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My Sword Weeps - Book Two - 'My Sword' Series  by Agape4Gondor

Ch. 41 - Healing and Horror

The Elf put his hand firmly on the man’s chest, not letting him sit up as he had obviously hoped. “You are not well. Please. Do not move.”

Éomund looked in amaze; the hairs on the back of his neck rose. He tried to speak.

“Nay. Say naught. I am here to help you.”

‘Elves do not help men. I must be going mad. I must be dead.’ His thoughts roiled through his mind; pain shot through him, until, suddenly, a thought, a name, pierced through everything. “Faramir!” he tried to scream, but only a sob-filled word came out.

“The boy is here, with a friend who is taking care of him. As I am trying to do for you, if you would but stay still.”

Éomund swallowed, but the action caused him to choke. His throat was dry and burnt like fire.

“Water?”

He nodded and the Elf smiled. ‘Mayhap we are making some headway.’ He helped the Rohir partially sit and held the flask up to his lips. “Easy. Not too fast.” The man tried to grab it away from him, but the Elf gently disentangled his fingers. “I have something better for you. Here.” He held the small flask of miruvor to the man’s lips. He saw the hesitation and smiled. “It is a medicament. It will not harm you, but hearten you.”

The man drank, eyes fluttered, and he fell asleep again. Elladan laid him gently down. “He rests now, Estel.” He walked towards his brother. “I am concerned. Elrohir will be anxious. We are well past our time of return.”

“I know,” Aragorn sat, silently holding Faramir to his chest. “Return to him. I will be safe until you bring him here.”

“I do not intend to leave you alone,” the Elf said testily, quirking an eyebrow at Aragorn.

“I am not alone,” the man smiled.

Elladan smiled in return. “Elrohir will find us. The horses are tied out front. He knows we headed east. Do you need aught?”

“Nay. Have you noted the way the boy is bundled? As a babe, swaddled.”

“I did notice and I have no explanation for it.”

“Seems strange.”

“It is not a human custom?”

“In babes, aye. But not boys. I do not understand at all. He lies quietly in my arms with nary a movement. Why would they swaddle him?” He turned and looked again at the little one lying quietly, trustingly in his arms. He began softly singing a lullaby that Finduilas had taught him many years before. His mind wandered to Minas Tirith, to the garden off her chambers, to the gentle sun filtering through the trees, to the exotic smell of transplanted flowers from Dol Amroth that wafted in the sweet summer’s breeze, to the touch of a boy’s hand on his cheek. Tears fell silently. Boromir, beloved child, full of joy, wonder, life and laughter, was dead. His mind reeled as he finally had a moment to open his heart to the grief that he had pushed to the back of his consciousness, the grief that now flooded him, body and spirit. He had placed his focus entirely on the journey to bring healing to Faramir. Now, in the quiet warmth of the cave, he paused and reflected.

Denethor was gone. The blow, when he heard the news, had staggered him. He had so many regrets. Ecthelion had loved him, that he knew, but Denethor had also known that; it caused a great rift in the friendship that they had had. Denethor had rarely spoken to him the last year he had served Gondor. In deference to her husband, Finduilas, who had been friend, had severed all ties, and Aragorn was no longer allowed to visit and hold Boromir. Of all the sorrows that had assailed him in his long life, the loss of the love of these three hurt as much as the loss of his mother.

Now, he had occasion to serve Denethor once more. He would save Faramir; somehow, he would save Faramir. He looked down at the face before him. So much like Denethor himself, same hair, same chin. To have these little eyes open and to see that same steel grey that held so much love, so much pain, so much life. This boy would have Denethor’s eyes, he just knew it. He held the little hand in his and rubbed each finger, then rubbed the boy’s hand. ‘So tiny. Such a little thing. So helpless.’

He felt a small stirring, the first he had felt since taking the boy in his arms hours ago. He called to Elladan. “More tea, Elladan. There is hope.”

Elladan smiled. “Of course there is. Estel is here, is he not?” He brought the tea over, knelt next to Aragorn and watched as the man gently held the cup to the child’s lips. “Ah,” he sighed. “He takes it well this time. I believe you are right, Estel. I believe there is hope.”

Aragorn hoped. “Faramir,” he called gently. He put the cup down; only a few drops had been swallowed, but that was more than previously. He whispered words of healing one more time, holding his hands on the boy’s forehead. “Faramir,” he called again as he lifted the child closer to his own face. “Come back to us, Faramir. Friends are here waiting for you. Come back to us.”

He kissed the lad on the forehead and began to sing again Finduilas’ lullaby. The eyes flickered. He held his breath. Another moment, the stirring had ceased. He began the lullaby again and felt the child move under him. This time, he did not stop singing.

~*~

“Is there any news of my men?” she asked as soon as they reached the inn and stopped on the front stoop.

“They are in the holding room at the town’s hall. At least, that is what we suppose. I have heard no word about them. My concern was the boy. My men will know.”

“Would you please send someone; free them and bring them here?”

“I am afraid it would give our hand away. I would not want Minastir to know there is an organized threat.”

“I understand.” She could not help but cover her eyes for a moment.

“Ragnhild! What is it? Is one of them close to you?” His eyes opened wide. “A husband, perhaps?”

She laughed despite the tears that spilled from her eyes. “Nay, Borondir. How do I say this? When Indis journeyed from Rohan to Gondor, two brothers accompanied her. They died in the fighting. The two being held here are brothers also. It would wound my heart if aught happened to them.”

The soldier’s eyes softened as did his voice. “If it will put you at ease, even in these troubled hours, I will do what I can.”

She put her hand on his arm. “Nay! I cannot let you jeopardize the safety of your men, of our plan, for only two.”

“For only one,” Borondir whispered as he laid his hand upon hers. She found herself shaking.

Calling to one of the men who stood patiently behind them, the retired captain of Gondor spoke quietly. The man saluted and left.

He did not let go of her arm, she noted, as he walked her into the inn. “We have long planned for something such as this to happen, Ragnhild. It is fortunate that you are with us. We indeed need a missive sent to Minas Tirith. We have men, but not enough to wrest control of Tarnost from Dagnir’s army. Please, write the missive as quickly as possible. I will have my swiftest horse saddled and my fastest rider take it to the prince.”

“It will only take me a moment. I will need quill and parchment. I have a seal in my room.”

She stood near a table in the common room and looked about. The inn was filled with men, doughty solemn-faced men. Shaking her head in wonder, she ran to her room. Erendis’ boy was still there and Targon still slept. Concern swept through her; the boy should have awoken by now. Quickly she stepped to the alcove and knelt at his side. She touched his forehead. It was cool. She called his name, but there was no response. She gently shook him. He moaned and she sighed in relief. She lifted his eyelid.

The boy flung his eyes open wide and squirmed away from her. "Oh! It is you.” The boy looked about in confusion. “The sun is up! I should be up myself. I am sorry.”

She smiled fondly. “There is naught to be sorry about, Targon. You needed sleep. The journey was difficult and a head wound is serious. I am glad you are still in bed. Now, I have some things to do.” She paused for a moment. “As soon as you are dressed, come to the common room. Much has happened in a very short time. I want you part of this; you have earned much respect this past month.”

The boy's shy smile lit his face. “I will be along presently. Might… might there be food?”

She laughed. “Aye. And you do not have to cook it yourself. Can you stand on your own?”

He started to sit up and grabbed his head, a soft moan escaped. “I do not feel very good.”

She helped him sit. “What ails you? Is it your head?”

“Aye. It only hurts a little though. It is my stomach.”

Ragnhild hugged him in relief. “Then it is the stomach we must heal and I believe Erendis’ biscuits will help. Here,” and she helped him stand. “Get yourself dressed and this lad will bring you to the common room where a hearty meal awaits you. Now, I must be off. Hurry!”

Turning to the servant, she said, “Please stay with Targon and make sure he makes it safely to the common room.” He nodded and she ran out of the room, seal in hand.

By the time she re-entered the room, it was full to overflowing. Borondir waved, then strode to meet her. “Come into the parlour. Erendis has the supplies you need, along with wax.”

She followed him in and sat at the table. Writing furiously, she finished quickly and set the seal. “Here. The prince will send a company, perhaps more. I hope it is not too late.”

“We will surround the home of Dagnir. His son is there along with his wife. I am sure the head of his army is there as well. They have no idea that we have been preparing for this. Will you lead us?”

She stared at him in surprise. Had she been wrong in thinking he was condescending? “I do not know what to say. I am…” She swallowed hard, remembering that Indis had named her as her Captain-general, though none knew of the station as of yet. She took a deep breath; if she was to be Indis’ commander, then now would be a very good time to start. “I will lead you.”

Borondir stood back and saluted her, then took her hand and led her into the common room. Turning to a man at his left, he whispered something and gave the missive over. The man saluted and ran from the room. Striding into the middle of the room, the soldier called for order. Once it was achieved, Borondir began…

“My friends, men of Gondor. A great evil has befallen our fair city. A traitor dwelt within these walls. This traitor’s actions,” Borondir continued, “have caused the very foundations of Gondor to be weakened.” Shouts and murmurs greeted the announcement.

“Prince Imrahil has sent this warrior,” and Borondir indicated Ragnhild, “As his emissary to discover how deep the treachery is that spreads through Lamedon. Listen to what she says as you would listen to the prince.”

The room grew deathly quiet. As quickly as she could, and with a voice as clear and firm as she could make it, Ragnhild told of the treason of Amandil and his compatriots, naming Ohtar, Dagnir, and Minastir, of the murder of Denethor and Boromir, and finally of the wresting of the Rod from the rightful Steward, Faramir.

Great cries of horror greeted her words. Horror turned to rage. “Kill them all!” many in the crowd shouted.





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