Story Downloaded from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net)

Title: The Falcon and the Star (#2864)
Author: RakshaTheDemon
Chapters: 5

Archive: Tolkien
Category: Lord of the Rings
Description: It is March 15, 3019. Aragorn craves rest after the longest week in his life; but is called by Gandalf into the White City on an errand of mercy. One weary warrior meets another in this visit to the Houses of Healing and other, farther places; and their lives will never be the same. (Mostly) from Aragorn's POV. Some dialogue from ROTK included by necessity. MEFA 2006 First Place: Times: The Great Years: Gondor.
Published: 31 Jul 2006
Updated: 31 Jul 2006
Warnings:
Type: Drama
Characters: Aragorn; Faramir


Chapter 1 - Prologue

I. PROLOGUE:


Hear my prayer…and let my cry come unto thee…
For my days are consumed like smoke, and my bones are burned as an hearth Psalm 102 (1 and 3)




I walk across a darkling plain that is lit only by distant fires. The heat of the rocky surface stabs through the thick soles of my boots. When I stumble, I must stand up quickly, or my hands blister as I stop my fall on the rocks. The flames at least advance slowly and give the only light to be found in this place. When I turn to see the fires, perhaps half a league off, they fill my heart with great fear. How can I smell the distant smoke from here? It carries a charnel odor, of burning flesh. What dead have been burned, and who set the fires? The smell makes me want to flee. That urgency perhaps is good; it keeps me on my feet. I am parched, and there is no water anywhere. I have thirsted before. I can bear this heat. It would take several days to die of thirst. I have been here a day, a little more, perhaps…or is it merely a few hours? I truly do not know. At least my wound bleeds not, nor pains me much. Who drew forth the arrow? There was an arrow, was there not? So hot, it is hard to think clearly. No matter. I keep moving. The heat, the flames…they are not the worst thing.

I am not alone. Fell voices cry in the air, lamenting and cozening and threatening. And there is a voice I know all too well, and would answer, but I cannot puzzle out from where he calls. Yet since he calls, I know he still lives; and if he lives, and I can hear him, I will find him. There are other, bothersome, wights. But those fell presences are not the worst thing.

I know not where I am. It is troubling. When I try to get my bearings, try to remember exactly how long I have been here, the horizon blurs, the flames dim and the darkness recedes…shadows enmesh me as if I were walking in a cloud. The cursed fog leeches my strength, wracks me with heat and strange cold. And then all swirls about me and I am once more adrift in this fire-scored vale. Have I come this way before? The lack of direction disheartens me, yet it is still not the worst thing.

I try not to dwell on what has happened to my men, my home. There are no signs of the troops I led back across the Pelennor. We were so close to the City; we had fought for every step between the Forts and the Great Gate, paid that toll in blood, our foes' and our own. I fought a Southron captain; we were both mounted, and the arrow struck me. Is that not what happened? I thought I heard a trumpet sound, and Dol Amroth’s call, before I went down. That time is muddled in my head. I fell, and then I was here. I must believe that the swan-knights brought my company home…must believe that home is still there and not over-run by merciless orcs and trolls and cruel men. No, no. If I ponder such horror, I will weep, and stop in my tracks; and I dare not falter. There must be a way to leave this place! To go home... Still, even my fear and longing are not the worst things.

The worst thing is what I cannot see, no matter how hard I crane my neck to search the firmament. When the sullen clouds part, the skies are empty. Has the Enemy won then, seized back his Ring from those poor halflings whom I let go to Mordor with only a murderous guide to aid them? And if he won, did the Enemy claw the sun and moon from the heavens in his victory? I am lost, with no knowledge of place or time. And there are no stars. I shudder again and keep my eyes ahead, not look up lest I be overcome by dread. By the Valar who exist somewhere in a place still cool and green… If I die, let it be with the stars above my head. I will keep going, I will fight until I can no longer stand; but O, Elbereth, let me see the stars again!


Chapter 2 - Part I

II. PART ONE


How are the mighty fallen in the midst of the battle! 2 Samuel 1:25




To say that I was weary was to say that Arwen was pleasant to look upon, or that Pippin was a curious hobbit. In eight short days, I had brought the army of the Dead to Pelargir, taken the Umbari ships and sailed them to the Harlond, where, with a force of a few thousand men of Gondor, thirty Dúnedain, two Peredhil, an Elf and a Dwarf, we surprised the assembled might of Mordor and turned the tide of battle. I had cleaved my way through hosts of orcs, trolls, Southrons and Easterlings to Éomer's side and we clasped hands amidst the carnage, as I had promised him we would. After the battle-rage had faded from my blood, and after I had rejoiced in the saving of Minas Tirith, my heart had been stricken by the numbers of the dead. Our victory was bitterly won. Théoden King had fallen, fighting bravely, I was told; rumors heralded that he, or another Rider, had slain the Witch-King. The air was filled with the smell of smoke. The blood of too many men had been shed, including my own kin.

After sunset, I could finally leave the care of the living and the dead to others and seek solitude in my tent. Before they left to aid in the burning of orc-corpses, my foster-brothers had planted the banner of the Dúnedain at the entry. The other banner, that announced my kingship of this war-torn realm, would be unfurled again only when Sauron was overthrown. I wanted nothing more than to cast myself down on my bedroll and sleep through the night. My hands shook so hard that I could barely hold the tin cup into which I poured what little miruvor I still had. I did not feel like a king returning in triumph to his lost kingdom, or even Captain Thorongil coming back to the City that had acclaimed him. I was simply a tired soldier who knew that this great battle brought the forces of Light only a momentary reprieve from the Darkness that threatened us all.

I am not unused to war. But that night it seemed like my long life had been but a series of battles and losses: of comrades, friends, kindred. My father, whom I could not even remember. My mother, faded and gone before her time, worn by my constant peril. Ecthelion, Steward of Gondor, who treated me like a son. Boromir, whom I did not reach in time to save. He should have been here in this tent, drinking with me to celebrate the deliverance of his beloved White City. And Halbarad, my valiant cousin, my friend since childhood, who journeyed South for my sake and fell on the Pelennor while bearing the standard proclaiming me king. O, but I was tired of the battles, the deaths! And there would be more to come.

I yearned for Imladris, that green and fair valley never stained by blood or darkened by the Shadow. And Arwen. I wanted to see her, to hear her voice. I wished that Elrond, who had soothed so many of my youthful cares, were here. Hot tears burned unshed in my eyes. Could I spare the time for the respite of sleep? Perhaps I would dream of my lady, so far from me. At least, being far from me, she was far from strife and therefore safe.

As I rubbed my tired eyes, Gandalf entered the tent. He too must have seen hardship of late. His fair white robes were tattered at the edges and dulled by the residue of smoke. His face was shadowed and his staff was gone, yet his eyes brightened when he saw me.

"Gandalf; I am glad to see you unhurt." I greeted my old friend. "Please, take a seat." I rose so he could rest his older bones on the stool, then sat down on the ground.

"Alas, there is no time for sitting or taking of ease." Gandalf said gravely.

No time? Surely a mere hour's rest could be allowed! But when I looked up at the wizard’s face and saw the burden of care etched upon it, I was ashamed to have thought first of my own comfort.

"What is amiss?"

"Great grief has come to pass within the City as well as without. The Steward of Gondor lies in the Houses of Healing, close to death."

"Denethor is dying?" It had been nigh on forty years since I had last laid eyes upon Ecthelion‘s son. Our parting, like most of our dealings together, had been respectful yet sharpened by his veiled rancor like the tingling in the air before a storm. I had not looked forward to the prospect of meeting him again when I returned as Isildur‘s Heir. Still, Denethor was steward in the king's absence, and long a bulwark of Gondor. I had always hoped that we might one day find a way to make our peace. He deserved the courtesy due his rank, and the goodwill I owed any son of Gondor. If he was soon to die, I should at least speak to him, assure him that we would hold the City.

"No," answered Gandalf, to my surprise. His head was bowed. For a moment I saw more distress than my ancient and more than mortal friend usually revealed. "Denethor fell earlier this day. I speak of his younger son, Faramir, who is Steward now."

Having left Gondor before Faramir’s birth, I knew only what our lost comrade had told us of his brother, which was little. While the hobbits had merrily chattered of their parents, siblings, grandparents and second cousins twice removed during the days of our Fellowship, Boromir had guarded his own family memories like secret treasure. He had spoken only briefly of his younger brother, with an almost wistful longing unusual in so stern a warrior. I had my own recollection of Boromir’s kin, from the days when Ecthelion had generously welcomed Thorongil to the steward‘s own home and hearth. Now Ecthelion’s line was sadly diminished. Faramir, whom I knew not, was the last of that proud house.

“This is grievous news for Gondor,“ I said. Suddenly I felt every one of my eighty-eight years. So many brave men had fallen, while I lived on, growing old and gnarled like a yew tree! I sighed and bent my head.

I heard Gandalf speak again: “Other lands will grieve this day. Meriadoc and the Lady Éowyn also lie near to death in the Houses of Healing.”

The fell tidings dispelled my self-regard. “Merry is wounded?” I asked. “And how did the Lady of Rohan come to harm?”

"She was found on the Pelennor, attired as a Rider of Rohan. To shorten a longer tale, the Lady and Merry were both wounded by the Witch-King ere he fell. They lie in a swoon, chilled and weakened, sinking into nightmare. The Healers call it the Black Shadow."

"Merry and Éowyn should never have come to the field of battle, much less have fallen on it!” I exclaimed. Ill was this day’s harvest indeed! The Black Shadow, which we in the North oft called the Black Breath, was an evil pestilence, usually deadly for those in whom it took hold. I thought of the cheerful hobbit and Éomer’s fair sister, shriveling and dying like flowers in winter’s first frost. My heart began to pound. I prayed that the healers were wrong, that Merry and Éowyn suffered from some lesser ailment. Recalling Gandalf’s concern for Denethor’s son, I asked: “And the young Steward, Boromir's brother? Was he hurt in the day's battle as well?"

My old friend sighed deeply. “Nay. Faramir fell to an arrow two days ago, leading the retreat from the outer defenses after they were over-run. Now he burns with a fever that does not abate. I fear that his sickness comes also from the Shadow.” Gandalf’s voice dropped. “The Healers say that there is no hope for him, or Éowyn or Merry, save perhaps one."

"I will come,” I vowed, feeling my aching muscles protest as I rose, "I am not a master of the healing arts, but I have some knowledge and will do what I can for them. What is this one hope the healers mention?"

Gandalf finally smiled again. "Why, you, of course. They say that the hands of a king are the hands of a healer."

"I would hear whatever news you might have,” I countered. I sensed that Gandalf had not told me the entire truth of this tale, or much else that had passed while I had taken the Paths of the Dead. And I was in no mood to speak of kingship.

“First, you should hear the word that Faramir brought us from Ithilien: Frodo and Sam are alive, and nearing Mordor; with luck they have reached it by now.“

“That is good news indeed!” I was newly grateful to Denethor‘s son for the hopeful tidings he had brought us. “Gandalf, tell me all.”

I found my cloak and hastily fastened it with the Elfstone brooch. We left the tent and made good speed through the City’s broken gates and up her winding circles. As we walked, Gandalf gave the full account of Faramir’s message: how he had succored the hobbits in Ithilien and sent them away provisioned, knowing that Frodo carried the Ring.

Gandalf also told me the sorry tale of Denethor’s last days and his fateful use of the Stone of Anor. I had borne the searing touch of Sauron’s mind but once, when I had challenged him through the Orthanc-stone. It had taken all my power, and a glimpse of Elendil’s sword, to rout that vast and hideous strength. Had Denethor’s pride led him to grapple with our Enemy through the Stone over the long years, and believe he would prevail unscathed? That shameful death, the blood spilled in the Hallows - more trophies for Sauron, curse him! Remembering the proud and strong lord I had once known, thinking of him now reduced to a mess of charred bones, I kicked out in vexation at lifeless pebbles in my path.

I expelled my ire with a sigh. There would be time later to mark Denethor’s passing, to mourn what had been, and what might have been. Denethor was beyond my help, but there were others whom I might yet aid.

We reached the door of the Houses of Healing at the same time as Éomer and Imrahil. The sea lord wondered who now ruled the City. As did I. Not until our Enemy was cast down would I think of any lordship beyond the Captaincy of the Dúnedain of Arnor. The prince’s notion that I should take up the City’s rule this very night was unwelcome. I felt no more or less a king than I had before the battle. For many long years I had awaited the right time to reclaim the throne of my distant fathers. It would not be well done to seize lordship here so soon after the death of the man who should have been my steward, while his heir lay wounded and fevered. Too many hearts were heavy with death and sorrow. Since my counsel was asked, I advised that Imrahil should rule the City until Faramir awoke; and that we should all defer to Gandalf‘s counsel.

I entered the House. There I saw, to my joy, an old - or rather a young and well-met - friend. Pippin stood inside the door, clad as a guard of the Citadel. He was hale and unmarked; though I thought I saw new sorrow in his face. Ever curious, he asked “Strider” to stay and exchange travelers’ tales. I would indeed grant his wish in the days to come - if we still lived! Imrahil suddenly challenged Pippin‘s use of that name, as if we all had nothing else to do than bicker about details. Imrahil had certainly cared little for rank when he had hailed me as Thorongil at battle’s end not so many hours past. But perhaps it was easier for him to talk of titles than dwell on the changes this day had brought. Whatever his reasons, the prince’s words demanded an answer. My hand strayed toward the brooch that held the Elessar. I remembered that the Lady of a house far older than Dol Amroth had given me the stone and bound it to my own destiny. I closed my hand around the Elfstone and turned back to Imrahil.

“Truly said, for in the high tongue of old I am Elessar, the Elfstone, and the Renewer,” I told the prince. If he wanted titles and names, I had more than enough to spare! I unfastened the brooch so that Imrahil could see the brilliant green stone in the lamplight. “But Strider shall be the name of my house, if that ever be established. In the high tongue it will not sound so ill, and Telcontar I will be and all the heirs of my body.” There! It was said. I would keep the name of Strider, as a sign of my long travels, for better or ill.

“Let me see these wounded folk,” I entreated, and refastened the brooch to my cloak. Gandalf guided me toward the rooms of the three whom I had come to attend. As we walked, he spoke of the Lady Éowyn and Merry’s matchless deed on the Pelennor. I was amazed! That sorrowful scrap of a girl, aided by the small hobbit, had laid low the terrible lord of the Nazgûl himself? And yet, the unlikelihood of the deed eased my heart. Many songs would be sung of the shieldmaiden and the halfling who had slain the Witch-King. I hoped that they would live to hear such well-earned praise.

I prepared to judge my charges’ hurts, to better determine the strength of their will and learn if they could assist in their own healing. I must find athelas, fresh or recently culled. It was the only herb strong enough to counter the Shadow. I would have gone first to Merry, remembering Frodo‘s torment from his morgul-wound. But Gandalf insisted I come to the chamber of the Lord Faramir.

I approached the wounded man. Then I paused, shocked as I looked upon the new Steward of Gondor. For it was as if I beheld Denethor lying there: Denethor as he had appeared long ago, when we were both Captains of Gondor. Boromir had possessed his father’s lordly bearing, but he had been more sturdily built and somewhat broader of face. This younger son of Denethor seemed the very image of his father. He had the same black hair now lying lank on the pillow, similar dark-winged brows, along with Denethor’s high-bridged nose and strong chin. There was a look, even in his illness, of a proud falcon in that angular and familiar visage. I could imagine him waking to ask in Denethor’s peremptory voice what I was doing at his bedside.

Pulling back the coverlets and robe, I examined him. He was indeed fevered, his skin warm and soaked with sweat. He had taken an arrow wound to the left shoulder. I lifted the bandages and inspected the injury. The arrow had mercifully missed the heart and struck the collarbone. I carefully passed my hand along that bone, feeling for changes in the Elven-fashion, with my mind as well as my fingers. As I’d thought, there was a break. It was a simple fracture; but would curtail the use of Lord Faramir’s left arm for several weeks while the bone healed. He would have pain for many days, and must be made to keep his arm in a sling for many more, if he survived this night. The wound itself emitted neither the foul odor of infection nor the telltale chill of a Morgul weapon, and seemed to be mending well enough.

What then was the source of this fever? His body bore the usual lesser marks of battle, cuts and scrapes, all healing properly. I searched his head for any sign of damage and found none. Both his right arm and hip were sorely bruised, though not broken, probably from a fall. Throughout my examination, the son of Denethor lay still and silent. It seemed to take all his strength to breathe; and his breathing was very faint indeed. The Black Shadow usually chilled its victims. The fever’s presence could signify that he was fighting the blight’s advance. But he was failing fast, and I could not yet tell why.

Looking again on the young lord’s face, I noticed deep circles beneath his closed eyes. Gandalf had spoken of assault by the Nazgûl. Had he suffered some other hardship?

”Very well then, Captain” I spoke softly. “Let me see your quality.” Taking his hand in mine, I initiated a healer’s trance and opened the recent memories of Faramir of Gondor to my own mind:

I felt his grief for Boromir, like a wound that could not close, and the grim knowledge that all the hopes of his realm and his father were now vested in him alone.

I knew his certainty that there was little hope ahead, that the storm was coming, that his plans could only delay rather than prevent their fall. And I heard his silent vow to fight on, save as many of his people as he could.

I saw him find three strange wanderers in Ithilien - Frodo, Sam, and Sméagol! I trembled as the Ring called to him, and then I sighed with weary relief as he cast the temptation from his heart. His pity for Frodo’s dire mission moved me, and I was glad at the kindness he showed them in his friendship, as he renewed their spirits along with their provisions.

And then the darkness engulfed him on the Pelennor, with a terrible onslaught of Fell Riders swooping down on him and his party as they rode to Minas Tirith. My own body shivered as one of them dived for him, the screams piercing his heart, as a chill worse than any winter wind blasted forth from the shadowed Rider, freezing limbs and slowing heart. He gasped out the name of Elbereth then, again and again, each cry louder and braver. The very name of the Lady of the Stars lightened his limbs, and made the Rider recoil…Despite the remaining cold lingering within him, he turned his frightened horse back to his scattered men, sounding his horn and rallying them. He shot an arrow that wounded one of the Riders’ great flying beasts, but it was not enough to turn back the hideous flock. Then I exulted with his joy unlooked-for, as the winged shadows were repelled by a white rider on a silver horse, and the white rider was one he thought dead.

And I quivered with his sudden weariness, the coldness that abated but did not leave him, the numbness in his hands, the chill that seemed to strike behind his eyes like drops of freezing rain. He craved rest, and quiet, to try to rid his mind of the echo of that knife-edge scream, but he must first see to his men and then bring news to his lord. He hoped to snatch some food, perhaps a few hours’ rest.

A fainter memory lingered, of such coldness striking him before … in the long night at Osgiliath last summer, an evil, unseen presence lurking in the dark, a touch of this same frost.

The recollections flowed on like the bitter waters of the Morgulduin….

Though Faramir took refreshment in the White Tower, he found no rest there, only his father’s scorn over his release of the Ring-bearer. Denethor clung to his old mistrust of Gandalf and his new grief for Boromir’s death--and used both like whips to scourge his surviving son. The next morning Faramir left again, sent by his father on an ill-starred mission. Denethor had given his son neither a father’s blessing nor a commander’s encouragement. My heart grieved with Faramir’s sorrow. That parting was as bitter a wound as any to be dealt in battle.

Then he put aside his anguish and rode proudly to the Anduin. His last days’ memories were grim: watching his men die as they bravely resisted an enemy ten times their number at the Forts; striving to hold the retreat together as more and more of the foe poured through the breached Rammas; battling pace by pace across the Pelennor, cutting down all that came against him; praying he could last long enough to see his men reach the City Gates…But he grew ever more weary, the deathly cold sapping his strength. The sunless, sullen sky, all the time, night without dawn, wearied them all. And the Nazgûl had come again, their shrieks maddening the horses and men around him. Faramir had only a dim memory of the arrow that finally felled him; his rage at being so taken from his beleaguered men had loomed uppermost in his dimming perception.

I had shared enough of it.

Faramir had indeed been beset by the duress of long battle, well before the arrow had felled him. Through all the memories of this wayworn captain, a rare courage shone clearly, like a vein of mithril under dark waters. Few men would have had the strength to even think clearly amidst the Riders’ assault, much less shepherd others under the Ringwraiths’ attack. Faramir of Gondor had held a grim and steadfast resolve, even when facing hopeless odds. Yet fortitude would not suffice to save him now. The Black Breath had too deep a foothold in the wounded and weary man. It had touched him first but lightly, like a cold ghostly claw, during the battle of Osgiliath so many months ago. Then, in these last days, the Wraiths had blasted him again. Faramir already carried the blight when his father’s cold words drove him forth again the next morning. I could see Sauron’s evil at work here. Unable to overthrow Denethor’s will through the Anor-stone, the Enemy had struck at the steward’s only remaining son, to break what remained of Denethor’s heart and the City’s hope. And now Faramir’s spirit, the mind I should be able to touch in the present was gone from here, dragged deep into Shadow by the Enemy’s spite.

I rose. I must know if Merry and Éowyn could wait for healing, for the Steward lay in the gravest peril. At least I now knew that Faramir was not a man to surrender easily. But he was already close to death, and I knew not how long it would take to even find his captive soul, much less free him.

I found the Lady Éowyn’s memories burdened with despair. How could this young and fair daughter of kings have driven herself so hard in the pursuit of death? I regretted that her misplaced affection for me had added to her misery. Still, for all Éowyn’s sorrow, she had fought the fearsome Lord of the Nazgûl for love of Théoden King. Perhaps her embittered heart might yet be warmed, like an ice-covered tree that thaws and blooms in the spring. But first, her wounds must be mended, and her spirit drawn from the Shadow’s grip.

The hobbit’s recollections were of less somber a nature than the others; at least until Théoden fell and the Witch-king’s unleashed his evil breath upon Merry even as the hobbit bravely struck the wraith. Hobbits fall not easily into despair. This particular hobbit was well-named. His merry soul would heal easily, if I could but free him from the Enemy’s hold.

I had seen Elrond heal those tainted by the Enemy‘s minions and weapons. I remembered his delving deep into the shadow-world to retrieve Frodo, even while he used his hands to bring forth the splinter of the Morgul-blade from the hobbit’s body. I had felt the wraiths’ deathly touch myself, though I had moved too fast for their sickness to take hold. The Black Breath seized its victims with far greater speed here, so close to Sauron’s foul lair, than in the windswept wilds of the North. Now it had overtaken the Lady of Rohan, my brave friend Merry, and Denethor’s son. If unchecked, the Shadow’s accursed poison would harrow their souls as it killed their bodies.

I looked up to see Éomer, Gandalf, Imrahil, Pippin, and an elderly nurse eagerly awaiting my news. I wished I had more reassuring tidings for them. “Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me,” I said. “Would that Elrond were here, for he is the eldest of all our race, and has the greater power.” I sorely missed my foster-father’s presence. Elrond might be able to save these three valiant souls, but could I? I was tired. And never before had I gone so deep into the healing trance as would be needed to free them from the Shadow. I sighed softly. They must be saved; and it fell to me to do it. For I had the power, they had the need. And there was no duty I hated more, as captain, chieftain or healer, than giving tidings of death to folk whose loved ones had died in my charge.

Éomer must have heard me; for he quickly threw me a comradely glance. “First you must rest, surely, and at the least eat a little?” he suggested.

I would gladly follow his suggestion, since the healer‘s trance would soon leech even more of my strength! But the wounded ones could not wait on my taking rest or food. “Nay, for these three, and most soon for Faramir, time is running out. All speed is needed,” I answered. I deemed their Steward had at most two hours left to him. Éowyn would probably perish by midnight, followed soon after by poor Merry. But some time was better than none at all. Now, by the hope for which I was named, I knew there was a chance to save all three of them!

Despite my stated need for haste, it took precious minutes to impress the importance of procuring athelas upon the gabby old wise-woman. With some surprise, I realized that it was Ioreth, who had been a matron of the Houses in Ecthelion‘s time. Age had not slowed her tongue, nor her willingness to use it. After she had left at last, I returned to Faramir’s room and bade the other attendants heat some water in preparation for the herb’s usage. I sat again by the steward’s bedside and brushed his hair aside to feel his forehead. The heat of his skin had risen since last I touched him. But what was this? The man’s hair held a trace of something wet and slick. Then I remembered Gandalf’s account of Denethor’s madness. He had set his helpless son upon the pyre, poured oil on him and summoned a torch to set them both afire. I could not suppress a shiver. I have seen much of cruelty in my travels, from orcs, goblins, and even Men; yet this tale of Denethor’s fall troubled me greatly. I hoped indeed that Faramir had been too fevered to know of his father’s deeds.

Gandalf and Imrahil approached as well, their eyes fixed on the sick man. They both knew that Faramir was failing. Why had the nurse not returned with the athelas? Would the healers let their Steward die for want of it? Nay, that was over-harsh; the herb’s value was little known here. Some City-folk had kept the kingsfoil plant in their own homes, but only to freshen the air.

Gandalf sighed heavily, looking very old. There was one question I had not asked. Turning to the wizard, I said, “He is nearly spent, but this comes not from the wound.” I showed him and Imrahil the gash. “See! That is healing. Had he been smitten by some dart of the Nazgûl, as you thought, he would have died that night. This hurt was given by some Southron arrow, I would guess. Who drew it forth? Was it kept?”

As I refastened the bandage over the wound, the Prince recalled how he had drawn forth the arrow. He had thought the dart sent by one of the Nazgûl who had harried Faramir’s force from above. “How then do you read the matter?” Imrahil finished, his grey eyes beseeching me for hope I could not yet give.

“Weariness, grief for his father’s mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath,” I answered. “He is a man of staunch will, for already he had come close under the Shadow before ever he rode to battle under the out-walls. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to hold his outpost. Would that I had been here sooner!”

The herb-master appeared, only to announce that they kept no kingsfoil in the Houses of Healing. He sputtered on about the herb’s divers names, and recited the old rhyme about the strength of athelas in the king’s hand. Four pairs of eyes now regarded me expectantly: those of Gandalf, Imrahil, Pippin, and the dour City Guardsman who had apparently attached himself to Faramir’s side. I knew what the rhyme implied. Did they expect me to doff my cloak and reveal the shade of Isildur himself? I had not come here to be anyone’s king this night. I had come to heal these three stricken warriors. Without the athelas's special virtue, my chances of saving them worsened with every moment! Yet the longer I waited, the more my own weariness increased, dulling my wits when I needed them most. Soon I would have to go out and seek the kingsfoil myself! And I was needed here! Gandalf must have heard me hiss in frustration, for he turned on the herb-master and cried: “Then in the name of the king, go and find some old man of less lore and more wisdom who keeps some in his house!”

The herb-master departed. I looked once more upon Faramir’s face. It seemed to have greyed even more in the last few minutes, despite the feverish color in his cheeks. I could wait no longer to begin. I went to the basin and washed my hands with soap, noting that the water had cooled. I instructed Gandalf that the water must be boiled again; and that he should go out and fetch the athelas if it was not brought within an hour’s time.

I took several calming breaths, marshalling all my will and powers in quiet meditation as Elrond had taught me long ago.


Hail Estë, Healer of Hurts; to you I dedicate this work.

Thank you, Master Elrond, for fostering me, giving me your knowledge, and teaching me the skill to use it.

My thanks, Ecthelion, for treating me more like a son than a captain.

Denethor, would that I had come in time to save thee from despair! I could not heal thee; but I will heal thy son.

I am coming for you, Faramir, I gave one more silent vow. I will find you and bring you home.


As I bowed my head, I glimpsed the sparkle of the Elessar stone. Perhaps the Elven heirloom, borne long by my own lady and her wise foremother, would help, at least as a light in the darkness I must enter. Now was the time. I placed my hand once more on the brow of Faramir of Gondor, and began to call him, slowly loosing myself from the bounds of the Middle-earth, and drifting toward the place where he had been taken.


Chapter 3 - Part Two

III. PART TWO



Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 23:4




I traveled down, far down and away from the world of living things. The journey reminded me somewhat of a dive under the sea, if one continued down without the constraint caused by lack of air. There was also a track to follow, the trail of my quarry’s present mind, pulled mercilessly from his body by the Enemy. I knew not where I was, being suddenly surrounded by heavy mists and black shadows. I was still aware of a tether to our bodies in the waking world. That was a good thing; for I would need that tie to bring us both back.

“Faramir!” I called, as much to focus myself on his path as to send my voice to him.

The Elessar seemed to glow on my breast, bolstering my own hope in this gray wilderness. I pressed onward through the mists. There was no sun nor moon nor stars to guide me, only a narrow trail of the palest light that wound though the darkness. While I called Faramir’s name again, keeping his name and memory strong in my heart, the path would brighten and the shadows pull back a little.

I began to hear whispers, soft, sly ghostlike snippets of words, from behind the shadows. I whirled around to see who spoke, but beheld only mist and shadow. An evil trickle of laughter, as if spewed from a goblin’s throat, seemed to come from right behind me. Every Ranger’s instinct pressed me to draw sword or run for cover. But there was no cover to be had here; this place was not a forest.

I looked back; and realized to my dismay that the path of light was nearly engulfed by the shadows; and the pallid grey mists were falling around me.

“Faramir!” I called again, raising the memory of his fevered and tired face. My charge needed me. No one else could find him in this cursed place. I heard the elusive laughter once more. This time I did not turn.

“Go back, West-Man,” said a thin, sharp voice. “This is not yet your road. The son of Gondor is ours.”

“I think not,” I answered curtly. I drew Anduril, not questioning how it was here with me or whether it would actually draw blood in so strange a place. The sword of Elendil was mine; and it gave me strength. Better yet, it gave the Enemy’s lackeys fear. “By Elbereth, you shall not hinder me, creatures of darkness!” I swore. The Elessar glowed, its light shining on the sword I raised. Let Sauron’s pets chew on that! They fed on fear as midges feed on blood; but they would get nothing from me.

The path before me cleared and I hurried along it. I saw a brighter light at its end, glinting red and gold. I hastened, pausing now and again to call Faramir’s name. I heard no more from the sly devils. Perhaps more fearsome wights awaited me, but I cared not.

Then I heard a strange sound in this place of shadow-mire: A man’s voice raised in song. I could not yet discern the melody, for the voice was uneven and sang from far off, but still I knew the singer. I ran now, faster than I could in the waking world, my sword now sheathed, flying through the mist like an arrow through the air.

“Faramir!” I shouted. I put all my knowledge of the wounded Captain, all the warmth of Gandalf’s regard for him, and all the strength of his kinship with my lost comrade Boromir, into my voice. It was my loudest and clearest call yet, and seemed to echo along the road.

The mists parted, and I slowed, sensing a change. I had reached the end of this road. Now I stood atop a rocky outcrop, above a strange and sere valley. Below me stretched league after league of stone under a dark and starless sky. Flames and noisome gases flared throughout the place; it looked like Udûn itself. I had to remind myself that this dire realm was the work of Sauron‘s sorcery, not an actual land under the Sun and Moon. I looked out, and saw, far below me, the man I had come to find. Faramir of Gondor moved slowly through the terrible valley, flanked by strange, half-visible creatures out of nightmare. They would surge from the flames and the smoke, stabbing and clawing at the man. He gazed ahead, singing snatches of song. It was the prayer to Elbereth, sung in Sindarin from Imladris to Gondor by Elves and Dúnedain. As he sang, the demons retreated. His voice was ragged; and he seemed to fight for every breath. I could tell that he was exhausted by his erratic gait: he staggered, and sometimes struggled for balance.

Curiously, Faramir stopped singing and raised his head, looking and, it seemed to me, listening for something. A wraith creature that looked like a dragon-headed orc fell upon him, shoving him to the ground and slashing with its claws. Faramir rolled, but could not evade all the blows. Yet he managed to shout out the name of Elbereth, and began the song again; causing the monster to retreat.

My heart ached for Faramir as I watched him slowly sit up on his knees, his head bent. Then he rose stiffly and painfully to his feet, lifting up his head with a defiant, jerking motion. My respect for the Captain increased. Sorely beset though he was, he still had strength enough to fight despair. “I will not lose you too,” I vowed, not after so many had been lost, not after his brother had died in my arms. Gondor needed men of his ilk.

“Faramir!” I shouted with all my might.

He ceased the song then, and turned, cocking his head. He raised his eyes toward me. I could not clearly espy his face, but I saw him straighten, and start to hasten in my direction. “Father!” he called, to my great surprise. “Father, is that you?”

“Father!” He shouted again, breaking into an awkward trot. “I am coming, Father, do not fear! Stay there! I will come up to you!”

Of all the responses I had thought that a man weakened by the Black Breath and assailed by the Enemy’s minions in this otherworld might make to my call, confusing me with Denethor had been farthest from my mind. I suppose I did resemble Faramir’s father. Ecthelion used to remark the likeness and tease us both about it, prodding Denethor to glower even more when he looked upon me. Faramir’s own memory indicated that his congress with his father had not been easy in many years. Denethor had turned even more bitter towards his younger son since the older one had departed for Imladris, rebuffing Faramir’s counsel and devotion. Faramir had craved a farewell from his father. That unfulfilled wish was probably strong in Faramir now, as he saw from afar someone who looked like the father he did not yet know was dead.

At least the sight of one he thought was his father seemed to have given Faramir new strength, I thought, observing him making his way up from the rocky plain to the base of the cliff. He still stumbled, but forced himself onward at a faster pace. I could not go to him yet. Elrond had said that the victim of the Black Breath had to come to the healer once the healer had located the stricken one. And the stricken one had to freely choose to leave the Shadow-realm. Once Faramir made that choice, I could help him, lend him my strength, and guide him home. And therein lay some difficulty. When he came close enough to see that I was not the father he sought, Faramir might lapse into despair and refuse to hear me. Then he would be lost. Denethor might have refused a way home if I had offered it. Would his son's pride blind him to hope?

He was climbing now, pulling himself painfully up the base of the cliff, half-humming, half-singing a Quenya child’s rhyme about Eärendil that had been old when his ancestor Mardil assumed the rule of Gondor. Faramir must have guessed that the names of Elbereth and Earendil held power even in this deathly place. More foul wraiths snarled and gibbered in fury, reaching for him, but could not touch him. The flames though, continued to advance, some distance at his back.

Faramir heaved himself onto a ledge several paces up the slope. I noticed that he was garbed as a Ranger of Ithilien. His raiment was stained with blood and grime, and torn at the knees. The same wound that had laid him low on the Pelennor was visible on the left shoulder through a hole in the green cloth. He raised his head to look upward, allowing me to see that his reddened face was streaked with sweat, as in the waking world. Faramir’s eyes fastened on me in fierce longing.

And then he saw that I was not his father. Hope faded from his face, replaced first by a flash of pain, then a look of wary confusion. He stepped back and stumbled. I feared he would fall, but he steadied himself and sank to his knees, still watching me.

“You are not my father.” It was not a question.

“No, Faramir,” I replied. “For your sake, I wish that I was Denethor, for I know that you want to return to him.” That was true. I think that Faramir would have crawled over the steel-sharp crags of the Morgai to get to his father; and in fact he might well have done so in this place that existed somewhere in a corner of our Enemy’s mind. I would not lie to him; but I could conceal the truth by omission. If he learned here, in this place of torment, that the father he loved was dead, I might indeed lose him.

Faramir rubbed his eyes on his sleeve, his shoulders bowed with fatigue. “Where is my father? I have heard him call me since…since I came to this place. I must find him and help him.”

My blood ran cold. He had been here for innumerable hours or days in this timeless place, plagued by wraiths, suffering the heat of these strange fires, and all the while hearing the cries of the father he could not see. It had been Denethor’s voice for which he had stopped his song, the only weapon he had against the wraiths, to try to hear.

“Hearken to me, Faramir,” I said gently. “I have come here to find you. Your father is not here. The Enemy cannot touch him. This is no true place; we are not even in the waking world. If you stay here, you will surely perish. Together, we can return to Minas Tirith.”

I could tell he was trying to understand my words; a good sign. At least he had not spurned them outright. “I have walked and walked for what has seemed like many days, yet I always return here. This is not Barad-dûr, nor anywhere in the Black Land?”

“No, Faramir. It is somewhere far from night or day, but as dangerous as the true home of our Enemy. If you fall here, you will not return home.”

“I do not…fully…understand,” Faramir said softly. He looked up at me again. “How long have I been here? How fares the White City?”

“Two days have passed since the Shadow brought you here, Faramir. Minas Tirith stands. Her gate was broken, yet she is victorious over the Enemy’s forces.”

“Do you know what happened to my men?” he asked. “I thought that our cavalry rode out in sortie ere I fell. I have oft heard my men‘s voices, crying for aid, but I cannot find them. I think it must be some trick of sorcery, or my own senses playing me false.”

“The Enemy wants you to despair, but believe him not! Prince Imrahil brought most of your men home. They wait for you, Faramir. The entire City awaits her favorite son.”

He laughed tersely. “That was my brother.” He sobered, and his eyes closed suddenly. It was not only sorrow; the man was so exhausted he could hardly hold up his head any more. Before I could warn him, two hideous shapes darted up out of the flames below, clawing at him. Faramir screamed, then gasped out “Elbereth! Elbereth Gilthoniel!” The wraiths retreated, but only a pace or two, ringing him, hissing at him like snakes.

I unsheathed Andúril. “Go back to the Shadow!” I cried. “You cannot have him!”

“He will be ours, West-man,” said a low voice from the flames below. “Our lord demands it, for this one’s impertinence. The son of Gondor dared to stand between us and the Tower of Anor and slow our passage. We will take him beyond all darkness and give his mind to the Eye to shrivel, as his body dies.”

I was surprised to hear Faramir growl in anger. Looking down at him, I could have sworn it was Denethor who crouched there, hands in fists. “I….will…not…ever…be…yours,” he rasped. Then he began to sing “A Elbereth Gilthoniel…”

I joined in the familiar song. He heard, and raised his voice as I raised Andúril:

“A Elbereth Gilthoniel,
Silivren penna míriel
O menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-diriel
Ogaladhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon
Nef aear, si nef aearon!”


No answer came from the wall of flames. I wondered at its presence, and whether it was a construct of the Enemy or a reflection of Faramir’s fevered state in the true world. I could feel no heat or discomfort, but it was obvious that Faramir did.

Unexpectedly, he smiled. “You have a fair voice, sir. Do you think we could have eschewed spears and swords and driven the Enemy’s forces back from the Pelennor with song?”

“Nay, though you might have repelled the Nazgûl for a few minutes. This is a realm where the force of will rules one’s actions. Sauron holds the terrain, but cannot take us unless we submit to him.” He had hope again, and so did I. It was time that he came to me; time that we left this realm of darkness.

“I have seen you before,a Faramir said, looking to me with a keen, searching gaze that was very familiar. But the habitual scorn in Denethor‘s eyes was absent from his son‘s stare. Faramir’s face showed only relentless curiosity that changed to a look of astonishment. “In dreams? That blade…is it the Sword That Was Broken? Are you the one who will come?”

I was about to speak when the flames parted, and the most cruel and dangerous phantom imaginable appeared: a walking semblance of Denethor, Steward of Gondor.

“Faramir, Faramir my son,” the phantom called in an agonized voice. “Help me!”

“Faramir, no!” I cried. I would not lose him now, not this close to saving him. “That is not Denethor! It is a trick of the Shadow!”

Faramir stared at what appeared to be his father. The figure shambled forward with a beseeching hand outstretched and implored: “Help…they will take me to the fire if you do not come down to help me. Help me now, my dearest son!”

“No…it cannot be,” Faramir said slowly. “No. My father would never plead for aid. My father would never call me…that.”

“The Enemy does not have your father,” I assured him. “Not here or in any other place.”

“Believe him not!” cried the false Denethor. “Come and help me, if you be no coward. Are you not a captain who would do his lord’s will?”

Faramir moved forward, then stopped. He lowered his head and shook it. “Not him,” I heard him say softly, painfully. “Not Father,” he repeated, and turned away from the travesty that beset him.

“Your father loves you, Faramir!” it called.

Faramir’s entire body tightened like a bowstring. He turned back and faced the phantom. “If you are my father, then sing with me,” he said, and began another song to Elbereth, an older one, in Quenya. Pausing after a few lines, he challenged: “My father knows the next line; for my mother sang it to us both, so my true father told me.”

In this song, each line began with the name of the Star-kindler. The phantom stood there, unable to form the words in its lying mouth, gaping as Faramir sang the full verse to its end.

“You are not my father!” Faramir screamed hoarsely. “Leave me, foul thing of Darkness! By Elbereth, get thee gone!”

The false Denethor blurred and darkened into a tall shadow, then it retreated into the flames. I was glad, but feared how much longer Faramir could withstand these assaults. I could hear him struggling to breathe.

“That was well, though not easily, done,” I told him. “Faramir, time grows short. I would not see you suffer from more of the Enemy’s counterfeits. Come to me now, for I would take you from this place of sorrow.”

He looked up at me, his face suddenly turned ashen. His red-rimmed eyes sought mine, looking for answers. “Who are you?” he asked me.

“I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn. I cannot go down to you, but come to me; and we shall make the journey home.”

A faint smile creased Faramir’s haggard face. I could tell that my name was not strange to him, and recalled from his memories that Frodo had spoken of my coming. He squared his shoulders, turned from the shadowed, flame-haunted plain before us, and began to slowly climb towards me. It was not far, merely some thirty feet, and though the rocky slope was steep, it was filled with crannies and shelves for footholds. But for a wearied and wounded man, the ascent was a torment. Faramir faltered more than once. Each time he stopped, he pushed on, forcing his injured left arm to balance his other limbs. I could hear, over Faramir’s labored breathing, his utterance of some words, or a verse, over and over again. I could not make out the words of his chant, but speaking them aloud apparently gave him strength. Briefly, I thought of Frodo and Sam, who might well be making an equally painful trek in some part of Mordor at this very moment. I refused to let their plight distract me. I could not help the hobbits. But I could help this brave-hearted Man.

“You are almost here, Faramir.” I told him. “I know you are weary, but the distance is short now, my friend.”

I saw his arm reach, slowly but surely, over the edge of the hill. I wanted to pull him up, but restrained myself; for it would be best if he could do so himself. And he did, dragging himself up on hands and knees, then rising to his feet to look me once more in the eye. “Seek…Seek for the Sword that was Broken,” he chanted. Ah, those were the words he had spoken as he had climbed the rocky hill.

A look of wonder dawned in his face as he beheld me. He staggered forward. At last I could reach out to help him! I sheathed Anduril, then moved quickly, and caught him as he stumbled. “I have you, Faramir;” I said; “I will not let you fall.”

He grasped my shoulder tightly, in the panicked grip of a tired swimmer. “There is a light…in your face,” he said haltingly. “A pale light, from the West you came…and on your brow, the star…of Elendil, lord of the Dúnedain.”

I had no idea what I was wearing in this place between worlds. I knew that I had not come here naked. Concentrating, I did sense the slight weight of a circlet around my head; and it had the same feel as the starred Elendilmir that I had worn to the day’s battle. I was more concerned by the pain my charge still felt than with which signs of rank I bore in this treacherous place. His slowness of speech showed that what little strength he had left was waning.

“Your stone…it shines,” Faramir was gazing at the Elfstone fastened above my heart. “The glow…it is cool..like a soft breeze.” He touched the stone. I noticed that both his hands were cut and blistered. “Blessedly cold,” he said in wonderment. I recalled how I had seen the world through his eyes in his memory. I suddenly yearned to shield him from further harm. I had such notions before with those of my charges who had endured much pain. And this wounded warrior was the heir of Denethor and Ecthelion…

Suddenly, his knees started to buckle, and he barely managed to straighten. I pulled Faramir close, to steady him. It seemed I held the spirit of Gondor itself. Here, in my keeping, was a treasure beyond price: the virtues of the Southern Kingdom embodied in one man: the ancient pride and traditions of Westernesse, the courage at arms and desire for peace, the love of music and lore, the keenness of mind and generosity of heart, passed down from our lost home in Númenor to this last Steward to guard the realm. Gondor and Faramir had suffered, but had never yielded. “I will save you,” I vowed, to both the realm and the man. “I will guard you as long as I can. And if the Enemy falls, I promise, I will renew your strength. “

A shudder wracked Faramir’s body. He leaned against me with a long sigh, as if relinquishing a burden he could no longer bear. I was glad to give him some badly needed respite. Then the Elessar stone hummed with some strange power. A sudden Light burst forth around me, shining so brightly that I felt like Eärendil himself, bearing the Silmaril through the heavens. Its source seemed to be my own heart! The light pulsed outward through the stone with each heartbeat, glowing over Faramir’s hands.

He exhaled sharply, then extended one hand. The blisters that had marred his fingers and palm were gone. I knew that he had taken no hurt to them in the waking world, but the Enemy’s rules and devices held sway in this place. Until now. I should not have been able to do that. The world was changing. I was changing.

“See, my lord,” Faramir showed me both hands, pale and unmarked. “You took the pain from them.” He stood up straighter now; and though his face was still worn, new hope gleamed in those tired eyes.

“I am glad of it. Come, then; we must leave this place. Lean on me, now.” But how to escape this hell-trap? I would not wait here for the enemy to send forth a seeming of poor Boromir, or worse. The best course was to return as I had come, drawing Faramir with me. I tightened my arm around him once more, thinking to bear him along, but he resisted, and stepped out of my hold.

“I think I can keep pace, lord,” Faramir said firmly. “Is there aught else I can do to help find a way out of here?” He straightened, albeit with a slight effort, and stood tall, almost as tall as I am. A sense of pride welled up in me, for no conceivable reason. His quality was no credit to me; he was Denethor’s son and Boromir’s brother.

“Very well” I replied. “Hold fast to me now. If we lose each other, I know not if I can find you again.”

Faramir took my outstretched hand and let me lead him away from the escarpment. The power of my will had brought me here, and it would bring us back in nearly the same fashion. I ordered my mind to the thought of the Houses of Healing, the warm, quiet room peopled by my friends and Faramir’s own sickened body.

The mists descended about us, enshrouding but not covering a path of pale light that lay ahead. I increased my speed. So did my charge. I heard him breathing heavily, but he uttered no complaint. That lean wrist of his exerted an unexpectedly strong grip. I remembered Boromir’s words then, telling us proudly how his younger brother drew the heaviest longbow in Gondor. His grip was firm, but did not drag me back, no mean feat, considering how wayworn Faramir was. He would be a good man to have at my back in any fight. But I would fain use him differently. I had hunted a captain and found a jewel. “Denethor” I thought ruefully; “For a man so wise, you were a fool to misprize your second son. But I will not; for Faramir is a jewel indeed, a fair gem for the crown of a lost King. I will set him high in my counsels, and he will help me rebuild our realm.” If the Enemy was thrown down; I reminded myself; a perilous venture which still loomed large and unaccomplished before us all. And if Faramir himself agreed. I knew not if he would even want to help someone destined to supplant his father as Lord of Gondor.

Soon I would know. “Hold fast, Faramir,” I told my charge. “Do not let go. We are almost home; but I must return first, to prepare the way.”

“I trust you,” Faramir answered quietly.

From the memories I had searched, I knew that Faramir was not a man to trust strangers quickly, though he strove to treat most fairly, even the hobbits he had originally taken for orc-spies. I felt honored by his faith; for I knew also that, like his father, Faramir could read the hearts of men. Yet Denethor had never trusted me; and, I truly believed, would not have done so even had I freed him from the dungeons of Barad-dûr itself. What did his son see when he looked into my heart? He stood tall beside me now, his stern face worn but softened by the hope shining in his keen eyes.

I shifted my grip so that I clasped Faramir’s hand, and directed my mind to the waking world, willing myself to return to it, while keeping Faramir’s very spirit safe in my grasp.


Chapter 4 - Part Three

IV. PART THREE


Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the LORD shall be thy reward. Isaiah 58:8






The shadows blurred about me, the mists flowing and whipping. I did not seem to move, but the mists changed, hardened into shapes I recognized. I opened my eyes upon the true world. I sat at Faramir’s bedside in the Houses of Healing, my hand holding his, my other hand on his brow. His skin felt warm, but less heated than before.

There came a noise at the door. I turned my head to see a dark-haired boy run into the chamber, carrying six leaves in a cloth. Here at last was the athelas!

“It is kingsfoil, Sir,” he said, between heavy breaths, as if he had run a long way. “but not fresh, I fear. It must have been culled two weeks ago at least. I hope it will serve, Sir?” He cast a look at Faramir and started to weep. The Guard who had stayed close at Faramir’s side now stood and moved to the boy’s side, and I saw a strong likeness between them. If not father and son, they must be close kin.

I smiled, to show them the hope I now felt for Faramir‘s survival. “It will serve. The worst is over. Stay now and be comforted.”

I was aware of my breath leaving me in short, ragged gasps. I had journeyed farther from the true world than I had ever thought I could. My hands trembled slightly. I extended my fingers, trying to release the tension. Faramir needed me. In the way of Healer and charge, some part of my mind was still bound to him, sustaining him for the final leg of his own journey. I sensed Faramir’s presence, like a weary falcon hovering over the mountains, seeking a place to rest. I must bring him all the way back so he could arise in his own body and be whole once more.

Calming myself, I cast my breath on the athelas leaves that the boy had brought. Gandalf proffered a bowl of steaming water. I broke the leaves over the bowl. Suddenly the air in the chamber grew less musty; a sure sign of the herb’s power. The fragmented leaves poured into the water. A marvelous scent arose, mingling the smells of rain and new leaves and a clean, fair wind. It was an odor more bracing than any I could recall from even the fairest sunrise in Imladris. So must Spring have dawned in the morning of Arda; and so it must still come in the cool green glades where the Valar walked. I heard Gandalf sigh, and saw his tired face smooth. For a moment, he looked altogether different, as if he were peacefully dreaming in a garden. The fragrance lightened our hearts as it refreshed the room. I took the bowl from Gandalf and brought it close enough to Faramir’s sleeping face so he could easily inhale the healing vapors.

“Come, my friend, fly home to me,” I called to his spirit as I grasped his hand. Somewhere not so far away, Faramir heard my voice and hurtled through the shadowed void with a last spurt of strength. I reached out to guide him through the dizzying final descent into the bounds of the flesh. As a falcon plunging swiftly from the sky to rest on my outstretched arm, Faramir’s spirit returned. His limp hand trembled, then gripped my own with new strength and his eyes opened once more on the waking world.

I bent over Faramir, checking his pulse and gladly saw that his skin, though still pale, was no longer flushed with fever. I heard Gandalf expel a soft breath of relief and the young boy voice a wordless squeak of delight. My own joy was profound. Faramir had been taken far by the Shadow, and yet I pulled him from the Enemy’s cruel grip and restored him to the City that needed him. He would not fall as had Boromir, Halbarad, and countless others; no, not this day!

Now, Faramir’s weary grey eyes roamed over those who had assembled around his bed: Gandalf, Imrahil, Éomer, Pippin, the guard and the boy, and old Ioreth. I knew that the one he sought was not there and would never be seen again. Then he raised his eyes to me. I wondered whether Faramir would recognize me. I doubtless seemed more grimy and ordinary a figure in this lamp-lit sickroom than I had appeared in the otherworld.

“My lord, you called me. I come” Faramir said softly. He looked upon me with love, as if he had known me all of his life. “What does the king command?”

By the Valar, he had called me king! And suddenly my doubts, my anxiety about the next battle with Mordor’s forces, all melted away before the fierce hope and devotion I saw in my Steward’s eyes. Though I would make no formal claim until Sauron fell, I knew I was king now, King of Gondor. Faramir’s King. For he was the first to hail me as lord of the realm his sires had ruled.

“Walk no more in the shadows, but awake!” I replied, and pressed his right hand between both of mine, in token of the vows of fealty we would exchange one day. “Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return.”

Loud cheers erupted from the hallway. From the corner of my eye, I saw three bandaged men, one leaning on crutches, vying to peer into the room. They called out Faramir’s name, shouting that the Captain was well and awake. I knew their faces from Faramir’s memories of his Rangers; as cunning a force of scouts as could be found in either the North or South kingdoms, and utterly devoted to their captain. He would welcome their company on the morrow.

But for now, Faramir needed to sleep. I saw his eyelids flutter as he struggled to stay awake. Yet he returned my clasp and said fervently: “I will, lord. For who could lie idle when the king has returned?”

One more thing was needed before I surrendered Faramir‘s care to others. The fever had parched him. I carefully raised Faramir far enough up so he could easily drink the water I gave him, making sure he took only small sips. When he was finished, I helped him lie down once more. I released my charge and smoothed his brow, satisfied now that the fever was almost gone. Faramir gave a tired smile and settled back into the pillow, breathing deeply and easily. “Farewell then for a while!” I said. “I must go to others who need me.”

Then I rose and stretched my stiff legs. It had not been that long a time since I had started the journey into the dark to find the young Steward. But the world had changed. I knew now that being king of the West was not just a matter of conquering a battlefield. No one else, save perhaps for Elrond, could have retrieved Faramir this day, not even my friend Gandalf, the most powerful of Sauron’s foes. I had done it! And Faramir had given me his complete faith and love, though he knew the king he had hailed would supplant him.

I would prove worthy of Faramir’s trust. I felt stronger than ever before, my mind and body honed to the purpose that awaited me, the day’s weariness a thing of little import. I would reclaim Éowyn and Merry from the Shadow; our Enemy would not bear them away into despair! When hobbit and shieldmaiden looked once more on the light, I would summon my foster-brothers, and we would take back every son of Gondor who Sauron had dared carry into that vale of torment. And if there were others who needed healing, I would give them my strength and mend their hurts.

I heard Ioreth twitter something about the hands of a King. I saw Imrahil, his face aglow, pull the covers over his nephew. Gandalf touched Faramir’s forehead and whispered something to the sleeping man, then stood up and followed me. Pippin grinned joyfully as he bounced along at Éomer’s side, then shut the door of the sickroom. Ioreth stayed behind with another attendant and the guardsman, who was embracing the boy, both their faces streaked with tears. Faramir would be well-cared for and watched through the night.

I had a kingdom to tend. It was well that I had begun my kingship with the saving of so worthy a Steward. Now the White City’s wounded folk and allies awaited the hands of a healer. The King of Gondor would not disappoint them.


*******\r\n\r\n


Chapter 5 - Author's Notes

AUTHOR‘S NOTES:



This story was written entirely for pleasure. No profit is derived. All characters belong to the Estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, praise him with great praise!

I have endeavored to keep Aragorn’s dialogue as close to canon as possible (and often quote directly for that purpose) in the scenes that are also depicted in the books (and where he actually speaks), though I have omitted and paraphrased certain parts.

Aragorn’s ability to read the memories of his unconscious patients is not strictly canonical. However, he speaks of Faramir’s “staunch will” and recent history as if he knew them first-hand, rather than hearing of Faramir’s character and experience from someone else; and I wondered how he gained that information. Aragorn does go first to Faramir, then to Eowyn and then to Merry, and it’s said that “When he had looked on the faces of the sick and seen their hurts he sighed.” There is opportunity there for Aragorn to gain knowledge of his unconscious patients, how badly the Black Breath has hurt their spirits, so I took it.

I am not the first fanfic writer to depict Tolkien’s “dark vale” as a detailed ’otherworld’ of Sauron’s devising. Tolkien’s lines about Aragorn seeming to wander through a dark vale, calling (Faramir) as if for one who is lost, seem to indicate that Aragorn is at least mentally removed from the room in the Houses of Healing, and that Faramir is in a hostile, distant place. Aragorn speaks to Eomer about recalling Eowyn from “the dark valley”. Eowyn, after awakening, speaks of “dark voices” who told her that Eomer was dead. (Merry, bless him, awakens and says that he’s hungry) I have tried whenever possible to create my own version on this dramatic and riveting chapter.

The Elendilmir worn and mentioned by Aragorn is the “Star of Elendil” that is upon his brow when he comes to the Battle of the Pelennor - it is the traditional headgear of the Kings of Arnor, a white gem bound on the brows with a silver fillet. The Elendilmir is called “the Star of Elendil” in The Battle of the Pelennor Fields, and discussed in greater detail in a footnote in Appendix A, ROTK. And for even more details, check out Tolkien’s Unfinished Tales - which any Tolkien aficionado should check out anyway, for all the fascinating material therein.

The location of Faramir’s wound is never mentioned in the books. It is described as not being life-threatening. Since the “deadly dart” was probably aiming for his heart or throat, and missed, I had it strike the collarbone. I owe particular thanks to Avie of the Emyn Arnen site, and Werecat, roh wyn, and Lyllyn of HASA for their helpful answers to my questions about Faramir‘s condition.

I owe a special gratitude to my betas: Branwyn, Tanaqui, Lindahoyland, Eldamir and Marta, for their meticulous and always constructive beta of this story since I completed my first draft in November 2004.
------------------------------------------------------------------

Printed from Open Scrolls Archive (https://www.openscrolls.net) on Sat Nov 14, 2026 8:12 pm