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

Yet come to me in dreams that I may live
My very life again though cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago. - Christina Georgina Rossetti (1830–1894

Aragorn was riding across the fields with Faramir, laughing as they raced their horses together. A moment later, he was in the beautifully decorated Merethrond dancing with Arwen and kissing her tenderly. He turned to embrace Faramir and lovingly addressed him as his son.

Aragorn awoke with a start. The Merethrond dissolved into the bare walls of a cave while the ever-present pain replaced the glow of happiness. He was cold, so very cold, despite the fire and being wedged between Faramir and Elbeth under a heap of blankets and furs.

With a start Aragorn realised that his head was pressed against Faramir’s. Regaining full consciousness, he immediately tried to move as far away as possible from his treacherous Steward. The dreams had been so beautiful and so real that it could almost have been a vision, though the events it showed were almost impossible. He was King again, with his Queen at his side and in perfect harmony with the man who had so cruelly betrayed him.

Aragorn had lost count of time since they had come to this cave. He slept most of the time; his brain numbed by poppy juice. He had ceased resisting Faramir’s ministrations, accepting he was too weak to resist whatever his Steward chose to do to him.

His wounds were slow to close. He knew that they needed stitching. His hands were too maimed for the task while Faramir lacked the skill to draw the remaining skin together. At least he had healed sufficiently to no longer have to undergo the humiliation of being rubbed with the napkin rash cream, though in all other matters, he was still as dependant on Faramir, as an infant upon its mother. Tears trickled down Aragorn’s cheeks. The pain, humiliation and betrayal he was experiencing were in such sharp contrast to the wonderful dream he had just awakened from.

The King glanced at Faramir, who was smiling in his sleep. He wondered yet again, how could his Steward have treated him thus? Faramir claimed it was all a pretext in order to rescue him. Yet, this was a man, who had always claimed he would not even ensnare an Orc with a falsehood. How could he have been so fooled by him? Maybe, he had been too eager to find a kindred spirit and nurture him as the son for whom he had yearned, knowing that the beautiful boy Arwen had given him would take years to reach maturity. There had been such a sweetness and gentleness about the young man that years of trying to please his harsh father and fighting against Mordor had failed to dim. However, that gentleness seemed to have been replaced by a hardness Aragorn had failed to notice before.

To look at Faramir asleep now, he appeared so innocent. It seemed inconceivable that he had pressed the red-hot brand against his King’s defenceless flesh, struck him and insulted him. The throbbing in his maimed shoulder was a constant reminder of Faramir’s cruelty.

Could the Steward have truly repented of his evil and brought him here with Elbeth to save him? Or was it all some elaborate ploy to gain power for himself by keeping them both hostage?

Of one thing, he was certain. Faramir was very clever, which was perhaps, one reason his father had mistrusted him, with good reason, or so it seemed.

Faramir was deserving of the uttermost severity of the law, should he by some miracle regain his throne. Yet, Aragorn had sworn an oath never to harm him. He was no oath breaker. If he were honest with himself, he knew rather that it was the love he still bore Faramir, which would make him hesitate in ordering a traitor’s death for him. Those of Aragorn’s race, once having given their love, never withdrew it. That made Faramir’s treachery all the harder to comprehend. Maybe, he should give him the benefit of the doubt, but he had hurt him so very much. Aragorn wanted to sleep again, to escape the pain and return to the bliss of his dreams.

Faramir opened his eyes and blinked. Realising that Aragorn was awake, he immediately sat up and turned towards him. “Are you in pain, my lord?” he asked solicitously.

“A little,” Aragorn said listlessly. “I am thirsty.”

“I will fetch you a drink and some poppy juice.” The Steward scrambled to his feet as he spoke, taking care not to disturb Elbeth. Faramir had had such happy dreams; he had been loth to wake up. He had been dancing with Éowyn, his Uncle had praised him and most wonderful of all; Aragorn had embraced him lovingly and called him his son.

“Is it dawn yet?” Aragorn asked.

Faramir went outside to investigate and returned a few moments later shaking his head. “It will be hours yet,” he said. ”It is thick freezing fog outside.” He threw some logs on the fire to counter the bone chilling icy dampness, and tucked the covers more closely around the King.

Aragorn regarded him listlessly with dull eyes.

The Steward placed a pot of water on the fire to boil and took out some herbs and sprinkled them in a cup. It seemed to Faramir that some vital spark within Aragorn was missing. He spoke very little. Faramir lacked the skills to know whether this stemmed from the wounds inflicted on his body or the far deeper ones within his soul. He was anxious now to leave this place as soon as Aragorn was well enough to travel. The snow had melted and he was beginning to fear that they might be discovered. He wondered though, how he could accomplish the six-hour ride with a child and very frail man. He was not in the best of health himself, having pulled a muscle in his back with lifting Aragorn.

Aragorn’s wounds were healing slowly, but cleanly. The frostbite had not proved as bad as they first feared. The King had regained some of the use of his toes and his right hand. They no longer needed to be bandaged, although they were still painful. The left hand was a different matter, for two of the broken fingers had set at an odd angle, as had the thumb, which rendered the joints useless.

Faramir made the tea and held the cup to Aragorn’s lips. The King reached out to try to hold it for himself, but it almost slipped from his grasp.

“Easy now, you cannot grip with your left hand yet,” Faramir cautioned.

The fingers will have to be set again once I can get to a healer. They had already knitted badly before you came for me.” Aragorn did not voice his fears of permanently losing the use of his hand. He understood now why Éomer had been so upset a few months before when his arm was injured. A king needed to be strong to lead his people in battle when the need arose. Yet, what manner of king was so easily captured and ended up sheltering in a cave with one of his betrayers and a small child? “Are there any still loyal to me?” he asked suddenly.

“A few,” Faramir replied. “My Uncle Imrahil and his Swan Knights remain trustworthy. I only hope he has managed to keep control of the Council. As for the other lords, apart from those of Lamedon, Lossarnach and Ringlo Vale, I have no idea. They might be waiting to see if Eldarion and Elbeth’s marriage takes place to see who then held the reins of power. The same goes for the army too. Once the Queen gave me hope that you were still alive, she told me to join the rebels. It was the only plan we could think of to save you.”

Aragorn was startled out of his lethargy. “You are telling me that my wife told you to join the rebels.”

“Yes, sire, it was her idea,” Faramir replied.

“I want to know the whole story,” Aragorn demanded.

“You are in pain, Let me mix you some poppy juice so that you can sleep. I will tell you in the morning,” Faramir replied, wondering just how he could explain everything now that the moment had come.

“I want to know now.” Aragorn insisted. “You drug me to prevent me from learning the truth!”

“No, my lord, I wish only to ease your pain!” the Steward protested. How it hurt that his lord believed not a word he was saying and yet, what else could he expect?

He checked to see that Elbeth was still sleeping. It was no fit tale for a child’s ears. He then reluctantly began his story.  “When you did not return the night you were captured, I was very worried. I feared you had been taken ill. I ordered a thorough search, but found no trace of you. A few days later a body was found in the river dressed in your clothes and bearing your rings. It had been in the water for many days and was bloated and unrecognisable. Tarostar told me it had been beaten about the head and face. Everyone thought you had been attacked by robbers with no idea of your identity and thrown in the Anduin. I was broken hearted.”

“Were you really?” Aragorn remarked bitterly. ”I thought when they took my clothes that they planned something like that.”

“I believed the corpse to be yours and informed the Council.” Faramir struggled to hide the pain the biting words caused him. “However, I refused to hold the funeral until the fever epidemic had abated. I felt that would be your wish.”

“You were correct in that at least,” Aragorn said dryly.

“The next day, I went to tell the Queen the dreadful news and take your clothes and rings for her to identify. On the way, I had a suspicion we were being followed, so I changed clothes with my Captain and saw to it that he rode a horse very like Iavas. He and the others acted as a decoy, while I made my way to Emyn Arnen. My men were never seen again.” He bowed his head for a moment, lamenting the loss of life before continuing. “When I told the Queen the news of your death, she refused to believe me and accused me of having no love for you. She said if you truly were dead, the breaking of the Thought Bond would be tearing my soul asunder and hers too. I thought her distraught with grief and showed her your clothing. It only served to strengthen her conviction that you still lived, as the drawers the corpse was wearing bore no sign of the White Tree embroidered on the leg.”

“That was my plan, as I hoped Arwen would notice the lack of embroidery,” said Aragorn. “ How I fought to keep my drawers on! They eventually tore in the struggle, which would have looked suspicious if they had clothed the corpse with them.”

“I fear, I still did not believe her,” Faramir continued. ”Éowyn and I retired to bed after your lady insisted she wished to be alone. Then both the Queen and myself awoke in the night after having suffered identical nightmares in which you were calling to us for help. I finally realised that you were alive. The Queen suggested that I pretend to be hostile to you. It is foreign to my nature to lie, but I knew I had to do, if I were ever to find you. It took some time for them to trust me. I eventually received an invitation to the Lord of Lamedon’s country villa. I hoped you might be hidden somewhere in the area. I knew of this cave from my days in the army. With the help of the healers, I brought supplies here in advance. I smuggled you out by convincing them that you had the Fever and drugging you to make you appear dead. I am so very sorry that I hurt you so much. It was unforgivable and I will pay the price when we return to Minas Tirith!” Faramir paused, unable to bring himself to reveal that not only had he struck and branded the King, but also poisoned him with spider venom.

“If you had no wish to turn traitor and torturer, why did you not use soldiers find me or seek my whereabouts in the palantír?” Aragorn demanded.

“I had to come alone, for I feared they would move you before I could reach you if I brought troops,” Faramir replied. “I did try to use the palantír, but I could not bend it to my will.”

“I would have taught you to use it, but you always refused,” Aragorn said sternly.

“I did wrong in not learning to master it. I have injured my King and most cruelly!” Faramir replied, unable to meet the grey eyes. ”I deserve to be severely punished.”

“Your punishment will have to be decided later,” Aragorn replied. Surely, there was genuine contrition in Faramir’s eyes, but how could he be certain? He wanted so much for his Steward to be telling the truth.

“I will get mix your poppy juice now,” Faramir said, groaning at the twinge in his back when he tried to get to his feet.

“You are hurt! Let me see,” Despite everything, Aragorn could not ignore the younger man’s obvious pain.

“It is nothing, just a pulled muscle.” Faramir felt annoyed with himself for further burdening a sick man by better concealing his pain.

“Nevertheless, let me see, please,” Even in his weakened condition; the Healer in Aragorn would not be denied.

Faramir sighed and sat down again with his back turned to Aragorn. He pulled up his tunic and shirt. It was at least a relief that something had roused Aragorn a little from his dreadful lethargy.

“It is just there,” he said, pointing to the sore place.

He felt Aragorn’s fingers prodding his back gently but instead of the familiar healing warmth in his hands, the touch was like ice.

TBC

A/N

The dream that both Aragorn and Faramir experience is told fully in my story “At the Rising of the Moon also on this site.”