Author note: Here's chapter three! I don't own Tolkien's world, just my OCs and I'm definitely not making any money out of this haha! If anyone is getting twitchy and wondering when the elf is going to turn up, blink and you'll miss a reference to him in this chapter. And panic not, he makes his grand entrance in chapter four. x

Chapter three - Hope revived

The water was taking an age to boil. Keren wondered what was happening as she waited. Was it even now too late? Her mind was in turmoil. What was she even doing? Kingsfoil would not save him. She was following the word of a lunatic. Perhaps he was already dead. His breathing had been so laboured and seemed such a struggle for him, and he had not moved in hours. He could not have long left. She wrung her hands with frustration.

Bergil appeared at the door, skidding to a halt.

"Keren, Ioreth has sent me into the city to look for kingsfoil, but I know not where it grows! There is none fresh that I have seen!" His voice had risen high in panic and he was close to tears. "She says there is none here in the Houses. I don't know what to do! He is going to die! The great Lord Faramir, he is going to die Keren!"

Just as he was in the depths of despair, the answer came to her. She ran over and put her hands on his shoulders.

"Go to the privy in my father's house. Nay, listen to me!" she said and shook his shoulders as he looked at her as if she was mad. "He keeps leaves of it in there from when he culls the yard, to sweeten the smell. Only a few, and they may be dry now, but it is all I can think of."

He was nodding quickly, blindly, clinging to her.

"Don't stand there Bergil, go!"

He went.

When the water was at last ready she burned her hands in her haste to pour it into the bowls. She placed cloths over the hot bowls to protect the now raw skin and set off back to the warden's room. She longed with all her heart to run, but did not want to spill the water.

When she returned to the room, all was quiet and tense. All the great men and Ioreth were stood around the edges of the room. She noticed the new king of Rohan was not there, and she guessed he was instead with his sister. Elessar was kneeling by the bedside, and had a hand upon Faramir's brow. The strange man looked weary, no, ill with fatigue, and the light from the stone he wore seemed fainter than before. His eyes were closed and a light sweat was on his brow. Faramir was as still as death. Elessar opened his eyes and registered Keren's return, but his eyes seemed strangely unfocused. It took him a moment to come to.

"Either side of the bed," he said faintly.

She rushed to do his bidding, placing the bowls down gently on the two chests next to the bed, leaving the sheets over them to retain the heat. She flinched as the burnt skin of her hands pulled away from the thin material. Beregond looked at her with concern but she shook her head at him.

Do not worry about me now, she thought.

She drew back next to Beregond in the corner of the room. He longed to place an arm around her to comfort her but knew it would not be proper. He looked on her as a daughter, but the men in the room with them did not know that.

Elessar appeared to go into a trance again. He called Faramir's name loudly at first, but then the call became fainter and fainter, until it was little more than a whisper. His head hung low and his hand on Faramir's brow started to shake. This went on for some time, and Keren really could not see the good it was doing. She listened anxiously for Bergil's return.

She was soon rewarded with the sound of his feet slapping on the stone floor of the corridor. He almost dived into the room, flying into the great Prince Imrahil in his haste.

"It is kingsfoil, Sir, but not fresh, I fear," he said to Elessar, who was swiftly brought out of his trance by the exclamation. He looked dazedly at the boy, but as soon as he saw what was in his hand he seemed to come to. Bergil opened the dirty cloth he had been clutching, and within lay six leaves of the weed, almost dried. "It must have been culled two weeks ago at the least. I hope it will serve, Sir?"

Then he looked over to the bed and saw the desperate state of Faramir, still and grey. The tears he had been holding back since the start of his errand burst forth and he hid his face in his hand, ashamed to cry in front of all these great lords. Both Beregond and Keren went to run to him, but Elessar, in one swift stride, was there beside him, a hand on his shoulder.

He smiled wearily down at Bergil.

"It will serve," he said. "The worst is now over. Stay and be comforted!"

Keren heaved a sigh of relief. She knew not why, as she still did not trust the word of this man. Bergil handed over the kingsfoil and went to stand with his father, who placed reassuring arms around his sons' shoulders.

Elessar placed the cloth covered leaves on the chest by the bed, took up two of the leaves, breathed on them and crushed them roughly between his hands, with no delicacy or care. Keren frowned, but then immediately lost all care about his methods. A strange feeling filled the room, peaceful yet expectant, excited. She wondered what was happening – Faramir showed no sign of awareness, but all others in the room felt as she did, she was sure.

Elessar dropped the crushed leaves into the two bowls either side of the bed. At once the sweet smell of kingsfoil filled the stuffy room. But it was not the cloying smell that masked the odours of her father's privy that floated across to her. Instead there was a freshness, a lightness in the air, one that filled her heart with joy. She would swear she had felt it before, but could not place the memory.

She could not understand why the smell was so different, or even how it was different. Nor could she begin to understand how this man was controlling the feeling in the room.

The steam from the bowls was carrying the fragrance over Faramir's bed, but he still lay unresponsive. Elessar, a strange look in his eyes, took a deep breath and appeared completely revived. He picked up one of the bowls.

Slowly he brought it to Faramir's face, so the steam from the water she had brought, fragranced by the old kingsfoil from her father's house, was gently inhaled by the man she loved.

Keren was filled with the tender realisation of just how deeply she was involved in Faramir's fate.

"Well now!" Ioreth's whisper in her ear ruined the moment. "The weed is better than I thought. It reminds me of the roses of Imloth Melui when I was a lass, and no king could ask for better."

Keren ignored her, lost in her own musings. Everyone in the room seemed to be recalling a fond memory, but Keren's remained strangely elusive. All she could focus on was Faramir.

Was it her hopeful imagination, or was his breathing easing?

Suddenly he stirred. Keren's breath hitched in her throat, heedless of the great lords surrounding her, nothing else mattering but the man in the bed. She was on a knife edge.

He opened his eyes.

All were silent, all staring in amazement at what they had just witnessed. Many had tears in their eyes. For Bergil and Keren they were flowing freely.

A quiet voice filled the silence. Faramir's voice. And what he said was most wondrous to all who heard.

"My lord, you called me. I come," he said as he looked up at Elessar. "What does the king command?"

Elessar's voice in reply was kind but stern, giving a command to the man who lay below him.

"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."

"I will, lord," Faramir replied. "For who would lie idle when the king has returned?"

Keren could hardly believe what she was seeing and hearing. She had sat with Faramir all day and he had not stirred, had seemed insensible to all. She knew she had been watching him die. And yet now here he was conversing, coherent, understanding, calm.

"Farewell then for a while!" said Elessar. "I must go to others who need me."

The tall man stood and with no more words and no glance at anyone, left the room. Imrahil and Mithrandir followed in his wake, the hobbit running after.

All who were left seemed to heave a collective sigh. Beregond hugged Bergil to him. Ioreth sank down on a stool, exclaiming as she did.

"King!" she said. "Did you hear that? What did I say? The hands of a healer, I said."

Keren did not reply, nor heard if anyone else did, for all of her attention was given to Faramir. He lay still, but it was now the stillness of rest rather than death. His eyes had closed once more, but she had no fears that he would fall into shadow again. After what she had witnessed she believed, truly believed, that this strange Elessar was her king. She had witnessed magic. As if in a daze she walked over to the bed, and as she had been doing all day, took Faramir's hand.

Ioreth and Beregond looked at each other over the top of Bergil's head.

"I am supposed to be guarding the door," Beregond provided as an excuse.

Ioreth nodded.

"I will go to the warden and see if I can assist with the perian in his care. Keren."

She waited for a response, but did not even get a look.

"Keren," she said, louder, which made Keren turn. "Attend me child, this is important. You will stay with him. Yes, that is my decision, before I change my mind. I am going to go to the warden and find out how things are progressing with the lady and the perian, and to see if I can assist. Until the warden returns to this chamber the lord Faramir is in your care once more, do you understand?"

Keren nodded dumbly.

With that Ioreth rose and left the room. She hid a smile as she turned away from the girl and her lord. She knew it was fruitless, and in one of her less foolish moments, realised that perhaps she was creating more harm than good, but the girl deserved some happiness, even if brief.

Beregond looked fondly at Keren.

"I will be just outside if you or he need anything," he said. "Come Bergil. Bed for you I think."

"Good night Keren." Bergil smiled wanly at her before leaving with his father.

Keren wondered why Beregond was now tied to the Houses when he should have been guarding the citadel, but the thought flew from her mind as Faramir began to stir again at the sound of the door closing.

His eyes opened, looking to the door, then his gaze fell upon her.

Grey. His eyes are grey, as I knew they would be.

She had never been close enough to him to see this before.

And now suddenly she was afraid. She remembered what had transpired by the gates and was embarrassed. She had been so desperate for him to see her, to say goodbye, that she was certain she had made a fool of herself. Perhaps he would not remember?

And yet she had to have obeyed the prophecy. It sounded ridiculous, but at the thought of never seeing him again, she had been desperate.

He will know you to be his when you don the green of the forest.

Long had those words haunted her, amongst the others.

It had been her mother's gown, and it was the perfect shade of forest green. She had no memory of her mother ever wearing it, and she knew not where or when it had been made, but it far surpassed anything women of her status would normally wear. Too short in the leg for Palen, it had passed to her when their mother died. It was the only rich clothing she owned and the coincidence could not be ignored.

It seemed to have worked, as he had acknowledged her as he rode past, and the happiness she had felt at that moment, mingled with deep grief at his leaving, she thought would be impossible to surpass – her emotions still had not settled from it. But she had not accounted for this moment of his awakening. She could feel her happiness, not just as an emotion, but as a tangible, physical thing. It radiated from her. She smiled at him.

Faramir opened his eyes. A girl was looking at him, and he immediately recognised her. She was not wearing that wonderful green gown, but instead a faded dark blue kirtle over a simple white shift, of which she had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows. Her dark hair was mostly covered with a white scarf. This was the girl who had wept, who had stared after him, heart broken, as he had ridden away. How strange that, after his King, this was the next face he saw after the darkness. She smiled at him.

He would have smiled back, but he was too confused. How came she to be here?

"You," he said simply. "Who are you?"

Keren took a deep breath and spoke to him for the first time in her life.

"Do you feel any pain, my lord Faramir?"

"You will answer my question before I answer yours," he replied quickly.

"First you must tell me if you feel pain. It is my task to look after you." She fought to keep her voice from trembling.

"No, I feel no pain," he said. "Which I wonder at."

She nodded, satisfied.

"My name then is Keren, daughter of Maleron. I am a healer here." She said no more.

"And you know my name?" he asked.

"You heard me call you Faramir, my lord," she replied.

"I did," he said. "I feel no pain. Why is that? How bad is it?" He tried desperately hard not to show the fear in his voice.

"You must trust to hope, Faramir. My lord," she corrected herself. "You have come through such darkness, but now all is well."

He nodded, which he thought should have caused him pain, but did not.

"I do not understand why there is no pain," he frowned.

"Let us just be thankful there is none," she said with a smile. If she was worried too, she did not show it.

"Do you remember anything of what happened? After you left?" she went on. Now she looked nervous.

He thought hard.

"I remember the day we left, the procession, the gates." He looked at her steadily, looking for some recognition from her. "And the ride to Osgiliath. But after that, nothing."

"Then you must not concern yourself with trying to remember. I am sorry I asked, it has troubled you." She put her hand on his shoulder. It was small and gentle. "You must put all your efforts into being well again."

Her worried expression pulled at his heart. The feelings that had surprised him with their intensity on the day he left began to come back to him, the feeling of hope. He did not know this girl, knew nothing more about her than before, except her name, and yet she still had that affect over him. Nothing had changed.

"You must answer my next few questions," he said seriously. Something in his face made her start. She looked almost afraid.

"I shall do my best, my lord." Her voice had gone quiet again, and she quickly removed her hand from his shoulder. "What is it you wish to know?"

"I need to know if it was you that I saw in the crowd, who was so distressed when I left. It is very important that you answer me honestly."

She gave a minute nod.

"That was me, my lord." He could barely hear her.

"As I thought." He went to take her hand, but changed his mind at the last second. "Why did you weep for me?"

There was another pause before she answered.

"I do not like to see any man go to his death," she said eventually.

"You were not crying for just any man. Why did you weep? Why do I see tears in your eyes now?"

She quickly brushed at her eyes, as if they had betrayed her. She looked as if she was fighting with all her will not to answer, but eventually gave in, as the tears started to fall.

"Because I have loved you since I was a child," was all she said. Then, so quickly it startled him, she had gone from his bedside.

"Go to him Beregond," he heard her say as she ran out of the room. "I can't stay."

He lay his head back on the pillow, totally confused, and quickly fell back into a healing sleep before he had even registered Beregond's presence next to him.

When he awoke from deep slumber it was morning and there was another woman by his bedside. An old woman, with a round face, who had nodded off. He did not recognise her.

"Woman," he said, loud enough to wake her. She grunted, and her eyes fluttered open. "Where is the girl that was here before? That was tending to me?"

"She was taken ill, my lord," the woman said sleepily. "You are in my care now." She gave a worried smile.

"Your pardon, dame," he said," but I wish for the girl. She was well enough when she ran from me."

"She ran because she was ill, lord."

"Distressed, maybe. Ill, no. Send for her."

"She will not come, my lord."

"She will not obey the son of Denethor, steward of Gondor?"

The woman seemed troubled, as if some great internal struggle was occurring inside her head.

"It seems not," she said eventually, frowning.

"Does she have good reason?" He felt something. Pain, a pain in his chest. He realised he had raised himself up onto his arm.

"Calm yourself, my lord." She patted his shoulder fretfully. "She gave no reason, only that she felt too ill to work today. She has been sent to her room to rest. No doubt she will be here tomorrow."

That comforted him a little, although he was still angry with her for confusing him, for her running from him. Was that the effect he had had on her?

"Rest, my lord, you must lie back." She pushed him as forcefully as she dared back onto the pillow. "Sleep, sir."

"How is the wound to my chest?" he asked, wondering at the pain he had suddenly, finally, felt.

"It is almost healed, my lord," she smiled. "All you need do now is rest. You will soon be well, I am sure."

"I cannot be truly rested until I have seen her again," he said as he closed his eyes. "You tell her that. Then see if she will still remain hidden away."

The woman frowned, puzzled, but he was already asleep, and did not see. What had the troublesome girl said to him, to aggravate him thus? She was determined to find out, sooner rather than later.

"Keren!" Her sister was calling her, her voice too loud. Keren wished to hear no voice for a long time. "Keren! Lord Faramir is asking for you!"

"I cannot go to him!" she called back.

"Are you ill?" Palen was approaching down the narrow corridor.

"Yes," Keren said shortly. "Leave me alone, please."

The door flew open. Her sister's measured gaze took in her appearance, sitting dolefully on her bed, her eyes red with weeping. She knew she did not look ill, just sad and anxious. One look from Palen told her she did not believe her.

"Oh, Pal, I can't go to him! I can't bear it!" She put her head in her hands.

"Has he upset you? Hurt you?" Her sister's arms went around her.

"No, of course not!"

"Then what is it? You are not still pining for him?" She looked almost despairing.

"I wish you would not call it that. I love him, Pal, I cannot help it."

"But you do not know him!" She was half amused, half exasperated at her younger sister's foolishness. "It is quite hopeless; you must know that. Especially after you humiliated yourself on the day he rode out. What must he have thought of you? That you were mad no doubt."

"But when he looked at me then, he looked…" she tried to make her sister understand, "I don't know… Happy. Like I had done something to make him happy."

"I doubt you made him happy by staring up at him with your lip wobbling like some greensick child." Palen frowned. "He thought he was riding to his death, and the last thing he saw was you weeping like a fool. I can't imagine it filled him with much confidence."

"Don't talk so, Pal."

"Well anyway, he is asking for you." Palen allowed herself a smile for her little sister. "The arrow wound in his chest is healing well, the bleeding has stopped completely. But he said – and I have this from Dawyn, who sits at his bedside in your place – he said that he cannot be truly rested until he has seen you again. Make of that what you will."

Keren was silent, trying to think what those words could mean, not allowing herself to hope.

"What have you been saying to him, Keren, for him to ask for you like that?" Palen wondered. "Have you made a fool of yourself again?"

"I only answered his questions," Keren said quietly.

"What did he ask you?" Palen, older than Keren by five years, was starting to worry that her little sister was making a nuisance of herself.

"Lots of things. He remembered me, Pal. He asked me if I was the girl that had wept for him, and I said yes. Whether that was foolish or not, I don't know. I was only being honest. But then he asked me why I was weeping."

"And what did you say?" Palen asked, dreading the answer.

"I could not lie to him. I told him," Keren said miserably.

"Told him what, Keren?"

Her sister stayed silent.

"Told him what?" Palen asked again, wanting to grip Keren's shoulders in frustration.

Reluctantly Keren met her sister's burning gaze.

"That I loved him."

Palen's mouth dropped open. Keren would have found it funny at any other time.

"You what?"

"I told him that I'd loved him since I was a child, which is the truth. Then I ran away. And now I can't go back."

"Indeed you cannot," Palen said severely. "Oh, Keren, what have you done?"

Part of her wanted to laugh at the stubborn honesty of her little sister, but Keren had just thrown away any chance she had of a good marriage like her own.

"Don't talk to me like that. I am twenty, I am not a child." Keren frowned at her.

"You are acting like a child over him," Palen frowned. "He is the steward of Gondor, Keren. And if that is not enough, he did not even know you existed until a few days ago."

"He does now which is all that matters," she said stubbornly.

"Yes, and he sees you are a healer. There is no hope for you."

Keren was silent for a while, before speaking more to herself than to her sister.

"There was no hope that he would return. But he did."

Palen sighed heavily.

"Either way, you need to get back to work," she said. "We are all exhausted, not one of us has stopped. Today is the first day we've been able to take some rest, but we cannot shirk on our duties. There are still many men who lie injured. Keren, you should be no exception."

"When was the last time you ate or slept Palen?" Keren asked bitterly.

"I – I can't remember," she admitted. "And I am sure you can't either. But just one more day Keren. That is all, and then we can sleep."

Keren nodded.

"I tried to sleep," she whispered. "When I ran from him. I lay down here and tried to sleep, but I could not. My heart is with him. Oh, I should be with him now. I have ruined everything."

"Hush," Palen said, her arms going round her little sister. "Go to him then."

"It is not as easy as that," Keren said, her words muffled as she leant against Palen's shoulder. "You do not understand."

"What do I not understand?" Palen's voice was gentle in her ear.

"I can't tell you," she said sadly.

"As ever," Palen said with a sigh. "Well, I am going back to work, and I think you should come too." She stood and held out her hand. Keren, defeated, took it and allowed her weary feet to trudge back to the wards.

The day passed, and Keren got to see the strange figure that was the lady Eowyn of Rohan. Elessar had performed his healing magic on her, and she was sleeping peacefully, but Keren understood from the warden that her physical injury was far greater than Faramir's. The warden had had instruction from Elessar not to allow her to rise for ten whole days.

"Poor lady," she said, as she stood next to her bed.

"Aye," said Ioreth, who had been overseeing her care. "And yet she is a strange one. I was there when she awoke, and unlike Lord Faramir she did not seem to feel any hope at her revival. I think her life has been a trial to her."

Keren looked down on the lady. She was fair. Her face was beautiful and her long hair was like spun silk around her shoulders. But there were great shadows under her eyes, and her arms had strange black marks all over. The left arm was bandaged and set with a splint. Her right arm appeared strangely withered, although it was whole. It was as if the light did not shine upon it.

Rather than return to Faramir and face his stern gaze, she left him in the warden's care, as befitted his station anyway, and instead alternated the care of Eowyn with Ioreth, leaving occasionally to do a patrol of the wards.

Her sister had the care of Meriadoc, the other halfling, whom Keren was yet to meet. Palen, in their brief walk down the corridor that morning, had told her all she knew of the strange little fellow, although that was not much. By all accounts, small as he was, it was he who had injured the great lord of shadows, enough so that Eowyn then had the opportunity to slay him.

The perian appeared incredibly resilient. By the late morning he was already up and about with the other halfling and receiving two visitors in the gardens.

No one knew who these visitors were, as Prince Imrahil's servant bore them to the gardens directly.

Who could possibly be visiting them? Keren wondered. No doubt more strange folk.

She did not dwell on the mystery but instead focussed on her charges.

By this time all the healers were struggling. Keren was ready to faint with weariness. Her lips felt numb, her fingers and toes were cold and sometimes tingling. Her head swam if she moved too quickly, and her stomach was telling her, painfully, that it was empty and had been for some time. She felt sick.

Just a few more hours, a few more hours, she thought as the sun began to set.

The warden had promised them all alternate rest periods of twelve hours. They just needed to get through the rest of this day. Deaths amongst the injured men were now infrequent, but the beds were still emptying, as men were recovering and leaving the houses. The more grievously wounded would be there for days more yet, but casualties were no longer streaming in, and there had not been many new cases. The Houses were becoming a place of calm once more. Keren did not stop to think why there were now so few for them to heal – she did not know it was as so many thousands had perished in the Pelennor fields.