Faramir makes it to the Steward's suite just in time to throw himself between his brother and his father and prevent a family tragedy

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Plot by dream_in_a_jar

He had to go after them. Because Boromir was angry with their father. And when Boromir got angry, well, then things happened. And it was all because of him.

He pulled his robe in place and rose, and almost immediately fell over as a wave of dizziness rushed through him. A sharp spike of pain travelled through his lower body, and for a few brief seconds he remembered the cause. No, he thought shuddering, he mustn’t think of that.

He forced himself to move, stumbling out of the door as his aching body protested. All he wanted to do was to lie back down in the soft bed, cuddle up under the covers and have Aragorn run his fingers through his hair soothing him.

Everything hurt. His back, his shoulders, his ribs, his entire body. And his head pounded miserably. And the dizziness was increasing. He moved on slowly, almost staggering like an old man, glad that he could walk through these hallways purely on instinct for the lines were blurred in front of his eyes.

His father’s chambers were not far now. He must get there sooner, he thought desperately and stop Boromir before he woke their father. But even as he neared the long hallway that led to his father’s rooms he realised he was too late. He could hear Boromir’s angered voice in the distance. He ran down the passage, ignoring the pain flaring through him again, and came to a stop at Denethor’s open door, trying desperately to ignore the blackness that threatened to overwhelm him.

Boromir was shouting loudly at their father, who was standing in front of his fireplace, still in his day clothes. Clearly he had been working late. Boromir held his sword at his side, and it glinted angrily in the firelight.

Aragorn stood by the fireplace, looking unhappy.

“Come, father, tell me! How could you even consider such a proposition? And why is it that even now my brother lies in bed injured by some madman. Do you not care for him?”

“No,” Denethor’s voice was cold, and almost bored in tone, “I care little for that pathetic fool. Marek’s offer was the best he could hope for. And I would have been gladly rid of him. He has been nothing but trouble since the day he was born. Unfortunately his miserable whining worked on Aragorn enough to make him change his mind.”

He continued unmindful of the anger that grew more and more livid on Boromir’s face and was beginning to show on Aragorn’s face. Faramir listened unmindful of either too. All he could hear was the disgust and dislike in his father’s voice. He had know always that he was the lesser son, the less favoured one but did Denethor truly dislike him so?

“However Marek was still willing to give me some concessions in the trade agreements for a night with Faramir, so where is the harm in that? It was one mere night, Faramir will get to stay on here and continue to inflict his miserable self on me. If he is hurt it is his own foolishness. He should not have resisted Marek.”

“What?” Boromir gasped.

“Marek should not have left marks on him of course. Clearly Faramir must have angered him by trying to resist him,” Denethor continued, his annoyance increasing, “But your fool brother must have done something right. Marek got his pleasure and we have our trade concessions. It is the least Faramir could do. What does he lose?”

“What does he lose?” Boromir roared. Denethor shifted back slightly as though surprised by the force of the fury in Boromir’s voice. It was tone that did not bode well, one that Boromir often had in the battlefield when he would lose all sense of what happened around him and focussed simply on the opponent opposite him.

Faramir felt his cheeks turn wet as tears trickled down his face. But he had little opportunity to react to Denethor’s words for in that instant Boromir had moved forward angrily.

“You ask what he has lost? I wanted to harm Marek first, but now…”

Faramir saw the metal of the sword glint as Boromir moved, and he saw Aragorn move forward shouting. Denethor’s own hand instinctively reached for his sword which stood near the hearth.

“What foolishness is this?” he cried out, “Boromir!”

“Boromir!” Aragorn shouted out too, “You wouldn’t –“

Faramir moved forward too without realising he did so, shouting to Boromir to stop as his brother raised his sword.

“No, don’t!” he shouted, and did the best thing he could think of to prevent what he feared would happen. He threw himself in between the two men. If Boromir were hurt because of him, he would never forgive himself.

He realised too late that his brother and father would not raise their swords at each other. Boromir had swung his sword away, striking out at the air with a howl of anger and frustration, unable to even think of striking his father and steward. The outflung sword point caught Faramir, slashing across his chest just above his right nipple all the way to his shoulder, as he fell in between the two men.

It had gone in deep, he realised dully as he felt the wetness spread over his nightshirt. Vaguely he heard voices in the background, as his knees buckled and he fell toppling over. And then the floor came up to meet his face, and he cried out from the pain of the impact. The blackness continued to hover at the edge of his vision, and the voices around him got louder yet hazier, and the pain that coursed through his body increased as his shoulder flared up, burning fiercely.

Aragorn’s voice filtered through the mass of sounds and he strained to hear the words. He felt him near him, felt the strong hands turn him over, and pull him up. It hurt abominably but he endured it, as his head was pulled close against the broad chest. He slumped against him noting tiredly that Aragorn still smelt of herbs and musk and sex.

Hands tugged at his clothes, and he tried exhaustedly to fend them off for they hurt. And they were taking him away from his beloved king.

“Sshh, it’s all right. I’m here,” he heard Aragorn say.

And then for the second time that night, he fainted.

Aragorn watched as Boromir paced the room, his face pale and wreathed with crease lines, “It’s all my fault,” he kept saying, even as he kept glancing at the healers who were leaning over his brother’s prone body. The sun was rising and outside the city was beginning to waken. He had distracted a distraught Boromir from blaming himself so far by making him get the healers immediately as soon as he’d noticed how much blood Faramir was losing. The healers were trained to deal with injuries like this and they would have better supplies. But now that they had time to sit and wait for the healers to finish, Boromir’s guilt had set in.

“Stop it, Boromir,” Aragorn repeated tiredly, “It’s not your fault, and Faramir will certainly not think so.”

“But it is,” Boromir insisted, “If I hadn’t lost my temper, he would never have. Oh Eru! Whatever was I thinking? If anything happens to him –“

“Nothing will happen to him. Please sit, Boromir, your constant movement will distract the healers.”

Boromir sat, on the chair by Aragorn, and sank his face in his hands.

“But they said, and you agreed, he was badly hurt. And after all that happened at the camp too. I wanted to apologise to him for letting Tirion punish him. That was not his fault either. And now – Aragorn, what do I do now?” Boromir said wildly.

“Ssshhh… it will be all right,” Argaorn said gently, sitting by Boromir and wrapping an arm around him, “It was an accident. He is badly hurt, yes, but he will recover. He is young yet and healthy.”

“But what do I do about him and Father, Aragorn?” Boromir said worriedly, “He is not even here to see how Faramir fares.”

“It is already daybreak, Boromir. He has much work to handle, you know that. He waited till the healers said Faramir would be all right, did he not?” Aragorn knew he sounded unconvincing.

“You have to do something,” Boromir pleaded suddenly.

-Minx 19 February 2006 17:41 (GMT)

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