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

And the king was much moved, and went up to the chamber over the gate, and wept: and as he went, thus he said, O my son Ab'salom! my son, my son Ab'salom! Would God I had died for thee, O Ab'salom, my son, my son! - The Bible. 2Samuel 18.33

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

Guards clustered around Aragorn, raising their shields and forming a protective circle to protect him against any further assault.

The King was dimly aware of a commotion in the background as Éomer and his men pursued the would be assassin. He could concentrate on nothing save the crumpled man at his feet. He tried to steel himself to feel for a pulse, but not bring himself to confirm that Faramir’s heart was no longer beating.

His Steward had betrayed him and most cruelly. Yet, he had loved him as a son, and despite everything, that love still lay buried deep in his heart. He was angry with Faramir and had wanted to punish him. Not like this, though. His Steward lay sprawled at his feet like a child’s broken doll, his life forfeited in exchange for his King’s. How could the Valar be so cruel to take one he had loved so dearly in his moment of triumph? The two former Rangers had been through so much together. The sweet taste of victory turned to ashes in Aragorn’s mouth. He felt his heart would most surely break. How could he tell Éowyn that she was a widow, and what of poor Elestelle, doomed to grow up never having known her father?

Sinking to his knees, the King clasped Faramir in his arms. Heedless of the people watching, his tears flowed freely, falling on to Faramir’s ashen features.

The Steward blinked and slowly opened his eyes.

“You are alive!” Aragorn exclaimed

For a moment, Faramir’s eyes met his. The Steward saw love reflected in the King’s concerned gaze; the love he feared that he had forfeited forever. He could die happy now, secure in the knowledge of that love, and that by giving his life, he had atoned for the evil he had done. He closed his eyes again, as stars blurred his vision. Footsteps approached and he became aware of unfamiliar hands prodding him.

“Is the wound mortal?” That voice was his uncle’s.

“I think not. His heart beats strongly. I believe he was stunned when he fell,” a voice with a Rohirric accent replied. He assumed it belonged to Aedred.

Faramir remembered now seeing him in the crowd of mourners. The Healer’s words brought him no comfort. His decision to throw himself in front of Aragorn had been purely instinctive, born out of love for his King. If it had cost him his life, he would have least regained some of the honour he had lost.

“I see.” The coldness in his uncle’s voice, suggested that Imrahil still believed him a disgrace to his family, as did the hissing and chattering amongst the crowd.

Aragorn, who still supported Faramir, felt an overwhelming sense of relief. His Steward’s unselfish act had undoubtedly saved his life. Or was it as unselfish as it seemed? The doubts came flooding back. He remembered how only a few months before, Faramir had hoped to die of his wounds rather than endure the traitor’s death that he had falsely believed he would be sentenced to. Was he again seeking to die, this time by an honourable soldier’s death?

“Where shall we take him, my lord?” Aedred’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

Aragorn was at first tempted to order them to take Faramir to his own rooms, where he had tended him after Mahrod’s cruel assault on him. Faramir had been his closest and truest friend then, however. Also, he had no way of knowing if his healing supplies were still there even. The room would be damp and chill too, most likely. “Take Lord Faramir to the Houses of Healing!” he ordered.

Faramir struggled to sit up but was restrained by the King’s grip on him.

“Lie still, you are injured!” Aragorn ordered curtly.

“As my lord commands,” Faramir replied obediently. He coughed and cried out in pain. He was unsure whether he imagined it or not, but Aragorn’s supporting touch seemed to ease it. Then, he was taken from the King’s grasp by two burly guards and laid upon a stretcher.

“Take him away! I will join you shortly. I desire to see the wound myself,” Aragorn said in an emotionless tone.

The guards took Faramir away, leaving Aragorn with the still bewildered looking Imrahil. “I was imprisoned while some poor wretch was murdered, dressed in my clothes and flung into the Anduin,” he explained to the Prince of Dol Amroth. “Faramir rescued me from the clutches of the miscreants and took me to recover from the wounds I had sustained to where my Queen and the Lady Éowyn were in hiding. I heard tidings that my ‘funeral’ was to be held today and came to reclaim my throne. I thank you, my friend, for holding the City for me in my absence.”

Imrahil helped his lord to his feet and Aragorn promptly enfolded him in a tight embrace then kissed him on the brow.

“What of Faramir?” the Prince of Dol Amroth enquired, hope alight in his eyes. “He spoke evil words against you in open Council. I truly believed he had gone over to the rebels and shamed both the great Houses of Dol Amroth and Húrin. His father always suspected he was capable of disloyalty to his liege lord, should a clash of interests arise. These past months, I have come to believe Denethor might well have been right, alas. Faramir appeared to be loyal to no man save himself! Or could I have been mistaken?”

“Queen Arwen ordered him to gain the rebels’ confidence in order to discover my whereabouts,” Aragorn replied.

“Why did he not confide in me?” Imrahil said in a voice both hurt and bewildered, more to himself than the King. ”Faramir does not lie.”

“Why indeed? There are many questions that need to be answered,” the King said grimly.

What will become of him now?” asked Imrahil.

“That is not yet decided,” Aragorn replied.

Just then, Éomer arrived, followed by his men dragging the corpse of a man dressed in the livery of Ringlo Vale. One Rohir carried a now battered bow, which had apparently loosed the arrow.

“Dear friend, I thought I had lost you!” Éomer exclaimed, throwing his arms around Aragorn and hugging him so tightly that his still healing body flinched. “Aewulf here, brought down the man who would have killed you! He was about to loose another arrow when Aewulf’s throwing knife felled him with a well-aimed blow to the groin. Still he reached for his weapons, so my men finished him off before he could do more damage. Have you any tidings of Éowyn and my niece? Dare I hope that they might live too? I have been so worried. I heard nothing for weeks because of the fever. Then tidings came that you were dead; Éowyn and Elestelle had disappeared; and that Faramir had betrayed you!” The King of Rohan was finally forced to pause to catch his breath.

“It is good to see you, Éomer, my brother! I have much to tell you,” Aragorn replied, returning the embrace and blinking back his tears. “Éowyn and Elestelle are both well and safe. Well done, Aewulf! Éomer, I leave you and Imrahil in charge here while I tend to Faramir. I must go and see how he fares now.”

Reluctantly, he released Éomer. Beckoning to several guards to follow him, he made his way down to the Sixth Level where the Houses of Healing were located. A crowd still followed him calling out “We are glad that you have returned, Hail to King Elessar!” and similar sentiments.

The stretcher-bearers were hovering in the Entrance Hall to the Houses of Healing, unsure as to where they ought to take Faramir.

“Take him to the honoured guests’ room!” Aedred ordered.

“I don’t know if he should be taken there, or to the prisoners’ rooms, Master Aedred,” the sergeant in charge said doubtfully. “The King didn’t tell us which rooms and Prince Imrahil said the Steward was a traitor.”

“What nonsense is this?” Tarostar suddenly appeared. “Lord Faramir is no traitor! I am the Warden in charge of these Houses and I say he is here as an honoured guest.”

Oddly grateful that the decision had been taken from his hands, Aragorn took Tarostar aside. “How do you know that Lord Faramir is no traitor?” he enquired.

“He collapsed when he saw the corpse we all believed to be yours; and his heart raced wildly whenever he spoke false words against you, my lord. No traitor would react thus, for the heart cannot lie, even when the lips do so. I am very glad to see that against all odds he has succeeded in rescuing you. When Master Aedred and I gave him some healing supplies, we feared we were aiding him on a mission that would end in his death.”

For a moment, Aragorn’s heart soared at this seemingly independent new evidence of Faramir’s loyalty, only to sink again at the remembrance that this man was Faramir’s cousin and a Húrin. If anyone would speak up for him, it would be Tarostar. He recalled the man’s scarcely concealed fury when he had seen the Steward’s injuries after Faramir's mistaken arrest seven months ago.

 “Where can I wash my hands and prepare myself to treat Lord Faramir’s wound?” Aragorn asked curtly.

Tarostar led him to a small room where soap and towels lay beside bowls of steaming water. Obviously, the servants had already prepared for Aragorn's arrival. The Healer helped him divest himself of his cloak, breastplate and outer tunic, which he hung on a hook in the corner. Aragorn rolled up his shirtsleeves and began to lave his hands.

Tarostar caught sight of the still livid scars on the King’s wrists and elbows and exclaimed in horror. “My lord, what befell you? Have you been hurt?”

“In more ways than one, I fear,” Aragorn replied grimly, drying his hands. “Now take me to Lord Faramir.”

Tarostar led Aragorn along a corridor. Healers were rushing hither and thither as the guards brought in more wounded needing attention. Tarostar excused himself as soon as he had shown the King where Faramir was.

Aragorn found his Steward lying propped up on a bed m with Aedred in attendance. Servants bustled back and forth.

The King stood for a moment looking at Faramir. The arrow still protruded from high in his chest. The Steward’s eyes were shut and he was grimacing in pain. His cheek was still streaked with the mud that had been thrown at him.

“I have given Lord Faramir poppy juice in preparation for removing the arrow, my lord,” Aedred announced,” He is not bleeding from the mouth, which is a good sign. I have examined his head and have found a bump, but he does not appear to be suffering from concussion after his fall. I have sent for hot water, bandages and towels.”

“Thank you, Master Aedred. I would be grateful if you would assist me?” Aragorn said as he dismissed the servants. They had by now lit the fire and brought what was needed.

“Gladly!” the Rohirric Healer replied, “We had better begin by cutting off his armour.”

Aragorn nodded and left him to the task. He dipped a cloth in the bowl of water and started cleaning the mud from his Steward’s face: not for the first time in their acquaintance. Faramir just looked at him, grimacing as the leather armour was cut away from around the wound.

“Congratulations in succeeding in succouring the King, Lord Faramir!” said Aedred, aiming to distract the Steward from what was happening. “I can see you put our medicines and bandaging to good use.”

“I did indeed,” Faramir replied with a weak smile, “I thank you again, Master Aedred. Your help most certainly saved the King’s life. I fear that your supplies are still in the cave where I left them.”

“No matter,” said Aedred. ”Now, Lord Elessar, we will need a sharp knife to cut off Lord Faramir’s clothing and remove the arrow.”

“Only for the clothing,” Aragorn replied. “He is wearing a silk shirt. The arrow should slide out. I will do it.”

Aedred nodded. “The silk shirts you have issued to the soldiers have certainly minimised their injuries,” he replied, selecting a knife from a tray of instruments.

Aragorn slit Faramir’s tunic down the front, taking care not to touch the protruding shaft. He pulled aside the woollen cloth revealing the linen shirt beneath. This he cut away very slowly and carefully, leaving the layer of silk beneath. To his relief, the silk had wrapped around the arrowhead before it pierced Faramir’s flesh, still leaving the shirt intact.

Faramir gritted his teeth and moaned softly when the King began to slowly pull at the silk fabric, inch by painful inch, attempting to free the arrow without causing any further damage to his Steward. Suddenly it came free and the arrow fell on the bed.

Faramir gave a cry and arched in pain before falling back against the pillows. Aragorn threw the bloodied arrow to one side and grabbed a towel, which he pressed against the now profusely bleeding wound. To his great relief, the blood was a normal colour and not pink or frothy. Aedred grabbed another towel and aided the King in trying to staunch the bleeding. Faramir himself now joined in, pressing a corner of the towel against the wound. After what seemed an age but was in fact only a few minutes, the bleeding slowed.

“Can you sit up?” Aragorn asked Faramir, ”I need to see the wound now.”

Faramir sighed but did as he was bidden.

Very carefully, Aragorn eased the blood-drenched shirt over the Steward’s head, finally revealing the damage the arrow had done.

The combined protection of the leather breastplate and silk shirt had left Faramir with a long but fairly shallow clean cut. The angle of the shaft was deception. Mercifully the arrow had impacted in Faramir’s shoulder and upper chest, missing a lung by a mere fraction and Faramir’s heart by inches. Aragorn washed his hands again and carefully examined his Steward. Aedred hovered beside him, a cloth in his hand, with which he kept wiping the blood away. Faramir endured their ministrations patiently enough, though not surprisingly he looked somewhat uncomfortable.

Aragorn gently felt the wound, exploring the torn flesh and feeling the surrounding shoulder blade, ribs and breastbone. He then laid his ear against Faramir’s chest and then to his back and finally looked inside his mouth.

“It seems to be little more than a flesh wound,” he pronounced at last. “You have a cracked rib, but nothing is broken and your lungs are undamaged. You have been very fortunate!”

“I have your lady’s gift of the silk shirt and my Éowyn’s insistence that I wear it to thank!” Faramir replied.

"Your wives can have good cause to be grateful. You seem to have a gift for protecting each other!” Aedred commented, bringing a bowl of steaming water to the bedside.

Aragorn first washed his bloodied hands. Using fresh water, to which a mixture of meadowsweet and athelas had been added, he carefully bathed Faramir’s wound. Aedred then handed him a needle and thread, looking the King straight in the eye, silently asking if he would prefer to delegate the task. Aragorn shook his head and began stitch the wound closed.

The King could see Faramir biting his lips to avoid crying out and instinctively placed his hand over the wound to ease the pain.

A slight, yet definite sense of warmth and comfort surged through the Steward’s injured body while the pain ebbed away. After all the danger and sorrow of the past months, a surge of fierce joy welled up in his weary heart. It was worth it all! Aragorn was alive, whole, King once more, and now his healing powers were returning. A short laugh escaped Faramir; now his fears for his lord could finally ease.

Aragorn looked at him curiously. This was the very last situation that he would have expected Faramir to look so cheerful about. The Steward had been injured, he was obviously in pain and he disliked being other than fully clothed in public. Yet, he was laughing! His suspicions, which had begun to abate at the Healers’ accounts of Faramir’s actions, came flooding back. Why should Faramir laugh unless it was because he had made fools of them all?