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.

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.

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.

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

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.