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

With thanks to Raksha and Julia for their helpful suggestions and support.

Chapter Fifty-Seven - I approach these questions unwillingly

I approach these questions unwillingly, as it wounds, but no cure can be effected without touching upon and handling them. Titus Livius (Livy) (59 B.C.–A.D. 17)

Aragorn suddenly felt faint. He swayed, and paled visibly much to Faramir and Aedred’s alarm.

“Aragorn, no!” Faramir cried.

“My lord, you are unwell!” The Healer hastened to Aragorn’s side and felt his pulse, noting as he did so, the heavily scarred wrist. “You have been injured recently!” Aedred exclaimed.

Aragorn opened his eyes and smiled wanly. “It is nothing. I am well enough now. I am just not as yet accustomed again to exerting myself.”

“You should rest now, my lord, I will finish tending to Lord Faramir,” Aedred said firmly.

“I shall finish what I started, but I thank you for your concern, Master Aedred,” Aragorn replied, with equal firmness. He slowly rose to his feet. “I shall need salves and bandages now.”

Aedred looked at him doubtfully. He nevertheless obediently busied himself selecting suitable dressings from the supply lying on a nearby table.

“Why did you laugh?” Aragorn demanded of Faramir.

“Your hands were warm again and I was happy,” the Steward replied, grinning inanely as the poppy juice took hold.

“They are cold now,” Aragorn said softly, looking down at his hands, which showed white at the fingertips. “Using the power takes took much from me. I shall not do so again. It has brought me nothing but heartache.”

The words stabbed Faramir like a knife. Did that mean Aragorn regretted healing him of the Black Breath? Or was he simply recalling how healing had drained his strength, thus allowing the rebels to capture him? He tried to read Aragorn’s expression but his brain felt too befuddled to concentrate.

“Come, Lord Faramir, you need to sit up straight while we bandage your wound,” said Aedred. ”Which salve do you wish to use, sire?”

“Calendula and rosehip is generally most effective,” Aragorn replied, supporting his Steward while the Rohirric Healer applied a liberal amount of healing ointment to the wound. Aragorn then pressed a pad of soft cloth against it as Aedred securely bandaged Faramir’s chest and shoulder.

The noise outside seemed to be getting louder. It seemed more wounded were being brought in, together with members of the crowd, who had either swooned or been knocked over in the commotion. Voices called with increasing urgency for Healers to go to the new arrivals. Aedred’s pace quickened as he knotted the bandage.

“I think you are needed elsewhere, Master Aedred,” said Aragorn.

“We need to finish undressing Lord Faramir and put him to bed,” the other replied.

“Can do that myself, just feel rather sleepy now,” Faramir mumbled.

“You must go to the others that need you,” Aragorn insisted. “I can do what is needed. Tell the Warden please, that I desire Guards to be stationed on Lord Faramir’s door at all times.”

“Your Steward is in no fit state to run away!” Aedred chided tartly.

“I was not suggesting that he would. The Guards are required for his own safety. Ask Master Tarostar to request that Lamrung be chosen as one of them.”

“Very well, my lord, then I beg of you to rest!” The Healer hurried away.

Aragorn turned his attention back to Faramir. A nightshirt had been left folded at the foot of the bed. He aided the younger man to ease it over his head, prior to removing his breeches and then tucking the bed covers around him.

Faramir seemed too sleepy to protest, although his demeanour suggested that he was grateful for the tactful manner of Aragorn’s assistance. “Do you plan to question the prisoners?” he asked as a sudden thought penetrated his somewhat fuddled brain.

“Yes, as soon as possible,” Aragorn replied.

“Ask them, please, what happened to Anborn and his men,” Faramir pleaded.

“I will, if I have the opportunity,” the King promised.

“Thank you.” The Steward could keep his eyes open no longer.

Aragorn propped Faramir up with pillows, and then tucked the covers around him. By now, the Steward was sound asleep and unaware of the other’s presence. Aragorn lingered, watching him as he slept. Faramir’s face was pale, from shock and loss of blood, and his visage still slightly creased with pain. His pallor accentuated his carven features, long eyelashes and raven hair. It reminded Aragorn of the first time they had met, four years ago in this very room, and how the air of High Númenorean nobility that surrounded Faramir had struck him.

That day, the young man had captured a place in Aragorn’s heart and the King had grown to love him as dearly as a son. His heart went out to him, remembering all they had been through together and the deep bond that had been forged between them. He loved Faramir still, despite everything. Today, the Steward had almost certainly saved Aragorn from serious injury at the very least. He should be lying there, not Faramir. Yet, had the valiant gesture, been no more than a way to try to redeem his own honour? He had seen the look in the Steward’s eyes, when the crowd had jeered and thrown mud at the one who had once been their favourite son.

There were so many questions that Faramir seemed unwilling or unable to answer, the most pertinent, being as to why he had not revealed his deception, if deception it were, during the times they had been alone in that vile cellar together. Why had he held a knife at his King’s throat and rubbed his already raw skin with sackcloth and an onion? He had had plenty of opportunity to justify himself over these past weeks, but would say nothing other than he had to act as he did. How the King wanted to trust him, and to love him whole heartedly the way he had done before, but he could not.

Instinctively, he bent to tenderly kiss Faramir on the brow in blessing, as he had done so many times before in the past. Aragorn froze; unable to complete the gesture. Yet again, the image of Faramir advancing upon him with the brand, his eyes as cold and flint like as Denethor’s pervaded his mind.

“I am sorry,” he said, swallowing hard and moving away from the bed. Then, without a second glance, he turned and left the room.

Aragorn first sought out Imrahil and Éomer. Since it was obvious that they had the situation well under control, he felt his presence was unnecessary. He considered retiring to his room to recover from the day’s exertions, which weighed heavily on his still healing body. He knew, though, that his mind would find no rest, while so many unanswered questions whirled round his brain. He decided to see what Fontos had to say for himself.

The Lord of Lossarnach had been taken to the euphemistically named ‘Hospitality Room’; a secure chamber used to detain troublesome dignitaries in safety and relative comfort, compared to that of the City prison.

The Guard stationed at the chamber door unlocked it and showed Aragorn inside.

Fontos, dressed only in a shirt and breeches, was slumped dejectedly on the bed. He rose to his feet when he saw who had come in.

“You may leave us,” Aragorn told the Guard, “I wish you to remain just outside the door.”

“My lord, this man is a dangerous criminal!” the Guard, a young Sergeant, protested.

“I am aware of that, Sergeant, but you have searched him for weapons, have you not?”

The man nodded. “Aye, my lord.”

“You may safely leave us then, I have Andúril at my side.”

The Sergeant saluted and reluctantly left the King alone with the prisoner.

“What have you to say for yourself, Lord Fontos?” Aragorn demanded, seating himself on the chair.

Fontos fell on his knees and clutched at Aragorn’s feet. “Only that I am sorry and bitterly regret what I have done, sire,” he said. “I ask for and expect no mercy for myself, but I beg of you not to harm my wife and son, or if they must die, make it a quick and merciful death! I swear my wife knew nothing, being in too great fear of her father to enquire aught of him.”

“Unlike the company, you have been keeping, I am not in the habit of slaughtering innocents, especially not two year old children!” Aragorn replied grimly. “Get up! I would look you in the eye while I speak to you.”

Fontos scrambled to his feet and Aragorn noticed a large bruise on the side of his face. It seemed he had been treated none too gently when he was brought here. He looked young and vulnerable. The King remembered that he had succeeded to his father’s estates when he was only twenty-five years old, when Forlong had been unhorsed and hewn to death with axes at the battle of Pelennor Fields.

“Do you require a Healer?” Aragorn asked the young man.

Fontos shook his head. “No, my lord, I am well. I received no less than I deserved when I was brought here.”

“Sit down then, and tell me what you know of the woman Hanna and her child,” Aragorn ordered. “I would know the whole story.”

Fontos closed his eyes and sat lost in thought for a moment. “Although, I was but half Lord Boromir’s age,” he began, “I was his close friend. He befriended me when I was the youngest of the Tower Guards, little more than a boy, only there because of my father’s rank and influence. For that reason, I was unpopular with my fellows. Lord Boromir would often spend his leave at Duilin of Morthond’s hunting lodge, where we would hunt all day and feast most of the night. Often, together with my father, I was invited there. Duilin liked to have attractive and well brought up girls there, to wait upon the men at table, engage them in conversation and dance with them if required. These girls were not expected to behave in an immoral fashion, but rather make up for the lack of female society, as hunting parties were not considered fitting occasions for wives.”

Aragorn remembered his own invitations to such gatherings during his years in Gondor as Captain Thorongil. He had avoided them whenever possible, fearing a careless slip of the tongue, after too much good food and wine, could lead to his true identity being discovered.

“Hanna, as the daughter of the Porter at the Rath Dinen, was considered suitable to serve at the feasts. Her usual employment was as a personal maid to Duilin’s wife. She was a beautiful, vivacious girl, albeit rather flirtatious, and she soon caught Lord Boromir’s eye. I do not know whether she genuinely loved him, or was drawn to his wealth and position, but she made it clear she would welcome his attentions. My father and I shared a room with Lord Boromir and one night he never came to bed. When he finally appeared at dawn, he boasted how he had spent a most enjoyable night in the arms of the lovely Hanna. My father was shocked by his conduct but dared not rebuke the Steward’s heir. I assume that was when Elbeth was conceived.”

Aragorn nodded. It seemed that there was no doubt that Elbeth was Boromir’s daughter.

“It was years before I saw Hanna again,” Fontos continued, “by that time, my father was dead, as was Lord Boromir and his father. I was angry that Lord Boromir had been taken from us, for I believed that he would have made a great Steward. I married Lord Dervorin’s daughter and spent much time with him and his great friend Fosco of Lamedon. Fosco resented you taking the throne, sire, because his father died soon after following you on the Paths of the Dead and Dervorin because your rule favoured the common people. Others joined them, including their tenants and Meneldil of Lebennin, an ardent supporter of the House of Húrin. Dervorin formulated a plan to find a child that resembled Lord Boromir and use him or her, as a means of stirring up dissent against you. I was reluctant at first to join them; but then, he told me that you, sire, had most likely caused Lord Boromir’s death as well as having Lord Faramir beaten and imprisoned. I felt the House of Húrin had been much wronged after a thousand years of faithful service to Gondor.”

“He lied!” Aragorn exclaimed angrily. “I have spoken little of how Lord Boromir died to protect his reputation, but he fell at the hands of the Uruk Hai after trying to take the Ring. I played no part in his death. Lord Faramir’s arrest was a mistake, which I deeply regretted.”

Fontos shuddered at the blazing anger in the King’s eyes. “I am sorry,” he murmured.

“And so you should be,” Aragorn said coldly. “Continue your story!”

“Last autumn, Dervorin found Hanna living rough in a barn on his estate with her child,” said Fontos. “He immediately recognised the likeness between Elbeth and Lord Boromir. When Hanna told her story, he asked me to forge my father’s hand on a marriage certificate. Hanna claimed she had been falsely imprisoned in the asylum by you. She was consumed with hatred towards both you and Lord Faramir. It seems, sire, that after she conceived Lord Boromir’s child, her family felt the shame keenly. They found a friend of her father’s, a Ranger in Lord Faramir’s company, willing to marry her and accept the child as his own. Then during the war, he was killed under Lord Faramir’s command. Hanna and her mother took shelter in the countryside during the siege of Minas Tirith with a kinswoman married to a charcoal burner. When the porter was killed, they never returned to the City and lived in poverty, Hanna returning to the Hunting Lodge to work as a kitchen maid to support her child. Their kinswoman died soon afterwards, or so Hanna said.”

“That to some degree, explains her hatred and how she came to lose her wits,” Aragorn said, more to himself than Fontos. ”The Porter’s widow and her family should have been provided for, but were somehow overlooked. I wonder if Lord Boromir ever knew he had a child?”

Fontos shook his head. “I very much doubt it, or that he even remembered his encounter with the mother. He had a way with the ladies, did Lord Boromir, though most had the moral strength to resist his advances.”

Aragorn felt a pang of sadness that Boromir had never known his lovable, intelligent and compassionate little daughter. The Steward’s heir had been fatally flawed both by his pride and Denethor’s over indulgence. Yet, maybe knowing he had a child might have steadied him and strengthened his character. Doubtless, Hanna and her family had been too ashamed by her loose conduct to try to inform the Steward or his son what had happened.

Satisfied he had learned all he could about Hanna, Aragorn changed the subject. “Who was murdered and dressed in my clothes?” he asked.

“I do not know his name, only that he was an emissary from the North, whom Fosco invited to stay with him when the City was ravaged by fever,” Fontos replied.

Aragorn’s gaze darkened. Most likely, the unfortunate man was a distant kinsman of his. He would insist that he was buried with honour and request that his Steward in Arnor see that his kin were well provided for.

“One last thing I wish to know, before I take my leave,” Aragorn said, remembering Faramir’s request. He stretched his long legs and rose to his feet, wincing slightly as he did so. “What became of Anborn, the Captain of Lord Faramir’s Escort, and his men?”

“I do not know,” Fontos replied without hesitation.

Aragorn nodded, satisfied Fontos was telling the truth. “Very well, I have no more questions at present,” he said.

”My lord, I am so sorry!” Fontos cried before the King could leave. I never expected them to treat you as they did. It sickened me, but I was too much of a coward to try to stop them!”

“I shall wish you to repeat all you have told me at Dervorin’s trial,” Aragorn said sternly.

“Gladly, my lord, I wish to atone in what little time I have left!” Fontos replied.

“I will have food and drink sent to you and you may have reading and writing materials, if you so wish,” Aragorn said in a more kindly tone. “I suggest you use this time wisely to reflect on your actions and their consequences while I decide your fate.” With those words, he took his leave.

Fontos stared after him, recognising the greatness of the man and bitterly ruing his decision to throw in his lot with the rebels.