Linda's Lord of the Rings Fanfiction

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has,nor will be made from this story.

Co- written with Raksha the Demon

The One

Soon after Elrond told me of my true name and lineage, I beheld the man for the first time.

He appeared one night, in what could not have been a mere dream, but was rather the foresight of the Dúnedain. I had seen neither the man nor the place where he stood before.

In my vision, I stood by a gate in a wall that girt a great white city.  A tall man strode towards me and then knelt, proffering a white rod.  Somehow, I knew that the city was Minas Tirith and the man, my Steward, gladly surrendering his office to me, his King. The uplifted face was like unto my own. We could have been close kin, for the grey eyes, raven hair, and carven features showed the other man to be a true son of Númenor.

I had not known that any such Men still lived in the South.

Years passed until one day, under a false name, I came to the Realm of Anárion. When I saw its lord’s noble face, kindly and welcoming though it was, my heart sank; for this was not the man.

Yet Ecthelion had an heir. Espying him first from a distance, I felt certain that this must be the man in my dream. But when I saw his cold grey eyes, narrowed with suspicion and jealousy, I knew it was not.

Nigh fifty long years of toil and hardship passed. At times when my heart almost despaired of reclaiming the crown of my fathers, the dream would come to me again:  the tall man kneeling and lifting his eyes in joy and welcome, holding out the stewards' rod. New hope then surged within me that someday I would indeed become King.

When counsels were held in Imladris, I espied a stranger with a familiar face, Boromir of Gondor, Denethor’s firstborn son grown to manhood. But this proud lord was not the one.  Doubt assailed me that my dream would ever be realised. 

Now I had come again to Gondor but was loth to even enter what should be my own City, for fear of stirring up dissent.  Boromir had fallen. I knew that his father would not have welcomed me even if his son yet lived. 

                                                    ***

My reverie was interrupted by Gandalf.  The wizard came to ask my help for Denethor‘s younger son, Faramir, who was sorely stricken by the Black Breath, and for others ill with the same foul sickness.

I went with scant hope, uncertain that I had the strength to snatch this stranger from the Dark Lord’s clutches.  I would look at him, surely, but I yearned to aid my hobbit comrade and the lady of Rohan. 

Then I saw Denethor's heir, clinging to life by the slightest of threads, the chiselled features stilled, the raven hair streaked with sweat and oil. Could it be? Was he the one?  Dream or no dream, I had to try.  I would not willingly let a defender of Gondor perish.

Long I fought to save the valiant captain, pouring my strength into his wearied heart. Finally his eyes opened, and he said: "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?”

I had seen those shining grey eyes, so full of knowledge and love, long before he was even born. This was the man! This was my Steward. 

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

With thanks to Deandra

A light from the shadows shall spring

A story to for March 15th to celebrate Aragorn healing Faramir

Weary and heart sore, I sought my rest, as the sun slowly sank over the western horizon. The day had been won, but at a heavy price. Halbarad, my kinsman dear to me as a brother, had fallen on the battlefield. So too had Théoden King and many other brave men. We may have beaten Sauron today, but unless the Ringbearer succeeds, our victory will be futile.

Then if by some miracle we win this war, will the crown of Gondor and Arwen’s hand in marriage ever be mine? Denethor hates me almost as much as he hates the Dark Lord himself. The death of Boromir in my company will make him like me even less.

Gandalf interrupted my melancholy thoughts with the news that Denethor is dead, slain, alas, by his own hand. He perished by fire, trying to take his sole surviving child with him. Faramir was snatched from the pyre, but wounded and racked by fever. The healers believe it is likely he will soon follow his father and brother beyond the circles of the world.

The Wizard quotes the old saying to me concerning the hands of the king being the hands of a healer. Well, I am a healer of some skill, but I am no king! Can my hands truly hold power over the Black Breath? I can only try.

Wearily, I follow Gandalf to the Houses of Healing. It would be a strange chance indeed, if I proved my lineage by healing the one man left between the throne and me!

Gandalf leads me to where Faramir lies. I study the face of the late Steward’s younger son. He is clearly dying. It does not even take a healer to discern that. I quickly examine him. His wound is neither severe nor poisoned. The Black Breath, caused by Sauron’s dark magic, is the cause of Faramir’s malady. The young man has a powerful air of Númenor about him. I sense great strength and goodness in his heart, overshadowed by sorrow at his brother’s death and father’s mood.

What manner of father tries to destroy the very life he gave to his child? Can I restore to Faramir that which his sire would have taken? Had I such a son, I would love and cherish him. The shadow is growing ever stronger within him, threatening to overwhelm Faramir’s noble heart. Sauron is trying to claim this man’s life and with him the very soul of Gondor. I take Faramir’s hand and prepare to battle with the darkness that engulfs him.

The shadows now assail me, trying to snatch Faramir from my grasp. The Dark Lord shall not have this son of Westernesse . I claim him as mine own! Should I prevail, I will have need of him in my kingdom. Yet, have I the strength to save him? Without athelas I cannot reclaim Faramir from Sauron’s grasp. I can only walk beside him in the dark vale in which he wanders and strive to keep him from falling. But for how long?

At last! A boy enters with the precious herb and I prepare it. The scent cuts through the darkness like a sword cuts through cloth. At once I feel refreshed.

Faramir slowly opens his eyes and looks at me. I expected his father’s eyes, but his are nothing like Denethor’s, save only in their colour. These eyes are warm, trusting and filled with love. “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?” he says softly.

I smile at him; an equal love kindled in mine own heart. He calls me king! Today I have learned the power of the king lies with me. Maybe my heart’s desire will be granted. I may yet hope for the crown and Arwen’s hand in marriage. This man is no rival, but a friend!

These characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.The story was written for pleasure not profit.

First Meeting

Seeking the lost

Aragorn was weary beyond measure after the battle and the events that preceded it. He wanted nothing more now, than to retire to his tent and fall into an exhausted sleep. However,the Wizard was making yet further demands upon him.

“The Steward’s son, Lord Faramir lies stricken and close to death within the Houses of Healing,” Gandalf said gravely,”One of the oldest of the women who are tending him there, reminded me the hands of the King are the hands of a healer, so with you alone lies any hope of recovery.”

Aragorn found himself remembering Denethor, long ago before this younger son was born, his bitter enemy and rival, once it was clear that Ecthelion preferred the counsels of Captain Thorongil over those of his own son. Then there was Boromir, a brave warrior but fatally flawed by his pride. He would have most likely challenged his claim to the throne, which needed to succeed if he were ever to win the hand of his beloved Arwen.

“Come!”Gandalf urged, “It would be most expedient if you saved the life of the only one who yet could stand in your way, though I believe he would welcome you. Though, who knows, now that he is Ruling Steward? Faramir is much loved by the people of Gondor, who would repay you with their gratitude if you could save their favourite son.”

Aragorn was sorely tempted to point out to the Wizard that if expediency ruled here, as it so often did for Gandalf, the death of a possible rival would serve as well. Not that he would ever refuse to help any in need if it lay within his power to do so.

“He is a good friend of mine and has been since his youth,” Gandalf explained before Aragorn could reply that he would do what he could, adding as if as further bait, The Hobbit Meriadoc and the Lady Eowyn also lie within stricken by the Black Breath.”

“I will come.” Aragorn said tersely, horrified to learn that those two lay gravely ill and also disliking the attempt to manipulate him. He had come to love the Hobbits dearly and admire their courage and resourcefulness. As for Lady Eowyn, he blamed himself for her current plight, for although he had never encouraged her attentions, maybe if he had found a gentler way of telling her that he could never return her love, she would not have ridden despairingly into battle.

Clad simply in a grey cloak, with no other adornment save the green jewel he wore on his breast,Aragorn went up to the city accompanied by Gandalf, Eomer, and Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, uncle to the stricken Faramir.

He was greeted enthusiastically by the Hobbit, Pippin, who grasped his hand and greeted him warmly, somewhat to the consternation of the very proper Prince Imrahil. The young Hobbit’s warmth heartened him and somewhat restored his flagging energy.

He had intended to try and save those he knew and loved first. However, when the healers took him to see Merry, Lady Eowyn and Faramir, he knew that though all three were gravely ill, there was little time left for Faramir. If any hope were to remain for his survival, he must help him now.

In truth he doubted his ability to save any of them, if only Lord Elrond were here with his centuries of skill in the healing arts!

Overwhelmed by weariness and sorrow, he swayed slightly. Eomer, who was beside him, caught his arm and steadied him, “First you must rest, surely, and at the least eat a little?”

How he loved Eomer at that moment, to be concerned about his welfare, when the life of his only sister hung by a mere thread !He knew then, that somehow he must save those, that only the hands of the King could succour. He would need athelas though if he were to aid them.

A long conversation with the garrulous Ioreth served only to waste precious moments and confirm that she did not know if athelas was to be had in the Houses, hardly surprising as unless in the hands of the King, it was useful only for curing such minor complaints as headaches.

Aragorn shed his cloak and with Eomer’s and Imrahil’s help also his armour .He sensed a long and potentially draining night lay ahead. After telling the women who were there tending to the sick to heat water, he washed his hands and went to Faramir’s bedside.

It seemed that the Steward’s son was much loved. The room was full of people, many of whom were weeping. He would dearly have loved to dismiss them all as healing was hardly a spectator sport .Their presence made his doubts that he could actually help Faramir intensify.

The onlookers watched his every move as if expecting some sort of instant miracle, which if it failed to materialise would leave the butt of their hostility. He dared not ask them to leave though, for if Faramir were to die, at least they would witness that he played no part in the death of his possible rival.

“I know you'll help Lord Faramir,Strider, and then you’ll help Merry too, I know!” Pippin said trustingly. The others, apart from his companions, muttered amongst themselves.

His sharp hearing made out such comments as “Whatever is the city coming to when they send for those northern rangers to tend the sick? He’s no right to be near our Lord Faramir, who does he think he is ?Our best healers cannot help our Lord. Has he come to gloat over our loss as there is nothing he could possibly do to help?” None of it made his task easier.

He unlaced the neck of the young man’s sweat soaked nightshirt to examine his wound. It crossed his mind that the fever wracked man might be more comfortable without the drenched garment. However,with so many women present, removing it would humiliate him; that is if he ever awoke to find out. He pulled aside the bandage covering the injured shoulder to reveal a deep gash in the muscle. He had expected it to be the cause of the fever, yet the wound was clean and already starting to heal.

“I cannot understand it !” said Imrahil,”I tended him myself when I brought him up from the battlefield and did not consider the wound ti be life threatening.”

It was clear to him now, that Faramir could only be suffering from the Black Breath, a deadly condition, the only cure for which was athelas in the right hands..

The Herb Master entered only to confirm what the garrulous Ioreth had already told him, that they did not keep supplies of the herb as it was of so little use.

Gandalf impatiently demanded that they should search until some be found.

Aragorn took the young man’s hand and noted sadly that his pulse was weak and rapid as he struggled to breathe. Dipping a cloth in the freshly heated water, he bathed Faramir’s sweat soaked brow.

Gandalf had told him how Faramir had been sent on a near suicide mission by his father with cruel words that he should have died in Boromir’s place his only farewell.

When he had returned wounded, Denethor had lost his wits and decided to burn himself on a funeral pyre together with his younger son. Only the last minute intervention of Pippin and Gandalf had saved Faramir from being burned alive.

Aragorn suddenly felt overwhelmed with compassion towards this young man whom life had dealt a series of such grievous blows. He must have been heartbroken at the loss of his only brother, as from Boromir he had learned they were very close. Such grief combined with his father’s disdain must have hurt him deeply, making him very susceptible to the Black Breath when the Nazgul drew near.

Faramir more closely resembled Denethor as Aragorn remembered him in his youth, rather than Boromir. He had the black hair and carven features of those of pure or almost pure, Numenorean lineage.

This was the man who if he lived would hold Aragorn’s fate in his hands. His supposedly grey eyes were closed and framed by exceptionally long lashes, which gave him a very vulnerable look as they served to highlight that for one of his people, he was yet very young. He looked so helpless lying there, another innocent sacrifice in the war ravaging Middle Earth.

“Poor Faramir!” Imrahil lamented, “He always did his duty and fought bravely to defend the country he loved. Yet, in his heart, he is a man of peace and learning who holds no love for the sword ,unless it be to defend the land he loves!”

Faramir seemed to be growing weaker by the minute as his laboured breathing slowed. It would take a miracle to save him now.

Aragorn suddenly dropped on his knees and knelt by Faramir’s side. He placed one hand on the sweat soaked brow and clasped the other which lay limply on the coverlet in his own, seeking to somehow connect with the dying man.

“Faramir, Faramir!” he called, “Wake up, come to me!”

Faramir made no reply but there was just the slightest pressure on Aragorn’s hand as if some corner of the sick man’s mind responded.

He reached out, using the gift of his Line, seeking the younger man’s spirit with his own. He could sense great weariness and despair, a wounded soul that had endured too much and was now willing to embrace death as a welcome release from his grief and pain.

Aragorn felt as if he were trying to hold a drowning man who was being swept away by the current.

He felt such overwhelming compassion for this unfortunate young man. He used his gift to will own strength into him, an ability Elrond had repeatedly warned him was far to dangerous to use, especially without athelas.

Over and over he called Faramir’s name as he searched for the lost and wounded spirit to bring him back. He was oblivious to all else now, for what had begun, as a less than welcome favour for the wizard had become a highly personal quest. He wanted, nay needed to save this man.

He could sense now that here was a man of quality, a man that Gondor needed and that he would need too if he ever became King. He would value this man’s friendship and desired the opportunity to try and make up to him for all he had lost or been denied.

Aragorn turned grey with weariness,much to the alarm of his companions. He continued to call Faramir, but now his voice was so faint ,it seemed that he too was in some dark vale, calling for one who was lost.

He looked as if he were about to collapse. Eomer placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder to prevent him from falling.

“Strider!” Pippin exclaimed anxiously, ”Are you alright!” Aragorn did not hear he was so locked in the healing trance.

Alarmed, Gandalf shook his protégé,” You must stop this!” he ordered. “You have tried and no man could do more, but to persist, you will risk you own life and you are needed for far greater deeds! Faramir is a worthy man but not so much that you should hazard your own life for him!”

Roused from his trance, Aragorn turned on his mentor, eyes flashing,” I shall do this thing!” he snapped, “And my will not be gainsaid! What I have begun, I will finish!”

Pippin shivered, this was not Strider, the somewhat dour and reticent guide whom he had grown to love but someone altogether different with his newfound air of authority. He would not like to ever feel the man’s wrath directed against himself, as he feared he would be seared by the fire in his eyes.

As if there had been no interruption, Aragorn resumed calling Faramir.

Faramir lost in dark dreams and gripped by the fever, which threatened to consume him, was dimly aware that someone was calling him. He was so weary and heart sore that he lacked the will to respond. He longed for death so that he could be reunited with Boromir; the only person apart from his mother whom he had ever felt truly loved by. They had been inseparable, best friends as well as brothers .Boromir had always protected his little brother, even though he had never delighted in the arts of warfare any more than Boromir had enjoyed books.

He could hear other voices calling now as a sense of peace enveloped him and he felt he was being drawn towards a tunnel in which a bright light seemed to beckon him to the other side.

“You will never be as good as your brother, yet I would have you both beside me!” That was Denethor’s voice, yet what was his father doing here? Was he no longer amongst the living as this surely was somewhere beyond the circles of this world?

“My dear son! You are so precious, too precious to be here yet!” That was his mother’s voice; strange he should remember it so well after thirty years.

“Faramir, go back, you are needed by your King, he is a good man and you can trust him. You will always be with me, little brother though you remain on Arda for a while yet!” That voice belonged to Boromir, Faramir now wanted more than ever to join him, as there was no doubt now that they would be reunited in death.

He heard other voices too, those of his loyal men whom he had led out to die at Osgiliath and seen fall all around him.

Aragorn realised he was losing Faramir as the death rattle was now in his throat. Once or twice he had stopped breathing completely,only to be kept alive by the sheer force of Aragorn’s will .It was becoming harder to keep him alive as he felt his own strength waning.

He would have swooned had he not felt steadying hands on his shoulders, supporting him, Eomer’s no doubt, as he sensed his friend nearby.

Recognition

A young boy ran into the room pushing towards Aragorn, carrying a cloth, tightly grasped in his hand. “It is kingsfoil, sir,” he said, but not fresh I fear. It must have been culled two weeks ago at the least. I hope it will serve, sir?”

He then caught sight of Faramir and burst into tears.

Pippin hastened to his side and placed a comforting arm around him, “Don’t worry, Bergil!” he said, “Strider is very good at almost everything, if anyone can cure Faramir, he can!”

As if revived by the very presence of the athelas, Aragorn turned to the boy and smiled at him, “It will serve,” he said.“The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted!”

He then took two of the dried leaves and breathed on them and then crushed them in his hands. He then cast the leaves into a bowl of steaming water, which stood on the table by Faramir’s bedside and straightaway a living freshness filled the room, filling it with joy.

Aragorn now stood ;tall and strong as one invigorated and his eyes smiled as he held the bowl in front of Faramir’s face and called him again.

Faramir suddenly felt himself being pulled back through the tunnel again and the bright light faded. He tried to reach out towards his mother and brother but they seemed to be moving further and further away from him, as he was forced back into the world of the living. Another, unknown hand

reached out towards him and he grasped it. An unfamiliar yet compelling voice called his name and the air was filled with a wonderful fragrance.

The voice called his name again and this time he knew who it was that called him, as he had seen him many times in his dreams. It was the heir of Elendil, the long lost King of Gondor and Arnor!

Faramir could no longer resist the summons. Breathing deeply of the wonderful invigorating scent, he felt compelled to answer the King, the man who called him repeatedly. Yet he feared to meet the man and offer his heart as his foresight sensed great trials lay ahead of him. Trials from which he would most likely not return.

Would his heart not be broken again by the loss of yet another he loved ? He knew should the King return, an event he had dreamed of and foreseen he would offer him unquestioning love and fealty. This man, mightier by far than Denethor, would be the long desired saviour of Gondor. How could he not answer the call of his King?”

Aragorn waited, dimly aware of Ioreth chattering in the background. He had kept Faramir alive long enough for some athelas to be found.

Faramir was no longer struggling to breathe and the flush of fever was leaving his cheeks. He should awaken any moment now. Aragorn decided it was best not to tell him yet who he was.

Better to wait until he was stronger, when he would decide either to recognise him as King or dismiss him as a Pretender as his ancestor Arvedui had been rejected in the past. From what he knew of Faramir’s father and brother, the latter seemed the most likely outcome as the Council would follow his lead when he made his claim to the crown.

Faramir then stirred, slowly opened his eyes and looked at Aragorn who was still bending over him, smiling at him encouragingly.

Faramir at first looked dazed, then as his eyes focussed he looked directly at Aragorn with such knowledge and love in his eyes that Aragorn was astonished .He felt even more drawn to this man as a kindred soul, whatever he decided in the future.

Faramir whispered through parched lips, “My lord, you called me. I come. What does the King command?”

Aragorn felt breathless with awe. He was so amazed that he almost dropped the bowl he was holding. Hastily, he placed it on the bedside table. However did Faramir know who he was, when he had never seen him before?

“Walk no more in the darkness, but awake!” Aragorn told him, holding a glass of water to his lips so he could drink.”You are weary. Rest awhile and take food and be ready when I return.”

His mind was full of questions but now was not the right time to ask them. He needed a long talk with Faramir once he was stronger to tell him of his brother's valiant death trying to save the Hobbits from the Uruk Hai. Also, he would like to get to know this younger son of Denethor’s.

“I will,lord,” said Faramir shyly.“For who would lie idle when the King has returned?”

There it was again, the acknowledgment of his claim to kingship. If he were to survive the coming battle, he would owe this man a debt of gratitude, which could never be repaid. By his acknowledgment, the way was now opened for him to become King of the reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor and win the hand of his beloved Arwen.

He grasped Faramir’s hand in unspoken thanks. Instantly Faramir tried to lift it to his lips to kiss in fealty.

“Farewell then for a while!” said Aragorn.“I must go to others who need me.”

With tears in his eyes he bent and kissed Faramir on the brow. He then turned and left the room, but not before telling the Healers to bring a nourishing broth for Faramir and see that he was bathed and that his sweat soaked nightshirt and bed linen were changed to make him more comfortable.

The garrulous Ioreth naturally had to have the last word “King! Did you hear that? What did I say? The hands of a healer I said!”

Aragorn smiled ruefully, so much for his attempt to come into the city unnoticed, as now he was certain all of Minas Tirith would be aware of his coming.

But most importantly, he had saved Faramir and he hoped if the Valar saw him through the coming war that he could rule with this man as his Steward by his side.

Faramir lay gazing after him, his mind filled with conflicting emotions, joy that the long awaited King had returned, combined with horror at his own numerous albeit unavoidable lapses of etiquette.

He shivered as the nightshirt he woe felt cold and damp now that the fever had broken.

Whatever would the King think that he had been unable to stand and bow to him?Would he be insulted that he was wearing only this sweat soaked nightshirt and not his velvet court robes, which he was certain were the correct attire for greeting a King in? He had been taught to wear them when Theoden of Rohan visited his father and this man was a greater King by far. Then had he addressed him correctly, should he have said 'your majesty'?

His musings were interrupted, when two young apprentice healers came to bathe him and change his bedding and nightshirt. The times must be grave indeed, if no others could be spared to attend to him. It was usual for only the most senior healers to tend the ruling family, even if only for the most basic nursing needs.

Although he knew he needed their help, being too weak still to do anything for himself, he flushed scarlet when they undressed him, kind and discreet as they were. He hated being unclothed in front of others. He supposed he should be thankful they had not sent Ioreth or any of the other women who tended the sick here!

“How do you feel, my Lord Steward?” one of them asked, feeling his forehead for any signs of returning fever.

“ I am well, thank you, but why do you address me thus? Is my father dead?” It seemed that his vision was correct. His father must have fallen in the great battle he knew was coming.

Neither of the young men would look him in the eye as one mumbled. “Yes he is dead, my Lord Steward, I offer my sincere condolences.”

“How did he die?” Faramir asked as a clean bandage was wound round his shoulder. The wound throbbed painfully as did his back. His hair felt oddly greasy and uncomfortable, but as neither offered to wash it, he said nothing. It was obvious they were hard pressed with so many sick and wounded to care for.

“We do not know,“they chorused in unison almost as if reciting something they had been told to. “We were working here and have not left these Houses for many days. All we know is that you are the Ruling Steward now.”

Faramir was puzzled by their reticence as they must by now be accustomed to the grim task of telling relatives that their loved ones had fallen.

He felt numb and too weary to press them further. Maybe the tears would come when he was alone, since he had been trained from early childhood to repress his emotions. Even when only five years old, he had been told if he wept at his mother’s funeral, he would be beaten afterwards. All his life he had striven for his father’s approval. Now he would never gain it. Yet, all he could feel was a vague sense of relief that never again would he face his wrath.

“Was that really the King just then?” asked the younger looking of the two healers, as if trying to distract him.

“Yes that was indeed Elendil's heir, so I shall be the last of my House to bear the office,” he replied in a muffed tone, as a clean nightshirt was drawn over his head. “Gladly do I surrender the White Rod to him.”

One of the healers brought him some broth, tucked a cloth under his chin to protect the clean nightshirt and then fed it to him spoonful by spoonful. He felt as if he were a small child again, but then it would have been his nurse or elder brother feeding him. He hated being so helpless but the broth tasted good and at least he was clothed,fed and comfortable now!

They bowed respectfully and left him to rest. However,sleep was slow to come to him as he kept thinking about Boromir, about his father and most of all about the King, who had returned to claim his throne after so long.

The King had said he would return to him in a while. Whatever was he going to say to him? He had not even thanked him for saving his life, another unforgivable breach of etiquette!

He had felt strongly drawn to the man who had looked at him with such kind eyes. He must not forget though, but he was the mightiest man alive. No doubt he would be even harder to please than his father!

He then thought of his loyal men who had ridden out beside him to Osgiliath and wondered how many had survived. He could see their faces and hear their screams as the enemy’s arrows rained down upon them, whenever he tried to close his eyes.

Finally he fell into an uneasy sleep.

****

Aragorn was now about to leave the Houses of Healing and seek out any others stricken by the Black Breath that needed his help. He had sent for the sons of Elrond to come and help him face the magnitude of the task at hand.

Lady Eowyn and Merry had been far easier to awaken than Faramir, as he had the athelas to help him rouse them immediately. He was now weary beyond measure; for as he had told Merry, he had not slept in a bed since Dunharrow nor eaten since before dawn.

Something made him look into Faramir’s room before he left,though. The young man had been so troubled of spirit and close to death that he felt he must see how he fared.

He found him alone in his room, tossing in an uneasy sleep. After feeling the young Steward's forehead, and satisfying himself that the fever had truly left him, Aragorn lightly brushed his fingertips over the restless man’s eyelids while making small circles with his thumb on his forehead.

Faramir settled into a deep untroubled sleep almost at once.

Aragorn smiled in satisfaction, he would heal now and regain his strength. He felt protective towards this young man. If he had he been allowed to marry when he wished, he could easily have a son of his age by now and any child of his and Arwen’s would have raven hair and grey eyes like Faramir. As the young Steward had made it clear he accepted him as King, maybe soon he would be blessed with a son of his own.

Quietly he left the room. As soon as Faramir was strong enough, he would visit him and talk to him about his brother and most importantly get to one whom he hoped would not only be his Steward but also be his friend.

The End

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story

The Rival

Walk no more in Shadows

With thanks to Raksha

“Walk no more in shadows, but awake,” I tell him. I sense so many shadows, not all caused by Sauron’s minions.

Those shades reach far back into the past, overshadowing the small child deprived of a mother's love, the restless youth vainly striving for his father’s approval; the darkness of a brother’s deeds and death. Darkest of all is the shadow of the father slain by his own hand, who would have consigned his son to the flames.

Walk no more in shadows cast by others. Awake, O Jewel of Gondor, to walk in the sun at my right hand!

Awakening

Faramir’s eyes open, the clear grey of a true child of Númenor. He resembles me as a son might. His eyes meet mine.

I expect to see confusion in his gaze. Instead, he looks at me with love and recognition, almost as if he expected to see me.

“What does the king command?” he asks me, thus bringing closer my dreams of marriage and heirs.

Love springs between us. Friendship and fealty both, kindled in that instant.

I smile, my heart gladdened to have snatched this prize from Sauron’s grasp.

Gondor has need of this son and so will I. 

These characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate and New Line Cinema.No Profit has been made from this story

Aragorn knew he had to talk to Faramir in case he never had another chance as the Host was due to set out to Mordor at first light tomorrow.

The Steward deserved to know of his brother’s last moments and how bravely he had fought to defend the Hobbits from Sauraman’s forces but Aragorn disliked having to tell him now, while he was still lying recovering, but still very weak in the Houses of Healing.

Yet if he were to fall before the Black Gate of Mordor, he would never have the chance to hear of his beloved brother’s death from the one who was with him at the time and thereby maybe he would gain some peace of mind from knowing the truth.

Aragorn was exhausted after the battle, tending those under the shadow of the Black Breath and debating with the other leaders about how best they could give Frodo a chance to destroy the Dark Lord’s power, but he would not seek his tent to rest until he had fulfilled the duty he felt he owed both to Boromir and Faramir.

Clad simply with his grey cloak concealing the green gem he wore, he made his way to the young captain’s room, hoping that he was feeling stronger now.

The struggle to save Faramir’s life had been the hardest Aragorn had ever experienced.

Faramir fallen into the depths of shadow and despair, and never before had he needed to reach so deeply into the mind of another to lead them back into the world of the living.

Aragorn had sensed such darkness and desolation, as this was a gentle soul driven to the very limits and yet underneath the shadow, he sensed a kindred spirit, which had made him all the more determined to save Faramir’s life, whatever the cost to his own strength.

And indeed the cost was high, as his companions had all feared for his own well-being before Bergil had brought some athelas, which had served to revive both Faramir and himself.

When he entered Faramir’s room, the healers were tending the Steward’s wounds and he was propped up in bed with his nightshirt pulled down to his waist.

Faramir blushed scarlet as the King entered the room and tried to rise and pull up his nightshirt to cover himself. His expression suggested the mixture of the love and respect, which Aragorn had noticed two nights before but now that was overshadowed by a look of overwhelming fear.

Faramir fell back against the pillows caught by the healers’ restraining hands.

“My apologies, my lord,” Faramir gasped.” I fear I am not properly clad to receive you and I cannot rise.”

Aragorn smiled attempting to reassure him.” There is nothing to apologise for Faramir,” he said gently.”I only wished to speak to you.” He wondered, not for the first time, how he could approach the subject of Boromir’s death.

He then turned to the healers.

“I will tend his wound myself,” the King said.

“As you wish, my lord.” The healers bowed and left, grateful to have one less to tend as many were waiting for their help in these dark days.

Aragorn felt Faramir’s flushed brow and once reassured he was not feverish but merely ill at ease, took the bowl of warm water the healers had left and started to bathe the wound on Faramir’s shoulder.

 It was healing well and Aragorn felt relieved, although he feared the muscle was damaged, which could cause much future pain if neglected.

“It is not fitting that my King should be tending me.” Faramir protested.

“I have been a healer far longer than I have been a King, if indeed I am ever crowned as such, should I return from Mordor. Tell me if this wound continues to pain you as I think I will need to treat it further.” Aragorn replied, gently dabbing the injured shoulder dry with a towel and applying a salve the sons of Elrond had provided.

Faramir flinched at each touch, despite the slow gentle movements of the King’s fingertips and bit back a hiss of pain, when the ointment stung the raw flesh even though Aragorn was far gentler than the healers of Gondor, who had been attending him.

Strange warmth emanated from the King’s hands, which felt both soothing and frightening to Faramir, as he had never encountered anything quite like it before.

The Steward stared mutely at his hands lying limply on the coverlet as if lost in thought.

The King wondered whether it was the wounds or the grief he must undoubtedly be feeling that caused Faramir so much pain.

“Are you feeling any stronger today?” Aragorn asked as he gently pulled the nightshirt up over the Steward’s shoulders and fastened the laces round the neck. He then seated himself on a chair by the bed.

“I am much better, sire and thank you for saving my life. I apologise for not having thanked you before”

Faramir sank back against the pillows but the tension failed to leave him. He sat staring at his King like a frightened rabbit caught by a fox.

Aragorn took his patient’s hand and frowned at the racing pulse. If Faramir would not be calm, the fever could return in his weakened condition.

Aragorn gently laid his hands on the other’s head, stroking his hair and massaging the back of his neck with a healing touch.

Initially Faramir flinched again as if expecting a blow but gradually the tension left his hunched body as he felt the King’s power.

 Aragorn removed his hand, wishing he could ease his Steward more but feeling too weary to do so.

He noticed the other’s hair was still covered in oil and picked up the towel to wipe it from his hands.

“It was thanks enough to see you recovering. You do not need to keep apologising, my Lord Steward. I would not have you fear me,” he said with a smile. Fixing Faramir with a gentle but penetrating gaze Aragorn asked:” Tell me how you knew who I was?”

“I have dreams that foretell the future.” Faramir replied “I saw you in one coming to save Gondor. You wield the sword that was broken. My brother too had such dreams though not as often as I and we both dreamed of the broken sword in Imladis. My father sent Boromir to seek counsel there, even though I begged for the errand.”

He shuddered as he spoke unable to mention the dream he had awoken from that morning, a vision so hideous that he forced himself to stifle the initial warmth he had felt towards his King and saviour, as he could endure no more losses of those he loved.

 The touch of the man’s hands had only made the hideous vision clearer as he saw the King, his body bruised and broken, lying in some field, surrounded by a small group of weeping companions.

Aragorn was thinking the conversation was leading where he hoped it would, when Faramir noticed him wiping his hands.

“Why is my hair covered in oil? “ Faramir asked with increasing confidence, as the Elvish relaxation technique Aragorn had used, started to work.” I know the healers have been too busy to help me wash it but when I ask why no one will even tell me that or how my father died!”

Aragorn wet the towel in the basin and rubbed Faramir’s head with it while desperately wondering how to answer him. This was the one subject he wished to avoid above all others.

“Thank you, that feels better.” Faramir said rubbing his hands through his damp but now much cleaner hair.

Aragorn held his breath wondering what would come next.

“Do you know how my father died?”

Faramir had asked the one question, Aragorn had no wish to answer, at least not until the man was fully recovered.

“I was not there. I only heard tidings of his death when I reached the city gates.” Aragorn said evasively.

“But surely they told you how he died?” Faramir insisted.

Aragorn sighed deeply. It seemed his attempts to calm Faramir to his presence had worked all too well.

“It is not a pleasant story.” Aragorn said.” Are you certain you wish to know?”

“Nothing could be worst than what I imagine!” Faramir replied.

Aragorn rose to his feet, “One who was there is in the next room.” he said “I will fetch him to you.”

 Merry and Pippin were sitting on Merry’s bed, a large tray laden with food between them.

They looked up as Aragorn entered and smiled with delight to see their visitor.

“Strider, how good to see you!” Merry exclaimed.

“Do have a cake, they taste good!” Pippin said proffering a plate in greeting.

Aragorn accepted, despite the urgency of his errand, hoping the sweet cake might make him feel a little less weary.

He noticed with a flash of amusement that the hobbits had somehow managed to procure some of the tea, which they were so fond of drinking in the Shire.

He helped himself to a cup, knowing it was famed for its invigorating properties.

“How is your, arm, Merry?” he asked, noticing that Merry held his teacup in his left hand.

“Much better, thank you,” Merry replied, hastily changing the cup to the other hand where it wobbled alarmingly.

“I will look at it later.” Aragorn replied, unconvinced, ” But first I must ask Pippin to come with me to see the Lord Faramir.”

Pippin looked alarmed.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.” Has his fever come back?”

Aragorn shook his head. ”No, he is recovering from his injuries but he wants to know how his father died and begged me to fetch someone who was there, loathe though I am to do so.”

Pippin stared at the King in horror.

“But I can’t tell him that his father tried to burn him alive!” he gasped.

“I fear you must as Gandalf is occupied with preparations for tomorrow’s departure.”

“But I don’t know what to say!” Pippin blanched at the prospect. Aragorn laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

“Just keep to the facts and do not go into details but emphasise how his father had lost his mind .I will be with you when you speak to him.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t there. I’m sorry you had to see all that, Pip!” Merry said as he started eating another cake.

“Faramir would have died had Pippin not been there, so Gandalf tells me.” Aragorn said gravely, swallowing the last of his tea. He replaced the cup on the tray and led Pippin towards the door.

“I will be back later to tend to your arm,” he told Merry as they left.

Pippin shuddered but collected himself as they reached Faramir’s room and went within.

Faramir had not moved since Aragorn had left him and he now lay back against the pillows looking anxious.

“Here is one who was present when your father died.” Aragorn said quietly to the young Steward.

“How are you my Lord?” asked Pippin with genuine concern, as he had come to care deeply for Faramir in the short time he had known him.

“I am much better, Master Peregrin. I thank you for your concern. Now, I beg of you, tell me how my father died as my Lord King says you were there.”

Pippin took a deep breath and stared at the floor, unable to look Faramir in the eye. Then the words came tumbling out without pause for breath.

“Your father, Lord Faramir, lost his mind and I believe he thought you dead or almost so and the enemy was at the gates. So he had his servants take you to the tombs and build a funeral pyre for you both. I ran to fetch Gandalf and we pulled you from the pyre but we could not save your father. The poor Lord had quite lost his wits.”

Pippin finally stopped for breath and ventured a quick glance at Faramir.

To his surprise, the young man showed little emotion apart from a sharp intake of breath.

“It seems that I owe you my life, Master Peregrin. You have my thanks,” he said gravely.

Pippin blushed and shifted his feet uneasily. Aragorn took pity on him.

“You can return to Merry now, if you wish.” he said, smiling at the Hobbit.

Pippin inclined his head to Faramir and left, thankful the ordeal was over.

Aragorn then sat down by Faramir’s bedside and studied the young man’s impassive features.

Faramir’s eyes were closed and it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

“My father had little time for me in life, strange he should wish for my company in death, is it not?” he remarked with a bitter smile.

“The Dark Lord poisoned his mind.” Aragorn replied. “He believed the city would fall to him ere nightfall.”

“He was angry that I still lived while Boromir had fallen.” Faramir said without any trace of rancour.” Yet, even my brother, the noblest of our people, fell under the evil spell of the one ring. Who then could resist the Dark Lord?”

Relieved that Faramir had mentioned his brother first, Aragorn said quietly.

“Your brother repented of his evil. He died with honour.”

Faramir gazed at him with sad dark eyes.

“How do you know of these things?”

“I was with your brother, when he breathed his last. Alas, I came too late to save his life!” Aragorn took Faramir’s hand and noted it was trembling slightly. “Do you wish to know more?”

Faramir nodded.

“Boromir repented of his folly in coveting the ring and did not pursue Frodo when he fled from him, but instead went to the defence of the Hobbits, Meriadoc and Peregrin when a band of Uruk Hai sent by Saruman attacked them. He fought with great valour but fell eventually pierced with many arrows, beyond my skills to heal, alas. I ran to his side and he was able to tell me what had happened before he passed beyond the circles of this world. I blessed him and he breathed his last. Then my companions and I laid him to rest in a fair Elven boat and gave his body to the river.”

Faramir smiled faintly.

“That part, I know my Lord, I saw it in a dream. It eases my heart to know that he died with honour and not alone.”

Aragorn was not surprised by the others calmness and lack of tears, given his background. Though the racing pulse he could feel as he clasped his wrist belied the seeming tranquillity.

Faramir took a deep breath.

“Thank you for telling me this, my Liege.” he said.” Now if I may, I would rest as my wound is much less painful since you tended it.”

Aragorn looked at him doubtfully, certain he was struggling to hold back his grief, which needed release if he were to heal in mind as well as body.

“Would you not like someone to stay with you, your uncle maybe?” he enquired, hoping that Imrahil might provide the comfort needed.

“When my uncle is less burdened with cares of state. I should like to see him.” He closed his eyes as if in dismissal.

Aragorn had little choice but to leave, though he feared that Faramir’s emotions were stretched taunt as a bowstring that could snap any moment plunging him into the same dark madness that claimed his father. He despatched a messenger in search of Imrahil.

Swaying slightly with weariness and grief, Aragorn next went to speak to the chief of the women who tended Lady Eowyn and asked how the Lady of Rohan was faring.

“Her body heals but her mind is deeply troubled, sir.” the woman said.” She keeps demanding to be allowed out of bed despite her broken arm and other hurts.”

Aragorn monetarily closed his eyes and sighed. It was as he had feared and although he had never encouraged the lady to see him in a romantic light, he still felt responsible.

“She must stay here for many days, yet,” he said.” If need be, hide her clothing, so she will have to remain in her room.”

“Yes, my Lord.” the woman replied.” If you will excuse me, I must return to tend Lady Eowyn.”

“Care for her well throughout the coming days!” Aragorn instructed her before letting her leave.

He then returned to Merry’s room. The Hobbit had now returned to his bed and looked tired. Pippin was sitting beside him and they were talking nostalgically of the Shire.

Aragorn felt a sudden stab of sorrow for their lost innocence as they were so changed from the carefree young Hobbits he had first met at Bree.

He forced himself to smile at them, as he knew they looked to him for reassurance.

“I have come to see how your injured arm is faring, Merry.” he said.” I noticed you are still favouring the other one.

“It is much better.” Merry said, a little too hastily.” Just a trifle stiff.”

“Let me see!”

Merry sighed but obediently rolled up his sleeve.

Aragorn gently felt it up to the shoulder joint and noted Merry’s arm still felt slightly cold although no marks were visible.

He grasped the Hobbit’s arm with his left hand and held the right poised about two inches above the cold flesh and closed his eyes, hoping he had the strength needed.

Merry was puzzled.” What’s wrong, Strider?” he asked.” I told you, it doesn’t hurt or anything.”

He tried to pull his arm away from Aragorn’s grasp.

“Hold it still, Merry!” Aragorn ordered.” I want to make sure you have the full use of it.”

“Won’t it do later, if it’s still stiff?” Merry asked.” After all, it is only two days since I injured it.”

“I do not know if or when. I will return and would leave you whole.” Aragorn said quietly.

 He had been too weary to give Merry as much healing as he would have wished, when he saved his life, having already spend much of his strength on healing Faramir and the Lady Eowyn, while she was unconscious as he did not dare return to her later in case she mistook his attention for romantic feelings again.

Merry shuddered at the sorrow in his voice and made no further protest.

He could feel a powerful heat emanating from Aragorn’s outstretched hand, which seemed to permeate deeply into his flesh and melt the coldness.

He glanced at Aragorn’s face and it appeared to him that the man was far away as if in some sort of trance. Slightly afraid, he sat still, hardly daring to breathe.

Aragorn opened his eyes and smiled at him. His face looked grey with exhaustion.

“Does that feel better?” he asked.

Merry flexed the arm and found he could now move it easily.

“Yes, it feels normal now, thank you, Strider!” he cried in amazement. “Can I ride out with you and Pippin tomorrow now?”

Aragorn shook his head.

“No, Merry, you suffered the Black Breath. It takes time to recover from that.”

“But I want to go with Pippin!”

”We have hardly ever been parted.” Pippin added pleadingly.

Aragorn’s face was grave.

“If you wish to stay here with Merry, I count it no disgrace, Pippin. You were freed from your oath to Gondor, when Lord Denethor released you.” he said quietly.” The land of Mordor is no place for a Hobbit!”

“Frodo and Sam are there, I want to help them. Don’t leave me behind! I want to fight for the Shire as much as for Gondor!” Pippin pleaded.

“You are so young.” Aragorn said sadly.” You will be risking your life. I do not know if I can protect you.”

“I wish to come.” Pippin said steadfastly.

“If that is your choice, I shall not prevent you.” Aragorn said.” I know how much you want to help your cousin and represent the Shire and that is noble, however if you wish to change your mind before morning, you still can.”

“I won’t.” Pippin said steadfastly doing his best to ignore the sorrow in Merry’s eyes.

Aragorn took out a jar of salve from his pack and started massaging Merry’s arm and shoulder with the contents.

Merry grimaced.” So much fuss! I said my arm felt better and this stuff smells vile!”

Despite his sorrowful mood, Aragorn was unable to repress a smile.

“It is as well Lord Elrond cannot hear you complaining about his millennia old and much coveted ointment!” he commented wryly.” Now stop wriggling, this treatment is meant to be relaxing!”

“I’m sorry, Strider,” said Merry.” I know you are trying to help me and I do appreciate it. I don’t know how we could have managed without your help! It is just so hard to keep still as your fingers tickle!”

Aragorn finished applying the salve and started to wash his hands. ”There is something you can for me, if you will, Merry.” he said, picking up the towel.

Merry rolled down his sleeve and leaned back on the pillows.

“Very gladly as I feel so useless being left behind!”

“I would have you help care for those left behind wounded, Lord Faramir and especially the Lady Eowyn while we are gone as she is sorrowful for the loss of her uncle, and her brother rides forth with the Host tomorrow.”

Merry bowed his head and wiped away a tear. He had only known King Theoden a short time but had come to love him as a father.”

“I promise you I will.” he said sincerely.” I share Lady Eowyn’s grief for the King and we will have much to talk about. We both know what it is like to face that thing!” He shuddered and felt a stab of pain in his arm at the mention of the Nazgul.

Aragorn noticed his reaction.

“Try not to think of it too much.” he said gently.” I promise you the memory will fade in time but few would have had your courage to face it as you and Lady Eowyn did.”

Merry basked in the praise but tried in typical Hobbit fashion to make light of it.

“Who knows, maybe I will merit a mention in one of Bilbo’s songs?” he said

“Now that would be an honour!” Pippin replied.

Watching them jesting together, Aragorn felt a keen pang of sorrow as he remembered the songs and stories after the feast at Rivendell and wondered if they would ever all be together again.

 He briefly closed his eyes and at once a vision of Arwen flashed into his mind as she had appeared on that evening, so beautiful that all eyes had lingered on her. He swayed slightly.

“Are you alright, Strider?”

Pippin’s concerned voice roused him from his reverie.

“I am just weary. I will leave you now but will see you again before we leave,” he assured the Hobbits.

Bidding them farewell for now, he left their room .He was about to return to his tent outside the city and rest as he was so exhausted his head throbbed, but something made him return to see how Faramir was faring.

He knocked on Faramir’s door but on getting no reply entered, hoping the young man was sleeping.

Instead, he found him curled almost in a ball sobbing convulsively yet almost silently.

Only an occasional choked yet heartrending sob was audible. Faramir seemed unaware that anyone had entered the room, so consumed was he by his terrible grief.

Putting aside his own weariness, Aragorn shed his cloak and impulsively sat on the edge of the bed and reaching out towards the distressed Steward, drew Faramir into his arms as one would a child, holding him cradled close against his shoulder, all the while taking care not to aggravate his wounds. He gently stroked the dark head.

Soothed by the touch, Faramir’s tears started to flow freely. Between sobs, Aragorn could make out the occasional word.

“I tried to please you, father, truly! My loyal men, all fallen! Boromir, my beloved brother, no!”

The words tore at the King’s tender heart, thinking just how much Faramir had endured.

He made no attempt to quieten him, apart from gently massaging his head and neck, hoping the tears would bring him healing that he could not. He was somewhat puzzled that the Steward’s son would now accept his comfort after his earlier apprehension in his presence; yet glad he could be there with him, while he released his pent up anguish 

He sat there silently, knowing that words were powerless to assuage such grief and that all he could do was simply be there, holding the grief stricken young man, as a loving father would hold his child. Faramir’s tears soaked through tunic and the damp fabric clung uncomfortably to his flesh.

Eventually the sobs subsided and Faramir slowly drew away from Aragorn’s aching arms.

“Uncle, I’m sorry!” he gasped and then turned and found himself looking into the compassionate eyes of his King, who himself was wiping away a tear as he remembered how Boromir had died in his arms, his noble body pierced with the arrows of many Orcs.

“My Liege, I crave pardon!” he gasped.” I thought you were my uncle!” Faramir flushed scarlet.

Aragorn smiled at him and gently took his Steward’s trembling hand.

“There is no shame in weeping.” he said gently.” Your brother was a great man. I too wept for him. I remember your father too from when he was about your age. If I unwittingly deceived you into thinking I was your uncle, I am sorry but I could see you were in need of someone to offer comfort.”

Faramir bowed his head unable to look the King in the eye. He would have forfeited his Sovereign’s respect forever now!

“I will not show such weakness again.” Faramir said, raising his head.” What does my Lord command?”

“I would command you not to fear me.” Aragorn said gently yet firmly.” It is no weakness to mourn a beloved brother in the privacy of your chamber.”

He raised Faramir’s head forcing him to look at him at the same time, using a light healing touch to soothe the troubled young man. He wished he were not so tired as every bone in his body seemed to ache with weariness.

“I will try my Lord.” Faramir managed a weak smile and he forced himself to look at Aragorn. The King much resembled his father in appearance, the same dark hair, though with much less grey in it, high cheekbones, and grey eyes.

Aragorn released him and went to draw up a chair beside the bed. He plumped up Faramir’s pillows and drew the covers up to his chin.

“I will stay with you a while,” he said.” Weep as you feel the need as it will heal your heart’s grief then rest will come more easily to restore your body.”

He smoothed Faramir’s hair back from his brow, gently stroking his head with his fingertips.

Faramir continued to cry quietly for a little while longer and Aragorn continued to soothe him until his healing touch sent the younger man into a deep and dreamless sleep.

Aragorn continued to sit by the bedside, still worried that he might be needed, though weariness soon overcame him and he fell into a light doze.

A sudden footstep behind him jolted him back to wakefulness. He realised that Prince Imrahil had entered the room.

Aragorn beckoned him outside as not to awaken Faramir.

“I am sorry, I could not come before, My Lord.” Imrahil apologised.” I was needed to supervise the setting in place of a defence strategy for while we are gone and it took the messenger some time to find me. How is my nephew?”

“He insisted upon learning of his father’s death and I felt I should tell him about his brother before we left.” Aragorn said sadly. ”Naturally he is distraught, but I hope he will sleep now. I comforted him as best I could; yet I fear there is little comfort for sorrows such as his. Only time can bring true healing.”

“These times are hard for us all, but he has had more to bear than most. He never measured up to his brother in his father’s estimation and recently, Lord Denethor drove him so hard, that a lesser man would have been broken long ago. “ Imrahil replied. ”I will stay with him now as you look exhausted, My Lord. Thank you for caring for him.”

“I will go to my tent and rest now.” Aragorn said wearily and turned to go.

“One more thing.” Imrahil halted him.” I hope you will forgive me for saying this, but although you have the undoubted bearing of a King, you do not exactly look like one and we, that is the leaders of the West, feel you should lead the Host out tomorrow looking like the King that you are!”

Aragorn shrugged.” Your point is valid, your Highness, “he said”, But all I have with me are some clean shirts and linens. Any finery I own is in Rivendell.”

“I am sure we could find suitable garments to fit you.” Imrahil replied “And you could borrow the Steward’s apartments to bathe.”

“That is kindly offered but I have no wish to cause dissent by openly entering the city.” Aragorn said.

Imrahil hastened to override his objections.” If you come at first light, dressed as you are now, no one will notice. I have ordered the servants to let you in and prepare a bath for you. Then Eomer of Rohan, Prince Legolas and myself will help dress you like a King .It will inspire the men and give them hope.”

Aragorn was too weary to argue. He bade Imrahil goodnight, took up his cloak and made his way to his tent to snatch what little sleep he could before dawn.

Faramir awoke from a troubled dream and opened his eyes.

Imrahil was at his side in an instant.

“Faramir, are you in pain?”

He shook his head. ”No it was just an evil dream.”

“These dark times lend themselves to troubled dreams, I fear.” Imrahil said sympathetically, trying to stifle a yawn.

“You need to rest, Uncle, I will be well enough.” Faramir reassured him before making a request of the Prince.

Nevertheless, Imrahil sat watching his nephew until he fell into what appeared to be a dreamless sleep.

He was troubled about Faramir as his lot was perhaps the hardest of all, to wait while the fate of Middle Earth was decided and maybe defend the city in a last hopeless stand against the Dark Lord while already loaded with a heavy burden of grief.

Imrahil looked back sadly on his nephew’s sleeping features as he left the room, thinking it could well be the last time he saw him in this life.

 A servant unlocked the Steward’s apartments as Aragorn approached at dawn the next day. It seemed that no sooner had he fallen asleep than he was roused by Imrahil’s squire.

Half asleep, he made his way to the highest level of the city, wondering why people set so much importance by appearance. Surely, the armour that Theoden had lent him would serve well enough?

Entering Denethor’s apartments was like stepping back in time, as the furnishings were much like they had been in his father Ecthelion’s lifetime, almost forty years before. The same heavy carved furniture, the imposing desk littered with papers, the dark heavy tapestries and the slightly musty smell, The rooms had a claustrophobic feel despite their size, as if fresh air were never allowed to enter.

Several servants carrying buckets were either entering or leaving the bathing chamber.

“Here you are my Lord,” said the servant escorting Aragorn, gesturing towards a huge sunken bath, filled with steaming water.” We have left soap and towels in the chamber for you. Do you require any other assistance?”

Aragorn shook his head.

“No, but thank you for all your help. I would be alone now. Please tell Prince Imrahil and his companions to wait here when they arrive”

The man bowed and exited followed by the others, one threw a curious glance at Aragorn, another looked resentful that any should use Denethor’s bath while the third looked totally indifferent.

Once they had gone, Aragorn locked the door behind him and started to divest himself of his clothing, the grey cloak the elves had gifted him, the tunic and trousers he had worn since Rivendell and the fine linens worn beneath, the only clue that here was a man of rank and status.

Gondor was chilly on a grey dawn in March and he shivered at the cold air on his naked flesh and quickly climbed down into the bath.

 The hot water felt blissful as it was so long since he had been able to bathe properly and the warmth eased the aches in his arms and shoulders. Yet, there was little time to relax and enjoy the ease.

Sighing he picked up the soap and washcloth and began to rinse away the accumulated grime of travel and battle. His chest and arms remained darkened, not with grime but the many bruises he had acquired over the last few weeks.

He washed away the dried blood from several partially healed gashes, which the enemy had inflicted on him at Helm’s Deep. He was relieved they had not become infected as there had been so little time to treat them properly and so many others needs to attend to.

The warm water soothed his many hurts and he allowed himself a few brief moments to enjoy it, wondering if this were the last time, he would enjoy a bath like this. They were leaving on a fool’s errand today, which would most likely result in all their deaths and yet there was no other choice but to try to distract Sauron as to give Frodo a chance to destroy the One Ring.

He thought sadly of all his hopes and dreams of marrying Arwen and becoming King of a reunited kingdom. Kingship would be a heavy burden and yet he had looked forward to trying to bring peace and prosperity to the land.

These last few days had been the most arduous of a long and hard life. First, the confrontation in the palantir, which Pippin had picked up when Wormtongue threw it from the tower at Orthanc.  Looking in the stone had almost cost the young Hobbit his life, yet had steeled Aragorn to do what he knew he must and show himself to Sauron as the lost heir of Isildur. The battle of wills had been waged throughout the night and Aragorn was utterly drained by it. Yet he emerged the victor as he bent the stone to his will.

There had been no time for rest though, for if the Captains of the West were to emerge victorious when Gondor was besieged and they were outnumbered, there was only one choice. Although he had outwardly appeared calm and controlled, Aragorn had felt the same chill of fear as those with him, when he rode the paths of the dead to summon the oath breakers, warriors who were cursed by his ancestor Isildur, never to rest until summoned by his heir to defend Gondor.

Again, his will had prevailed, but he was wearied both in body and spirit. There was still no rest after the battle of Pelennor Fields as many were wounded and under the shadow of the Black Breath, a malady that only the hands of the King could heal.

Stretching out his long legs, he leaned back in the bath, allowing his natural optimism to resurface. Though it seemed likely, he would die in the coming battle he hoped it would not be in vain and he was determined to die bravely, his sword in his hand, fighting against the Dark Lord’s minions. Faramir might yet rule Gondor in peace and prosperity.

He smiled at the thought, once he had recovered, he was certain Faramir would make a good Steward, as he sensed in him a man of rare quality after his own heart, a man he would gladly choose as friend if only the time were given him. The battle for Faramir’s life had been the hardest and drained him utterly, but it was a battle he had rejoiced in winning once he saw the look of love and knowledge on Faramir’s face when he awakened and looked into his eyes.

He washed his hair and reluctantly climbed out of the bath, wrapping a towel round himself as he did so. Once dried, he glanced down at his bruised body thinking he was scarcely in a fit condition to fight a battle, led alone lead one. But such was the lot of many in these evil times, be they common soldier or king.

He had requested that clean linen and a shirt and breeches be left here for him. He dressed in them quickly before Imrahil, Eomer, or Legolas could arrive, as he had no desire for them to see his injuries.

Eomer sneezed as he rooted through a heap of dusty armour, he cursed as he banged his knee against yet another ancient rusted breastplate.

Legolas continued to search diligently while Imrahil looked on, a worried frown creasing his usually serene features.

The vault was packed with armour, some of it very ancient and maybe even dating from when the heirs of Anarion had reigned in Gondor, but most of it was rusted and corroded and that which was wearable was made for someone much broader than Aragorn.

“It seems the Gondorian Kings of old enjoyed their state banquets!” remarked Eomer, kicking aside a breastplate, which looked as if it would have fitted both himself and Aragorn at the same time.

Eventually Legolas’ keen eyes spotted some suitable items and servants were summoned to clean and polish them.

They entered the chamber where Aragorn was awaiting them and made obeisance both as was the custom and as a token of respect to this modest yet noble heir to the ancient throne of kings.

If they were surprised that Aragorn was already dressed, they made no sign thinking maybe such was the custom of the reclusive Rangers from the North.

Aragorn accepted their homage, looking somewhat embarrassed that his comrades should kneel to him.

 As the representative of Gondor Imrahil first belted on a full skirt of mail about Aragorn’s slender waist and a shirt of mail was put on that was tightened with leather points that laced through wide leather hems at the back, which were fastened by Eomer followed by a leather belt which Legolas buckled at the back of Aragorn’s neck. Fitted to this were Pauldrons of steel and leather edged in gold and etched with Gondorian motives and large steel and leather rerebraces fashioned to resemble the winged crown and seven stars of the king. Boromir’s vambraces completed the arm protection, those same vambraces, which Aragorn had sworn to carry in honour of his fallen comrade until the last battle was won or lost.

They worked in silence, each all too aware that this could be Aragorn’s and their last battle, one from which it was unlikely they would return.

Warriors all, they would gladly give their lifeblood for the hope of a better future that they would not live to see.

Then Imrahil unwrapped a beautiful black velvet cloak, lined with scarlet silk.

“Faramir bade me request that you wear this,” he said gravely. ”It belonged to Boromir and was made for the ceremony when he was promoted to Captain General of the Armies of Gondor. He wore it only once, but it is a garment fit for a king.”

 Aragorn smiled sadly. ”It is beautiful.” He said.” I will be honoured to wear it.”

The King and Princes, who were serving as Aragorn’s attendants stood back and surveyed the results of their handiwork.

“You look magnificent, my friend!” Eomer exclaimed.” A true King!”

Imrahil nodded agreement.

“Something is missing!” exclaimed Legolas. ”Your hair should be braided in honour of Luthien, your elven ancestress! Will you permit me to do it? ”

Aragorn nodded and the Elf set to work, while Eomer and Imrahil looked on bemused.

When it was done, Eomer girded Anduril at his side and he was almost ready to depart, but first he had farewells to make.

He entered the now familiar Houses of Healing and went first, to Merry and Pippin, who were walking in the garden. They gasped when they saw him.

“Strider, you look splendid!” Pippin exclaimed.” You really look like the King now!”

Aragorn smiled, though fighting to control his emotions. He had fought and survived many battles, but never one in which the odds were as hopeless as they were now.

He hardly felt the pain in his arms and shoulders any longer, so great was the pain in his heart, a sorrow that must be concealed, as it was his duty to inspire his men and calm their fears in the face of almost certain death.

“It is time for you to join the company of the Men of the City which is ready to depart, Pippin,” he said,” We leave within the hour.”

“I would take my oath to you now.” said Pippin impulsively. ”Lord Denethor released me, yet I would swear again to you and to Gondor.” He knelt at Aragorn’s feet.

Overcome by the Hobbit’s loyalty and courage, Aragorn drew Anduril and offered him the hilt. Pippin placed his hand on it and said.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor and to the King, in peace and war, in living and dying, from this day henceforth, until my King release me, or death take me, or the world end. Thus do I, Peregrin of the Shire solemnly swear.”

Aragorn replied “And thus do I hear, Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor and will not fail to reward what is given, valour with honour, oath breaking with vengeance and fealty with love.”

Pippin kissed his Liege Lord’s hand and Aragorn raised him to his feet and embraced him, as fought to keep the tears from his eyes.

Merry watched, wiping away his own tears with the back of his hand.

Aragorn turned to him.” Now our ways must part and I know not for how long it shall be!” he said sadly. “If we never meet again, I have been honoured to know you, Farewell!”

He held out his hand to Merry, who took it, hesitated for a moment and then they impulsively drew each other into a close embrace.

Aragorn reluctantly released the tearful Hobbit and left him to say his goodbyes to Pippin.

Faramir was sitting propped up in bed when Aragorn entered.

When he saw the King, resplendent in His borrowed finery, he slid out of bed and knelt on the stone floor before Aragorn could prevent him.

“I would swear my oath to you, my King. “he said.” I am sorry I do not have my sword with me.”

“You are not well enough to be out of bed!” The healer in Aragorn was horrified while the man was deeply touched at the gesture.

“My Liege, I beg of you!”

Aragorn drew Anduril and held out the hilt to Faramir who grasped it and said solemnly.

“Here do I swear fealty and service to Gondor and to my King, to speak and to be silent, to do and to let be, to come and to go, in need or plenty, in peace and war, in living and dying, from this day henceforth, until my King release me, or death take me, or the world end. Thus do I, Faramir son of Denethor of the House of Hurin solemnly swear.”

Aragorn replied with equal gravity. “And thus do I hear, Aragorn son of Arathorn, heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor and nor will I forget it, nor will not fail to reward what is given, valour with honour, oath breaking with vengeance and fealty with love.”

Faramir noted how the King had changed the order of the words from his father’s day. It was in keeping with the man.

He bent forward to kiss Aragorn’s hand and almost swooned .The King was beside him in an instant, gently raising him to his feet and supporting him back to bed.

“Today the King has returned out of legend.” Faramir whispered. ”I am glad that I have lived to see this day and would serve my Liege Lord as you command.”

Aragorn looked at him with a mixture of pride and sadness.” I command you to rest and regain your strength, to care for Gondor and her people and to especially care for the Hobbit, Meriadoc, and the Lady of Eowyn of Rohan, who too lie within these houses.

“I will, I give you my oath.” said Faramir gravely.

“Then I bid you farewell. I do not know if we will meet again, but may you be blessed by the Valar!”

He bent and kissed Faramir on the brow and then he was gone, striding out magnificent in black and scarlet as he rode out to face the Dark Lord.

Faramir stared after him, seeing only the scarlet lining of his brother’s cloak, crimson as freshly spilled blood, a noble sacrifice for the greater good of Middle Earth.

He vowed to follow the King’s commands while breath remained in him and then he wept for the future he longed to see but feared could never come to pass.

The End