Faramir Fiction Archive

The Healer (NC-17)

Written by Lilith

30 March 2004 | 11127 words

Chapter 6

It was not quite mid-morning when the captain and the king arose. The rangers of Ithilien had been up for hours, of course, but they discreetly greeted the men and continued with their duties. After they broke their fast with a meal of oatcakes and sweet berry sauce, Faramir also needed to attend to his duties. Requisition orders were arriving from the outposts in South Ithilien, support was requested for the rebuilding efforts in the north, and new ranger training was an ongoing issue for the captain, although nowadays they were seeking gardeners more than warriors.

"Do you mind, sire? I really must work on this today. If I had known of your visit earlier I might have finished more before you arrived."

"Please," said Aragorn, with a dismissive wave of his hand, "do not even take notice of me. I am happy to entertain myself, walking in the forest and enjoying the open air."

Yet having said this, Aragorn forsook the open air, instead choosing to settle nearby Faramir – far enough away that he did not distract him, but close enough that he could observe the young man that he had grown so fond of. And he was soundly impressed with what he saw. Despite being raised as the steward's second son, Faramir was truly a commanding presence among his men. Their respect for him was obvious, and he repaid that respect with wisdom and compassion. Using the same graceful, efficient movements that the king recognized from the bedchamber, Faramir dispensed with requests from his men. The captain's brow creased with the same concern the king had seen that morning as he heard how one of the ranger's horses has gone lame.

Why do I not consider his offers to perform as my steward? the king thought to himself. Do I not give the man credit because he shares my bed? Disturbed by these thoughts, the king arose and walked away from the camp to clear his head.

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The noon hour had long come and gone when Faramir realized the king was no longer there. At first he had revelled in the king's attention – he felt a competence that he rarely felt in Minas Tirith, where he had few duties except in Aragorn's chambers. But then Damrod had come to him with an intriguing idea for transplanting culumalda trees around Osgiliath, where the ravages of the war of the ring had been worst. Faramir loved their golden-red leaves, and had quickly become absorbed in Damrod's scheme. It would require many men, more than they had now enlisted as gardeners, but they could likely count on the help of the elves that had recently settled in Ithilien – or the Land of the Moon, as they called it. He smiled as, not for the first time, he thought of a dedicated gardener from the Shire. An army of halflings led by Sam Gamgee would be very helpful, he thought.

The thought of the halfling brought his mind back to Aragorn, but he could not spy him anywhere. "Anborn," he stopped one of his men, "have you seen the king?"

"Nay, sir, not for some time, though I did see him walking in the direction of Henneth Annûn some time ago."

"How much time has passed since?"

"Oh, it must be at least two hours."

A troubled look crossed Faramir's face. Henneth Annûn was more than ten miles away, and hard to find if you were not well acquainted with the countryside. Not to mention that it wasn't wise for the king to travel far alone, even in lands as safe as these now were – but he knew that Aragorn had always bristled at the need for escorts. Still he should have returned in time for the noon meal. It was now much later, and Faramir's stomach was growling. The king would be hungry as well.

Faramir hurried to his quarters, strapping on his belt and scabbard and collecting his bow and quiver. He also grabbed his pack. It was light, containing only a warm blanket, a length of rope, and a filled canteen. After a moment's hesitation, he grabbed the vial that sat beside the bed and tossed it into the bag. A quick visit to the camp's larder filled the pack with some salted meats, cheese, and dried fruits, and a half loaf of bread as well. A meal fit for a king, Faramir thought ruefully as he wiped breadcrumbs from his cloak.

He looked around the camp, but it was quiet. His men had long finished their meal and returned to their duties. Even Anborn had disappeared. Well, there's nothing for it but to head out, he thought. I'll surely pass someone on the way to let them know where I am, and hopefully I'll meet the king coming back to camp even as I go.

His young face set with determination, Faramir strode out of camp toward Henneth Annûn.

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