Desperate Fever

by Kingunderthemountain

“During all this black day Faramir lay upon his bed in the chamber of the White Tower, wandering in a desperate fever… And by him his father sat, and said nothing but watched, and gave no longer any heed to the defense.”

Faramir woke with a start. The evening before, as she always did, his mother had pulled the crisp, white sheets tightly across his chest so that he wouldn’t roll out of the bed during the night. He usually welcomed it as he woke, lying still beneath the sheets, feeling their unyielding closeness as a protection against the unseen corners of the room. But now they seemed only constricting, pushing against his body forcefully, and stopping short his breath. He kicked wildly at them until they loosened enough so that he could raise himself against the headboard of the bed.

Quietly he looked around the room and eyed the familiar tapestries that hung cleanly on the walls. Images were woven into them that he found both welcome and foreign: some familiar and some hearkening back to some ancient history from which he had never read.

The house seemed quiet. The sounds that usually accompanied his mornings: the soft voice of his mother as she prepared breakfast and the proud but gentle voice of his father were strangely absent. He dressed quickly and entered the comfortable kitchen of the house, but found that neither of his parents were there, and the stones of the small stove were cold.

The door of the house was left slightly open, and the young boy could see the avenue that ran beside his house outside. Silently he pulled the door completely ajar and stepped onto the road and intricately placed pale stones of Númenor.