Faramir woke disoriented, damp and aching, with sunlight strewn over his face, and a pounding coming from the door.
"Faramir?" a voice called, muffled from the other side. He was far too groggy to recognize who it was as he stumbled to his feet, stiff and aching in the chilled darkness. His hands and feet were still numbed, his tunic still plastered to his skin with damp. Had he fallen asleep in his chair last night? His clothing felt rough and cold, and his body trembled as he lurched to the door, stumbling over a mass of dark fabric strewn there from the night before.
That was not his cloak, he thought. It looked like Beregond's, but why was it in his rooms? It was then that Faramir remembered, his heart jumping in his throat and causing him to cough once more as the knocking grew louder and more insistent. He stumbled the rest of the way and wrenched the door open, leaning heavily against the frame.
He could not speak for his coughing, his eyes watering. He heard a deep voice exclaim before someone grabbed his arm and led him to the edge of the bed, and tensed as a warm hand began rubbing circles on his back, and he could not make out their low murmur.
Faramir's eyes cleared as his breath came back to him slowly, and through tears he saw the silver hair of his uncle. He felt calmer then, his embarrassment lessening, as he slackened under the hand.
"My god Faramir, you look terrible. What happened?" Imrahil asked, moving to kneel before him, hand on his forehead. "You are burning up," he said, his hands dropping down to his tunic, "and your clothes are wet. You are freezing!"
Imrahil looked unhappy, his brow pinched and eyes turned down, the way he had looked when Faramir had still been in the healing houses and in the months after, when Faramir so often eschewed sleep in favor of work or in deference to troubled dreams. They had spent many early mornings together when the sun had not yet crested the horizon, talking and playing at strategy games. Imrahil never truly had grown out of a sailor's habit—waking before dawn, and so the two often found each other in the hallways before their duties would commence—one just starting his day, the other always at the tail end of it.
Imrahil had enough of worrying for a lifetime, Faramir thought as he shook Imrahil's hand away and tried to stand. The room tilted at once and Imrahil shot to his feet to steady him, yet Faramir allowed himself to sit back heavily on the bed, trembling minutely from the exercise, squeezing his hands into fists to hide their shaking.
"I am alright," Faramir croaked, "I fear I stayed out too late last night."
"You mean to say you were outside last night? During that weather?" Imrahil asked in deepening horror, "are these the same clothes?!"
And Faramir laughed a bit then at the slacked jawed face of his uncle (who looked at him like he was insane), who was always so besides himself at Faramir and Boromir's antics when they were younger. This time he did not cough, and was thankful.
"I am sorry uncle," Faramir said and squeezed Imrahil's hand, his gloves creaking slightly. "I am afraid I overdid it last night and was overcome by fatigue before I could see myself properly to bed."
Imrahil looked very sad, and put one hand on Faramir's still cold cheek. It was not the first time Faramir put work before his own health—it was an unfortunate habit that Imrahil had seen Denethor enforce over the years, and now Imrahil could only watch as the unfortunate fruits were sewn. He wished more than anything to have that carefree boy back, who would run along the seashores in Dol Amroth collecting and categorizing shells. The boy who would disappear with a book for hours, who would worry the entire palace as they searched for him, only to find him tucked in some nook, unaware of the passage of time. He wished that boy back, if only to bear a little bit more joy towards one who was so often robbed of it. He could see now, how hard Faramir worked, how heavy the position of steward weighed on him.
"You need to take care of yourself, Faramir," Imrahil said. "There are so many who care for you, and I would not see you wilt away when the darkness has only just ended."
"I know uncle," Faramir said, softly, and pulled his uncle into a hug. It was an awkward one—Faramir had to lean down, and Imrahil had to half-straighten from his position on the floor, but it was warm, and caring, and felt of everything Faramir had lost in the past year—and gained.
A long moment passed, and Faramir felt Imrahil's chest shake with laughter.
"What is it?" Faramir asked.
"Aragorn will not be happy," Imrahil smiled. Faramir flopped back onto the bed and groaned.
Imrahil laughed and rose from the floor, moving to the fireplace to arrange the logs for a fire. The room was chilled, and he could all but see his breath in the dim morning air.
"You should change to something warm," he said, turning back towards the bed, "if you can manage it."
Faramir sat up after a moment, gazing at Imrahil through the darkness as he moved about at the fireplace.
"Uncle….." he said, and Imrahil sighed out his nose, knowing what would come.
"I am forgetting something, am I not?" Faramir asked, brow tightening and rising unsteadily from the bed. The logs caught then, though they were very old, and a warm glow grew over the room, lightening the pale of their faces. Imrahil, however, did not turn around, and busied himself still with the stack of forgotten kindling.
"I would not worry yourself over it now," he said at last as Faramir came to kneel beside him, trembling more now as warmth began to creep into the far reaches of his limbs. "You must rest. There is no need of you until you are well."
It was then that it dawned on Faramir, what morning it was, and he remembered the forgotten reports from the previous night, the council meeting they were no doubt late for—the report on the progress of the repairs that Aragorn needed.
He shot to his feet even as Imrahil grabbed his pale wrist to pull him back down.
"You will not do what you are planning to do," Imrahil said stern.
"But the reports—Aragorn will need them, and it really is just a touch of the cold, I will survive one meeting with the council!"
"You surviving or not surviving is not in question here," a voice sounded from the doorway, and Faramir stiffened, turning immediately around and dropping into a bow. Aragorn stood before him, glowering, in his council robes, and he looked ready to begin a lecture, to order Faramir back into bed. Yet before he could begin, Faramir felt the last vestiges of warmth flee his face, a cool layer of perspiration springing there. He heard Imrahil shout, and then he pitched forward.
