Chapter Three: The Power of Dreams in Darkness

Two servants came in with trays of cheese, bread, and wine, for the beginnings of a light, quickly prepared dinner. They pulled a low table in front of the day bed. Eowyn sat up on the edge of the bed and rubbed her left shoulder, working at the tight muscles.

“It still troubles you,” Faramir remarked as he sat up behind her. He reached forward and commenced to massage both her shoulders. “The weariness and the dreams were what plagued me then, too, as I remember, worse than the pain,” he told her softly.

“Then tell me your remembrances of your days before we met, 'Mir,” Eowyn turned around to face him. “Really tell me your side. For pretty words, as well as silence, can often hide true feelings. Speak prettily or speak plainly, but be true with me now.”

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It was cold, cold as a cave, and dank. And horribly quiet, except for the occasional sound of water dripping. The heat and flame that had tortured him was gone, as was the apparition of the penetrating Eye. The stranger who was the returned King had chilled the fever, banished the Eye, and promised him hope. But now he lay on the damp floor of a vast room, chilled and shaking.

His chest was bare; a rough blanket bound his body from waist to toe so that he couldn't move. They had removed his shirt, exposing the angry new wounds on his neck and shoulder. The puncture on his neck where the poison entered his body was particularly inflamed by the cold. The King had neutralized the poison that had left him paralyzed, but the pain from the sting remained.

In the dim light he could tell there were others about him. Bodies piled one upon the other. A few moved and screamed in an ugly, twisted language. And then the hideous face of a Mordor Uruk loomed above him. “I'll have you for my very own lunch, you appetizing little slug,” the Uruk snarled but only for a moment. He shrieked as the point of a sword suddenly appeared in the middle of his chest, black blood spurting everywhere. The Uruk collapsed, to reveal the face of Samwise Gamgee in the process of withdrawing his sword from the fallen Uruk's body.

“Come. We must get out of the Tower,” Samwise said as he helped him rise. “The orcs have taken your shirt. They fought over it with the Uruks and now most are dead. We can take the armor from the dead ones.”

In the vague distance, a soft voice pierced the deep dark, “Where is it?”

He felt his neck. “It is gone.”

“No, no. It's here. I thought you were dead, so I took it.” Samwise's hand went to his pocket, withdrawing the chain and the One Ring, which throbbed and gleamed and sent sparks into his unprotected body. He reached out to grab the thing and Samwise didn't stop him.

In the vague distance, the voice asked, “Where are they going?”

“Into Mordor,” he heard himself say. “Down the stairs into the plains. There is the fiery mountain. Ah, I can't stand it!”

The faraway voice persisted, “Who are you?”

The Eye. The Tower and Eye at its apex in the distance to the North. He stumbled and choked and then cried out in defiance as he set foot on the smoldering plain, “I am Frodo, Son of Drogo, of the Shire”

Someone was shaking him. The outline of the Tower and the Eye became wavy and dissolved into nothingness. Just the voice speaking, “Who are you, really?”

He struggled. It was so hard. He could see nothing now. The effort to overcome his paralysis, regain his identity, and move his lips was overwhelming. Finally, in the nothingness his lips managed to move just a little, “I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.”

A hand was on his forehead, “Then wake up, Faramir, son of Denethor. You are needed.”

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His eyes opened to sudden, painfully spectacular prisms of light as he tried to focus his eyes and mind. The concerned face of Mithrandir filled his slowly returning vision. “You must try to stay awake for awhile, my son,” the wizard said. “You saw Frodo?”

He felt no real pain at first, just a wall of exhaustion making him want to sink into oblivion, “I dreamed I was Frodo. I was alive and walking with Samwise into Mordor. That Gollum creature who traveled with them was not in the dream.”

Faramir closed his eyes, but the wizard gently shook him, “You must learn now what has happened. I thought, perhaps you should heal a bit before you are told the whole story. But then I feared the matter in which you might ultimately learn the full tale. So I decided it would be best if you heard the story from those of us who were there. I suspect that you are far stronger than anyone, including yourself, gives you credit for.”

This time Faramir's mind came fully awake. He was aware of a sting at the base of his neck, the punctures in his shoulder, and strange, chafing inflammation along his calves, where a rough blanket bound his legs. “I'm cold, Mithrandir,” he said. “Is there water anywhere? Where is my father?”

“Nurse, bring the Steward a soft blanket and something to drink,” the White wizard ordered to someone Faramir could not see.

“How long have I been thus?” Faramir asked. “Why would you have the nurse bring my father a blanket? Does he lie here injured, as well?” He recalled a brief moment of joy and hope when he had awakened earlier, not in a sea of orc swill, but among wounded men in a cool courtyard. But that moment was gone. He felt trully paralyzed and this time he was awake.

Mithrandir leaned over the bed and placed a comforting hand on Faramir's head, “Your father fell the evening after your horse returned you to the City. That would have been two days ago.”

Faramir lay there almost immobile, watching the well-loved, strong though wrinkled face, and listening to the low voice tell him the manner of the Lord Denethor's fiery end. “I felt nothing, heard nothing. I don't remember my horse returning me to the City. And as to my father, I only remember a bitter farewell.” Faramir spoke with an agonized slowness. “I remember having horrible dreams but their content is unclear, save for the last.”

But then he asked, “The Dunedain King, did I dream him, too?”

Mithrandir stood up slowly, “That was Aragorn. He brought you back from the wraith world. He now prepares to lead a host out of Minas Tirith."

As I lie here, unable to lift my head, let alone my hands, Faramir thought. The pain--it wasn't the pain that tortured him. He had been wounded in combat any number of times. It was the relentless exhaustion and despair that ground at him.

A stocky, middle-aged woman came into the room. With Mithrandir's help, she lifted Faramir's torso just slightly, placed some pillows behind his back, and covered him with a soft fur. He recognized her as Ioreth, daughter of Mersin, a chief nurse in the Houses of Healing. The woman's husband had been the Rangers' battle tactician years ago, when Faramir first joined them. Mersin and Ioreth's son Harod had fought beside Faramir then. Ioreth smiled and chattered, “Ah, Captain Faramir, it's so good to see you awake. I've brought some water and hot tea and warm breads if you are hungry.”

“He's 'My Lord Steward,' now, woman,” Mithrandir nudged her arm gently.

“Very well, My Lord Steward, drink lots of water. It is not good to get dried up when you are feverish.” Was that a saucy look that she gave Mithrandir?

The wizard gave the nurse a wink, “Enough talk now. Tell Peregrin Took that he can come in.”

In a moment, the little perian moved quickly to the bed, his squarish face beaming, a smile on his bow-shaped mouth, “Faramir, it's so good to see you awake again...Oh my, you don't look well though, if you don't mind me saying so.” Mithrandir said, “If you pardon his ill-considered way of speaking, Faramir, Master Peregrin could tell you what happened to your father. He saw most of the events leading up to Denethor's death.”

Pippin Took rested his elbows on the mattress. He wore the black and silver tabard of the Tower Guards, though the chain mail was replaced by a soft black shirt. Mithrandir tousled the halfling's wavy brown hair: “And don't forget to tell Faramir of your part in all this.”

Pippin looked at the wizard, and it seemed to Faramir that the perian blushed. At that moment, a terrible sense of dread threatened to return Faramir to the oblivion of his tortured dreams...until Pippin started his tale. As he spoke, Faramir found himself pulled out of his personal abyss by the halfling's words, though sometimes the words stumbled and sometimes Pippin used words strange to Faramir's ears.

“He wept for you when you were returned,” Pippin said. “At that moment, I am sure he realized how much he loved you. But he also thought you were dead, at first.”

This revelation stung Faramir worse than the piercing of the dart that evidentally had poisoned him. He had no awareness of how he was returned to Minas Tirith. Yet the halfing was here, telling the story. And it seemed to Faramir that tears were forming at the corners of Pippin's eyes.

“I put my face up to yours and could see your lips move as you breathed. I told Lord Denethor that you were alive, but he wouldn't listen to me. It was as though his mind was made up and no manner of truth telling would change his course.” Pippin buried his head in his hands and could speak no longer.

“Did Pippin tell you that your father constructed a pyre to immolate himself and you?” Mithrandir's strong, low pitched voice broke the silence. Though perilously weak, Faramir felt his body jerk involuntary. Immolation. Intolerable heat. Didn't he dream this?

Faramir hadn't realized that the wizard had gone, but he had returned, this time accompanied by another halfling.

“Merry!” Pippin called out, almost helplessly, as though he expected the new arrival to help him out in the uncomfortable situation.

“This is Peregrin's cousin Meriadoc Brandybuck, or Merry, as he is known,” Mithrandir said.

The halfling Merry squeezed in between Mithrandir and Pippin. The newcomer had a bright and inquisitive face, but seemed subdued in comparison to his cousin. Faramir noted that the wrist of Merry's right hand was bound. He had sustained some hurt, most likely in battle, while Pippin appeared to be unharmed.

Pippin looked up at Faramir and sniffled. The halfling's eyes were red. Then he blurted out, “I ran through all the fighting to get Gandalf. On our way back to the Tombs of the Stewards, the Witch King tried to stop us.”

“Ah, the Witch King!” Merry gasped and seemed to lose his balance.

Mithrandir put a hand on the halfing's shoulder and whispered something that Faramir could not hear.

“The horns of Rohan chased him off,” Pippin exclaimed, now agitated, “But when we got back to you, your father was standing over your body with a flaming torch. I saw your face. You seemed to awaken when Lord Denethor lit the pyre.” The halfling stopped, his mouth agape.

Faramir gasped but like Pippin, could say nothing. The nightmares became clearer. He could remember the flames and the Eye of Sauron behind them, staring, probing. He could remember horrible visions of the fiery volcano spewing rivers of boiling red mud. But he could not remember dreaming of his father—not his face, not even his voice.

“Pippin pulled you off the pyre and beat the flames from your legs,” Mithrandir broke the silence. “He saved your life.”

Pippin drew his knuckles over his nose.

“You have a great heart, Peregrin, son of Paladin, but I didn't know you had great strength,” Faramir finally found himself able to speak.

Pippin composed himself and said, “You didn't stay awake long enough to help me pull you off the pyre. You must weigh more than three doughty hobbits.” The little fellow grinned behind his tears.

“I would have liked to see that, Pip,” Merry chided softly.

“No, you wouldn't have liked being there. Not at all,” Pippin rebuffed him, “although I could have used your help.”

Mithrandir sighed, “Enough of your talk. There is much to do before tomorrow. I wish you would stay here and rest, Merry, but I suppose I wouldn't be able to stop you from coming along. Now leave us, and that means you, too, Pippin.”

The wizard pulled up a stool and finally sat down beside the bed. He placed his hand on Faramir's forehead, “Ah, as I suspected, your fever has gone down. That's good. I expect you'll be moving about in a few days, though you should really wait at least a week. Hmmm.” Then he looked pointedly at Faramir, “I was worried about Frodo but now I know where he is. I'm sure he was a captive in Cirith Ungol but now is free. I feel much better.”

“Were you able to see into Mordor?” Faramir asked, trying to concentrate on something besides the news of his father's horrible end.

“No, but you were. Sauron has long blocked my view into his lands.”

“It was just a dream, Mithrandir,” Faramir sighed.

“But you dream true,” the wizard upbraided him. “You should trust your dreams. And try to use your farsight when you are awake. It is not a curse or a weakness or sign of mental derangement, no matter what your father might have told you.”

Faramir pursed his lips. Weakness, yes, it threatened to overcome him, but somehow he must continue on.

“Did you know the history of the palantir of Anarion?” Mithrandir asked. “It did not disappear with the end of the line of Kings. The Stewards always kept it, though your father may have kept this secret from you. Denethor, in his pride, used it to vie with Sauron, and thus had his visions twisted by the Enemy.”

“I sometimes thought I felt the Eye of the Dark Lord here in Minas Tirith,” Faramir recalled. “Sometimes I thought I was crazy to have such a fear. At other times, I wondered if Sauron knew about me or Boromir. Angmar certainly knew who I was. He sought me out whenever his troops clashed with us in Ithilien. He and I have faced each other more than once.” He shuddered suddenly, feeling a cold sweat coming on. The conversation was saping what little strength he had, bit by bit.

Mithrandir smiled gently, “Then you will be relieved to know that the Witch King is no more. He was killed yesterday on the Pelennor Fields.”

Faramir closed his eyes and felt a strange sense of relief. “He boasted to my face of how no man could kill him. But all that speak can be killed. Even wraiths of the twilight world.”

“The boast was true, but in vain,” Mithrandir chuckled. “It was a woman who delivered Angmar's doom. With the help of Master Meriodoc, whom you just met.”

“A woman?” Faramir opened his eyes and felt his dry lips try to grin. “On the battlefield? What a wonder.”

“Ah, that she is, and a good person for you to know once you are feeling better,” Mithrandir rose and patted Faramir's uninjured shoulder gently. “Eowyn, Eomund's daughter, who was a shieldmaiden, raised by Theoden King of Rohan. Angmar slew the king but Eowyn had her revenge, though the fiend shattered her shield arm before she and Merry dispatched him. You might seek her out later, for in Theoden's long illness, she helped administer the every day goings on in the Mark. And you will need people to help you until the King returns to Minas Tirith.

“Now I see you grow weary and need to sleep. And I have much to do. I will look in on you before we leave.” Mithrandir continued, but Faramir didn't hear the last. He was sleeping, a white, dreamless sleep with just a minor undercurrent of pain.

The sleep was a sleep of security. Sometimes he was aware of the others in the room, watching him. Nurse Ioreth. A strange man who woke him briefly, ostensibly to examine him. Vaguely he sensed that afternoon had become night. And later, his eyes flickered open to see Mithrandir in the hazy torch light, seated in a chair beyond the bed, smoking a pipe with a long, curved stem.

The sleep was a floating substance of white, like a thick fog on the slopes of Mount Mindoluin. Then, in the left corner, a red light seemed to flicker. It expanded and moved to the center of his mind, a black slit bounded by red flames that grew larger until they flashed out, encompassing his entire vision.

Faramir suddenly bolted upright and screamed past the apparition, “The Eye. It's here.” He was awake, sitting in the bed in the Houses of Healing, sweat pouring down his forehead and neck.

Mithrandir was still seated in the chair beside the bed. He leaned forward calmly, “No doubt he is looking into Minas Tirith at this moment. But not for you, my son.”

No, not for me, Faramir thought. The cruel probing of the Eye was gone. And he had managed to sit up. That must mean he was healing. However, the effort had exhausted him, and he sank back. In his chair, Mithrandir said nothing, the pipe still stuck in his mouth. Faramir could no longer sleep. His body had been jerked into action so violently that his heart refused to calm down, and his body throbbed in extreme pain from the force of his wakening. He lay back and tried to settle down, uncomfortably aware that Mithrandir was studying him intently. His mind drifted, losing all sense of time and place.

Some time later, a dark figure appeared in the doorway beyond Mithrandir's head. “It is done, Gandalf. He has survived the trial.” a man's voice spoke Westron with the accent of Rohan. The stranger moved into the room. In the haze Faramir noted a warrior with very long blond hair and oblong face, bearded and sun burned in the fashion of those who are extremely fair. Yet the man had bushy black eyebrows, tilting over his eyes, giving Faramir the impression of one of a very fierce and possibly uncompromising nature.

The man of Rohan either did not fear Faramir's scrutiny or didn't notice him at all. Instead the Rohan warrior said to Mithrandir, “We move forward then, tomorrow noon, as planned.”

“Excellent,” the wizard put down his pipe and rose. “Frodo is in Mordor, and so far safe on his journey.” Then he said, pointedly, “So you see, Faramir, you were able to help us even from your sick bed. Try to follow Frodo, whether or not your dreams can follow us. That can tell you what preparations must be made in Minas Tirith.”

Faramir did not answer, just watched as the wizard rose, giving him a farewell smile. The stranger of Rohan stood in the doorway a moment longer, regarding Faramir with a curious kind of respect. Then he disappeared after Mithrandir.

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This "movie verse chapter was originally prepared for the faramir_fics community on Live Journal.