Ch 6 Faramir awakes

Faramir was drifting, not awake yet not asleep. He could feel the firmness of the mattress; the crispness of the sheets; the scratchiness of the woolen blanket covering him. The warmth of Anar’s rays on his face. He felt a slim cool hand holding his. He knew there were other beings in the room, but he was unconcerned.

He noticed the scents around him. He could smell sunlight and wind from the bed linen. He noticed lavender emanating from the sheets. There was the scent of other flowers. First, roses, which told him Éowyn was near. The tang of the sea told him of Prince Imrahil’s presence. Sandalwood meant his cousin Lothíriel was also near. And if Lothíriel was there, King Éomer was also. Yes, he noticed the aroma of hay and horses. Lastly, he noticed pine and pipeweed, which meant Aragorn.

He heard the low-pitched voices but was unable to understand what was being said. He tried to open his eyes, but they would not do as he wished. Again, he drifted on a sea of nothingness.

Suddenly, he heard Éowyn speak. “Faramir, open your eyes. Please, for me.” She brushed the hair off his forehead. “Please, love, wake up.”

Finally, he was able to open his eyes. His White Lady smiled as he looked at her. He opened his lips to speak. “Nay, try not to talk, just rest for the nonce.”

“Aragorn has told me the tale,” said Éowyn as Faramir looked at her. “He has told me of your wounding.”

“Aye,” replied the King, walking over to the bed. “It is good to see you awake.”

Faramir nodded, then asked his friend, and king, “How long?” He knew it had been some days, but was unable to recollect very much. He could remember, vaguely, of being wakened and having his dressings changed, but it was all so dreamlike.

Aragorn told his steward, “You were wounded seven days ago. Do you remember what happened?”

Faramir cast his mind back to the assassination attempt. “Aye, I was showing you the record of Lord Huldán’s tax being reduced, then the attack.” He remembered the searing, white-hot fire of a dagger entering his body. “I do not know why.”

“Huldán has told me the tale. He did it simply for greed. He received thirty silver pennies for the deed.” Aragorn turned to his steward. “He was paid by Râsual of Harad.”

Faramir frowned, and said, “I do not understand. I have been in contact with several wandering tribes, and have found them to be no different. They wish for nothing more than to have peace. They love and laugh and live even as we do.”

Aragorn sighed, then replied, “Râsual has declared blood feud upon you for the death of his brother in Ithilien. Râsual was wounded, but escaped.

“He has tried once, but he will not rest until you are dead.”

Faramir closed his eyes, harking back to when he had ambushed the troop of Southrons headed for Mordor. He remembered the warmth of Anar, the twang of the bowstrings, the clash of swords. He shuddered, hearing the cries of the dying and the wounded. He again felt the tremors as the Mûmak charged; heard the trumpeting as the great animal went down under the arrows of his men. “Leave none alive..Leave none alive..”

“Leave none alive..” he whispered. He was unaware of having spoken out loud. He looked around, puzzled at being in the Houses of Healing instead of the glades of Ithilien. Memory came rushing back. “I…”

Aragorn merely smiled and told him, “I understand.” He started to pace. “However, there is still someone who wishes your death.”

Éowyn then spoke. “If this Râsual wishes Faramir dead, why should we not show him what he so desires?”