Shocked silence reigned over the square for but a moment until the Haradrim began cheering.
"Fetch a cloth, Faramir," Aragorn said softly, barely audible above the roar of the crowd.
The Steward took a stumbling step back before turning away and shaking himself. He had seen bodies before, and death, repeatedly in fact, and he had seen executions, but never had he seen Aragorn, nor any nobles for that matter, take it to themselves to be the executioner.
It had been so clean and sudden.
Maelorost had no time to realize his death was upon him, even having requested it.
A distant, cold part of himself had to marvel at the precision of such a cut, to slip between the bones in the neck without resistance. Aragorn truly was a master swordsman, and Anduril a master blade.
He took a rag from the tent he had been staying in and began the walk back, paying it no more heed than he had on the way there. If asked to recount how he had gotten the cloth, Faramir would have no answer.
The king wordlessly accepted the cloth and cleaned Anduril almost as if he were comforting the blade before sheathing it once more. "Take the body outside the walls, set a pyre, and there burn it," he said at last. "Hang the shackles over the gate to the square as a warning to the rest." He turned, blade sheathed once more, toward Faramir and set a gentle hand against the Steward's forehead. "You have a fever," he said, his frown deepening. "You ought to lay down."
The sudden change in the king was almost as jarring as the speed of the execution; where a moment ago had been a frigid steel and ferocity was warmth and gentleness. He was a healer again so soon after embodying death.
Faramir could not bring himself to protest as Aragorn led him away from the gristly scene they left behind them. He had expected that Aragorn would lead him to his uncle's tent, to lie down and rest again, but instead he found himself sitting under a wide awning in an abandoned corner of the city after a long, silent walk.
"It's just as I remember," Aragorn said suddenly, shattering the quiet.
"You've been here before?" Faramir asked, surprised.
"In my youth," the king said with a nod as he studied the wall. "Long ago. There was a spring here, once, hidden and kept by the family that used to live in this house, but they seem to have gone."
"And the spring?"
"That is what I want to find out," Aragorn said, nodding absentmindedly and running his fingers over the bricks. "Or was it inside?" he muttered to himself. His expression cleared a moment later and he pressed the broken door open, snapping a board inside as he did.
A couple of startled yelps alerted the two of them that they were not alone.
A young boy dashed across the room, throwing his arms wide in front of two younger girls, huddled together and quaking in the corner.
They all had eyes as blue as Rohan's open skies, and the deep brown hair and tawny skin of the Haradrim.
"Children of slaves?" Faramir asked in a whisper.
"Yes." Aragorn knelt immediately, smiling in a disarming way. He took the canteen from his belt and held it out. "Thirsty?" he asked in their own tongue.
The little boy glared at him suspiciously and snatched the canteen, retreating quickly, presumably to avoid being grabbed, and handed the bottle to the two girls who must have been his sisters.
The older one gave most of the water to the youngest, took a little for herself, and handed the rest back to the brother, who took a few sips, but gave the last back to the oldest sister again.
"Do you want more?" Aragorn asked, still speaking in Haradric.
The older brother took the canteen back, and tossed it across the gap to Aragorn, who caught it deftly. "How?" the boy asked suspiciously.
Aragorn moved past them, motioning Faramir to follow, and deeper into the house.
There was a wall built up over what once had been a doorway, and the king had no trouble kicking through the old, powdery mortar.
This startled the children, who shrank back again, frightened once more, but neither Numenorean took any steps closer to them, so they calmed quickly.
There was something of a tunnel behind the wall, carved into sandstone.
There had been a rise of rock there the size of a mountain, hundreds, if not thousands of years ago, and the oldest buildings of Salek had been built against it, some of them even carved into the sides, and the city had grown around it.
Aragorn had to stoop down quite far to fit, and Faramir, even being several inches shorter and a good deal thinner than he ought to have been, still felt compressed and cramped on all sides as he followed, ducking to avoid the stone ceiling.
All at once the tunnel opened into a round and verdant cave, with a hole at the top letting sunlight down into the center to refract across the surface of turquoise water at the top of a deep well. There were plants and birds in the cave, and vines climbing the wall that kept the air cool despite the late afternoon heat in the desert outside.
A few, small cries of astonishment alerted Faramir to the fact that the children had followed behind.
Aragorn knelt and refilled his canteen, motioning for the Steward to sit on a rock near the water's edge. "A grim day," he said as the younger man settled down onto the stony seat. "But a necessary one."
Faramir nodded, unsure of what to say. "...Such days remind me of home," he managed at last. "Not in their bitterness, but… in the contrast."
"Recent night makes dawn seem the brightest part of the day," Aragorn agreed, taking his cup from where it hung on his belt. He plucked up a few of the plants and crushed them between his fingers before adding them to the cup, and poured a powder from a cloth bag he'd taken from a pocket into the mixture as well. He filled the mug with the canteen and set it into the sun before topping off his water supply and returning the cork to the bottle neck.
"We'll have to go back eventually," Faramir ventured as the children began cautiously to step into the open from the tunnel.
"Yes," Aragorn agreed, his gray eyes soft as he watched the three of them splash at the edge of the well. "Especially after what has happened."
Faramir's eyes fell to the ground as he remembered the single, savage movement that had killed a man just minutes ago, and some distant part of himself wondered when such sudden violence would be turned on him.
It was inevitable wasn't it? After all, his own father hadn't even seen fit to protect him from his failures. One day he would disappoint Aragorn, too, but at least the consequences would be just and humane.
Faramir shook himself firmly, a stern voice in his mind insisting that he was harder on himself than anyone else, and that such violence would be reserved for criminals, not failures.
"Is everything alright in there?" Aragorn asked dryly, snapping the Steward out of his thoughts.
He felt his face relax and realized he must have been wearing his disquiet on his expression. "I'm alright," Faramir assured him.
"I didn't think you could get any more pale, but here I have seen you turn suddenly grey," Aragorn said, almost teasingly, and then added, "Wait just a little longer, the tea is almost ready."
"What are we going to do with these children?" Faramir asked, changing the subject away from his unwanted thoughts. "They are too young to leave on their own."
"Their parents are most likely dead," Aragorn agreed. "I will do my best to earn their trust, and bring them home to the West. I don't intend to make them; they will only see us as slavers of a different shade if we do, but living here… I don't expect they will last long at all." He tilted his head, eyes soft as he gazed toward the water's edge. A new light entered his stony eyes and he shifted his attention back to Faramir, who had to resist the urge to fidget nervously under the intense gaze. "Perhaps I will put you in charge of that task."
"Me?" Faramir asked, initially taken aback.
It seemed a sensitive enough situation that someone like Imrahil, who had his own children might be better suited for it.
"Yes," Aragorn said levelly. "Unless you do not wish to?"
"No," Faramir protested immediately. "I'm honored- I just… did not think I was well suited."
"You're shorter than me, and have a lighter frame, closer to the size they would expect from an adult of this land, and you're soft-spoken, naturally, and gentle favored. I can be gentle, but it is a mantle I don for the use of it, and not the inborn bend of my spirit, as I see it in your own," he explained. "And selfishly, I will worry for you less if you are here, where it will be cooler, and the work lighter."
Faramir gazed at Aragorn in abject confusion, trying to work out for himself how any of what Aragorn had said was selfish.
Before the Steward could unravel that mystery, the King reached over to the mug in the sunlight and handed it to Faramir. "Drink that," he ordered.
It was bitter, but the Steward had tasted far worse on far more occasions, and downed it without complaint or reaction.
"We will give it some time to take effect, and return to the square for luncheon," Aragorn said consideringly. "Eomer is often around at that time, and I know Eowyn wants to see you."
Faramir looked away sharply.
Nothing so easily revealed a secret desire as having it forbidden from granting.
"Is there something wrong?" Aragorn asked.
"Not at all," Faramir said hurriedly, and the King squinted at him, unconvinced. "...It shouldn't be, at any rate," the Steward amended as the scrutiny landed on him.
"So there is something wrong?" Aragorn prompted again, raising an eyebrow at him.
"It is best left for another time," Faramir said evasively, his eyes drifting away from the piercing gaze of the other man. He dearly hoped Aragorn would forget about it.
"Very well," the King conceded, though he did not sound pleased to let it go so easily.
They sat in silence a little longer, watching the children splash about in the shallows and try to climb the tall palms that were reaching for the sunlight streaming in from above.
Aragorn at last was the one to break the silence as he stood, stretching. "You're looking better already," he said. "Your color has improved. Do you feel well enough to join the others for luncheon?"
Faramir almost scrambled to his feet. "Yes, my lord. I think I could finish the day with you, if it was your will," he added hurriedly.
Aragorn shook his head and began down the tight tunnel to the no-longer-quite-abandoned house on the other side, motioning the Steward to follow. "No, I think not," he said. "You ought to rest here, and perhaps bring some food to these little ones."
"I will, then," Faramir said as he stooped down.
It was comforting to think he could still be useful to the King, at least, rather than giving up duty entirely for yet another afternoon.
The square, when they reached it, was in a state of very carefully managed chaos, almost alike to a hive of bees that has not yet decided the approaching bear is a threat, but highly suspects it is.
There was still a significant pool of blood on the flagstones, and a trail leading away where Maelorost was executed.
There were more guards about than there had been, and still crowds of Haradrim, pointing at the blood and sharing the story of how it came to be.
His death, at least, served, yet the cost was too high, Faramir thought passing the excitement by in somber silence. That some good can come of an evil should never be cause enough to allow such depravity. He shook his head, and glanced forward at Aragorn, whose face had returned to a grim-set at the reminder. He got the feeling they were harboring very similar thoughts.
Imrahil was standing near the makeshift desk where the King usually worked, and directing the other lords who had come along with their soldiers, and none of them were relaxed. Hands sat atop sword pommels, brows were furrowed, and dark looks passed between them.
Eomer and Eowyn were a part of the circle, and the Horselord's arms were crossed, a deep frown over his face.
The prince of Dol Amroth brightened and pointed toward them, visibly relaxing. Most of the men with him also seemed relieved as they spotted Aragorn and his Steward, including the two Rohirrim.
"There they are," Faramir heard Imrahil say. "There is no need for drastic measures."
"No indeed," Aragorn agreed. "I apologize for my sudden egress. It was necessary to take a moment away from the crowd."
"I heard what happened, my lord," Eowyn said, curtseying politely to the king, though her eyes were on Faramir. "We were worried when no one could find you that something had happened."
"Something has happened," Aragorn said, gesturing to the crowd around the bloodstain.
"Something more," Eowyn clarified, a displeased frown flitting across her expression. "You are both alright then, I trust?"
"Better than expected," Aragorn replied. "Faramir is still recovering from the effects of serpent venom."
Her eyes were still on the Steward and her body turned to follow, facing him completely so that Faramir knew for certain that she was now addressing him and him alone. She curtsied deeply, lowering her eyes for just a moment. "Welcome back, my lord."
Aragorn and Eomer exchanged meaningful, pleased looks and the knot in Faramir's stomach tightened.
"I saw you," Faramir said, pushing the feeling aside, and directing his attention entirely toward Eowyn. "And Windfola, on the dunes."
"I wish I had found you then," she said sadly, stepping closer. "So much time was lost."
"That is not your fault," he assured her. "It is because of you that I was not found and again captured when I collapsed."
"You collapsed?" she asked, wringing her hands agitatedly.
"I was given something to make me sleep, and could not entirely fight through it," he admitted, feeling weak by his inability to overcome the drug they had given him then.
"To fight through such a thing at all…" she said, grabbing her arms in a gesture of self-comfort that made Faramir feel guilty for troubling her. "You are strong, my lord."
The Steward struggled to find the words to answer her, but his mind simply kept circling through her words.
Eowyn, Shield-Arm of Rohan, slayer of the Witch King, beautiful and wild, thought he was strong.
He opened his mouth, then closed it again, and flinched as Eomer's hand landed on his shoulders.
"Let us gather for a meal," the Horselord said merrily, half dragging Faramir away.
The Steward would have protested if he could have gotten his voice to work, and if Eowyn were not laughing and smiling again, as she was, and following them.
Faramir's face was hot with embarrassment and perhaps something else, as he had quite forgotten that the two kings were present at all for their conversation, but more importantly-
Eowyn had called him strong.
