Chapter Two
"My Lord, you must eat—you will never be able to get out of bed if you do not take care of your body."
Faramir sighed heavily and shook his head tiredly as the kindly nurse Ioreth motioned to the bowl of broth that she had placed on the table beside his bed. He could not eat it. Simply thinking about food made him feel nauseous. Thinking in general was dangerous—but, as he could not sleep, and he had no one who would visit him on a regular basis besides the nurses, there was no escaping his thoughts.
"Come now, my Lord!"
It was Ioreth again.
Faramir had almost forgotten her presence. Why could she not leave him alone? Was it not obvious that all he desired was peace? Yet he could not tell her this—speaking was almost as painful as thinking, and since Beregond had told him of the manner of his father's death, Faramir had not felt like talking to anyone. There was no trusting his voice, and the last thing he wanted was to humiliate himself by breaking in front of others.
He did not answer, and turned his eyes towards his window, which faced eastward towards the garden. His silence only frustrated the good nurse more.
"Do not make me send for the Warden, my Lord! He will surely see that you eat, Lord, and will be much harsher and firmer than I!"
"There is no need for that, my good nurse—I have been sent for, on behalf of the Warden, to speak with him."
Faramir and Ioreth both looked up, startled at the entrance of the new speaker, for neither had been aware of his approach. It was the Prince Imrahil, and Faramir could not help but groan inwardly at the sight of his uncle. Imrahil was a man determined and dogged in his approach of a goal—what he desired, he usually acquired, and if he wanted Faramir to eat and talk...there was no doubt in Faramir's mind that his uncle would not leave until he did so.
Ioreth curtsied respectfully in front of the Prince Imrahil and spoke hurriedly, "Oh, I am so glad to see you here, my Prince! I hope you will have greater success with him than I—a more stubborn patient I have never seen! You must get him to eat, or his soup will become cold before he has touched even a morsel of it."
Imrahil tried to smile at her, although the concern he felt for his nephew shone through the façade. "I will take care of him now, Ioreth—you need not stay with us any longer," he told her softly, and Ioreth tipped her head respectfully to him and Faramir before she left, closing the door gently behind her.
Now that they were alone, Imrahil turned to study his nephew more closely, and the change that had taken place within him in just a day or two was as startling as it was frightening to the Prince. Faramir's eyes were dull, lifeless; his face was haggard and drawn; he was so thin and pale; his hair was disheveled, his raven colored locks falling carelessly about his face; his whole body appeared to be slightly unkempt. It seemed to Imrahil that in this short time, Faramir had aged considerably, and picked up years that his body had never previously shown. So the Warden had been right—Imrahil had known this, of course, but there had been a small part of him hoping that the report had been grossly exaggerated.
"Why do you torture yourself like this, nephew?" Imrahil began frankly as he drew up a chair to Faramir's bedside. Faramir did not respond—it had sounded like a rhetorical question, and even if it were not, he would not know how to answer. Faramir found he could not even look into his uncle's eyes. How could he? His uncle was surely ashamed of him, and Faramir did not think he could bear to witness the contempt and scorn that would undoubtedly be on Imrahil's face.
"Faramir." Imrahil regretted the slight asperity of his voice, but his nephew had to understand what it was he was doing to himself. "Faramir—look at me."
No matter how much he wanted to turn away, Faramir knew that to disobey the order would be cowardly. He forced himself to meet his uncle's eyes, and was surprised to find not disdain but compassion within their gray depths. It was so easy to forget that there were still those left who cared for him.
Imrahil's heart was breaking for his nephew. His voice softened, but it was still firm as he continued, "You are not alone—do you hear me Faramir? You are not alone—I want you to know this, nephew. I am worried about you—the whole City is worried about you—and you will be needed here! You must not neglect your health, or your body will not be able to heal properly. I am certain you have been told this."
Faramir swallowed, pushing back tears that were threatening to break through his defensive wall. He knew he would not be able to hold them back for much longer.
Imrahil could sense his nephew fighting with himself, and wished he would just let it go.Please, nephew, he thought desperately, mentally cursing Denethor for Faramir's reticence, don't hide yourself from me—I am not your father…
There was nothing the Prince could do now but be blunt. Perhaps this would be the only way to get Faramir to reveal his true sentiments, for Imrahil knew that if he did not, he would surely tear himself apart.
Leaning in closer to his nephew, Imrahil wrapped his hands in his, and said intently, "Do not blame yourself, nephew. It was not your fault—you must believe that it was not your fault, or you will be your own undoing, and this I will not be able to bear to see. You must understand—it was not your fault…it was not your fault…"
Faramir could feel his lips trembling, and his eyes were covered in a shroud of unshed tears.
Don't let them fall, an inner voice reprimanded, don't you dare let them fall!
What does it matter? Another voice countered. Why does anything matter? He is not here—why do you do this to yourself?
Yet the first voice insisted. Don't—don't…do you want your uncle to see for himself how weak you are? Have you not shamed yourself enough already?
But Faramir was tired of fighting. It was simply too much work, and he was so exhausted. He didn't have the strength to hold the threatening flood back anymore. He felt his shoulders begin to shake—it would not be long before his feelings washed over him and he lost control entirely.
Imrahil saw the change coming over his nephew, and could not help but feel slightly satisfied. He heard Faramir release a choked sob, and Imrahil wordlessly brought his arms up to encircle him and draw him into his comforting, strong arms.
Faramir allowed himself to be taken in his uncle's embrace, and buried his head into his shoulder as he began to cry hot, bitter tears.
"Oh, uncle…" he gasped around sobs, the very first words he had spoken since being told of his father's death, "I am sorry…I am so sorry…"
"Sshh, nephew," Imrahil soothed, "It will be alright…it will be alright…"