Notes: Guess what? You get an extra long chapter this time, because it just flowed so well together. So enjoy, and don't forget to return the favor with a review!

Chapter Eight: With Healing He Comes

Some time later Damla raised her head at the sound of footsteps approaching, and the door being opened. She stood stiffly and laid Faramir's hand back on the sheets, watching as several men and healers entered the room. One of the men was Imrahil, one was Mithrandir, and there were two others she did not know. A man dressed in the uniform of Rohan stood close to the door, accompanied, she was startled to see, by a hobbit. But the fourth man was the one who drew her attention fully. He was tall, with hair as dark as Faramir's, and eyes that were all at once kind and stern and courageous and noble. He looked weary, but there was something about his bearing that made Damla's heart suddenly lift as it had not lifted in the last forty-eight hours.

Imrahil stepped forward and said something to Mithrandir that she did not hear, for he whispered, and Mithrandir's eyes darted to her for a split-second. She lowered her eyes and bowed silently. The men began to speak amongst themselves, but she paid little attention to what they said. Her heart, which had been so suddenly light, came back down to where it had been. After all, what could these men do for him? Perhaps some of them had healers' knowledge, but Faramir was beyond the need of bodily healing.

When the fourth man stepped forward, however, Damla's eyes followed him and stayed fixed on him rigidly. She knew better than to protest as he pulled down the sheets and gently felt Faramir's limp body, then turned to face Mithrandir. "How did this happen?" he asked. Damla felt that whatever his looks told her heart, his voice told it ten times over. Mithrandir simply shook his head and said something in another language. The man's face turned cold, until he looked back at Faramir. This time he knelt beside the bed and laid his hand on Faramir's forehead.

Faramir didn't respond, and Mithrandir looked away in an uncharacteristic show of grief. Damla wondered at his reaction. Was this man so powerful that he could heal someone simply by touching them? She began to have a tiny seed of doubt in her mind, but her heart continued watching the man as vigilantly as ever. When he first called out, "Faramir!" she almost gasped. What use was it to call for him, as if he was in some far off place and he could come? But the man called, over and over, and as time passed his voice grew fainter—not fainter because he spoke more softly, fainter as if he was being removed from them slowly. Then Damla realized, with a start, that he was walking in some other place—perhaps the place where Faramir was—looking for one who was lost. Looking for Faramir.

There was not much more that Faramir could endure. Since he had seen his father in the vision with the fire, he had endured hallucination after hallucination. He had seen Boromir, his mother, his uncle, his men, his city, even himself in every tortured, twisted situation possible; had gone through the agony time after time, only to realize that it was nothing but a fevered dream. But every time he came back to the gray darkness, it was a little deeper and more overwhelming. And now the darkness was not black or gray, nor even dark. It was a pattern of moving, changing reds and oranges and yellows—fire, consuming his very will to live. He had no more hallucinations now, only felt the fire eating himself away. There was not much left, now. Everything he knew, or felt, or believed in was gone. He had just enough strength to marvel at the completeness of the misery the shadow could inflict on his very soul, before that thought, too, was swept away by the agony of the flames.

He was weak, now. In the beginning he had searched desperately for a way back to himself. He had screamed, and run, and looked. After a while he had wandered aimlessly, hoping that he would find strength to take him out of this world and back into the real one. Now he slumped, unable to move or do anything for the dreadful weakness upon him, and he was realizing slowly that the shadow was stronger than he was. He had tried, time after time, to defeat it, but it had defeated him, and soon it would all be over. When the shadow had eaten everything it could, he would be released to die. It would not be long now.

He didn't believe at first that the man he suddenly saw was real, for in this realm of shadows, he had seen dream after dream after dream, and all had proven false. Even the dream with his father had not been real, though it had been more real than any other. As the man came closer, he wondered what the shadow could do to him now, now that he was so weak and helpless. He could not fight this dream, not anymore. He closed his eyes with a groan.

"Faramir!" came a voice, and Faramir's eyes opened just a crack. The voice was so unlike the other voices he had heard in his dreams. There was warmth to this one, and something like life. But Faramir knew that no one could save him now, not even Mithrandir; the voice was another trick of the shadow.

"Faramir!" someone called again, and Faramir opened his eyes just a bit wider. This time he saw the man standing before him, stretching his arms out. "I have found you," the voice said, and Faramir's heart suddenly breathed again, if only for a moment. He closed his eyes resolutely, trying to shut this dream out too. He was no longer resigned to his fate, for the dream was too powerful. The others he could endure, but this was different. If this was simply a dream he would die, for just as the others had been so terrible, this one felt so good.

"No," he whispered through cracked lips, "go away. I have not the strength left to fight you."

"Do not fight me," the voice said, so gently that Faramir felt he had not heard words spoken to him like that ever before. "I am here to save you."

Faramir's eyes opened all the way, and he looked up into the most noble face he had ever seen. He knew the face, though he had never seen him before. It was the king. Suddenly, he felt something pulling him down, weighing on him and dragging him somewhere else. The king's face began to fade, and he cried out.

"Faramir!" the king's voice was urgent, "You must fight it! You must not let it drag you away from me, or I cannot save you!"

"I cannot," Faramir moaned, "I have not the strength left. I have fought…please…"

"You must!" The king's voice was fading faster. "Faramir, I know you have the strength remaining. Do not give up yet."

Faramir began to struggle with the darkness, just a little. He had not thought he had any strength left; indeed he had very little. But he had some, and with it he fought fiercely. He began to see another hallucination taking form around him.

"No!" he cried out. With a monumental effort, he raised his hand and beat back the darkness, and suddenly, he was back in the fire, and the king was standing before him. He sobbed for breath, and though he felt the king's presence, he had not the strength to open his eyes. Then he felt a cool touch on his forehead, and the king's voice was close to him.

"You had the strength," he whispered gently. "You were always strong."

Faramir wanted to shake his head, but he could not make his body comply. Even his voice would not come out, but the king seemed to sense that. "Come," the king said, "we must leave this world."

Faramir felt the king's arms about his waist, and then he was lifted over the king's shoulder and being carried away from the fire. As they walked, thoughts began to form once more in Faramir's head, and he realized that the fire was fading away. He could not raise his head, but he began to smell something sweet and refreshing—a scent that it seemed he had know all his life, yet never before smelled. He felt the king's arms tense as he lowered him to the ground, which was soft, and then, suddenly, he was staring at a white-washed ceiling, and he knew by the feel of the bed beneath him that he was awake. His eyes turned, slowly, to a face close to his own, and his lips opened.

"My Lord," he said with an effort, "you called me. What does the king command?"

Aragorn's face broke into a smile, and he squeezed Faramir's shoulder, above the burn marks. "Walk no more in shadows, but awake!" he said gently. Then, seeing how Faramir's eyes fought on their own to close, he said, "You are weary, and shall be for some time. Rest a while, and take food, and be ready when I return."

Faramir breathed deeply for a moment before replying, "I will, Lord. For…who would lie idle when the King has returned?" Aragorn nodded. "Regain your strength," he said in parting, and then he turned to leave the room, followed by Mithrandir and the other man. Yet before he left, he turned toward Damla and smiled at her. Coming closer, he spoke words to her that no one except she could hear. She shook her head slightly, and he laid a hand on her head, where it had struck the bed. Suddenly, she burst into tears and put her head in her hands, and at another word from Aragorn, she nodded and looked up into his eyes, smiling. Then he left the room.

Faramir looked around the room slowly, trying to focus on the people standing near him. Imrahil stepped forward and lay his hand on his nephew's brow, his expression a mixture of too many emotions to read. "Uncle?" Faramir asked uncertainly. Imrahil nodded.

"Yes, Faramir, it is I," he said in a choked voice. "I'm here."

Faramir shut his eyes wearily and took another deep breath. "Where is Damla?" he asked. Damla, wiping her eyes in the corner, looked up in surprise, but stepped toward the bed. "Yes, Faramir?" she asked, "I am here."

Faramir raised his arm slowly and grasped her wrist in a weak grip. "Thank you," he whispered. He swallowed and his cracked lips opened wider. "May I have…a drink?" he whispered. Damla put a hand to her forehead. "Of course!" she said, looking around wildly. The pitcher of water sat on the table next to Imrahil, and he poured some into a cup and handed it to Damla. Then Imrahil stepped to the bed again and, putting his arms and shoulder behind Faramir, raised the younger man's shoulders and head so Damla could hold the cup to his lips. Faramir drank greedily, and closed his eyes as Imrahil lowered him back to the bed. "I'm sorry," he said softly, and then his head fell to one side, his chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths; Damla checked his pulse and forehead. "The fever is broken," she said, looking up at Imrahil. "His pulse is steady…he sleeps."

Finally allowing himself to relax, Imrahil bowed his head and wept.

Damla entered the room bearing a bowl of water in the crook of her right arm, several bottles of drugs in her left hand, and fresh bandages slung over her arm. She paused for a moment at the door, smiling slightly at the calm pervading the room. They had put Faramir in the east wing because it was the quietest—the entrance to the Houses was in the west wing—and he had the best chance of rest on this side of the building. His room was small, but refreshing and clean, and there were few who had their own rooms besides Faramir. Space was limited, what with the battle casualties, and most of the rooms had at least three occupants. Faramir had received extra care first because of the seriousness of his illness, and secondly because of his rank and the love the people of Minus Tirith bore for him.

Damla turned toward the bed and smiled at the sight of Faramir resting with his eyes closed against the white pillows. She knew he was not asleep; she had known him long enough to tell that his light breathing and fine, single crease in the center of his forehead bespoke of wakefulness. Nevertheless, she set the various articles she carried on the side table and turned to pick up a discarded shirt lying on the floor. Behind her, she heard him stir, and upon turning, she saw his eyes fixed on her.

"How are you feeling?" she asked, coming to his side and laying a hand on his forehead. "I hope you have been resting."

Faramir smiled slightly and nodded. "I have been drugged well," he said softly. At her swift apologetic smile, he went on. "It can only help my body heal."

"Rest is the best thing," she agreed. "Except, perhaps, some fresh bandages." Faramir groaned and turned his face away. Damla smiled at him and turned to the table. "Come, it can't be that bad!" she laughed. "They are healing so well!"

"But I am still so tender," he said, "and you are abnormally rough as a healer."

Damla turned back to him and pulled the blankets down to reveal his bare chest, covered in bandages. "And you are just a big child, Fama," she said. "Now try to be brave." She gently cut the knot holding the cloth in place and helped him ease it off. The wound on his shoulder was puckered and crusty with blood, but it was healing. She dipped a cloth in the bowl of water and said, "Now hold still, will you?"

Faramir winced slightly as she dabbed at the blood, and he turned his eyes to the window in an attempt to distract himself. "I thought I told you that you must not call me 'Fama' anymore," he murmured. Damla shrugged. "I tried," she said matter-of-factly, "but it was too much of a habit. I have gotten better," she said as she turned to pick up a bottle of salve, "but when we are alone, surely you cannot restrict the word. I have, after all, known you almost as long as I can remember."

"Ahh!" the exclamation was out before Faramir could stop it, and he smiled crookedly at Damla. "Forgive me…it burns like the fire of Uncas." Damla nodded and wiped her hands on a clean cloth. She bound the wound quickly, then turned to the wound on his lower left side. "Why did you not tell me about this one?" she asked as she unwrapped it. "You should have had it dressed before you left the city."

Faramir's eyes turned a shade darker, and he looked away again. Damla knew what he was thinking about, and she was angry with herself for mentioning anything to do with the past. But then again, Faramir would have to face it sooner or later. She was divided, half of herself wishing that someone else could tell him about all the events that had transpired while he was unconscious, and the other half hoping that none but intimate lips, such as her own, would tell him. She pursed her lips as she applied salve to the shallower wound and bound it.

"Now," she said as she washed her hands in the bowl, "are you hungry today?" She strode to the door and poked her head out. "Kitha!" she called to the maid scurrying past, "bring some broth." Faramir smiled at her as she turned. "I am slightly hungry," he said. "But there is no need to baby me so."

"Nonsense," Damla said, fluffing the pillow behind his head. As she turned to pull the sheet back up, he caught her wrist; her eyes met his. "Damla," he said softly, "there are others who need your help much more than I."

Damla turned and took his hand in her small one. "But they are not my friends, Fama, whom I have not seen nor spoken with for many days, if not weeks. I think I can spare some time for you."

Faramir's eyes fell to the blankets covering his body, and he smiled crookedly. "I am so weak," he said. "I feel in my mind that I should be doing something…helping my men…but I cannot move my body to comply."

Damla squeezed his arm. "The only thing you should be doing right now, Fama, is regaining your strength for whatever comes next. There is much Gondor will need you for, when you are strong enough."

There was a knock on the door, and Damla opened it for Kitha, who bore a tray with soup and soft, white bread on it. At Damla's bidding the girl set it on the table and then made her exit. "How does it smell?" Damla asked. Faramir smiled and held up his hand; Damla saw that it shook fiercely from the strain of holding it up. "You will have to help me," he said apologetically. "I fear I might spill it."

Damla laughed and drew a stool up beside him. "I will pretend I am feeding one of my sons," she said merrily. "But you must promise to be as good as they are." She held the bowl close to his face, so as not to spill any on the way over, and fed him slowly. He closed his eyes and savored the soup as it slid down his throat. "I have not tasted hot broth since…" his eyes suddenly opened and he looked at her. "How is Eliphalet?" he asked, remembering his dream. "Is he…how is he…"

Damla smiled at his concern for her husband. "He's recovering much too rapidly," she answered. "I fear he will gain all his strength back before the captains are ready to—" she broke off sharply and turned to the tray; she was not fast enough. Faramir's hand was on her shoulder, forcing her to look back at him. His eyes were steel gray, full of hidden command. Damla knew she would have to tell him, for lying to him was almost impossible.

"Damla," he said softly, but with authority beyond his years, "what are the captains planning to do?" She shook her head and set the bowl on the table, unnerved at the look in his eyes. "I cannot say for sure," she said. "There is no complete—"

"Damla," he said even softer, and when she looked up she was surprised to see only pain in his eyes. "The men of Gondor are still under my command," he said. "Well—I at least have the right to know what their plans are, and who commands them now. Is—is my father…" he turned away and shut his eyes. Damla sat in silence, part of her not knowing what to say, and the other wishing to blurt out everything she knew. That part of her she ruthlessly silenced.

"Please," he finally said, and she heard the silent plea in his voice, "tell me. Or I will ask someone else." She saw in his eyes that he meant it, and it was the assurance that he would that drove her to raise her hands and say, "Very well, Faramir, I'll tell you. The Lords Imrahil, Eomer of Rohan, Aragorn the Dunedain, and Mithrandir are planning a march on the Black Gate. What hope they have of succeeding in such an endeavor I do not know, but there must be some chance, or I am sure they would not be so foolhardy as to try it."

Faramir's quick mind at once flew to the reason for such a 'foolhardy' mission. He looked away, toward the window, forgetting for a moment that Damla sat next to him and that he lay on the bed, unable to hold a spoon. "Of course," he murmured. "They wish to draw his attention away…! But they cannot possibly hope to…" he unconsciously sat up, then sank back with a hiss of pain. His eyes fell once again on Damla and the sick room. Raising his hands, he lowered his head into them and groaned. "They mean to leave me here, do they not?" he said in a pained voice.

Damla looked at him helplessly. "You were so ill, Fama, it will take you a long time to recover. You have not the strength to sit up on your own—how do you expect to march with them and bear the weight of armor, much less fight?" Seeing his face still turned away, she reached out and touched his arm. "You must listen to reason, Fama! Please, just this once let the city be led by someone else. Let another man expend his blood and energy."

Faramir turned his eyes on Damla, and her heart broke at the sight of the anger and hurt in them. "If I do not lead them," he said softly, "it will be because I am not physically able. My duty is to my city, and my people. I will not willingly abandon them. The only thing that can stop me from leading my men is if I cannot lift a blade or walk in a straight line." He looked down at himself and swallowed, only then seeming to realize that his words had just described his present condition.

Damla stood slowly and mixed some herbs into a cup of water. The silence in the room was heavy, and she could think of nothing else to say. When she handed the cup to him, to her surprise, he drank it without protesting or looking at her. After he had drunk it, he closed his eyes and lay his forearm across them. As Damla was going out of the room, holding the tray of half-eaten food, she heard his voice, soft and hazy, behind her.

"Where is my father?" he asked. "Why does he not visit me?" She turned back to see him still in the same attitude, but by the muscles relaxing in his body, she knew he was close to unconsciousness. "Go to sleep," she said gently, and then shut the door.

The sky had darkened considerably since Damla had left the room, and the shadows crawling toward the bed held a sense of completeness in them that only a very observant person would notice. It was as if the shadows designed to remain forever, never meaning to give way to light and sunshine again. On the bed, Faramir's lips moved, speaking quickly and soundlessly, and his brow was drawn tightly. As if a cold finger had been drawn down his spine, he shivered and his arm, which had been laid across his eyes, was flung away from his face. A grimace of physical pain followed this action, and for a moment he seemed to be on the verge of waking, but whatever dream or drug held him in its grasp was too strong, and he began talking silently again.

It was not long before his lips stopped moving and the soundless words were replaced by heavy, aggravated breathing. His fingers moved, instead of his lips, twisting the sheets and restlessly curling in upon themselves and out again. His whole body bespoke of some tortured dream, a dream that completely consumed him, yet his body, except his hand and head, moved not at all. He lay quite still, as if conscious that any sound he made could be easily heard in another room.

Suddenly, a shadow moved from the doorway and stepped over to the bed, stared down at it for a moment, and then laid its hand on Faramir's forehead. "Come back," the shadow whispered.

Immediately, Faramir's breathing calmed, and his hand ceased its frantic jerking. His eyes opened slowly, and for a moment their green depths were clouded, and glanced around the room quickly, but then they settled on the face of the man above him, and cleared. "My Lord," Faramir said softly, but this time there was no easy comfort. Faramir sensed at once his undignified state, and though he was not a proud man, his spirit was wounded at the knowledge that his King had seen him only in times when he was most in need.

Aragorn sensed the feeling and withdrew his hand. "Greetings again," he said gently. Glancing around the room, he went on, "It is chill in here, especially with the approaching darkness." He went over to the fireplace, where the fire had died to glowing embers, and piled some wood onto it. As the flames licked at the wood and began to crackle, Faramir turned his face silently away from the brightness. The sudden light hurt his eyes, but that was only part of the reason he turned away. His dream had been disturbingly realistic.

Aragorn turned back from the fire and smiled at the man on the bed. He moved over to the bedside table and wet a cloth in a basin of water, then stooped and lay the cloth on Faramir's brow. Immediately Faramir felt his headache, which had been so consuming a moment ago, melt away under Aragorn's touch. Nevertheless, his mind was filled with the indecency of the situation, and he struggled against the warmth and security he began to feel.

"Relax," Aragorn commanded, though his voice was soft. "I will not judge you because of your wounds."

Aragorn's words, which would have seemed strangely odd to anyone else, suddenly shamed Faramir. His king was concerned for his well-being, and was helping him—did he not deserve at least his own cooperation? He purposefully relaxed, and accordingly felt himself slipping back to sleep, far from the dreams and images.

Aragorn removed the cloth and dipped it back into the basin, turning back to wipe the sweat off of the rest of Faramir's face and his chest. He raised the bandages slightly to see if the wounds were healing properly, and then simply stared at the young man once more. He knew how hard the next few months, and even years, would be for Faramir. His body would have no problem healing—he was already well on his way, and out of danger—but his spirit had been bent so far, Aragorn knew how much of a struggle it would be for it to heal. The dream he had just witnessed was, he knew, only the first of many dreams just like it. Faramir did not even know what had passed while he was unconscious. He did not know that his father was dead, and someday, he would need to know what had happened between his father and him. Someday.

Aragorn shook his head and touched Faramir's brow once more. The healing would be difficult, there was no doubt. But Aragorn had the sense that if there was any man who had the strength for such a healing, it was Faramir. His biggest regret was that needs would cause everyone he held dear—his uncle, cousins, Mithrandir, and even the hobbit Pippin—to be taken away in these first difficult healing weeks, if not forever. At least there was the healer—Damla—to stay with him and help him.

"I will return," Aragorn said softly to the sleeping man, "and then I will talk with you, and we will learn about each other." With that, he turned and left the room, which was now warm.

True to his word, Aragorn returned the next morning to find Amrothos, Faramir's cousin, just standing to leave. The ranger was at once amazed at the smile on Faramir's face, and was astonished at the way Faramir's face was completely changed by the expression. It was his eyes, Aragorn realized, that made the change so startling; the same eyes that had been so troubled and pained last night were now brimming with some inner, exuberant warmth. Aragorn immediately felt that Faramir had a gift of making the person he was with feel just as much joy as he felt—indeed, perhaps more.

Amrothos clasped his cousin's hand and said gently, "Rest up—we will need you in whatever is to come." His words were hopeful, but by their tone Aragorn knew Amrothos had been telling his cousin about the captains' plans. He was not surprised, for from all he had heard about Faramir, it would seem that he was a man difficult to keep secrets from. As Amrothos turned toward the door he seemed startled to see Aragorn standing there and gave a slight bow. "My Lord Aragorn," the tall, dark–haired man said, recovering sufficiently to smile at him. "Please excuse me."

Aragorn nodded as he passed him and strode through the door, and then the ranger turned his attention on Faramir. The young man looked better than he had last night, and Aragorn could tell simply by looking into his eyes that his sleep had been peaceful for the rest of the night. There was a flush to his cheeks, but it was not one of fever, and he was sitting almost straight up, supported by a few pillows. Faramir bowed his head and laid his arm across his breast in respect and deference before saying, "Greetings, my liege."

Aragorn studied the man before him in an attempt to discover some feelings of unrest or hidden meaning behind the words, but he sensed only loyalty and submission in Faramir. Yet he knew there were so many questions Faramir had about him. Doubtless Amrothos had answered some of them, and Aragorn had the distinct feeling that Faramir knew already, even without knowing much about him, that he was trustworthy. He had known the minute he had awoken from the other realm out of which Aragorn had rescued him.

"How does your healing proceed?" Aragorn smiled, seating himself beside the bed. "Do your wounds pain you?"

"Only a little," Faramir said honestly. His eyes flashed over Aragorn quickly, and Aragorn realized this was probably the first time Faramir had seen him when he was lucid enough to form an opinion. The man seemed to be satisfied with a simple glance, however, and returned his eyes to Aragorn's face. "I wish to thank you," Faramir said suddenly, "for what you have done for me. I have never before walked in shadow to—to that extent," he finished. After a short pause he went on, "I knew the only one with enough power to heal me would be the king," he murmured.

Aragorn was at a loss for words as he looked into the green eyes opposite him. They held so much plain gratitude and yet reserve that he did not quite know how to respond to this man's honesty and respect. "It was not my strength alone," he finally said, "I have never encountered anyone so fixed in the grasp that was able to return to this world."

Faramir looked away, and both men seemed mutually embarrassed and ready to turn the conversation elsewhere. It was Faramir who spoke first. "They tell me the army of Mordor was vanquished by an army of dead men, held to an ancient oath." Aragorn confirmed the report, and for some time they spoke of the final battle, the ancient curse, and the city's victory. Aragorn was amazed at how knowledgeable Faramir was on the subject of ancient lore, and finally asked him how he had opportunity to know so much of Gondorian history. Faramir smiled apologetically.

"The archives in Minus Tirith have been kept strictly, and are only in recent years falling into some disrepair. There is still much to be learned in those books and scrolls, for an inquisitive adolescent, or a man in need of diversion." Faramir raised a hand to massage his left shoulder—almost the only exposed skin on his upper body without a bandage. "Mithrandir was a great encouragement to me as well, and we often poured over scrolls together in my youth."

Aragorn was suddenly aware of Faramir's left arm resting lightly on the bedclothes, and he noticed with an imperceptible shock that there were burn marks covering it, traveling up to his neck and shoulder. He was amazed that he had not noticed them before, and realized that besides being painful, they must be quite a puzzlement to Faramir. A disturbing puzzlement, no doubt, after his dreams of fire. Aragorn looked up, realizing that his stare would turn Faramir's thoughts to the burns too, and that might be painful to him. But the king-to-be was not quick enough, and he saw at a glance that Faramir had noticed where his eyes lay and what his thoughts were. To Aragorn's surprise, however, Faramir did not question him on the subject, and Aragorn thought this must have something to do with the young man's remarkable judgment and patience. Yet Faramir's next words were still a shock to Aragorn.

"Tell me, my lord—the Halfling, Peregrin—is he unharmed?" Faramir's voice was earnest as he lowered his right hand to the bed again. "He did not enter into the battle?"

Aragorn shook his head. "He is completely safe and just as full of life as always. He—he saw no fighting," he said haltingly. Aragorn's words had always flowed steadily, but in the presence of Faramir, even he felt unable to conceal even the most simple truths. He knew that Faramir would suspect much from his words, but again, he asked no questions. Aragorn began to wonder if it was because he respected the fact that Aragorn might not wish to tell him, or if it was some reluctance on his own part to hear the truth. He must suspect that something had happened while he was unconscious, if from the burns on his body, the absence of his father, or the evasiveness his visitors showed in speaking. Faramir was, Aragorn was quickly coming to understand, much the opposite of a fool.

They spoke for some time longer of inconsequential matters, and then Aragorn rose reluctantly. Faramir was, even on his sickbed, a stimulating companion to talk with, and his knowledge on a variety of subjects astounded Aragorn and made him wish he could spend more time talking with him. But he knew he would be needed in other places, and accordingly he began to say goodbye.

"Lord Aragorn," Faramir said suddenly, reaching with his burned arm to grasp Aragorn's own arm, "Please." His eyes were suddenly drastically different, and where just a moment ago was civility and pleasure was intense fear. Aragorn immediately knew that the man he had been conversing with in that last moment was just one of the facets of the entire man, and this side he saw now was probably consuming the greater, unseen portion. He felt at once flattered and apprehensive that Faramir was sharing his emotions with him, when he had not been able to do so with his cousin. "Please," Faramir went on, "I must know. Why does my father not visit me?"

The question was so blunt that Aragorn could see no way around it, and he knew also that not knowing was hurting Faramir more than knowing would. Aragorn felt stupid at not having realized that by allowing Faramir to think his father was alive, he was condemning the man to suspect his father uncaring and willfully neglecting to see him while he was recovering. Yet Aragorn did not answer at once, for he was unsure how to phrase the reply with enough tact.

"My cousin and uncle will tell me nothing," Faramir said, and now his eyes would not meet Aragorn's. "Mithrandir, Damla…all will not let me know why he stays away. Is he not capable of coming? Or has he…" Faramir trailed off, and his arm fell limply to the coverlet in an attitude of bitter pain. Aragorn immediately laid his hand on his shoulder, above the burns, and said unhesitatingly, "Faramir, there is no way for me to make this softer. Your father fell during the battle."

Faramir's head snapped up, his eyes boring into Aragorn, as if willing him to be lying. He of course saw no lie in Aragorn's countenance, and his eyes shot to the window, then the floor, and then to his arm, lying on the bed. His breathing hitched, and Aragorn knew it was not because of his physical condition. "When—?" he whispered, and Aragorn shook his head. "Not many hours before I brought you back."

As Faramir's shoulders began to shake, Aragorn stood and backed toward the door. "I will leave you now," he said, though he knew Faramir could not hear him. He quitted the room and paused outside the closed door, unsure for the moment what to do. He saw Damla making her way toward the room carrying a tray of food, and he caught her arm. "He is not hungry now," he said softly. She looked up at him in wonder.

"My Lord?" she asked uncertainly. Aragorn placed his hand on her shoulder. "I have told him about his father." At her ejaculation he cut her off. "Not all of it," he said. "I have told him that he is dead, but not how. That he should not know for many days yet, though I am sure rumors will run wild. I leave it to you to see that those rumors do not reach his ears until he is ready to hear the truth from someone he loves."

Damla took a deep breath and steadied herself. "He is curious about the burns," she said softly. "It is terribly hard to lie to him, my Lord."

Aragorn nodded. "You will have to tell him soon," he agreed. "But let it not be until his health has returned and he has the freedom to walk the gardens and sort through this. You must tell him, and you must provide the support he will need."

"My Lord, I—"

"You are the only one remaining here with him that he trusts," Aragorn insisted. "I know how terrible it will be, and how difficult. He will be horrified, as we all are, and he likely will not know how to deal with it." His grip on her shoulder grew tighter. "You must not let him retreat into himself," he said forcefully. "No matter how much pain it seems to cause him, and how hard it might be to draw him out, you must not let him become a hardened shell. I am counting on you, Damla."

Damla bit her lip as a tear slid down her cheek. "I know this is a lot to ask," Aragorn said more gently, "but for Faramir's sake, you must try."

"I will try," she said ardently, "but whether I succeed or not is entirely in Eru's hands."

"And Eru will give you strength," Aragorn said.

Notes: I'm sorry if this chapter reflected a certain 'Jane Austen'ish quality. I confess, I was reading 'Pride and Prejudice' at the time I wrote this (which was in early June), and I find it rubbed off on my writing quite alarmingly! I really could not help writing with big words and the same type of trick of words Austen had. So forgive me—it really was unconscious.