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

And thou shalt rejoice in thy feast, thou, and thy son, and thy daughter, and thy manservant, and thy maidservant, and the Levite, the stranger, and the fatherless, and the widow, that are within thy gates. . - The Bible – Deuteronomy 16.13-16.

With grateful thanks to Raksha

“A traveller begs leave to see you, my lady. He claims to be of the House of Elrond, but he is no Elf!”

A stab of fear pierced Galadriel’s heart. Long had she foreseen this day, yet hoped her foresight would prove false. If she bade the intruder leave her borders maybe the danger would depart with him? But no, whatever threatened Arwen had already come to pass. Her beloved granddaughter had grown sadder and quieter these past years; while her laughter was seldom heard. Arwen had spoken of the love professed by one of her father's mortal fosterlings. But the stars had shone again, if only briefly, in Undómiel’s eyes, when she spoke of the young Man. Arwen had claimed she did not return his affections, yet there was a gentleness, a wistfulness in her voice when she spoke of Aragorn son of Arathorn that belied her certainty.

And now, it seemed that the very Dunadan had walked out of Arwen's dreams into Galadriel's own realm. She would, Galadriel decided, at least speak with the Man. Arwen had gone riding with Celeborn, she did not need to know; at least not yet.

“Bring him to me, Haldir,” she commanded and sat back in her chair, staring at the silver and green walls of the chamber without seeing them.

Within the hour Haldir returned with the traveller. When Galadriel beheld him she could have laughed. This stranger take Arwen away from her? Absurd! His clothes were torn and filthy. Galadriel struggled not to wrinkle her nose with distaste. The intruder smelled strongly of dried mud, horses, and Orcs! He walked with a limp and his face was disfigured with bruises.

“Welcome to Lothlórien, stranger,” she said. “I am Galadriel, Lady of the Golden Wood. What brings you along paths that few mortal men have ever trod?”

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn,” replied the stranger in perfect Sindarin with a slight accent of the North. “I was raised in the House of Elrond, and told by the Wise there that I might find shelter here if need drove me thither. I have travelled long and am sore weary after many labours. Dark creatures have pursued me almost to your gates. I beg leave to rest here for a little while.”

Galadriel said nothing but simply looked into his eyes. Unlike many: Elves as well as Men, he did not flinch from her gaze. The discomfort he must have felt was well concealed. For a moment the traveller appeared to be trying to veil his thoughts as if from long custom. He then collected himself, remembering he was amongst the Eldar. Galadriel’s mind freely probed his. She sensed above all, a noble heart, greater than any of the Secondborn for many a long generation, but one shadowed with weariness, sorrow and pain. His eyes held her attention most of all, large and grey they spoke of courage, compassion and a noble heart. Although clearly a mortal man, there was something Elvish about him, but of course, the line that Elrond fostered were his brother’s kin, like him descended from Lúthien the Fair.

“You may bide here a while,” she said. Uneasy as she might feel, the laws of hospitality demanded that she grant him food and shelter.

“I thank you, my lady,” said Aragorn. He promptly collapsed in a dead faint.

Galadriel rose from her seat, and overcoming her distaste, laid a hand upon the stranger’s brow. He did not appear feverish. She surmised he was simply exhausted. ”Send for a healer!” she ordered. “Then see he is given a bath and put to bed. And someone deal with those filthy rags he is wearing!”

As soon as the stranger had been taken away, Galadriel bade her handmaids sprinkle sweet blossoms around the chamber to freshen the air. She then walked alone to her garden and poured water into the silver bowl that was her mirror. At first the clear spring water looked as clouded as that from a muddy pond. She forced herself to calm her racing thoughts. She must know if this man was indeed the one whose coming she had foreseen. His appearance was that of a vagabond, while his heart was that of a hero. Was Arwen doomed to bind herself to this man and fade and die a mortal like Lúthien before her, forever lost to her people? Surely that could not be? Not her only granddaughter, the fair Evenstar. Galadriel smiled wryly thinking how disappointed she had been when the babe had been born with the dark hair of the Noldor, rather than silver locks of her mother or golden tresses of her grandmother. She had grown, though, to be so fair, that many wondered were she Lúthien reborn. Not only was Arwen fair, but also loving and wise.

Galadriel looked again in the mirror. This time she saw a battle raging and the stranger was leading the men to victory and being offered the Crown of Gondor by a man as like unto him as close kindred.. Then came another vision of Middle-earth, desolate under the Dark Lord’s power. Vision after vision followed of Arwen alone, desolate as frost in winter, or with the man at her side and fair children, her eyes full of laughter. It seemed that not only Arwen’s fate was tied to this man, but all of Middle-earth’s.

Heavy of heart, Galadriel wandered amongst the mallorns: she had always known that one day the Dark Lord’s increasing power might force her to leave her cherished realm, but had expected to travel with all her family to the Undying Lands where Celebrian awaited them. Now she feared that was not to be, but if she tried to protect her granddaughter from her destiny, a dark fate would befall the world of Men, while Arwen would never find happiness until the breaking of the world. Galadriel loved her granddaughter; there was only course she could now take.

***

Aragorn, son of Arathorn lay pale and still upon a low bed.

“How is our guest?” Galadriel asked the attendant healer.

“He is exhausted beyond even what a tough man can bear, and he is indeed one of the strongest of mortal men I have ever seen,” said the healer. “He has dark dreams and in his sleep he speaks of the Black Land. Who knows what horrors he has witnessed?”

“Is he injured?” asked the Lady.

“Not seriously, my lady. I have uncovered but cuts, bruises and a sprained ankle. Nothing that rest and good food will not put right.”

Galadriel pulled back the blankets a few inches. The Man had the same lean, muscular build as an Elf, though at present he lacked sufficient flesh. The scars of old wounds disfigured his body, but nothing appeared to ail him that Elvish-healing arts could not swiftly remedy. Covering him again, she gently took his hand, a scratched and calloused hand, but at the same time both strong and slender.

He stirred and in a troubled sleep called out Arwen’s name. Galadriel stood looking at him for a long time

“When he awakens,” she told the healer at last. “I would have him remain here with food and drink until he is fully recovered. Treat his old wounds that they may no longer mar him.”

***

A week later Galadriel again went to visit her guest. This time, he was sitting up in a chair dressed in a loose robe. His hair had been trimmed and his beard shaved, making him look more like an Elf than ever.

“My lady.” Aragorn rose and inclined his head. “I apologise for when we last met. Orcs and Wargs had pursued me almost to your gates and my horse was slain beneath me. I fear I succumbed to weakness.”

“Lesser Men would have succumbed to the Enemy long ago,” said Galadriel. “I trust you are now recovered? I should like you to dine with me tonight.”

“Gladly would I, my lady,” said Aragorn. Alas, I have no clothing save this robe I am wearing, and even that is borrowed garb.”

“Your own clothing is being washed and mended,” said Galadriel, unwrapping a parcel that she had carried tucked beneath her arm.” I have brought fitting raiment for you” It contained fine linens together with a silver and white tunic and breeches. She then drew forth a bright gem from the folds of her gown.

“My lady!” Aragorn protested. “These garments are fit for a prince!”

“Are you not of the line of Elros Tar-Minyatur?” said Galadriel. “I would have you robed in a manner fitting of your lineage. But before we dine, I suggest that you take a walk beneath the trees. They are laden with golden flowers at this time of year. Few mortal Men have had the chance to behold them.”

“Thank you, my lady, I will indeed,” said Aragorn graciously. “How long have I been here?”

“Seven days in your reckoning,” said Galadriel.

“I had lost count. It seems time as no meaning in this Elven Realm,” said Aragorn. “It could have been a day, a week, or a month I had tarried here.”

“You must remain with us until you fully regain your strength,” said Galadriel. “I will see you at dinner.”

000

“Come walk with me beneath the trees before we dine,” Galadriel said to her granddaughter early that evening.

The two women strode arm in arm admiring the Mallorns. It was a perfect spring evening. The air smelt sweet with the many flowers. A thrush sang melodiously in the trees, while the setting sun made the blossoms gleam like burnished gold.

Suddenly a man appeared from the opposite direction, like unto an Elf Lord from the Blessed Realm itself. Arwen stopped suddenly and gazed at the approaching figure as if transfixed. He likewise did the same.

Galadriel turned and walked away. For good or ill, Arwen’s doom was decided.

 

Summary: When a storm forces Aragorn and Faramir to take shelter in a cave, they
encounter a stranger who forces them to question their beliefs.

Rating;PG

With thanks to Raksha.The idea of how the OC came to be in M-e is her idea.


Disclaimer: The characters and Middle-earth were created by J.R.R. Tolkien. This
story is written purely for entertainment and no money will be made from it.







You've Got to be Carefully Taught
You've got to be taught before it's too late,
Before you are six or seven or eight,
To hate all the people your relatives hate,
You've got to be carefully taught! -South Pacific – Rogers and Hammerstein

Lightning streaked across the darkening sky while deafening thunderclaps seemed
to shake the ground. In the rising wind and rain, a massive branch splintered
and snapped off an ancient oak.

"We must find shelter!" Aragorn cried, his voice barely audible above the
driving wind and rain.

"I saw a cave about half a league back," Faramir replied, shouting to make
himself heard.

"We will make for there."

Drenched and thoroughly miserable, the two former Rangers turned their horses
back in the direction in which they had come. They had been thrilled at the rare
opportunity to spend a few days in the wilds when the Envoy from Khand had been
forced to cancel at state visit at short notice after falling from his horse.

Arwen and Éowyn has noticed their husbands growing restless from being confined
indoors during a long winter and had encouraged them to go and spend a few days
in the wilds. Now it seemed that instead of sleeping under the stars, they would
be forced to spend the night in the stuffy confines of a cave.

It took far longer than anticipated to reach shelter. The wind and rain battered
against their faces relentlessly. Aragorn and Faramir tethered their horses in
the shelter of a rocky outcrop, then cautiously made their way inside the cave's
wide mouth. It was larger than Aragorn had expected and the air was mercifully
fresh. It was dark inside as what little daylight penetrated within. Neither man
especially liked caves, but as no other shelter was available, it would have to
suffice.

They dragged their packs inside and shook themselves like dogs to remove the
excess moisture from their persons. Their clothes were sodden and they were both
soaked through to the skin. Fortunately, their packs were wrapped in oilskins,
which had kept their contents dry. Both men had fortunately brought some spare
clothing.

"We need to change our clothes," said Aragorn, removing his boots as he spoke.
He tipped them upside down and water poured out of them. "I am soaked to the
skin." He started to peel off the remainder of his dripping apparel.

"I feel as if something is watching me," said Faramir. He looked around
anxiously and coughed.

"You are imagining things," said Aragorn, pulling a dry tunic over his head. "No
one is here excepting ourselves." He went to the cave entrance and peered
outside. He noted glumly that the rain had become even heavier.

Faramir sounded unconvinced, but continued to divest himself of his sodden
garments, occasionally glancing around and peering into the darkness at the back
of the cave. He coughed again.

"Have you got a cough?" Aragorn asked, concern in his voice.

"I had a slight cold earlier this week, but it is better now," Faramir replied.

"It sounds anything but slight to me!" It was Aragorn's turn to appear
unconvinced. "A soaking could be harmful if you are already unwell."

"It is nothing, just a slight cold," Faramir insisted.

"My tinder box is damp," the King lamented. "I had hoped we might have a fire to
dry our clothes, keep us warm and cook something."

"Come inside," Faramir counselled, "before you get soaked again. We may as well
snatch a few hours rest. Hopefully once the rain stops, the wind will dry our
things."

Aragorn moved further back into the cave and they settled themselves on the hard
floor, huddling together for warmth. Faramir, though, continued to shiver.

"Have my blanket, mellon nîn," Aragorn offered. "I do not feel the cold as badly
as you."

"You will only shiver too," Faramir replied. "I will walk around a little. Maybe
that will help." He feared he might be developing a fever and was anxious not
to alarm his friend. Aragorn would want to help him and there was nothing he
could do until the storm was past and he could gather healing herbs. He
scrambled to his feet. His blanket draped around his shoulders, and began to
pace the cave. Then he saw it, a large blue slit eyed pupil gleaming in the
dark.

"Argh!" he exclaimed. "Whatever is that? I told you there was something here."
He turned to return to where Aragorn was, only to catch his foot against what
appeared to be a huge branch save that it moved.

As Faramir fell, landing sprawled in an undignified heap across the branch, an
irate voice demanded. "Can't you watch where you're going?" The branch moved
from underneath him as the voice spoke.

Horrified, Aragorn, who could now see the gleaming eyes, drew Andúril and
hastened towards his friend. He knew of only one creature with gleaming eyes and
the power of speech - a dragon!

Faramir felt something the width of a tree trunk encircle his body. He froze,
hardly able to take in what was happening.

"Sheath your blade or he dies!" cried the beast. "Not that you could do me much
damage with that pin of yours, but I dislike being tormented to humour the
Children of Ilúvatar! I am hungry and in no mood to jest!"

"Firedrakes were Morgoth's creatures, sent to cause misery and ruin for Men and
Elves alike!" Aragorn retorted. "Why should the Secondborn not defend
themselves?" He spoke bravely, but his heart sank. The dragon was right; Andúril
would scarcely pierce its hide. They were doomed to perish in this foul cave. To
think that he should have survived so many perils in the past only to end up as
dragon's dinner! Alas, he would never again see Arwen or his son, nor make
Gondor great again. And Faramir, his best friend, the one man who would have
tried to continue rebuilding Gondor as he desired, was doomed to perish with
him!"

Faramir started to cough again and this time was unable to stop. He coughed
until his whole body shook beneath the dragon's paw. "You are not well?" the
creature asked with surprising interest. "You are shivering too!"

"I have a slight cold." Faramir could only hope that the dragon would believe
that fever, rather than fear, was the cause of his malady.

"Come, rest here and you will be warm!" To Faramir's amazement, the beast
carefully lifted him against its giant limb and folded its wings around him.

"I would rather not!" Faramir protested as soon as his coughing fit had subsided
"I know you plan to devour me, and would rather you did not mock me first!" As
he spoke, he hoped desperately that Aragorn might be able to escape while the
creature was preoccupied with him. Life had never been sweeter for the Steward.
Gondor was at peace, ruled by a man he loved and admired while he was wed to the
fairest and best of all ladies. To leave her and their child would be a cruel
blow indeed! Yet, if Aragorn could escape, he would die content in the knowledge
that the King was safe and Gondor would flourish.

The dragon laughed; a deep throaty roar, which vibrated through its gigantic
body. "Eat you? Whatever for? I much prefer cows. In any case, two such scrawny
creatures as you and your companion would sate my appetite no more than a single
slice of bread would satisfy you!"

Faramir received these tidings in shocked silence. The dragon had been observing
them ever since they entered the cave? Could it be telling the truth?

"I am not scrawny!" Aragorn retorted. "I am a warrior, victorious in battle, and
am nearly as tall as Elendil himself. Why did you not introduce yourself before
if you mean no ill?"

The dragon laughed again, this time, though; the sound was devoid of mirth. "I
may mean no harm, but the same could hardly be said of you!"

"It is my sworn duty to kill evil creatures that threaten my people," said
Aragorn.

"How can you be so certain that I am evil?" demanded the dragon.

"All of Morgoth's creatures are foul by their very nature," Aragorn replied. "It
can not be otherwise."

"I am not a creature of that fiend!" the dragon protested indignantly, thrashing
his tail around as he spoke. "Do you know nothing, O son of Ilúvatar? We hate
the name of Morgoth as much as you do. He was not our creator, but our
conqueror! Wild and free we dwelled upon Arda for years beyond measure. Then he
came, the Dark Foe of all free folk. Morgoth enslaved many of my kindred and
twisted them to his evil will, forcing them to produce vicious, blood-mad
offspring that hated all the Children of Ilúvatar. Those of us that managed to
escape hid in the mountains of the East. Some of my forefathers were eventually
befriended by isolated Eastern tribes who never bowed the knee to Morgoth or his
successor."

"Your kind are friendly with Men?" Aragorn sounded incredulous.

"Indeed we are. They rear sheep and cattle for us to eat, and in return we bear
them upon our backs."

Aragorn was about to retort that only horses bore Men, then recalled that the
Great Eagles would sometimes deign to carry passengers."

"We each choose a rider soon after we hatch," the dragon continued, this time
sounding sad.

"Where is yours them?" Aragorn demanded.

"We became separated when we approached some men in friendship and they attacked
us. I could not find my Rider again." A great tear rolled down the dragon's
cheek.

Aragorn felt a sudden surge of compassion for the creature. His mind was in
turmoil. Everything he had learned about dragons from Elves like Glorfindel who
had seen the creatures attack Gondolin, or Bilbo Baggins, who had outsmarted
Smaug himself, might be, if not false, incomplete? Yet, could even the Wise
know everything? Maybe they did not? Suddenly Aragorn felt very tired. The
cold and damp of the cave seemed to seep into his very bones. He struggled to
conceal his bodily discomfort. "You threatened to kill my friend!" he protested,
determined not to be beguiled while any shadow of a doubt remained in his mind.

"Only because you threatened to kill me," said the dragon reasonably. "I told my
rider it was a waste of time to visit the lands of the West where we are hated
and feared. He told me that things had changed, but it seems not. Now can we not
at least abide here in peace until the storm has passed? Stop being so foolish
and put that silly pin away!"

"Andúril was forged from the blade that cut the One Ring from Sauron's hand!"
Aragorn said indignantly. "I will not sheath it, though, until you release my
friend!"

"Who would let him become chilled to the bone again?" enquired the dragon.

"I am comfortable enough here," Faramir said unexpectedly. "He is not hurting
me. I can sense no evil in his heart, though I must admit I am unfamiliar with
dragons."

Aragorn took a deep breath. He trusted Faramir's ability to read hearts.
Admittedly it had only been put to test with human hearts before, but this
dragon seemed possessed of a near human intelligence. As for beasts, Faramir
could easily sense when horses or dogs were unsettled and calm a nervous cat. He
could sense no ill will in the creature either. Slowly, he sheathed Andúril.

"Thank you," said the dragon. "Perhaps you are more sensible than I first
thought after all! Now come under my wings and get warm. I do not want you to
catch a cold too and keep me awake all night with your coughing!"

"You cannot catch a cold like that," Aragorn protested. "I am a healer and I
know you can only catch a cold from another person who has it. I am most likely
already infected."

"All the more reason that you should keep warm then," said the creature. He
stretched out a vast wing and beckoned Aragorn with it. "Come!"

Trying not to show his apprehension, Aragorn walked beneath the creature's wing
and found himself immediately encircled by it. It felt like being inside a tent.
He moved across to where Faramir was lying propped against the creature's
foreleg, still wrapped in his blanket.

"Has he hurt you, Faramir?" Aragorn enquired anxiously.

"No, not all," said the Steward. "I must admit I feel much less chilled than in
the cave. We might as well try to make ourselves comfortable. We will have to
share the blanket." He started to cough again as he spoke.

The King frowned and felt Faramir's forehead, which was slightly clammy to the
touch. It seemed the Steward had a slight fever and needed to be kept as warm as
possible. Unfortunately his best chance of staying warm seemed to rest with the
dragon. Aragorn sat beside his friend and rather reluctantly leaned back against
the beast, placing a tentative hand against its hide. To his surprise, the
scales were soft and warm to the touch, rather than cold and slimy, as he had
always believed.

He leaned back against the creature's body and at once could feel the steady
vibrations of its vast heart beating. It was an oddly soothing sensation. He
struggled to remain alert and awake. Faramir was already half drowsing, his
breathing gradually becoming more measured and even.

The great beast drew his wings closely around the King and his friend. Had
Aragorn not known differently, he could have been snug inside a warm tent.

Faramir coughed again.

"Can you not be quiet?" the dragon asked irritably. "I wish to rest."

"He cannot help it," said Aragorn.

"If you cannot both be quiet, then tell me something of the lore of your
people!" demanded the dragon.

"You enjoy lore?" Aragorn was thankful that in the darkness the creature could
not see his expression, as he was certain he must be gaping open mouthed at the
creature.

"And why not?" retorted the dragon. "My kind considers a good education to be
most important."

"I will tell you a tale of my kinsfolk of long ago," said Aragorn knowing he
must be tactful and avoid any tales of the great dragon slayers lest he offend
the great beast. He started to sing softly of the meeting of Lúthien and Beren.
The dragon listened intently.

"Hmm," he said, once the lay was concluded. "Quite agreeable, though I can write
more pleasing rhymes myself."

"You write poetry?"

"You did not know that, son of Ilúvatar? How ignorant your kind are! I would
recite you some of my own compositions, but I am weary, and your friend seems to
be quiet at last."

Aragorn could hear Faramir's even, albeit slightly congested breathing at his
side. He leaned back against dragon's gigantic foreleg and rather to his
surprise was swiftly lulled to sleep by the rhythmic beating of the creature's
heart.

He slept soundly, aware of nothing save the sound of the rain falling outside in
the few brief flashes of wakefulness that he experienced. When he was next fully
aware, it was morning and bright daylight was peering through a gap in the
dragon's protecting wings.

Aragorn blinked and wondered if he the events before had been some fantastical
dream. Maybe he had been wounded and taken poppy juice to relieve the pain? The
syrup was well known to produce strange dreams. But the vast limb he was curled
around was real and solid, as was the deep voice. "So you are awake at last!"
the dragon scolded. "I thought you would sleep all the morning away!"

Next to the King, Faramir stirred. He coughed loudly and then looked around him.
He started as he caught sight of the dragon and recalled the events of the
previous night.

"It is rude to stare," commented the dragon.

"Your pardon," said Faramir politely.

"I have lingered here too long," said the creature. "I must be on my way."

"Where do you plan to go?" Aragorn enquired, trying to hide the anxiety in his
voice at the thought of a dragon rampaging through his kingdom.

"I must find my rider," said the dragon.

"How exactly did you become separated?" asked the King.

"We heard tidings that a new king had been crowned in the West who sought
peace," explained the dragon. "We flew for many months across deserts, high
mountains and vast forests. We found a king called Bard, but he was most
unpleasant and ordered his men to shoot arrows at me, while my rider was pelted
with mud. We barely escaped with our lives. That was many days ago. We flew
South and my rider went in search of food, but he never returned."

Aragorn wondered if the man had decided that being in the company of a dragon in
a hostile land was less than desirable. Maybe the man had decided to abandon the
creature and make good his escape? He cleared his throat and tried to think of
something tactful to say.

"I know what you are thinking!" the dragon hissed angrily. "My rider would no
more abandon me that you would abandon your own children!"

"Was Bard the King you were seeking?" asked Faramir, anxious to change the
subject.

"No, the one who is supposed to be great has a name something like Lesser,"
replied the creature.

Aragorn hesitated. His heart was inclined to trust the dragon, but his head did
not. Years of yearning that dragons were as evil-natured as Fell beasts and
Giant spiders could not be undone overnight. It would be unwise to tell the
creature their identities when they were completely at its mercy and knew so
little of the lands from which it came.

"We need to be on our way," said Aragorn. "We will hinder you no longer. I
suggest that once you find your rider that you return home with him. These parts
are not safe for your kind" He rather stiffly stood up.

"You don't like dragons do you," the creature said, moving his wing aside to let
him out. "How many have you encountered to form this opinion?"

"I know little of your kind," Aragorn replied, evading the question. "You have
been most gracious and friendly towards us." He walked straight to the mouth of
the cave and looked out. What he saw caused him to cry out in dismay.

It was fortunate indeed; they had chosen to spend the night in a cave upon the
hillside for the river had burst its banks during the night. As far as the eye
could see, everywhere was under water. A few deer were struggling in the flood,
swimming as best they could. Of their horses, there was no sign.

Faramir joined him at the mouth of the cave. "Alas, we are stranded here!" he
cried.

"It seems like it!" Aragorn said grimly. "No doubt our horses are halfway home
by now!"

"Perhaps we could swim to safety?" Faramir suggested, emerging out on to the
hillside, closely followed by the King.

"It would not be wise as we have no idea how deep the water is," said Aragorn.
"Then what about your cold? You might develop lung fever!"

"We will just have to wait for the water to subside," Faramir said glumly.

"I can take you home once I have breakfasted."

Aragorn and Faramir had almost forgotten the dragon in their dismay at the
flooding. They tried hard not to stare as the creature emerged into the
daylight. He was huge, far larger than almost all living creatures they had ever
beheld before, rivalling the Mumakim of Harad. His scaly hide was black and
shiny as jet, apart from brilliant blue and muted markings on his wings, which
he now spread wide.

Aragorn and Faramir gasped in awe as the creature's vast fan like wings were
unfurled. For all his bulk, the dragon was a creature of considerable grace and
beauty. Around his neck he wore a great golden collar adorned with rubies.

The creature suddenly plunged into the water and grabbed one of the struggling
deer, which it devoured in two gulps. It then seized another, a buck, with large
antlers. The hapless creature this time took three gulps to devour. The dragon
clambered back on the hillock and spat out the antlers. Aragorn and Faramir
could only watch with a mixture of horror and fascination.

"Quite tasty, though I prefer cows," said the dragon. He plunged his head in the
water again as if to wash his face. "Now tell me where you want to go and I will
take you there."

"Excuse me," said Aragorn taking Faramir to one side and speaking to the Steward
in Quenya. "We cannot ride on the back of a savage beast. You saw what it did to
those deer!"

"It does not appear to eat Men, though, " Faramir said calmly.

"If we let it bear us we would be completely at its mercy," said Aragorn. "What
if it carried us off to its master as slaves?"

"Are we not already in its power?" reasoned Faramir. "I sense it means well and
knows nothing of guile. I know, my friend, that we have been taught to hate and
fear dragons, but is it not possible that his story is true and they are not all
creatures of darkness? I used to believe that no honourable men dwelled in
Harad, but since the war, I have met many good people from that land whom I now
consider friends. I admit I fear to fly upon the dragon's back, but I fear worse
being stranded here without supplies and not knowing when we shall see our wives
and children once more!"

"You speak wisely as always, Faramir," said the King. "I have taken greater
risks than this by far in my younger days. However, we could hardly permit a
dragon to land in the Court of the Fountain! "

"We could find a deserted corner of the Pelennor," Faramir suggested. "We could
easily walk home from there or borrow some horses."

"Have you made your minds up yet?" demanded the dragon.

"We would be happy to accept your gracious offer," said Faramir. "We hesitated
as he have no experience of flying."

"I can catch you if you fall," said the dragon. "Come!"

Before Aragorn and Faramir could react, he had extended a gigantic five taloned
claw and very gently lifted them both up onto his neck "Hold on tight to my
collar!" he said, as he soared up into the air, leaving the King and Steward
clinging on for dear life.

Despite having more reservations about their mode of transport than his Steward,
Aragorn adapted the most quickly to this new mode of transport, having been
brought up to ride Elven fashion without saddle or bridle. As soon as he grew
accustomed to his precarious perch, he found the experience exhilarating. Many
times as a boy when he had heard the story of Elwing and Eärendil, he had
wondered what it might be like to fly and wished that he could do so. Now that
boyhood dream was coming true!

Faramir, for his part soon found that he was enjoying this new adventure, though
he had to cling tightly to Aragorn's waist, as well as to the dragon's neck He
looked in wonder at the landscape spread out beneath them. They soon passed by
the flooded area. Beneath them lay woods, rivers and fields, the villages dotted
amongst them looked like children's toys. Fortunately, the villagers must have
thought the dragon some kind of bird as he passed high above as no one paid them
any attention.

All too soon for the travellers, the familiar countryside surrounding the White
City came in sight. "Could you land us behind those trees?" Aragorn asked the
dragon.

"You live in such a remote place?" the creature enquired.

"You would not be able to land near our homes," the King explained. "The streets
are too narrow."

"Very well." The dragon gracefully descended in a field surrounded by trees and
lifted Aragorn and Faramir down.

"Thank you," said Aragorn with genuine gratitude. "You have served us well and
proved a friend in need."

"I hope that you will soon find your rider," said Faramir, reaching out to
stroke the dragon's soft nose. To his surprise, the creature gently nuzzled him
like a friendly house cat.

Before he could say anything else, he heard shouting and angry voices
approaching together with screams of fear.

"Go!" cried Aragorn. "You are not safe here!"

"May Elbereth guide your journey!" Faramir added, giving the dragon a final pat.
He felt oddly saddened to be parting from their giant companion.

"Farewell sons of Ilúvatar!" cried the dragon. He flapped his wings and soared
aloft. Within seconds, he was indistinguishable from a bird as he soared
higher and higher.

Aragorn and Faramir slipped away with the well-practised stealth of former
Rangers, so that when the frightened and angry farmers arrived, they found only
an empty space.

"I wonder if we will ever see him again?" mused Faramir as they walked back
towards the City. "I feel we could become friends if we had time to get to know
one another. Alas, we should have asked his name."

"You would count a dragon as friend?" The King did not sound greatly surprised,
though.

"This is a new age in which anything is possible," said the Steward. "Just think
of all he could teach us about the distant realm in which he dwells!"

"As you say, anything is possible," Aragorn replied. "For now all that concerns
me is a good meal, a hot bath and mixing some herbs for your cough! But I
agree, the dragon was kind to strangers whom he had no reason to trust. I shall
send forth letters to all the garrisons in Gondor, describing the dragon and
forbidding anyone to shoot him down. I will also have the creature's rider
searched for and brought to me, if he can be found."

Side by side, the two friends approached the City Gates, glad to be home again.

A/N the character of the dragon is based on "Temeraire" created by Naomi Novik.
I imagine my dragon as a many times great grandfather of the eponymous hero of
Ms Novik's books.

Note from the Encyclopedia Britannica

Pinyin Long (Chinese: “dragon”), in Chinese mythology, a type of majestic beast that dwells in rivers, lakes, and oceans and roams the skies. Originally a rain divinity, the Chinese dragon, unlike its malevolent European counterpart (see dragon), is associated with heavenly beneficence and fecundity. Rain rituals as early as the 6th century BC involved a dragon image animated by a procession of dancers; similar dances are still practiced in traditional Chinese communities to secure good fortune.

Ancient Chinese cosmogonists defined four types of dragons: the Celestial Dragon (T'ien Lung), who guards the heavenly dwellings of the gods; the Dragon of Hidden Treasure (Fu Tsang Lung); the Earth Dragon (Ti Lung), who controls the waterways; and the Spiritual Dragon (Shen Lung), who controls the rain and winds. In popular belief, only the latter two were significant; they were transformed into the Dragon Kings (Lung Wang), gods who lived in the four oceans, delivered rain, and protected seafarers.

Generally depicted as a four-legged animal with a scaled, snakelike body, horns, claws, and large, demonic eyes, the lung was considered the king of animals, and his image was appropriated by Chinese emperors as a sacred symbol of imperial power.

The Chinese dragon, lung (q.v.), represented yang, the principle of heaven, activity, and maleness in the yin-yang (q.v.) of Chinese cosmology. From ancient times, it was the emblem of the Imperial family, and until the founding of the republic (1911) the dragon adorned the Chinese flag. The dragon came to Japan with much of the rest of Chinese culture, and there (as ryū or tatsu) it became capable of changing its size at will, even to the point of becoming invisible. Both Chinese and Japanese dragons, though regarded as powers of the air, are usually wingless. They are among the deified forces of nature in Taoism.

 

 

Shadows of Memory 

  

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

  

With grateful thanks to Raksha 

  

   

There was pain everywhere.  Thorongil had no idea where he was. Hands were prodding him and removing his clothing. He tried vainly to struggle, only to encounter strong hands that restrained him. He felt violently sick and started to retch. The hands supported him while someone held a basin. Then the darkness swallowed him again.

   

Thorongil’s bandage- swathed head throbbed painfully.  He tried to take stock of his surroundings. He realised he was lying on a strange bed, larger and softer than his own. Home in Imladris?  No, he heard no familiar Elven voices, nor smelled the long-missed fragrances of herbs and flowers scattered throughout the Last Homely House.  How had he come to be here? The last thing he remembered was setting out to dine with Steward Ecthelion. The Captain slowly opened his eyes. To his surprise, he beheld the last person he would have expected to see standing at his bedside:  Denethor, Ecthelion’s heir. “What happened?” Thorongil whispered through parched lips. It was a struggle to speak. The words came out slurred, as if he were drunk. 

    

“You had an accident and have hit your head,” said Denethor. “Would you like a drink?”  

   

“Please.”  

   

Denethor supported his head and held the glass to his lips. ”Easy, Aragorn, sip it slowly,” he advised.  

   

Thorongil nearly choked on the water. He was so shocked that his control lapsed, surprise and horror showing on his face. 

   

“I know you dislike being helped, but you will soon be well again, mellon nîn, easy now,” the Steward’s heir soothed.  

   

Thorongil groaned, sighed and settled back against the pillows.  Denethor had discovered his true name!  What else did Ecthelion's son know?  And how had he fallen into Denethor's power so helplessly? 

   

   

“Sleep now,” said Denethor, kissing him lightly on the brow.   Before Thorongil could do more than wonder at such an action, he fell back asleep. 

   

**  

   

   

Some hours later Thorongil opened his eyes again. He gingerly sat upright, trying to ignore his aching, spinning head. Denethor lay asleep on the far side of the bed, nearest the door. Thorongil tried to make sense of what had happened.  

   

He must have been attacked. It took no great leap of reasoning to ascertain the most likely culprit. Denethor had distrusted and disliked him from the start.  Denethor never ceased to question Thorongil's origins; sometimes casually, sometimes directly, and sometimes subtly, trying to catch Thorongil in an untruth.  Now it appeared that the Steward’s heir had finally ferreted out his true name.  How? Could he have blurted out his true name when reduced to semi-consciousness by his injuries?  Yet, it would be most strange for Denethor to attack him.  The heir to the Stewardship was a cold and proud man, but he was also neither a brute nor a traitor. Thorongil could scarcely believe that Denethor would have resorted to such measures to learn his rival's identity.  Could Denethor's jealousy and suspicion have driven him mad, mad enough to have arranged the attack that had left Thorongil with a head injury, and, he painfully realized, a cracked rib or two together with a great many bruises. That too was unlikely.   Denethor was a particularly strong-minded man, master of himself as well as of others.  

   

The hostility of the Steward’s heir had always saddened Thorongil. They were so well matched that almost could they have been brothers.  Denethor was unusual for a lord of Gondor in these latter days, for in Ecthelion's tall son, as in Thorongil, the blood of Númenor ran true. The Steward’s heir was gifted with foresight and shrewd intelligence, and he thirsted for lore even more than did Thorongil, who loved the old tales and histories.  The heir of Isildur could surmise that Denethor’s love for Gondor had made him determined to cling to the right to rule it - at all costs.  Not that Thorongil would be such a fool as to try to claim the throne.

  

  

Aragorn had dreamed often of reclaiming the throne of his fathers.  It would be a deed almost worthy of Elendil to reunite the North and South Kingdoms, so long divided to their mutual detriment.  And Aragorn had often wondered whether Elrond's fair daughter would look  upon him more favourably if he wore Gondor's winged crown.  But he would not make such a claim at the price of harming the land that he loved. He was all too aware that the tumult that would arise from his asserting his rightful claim would serve none save Sauron. Even the revelation of Thorongil's true name and lineage could provoke another kin-strife!  The old Steward was growing frail and loved Thorongil as his own son. It would break the old man’s heart to be forced to choose between his son and the Captain he loved as dearly.   And if that strife spread, dividing his own officers from their families, and lords from Anorien to Belfalas quarrelled over the coming of the King, battle and war could erupt, sapping the strength that the realm so desperately needed to battle its true Enemy.  

   

But why was Denethor being so kind to him now, hovering at Thorongil's bedside, calling him friend and bestowing a kiss? Could Denethor feel guilt for having had him beaten? He could sooner have imagined the son of Ecthelion turning cartwheels in the Court of the Fountain stark naked, than caring for his hated rival! So how had Thorongil come to be here, in the bedchamber of Ecthelion’s son’s room, sharing his very bed?  It was the custom to share with a friend or relative, in Gondor, especially in winter, to stave off the cold, but Thorongil was the last man on earth that Denethor would choose for a companion. And where was Finduilas, Denethor’s beloved lady? He could only surmise that her husband had given her leave to visit her kindred at Dol Amroth. Finduilas’ deep longing for the sea seemed almost to consume her at times. Thorongil feared it was damaging her health. Denethor hated to be parted from his wife, which meant her visits to the sea were few and far between. 

   

The room was odd too. Thorongil could have sworn that this vast chamber with the enormous bed, which could easily accommodate five Elves, belonged to the Steward rather than to his heir. Maybe he was mistaken? He had only been in Ecthelion’s bedchamber once before, when the Steward, bedridden with a light sickness, had summoned his favourite Captain for the discussion of a forthcoming campaign.  The tapestries looked familiar. The light was too dim to clearly discern the images woven into the cloth, yet they seemed very like the tapestries that had covered the walls of his bedchamber in Imladris!  

   

Thorongil realised he needed to use the privy.  He could only hope that the oddly over-attentive Denethor would not awaken and insist on taking him there!   Strange, the man even looked different.  Denethor’s eyes had held more warmth than usual, and in repose, the stern carven features were somehow gentler.  

   

Somehow, Thorongil managed to get out of bed without disturbing his unwanted sleeping companion. Clutching the edge of the bed to keep his balance, he made his way round to its foot, where two robes lay folded. He sat down for a moment and pulled one on.

  

Once he had closed the chamber door behind him, Thorongil saw with surprise that the corridor was far more brightly lit than usual. Unremembered carpets covered the stone floor. At least the servant’s privy and bathing chamber was where he remembered it, a few doors away from the main bedroom. He recalled trying to wash the grime from his hands and face ere a meeting with the Old Steward, but then there had only been a simple pitcher of cold water and a bowl, not the good quality soap and thick towels that were there now. He splashed water on his face, wishing fervently that his head did not hurt so much. At least the room was no longer spinning.  

   

Thorongil reached a decision. It was not safe for him to remain in Gondor any longer. He must seek out Ecthelion and ask for his help to return to Rohan. Thorongil knew not how long Denethor’s benevolent mood would last, but if he made it clear he was planning to leave, he would probably be safe.  Given this strange mood of Denethor's, the Steward's Heir would probably send him off in a well-appointed wain with his favourite cloak wrapped around Thorongil's shoulders! 

   

But where was Ecthelion? He must be sleeping in the second main bedchamber. Thorongil was more familiar with the sitting room between them as well as the Steward’s private dining room, where his patron had often invited him for a meal. To disturb the Steward at this time of night would be unwise. Yet he was confident of Ecthelion’s affection and support. Surely the old man would understand his plight and help him?  

   

He knocked loudly on the bedchamber door. There was no reply.  

   

“May I be of assistance, sire?” A guard appeared, seemingly out of nowhere. To Thorongil’s bewilderment, the fellow dipped his head as if in obeisance.  Even stranger, the guard’s uniform was embroidered with the Royal Insignia, an emblem unused for hundreds of years in the South-kingdom!  

   

“I wish to speak to the Steward. Where is he?” Thorongil enquired. To his relief, he no longer sounded as if he were drunk. 

   

“He is sleeping yonder tonight,” the man replied, gesturing towards the chamber that Thorongil had recently vacated.  

   

Just then, Denethor appeared, clutching a robe over his nightshirt. An anxious frown furrowed his brow, which relaxed when Denethor espied his captive.    

  

He gripped Thorongil’s arm firmly, yet surprisingly gently, and shepherded him back to his room. “You alarmed me by wandering off like that,” Denethor chided gently. “Please tell me if you want to go out again. Come on, let us return to bed.”  

   

His escape attempt foiled, Thorongil slumped dejectedly on the bed. His best plan was to appear meek and say as little as possible until he regained his strength. Denethor helped him remove his robe and pulled the covers over him, tucking them under his chin. Thorongil began to wonder if they had both fallen under a spell. What else could suddenly cause Denethor to cosset him like a devoted nursemaid or even a mother?   He prayed that Denethor would not bring him spiced milk and sing him a lullaby; things were strange enough already. 

   

“Why did I not think of it before?” Denethor said suddenly, going to the door and calling to the guard to summon a servant to fetch hot water.  

   

Thorongil had no idea what he was talking about until the Steward's son started rummaging in a bag, which appeared to contain healing supplies. To Thorongil’s consternation, Denethor selected two dried athelas leaves from amongst the herbs.  

   

“This eases your heart when you inhale it,” said Denethor smiling. Just then, the servant tapped on the door. Denethor went to take the bowl of water from her  “You will need to crumble the leaves in the water, as you alone have the power,” he told his captive.  

   

“What?” said Thorongil horrified at the discovery of this unquestionable proof that he was the heir of Elendil. Denethor must not have been as senseless as Thorongil had believed him to be when he had treated the Steward’s heir for a nasty slash from an Easterling blade after their usual Healer had been killed. He had hazarded the use of the herb when the life of the Steward’s heir had hung in the balance.  Later, Thorongil had mused upon the irony; that he had saved the life that stood between him and the throne of his sires.  But Thorongil could not have deprived either his kindly patron of an only son, nor Gondor of a great lord and Captain who was his own comrade-in-arms.    Only the servants of Sauron would stoop so low! It seemed, though, that his decision had cost him dear.  

   

Denethor now regarded him with what appeared to be genuine bewilderment. He had no idea the man could act so well! “The air in this room is not especially stale,” Thorongil said lamely. ”Why do we need athelas?”  

   

“You have never hesitated to use it for others, so why not for yourself?” said Denethor, holding the bowl in one hand and offering him the leaves with the other.  

   

Thorongil had no choice but to take them and drop them in the bowl in the same fashion he had seen the elderly serving women freshen the rooms.  

   

Denethor was looking increasingly puzzled. The keen grey eyes looked slightly hurt too. Those eyes troubled Thorongil. They seemed somehow to have changed. He almost had a look of Lady Finduilas about him. It was said that Men grew to resemble their wives, a saying Thorongil had always thought foolish, but maybe it was true after all?  

   

“Does your head still ache?” Denethor enquired.  

   

“Yes,” Thorongil replied tersely.  

   

Denethor poured two drops from a vial into a glass of water and held it to Thorongil’s lips. “Drink this!” he commanded.  

   

“You are trying to poison me!” Thorongil accused, his composure faltering.  

   

Denethor took a small sip from the glass. “It does not taste that bad,” he said, “Come on, it will make you feel better!”  

   

Thorongil was compelled to drink, though still fearful the draught was some nefarious potion, designed to weaken him and addle his wits, rather than the simple pain relieving draught he craved. His eyes soon grew heavy and he could not fight the urge to sleep, despite his desire to remain watchful.  

   

"Why am I here?" Thorongil asked.  

   

 "The ladies suggested we should keep one another company," Denethor explained, as if talking to a child.  

   

Obviously it was some peace making scheme of the Lady Finduilas that they should share a room while she was away from the City. The gentle lady was ever seeking to make peace between her husband and Captain Thorongil. There were some disputes that even the Steward's wife could not heal, and this, alas, was one of them.   

 

   

“Easy now, rest,” Denethor had climbed into bed beside him and had laid a hand upon his shoulder. Thorongil wanted to recoil from such a false and patronising gesture, especially when his unwanted companion started to gently rub his back. Yet the touch seemed genuinely comforting, like that of a comrade or brother, such as Halbarad or Elladan or Elrohir. Most curious, though, was the difference in Denethor’s very hands. When Thorongil had last dined with the Steward and his son, he had idly observed that both father and son shared short, stubby, though strong, fingers. Denethor’s hands now seemed long and slender. Stranger still, Denethor was using an Elven technique that Thorongil often recalled  Master Elrond using to ease him as a child. However did Denethor know that? With that unsettling thought, he drifted into a dreamless drug- induced sleep.  

   

When Thorongil awoke again, his head still throbbed. He was still in the vast luxurious bed and wanted nothing more than to bury his aching head in the soft pillow. He wondered if Denethor were still there  

   

Blearily, he opened one eye and stared in amazement. Denethor was getting dressed. He had already donned his breeches, but his lean body, so like in build to Thorongil’s own, was bared to the waist. He was standing with his left side facing Thorongil as he raised his arms to don a shirt. That was the side, which had been slashed by an Easterling blade only a few months ago. Such an injury would leave a deep and painful scar unless the victim had access to treatments unknown outside the Elven Realms. Gondor had had no contact with Elves for generations. Yet Denethor bore no trace of a scar.  

   

Thorongil let out a sharp intake of breath. He must be losing his wits!  

   

Denethor must have heard him, for he hastened to the bedside, tucking in his shirt as he did so. “How do you fare, mellon nîn?” he enquired.  

   

If Thorongil had not known him better, he could have sworn the concern in the man’s voice was genuine. “Much better, apart from a slight headache,” he lied, not wanting to betray his weakness.  

   

Denethor frowned. “I dressed in here rather than the dressing room, as I thought you might awaken once the poppy juice wore off,” he said. “Would you like some tea? I have sent for some. The Healer will be here to see you soon. I hope he will give you something for the pain. He only left one dose of poppy syrup with me, alas.”  

   

Thorongil nodded in pretended compliance. He wished he had not when the dizziness from the day before return.  

   

Denethor squeezed his shoulder, obviously in pretended sympathy. “Easy now, the Healers said it would take a day or two for you to feel yourself again,” he said.  

   

A servant tapped on the door and Denethor went to open it. Thorongil seized the opportunity to try to get out of bed, but failed dismally. As soon as he tried to put his feet on the floor, he started to feel decidedly queasy and he found himself suffering the indignity of being escorted to the privy by Ecthelion’s son.  

   

He felt much better, though when he returned, and felt able to sample one of the steaming mugs of tea. Denethor tucked him up in bed again and held the cup to his lips. Suddenly fearing it might be drugged, he tried to think of some excuse. “I am not thirsty after all,” he said lamely.  

   

“Come, you need to drink,” said Denethor. ”See, it is not drugged.” He took a swig from the mug, before offering it again to Thorongil.  

   

However could the man read him so clearly? Denethor was noted for his perception, but this was uncanny! Thorongil drank. He was in truth, very thirsty, and the tea was reviving.  

   

No sooner had he finished it than another knock came at the door. This time, Denethor opened it to admit a stocky, fair-haired man clad in Healer’s robes. Denethor regaled the man in great detail about his captive’s symptoms.  

   

“Tell me how you feel, my lord and spare no detail!” the Healer said. He had a strong Rohirric accent, which surprised Thorongil. He thought he knew all the Healers in the Houses at least by sight, and they were all Gondorians. And why did the man call him ‘my lord’ rather than ‘Captain’? He was a lord only amongst his own people in the North.  

   

“My head aches and I have experienced nausea and dizziness,” Thorongil replied in perfect Rohirric, hoping to maybe establish a rapport with the man. Denethor had little time for Healers, so this man was most likely what he appeared to be.  

   

“That is usual after a head injury,” said the Healer, unwrapping the bandages and probing the wound on his head in a very professional fashion. “Hmm, you are doing well; the wound is clean and should soon heal, and you seem perfectly lucid. I think you could get up later, if you do not over exert yourself. I will give you something for your headache.”  

   

“I should like to consult Master Beren about my injuries,” said Thorongil. Beren was a good friend, an elderly Healer who was interested to learn whatever Northern herb lore Captain Thorongil was willing to impart. If he could but get a message to him, maybe his friend could help him flee.  

   

“You will not escape my attentions so easily, by asking for a Healer who does not exist!” the Healer said, laughing ruefully. “Little wonder that Master Tarostar preferred to set a broken leg this morning and left me to attend upon you!”  

   

“But Master Beren is real; you must know him!” Thorongil protested.  

   

“I have never heard of him either,” added Denethor in perfect Rohirric. Thorongil’s spirits sank further as his bewilderment increased. Wherever had the Steward’s son learned to speak the language of the Mark so well? He had obviously understood every word of Thorongil’s conversation with the Healer.  

   

“It is not unusual to be a little confused after suffering a head injury, my lord,” said the Healer. “Maybe you mean Bereg?”  

   

“Yes,” said Thorongil quickly.  

   

“Everyone confuses similar names at times, my lord,” the Healer said cheerfully, winding a clean bandage around Thorongil’s head. “You are fortunate your thick Númenorean skull has saved you from serious injury this time, but you need to rest.”  

   

“I will see that he does,” said Denethor. ”I have cancelled all my engagements today, so that I can remain at his side. I am greatly relieved the cut is healing well.”  

   

Thorongil suppressed the urge to glare. Had this arrogant man not even the decency to allow him to have his wounds treated in private? At least his head had stopped spinning now.  

  

"Do your ribs still pain you?" enquired the Healer. 

  

"No," Thorongil replied tersely, determined not to allow this Healer to examine him further in Denethor's presence. 

    

“Very well, I will wait until tomorrow before examining them again, “said the Healer, as if humouring him. “I will mix you some willow bark tea to ease the pain without making you sleepy. I will leave some poppy juice for later. You know the correct dosage.” He mixed up the herb and handed the cup to Thorongil.

 

“It tastes vile!” Thorongil spluttered.

 

“You always say that!” the Healer commented placidly. “Healers make the most complaining patients!”

 

Thorongil could have sworn he had never seen the man before today, but all the Healers would now know he was one himself. After he had treated Denethor’s severe injury successfully, Ecthelion had made his gratitude widely known. One of his colleagues must have told him more about his patient. Or was the man truly a Healer from the Houses at all, given that he did not know Beren?

 

The Healer placed a vial of poppy juice and a packet of herbs on the table. “I will call again later. Farewell for now, my lord.”

 

“My wife was wondering if you had any ginger root to spare in the Houses,” Denethor said as he showed the Healer to the door. “It always helps our little one’s stomach settle.”

 

Thorongil realised this was his chance. Denethor adored his infant son, Boromir, and missed no opportunity to boast of him. Taking up the vial of poppy syrup, he slipped two drops in his jailor’s half finished tea. The potion would not hurt him, but he should sleep deeply for hours.

 

A few moments later, when the Healer finally left, Denethor picked up his mug and took a swig of tea. Grimacing he put the mug down, its contents still unfinished, much to Thorongil’s dismay. Still, maybe he had consumed enough to make him sleepy.

“The tea is cold and tastes rather strange,” Denethor said grimacing. “I will send for some fresh. Would you like some breakfast, Aragorn?”

 

Thorongil flinched at this fresh use of his true name. “I will just have some toast, please,” he replied, still feeling too nauseous to stomach a full meal. He only hoped his still delicate digestion would not rebel at the sight and smell of Denethor’s favoured morning meal of ham and eggs.

 

To his surprise when breakfast arrived, it comprised a large plate of toast and butter, together with boiled eggs and crusty bread and honey, the only addition for his companion.

 

Seeing his look of surprise Denethor said, “I did not wish to order anything that might cause your nausea to return, my friend. Shall I assist you to a chair that you can eat more easily, or would you prefer breakfast in bed?”

 

“Breakfast in bed, please,” said Thorongil desiring to appear as helpless as possible. To his delight, Denethor yawned; causing him to dare hope that he had imbibed sufficient of the drug to make him sleep. He was starting to feel much stronger now the pain killing herbs had had time to take effect. He nibbled at his toast, but let Denethor hold the cup for him again, willing to endure that humiliation, if he could but lull the man into complacency that he was too weak to attempt to escape.

 

After he had eaten his fill, an increasingly yawning Denethor brought Thorongil a damp cloth to lave his hands and face. “Would you like me to read to you or maybe you would like to play chess?” he suggested.

 

Thorongil quickly scanned the books in the room, surprised at how many concerned Elvish lore and the History of the Kings. He requested an account of the Battle of Unnumbered Tears in Quenya, which he espied on a far corner of the shelf.

Denethor began to read, but when he reached an account of the strength of the armies and what weapons they bore, his words became slurred and the book fell on his lap, the reader sound asleep.

 

Thorongil waited to make certain Denethor was sleeping soundly. In repose, the man’s features looked noble, yet surprisingly gentle, with an almost childlike innocence. Strange indeed how the man had changed over these past days!

 

With the stealth only a Ranger or an Elf can possess, Thorongil slid from the bed. He had no idea where his own clothes might be, but a tunic and breeches lay folded on a chair. He silently donned them over the drawers and nightshirt he was already wearing, together with some boots. They fit perfectly, almost as if they were made for him, though of far finer quality than his own clothing. He was startled to see that the tunic was embroidered with the Stars and Tree of the Kings.  What nefarious scheme could Denethor be planning, that he would have ordered such things?    Maybe Thorongil was to be held up to public ridicule as a would- be king with nothing to back up his claim?  Would Denethor force him to wear the garments to his execution, as a final humiliation? 

 

He knew it was time for him to leave Gondor, a realisation that had been growing in his mind for some time. Captain Thorongil was loved by the people, and most especially by Ecthelion, but the Steward was growing old and frail. Thorongil needed to be well away from here before his son inherited the White Rod.

 

Thorongil cautiously opened the door a few inches. It was fortunately well oiled. There were two Guards at the far end of the corridor. He crept along, concealing himself in alcoves. When a flirtatious maidservant bringing clean laundry distracted the men, he slipped past unnoticed.

 

Flattening his body against walls and alcoves whenever he was in danger of being observed, Thorongil gradually made his way to the main door and slipped outside. He was somewhat surprised not to have seen any familiar faces amongst the servants he had glimpsed. Most of the staff had worked in the Citadel for years. It were as if they had all been mysteriously replaced overnight. Once, he thought he recognised a gardener, but then realised he was mistaken when he saw the man’s face. It must have been his father, as this man looked at least forty years older than the man he knew.

Thorongil walked openly among the passers by once he was outside. Greatly to his surprise, almost without exception they dipped their heads or bowed to him as he passed, while others called “Good Day, my lord!” Captain Thorongil was popular, but such shows of respect were for a ruler, not a captain!

 

He was alarmed to see a handful of Southrons in their colourful robes mingling with the Gondorians. They must be enemy spies, but how strange that they made no attempt to disguise themselves!

He was so distracted by his musings that he failed to see a now wide-awake Denethor approaching him together with several guards.

 

“You must come back to bed, sire, you are not well,” said Denethor.

 

Panicked, Thorongil ran around the corner to the Court of the Fountain, hoping he could disappear into the buildings flanking the dead tree. To his astonishment, the withered trunk had disappeared and a living tree stood in its place. The Guards were dressed differently too. They were bareheaded and their uniforms bore insignia that he had last seen in portraits of Elendil at Rivendell.

It was all too much for Thorongil. Everything started to spin. He heard someone running towards him. Denethor’s arms caught him as everything went black.

 

Powerless to resist, the semi conscious Thorongil was carried back inside. This time, he was taken to a different room. This chamber appeared to belong to a woman. It was tastefully furnished, again with tapestries oddly similar to the ones he recalled from his childhood at Rivendell.

 

Thorongil could only struggle feebly when Denethor and the Healer undressed him and put him to bed. The Healer mixed a potion, which he politely, but very firmly insisted that Thorongil swallow. He knew from the taste it was intended to induce sleep.

 

Before he succumbed to the drug, he heard Denethor say in an agitated tone, “How could I have been so careless? I tried not to leave him. I did not even dress in my dressing room, lest he wake and need me! ”

 

“You were drugged, my lord, I can see that your pupils are dilated. You did well to awaken when you did,” the Healer replied. “He is obviously very confused. It might be best to restrain him for his own good.”

   

“I will not have him humiliated. Remember who he is!” Denethor’s tone was sharp.

 

“Of course, my lord, as you wish.”

 

“Will he recover?” Denethor’s tone was now anxious.  Thorongil was surprised;  though Denethor was capable of masking his true feelings, he had not known the Steward's heir to be so skilled at deception!

 

“He should, but it will take time, I fear. Would you like me to stay with him? He must not be left alone in his current state of mind.”

 

“I will not leave him, but would be grateful for your company, Master Aedred. I will keep guards stationed outside the room at all times now.”

 

Thorongil’s heart sank still further at these tidings. Denethor and the Healer sat down on chairs either side of the bed, obviously prepared to stay there. Bizarrely, Denethor patted his captive’s hand. Thorongil pretended to be asleep. Within moments, he surrendered to slumber, unable to resist the drugs any longer.

  

***

When he awoke again, Thorongil’s head felt much better. There was no sign of his jailors. Slowly he sat up and to his great relief his head did not swim. Darkness had apparently fallen outside, as lamps dimly lighted the room.

 

Then he noticed her; a woman was lying in bed beside him! She was turned away from him, so that he could not see her face. The long dark hair spread across the pillow suggested that it must be Lady Finduilas. He was obviously in her chamber. This then, was Denethor’s plan against him. For a man to be found abed with the Heir to the Stewardship’s wife was high treason. It meant a certain and extremely unpleasant death. Finduilas would escape punishment if it appeared that he had taken her by force. However had Denethor persuaded his virtuous wife to agree to so evil a plan?

Thorongil feared his fate was sealed. Ecthelion might well love him as a son, but even the Steward could not exonerate him from a situation such as this. He was alone with the lady, in her bed and wearing nothing but a nightshirt!  

He cried out in horror, and the woman awoke with a start. She turned to face him. It was not Finduilas but Arwen!

 

“Whatever has Denethor done to shame you like this? Never would I bring such dishonour upon you, my lady!” Thorongil cried in horror. 

Ever since he had glimpsed Arwen walking under the birches at Rivendell, he would have liked nothing better than to wake up each day beside her. Not like this, though, without proving himself worthy of her love and winning her hand in marriage.

 

“Why should I not lie beside you?” Arwen sounded bewildered. “I am your wife!”

 

A guard, having heard Thorongil’s cry, knocked on the door. “Is everything well, my lord, my lady?” he called.

 

“There is naught  for you to be concerned about, but please would you summon the Lord Steward here?”

 

“Yes, my lady. We will despatch a servant while we wait outside here lest you need us.”

 

“My wife? I beg you, do not jest so cruelly!” Thorongil protested.

 

“It is no jest! Of course I am your wife.  We wed four years ago come June; and I have borne your child!”

 

“Child? How can this be?”

”The same way that all couples have children!” Arwen replied. She slid from the bed. Thorongil realised there was a crib in the room.

 

Arwen lit more lamps then lifted a child from the cradle and climbed back in bed beside him, the child clasped in her arms. “Look, Estel! “she demanded, “Here is  our child, your son Eldarion!”

 

“Ada!” gurgled the toddler sleepily.  He was a handsome child, with an Elven beauty in his face and a look of Elladan and Elrohir as well.  Thorongil wanted immediately to reach out to the child, to take him in his arms, acknowledge him; but he could not remember being his father. 

 

“See, does he not bear a likeness of you, in his dark hair and grey eyes?” said Arwen.

 

“He looks like you,” Thorongil said doubtfully. ”You have dark hair and grey eyes too.”

 

Arwen’s placid demeanour finally shattered. “How dare you!” she cried. “You would question my virtue and your own son’s birthright? I know Faramir said you are unwell, but this is too much! This little one is wiser than you, as he recognises his own father!” She returned the sleepy child to his crib as she spoke.  

 

“My apologies, my lady, “ but I certainly have no recollection of wedding you, much less of fathering your child!” Thorongil protested. “And who is this Faramir?”

 

“Why your best friend and Steward of course!”

 

“I have never heard of the man! Ecthelion is Steward here. What trick is Denethor using you to play?”  Thorongil covered his eyes, wondering what strange, painful dream this could be.  He removed his hands, but Arwen and the child were still there.  "Lady, how came you here," he asked softly, fearing that some horror had addled her wits, and fearing for Imladris.  "Does Master Elrond know you have left the Elven realms?"

 

“Do you not recall my father bringing me to claim your hand in marriage?” Arwen enquired. “We wed with my father’s blessing, ere he sailed to rejoin my mother.”

 

Thorongil swallowed hard. If she spoke the truth, he would never again see the one who had been as a father to him.

 

“What year is it?” Arwen asked suddenly.

 

“Why? Twenty nine eighty, of course.”

 

It was Arwen’s turn to cover her eyes in shock. ”No, my love, forty four years have passed since then.”

 

“It cannot be! This is all some trick!” Thorongil protested. “Denethor has had me attacked!”

 

“You fell from your horse when out riding with Faramir,” Arwen explained gently. ”I fear the blow you sustained to your head has caused you to lose your memory.”

 

“No, that cannot be! Denethor has had me beaten and drugged and holds you under duress!”

 

“I have never even met Denethor,” Arwen said patiently. “There is no doubt that you fell from Roheryn, the bruises on your body prove it. Take off your nightshirt and look for yourself!”

 

“What? Certainly not, it would be most improper!”

 

“Estel, I am your wife! There is nothing improper. I have already seen your injuries while you were asleep, when I returned from visiting Éowyn. Let me help you.” She reached out to undo the laces at his neck.

 

“Thank you, my lady, but I can undress myself!”  Blushing scarlet, Thorongil reluctantly slid the garment from his upper body. He would truly rather fight a horde of fully armed Orcs, but it seemed that there was no alternative than to bare his skin to the Lady of Imladris.

  

“Now look carefully,” Arwen said. “You have bruises on your left arm and across your ribs on the left side only. The injury to your head is on the left too, which is entirely consistent with falling from a horse.” Tenderly, she traced slender fingers across his bare chest. Thorongil tried hard to suppress the delightful sensations her touch aroused in him. He wanted to believe she was his wife and such pleasure was allowed, but it was all too much to comprehend.

 

Just then a knock on the door interrupted them. “It is Faramir,” a voice called.

 

“Come in!” Arwen answered, pulling on a robe over her nightgown. Thorongil was dismayed at the prospect of being caught in such a compromising situation. He hastily pulled his nightshirt back over his shoulders.

 

“Lord Denethor, I understand you might have a grudge against me, but please release this innocent lady!” Thorongil said with as much dignity as he could muster.

 

“He has lost his memory, I fear, Faramir,” said Arwen. “He thinks he is still Captain Thorongil, you are Denethor, and that your grandfather is Steward here. He believes that you seek to harm him.”

 

Denethor came, and at a nod from Arwen, sat down on the edge of the bed. ”That would explain much,” he said his eyes full of concern and compassion. “I am not my father, mellon nîn,” he said gently. “He died four years ago next month. You are the King of Gondor and Arnor, Lady Arwen is your wife and I am your Steward.”

 

“But you must be Denethor?” Thorongil protested. “And yet - now that I behold you, your eyes seem different and you have a look of the Lady Finduilas about you. And you were so kind.”

”You were ever kind to me,” said Faramir. “At our very first meeting you saved my life before you fought to defeat Sauron. I will fetch your crown and. Many people witnessed both events. There are paintings to commemorate them. You found a new White Tree, which you saw today in the Court of the Fountain. Surely that must be the proof if nothing else is?”

 

“Sauron defeated?  The Kingship restored?  How could I not recall such things that I have dreamed of, finally coming to pass? Can a son of Denethor’s truly be my friend?” Overwhelmed, Thorongil buried his face in his hands.

   

When at last Thorongil looked up, the two men regarded each other in increasing dismay as the situation sunk in.

 

“You recall nothing of all we have been through together?” Faramir asked sadly.

Thorongil shook his head.

 

“He is as dear as a son to you, much as, I believe, you were to his grandsire. It is not really so strange that you are close,” said Arwen. “Can you not recall all the happy times you have shared with Eldarion and me?”

 

Thorongil sadly shook his head. ”I have lost over forty years of my life! “ he lamented. “I know no one, and my wife is a near stranger to me!”

 

“You would remember my Uncle Imrahil,” said Faramir trying to sound cheerful. ”He has aged, but I am certain you would know him.”

 

“Maybe.” Thorongil replied absently. “But how can I be King if I cannot remember!”

Faramir placed a comforting arm around his shoulders. This time, Thorongil did not recoil from the contact, recognising the genuine affection and concern behind the gesture. King and Steward remained thus in silence.

 

 “Let me think who else would have known you forty four years ago,” Arwen said at last. ”My brothers, of course.”

 

Thorongil visibly brightened. “My Mother and Halbarad are closest kin to me,” he exclaimed. “If we could send for them, maybe I could be healed!”

 

“Alas!” said Arwen sadly. “ I fear both are now beyond the circles of this world.”

 

Thorongil’s look of bleak anguish at these tidings was heartrending to behold. He struggled to compose himself. “How came this Faramir to be my Steward?” he asked, aiming to distract himself from tidings that made him want to weep.   “Little Boromir was Denethor's heir, what happened to the lad?”

 

“Faramir is Denethor’s younger son, born in 2983 after you left Gondor. Boromir died in the struggle against the Dark Lord,” explained Arwen.

 

“Let him fetch the tokens he said he could produce then!” Aragorn demanded. "I wish to see the paintings too."

 

“You should rest, my love,” Arwen protested. “Can it not wait until the morrow?”

 

“If I am King, my people will need me to be whole,” said Aragorn. “The sooner I learn the truth, the better.”

 

“I can soon fetch the crown and sceptre,” said Faramir. ”I have the keys to the chamber in which they are kept.” He immediately left the room.

 

Arwen sighed. “Some of the pictures you wish to see are in my sitting room,” she said. ”Come!”

 

 Thorongil was forced to accept her supporting arm as she led him into an adjacent chamber. It was sumptuously furnished with many paintings and tapestries upon the walls.

 

“There is our wedding,” said Arwen showing him a large painting depicting her standing beside him smiling joyfully while an equally joyous Elrond presented Aragorn with the ancient sceptre of the Kings of Arnor. Thorongil eyed it doubtfully. This was what he dreamt of, but could it have truly happened?

 

 Thorongil next studied the largest one, which showed his old friend, Gandalf placing the crown of Gondor upon his head. Faramir stood beside the Istar, holding the Steward’s White Rod. Thorongil’s eye was drawn towards the presence of four Hobbits in the painting.

“Hobbits live in the Shire!” he protested. “There are none in Gondor!”

 

“It was two Hobbits who destroyed the Enemy’s Ring, one of them was Frodo Baggins, Bilbo's cousin and heir; and the other was his gardener and friend, Samwise Gamgee."  Arwen's voice softened, with a tone of reverence he had only heard in her voice when she spoke of Lúthien, Beren and other great heroes of the First Age.  “The other two, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took, performed great deeds as well. No Man could have imagined the path by which you came to the throne.”  

   

For the first time that night, Thorongil felt this might be true. However devious a plot Denethor could have devised, the man knew little of Hobbits. And not even Denethor could have imagined so far-fetched a story as that of the One Ring destroyed by two hobbits, even if one of them was kin to the Burglar of Erebor.  Thorongil stared hard at the picture, trying to remember.  

   

At that moment, Faramir returned, staggering under the weight of the boxes he bore. ”Show him the sceptre,” said Arwen.  

 

Faramir unlocked a long box and took out the sceptre of Annuminas and handed it to Aragorn, who studied it intently. This was the sceptre that Elrond said he would never surrender until he was proved worthy. Elrond did not lie, neither did his daughter. Then he remembered the mingled joy and sorrow on Elrond’s face when he had brought both the sceptre and his daughter to Minas Tirith. The painted figure looked little like him, beaming almost foolishly in a way that Elrond never could have managed even at his most merry. Thorongil swayed. “I think I remember,” he said. “It is starting to come back to me. Your father brought you to me the day before we were wed. You rode a grey palfrey and wore a blue and silver gown."

  

“I did indeed!” Arwen exclaimed joyfully. 

  

Aragorn stumbled as his head started to swim. “I feel faint,” he said.

 

Arwen and Faramir led Aragorn back to the bedroom and sat him on the bed. Acting on a sudden impulse, Faramir sent a servant to fetch some hot water. When it was brought, he rummaged in Aragorn’s healing supplies for the athelas and bade the King crumble some in the bowl.

This time, Aragorn did not try to feign ignorance. He inhaled the refreshing vapours deeply. Suddenly he looked at Faramir with a light of love and knowledge kindled in his eyes. “I remember!” he exclaimed. ”When I first met you, you were near death and I revived you with this. You opened your eyes and hailed me as your king!”

 

Faramir smiled, though tears glinted in eyes. “That was indeed so, and it gladdens my heart indeed that you remember!” he said.

  

Tears trickled down Aragorn’s cheeks as returning memories flooded his brain. He knew it would take time to fully recover but he knew who he was!” I am Aragorn Elessar Telcontar, King of both Gondor and Arnor,” he whispered.

Laughing and crying together, Arwen and Faramir both embraced him.

 

Despite his still aching head, Aragorn felt content for the first time since he had awakened after the accident.  He knew enough Healers’ lore to be certain that the rest of his memories would return.  Meanwhile, he had his name, his purpose, his wife and child, and the best friend that any King, or Man, ever had.  It was enough. 

A Taste of Honey

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

With grateful thanks to Deandra

The Queen of Hearts,
She made some tarts
All on a summer's day.

The Knave of Hearts,
He stole the tarts
And took them clean away. – Traditional Nursery Rhyme

Honey cakes! How Eldarion loved them! They were his very favourite food. If only his nanny allowed him to eat them more often, but she usually wanted him to eat boring things like bread or porridge instead.

Today, Aragorn and Arwen’s young son was beside himself with excitement, for his mother had promised to take him to visit the kitchens. Arwen had explained that she wanted the cooks to know how much their work was appreciated, and to let Eldarion see how hard the kitchen servants laboured in order for him to enjoy his meals. He was hoping very much that the cook would make some of his favourite cakes for him.

When the Queen and her son reached the kitchens, Eldarion was thrilled to see the cook was taking a tray of freshly baked honey cakes from the oven. An apple-cheeked young maidservant carriedthe cakes to a nearby table to cool.

“May I have one, please?” Eldarion asked politely.

“I’m sorry, Master Eldarion, but these cakes are for the ladies in the Weavers' Guild," said the girl as she rushed back to the stove to tend to a boiling pot. "They are coming to visit your lady mother soon, so we have no time to make more for you.”

“Eldarion, I am certain that you can live throughout the day without a honey cake,” the Queen chided gently. “You see, ion nîn, the food prepared here is not just for us to eat, but for our guests too. And we must think of our guests' needs before our own."

Eldarion was not happy at all. There was a whole tray of honey cakes and he was not allowed to eat even one! His mother moved away to speak to the cook. They were soon engrossed in a deep conversation. No one was watching what one small boy was doing.

Eldarion had been told he should never take anything that was not his. His mother and father had chided him for taking his little sister’s toys, and told him it was very naughty. The boy studied the rapidly cooling cakes longingly. There were so many of them, that surely no one would notice if he took some? They were only cakes, not his sister’s favourite doll, which she cried if she could not play with. His mother was still talking to the cook, while the girl was stirring a pan on the other side of the room. With the inborn stealth of the son of a Peredhil and a Ranger, he seized two cakes from the edge of the tray and stuffed one in each of his tunic pockets.

When his mother at last finished her conversation, she insisted that they return to the nursery now, as she needed to prepare for her visitors later that afternoon.

Arwen lingered for a few moments after handing her son over to his nanny’s care, then took her leave, promising to return after the guests had departed. The nurse settled herself on a rocking chair in a corner by the fire and was soon dozing

Eldarion retrieved the cakes from his pockets and ate them, savouring each delicious bite. The fact they were forbidden made the cakes taste all the sweeter. He knew he had been naughty, but no one would ever find out!

That night, Brithil, the nursery maid who brought Eldarion his supper, was crying. Tears rolled down her cheeks, which she dabbed at with her apron. “What is wrong?” he asked her.

“My best friend, Indis, has been dismissed for stealing some cakes!” sobbed the girl. ”She says she didn’t do it, but cook won’t believe her, and your mother and father have told her she must leave tomorrow. I don’t know what will become of her!”

“Can’t she get more work somewhere else?” asked Eldarion, starting to wish that he had not taken the cakes.

“No one will employ a girl who has been dismissed for stealing!” sniffed Brithil. ”Indis’ father was crippled in the war and her family relies on her wages so that they will have enough to eat.”

Later, as he sat in his mother's solar and played with his toys before bedtime, Eldarion thought about Brithil's news. How could it be his fault that Indis was being made to leave? The cook was making a silly fuss over two small cakes. Then, maybe Indis had taken more cakes afterwards? They were far too tasty not to sample!

“You are very quiet tonight, Eldarion,” said Arwen. “What troubles you, my son?

Eldarion started guiltily. Somehow, his mother was always good at guessing his thoughts.

"Brithil says you are making her best friend, Indis leave," said Eldarion. "It's not fair!"

"Indis did wrong and must be punished," Arwen replied solemnly.

"But she only took some cakes!" Eldarion protested.

"It would matter not if she had taken a cake or one of my most valuable jewels," said the Queen. "Stealing is very wrong. Someone who steals is a thief, and a thief cannot be trusted. Indis did not even steal the cakes out of hunger; as all the servants get as much to eat as they want at mealtimes. What made it worse, was that she refused to tell the truth. If she had confessed to taking the cakes and apologised, your father and I would have forgiven her."

"Um, maybe someone else took them," Eldarion said hesitantly.

His mother shook her head. "That is impossible. No one else, save the cook was in the kitchens, and cook would not steal her own cakes." Arwen sighed. "I know it is hard for you to understand why we have to dismiss Indis, but when you are older you will. Come now, it is past your bedtime."

For a moment, Eldarion was tempted to tell his mother everything. Then he thought how angry and disappointed with him she would be. She would tell his father too, and the King would be furious. Eldarion was frightened of his father’s anger. Aragorn did not beat him, but he sometimes shouted, and the look in his eyes was very scary. He would be punished too, by being made to do something horrid, like having extra lessons.

Eldarion slept little that night, as he could not stop thinking. No one would ever find out that it was he who stole the cakes, so why should he worry about it? Perhaps Indis would find a new job that was more fun than being a kitchen maid? But what if she didn’t? Eldarion had seen beggars on the street who looked very hungry and were dressed in rags. His parents had set up a house of refuge for them, but he did not think Indis and her family would like to live there. The troubled boy finally fell asleep only to dream of a vast plate of cakes above his head, which he tried vainly to reach.

Brithil brought him a delicious breakfast of soft white bread, thickly spread with butter and honey, as well as creamy milk to drink, but he was not hungry and ate only a few mouthfuls.

“What is wrong?” asked Brithil. ”Don’t you feel well, Master Eldarion?”

Eldarion took a deep breath. ”I need to see my father,” he said, rushing out of the room before he could change his mind. A servant escorted him to the King’s study where Aragorn was working.

“Come in!” Aragorn looked up in surprise to see his son hesitating on the threshold of his study. “What is the matter, ion nîn? ” he asked, concerned at Eldarion’s downcast demeanour.

“Adar! I stole those cakes, I don’t want the kitchen maid to lose her job!” Eldarion blurted out. He stood rooted to the spot, resisting the urge to run away and hide from his father’s fury.

“You did what?” Aragorn sounded somewhat incredulous. ”Why should you steal cakes? Are you trying to protect someone? I cannot believe that my son would steal!”

“I fear I did, Adar. I love honey cakes and could not resist them! I took two when no one was looking and stuffed them in my pockets. I know I was very naughty, I’m sorry.” Eldarion glanced at his father’s face. Then unable to endure the look of anger, sorrow, and disappointment in his sire’s eyes, stared at the floor.

At last the King spoke, ”I expected better than this from you, Eldarion,” he said gravely. “I never thought to see the day when my son would act like a common thief! You did, however, own up, rather than let an innocent girl take the blame.”

“I’m very sorry, Adar,” whispered Eldarion. “I won’t do it again.”

“I should think not,” said Aragorn. “I hope you have learned your lesson. To ensure that you do so; you shall not go out riding for a week, nor will you eat any cakes. Instead you will spend more time learning about history, and practicing your writing. I also expect you to apologise to the maid. I will take you to her now.”

Eldarion was marched by his father to the servant’s quarters. The Housekeeper took them to the room that Indis shared with Brithil and another girl. Indis was packing her possessions prior to leaving, and weeping bitterly. She started when she saw the King and bowed low.

“My son has something he wishes to say to you,” said the King.

“Indis, I’m sorry, I got you into trouble,” said Eldarion. “I stole those cakes.”

“The queen and I apologise for wrongly accusing you,” Aragorn said gravely. “We hope you will stay here with us. We will try to make up for the distress you have suffered. Would you like to take a week's paid leave, to spend time with your family within the next week or two?”

“Oh, thank you, my lord! Of course, I want to stay; I love it here!” Indis sobbed even more loudly. “I should love to be able to visit my mother for her birthday next month!”

“And so you shall,” smiled Aragorn.

“Well unpack your things again, then,” said the Housekeeper. “The cook will expect you back in the kitchens this afternoon.”

“Dry your eyes now,” Aragorn said kindly. “The Queen will speak to you later.  And Mistress,” he addressed the Housekeeper, "Please make sure that Indis' good name has not suffered for my son's thievery.  Anyone who speaks ill of her shall answer to the Queen." 

000

The days seemed to pass very slowly for Eldarion. He endured his punishment without complaint and worked hard at his lessons. He was very glad when the week was over.

When Eldarion came back from riding on the first day he was allowed out on his pony again, he found his mother waiting for him with a plate of honey cakes. “Indis made these for you today,” said Arwen. “As I believe you have learned your lesson, you may have some.”

Eldarion took a cake and nibbled it thoughtfully.

“What is the matter?” Arwen enquired. “You do not seem to be enjoying your cake.”

“Somehow, the honey cakes do not seem as sweet as they did before,” said Eldarion, sounding puzzled. “I must thank Indis, though.”

“You have grown up a great deal this past week,” said Arwen. “You have learned that honey cakes are not the most important thing in life!”

“I am proud of you, ion nîn,” said Aragorn, entering the room. “You acted like a true Son of the House of Telcontar by choosing to do what was right.” He smiled ruefully, recalling a day long ago when he had stolen some apples from Master Elrond’s favourite tree and suffered a severe stomach ache all night long as consequence, which his foster father had decided was punishment enough. Growing up was indeed a long and difficult journey, but it seemed that Eldarion at least had embarked in the right direction.  

The End

Dies iræ! (Day of wrath)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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

 

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra

 

Dies iræ! dies illa
Solvet sæclum in favilla
Teste David cum Sibylla!

 

(Day of wrath! O day of mourning!
See fulfilled the prophets' warning,
Heaven and earth in ashes burning!)  - Thomas of Celano 13^th Century Latin hymn used in the Requiem Mass

 

 

 

 

Trailed discretely by two Guards, Aragorn walked briskly through the market place. He paused to acknowledge with a nod or a smile the many greetings called out to him. He stopped only when he reached a stall which sold jewellery made from rough-cut semi precious stones. Since he had delighted his Queen with a simple amethyst necklace some time ago, he often bought her similar trinkets when he visited the market.

   

“Do you have any necklaces of lapis lazuli?” Aragorn asked the trader.

 

“Indeed, my lord, I do!  I have bracelets and necklaces and rings of the very finest quality, imported from Khand.  They arrived only yesterday. Or would my lord perhaps like to see my new rose quartz collection, which I just unpacked this morning?  Rose quartz would surely suit the Queen’s colouring, like the pink clouds of sunset around the evening star.” 

 

The two Guards, Meneldil and Cirion, exchanged bored glances as the trader prattled on about the perfection of his baubles. Cirion, new to his post, yawned. Both were unwed and deemed their lord's habit of personally searching out gifts for his lady to be a task beneath the dignity of a king. 

 

As they watched their King talk with the merchant, they noticed a cloaked woman who walked with odd, stumbling steps, shuffle up to the stall.  Bent beneath a burden of years, grey tresses straggling from out the hood of her cloak, the woman seemed fragile as she stood near the tall, strong form of King Elessar.  Her wrinkled hands carefully fingered a pearl necklace.  Meneldil wondered idly if the old lady had a granddaughter, for she was surely too old to want to wear one herself.  He focussed his attention on a young lad who was weaving swiftly and purposefully through the stalls, and would soon pass close to the King.  Was the boy a messenger, a cutpurse, or simply a lad on an errand for his mother? 

 

As Aragorn handed over some coins to the merchant, the cloaked woman staggered, and gasped as if in distress.  With the instinct of a trained healer, Aragorn reached out to help her.   The woman grasped his arm with one hand, reached inside her cloak with the other, and with sudden, terrible speed, drove a dagger into Aragorn's shoulder. 

 

The King stumbled and cried out while the youth and other passers-by screamed in horror. More Guards rushed to the scene. Cursing, Cirion and Meneldil pulled the assassin off of their lord and hastily subdued her. 

 

 

Aragorn was the first to collect himself. “Stay calm!” he cried. He slowly pulled the dagger from his shoulder. A merchant selling cloth at the next stall thrust a piece of linen into Aragorn’s hands. The King briskly staunched the wound with it. ”The wound is but slight,” he reassured the bystanders.

 

The woman gave an evil grin. The Guards tore the hood away from her face revealing the swarthy skin and tattooed cheeks of a native of Far Harad.  ”You are doomed to die, Elessar!” she spat in heavily accented Westron. “As you killed my husband, so I have killed you. My blade is coated with a deadly poison, which will slay you before twenty-four hours have passed!”

 

“You will pay dearly for this!” cried Meneldil, his young face fierce with rage.

 

The woman laughed maliciously. “There is nothing you can do to me, Elessar, for I have even less time left than you!” She raised her arm, so that her sleeve fell back to reveal a small cut on her arm. “A few hours ago, I cut myself with this poisoned blade that I might go to join my husband in the underworld. Then I thought, why not take you with me on my long journey as an offering to the spirits of the dead?”

 

“Take her to the Houses of Healing!” Aragorn commanded. ”See if the Healers can learn what venom she has used. Her dagger should yield traces of it.”

 

The Guards tried to march the woman off, but she seemed hardly able to place one foot in front of the other. ”See!” she cried in hideous joy, “Already the poison consumes me. Soon it will be your turn, Elessar!”

 

“Shall we escort you to the Houses as well, my lord?” Cirion enquired of Aragorn.

 

The King shook his head. ”If I am to die, I prefer to do so in my own bed!” he said grimly. ”Send a messenger to Lord Faramir in Ithilien on the swiftest horse that can be found and bid him come to me at once,” he ordered. “And summon the Warden of the Houses of Healing to my quarters once he has examined the woman.”

 

Refusing all offers of help from the Guards and concerned passers by, Aragorn made his way back to his apartments. His mind raced in turmoil. Was the woman telling the truth or was she simply mad? There had been a Southron incursion on the marches of Ithilien a few weeks past.  Aragorn and Faramir had fought and killed those who had refused to surrender.  He had slain their aging leader with his own hand. Those they had taken prisoner claimed their fallen leader was a venerable warlord. Could the slain Southron captain have been the woman’s husband?

 

Aragorn subdued a tremble.  Could he truly be doomed to die within twenty-four hours? He had so much to live for! What of Arwen and his son? He did not want to leave them. And what of Faramir, his best friend and Steward?  How could he leave those he loved so soon? Then what of Gondor and Arnor? Eldarion was scarcely more than a baby. What would happen to his kingdoms if he died now? Apart from the pain in his shoulder, Aragorn felt perfectly well.  Surely his doom was not come so soon!

 

Aragorn paused briefly before the White Tree, wondering if he looked upon its beauty for the last time. The Tree of the Kings was still a slender sapling. He had hoped to watch it grow through the years, to see the Tree rise high and strong, its still fragile branches thicken and stretch out with new leaves over the Citadel where Isildur had once walked. He had hoped by the time he passed the Silver Crown to Eldarion that the roots would have grown deep and the trunk thick and sturdy.

 

Arwen hastened out to meet him at the entrance to his private apartments. Her beautiful face was pale and drawn. ”Estel, I have heard grave tidings!” she cried. ”Tell me it is not true that you have received a deadly wound?”

 

Aragorn clasped her tightly in his arms. ”I do not know, my love,” he said sadly. ”I need to examine the injury.” He made his way to his private chambers, closely followed by Arwen. Gathering his healing supplies, he spread them on the bed, then removed his makeshift bandage and pulled off his cloak, tunic and shirt.

 

The wound was small, less than an inch in length and scarcely bleeding. Hardly alarming to look upon, but already the wound felt hot, almost tingling, to Aragorn’s careful touch.  The edges of the cut were a curious greenish shade. “Alas!” cried Aragorn. ”It is indeed poisoned, and not the usual venom favoured by the Haradrim, which is easy enough to treat with the right knowledge. I have never before come across this poison!”

 

"It is such a tiny cut to be so deadly, Estel!"  Arwen exclaimed softly, carefully studying the wound.  The horror in her eyes chilled Aragorn. “Could my father's books hold the answers you seek?” she asked with sudden hope. “If only my brothers were here!”

 

“Your father would have shared the knowledge with me, had he possessed it,” Aragorn said sadly. ”He taught me all that he knew of the poisons used by the Dark Lord and his minions.  I must proceed with the knowledge I already have, and the implements and medicines available here.  Now I have need of hot water.”

 

While Arwen sought a servant, Aragorn plunged a knife into the fire that burned in the grate and waited for the blade to grow white hot. Retrieving the knife, he allowed it to cool then gritted his teeth and sliced into his shoulder, opening the existing wound wider and forcing it to bleed.

 

“Whatever are you doing?” Arwen asked in horror, returning with the water and hearing his stifled groans.

 

“Trying to flush out some of the poison,” he told her. ”‘Tis but a slim chance it will help, but any chance is better than none!” He took two athelas leaves from a pouch in his healing supplies, breathed on them and cast them into the hot water. “Will you bandage my shoulder, please?” he asked Arwen, pressing the leaves into the wound. “Athelas is the most potent weapon I know of against deadly venoms. Even as he spoke, Aragorn feared it was already too late. The tips of his fingers were beginning to feel numb, which he recalled Elrond once warning him to be aware of as an early symptom of poisoning. He stifled his rising feelings of panic and tried to calmly recall his healer’s training. How else might he slow the deadly venom? Fluids might help flush some of it from his body. He found he craved tea, such as the Hobbits drank. He asked Arwen to send a servant to bring it. While they waited, Aragorn donned a loose robe, struggling to tie the sash around his waist.

 

Arwen noticed how he was fumbling, and knew why. The anguish in her eyes almost caused his heart to break there and then.

 

Aragorn could do nothing but await Master Tarostar, Warden of the Houses of Healing and what tidings he might bring. He could only hope that Faramir would arrive while he was still conscious. There was so much he needed to tell his friend and Steward  in the little time he had left. He could only wait and conserve his strength as best he could. Arwen sat beside him on the vast bed frantically searching through her father’s books for any clue how she could save her husband. There was none.

 

An hour or so later, Tarostar arrived. ”The woman refused to speak, not even to give her name,” he informed the King grimly. ”She is very near death now. We have dosed her with the antidote to every known poison, but alas, nothing is having any effect.”

 

Arwen buried her face in her hands.

 

“Keep on observing her,” Aragorn said, somehow maintaining a calm composure as his last hopes faded. ”Perhaps you will yet learn something of use.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” said the Warden, trying to mask his own emotions. “Is there any other assistance I may offer?”

 

“Not yet,” said Aragorn. ”I would be alone with my wife now until Lord Faramir arrives.”

 

As soon as the man left, Aragorn slumped back against the pillows. His hands now tingled up to the wrists and his fingers felt stiff and clumsy. “To think that I should die like this!” he cried in fury. “I fought many battles, knowing I might easily fall in combat, or that I might be killed by agents of the Dark Lord while I was in hiding. Now, just when I felt I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labours, I am doomed to fall at the hands of a madwoman! Why, why?”

 

Arwen could only shake her head, having no answer or comfort to offer him.

 

Farewell, my son, I am dying....

This day you’ll reign here in my place – Mussorgsky – Boris Godunov

 

 

 

 

“Arwen, vanimelda,” Aragorn said after a few moments silence. “I should like to see our son while I can still embrace him.”

 

The Queen summoned a servant to fetch the little boy.

 

“I would see Eldarion one last time, before the poison advances so far that my condition will frighten him. If only he were older! I hope that Faramir will be able to give him the same loving paternal care that your father gave to me.”

 

Arwen looked as if she were about to burst into tears, when a knock on the door heralded the arrival of Eldarion and his nurse. The Queen bade the woman wait outside. The three-year-old boy ran joyfully into his father’s room and scrambled up on the bed.

 

“Ada!” he cried “Will you and naneth play with me?”

 

“Not today, I fear,” said Aragorn. ”I want to tell you a story.”

 

“I like stories!” Eldarion snuggled against his father’s broad chest, blissfully oblivious of the bandages concealed beneath Aragorn’s robe.

 

“Once upon a time a little boy lived with his ada and naneth,” Aragorn began. ”His ada wanted to stay with his son until he grew to be a man, but he could not, as the wicked Orcs killed him. The little boy was sad, but he still had his naneth who loved him very much. He found a new father to love and care for him.”

 

“I know that story!” Eldarion interrupted. ”That was you, Ada, when you were a little boy!”

 

“It was indeed, ion nîn. Now I might have to go away like my ada in the story, even though I love you so much. You must not be afraid, for you will have your naneth and Uncle Faramir to look after you.”

 

“I don’t want you to go away, Ada!” Eldarion protested, his lower lip trembling.

 

“I would never leave you willingly, dearest child of my heart,” Aragorn said solemnly. ”Yet it seems that I must depart. I want you to be very brave, take care of your naneth, and work hard at your lessons when you are old enough, so that you will be a good king. Will you promise me that?”

 

Eldarion stared at his father, his grey eyes wide and solemn. ”Yes, Ada, I promise, but I don’t want you to go!”

 

“Neither do I wish it, ion nîn,” Aragorn whispered, holding the child close and kissing him tenderly. ”Go now with your nurse.”

 

Aragorn’s eyes never left the child as Arwen took him to where his nanny waited outside the door. His heart was breaking. How could he leave his beloved little boy, the apple of his eye? He wanted so much to protect his son and watch over him as he grew into manhood.  Now Eldarion was doomed to grow up as he had: without a father.  Even the kindest, best of foster-fathers, such as Elrond had been to him and Faramir would be to Eldarion, could not completely fill the gap, or answer all the questions that Eldarion would have.  And Arwen; what would befall her, alone in a land filled mostly with Men, far from her remaining kindred?  Would she die from sorrow?  Then would the Thought Bond he shared with his Steward cause Faramir to fade when it was sundered by his untimely death? Arwen had her brothers, but until his daughter came of age, Faramir had no one else, with whom he could share part of his soul in these latter days, when so few Men possessed the mental abilities of Númenor and the Elves.

 

Arwen came back into the room, dabbing at her eyes. ”We have had so little time together after waiting so long!” she cried. ”I wanted to bear you many more children.”

 

“I wanted nothing more than to grow old with you, vanimelda,” Aragorn replied. ”I did not take you from the life of the Eldar and the bliss of the West to leave you so soon.  Forgive me!” Arwen reached out to take his hand, but he could not feel her fingers clasped around his own.

 

Another hour passed, each minute seeming both an eternity and too short. Aragorn drank more tea, this time with his wife needing to hold the cup for him. His feet were starting to tingle too. The poison was spreading. He wished Faramir would hurry. He could only hope that the messenger would have found him at home. “Please, would you sing to me?” he begged his wife. “I should like to hear ‘The Lay of Lúthien’ one last time.”

 

Arwen started to sing the familiar melody, but her usually clear tones were choked with emotion.

 

There was a sudden knock at the door.

 

“Who is it?” Aragorn asked.

 

“It is I, Faramir.” The Steward entered, his noble features creased with anxiety.

 

Thinking the two men might wish for a few moments alone, Arwen excused herself saying she wished to go to see how Eldarion was faring.

 

“My friend, you have come!” Aragorn cried. His eyes briefly lit up.

 

“I met your messenger on the road,” said the Steward. ”I had a feeling something was terribly wrong and had already set out towards the River. The messenger rode on to inform Éowyn, and will then travel to where Legolas dwells. They tell me you were attacked, mellon nîn, with a poisoned dagger!”

 

“Alas, it is true,” said Aragorn, rising to sit up against the pillows. “I am dying. Today you will reign here in my stead as Karma-kundo, Crown-lieutenant of Gondor until Eldarion comes of age. I beg you to care for him, as a father would, and to protect my wife!”

 

Faramir paled and sat down heavily on the side of the bed. ”No!” he protested. ”This cannot be! You cannot leave us! Gondor needs you, I need you!”

 

“I hoped that as a true son of Númenor, I could choose the hour of my passing,” said Aragorn quietly. ”Alas, that is not to be and I am struck down in my prime. Gladly would I stay with you, mellon nîn, but I am not granted that choice.”

 

Aragorn summoned his strength and took Faramir’s hand in his own, though he could barely feel his own fingers.  “Please swear to me that you will care for Arwen and Eldarion so I might rest easy. You must be strong and not allow yourself to fade from your grief, for there is no one else who can be so close a shield to my son.  My foster-brothers have their own realms, and could not take this office, though they will help you in raising him. The same is true for my kindred in the North.  Protect my son from harm, Faramir; and teach him to be a good man and a good king! 

 

“Your lady and Eldarion are as my own kindred!” said Faramir. ”You have my word I will protect them with my life while I yet draw breath! Surely, though, there must be some remedy for this poison?”

 

“The healers can find none,” Aragorn replied sadly. ”And neither the poison nor an antidote is mentioned in Master Elrond’s books.  Already my limbs grow numb. I would beg your assistance to change into my nightshirt and to visit the bathing chamber, for I can no longer walk unaided.”

 

Faramir did as he was bidden in silence. The Steward seemed lost in thought. “Tell me more of the woman who stabbed you,” he said at last, as he almost carried the King back to bed..

 

“I would guess she came from Far Harad,” Aragorn replied. ”She claimed I killed her husband. I can only think it was in the recent border skirmish.”

 

“Southron poisons are designed to torture, not to kill,” recalled Faramir, a sudden light gleaming in his grey eyes. “Two of my Rangers were captured by a small force of Haradrim during the War. We re-grouped and tracked them, then attacked the camp and found our men.  They had been poisoned, and told that they would be given an antidote in return for the location of our refuges.  Fortunately, the Southron interrogator survived our assault, and provided the healing potion in return for his own life; and our men lived."

 

“The Healers would know of the antidote if this poison were of that kind,” Aragorn said doubtfully.

 

“The Haradrim developed new poisons constantly during the War,” said Faramir. “I am going to see the ambassador and see if he can tell me about this new one.”

 

“I should like to think there is yet hope,” said Aragorn. “But surely, there would be some record in the Houses of Healing if this poison had an antidote? This is one problem you cannot solve, son of my heart. Please stay with me for what little time I have left! I would die with those I love best at my side.”

 

Faramir stood by the bed looking at the anguished features of the man he had come to love as a father, the man who had saved his life. In the short time since he had arrived, Aragorn had grown visibly weaker. It tore Faramir’s heart asunder to leave him thus. “I will return,” he said simply. “You have my word.” Before his resolve could falter, or Aragorn could further plead with him to stay, Faramir bent and kissed his lord on the brow, then hastened from the room.

 

 

Fly away on the wings of wind
To the homeland, my dear song,
To the land where we can sing you freely,
Where it was so carefree for you and me. - Borodin - Polovetsian Dances – Prince Igor.

Faramir ran all the way to the Harad Ambassador’s residence, which was in the sixth circle. Somewhat surprisingly, he had formed a good friendship with Tahir, while Éowyn had befriended his wife, Adiva. Adiva was a horsewoman second only to the White Lady of Rohan. She often went riding with Éowyn. Like Faramir, Tahir had lost a brother in the war, and like Faramir too, he was essentially a man of peace, devoted to learning. He was an excellent chess player. Ambassador and Steward often enjoyed a game together when their duties permitted. The recent border skirmish had not damaged the friendship between them. Faramir knew there were different factions in Harad, not all of which followed Khan Janab’s wish for peace with Gondor.

A servant showed Faramir into the colourfully tiled hallway of Tahir’s home, offering the Steward the traditional guest mantle and slippers to don.

“Welcome to my humble abode, Lord Faramir, most exalted one!” intoned Tahir in perfect Westron, coming to greet him with a bow. “Permit me to offer you some refreshment?”

Despite the urgent need for haste, Faramir was forced to partake of the traditional rituals of hospitality. To refuse refreshment, or even hurry through the greetings, would be taken as an insult of the very worst kind.

“I have heard grave tidings of the esteemed Lord Elessar today,” said Tahir when together with the ambassador’s wife, they were seated on vast cushions drinking mint tea and eating dates. “Is it true that he lies close to death? The loss of such a great lord would diminish all the peoples of the world, not only Gondor.”

“Alas, it is indeed true,” said Faramir. “He was stabbed with a poisoned dagger by a woman we believe may be one of your people. She said she desired to avenge her husband.”

“A woman of so little honour would not be of my tribe,” said Tahir. ”I would wager that she came from the Eastern border region. Their women have a custom of following their husbands in death.”

“Fools!” snorted Adiva who sat at her husband’s feet. Although she followed the traditional customs of greeting, she tended to companion her husband rather than remain in the women's quarters. And unlike most of the women of Harad, of whom Faramir had learned, Adiva freely voiced her opinions. ”Much as I love my lord, I should do no such thing. My children need me too much, as do my horses!”

“I came to ask your help, my friends,” said Faramir. ”The poison this woman used on her dagger is unknown to our healers. I gained some knowledge of your venoms during the war and believe that their victims are not always beyond mortal aid.”

“To every poison there is an antidote,” said Tahir. “Or so I have heard it said. I know nothing specific about poisons, though.”

“Usage of poisons is a woman’s art,” added Adiva. “You need to consult with a darwisa.”

Despite being fairly fluent in the language of Harad, Faramir was puzzled by this term.

“I think you would call her a shaman or a healer in your tongue,” Adiva explained. “A darwisa is both revered and feared, as such women both harm and heal. They never marry, as they give their lives to their arts and are set apart from others of our people.”

“Where might I find such a woman?” Faramir asked. “Do you know of a skilled one who might be able to help my lord?”

Adiva looked troubled. ”A darwisa is hard to find,” she explained. ”They fear authority and move from place to place. Should I require one, I would discreetly let it be known. A few days later, one would either visit me or I would receive a message telling me where I might find her.”

“I do not have a few days!” Faramir cried. “My lord will die within hours if I cannot find a means of curing him!”

Tahir stroked his beard thoughtfully. ”I think I know where you might find one,” he said. “Those of our people who now dwell in Minas Tirith, frequent an inn in the first circle called ‘The Coiled Serpent’. I have heard it said that a darwisa might be found there. Understand that our women do not frequent taverns, but as my wife ventured to explain, the darwisa places herself outside the bounds of usual custom. My head groom's cousin sought help there from a woman called Zafirah when his wife failed to bear him a son, or so I heard.”

Faramir leapt to his feet. “I will summon my men and go there to find this Zafirah at once!” he cried.

“That is not the way, my friend,” said Tahir, gripping Faramir’s arm to restrain him. ”She would have vanished ere you entered the tavern. A darwisa would flee from a man of Gondor.”

“Then how shall I find the woman?” Faramir demanded desperately.

“Disguise yourself as a man of Harad,” said the ambassador. ”I will lend you some clothing. Then you can approach Zafirah by stealth.”

“Your skin could be darkened with henna,” Adiva added. “I will ask my maid to prepare some to darken your hands and face.”

Tahir clapped his hands and a servant appeared. The ambassador issued rapid instructions in his own tongue. He then turned to Faramir. “I hope you will forgive me, esteemed Prince, for clothing you as a servant, but my robes would be too noticeable in a common tavern. Aban here will help you to dress in suitable garb."

The servant led Faramir to a bedchamber, which contained a low divan and a clothes chest. From the chest, Aban took out two robes, one that reminded Faramir of a woman’s plain gown, a seamless garment with long sleeves and a piece of clothing that resembled a bathing robe, which was open at the front and wrapped round the wearer.

The servant started to undo Faramir’s clothing. The Steward shook his head. He pulled off his outer tunic, and then pulled the seamless robe over his head. He was unfamiliar with the material and could only assume it was what the Haradrim called ‘cotton’. The outer robe was of a striped, thicker material. Faramir permitted Aban to tie a sash around his waist, but shook his head at the sandals he was offered. It would take too long to colour his feet. He rolled up the legs of his breeches so that they would not show beneath the robes, which were a little short for his tall frame.

A knock came at the door and a maidservant entered, carrying a small bowl of dark liquid. “My illustrious mistress bade me colour your skin,” she said in heavily accented Westron. “If the great and noble Prince would deign to sit while I apply the tincture?”

Faramir sat on the divan, trying not to ponder the strangeness of having his face painted. Only women usually did such a thing, but whatever it took to save Aragorn, he would do, and gladly. The mixture smelt slightly of vinegar.

“My esteemed lady bade me tell you that we usually use a paste, but the liquid darkens the skin much faster,” said the woman. “Come, I will apply some to your hands now.”

She worked swiftly, though to Faramir the procedure seemed to take hours. When she was finished, she handed the Steward a mirror. He gazed in amazement at his reflection and wondered if even Éowyn would recognise him now.

The manservant escorted Faramir back to the audience chamber. Tahir was waiting for him. ”You will need a man of our people to escort you to the tavern,” the ambassador said. ”Please allow my man Aban to be your guide.” Tahir reached inside his elaborate robes and produced a piece of parchment. “Take this with you,” he said. “Should the darwisa refuse to help you, this is my order as leader of our tribe, that she must give you aid. And here a letter to tell any of my people you encounter that your mission has my approval. I will lend you one of my horses. May the Higher Powers smile on your mission!”

“Thank you, my friend, may you be showered with many blessings!” said Faramir, taking his leave. He mounted the waiting horse and with Aban riding beside him, set off at a gallop for the first circle.

When Faramir was a boy, the first circle had always seemed a somewhat menacing place, and he had often been warned against going there. Even now, it was an area that few lords would visit unless they had no other choice. Since the war, Aragorn had ordered extensive rebuilding and repairs. Even so, away from the main street, half derelict buildings remained. Most of the dwellings were shabby and crammed together. The older houses were small and built of crumbling stonework, while refugees and foreigners mostly occupied newer houses. During the day, the lower circles of the City bustled and thrived. Citizens scurried hither and thither while small shops and taverns plied their wares. The bright robes of Southrons, flaxen locks of Rohirrim, Dwarves with elaborately braided beards and fair Elves combined to create a colourful air to the streets of Minas Tirith.

It was late when Faramir and his escort set out, and dusk fell by the time they reached their destination. The first circle seemed almost deserted. Mist from the distant river shrouded the darkened streets, turning the White City into a grey and somewhat sinister place. Aban led the way through a maze of winding streets until they came to an old inn brightly lit by lamps. The sign outside proclaimed the establishment to be ”The Coiled Serpent”.

Aban hesitated at the threshold. “May I be excused from meeting the darwisa, esteemed Prince?” he asked.

“Why?” asked Faramir brusquely. The stakes were too high for hesitation.

“It is said her very gaze can render a man unable to please his wife!” Aban said whispered with a shudder.

“If I can brave her gaze, so can you!” said Faramir. ”Come, there is no time to lose!”

To Faramir’s surprise, the inn was crowded with men. Most of them were gazing at a woman who danced between the tables with sensuous, swaying steps. She wore only a filmy garment and an assortment of veils that made her appear almost to be floating. The room smelt of spices and something else, which reminded Faramir of Aragorn’s medicinal potions, though here they seemed less wholesome.

A man dressed in garishly striped robes approached and bowed low. ”Greetings, esteemed masters!” he said. ”Be welcome to my humble inn. How may we serve you? Tonight we have mutton roasted in olive leaves for our guests.”

Faramir bowed in return. “Thank you, most gracious host. We come not to eat, but to see the darwisa, Zafirah. Can she be found here tonight?”

“Indeed, esteemed master, many have come to seek her advice. Would you care to partake of refreshment while you wait?”

“I fear my errand cannot wait,” said Faramir. “Ambassador Tahir has sent me to fetch her on a mission of great importance!” He reached inside his robes and brought forth the Ambassador’s letter. The mere sight of the seal wiped the ingratiating smile from the innkeeper’s face. ”Come this way,” he said hastily.

Faramir, trailed by the reluctant Aban, was led through the main hall. On the way, he almost collided with the dancing woman; there was so little room between the tables. Faramir could hear a feminine but deep voice coming from a room at the back, command: “Take this on the night of the full moon and your wife will love you again and bear you many sons!” A moment later, a somewhat embarrassed looking man scurried from the room, clutching what looked like a small bag of herbs. The Steward groaned inwardly. Was the woman nothing better than a purveyor of so-called love potions?

Chapter Four

Three times now the owl

Has sighed from on high – Scribel/Verdi – Ulrica’s Aria

 

The Innkeeper gestured for Faramir and his escort to go inside. After bowing low again, he left them.

“Who seeks my counsel?” asked the darwisa, emerging from the shadows. Her husky voice was oddly compelling. She was a tall woman, dressed in faded scarlet robes. Her long grey hair was wild and unkempt and she was missing her front teeth. Aban shrank behind Faramir.

“You are not what you seem to be!” said the woman. She raised a large hand that looked capable of easily wielding a weapon. Her sleeve fell back to reveal a serpent tattooed on her forearm.

“I am Faramir, son of Denethor, Steward to King Elessar, esteemed Lady Zafirah,” said Faramir. “I have come to seek your aid for my lord, laid low by a poisoned blade.”

“You are a bold one, Faramir, son of Denethor,” replied Zafirah. ”Why should I aid a man who defeated my people and killed many of my own kin?”

“With respect, lady, my lord defeated your people in fair combat; combat that the Haradrim brought to our very gates,” said Faramir evenly but firmly. “Your ambassador himself commands that you aid my lord.” He handed the woman the letter.

Zafirah studied the parchment and frowned. “His order bids me to come with you on pain of death,” she said. ”It does not tell me why I should use my healing arts on a man I despise!”

“Lord Elessar is the noblest and best of men!” said Faramir fervently. “All who know him come to love him. He is as a father to me. Should he die, part of my own soul would perish with him! He has a wife who loves him and a young son who would grow up fatherless."

Zafirah suddenly grasped both of Faramir’s hands and stared into his eyes. Aban gave a cry, then turned and fled. The darwisa suddenly smiled, her gap toothed smile strangely beautiful. “I will help you, if my powers permit, Man of Gondor,” she said. ”If your lord can inspire such love, he is worth saving, if the Powers on High will it. Tell me of the poison! Do you have the weapon that caused the deadly wound?”

“I thank you, most esteemed wise woman,” said Faramir. "Our healers still have the poisoned blade. The venom is slowly paralysing my King. The woman who attacked him said he would die within twenty-four hours.”

“Akuiniama!” exclaimed Zafirah. ”A rare poison unknown to men, but the women of our people know its uses well. It is powerful magic!”

“Is there an antidote?” Faramir demanded.

Zafirah smiled again. “Of course. What use would it be to us, if we could not control the powers of life and death the plant holds!” She seized several jars from the crowded shelf behind her and wrapped them in a cloth, which she placed in an already laden large basket. ”Come, Lord Faramir, take me to your master!”

The Steward found Aban waiting outside with the horses. The man’s eyes widened in fear at the sight of Zafirah. ”Mercy, great Prince!” he cried. “This woman will place the evil eye upon us! Do not make me go near her!”

“You can lend her your horse and walk home if you prefer,” said Faramir. “Tell your Master how we have fared and that I will return his horses in the morning.”

“Thank you, noble Prince!” exclaimed Aban. He hurried away without a backward glance.

Zafirah laughed mirthlessly. ”They fear me, as I am not like them, yet they seek my wisdom,” she said.

“My lord will give you high honour if you can heal him, said Faramir, helping her mount and securing her basket to the saddle. ”He is a great healer himself.”

The Steward urged his horse into a gallop. Fortunately, Zafirah was plainly a horsewoman skilled enough to keep up with him. He kept checking to ensure that the woman was still following. Yet something in his heart told him that she could be trusted to keep her word. Whether she could heal Aragorn was another matter entirely.

Night was full upon them now. They rode swiftly through the silent streets lit by a crescent moon and the occasional lamp.

“Who goes there?” A guard loomed out of the darkness issuing the challenge. “It is late to be abroad, and do you not know that horses are forbidden beyond the sixth circle?”

“Let me pass, Sergeant. It is, I, Faramir, Steward of Gondor. My companion and I are on an urgent errand for the King!”

The Sergeant bellowed with laughter. ”You will not fool me so easily! Since when did our Steward have swarthy skin and Southron robes? You are no Man of Gondor, though you speak like one!”

Hastily Faramir dismounted and threw off his borrowed garb. ”Let me pass, man, the King’s life may depend upon it!” He reached in his pocket and slipped on a discarded ring. ”See, here is my seal of office!”

“You might be the Steward, but I don’t know, I must fetch -”

Unable to wait any longer, Faramir remounted. He gestured to Zafirah and suddenly urged his horse to a gallop, forcing the guard to jump aside. He was relieved that the next guard they encountered was a man he knew well, who stared at him, but let him pass.

When they reached the King’s apartments, everyone was still abroad despite the lateness of the hour. The servants with no duties to perform stood in groups, some talking quietly while others were weeping. Healers were bustling to and fro, their faces grave. Everyone looked up and stared at Faramir and his companion.

“How is the King?” Faramir asked a passing healer.

“Alas, my lord, he grows weaker by the hour,” said the man. “He cannot move his limbs at all. Soon the venom will reach his vital organs. Master Tarostar is about to insert a tube in his throat, in the hope it will help him breathe for a little longer The assassin died a few hours ago. But, whatever has happened to your face?”

“Henna dye,” Faramir said shortly. “I must go to the King. I require the dagger that dealt him the deadly blow.”

Grasping Zafirah’s arm tightly, Faramir hastened towards Aragorn’s room, knocked, and entered.

Aragorn lay motionless upon the huge bed in a stiff, unnatural position, his skin whiter than his nightshirt. The room smelled strongly of athelas, but the herb seemed to have no effect. Arwen sat on a chair weeping quietly, while three healers were bustling around, and a fourth was sharpening a knife. The Queen looked up as Faramir entered, her red eyes widening as she saw him and his companion.

“Estel was asking for you before he lost consciousness,” Arwen said reproachfully.

“My lady, I left him only that I might search out an antidote for what ails him,” said Faramir. "I bring Mistress Zafirah, a darwisa, who knows the secrets of deadly venoms.”

“I fear you are too late to help my Estel,” said Arwen. “He cannot swallow, and can scarcely breathe.”

Faramir hastened to the bedside and clasped Aragorn’s hand. It felt cold and lifeless much to his dismay. “Can you aid my lord?” he asked Zafirah urgently.

“It may already be too late, but I will try my best. You must all  leave. I do not share the secrets of my healing arts with outsiders,” the darwisa said sternly in her deep, husky voice.

“Certainly not!” protested Tarostar. “We must stay with our patient! He is very seriously ill!”

“Can you cure him?” asked Arwen bitterly.

“You know we cannot, my lady,” said the Warden, “But we should -”

Arwen rose to her feet and drew herself up to her full height, every inch a queen. ”Go!” she said in a voice that allowed no argument.

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

Du weisst,
wo du mich wiederfinden kannst!

(You know where you can find me again!) Parsifal Act 2. – Wagner.

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra.

“We will be outside if you need us,” Tarostar huffed.

“I shall stay with my husband,” Arwen told Zafirah in the same queenly tones.

“And I shall not leave my King,” Faramir said equally firmly.

“Very well,” said the darwisa. “But do not interfere. First I must see the dagger that caused the wound.”

Fortunately Tarostar had brought it to the sickroom, in an attempt to diagnose what the poison might be from one of Elrond’s books that Arwen had produced.

Zafirah took the blade and sniffed it. “It is indeed Akuiniama!” she said. “When was he stabbed?”

“It was about three hours before noon,” said Arwen.

“Time grows short,” declared the darwisa, glancing at Aragorn’s motionless form. “I need hot water, then strong tea, red wine, vinegar, and charcoal to make a potion.”

Arwen looked doubtful, but summoned a servant to fetch what was needed.

The darwisa rummaged in her basket and took out several packets and jars, together with a selection of sharp knives and some goblets and bowls.

Faramir called Aragorn’s name, desperately trying to rouse him. The King made no reply and hardly seemed to breathe.

The servant brought in a bowl of steaming water and placed it on a table by the bed. Arwen told her to wait outside. Zafirah approached the bed holding a sharp knife and a piece of what looked like bark in her hand. ”Bare the wound!” she demanded.

Faramir and Arwen lifted the King, unlaced his nightshirt and slid it from his shoulders, a process made difficult by the stiffness of Aragorn’s limbs. They unfastened the bloodstained bandage that covered the wound.

After washing her hands, Zafirah studied the wound critically. ”At least it has been opened, though not sufficiently,” she said. To Arwen and Faramir’s bewilderment, she circled the bed thrice, chanting in some strange tongue, then threw her arms in the air and gave a loud cry. Taking the knife, she widened the gash and inserted the bark into the wound. Aragorn remained motionless, but gave a low moan at what must have been an excruciatingly painful procedure.

The darwisa spread the bottles of ingredients she had ordered on a table, and mixed a little of each, together with some herbs she produced from a pouch she had brought. She divided the mixture between a small bowl and a large goblet. Taking the bowl to the bedside, she removed the bark from the wound and poured the mixture into the wound, before replacing the bark and demanding a clean bandage. Faramir and Arwen could only watch and hope she knew what she was doing.

Zafirah then fetched the cup. ”He needs to drink this medicine,” she explained. ”It is the antidote to the poison.”

Arwen instantly began trying to rouse her husband. As a healer’s daughter, she knew he must be conscious to drink or the mixture would choke him. “Estel, beloved!” she cried. ”Please awaken and drink what may heal you!”

But Aragorn did not stir.

Faramir tried coaxing his lord and calling his name with no better result. Zafirah strode back to the bedside and slapped the King’s face. Arwen bit back a protest. Aragorn remained silent, far away from them all. “I was told you were stronger than other Men, Elessar!” Zafirah goaded the unconscious King. “Come; awaken and show me the strength of the Men of the West!”

Faramir could have wept both at seeing his lord so ill-used. It seemed all his efforts to save his King had been in vain. Then he remembered that when he had lain close to death, Aragorn had reached him by placing a hand on his brow. Faramir himself bore high Númenorean lineage, as well as Elven blood. So did the Queen, though she held the greater share of high blood. Queen and Steward also shared a deep mental bond with the King. Maybe they could somehow reach Aragorn together? Faramir turned to Arwen and spoke softly of his idea, praying that it would bring their lord back to them.

“There is something we wish to try, unique to our people,” Faramir told Zafirah, who was now shaking Aragorn. ”We must concentrate.”

Zafirah shrugged. ”He must drink or die!” she said simply.

Arwen and Faramir each laid hands on Aragorn’s brow. Focussing all their strength of spirit upon the man they both loved, Queen and Steward silently pleaded with him to awaken. With every minute that passed, their task seemed more hopeless. Finally, Aragorn blinked and opened one eye a fraction.

“Hear me, beloved!” Arwen said urgently in Quenya. “For the love of me and our son, you must drink this potion to heal you.”

“Please, Father of my heart, do not leave me!” Faramir pleaded in the same ancient tongue.

“Will try.” Aragorn’s voice was a barely audible whisper, but he was awake.

Faramir supported the King while Arwen held the cup. The mixture looked vile, and doubtless tasted the same, but sip by laboured sip, Aragorn somehow managed to swallow it before sinking back on the bed.

Zafirah, who had stood quietly while they were trying to rouse Aragorn, began to stride around the room chanting incantations of some sort.

“He needs to digest it quickly before the venom paralyses his digestion,” Arwen said anxiously. ”My father would rub the stomachs of poison victims.” She pulled Aragorn’s nightshirt further down and started gently rubbing clockwise circles with her fingertips across his stomach. When emotion overcame her and her fingers faltered, Faramir took over the task.

Zafirah finally finished her chanting. “The Higher Powers tell me that they smile upon this strong one,” she announced. “He should live if he sweats out the venom. The fire needs making up and he should be wrapped in many blankets.”

Faramir summoned servants to bring extra blankets, and more wood for the fire. Together with Arwen, he wrapped the King in the two blankets already on the bed. The servants brought four more. Aragorn was soon sweating copiously. He groaned and struggled to move his limbs.

“The treatment is working,” the darwisa announced. ”Give him plenty of water and more of my medicine in the morning. He should make a full recovery in a few days. I would go now; I have stayed here too long.” She snatched up her basket and made for the door.

“Wait!” said Faramir. “If he does indeed recover, you shall be richly rewarded.”

“You have nothing that I want. Now let me be!” Zafirah snapped. ”You know where you can find me again,” she added in a gentler tone.

Loth to restrain her by force, Faramir reluctantly allowed her to leave.

Through the long hours of the night, Faramir and Arwen sat beside the King, mopping his brow and coaxing him to swallow water. When his sweating eased, they bathed him and changed his nightshirt and the bedding.

As dawn broke, Arwen left the room for a few minutes to see how her son fared. Faramir held more water to the King’s lips. He was overjoyed when Aragorn opened his eyes and asked weakly: “Faramir, whatever have you done to your face?”

“It is a long story,” said Faramir, his voice thick with emotion. Aragorn’s hand reached from beneath the blanket and his fingers weakly clasped Faramir’s.

Just then, Arwen returned. The sight of her husband moving his hands filled her with joy. She ran to the bedside and embraced him before bursting into tears.

“I had such dark dreams,” said Aragorn. ”I feared I was dying. Stay with me, vanimelda, ion nín, please. I am tired and so thirsty.”

“All is well, my love, rest now,” soothed the Queen, lifting a cup of water to her husband’s lips. ”We will both stay beside you.”

Faramir and Arwen both sat on the bed on either side of Aragorn. They each clasped one of his hands, delighting in their slowly strengthening grip, until he drifted into a natural sleep.

000

It was about three hours before noon when a servant tapped on the door. “Enter!” called Arwen, rising from the bed and smoothing down the dress she had donned the previous morning. Aragorn lay sleeping soundly under the covers, his chest steadily rising and falling. He moved his limbs as he turned in his sleep. He still looked pale, but had lost the ghostly pallor of the night before. On top of the covers, Faramir lay sprawled fast asleep, exhausted from his labours of the previous day. Arwen regarded him fondly. She knew that without Faramir’s determination, she would now be a widow.

The servant handed her a packet and withdrew. The Queen opened the packet, and found a lapis lazuli necklace and a note from the merchant  whom Aragorn had purchased it from the previous day. Arwen found herself shaking with emotion as she regarded the beautiful blue stones. It could so easily have been her husband’s final gift to her. Securing the gems around her neck, she went to find her son. A new day had dawned, and another twenty-four hours lay ahead.

The End

A/N A darwisa is a female shaman from North Africa

http://www.suppressedhistories.net/articles/womanshaman.html

 The poison is loosely based on Strophanthus hispidus DC. http://www.aluka.org/action/showMetadata?doi=10.5555%2FAL.AP.UPWTA.1_398

 

Healing the Healer The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story. In loving memory With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra Illness is the night-side of life, a more onerous citizenship. Everyone who is born holds dual citizenship, in the kingdom of the well and in the kingdom of the sick. Although we all prefer to use only the good passport, sooner or later each of us is obliged, at least for a spell, to identify ourselves as citizens of that other place. – Susan Sonntag Aragorn and Arwen lay sleeping peacefully, entwined in each other’s arms. Life was sweet. The kingdom was secure; their friends were all happy and in good health, while their beloved little son delighted them more each day. A sudden knock on their door disturbed their peaceful slumbers. “My lord, my lady, Prince Eldarion is unwell!” cried the voice of Eldarion’s nurse. The young prince had been moved to his own chambers recently, as his liking for awakening early had left his parents severely deprived of much needed sleep. His nursemaid slept in the same room with him. She had been given strict orders to come to the King and Queen at once, should Eldarion have need of them. Aragorn was out of bed in an instant, pulling a robe over his nightshirt and securing the sash around his waist. He was already opening the door, while Arwen was still collecting her wits. Despite her superior Elven senses, long years as a Ranger had made Aragorn quicker to react. “What is wrong with him? Speak!” Aragorn asked somewhat sharply, opening the door to reveal the anxious nurse, clutching a miserable looking Eldarion. “He feels hot, my lord, and is fretful. I think he has a fever!” the woman replied. ”I am sorry to disturb you, sire.” “You acted rightly. My concern for my son caused me to speak sharply to you. I apologise.” The King managed to smile faintly at the woman. She dipped her head. Although she had worked in the King’s Household since Eldarion was born, Aragorn’s humility and good manners never ceased to amaze her. “What ails him, Míriel? Give him to me!” Arwen had joined her husband and reached out to take her child. She cradled him lovingly in her arms. “He slept as usual after you put him to bed, my lady,” Míriel explained. ”Then he woke up crying a few minutes ago. I picked him up and he felt hot, and did not seem his usual lively self at all.” Eldarion promptly vomited all over his mother. “We will care for him now,” said Aragorn. “Will you have warm water brought to our chambers, please?” “Whatever is wrong with our son?” Arwen's composure faltered as soon as the nursemaid left the chamber. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Let me look at him while you change your nightgown,” Aragorn suggested, taking the child from her. Eldarion was burning hot to the touch. It was all too apparent that the heir to the House of Telcontar had developed a fever. Aragorn examined him carefully, but could find no cause for it. He could only assume it was a spring chill. As soon as the water arrived, Aragorn steeped athelas in it and bathed his young son. The royal couple spent the rest of the night trying to ease their fretful child. Aragorn’s healing skills and Arwen’s loving touch soon soothed the young child a little, but he continued feverish and listless throughout the next day, refusing to eat and crying if his parents left his side. Aragorn cancelled his duties for the day and sent a message to Faramir in Emyn Arnen, asking him to return at once to Minas Tirith. Meanwhile, a distraught Arwen paced the chamber with their son in her arms. “Try not to worry too much, beloved,” Aragorn advised. “All human children have fevers occasionally. Eldarion has been fortunate so far. I do not think he is seriously ill. He breathes easily and his heartbeat is strong.” “He is so little, though, Estel; I cannot bear to see him suffering!” Arwen replied. “I would gladly be ill in his stead!” “I know you would, as would I,” said the King. ”We can only try our best to ease him. If only I knew what was making him unwell!” “My poor little one, he is shivering now. A moment ago he was so hot!” Arwen fretted. “Give him to me,” said the King. ”I can keep him warm.” He loosened his shirt and tunic and placed his son under them next to his heart, where he held him until he became over hot again. By the next morning the mystery of Eldarion’s illness was solved. Aragorn bathed his little son again and found the small body covered in large red blisters. Arwen looked aghast and burst into tears. “We can rest easier now, my love,” Aragorn soothed her. ”I know what ails Eldarion. He has chickenpox, a common ailment in young mortal children, from which they soon recover. It is rarely serious, just itchy and unpleasant.” Within a few days Eldarion was almost his usual lively self again. The main task of his devoted parents was to keep him from scratching and away from other children until he ceased to be infectious. Life soon returned to normal within the royal household. *** Three weeks later, Aragorn awoke in the middle of the night feeling too hot. Deciding it was the spring weather, which as a Northerner, he still found difficult to accustom himself to, he threw off the blankets without disturbing Arwen, and went back to sleep. At daybreak, he arose and washed and dressed as usual. His head ached and the room seemed unbearably stuffy. “Are you well, beloved? You have hardly touched your breakfast!” Arwen enquired anxiously. “I am just not very hungry,” Aragorn replied, pushing the food to the side of his plate and wishing he did not feel so nauseated. ”It is just the weather. I wish it were not so warm.” ”Warm?” Arwen asked incredulously. “It is cold today, I think. Eldarion needed an extra blanket last night. Are you certain you are quite well.” “I am late for the Council Meeting,” Aragorn said abruptly, evading her question. He hurried from the room before she could press the matter further. Aragorn wondered if the Council Chamber had somehow miraculously moved, as the walk seemed especially long that morning. He felt exhausted by the time he arrived. He quickly sank down in his seat after opening the meeting. He struggled to concentrate on a debate whether or not trade tariffs to Harad should be increased. Faramir, sitting beside him, looked on in concern when his lord repeatedly mopped his brow and kept closing his eyes. “Are you well, sire?” he whispered, so softly that only Aragorn could hear. “I am well!” Aragorn bellowed angrily, making the councillors jump. “My lord?” Faramir laid a placating hand on Aragorn’s arm. Much to his alarm he felt the flesh burning hot beneath the fabric of the King’s tunic. Before Aragorn could react, the Steward had risen from his chair to address the Council. “The King is indisposed. The meeting is concluded for today. You are dismissed!” “How dare you!” Aragorn demanded as soon as the others had left. “I can see you are not well. As your Steward, it is my duty to protect my King, and more importantly, as your friend I care about your well-being,” Faramir said, unperturbed by Aragorn’s wrath. “It is no good trying to deceive me, you ought to be in bed, and I am taking you to your room now!” Aragorn opened his mouth to argue but found he lacked the strength. He slumped dejectedly in his seat. “Come, mellon nîn, can you walk?” Faramir said gently. “I can if you take my arm,” Aragorn replied, conceding defeat. Even though he leaned heavily on Faramir’s arm, it took the King twice the usual time to walk to the royal apartments. Faramir knew better than to suggest that they summon guards to carry their lord on a litter. Arwen was alarmed to see her husband back from his meeting so soon and leaning heavily on Faramir’s arm. “You are ill, Estel!” she exclaimed, as together with Faramir, she helped him to the bedchamber. “You have a fever. I will send for a healer at once.” “No, I forbid it!” Aragorn said sharply. “Am I not a healer trained by your own father? I know more than anyone from the Houses of Healing. I have caught a chill, nothing more. If you mix me some willow bark tea, I will soon recover.” “I will do as you wish,” said the Queen. “I wish you would permit me to summon Master Aedred from the Houses, though. Your symptoms remind me of Eldarion’s.” “That is impossible; he had a childhood illness!” the King retorted. “I will be well once I have rested.” “You should see the healer,” Arwen persisted. “He would know nothing I do not know already!” Aragorn snapped. “I tell you I just need rest, and the tea I asked you for!”  Chapter Two - Out, damned spot! out, I say! – Macbeth – Shakespeare Act 1 “I am concerned only with your good, Estel,” Arwen said somewhat sharply. “I know, vanimelda, but there is no cause to trouble Master Aedred,” the King said more gently. He slumped dejectedly on the bed and fumbled to unlace his boots. Tactfully, Faramir assisted him to remove them before helping him to unlace his shirt and tunic. Unprompted, Arwen brought some warm water and bathed her husband’s sweat- soaked face and neck Faramir then helped his lord finish disrobing and change into his nightshirt, knowing that for a proud and fiercely independent man such as the King, asking a servant to help him perform such tasks would be deeply humiliating. Arwen mixed the willow bark tea and held the cup to her husband’s lips. “This tastes dreadful!” Aragorn exclaimed, pulling a face. "I am not drinking it!” “I made the potion to Ada’s exact recipe,” Arwen informed him. “You said yourself you needed this to make you well, so drink!” “It always tastes nasty when you give it to me too,” Faramir commented. “You told me that willow bark is a naturally bitter substance.” Aragorn said nothing for a moment then asked, ”Could you put some honey it for me please, Arwen.” “You are acting like a child, Estel!” scolded the Queen. “He does usually add honey to my medicines,” said Faramir diplomatically. “But you are not the greatest healer in Gondor who understands full well that the most bitter herbs are often the most potent!” Arwen said somewhat sarcastically, giving her husband a commanding look. Grimacing in disgust, Aragorn drained the medicine, then glared at his wife and his Steward. “Very good, my love,” said Arwen sweetly. You should rest now.” The King groaned, settled back on his pillows and soon fell into an uneasy sleep. “I will take my leave, my lady,” said Faramir. ”After luncheon I will return to see how Aragorn fares. Should we not send for a healer as a precaution?” Arwen shook her head. “Estel is correct that he knows more than any healer in Gondor,” she replied. “They could not aid him with any remedy better than those he knows himself. My father, the greatest Healer that lives, trained him. I have enough of his knowledge to know that my husband is not seriously ill. It is just so unlike him to take a chill!” “Maybe it is because he has had many troubles and worked so hard in the past year, my lady,” Faramir replied. “He told me when the body is subjected to severe stresses, it is easy to catch minor ailments that a strong man usually avoids.” “That is what my Adar always said of Men,” Arwen agreed. ”They are so frail compared to Elves. We never suffer from such ills as this.” As Faramir returned to his own apartments he wondered what it must be like never to suffer the miseries of coughs and colds, sore throats and fevers, many of which had plagued his childhood and still at times laid him low. Sometimes Elves seemed to be very unfairly favoured over humans by the Creator. Yet the thought of living thousands upon thousands of years filled him with horror rather than envy. Life was all the more precious for being finite. The Steward ordered a meal to be brought to his rooms, but had little appetite, worrying how his friend fared. He had never seen Aragorn brought low by anything like this before. As was his custom when staying in the city, Faramir penned his daily missive to Éowyn telling her how much he loved and missed her and their daughter, and what events had transpired during the day. He concluded the letter with a warning that he would be unlikely to be able to return home the next day as he had hoped. Faramir spent most of the afternoon dealing with matters of state, a far greater workload than usual since he had to deal with the King’s duties as well as his own. Consequently, it was early evening before he was able to return to Aragorn’s rooms. The King was still sleeping. Faramir gladly agreed to sit with him, while Arwen spent some time with her son, gave Eldarion his bedtime meal and helped the little boy’s nanny put him to bed, as was her custom. Aragorn tossed feverishly in his bed muttering to himself. He awoke with a start when Faramir drew his chair nearer the bed. ”Faramir, thank the Valar it is you!” he exclaimed. “I dreamed your father was chasing me from the city with a broom and everyone was laughing!” “I have strange dreams too when I feel unwell,” Faramir soothed. He took the damp cloth Arwen had left by the bed and bathed Aragorn’s face and neck with cool water. “How do you feel?” the Steward asked. “Hot, miserable, and my head aches,” Aragorn admitted. ”Spring chills are most unpleasant.” “They are indeed,” Faramir replied. ”Would you like anything to eat?” ”No, thank you, just a drink,” Aragorn drained the cup of water Faramir poured for him, followed by a second one. ”Will you help me into the next room, so that the servants can change the bedding?” the King then asked his friend.” “Gladly,” said Faramir, as he helped Aragorn get out of bed. “Come, let me help you don your robe, mellon nîn, you must not become chilled.” “Stop fussing like a mother hen!” Aragorn said grumpily, but had the sense to do as he was bidden. An hour or so later, Aragorn was bathed, clad in a clean nightshirt and settled in fresh sheets thanks to the efforts of his wife and his Steward. “I will take my leave now; it grows late,” said Faramir, bowing and kissing Arwen’s hand, then pressing a loving filial kiss on the King’s brow. “No! Do not leave me,” pleaded Aragorn. “What if I need to get up? I may need a strong arm to lean upon! What if I fall? Arwen could not lift me.” “We do have servants,” Arwen reminded him. “There are plenty of sturdy men who could aid you. Faramir looks exhausted.” “The servants cannot see me like this or escort me to the privy!” Aragorn exclaimed. “I would be shamed!” “Of course I will stay if you wish,” said the Steward. ”But what of your wife? She will wish to go to bed, and it would be most improper if I remained in the room!” “You can have the bed in Estel’s dressing room,” Arwen suggested. “And fear not, no one could accuse you of unbecoming conduct! It would be impossible to sleep beside Estel while he is like this. I intend to sleep on the chair tonight, fully clothed.” “Surely you should take the bed, my lady,” Faramir protested. “No, Faramir, those of my kind require less rest than you do.” “But you are the Queen and a lady!” Faramir protested. “Why not take it in turns?” Aragorn said dryly. ”You are making my headache worse!” King, Queen, and Steward passed an uncomfortable night made easier only by the fact that Aragorn’s fever appeared to be abating slightly. It seemed that Aragorn was right and he had only caught a chill. The next morning Aragorn still did not feel like eating, but pronounced himself well enough to bathe himself. “I itch,” he pronounced. ”A good wash will ease me.” “I will send for some breakfast for us both,” said Arwen once her husband had disappeared unsteadily inside the bathing chamber, accepting Faramir’s arm only as far as the door. “What would you like to eat? I think I will have bread, honey and some fruit. Maybe I can coax Estel to eat a little.” “I will eat the same as you, my lady,” said Faramir. Arwen had just asked one of the maids to fetch their morning meal when the bathing chamber door opened and a rare sight emerged, Aragorn tottered out, clad only in a towel. His near naked body was covered in enormous red swellings. “Send for Master Aedred!” he demanded.” Just look at me! I am covered in itching lumps!” “I am sure you have the chickenpox,” said Arwen. ”You said it was nothing to worry about when Eldarion was marked in a similar manner!” “I cannot have a children’s ailment!” Aragorn retorted, suddenly aware of his wife’s scrutiny and hastily donning his nightshirt. At the best of times he felt he was sadly lacking in perfection compared to the Evenstar. ”There must be some strange malady spreading through the City. Surely Master Aedred will know. Have him summoned here at once! And tell the Warden not to send anyone else, I would not have Dame Ioreth see me thus!” “It looks like the chickenpox to me,” said Faramir. “I did not know you were trained in healing arts!” Aragorn retorted, as Faramir helped him climb back into bed. Arwen tried to calm her husband while Faramir despatched a servant to fetch Master Aedred from the Houses of Healing Aragorn’s itching grew steadily worse. By the time Aedred arrived, he was writhing around as if the bed were full of fleas.

Chapter Three- Physician, heal thyself - The Bible, Luke 4:23

“How may I be of service, my lord? “ Master Aedred enquired.

“It took you a long time to come!” Aragorn said grumpily.

“I was in the midst of amputating the leg of an unfortunate man who was injured when some masonry fell on him,” Aedred replied. ”Master Tarostar would have attended you, but as you specified you wished to see me rather than any available healer, I assumed the matter could not be too urgent. What ails you, my lord?”

“I am covered in itching lumps that drive me to distraction, and I have had a fever since yesterday,” Aragorn replied testily.

“Why did you not send for me yesterday then?” Aedred asked.

“Because my husband knows more about healing than any other man in Gondor, and failed to take my advice!” Arwen said sweetly.

“You are a brave man indeed, or a rash one!” said Aedred. ”I should not dare fail to follow my good lady’s wishes!” He took Aragorn’s pulse as he spoke, then felt his forehead and frowned. “I shall need to examine you thoroughly, my lord,” he said. ”If you would just unlace your nightshirt?”

The King glared at him, then gestured to a spot on his neck. “There is no need,” he said curtly.” The swellings are all like this.”

“I need to see how many there are, as well as checking your lungs are sound,” Aedred said firmly. ”Now if you please, my lord? You have nought to fear. I am a most experienced healer.”

“As am I! “ Aragorn retorted.

Arwen moved to the bedside and started to unlace her husband’s nightshirt. ”I can do that!” he protested.

“I thought it would be easier as your hands are so moist from your fever,” she replied calmly.

“I would be alone with Master Aedred!” Aragorn snapped.

Shrugging slightly and exchanging a faint smile with the healer, Arwen gestured to Faramir. Together they left the room.

Aragorn miserably and reluctantly pulled down his nightshirt, revealing the unsightly patches that disfigured his body. Secretly, he feared that this was some permanent disfigurement. Though he always disrobed in his dressing room, he hated to think of his mortal body being made even more imperfect in comparison to his beautiful, flawless wife.

“I am certain there are more now than there were but an hour ago!” Aragorn exclaimed in alarm.

“Hmm,” was Aedred’s only reply as he began to examine Aragorn’s skin.

“Argh, your hands are freezing!” Aragorn exclaimed. “Can you not warm them before touching me?”

“Usually that is only necessary with a child, or the very frail,” the healer replied placidly, pressing his ear to the King’s chest.

“Your beard is making me itch worse!” Aragorn grumbled. “ Can you not simply tell me what is wrong with me?”

“My examination will not take long if you remain quiet and still, my lord, as you well know,” said Aedred pointedly. “I assume you have spots all over your body?”

“Yes, but. I forbid you to see the others! They all look just like these.” Aragorn clutched the sheet determinedly around his waist.

”Rest easy, my lord, that will not be necessary. Hmm…”

“What do you mean, hmm?” Aragorn demanded, a hint of alarm creeping into his voice.

“I would have thought a healer of your experience would know that you had the chickenpox. You obviously have caught it from your son. I heard the young Prince suffered from it recently.”

“I cannot have such a childish ailment!” Aragorn protested. ”I am a warrior, not an infant!”

“Well, you do indeed have it,” said Aedred. “I am certain you know it can be serious in older folk, but since you are as strong as a horse and show no signs of lung fever, you have nothing to worry about. Obviously, you never had it as a child. You can replace your nightshirt now.”

“I was raised amongst Elves from the age of two,” Aragorn told him, swiftly and thankfully pulling his nightshirt back over his upper body. “When I did meet children, Elrond always ensured they were healthy. I have tended the children of my people suffering from various childhood maladies, though.”

“If they lived in airy dwellings, and you were only there a short time, you no doubt managed to avoid them. You have had much to endure recently, which weakens the body’s defences. Then you are a loving father, too. I assume you spent long hours tending your son?”

Aragorn nodded. ”Now you have told me what ails me, what can you do to cure me?” he demanded.

“Treat yourself as you treated you son. There is absolutely nothing I, nor even a healer such as yourself, can do about chickenpox, as I thought you well knew! I will call your lady back so she can hear my advice.” He went to the door and called to Arwen.

“I thought, maybe, since I last dwelled in Gondor that some manner of easing the itching might have been discovered,” said Aragorn, again writhing as if under attack from an army of fleas. ”My remedies and healing worked on my son, but they seem useless on me!”

“You hands confer special powers, my love,” said Arwen joining them at the bedside, and taking her husband’s hand. “Yet what can be done to ease my husband, Master Aedred?”

“Tepid baths and willow bark tea will reduce the fever and headaches, plenty of rest and fluids will help him too, my lady. You, my lord, can apply whatever salve you find most soothing to the sores, and above all do not scratch them! Oatmeal baths might benefit you and soothe the itching. I assure you, my lady, your husband will be fully healed in two or three weeks or so. Until then, he must be kept resting and in isolation, unless visitors have had chickenpox already. It cannot be caught twice.”

“Two or three weeks!” Aragorn protested. "I am the King, I cannot rest for two weeks!”

“Many people need three,” said the healer. “I would imagine, since the blood of Númenor runs true in your veins, that you should be better in two. You also have the good fortune in having others to care for you. Many adult victims have no one.”

“Have you no potion or salve to cure me?” Aragorn pleaded.

“I can offer nothing that you do not already have, my lord,” Aedred replied. “There is little, I fear, I can do to help, sire. Now if you will permit me, I will take my leave. I will return later to see how you fare.”

“Is there any point, since you say you can do nothing?” Aragorn said tartly.

Aedred merely gave a polite bow and left the room.

Exhausted from the encounter, Aragorn slumped back against his pillows despondently.

Arwen plumped up the pillows and smiled. ”Well, that is good news, my love!” she said.

“Good news! How can it be good news that I have chickenpox!”

“Master Aedred said you would be well again within a week or two; such tidings gladden my heart that nothing more serious ails you,” Arwen replied. “Why do you look so dismayed, Estel? You have suffered from far worse than this; hurts that have placed your life in peril.”

“They were the wounds of a warrior sustained in battle. That I should be laid low by such an undignified ailment! The shame of it! None save those closest to me must ever hear that their King was felled by a childish malady!”

“There is so shame in it,” Arwen said mildly. “The people thought no less of Eldarion; so why would they think it a disgrace for you to suffer the same malady?”

“It is not a warrior’s condition!” Aragorn said crossly.

“Very well, I will have it known abroad that you simply have a slight fever,” said Arwen, tucking the covers around her husband more snugly. “Faramir, you can return now!” she called to the Steward who was still in the next room. “I need to go to Eldarion, so I will leave him to sit with you.”

“Must you leave, vanimelda?” Aragorn pleaded.

“Our son has need of me too,” Arwen replied firmly.

Faramir hurried back into the chamber. “Does Master Aedred know what ails you?” he asked anxiously, his features tense and drawn.

“He has caught chickenpox from Eldarion,” said Arwen on her way out of the doorway.

“Praise the Valar it is nothing worse!” Faramir’s features relaxed.

A sudden thought struck Aragorn. “Have you suffered from it, mellon nîn?” he enquired.” I would not have you become ill! I would be lonely too, if I were forced to send you from my side.”

“I had it when I was a small child,” said Faramir. “I caught it from Boromir. I remember it mainly affected my feet, but poor Boromir said it made him itch in his most intimate regions.”

Aragorn’s flush was barely noticeable under the cover of his fever and the increasingly all-pervading rash.

“We did not mind having it too much, though,” the Steward continued. ”It meant we were excused lessons for three weeks to avoid infecting our tutors, which was most enjoyable. Once we were well enough, we were able to play outside in mother’s secluded garden where we were usually forbidden.”

“I cannot spend weeks playing in the garden!” Aragorn replied testily.

“You work too hard; once you feel better, you will enjoy the rest, “ Faramir said cheerfully. “I had better fetch some paperwork to deal with while I sit with you, as I have the country to run while you are indisposed.”

“I want someone to keep me company and talk to me,” Aragorn said mournfully.

“I will just ask my secretary to bring me the papers on my desk. I will still be able to talk to you while I work. Maybe you can help me with the trade negotiations I am working on”

“My head aches,” said the King without enthusiasm.

“My work can wait until later then.” Faramir wetted a cloth in the basin of water by the bedside and gently placed it on Aragorn’s brow. ”There, is that more comfortable?”

“A little,” Aragorn conceded. “I will rest now. Perhaps you would read to me?”

“What would you like me to read?” Faramir enquired. He went over to the shelf of books the King kept in his bedchamber and perused the titles. “The Lay of Lúthien?”

“I know that by heart.”

“The Tragedy of the Children of Húrin”

“That is too sad a story!”

“Tales of the Great Battles, then?”

“The thought of all that clashing steel would make my headache worse!”

“The History of the Stewards of Gondor?” Faramir was becoming desperate.

“Now that would send me to sleep,” Aragorn said dryly.

“It sounds perfect then!” Faramir picked up the book and began to read, hoping that Aragorn would soon fall into a doze. Instead, the King gave a running commentary on the deeds of the Steward’s forefathers. According to Aragorn, Mardil should never have allowed Eärnur to go and challenge the Witch-king; Cirion should not have ceded territory to Rohan permanently, while Pelendur should have awarded the crown to Arvedui; in which case Aragorn would have been able to wed Arwen in his twentieth year.

“You would never have met me at all, were that the case! You would have been in Gondor or Annuminas while I dwelled in Imladris.” said the Queen, coming back into the room unnoticed by both men. “That is your fever talking!” She placed a cool hand on his brow. “It is time you drank some more willow bark tea. I will mix it for you, and sit with you for a while. I am sure Faramir has duties to attend to.”

“I have indeed, my lady,” said Faramir, grateful for the respite. His diplomatic skills were being stretched to their limits.

“Return soon, “ said Aragorn fretfully. “I might have need of you!”

“I will, you have my word.” Faramir made good his escape before the King could command him to stay. He was hungry; his throat felt like parchment, and his own head was beginning to ache.

Much to the relief of both Queen and Steward, Aragorn slept for most of the remainder of the day, waking only to take water and tea made of medicinal herbs.

Now that Aragorn was able to get out of bed unaided, Faramir was able to retire to his own rooms for the night, but overwork and concern for the King made his sleep fitful and much troubled by dreams.

Chapter Four - The Last Straw

But such is life, the silliest proverbs prove to be true, and when a man thinks, now it’s all right, it’s not all right by a long shot. Man proposes, God disposes, and there’s always that last straw to break the camel’s back. - Alfred Döblin (1878–1957)

The next morning when Faramir returned to his friend and lord’s rooms feeling barely refreshed, he found the Queen was laying out the chessmen on the board in the bedroom.

Aragorn's gaze brightened when he beheld Faramir. “Oh, there you are, Faramir; you have been gone a long time!” he said.

“I was just suggesting that a game of chess might amuse Estel,” Arwen explained.

“I do not want to play,” Aragorn protested. “My head aches too much, and I itch everywhere! Faramir, you could play chess with Arwen? I shall watch you both. You should be a fair match for her, though you lack my experience.”

“Very well,” Faramir conceded without a great deal of enthusiasm.

The Steward took his place at the chessboard opposite the Queen somewhat apprehensively. He was a good player, and a fairly even opponent to the King, but the idea of playing someone of Arwen’s age and experience was a trifle daunting. He was not a vain man, but hoped he could at least entertain his lord and not look foolish.

The two sat facing each other, Faramir having drawn lots to start.

“Hurry up,” said Aragorn, scratching at a blister on his face.

“Stop scratching, Estel!” Arwen chided.

Faramir began rather nervously and quickly lost two pawns.

“Be careful or you will lose your knight!” Aragorn cautioned as the Steward made to move another piece. “Watch your queen too! Move the rook into play!”

Faramir did as he was bidden and waited for Arwen to make her move.

“No, use a pawn and protect the king, “Aragorn told his wife. Humouring him, she followed his instructions and promptly lost the piece to the Steward. Faramir, eager to press his advantage, was about to bring his queen into play when Aragorn interrupted. “No, play the knight instead!” he instructed.

Faramir did so and was immediately captured by Arwen’s queen.

Now, much more alert, Aragorn was sitting up in bed watching the game intently.

Arwen moved to attack Faramir’s king. “Take the other knight with the king’s pawn!” Aragorn instructed her. “Then in two moves you will have check.”

“Am I playing this game or are you?” The usually placid Queen finally let her annoyance show.

“You are, my dear,” Aragorn said meekly. ”Now Faramir, move the rook in front of your queen!”

Faramir took a deep breath. “Why do you not play instead? You seem a little better now," the Steward suggested desperately. "We can move the game on to the bed. Alas, I have just remembered that I have a meeting with some trade representatives from Dale."

"Cannot one of your secretaries negotiate the deal in your stead with them?" Aragorn looked far from happy.

"I fear not, capable though my staff are," said Faramir, ignoring a pleading look from the Queen. "If neither King nor Steward attend the meeting, rumours will spread that you must be seriously ill."

"Very well then, but return soon," Aragorn conceded.

As soon as he left the sickroom, Faramir took a deep breath and clenched and unclenched his fists. Patience was a habit both inborn and schooled; he was a patient and mild mannered man, but he had felt like hurling the chessboard across the room. Aragorn was a wonderful healer, but a truly dreadful patient. Truth to tell, the meeting was not due to start for another two hours, but it had served as an excuse to escape the sickroom. He returned to his chambers and busied himself with the neglected paperwork of the past days.

Never before had a meeting seemed so enjoyable to the Steward. The sometimes heated negotiations over tariffs on imported crockery seemed blissfully peaceful after trying to entertain the ailing King. He only concluded the meeting after three hours had passed, and the visitors were starting to stifle their yawns.

Feeling like a schoolboy playing truant, Faramir took a short walk in the gardens before returning to the King's apartments. Arwen came out of the bedroom to meet him, her finger raised to her lips. "The Valar be praised! Estel is sleeping," she said, leading the Steward into the sitting room. "Would you sit with Estel, while I spend some time with Eldarion? I should like to get some fresh air with him before giving him his lunch."

"Of course, my lady," said Faramir, wondering when he would be able to eat his own meal. If he ordered it to be sent to the bedroom, Aragorn would most likely complain that sight of food made him nauseous.

Arwen sighed. "I shall be very glad when Estel is back on his feet," she said. "I fear grown men differ very little from small boys when they are unwell!"

"That is true, my lady," said Faramir. "Tell me, though, do Elves fare any better?"

Arwen laughed. "If anything, they are worse, but unlike Men, they do not succumb to infectious illnesses. I recall when Glorfindel was confined to bed with a severe wound my father was driven to distraction!"

Faramir went into the bedroom and settled on a chair. The King lay in the centre of the vast bed, snoring loudly.

The Steward felt his own eyelids growing heavy after his disturbed night. Faramir shook himself. It would not do to fall asleep. There was a small writing desk in the corner with quill and ink. The Steward decided he might as well prepare some notes concerning the next Council meeting. Taking up the pen, he started to write and was soon engrossed in his task.

"You woke me up! The scratching of the pen is making my head ache!" Aragorn said accusingly, raising his head from the pillow.

"I am sorry, but I do have a kingdom to run in your name while you are unwell!" Faramir retorted, unable to conceal the irritation in his voice. "I will go elsewhere if you prefer!"

"Go then!" Aragorn said crossly. "Maybe I can get some rest without either you or my wife hovering!"

Deeply hurt, Faramir gathered up the papers and left the room. Mindful though of his promise to the Queen, he went no further than the sitting room. He tried to resume his work, but could not concentrate. When Arwen returned, he would tell her to ask one of the healers to assist her in looking after her husband. He would leave the ungrateful Aragorn to his own devices.

"Faramir!"

The Steward was tempted to ignore the call from the next room. Aragorn had everything he needed at hand and could get out of bed if necessary.

"Faramir! Are you there, mellon nîn? Do not leave me!" Aragorn's voice was pleading. Faramir wavered. A loud crash, followed by a cry, came from the bedroom. Faramir immediately ran back inside. At the doorway, his eyes swept the room, noting a glass lay shattered on the floor.

"I am sorry, mellon nîn. The glass fell when I reached for it. I seem to be causing a good deal of trouble," Aragorn said miserably. His face was now almost completely covered with livid red spots, and he looked on the verge of tears. Faramir felt a sudden surge of compassion for him. It could not be easy for a man like Aragorn Elessar, who had spent most of his life fighting the forces of the Dark Lord to be brought low by a common condition most usually suffered by small children! Nor could it be pleasant for a great healer to be unable to heal himself. Faramir then recalled the times he had been ill and Aragorn had patiently cared for him. He had not been the easiest of invalids to deal with either. Faramir inwardly chided himself for judging a sick man too harshly.

"It is nothing, just a broken glass," said Faramir, making to pick up the pieces.

"I am sorry too for what I said earlier," said Aragorn. "I did not mean my harsh words. I am truly blessed that you and Arwen are willing to stay by my side. It is just so frustrating to be confined thus to bed!"

"I know," said Faramir understandingly, placing a comforting arm around Aragorn's shoulders. "This will pass soon. I should not have lost my temper either. Let me get you some more water. Do you wish for anything to eat?"

"I am not hungry, though I suppose I should try to eat. I would imagine you must be ravenous, given the lateness of the hour," Aragorn replied, squeezing Faramir's hand gratefully with his own spot-covered one.

When the Queen returned she found Faramir devouring a large plate of stew, while Aragorn sipped a mug of tea, and nibbled at a poached egg on toast. If the Queen were surprised at Aragorn's sudden improvement in temper, she did not say.

***

The days passed slowly, but with each sunrise Aragorn's spots faded and his strength slowly returned. Arwen stayed beside her husband, often with Eldarion, when the little boy could be persuaded to play quietly with his toys. Every moment that he could be spared from his duties, Faramir spent with his lord, telling him how the day's business had gone and asking his opinions.

At last the day arrived when Aragorn's blisters had all healed over.

"You are no longer infectious, sire," pronounced Master Aedred, knowing full well he was not telling the King anything Aragorn did not already know. “You may resume your duties so long as you do not overtax yourself."

"I may have had chickenpox, but I was still King of Gondor these past days,” said Aragorn dryly. "Thank you, Master Aedred. I hope we shall not meet again under these circumstances! I prefer to work beside you."

"Indeed, my lord," said the healer. ”So do I.”

"We healers have by far the easier task," said Aragorn thoughtfully, examining the hands on which the spots were almost faded "Being a patient is far harder.”

The End

It was a dark and stormy night; the rain fell in torrents, except at occasional intervals, when it was checked by a violent gust of wind – Paul Clifford - Edward Bulwer Lytton Disclaimer: These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain. With grateful thanks to Deandra. Warning - This story mentions sexual matters, though not in an explicit manner. Rating PG13 The rain fell in sheets, so heavy that even the two mighty warhorses flinched when it stung their flesh. Lightning streaked across the sky while thunder boomed overhead. The two cloaked and hooded riders could hardly see where they were going in such conditions. Suddenly, the lights of an inn loomed out of the darkness. One of the men reined his horse to a halt. ”I think we had better seek shelter here for the night,” he told his companion. “Much as I had hoped we would be at home with our wives and children ere sundown, this weather is against us.” The other nodded his agreement. The two had spent several enjoyable days in the wild, reliving their time as Rangers, catching their own food, telling tales by the campfire and sleeping side by side under the stars. Now they were eager for the joys of hearth and home, but after several fine, clear days, a fierce storm had suddenly broken overhead. The older man dismounted and opened the door and called out to the innkeeper. “Do you have a room for the two of us this night? The inclement weather has forced us to break our journey.” “Indeed I do, masters, come within,” said the man, giving them a conspiratorial look. He looked to be in his middle years and was well dressed for the keeper of a small tavern. ”What names shall I call you by?” “I am Beren, and this is my son, Dior,” replied the traveller. “Your every wish is my command, Masters Beren and Dior!” The man gave them a knowing wink as if travellers with such unlikely names frequented his premises on a regular basis. “I trust you can afford to pay?” “We have sufficient coin,” said the one who called himself Beren. “I will see the horses are cared for,” said ‘Dior’, unwilling to entrust the faithful beasts to a stranger to rub down and feed. ‘Beren’ took their packs from the horses and followed the innkeeper inside. The surroundings were far from inviting. Several men sat round a table in front of a small fire staring into their mugs of ale. They were surprisingly well dressed for patrons of a country inn. They wore their hoods concealing their faces and spoke neither to the stranger nor to each other. ‘Beren’ thought longingly of some of the better taverns he had visited during his travels also under assumed names. It seemed he was destined rarely be able to use his own without causing a commotion he preferred to avoid. The atmosphere at this inn was far from convivial, but on a night like this, any shelter would have to suffice. They would avoid their unfriendly fellow patrons by asking that a meal to be sent to their room and leave this place at first light. The former Ranger was shown to a room with an unexpectedly large bed for a small inn. Two robes were spread across the bed. The rest of the furniture comprised a table and two worn looking chairs. A low fire burned in the grate. “Will you have hot water sent up for us to wash in?” he requested. “Certainly, master,” said the man. ”Is that all?” “Yes, for now.” As soon as the man had gone, ‘Beren’ rummaged in their packs and drew out a mercifully dry change of underwear for each of them together with their towels. He laid the fresh clothing across the bed, hoping fervently the blankets were not infested with fleas. He nodded his thanks to the subdued looking girl who brought the water, noting idly she appeared to originate from Rohan. As soon as she had gone, he secured the door. Thankfully, he peeled off his sodden garments, laying them by the fire to dry, splashed warm water over his goose pimpled flesh, and towelled himself dry. He donned his dry shirt and drawers, then after a moment’s hesitation, drew the robe around himself. It looked far from clean, but it was better than spending the evening wrapped in a blanket. He was just tying the sash around his waist when ‘Dior’ returned. “There was no one to help care for the horses,” said the younger man, his teeth chattering as he spoke. He walked over to the meagre fire and chafed his hands in front of it. ”I have rubbed them down well and given them some hay. I do not like this place. It has a strange feel to it.” “We will keep our swords to hand and leave at first light,“ said ‘Beren’. “Now change out of those wet clothes! You look frozen and soaked to the skin!” “I am,” said ‘Dior’, peeling off his sodden cloak, closely followed by his tunic and shirt. He shivered as his hands fumbled to unfasten his belt.” ‘Beren’ brushed his hand across the other’s shoulder. ”You are freezing, ion nín!” he exclaimed. “I will go and see if they will prepare some hot drinks and soup for us, and send up more wood for the fire.” He snatched a blanket from the bed and put it by the fire to warm. ”Wrap this around you once you have changed into dry clothing.” “Thank you,” said ‘Dior’. “A plague upon this weather! I hoped to be beside my lady tonight, and be able to tell my little one a bedtime story ere we retired.” “We will be with our beloved ladies and children tomorrow,” said the older man. “I will return soon.” He belted his sword around his waist before leaving the room. ‘Dior’ swiftly shed the remainder of his garments and vigorously dried his damp body and sodden hair. The water was already almost cold, so he simply washed his hands and face before donning his clean underwear and the remaining robe. He was still cold, so he settled himself on a chair by the fire, the blanket draped around his shoulders. It was not long before he began to feel drowsy, and he hoped his companion would hurry with the hot soup so they could eat and climb into bed. A knock on the door roused him. He was surprised when a timid female voice begged admission. Unfastening the door, ‘Dior’ was surprised to find a pretty girl, whose dark skin and hair proclaimed her to be a native of Harad or Rhûn. “I have come to see what master requires,” she said in heavily accented Westron. “I am rather cold,” said ‘Dior’. ”Maybe more fuel for the fire?” “I can make master warm,” said the girl. Her tone was seductive, but her eyes held an expression of abject misery. “I do not know what you mean!” he replied. “I know many ways to please, master,” said the girl. To the man’s horror, she slid her gown from her shoulders and started to unfasten the sash that secured his robe. “There is no need for shyness, master,” she said, obviously puzzled that the object of her attentions was wearing his linens beneath the garment. ”I teach you new delights of love!” “Stop that at once!” ‘Dior’ said sharply, averting his eyes from her shapely curves and securing the sash tightly around his waist again. “I have a beloved wife I am true to. You should be ashamed of yourself!” “Master downstairs says I must please you,” said the girl. “You share pleasures with me that nice wife no like! If girl with dark skin no please you, my friends, Frieda and Hilde, they pretty and fair. You choose one of us, your friend the other.” She gestured towards the bed. ”You see, bed plenty big enough!” Appalled, ‘Dior’ grabbed her arms and yanked her gown back in place. ”What do you take us for?” he demanded. “We do not demean ourselves by consorting with women of low morals, neither would we betray our wives!" To his surprise, the girl burst into tears. ‘Dior’ sensed the tears were genuine and blessed his ability to read human hearts. ”I no slut!” the girl protested. “I come here when I promised good job as maid, but innkeeper say I must please gentleman customers.” “Why do you not go home?” ‘Dior’ asked, gesturing for the girl to sit down. “Innkeeper says he will tell soldiers we girls Harad spies if we try to leave,” said the girl. ”He tell Frieda and Hilde bad things happen to them, too!” ‘Dior’ had heard enough. It was time to cast aside his disguise. Utterly outraged that any Man of Gondor should so abuse women under his protection, he snatched up his sword, which lay propped in a corner of the room. ”Stay there!” he told the girl. Hastening downstairs, he espied the innkeeper talking to a man in the corner of the room. Drawing his sword, he confronted him. ”I arrest you in the name of the King!” he said sternly, his grey eyes alight with fury. “Are you mad? Whatever for?” the innkeeper blustered, though he looked afraid. The men sitting at the table fled out into the stormy night, trying to cover their faces as they ran. “For corrupting and enslaving young women, and running a bawdy house!” said his captor. The innkeeper laughed nervously. ”I’m simply giving men what they want,” he said. “They come here from miles around! As for the girls, they are nothing but whores!” ‘Dior’ gazed at him for a moment, cold fury in his eyes. ”These girls were innocents, seeking honest employment. You made them into what they have become!” He slapped him across the face. The innkeeper yelped in pain, and then looked away, unable to endure his gaze. “Whatever is happening?” ‘Beren’ emerged from the back room. “This fool hit me! He claims he can arrest me in the name of the King!” said the innkeeper, regaining his composure. “And what makes you think he cannot?” ‘Beren’s’ tone was chilling. “He is the Steward of Gondor, while I am the King!” He drew himself to his full height, revealing a hitherto concealed majesty, despite his less than regal attire. With one swift motion he unsheathed Andúril. ”Behold the sword of the King!” he cried. Terrified and white faced, the innkeeper fell to his knees at the sight of the legendary Flame of the West. ”Mercy, my lords, mercy!” he cried. “That is for the court to decide,” said Aragorn. ”We will take you with us when we depart on the morrow and you shall be brought to trial.” King and Steward swiftly bound the man and locked him in the cellar. *** “The Valar must have led us here tonight,” said Faramir, spooning some rather tasteless soup in his mouth a little while later. They had searched the establishment and locked the servants in the cellar with their master, and sent the girls to their rooms, reassuring them that they were safe now. “I have never seen you so angry before, ion nín,” Aragorn remarked, grimacing over his own watery soup. “A Man should protect women, not enslave them and put them to shame!” said Faramir vehemently. “I shall punish the innkeeper, or should I say slave trader, with the full weight of the law,” promised Aragorn grimly. “What kept you so long downstairs?” Faramir enquired. “It seemed that, as this establishment is not what we assumed it to be, they were taken aback when I asked for soup and hot drinks!” said the King. ”It took all my powers of persuasion to get the fair haired girl to make some. I should have suspected something was very wrong. I simply assumed she was lazy, poor girl. After the trial, I will see the girls are either given sufficient money to travel home or found honest employment in Minas Tirith. Dame Ioreth can examine them to see if what they suffered has left them with any injuries. Alas, the mental scars may never heal” “I am not an angry man, but some matters are worthy of fury,” said Faramir. Aragorn nodded his agreement. The two friends stared thoughtfully into the fire. “It shames me to find such an establishment in my kingdom!” Aragorn said bitterly. “I have several times closed down taverns where the wenches were willing to offer more than refreshment in exchange for sufficient coin, but this place is infinitely worst! I shall send men throughout the land to inspect remote country establishments to ensure no other young women are abused in my kingdom, and make it known should any of my soldiers frequent such places, they will be dismissed immediately.” “How could we have been so blind as to not notice what this place was?” Faramir mused, finishing the last of his soup. “I know we are neither of us familiar with such establishments, but surely...? “We were drenched, exhausted and our heads filled with thoughts of hearth and home,” said Aragorn. “We will know better in future.” He yawned. ”Come, let us rest. We shall leave at dawn and deliver this so called innkeeper to prison where he belongs. I will send guards to collect his accomplices and escort the girls to the Houses of Healing.” “Then we shall see our beloved ladies,” said Faramir, checking the door was secured before rather reluctantly getting into the bed. “Whatever will they say about where we have spent the night?” “That we cannot be trusted not to get into trouble when their backs are turned!” Aragorn said wryly, joining Faramir, and leaning back against the lumpy pillow. His anger purged like the elements of their fury; Faramir soon fell into a contented, dreamless sleep huddled for warmth beside the man he regarded as both father and king The moon rose overhead illuminating the sleepers’ noble features through a crack in the shutters. All was silent save for Aragorn’s snoring. The End

  A/N This story was originally written in response to a birthday prompt for my friend Raksha who wanted a story about angry Faramir. I then revised it for the Teitho “Disguises” challenge.

 
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