Chapter 7: The tide turns
During saner times, Boromir would have marveled at how quickly a Healer's tent was built amidst such chaos, especially since the battle was still fresh and raging around them. But with Faramir lying badly wounded in his arms, and his brother’s blood dripping down the side of his battle-stained armour, Boromir did not have the time or the thought to do so.
He stepped into the tent hesitantly, and looked around amazed at the scene before him. There were a handful of rangers in the tent, all wounded, but their numbers were far outnumbered by the commonfolk who bore all manner of grievous wounds. One of the rangers shot up to his feet, clutching his sword, when Boromir entered the tent. But his look of alarm turned to dismay when he saw Faramir in his arms. “Captain Faramir!” he cried out in horror.
It was Haladill, a young ranger barely two summers under Faramir's command. He sported a bloody bandage around his torso, but he did not seem to pay it any heed as he stared at Boromir’s burden, his grey eyes wide with horror.
At his cry, the other Rangers looked at Boromir’s direction. Many gasped in shock while others cursed in anger.
Ancar, whose arm seemed broken, was more subdued. He rose to his feet slowly, his blue eyes fixed on Faramir. The only sign of his grief was his trembling lower lip.
“Where is the healer?” Boromir asked, his voice hoarse with exhaustion.
“He is coming my lord!” said someone from the back. He briefly saw a young boy in soot-covered clothes running to the back of the tent, no doubt to fetch the Healer.
“Lay him down here, Captain Boromir,” Ancar murmured as he prepared a cot by the far right corner of the tent. It was a poor bed for someone in Faramir’s condition, but with so many in the tent lying on the muddy ground or leaning against each other for support, he knew that it was the best bed there. He was grateful for that.
Boromir lowered Faramir gently onto the cot, careful not to jostle the arrow that protruded from Faramir’s shoulder. He stared at the repulsive shaft, and wished he could remove it – but it was embedded too deep and he would cause more damage if he had done so, and Faramir had lost far too much blood to lose more. It needed a more expert hand, that’s for certain.
“He had rushed into the battle alone, bidding us to defend the crops. There were too few of us!” Haladill whispered brokenly.
It is just like Faramir to do so, Boromir thought grimly.
Faramir was deathly pale; the only colour on his white face was the blood which ran down the left side of his face from the cut on his forehead. Ancar gently placed a rolled up cloak beneath Faramir’s head. With a trembling hand, the old ranger carefully pulled away Faramir’s leather amour to reveal the bloody shirt beneath. What he saw made him close his eyes in sorrow, and when he opened them, his eyes were misted with tears.
It was a grievous wound. They did not need to be healers to know that although the blade had avoided his guts – which would have certainly been fatal – he was still in danger as orc blades and arrows were covered with filth that were almost as bad as poison.
United as they were by their fear for Faramir’s life, Ancar and Boromir clasped each other’s shoulders to offer each other comfort.
“Where is the Healer?” Boromir demanded impatiently.
“Captain Boromir, here he is!” cried someone. Reluctantly, Boromir removed his gaze from his brother's face to settle on a man in a once-white robe who looked as if he was covered with the blood of several men … and orcs.
The Healer met his eyes briefly, his grey eyes disturbingly vacant. Without a word, he bent over Faramir and examined him with sure, brisk movements which revealed that he knew his craft. But his unnerving silence set Boromir’s teeth on an edge.
“My brother. How is he?” he asked anxiously.
The healer paused in his ministrations, looking up briefly without meeting his eyes, but he returned his gaze to the arrow, gently probing the arrow wound, ignoring Boromir.
“Don’t you know how to speak?” Boromir hissed as he took a threatening step towards the man, determined to wring the answer out of the man if he had to.
A gentle hand on his shoulder stopped him. Ancar leaned close and whispered, “My Lord. Forgive Master Andain. I was told that he lost his wife and child to the orcs but an hour ago. Yet he has continued beyond his grief, tending the injured without complaint.”
Boromir’s heart immediately clenched with guilt - to think that he was about to berate the man for doing his duty despite his crushing sorrow! But his guilt quickly turned to fury as he thought of the loss the people of this village must have suffered in this siege – a siege he could have prevented if he had only listened to Faramir! He gripped the pommel of his sword; his whole being ached to crush the lives of several orcs.
“Master Andain, watch over my brother,” he told the Healer brusquely as he got clumsily to his feet.
Surprisingly, this time the man acknowledged him by meeting his eyes. “Of course, my Lord,” he whispered, his voice as dead as his gaze.
Quickly, Boromir gently kissed his brother on the forehead.
“Hang on, little brother …,” he whispered into his ear. When he finally managed to tear himself away, his knuckles were white with strain from his death grip on his sword.
He strode out of the tent, vaguely aware that Ancar and Haladill was at his side. When they were outside, he saw that they have somehow hastily grabbed their bows and were strapping on their short swords.
“Ancar, Haladill – stay here and protect this tent,” he commanded.
The two stopped in surprise, exchanging disappointed looks. But Ancar broke the silence and bowed.
“We will protect everyone with our last breath, Captain Boromir,” he vowed in a gruff voice. Haladill bowed, albeit more reluctantly, in response.
He could see that the two were torn between his command and their desire to follow Boromir out into battle, but Boromir would much rather them at his brother’s side than his right now.
“The orcs know no mercy and would think this tent an easy target. My heart would rest easier if able men were at my brother’s side,” he said gravely.
“We will die before an orc blade reaches this tent, Captain,” Ancar vowed, clasping a fist to his chest as he bowed.
Boromir gave the men a curt nod and marched quickly to his horse, determined to rent as many orcs from this world as he could.
***
The battle was long and bloody, and for a while, it seemed as if the tide of orcs would never turn and all was lost. But fuelled by fury and rage, the men of Gondor fought with the single-minded ferocity of the vengeful, finally beating the horde back to the sewer which they came from.
“They are retreating!” a soldier yells.
The soldiers and rangers roared with triumph, throwing their fists in the air.
“And we shall make sure they do not return!” Boromir roared. He pointed his sword to a hill right beside the sewer hole. On top, as if placed by the Valar themselves, were rocks and boulders that had rolled from the mountains from a long-ago rockfall.
“Men! Loose those rocks on the scum!” he commanded.
His men roared in response, many surging towards the hill. The rangers remained behind, harrying the orcs with their arrows. Watching the filth run away like the cowards they were made him grin madly with delight, but he gave few the chance to escape as he ran them down with his sword and his steed.
Someone yelled a warning, and Boromir cried out for his men to get to safety as the rocks came tumbling down. He grinned mirthlessly as he saw the boulders crush many of the orcs, but he was even more satisfied to see them landing over the sewer hole – it would be enough to stop them for now.
The soldiers of Gondor cheered, many embracing each other in their joy. It had been a hard won battle; they had been so badly outnumbered, and so many had been killed or injured…
He gasped. Faramir.
In his bloodlust, he had forgotten about his brother lying gravely wounded in the makeshift Healer’s tent. Shaking in horror, Boromir spurred his horse away, so suddenly that the horse neighed in protest.
“Captain!” someone cried out worriedly. But Boromir ignored the chorus of confused cries, his mind only on Faramir.
He leapt from his horse, and saw to his horror that there were orc bodies strewn on the path. He ran up the hill so fast that by the time he ran into the tent, he was breathing hard. A young woman, who was right at the mouth of the tent, gasped in fright as they nearly collided. She dropped the bowl of water she was carrying onto the muddy floor.
“Rest easy, Irulan, it is Captain Boromir,” said Ancar, who rose from his kneeling position beside a cot.
A cot where his brother lay.…
They had removed his ranger’s uniform, so that all remained was his light tunic. Somehow it made it seemed worse, for the grey tunic was heavily stained with blood. So much blood that it was any wonder that any was left in Faramir….
Boromir cried out fearfully and ran to his brother’s side. Hastily, he took off his vambrances and felt his brother’s forehead clumsily.
It was far too warm – he was burning with fever – but at least it meant that he was still alive.
His heart slowed down to a more normal beat, and he looked questioningly at Ancar for answers.
“Master Andain did his best for Captain Faramir – he removed the foul arrow and staunched the wound at his side. But he worries about his fever,” said the ranger.
“The orcs destroyed Master Andain’s home,” said the woman Irulan, who cautiously moved to his side.
“All the medicines and poultices were in there. We salvaged what we could, but…” she paused, gripping the folds of her tattered skirt as if to seek some kind of strength. “My Lord, we do not have what he needs here, and the outlying villages are a few days’ ride away. Lord Faramir needs to return to Minas Tirith, to the Houses of Healing, to … survive,” she said in a wavering voice.
It was a day’s ride to Minas Tirith – and that was when one rode one’s horse to exhaustion without rest. But with Faramir’s condition, they would have to travel slowly, and it would take a better of two days to reach it.
Irulan seemed to guess what was on his mind, for she knelt by his side and gently touched his hand, her eyes dewy with tears.
“Lord Faramir saved my son from the orcs … I will give him my life if it’s necessary to save him. I am a Healer, like Andain, and I will tend to him without rest by his side as we make the journey, my Lord,” she said.
“I am-” he took a deep breath as his voice broke. “I am in your debt, lady Irulan,” he said simply.
She nodded, tears finally falling from her eyes. “As all of Gondor,” she said fervently.
He smiled through his tears. “Aye. Indeed,” he grasped her hand in gratitude. She nodded and hastily brushed away her tears.
Reluctantly, Boromir climbed shakily to his feet. He would have done anything to stay by his brother’s side longer, but his men must no doubt be confused by his hasty departure, and there was still great need to secure Endh Aes, lest there were still orcs roaming the area.
“Take care of him, my lady,” he said to Irulan. “And if my brother wakes or if he … falters … fetch for me.”
“I will, my Lord,” she said, as she accepted a new bowl of water from a young boy who had run to the cot with it. She then gently dipped a cloth into the bowl and placed the wet cloth on Faramir’s forehead.
“Beren,” she called to the young boy as she gently dipped another cloth into the bowl. “Fetch a clean nightshirt for Lord Faramir, and tell Florin that I need help to undress him,” she said in a surprisingly commanding voice.
He allowed himself a small grin as the boy hastened to obey her command. He knew for certain now that his brother was in more than capable hands.
Ancar followed him out of the tent. Boromir noticed that the ranger had a short sword in his hand. His broken arm was splinted, but judging from the looks of the bloodied blade, it seemed that Ancar did not let it stop him from using it.
“How do you fare? Do your injuries trouble you?” Boromir asked worriedly.
“Do not concern yourself with me, Captain. We can still fight the orcs for hours,” Ancar said gravely.
Boromir scowled angrily. “I saw the bodies - the orcs attacked the tent?”
Ancar nodded gravely. “Hidden as we were, they still came. It is our luck that Master Andain was wise enough to choose a strategic spot where we could see the orcs coming from afar. Most fell from our arrows before they even reached the hill. And those that got through met a hasty end,” he said grimly, lifting his bloody sword.
He slapped the man’s shoulders in gratitude. “Faramir and I are made rich with men like you under our command,” he said, grinning.
Ancar flushed red from the compliment, but grew serious when he saw Boromir’s smile melt into a grimace.
“Captain, are you injured?”
“No,” he shook his head brusquely. “I just … I fear for him, Ancar.”
“As do all of us,” Ancar said gravely.
“Captain!” cried a voice to their right. It was Anborn, running up the hill. Although he looked exhausted – the man, like Boromir, had fought several battles without rest, after all – there was joy in his weary eyes.
“We’ve secured the area, and the few orcs that are left are being put to the sword as we speak,” he said. Then his eyes darkened as they shifted to the tent.
“Captain Faramir…” he began anxiously.
“He is alive, but … gravely wounded,” Boromir said, his voice taut with fear. “We need to ready a wagon to carry him back to Minas Tirith.”
“I will do it, Captain,” Anborn said. He then swallowed visibly and looked away, suddenly overcome. “I should have stopped him when I saw that look on his face … I knew that he meant to ride away from us that morning … but Captain Faramir could lie convincingly when he wanted to.”
“I’m afraid I taught him too well. Our childhood adventures required that talent,” Boromir said, giving the ranger a weak grin. Anborn smiled at his remark, but like Boromir, his mirth was shadowed by the reality of Faramir’s tenuous hold on life was tenuous.
“My Lord,” said Ancar, rousing Boromir from his dark thoughts. “You have many troubles ahead of you. Anborn and I will ensure that Captain Faramir is well taken care of. You have our word.”
He nodded gratefully, glad to have men who knew what needed to be done. He cast a last look at the tent, then turned away and walked down the hill, his feet growing heavier with each step. He wondered how he could carry out his duties while Faramir lay a breath away from death. But as the Steward's heir, he never had the luxury to choose personal matters above Gondor's, not even now.