Chapter 7

In the royal apartments supper had been cleared away and the guests should have been relaxing in front of the fire over a glass of fine wine but once again the topic that engaged their attention was the absence of the Steward.

 The Council was concluded and all but one of the delegations had been seen off on their way with all of the necessary pomp and splendour. Only Prince Imrahil remained; his concern for his missing nephew delaying his departure.

“I take it there has been no word, Sire,” queried the Prince, voicing the question that they had been studiously ignoring all evening.

Legolas answered for the King. “The messengers should have reached the garrison at Emyn Arnen late last night, but even if they have anything to report we cannot expect to receive word back before first light tomorrow! If Beregond went south with Faramir as planned it could be several days before we hear anything.”

“And you say there has been no report of trouble? Can you think of nothing that would explain his delay?” The Prince of Dol Amroth words were sharpened by his growing anxiety.

“He went in response to Beregond’s request,” explained the King. “Apparently he had some concerns to do with the Troops but Faramir thought it merely administrative and logistical difficulties; he assured me that he had had no indication of trouble on the borders.”

“I don’t understand it! It is so out of character. If Faramir gave an undertaking to be here for the Council then something grave must have occurred to keep him away.”

“I’m not so sure,” said the King sadly, “since he returned from Rohan he has not been himself. He has been passive and withdrawn and his behaviour in meetings borders on embarrassing; he stumbles and fawns and allows the councillors to ride roughshod over him…he has not performed well!” Imrahil was almost more shocked by these revelations than by Faramir’s absence.

“There must be some mistake, Sire, surely. That just doesn’t sound like the man I know; Faramir has always put duty and honour before everything.”

“But we have to consider that this change in character could be a result of the trials and difficulties he has encountered in the last few months,” explained the King, voicing for the first time a worry that had been plaguing him for some time. “Faramir has twice cheated death and has also come under the influence of the Black Breath; for one as introspective and sensitive as Faramir, who knows what the long term consequences of that might be?”

****

The two mounted figures raced across the Pelennor in the darkness with as much speed as their exhausted mounts could manage. They had been riding for hours and the steady rain added to the misery of their journey.

As they reached the gates of the White City a trumpet sounded in the darkness to announce the return of the Steward to the city. Guards released the mighty new gates to allow the travellers entry. Tamir called to the Guard Commander to alert him that two wagons with escorts would arrive by first light and that they should be directed to the healing houses without delay.

The Commander gave his instructions and then, retrieving his own mount, accompanied the Steward and his Adjutant up through the silent, rain-soaked levels of the city.

“Sir,” he said addressing Faramir. “I have orders that you are to be escorted up to the citadel without delay!”

“Am I under arrest?” he asked, noting the discomfort of the Commander but not having the energy to make further comment.

“No, Sir,” he apologised, “My instructions were only that you should go directly to the King.”

They parted company at the stables; Faramir and Tamir handed their mounts over to the grooms and as they headed towards the Citadel two Guards moved into step behind them.

Footsteps in the corridor forewarned the Royal entourage of the approach of the Guard party. A Squire knocked and announced their arrival.

“Sire, Lord Faramir!” A collective sigh of relief echoed around the room as Faramir, accompanied by Tamir, entered the room and saluted the King.

For those observing the two travellers much could be deduced from their appearance. Both were dishevelled and dirty, their hair sopping wet and their mud-splattered cloaks dripping expanding puddles on the tiles at their feet. Faramir held himself rigidly upright, too chilled to even shiver; Tamir one step behind him watched his master rather than the other occupants in the room, ready to offer a supporting hand if necessary.

The only person who seemed to miss the significance of Faramir’s grey-faced, dark-eyed countenance was the King. His initial relief at the safe return of the travellers quickly giving way to long suppressed frustration and anger.

“I take it there is a ‘very’ good excuse for your prolonged absence, my Lord Steward!” his voice quiet but icy. “I made only one request of you, one requirement that you should be here at my side for the Council. Was that too much to ask?” he spat, crashing his hand onto the table in his anger.

“I’ve gone out of my way to accommodate your whims and inadequacies but I cannot ignore this blatant dereliction of duty…If you find your duties as Steward so onerous I will arrange for you to be relieved of them. If you cannot offer me your cooperation and support you had best hand over your Badges of Office and remove yourself from my city…!”

“Estel…ESTEL! A moment please!” The Queen’s tone was not one to be ignored. She drew the King aside. “For goodness sake control your temper!” she hissed. “This is no way to deal with this situation…Get yourself in hand and look at him…He’s nearly dead on his feet. Your lecture can wait for a more suitable time and place.” With this she poured a glass of spirit and took it to Faramir but he was unable to hold the glass steady. She covered his hand on the glass and raised it to his lips, at the same time signalling to Tamir to draw up a chair. Between them they helped the Steward to remove his sodden cloak and gently levered him down into the chair. Legolas passed the Queen a woollen blanket and helped her to drape it around Faramir’s shoulders.

Arwen knelt down beside him and tried to chafe some warmth back into his frozen hands.

“Faramir, can you tell us what happened?”

He tried desperately to clear the fog in his head and looked from the Queen to the King. Arwen squeezed his arm encouragingly.

With his voice quiet and flat with exhaustion he gave his report.

“We spent several days at Emyn Arnen; there was more to sort out and decide than I had anticipated but the mason and builder had the plans and work well in hand. Beregond arrived and we discussed the expansion of the garrison, the training regime and general administrative details; he was worried that poor supply schedules were causing disruption and low morale amongst the troops.

“With those problems addressed we set off south towards the border area; half of the battalion were stationed there and I wanted to see for myself troop deployments. There were no major problems except for more gripes about supplies, so we headed back toward Heneth Annun where the remainder of the battalion were on training exercises. Beregond left us half a day’s ride from the refuge and he set off back to the Garrison.

We knew when we got within sight of the camp that something was amiss. Half the troops were resting in the open on the hill above the entrance to the cave complex. Off to the side were five freshly dug graves. No one challenged us as we approached; I demanded to see the officer in charge and they pointed to one of the graves and explained that the Sergeant was down in the caves.

The Company had been decimated by an outbreak of Summer Fever; out of a roll of fifty only eight had been unaffected. Not only had they lost their Officer but their medic had also succumbed to the affliction; those in the open-air encampment were either recovering or those unaffected who had not been involved in caring for their sick comrades.

We made our way down into the refuge; it was chaos! Three or four men trying to care for more than twenty in various stages of the illness. It was pitiful; many were raving and had to be restrained to prevent them injuring themselves, some lay gasping for breath, wheezing to get enough air into their lungs. There were no healing herbs left and the food supplies were rank and spoiled. The lads caring for them were exhausted; we stayed and did what we could!”

“Why didn’t you send for aid?” someone asked.

“Beregond was nearest but I didn’t want to risk spreading the contagion to the Garrison,” Faramir continued. “We lost four more men; those that just had the fever seemed to recover well enough, if slowly, but in some the contagion affected their lungs…there was nothing we could do! They gasped for breath until they just gave up the fight against the fluid in their lungs. After the last death we decided to return to the city. The last seven who were all left with breathing problems we loaded into wagons to bring them back here. They should arrive by morning though two of them may not have survived the journey…”

“May I be excused now, Sire,” begged Faramir struggling to get to his feet. “I must warn the Warden to expect patients and the Troop Commander to send reinforcements… Beregond will be hard pressed to maintain safe coverage of the border areas of South Ithilien…I must see….”

“Peace, Faramir,” soothed the King, with a hand on his shoulder to keep him in his seat. “It will be attended to. Legolas, will you see that the message is sent to warn them in the Houses of Healing and also get the Troop Commander up here as soon as possible.” With those arrangements made he turned back to the Seward.

“I owe you my apologies, Faramir. Please forgive my outburst earlier; I should have trusted that some crisis had kept you away…I’m sorry!”

“A King should not apologise, Sire. I let you down again…I’m sorry!” Faramir slumped down into the chair, all energy finally exhausted.

“Tamir, how long is it since either of you slept?” The King turned his attention to the Adjutant while Arwen ministered to Faramir.

“I don’t know, Sire. Too long!”

 “Have you had any symptoms of the fever?”

“No, Sire, but I had Summer Fever two years ago and I’ve heard that you can’t get it twice!”

“True enough. Do you have family in the cit?,” the King enquired.

“Yes, Sire, my mother and sister run a small shop in the Third Circle,” answered Tamir, puzzled as to the relevance of the King’s question.

The King went into command mode. “Right, Tamir, when we are done here you are to report to the Warden and if he pronounces you free of contagion you are to go to your family to recuperate. On the third morning from now, if the Warden gives you leave, you may return to duty. Is that all clear?”

“Yes Sire.”

“Lord Faramir, you are relieved of all duties until further notice. Prince Imrahil and Tamir will escort you to the Houses of Healing; you will submit yourself to the Warden’s care and instruction until he releases you.”

“But Sire…”

“No, Faramir, that is an order and a request…” Aragorn knelt down beside the Steward and captured his gaze. “How long is it since you felt the onset of symptoms?” he asked gently, resting his hand against the Steward’s pale, clammy forehead, feeling the tell-tale heat of fever.

“I’m fine, Sire… ‘m cold…just need to sleep…too much to do…Beregond needs…”he rambled, losing the battle for coherence.

“Come on then Lad; let’s find you a warm and dry bed.” Prince Imrahil coaxed as he helped him gently to his feet. Assisted by Tamir he led the ailing, exhausted Steward out of the Royal apartments.

“Imrahil, tell the Warden I will be there presently,” the King called to the retreating figures.

.

.

TBC.

A/N

Thank you to everyone for your kind and supportive comments, I really appreciate every one.