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 3

It was warm… far too warm, even more than it tended to be in Minas Tirith in the summer… and there was smoke too, and the smell of burning oil, the acrid sensation squeezing tears out of his tightly clenched eyes so that it was only then that he realised he had his eyes closed. He forced them open, unsure why he did so, and looked into the grim, forbidding face of his father, his expression hard as ever, his eyes displaying scorn and derision. He loomed over Faramir as he sat up slowly on the floor where he’d been lying naked. A soft cackling sound forced him to look around him, and he couldn’t stop the gasp that emanated as he realised what the cause of the unnatural warmth was. His father stepped forward and it seemed to Faramir the ring of fire surrounding them also closed in with each step.

“Nooo…,” he moaned softly, unsure what caused greater distress, the man walking towards him or the fire that kept closing in.

Gandalf sat by the fire, watching it spit and hiss because of the slight dampness in the logs, his legs stretched out so he could warm them. However he sat up immediately when he heard Faramir stirring a little, a soft moan escaping the lips.

“Faramir,” he whispered softly.

“Gandalf?” Faramir tried to sit up, confused as the images that had assaulted him in his sleep thankfully slipped away from his consciousness, but was gently held back, “What is the matter?” he asked a little frantically, his heart still beating a little furiously; he knew it had to be a dream.

“Nothing, you are ill. Go back to sleep.”

Faramir wasn’t listening though. He was looking around tiredly, and his eyes finally came to a stop at the fireplace.

Stray images flashed in his overwrought mind and he tried desperately to quell them.

“Please —”

“What is it?” Gandalf asked encouragingly.

“Could you have someone put out the fire, please?”

“You’ll feel cold!”

“I think not,” Faramir said firmly, and lay on his side, his back to the fire.

“Oh very well, you might not feel the cold,” Gandalf retorted to Faramir’s back, “But what about me? And I’m not getting any younger, you know!”

“I didn’t ask you to stay here.”

Gandalf frowned at his young friend’s snappy remark. Sure he was ill and tired, but he had seen him tired before and Faramir had never been rude to him, or to anyone for that matter. He was about to retort when he saw Faramir pull the blankets closer to his chin in a manner that suggested to Gandalf the young man wished it could shield him from more than just the cold.

You old fool! the wizard scolded himself inwardly, you are getting frightfully slow-witted in your old-age.

He could always fetch himself another blanket while Faramir slept, he decided, unwilling to leave Faramir there alone.

Aragorn groaned loudly and tossed the sheaf of papers he held onto the nearest chair. He’d been reading through some papers detailing out land disputes between the various fiefdoms and the resulting troubles. Normally, Faramir would simply have reduced each bundle into a concise little note. In fact, thought Aragorn, he’d have known he would get irritated and would probably have told the secretaries to pass this onto one of the chancellors to handle; just as he’d neatly reduced all the papers on the allocations into one concise report. Faramir had been ill barely half a day now, and already the paperwork that had piled up had been enormous. Aragorn had instructed his worried secretaries to pass him all the work for now, until he could decide which of his other officials could help in Faramir’s place. Aragorn doubted his steward could return to work for at least two weeks yet and Gandalf and the warden from the Houses of Healing had agreed. In fact, Aragorn was determined to ensure he didn’t. The young man was clearly completely exhausted and he had easily managed to discern that Faramir needed more than just a physical recovery. Seeing the mound of papers though, he was left in no doubt over one of the possible causes of exhaustion.

“Well! There you are!”

The loud voice and the ruckus following it made Aragorn wince.

The twins, Legolas, Gimli, Merry and Pippin all trooped into his study looking extremely happy.

“We waited ages for you!” Elrohir complained, “And then your servants told us you were in a meeting with Gandalf and Faramir so we had to go riding without you… you missed a beautiful day.”

“And now you’re cooped up inside working!” Elladan said in mock horror.

“Has Faramir been by?” Legolas inquired and everyone burst out laughing except the two hobbits.

“Where is Faramir?” Pippin asked suddenly, “We’d asked Gandalf to invite him to join us for dinner but then we got a message from Gandalf saying neither of them would be able to join us.”

“Yes, he’s –,” Aragorn began only to be interrupted by Pippin.

“You haven’t given him more work have you?” the young hobbit’s tone was almost accusing so that the three elves and dwarf turned an interested eye towards him, “You give him too much work,” Pippin stated.

“Pippin!” Merry admonished softly.

“I thought it was the other way round,” Elladan tried to joke, “It’s Faramir who always brings in a new batch of paperwork to Aragorn every other hour or so,” but he quietened as Aragorn held out a hand urgently to silence him.

“No, Pippin, I haven’t,” Aragorn said softly, kneeling in front of the frowning young hobbit, “He’s sleeping right now. He won’t join you for dinner because he is unwell and Gandalf is with him right now.”

“I knew he wasn’t well,” Pippin said sadly, “What’s wrong with him, Strider?”

“How did you know?” Elrohir asked curiously.

“He’s always so tired and he hardly smiles anymore and he hardly eats. He never joins us for meals and even if he has his food sent to his rooms, I’ve always found it lying there only half-eaten. He let Merry have his entire breakfast twice last week!”

“He did?” Aragorn inquired, wondering how he had missed out on all this, “Well, don’t worry, little one, Gandalf and I will ensure he recovers and that he eats properly. You’re right, he needs rest!”

“Can I see him?” Pippin asked hopefully, “I could help look after him!”

“Not today,” Aragorn answered quietly, “But yes, you could help look after him. You could ask the cooks to prepare his favourite soup perhaps? Ask them to make it light and hot.”

Pippin nodded and rushed off. Aragorn turned to his friends.

“What happened?” Legolas asked curiously.

Aragorn gave them a very brief account of what had happened.

“Poor lad,” Elladan sympathised, “I knew he’d do something like this!”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Aragorn asked plaintively, “Pippin speaks true. I did overwork him! I can barely finish half of what he seems to be doing every day and that is just the paperwork! And, the secretaries tell me he’s also been personally inspecting a large amount of the rebuilding work ever since we sent two regiments off to Pelargir. I’ve been loading him with more and more work each day and I haven’t even realised! And he’s never once complained or not done anything I’ve asked him to.”

“Well, then a few days’ rest will do him a world of good,” Elrohir soothed him quietly, noting Aragorn’s distress, “and Elladan and I can help you with some of your work. We’ve helped father often in the past.”

“You’ll get more time to ensure Faramir recovers that way,” Elladan added, guessing the main cause of Aragorn’s distress. It amused him a little though. Trust Estel to want to play mother hen immediately “And we could help you look after Faramir too, if you need. Ada also taught us something of the art of healing.”

Once the others had left, Aragorn tried to return to work, but found he couldn’t. He wondered if Faramir might have awoken, and realised he should have asked Gandalf to inform him. Or perhaps he should find out on his own he decided, and rising, made his way through the long, winding corridors towards the Steward’s room. He pushed the door open carefully, and poked his head through. All he could see was a dark head buried under the covers. He walked silently in, stopping before the bed. Faramir lay curled up on his side, his eyes shut and his features relaxed. Dark hair splayed across his pale face.

He felt irritated with himself for not having noticed how drawn and weary the younger man had looked all these days. It was only from one of the guards that he had learnt that his Steward spent most nights walking through the gardens aimlessly.

He could not help but smile at the sight of the sleeping figure. Curled up under the blankets, his solemn Steward looked very young. Kneeling by the bed, he brushed a stray strand of hair off his cheek, and winced as Faramir stirred at the touch. Half-opened eyes peered blearily at him, and a curled up fist rubbed at them trying ineffectually to drive the much-needed sleep away.

“My Lord?” Faramir’s voice sounded laden with sleep, and confused. He made to rise up, his movements fumbling and uncharacteristically awkward.

“Aye. But I wished not to wake you, Faramir,” Aragorn said as he sat up, and put out a hand to help his half-falling Steward sit up straight, “Lie down again now. Gandalf will be displeased if he hears I woke you up.”

Faramir gave him a confused glance before his upper body suddenly pitched forward, giving Aragorn barely enough time to grab the fainting figure.

“Faramir!” he cried out urgently, attempting to lift the younger man’s head.

He got a weary groan in response, and then Faramir raised his head slowly and tiredly, “Forgive me,” he mumbled, before he collapsed against Aragorn’s chest.

“For what?” Aragorn asked the unconscious man incredulously.

He tucked him in under the blankets, and checked his skin for warmth. When he had Faramir settled comfortably in bed, he rose and looked around. He could stay here awhile, he decided, till Gandalf returned at any rate. He noticed the unlit grate and frowned. Surely, someone or the other should have checked on that!

A fresh pile of kindling had been left near the fireplace and so, kneeling down, he set to building a fire, just as Gandalf entered the room, blankets in hand.

“Don’t,” the wizard said firmly.

Aragorn looked up in surprise, “I was just building a fire,” he explained, “It’s cold, and I’m surprised no one saw to this before!”

“Faramir does not wish it,” Gandalf replied shortly, and went over to the sleeping man to check on him, “Has he awoken?”

“For a mere moment, then he slipped into sleep again,” Aragorn responded, “But why does he not want a fire?”

Gandalf turned and gazed at him with a one eyebrow raised, and suddenly Aragorn remembered how Denethor had died and how Gandalf had saved Faramir from nearly dying the same way.

Aragorn watched as Gandalf spread an extra blanket over Faramir. The wizard’s movements were tender and caring as he tucked it in neatly under the young man’s chin.

“I asked Pippin to tell the kitchens to make some hot soup, in case he does wake up,” Aragorn said.

Gandalf nodded, “That will be good for him, if he wakes up. Would you ask someone to tell the hobbits I shall not return tonight? I have asked the servants to prepare the room next door for me.”

Aragorn rose early the next morning, the sun still not fully over the horizon, and checked on Faramir. He knew Gandalf had slept in the hastily prepared chamber near Faramir’s but he still felt a pressing need to check on the younger man himself. The Steward was still asleep, his face still unnaturally pale, though his breathing sounded much easier. Faramir had slept through the evening and night as they had expected and the soup the cook had sent on Pippin’s instructions had remained untouched. They could wake him later, Aragorn decided, and ensure he ate something substantial.

The blankets seemed to be out of place, Aragorn noted and promptly leaned over to set them right again, as carefully as he could, remembering how he’d nearly woken Faramir the day before. Despite his care however, the younger man did moan slightly and shift. Aragorn groaned mentally.

Oh dear, I hope I’m not waking him again!

“Sshh…,” he murmured softly, hoping to soothe Faramir who seemed to be a little distressed.

Faramir felt the smoke billow around him, he could smell its acrid nearness and the bitter taste of burning wood now settled heavily in his mouth. The heat rippled through his flesh. He could feel drops of sweat rolling down his skin. But he still felt cold, despite the heat. It did not warm him. It burned him, and still he felt cold. And yet he could do nothing against those sensations. He could not move. He was not sure he wanted to move. He just wanted to wait.

So he waited, for his father. He was there somewhere he knew. He had heard him speak. His father was all he had left. He would wait for him he decided. No matter what his father would do to him, he would wait. He had failed, he was sure, and whatever his father may do, he surely deserved it. He deserved all the pain he knew was to come.

He felt a hand on his uninjured shoulder and looked up a little warily, expecting to see his father. A figure loomed over him, and he whimpered involuntarily. His confusion grew more intense as he realised that it was not his father. Surely this newcomer too would try to take him away as the others before him had tried. The fear in his heart rose to a crescendo, pounding into his ears. Perhaps his father wished not to see him, and he sent these people instead. He had done that before once when Faramir had disappointed him. His father must be disappointed in him. He was not sure why, but he thought he had done something wrong.

His father must be angry, he decided, wondering if he could ever please the man. He would do anything to please him. It would hurt, but he would endure it. He cowered away from the figure over him, shutting his eyes tight, and whimpered slightly again.

Aragorn bit his lip when he heard the tiny whimper Faramir uttered as he curled away from Aragorn in his sleep.

It must be a bad dream, poor lad.

“Faramir,” the voice floated to the Steward’s ears, a soft, beautiful voice that reached through the confused recesses of his wandering mind, drawing it back to him.

“Faramir… it’s all right… I’m here, now.”

He could see the face now in his still blurred dreams, the beautiful face that accompanied that voice. He knew who it was. His King.

His King. The other visions vanished as did the smoke, so that all he was left with was a cool, calming sensation that he embraced gladly, slipping back into a welcome dreamless slumber.

Aragorn heaved a sigh of relief as Faramir murmured something softly and settled back into a calm slumber.

“That’s better,” he continued whispered soothingly, “Or Gandalf would have had my hide for awakening you again. He certainly is fond of you! Well, I’ll leave you to rest some more now.”

He rose quietly and looked at Faramir’s sleeping visage. He still looked so tired and pale. Aragorn was still mulling over Faramir when he left the room, so that he almost ran over the young Hobbits who were hurrying down the corridor.

“Strider!” they exclaimed in unison.

“Well, hello, you two,” he said, smiling, “And how are you this morning?”

“Quite fine, thank you,” Merry said, and then continued, “How is Faramir today, Strider?”

“He’ll be fine,” Aragorn assured them, at the same time promising himself that he would ensure the young man would indeed be fine soon.

“Can we see him?” Pippin asked anxiously.

“We’ll be very quiet,” Merry promised.

“No,” Gandalf said firmly from his doorway, before Aragorn could respond, “He is resting now, and the noise might wake him up.”

“Please, Strider,” the two of them clamoured, turning to Aragorn for help.

“Hush!” Gandalf said looking into the Steward’s chamber to ensure Faramir was not being disturbed, “You can see him later.”

“He probably has trouble enough sleeping as it is,” he added in a tone just low enough for Aragorn to hear.

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