The Foreboding of Evil

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

Warning – This chapter contains material, which may distress sensitive readers.

Chapter Four – The Foreboding of Evil

I would far rather be ignorant than wise in the foreboding of evil.  –                        

Aeschylus (525–456 B.C.)

When Faramir awoke, his back felt more stiff and painful than ever. Yet, that was as nothing, compared to how worried and helpless he felt.

Aragorn was missing and most likely in grave danger. He, Faramir should have been able to prevent it. Why had he not been more insistent about Aragorn being accompanied by a guard? If the King had refused to listen, he could always have ordered one to follow him unobserved, difficult though that would have been, to remain unseen by a former ranger like Aragorn. Faramir felt so angry with himself. Maybe he should have insisted that Aragorn rest for a few days? Yet, the King had seemed much restored in health and spirits by the time he had left for the Houses of Healing again.

Displaying the iron self control he had mastered over the years spent dealing with his father's moods, Faramir insisted the search continue, while he dealt with affairs of state. He wished he could search every nook and cranny himself. Instead, he ordered the guards to enquire at every house on the route to the Houses of Healing, search every level of the City, paying especial attention to deserted buildings and alleyways. He was determined to leave no stone unturned in the hunt to find Aragorn.

His task was made all the harder by the fever epidemic. He dared not risk causing a panic that might cause people to congregate together and spread the contagion. With this in mind, the guards were ordered to be extremely careful in their dealings with the populace and tell them as little as possible.

Several days passed with no sign of the King. Aragorn appeared to have vanished from the face of Arda, though he continued to haunt Faramir’s dreams nightly.

Faramir kept suffering too from mysterious pains, so severe he struggled not to cry out. He could find no bruise or wound and they would abate as suddenly as they came. He found himself more than once, feeling for wounds that were not there. He kept applying Aragorn’s salves to perfectly healthy skin. They failed to work their magic without the King’s healing touch. He actually began to feel grateful that he was so accustomed to pain that it hindered him very little in dealing with daily tasks.

The Steward knew that Arwen should be told of her husband’s disappearance; yet he hesitated. Aragorn had forbidden anyone to go near her and Eldarion, while there was still danger of infection. He would not take kindly to having his order disobeyed, an order Faramir respected even more, as it also concerned Éowyn and Elestelle’s safety.

Although he, like Aragorn himself, posed no threat of infection, he would not be expected to travel without an escort. Aragorn had also told him that infections could be carried on clothing, so he was unwilling to take so great a risk.

Given the strong mental bond between himself and Aragorn, he felt certain that if Aragorn were dead, he would know immediately. Aragorn had warned him that it would be like losing part of his own soul.

Faramir still cherished the fragile hope that Aragorn would be found safe and well. Maybe, he had impulsively gone to recuperate in the wilds for a few days, or been consumed with a longing he could not contain to visit Arwen and Eldarion. He could after all, change his clothing before seeing them to minimise risk of infection. It was very strange, though that he had not told Faramir of his plan. Most worryingly of all, Roheryn was still in his stable. However, Aragorn might have taken another, less easily recognised horse, if he had wanted to ride out incognito. No horses of any description had been reported missing, though it was well nigh impossible to account for every horse wintering in the fields outside the City.

The Council were becoming restless and demanding explanations for the King’s absence, explanations that Faramir was unable to provide them with.

If the servants’ chatter were to be relied upon, it seemed that all manner of rumours were sweeping the City: that the King had abandoned them all to go and live with the Elves, he had gone hunting, the Dark Lord had returned and kidnapped him, or that he had grown weary of Gondor and returned North whence he came.

Sternly, Faramir bade them desist from such gossip and slander, only wishing that he had some truthful explanation to offer in their stead.

On the fifth day, Faramir was trying to work in his study. He was finding it harder to concentrate with every day that passed since Aragorn’s disappearance. He became painfully aware how much Aragorn’s presence had lightened each and every day and made the workload so much easier to bear. It were as if the sun had disappeared behind a permanent cloud, leaving only grey gloom in its wake.

He was startled by a knock on the door. “Enter!” he called, expecting it to be his secretary with more documents for him to sign.

Instead, it was one of the apprentice healers from the Houses. “The Warden requests your presence at the Houses immediately, my Lord Steward,” the young man said.

“Did he say why?” Faramir’s heart was in his mouth. Did this mean Aragorn had been found, but that he was injured? He prayed desperately that it was nothing too serious.

“He did not say, my lord. Only that it is imperative that you come at once.”

A cold feeling of dread assailed the Steward. If Aragorn had been found with some minor injury, Tarostar would most surely say so. Maybe it was nothing to do with Aragorn at all, but merely some fresh news of the progress of the fever epidemic?

Faramir pulled on his cloak; lingering for an instant to touch the fastening brooch, that Aragorn had given him only a few weeks before. It featured the entwined arms of their houses to signify their close friendship.  Faramir prized it as amongst the dearest of his possessions. Since the King’s disappearance, he had clung to it like a talisman to connect him with his lord.

The journey although short, seemed to Faramir one of the longest he had ever taken.

A grim faced Tarostar greeted him together with an uncharacteristically silent Ioreth. The expressions on their faces almost made speech superfluous.

“This is a sad day for us all, my lord,” a red eyed Tarostar told Faramir. “A farmer, whose fields adjoin the Anduin, was mending his fences this morning and discovered a body floating in the river. He called for the guards who brought it here. From the general appearance, clothing and jewellery. There seems to be little doubt that it is King Elessar’s. We need you, my lord, to make a formal identification.”

Faramir felt as if a dagger made of ice had been plunged through his heart. Only his supreme self-control prevented him from swooning.

Tarostar placed a comforting hand on Faramir’s arm. “I know this must be distressing for you, my lord,” he said. “It is for me too, though I did not have the privilege of knowing him as well as you did. Not only was he a good King, but the greatest and most compassionate healer I have ever known.”

“Take me to him, please.” Faramir’s tone was expressionless. He felt numb and was hardly aware of where Tarostar was leading him. In the background, he could hear Ioreth weeping

The Healer led him to a room at the back of the Houses, well away from where patients were treated. It was sparsely furnished apart from a chair and a table, on which reposed a sheet-shrouded object.  

The room was liberally scented with herbs, but they did little to disguise the overwhelming stench of decomposition.

Tarostar led the unresisting Faramir over to the table and hesitated for a moment, his hand on the sheet.

Faramir nodded, unable to trust himself to speak.

The Healer slowly pulled back the sheet to reveal the bloated and disfigured corpse. The head was battered almost beyond recognition, but the strands of matted and tangled hair were black streaked with silver, just like Aragorn’s, as was the size and shape of the body.

The clothes were unmistakably those Aragorn was wearing when he disappeared, one of the tunics he favoured embroidered with the white tree, black breeches and fine leather boots. The Ring of Barahir adorned one bloated finger, as did the elven pledge ring, identical to one Faramir wore to mark his true union with Éowyn.

The stench in the room had become well nigh unbearable and Faramir felt increasingly faint as he looked down at the hideous sight.

Although he had seen many disfigured corpses during his time as a soldier, this was his King and more than that; his best friend who had become the loving father he had never been blessed with. How could he have died like some common vagrant? It was too much to bear.

Overwhelmed by grief, Faramir found himself struggling to breathe. His legs went from under him and everything went black as he sank to the ground.

A/N I beg of my readers not to give up on this story after this chapter. It is far from over.