A Time to Reap

Written By:lindahoyland
You can Read the Original Here:
This work is credited to the original author

August 2FA - Earlier that month

Arwen sat alone in her chamber, a letter clasped in her hand. Damrod had personally handed it to her that morning with the whispered request that she give it her most urgent attention. For at least the fifth time, since it had been delivered to her, she scanned the parchment and read, in Éowyn’s skittering hand:

“Dearest Arwen,

I trust all is well with you, Aragorn and Eldarion. We are preparing for the harvest here in Ithilien. Elestelle seems to grow fairer with each passing day, if that is possible. She now has four teeth, which I only discovered when she bit me while I was suckling her; they came through with so little fuss.

Elbeth is still proving rather high-spirited but she is a good child and I have grown fond of her. She has a kind hand with horses and is a fearless rider. She is also a diligent pupil in reading and writing, and has her uncle's head for languages. She often asks about her ‘Strider’.

I am letting the stallions run with the mares this summer, now that our home is established here. With luck, we will have several fine foals by this time next year. I hope to send you one as a gift for your stables, especially as Éomer sent me a proven broodmare, Snowflower, sired by Snowmane, who should produce swift and beautiful offspring fit for a queen! (Snowflower is Hasufel's half-sister, and carried Erkenbrand to the Pelennor, after which he retired her; you noticed her on your first journey to Meduseld. She has already produced a worthy daughter who inherited her silver-white colour, which I know you would like)

I wanted to tell you what good tidings we had before I come to the main reason for writing to you now. I am very worried about Faramir. I can see all too well that he is pining for Aragorn. Given the strength of the bond between them, I fear he will fade if this rift between them is not healed. He is a most devoted husband and father; but without Aragorn, he is like a plant bereft of sunlight. Even the sturdiest of trees cannot survive too long in the shade.

My friend, I implore you to use your influence with the King to soften him towards my husband. Faramir bitterly regrets the hurt his seeming betrayal caused Aragorn, but never was he faithless in his heart. I know you believe in his innocence, from our conversation before we departed Minas Tirith.

Faramir does not, and must not know, that I have asked you to intercede on his behalf. If I question him, he says only that his lord has been magnanimous beyond all measure in letting him keep his lands and titles and he is filled with gratitude. I know, though how his heart aches. He prized Aragorn’s affection and friendship far above all lands and titles.

I, too am heart sore to see my husband thus afflicted. I miss your companionship too, my friend. I hope circumstances will soon permit you to visit us.

Your most loyal subject and loving friend, Éowyn.

The Queen finally cast aside the letter and sighed deeply, reflecting on her own husband’s plight.

Truth to tell, she had been about to pen a near identical missive to Éowyn.

Despite all her loving care and the healing ministrations of her brothers whom she had urgently summoned to Minas Tirith, Aragorn was still a shadow of his former self. Even the company of Legolas and Gimli, who had cut short a sojourn in Eryn Lasgalen to hasten to his side, had failed to raise her Estel's spirits.

The once vigorous man had become morose and withdrawn. It seemed as if his spirit had lost some vital spark. Arwen feared that Aragorn's soul had been even more deeply scarred than his body. He attended to the duties of kingship, but struggled to get though each day. He repeatedly crumbled athelas into a bowl of hot water, claiming the air needed freshening. Arwen knew better, it was an attempt to ease his heavy heart. Yet the herb's effects would last only an hour or too and Aragorn would relapse into sorrow and restlessly pace his chambers.

Elladan and Elrohir were baffled at Aragorn’s failure to recover. Apart from the brand, which disfigured his shoulder, their foster-brother's body appeared sound enough. They were equally bewildered why the repeated mud baths, he was taking, seemed to have no effect whatsoever on the painful and ugly scar.

Aragorn became increasingly impatient at his Elven brethren’s unsuccessful efforts to heal him. The twins departed to visit to the Elven colony Legolas had founded in Ithilien, to hear the sounds of Elvish while still staying within a day's summons from their sorrowing brother. Arwen had begged her husband to accompany Elladan and Elrohir, believing that the trip to Legolas' fair woodland could soothe him, but he had refused. Arwen sadly understood that it was not a lack of interest in the Elven haven that caused Aragorn's almost angry refusal. The King could not journey through Ithilien to visit his Elven friends without stopping to see Ithilien's Prince on the way, to do otherwise would be a grave breach of courtesy as well as protocol. The King could still not bear the sight of his Steward.

The twins had left the City two weeks ago, and yet tarried with the Tawarwaith; writing to Arwen frequently to ask how Aragorn fared. She still had no good answer for them.

Taking a deep breath, Arwen folded Éowyn’s parchment and thrust it inside her gown. Aragorn tried hard to be gentle in his wife’s company and she knew she would never have cause to fear his temper. However, she was not looking forward to confronting him over Faramir, for whenever she raised the question of the Steward’s unofficial exile, Aragorn would hastily change the subject.

The Queen found her husband in his study, hunched over a pile of paperwork. He rose to his feet to embrace her when she entered, a flicker of joy in his weary eyes.

“How fares the Realm of Gondor this day?” she asked.

“It barely survives. If the rains do not come soon, I fear we shall be faced with the prospect of drought and famine,” he replied morosely, returning to his desk. ”I have no head for this paperwork; to estimate what water supplies we have in the City. Imrahil will have to assist me again.”

“You need Faramir to help you.” Arwen came straight to the point.

“His loyalty is still suspect. How could I ever trust him again after what he did to me? I cannot!” Aragorn said curtly, refusing to meet her eyes.

“How can he regain your trust while he stays in exile?” Arwen persisted gently.

“He is better off away from wagging tongues in Ithilien, “ Aragorn countered. “I do allow him to return when he is needed.”

“I think you should recall him or tongues will wag more than ever,” said Arwen. ” While it is the season for harvest, the City is quiet. It would be the perfect time to send for him. After all, he is still your Steward. Remember that he saved your life and throne!”

“I know,” said Aragorn his voice almost a whisper, “For that, I owe him everything. Yet always this gets in the way!” His tone became bitter. Pressing his hand to his shoulder, he grimaced at the stab of pain, which suddenly pierced him.

“Please, my love, let him return for longer than a Council Meeting or official function, if not for yourself for the good of Gondor and to please me! The longer you leave it the harder it will be. I beg of you, Estel!”

Aragorn finally looked into the depths of her beautiful grey eyes and saw only love and concern reflected therein. He could deny her nothing.

“Very well,” he sighed. “The Steward may return.”

Arwen threw her arms around his neck. “Thank you, Estel, “ she said kissing him tenderly. “I am sure you will feel better when you are reunited.”

“We shall see, but I very much doubt it,” Aragorn replied without enthusiasm.

0000

“It is late, you should come to bed now, Faramir!” Éowyn pleaded. Clad in her nightgown and clutching a candle in her hand, she stood in the open doorway of her husband’s study. He sat at his desk, surrounded by a mountain of papers.

“I will come soon. I must finish this draft of the treaty with the Easterlings, so I can work solely on my recommendations for the King's new appointments to Council.”

“Surely you can finish the treaty tomorrow before you leave,” Éowyn questioned.

“I dislike going to bed with the kingdom's work unfinished,” Faramir protested. ” Since it is the one duty my lord seems to still trust me to do, I must do it properly. Then, I need to have a bath.”

“I thought you had one this morning?” Éowyn frowned. “Is your back paining you again? How I wish Aragorn were treating you! Shall I try to ease it for you when you come to bed?”

“No, my love, I am well,” Faramir inwardly cursed himself for revealing his weakness. “I have only had the occasional twinge these past months. It is the heat, it makes me feel sticky.”

“Well, why do you insist on always wearing that thick heavy nightshirt to bed then?” Éowyn demanded.

“You know it was always my custom my love,” Faramir replied. ”But you are right. I will have the tailors send for some lighter cloth.”

“You should wear silk instead of linen then,” Éowyn urged.

“You look fair in silk, my lady but I do not!” Faramir said, smiling at the vision his beautiful wife presented in her almost transparent white silk nightgown, her golden hair tumbling around her shoulders, shining in the candle's glow. ”I will join you just as soon as I have read through the provisions on trade once more.”

“You are merely trying to delay coming to bed until you are too exhausted to dream,” Éowyn retorted, “ I can see through you easily, husband! What troubles you so?” She went over to his desk and added her candle to those already burning on the table. She then came to stand behind her lord, resting her hands on his tense shoulders.

“Almost every time I close my eyes, I see the King crying out in pain while I stand there with my hand raised against him. I see Gondor aflame and falling to ruin through my weakness!” Faramir answered, finally turning to face her. "Despite my good intentions, I still betrayed my King and the oath I swore to him. I have forfeited my honour forever in his eyes.”

“Aragorn will forgive you one day.” Éowyn said soothingly. “All will be as it was before, if only you allow it! I am certain that he still loves you as his son.”

“I see the hurt and bewilderment in his eyes still. My uncle believes me devoid of honour and has cut me off from all his house, save the revenues from my mother's dower lands.” Faramir replied, “I was not vigilant enough to secure the realm that I steward. I must see it never happens again. And if I am still dear to the King, why will he not let me come to him?”

“I believe Aragorn thought it would be better for you to stay in your own domain until the rebellion faded from the people's memory,” Éowyn soothed.

“The people will always remember me as the treacherous Steward who was lucky not to hang!” Faramir exclaimed bitterly. He rubbed his eyes as he spoke.

“You should not fret so,” Éowyn chided. “You saved the King at great risk to yourself. What would have happened if you had not gone to that cursed lodge and pretended to join in those fiends' treachery? They would have tortured Aragorn to death! Eldarion would have been left fatherless, and all of Gondor would have suffered."

“How can you ever understand the full horror of my deeds?” Faramir asked sadly.

“I do understand that you are so weary that you will no doubt draft a law transferring power to your hounds if you work any longer tonight!” Éowyn said firmly. “Come to bed now. I promise I will wake you if you have another nightmare. I am sure you will find Aragorn in a better mood when you see him again.”

“I wish I could stay here with you rather than return to the City tomorrow,” Faramir said gloomily.

Éowyn raised her eyebrows; “You honour me, but I thought your heart lay in the City of your birth. Then what of Aragorn? He has need of you.”

“I see in my people’s eyes that they consider me a traitor!” Faramir said sadly. “I have lost what I held most dear, my reputation and the love of a man who is the greatest of our age!”

Éowyn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, not noticing how he flinched. “You should not heed idle gossip!” she chided, “They will soon find better occupation for their loose, spiteful tongues! I do not think Aragorn bears a grudge against you; he is too great a man. If he seems remote at times; he is still recovering from his ordeal. Come to bed, my love, you ride out early tomorrow at noon and must rise early.”

“Very well but I must bathe first!” “ He rose to his feet sighing and blew out the candles, then allowed his wife to lead him unresisting to their chambers. “How can Aragorn ever trust me again?"

“You are weary and overwrought. Put such dark thoughts aside and rejoice that soon you will see the King again,” said Éowyn. ”Tomorrow you will see him and the City you love once more.”

An uncomfortable silence reigned in the King’s private dining room that was almost as oppressive as the heat of the waning day. At the head of the table sat Aragorn with Arwen to his right. Faramir sat beside the Queen, who could not decide whether the Steward or her husband looked the more ill at ease. Despite the excellent food, finely crafted tableware and comfortable furnishings, it seemed that the lowliest peasant would tonight dine with more ease than King or Steward.

“Did you have a pleasant journey from Ithilien this afternoon?” Arwen enquired of Faramir, in a desperate bid to break the silence.

“Yes, my lady, I thank you for enquiring. It was most pleasant,” Faramir replied, crumbling the bread in his hand so hard that it disintegrated before he could dip it in to the bowl of tomato soup set before him.

“How fares Éowyn?” Arwen asked, determined to make further conversation. She looked pointedly at her husband, silently willing him to say something.

“She is well, thank you, my lady,” Faramir said without looking up from his meal.

Arwen nudged her husband with her elbow, almost causing him to drop his spoon.

Aragorn glared at her, then cleared his throat noisily. “And how is your daughter, Lord Faramir?” he queried.

“She is well too, thank you. I trust Eldarion is also in good health.” Faramir replied without meeting Aragorn’s eyes.

“He is very well and growing by the day.” Aragorn replied, briefly regarding his Steward with an unreadable expression, before returning his attention to the soup. “How is Elbeth faring?” he enquired.

“She is well, thank you, sire. She did ask me to convey her greetings to her dear Strider and tell you that she now has a ginger kitten which is growing fast.”

Aragorn managed a faint smile at these tidings. “You must convey my greetings to her on your return,” he said.

Silence ensued.

“Is Elestelle not cutting her teeth yet?” asked Arwen sweetly; hoping another question concerning their beloved children might draw forth more of a dialogue between the two men. ”Eldarion already has eight teeth and I think my poor babe has another coming,for he is fretting a good deal at present.”

“I believe my daughter has four teeth. Éowyn informed me that she had bitten her while she was feeding and that they were very sharp!” Faramir suddenly flushed scarlet at the realisation of having revealed such delicate information.

Arwen winced involuntarily at the memory of a similar incident and smiled reassuringly at the Steward. “I believe all babies try out their teeth on their mothers at least once!” she said.

“Éowyn said that too, my lady,” Faramir replied.

A further and increasingly uncomfortable silence ensued.

“How are your horses?” Arwen enquired desperately, wondering if she would be forced to enquire after the mice in the barn to keep the conversation flowing. “I heard that you rode Zachus today rather than your mare.”

“Éowyn suggested that Iavas should mate with one of the stallions this summer in the hope that she will produce a foal,” Faramir replied, again looking uncomfortable.

“It is good to have you back in Minas Tirith, Faramir. We have missed you, have we not, Estel?” Arwen said, after several more minutes of silence and again digging Aragorn with her elbow.

“Many matters needing your attention have arisen while you were away from the City,” the King said, deliberately evading her question.

“I assure you, my lord, that I have been working hard during my time in Emyn Arnen.” Faramir sounded a trifle hurt. ”Have you heard aught of Anborn and my other men, sire? Surely they did not disappear without a trace?”

“Nothing has been heard,” Aragorn said curtly.” A message would have been sent to you, were there any tidings of their whereabouts. You would do best to presume them dead and see that their families are provided for.”

“I already have,” the Steward replied. “I just hoped that their loved ones could at least have their bodies to bury. I wish that…” His voice trailed away.

“Such are the fortunes of war,” Aragorn said curtly.” I enquired of Fontos of Lossarnach ere he left to go into exile, and Dervorin of Ringlo Vale prior to his execution, but they knew nothing. I have done all I can concerning your men.”

“And you accepted those traitors' words?" Faramir protested. “My lord, Anborn and his company were good men!”

“Indeed they were, good men under your command, “ Aragorn retorted. “I shall have their names recorded as having died for Gondor.” He pushed his still half full dish away and lapsed into silence again.

Arwen gave her husband a look, warning him that if he failed to make conversation, he would hear about it from her later.

“We must discuss the new structure for the Council, that you have been working on,” said Aragorn. “ I have studied the documents you have been sending to me. I think we should offer more seats to the merchants, though.”

“ Indeed, my lord, “ Faramir replied, sounding a little more animated. “I believe they could share an equal number of seats with the Captains of my Rangers and your Tower Guard but we should not forget the craftsmen either.”

“The healers should be included, “ said Aragorn, “I must also decide whether I may appoint folk who are not born in Gondor or Arnor but now dwell within our borders.”

Usually, Arwen would have frowned at the notion of discussing matters of state over dinner. Today, she heaved a sigh of relief.

As the final course was brought to the table, her husband and Faramir were still discussing whether or not anyone born in born in Rohan could be invited to serve on the Council. At least the men were speaking to each other, though in a way better suited to a meeting than a quiet dinner for supposed friends.

Arwen surreptitiously studied both men as they picked at their food, eating little. She noticed sadly how their handsome carven features, a sign of the shared blood of her uncle's race, seemed far more careworn. They were, nay, are; she corrected herself firmly, deeply attached to each other. But the horrors of the past months, when Aragorn had been imprisoned and tortured while Faramir had pretended to join his tormentors in order to rescue his lord, still lay heavily upon them.

Aragorn had issued a proclamation to clear Faramir of all wrongdoing and retained him as his Steward. Still, there had been a high price to pay. Aragorn no longer trusted Faramir, his friend's seeming betrayal and actual cruelty weighing heavily on his scarred soul.

Faramir fared little better. Rumour abounded that the King had only cleared his Steward's name in order to secure his own position. The Southern Kingdom had been ruled by Faramir’s long fathers for nigh on a thousand years. Faramir was wed to the King of Rohan's sister, a union that strengthened the alliance of Rohan and Gondor originally woven by their ancestors. The execution or exile of Faramir could not help but tear the threads in that alliance, or so the gossips thought. And though they were malicious, they were not wholly wrong. Eomer had sworn to support whatever decision Aragorn made on Faramir's fate, but the young Horse-lord would have surely been at the very least saddened to have his sister and niece shamed, and the proud House of Eorl sullied, by kinship to a named traitor.

The Steward looked wretched and Arwen realised all too clearly that Éowyn’s fear of her husband fading seemed all too real. She knew Faramir loved Aragorn not only as his liege lord, but also as a close friend and the kindly father Denethor had never been to his younger son. She had never met the late Steward, yet Denethor's demeanour could hardly have been colder was Aragorn's mien tonight.

Once the meal ended, Arwen excused herself briefly to feed her son. The men left the dining room when she stood up and withdrew to their private sitting room. She left them and went to the nursery. When she returned some time later, having settled Eldarion to sleep in the care of his nurse, Arwen found Aragorn seated on the couch sipping a goblet of wine. Faramir sat stiffly on the chair opposite, doing likewise. The tension could hardly have been sharper had Thranduil Oropherion and Thorin Oakenshield themselves sat before her discussing the rights to Smaug's treasure.

Both men rose to their feet when she entered. She settled herself on the couch beside Aragorn. The men both sat down again.

“We are having pleasant weather, are we not?” Faramir said turning to his hostess.

“I find the heat wearisome,” said Aragorn. “We badly need rain.”

“I am fortunate as the clime does not trouble me,” said Arwen, “ I can only hope that Eldarion will grow up to be the same.”

”Is he sleeping yet?” Aragorn enquired.

“He was sound asleep when I left the nursery,” she replied.” His tooth does not seem to be troubling him tonight.”

“That gladdens my heart,” said Aragorn, sounding relieved.

Silence again ensued.

Faramir rose to his feet. “I will take my leave now, if you will permit me, my lord, my lady?” he said.

“Of course, Faramir, I expect you are weary from your journey, I bid you a restful night,” Arwen said, smiling at him kindly and rising from the couch. He took her extended hand and bowed.

Aragorn rose a moment after his wife. He took a step towards Faramir and made as if to extend his hand then froze“Goodnight,” he said curtly.

Faramir, his eyes unable to conceal his pain, bowed stiffly to his lord and swiftly took his leave.

Aragorn slumped in his chair and buried his face in his hands once the door shut behind his Steward.

“You were a poor host tonight, Estel! You showed our guest but meagre courtesy,” Arwen chided.

Aragorn sighed; “I am sorry,” he said, “I am so tired, it must be the heat. Bid a servant bring hot water that I may inhale some athelas.”

The Queen sighed but summoned a maid without further comment. By now, the servants were accustomed to this request and the boiling water arrived almost at once. The girl placed it on the table, curtsied and left.

Aragorn feverishly reached inside his tunic and almost threw the leaves in the bowl, then inhaled deeply of the refreshing odour. Arwen could see that he was trembling slightly.

The Queen moved behind him to wrap her arms around her husband and kissed him lovingly. He relaxed slightly at her touch. “What is wrong, beloved?” she asked. “I know that your heart is troubled.”

“I have you and our son. The land is at peace and my throne restored. What more could I need?” Aragorn turned his head to meet her gaze, the deep sorrow in his eyes belying his words.

“You need Faramir’s friendship too,” she said simply.

“He has my goodwill,” Aragorn said curtly. “He should be content that I allowed him to keep both lands and titles.”

“He looks neither well nor happy.” Arwen insisted. “Lands and titles do little to ease an aching heart.”

“He should see a Healer while he is in the City then,” said Aragorn careful to avoid looking at his wife.

”I thought you were his Healer,” Arwen reproached him.

“I am no longer a Healer. That gift brought me nothing but sorrow,” Aragorn retorted. “Am I to spend my days draining my strength and laying my hands upon those that seek to overthrow me?”

“ I do not recall the Lords of Lamedon, Lebennin and Ringlo Vale ever having sought your skills, “ Arwen said dryly. “Yet, there are hundreds in this City alone who owe their lives to you and love you the more as result. Surely youdo not regret all the children you saved from the fever?”

“Of course not, but as I cannot save everyone, it is better that concentrate on being King. I am so weary!”

Arwen looked at him intently, wondering if he feared he lacked the ability to heal, rather than the desire to use it. Healing was so great a part of her husband that he hardly seemed the same man were he not enthusing about herbs or Elven techniques and then rejoicing over those he had cured.

“Come to bed, my love!” she coaxed, “You should rest now it is cooler.

“I will only dream!” Aragorn protested, a haunted look in his eyes.

“I will be beside you, there is nothing to fear!” Arwen reassured him. Taking his hand, she led him from the room.

No, Faramir, no!” Aragorn cried, his hands flailing at empty air.

“Estel, wake up!” In what had become an all too familiar ritual, Arwen rolled over to his side of the bed and attempted to rouse her husband. First she tried calling his name. Then she shook him, though when it was apparent that neither of these methods would work, did she dip her fingers in the glass of water on the bedside table and sprinkle a few drops on her husband’s face.

“Whuh? Arwen? ” He awoke with a start and sat bolt upright, breathing heavily as if he had come straight from battle. The candle, which was now always kept burning throughout the night, starkly illuminated his haggard features.

“You were having a bad dream,” the Queen said quietly, gently stroking his sweat-drenched brow to soothe him..

“I am stifling, I need air!” Aragorn cried.

Arwen quickly moved off the bed and pattered over to the windows. Sighing, she pulled back the curtains and flung open the shutters. A faint, soft breeze wafted into the stuffy room.

Eldarion, roused by his father’s cries and sensing both parents’ distress, started to scream.

Arwen lifted the sobbing child from his cradle, then returned to the bed. With one arm she held her son against her,and wrapped the other around her husband. She could feel Aragorn’s slender body shaking slightly beneath the thin nightshirt he wore. “Hush now!” she soothed, not quite certain whether her husband or child were most in need of comfort.

“I am sorry, vanimelda,” Aragorn said contritely. He reached for the glass of water and drained it.

“Was it that dream again?” Arwen asked.

Aragorn nodded.” It is always the same; one of the rebel lords is advancing towards me with either a knife or a branding iron and then they turn into Faramir! I lie bound and helpless, powerless to resist. Somehow I break my bonds. I then draw Andúril; but instead of choosing to spare Faramir, I drive it through his heart! Next, I am on the edge of a chasm and you are holding my hand, keeping me from falling, but I stumble. Faramir, still impaled by my sword, crawls towards me and reaches out a ghostly hand. I cannot grasp it and I plunge into the abyss.” He shuddered, the horror of the dream still lying heavily upon him.” I think I will change my nightshirt,” he sighed, sliding from her grasp. “I will send for some hot water to steep athelas.”

“You rely too much on the herb,” Arwen cautioned.

“It helps ease me,” Aragorn replied a trifle petulantly. “Maybe then I will get some sleep.”

“The servants need theirrest too,” the Queen replied, offering the still howling Eldarion her breast. He had ceased to need feeding during the night several months ago, but she hoped the warm milk might soothe him back to sleep.

“Eldarion will have roused half the household by now!” Aragorn retorted, pulling on his robe and calling for hot water to be brought.

Arwen withheld her reply, then began singing a low, sweet lullaby to their son.

Moments later, Aragorn emerged from his bathing chamber, clad in a fresh nightshirt and wiping his face with a towel. He took the steaming water from the sleepy-eyed servant at the door, then placed the bowl on the bedside table and steeped the leaves within it.

The King’s tense features slowly relaxed as the sweet scent of the herb filled the chamber. He climbed back in bed beside his wife and son.

“It will take time for the nightmares to fade,” Arwen soothed, placing her free arm around him again. “Does your shoulder still pain you?”

“A little,” he answered tersely.

“Let me see; maybe I can ease it for you?” Arwen suggested.

“There is no need, it is not that painful tonight!”

“Why do you still dream about it if that is so? Come, I would see it!” Releasing her grip on her husband, while still holding a now drowsy Eldarion, Arwen reached to light more candles, flooding the room with light.

Aragorn shook his head.” No, I will not let my son see me thus! I am too ashamed. I would not give an innocent babe nightmares too!”

“Nonsense!” chided Arwen. “Eldarion is far too young to notice the scar and even if he did, it would scarce trouble him.” Nevertheless, she slid from the bed and carefully put the now sleeping Eldarion back into his cradle.” Your son should grow up familiar with your body; he needs to know whom he will grow up to resemble.”

“He must never see this scar!” Aragorn said adamantly. “It makes me less than a man! When the twins return, I shall ask them to either cut it out or brand something more fitting over the cursed mark, such as the winged crown or the White Tree!”

“Estel!” Arwen exclaimed in horror,” You cannot! You must not! Why undergo such needless pain? Have you not suffered enough already?"

“I cannot go through life like this!” Aragorn retorted grimly. “Yes, I am weary of pain but the brand is a humiliation past all endurance.”

"Then let me see it, Estel, please,” Arwen persisted in a quiet, firm voice he could not contradict.

Hesitantly, Aragorn unlaced his nightshirt, reluctant to allow his beautiful, flawless bride to look again upon such ugliness.

Arwen, determined to wait no longer, slid the garment from his shoulders, revealing the scar that so troubled her husband. It was some time since she had seen him thus. It had always been his custom to disrobe in his dressing room and since his ordeal, he had been more eager than ever to conceal his body from her eyes. She bit back an involuntary cry of dismay at the sight of Aragorn's near naked body. His handsome form was still sadly wasted while the scar appeared angry and inflamed.

“Look! “ he exclaimed bitterly, “This is the man you are now wed to, branded like a bullock ready for market! You were dealt a bad bargain indeed, when you renounced your immortality for such a poor stick of a man! If your brothers cannot heal me, there are none that can. How they must pity their sister, bound eternally to a maimed king!”

“Estel!” she chided, “I care nothing for outward appearances.” She traced slender fingers across his shoulders and down his chest, observing that the scar was cool to the touch despite its appearance. “I see only the shoulders that bravely bear the heaviest burden on Arda and the noblest heart that ever beat!” Sadly, she noted that he remained impassive to her touch, when once he would have quivered with desire. She bent to tenderly kiss the disfigurement.

“No!” Aragorn commanded, hastily pulling his nightshirt up to cover himself once more. “You must not sully your lips by letting them touch this mark of evil!”

“Are you sure it is evil?” Arwen queried. ”Might it not be a mark of love?”

“Love?” Aragorn snorted. “A strange kind of love indeed! More like hatred, betrayal, or cowardice!”

“You should not blame Faramir, “Arwen rebuked gently. “ Had he not done this, you would never have escaped. I would, by far, rather have you scarred than dead. It was I who told him to do anything to save you, whatever the cost!”

“How can I not blame Faramir when every day I have to live with the consequences of his actions?” Aragorn responded bitterly. “I have let him return to the City as you begged. I have even allowed him to eat at my table! He knows by my actions that he has my forgiveness. How much more I am expected to do for the man? Must I invite him to sleep beside me, share my thoughts, or perhaps lavish more Elven treatments upon him?”

“That might do you both good,” Arwen said calmly.

“I think not!” Aragorn snapped.

“Time will bring peace to you both; yet, only when you allow it to, shall this wound be healed,” Arwen pronounced cryptically.

“I do not understand you.” Aragorn sounded bewildered.

“You forgive Faramir with your lips,but not with your heart!” Arwen replied.

Aragorn opened his mouth to protest but his wife silenced him.

“ If your nightmares did not reveal it, it was all too plain to see at dinner tonight and afterwards. If you truly have forgiven him, why do you deny him your kiss?”

“He does not want it!” Aragorn protested, “He shuns my touch.”

“As you shun his. You fear to touch lest you see in each other’s hearts,” she replied, “You are both hurting too much.”

. “There is much that he did he refuses to explain. My memory is clouded still of those dark days. I do not even know all that happened to me at his hands!” Aragorn said vehemently. “I do know though, it was Faramir who branded me and caused me pain!”

“And at what cost to Faramir's own soul? A terrible cost, I fear. I wish I could have spared so bright and pure a soul the darkness to which I doomed him. But there was no other who could have gone willingly into that treasonous web and brought you out alive. But none could have foreseen just how dark Faramir's path would be.” She blew out all but one of the candles, then lay down and lovingly drew Aragorn into her arms.

“Does Gondor even want a king?“ Aragorn mused. “They survived under the rule of the Stewards for almost a thousand 's own father thought me unworthy of my ancestors’ throne. Imrahil told me about the celebration the Steward’s heir threw upon Thorongil’s leaving. Denethor had never before appeared so overjoyed, not even at his wedding feast. It was the talk of the Court for weeks on end: the lavish refreshments and beautiful dancing girls. Denethor was laughing and telling his guests to rejoice! Officially, he was celebrating the defeat of the Corsairs, but he made little attempt to disguise the true reason for his joy.”

“Yet, I heard that everyone save Denethor alone, were grieved by Thorongil’s departure. Faramir eagerly awaited your coming, and he is wiser by far than his father ever was,” Arwen reminded him. “Your people love you, far more than they ever loved Denethor.”

Aragorn nuzzled against her hair. "I used to dream of becoming king. I even dreamed of Faramir handing the White Rod to me. At first, I only wanted the throne to win your hand. As the long years passed, I wanted it for myself, to give my people a better life by reuniting Arnor and Gondor. I expected years of resistance from the South and East. Never did I believe that my own people would strike against me, and not only once, but twice within one year! Was I too harsh a lord or too lenient a one? I have had to disband half my council! If only Gandalf, or your father, were still here to advise me! The crown is indeed a heavy weight to bear!”

“You will find your own way, Estel and become the greatest of kings!” Arwen reassured him, kissing him tenderly.

“I love you, so much, my Evenstar. Whatever would I do without you? “ Aragorn whispered. Relaxing into her tender embrace, his head buried in her silken hair, Aragorn was finally granted a few hours of the restful sleep he desperately needed.

However, he awoke again just before dawn, finding the air in the chamber oppressive. Taking care not to disturb his wife or son, he slid from the bed and putting on his robe, went out on the balcony, where brooding, he paced until the sun rose and he heard Arwen calling him.

While her husband was bathing, Arwen gave Eldarion into the care of his nurse, then made what had become a now familiar trip to the Royal Library to consult her father’s books.

The Queen had frequently consulted the volumes on healing, ever since their return to Minas Tirith, reading the same passages over and over, as she sought some knowledge that might help her husband. They gave her little solace. And some of the old writings stabbed fear into her heart.

‘When two who were Thought Bonded become estranged through sorrowful misunderstanding, the souls can sometimes suffer so much damage that both might fade.’ The passage applied to Elves rather than Men, but looking at both Aragorn and Faramir now, especially after last night, she feared greatly that it indeed applied to both.

Turning the page, she perused the suggested remedies. ’Three nights confined together, sealed in a cave might promote a reconciliation,’ she read. That was certainly not a suitable treatment for anyone as fearful of enclosed spaces as Estel had become. ’Wrestling together, preferably naked, will overcome most rifts, ’ the book continued. Arwen hardly knew whether to laugh or cry, at the unlikelihood of two extremely shy Men ever agreeing to such a thing. She turned the page again. ’Elven massage promotes reconciliation and soothes both mind and body,’ the book advised. Foolish advice indeed for two who seemed unable to touch each other!

Arwen had to restrain herself from hurling the fragile old text across the room.

Sighing, she picked up another book, a history of the Kings of the Edain, from Elros Tar-Minyatur of Númenor,her father’s beloved brother, to Eärnur, the last King of Gondor. She flicked through it idly, wondering why she had grasped a history instead of another text about healing. She was about to close it and return it to its place, when a passage caught her eye. ’In days past,’ she read with mounting excitement, ‘it was the tradition for the King to go alone to the Hallow upon the Mountain and offer thanks and praise to the One on behalf of his people and seek renewal of his own strength by so doing. Long has this tradition fallen into abeyance but it is foretold that the lineal priest kings (of whom Lúthien the Fair was a foremother) will be restored and the worship of the One renewed.’

Eyes aglow, Arwen closed the book. At last, she had an idea.

The next morning, when Arwen knew her husband was safely occupied meeting the Ambassador from Khand, she summoned Faramir to her sitting moments of receiving the message, he presented himself to his Queen.

“My lady,” the Steward bowed low to greet her.

“Do sit down, Faramir. Would you like some iced apple juice?” Arwen gestured to a chair directly opposite hers.

“Thank you, my lady.” Faramir sat down on the edge of the chair, looking ill at ease.

After sending the servants away, Arwen herself poured two goblets of the refreshing liquid from the ewer laid ready on the table. She handed one to the Steward and then sat studying him for a few moments while he drank. “How are you feeling, Faramir?” she asked after a short silence. “Do not tell me you are well, for I can plainly see that you are not!”

Faramir sighed deeply. His sad grey eyes tried to evade her gaze while he sought a suitable reply.

“Maybe, a better question would be to ask about how you feel concerning Estel’s treatment of you?” she asked shrewdly.

“The King has been most gracious and merciful to me,” Faramir replied steadfastly.

“You do not resent your exile these past months?” the Queen demanded more forcefully.

“No, my lady. Had my father ruled here, it would have gone very differently for me.”

“Would it?” Arwen asked sharply, putting down her glass.

“Indeed, my lady. I would have been executed as a traitor, whatever the reasons for my actions.”

“Are you a traitor? Can Estel truly trust you?” Arwen asked relentlessly rising to her feet and towering over the Steward.

“My lady, I was ever true in my heart!” Faramir protested, momentarily forgetting that etiquette demanded that he rise too. “Forgive, my lady,” he said, jumping up and almost knocking over the glass in his agitation. He stood and met her eyes. ”You have the power to read my thoughts, my lady,” he said, “If you doubt my loyalty, I beg of you to sift my heart .You will find no disloyalty there to my lord! Bitterly doI regret causing him pain, but never was I false in my heart! His welfare, and that of Gondor was and is, ever my chief concern.”

Arwen suddenly smiled and took the Steward’s hands between her own. “I believe you, Faramir,” she said gently. “I just needed to be certain before I ask a favour of you. You are a brave man indeed, to be willing to endure my intrusion in your mind despite the pain it caused you before.”

“I would endure any pain to convince you and the King of my faith!” Faramir said fervently. “Ask of me what you will, my lady!”

Arwen refilled their glasses with the now cool, rather than iced juice. She gestured for Faramir to sit as she settled down on her chair again.

“You must have noticed that Estel does not look well,” she confided.

Faramir nodded, fear apparent in his eyes.

“My brothers, the finest Healers now on Arda, cannot aid him, “ she continued, “ But I believe that you can.”

“Alas, I am no Healer, my lady as Aragorn, um the King well knows.” Faramir looked bewildered.

“Estel is healed in body but not in soul,” Arwen explained,” I believe he needs time away from this stone city to restore his spirits. I have been studying the lore of old and believe he needs to seek the guidance of the One by visiting the Hallow on the Mountain, followed by some time of reflection in the wilderness. I would not have him go alone and I believe you are the best person to accompany him. I believe you would guard him with your life.”

“Indeed, I would my lady and most gladly, but he would not wish for my company.” Faramir said sadly.

“ You are the only one who could go with him. Only those of Elendil’s line may visit the Hallow of the Kings.”

“But I am not of royal lineage, “ Faramir protested. “Were the House of Húrin of Elendil’s Line, I believe my longfathers would have claimed the throne of Gondor centuries ago.”

“Maybe those of your Line are not be heirs of Elendil under the law of Gondor, but you would be counted as such in Númenor,” said Arwen. “Anárion had a daughter who was the ancestress of your House. Your lineage may not be as pure as Estel’s but your family was ultimately of Kingly origin. I have been studying the history of the Hurinionath.”

“Even if I do bear the blood of Elendil in my veins, the King can hardly stand to have me in his sight!” said Faramir somewhat bitterly. “ I would follow him to the farthest reaches of Arda but he would bid me stay in Ithilien!”

“I believe he needs you at his side in order to heal his soul,” the Queen said. “You are Thought Bonded and you require each other in order to be whole. Estel knew that full well, when he offered you that Gift. It is not the natural order of things that those thus bonded should not be in harmony and take pleasure in each other’s close companionship. That is the main reason why my brothers have lingered here, so that their Bond with me would remain unbroken while I live.

“The King gave me that precious Gift and yet I could not use it to aid him,” Faramir said sorrowfully. “Maybe it was wasted on me as my father always said it would be!”

Arwen leaned across and again gripped Faramir’s hand. “Indeed no, mellon nin!” she exclaimed, “Quite the contrary! You have already used the Thought Bond. With further use and practise, you will learn how to use it even better. Remember, Estel has had over seventy years to hone his mental skills. It was quite remarkable that he reached you as he did, after so few months of communicating by thought alone.”

Faramir flushed with pleasure at such praise.

“After you have made your pilgrimage, I would like Estel to ride out into the countryside and travel as a Ranger again for a time, far from the strictures of court life. Alone in the wilds, you will have to depend on each other again. When one has to hunt for one’s food and constantly search for water, there is little time to brood! As a former Ranger yourself, you will make the ideal companion for him!”

“I will try to be,” Faramir promised, still looking doubtful. “I still do not think he would wish for such a trip in my company!”

“I will persuade him of its importance,” said the Queen. “He cannot plead his duties as excuse not to go. As you well know, after this afternoon’s meeting, the Council will not be held again for several weeks when the remade Council will meet for the first time. Your uncle and I can deal with the daily responsibilities of running the country; both your staff and Estel's have eased the process along the lines you both requested. So he has no reason to refuse my suggestion. You can leave either tomorrow or the day after. You have a good horse with you have you not?”

“Yes, my lady. Zachus is a fine mount, though not much to look upon.”

Arwen smiled, remembering how invaluable the supposed cart-horse had been in rescuing her husband.

“One final thing, Faramir, as yet, I would rather Estel did not know of this conversation. It would be wise to feign some reluctance when he asks you to accompany you.”

“Yes, my lady,” Faramir replied, wondering how many more deceptions the Queen would demand of him for Aragorn’s good. But the shaft had already flown from the bow on that matter. At least, this time, the deception was a mild one and would aid in Aragorn's healing, rather than cause any injury.

The Queen rose to her feet. So too, did Faramir, flinching slightly as he moved.

Arwen wondered if she should insist the Steward see a Healer before departing. She decided it perhaps it would be better to leave Faramir as he was. She had trodden on Faramir's pride enough for one day, and he was strong enough to walk and ride, which was all that would be required of him.

“May the Stars light your way! ” Arwen again grasped Faramir’s hand as she blessed him.

Taking leave of the troubled Steward, the Queen returned to the nursery where she had left Eldarion in his nursemaid's charge. It had been a gamble to first tell Faramir of her plan, but now there could be no turning back Already she wondered however she could persuade her husband to go.

She knew she would miss him greatly and worry about his safety. However, she was wise enough to know that this might be the only way that the vigorous man she married could be restored to her.

How could she sit idly by, watching her Estel fade as his confidence ebbed and his suspicions rose with each long day and restless night? The accursed traitors had not only weakened his bond with Faramir, but had sucked out Estel's ability to trust both himself and his people.

She thought sadly of her mother, now healed and happy in Elvenhome, but forever lost to her. Of late, Arwen's troubled thoughts had focussed more and more on Celebrian's suffering, raising her own unvoiced fears. She knew only too well that a damaged body could be healed far more easily than a tortured mind. To send Aragorn into the wilds with only Faramir to companion him would incur a certain risk. Yet to do nothing would surely expose her beloved husband to even greater peril.

Aragorn paced the living room relentlessly. He then strode over to the window and leaned out for perhaps the twelfth time that day.

He gazed out morosely over towards the mountains, their peaks rising above the haze shrouded City. Having spent most of his life in the North, he found the heat in Minas Tirith well nigh unbearable, but never more so than at present.

Arwen, much better able to endure extremes of temperature, sat calmly fanning her baby son.

“What do you seek?” she enquired.

“To see if there be any sign of rain; but there is none.”

”The rain will surely come soon.”

“I cannot even go and swim in the river, lest any man see me as I am now!” Aragorn complained, and sighed. “These walls are crushing me!”

Arwen realised he was giving her the perfect opportunity to put her plan into action.

The King paced the room again, then, frustrated, pounded the table with his fist, causing a pearl-inlaid silver vase to wobble precariously. Arwen grabbed the vase and steadied it. The vase, now filled with fresh flowers, was a family heirloom, made in Menegroth for the wedding of Celeborn and Galadriel, and later passed lovingly to their daughter and finally to their grand-daughter. She took a deep breath. “I have read that when the Kings of old were troubled, they would go to the Hallows in the mountains and seek the blessing of the One,” said Arwen. “Why do you not take Faramir to the place where our new Tree was born, and seek peace together?”

“I can never find peace! “ Aragorn snapped. “Too much has happened. Faramir has changed and so have I. Why speak of Faramir? Only those of the line of Elendil should visit that sacred place!”

”Gandalf walked there with you, so why not your Steward?” Arwen replied. “He too bears the blood of Westernesse in generous measure. His descent through Anárion’s daughter makes him the scion of Kings and thus permitted to set foot in the Holy Places! Now go and play at being Rangers again with Faramir for awhile before you drive me to distraction!” the Queen said.

Aragorn stopped pacing, surprised at her words. “There is nothing I would like better than walk alone in the wilds. Alas, I no longer have that freedom!” he sighed. "I will breathe some athelas vapour. The herb always lightens my spirits.”

“You have done little else but inhale athelas these past months; yet still your heart is heavy,” Arwen retorted. “You can be spared from the daily responsibilities of kingship while everyone is occupied with the harvest. Faramir's staff and your own have worked together well in the past. And I assure you that after almost five hundred years as the Lady of Rivendell, I am quite capable of hosting the visiting ambassadors and trade delegations. Imrahil has been a diplomat and negotiator for most of his life, and he will stay by my side. It is not as if you would accomplish much work in your present state, for you are too restless! Go and ask Faramir to ascend the mountain with you! You will at least be cooler there!”

“I will go to the Hallow if you think that might aid me,” Aragorn conceded. “However, I would rather make the journey alone; since I was accustomed to solitude for many a long year.”

“You were not King then. You must not go alone lest some further ill befall you, ”Arwen sternly reminded him. "Faramir will guard you well."

“Faramir was working hard when I last looked in on him; he would not wish to stop work to roam in the wilds,” the King declared, trying a different tactic to dissuade Arwen from her purpose.

“Well then, either send Faramir home to Ithilien, which seems unreasonable since he has only just returned to the City, or take him to the Hallow,” Arwen insisted. "It is easy to see that you are trying to avoid him. I have watched you treat Easterlings who once fought against us with more courtesy. And then there are the nightmares."

Aragorn flushed slightly.

“If it troubles you that he is no longer the man he was when you first met, remember that he sacrificed that innocence for you,” Arwen said quietly,” And from what I know of Faramir, he is still wracked with guilt over what he had to do to save you! He deserves your love, not your disapproval!”

“But I do love him,” Aragorn whispered more to himself than to Arwen. “I pardoned him even though he betrayed me. I know I owe him my life!”

“Maybe that is what troubles you?” Arwen observed shrewdly.

“He had to care for me as if I were a babe in arms,” Aragorn said, not looking at his wife. “Then when he found me... “ his voice trailed away. “No one should have had to see me like that! “ He shuddered at the memory.

“Someone had to care for you, Estel, if not Faramir, would you have preferred little Elbeth to attend you?” Arwen replied.” Do not let your pride destroy your friendship; you have cared for Faramir through as bad or worse.”

“But how can I trust him again after what he did?”

“You are making excuses!” Arwen accused, though the sudden touch of her soft hand on his face lessened the harshness of her words. “ You need to be reconciled with Faramir, if not for your own sake, for the good of Gondor. Only then will your soul heal. Go now, find your Steward, and go out with him into the wilds until you can settle what lies between you! Take him to your heart again as a son!

Faramir’s eyes briefly lit up when the King told him they were to leave the next morning before resuming their now habitual haunted expression. “I would be glad to accompany you, my lord!” he replied dutifully before throwing a guilty glance at the heap of documents on his desk. “However, I really cannot leave the paperwork before tomorrow though. There are the details of the new law concerning trade tariffs to finish, and the treaty with the Easterlings and the restoration of the gate on the third level and …”

“Your King commands you to forget them all for a while!” Aragorn interrupted harshly.” Imrahil can oversee such routine matters, and you have picked the new clerks on your staff most wisely. I need you to come. The Queen will fret if I go alone.

“I will gladly honour your lady’s wishes,” Faramir replied, not certain if he was glad or sorry that the Queen’s plan had obviously worked. He hardly knew how he should act in the King’s presence any longer.

Faramir turned to glare at the stack of papers, then gatheredthem up and thrust them into an already overstuffed drawer in his desk.

“Who am I to dispute an order from my King?” he said, “I will accompany you, sire, though I do not know how I will ever catch up with thetasks that await me!”

Aragorn clapped him awkwardly on the shoulder and Faramir flinched as if struck.

The King sighed. Thejourney would feel endless in this man’s company. Why would Arwen not let him go alone? Faramir was nearly the last one, dwarf, elf, hobbit or man, on Arda that he would choose to accompany him. “We leave at first light tomorrow, Aragorn said gruffly. “You had better go and prepare.”

Arwen was delighted at the result of her plan to send Estel and Faramir forth together. To avoid alerting the servants to the King’s imminent departure, she herself helped pack what few processions her husband would need; clean linens, his sword and a hunting knife, a few cooking utensils,and healing supplies. Apart from what seemed an excessive amount of athelas, Aragorn was loth to pack the latter, insisting he was a healer no longer. He relented only when Arwen pointed out he might well need healing herbs and other sundries for himself, especially such items as salves. It had been so long since he had ridden more than a short distance, saddle soreness was a distinct possibility.

Aragorn and Faramir decided to leave at sunrise when most people were still abed. They would hopefully slip out of the City unnoticed. Faramir had suggested they use the secret tunnels but Aragorn had curtly refused. He had already endured enough of dank enclosed spaces to last a lifetime when imprisoned in Dervorin's dungeon.

The King had ordered that Lamrung, a Guard he could trust, be postedat the gates at the time they intended to depart.

“I have changed my mind about visiting the Mountain, I would rather abide here with you,” Aragorn announced after another restless night.

“It will do you good to leave the City,” Arwen said calmly. ”You will feel better when you can feel the cool mountain wind in your hair.”

“I shall miss you too much and I like not the thought of being alone in the wilds with Faramir,” Aragorn protested.

“I shall miss you as well, but I still think you should go,” Arwen replied firmly. “Once you would have gladly gone out into thecountryside with Faramir. Now go, and do not return until your heart is eased! I love you too much, Estel, to see you suffering thus day after day.”

“Very well,” Aragorn sighed. “I shall return for Eldarion’s birthday.” Thus saying, he tenderly kissed the still sleeping child and did likewise to his wife, clasping her as tightly as one might a tree to avoid being blown away by a storm.

Arwen stood watching at the window while Aragorn made his way across the almost deserted Court of the Fountain. Faramir awaited him beside theWhite the King, he was plainly dressed in Ranger garb and carrying his pack. The King nodded curtly to his Steward and they disappeared from view, Faramir keeping a respectful few paces behind his lord.

The Queen brushed away a few tears as her husband and his Steward disappeared from her sight. She could only hope and pray that she had made the right choice in sending them away together like this. A wave of cold fear suddenly assailed her. What if Estel were waylaid again? Or what if he and Faramir ended up gravely wounding or killing each other, how would the realm fare, much less herself and Eldarion?

She firmly pushed such unwholesome thoughts aside. Their mental bond had shown her that Aragorn still loved Faramir. She was also certain that Faramir’s devotion to Aragorn had never wavered. The same bond that allowed her to sense how her husband was faring would alert her immediately should any danger threaten him. Much as she would miss Estel and fret over him, this separation was necessary. She knew all too well that only when, or if, his Bond with Faramir were mended, would he be whole once more.

Arwen decided she would write to Éowyn and invite her to visit while their men folk were away, but first she would sleep. She was so weary for she could not remember when she had last enjoyed a full night of untroubled slumber. It drained her energy, for even of one of her kind could not go without peaceful sleep for months on end without becoming weary.

Much as she adored her husband, it had taken her time to become accustomed to him sleeping at her side. He had been in the habit too, of sometimes sleeping in his own room. Gondorian custom encouraged a wife of high status to sleep alone when troubled by women’s courses or crying babies.A husband would do likewise if he needed to rise early or simply craved solitude.

These past months, however, Estel had been at her side constantly, both day and night. At times he became even more demanding than her child. The sight of her proud, self-reliant husband clinging to her as tightly as a babe had torn at her heart even more than Eldarion's occasional and easily soothed tears.

Surmising that Eldarion would not awaken for at least another hour, the Queen climbed back into bed and fell into a deep slumber.

000

Silently, Aragorn and Faramir made their way down to the stables on the Sixth level. A bleary-eyed groom asked if he could assist them but the King bade him to return to his interrupted rest.

There was still barely enough light in the stables to see clearly, but eventually Roheryn and Zachus were saddled and King and Steward mounted and rode towards the City gates.

The few people up and about in the performance of their early morning business ignored the two plainly dressed horsemen riding down the City circles. They were accustomed to seeing their King and Steward richly clad and accompanied by guards, so they would never have taken these two hooded and cloaked figures for Gondor's lords.

Lamrung assisted by two young recruits opened the Great Gateat their approach and wished them a pleasant journey without betraying he knew who they were. The young man had become a worthy Guard, and Aragorn had never regretted his decision to offer him a better post than that of a prison warder.

Aragorn's spirits rose as they cantered along the Pelennor. They had shed their cloaks and stuffed them into their saddlebags the moment the gates closed behind them. Now Faramir and Aragorn sighed with relief and gave the horses their heads.

“To be free at last!”exclaimed the lord of the Reunited Kingdom, “I felt I would suffocate if I spent another moment caged by those stone walls! The Valar be praised we managed to escape undetected! Arwen has promised to tell the Council and the Guards that we have gone hunting for a time.”

Faramir pondered whether he should speak deferentially or proceed in a less formal fashion now that they had left the Citadel. “Thus speaks the Ranger from the Northern wilds!” he countered, trying the latter choice. “Our walls are a protection, not a prison, built to guard the fairest place in Middle-earth!”

“Thus says a Man of the South, who knows not of what he speaks! It is apparent that you have never seen Rivendell or the fair mountains of the North!” Aragorn retorted sourly. “There is true beauty there, hard-won but free, of a sort you could not imagine.”

“You know I cannot argue, since I have never seen the Northlands!” Faramir replied mildly. “We of Gondor should be thankful that you have so well concealed your aversion for the City that the sons of Elendil founded.”

“It is hard to share your love for Minas Tirith, especially in the summer months.” Aragorn said coldly. “I am too accustomed to the wild beauty of Northern climes.”

“You have seen many lands,” Faramir said simply, for lack of a better reply.

“That is because I have lived long years without a home for a wife and family.” Aragorn replied. “I may not love the confines of stone walls, but it is now my doom to make that home in Minas Tirith.”

Faramir bit back the retort on his lips and concentrated on swatting at the insects that circled Zachus’ head, tormenting the placid gelding. “I cannot say that I love the flies in summer! The cattle must attract them.” He bit his lip, wishing he had not spoken that word to the man he had burned with a cattle brand.

“The heat of the City more likely!” Aragorn glared at him but said no more.

“Where exactly are we going?” Faramir asked, eager to change the subject. It would only make things worse to quarrel now. He and Aragorn tended to be equally stubborn about the climate of Minas Tirith. Once he would have been horrified at the very thought of disagreeing with his King. But their friendship had grown so strong that they had argued as easily as he and Boromir had done, spending hours in sometimes heated but always friendly bantering. Now, such arguments were as fraught with tension as all matters between them had recently become.

“You will see,” Aragorn replied curtly. “Let us remove our tunics and at least be cooler.”

Faramir looked taken aback at the suggestion. “It is discourteous to for a lord of Gondor be less than fully clad in the presence of others." He looked across at the fields surrounding the road, where the peasants toiled. Most of the men were bare to the waist, while some of the women wore only loose linen shifts. It seemed that the country folk had little regard for Court etiquette, especially during a time of such severe heat. Faramir sighed softly, and continued: "But as none here know who were are and the people are too busy working in the fields to notice our apparel, I suppose that we could.”

Aragorn had not waited for Faramir’s verdict and was already in his shirtsleeves. He stuffed the tunic in his saddlebag before Faramir had finished speaking. The Steward hesitated for a moment, thinking how his father would have disapproved of such casual dress. Deciding that he no longer cared, Faramirconsigned his own tunic to rest beside his clean underwear.

“Is that not more comfortable?” the King asked.

Faramir nodded reluctantly. Secretly, he agreed with Aragorn that it was far too hot for comfort, though he was in no mood to openly disparage his beloved White City.

“To reach Mount Mindolluin, we willdouble back along the Rammas Echor and approach it from the South.” Aragorn informed his Steward. ”We are taking a more roundabout path than did Mithrandir and I, so that we can ride in the shade.”

The lower slopes of the Mountain were densely wooded, providing a welcome respite from the heat. The City already seemed far away here under the canopy of trees. The air was heavy with the refreshing scent of larch and juniper intermingled with sweet honeysuckle blossom, which grew in the clearings and attracted industrious bees and colourful butterflies to its scented blossoms. The birds chirruped in the treetops and a thrush sang melodiously from one of the highest branches.

A crystal stream ran down the hillside. Seeing the welcome rivulet, the King and Steward swiftly dismounted to let their horses drink. Then they eagerly refreshed themselves with the cool sweet water, splashing it freely over their hands and faces.

“Is this place not fair?” Aragorn exclaimed, a faint smile lighting up his grim features. He sat down, sprawling lazily across a moss-encrusted boulder.

“Indeed it is, my lord.” Faramir replied, pleased Aragorn seemed to finally appreciate something about Gondor. He settled himself a few feet away and they sat in silence for a time, listening to the birdsong.

“I think it best we make camp here for the night,” Aragorn said after a while, clambering to his feet. “Take your bow and catch us something for supper!”

Faramir meekly did as he was bidden. Fortunately he managed to shoot a buck rabbit quickly and cleanly. He swiftly prepared it for supper; Aragorn built the fire but otherwise did nothing to help, making it very clear that he expected Faramir to act as his servant.

Steward and King then settled down for the night, laying out their bedrolls on opposite sides of their campfire. Their weapons lay within easy reach and a fire burned to deter any wild animals that might approach.

They spoke little while they prepared to sleep, each man lost in his own thoughts. It occurred to both that this time should have been happier, since they had long wished to ride out into the countryside together.

Aragorn found it much easier to fall asleep under the night sky than within his own room in the Citadel .He was soothed by the stars overhead, and slept soundly, mercifully free from the nightmares that had tormented his sleep for months now.

Faramir was lessfortunate. When sleep finally claimed him, he was transported back to Dervorin’s Hunting Lodge, again preparing to brand his King. This time, Aragorn remained conscious as Faramir pressed the brand to his shoulder, and cursed Faramir to find no peace until the world’s ending.

He cried out; “No! No! I must do it! Forgive me, lord!”

Faramir's screams woke the King. Aragorn watched the son of Denethor uneasily for a few moments. He finally moved to Faramir's side, fearful that the Steward would writhe too close to the fire and harm himself. The bright moonlight shone clearly on the younger man's anguished features.

“No! I have to do this--” Faramir’s hands lashed out at some unseen horror.

“Peace, all is well now,” Feeling a sudden surge of pity, Aragorn grabbed the thrashing hands, instinctively noting how rapid the pulse was.

Faramir did not awaken, although he seemed to be calmed somewhat by Aragorn's words.

The King remembered that these hands had driven a brand into his own skin and released them with a shudder of revulsion. Still, he could not utterly abandon the other man. Aragorn reluctantly moved his bedroll alongside that of Faramir. It seemed as if it were going to be a long and sleepless night.

To his surprise, Faramir’s restless head found his shoulder and settled there. The Steward sighed contentedly. Then, almost immediately, he relaxed and fell into an apparently dreamless sleep.

Aragorn’s immediate reaction was a desire to push him away. However, if he did so, he would be unlikely to get any further sleep that night and he was already exhausted. Yet, how could he allow the one who had branded him to curl up against him as innocently as a kitten nestled among its littermates?

Faramir moaned in his sleep, almost as if he sensed Aragorn's thoughts. A wave of compassion overwhelmed the King. Maybe Faramir was not a heartless, calculating traitor. Could it be that the Steward’s sleep was troubled by memories of the actions that had, however painfully, saved his King’s life? Maybe Arwen was right, as she so often was. What if he had wronged Faramir? These thoughts were too painful to dwell upon. He resolutely pushed them to the back of his mind

Wearied by the day’s events, Aragorn slipped back into slumber.

When he opened his eyes again, it was already dawn .The pink tinged clouds heralded another fine day. Already feeling too warm, Aragorn threw off his blanket.

The sudden movement disturbed Faramir, who awoke with a start. Shamefaced, he immediately pulled away from Aragorn's shoulder.

“ I am sorry,” he mumbled.

“Someday we will bring Eldarion along, and I can have one of you each side of me,“ Aragorn said with forced cheer. To his dismay, he could sense the pain emanating from Faramir’s thoughts and found given his own troubled state of mind, it was more than he could endure.

“I am no longer worthy to be treated as your son! “ Faramir declared miserably.

Aragorn neither replied nor made any moveto draw Faramir to his side again.

Faramir rolled over on his side and pretended to sleep, hoping Aragorn would not notice the silent tears that trickled down his cheeks.

Neither Aragorn nor Faramir felt greatly refreshed when they arose the next morning. To make matters worse, the air now felt more oppressive than ever, as if a storm were imminent. Yet not even a distant rumble of thunder could be heard, while the sky remained cloudless and sullen.

In uneasy silence, brooding over the events of the night before, King and Steward folded their bedrolls. Aragorn’s shoulder throbbed painfully and his heart was heavy. The fire had gone out or he would have prepared an athelas infusion to try to ease his spirits.

“We should bathe before we breakfast. We must prepare to approach the Hallow,” Aragorn announced. He sat down by the stream and started to unlace his boots.

“Is that necessary?” Faramir asked, uneasily kicking at a fir cone in his path.

“I must be cleansed before we approach the presence of the One,” Aragorn said firmly.

“Though I do not intend you to actually set foot in the holy place, you must also bepurified. Surely you have studied the old rituals sufficiently to understand why?”

“I have faced West before eating throughout my life, and have studied the rites of the holy places," the Steward replied, a certain stubbornness in his tone. "I never read that bathing was required, either on the Hill of Awe or even on the very summit of Meneltarma itself in Númenor. I thought rather that prayer and reflection were needed. Surely, if I am not to enter this Hallow, it hardly matters whether I have bathed or not?”

“I would not risk offending the One by bringing an unclean man into even the vicinity of a holy place, “ Aragorn said sternly. “If I say you must bathe, then you will obey!”

Faramir looked at his King for a long moment, wondering what had become of the kindly and gracious liege-lord he had once known. He hesitated, then started to unlace his boots. “Very well, lord, I admit that I should bathe,” he acceded quietly.

Aragorn studied him thoughtfully, wondering why his Steward was resisting his authority. Did Faramir not understand that he, more than most men, needed purification before he even neared the Hallow? What insolence! Why, he was favouring him by bringing him so close to the holy place after what Faramir had done to him, yet Faramir acted as if he thought he was the ruling Steward of Gondor, not Arandur, the King's Servant. Aragorn wondered if he had been right to relent towards the Steward last night. It had probably had been a grave error on his part to allow him to sleep alongside him. It was just too painful, to think of restoring the Thought Bond with the one who had so badly hurt him. In the future, Aragorn would take more care to maintain a distance from Faramir. Whatever the man's true motives had been, his Steward had betrayed and injured him. He had been foolish to think that it all could be forgiven, much less forgotten. But for now, Aragorn was more concerned in retaining his own privacy than wondering how to deal with Faramir.

“I shall bathe here,” he declared, "You can swim further downstream. Please keep your back turned and allow me my privacy.”

“Of course, my lord,” Faramir said sound strangely relieved, “I will fetch the towels and fresh underwear for us to don after we bathe.” He swiftly turned away and walked over to where they had left their packs.

Aragorn strode some distance upstream before unlacing his tunic and pulling it over his head. He then removed his breeches and threw them to one side. He stood there for a moment, clad in shirt and drawers, anxiously looking around him. He wondered if he could bathe in his shirt but reluctantly decided the material was too heavy and cumbersome.

Once he was certain Faramir was nowhere in sight, he hesitantly pulled the garment over his head. Rather to his surprise, it felt blissful to feel fresh air against his bare skin. He had almost forgotten the sensation. Leaving his drawers on, as was his custom when swimming, he waded into the stream and sighed blissfully at its coolness. Even the burning and throbbing in his shoulder felt slightly eased.

When Faramir returned he found the King was immersed further upstream.

“You may bathe now!” Aragorn called,” The water is very refreshing!”

“I will return later,” Faramir replied, placing the towels on the bank. He then disappeared behind the trees. When he did not reappear within a few minutes, Aragorn frowned. It was unlike Faramir to so openly defy his wishes. In the past Faramir had been very shy about undressing in front of anyone, more so than was usual, even for a man of Gondor. Since Aragorn had healed his scars, though, he had been much less ill at ease.

The closeness of the bond they had once shared, and the circumstances of their recent ordeal, when they had stayed together in cramped quarters, had long since banished most of Faramir’s shyness. The Steward should no longer need to conceal anything, unlike the King he had branded.

Aragorn climbed out of the water, patted his wet body hastily with a towel and then dressed. He moved briskly in the direction where he had seen Faramir wander a quarter-hour past.

It did not take him long to find his quarry. His errant Steward sat on a fallen tree trunk at their campsite, fully clothed and quite dry.

“What is this?” Aragorn asked, his ire rising. He was impatient to reach the Hallow, and had not expected Faramir to dawdle. “I thought I told you to bathe.”

“ I decided that it was too cold,” Faramir replied without rising or looking him in the eye. “I will wait here while you offer your prayers at the Hallow.”

“Cold?” Aragorn sounded incredulous. “You were a Ranger for half of your life, bathing in rivers and streams in all weathers to keep yourself clean, and now you are too pampered a prince to immerse your delicate skin on a hot day? It is hard to believe!”

“I did not wish to bathe.” Faramir replied evasively.

“Why not?” Aragorn demanded. “I promised my Queen that you should accompany me to the Hallow and I am a man of my word. So prepare yourself!”

“I cannot, sire. I am sorry.” Faramir said quietly, his eyes downcast.

“I gave you an order and you would disobey me?” Aragorn’s tone was one of cold fury. “What are you hiding? Look at me!”

Faramir finally lifted his eyes and looked at him. ”The Queen told me I should accompany you on this journey, before you asked me to come,” he said at last.

“So you conspired with my wife behind my back?” Aragorn’s eyes blazed with wrath and not a little pain.

Faramir looked away, unable to endure his gaze.

Suddenly unable to contain his fury any longer, Aragorn grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him hard.

Faramir gave an involuntary yelp of pain.

“Whatever is the matter?” Aragorn asked; his fury now tempered with anxiety.

Faramir remained silent.

Aragorn said firmly, “Something ails you. Remove your shirt and let me see!”

“I would rather not,” Faramir replied with equal firmness.” I have a right to cover myself. Even you cannot deny me that!”

Fighting back the impulse to strike the disobedient Steward, Aragorn instead gripped Faramir’s hands, instinctively noting how the palms were moist with sweat and the man's pulse raced. For a moment, he wondered if Faramir had branded himself in a strange attempt to win back his favour. “Your King orders you to remove your shirt,” he demanded. ”Would you risk the full weight of my wrath by your disobedience?”

Slowly and reluctantly, Faramir unlaced the shirt and drew it over his head.

Aragorn found himself biting back a cry as his Steward’s upper body was bared; Faramir’s chest and arms were covered with raw, reddened patches.

Aragorn walked round the log, dismayed to find that Faramir’s back was almost equally disfigured. He was forced to assume that were his legs uncovered they would look just the same.

“Whatever have you done?” Despite his anger, Aragorn could not but feel pity for the man who had once been his friend.

“I was trying to scrub myself clean.” Faramir said, crossing his arms defensively, before he could demand an explanation.

“But why scour yourself raw like this?”

“It hurts less inside when I do,” Faramir replied simply. “Yet however much I wash myself I still feel tainted by my treason. I knew not what else to do!”

“Why did you not tell me or the Queen?” Aragorn sat down on the log and took Faramir’s hands again. “I would not have brought you here, had I known you were thus mutilated.”

“I desired to come,” Faramir said simply.” It is nothing; the hurts are but slight. Sometimes I have used linen bandaging to shield them from heavier clothing, but Éowyn has grown suspicious of the loss of her supplies.”

Aragorn sighed and inwardly cursed himself.” You should have told your wife!” he said, wishing to evade the deeper implications of Faramir’s strange behaviour.

“There are some things she cannot, nor would I desire her to, understand, “ Faramir answered quietly. “Only your forgiveness has helped me to remain living with this stain upon my soul!”

Abruptly Aragorn released his Steward’s hands. ”You had better bathe then, since you are so obsessed with cleanliness! I will prepare some breakfast for us.”

The King strode off towards the campsite, his heart troubled. He realised now Faramir needed to be reassured of his pardon, and the only way to accomplish such a thing would be to renew their Thought Bond. Yet, how could he take Faramir into his heart once more when he harboured such resentment towards him?

Deeply hurt, Faramir finished undressing and strode into the water, which painfully stung his raw skin. He had not wanted Aragorn to see how he was marked, and yet felt oddly relieved that he had finally revealed the damage. Yet, the King’s reaction had sharply differed from the response he had hoped for in his heart. In the past, Aragorn would have at the very least offered him a healing salve, and words of comfort. Now the man he had grown to love as a father had turned as cold to him as Denethor had been.

Instead of preparing breakfast, Aragorn sat down heavily upon the log, trying to control his inner turmoil. Elrond had taught him long ago that excessive washing was a symptom either of a disturbed mind or a troubled conscience. Faramir was not mad; therefore he must be deeply troubled. Was his estrangement from his Steward somehow to blame? Or did Faramir’s guilt go even deeper that he had admitted?

After a few minutes had passed, he could not bear to sit still any longer. Aragorn rose and went in search of his troubled Steward.

He found Faramir standing on the grass by the side of the stream, shaking the water from his sodden hair. At his feet, lay the discarded drawers he had worn in the stream; he had folded his clothing and clean drawers neatly beside him on the bank. The Steward had wrapped a towel around his waist and was drying his back with another by the time Aragorn appeared at the water’s edge.

“Have you been scrubbing yourself raw anywhere else?” the King enquired, noting that Faramir’s skin looked even more inflamed now. And his ribs were more visible too; clearly the Steward had not been eating well of late.

“No,” said Faramir tersely, rubbing his back hard and wincing at the pain.

“Are you certain?” Aragorn persisted.

“I do not lie,” Faramir replied; then looked away, realising the significance of his words.

“Are you certain of that? You lied very easily at Dervorin's lodge,” Aragorn replied. “And you have admitted to another deception but a few moments ago! Do you even know what truth is?”

Goaded at last into fury, Faramir flung away his towels and stood proud and defiant; nakedbefore his King. “ There!” he pronounced, “See, there is no other mark upon me! I have nothing to hide! I am sworn to you body and soul and have withheld nothing from you!”

Aragorn slowly circled the angry man, viewing him with the carefully unreadable expression he had learned to observe when Elrond first trained him as a healer. It was better than standing there with his mouth wide open in shock at Faramir's behaviour, which had been his first impulse

Suddenly aware of his nakedness, Faramir fought back the urge to cover himself with his hands. He shook slightly with a mixture of rage and embarrassment.

“You told the truth,” said Aragorn, his voice devoid of emotion. “Get dressed!”

“As is my custom, save when I had to lie and cheat and destroy my very soul to save you!” Faramir retorted, pulling on his drawers and breeches with great speed, ignoring the throbbing in his upper body. His humiliation was complete. “How can you understand? I gave you my all and you cannot trust me in anything? You seek only to humiliate me!” He felt utterly shamed, viewed like a beast at market. Faramir flushed scarlet, for never had he expected that Aragorn would subject him to such indignity.

Faramir could barely stand to meet his King's disdainful eyes. The most shameful moment of his youth burned in his memory. He had been a reed-thin, gawky stripling of fourteen on that day when his father had learned of Faramir's recent conversations with the visiting Mithrandir, their talk of heroes of old and the deeds of the legendary Captain Thorongil. Denethor had stormed into his bathing chamber while Faramir was drying his naked body. The Steward had surveyed his son with contempt, told him he would not see the Grey Pilgrim again until he had proved his loyalty by serving in Boromir's company at Cair Andros. Then Denethor had said he hoped the worthy soldiers would not laugh at him, that Faramir was such a puny little boy no one would believe he shared Boromir's blood. And now, a man who looked enough like Denethor to be his father's close kin gazed upon Faramir with scorn.

"You forget to whom you speak, Faramir. Calm yourself!" Aragorn ordered. Picking up the Steward's shirt from the ground, he lightly prodded Faramir's shoulder, meaning to grasp the furious younger man and forcefully steady him.

Faramir could take no more. He had hazarded both life and honour to save this man; lost his reputation and nearly his life, from the love he had borne him. Now he was treated with callous indifference, like an errant, worthless servant. Better that Aragorn had executed him! Past caring what he did any longer, Faramir blindly lashed out, pushing aside the King's arm in sudden rage.

“You would dare raise your hand against me again?” Aragorn's anger rose like a burning flame. That this wretch could try to attack him made him furious! He had raised Denethor's son to rank and the privilege of his close friendship, and this was how his charity was repaid! Aragorn grabbed Faramir's wrists, fully intending to either shake or strike him.

Aragorn could feel Faramir's pulse increase rapidly as he tightened his hold. The ugly reddened patches extended from the Steward’s shoulders down his right arm. Aragorn was hit by a wave of sharp, unexpected self-loathing. He had not faced Faramir as King and friend, but as a judge condemning the lowest of miscreants. He had never subjected even enemy warriors to such humiliation! Rather than strike back, Aragorn drew the angry Steward into a fatherly embrace, knowing full well that the contact might enable Faramir to sense all his thoughts and the darkness therein. Better though, that all should be revealed than that they should come to blows, which they would forever regret.

Faramir tried to break free but was restrained by his King's firm yet gentle grip. Aragorn held him tightly, guiding Faramir's head against his uninjured shoulder.

“What have I become?” Faramir whispered, blinking back the tears as he continued to struggle.

“What you always were, you still are,” Aragorn whispered. Despite his reluctance, he was sensing Faramir’s thoughts. The heart of the man he had loved, as a son was unchanged. Faramir's mind held no hint of treachery, only sorrow at his own deeds and intense pain and frustration at Aragorn's coldness.

“I was about to strike you, my King!” Faramir said brokenly. The urge to resist left him as suddenly as it had come, and he went limp in Aragorn’s arms.

“You did not, though,” Aragorn said, releasing him. Much as he realised they needed to lay bare their souls to one another, still he sought to delay what was bound to be a trial for them both.

The Steward turned to stare at the water, its silver clarity seeming to mock his own confusion.

“You do not understand! Why did you come looking for me?” he asked. “Do you expect me to run away?” he asked bitterly.

“You would never run from anything, I know you too well.” Aragorn replied ignoring his tone. “I came to tell you not to dress before your hurts were treated. What is there to understand? You know that I have forgiven you.”

“You forgive me because you loved me once, not because you understand why!” Faramir protested.

“You are talking in riddles! This conversation is foolish!” Aragorn said sharply, remembering Arwen’s words with a pang of guilt.

“I am sorry,” Faramir’s tone was contrite now. How could he expect Aragorn to understand?

“Come then back to the camp site so your hurts can be tended! There is no point in finishing dressing now.” The King said, forcing himself to sound cheerful. Still clutching Faramir’s shirt, he marched ahead leaving Faramir to follow.

Once he reached the clearing, Aragorn sat down heavily upon the ground and buried his face in his hands. He had gone too far. What had he become to treat his Steward so poorly? He had directed his warriors to treat Easterling enemy prisoners more gently, and yet he had humiliated the man who had saved his life...the man he loved as dearly as his own child.

Arwen had been right. He had badly failed Faramir It was vital that they both come to accept what had happened, however painful.

Faramir donned his stockings and boots and picked up his tunic. He desired to wear it to cover himself, but his skin felt far too sore. He made his way back to the campsite, his footfalls heavy and his entire body feeling loathsome and uncomfortable, as if it belonged to a stranger. Faramir could not understand what he had done. Did some evil spirit possess him, or had he always harboured such treacherous rage? Whatever had caused his attack on his lord; he was deeply shamed by his furious outburst.

When he found Aragorn, the lord of the Reunited Kingdom was sitting against a great log, his face dejected and his eyes shadowed.

“I fear I have neglected to cook our breakfast, “ the King said in an expressionless tone.“ Porridge will have to suffice, this morning.” He placed a pan of water on the fire to boil, as he spoke.

“I have no objection to porridge,” Faramir said in a tone that also lacked emotion. It almost hurt to talk, but he had to ask: ”Please may I have my shirt back?”

Aragorn hesitated for a moment. Athelas would be the best remedy for Faramir’s raw skin. Yet how could he spare any of his precious leaves? He had brought a supply sufficient only for his own needs. However, at present, he felt a need to inhale some to calm his agitation. The infusion could be used to treat his Steward at the same time. “Let me see how you might be eased first,” he said, reaching a decision and taking a few leaves from his pouch, “I think this will lighten both our hearts.”

They moved to the log, and sat upon it in silence waiting for the water to heat. Faramir sat with his arms crossed defensively across his chest, while Aragorn stared fixedly at the fire. The silence was uncomfortable; the thundery air seemed to crackle with the tension between them.

Once the water was hot, Aragorn lifted the pot from the fire and placed it on the ground between them. He crumbled two athelas leaves in his hands and breathed on them. At once, a living freshness filled the air and both their hearts were somewhat lightened.

Aragorn swallowed hard and finally looked at his Steward. “I am truly sorry,” he said suddenly finding the words easy to speak,” I did not mean to insult or humiliate you like that. Can you forgive me?”

“I humiliated myself and bear you no reproach,” Faramir replied, eyes and voice dulled with sorrow. “You did not tell me to cast my towel aside and stand naked before you. I did so of my own will, forgetting myself in my anger.” He remembered how Aragorn had tended his hurts many times before and had always tried to preserve his dignity.

“I do not deny that like all men you look far better clothed!” Aragorn observed wryly.

“Obviously the One reserved beauty for females!” Faramir replied, thinking longingly of how Eowyn looked in the white silk nightgown that outlined her every curve in a most appealing manner. The nightdress was a favourite of his, so soft and light and almost transparent.

“I think the mixture is ready now ” Aragorn remarked, breaking into his Steward’s reverie.

“Very well, “ Faramir uncrossed his arms and reluctantly submitted himself to the King’s gaze.

“You must stop this scouring, it does no good!” Aragorn chided. He knelt beside his Steward and handed him the bowl of steaming water and a cloth with which to bathe the raw patches in the athelas infused water. “I order you as your King to cease hurting yourself from this day forward! Bathe your hurts with this, it should ease them. I am no longer a Healer but I will give you my advice.” Although his tone was stern, his eyes showed compassion.

“I will try to obey,” Faramir answered bleakly. He felt desolate that Aragorn would no longer tend him. He knew from Sam that a patient could effectively bathe himself with the athelas infusion if the King had crumbled the leaves and prepared them. But to Faramir; it was Aragorn's own hands that had conveyed the King's healing power, with a special touch of grace that no other hands could ever give.

Aragorn mutely handed Faramir a towel and turned away while the Steward bathed his hurts.

Faramir patted himself dry, then reached for his shirt.

“Wait!” Aragorn commanded, “ Your shirt might irritate your skin unless you apply a salve. The wounds are fortunately not deep enough to require bandaging, but if you keep on scrubbing like this, you could develop a dangerous infection.”

“I understand.” Faramir tensed slightly as he watched the King rummage in his saddlebag and retrieve a jar.

“Give it me back when you have finished,” he said abruptly, handing Faramir the jar of marigold ointment.

Faramir rubbed a liberal amount of the soothing cream on his chest and arms, but try as he might could not reach all over his back and shoulders.

“Give me the jar, I will do it,” Aragorn said curtly, steeling himself to suppress his revulsion at again touching his Steward.

Faramir tensed as the salve applied. Aragorn’s hands were quite gentle. However, his touch, although skilful, was completely impersonal. Somehow, that hurt far more than the damage to his skin. How could he expect it to be otherwise, though?

The Steward reached for his shirt and pulled it carefully over his head. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Once he would have embraced him but the gulf between them now made such a gesture impossible.

Aragorn sat down beside him again on the log, shuffling his feet uneasily.

Faramir glanced towards his King, noticing that Aragorn seemed to have aged over the last months. Faramir was suddenly gripped by fear. Aragorn was now ninety-one years of age. The Northern Dunedain were usually very long lived, and the King would still be considered to be in the prime of life. But could his ordeal in the traitors' clutches, including Faramir's own hands that had branded him, have withered the very life within Aragorn? What if the King's torment had shortened his natural span, and allowed the years to mark him? Faramir had seen his own father age before his time. Having lost one father, he was not ready to lose another.

“What troubles you? Are you still in pain?” Aragorn queried.

“I was concerned for you, my lord,” Faramir replied, “You look careworn. And you have borne the pain of your captivity, not I!”

“You shared it with me,” Aragorn admitted rather to his surprise. Perhaps the right moment was approaching to also share his troubled thoughts?

“Shall we have breakfast now?” Faramir asked, anxious to change the subject.

Aragorn sighed Again, themoment had come and gone.

Within the next hour, it became hot even in the forest, as the sun climbed higher in the sky.

Faramir tidied away the breakfast things. ”I am ready to leave now,” he announced.

“I deem it wise to postpone my pilgrimage to the Hallow until the morrow, “ the King replied. He knew his thoughts were too troubled to approach the One this day. As for Faramir, he was in no fit condition to make the strenuous ascent. “Would you like to spend the day fishing?” he asked.

“Yes, I should enjoy that.” Faramir sighed with relief at postponing the climb.

“Where did you learn to fish?” Aragorn enquired some four hours later. They sat on the banks of the stream, a few feet apart.

“Boromir used to take me to the Anduin when I was but a small child,” Faramir replied, “We also fished in the Bay of Belfalas with Uncle Imrahil. Boromir would get a good catch while I rarely caught anything. It seems I have better luck against you!” He gestured to his two fat trout and the one rather malnourished specimen that Aragorn had caught.

“I would have caught those had I been upstream of you!” Aragorn retorted grumpily, “ I learned to fish at Rivendell during my childhood as well. Elrohir taught me, he had more patience than his brother. The best lesson he gave was to never take more than you need and to kill quickly and humanely. The Elves respect Yavanna's gifts too much to ever take her bounty for granted.”

“A wise precept,” Faramir agreed, drawing in his rod as he felt another fish bite. “I think we have enough for today!”

“So it seems!” Aragorn conceded as he watched Faramir expertly despatch a plump trout.

After a hearty supper of fried fish, apples, and wild raspberries, they bedded down for the night once again. The air had grown almost unbearably humid, as if a storm was imminent.

“We should remain fairly sheltered here under the forest canopy if there is a storm,” Aragorn commented as he drew his blanket around him and settled down for he night. “I hope it will rain and end the drought.”

“The rain usually falls in the City rather than up here,” Faramir told him.

“Given the extent of the greenery on the mountainside, I doubt it!” With that, Aragorn snorted, and turned his back on Faramir as a signal he was ready to sleep.

Faramir was awakened several hours later, not by the expected downpour but by piercing screams. He leapt swiftly to his feet and drew his sword, trying to get his bearings in the darkness. The moon and stars were overcast and only the dying embers of the fire provided a very faint illumination.

To his alarm, he then recognised Aragorn’s voice crying his name. Hastily, he kindled a torch and hastened to the King’s side fearing he was under attack. Only then did he realise that Aragorn was dreaming.

“How could you Faramir? Do not mark me!” Aragorn cried as he thrashed around wildly.

Faramir realized in horror that Aragorn was reliving the moment he had branded him. Remembering the King’s aversion to the dark, he swiftly threw more logs on the fire. Then Faramir knelt at Aragorn’s side. Capturing Aragon's arms in as gentle a grip as possible, Faramir said: “Wake up, my King, it is I, Faramir!”

Wild eyed and still half asleep, Aragorn tried to push him away. ”No, not you, no!” he cried, with a terrorthat tore at the Steward’s heart.

“Peace, dear lord, never did I willingly harm you!” The Steward was now near to tears, seeing his King so distressed. Months had passed since that dreadful night, but time had obviously not lessened Aragorn’s pain.

Aragorn opened his eyes abruptly, blinking in confusion. He quieted, and came fully awake. "Ah, Faramir,” he said softly. "I am sorry. It was a nightmare, nothing more."

Faramir, still gripping the King's arms, could feel him tremble, even through several layers of clothing.

Not sure whether or not it was the right thing to do or whether he would be pushed away, Faramir released his hold, helped Aragorn to a sitting position, and put his arms around his friend. He impulsively desired to comfort the one who had been both father and brother to him these past years. Tenderly, he smoothed the sweat stained hair away from Aragorn's pale face.

Without thinking, Aragorn, soothed by the touch, leaned his aching head against his Steward's brow. In that brief moment, their thoughts, long sundered, began to join together once more.

Aragorn made a half-hearted move as if to break away.

“Can we no longer share thoughts?” Faramir asked sadly. “Will we never again be in sufficient accord?”

“I believe we still have the ability, but fear it would wound our souls too deeply!” Aragorn replied.

“Can we cause each other any more pain than we have already?” Faramir replied, trying to control his emotions. Already he sensed Aragorn’s feelings of pain and betrayal.

“Let it be then!” Aragorn conceded. ”I would have more light first, though.”

Faramir threw several more logs on the waning fire, coaxing the waning flames to flare up brightly with new hunger.

He then settled again beside his King, sitting close enough for their heads to touch .A flood of powerful emotions assailed both men as their troubled souls opened to each other.

Each man found the other's pain nigh unbearable to experience. Aragorn became aware how Faramir felt befouled for all time by his deeds. At times, his Steward had even questioned whether it was worth it to sacrifice his honour and beliefs all that had made him the man he had been, to save his King? Cursed as a traitor he was, sullied by word and deed! This idea filled Faramir with revulsion, that he should even think such a thing. Yet it was not remorse for his actions that caused Faramir's deepest anguish, but rather the loss of his bond with Aragorn, which had meant everything to him. It made him feel as if he had once more lost father and brother.

Aragorn himself still seethed with anger at Faramir’s seeming betrayal. Whatever the reason, he had been scarred for life by Faramir’s hand, in that terrible moment that continued to haunt him. When he could think calmly about the matter, Aragorn knew his anger was both ungrateful and unreasoning. Had Faramir not come to the lodge and found him under the pretence of joining his tormentors, the conspirators would have undoubtedly subjected Aragorn to further, even worse torture, and then a humiliating death. They would have eventually slain Arwen to lay blood-stained hands on Eldarion, and most likely killed the child too, or raised him to be as perfidious as they were. Thoughts of the pain of that time, his fears for his lady and their beloved son, scored his heart, throbbing like an infected wound. And Faramir had saved them all. Yet Aragorn could not cease from blaming Faramir, believing that his Steward could have found another, better way, a clear and good path to the rescue of his King. Could not Faramir have summoned hundreds of Rangers to hide in the hills beyond the lodge, and then have signalled them to storm the rebels' den to free him? Could Faramir not have located him more quickly by using the palantír to observe the suspected rebels comings and goings, instead of playing the traitor for all those weeks while he lay in the dungeon under torment?

“I am sorry!” Aragorn and Faramir cried the words at the same time.

They broke the bond quickly, unable to further endure each other’s mingled grief, pain and anger.

In his heart, Aragorn wanted to comfort Faramir with a fatherly embrace. Yet, his mind recoiled; for it seemed that Faramir regretted the loss of his love rather than his actions.

At the same time, Faramir wanted to comfort his King but the hurtful knowledge that Aragorn could not wholly forgive him, made him fear to try. Faramir knew from the sad experience of Denethor's last years that it was better to keep a respectful distance than to be pushed away.

Just then, the storm broke overhead, blasting the sky with flashes and forks of lightening. The thunder crashed overhead, so the very mountain seemed to be shaking.

Unable to think of any suitable words, Aragorn and Faramir could only watch nature vent its fury. The rain poured down at last, but only for a short time. The droplets splashed the ground for mere moments, until the storm ended and left a clear moonlit sky in its wake.

“At least we have finally had some rain,” said Faramir, trying to sound cheerful.

“Thunder rain does little good,” Aragorn said glumly. “It does not last long enough to nourish the thirsty earth. The air does feel fresher, though. We should try to rest now.”

He settled on his bedroll and rolled on his side, away from the Steward.

Emotionally exhausted, they slept, untroubled by further nightmares.

000

Aragorn and Faramir woke early the next morning and breakfasted on the remainder of the fish they had caught the day before.

Although the two men were still somewhat subdued and. ill at ease with each other, they both realized that they felt better in each other's company. The Sharing of Thoughts had eased the tension between them, at least to a certain extent. It had felt like bathing a raw wound with salted water, causing much pain but thereby cleansing it and giving it a chance of healing without festering.

The air felt fresh and clean but already the sun was high and it promised to be another very hot day.

“Are you well enough to climb the mountain today?” Aragorn enquired of his Steward while they scoured the cooking pots in the stream. Already, the sun was hot and they had discarded their tunics.

Faramir nodded, silently hoping that Aragorn would neither suggest that they went swimming first, nor suggest another humiliating inspection of his skin.

“Good, we will begin our ascent as soon as we have finished tidying up here.” He shook the water out of the pan and put it on a boulder to dry in the sun. “We bathed yesterday, so there is no need to do so again.”

Faramir heaved a deep sigh of relief. Much as he yearned to scrub himself clean, even the thought of baring his body horrified him, after the experience suffered yesterday. He contented himself by scouring his plate clean, then placed it beside the other dishes and leaned back against a tree. ” Should I not remain at our campsite?” Faramir asked. “Since I am not worthy to enter the Hallow, I can await you here.”

“You are coming with me,” Aragorn sternly replied.” We had this argument yesterday and I am not prepared to repeat it! The path there is steep and I promised my wife I would not attempt it alone.”

“Very well, my lord,” Faramir said without enthusiasm. ”What do you intend to do when you reach the Hallow, sire?”

“I shall give thanks to the One and offer the first fruits as a sacrifice, as did my sires in Númenor,” Aragorn explained.

“ I cannot see anything to offer as a sacrifice,” Faramir looked puzzled. “We brought only the bare necessities with us.”

“An offering will be provided,” Aragorn said without offering to explain further. “Come! You had better bring your tunic with you. The higher we go, the cooler the air will become; and there is a fresh, strong wind at the peak.” He was already rummaging for his own as he spoke.” We must leave the horses here as it will be too steep for them to climb the slope.”

Faramir did as he was bidden, shaking his head slightly. Much as he admired Aragorn, he found him highly unconventional at times. Sighing, he followed his lord as the King started to ascend the southern flank of Mount Mindolluin.

“Are you certain this is the right path?” Faramir groaned when the trail became noticeably steeper and he had to struggle to keep his foothold. He almost tripped and dislodged a shower of pebbles, which sent a startled mountain goat fleeing in panic.

“Yes, I have taken this way before with Gandalf,” Aragorn replied. “I remember it well, although we made far swifter progress!”

Faramir bit back a retort, as he grazed his palm on a particularly sharp rock.

Ignoring his Steward’s complaints, Aragorn continued to climb, looking for the point where the path turned aside.

Faramir could only follow, cursing under his breath at the King's sudden fondness for pilgrimages in such inhospitable places. He had to admit that Aragorn was right though about the weather. It had turned noticeably cooler and he was glad of his woollen tunic. Eventually even his hardy northern companion started to shiver in his shirtsleeves and conceded defeat.

They climbed higher and higher until they had to stop to catch their breath.

“Come on!” Aragorn urged his Steward.

Faramir had by now developed a stitch in his side and had bent almost in half as he strove to breathe and climb while it seemed as if a dagger were stabbing him.

Aragorn doubled back and went to his aid.

“Breathe slowly and deeply!” he told him as the Steward tried to massage the right side of his ribcage. “Is that better?” he asked.

“’It would be if we were not climbing up this steep slope!” Faramir grumbled, still unable to straighten up.

Aragorn’s only reply was to sharply prod him in the ribs.

Faramir yelped but straightened up immediately. “Another of your Elven remedies?” he asked, still gingerly rubbing his side, though the pain had now gone.

“One that Elrond himself taught me,” Aragorn replied, “It has proved very useful on many occasions!”

“So you often climbed mountains for pleasure then?” Faramir asked incredulously, hoping for a little time to regain his breath.

“Not for pleasure, no, but I have climbed a great many mountains in my time, which you most obviously have not. Anyone would think you had lived twice my years rather than not yet half of them! Let us go just a little farther, and then we shall rest.”

His mood sinking even further now, Faramir followed his King as Aragorn beckoned across a high field. His thoughts wandered to a tale that his father had been fond of telling his sons; how the Kings of old would lead political rivals up Mindolluin by dark and secret paths, never to be seen again Faramir had always thought the story an old wives’ tale meant to scare children from trying to climb the mountain, or perhaps a distant memory of Castamir's tyranny. Today the old tale made him shudder. Surely Aragorn would never consider such a thing!

And yet… Faramir knew little of the worship of the One. Even the Creator's true name, was rarely used by the descendants of the land that Eru had destroyed. And what was the planned sacrifice? The rite was practised by the King alone and shrouded in mystery; its lore long lost in the mists of time. Eru Ilúvatar was the maker of all, whose will was law to the Valar themselves. Yet Ilúvatar had created Morgoth and Sauron, allowed them to wreak terrible evil for years beyond count. The One had required the sacrifice of all who remained in the Land of Gift after the Faithful had fled, even the children, to atone for the pride of Ar-Pharazôn, the last King. And Ar-Pharazôn had made sacrifices to Morgoth at Sauron's urging, sacrifices not of fruits but of the Faithful, his own ancestors. Kings making sacrifices. Sacrifices to pride: as Denethor had chosen him to be. Sacrifices made to punish pride and rebellion against the Creator's law: the dead of fallen Númenor. Could the One now require his life in sacrifice? Faramir sighed. If the King that he had wronged took his life, would his treason be expiated?

He resolutely trudged onwards.

When they had neared the snowline, Aragorn stopped. “You may come no further, ” he commanded.” I must go on alone from here to offer the first fruits that Arwen chose for me.” He took a somewhat battered apple and pear from his pockets as he spoke.” Wait for me until I return!”

“Yes, my lord,” Faramir answered meekly, chiding himself for his dire fancies. He settled upon a fairly flat rock, glad for a chance to rest. Aragorn’s coldness had left him weary and heart sore.

Aragorn entered the Hallow and stood for a moment looking at the view across his kingdom. Last time he had stood in this place, its beauty had immensely moved him. Today, he felt only sorrow and weariness.

He placed the fruit on the ground and hesitated, unsure just exactly how to approach the One who had commanded the Valar to make music and bring Arda into being. The Wise had taught him that he too was a child of the One, but he knew even less of him than he did of Arathorn.

Aragorn stood, lifted his eyes heavenwards and solemnly intoned; “Almighty One, I, Elessar Telcontar, Lord of the Reunited Kingdom, come here this day to offer you these first fruits, with my thanks and praise.

The King did not know what to expect but found himself feeling slightly disappointed when nothing happened. It was so quiet up here away from the noise and bustle of the City. A skylark soared overhead, filling the air with its rapturous song. Then all was silent once more. Aragorn suddenly felt very alone. Solitude had long been his custom; but here on this peak, it seemed as if nothing existed in the world save him and this mysterious One who created it.

He sank to his knees in awe. Suddenly, Aragorn was weeping and pouring out his heart to his Creator. “Help me!” he pleaded. “I have lost my way. Help me!”

He had no idea how long he remained there sobbing painfully. At last, he had no more tears left and he sank back exhausted on the ground. A feeling of peace filled him and sudden unbidden thoughts flooded his mind. It was as if some unseen presence was telling him,’ Lay down your burdens. Let go, simply follow your heart’!

With sudden resolve, Aragorn wiped his eyes and rose to his feet. He made his way back down the path to where he had left Faramir.

The Steward sat hunched and dejected. The reddened eyes he raised suggested that he might have been weeping too.

“Close your eyes and come with me!” Aragorn ordered.

“But why?” Faramir asked, his apprehension returning at this new turn of events.

“As far as I know, none of my sires ever threw anyone off this mountain and I do not intend to be the first!” Aragorn said dryly, reading Faramir’s mind.

“My lord I did not mean to imply…”Faramir protested.

“I too have heard that old wives’ tale,” Aragorn replied. “You have your fears and yet still you follow me without protest!”

”It is my duty to follow where you lead, sire. I know you to be a man of honour.”

“I am glad to hear that you still think so. Come! It will be worth it, it, you will see,” Aragorn assured him, seizing Faramir by the wrist and leading him across the grass. Mercifully, it was much flatter here and anxious as he was, Faramir still trusted his lord in his heart.

Faramir stumbled slightly but managed to keep his eyes closed. ”Where are you leading me?” he asked, his voice sounding unusually lost and vulnerable.

“I have hold of you, we are almost there,” Aragorn reassured him, gripping his wrist more tightly. “I want to show you the City.”

“If we wanted to look at the City, we could have stayed there!” Faramir replied, now feeling more bemused than ever.

“All will be clear in a moment. You can look now!” Aragorn told his Steward.

Faramir opened his eyes and gasped. Spread out beneath him was the fairest view of the White City that he had ever seen. The August sunshine gilded The Tower of Ecthelion in light, the gleaming white circles of the City spreading out below. The city's splendour made Faramir’s heart leap in wonder, for it was like a vision of Gondolin of old. For a moment he was dumbstruck with awe.

“I thought the view from near Duilin of Morthond’s Hunting Lodge was spectacular, but this is better by far!” Faramir exclaimed, squeezing Aragorn’s fingers in gratitude before releasing the guiding hand.

“If you look to the east you can see Mordor, no longer veiled in darkness. Towards the west is the Vale of Anduin and beyond that the sea,” Aragorn told him, pointing out the places as he spoke. “I thought tomorrow we might follow the river for a while and perhaps swim again if the weather remains warm.”

“Whatever you wish,” Faramir said absently. He was still gazing awestruck at the clear sight of his home, so distant to his eyes yet so beloved to his heart.

“However did you learn of this place? I thought Boromir had shown me all the best places to view our home; yet he never brought me up here!

”I thought one as loyal to Gondor as you would treasure this sight!” Aragorn said quietly.

Faramir tensed slightly at the words and then felt a sudden thrill that Aragorn would speak of him as ‘loyal’ again.

The Steward contemplated his beloved City in silence for a few moments and blinked away a tear. ”Shall we go now?” he asked somewhat abruptly. Faramirwas baffled by Aragorn’s change of mood. He desired to leave while the King remained in a cordial humour.

“I hoped we could stay a while and talk,” Aragorn replied. He had moved away from the edge and now was now sprawled on the grass a few feet away. “Come, sit here beside me!”

Faramir rather reluctantly sat down. “We shared our thoughts last night. It seems we only cause each other pain. I do not understand why you have brought here. I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“I felt you would like to see the view,” Aragorn said simply. “What do you fear, Faramir? I would not harm you.”

Faramir stared at the ground. “You have never harmed me,” he replied somewhat evasively. “I believe I fear myself. Sometimes, I feel I that I have indeed lost my soul, just as you warned me,” he continued almost inaudibly.

“If your soul was lost indeed, your heart would not be so troubled,” the King replied.

“I committed deeds that I did not believe that I was capable of contemplating! I tortured you, killed in cold blood and even contemplated murdering an innocent child! I am shamed now, when you say that I am loyal to Gondor. I hardly know, even, why I acted as I did. Sometimes, I fear it was neither for you, nor even to the land I was born to serve. I know only that I had lost one father to a dreadful fate. I could not bear to lose another one who had become dearer to me by far.”

Aragorn reached out and fleetingly placed a hand on the troubled younger man’s shoulder. ”I hope we can use this time to seek healing,” he said gently. "We saw the pain in each other’s hearts last night. Our bodies have healed but our souls have not. Arwen saw it all too clearly.”

“Your lady has great wisdom,” Faramir replied. He turned his attention back to the view. “Did you discover this place when you served my grandfather as Captain Thorongil?” he asked.

Aragorn shook his head. “No, the first I knew of it was when Mithrandir led me here just over three years ago.”

“When you discovered the White Tree?” Faramir’s eyes were wide with wonder.

“That very day! You remember it too?”

“How could I ever forget? I made such a fool of myself barging into your rooms and accusing you of destroying Gondor’s heritage!”

Aragorn laughed. ”I was delighted to see you show some spirit! It showed just how much you loved this land. I think that was the first day I felt truly happy since I became King. The tree's existence was a sign that my beloved Arwen was coming, also that was the first day our minds touched. I would not lose what I gained then.” His tone became wistful as he stared at the gleaming towers and the sunlit Anduin Vale.

“Nor would I. “ Faramir’s tone was equally wistful. “Can I really see the sea over there?” he asked, changing the subject. The Steward craned his neck for a better look before getting to his feet and moving nearer to the edge.

“It is. Then, to the North, you can see Rauros. And if you look to the South, you see the river making its way to Pelagir.”

“If only my mother could have come up here, maybe she would have not pined so much for the sea!” Faramir said wistfully.

“Your father could not have known of this place. We are standing in a Hallow known only to the Kings of Old,” Aragorn said quietly.

“The Kings? You mean this is the Hallow, where you actually found the White Tree?” Faramir asked in awe. “I have no right to be here! You said I was not allowed to enter this place!” By now, he was utterly bewildered at Aragorn’s abrupt change of mind.

“Cannot the King decide who may or may not come here?” Aragorn replied in a tone both incalculable and remote. Reaching a decision, he then relaxed and smiled at his Steward. ”While I was praying, I had the feeling that you were meant to see this place,” he confided.

“You do me great honour, my lord.” Faramir almost unconsciously dipped his head as a mark of respect.

Aragorn suddenly grasped Faramir’s arm and slowly turned him to face the stony slope behind them. “The sapling stood up there, just below the snowline,” he said. “Would you like to climb up to see the exact spot?”

“Please!” With his deep love of his heritage, Faramir was determined to seize this unique opportunity to actually stand where the seedling of Nimloth had taken root and grown.

“We might have to help each other up the slope,” Aragorn warned, “It is very steep!” Despite his words, he started the incline with the agility of a deer, dislodging stones in his wake. Faramir followed more cautiously, needing a helping hand from his lord where the footing was at its most precarious.

“It was just there; you can still see the disturbed earth where I uprooted it,” the King said once they had finally reached the spot. “I have returned to give thanks, as once did my forefathers in this hallowed place.” He solemnly knelt on the ground and bowed his head before saying; “I give thanks to the One and to the Valar for delivering me from my captivity and restoring me to my family and to my throne.” He hesitated for a moment and then added, “I give thanks too, for the one who delivered me.” He turned and abruptly placed a hand on Faramir’s head, murmuring, “Be thou blessed!”

Faramir fell to his knees, overwhelmed. He reverently touched the soil and then looked upward to where the snow lay unmelted, sparkling in the sunlight. “It seems fitting somehow that it should be found here,” he said at last. “The White Tree, white as the snow. I will remember this day to tell of it to Elestelle. The tale will make a good bedtime story.”

“Maybe we will bring our children when they are old enough to understand,” Aragorn replied.

The Steward had spotted something out of the corner of his eye and started to climb up towards it.

“Faramir whatever are you doing?” Aragorn cried, “You are not a mountain goat!”

“I can hear water,” Faramir called, “Listen!” He climbed higher, disappearing behind a rocky crag.

“I can hear it now!” the King exclaimed and started to climb after him, his curiosity kindled.

“I have found it!” Faramir called joyously, “Look, a mountain stream, it must have nourished the seedling of Nimloth!”

For a moment, Aragorn was taken aback. Surely, he should have made this discovery, not his Steward? Then the voice came to him again in his head. ‘ Beware of pride! This was meant to be, remember to follow your heart!’ it counselled him.

“You must be the first person to discover its source! How strange that it is not frozen!” Aragorn exclaimed, allowing himself to be caught up in his Steward’s excitement. He patted Faramir’s shoulder, somewhat surprised at just how pleased he now felt on the younger man’s behalf. The King knelt beside the stream and cupped his hands. He scooped up the pure sparkling water, and drank deeply of it. “It tastes fresh and sweet,” he told Faramir. ”Drink, it will refresh you!”

“I am not worthy,” Faramir said doubtfully. "I am no king, nor would I be. My line has been tainted!”

“All the more reason you should drink deeply then,” Aragorn replied.

Faramir hesitated for a moment and then drank. “ How pure and clean it feels!” he exclaimed. ”It reminds me of the water in the Fountain. See how it sparkles in the sunlight!”

“The tree must feel at home in the City then,” Aragorn smiled.

“Like the tree, the spring lay hidden here; even as your people lay hidden in the North!” Faramir exclaimed.

“Shall we follow it to find its source?” Aragorn suggested, now as excited as his Steward.” I think we can climb higher if we help each other again.”

Faramir eagerly concurred.

The path ever more unsteady as King and Steward painstakingly followed the stream uphill, certain its source could not be far off.

The way became almost impassable. In places they were forced to climb over boulders and maintain a precarious foothold on near vertical slopes made slippery by the snow. Aragorn placed his foot on seemingly solid ground only to suddenly stumble and then slide forward on a thick stretch of ice hidden beneath the snow. Faramir caught his king just in time to stop Aragorn from falling.

“I thought I was about to fall over the edge there!” Aragorn exclaimed, gasping for breath. He had been mere inches from tumbling to almost certain death on the rocks below.

“I have you now. I would not let you go!” Faramir reassured him. The Steward’s face was white with fear. “Maybe we should go back?”

“No, not after we have come this far. You may think me fanciful, but I feel I am meant to find the source now,” Aragorn replied, gradually regaining his breath.

Fearful that Aragorn might stumble again, Faramir kept a tight grip on the older man’s arm. When they rounded the next bend, they both stopped in their tracks, astounded at the sight before them. They had reached a small but incredibly beautiful lake concealed between two high rocky ridges. Blue and white mountain blooms were scattered over the lush velvety grass carpeting the banks. The sun sparkled on the clear blue water, reflected from the overhead blue of the near cloudless sky. Awestruck, Aragorn sank to his knees on the verdant shores. Faramir sank down beside him. For a moment, they concentrated on regaining their breath.

Feeling oddly compelled, Aragorn then cupped his hands and drank the water. It tasted fresh and sweet, but unlike the stream, was not icy cold. The King swallowed deeply, feeling some mysterious force was renewing him. He realised the One had directed him to this place. “You should drink too,” he told Faramir.

“Maybe this lake is sacred to your line?” Faramir said doubtfully. “I have never seen anything quite like it before! Perhaps I should not touch it?”

Aragorn smiled at him. “If indeed it is sacred to Isildur’s line, then I may bid you drink!” He splashed his Steward playfully with the water. “There you have touched it, so you may drink!”

Faramir sipped the water. It tasted no different to him that that in the stream.

Aragorn suddenly pulled off his boots and was starting to unlace his tunic. “I feel I must bathe here! I feel the One calling to me!”

“But why? I thought you said I was washing too much! It is too cold up here!” Faramir protested.

“I have bathed in far colder waters in the North,” Aragorn said calmly throwing his tunic to one side and starting to unlace his shirt.

“You know nothing about this lake, it could conceal hidden dangers!” Faramir protested.

“This lake is hallowed, Faramir; nothing here could harm me. Eru has directed my footsteps to this place” Aragorn replied adding his shirt to the discarded tunic.

“You do not even have a towel to dry yourself with!” Faramir pointed out, alarmed at the goose flesh that was already forming on Aragorn’s bare back and arms. He was baffled that after yesterday’s insistence that Faramir grant the King privacy to bathe, Aragorn now seemed untroubled by his presence. Feeling uncomfortable, Faramir started to back away.

Aragorn stole a sideways glance towards Faramir who was retreating some way back towards the path. It seemed the Steward was determined to keep his distance. There was more to Faramir's recalcitrance than his Steward's insistence on modesty. He knew what troubled the younger man.

“Faramir, look upon me!”

“You are undressing, my lord," Faramir protested, “You need your privacy."

“I have been foolish. I thinkit is hightime that you looked at my shoulder. Come to me.”

Faramir walked back up the bank towards the King then partially turned his head and fixed his eyes on a point somewhere on Aragorn’s brow.

The King grabbed Faramir’s hand and placed it against his shoulder, forcing him to feel the oblong of raised and puckered flesh where the brand had disfigured the once smooth skin. “Now look at me!” he said with an unmistakeable tone of command. “We must face what was done to both of us!”

Faramir studied the King’s shoulder for a moment then looked away, as if stung. Aragorn touched Faramir's face, then gently but inexorably turned his Steward's head back so that he had no choice but to see where his own hand rested.

“I know you carry the scar as much in your heart as I carry the brand above mine.” Aragorn stated. He moved his hand and rested it over Faramir's heart, which beat wildly, like the wings of a terrified bird. " The grief and guilt of the deed has festered within your loyal soul,” the King continued, releasing him. ”Do not let this brand be burned into your heart forever!”

“I will try,” Faramir replied doubtfully, amazed that the King should again speak of loyalty in connection with him. ”Whatever has happened to you, my lord?”

“The One told me to follow my heart,” Aragorn replied. “ I see now that I was blinded by my pain and my pride.”

“ I beg you to have a care about bathing here, “ Faramir pleaded, more unsure than ever about the mysterious One. “It is not so long since you were close to death; you could take a chill. There could be hidden currents or other dangers lurking for the unwary! You do not even have a towel with you!”

“Fear not, I have swum in lakes and rivers and dried only by the sun's rays many times in my travels." Aragorn laughingly brushed aside Faramir's objections. It seemed almost a sacrilege to disturb the lake's still blue surface, yet he felt compelled to bathe here. The Creator had told him to let go of his burdens and then guided him to this place. Maybe if he surrendered himself wholly, he might wash away the cares that lay heavy on his soul. A sudden breeze stirred up ripples, almost as if inviting Aragorn to come and immerse himself in the waters.

“As your Steward, it is my duty to protect you, you cannot swim in there alone!” Faramir protested. "There could be hidden currents or jagged stones poised to harm the unwary!"

“Then come with me!”

”If this lake is indeed sacred to the ancient kings, I am not worthy to set foot within it,” Faramir replied. ”I beg of you, do not take the chance of endangering yourself.”

“I have no authority to order you to join me, but I invite you to do so, Faramir. If you come, you must come freely and offer yourself completely!” Aragorn entreated him.

“No, thank you,” Faramir said firmly. Despite his longing to take his place once more at his King's side, he feared to offer himself to the unknown. Had his father not tried to offer them both up in fire, as if in some heathen rite?

Aragorn paused while unfastening his belt, and knelt on the ground. He gestured towards the delicate white flowers, which grew profusely along the banks. “Do you know what these are?” he asked Faramir.

“No, I have never seen flowers quite like them before,” Faramir frowned. “I know that the blue ones are sage yet I have never before seen these fair white blooms. I am surprised, since thought I knew all the flowers of Gondor.

“They are niphredil!” Aragorn’s tone was filled with awe, “No evil can lurk here. This is the flower of the Elven kingdoms, which bloomed to greet my foremother Lúthien at her birth. It also blooms in Lothlorien. When I plighted my troth to Arwen, niphredil blossomed beneath our feet at Cerin Amroth. I never thought to see it in bloom elsewhere! I must try to preserve one to show to my lady. There is athelas here too, so my ancestors have visited this place before.”

Awestruck, Faramir reached out to gently caress the delicate white niphredil petals. He had read the old stories. He knew and loved the legends, especially that of Lúthien the Fair. It seemed today that the Quenta Silmarillion had come to life before his very eyes. He knew now that no harm would could to his King if Aragorn entered the lake. The very presence of anything connected to the Eldar conveyed a blessing.

Aragorn’s breeches were added to the scattered pile of clothing. Then, somewhat to Faramir’s surprise, Aragorn started to unlace his drawers. This lack of decorum was unusual, for he always retained his undergarments when bathing anywhere save in his private chambers.

Aragorn noted his Steward'sshocked expression and said; “I must offer myself as I came from my mother’s womb, devoid of outward trappings.” He removed the leather ties he used to keep the hair out of his eyes and then took off his rings. He stowed them carefully within his clothing.

Shaking his head, Faramir retreated behind the ridge, pleading a call of nature and desiring to leave Aragorn alone if he were so determined to take off all his clothes. The previous day's events still were painfullyfresh in his memory and he had no desire to repeat them by joining his lord.

Aragorn felt almost in a trance as he undressed. The cool breeze, instead of biting at his exposed flesh, seemed rather to be caressing his vulnerable skin. He felt no chill, even when the sun ducked behind a cloud. There was only ease in this hallowed place, and a sense of belonging, of welcome. Here he was more than a lord; he was a son of Arda, part of the trees and the wind and water and open skies. Gone was all trace of his usual shyness at being unclothed in front of others. Faramir’s presence did not perturb him. Nor did he feel troubled by the mark he bore upon his shoulder.

He waded confidently into the lake, his feet stepping on cool sand. The water met him, warm and inviting; drawing Aragorn into what seemed like a close embrace. When he launched himself outward in a steady stroke, the water burned like fire when it touched his shoulder, as if he were being branded anew. Yet, he cared not, as he swam towards the centre of the lake.

Aragorn laughed in mid-stroke, raising his head, but not stopping. He had always enjoyed a good swim, for in the water, he was almost as graceful as most Elves. But this, this was even better. He had rarely felt such utter joy in simply being alive. And for the first time since his ordeal in captivity, Aragorn knew peace of mind. The burden lifted from his heart. The pain, humiliation and fear were leaving him, washing away, falling far into the deep or wafting up into the clouds, shot up by his kicking feet, he really did not care where. This place had magic, like the Elven realms before Beleriand's fall, or Rivendell under the protection of Vilya and Elrond.

He yearned to share this unfettered bliss and use it to ease Faramir’s tortured soul. Aragorn reversed courseand started back to the shore.

When Faramir returned, he saw that the King had waded into the lake and now stood in the shallows, immersed up to his waist. Aragorn turned and beckoned to him.

Just then, the sun emerged from behind a cloud to bathe Aragorn’s body in its bright golden rays. Never had he looked so kingly, not even on the day of his coronation. His eyes shone like stars, and the sun crowned him with glory.

A great eagle flew from a nearby peak and circled above his head. Aragorn stretched out his arms and stood rapt as it s mighty form hovered, dark against the sun. Tall and kingly Aragorn stood, a lord of the waters like his forefather Elendil, carrying his majesty in his own unadorned form.

Faramir fell on his knees, seeing Aragorn Elessar for truly what he was, as much a living legend as the White Tree, the wind lord, and the niphredil surrounding him. He sensed the presence of the Valar, perhaps even the mysterious One, conferring blessings upon his lord.

Although Faramir could still see the brand upon Aragorn’s shoulder, the flesh scarred by his hand no longer seemed capable of disfiguring so great a man. He knew then that whatever the cost to his own soul, he would hazard it again for Aragorn.

“Come!” the King called, his voice kindly and compelling. He beckoned towards his Steward, as he stepped backwards, deeper and deeper, until he was treading water some fifty feet from the shore.

Faramir could no more resist his call than he could have in that fateful hour in the Houses of Healing when they first met.

As if in a dream, he started to remove first his tunic, followed by his shirt, then the rings from his fingers. He placed the rings in his pocketand neatly folded his clothing into a tidy pile.

The icy wind seemed to bite the Steward’s exposed and still tender flesh. His boots and breeches consigned to the bank, he stood shivering in his drawers, wondering what madness was this for the Steward of Gondor to contemplate stripping to his skin on Mindolluin's heights. Yet this place must be hidden completely from the City, since not even a rumour about it had ever reached his ears.

“Come,” Aragorn called again, lifting one arm to wave. “Join me, Faramir!”

Faramir stared for a moment at the lake, and realised, as Aragorn had; that he need not conceal anything here. Before so pure and beauteous a lake, the idea of wearing drawers, indeed any clothes, to bathe in therein, felt like a trivial affectation. He shed his final garment and tentatively stepped into the lake.

His mind made up, Faramir waded out swiftly. He felt the skin of his upper body smart for a few moments. His incessant scrubbing nowseemed very foolish. It was not his body that needed cleansing, but his soul; and that was for the grace of the Valar alone to achieve when they chose.

The pain subsided and the water seemed to rise up to caress him, as natural as a soft breeze on his face, as he swam out towards his King.

Suddenly the guilt and misery that had plagued Faramir for months retreated, replaced by a wellspring of happiness that surged strongly within him, invigorating his weary soul. He laughed out loud, caring not that he took in mouthfuls of water and then sputtered it back out like a fountain. Aragorn swam forward to meet him and clasped Faramir's hand in greeting, a genuine grin lightening his thin face.

They swam for what could either have been minutes or hours. Time seemed to have no meaning in this enchanted place.

They splashed and dived like the dolphins of Belfalas, their bodies as light as their hearts. The sunlight that sparkled seemed to reflect their joy. Their arguments, even their rank, seemed petty now. All that mattered was this moment and the great good fortune that they were both alive to share it. They were part of it all now, their own limbs flowing into the water that enfolded them and the skies that embraced land and lake: One world, one great source of water, and one exultant heart beating in two bodies. They were at one with each other, at one with air and water, earth and sky; at one with all of creation and its Creator.

Both men knew when it was time at last to return to shore, though no word was spoken between them.

Faramir and Aragorn clambered together from the water, their earlier unease forgotten. They shook their hair like wet dogs to help dry it, then hastened into their sun-warmed garments.

Aragorn found himself silentlyweeping, though whether from joy or sorrow, he could not say.

He turned to look at Faramir, who was just finishing lacing his shirt, and saw that he was weeping too.

Then they were embracing each other, clinging together as easily and naturally as beloved close kindred, the bitterness of the past months washed away with their tears.

“We are blessed indeed, ion nin!” exclaimed Aragorn. Then he kissed Faramir on the brow for the first time in many long gazed out once more across the lake. It had been so long since he was truly glad to be alive, but now he could have sung for the joy he had found this day. “I think you were meant to discover this place!” he murmured, his arm still around Faramir's shoulders.

Aragorn and Faramir lingered on the shore, damp heads touching and sensing each other’s thoughts. This time, they sought no explanations but only reached out to sense the depth of love they felt for one another; a love, which like grass had been trampled and bruised, yet grew back all the stronger. They knew their full recovery would take time. They had, however taken the crucial first step towards healing.

The wind had grown stronger and whipped through the men’s damp hair, blowing it across their faces. “It grows chill. I think we should return to our camp site.” Aragorn said, noticing the cooler air as hefinally released Faramir.

“I thought you liked the cold,” Faramir teased. “You must be getting old!” He felt somewhat unsure exactly how to proceed after the recent exchange of strong emotion. Yet the habit of banter with his liege lord felt easy and natural once more, like stepping into a comfortable pair of boots after wearing stiff, tight new ones.

“I do not feel the cold like you do!” Aragorn retorted with welcome good humour. “A brisk walk down the mountain will soon warm you up!”

King and Steward started down the mountainside at a brisk pace, helping each other over the most difficult terrain.

They paused to catch their breath at the Hallow where they had admired the view earlier, sprawling beside each other on the grass.

“Thank you for bringing me to this sacred place, after all that has happened,” Faramir said quietly. ”I admit that I did not want to come, but now I will always remember this day with joy. I cannot wait to tell Éowyn about it!” His eyes searched the horizon until they rested upon Ithilien. He shut his eyes trying to picture Éowyn sitting in her herb garden with their daughter and niece.

Aragorn placed a hand on his shoulder. “I am sorry!” he murmured. “I should never have blamed you; you gave everything for me; far more than I could ever have demanded or expected of you.”

“I would do it again,” said Faramir with total sincerity, leaning his head against Aragorn’s hand. “There will always be dark hours of the night when I will be troubled by my actions. Yet, in my heart I know I would hazard all again to save you; even my very soul or what remains of it!”

Aragorn turned to look at him directly. “Your soul is as intact as it was on the day I first knew you, mellon nin,” he said firmly. “You lost your innocence mixing with traitors, but never your soul! I have met many on my travels who did indeed lose their souls to the Dark Lord. The loss of light is easy to see in their eyes, where there is nothing save emptiness. You can only lose yourself when you seek to gain, not when you risk all for another.”

“I perceive it all differently now,” Faramir mused.” I wonder what really happened to us at the lake?”

“The One blessed us allowing you to find it. That is all we need to know,” Aragorn replied. ” Arwen would probably understand better. I know only, that never before had I felt so at peace. It was like being born anew.”

“I felt I could somehow understand clearly,” Faramir said. He gestured into the distance. “I knew that you and the land are one. Yet, I cannot find the right words to explain how I knew.”

Aragorn laughed. “ Maybe, we should not try to. I felt as one with all creation and yet I am just one man! Come on; let us get something to eat. I am suddenly very hungry!”

“Then let your friend provide you with supper!” Faramir promised. He then swallowed hard as this was the first time in months that he had called himself his lord's friend. Since Aragorn did not contradict him Faramir did not correct himself.

000

Faramir was as good as his word and shot two conies with his bow. He set about preparing them for supper on his own, but tonight Aragorn insisted on helping him.

They ate in companionable silence, then washed the dishes and prepared to lay out their bedrolls as the shadows lengthened.

Aragorn started to hum softly to himself.

“What is that tune?” Faramir asked,” It is vaguely familiar and yet I cannot place it.”

”You know the words I am certain. It is ‘The Lay of Lúthien’” Aragorn told him, smiling.

“Will you sing it to me please?” Faramir entreated with an almost childlike eagerness.

“ I thought you were a little old for bedtime stories!” Aragorn teased.

“I know, but this is the first I have been on a camping trip like this,” Faramir told him.” When I was a child, I yearned for my father to take me with my brother when they went camping together. I was never allowed to go with them. My brother was after all, the heir. The years passed until I joined the army and all thoughts of camping out for pleasure were banished from my mind. Yet, always I dreamed of sitting around the campfire, singing the old songs.”

His friend’s calm recitation wrung Aragorn’s heart. He had spent many happy hours in his youth camping out in Rivendell with his foster brothers. Together with Lord Elrond, they had tried very hard to make up to him that he was fatherless. More than ever, he wanted to make it up to Faramir for all the bleak years his Steward had known. It might have been better for Faramir to be fatherless than to have had a living but unloving father.

Aragorn moved closer to Faramir, patted him on the shoulder, and then began to sing the familiar words in a deep resonant voice.

The Steward listened rapt at the power of his King's voice. He had heard the Lay of Lúthien before, at his uncle's court in Dol Amroth, and, very rarely, in Minas Tirith. Sometimes it seemed to him that he had also heard the Lay sung by a woman, in a voice distant yet familiar. But he had never heard it sung so movingly. “That was wondrous!” he exclaimed.

“ I sang it to the Hobbits when I took them to Rivendell, but only Frodo understood the words,” Aragorn told him. “This song is very special to me. I have only to sing it to be reminded of my fair Arwen. I was a mere lad of twenty, and had just learned of my true name and lineage, when I first beheld her, as I walked through the birches in Imladris, singing the Lay of Lúthien. I thought she was Lúthien herself, reborn even more beautiful than her legend!” The King stared dreamily in front of him for a few moments, lost in memories.

“I can believe the Queen is as beautiful as Lúthien the Fair,” said Faramir.

Aragorn chuckled. “I certainly think so, but do not let Éowyn hear you praise another lady thus!”

“Éowyn is the fairest of all mortal women,” Faramir said firmly. “Your lady is of the Eldar. Éowyn would be the first to admire her beauty.“

“Lúthien was unique as a child of Eldar and Maiar,” said Aragorn.” Yet, somehow I cannot imagine Arwen as being any less fair than her foremother. Strange to think we are both children of Lúthien, though Arwen is far closer in kinship than I.”

Faramir wondered if his ancestry was why Aragorn could appear in such glory and majesty as he had done earlier that day, or whether it was simply a quality of the man himself. To look at him now, there appeared nothing very remarkable about him. He was privileged to know that the glory and majesty was always there however veiled. “You have restored the glory of the line of kings!” he exclaimed.

Aragorn chuckled again. “Only history will relate whether or not that is so!” he said.” I can only try my best. You know the words of the Lay of Lúthien. Shall we sing it together? The tune is a northern one but I would think it well within your range.”

“My voice would not do justice to the song!” Faramir protested.

“What does it matter if you sing like a frog? Singing should be for the pleasure of it and what better place than here in the wilds.” The King replied.

“But surely not ‘The Lay of Lúthien’?” Faramir said uneasily.

Aragorn said naught, merely threw him a gentle question in his grey gaze. Faramir spoke again, quietly: "My father told me not to sing it before him; that the Lay was too important to our people to be sung by anyone less than a trained bard."

"Ah." Aragorn looked sad. "Faramir, would it surprise you to know that I heard your father sing the Lay of Lúthien to your mother, and once heard her sing it to Boromir when he was but a babe? He had a fair voice, your father, and I could see the love in his eyes as he sang the verses and looked upon your mother. Perhaps when Denethor heard you sing the Lay, your voice reminded him of her, and he could not endure such a reminder of her loss."

"Perhaps..." The woman's voice in the deep places of his own memory; was it that of his mother, wondered Faramir. He would have to ask Imrahil. How strange to think of his father singing!

Aragorn began to sing again and this time Faramir joined in; at first tentatively and then with increasing confidence.

The Steward was gifted with an expressive baritone voice, which blended well with Aragorn’s rich bass. The two voices were well matched as they mingled in the clear evening air, singing the greatest story of love and courage in all the Ages of the Sun.

As their voices died away, Anar sank low over the horizon, her dying rays shooting glorious shades of pink and crimson into the western sky.

Faramir and Aragorn savoured the Sun's beauty as shefaded in the West, sinking over the horizon, even as Númenor had disappeared from sight.

Aragorn thought of his lady. Did the Evenstar's thoughts travel with the setting sun to her kin in Valinor and the immortality she had relinquished? Often he wondered what it must be like to watch the sun set for so many hundreds of years? Surely the swiftness of mortal life made each magnificent sunset like the one they had seen this eve seem all the more fair, all the more wonderful.

They banked up the fire and prepared for sleep.

“The air is growing chill, let us place our bedrolls alongside each other,” said Aragorn. ”I would have you beside me. We should both sleep more soundly thus.”

Joyfully Faramir complied.

Despite their weariness, the two men lay awake side by side awhile looking up at the stars and pondering the day’s events. It felt as if a great weight was slowly lifting from their hearts and being replaced with an inner peace.

000

During the night by the rain pattering down on their faces roused them from slumber. Luckily, the fire was sheltered and had not gone out.

Aragorn blinked in surprise. After such a clear and brilliant sunset, rain was unusual. Unlike the storm of the previous night, this was a gentle refreshing rain, which was soaking and reviving the earth. Aragorn licked the drops from his lips. It tasted sweet and refreshing.

They quickly moved their bedrolls under thicker cover to provide more shelter, then promptly fell asleep again.

000

The sun was already high in the sky when Zachus’ neigh rudely awakened them.

“He wants a fresh place to graze,” Faramir groaned, “He truly has the appetite of a carthorse!”

“Well, he does look rather like one. A worthy steed though!” Aragorn conceded, as he sat up and threw off his now sun dried blanket.

Faramir tried to do likewise but to his dismay found he could hardly move. He grimaced in pain, then quickly tried to disguise his discomfort.

“What is wrong?” Aragorn enquired anxiously.

“It hurts to move a little, I must be stiff,” Faramir replied trying to ignore the spasms in his side, back and shoulders.

“You probably pulled a muscle when you prevented me from stumbling yesterday, “ Aragorn replied. He hesitated for a moment wondering what he should do. Healing had brought great sorrow upon him and he had inwardly vowed never again to try to heal anyone. Yet, here was Faramir, the man who had saved his life, the friend he loved, in obvious pain. How could he just ignore it? He could use his abilities again, just this once then suggest that Faramir see Tarostar or Aedred once they returned to Minas Tirith. He took a deep breath.” I will see if I can aid you, if you will permit me after we have had breakfast.” He rose to his feet and held out his hand to help Faramir to his feet. His own shoulder was burning and itching again. He determined to look at it as soon as he was alone.

“Thank you,” Faramir replied somewhat doubtfully, both dreading and desiring the King’s ministrations.

Aragorn built up the fire, put some porridge on to cook, and then wandered off amongst the trees to answer nature’s call. Before he returned, he pulled aside his shirt and inspected the brand. It looked rather angry and inflamed and in need of a surreptitious application of salve when Faramir was not looking or he would be distressed by it. Would he ever be free of this constant pain?

He went to the stream and splashed water on his hands and face before joining Faramir at the campfire. The Steward was rather awkwardly stirring the cooking pot, trying valiantly to hide his discomfort.

While he was distracted, Aragorn hastily applied some calendula salve to his shoulder, which eased it.

“What shall we do today?” Aragorn enquired while they sat side by side on the upturned log eating their porridge. “I am sure you know of more places to visit than I do.”

“I am loth to leave this mountain,” said Faramir, “ But I know it will be lovely in Lossarnach at this time of year. We could make our way there by following the river if you wish. The fields will be ablaze with poppies and cornflowers at this time of year.”

“That sounds a pleasant destination,” Aragorn replied, “A pity I have no drawing materials or I could sketch the flowers for Arwen.”

“You can draw as well? Is there no limit to your talents? Faramir exclaimed.

“Being raised by Elves, I was expected to learn drawing, poetry and music as well as the arts of warfare, government and diplomacy,” the King replied.

“I cannot help but envy you,” Faramir said with a sigh. "My father was furious when I wanted to study music and lore beyond the minimal standards of a lord's son,” Faramir sighed. “I learned to understand, when I was older; that the Steward of Gondor could not allow his son to lose himself in the gentler arts while other men's sons trained for war under the threat of Shadow. I intend Elestelle to have a more divers education but I will try to allow her to focus on what most pleases her to learn.”

“She might most enjoy swordplay!” Aragorn laughed,” I am sure Éowyn would like that!”

“And she shall teach her if she so wishes, though I hope she prefers poetry!” Faramir replied. “Naturally, I hope she will prove a good horsewoman or Éowyn will be heartbroken, especially as she has Snowdrop waiting for her!”

“A Mearh will be a horse fit for a Queen! Eldarion will envy her!”

“I shall ask Eowyn to persuade her brother to save the next Mearh foal for your son. It would only be fitting.” Faramir looked troubled.

“Peace, I was only teasing you, mellon nin!” Aragorn replied, placing a placating hand on Faramir’s shoulder and noting how he responded to the touch. ”Eldarion is not a child of the House of Éorl, whereas your daughter is, which entitles her to such a horse. Eomer has already promised me the pick of his herds for Eldarion when he is old enough.” He rose to his feet and picked up the empty dishes. “I will wash these then see what I can do about your aches and pains.”

Faramir also rose, though very awkwardly. “No, sire, the King of Gondor should not wash dishes! I will wash them!”

“I have washed dishes in streams since before you were even a twinkle in your father’s eye!” the King answered, grinning. "You can hardly move this morning and at the moment I do not think you will get up again if you bend! Besides, the kingship does not render me quite helpless neither does my age!”

Faramir was left sitting on the log musing over the unfairness of the fact that a man more than twice his age seemed far more capable of climbing a mountain without pulling a muscle than he was. Perhaps the purer lineageof the Northern Dúnedain was responsible for Aragorn’s stamina.

Aragorn returned a few moments later, stowed the clean dishes in his saddlebag. He took out a blanket and spread it on the grass.

“Come!” he said, “we will sit here, while I tend you. The grass is still damp which will worsen the stiffness.”

“I am sure I will stop hurting once I move around more,” Faramir protested. It had been so good; to bask in the flow of Aragorn's renewed warmth. He feared the possibility his King might still treat him with the cold touch he had used since the dreadful day Faramir had branded him.

You can hardly walk,” Aragorn retorted matter of factly. He gripped Faramir’s hands and helped him move from the log onto the spread out blanket. The King then moved to sit beside his Steward. “Now where are you hurting?” he enquired.

“Um, several places, mostly here, and here” Faramir replied pulling up his tunic and shirt a few inches and indicating a spot on his side and another on his back. ”And my arm and shoulder ache too.”

Aragorn tentatively prodded the spot, noting the amount of tension in his Steward’s muscles. He then checked Faramir’s pulse, which was far too rapid for his liking. “I think I should examine you properly,” he said after a brief pause.

Faramir sighed before nodding his reluctant agreement.

Whether Healer or patient were more unwilling neither would have been able to say.

Faramir loosened his belt, then unlaced his tunic and shirt only to find he was so stiff that he could hardly lift his arms over his head.

Realising the problem, Aragorn helped him remove the garments, all the while wondering just how he should proceed. He decided that it were best if he treated his Steward in the simplest way possible and did not try to use the Elvish techniques which took so much out of him. Aragorn was unsure if he could even make the attempt anymore. Even if he could still do it, the Elven healing skills brought back far too many memories of the time when Aragorn had been whole and his friendship with Faramir still unmarred.

Despite the warmth of the day, Faramir shivered.

“Do you want a blanket round you?” Aragorn enquired. Thoughhe could not treat Faramir like old times, he could at least try to make him comfortable.

“Thank you, but there is no need. We should be comfortable with each other by now, you and I,” Faramir replied, feeling unable to voice the true reasons for his unease. He determinedly tried to relax.

He stiffened when Aragorn began to prod his sore muscles in a very businesslike fashion. The King's every touch, however gentle, pained him.

“It is a simple strain, not a tear, a salve should ease it for you,” the King announced, expertly feeling along Faramir’s side, arm and shoulder. “You have a weakness from both your war wound and when Eomer attacked you, which never fully healed as your treatments were interrupted.”

Faramir's discomfort increased as he now realised that Aragorn was deliberately withholding the Elven techniques he had used in the past. The Steward had almost been sorry in the past when his various hurts had been pronounced cured, so pleasant and relaxing were the treatments that Aragorn had given him. However, that was before he had raised his hand against his liege lord.

Well aware of the younger man’s reaction, Aragorn still could not bring himself to touch Faramir other than in his most detached fashion. After all, this same arm had wielded the brand that scarred him for life! It had been easy enough to embrace him yesterday over layers of clothing. But he was not ready to use the healing technique reserved for trusted friends and kin on Faramir.

“You need to relax; I am not going to hurt you,” Aragorn said as much to reassure himself as Faramir.

Faramir nodded mutely. He could hardly say that this studied detachment hurt as much as a blow. As Healers went, Aragorn was both gentle and skilled, but this kindly detachment stung Faramir’s heart like a whip. He bowed his head, trying to hide his inner pain.

Aragorn turned his attention to Faramir’s back and to his dismay detected considerable weakness and damage, not only to the muscles but also to the discs along his spine. It was small wonder that Faramir had been so loth to climb the mountain, as he must have been in considerable discomfort.

“Do your legs hurt you?” he asked, fearing some injury to the nerves.

“No, my lord,” Faramir said promptly.

Although relieved that his Steward’s injuries might not be as grave as he had feared, the formality of the reply unsettled the King.

“Turn sideways! Does that motion pain you?” Aragorn instructed; determined to discover just how severe the damage was.

Faramir nodded reluctantly, grimacing with pain at the movement.

Aragorn rose to his feet and stepped back a few paces to better see the alignment of his Steward’s spine.

Remembering the humiliating inspection of two days ago, Faramir tensed even more.

“Easy now,” Aragorn said in a tone more appropriate for calming an edgy horse. He faced Faramir again and patted him on the shoulder in an awkward gesture of reassurance.

The King suddenly found himself focussing on the red marks, which still disfigured his Steward’s skin. They were almost healed, apart from several patches, which he now realised with a start, were located at the exact sites where his own wounds had been inflicted.

“Why did you rub so hard where I was wounded?” Aragorn asked in bewilderment. “At least your skin seems to be healing nicely now.”

“I could feel your hurts but I could not help you,” Faramir replied miserably. “When I first slandered you before the Council I hoped it would make my deeds easier to bear if I tried to wash the guilt away,” Faramir explained. “Not that it ever did!”

Aragorn sank to his knees, utterly shocked by this revelation. ”You felt my pain then?” he asked unable to conceal his shock.

“I thought the Queen had told you,” Faramir replied. He moved away and crossed his arms defensively, trying to cover the red patches and theterrible memories they evoked.

“She said you had endured bad dreams and felt pain, but I had no idea that you felt the pain in the very same places where they inflicted it on my body.”

“I suppose that the Queen would not have known everything. I had only felt those pains twice when I spoke to her; and we never mentioned it again,” Faramir explained. “It does not matter, though. It was nothing compared to your suffering.”

“I never meant that to happen!” Aragorn exclaimed contritely, momentarily burying his face in his hands. He was overwhelmed by the image of his Steward forced to live a lie, alone in the Citadel, vainly trying to wash himself clean and tormented by the pain of the torture inflicted on his lord.

“I could hear you calling to me when I felt the pain. I wanted so badly to answer you, to at least let you know that I heard you, that you were not alone, but I did not know how,” Faramir said sadly.

“You have had little experience of using a Thought Bond.” Even as he said the words aloud, Aragorn realised that the answer to a question that had plagued him for months was simple. Bitterly he now rued his coldness and suspicion.

He looked at Faramir then, really looked at him and saw not only the skin scrubbed raw, the scar left by the arrow he had taken for his lord, but also the painful hunched posture and the noticeably thin body with each rib plainly visible through the skin, suggesting that long months of worry and heartache had been eating him away.

Lifting his lord when he was too weak and helpless to walk had caused Faramir’s constant pain. His Steward had even carried him outside to look at the sky, making no complaint. Faramir had suffered all these months for the sake of one who had cared nothing for his well being in return.

Aragorn found himself blinking back the tears, overwhelmed at the realisation of all Faramir’s suffering on his behalf and his own shameful lack of gratitude ever since he had awakened in the cave.

“Do you have some salve? If not, may I put my shirt on again?” Faramir asked, feeling dejected and uncomfortable.

“I have not even started to do what I should have done months ago. I am sorry, mellon nin, so very sorry! I have neglected you shamefully for too long.” Aragorn took a deep breath. Then he held his hands over Faramir’s damaged muscles and poured his healing energies into the younger man. It was so long since Aragorn had used his healing powers that he was surprised at just how strong they were today, and how strong he felt today! It was as if his ordeal had never happened. He had feared his full strength would never return and had felt less of a King or even a man as result.

Faramir gave an audible sigh as the ease and warmth flowed intohis aching body. Suddenly he laughed with pure joy.

“What amuses you so?” Aragorn enquired.

“It is wondrous to feel your strength has returned!” Faramir exclaimed. “I am so happy. You had some warmth in your hands the day you tended my wound when you regained your crown. That gladdened my heart indeed, but your power is far stronger now.”

Aragorn’s feelings of guilt intensified. How could he have misjudged his Steward so badly? Impulsively, he shed his outer tunic and reached out and drew Faramir to lean against him. “Come here that I may ease you further,” his said, his tone both gentle and commanding.

A traditional Elven massage technique used for both healing and bonding was to draw the patient to lean against the Healer. In that wise, the Healer was constantly aware of the patient’s heartbeat and how much they were relaxing as the massage progressed.

Faramir’s heartbeat was still far too rapid. Aragorn felt a stab of fear. Had his Steward not properly recovered from the appalling beating he had suffered not even a full year ago? Or was Faramir so ill at ease with his lord and friend that his heart sped faster than it should? He could think of only one remedy.

Tentatively, Aragorn reached out and began to massage the back of Faramir’s neck. At first, he still found himself remaining aloof. The King’s memories came flooding back of the first time he had used the Elven massage on his friend. How uneasy he had been that first time! It had taken all his coaxing combined with Éowyn’s to persuade Faramir to accept his help.

This was the same man he was tending. He had repeatedly had proved his loyalty. The King had initially wondered if a child of his might look like Faramir. Eventually, he had come to love him, as the grown son most men would have by this stage of their lives, but he had been denied until now. It was time to forgive with more than words. He had told Faramir so often to put the past behind him. Yet, when he most needed it, he had failed to follow his own advice! He had denied theyoungerman the help he so badly needed. His Steward had been almost fading before his eyes and he had chosen not to see! He was deeply ashamed now of allowing hurt pride and suspicion to almost destroy this honourable man.

Aragorn’s sensitive fingertips then sought out the damaged muscles and gradually and almost without realising, he found he was again using the same Elven technique he had used in the past.

Faramir could feel that something was different now and that again he was experiencing the touch he had feared was denied him for ever. Silent tears trickled down his cheeks.

It was easy now for Aragorn to treat his Steward’s hurts, Faramir was reaching out with his spirit to accept the healing and soaking it up like a sponge, which made it easy for the King to offer.

Aragorn realised he was happy. He had never wanted to heal again. Only now did he realise just how much he had missed using the gift of his forefathers. It gave him a satisfaction like no other; to see a pain-rackedbody become limp, relaxed and contented as the hurts vanished beneath his healing touch.

Faramir was now limp and comfortable as a contented cat on the verge of falling asleep.

“Perhaps we should return to the City?” fretted Aragorn. ”You should be in bed to rest your back. It amazes me you can even walk!”

“Please no, “ Faramir protested. “I am enjoying this trip and the pain is now easier that it has been in months.”

Aragorn hesitated; again torn between his head and his heart. Common sense and his Healer’s training dictated that Faramir should not be riding around in his frail state of health. Yet, would he be any better hunched over paperwork in Minas Tirith? He could at least here give him his full attention. Truth to tell, although he missed Arwen, he was loth to return just yet to the confinement of the stone walls. He was only now beginning to feel at peace with himself again. Faramir did indeed seem to be responding well to his healing and his heartbeat was now slow and steady. “Very well,” the King conceded.” But you must tell me at once if you are in pain and let me keep treating your hurts.”

Faramir smiled and contentedly nodded his agreement.

“I think then we should stay here another day,” Aragorn announced. “Give your body time to heal together with your soul, Lossarnach will still be there tomorrow.”

“I feel much better already, I can ride, “ Faramir protested. “If anyone should be resting, it is you! I know how healing drains you!”

“Sometimes healing can heal the Healer,” Aragorn replied enigmatically, “There, I think I have done all I can for today. You can put your shirt back on.” He reached for the garment and handed it to his Steward.

Faramir slid his shirt over his head then impulsively kissed his friend on the brow. “Thank you, Aragorn; I feel better than I have done in months!” he exclaimed.

“So do I!” Aragorn replied, delighted again to hear Faramir use his given name so easily. He returned the gesture and sensed a new peace in the one he had come to love as his son.

Faramir yawned. He was finding he could hardly keep his eyes open.

“Let us find a comfortable place to sit awhile until we need to catch something for our lunch,” said Aragorn.

They stretched out on the grass beside the stream in companionable silence, drowsing in the sun, both lulled by the sound of the water tricking over the stones.

Eventually Aragorn reluctantly stirred. “I will see if I can catch a rabbit for our lunch,” he said.

“I will do it,” Faramir replied preparing to get up as he spoke.

“Rest. My treatment has made you drowsy today, “ Aragorn informed him, tucking the blanket round him. “You have done more than your fair share of catching our food.”

The Steward almost immediately fell asleep and Aragorn sat watching him for a few minutes. He slept soundly, his carven features relaxed in repose. The past could not be undone, but there was a new tranquillity about him now.

000

About an hour later, Faramir awoke feeling thoroughly refreshed. There was no sign either of the King or of the dinner. He was just about to go in search of his friend when Aragorn appeared with his kill.

Faramir could not repress a chuckle that it had taken the King so long to find them something to eat. It seemed that he was somewhat out of practise, but the Steward had to admit that it was an especially plump rabbit and tasted delicious when cooked.

That afternoon they fished in the stream and again Faramir’s catch exceeded the King’s. This time Aragorn made no complaint and complimented him on his fishing skills.

The baked trout they had for their supper that night was the best they had ever tasted.

“Tell me of your days as a Ranger!” Faramir begged impulsively, once the dishes were cleaned and stowed away. “I know so little of that time in your life!”

“I know very little of your ranger days either,” Aragorn replied.

“You must have far more adventures to relate,” said Faramir. “I spent most of my time at Henneth Annûn chasing Orcs and Southrons. Between the skirmishes, we had naught but endless patrols, with hours of tedium watching and waiting for the next attack.”

Sensing that the younger man yearned to hear a story, Aragorn relented. “I was a Ranger for more years than the span of your life,” he said. “All my stories would take many nights to relate; so tell me what you especially want to know.”

“About the very first time you joined your people,” Faramir requested.

“Our people,” Aragorn gently corrected him. ”I think I was sixteenyears old when my foster brothers asked if I would like to go on patrol with them. I knew I was no Elf and my mother had told me something of our people without revealing my true identity. I was eager to meet them and see how they lived. Sometimes there were Dúnedain women and children sheltered at Rivendell but I saw little of them. My days were filled with lessons in history, art, music, literature, healing, diplomacy and endless practising with the sword and bow.”

“You were lucky to be tutored in so many subjects and for so long,” Faramir said with a touch of envy.

“I realise that now, but at the time I yearned to hunt down the Orcs that harassed our people and drove them to shelter at Rivendell,” Aragorn replied, inwardly vowing to share more of his Elven acquired knowledge with his Steward. “I was so excited when Elrond gave his consent to my going out on patrol. My poor mother was horrified. I think she feared I would fall like my father. We set out and rode until we came to a Dúnedain village. I can still remember how shocked I was at how poor and lowly the village seemed, when we were invited into a home to partake of refreshments. There it was that I first met Halbarad, who was my elder by fifteen years. He looked at me suspiciously, as if he knew who I was. I was introduced only as a stray orphan, Lord Elrond's fosterling. I later learned I was very like Arathorn in appearance; and that Halbarad had known and remembered him. We spent the night there and then rode out on patrol early the next morning, joined by some of the men from the village.”

“How many of you would ride out together?” Faramir asked.

“There were usually twelve men in each patrol and about sixty altogether who patrolled the Northern Borders at that time.”

“And how does the land differ from Gondor?"Faramir enquired.

"The North has a more rugged and untamed beauty, with high rolling hills covered in heather; great forests and vast swathes of wild moor land. I hope to take you there one day.”

“I would like that very much!” Faramir’s eyes were shining as he spoke.

"The country that borders the Shire, though, is quite cultivated, green and lush. That first patrol seemed like a great adventure until I saw an Orc for the first time. I had never before seen such a creature, and the sight of him was worse than all the stories I had been told. And never before had I been so afraid!”

“You, afraid!” Faramir looked at him wide eyed.

“Very much so, I fear,” Aragorn confessed ruefully. “The Orc was hideous, a monster with a man's cunning. You could smell its hideous stench from two leagues away. Elrohir sent me to warn the village we had just left. When I arrived, I found the main troupe of Orcs was already attacking. One was chasing a little girl. I forgot my fear and plunged into battle, thrusting my sword through the ugly brute, then another and another. The Elves had trained me well; though after the battle was over, I was violently sick and my legs felt like jelly.”

Faramir nodded sympathetically. “ I felt much the same after my first battle,” he said. “The first time you thrust your sword into living flesh…I remember it all too well. In time I became accustomed to it, but never could I take pleasure in the act of slaying.”

“If you ever delight in killing, the enemy has stolen your humanity and emerged the victor,” Aragorn said sombrely.

“Did anything else happen on that first patrol?” Faramir enquired, not wanting to dwell on the last time he had taken human life.

Aragorn sensed that his friend was remembering all he had been forced to do to save him from the traitors. Eager to distract Faramir, he said: “There is a much better way to share our stories! Come, lean your head against mine.”

.”We could use Thought Sharing to tell stories?” Faramir sounded surprised.

“It is a much better way of sharing old memories than trying to describe them in words,” the King explained. “Our people can use the Thought Bond for far more than overcoming misunderstandings and reassuring each other. You have barely touched yet, upon the many joys it can give. We should be able to actually relive each other’s adventures! Come, let us try it!”

Faramir leaned his head against Aragorn’s and found he could see the countryside; the village and its people that his King was trying to describe to him and in turn share his own memories. It was much easier to share thoughts of the distant past than of recent events. They could still sense the lingering pain of the past in each other’s hearts and Aragorn sensed Faramir was still too disturbed by some memories to yet be ready to fully open his heart and did not seek to pry. However, their bond of companionship had become far stronger as had their mutual love and loyalty.

The twilight birdsong died away until only the occasional hooting of an owl and chirruping of crickets broke the night stillness.

Still Aragorn and Faramir sat shoulder-to-shoulder sharing their past adventures while they watched the moon rise over the forest.

At last, Aragorn yawned. “Shall we sleep now?” he suggested. “I sense your thoughts are of curling up under your blanket! It looks as if it will be another fine day tomorrow.”

“It is sad a wonderful day like this must end, but I am weary too,” Faramir replied. “Can we continue sharing our memories tomorrow night?”

“Of course!” Aragorn smiled,” And I want to know more about the time Damrod pushed you in the river!”

“He said I needed a bath!” Faramir replied sheepishly,” I was standing in the wrong place when a horse felt an urgent need to…”

“I think words will suffice in this case!” Aragorn chortled, getting to his feet.

They placed their bedrolls so that they could sleep side by side and as it grew chill, huddled together in their sleep. No dark dreams troubled the sleepers, who slumbered soundly throughout the night.

It was dawn when Aragorn was awakened by the sound of falling rain. Little of it touched them under the thick canopy of trees. Faramir remained sound asleep with his head curled against his lord’s shoulder. This time, Aragorn felt no revulsion at their closeness, but rather pleasure that his Steward was again so at ease in his company. He did not have much in the way of family, or even close friends. Halbarad was dead, as were many other Northern Dunedain friends and kinsmen. Elrond had sailed; and the twins made their home far away. Eomer was a worthy comrade and brother-king; but he too lived too far for Aragorn to see him more than once or twice a year. As much as he enjoyed Legolas’ friendship, they could not spend much time together; the demands of their domains usually took them on different paths. But Faramir he loved in a different way than those others. As Faramir had worked alongside him to set Gondor to rights, he had become as much a son to Aragorn as a friend. Aragorn felt blessed that the Valar had seen fit to grant him this companionship. As much as he loved Eldarion, his fair little son was still an infant, far too young to serve as a companion to his doting father. It would be many years yet before they could go camping and hunting and share the other simple pleasures that a father and son should enjoy.

It was Faramir's age, perhaps, that had sparked the paternal affinity Aragorn knew he could never lose for him. Faramir had been born only three years after Aragorn and Arwen had finally plighted their troth; as might their own son have been if they had been allowed to carry out their hope of wedding. And Faramir resembled Aragorn, as had Denethor. The folk of Minas Tirith used to call Thorongil and Denethor 'Ecthelion's twin eagles' when the two rode out together. Aragorn remembered how the bonds of affection could bind as tightly as those of blood. He had been deprived of the chance to sire a son until he was ninety years of age. Faramir had been deprived of a father's love in full measure. Aragorn would gladly give him what Denethor had so sadly withheld.

He realised that he had been in danger of making Denethor's mistake in his treatment of Faramir. He shuddered at the thought, but in truth, he had nearly followed Denethor's example of casting this jewel aside. Aragorn sighed, and went back to sleep, his arm curled protectively around the younger man’s shoulders.

Faramir awoke early. The rain had passed and dawn was painting the sky in beautiful shades of pink and purple, promising another fine day.

He was just uncurling his head from theKing’s shoulder when he realised that Aragorn was awake and watching the sunrise. “I am sorry!” he said self-consciously.

“You will have the stiff neck not I, ion nîn!” Aragorn replied smiling.

Faramir’s response was to playfully head-butt him, another proof that their old comfortable friendship was restored.

“You obviously envy my fine Numenorean nose, as you have tried to knock it off since the day of my coronation!” Aragorn teased.

Faramir flushed slightly at the memory and then joined in the older man’s laughter.

“Amazing, that after all our misadventures, our noses have still remained intact!” Aragorn mused as he threw off his blanket and rose to his feet. He stretched like a cat and then brushed the grass and twigs off his hair and garments.

“There is a spider on your tunic!” Faramir warned.

Aragorn calmly brushed it off, shedding more leaves from his clothing.

Faramir laughed.

“What is so funny?” Aragorn demanded.

“I was just wondering what our wives would say if they could see us now!” Faramir replied.

“That we were old enough to know better!” the King replied. “Are you planning to lie abed all day?” He made a grab for Faramir’s blanket but the Steward was too quick for him and clung on grimly.

“You promised to make breakfast!” he reminded his friend.

“I will once you get up!” Aragorn retorted.

Faramir slowly sat up and stretched. To his delight, his pain and stiffness had disappeared and he felt better than he had done in months.

Aragorn hovered in case Faramir needed a helping hand as he got to his feet. “You look much better today,” he commented.

“I feel well and strongthanks to you,” Faramir replied, “I shall be ready to ride once we have eaten.”

“Allow me to examine your back first,” Aragorn asked. "It is just a precaution, to ensure that the pain will not return.”

Faramir nodded his agreement before striding off into the trees.

They splashed cold water from the stream on their hands and faces prior to eating. After breakfast Aragorn examined Faramir’s hurts and was delighted and surprised how well they were healing. He pronounced his Steward fit to ride.

Aragorn and Faramir broke camp, leaving the heights of Mount Mindolluin as they had found them, careful that little trace of their visit remained to sully its wild beauty. It seemed likely to be another hot day and they were eager to set off ere the sun rose too high in the sky.

Despite the early hour, Anor blazed down upon them once they left the shelter of the woods. They were relieved when they found a shady lane heading towards Lossarnach.

After riding for about two hours through increasingly more settled countryside, Faramir and Aragorn saw the lands brighten into lush meadows and cornfields emblazoned with a riot of scarlet, blue and gold. Impudent poppies, cornflowers and buttercups reared their brilliant heads amidst the furrows of ripening corn.

Faramir drew Zachus to a halt and sat drinking in the beauty of thefields before him. Butterflies and bees fluttered across the meadows and a scent of blossom hung on the summer air.

“Never did I dream, when I last passed this way that I would live to see these lands in the days of peace and plenty!” he exclaimed. “I had no time to stand and stare at the beauty around me which makes it all the lovelier now! When Elestelle is older, I must bring her and Éowyn to show her just how fair and blessed our land is!”

“The rain will have brought all the flowers out, we are fortunate to see them at their best,” Aragorn smiled at the younger man’s enthusiasm. He appreciated the loveliness himself, but having lived mostly in the North, which had been less touched by Sauron’s evil, he had seen many scenes of similar beauty.

They rode slowly, to better appreciate the view, by following a series of meandering pathways until the cornfields gave way to untilled land and the water meadows, which had been left fallow for hayfields in case of unseasonable flooding, the farmers not wanting to risk the precious wheat.

The path petered out before they reached the river. Aragorn and Faramir dismounted and tied their horses to a tree. By now, despite their best efforts to remain in the shade, they felt hot and sticky. By unspoken agreement made their way down to the water’s edge to swim together.

Aragorn looked around cautiously; “This seems a good place to bathe,” he said. “I think we are certain not to be disturbed. There are no buildings for miles around and the grass is quite short which means the hay has been harvested.” He pulled off his shirt as he spoke.

Faramir looked around cautiously too and satisfied they were unobserved, added his own shirt to Aragorn’s on the grass.

Quickly, they undressed down to their drawers. They dived thankfully into the blissfully cool water and swam around contentedly, playfully splashing and ducking each other, more akin to schoolboys than the King of Gondor and Arnor and his Steward, the Prince of Ithilien.

Once they were sufficiently cooled, they reluctantly left the water before they began to tire.

“We forgot the towels!” Faramir lamented,” I will have to walk back to the horses and get them.”

“Why bother?” asked Aragorn, throwing himself down on the springy turf, made all the more lush by the recent storm. “We will dry soon enough in the sun.”

“But we cannot sit around wearing only our drawers!” Faramir protested, looking shocked.

“Why ever not?” Aragorn replied, “Who is there to see besides ourselves? We could wash our shirts now and hang them on a tree to dry at the same time.” He picked up the sweat soaked garment from where he had left it. Kneeling on the bank, he ducked it in the river, rubbing it vigorously.

Somewhat less enthusiastically, Faramir made to follow suit. He had become accustomed to removing his shirt for the King's treatments, but was used to donning it again immediately upon the completion of the broke every rule of etiquette for a member of the Gondorian nobility to appear in public less than fully clothed. His father would have been outraged at such behaviour.

Seeing Faramir's hesitation, Aragorn snatched the garment from his hand and proceeded to wash it together with his own.

”When I was a child growing up in Rivendell,” Aragorn told him, “I was taught to enjoy the feel of nature’s gifts like the Eldar do. The sun, the wind, and the grass against my skin instead of only the feel of cloth.”

He wrung out the shirts and hung them on a tree to dry. Then he sprawledon the bank, luxuriating in the feel of the soft grass against his back and legs and the sun, cooled here by the river with a soft breeze, caressing the exposed skin on his chest and belly.

Faramir sat beside him, carefully positioned to be on the other side of the scar left by the brand, bolt upright with his arms crossed defensively. “This is the first time I have seen you do so,” Faramir replied, “I remember the occasionwhen the goats ate our clothes but we never intended to wander round wearing only our drawers. “

“When I left childhood, I lost my pleasure in the feel of the elements against my skin,” the King explained, “I developed the body of a man, imperfect and very different from an Elf's fair form, a body which I wished to conceal. Thus, I spent the next seventy years and more. Yet, when I lay in Dervorin’s dark cellar, there was nothing I desired more than to touch sweet grass beneath me, see the clear sky overhead and feel the sun and wind against my skin instead of stones against my back, coarse cloth and the blade of a knife! They had stripped me, so that I wore only my drawers, when they dragged me across the stone floor after they first captured me…” His voice faltered slightly as he recalled the dreadful memories. “Since you are hardly likely to tease me for being less perfect than an Elf, I thought I would indulge that wish today!” he concluded, smiling at Faramir.

“I am sorry, I did not think, …” Faramir flushed scarlet. “Would you rather I left to sunbathe in private?”

“How could you know? I only told you that you might understand,” Aragorn replied gently,” I would much rather that you stayed to keep me company. We are comfortable together again now, I hope? Now, I know that you are no Elf, but could you not try to relax and experience the sun and the breeze like Elrond taught me to, while our linens dry? I will massage your back again later before you get dressed.”

Tentatively, Faramir uncrossed his arms and gingerly lay back on the grass as if he expected it to bite him.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You truly think we are so alike?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir watched enthralled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Aragorn stretched his long limbs like a cat and then turned over, sprawling amongst the buttercups and clover.

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

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

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

“This is most unjust!” the Steward complained, once he could catch his breath.

“I thought you wanted to play this game!” The King was thoroughly enjoying the absurdity of it all. Foolish and childish it might be, but he badly needed such light- hearted distraction and suspected Faramir did as well. The certainty that his courtiers would most likely faint with shock if they could but see their King and Steward frolicking like children, only served to add to his enjoyment.

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

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

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

“The loser prepares our dinner tonight!” Aragorn retorted, snatching up a bunch of grasses .

Laughing they ducked and weaved and dodged in their mock dual.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir wept all the harder at this unexpected gesture.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

000

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Faramir sighed in his sleep and nestled his head more comfortably, though he continued to shiver.

Aragorn's thoughts turned towards the angry farmers. He was relieved to have reached an agreement with them, though he knew not what would happen when he returned to work in the fields. He had held many duties in his long life, but apart from enjoying watching the Elves bring in the harvest at Rivendell when he was a child, he had little experience of farm work. Surely it could not be too difficult, though? He had attempted and mastered many tasks in his long life and this would be easy compared with most of them. Then how long would it take for Faramir to recover? Would he be lucid or distressed when he awoke?

Unable to answer any of these troubling questions, Aragorn finally dozed.

Despite his exhaustion, the King's slumber was fitful. Faramir shifted and shivered in his arms, occasionally moaning in his sleep. Aragorn was cold and uncomfortable. Only when Faramir stopped shivering and the King could feel a strong and steady heartbeat vibrating against his own, did he finally dare to fall into a deep exhausted sleep.

When he awoke again, the sun was already high in the sky. Faramir now slept peacefully.

Aragorn carefully untied the thong that had he had bound from Faramir's wrist to his own, and arose. Anxiously, he felt Faramir’s forehead for signs of fever. He was relieved to find the fever had abated, though the younger man looked pale and drawn following his ordeal.

Aragorn had learned a bitter lesson in the terrible moments when he believed Faramir dead. He knew now that whatever happened, to lose Faramir would be akin to losing part of his own soul. Never again would he seek to send him from his side. He was fortunate indeed to have been granted another chance to treat Faramir as a beloved son. Aragorn shuddered to recall the months when he had he had treated Faramir so ignominiously, like a servant cast out of favour. Small wonder that he had failed to recover from his imprisonment! Exiling Faramir had hurt them both in equal measure.

Loth as he was to leave his friend, the King had to see to his own needs. He rummaged in his pack and took out a towel, clean shirt, socks and drawers.

Careful to remain within earshot, though it was unlikely Faramir would awaken until he called him; Aragorn went into the shelter of the trees then hastened down to the river to bathe. He undressed down his drawers and had a very quick swim, washing away the dried sweat and traces of detritus from Faramir’s wound. He noted ruefully that a colourful array of bruises adorned his body from where Faramir had deliriously lashed out at him.

Still dripping, he wrapped himself in his towel, gathered up his clothes and returned to Faramir’s side, where he dried himself and swiftly dressed.

Though it seemed a pity to disturb Faramir, Aragorn deemed it was time now to awaken him. The sooner that Faramir took refreshment and had his injuries were tended, the better. He hesitated, wondering whether he should use his abilities to try to erase the memories of Faramir's delirium of the previous night from his friend’s mind. No, Faramir was not a distressed Hobbit, but a warrior, a courageousand intelligent man who had braved the Nazgûl's attack; he would not shrink from such knowledge. Besides, it would probably cause him more anguish to only guess at what had occurred. The gaps in Aragorn's own memories when he had been drugged or feverish were not a burden he would wish on another.

Aragorn knelt beside Faramir and placed a hand on his brow. ”Wake up, ion nîn!” he commanded, gently but firmly.

The Steward stirred, blinked and opened his eyes only to quickly shut them again against the light.

“How do you fare?” Aragorn asked quietly.

The Steward struggled to sit up then fell back again as waves of dizziness and nausea engulfed him.

“Easy now, tell me exactly how you feel and I will aid you.”

“Thank you,” Faramir said weakly, unable even to nod his head. ”I fear I fare ill.” He forced himself to focus his gaze upon the King. “My head aches,” he croaked. ”My ribs feel as if a mûmak had stomped upon them and my back smarts. What happened? I had such dark dreams!”

“You were bitten by a spider, one akin to Shelob, I think,” Aragorn explained.

Faramir groaned. “Is that why my head spins so much?” he enquired, sinking back on the bedroll. “I feel sick!”

“It will pass,” Aragorn soothed, trying to settle him more comfortably. “Just lie still for a few moments and take my hands. I only wish I had some ginger for you.”

Faramir gripped Aragorn’s outstretched hands like a drowning mariner would clutch a scrap of driftwood, then shut his eyes.

Aragorn held Faramir's hands for a moment, suffusing him with a wave of warmth and energy. The King then pressed his thumbs hard on Faramir’s wrists, using a technique that Lord Elrond had taught him to ease nausea when no medicines were available. He then pulled back the blankets and held his hands a few inches above Faramir’s ribs and stomach where he sensed Faramir was hurting the most.

The Steward lay quietly content to let those wonderful healing hands work their magic. The worse of the pain and discomfort abated.

After a few minutes had passed, Faramir dared to open his eyes again, and met the concerned gaze of his King. “I will tend you further later,” Aragorn said. “Try to swallow a little water.” He uncorked his freshly filled water bottle.

Faramir attempted once more to sit up, and this time succeeded with Aragorn's aid. He managed to swallow a few sips of the proffered drink. His expression became increasingly bewildered. “Why am I only half dressed and my shirt unlaced?” he asked in bewilderment. “Oh no, I remember now! I thought it was but an evil dream!”

“What do you remember?” Aragorn asked gently.

“I was running through the field naked and a group of angry men and women chased after me!” Faramir replied, flushing scarlet. "The shame of it! How shall I ever be able to live with the disgrace? I, the Steward of Gondor, to have been seen in so disgraceful a state! I am destroyed! How could I do such a thing?” He buried his face in his hands, shaking with distress.

“Peace ion nîn!” Aragorn placed a comforting arm around him. “The corn was high enough to shield your body from their eyes until I reached you. I covered you with a blanket before the farmers arrived. You were feverish and had wandered off while I slept.”

“You are certain I was not naked before them?” Faramir persisted anxiously, burying his head against the King’s shoulder and seeking solace in the comfortingly familiar scent of athelas and fresh herbs, which seemed especially strong today.

“I was the only one to see you completely unclothed, “ Aragorn reassured him. ”Do not let it trouble you. Even if I were not an experienced Healer, we are alike as close kindred, so it were almost as if I were before myself. I dressed you as quickly as I could, though you resisted my efforts quite fiercely, hence your partial state of undress .I gave up as soon as you were decent enough to behold.”

“I did not wish to dress?” Faramir sounded incredulous. “But I hate being unclothed!”

“I know that well,” Aragorn said wryly. “After all, you do look far better with your clothes on than without them. The farmers would have agreed, though I am not sure about their wives. I think the women were disappointed I had you decently covered before they could get a good look at you! The men were concerned more with the damage to their crops than your curious lack of attire.”

“We will never hear the last of it!” Faramir groaned. "The Steward of the Realm found rampaging through a field of crops wearing only a blanket! All of Gondor will take me for an immodest drunkard with no respect for property either, or worse, a madman like my father." Aragorn felt the younger man shiver.

“Peace, Faramir, they know not who we are,” said Aragorn quickly. "I told them we were a father and son from the City on leave from the army and enjoying a hunting trip together. They will never guess the truth.” He deemed it best to wait until Faramir was less distressed before telling him of the bargain he had made with the farmers. “You are not mad, it was merely the effects of the spider venom combined with your fever.”

“ But Frodo did not act thus. I seem to have less resilience to the poison than a Hobbit!” Faramir fretted. “ Samwise told me that Frodo was back on his feet within a few hours of being bitten by Shelob and he did not lose his wits as I did!”

“ Your heart was beating very fast when you were attacked, so more of the venom would have circulated in your body,” Aragorn explained. I did not pour Orc brew down your throat, so the poison’s effects are slower to wear off. It is better to let your body expel it naturally. It was appalling what they did to Frodo. They could have choked him. Then by interrupting the body’ natural healing processes, the potion permanently damaged Frodo’s heath. Hobbits usually recover far more swiftly than Men from injuries.

Have no fear, mellon nîn , you will feel better in a few hours, and in a day or two be fully recovered. Now that Sauron is no more, his creatures’ power wanes quickly. Once the wound closes it will be as if it never happened.” Aragorn again grasped Faramir’s hands and looked him straight in the eye.

“If you say so...” Faramir managed a weak smile, but his eyes were troubled. He rubbed his aching head, trying to comprehend everything that had happened.

“Let me ease your head!” Aragorn held his hand above Faramir’s aching brow.

The Steward closed his eyes and sighed as the pain subsided. When he opened his eyes again, he felt much better. It was then he noticed the bruise on Aragorn’s face.

“What happened to you?” he enquired, hoping the horrible suspicion he felt would prove false.

“I um, knocked myself, “ Aragorn replied evasively.

“Or was it not I who hit you?” Faramir asked dejectedly, his eyes on his King.

“You thought your raiment full of crawling creatures and objected to my insistence that you clothe yourself,” Aragorn informed him. “Do not trouble yourself about it. It is not painful. It was my own fault for not sending you sleep sooner.”

“So I laid violent hands upon you once more," Faramir said in a low, sad voice. "I struck my liege lord.”

“We are far from the court and at present I would be as a father and a Healer to you,” Aragorn replied. ”All Healers occasionally receive a few blows from confused patients. You probably mistook me for a spider or an Orc, given the dark dreams that foul venom conjures up. Think no more of it. I am far more concerned about having a cup of tea! Do you feel you could drink some now?”

Faramir nodded mutely, then wished he had not as his head started to spin once more.

“Lie down again,” Aragorn advised, “It will pass as the day wears on.”

“But I need to get up!” Faramir protested.

“Come on then!” Aragorn knelt beside him. “Put your hands on my shoulders!” he instructed.

Thus supported, Faramir found he could stand up, albeit rather shakily. Aragorn led him to the cover of the trees. Faramir tried to hide his misery at the humiliation of needing to be helped.

“There is no need to feel uncomfortable,” Aragorn assured him.” You had to do everything for me but a few months since. Sadly, I expressed no gratitude for my great good fortune at having a friend who treated me always with dignity. Do not see shame where there is none, as I foolishly did.”

“It is not easy when one is accustomed to independence,” said Faramir, sinking again on the bedroll when they returned to their campsite.

”I know that all too well,” Aragorn replied ruefully. He threw more logs on the fire as he spoke. “I need to leave you to fetch water. And please do not let any more spiders bite you while my back is turned! I do not wish for such a fright again, nor to have to dress one so reluctant twice. You struggled worse than Eldarion does when he does not wish to be put into clean clothing!”

The Steward managed a weak grin at what he knew was good-natured teasing.

While the King was gone, Faramir desperately tried to recollect his jumbled thoughts and remember exactly what had happened. He had been sitting by the riverbank and had felt a sharp pain between his shoulder blades. Then darkness had taken him, a thick and heavy darkness punctuated by terrifying flashes of clarity. Faramir had been aware of his surroundings but unable to move or speak.

Aragorn had been there. The King had stayed constantly at Faramir's side, murmuring words of comfort and reassurance, chafing his hands and bathing his face as if aware of Faramir's confusion and fear.

Horrified, Faramir then realised that Aragorn did know how Faramir had felt. Aragorn must have had the same awareness when he had been paralysed with the venom himself. But then there had been none to offer comfort and reassure him that he would not be buried alive!

Faramir remembered the certainty, as sensation had returned, that his skin was covered in crawling insects. He had torn off his clothes, heedless of decorum for the first time in his adult life, intent only on ridding himself of the vile creatures. He remembered angry raised voices shouting at him and a sea of strange faces. All he could remember after that was feeling increasingly unwell and someone at his side caring for him. Aragorn was a true friend indeed. But just how much damage had he caused when he had blundered naked into the field?

“You remembered it all.” Faramir stated when Aragorn return returned with the water.

“Remembered what, mellon nîn?” Aragorn asked puzzled.

“That I drugged you with spider venom,” Faramir confessed miserably.

“I realised that it was the spider venom that enabled you to convince the rebels that I was dead. Before last night, I could not understand how you extricated me from that den of torment. Why did you not tell me before?” Aragorn did not sound angry. He busied himself putting the water on to boil.

“I could not; I did not think you would understand. Lord, I saw to it that you were paralysed, taken for dead!”

“I should have been more understanding long ago,” Aragorn said apologetically. “ Maybe then you would have felt able to confide in me. I suspect that a need to bare your soul, as well as a fear of crawling creatures, was behind what happened last night. You were very distressed before you were bitten. Maybe it would help if you told me about using the venom.”

“It pains me too much,” Faramir replied, refusing to meet Aragorn's eyes.

“I know,” Aragorn said gently. He knew it seemed cruel to press Faramir in his weakened condition, yet felt certain his recovery would be swifter were his heart unburdened.

Faramir hesitated. If he told any more, the newfound bond between them could shatter once more.

“You need to tell me all,” Aragorn’s voice was kindly, but its note of command was unmistakable.

Faramir swallowed hard and took a deep breath. “The night I branded you, the rebels had boasted of their intention to humiliate you further and then torture you to death on the very next day. Hanna had been goading the men; insisting that they had let you off too easily. She spoke of some especially cruel measures, and convinced the brutes to subject you to them. I feared that you would give in to your tormentors and sign their wretched paper, only to suffer a terrible, demeaning death". Faramir shuddered and paused, remembering Hanna's gleeful laughter as she urged the rebels to castrate Aragorn before killing him. They would have done it, curse them!

He pulled himself together, and continued in a near whisper: "I could not allow such a thing to come to pass. I tried and tried, but could think of no way to take you to safety. So I went to the cellar believing the only thing I could do for you was to spare you further torture by giving you a quick and painless death. I planned to later take our wives and children to safety in Rohan, then die either by Éomer’s hand or my own to atone for my crime.” The Steward’s voice was now scarcely audible. He paused to mop his brow.

“How did you come to use spider venom instead?” Aragorn asked calmly.

“I had it concealed inside my tunic. I had asked Tarostar to give me something that would swiftly end my life if my deception were uncovered, for fear that I would reveal the whereabouts of the Queen and your son under torture. He refused me poison but gave me the venom, telling me that Legolas had brought it, suggesting it would make a useful weapon to fell enemies without killing them.”

“It would be most effective,” Aragorn remarked. “So you remembered you had the venom and…?

“I could not kill you without a kiss of farewell,” Faramir swallowed hard again, finding it torment to speak of those dreadful moments. “Then I realised you were burning with fever from your wounds. I knew how they feared the epidemic in the City and decided it offered a slim chance to rescue you. Again I hardened my heart. I asked Elbeth to bring me an onion from the kitchens. She did, and I rubbed it into in your face to make your eyes and nose water to feign the fever symptoms. Finally I dipped a needle in the venom and pricked you with it! ” He buried his face in his hands. “So now you know the full degree of my crimes, sire. Not only did I torture you, but I also poisoned you and raised a weapon against you with the intent of taking your life!” Faramir was shaking now, so great was his distress.

Aragorn sat regarding him for a moment. So much that had puzzled him was now clear. He gently took Faramir’s hands in his own and bestowed a tender paternal kiss on the younger man's brow, a gesture more eloquent in its warmth than any words.

“Then you are not angry?” Faramir sounded both relieved and bewildered.

“No, I marvel at your cleverness. I only wish you could have told me what you planned.”

”I was afraid if I let my guise slip I could not don it again,” Faramir said miserably. “I fear I was weak.”

“Not weak, but very honourable! I am so very sorry for the way I treated you. I was cold and cruel and bitterly I regret it.”

“I deserved it all,” Faramir said without rancour. “I became a traitor when I raised my hand against you and caused you grievous hurts. I well deserved your wrath even though it broke my heart to lose your love and trust.“

“Have I not sometimes had to hurt you in order to heal you?” Aragorn’s voice was slightly unsteady. ”Only last night I had to cut you. I caused you great agony when I treated the scar tissue in your belly last year.”

“You were not trying to kill me, though!” Faramir protested.

“You forget that I raised my sword to your breast, but a few months past,” Aragorn replied sadly.

“My life was rightly forfeit to you,” said Faramir. “ I expected death that morning and had bid my beloved Éowyn farewell.

“You lost the trust but never the love, though I was too angry to show it,” the King replied,” You could no more forfeit my love than Eldarion could. Can you ever forgive me for my harshness? I sought only to test your loyalty but I wronged you most grievously, dear friend.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Faramir replied, “My natural father would most likely have had me executed without hesitation “You laid not a finger upon me. You were hurt and bewildered at my cruel actions, but all that matters is we are in harmony again! Be at peace, It is already forgotten,” Faramir said, finally looking Aragorn straight in the eye. He clasped the King’s hand, then sank back exhausted on the bedroll.

”You are indeed the most priceless jewel I have found in Gondor! Now, come drink this, it will ease you and you are in sore need of fluids,” Aragorn said, reverting to his Healer’s manner before emotion could overcome him. He held the cup to his Steward’s lips. It contained some of the tea the Hobbits favoured, with which they kept the King well supplied. Faramir needed little urging to drain the refreshing brew. Only then did Aragorn mix some herbs.

“This tastes vile!” Faramir spluttered when he tasted the mixture.

“It is only willow bark. Drink it up; it will ease pain. I will then treat your hurts as best I can. You need to be fit for your new office in a few days time.”

“New office?” Faramir asked in bewilderment. So much seemed to have happened that he knew little about.

“Yes, I have offered to become a farmhand to help repair the crops and you shall have light duties,” he said. “We start as soon as you have recovered.”

“You, a farm worker?” Faramir sounded incredulous.

“It seemed reasonable enough to offer given the damage we had caused,” the King retorted. “The harvesting of corn cannot be so hard. I thought it might be a pleasant way to conclude our time away from the City.”

“It is apparent that you have never worked on a farm!” Faramir said wryly. ”And I thought you had tried your hand at everything.”

“I watched the Elves harvest when I was a young boy in Rivendell, and even helped with binding up the sheaves,” Aragorn replied with dignity. “You cannot know much about harvesting either!”

“But I do!” Faramir was unable to restrain his mirth; despite the twinges it caused his pain-wracked body. "Boromir and I were sent each summer to stay with our Uncle Imrahil. It might surprise you, as Imrahil is so mindful of court etiquette, but he loved to help with the harvest on his tenants’ lands and we were expected to help too. He told us that a wise lord knows how his subjects live and wanted Boromir to be a good Steward. As a result, Boromir and I had to spent several days of our supposed holiday in hard, back-breaking labour.”

Aragorn grimaced but quickly collected himself. “I am accustomed to strenuous activities. I have fought so many battles that I have lost count and tirelessly wandered over the face of Arda!” he declared, trying to seem unperturbed.

”Admirable, of course; but nothing compared with harvesting wheat!” Faramir retorted, already feeling better as the herbal tea took effect. “You will probably be bent double the next day.”

“I must ensure then that I am not,” the King replied smugly. “Would you like some more tea?”

“Yes, please,” Faramir said. He still thirsted, though the thought of food revolted him. He was grateful that Aragorn seemed to have decided against cooking anything on their campfire. The smell would have turned his still delicate feeling stomach. To his relief, he could now hold the cup himself.

“Working on a farm should be a pleasing change,” the King said hopefully. “It will be good to have an excuse not to return to the City for a week or two more, though I long for Arwen and Eldarion. It is bliss to sometimes retreat from the formality of Court. And you and I must make amends for having spent so little time together of late. There are times, I must admit, when I miss my life as a Ranger, wandering freely in mountain and forest. Often I think that if I could only keep my family and friends around me still, I would happily return to the Wild tomorrow! Labouring in the open air will be a joy to one such as I!”

“When the horrors of your captivity fade from your memory, you will cease to yearn for solitary wandering,” Faramir replied. “Until then, if you feel tempted, remember the pains of camping out in the wilds in winter!

“Wise advice indeed, mellon nîn,” Aragorn conceded.” I promise not to follow the lure of sleeping in trenches and half-frozen caves! I have had days so cold that there were icicles in my beard! Now if you have finished your tea, I will massage your feet.”

“What?” Faramir looked perplexed. “My feet are about the only part of me that does not ache!”

“It is an old Elven remedy that Lord Elrond taught me,” Aragorn explained,” By massaging the soles of the feet, the internal organs can be stimulated. It should help rid your body of the poisons from the spider bite.”

Faramir still looked unconvinced. Truth to tell, he disliked anyone touching his feet.

“I am certain you will benefit from it,” Aragorn coaxed.

Knowing that Aragorn’s strange remedies usually worked, Faramir decided he had better permit Aragorn to try the treatment. He reluctantly stretched out his feet, still too weak to remove his boots unaided.

Aragorn removed Faramir’s boots and stockings and clasped both his Steward’s feet firmly in his hands.

Faramir had to repress an urge to laugh at the absurd spectacle. The soles of his feet were very ticklish and he expected to have to beg for mercy once they were touched, but instead of the familiar light touch of the Elven massage, Aragorn’s warm fingers pressed down very firmly, and in places surprisingly painfully, especially around the middle of his right foot.

“Ouch!” he complained, “That hurts!”

“ I am sorry, but your discomfort proves that the treatment is working,” Aragorn replied without easing the pressure he was applying. ” There, I have almost finished. The spider venom should linger no more in your body.”

“Would the Ring-bearer have fared better if you had treated him like this at once?” Faramir asked curiously.

“Maybe, though I doubt it,” Aragorn replied, transferring his attention to the top of Faramir’s left foot. ”Shelob ‘s venom was unique; since not only was she an ancient creature, but her power was enhanced by the Dark Lord. However, Frodo’s worse wound was that caused by the Morgul blade, compared to which Shelob’s venom counted for little. Now Sauron has fallen, his creatures have no further sorcerous power, only the abilities of animals and monsters of their individual sizes. You will suffer no lasting ill effects, if that is what concerns you. There, you can put your boots back on if you wish!

“I much prefer the Elven massage,” Faramir said wryly.

“And you shall have that once you are less sore,” Aragorn promised,” I need to look at your hurts now.”

“Is it wise to take my shirt off here?” Faramir asked anxiously, looking around him. “What if the farming folk come back? I feel much better now!”

Aragorn chuckled softly, relieved to have the old Faramir back, his usual reserve manifesting once more.

“The farmer is hardly likely to trample his own cornfield and the trees screen us from the other side,” Aragorn reassured him. “ You have a dressing on your back which I need to change or the spider bite might become infected. I will put a blanket beside you, so in the unlikely event of anyone appearing, you can quickly drape in over you.” He placed a pan of water on the fire to heat. “I think you will be more comfortable in clean clothes, too. You were sweating heavily last night.” He rummaged in Faramir’s pack and drew out a clean shirt, socks and drawers for him.

Faramir nodded his head, this time without feeling dizzy as result. “It is just after last night that I do not wish to be thought immodest,” he said, still sounding worried.

“That is the last word I would ever use to describe you!” Aragorn grinned, helping Faramir ease his shirt over his head.

“Why am I black and blue!” the Steward exclaimed, catching sight of his bruised ribs for the first time. ”How could the spider do that to me?”

“I am to blame for the bruising, I fear, “ Aragorn said contritely, “I thought you had suffered failure of the heart when I first found you and tried to revive you. I fear I only added to your misery!”

“A Healer of your knowledge and experience did not know the difference?” Faramir said incredulously. ”Éowyn will never let you hear the last of it if she finds out!”

“You heart was beating so fast when I left to fetch the athelas; I feared the strain was just too much for it and panicked when I found you seemingly lifeless,” Aragorn said remorsefully. ”Please forgive me, ion nîn, I never meant to cause you pain!”

“I know you did not,” Faramir replied sincerely. "I would have surely made the same mistake had I found you seemingly lifeless. Who would have thought that giant spiders lurked in so fair a place as this?”

“You are not a Healer, though,” Aragorn said ruefully “I do not think any ribs are broken, but need to make certain now that you are awake.” He carefully felt the bruised area using an Elven technique, which made the experience nearly painless for Faramir. After ensuring that his friend could cough and take deep breaths without too much discomfort, the King heaved a sigh of relief.

“I will tend the bite now,” he told Faramir, starting to unwrap the bandages.

“What does it look like?” The Steward enquired.

“Yesterday, the wound looked almost like an archery target with rings around it in interesting hues of purple,” Aragorn replied. “Today it has almost drained and is just a small red mark with a white centre. It will soon heal of its own accord.”

“It itches now!” Faramir complained.

“That shows it is healing as it should. Do not try to scratch it, though!” Aragorn fought the urge to scratch at his own itching shoulder as he spoke. The brand had recently stopped causing him pain where the flesh was scarred and puckered, but the itching almost drove him mad at times. He forced himself to concentrate on Faramir. He felt the tender area around his friend's belly, causing Faramir to grimace, despite the gentleness of his touch.

“You pulled the muscles in your stomach with retching so much,” Aragorn explained, “ also your liver is slightly inflamed by the poison delivered in the bite. I will first bathe the bruises in water in which athelas has been steeped,” he said, “It should ease your pain and invigorate our spirits at the same time. Fortunately, I still have some leaves with me. I will then give you an infusion of milk thistle and dandelion root to cleanse your blood of the poisons.” He took one of the slender athelas leaves and breathed on it, before crushing it and casting into the now steaming pan. At once, a living freshness filled the air.

Faramir heaved a contented sigh. “I have come to love this scent ” he said, “ I know all is well and I am safe when I smell it, ever since the first time I met you in the Houses of Healing. I had lost almost everything and could no longer withstand the darkness. Then you came and gave me back my life. You became a far better lord and father to me than I had could ever have dreamed! I shall associate the scent with you forever; for a trace of it always lingers on your clothing.”

“The herb speaks differently to all who perceive it, “ Aragorn said, smiling at the younger man’s words. “What does it smell like to you?”

“It is fresh and clean like a woodland in early morning with just a hint of the sea and healing herbs.” Faramir told him. “A pure and wholesome scent.”

“When I utilise it for you it has the scent of a dewy freshness of a spring morning again with a hint of the sea, which I believe is present for all those in which the blood of Númenor runs true, “ Aragorn replied.

Faramir hesitated before asking a question that troubled him. “Have my deeds changed the scent of the herb?”

“When I used it a few days ago, the scent seemed darker and heavier, but now it is as it always was, as are you. Apart from having all those bruise, that is!" He added to lighten the mood.

“I could not smell athelas while your healing powers had waned,” Faramir confessed as Aragorn dipped a cloth in the bowl and gently bathed his ribs. “It frightened me. I think the Queen was distressed too.”

“I suppose that is why you dreamed up that ritual of renewal,” Aragorn said wryly. “Turn round, as I think this might be the best treatment for the spider bite.”

Almost at once, the burning and itching sensation eased from between Faramir’s shoulder blades. He sighed with relief.

“Athelas; the most potent weapon against the forces of darkness,” Aragorn spoke with reverence, taking a final deep breath of the sweet-scented steam and putting the bowl aside. He picked up a towel and gently dried the hurts, Faramir submitted meekly, knowing that the King’s hands alone could heal.

“I shall try to heal your bruises now that I am refreshed,” Aragorn said. “Reach out to me with your mind as you would hold out your hands for a gift.”

The first time, Faramir had been given this advice, he found it near impossible to follow as he had not understood, but now the mental link they shared made it easy for him.

Faramir closed his eyes and relaxed. Then he felt the King's healing power sweep over him, seeming to pour warmth and strength into every weary inch of his body, from forehead to feet.. Aragorn sat beside Faramir, his own eyes closed, holding his hands a few inches above the bruising. The Steward could feel the pain leaving him, to be replaced by a comforting warm glow.

He then felt the same sensation at his back where he had been troubled for months with pain.

Faramir opened his eyes and glanced down at his chest. To his amazement, the bruises were already starting to fade. “That feels so much better!” he sighed gratefully.

“I shall endeavour in future not to cause the injuries I need to heal!” Aragorn replied ruefully. He looked exhausted now after a disturbed night followed by a draining healing session.

“You should rest now.” Faramir reached for his shirt as he spoke.

“I promised you some Elven massage. Yes, I am weary, but it should ease us both.”

Faramir took little persuasion as he had greatly missed having this treatment to ease his pain during the past months and understood now why the Elves, blessed with far fewer ills than mortals, used it for bonding with friends and family from earliest childhood.

He settled himself against Aragorn’s comfortingly broad shoulder, enjoying the feel of the warm fingertips easing away his cares both of mind and body.

Aragorn smiled in satisfaction, convinced now that Faramir had suffered no lasting harm. His bruises were already easing; his heart was strong and steady. A few more treatments would cure his back and the worst of the bite's effects should ease by the morrow.

Aragorn handed Faramir the towel and clean clothing. ”If you give me your drawers, I will wash our linens in the river now,” he said. “You can wash your legs while I do the laundry. Would you like me to help you don your clean shirt first?”

“Thank you,” This time Faramir could lift his arms more easily though he was wondering however he could balance to change his drawers.

Aragorn secured the towel around Faramir’s waist, supporting him while he removed his clothing under it. “There, he announced,” I will leave you to finish bathing. Call me if you need help.”

“I feel much stronger now,” Faramir assured him grateful for his tact, especially after his behaviour of the night before ”Should the King really do my laundry?” he protested. ”You look weary.”

“I was considered very skilled at laundry in my Ranger days, becoming King has in no way diminished my skills, I hope. “ Aragorn assured him, grinning. “Just do not tell the washerwomen of the Citadel, lest they think I covet their jobs! I shall rest once my labours are completed.”

Tucking the bundle of dirty clothes under his arm, the King left his Steward to bathe. The cheerful welcome song of Rivendell came into Aragorn's mind; and he merrily sang “Come! Tra-la-la-lally! Come back to the valley! Tra-la-la-lally Fa-la-la-lally-la!"” while washing their socks and linens in the river. He hung the now clean clothing on a tree to dry, convinced that his efforts were as good as any Citadel washerwoman could achieve.

He helped Faramir finish dressing, then informed his friend he would catch some fish for lunch.

“Let me help you,” Faramir protested, then sank back down, exhausted.

“You must rest. It is my turn to look after you,” Aragorn said firmly. Fortunately, he soon caught two plump trout. By the time they were baked, Faramir felt able to eat some of the light but nourishing meal.

After Aragorn had washed the dishes, he was finally able to stretch out on the grass beside his friend. “You had better practise calling me ‘ada’,” he said. “I think we will be able to start work the day after tomorrow and we need to remember we are father and son.” He yawned and promptly fell asleep as weariness finally overcame him.

Faramir spoke the word softly under his breath: Ada, 'Papa' in the Common Speech. It sounded sweet to his ears. Truth to tell, he often thought of the King in such a way. Despite his lingering pain, he felt more content that he had been in a very long time. No father by birth could have cared for him more devotedly that Aragorn had done this day. Their bond was finally restored and Faramir felt happy and secure. He wondered, though whatever had possessed Aragorn to volunteer his services as a farm labourer. He was certain the King would find the work far from easy.

As the stars winked and danced in cloudless clarity far above them, Aragorn and Faramir slept the sound sleep of untroubled conscience.

The next morning they awoke soon after sunrise and breakfasted on a rather unappetising meal of porridge.

At the far side of the field adjoining their campsite, men had already begun to work the furrows of corn.

“We had better join them,” said Aragorn as he helped Faramir fill their water bottles. ”We will just take our packs and our weapons. Our horses and camping equipment should be safe enough here, while we work.”

“Are you certain that this course of action is wise?” Faramir queried. ”Could we not simply pay for the mess we made?”

“I gave my word,” the King replied. “In truth, I am quite looking forward to the new experience.”

Rather apprehensively the two friends crossed the field. All eyes were upon them as Aragorn said. “My son is now well on the road to recovery, so we have come to help you harvest your crops as I said we would.”

“So you have decided to turn up!” the farmer replied sceptically.“ About time too! Half the morning has gone. You City-folk seem to think the day begins at noon. My name is Beleg and these are my sons Pelendur and Galador.”

Aragorn and Faramir inclined their heads and greeted the two young men courteously. ”What would you have us do to aid you?” Aragorn asked. He placed his pack and his sword at the edge of the field and slung his water bottle over his shoulder.

“You can help me with the reaping and clearing up all the damage you caused,” Beleg replied, “Your son can tie up the sheaves since you say his health is frail.” He handed Aragorn what appeared to be a scythe, though the tool was of a curious appearance, bearing a kind of metal cradle behind the blade.

Aragorn eyed the scythe doubtfully. He would have discreetly asked Faramir what he should do with the thing, but his friend was already listening intently to Galador's instruction.

The King tried making a few swipes with the scythe, slicing the wheat with what he assumed was a proper cutting motion.

“No, you dolt; hold it like this with both hands!” Beleg exclaimed, showing him what to do. “It isn’t a sword! You use the basket on the back to collect the grain.”

The King’s cheeks burned. How he yearned to put this impudent fellow in his place by revealing his true rank. But he could not let Faramir be shamed by revealing their true identities. If it were to be known that the Steward of Gondor had run naked through a cornfield, apparently drunk and damaging the livelihood of honest farmers, Faramir’s reputation would be ruined. Aragorn bit back a sharp retort. Taking up the scythe again as Beleg had shown him; he tried again to cut the wheat.

“No, no!” the farmer groaned, “You don’t cut wheat like you cut grass! You work around the field, not from side to side! Why must the Valar inflict such trials upon me as to take two of my best men and send me the likes of you in their place!”

Aragorn reminded himself that to the farmer, he was no more than an inexperienced farm hand. In his long life, he had veiled his true self many times to take orders and even harsh words from lesser men. This was no worse than helping to sweep out Butterbur's stables when he was short of coin; even if the beer was unlikely to be as good as even the Prancing Pony's cheapest stock.

Under Beleg’s watchful eye, Aragorn gradually improved the performance of his task: Lift, bend and cut, lift bend and cut. The wheat was then left to be gathered and bound into sheaves. After a few hours, his arms, back and shoulders throbbed painfully with the unaccustomed strain imposed by these particular exertions. Aragorn was thankful that Faramir was not scything as he dreaded the damage this work could cause to his Steward's already weakened back.

The morning wore on and grew no cooler. As the sun rose higher the heat became well nigh unbearable. Aragorn took frequent draughts of water and shed his outer tunic, working only in his thin shirt and breeches. The farmer and his sons had soon shed both tunics and shirts to reveal bronzed, weather-beaten skin and gnarled muscles.

Aragorn paused for a moment to wipe his sweaty brow. He took a swig from his water bottle.

“You look hot,” said Beleg. ”Why don’t you take your shirt off?”

“It is not the custom where I dwell,” Aragorn replied. “We never remove our shirts in public.”

“Fancy City ways don’t apply here,” Beleg snorted. “Take it off, and never mind your fine airs and graces. This is not Minas Tirith! What have you to hide?”

Aragorn shuddered inwardly, wishing the farmer would leave him alone. Even if he were inclined to remove his shirt, he dared not reveal the mark on his shoulder. They would all know that it was a cattle brand rather than a slave mark borne by some former captives of Corsairs or Haradrim. He did not dare to even loosen the laces of his shirt, lest the scar be visible.

Pelendur joined them, obviously having overheard the conversation. “His son is just like him!” he chucked, gesturing towards Faramir. ”It seems that they live very differently in the City!” The young man was obviously a veteran of many battles; his upper body being disfigured by a variety of long healed scars.

“Go and work in the shade, Morrandir!” Beleg said more kindly. “Even I feel the heat today.” The sweat plastered the farmer's grey hair to his forehead, and trickled in rivulets down his broad, bare chest. These yeomen of Lossarnach seemed more akin to the Rohirrim than to men of Numenorean lineage. They had shorter, stockier bodies, and more florid colouring, than the remaining sons of Westernesse.

After another hour or so passed, two women came into the field, one bearing a basket and the other carrying a tray with mugs of ale.

Beleg called a halt to the morning’s labour and the men convened in a shady corner of the field. “My wife, Tasariel, and daughter in law Emerwen,” Beleg said by way of introduction, while the mugs were handed round and the provisions in the basket shared out amongst the workers. The women had brought oven-fresh bread, cheese, cold meat and apples, a hearty repast for all the workers.

“These are our new hands, Morrandir and his son Falborn, “ Beleg told his wife.

Aragorn and Faramir politely inclined their heads. Aragorn recognised Tasariel as one of the women he had seen the other night.

“ So, I see you have returned, Master Morrandir, with your son,” Tasariel exclaimed, her dark eyes twinkling. “I hardly recognised him with his clothes on! A handsome young fellow, even when fully covered!"

Faramir blushed scarlet. Aragorn patted his shoulder reassuringly while Tasariel whispered in her daughter in law’s ear. Both women then studied them intently and giggled.

“I would know you were father and son without being told!” Emerwen exclaimed.

”You are even more alike than Beleg and my lads here,” Tasariel added.

Faramir flushed again, this time with pleasure. Nothing pleased him more that to be told he resembled the King who had indeed become as a father to him.

“They speak very differently from one another, though,” said Galador somewhat suspiciously.

“That is because I was born in the North and spent many years there, while my son was born in Minas Tirith,” Aragorn answered truthfully between mouthfuls of the thick, crusty bread. He had not realized how hungry he was until the food was actually put before him. The strong goat's cheese was as tasty as he remembered from his travels through Gondor as Thorongil.

“What is it like in the North?” Emerwen asked, settling herself rather awkwardly on the grass. From the shape of her swollen belly, it was plain to Aragorn that she was about six months gone with child. Unlike the women of the City, no one seemed inclined to make allowances for her condition, nor did she seem in the least concerned by the company of three bare-chested men, only one of whom was her husband.

“It is beautiful; rugged in places and very lush and green in others, and the air is cooler than down here.” Aragorn told her.

“That sounds wonderful!” Emerwen exclaimed, stretching out languidly. Aragorn and Faramir did their best to avert their eyes, since the crumpled linen shift that was apparently her only garment revealed far more of her ample curves than it concealed. The young woman was comely, dark-eyed with tanned cheeks and a freckled, pretty face, but could offer no temptation to the faithful husbands of the Evenstar and the White Lady.

“We cannot grow as many crops as you can plant here and the winters are much more severe. It is often so cold that the lakes and rivers freeze over.” Aragorn continued. “I should like to take my son there and teach him to skate one day.”

Faramir found himself grinning at the prospect.

“What is skating?” Beleg asked.

“It is a method of travelling across frozen water,” Aragorn struggled to find the right words to explain.

“Foolishness! You would fall in and drown!” Pelendur scoffed before biting loudly into an apple.

“Not if the ice is thick enough to bear your weight,” Aragorn replied. "We wear special boots with blades on them, which allows us to glide across the ice." His audience merely looked either sceptical or bewildered.

“Eat up quickly, we need to get back to work if the wheat is to be gathered in time for the harvest celebrations!” Beleg ordered.

They ate in silence for a few moments, Aragorn grateful not to have to try to explain further an activity, which he realised, must seem beyond reason to these people.

“How are you faring?” he quietly asked Faramir.

“Well enough. Binding the sheaves is somewhat tedious, but not especially hard labour, unlike what you are doing,” the Steward replied.

“What happened to the men you lost?” Aragorn enquired of Beleg.

“They were working over there by the river,” the farmer gestured towards it. “They were hale and strong when they ate their midday meal, but only an hour or so later we found them dead. Their hearts must have just stopped beating in the hot sun. 'Twas a grievous blow indeed. If the harvest is not brought in time, we go hungry.”

“You could always send to Minas Tirith for help,” said Faramir. ”The King would not let you starve.”

“I’ve heard the King is a good man, “ said Beleg,” But what would he want to do with the likes of us?”

“You are his people,” said Aragorn trying to keep his features devoid of expression. “And the King cares for all the folk of his lands.”

“You've met the King?” Tasariel enquired.

“I have met him, as has my son,” Aragorn said solemnly.

“So what is he like?” the woman pressed.

“Tall, dark haired, skilled with the sword, though he prefers words to warfare. He tries to rule his people justly,” Aragorn answered gravely.

“But is he handsome?” Emerwen asked.

“You would have to ask the Queen her opinion of those matters.” Aragorn was finding this conversation even harder than trying to explain ice-skating. He looked desperately at Faramir.

The Steward was trying to suppress his laughter and almost choked on the apple he was chewing. Aragorn slapped him on the back.

“I can just imagine what the King must be doing now,” declared Tasariel. “He must be sitting on his golden throne relaxing on purple cushions, while his servants stand on either side fanning him to keep him cool; so he won’t get all hot and sweaty and spoil his royal robes!”

“I doubt he ever feels hot or sweaty,” said Pelendur. “The King probably bathes in a vast tub of cool water whenever he wants and has beautiful serving maids to scrub his back and provide for his every need!” He licked his lips as he spoke. “We should be so lucky after a long day's work!”

“Pelendur!” his young wife chided.

“The King would never behave in such a fashion!” said Aragorn indignantly.

Faramir buried his face in his hands, unable to contain his mirth any longer.

“How would you know?” Pelendur demanded.

“ I um, know a serving maid at the Citadel and she has never been asked to scrub the King’s back,” Aragorn said firmly.

“The King and Queen uphold the highest standards of dignity and fidelity,” Faramir announced primly, blushing now that the full implications of Pelendur’s words sunk in.

“Back to work now!” Beleg ordered. “ Anyone would think you were born of the King's house yourselves, the way you sit around doing nothing!”

“The King works very hard!” Faramir protested indignantly, rising to his feet. “He has to rule two realms and care for all his people!”

“That sounds easy compared with harvesting!” Beleg retorted.

By now, Aragorn was so stiff and sore that he could hardly totter to his feet. “I think it may well be!” he said grimly.

They laboured hard all afternoon and after a short break for refreshments continued until the sun sank low on the horizon in a flaming red ball.

Just as Aragorn felt he could take no more and his arms would surely refuse to obey him any longer, Beleg finally called a halt for the night.

“The women will have prepared an evening meal for us in the village and you are welcome to come,” he told Aragorn and Faramir, though his sour expression indicated that he did not think they had earned a free repast.