A pawn is attacked, the black bishop presses his hand.
T.A. 3001
Boromir could never say later exactly how or why he found himself where he did at the moment Alfgrim's sword was raised to kill. He had had no sense of foreboding, no suspicion of ill, only an overwhelming need to be nearer to his brother, to move. He found he had followed his body's call but had no memory of running nor of the sunlit flash upon the blade moving where it should not be. Too late to see its ascent, he knew in his very bones the movement it would follow and with all his reach and strength thrust the tip of his sword forward, into the space between the blade and the flesh for which it sang.
His desperate parry halted some of the sword's momentum but not its downward flight. Twisting, he thrust upward with all the force both arms could muster. Alfgrim's blade flew up again but in its wake a red arc sprayed. His brother fell and a cry of pain died swiftly upon Faramir's lips.
The grin of exultation upon Alfgrim's face became a snarl, raw fury rose within his eyes. Robbed for a moment of his triumph, the Rohir thrust back at the Captain with a strength and speed that seemed unholy. The gold arm ring flashed and with grief Boromir saw battle madness in Alfgrim's eyes. He did not have time to understand, thought only of driving more space between the madman and his brother. Assailed by a rain of heavy blows Boromir found himself fighting his friend for his very life, to disarm no longer passed his thoughts. Out of the corner of his vision he saw Mablung race toward him, but knew this would end far too quickly for aid to come.
He parried yet another lunge and their swords locked, so close Boromir felt Alfgrim's hot breath upon his face, saw the sweat of battle slick upon his brow. A voice at once familiar and unknown cried low with glee. "I shall have both of you this day!"
"No!" Boromir heaved. With the force of his heavier body, he threw Alfgrim back. The man stumbled but brought up his sword, intent to launch another strike. He stepped back to steady his stance, glinting eyes intent upon his foe and Tardil, prone upon the ground, forgotten in his fury. Alfgrim trod upon the private's legs, and as the young man screamed, the startled Rohir overbalanced.
It was perhaps the Captain's only chance; he lunged and thrust his sword up under the man's upraised arm. Alfgrim howled in pain and in that instant Boromir leapt across, drove his sword with both hands through the blond man's chest. It slid out again with a sickening slurp, had drunk deep and well. The threat was gone: sky blue eyes raised to the blue sky above faded slowly to blue-grey and then to black.
Boromir stood as one transfixed, paralyzed as the battle fever poured away. His chest heaved from the effort, his arms felt like water and his sword tip rested on the dirt. With horror he took in the black slick of clinging blood upon his blade and the inky, putrid stain that flowed across the Rider's body. As he bent double, panting and mind desperate to understand, Alfgrim's features shimmered and seemed to melt. A black tint, corrupted and lifeless like Morgulduin, crept across his skin and through his hair. It was not a man that lay dead before him but a huge and monstrous Orc, an Uruk-hai.
The noise of battle had fallen away but now rushed back to assault his senses. Boromir heard his soldiers' shouts and the shrieking cries of the last few orcs, heard the startled cries of men nearby as they raced towards him, intent to help and bewildered by the scene. He added his hoarse voice to theirs, called for aid but choked upon the stench of the foul orc blood and another stronger scent above it, copper-bright. Faramir!
"Brother! No!" He pushed strong arms away and spun to take in the scene beside, men gathered around his brother upon the muddied forest floor.
~~~000~~~
Renil, the company's newest and youngest healer, anxious but determined, had come for Tardil when he heard his lieutenant's call. He had done his best to navigate his first battle, running as fast has he was able, dodging men and casualties both. All the while silently blessing instinct and training that had taken over, despite his awe and fear.
The second agonized cry near to the first had only made him run the faster, until he had stood in shock to see his lieutenant down. Aghast, he took in the ugly gash across the Faramir's upper thigh; the bright blood that gushed out rhythmically with each beat of young man's straining heart. Already a pool had spread below the lieutenant's legs: a hideous crimson lake.
The young healer looked back to Tardil and the two men locked in combat. He could not have reached the private and saw him pained but clearly conscious, the wound in his side bled only sluggishly. He knew the decision he had to make.
"Anborn, help me!" he cried, spying a soldier whose name he knew. His mouth was so dry he could hardly form the words. I am not the one for this! But he knew there was little time and no other choice. Other soldiers had run over, some to help the Captain, and some to help the private.
Hurriedly he dropped to his knees beside Faramir who lay still and silent upon the mud and wrack. Renil could smell pine and mud and sweat, but over all the hideous bright copper tang of arterial blood, a scent that boded very ill. Minutes. The young healer knew he had just minutes to stop the flow before Faramir bled out.
Someone had already removed the lieutenant's helm, his raven hair clung sweat-damp to a smooth, unblemished cheek. For just a second, Renil remembered they were of an age; wondered if Faramir too had been awed and frightened by the clamour of the battle. He thought not and this gave him courage. Like his young lieutenant he too must his duty.
Renil tore away Faramir's bloodied breeches and found the wound was so high up the thigh there could be no tourniquet. With a silent prayer to Estë, he issued the only order he could to the men clustered anxiously around. "Mablung, Anborn press down here as hard as you can." His voice was high but steady as he pointed to the artery above the wound. "Press with your thumbs. Lean in with all your weight. Hard!"
The men scrambled to obey, knelt on either side of the unconscious man and leaned over. Two pairs of thumbs pressed down. Renil knew this was a risk. Too much pressure and the flesh could die, but too little and the flow would not stop. His mind reeled at the possible outcome, yet this was all he could do. Without this, one outcome at least was deadly certain.
Time had slowed down, but he had so little of it. His stomach twisted at the thought of how much time had passed and his hands shook violently as he tried to thread the needle. The wound must be closed, regardless of the dirt and filth in which they lay. The gash was deepest on the outer edge but thinned toward the inner thigh. But for the Captain's parry, an inch deeper and the artery would have been severed. Stop thinking, he ordered himself. As the thread slipped awkwardly through the needle's eye at last, he could have cried with relief.
There was so much blood upon the wound he could hardly see to work. Water was sloshed from a quickly proffered flask and methodically he felt inside the gash for something that was not muscle. At last he touched the artery, slippery smooth but with just one small ragged spot. Touching it, blood spurted in his face and he cursed. Working then almost blind, he stitched hurriedly as he had been taught, the finest stitches he could do, lumen first then the inner muscle wall and then the outer edge.
The sinister beating gush had slowed, the men pressed very hard and sweat gathered on Anborn's brow. Faramir's body shivered now but Renil could not stop his stitching. Mablung saw his anxious look and called for cloak. One was quickly found and covered the young man's upper body. The healer noted the green cloth rose and fell much too fast, already the young man's skin was white and wet with shock. He knew that blood spread far like water, looked much greater than it was, but there was so much.
"What can I do?!" The heartfelt cry broke into his thoughts. Beside he saw the Captain, armour streaked with black and rancid blood, his own helm off, looking on his brother's hushed and pallid face with horror as he held one limp and lifeless hand. It seemed to Renil looking at his face that the Captain's heart had never really considered this, had never fathomed the soldier's risk of dying. He looked so utterly shocked, kneeling there in a pool of his brother's blood.
The lieutenant's body shook more, it was harder now to stitch. He glanced at Faramir's face anxiously, worried for a moment that the man was conscious and agonized, but it was not so. Boromir, however, was visibly shaking, holding hard his brother's lifeless hand within both his own.
"Captain! you are not helping!" he cried, then realized whom he has criticized. Renil softened his tone "Have mercy, my Lord…you must keep still." Some part of the young man's training clicked in to place. Give him something to do…
"What colour are his fingernails?" he asked. Boromir peered carefully, hurriedly brushed off grime and blood off several fingers. "Pale."
Renil spoke hurriedly around a mouthful of thread as he readied a second needle for the outer layer. "Press his nail hard. Let go and count until the colour comes again."
Boromir did as he was asked, counting under his breath. It seemed an eternity. "Three seconds."
" Thank the Valar." The prayer was low, whispered through lips pressed thin with concentration, as the next round of stitching went in over the first. There was the barest tinge of hope now within the young healer's voice.
"What? What does it mean?!" The Captain's grey and pleading eyes met his.
Renil did not have time to hold his gaze but offered what he could, his hands working all the while. "We have not lost him yet."
He felt Mablung and Anborn shift. Their hands must be numb after all this time. He looked around for two others to help and soon four pairs of thumbs pressed down before two slipped carefully out. There is the barest seep about the wound. As the men rose he saw their breeches to their knees were soaked with blood. Boromir saw it too and his stomach lurched. I too am lying in my brother's blood.
Renil did not realize how cramped his fingers had become until he tied off the last knot and sat back upon his haunches, watching not his patient's face but the wound, its sharp and crimson edges had become his whole world. He ordered the men to remove the pressure slowly. One soldier gingerly raised up, slipping first one and then a second hand away. They watched for what seemed an eternity but nothing had burst as blood and pressure flooded back into to the artery. At his nod the second man removed his hands. At last, grimly certain bleeding had been stopped, he took a roll of bandage from his pack and covered the wound as tightly as he dared.
Boromir stood then, amazed to find he could think and stand: his mind whirled so hard and fast he could not focus. He looked across to where a knot of men stand over the Uruk's body. They must investigate, he must speak to the men about what they saw.
A stretcher had already arrived and many hands came forward to lift his brother up. All the wounded would be moved to Cair Andros and swiftly, the garrison at least had a basic house of healing. Noting Mablung had taken charge, he was grateful for his men, doing what must be done while he did what he must do. He did not let go his brother's hand as they moved down slope toward the river.
When the lieutenant had been carried carefully away, legs slightly raised as ordered, young healer Renil was helped up by his comrades. With the sound of congratulations fading in his ears, the enormity of what he done for the very first time sank in. Quite gracefully and quietly the world went black. The young man fainted.
~~~000~~~
The Captain sat still and straight by his brother's bed side, unheeding of the birds' bright chorus as the dawn spread its glow across Cair Andros' grey walls. His tired eyes burned like coals, his tired shoulders were leaden. He had not left, not slept, not drunk or eaten in all the hours since Faramir had been brought into the garrison the day before. He held the pale and lifeless hand gently, as if it were the most treasured talisman in all the realm; indeed it was.
He brushed a lock of hair from where it lay on Faramir's cool but sweating brow, watched his brother's chest rise and fall, shallowly and much too fast. Already they had said the flesh about the wound showed signs of dying. If will and faith alone could heal, Faramir's fingers would have grasped his back, so much hope and love he poured into the touch. But he had seen the looks upon the healers' faces, their quiet grim efficiency, their compassion and regret.
He heard the crash of Great Anduin upon the rocks below, the footfalls in the corridor, the wind keening about the high stone walls. Within the dim room the quiet was so great it filled every mote of space and pained him by its very volume. His brother did not move: there was no restless jostling of pain, no rustle of sheets to signal an impatient but improving patient. He wanted to howl.
The memory came to him of another sickroom; one also full of hushed voices and little to be said. Always made for action, he wondered if his dislike of quiet inactivity stemmed from the months before his mother's death; the household unnaturally quiet, a fearful expectation lying on it. Looking at the still and silent face beside he wondered then how much of his brother's quiet nature was also rooted in that time. Had he learned too well, too young the need for silence? The lesson taught by the big brother charged with keeping a little one occupied and their mother undisturbed? It seemed ironic that, once grown, in Faramir's gentle company was the only place he could stay quiet and settled for long. What he would not give now to have some sound, however muffled; to hear his low and teasing laugh.
"My Lord."
Boromir could not tear himself away from the sight of the pale unmoving face, stark against the lank black hair. The warden stepped closer, his footfalls echoed in the quiet space. A hand rested lightly upon his shoulder and gave a gentle squeeze.
Boromir looked slowly up. He blinked as the light of the warden's lantern hurt his eyes. He was an older man, with long experience of healing both the sick and sick-at-heart; knew the words to come would hurt, but could find no way to blunt their cut; swift and sharp as broken glass.
"My Lord, you must send for your father."
~~~000~~~
The door to Faramir's room opened and at the sound his brother jerked awake, neck muscles protesting as he raised his head from where it had drooped awkwardly upon his chest. For a moment, startled and disoriented, Boromir heard the clanging of battle again and he wondered where he was. Grey stone walls, grey healer's robes and the feel of Faramir's limp hand in his reminded him. He had fallen asleep holding his brother's hand.
The young woman who had entered bobbed a shy curtsey and laid a steaming basin upon a table near the bed. Its fresh scent and warmth roused him a little more, and he stood quickly to give her room, swaying a little with dizziness from the sudden movement. She gestured to the young man who came behind her, laden with clothes and bandages.
"My Lord, my name is Ailin and this is Torren. We are here to clean out the lieutenant's wound. The warden came earlier but bade us let you sleep. I am sorry we have disturbed you." She looked upon him with grave concern. He had the distinct and unpleasant impression that he was the one now being assessed. Proudly he straightened his sagging shoulders, not wanting her to think him in need of any care. Days and nights without sleep were after all nothing on campaign.
He inclined his head in acknowledgement. "Do not trouble yourself mistress. It is better that I rise for a while and let you do your work. I thank you greatly for your efforts."
He walked to the window, rolling his head upon his shoulders, trying to ease his stiffened back. Sunlight streamed through the embrasure; it seemed another dawn had come and the sun arisen in bright defiance of his mood. Heedless of the view below, he laid his cheek against the cool stone, grateful to rest his head. How long had he sat beside Faramir? Two days, he thought; one since the messenger set out. His father should come soon.
He looked back toward the bed. The only sound was Ailin's low murmur as she instructed Torren; the two peeling back the bandages. Her expression was grim as she gently prodded at the wound. Faramir lay unmoving even as the swollen flesh was touched. Neither healer said what they did not like, but for once he paid their worried discussion little heed. His heart could not stand to hear aught more of ill.
He heard a scrape of boot on stone and turned. Mablung had paused upon the threshold, grey eyes averted from the bed and concern upon his craggy face. His lieutenant, a shy but caring man, hesitated to intrude but stood determined to complete his errand. He cleared his throat nervously. "Captain, will you come? You must eat and rest at least a little."
Boromir shook his head and was about to speak when Ailin looked up and caught his gaze.
"My Lord, please do. We have work to do and it would be best if you left us now for a while."
He thought to protest, but looked to his brother upon the bed. The bandages pulled back, he could see the skin along one side the wound was an ugly tapestry of mottled brown and black. An putrid smell had pervaded the room and sunlight glinted on a knife laid upon a cloth beside. Sick at the implication and in need of air, he acquiesced. Perhaps, he thought, his lieutenant was right. Exhaustion would only dull his wits and truly he did not want to see them work.
Relieved, yet guilty at the thought of leaving, he looked to Ailin. "You will call for me, if there is any change?"
"Of course, my Lord." she replied, "where should we call if the need arise?"
Boromir looked to his lieutenant. "The mess" Mablung replied. "Or his quarters if I can persuade him." The young woman nodded gravely and bent to pick up the knife.
Before his captain had a chance to see the move, Mablung took his arm and hurriedly steered from out the house. They passed under an archway to the forecourt to find themselves in the open midday sun. Boromir blinked suddenly and sighed; he had not felt its light and warmth for days.
They crossed the square and entered the mess; it was alive with the noise of chatter and laughter from the many men arrayed upon long tables. The open hall, like the fort itself, had rough stone walls. They amplified the sound and made it nearly deafening after the quietude of the past few days. As he stood and grew accustomed to the noise, Boromir welcomed the warmth from the large hearth, the ease and contentment of the men arrayed on the long tables. The smell of rich stew and bread wafted up and against his mind's direction, his empty stomach grumbled.
His men looked up expectantly from the tables, pleased to see their Captain. A scrape of wood on stone sounded as all made move to rise, but he deferred them with a lowered hand. He was too tired to stand on ceremony, to nod or raise a hand, to speak. The men turned quietly back to their meals. None remarked but all knew this was unusual, that it boded ill. That Captain always welcomed them in turn.
Mablung made directly for a far table with a young face he recognized. "Anborn." Boromir gave a nod in greeting. The young, fair-haired private made space beside upon the bench and looked up in hopeful expectation.
"Captain, any news?" Boromir shook his head wearily. He owed this man an answer, he had helped upon the battle field.
"No change. He does not wake." A wooden bowl was placed in front of him and a tankard of early cider. It smelled delicious but he found had not the energy to lift the spoon. He drank the cider thirstily, hoping it might settle his queasy stomach. Mablung took note and gently chided.
"Captain, you do not help him if you yourself collapse. I will hold the spoon myself if you will not."
Boromir sighed and broke his bread in half, soaked it in the sauce and choked it down. He found to his surprise that they were right: he felt a little better for it and tried the other half. Soon he was surprised to find he eaten all before him.
Around mouthfuls of his own meal, Mablung gave his Captain a full report of all that had passed in the days before, the state of the other casualties, the reports from farther scouts. At last he turned his attention to what they most needed to understand.
"Captain we have already had Alfgrim's pallet searched and his clothing and effects." We found nothing suspicious or untoward."
"Truly?" Boromir was puzzled and worried both. This spoke of careful planning and that he did not like.
Mablung gestured to their companion with his knife. "Anborn here searched Algrim's pallet, he can tell you more."
The young man spoke up, eyes intent upon his Captain. "There was nothing unusual, my Lord. Clothes such as the Rohirrim wear. No pictures, trinkets, charms or any such. No letters, no other weapons. The sword with which he cut down Lord Faramir was just such a one as the Rohirrim use, shorter than ours, with their runes upon the blade." None said it aloud, but all three shared the thought: shorter yes, but just as deadly.
Mablung pressed another piece of bread into his Captain's hand. "It seems odd for one who had come for several months to a foreign land to have no tokens. You saw his papers yourself did you not, my Lord?"
"Aye, it was the signature of King Theoden himself, as best I know. I have no reason to suspect it false. Nor was the parchment different from any I used in Edoras, yet I cannot fathom a reason for Rohan to betray us so, nor do I know them to use sorcery. This enchantment changed its form to a man I knew. That speaks of deliberation and knowledge of my service. "
The lieutenant lowered his voice. "Some ill design of the nameless One?" One did not speak openly of the menace to the east, here so close to the passes where once battle rang.
"So one must assume." Boromir sighed and drained his cup. "But why my brother? That I cannot see. Was he its target and not some chance foe? Faramir disliked Alfgrim from the moment he arrived. For him to dislike someone so quickly is very odd indeed. Did he sense the falseness in the man, the creature?"
Anborn hesitantly spoke up. "Captain Eldacar was convinced he could sense things others do not see."
Mablung nodded. He too had noted this in just the few months they had served together.. "We would all do well to heed Lieutenant Faramir's ill feelings, when they come again."
Boromir looked up, startled by his friend's choice of words. A ghost of a small and grateful smile spread across his face, the first in many days. Mablung nodded "They will."
He then reached out and laid upon the table the gold arm ring. It glinted red against the darker wood, lit by the light of torches set all around. Anborn drew back as if it itself was evil. "We have brought the creature's body here to the fort. It is secured and I have searched it myself. This is the ring from upon its arm. There are runes about the rim, but I do not know them."
Boromir fingered it carefully. It was of the same gold and weight as many Rohir soldiers wore. His eyes grew troubled as they looked sadly on the script. "They are not Elvish, that much I know. Faramir would tell us. Would that he were awake and well enough to read this riddle for us. What of the creature?"
"Truthfully, I hope never to look so closely upon such a one again. Orcs are as foul in death as they are in life." With a puzzled frown, Mablung drew from his tunic a parchment. "There was one oddity. A device or design, cut into the flesh upon its hip, a tattoo as I think the men of Harad or Umbar wear. I sketched it. " He slid the parchment across the table to Boromir. "In outline it is a hand upraised, four fingers and a thumb. The creature's skin is black but the design was filled in white, as if by ink."
Anborn looked on the design with shock. He recognized the sign.
~~~000~~~
The low-prowed boat bumped against the dock, tilting with the sudden shift in weight as the visitors stepped ashore. The taller figure stepped stiffly down: the ride to the shore had been long and taxing. It had been many months since he had sat a horse and many years since he had ventured this far beyond the Pelennor. Both men clasped arms with the Captain in greeting, the younger of two he knew as well. Varan, the most experienced of the City's healers, had come at the Steward's request.
Hesitantly Boromir sought to read the mood upon his father's face. Though it was no longer spoken of he still felt a strain between them: an unsettled and uneasy truce in place since the great discord of the year before. It pained him, but there was no going back. As he looked upon the father he had not seen for nigh six months he was shocked to find he looked his age, grey and tired and greatly worried
The Steward of Gondor in turn looked searchingly upon his son, a question in his eyes. Boromir shook his head. "There is no change." Denethor let out a quiet breath, gave silent thanks for this news at least.
They walked up through the quay through the gates of the garrison, past the great stone pillars carved in his great-grandfather's time. Turin had rebuilt Cair Andros and fortified it shrewdly, knowing it best placed to guard the passings to Anorien, This and many other secret outposts he had manned in North Ithilien, anticipating that there should come a time when the Morannon opened once again. Hoarding knowledge for his own designs, not yet certain where the hammer blow would fall, Denethor did not share with those around that that day would come and all too soon.
As they passed, all saluted, right hands to hearts. Hood up, clad in a great black cloak, his carriage and height alone betokened the Steward of Gondor. The news that the lieutenant's father had come spread like wildfire through the fort. His son is dying some said, shaking their heads in sadness.
They entered the sick room, and for the Steward the sight was at once frightening and too familiar. Faramir looked so very young, his face smooth, with no furrow of worry or strain, but profoundly quiet: too white, too still.
The father listened with growing fear as the warden, not without compassion, gave a tally of the hurts visited upon his son. Two healers spoke low but he could not miss their words: shock, grave blood loss, too hard upon his heart. Already twice they have had to cut out dead flesh, although they no longer think to lose the leg. The men conferred for many minutes, the bandages undone to see the hurt.
"Is there aught more to be done?" he asked, desperate to hear some grain of good.
Varan bowed and spoke up quietly. His words were sure but far from encouraging. "My Lord, the healers here have done very well and all they could. I have brought some stronger herbs for infection, and to fight the rot. This may help, but it is far from certain." The Steward tried to wait patiently as leaves were soaked and placed upon on the wound and a tea was brewed and used to soak the bandages.
When Varan had finished his ministrations Denethor sat down upon a chair and took his son's limp hand. He felt the new calluses upon the palm from the Dol Amroth sword and the old callus upon one finger from a quill. This last was softer now; Faramir had had little time to write.
The piercing gaze that sought ever to see Gondor's need softened then to look upon the still and silent face upon the bed. He saw another face, white and still, framed by the same gently waved black hair, the same narrow cheekbones and slender neck.
"You have something of her" Amerith had said. Now at last he saw: he had two sons with something each of Finduilas and himself, something tangible, a link beyond the memories. Boromir had little of her looks, but had her merry laugh, her sense of humour and his own pride. Faramir had her fine-boned beauty; her gentleness and his own reserve.
Adrahil was the one who had come closest once to making him understand. "It is selfish Denethor to scorn the blessing you have before you because you cannot have the one you want." Perhaps, he thought, the Prince had known the right of it.
Someone had tried to kill his son. Certainty brought no comfort, only fear and fury.
He remembered then Finduilas' white face, brow furrowed in fear and fury, clutching a babe protectively as he held out a crystal vial. Could his lady of dreams, a true daughter of Mithrellas, have seen something after all that he had not? The evidence of real danger lay still and silent, accusingly before his eyes.
Denethor had made Finduilas a promise once: to protect his secondborn, though in his heart of hearts he knew it had been made thoughtlessly. He would have promised her to run naked about the fifth circle of the City if it would have brought her comfort in those final days, then given no more credence to its completion than he had her concerns for the boy. With pain he remembered those darkening days; how the harder he had held on to her, the more surely she had slipped away, anxious to be released. He felt again a little boy's warm body pressed against his own, a warmth that strove to lighten need and pain, though it had been too great. That memory and the face so alike to her before him now washed at the dark root of resentment from which the discord grew.
To lose this son he knew would be to lose her once again; to lose them both He gasped: the hand of grief clutched anew within his chest, so hard it robbed his breath..
Holding tight his son's hand, the father's mind reached out. Unguarded and unshielded the slow fleeting thoughts he found within his son's unconscious mind were frightening. Great weariness there was and pain and a memory of fear. The mind he knew, quicksilver and curious, gentle yet determined, was dim and shadowed.
A gently as he could he sent out the plea. Fight my son. Fight hard.
Arms that ached to hold the little boy again reached out and held the man, as the father's lips were pressed to a fair, damp brow.
A deep sigh beyond his shoulder gave longing and surprise a sound; it rushed out and mingled with the close, expectant air. Denethor turned. Another son of Finduilas stood there, straight and hale; unshed tears glimmered in the lamplight.
Nestled within his wrinkled, aged hand upon the bed, a young man's fine long fingers fluttered for but a moment.
~~~000~~~
The evening sky had lowered and a rising north wind keened as the foam and rush of Anduin broke against the island's prow. High above, the meeting chamber was buffeted by the wind and spray and seemed at once much chiller. In this, it reflected closely the the Steward's mood: both the chamber and its lord had suddenly lost their warmth.
Denethor looked up from the cup of warmed wine he held within his lap and regarded the officers and men assembled in the room. Boromir stood there, surrounded by those who had helped upon the battle field: Renil and Mablung and Anborn. All three had been greatly praised and cited for their courage and their actions. All knew that the time for fulsome approbation had passed: now came the questions.
When their Lord spoke his voice was low and smooth as steel. No one in the room mistook the depth of his displeasure. "Pray gentlemen explain why no one saw fit to tell me that someone is trying to kill my son?"
The silence stretched uncomfortably. The wind rattled the window panes. A soft hiss rose up as coals crumbled in the brasier beside the Steward's chair.
Boromir stood beside his men and marvelled once again at how his father commanded any room he occupied: Even seated, he seemed to look down upon them all. One by one the men who stood before him dropped their eyes, trembling at the thought of their lord's censure.
Denethor raised the pewter cup and took a sip. Across the rim he looked pointedly at his son. Alone among them, his eldest held his gaze, although he too could find no answer.
"Then I must assume I was not told because you did not know. Tell me then why no one recognized this plot?"
Young Renil shifted nervously. Grateful and humbled by his lord's gracious thanks, flushed with surprise at his commission, he wished fervently he were somewhere else. He knew nothing of the circumstances and could not help.
Denethor's sharp grey eyes caught his. As if he read the young man's thoughts he motioned for him to leave. "I thank you young man once again for your service to my son. I shall not forget it. Fare you well." The other occupants of the room watched silently as he quickly left the room.
"Let me see if I understand the situation correctly." The Lord of Gondor drummed his fingers on the armrest, turning the puzzle over and over in his mind. "Some enemy, as yet unknown, placed a glamour upon this giant Orc. The creature was enspelled to resemble a Captain of the Rohirrim, a personal friend of Prince Theodred no less. He was possessed of seals and letters of introduction from King Theoden himself and was welcomed into the company. You stand there Captain and tell me this was so perfectly executed a plot that no one recognized anything amiss."
Boromir licked lips, his mouth unaccountably dry. "In fairness Father, I think Faramir himself sensed there was something wrong."
"And you did not heed him?" Denethor's voice was a low and sharp.
"No sir. He could not say what was wrong. You know how not all he sees or senses is true." Two pairs of steel grey eyes met and held. And you yourself rarely gave credence to anything from him" thought his son, impatient of the tone.
"That may be so. But neither I am foolish enough to dismiss out of hand such an oddity, when the circumstance was already odd. We have not seen such an exchange of men with Rohan in decades! I should not have thought my men have become too trusting in these troubled times."
"I am sorry my Lord. The fault is mine and mine alone." Boromir answered stiffly. The accusation hurt but not more than the guilt that he had worried endlessly over the long uncertain hours. "Would that I had your vision and your wit. I would have done anything to spare my brother this."
This time it was Denethor who had to look away as he caught the stricken look in his eldest's eyes. With an effort he softened his tone.
"This was no hasty plot. Has aught else been found to help understand its source?"
Relief was palpable in the room: the storm had passed. At Boromir's nod, Mablung passed to his Lord the parchment he had inked.
"My Lord, this design was tatooed upon the creature's skin. I have never seen it, but Anborn here has seen it before."
Denethor examined the device carefully, turning the image about within his hands, but it meant no more to him that to his men. He gestured for to young private to tell his tale.
Daunted by the request to speak, Anborn fought to keep his voice steady and his gaze upon his Lord's. "My Lord Steward I served with Lieutenant Faramir at Firien last year. On that campaign there was another incident, something odd as well. I believe the Captain sent a full report. The lieutenant was set upon by Orcs, larger ones. Not as great as the creature here: but little similar."
The Steward, whose memory never faltered, recalled clearly the report. "Yes, Faramir was wounded in the leg. It was not serious, but the circumstances odd.' He gestured to the private to continue, eyes narrowed in concentration.
" The orcs that swarmed him were all shrieking the same words. Kal murg. We did not know their meaning, but the Lieutenant said murg was horse in Orcish."
"That is true enough. The other word I do not know. But the design you have seen before?"
"Yes my Lord." Anborn replied. "The orcs that day bore this emblem on their clothes. The very same white hand."
What else he would have said they never learned, for just then the oaken door was thrown open hurriedly and without leave. Flushed and chest heaving from exertion, Torren stood, having obviously run up the many flights of stairs. He fought for his breath and gasped out words that none expected they would hear. "My Lord, please come and quickly. Praise Este, your son is awake."
~~~000~~~
Faramir awoke to a feeling of such bone-deep weariness he was unsure if he had the strength to keep his eyelids up. He raised them just enough to catch the amber glow from the twilight fading out the window. His head felt oddly light and his right leg throbbed intensely. He was confused: he had no memory of being injured. Had not the battle been nearly over? Stiff and uncomfortable, he shifted his leg just slightly. Perhaps moving would relieve the ache. He was quite wrong: he could not bite back a cry as a searing jolt of pain flared from hip to knee. It was the cry that awoke a startled Torren and soon sent him running from the room. Hazy from many medicines Faramir was quite certain he was dreaming when a short few minutes later both his father and his brother rushed into the room.
~~~000~~~