A Face in the Crowd: Faramir

Chapter Two - The Hands of a Healer

*Some short sections of text in this chapter are taken from The Return of the King, property of J.R.R Tolkien & the Tolkien Estate. All of my fanfiction is not for profit.

Time was moving strangely. Keren knew she was running down the halls towards the warden's room, and yet she could not seem to make her legs move fast enough. Beregond was talking constantly, hurriedly, but his voice seemed slow and foggy and distant. She could not make herself think straight, and dimly registered that she was in shock. She was glad beyond any joy she had ever felt that Faramir was alive, but the few words of Beregond's that she had caught...

Wounded...perhaps mortal...may be dying.

The fact that he was alive after all, but barely. The fact that he could still shortly be taken from her. She had to pull herself together, for now he needed her. She studied him as he lay still and unresponsive as the two guards carried him along with the little man running beside, face creased with worry.

Faramir's face was the colour Keren's mother's had been as she lay still and silent on her death-bed. His hair lay stuck to his forehead and the nape of his neck, drenched in sweat, but his chest was rising up and down with slow and steady breaths. He was deeply unconscious, and burning with fever.

"Sit by him and rest while you can, you look dead on your feet," Beregond said as he and his fellow guard lifted Faramir from the bier to the bed. "Where can I find the warden?"

"He should be in the main ward," Keren replied. "If no-one can find him ask for Ioreth instead, she is just as skilled."

The two guards left swiftly. The little man scurried after them, throwing a last worried glance at Faramir, then meeting Keren's eyes with pleading fear.

Once they had gone Keren took a deep, steadying breath in the silence. For the first time in her life, she was alone with him.

She tentatively reached out and lifted his shirt to see the extent of any wound there may be. On his left side, close to his heart, there was a small amount of blood on his skin, fairly fresh. Someone with a skilled hand had removed the arrow, staunched the blood-flow and cleaned the wound. It would simply need cleaning again, perhaps some stitches, and to be bandaged. The incision was smaller than she feared. She breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

But then she remembered the muffled tidings through the warden's door, and Beregond's words – a poisoned arrow. It was not the wound that was fatal, but the evil liquid that was now in his blood. She took his hand within her own and tried to calm her sudden tears and ragged breathing in case Beregond returned with the warden.

This was certainly not how she had imagined the first time she touched him to be - unaware of her even being there, unaware of anything. She felt his hand under her fingers, calloused and hardened by both pen and sword.

After a time Beregond and the little man brought the warden to the room. She hastily dropped Faramir's hand. She did not think anyone had seen, but the small man gave her a questioning, strange look as he left.

"Forgive me, sir," she said to the warden once they were alone. "I couldn't think where else to bring him."

The warden shook his head, then placed his hand on Faramir's forehead.

"You did the right thing, Keren," he said. "All we can provide for him is comfort and peace. There is little we can do except attempt to bring his fever down."

Keren stared up at him.

"Then he will die?" she asked.

"I hope, for all our sakes, not," he replied. "But he was struck with a poisoned arrow, and he has been left two days without any treatment."