02 November 2011 | 302 words
Faramir is not quite as healed as Aragorn thought.
Not many knew the shadows that haunted him. The face he showed them was serene. Burnt there by fire and smoke. And an old man’s madness.
Faramir grimaced. Pain shot through him. He shouldn’t have stayed at his desk into the morning’s wee hours. The king’s healing hands had healed everything but the hip. The only outward showing of the devastating fall from the flaming pyre.
The king’s mind was focused on brining me back from the dead, not on a hip. He chuckled with scorn, and the arrow in my shoulder. Obvious problems. The hip, not so obvious.
His gait had changed. I wonder how long before my liege discovers it. His heart and mind are on Gondor and its needs. I cannot ask for more than I have already received.
He hobbled to the window. Morning! Already? He had yet to start on the contracts that were due in but an hour’s time. He lowered his head, eyes clenched shut as another spasm of pain ran from his hip to every part of his body.
When the spasm stopped, he walked to his cupboard and pulled out a fresh tunic. He didn’t have time to go to his rooms to bathe. He found the willow bark tea as he had left it last night, before he fell asleep sitting up. He swallowed it, cold.
Tasty. Just what my stomach needed. In fact, his stomach rejected most foods since the Hallows incident. Incident. He laughed. Tears fell. Anger roiled inside that stomach. Pain wrenched through it. How am I supposed to eat when my own body attacks me?
Enough of this! You have been saved from death. You have someone who holds you dear. Ah, Éowyn. If only you were here now. Come back soon, love. Come back soon.
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