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

Chapter Twenty Nine – When a raging fever burns

So, when a raging fever burns,
We shift from side to side by turns;
And ’t is a poor relief we gain
To change the place, but keep the pain - Isaac Watts (1674–1748)

Faramir hung his head in shame. He had indeed given Aragorn sufficient cause to mistrust him. “I acted only that I might rescue you, my lord,” he replied, holding a cup of boiled water to the King’s dry lips. “I was never false in my heart.”

Aragorn shook his head vehemently; almost swooning with the effort it took him. “No, I will not drink your poison, traitor!” he croaked.

Faramir knew that Aragorn must be desperately in need of fluids given his condition. He pinched the skin on the back of the King’s uninjured hand, something he had seen Aragorn do to him when he had been seriously ill after his ordeal in the prison. That memory was more painful than ever to recall now. Aragorn had been so kind to him then. The King had explained to him that if the pinched skin did not immediately fall back in place, it meant a person needed water very badly. The result was just as Faramir had feared. He tried offering the water again, only for Aragorn to clamp his lips tightly shut.

Sighing, Faramir was forced to put the cup to one side. He could only hope that once the King’s wounds were tended he might trust him sufficiently to drink it.

Picking up the jar of honey again, he tried to apply more to Aragorn’s elbow.

The King screamed and lashed out with what little strength he had. Faramir narrowly dodged being struck in the eye. He picked up a roll of bandage and tried to reason with the feverish man. “Please, just let me finish binding your wounds!” the Steward pleaded.

“No, no!” Aragorn replied, catching sight of the ring on Faramir’s finger. “Traitor, torturer, thief!” Starting to struggle again, this time he succeeded in landing a weak blow on Faramir’s nose.

Exhausted, heart sore and despairing at Aragorn’s words, Faramir wildly raised his arm in a threatening gesture, determined to subdue him for his own good.

“Stop it!” A small hand grabbed his arm. Alarmed, he swung around and found himself looking into Elbeth’s furious and distressed features.

“You are hurting poor Strider!” she said crossly.

“How long have you been awake?” he asked her. He shuddered at the realisation she had just prevented him from falling further into darkness.

“Since he woke up, I was scared to say anything in case you hurt me too. I won’t let you hurt him though!” she said fiercely, positioning herself in front of Aragorn.

Faramir was filled with shame at his own conduct. To think that he had sunk so low as to threaten a helpless man who was also his lord and friend. He despised himself for frightening Elbeth, let alone letting her witness such behaviour. Sweat poured from his brow. He wiped his sleeve across his face.

“I am sorry. I would not harm you, Elbeth,” he apologised, his heart going out to her. He hugged her but she only glared at him before wriggling free. “The King has been hurt and needs me to try to make him better.”

Elbeth looked far from convinced.

Laying the bandages aside, Faramir tried again to coax Aragorn to swallow some water, meeting with no greater success than before.

“Uncle Faramir?” Elbeth tugged at this sleeve.

“Not now, Elbeth. I must get him to drink or he could die!” Faramir started to feel panic when Aragorn continued to refuse to as much as sip the water he so needed.

“I can give it to him,” Elbeth said calmly, taking the cup from the astonished Faramir before he could protest. Supporting Aragorn’s restless head with her small hands, she let him see her swallow a mouthful of the water and then held the water to his lips. Thirstily, he drained it.

“However did you do that?” Faramir asked in amazement.

“I‘ve been taking him drinks when they thought I was asleep. He likes me because I’m his friend. He’ll eat and drink anything I give him. He trusts me,” she replied.

Although delighted at her success, her words were like a dagger to Faramir’s aching heart. He had once held the trust of this greatest of men but had been forced to forfeit it. Stifling his emotions, he filled the cup again and handed it to Elbeth. “He needs plenty of water, so give him this too, if you can,” he begged her.

Without hesitation Aragorn swallowed the drink.

“Can you give the King his medicine now?” Faramir asked his niece.

“I expect so, if it doesn’t taste too nasty,” she replied.

Carefully the Steward mixed catnip and willow together with rosehips labelled ‘For curing infections and fevers’ together with poppy juice, which he recognised as being a remedy for pain. The Healers had carefully measured out each dose in a screw of paper or vial and written instructions about how often it should be taken. At least he did not have to worry whether he really would confirm Aragorn’s suspicions by poisoning him.

He took a tentative sip of the mixture, which tasted vile. He added a spoonful of the honey to it, which made it more palatable, if not exactly pleasant.

Elbeth again took the cup to Aragorn. ”Here is your medicine, Strider,” she said. “Drink it up, then you’ll get better and can play with me!”

Whether it was her words, the sound of her voice, or even the familiar tasting medicinal herbs, Faramir had no idea, but Aragorn swallowed it all and soon became sleepy as the poppy juice took effect.

Faramir seized his chance, and after asking Elbeth to hold the King’s uninjured hand, wound the bandage round the King’s injured elbow, and secured it. He then did his best to bind the broken fingers of  Aragorn’s left hand, using pieces of firewood for splints, which provoked whimpers of pain from Aragorn and scowls of protest from Elbeth.

“It has to be done. It will soon be over,” he soothed; uncertain whether it were Aragorn or Elbeth he most needed to placate. At last, it was done and Aragorn’s wounds were tended to the best of Faramir’s ability.

Tears of pain ran down the King’s cheeks from his prolonged ordeal. Faramir made to wipe them away but Aragorn flinched as if expecting a blow. He then tried to throw off the blanket much to Faramir’s alarm.

The Steward hastily sorted through the supplies of clothing for a loose shirt and handed it to Elbeth. ”Can you get the King to put this on?” he asked, torn between the need to keep Aragorn warm and reluctance to allow a small girl to see him partially clothed, even though his upper body was well covered by the bandages.

“Strider!” Elbeth called softly, “Put this on, it is nice and soft like the one you gave me!”

Aragorn struggled to sit up, so Faramir inched behind him without being seen and supported him, pulling the shirt down as Elbeth eased it over his head. Poor Aragorn was obviously too drowsy and ill by now to wonder whom his unseen helper might be. At Faramir’s urging, Elbeth then coaxed the King to swallow more water.

Faramir was vastly relieved that Aragorn would at least accept help from Elbeth. At the same time he felt desperately worried about what he was going to do when the King needed to answer a call of nature or be bathed and changed.

Gesturing Elbeth to stay beside Aragorn, he selected the two blankets nearest the fire and used them to cover the King. Although Aragorn burned with fever, in these cold and damp surroundings, it would be all too easy for him to take a chill. Faramir stuffed the damp and blood soaked blanket he had been using to one side He waited for Aragorn to fall into a feverish sleep and only then, did he set out his own bedding and suggest Elbeth make herself comfortable in a makeshift bed of pelts and blankets between himself and Aragorn.

“This is fun!” she exclaimed, giggling softly, “Much nicer than a bed! I’m playing at being a kitten or a puppy!”

Faramir could not help but smile at her. “Which would you rather be?” he enquired.

“A kitten!” she replied, "They are prettier and more cuddly! I wish I could have one!”

“When we get to my home, you shall, if you are a good girl,” Faramir promised, eager to reward her for her help, should they manage to escape.

“What kind of kitten?” she asked.

“Let me think, “ Faramir replied, trying to remember what colours the house cats at Emyn Arnen were. “You could have a black one, a white one a tabby with stripes, or a kitten with different coloured patches, or even a ginger one if you are very lucky!”

“I’d like a ginger one best,” Elbeth murmured. She was already falling asleep, a contented smile on her young features.

Faramir sat for a moment lost in thought and studying the ring on his finger. Stung by Aragorn’s rebuke, he felt unable to wear it a moment longer. He knelt by the King’s side and gently took his uninjured hand. He slid the Ring of Barahir from his own finger and transferred it to Aragorn’s, reuniting the precious heirloom with its rightful owner. He now wept quietly, overwhelmed with grief for the King’s pitiful condition and remorse for his own cruelty towards him. He felt so empty without the shared Thought Bond. How he yearned to hold the one in his arms who had been father, brother and friend to him and offer what comfort he could. Despite being asleep, Aragorn now recoiled even from the touch of his hand.

The Steward would have very much liked to stay awake to keep watch over Aragorn. He was not of the same undiluted Númenorean ancestry as Aragorn, though and lacked the stamina to do so. After the stresses of the day, Faramir soon fell into an uneasy slumber, his sword ready to hand.

A mixture of worry and bitter cold roused the Steward frequently. Each time, he sat up and reassured himself that Aragorn was still alive, before pulling his blankets round him again and snuggling closer to Elbeth for warmth.

***

The next morning felt even colder when Faramir awoke. After satisfying himself that Aragorn was still breathing, he hastily built up the dying fire and prepared to boil some water.

Still drugged by the poppy juice, the King shifted restlessly in his sleep muttering to himself. When Faramir gently felt his brow, it felt hotter than ever much to the Steward’s dismay.