Faramir Fiction Archive

The Long Road Home (R)

Written by Minx

26 March 2005 | 14519 words

8. Home

The next few seconds were riddled with confusion, and it was to the credit of Legolas and Gimli that things did not get out of hand. Legolas seeing Faramir push Aragorn out off the way, decided to stop Talgor instead. He grabbed the first stone he could lay his hands on, and aimed it at the man who was laying half in and half out of the water. The well-aimed missile hit him at the side of his head. Gimli meanwhile had taken it upon himself to ensure that none of the other three men got similar ideas. He grabbed a coil of rope from one of the packs and took to tying up the only conscious one of the lot.

“Are you alright?” he asked the two men lying on the ground, a little worriedly as he had no idea whether the knife had found its mark or not.

Faramir sat up tiredly and slowly. The lunging motion had pushed his weary body to more lengths after his tiring fight, and he could feel a dull, intense ache in his worn muscles. He looked towards his King, alarmed to notice that he lay where he fallen, eyes closed.

He bent forward to see if Aragorn had been hit, and felt a sharp sting of pain in his upper right arm, realizing then that the knife had nicked him leaving a small but profusely bleeding cut. He ignored it and reached for his King once again.

“Sire?”

“Aragorn,” Legolas called out, worried when he saw his friend hadn’t moved.

They got a slight grunt in reply, but the eyes remained closed.

“Aragorn,” Gimli called out from where he stood glaring balefully at the now bound Haldorn as though daring him to try anything.

Aragorn grunted again, and then opened his eyes, and tried sitting up, he had fallen flat on his back, and had felt winded.

“Aye, I am fine,” he replied, “I just had the breath knocked out of me,” he explained to his worried companions.

He raised himself and looked towards his Steward who knelt next to him, grey eyes laced with concern and fear, now replaced with relief, his face ridged with lines of sheer exhaustion.

“Thank you Faramir,” he said gently, “You saved my life.”

The younger man shook his head, “No – I, it is my duty, I would do that anytime,” he stammered.

Legolas sighed quietly in relief and went up to his friend to help him up, “You had me worried,” he said reproachfully, “You are not hurt, are you?”

“Only my pride, I am getting old,” Aragorn said mournfully.

Gimli snickered derisively as he bound up the other men, and muttered a few vague words, the only clear word being ‘Elf’.

Legolas snorted in reply, his keen ears having caught the exact words, while the two men grinned as the banter between the two automatically raised their spirits, despite their injuries.

Aragorn said standing up, and stretching himself, “Legolas, you are hurt, and Gimli too, let me tend to your wounds, and then let us move on. We will take the prisoners along, and hand them to the first patrol we come across.”

“It is the tiniest scratch, Aragorn,” Legolas assured him, as his friend examined his shoulder.

“It needs to be washed, Gimli’s head too,” Aragorn said.

Legolas snickered at that, and received a glare from his dwarven friend.

“Faramir, are you all right?” Aragorn ‘s sharp voice forced the Steward to look up from where he still knelt. He nodded tiredly, and stood up ignoring the lightheaded feeling assailing him.

“I am fine, my lord,” he said joining his companions by the stream, where Aragorn was binding up Legolas’ shoulder, while Gimli bathed the cut on his forehead.

“You are hurt,” Legolas’ eyes narrowed, as he noticed the dark stain spreading across the young man’s sleeve.

“‘Tis just a scratch,” Faramir replied, as he knelt next to Gimli, and took a handful of water to wash his face with. The cool refreshing feel of the water helped reduce the tiredness more than a little. He sighed.

“Let me see that arm,” Aragorn demanded from behind him.

“What of the prisoners’ wounds?” Faramir asked.

“I will see to them after seeing to you,” his King replied.

He cut off the sleeve with a knife, and looked at the wound, “It is a flesh wound, but it may hinder you for some days if you need to use a sword.”

Aragorn swiftly bound it up, and then looked closely at Faramir, taking in the pain and weariness written on his face. He had seen Faramir fight, and was sure he had strained his healing wounds.

“You could have been seriously hurt,” he chided gently.

Faramir shook his head tiredly, “That would have been a small price when I owe you my life,” he said quietly.

“I ask no price for that, ‘twas a simple remedy, though long forgotten,” Aragorn said as he helped him up, and then clutching him tighter as he swayed a little, added pertly, “Save that you obey me when I tell you to rest well.”

“I feel much better now,” Faramir said calmly.

“You do?” Aragorn growled leading the way back to the horses, “I thought you might have hit your head,” he added at Faramir’s questioning look, “Why else would you have gone and thrown yourself in the way of a knife?”

“If I hadn’t, Legolas or Gimli would have,” Faramir said, smiling in reply.

“Elf, I’m ashamed at you,” Gimli grunted, “You let a man best you.”

Legolas simply glared at his friend in reply, but smiled warmly at Faramir, “Thank you for saving my ageing friend, Faramir, that was a very brave thing to do.”

Faramir shook his head, feeling slightly embarrassed but the Elf continued, “Of course the Dwarf here would never have reached in time!”

They checked on their prisoners’ injuries and then hoisted them onto their horses, and set off with them for Minas Tirth at a steady trot.

“We can leave them with the first patrol we come across, we are not far from the area they cover, and they can bring them in,” Aragorn announced, “Or they will simply slow us on our way.”

And so, as soon as they came across a party of rangers from Gondor, they handed their prisoners over to them, much to the surprise of the patrol, who least expected to see their King and Steward hand them a party of semi-conscious, unruly looking men.

It was a few hours after that they reached Gondor, Faramir was riding his own horse now, he had insisted on doing so when they had stopped for a breather not far from the White City, and had mounted him before anyone could protest.

“I am fine now,” he had reiterated.

“You are ill,” Aragorn said pursing his lips in a thin line.

“I will not be carried into Minas Tirth like some weakling,” his Steward retorted.

“Weakling!” Aragorn nearly shouted, and would have gone on if Legolas hadn’t placed a hand on his shoulder, and signalled him to let the Steward be.

Aragorn had finally assented but with bad grace, and Gimli had looked on disapprovingly.

It had struck Legolas that Faramir did look a lot better now, he still looked exhausted but at the same time he looked calm, and the Elf was suddenly glad that they had met the bandits again, and that his young friend had managed not to let self-doubt conquer him at a crucial time.

It was darkening as they entered the city, so that they entered the city quietly and without fuss and rode up to the citadel, where they were met by Mithrandir and Prince Imrahil, who looked relieved to see them back.

“It is good to see you fine, we were getting worried,” Imrahil told Aragorn as he dismounted. Aragorn smirked as the other three got off their horses slowly, Gimli handing Faramir an arm that was immediately refused.

“Fine!” the King snorted, as Faramir dismounted and then leant against his horse trying to regain his breath, “Of course I am fine, but I cannot say the same for my friends here.”

“What happened?” Imrahil asked, moving towards his nephew, worry and concern betrayed on his countenance.

Faramir shrugged, holding onto the nearby wall for support now. His legs felt intensely weak, and the aches in his body were still screaming at him, “We caught a few horse thieves,” he told his uncle.

They entered the citadel after that, and the healers were called, and the three friends were tended to, with Aragorn hovering over them, gloating in his position as the only unscathed member of the party. He managed to convince the healer to announce a two-week rest period for his scowling Steward.

“Two weeks?” Faramir muttered tensely to his King who stood over his bed, watching him drink a brew viler than some dwarven ale. His sword arm lay in a sling, and they had bandaged his chest and back, and then diagnosed him with a cold, forcing him to drink the strange liquid and covering him with a mound of blankets. He sank drowsily in as the pain in his weary body ebbed gradually away as the brew began taking effect.

“Aye, two weeks, for at the end of two weeks, I marry, and it would do no good to have you absent,” Aragorn said in reply, smiling cheerfully at the sulking young man.

Gimli shrugged, and placing an arm on the relatively uninjured left shoulder of his friend bade him get better soon, and Legolas smiling warmly at him said soflty, “Boromir would have been proud of you.”

 

The End

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