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The Long Road Home (R) Print

Written by Minx

26 March 2005 | 14519 words

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6. Home is not Afar

Faramir felt himself slumping against Legolas’ arms. His tired body and beleaguered mind begged for the sweet release of dreamless sleep, but found it impossible to give. But his friend’s embrace brought to him memories of his brother consoling him after his interviews with his father. With each passing year these had gotten worse and worse, as father and son found themselves disagreeing regularly. Faramir rarely answered back to his father, preferring to digest his harsh words quietly. But it seemed Denethor did not appreciate the silence either. More often than not, he had been at the receiving end of his father’s hand. Such encounters would take place in the privacy of the Steward’s study, but if any harsh words were said in Boromir’s presence, he would soon be at his brother’s side to console him, after having confronted his father over it. But even Boromir’s words would not induce any overt display of affection from his stern father.

It had however served to make the two brothers very close to each other, and even when Faramir grew older and began to serve in Gondor’s army like his brother, he looked forward to the few opportunities he got to meet his brother; his one support from his childhood days.

“He fails to understand you, that is all,” Boromir would repeat each time he had found him sitting in his room miserable after a conversation with his father, “He loves you, but he does not understand you. Never forget, he loves you.”

It was very easy to forget. The harsh words continued, but words of love never came. When they did come, finally he had been lying in a fever, unable to hear them.

The thought of the old days with Boromir made him relax and in his half-asleep state, he soon felt himself being lowered onto the ground and covered with a soft warm cloak.

Soft voices bade him sleep, and he tried to respond but found himself unable to, finally giving into the wave of slumber that washed over him, lulling him into dreams of days gone by that made his heart ache with a deep sorrow.

“Sleep my friend,” Legolas whispered quietly into his charge’s ear as he tucked his cloak under him. The grey eyes flickered briefly in gratitude, and then shut in a wan face marred by purpling bruises, and dark ridges of tiredness lining it. It was a face that looked young and old at the same time.

Young from an aching vulnerability caused by the loss of ones held dear, and by haunting memories of many things; of losses and regrets. And old by the tiredness that marked it, by the look in the eyes that indicated they had seen much that had caused hurt, physical and emotional, by the lines that showed up the stress of expectations shouldered since a very young age, of continually trying to live up to them and beyond, of seeking an elusive object that was practically unattainable. To an Elf who had seen some three millennia, such a look was disturbing in one who had lived a little more than three and half decades. It was a look of one worn out, but trying to hide it. Of one who hurt deep inside but shrank from telling another.

Once the horses had been fed, and a warm fire kindled, Aragorn leaned over Faramir and placed his hand on his brow, noting the warmth radiating off it. He noticed the faintest of tremors crossing the sleeping man’s face. A few soft whispered words however had him relaxing once again. He sat and watched the man for a while to make sure he was all right,

“What shall we do?” Legolas’ query brought him out of his reverie.

Aragorn sighed, “We must get back to Minas Tirith soon, but I cannot let Faramir exert himself. He is unwell.”

“And if we wait for him to recover?” Gimli asked.

“It looks not like he will recover very soon,” Legolas said softly.

“No,” Aragorn agreed, “He is fatigued and not just because of what happened now, but events of old.”

Loneliness and despair, his mind told him, and he was angry with himself yet again for not noticing that one who had become dear to him was aching so much.

He continued unhappily, “Yet, we must needs get back to the White City, for I am loathe to spend more time in these woods. We will ride, and we must carry him with us.”

Legolas nodded, “He will heal better once back in the city.”

“Then let us make haste and leave,” Gimli replied.

The sleeping man once again lay in his elven friend’s arms as the horses thundered towards their home, across the thick woods, his own horse among them rider-less but carrying his pack. Every now and then he murmured something and seemed to be dreaming again, but Legolas would quietly whisper in his ear, bidding him to rest, and he would fall back to sleep again, resting his tired mind and injured body. His cloak had been wrapped around him to keep him warm but he still shivered spasmodically. Legolas could feel warmth radiating off the man’s skin but could do little to help other than ensure that he was comfortably placed and not jolted overly much by the motion of the steed. Faramir moaned slightly in his sleep, his breath coming out hot and fevered.

“How is he?” Aragorn asked when they slowed down to negotiate a narrow gorse filled path. The sun was high up in the sky by now, and they would soon have to stop for water.

“He is still a little fevered,” Legolas said quietly.

“Perhaps I should carry him awhile,” Gimli suggested, “your horse may be tiring.”

“No, let me carry him,” Aragorn said, “It’ll be a easier for me to handle a rider.”

Legolas nodded. Narwe was tiring. She was a new horse, and unused to carrying a deadweight human. Faramir’s own horse was equally unused to two riders. Aragorn’s horse was certainly much stronger.

“We can stop at that clearing by the stream, the horses can refresh themselves too,” he said pointing towards a small place by a gurgling stream not far off.

Aragorn nodded, and spurred his horse ahead.

When they reached the clearing, he jumped down, and went up to Narwe to help Faramir down. He was waking up now, the stiffness from his sitting position all morning, inciting more pain across his injured frame.

He slid off the mount, biting his lip, trying not to cry out in agony, and almost stumbled onto his knees, prevented only by Aragorn’s strong arms pulling him up.

The action brought him to his full senses, and he stood up carefully, looking around carefully, trying hard not to wince as pain flooded his senses. Hours of being in the same position had cramped his muscles, and even the thick cloak had not been enough to keep away the cool wind generated by the swift galloping.

“We are nearly there, are we not?” came the hopeful query. The lay of the land was beginning to look familiar.

“Yes, we should be there by nightfall,” Aragorn said, his arm still offering support.

“That is good,” came the relieved reply.

“You will ride me the rest of the way,” Aragorn told him.

“But I am awake now,” the Steward protested, straightening himself in an attempt to appear healthier, “I can ride alone.”

Aragorn shook his head, “No,” he said shaking his head, “You are feverish, it will be better you ride with me.”

Any further conversation was prevented by Legolas holding up his hand, indicating silence. The other three looked at him in askance, unsheathing their weapons at the same time. Faramir moved towards his horse, and pulled out his sword from his gear, he did not think he would be able to wield a bow. Within minutes they could hear the sound of horses hooves thudding towards the clearing, as they stood tensed waiting to see who the new arrivals were. The sound of a voice floated towards them that made them all start when they recognised it.

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1 Comment(s)

cool story bro :) last couple of chapters made me lol too XD

— Power Of Funk    Tuesday 29 June 2010, 21:59    #

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