These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain

No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other star has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given -
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. - Emily Bronte

No other Sun has lightened up my heaven;
No other star has ever shone for me:
All my life's bliss from thy dear life was given -
All my life's bliss is in the grave with thee. - Emily Bronte

“Easy, my lord, lie still!”

Faramir slowly opened his eyes to find Tarostar bending over him. He was lying on a bed and his tunic and shirt had been loosened. For a brief instant, he felt confused.

Where was Aragorn? The King had tended him every time he was ill during the past three years. Then he remembered. The King was dead. Never again, would he see his compassionate grey eyes, feel Aragorn’s healing touch, spend hours deep in conversation or companionable silence with him.

The one who had been father, brother, friend, healer, mentor, and King to him was dead. Faramir choked back a sob and struggled to maintain his composure in front of Tarostar. Were Aragorn here, he would have wept unashamedly, but Aragorn was no more.

However could he continue to exist without him? Surely too, the Queen would most likely die of grief? Arwen would have to be told that her beloved husband was dead.  Faramir's duty as Steward demanded that he to be the one to tell her. Or or maybe she already sensed the grim tidings?

His head swam alarmingly. He wished desperately that Éowyn were here. But could she, or anyone else understand the utter desolation he was feeling? He forced himself to sit up, propping himself on his elbows. Tarostar steadied him and held a cup of water to his lips.

“Alas for Gondor, her Hope is lost!” Faramir said bleakly. His iron composure belied his inner anguish.

“He was indeed a great man and will be much missed,” Tarostar said quietly. He was aware, unlike many, of how deep the friendship between the King and Steward had been, having seen the King’s distress when Faramir was near to death a few months before.

“I must go and inform the Queen,” Faramir struggled to rise from the bed. He became fully aware of his surroundings for the first time. This was the very room where Aragorn had revived him from the Black Breath. He ought not to have been surprised, since it was the best room in the Houses, set aside for those of high birth when they were unwell.

Tarostar shook his head; “You are in no fit state to go anywhere today, Lord Faramir, especially as the Queen does not appear to be within the confines of the City.”

“She is at my home with Lady Éowyn,” Faramir told him.

“Travelling so far is out the question, my lord,” Tarostar told him firmly, “You could not undertake such a journey after sustaining so great a shock. You need to rest. Would you prefer to stay here, or return to your own apartments?”

Just then, a servant tapped on the door and entered. He was bearing a steaming mug in his hand.

Tarostar held the cup to Faramir’s lips, urging the Steward to sip the hot, sweet medicinal tea inside.

Faramir felt stronger once he had drained it, but there was no herb on Arda that could ease the grief in his heart. “How did the King die?” he asked. “I assume he must have fallen in the river somehow? Would he have suffered greatly?”

“I fear, I cannot tell you that, Lord Faramir,” Tarostar replied. “Dead bodies often reveal very little, especially, after being in the river for several days. It will even be difficult to embalm, given the condition it is in, and cannot be put on display for a lying in state, I fear.”

“The ceremonies will have to wait,” Faramir said firmly, “The King does not, I mean, did not want any public gatherings for fear of spreading the fever. I must obey his wishes.  I am sure the Queen will agree. I must inform the Council, but shall make no other announcement until the fever epidemic has waned. We do not want crowds to gather and spread contagion.”

Tarostar nodded his approval, had the decision been his to make, he would have made the same choices.

Faramir swung his legs off the bed, then rather unsteadily rose to his feet.

“Will you rest in your apartments, my lord?” Tarostar asked.

“The Council must be informed and then I will take your advice,” Faramir replied, brushing aside the Chief Warden’s objections and offer to accompany him.

***

The Steward summoned those of Council who could easily be found, and informed them of the King’s death in a calm manner, firmly resisting their calls for an immediate public announcement followed by a state funeral.

Unable to trust himself to continue to maintain his composure at present, he curtly dismissed the Councillors, after what must have been, one of the shortest meetings in Gondor’s long history.

Desperate to be alone, he then made his way back to the privacy of the room that he had shared with Aragorn over the last few weeks.

He supposed he should have returned to his own apartments, but his rooms were cold and damp, no fires having been lit there for some time. Also, his personal possessions were all in the King’s room and he felt too drained to organise their removal.

Fanciful though it might be, Faramir could still sense Aragorn’s presence here; and wanted to experience it while it yet lingered.

Alone at last, he threw himself on the bed and finally gave way to his grief. It was all too like that dreadful day three years ago, when he had finally wept for his father and brother. Only this time, there were no comforting arms around him. How ashamed he had been then at mistaking Aragorn for his uncle and weeping in his arms! Now he would give the whole world to have him beside him again, if only for a brief moment to say a last farewell.

Aragorn had died long before his rightful time; alone with none even to bestow a farewell kiss of blessing, as the King had done for Boromir. Faramir found this last thought too much to bear and howled like a wounded animal. He buried his face in the pillow so that none might hear his raw anguish over the loss of one he loved so dearly.

He had no idea how much time elapsed, being too distraught to notice the gathering darkness outside. When a servant knocked to ask if she should light the candles, he bade her go away.

Eventually, worn out by grief, he fell into an uneasy sleep. Again he dreamed of the King. This dream was more disturbing for he saw Aragorn’s face more clearly. It was contorted with agony with many bruises disfiguring the noble features. Faramir stared in horror: only for the vision to be replaced by one yet more hideous, though less vivid, of the disfigured and bloated corpse he had seen earlier that day. Then he clearly heard Aragorn’s voice calling to him, ‘Faramir, help me, ion nîn!’

The Steward awoke in a cold sweat. Not only had his nightmare been distressing, but it was also unusually vivid. He had many fey gifts. However, communing with the dead had never been amongst them, and even if it were, would not Aragorn be happy and peaceful in the afterlife? His own brushes with death had shown him there was nothing to fear beyond the circles of the world. A good man, such as the King had been, would most surely be rewarded with eternal bliss by the One.

Hovering between uneasy sleep and wakefulness, he was relieved when a gleam of light in the eastern horizon heralded the approaching dawn at last. Even so, he viewed the rising sun with bitterness. With Aragorn’s death, the sun had set forever in his life and over the future of Gondor. The return of the King had heralded such hope for so many, which would now never come to fruition. Eldarion was but a babe in arms: any hopes for him achieving his father’s greatness had been meant for a distant future.

Having fallen asleep fully dressed, Faramir forced himself to change and wash the tear stains from his face. He felt worse even, than when he had learned of his brother’s death. Then, his visions had at least shown him his brother at peace. The encroaching enemy had left him little time for thought.

He began the day with a task he dreaded, fetching the Star of Elendil and Andúril from where Aragorn kept them. If the King still lived, he would never have dreamed of touching the legendary sword. He had once been given leave to hold it, which had more than sufficed to fulfil a dream. Now, as part of the King’s regalia, he must take it to Arwen to keep for Eldarion along with the jewel, which had adorned Aragorn’s noble brow.

At his request, Aedred, one of the most experienced Healers, came to his apartments early that morning. Born in Rohan, Aedred had come to Gondor after the War of the Ring and proved himself exceptionally skilled in the healing arts.

When Aedred was shown in to the Steward’s study, he too looked distressed. He uneasily shuffled his feet as he handed a large parcel to Faramir. “You will need to take the your King’s clothes and rings to show to your Queen to identify him by; so gentle a lady could not view his body thus disfigured,” Aedred informed the Steward grimly. “I fear I have grave tidings for you, my lord. Master Tarostar and I believe that King Elessar was hit over the head before he entered the water and battered about the face. His jaw, nose and cheekbones are shattered. He must have been set upon by footpads intent on robbing him, but fallen in the river before they could take his two valuable rings. Either that, or they recognised them and knew trying to sell them would betray their guilt.”

Faramir looked at the healer aghast. “You mean that he did not drown then?” It sounded a foolish question even as he voiced it aloud; yet, it seemed unthinkable that the greatest warrior of the age should have died at the hands of common robbers.

Aedred shook his head sadly. “There was no water in his lungs, so I fear that means that King Elessar was almost certainly murdered,” he replied.

TBC

A/N Faramir recalls events in First Meeting" "Facing the Darkness” and "Shadow and Thought" also on this site.