Pretty much the last chapter, though not quite.

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            As they walked up towards the Healing House, Beregond kept his mind busy by mentally reviewing the battle. Both the White Guard and the King's Guard had fought bravely against the Dark Acolytes. Miraculously, no one had died and though many had been injured, none of the wounds were serious. //Except Faramir's.// Although not trained in medicine, Beregond knew a bad injury when he saw one. And he could also see that King Aragorn's face had steadily grown more worried as they progressed.

            Everyone was relieved when they reached the Healing House. The Master Healer was already there for he usually just slept at the House. He took one look at Faramir and hurried them into a private room. Taking charge, the Healer folded his arms and leveled a glare at the people that crowded around the bed. "Everyone out! Out. Go. Now!" Reluctantly, everyone but Aragorn left, the king promising to inform them when there was news.

            As the Master Healer's helpers rushed in, Aragorn stood by to assist in any way he could. The Healer checked over Faramir's injury, his face sober. "Stab wound, animal bite. A large animal bite. And he has lost so much blood." He looked up at the king. "My lord, I do not know if he can survive this."

            Aragorn's face was pulled into a stoic mask. "He is strong. He will not die."

            The Master Healer shook his head and returned to his patient. "Even the strong can fall."

            After having the injured Guards treated, Beregond sent them back to their homes. The King's Guard, though, refused to leave and so the Captain sent them into another room, too tired and worried to argue. He prepared himself for the long wait, but Éowyn shook her head at him. "Captain, go home to your family."

            "But my lady…"

            "No, Captain. You have already done so much and I doubt you have rested at all these few weeks. Caladwen is probably up worrying about you so go, calm her mind and get some sleep. I will send word when there is any to send."

            Beregond reluctantly agreed and left Éowyn alone in the room. Sitting down in one of the comfortable waiting chairs, she stared at the ceiling. Painted on it was a landscape illustration of the seashore at Dol Amroth. Studying it, she noted the beautiful sunset over the waves, the seamews diving for food. The picture almost took her mind off her worries. //Which it is supposed to do.//

            The Healing House had been her and Faramir's special project. It was dear to their hearts for it had been at the Healing Houses in Minas Tirith that they had met for the first time and fallen in love. Building this House in Ithilien had been a way to repay their debt to the profession and place that not only saved their lives, but brought them love as well.

            So Éowyn sat and waited, her heart anxious. Hours passed, and as the sun began to rise the door opened. Standing quickly Éowyn looked at Aragorn, eyes wide and shoulder tense, waiting for him to speak for good or ill.

            The moments of silence were agonizing for her. Finally the king opened his mouth. "He is alive." Éowyn's knees went weak from relief and she steadied herself against the wall. "He will be fine, though he will need quite a bit of bedrest to recover fully."

            "May I see him?"

            Aragorn nodded. "He is asleep and will be for a while yet, but you may go in if you wish."

            As Éowyn entered the room, the Master Healer, tired but happy, left. Glancing at Aragorn, the Healer lifted an eyebrow. "My lord, you did not tell her how close we came to losing him?"

            The king shrugged tiredly. "Faramir is alive, that is what matters. No need to trouble Lady Éowyn with might have beens."

            "It was a very close 'might have been', my lord." But Aragorn had already left to finally get his arm looked at. The Master Healer shook his head. "Kings."

            Aragorn sat by Faramir's bedside, having sent Éowyn to another room to get some rest. The strange, heavy sword lay on the table beside him, the object of his thoughts. Again Aragorn lightly brushed his fingers over the elvish runes that ran on both sides of the sword. In Quenya they read on one side "I am Ránathil. Curubor made me" and on the other side, "The Noldor lord gave me. The King of Men wields me."

            //'The King of Men wields me'.// Aragorn turned the sword slightly and read the words that encircled the hilt. //'The Heir shall be known by the half-moon'. Ránathil, the sword of Númenor. I thought it was lost…//

*~*flashback*~*

            Little Aragorn, called Estel, snuck into his Ada's room. His hands trembled as he opened the small closet. A shining sword loomed over him on a stand. He reached out his hand to touch it…

            "Estel!" Aragorn quickly snatched his fingers back and looked guiltily at his adoptive father. Lord Elrond stood before him with his arms folded and a stern expression. "Son, you know better than to touch any weapon without supervision."

            Aragorn hung his head. "I'm sorry, Ada. But I heard Elrohir telling Elladan about a special sword you had and I wanted to see it."

            Elrond glance at the sword and back to the child's face. Reaching out, the elf lord lifted the weapon and sat down on the bed, motioning for Aragorn to sit beside him. "Estel, this is my sword, Vásathil. King Gil-Galad gave it to me at the beginning of the Second Age. See these words?" He traced the runes and Aragorn nodded. "They say 'I am Vásathil. Curubor made me. The Noldor lord gave me. The Elf-king wields me'. My brother, Elros, was given Vásathil's sistersword, Ránathil, but it said 'The King of Men wields me' instead of 'Elf-king'.

            The boy touched the weapon almost reverently. "What happened to your brother's sword?"

            Elrond sighed and replaced Vásathil in the weapons closet. "It was lost when Númenor fell. The last king could not wield it, for he took the throne wrongly, and it disappeared from all knowledge."

            "Why couldn't he use the sword?"

            "It was elvish-made. Only the true king can wield it."

*~*end flashback*~*

            Aragorn tried to lift the newly found Ránathil. He could barely move it, the weight too much for him. And yet Faramir had brandished the sword as easily as if it were any other. //So it is indeed true.//

            "Lord Aragorn?" Éowyn had returned. "Has he woken yet?"

            The king shook his head. "Not yet, though he should wake soon. Did I not send you to rest?"

            Éowyn sate down in a chair on Faramir's other side and took her husband's still hand. "I rest better here." Aragorn knew not to argue with her. Besides, he knew he would feel the same way if Arwen were hurt. So they sat in silence, watching and waiting for the Steward to wake.

            The first thing that Faramir was aware of was the aching in his shoulder. Then his memory came flooding back and his eyes shot open. Staring up, Faramir saw a landscape painting of the moon rising over Ithilien. //I'm in the Healing House.// A second though hit him. //I just woke up and I hadn't dreamt at all! Not a single nightmare!// Shifting a little, Faramir found Aragorn and Éowyn instantly at his side, asking him how he felt. "Umm, fine. Rested actually."

            Éowyn squeezed his hand. "I am glad, love. I was so worried."

            "We both were." Aragorn quickly checked over Faramir's wound with his good hand. "Are you sure you fell all right?"

            Faramir nodded, but winced at the pain from the injury. "Ah, the shoulder hurts some, but I am feeling fine. In fact, if you do not object my lord, I would like to sit up."

            Aragorn did object on principle, but he knew a determined look when he saw one. "Very well, but no more than that. You lost a lot of blood last night."

            Éowyn helped her husband as he grimaced into a sitting position, placing pillows behind him to support his back. As she moved her hand, Faramir grabbed in and brought it to his lips. He looked at his wife with sorrowful gray eyes. "I am sorry for putting you through this."

            Éowyn leaned over and kissed his nose. "I am just glad it is all over now." Smiling, Faramir gently pulled her into a soft kiss, which Éowyn happily returned.

            "I hate to interrupt," Éowyn and Faramir reluctantly separated at the king's voice. "but I am afraid it is not all over."

            The Steward frowned. "What do you mean?"

            Aragorn stood and, with great strain, hefted Ránathil off the table and leaned it against the bed. "There is still this."

            Faramir effortlessly lifted the sword with his good arm and eyed it with a soldier's expertise. "It is a good sword. Lightweight, sharp, good balance. It feels old, though. It is hard to find a sword made like this anymore."

            Éowyn eyed the sword skeptically. "Lightweight? I could hardly move it a finger's breadth!"

            The king nodded. "That is because it is elvish made. See," he pointed out the runes. "Curubor was a great elven-smith in Lindon under the service of Gil-galad."

            Faramir looked at the writing on the sword and frowned. "Ránathil. I have heard that name before."

            "It was one of two swords made by Curubor on the order of King Gil-galad. Vásathil was given to my Adar, Lord Elrond. Ránathil was given to Elrond's brother, Elros."

            The Steward knew that name. "Elros Tar-Minyatur? The King of Númenor?" He stared down at the sword in awe, turning it over in his hands.

            Aragorn smiled. "That is why the runes say it is wielded by the King of Men."

            Barely a moment passed before Faramir proffered the sword to Aragorn. "Then this is your sword, my lord."

            Aragorn smiled at the regret in the Steward's voice, regret only over the loss of a good weapon. "No, it is not mine."

            Despite Aragorn's denial, Faramir insisted. "You are the King of Men, my lord. You are of the line of Tar-Minyatur."

            "But not of the line of the Kings of Númenor." Seeing Faramir's stern face, Aragorn sighed. "Hold out your right hand."

            Curious, the Steward did so. Both he and Éowyn were startled to see a mark, like a birthmark, on his palm. The mark was shaped in a perfect half-circle. "What happened?"

            The king of Gondor showed them the words on the hilt. "The Heir shall be known by the half-moon." It actually means two things. One: that the Heir can only be found out on the night of the half-moon. The other is that the mark of the half-moon." Aragorn looked pointedly at Faramir's palm, "on the hand is the symbol by which the Heir is known."

            Faramir stared at his hand then shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. "It is not possible. Ar-Zimraphel, the last queen, and Ar-Pharazôn had no children."

            "Not together. But the Queen, also known as Tar-Miriel, had two children, twins, by her first husband, Celdun." Aragorn pulled the diary out of his vest pocket and handed it to Faramir. "The younger twin, Lómdunwe, was killed with his father, but the girl, Lómarë, was taken in by Elendil and brought to Middle Earth. It is all in her diary: How her mother was forced to divorce her father, how her brother died, how she came to marry an advisor to King Meneldil. And how she rejected the rule of Gondor in favor of being the founder of the Line of the Stewards." Aragorn knelt next to Faramir's bedside and bowed his head in deference. "You are the rightful King of Men. And I pledge fealty to you, my lord."

            Faramir could only stare wide-eyed. Looking to Éowyn, he saw her glance at Aragorn before lowering into a deep bow herself. Faramir looked down at the sword in his hands. In his heart he knew this was true. He could be king, ruler of men. The people would accept it, following Aragorn's example. All the power in the world was at his fingertips.

            Slowly, Faramir eased himself off the bed and stood before the kneeling man. "Please, Aragorn, rise." Aragorn obeyed, yet stood as one subservient to another. Faramir lifted Ránathil and held it aloft for a moment, the symbol of kingship. Then the Heir of Númenor knelt, tensing at the pain yet determined. "As my ancestor before me, I relinquish my power to the heir of Elendil. I and my heirs will serve you and yours until the end of my line." Turning Ránathil, he offered the hilt to Aragorn. "You are king."

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Awwwww. I love that part. Only the epilogue to go!