Author note: Firstly apologies for my really long introduction on the last chapter! I waffle way too much. I don't own Tolkien's creations obvs, just my OCs and what happens to them. Please review if you have the time!

Chapter Two - The hands of a healer

Time seemed to move differently for Keren. She knew she was running down the corridor towards the warden's room – it was the only private space she could think of according to Faramir's rank – and yet she could not seem to make her legs move fast enough. Beregond was talking constantly, telling her hurriedly all that had transpired to bring them to this point, but she was not taking all of it in. She could not make herself think straight. She was glad, glad beyond any joy she had ever felt – to think that he was alive! But Beregond's words: 'wounded…perhaps mortal…may be dying' pressed at her temples, almost deafening her. To hear, mistakenly she now realised, that he was dead, only to see him alive was one thing. But the fact that he was barely alive and could, after all, shortly be taken from her, was almost too much to bear.

His face was the colour her mother's had been as she lay still and silent on her death-bed. His hair lay stuck to his forehead and the nape of his neck with sweat. She couldn't believe it when she saw his chest rising up and down, with slow and steady breaths. He was deeply unconscious, and clearly burning with fever.

Once within the warden's room Beregond lay Faramir on the bed.

"Stay with him, keep an eye on his breathing. Sit by him and rest while you can, you look dead on your feet," Beregond said. "Where can I find the warden?"

"He should be in the main ward," Keren replied. "If you cannot find him speak to Ioreth."

Beregond left swiftly. The little creature scurried after him.

Keren took a deep, steadying breath in the silence. For the first time in her life, she was alone with Faramir.

She tentatively reached out and lifted his shirt, where she saw blood, to see the extent of any wound there may be. On his left side, close to his heart, there was a small amount of blood on his skin, fairly fresh. Someone had removed the arrow, with a skilled hand she noticed, and made the effort to staunch the flow and clean the wound. It would simply need cleaning again, perhaps some stitches and to be bandaged. The incision was small and shallow. She breathed a shaky sigh of relief.

But then she remembered the muffled tidings she had heard through the door to the warden's office – a poisoned arrow. It was not the wound that was fatal, but death was spreading through his veins. She took his hand within her own and tried to calm her sudden tears and ragged breathing in case Beregond returned with the warden.

This was certainly not how she had imagined the first time she touched him to be, and she did not wish to savour the moment.

She knew he was unaware of her being there, unaware of anything, but she felt herself gaining strength with his hand in hers, and she hoped that he was getting strength from her.

After a couple of minutes, which seemed to drag on and on to Keren, Beregond, the little man and the warden entered the room. She hastily dropped Faramir's hand. She did not think anyone had seen, but the small creature gave her a questioning, strange look as he left the room once more with Beregond.

"Forgive me, sir," she said to the warden once they were alone. "I could not think where else to bring him."

The warden shook his head, then placed his hand on Faramir's forehead.

"You did the right thing Keren," he said. "All he needs is peace. There is little we can do except attempt to bring his fever down."

Keren stared up at him.

"Then he will die?" she asked.

"I hope, for all our sakes, not," he replied. "But he was struck with a poisoned arrow, and he has been left long without any treatment. The poison must be well into his blood by now, it has been two days since he was struck."

"Why has he only been brought here now?" Keren asked, anguished. He could have been saved if they had acted with more haste. All this time thinking he was dead when he had been lying, weak but alive, just one level above where she was.

The warden looked towards the door, sighed, then walked over and bolted it. He turned to face her.

"These tidings must stay between us for now," he said seriously. "In this room, in our charge, lies the new steward of Gondor. Lord Denethor has… succumbed to grief." He shook his head. "Beregond's tidings were grave. Seeing Lord Faramir injured, so struck down with madness was Lord Denethor that instead of trying to save his son's life, he wished to end it, along with his own. He perished in flame, in his attempt to burn Faramir's body."

Keren stared down at Faramir, dumbstruck. She did not ask questions, as she did not wish to know any more. Sensing her discomfort, the warden went on.

"I will treat the wound in his side and bring his temperature down the best I can," he said. "Run and fetch leeches and dressings, some barley, honey and turpentine. Also vinegar, coriander and mint. I will make a purge if he gains consciousness."

Keren nodded and went to the store.

Once Faramir had been leeched and his wound treated and bandaged the warden looked at her warily.

"Keren, when was the last time you slept?" he asked.

She shrugged. "The same time as all of us sir," she replied. "I don't think any of us can remember."

He looked grim.

"You must stay vigilant," he said. "The Lord Faramir is our most important charge. I must go and patrol the wards, but I would not have you watch him if you're likely to collapse yourself."

"I can watch him," she said, far sharper than she intended to. "I'll be fine."

He frowned, about to say something else, when another set of knocking began on the doors to the Houses. The warden sighed.

"I will attend to that," he said. "Watch his breathing and keep notes on any changes. Call for Ioreth if he worsens, I do not care what she is doing or who she is tending, she is to come."

"Yes sir," she said.

The warden left, leaving the door wide open, a welcome breeze flowing into the room. Keren wondered if she should stand and shut the door, but decided that fresh air in the small room would be pleasant. After only a few seconds she heard what sounded like many feet rushing down the corridor. The warden passed back by the open door, followed by a strange old man garbed all in white, carrying a staff. Behind them two men were carrying a litter, and on the litter was… a woman. A gravely injured woman it seemed. Keren had only the time to register that thought before they were gone.

She turned back to Faramir. Minutes later a small knock on the open door alerted her to the presence of Bergil, Beregond's son.

"Bergil!" Keren said, relieved. "You're alright!"

Despite his father already telling her this, she was glad to see him with her own eyes. The lad was hard working, merry and mischievous, and she had a strong maternal pull towards him, despite there only being ten years between them. He had refused to flee with his mother and younger brother.

"I have a message for Mithrandir," he said quickly. "There is a perian, a sick one, with another perian, in the city and he needs to… to – "

"Wait, Bergil, wait," Keren said. "Who is Mithrandir?"

"The wizard!" he said, excitedly. "The white wizard!"

Keren then knew the identity of the strange old man that had passed by.

"He went that way," she pointed down the corridor towards the wards.

Bergil nodded, turned and ran. Keren knew not what to think, so went back to what she had been doing – watching for any sign of change in Faramir's condition.

Again she took his hand, again she touched his forehead. Again there was no change.

What felt like an age later a glance out of the window told her that it was still full day, and therefore it must have only been a few hours since Beregond had brought Faramir to them. She did rise to shut the door now, as the breeze was becoming a chill. It felt like she was shutting the world out.

She went back to his bedside and again took his hand, and sat with him in silence, until the sun started to set. Its warm light shone through the window and illuminated his face, turning grey to gold. It looked, for a moment, as if his health was returning, but it was a cruel trick of the light. Keren was near to despair.

Just as she bowed her head in despondence the door burst open. She stared up at the intruder, still clutching Faramir's hand. A figure stood in the doorway and it seemed as if Keren viewed an all-powerful being – she was blinded by the power it exuded. But then the glamour faded and she was looking at a weary old man leaning on a staff. An old man with a white cloak and a white beard. Mithrandir.

He came gently into the room, not commenting on the hand of the sick man that was still very much within Keren's grasp. He placed a hand on Faramir's forehead and immediately muttered, "black shadow," and sighed.

Trotting behind him came Ioreth, who immediately started weeping at the sight of Faramir.

"Alas! if he should die," she said through her tears. Keren had never seen Ioreth cry and it brought her own tears to the surface. "Would that there were kings in Gondor, as there were once upon a time, they say! For it is said in old lore: The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. And so the rightful king could ever be known."

The wizard, still with the cooling hand on Faramir's forehead, froze. He muttered something under his breath, that sounded to Keren a little like wisdom from fools.

Then he spoke aloud. "Men may long remember your words, Ioreth! For there is hope in them. Maybe a king has indeed returned to Gondor; or have you not heard the strange tidings that have come to the City?"

"I have been too busy with this and that to heed all the crying and shouting," Ioreth said. "All I hope is that those murdering devils do not come to this House and trouble the sick."

The wizard's face reverted back to annoyance and weariness, and he swiftly turned on his heel and left, leaving Ioreth and Keren looking at each other in silence. Keren did not want to think on what 'black shadow' was. She had never heard of it, so how could she cure him of it?

Ioreth looked pointedly at Keren and Faramir's hands entwined. Keren sighed and laid his hand back on the bed without giving an explanation. She did not care what Ioreth thought. She did not care about anything anymore except seeing Faramir live. Ioreth let it pass.

"We all care for him, Keren," she said simply.

"There has been no change," Keren said, almost under her breath. "His fever still rages."

Ioreth made a small sound of disappointment in the back of her throat, drew up a stool and sat across the bed from Keren.

"Do you have any news?" Keren asked. "I have been sat in this room all day, I could not leave him."

Ioreth, at the mention of news and despite her tiredness, looked fit to burst.

"A noble lady has been brought in, a shieldmaiden they are calling her," Ioreth began. "Her name is Eowyn. She is the niece of the king of Rohan. Or I should now say the sister of the new king. King Theoden perished in the battle."

Keren sighed, taking the news of yet another death in. But Ioreth did not give her time to dwell as she continued with her tale.

"Shortly after Mithrandir brought her in, he left, only to return with two perian, one of them gravely wounded."

"Perian?" Keren queried.

"Only he called them hobbits," Ioreth said, not hearing Keren. "Little people, halflings, whatever you want to call them."

All was made clear to Keren.

"I must have seen one of them when Beregond brought Lord Faramir in, although he was not injured."

"Ah, that must have been the one who went and pledged allegiance to the Lord Denethor," Ioreth explained. "The Prince of all the halflings I have heard say he is. He is now a guard of the citadel, can you believe! Such things happening in our city, we do live in strange times." She chuckled and Keren welcomed the sound. She could not remember when she had last heard laughter.

She gazed back down at Faramir. It seemed strange to be talking over him as he slept.

"The lady and the perian are suffering from a strange malady," Ioreth went on, suddenly serious again. "Their injuries are not what ails them. The lady's left arm was crushed beneath her shield, and broken, but we have set it and it will heal. The halfling has barely a scratch on him. Rather they sleep, but not a restful sleep. They are cold, so deathly cold, pale and quite still. They talk and murmur under their breath, of such terrible things. Mithrandir has called it the Black Shadow. He says it was dealt by the Nazgul, the winged shadows."

Even the name brought a shiver to Keren as she realised that this was what the wizard thought was afflicting Faramir. Ioreth went on regardless.

"Their poor right arms, they are the coldest of all, for they stabbed the Lord of the shadows and brought him down. That was that great shriek we heard. I and the warden have been working tirelessly to cure them, but to no avail. I am quite exhausted. Now Mithrandir has gone I can rest for a while. There are still many being brought in from the Pelennor, but old Ioreth can be spared an hour after her hard work these past days."

Keren smiled weakly at her, her thoughts still dwelling on the strange malady. Ioreth said the lady and the perian were cold, but Faramir was burning. Was it simply that the black shadow from the Nazgul had weakened him so that he could not fight the fever from the poison?

"And yourself, girl?" Ioreth looked piercingly at her. "Any rest for you?"

Keren shook her head. "Not yet. I don't want to leave him."

Ioreth sighed. "You will be of no use to him if you cannot stay awake."

But Keren did not reply, and Ioreth did not press her to. She knew the face of one in love, and Keren was too tired to hide it.

No good will come of you letting her moon over him, soppy old fool, thought Ioreth, but then realised that come the morning the man may no longer be alive. Ah, but what harm is there in it now? Let the girl love him while he still lives.

She quietly left the room and went to rest. Keren took Faramir's hand once more. The light in the room faded as the sun disappeared behind the mountains in the west. Keren lit a candle and a lamp. With the sunlight went more of Keren's hope. Faramir's temperature had risen again and his breathing was becoming laboured. She made up another cool cloth for his forehead and let him inhale the essences of coriander and mint. She considered the leeches again but did not want to weaken him further. It seemed to her that he was using the last of his strength to fight the rising fever. As soon as she touched the cloth to his head it was almost dry, such was the heat exuding from his body. She felt like whimpering with panic – how she had found herself in this position she knew not, to be his sole carer at a time like this.

What if he dies while I am alone with him? she thought desperately.I don't think I could bear it.

In her turmoil she was about to run and fetch the warden when the door opened.

The wizard had returned, but this time Ioreth was not with him.

Instead there was a very tall man, dressed in mail from the battle, with a grey cloak over his shoulders and a shining green stone set in a silver brooch on his breast.

His face was dirtied from fighting and his hair was dark and tangled, but Keren felt the aura of power he gave off. This was not the power that Mithrandir wielded, but more one of a great leader of men.

Peeking from behind him was the perian she had met before. She saw, belatedly, that he was dressed identically to Beregond, in the uniform of the guard. Three more men stood just inside the door. Two she did not recognise, but the one she knew stepped forward.

"Keren," Beregond said. "Come outside for a little while, these great lords must look on Lord Faramir."

Dumbly she stood, skirting past them all awkwardly, and followed him into the corridor.

"Come," he said kindly, "you need some fresh air. I have food. The hobbit is exceptionally skilled in tracking it down. There's water also."

He took her out of the main doors and on to the front steps of the Houses, where they sat next to each other. She fell upon the bread and cheese he had brought her, and gulped down the small jug of cold, fresh water.

"Who were they?" she asked when her plate was clean of all crumbs, her mouth still full in her eagerness for the answer.

"The one with the long yellow hair was King Eomer of Rohan, brother of the Lady Eowyn," he explained. "The older one with the dark hair was Imrahil, Prince of Dol Amroth."

"Lord Faramir's uncle?" Keren asked.

"The same," Beregond confirmed. He looked as if he wished to say something more, but thought better of it.

"The tall man with the strange stone at his breast…" She left the question unanswered.

"I have just now seen him for the first time, we have shared no words," Beregond said. "Peregrin – the hobbit – called him Strider. From what he said of the man before I believe his real name is Aragorn. But the man himself has just said he is called Elessar, which means Elfstone. It is all very confusing. He seems a grim sort of fellow."

"Did you see the brooch he wore?" Keren asked. "Such a bright green. It was at first all I could see of him."

Beregond looked puzzled. "I saw only a silver eagle with wings outstretched, and a dull green stone within. Prince Imrahil made a strange remark though. When the hobbit called the man 'Strider' he seemed amazed. 'Is it thus we speak to our kings' he said."

Keren now began to understand the conversation between the wizard and Ioreth, strange as all this was.

"If I have all this aright, the wizard seems to think this Strider can heal the ones afflicted with the Black Shadow," Keren explained. "If he is the man they think he is. And I believe they think he is the true King of Gondor."

Beregond was silent as he took in her words.

Keren's sigh filled the now quiet night. She dimly registered in the back of her mind that the silence meant the battle must be over. They must have won, or else they would be dead.

The knowledge meant little now, after all that had happened. The man she loved was dying, and his only hope was the word of old Ioreth, saying that this strange man could somehow heal him.

"I should get back to work," Keren said. "Now they are with him, I am not needed there, I can go back to the wards," she said regretfully.

"I am not sure," Beregond replied. "They will only be with him a matter of moments, to see the extent of his injuries, then Elessar has asked to see the Lady Eowyn and the other hobbit. I think he is assessing which will need his attention first. I also think once they have left the Lord Faramir you would do well to return to him. For your own peace of mind if nothing else."

He gave her a worried look. She knew then that he somehow knew of her feelings. Was she so transparent? That morning Palen was the only one who had any idea, and now she was certain Ioreth, Beregond, a wizard and a hobbit all knew. And she had never even heard of a hobbit before today.

She smiled vaguely and stood to go inside, but then realised she had not once asked her friend how he was faring.

"And you Beregond," she said, her hand on his shoulder. "You are well?"

"I am… well," he replied. "Bergil is safe, despite his stupidity in not going with his mother. My wife and little Borlas, although I do not know where they are, I have to hope are safe away from here. I am alive, for now." He gave a wry smile.

Keren knew he was holding something back, but did not press him.

"I am to remain here in the Houses," he said simply, "although I am not injured. I am to guard Lord Faramir. Speaking of which, they have probably moved on by now. I should go to his side."

"I will come with you," Keren said.

Together they returned to the warden's room. The men had gone. Faramir was still sleeping, his breathing loud and rasping. Keren took her usual place by the side of the bed, and Beregond took up his guard position just inside the door.

"Why do you stand over there?" she asked him.

"I cannot bear to see him suffering," he explained. "He is a great man, a great leader of men. It makes my heart ache to see him laid low."

She looked sadly at him, then turned to Faramir, placing a hand on his head, brushing the hair from his face.

"So many love you," she whispered. "You will leave all bereft. Please do not leave me. You cannot leave me. The prophe - ".

She stopped herself before Beregond heard too much. She had almost forgotten herself, and she cursed herself for her foolishness. This was one secret she could not share with anyone, not even Palen.

Whatever Beregond may or may not have heard was soon forgotten as the men returned. They could hear their heavy footsteps approaching down the corridor and the raised voice of one they guessed to be Elessar.

"…for Faramir, time is running out. All speed is needed. You have store in this House of the herbs of healing?"

Then a pause and a pattering of feminine footsteps.

"Yes lord." Ioreths's voice.

She wittered breathlessly on as she ran alongside them, and Keren was pained to hear she did not fully answer the man's question. As she was finishing her great speech, the group came into the room.

"I will judge that when I see," Elessar said, going straight over to Faramir. Keren could not help but stand in his presence, giving him room beside the bed. "One thing also is short, time for speech."

Keren, in any other circumstance, would have laughed. But the man spoke true.

"Have you athelas?" he asked Ioreth.

Please answer him swiftly, Keren silently begged her. Please Ioreth.

"I do not know, I am sure, lord," Ioreth began, "at least not by that name. I will go and ask of the herb-master; he knows all the old names."

"It is also called kingsfoil," said Elessar, "and maybe you know it by that name, for so the country-folk call it in these latter days."

Keren was shocked. Was this man mad? Kingsfoil was a weed. She looked down an Faramir in desperation.

Minas Tirith was a city of stone, not greenery, with only the gardens of the Houses of Healing within its walls, but stubborn weeds managed to creep into the gaps between the old stone when they had a mind to. Her father she knew was driven mad by their constant desire to grow up through the stone slabs of his yard, and no other plant had such staying power or capacity for growth as kingsfoil. He had culled a great spread of it a fortnight ago, burning most. He always kept a few leaves behind however, to sweeten the smell of the privy. Already it had started to spread again.

Keren in her confusion had missed what was then said. The wizard was halfway through speaking.

"…Shadow-fax shall show her the meaning of haste," he was saying, inexplicably.

Keren looked up from Faramir's face and found herself staring straight into the eyes of the madman who called himself a king.

"Fetch two bowls of hot water," he said to her, "with all speed."

She nodded, blindly submitting to his strange authority, and ran from the room to the kitchens.