I like Prince Imrahil... he has a great deal of wisdom in him, and if not for him, Faramir would be dead. So Hail Imrahil the Fair ! :)

The Houses of Healing

Aragorn had refused to enter the gates of the white city. He did not want to offend the line of the stewards by doing so. The Prince Imharil of Dol Amroth, uncle to Boromir and Faramir, had bowed to his wisdom. Now was not the time to claim any kingship over the butchered people of Gondor; if middle earth stood a chance to win this battle, unity was mandatory.

Late in the evening, Prince Imrahil, his remaining swan knights and King Eomer had eventually left the company of the rangers. As night settled in camp, Aragorn had summarily bathed and sat down on a boulder on the outskirts of the city, exhausted but unwilling to close his eyes for fear of the nightmare that might plague him. It was then, in this moment of loneliness, that Frances came to seek him. She had seen Legolas on the field now and again. Still working, still digging graves, still roaming the desolation to find a poor soul to be saved. And Gimli, his ever-truthful companion, would not leave him to it. Bless the dwarf for being so stubbornly faithful.

As she approached him, her boots crunching on the gravels, Aragorn turned to her. His voice was weary, his eyes distant in the darkness of the night.

"I fought for twenty-three years under Echtelion's rule, the steward's father. They knew me as Thorongil, captain of Gondor. I loved the steward, a wise man, and with my help, we fought the corsairs of Umbar that threatened the bay of Belfalas. But Denethor had nothing but scorn for me, and I was needed elsewhere. Echtelion died four years after my leaving Gondor. Hence came the rule of Denethor."

Frances nodded. She understood now, the distrust of Boromir towards the rightful heir of Gondor. And what more could she say? Echtelion was Boromir's grandfather, and Aragorn in his twenties at the time. The gap of generations was quite disturbing from her point of view. Understanding the lifespan of a descendant of Númenor was, by all means, out of her reach.

There was no doubt that Aragorn knew this city well, and his wary grey eyes told her of how much he would have loved to be inside and claim his birthright. After all, it was his realm, and he longed for a peaceful life in the white halls. What she didn't know though was that the contemplation of the white tower brought him a little hope, the hope than one day he would be able to rule, and that his queen would be by his side.

Frances' thoughts couldn't be further away than his. The dying ranger's face kept flashing before her eyes, begging her to save him from his fate. Shuddering, she angled closer to Aragorn, seeking his soothing presence.

"Would you tell me his name?" she blurted out.

Aragorn's eyes turned to her, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Frances released a shaky breath before adding:

"Halbarad's son. I did not even know his name, yet held his hand as he bled to death."

A lone tear escaped Frances' eyes, running over her cheek and losing itself in the folds of her cloak. Some of the ranger's blood was still here, embedded in the fabric. Aragorn nodded, deep in thought as he recalled older memories.

"Erbaran was his name, for he was born with a crown of brown hair. I witnessed his first breath in Rivendell, not fifty years ago. A strong lad, with a stout voice."

Aragorn's lips quirked upwards at the memory of the wailing child. Halbarad had begged him to share his rooms after the birth of his son, attempting to escape the loud cries of his firstborn. A gasp called him back to reality.

"Do you mean that he was nearly fifty of age?"

"Forty-eight, if I recall properly."

"Wow. I never would have guessed. He seemed so young…"

Now she sounded like Eowyn, gaping in awe at Aragorn's age. Frances made a face; she hated herself for it! The Grey Company was Dunedain. By all means, she should have realised that the men were much older than they looked.

"He was, by our standards at least. Young in mind and in body, for we live three times as much as lesser men. Such is the blessing of Elros' blood."

Lesser men. The use of this word should have sent all alarms ringing in her mind, but there was not an ounce of pride or malice in Aragorn's words. Only the truth of middle earth. Noble families, elvish blood and Numenoreans fought together for the greater good. War did not allow them to bicker amongst themselves.

Aragorn, though, was still recalling his younger years with Halbarad. For once, his unguarded features showed the grief hidden behind the leader. Frances pried a little more, hoping that he would express it rather than bottling it all.

"I had no idea you were so close," she said softly.

Her hand came to rest on his arm in a gesture of comfort. Soon enough, Aragorn's calloused fingers overlaid hers.

"His father was barely a few years older than I was, and a childhood friend. I am much grieved at their passing."

Frances sighed. Regret. So much regret that her heart seemed ready to bust. How could she convey how sorry she was?

"So am I. I wish I could have fought. Maybe I could have saved one of them?"

"Or I might have to bury you as well."

"But …?"

Aragorn stared at her for a while, effectively interrupting Frances' protest. Sadness washed over him as he finally understood her line of thoughts. She was too young to have witnessed such hardships. Too inexperienced to handle the harshness of war. Lost in a loop of 'what if', he knew that it could claim her sanity. He had been there before, as a young man, when friends and comrades had fallen beside him.

"Nay Frances, do not let your thoughts go this way. You have made the wisest of choices and were not fit for battle. Had you fought beside them, Halbarad and his son would have died to protect you."

Dejected, the young lady let her head hang, tears falling down her face.

"But it is so cruel for death to take both father and son."

"Cruel indeed. My only comfort is that they died with honour and will rest eternally together. And thanks to you, Erbaran did no die alone."

Frances sniffed, unable to stop the flow of tears that fell upon her cheeks. Something tugged at her sleeve, and very soon, Aragorn had engulfed her into a tight hug. For his sake or for hers, it did not matter, for the embrace brought both of them some measure of comfort. Eventually, the ranger released her and, seeking her gaze, lifted her chin up.

"You know, Erbaran had taken quite a liking to you. I suspect this is the reason why it irked his father so."

Frances let out a mirthless laugh.

"Yes. Look what good it did to him."

"I wish his end had not come so soon. But I am sure that your presence soothed him enough to go in peace."

Frances stared at the ground, her stomach uneasy. The last words of the ranger came back to her. He had talked about being a good husband. Did he mean …? Certainly not …? Aragorn seemed to catch her confusion, for he added:

"You cannot blame him for not ignoring that your heart belonged to another."

"No. Of course not. He couldn't have known."

During the entire time they had spent with the Grey Company, Legolas had been more than distant. None of the rangers could have known of their closeness, not when it was blatantly discarded like a mere mood swing. The souvenir of the elf's aloofness, his cold indifference still pinched her heart. Someday, she would have to ask what had caused him to distance him so.

"I have not understood any of it either, my friend," she silently stated. "Have you?"

Aragorn nodded, a pensive frown marring his features.

"I might have. But you will have to ask for yourself for I cannot speak in his name."

"I dare not. I am too afraid that he will remember the reasons for his behaviour, and that he would start anew."

A chuckle escaped the ranger, his grey eyes sparkling with laughter. It was not much, but his entire face seemed to lighten for a little while. Then, he turned serious again.

"Fear not, Frances. Legolas has made his choice clear now. But have you?"

Frances' breath caught in her throat. Like a deer in the headlights, she froze, her heart rate increasing at once.

"I … I do not feel like I have a choice. My heart has chosen before my mind could even protest."

Aragorn's hand rested on her shoulder, his fingers massaging her absently.

"You do. You are free to decide whether to act upon those feelings or not. As long as the Feä bond is not complete, you can still decide to walk away. And even then, your mind is still yours."

"Feä bond? How does it come to pass?"

The ranger's hand suddenly retracted, his eyes contemplating the floor with interest. How had he come to give the father's talk? And how come she didn't know of it? Of course she wouldn't, she had not been raised among elven folk! Well, here was a dire predicament. Should he be the one to break the news to the young lady?

Fortunately, a Gondorian guard approached them at a fast pace. Aragorn turned to him, acknowledging the man with a nod.

"My lord, Mithrandir asks for you in the houses of healing, the steward's life is in great danger."

At once, the healer in him rose to the surface, assessing the situation. The guard was panting, having probably run all the way down the sixth levels of Minas Tirith in full gear. The white tree on his breastplate shone, cleaner than any of them. A guard from the houses of healing. The summon was urgent indeed. Aragorn grabbed his cloak, and turned to Frances.

"Come," he said, "if I must penetrate those walls despite my beliefs, you must come to see the magnificence of the city by yourself."

Then he turned to the guard, and his voice was calm and noble as he addressed him:

"I will come. Lead the way."

Limping behind the two men, the young lady contemplated the surroundings as they made their way up. So many parts of the city were destroyed that she felt like crying. Splendid arches had been cast down by boulders, and the fine carvings of the halls were darkened by remains of burning oil and coals. As they went up though, more and more parts stayed intact, and she couldn't help but feel impressed by the colossal piece of work that represented the pathways as well as the gates that blocked every level.

If she counted right, the houses of healing stood on the sixth circle. It was a long way up, especially with a stiff leg, but Frances refused to back down. Step after step, following Aragorn's great strides, she climbed. In the end though, her breath was so short that she nearly toppled over.

"Let us halt for a second," said Aragorn, seeing the exhaustion on her face.

Hands resting on her thighs, the young lady protested heartily between pants.

"Oh. Do not stop on my account. The Steward needs you."

Aragorn's stern gaze met hers, and she stared back. But she knew. In this instant, she knew that nothing in the world would push him to leave her behind once more. After the abandonment in the fields of Rohan, no circumstance would be enough to push him to this extremity. The ranger approached her, intent on pleading his case, jaw set in a determined expression.

"I will not…"

A shining form materialised before them before the argument could escalate.

"Gandalf!", exclaimed Frances.

The young lady sighed in relief, delighted to see the wizard anew after this gloomy day.

"Make haste," he responded, dismissing the guard in with one pointed look, "for your skills are needed."

The old man spared one look to the panting girl and, muttering under his breath, he touched her head. Tingles ran down Frances' body, coursing from her core to the very tip of her toes. The pain eased away, a second wind suddenly filling her with renewed energy. She would badly need it, and thanked the wizard profusely. Gandalf nodded and strode out to pass a winter garden that provided a great view over the city.

Even with the spell, Frances struggled to follow. The hour was not to complain, though, and Aragorn made sure she was still in his line of sight. The little company passed several corridors before penetrating in a complex of buildings with high windows overlooking east. Before the gate of the houses, they found Prince Imrahil and King Eomer who enquired about the Steward's health and the lady Eowyn.

Gandalf's words were gloomy, but a little hope warmed their hearts when they heard that Eowyn had not died as they believed. A shiver ran down her spine as he told them that the steward had burnt with his house and that the newly appointed one was near death. Something dark was operating on the other side of those doors, and time was pressing. The words of the wizard resonated into her mind as Aragorn uncovered his head, and she understood why the healers had sent for the heir of Isildur.

" … for it is only in the coming of Aragorn that hope remains for the sick that lie in the House. Thus spoke Ioreth, wise woman of Gondor. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known."

The company passed the doors, Aragorn first and the other in his wake. The captain of the rangers was cloaked, but his hood was down, and he very much looked like Strider. Somebody noticed it too as he made his way to greet them, for a halfing was there, guarding the door, and he started bouncing at the sight of Aragorn.

"Strider! How splendid! Do you know, I guessed it was you in the black ships? But they were all shouting corsairs and wouldn't listen to me. How did you do it? Oh, Frances, well met indeed !"

Aragorn smiled, and this alone lightened the room for an instant before he turned his questions down. The hobbits's good mood felt warm after seeing so many dead in the battle field, and Frances embraced the Halfling as Strider passed them. Meanwhile, she heard Imrahil share his surprise with Eomer regarding the name that Pippin had used about the future king, and Elessar's answer in good faith that it was one of his many names. 'Princes really have to loosen up in this world,' she thought. Well, most of them anyway. As to where the heir of Greenwood was she did not know. Probably still working on the aftermath of the battle. Her thoughts went to him for a while, hoping he would stop to rest at some point.

This little argument over his name cast aside, Aragorn visited the three wounded. Frances and Pippin followed, staying behind while the hobbit murmured comments to the young lady. Gandalf spoke of the disease, and explained the principles of the black breath that ailed the sick. All of them were so pale that their complexion was slowly turning to grey. In Merry and Eowyn's case, their wounded arm had nearly gone black.

As Aragorn brushed Faramir's brow, a deep frown animated his features. Frances concentrated on the man for a second. His face was slick with sweat, but despite the unrest and suffering he looked fairly handsome. His rusty hair was scattered on the pillow, darkened by the water that had been running from his brow not so long ago. The young lady concentrated on him, and she felt the cold taking its hold over his body; it was draining him and the Steward wasn't strong enough to resist it. Frances' eyes crossed Aragorn's, and he knew she had felt the same thing as he had.

"He is a great man, strong in mind and very wise," said Pippin, his eyes regretfully leaving the young man's form.

"I am sure he his," whispered Frances, putting a soothing hand on his shoulder.

"Can you tell?" he asked quietly, knowing how she could feel people inside.

Frances nodded, at loss about what to say. Seeing the ranger's worry, Eomer proposed that he rest and ate, but Aragorn declined, stating that Faramir's time was running out. As Pippin and Frances contemplated the young steward, she wondering how he could be helped, and the hobbit fearing that he might die, an old woman entered the chamber. The ranger asked her for Athelas, or kingsfoil, and her wrinkled features lightened up as she started speaking about how she knew this plant but did not use it. She was a stout little lady, seemingly wise but her flow of words was endless. Now was not the time, and Aragorn interrupted her after a few seconds:

"And now Dame, if you love the Lord Faramir, run as quick as your tongue and get me kingsfoil, if there is a leaf in the city."

Gandalf added for good measure that he could ride with her outside the city if needed, and the little woman disappeared in haste. Aragorn then turned back to Faramir, and enquired about the wounds he had sustained.

"He is nearly spent," he finally concluded, "but it does not come from the wound".

The prince Imrahil had been the one to draw the arrow out of his nephew, and both men discussed over the fact that it was nicely healing, fever cast aside.

"How do you read the matter?" asked Prince Imrahil, a spark of hope brightening his tired features.

"Weariness, grief for his father's mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath."

At Frances raised eyebrows, Pippin slipped a few words to her about how Denethor had treated his second son, and at hearing this she could not help but be angered. Knowing that none of them were needed quite soon, and that Athelas had yet to be found, Frances dragged Pippin into the winter garden, and sat with him as he told his tale.

The young lady was horrified that Denethor could have treated his own flesh so badly. But she remembered Boromir's words when, unguarded as they strolled in the woods of Lothlorien, he had told her of the passing of Findulias, his mother, in childbirth. Was his grief alone a reason to scorn a child?

Her musings were interrupted the sound of a running man.

"Come," she said. "They must have found Athelas. Let us see if we can be of help."

When Frances entered the room where Faramir was kept, she was greeted by the smell of freshness. The young lady breathed intensely, savouring the fragrance that brought joy to her heart. Aragorn had cast the Athelas leaves into a bowl of steaming water, effectively spreading the dewy smell inside the chamber. And then, he passed the bowl in front of Faramir's face. The steward steered, and opened his eyes. Many gasped, and Frances revelled in the miracle she had just witnessed, her heart soaring in joy.

The young man's voice was a little hoarse, but he said those words with confidence as he gazed upon Aragorn.

"My lord, you called me, I come. What does the King command?"

The ranger smiled, his eyes full of love and pride that Faramir had vanquished his ailment. His baritone voice felt like music to Frances' hears as he commanded with gentleness.

"Walk no more in the shadows, but awake. Rest for a while, you are weary. And be ready for my return."

"I will, lord, for who would lie idle when the King had returned?"

Aragorn nodded, and bade him farewell for a while, for there were many more who needed him. And off he went to Eowyn, Eomer in tow, bidding her to come back to her brother, and slipping out of the room the moment she awoke for he feared that her feelings would prevent her from healing properly. Then, they came to Merry, and he opened his eyes very soon with the most famous of phrases.

"I'm hungry!"

To this, Frances laughed, and Aragorn joined her as well as the wizard. A furious debate about pipe weed ensued, but the ranger answered sternly that he was in need of rest and sustenance. Nor Frances not he had slept in a bed since Dunarrow several days ago. Aragorn paused as he left the houses of healing, giving some precise instructions to the chief healer, forbidding anyone to speak of his father's demise before he was ready to busy himself with stewardly duties.

A quick look to Frances ensured him that she would not say a word. With her natural empathy, the lady understood how learning such dreadful news could cast Faramir back into the shadows. Then they left to partake a small dinner. It was a welcome moment of rest, but not for long, for the rumour of the King's return had travelled through the city. There were many whose loved ones had been touched by the Black Breath.

The ranger then summoned the sons of Elrond, and set to work. They visited house after house. Eventually, Prince Imrahil himself enlisted them to help some of his swan knights mistreated by the Nazgûls. Aragorn nodded, the lines of his face so deeply carved that Frances feared he would fall from exhaustion. Very soon, she knew that the ranger would take no more.

As he called once more to a young soldier touched by darkness, she saw him waver in his seat. The healer was spent, drained to the core, but he would not relent. Even with Elladan and Elrohir's help, there were still so many to take care of, many whose lives could be saved. Who knew, if tomorrow, they would still draw breath? How could he chose, when he couldn't save them all ?

Frances watched the ranger struggle against the darkness, his gestures slow, his speech slightly slurred. And then, as his body staggered anew, she came up behind him and put each of her hands on his back. Aragorn stiffened, waiting, but he did not pull out. Frances closed her eyes, wishing with all her might that she could provide some comfort, that she could share some of her strength so that he could continue saving lives. Deep inside her, she felt a fresh wave of energy tingling through her chest. Concentrating hard, she directed it to her arms in a desperate attempt to help.

Aragorn frowned, unused to the strange sensation. And then he felt it, the flow of energy feeding him from her touch. It was not much, but it steadily leaked through to keep him awake and functioning. The wave engulfed him, radiating like a silver sun. What a feat, for such a young lady totally unaware of magic! They did not speak, not exchanged a word for fear it would stop.

Hope renewed, Aragorn got back to work, using this newfound source of energy with heartfelt gratitude. Later, he would thank her profusely for her gift. But now was not the time. One soldier, two soldiers, five soldiers he treated and for each, Frances pushed her vital forces into him to bring them to life. The twins marvelled at their connexion, jaw slack as they watched this incredible miracle. Until Frances dropped to the ground, unconscious.

Aragorn heard the loud thud as much as he felt the loss of her hands on his back. Turning sharply, he was by her side in an instant, eyes wide in fear. Had she gone too far and given everything she had left? One of the twins felt for her pulse, breathing in relief when he found it.

"She still lives," stated Elladan sternly. "But she must rest."

Elrohir gathered Frances in his arms, alarmed by the coldness of her limbs.

"Shall we bring her back to the tents?"

The question hung in the air, all of them quite concerned about letting her sleep outside. Would she survive another night in the coldness of a lingering winter? But then, Prince Imrahil approached, and spoke to Aragorn.

"I am regent until you will it different, my lord. I can take her to the citadel."

Elrohir stared at the Prince with suspicious eyes until he relented. Cautiously, he deposited Frances into his outstretched arms, and nodded.

"She must be warmed lest she might be sick. Her energy is spent, and she had none left to heat her own body."

"I will see to it that she rests in a room with a blazing fire. She has, after all, contributed to saving my swan knight's lives. This is no small feat."

"No, it certainly is not," answered Aragorn. "I trust you to take care of her."

The Prince bowed to his king, and departed with a soldier in tow, the young lady safely tucked in his arms. She was so frail, so slender. He could not fathom how she had come to travel with the Grey Company, let alone kept her head on her shoulders with the horrendous battle. And more importantly, he did not understand the connexion she shared with the King, nor the easiness between her and the infamous lords of Rivendell.

Was she a noble descended from the Dunedain? She certainly did not look the part. Nor her eyes, hair and poise did not remind him of the distant lineage. Yet, the closeness of her relationship with Aragorn stunned him as much as it startled him. Were they lovers? Siblings? Was she a sorceress of some kind? A healer from Lord Elrond's house? All those questions unanswered, for now, if absolutely irrelevant.

Prince Imrahil was not one to be steered by his curiosity. He sent his aid ahead, to ask for a room to be prepared as he climbed to the citadel. Keeping his promise to the King was his sole and only purpose. And then, he would get some rest. The siege of Minas Tirith had left him as exhausted as his fellow commanders.

What he did not expect, though, was the blur of green and gold that fell upon him from above. The familial ringing of steel being drawn stopped him in his tracks.

"Where do you intend to take her?" asked a dangerous voice.

Imrahil started, not accustomed to being questioned so rudely. Without losing his temper, he squinted his eyes at the man, no, the elf before him.

"The lady Frances has passed out from exhaustion and will be laid to rest in the citadel. The King asked me to care for her, and I intend to fulfil his orders."

Legolas sheathed his twin blades, worry oozing from his blue eyes as he came closer. Imrahil though, took a step back. Did the elf actually glow in the dark?

"My apology to you, Prince Imrahil. I failed to recognise you. The lady is a dear companion, and I feared for her life since she has already sustained a dire injury not a fortnight ago."

"An injury, my lord?"

Legolas gave him a stern look, his blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight.

"In the battle of the Hornburg."

The regent of Minas Tirith bowed his head slightly, the imperceptible nod showing his acceptance for the apology. It was the third elf he saw today, a rare occurrence in this part of the world, let alone the fact that he had just discovered what a Perian looked like, and that a woman of naught but twenty years had transferred her energy and comfort to the future King of Gondor.

All of this explained by a pair of very identical elves. Could this day become even stranger? In truth, he had no idea. The golden-haired elf approached him and, with a familiar gesture, he gently caressed the young lady's hair.

"Frances, what have you done?" he whispered.

The young woman stirred, mumbling softly.

"Legolas?"

"Yes. My duties are done now. I will take you to a safe place to rest."

The lady seemed to fall into a deep sleep, and the elf he reached out, silently requesting that the Prince unburden himself. Imrahil would have scoffed had he not been so weary. But his patience was growing thin, and he knew the elf to be a companion to the King. Hence, he did not protest when the slender frame was lifted from his arms. A hundred pounds she may be, a little weight no match to his strength, but he had fought days and nights for three days. Although he would never admit it, the regent of Minas Tirith breathed in relief.

"Come, master elf. I have requested a room to be prepared for her."

The elf nodded and, as if the lady in his arms weighed nothing, strode up the cobbled street. He held her close, his embrace protective, and Imrahil raised an eyebrow at the familiarity between them. By the Valar, how he wanted to know who the woman was! The corridors of the citadel had returned to their normal state. No more fires burning in the steward's halls to incinerate his nephew, no more guards running around in a frenzy, and most of all, the quiet sounds of the night to lull anyone to sleep.

Prince Imrahil was soon reunited with his aid and, without a word, indicated the elf to follow him across the corridors of the private quarters. An orange light fluctuated through a door left ajar, the promise of a burning fire and a welcoming bed. The regent shuddered, eager to lie down in his chambers. In the corridor, a guard if the citadel stood at attention. The man saluted him as he pushed the door open for the elf to follow. Then, he watched as the golden lord laid the lady Frances on the mattress, pulling the covers over her form, and kissing her brow gently.

"Sleep, meleth."

It had barely been a whisper, but in the silence of the night Imrahil had heard it. And like his ancestors before him, he spoke some elvish. There was the answer to his question. The elf hesitated for a while, his eyes scanning the room in search of a threat. The desire to stay beside his beloved was written on his face, yet he pulled away. His penetrating stare ran over him, a quiet investigation that seemed to satisfy him for he did not press nor asked for his discretion.

Imrahil wanted none of it. He would be a very poor ruler indeed if he was prone to gossip. Gesturing for the elf to come out, he silently closed the door beside him. Then, before he could utter his intention to hit his bed as strongly as a rock plummeting down a mountain, the elf had pulled his face a few inches from the guard.

"If some harm befalls her, you will have to answer to the dwarven kingdom of Erebor, the elven kingdom of Greenwood and the wrath of the King."

The guard, sweat running under his helmet, nodded nervously. Imrahil refrained from laughing. As he walked the elf out, he chuckled.

"I doubt this guard has been more terrified when the Nazgûl attacked the citadel. It was a mighty threat indeed."

The elf paused a moment, his face so beautifully motionless that it seemed carved in white stone. When he answered though, a spark passed into his bright eyes.

"Good night, Prince Imrahil. You have my thanks, and those of my companions."

Then he strode away, leaving the new regent behind.

"Good night, my lord," answered Imrahil softly.