Aragorn had settled into a bed roll in his tent, set up in the central square of the city. The press of bricks against his back was not all that different from laying upon the street in Minas Tirith. He supposed that some things were simply human, like laying roads, and children playing in gutters.
He could just hear the whisper of Arwen's love in his mind as he drifted into a star-filled dream when the tent-flap pulled aside and the clank of armor woke him.
He was sitting up before his eyes had opened, and there was a dagger in his hand, a stark reminder from the reflexes of his body that he was not at home.
"There is a caravan at the outer spring requesting a healer. The man promised to the daughter of the chief of the tribe is suffering from the venom of what they called the crowned serpent," the guard explained.
Aragorn squinted at the newcomer in the darkness. After a moment, he was able to make out the armor of the Swan Knights, which told him Imrahil thought the situation was important enough to pass it to the king. "Where is your lord?" he asked, wiping his free hand over his face.
"He awaits you in the square, my king," the knight responded, already backing away.
"Very good. Inform him I will be but a moment." Aragorn sighed as the clanking subsided away from his tent and threw off his covers.
It was terribly cold outside the warmth of his bedroll, and it would be until the morning brought with it the desert's blistering heat.
He dressed quickly, donning chainmail over gambeson over tunic and tucked his healer's satchel under his arm, setting the strap across his body and over one shoulder. He wrapped up in his thick, royal cloak before stepping out, but the chill still seeped into his skin after only a few minutes of exposure.
Imrahil was pacing in the small clearing left for gatherings between the tents.
The city was not so open as to allow space for the entire invading force to set up tents, but Aragorn had insisted that no civilians be displaced from their homes. It had made keeping a hold on the city harder, almost certainly, but preserved a dignity the native peoples had not expected from enemies made out to be monsters for centuries.
Aragorn raised a hand in greeting as he slipped into the open, checking over his shoulder almost reflexively as he peeled away from the cover of the many tents. "Imrahil," he said, keeping his tone pleasant. "What is this business about travelers needing a healer in the night? Why has it not been granted?"
"The request was made not half an hour past," Imrahil said, bowing slightly in greeting.
In a more formal setting such a bow might have been a slight, but from Imrahil, there in that Harad city square, Aragorn took the motion as it was meant; not to waste his time.
"I made the decision to bring the matter to you when I heard that these Enuun had released every slave before entering the city. They call for aid on behalf of a stranger to their tribe- I believe treating them as equals and free-men, with respect and nobility, will earn us more trust from the underclass than anything else we could achieve here."
Aragorn's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "You were right to bring this to me. I will see to this man myself."
"And he will have a better chance of survival under your hands, my king," Imrahil agreed, motioning that Elessar should follow him.
Aragorn fell easily into step with the younger man as they wound through the heavily guarded streets of a city in sullen silence to the outer bailey of the fortress defenses, the place where the spring gurgled happily nearby in the cold night.
The Enuun greeted him immediately as if they sensed the shift of attention in the air as the guards stood a little straighter.
The chief of the tribe bowed deeply, lowering himself to his knees before taking the hands of the king in supplication. "Please," he said. "To save our guest."
Aragorn put on a comforting smile and guided the old man back to his feet, glancing over the crowd gathered behind him.
Many of the faces looking back at him had certainly once been slaves- their clothes and skin were long worn from labor and the wicked desert sun, but they stood among the tribes-members, new, clean silks clashing with the stained rags clothing them.
"Take me to your guest," Aragorn said gently, withdrawing one hand to check, almost unconsciously, that his healer's supplies were still at his side. "I will do my best to heal him."
"We are in your debt," the chief said, bowing again as he stood to lead the king. "He is this way."
As the two parted from the crowd, the chief glanced around, as if checking that they were out of earshot of any others. "I am believe your people are looking for the guest," he said, lowering his voice to a conspiratory whisper.
Aragorn's attention sharpened and landed fully on the chief, who recoiled from the cold gaze suddenly upon him. I have found him, whispered a voice in the king's heart. The son of my spirit has been delivered into my hands. "He was bitten by a crowned serpent, I heard," he said, reining himself in to keep from further alarming the Haradric chief. He wanted to take hold of the man and demand to know where Faramir was, but he held himself back behind a carefully painted smile.
"This way," the chief said.
They had erected a single tent by the closed gate to the oasis courtyard. It was not a slaves' tent, but woven of colorful silks and embroidery, likely the chief's own dwelling place, and the finest accommodations of their small tribe.
Aragorn pushed the flap aside and stepped in, closely following the other man, his heart in his throat.
Sure enough, Faramir lay unconscious, pale as death on the short, padded bedding of the Enuun chief.
Aragorn knelt immediately, whispering to the younger man and smoothing a hand over the clammy skin of the Steward's forehead. "Ion nin, ma tais samye hiruves?"
Faramir stirred under his fingers, reaching a swollen, disfigured hand up to feebly grasp at his king's touch. "Samie nwalma," he murmured back, and Aragorn almost didn't catch the words, they were spoken so softly.
"My son, what troubles have you found?"
"I have found pain."
"You speak, both, a language of wonder," the chief said quietly.
"I was raised in that language," Aragorn responded distractedly, slipping the strap of his satchel off of him so he could more easily rummage through its contents. "I need water," he said, but stopped himself, remembering just in time that he had no right to order a chief like one of his own subjects. "Would you send someone?"
"Aryl," the chief said immediately, and a woman Aragorn had not noticed rose slowly to her feet, bowing before she slipped from the tent.
To be left alone with a man, even in such a state, she must have been deeply trusted, or perhaps considered engaged to Faramir, a troubling prospect. She was dressed in a pale green silk robe, and her face and hair were veiled in azure, and the fabric glittered with beads. She must have been the chief's own daughter.
The king's hand closed around a small knife in a leather case. He slipped it out without needing to look, and lifted Faramir's hand to examine it more closely. He carefully trimmed away the bandages, and did not try to peel them away from the skin where they stuck, but waited for the water.
Infection had set in, predictably.
"What is your name?" Aragorn asked, hoping to pass the time as he prepared tools and medicines.
There were a couple different kinds of knives, all small and sharp and Elvish, and a prepared poultice of king's foil and bitter herbs and honey, a vial with an elvish drought to drive out the poison and lower fever in a crystal vial, and a number of small, fiddly tools like tweezers and a suturing needle.
"I am Ishati. What are you called?" the chief asked.
Aragorn bit back a smile and busied himself inspecting the knives. He was called many things. "I am Elessar," he said, deciding on a name that might not evoke his kingship immediately, and thereby close off any chance he had at speaking honestly with Ishati, but would not be considered a deception as it was one of his officially recognized titles as the king of Gondor.
"It is an honor," Ishati said politely, bobbing his head in respect.
Aragorn returned the gesture, though a little distractedly as he kept his eyes on Faramir. "The honor is mine."
"You know this young man?" the chief asked warily, and Aragorn nodded. "You must be powerful to be so familiar with Gondor's Steward," he said, narrowing his eyes. "But you tend him like a servant. You are not dressed like a servant."
"I tend him like a father," the king said, surprised at himself that he would admit such a thing. "For Faramir is the son of my heart, though I cannot speak it to him. Would you hesitate to kneel before your daughter?"
Ishati started forward as if he had been insulted, and then deflated. "No," he admitted. "I would not, though it would make me weak."
"To serve others is no weakness," Aragorn said, once more smoothing a hand over Faramir's forehead. "It takes more strength to be gentle than to destroy."
Silence stretched out between them until a rustling from the tent door announced the entry of Aryl.
She had a large jar expertly balanced on her head.
It looked heavy.
"That is freshly drawn?" Aragorn asked Ishati, respectfully keeping his gaze away from the woman.
"Yes," the chief said.
Aryl set the container down by the healer.
Aragorn removed a dish from his pack and carefully poured a small amount of the fresh water into it. There were herbs in a small silk pouch that he poured into the mix. They were ground down to a powder and turned the water green as he stirred it with the back of one of the small knives.
"What is that?" Aryl asked, and Aragorn glanced cautiously at Ishati.
Finding no anger at her curiosity on her father's face, he relaxed slightly. "It cleans the water of things that might make the infection worse, proofs it for use to cure and heal." He saw her nod from the corner of his vision and dipped a cloth into the mixture.
It took a few minutes to soak off the last scraps of bandage, revealing not only the bite wound from the serpent, but also the marks of incisions where they had cut into his bloated flesh to drain the building infection.
Those incisions were likely the reason he was still alive.
Aragorn set the cloth on Faramir's hand to soak off the scabs and turned back to Ishati, who looked a little bit ill. "May I borrow a cup?" he asked.
The chief nodded quietly and slipped out, likely grasping at the excuse to leave; he clearly did not have the stomach to be a healer.
Aryl seemed to be fairing much better, though it was hard to tell with her face hidden.
"Athelas," Faramir sighed, some of the pain easing from his face.
The scent of the herb had filled the tent, a familiar smell that reminded Aragorn of the woods around Imladris. He hoped that Faramir was reminded of his own home, and similarly comforted.
Ishati returned only long enough to hand Aragorn a clean, stone cup, and ducked out again.
"This will not be pleasant, my lady," the king said as he pulled off the dark flakes.
The wounds began to seep a foul, green ooze, and a stink began to fight with the light scent of the Athelas.
"It was I who drained it," she said easily. "I know what is in store."
"Your bravery reminds me of a dear friend," Aragorn said, setting the knife's edge against an existing wound.
Aryl knelt next to him, offering a bucket. "You'll need this," she said, and Aragorn nodded.
He could do without it, but the process would likely be much more clean for all parties with the discharge contained. "Very good," Aragorn said. "Thank you."
At last the wound was cleaned and Faramir had been treated with every medicine Aragorn could justify, and his hand was wrapped tightly in new, clean linen bandages.
Aryl had left them alone once the work was done and Aragorn's hands were clean.
The king lowered his head to Faramir's chest, mostly as a way to draw close to the son of his heart, but also to reassure himself of the strong beat beneath the cover of the Steward's ribs. The rhythm of that heart had improved greatly from the treatment he had received.
It had been months since Aragorn had last seen him, and finding Faramir in such a state was a blow.
At least the Steward was alive; it was the king's one comfort.
The image of the bite wound, swollen and black, at the base of Faramir's thumb had remained in Aragorn's mind, and called forward the thought of the crowned serpent, its bloodied mouth robbed of fangs.
"Was it the same snake?" he muttered to himself, sitting upright to examine the Steward's face again.
Faramir's eyes had opened and were welling up with tears. The gray pallor of his skin made him look very much like his brother in his last moments, gasping for breath on the banks of the Anduin.
Aragorn shook his head and set a hand on the other man's shoulder. "Welcome back, melon nin."
Faramir managed a smile and grabbed the king's wrist with his left hand, as if checking he was really there. "You're really here?" he asked, and Aragorn nodded, his throat struggling to swallow down a lump that had formed there. "I kept hearing your voice," he continued, struggling to lift his head. His voice was rusty from disuse and dehydration. "I kept hearing you."
Aragorn dipped the clean cup into the fresh water and pressed it to his son's lips. "Drink," he ordered. "And rest. We will have much to speak on when you are well, but you must recover your strength."
"But fa- my king," Faramir protested.
The king tilted his head, his thoughts racing. Had Faramir meant to call him father? No, it must have been wishful thinking, a trick of his own longing filling in what was never meant to be there.
"When I was at the gates, it was your voice that called me back." He looked even closer to crying, and pushing the matter was only upsetting him further.
"Alright," Aragorn said soothingly. "Tell me all about it, then."
Faramir spoke in fevered babbling, speaking in no particular order of the silver gates and the beautiful figures beyond it, and the voice that had demanded of him whether he was coming or going. "You answered for me," he said at last. "It was your voice."
Aragorn sat in stunned silence. "Could it have been the fever?" he asked, taking the Steward's hand, but Faramir shook his head insistently, slowly back and forth across the pillow, the sweat of strain beginning to show on his forehead.
"I have seen them before," he said, his voice beginning to fail. "Veiled by the Black Breath, and before that by injury. Never so clearly have I known the Halls of Mandos."
Aragorn's stomach tightened into a knot. He had almost lost Faramir to the same gates that had taken Boromir, gates beyond which he was not able to so quickly follow. He fell silent once more, comforting himself as much as Faramir by rubbing a thumb over the Steward's near arm. "I heard your voice as well," the king admitted at last, but it appeared that Faramir was unconscious once more. "You called me 'father.'"
