The Gate of the Year
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
I said to the man who stood at the gate of the year
'Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown.'
And he replied, 'Go into the darkness and put your hand into the hand of God
That shall be to you better than light and safer than a known way!'- Minnie Louise Haskins 1908
With grateful thanks to Raksha
It seemed that half of Minas Tirith wanted to see the new King light the Mettarë fire. For the first time in living memory, the people of Gondor celebrated the festival with hope. Many had lost loved ones and fighting continued in the South and East, but Sauron was no more, the air was no longer foul with ash, but fresh and sweet, and the King had returned.
Anxious not to detract attention from the King and Queen, the Steward stood a little to the side. He pulled his cloak more tightly around his shoulders. Faramir's memories were still painful at times, as were his war wounds, yet he was well content. A year ago, the future had seemed so bleak with the Enemy's threat growing daily, his brother departed on a desperate mission and his father’s moods turning ever more strange. His father and brother were now gone forever, but he had a new lord and a new life.
Faramir watched as Aragorn, his Queen at his side, walked amongst the people. Despite the chill in the night air, the King wore no gloves and reached out towards those who approached him. Faramir thought how very unlike his father the King was; where his father had been cold and distant, Aragorn was warm and easy to approach. That the common folk loved Aragorn was plain for all to see; from the smiles on their faces, to the lovingly made gifts they offered to him and his lady, all of which were received with as much gratitude as if they were priceless jewels.
A herald blew a silver trumpet and the crowd fell silent. “My dear people,” Aragorn said in a loud voice. “We may no longer mark the New Year on this day, but we do mark a new beginning for our beloved land. We have walked though the night of shadow and sacrifice into the light of new hope. Let the light in our hearts be rekindled with Anor’s strengthening rays!”
A guard handed Aragorn a flaming brand. He flung it into the heart of the bonfire, which quickly caught alight and flared up.
Faramir found himself shuddering, but not from the cold. His father had tried to burn him alive on such a fire! He recalled nothing of the terrible events, yet fire at times disturbed him deeply. Suddenly, he felt very alone. His beloved brother was no more. Éowyn’s presence would have hearted him, but she was needed beside her brother in Rohan for a while yet. He swallowed hard and took a step backward; thinking to melt into the crowd ere anyone could notice his disquiet. Then a firm yet gentle hand grasped his shoulder. Healing warmth flooded through his body at the touch. Startled, he turned and found himself looking at his King.
Aragorn said nothing, but his grey eyes were filled with kindness and compassion. The Star of Elendil that encircled his brow reflected the light from the blazing fire. As Faramir looked at him, living flames seemed to dance upon the King’s brow and brightness surrounded him. Faramir relaxed, warmed by a sudden, joyful realisation: light had returned Gondor in the person of the King himself.
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Friday, December 26, 2008
O star of wonder, star of light
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With thanks to Raksha
O star of wonder, star of light,
Star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect light. - John H. Hopkins
“Is that not a more suitable task for you, or Eldarion’s nanny?” Aragorn asked his wife desperately.
“I have a meeting with the Embroiderers' Guild while the nurse has the day off to visit her family,” Arwen explained. “I know you have a free afternoon.”
“Well, could not one of the nursery maids stay with Eldarion then?”
“You should know by now that our son needs a firm hand when it comes to having new clothes fitted,” Arwen said sternly. ”Last time he wriggled so much that the tailor could not alter his tunics to fit him properly. Eldarion simply hates standing still for tailor's work. He does not inherit such wildness from me!”
Aragorn fidgeted uncomfortably beneath his wife’s keen gaze. Eldarion was not the only member of the House of Telcontar who found it difficult to keep still while he had new garments fitted.
“Very well, vanimelda, I will see that Eldarion’s clothes for the Mettarë feast are fitted correctly,” conceded the King, sighing deeply.
000
“Please stand still, Master Eldarion,” begged the tailor, a short plump man with a nervous air about him.
“Do as you are told, ion nîn,” said Aragorn sternly. “Surely you want to look smart for the Mettarë Feast?”
“I hate having to wear silly clothes to attend feasts!” Eldarion grumbled in the jaded tones of one who had dozens of such occasions, rather than the three he actually had. “When you were a Ranger, Ada, did you have to dress up for Mettarë?”
Aragorn shook his head. ”The life of a wandering Ranger is a hard one, my son. We moved around too much to keep animals for food; our feasts were usually whatever we could scrounge on the day and a bottle or two of wine if we were near enough to a stash of provisions." He thought back to those cold nights of early winter spent with his men in the wilderlands. Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment remembering Halbarad and others of his Rangers who had perished in the long struggle against Sauron. "As for dressing up,most of us owned only the clothes we stood up in and a change of linens. We spent more coin on our weapons than on the cut of our cloth.
The tailor looked so shocked he dropped the bolts of silver-gilt black and gold cloth he was holding.
A sudden flash of inspiration struck Aragorn. ”If you are very good, we will celebrate Mettarë in traditional Ranger fashion before it is time for the feast.”
“Thank you, Ada!” The cloth was again knocked from the tailor’s hands as Eldarion ran to embrace his father. From then on, Eldarion stood so still and quiet that Aragorn started to fear that something ailed the boy!
000
“Is it wise to go riding with Eldarion with so little time left before the feast?” Arwen fretted. “It is bad enough when you fetch the mistletoe from Dame Gudrun!”
“That is why I fetched it yesterday, so I would have time to take Eldarion out today,” said Aragorn. “We are not going far and the weather is good for travelling. There is no snow or ice underfoot.”
“I will see that they are back in time, ”said Faramir, who was hovering at his lord’s side.
“Very well, but do not be late for the feast!” said the Queen. “I will call for the servants to bring you some hot drinks to have before you go. I do not want any of you taking a chill!”
0000
A short time later, Aragorn, Faramir and Eldarion rode out through the City gate, followed closely by several guards. It was a cold, grey winter afternoon. Dusk was starting to fall on a day that had never really been light.
“I am curious about these Northern Ranger customs of yours,” said Faramir, bringing his horse alongside Aragorn’s. ”In Ithilien, we had a bonfire and stood around it to toast the coming year and pray that the darkness would not prevail.”
“They are very simple,” said Aragorn. ”I only hope it will not be too cloudy to observe all the traditions. We begin here.” He reined Roheryn to a halt beside a large holly bush bedecked with brilliant red berries. The King dismounted and intoned “Yavanna, gracious giver, who deserts us not entirely in darkest winter, for this symbol of renewal, we thank thee.” Drawing his sword, he cut several sprigs of the dark green leaves and distributed them amongst the party, telling them to wear it on their cloaks. The King pinned Eldarion’s sprig in place telling his son. ”We wear the holly leaves as a symbol of hope that the land will be renewed. Holly is a very special plant as it is still fresh and green even in the depths of winter. The Elves have long cultivated it.”
“Where are we going, Ada?” asked Eldarion once they had remounted.
“Just as far as the copse yonder,” said Aragorn, gesturing towards some trees about a mile distant. “It should be dark by the time we get there.”
“Why does it have to be dark, Ada?” the little boy asked.
“You will see, I hope,” said Aragorn looking up anxiously to the sky. To his relief the clouds were parting as the last of the grey winter daylight faded. He urged Roheryn forward, narrowly avoiding a large stone in their path.
“Ranger festivals are very dull!” Eldarion remarked once they reached the unremarkable copse and halted before it.
“I doubt your father would bring us out here if there were not something important to see,” Faramir chided gently.
Aragorn’s keen gaze was searching the heavens. He smiled when he found what he was seeking. “Look above the tallest tree!” he cried, pointing upwards towards the Star of Eärendil, which gleamed like mithril against a small patch of velvet blue sky. ”Now make a wish!”
The company ceased chattering as they concentrated on their heart’s desires. A great stillness descended as they contemplated the shining star. Even the horses were quiet and the owl ceased her hooting.
“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! silivren penna mírielo menel aglar elenath!” Aragorn started to sing softly in a rich, clear tone.
Faramir felt tears pricking his eyes. To watch Gil-Estel rise in a sky unshadowed by the Enemy still made him shiver with joy.
Aragorn finished the hymn and then gestured to the others to join in. They all knew the words from the oldest soldier of peasant stock to the King’s young son.
“I think I like the Ranger traditions, Ada!” said Eldarion as they rode homeward.
“Every year we would look at the star and see it as a sign that the light was always there, however dark the path before us might seem,” said Aragorn. “By Elbereth’s grace, the Star of Eärendil led me safely home.”
A/N this was written for the “Leaf and Stone” Yule Traditions challenge.
Wishing all my readers a peaceful and happy Christmas. Special thoughts to anyone who is alone or having a difficult time at present.
Aragorn and Arwen refer to “At the Rising of the Moon” also on this site.
The song Aragorn sings is found in LOTR and translates as
O Elbereth Starkindler,
white-glittering, slanting down sparkling like a jewel,
the glory of the starry host!
A Tale of Telcontar.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
With thanks to Raksha
O star of wonder, star of light,
Star with royal beauty bright,
Westward leading, still proceeding,
Guide us to thy perfect light. - John H. Hopkins
“Is that not a more suitable task for you, or Eldarion’s nanny?” Aragorn asked his wife desperately.
“I have a meeting with the Embroiderers' Guild while the nurse has the day off to visit her family,” Arwen explained. “I know you have a free afternoon.”
“Well, could not one of the nursery maids stay with Eldarion then?”
“You should know by now that our son needs a firm hand when it comes to having new clothes fitted,” Arwen said sternly. ”Last time he wriggled so much that the tailor could not alter his tunics to fit him properly. Eldarion simply hates standing still for tailor's work. He does not inherit such wildness from me!”
Aragorn fidgeted uncomfortably beneath his wife’s keen gaze. Eldarion was not the only member of the House of Telcontar who found it difficult to keep still while he had new garments fitted.
“Very well, vanimelda, I will see that Eldarion’s clothes for the Mettarë feast are fitted correctly,” conceded the King, sighing deeply.
000
“Please stand still, Master Eldarion,” begged the tailor, a short plump man with a nervous air about him.
“Do as you are told, ion nîn,” said Aragorn sternly. “Surely you want to look smart for the Mettarë Feast?”
“I hate having to wear silly clothes to attend feasts!” Eldarion grumbled in the jaded tones of one who had dozens of such occasions, rather than the three he actually had. “When you were a Ranger, Ada, did you have to dress up for Mettarë?”
Aragorn shook his head. ”The life of a wandering Ranger is a hard one, my son. We moved around too much to keep animals for food; our feasts were usually whatever we could scrounge on the day and a bottle or two of wine if we were near enough to a stash of provisions." He thought back to those cold nights of early winter spent with his men in the wilderlands. Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment remembering Halbarad and others of his Rangers who had perished in the long struggle against Sauron. "As for dressing up,most of us owned only the clothes we stood up in and a change of linens. We spent more coin on our weapons than on the cut of our cloth.
The tailor looked so shocked he dropped the bolts of silver-gilt black and gold cloth he was holding.
A sudden flash of inspiration struck Aragorn. ”If you are very good, we will celebrate Mettarë in traditional Ranger fashion before it is time for the feast.”
“Thank you, Ada!” The cloth was again knocked from the tailor’s hands as Eldarion ran to embrace his father. From then on, Eldarion stood so still and quiet that Aragorn started to fear that something ailed the boy!
000
“Is it wise to go riding with Eldarion with so little time left before the feast?” Arwen fretted. “It is bad enough when you fetch the mistletoe from Dame Gudrun!”
“That is why I fetched it yesterday, so I would have time to take Eldarion out today,” said Aragorn. “We are not going far and the weather is good for travelling. There is no snow or ice underfoot.”
“I will see that they are back in time, ”said Faramir, who was hovering at his lord’s side.
“Very well, but do not be late for the feast!” said the Queen. “I will call for the servants to bring you some hot drinks to have before you go. I do not want any of you taking a chill!”
0000
A short time later, Aragorn, Faramir and Eldarion rode out through the City gate, followed closely by several guards. It was a cold, grey winter afternoon. Dusk was starting to fall on a day that had never really been light.
“I am curious about these Northern Ranger customs of yours,” said Faramir, bringing his horse alongside Aragorn’s. ”In Ithilien, we had a bonfire and stood around it to toast the coming year and pray that the darkness would not prevail.”
“They are very simple,” said Aragorn. ”I only hope it will not be too cloudy to observe all the traditions. We begin here.” He reined Roheryn to a halt beside a large holly bush bedecked with brilliant red berries. The King dismounted and intoned “Yavanna, gracious giver, who deserts us not entirely in darkest winter, for this symbol of renewal, we thank thee.” Drawing his sword, he cut several sprigs of the dark green leaves and distributed them amongst the party, telling them to wear it on their cloaks. The King pinned Eldarion’s sprig in place telling his son. ”We wear the holly leaves as a symbol of hope that the land will be renewed. Holly is a very special plant as it is still fresh and green even in the depths of winter. The Elves have long cultivated it.”
“Where are we going, Ada?” asked Eldarion once they had remounted.
“Just as far as the copse yonder,” said Aragorn, gesturing towards some trees about a mile distant. “It should be dark by the time we get there.”
“Why does it have to be dark, Ada?” the little boy asked.
“You will see, I hope,” said Aragorn looking up anxiously to the sky. To his relief the clouds were parting as the last of the grey winter daylight faded. He urged Roheryn forward, narrowly avoiding a large stone in their path.
“Ranger festivals are very dull!” Eldarion remarked once they reached the unremarkable copse and halted before it.
“I doubt your father would bring us out here if there were not something important to see,” Faramir chided gently.
Aragorn’s keen gaze was searching the heavens. He smiled when he found what he was seeking. “Look above the tallest tree!” he cried, pointing upwards towards the Star of Eärendil, which gleamed like mithril against a small patch of velvet blue sky. ”Now make a wish!”
The company ceased chattering as they concentrated on their heart’s desires. A great stillness descended as they contemplated the shining star. Even the horses were quiet and the owl ceased her hooting.
“A! Elbereth Gilthoniel! silivren penna mírielo menel aglar elenath!” Aragorn started to sing softly in a rich, clear tone.
Faramir felt tears pricking his eyes. To watch Gil-Estel rise in a sky unshadowed by the Enemy still made him shiver with joy.
Aragorn finished the hymn and then gestured to the others to join in. They all knew the words from the oldest soldier of peasant stock to the King’s young son.
“I think I like the Ranger traditions, Ada!” said Eldarion as they rode homeward.
“Every year we would look at the star and see it as a sign that the light was always there, however dark the path before us might seem,” said Aragorn. “By Elbereth’s grace, the Star of Eärendil led me safely home.”
A/N this was written for the “Leaf and Stone” Yule Traditions challenge.
Wishing all my readers a peaceful and happy Christmas. Special thoughts to anyone who is alone or having a difficult time at present.
Aragorn and Arwen refer to “At the Rising of the Moon” also on this site.
The song Aragorn sings is found in LOTR and translates as
O Elbereth Starkindler,
white-glittering, slanting down sparkling like a jewel,
the glory of the starry host!
A Tale of Telcontar.
Saturday, December 13, 2008
A Night of Storms
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.
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!”
TBC
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.
“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. “If you no like girl with dark skin, 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 consort with women of low morals!"
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!”
“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 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.
“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 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.
TBC
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.
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.
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!”
TBC
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.
“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. “If you no like girl with dark skin, 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 consort with women of low morals!"
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!”
“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 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.
“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 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.
TBC
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.
Tuesday, December 09, 2008
Physician, heal thyself
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Physician, heal thyself - The Bible, Luke 4:23
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
“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.
TBC
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Physician, heal thyself - The Bible, Luke 4:23
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
“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.
TBC
Tuesday, December 02, 2008
Out, damned spot! out, I say! – Macbeth – Shakespeare Act 1
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! – Macbeth – Shakespeare Act 1
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
“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.
The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Out, damned spot! out, I say! – Macbeth – Shakespeare Act 1
With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra
“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.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
I will be to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son. - The Bible – Hebrews 1.5
With grateful thank to Raksha
“The scar on your shoulder!” Faramir cried.
“I have told you, ion nîn, it troubles me no longer, “ Aragorn said gently. ”I have come to regard it as a mark of your deep love and loyalty.”
Faramir continued to stare at Aragorn’s shoulder as if under some spell. He took a few steps forward and reached out with his hand to touch it. “The brand has gone!” he exclaimed in a tone that suggested he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“What?” Aragorn looked down at his shoulder. The skin, disfigured for months by the livid brand, was now smooth and unblemished. He stared at it in amazement, tentatively feeling the place where the scar had been raised on his flesh. “It has gone!” he whispered, repeating Faramir’s words. A huge grin spread across his face. He caught hold of Faramir and hugged him tightly before spinning him around in a wild dance of jubilation. Tears ran down their faces as they alternately laughed and cried.
Breathless and exhausted, they finally collapsed together on the grass. ”How can this be?” asked Faramir once he had caught his breath. ”You tried every treatment known to Man or Elf, and nothing removed the scar. How could the wound have healed and when?”
“I do not know,” Aragorn replied simply. ”I tried to forget about it, and over these last days I succeeded.”
Faramir briefly closed his eyes and tried to recall when he had last glimpsed the scar on his King's shoulder. When Faramir had kept his back turned when Aragorn bathed or changed, it had been more than his usual natural reticence and good manners, for every glimpse of the scar had felt like a dagger stabbing his very soul. He had been grateful for the dim light and the fact Aragorn was lying face downwards when he had tended his lords aching back muscles. “I think I last saw the scar on the day the spider bit me,” Faramir said at last.
“I recall my shoulder itching,” said Aragorn. “It stopped paining me the day we swam in the mountain lake, but how the scar itched!”
“Maybe the water had healing properties?” Faramir suggested. “We can soon find out.” He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head, then studied his skin. The neat scar left by the arrow wound of a few months before was still there unchanged.
“An Elven mud bath will soon heal that blemish,” said Aragorn. “I believe my healing is a blessing from the One, bestowed on me when I let go of my pain and pride. How foolish I was to be so blind, when I was truly so blessed!” His voice unsteady, he hugged Faramir again. “Come, we had better have our swim if we wish to see our ladies before nightfall.”
Faramir sniffed hard and rubbed his hand across his eyes before removing his breeches and plunging into the refreshingly chill water. Aragorn followed a few minutes later. They splashed around in the water, ducking and diving like exuberant schoolboys, enjoying a respite from the heat of the day.
All too soon it was time to leave the cool water. They dried themselves and changed into clean, dry linens before donning the rest of their clothing
Mounting their horses, they set off towards Minas Tirith with a new lightness in their hearts.
0000
“The King will return in time for the first session of the Council, as will Faramir.” Arwen’s tone brooked no argument. Instead of asking Imrahil to sit down she stood, her eyes daring him to challenge her.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot share your certainty,” protested the Prince. “Everyone could see the King was far from well. Now he has vanished without trace along with Lord Faramir.” Imrahil’s anger was obvious as he spoke his nephew’s name. “You tell me my lady, the King has not gone to Rivendell to seek healing, so where might he be?”
“He has gone to seek a cure, but there is none now in Imladris,” said Arwen. “The One alone can grant Estel peace. I sent Estel forth with Faramir that both might be restored to their former vigour.”
“I would have thought that Elessar would have preferred a more suitable companion than my neph....,er, Lord Faramir could have been found to escort the King,” said Imrahil. “The Steward's loyalty is still far from certain.”
Arwen’s eyes flashed with anger. ”Never was a man truer to my husband than your nephew, Lord Imrahil!” she said. “He saved Estel’s life!”
“He also spoke treason against the King, joined the rebels, and shamefully raised his hand against his liege lord by branding him!”
“Can you not see, Lord Imrahil, that there was only one way for Faramir to have snatched my husband from that nest of traitors?” Arwen demanded angrily. “Had there been a path to his freedom that was both swift and honourable, I am certain you would have taken it, as would many others. But there was no such easy deliverance. Would you prefer that Faramir had defied the traitors and bought himself and your King to a painful death? We should all be grateful that Faramir managed to save not only my beloved husband, but your other nephew's innocent child. I am proud to call Faramir my friend. You should sing his praise, Prince; instead you treat him like Maeglin!”
Imrahil flushed scarlet, stood staring at his boots for a few moments.” I will think on your words, my lady,” he said at last. “But if only the King would return!”
“He will,” said Arwen. “I foresee that the day is not far off.”
Dismissing the Prince of Dol Amroth, Arwen returned to her sitting room where Éowyn balanced Elestelle on her lap. Eldarion was crawling across the rug clutching a toy horse. A bored looking Elbeth was trying without much success to embroider a kerchief, watched by a nursemaid who sat in the corner. The high, large windowed chamber was light and airy in appearance, furnished with fine tapestries and rugs that Arwen had brought with her from Rivendell. A large bowl of pink roses adorned the table, perfuming the room with their fresh sweetness.
“Has Prince Imrahil departed?” asked Éowyn. “If only he did not think so ill of Faramir!” she sighed deeply. “And where is my husband? I thought you said he was making a pilgrimage on the mountain with Aragorn? I agree they needed some time alone together to sort out their differences, but it has been so long. I fear for Faramir; he was far from well when I last beheld him!”
“They will return when they are fully reconciled and beginning to heal,” Arwen said calmly. “Then Imrahil will understand the truth at last.”
“I want to see Strider again,” said Elbeth. “I'll ask him to pass a law banning embroidery!”
Arwen laughed. ”Many ladies would be very sad if he did that.”
“You can put your sewing away now,” said Éowyn. ”It is almost time for the evening meal Go and was your hands before we eat.”
As soon as the little girl had left the room, Arwen wandered over to the window and looked out. Two familiar figures were walking past the fountain. They paused briefly before the White Tree. Arwen could see a marked change in her husband’s demeanour even from this distance, for Aragorn Elessar walked with a renewed spring in his step. Her husband was obviously engaged in lively conversation with Faramir and both men were smiling.
“They have returned!” cried Arwen. Pausing only to tell the nursemaid to watch the children, the two women hastened to greet their husbands.
“Estel!” Heedless of her queenly dignity, Arwen ran to greet her husband.
“Arwen!” Beaming from ear to ear, Aragorn embraced her tightly.
“Éowyn, I never expected that you would be here!” Faramir cried joyfully as he greeted his wife.
“Arwen invited me to stay with her while you were away,” Éowyn explained. ”It is good to see you again, Faramir. You look so well!”
The two couples made their way back inside the royal apartments arm in arm. When Aragorn reached his chambers, he briefly left his wife’s side to speak to Faramir. ”Please join us for the evening meal, mellon nîn, and bring Éowyn and the children,” he said. “Arwen and I would have tell of our travels.”
“Gladly we will,” Faramir smiled.
As they made their way to their rooms, Arwen noticed that her husband walked with his old confidence. There was a lively twinkle in his eye and he smiled greetings to passing servants.
“How is Eldarion?” the King asked.
“Growing by the day,” said Arwen. “He has his back teeth now and had learned several new words. His nanny is just putting him to bed.”
“I can hardly wait to see him,” said Aragorn.
“I will leave you to change for dinner,” said Arwen when they reached the bedroom.
“Wait, I have something to show you,” said the King.
Arwen stared in amazement as her usually reticent husband peeled off his tunic, followed by his shirt. “Look!” he said, “I am healed!”
Joyfully, Arwen studied the unblemished flesh. Her husband’s muscular body had lost its skeletal appearance and filled out his powerful frame once more, while his skin was lightly bronzed from the son. This was the strong man whom she had wedded, fairer than most Elves! She reached out with slender fingers to caress his shoulder where the brand had once been.
Aragorn quivered with delight at the pleasurable sensations her touch evoked. He drew his wife close and kissed her fiercely.
Arwen responded with equal ardour. Her fears that Eldarion would be their only child evaporated. She nuzzled her cheek against Aragorn’s bare chest. “Let us retire early tonight,” she suggested.
“As soon as we have eaten. I need to keep up my strength!” Aragorn replied, a lively gleam in his eye. He reluctantly released his wife before he was tempted to abandon all thought of dinner. “Faramir and I must tell you of our adventures too.
“It gladdens my heart to see you reconciled,” said Arwen.
“We are indeed,” said Aragorn. “All he did, he did for love of me. I am truly blessed to have a friend such as he!”
“You are indeed. You should cherish and nurture such love. Your Steward a treasure beyond price!”
“I know that now. Fool that I was to be so blind! You were wiser by far, vanimelda, and could see what I could not.” Aragorn kissed his wife again before retiring into the bathing chamber.
0000
“Strider!” cried Elbeth when the King and Queen entered the dining room.
“It is good to see you again, Elbeth,” said the King, stooping to embrace the Faramir's young niece. ”I have missed you.”
“Are you all better now, Strider?” asked Elbeth. “Even your shoulder?”
“It is indeed,” smiled the King.
“I told you kissing it better would work, didn’t I, Uncle Faramir? “ Elbeth said triumphantly.
Elbeth was allowed to join the adults for dinner, which was a lively affair as the two men related their adventures. Arwen was charmed by the tale of the hidden lake and delighted with the sprigs of dried niphredil that Aragorn had brought her, while Éowyn and Elbeth both held their breath as Faramir spoke of the giant spider. Both ladies expressed regret that they had not witnessed the mock dual with the grasses while Elbeth wished that she could have joined in the play fighting. The listeners were highly entertained by tales of the villagers and wished that they could have met Faramir and Aragorn’s newfound friends, especially Mistress Tasariel.
000
The next morning, two very contented couples emerged from their chambers to eat a hearty breakfast. Aragorn produced the cheese that Tasariel had given them which both ladies declared to be delicious.
“I have something to show you,” Aragorn told Faramir before the two men commenced their labours for the day. “Come, walk with me as far as the White Tree.”
King and Steward walked side by side, Faramir with a rather puzzled expression.
“Now look up towards the White Tower,” Aragorn ordered.
Faramir did as he was bidden. The Steward could hardly believe his eyes, as there fluttered the banner of the House of Húrin alongside the King's Standard.
“Thank you!” whispered Faramir, blinking away tears. ”But why?”
“Our Houses are bound in true friendship; and I would have all of Gondor know this,” said Aragorn, his eyes shining with paternal love. “We are as one family.”
"It pleased me greatly to pretend that I was your son these past weeks,” said Faramir, his voice choked with emotion. All his life he had longed to see his own father look upon him in the proud and loving way Aragorn beheld him now.
"You are my son, the fact I did not beget you makes you none the less so," said Aragorn, embracing him.
The End
A big thank you to everyone who has faithfully followed this story and especially to my reviewers. I would love to hear from anyone who has been following the story, but has not yet told me what they think.
This story marks the end of a long journey, which began over four years ago. For details of my future plans, please see my LJ, a link is on my profile page.
This story has sadly not been as popular as some of my others, but I admit it is one of my personal favourites.
A very big thank you to Raksha who has contributed a great deal to this story.
I hope to continue “Healing the Healer” very soon.
Wishing all my readers in the USA a very happy holiday on Thursday.
I will be to him a Father, and he shall be to me a Son. - The Bible – Hebrews 1.5
With grateful thank to Raksha
“The scar on your shoulder!” Faramir cried.
“I have told you, ion nîn, it troubles me no longer, “ Aragorn said gently. ”I have come to regard it as a mark of your deep love and loyalty.”
Faramir continued to stare at Aragorn’s shoulder as if under some spell. He took a few steps forward and reached out with his hand to touch it. “The brand has gone!” he exclaimed in a tone that suggested he could hardly believe what he was seeing.
“What?” Aragorn looked down at his shoulder. The skin, disfigured for months by the livid brand, was now smooth and unblemished. He stared at it in amazement, tentatively feeling the place where the scar had been raised on his flesh. “It has gone!” he whispered, repeating Faramir’s words. A huge grin spread across his face. He caught hold of Faramir and hugged him tightly before spinning him around in a wild dance of jubilation. Tears ran down their faces as they alternately laughed and cried.
Breathless and exhausted, they finally collapsed together on the grass. ”How can this be?” asked Faramir once he had caught his breath. ”You tried every treatment known to Man or Elf, and nothing removed the scar. How could the wound have healed and when?”
“I do not know,” Aragorn replied simply. ”I tried to forget about it, and over these last days I succeeded.”
Faramir briefly closed his eyes and tried to recall when he had last glimpsed the scar on his King's shoulder. When Faramir had kept his back turned when Aragorn bathed or changed, it had been more than his usual natural reticence and good manners, for every glimpse of the scar had felt like a dagger stabbing his very soul. He had been grateful for the dim light and the fact Aragorn was lying face downwards when he had tended his lords aching back muscles. “I think I last saw the scar on the day the spider bit me,” Faramir said at last.
“I recall my shoulder itching,” said Aragorn. “It stopped paining me the day we swam in the mountain lake, but how the scar itched!”
“Maybe the water had healing properties?” Faramir suggested. “We can soon find out.” He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head, then studied his skin. The neat scar left by the arrow wound of a few months before was still there unchanged.
“An Elven mud bath will soon heal that blemish,” said Aragorn. “I believe my healing is a blessing from the One, bestowed on me when I let go of my pain and pride. How foolish I was to be so blind, when I was truly so blessed!” His voice unsteady, he hugged Faramir again. “Come, we had better have our swim if we wish to see our ladies before nightfall.”
Faramir sniffed hard and rubbed his hand across his eyes before removing his breeches and plunging into the refreshingly chill water. Aragorn followed a few minutes later. They splashed around in the water, ducking and diving like exuberant schoolboys, enjoying a respite from the heat of the day.
All too soon it was time to leave the cool water. They dried themselves and changed into clean, dry linens before donning the rest of their clothing
Mounting their horses, they set off towards Minas Tirith with a new lightness in their hearts.
0000
“The King will return in time for the first session of the Council, as will Faramir.” Arwen’s tone brooked no argument. Instead of asking Imrahil to sit down she stood, her eyes daring him to challenge her.
“Forgive me, my lady, but I cannot share your certainty,” protested the Prince. “Everyone could see the King was far from well. Now he has vanished without trace along with Lord Faramir.” Imrahil’s anger was obvious as he spoke his nephew’s name. “You tell me my lady, the King has not gone to Rivendell to seek healing, so where might he be?”
“He has gone to seek a cure, but there is none now in Imladris,” said Arwen. “The One alone can grant Estel peace. I sent Estel forth with Faramir that both might be restored to their former vigour.”
“I would have thought that Elessar would have preferred a more suitable companion than my neph....,er, Lord Faramir could have been found to escort the King,” said Imrahil. “The Steward's loyalty is still far from certain.”
Arwen’s eyes flashed with anger. ”Never was a man truer to my husband than your nephew, Lord Imrahil!” she said. “He saved Estel’s life!”
“He also spoke treason against the King, joined the rebels, and shamefully raised his hand against his liege lord by branding him!”
“Can you not see, Lord Imrahil, that there was only one way for Faramir to have snatched my husband from that nest of traitors?” Arwen demanded angrily. “Had there been a path to his freedom that was both swift and honourable, I am certain you would have taken it, as would many others. But there was no such easy deliverance. Would you prefer that Faramir had defied the traitors and bought himself and your King to a painful death? We should all be grateful that Faramir managed to save not only my beloved husband, but your other nephew's innocent child. I am proud to call Faramir my friend. You should sing his praise, Prince; instead you treat him like Maeglin!”
Imrahil flushed scarlet, stood staring at his boots for a few moments.” I will think on your words, my lady,” he said at last. “But if only the King would return!”
“He will,” said Arwen. “I foresee that the day is not far off.”
Dismissing the Prince of Dol Amroth, Arwen returned to her sitting room where Éowyn balanced Elestelle on her lap. Eldarion was crawling across the rug clutching a toy horse. A bored looking Elbeth was trying without much success to embroider a kerchief, watched by a nursemaid who sat in the corner. The high, large windowed chamber was light and airy in appearance, furnished with fine tapestries and rugs that Arwen had brought with her from Rivendell. A large bowl of pink roses adorned the table, perfuming the room with their fresh sweetness.
“Has Prince Imrahil departed?” asked Éowyn. “If only he did not think so ill of Faramir!” she sighed deeply. “And where is my husband? I thought you said he was making a pilgrimage on the mountain with Aragorn? I agree they needed some time alone together to sort out their differences, but it has been so long. I fear for Faramir; he was far from well when I last beheld him!”
“They will return when they are fully reconciled and beginning to heal,” Arwen said calmly. “Then Imrahil will understand the truth at last.”
“I want to see Strider again,” said Elbeth. “I'll ask him to pass a law banning embroidery!”
Arwen laughed. ”Many ladies would be very sad if he did that.”
“You can put your sewing away now,” said Éowyn. ”It is almost time for the evening meal Go and was your hands before we eat.”
As soon as the little girl had left the room, Arwen wandered over to the window and looked out. Two familiar figures were walking past the fountain. They paused briefly before the White Tree. Arwen could see a marked change in her husband’s demeanour even from this distance, for Aragorn Elessar walked with a renewed spring in his step. Her husband was obviously engaged in lively conversation with Faramir and both men were smiling.
“They have returned!” cried Arwen. Pausing only to tell the nursemaid to watch the children, the two women hastened to greet their husbands.
“Estel!” Heedless of her queenly dignity, Arwen ran to greet her husband.
“Arwen!” Beaming from ear to ear, Aragorn embraced her tightly.
“Éowyn, I never expected that you would be here!” Faramir cried joyfully as he greeted his wife.
“Arwen invited me to stay with her while you were away,” Éowyn explained. ”It is good to see you again, Faramir. You look so well!”
The two couples made their way back inside the royal apartments arm in arm. When Aragorn reached his chambers, he briefly left his wife’s side to speak to Faramir. ”Please join us for the evening meal, mellon nîn, and bring Éowyn and the children,” he said. “Arwen and I would have tell of our travels.”
“Gladly we will,” Faramir smiled.
As they made their way to their rooms, Arwen noticed that her husband walked with his old confidence. There was a lively twinkle in his eye and he smiled greetings to passing servants.
“How is Eldarion?” the King asked.
“Growing by the day,” said Arwen. “He has his back teeth now and had learned several new words. His nanny is just putting him to bed.”
“I can hardly wait to see him,” said Aragorn.
“I will leave you to change for dinner,” said Arwen when they reached the bedroom.
“Wait, I have something to show you,” said the King.
Arwen stared in amazement as her usually reticent husband peeled off his tunic, followed by his shirt. “Look!” he said, “I am healed!”
Joyfully, Arwen studied the unblemished flesh. Her husband’s muscular body had lost its skeletal appearance and filled out his powerful frame once more, while his skin was lightly bronzed from the son. This was the strong man whom she had wedded, fairer than most Elves! She reached out with slender fingers to caress his shoulder where the brand had once been.
Aragorn quivered with delight at the pleasurable sensations her touch evoked. He drew his wife close and kissed her fiercely.
Arwen responded with equal ardour. Her fears that Eldarion would be their only child evaporated. She nuzzled her cheek against Aragorn’s bare chest. “Let us retire early tonight,” she suggested.
“As soon as we have eaten. I need to keep up my strength!” Aragorn replied, a lively gleam in his eye. He reluctantly released his wife before he was tempted to abandon all thought of dinner. “Faramir and I must tell you of our adventures too.
“It gladdens my heart to see you reconciled,” said Arwen.
“We are indeed,” said Aragorn. “All he did, he did for love of me. I am truly blessed to have a friend such as he!”
“You are indeed. You should cherish and nurture such love. Your Steward a treasure beyond price!”
“I know that now. Fool that I was to be so blind! You were wiser by far, vanimelda, and could see what I could not.” Aragorn kissed his wife again before retiring into the bathing chamber.
0000
“Strider!” cried Elbeth when the King and Queen entered the dining room.
“It is good to see you again, Elbeth,” said the King, stooping to embrace the Faramir's young niece. ”I have missed you.”
“Are you all better now, Strider?” asked Elbeth. “Even your shoulder?”
“It is indeed,” smiled the King.
“I told you kissing it better would work, didn’t I, Uncle Faramir? “ Elbeth said triumphantly.
Elbeth was allowed to join the adults for dinner, which was a lively affair as the two men related their adventures. Arwen was charmed by the tale of the hidden lake and delighted with the sprigs of dried niphredil that Aragorn had brought her, while Éowyn and Elbeth both held their breath as Faramir spoke of the giant spider. Both ladies expressed regret that they had not witnessed the mock dual with the grasses while Elbeth wished that she could have joined in the play fighting. The listeners were highly entertained by tales of the villagers and wished that they could have met Faramir and Aragorn’s newfound friends, especially Mistress Tasariel.
000
The next morning, two very contented couples emerged from their chambers to eat a hearty breakfast. Aragorn produced the cheese that Tasariel had given them which both ladies declared to be delicious.
“I have something to show you,” Aragorn told Faramir before the two men commenced their labours for the day. “Come, walk with me as far as the White Tree.”
King and Steward walked side by side, Faramir with a rather puzzled expression.
“Now look up towards the White Tower,” Aragorn ordered.
Faramir did as he was bidden. The Steward could hardly believe his eyes, as there fluttered the banner of the House of Húrin alongside the King's Standard.
“Thank you!” whispered Faramir, blinking away tears. ”But why?”
“Our Houses are bound in true friendship; and I would have all of Gondor know this,” said Aragorn, his eyes shining with paternal love. “We are as one family.”
"It pleased me greatly to pretend that I was your son these past weeks,” said Faramir, his voice choked with emotion. All his life he had longed to see his own father look upon him in the proud and loving way Aragorn beheld him now.
"You are my son, the fact I did not beget you makes you none the less so," said Aragorn, embracing him.
The End
A big thank you to everyone who has faithfully followed this story and especially to my reviewers. I would love to hear from anyone who has been following the story, but has not yet told me what they think.
This story marks the end of a long journey, which began over four years ago. For details of my future plans, please see my LJ, a link is on my profile page.
This story has sadly not been as popular as some of my others, but I admit it is one of my personal favourites.
A very big thank you to Raksha who has contributed a great deal to this story.
I hope to continue “Healing the Healer” very soon.
Wishing all my readers in the USA a very happy holiday on Thursday.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
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!”
TBC
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!”
TBC
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Farewell to barn and stack and tree - A.E. Houseman – A Shropshire lad
With grateful thanks to Raksha
Faramir woke with a start. For a moment he felt confused, wondering what had could have roused him in the middle of the night. The moon had gone behind a cloud, leaving the sky pitch black. All was still; not even the hooting of an owl disturbed the silence.
His stomach-ache had gone, and he was curled up comfortably at Aragorn’s side. He started as a truly dreadful noise assailed his ears. Then he realised, Aragorn was snoring at a truly ear shattering volume. Without thinking, Faramir instinctively dug his elbow in the direction of the King's ribs.
Faramir groaned inwardly. Since his ordeal, Aragorn was afraid of the dark. Just as the villagers had finally realised his lord’s true worth and come to respect him, they would now all be roused from their beds if Aragorn started to cry out. Tasariel would understand, but the others might again view Aragorn with suspicion, or even scorn. The villagers worked hard and did not take kindly to being roused from their beds, especially not after tonight when the wine had flowed so freely. Faramir could only hope his friend had not been dreaming. He was vastly relieved when Aragorn simply grunted in his sleep and shifted away from the assailing elbow.
The Steward wondered if he should move several feet away from Aragorn in case the pitch darkness prompted another of the King’s nightmares, and he ended up with a black eye as a result. However, he was comfortable where he was and reluctant to disturb Aragorn.
Faramir decided to hope for the best and tried settle back to sleep, his thoughts turning to Éowyn and Elestelle. He wondered how they might be faring. Maybe his daughter would have learned how to crawl? He wondered when his little girl would run to greet him saying "Ada", and found himself grinning at the thought. Elestelle appeared to have a quick ear for learning. He wished he could ask his uncle if he remembered at what age he and Boromir had started to walk; but Imrahil had refused all contact with him since Faramir’s seeming treachery.
Faramir tried to banish such sorrowful thoughts from his mind and go back to sleep. They had a long ride ahead on the morrow if they would reach Minas Tirith by nightfall. Briefly Faramir felt a stab of envy. The Queen would be waiting to greet her lord, while he would have to retire to a lonely bed before he could join Éowyn and Elestelle at Emyn Arnen. He hoped he could persuade his wife to stay in Minas Tirith for a while. Faramir’s thoughts started to wander as he drifted again towards sleep.
Suddenly, another loud snore jolted him back to full wakefulness. Faramir sighed in exasperation. Sorely tempted though he was to nudge Aragorn awake, he dreaded how his lord would react in this pitch darkness. Pulling his blanket over his ears, Faramir tried again to sleep. He would have to wait until there was some light before he dared to awaken his friend.
“Faramir?”
He froze in dismay when he heard Aragorn’s voice, fearing the King would start to panic. Yet Aragorn's voice sounded calm, just somewhat bewildered.
“I am here beside you, mellon nîn. You woke yourself up with your snoring!” Faramir stretched out his hand and laid it reassuringly on Aragorn’s shoulder.
“I was dreaming that the people were cheering us. We were not here, though, but in Minas Tirith. Arwen was there and she was so proud of me!”
“A good dream then?” Faramir sighed with relief.
“A very pleasant dream indeed. I long to see my beloved. Yet, I would not have missed these past days for all of Smaug’s treasure! I hope we can do it again in future.”
“I would gladly miss the bite of Shelob's spawn!” Faramir replied wryly.
“I did not mean that!” Aragorn retorted, ”I meant that I hope we can return to being simple Rangers together again when our duties permit. Even sleeping on the ground feels good when you do not have to do it in the winter!” He yawned sleepily and pulled his blanket more closely around him.
“I should like that very much.” The simple words were insufficient to convey Faramir’s delight that this first camping trip with the King would not be the last. He had always dreamed of having a father who who would accept him as himself rather than as Boromir's younger brother, a father with whom he could let down his guard.
Aragorn made no reply. He had fallen asleep again and was starting to snore even more loudly than before.
Faramir struggled to patiently endure the racket, this time folding his blanket double before burying his head beneath it. He idly wondered if dragons snored; and if so, did they make such a noise? Faramir feared that the whole village was likely to be roused by this racket. "Aragorn!” he hissed, ”wake up!”
“What is it?” Aragorn asked sleepily.
“You are snoring again!” Faramir grumbled. “How can I sleep if you make such a noise? I do not want to be too tired to ride home tomorrow!”
“My Rangers never complained!” Aragorn retorted.
“They must have been deaf or had some special Northern Númenorean trait that we poor folk of the South lack!” Faramir replied. "A marvel you did not alert every Orc in the Northern lands to your presence! Unless they all fled in terror from such a cacophony!"
“Arwen never complains either,” Aragorn added smugly.
“Well you can snore all you wish tomorrow night then!” said Faramir. “Lie on your side; then maybe we can both rest!”
Wanting nothing more than to return to sleep, Aragorn did as he was told. He reached for his blanket only to grab Faramir’s in the dark
“You have taken my blanket now!” Faramir complained.
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said contritely,” I could not see. It is pitch dark! He sat up suddenly, realising the implications.
“Yes, I know. I should not have disturbed you,“ Faramir said contritely. His complaints now seemed very petty. He feared his judgement had been somewhat clouded by all the good wine he had consumed earlier.
“I slept in the dark and I had no nightmares!” Aragorn whispered, hardly able to believe it.
“I believe you are healing at last, mellon nîn.” Faramir was grateful that the darkness hid the tears of joy that started to roll down his cheeks. He did not want Aragorn to know that he had often despaired of ever seeing him restored to his old self again. He reached out to hug his friend; only for their noses to bang together in the darkness. They both burst out laughing until they shook with mirth. Hastily they put their hands over their mouths, so as not to wake the villagers.
When their mirth finally subsided they settled to rest again. Just before he drifted into sleep, Faramir noticed the comfortingly familiar scent of athelas and other healing herbs again surrounded Aragorn. From the moment Faramir had first inhaled the healing fragrance of athelas; he had felt secure. All was well in his world once more; Gondor had her King restored to health; he was reconciled with the man he loved as a father, and very soon Faramir would be reunited with his beloved lady and their daughter. Utterly content, he settled against his friend’s shoulder and let himself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The cock’s crow went unheeded the next morning while the sun was already high in the sky before the villagers emerged from their huts, many yawning and complaining of headaches and stomach pains after their over indulgences of the previous night. Tasariel was much in demand and bustled hither and thither dispensing peppermint tea to the children and a mixture of milk thistle and willow bark to the adults.
Breakfast was a fairly subduedaffair with few of the adults having much appetite for the crusty bread and creamy cheese that was served. Aragorn and Faramir made themselves eat, knowing it would be many hours before they reached home.
Tasariel smiled at them approvingly. “It seems I have succeeded in fattening you two up a little!” she said. “Now don’t go and starve yourselves again in the City!”
“I promise you, we will not go hungry, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Not that the fare in Minas Tirith is as hearty as yours! The farmers should take some of their produce to sell at the City market.”
“I doubt the grand folks there would like our simple fare,” Borlach said doubtfully.
“I assure you, Master Borlach, that this food is fit for the table of the King himself!” Faramir said solemnly.
Tasariel’s dark eyes twinkled. “I will take you at your word, Master Falborn,” she said.
Aragorn stared intently at his plate while struggling to suppress his mirth.
Once the meal was concluded, Aragorn and Faramir gathered their possessions together and prepared to take their leave of Celonhaer. Now that the moment of departure drew close, they realised they were going to miss these simple people.
“We thank you for your hospitality and kindness,” Aragorn told Borlach. “Now, do not forget that if any ills trouble your people, you should send to Minas Tirith for help. I will see that your message reaches the King’s ear. You have my promise.”
“I will indeed, masters,” said Borlach. “Remember, we now consider you as part of Celonhaer. You will always be welcome here and we hope you will return.”
“I fear our tasks in the City take much of our time, Master Borlach,” said Aragorn. ”I give you my word, though, that when our duties permit we will visit you again one day.”
“We will never forget you,” said Hareth. She was dabbing her eyes, as was her daughter. Gilrath stood beside them. There was no sign of her son Thoron. Faramir wondered whether the youth was suffering the effects of over indulgence or just rude as usual. Aragorn and Faramir kissed the ladies on the brow in farewell.
“It was a lucky day when you came to our village,” said Finrod, coming forward to shake Aragorn’s hand. “I wish you and your son could stay longer with us.”
“I wish we could stay too, but our wives await us in the City,” Aragorn told him.
“Hmm,” said Beleg, grudgingly. ”I suppose you just about made up for all the damage you caused!”
“They repaid us a hundredfold!” Tasariel interrupted. She thrust a parchment into Aragorn’s hand. “Here are the recipes for the salves you requested of me. I have put a little something for you to take home with you in your packs.”
Impulsively, Aragorn embraced the Healer, and Faramir did likewise. She had become dear to them over the past few days.
“I promise we will return one day,” said Aragorn rather gruffly. ”Farewell!”
“May the Valar bless your journey!” said Tasariel.
Almost the entire village watched as Aragorn and Faramir mounted their horses and rode away. Several times they looked back and waved.
000
Aragorn and Faramir rode steadily until the sun was directly overhead. They halted for a brief respite and to rest the horses. Looking in their packs, they found Tasariel had provided luncheon for them both along with two enormous cheeses and threepots of her salves.
“I am looking forward to sharing this cheese with Arwen,” said Aragorn. ”It is as good as anything I ate at Rivendell!”
“Éowyn will love the cheese too,” said Faramir. ”She is forever saying the cheeses in Minas Tirith compare poorly with those of Edoras.”
“I hope you can persuade your lady to visit the city,” said Aragorn. “I know you will be eager to ride to Emyn Arnen to be reunited with her, but I should like it very much if we could all spend some time together. I should like to see Elbeth again too.”
“Elbeth misses her ‘Strider’ very much,” said Faramir. ”She used to ask about you almost every day.”
Their lunch finished, the two friends remounted their horses and rode on. This day followed uncomfortably warm after the sunlit coolness of yesterday; and the sun blazed down upon them relentlessly. Even though they were following the course of the river, it became uncomfortably hot. Both men kept pausing to wipe their sweating brows and cast longing looks at the water. As soon as they reached a secluded spot, Aragorn reined in Roheryn. ”Shall we have a quick swim?” he suggested to Faramir.
“There is nothing I should like better!” said the Steward, dismounting from Zachus. He walked stiffly once his feet reached the ground.
“Does your ankle pain you, ion nîn?” enquired Aragorn.
“No, but it is swollen a little in the heat, I think,” said the Steward, rummaging in their packs for towels and clean linens. “I must have danced on it too much last night.” He flopped down on the bank and started to unlace his boots.
“The cool water will do it good,” said Aragorn, idly observing a family of ducks as they swam past. Unlacing his shirt, he drew it over his head and tossed it to one side. . “Come on!” he called to Faramir, turning to face him. “Hurry up and undress; the water will refresh us.”
Faramir pulled off his socks and tossed them and his boots to one side. He turned towards Aragorn to answer him, then leapt to his feet, staring at him in amazement as if transfixed.
“What is the matter?” Aragorn exclaimed, “Are you well, ion nîn?”
TBC
Farewell to barn and stack and tree - A.E. Houseman – A Shropshire lad
With grateful thanks to Raksha
Faramir woke with a start. For a moment he felt confused, wondering what had could have roused him in the middle of the night. The moon had gone behind a cloud, leaving the sky pitch black. All was still; not even the hooting of an owl disturbed the silence.
His stomach-ache had gone, and he was curled up comfortably at Aragorn’s side. He started as a truly dreadful noise assailed his ears. Then he realised, Aragorn was snoring at a truly ear shattering volume. Without thinking, Faramir instinctively dug his elbow in the direction of the King's ribs.
Faramir groaned inwardly. Since his ordeal, Aragorn was afraid of the dark. Just as the villagers had finally realised his lord’s true worth and come to respect him, they would now all be roused from their beds if Aragorn started to cry out. Tasariel would understand, but the others might again view Aragorn with suspicion, or even scorn. The villagers worked hard and did not take kindly to being roused from their beds, especially not after tonight when the wine had flowed so freely. Faramir could only hope his friend had not been dreaming. He was vastly relieved when Aragorn simply grunted in his sleep and shifted away from the assailing elbow.
The Steward wondered if he should move several feet away from Aragorn in case the pitch darkness prompted another of the King’s nightmares, and he ended up with a black eye as a result. However, he was comfortable where he was and reluctant to disturb Aragorn.
Faramir decided to hope for the best and tried settle back to sleep, his thoughts turning to Éowyn and Elestelle. He wondered how they might be faring. Maybe his daughter would have learned how to crawl? He wondered when his little girl would run to greet him saying "Ada", and found himself grinning at the thought. Elestelle appeared to have a quick ear for learning. He wished he could ask his uncle if he remembered at what age he and Boromir had started to walk; but Imrahil had refused all contact with him since Faramir’s seeming treachery.
Faramir tried to banish such sorrowful thoughts from his mind and go back to sleep. They had a long ride ahead on the morrow if they would reach Minas Tirith by nightfall. Briefly Faramir felt a stab of envy. The Queen would be waiting to greet her lord, while he would have to retire to a lonely bed before he could join Éowyn and Elestelle at Emyn Arnen. He hoped he could persuade his wife to stay in Minas Tirith for a while. Faramir’s thoughts started to wander as he drifted again towards sleep.
Suddenly, another loud snore jolted him back to full wakefulness. Faramir sighed in exasperation. Sorely tempted though he was to nudge Aragorn awake, he dreaded how his lord would react in this pitch darkness. Pulling his blanket over his ears, Faramir tried again to sleep. He would have to wait until there was some light before he dared to awaken his friend.
“Faramir?”
He froze in dismay when he heard Aragorn’s voice, fearing the King would start to panic. Yet Aragorn's voice sounded calm, just somewhat bewildered.
“I am here beside you, mellon nîn. You woke yourself up with your snoring!” Faramir stretched out his hand and laid it reassuringly on Aragorn’s shoulder.
“I was dreaming that the people were cheering us. We were not here, though, but in Minas Tirith. Arwen was there and she was so proud of me!”
“A good dream then?” Faramir sighed with relief.
“A very pleasant dream indeed. I long to see my beloved. Yet, I would not have missed these past days for all of Smaug’s treasure! I hope we can do it again in future.”
“I would gladly miss the bite of Shelob's spawn!” Faramir replied wryly.
“I did not mean that!” Aragorn retorted, ”I meant that I hope we can return to being simple Rangers together again when our duties permit. Even sleeping on the ground feels good when you do not have to do it in the winter!” He yawned sleepily and pulled his blanket more closely around him.
“I should like that very much.” The simple words were insufficient to convey Faramir’s delight that this first camping trip with the King would not be the last. He had always dreamed of having a father who who would accept him as himself rather than as Boromir's younger brother, a father with whom he could let down his guard.
Aragorn made no reply. He had fallen asleep again and was starting to snore even more loudly than before.
Faramir struggled to patiently endure the racket, this time folding his blanket double before burying his head beneath it. He idly wondered if dragons snored; and if so, did they make such a noise? Faramir feared that the whole village was likely to be roused by this racket. "Aragorn!” he hissed, ”wake up!”
“What is it?” Aragorn asked sleepily.
“You are snoring again!” Faramir grumbled. “How can I sleep if you make such a noise? I do not want to be too tired to ride home tomorrow!”
“My Rangers never complained!” Aragorn retorted.
“They must have been deaf or had some special Northern Númenorean trait that we poor folk of the South lack!” Faramir replied. "A marvel you did not alert every Orc in the Northern lands to your presence! Unless they all fled in terror from such a cacophony!"
“Arwen never complains either,” Aragorn added smugly.
“Well you can snore all you wish tomorrow night then!” said Faramir. “Lie on your side; then maybe we can both rest!”
Wanting nothing more than to return to sleep, Aragorn did as he was told. He reached for his blanket only to grab Faramir’s in the dark
“You have taken my blanket now!” Faramir complained.
“I am sorry,” Aragorn said contritely,” I could not see. It is pitch dark! He sat up suddenly, realising the implications.
“Yes, I know. I should not have disturbed you,“ Faramir said contritely. His complaints now seemed very petty. He feared his judgement had been somewhat clouded by all the good wine he had consumed earlier.
“I slept in the dark and I had no nightmares!” Aragorn whispered, hardly able to believe it.
“I believe you are healing at last, mellon nîn.” Faramir was grateful that the darkness hid the tears of joy that started to roll down his cheeks. He did not want Aragorn to know that he had often despaired of ever seeing him restored to his old self again. He reached out to hug his friend; only for their noses to bang together in the darkness. They both burst out laughing until they shook with mirth. Hastily they put their hands over their mouths, so as not to wake the villagers.
When their mirth finally subsided they settled to rest again. Just before he drifted into sleep, Faramir noticed the comfortingly familiar scent of athelas and other healing herbs again surrounded Aragorn. From the moment Faramir had first inhaled the healing fragrance of athelas; he had felt secure. All was well in his world once more; Gondor had her King restored to health; he was reconciled with the man he loved as a father, and very soon Faramir would be reunited with his beloved lady and their daughter. Utterly content, he settled against his friend’s shoulder and let himself fall into a deep and dreamless sleep.
The cock’s crow went unheeded the next morning while the sun was already high in the sky before the villagers emerged from their huts, many yawning and complaining of headaches and stomach pains after their over indulgences of the previous night. Tasariel was much in demand and bustled hither and thither dispensing peppermint tea to the children and a mixture of milk thistle and willow bark to the adults.
Breakfast was a fairly subduedaffair with few of the adults having much appetite for the crusty bread and creamy cheese that was served. Aragorn and Faramir made themselves eat, knowing it would be many hours before they reached home.
Tasariel smiled at them approvingly. “It seems I have succeeded in fattening you two up a little!” she said. “Now don’t go and starve yourselves again in the City!”
“I promise you, we will not go hungry, Mistress,” said Aragorn. “Not that the fare in Minas Tirith is as hearty as yours! The farmers should take some of their produce to sell at the City market.”
“I doubt the grand folks there would like our simple fare,” Borlach said doubtfully.
“I assure you, Master Borlach, that this food is fit for the table of the King himself!” Faramir said solemnly.
Tasariel’s dark eyes twinkled. “I will take you at your word, Master Falborn,” she said.
Aragorn stared intently at his plate while struggling to suppress his mirth.
Once the meal was concluded, Aragorn and Faramir gathered their possessions together and prepared to take their leave of Celonhaer. Now that the moment of departure drew close, they realised they were going to miss these simple people.
“We thank you for your hospitality and kindness,” Aragorn told Borlach. “Now, do not forget that if any ills trouble your people, you should send to Minas Tirith for help. I will see that your message reaches the King’s ear. You have my promise.”
“I will indeed, masters,” said Borlach. “Remember, we now consider you as part of Celonhaer. You will always be welcome here and we hope you will return.”
“I fear our tasks in the City take much of our time, Master Borlach,” said Aragorn. ”I give you my word, though, that when our duties permit we will visit you again one day.”
“We will never forget you,” said Hareth. She was dabbing her eyes, as was her daughter. Gilrath stood beside them. There was no sign of her son Thoron. Faramir wondered whether the youth was suffering the effects of over indulgence or just rude as usual. Aragorn and Faramir kissed the ladies on the brow in farewell.
“It was a lucky day when you came to our village,” said Finrod, coming forward to shake Aragorn’s hand. “I wish you and your son could stay longer with us.”
“I wish we could stay too, but our wives await us in the City,” Aragorn told him.
“Hmm,” said Beleg, grudgingly. ”I suppose you just about made up for all the damage you caused!”
“They repaid us a hundredfold!” Tasariel interrupted. She thrust a parchment into Aragorn’s hand. “Here are the recipes for the salves you requested of me. I have put a little something for you to take home with you in your packs.”
Impulsively, Aragorn embraced the Healer, and Faramir did likewise. She had become dear to them over the past few days.
“I promise we will return one day,” said Aragorn rather gruffly. ”Farewell!”
“May the Valar bless your journey!” said Tasariel.
Almost the entire village watched as Aragorn and Faramir mounted their horses and rode away. Several times they looked back and waved.
000
Aragorn and Faramir rode steadily until the sun was directly overhead. They halted for a brief respite and to rest the horses. Looking in their packs, they found Tasariel had provided luncheon for them both along with two enormous cheeses and threepots of her salves.
“I am looking forward to sharing this cheese with Arwen,” said Aragorn. ”It is as good as anything I ate at Rivendell!”
“Éowyn will love the cheese too,” said Faramir. ”She is forever saying the cheeses in Minas Tirith compare poorly with those of Edoras.”
“I hope you can persuade your lady to visit the city,” said Aragorn. “I know you will be eager to ride to Emyn Arnen to be reunited with her, but I should like it very much if we could all spend some time together. I should like to see Elbeth again too.”
“Elbeth misses her ‘Strider’ very much,” said Faramir. ”She used to ask about you almost every day.”
Their lunch finished, the two friends remounted their horses and rode on. This day followed uncomfortably warm after the sunlit coolness of yesterday; and the sun blazed down upon them relentlessly. Even though they were following the course of the river, it became uncomfortably hot. Both men kept pausing to wipe their sweating brows and cast longing looks at the water. As soon as they reached a secluded spot, Aragorn reined in Roheryn. ”Shall we have a quick swim?” he suggested to Faramir.
“There is nothing I should like better!” said the Steward, dismounting from Zachus. He walked stiffly once his feet reached the ground.
“Does your ankle pain you, ion nîn?” enquired Aragorn.
“No, but it is swollen a little in the heat, I think,” said the Steward, rummaging in their packs for towels and clean linens. “I must have danced on it too much last night.” He flopped down on the bank and started to unlace his boots.
“The cool water will do it good,” said Aragorn, idly observing a family of ducks as they swam past. Unlacing his shirt, he drew it over his head and tossed it to one side. . “Come on!” he called to Faramir, turning to face him. “Hurry up and undress; the water will refresh us.”
Faramir pulled off his socks and tossed them and his boots to one side. He turned towards Aragorn to answer him, then leapt to his feet, staring at him in amazement as if transfixed.
“What is the matter?” Aragorn exclaimed, “Are you well, ion nîn?”
TBC
Saturday, September 27, 2008
The Storm
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
O my soul’s joy,
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven! - William Shakespeare (1564–1616), British dramatist, poet. Othello, in Othello, act 2, sc. 1, l. 185-9.
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Aragorn paced restlessly across the chamber, oblivious to the fine tapestries and furniture that adorned it. The room felt oppressively stuffy after a day of humid heat.
A summer storm now raged outside in the gathering dusk, the wind and rain beating fiercely against the windows. Lightening flashed against the darkening sky, while overhead the thunder roared like an angry dragon. How many times had he craved shelter when the elements raged outside? How often had he envied the Bree folk safe and dry in their snug houses? He had lost count long ago. Now he lived in sumptuous surroundings, well protected from the wind and rain. Yet, he found he missed them! Somehow, he felt less than fully alive, sheltered as he now was from nature’s fury.
“You remind me of a wild horse, chomping at the bit,” said Arwen, looking up from her embroidery. ”Go and get some fresh air, ere you wear a hole in the carpet!”
“My guards would never let me!” Aragorn said glumly.
“What became of the Ranger I married?” asked the Queen. ”You spent many a year evading being seen, if you so chose. It should cause you little difficulty in slipping past the guards unnoticed!”
“Your words are wise, vanimelda,” said Aragorn, kissing her tenderly. Snatching up his cloak, and pulling the hood closely around his face, he slipped through the maze of corridors, skilfully dodging his guards. He made his way outside, silent and stealthy as a cat.
The King walked briskly until he came to a secluded corner of the Citadel gardens. The thunder and lightening had ceased now, leaving in its wake heavy, drenching rain and a refreshing stiff breeze.
Aragorn cast aside his cloak and lifted his face towards the heavens, rejoicing in the feel of the cool water as it ran down his face. His hair was soon drenched and plastered to his face, but he cared not.
Soon his clothing was soaked. Cold rivulets of rainwater trickled down his neck. Impulsively, he peeled off his tunic and shirt, allowing the rain to run freely down his bare chest and back. He closed his eyes. The breeze gusted fiercely against his bare skin. It seemed almost to caress him, making him feel invigorated and truly alive. He felt as if he could dance with the sheer ecstasy of feeling as one with nature; a child of wind, and storm and sky
Suddenly, his keen senses heard a twig cracking, as if trodden underfoot. Startled, he opened his eyes and made to snatch up his discarded clothing. It would not do at all for a King to be caught like this, half naked and dripping. The servants and nobility would think their new lord a madman!
“Estel! I could not resist joining you.”
It was Arwen. She came barefoot, dropping her cloak at her feet to reveal a simple linen gown beneath.
“Beloved, you surprised me!”
Arwen laughed, a sweet musical tone that always made her husband’s heart soar. ”A Peredhil can be as stealthy as a Ranger, and even closer to nature,” she said. ”At Imladris I would dance beneath the waterfall and revel in the feel of the spray. Come, dance with me!” She pulled him close, her breath warm against his skin.
Aragorn kicked off his boots and they laughingly began to dance across the grass, oblivious of the downpour. Slowly the rain ceased. The moon emerged from behind the scudding clouds, bathing the dancers in a silver glow.
Aragorn studied his wife’s lovely features. She looked fairer than ever in the moonlight, her hair dishevelled and damp, while her gown clung becomingly to her graceful figure.
Suddenly they stopped dancing. Breathlessly, they stood gazing at each other. Aragorn pulled his wife close and kissed her. She returned the kiss, her slender fingers caressing his skin, her warmth and nearness setting his body ablaze. The tempest in the heavens had abated, but nature had kindled another storm within their hearts, one of a very different kind, but no less fierce in its passion.
A/N This was the sole entry for a contest with the theme of “Nature” as the challenge.
The events take place a few weeks after Aragorn and Arwen’s marriage.
I have posted the first chapter of a new angst laden story “Dies Irae” on this site.
These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
O my soul’s joy,
If after every tempest come such calms,
May the winds blow till they have wakened death!
And let the labouring bark climb hills of seas
Olympus-high, and duck again as low
As hell’s from heaven! - William Shakespeare (1564–1616), British dramatist, poet. Othello, in Othello, act 2, sc. 1, l. 185-9.
With thanks to Raksha and Deandra
Aragorn paced restlessly across the chamber, oblivious to the fine tapestries and furniture that adorned it. The room felt oppressively stuffy after a day of humid heat.
A summer storm now raged outside in the gathering dusk, the wind and rain beating fiercely against the windows. Lightening flashed against the darkening sky, while overhead the thunder roared like an angry dragon. How many times had he craved shelter when the elements raged outside? How often had he envied the Bree folk safe and dry in their snug houses? He had lost count long ago. Now he lived in sumptuous surroundings, well protected from the wind and rain. Yet, he found he missed them! Somehow, he felt less than fully alive, sheltered as he now was from nature’s fury.
“You remind me of a wild horse, chomping at the bit,” said Arwen, looking up from her embroidery. ”Go and get some fresh air, ere you wear a hole in the carpet!”
“My guards would never let me!” Aragorn said glumly.
“What became of the Ranger I married?” asked the Queen. ”You spent many a year evading being seen, if you so chose. It should cause you little difficulty in slipping past the guards unnoticed!”
“Your words are wise, vanimelda,” said Aragorn, kissing her tenderly. Snatching up his cloak, and pulling the hood closely around his face, he slipped through the maze of corridors, skilfully dodging his guards. He made his way outside, silent and stealthy as a cat.
The King walked briskly until he came to a secluded corner of the Citadel gardens. The thunder and lightening had ceased now, leaving in its wake heavy, drenching rain and a refreshing stiff breeze.
Aragorn cast aside his cloak and lifted his face towards the heavens, rejoicing in the feel of the cool water as it ran down his face. His hair was soon drenched and plastered to his face, but he cared not.
Soon his clothing was soaked. Cold rivulets of rainwater trickled down his neck. Impulsively, he peeled off his tunic and shirt, allowing the rain to run freely down his bare chest and back. He closed his eyes. The breeze gusted fiercely against his bare skin. It seemed almost to caress him, making him feel invigorated and truly alive. He felt as if he could dance with the sheer ecstasy of feeling as one with nature; a child of wind, and storm and sky
Suddenly, his keen senses heard a twig cracking, as if trodden underfoot. Startled, he opened his eyes and made to snatch up his discarded clothing. It would not do at all for a King to be caught like this, half naked and dripping. The servants and nobility would think their new lord a madman!
“Estel! I could not resist joining you.”
It was Arwen. She came barefoot, dropping her cloak at her feet to reveal a simple linen gown beneath.
“Beloved, you surprised me!”
Arwen laughed, a sweet musical tone that always made her husband’s heart soar. ”A Peredhil can be as stealthy as a Ranger, and even closer to nature,” she said. ”At Imladris I would dance beneath the waterfall and revel in the feel of the spray. Come, dance with me!” She pulled him close, her breath warm against his skin.
Aragorn kicked off his boots and they laughingly began to dance across the grass, oblivious of the downpour. Slowly the rain ceased. The moon emerged from behind the scudding clouds, bathing the dancers in a silver glow.
Aragorn studied his wife’s lovely features. She looked fairer than ever in the moonlight, her hair dishevelled and damp, while her gown clung becomingly to her graceful figure.
Suddenly they stopped dancing. Breathlessly, they stood gazing at each other. Aragorn pulled his wife close and kissed her. She returned the kiss, her slender fingers caressing his skin, her warmth and nearness setting his body ablaze. The tempest in the heavens had abated, but nature had kindled another storm within their hearts, one of a very different kind, but no less fierce in its passion.
A/N This was the sole entry for a contest with the theme of “Nature” as the challenge.
The events take place a few weeks after Aragorn and Arwen’s marriage.
I have posted the first chapter of a new angst laden story “Dies Irae” on this site.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
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 13th 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 laugh 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 before!”
"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 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 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.
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 13th 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 laugh 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 before!”
"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 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 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.
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