Chapter 33

Treatment

Elboron stood at the tent flap and glared at the messenger before him.

"I seek the Steward. Is he here, Lord Elboron?" the man said.

Elboron was so perplexed he had difficulty understanding the words. "Your pardon?" he finally managed to force out.

The messenger stared at him in bewilderment as the son of the Steward fought to control his emotion and make sense of what was happening. Elboron's eyes belatedly took in the fact that although the messenger wore the White Company emblem and was dirty, he did not have the grim gore of a battle about him. Neither did his eyes flash with the overwhelming exhaustion and dejection following the awful stand against the uruks, nor was his skin pallor grey and deadened about his face. He did not share the features that Elboron knew every man, including himself, who had survived the evil battle in the marshlands, had acquired this day.

Suddenly the man's name flashed into Elboron's tortured and fear-filled mind: Ranir. A member of the White Company, Ranir had been wounded during the Easterling attack on Emyn Arnen and he was one of the men who Faramir had left there ostensively to recuperate but also to guard the settlement.

Elboron took a deep breath. "My apologies, Ranir," he began. "It has been a demanding day, I quite misunderstood the reason for you summoning the Steward."

Behind him there was an audible sigh of relief from the two younger boys as they too perceived that their fevered imaginations had played them false.

"This is his tent, Sir?" Ranir asked sharply.

"Aye, it is."

"I have a message from Emyn Arnen, one that I must give to him as soon as possible." Ranir gave the impression of barely holding on to his simmering patience.

"Alas, Lord Faramir is not yet returned from the field," Elboron responded. "But as you know I am my father's adjutant. Would you give the message to me?" Elboron held out his hand expectantly.

Ranir shook his head. "It is a delicate matter," he whispered, nodding his head towards where the younger boys sat, ears straining.

Elboron rolled his eyes and lowered his voice. "Will you tell me?" he asked.

Ranir nodded once more. "I have ridden hard these past days straight from your home. Hiril bid me come and I rode as if the very beasts of Mordor were on my tail."

"And what message do you bring in such a hurry from Hiril?" Elboron asked, although in truth he was beginning to suspect he already knew the reason.

"Your mother, my lord," Ranir confirmed Elboron's suspicions. "The birthing was beginning as I left. I was asked to call Lord Faramir home as soon as was possible."

"Thank you, Ranir," Elboron said finally. "You have delivered your message in a most satisfactory manner. I shall see my father is informed as soon as he returns from the field. You must be tired and hungry; I suggest you find a friendly billet in the camp. As you may have realised the battle was fought this day and we are all somewhat fraught because of it."

Ranir nodded, bowed and turned to leave. Elboron closed his eyes for a second. He felt suddenly very weary and weighed down by worry. He steadied himself against the tent pole before he turned back into the tent. Again the two pairs of eyes gazed at him questioningly.

"Well?" Cirion asked.

"Mother is having the baby, or rather will have had it by now, since Ranir has ridden all the way here to tell us," Elboron said with a long sigh.

Cirion looked disappointed. "Is that all?" he said distastefully. "More baby sick and worse. Urrgh!" He screwed his face up, shaking his head.

Eldarion said, "But it may be a little brother to play with!"

"Udun!" Cirion cursed, still unimpressed. "I already have two of those. The brats just grab all my things and break them. Better than girls I suppose, but only just!"

"Oh," responded the Prince, who could quite frankly think of nothing better than having a baby brother, for though he loved his twin sisters dearly, he had always hoped for a boy to play with. That was probably why he enjoyed Cirion's company so much. Being with Cirion was like having ten little brothers at once!

"Mother asked that Father returns home. . ." Elboron continued. "I have to find him. You will fare well here, Ciri?"

Cirion nodded. "Of course," he responded. "I wish I could come with you."

"I will look to him," Eldarion said.

"Send us word, Bron," Cirion said. "Even if . . ." His voice broke with emotion at the thought of what he had been about to say and he stopped unable to phrase more.

Elboron nodded. "I will," he said with a gulp and quickly left the tent, turning away before the younger boys saw his eyes moisten.

The Steward's Heir made his way through the camp back to where he had tethered Snowflake. As he did so he wiped the tears from his eye with the back of his grubby hand and sniffed any others away before they formed. He had to be strong now.

As he approached the healers' area that was crammed full of moaning injured men, he became aware of a disturbance. Elboron stopped and squinted through the failing light to try to make out what was happening. It appeared that two injured soldiers were being borne on litters from the field at great speed. Although he could not see the faces of the men he noted the concern of the figures that accompanied them. There was indeed a large group of men surrounding them but Elboron made out two clearly; the small squat figure of a dwarf and the tall, elegant elf by his side.

Elboron felt a shudder of excitement race through him. The rest of the world became indistinct and unimportant for the young man then. He began to run, his much-exercised heart once more crashing in his chest as he blundered over the injured men who were unfortunate enough to lie between him and the commotion. He mechanically mumbled apologies as muttered curses from those on the floor followed him on his headlong dash. As he neared, the first litter disappeared into the tent the healers were using as an operating theatre but he could see the red-blond hair darkened by sweat and blood of the figure on the second litter before it too was taken into the tent.

"Father!" Elboron cried with a mixture of both relief and anguish.

A figure stepped forward to greet him as he slid to a stop outside the tent. It was Legolas.

"Elboron," he said as he reached out to comfort the boy.

"Is it him? Is he alive?" Elboron pressed as he tried to move past the elf's restraining hand.

"Be calm, Elboron," Legolas said. "Your father is alive but injured. I go to find the King."

"Can I see him?" Elboron asked.

"Of course," Legolas smiled with encouragement. "He has need of you now. Be strong for him."

The elf moved away. Elboron entered the lantern-lit tent. The stench was overpowering and almost made him retch. It was the smell of blood and pain and fear. Agonised death haunted this place; Elboron could sense it hanging on the air, as if waiting to steal more souls.

Elboron blinked so his eyes grew accustomed to the drab light. As his surroundings came into view his stomach lurched once more. He was bombarded by the overwhelming horror but small details seemed to press themselves into his vision. Details such as the varying colour of the legs of the six wooden tables that were spaced evenly about the tent; still the colour of freshly cut wood at their bottom but stained more deeply the higher Elboron's eyes traced with blood that had seeped onto them from the patients who had lain above to be treated. The arms of the healers that stood behind each table caked in blood to the elbows and their pale faces with the stress of this day written vividly across each one. These men had been working in these appalling conditions with barely a break since the first casualties had been brought in ten hours before. The terrifying array of implements placed on a stand in the centre, each now bloodied and dimmed, blunted by overuse, awaiting their next victim. And lastly the stack of amputated limbs discarded at the back of the tent and the flies that buzzed around them.

Elboron forced his eyes to stop seeing the horror of it but then his ears took over: the death cackle in the laboured breathing of the boy on the table nearest to him and then a piercing scream from the back of the tent. All was constantly over written by someone sobbing hopelessly close by. Elboron gulped. He could feel his bile rising but just as he thought he must turn and leave the tent, his eye fell on the table over to his left and the deathly yet familiar face of his father. It pulled him back to his duty and gave him the courage he needed, although his legs wobbled noticeably as he moved across to the table.

There was a healer and a younger apprentice fussing over the Steward. They were removing his chain mail and assessing the injuries. Behind them at a further table, Elboron spied the dark blond mane of his uncle Eomer, who sat with Gimli by his side. The dwarf seemed to be sharing a cup with the King of Rohan; probably containing mead, if Elboron knew both lords...

"Just a few stitches," Eomer's voice boomed. "Stop the bleeding. The rest can wait till I get back to the Houses of Healing. I have my bed booked already, just ask your Steward!"

On the bed before him, Elboron was shocked to hear his father let out a crude chuckle. Faramir raised his head slightly as if to retort but the movement was too much and he began to cough, a deep rattling sound that shook his whole body.

"Easy, my lord," the healer said as he eased the Steward back on to the table. "You should not exert yourself, you will need your remaining strength." He continued his inspection of the Steward's wounds.

"Do you hear that, Faramir?" came Eomer's voice. "Do as the healer says, for the bed in the Houses is mine, remember?"

Elboron reached the table. "Father!" he managed to say although his voice sounded weak and he had to force back his tears.

Faramir's blue eyes came to rest on him. They were veiled with pain and his face was pale and lined but he managed a weak smile. "Bron," he whispered croakily "Come here, my son. How goes it with you...are you well?"

"Never better, Father" Elboron answered as he took hold of his father's hand. He sat on the stool beside him, gratefully, since he felt his legs would no longer bear his weight. Elboron never allowed his eyes to wonder from Faramir's watery stare. The medical assessment went on around him but Elboron cared little for what was happening.

At same point the King entered and brought with him athelas, which was quickly crushed and placed in bowls of boiling water. The dire deathly stench of the tent was soon overpowered by the fragrance of fresh, dewy mornings and all hearts were lightened.

There was a muttered conversation between the King, Gimli, Legolas and Eomer. Elboron heard snatches, "Held against terrific odds . . . White Company took heavy losses . . . Faramir held them together . . . took an arrow in the thigh early on . . . found him and Eomer under a heap of tens of uruks . . . unconscious in each other's arms on field . . lost a lot of blood . . . brought both here as soon as possible . . . Eomer here will be fine, but Faramir . . . "

Then the King moved forward and squeezed Elboron's shoulder to reassure him.

The healer let out a shocked gasp and stepped back. The King moved forward. "What is it?" he asked.

The healer had been looking at Faramir's shoulder wound. Elboron's eyes at last left his father's to see what had caused the anxiety. It appeared that the uruk blade had run down the Steward's face and then his neck and chest, the wound growing gradually deeper as it progressed but stopping abruptly just above his heart. Elboron saw that the bloody track of the blade had been halted by the green stone pinned to Faramir's under-tunic. Elboron remembered his father's explanation that this was the stone that Saruman had used to enchant him, and that his father had used to help awaken Eldarion from the trance. Aragorn moved forward and gently unfastened the stone. He regarded it and whistled through his teeth as he saw the intricate casing had been misshapen where it had absorbed the power of the uruk's thrust.

"It is about time this stone brought you good fortune, my Steward," Aragorn said. "Had it not stopped the blow it would have reached your heart."

Faramir gulped and nodded. "I had forgotten I wore it," he murmured weakly. "But I am glad I did!"

Aragorn smiled. "As are we all!" He placed the stone in his own belt-pouch for safekeeping. "As ever you have done all I asked of you, Faramir, my mender of hearts. Now it is our turn to mend you. The arrow will have to come out," he said sympathetically.

The Steward nodded. "I fear it will. I am ready." He smiled bravely but tensed. "Do it now."

The healer nodded and prepared to start the operation. Aragorn stood behind where Elboron sat. From the other table Eomer, Legolas and Gimli watched nervously.

Elboron held his father's hand trying to impart his own strength into the weakened Steward. As he looked at his father's pale clammy skin, bare against the stained wood on which he lay, he saw the crisscross of scars from his previous wounds. How many times had Faramir suffered pain and injury to fight for the things he loved? How much had he borne with silent dignity to protect Gondor? The evidence of his sacrifice was there to see, his body lastingly marked from countless battles and fights that Faramir never even spoke of. Elboron knew, unlike other men he had met, the Steward never boasted of his deeds, never dwelt on what he did, he simply allowed his actions to speak for themselves. The son was awed anew by the courage of his sire and so very proud. Elboron suddenly realised the awesome footsteps into which he would have to follow.

Beneath him Faramir stiffened. Elboron found himself unable to watch as the healer took hold of the truncated shaft of the arrow. Instead he focused on his father's face, now contorted with pain. The Steward sucked in a ragged breath, his eyes tightly closed as a shudder ran through his body.

"Easy, Faramir," Aragorn soothed from behind.

Faramir's body tightened. The healer bent over his thigh, an expression of severe concentration on his face as he focused on the shaft of the arrow. After a few moments of pulling and probing he shook his head.

"I shall have to cut it out," he muttered as he let go of the shaft and turned to retrieve his knife.

Faramir relaxed a little, letting out a long breath. He had been here before, many times, but the previous experience of such pain did not make him feel any less apprehensive. He knew he must conserve what little of his energy remained for he would need it to rise above the agony to come.

The healer returned with his knife. Elboron looked away but remained doggedly holding his father's hand. Aragorn and Legolas moved to hold Faramir immobile on the bed, Aragorn careful not to touch the wound that still bled from his shoulder, Legolas at the lower end of the table, holding the Steward's legs.

Faramir stiffened once more, beneath the firm hands of his friends. He let out a painful gasp as the healer began to cut but then no further sound as he bit down on his lip, drawing blood. His hand tightened around Elboron's as the pain flashed through his features. Elboron kept his attention on his father's face and saw how haggard it became, aging as he watched. Still Faramir held his breath refusing to utter a sound, eyes tightly closed, neck muscles taunt and bulging.

"Come on," Elboron heard himself mutter. He wanted to look and see how the healer fared but he could not pull his eyes away from his father. There was no colour now in the Steward's face; it was pale as death and drawn to breaking point. The handsome features that Elboron had known all his life knotted and distorted into something he could no longer recognise. As he watched it was as if the very essence of his father was being drained by the intensity of the pain to leave just a distorted, dead husk of what had once been.

"Hurry up!" Elboron's fear-filled voice was louder now. "You are killing him!"

"I cannot . . ." the healer hissed the edge of panic in his voice. He was tired and despondent. He had been working since dawn and had seen too many of his patients die beneath his hands on this very table. Now, to have to operate on the Steward of Gondor, with the King and other lords looking on was just too much. He blinked his eyes, took a deep breath and once again tried to lever the arrowhead from its place embedded in the flesh of Faramir's thigh.

Aragorn and Legolas exchanged a worried glance.

Faramir let out a deep groan but bit it back instantly. His body was growing more tense as it began to shiver. His eyes flickered open and rolled up into his head.

There was a rustle from behind as Gimli moved forward and Eomer, the stitching of the wound in his side finished, slid down from his perch on the other table. Both strained to see, their eyes glistening with worry in the lamplight.

The healer bent lower, his lips pursed. "The arrowhead has worked its way in too deep," he muttered. He lifted his hands in defeat, raising his eyes to the King.

Faramir groaned desperately. "Cut it out!" he pleaded, voice husky and weak.

Aragorn signalled to Gimli who took the King's place at Faramir's shoulder. Aragorn moved to the healer and gently placed a hand on his panicking shoulders.

"You have done your best," the King said. "Let me try."

The healer snorted, his face already reddened by exertion now blushed deeper with embarrassment but he let the King take the knife from his hand. Aragorn gulped and then looked down at the gaping wound in Faramir's thigh.

Faramir flung his head back, eyes rolling once more as he threatened to slip away into his agony.

"Hold on, Faramir," Aragorn said as he deftly wielded the knife. Sweat beaded on his brow as he focussed on his work. The world around him, the injured men, the busy healers, narrowed down to a hand-span of skin and muscle on his friend's pain-wracked body. Aragorn finally let out a grunt of triumph and relief.

Faramir, whose body had been so taut it had lifted from the table and only been held down by the elf and the dwarf, gasped and went suddenly limp, falling back down. Elboron was certain his father was dead but for the fact that his hand still firmly clasped his son's and he moaned weakly.

Aragorn stood back, in his raised hand between thumb and forefinger he held the black barbed arrowhead. The healer and his apprentice rushed to staunch the violent red blood spurting from the wound. Then they cleaned the wound with ?soap and warm water, sewed it shut with catgut thread, and bound it with fresh linen bandages.

"Poisoned?" Eomer asked suspiciously.

"Nay," said the King. "If it had been it was so long inside we would have seen its effects already. Now it is out and if we can stop the bleeding, I think our beloved Steward will be out of danger."

He moved back and laid a hand on Faramir's forehead. "No sign of fever," he said. "We will watch him closely this night for if he survives the next twenty four hours he will recover, I am sure of it."

Faramir's eyes fluttered open at the King's touch. "Thank you, my King." he mouthed.

Aragorn smiled. "No, it is I that thank you, Faramir. Rest now, you have suffered much to do my bidding this day."

Still Faramir fought to remain conscious. His voice was almost inaudible as he managed to whisper, "But my men . . ."

"Worry not," Aragorn said. "They are heroes all and Gondor shall treat them as such. Now sleep, my friend."

Elboron still held his father's hand but Faramir's grip was loosening as sleep claimed him. The Steward's head lolled to the side, eyes closed and he groaned softly.

"After the bleeding is controlled we will bear him to my tent," Aragorn ordered. "I will watch over him. Bring me more athelas too." His keen gaze fell on Elboron. "Bron," he said softly. "You will keep me aid me with your father, this night."

Elboron felt a surge of gratefulness rush through him but he could find no words to express himself, so he merely nodded, waited until his father's wounds were properly bound and then allowed the King to shepherd him towards the royal tent.

Faramir awoke again to the dark. But this time there were candles, and the King's hands on his aching leg, a wet cloth pressed lightly against his wound. He was safe.

"I did not mean to awaken you," Aragorn said softly. "I wanted to check your wound. It looks to be healing well, there is only minor inflammation and no sign of infection. I have prepared a poultice to speed its mending."

Faramir looked up, trying to ascertain his location. He was lying on something soft, and he was inside the King's tent. He remembered the long day's battle, and, less distinctly, the horror of lying trapped under the dead orcs and then the arrow's removal in the Healers' tent. "Did we win the day, my lord?" He asked, his voice sounding quavering and weak to his ears.

"Unquestionably." Aragorn answered with a grim smile. "Alatar is our captive, or at least in Pallando's charge. Most of the Easterlings' forces are in rout or dead. We broke their machines of war. There may be more skirmishes ahead, and perhaps another battle, but it will not take much of our strength to finish this war."

"That is good to hear." So many had died for this victory. "And the boys, Cirion and Eldarion, the rest of the lads, they are well?" The pages and cooks and suppliers should have come to no harm. But battles were chancy things and anything could happen.

The King's face smoothed. "Those tents were unscathed. Cirion and Eldarion lie in your tent this night, as do Elboron and some of the wounded who need not a Healer's vigilance. I hear that Cirion is keeping them...entertained."

Faramir managed a feeble chuckle. There was something that Aragorn was keeping from him, but it could not be very dire. Time enough on the morrow to find out what it was...But another matter, most important and saddest of all, to address: "My lord, forgive me. I swore that we would hold, and we did not. They wore us down. Not the fault of my men, they fought most hardily and too many died bravely. My fault." His throat was too dry to talk anymore.

"Faramir, you must rest, or at least stay quiet." The King ordered, but his voice was kind. "Here, take some water." He lifted Faramir's head and shoulders up and propped him up against his chest, then tipped the flask down to Faramir's mouth. The water was tepid, and not from Mt. Mindolluin's clear springs, but it tasted altogether wondrous. "Small sips, Faramir; or you could choke." Aragorn commanded.

When Faramir had drunk as much as he could, Aragorn eased him back down to the warm pile of rugs on which he had lain. Then his King looked down at him once more. Faramir noted sleepily that Aragorn was grey-faced with weariness. He had probably spent half the night using his healing powers and skills on the wounded. And yet Aragorn still took time to tend to him as if Faramir were his own...kin. That old sorrow and longing stirred again, but he quelled it.

"Do not speak of fault, Faramir, for you did not fail." The King told him. "You held the flank long enough, against far greater numbers than we had foreseen, for ?to come in time to close the gap. You and Eomer and your men left very few of your assailants alive."

Aragorn sighed softly, moved away for a few moments, and returned. He pressed something cool and soft against Faramir's thigh, the poultice. It stung briefly, then felt rather good. Aragorn unwound some fresh bandages and wrapped them tightly around the wound. He pulled Faramir's nightshirt down over the injured leg, and closed the fastenings of the bed-robe. Faramir noticed, absurdly, that the robe was not his own, it was grey and silver and black, of the King's own wardrobe.

The King favored him with a smile and sat down beside him. "Faramir, I spoke with your men tonight, as I walked among them and healed as many as I could. They told me of your fortitude and courage. How you survived the fell beast's attack and then stood up, though wounded, and shot down both beast and rider, inspiring your men to kill many more of them. And how you kept the men together, fighting on when they were overwhelmed. I.." Aragorn's gaze was warm as he looked straight into Faramir's eyes.. "I could not be more proud of you than if you were my own son. And I know that if Denethor had lived, he would spoken of his pride in you, and given you his blessing."

"Thank you, my lord" Faramir said quietly, meeting his king's gentle eyes. He could not think what else to say to the words for which he waited so many years. Despite pain, weariness, and concern for his men, his heart was singing. The lord he had secretly wished was his father had now spoken for the lord who was his father, as if the two men had one voice. "He knows" Faramir thought. "I need not ever tell him." To say the words out loud would imply disrespect to Denethor. He reached out and clasped Aragorn's hand in his own, then released it.

"Did I ever thank you, my lord, for saving my life when first you came to the City?" Faramir said. "And here you are tending to me again. Thank you for all of it."

"No need for thanks, mellon-nîn. Healing is always more rewarding than fighting." Aragorn smiled. "And healing you, then and now, gave me a friend as well as a Steward, and another life snatched from the Darkness."

The King heard a faint sound that was halfway between a sigh and a laugh. Looking down, he saw that Faramir slept, a tranquil smile brightening his pale face.