This is another long chapter-just a warning:)
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A light mist was falling as Aragorn rode with his escort across the rocky lands towards the Haradrim camp. The day was young, the gray land around them half-shrouded in the rain. All around was quiet, save for the fall of their horses' hooves against the hard ground. The morning had a contemplative air about it, which suited the King to perfection, for there was much to think about.
Two days had passed since the battle. Already those wounded who were fit to be moved had been sent on their way home, comfortably settled in some of the healers' wagons and guarded by those soldiers most fit for the duty.
Aragorn had also sent reports of the battle to Hurin and the council, to augment the more hasty messages delivered the day the fight had taken place. The soldiers also carried orders granting leave to all who wished to come and be with their wounded sons, brothers and fathers until they could be safely moved.
He felt sure in allowing the families to come, for the citadel had been fully secured. The regiments that had pursued the enemy out of the valley had all returned, declaring that the few Orcs who had not been killed were scattered to the far reaches of the realm. One day they would have to be hunted down and dealt with, but for now, they posed no threat to the security of the fortress.
He peered into the rain, contemplating the fate of the citadel when it was no longer necessary for them to remain there. The fortress was well-built and intact; it would serve as a suitable guardian of their southern borders, once the evil remnants of its former occupant had been thoroughly purged from its walls. Yet Aragorn was certain he could never enter the ancient citadel, and not be overcome with grief at what had happened there.
No matter how occupied Aragorn had been in the aftermath of the battle, Faramir had rarely left his thoughts. The sight of the terrible marks of torture upon Faramir's body haunted him, and the arduous healing had drained him to the point where he still felt wearied by it two days later.
Eowyn had assured him that Faramir was sleeping soundly, and he had seen for himself that the Steward was mending well. Aragorn remained troubled, however, for he knew there were some wounds his skills could not close, injuries of the mind and heart left behind by long days of unimaginable pain and darkness. Faramir might yet face a need for restoration long after the last of his scars had faded away.
But for now, Faramir slept peacefully in the fortress' bed-chamber, Eowyn and Imrahil ever at his side. For Aragorn, there was a new concern, for he was riding now to the Haradrim camp in answer to a summons from Prince Jadim.
He was drawing near to the encampment. Through the hazy rain he could see the Haradrim tents scattered before him, their fires glowing fitfully in the damp air. Unlike the white tents of the West, the homes of the Southrons were of many colors, their red, blue and yellow walls providing a unique contrast to the gray landscape.
As Aragorn rode to the outskirts, he noted a further contrast to the camps of the West even more striking than the colorful tents. There were few Haradrim soldiers to be seen, unlike the bustling camps across the plains. Of the two hundred warriors who had come to their aid, he could see no more than fifty manning the camp today. Sorrow flowed through his soul at the difficult loss, as well as somber admiration at their bravery for daring to ride in such small numbers against a foe so mighty.
A lone sentry saw them coming. As Aragorn watched, the man lifted a small horn to his lips and blew a note as they approached. By the time their party arrived at the edge of the camp, Jadim was walking towards him through the haze.
Despite two day's rest, Jadim appeared quite worn, his face still bruised and scarred from his battle with Karil. His steps were slow and careful, and he was favoring his right leg. There was no sign of ceremony in the flowing dark shirt and loose-fitting leggings he wore, his thick black hair hanging loose about his shoulders, yet he still exuded a formal air as he offered a smooth bow to the party.
"Good day, King of Gondor," Jadim said, his tone respectful but weary enough for Aragorn to notice it. "Many thanks for answering my summons."
Aragorn dismounted and gave him a salute in return. "Greetings to you, Prince of the Seventh Tribe," he replied. "I was most grateful for your invitation, as my heart has been anxious on behalf of your noble father. How is he?"
Jadim sighed, his expression serious. "Far from well, but it is said he will recover," was the answer. "The wound has greatly tried him, and it will be many days before he will be able to return to our tribe. But come; it has been his desire to see you as well, and you shall soon have the ability to judge his state for yourself."
All of the escort had dismounted now, and Jadim led them through the camp towards a large red tent on the far edge.
They passed many Haradrim soldiers on the way, resting beside their tents, eating, or tending their armor and weapons. All possessed minor wounds of some type; it appeared that none of the Haradrim soldiers had escaped the battle unhurt. Aragorn discerned that there were several different tribes present, not only the men of Adir's clan. They all stood and paid homage to him as they walked by, and he nodded in acknowledgement, encouraged that the wish for peace was not confined to the Seventh tribe alone.
Adir's tent appeared no more opulent than those of his men, the only mark denoting his status being an intricately woven and decorated symbol mounted on a post near the entrance. Jadim paused before the symbol, bowed his head to it slightly, then proceeded inside, with Aragorn following close behind.
The red canvas of the tent made it dark inside, and there were six small fires burning upon tall metal stanchions for illumination. In this golden light, Aragorn saw a large space, sparsely furnished with a few plain rugs covering the dusty ground and a stand bearing Adir's bloodied armor in one corner. A long, low couch-like bed sat at the far end of the room, upon which reclined the Chieftain of the Seventh Tribe himself.
In the uncertain light, Aragorn saw Adir lift his head slightly as Jadim approached and knelt beside the bed. His chest and shoulder had been tightly bandaged, and there were several men hovering around him whose intently scrutinous air told Aragorn that they were his personal healers.
Near the end of the bed stood four Haradrim men of varying age, clad in rich garments. Like all the Southrons in the camp, they bore the marks of battle. They nodded to Aragorn as he entered but made no other motion, apparently content to stand and watch him closely.
Jadim stood and beckoned him forward to the bed. As Aragorn came near, he discerned the elderly Chieftain lying still against the mound of pillows that supported his back, his long gray hair unbound and flowing, his face pale against the plain black robes which were his only covering. Despite his apparent weakness, Adir's eyes were open and bright as they watched him. As Aragorn knelt by his side, the Chieftain's face broke into a wide smile.
"How kind of you to honor my request, Your Majesty!" Adir murmured in a faint but glad voice. "How fare you this gray morning?"
Aragorn smiled as he bent near, heartened by the strength yet glowing in Adir's eyes. "I am well," he replied, "and pleased to answer your call, after all that you and your brave warriors have done for us. It gives me joy to see that you are recovering so quickly."
"Ah," muttered Adir, nodding slightly at the healers who were hovering nearby. "That is due to the talents of my healers there, who as usual have found some miracle to keep me breathing a while longer. I am only thankful that Karil's aim was not as true as it might have been."
The King's heart tightened at the evil name, and he gazed intently at Adir, unsure how much the Chieftain remembered of his son's violent death.
The other man appeared to notice this, for he reached out and weakly grasped Aragorn's arm.
"Do not sorrow on my behalf, my friend," urged Adir quietly, a somber light gleaming in his eyes. "My son was lost to me long ago, and his foul deeds brought Karil to the proper end."
Aragorn regarded him sadly. "We could not find his body when the battle was concluded," he stated. "Whether it was destroyed by the Orcs, or lost among them in the burial fires, I do not know."
Adir sighed. "Had he lived his days in virtue, he would have been given given a Prince's burial in his ancestral land. Instead, his spirit shall be cursed to wander homeless, until he comes to repent of his wickedness. That is what I shall grieve for, King Elessar; that he sought glory in this life through evil, heedless of the price his soul would pay for it."
Aragorn could think of nothing to say, wondering only if Adir's heart was broken more than he would tell. Before he could craft a response, the Chieftain spoke again, tightening his light grasp on the King's arm.
"Let us speak no more of Karil," he said, his voice lifting a little. "I rejoiced to hear that Lord Faramir was found alive. How is he this day? Will he live?"
"He will," Aragorn replied, his tone turning hopeful. "His injuries were severe, and it will be a long time before his full strength returns to him. But he is resting now, and his wife and kin are at his side. I hope to have my Steward returned to his office by the coming of winter, if all goes well."
Adir smiled widely at his words. "That is most welcome news," he said, settling back on the pillows. "You must know, King Elessar, that I intend to make another proposal of peace to your Council, and it is my dearest hope that Lord Faramir be there to honor us with his presence. Your realm is fortunate to have so strong and loyal a Steward."
Aragorn nodded. "It is a blessing I have been grateful for every day of my reign," he declared. "Faramir will be touched by your remembrance of him, I am sure, and would insist on meeting you when next you come to Gondor. We could not have taken the fortress and found him alive without your brave intervention, and you may be certain that we will not forget it."
Adir's head remained motionless upon the pillow, but he directed his eyes to Jadim, who knelt at the far end of the bed. "It is Jadim who deserves your gratitude far more than I, my Lord," he said proudly. "It was his task to ride to Harad and find the men we needed to send against Karil."
The King gave him a thankful smile, and inclined his head to the young Southron.
A grin of embarrassment at the attention struggled onto Jadim's lips. "It was not as difficult as it seems," he said modestly. "There were tribes camped along the northern borders who desired peace as we did, but were unsure of how Gondor would greet us. It was father's plan for me to ride to them, and persuade them of the matter so that they would join us."
Adir grinned at Aragorn, a small gleam of mischief in his eyes. "I knew you could not allow us to join your army under the banner of Gondor," he explained, "but I saw little harm in sending ourselves in beneath our tribal flags, fighting on your side for our own behalf. Knowing the vastness of Karil's forces, I did not think you would refuse the aid."
"I do not think there is any among us who would forswear your intervention," Aragorn assured him. "Yet, how were you able to find the fortress? For I had given you no notion of its location when last we spoke."
Adir's expression turned grim, and he looked away, his eyes becoming full of sorrow. "You mentioned a fortress in the south of Mordor," he said softly. "After a time I recalled a citadel that we had passed when I took Karil to be sworn to the service of the Dark Lord. It was a bastion of Sauron then, and Karil thought it magnificent. I had long forgotten the incident, yet when you described the stronghold that your men had found, it stirred the memory within me. I knew that it must have been the same."
"There is a series of caves and passes that lead to the fortress through the Southern range of the mountains," Jadim added. "We sent our forces through there, killing all the Orcs who stood in our way. By good fortune, we arrived at the proper time."
Adir's face brightened as he lifted a hand a few inches off the bed to indicate the four men standing at his feet. "These are the Chiefs of the tribes who joined us that day," he said. "Jadim spoke to them of your noble nature and fair mind, and the kindness of your brave Steward. They believed as we did that it would be an honor to ally with such men, and cast their lot alongside mine with the West."
The four Haradrim chieftains stepped forward and bowed to Aragorn. He stood and touched his brow and heart in response, noticing how they differed in age; one was older than Adir, while another seemed to have attained no more than seventeen years. All bore the same air of resolve, however, and the King sensed that the future peace delegation to Gondor would likely be quite large indeed.
"You all have my deepest thanks, and of our armies as well," Aragorn said to them. "Without you, the day might not have been ours."
"It was no hard decision when we heard of your deeds on our behalf, King of Gondor," said the oldest of the group. "You, and Lord Faramir, have proven yourselves to be men of valor and friends of Harad. We have rejected all vows to Sauron, and are willing to place ourselves beneath your banner, when the proper time has been decided to do so."
"You shall be welcomed to our realm as guests of high esteem, once your deeds on the field are made known," vowed the King. "Many a warrior of the West owes his life to you."
The Haradrim chiefs seemed pleased by this, and bowed in gratitude.
Adir sighed as he looked at Aragorn. "Many of our men owe their lives to the bravery of your soldiers as well," he said. "But as I am sure you have noticed, there are very few of us left now. The War took many of our sons, and the past battle more still. It soothes my spirit to know that Gondor will receive us, for I fear we shall need her aid to restore our shattered people."
The King knelt beside him once more, his expression compassionate and earnest. "I swear to do all in my power to aid you," he said, "and the Council will be more receptive than before as well, I have no doubt. But I see that you are wearying, and should rest. I have brought some medicines and athelas with me to assist in your comfort, if you will permit it."
The older man gave him a thankful smile. "That is most kind of you, my friend," he said. "I have also instructed my healers to prepare salves and elixirs for you to take to Lord Faramir. They have been used in Harad for generations to ease pain and bring rest, and it is my hope that they will bring comfort to him."
Adir waved a hand, and the eldest of the healers brought forth a tray laden with several jars and containers. He placed it on a table near to Aragorn, and with a decorous bow handed the King a scroll.
"This is a list of all that each container holds, and how it is to be used, written in your tongue," he said. "May it aid your Steward, as he and you have striven to aid us."
Aragorn stood and accepted the scroll with a deep nod. "It is a generous gift, and much appreciated, my friends," he said, before turning his gaze to Adir. "I shall bear it to him at once. I leave you with a wish for a safe and peaceful journey home, Chief Adir. When you are prepared, send word to me, and we shall speak of peace once more."
The Haradrim chieftain smiled at him, his golden eyes gleaming with kind esteem. "You may rely upon that, King of Gondor," he said, and touched his brow and heart in a gesture of blessing. "Fare well!"
Aragorn returned the motion in kind, and was escorted from the tent by Jadim.
"My army shall be at the fortress for some time to come," said Aragorn to Jadim as he and his men walked to their horses. "If your men are in need of anything, you have only to send to us."
Jadim nodded to him. "That is generous, King Elessar," he replied, "but we do not plan to stay in this land much longer. As soon as my father can bear the journey, we shall return to the South. There is much that must be done."
They had reached the edge of the camp, and the King's men began climbing into their saddles.
"I hope to remain until Lord Faramir is able to travel home," Aragorn remarked to Jadim as he prepared to mount. "It will lift his heart to know that Adir will survive his wound."
A slight smile touched Jadim's lips. "My father's strength has often surprised many men, myself included," he confessed. "I fear he will require it in the days to come. Three more tribes have joined us, yet there are others who prefer to live in continuing hatred of your people."
Aragorn climbed gracefully into his saddle and picked up his reins, his expression somber.
"It will be so in Gondor as well," he noted, looking down at Jadim. "We have more battles before us, my friend."
"So it would appear," observed the Southron as he studied Aragorn closely. He tilted his head in an appraising manner. "When we first met, King Elessar, I was not as certain as my father that peace with Gondor was possible, or wise."
Aragorn peered at him expectantly. "And what is your feeling now, Prince of Harad?"
Jadim smiled. "Only the gods know what the future holds," he replied, "but it does not seem so unlikely or foolish as before." He bowed, bestowing on Aragorn the same blessing as Adir had done. "May your road be free of trouble, until we meet again."
The King nodded as he mirrored the gesture. "I ask the same for you, my friend, until that day," he replied.
The two men
exchanged one final glance of respect and good feeling; then Aragorn
turned his horse to the West and led his men from the encampment.
His heart was light as they rode, for despite the obstacles that
still lay before them, he had greater hope that unity between Harad
and Gondor would one day be won. Adir and the four new tribes would
stand firm, and when Faramir was fully healed, he would lend his aid
as well. The strength of their resolve would carry them through
whatever trials lay in store, with the certainty that peace would be
the final reward for their pains.
Overhead, the clouds parted slightly, causing a swath of sunshine to flow down through the mist covering the gray land. The fog around them began to glow with the light, and the King and his escort rode back to the citadel through shimmering clouds of gold.
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More days passed, and slowly the rhythm of life around the fortress resolved itself from chaos into order.
Four days after the battle, with the area fully secured and the fighting declared done, those soldiers who had received the lightest wounds returned to their lands, escorted by warriors whose services were no longer needed in Mordor. Those going back to Dol Amroth, Minas Tirith and Edoras also bore great quantities of letters home to loved ones from those remaining behind, as well as official accounts of the battle to be delivered to those who were tending the seats of power.
For the soldiers still in Mordor, there was much to do. Cleansing the battlefield of debris was an ongoing task, and the stream of fallen comrades who were in need of removal, preparation, and transportation to be entombed in their homelands was constant. There were many wounded yet to care for as well, for whom food and water was an everpresent concern.
Soon more of the allies departed. Most of the Swan Knights began their march back to Dol Amroth, even as the Rohirrim began their ride North to the Mark. The Haradrim completely decamped on the fourth day, dispatching a message to Aragorn informing him that Adir was now strong enough to travel, and ending with a promise that they would soon meet again.
The Elves and Dwarves tarried a while longer. Legolas and his warriors patroled the outer reaches of the valley, ensuring that all evil had truly fled. The numerous caves and hiding-places among the rocks were the domain of Gimli and the army of Dwarves, who soon ascertained that all of the secret places used by the Orcs had been flushed out.
There was no soul in Mordor more occupied than Aragorn, who was burdened with many duties now that the fighting was done. There were missives to draft to Hurin and the Council, reports to be discussed with his military leaders, long tours of the fortress and its grounds to judge its usefulness. More importantly to his heart, there were letters to Arwen to be written, and Faramir's welfare continued to be among his chief cares.
The healers soon became well-used to seeing the King enter the Steward's room at all hours of the day to learn how his friend was faring. He had much familiar company there, for Imrahil and Eomer had resolved to stay until Faramir could return home, and were often at his bedside when Aragorn appeared. Gimli and Legolas frequently greeted him as well; more than once the King had come upon them in the corner of the room, quietly debating the effectiveness of various Elven and Dwarvish treaments that might speed the Steward's recovery.
One figure never left the room. Eowyn was a constant at her husband's side, bathing his brow, cleansing his wounds, tending his bandages, and seeing to his every possible comfort. Only when weariness caused her to sway on her feet would she consent to rest, and the following dawn would find her with him again, prepared to do all she was able for his sake.
Faramir spent most of the days following the battle in a heavy slumber wrought by exhaustion and the need for unbroken rest. At times he would awaken enough to take some broth and water and tend to the needs of his body, but his gaze was half-lidded and distant, as if he was still reluctant to draw himself fully from the realm of dreams. He spoke but little; a few words of love to his wife, or a reassuring whisper to his uncle, and then his eyes would close once more.
Every day Faramir would be unclad and tenderly bathed. During these times, Aragorn paid close attention to Faramir's wounds, making certain they did not turn foul. Upon each examination, all proved to be well, and there was nothing else for Aragorn, Eowyn and the healers to do but wait and keep watch.
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The sixth morning following the battle found Aragorn in the tower room with some of his commanders, Eomer, Legolas, and Gimli. Once Karil's war chamber, it was now in a state of disarray, with every map and scroll owned by the slain Prince pulled from its resting place and laid open for the King's inspection. He was now persuing a large map of Mordor unrolled upon the low table before him, his keen eyes searching for any information that might prove useful to the West.
"He seems to have made note of the hiding places for every minion of Sauron who escaped their master's fall," noted Aragorn as he bent over the map, the fingertips of one hand trailing along the surface of the parchment.
Eomer was rubbing his chin and scowling. "Either he found Orcs for his army there, or knew where they lurked still and meant to send for them," he suggested. "Either way, we should send men to seek these places out."
"Most of the rascals seem to be in the mountains," observed Gimli as he puffed on his pipe and studied the drawing. "Say the word, Aragorn, and the Dwarves will go in and make fast work of them. Such ground is hospitable to our kind."
"The Elves would also consent to go," offered Legolas as he stood next to the King, his arms folded as he looked over Aragorn's shoulder, "The enemy would not know our presence until it was too late for them. And besides," he added with a smile, "someone must accompany the Dwarves to make certain they do not get lost."
Gimli gave him a good-natured frown. "Mountains are the second home of any Dwarf, lad," he said dismissively. "We do not need trees to guide us, unlike /some/ folk."
"Take heart, gentlemen, I am certain there will be enough Orcs for all," said Aragorn with a dry smile as he eyed them both.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps sounded in the hallway, and all eyes turned to the entry to see Imrahil hurry in. The Prince's clothes were disheveled, his long brown hair wind-blown from his haste.
Aragorn straightened at once, alarmed, for Imrahil was known to have spent every free moment at Faramir's bedside. His concern was dispelled immediately, however, for as soon as Imrahil halted his steps, the Prince looked upon those gathered with a breathless but jubilant expression.
"My Lord, Eowyn bids you come to Faramir's chamber at once," he announced, turning his gaze to Aragorn. "It seems my nephew has fully awakened at last, and desires to speak with you."
The map was forgotten at once. Aragorn gave his commanders a hasty bow, and then walked quickly from the room on Imrahil's heels, with Legolas, Gimli and Eomer close behind.
"Faramir was still sleeping when I arrived in the chamber this morning," Imrahil explained as to Aragorn as they strode to the stairs and began to descend them. "Eowyn was bathing his brow when he opened his eyes, and we could both see that they were clear."
"What has he said?" asked Aragorn, each step more hurried than the last.
Imrahil smiled a little as they reached the bottom of the stairs and began their journey to the bedchamber. "He bade my niece good morning," he said, "and asked how long he had been sleeping. His words are not many, or strongly spoken, but I have no doubt that his is more fully with us than in days past. He then asked for you, so that he might hear all that has happened."
"Thus he shall," was Aragorn's firm reply, "for his strength played no small part in our victory."
They entered the room, which was bright now with the morning sunlight streaming in through the windows. Faramir lay in the bed, with Eowyn kneeling beside him holding his hand, a wide smile of joy upon her fair face.
She bowed her head in greeting as Aragorn hastened around the bed. He smiled in return and motioned to her to remain where she was, not wishing to displace her for the world, before turning his attention completely to her husband.
Faramir was very pale yet, his skin having not much more color than the linen bandages that wound over nearly every inch of his chest, arms and legs. The deep bruises on what little flesh was visible, and the dark circles beneath his eyes, were all still shockingly apparent. Yet as Aragorn knelt beside the bed to better observe his friend, he saw that Faramir's eyes were open and gazing at him, slightly clouded with weariness but otherwise far more aware than at any time during the past six days.
As he laid his eyes upon the King, a drowsy smile touched Faramir's lips.
"Good day, Sire," he murmured. As Imrahil had said, the words were slow and faint, but they were spoken in a clear, firm manner.
The King smiled and laid his hand over Faramir's. "A good day it may surely be called, when I am greeted by your waking gaze, my friend," he said in a quiet, measured tone so that Faramir would be certain to hear all of it. "How do you fare?"
In reply, Faramir closed his eyes for a moment, slowly licked his lips, and swallowed. "I feel still in something of a fog," he confessed, before opening his eyes once more and breathing a long sigh, "but it will pass. Has it truly been six days?"
Aragorn nodded.
"Mm," was Faramir's wondering response as he blinked again, his eyes turing to the ceiling for a moment. "It felt far longer...and shorter as well."
The King smiled and gently grasped his hand. "It has felt far longer to us also," he remarked, nodding to the others who stood watching from the foot of the bed. "You have been dearly missed."
Faramir's smile faltered slightly. "It was often hard to hope, my Lord," he murmured, his blue eyes turning dark with troubled memories, "but I knew you would find me if it were possible."
Aragorn lightly stroked Faramir's hand, seeking to soothe away the disturbing thoughts. "Think not on those times," he urged softly, shaking his head. "You are safe, and free; I shall do all in my power to heal you, and together we shall guide Gondor to the bright future our efforts have secured for her."
The Steward's smile returned. "I should like nothing better, Sire," he muttered. He lay still for a moment, thinking, then looked again at the King, his eyes widening a little. "The battle...what happened? I wish to know it all."
"And so you shall," promised Aragorn as he stood. "Your bandages must be removed and refreshed. I shall do my best to answer your curiosity as this is done, if that is agreeable to you."
Faramir did not hesitate. "It is, my Lord," he answered.
Hot water and fresh bandages were swiftly fetched as Eowyn and the healers prepared to tend to Faramir. Aragorn quickly set some fresh sprigs of athelas to steeping, grateful that Faramir had consented to his request. The recounting of recent events would be an effective distraction for Faramir from the more disagreeable aspects of his examination.
"Now," said Aragorn in a calming tone as he gently began to remove the long bandage for Faramir's right arm, "where would you like me to begin?"
Faramir sat in thought for a moment, seeming not to notice as the King carefully unwound the long strip of linen. Eowyn had settled herself on the bed beside her husband, holding his hand as his examination began.
"I know all who are dear to me are safe," he finally said softly, his thankful gaze sweeping those who stood nearby watching, "and Henvain as well, from what I recall."
Aragorn gave a nod as he discarded the soiled wrapping and closely examined the wounds on Faramir's arm. They seemed to be healing well, although he knew the horrified reaction of his heart at the sight of them would never subside. "Lieutenant Henvain has returned to Minas Tirith with the last train of healers' wagons, as one of their escorts," he replied. "A very brave young fellow, to be sure."
"Yes," was Faramir's faint response, his eyes becoming distant again as he pondered his next question. After a moment, he looked up at the King. "Karil?"
"He was slain during the battle," answered the King, a hard gleam coming into his eyes that lay at distinct variance with the tenderness of his ministrations. "Adir and the Haradrim fought beside us; Karil sought to take his father's life, and through this act brought about his own end."
Faramir's eyes widened. "Adir was here, with his men?" he murmured. "Then - was the treaty signed?"
Silence fell as Aragorn began to bathe his Steward's arm.
"Alas, that has not yet been achieved," said the King, giving Faramir a regretful glance.
Disappointment flickered across Faramir's face, and he sighed, his head sinking into the pillow as he watched the King.
"I imagine Lord Tuornen and his followers had a hand in that," muttered the Steward.
"That was so, but do not let them concern you, my friend," said Aragorn as he went about his task. "Adir and the Haradrim came to our assistance in spite of this, inspired by your kindness to them. Once Gondor hears of the Haradrim's deeds upon the field, their foes in the Council will have a more difficult time painting them as the enemy."
"Was Adir injured?" asked Faramir anxiously. "Is he here? I should very much like to speak with him again."
Aragorn sat beside the bed and reached behind him for a jar from a nearby table. "He was wounded, but survived; he and his men have returned to Harad, but I am certain we shall hear from them soon." He turned back to Faramir, an admiring smile on his face. "Four more tribes rode with him to our aid. They wish to ask for peace as well, persuaded mostly by tales of your nobility and kindness to them."
The other man blinked, surprise plain in his pale face. "Four!" Faramir murmured, a smile of pleased bewilderment crossing his lips. "Remarkable-though I am sure the credit cannot be mine alone."
"I heard the words from the Chieftains themselves," the King assured him as he opened the jar, regarding Faramir warmly. "It is but an example of why I thank the Valar each day that I have so exceptional a man as you as my Steward."
Faramir smiled gratefully at the praise before quietly saying, "I do all for you and Gondor, my Lord. To have five tribes of Haradrim seeking peace with us is more than I ever dared hope for."
"That is a concern for another day," cautioned Aragorn as he set the lid of the container aside. "Adir requested that I convey his kindest regards to you, and sent along some medicines from his land that appear to be most effective, such as this salve."
"Hm," was Faramir's answer as he watched the King carefully smooth the pale-colored cream over his arm. "That was most kind of him. How odd it is that such nobility of spirit found no reflection in his youngest son."
Aragorn frowned a little as he finished applying the salve. "There is no cause to speak of Karil now," he offered. "He has paid for his crimes against you and Gondor, and that is all that need be said."
He closed the jar, set it aside, and began to wrap Faramir's arm in fresh bandages.
Faramir gazed out of the window, his expression pensive. "I have no sorrow for Karil, my Lord," he muttered, his eyes turning hard for a moment. "His fate was justly earned. I regret only that he allowed Sauron's evil to set him against those he once loved."
After a few more moments of contemplation, Faramir shook his head slightly as if to dispel any further thoughts of Karil and looked up at Eowyn and the King. "When may I return home, Sire?"
Aragorn carefully secured the new bandage. "Your wounds are healing well," he replied, "and there are ways to fade the scars and other marks that may be left behind. In a week, I am hopeful, you may be strong enough to endure the journey." He glanced down at Faramir with a smile. "I will do all in my power to make it soon, my friend, and when the time comes we shall return to Gondor together."
Faramir's countenance brightened considerably at this thought.
The rest of the morning passed in a like manner. Aragorn carefully bathed and tended to all of Faramir's wounds with the aid of Eowyn and the healers, describing the events that occurred during Faramir's absence and the battle as he did so.
From time to time Faramir would become quiet and sleepy, wearied by the treatment. Then the talk would cease as he drowsed, his head cradled on Eowyn's shoulder while Aragorn continued his work. After a short time he would awaken, refreshed enough to begin the questioning anew.
By the time the sun had climbed to noon, Faramir had been fully treated for the day. While Aragorn and the healers cleared the room, Faramir lay firmly nestled in the bed once more, Eowyn at his shoulder.
"Some broth and bread shall be sent up for your nourishment," said Aragorn to his patient as he wiped his hands on a cloth. "I shall return this evening to see you, but do not hesitate to summon me if you are in any need."
Faramir smiled at him. "Thank you, my Lord," he murmured. "I shall never forget your kindness."
The King came to his side and laid a hand gently on his shoulders, looking into his eyes.
"Regain your health, and come to sit at my side in the Great Hall once more," he urged in a genial tone. "That is all the payment I would ask of you, my friend."
Faramir's smile widened slightly. "Then I shall do my duty, Sire," he vowed, before turning his gaze to the friends and kin standing nearby. "I am deeply indebted to you all. The memory of your love sustained me through my darkest hours."
Imrahil came forward to stand beside Aragorn. "Morgoth himself could not have kept us from coming to you, nephew," he said tenderly. "Now we must give thanks to the Valar that we are united once more, and turn our eyes to the brighter days ahead."
"And to that end, we shall leave you to quiet and rest," Aragorn said in an amiable but firm tone that allowed no argument.
Faramir appeared somewhat disappointed, despite the fact that he was clearly still fatigued. "There is so much to be done," he sighed.
"We'll see to all that for now, lad," Gimli assured him. "I am sure there will be plenty left for you when you're back on your feet."
The young Steward considered this, one corner of his mouth turning up in a wry smile. "No doubt!"
Farewells were spoken, and the room slowly emptied of all save the healers, Eowyn, and Imrahil. Aragorn was the last to leave, the Prince of Dol Amroth by his side as he walked to the door.
"I shall be in the upper chambers," said the King to Imrahil in a quiet tone as he glanced back at Faramir.
Imrahil's mouth pulled into a smile. "I shall send word at once if you are needed, Sire," he replied, anticipating his monarch's request, "yet I feel certain such an arrangement will be unnecessary. There is a strong gleam in his eye that I have seen before. My nephew means to recover, and return to his home and duty. Now that the veil of utter weariness has lifted, he shall strive to that end, until the strength of his body matches that of his will."
The King appeared pleased, and laid a hand on Imrahil's shoulder. "Knowing the remarkable feats my Steward is capable of, I would not find such an event surprising," he stated. "I shall leave him to your care, then, until this evening. And pray accept my thanks for summoning me; attending to the business of our kingdom's future is a far more pleasant task now, knowing that Faramir will indeed be a full partner in it."
The Prince smiled at this. With a final nod to each other, they parted, each going to his duty with a truly light heart for the first time in many a tiresome day.
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The following days seemed to pass swiftly, to everyone except Faramir.
The Steward slowly regained his strength, and with it an impatience to lend what aid he could to the enormous task at hand. At first, he was content to follow Aragorn's advice to remain quietly in bed, but as his reason fully shook itself of the last of its shadows, he felt an increasing desire to be about his duty.
Soon, in addition to his healing visits, Aragorn found himself carrying maps and scrolls to Faramir's chamber so that he and his Steward might discuss them together. These sessions rarely lasted long, although Faramir appeared to be deeply engrossed in whatever information he could glean. At the first sign of a drooping eyelid or hint of a yawn, the maps and scrolls would be whisked away, and Faramir received kindly orders from his King to rest until the next day.
These directives were always met with good-natured reluctance, but Faramir complied without fail. He had suffered much to survive to this day, and he was unwilling to lose the chance to oversee Gondor's future simply for the sake of soothing his disappointment.
Yet in a way, Faramir found the times of rest trying as well. While his body healed, there were moments when his mind did not seem as willing to believe that he was truly free. For untold days he had lived in pain and darkness, until he was almost accustomed to it. It seemed strange, in a way, to now feel warmth and sunlight, and have all the food and water he desired, and pleasant company with which to pass his hours rather than Orcs. It took a few days for his reason to balance back into place, for him to lose the dire sensation of constant dread.
Night brought rest and healing, but there were also dreams, visions wrought of feelings and indistinct forms filled with pain and terror. Chains and ropes would bind him again; searing pain wore away his spirit inch by inch, despite his struggles against it; an indescribable sensation of hopelessness and isolation bore down on his heart, mere inches away from crushing it completely.
Then, at the last instant, he would awake.
When he first awoke from slumber, he would forget, for a moment, where he was. For an agonizing instant he imagined himself still trapped, alone and without hope, waiting to die.
Then he would draw farther awake, and his eyes would open. Gradually his fog-shrouded mind would realize that it was the moonlit bedchamber surrounding him, not his lightless, filthy cell. He would feel someone stir next to him, and sense the welcome warmth of Eowyn pressed close to his side.
As all of this became known to him, Faramir would draw some deep breaths to ease his pounding heart, turn his face to the night breeze to fan the sweat from his face, and draw Eowyn as close as he could to him without waking her. Then, slowly, he would fall asleep once more, hoping that the day would come when the horrors of his ordeal would truly be left behind him.
He spoke of these matters to no one, thinking only worthy of mention if it became serious enough to warrant the attention of others. Aragorn had enough burdens, and they were, after all, only dreams.
A week went by, and the dark dreams became less frequent. A more rested feeling settled over him as his treatment continued, and it was not long before he sensed the strength beginning to return to his limbs.
This was attributable in no small part to Eowyn, who was his constant companion and light. Deprived of her touch for so long, and utterly convinced for a time that he would never see her again, Faramir found himself lost in bliss at the mere sight of her. They spoke often and tenderly, but he found his greatest joy in simply watching her, drinking in her beauty as if it were his only source of life.
As his strength grew, Faramir was permitted outside for short periods to enjoy the healing benefits of open air and sunlight. He could not yet walk, but there were many strong arms willing to bear him hence. The upper level of the fortress, now cleansed of the stains of battle, proved the best place for Faramir to take his ease. He spent many refreshing hours there, gazing at the plains below, remembering them as they stood filled with Karil's foul legions and marveling that that darkness had truly been swept away.
Beneath her care, he soon improved, and ten days after the morning of Faramir's awakening, the King declared him fit enough for the journey home. The fortress had been fully secured as a base from which Gondor would patrol its southern borders, and the time had come for the King and his Steward to return to Minas Tirith.
Word was sent forth, and the preparations made. Faramir slept little that night, his thoughts moving between eager anticipation of beholding his beloved City once more, and disbelief that he would at last be able to do so. How often he had languished in his cell, yearning for the barest glimpse of home before the pain and exhaustion took his life! It seemed almost unthinkable that his desire would soon be granted.
A canvas-covered wagon was fitted for his transport, its floor lined with a down-stuffed mattress. The remaining warriors gathered to see Faramir off, and met him with a salute as he was borne from the fortress. This he accepted in a humble, if somewhat embarrassed, manner, and he seemed only comfortable with the traveling arrangements after being assured that all of the seriously wounded men being taken home that day would be made as comfortable as himself.
After Eowyn, Aragorn, and the healers saw that Faramir and the other wounded men were secured, the King moved to the head of the formation along with Eomer, and the long procession began its journey.
They moved slowly, to ease the strain on the injured men as much a possible. For Faramir, the ride could never have gone fast enough, yet he filled the hours as best he could. Still wearied, he spent a good portion of the time asleep, firmly burrowed into the soft mattress and thick pillows, with Eowyn watching him closely. His waking hours were spent studying the maps and scrolls from the fortress, but more often he simply lay with his wife in his arms, watching with her as the landscape rolled by and counting the miles as they drew closer to home. Beside the wagon rode Imrahil and his sons, ready to give their aid at the slightest need.
At night, the caravan would stop and the wounded who wished it would be allowed to sleep beneath the stars. It was then that Faramir would ask anxiously after the wounded men, and he, Imrahil, Aragorn and Eomer would discuss the day's progress and other matters, until the Steward could stay awake no longer. During this time, Legolas and the unsleeping Elves patrolled the perimeters of the camp, watching for any sign of mischief.
As they slowly made their way to Gondor, Faramir felt his heart grow lighter, as if the very nearness quickened the return of strength to his limbs. On the third day of traveling, they passed Ithilien's border, and Faramir had never felt so uplifted as the moment when he was once more enveloped by the fragrance of his beloved land. As they rode past the wild trees and flowers, he gazed at the sunlit beauty transfixed. The Blessed Lands, he felt sure, could never be half so beautiful.
Soon the procession made the turn on the road for Minas Tirith. Now Faramir grew more restless despite Eowyn's gentle admonishments, anxious to lay eyes upon the home he once felt certain he would never see again.
Eowyn understood. Carefully she moved to the front of the covered wagon-bed and peered between the canvas curtains that separated them from the driver's seat of the conveyance. A smile lit her face, and she drew the panels aside as far as they would go.
The White City rose before them, some distance away still but growing nearer with every moment. Its gleaming walls were afire with the rays of the late afternoon sun, causing it to glow golden-white against the mountains.
Faramir drew himself up, the awesome wonder at the sight washing away any sensation of pain or weakness that might have hindered him. His eyes swept over level, landing at last on the Tower of Ecthelion as it blazed from the summit, guiding him home. He stared, taking in the brilliant sight until it began to blur through his tears.
An overpowering love for his land and his people now surged through his soul, mingled with infinite gratitude that he had been spared to return to them. All he had suffered had been for their welfare, and here was his reward, to see his City whole and unharmed by Karil's evil, her people safe.
The Great Gate swung open its doors to receive him, and as they rode through the ancient portal into Minas Tirith, Faramir could do nothing but bury himself in his wife's soft arms, and weep for joy.
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"A fine situation this has turned into, eh, my friend?"
Lord Tuornen's voice was thick with disappointment as he lifted his wine glass to his lips and cast a sullen glance at Lord Beleg, who sat across from him at the small streetside dining table they were sharing. Behind them, the inhabitants of one of Minas Tirith's finest eating establishments were enjoying the final meal of a late summer day; before them, the men and women of Minas Tirith bustled by upon the wide stone-lined streets, hurrying about through the soft night air.
A few stars were shimmering into view in the twilight sky overhead; neither man noticed.
As Lord Beleg seemed unwilling to offer much of a reply, content instead to sit staring thoughtfully into the street with his chin in his hand, Lord Tuornen shook his white-haired head and clucked his tongue angrily, apparently willing to carry on the entire conversation by himself.
"Imagine the King having the gall to spend most of today's Council session regaling us all about those cursed Haradrim," he said in an outraged tone, the wine still untouched in his hands. "Our first true convening in two months, and the entire session wasted! As if we haven't heard enough about those devils to suffice for a lifetime, of late."
As he took a drink, he saw Beleg eye him rather hesitantly, but his comrade said nothing.
Tuornen scowled as he set the glass down. "It strikes me as in very poor taste to sing the praises of those fiends, and speak of efforts for a new alliance, after what they did to Lord Faramir," he observed. "He can't have forgotten already, they only returned to the City a week ago!"
Beleg cleared his throat. "As I recall," his dark-haired friend said quietly, "the King did mention that Prince Karil, and what happened to him. He seems convinced the other Haradrim had nothing to do with Lord Faramir's captivity."
"Hmm," growled Tuornen as he reached over and began to slice a piece from the loaf of bread that sat between them. "I'd love to hear what makes him think that! The man is blinded, that's all. It doesn't matter how many tribes enter into this so-called peace, they'll all prove traitors in the end."
Beleg watched him, not moving. "Perhaps the fact that they allowed the Steward to be rescued, and protected our men when they could have easily killed them instead?" he offered in a mild voice. The words were not confrontational, merely questioning.
His companion eyed him sharply as he jammed the knife back into the loaf. "That was merely a ruse to gain our trust," Tuornen replied. "What has happened to your reason today, my friend? Surely you are not siding with the King in this matter, after being my staunchest ally!"
Beleg shrugged and looked away. "Not entirely, no," he murmured, "but...well, you know, we've had some soldiers at our home recently, my wife's three cousins, you remember. Two Captains and a Commander. I don't really know them well, but she grew up with them."
Tuornen grunted as he bit into the bread, his expression indicating that he didn't remember but was willing to humor the other man.
"They were at the battle," Beleg continued, still not looking at the older man, gazing instead out into the street somewhere, "and I talked to them about it, trying to get them to say what we believed was true, to find the proof." He sighed and turned his eyes to Tuornen, their depths puzzled. "We talked for hours, but they all said the same thing. Had it not been for the Haradrim, the battle might have gone in a different fashion."
Tuornen huffed and swallowed his bite, picking up the glass of wine again. "Surely they did not see it all, in that confusion," he answered.
Beleg considered this. "Well, no," he allowed, turning towards his friend and clasping his hands on the table, "but...well, two of them each said a Haradrim soldier saved their necks, more than once. And Belemir, he's the commander, told me he fought side by side with one of the Chieftains until the man went down fighting off the Orcs to protect them both. Now, what are we to make of that?"
A smile crossed Tuornen's face. "That they are remarkably devoted liars?" he offered. "It wouldn't surprise me if they were willing to lose their own lives in order to dupe us into trusting them. It's all part of a larger plan."
Beleg's face distorted in disbelief. "But to that extent?" he asked, clearly not accepting the explanation. "Such an act is not devotion, Tuornen, it's insanity! Had they wished to exterminate us, they could have done so on the spot, by preventing Lord Faramir's rescue and assisting Karil in slaughtering our men. The Haradirm lost almost half their force, and from what I hear it was a good portion of all the warriors they have left in their entire realm-how is that to their ultimate advantage?"
"You're expecting foresight from a race of savages?" Tuornen inquired pointedly. "They have no feelings as we do, Beleg, they don't care for their own men as long as we are destroyed. You know that."
Beleg sat back, appearing far from convinced. "The son of the Chieftain who died was there when it happened," he remarked sadly. "Belemir saw him. He said he looked no more than seventeen, and wept over his father's body like a child. Is that not feeling?"
Tuornen didn't look at him as he waved the idea away. "I'm not about to pretend I know how those animals think," he sniffed. "Besides, do you not recall how our men and women have wept over loved ones lost to the weapons of the Haradrim over the years? I don't imagine those barbarians cared much about them!"
Beleg frowned and turned away. "Perhaps not," he murmured, his tone melancholy. After a few moments of thought, he looked back at Tuornen. "But...I know how my wife would have cried, if she had lost any of her cousins. I owe their lives, and her happiness, to the Haradrim. What am I supposed to think about that? I cannot hold such men as evil."
Tuornen leaned on the table, peering hard into Beleg's eyes. "Yet they are, Beleg, and one day it will be revealed!" he insisted. "Don't be a fool."
His comrade glared at him. "Belemir and his brothers are not fools," he replied, "nor any of our soldiers, nor the warriors of Rohan and Dol Amroth, yet most of them feel indebted to Adir and his followers. Not all, of course, but enough to cause question."
Tuornen shook his head. "A mistaken belief is still mistaken, no matter how many men hold to it!" he exclaimed. "The Haradrim-all of them-have always been the enemy of the West, and they always will be, regardless of whatever else they may say or do. Their kind are not capable of any other path. It is as simple as that."
Beleg studied him, then slowly stood, smoothing out his costly robes over his short, stout frame.
"That's just the thing, Tuornen," he said solemnly, giving his fellow councilman an even gaze. "It's not that simple any more, and now I'm not certain that it ever really was. Now you must forgive me, but I fear I am not no longer in the mood for conversation. There is much I must think upon. Good night."
He bowed, and stepped into the street, where his form was soon lost amid the moving throngs and gathering darkness.
Tuornen watched him go with a frown, clearly bewildered by this unexpected turn. The people continued to walk by, few giving the important man more than a curious glance while he gave them even less attention in return. He spent the rest of his time there alone, gradually finishing off the bread and wine, brooding all the while as the night fell around him.
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I'd just like to say thanks again to all of my wonderful reviewers-I greatly appreciate each and every review! You're all awesome:)