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 4

“Gandalf can’t stay with him all the time,” Merry consoled his cousin, “We’ll just keep an eye out and sneak in when he’s not around.”

“Then we’ll have to stay here all the while!” Pippin said firmly.

“Er – what about lunch?” Merry asked.

“What about lunch?” came a silken voice as they rounded the hallway and found themselves facing three elves and a dwarf.

“And why do you look so unhappy?” Elrohir enquired.

“We went to see Faramir,” Merry explained.

“Is he better now?” Elladan asked and the others gathered together for all Aragorn had mentioned earlier had been that the Steward was still unwell, and he had much work to do.

“We don’t know,” Pippin sighed heavily, “Gandalf won’t let us see him.”

“I should like to see him too,” Elladan spoke up, “He looks lonely enough as it is. He must feel worse when he is ill, and he seems to be a nice young lad.”

Faramir awoke slowly, trying to get his bearings straight. He felt extremely tired, and his limbs felt so sluggish he wondered what might be wrong. His mind felt dense and he struggled to remember where he was, and why it was he felt so tired and so sleepy and why there were soft hands resting on his forehead.

He opened his eyes, the barest crack, and the first thing in sight was a sweep of long golden hair.

“Éowyn,” he mumbled suddenly reminded of her at the sight of the golden head leaning over him.

He was greeted with a series of muted laughs and whoops followed by a whispered hiss in a very indignant tone, before he realised his error.

Of course it could not be Éowyn, he thought to himself, even as he opened his eyes fully and found Legolas and the Peredhel twins arguing near his bed. She was back in Rohan. He had probably just made the most awful gaffe anyone in the land could have, and that upon an elven prince who was also a very good friend of his King’s. He doubted if his misery could be compounded anymore. In alarm he struggled to get up, even as he realised Gimli was also standing by his bedside, laughing softly.

“Forgive me,” he spoke, and was dismayed to find his voice was no more than a very hoarse gasp. He tried again, even as the others turned to look at him. Pushing himself up so he was now sitting straight, he looked around in confusion. His shoulder hurt him a great deal, and his head was throbbing mercilessly, and he knew from the hated weary feeling that coursed through every muscle and bone in his body that he was running a fever.

There were far too many people around, his foggy mind told him, and most of them strangers. He wished they’d leave. Then he heard new voices, one surprised, the king, he thought dully, and then a slightly irascible voice neared him and he noticed the blur of white hair, and promptly latched onto the accompanying figure.

“Mithrandir,” he murmured hoarsely, relieved when his old friend returned his embrace. He curled into the comfort of the hold, clutching at his robes anxiously.

“Forgive me,” he murmured, his earlier words coming back to him, “I should not have spoken as I did.”

He glanced up at the ancient face in distress, but Gandalf was surveying him with a gentle look. The hug tightened, and Faramir suddenly found his eyes were beginning to brim over. He buried his face in Gandalf’s chest too ashamed to display so much emotion in front of relative strangers. A wizened hand stroked his head comfortingly, as he struggled to control himself.

Gandalf waved his free hand towards the door and gave the others a meaningful glance as Faramir pulled away a little and let out a tiny sniff, but no one moved.

“Hush, child,” he soothed pulling him close again, “It is all right. I am here now.”

Then looking at the others, he indicated the door again, “I think you should all leave now. Faramir badly needs rest. You should not all have descended on his room at the same time and you should certainly not have awoken him. Hurry now, go!”

“We did not intend to wake him suddenly. We wished merely to see how he fared,” Elladan explained, a little contritely as Faramir burrowed himself against the wizard.

“I will tell him you asked,” Gandalf promised, stroking the soft, dark hair spread against his shoulder, “You too, Aragorn,” he added seeing the king hesitate.

He watched as the others all left quietly, except Pippin who still stood there and waited patiently for Faramir to calm down. Faramir pulled away again after a few seconds and upon seeing the hobbit, a wan smile crossed his worn face.

“Hello Master Peregrin” he said softly.

“I hope you get better soon, Faramir,” Pippin said quietly, “I am glad Gandalf is here. I’ll never forget what I saw when Denethor-” he broke off biting his lip at the unhappy memory of standing by Faramir as he retched.

Faramir stiffened at the words, while Gandalf frowned.

Pippin continued, “I’m very sorry about what happened, but I’m not sorry I told Gandalf about what I saw. He will look after you well.”

What Faramir might have replied, Gandalf never knew for Aragorn pushed through the door right then.

“Pippin, you scamp! Here you are! Come along now. Let Faramir get some sleep. He looks tired.”

Aragorn personally thought Faramir looked more than just tired. He looked extremely unhappy and a little drained. A little scared too.

“Would you like something to eat?” he asked suddenly, remembering how the soup from the previous day had been left untouched.

“That’s an excellent idea!” Gandalf said firmly, “You’ll feel much better,” he told Faramir seeing he was about to protest.

Faramir stared unhappily at the tray on his lap. It contained a bowl of broth, still almost completely full. His mind told him he had to eat but he was exhausted and had no appetite whatsoever. The taste of the steaming liquid was not helping much either. He just wanted to go back to sleep.

Dipping his spoon in miserably, he took yet another spoonful, grimacing as he did so, not just at the taste, but also at the twinge that travelled up his arm and across his shoulders and neck with each movement. He had strained his shoulder again. It had still not healed completely from the Haradrim dart injury when he had exerted it at one of the reconstruction sites. The healer had been extremely annoyed and given him strict instructions to put less load on it for a few months at least. But that was impossible. Even lifting down the books in the library caused it to twinge a little. He must have slept on it last night he decided, as another bolt of dull pain ran through him.

He placed the spoon back in the bowl, and bit his lip as Gandalf watched critically. Aragorn stood by the window but his gaze was trained inside the room.

“Well, go on,” Gandalf said, “Finish your broth.”

Faramir shook his head, “I’ve had enough.”

“You’ve barely had a few spoonfuls!” Gandalf scolded, “You are to eat the whole bowl. You know you’ll only get weaker if you don’t have proper food! You’re still not fully recovered. And you are far too thin, and don’t tell me you aren’t. Not while I can see your shoulder bones jutting out like this!

“But —”

“Eat.”

Faramir dipped the spoon in nervously, then he lifted his hand, fingers trembling, as the anticipated bolt of pain hit again.

He cried out softly, and dropped the spoon letting it fall in the bowl with a splash. The broth spilt onto the front of his robe and the blankets. Gandalf and Aragorn were at his side in a moment exclaiming in worry.

“What happened?” the wizard asked Faramir who had his head bent low.

The Steward looked up, his face crumpling as the grey eyes turned bright.

“I spilt it,” he said softly, “My shoulder hurts. I think I slept on it last night.”

“You should have told me. Come, I’ll help you.”

Faramir reached for the spoon before the wizard could get to it. “I’m not a small child that needs to be fed. I’ll use my other hand,” he said quietly.

Gandalf gave him a gentle glance, but did not stop him.

He took a deep breath and focused on the bowl and the spoon, now in his left hand trembled as much as his right hand had, maybe even more. He had used his left arm far more than it was used to over the last weeks, and it trembled under the strain whenever he was tired. The spilt broth made his robe stick uncomfortably to his chest and he realised in dismay that he would need to rise later and change into fresh clothes. The very thought suddenly made him feel even more tired. Afraid to further embarrass himself, he let the spoon sink back into the bowl of broth and pushed the tray from his lap.

“It’s no use. I’m not hungry; my only desire is to go back to sleep.”

“Nonsense! You can stay up for a few minutes longer. How are you ever to regain your strength if you don’t eat?” Gandalf retorted, “And you can’t sleep in that!”

Aragorn watched as Gandalf sat by Faramir, and picking up the bowl began to feed him the broth. Gandalf’s customary gruffness had vanished but Faramir simply looked positively embarrassed and uncomfortable. He didn’t seem accustomed to have people fussing over him, Aragorn realised suddenly. Boromir had appeared to be quite independent to him, and not at all cosseted by virtue of his position. Faramir seemed the same. Denethor had certainly brought his children up the right way!

“That’s right,” Gandalf urged as Faramir swallowed a mouthful without protest, “Eat.”

Aragorn meanwhile lifted off the tray and then removed the soiled blanket from off Faramir’s legs. The younger man still wore the nightrobe Aragorn and Gandalf had dressed him in the night before. Seeing that Faramir looked both surprised and mortified by his actions, and would probably protest, he smiled gently.

“I will get you another blanket and a clean robe. Eat now. It is good for you.”

When Faramir had finished, Gandalf helped him remove his robe, despite his protests.

“Who do you think changed your clothes for you while you were ill with fever?” he scolded gently, as he tugged Faramir’s nightshirt over his head, revealing a lean torso, glistening with sweat. Then he gently swatted away Faramir’s hands and set to wiping the pale chest with a wet towel. Faramir’s face was flushed, more from a sense of embarrassment; Aragorn realised, than fever, and quietly turned away in a bid to make him feel more comfortable.

Gandalf stopped suddenly, as he noticed Faramir’s increasing discomfort as the towel came over his stomach “Perhaps, a bath would be good,” he mused, “It’ll surely make you feel more comfortable, and it’ll be good for your shoulder muscles. Would you like that?”

Faramir bit his lip uncertainly. It did sound good to be able to sink himself in warm water. And it would be much better than being wiped down like a child, and that in front of his king. He’d probably embarrassed himself more than enough already, collapsing in front of him the other day.

“I’ll get someone to bring the water,” Aragorn said, heading for the door.

“And we’ll change your sheets meanwhile. These are damp,” Gandalf continued, “Why don’t you sit on the chair a while. I’ll remove these sheets, and the servants can change them while you’re bathing. Will that be all right?”

Faramir nodded, as he made to rise, wrapping his blanket around his naked frame. He slowly swung his legs off the bed, and stood. His legs refused to hold him up and he found himself stumbling as a mist rose before his eyes, and the floor seemed to get closer and closer. Then he heard Gandalf’s voice in his ear.

“Hush. Sit quietly now. You shouldn’t have tried to get up so soon. You’re obviously more tired than I thought you were,” the wizard said as he clutched his arm, and made him sit on the bed. The blanket slipped to the floor, and he tried ineffectually to pull it up and cover himself.

“I’m fine,” he mumbled, as Gandalf steadied him.

Aragorn returned to the room to find Faramir sitting on his bed with his head in his hands, a blanket draped loosely over his lower body, and Gandalf with an arm around his shoulders.

“The water will be ready soon,” he said.

“Good. Are you up to taking a bath, Faramir?”

Faramir nodded tiredly. He really did feel sticky and tired. A bath did sound wonderful.

“One of us will have to be there with him, of course,” Gandalf said calmly, “He’s still a little dizzy.”

“I’ll do it,” Aragorn offered. “Then I can also give his shoulder a good massage.”

“No!” Faramir’s voice cut through their conversation a little too loudly, “I can bathe alone,” he said quietly.

“No, you can’t,” Gandalf stated firmly, “You might slip and fall.”

“No, I won’t.”

“You almost fell right now. You’re still ill.”

“No!” Faramir said again, trembling a little, “I don’t want a bath now. I want to sleep.”

“Don’t worry,” Aragorn said gently, “We’ll give you a bath, and then you can lie down and sleep.”

“No!” Faramir almost squealed out. His face was paler than before, and his fingers were shaking as he grabbed the blanket and backed away, “I- I don’t want a bath. Please – just – please let me sleep. Mithrandir,” he turned to his mentor in fear, “Please,” he pleaded.

Gandalf took one look at the frightened face, and made up his mind, “All right. But will you at least let me rub you down with a wet towel? It will leave you more comfortable.”

Faramir nodded numbly, and let Gandalf settle him carefully in bed.

“But-” Aragorn started only to be silenced by a look from Gandalf, who set to rubbing Faramir down with a wet towel. The younger man bore his ministrations stoically enough outwardly, but he turned his head towards the window and seemed to be gazing at some distant point. Aragorn could see him biting his lips in discomfort. When Gandalf had finished cleaning him and helped him pull on a nightshirt, he thanked him softly.

“We’ll let you rest now,” the wizard replied gently. Aragorn watched as he leaned forward and gently pressed his lips to Faramir’s forehead.

He didn’t think he would be able to sleep. He didn’t want to. Not while his thoughts took the direction they did. He stared out of the window dully. He was trying so hard to forget. He kept trying to remind himself that things had changed now and he was the Steward with far too many responsibilities to wallow in the past so often. He had even asked Lady Éowyn for her hand to reassure himself that all would return to normal now.

It was not to be so. Whatever he tried, he could not forget. He could constantly immerse himself in the boring tedious paperwork that the King preferred not to deal with in the daytime, but at night the nightmares returned. The tiniest things reminded him, more so at a time like this when he was tired and weak and unable to process his thoughts as quickly as he liked to. In the earlier days he had simply preferred to not think of what his father did to him, and it had been easy once he was away from Minas Tirith. They had the enemy to keep at bay and the darkness slowly encroaching into their land had given him enough to worry over.

But now there was nothing else to worry over, save trying to understanding all these myriad details his father had never bothered to educate him on, or wonder which councillor would try to deliberately put him down before the King or when the King would finally tire of his incompetence and ask him to resign his office. He could not step into half the rooms in the citadel without being threatened by an assault of foul memories. Everywhere he went he was reminded of what his father had done to him all too often, of the pain that he had caused each time. The king’s study, his own study, his father’s chambers, even the king’s chambers, he thought with a groan as he rose half-heartedly and sat up, holding his head in his hands.

And then Mithrandir had mentioned bathing him. He’d never been so scared in his life and he knew the wizard suspected something. He shuddered a little trying desperately to lose the images that flashed through his distraught mind. The tub, the water, even the smell of the soap that had been used. It had been a humiliating end to a painful ordeal, one he had never wished to go through again, and it hadn’t even been the end.

He had few good memories now. Oh, he’d had some wonderful times, but all had been either with Boromir or with his rangers. Boromir was gone now, so were many of his men. Thinking of those times only depressed him further. He kept wondering if he could not have done more to save them.

His few good memories still left were the times he had spent with Mithrandir.

Yet I constantly drive him away, he thought despairingly. He knew his old friend wanted to help. Could he do nothing right?

The door opening slowly and silently had him look up frantically, fighting to calm his breath, reminding himself he was in his room, that everything was all right, when Mithrandir stepped into the room, and gazed at him quizzically.

“I thought you said you wanted to sleep?” the wizard inquired mildly.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he muttered tiredly.

“You should. You don’t want to fall sick all over again do you?”

Faramir sighed heavily, and then spoke up timidly, “Mithrandir,” he said fingering the hem of the blanket.

Gandalf glanced at him questioningly, taking in the unhappy face.

“Would – would you stay awhile and talk to me, please,” Faramir asked in a rush, and then seeing the raised eyebrows, promptly misinterpreted the gesture.

“Oh! Oh… if – if you’re busy, I – it’s all right. I’ll —”

“Faramir,” Gandalf interrupted amused, “I would be honoured to stay a while and talk to you, dear child.”

He sat down by his young friend on the bed, and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. Faramir promptly leaned into his embrace, a clear indication of how tired he must feel.

“What would you like to talk about?”

“You have done so much for me and I’ve never thanked you, not even once,” Faramir said quietly, gazing at his hands.

“I? I have done little for you,” Gandalf replied startled, suddenly feeling very unhappy. What had he done for Faramir after all?

“You’ve always been kind and helpful to me,” Faramir replied sincerely, “Every time you visited, you bothered to spend time with me, and to teach me much.”

He’d visited barely four or five times while Faramir had been there. Sure, he took time out to be with Faramir, he thought bitterly, but each time he had done so with reason, knowing Faramir would entertain his requests for information more easily than Denethor would. That Faramir had always been intelligent and eager to learn had helped him reciprocate the help. He knew somehow that Faramir knew that too. It only made the gratitude seem sweeter still.

“I did little,” he said quietly, “There is much more I would have done if I had only thought of you more often.”

“You did more than you need have,” Faramir insisted. “Do you remember the first time I met you?” he continued, his voice distant, yet a smile playing on his lips.

It was as he spoke those words that Aragorn neared the door. Hearing the voices, he stopped instinctively, unwilling to disturb them. Something, however, compelled him to stay and listen.

“Yes,” Gandalf nodded, “You were sitting in a corner of the library crying because your father had scolded you. You were seven I think.”

“Yes,” Faramir said still smiling a little, “And you told me a story about a halfling and made me laugh.”

He’d made him smile, Gandalf thought, that strange little wan half-smile that had made him wanted to hug the boy protectively. The one he wore even now. The kind of smile that hid grave unhappiness to all but the keenest eyes. He’d never ever seen Faramir laugh. He’d seen Faramir’s sorrow then but had assumed it was from the loss of the mother two years ago. Faramir’s left cheek had been bruised and he’d guessed how it had happened.

“Your father had hit you,” he said now.

Aragorn’s eyes narrowed as he continued standing outside.

“Oh that was my fault. I had been reading a book and I’d forgotten to attend my lesson with the arms master.”

“Oh.”

“Father thought I was lying when I said I’d forgotten,” Faramir said a little heavily, “he thought I wanted to get out of my lessons because I could never be even half the warrior Boromir was.”

Gandalf did not know how to respond. Aragorn stood frozen outside.

“I miss Boromir,” Faramir said suddenly, and then sitting up suddenly he stared at the wizard before shyly adding, “I’m – I’m glad at least you are here, Mithrandir. I will miss you when you leave.”

Gandalf nodded and hugged him, pulling him protectively into his arms, “I’ll miss you too. But for now, I’m here, and you need worry no more, dear child.”

They sat that way a while and then Faramir’s head slipped a little and soon he was lying with his head in Gandalf’s lap, half asleep as the long fingers stroked his hair gently.

Aragorn didn’t move until he was sure all was silent in the room. He quietly poked a head into the darkened chambers and watched as Gandalf tucked the blankets neatly around Faramir’s sleeping frame and gently brushed his cheek in an affectionate gesture. Gandalf glanced up at him questioningly. Aragorn simply nodded in greeting and continued to stare at Faramir’s face for a while, taking in the relaxed features. He suddenly wondered if Faramir would ever be this comfortable with him. He found himself wishing he would, and then quietly left the room.

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