Disclaimer: I don't own the characters or settings used in this fic; they belong to JRR Tolkien and New Line Cinema, and we should all praise them with great praise for creating a wonderful world for us to play in.
Dedications: To Ithil-valon, for tireless beta-reading and endless brainstorming. You are wonderful, mellon-nin, and never forget it. I owe you a LOT. Also for Evendim, who first gave me hope that my writing in this fandom wasn't totally horrible, and gave me enormous delight with her own AU series. Thank you, and thank you for gracious permission to play in your playground. And last, but not least, to my darling AJ, without whom my writing would never have seen the light of day. You give me courage, hon, and I love you for it.
Author's Notes: THIS STORY IS SET IN AN ALTERNATE UNIVERSE. That means that some facts, features, and faces will differ slightly from canon. This story is the second in hopefully a long series, beginning with "Revolution and Retribution." You don't necessarily need to read that one to understand this, but it will help enormously.
To All My Dedicated Reviewers: Thank you so much for making "Revolution and Retribution" so much fun to write! I hope you will all enjoy this tale as well.
Chapter Four
Aragorn entered the Academy quickly, headed for the Infirmary. The sound of steel clearing leather only hastened his steps. "What happens here?" he thundered as he took in the tableau at Tanathel's door.
Boromir stood at the door, blade in hand, looking for all the world like he would attack the first person who tried to pass. Calas was looking as though he would try to get past the determined Hurin, but wasn't quite brave enough. Boromir spoke, keeping his eye on the Healer. "He wishes to remove her leg, my lord. Surely there is another way!"
"Gentlemen, this is not helping Tanathel. Both of you, cease this immediately." Aragorn held up a hand to forestall argument. "There will be no surgery done without need, nor will there be a need for bloodshed in this hall." His temper was already hot enough; it did not need anyone to fan the flames. He stepped past them into the room and took in Tanathel's flushed face, the wound that lay bare, the open windows, and the surgical instruments already laid out.
He settled himself next to her, one hand on her fevered brow, the other on her wrist. A bare moment later, he raised his eyes to the others. "I do not think the leg should be removed, Calas. Fetch me athelas and warm water, and perhaps we may yet save it."
Calas gave Aragorn the leaves from his kit and settled next to him. "Your pardon, sire, and yours as well, my lord," he began with a nod to Boromir. "I do not know why I never considered asking for the king's help. All know that you are a healer, sire, and you should have been consulted. But there are also other things you should know."
Aragorn worked on the wound, packing it tightly with the leaves once he had managed to drain more of the poison away. "What have you given her?" he asked quietly as he placed a few more leaves in some water and set it near the fire. The crisp, clean smell began to clear the air in the room and Tanathel stirred restlessly.
Boromir stood at the door, uncertainty written on his face. He wanted to come in, but he knew he was no healer. He didn't want to be in the way, either. So he waited, his eyes on the scene within, worrying for his friend.
"Willow bark for fever, thyme to help relax her… and a poultice of meadowsweet to ease the swelling." Calas went swiftly to the jars Boromir had provided while Aragorn continued to bathe Tanathel's face with some of the athelas water. "My lord, these are what she has been using, apparently on orders from someone in the Houses of Healing. But my lord, none with any formal training would offer these for a wound like this! These are merely formulas for the skin, they provide no medicinal value whatsoever. Never would they have prevented this infection. In fact, they may have actually contributed to it." He shook his head angrily. "The wound was not even tended properly; it should have been cauterized when she was brought in. This could have been avoided."
"Once the infection is drawn, we will cauterize," Aragorn replied evenly. "She is resting easier; the fever has broken." He rose and clasped Calas on the shoulder. "Watch over her for a time, until we can safely seal the wound. I will return shortly. Boromir, walk with me."
Boromir fought down an instant's trepidation and nodded, stepping into the hallway with his king, and wondering if all that anger were directed at him. It could very well be; drawing his sword on the First Healer was quite unacceptable.
They strode in step out to the courtyard, where Aragorn indicated Boromir should sit beside him on the bench. "I would like an explanation for your behavior, Boromir." The anger had been controlled; but it simmered just beneath the surface.
Boromir took the indicated seat, somewhat reassured. If his king had intended to dress him down, he would be at parade rest before the man. "Tanathel is a strong woman, a warrior born," he began slowly. "She could not have borne the loss of the limb. She was already in despair over the injury. To take the leg could very well have killed her. Calas would not hear my pleas, would not reconsider." He shrugged, the gesture eloquent in its simplicity. "I saw no other option. Forgive me."
Aragorn let just the barest hint of a smile show through. "I could very well have you disciplined most sternly, my friend. I trust you have considered this?"
Boromir stiffened. "If that is what it takes to put me back in my King's good graces, then so be it. I await your decision, sir."
Aragorn laughed softly. "Rest easy, Boromir. I have no intention of disciplining you. In truth, it was necessary." He frowned, his anger making a reappearance as he replayed the Council meeting. "And we may yet have need of every able warrior we possess. There are rumors of the Haradim assembling battalions along the border." He paused for a moment. "Your behavior was the least of my worries at the time. My anger was not directed toward you."
Boromir felt an overwhelming sense of relief, but his training allowed him to cover it quickly. "My apologies, also, for missing Council, Aragorn. From what I hear, it was quite a spectacle." He would not reveal his page as his source; but if Corvin had told him true, he wished he had been there. Aragorn in a fury was a sight to strike fear into even the stoutest heart.
"Be thankful you weren't. I was --- less than pleased with Cirin." He gave a snort of derision. "The man wishes me to provide a true Heir, not merely name your brother and be done with it. I will have no other in Arwen's place; he will have to adjust to that fact." Again his anger stirred, coiling like a snake readying itself to strike.
"Consider the source, my friend. Cirin is a complete fool. He has never wed, so he has no knowledge of the grief you feel. Nor do I, truthfully." Boromir wondered for a moment at his unaccustomed tact. "It is of no matter, my friend. Cirin is one man. And he does not sway the entire Council."
Aragorn nodded, his eyes hooded, his anger kept firmly in check. "Let us return to the lieutenant. It will take both of us to hold her down while the wound is sealed."