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Chapter Thirty-Nine - They have prepared a net for my steps

They have prepared a net for my steps; my soul is bowed down: they have digged a pit before me, into the midst whereof they are fallen themselves. - Psalm 57.6. The Bible.

Faramir went outside. The morning was bitterly cold and damp. A thick icy mist was rising off the river and shrouding the surrounding countryside. It was not the most pleasant weather for travelling. The Steward hoped the mist would at least provide some cover.

He saddled the horses and carefully placed their baggage on Zachus, hoping he had not left behind anything they would need.

“I know we face a perilous journey today,” Aragorn said, looking Faramir straight in the eye. “The Valar alone know what lies at the ending!”

Faramir returned his gaze steadily. “I would shed my last drop of blood to save you, my Lord King,” he said quietly. He unbuckled his dagger and handed it to Aragorn. “Take this, sire, you will feel safer with it,” he said.

“Thank you!” Aragorn was surprised at this unexpected gesture and oddly comforted by it. Whatever his true intentions, Faramir had at least brought him out from that dark cellar and let him see the sky again. He had tended him caringly too. In different circumstances Aragorn would have said lovingly, albeit somewhat ineptly. Fleetingly, he wondered if he should try to share thoughts with Faramir and discover his true motivations. The hurt, though, was too deep. Aragorn feared too what he might discover, helpless as he was, and powerless to prevent himself being led into a trap. He would know soon enough if he truly were being taken to rejoin Arwen and Eldarion. The alternative: that Faramir had brought him here to revive him so that he could be returned to his captors to endure further torture, was too horrible to contemplate.

Aragorn fastened the weapon around his waist with his one good hand and Faramir helped him to his feet. The Steward hesitated, yearning to embrace his lord, all too aware that the journey was a perilous one and they may not live to see another sunrise. He yearned for Aragorn’s forgiveness and his reassurance that he had tried his best. Now was not the right time, though.

Slowly, they made their way out to where Elbeth was waiting impatiently with the horses. Aragorn’s face felt cold and alarmingly naked where his beard had been but a short time ago. He shivered.

Carefully, Faramir lifted the King on to Roheryn’s broad back and then mounted behind him, enveloping Aragorn in his cloak to keep him warm

Despite his weakness and apprehension, Aragorn’s spirits began to lift at the prospect of spending the day in the fresh air. After so long enduring the confines of first a cellar and later a cave; it was bliss to be outside, with the grass under Roheryn’s hooves and the open sky above his head.

All too soon his wounds began to pain him. Aragorn was determined not to complain and show his weakness. Faramir, however, was all too aware of his lord’s discomfort from the way the King tensed and his ragged breathing. It was unfortunate that one of Aragorn’s most painful wounds was on his waist, in the exact spot where Faramir had to hold him tightly to prevent him from sliding off Roheryn’s back. The King would have been more comfortable sitting behind his Steward, but dared not suggest it, since he doubted his ability to remain alert and upright in the saddle. He could not take poppy juice for the pain lest it make him drowsy. He needed to keep his wits about him should Faramir lead him into a trap.

Faramir insisted they stop to rest for a few minutes every hour or so, which made progress through the forest painfully slow. Elbeth was succeeding well in riding Zachus and kept up a slow but steady pace beside the two men. “Where are we?” she demanded, after they had spent the morning picking their way through the forest.

“I think we are about to cross the Lord of Lossarnach’s lands,” Faramir told her. “Half of this woodland belongs to him and the other half to the Lord of Ringlo Vale.”

“Oh!” said Elbeth, as this information meant very little to her, “How long are we going to be in this forest? I’m bored!”

“Not very long now,” Faramir soothed. Inwardly he dreaded reaching the open countryside, which would be the most dangerous part of their journey.

“I’m hungry!” Elbeth complained. “And I’m tired of sitting here on this big horse.”

Sighing, Faramir halted yet again to lift her down and give her some dried fruit to eat from their meagre supplies.

She ate it, shifting restlessly from one foot to another.

“Go and stretch your legs!” Faramir told her. “I do not want you to wander out of sight of the horses, though. You must be very quiet!”

She ran into the trees with the speed of an arrow released by a bowstring, her feet churning up the dead leaves that carpeted the forest floor

Aragorn suddenly slumped over Roheryn’s neck in obvious agony. Faramir lifted him down, wincing himself at the pain in his back as he did so. He sat the King on a fallen tree trunk where Aragorn slumped dejectedly, his features pale and drawn.

“Is the pain very bad, sire?” Faramir asked, his eyes full or concern.

Aragorn nodded feebly, lacking even the strength to lift his head. “Just here,” he whispered, gesturing towards his waist.

Faramir hurriedly fetched the saddlebag containing the salves and bandages and prepared to investigate. It was far too cold to remove the sick man’s clothing here, so he pulled Aragorn’s tunic and shirt up a few inches to see what was paining him. To his dismay, the bandage around his waist was soaked with blood, where the still raw wound had chafed and reopened. It looked excruciatingly painful. He knew it was madness to travel with Aragorn in such a precarious condition, but what other choice did he have? Faramir groaned inwardly. “Can you hold up your shirt while I bandage it? I will see if I can pad it better,” he said.

“The butcher knew all too well that removing the skin would cause a painful and slow healing wound,” Aragorn sighed, shuddering at the memory. “It needs stitching.”

Faramir brought the water skin and offered him a drink before starting to clean the wound. Aragorn flinched and gritted his teeth as Faramir washed away the blood and applied a liberal amount of salve to the raw flesh.

“Éowyn should be able to help you,” Faramir said, thinking longingly of his wife and only hoping her skills would be sufficient.

“I thought we were going to find Arwen,” Aragorn said suspiciously, wondering if Faramir and Éowyn together were planning to rule, using Elbeth as a figurehead.

“Éowyn is with your Queen,” Faramir explained patiently. “I sent them and the babies into hiding together. Éowyn is very loyal to you and your lady, my lord.”

Aragorn nodded tiredly, hoping she had developed a more gentle touch during the past year if she were indeed to tend his wounds.

The Steward pressed a thick wad of bandage to the wound and secured it with strips of bandage. There was even a different scent surrounding Aragorn now. Before his captivity, a wholesome aroma of refreshing herbs had always surrounded him. Now he smelt of sweat,blood and pungent salves.

“Now, do you think you can get back on Roheryn?” Faramir asked. “I want to be clear of the rebels’ lands before nightfall.”

Aragorn nodded and Faramir helped him get shakily to his feet. They joined Elbeth who was waiting impatiently by the horses.

“You said I was to be quick but I’ve been waiting here for ages and ages!” she complained.

“Well, I hope you have stretched your legs properly then,” Faramir replied, ignoring her complaints.

“I’ve walked on them, not stretched them!” Elbeth retorted. “Why do grown ups not say what they mean?”

“How I wish I could answer you that question,” Aragorn replied, an edge of bitterness in his voice, which scared Elbeth into silence.

Faramir lifted her back on to Zachus and they urged the horses forward again.

The King now seemed more comfortable and they were able to continue their journey until they reached the edge of the forest where they stopped to rest the horses. Several acres of rolling pastureland, which belonged to the Lord of Lossarnach, lay ahead. This would most likely be the most dangerous part of the journey as there was no shelter from anyone trying to find them. Faramir could only hope that the tenant farmers he had met were not from this area. He pulled his hood low over his face and draped the folds of his cloak to more closely conceal Aragorn. He hoped Elbeth was now unrecognisable as the bejewelled little princess she had been. Her clothes were now dirty and torn and her face streaked with mud.

They were riding past a row of cottages, when a man came out and approached them, much to their dismay. Faramir’s hand reached for his sword hilt.

“Who are you?” the man asked. “You’re trespassing on the Lord of Lossarnach’s land!”

“I am a soldier from Minas Tirith who came to spend his leave a few leagues from here, visiting my widowed father and my little daughter,” he replied, gesturing towards Aragorn and Elbeth and thanking the Valar, they would all easily pass as close kin. “I found my poor father stricken with fever and am taking him to the healers in the city. I am sorry. I did not realise we were trespassing!”

The man stepped back in alarm. “Be off with you then!” he snarled, “Don’t you go and be bringing the fever here!”

Faramir urged Roheryn to a canter, calling to Elbeth to do the same.

"You have become well skilled at deception, claiming to be my son!” Aragorn said when they slowed down to a trot again.

“I used to boast that I would not even deceive an Orc with a falsehood,” Faramir replied sadly. “But it seems I have become a master of lies. As I smuggled you out of Dervorin’s Lodge by claiming you had died of the Fever, it seemed as good a story as any.”

“Not all lies are evil, you learn after eighty seven years spent in hiding!” Aragorn replied sadly.” You were an idealist, or so I thought. I had hoped to create a world in which ideals could flourish! But are there any left to share such a dream?”

“You will create that world once you are restored to your rightful place!” Faramir said fiercely, as they approached a bend in the path.

Hoof beats could be heard approaching. Faramir looked frantically for some cover, but the nearest copse was at least a quarter of a mile away, across an open field, over which the mist hung but sparsely. There was no way they could reach it in time to conceal themselves.

A well-dressed rider on a fine grey horse loomed out of the mist and headed straight towards them. To their horror, it was the Lord of Lossarnach, accompanied by at least a dozen of his men.

Aragorn gave a gasp of sheer anguish. It was, as he had feared. Faramir had led him into a trap. He reached for his dagger, sorely tempted to first cut his Steward’s treacherous throat with it before turning it on himself. How though, could he destroy the one he had loved as his own son? Better by far to end his own torment. He tried to firmly grasp the weapon only to find he lacked sufficient strength. Dejectedly, he slumped forward.

Behind him, Faramir swiftly reached for his sword. The other hand, concealed under his cloak, held his dagger, which he held against Aragorn’s heart.

They were hopelessly outnumbered and their disguise woefully inadequate. He would not let them be taken alive. He would kill first Aragorn and then himself.