Faramir Fiction Archive

Walk No More In The Shadows (NC-17)

Written by Minx and Iris

12 January 2007 | 50694 words | Work in Progress

Chapter 2

Faramir jumped up in surprise at Aragorn’s stern tone, ignoring the intense wave of pain that action caused in his temples, “Sire! I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting. Please accept my apologies. I was just about to come over—”

“Faramir! Sit down before you fall over again!”

Aragorn turned to see Gandalf had forcefully pushed the door closed, revealing himself, a cup in his hand, his eyes hard, as he glared at Aragorn.

“And you! What’s the matter with you? The humble ranger I once knew would not have been so self-absorbed not to notice his surroundings.”

“I beg your pardon?” Aragorn snapped at the wizard, his eyes gleaming in annoyance.

“Come on now, Elrond taught you better than that! Look at him, it couldn’t be more obvious! And you call yourself a healer… He’s got a fever, Aragorn! And he’s exhausted. You would have spotted that if you hadn’t been so preoccupied with your own needs. And then you come in here and shout at the poor boy, even as he’s working himself to a collapse trying to help you run your kingdom!”

“Mithrandir!” Faramir started, alarmed. He was leaning forward a little now, subconsciously placing his hands on the table for support.

“Quiet, child,” Gandalf cut in, his tone almost annoyed, “Drink this first.”

Aragorn stared bemusedly, his annoyance ebbed away now, as Faramir stared first at him, his eyes frantic, face flushed even more, and then at Gandalf, as though unsure what to do. He was still standing, half-leaning against the table and looked almost scared. Gandalf moved towards him and gently pushed him back into the chair and thrust the cup towards his mouth.

“Drink,” he commanded gently this time, but Faramir pushed the cup away from near his mouth.

“No, it is not needed… I am well,” he said quietly. He took a deep breath and clenched his fists, before looking up at Aragorn, who was still a little confused, “I am sorry to have kept you waiting, My Lord. Shall we proceed to your chambers now?” He tried rising, but Gandalf’s hand blocked him with surprising strength.

“Nonsense! And do stay seated… any fool who cares to look could see you are unwell. I doubt you’d even make it as far as the door,” Gandalf told him, as he thrust the cup towards his mouth again, “Drink this and sleep. Aragorn has waited a few minutes; he can wait a few hours!”

Aragorn might have been surprised by Gandalf’s tone, but he found he wasn’t. A closer look at Faramir’s distraught countenance had him regretting his hasty words to the younger man. The Steward looked wan and tired. His movements were slow and sluggish, and his voice had sounded hoarse. There were circles under his eyes and lines around his mouth even in the morning, Aragorn realised with a pang as he moved forward towards him.

“N– no,” Faramir was still protesting, “I – I’m well. I really am, Mithrandir. Please do not worry. I don’t need to sleep. It is just a touch of the sun,” he broke off into a cough.

“A touch of the sun? You haven’t been out all morning, or yesterday! And I do think you have a cold too here, young man,” the wizard said promptly, as he rubbed Faramir’s back a little while he coughed.

“I – I can’t sleep,” Faramir mumbled once the coughing had subsided, his eyes fixed at something on the floor, “I mean, I – I have to see to the—”

“Aragorn will do it,” Gandalf interrupted, “Whatever it is.” He turned towards the contrite king, his eyes flashing in annoyance.

Aragorn knelt down on the floor, in front of Faramir’s chair, and reached for his forehead; the other man’s haggard features concerned him greatly. Faramir almost shied away at the sudden move, his grey eyes suddenly looking very large and bright, but seemed to force himself to calm down. His skin felt very warm. “You’re glowing! Gandalf is right. Don’t worry about the work, I’ll take care of that. You should be in bed!”

“Indeed you should be, now drink this. There now, drink it all,” Gandalf spoke in a gentle, soothing tone.

“Yes, drink it and rest,” Aragorn urged, a little dismayed to see the way Faramir seemed to shrink away from him each time he spoke. The grey eyes strayed towards the desk full of papers. Aragorn absently noted that they seemed to be the military allocations he’d asked for.

“Don’t worry about those,” he soothed him again, “I shall see to them.”

Faramir finally drank the contents of the cup, as neither Gandalf nor Aragorn seemed inclined to let him get away otherwise. They moved back only after he had drained the cup.

“Good,” Gandalf said approvingly, “Come now. I’ll help you to your chambers.”

“My chambers? But I have work still –-”

Gandalf sighed and signalling to Aragorn, gently tugged Faramir to his feet.

“Hush, child, you sound like a parrot. You will rest better in a soft, warm bed.”

He slipped an arm around Faramir’s shoulder, noticing the slightly dazed look the younger man was beginning to exhibit, no doubt caused by the fever and whatever it was that seemed to be bothering his lungs. Faramir made as if to move out of the hold, but after almost stumbling over the first step, he reluctantly accepted the support the wizard offered.

Aragorn pushed the door open, and gave his worried Steward a look of reassurance as the three of them walked out slowly. It didn’t work very well, for Faramir’s expression immediately turned contrite and the eyes averted.

Aragorn moderated his pace to keep with Faramir’s slow movements. Gandalf’s arm was still draped over the shoulder, lightly, yet almost protectively.

“It’s really nothing,” Faramir mumbled suddenly, “You do make a fuss Mithrandir. I am well.”

Gandalf snorted in response.

“No, really I am. I just did not sleep very well, last night. That is all. I shall be fine,” and then turning towards Aragorn, still looking unhappy, “I apologise, Sire. I shall finish the work even if I have to stay up all night,” he spoke haltingly, his voice becoming increasingly slurred.

Aragorn could see he was struggling to keep up with his surroundings. He blinked often, and his fists were clenched tight. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead, and he seemed to be speaking merely in an effort to keep wake.

“It is all right, Faramir,” he said reassuringly.

“No, it isn’t,” Faramir murmured softly, and stumbled again.

Gandalf steadied him swiftly, but then Faramir slumped forward, and it took Aragorn’s help to hold up the now unconscious man, as his head lolled against Gandalf’s arm. They were near Faramir’s room now, so he simply picked up the younger man. Aragorn moved to help him, but the wizard shook his head as he adjusted his grip on the limp figure.

“He is too thin,” he muttered, “Fool of a boy! Never did know when to stop!”

Aragorn looked around the room a little curiously while Gandalf laid his charge on the bed. It was quite bare and cold. It was however neatly kept, and he found his eye drawn to the books stacked atop the unused fireplace. There were so many of them.

“We’d better get him into something more comfortable,” Gandalf murmured, once he had the younger man settled in his bed.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed and moved to undo the bindings on Faramir’s tunic, feeling the rough faded cloth, so similar to the clothes he had often worn in his ranging days, unlike the finery exhibited by others in the court but then Gandalf suddenly reached for them himself.

“I’ll do that,” he said, “why don’t you get him a nightshirt, there should be one in one of those chests there, get him a light, thin one.”

“That head cold will hamper his sleep,” Aragorn murmured.

Gandalf nodded, “We should give him something for that.”

“I have some balm in my quarters to help him breathe,” Aragorn offered, “We could rub some on his chest and back.”

“Faramir might well have something of the sort in here too,” Gandalf replied, motioning to the chests.

Aragorn quickly managed to locate a light grey nightshirt and in the process he indeed found a surprisingly ample store of bandages, herbs and balms, including one, which upon smelling he knew would be a very good substitute for the one he used for coughs and colds. He brought the nightshirt and the balm over to Gandalf who was pulling down Faramir’s leggings now. The young man shifted uneasily in his stupor, but the herbs had obviously started to take effect for he did not rouse. Yet, Gandalf stopped, the leggings awkwardly pulled down midway, and gently ran a comforting hand through Faramir’s hair.

“Sshh, child, it’s all right,” he soothed until Faramir stilled, his breathing even but still raspy.

Aragorn frowned as he observed Faramir’s bare shoulder, marked by the ugly reminder of the Haradrim dart that had injured the younger man during the war.

“The scar remains,” he remarked, sitting by the pillow and taking over the soothing movement.

“Some wounds take longer to heal than others,” Gandalf said grimly as he went back to undressing his charge.

Aragorn gently brushed some locks of hair away and lightly stroked the lined forehead. The skin felt warm to touch, too warm. Gandalf meanwhile folded away Faramir’s clothes and covered the young man up to his waist with the blankets.

“I wonder if it is the wound that is causing the fever? I hope it is not infected.” Aragorn muttered, now engrossed in closely inspecting the still angry looking mark. Aragorn’s fingertips carefully skated over the newly healed and still very tender skin at first, then tentatively pressed in ever so lightly to determine in how far the underlying tissue had already recovered.

“It seems to be healing alright,” he said while still prodding with care, so as to not disturb Faramir further. “Slower than I would have liked maybe, but it’s not infected.”

Aragorn picked up the jar of balm as Gandalf watched on, scooped out a generous dollop and rubbed it between his hands for a time to warm and soften the aromatic substance. He started with the tender shoulder he had just examined, taking care to keep his touches light, but then switched to swift, sure strokes to cover the rest of Faramir’s chest. Up until this point, Faramir had undergone the ministrations without protest, but now he stirred and groaned softly, and when Aragorn accidentally raked his finger over his nipple, the sleeping man emitted a small sound much like a sob.

“I’ll do the rest,” Gandalf grunted out abruptly. Aragorn looked up at him, surprised at the curt response.

“You can hold him up and help him stay calm while I do his back,” Gandalf said a little more gently this time, and then after a pause, “He is unused to you and I would not want to cause him to react at a strange touch.”

Aragorn bit back the rude retort that promptly came to mind about Gandalf’s touch with Faramir, and thanked the Valar his twin brothers weren’t nearby for they would surely have milked that comment for all it was worth. Instead he quietly handed over the rest of the balm to the wizard and busied himself with gathering Faramir’s bare body into his arms, shaking his head gently at the number of scars that dotted the slight frame. Faramir sported signs of his soldiering days all over his body. Scars showed on his thin back too, Aragorn noted as Gandalf began working the balm in. He held Faramir tighter feeling him squirm a little in his sleep. He could see now what Gandalf meant about his loss of weight. Faramir looked thinner now than he had when Aragorn had first seen him in the houses of healing, injured and ailing from the effects of the black breath, a feat he would have thought unlikely. He could see his ribs clearly and his collarbone and hipbones jutted out as the blanket slipped. And he really did look truly exhausted. He’d looked so tired in the morning too, Aragorn realised and it suddenly struck him that perhaps Faramir had indeed not slept much the previous night. His laboured breathing felt almost hot on Aragorn’s chest.

Gandalf finished rubbing the balm, quite efficiently, Aragorn noted with a critical eye. The old wizard did seem quite fond of Faramir, he decided, as he laid the younger man down again so Gandalf could rub some more of the balm on his chest. When he was done, they got Faramir into the nightshirt and under the thick covers. A shiver rippled through the distressed frame. Aragorn patted down the covers, and tucked them under Faramir’s chin.

“The herbs will help him sleep for the rest of the day and through the night,” Gandalf said.

Aragorn nodded slowly, before rising.

Faramir sighed in his sleep as the comforting hand moved away, and turned onto his side, snuggling into the covers.

“Will he be all right, d’you think?” Aragorn asked worriedly.

“With a little rest, good food, and fresh air, yes,” Gandalf said pointedly, “He is merely very tired. It seems like he hasn’t been taking care of himself properly.”

“I wonder why he hasn’t been sleeping or eating properly,” Aragorn mused, absently observing the fine lines around Faramir’s mouth and eyes, “He has been through a lot, hasn’t he, Gandalf? He’s so quiet and withdrawn, it’s easy to overlook that he might be suffering too. I hardly even realized it before, but he’s lost his entire family after all, and he appears to have few friends here.”

Gandalf shrugged, “He’s always been quiet and reserved. When you know him as long as I have done, you’ll realise he always puts his needs last, so they often remain unmet. And you’ll never know of his suffering if he does not want you too.”

After a pause he continued, “He was always closest to Boromir, you know. I have never seen him as happy as he was whenever he was around him.”

“The news of his death must have been a hard blow,” Aragorn said heavily, as he remembered how profoundly he had been affected by Boromir’s death.

Gandalf sat by Faramir’s bedside, and gently stroked his cheek, “Yes,” he said shortly, remembering the conversation that had taken place between father and son before Faramir had left for battle.

After a pause, he continued, “He is still learning, Aragorn. He never expected to be Steward, and that at so young an age. But I have never seen him shirk his duties. He will make a fine Steward. He’s diligent and sensible.”

“His men seemed very fond of him.”

“Well, he leads from the front, doesn’t he?” Gandalf pointed out, “See how hard he drives himself to do duties he is untrained for. He’s probably scared he’ll lack in some skill or the other. Someone really needs to look after this boy all the while, and tell him when to stop,” he sighed.

“I’ll make sure he does not get overloaded with work,” Aragorn promised, once again almost a little amused by how fond the old wizard seemed of his Steward.

“He’ll take it on himself.”

“He seems to prefer losing himself in it!”

“I suppose it provides a fair distraction to think of the land rather than other matters.”

“Such as the deaths of Boromir and Denethor?”

Aragorn didn’t miss the slight frown that Denethor’s name caused, “Such as, yes,” Gandalf muttered.

Aragorn bit his lip. From his talks with Boromir and later with Gandalf and other city officials he had discerned more than a little of the relationships in the Steward’s family: of Denethor’s preference for his elder son, and his scorn for the younger. From all accounts it didn’t sound as though Denethor interacted much at all with his younger son, save to criticise him, even going so far as to openly wish him dead in Boromir’s place. Clearly, it had impacted Faramir greatly.

He looked at Gandalf wondering whether he’d tell him more, but the wizard seemed to be engrossed with brushing away a strand of hair that had fallen across the pallid face.

“It’s cold here,” he said finally, “Should I build a fire?”

“Yes, do that,” Gandalf said.

Faramir had felt the hands on his bare chest, a strange cold sensation. His clothes must have been torn off in anger. He could almost anticipate the neatly trimmed fingernails raking his skin mockingly, set to hurt him, a derisive precursor to worse hurt. He could not stifle the protest his unconscious mind felt compelled to register… perhaps if he could just move away… but his limbs would not obey him… he let out a sob of frustration as the fingers ran over his body… why couldn’t it just get over and done with swiftly as always… it hurt so much more this way… he trembled in fear… but then nothing happened. The touch did not turn hurtful, and he wondered why… the hands stayed soft, gentle… Healers, he realised, he was with the healers… not with… he sighed silently in relief.

When he finally came awake, he did so slowly, and realising that someone stood over his bed, stiffened a little, still lost in a haze between sleep and wakefulness. Recognising Gandalf and Aragorn, he relaxed slightly, but didn’t open his eyes. He felt too tired. He didn’t even feel like rolling over to face them. They were speaking, very softly, about someone. Someone who was sensible and led from the front. Gandalf sounded pensive and Aragorn sounded a little quiet too. He wondered whom they spoke of, and why they sounded so sad speaking about such a wonderful person. Then he heard Boromir’s name. They were speaking about Boromir, he thought foggily. Of course they would be talking about Boromir, especially the King. They must miss him too.

He felt tears prick his eyes behind the closed lids. Why did it have to be so unfair! It should have been Boromir here in Minas Tirith. Boromir as the steward, the diligent, brave, capable leader. Boromir would not be the snivelling fool who lay in bed with a fever while there was so much work to be done. Aragorn must have realised that. He burrowed into the covers, hugging himself as he curled up. The tiny sniff he emanated was muffled by the pillows.

NB: Please do not distribute (by any means, including email) or repost this story (including translations) without the author's prior permission. [ more ]

Enjoyed this story? Then be sure to let the author know by posting a comment at https://www.faramirfiction.com/fiction/walk-no-more-in-the-shadows. Positive feedback is what keeps authors writing more stories!