CHAPTER I
(Gondor, 2998, just off the Great West Road near Minrimmon)
"Mithrandir! I thought that was you! Are you
travelling to Minas Tirith?"
"Boromir! Yes, indeed I am. I look forward to speaking
with your brother again, and there are some scrolls in the Citadel library
I would like to study."
"Can you wait here a while? Please, take my place by
the fire and have some breakfast - I'd like to go ask the commander
for some days off so I can join you. If you don't mind a travelling
companion, that is."
"I'd be delighted! And so would Faramir, I'm sure."
As soon as they were back on the road and out of earshot
of the camp, Gandalf turned to his companion with what could only be
described as a naughty grin on his ancient features. "So this is
a comparatively peaceful post, isn't it? Denethor won't risk his heir?
And you get to leave when you want to?" he teased.
The answer he got however was in a quite different tone.
"I've been stationed at more dangerous posts before. We guard the
road from Minrimmon to Erelas. We get some orcs here at times, but the
real danger is further west, in the Ferien Woods, as well as on the
Anórien plains to the north, not here. But don't get any special
treatment, every soldier gets one day per fortnight leave, most of them
spend their days off in the town's taverns. I fit in well enough at
the camp amongst the soldiers, but there I'm always the Steward's son
and heir. I prefer to save up my days and take a longer leave to visit
Faramir. I'm worried about him."
"Worried about what?"
"He is so quiet, so introvert. He seems to shy away
from everyone and just hides away in his books and stories."
The wizard frowned in surprise: surely Boromir hadn’t
started believing his father’s unwarranted opinion of his little
brother?
"But he has always done that. He is different from
you. That needn't be something to worry about - Faramir is extremely
intelligent, the fact that he is drawn to books should be a quality
to be admired. All this knowledge he is gathering, and the ability to
get into the stories, to put himself in someone else's shoes, that will
make him a outstanding diplomat one day."
"Yes, but he makes such a sad impression, almost like
mother towards the end. I feel he tries to hide it around me. I've tried
talking to him, but he refuses to tell me what's bothering him."
"He's not a child anymore, he's 15 now. Sure, he's not
a man yet but he won't appreciate if you, or anyone, treat him as a
little boy. I understand he'll always be your little brother but that
doesn’t mean you should belittle him. If there's a problem, all
we can do is be there for him. If we push too much, we'll only push
him away, and then whom will he turn to? You can't force him to tell
you something he isn't ready to share."
"I guess you're right. But still, I worry."
(The next evening, in the Citadel library)
"You useless boy! Can't you do anything but read
and sit around sulking?"
Denethor snatched the book out of his son’s hands and dragged
him up by his hair from the cosy place he had made for himself in a
quiet corner of the library, using a small rug to shield him from the
cold stone floor and a couple of old cushions propped up against the
shelves.
"But please father, I've done all my duties for today.
If there is anything else you want me to do, just tell me and I'd be
happy to-"
-SMACK-
"You'd be *happy* to? All you ever do is pout
and look like someone died. Be a man for god's sake! You're withering
away like some heartbroken female!"
At that comment Faramir's look changed from desperation and fear to
questioning: 'he couldn't mean-'
Denethor spotted the doubts hit right away. Yes, he did mean
Finduilas. The boy was too much like her. But he had loved her so much
it had pained him endlessly when she had been overtaken by shadow while
there was nothing he could do for her. Yet now the boy acted so much
like her, it just made him angry.
He had always been weaker than Boromir, but now - could he be even more
useless? Did he have to remind him of his grief too? And there he stood,
daring to look up at him, with that glare!
'Oh, I bet he thinks he's got me all figured out now, that
he understands. Thinks he's so smart! I reckon he even pities
me.'
He felt the rage building up inside him, his heart pumping, his blood
thundering through his veins - he was ready to explode!
Oh, he was at it again. The walls and doors were thick, but still he
could hear. These hallways were quiet, with only the Steward's study,
his library and his private quarters in this part of the citadel. There
were no other noises here. He couldn't bear to listen but then he couldn't
leave his post. He would love to put his fingers in his ears, but what
use would he be as a guard like that?
His boy was the same age as Faramir, born but three days earlier. He
remembered how nervous Denethor had been the weeks before the boys were
born, just had he had been himself. He had felt such closeness to his
lord then, having just been appointed to his personal guard and finding
himself in a similar situation. He had even hoped the boys would become
playmates, with so few children being around in the upper most levels.
But he had been so wrong. His son was so cheerful and outgoing while
Faramir shied away from everyone except his brother, and looked sad
all the time. But who wouldn't, with such a father?
He had often heard Denethor raise his voice against his son, and had
shivered envisioning what the stern man must look like when he did.
But even worse were the times when Denethor spoke not out of rage but
with his voice calm, calculated and oh so cold. There had often been
tears in his eyes and at times even rolling down his cheeks while he
stood there with nothing else to do than to listen to his lord say things
no son should ever have to hear from his father.
Many times when the boy had emerged from his father's rooms he had had
the urge to hug him, tell him there would be plenty of people who'd
love him if only he'd let them. He knew it wasn't his place to interfere,
so he fought the urge to protect the boy. Now he wished he hadn't -
if only once.
For during the last two years things had got worse and worse. Now he
didn't only have to listen to those scolding words but also to the sounds
of beatings. The sound of an open hand, the sound of a fist. He knew
there had been a cane; he thought he had also heard a whip at some point,
and maybe a belt. He knew he hadn't imagined the sickening sound of
breaking bones that one time, for he had seen Faramir with his arm in
a sling for weeks after that night. Fallen off a horse, right!
Then the door just a few yards away from to him swung open and Faramir
was literally thrown out into the hall, his head hitting the opposite
wall before he slumped down, completely limp. As soon as he saw Denethor
step out into the hallway, the guardsman diverted his gaze and tried
very hard to stare at the wall in front of him, keep a straight face
and not show any emotions. It would not do the boy any good if he would
be found showing any signs of criticism towards the steward. There was
nothing that stopped him from thinking it though: 'Oh, do you have
to kick him while he is down? Gods, I think I just heard a rib crack!'
Denethor mumbled something to himself, turned on his heals and strode
back into his rooms, slamming the door shut behind him.
The guard didn't waste a second and squatted down next to the battered
body, carefully lifting the badly bruised boy. "Come on lad, we
need to get you off this cold floor. Now where to take you? Shall I
take you straight to the healers or rather to your room?"
At that point Faramir's eyes rolled back in their sockets and his head
swung to the side like his neck was made of string. "Guess we best
take you to your room then, that being closer and all. Hang in there
lad, don't go to sleep! The healer told me I shouldn't let you go to
sleep - stay with me now!"
He sent the first guard they passed off to fetch the healer. They passed
three more guards on their way to Faramir's room - all three look at
them shocked, but didn't dare to speak. They had seen this all before
though, as this was the fourth time now that he had had to carry to
boy back to his room. And prior to that they had seen him stagger down
the hallways on his own, unable to walk straight but still apologizing
for the trail of blood he left on the floor, knowing that the guards
would have to clean it up before someone could slip on it. They had
been shocked then, just as they had been further back still, when bruises
had first started to appear in the boy's his face, his first split lip,
the first black eye. They had been shocked, but they never said anything.
He could somehow understand. The other guards were all younger men;
they didn't have children of their own. And they also hadn't heard the
things he'd heard. It's not like he'd ever have the courage to stand
up to Denethor either; that wouldn't solve anything anyway. But he had
always tried to help Faramir, alerting the healers or simply by bringing
some food to his room when he know he hadn't been out of there in days.
"Are you still with me lad? We're almost there now. Watch it! -
need to open the door" Faramir made a slight sound of discomfort
as the guard bend down to an awkward angle and used the hand under Faramir's
knees to open the door. "Shhh… it’ll will be all right
now… will lay you down on your side like the healer said."
But as soon as he did Faramir gave out a loud moan. "Oh gods, of
course, your ribs! I'm so sorry, I wasn't thinking! Let's try your other
side instead."
"Just put him on his back if he's not injured there.
I'm here to watch him now." The healer's calm voice came from the
doorway.
"Ah, good, you're here already. It's really bad this
time; I think some of his ribs might be broken. And he's not very awake.
I've tried talking to him but he hasn't said anything so far."
"All right, thank you. You've done very well. I'll take
it from here."
(Meanwhile, back in Denethor's private chambers)
Oh, that stupid useless boy! Couldn't even put his
hands up to defend himself, just whining all the time: 'Please father,
stop' - useless. He needs to grow some balls!
Denethor sighed. That was just the trouble wasn't it? He had them. If
only he had been a girl, there wouldn't have been a problem. A good
strong son and heir like Boromir and a nice gentle girl like Faramir
to marry off to Harad or so to form an alliance with them. It would
have been so perfect. Faramir would indeed make a daughter proud of
- gentle, caring, clever, and more pretty every day.
He felt himself grow hard again - damn, he did not need this right now!
'It's because he reminds you of Finduilas', Denethor kept telling
himself, knowing perfectly well that was only part of the truth. The
power of having his son completely at his mercy was a potent aphrodisiac;
seeing Faramir utterly helpless for him to do with as he pleased aroused
him as much as it aggravated him.
Now what? He could just sit here, wait it out, and get even more frustrated.
Or quickly deal with it at the risk of being confronted with thoughts
he didn't want to think.
Damn boy!
His pondering was interrupted by a sharp knock on his door.
"I do not wish to be disturbed tonight!" he yelled towards
the door.
There were two new knocks though, in quick succession and
softer than before – shy almost. Denethor got up out of his armchair,
angry, and took a few steps towards the door.
"I WISH TO BE ALONE FOR THE REST OF THE EVENING!"
When more persistent knocking followed, Denethor forcefully
pushed the door open, startling the already trembling man on the other
side.
"I said I do not wish to be disturbed any more tonight!" he
spit in his face.
"But my lord-"
"What? Are we under attack?"
"No, my lord…"
"Then it can wait till the morning!" And the door
was once again shut, leaving the messenger to rush down and greet the
unexpected visitors alone.
"My lord Boromir, Mithrandir, welcome!” he said
bowing to both in turn.
“My lord, I'm afraid your father will not be able
to welcome you tonight. He is uhm… fatigued and has retired to
his rooms for the night."
"That's fine, let him rest. We'll just go see Faramir
then."
“Oh gods, Faramir!” Boromir cried and immediately
ran over to the bed to kneel besides it, cradling his brother’s
head in his arms; startling the healer who was carefully examining the
boy’s injuries.
“What happened?”
“Your father, my lord, he gets uhm… agitated.”
“Father did this?” Boromir stammered, staring
down at Faramir’s battered features.
“I’m afraid so, my lord. For the last two years
now, ever since you left really, the lord Steward has been rather aggressive
towards Faramir. Not like this though; I mean: not from the start. It’s
been getting progressively worse.”
The healer spoke while he washed away the blood from what had clearly
been a nosebleed, cleaned up a few minor cuts in Faramir’s face,
and gently dabbed over a split lip, and then carefully spread a healing
balm on the many bruises all over his body.
“Could you please help me get him into a sitting position and
then hold him so I can bandage the ribs?”
Eager to be able to do something to help, Boromir kicked
off his boots, climbed on the bed to sit on Faramir’s opposite
side, and together they shifted Faramir’s limp body, taking care
not to hurt him any more that he already was.
“Oh gods, what’s all this!” Boromir shrieked as soon
as he saw his brother’s back.
“Hmm, yes. That’s from over two weeks ago now.
It’s healing slower that I would have liked.” The healer
said while he studied the welts, many of them still red and angry around
the dark scabs.
“What did this? Father used a cane to discipline us
sometimes, but surely a cane couldn’t do such damage. Are these…
whip marks?”
“Yes, like I said, progressively worse. See, it started
with scolding words; I’m sure you’ve heard your father put
Faramir down even when it was entirely uncalled for. But about two years
ago he would add a smack or two to his reprimands, then open hands became
fists, the cane became a belt and more recently even a whip.”
“How does Faramir deal with this?” Gandalf cut in, speaking
for the first time since entering the room. ‘Boromir does not
need to hear any more of this right now, or we’ll have more injured
to treat this evening’ he had decided, studying Boromir’s
reaction closely whilst the healer spoke.
“I never heard one word of complaint out of him. But
then he doesn’t speak of it at all. I’ve often asked him
what happened of course; from a healer’s point of view it’s
important to verify that he remembers everything, to see if he’s
been out at any time. But he never tells me anything. Also the healing
process itself can be rather painful: changing bandages, setting broken
bones; he never complains about that either.”
Boromir immediately looked up from stroking his brother’s
hair: “Setting broken bones?” he repeated with a shaky voice.
“It has happened, my lord”, the healer answered,
continuing his work.
Gandalf interrupted again, unwilling to let Boromir get overwhelmed
by too much shocking information in too short a time: “But how
is Faramir generally? Have you seen any change in his day to day behaviour?”
“Oh, he is very withdrawn, sir. Keeps to himself even
more than before. He does as he is told but that is all the interaction
you’ll get out of him. He spends all his free time reading. Not
that there is anything wrong with that per se, but he hardly talks to
people, not unless he has to, and even then he keeps it to a minimum
and very impersonal. He’s polite, that’s not the problem,
but he shuts everyone out.”
Gandalf nodded; ‘so that’s what had Boromir
worried; and quite rightly so’, he reflected.
Meanwhile the healer had finished bandaging Faramir, and eased him over
to lie on his good side.
“He looks so skinny, is he even getting enough food?”
Boromir asked concerned, still seated on the bed next to his brother,
stroking stay stands of hair out of his face.
“Oh, but that’s normal for a boy his age. You
haven’t seen him for a few months, and he’s grown a lot
in that time. His body just has trouble keeping up. Remember when you
were his age: you shot up almost a foot in a year’s time, without
hardy putting any weight on. That is typical: the height comes first,
then they get bulkier.”
“But he’s so thin and bony…”
“You were much the same at 15 my lord, you really were.
He will always be more slender than you I reckon, that’s just
his build. But this is truly nothing to worry about, all growing boys
look like that for a while.”
“I have done all I can do for him now. I’ll leave
this with you: it’s a sleeping draught that will keep him relaxed
and drowsy so he doesn’t feel the pain and heal more quickly.
If he should wake up, give him a spoonful of this. I gave him some of
this earlier, but he was barely conscious then and I don’t know
if he has swallowed much of it. He seems peaceful enough now but I don’t
know whether that is because of the herbs or because he took some rather
nasty knocks to the head.”
Gandalf closed his eyes for a moment and simply shook his
head – he didn’t even dare to watch Boromir’s reaction
to that.
“Furthermore, keep him as he is, lying on his side.
It makes it easiest for him to breath, and also should he have to vomit
–which I don’t expect he will, but if- that won’t
cause any additional problems either. I trust at least one of you will
watch him over night?”
“We’ll both stay.” Gandalf answered.
“Good, then I’ll be back early in the morning
to check on him. If anything should happen during the night, just tell
the guard to come fetch me, and I’ll be here in minutes.”
“Right. Thank you.”
As soon as the healer closed the door behind him, Boromir
jumped up. “He can’t stay here. I’ll take him back
with me; he can serve in my unit. I’ll take care of him, he’ll
be all right there.”
“No Boromir, he’s too young. He’ll end
up being little more than the unit’s errand boy or your squire,
and there will be no opportunity there for him to get proper training.
As the Steward’s younger son, and in the future as the Steward’s
brother, he will always have to live in your shadow, even without that.
If your now rob him of the opportunity of finishing his education, he
will never be his own man; it’ll ruin his self-esteem.”
He knew Faramir was exceptionally clever and serious for his age but
being a soldier requires different qualities on top of that. Especially
if he had been withdrawn lately he’d have a very difficult time
fitting in. ‘If only I can get Boromir to understand that,
and not do anything rash’, the wizard hoped.
“But he can’t stay here, he can’t!”
Boromir practically squeaked, “Have you seen what father has done
to him – have you seen what his back looks like? I’m not
leaving Faramir here alone with him!”
“Yes, I understand that. But he’s too young and
too unprepared now to join the army. He still has almost two and a half
years to go before he’s eighteen, and he will need that time to
get ready for army life.” Gandalf countered, trying to sound as
calm and dignified as his concern would allow him.
“Then what do you propose?”
‘Good, he has let go of that foolish idea. Now
think!’ Gandalf told himself, and soon his worried expression
sported the slightest hint of a smile.
“What if he were to finish his training elsewhere?” he suggested,
“I’ve often mentioned Faramir to my friend Celeborn as I
travelled through Lothlórien on my way back from Gondor. I’m
sure he would welcome Faramir in his realm, and take good care of him
there. A Galadhrim's warrior training would complement the training
he's had thus far perfectly. And Lord Celeborn has an exquisite library
– Faramir likes reading about the Elves, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but…” Boromir tried to interrupt,
but the wizard was on to something now.
“He’ll love it there! From what I’ve heard
from him he has every book from the Citadel collection even remotely
dealing with Elves practically memorized by now, and there he’ll
have the whole of Celeborn’s library at his disposal. Not to mention
he’ll be surrounded by Elves constantly! Oh, and Celeborn will
be delighted, I’m sure. Your brother really is a pleasure to talk
with; he’s so clever and witty.”
“But it’s so far away!” Boromir exclaimed
before Gandalf could get too carried away in his enthusiasm.
“Hmm, yes, that is a problem. But how often do you
get to see him now?”
“Two or three times a year.”
“Surely you could manage a visit to Lórien once
or twice a year too? Then there wouldn’t be that much difference?”
Boromir nodded, but then his face darkened again as he thought
of another obstacle: “Do you think father will object?”
Gandalf sat back and contemplated this for a moment before
he spoke. “Well, Denethor is a complicated man. Highly intelligent
but very complicated at the same time. But I don’t think he’d
be pleased at all with the situation as it is – something must
be troubling him for him to treat Faramir like he does. It wouldn’t
surprise me if he would actually be relieved by this solution. And Faramir
will return at 18 to join the army – until then I doubt if Denethor
would miss him much.”
Boromir sighed regretfully, but indeed had to agree with
that.
Gandalf continued: “Still, I would rather not ask his
permission first. I plan to ride out at dawn, and I hoped you could
explain the situation to Denethor over breakfast or so.”
Boromir shuddered at the idea, but again agreed: “I’ll
do my best.”
“We both better get some rest now. It’s been a hard day
and tomorrow won’t be any easier, not for either of us. I’ll
take the armchair; will you be all right sharing the bed with Faramir?”
“Yes, I’ll be fine. When he was small, he often
came to sleep next to me after he’d had a nightmare. I know I’ll
wake up if he stirs – I always did before. If I’ll be able
to sleep at all that is.”
Gandalf gave him a understanding smile, “Well, try
anyway. I’ll be alert too.”
He smiled again, endeared this time, at the sight of Boromir
curling up against his brother’s back, looking for a place to
wrap an arm around him without causing pain.
“Oh my precious little jewel, why have you never said
anything?” he only barely heard Boromir whisper.
(the next morning, still in Faramir’s room)
“Good morning sirs; how did our patient make it though
the night?” the healer enquired as he set his bag down on the
desk.
“He woke up a bit about an hour ago. I gave him a spoonful
of that sleeping draught like you said. That’s all that happened.”
Boromir answered.
“How awake was he? Did he speak at all? Did he look
at you?”
“He didn’t speak, just moaned like he was in
pain. And his eyes were open slightly, but I didn’t have the idea
he was really looking at anything at all.”
“But he swallowed the draught? Are you sure of that?”
“Yes, I saw him swallow it. I also gave him some water
and he drunk a bit of that too.”
“Ah, that’s a good sign then. I’m well
pleased with that.”
“We’ve decided it would be best for him to leave for a while.”
Gandalf informed the healer. ”I’ll take him to Lothlórien
so he can finish his education there, and return to take his place in
the army as soon as he turns 18.”
“Good,” he nodded pensively, “With the
way this has been progressing over the last two years, I’d dread
to see how this situation would have developed further.”
“Will he be able to travel?”
“If you want to move him now, it will be best to keep
him sedated. I don’t think he would be ready to wake up completely
yet anyway, but if he would, his muscles would cramp up as a reflex
because of the pain, and riding in that condition would only aggravate
things.”
“The trip will take at least six days, even with the
fastest of horses. Surely I can’t keep him sedated all that time?”
Gandalf enquired worried.
“Well, he’ll have to eat, otherwise he’ll get far
too weak. Soft, easily digestible food: light bread, fruits, that sort
of thing. Make sure he’ll get some salt as well, and enough fluids.
Keep in mind that the drug will last for up to six hours and needs about
half an hour to take full effect. So plan it so that he’ll be
more or less alert as you set up camp for the night, get him something
to eat then, but make sure he’s fully relaxed when you’re
ready to ride out again.”
“Yes, I can do that.”
The healer peered into his bag and after some rummaging pulled
out a flask. “You should also know that the marks on his back
that need treatment. I hope they won’t turn into permanent scars,
but some might very well be unavoidable, even with the best of care.
For now, it is important to keep the skin soft and supple. Where the
skin is trying to recover, it gets dry easily and looses its elasticity.
It hinders his movement. I’ve brought this oil, it is all I have,
but the Elves will have no trouble supplying you – it is just
almond oil mixed with any other oil to make it a bit thinner and easier
to apply. It should be rubbed into the skin daily, or whoever often
Faramir thinks it’s necessary – he will feel it soon enough
when he needs more. There should be another flask of the same oil around
here somewhere. He’s been using it for some months now, so he
knows how to do it himself, but with the broken ribs he’ll probably
need help.”
(Denethor's study)
"You've come to explain to me why I just saw Faramir
ride out with that wizard?" Denethor demanded rather than asked,
still staring out of the window without turning to face his son.
"Faramir hardly 'rode out', father! He is still barely
conscious. He couldn't stay here, this situation was getting too dangerous,
for both of you."
Denethor looked over his shoulder and raised an eyebrow,
"Are you threatening me?" he said in a mocking tone.
Boromir had to take a couple of deep breaths to control
himself. Getting angry now would not help the situation. "I meant
that things got out of hand. Surely you didn't want for all this to
happen. He'll be back to join the army when he turns 18. Until then,
he will stay with Lord Celeborn in Lothlórien where he'll be
trained as a warrior."
Denethor snorted but still didn’t turn around. "Oh
it had to be the Elves, hadn't it? Couldn't be Rohan?"
"The Elves are fine warriors, and lord Celeborn a close
friend of Mithrandir. He will be well taken care of there." Boromir
insisted while trying his utmost to stay calm – not even noticing
the marks his fingernails were etching in his palms.
"Wizard's pupil and now this." Denethor murmured
to himself, but loud enough to reach Boromir’s ears.
"Very well then, as long as he comes back to do his duty. And doesn't
cause me any further embarrassment."
To be continued...
