Chapter 8: Reprieve
It was cool beneath the water, and Boromir was almost reluctant to emerge from it. Bathing was a luxury he could not afford for the past few days, and when presented with the opportunity, he could not resist. Sighing, he waded out of the shallow stream, clad only in his breeches, and cast a critical eye on the desperate operations before him.
Villagers – many still in soiled and tattered tunics – were working as fast they could to harvest the wheat. It was fortunate that the wheat was ripe for harvest to begin with, or Boromir had to figure out how to protect the growing wheat – something he'd rather not do at a time like this. In fact, the harvest celebration was actually only two weeks away, and the villagers were in the midst of preparing a great feast before the orc raid began. But today, thoughts of celebration were far away as wagons from the outlying villages poured into the little village almost on an hourly basis.
Injured soldiers and villagers – those able to walk at all – shuffled wearily about the village with the aid of more able-bodied people. A proper place of healing was finally set up in the village hall, but Boromir could see from the harried expressions of the Healers and their helpers that they were being stretched too thin. He wondered how long the grief-stricken Andain could function before crumbling from his loss. And he felt guilt-stricken yet glad that Irulan was spending so much time with Faramir.
Boromir had told the village head frankly that it may take awhile to secure the breach – if they could at all. He could still remember the disheartened look on the aged man's face when he realised that they may not be able to have a home to come home.
Not only have they seen their loved ones killed they may now lose their homes, he thought in despair.
As he clumsily put on his clothes in his tent in the middle of the village, his men came into it in a steady stream to report on the progress of the evacuation. Most of the women and children have safely left for the other villages. Some aid – food and medicine - has come from the other villagers but were deemed insufficient. But the wounded was the most problematic of all. Moving such a big number – about fifty or so – was not only a logistic challenge, but a risky one as well as many were too ill for such a journey.
Boromir frowned heavily as he thought of his brother.
After the battle, the rangers had carefully carried Faramir into a home unspoiled by the raid – it was a humble farmer's home, but Boromir was grateful that the kind wife had offered Faramir a comfortable bed. Irulan informed him that Faramir’s side wound was deep, but had missed vital organs. However, it had clearly become infected. Boromir despaired that his brother remained unconscious, and wondered if he’d ever awake.
Would you not wake, brother? And reassure me that you will live? He thought worriedly.
When the last soldier left his tent, Boromir slammed his fist on the rickety table in his tent in frustration. A mug wobbled, fell, and spilled water onto its surface. Absently, he watched the water trickle over the table to land on the muddy ground.
It was a miracle that we survived the attack, but can we even survive the aftermath? I grow so weary of Mordor's evil plans.
“My Lord! Riders!” someone cried out fearfully.
Startled, Boromir hurried out to the village square. There, he saw excited villagers pointing towards the path to the village. Bit he could only see a heavy dust cloud there; he squinted as he tried to make out the riders through the dust. Is this another enemy? Instinctively, he reached out for the sword at his side. Likewise, soldiers and rangers ran to the path, some with weapons drawn.
But then Boromir saw shiny armour, gilded blue banners … with a ship and swan…
And the soldiers stopped suddenly and threw their fists into the air and shouted with joy instead. He grinned furiously when a cheer rose about the village as many realised who the riders were. Forgetting all decorum in his delight, Boromir ran up the path, stopping only when the man at the lead slowed down and signaled for the company to halt. He took off his helmet and his fair hair - like Faramir and Boromir’s … and like his sister Finduilas' – flew in the wind.
“Uncle!” Boromir called out and reached out to clasp his kinsman's hand.
“Well met, Boromir,” said Prince Imrahil, returning his grip heartily. Although he smiled, his expression was grave. “Your scout told me that Faramir is injured.”
“Yes,” Boromir said. “He still lies in a swoon, and he burns with fever. And there are not enough herbs to ease it … a wagon is being readied to bring him to Minas Tirith as we speak.”
Imrahil nodded and then dismounted. “Then you’ll be glad to know we brought healers, and medicine.”
Boromir's eyes widened in surprise and then he tossed his head and laughed, overcome with joy. It's as if the Valar saw their needs and decided to bless them with it. “How? And not that I’m not glad to see you here, uncle, for your presence is sorely needed, but why are you here?”
For Prince Imrahil never strayed far from his territories near the sea.
“The Steward bid us to come here and secure this place from the orcs. He feared that you were outnumbered. But I’m glad to see that it is not true – I had greatly feared that we were too late,” he said.
“We were outnumbered, but we beat them back anyway,” he said, grinning fiercely.
“Aye, you are a good soldier, Boromir. Now, where is your brother? The healers will need to see him.”
It was only now that he saw the two healers behind Imrahil – one old, and another young, perhaps just fresh out of apprenticeship. Judging from the robes they wore, they were from the Houses of Healing. And his eyes blurred with tears when he saw the satchels of medicines they carried. How they needed this relief!
“Your father thought it wise to bring them as he anticipated many wounded men. Ah, to have Faramir included in that number!” Imrahil said, shaking his head.
***
Boromir and Imrahil entered the modest home, and the first thing they saw were two grime-covered children – a boy and a girl - sitting on the floor with scraps of dry bread in their hands. They looked up, wide-eyed with surprise, when they entered.
And at that very moment, a woman came into the tiny hall carrying a bowl of water. When she saw them, she let out a little gasp of surprise.
Boromir’s heart began beating furiously when he saw that the water was red. Blood.
“My brother…?” his voice was weak with fear.
The woman peered at him curiously then, realising who he was, curtsied hurriedly.
“Lord Boromir, forgive me!” She placed the bowl on a table, and smiled curiously at Imrahil while she did so.
“I am Herlith, sir. Irulan and I were cleaning his wounds, my Lord,” she said as she hastily dried her hands on her skirt. “He is still sleeping. He did wake for a while, but he did not seem aware for long and fell asleep again.”
He heaved a sigh of relief while Imrahil relaxed visibly. His uncle clasped him on the shoulder in comfort and smiled at the woman wearily.
“We bid you thanks for your care, kind lady,” said Imrahil. “But I’ve had a long journey and would be glad to see my nephew.”
Her eyes widened further and she gestured impatiently at her children.
“It is Prince Imrahil and Captain Boromir, children! Stand up and mind your manners!” she said, hurrying to their side and fussing over their rumpled clothes.
Boromir and Imrahil could not help but smile when the two children clumsily attempted a bow and a curtsy. It was obvious that their mother thought it important to drill good manners into her children, and when the young girl gave him a tiny smile, Boromir could not help but return it. They were a sturdy folk, the people of Endh Aes, thought Boromir. Despite the horror that they've endured but a few hours ago, they have rallied together to do necessary things such as taking care of the injured and harvesting the wheat.
Pleased that her children have suitably demonstrated their manners, Herlith then led them to a room. Boromir’s gaze was immediately drawn to the large bed in the middle. There lay Faramir, his face turned to one side, a pained grimace on his white face.
He was paler – paler than he was yesterday. They had cleaned the blood off his skin, and he was dressed in a clean nightshirt. Fresh, white bandages peeked out from beneath the low collar of the simple shirt. He did not like how Faramir breathed in shallow and quick gasps, and how he tossed and turned, muttering breathlessly. From beside the bed, Irulan rose, a cloth in her hand. She had been mopping his brow when they came in.
It took just one look at her strained expression to know that all was not well.
“We need more willow bark,” she said in a tight voice. Her frank demand belied her anxiety, and it made Boromir’s heart race painfully in his chest.
“And you shall have it, Irulan.”
Startled, Irulan turned to the direction of the voice. A joyous smile spread over her weary face when she saw the two Healers behind them. She cried out in delight and ran to them, enveloping the two in an embrace which they gladly returned.
“Huldin! Imradil! I never thought that I’ll see you here!” she gave her fellow Healers another hug, and brightened visibly when she saw that they were holding satchels filled with precious herbs.
“I cleaned his wound the best I could, but I fear that it is not enough,” Irulan said anxiously as she returned to Faramir’s side. Carefully, she lifted his shirt to reveal a light bandage at his side – already spotted with blood. Imradil, the older of the two, leaned forward and lifted up the cloth.
And Boromir could smell the copper scent of blood … and beneath it, the faint smell of decay he knew so well in the battlefield.
And his worst fears were confirmed when Imradil shook his head and murmured, “That must be cut. It is poisoning his blood.”
“I’ve never seen a wound go bad so quickly. It’s only been two days,” whispered Irulan, but not soft enough to hide it from Boromir.
Alarmed, Boromir grabbed the young Healer – Huldin – who was busy taking out herbs. He did it so suddenly and brusquely that Huldin spilled the herbs.
“My Lord?” he remarked, startled.
“What does he mean, that ‘it must be cut’?” he demanded.
Seeing the commotion, Imradil got up quickly and nodded to Huldin, who bowed shortly at Boromir before returning to his satchel. Quietly, the aged healer led them outside.
“His wound has festered, my Lord,” he said in a low, somber tone once they were outside the room. “And we need to cut out the dead flesh immediately.”
Boromir suddenly felt unsteady on his feet, but he mustered the strength to ask the question he did not dare to ask, yet must: “Will he live?”
“His condition is grave, I won't lie to you. But Lord Faramir is strong and young. That is in his favour,” said Imradil carefully.
He is not making any promises, thought Boromir anxiously. He isn’t sure if Faramir will survive the procedure!
Alarmed, Boromir made to return to the room, but his uncle placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.
“I know you are worried for your brother, Boromir. So am I,” he murmured sternly. “But we need to let the healers do their work. There is nothing we can do now.” But Boromir couldn’t tear his eyes away from the room, couldn’t pry his mind from imagining his brother dying without him at his side.
“My lord, Yyour brother is strong … and I am experienced in these matters,” Imradil said gently.
He blinked away tears and finally tore his eyes away. He drew a shaking breath to compose himself. “Then I will entrust my brother into your able hands, Master Imradil,” he said in an unsteady voice.
With that, Imradil bowed shortly, and quickly entered the room and closed the door gently behind him.
When the door creaked closed, Boromir nearly came undone. It took great will on his part not to rush into the room and gather Faramir into his arms. He closed his eyes and dragged in another shuddering breath.
“I don’t know what to do, uncle. Orcs and Haradim I can vanquish. But this …?”
“We will fight this together, Boromir,” said Imrahil, holding him close like he once did when he was that grief-stricken boy who just lost his mother. “Rest now, Boromir. I will take over your duties for now.”
Boromir nodded, grateful for the reprieve. He slumped into a chair, staring at the door morosely.
Imrahil patted him on the shoulder and left quietly, but he did not leave him alone for long. He sent a boy bearing some dinner to him. Thankful as he was for his uncle’s kindness, Boromir found that he had no appetite. But Imrahil must have instructed the boy not to leave until he had eaten some food, for to boy stood there awkwardly, staring at him for a long while.
Sighing, he reluctantly chewed on the stale bread, and it was not until he finished the weak tea that the boy finally left his side.
He knew not what the Healers did in the room, but it took hours, by his count.
When he heard Faramir cry out in pain, Boromir stood up so quickly that his chair overturned. But before he could charge into the room, Irulan opened it, carrying out bloody bandages.
Wordlessly, after leaving the bundle of bloodied rags with the woman Herlith, she entered the room again, closing the door behind her.
He sighed in frustration and ran a hand through his matted hair.
He saw, from the corner of his eye, Herlith looking at him in concern. He gave her a weak smile, which she returned. Silently, she returned to her task - boiling water for the Healer’s use.
A moment later, the door swung open again.
Startled, Boromir shot to his feet.
Imradil was the first to walk out, and he did not hesitate to stride purposely to Boromir’s side. “We have managed to clean his wound, my Lord, and have given him a drought for the pain. He will sleep for many hours. But he is very weak, and cannot be moved – at least for a few days. However, we also need to remove him to Minas Tirith as soon as we can as well, for this place is not sufficient for his healing,” Imradil whispered in a low voice.
He was in need of other medicines, said Imradil, and because of his frail condition, he needed care night and day – care that the four healers could not provide sufficiently here, stretched thin as they were by the demands of the many wounded.
It is not safe here either. Unless we secure the village, the orcs may try to attack again, Boromir thought darkly.
Imradil then said that he may visit his brother, but cautioned him not to rouse Faramir – not that it was possible, thought Boromir – and to call them if there was any alarming sign. Quietly, the Healers removed themselves from the room, allowing Boromir some privacy with his brother.
Alone at last, Boromir grasped the pale hand resting on the bedclothes with his own. He gazed into his brother’s still and white face, and noted how laboured his breathing seemed to be. Then, overcome, Boromir buried his face in his other hand, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs.