#anything less

But you fought to.

You did not expect the spire to be white. Grey, like the spire in the Northern Keep, most definitely. But the white was so bright, and it seemed to sparkle in the sunlight, that you couldn’t really tell the natural stone from the real stone. It all seemed to be imported from some other land. The mountain behind it was a dark gray, almost black, color.

It made no sense.

But you could not deny, that it was very pretty. If cities could be pretty.

“We are almost there,” Faramir said to you, his arm tightening. You felt the horse go even faster under you. “Just a few more miles.”

A few more miles meant an hour, maybe two. Maybe more. You did not know if you could stay awake that long. You hadn’t looked at your side since dawnlight, and you wondered how much blood seeped down your dress, onto the horse and into the grassy field.

The horse rode on.

You did not remember the journey to the gates, just that your eyes closed somewhere before that point, and horns blowing caused you to gasp awake. Faramir was riding harder still. And the doors were opening. The guards seemed to recognize the two of you.

Or rather, recognize Faramir. For when the gates opened, there was no delay in Faramir’s words. “A healer. Immediately. Uruk-Hai some forty miles back,” Faramir was saying shortly. “Send the call.” Faramir did not dismount, merely turning Mayweather around to say the short message, and as the horns began to blow with a “Yes, Captain,” Mayweather was being directed towards a hill. A hill that would need to be climbed to the very top to get to the castle.

It was how the Keep was, as well. Safety precautions.

“Almost there,” Faramir was saying softly. You felt your eyes slowly slip shut.

You had made it to Minas Tirith. You were safe here. Now, you could rest.

Mayweather came to a sharp halt at the entrance hall, as a result of Faramir pulling on the reigns sharply. And then Faramir was sliding down, off of the saddle, his arms tugging at you, until you followed. Only, he did not set you down, on your feet. Instead, he held you against his chest, one arm under your legs, and another under your ribs, as he walked quickly, shifting your weight onto his chest as he carried you through the doors into the Entrance Hall.

Healers were already ready, rushing through the back doors just as that moment. Faramir set you on the ground, releasing a breath as they began to check the wound, cutting the cheesecloth away, and carefully peeling the leather from her skin. It stuck, tugging at her flesh, but came away, exposing the ghastly sight of your wound.

It was death like, and looked as though it was infected.

“What is the meaning of this!?” Father. Faramir swallowed, stepping around you, and towards his father, standing from his throne with anger. Anger and confusion.

“Uruk-Hai overcame Lady Y/N and I in the forests three days journey from here. In her attempt to flee south, towards Minas Tirith while I battled, one was waiting in the wood for her.” Faramir exhaled, swaying slightly on his feet. “I rode as fast as I could, but we could not make such distances up overnight with only two horses.”

“Heal her!” Denethor thundered. “Get her to the infirmary, so she is not bleeding all over the damned floor. And then someone tell me if the blasted Uruk-Hai have followed this idiotic boy to our gates.” Faramir swallowed back a retort.

“Brother,” Boromir said quietly. “You are hurt.” It was not a question. Faramir glanced down to his arm, to the wound that had bled too much for just a minor flesh wound. But had not been the priority. Soon, it had stopped bleeding on its own. But the pain, and the dizziness did not vanish.

“It’s just a flesh wound-“

“Brother, it is not just your arm. Your leg-“ His leg? Faramir glanced down more, to see the deep crimson soaking his leg. Oddly, he did not even notice that. But there was a wound there as well, not as deep as the one on his arm, but enough to be cause for concern. Faramir had merely thought he had pulled something in his leg during the battle, after all those weeks sitting stiffly on a horse. He did not even think… How odd.

“Heal the boy. He may be a fool for being seen by Uruk-Hai, but he still fulfilled his mission.” It would be as close of praise as Faramir had ever gotten. Already, your presence was cheering father up – though it was a bitter thought that Faramir knew had not much merit.

Denethor would never change. “Come, brother, I will take you to the infirmary.” Boromir put his arm under Faramir’s shoulder, and Faramir took some weight off of the leg that was injured.

“I can walk, Boromir. I have made it this far on my feet-“

But Boromir did not relent, assisting Faramir down the hall, and just before the doors shut, his gaze darted back to the floor, where you lay, unconscious as healers did their work. Denethor had not moved from the throne.

“How did this happen?”

“Everything was fine,” Faramir said quietly, wincing as they made a sudden turn. “We were on the safe path, and the horses spooked. They heard them before we did – laying in wait for us, as if they knew we were coming. Lady Y/N’s father had given us a cart full of provisions, her things… we dropped them before they could get too close. I told her to ride for the city, to stay on the path, and she’d find it if she rode hard. But they were waiting for her farther ahead. So she came back to me, but I had already started to fight-“

“I see… and the beasts attacked her?”

“Not until she ran in another direction, hoping to maneuver around. I heard her scream, but I could not get to her … she killed the Uruk-Hai herself, with a dagger. She stared it in the face and killed it to save her own life. Not even soldiers I have fought with would have such gall-“

Boromir said nothing until he pushed open doors to a healing bay and eased his brother onto a cot. The room was vacant, due to the trained nurses dealing with you in the Hall. But Boromir was just as trained as Faramir in battlefield aid. He tore at the fabric on Faramir’s leg, inspecting the wound, before finding some cloth and alcohol for the time being, to clean. “What is she like?”

“Too good for father,” Faramir said quietly. He hissed a breath as the alcohol came in contact with the wound. “But we both knew that would be the case before I even left Minas Tirith in the first place. She was to be Queen, in the Northern Keep. In name, a Lady in actuality.”

Boromir glanced up in surprise. “She is an only child?”

“No, she is the eldest, and only daughter, to a large group of brothers. Her father trained her since her youth… It is so odd, I know, brother. But she has been groomed to be a Queen, so she is not meant to be a Steward’s wife. Younger than even I.” Boromir’s mouth set to a hard line with that, a frown he did not bother to conceal well. The dark thoughts of Denethor that caused them did not bother to be concealed. Not amongst each other. “But she is stubborn, and resilient.”

“Her wound… Faramir, it already looked infected-“

“She will survive. She will fight. She will not die here. I have promised her that.”

“You should not have promised her such things. She is to be a Lady of Gondor,” Boromir said quietly, under his breath, as he worked, wrapping the cloth around Faramir’s leg. But the quiet tone was a signal that Faramir was being too loud. The doors did not keep out voices as they did in other parts of the castle. “Do not grow so attached to her, she is not yours to marry.”

Faramir swallowed, glancing away from Boromir. But the brother was done, and noticed. As Faramir’s leg fell to the cot, Boromir exhaled. “She is not cattle to be bought and sold to the highest bidder, to whoever stakes claim over her because of power.”

“Faramir,” Boromir warned lightly. Faramir swallowed. He knew. “She is to be our step-mother.” Faramir knew that too.

“She is younger than I, Boromir. Do you not think that father’s cruelty knows no bounds? You know what he wants her for, now that Gandalf has come around with whispers of a war. You know what he intends to use her for. She knows as well. I did not make it a secret. I could not lead her here blind-“

“I have faith that she will be treated well,” Boromir interrupted.

“Faith,” Faramir snorted. He met Boromir’s eyes. “I hope that faith is not with you when you pray for her recovery. Because that faith is meaningless.”

Boromir’s eyes betrayed how his brother’s words affected him. Faramir had never spoken like that before, had never said such a thing against him, or their father, so boldly. “You know she is going to be kept with a high standard-“

“She is a Queen in her home. Loved and respected by her own family. Treated as an equal in strength and knowledge. She has been raised to take the throne over all over her brothers – she has been the one to rule her land. Can father offer her that? Can he promise her happiness? Can father promise her what you believe him to?”

Boromir could not answer.

“She is the greatest thing I have seen on this earth.” Faramir clenched his jaw. “I have already broken my own vows and gotten too close to her. I knew… I knew just upon seeing her that I could never keep such a promise, made in the middle of the fields, halfway to the Keep. Help me, brother. Help me forget her.” The last few words were desperate, a plea for his elder brother to help him because he did not know how to do it himself. Boromir always knew.

But they were still too far away. If Faramir waited too long, there was a chance that you would not make it to Minas Tirith’s gates. And even less of a chance if he stopped again. But you were slipping from his grip, and causing not only the saddle and saddle blanket to be coated in your blood, but the horse under it.

The farther and harder he could ride, the better, as it meant that there would be more distance between any remnants of the Orc pack and them.

Each step of the horse caused pain to shoot up your side, so much pain, that soon it felt like a constant ache. You were certain that your skin was never going to heal, if you ever managed to heal.

Your fingers clutched at the cloth that he had pressed to it when you had woken sometime in the night. It was a dirty horse blanket, one that would likely cause more risk of infection than open air, but holding the wound was the best you could do to stop the bleeding.

Faramir slowed.

It was time to switch to Mayweather. The horse followed without a rope, trained since she was broken to stay at your side no matter the circumstance. No matter her own personal safety.

You hated switching. It caused you to nearly pass out in pain.

Faramir slid off his horse, a name for it that you did not know – nor care to ask. And he moved around the horse to help you slide your leg over the horse’s neck, so that you were sitting side saddle. When he came back to the other side, he placed one hand on your good side, and another clutched your forearm. He met your gaze, and there was determination – fear, panic. But most of all, a tenderness that made your pain feel numb in comparison.

“On three,” he said quietly, as he always did. You swallowed, closing your eyes and taking a deep breath. He began counting. “One… two… Three.” You held your breath as he pulled you down, and cried out as your feet hit grass. He held you, not moving, and waited for you to readjust. Your hand pressed tightly against your side.

“We can rest for a few minutes, eat, and then take off again. We are less than a day away now-“

“No,” you said before you could stop yourself. You glanced up, meeting Faramir’s eyes once more. You wondered what you looked like – if you looked as wild as you felt. Your eyes burned with tears that you wouldn’t let fall. You had promised not to cry. “I can’t… I can’t go longer,” you said softly. “Is it safe enough here to camp for the night. To… to not move for a few hours, at least. I can’t…” To admit that you couldn’t go on any longer – at least for right this moment – was painful. But you knew your limits. And you knew that you had exceeded them. “I’m sorry, I just… We need to figure out how to bind it better with what we have. Or …” You didn’t know. “Can we please just camp for a few hours?”

Faramir released a haggard breath, and gave a glance around them, analyzing the trees, in the distance, that they had finally exited, and then the fields around them. “This is common orc crossing to Mordor. I’d feel better to get at least one more leg to the city, away from the river, but… we’ll camp.” You nearly collapsed into him with relief.

“Thank you.” The relief couldn’t be expressed with just those two words, but Faramir gave you a tense smile. “Just… just for a few hours, I swear. I just need to sit for a minute without the movement.” Faramir nodded, and helped you down to the ground. You didn’t dare try to walk. You weren’t quite sure how you were going to get off of the ground now that you were sitting, but that was a problem for when it was time to leave.

Angling yourself towards the moonlight, you pulled at the piece of horse blanket, and winced at the sight of the wound. It was ghastly. A sword, Faramir had said. He knelt beside you, gently moving pieces of your ruined dress so that he could see it better. “Let’s clean it with some water,” Faramir said softly towards you, but his voice didn’t carry much, “And then we’ll empty a bag of rations, have that to eat, and use it to wrap. The leather should stick to your skin and prevent bleeding.”

It was the best option you had.

He moved towards Mayweather, grazing, and began pulling a few bags off of her back, so that the horse could rest, as his own was doing. Exhausted. But he was once more at your side with a container of water at the ready, holding it to you to drink. You did, grateful for it, and closed your eyes, clenching your fingers into the grass as you waited for the pain.

You were not disappointed. The water touching the wound made you cry out before you stifled it with your teeth biting into your tongue. But cleaned of the dried blood, and allowing the wound to be seen for what exactly it was, Faramir could see it better to wrap. And you could see your flesh.

It wasn’t too deep – as far as wounds went. You often saw wounds of men that had been caught in their watches around the Northern Keep. This wound merely dug into your skin, the very meat of you, but no farther.

Perhaps that meant there was a chance.

Faramir unsheathed his sword, and your heart caught in your throat. Was he going to end your life, now? So that it would not be full of suffering? But no, he used the rest of the water to rinse off the blade from left over Orc blood, and then tugged a bag, emptying the wrapped food onto the ground.

He used the edge of the blade to cut it into patches, for your side.

The wind blew, and you tensed at the feel of it against the wound. Gods, it hurt more than anything in your life.

“Why return to Minas Tirith at all, if your father sends you alone through a land that will get you killed?” you asked, to distract you from the pain. To distract you from the thought of dying.

You felt dizzy. But Faramir did not glance up from his precise cutting of the leather satchel. “He is my father, and my brother. It is my home.” She didn’t understand it.

“A home is a place where one feels welcome.” Faramir said nothing. But you saw his throat bob as he swallowed hard, like your words affected him in some way. “A home is a place you feel loved in. Is that Minas Tirith?”

“My brother is my family,” Faramir said softly. “He is the one that raised me to the person I am today.”

“Does he not stand up for you? Against your father?”

Perhaps that was too bold – too personal. Finished, Faramir picked up a piece of leather, and met your eyes. “He does not need to. I have learned that arguing with my father usually only means worse assignments. Minas Tirith is my home, because it is the only place I know. Just as the Northern Keep is your home.”

It was a fair point. Faramir gestured to your side with a brief motion of his hands, still clutching the leather. “Do you mind if I do what I need to, to place this securely?”

You nodded, not wanting to know exactly what that meant. “Would it be easier if I laid on my other side?”

He hesitated for a moment, before he gave a nod. “That would probably be best.” You were slow, moving, and once you were on your side, buried your face in your arm, your nose tickling against the grass. “Ready?”

“Make it quick. Please.”

“I’ll be as quick as I can.” It was the best you could ask for. He was trying to be gentle, but it didn’t matter. A piece of cheese cloth from some food was first pressed onto the wound, and then as it soaked into your blood, the leather was placed on top. The leather was heavier, and ached moreso than the cloth. You held your breath, groaning in pain, but didn’t dare scream. Here, so close to the woods, anyone could hear – including Orcs.

He worked diligently, using the scraps of the leather satchel to place food he unwrapped, and then using the cheesecloth that came from the wrappings to secure the leather to your side. Tightly bound so that it would not move too much in the rest of the journey.

You felt like you were going to vomit.

“Y/N?” You did not even realize that he had stopped working on you, until he said your name hesitantly. You took a deep breath, and then another. “Are you alright? Is anything else wrong?”

“I’m… I just need a second.” He was silent and you waited for the pain to dull. For your body to get used to the feeling.

Once it did, you carefully moved into a more upright position, and glanced down to the wound. He had used the tear in your dress to work on the skin around the wound as well, and that was where the leather had been fused using the water and blood. The bandages wrapped around the outside of your garments, your waist in particular.

“Thank you,” you said quietly.

“I’ve learned a thing or two about battle wounds… I saw the dagger in the Orc. You killed it nearly instantly… it was a remarkable blow.” Faramir’s compliment warmed you. And you hated the feeling. But you couldn’t help but give a small smile in return. “Do you have training in swordplay?”

“No,” you admitted. “My brothers did not think it proper, even though my father trained me in most everything else. A Queen didn’t need to know swordplay if her kingdom was impenetrable.” Faramir raised an eyebrow and you flushed darkly. “Forgive me, it is not a kingdom, a … lordship. My father often calls it a kingdom … he romanticized the throne.” You dropped your gaze to the food, reaching for some dried meat. “It was nothing more than a ladyship I would have taken, but he raised me to be a Queen.”

“I can see it.” You glanced up sharply, meeting Faramir’s eyes. He glanced away, swallowing hard once more. He seemed uncomfortable with what he had just said. “You are a Queen, even if there is no throne for you to rule from. And I hope that my father sees that, and understands that you deserve to be treated with respect and dignity.”

“You think he won’t?”

“I honestly do not know how he will treat you.” It was more honestly. You watched as Faramir sat back, his sword going back into the sheath at his waist. “But I hope it will be as you deserve.”

“Me, too.”

After you ate as much you could, Faramir told you to try to get some rest, if you could find some. You laid back, gripping Faramir’s hand tightly as you did so, to help you gently fall onto your back. You did not care that you were in grass with no bed roll underneath. You did not care that creatures were likely crawling into your hair, or that your stomach was churning, trying not tbe sick on the miniscule amounts of food you had just eaten.

You closed your eyes, listening to the wind in the grass, and did your best to ignore the pain. Only then could you sleep.

Faramir watched as you drifted off, his eyes darting to you every few minutes before he would glance around to the horizon. His hand still clutching yours tightly, felt as your grip relaxed. But he did not let go. He could not bring himself to. He closed his eyes, for just a second, and spoke into the night.

“Forgive me, father.”