Chapter 9: To Minas Tirith
The decision to move Faramir to Minas Tirith was a difficult one. He was still dangerously weak from the surgery, but the Healers felt that they should no longer tarry.
Yet the journey in a wagon would not be an easy one for him and there were doubts that he would survive the journey. Although the Healers did not say that out loud, their grave expressions told Boromir enough.
But with the healing herbs dwindling, and with the threat of another attack, their options were few.
So, on the morning of the fourth day after the attack, once the Healers deemed Faramir strong enough, the rangers carefully moved Faramir, swaddled in thick blankets, to a wagon readied for the purpose. It had been made comfortable for him – it was covered in pillows and furs to keep him warm and to cushion him from the wagon’s jarring movements. A tarp was pulled over it as well, to keep out the glare of the sun and the rain if it did fall.
Once the stretcher bearing Faramir stopped by the wagon, Boromir gently gathered Faramir in his arms. He winced when Faramir groaned weakly at the movement.
Even unconscious he feels the pain, Boromir thought in dismay.
Slowly and carefully – so much so that his arms shook with the effort – Boromir placed his brother in the soft, makeshift bed. Once there, Faramir murmured something unintelligibly and rolled his head to one side, but just as quickly, he was quiet again. Quickly, Boromir rearranged the blankets on him.
Sighing, he then placed a kiss on Faramir’s burning forehead.
“I love you, little brother. Be strong for me. Please,” he whispered pleadingly into his ear.
With a heavy heart, he backed away from the wagon. Some of Faramir's rangers will follow the convoy to protect the wounded, but like him, others will stay behind in Endh Aes to secure the village and to ensure that the wheat is safely harvested and brought to the outlying villages and Minas Tirith. It was a task that the Captain of Gondor was expected to take … but how he wished then that he was not the Steward’s Heir. How he longed to just be the brother of a wounded man, to be by his side to keep him safe.
The burdens of the steward’s heir are never ending, Boromir thought bitterly. But his dark thoughts turn to puzzled ones when he saw Imrahil walking towards him and leading Boromir’s horse along.
“Put on your riding gloves, Boromir. You’re returning to Minas Tirith,” said his uncle.
Boromir frowned, puzzled. “What do you mean? There are things to be done here.”
“Indeed. And they are now my tasks. The Steward bids you to return to Minas Tirith,” Smiling, Imrahil handed him the reins. “He wants you to secure the Anduin – he feels that your place is at Minas Tirith … and at your brother’s side.”
At that, Boromir laughed and embraced his uncle, nearly lifting him off the ground in his joy. “Uncle, I am without words. You don’t know how glad this makes me feel.”
“I have an inkling, Boromir. But don't thank me – it is your father's doing. Now, I must do my duty and so must you,” said the Prince.
He smiled gratefully and mounted his horse. With a last grateful nod to Imrahil, Boromir steered his horse towards the already-moving convoy.
He could see the caravan of wagons moving, and smiled at the thought of being with his brother. But suddenly, he heard the sound of sobbing. But it did not come from a woman, but a man.
Concerned, he searched for the source of the sound and found it at the edge of the village.
It was Master Andain.
He was on his knees, and his face was blank no more. Tears rolled down his dust-covered face as he pushed soil into a grave with his bare hands. When Andain collapsed on the muddy ground, wailing the name of his wife and child, Boromir turned away, ashamed of having intruded upon his time of sorrow.
oooOooo
“My Lord! Your brother calls for you!” Irulan said.
Startled, Boromir quickly spun his horse around from the front of the line to ride next to the wagon. And as he leaned down, Faramir reached out weakly with a bandaged hand. Boromir grabbed it hastily, squeezing it.
“Endh Aes … safe?” Faramir whispered.
“Yes, it is safe. The harvest is safe. We are now on the way to Minas Tirith – a mere half a day's ride away. But rest, Faramir, and do not concern yourself with these matters,” he said.
“I remember,” Faramir closed his eyes and winced as a wave of pain assailed him. “I remember now …”
Boromir frowned, wondering if his brother has slipped into delirium. “Don’t worry yourself so, Faramir. All is well.”
“No,” Faramir shook his head. “… important,” he wheezed. Another pained groan as the wagon rattled over some stones.
“Faramir.…” he began anxiously.
“Chronicles of Osgiliath. It is there that you will find plans for the sewer system,” he said, his voice thin with pain. Faramir took a deep, shuddering breath. “It does not stretch into Mordor, thank the Valar,” he coughed and instinctively reached for the wound at his side. Irulan quickly intercepted his hand and gently placed it on his chest. The healer looked up at Boromir and shook her head, silently telling him that Faramir needed to rest.
“I hear you, little brother. Now, sleep. I will be here, by your side,” he promised.
He was not sure if Faramir heard him, for he was quiet at last, and his eyes closed. He appeared to have fallen into a troubled sleep.
“Even now he thinks of Gondor. And for our well-being,” he muttered.