The stone of the city walks was warm under Aragorn's cheek as though Minas Tirith had succumbed to a terrible, dark ague.
He lifted his eyes to the sky above and found his mind, clouded with shock and pain wandering.
Such a strange sight loomed above him. Only a few stars glittered in the patches of velvet darkness visible between swathes of red-lit smoke, as if his beloved city had fallen in war.
How long had they been riding, fleeing from the fire, and how long had they been fighting it? He was oddly calm now, being pinned under the rubble. He could see the flaming remnants of the inner gate careening toward him through the air, but the children were safe.
Was he really so ready to accept death after all he had done to live, all he had lost to the dark already?
The world resumed its normal speed as he recovered his awareness and began to struggle against the rubble pinning him. He cried out in pain as a sharp heat climbed his side.
The weight on his back lifted and he wriggled free, only just limping clear in time to evade the last falling debris from the gate, and turned back to watch as it fell instead on Faramir.
The next few seconds were not anything Aragorn would remember.
He returned to himself, the pain in his hip a screaming point of white-hot agony as he sat, Faramir cradled in his lap.
The Steward was unconscious and pale, face streaked with soot. His burned hands were bleeding from lifting the beam from Aragorn, and down his leg, where he hadn't quite managed to dodge the falling, burning wood, was a long cut and a new set of blisters.
Aragorn had but one thought, and he clung to half out desperation; this would scar.
Scars only formed on the living.
He had to force himself to calm and look at the injury rationally, as a healer should.
It was deep, but not life threatening. He would not bleed out, and the burns would not cause complications to its treatment. Infection was the greatest worry for a wound of its size.
Relief set him to shaking and Aragorn looked up to find that the fire had died down after the house collapsed.
Swan knights and tower guards alike were working to put it out the rest of the way.
The gates had swung open, and beyond the walls the Pelennor was consumed, but the city was safe now- as safe as it could be.
Someone approached, moving faster than Aragorn liked.
He tightened his grip on Faramir protectively and lifted his face to identify whoever it was.
Merethir dropped to his knees, fumbling with a canteen.
The ranger looked exhausted. His hands were shaking and he, like most people around, was absolutely filthy with soot.
He poured out a thin, shaky stream of water over Faramir's new injuries, taking his time to be methodical and to carefully measure out the water despite his trembling.
"Thank you," Aragorn managed. He startled as Merethir grabbed his own arm as well and began to pour water on a burn that the king had not noticed. "Thank you," he said again, unable to keep the shock out of his voice.
Merethir just nodded. "He'll be alright," he said. "Our Captain has survived much worse, and now he shall not be neglected, either."
Aragorn nodded.
He seemed to be about to say something but his eyes lifted to something behind the king, widening slightly. His mouth opened slightly and then closed with a click, presumably when he realized he looked the fool.
"Let me see him, Estel," Elrond said gently.
Aragorn nodded dumbly, a feeling of safety washing over him, just hearing his father's voice. Exhaustion hit and clouds almost indistinguishable from the smoke swam at the edges of his vision.
Elrond shifted Faramir off his lap and Aragorn had to fight the instinct to cling on to him, but relented as he met his father's eyes.
"Is Arwen safe?" Aragorn asked to distract himself from his current distress. He already knew the answer, or at least was fairly certain of it, but it would reassure him nonetheless.
"She is," Elrond said easily, cleaning the gash on Faramir's leg more thoroughly than Merethir could manage with just his canteen. His mouth curved into a frown. "Aragorn," he said softly, and then glanced at Merethir. "Lé nér téra. I naxa né hé."
Aragorn's head swam.
Elrond lifted Faramir easily. "I will take him to the houses of healing. You should come as well, ion nin," he said. "I will treat your injuries."
The king managed to haul himself to his feet and took a step to follow his father, but once his weight landed again on his right leg, a bright spark of white blinded him, and there was only darkness.
Aragorn dragged himself out of the darkness.
It clung to him like fabric, weighing his limbs and stuffing his mouth and nose and mind with cotton fluff as his feet moved through molasses.
He could perceive a light, gray and shimmering like silver above him, but reaching it was nearly impossible, except for the steadily building anger that was gathering in his chest and burning off the cloying grip of sleep. He sat up before he was entirely awake, his eyes still refusing to open.
The motion hurt and a new spike of pain drew him closer to wakefulness.
A gentle hand took his shoulder and tried to guide him back down into what felt to be the cushioning of bed and blankets, but he pushed the hand away, shaking his head to clear it and sending his lingering oblivion spiraling in clouds of gray around him.
He forced his eyes open, and he was not surprised that the light hurt too. He winced and slowly realized that someone had been trying to speak to him.
This someone had a very lovely voice- it melted him- it was Arwen.
His eyes focused on her. "-down, Estel, please, lay down," she said urgently, placing her hands against his chest.
He caught onto her shoulder to support himself as he lay back, but still his hip screamed in protest. "I don't want to sleep," he said through gritted teeth. "I need to know how Faramir is."
"He is resting. My father has seen to his injuries and yours," she assured him hurriedly, rising to her feet. "Ada," she called, making her way to the door.
Aragorn realized slowly that he was in the Houses of Healing.
"Estel is awake."
"You say that like-" he hesitated. "How long have I been out?" he asked, wincing.
"Two days. Exhaustion and injury set in," Arwen started. "And-"
"And I had to remove a piece of your chipped bone," Elrond said, barely contained ire sharpening his syllables as he pushed past the curtain-door. "Do you know how worried I was?"
Aragorn shrank back into the pillows. "I did not mean to worry you," he said and Elrond deflated.
"Why didn't you tell me your hip was so badly injured?" his father asked almost tenderly, dragging a chair next to the bed.
The king managed a shrug. "I did not know the severity. My thoughts were only for Faramir's safety. He saved my life."
"I heard as much from the Swan Knights," Elrond said, his face inscrutable. "Are you in much pain?"
"Only when I move," Aragorn said, searching the Elven lord's face for any decipherable signs of either anger or affection, but found nothing he was able to interpret in the ancient neutrality presented to him.
"Imrahil makes a decent king," Elrond began slowly, dropping his eyes from Aragorn's face. "But none save perhaps my father or my great-grandfather in my mother's line have sacrificed as much as you, nor wrought so many deeds as you for the sake of a kingdom."
"It was for the sake of my wife," Aragorn corrected him gently, warmed by the praise. "Though I love Gondor and Arnor, she is my first love- always."
"Then it is fitting," Elrond said, lifting his gaze again to meet Aragorn's eyes. "That Undomiel is called Tinuviel come again."
Arwen did not smile, and Aragorn did not feel flattered.
Many times in his youth pursuing his now wife he had been reminded that if Arwen stayed as Luthien did, she would be bound to the same fate; doom. She would die, and unlike Luthien, she would not return.
Arwen's fate was to die alone, forgotten, and in despair, and everyone in the room was aware of that cruel fact.
Aragorn struggled to his feet, throwing off his blankets and ignoring the sharp pain that greeted him for doing so. "I wish to see Faramir," he said firmly.
"Estel," Arwen protested.
"Vanimelda," he said pleadingly.
She lowered her eyes. "Father," she started and Aragorn found himself surprised to hear the edge of ice in her voice. "Would you give me a moment of privacy with my-" she hesitated. "Beren come again?"
The message was clear; she knew her fate and was choosing Aragorn despite it, and she did not appreciate her father's reminder of the pain to come.
Aragorn covered his eyes with one hand. Intellectually he knew his father was just worried for him and for Arwen especially, but he was nothing if not bad at handling that appropriately.
Was there an appropriate way to handle it, knowing that his daughter would die in despair, that his sons had chosen a mortal life, that he would have to explain to his wounded wife why none of their children would ever be seen in Valinor, and that he, a child his wife had never known, was going to die a mere century hence, a blink of an eye to the Elves.
He tried not to let his guilt eat at him.
When he dropped his hand, Elrond had left.
Arwen alone was standing before him. Her face was held in a careful mask of expressionlessness, but he knew her face far better than he knew his own heart, and he could see the depths of pain held in her gaze.
He tried to speak in a way that carried all his love in his voice, but no words or sounds could ever properly contain the way he felt for her. "I love you," he said carefully, and her face twisted. He saw joy, pain, fear, then tears.
"I had meant to comfort you," she said, wrapping her arms carefully around him.
He buried his face in her neck, reveling in her scent. "You do," he said. "I know what choice you have every day until the last ship sails and I know that you face an uncertain future with strength for my sake."
"And mine," she agreed. "I could not live, even in Valinor without you."
"And who but you could be the true queen of Gondor?" he asked. "It could only be you."
She managed a laugh and Aragorn was satisfied that he had sufficiently lifted her spirits, but his ire at Elrond had been rekindled for making her cry again.
"I would like to see Faramir, though," he said, changing the subject before anything else that was painful could come up again. "I was serious about that."
"Dearest," Arwen said slowly. "You're not in suitable clothes to be out."
He looked down at himself, noticing for the first time that he was in a comfortable set of night-clothes. "Ah."
Faramir swam to the surface of his misery only long enough to feel relieved that Aragorn was safe. With the King of Gondor secure, surely he could pass into the Halls of Eru in peace, knowing he had done his duty as the last member of the House of Turin should. He basked in the worried affection bestowed on him- the cool hands against his fevered face, the murmurs of comfort from his king. At the edge of death it didn't matter so much if Aragorn had seen him as a child or as an equal- he was here. His only regret was that he would not see Eowyn's sweet face again, but at least she was safe in Rohan, far from the all consuming reach of the fire.
It seemed the longer he lay there, the further expanded his awareness became, almost as a cloud of bees, disjointed, but able to perceive the goings on far beyond the walls of the Houses of Healing.
In Rohan, Eowyn stood, gazing east at the rising smoke.
In his chambers, Elrond sat alone, a book forgotten on his lap, eyes distant, westward.
In the throne room whispers of dissent drifted to the tall, vaulted ceilings and there also was the shade of his father, burning before the throne, beckoning Faramir to join him,his terrible voice ever louder by the hour as the night darkened above him.
The fire raged on the Pelennor, blocking out the stars over Minas Tirith, a new siege against her walls, a new shadow, fueled by misplaced hatred and old, stale madness.
Faramir knew the fires would die if he followed Denethor.
Days passed with little change, and rumors of a dark curse began to spread through Minas Tirith as still the Pelennor burned.
Aragorn stayed by Faramir's side; there was little else to do but wait.
Even under Elrond's skillful hand and Aragorn's healing gifts, Faramir burned with fever and illness, his wound a vile, infected mass of rotting flesh.
So long Aragorn had crept carefully about Faramir, afraid of hurting him. He had seen firsthand how wounded the steward's spirit was and how filled with want he was just for the approval of a father who cared not at all. He had seen so much more than he was sure Faramir had ever intended anyone to see on that day, in this very room when he had called him from the Black Breath.
So careful he had been to respect the bounds of Faramir's privacy, to do nothing to upset the careful balance between drawing close and keeping respect. It all seemed so pointless now.
Faramir… was old enough just to be the age of a child he and Arwen might have had if they had married when they wanted to. Even now, he could feel the affinity in Faramir's spirit to his own, a draw he could not ignore, but had long pretended was not present. Here at these most bitter doors he was forced to confront the truth of all he stood to lose. It built in him a helpless rage, at himself, at Denethor, at Elrond for not saving his child. He understood a little better how Elrond saw him and Arwen, symbols only of tragedy for the Elven lord.
It was enough to break a man.
He placed a hand on Faramir's forehead again, covering his own eyes with his other hand and trying to hold back the pressure building behind his eyes and in his throat. "Ione nin elwen,"* he muttered, bowing his head. "Alaltye qualien, mekin, iqunye le."*
Faramir stirred as if responding. His lips parted and Aragorn had to lean very close to hear what was said, the steward's voice was little more than a breath. "Samye ni."*
"It must hurt very much," Aragorn said softly, sweeping the blankets back.
The bandages needed changing- a foul yellow had seeped up, staining the cotton of even the soft pants covering his wound. A quick glance told him the sheets, too, were soiled.
Aragorn pulled back and brushed a strand of hair from Faramir's face. "I will be back," he promised, hurrying out to collect supplies, doing his best not to limp.
It was a bit of a distance on his injured leg to get to the supply stores of the healers that worked there. Thankfully, it was not so much the chip in his bone or the incision Elrond had made to remove it that pained him so much as the bruising that had spread through the entirety of the joint, rendering his right leg stiffer than he'd like that- and bruising could be ignored.
He did have to avoid the healers, or else risk a scolding, but this he did without too much trouble, and soon was headed back to the room where Faramir lay.
He rounded the corner and pushed back the curtain that provided some privacy to the patient within only for his blood to run cold.
The bed was empty.
*Translation from Quenya: First, "You were right. The evil is on him." Then, "Son of my heart," and "Do not die, please, I beg of you." Also, "Save me."