Aragorn forgot entirely about the pain in his side as he dashed out of the houses of healing. He saw Faramir round a corner, heading up to the seventh circle. His heart lightened slightly. Perhaps he was just going to his office to work? Somehow, a part of Aragorn knew better.
He was too fevered to even manage such a task. How Faramir was walking at all was something of a mystery.
He put on an extra burst of speed to climb the stairs up, but Faramir had already moved on.
Aragorn desperately scanned the seventh circle as he emerged, and at last caught sight of his wayward steward- he was standing on the ledge that Denethor had thrown himself from. The king let out a cry of pain and crossed the courtyard faster than ever before, catching Faramir in his arms and dragging him back from the ledge- just as he stepped off.
He did not expect Faramir to struggle- and more than that, he did not expect that Faramir had retained his Numenorean strength, even as he burned with fever.
The two of them collapsed upon the ground and Aragorn grappled to try to pin his steward without hurting him- but Faramir was making no such attempts at mercy.
The Prince of Ithilien drove his elbow into Aragorn's stomach twice in quick succession, driving the breath out of his opponent. "He is mine, mine!" Faramir growled, voice feral like that of an animal. "He will join me."
Aragorn froze, startled by the animalist utterances and the realization that his opponent was not Faramir but Denethor.
"I do not accept your claim, usurper," Denethor spat through Faramir's mouth, taking advantage of the king's hesitation to throw Aragorn off of him and crawl back toward the ledge. "The line of Turin ends here; none shall ever serve you, all of Gondor shall grow to curse you."
Aragorn was up again in a flash, wrapping his arms around the steward's middle to haul him back again. "Your authority died with you- Faramir and the wizards all have recognized my claim. In the name of Iluvatar, release him!"
"I may not be the steward now," Denethor growled. "But I will always be his father."
Something in Aragorn's chest snapped, but he felt lighter. "No," he said, beginning to laugh like a mad man, even while Faramir writhed like a scruffed cat in his arms. "No, I take from you the right of authority over Faramir- you are no father, but I claim him as my son!"
Thunder rumbled from above as dark clouds rolled overhead. The wind shifted and from the west came a stiff breeze, carrying rain clouds and lightning in the crackling air.
As if he had never been at all, Denethor was gone and Faramir hung limp in Aragorn's arms.
"Arwen!" Aragorn called, desperation almost causing his voice to crack. "Undomiel, mekin, maurnye le!"*
He heard the door open, heard the approaching steps and the crunch of armor on stone and gravel as the guard returned to their posts- noticing for the first time that they had gone, a realization that stirred a dark fury in him, but it was a matter he would address later.
Arwen took one of Faramir's limp hands, working her arm around him to help Aragorn to set the soldier down.
"Sastle marcca apa he, mekin, eale Ama nahe,"* his voice was shaking. "Please, Arwen," he said and she smiled, placing a finger on his lips that drained the tension from him so that he noticed how much his hip was hurting all over again.
She set a hand against Faramir's cheek, lifting her eyes briefly to Aragorn's worried gaze. "Ion nin, ear amarcca. Sin ealye coivan."*
Faramir groaned and his eyes opened.
A peal of thunder overhead announced the breaking of the storm and rain began to fall in sheets.
They could hear the hissing of the flames as they drowned, and what had been a steady curtain of black smoke changed to shimmering steam that rose above the city like fog, clearing the foul stench of ash from the air.
Aragorn pressed a kiss first to Arwen's cheek and then upon the forehead of Faramir, whose glassy eyes shone with confusion.
He was still feverish from the infection.
All at once, Aragorn straightened up, a king again, and motioned the guards over. "Help me carry him to the houses of healing," he said sharply. "And then you're going to explain why you were none of you at your posts."
Wound cleaned and newly wrapped, and dressed once more in dry clothes, Faramir slept peacefully, unaware of the events that had led up to his awakening in the rain. It was so short a moment of consciousness that it may as well have been one of the many dreams he'd had in the grip of the fever.
Aragorn, also dry and newly changed into suitably kingly apparel, sat at a table where a number of tower guards were arranged uncomfortably in chairs around it. "Begin," the king said, his eyes flashing dangerously. "I want an explanation."
"There was a man," one said hesitantly. "Hooded, carrying a torch. He smelled of oil and pitch and…"
"Burning, like bad meat overcooked," another added, his eyes on the table. "It was so strong. His scent was the first thing any of us noticed."
They all nodded.
Aragorn's heart sank. He could see where this was going.
"He was going to set the white tree ablaze, sire,"
Of course he was. Aragorn rubbed his face tiredly. "And I presume he fled, drawing you far off until you at last lost sight of him?"
The soldiers exchanged a look. "Yes, my lord," they said hesitantly.
Aragorn fell silent, considering for a long moment as his soldiers squirmed uncomfortably under his gaze. "Tell no one of this," he said at last. "And rest assured the danger has been remedied. Return to your posts."
The scrap of chairs and the clink of shifting armor filled the room as the soldiers all stood, bowing as they filed out and leaving the king alone. A knock sounded at the door, and he pulled his face out of his hands.
Gandalf stood in the doorway, eyebrows raised. He was damp from being outside in the downpour. "You have had quite the week," he observed.
"Welcome back. How was The Shire?" Aragorn asked, exhaustion setting in again.
"Not on fire," Gandalf assured him. "We arrived just as the storm drowned the flames on the Pelennor. Meriadoc and Peregrine were quite beside themselves seeing the smoke."
"Eru must have sent the clouds," Aragorn reasoned. "They came as I-" he hesitated. "I cast Denethor's restless spirit from Faramir."
"No, Aragorn, I think you did that. In the authority of the king there is command over all Gondor, sometimes in more than just her people," Gandalf reminded him. "I am only sorry this happened in my absence."
"By design I suspect," Aragorn said. "I do not hold you at fault."
"No," Gandalf agreed. "There was little I could do until the spirit revealed itself. Denethor has always been cunning- at least when he was motivated to do anything. After despair took him his whits seemed spent to me," the wizard mused. "I did not think he would linger so long."
"He was bent on Faramir's end. His grudge was against me, and yet he-" Aragorn closed his fists.
"Mad even in death. Do not hate, Aragorn," Gandalf warned. "You are a king; you cannot afford such rot."
He breathed out forcefully, expelling the pressure in his chest.
Gandalf was right.
"It is over now," Aragorn said tiredly. "Much has been done. How far was the damage spread?"
"As far as I could see, it was confined to the Pelennor, though it seems to have come from Ithilien. I do not think Denethor could start any such fire." the wizard said thoughtfully, turning to face a window.
"Yes," Aragorn said slowly, remembering the man he had pulled from the fire in the camp. "I have some suspicions about that. I have something I must look into. There may be other dangers lurking in Minas Tirith."
"Certainly," Gandalf agreed. "And they will cause you more trouble ere they are snuffed out."
Aragorn nodded miserably and got to his feet. "Faramir is in the Houses of Healing, resting."
"How badly was he injured?" Gandlaf asked.
"Badly," the king said grimly. "You ought to visit him. He will take comfort in your presence."
The wizard's eyebrows lifted. "And not from yours?"
Aragorn hesitated.
"Something has changed between you, Aragorn." Gandlaf searched his friend's face with his startling blue eyes, setting a hand onto Aragorn's shoulder. "You cannot hide from this."
Faramir was hardly a boy, but then, Gandalf had been an old man when Estel was born.
"I know," Aragorn said heavily. "But I must not act with haste."
"I will go to him," Gandalf said gently. "As should you."
"I will," the king agreed. "After I see to the trouble."
They made their way down to the Houses in silence, separating at last as Aragorn went to find the Warden in the offices off to the side of the main halls.
He knocked on the door and listened intently as the warden began to shuffle about in his room.
There were several thumps, the sound of a stack of paper falling and then muffled swearing before the door at last swung open with a frog-like creaking in the hinges.
"Your majesty," the warden greeted, straightening up and trying to obscure the mess behind him. He remembered to bow, and Aragorn had to hide his discomfort as the old man's spine clicked. "What may I do for you, sire?"
"I am here to find a patient- a ranger of Ithilien. He had a piece of paper in his hand," Aragorn explained. "I believe he knows how the fire started, or at least has pertinent information about it."
A look of devastation passed briefly over the warden's face and he shook his head. "He passed on, my lord. He was too injured."
"Then, that paper in his hand. Is it here?" Aragorn asked, his fears tightening their grip on his stomach.
"It should be. If you'll follow, I'll take you to our effects storage." He shuffled past Aragorn, motioning the king to follow as he made his way down the hallway.
Golden light streamed in from the windows, dappled from the gardens outside. The hall felt comforting and sleepy, but Aragorn could not relax.
At last they came upon a wall of shelves and baskets and the warden selected one, passing it to Aragorn to rummage.
There were knives of all kinds, a burned quiver and scraps of what was once a ranger cloak, a few other small trinkets and a coin purse -which was empty- but no burned scraps of parchment.
"It's not here," Aragorn said, his voice cold. "Was the coin purse empty when it was placed here?"
"What?" the warden demanded, looking into the basket. "It cannot be, I placed this myself," he said angrily. "Why I-"
"Was the coin purse empty?" Aragorn demanded again, his patience thin.
"No," the warden said, eyebrows knitting. "I have a record of all items in storage. I keep a ledger. He placed the basked back on the shelf and moved over to a cabinet. He fumbled with the keys on his belt, but as he was trying to fit the key to the lock, the door swung open. He glanced back at Aragorn. "I left it locked," he started and Aragorn's expression darkened.
"The ledger is gone or vandalized, yes?" he asked.
"Gone," the man confirmed.
"Did you happen to read what was on the paper?" he asked, but the old man shook his head.
"Privacy is scarce to those who are dependent. I do my best not to strip away what little security my patients may still keep."
Aragorn rubbed the crease between his eyebrows. The tension there was beginning to cause him a headache.
"Would you like some ginger tea?" the warden offered. "If you're getting a headache, ginger does wonders. Also for sore throat, stomach ache, and-"
"I know well the invigorating effects of ginger, sir," Aragorn said, halting the other man. "I think I shall be on my way."
"Oh," the warden sounded mildly disappointed. "Very well."
Aragorn left quickly, and in something of a daze. He entered the small, well lit room where Faramir lay, glad just to be near him again.
Gandalf was seated by the bed and had one of Faramir's hands held on his lap as he read aloud from a very old looking book. "It was then that Melian was most displeased in him; among all the creatures that crawled over the face the world, a fallen and blackened expanse under Melkor's influence that festered as a wound, souring the music of Valinor, there were no creatures as impertinent before her sight as the man, Beren, son of- Aragorn," he said suddenly, looking up from the history, eyes sparkling. "One perhaps more impertinent yet," the wizard joked.
Faramir laughed nervously, glancing up at Aragorn's face. "My lord," he said, starting to sit up off the pillows.
"Stay still," Aragorn said gently. "There's no need for formalities right now. I am only here to visit." He leaned against the doorway. "I see you brought a history to read aloud," Aragorn observed.
"A remarkably accurate story," Gandalf agreed. "But more than that, Faramir used to ask me to read this one to him often before bed."
Faramir's face burned red and his hands tightened on the blankets.
"Do you mind if I join?" Aragorn asked, searching Faramir's face for signs of discomfort.
"Not at all," the steward managed, shaking his head. "If- if you don't mind?" he looked hopefully up at Gandalf.
"Not at all, though I suspect Aragorn has heard this tale many, many times," the wizard said amicably, his eyes returning to the page, one finger tracing the inked letters.
"It is not a tale I mind. There is sorrow in the romance of Beren and Luthien, and yet also comfort. Never shall their love be forgotten, never shall they be apart," Estel gazed at the book, but his mind was far away.
"You know something about that," Gandalf said quietly.
Silence fell over them, and after a few moments, the wizard began to read again.
It was late evening when Aragorn returned to his apartments, his hip throbbing painfully from a day of standing and walking. His heart was heavy and he was still exceedingly tired from not only the day's events, but the events spanning back nearly two months now since Gandalf had departed for The Shire.
He stopped in the entry hall of the rooms he shared with his wife and stood, listening to the quiet of the confines of his home. He didn't hear anyone moving deeper inside, and no one was talking, so there was a good chance the suite was empty.
He considered finding himself dinner, but he was too tired. He poured himself a cup of wine from a bottle in the sitting room and sat quietly for a moment, sipping it- but the red he had chosen tasted bitter, so he set it aside, ultimately forgetting it on the side table.
Arwen entered as he was pulling on his nightshirt, catching a glimpse of the bandages wrapping his side as she set her eyes on him.
There was one candle on the dresser illuminating the chamber in a dusky, warm glow, sending dancing shadows flickering through the dim room.
"You visited Faramir?" she asked gently.
"Yes." He tugged the shirt straight and pulled the tie out of his hair, letting the front locks fall down around his face. "He fell asleep before I left."
"He was awake again when I went by. He asked me to thank you," she said. "He doesn't remember what happened, though," the tone of her voice had changed from warm and concerned to carefully probing a subject she knew might be a sore spot to her husband.
He paused, hands in a wash basin, preparing to wash his face before bed. "I know," he said guardedly.
"I told him he had a fever and wandered away, that you caught him and took him back to the Houses," she continued. "But I did not mention the rest, merely that you may have more to tell about it when you're ready. I don't expect he'll come to you seeking those answers, dearest. You will have to volunteer that information on your own."
He winced as she probed uncomfortably close to an ache in his heart. "Thank you for your discretion, Vanimelda ," he said, skirting her unspoken inquiry.
Arwen did not accept his evasion. "Are you going to tell him?"
He closed his eyes and dropped his chin slightly. "No." He turned away from her and splashed his face with water from the basin, scrubbing off some unseen contaminant. It didn't ease his sense of guilt at all, nor the loneliness of keeping secret his paternal bond to Faramir. "Not yet, at least." He paused. "I cannot risk hurting him."
Arwen set her hands on her hips and Aragorn busied himself with a second face-washing to avoid her gaze. "Am I to pretend I have not claimed him?" she asked.
"No," Aragorn said hurriedly, pulling back from the basin too soon and sloshing water over the side. "Just…" he hesitated. "I must admit I do not know how to proceed without crushing something precious."
She sighed. "Very well, Estel. I will follow your lead, but only so long as I see that you are taking steps to cross that distance."
He relaxed, tension draining from his shoulders. "Thank you, Arwen." He dipped his head. "I will consider your heart as well, I know you cannot have claimed him as you did were you not dedicated in whole truth to preside as a mother to him."
"You are correct in that, Estel," she agreed, taking up a cloth to mop up the puddle at Aragorn's feet, making his socks soggy. She straightened up and set the cloth aside in favor of a towel that she used to dry her husband's face next.
He sat down on the edge of the bed.
"I will tell Faramir nothing. I will abide by your silence, but I will not long be able to bear the suffering you shoulder," she warned, slipping her own shoes off as she readied herself for sleep as well. "I will be cross if you break your own heart with this."
"My heart will endure," Aragorn assured her.
She turned to face him, the single candle in her ivory hand. "But will Faramir endure it?" she asked, tilting her head. "He will sense the change in you."
"I am committed, Vanimelda, " he said pleadingly. "I can see no other way forward."
"Very well," she said, and blew out the candle, casting the room into darkness.
*Translation From Quenya: "Mekin, maurnye le," meaning "Please, I need you."
"Sastle marcca apa he, mekin, eale Ama he," meaning "Set your hands on him, please, be Mother to him."
"Ion nin, ear amarcca. Sin ealye coivan," meaning "My son, I am your mother. Now come awake."