Author's Note: Well, lindahoyland, I believe you hoped to see more of Aragorn and Faramir. Here you go, mellon nin. - Minyasta

Chapter X – 'We are none of us ready…'

Faramir's condition took a sudden turn for the worse. What little health he had clung to before deteriorated rapidly. Even in sleep, he was in constant pain unless the healers administered medicine. And he did not awaken.

Aragorn himself had taken Faramir under his charge and spent all of his time filling the room with gentle aromas, murmuring soft words with his hand upon Faramir's brow, and stroking the sweat from his friend's face. He was doing everything within his power to nurse Faramir back to health, sparing hardly any time for his duties, but nothing he did could ease the pinched look of pain on his friend's pale face.

Faramir wheezed fitfully, and Aragorn leaned over him in concern. Murmuring hushed Elvish, he laid his hand on Faramir's chest, the massage of his fingers easing the younger man's breathing temporarily. After a few moments of shallow breaths, though, Faramir was seized by another fit of gasping, and Aragorn's face grew taut with worry.

"Shhh, hush, my dear friend," he whispered in soft Sindarin, trailing his hand to feel the pulse at Faramir's neck. Rapid and irregular. Unhealthy. Faramir was fading. "Come back to us, Faramir… Come back to us… Please…" Aragorn closed his eyes, Faramir's hand cupped in his own. "Please, I would not be parted from you yet…"

Faramir was still. Wherever he was, it was no longer within the realm of reality. Aragorn laid a gentle hand on Faramir's brow and could sense nothing but confusion and pain. Blood. Battle. Corpses. Stench. A dark figure. A knife in the dark… A maiden in white…

Aragorn pulled away slowly. So, it was true. It was Éowyn he was looking for…somewhere in the depths of his subconscious… He fought some battle with himself within his mind, while his face grew more and more wan with each passing day…

The King bowed his head and held tightly to his Steward's cold hand. "Mellon nin," he murmured, grief such as he had never known before suddenly overwhelming him. "Please… We need you here… We need you, Faramir…"

As Aragorn closed his eyes, his mind wandered back over the long years that had passed since he had first met Faramir… He still remembered the first time they had held conversation with one another, following the initial meeting in the Houses of Healing when Aragorn had saved Faramir's life. He recalled his surprise upon meeting Boromir's little brother, so unlike the elder that it was almost impossible to imagine that they could have been sired by the same man. He remembered seeing the intelligence behind Faramir's eyes, the dignity, the gentle nobleness that was akin to that of the ancient men of Númenor. He remembered the man he had met then, quiet, studious, and self-deprecating—the man who had kept Gondor on its feet for so long with patience and steadiness through his father's vain folly…

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Aragorn came to the door of the library, pausing when he saw that it was already occupied. The young Steward named Faramir, hunched over a book, sat on the broad sill beneath the window in the far wall. He did not at first notice the King's presence, so Aragorn took the moment to observe the quiet young man. He was silent in his work, scribbling down swift notes on scraps of paper that lay all about him. The book he held (balanced awkwardly against his arm sling) was one of many, all stacked beside him as though he had every intention of reading through each and every one of them. They were volumes of considerable weight, Aragorn noticed; the gold lettering on the spine of one read: The History of Middle-Earth: Volume IV – The Second Age. Another: The Account of the Founding of Minas Anor. Yet another: The History of the Royal Bloodlines of Gondor. Aragorn had intended to do a little research himself, perhaps smoke his pipe in peace without the aggravations of ceremony and spectacle, but he suddenly realized that he ought to get acquainted with the man he would work with for the duration of his—or, more likely, Faramir's—life.

"A little light reading before supper?" asked Aragorn, raising an amused eyebrow.

Faramir tensed in sudden alertness, his eyes swiveling to the door where Aragorn stood. Surprise flashed through the young man's eyes, and Faramir nearly leapt from the windowsill, knocking against his pile of books in his haste to trace a proper bow for the king. Of course, with one arm in a sling that was also very difficult.

"Your Majesty," said Faramir quietly, his eyes humbly fixed on the floor. "I was not aware of your entry, Sire. Forgive me."

Aragorn waved away the formality carelessly. "Please, don't apologize. I should be the one apologizing. I did not mean to interrupt you at your studies…"

"It is no matter, my liege," Faramir murmured, gathered his notes and tucking them neatly into one of the books in the stack. "Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, I was considering having a look into some of the records kept here, but since I see you've already claimed this little section of the Citadel I really do not wish to intrude…"

"Oh, no, you aren't intruding at all," Faramir insisted, attempting to shelve the several books that lay about the windowsill. "I'll put everything back the way I found it… I'm here often enough… If you have need of the library, then I would be most privileged to—"

"Faramir."

The young man paused, stunned by the King's use of his first name.

Aragorn smiled. "Please, sit down. I wish to speak with you for a brief while, if it is not too much trouble."

Faramir sat obediently at the table that stood in the center of the room, his back formally straight, his air one of deference and humility. Aragorn sat across from him and leaned back comfortably.

"How is your arm faring?" he asked considerately.

"It is well, Sire," said Faramir, adjusting the sling slightly. "The healers tell me that it will heal fully, but it will take time."

"And what of your illness?" asked Aragorn, his voice now deep with concern. "Has the shadow of the Black Breath truly left you?"

Faramir bowed his head. "Thanks to your healing, my King," he said softly. "I feel no sickness in me now, unless it be weariness."

"Do you not sleep well?"

Faramir paused. "I have many matters to attend to, my liege. The work tires me, only because I have not fully recovered from my wound."

Aragorn was silent for a while, his gaze searching the young man's face for signs of dishonesty. He had been watching his Steward discreetly since his arrival at Minas Tirith, and he himself had arranged for Faramir to be kept constantly busy. That had been at Gandalf's urging.

"You must keep him preoccupied with his duties," the old wizard had said. "Make sure that he is not given time enough to reflect on all that has befallen him of late. It is a memory too burdensome for a young man, and Faramir cannot afford to slip back into that darkness."

So Aragorn had kept him busy. Nonetheless, he often saw the Steward slip quietly away when there was a moment of peace between duties. He seemed to Aragorn to be continually distracted. He had moments of agitation when his focus slipped and he faltered in his crisp, formal manner of going about the duties of his office. Aragorn knew that Faramir had not yet had time to reconcile himself with his grief over the death of his father.

"It occurred to me just now, as I happened upon you in repose in the window," Aragorn began again, smiling a little, "that I know nothing whatsoever of the man I will very soon call my Steward. What would you have me know of yourself, Faramir?"

Taken aback, Faramir hesitated. At last, his solemn eyes met the King's, and he said, "Well, Sire, I am not sure what to say. There is not much to know of me. I-I do read…on occasion…"

Aragorn eyed the stack of books and chuckled. "I had surmised as much."

Faramir flushed ever so slightly. "I'm not sure there's anything else to say, really… What would you know of me, your Majesty?"

Frowning a little to himself, Aragorn considered the question. "I suppose I'd really just like to know who you are." Faramir hesitated. "Perhaps it will help if I tell you a little about myself first. I was raised in Rivendell as the adopted son of Elrond, with his sons Elladan and Elrohir. My father had died in battle when I was very young. When I was twenty, I met and fell in love with the elf-maiden Arwen. I did not know it at the time, but she was Elrond's daughter. When I went to him…he was very much against the idea of any relationship between the two of us. I went off to fight abroad in Rohan and in Gondor… I served here under your grandfather, Ecthelion…"

"Thorongil."

Aragorn blinked.

"Thorongil, that was your name…wasn't it?" asked Faramir, a glint of curiosity coming alive in his eye. "I have heard many tales of the heroic Thorongil. You served under Ecthelion, alongside my father." A weak smile came to Faramir's face, but it did not hide the sudden ache of pain that Aragorn could see behind his eyes or the sudden paling of his face.

"Are you well, Lord Faramir?" asked Aragorn concernedly.

Faramir looked away, and the grief in his eyes faded back to quiet composure. "Yes, your Majesty, I am well," he said softly, but he did not meet Aragorn's eyes as he spoke. "I must apologize if I appear diverted… It is only weariness, as I have said."

"Of course." Aragorn knew instinctively that Faramir was lying to him now, even if the young noble would not admit it. "And now you still must answer my question. What would you have me know of yourself?"

Faramir shifted uncomfortably, either from sudden pain in his injured shoulder or from unease at the question. "And still I know not how to answer, my liege," he said in a murmur. "I was born in Minas Tirith, my father's second son—but that you know already. My mother died when I was five years old. I became a soldier when I was thirteen. I've been Captain of the Ithilien Rangers for more than ten years now." He paused, wavered on the brink of speaking, and faltered.

"What is it?" asked Aragorn gently.

"Nothing, my liege," said Faramir hastily. "It is only…" His eyes flickered again to the floor, and he was silent for a long moment before continuing. "They tell me that you were with my brother when he died." Empty silence. "I just want to know…I want to know what really happened."

Aragorn sat up straighter in his chair, his face darkening with grief at the memories. The words he had spoken to Boromir that he wished he could take back. The words he had left unspoken that he should have said. The comradeship of allies in battle. That last, horrid day. The Ring. Frodo and Sam, Merry and Pippin. Everything, rushing back to him again. He could not make the memories go away. Though the Barad-dûr had fallen, still the recollection of the pain it had caused was seared into his mind.

"Boromir died an honorable death," said Aragorn at last, slowly. "That is what I will say now, because I know what happened in the end. If you had asked me the same question before the battle at Amon Hen, my answer would not have been the same." He sighed deeply, massaging his temples as he sought words to explain to the dead man's brother what had transpired that day.

"Gandalf told me that you encountered Frodo and Sam in Ithilien while you were there." Faramir nodded. Aragorn sighed again. "Then you will know what I mean when I say that the Ring was…a heavy trial…for all of us. I was able to resist its evil. Boromir, his heart more valiant than any ancient Gondorian warrior though it may have been, was ensnared by it. I do not question his motives. He wanted to save the White City, and against that I can pass no judgment. But the burden your father had placed upon him was too much. He lost his senses. He tried to take the Ring from Frodo by force, and Frodo fled from him. Sam followed. That is how they came to be together, without the rest of our company, when you met them in Ithilien.

"But we were met on the shores of the Anduin by a horde of Orcs. The two younger hobbits, Merry and Pippin—Pippin you've met—went searching for Frodo and Sam after they left the company. Boromir came to me. He would not speak to me of what he had done, but I could surmise enough from his tone. I was…" Aragorn closed his eyes. "I was angry. I was furious. I told him to go, to find Merry and Pippin and protect them with his life. I could not speak more to him. I loathed him in that moment. He could have ruined everything for which we'd suffered along the long road to the Falls of Rauros.

"It was during the fight that I heard his horn…" Aragorn shook his head. "I ran to him, hoping, praying that he was alive… I found him…pierced with many arrows…" Faramir flinched and looked away. "He told me then what he had done…that he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo… He told me that Merry and Pippin had been captured. He told me that he had failed them…had failed the people of Minas Tirith… He made me promise…he made me promise that I would not let the White City fall… And so I promised him. I could do nothing else to take back the harsh words I had spoken earlier." Aragorn lowered his head. "So passed Boromir, son of Denethor."

Faramir was silent, but Aragorn could feel the sorrow, the grief, and the pain emanating from his very presence. It suddenly occurred to Aragorn that this was a young man who had lost everything and everyone dear to him. His mother had died young, when he was only five. His brother had died in battle, on a mission of fate to destroy an evil that had tempted him too sorely. And his father had died in misery and madness, upon a flaming, suicidal pyre that had been meant for Faramir, too. There was a heaviness about Faramir that should not have been present in so young a man, a solemnity and a weariness that surpassed his years. Aragorn could see a bitterness, a hollow quality in Faramir's eyes, the mark of a man who has seen too many horrors upon the battlefield. And then there was a dejected air of self-doubt, the air of a man who had said with too much emphasis that he was his father's second-born son. Here was a man who had carried the burden of a nation on his back, who had suffered grievous hurts because of it, and who had probably never received thanks for it.

"Faramir," said Aragorn softly at last. The young man looked up at him. "The memory of Boromir's death pains me still…but it did cause one change that I do not regret."

"What is that, your Majesty?"

Aragorn smiled. "It has made you my Steward, the Steward of Gondor and of Arnor, and so you shall be forevermore."

A weak but happy smile spread across Faramir's face, and he bowed his head. "It shall be my honor to serve you, King Elessar."

Aragorn's eyes glinted with contentedness. "And it shall be my honor to accept your service, Lord Faramir."

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Faramir's breathing had fallen to a ragged, halting rasp as the pain became too great for him to fight in his unconsciousness. The healers scurried around by the bedside, speaking in whispers, as Aragorn gently caressed Faramir's brow to get his body to relax. At last, the draught the healers had prepared was ready. Aragorn lifted the frail man into his arms and forced the drink past Faramir's pale lips. For a moment, as Faramir lay limp and lifeless against Aragorn, the King feared that the draught would not go down. He moved two fingers gently along Faramir's throat, and finally he saw him swallow. After a few minutes of exhausted, weak breathing, Faramir's heartbeat finally regulated itself with the help of the draught and his breathing eased.

Aragorn dismissed the healers and cradled Faramir in his arms for several minutes, ensuring that his Steward's breathing would not worsen again. He saw Faramir's eyes flickering rapidly beneath his closed eyelids, as though in a panicked dream. Aragorn touched his brow gently, struggling to ease the trouble in Faramir's mind, but in this, it seemed, he could no longer help his friend.

He could feel the tension in Faramir's body, the tightness of pain. He wished more than anything that he could take this burden upon himself rather than watch Faramir suffer. He did not know how much longer he could withstand this torment, watching and waiting for the outcome, praying for the best but all the while dreading the worst in the back of his mind.

There was another way. He had considered it often, as the days passed with no sign of improvement in Faramir. If it came down to it…Aragorn could administer medicines powerful enough to ease Faramir's pain forever. If it came to the point that Faramir was suffering needlessly, wracked by agony with no hope of recovery, then Aragorn could end it peacefully for his friend. He had already prepared a vial of the draught that would do it, keeping it locked safely in a chest in his rooms in case it was needed. He knew that it would torture him relentlessly to the end of his days to end Faramir's life, but he could not stand the thought of his Steward and his friend living in this unconsciousness for the rest of his long life, growing frailer and frailer, wasting away until there was nothing left of him that the pain had not consumed. If he had to, Aragorn would end it before it came to that. He would make himself end it, for Faramir's sake.

"Mellon nin," whispered Aragorn, gathering Faramir into his arms and rocking back and forth with him, as if there was nothing more than that he could try to do to end his friend's suffering. "Would that I could take this ordeal from you… We are none of us ready to see you leave us yet, Faramir… We are none of us ready…"

mellon nin

(my friend)