Lord Imrahil arrived much earlier than Aragorn had expected- only four days had passed since he had sent the missive to fetch him. Those four days had passed in relative peace, though a tension had settled over the royal family, and Faramir at times seemed ready to snap under the strain.
Aragorn found himself struggling to keep up with his work, even more so than usual, and he had to prioritize only the most important tasks to accomplish, as every day he grew even more tired, and he had not even been able to set time aside to speak with Imrahil in private.
Worse yet, the ranger companies in Ithilien had requested an inspection from Faramir that had been scheduled prior to the accident in the kitchen, and Aragorn had been forced to postpone it until Imrahil had arrived so that he could see to the matter himself. And while it was a necessary and important task, he didn't like the idea of leaving Faramir behind, and yet it seemed to be the only choice, and so, two days after his load had lightened at all, Aragorn found himself disguised once more as a ranger riding off to Ithilien.
The ride was long and monotonous, and though the wilderness was beautiful and richly green, filled with birdsong and the golden light of the sun, Aragorn found himself able to enjoy none of it. Weariness had crept into his bones and was sapping his energy. Though sleep was often far from his grasp, his eyes were heavy and stung badly. He wondered if this was how Faramir had felt riding off to Ithilien the night he'd been lost in the storm, and if he were now making a similar mistake.
Finally, he arrived at the ranger encampment, late into the day.
Merethir was there to greet him, though he bore a sour expression on his face. "My lord," he said, bowing courteously. "I take it by the delay and your presence here that our prince has been injured?"
"Not grievously," Aragorn said, dismounting from Roheryn. "But you are correct. His hands are burned, he is not allowed to hold a pen, let alone the reins of a horse. He will be fine, they are mild."
"Ah," said Merethir, understanding dawning on him. "So you're here to prevent him from doing something foolish and self destructive?"
Aragorn shot the ranger a dark look. "Be careful how you are found speaking of your dread lord," he warned. "Were I unaware of your undying loyalty to Prince Faramir, I might take that the wrong way."
Merethir grinned at him. "Yes, my lord," he said. This particular ranger was one that had little use for tact. He was the first to speak up in Faramir's defense, though often to the effect of being more distraction than guard, drawing ire to himself rather than dispelling it, and he had little regard for class or station, regardless of who was speaking to him, apparently including the king.
Aragorn could not bring himself to mind too much, after all, Merethir was often the first to put himself in danger for Faramir's sake, and while tactless, he often knew at least when to hold his tongue. "I'll be conducting the inspection. Faramir was adamant that I cover gear, foodstocks, and the troops. I trust you have been keeping injury reports?" he asked. "Faramir said you have orders."
"Of course," Merethir said readily, granting Aragorn another sweeping bow, this one with a flourish as though he were an entertainer asked to show his most skillful performance. He was certainly odd; flamboyance was a very rare trait among rangers. "How strange that you might ask for them, though, it's hardly standard. I mean this out of respectful curiosity, of course," he clarified as an afterthought, only just remembering he was speaking to a king, apparently.
"I promised Faramir I would spare no trouble, and as I am a healer, I may be able to identify and treat any troubles before they grow too dire," Aragorn explained. "Healing was the first trade I learned." That had been before Elrond had begun to teach him the ways of ruling, though now, most of a century later, Aragorn was certain that healing had been his first lesson in kingship, whether he'd known it at the time or not. "This may take a little longer than an inspection by our steward," he warned.
"It is an honor," Merethir said, taking Aragorn by surprise; he seemed to genuinely mean what he said.
"I'll start with the reports," the king said. "Is there a place I can review them away from the men?"
The ranger captain nodded and motioned Aragorn to follow him. "I had Faramir's usual tent set up for you, Lord. I think you will find it sufficient."
"My thanks."
The ranger encampment was set up in something that was not quite a clearing. The trees were thick, and the underbrush nearly shoulder high in many places, while from above vines hung all around, further obscuring the view of outsiders. With a few carefully placed branches, it would be very hard to detect even the larger tents set up there unless one held a prior knowledge of the location. Small paths marked the cleared ways between tents, and in hollows were set places to gather around carefully disguised fires. All told, it was a thoroughly defensible camp, and while Aragorn did not immediately spot anyone in the trees above. He was sure there were sentries around who had noted his presence.
The tent he was to use for the duration of his stay was at the heart of the camp, a good distance from any surrounding structures or gathering places, both fortified and private. "Very good," Aragorn said approvingly. "I will be here for the next few hours. I will send for you once I am through the reports."
"I'll have someone sent with the paperwork for you shortly." Merethir saluted and moved back into the thick underbrush, expertly picking his way across the camp.
Aragorn ducked into the tent and found a simple desk and a stool waiting for him. It was a bit of a stretch to call either thing furniture though, as the 'desk' was a plank set across two amphorae, and the stool was a stump. There was a stack of spare paper resting on the plank, some of which had Faramir's hand on them- hastily scribed notes of varying legibility.
There was a cot in the tent as well with a tattered quilt over it that evoked mixed feelings in Aragorn. He had the temptation to lay down, accompanied sharply by the unease of sleep that would be guaranteed to carry nightmares with it, or else another ghastly look into the uncaring void.
"My lord?" a voice called. "May I have entry?"
"Enter," Aragorn ordered, pivoting to face the tent flap.
A hooded man pushed his way inside and held out a leather bag that seemed to be made for holding documents. "The medical reports, sire."
"How are they ordered?" Aragorn asked, gesturing at the desk.
The ranger took them out and placed the papers carefully, straightening a few that had come loose. "Date, my lord. You will find they are separated with leather ties by year, and the red ones are by half decade."
Aragorn nodded. "Faramir has done well to keep such notes. Are you their caretaker otherwise?"
"I am. I take much pride in the work when Faramir is not here to preside over it himself," the man said.
"Then you as well are due some credit. Well done," Aragorn said absently, his attention already shifted to the heft stack of papers. "Thank you for your service. I will begin reviewing these immediately." If the ranger said anything Aragorn did not catch it. He was soon entirely immersed in his work, taking notes, and making a list of names of the men he wanted to personally look after.
It was highly unconventional for a king to do the work of a healer, but he owed Faramir this much and more.
"The king! Where is the king!?"
Voices and shouting drew Aragorn suddenly from his focus and he realized that he could smell smoke.
The air was hot and dry, and the whole world had a terrible, dream-like quality that made him feel as though he were moving slowly while all around seemed to be going at unnatural speed.
"He is still in Lord Faramir's tent!"
He pushed the tent flap aside and the world returned to its usual focus with horrid clarity.
There was a wall of smoke and steam advancing toward the camp, flashing with red and gold light from the fires behind while ashes and embers fell from above.
Aragorn spared only a moment to place the papers back into their protective leather casing, and then dashed back out of the tent. "Retreat to the Anduin. Go quickly!" he yelled, charging like a madman toward where he knew by the screaming where the horses were tethered. There was a sound like a battering ram coming down against heavy oak wood, and as he plunged through the smoke, he saw Roheryn kicking with both his back legs against the wood fence to which all the ranger horses were tethered.
Aragorn cut through the ties with his elvish dagger and swung up onto his steed's back as all the horses began to flee toward the river.
He had to tug the lead hard to keep Roheryn from bolting outright, but he moved through the camp, watching for any stragglers.
There was a man left behind, lying burned on the ground, unmoving, a scrap of parchment in hand. Aragorn dismounted only long enough to pull the senseless man onto the horse with him, and, satisfied no one had been left behind, spurred Roheryn forward.
His lungs burned and his eyes were watering so badly, he could hardly see, but he trusted his horse to get them out of danger. The roaring of the fire behind them filled his ears. It didn't seem to be growing any quieter as they rode through the forest, fleeing its stinging heat, and so he had to conclude that it was spreading fast behind them, as if chasing them to the Anduin.
When at last he felt the cold splash water on his feet, climbing to his legs as Roheryn plunged deeper into the river, he dared to hope they might escape the blaze.
Mind no longer clogged with thoughts solely dedicated to survival, Aragorn remembered his dream, fire spreading toward Minas Tirith, across the Pelennor from the east- from Ithilien. The fire was not going to halt at the Anduin, it would merely slow the blaze.
He had to struggle to keep the unconscious man's head above the water as they forded the river, and Aragorn was relieved to find that the Anduin was low at that crossing, if wider than most points. At no point was he forced to dismount and attempt to struggle against the current without the help of Roheryn's size to anchor him.
Once across, he took a moment to look around and spotted the rangers up river from him, soaked and scrambling to calm their panicking horses.
"You're not safe here," Aragorn yelled, turning Roheryin toward them. "The fires will cross the river to Pelennor. We must ride on!"
There was a new burst of activity from the rangers up the riverbed, and they began to gather with more purpose, mounting up, helping each other, and beginning to move toward the Pelennor and out of the forest.
At least with the dry grasses of the field, the fire would burn out quickly.
In the meantime, though, they would need to evacuate the area surrounding Minas Tirith. With the fire so close already, they would not be able to empty the city itself. They could only hope the stone walls would stop the grassfire.
They had not gotten far across the field when the fire announced its triumph in crossing the river with the hissing of boiling water, and the crackling, popping of the dry grasses of the field.
Ithilien was very green and wet. That a fire started there at all was a rarity and already a significant cause for alarm, but the Pelennor was grassland, dry and dense with kindling. The fire raced along the ground, faster than it had moved through the forest.
They barely had time to evacuate the few people who lived in the field around the outskirts of the city before they had to retreat through the main gate.
"Seal the gates!" Aragorn yelled as he spurred Roheryn into the city. He was the last one in, he'd made sure of it. He turned his horse in a tight circle as he entered the city square, but as his eyes landed on the main gates, his heart sank.
Gone were the steel gates of the ancient kings, and in its stead were wooden gates, their fronts plated with iron.
They would not be enough to stop the blaze… but they might buy time.
"Clear away all wood and cloth from the walls. I want these avenues emptied!" he ordered. "Tear the scaffolding down if you must!"
More guards surged into the square from the upper levels, some bearing the sigils of Dol Amroth.
"Lord Aragorn," Imrahil's voice caught his attention and Aragorn looked down to find the prince standing near him. "I can take him," he said, opening his arms. "We have a stretcher here."
The king nodded, passing down his unconscious passenger. "Have your Swan Knights ferrying water from the pumps. I want the doors doused until that fire burns itself out. I will not let my city burn," he growled. The desperation and fear were beginning to turn into anger in his chest.
The fire outside the gates was not the only blaze taking hold in Gondor.
No longer constrained to horseback by the unconscious man he'd found in the ranger camp, Aragorn dismounted, ordering Roheryn to return to the stables.
Faramir hurried past him, and Aragorn's hand shot out on its own, catching the younger man by the cloak. "You cannot be here," Aragorn hissed, his dreams pressing in close and filling his lungs with shards of glass as he looked at the face of someone who daily grew more dear to him.
Faramir flinched and his hands settled, gentle, on Aragorn's closed fists. "There's no time," he protested.
"You're burned," Aragorn hissed. "I cannot see it happen again."
"I cannot see my home engulfed," Faramir pleaded. "I cannot stand aside."
Aragorn knew that in Faramir's position, he would do the same, and yet, he could smell the burning flesh from his dreams, too. " Ne varna, mekin, ion nin, " he said and released Faramir, who nodded and vanished into the crowd, leaving Aragorn alone.
It took him a moment to recover from the exchange, his heart was sick with worry, but the king shook off his stunned terror. He cast about him, searching for a way to protect the city and his eyes landed on a bucket and a pump. He set to work.
Smoke poured out from under the gates and between the two doors to the city, and the water hissed when it touched the metal fixtures, steaming quickly from the wood.
The Swan Knights had formed a chain and were passing buckets down the line, trying to keep up with the heat, but Aragorn could see the wood degrading even under their efforts. They wouldn't last much longer.
The heat was building in the entry to the city, stinging skin and eyes and making the approach to the doors increasingly difficult.
Minutes stretched into hours that crawled by as if no time were passing at all, and Aragorn settled into tense monotony, sending water down a line, filling buckets, listening to the grunts of exertion, the hissing of steam and the occasional sounds of pain and distress from the diligently working soldiers.
The great crack of splitting wood shook him from his reverie and he looked up at the gate again.
The water, soaking into the wood, only to boil and steam out had warped the bottom, peeling the top away from the iron- but the top was dry, and now with air between the wood and iron, flames licked at what was now only fuel.
His eyes followed a crack forming and he realized with rising horror that the inner door was long enough to fall onto the nearest hovel- a newly repaired building that would certainly burn.
Aragorn dunked his cloak into the pump water and took up the bucket, breaking the chain. He crossed to the small home, watching out of the corner of his eye with mounting horror as the burning wood peeled off and began to fall toward the building. He kicked the door in, his eyes landing immediately on the two children, clinging to each other in the corner.
There was a crash as the falling debris connected with the roof of the home, dropping burning thatch on them and causing the supports to creak.
Aragorn knelt, smiling calmly as the two began to shriek- a boy and a girl. Siblings, almost certainly.
The older sister tried to shield her brother with her body as more sparks fell on them.
"Wrap yourselves in this," Aragorn told them. "I will get you out," he promised, glancing around the hovel.
They could not leave by the door- flames already engulfed the place he had entered. Two of the walls were white stone- remnants of the old building that had once stood there. They would not yield to any force he could muster, but the rest, poorly constructed shelter made of mud and straw- that he could break. He took up a piece of fallen wood that had broken in the impact and began to attack the wall with all his strength.
Someone must have heard on the other side as soon the sounds of his own hammering were joined with the efforts of others from outside. A hole opened up, not large enough for a man, but plenty for a child- or two.
He scooped the younger child from his sister's grasp, ignoring her scream of alarm and stuffed the boy out the hole, watching in satisfaction as careful hands caught him. His stomach tightened as he realized that the hands helping the young child had been burned. "Faramir," he called. "There's another child."
"Hurry, the door is falling!" Faramir returned.
Aragorn caught the young girl, still wrapped in the sodden and now uncomfortably warm cloak and stuffed her like a bundle of fabric through the hole. He took up the wood again and redoubled his efforts to widen his point of escape. At last, he began to wriggle through when the roof collapsed, taking the wall with it and pinning Aragorn down in the rubble.
*Translation from Quenya: "Be safe, please, my son."