“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.