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

Chapter Thirty-One - Flee an enemy who knows your weakness.

Flee an enemy who knows your weakness. - Pierre Corneille (1606–1684)

“If it hurts, you should kiss it better,” Elbeth suggested. “The nice lady I used to live with always did that. See, like this!” Kneeling beside Aragorn, she gently kissed the livid mark disfiguring his flesh. “Now it is your turn!” she told Faramir sternly.

Faramir should have told her that adults did no such thing to each other. Maybe though, this was to be part of the penance he so richly deserved? Meekly, he did as she bade him, feeling as if it were choking him to do so. Was it his guilty conscience, or did the heat from the cruel disfigurement sear his lips? “I am so very, very sorry,” the Steward murmured. Tears started to roll uncontrollably down his cheeks. Faramir applied a salve to the burn. He then pulled a clean shirt over Aragorn’s head.

“Don’t cry, Uncle Faramir!” begged Elbeth, wrapping her small arms around him. “Why are you so sad?” she enquired.

Faramir swallowed hard. “It is because the King is hurting,” was all that he could say. Suddenly, he could smell burning. “The porridge!” he exclaimed, dashing towards the pan.

Fortunately only a little was burned, and he was able to salvage enough for their breakfast, which he forced himself to eat reluctantly. He spared a little of the honey to spoon on Elbeth’s portion and was rewarded by a beaming smile from his niece.

**

As the day progressed, Aragorn became more lucid and far harder for Faramir to care for. The King now recognised him as one of his tormentors.

Every time the Steward came near he would shout, “Traitor, be gone,” or worse still, a pitiful cry of “No more! Do not hurt me!” and look at Faramir with such alternating fury and distress in the grey eyes that Faramir had to fight hard to maintain his self-control. He feared his heart would break.

He had no choice but to ask Elbeth to give Aragorn the herbal brews he needed, as well as plenty of water. She also bathed Aragorn’s brow to try to cool him. As for his other bodily needs, all Faramir could do was leave a chamber pot within easy reach and be ready to order Elbeth outside if the King appeared to need it. Aragorn was too dehydrated to require it often; either that or he would endure considerable discomfort rather than seek aid from the man who betrayed him. It was now impossible for Faramir to do anything for the King unless he was rendered sufficiently sleepy by the poppy juice to be unaware of what was happening.

Faramir found Elbeth's presence his only solace during these dark hours. Even that reminded him of how close he had come to killing her, which further increased his abhorrence of what he had become. “How did Strider come to be your friend?” he asked the child, more out of a wish for something to take his mind off both their current predicament and his guilty conscience, rather than from any great desire to know.

“I was lonely as Mummy is always with Lord Dervorin and I missed my other mummy and daddy and my friends where I used to live,” she explained. “I heard them saying they were bringing ‘Lesser the Zerper’ here and that he was very bad. I saw them carry a sack to the cellar and thought it must be a monster inside and I was scared. Then one night, I heard crying. I was looking for something nice to eat in the kitchen, but I could only find bread and jam. I know monsters don’t cry so I went into the cellar and found Strider. I like him because he was kind to me when Grandma’s house burned down. I think he was crying because he felt hungry and lonely, so I took him food nearly every night until he told me he was going away. I was sad because he’s my friend!”

Faramir hugged her and planted a tender kiss on her brow. “You are much wiser than many, child,” he murmured, distressed at the thought of Aragorn weeping alone in the cellar. “You may well have saved the life of the high King of Gondor and Arnor. He is the noblest and kindest man alive.”

“I know that because he's always nice to me!” Elbeth replied matter of factly. “Can I comb his hair, it’s all tangled up?”

“If he will allow you to,” Faramir replied, handing her a comb.

“If he is the kindest man, who is the nicest lady there is?” Elbeth asked. She knelt beside Aragorn and started to gently untangle his unruly locks with her small fingers.

“My wife, your Aunt Éowyn,” Faramir replied instantly, a far away look of longing in his eyes. “She is kind, beautiful, brave and good.”

“I remember her,” Elbeth replied, starting to draw the comb through the King’s hair. “She saved me from the fire and was nice. She is very pretty; her hair was like gold! Why can’t I have golden hair?”

“Because both your parents had dark hair and children look like their parents,” Faramir explained patiently.

“I would like to see Aunt Éowyn again,” said Elbeth

“So would I!” Faramir said fervently. “And when I do, I shall take you with me and you shall live with us and have your own kitten!”

“That sounds fun,” Elbeth replied. She struggled to tame Aragorn’s hair, sticking out her tongue in concentration as she tried to unravel an especially stubborn knot. He seemed soothed by her touch. She was surprisingly gentle for one so young.

“When can we see her?” asked Elbeth.

“Soon, I hope,” Faramir replied, fervently hoping that were the truth. ”When the King feels better and the snow has melted, we shall go and find her and my little daughter.”

“Will your little girl play with me?” Elbeth asked.

“When she is old enough,” Faramir replied, growing weary of so many questions. “Should you not concentrate on Stride...I mean the King's hair now?” he suggested.

Painstakingly, she smoothed and combed the tangled and sweat soaked locks, brushing them back from his face. He appeared more comfortable and looked tidier. “Someone has been pulling his hair out!” Elbeth exclaimed, “That is very unkind, they need smacking!”

“Well I would cheerfully have them hung!” Faramir told her vehemently.

Elbeth looked interested, “There was a boy where I used to live who pulled my hair, will you have him hung too?” she asked eagerly.

“I do not know who he is, “ Faramir said diplomatically. “And as your hair has grown back, there is no evidence. When someone does something really bad, there has to be proof they did it, before you can punish them.”

Elbeth had lost interest in the subject and was now fingering a strand of her own hair, and looking between Aragorn and Faramir, a puzzled expression on her face.

“Uncle Faramir, why do we all have dark hair and grey eyes?” she asked.

Faramir smiled, at last a question he could easily answer! “Because our ancestors came from the island of Númenor,” he replied.

“Why did they leave it?” Elbeth asked.

“The people who lived there wanted to sail to the land of the Elves in the West and conquer it, for they falsely believed they would live forever if they did. The Valar were angry with them and sent a great wave, which swallowed up Númenor and all the people who lived there. There was a wise man called Elendil though, who escaped with seven ships and his followers and came to Arda. He was a forefather of the King’s, a very long time ago.”

“I should not like to live forever,” Elbeth said sagely, “I’d be bored! People don't seem to play any more when they are old like you. Is that real or just a story?”

“It is true,” Faramir said solemnly. He loved talking about the ancient history of his people and it had always been a favourite topic of discussion between Aragorn and himself. Éowyn was more interested in the pedigrees of her horses, while Boromir had only been interested in the history of weapons and the dates of famous battles.

He continued to tell his niece stories of Númenor while he prepared the rabbit for the pot. When he produced some potatoes and carrots from amongst the supplies, Elbeth offered to help peel them and proved far more adept at the task than her uncle, much to his astonishment.

“I used to do this both for grandma and the nice lady I lived with,” she explained proudly, noting the surprise on Faramir’s face.

“Did your grandma not worry that you might cut yourself, you must have been very little then?” he asked.

Elbeth shook her head. “No, they just said I must do it properly or they would be very cross with me.”

Faramir felt increasingly sad about the way the unfortunate child had been raised. If only Boromir had told him about her. Or had Boromir even known that she existed?

With Elbeth’s help, the stew was soon ready and put to boil on the fire.

Aragorn became even more restless as the day wore on and kept throwing off his blankets. He seemed stronger, Faramir thought, no doubt due to Elbeth coaxing him to swallow a cupful of water at regular intervals, but the more animated he became, the worse he raged in his delirium.

“Water!” Aragorn begged.

Faramir tried to approach him, a cup in his outstretched hand.

“Leave me, traitor!” the King cried, trying to lash out at the Steward.

Frantically Faramir gestured towards Elbeth, who was peeling a few more potatoes for later. Knife still in hand, she approached Aragorn.

“No, not you too!” he screamed. “All I love betray me!”

Frightened, Elbeth took a step backwards.

“Drop the knife!” Faramir ordered. ”He thinks you might hurt him! It is just because he is ill that he is shouting at you.”

Obediently, Elbeth dropped it and then approached again, cup in hand.

“Elbeth?” Aragorn looked at her, this time with a glimmer of recognition in his fever-glazed eyes. He thirstily drained the water in the proffered cup.

Faramir had to leave them to attend to the cooking pot, which was starting to boil over.

A few minutes later, Elbeth came to refill Aragorn’s cup.

“We should eat well today,” Faramir told her. “The stew is almost ready. I wonder if you could coax the King to eat a little. He might feel better if he could.” He glanced towards Aragorn, only to notice that the King was slowly edging his hand towards Elbeth’s discarded blade. “No!” he gasped, fearing the feverish man could injure himself and grabbing it just in time.

“I need a weapon against you!” Aragorn raved. “You want to torture me!”

“I will not hurt you again, sire. You have my oath,” Faramir told him, troubled both by the narrowly averted danger and the mixture of fear and revulsion in Aragorn’s usually compassionate and calm eyes.

“Oath? You broke every oath you ever swore, traitor!” Aragorn retorted, before falling back exhausted.

“Why does he want to hurt you?” Elbeth finally asked the question that Faramir had been dreading.

“Do not leave a knife where he can reach it again!” Faramir cautioned while trying to think of a suitable reply. He gripped her arm more tightly than he intended, causing her to yelp in pain.

“You are hurting me now!” she protested indignantly.

Faramir buried his face in his hands wondering what sort of monster he was becoming “I am so sorry,” he told Elbeth contritely, “I am upset because the King is ill.”

“Why won’t Strider let you go near him?” she persisted.

Faramir knelt so that he was at eye level with the little girl and looked directly at her. “I hurt him, Elbeth, that is why. I had to make the other lords trust me, so that I could rescue the King, but the only way to do that was to hurt him. It was a very cruel and wrong thing to do, though.

“I still like you, Uncle!” Elbeth said, fixing her grey eyes that were so like Boromir’s, upon him. “I’m still your friend!”

Deeply moved, Faramir hugged her.

They ate a hearty meal of the rabbit stew and Faramir mashed some of it up finely, which Elbeth coaxed Aragorn into eating quite a sizeable portion of. He seemed to have forgotten his earlier suspicions of her and devoured it hungrily before falling into an uneasy sleep.

Thinking she deserved some time to play, Faramir sent her outside to make snowballs. He settled down to keep watch beside Aragorn. He sat sadly studying every line of the noble yet ravaged features. All the light seemed to have gone from his lord. Not even during their ordeal at the Hunting Lodge had he seemed so broken. Tentatively, Faramir reached out and took Aragorn’s uninjured hand. Despite the fever, it was cold and clammy. He shuddered. Aragorn had always had such warm hands. It was the very first thing he ever remembered about him, the firm grip of a gentle, warm hand in his, after Aragorn had snatched him from the very brink of death. He had opened his eyes and hailed him as King. From that moment, he would gladly have died for his lord.

Then there had been the times when Aragorn had tried to treat Faramir’s shoulder and he had been too ill at ease to remove his shirt. He had felt the heat from those remarkable hands even through several layers of thick clothing. Now one hand felt like ice and the other was crushed. Faramir could only hope his unskilled attempts at splinting it would allow the bones in the fingers to heal. If only Éowyn were here to assist him with her skills! Sighing, he threw some more wood on the fire. The cave was now pleasantly warm and he felt himself becoming drowsy. Soon he was deeply asleep and did not even stir when Elbeth, finally wearying of her game, returned. Curling herself into her nest of blankets to protect herself from the cold, she quickly fell asleep beside the fire.

***

An hour or so later, Aragorn awoke, still dazed and confused from the fever that ravaged his brain. As he struggled to sit up, he realised he felt stronger. His eyes travelled around the cave and fell on Faramir. He wondered where he was. Then it all suddenly seemed to make sense. His treacherous Steward had brought him here to torture him further so that he would sign away his son’s future!

Aragorn realised that the shackles were no longer around his hands and feet and he was free to move. Tentatively, he tried to stand, only to find his whole body throbbed with pain. His legs felt as if they were made of jelly.

Faramir’s dagger lay at his side. Aragorn stared at it debating whether or not to kill the traitor. He had loved his man once as dearly as a son. He could not kill him.

The King staggered towards the cave entrance. He felt so hot. The cool air beckoned seductively. Now was his chance to escape. Weak and ill though he felt, blind instinct made him seize it. Since he could not kill Faramir, he must flee from him!

Half stumbling, half crawling, he made his way out into the snow.

TBC

I have also updated “Shadow and Thought” on this site with an account of Faramir and Éowyn’s long delayed wedding night, and have had the good fortune of having Raksha, well known for her beautiful portrayals of their love, assisting me in writing it.