Fire.
It was all around and leaping, licking, climbing up a wooden pyre, the acrid smell of pitch and smoke and tar and oil clogging his nose while the heat stung his skin, causing his eyes to water most terribly.
Faramir lay in the blaze still and cold and gray even in the inferno as his father, eyes lit with burning madness stood above.
"Take him from the fire, Thorongil. Save him from the cold fever that nips at his spirit- I will not let you take my son the way you took my father. He will join me, Thorongil, he will always join me!" Denethor yelled, his voice as wild and wavering as the flames.
Aragorn sat up cold and soaked in his own sweat.
The room was dark, and the heat under the blankets was suffocating.
Arwen made a small sound of protest and turned over, curling her body around him as much as she could, laying one silvery arm across his legs in her sleep.
He had to breathe for a long moment, forcing himself not to gasp as he recovered his breath and began to calm down once more. He looked down at his sleeping wife and smoothed his hand over her soft hair, feeling the heavy length of it as it twisted into a night-time braid.
She didn't have to sleep at all, really, but she did for him, just so they could be together even when neither was awake.
He leaned down and placed a kiss on her forehead before extracting himself from her hold and from the blankets.
"Again, my love?" she asked, rousing.
"Just an ill dream," he said, placing a hand against her cheek, frowning as his fingers shook.
"I know," she said. "They're getting worse. Can't you try to sleep a little more? You have been so drawn of late."
He shook his head. "I could lay still but sleep would not come."
She stretched, and though he could not see it, he knew her toes were curling under the blankets as she tensed her lithe form. "I'll get up with you," she said.
Aragorn had to resist the urge to protest- Arwen didn't need to sleep at all, so this would be no interruption. "Alright," he agreed, pushing the blankets off his legs.
"We'll walk together in the gardens first, and then find a suitable breakfast somewhere quiet?" she suggested, sitting up at last.
"Mmm," he responded distractedly. He could still see the flames dancing over his steward's skin.
"Estel," Arwen said more firmly. "Give it no more thought. We will walk in the garden." What had been a suggestion was now a command by the queen of Gondor. "And when Gandalf returns from The Shire, if you're still having nightmares, I'd like you to speak to him about it."
He managed a smile and nodded, standing at last from the bed. "I had already planned to, Vanimelda." He struggled with a flint and steel for a moment to light a lantern and tugged his night shirt off, reaching for a richly dyed tunic of soft suede in burgundy.
"Not that one," Arwen said immediately, getting to her feet and setting her hand on his, gently pushing the tunic back down into the drawer from which he'd picked it.
"No?" he asked.
"You're not a king today, Estel," she informed him. "I'll make the arrangements, but it is my opinion as your wife that you are in need of a rest day."
He looked at her helplessly. "I can't just stop being king. There is so much to do, so much that went neglected-"
"And it will all still be there tomorrow," she said. "I will accept no arguments, my love. I have as much a claim to this throne as you, and I will exercise it if I must."
He snorted and bowed, feeling a little absurd doing so without a shirt. "Very well, my queen," he said and straightened again. "Then pray tell me, my lady, which shirt pleases you for a day that I am no king?"
She plucked up a shirt that was soft from many years of travel and wash, a simple cotton garment from his ranger days. With a flick of her wrist she tossed it to him.
It still bore the scent of Imladris- the elven flowers and good soap brought to him the vivid remembering of the first time he laid eyes on the lady who would be his wife as a man old enough to understand a deeper breadth of her beauty than he had been able to conceive of as a child. "I like this shirt well," he said agreeably. "I could wear it."
"Do," she urged. "I know it is your most comfortable."
"May I choose my jerkin, lady?" he asked, raising an eyebrow at her as he pulled the cloth over his head.
She hummed thoughtfully and he knew he'd already lost the right. "No," she said at last, as he knew she would.
As he freed his eyes from the shirt, he almost drew back from his wife as he startled; she was standing much closer to him than he had expected, and already had his jerkin in hand, bunched much the same way a mother might hold a shirt in preparation to dress a wriggling child.
With the whoosh of fabric she plunged it down over his head, tugging the green cloth into place and planting a kiss on his forehead when his head re-emerged.
He struggled to free his arms and snatched up a set of britches before she could interfere. "I claim back my dignity," he said firmly, retreating hurriedly.
"Of course," she said placatingly.
He turned his back to finish dressing and heard the soft shuffle of her movements behind him. When he turned back, she too was dressed.
She had on an elvish riding gown and tall laced boots, which she'd somehow tied in the short time he was looking away. She'd taken her hair out of the braid, too, so it fell in waves past her waist, gleaming like starlight in the glow of the lantern.
He stopped for a moment, as was his habit after she was dressed every morning. "You look beautiful," he said admiringly.
"Thank you," she said, smiling gently at him. "And you look like a hero." She said it every morning, but it never ceased to heat his cheeks.
"Thank you," he managed as well. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "Are you wearing your hair down today?" he asked and she shook her head.
"I like how it looks when you do it for me," she said. "And it will keep the locks away from my face as we go riding today."
He could not keep from smiling as she took a seat before the large mirror on a vanity by their shared dressing table. He lifted the brush and tentatively ran his fingers through her hair, feeling the silky locks as he gathered them to be brushed.
They were both silent as he worked, carefully weaving locks into braids and gathering the braids together at the back until they had all been plated together and fell long and gently bound to her hips.
When Gilraen was ill, he'd often brushed her hair this same way, keeping it out of her face.
"Thank you, dearest," Arwen said, sounding pleased.
"You like it?" he asked, and she nodded.
"Just what I wanted." She nodded crisply and got to her feet. She gathered their cloaks, hanging her thick, fur lined cape around her shoulders and handing the other to Aragorn. She let him wrap up before taking his hand and lacing their fingers together in one expert motion to lead him from the bedchamber. "To the kitchens," she told him, cutting off his forming question. "I changed my mind about the order of events. We shall get an easy breakfast and enjoy it on our walk."
"Fickle woman," he teased.
"Hardly," she said dryly, shooting him a look he'd seen on Elrond's stern face. "I determined it would do you more good to be out of the court as soon as possible rather than lingering. That meant a change of plans was necessary." She squeezed his hand to let him know she was joking and pushed the door open.
"Lord Aragorn," Faramir greeted, standing from the bench at a table by the fire. "Lady Arwen."
The room was warm from the fire, and from the working ovens. The few servants already awake bowed deeply, but quickly resumed their duties; after a month of seeing the king so early in the morning, they were accustomed to his ways and knew he preferred less attention than most nobles.
"Lord Faramir," Arwen greeted politely, slipping gracefully from Aragorn's side to fold the steward into an embrace.
Aragorn watched as what had been an innocuous greeting shifted slowly into a sly exploration of Faramir's health.
She drew back, firmly taking his upper arms, and rested her forehead against his for a moment before stepping back. "Your injuries aren't fully healed and you're far too thin. Faramir, what are you doing awake so early? Didn't my husband ask you to rest properly?" She shot a glare in Aragorn's directions and the king raised his hands defensively.
"But I have been," Faramir protested nervously. "I've been going to bed early and sleeping late."
"This is sleeping late?" Aragorn asked. It was early even for him.
"You're awake too," Faramir pointed out, taking an anxious step back.
"Peace," Aragorn said immediately. "You're in no trouble, my friend. I only worry for your health."
It wasn't so long ago that the Steward had been lost in a storm and swept down a river, injured in a fight.
Faramir took a breath and turned away, stooping down by the fire. "I was making tea. There's enough water for all of us, if you'd like some."
"Please," Arwen said graciously.
"I'm not keeping you from anything, I hope?" he asked.
"I'm going to make a simple breakfast. We have time for tea while I work," she said reasonably. "And I think my husband would like the time with you. Besides, I have arrangements to make, as I have ordered him the day off."
"I can ensure that the work is done," Faramir offered.
"We are trying not to swamp you, my dear. All but the most urgent shall wait," Arwen said firmly. "If you insist on taking any of it to yourself, your own work you shall delegate to appropriate sources."
"All of it?" he asked hopelessly, beginning to maneuver the kettle out of the flames.
"All of it," Arwen agreed. With any luck, he'd actually come away with less work than he usually shouldered.
Aragorn shot his wife a short but grateful smile.
All at once, there came a crack from the kettle as the handle snapped, dropping its cast iron bulk into the burning wood. It struck one log such that it came up out of the hearth toward Faramir's face, and then tipped over, spilling boiling water out over the floor.
The ranger only just managed to block with his right arm, but his sleeve caught fire and the log rolled away, catching the towel hanging next to the oven alight as well. He made a sound of pain and alarm, but yanked the towel down into the spreading puddle with one hand and hurriedly tossed the log back into the flame with the other, effectively burning both palms and most of his fingers.
Aragorn shot to his feet, knocking the bench to the ground and tossed his cloak over Faramir's burning clothes, quickly smothering the flames. "A healer," he managed. "Go, quickly!"
Arwen spun on one foot and was out the door almost before he'd said anything. Valar, he loved that woman.
Faramir took a shaky breath, his eyes wide. "Be careful, my lord," he said hoarsely, and gestured clumsily to the ground. "The water-"
Aragorn glanced down.
The steaming water had washed down around Faramir's knees so that he was kneeling in it.
The king dragged his steward to his feet and then to the bench. He quickly kicked it upright again and set Faramir down again, taking out a sharp knife. "Ne tulca, ion nin,*" he advised, beginning to trim away the fabric over Faramir's burned arm, dark thoughts echoing through his head.
Take him from the fire.
His face felt cold and his fingers tingled as he worked. "How are your knees?" he asked.
"My knees?" Faramir asked shakily. "Ah- I hadn't noticed. They're burned too."
"How did this happen?" Aragorn asked absently, examining the angry red marks already spreading up Faramir's arm. The burns didn't look too bad, at least. The fire was out soon enough that only surface level skin was damaged.
"I am sorry, my lord, I didn't realize the handle was so close to breaking. It must have been long worn," Faramir said, his eyes downcast.
"That's not something you have to apologize for," the king said firmly, standing to fetch a cloth. He soaked it in water from the nearby pump and pressed the sodden rag against the ranger's burned arm. "Hold this in place," he said. "Keep your burned skin against it."
They could hear footsteps echoing down the halls toward the kitchens outside, and Aragorn hoped it would be Arwen returning.
As the door opened, his heart lifted on seeing his wife and his adoptive father turned father-in-law. "Lord Elrond," he said, his relief washing into his voice.
Elrond set an Elvish bag down onto the table and began to withdraw medical supplies. "Estel," he greeted coolly. "Lord Faramir. Is this to be a common occurrence?" he asked and Faramir recoiled as if slapped.
"No, my lord, I am not often this clumsy," the steward mumbled.
Arwen shot her father a warning look; if he caught the expression, Elrond showed no sign of it.
"I am not asking if you are regularly very clumsy, but if disaster regularly follows you. Does it?" Elrond asked, continuing to ignore the increasingly admonishing looks and posture from his daughter.
Aragorn set a protective arm around Faramir's shoulders, steadying him against the Elven Lord's searching gaze. He'd been under that same look many a time, and knew from personal experience how frightening it could be, which was not to say that his father was an unkind or unfair person, but that he was ancient in a way that touched every facet of his being and bled over into his treatment of just about anyone.
Elrond of course meant well, but he was either unpracticed at tact, or had long ago abandoned it.
"N-" Faramir had started to protest, but fell at once silent, his gaze dropping to the floor.
"I see," Elrond said dryly, beginning to prepare a medicine for the burns and bandages with which to cover the reddened, angry skin. "I see that your hands are injured as well as your arm. Where else?"
"My knees," Faramir admitted, reddening.
"Leave us," Elrond instructed the rest.
Faramir turned his face to Aragorn, a pleading expression over his visage that made the king hesitate, but Arwen took her husband's elbow and led him from the kitchen.
"Call for us, Ada," the lady said softly. "We will be nearby."
Aragorn stood firm just a moment longer. His intention had not been to leave Faramir alone with whatever healer had come along, but he'd needed supplies. He didn't mean to be ungrateful, but he was perfectly capable of looking after Faramir on his own.
Another gentle tug dragged Aragorn out of his thoughts and out the door to where the kitchen servants were already clustered, waiting and worried.
One of the older women stepped forward, her hands held together at her chest in a pleading motion. She inclined her head respectfully as Aragorn's eyes landed on her, and she dipped just slightly. "My lord," she started cautiously. "Is our steward going to be well?"
"The burns are extensive but shallow through his skin," Aragorn said absently. "Under my- Lord Elrond's care-" It still stung. "He won't even scar."
The woman managed a smile and turned to the rest of the maids, drawing them away further down the hall to leave Aragorn and Arwen some space, murmuring assurances to the younger women.
"Do you still want to leave for the day?" Arwen asked. Her voice told him she was already resigned to stay.
"I am under your instruction to take time away from the castle, my lady," he said, trying and failing to sound eager to leave. His worry was evident even to his own ears, and Arwen's were much more keen.
"Mmm," she said slowly, and then shook her head. "If I took you away now, you would only grow more worried."
"I grow more worried as we stand here," he said gravely, shaking his head and scuffing one boot along the cobbled floor.
Arwen lifted an eyebrow and placed a finger over her lips, mouthing 'he can hear you,' to her husband.
Aragorn let out a tense breath through his nose and sank down against the wall to wait in silence for his father and steward while the previous night's dream replayed in his mind, Denethor's curses echoing through his thoughts.
*Translation from Quenya: "Be still, my son."