Faramir Fiction Archive

The Long Road Home (R)

Written by Minx

26 March 2005 | 14519 words

3. Help at Hand

The fire was dying down, leaving glowing embers and ash as night fell dark, and brooding over the little clearing. The three grim faced figures sat talking and listening, every now and then casting an eye on their resting companion, and ensuring that he remained comfortable.

Once Legolas finished his narration, Gimli rose, and bringing another handful of wood fed it to the fire. Eager flames rapidly devoured the dry wood, and a fresh cackling sound was the only noise to interrupt the stillness of the night. Aragorn checked on Faramir again, frowning when he realised that his friend was still flush with fever. But he seemed to be sleeping comfortably now.

“How did you find us?” Legolas asked after he had finished.

“We followed the tracks into the woods, but it was just a travelling party on its way to Rohan,” Gimli said slowly, “They told us they had narrowly escaped an attack by a group of bandits. Their directions pointed the way you had set out, so we followed as soon as we could.”

It was not a moment too soon, as they had realised. When they reached the hill Legolas and Faramir had used as a look-out point, they had heard shouts, and then the terrified yells from Faramir. A quick glance had shown Legolas being held prisoner, but no sign of Faramir, although he could be heard.

They raced down taking the three men by surprise, but not quick enough to save Legolas from being knocked out. Gimli raised the wooden end of his axe and brought it down on the head of the man who had hurt his friend, while Aragorn drew out his sword, and defended himself from Dorgon who had also pulled out a blade. Dorgon was no warrior though, his strategy had always been to attack the weak and defenceless, and was knocked out almost immediately. Taldor faced the same fate.

Gimli meanwhile had followed his ears, the shouts came from behind a tree. Haldorn had ripped open Faramir’s shirt, and had meted out the same treatment to his leggings while his mouth covered Faramir’s choking off the shouts. Haldorn stood up and pulled down his leggings turning the Steward over, oblivious to his weakened flailing, giving him more kicks as he did so, rendering him nearly unconscious.

Gimli burst onto the scene just as Haldorn grabbed his barely conscious prisoner roughly by the shoulders, and threw himself on him.

Faramir lay on the ground, hands still bound together, covered in welts and whip marks from Haldorn’s huge leather belt, some of the marks bleeding where the tiny metal beads on it had come in contact with the skin. The enraged Dwarf took in the scene instantly, and promptly attacked Haldorn just as the bandit threw himself onto the hapless man.

Haldorn turned around in surprise and fury, amazed to see a Dwarf.

“So many creatures in these woods…” he smirked, as he defended himself against the Dwarf.

Aragorn meanwhile was untying Legolas and helping him up. He had regained his senses now, and was trying to stand up. “Go help Faramir, Haldorn… the man will hurt him…”

Aragorn continued to support Legolas however and the two made their way over to the clump of trees where Gimli had managed to gain the upper hand in his fight with Haldorn. He now threw all his energy and fury into the onslaught, and dashed the man against a huge rock nearby, rendering him unconscious.

Aragorn was untying Faramir, who lay bleeding and bruised, his clothes bunched around his bare body, shivering as a chilly wind suddenly rose up across the forest. His breathing was raspy, and in his semi-conscious state he seemed to be half-sobbing, half shouting.

“Boromir, help me…” the wail stunned the three friends into silence as the memory of the dead man returned to them forcefully, brought out in the agony and trauma of his brother.

“Sshh, I am here, my friend,” Aragorn soothed him as though speaking to a child, which was how the much younger Steward felt to him right now, as he lay trembling on the ground. He held out his hands to gather him up, and Faramir, who had opened his eyes now, saw dark hair and grey eyes, and sobbed incoherently once more, thinking it was his brother in front of him, and everything had been a bad dream.

Then the haze faded and he saw his King’s face, confusion riddled his own visage. He was lying on the cold earth, a wind blowing around him, stinging his flesh, he looked at himself, realizing his clothes were no longer covering him, and then remembered what had happened barely minutes before. Terror struck his eyes, and he gasped, trying to move away from the figures around him. His leggings wrapped around his ankles prevented him from getting very far, and he tripped and fell on the ground hard.

“It is alright,” Aragorn repeated softly, “It is I, Aragorn. No harm has befallen you, and no harm ever will, I would not let that happen. I promise you, I would not let that happen.”

He reached out for the man once again, worry crossing his face as Faramir, edged away some more, eyes frantic with fear and burning with what looked like shame.

“I am sorry, my friend,” Legolas knelt by Faramir, who had gathered up his clothes, and covered himself with them, embarrassment writ large on his fearful features.

Faramir stared up in surprise at Legolas and then dropped his eyes almost immediately, ashamed to look up at the brave warriors who had fought in the war of the ring while he lay in the Gondor. He had done nothing, while these men had fought the enemy and triumphed. And now, he had let himself be captured by slipping down that hill, got Legolas captured and beaten, and now he had been found in this humiliating position. He dreaded to think what might have happened, he had escaped by a proverbial hair’s breadth.

The dull colour of shame filled his cheeks, and his bare shoulders, “I am sorry, Legolas, it was my fault.”

The Elf gaped, and Faramir, his eyes on the ground taking silence for concurrence continued, “I slipped and we were captured, I’m sorry I could not stop them beating you.”

Gimli and Aragorn stared at each other, while Legolas coming out of his shocked stupor swiftly went up to Faramir, whose shoulders were now heaving. He was angrily trying to wipe his tears as the events of the last few minutes registered in his mind. That man… he had kissed him… he had tried… Faramir could not even bear to think of it… he could still smell the reek from the man’s breath, and feel his hands as he had felt him up, while undressing him, the leery smile adorning his face stayed imprinted in his mind.

He had done nothing, he… the son of the Steward of Gondor, now himself a Steward, he had done nothing, he did not deserve to be Steward, he did not deserve to call himself a soldier.

His father was right, he was not like Boromir, brave and valiant, he was a coward… Gondor would never have been safe in his weak hands…

Someone was touching him, touching his skin, he jerked up, intending to fight out this time, but instead a warm embrace enveloped him, “I am sorry my friend. I could not help you when you needed my help.” Legolas’ eyes filled up as he saw how distressed his friend was.

“No…” Faramir continued weakly, wincing as the rough cloth of the Elf’s jerkin brushed his raw wounds, “My fault, all mine, you are hurt, my fault… mine… I am sorry, my fault…” the words came out soft and raspy, accompanied with half sobs, half gasps.

“Sshh… It will be alright, do not worry, I am not hurt, it is not your fault,” Legolas spoke softly, soothingly. Aragorn picked up Faramir’s discarded cloak and wrapped it around the trembling man’s heaving shoulders, as Legolas continued to speak to him. Gimli gathered up their fallen weapons.

Faramir finally straightened up, shrugging off Legolas’ help. He adjusted his clothes and his cloak, grimacing at the torn condition of his tunic, his mind still in a fog. The thought of Haldorn pressing him down to the ground made him feel like throwing up, and when he finally stood up slowly, he fainted.

The Elf caught him as he sagged down, noting the state of his back and chest, where the welts were still bleeding. Gimli came forward and took the man in his arms; Legolas needed to take care of his own injuries.

They left the bandits as they were; knowing they could not do much while they were in these forests. Their injuries would not let them move much for now, and Aragorn intended to send out a patrol to capture them on his return. They walked back to camp as quickly as possible, they needed to get back to the White City soon, the King could not stay away so many days, when his subjects needed him.

On the other hand one of his subjects needed him now. Faramir lay in Gimli’s arms, his head falling back, and Aragorn was reminded of the day he had found Boromir dying from Orc arrows. He had decided that he would look on Faramir as a brother.

When they reached the camp, it was already dusk, the shadows were lengthening. Their horses neighed first in pleasure and then in anxiety, aware that something had happened as the tension from the men radiated through to the sensitive creatures. Legolas moved over to calm them down, and see that they had eaten enough and had enough water.

Gimli lay the silent figure down on the grass in their camp, and as he did so, Aragorn felt the guilt stab his heart as he looked at the wounds inflicted on the man. He tended to Legolas’ wounds first, while Gimli made the fallen man comfortable on the soft grass of the clearing and covered him in blankets. He was glad to see that Legolas’ wounds were not big ones, the Elf himself was confident they would heal on their own and soon, as they did for elves.

They had then worked on the sleeping man, cleaning out and dressing the wounds, grimacing at how deep some of the welts were; the metal pieces on Haldorn’s belt had actually been small spikes. Grime and dust had entered the cuts, and cleaning them thoroughly had been necessary. Faramir had awoken midway, and lashed out at first, before realizing he was not in danger.

He said nothing; simply letting them work, closing his eyes and not looking at any of them directly, ashamed at his cowardice. But to his friends it felt as though he felt betrayed, and they berated their inaction.

Gimli had prepared some food, a meagre soup from some roots he had found, and bread from their depleting supplies. Faramir had refused at first, but the other three would not allow it. Aragorn had forced him to have the soup, and he had finally taken it. To his surprise it stayed down.

“Sleep now,” Aragorn had said after he had drunk the soup, but refused the bread, “for we must leave early.”

“We are behind, are we not?” Faramir had asked. He knew why.

“Yes, and we must make up for it tomorrow, but only if you feel well enough.” Aragorn told him as he took the empty bowl from him. He could see pain reflected in the young man’s eyes, although he himself was trying his best to mask it. Even the slightest movement extracted a wince, albeit a tiny one, for Faramir would not own up to the pain. But it was obvious to the watchers that he was in considerable pain, as the lashing and beating took its toll on him in addition to the mental fatigue caused by events long before that day’s.

“I am fine, my lord,” Faramir said anxiously, his eyes on his hands.

“No, you will not be fine till you have had enough sleep, we will not have you falling off your horse,” Legolas added.

They had watched him fall asleep, and when satisfied that he was resting, the three friends lay down and let sleep claim them with her usual soothing calming effect, until the cries had woken them up.

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