Format: short story
Warnings: minor injury
Characters: Boromir, Faramir, OMc
Summary: Faramir's visions prove dangerous for him.
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
He was aboard a wind tossed ship, his bride asleep beside him on the starboard side, when the wave approached. He closed his eyes and prepared for death, believing he must bid farewell to love and light. The wave reared up with its mighty crest of white foam, an angry steed, a harbinger of death. He felt a sudden sharp pain in his arm.
Boromir’s voice forced him back to the present. The wave in his mind receded, but the pain remained. His arm was wet, not with seawater, but with blood.
“You are hurt!”
“It is nothing, just a scratch.” Faramir ruefully wound his kerchief around his arm.
“Whatever were you thinking of, Faramir?” Boromir’s eyes were filled with a mixture of anger and concern. “I could have killed you. You were miles away!”
“I am sorry, Boromir.”
“Was it one of your visions?” Boromir’s tone softened.
Faramir nodded. “It was the wave in my mind again. It seems to draw closer.”
Boromir sheathed his sword and nodded to his squire to unbuckle the light armour he wore for sword practise. “You are hurt, we must summon a healer. I am so sorry, Faramir.”
“Do not trouble yourself, it is nothing, the bleeding has almost stopped.”
“It could become infected. If it were one of your men who was injured you would insist that they see the healer. We had better go to the Houses now if you can walk, we do not want to keep father waiting for the day meal.”
“Very well,” Faramir sighed.
“I know you have always had visions,” said Boromir. “But in the middle of a practise bout? You are starting to worry me!”
“The times are growing darker from which we shall either escape as did Elendil and his folk, or be utterly destroyed as was Númenor of old!”
“How cheerful you are brother!”
“Not all my visions are dark. This time there was a lady with me, I knew to be my bride. Then sometimes I see the White Tree blossoming and I kneel before the King returned.” Faramir turned to his brother and his eyes were alight with joy.
“That sounds like a nightmare to me,” said Boromir. “I look forward to having rod and rule when our father leaves the circles of this world.” His expression brightened. “Maybe you see me, little brother? If I were to lead us in victory against the Dark Lord, maybe the Council would offer me the silver crown?”
Faramir shook his head. “I have never met the man I see in my visions, Boromir, but I would know him at once if I beheld him.”
“You had best not speak of such fancies to father.”
Faramir laughed mirthlessly. “I know better than to do that.”
The brothers lapsed into silence as they walked side by side down to the sixth circle where the Houses of Healing were located. It was a windy day and a fresh breeze from the Anduin blew in their faces and hair. When they passed through the gardens of the Houses, the autumn leaves swirled about their feet.
“I knew it would be windy,” Faramir remarked.
“Another vision, little brother?”
Faramir laughed. “No, the moon had a golden ring about it last night, that always signifies stormy weather, or so the sailors at Dol Amroth say!”
The brothers went within and enquired if they might see Master Tarostar, one of the senior healers. He was also kin to their father.
“Master Tarostar is occupied,” said the clerk.
“I am the Steward’s son and heir,” said Boromir. “I desire to see him now.”
“Boromir!” Faramir chided when the man had scuttled away.
“What is the use of being heir to the Stewardship if I cannot make use of it?” Boromir replied.
“But Master Tarostar might be tending some seriously ill patient!” Faramir protested.
“Or he might be having an afternoon nap. When men have important business they usually make sure their lackeys inform the world of it!”
He had no chance to say anything further before Tarostar appeared. He was a tall man of middle to late years with grey hair and a beard.
“My brother is hurt,” said Boromir before Tarostar had a chance to speak.
“It’s just a scratch,” Faramir said.
“Let me be the judge of that,” said Tarostar. “Come with me.” He led the way to a chamber, which was reserved for those of high rank when they were ailing or wounded.
Tarostar bade Faramir sit on the bed and unwound the bloody kerchief that he had wound around his forearm. “Hmm,” he said, as he examined Faramir’s arm.
“Hmm?” said Boromir. “Is my brother badly hurt?”
“For once, the patient is right,” said Tarostar. “It is just a scratch. How did you come by it, Lord Faramir?”
“He was injured when we were sparring,” said Boromir.
“Can you not be more careful?” Tarostar said testily. “I have enough to do patching up men who were injured by the enemy!” He began to clean the wound then applied a salve. It stung and Faramir grimaced.
“It will not be effective if it does not hurt,” said the healer. He picked up a bandage. “Keep it wrapped for a day or two, it does not require stiches and should soon heal. Now I must return to my seriously injured patients. I bid you good day.” He swept from the room.
“What appalling manners that man has!” said Boromir.
“We should not have come here,” said Faramir as the two left the Houses of Healing.
“We are the Steward’s heirs, we deserve the best care,” said Boromir.
“So does every humble soldier that fights for Gondor,” Faramir replied. “We are “Arandur”, servants of the King.”
“A king that will never return,” said Boromir. “The people look to the House of Hurin for leadership in these dark times.”
“Which we shall give them,” said Faramir. “But we live in hope of the King’s return however many centuries have passed.”
Boromir did not reply and the two walked on in silence.
“Have your dreams if you must, little brother,” said Boromir. They had reached the Court of the Fountain. “However, the days of our longfathers have gone. The White Tree is dead. It will never put forth blossom.”
“I have seen it my visions,” said Faramir. “Therefore I live in hope.”
“I prefer to trust my sword,” said Boromir.