These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.
Suffering is by no means a privilege, a sign of nobility, a reminder of God. Suffering is a fierce, bestial thing, commonplace, uncalled for, natural as air. It is intangible; no one can grasp it or fight against it; it dwells in time—is the same thing as time; if it comes in fits and starts, that is only so as to leave the sufferer more defenceless during the moments that follow, those long moments when one relives the last bout of torture and waits for the next.
Cesare Pavese (1908–1950), Italian poet, novelist, translator. The Burning Brand: Diaries 1935-1950,
Warning – This chapter is about tending Aragorn’s wounds, and may distress sensitive readers. Please only read if you like such material.
For those readers who wanted to see Arwen tend her husband, especially those who have followed my stories since “Shadow and Thought"
Arwen swallowed hard. She found herself recalling the day when her brothers had brought her mother home, after she had been captured and tortured by Orcs. Her father had not wanted her to see her mother’s wounds, but Celebrian had clung limpet- like to her daughter’s hand and refused to be parted from her. Arwen, who was devoted to her mother, had been determined to stay by her side throughout the long agonising hours while Elrond had cleaned and stitched the countless wounds that had covered Celebrian’s defenceless body.
Such abuse had been too much for her mother’s gentle spirit to endure and she had sailed the following year to seek healing in the Undying Lands. Arwen had wanted to accompany her, but her grandmother had urged her to remain, explaining that her foresight indicated that her granddaughter’s destiny lay within Middle earth.
For many years, Arwen’s dearest wish had been to go to Valinor and see her mother again. Then, she had met Estel and everything changed. She could only hope that her beloved mother would understand. She had written many letters for her father to take when he sailed trying to explain her choice to Celebrian.
The sight of Aragorn’s ravaged flesh brought back many cruel memories of her mother’s ordeal. Her father, the greatest of Healers was not here to tend her husband’s wounds. Estel could not seek sanctuary in the West. He, a frail mortal was dependent entirely upon the three of them in this room, one of whom had helped cause his hurts. ‘How can men do such things to each other?’ she wondered. Orcs were by nature the creatures of darkness, but Men, like Elves, were the children of Ilúvatar. Anger surged within her. How she wanted to strike Faramir and make him experience some of the pain that Estel was enduring! Yet, were it not for Faramir, Estel would be dead. She forced herself to restrain her emotions and concentrate on her husband. Arwen looked directly into her husband’s eyes. There was no revulsion in her compassionate gaze, only love mixed with sorrow. She pressed a loving kiss on his bruised cheek. Her eyes then hardened as she exclaimed, “How can they call themselves Men, who did this to you, my love? They are foul as Sauron’s minions!” She looked at Faramir, who flushed uncomfortably.
Éowyn quickly mastered her shock at the sight of the King’s pitifully abused body and began to examine the wounds. She was surprisingly gentle much to Aragorn’s relief. It seemed that motherhood had softened her a great deal. ”Can you turn on your side?” she asked Aragorn.
Slowly and painfully, he complied.
“However did you get so many bruises?” she asked in horror, taking in the half healed welts on his back and the vast array of bruises on his shoulders and the back of his legs. “You can lie on your back again now,” she told him; having satisfied herself that there were no open wounds there needing her immediate attention.
“Some were inflicted when they punched me, the rest when I was dragged up and down steps and across a stone floor,” he replied, groaning as he turned over again. He tried not to cry out as Éowyn prodded his ribs
Arwen shuddered. It seemed there was still a great deal she did not yet know.
“These wounds are serious, but most of them are mending. Faramir has tended you well,” Éowyn pronounced at the conclusion of her examination. “The most severe need stitching. The remainder should heal with salves, rest, and good food, which you have obviously sorely lacked. Does comfrey and calendula salve meet with your approval? I will give you rosehip tea to drink too. You have several cracked ribs, but as far as I can tell there is no damage inside.”
Aragorn nodded and managed a weak smile. “A good choice that is what I would use myself. The deepest wounds had started to heal. Riding opened them again.”
“I will stitch them,” said Arwen. ”I can put my skills with a needle to good use.”
Aragorn was astonished at his wife’s courage. Experienced healer though he was, he never found it easy to stitch the wounds of his loved ones. He shivered again, both with humiliation at being laid out before them thus, and the prospect of his impending ordeal.
“Can you tend his ankles, Éowyn?” asked Arwen, sensing his discomfort. “Then we can at least partially cover him.”
Éowyn swiftly applied salve and bandaged Aragorn’s raw ankles and swollen feet, made worse by having to wear boots so soon after his ordeal. She then applied more ointment to the bruises on his legs.
Faramir had fetched a blanket as soon as Arwen made her suggestion. He made to cover the King when Arwen replaced the pot of salve on the bedside table.
“Are you concealing any wounds under that towel?” Éowyn asked the King bluntly, waving her husband aside.
“No,” Aragorn said firmly, fearing his humiliation would have no limits today. How he wished someone like Aedred were here, a male Healer, who would see him as just another patient.
“Are you certain?” Éowyn persisted, making as if to take the towel away.
“He had some bruised and reddened skin,” Faramir interjected. “It is almost healed, though. I treated it with some salve that Tarostar gave me. It smells like what you use for Elestelle’s napkin rash.”
Aragorn wished the ground would swallow him, that he, High King of Gondor and Arnor should be the subject of a discussion concerning napkin rash in front of two women and his treacherous Steward.
Éowyn was unable to repress a smile at the thought of the King suffering from such a childish ailment. “Very well,” she said. “ But be sure to tell me at once if gets worse.”
When Faramir finally tucked the blanket round him, Aragorn felt absurdly grateful. At least, he no longer felt so exposed and his legs and feet felt much warmer. Since his ordeal, he was always so very cold. He looked up to smile at his wife, but she was preoccupied in holding a needle in a candle flame, preparing to stitch his wounds.
“I will be as gentle as I can,” Arwen promised her husband.
Aragorn tensed, when she prepared to insert the needle in his arm, not wanting her to see just how much he was hurting. Courageous though he was, the last weeks had left him apprehensive at the prospect of yet more pain.
Faramir yearned to offer some reassurance to his lord but knew it would not be welcomed. His eyes met Éowyn’s. She moved to sit on the bed and wordlessly offered her hand to the King, who grasped it, grateful for the proffered comfort.
Arwen took a deep breath to steady herself, before drawing together the damaged skin and carefully stitching the wounds under her husband’s arm and elbow closed. She then repeated the procedure with the open wound on his chest.
Aragorn made no sound and tensed only slightly. If Arwen’s ministrations were causing him pain, he was obviously determined not to show it.
When she came to the wound on his waist, she paused. It covered quite a large area and looked inflamed and slightly infected. She looked questioningly at her husband and then at Éowyn.
“It chafed badly from having to be held on Roheryn’s back,” Aragorn explained tersely. “I think stitching it now would cause more harm than good. There is not enough skin to close it.”
“I will simply bandage it and apply salves,” said Éowyn. “Why did they take the skin from there, I wonder?”
“To make every movement painful and break my will. They did not succeed.” A flicker of Aragorn’s former majesty was briefly visible in his features. “Sooner would I die than betray my wife and son!”
“I know you would, Estel!” Arwen tightly held her husband’s hand while Éowyn applied the stinging salves and bound up the gaping wound. The strong mental bond between them meant she could sense his pain almost as if it were here own.
“I’m sorry, I know I must be hurting you!” Éowyn apologised, noting Aragorn’s ashen and drawn features. She briskly wound bandages around Aragorn’s chest, arms and middle and then pulled the blankets over him to keep him warm.
As if somehow sensing his parents’ distress, Eldarion started to cry loudly in the next room, uttering high-pitched wails of misery.
“Our son needs you,” Aragorn urged his wife gently. “Go to him!”
Arwen hesitated. The wailing grew louder.
“Please, Arwen, go to our son! Éowyn can finish tending my wounds now.” Aragorn’s voice was barely audible above the cacophony.
“Are you certain?” Arwen’s strong maternal instincts decreed that she soothe her child. Yet, how could she leave her husband at such a time?
“I cannot bear to hear him cry so! Take him for a walk in the garden to calm him,” Aragorn suggested.
“I will return if you need me, Estel, you only need to call,” Arwen replied, tenderly kissing her husband and hastening from the room.
“I should have given you poppy juice before tending you, I am sorry!” Éowyn apologised.
“I wanted to leave that for the worst part,” Aragorn said quietly, “That is why I did not want Arwen to stay.”
“What else ails you?” Éowyn asked in alarm.
Aragorn took a deep breath; he had been dreading this moment for some time now. “The bones in my hand need resetting,” he said simply, holding out the damaged left hand for Éowyn’s inspection.
Éowyn took the damaged hand and cradled it between her own smaller ones as she studied it. All the digits had been broken. The smallest finger and the thumb were healing well, but the first three fingers had not been set correctly and had knit at an odd angle, rendering them virtually useless.
“When Faramir found me, they had already started knitting. It was too late for him to do anything,” Aragorn explained. “I need you to break the fingers again and reset them.”
Éowyn paled. “I cannot!” she exclaimed. “One of the Healers in the city will have to do it!”
Aragorn shook his head sadly. “How could I get to the City, or you bring a Healer here without betraying our whereabouts?” he asked.
“Damrod then?” Éowyn suggested desperately, “He will come to visit us here soon. I know he has experience of tending the wounded.”
“He has not been trained like you. This needs doing quickly and skilfully before it is too late for the bones to heal properly. What use would a one handed King be to his people! Please, Éowyn, I beg of you!”
Éowyn shook her head vehemently. “Aragorn, I cannot hurt you so! Do not ask this of me!” She shuddered, bitterly recalling the ironic fact that but a year ago, she would have carried out the task with grim relish; she had hated him so. So much had happened since then; not least, that he had saved her baby and Faramir too. Once, it had bewildered her why Faramir and her brother loved Aragorn so much. Now she understood and shared their love and admiration for this man. She looked again at his mangled hand and fury blazed within her that anyone could maim one of the very hands he had used to save her child! Her eyes met Faramir’s across the bedside. His gaze was filled with a pain equal to her own. Her eyes briefly lingered on the brand defacing Aragorn’s shoulder and at that moment, she understood his torment.
“Éowyn, listen to me!” Aragorn said firmly, mustering his meagre reserves of strength, “You will harm me more if you will not to this! If you give me some poppy juice, it should not be too painful if you work quickly.”
Éowyn bowed her head and carefully felt the damaged joints. She knew exactly where the bones needed to be snapped and then splinted back in the correct position. A painful procedure, but one she had been trained to carry out correctly. She had successfully done so before on a servant who had delayed seeking help for a broken finger. It was very different, though when a dear friend was involved; a friend who was already in a great deal of pain.
“I know it is hard for you,” Aragorn said quietly, “I had difficulty tending Faramir when he was so badly injured last year. On one occasion, Aedred had to take out the stitches and drain the wound on his arm, because I could not. Alas, there is no one else to call upon now but you!”