The Characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Chapter Eight – When A Raging Fever Burns
Just after dawn, Faramir was awakened by what sounded like the door closing. For a moment, he felt disorientated and struggled to recall why he was lying in this huge bed with the King on one side of him, and Éowyn on the other. Then the throbbing in his back and shoulders painfully recalled events of the day before. The King had been close to death and he had forbidden the servants to disturb him. Who then had been in the room? Slowly and painfully, Faramir sat up.
Aragorn shifted restlessly in his sleep when the Steward moved. Faramir laid a gentle hand on his King’s forehead. To his alarm, it felt hot to the touch. “Éowyn, wake up!” he cried. “I think the King has a fever!”
Yawning, Éowyn struggled to rouse herself. “It is only to be expected.” she replied calmly, feeling Aragorn’s burning forehead. She reached for a bowl of water that had been left on the table by the bed the night before and dipped a cloth in it, then wiped Aragorn’s face. “With wounds like these, there is usually some infection. We will find out where it is when I change the bandages later. Try and get some more rest,” Éowyn lay down again and pulled the covers over her head.
“Surely you are not going back to sleep?” Faramir protested.
“What else is there that I can do?” she replied, “I have nothing to give him to lower the fever. He is in no immediate danger and is sleeping, which should help him regain his strength. Rest while you can, and try not to fret so. Remember you are injured too!”
Faramir ignored her advice. He slowly and painfully climbed over her to get out of bed. He then struggled to don his shirt and tunic, only succeeding after several clumsy attempts at lifting his arms over his head. Painful though dressing might be, he could not allow the servants to see him without a shirt. As he struggled to tie up the laces, he found himself thinking of his brother. Faramir had never shared Boromir’s self-confidence. His father had often told him he was a puny weakling compared with his brother. Boromir, in defiance of Gondorian custom would walk around with his shirt unlaced and not even blush should a maid come in with towels when he was bathing. If Denethor knew of these lapses, he said nothing. If Faramir gently chided him, Boromir would laugh and then make his brother blush by reminding him of the infamous occasion his little brother had walked into the servants’ quarters dripping wet and stark naked. Faramir had only been about four years old and had gone in search of his nurse. The woman had gone to fetch a towel after his bath and stayed gossiping to the laundress. The servants had roared with laughter, while Denethor had been furious. It had not been long after Finduilas died.
Grimacing, Faramir secured the laces on his tunic. It was futile to dwell on the past. He was without either father or brother now. With a sudden pang, he realised that the King might have filled the aching void in his heart for his lost kindred, had he only allowed himself to respond to the many kindnesses Aragorn had shown him. How could he bear to lose him too? Faramir determined to do everything within his power to save his lord.
Although it was still early, the sun was rising and it promised to be a fine day. Faramir made his way to the kitchens in search of hot water. The maids were already up and about, and engrossed in their work when he entered. A young girl, who looked about twelve years old, was scrubbing the stone floor, while a sulky looking woman, who might once have been attractive, was watching a kettle boiling on the fire. They both got up and curtsied when they saw the Steward.
“I would like hot water, clean cloths and some firewood sent up to the King’s room please,” he said. “Please knock and leave the things outside the door.”
“Yes, my lord.” the older woman said. “Is the King still living?” The woman sounded almost as if the prospect disappointed her.
“You should implore the Valar that our lord recover swiftly!” Faramir replied sternly. The woman pointedly turned her back and returned her attention to the boiling kettle.
The Steward knew that not everyone had been happy when Aragorn ascended the throne of his ancestors. A woman such as this could hardly be expected to know their new lord’s worth. Yet, apart from her impertinence, something about the servant troubled Faramir. Her features appeared vaguely familiar, but he could not place where he might have seen her before. She was broad hipped and large bosomed, the kind of woman Boromir had always favoured. Maybe that was why he felt so uneasy, having seen Boromir pursue many a tavern wench? Inwardly Faramir rebuked himself for letting his thoughts stray yet again to his dead brother. No doubt he was imagining ill of an innocent and overworked maidservant. “Please tell the cook we would like some chicken broth later,” he said curtly before leaving the room.
When Faramir returned to the bedroom, he settled himself beside the King. He gently sponged Aragorn’s face, neck, and arms as soon as the water was brought. Aragorn relaxed slightly in his sleep, seemingly eased by his Steward’s ministrations. Faramir felt his forehead again. It felt hotter than ever. He had little healing knowledge but it seemed to him that the King’s fever was growing worse. Faramir wished his wife would awaken.
When Aragorn became increasingly restless and started to thrash around and cry out, Éowyn finally woke up. She sat up and felt the King’s brow. “It is worse than I thought,” she sighed. “When I have dressed, we must try to find the source of the infection.” With those far from comforting words, she left for her own room, leaving Faramir feeling more anxious than ever.
Éowyn soon returned, now fully dressed. Approaching the bed, she pulled down the covers. Aragorn recoiled, shivering and moaning. Faramir tried vainly to soothe him. When Éowyn leaned over Aragorn to start soaking off the bandages, Aragorn tried to fight her off, some corner of his fevered brain obviously remembering the night before. “Hold him still!” she ordered her husband.
“Try to treat him more gently,” advised Faramir.
Éowyn tried again, only for Aragorn to struggle all the harder. He lashed out wildly and narrowly missed striking Éowyn. She raised her hand as if to strike him in self defence than thought the better of it.
“Éowyn!” Faramir chided.
“I suggest you do it yourself then!” she replied impatiently.
“I will and gladly,” Faramir replied. He began by carefully rearranging the covers to prevent Aragorn becoming chilled. Very gently, he soaked off the wrappings covering the King’s upper body. This time, Aragorn lay still and quiet beneath his touch and did not struggle when Éowyn helped her husband lift the King into a sitting position to remove the bandages. She washed her hands and carefully examined the many hurts. They soon found the source of the infection. Several of the stripes on his back felt hot and inflamed and were swollen with infection, as was one of the cuts just below his ribs.
Éowyn frowned as she examined them. To her dismay, they were far worse than she had anticipated. “I did clean them as best I could.” she said defensively.
“I know you did, but I think it was impossible to cleanse his back thoroughly after they rammed him against that tree,” Faramir replied, trying not to shudder at the memory. “They cut him with a rusting blade, which would make things worse too.”
“All I can do is clean and dress them again. Bathing him repeatedly might bring his temperature down,” Éowyn said. Her tone suggested that she was not hopeful.
Together, they gently laid him back on his side. Éowyn began her painful task.
Aragorn started to struggle again as agony coursed through his body. Too feverish to be aware of what was happening; he cried out. “No more! Leave me alone, Let my Steward be!”
Faramir had increasing difficulty in restraining him. Even Éowyn’s strong stomach felt somewhat queasy when she cleaned the evil yellowish pus oozing from one of the wounds, and scraped away the fragments of tree bark from his lacerated flesh. She applied a mixture of honey and vinegar in an attempt to combat the infection.
Faramir was then left alone to bathe the King as he had done the previous day. This time, Aragorn did not speak nor show any sign of being aware of what was happening.
Although Faramir had felt uncomfortable the day before at the need to perform such personal tasks for one he had placed on a pedestal, it felt even harder to care for Aragorn now he was too ill to be aware of what was happening. He respectfully kept Aragorn covered by the blankets while he washed him.
Éowyn came back into the room bringing clean bed linen. Faramir helped her to change the sheets. Aragorn continued to toss and turn. Éowyn placed pillows either side of him to try and stop him turning on his back and aggravating his wounds.
“I don’t know what else I can do,“ she sighed. “I might not like the man, but I don’t want him to die! The pain and infection are fast draining his strength.”
Faramir gently persuaded the King to drink some water, and then sat beside him on the bed bathing his face and singing in Elvish to soothe him. He wracked his brain for an inspiration of how to bring the fever down, but could think of nothing. His own wounds throbbed and ached, but he ignored then, concentrating solely on the King’s worsening plight. Aragorn cried out repeatedly, calling for his mother, Arwen, and several other people that Faramir did not know. Faramir grasped the King’s hand, which seemed to calm him a little. However, the fever continued to rage unabated.
The Steward realised Aragorn was wise not to want Arwen here. The sight of her husband in such pain would greatly distress the gentle Queen. That, together with the journey would endanger the unborn heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor. Yet it was hard for him to sit there watching him call out for her. Sadly, he also wondered if Éowyn would ever love him like the Queen loved Aragorn. It was obvious to all who saw the Royal Couple that they adored each other.
From his earliest childhood, Faramir had been taught that Gondor must always come first. She had ever proved a demanding mistress. He felt he had failed both Aragorn and Gondor. It should have been him lying there and not the King. If only he had Aragorn’s strength and courage! He found himself weeping and for once did not fight to repress his emotions, as there was none present save the unconscious King. Much to his shame, Éowyn returned and saw his tears before he could stifle them. To his surprise, she did not chide him for his weakness. Instead, she quietly sat on the bed beside him, placing a comforting arm around him.
She waited until his tears stopped, then said quietly. “I’ll fetch us something to eat. It will make you feel better. You are still in shock from yesterday.”
A few minutes later, she returned with some broth for them both. It tasted surprisingly good and Faramir found himself draining the bowl, despite his lack of appetite.
“Should we try and get the King to swallow some?” Faramir suggested.
Éowyn shook her head. “No, not while his fever rages. He just needs water and plenty of it. If only I had something I could give him for the pain and fever. I fear he is growing weaker. I think I will look outside in the garden to see if any healing herbs grow there. I wish I had brought some with me.”
Faramir had a sudden thought. “I wonder if the King brought healing supplies,” he mused aloud.
“I doubt it. He would hardly expect to need them here,” Éowyn replied. “This was supposed to be a holiday!”
“Before we were attacked, he tended my shoulder and spoke as if he intended to continue treating it while we were here. I wonder if he did bring healing supplies? When he was a Ranger, he would travel prepared for emergencies.” Faramir pointed out.
Éowyn rose to her feet. “I will fetch his pack from the other room, and we shall see. Why ever didn’t I think of that before?”
Aragorn was now sweating and writhing with such agitation that Faramir breathed a silent prayer to the Valar for his life while he waited for Éowyn to come back.
She soon returned, triumphantly clutching a worn leather satchel Aragorn had brought with him. The Steward hardly dared to hope as he unfastened the frayed straps. What if it only contained clothing, or even a secret stash of pipe weed, though Aragorn had sworn he had given up the Halflings’ pleasure for the love of his bride.
“His spare clothing is in his other pack,” Éowyn announced, as if reading Faramir’s thoughts. She carefully tipped out the satchel’s contents on to the small bedside table. “Here’s willow bark, feverfew, marigold, dandelion, garlic, arnica, cashew nut oil and even poppy juice!” she exclaimed. “If only I had thought of this before! I should have brought my own healing supplies too.”
“You could not have known,” Faramir reassured her. “Can you make a potion to help him?”
She nodded. “Yes, I have all that is needed here. But first, he needs poppy juice for the pain.” She carefully measured a small drop of the thick liquid into some water and handed the cup to Faramir. He lifted it to Aragorn’s lips, but the King moaned and turned away.
“Aragorn, drink this, it will help you!” the Steward whispered, gently patting the stricken man’s hand to soothe him.
Aragorn briefly opened his eyes and a flicker of recognition was in their grey depths, before he swallowed the medicine. As the moments passed, Aragorn relaxed a little.
Éowyn brewed an herbal tea, blowing on it to cool the steaming liquid. She sipped it and pulled a face. “This tastes vile!” she exclaimed. “I don’t even know if it will be effective for one as ill as he is.” She handed Faramir the cup, together with the spoon, she had used to mix it with. “You had better use this to get it down him,” she suggested. “I doubt he will drink it easily.”
Faramir started spooning the brew into Aragorn’s mouth. To their surprise, he swallowed obediently as if his healer’s training had conditioned him to take it. Once the cup was empty, Faramir lowered the King back on his pillows, where within moments, Aragorn relaxed and slept, his noble features no longer contorted with agony.
Faramir found he was shaking. Éowyn pushed her husband down on the bed and pulled the covers over him. “Drink this and rest!” she said, handing him a cup. “Your wounds need tending, but that can wait. I will stay here.”
Faramir swallowed obediently, unaware of the poppy juice she had added.
Éowyn watched until her husband fell asleep, the lines of pain and worry easing from his face. She felt angrier than ever with Aragorn. It was through him her husband was injured by bringing him here. It was also Aragorn’s fault that Faramir was unhappily married to her, rather than to some Gondorian beauty of his choice. The more time she spent with Faramir, the more she grew to love him, an affection which he could never return after Aragorn had ordered him to deceive her into a loveless marriage! She settled herself on the chair but it was hard and uncomfortable. The bed looked soft and inviting, despite the fact it was partially occupied by the man she hated so much. Eventually, Éowyn gave up trying to resist. She climbed up beside Faramir, as far away as possible from Aragorn, and lay on top of the covers. Despite her attempts to stay awake, she was soon slumbering peacefully beside Faramir and the King.
When Éowyn awoke again, the position of the sun in the sky suggested it was well past midday already. She was surprised to discover that beside her, Faramir had nuzzled against her body, while his hand was stretched out protectively towards the King.
Trying not to awaken Faramir, she leaned across to feel Aragorn’s forehead. It was still burning hot to the touch. She sighed, realising she would have to continue fighting for the life of one she so despised.