Chapter XI – Shattered

The Citadel had never seemed so deathly quiet.

It must have been close to midnight now, yet even in the middle of the night Aragorn was accustomed to hearing the whistle of the wind, the hoots of nocturnal birds, the drunken laughter of soldiers who had stayed out drinking a little too late, and the rustle of the trees above on the mountain. Now it sounded as if Minas Tirith was holding its breath, as if it was afraid of something dreadful about to happen. It was the deep breath before the plunge.

The entrance to the Houses of Healing was lit by a single bobbing lantern, and Aragorn focused on it with single-minded purpose. The high hedges that ringed the gardens were dark and foreboding in the black night. Sheets of silent snow were being dumped steadily on top of Aragorn's head. With each breath he drew, it felt as if a knife was lodged between his ribs. The night grew only more wintry and frozen. Murky storm clouds drifted overhead, and Aragorn saw something then that he had never believed possible. A flash of white lightning split the sky, lighting up the Citadel for a flickering moment, followed a few seconds later by a roar of thunder. The snow continued to fall thickly at his feet, and he stared in disbelief at the sky. Lightning in a snow storm?

The light under the doorway of the Houses of Healing was dark, but Aragorn pounded on the door with his fist until he saw a candle sputter to life. An elderly woman answered the door with a smile and a bow as she stepped aside to permit the King entry.

"Good evening, my liege," she said cheerily. "A frightful night, this, is it not? There has scarcely been a storm in my memory as wild as this! Although, I remember one day in my childhood when the enter city was covered in three feet of snow and ice! That was quite a day, as I remember. We all had to dig ourselves out of our homes, for the snow was too deep to get out!"

"Ioreth," said Aragorn sternly. He almost could not believe that this old woman was still alive. "Show me to the Warden. I must see him immediately."

"Certainly, your Majesty," agreed Ioreth brightly. She shuffled with painful slowness down the long entrance corridor and then along another, narrower hall. At the end of this stood a door carved above with the symbol of the healers: a flame lit in the heart of the Tree of Gondor.

"Here you are, Sire," said Ioreth, sounding pleased with yourself. "If there's ever anything I can do, just you let me know. I remember when Gandalf first came here, trying to help young Lord Faramir, and I told him that the hands of the King are the hands of a healer. Well, I sure turned out to be right, didn't I?"

"Goodnight, Ioreth." Aragorn knocked on the wooden door as Ioreth retreated down the hall. Very slowly, the Warden opened the door.

"I have been expecting you, your Majesty," said the Warden softly. "Come." Without a word more, the Warden moved past Aragorn and led him through a maze of twisting turns. After they passed beneath an elaborately carved archway, Aragorn recognized the path they were taking, but he remained silent.

The Warden paused before a wooden door, grief etched on his face. "I-I was unsure of what to do, my liege. I have not the heart to tell him to leave…but you must help him. He is not well, Sire."

"I will take care of it."

The door into the birthing ward swung open noiselessly, and the King stepped in. The Warden gestured limply towards a bed in the far corner, the only occupied bed. On it, curled upon the covers and stroking the linen sheets with a trembling hand, lay Faramir, the Steward of Gondor.

This was the first time Aragorn had seen Faramir since the night of the funeral, and now that he had seen him again he was frightened by what he saw. Faramir was shivering from the draft that came in through the open window at the end of the room, yet sweat was dripping from his forehead. His face was grey and expressionless, and if it hadn't been for the tiny movement of his hand it would have been difficult to determine that he was alive. His spirit was dead. His hope was dead.

"Faramir." Aragorn stepped haltingly to stand beside the bed. Again, as before, Faramir showed no sign that he had heard. The Warden hesitated, and Aragorn dismissed him with a look. "Faramir," Aragorn repeated, sterner in tone. It hurt him to be so harsh with his friend, but there was nothing else that would make him respond. Faramir closed his eyes. "Get up."

Fresh tears stained Faramir's face. "I-I cannot," he whispered raggedly.

It was a broken man that lay before him. Pity filled his heart. Why must it be Faramir? If it had been any other man, Aragorn could have borne this with composure. He was being crushed slowly, agonizingly, by Faramir's pain. Faramir did not deserve this.

"Faramir, it was not a request! I am commanding you: Get up." Aragorn's voice was firm, but his eyes were misty with grief for his friend.

"I cannot…my liege."

Aragorn seized Faramir by his shoulders, yanked him up off of the bed, and shook him roughly. "Listen to me," Aragorn ordered, though not unkindly. It concerned him that Faramir did not struggle with him. He just swayed there like a rag doll, with barely the strength to stand.

"Listen." He was pleading this time. "You've just lost your wife, but you still have a son who needs you very much and a newborn daughter! They will need you to be there, now more than ever! Your duty right now is to them, not to yourself!" Faramir looked away, and Aragorn's face softened. "You are grieving, Faramir, and I understand, but—"

"No you don't!" Faramir snapped ferociously, twisting out of Aragorn's grip and backing against the wall. "Go away! Leave me alone! You don't understand at all! You have no idea!" Aragorn was silent, and after a moment the anger on Faramir's face crumbled into sorrow. He covered his face with his hands and sobbed. "I'm sorry, Aragorn," he whispered. "Forgive me…forgive me…"

Aragorn was grief-stricken by the pain that engulfed his friend. Faramir's mourning robes, deep black in color, hung on his skeletal frame loosely. Aragorn could swear that his cheekbones protruded too sharply from his face. Faramir shook uncontrollably, and the horrible, ghostly look fixed on his face was beyond words. It was the look of a man who had not eaten or slept in days—the look of a man who no longer cared about what happened to him.

"You are not well, Faramir. Come away, leave his place, or death will haunt you to the end of your days."

"It haunts me." Faramir shivered, his hollow eyes dark and distant. "It haunts me…" He let out a low moan and began to fall forward as his strength gave out. Aragorn leapt to catch him and steadied him anxiously. "Why can I still see their faces? So many faces…"

Aragorn's face paled. "You can see Éowyn?"

"I see them all… They won't leave me alone… They give me no peace!" Faramir's voice grew hysterical, and Aragorn tightened his grip. "I can see her face, as if she is still alive! I can hear her voice! She stands on the brink of Darkness Unescapable! They gather around in a circle and taunt me with their eyes! Am I insane? Please, Aragorn, tell me I am not insane! Please! Please…"

Faramir broke down into sobs, and Aragorn hugged him tightly into his chest. The next thing that escaped Faramir's pale lips was the last two words he had ever expected to hear from his friend:

"Help me…"

Aragorn could do nothing but hold Faramir as he sobbed and wept, his thin body racked by painful gasps of breath. He was utterly shocked by the degree of Faramir's emotional collapse. If he had not held Faramir in his own arms, he never would have believed that Faramir was capable of such heart-rending sobs. How had Aragorn allowed this to happen? How was Faramir reduced to pleading for his help? He should have been watching his friend more closely than ever to ensure that this did not happen!

"I am so sorry, Faramir," Aragorn murmured. His guilt and remorse for not going to Faramir sooner was pounding in his head, blaming him for the severity of Faramir's hurt. Faramir did not want to die! He was only imprisoned by his own pain and was struggling desperately to escape. "I am so sorry… I should never have left you alone for so long."

"Make it go away…" begged Faramir, shielding his face with his hands as if from invisible blows. "Her voice…their faces…make them all go away… They mock me and torture me so… I will die of the torment before I can even save myself from the Darkness… Oh, Eru! They are killing me! All of them, killing me!"

"I am here, mellon nin. I am here. I will not let you fall so far."

"So much death! So much blood! My blood, Aragorn, spilled next to theirs! Eru, why do I see such things before my eyes? Such nightmarish things! Is it real? Am I bleeding? Am I dying, Aragorn? What is real? Tell me what is real, please!"

"What you see is falsehood and falsehood alone," Aragorn told him sternly. "You are not bleeding. You are not dying. You are here, and you are safe. Your friends are here with you. We will not let you die, Faramir." More to himself than to Faramir, he whispered, "Eru willing, you will not die…"

"And yet my dreams say otherwise…" Faramir closed his eyes and clung tighter to the one who seemed right now to be his only friend. "It is only a matter of time before I am drawn into the Void, as well, cast forever into darkness, left to decay upon some broken battlefield where the ground is stained red before my feet…"

"Hush, Faramir. Speak not of such things," Aragorn soothed. "It shall not happen. I promise you, it shall not happen. All will be well again."

Faramir shook his head, shivering again. "You cannot promise, for it is not you who controls my dreams."

"It is in dreams that she speaks to you?"

"Yes…yes, in dreams…" Faramir shuddered violently, and Aragorn held him tightly again. "It has been so long…since I-I had these nightmares… I-I thought that they had gone away and would haunt me no longer… It is no different from the nightmares of my childhood…only the faceless men and women of Númenor have been replaced by the ones I love…and…" He trailed off in agony and could not continue, and Aragorn suddenly understood.

"Faramir…did you have these dreams only as a child?"

"No…not only. In the last few weeks before the end of the War…they began to get worse again… The same nightmare often plagued me as I waited for your return to Minas Tirith."

"Then I believe I understand your dreams, Faramir. Listen carefully to what I am about to say." Aragorn paused to make sure that Faramir was listening and continued, "These dreams… They only seem to afflict you at times when are overwrought with grief over the loss of one you love. You have a gift, Faramir, and it is a marvelous gift. You have the ability to foresee the future, read the minds of men, and receive visions both wonderful and terrible. I sensed it in you long ago, but you have never spoken to me of the extent of this gift."

"It does not seem like a gift to me," Faramir said miserably. "My mother had it, and it was what killed her."

Aragorn pulled away from Faramir, shocked. He had always assumed that Faramir was given his gift through Denethor, who was descended from a higher line of Númenorean blood. Although, the Princes of Dol Amroth were rumored to have been sired by Elvish ancestry… "Who told you that, Faramir?"

"Father did. He told me that she could see the devastation that the Dark Lord of Mordor would wreck upon Gondor, and she fell into grief and terror at the sight of it. Eventually she fell so far as to death." Faramir paused in anguish, and Aragorn waited patiently for him to continue. "Father told me that I must never use my ability, for he said that it would destroy me as it had destroyed Finduilas."

"He was wrong, Faramir," said Aragorn. "By repressing your gift, you have kept it pent up inside. It would seem that it can only escape when you are weakened by grief. Your mother died when you were very young, which explains the nightmares in your childhood. At the end of the War, you lost both your brother and your father."

"That does not explain how the dreams disappeared after each loss. I want to know how to make them go away again, Aragorn." Faramir's eyes were desperate, and Aragorn put his hands on his friend's shoulders.

"They only went away after you met someone who helped you to move past the pain," he explained. "In your childhood…" He paused and threw his mind back over everything Faramir had told him about his youth. At first he could think of no one who could have come into his life to alleviate his grief, but then it hit him. "Gandalf. Mithrandir, as you call him. When you first met him, you were already eleven or twelve, weren't you? If I am right, your nightmares disappeared shortly after meeting him."

Faramir blinked, as if contemplating what Aragorn had said. "I suppose so."

"Of course, after the deaths of Boromir and Denethor, you found Éowyn." Aragorn gave him a tight smile, encouraging him to be strong. "She chased away the ghosts for you that time. You cannot continue to rely on others to save you from yourself, Faramir. Unless you open yourself to your gift and allow yourself to use it more frequently, you will continue to be haunted by the nightmares of your past."

"Aragorn…I do not know how to use my gift." Tears sprang back into Faramir's eyes. "I have never known. I only knew that when I received these visions, they were terrible and full of death and blood and pain."

"Those are not the only things you will see when you learn to use your gift as it was meant to be used," Aragorn whispered. "I will help you learn to control it, Faramir. I promise you, I will make sure that you are never cut down by these nightmares again."

"How can you teach me to use my gift?"

Aragorn smiled. "Did you forget that I was raised in an Elven household?"

Faramir stared at him, half-frightened, half-trusting, as if he was afraid to hope that Aragorn could truly help him to rid himself of his nightmares forever. "Aragorn…she's never coming back. Éowyn's never coming back."

"No, she is not," Aragorn agreed quietly. "But your friends are not going anywhere."

mellon nin

(my friend)