Chapter Five: Black Breath

“Ah, Imrahil,” Eowyn grinned. “He does like to lecture you, doesn't he?”

Faramir sat up on the daybed and put his arm around his wife, “He was always on my side, 'Wyn, as far back as my childhood. It was so good to see him in the Houses of Healing, when I felt that I had lost everyone who ever mattered to me. I think I'll ever be that scruffy, unwashed lad to Imrahil.”

She nuzzled her head into his armpit, “You are that scruffy, unwashed Steward to your wife right now.” Eowyn held in her laughter as she watched her husband groan. “It will be difficult enough to dine with the King and Queen tomorrow. I would not sit with them and be constantly reminded of your odor.”

Faramir stood up, resigned to visit the huge oaken tub in the bath cubicle adjacent to their sleeping chamber. “I thought you were nervous and uncomfortable about visiting the King tomorrow? Now it's become your excuse to make me take a bath. I wonder how clean was the former Strider before Arwen took up residence with him? But very well. I'll do your bidding, but I still hold you to your promise of telling me when you first realized that you loved me.”

Eowyn rose a bit clumsily, her bulk slowing her down. She wrapped her arm in Faramir's and said, “Then I shall be your chamber maid, pour water down your back, give you a good scrub, and try my best to remember when I first loved you. It should be a lovely, memorable bath.”

As they walked slowly down the hall, an unbidden memory came to Faramir of another bath, in the steaming pool of the Houses of Healing.

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Hurin, Keeper of the Keys, sank into the chair beside Faramir's bed, his voice weary from concern, "Five thousand Rohirrim camp on the Pelennor and protect the ruins of the Gate. Erkenbrand and Elfhelm, two of their Marshals, are in charge of their forces. Save for the 200 or so that followed Eomer, he that succeeded King Theoden, in the host of Aragorn." Faramir did not know the wiry, middle-aged Hurin well, though the two of them had coordinated on security issues for the Tower of Guard in the past.

Hurin continued, "Of our own forces, so many have died that their number is not rightly known. The soldiers that survived are in the city, repairing their homes, seeing to their families, or repairing themselves here in the Houses of Healing. My assistants tell me that it is whispered on the streets that those who remain of Lord Boromir's former troops await your word."
"Do they, then?" Faramir considered this information in silence. A full day had passed since the Captains of the West had ridden out of Minas Tirith, bound for the Gates of Mordor. He was pleased, though not really surprised, that Hurin had not followed Lord Aragorn's host to the Black Gate.

"I hold council with Erkenbrand and Elfhelm daily. They are good men, though unused to the ways of city folk. I suspect that they find us spineless,” Hurin said matter-of-factly. “They tell me that their warriors are growing restless. They feel vulnerable in their encampment outside the city, grumble about sanitary conditions, and worry about their families. Erkenbrand thinks that some have already deserted and are on their way back to Rohan."
At that moment, Faramir suddenly felt the now-familiar onslaught of deadly exhaustion and despair. His muscles began to tremble, but he gritted his teeth. "Tell the Marshals of the Rohirrim to bring their forces into the first circle of the city. Have them work on clearing the debris of the shops. The warriors of Rohan can then use these shops as their quarters while they work on the task that I will give everyone."

Suddenly, in his memory he could hear the very voice of the Witch King on the day of the disastrous charge. The fate of the city is more important than me, he thought grimly. With this thought, he found his mind clearing. “Tell the Marshals and those that survive of my father's ministers to come meet with me tomorrow...” But then he stopped in mid-sentence. In the open doorway stood Narmar, the Warden of the Houses of Healing, with a deep scowl on his lined face.

“My Lord Steward, councils are ill-advised for you now, in your current state,” the Warden's tone was emphatic, not welcoming any arguments.

“What current state?” Faramir found the strength to defy him. “No one has been direct with me as to my ailments, not to mention the affairs of Gondor, since I fell. Hurin has been trying to tell me of the state of the city. I ask for only an hour or two tomorrow to meet with the Marshals of the Rohirrim and my father's surviving ministers to plan for rebuilding the city's walls. They will speak. I will listen. That will be enough. Isn't there a room in this place that could accommodate us?” His eyes searched Narmar's face.

Narmar stepped back for a moment, as though disconcerted. But then he conceded, “Very well, then. You can have the library and adjacent garden for your meeting tomorrow. For two hours. That is it. Then you need to rest.”

Hurin got up and quickly departed, as though relieved to get out of the tense situation. The Warden, on the other hand, was not in a leaving mood. He stood at the side of the bed, laid a hand on Faramir's forehead, and then grabbed his patient's wrist, assessing the pulse rate.

“What of my wounds, Warden?” Faramir questioned the healer. “ How long have I been here? And how long will it take before I can draw a bow and wield a sword?”
“Four days since you were brought here, at least. And , ideally, you must stay abed another four,” Narmar observed him steadily.

“In the field I would have been up yesterday,” Faramir said archly.

“No, you wouldn't. You do not realize what ills plague you. However, I deem that you are well enough to endure a necessary treatment today. I have to attend to the Women's Quarters. When I return, we will begin your treatment, at which time I will give you my prognosis.”

Faramir nodded slowly. Half of his battle would be won if he could just know what was going on with his body. Surely these wounds would heal, but in how much time? Before the final doom came to the walls of Minas Tirith? Lying in bed, Hurin's news and the confrontation with Narmar finally got the best of him. His eyelashes persisted in closing over his eyes. The scuttle of someone moving beside his bed awoke him.

“Sssh. The Chief has sent me every day since you came here, but Warden Narmar has outright refused me entry to your room.” It was Beregond, son of Baranor, and looking not well at all. A great bandage was wrapped around his head. His right eye was covered with a patch, beneath which black bruises and a map of tiny veins descended. His left hand was covered in a cast that went halfway up his forearm. Something else was odd about the guardsman, Faramir noted. Beregond wore a full tunic of rich, wine-colored wool with a heavy belt of tooled black leather—and no weaponry or mail. He was not in the uniform of the Tower Guard.

“You have seen your share of action,” Faramir finally said, after pondering Beregond's surprising appearance.

In response, Beregond grabbed Faramir's right hand and raised it to his lips. Much to Faramir's amazement, Beregond then knelt beside the bed, kissed the huge Steward's ring, and began: “Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor, and to the Lord and Steward of the realm...”

Faramir listened quietly, moved by Beregond's heartfelt renewal of his oath to the Stewards' House. It was strange to see this incredibly tall and well-formed man on his knees, doing homage to the new Steward, who was actually his long-time colleague and friend. “I accept your fealty,” Faramir spoke the formal words, but then added gently, “I trust your loyalty above most others, Beregond. The oath that you gave to my father when you first joined the guard would have sufficed for me.”

“But not for others,” Beregond's voice was agitated. “I presume you know of Lord Denethor's last hours and what transpired during that time?”

“I know how I came to have itching bandages about my legs,” Faramir said laconically. “Peregrin, son of Paladin, told me of my father and the pyre. I gather that you were present, as well?”
“I came by these wounds trying to prevent the whole incedent,” Beregond exclaimed. “But your father and some of my guardsmen mates felt my actions were traitorous. A fight started, where I came by these injuries. And the Chief was forced to remove me from the Tower Guard. I have a wife, three young children, and now no way to support them.” Beregond sat down on a chair beside Faramir's bed, his long legs and arms sagging beyond the small seat. With great emotion, he recounted his fight with his fellow guardsmen outside the door of the House of the Stewards. Neither man realized that Narmar was standing in the doorway until the Warden cleared his throat rather conspicuously.

“Ah, Guardsman Beregond, now that you have managed to sneak in while I was out, could you help me assist Lord Faramir to his treatment?”

Beregond nodded, looking slightly abashed at being caught breaking the Warden's rules. The two helped Faramir onto his feet and wrapped him in a plush, full-length robe.

“It's a bit of a walk,” Narmar explained as he gestured down the hall. “You might need to lean on the Guardsman.”

“I can walk by myself,” Faramir insisted, though his burned legs felt loose and his balance and strength seemed somewhat off. He moved slowly down the hall, aware of the pain-ridden murmuring of the men in the ward rooms. The nurses scuttled down the hall, bearing trays of medications and infusions. A few nurses nodded in deference as the three men passed. For a moment, Faramir didn't fully realize why they slightly curtsied.

Narmar led them through a magnificent double door, bordered with inlaid ivory of ornate, geometric design. The three stepped into a small courtyard and immediately were overwhelmed by the intense sunlight reflecting off the marble walls of the buildings.

“Ah,” Beregond groaned, covering his bandaged eye with his good hand. “How is it that light can pierce through this foul patch?”

Faramir's eyes were startled by the brightness, as well. The sunlight was clear and brilliant, breaking through the air that seemed so cold for March. He stopped for a moment. “Everything is so still,” he remarked. Still and dry. His body again felt sapped. Again, the memory of the Witch King tried to penetrate his consciousness. I can do this, he thought resolutely, and straightened up.

“Come,” Narmar beckoned them through the courtyard to a building that was isolated from the large hospital wards. This building must be considerably older than its neighbors, possibly hundreds of years older, Faramir thought. He had never seen a structure with such an unusual architecture, for the oblong bottomed building was roofed by three blue and white striped, onion-shaped domes. The blue stripes glittered in the bright sunlight.

Faramir and Beregond followed Narmar into the building. “This is where you will have your treatment, my lord,” the Warden said, waiting patiently while his companions caught up with him. When they did, Faramir and Beregond stopped abruptly, amazed by their magnificent surroundings.

What had looked like a small building, on the inside opened into a large, spotlessly clean hall. The air in the vast room was tinged by a slight metallic scent. The domed ceiling above was divided into mosaic bands alternating with long, narrow windows, which let in the light from the gleaming blue sky. From a distance, the ceiling mosaics seemed to be decorated with a pattern of animals and fruit vines.

“Incredible,” Beregond gasped, craning his neck. “Eru's curse on this lousy patch. I can only see half of the ceiling without aggravating my neck.”

As he looked up at a single cloud drifting across the ceiling windows, Faramir felt his balance give way. He grabbed onto Beregond's shoulder with his left hand. As he straightened himself, he noticed that the room space was mostly taken up by three pools. The largest was furthest from where they stood. Two men were swimming slowly across its length. A second, unused pool was closer, small and square shaped. The nearest pool was surrounded by a tile ledge. It was oval in shape. Steam wafted up from the water.

“Why, it's a hamam,” Faramir said in amazement. “I've seen the ruins of the great hamams of Osgiliath, but had no idea one existed in Minas Tirith. And functioning, too. How old must this one be?”

“I believe it was built by the first Stewards,” Narmar said, as he motioned Faramir to a bench. “ My guess is that this is probably the only remaining operational hamam in Gondor, save for the few in Dol Amroth that the Prince maintains. This one pre-dates the Houses of Healing, which were built around it so that patients could have treatments there.”

“Treatments?” Faramir chortled. “More likely these are just huge baths for the patients.” He considered his own words for a moment, then the realization came to him, “Do you mean that you got me here on the ruse that I would have a treatment, when what I'm actually going to have is a bath?

“Lord Faramir, I need to remove all your wrappings today,” Narmar explained, “at which time I can give you a complete assessment of your injuries. The pools are the most effective way to clean out wounds, particularly the burns, so that I can determine their state and see if any infections crept into the injuries after they were bound.”

“What you are really saying is that I need a bath,” Faramir said, trying to control his annoyance.

“The nurses have been complaining,” Narmar sounded a bit hurt, as he and Beregond helped Faramir out of his robes. Just then Faramir noticed the portly, balding man sitting patiently on a bench beside the great pool. Damned if it wasn't Boromir's regimental barber with his shaving kit on the bench beside his great belly. He looked up and smiled at Faramir in acknowledgment.

“My uncle is behind all of this. He put you up to it!” Faramir protested. He did not want to get wet. He did not need to get wet. A quick dip in the Anduin was all a Ranger ever needed. All he could think of was Imrahil's memorable parting advice, “Look to your appearance, Red.”

Nevertheless, when he was stripped of all clothing except his many bandages, Faramir enjoyed the feel of the warm, moist air of the hamam against his exposed skin. What a contrast from the air on the banks of the Anduin, which, except in summer, was always freezing.

“Your uncle did mention that he was concerned about your hygiene,” Narmar admitted, handing Faramir a towel. “Here you are, my lord.”

Faramir stared down at the towel, a bit confused. “I'm not wet yet.”

“To be used as a drape, for modesty's purposes,” the Warden pointed out.

“Modesty?” Faramir was baffled. He stood stark naked in a huge hamam populated by exactly five males. The only windows were in the ceiling. Why should this be an issue for the Warden—who obviously had never served in the military, where everyone got clean by throwing themselves naked into a stream—but wait... “Good Narmar, does this bath serve women, too?”

“They are in the women's half,” Narmar answered, as Faramir wrapped the towel around his hips. “That's better. After all, you are the Steward, now.”

“I think he means that the towel makes you look dignified, above and beyond your average Beorn,” Beregond teased, as he and the Warden led Faramir to a fountain against the near wall. There a statute of a maiden poured water from a vase into a shallow pool. As Faramir sat on a bench beside the fountain, he noted that the statute wore a short, sleeveless tunic, simply belted at the waist, as Numenoreans were often depicted in art.

Narmar indicated a bar on the wall above a bench by the fountain, “Have a seat and hold onto the bar while I remove your bandages. And here is a cloth for you to hold in your mouth.”

“I don't need to bite down on a cloth,” Faramir said adamantly, though he did grasp the bar lightly in his left hand.
“What will hurt you the most is actually the adhesive materials pulling against your uninjured skin,” the Warden pointed out, as he, fast as lightning, removed the bandage from Faramir's right side. Before Faramir could realize that it hurt, the bandage was gone.

“This,” the Warden said, “is from an arrow that pierced beneath your hauberk. It hit your ribs and is not very deep. It seems to be healing cleanly. Now Guardsman Beregond, please help the Steward to raise his right arm. This next wound will most likely hurt the most when exposed.”

Faramir's right arm was very weak, muscles and tendons complaining as he rested it on Beregond's shoulder. The Warden slowly unwrapped the extensive wrapping around Faramir's chest and beneath his right armpit, to expose a nasty, inflamed puncture. Faramir gripped the bar with his left hand and took a sharp intake of breath.

“An arrow went several inches deep beneath your armpit, but missed any vital organs. It has some infection that should be stayed by the baths and some salves I'll put on it.”

“These wounds don't sound very serious,” Faramir mentioned to Narmar.

“Not in comparison to that gut wound, certainly” the Warden said, having no doubt seen the old scar on Faramir's upper abdomen. “This wound will prevent you from drawing a bow for some weeks, however. And then you will have to rehabilitate it. You might be able to wield a light sword sooner. But see here...”

The Warden lifted Faramir's stringy hair away and quickly removed the bandage at the base of his neck.

Faramir realized that he was falling. His desperate ride had found him outside the hidden gates to the Sewers. The screeching Witch King on his wretched steed was perched above him on an overhanging roof. Below him was the Southron, his right hand raised. There was no pain, only overwhelming despair.

“My lord,” Narmar shook Faramir's left shoulder slightly. “Are you all right?”

The ruins of Osgiliath dissolved into the warm humidity of the hamam. Faramir shook his head to clear it, making the tiny wounds on his neck cry out in anger. Now he only saw the Warden, who knelt beside the bench and stared directly into his eyes. Beregond sat beside him, slowly lowering Faramir's right arm from his shoulder.

Faramir sighed. “That is where the Southron's dart pierced me.”

“The dart brought on your fever and the death-like state that evidently fooled your father,” an overwhelmingly sad expression came over the Warden's face. “The poison might have killed lesser men,though it shouldn't have killed you. However, there was another aspect, something that I knew nothing about.” He began to unwrap the strips of fabric that bound Faramir's burned legs.

“And that was?” Faramir prompted when the Warden ceased speaking, evidently concentrating on the state of the exposed burns. They didn't hurt much but they weren't very pretty to look at.

“You know the story behind these burns. They should heal with minor scarring,” the Warden got to his feet. “Here is some soap. Wash yourself in the fountain. Gently. Do not scrub. Then get into the steaming pool. Beregond, help Faramir to soap his right side. ”

Faramir stepped gingerly into the fountain. He could tell that the Warden was withholding information and was not happy to reveal it. “What was that aspect of my injury that you knew nothing about?” he persisted gently, trying to catch the Warden's eyes. As weary as he was, Faramir knew that he must get to the bottom of this mystery before he could totally recover his health.

The Warden turned his gaze on Beregond, as if to avoid looking at Faramir. Narmar said, “The Black Breath.”

“What's that? Just the name of it gives me the chills,” the guardsman shuddered.

“Mithrandir said it was caused by close exposure to the Nazgul,” Narmar spoke slowly, with great difficulty. “How close did you get to the Nazgul, Faramir? I've only seen them once or twice, in the air, horrible though that was.”

Now rid of surface grime, Faramir stepped out of the fountain, “Oh, the Witch King and I knew each other well,” he said, full of sarcasm and the joy that his tormentor was now dead. “His troop's steeds were favorite targets of mine. I don't think he liked that at all.”

“What are you saying?” Beregond looked most horrified. “I can't imagine anyone getting close to those Nazgul, unless you were in the claws of one of their beasts.”

Feeling extremely exhausted, Faramir again grasped Beregond's shoulder as they walked slowly to the steaming pool. He said, “I've snuck up on various Nazgul in the past. I could never kill them. But I could repel them with fire. And their terrible mounts are remarkably easy to bring down with a couple of arrows. You have to get within close range to them, though.” Faramir remembered the last Fell Beast his arrows had pierced, just as its rider was about to swoop down and carry off the Halfling Frodo, Son of Drogo.

“Mithrandir was right, then,” the Warden concluded. “He said that you had long been exposed to the Nazgul. This exposure, the Black Breath, diminished your ability to ward off disease and death. You couldn't fight the poison from the Harad dart and so were dying when you came to our wards. Lord Aragorn was the only one who could bring you back from the lands of the wraiths. There were others who also suffered from Black Breath, though not to the degree as yourself. Aragorn suggested that your long exposure to the Black Breath might still cause you lingering despair, unclear thinking, and despondency.”

So that was it, Faramir thought. That's why the Witch King's face and voice still torment me, even though he has fallen. He asked, “What can I do to heal myself of this malady?”

“I'm not sure,” the Warden admitted as he and Beregond helped Faramir climb the short steps at the rim of the hot pool. “It might be that your mind and heart need to be healed, as well as your body. Hot pools are a good place to start.”

Faramir stepped into the pool carefully, surprised and delighted by the feel of the steaming heat lapping about his ankles. And then he put one burned leg into the water. “Great Manwe's Balls!!” he thundered.

“My lord!!” the Warden cried.

"Varda's bloody...”

“Faramir, watch your language. Think of the women!!” Narmar cut him off resoundingly. “Now get in the pool very slowly. The burns might hurt but the hot water is therapeutic for them.”

“Women? Where are they?” Beregond's apparent concern evaporated into an amused grin.

The Warden gestured to a row of rectangular lattice-work panels where an inside wall joined the bottom of the domed ceiling. “This hall shares those ventilators with the women's section. They can hear us quite plainly.”

Only slightly abashed by his unconscious resort to Ranger invective, Faramir let the rest of his body sink carefully into the pool. Except for his blistering calves, the effect of the steamy water on aching muscles and barely healing wounds was marvelous. Mmmm. He could handle this. It wasn't torture at all, although who knew what to expect from the final step in the treatment, the waiting scissors and razor of Boromir's barber?

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

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

The word "hamam" is Turkish. It refers to the vast bathing halls that were common in the Ottoman Empire and can still be found today in Middle Eastern and North African countries. In my imagination, the hamams of Gondor are more like the great Roman baths. I was fortunate to visit the ruins of the Roman Bath of Aquae Sulis, which is in the British city of Bath (of course). From ancient communal baths to today's luxurious spa's, people soak in mineral springs for curative as well as cleanliness purposes. Why shouldn't Faramir? And why shouldn't Eowyn? Stay tuned.