Notes: My sincere apologies for not posting! One thing after another got in the way, and well, what with school and Christmas and a story I wrote for my brother and so on...it was crazy. Forgive me?
Enter Thailan and Eowyn...Thailan I own, Eowyn I, sadly, do not. Also re-enter Tirinion, and for those of you who hate the 'thees' and 'thous', bear with me once more. I hope you like my nod to The Return of the King...they did do some things right in that movie:-)
Chapter Nine: The Frozen Maiden
It was not until the host had started marching east that Faramir was able to rise from his bed. On the morning after the Captains of the West led their men out of Gondor, Faramir was pronounced strong enough to stand and was assisted in dressing himself. The servant who had been assigned to him—Thailan was his name—was a lanky young man with curly hair and a ready grin, but he had steady, careful hands and was very capable. Faramir had not been in Minus Tirith often enough to require a full-time servant, but now that he was wounded he realized how much he needed Thailan.
The youth chose a simple blue tunic for Faramir, and he put it on without complaint. He vaguely remembered the article of clothing, but in Ithilien all his clothing had been either brown or green, and in Minus Tirith he had most often worn the formal dress black uniform. For banquets and feasts, of which there had been fewer and fewer in recent years, Faramir had mostly worn rich greens or midnight blues, so the light color seemed refreshing to him. Thailan smiled as he eased the tunic over his lord's head. "Easy does it," he said in his lilting voice. "There's no need to jostle the wounds."
Faramir sank down onto the bed and took a deep breath, surprised at how much dressing had tired him. He smiled lopsidedly at his servant. "It's odd to be this weak."
"You will soon be as strong as ever," Thailan said, folding Faramir's discarded clothes and piling them on a chair. "You are recovering far faster than the healers thought you would."
"But not fast enough," Faramir said absently, his gaze traveling to the window.
Thailan frowned and turned toward the table. "Are you thirsty, my lord?" he asked. The sound of liquid pouring into a cup made Faramir start from his reverie and glance at the boy. "A little," he admitted. After drinking the beverage he stood, supporting himself on the bed frame.
"Thailan," he said suddenly, "is there a man named Tirinion in the houses?" Faramir had suddenly remembered the ranger who had so many times befriended him in the past few weeks. His thoughts had been dwelling recently on his men, though he was loath to talk freely of them, and a little frightened of knowing exactly how many of them had survived.
Thailan's brow furrowed. "Tirinion, my lord? I know no Tirinion…"
Faramir's stomach tightened, and his face must have shown it, for Thailan smiled suddenly. "But if anyone knows, it would be Ioreth. I will ask her directly—wait here." The handsome young man quitted the room with his usual energy, and Faramir sank back down upon the bed. As the minutes ticked by he lowered his head into his hands; his head throbbed with the same headache that had plagued him ever since he had been healed. It was not a usual stress or fatigue inspired headache—somehow it seemed heavier and more consuming. In any case, the blunt pain in his head seemed to make the rest of his body ache as well.
"My lord!" Thailan's voice preceded him, and Faramir struggled to stand. The youth hurried into the room and skidded to a stop with a grin on his face. When he had caught his breath sufficiently he managed to pant out, "There is such a man—recovering from a serious chest wound—in the northern wing of this building."
Faramir smiled with sudden relief, and he was unconscious of the emotional attachment he had placed on the ranger from Belfalas. The knowledge that he at least, of all his rangers, was alive was some comfort to Faramir, and he immediately turned toward the door. "I do not know my way," Faramir said as he walked slowly toward the door, conscious of how large the building was. "Will you help me find him, Thailan?"
Thailan fell into step with him, slowing his quick steps to match Faramir's much slower ones. "Aye, but are you sure you wish to go that far today, my lord?" At Faramir's quick glance, he clarified himself with, "You are still recovering, and the warden will have my head if you do not take it slowly at first."
Faramir shook his head, knowing the lad would appreciate a smile, but not able to give it. "I will be fine."
They were silent the rest of the way to the northern wing, and though Faramir had to stop and catch his breath more than once, his steady steps showed how much strength he had regained. As they passed through a doorway and descended three stairs into a large room, a sudden hush fell over the men gathered there, and Faramir knew they were surprised and pleased to see him. He felt a rush of warmth toward them, but also an aching sense of guilt. These men were all here because their wounds had been so serious they could not march with the host to Mordor, and having felt the shame and pain of that himself, he felt intense guilt at having caused that feeling for them. After all, they had been under his leadership. Yet no matter how much guilt he felt as seeing these men, he felt much, much more guilt at the thought of the beds not filled—the thought of men who now lay under mounds out on the Pelennor.
Thailan pointed toward a bed at the far end of the room, and with flagging strength Faramir limped toward it. Thankfully there was a chair nearby that Thailan drew up for him, and he seated himself gratefully, while at the same time acutely aware of the men still staring at him. On the bed the bright eyes of Tirinion also stared at him, and though the ranger's face was pale and sunken and his skin still had a slight flush to it, Faramir knew he was recovering. Their eyes met for a long moment, and then Faramir's hand reached out and lay on Tirinion's shoulder.
He had wondered greatly, on the way over, what he was to say to the man, but as he stared into the other man's brown eyes, his insecurity fell away. "You are alive," he said breathlessly, and though the words might have seemed idiotic, neither man felt anything but wonder and joy. "I was so afraid for you," Faramir said, and he didn't realize as he uttered the words that he had very rarely shared his feelings so freely before. Tirinion knew, and he smiled at his captain.
"It's so good to see thee, Captain." Tirinion raised his hand to clasp Faramir's arm on his shoulder; Faramir saw that his entire chest was bandaged. "They would tell me nothing about thee, until thee awoke."
Faramir breathed deeply, as much from his gratitude to be sitting down as from the goodness of seeing his friend. "And how do you feel?" He watched his ranger's face grow dimmer and then smile in an attempt at cheer.
"Not too bad, Captain. I'm recovering." Tirinion's voice was brave, but Faramir saw the pain in it immediately, and he knew what caused it.
"We are all regretting the fact that we…" Faramir found his voice falter, but he overcame it and finished, "We could not march with our brothers."
Tirinion bowed his head and shook it. "I cannot lie to thee, Captain. I feel the dishonor of lying here while my fellow Gondorians and even the Rohirrim march to the Black Gate. It is as if my honor has been blackened by forces not my own."
Faramir grip surprised both Tirinion and himself in its strength. "You are not dishonored," he said firmly. "You fought bravely, you and all the rest of the men here. There is no reason to feel that the honor of our men—the honor of the rangers—is diminished." As his words settled between them he looked down and shook his head. "Tirinion, your brother died because of the threat from Mordor. My brother died because of the threat from Mordor. At a time like this, we do not need to be lamenting our lost fighting time—we should remember the fallen and be grateful that we had the time to avenge them."
Tirinion's eyes were full of pain when Faramir looked back into them, but he nodded. "Thou wert there when he died?" he asked softly.
Faramir nodded. Whatever he could say seemed irrelevant in the face of Tirinion's grief, and he knew that speaking of it would only bring his own brother's death closer to his mind and heart. But he had to, anyway. "Yes. You and I—we have survived the fire of hell, have we not? And we will bear the scars forever."
Tirinion's nodded, and Faramir was overcome with grief at what the ranger had lost—his brother, his vocation, and very likely his home. Faramir was at a loss as to what he could say to comfort him, and his overwhelming grief at his own losses suddenly seemed smaller. He knew, however, that Tirinion needed some company, and so for the next half hour he talked to the ranger. Faramir words were quiet and heartfelt, and the ranger was indeed comforted by Faramir's unsure words.
It was not until he felt Thailan's hand on his shoulder that he realized how weary he was, and he was suddenly aware of the bite of the hard chair into his back, and the way his hands and legs had started trembling. He realized with a sick feeling that he still had to return to his room, and the thought of the long corridors first sickened him and then gave him a wry sense of humor. How short they seemed compared with the long marches and sentry duties that had seemed perfectly doable to him only a week ago. Accordingly he steeled himself for the walk back to his room and stood from the chair. "Rest well," he said in parting, "We shall walk in the gardens together soon."
As he turned to go, trying to ignore the pain in his stomach and shoulder, he once again saw all the eyes in the room fixed on himself, and wondered briefly if they had been for the entire interview. It was very likely. With a glance at Thailan, Faramir said, "Lead on." The young man nodded and started forward, slowly. Faramir tried not to catch the men's eyes as he walked; the thoughts and feelings he saw etched into every one of them shamed him. He saw unflinching loyalty reflected there, mixed with admiration and unfailing love. They loved him. He, who had betrayed them all at the final stand and had failed to bring even a third of their companions back. Faramir felt his stomach twist uncomfortably, and this time it was not because he was in pain.
At the door Faramir felt something grasp the edge of his tunic, and he had barely the strength to stay erect even at the light touch. He turned, and his eyes fell on a young man, barely twenty, lying on a bed so close to him he wondered that he hadn't immediately noticed the man before. He had blonde hair which had been cropped short, for what injury Faramir did not know, and his eyes, which would normally have been a very usual blue-gray, were so bright with admiration and joy that Faramir paused and was stuck speechless. The man did not care; he had a speech of his own to give.
"Captain," he said roughly, his voice rising just enough above the bustle of the building to be heard, "I am glad to see you are well." His words were simple and very concise, but Faramir read far more in them than the young man could hope to convey. Faramir saw what his visit meant to his men—in their eyes it was a token of how much he cared for them, and in that aspect they were correct. Yet he also read unfathomable hope in the man's words and gaze, as if by merely surviving and being alive to speak with them, Faramir was helping them cope with their struggles, and bringing notions of victory amongst them. He didn't understand those emotions, but he found himself flattered nonetheless, even though he still felt a deep sense of guilt.
"Thank you, soldier," Faramir said softly. "I am glad to see you are recovering as well." Faramir felt Thailan's hand assert pressure on his arm, and he let himself be drawn from the room, conscious now of the hope lighting up every face. Once out of the room, however, his physical pain came crashing down on him and he had to stop and lean against the wall, drawing breath into his aching lungs. His headache, which he had ignore all during his visit, was so fierce he almost felt he could not keep his head erect, and his limbs felt so weak that he didn't know how he was going to make it back to his room. But there was no alternative, and Faramir told himself that he was simply paying for his own folly in trying to do too much on his first day up.
"Let's just do one step at a time." Thailan's voice, which was fast growing both familiar and welcome to Faramir, sounded next to him, and he didn't mind at all the informality of Thailan's words. Faramir nodded slightly and forced his body to cooperate. One step at a time, he reminded himself, his thoughts growing foggier—that's all it takes.
Faramir was still sleeping, sprawled on the bed where he had collapsed, when Damla entered with his supper. She took one look at his face and her eyes turned on Thailan, who was sitting on the windowsill watching his charge. The room was immaculate, and it was evident that the young man had been cleaning for however long he had been in the room. Damla's eyes narrowed as she looked at Thailan; his wide, frank eyes stared back into hers candidly.
With a huff of displeasure, Damla turned to the bedside table and began grinding herbs with a pestle and mixing them together. Every so often her glare fell on Thailan again, who was still sitting. Finally she said, "This will help to ease the pain."
Thailan shifted, but not because he was uncomfortable under her stare. True, Damla was formidable when she was angry, and Thailan was fully aware of just how much influence she had in the Houses, but he was a level-headed lad and he knew when he was wrong and when he was right. He continued to calmly sit, watching her mix the drink, and when she moved to the bed he rose and raised Faramir's shoulders and head in his arms so she could give him the drink. Faramir did not wake as the warm liquid slipped down his throat.
As soon as he had laid Faramir's body back on the bed Damla took his arm and pulled him out of the door and into the hallway, which was deserted. She whirled on him as the door clicked behind them. "Would you like to explain that?!" she whispered fiercely. Before he could reply she held her hands up. "Don't bother—I can guess. He was allowed up for the first time today, and you let him walk much too far. Do you have any idea of how much pain he was probably in?"
Thailan looked at her with big eyes and ran a hand through his hair. "I know it was too far," he said with a shake of his head, "and I was terribly sorry when we were coming back and I knew he was in pain. But he will be fine."
Damla snorted in displeasure. "Fine, yes, sure, he'll be perfectly fine." She too shook her head. "That's not the point Thailan!"
"Don't replace me." The suddenness, randomness, and authority of the request startled Damla, and she gazed at him in wonder.
"And why should I not?" she asked, placing a hand on her hip.
"He needs a friend, not just a servant," Thailan said, knowing full well how shocked anyone but Damla would be. "He has so much to learn about what happened, and he needs someone to filter what he hears until the time is right. Who else would you assign? Maachus? He won't let Lord Faramir walk too far, that's for sure, but will he listen when Faramir needs to talk? Will he care about the wounds inside, or just outside? Or maybe Rilian? He would be even worse—he would probably be gossiping about him to the pretty kitchen maids."
It was a bold speech, and he knew it. But Damla was, as he knew, not a fool, and she had known Faramir longer than anyone in the Houses. She was not likely to miss the point of his words. She looked into his honest eyes for a moment, as if seeing if he really was making a good point, and then looked down at her feet. "You're right," she said softly. "But you must promise me you will be more careful, and make him be more careful."
"I promise," he answered seriously. Damla's hand gripped his forearm.
"I'm in earnest," she said.
"So am I," he replied. They looked at each other, then both nodded. Stepping apart, Damla went down the hallway and Thailan returned to the room to watch over his lord.
Faramir stretched his hand in front of his face and looked at the muscles and skin taunt over bones. He held it up towards the sunlight, seeing as if with new eyes the way the sun glanced off his skin. Everything looked new and fresh today, for it was the first time he had been outside since he had been called back from the shadow, and he felt the blood rushing through his veins with new vigor. It almost felt like life would be alright, at that moment; as if what was happening now to the host did not matter, nor the fact that his family and world had crumbled around him.
Thailan had withdrawn to a distance and was sitting on a bench, legs drawn up in front of him, sketching on a spare piece of parchment. The young man was a gifted, though unrecognized artist, and Faramir had vowed to himself that when he recovered, and if peace was somehow restored, he would commission Thailan to paint for him. One look at the quick charcoal sketch of a bird outside the window of Faramir's room had convinced Faramir of his little-known skill. Indeed, the more Faramir interacted with his vivacious servant, the more he liked him, and the less he thought of him as a servant. He was conscious of the fact that Thailan had some charm about him that was subtle but convincing—some trick of speech or character that could convince a person to do his bidding. Faramir often thought that it was lucky Thailan had a true heart and honest tongue, or he would be a dangerous man.
Thailan understood Faramir's needs, too, almost instinctually, and for that Faramir was infinitely grateful. Just now, for example, Thailan understood Faramir's unspoken wish to be alone and free to reacquaint himself with nature and the real world (or such that the Houses could offer). Any other servant would most likely have sat with him, like a parent with a child, watching over him lest he hurt himself. Thailan, on the other hand, seemed to have no problem walking the fine line between attentiveness and coddling.
As Faramir lowered his hand his thoughts turned elsewhere, and he thought long on his illness and wounds. He would have to be a dotard to not notice the burn marks covering his arm and shoulder and reaching one scarlet finger up to his throat. He had tried not to think about them, or where he had got them, shying away subconsciously from the threat they held. Now he fingered the wounds, dwelling on them purposefully. A tremor ran up his spine as he felt the tingle of pain upon touching them, and he dropped his hand back to his side, casting his eyes elsewhere. He had been on the point of asking Thailan time and again where they had come from, but he had never found the courage. He was ashamed of his weakness, and his intuition told him that the people surrounding him knew the story well and were capable of telling him. Yet his intuition also told him that however he had gotten the marks would, if he knew the story, cause him pain.
He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes against the world. Everything these days seemed to cause pain; it was almost to the point where he was numb to the feelings. He didn't want to be numb, and he knew he had not always been like this. He could remember light and joy—joy tingling through his body, making him light-headed. But it had been so long since he had felt such joy, and in the recent months…well, there had been so much pain that he had to stretch his thoughts back a long way to remember a time when there was no numbness in his heart.
As he raised his head again, determined to look once more out at the gardens and hope to feel something in his heart, he suddenly caught sight of a woman standing in a window on the western wing of the building. She turned her head—her hair was like a river of gold cascading down her back—and their eyes met and locked. He raised a hand to touch the pillar beside him, but he didn't feel it as he took in every detail of her face and the cut of her pale blue gown. She was beautiful. Her eyes were wide and deep, deep blue, and her face was thin with high cheekbones and delicate features. Her throat looked as if it was made of ivory, and her shoulders were as delicate as porcelain, covered in the soft blue of her gown. Yet what really caught his gaze and made him catch his breath was the look in her eyes—one of pain, grief, and an utter, consuming fear. To him she seemed like a bird, caught in some fine, silver netting, longing to be set free.
Then she was gone. He wasn't sure at first how she had disappeared so fast, but in a moment he realized she had simply stepped to the right and been hidden by the wall of the building. His eyes grew large, he blinked, and then he caught his breath in one long, ragged gasp. There was the life he had been hoping to feel once more—it was pounding in his head and pumping up his arms and legs, causing his fingers and toes to tingle. He was suddenly vividly aware of the plant life around him—indeed, of everything around him, yet he didn't realize he was still staring at her window until he felt a hand on his shoulder.
"What are you staring so intently at, my lord?" Thailan asked, and Faramir turned quickly to see the young man smiling at him. "Have you seen something at last to draw your attention?"
Faramir grasped the pillar tighter. "There was a lady there—" he pointed to the window and shook his head. "I—she was beautiful."
Thailan looked in some surprise towards the window, wondering that his lord should be so shaken upon seeing a woman. The lord Faramir was a very staid, wise man, and he had seen his share of beauty. But upon seeing which window Faramir indicated, he grinned broadly. "That is the Lady Eowyn of Rohan," he said gallantly. "She is indeed a beauty, from what I have heard and seen."
"Rohan?" Faramir turned toward his servant, once more himself. "How comes a lady of Rohan to be here? And in these Houses?" His sharp eyes looked into Thailan's; the youth shrugged.
"No one says much," he said lightly. "It will only be because they do not know much, for if anything is known, servants will speak of it with one another. All that is known of her, except by a privileged and silent few, is her name and that she rode with the eored from Rohan, in the battle of the Pelennor."
Faramir was amazed and turned his eyes once more to the vacant window. Her expression of utter fear returned to him, and he shook his head. "How odd," he said absently. He raised a hand to rub his shoulder and Thailan touched his arm.
"Shall we return to the House and put a compress on your shoulder?" he asked, still somehow keeping the edge of patronization out of his voice. "It must be paining you."
Faramir nodded, and with one last glance at the window, led the way back to the Houses. His step had grown stronger, and he even had the strength to add some of his usual lightness to his footfalls. He walked with a pronounced limp, caused by the cut on his stomach, but Thailan saw improvement. It did not take them long to reach Faramir's room; Thailan had proven true to his word and made sure Faramir did not walk longer than he was able.
As Thailan was putting the compress on Faramir's shoulder, there was a knock on the door and at Thailan's bidding it opened to reveal Kitha holding a tray with food on it. She smiled at her lord and at Thailan. "Good evening," she said in her soft voice as she set the tray on the table. "Are you feeling any better today, my lord?"
Faramir summoned up a smile for the girl and nodded. "Much better, thank you. The care at these Houses is even better than it is reputed to be." Kitha smiled and nodded her agreement and thanks. Then she bent to gather some discarded dishes and bowls, and Thailan moved to help her. "I'll help you take these to the kitchen," he said in a friendly tone, and they left the room as Faramir began eating.
Notes: What do you think of Thailan? I also want to hear feedback on my Eowyn. Remember, this isn't an Eowyn story, so don't ride me for not writing about her enough (although I do write pu-lenty about her, believe me). What do you think of my characterization?