Chapter 10 – A Deliverance:

His only thought was pain. Sheets of pain. An ocean of pain. Fire consuming him. Eomund could not keep a lucid thought in his head, the pain would not let him. He could not cry out, the pain would not let him draw enough breath. He could not escape it and he moaned and wept and cried as the searing tongues of flame devoured him and the white chills of fever shook his body. He was lying on his stomach, but when he tried to move he dimly realized his hands were tied above his head and he panicked and wrenched at the bonds that held him, pulling and twisting madly, desperate to free himself, sobbing with despair.

"Shh, shh, there now. It's going to be all right," a voice comforted. He collapsed and lay still, already exhausted from his efforts and listened. A woman's voice. A soft hand wiping his face with a cool, damp cloth. "Try to sleep." The cloth brushed across his face again and he whimpered. "Shh, now," the woman said.

"Mother?" Eomund wanted to open his eyes but could not, did not have the strength to spare as he fought against the pain as it raked its jagged teeth along his body. "Mother?"

"Shh, it's all right." The soft hand left his face and he suddenly felt something cool on his back, cool and wet and wondrously soothing. The pain softened, faded until it was just a dim sensation along the edges of his mind and he sighed and relaxed. "There, better?" The woman's hand was back, gently smoothing his hair along his temples and caressing his forehead. "Swallow," she said, lifting his head slightly as a cold, bitter liquid was spooned into him, and he did so reflexively. "Good. Now go to sleep," she crooned, keeping her fingers lightly moving across his face and Eomund obeyed her, sliding down into a dark, dreamless sleep where pain and torment were mercifully blotted out and the fire along his spine was quenched.

Time passed but he did not know the passing of time. All he knew was the thick, welcomed insensibility of drugged sleep and the throbbing, burning agony that always returned to bite and tear and scour across his back until the woman would come again and bring her coolness, cool liquid in a spoon, cool hands spreading the blessed numbing chill along his flesh and he could draw a grateful breath and fade into an exhausted slumber before the pain crept back to gnaw at him again. Her voice and hands comforted him as much as the medicine she administered and he held onto them as a lifeline and did as she asked; lay still, slept, swallowed whatever she offered, and the days passed and Eomund lived.

He awoke confused, unable to recognize anything around him. He was still on his stomach, in a low bed in a small room with a tiny window. Not on the Crescent Moon, he realized, feeling no motion beneath him and noting the stone walls. Turning his head stiffly he looked around him but the room appeared empty save for himself, the bed, a small wooden table and a chair beside the bed. A wooden door to his left was closed, while golden afternoon sunshine poured in through the window. Nothing looked familiar and the mere act of moving his head to see had left him worn out, and so he let it sink back down and his eyes closed and he fell into a light sleep. Sometime later the sound of the door opening startled him awake and he tried to rise up from the bed, gasping at the pain that ripped across him and horrifying the older woman who had entered. "Oh no, no," she said, crossing the few steps across the floor and gently pressing him back down. "Lay still." His weakness was so overwhelming he had no choice but to obey and he lay motionless on the bed as she fussed over his back, removing the dressing and applying new medicine. Once again the soothing coolness spread over him and Eomund's tense muscles loosened as she worked.

"Where am I?" he asked after a while, noting how weak and shaky his voice was.

"You are in the House of Mercy, in Pelargir," she said softly, her hands deftly working the healing balm into his ravaged flesh.

"House of Mercy?" Eomund had heard of it, but he had never visited the complex of several buildings in the center of the city, staffed and supported by a group of older noblewomen; a complex that, recognizing the needs of a port city that saw hundreds visit each year, many in a strange place for the first time, offered food for the hungry, beds for the homeless and medical care to the sick. "How did I get here?"

The woman, in her late fifties, with long greying hair gathered in a looped braid and dressed in a plain brown velvet gown, shook her head as she concentrated on his back. "Someone left you at the front gate," she said, her disapproval of such an action evident from her tone of voice.

Eomund tried to think back, remembered the beginning of the punishment, hearing Bothlan call out the strokes, the sound of his own whimpering sobs, hearing the count reach fifty-eight, then nothing.

He had been unconscious long before the beating was completed, the blood running down his back to drip from his heels when Bothlan finally draped his limp form over his massive shoulders and told his captain the boy was dead. Captain Radonath had nodded and ordered him thrown overboard and Bothlan had carried him to the rear of the ship, but once there he had done the unthinkable. Bothlan had, like Mal and the Captain, begun to suspect Eomund was telling the truth, and the only thing he could think of worse than beating the son of Gondor's Steward was beating him to death. So Bothlan had done something unimaginable, something he never would have dreamed of any other time. He had disobeyed and lied to his Captain of more than twenty-two years. He held back as much as he could on the strokes, he miscounted when the Captain was called away for a moment, so that Eomund received eighty-seven lashes, rather than the prescribed one hundred, he told the Captain the boy was dead when he was not, and at the ship's stern he did not throw him overboard.

He had carried Eomund below decks to his own tiny cabin, wrapped him in the cleanest shirt the first mate possessed and kept him hidden there until they had reached Pelargir late that night and in the dark solitude of the wee hours, Bothlan had taken Eomund and carried him to the House of Mercy, hoping the ladies there would be able to keep him alive. He had gently deposited the bloody body near the gate and pounded on the wooden door, shouting, until he heard someone coming, then disappeared into the darkness, watching from the shadows as the door had first been cautiously opened and then thrown wide as the women on duty rushed out to collect their new arrival. Bothlan had returned to the ship as silently as he had gone.

But Eomund knew none of this, could only remember the endless bite of the rod as it slashed down across him time after time and remembering, he gave a involuntary quiver. Instantly the woman stopped her ministrations. "Am I hurting you?"

He gave her a weak smile. "No, my lady." He moved his arm a bit, realized it was no longer bound. "My arms – they were tied, before?" he said and the woman looked embarrassed.

"I'm sorry, I had to keep you still, you were delirious, trying to get up, roll over. I feared you would harm yourself." She hesitated. "The last man I tended with a back like yours – " She frowned, would not meet Eomund's eyes. "He died. He would not keep still and tore at his wounds and they became infected…I thought if I could keep you quiet, not moving, and give your back a chance to clot and scab over, you would do better." She shrugged one shoulder self-consciously and began winding a fresh bandage around his wounds. "Apparently I was correct," she said softly.

Eomund remembered the gentle touch, soft words. "You were here, that was you?" She nodded and he closed his eyes and sighed. "I thought it was my mother." The woman paused and reached down to pat his arm.

"It was me, but I have sons of my own, I know how your mother would have cared for you if she had been here." She checked her work, seemed satisfied. "Are you thirsty?" Eomund nodded and she left the room, returning in minutes with a cup and a pitcher of water. She had to hold the cup for him, his own hand was too unsteady, and he barely had the strength to lean up on his elbow, but he drank three cupfuls before he lay back, drained and trembling. A sudden thought came to him and he looked up at her.

"How long have I been here?"

"This is the seventh day," she said, giving Eomund a small rather apologetic smile when she saw his surprise.

"Seven days?" He was shocked.

"I did not think you would live, the first few days," she admitted. "You had a very high fever, and your back…" she gave a shiver. "Who did such a thing to you?"

Eomund looked at the tiny window. "My Captain," he said softly.

"You should turn him in to the authorities," said the woman in righteous tones. "Why did he do it?"

"I killed a man." Eomund watched her expression change and felt bitter shame, saw Mal's face in his mind. "Not on purpose," he said. "But it was my fault."

"Still." She sounded dubious. "King Elessar is trying to stop such brutality among the ship's captains."

"I know." Eomund suddenly realized he was exhausted; that he didn't want to think about the Crescent Moon or the King, or Mal, and he let his eyes close and the woman was instantly quiet, gathering up her things in silence and turning to go.

"I'll check back in a while," she said and he nodded slightly. She hesitated. "Do you have anyone nearby I could contact?" she asked. "Your mother, perhaps?" She saw the young man bite his lip as though to hold back a cry.

"No," he said finally. "There is no one." She said nothing more and left the room and Eomund let the tears slide from his eyes. He was alive. He could not understand how, but he was and now he wanted only to get back home, make his way to Minas Tirith and make his amends. The woman's offer had surprised him and he had been tempted, tempted to ask her to write his mother, wishing he could simply stay in the House of Mercy and wait for someone to come for him. But he had rejected the idea as soon as it had come, knew it was for him to go home, face the King, and his father. That was his duty, his promise to Mal, and he would fulfill it. The worst had happened and he had survived, and now he had only to make it home. He wept silently as he drifted off to sleep.

Over the next few days Eomund slept and ate and gradually regained his strength. By the end of another week he was on his feet and moving carefully about the room. At his insistence the woman, whose name he discovered was Rammell, brought a set of mirrors to him so he could inspect the healing wounds on his back. Having Rammell hold one and maneuvering the other, he eventually could get an adequate view and silently inspected the injuries. The healed cuts and knotted scars from the previous punishments had been torn open once more by Bothlan's strokes, leaving an angry red mass of lacerated flesh from his shoulders to his waist, now thick with scabs and still seeping gashes, the puckered scar tissue forming ridges across his back. "It is really healing quite well, considering how bad it was," said Rammell. "It will fade as time passes."

"It doesn't matter," said Eomund, thoughtfully staring into the mirror. "I deserved them all."

Rammell looked shocked and angry. "No, Eomund." He had told her his name but not his identity, only that he was a sailor and she had become fond of the young man. Now she shook her head in disagreement. "No one deserves that kind of punishment."

"I did," he said quietly, handing the mirror back to her. They stood in an awkward silence, and he took a deep breath, testing, finding it caused a good bit of discomfort but no sharp spike of pain. "When can I go?" he asked.

"Whenever you want," she answered. She smiled. "Go with the blessings of this house." He returned the smile.

"Thank you."

In only a few hours he had left the House of Mercy and made his way to his home, claiming his spare key from his neighbor, a young woman with three small children whose own husband was away at sea, who gave the baggy clothes Rammell had found him a strange look. He offered no explanation, merely thanked her and went into his small house, smelling the stale air of months of emptiness. He was away so much he kept no servants and the house had been uninhabited since he had been called to Minas Tirith by the King months ago

Quickly he dressed in his own clothes, pulling his tunic carefully over the bandages, and packed his things. He had to search through the house for an old sword, and as he went through the sitting room he saw the letter on his desk. The letter from his mother that he had received only a few days before the King's summons. He read over it, the words that had angered him before now raking at his conscience. "I wish you would come home for a visit," she had written. "I miss you, and your father has not been well. I think it would cheer him to see you." Eomund closed his eyes and stifled a cry. She had written week after week, imploring him to come home, and he had ignored her. Shame flooded him and he returned the letter to the desk and picked up his pack. Buckling the sword around his waist he opened a small locked box and took out enough money to buy passage to Osgiliath and a horse to Minas Tirith, then he left the house once more, locking the door and returning the key to the neighbor before heading to the harbor.

As he rode through the last level of the city Eomund could feel his heart begin to race and his mouth go dry, but he knew he was doing the right thing, and he had promised Mal, so he kept moving upward through the city until he reined the horse to a stop before the great bronze doors of the Citadel. He dismounted painfully. The long ride on the horse had not been kind to his wounded back and he rested his head against the animal for a moment before he turned and approached the guards at the door. "I am Eomund, son of Faramir, and I would request an audience with King Elessar," he said to them. One of the guards recognized him and said that the King was holding meetings today, but he would surely want to see Eomund and he would go tell the King if he could wait. Eomund said he would be happy to wait and was ushered into the throne room, the heavy doors closing behind him with a soft thud.

The afternoon sun sparkled through the windows and gave a blazing white halo to the marble statues that filled the hall and Eomund felt his heart swell as he gazed around him. The pride he always felt in this room had grown and matured in his months away and he closed his eyes for a moment and vowed to be more worthy of such a heritage in the future.

His back was beginning to throb and he looked around him hesitantly before he lowered himself onto the last step of the dais, braced his shoulder against the Steward's chair and leaned forward to rest his head against his knees, wrapping his arms around them. The room was warm and quiet, and he was worn out from the ride and his injuries, and in minutes he was dozing.

"Eomund?" The King's voice beside him startled him awake and as Aragorn bent down and shook him gently it sent a flash of pain down him, and he jerked upright, his blue eyes fuzzy with sleep even as he cried out. He looked up into the clear grey eyes and for a moment was confused as to whether he was facing his father or his king, but in seconds he realized it was Aragorn and he turned and clumsily knelt on the floor, clasping his hands to Aragorn's boots and pressing his face against them.

"My Lord." The full impact of what he had to confess suddenly overwhelmed him and he had to stop and take a deep breath. "Forgive me, my Lord. I have failed you. I have not found my sister. I'm sorry. I looked, everywhere." His voice broke and he could not keep the tremor under control. "Forgive me, Sire. I'm sorry. I will gladly accept any punishment you give…" He clutched at the King ankles and repeated his apology. "I'm sorry."

"Eomund." Gently Aragorn reached down, tried to draw the young man up on his feet, but he only shook his head and held onto the King's boots until at last Aragorn sat down on the step above him, put an insistent hand under his chin and raised his head. "Eomund, look at me." Aragorn was an observant man. Within seconds he had taken in the poor fit of Eomund's clothes, as if he had lost weight, his darkly tanned skin, the older sword he wore, the missing ring that the King knew never left his finger. But more than than, he saw a subtle change in the blue eyes, the haughty look had been wiped away from Eomund of Gondor's face and Aragorn was curious, but did not ask. Instead he smiled. "Estel has been found."

"Found?" Eomund repeated the word blankly and the King nodded.

"Found, over two months ago." Aragorn shifted slightly, pried Eomund's hands away from his boots. "She's in Edoras." He looked at Eomund questioningly. "You are the one we were beginning to worry about. I sent word when she was found but we never heard from you. I knew you were traveling, but it has been weeks." He raised his eyebrows and Eomund dropped his head again.

"Forgive me, my Lord. I was – " he stopped, sighed, shook his head. "I was detained."

"Detained." Aragorn suspected there was much more to it than 'detained' but Eomund merely nodded. "Well. I am glad you are here. How are you? Are you hungry? Come and have something to eat, and give me your news." He got to his feet and reached down, grasping Eomund's arm to pull him upright.

Eomund's nod of agreement was halted by his grimace of pain and involuntary gasp as the King inadvertently twisted the healing wounds. Instantly Aragorn froze and looked at him, the younger man's earlier lethargy and tentative movements suddenly all coming together in his mind. "You are injured?" he asked, his grey eyes pinned on Eomund, who could only give a short jerk of his head, his face suddenly ashen underneath the tan.

"It is nothing," he said even as the tight lines that appeared around his mouth betrayed the untruth of his words.

"Come with me." Aragorn let Eomund finish standing on his own power, then turned and headed toward his chambers, Eomund walking beside him in silence, his head down. When they entered the King's rooms he pointed to a chair and Eomund eased himself into it with a ragged breath. "Now, where?" Aragorn asked. Eomund remembered the King's cold anger from his last visit and thought of his failure to fulfill his charge, and for a moment he held back, but when he raised his eyes he saw nothing but compassion and concern, saw the man he had known all his life, the King with the hands of a healer, and he painfully removed his tunic.

Aragorn's face paled as he looked at the bandages covering Eomund's back and he slowly unwrapped them to reveal the healing cuts and gashes. "Who did this to you?" he asked in a terrible voice.

Eomund shook his head. "It does not matter, my Lord."

"It does matter."

"No, Sire." Eomund looked up at him and for the first time he could ever remember Aragorn saw Faramir before him in this son, strong and faithful and true. "It does not. Know only that it has helped me to become a better man, in the end." His dark blue eyes held nothing but honesty and sincerity as he met Aragorn's gaze and the King knew at once he would never hear the story of these injuries from Eomund. But he saw Eomund's proud gaze now tempered with humility and once more Faramir's shadow was in Eomund's face. "It is not important," said Eomund, "except in how it changed me."

The King held his gaze, recognized that there had been a change in him, and he pressed his mouth shut in a tight line and said nothing, only went to a cupboard and dug through it until he came to a small jar of ointment. "You saw a healer?" Eomund nodded.

"In Pelargir."

Aragorn removed the lid of the jar and stood before Eomund, motioning him to lean forward and rest his head against him and Eomund did so, trustingly laying his head against the King as he gently rubbed the ointment over his back. A soothingly familiar coolness spread across Eomund and he sighed with relief, began to feel drowsy again as Aragorn's gentle touch smoothed the ointment over his aching flesh. Aragorn could feel him relax and reached up to hold him steady, letting his hand rest across the back of Eomund's head as the other continued its slow, easy movement across his back. "I never meant for you to come to harm, Eomund. Only to find your sister, and perhaps consider making amends with your father."

"I know, my Lord." Eomund's voice was muffled against him, but firm. "Things happen that no one plans. It is the way of life." He pulled back a little and looked up at the King. "Where is Father?"

Aragorn studied him closely. Saw by the waiting look on his face that if he chose to deny Eomund the information, to deny him access to Faramir, he would accept it and bide his time, and wondered again at this change. He closed up the ointment and re-wrapped the bandage around Eomund before pulling up another chair and sitting down opposite him. "He is in Rivendell," he finally said.

Eomund nodded, slowly pulled on his tunic and looked down at his feet for a moment. "How is he?" He raised anxious eyes to the King, who made a gesture with his head from side to side.

"He is better, I believe, not recovered completely, but making progress."

"Oh." Eomund was silent but Aragorn could see he was thinking of how to form his request. "Can I see him?" he asked finally. "I want to talk to him." He lowered his eyes again. "I need to apologize."

Aragorn just looked at him and Eomund forced himself to look up, meet his thoughtful gaze, felt once again as if the King could look through him and peer into his very soul, but this time he met the searching grey eyes evenly. He waited, expecting the answer to be 'no' and trying to prepare himself. He would wait as long as he needed to for a chance to see his father. At last the King slowly nodded. "You may go to Rivendell," he said gravely. "But not for a few days." He watched the surprise and pleasure blossom and then instantly drain from Eomund's face but the familiar frown of annoyance and irritation never appeared. Eomund merely waited to see if there was going to be a reason given. "I want you to stay here and get some rest, first," said Aragorn. "Give your back a little more time to heal before you start off."

"Yes, my Lord." Eomund nodded his head and stood when Aragorn did. "Is anyone of my family here in the city?"

"Only Theoden and Elabet," said Aragorn and gave Eomund a smile. "You'll be an uncle any day now. Alasse is in Edoras with Estel, your mother stayed there a while but now has gone on to Rivendell to be with your father. Sam is on patrol in Minas Ithil, and Elboron has returned to the northern regions." He saw Eomund's surprise. "The Rohirrim are reporting orcs on the move, I find myself more in need of a captain than a steward right now." He sighed, grew serious. "And I'm hopeful your father will be returning soon." Shaking his head, he reached over and drew Eomund's head to his shoulder in a cautious embrace. "Welcome home, Eomund."

"Thank you, Sire." Eomund pressed his face against the King and let the realization sink in. He was home. Estel was found, and there would be no punishment. His promise to Mal was half fulfilled. Now he would go to Rivendell.

To Be Continued

Note: Thank you Catherine Maria for excellent Beta work, as usual! Clairon and PFaz for encouragement, and all reviewers!