Author's Note: Welcome to my new fic "Wounded"! I have only a few notes before I begin. This story will be a multi-chapter fic, so before I continue to post the full of it, I would love to receive some feedback. Should I continue or no? Secondly, I am no Tolkien scholar. This story is a mixture of movie-verse, canon and just a dash of AU. I have done some research while writing this fic (see my notes below) and have used Tolkien's work as a guideline. Still, any mistakes in characterization or canon, while not intended, are my fault and my fault alone. Thirdly, I do not have a beta for this fic. I have revised it several times so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear in this fic are also my fault alone. I would really appreciate any constructive criticism/feedback you can offer. Thanks so much for reading!
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Tolkien's masterpiece.
Wounded
Chapter One The Lie
Lord Denethor took his breakfast in his private chambers. Leaning his wide shoulders against the back of his chair, he surveyed the platter of fruit laid before him. The peaches and pears were still chilled with a late frost and not overly ripe. He frowned and held up a single peach. The skin was hard, not supple.
Denethor grunted and tossed the offending fruit onto the floor. It rolled to the hearth and was soon devoured by an eager hound. Sunlight slipped in-between the drawn curtains and slanted across the middle of the oaken table. The pale light seemed to stretch the lines of worry that crossed his brow. His hair looked like ash mingled with soil.
The lord shook his withered mane once just as a low knock sounded upon the door. He glanced over the back of his chair.
"Enter."
A cool breeze swept the warmth from the room and Denethor wrapped his furs closer about him.
"Father." Boromir rested his hand on the arm of the chair and bowed his head.
"You rise early, my son."
"I have need of your counsel." Boromir dipped his head once more and then stood tall. He was garbed in a blue tunic and he crossed his arms behind his back, waiting.
Denethor made to speak when a second voice called from the door.
"Father, good morn."
Denethor gripped the sides of his chair and twisted about. Faramir stood by the doorway and there was a certain thinness to him that unnerved Denethor, more so than usual.
"And what causes you to disturb me?"
"I asked for him." Boromir gestured at his younger brother.
"Why?"
Faramir said nothing but kept his eye downcast.
"This matter concerns him as well," Boromir replied hastily.
Denethor's frown deepened. "Very well. Speak, if you will." He turned back to his meal and searched for a ripe pear.
Boromir stayed silent for a moment and Denethor felt his uneasiness. He sighed.
"Go on!"
Boromir nodded. "It is a strange thing, Father. This night past, I was roused just before dawn from a bewildering dream." He paused and glanced at Faramir, but his brother lingered by the door and would not speak.
"It beckoned to me and stayed firm in my mind even though my eyes were open and I did not slumber. Even now, I feel its call."
Denethor looked up at his eldest son. "Continue."
"It happened thusly. I stood in a field and the sky was grey with rain and yet no rain fell. The grass was green and trees of gold, mightier than any I have ever seen, enclosed the place. A stream ran through the field and I crossed it. The waters were cold and not yet so and a voice called to me."
Boromir faltered and knelt beside Denethor's chair. With his right hand, he grasped his Father's own. Denethor shivered as he felt the chill upon it.
"Resting upon a branch I found the great standard of Gondor, tattered and torn in many places. But as I touched it, the tears closed and it was made new once more, as of old."
Denethor leaned closer to his son. "Do you speak truthfully?"
"I do, Father," Boromir replied and he tightened his grip on the old man's hand. "And that is not the last of it! The voice continued to cry, to summon me hither. 'In Lorien', it said, 'Gondor shall be restored. In Lorien the glory of old shall return.'."
"The Woods of Lothlorien?" Denethor asked. His jaws, darkened with stubble, quivered.
"So I believe. As it is, Faramir has dreamt likewise." Boromir sat back on his heels and Faramir stepped forward, hesitantly.
Denethor stared at his youngest son. "Is this so?"
"Yes, Father. I have dreamt as Boromir said." A tremor touched Faramir's voice. Denethor raised a brow.
"You seem unsure."
"No, I am sure. It is as Boromir said."
"Then what causes such hesitancy?"
Faramir lifted his head slightly and he parted his lips to speak. Never before had the Steward seen his son so undone, so cowed. Faramir always strove present himself as lordly and gracious, much to Denethor's annoyance. Now he seemed…frightened.
"Speak, Faramir. My patience thins and I doubt your sincerity."
Boromir was pressing closer then, whispering into his Father's ear. "It has troubled him, my lord. He is young yet. Have pity. I speak for both of us, is my word not to be trusted?"
Denethor lifted his gaze from Faramir. "Your word is heeded."
"What think you, Father?" Boromir asked softly. "Is this a call to Lorien? Are we to seek it out and deliver unto glory Gondor? I do not know, for I possess not the gift of foresight. What think you?"
Denethor was trembling and he released his son's hand. The air suddenly seemed to close about him, to smother him and entrap him. What could this mean?
Vaguely, he pictured the White City of old, though under the rule of a mighty Steward not a king. Not a man of the North.
Black clouds ever-brewed over Mordor and throughout Gondor, the turning of time was felt. War was upon them. But what aid could be found in Elven lands?
And then he remembered it, a long-lost scroll unfurling in his mind. The Ring.
Rumor spoke of it and at times, the wise whispered its name. Had it fallen into the hands of the Elves? What would they make of it?
Denethor sighed and regarded his sons. "I have not the skill to interpret such tidings. Lothlorien is of a old, a realm of the Elves that rests upon the shores of the Great River. Little do I know of the place, but it is said that an Elf-witch dwells there and her craft is wondrous, if not perilous."
"We must seek it out then." Boromir stood. "Faramir and I. We shall go and find an answer to this riddle. Mayhap the fate of Gondor rests upon such a vague dream and mayhap not. But I would go with your leave, as would Faramir."
Denethor pressed his hand to his brow. "The way is dangerous. And those that return from Lorien are forever changed. I could not allow such a risk. An emissary perhaps, may be sent to-
"Please Father!" Boromir clutched the arm of Denethor's chair. "You must give us leave and we swear to return. Only for Gondor would we do such a duty."
Denethor looked long and carefully at both of his sons. Faramir had raised his head and at last returned his glance. Steel was in their eyes and hearts.
"Very well," he said at length. "But I do not give my leave happily. One should remain behind, Faramir, I think-
"No!" Boromir stood suddenly, his fists clenched at his sides. "Faramir must come or I shall not go. Together we travel."
Denethor sagged against his chair, weary. "If that is your demand."
"It is."
"Go then, but return swiftly and do not linger. Gondor awaits your aid."
Both Boromir and Faramir bowed to their father and thanked him. Denethor waved them away.
"Leave me, now."
They passed from the room and Denethor did not watch them go. Such tidings! He glanced at the platter of peaches and pears and found his appetite decidedly lacking.
"You lied." Faramir said once they had entered the long corridor outside Denethor's chambers. A small smile lifted his lips.
"You asked me too," Boromir replied and he leaned against the wall. "Though I do wish you could have waited until a more seemly hour." He yawned.
"Forgive me." Faramir placed his hands on his hips and paced. "Your powers of persuasion shock me. Father believed you."
"He usually does."
"I never thought of inventing a dream. It was rather creative."
"The more so, the better." Boromir watched the light from the sun climb through the window and skirt the wall. "He would never have given us leave, otherwise. Father puts no store in Mithrandir's word. What did he ask of you again?"
Faramir paused and looked away. His smile faded. "He bid me come to Lorien."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, so it would seem."
"It was a great request, then. Lothlorien is counted as a perilous place and I have no desire to tread there." Boromir paused and saw concern tighten Faramir's face. He smiled. "But I go with you, brother. If only to repay the debt I owe."
"Debt?" Faramir asked.
"Yes, it is too large to account for. But I recall one specific occasion when I bruised myself whilst scaling a fence in the stables. You were good enough not to tell Father then and now." He broke off and laughed. Faramir joined him and clapped his hand on his brother's shoulder.
"For a childhood mishap you would follow me into supposed doom? Though I think the land of Lorien compares little to our Father's wrath. Do not worry, though. Mithrandir spoke only of greatness in the Wood, not ruin."
"He gave you no explanation for such a journey?" Boromir stared at his brother and wondered at the way his shoulders stooped, the way his head bent to his chest. Faramir had changed of late, he decided. No longer proud he seemed, but humbled. "Faramir?"
"Mithrandir never provides a suitable explanation at the first," Faramir replied at last. He turned his back on his brother. "All is wrapped in riddles. But the tone of his note was urgent and I trust him."
"Might I see it?"
"See what?"
"The note from Mithrandir."
Faramir flinched. "I burned it, lest Father should discover it."
Boromir frowned. "Ah, very well." He turned on his heel and moved down the corridor. "Fear not!" he called after his brother. "I trust you."
Faramir let his brother go and felt his heart clench. Boromir stood strong and possessed the will he did not. Shame and guilt warmed Faramir's cheeks. His brother would have withstood temptation, his brother would have…
Faramir rested his head upon the wall and the cool stone soothed him. Boromir trusted him, he always had. And he had readily accepted the idea that Mithrandir had called them both to Lorien.
But he had lied.
No note had come to Faramir from the old wizard. There was no summons to Lorien, accept the pain that numbed him and the endless wonder. He needed an answer to his riddle and nothing more.
How long, he wondered, could he delay the truth from Boromir? What would happen if his brother discovered his lie within the next few days, or upon the road? What would he say to him when he did?
Nothing.
He did not know the truth himself, but possessed only a few scattered memories and those haunting watchwords.
Beneath the trees and starlight. Find Lorien. Come in six months time.
What a fool he was.
Author's Note: The scene between Lord Denethor and his sons is based on an excerpt from the "Council of Elrond" in the "Fellowship of the Ring". In the excerpt, Boromir relates to the Council that both he and his brother have been troubled by strange dreams and he was given leave by his father to travel to Rivendell to seek an answer.
Secondly, Boromir did not come to Lorien until "Fellowship" unlike what I have suggested in this fic. In the chapter "Lothlorien" he remarks that the Wood is perilous and he does not wish to enter. I have based Boromir's reluctance to journey to Lothlorien on this.
Thank you so much for reading! Please, review and share your thoughts with me.