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

Des Kőnigs Flucht gab kämpfend ich Geleite;
doch eine Wunde brannt' ihm in der Seite;
die Wunde ist's, die nie sich schliessen will.

(I led the fighting as the King retreated; but a wound was burning in his side; It is the wound which will never heal.) Parsifal – Wagner (A description of the Fisher King’s wounding.)

With grateful thanks to Raksha for her help and support.

Dedicated to Julia.

The cry was followed by what sounded liked a choked sob. Still clutching her son, Arwen made to get out of bed.

The guards started shouting and hammering on the door.

“My lady, may I come in?” Idril, Arwen’s personal maid, called to her from the other side of the door.

To add to the cacophony, Eldarion, annoyed at the untimely interruption to his breakfast, started to howl dismally.

“Idril, you may enter!” Arwen called to her maid, striving to make herself heard. “Guards, please remain outside.”

As soon as the girl entered, Arwen said urgently, “I want you to take Eldarion to his nurse and despatch a messenger to the Houses of Healing to summon Master Aedred urgently!”

“Yes, my lady,” Idril said obediently, wondering at the Queen’s dishevelled appearance. She placed the pitcher of water she had brought for her lady’s morning ablutions on the bedside table, trying not to spill it in her haste. Taking the screaming and wriggling Eldarion from his mother, she hurried off to fulfil her errands, thankful that the nursery was the next room along the corridor.

Arwen ran to see what ailed her husband.

Aragorn was standing in the centre of his dressing room clad only in his drawers. His discarded nightshirt lay at his feet. His skeletal frame still bore the traces of the orange ointment left over from the Elven treatment, but the scars had faded to near nothingness. All apart from one. The brand stood out starkly on his shoulder, not faded in the least.

“How could he have done this to me?” Aragorn seemed to speak more to himself than his wife. “I nurtured a viper in my bosom! He will pay for this dearly!”

“I believe Faramir acted out only of love that he might save you,” Arwen said gently, taking her husband’s hands between her own. “When I searched his thoughts, I perceived nothing but devotion to you.”

“Love!” Aragorn snorted and pulled away from her. “You have been left with a maimed husband loathsome to look upon! Do you know exactly what this brand is? What if it portends that I cannot give you more children?” He started to shake uncontrollably, obviously in a state of deep shock.

“We have Eldarion. You are still the same man I have loved for many a year now. The scar makes no difference to me. You could never be loathsome in my eyes,” Arwen said firmly. “I beg you to put such thoughts from your mind.”

Aragorn looked around almost wildly. “Where is Eldarion? I heard him crying. He must not see his father thus maimed! No one must see me!” He crossed his arms defensively, attempting to hide the scar from her gaze.

“He is too young even to notice and he is now safely with his nurse,” Arwen said calmly. “Come!” She took Aragorn’s arm; gently prising it away from his body and. noticing with dismay just how cold his flesh was to her touch. Leading him into the main bedroom, she sat him on the bed. Wondering what she could do to ease him, she espied the hot water that Idril had brought. Pouring some into a bowl, she took up a cloth and gently cleansed the remains of the orange ointment from her husband’s body.

“You should not take on such a humble task, my fair Evenstar,” Aragorn protested, his mind recalling the day he performed a similar office for Faramir. He pushed the image away, refusing to dwell on his own foolishness in loving his treacherous Steward like a son. He started to weep while Arwen gently dried him with a towel. His Queen pulled him close and held him in her arms as tenderly as a babe.

“Easy now,” Arwen soothed, pulling the blankets around them both. “See, your wounds have healed well. The redness will fade within a short time now.”

“All save one,” Aragorn said bleakly. “Why is still here? The Elven bath should have healed it. Is it a judgement for putting too much trust in a man who betrayed me? Or did I trust him too little? No, that cannot be! His eyes when he did it; they were as hard and cold as his father’s. It were as if he had no soul. I warned him that such a deed would destroy him, yet still he did it!”

“And I believe it cost him dearly too,” Arwen replied. “If any deserve judgement, it is I for sending a man like Faramir to sacrifice his honour to save you. Never, could I have imagined, though, that it would it lead him down so dark a path. It was I, who told him he must better learn to dissemble. Yet I would do it again for the love of you and believe he would too. If any are to be punished, it should be me!”

Aragorn looked at her sharply for a moment, remembering his conversation with Faramir. He then turned away, burying his head against the soft contours of her body. “How could I ever harm you, vanimelda?” Aragorn said morosely. “Yet you have been punished already by being bound to a maimed husband! The land herself will suffer if her lord be not whole!”

“I count our bond a blessing, not a trial,” Arwen replied steadfastly. “And how could a small mark upon your shoulder make you less of a man? Faramir has already been punished severely. He has lost the honour and reputation that he held so dear. The people who once acclaimed him as their favourite son, now jeer at him and throw mud. You cannot punish him further! I trust you to do what is right.”

“I will think on it,” Aragorn replied, refusing to meet her eyes. “I bear no ordinary brand, but that of a maimed animal.”

“I will send for my brothers,” Arwen said in a more cheerful tone. “They will surely be able to heal you. My father trained them in healing arts for centuries and left many books of lore with them. I will write this very morning and despatch a messenger on the swiftest horse in the Royal Stables.”

Aragorn managed a weak smile. “It will gladden my heart to see the twins,” he said.

“I will also send messengers to discover the whereabouts of Legolas and Gimli and summon them here,” Arwen continued. ”With your friends at your side, your health and spirits will soon be restored.” She could only hope her cheerfulness sounded convincing.

Aragorn said nothing but nestled closer in her arms. Arwen continued to hold him, her thoughts straying worriedly to Eldarion’s interrupted breakfast. She was certain that she could hear him whimpering still, her keen Elven hearing able to penetrate the several thick walls that separated her from her child. After several minutes had elapsed, the Queen said, “Come, don your robe and I will send for some breakfast. I have sent for Master Aedred to tend you.”

“There is nothing he can do,” Aragorn said bleakly. “My knowledge, and yours too, far exceeds his.” He looked at his wife as if seeing her for the first time that day. “You should don your robe too, if he is coming.”

Arwen realised that her nightgown was unlaced and stained with milk, while her hair was wildly dishevelled. In happier days, her appearance would have quickly caught Aragorn’s attention, but at present he seemed less interested in her body than even Eldarion was; her son at least perceived her as a source of nourishment! She helped Aragorn don a fur trimmed robe, then slipped on one of her own loose gowns before quickly brushing her hair. She was only just in time before a tap at the door heralded Aedred’s arrival.  The Healer quickly examined Aragorn and enthused over how well his scars at healed.

Arwen excused herself to go to her son. She knew all too well that the one that troubled him most was still there. Hastening to the nursery she found Eldarion with his harassed nurse, screaming lustily and pushing away the spoon with which she was attempting to feed him some gruel. Despatching the nurse to prepare Eldarion’s bath, Arwen settled on the rocking chair and offered him her breast. Within moments the babe was suckling contentedly, his earlier tantrums dispelled as swiftly as a cloud across the sun. How she loved her adorable little boy! She caressed the head of dark unruly curls, which reminded her so much of his father’s. The child, though, despite his tender age, now seemed to have more vigour and energy than his father.

Once her child’s appetite was sated, Arwen started to undress him for his bath, pondering as she did so on her husband’s words that his son must never see him unclothed. A son observed from his father, how he would grow up to become a man. Was their child to be denied the pleasure of swimming with his father? More importantly, would he never experience the Elven massage techniques that her people used as much for bonding as healing? The skills were passed down from mother to daughter and from father to son. The Queen had become accustomed to her husband’s shyness, knowing it stemmed from a fear of being less than perfect in the eyes of the one he so desired. She had expected him to be at ease with Eldarion. In her opinion, humans suffered through the lack of such early closeness as the Eldar enjoyed, Faramir being the obvious example. When she had sifted his thoughts, she had discovered he could not recall a single loving touch from his father.

The Steward’s future was another worry. It was just as well that his wound still kept him confined to bed, given the King’s current mood. She would send a message to Éowyn advising that Faramir keep to his rooms for several more days yet.

For her own part, she cared only that her husband was at her side. How many scars, he did or did not have, mattered not at all. For granted, those of her kind rarely bore any blemish, but she had met many an Elf in her centuries of life. Not one had stirred her heart like Estel had.

Eldarion gurgled and smiled at his mother happily. She tickled his chubby limbs, lightening her mood. She could only hope and pray that her brothers could heal her husband for all their sakes.

Handing the baby back to the nurse to be bathed and dressed for the day, Arwen returned to her husband’s side.

To her great relief, Aragorn now appeared composed, albeit somewhat grim and detached. A fresh and pleasant aroma from a bowl of hot water, in which athelas had been steeped, permeated the room and Aragorn was sipping a mug of hot tea.

“You cannot beat hot, sweet tea after a shock to the system,” Aedred said cheerfully. “My lady, your husband has made a most remarkable recovery from his wounds! I have never seen the like before. The one remaining is likely to pain him, but his body has healed well, I perceive. The athelas seems to help to lighten his spirits, so use that when it is needed.” He turned back to Aragorn. “My lord, I advise rest and good food and you will soon be recovered.”

“I intend to be well for the trial tomorrow,” the King said firmly. “It is time for those who wounded me to receive their just desserts.”