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Shadow and Thought  by Linda Hoyland

The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been or will be made from this story.

Chapter 12 – The Hands of the King.

The hands of the king are the hands of a healer. And so the rightful king could ever be known. - Tolkien  – The Lord of the Rings.

With grateful thanks to Raksha and Deandra. 

Later that day, Faramir stood by the window watching the sun sink behind the trees outside. It promised to be a glorious sunset.

“My lord, you have travelled far and know of the ways of many peoples?” Éowyn, who had been sitting staring into the fire, asked rather hesitantly, turning her gaze towards the King.

“I have visited many lands during my travels,” Aragorn replied, smiling at her encouragingly from the chair, where he sat by the fire. “What would you like to know?”

“Do you know of any rites by which I could pledge myself to my husband again?” she asked, screwing up her courage to come to the point. “I made such a dreadful mistake in believing he considered our marriage nothing but a loveless political union. I know I cannot undo the past, but I should like to make a fresh start, if only I could!” Éowyn struggled to keep back her tears.

Faramir hastened to her side. He placed a comforting arm around her. He was both surprised and touched at her words. “I should like that too,” he said. “I bear much of the blame as well. I should have learned what troubled my wife long ago. I fear I do not find it easy to express my feelings.”

“The Elves have an unique ritual to bind them together,” Aragorn informed them gravely. “Arwen and I pledged ourselves after the marriage ceremony.” He held up his right hand, so they could see the slender band of gold on his index finger. “My lady and I exchanged these rings when we made our private vows. The official ceremony seemed to be far more for public show than an expression of the love we bear each other. The Elven vow is even more solemn than the marriage vows of Men; it binds a couple not only till death; but also until the ending of the world. Are you certain you wish to do that?” The King sounded somewhat doubtful, having witnessed their earlier coldness towards each other over the past months.

“I do,” Éowyn replied without hesitation. “I finally understand my husband’s true worth. I love him far more now than I did on my wedding day!”

“I, too, would bind myself completely to Éowyn. I love her more than ever, despite everything that has happened. We both made mistakes. I realise now how cold and unloving I must have seemed to her,” Faramir added, equally unhesitatingly. “What must we do?”

“You truly wish to pledge yourselves anew, then?” Aragorn asked.

“The sooner we put the past behind us the better!” Faramir replied.

“We need to start again after these unhappy months of mutual misunderstandings!” Éowyn insisted.

“Would you like to do it now then?” the King enquired.

“Yes, if you will show us how, my lord,” Éowyn said resolutely. Beside her, Faramir nodded.


“You must kneel, then, facing each other.” Aragorn told them, realising that they were determined. “The ritual is simple; the meaning behind it takes a lifetime to fully comprehend!”


The young couple knelt before the fire, their faces illuminated both by the firelight, and the crimson glow of setting sun, which streamed through the window.

 “You must both say the words together. Repeat them after me,” Aragorn said solemnly. ”They are a pledge of eternal love and fidelity.”

Faramir and Éowyn nodded.

"I swear by my forefathers and foremothers, by my own word, and with the Valar to witness," Aragorn began in Elvish.

Éowyn understood not a word; the words were Quenya rather than the Sindarin that the children of the House of Thengel had been taught.  She trustingly repeated the beautiful phrases, so strong was her desire to redeem herself in Faramir's eyes.  And since they both repeated the same pledge, the vows would bind them equally.

"That I take thee in wedlock," Aragorn continued. 

Faramir smiled reassuringly when Éowyn stumbled over the Quenya, touched that she was trying hard to speak precisely in an unknown language.

“And that I will bear love and faith only to thee for all time. So do I plight thee my troth,” Faramir and Éowyn concluded.

Aragorn beckoned them to rise, the young couple clasped hands, and then Faramir drew Éowyn close and they kissed.

“Be thou blessed and fruitful!” Aragorn concluded in Rohirric.

Faramir and Éowyn knelt again for the King’s blessing just as the sun’s dying rays bathed the room in a beautiful crimson light.

“I am wearing my oldest gown,” Éowyn lamented once the rites were concluded.

“You do not need finery with your beauty!” Faramir assured her. “When we return to Minas Tirith, we will exchange the Elven rings, and you shall have a new gown then if you wish. Let us send for some wine now to toast our union!” He summoned a servant, bidding the girl to fetch the best wine from the cellar.

When she returned with a flagon of the finest vintage from Lebennin, Faramir poured the ruby red liquid into three goblets.

“May you be granted long life and abundant blessings!” Aragorn lifted his glass in a toast to his friends, truly thankful to see them in accord at last.

“We are blessed indeed to live in these times!” Faramir replied, lifting his glass and wincing as the pain coursed through his shoulder. The near constant throbbing seemed to grow worse with every movement this evening. Maybe helping the King to the chair earlier had aggravated his injuries. Despite Faramir’s attempts to disguise his discomfort, Aragorn’s keen eyes noticed.

“You are in pain, Faramir!” the King exclaimed in concern.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Éowyn chided gently. “I will fetch some salve and mix some poppy juice for you.”

“Let me try to ease you,” Aragorn said.” I know many Elven arts that would help you.”

 “Would it not overtax your strength?” Faramir asked, looking anxiously at his King. “After all, today is only the first time you have been able to get up.”


Aragorn shook his head. “It takes very little energy to use the Elven healing touch. It is usually mutually soothing for both healer and patient. I fear that as yet, though, I lack the strength to heal you completely.”


“Is it fitting the King should tend me?” Faramir asked, uncertain whether or not he should finally accept help from Aragorn.

“Please, no more of that! Have you learned nothing these last days?” Aragorn chided. “Can I not offer help as your friend?”

Suddenly ashamed of his reticence, Faramir nodded a reluctant agreement. “I will be honoured to accept your help if it does not overburden your strength.”

“Come then, sit by me and I will see what I can do for you,” Aragorn said, smiling encouragingly at his Steward.


Bringing a low stool from the other side of the fireplace, Faramir sat on it, directly in front of the chair the King was sitting on. He hesitantly fingered the laces of his clothing. Now the moment had come; he was as uncomfortable as ever at the prospect of the King beholding his shameful scars and puny frame. He could hear his father’s mocking tones still, comparing him unfavourably to the much more sturdily built Boromir. “Maybe I should bathe first?” he suggested desperately.

Aragorn shook his head. ”Come, you look perfectly clean to me! It would be best if you took off your tunic, but you can just unlace your shirt if you wish to keep it on.”

With some difficulty, given the pain in his shoulders and arms, the Steward removed his heavy outer garment. He already felt half naked. Court etiquette decreed everyone must be correctly dressed at all times in the presence of the King or Ruling Steward.

Faramir simply unlaced his shirt, vastly relieved that he could keep it on.

Éowyn, who was sitting nearby, had other ideas. “For Bema’s sake, take off your shirt!” she exclaimed. ”You are not even amongst strangers here! Remember you were a soldier!”

Faramir was about to retort that a Captain was granted some privacy when it struck him that the King had received no such privilege over the past days. Maybe for all his kindness, Aragorn would feel insulted if he refused to disrobe. After all, the King had been trying to persuade him to allow him to examine his wounds for the past two years. If only Aragorn did not look so much like his father!

“Be at ease, I would neither distress nor hurt you!” Aragorn said gently. ”Remember, I now most likely bear as many scars as you do. You have never recoiled from me, having beheld them.  Neither will your lady and I recoil from you."

 “Do you need help to get your shirt off?” Éowyn enquired.

Realising he had little choice, Faramir took a deep breath and pulled the linen garment over his head, baring his scrawny and heavily scarred body to Aragorn’s gaze. He sat bolt upright on the stool, eyes downcast, crossing his arms defensively across his chest. Despite the warmth of the fire, he shivered, conscious of two pairs of eyes scrutinising him in the red glow of the firelight.

It had felt different when Éowyn had tended his wounds. He had not been able to see her face, and she had always carried out the task with merciful speed.

Aragorn waited a few moments, allowing Faramir to compose himself. His healer’s keen eye beheld a man in considerable pain. He noted immediately that Faramir resembled his father, being of true Númenorean build as well as features, having a slender build, but with a broad chest and shoulders. His muscles were sadly wasted, but he would surely heal completely with the proper Elven treatments.

“May I?” he asked gently, reaching out his hand towards Faramir’s injured shoulder.

Faramir nodded reluctantly and submitted to the discomfort of the injury being probed. He had to admit the King was very gentle, much more so than the healers in the city. Aragorn’s hands were surprisingly warm, so that his very touch seemed to immediately ease the pain.

“The whip caught your old injury, and the muscles and ligaments were torn further when your arms were forced over your head. Then the muscles in both arms and shoulders have been damaged and weakened,” Aragorn pronounced. ”You must be in great pain, not only these last days, but ever since your shoulder was first injured during the war. However did you cope with all your duties as Steward? You have always fulfilled them in an exemplary manner. I should have seen you were in pain and helped you long ago, I am sorry!”

“Do not blame yourself, sire. You had a country to rule, rebellions from the South and East to quell and a new bride to occupy your time. And you did offer me your help many times, but I foolishly refused,” Faramir replied, again lapsing into formality. Closing his eyes to hide his discomfort, he could feel Aragorn’s hands warm on his goose-pimpled flesh, lingering a moment over his racing heartbeat before starting to gently massage his shoulder with his fingertips.

 “You need to relax. Take deep breaths with the rhythm of my hands and allow your hurts to be eased,” Aragorn advised him. “This treatment is painless and should feel quite pleasant.” Long years in the wilderness had taught Aragorn patience. Unlike others who had treated Faramir in the past; he did not order Faramir to uncross his arms.

“Could I learn to do that?” Éowyn asked, while Aragorn’s nimble fingertips expertly kneaded Faramir’s aching shoulder, though somewhat hampered by the Steward’s defensive pose.

Faramir glanced towards his wife. Éowyn was watching the King’s hands with intense fascination rather than casting a critical eye over his imperfect body.

“Yes, I could teach you if you like, though Arwen is far more skilled at it than I am, having had centuries in which to practise,” Aragorn replied.

“I thought salves or oils were required for this kind of treatment?” Éowyn remarked.

“The Elves prefer to use just their fingertips.” Aragorn explained. “The secret is applying just the right amount of pressure. It is quite easy to learn.”

Much to his surprise, Faramir found he was beginning to enjoy the experience. His tense frame slowly relaxed. Almost without realising it, he uncrossed his arms; letting his hands fall limply on his lap, thus allowing Aragorn to properly massage his arms and shoulders, followed by his chest and the upper part of his belly.

The Steward gave a contented sigh. He realised he was experiencing something very different than the cold touch generally associated with healing. This treatment had a much more caring feel, and awakened long buried memories of his mother’s loving touch. Faramir had always craved affection, but been starved of it for most of his life since the premature death of Finduilas. Subsequently, he found it very hard to either give or receive affection. He had briefly shed his reserve in the days when Middle-earth had seemed doomed to fall to Sauron and he had shown kindness to the Hobbits and wooed Éowyn. But with victory, his natural reserve had soon returned. During the last few days, his formality had relaxed when he had tried to comfort the King, but after so many years of his father’s disapproval, he had not found it at all easy. Denethor had considered any display of tenderness to be a weakness, and his nurse, fearful of their lord’s wrath, had followed his edict. Although, Boromir had loved his brother dearly, he had been well schooled to follow his father’s example. Therefore, he could offer no more than the occasional awkward hug to his younger brother when he was certain Denethor was not looking.

It seemed to Faramir that he was at last getting the loving fatherly tenderness that had always been denied him. That in itself was as healing as any easing of his muscles. Much to his shame, tears started to roll down his cheeks.

“You have been denied much of the love which was rightfully yours.” Aragorn said, showing an uncanny ability to read his thoughts. The King gently wiped away the teardrops with his thumb. Aragorn’s voice was as soothing as his touch.

Faramir gave a great sigh as he felt the past slipping away. If he were a cat, he would have purred. 

Still the King continued, totally engrossed in his task; his fingertips unknotting the tension in Faramir’s muscles with slow circular movements. The firelight softly illuminated Aragorn’s features. When Faramir raised his eyes at last, he felt almost overwhelmed by the depth of love and compassion in his lord’s eyes. Aragorn might resemble Denethor, but his eyes were so very different. A flame seemed to dance upon the King’s brow, highlighting the nobility, which had never diminished even during the darkest of the past few days. The Steward realised he was truly blessed to know this man and feel the power of his touch; and the look of reverence on Éowyn’s face suggested she shared his awe.

TBC





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