Amrothos straightened slightly from the slouch he had adopted on the bench where he rested. A group of men entered the hallway. The warden of the houses led the way, followed by his father and the tall man he had recently discovered was the heir of Elendil. Amrothos struggled for a moment not to stare, then decided, to hell with it, if ever an occasion justified a good stare, this was surely it.
The man was tall, though not excessively so, with dark hair. He had an unmistakable air of command, and something else, something Amrothos couldn't quite pin down. He didn't look kingly; in fact he looked like he'd been dragged through a hedge backwards. Or, more accurately, just come off a battlefield. But then all of them, even Amrothos' father, were looking more than a bit the worse for wear. But there was still that 'something'. The northerner had the unmistakable look of one of the Dunedain. At first glance he seemed younger than Prince Imrahil, but his eyes carried a weight of wisdom which hinted at a far greater age than his face, that of a man in the prime of life, suggested. There were a few silver hairs at his temples, but for the most part his hair was still jet black, middling in length. He was talking earnestly to the Warden, who answered his queries quietly but authoritatively.
"In my judgement, the nearest to death is the Lady Éowyn, who slew the wraith. She is stricken with the black breath, and it seems she has little defence against it, for those who saw her ride onto the battlefield said she did so in a fey mood, knowingly riding to her death. Though why she had been brought to such despair, I know not." I could hazard a guess, thought Amrothos, but no-one asked for his council, in fact it seemed that no-one, not even his father, noticed him sitting there.
At that moment, the Warden's assistant, Goodwife Ioreth, came bustling up to the group, accompanied by Gandalf. Her customary talkativeness, which Amrothos remembered only too well from a month or so earlier (when he had had to have a dislocated shoulder put back into place) seemed undimmed by the august company, though she was a shade more deferential than normal.
"Sire, I have brought the herb you asked for. Kingsfoil, as fresh as I could find..."
"Thank you, good lady," said the man who would be king. He took the leather pouch and nodded to the warden, who gestured with his arm that they should follow him. The party passed through the archway at the end of the hall and disappeared from Amrothos' sight.
~o~O~o~
The Warden led Aragorn down the narrow passage to a wooden door and opened it. There, lying on a narrow bed, deathly pale, was a woman, golden hair flowing across the pillow like water.
Aragorn gestured to the Warden's assistant. The healer poured hot water from the silver ewer into a basin, then brought the basin to Aragorn. Carefully, he crushed a small quantity of the athelas and added it to the water, letting the fumes fill the room with a sharp, wild, invigorating scent. He soaked a small sponge in the water, and carefully moistened Éowyn's lips.
He glanced across at the Warden. "I must enter the world of her dreams and call her back," he said. "For this, I need silence, lest the bond between my mind and hers be sundered. For then she might be lost to us forever." He took her hands and closed his eyes, letting his thoughts flow within his veins and down into his fingers, where they pressed the pulse point on her wrists. With a slight tremor, he let his mind ebb and flow in time with her heart beat, before letting his thoughts drift into her blood.
Despair... utter despair. Aragorn was almost brought to breaking point by the bleak desolation within her. As best he could he whispered words of hope, of comfort, mind to mind. But he is gone, lost to me... The answer came to him. Then a flood of images swept over him, of a young man with dark hair and grey eyes, his gaze lit with wisdom and compassion, his face alight with a gentle smile filled with love. Next, she showed him the man, brave and strong, on a bridge before the fearsome wraiths. Then that same man, pulling his comrade from the icy water. And finally a wooden door, high and imposing, slammed in her face. He would not let me see him even as he lay dying. What was there left for me but death upon the battlefield?
Aragorn's grip on her hands tightened. How could he heal in the face of such despair? Then, as his mind surged to and fro on the tide of her blood, he became aware of another rhythm, another dance. For a moment, his eyes flickered open. Then he released her hands, and moved to place his palm upon her belly, resting upon cool linen sheets. There... there on the soft curve below her navel. He felt it through the thin layers of fabric – another heart beating, a new life flickering within her. Taking her hands within his again, he spoke urgently, mind to mind. I cannot bring back the dead – but he is not lost to you. His child moves within you. Come back to us, come back for the love of him and for the love of the child you carry. For several heartbeats, Aragorn held his breath. Then slowly he sensed a lessening of the despair, as though the sun was burning through the mist of a cold winter's day, bringing just a hint of warmth, enough to remind the soul that winter does not endure forever, and that one day spring must come. And then, stronger still, a sense of courage, of steely determination to protect and nurture the child she had not known she carried. The steel was stronger than the despair, and would carry her through the long winter of her grief until the spring thaw.
Cautiously, he opened his eyes and looked at the woman's face. At last there was a hint of some colour returning, and he saw her eyelashes flutter slightly as if she moved from deep unconsciousness to something more akin to sleep.
Feeling drained and exhausted, Aragorn turned to the Warden. "Who would you judge to be the next most urgent case?"
"The Lord Faramir, my liege."
Aragorn gave the old man an interrogative look. As he led the way down the passage, the Warden spoke.
"He too suffers from the black breath, though for some reason has fought against that. Some mental strength, or perhaps hope, kept him from succumbing. But he was also pierced by a poisoned arrow and lies in a high fever." He paused and Aragorn sensed there was more to the tale. The old man evaded his gaze, staring at the floor. Then, with a sudden flash, Aragorn remembered Gandalf's hurried words about the death of Denethor. Almost the same instant, Aragorn's mind supplied a vision: that of two high, carved doors slamming shut. Thus, when the Warden opened the door to the next room, he was not surprised to see, lying upon the bed, the young man whose face haunted the Lady Éowyn's dreams. He is not lost to you: suddenly his thoughts a few moments earlier seemed prophetic. Buoyed by a sudden hope which lifted the exhaustion he felt, he stepped within the chamber.
Once again, Aragorn crushed yet more of the precious athelas and crumbled it into the warm water. Carefully, he held the bowl next to the younger man's face, and watched the rise and fall of his chest as he breathed in the fragrant steam. Then, wetting a cloth, he sponged the young man's lips, before carefully letting some of the liquid drip into his slightly open mouth. He took the man's hands in his own. Shutting his eyes, he let his mind lose its grip on the real world around him. Cautiously, leaving a silver thread of thought behind him to anchor himself, he set off for the second time on the perilous journey into the mind of another, into the dream world.
The topmost layer of his mind was dark, swirling fear. The Nazgûl still soared above his head, its darts unleashed towards him, the frozen breath sweeping over him. The memories were vivid and intense, the fear enough to grip even Aragorn, who knew them to be memories. How much more terrifying must they be to Faramir, who, in his fevered state, lay suspended in an eternal present, still haunted by wraiths? Aragorn murmured wordlessly, mind speaking to mind, trying to reassure the young man that his tormentors were no longer present.
Beneath was a layer of... what, precisely? A tangled web of emotions. Anger mixed with love, and overlain by the pain of rejection. A face wavered before Aragorn, familiar, yet older than he remembered, the figure of the whole man gradually taking shape. Tall, imposing, a hawk like nose, the grey eyes of Numenor, far-seeing, yet with their sight drawn awry. The black hair was shot with grey, where long before Captain Thorongil remembered only its inky darkness. The brow – which had been smooth – was now etched with lines, the burden of leading a people through desperate times with little hope of relief. But the aloofness, the unwillingness to listen to council which was at odds with his own beliefs, the quickness to dismiss those around him as fools and weaklings: that much Aragorn's younger self remembered. And it seemed that the man through whose mind he now wandered had been on the receiving end of that aloofness, that dismissal almost all of his life. With almost physical force, Aragorn was suddenly hit by the strength of the patient's response. He wished for me to have died in my brother's stead. Well, I cannot die for him, but I can die as he did... Again, Aragorn whispered silent words: No, your father was tortured beyond his strength, strong though he seemed. Those were not his own words, but the words of despair, despair wrought in a mind assailed by an enemy beyond his strength to resist. Come back to us, come back and remember your father in the years of his strength and courage, before the fey mood took him.
Finally it seemed as if the voice, which thus far had only echoed in his mind, started to take form, and his interlocutor allowed him to approach at last. Aragorn saw the shadowy figure of the younger man, some leagues off, standing in a dream landscape. In the far distance were towering, shining figures beckoning to him. With a shock of wonder, Aragorn realised that the tallest of these was Mandos, calling to him. To stand in the presence of the Valar: Aragorn nearly lost his grip on the silvery thread he had set to hold him to the waking world. But then it came to Aragorn that the call was not a command, but a choice. Come with me to your long rest, or stay, stay in the world you left behind, the voice seemed to say. Then Faramir's spirit-figure turned to look back, across the green plain of his dream, and Aragorn saw a second figure. Tall, slender, beautiful almost beyond imagining, like unto an elf-woman, and yet at the same time rooted in the earth of mortality, with shining hair of palest gold. For a moment, Aragorn did not recognise her, but then he realised that it was the woman he had just healed, the beautiful, despairing woman who had slain the wraith. Beautiful she was in the real world, but here within Faramir's mind, he saw her as the younger man did, transfigured by love into a being of beauty beyond compare.
It seemed that Faramir sensed his presence, for a light, carefree thought washed over him: She is sunlight, and starlight, and all good things. Aragorn's thoughts answered him joyfully: She waits for you – she has great need of you, come back to her.
Within the dream world the dream figure of Éowyn turned and smiled smiled, then she too beckoned to Faramir, but it seemed that in the dream she could not speak. Aragorn found himself speaking for her, repeating his earlier call: Come back to her, for she waits for you. Come back to the world of men, your life here is not yet done. And at last Faramir answered him: Who calls to me, lord? And the answer came: Elessar, heir of Elendil, your king.
Then Faramir's voice came, "I come, my King." And with that, the silver thread drew Aragorn back into the room, where he found himself gazing into a pair of grey eyes.
His first instinct was to tell Faramir that his love awaited him, that she slept but feet away, recovering from her wounds. But the younger man, having given almost the last of his strength in coming back from the brink of death, slipped once more into unconsciousness, but without the sheen of sweat of the fever and the deathly pallor.
"He should sleep now – a healing, healthy sleep."
"Then come, my lord and King," said the Warden, "For there are others who need your care."
Imrahil was at the rear of the party. As he reached the door, he cast a backwards glance at his nephew, lying with his dark hair spread across the pale pillows. For the first time in days he found himself able to smile. Against all the odds, both Faramir and the woman he loved had survived.
~o~O~o~
Thank you once again for the reviews.
Rachel – I'm glad you like this one. Although as one who (back in the day) was very prone to desperate unrequited crushes which then seemed to evaporate magically when I came face to face with a real, reciprocal love, I've always thought Tolkien handled the whole unrequited love thing quite convincingly (well, except for the fact that for me personally, book Aragorn does not float my boat).