These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain
From the sole of the foot even unto the head there is no soundness in it; but wounds, and bruises, and putrefying sores: they have not been closed, neither bound up, neither mollified with ointment. Isaiah 1.6
Warning – This chapter is somewhat gory and may distress sensitive readers.
Faramir had steeled himself for the sight of the cruel mark of the brand, which he had inflicted. He had also expected Aragorn to be suffering from a variety of cuts and bruises. He was unprepared though, to behold the raw patches, where the skin had been deliberately and expertly removed to cause a great deal of pain, without causing a life-threatening wound.
There were many such patches across the King’s chest; sides, belly and inner arms, all inflicted where the skin was most tender or where the slightest movement would cause pain. Each patch looked raw and angry; several were infected and oozing an evil looking pus. Many shallow cuts had been slashed across his body. All had been skilfully inflicted to weaken Aragorn through pain and blood loss without killing him.
Faramir swallowed hard. How could any human being treat another thus? He expected such behaviour from the minions of Sauron, but how could his fellow Gondorians behave like this, torturing a good and noble man while he was bound and helpless? Worse still, how could he have joined in?
He forced himself to overcome his natural squeamishness and to concentrate. A chill ran through the Steward when he realised Aragorn had been tortured in the exact same places where he had experienced his mysterious pains. He shuddered at the thought of the agony his King must have endured. His brief spasms of pain had been hard enough to bear. Aragorn must have been in constant agony for weeks.
Faramir carefully turned the King over on to his side, noting from his near skeletal appearance that not only had he been tortured, but starved as well. He knew, even without looking, that he would find the wounds from a flogging on his back. Some of the stripes were healing, which suggested they were inflicted the very day Faramir had awoken with his back painfully throbbing. What manner of a mysterious bond had they then shared, that he should have suffered his King’s pain? Gladly would he bear it again rather than this dreadful emptiness within his soul.
Turning Aragorn to lie on his back again, Faramir next removed the tattered breeches, fairly confident now that the worse injuries were concentrated on Aragorn’s upper body. He paused to note that a tiny white tree was embroidered on the knee of the dirty and torn drawers the King wore beneath, just as Arwen had insisted.
Removing them, he uncovered a good deal of bruising to the lower belly and groin area. This was in addition to the reddened and inflamed skin, caused by being unable to either bathe or lie comfortably.
Quickly, Faramir covered the King with a towel to preserve some dignity for him. Though he had cared for Aragorn before, he still considered it a sacrilege to see his lord completely naked. It seemed that even the rebels had been constrained by some vestiges of respect until now, since they had at least kept the King clothed. Hanna’s desire to humiliate Aragorn had become insistent enough for the men to be ready to act upon it, had not their fear of the Fever intervened.
Faramir paused for a moment; studying Aragorn’s battered and abused body. This was far worse than he could ever have imagined. He was no healer. He very much doubted his ability to save his King, assuming even that he still lived.
He picked up a blanket and covered the King with it, as much to conceal the dreadful injuries, as to keep Aragorn warm.
Faramir took a deep breath and then poured the warmed water into a bowl and resolutely started to bathe Aragorn, starting with his gaunt and haggard face. Even clumps of his hair and beard had been pulled out. Aragorn’s wrists were raw from where the chains had secured him and his left hand looked as if it had been brutally stamped upon and crushed. Rage surged though the Steward; how dare anyone crush a precious hand such as this, which had been used to heal so many? The quick death he had given Fosco and his servant was far kinder than what they deserved!
Faramir had seen men who had been tortured before. Never, though to such a degree, or over such a long period of time.
Aragorn lay there limp and unmoving, not even reacting when Faramir wiped away the blood and pus from his wounds, some of which had dried hard, and required vigorous cleansing despite the Steward’s wish to be gentle.
Faramir increasingly feared that all his efforts were in vain. It seemed that the spider venom had proved fatal to the already seriously ill man. Yet he continued to bathe him, blinking away tears as he did so. This was the last service he could render the one, who had not only been his liege lord, but also beloved as a father, mentor, healer and friend.
Aragorn’s flesh was still warm to the touch. Faramir had no way of knowing whether that was because he was alive, or merely because of shared body heat from himself and the horse.
Faramir continued to bathe his King, gradually working downwards until he reached Aragorn’s feet. The ankles were rubbed raw from the manacles that had encased them and the toes were covered with painful looking chilblains.
He then turned Aragorn over on to his side, in order to wash his back. Then he noticed that one of the wounds on the King’s chest was bleeding. Faramir’s heart leapt for joy. Dead men did not bleed. Aragorn must still be alive! Quickly, he dried him and covered him with another blanket in an attempt to keep him warm, wishing it were better aired. Never had Faramir wished more, that he had studied the arts of healing.
He tentatively prodded the bruised body and suspected a rib or two might be broken, though he could not be certain. Most of the older looking bruising was concentrated around Aragorn’s ribs, belly and groin, but there were fresh bruises to his back and legs, which must have been caused when he was dragged from the cellar so roughly.
Hesitantly, Faramir picked up a jar of salve, hoping he was using the right one. To his surprise and belief, he found that jar and every other bore a label saying what it was to be used for.
He selected the one labelled ‘Damaged skin and bruises’ thinking he would start with the least serious hurts. It smelled rather like a preparation Éowyn used for when Elestelle suffered from napkin rash. How he wished that his wife were by his side now to assist him! Faramir spread the ointment as gently as he could across the reddened skin and bruises disfiguring Aragorn’s body, moving the blanket aside a little at a time.
Elbeth stirred in her sleep, causing Faramir to fear she would awaken while he was still tending the King. To his relief, she merely turned over and settled again.
Not wishing to take any chances, the Steward rummaged in the bag of clothing he had brought until he found a pair of drawers embroidered by Arwen. Now the hurts on the lower half of his body were tended, he dressed Aragorn in them, both to protect the King’s modesty and Elbeth’s innocence.
Returning to his task of tending the injuries, Faramir found a jar of salve labelled ‘Burns’ and rubbed it on the hateful brand mark, which he himself had inflicted. He could hardly bear to look at it never mind touch it. He remembered that during their ordeal at the Hunting Lodge Éowyn had told him that honey was the best treatment for wounds. First though, the infected ones had to be drained, a task he dreaded.
Taking a sharp knife Tarostar had given him, Faramir plunged the blade into the fire until it glowed white-hot. While waiting for the blade to cool, he fancied that he saw Aragorn move a little. Much as he wanted him to awaken, he had hoped it would not be until after his wounds were tended and he had made him as comfortable as possible.
Faramir decided first to apply the honey and bandages to the wounds, washing his hands between touching each one. Those on Aragorn’s belly, arms and shoulders appeared clean, albeit painful looking. He then did the same to the patches rubbed raw by the manacles on the King’s wrists and ankles.
He grasped the now cooled knife in one hand and a pad of clean cloth in the other. The worse infected wound was just beneath Aragorn’s ribs; the others were under his elbow and on his chest. Trying to keep his hand steady, Faramir rather tentatively lanced the swollen patch on the King’s waist, but when he pressed the cloth down, very little pus oozed out. He steeled himself to cut more deeply. This time the cloth was soon covered by evil looking matter.
As soon as the wound was drained, Faramir cleansed it with salted water and smeared it with honey before carefully bandaging it, and then repeated the process with the chest wound. They were only small but looked extremely painful. Sighing with relief that he had almost finished, he lanced the elbow wound, drained it and started to apply the honey to the raw flesh.
***
Totally paralysed, Aragorn dreaded the brief flashes of awareness that roused him from a merciful oblivion. He had felt the sweet air on his face. That could only mean though, that he was on his way to be buried alive. Then he was back in what felt like the cellar again. To his horror, hands were removing his clothing, and with it his final shreds of dignity and link to Arwen. He was terrified now of what new horrors lay in store.
The hands were prodding every inch of his pain-racked body. There was nothing in any way indecent about the touch, but it was too hesitant and inept to be that of a healer. There was something familiar about whoever was subjecting him to such indignities.
Aragorn felt himself being covered again with something warm and soft. He wondered if they were trying to revive him in order to torture him once more. Then he was certain of their cruel intention; as he felt what appeared to be a red-hot blade piercing him. Something that stung painfully was poured over his raw wounds. At first, he could neither move nor cry out, but eventually the pain and shock must have overcome the paralysis. His eyes suddenly opened and he gave a strangled cry.
Faramir was immediately at the King’s side, clasping his uninjured hand. “Thank the Valar you are awake!” he exclaimed in a choked tone. “Easy now, you are safe. I am tending your wounds. I am sorry I am hurting you!”
Feverish and agitated, Aragorn stared at him. "Traitor!" he croaked through parched lips. “Your wiles shall not deceive me!"