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

Rejoice greatly, O daughter of Zion; shout, O daughter of Jerusalem: behold, thy King cometh unto thee: - The Bible- Zechariah – 9.9

Sing and be glad, all ye children of the West,
for your King shall come again,
and he shall dwell among you
all the days of your life. - Tolkien- The Return of the King

Fields of our hearts that dead and bare have been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springs up green. – John Crum

With grateful thanks to Raksha for all her help with this chapter.

Arwen and Éowyn lingered in the doorway clutching their babies. Together with Elbeth, they watched until the two riders disappeared over the horizon.

The King and Steward rode away resolutely. They dared not look back, lest they be tempted to retrace their steps and return to the wives and children they loved.

The beauty of the spring morning gradually lightened their hearts. The sun shone out of a near cloudless sky, bathing the fresh green fields and blossom-laden trees in its golden rays. Despite the dangers they knew might be ahead, it was impossible not enjoy being in the saddle on such a morning; especially after weeks of virtual confinement in the cramped farmhouse.

When Aragorn and Faramir reached the next village, they initially attracted little attention. The peasants were toiling in the fields, too concerned with the spring planting to pay heed to passing travellers. Then, a young woman, carrying a bucket and obviously on her way to the village well, almost stumbled across Roheryn’s path. Aragorn murmured an apology. She glanced up at him then fled, dropping the bucket in her excitement.

“It’s the King! He’s not dead! The rumours from the City were lies!” She exclaimed, stooping to gather a handful of blossoms to throw in their path. “Long live the King!” she cried.

Several of the men who were working in the fields, came to see what she was shouting about. They called to their neighbours. Aragorn and Faramir looked behind them and were surprised to find a group of sturdy farmers following on foot, struggling to keep up with the horses. King and Steward slowed down to a trot. Aragorn addressed the men, “Good men of Gondor, evil men would usurp my throne and spread false rumours of my death! Will you come with me to see justice done? I must warn you, though; that you may encounter great perils ere this day is over!”

“Long live King Elessar!” cried the men in unison. “We will follow you wherever you lead us!”

As they passed through more villages, more and more men joined them while the women and children threw flowers in their path.

Aragorn’s spirits rose with every mile they travelled. He was greatly touched that his people held him in such esteem. It warmed his heart to see their love. He had feared their reaction to seeing him, lest they thought him to be an unquiet spirit. It seemed, though, these people received little news from Minas Tirith, even though the City was less than half a day’s journey away from these enclaves. Maybe they did here tidings of the world at large but preferred to believe only what they saw with their own eyes? Aragorn neither knew nor cared. It mattered only that the common people did not reject him as so many of the nobles had done.

Some of the country folk told him of their gratitude in saving them from Sauron or healing their children of the fever. Others cried out: complaining that the lords were oppressing them, taking their crops and molesting the women. They begged the King to help them.

“If this day sees me restored to my throne, you have my word that you will have justice for your wrongs!” Aragorn cried in a clear voice. The crowd cheered his words.

When they reached the river, they briefly dismounted to let the horses drink. Faramir led Zachus to the water and stood there with downcast eyes while the bay gelding drank deeply. Aragorn watched him surreptitiously, wishing fervently he knew what the younger man was thinking. Would he ever know his true motivation? Despite the enthusiasm of the peasants that followed them, they would be heavily outnumbered if Damrod had misjudged the loyalty of the soldiers stationed in Minas Tirith. Many of those men had served Denethor and might choose to follow the House of Húrin, rather than the House of Telcontar. Moreover, could he truly count on the Steward’s loyalty? Faramir’s conduct had been exemplary since he had awoken in the cave, yet the image of his Steward coldly striking him, followed soon after by the branding, would be forever seared into Aragorn’s memory. He had never believed his good, gentle natured Steward could hold such darkness within his soul. Aragorn had thought that he knew Denethor's son as well as any man could know another. Yet, Faramir had changed into a cruel stranger who had mocked and tormented him. And the Steward still offered no explanation for his conduct, even when they had been alone together in the dungeon; he had continued to act the traitor. Was Faramir still playing some complicated game of deception? Or was he still the honourable young man whom the King had come to love as a son?

Part of Aragorn’s soul yearned to reach out to Faramir and embrace him, lest this was the last chance they would ever have in this life to be reconciled. He took a step towards his Steward, then hesitated. How could he reach out to the man who had made no attempt to justify the cruelty that had almost broken Aragorn’s heart? Yet, Faramir had sworn himself again to his service, albeit with a Rohirric oath. Faramir looked up and briefly met his eyes. “It is not to too late for you to change your mind and return to Éowyn,” Aragorn said, not even sure himself, whether he made the offer to test Faramir’s loyalty, or to protect him.

“I am resolved to follow you this day, whether or not I live to see the end of it,” Faramir replied without hesitation.

Aragorn almost extended his hand, but Faramir looked away and the moment passed. Shaking his head slightly, the King somewhat awkwardly mounted Roheryn. The scar tissue that so disfigured his body still made almost every movement painful.

Faramir did likewise, grimacing at the twinge in his back when he swung himself astride Zachus. His heart was close to breaking at the lack of any kindly word or gesture from the one he loved so dearly and held in such high regard. Yet, he knew he could expect none, and the best he could now hope for, was to die with honour in battle today.

They rode on in silence until they passed through the Rammas Echor and reached the Pelennor. Today, the town lands were filled with crowds of people making their way to the city. Faramir stopped and reined Zachus in, hoping the vast throng would not spook the horse. Zachus snorted, but showed no sigh of panic, much to his relief. An old woman had been watching his attempts to quieten his horse. She then caught sight of the King and cried out in fear before dropping in a dead faint.

Aragorn hesitated, instinctively wanting to go to her aid, but fearing he would only make matters worse. Fortunately, a younger woman and a man, who appeared to be her family, went to her assistance. The man then noticed Aragorn and cried out, “This cannot be! The dead cannot return! What manner of evil wizardry is this?”

A child, obviously too young to be afraid shouted, “We are on our way to your funeral, Lord King! Are you coming too?”

The crowd started to scream and panic at the seeming apparition in their midst.

Aragorn wheeled Roheryn around and faced the crowd, much as a general would address his troops. “Good people of Gondor!” he cried. “Be not afraid! The man they bury today is not I, but a victim of a plot to seize my throne! He was dressed in my clothes and murdered while I was imprisoned by those who would overthrow me! Come with me to the City so that I can take my rightful place amongst you again as your King!”

The crowd gaped in astonishment at Aragorn’s words and muttered amongst themselves, unsure whether or not to believe him.

“I bear the tokens of my house!” Aragorn cried and brandished Andúril, which gleamed in the spring sunlight. “Here is the sword that was broken! Behold, I wear the Elfstone and bear the star of Elendil upon my brow!”

“You could be a phantom sent to lead us astray!” one woman said doubtfully, “Those who die violently can return to torment the living, it is said!”

“I am no spectre!” Aragorn replied,” But if you do not believe me, good lady, come and touch me .You will know then, that I am as much flesh and blood as you are!”

The woman backed away; but a youth of about fourteen years came forward. “Prove you are not a ghost!” he challenged.

Aragorn drew off his gauntlet and offered the boy his right hand. Hesitantly the youth touched it, at first tentatively, tracing his fingers along the freshly healed wrist, then gradually with more confidence. Aragorn reached out and grasped the youth’s hand firmly. The boy kissed the King’s hand reverently, then fell on his knees. “My Lord King!” he cried, “I beg you to forgive my doubts. I know now it is you indeed! The Valar be praised!”

A little girl then joined them, looking at Aragorn in bewilderment. Smiling, he leaned down to her and offered her his hand. She trustingly clasped the large fingers in her small ones.

A loud cheer went up from the crowd. “The King has returned, long live King Elessar! The Valar have blessed us this day!”

Faramir observed the scene and his heart soared. He knew this Aragorn, every inch a King, radiating confidence and majesty.

The people then noticed the Steward’s presence and started muttering amongst themselves again. One man, bolder than the rest came forward and said, “Have a care, my King, they say that Lord Faramir spoke against you in open council on many occasions, reviling you and your Queen!”

Before Aragorn could react, the man had melted back into the crowd who started to call out, “Traitor, traitor!”

Faramir tried to ignore them though every shout pierced his soul to the core. He felt something hit him and realised the crowd were throwing clods of earth at him to show their disgust. He sat like a statue, concentrating on soothing Zachus, even when a well-aimed handful of mud, caught him on the side of the face.

“Peace, good people!” Aragorn said in a loud voice. “Today, Lord Faramir is at my side once more.”

The crowd subsided at Aragorn’s words but still cast baleful glances at the Steward. He was relieved that they had almost arrived at their destination.

When they reached the City Gates, they found that the guards were waving most of the people past, only stopping obvious drunkards and other miscreants. To Aragorn and Faramir’s delight, they recognised Lamrung, as one of the men on duty. He had formerly been a prison warder, but after he had helped Aragorn rescue Faramir from the City Prison, he had been rewarded with a post as a Citadel Guard. When he caught sight of the King he turned pale and looked as if he were about to faint.

“Fear not, Lamrung!” Aragorn told him, “It is I, King Elessar! I am flesh and blood just as you are.”

“But we are holding your funeral today, sire!” Lamrung protested.

“Reports of my death have been somewhat exaggerated,” Aragorn said grimly, “Now I should like to enter my City! Perhaps you could despatch a message to Prince Imrahil and tell him that I have returned?”

“Of course, sire! It is good to see that you are still alive, sire!”

“It does indeed feel good to be alive!” Aragorn replied, smiling at the young man.

Still accompanied by the crowd, which seemed to increase with every step the horses took; Aragorn and Faramir wound their way through the narrow streets until they came to the seventh level where they dismounted, giving their horses into the care of a Citadel Guard.

On the lawn, between the White Tower and the White Tree stood a black draped bier, on which rested, a coffin draped with an elaborate banner bearing the Royal Crest of the line of Elendil; the White Tree surrounded by seven stars and seven stones. A Guard of Honour encircled the bier in full ceremonial dress, their high-winged helmets glinting in the sunlight. The guards were wearing closed helms, a custom which Aragorn had abolished soon after taking the throne. It seemed that changes had already been made in his absence.

Behind them on the steps stood the Lords of Gondor, all robed in black and wearing suitably solemn expressions. The members of the Council were foremost; and Aragorn and Faramir took especial note of the Lords of Lebennin and Ringlo Vale, who made a great show of dabbing their eyes. Fontos of Lossarnach looked pale and distraught, like a man who has not slept soundly for many long nights.

To one side of the bier stood a raised platform; erected for dignitaries from other lands. A distressed looking King Éomer of Rohan was the most notable, tallest and fairest among them, and surrounded by two of his Marshalls and some twenty of his warriors, unhelmed and bearing sombre expressions. Aragorn noticed Ghan-buri-Ghan and several other Woses from Druadan Forest, and about ten Silvan Elves from Ithilien, as well as a similar number of Dwarves from Aglarond. There was no sign of Legolas or Gimli, nor any of Thranduil's Elves, nor Dalesmen. Representatives from the Shire and Rivendell were absent. Elladan and Elrohir and the Dúnedain of Arnor were conspicuous by their absence too. It seemed that the funeral been arranged too hastily to summon folk from the North, or had the traitors opposed attempts to invite more of the King’s friends and kin?

On the bier's other side, the families of the lords of Gondor were seated. Aragorn's keen eyes made out Hanna, conspicuous by her low-cut neckline, which made her black gown look more suitable for a ball than for a funeral.

A sorrowful and careworn Imrahil, his sons beside him, stood ready to preside over the ceremonies. From his demeanour, it appeared that no message had yet reached him.

Hoping the traitorous lords and their allies would somehow by their actions betray themselves. Aragorn decided to bide his time. After telling Faramir his decision he indicated to the crowd that they should wait.