These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain
Du treulos treuster Freund! (You faithless, most faithful of friends!) -Wagner: Tristan und Isolde.
Warning – This chapter contains extreme angst and may distress some readers
With thanks to Raksha and Julia for their help.
Elbeth burst into tears.
“Hush, Elbeth, or they will hear you,” Aragorn chided gently.
“Can I come with you?” she asked, sniffing loudly and making a valiant effort to suppress her tears.
“One day you shall, but it is not your time to follow me now,” he answered gravely. “Can you remember something for me, little one? It is important”
“I’m not little!” she retorted indignantly, her tears swiftly forgotten. “I shall be eight on my next birthday.”
“You are old enough then, to remember what I want to tell you,” Aragorn replied. He would not have thought her older than about six despite her almost adult demeanour. He supposed her harsh life with Hanna and her grandmother had made her grow up all too quickly. As for her lack of inches, he very much doubted they would have nourished her sufficiently.
“What do you want me to remember?” Elbeth asked impatiently. “I can’t, if you don’t tell me!”
“If you are taken to see Prince Eldarion, you will meet his mother, Queen Arwen,” Aragorn replied. “When no one else is listening, I want you to tell her this; that Estel loved her and Eldarion very much. Tell the Queen too she must go with her son to seek shelter with Éomer. Can you remember all that?”
“Yes,” said Elbeth, looking slightly bewildered. “I’m to give the Queen your message.”
“Will you promise me?” Aragorn said urgently. He could die comforted if he could send this last message to his beloved Arwen.
“Yes, I promise,” Elbeth, said solemnly. “I don’t want to meet Eldarion though!”
“He is a beautiful little baby with a lovely smile and black curls. He should have cut his first tooth by now,” Aragorn said wistfully, the tears starting to flow again at the thought of his son. Resolutely, he blinked them away. He was still the King and kings did not weep like infants in front of others. He would at least try to uphold what little dignity remained to him.
“I brought you some bread and honey, wine the grown ups left and even a cake,” Elbeth announced, pulling the crumbling food out of the pockets of her robe. She handed him a dented pewter goblet, which had obviously seen better days.
He forced himself to eat. However, the slowly rising fever made the food taste like sawdust. “You have the cake,” he told her.
She accepted gratefully and sat munching it while he finished the bread and honey and drank the wine.
“I’d better go now,” she said at last, stuffing the empty goblet in her pocket and picking up the candle. Goodbye, Strider, I’ll miss you.”
“I shall miss you too, Elbeth,” he replied swallowing hard. “Wait, come here!”
Although puzzled she obeyed.
With a supreme effort, the King lifted his hand and placed it on her dark head “Be thou blessed, Elbeth. May the years of thy life be long and joyous!” Aragorn intoned solemnly.
Elbeth felt a sudden surge of something she could not describe. It was like being given a nice present only far better. Her solemn grey eyes met the King’s. “I wish you were my daddy,” she sniffed tearfully. She took up her candle and with a last look at her mysterious friend; she was gone.
Alone again in the darkness, Aragorn finally allowed himself to give way to his grief. He tried to gather what little strength he had left to prepare to surrender the Gift for when the new pain they planned to inflict on him became more than he could bear.
He tried to reach out with his mind to bid Arwen farewell. However, even that effort proved too much. He sadly resigned to parting from his beloved wife without bidding her farewell. His thoughts drifted again towards Faramir wondering how one he loved so much, could have betrayed him so cruelly. The fever continued to rise within his tortured body granting him the mercy of oblivion.
**
The cock crowed, heralding dawn. Faramir was roused from a few hours of uneasy sleep filled with hideous nightmares. The waking reality though, was far worse than his darkest dreams. The stench of burning flesh and the sound of Aragorn’s agonised cry seemed to linger in the air still. Nausea welled up again within him.
A dreadful void was within the Steward’s soul. It were as if half had been torn away leaving the remaining portion to soon shrivel and die. He had lost the most beautiful spiritual experience he had ever known. He had become the lowest of the low. He was no longer worthy to be even called a Man. Faramir was all too aware he could not waste time dwelling on his unspeakable actions. Today was his last chance to save his King if he were not to be slowly tortured to death.
Faramir inwardly cursed himself for having slept after what he had done. He should have spent the hours thinking of a way to rescue Aragorn. It did not matter how many times he digested the facts and tried to come up with a better solution. There seemed to be no way that he could rescue Aragorn from his captors. Not only, would he have to smuggle him out undetected, but he also needed to get the keys to unlock his chains. He had no idea where they might be, although he suspected they were perhaps attached to Fosco’s belt for safekeeping.
Only one way to spare Aragorn remained; and that was almost too horrible to contemplate. It seemed now the only help he could offer his friend; was to grant him a swift and merciful death. Sweating heavily, Faramir fingered his dagger and wondered; how could he bring himself to plunge it deep into his beloved King’s heart?
The Steward sat up in bed, and tried and tried to think of some other way. There was none. He could not hope to overpower them all. He was certain if he escaped and tried to fetch help, they would do their worst to Aragorn before he could return with his Rangers.
When a few months ago, he believed he had accidentally killed Éomer, that seemed to be the vilest crime imaginable, but killing Aragorn would be immeasurably worse. Not only was he the High King, but also the saviour and renewer of Gondor. More than that, he was Faramir’s best and most dearly loved friend, who had saved his life and given him everything his father had not.
The Steward got out of bed and dressed quickly, determined to do the dreadful deed before his courage failed. He had no doubt that they would first carry out Hanna’s vile suggestion. That would be followed by every cruel and slow torture they could think of until crazed by pain; Aragorn would either sign the document commanding the marriage of Eldarion and Elbeth, or more likely will his own death, to prevent endangering those he loved.
After sharpening his dagger, Faramir took up a candle and made his way to the cellar where Aragorn was imprisoned. No one challenged him. Had they done so, he would have told them that he was having another attempt at persuading the King to sign the document.
The door was unlocked, since there was no way a chained man could escape. Faramir quietly slipped inside. To his relief, Aragorn was asleep. He drew his dagger and prepared to strike, weighing up how to do it as quickly and painlessly as possible.
Instead, he found himself studying the ravaged, yet still noble features of the friend he had loved ever since their first meeting, when Aragorn had brought him back from the very brink of death. Memories flashed before him; the joyful day of the King’s coronation, when to his amazement Aragorn had returned the White Rod to him, the first of many kindnesses. He recalled the King’s many attempts to treat his injuries, which he had been too ill at ease to accept until their time at the Hunting Lodge. True friendship had sprung between them when he had had and Éowyn had saved the King’s life after Aragorn had again saved him. Faramir remembered the months after the fight with Éomer, when Aragorn had painstakingly nursed him back to health and saved the life of his baby daughter.
How could he kill the man who had done all this for him? Yet what other choice did he have?
He would plunge the dagger through Aragorn’s heart. Then, much as he desired to die with his lord, he must instead endeavour to escape. He needed to return to Arwen and submit to whatever death she decreed for him. First he must make certain that Éowyn and Elestelle were safe in Rohan and together with Eldarion, out of the clutches of their enemies.
Faramir knew he should linger no longer, or his resolve would fail. He could not, however, deal the fatal blow without a farewell kiss of blessing to one he loved as father, brother, friend, mentor and lord.
For the first time since he had come to this den of foulest evil, Faramir allowed himself to set aside the mask of deception that had gained him entry. He had not dared give any sign of his true purpose to Aragorn when he had seen the King. He had feared that if he laid the traitor's mask aside for even one moment, he would be unable to don it once more and play the part he despised.
Careful not to rouse the King, Faramir knelt beside him and murmured, “Farewell, dear friend and noblest of Kings. I do this deed not out of malice but from the depths of the love that I bear you. I hope beyond the circles of the world that you will know just how much I loved and admired you.” Choking back his tears of grief and horror at what he was about to do, he gently kissed the King’s brow. He knew he would never see him again; not even beyond death: most surely he would be cursed to wander forever without rest, like the oath breakers who betrayed Isildur.
Aragorn’s brow was burning with fever. Faramir wavered, wondering if maybe the King were about to die swiftly and naturally from the Fever, before dismissing the thought. The blood and pus stained shirt he was wearing obviously concealed many wounds, an infection from which was causing his fever. Aragorn’s eyes and nose were not red and running, which was the main symptom of the contagion ravaging Gondor. Wound fever was serious, yet a victim might recover. Even if he did not, it took several days or longer to kill.
Grasping the dagger firmly and trying to stop his hand from shaking, Faramir prepared to strike.
“I am sorry,” he whispered, “so very sorry! Much rather would I pierce my own heart than yours!”
My quote for tonight is what I would have liked as a title for this story but feared only my German readers would understand it. I know I have readers from Germany, France, Hungary, Sweden, the Ukraine, India, The USA, the UK and Australia. Have I missed any countries? I am thrilled so many different nationalities are enjoying my story.