against his chest. His cloak was little better—it had not been so cold this morning, and there had been little breeze, so he had picked a lighter one which would not be so suffocating on the long walk. It too was dark velvet, and soon grew heavy with moisture, snow gathering and crinkling on its mantel as its end drug in the icy slush.
He had planned—shivering and wringing numb fingers as he looked over a new section of stairs—to return to the citadel at midday to change and lunch, yet time had the habit of getting away from Faramir where work was concerned. Soon he was walking along the outer wall as the skies darkened. The pain in his feet had long since lessened then to dull numbness, as he stumbled every so many steps over snow that had hardened to rocks. The foreman overseeing construction had tried to persuade him to warm in a nearby inn hours earlier, yet Faramir could not allow himself a break due simply to his own lack of foresight. When he had left the main gate to oversee the wall, the workers had still been hammering away and carting stones through the slush. They had worn thick wool and did not shiver and shake as the wind snaked through the city.
What would be said of Gondor, of the steward, if those rulers allowed themselves rest yet demanded their workers continue on? What would Denethor say, if he could see his youngest son struggling through the streets, shaking and shivering while other men continued vigorously? Faramir felt his stomach flip painfully, as he recalled the look of shame so often leveled at him. What was wrong with him? Was he such a man as to weigh his own comfort against that of his duty? Had he grown so soft now as his father feared he would have been as steward? He had always been slighter, smaller than Boromir, and he felt now that if Boromir were in his place, he would fair the blizzard the way a mountain weathers a storm.
Faramir stumbled again over a lump of fallen snow as he ascended the stairs into the seventh circle, catching his shoulder hard against the wall—the one that had been pierced by the dart months earlier and would ache often with overuse. It bore the brunt of his fall, and pain shot tingling down to his finger, though it helped to dispel the dark thoughts which so often hung over him. Aragorn would be unhappy to find him thinking such thoughts and so often. Though Aragorn never did fault him for his grief, he would frown and worry over Faramir whenever those thoughts slipped out. What had once been common and accepted in the house of Denethor was no longer, and he found himself biting his tongue lest Aragorn's face drew downward once again in worry. Faramir hated when it did that—when the lines between his brows darkened with stress and grief, and so Faramir made great efforts to be better.
He shook the snow that had gathered in his hair and continued his trudge. The sky had darkened fully now, and his shivered had shifted to occasional full-body tremors. His fingers, which before had been curled deep in his cloak now hung limply at his sides, and he feared he could not properly bend them. The wind whistled against the gaps in the wall beside him, high and thready, and it sounded so much like Boromir had sounded when they were children, learning how to whistle. They had been buck-toothed then and had laid for hours in the sun until their skin redded, wiggling their lips forward and back in search of some better pitch. Denethor had been so angry with them that night at dinner when he had spied the red blister of their skin, and Faramir had woken the next day crying as his skin cracked. Denethor would not let them go to the healing houses at first—no better impression could be left, he had said, then the impressions caused by their own foolishness. But he had relented the next day at breakfast when both of them had emerged teary-eyed from their rooms.
Faramir tried to smile at the memory of it, the two of them slathered in white paste as Loreth lectured and fussed over them, yet his face was numb and wind-burned and he could not laugh for coughing. He caught himself again against the wall as his body shook, heaving with coughs, his lungs burning and stinging as he tried to draw in air. Spots danced in his vision and he thought for a moment he might faint before the fit subsided and left him gasping against the wall.
"Sir, are you alright?" he heard a voice behind him, a gloved hand came to rest on his shoulder. When he turned, blurry eyes, he saw Beregond before him, wrapped in a thick cloak. His eyes pinched in worry morphed then into surprise as he took in Faramir, hair wet and icy, clothing sodden.
"My lord!" He exclaimed, "I have been looking for you for ages. What in Eru's name are you doing out in this weather?" Then his face paled and his eyes narrowed. "Tell me you have not been out here all day".
Faramir straightened and tried to look presentable, though from Beregond's darkening face it was a sorry attempt, ruined wholly by Faramir coughing weakly into his fist.
"There was work to see to-" he began hesitantly, but Beregond cut him off.
"Work? There is no one working still at this hour, and anyone sane has since turned in because of this weather. Let me take you back to the citadel—you do not look well," but when Beregond moved to guide Faramir up the steps, Faramir shook him off, stumbling once in the ice before Beregond grabbed him once more.
"I am fine, really" Faramir tried, but Beregond shook his head.
"You are soaked through, and you are shaking!" He exclaimed, loosing his cloak and throwing it around Faramir's shoulders. The effect was immediate—the wind no longer cut through to his skin, and the residual warmth from Beregond's body lessened somewhat the aching chill. But Faramir could not keep the cloak and leave Beregond standing in the downpour, hands tucked into his armpits.
"No, I couldn't possibly—" he began, weakly tugging the cloak from his shoulders, but Beregond grabbed his hands before he could pull it free.
"Either you wear that cloak or we leave it here. Either way, I will not put it back on." Beregond said, voice hard, and Faramir could think of no further argument. "If you don't want me to freeze to death, I suggest you start on towards the citadel," Beregond said. And so they began their walk up the final circle, careful of the ice. Beregond would not release Faramir's arm for his shaking, uneven steps, no matter how Faramir insisted he was fine.
When they came near the doors Faramir slowed, and Beregond looked back at him, the both of them shivering.
"This is perhaps something we should not tell Aragorn," Faramir said coughing again, and Beregond narrowed his eyes and opened his mouth to protest before he too coughed.
"...Perhaps not," Beregond said sheepishly.
They entered the hall, dripping, and went their separate ways, both careful to make sure they would not run into Aragorn, or anyone who would tell Aragorn of what state they had returned in. Beregond would still not take back his cloak, and so Faramir carried it to his rooms, to have the maids clean it before he returned it. He would have to do something nice for Beregond, for as much as the man did for him.
It was cold in his rooms when he opened the door, for a fire had not burned all day, and he did not like the maids to busy themselves with his chambers when he knew not when he would return. It mattered not, for his skin was so numbed and chilled that the room felt warm regardless, sheltered as it was from the elements.
He felt fatigue creeping upon him as he struggled to pull the wet cloak from where it stuck about his shoulders, so he decided he would change to something dry and start a fire before retiring, forgoing any meal. But as he sat in the chair before the fire, wet and shivering, to pull his swollen feet from his boots, another coughing fit besieged him, much longer and harsher than the first. It was wet and long, and he could feel it scratching in his throat and lungs before finally he collapsed back against the upholstery, gasping. It was then that fatigue came in swiftly, more so than it had before, and when he closed his eyes to rest for a moment, he fell into a fitful sleep.
