The characters belong to the Tolkien Estate and no profit has or will be made from this story.

Chapter Nine – A Growing Bond.

 A few hours later, Faramir awakened. He yawned and slowly and painfully sat up. “Did you add something to my drink?” he asked Éowyn. “I did not mean to fall asleep.”

“You badly needed rest, so I shall not apologise for giving you a sleeping draught,” Éowyn told him. “I will send for food and drink.”

Faramir turned to look at Aragorn. “How is the King?” he enquired.

“There is no improvement. He is still feverish,” Éowyn replied. “The poppy juice is at least allowing him some rest.”

After they had eaten a light meal, Éowyn insisted on tending her husband’s wounds. Faramir felt more uncomfortable than ever, wondering just how disappointed his wife must be at the sight of his unclothed body. He did not look at his wife while she gently bathed his wounds, fearing to see revulsion in her eyes. At least the injuries, though still raw and painful, were clean and bore no signs of infection. After she had helped Faramir don fresh garments, Éowyn left the room, saying she needed some fresh air.

Aragorn suddenly shifted on the bed and groaned. Faramir was at his side in an instant, grasping the restless hands.

“Aragorn, are you in pain?” he asked anxiously.

The King’s eyes opened. This time they held a flicker of recognition. “Faramir? - So much pain – burning - water, please!” he murmured disjointedly

Faramir lifted Aragorn’s head with one hand and raised the cup of water to his lips with the other. Aragorn drank thirstily and drained the cup. Faramir filled it again, noting with alarm how parched and dry the King’s lips looked. The King’s forehead was dripping with sweat, so Faramir moistened a cloth and gently wiped Aragorn’s face.

“Thank you, my friend,” Aragorn whispered. ”I am glad you are here.” He lay still for a few minutes before falling asleep again.

Éowyn returned to the sickroom after what felt like an age to Faramir. She looked somewhat more cheerful than before and her cheeks were slightly flushed.

“You should go outside and get some fresh air,” she told him.

“But what if the King needs anything?” Faramir protested.

“Whatever he needs, can wait for a few minutes. I will sit with him while you are gone. I have just been to see the horses, and then I walked round the garden. I feel much better for it. You need some fresh air, or you will make yourself ill!” She pushed him towards the door.

Faramir reluctantly made his way to the garden. It was a small, rather neglected patch of land, cleared from the surrounding forest. It comprised a vegetable patch, bare at present, being so early in the year, an overgrown flowerbed, and a herb garden, populated by a few sparse plants.

A short path led to a meadow, where the horses were grazing. Faramir slowly and painfully made his way there. The cowslips and primroses were in bloom, creating a cheerful carpet of yellow. They reminded Faramir of his early childhood, when his mother was still alive. She had loved primroses. Boromir would often take his little brother out into the gardens to gather the blooms for her. During the last few months of her life, Finduilas had been too frail to go outside and could only enjoy the flowers if they were brought to her room. He remembered one day a few weeks before she died, when she had felt a little stronger, She had donned her favourite blue mantle, embroidered with stars, which had been a gift from her brother, and gone out into the gardens of the citadel with her children and her maids.

His mother had sat on a bench smiling and watching her sons play. Faramir had picked her a bunch of primroses. She took them from him and kissed him and called him her precious jewel. That was to be his last happy memory of her. She had grown paler and thinner by the day. Before that year was over, she was dead. Faramir’s childhood happiness had ended then too, for Denethor, always a stern man, had grown even grimmer with the death of his wife. The only time Faramir had ever seen him weep was on the night that she died. Afterwards, the Steward had became cold and withdrawn. The two brothers were forced to rely increasingly on each other for mutual support.

Finduilas had already taught Faramir his letters before she died, and her younger son’s love of books and learning had come from her. This had infuriated his father who would always say: ‘Gondor needs soldiers, not scholars!’ every time he caught his younger son reading. Faramir could never please Denethor, who was fond of saying: ‘Your mother was strong before you were born!’ which made him fear from an early age that he must somehow have killed her. His Uncle Imrahil had told him when he was older that Faramir was much wanted, especially as Finduilas had lost babies both before and after him. The hurt however, remained.

As if sensing Faramir’s melancholy, Iavas came up to nuzzle his face. The Steward stroked the silky chestnut mane for comfort. He had known so many losses; his mother, Boromir, his loyal comrades, and his father. He had been more than ready to join them beyond the circles of the world. The Valar must have had other plans for him, though. Aragorn had come and saved him; not only healing his body, but also showing him the love and compassion he had lacked from his father. What a fool he had been not to accept the friendship Aragorn had repeatedly offered to him! Faramir vowed to somehow repay some of the great debt he owed to the King.

The Steward impulsively picked a handful of primroses before making his way back to the house. He noticed the surly maidservant was standing watching him. He could only assume she was curious about her new masters. He called at the kitchen to collect a small jar of water and asked the housekeeper the woman’s name.

“That will be Hanna, you mean, my lord,” she replied. “Not quite right in the head, poor thing. I believe she suffered some family tragedy, and there was a scandal over a child she bore outside wedlock. She does her work well enough, though.”

Reassured by the woman’s explanation, Faramir returned to the sickroom and placed the flowers on a table. When Faramir came in Éowyn remarked, “The fresh air looks to have done you good.”

“You were right about the fresh air, I feel much better,” he told her. “I picked some flowers while I was out. You and the King should both be able to enjoy them here.”

Éowyn’s resentment flared anew. Caring for her husband’s wounds had reawakened her feelings towards him. She prized courage; the stoicism with which Faramir endured his hurts had kindled her admiration. If only she could concentrate her attentions on him, then maybe he would eventually grow to love her? Yet to her fury, she had to devote most of her energies to Aragorn, whom she now hated as intensely as she had once adored him.

 Faramir walked over to the bed and stood looking down anxiously at Aragorn. He felt as if he had broken his sworn oath of fealty, as his first duty was to protect the King. “How is he?” he asked Éowyn.

“A little better,” she replied, “I checked his wounds a few minutes ago and they are starting to drain.”

“The Valar be praised!” exclaimed Faramir. “I can sit with him now. Why not take Windfola for a short ride? He will need exercise.”

Thankfully, Éowyn escaped the sickroom.

Faramir continued to bathe Aragorn’s face and hands. To his great relief, he seemed more comfortable. When night fell, it seemed sensible for them to again rest beside him on the vast bed. The Steward’s weakened body could not fight the urge to rest and fell into a deep sleep. When he awakened again, Aragorn lay still and quiet; Faramir was overcome by dread, afraid of what might have happened while he had slept. “Aragorn!” he cried.

Aragorn slowly opened his eyes. ”Water!” he croaked.

Filled with relief, Faramir reached for a cup and held it so the King could drink. Aragorn drained it thirstily.

“How are you?” Faramir asked him, feeling Aragorn’s forehead. The King’s skin felt much cooler, to his delight.

“Better, though I ache almost everywhere,” Aragorn replied. “How long have I been here?”

“It is the third day since we were attacked,” Faramir told him, refilling the cup and offering it to his lord. ”It gladdens my heart you are feeling better.”

“Thank you, I cannot remember very much. I was aware, though, that you stayed with me and I am grateful. It cannot have been pleasant for you.” Aragorn’s hand gripped Faramir’s wrist as he made to put the empty cup down.

“It was an honour, sire.” Faramir replied, feeling he should revert to formality now his King was lucid. He only hoped that Aragorn would not remember how they had held him the night before.

“Will you grant me one favour?” Aragorn asked, still gripping Faramir’s hand. He still appeared vulnerable.

“Anything, sire,” Faramir replied earnestly. ”What is your wish?”

“That you treat me as a man rather than a King high upon a throne. To begin with, I should like you to use my given name in private. I know that you can, since I heard you just now.” Aragorn managed a wan smile. He tried unsuccessfully to shift to a more comfortable position and groaned.

“I will try, sire, um, Aragorn,” Faramir said uncertainly. Years of training in court etiquette were not easily undone.

“Thank you, I have need of a friend, not a servant or a courtier. You have seen for yourself, that I am but a man such as you are, neither more nor less.” Aragorn groaned again as he fell back exhausted upon the pillow, his meagre reserves of strength exhausted.

 “I will fetch something to ease your pain.” Faramir said, gently releasing the King’s clutching hand. ”Try to rest now.”

“I will mix his poppy juice,” Éowyn announced, wakened by the conversation. She slid off the other side of the bed and came over to examine Aragorn.  “I think he will heal now. You make a good healer, my husband!” she pronounced, in a voice devoid of emotion.

“I only treated him with kindness,” Faramir replied quietly.

Éowyn seethed silently at his implied rebuke. She said nothing, but stirred the medicine furiously. None too gently, she began removing Aragorn’s bandages, then prodding his wounds hard enough to make the unfortunate King cry out in pain. “The infected wounds are draining well and the others will soon close,” she pronounced.

“I will look after him on my own from now on,” Faramir said in a determined tone. Despite his very rudimentary knowledge of healing, he felt he could care for Aragorn better than Éowyn. Her Healer’s training counted for little while her dislike for the King was so obvious.

“As you wish,” Éowyn conceded with supreme indifference. “I shall still need to mix the medicines, though, and help you change the bedding.”

Aragorn heaved a deep sigh of relief at Faramir’s words.

Éowyn noticed and resented it.

***

Later that morning, Aragorn was well enough to partake of some broth, which Faramir patiently helped him spoon into his mouth. He slept for much of the day while Faramir sat beside him, patiently caring for his needs.

That night, Faramir again settled himself to rest next to the King. Éowyn climbed in the other side of the vast bed. She lay there for sleepless hours, listening to her husband’s breathing. She brooded over the strange and frustrating circumstances, which had led to him finally sharing a bed with her. Even if Faramir were to desire her; his injuries and the presence of the King, made any amorous overtures impossible.

The next morning, Faramir brought one of Aragorn’s nightshirts for his lord to wear. The King sighed with relief as he was eased into it. Not only did it restore some of his dignity; but also it felt more comfortable next to skin than the scratchy sheet did.

Over the next few days, aided by the herbs and Faramir’s gentle care, Aragorn’s wounds began to heal. He was, though, much plagued by nightmares whenever he tried to rest. Faramir too, suffered from much the same problem, both men being haunted by their ordeal.

The wounds on the Steward’s back were healing well, under his wife’s care. His arms and shoulders, though, remained very painful. He feared to take sufficient poppy juice to ease the pain, lest it made him too sleepy to care for Aragorn properly.

On the fifth day after the attack, Aragorn was finally well enough to sit up in bed. His wounds still pained him, and he felt weak, but he was well on the way to recovery. He could now hold a cup unaided, and partially wash himself, though Faramir still had to bathe his injured back. When Faramir approached that afternoon with hot water and bandages, Aragorn sighed. “Not again!” he complained. “You only changed the bandages a few hours ago.”

“Éowyn told me you needed fresh ones every few hours,” Faramir said firmly, unlacing the neck of Aragorn’s nightshirt and easing it down to uncover his upper body. He gently undid the bandages to reveal the wounds. “I believe you are healing,” Faramir said uncertainly. He gently felt the area surrounding the wounds that had become infected, checking for any sign of heat and inflammation.

“I agree with you,” Aragorn replied, wriggling away from Faramir’s cold fingers.

“Keep still!” Faramir ordered. “How can I do this, if you refuse to be still?”

To his surprise, Aragorn burst out laughing for the first time since they were attacked. “We have come full circle since we met, have we not?” he chortled. “ I remember the first proper conversation I had with you, when I was telling you to be still.”

“How long ago that seems!” Faramir mused, as he gently bathed the injuries covering Aragorn’s back. “I remember how you tended my wounds and told me to look after Éowyn. I feared you would never return from Mordor.”

“Were it not for Frodo and Sam, Sauron would have killed us all.” Aragorn said gravely, while Faramir handed him the washcloth and placed the bowl of water within easy reach. “We were indeed blessed by the Valar.”

Faramir tactfully lingered in fetching the salves from the other side of the room to give the King a little privacy. He was trying to care for the King by treating him in the same manner as he would like to be treated himself, were he in a similar situation. “Have you heard any news from Frodo and Sam? Éowyn writes to Merry, but he says little of Frodo,” he asked.

Just then Éowyn paused outside Aragorn’s room on her way to the stables. She had seen Faramir take in the water and dressings, and was wondering whether she should examine the King’s wounds again. Then she heard laughter and her name mentioned.

“I think Frodo will go over the sea with my foster father within the year,” Aragorn said quietly, his eyes full of sorrow. “I have heard he has never truly recovered from his wounds. If only he had stayed in Gondor, maybe I could have helped ease his pain. I am glad I told you to care for Éowyn, as I feared for both your futures. Who could have foreseen the outcome? I find a friend and you find a wife!”

“You thought of everything, especially as you won the crown and with it, your own bride!” Faramir replied somewhat flippantly.

“I feared all our plans would go awry,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. “But everything turned out as it should.”

Listening inadvertently to their conversation, Éowyn fumed. They were discussing how she had been given to Faramir like some unwanted parcel! There had been times when she had questioned if Aragorn’s remark at her wedding had really meant what she thought it did, but here was the proof! Overcome with rage and humiliation, she stormed out to seek comfort on Windfola’s broad back.

Faramir picked up the heavy bowl of water. He flinched as the pain coursed through his shoulder.

“As soon as I am sufficiently recovered, I will ease your hurts,” Aragorn told his Steward, regarding him with a look of profound compassion.

Faramir took a deep breath. He had been trying so hard to avoid the King seeing his wounds again. Yet now, it did not seem like such an ordeal. “ Thank you, I would be grateful for your help,” he agreed.

Aragorn felt a certain sense of satisfaction; the last few days had been a nightmare beyond his wildest imaginings, but one good thing at least had come out of it. Faramir no longer feared him and was even willing to accept his help. Maybe, at long last they could become friends.