Faramir woke before Aragorn, a thing which made the entire world feel wrong and backward. He sat up slowly in his uncle's bed, examining the slumped figure of the king carefully.
Aragorn had apparently fallen asleep sitting, his shoulder braced against the scabbard of his sword, one hand clenched tight over the handle. His left arm sat in front of the sheath, cradling the leather close over his lap, and providing most of the stability he was leaning against.
White and red drew Faramir's eyes to the king's wrist where there was just the barest line of visible bandaging from beneath the man's overcoat.
The Steward pushed the blankets from his legs.
Aragorn's head snapped up and his eyes fluttered open from even the barest sound of the shuffling cloth. "You're awake," he said, setting Anduril aside and leaning forward.
"You're injured," Faramir said, reaching out a trembling hand. "Something happened while I was asleep."
"Ah-" Aragorn said, pulling up short, just shy of the Steward's extended hand.
Faramir pulled his fingers back in as if he'd been burned, kicking himself. He shouldn't have been so careless with his actions.
Uncomfortable silence stretched between them.
"Yes," Aragorn admitted at last. "Salek came under siege. It was not unexpected, but we were able to sit quite a while before they were aware of us here, and dwindled their water down to nothing. The battle was over quickly; a mercy to both sides."
Faramir's hands bound up in the blankets beside him as he anxiously sought something to hold, ignoring the rising pain in his right hand.
"We are waiting now for a messenger from Umbar," Aragorn continued, reaching over to undo Faramir's grip. "Have some care for your injuries, my friend," he said, smoothing his fingers over the back of Faramir's hand to relax the fingers and soothe the smarting wounds.
"And what about you, my king?" the Steward asked, tentatively reaching for the King's arm to push the sleeve out of the way.
"It isn't very deep," Aragorn said dismissively, though he did not pull away. "I've seen to it already."
"Yet I see that the blood seeps through the cloth," Faramir pointed out, emboldened slightly by a lack of refusal. "You tended this?" he asked. "With one hand?"
Aragorn offered him a lopsided shrug. "I'll admit it is not my best work, but it does not need to be."
"Let me?" Faramir asked, and the king tipped his head in approval, shoving the bag of medical supplies closer with his free hand. "Thank you."
"It is I who should thank you, seeing to my neglected scratch," Aragorn said with something of a grim chuckle.
Faramir hissed through his teeth as the bandages came away.
A cut ran from the corner bone of the wrist beneath the thumb around and down toward the elbow, where the wound stopped just short of the crook.
"I could not so readily call this a scratch," the Steward said quietly, dabbing at the freshly pooling blood that had seeped from it already and were threatening to run down the king's arm. Setting the used bandages aside, he reached into the pack and found a salve- by the smell of it, a numbing salve he could use to prepare the wound to be sewn shut.
Aragorn sat in silence through the process, watching as Faramir worked, his expression soft but inscrutable, and making the Steward wonder if he were doing a poor job of it.
At last, with a strong poultice applied and clean bandages wrapped over the wound, Faramir let himself relax once more, searching Aragorn's face for approval. He found it at once as the king managed a small smile and nodded, just once.
"Very good," the other man said, experimentally opening and closing his hand a few times. He winced. "I came very close to losing my sword-strength with this one, I think."
"Yes," Faramir agreed. "It was close."
"While we are on the subject of injuries, would you allow me to see your side?" Aragorn asked, cradling his newly tended arm.
Faramir blinked at him in confusion. "My… side?"
"I heard from Turothon that you were injured there," Aragorn said by way of explanation. "When you were captured," he added, and Faramir shrank back.
"I was, yes, but it is well healed now. It will not cause me any hindrance. It's no more an injury, just a scar."
"I would still like to see," Aragorn said gently, and Faramir's stomach rolled over on itself.
"But why?" he burst out, not quite able to contain himself, and unconsciously covering the place that the barbed spear had found him.
The king fell silent for a moment, and Faramir thought for that uncomfortable quiet that he had done something wrong and upset the other man, but Aragorn spoke again at last.
"Perhaps it may seem foolish to you," he started. "But it would bring me great comfort to see that you are truly healed from that harm. You are… a precious friend to me."
Faramir felt a bit foolish pulling up the edge of his tunic to show off a recent scar, but nonetheless he did.
A moment passed in silence and Aragorn's mouth folded into a displeased line. "I should have found you sooner," he said. "I could have treated it better." His battle-rough hand covered Faramir's and he lowered the fabric again. "Thank you. I can see that you are truly alright now."
"It must be morning," Faramir said, trying to change the subject. "Do you wish to rest further?"
Aragorn offered him a sad smile. "I cannot," he said. "Even should I wish it. There is too much to be done."
"You are not without your Steward," Faramir reminded him. "I could take on some of your burdens so that you may better recover," he offered, pressing his hands together unconsciously in a gesture that was almost pleading.
The king chuckled and shook his head. "Not a day safe, and already volunteering for labor. What am I going to do with you?" he asked, ruffling the Steward's hair fondly.
Faramir did not offer a response in case it had not been a rhetorical question.
Coming from Denethor, such a question was only a trap.
"It will greatly boost morale for the men to see you with some vigor returned," Aragorn mused, drawing his thumb over his jaw bone as he considered. "I can scarce keep you here, and I will be somewhat more at ease to have you in reach than wonder what you might do to keep yourself diverted, as I know you will. There is someone who will want to see you
Faramir wasn't certain if he were in trouble, or about to be granted some freedom to aid the king for the day, but he ventured a smile, hoping for the best.
"We had both best get ready for the day then," Aragorn conceded at last. "But beware, ion nin, I think today may test even you."
Both the King and the Steward had plenty of cause to practice their Haradric, settling disputes between soldiers and the locals, and even, to Faramir's shock, petty disputes between the citizens of Salek, as if Aragorn were the ruling lord there all along.
Though the work delegated to Faramir's care was light, by design, he knew, it still tired him quickly after being so long bedridden. The bite wound throbbed up to his shoulder when he tried to use his hand, which was often, seeing as it was his dominant side. He noticed the tasks becoming fewer and further between as the day went by and knew that Aragorn had seen his growing exhaustion, too.
He had managed to acquire and document an updated catalog of the army's supplies, which took most of the morning, and was in the process of reviewing several repair requests, but they were taking longer than they ought to have between his focus, which was drying up in the heat, and the pain of holding a quill in his injured hand.
It was about midday when Eshati and Aryl entered into the square where the king was holding his business with the people of Salek.
Faramir, who was already feeling unwell from the scorching heat of the day, even under an awning as he was, felt about ready to lose the meager contents of his stomach as it contorted itself into a butterfly knot the very same instant he laid eyes on the pair of them- and their Numenorian attendants.
Coruen and Nelarion smiled on seeing the Steward, clothed once more in the garb of their people, but Tulus seemed as sour and ever, though it seemed to Faramir that his scowl was not as deep as it had been.
The ranger glanced over to his king, searching the older man's expression. Aragorn seemed just as troubled as Faramir felt, though anyone who did not know him might not notice. The king had a smile on his face, but the corners of his eyes were tight, and his head was tilted to one side, as if inquisitive.
Faramir recognized the tilt as a sighting, as if the other man were looking down an arrow shaft and past his own bow at the approaching Haradrim.
Eshati bowed respectfully as they approached. "The gods have sent you to us," he said, still bent forward. "I know now it was the king who saved his servant."
Aragorn glanced at Faramir and raised an eyebrow, but the Steward had no answer for him and could only shrug helplessly.
"I have realized," Eshati said slowly. "That the sin had put curse upon us- the curse of war, and plague, and death, and now think back, and I believe it is… be my fault… that my beloved daughter has no mother." He shook his head. "Pray this will be enough, or we will suffer unending. I have released all slaves of our tribe."
Aragorn's other eyebrow lifted as Eshati straightened up. "I am well pleased to hear this. I expected no such thing so soon."
"Your Steward is strange," the chief said as a way of explanation.
"Indeed?" the king asked, the ghost of amusement settling over his features as he glanced back toward the man in question.
"As payment of our debt to him, I offer now my daughter for marriage," Eshati concluded.
An uncomfortable silence reigned over the entire group for a few, long seconds until Aragorn at last broke it, clearing his throat. "The Steward of Gondor is unfortunately not in a position that affords him the liberty of accepting your generous offer; he has a duty to form a marriage that will strengthen the line of Stewards. However, a tie to a country once our enemy my help in achieving peace. I will, therefore, seek -upon my return- a suitable match amongst the nobility, if it is agreeable to her."
Aryl's shoulders sagged.
Had she been hoping to marry him? Faramir found himself staring rudely in his confusion and had to turn his eyes downward to the papers he had just previously been working on.
The letters neatly written across the surface of the sheet no longer held any meaning to him, and his eyes glanced across them without reading a single word. He must have given her a wrong impression of him, somehow. He had not meant to lead her on, and for the life of him, could not figure out how he had.
They had barely ever interacted, and yet somehow, he had still managed to put her in this most uncomfortable position.
Eshati was hesitating to respond, looking toward Faramir for something, though the Steward did not know what. "You are unmarried?" he asked. "Uncourted? Surely there must be some way."
Faramir opened his mouth to tell the chief that the king's word was final on the matter, but Aragorn spoke first.
"I have a match for him in mind already," Elessar said easily.
Faramir's gaze turned sharply toward the king as a growing sense of horror overtook him. He put down the quill he had been holding and clenched his hands together on his lap to keep them from shaking.
He had known all his life that a favorable marriage was unlikely for him, by birth and duty, but hearing such a thing confirmed from the mouth of the king was somehow… heartbreaking. Perhaps he had dared to hope, but who would he choose? Or, more appropriately, who would even choose him?
If it had existed at all, it would have been a foolish hope.
He pushed the pain downward with stinging balm. "I am honored to serve Gondor," he said, numbly.
Aragorn smiled at him, and he thought it was meant to be reassuring.
"I understand. I will… consult my daughter," Eshati conceded at last, the disappointment evident in both his tone and on his face.
Aryl looked ready to cry.
Faramir wanted to offer some comfort, but wasn't sure what to say, and had to watch helplessly as they turned away, feeling terribly guilty for his part in breaking Aryl's heart.
He understood now how much it hurt.
"My lord," he managed at last. "May I ask-" before he could get the question out, several soldiers and Haradrim men came crashing into the square, almost knocking into Eshati and his daughter.
The Haradrim were all shouting, and the Gondorian soldiers were grimly quiet, hauling along what seemed to be… one of them.
They had a footman bound in irons and struggling to pull away from the firm grip of his fellows, and a woman, unveiled and silently weeping, trailed along with them.
A crowd was gathering behind, of mostly women, and the few men, mostly elders, who were not drafted to the war.
Aragorn stood, calling for quiet in Haradric.
Grudgingly, the men following behind fell silent, turning their wrath now on the king, who stepped away from his seat to walk among them.
"What happened here?" he asked, addressing the grim faced soldiers who were hauling the apparent criminal along with them. "What is his name?"
"This is Maelorost. He assaulted a woman," one said with a grim shrug, a motion that nearly toppled the prisoner. "Didn't get far, but this is building into a riot."
Aragorn turned to the stunned woman who had been trailing behind, and extended a hand, as if to put it on her shoulder, but apparently thought better of it. He spoke again, this time in Haradric, much to the evident shock of the closest men to the heart of the chaos. He asked if she was hurt, and the woman shook her head and cast her eyes to the ground in shame.
Her face was beginning to show a bruise.
She pointed toward the captive, muttering something that Faramir thought must have translated to "my veil."
Aragorn glanced back and his face hardened with anger. "A moment," he told her, and snatched a piece of colorful silk that had previously been hidden from sight in Maelorost's hands.
She hurriedly took it and turned away once more to cover her hair and face.
The guards moved as if to strike their prisoner, but Aragorn put out his arm. "No," he said. "He will stand trial, and then… should he be found guilty, he will be put to death."
Maelorost's defiance crumbled for a moment as a look of shock overtook him. "What?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. It did not last long, though, and fury found a new hold on him as he strained against his chains. "I thought you would protect your own people," he yelled, struggling toward Aragorn, who looked unconcerned about the feeble threat the chained man represented.
Faramir stood and approached, doing his best to hold himself tall next to the king and not to disgrace them all by appearing weak. "It was never your place to presume to know the mind of the king, and even less now that you have betrayed him, but I will explain it to you now so that you can know your death will indeed protect all of Gondor." He took a breath. "Your actions will stir unrest with the people of Harad, who will hate us now more than ever, and if we leave you alive for this action, more soldiers will die and the war will continue because the people will have found their spirit again in hating all of the sons of Numenor."
"Even more pressing is the debt you owe this one," Aragorn motioned to the woman, who still had her back turned. A man gray haired man, presumably her father, had wrapped his arms around her protectively, and was glaring venomously at the Gondorians. "You owe her your life, and I will see that debt paid."
"And what of the men who took my wife, dishonored her, and left her rotting on the ground for the birds? What of them?" he demanded.
"Eru knows," Aragorn said, his eyes still turned toward the shaking woman. "And they will be cursed for all days, even to the end, if they do not meet their justice in this life. But this is no longer about you. You threw that away when you involved an innocent woman."
"Don't bother with the trial," Maelorost said bitterly. "Just kill me now, then, and see the efficacy of your curses. I confess, you have me."
Faramir glanced sidelong at Aragorn, whose face had not shifted from a grim expression that the Steward could not read.
"Very well. Know also that I do this as a mercy for you, that you will not pay for your crime twice, and so have hope to see your wife again in the next life. Farewell."
Faramir, bowed his head.
They would have to clear the square, and prepare witnesses for the death, which would take at least a day, and he was uncertain that such preparations would be acceptable to the Haradrim; by their laws, such a transgression was meant to be paid on the very same day it occurred.
A sudden motion in the corner of his vision made Faramir flinch back, startled as if something or someone meant to strike him.
Apparently many others had the same reaction, jerking away instinctively as a splash of red spread across the stones.
"Go in peace, disgraced son of Gondor," Aragorn said, standing above the fallen head of Maelorost, Anduril gripped firmly in his hand, the blade glittering scarlet.
