Do you be afraid, for I have redeemed you.

I have called you by your name: you are mine.

You are mine, O child: I am your Father,

And I love you with a perfect love. – Kevin Mayhew based on Isaiah 43

With grateful thanks to Raksha for all her help.

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

One of the angry farmers viciously lashed out at Faramir, brandishing a cudgel.

“Leave him alone!” Aragorn protested fiercely, throwing himself in front of his Steward.

“The pair of you deserve a good thrashing for what you’ve done to my crops!” another of the men, who appeared to be the oldest and the headman among them, retorted. “Don’t you know that the King’s edicts protects crops from the likes of you? You are a disgrace trampling over an honest man’s livelihood and your friend is offending public decency!”

The two women in the group tittered and came forward, as if eager for a closer look.

“The wretch should be ashamed of himself, letting our womenfolk see him thus!” raged the headman, ignoring the fact that the ladies seemed interested rather than outraged at the spectacle in their midst. “Who are you?” he demanded.

Aragorn thoughts raced. They were in a great deal of trouble, but at least these country-folk had no idea of who they were. He dared not reveal their true identities, especially for Faramir’s sake. The Steward had been publicly reviled as a suspected traitor not so long ago and no doubt malicious tongues were still wagging. The perception of Faramir as a drunken, destructive sot could further damage his reputation. As if that were not enough of a problem, Faramir was keenly conscious of the dignity of his position as Steward and Prince. The public knowledge that he had been caught running naked through a cornfield would shame him beyond measure. “I am Morrandir and this is my son, Falborn,“ he replied. “My son is ill and needs my care. I rode after him because his fever has temporarily addled his wits and he ran away from me.”

“Drunk, more like!” the irate farmer snorted. “You both shall be placed in the pillories and taught the lesson you richly deserve! Do you know how long it takes to grow a good crop such as this? The rain only just came in time to save it and now it is trampled!”

“A good idea!” exclaimed one of the woman, “Put him in the pillory as he is and let us get a good look at him!” Her companion nodded her enthusiastic agreement. “I have plenty of rotten fruit I can throw at the pair of them!”

“Well spoken!” said the farmer, moving forward to grab hold of Faramir.

“No one touches my son!” Aragorn said fiercely, throwing a protecting arm around the helpless Faramirand positioning himself in front of him. “He needs rest and care.” He continued firmly,” It could kill him to punish him as you suggest!” He swiftly debated possible tactics. These men would have fought in the War, but would be no match for him as a warrior even in a fistfight. Still, they had strength of number. But he had Roheryn, a trained warhorse who answered to him alone, and would menace, or trample, anyone who threatened him.

The notion of attacking the angered farmers or allowing Roheryn to hurt them was abhorrent to Aragorn. These people were his subjects, their lives under his protection. He had no right to risk harming them when they sought only to protect their livelihood and insist on the upholding of his own laws. Yet he could not permit them to harm Faramir whatever the cost to himself.

The men had stopped in their tracks, obviously impressed by the authority in his voice, for Aragorn had used the voice of Chieftain and King. He knew that his stance would only delay them for a moment, until the more hotheaded farmers decided to challenge that authority. Now was the time to placate, give the temper of these gathered men a release other than himself, and most importantly, Faramir.

“I will work to repair your crops and help you harvest them as soon as my son has recovered sufficiently for me to leave him unattended,” Aragorn announced with a sudden flash of inspiration. “You have my word that we will not try to evade our debt to you. And we shall pay for the damage.” He reached into the purse on his belt and from it offered a handful of coins to the enraged man.

The farmers muttered amongst themselves, unsure of what to make of this offer.

Aragorn pulled the blanket more tightly around Faramir and tried to comfort him. The younger man still moaned between retches and attempts to claw at his face and neck. He was a pitiful sight to behold.

“Very well,” said the headman at last, either moved by the obvious misery and devotion of the pair or tempted by the coins. “ We are short of men since the war and I’ve just lost two of my strongest fellows. They dropped dead suddenly while they working, so we'd welcome more hands along with the coin. Be certain, though that if you fail to honour your bargain I’ll have you reported to the King in the Citadel! Where do you come from, though?”

”My son and I dwell in the City. We are soldiers currently on leave,” Aragorn replied, “We are on a hunting trip together and our campsite is at the far edge of your field by the woods. My son took ill and wandered off while I was sleeping.” The King deemed it best not to mention the spider for fear of frightening these simple people.

“Be off with you then until your son is sober,” the farmer replied, “ I expect you to come to work within the next few days or it will be the worst for you. Get out of my field now and be careful not cause any more damage!”

Aragorn whistled for Roheryn to follow, the horse having no rein to be led by. He half dragged, half carried Faramir from the scene, struggling with him all the while to keep the blanket decently draped around his body. He collected up the Steward’s remaining garments as he came across them.

Barely coherent now, Faramir muttered about creatures crawling on his skin. He was obviously delirious. Aragorn dared not examine him until they reached the safety of their campsite and he was certain that Faramir could not escape again.

As soon as they reached the campsite, Aragorn relaxed his iron grip. Faramir slumped down on the ground, flung aside the blanket and promptly started retching again. Aragorn knelt beside him and rubbed his back until the retching ceased. A hand on his friend’s forehead confirmed what he had suspected; the Steward was running a fever. Faramir was drenched in cold sweat, which was most likely the cause of his belief that something was crawling over him.

“Come get dressed now!” Aragorn coaxed, holding out Faramir’s drawers. “You cannot sit here in nothing but your skin! You will catch cold. Come put your legs in!”

“Evil things, Morgoth-spawn, crawling on me, no, no coverings, t'would bind the creatures to me!” Faramir protested, pushing the garment aside. He lashed out wildly, trying to swat some imagined creature, and caught Aragorn a glancing blow on the cheek.

Aragorn grasped his wrists, seeking desperately for some way of soothing and settling Faramir before either of them met with further misadventures. Abandoning his efforts to make Faramir dress for the time being, he decided to try to ease his fears.

Luckily, he had a pan of water already filled in addition to the contents of their water bottles. Keeping a cautious eye on Faramir, Aragorn placed the pan on the fire to heat and threw more wood into the flames.

“I will wash away whatever it is that troubles you,” he said gently. “Just put this covering over you.” He draped the blanket round the fevered man, thinking this was a somewhat disconcerting experience for them both as Faramir usually hated being less than fully clothed. During his long years as a Healer, he had always tried to respect the patient’s dignity.

Faramir immediately threw the blanket aside and cried out, “ I must not hide my disgrace!”

“There is no disgrace, Faramir,” the King said gently. ”Put this round you. You will feel better once you are warmer.”

“No!” Faramir protested, lashing out again. “Who are you? Release me! No more secrets, no more deceit. Look upon me and know my crime. I am an accursed traitor...Spurned by my father...Justly spurned by him I loved as father...I laid violent hands upon my liege lord! I brought shame upon my wife! Thrice a disgrace! I must walk naked and shamed before all the world!”

Aragorn was seriously alarmed by these uncharacteristic ravings from his modest and gentle natured Steward. He moved behind Faramir to re-examine the spider bite. The small circular red mark between Faramir's shoulder blades had now grown to quite alarming proportions and was hot to the touch. The circle now resembled an archery target, having a purplish blue centre and white outer ring, and was the obvious cause of Faramir’s fever and resultant deranged behaviour. The foul wound needed lancing and a poultice application to drain away the poisons.

Faramir started retching again, this time, a painful dry heaving. It was apparent that he had nothing left in his stomach. Aragorn rubbed his back again until Faramir collapsed, exhausted, in a pitiful heap of sprawled limbs.

Keeping one eye on the distressed Steward, Aragorn rummaged through his healing supplies and retrieved a small, sharp, knife, which he held in the flame of the fire to cleanse it.

Just at that moment, Faramir looked up again. Aragorn expected him to panic at the sight of the blade. Instead he said quietly. ”I must atone for my crimes, though I should die the hand of him I maimed. But it hurts, everywhere, it hurts!”

“No, Faramir, no,” Aragorn’s heart was breaking at his friend’s pain.” I am going to help you. I just want you to keep still.”

Securing Faramir with one hand, Aragorn used the other to swiftly make two small incisions that would drain the bite. Faramir hardly seemed aware of what he was doing and only flinched slightly. Almost immediately, evil looking pus started to pour from the wound.

Aragorn decided to apply a poultice to help drain the poisons. He grabbed a few leaves of the plantain that grew around the campsite. Then he tipped out the contents of his pack. To Aragorn's delight, he found a few somewhat wilted cabbage leaves amongst the food supplies they had brought. He chopped and crushed the leaves with the plantain, boiled some water and mixed all together in a poultice. After washing the bite with cold water, he pressed the mixture against Faramir's inflamed skin. Finally, he covered the poulticed wound with a piece of clean bandage. The Steward lay huddled on the blanket, muttering and retching intermittently. Mercifully, he now seemed too worn out to fight any further.

Aragorn heated more water. This time he crumbled a leaf of athelas into the bowl. Gently coaxing Faramir into a sitting position, he began to bathe Faramir with the mixture. The scent seemed to calm the distressed Steward, allowing Aragorn to examine him thoroughly. He was grateful for the bright moonlight, which, combined with the fire, provided sufficient illumination.

Aragorn carefully checked Faramir for any sign of insects crawling or merely present on his body, as well as other bites, but found none. The Steward was soaked in cold sweat and had acquired a variety of small cuts and scratches. Fragments of straw and dirt clung to his body; and his heart raced wildly.

Now Faramir shivered as he looked at Aragorn with a confused expression. His skin felt increasingly cold to the touch, increasing the necessity that he be swiftly clothed and warmed swiftly.

Faramir allowed himself to be bathed and dried without protest. He sat quietly, while Aragorn applied salve to his cuts and scratches.

But when Aragorn tried again to coax him to don his clothes, Faramir reverted to violent behaviour. He fought to push Aragorn away, struggling and even repeatedly striking the King. Faramir was still utterly convinced that his clothes concealed some crawling creatures, and was determined not to wear the garments.

Aragorn could only hope that his Steward would remember nothing of this time when he eventually regained his senses. Usually it took considerable persuasion to motivate Faramir to shed as much as his shirt to allow his hurts to be tended, rather than needing coaxing to be covered.

At last, Aragorn felt he could delay no longer clothing him, for the Steward was becoming more chilled. He lightly brushed his eyelids. Faramir immediately went limp, collapsing back on the bedroll. He slept through the power of Aragorn’s will, but continued to moan and shiver violently.

Aragorn finally was able to get Faramir clothed against the cold, pulling drawers, socks, breeches and shirt onto to sick man's sleeping body. He was too exhausted to struggle with the tunic, or tie any laces. Faramir was now clothed decently enough to avoid offending any other country-folk they might encounter.

Aragorn felt his own eyelids grow exceedingly heavy. Unable to stay alert any longer, he spread out his bedroll beside that of Faramir, discarded his outer tunic, and settled down beside him. Although his friend should sleep for hours, Aragorn would take no further chances of Faramir's awakening and getting into further trouble. He untied one of the leather thongs he used to keep his hair out of his eyes, and then bound one end around his own wrist and the other around Faramir’s wrist. He would immediately be alerted should Faramir awaken and struggle to escape.

He drew the shivering man close, trying desperately to warm him with his own body. However, the cold sweat still poured from Faramir’s body and soaked through the King’s shirt. The Steward continued to toss restlessly. Aragorn murmured soothingly to him and guided his head against his shoulder. Faramir sighed, and then finally relaxed, much to his King’s relief. Aragorn hated to see the one he loved as a son in such distress. He knew that Faramir's symptoms were not likely to prove life threatening since he was now receiving proper care, but they were none the less harrowing to behold.

As Faramir grew warmer, Aragorn grew colder and increasingly uncomfortable. Buried memories started to resurface in his mind. He had been cold, so very cold; and warm arms were holding him. Faramir must have held him thus when he had wandered out in the snow. He could recall Arwen’s spirit reaching out to make him choose life, but someone must have warmed him then. That someone had been Faramir, enduring a far more uncomfortable ordeal that he was now experiencing. He owed so much to his loyal and loving friend and until a few days ago had done nothing save revile him.

Aragorn knew now that he held the most priceless jewel he had discovered in Gondor. He offered a silent prayer of thanks that Faramir still lived.

“I will somehow make it up to you, ion nîn, whatever it takes,” he murmured, tucking the blankets more snugly around them both, wishing fervently they were thicker and warmer.

A/N.

A grateful thank you to everyone who has reviewed. A very Happy New Year to all my readers.

I am currently also posting a series of drabbles called “Impressions” on this site and a parody “Odious Orcs”.

When Tolkien first created the leader of the Gondor's fighters in Ithilien, he was called Falborn son of Anborn; Morrandir means "dark wanderer", it could also mean 'black wanderer', “Mor” has been interpreted as either dark or black.

Raksha suggested these pseudonyms for our disguised heroes.

The symptoms Faramir is suffering from are a mixture reactions to a black widow or brown recluse spider bite, mixed with my own imagination and the effects of Shelob’s stinger.

When our hearts are saddened, grieving or in pain,
By Your touch You call us back to life again;
Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green. John. M.C. Crum.

Comfort those who suffer,
watching late in pain;
those who plan some evil
from their sin restrain. - Sabine Baring-Gould

With grateful thanks to Raksha for all her help with this chapter.

These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Aragorn knew not for how long he sat there, cradling Faramir’s lifeless body and weeping. Memories overwhelmed him. He recalled his first meeting with Faramir, when his Steward had opened his eyes and looked upon him, his gaze so full of love and trust, and hailed him as King,. He recalled breaking down Faramir’s fear and reserve, and the many good times that had resulted, replete with convivial companionship. Memories of the darker times assailed him as well: how he had fought to save Faramir’s life, how the Steward had more than repaid the debt. Faramir had always trusted him. Yet Aragorn had shamefully doubted and betrayed that trust.

Whatever would Arwen say when she heard the dreadful tidings? He ached to feel her loving touch and her comforting presence beside him. He realised now that she had suggested this pilgrimage so he and Faramir might be reconciled. Instead, their journey had led to the Steward’s death. He could hardly bear to look upon the limp body; the keen eyes now closed forever and the blue tinged lips, which had so recently laughed. Faramir had been the most loyal and loving friend that any man could ever desire. He had been truly blessed to know such a man.

Roheryn neighed impatiently and jolted Aragorn out of his anguished reverie. Realising he could not remain here indefinitely, he moved Faramir into an easier position for lifting, turning him sideways.

It was then that he noticed the small red mark between Faramir’s shoulder blades. Surely he would have observed the blemish had it been there earlier? It stood out lividly against the Steward’s pallid skin. The mark looked like some sort of insect bite, though it was too large to have been inflicted by one of the countless midges that plagued the riverbank. Somehow, it seemed oddly familiar. Aragorn tried to gather his thoughts as he struggled to recall where he had seen such an abrasion in the past.

Then Aragorn remembered: He had seen a similar mark most recently on Frodo's neck, the terrible legacy of Ungoliant's spawn! And when he guested in Thranduil's halls, after delivering Gollum into the Silvan lord's custody, he had seen other such marks on the bodies of Mirkwood Elves. Could it be that Faramir had suffered a spider bite rather that failure of the heart?

New hope flared within him. Carefully, he laid Faramir flat on the ground and bent over him, pressing his ear against his chest and waiting. After what seemed an eternity, but could not have been longer than one, or at the most two minutes, he was rewarded with a faint heartbeat.

Faramir was not dead! Perhaps Shelob's young still lingered and had migrated from the sunless caves of Cirith Ungol, to strike at Faramir and paralyse him. Again, Aragorn waited, this time counting and found that Faramir’s heart was beating once about every hundred seconds. He knew that the slowed heart rate was an effect of this kind of spider bite, which sent the victim into a deathlike trance for several hours.

Weeping again, this time for joy mingled with relief, Aragorn gathered up Faramir’s discarded items of clothing. Then he carried his Steward to the top of the incline, and there laid him on a patch of scythed grass, where there was no cover for any evil creatures to lurk. He debated what he should do next and decided the best thing would be to take his friend and find a safe campsite where they could await Faramir's recovery. He put on his own tunic, then with some difficulty eased Faramir's shirt and tunic over his head. Next, he pulled the socks and boots onto Faramir's lower legs under the breeches that his friend already wore, checking first to assure that no spiders, however small, hid in the footwear. He could spare no hands to carry loose garments. The tunic and shirt hung loosely from the thin body. The task accomplished, he whistled to Roheryn to come to him.

“Easy, now, I am taking you to where we will be safer until you wake up,” he told Faramir, wondering why he was talking to an unconscious man who probably could not hear him, much less answer.

Although a dead weight, Faramir was alarmingly light for a tall man. Aragorn soon had him across his stallion’s back, where he mounted behind him and held him tightly around the waist with one arm. He wished he had some idea of what kind of a spider it might be; for the effects of the creatures’ bites varied greatly once the paralysis wore off.

For now, Aragorn decided, he just needed to get away in case the spider or more like it were in the vicinity. He had to avoid being attacked himself at all costs, as who would care for Faramir if he were also laid low? Once his friend had recovered, there would be time to wipe the vile monster off the face of Arda.

With Zachus following obediently behind, he rode; clutching Faramir in his arms until they were well away from the riverbank. Eventually they reached the edge of a forest, which opened out into ripening fields of corn.

He laid Faramir carefully down on a hastily unpacked bedroll. After assuring himself that his friend still lived, Aragorn quickly made a fire for warmth and protection from further predators.

Once the fire was blazing, he placed Faramir in what he hoped was a comfortable position. Aragorn settled down beside him to keep vigil. He constantly reassured the stricken man; rubbing his back and chafing his hands, all the while talking or singing softly to him in Elvish.

Strangely, it seemed to Aragorn that it was of the utmost importance to assure Faramir that the venom would eventually wear off. It was almost as it as if he had experienced the same thing himself. Yet he had not tended spider bite victims other than Frodo, only seen them in the healing rooms at King Thanduril’s palace. They were Elves too, with superior strength, stamina and recuperative powers.

The King still feared for his friend's life. Faramir was still frail from his recent ordeals, while his heart had been so badly damaged less than a year before, that any wound could place a terrible strain upon it. If only he had cared for his friend as he should and not been blinded by his pride and sense of betrayal! He knew of many effective treatments for the Steward’s ills and had wilfully denied them to him. Aragorn wondered sadly if he had ever truly appreciated Faramir, as he ought.

This was the man to whom he owed his throne, his beloved wife and son, even his very life. Faramir had never asked for anything, but had offered his love and loyalty without condition. Now he was reaping a bitter harvest. Aragorn now sat still; telling the younger man over and over how much Faramir was loved and valued by his King.

The hours passed until the sun started to sink lower on the western horizon. Still Faramir lay there, devoid of any sign of life. Aragorn pulled his friend’s tunic and shirt aside to reassure himself that Faramir’s heart was still beating.

To his dismay, the Steward’s chest was now black and blue as a result of Aragorn's misguided attempts to revive him.

Anxiously, Aragorn felt the ribs for any damage, fearing he may have inadvertently cracked or broken them. Mercifully, they were intact, though Faramir would have some very painful bruises when and if he regained consciousness. Why was this poor man doomed to suffer so? He could still detect where Faramir's ribs had mended only the year before.

Aragorn pressed his ear again to Faramir’s chest. He nearly wept with relief when he heard a faint heartbeat, now detectable about every ninety seconds. Rummaging in his pack, he selected a pot of comfrey and arnica salve and rubbed a liberal amount on the bruises, hoping they would ease the worse of the discomfort before his friend came round.

How foolish of one of the most highly trained healers on Middle- earth to have mistaken a spider bite for failure of the heart! Aragorn had only added to poor Faramir’s woes by his futile attempts to revive him. It was just as well his Steward had such a generous nature. He knew though, once Éowyn found out, he would get the scolding he richly deserved for leaving her husband black and blue.

As he worked, he told Faramir exactly what he was doing. Their situation seemed so very familiar to him and he wondered why. Then a sudden flash of insight struck him. He knew all too well what Faramir was feeling!

Faramir had confessed to drugging him to rescue him from Dervorin's cellar, but had never revealed exactly what substance he had used and seemed reluctant to discuss it. Since their reconciliation, Aragorn had not pressed the matter, sensing it was painful for the Steward to even speak of the terrible events.

The hours of immobility had been amongst the most terrifying of Aragorn’s life. He had been dragged along in a sack, unable to move or speak and certain, during his brief flashes of awareness, that he would soon be buried alive. He realised now that Faramir must have used spider venom and feared to tell him. He was suddenly glad that he had experienced its effects; it would make him better able to help his friend.

”Easy, now, you will wake up in a few hours.Then I will take you home to Éowyn,” Aragorn told the totally unresponsive Faramir. He settled beside him again and continued to talk to him. He also chafed his hands and feet and gently massaged his chest to improve the blood flow. The hours passed and still he kept a lonely vigil at Faramir’s side. Gradually, Aragorn discerned a stronger and more frequent heartbeat and some slight colour returned to Faramir’s ashen features.

The sun vanished beneath the horizon. As Eärendil’s star rose overhead, Faramir’s heartbeat quickened. Aragorn dared hope the worse was over.

The night brought a chill to the air. Aragorn wrapped Faramir in both their blankets and folded his cloak under the Steward’s head as a pillow. Faramir appeared to sleep naturally now; his chest rose and fell beneath the blankets and his skin had almost regained its normal hue. Only his failure to awaken when Aragorn called his name, betrayed that he was still unconscious.

Companioned only by an insensible man for company in the near silence of the open countryside, Aragorn’s eyelids grew heavy. He struggled to keep awake, trying to concentrate on the sounds that broke the stillness: an owl hooting, the rustle of the breeze through the enshrouding forest and a stream running over a rocky bed. He felt so weary. The shock of Faramir's apparent death combined with the day’s exertions had taken their toll on his own, still weakened body.

000

The King awoke with a start. For a moment he lay back, feeling confused. The fire had burned low, but there was near-full moon brightly illuminating the forest clearing. Cursing himself for his weakness in falling asleep, Aragorn’s first thought was to see how Faramir fared. But the Steward had vanished, leaving his blankets scattered where he had been lying.

All drowsiness forgotten, Aragorn leapt to his feet in alarm. From what little he knew of spider bites, they left their victims disorientated and even dazed. Faramir would be in no fit state to wander around alone.

To his dismay, he swiftly espied several of Faramir’s garments strewn around the clearing; a boot, a sock, and more ominously, his breeches, formed a trail leading into the field. Trampled grain clearly showed in which direction Faramir had wandered.

Pausing only to snatch up the blanket, Aragorn leapt on to Roheryn’s back and urged the stallion into the cornfield at full gallop. Intent only on following the trail of the trampled ears of wheat and scattered clothing, he failed to notice how much more of the crop he was destroying. All that mattered was to find his Steward before Faramir came to further harm.

He could now see Faramir in the middle of the field. He stood stark naked, frantically scratching and rubbing his skin against the ears of ripened corn. Aragorn urged Roheryn foreword. Faramir would be ashamed if he remembered what had happened. Aragorn had to take Faramir back to their campsite and get him dressed before anyone saw him in this sorry state.

To his dismay, Aragorn suddenly heard shouting and saw torches approaching from the distance.

He galloped towards his Steward, urging Roheryn to run like the wind. Faramir must have seen him approaching but paid him no heed. As soon as the great horse neared Faramir, Aragorn brought Roheryn to a halt and leapt from his back, the blanket in his hand. He raced towards Faramir and threw the blanket around the confused man's shoulders.

The Steward turned a bewildered and terrified gaze towards him. “They are crawling all over me!” he cried, trying to break free from Aragorn’s restraining grasp.

“You can tell me later, “Aragorn said firmly. “First you must cover yourself and come back to the fire with me.”

“My shame must no longer be hidden!” Faramir exclaimed. “ I cannot wash away my guilt! They are in my tainted blood! They crawl over me to make me reveal my deeds!” He tried to pull off the blanket, but Aragorn was too quick for him and secured it from behind, pinioning his arms by his sides.

Faramir thrashed wildly, kicking and struggling. Suddenly he stopped, stood still, and announced,” I feel sick!”

He had just begun to violently retch when a group of several men and women arrived on the scene. Some carried lanterns, while others were armed with tools of the harvest. They seemed to all be sturdy yeomen, with worn, suspicious faces. In truth, those faces were quite angry.

Aragorn wished fervently that he had had time to snatch up Andúril before coming after Faramir.

The men advanced upon them, their pitchforks and scythes raised and gleaming in the bright moonlight.

TBC

By the pricking of my thumbs,

Something wicked this way comes. - Shakespeare – Macbeth Act 4.1

With special thanks to Raksha for all her help. Many of the events in this chapter were initially her ideas, which were far too good not to use.

Warning – This chapter may distress sensitive readers.

Faramir waited, listening to the almost musical sound the breeze rippling through the tall grasses, all the while watching the King. The Steward continued idly playing with the grasses. He plucked some rye grass, fondly remembering tickling his sleeping brother's feet on the warm sands of Belfalas. Temptation reared its head again. This time, repressing the urge to laugh like an unruly child, Faramir tickled the King across his belly with a strand of meadow grass.

He was somewhat amazed at his own audacity. Not all that long ago, Faramir would have sooner poked a sleeping dragon than he would have dared to tickle the High King. Never in his wildest imaginings could he have thought to treat the Heir of Elendil with such familiarity.

This time, Aragorn did not open his eyes; but instead asked sleepily, ”Have the butterflies returned?”

“I have not seen any for a while,” Faramir replied truthfully, surprised that he had not been caught and laughingly rebuked for such childish behaviour. Unlike Denethor, the King was usually slow to anger and reserved the full force of his wrath for matters that deserved it.

Aragorn stretched his long limbs like a cat and then turned over, presenting an even more tempting target, as he lay sprawledhalf naked amongst the buttercups and clover.

Faramir plucked another stalk of fox-tailed grass and trawled it lazily between Aragorn's shoulder blades. Then, somewhat pleased with himself at having thrice bested his lord, he lay back satisfied. His eyelids grew heavy, too heavy for continued alertness. Even as he closed his eyes, Faramir felt again the sense of unease he had experienced earlier return. 'Twas hard to tell what there was to fear here, under the lovely warm sun by the bank of the placid river. He could hear the usual sounds of birdsong and insect, naught was amiss. He began to drowse, but became dimly aware of something tickling the back of his neck. When he put up his hand to investigate, there was nothing there. Aragorn still lay beside him with his eyes closed, obviously fast asleep. The Steward turned over, lying on his belly to shield his eyes from the sun. He soon fell fast asleep.

He awoke with a start to find himself being relentlessly tickled on the soles of his feet by a batch of cat-tails held in the firm hand of his sovereign.

“Why you...!” Faramir exclaimed, rolling over and pressing his feet against the ground to escape the merciless onslaught.

No sooner had Faramir turned onto his back than he was assailed again, this time by the King's fingers remorselessly tickling his belly. Escapewas impossible as Aragorn was sitting on his legs.

“This is most unjust!” the Steward complained, once he could catch his breath. "You know where my skinis most sensitive!” He vainly tried to bat Aragorn’s hands away.

“You would not enjoy my Elven massage if I did not!” Aragorn retorted, starting to tickle Faramir's chest. “I thought you wanted to play this game!” The King was thoroughly enjoying the absurdity of it all. Foolish and childish it might be, but he badly needed such light- hearted distraction and suspected Faramir did as well. The certainty that his courtiers would most likely faint with shock if they could but see their King and Steward frolicking like children, only served to add to his enjoyment.

With difficulty, Faramir broke free. He scrambled to his feet and snatched a handful of grass that he brandished with much menace as he advanced upon Aragorn.

“Then it is war?” Aragorn enquired with mock solemnity.

“Let battle commence. I give no quarter!” Faramir replied with equal feigned earnestness.

“The loser prepares our dinner tonight!” Aragorn retorted, snatching up a bunch of grasses and directing them towards a spot below Faramir's ribs which he knew to be especially sensitive.

Laughing they ducked and weaved and dodged, each determined to tickle the other into submission. Aragorn had a decided advantage, knowledge gained from the many hours he had spent treating Faramir's injuries with Elven massage. He decided against pressing that advantageby using his fingertips after his initial onslaught. He was enjoying himself too much to desire a premature end to the 'battle'.

Caught suddenly off balance, Aragorn flopped on the ground and lay on his back like a playful puppy, legs flaying in the air, his bunch of grass poised for a further onslaught.

When Faramir advanced, ‘weapon’ in hand, Aragorn involuntarily stiffened, remembering that terrible night in the cellar, when Faramir had wielded the brand upon his helpless flesh. He forced himself to relax, knowing that Faramir would never willingly harm him. That terrible night was long past now.

Faramir saw the King’s body tense. His eyes fastened on the livid scar disfiguring Aragorn’s shoulder and he froze. It was as if the Steward stood once more in Dervorin’s cellar, seeing the look of horror on his lord’s face when he had brought the brand down on his flesh.

Apart from the scar left by the brand, Aragorn's flesh was now healed and his lean body rippled with health and vitality. The features that had been contorted with agony were now crinkled with laughter.

It was too much for Faramir. He sank to his knees and broke down, sobbing wildly as if his heart would break.

The game forgotten, Aragorn immediately came to his side.” Faramir, whatever is the matter?” he asked, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Your scar!” Faramir sobbed brokenly, “What they did to you...what I did to you. To see you now… When I did it, I yearned to tell you the truth, but I could not! If I had let the traitor's mask slip but for a moment, I could not have played that part again. I am sorry, so very sorry! I love you too much. I had to do it, even though it hurt you, or they would have slain me before I could free you. I could not lose you! I had to…I had to! ”

Aragorn finally understood. Everything Faramir had done was out of love and there had never been any thought of treason in his heart. “All is well now it is over!” Aragorn soothed, enfolding him in a comforting embrace. “Be at peace now, ion nîn. The traitors would have branded me with the mark of their hatred; Faramir, but you set it upon me out of love; a love so great and terrible it fills me with awe. I bless the hands that wounded me! ” Impulsively, he knelt and grasping Faramir’s hands in his own, he raised them to his lips and reverently kissed them.

Faramir wept all the harder at this unexpected gesture.

“Only for love could you have dared hazard all, even your own soul, “ Aragorn continued, his own voice unsteady. “I see it all clearly now. I had allowed my pain and my pride to blind me. I never stopped loving you, but in my anguish I tried to push you away. I will not lose you again!” He crouched beside Faramir, trying to comfort him.

The King’s warm hands soothingly rubbed Faramir's back; reminding him how cold and maimed they had been but a few months since. These hands had only ever been used to give him comfort and healing. They had never struck a blow against him. His hands, the hands that Aragorn had just kissed, were a different matter altogether. He sobbed all the harder, the horror rising until he could hardly breathe.

Aragorn could feel his Steward's heart pounding against his ribs, frantic as a wild bird trapped in a cage. Wondering if it were the sight of the brand that had so upsetFaramir, he released him for a moment to snatch up his shirt. He swiftly pulled it over his head.

The King was a great believer in the healing power of tears, having been taught thus by Mithrandir and Elrond. However, this measure of anguish could damage Faramir's health. He had not forgotten the damage to his Steward’s heart from the beatings Faramir had received in prison. Although Aragorn had believed him healed, he always feared that some lingering weakness could remain; ready to surface if his friend suffered too much distress. He pulled Faramir close, burying the younger man’s head against the soft fabric of his shirt and murmured soothing words in Sindarin. He gently massaged the back of the stricken man’s neck. “All is well,” he repeated over and over, “You are safe in my love, ion nîn, I will not let you go. All is well now. I am safe and alive, thanks to you.”

Faramir's hysterical sobs gave way to quieter weeping. He gradually calmed. Aragorn continued rubbing his neck with one hand, while keeping another arm around Faramir to support him and check his heartbeat. Aragorn frowned. That heartbeat was far too fast for his liking.

After some time had elapsed, Aragorn decided that words and gestures of comfort would not suffice. He needed some athelas to soothe Faramir’s spirit. He felt in his breeches pocket, where he usually carried some sprigs. To his dismay, he remembered that he had used the herb a few days ago and not replaced it. He had plenty left in his saddlebag, though. He had not even thought of using kingsfoil over the last few days.

“Wait here,” he told Faramir, slowly rising to his feet, “I shall fetch some herbs to ease you.”

Left alone, Faramir felt dismayed at his own weakness. They had been so happy but a few moments before. Drained of strength by his outburst, he could hardly sit upright. He moved backwards to lean against the bank, which was hollowed out by the roots of the vast willow tree. Gradually he collected himself and his strength returned, though his heart still thumped wildly. Faramir glanced ruefully at his body: his breeches were covered in grass stains and dust, while his bare chest and arms looked even worse. He would need another swim just to get clean. Faramir stood up, shook his hair out to dislodge the bits of grass and dirt that clung to it, then kicked out his frustration against the riverbank. Little did he know that he was further annoying what lay behind the willow Slowly, he sat down again, and stretched out his legs.

Faramir felt a sudden sharp pain. He slumped forwards lifeless as a rag doll.

Just then, Aragorn reappeared clutching the kingsfoil. He wanted to use the athelas, which he had gathered, freshly at the lake. He had found it at the bottom of his healer’s bag, together with the niphredil flowers he was drying for Arwen.

A dark shape scuttled away in the undergrowth just as the King's cry of anguish rang out.

“Faramir, no!” he cried, rushing to his Steward's side and frantically feeling for a heartbeat. He found none, nor any other sign of life. This was too cruel! How could Faramir be snatched from him just as they were fully reconciled? His noble heart had cracked under the weight of his anguish. It was, as he had feared; Mahrod’s beating had finally claimed Faramir's life, by weakening his heart beyond repair.

Forcing himself to keep calm and remember his healer's training, Aragorn desperately fought to revive his Steward. All his efforts proved vain. Faramir remained lifeless, his skin a ghastly pallor while his eyes remained open and unseeing.

It was Aragorn’s turn now to weep, tears of such anguish that he felt his heart would most surely break under the weight of his loss. Through their Thought Bond, he had given Faramir part of his soul, which was about to be torn asunder as Faramir’s spirit drifted beyond the circles of the world. How could he return to tell Éowyn that her husband was no more and that Elestelle was fatherless? Faramir had been as a beloved son to him. Not only that, but also a younger brother, wise counsellor and devoted friend. Why had he not appreciated it before and allowed bitterness to consume him? If they had been fully reconciled earlier, he would not have brought his most faithful of friends out here to die! He had thrown away the most priceless of jewels, never realising just how great his worth was until it was too late. This man had sacrificed everything for him, including his honour and reputation, the most priceless gifts he had to offer. He had given his all freely only to meet with his lord’s scorn and coldness.

Suddenly furious he shook the limp body and cried; “ Now you truly have betrayed me, Faramir! You, who should have lived a hundred years, not a mere forty! This hurts me far worse than any branding ever could!”

He stared upwards at the sky and shook his fist at the Powers that control human destiny. ”Why have you done this to me?” he demanded.” Why? Why must you take him to punish my pride and despair? If you desire a sacrifice, it is I you should take!”

Distraught with grief, yet finally accepting that he could not revive him, he lifted the Steward. He cradled him in his arms and placed a farewell kiss of blessing on his brow. His tears fell on Faramir’s face but could not wake him. Gently he closed the unseeing eyes.

TBC

A/N. A big thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. I have replied to everyone who was logged in. You can see photos of the grasses and the river- bank on my LJ. I have also posted my first attempt at a drabble there.
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Summertime,
And the livin' is easy
Fish are jumpin'
And the cotton is high – Gershwin

I CELEBRATE myself, and sing myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. – Walt Whitman

With grateful thanks to Raksha for all her help with this chapter, parts of which were written by her.

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


“Try to relax,” Aragorn said gently, “There is nothing to fear.”

“I know,” said Faramir, ”It just feels so strange sitting here wearing so little!” There was something more, a tingling of foreboding, that he could not understand. Probably he was just being foolish, it had been so very long since he had even thought of lying down half naked on the ground.

“Did you never sunbathe even with your brother, then?” Aragorn enquired.

Faramir shook his head, and answered: “When I was very young, and we visited Dol Amroth with our mother, Boromir and I would run all over the sands and through the grasses, by the sea, barefoot, clad only in our breeches. But later, after she died, Father forbade such disregard for the customs of our station. We would bathe in the Anduin sometimes, but were called out and made to dress and return home straight after our swim. Once we came of age, we could no longer swim for pleasure, except on rare visits to Dol Amroth. It was just too dangerous. As the days grew ever darker, my dreams that the King would one day come and restore our land, grew ever more fervent. But I imagined that a king would be more remote than my father - not someone who would encourage me to sunbathe with him!”

Despite his sympathy for Faramir’s shadowed youth, Aragorn was unable to stop himself from bursting out laughing. “I am sure you could never have imagined a wild Ranger from the North as your King,” he managed to say. ” I used to sit in the sun on rare occasions between pursuing Orcs in Arnor with Halbarad, but always we had to watch our backs. Just lie and take your ease in the grass, ion nîn, and hold yourself less stiffly, or your back will pain you again!”

Faramir obeyed and gradually became more comfortable. To his surprise, it did indeed feel good to lie there in the partial shade of a weeping willow and feel the dappled sunlight on his skin. “This is indeed quite pleasant,” he conceded.

“Poor Faramir, you never had much chance to be other than formal,” Aragorn said sympathetically. “Of course, we can only act thus with close friends or kin. I look forward to taking Eldarion swimming once he is old enough,” said Aragorn, “ I would have my son respect but not fear me, he should be at ease with his own father.Naturally, you will be invited to join us.”

“My father often said I was so puny and scrawny compared to my brother that everyone would laugh if they saw me unclothed,” Faramir suddenly confided.

Aragorn raised his eyebrows. “ That was a cruel and unjust thing to say, “ he said, eying Faramir thoughtfully and then himself, “You bear a true Numenorean form; tall, lean and muscular, built for speed and stamina as well as strength. You are too thin at present, but then, so am I. When I look at you, I could almost be looking at myself. Even our faces have a likeness, both cast in the Numenorean mould as well, with carven features. I am slightly taller, but otherwise, we could almost be twins, for there is little difference between us. These bodies have served us well enough, I think. We have proven ourselves as warriors, wooed and won fair ladies and sired children with them.”

“You truly think we are so alike?”

“You cannot ignore the evidence of your own eyes. You closely resemble your father and myself. Boromir was like your father in face, but not in build. At least, you no longer have to carry numerous battle scars like your father did.” Aragorn looked Faramir in the eye with compassion.

“My father was always too swathed in robes and armour to notice much about him other than that he was tall. How do you know so much about him?” Faramir asked.

“ When I served your grandfather, I was sometimes called upon to serve as a healer,” Aragorn explained. “It was not easy, for I had to conceal both the abilities of my line and the Elvish skills I had learned, at least as best I could. I tended your father once when we rode together on patrol and he was badly hurt. The company's usual healer had been killed and it fell to me to stitch up Denethor when he took a sword slash down his side, from shoulder to hip. He had little enough love for me before; and he liked me even less after I had cut away his clothing and tended him. Denethor was too proud to be beholden to any man. It must have annoyed him all the more that I was the one to save him in such a humiliating fashion. And I often wondered if my healing skills made him guess my true identity.”

“The hands of the King are the hands of a Healer,” Faramir murmured. “My father was a very proud man, I fear.”

With a sudden flash of insight, Aragorn realised he had been in grave danger of allowing himself to become like Denethor, by letting his feelings of humiliation at being cared for like a baby by his Steward, poison their friendship. Not that he and Denethor had ever been friends, the heir to the Stewardship having rebuffed all his attempts at camaraderie.

“It was not only old Ioreth who knew the saying. I realised then I had to leave. Had it been made widely known who I was, civil war could have broken out, which would have played into Sauron’s hands. I could not put Ecthelion, who by then was old and frail, in the position of choosing between his son and me. He was a good man and I grew to love him. His greatest and perhaps only folly was to sometimes favour me above your father. It was never true that Ecthelion had no love for Denethor; he did love his son too. Gandalf once cautioned Ecthelion not to show his favour so openly to the people of Gondor, for fear of hurting Denethor. I was beside him, in the room, we three were having a private council over dinner.”

"What did my grandsire say to that?" Faramir questioned eagerly. All his life he had heard hints of the tension between Denethor and Captain Thorongil, and the love that his grandfather had bestowed upon the northern stranger who became Gondor's hero. He had never dared to ask his father: Boromir had been too young to remember Thorongil at all, and his uncle, although he remembered the northern Captain with great affection, had most of the time been away from the Citadel. He had wondered how his grandfather could have scorned his own son in favour of another man, no matter how brave, until he had come to know Aragorn, who had been called Thorongil. Aragorn was very easy to love, far easier than had been his own father.

Aragorn smiled warmly. "He laughed, and said it would do his son good to see that there was more than one bright star in the heavens. I think what Ecthelion truly meant, was that it would do Denethor good not to be the only bright star in Gondor, but I said naught. Gandalf just smiled. They both looked at me approvingly as if I were a child who was coming along well in his lessons."

"Ecthelion had not invited my father to that council? He was the heir to the Stewardship!" Faramir wondered aloud, remembering how often he too, had felt excluded.

"Actually, he had,” Aragorn replied. “There had been a number of such dinners over the years, when both Denethor and I were in the City at the same time. And on each occasion, your grandfather treated us both fondly, and more and more as time went on, he treated me as a son rather than a valued Captain. Your father was not pleased. He kept quiet, and would barely answer either his father or me. Your grandfather was hurt, in his heart, he had never forgotten that Denethor was his son and heir; and Denethor was pained also, he felt that his father was trying to displace him. Denethor stopped coming to dinner when I was present, unless ordered. It was your mother who finally intervened, after Boromir was born, and spurred Denethor and the Steward to reconcile. In deference to her wishes, Denethor and I managed to maintain civility when we were with your grandfather."

Aragorn took a deep breath. There was more he needed to tell Faramir. The tangled web woven by Ecthelion and Denethor and which had later ensnared Denethor's own sons, was not of Aragorn's making; looking back, though, he feared neither had he been a fly caught helplessly in its strands. " I never sought to supplant your father, Faramir," he admitted. "At first I held back, and played the soldier, the Captain guesting at his lord's table. But I grew to love your grandfather. I was lonely, far from what kin I had left. In my heart, I would feel almost as if I were Ecthelion's son and Gandalf's grandson. Not that I loved Elrond less, but I had not ever known a mortal father who so resembled me, and I also loved the wizard."

"As did I,” Faramir remembered. "I too, used to dream of Gandalf as a kinsman, so great was my trust in him. We were always at ease together."

"That is not all, Faramir." Aragorn continued. "I would also wish, especially when we were on campaign together, that Denethor and I could be friends, true brothers in arms. I admired his learning and valour in battle greatly. But on a few occasions, when I found myself basking in your grandfather's love, your father and I would vie for his favour like foolish boys. I did not want to behave in such a fashion, but I would try to best him with a word or two, sometimes even before he had goaded me. And then I would catch myself, and stop my tongue, remembering that such strife would serve only to benefit the Dark Lord.”

“Do not fault yourself for wanting the love that my grandfather freely offered,” said Faramir. Aragorn noted that his friend's eyes were shining, a fey look in them, as if part of Faramir were far from this place. "Maybe my father had so little love for me as I resemble you, then?” Faramir mused.

“That is possible. On the other hand, maybe Denethor saw in you what he could have been, had he less pride and more humility! He knew how well you could read the hearts of men and the love you inspired in all who knew you.” Aragorn replied. ”Maybe sometimes we have inadvertently hurt each other too, because we are so alike in soul as well as body. I hope as the years pass we will learn to search our hearts first before we speak or act rashly, or rather I need to learn to do so.”

“You have given me all that he denied. He would never have spent time with me like this, even had he been able to spare so many days!” Faramir said softly.

“I am enjoying myself in your company!” Aragorn briefly reached to pat Faramir’s shoulder, vowing inwardly, that never again would he treat Faramir as coldly as Denethor had done. He was bitterly ashamed of himself now. “Had I started to become like him?” he asked. “I am sorry.”

Faramir shook his head. “You were never so harsh towards me and you had good reason to be angry.”

”You have inherited your mother’s forgiving and gentle nature,” Aragorn commented.

“I am glad to have something of her in me too.” Faramir replied rather wistfully.

“I see a good deal of Finduilas in you,” Aragorn told him, “ She had beauty of spirit as well as that of the body. You take your form and powers of the mind from your father, but are very like her in other ways. When I look at you, I can see her gentle eyes and slender hands. She gave you her Elvish traits: her dreams of other places and times, her warm and kindly nature, her love of music, her imagination. That is why we can Thought Share especially well.” He deliberately failed to add that Faramir also shared his mother’s sensitivity, and with it the danger of fading were his spirit sufficiently wounded. “Everyone admired your mother for her beauty and kindness; and your father loved her deeply.”

“Now I am married, I can understand better just how cruel her loss must have been to him,” Faramir said thoughtfully.

“Those in whom the blood of Númenor run true are like the Eldar,” said Aragorn.” They usually fall in love but once and their passion burns brightly until their child rearing is complete, after which they spend a companionable old age together. To lose a mate during those years is sorrowful indeed, as it is rare for our people to remarry. My mother never married again either. Your father also shunned close friendships, which would have greatly eased his burdens. Your grandfather was very different for he opened his heart far more freely to those he loved. He was a man of wisdom and great kindness.”

“It gladdens my heart to learn more of my kin,”said Faramir. “I never knew my grandfather and can scarce recall my mother. I have a new family now, but I still think of those who went before me.”

They lay in comfortable silence for a few moments, staring up at the sky, a clear azure blue dotted with a few high fluffy clouds.

“My sweet girl’s eyes like azure skies!” Faramir began.

“If that line refersto Éowyn, she will not be pleased at your lack of observation. Her eyes seem green in some lights, in others grey!” Aragorn cautioned.

“I was thinking of Elestelle and wondering if she would resemble my mother!” Faramir retorted. “How are you so familiar with Éowyn’s eyes!”

“I never forgot howshe looked at me when I first met her at Edoras, there is no need to be jealous!” Aragorn replied good naturedly,” I had never seen such sadeyes in one so young and fair. I noticed then how they change colour in the light. Surely, it would please Éowyn more than Elestelle to have a poem written for her? You daughter will only appreciate your skills when she is older, by which time her eyes will be as grey as yours!”

Faramir frowned, and then began again. “ Behold my lady’s wondrous eyes, fairer far than summer skies. Her sun-goldhair, beyond compare, her lips surpass the poppy’s hue, she wears a gown of cornflower blue, my Éowyn, wife so fair and true!”

“I am sure Éowyn will appreciate the rhymes,” Aragorn commented dryly. “It is the thought that counts.”

“It is too hot to think. Can you do better?” Faramir challenged, stretching himself lazily. Much to his surprise, he now felt reluctant to dress once his clothes were sufficiently dried. It was oddly freeing to be devoid of outward trappings and the wind and sun felt pleasant against his bare skin.

Aragorn too, lay stretched out as luxuriant and contented as a cat sunning itself. “Fairer than the sun by day; the star of evening’s glorious ray, bathing me in radiant light, making morn and evening bright! Arwen, fairest evening star, watching o’er me from afar. My love, my Queen, my lady fair, wondrous wife beyond compare!”

“Hmm, I see you know how to wax lyrical at a moment’s notice,” Faramir conceded, “You did have the advantage of being taught by Elves though, so you should be a better poet than I!” He rolled over on his belly to allow his back to dry properly and propped himself up by his elbows. The grass tickled the more sensitive skin and he bit back an impulse to giggle at sensations he had not known since he was a young child.

Regarding him with a healer’s eye, Aragorn was pleased to see that he looked so much better. The last of the red marks had disappeared, leaving the scar from the arrow wound as the only mark still disfiguring his skin. The King found his hand moving again to his own scar; unable to repress the urge to scratch .It looked slightly less angry today and was no longer painful. However, the pain had been replaced by an annoying itch. To his surprise, he no longer felt anger or bitterness about the disfigurement. Today was the first time he had spent any length of time without brooding over it. In fact, until it itched, he had quite forgotten that it was there.

Faramir rolled over on to his back again and stretched, curling his toes round the soft grass. He sighed contentedly, glancing across at the King as he did so. To his astonishment, a beautiful swallowtail butterfly had alighted on Aragorn's chest and remained there with wings open. He blinked hard, unable to believe his own eyes. Butterflies rested with their wings closed. Maybe there was something wrong with it?

Yet, when he put out his hand, it swiftly fluttered away, only to be replaced by an equally resplendent scarlet and black beauty, followed by one that appeared to have eyes all over its wings.

Aragorn lifted his head to contemplate the colourful creatures and smiled at them with an almost childish delight. More and more gathered until they fluttered around him like a bouquet of exotic blossoms.

Faramir watched enthralled.

“How Arwen and Eldarion would love to see those!” Aragorn sighed, settling his head back on the grass again.

“I have never seen the like!” Faramir exclaimed in awe, looking at the King almost as if he expected him to spout wings and join the butterflies in flight.

“They must be attracted to the warmth of my skin or the salt on it,” Aragorn suggested.

Faramir leaned across and placed a tentative hand upon his friend's chest. “Your skin is no warmer than mine!” he announced, “They must somehow know who you are!”

Aragorn laughingly shook his head. “ It must just be the taste of my skin. It felt rather pleasant when their feet tickled, though.”

Faramir realised that again, he had been privileged to witness something of the usually veiled majesty of this remarkable man. A quality that both set him apart, while at the same time drawing all who knew him to love him; including even butterflies so it seemed. He felt he should be on his knees before him rather than at his side.

“We are in the 'Vale of Flowers', ” Aragorn said reasonably, apparently having sensed Faramir's thoughts and not wanting anything to disturb this interlude of comfortable companionship. Just then a single butterfly landed on Faramir's shoulder and stayed for a brief instant before fluttering away.

“See, they like you after all!” Aragorn teased.

“We should bring our wives here when the children are older,” Faramir said,” Elestelle already loves bright colours.

“She will be as wise as she is fair, and win high renown!” Aragorn suddenly pronounced.

“As her father, I think she will, but how can you be so certain?” Faramir asked.

“A flash of foresight,” the King told him. “One that I am certain is true!”

“It is too warm for seeing the future, though I hope you are right!” Faramir yawned.

“Am I not usually?” Aragorn retorted smugly, sitting up as he spoke. He was dry now and reluctantly reached for his breeches and pulled them on. A king always be mindful of his dignity, however unlikely it was that he might encounter anyone.

Faramir followed his example and then reached for his shirt and boots. “I suppose we should get dressed and leave soon,” he sighed. “A pity, I was enjoying lying in the clover.”

“Truly? I thought you disliked being unclothed,” Aragorn teased.

“I do. It is just that the sun feels pleasant on my skin. There are none save ourselves to see,” Faramir admitted rather hesitantly, echoing Aragorn’s words earlier.

“We can stay here a while longer if you feel at ease,” Aragorn said, “It still feels too hot to dress properly. We can always don our shirts quickly in the unlikely event of anyone approaching.”

Faramir made no protest and lay back on the grass again beside his friend in companionable silence. He found himself studying the various flowers that carpeted the water meadow, marsh marigolds, buttercups and daisies. He must have trampled over them many times during his time as a soldier but this was the first time since childhood that he had been able to enjoy their beauty.

He discovered a four-leaved clover and was about to call Aragorn’s attention to it when he realised the King had fallen asleep. He looked peaceful and somehow much younger. The years seemed to have fallen from him over the past few days and Faramir rejoiced. There were times since Aragorn’s ordeal when he had looked as prematurely aged as Denethor.

For a moment Faramir felt saddened, that he had never shared moments like this with this father, but that thought was quickly replaced with gratitude at how blessed he was in being granted a kinder lord and father by far. He loved Aragorn deeply, with all the devotion he tried to give Denethor, had he but been given some warmth in return, the lack of which, had withered Faramir's childhood affection into little more than filial duty he owed unto his father and lord. He had always hoped that one day Denethor would look at him with the fond pride he bestowed so freely to Boromir, rather than the cool, measuring glances his father usually gave him. There had been times when Faramir could believe that his father loved him, a small smile would appear on the Steward's stern face; a word of approval would escape the Steward's lips almost grudgingly. But then his father would speak of Boromir or to Boromir; his grim face would soften and that look, which was for Boromir alone, would brighten the Steward's eyes.

Aragorn’s affection and companionship more than made up for his father’s coldness and it had almost broken Faramir's heart when he felt he had lost the King’s love. He was determined not to dwell on the past though, not on a day like today.

Faramir listened to the birdsong, which seemed to have grown more rapturous each year since Sauron’s defeat, then watched a family of swans glide lazily down the river. This idleness was strange to him, but he had to admit that he did not dislike the sensation of having nothing to but drench his senses in the beauties of his land. He returned to his observation of the meadow, this time studying the grasses. At the water’s edge, some had escaped the haymaker's scythe and were quite long, the seed heads blowing gracefully in the breeze. These tall meadow grasses were so attractive that Éowyn often included them in the displays of flowers with which she adorned their home.

He plucked a tall strand of rough-stalked meadow grass and trailed it lazily across his skin, enjoying the tickling sensations as he ran it up one arm, down his chest and belly, then across the other arm. Aragorn was right. It was a pleasant sensation to feel something other than cloth against his skin. He then tried the feel of the silky fox-tailed variety against his bare skin. He thought back again to those blessed days of sunshine and sand and sea in Dol Amroth: romping with Boromir, playing in the waves, the faces of his uncle and grandfather. But he could not remember his mother's face; only the echo of her voice and the comfort of her hands. He did recall, faintly, the sound of her laughter. Those were joyous times. He and Boromir would tickle each other with the stalks of long grass, pelt each other with seaweed, and happily wrestle. Ah, Boromir, he thought; I miss you still.

Faramir lay back again, thinking perhaps he could follow Aragorn's example and sleep. He was somewhat wearied after their long ride. But for some unknown reason, he could not close his eyes here. Behind his tired eyes, Faramir kept seeing the image of the Haradrim's serpent banner falling to the ground in Ithilien during that last ambush he had led; the sinuous motion of it, a black snake on red, slithering in the grass as if alive. But there were no Haradrim here. Lossarnach, Gondor's vale of flowers, was as fair and free of danger as any Elven-wood. He just found it difficult to relinquish a Ranger's natural concern for hidden peril even in so lovely a place that was all. Aragorn would probably find such wariness amusing, and jest with him about his reluctance to relax and enjoy such rare time away from their duties.

He sat up and glanced across at his friend. The Kingwas still lying with his eyes closed, snoozing in the afternoon sun.

The regular rhythm of his breathing, the rise and fall of his chest accentuated without the usual veil of clothing, suggested that he was sound asleep, a fact confirmed a few moments later by the occasional snore.

Such a novelty as an expanse of bare flesh, was inviting, far too inviting. Faramir could not resist. He plucked an even longer strand of grass and started to tickle his lord's chest with it.

Almost immediately, the King's eyes flickered open. Faramir dropped the grass and lay still, an expression of supreme innocence on his features.

Aragorn regarded him thoughtfully for a moment and then closed his eyes again.

TBC

A/N A big thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapter. I have replied to everyone who was logged in.

This chapter has been delayed due to site problems.

I have posted some photos of the butterflies and grasses on my LJ. A link is on my bio page.

If you wish to have news about my stories, please either bookmark my LJ or friend me. I intend to notify readers of any delays there rather than on this site, as well as posting lots of background information.

Aragorn's account of his time as Thorongil is based on what Tolkien said in "Annals of the Kings and Rulers" found at the back of "The Return of the King".