A/N:  Written for lindahoyland.  Happy Birthday, Linda!

Aragorn learned a long time ago that it does little good to groan as he comes awake—particularly if he cannot remember where he is or why.  In the best case, he might find himself in a bedchamber or some solitary campsite with no one there to judge.  Given the perilous life he leads, though, there is always the possibility that he'll wake in enemy hands, so it's best not to show weakness.  And if he wakes among sworn allies or even his own Rangers . . . well, then it's still better not to show weakness, but for entirely different reasons.

So, when the world swam into hazy focus and brought with it a searing headache, he merely clenched his jaw and swallowed any wordless complaints.  He lay still, not yet opening his eyes as he tried to sort out just where he was.  The headache reminded him of a youthful experiment with the aptly named "strong mead" that he had first encountered in Thengel's hall.  But, it had been . . . decades since he'd indulged in that sort of folly.  If drunkenness was the cause of his current discomfort, then he would have much to explain to . . . someone.

And even if he counted his handful of youthful indiscretions, headaches brought on by imbibing were vastly outnumbered by those that could be traced to head injuries.  Concussions tended to accompany memories that were much less pleasant, but were more likely to spare his dignity at least.  He seemed to be lying on a single blanket over stone.  He could hear the patter of rain nearby.  Both pieces of evidence supported the likelihood that he'd suffered a head wound somewhere in the Wilds.

The trouble was, his evidence was circumstantial only.  Though awareness was rapidly returning, his memories remained a shifting morass of fleeting images and feelings.  He had an impression of a battle--of crossing swords with Men of some sort.  And then . . . water?  He could not place his surroundings, nor remember whom he currently traveled with, nor even state the year with any certainty.  Retrograde amnesia, his mind supplied helpfully, commonly occurs with head injuries—usually minor and temporary.  His mind remained stubbornly silent on the question of how he'd come to such a state.

He opened his eyes slowly.  Stone.  Gray stone hung above his head.  He was in a shallow cave of some sort, lying on a bedroll with a blanket covering him.  A small, smoky fire crackled not far away.  A sword was propped against the wall beside him, along with a longbow and half-empty quiver.  He was probably not in enemy hands then.  He did not use a longbow himself, and this one was clearly of Mannish make rather than Elvish.  Most likely, he was accompanied by at least one other Ranger.  Now, he would simply have to convince the Man—or Men—that a simple knock to the head and a bit of amnesia did not foretell the Chieftain's imminent demise.

He tried to lift his arms to push the blanket off of himself, but regretted the action at once as pain knifed up his left arm.  This time, he couldn't quite swallow a groan.  Right on cue, a concerned face appeared above his.  "Lord Aragorn?  Thank the Valar, you're awake."

Aragorn's heart sank a little.  The man before him was no child, but neither did he have the weathered appearance that Rangers acquired after decades in the Wild.  His features were distinctly Númenorean.  There was something intensely familiar about him.  Obviously, Aragorn ought to know who he was.  But, he didn't.

Of course, he could not have been traveling with this man long if he had yet to break him of using honorifics even when they were leagues from civilization.

This would have to be handled delicately.

His right arm moved easily enough and was more or less free of pain, so Aragorn lifted it and pushed the blanket back.  His left was curled across his body, bent at the elbow with the sleeve cut away almost to the shoulder.  His elbow was swollen and mottled; clearly, it was the cause of some of the shooting pains.  Well, that was one mystery solved.

"Please don't try to move," the younger Ranger said in a pained tone, "I fear your arm is broken."

Aragorn had a different suspicion.  Despite the swelling, he could easily make out the point of his elbow protruding an inch or two further than it normally would.  He carefully probed the joint with his right hand, feeling all three bones where they came together.  Reluctantly, he made one more attempt to extend his arm and found that the elbow was locked as well as excruciating.  His stifled hiss brought another look of pained concern to the other man's face, but the Ranger held his peace.

"The bones are intact, I think," Aragorn said once he finished panting for breath, "The elbow is merely dislocated.  I must have fallen on it."

"You don't remember?"

Aragorn closed his eyes.  He hadn't meant to give that away just yet.  "I'm afraid my memories are . . . a touch hazy," he said with cool understatement.

The other man nodded.  "That is not surprising.  You took quite the blow to the head.  I believe your skull is intact, though I am no healer."

Aragorn lifted his hand next to his own head which, he discovered, was wrapped in a bulky bandage.  Sliding his fingers under the thickest pad of linen, he traced a small laceration in his scalp which ran just above a rather impressive goose egg.  He summoned his nerve and pressed down hard all around the knot.  Ah, there was that excruciating pain again.  Nothing shifted under his fingers though.  He dropped his hand and nodded, though it made the pounding worse.  "I concur."  He drew a deep breath.  "Help me sit up."

"Are you sure . . . ?"

"I am sure."

To the Ranger's credit, he didn't argue, but merely supported Aragorn's right side while he sat up and twisted to lean against the wall.  The other man disappeared for a moment, then returned with a full canteen.  Aragorn took a long, grateful drink.  "Thank you . . . Faramir."

The name rose to his mind, still devoid of any context that might explain who this man was.  From the ill-disguised relief on the other's face, though, he'd gotten it right.  Memory was returning, though it was taking its sweet time about it.

He stared down at his arm where it rested, curled across his chest like a broken wing.  Elbow dislocations.  Elbow dislocations . . . check the nerve and vascular supply.  Of course.  Slowly, he touched his thumb to his pinky.  A good start.  Next, he spread all five fingers.  That was a little uncomfortable, but nothing he couldn't bear.  Finally, he bent his wrist back.  That was painful, but his hand moved easily.  With his right thumb, he blanched one of his fingernails and watched color return in scarcely a second.  Nodding in satisfaction, he tapped all over his hand and forearm, checking for numbness and finding none.

"It will keep," he said a bit weakly, "Have we any more bandages?  Help me fashion a sling."

The Ranger—Faramir, he reminded himself--pulled ample coils of linen and a spare shirt from a leather pack.  The shirt was tightly-woven linen with embroidery at the hem.  Aragorn leaned forward.  "You needn't sacrifice such a fine tunic . . ."

But, Faramir had already taken a knife to one of the seams.  "'Tis no trouble," he said.  After a moment, Aragorn noticed that Faramir was wearing a similarly fine shirt.  As was he, in fact.  And, while both of them were splattered with mud, the fabric did not have the stiffness that comes from ground-in dirt.

Where in Eriador was he?

The man might be no healer, but neither was he unfamiliar with combat injuries.  His hands were quick and certain as he cut the sleeves off of the tunic and folded what remained into one large triangle.  When it came to actually applying the sling, though, the man seemed strangely reluctant to touch him.  Aragorn gentled his voice.  "You aren't going to break me, Faramir."

Faramir managed a faint smile.  His hands were steady enough as he eased Aragorn's arm into the sling and tied the long ends behind his neck.  Aragorn shifted.  "A little higher . . . good, now place wrappings around my chest and over my upper arm."  He leaned forward and lifted his right arm.  "No, use the sleeves.  The shirt is ruined anyway, so we may as well conserve our bandages."

While Faramir completed the sling, Aragorn tried fruitlessly to clear the cobwebs out of his mind.  He was clearly on patrol in . . . somewhere.  Somewhere in Eriador, unless his amnesia was sufficient to make him forget yet another journey across the Misty Mountains.  They'd been waylaid by . . . Dunlendings?  It must have been Dunlendings.  Certainly it wasn't orcs.  "What happened?" he asked at last.

Faramir glanced at his face.  "How much do you remember, my lord?"

Aragorn closed his eyes.  "As I said, my memories are a bit foggy at present."

Faramir frowned.  Faramir . . . there was something so familiar about that name . . . "We were inspecting damage to the village from the Rhûnedain raid," he explained, "When we were ambushed by their rearguard."

Aragorn's brow furrowed.  Rhûnedain?  What were the Men of Rhûn doing so far from their homeland?

"Our strength was greater than theirs, but in desperation, they broke the village dam.  I suppose they hoped to wash a few of us away with them."  Faramir gestured towards the rain that fell just beyond the mouth of the cave.  "It nearly worked.  The rivers have been high of late.  In the confusion, we were cut off from the main company, and you took a blow from some falling debris.  We feared for your life, but Beregond managed to pull you to safety."

For the first time, Aragorn noticed a third man who stood watch at the mouth of the cave, still as a statue with his eyes fixed on the wilderness beyond.

"The waters were rising fast.  We managed to find this cave on high ground, but the hill it sits in soon became an island.  The waters have begun to recede, but no rescuers have yet been able to reach us.  I thought it best to settle and to wait."

Aragorn nodded.  "You did well." 

Summoning his will, he levered himself to his feet.  Faramir rose and hovered at his side.  "Are you certain you should be up, my lord?"

"If I need a nursemaid, I'll summon Halbarad," Aragorn said a bit waspishly.

Faramir gave him a strange look, but did not stop him as he picked his way to the front of the cave.  "Hail, Beregond," he said, glad that Faramir had supplied him with the man's name, "I understand I have you to thank for my life."

The man looked to be about of an age with Faramir.  He turned and gave a short bow.  "Lord Faramir is too kind, Sire.  He played as great a part as I."

Sire?  Aragorn arched an eyebrow at that.  But, then he glanced outside and what he saw drove the strangeness of that form of address from his mind.  The forest beyond was lush and green.  Brown floodwaters swirled and eddied around the tree trunks some twenty feet below them.  If he didn't know better, Aragorn would have sworn this was Ithilien.  "Is there any sign of our foes?" he asked at last.

"None," Beregond replied, "But none of our people either.  I tried to signal with a torch earlier, but saw no reply.  Perhaps when the weather turns, we can try with a mirror."

Aragorn frowned.  "That might not be wise.  It might be seen by eyes other than friendly ones."

Faramir bit his lip.  "I think it will be safe enough.  The enemy force was small, and our rescuers will likely be numerous.  Even now, I suspect they comb the woods."

"Is our presence here so strong?"

The other Ranger coughed lightly.  "Now that the two of us have disappeared?  I should hope so."

Aragorn looked away.  They could take up this debate again once they had a sun to signal by.  "The waters are falling?"

"Yes, Lord Aragorn, though it may take as much as two days for them to recede entirely."

He gave a pained smile.  "Just 'Aragorn,' please.  Titles mean little out here."

Beregond looked at him as if he'd grown an extra head, but he nodded.  "As you wish."

"So, we have fire," he glanced out at the rain, "And water.  Food?"

"Enough for three days if we are cautious," Faramir replied, "Though it will be lean."

Aragorn smiled grimly.  "Missed meals are hardly unfamiliar to me.” 

For a moment, they simply watched the rain.  It was Faramir who broke the silence.  “I never should have accepted your aid in repelling this incursion,” he said, “I’ve put you in needless danger.”

Aragorn sighed.  “It was not needless,” he said, hoping he sounded convincing, though he still did not recall just how he’d come to be here.  “I have sworn to keep these lands free from evil—just as you have.  I will permit no one to keep me from that duty.”

“But, you gave me this realm in trust,” Faramir countered, “Safeguarding it was my responsibility.”

“And that responsibility includes calling for aid when necessary,” Aragorn said firmly, “You did rightly.”

They were silent for a moment.  Finally, Aragorn spoke again.  “We seem safe enough here.  This refuge was well-chosen.  So, I suppose all we can do is to get comfortable, as they say."  He glanced down at his wrapped arm and made a decision.  "Which means," he continued in his steadiest tone of voice, "That my elbow must be reset."

Faramir paled.  "I am sorry, my lord.  I have not the skill."

"Don't fret.  I will tell you what to do."

"My lord . . ."

"'Aragorn,'" he corrected.

“We should wait for a true healer.”

Aragorn shook his head.  He did not bother to point out that whatever care he received once they escaped this place might be no more expert than what he could manage here.  "Would you see me crippled, Faramir?  That is what we risk with every hour this goes untended."

Faramir now looked slightly green, but he seemed to gather himself.  "I . . . of course not."

Aragorn shrugged out of the sling.  "Then let us be done with it.  Come, Beregond, I will need you too."  The other man reluctantly turned away from his vigil.  Aragorn lifted his uninjured arm.  "Stand behind me, Beregond.  Wrap one arm around my chest and brace my upper arm with both hands.  It will be your duty to keep it immobile against my side."  He smiled faintly, "And to catch me, should I swoon.  That has been known to happen," he confessed with a wry grin for Faramir, "Tell no one.  We wouldn't want the men to discover that Chieftains are mere flesh and blood."

The Ranger gave him another strange, conflicted look, but said nothing.  Aragorn offered him his forearm with the palm turned up.  He took it with hands that trembled just a little.  "When I give the order, you must pull straight down.  Use all your strength."

Faramir was white as a sheet, but he gave a determined nod.  Aragorn closed his eyes, wishing that his stubborn amnesia had wiped out the memory of having similar injuries reset.

Nothing for it.

"Now."

Faramir wrenched his arm.  Aragorn's jaw clenched.  His body went rigid.  He let out a groan that seemed to reverberate through the cave . . . and when the pressure released, the pain did not retreat.  He forced himself to breathe through his nose.  "I'm afraid it didn't take," he said, forcing the tremor out of his voice through sheer force of will, "You will have to try a—ARGH!"

Before he could finish speaking, Faramir again yanked down on his arm—without warning this time.  Every nerve screamed.  Bone grated against bone.  The joint slipped back together with a sickening pop.

Faramir released his arm as if it were a red-hot brand.  Aragorn felt his knees weaken, but Beregond supported him from behind.  Aragorn slowly let his arm drop, extending the elbow.  "My . . . thanks," he panted.

Faramir's eyes were wide.  "I'm sorry, my lord!  I felt you tense before the first attempt.  I could see no other way to accomplish it, but to pull without warning."

"You . . . did rightly," Aragorn said faintly, "Now . . . if you don't mind, Beregond . . . I think I'll sit . . ."

"Of course, Sire," Beregond murmured, and Aragorn Dúnadan was truly in no position to ponder his strange use of royal honorifics.  The man half-carried him back into the confines of the cave and lowered him to sit against the wall near the fire.  "I should keep watch," the man said once Aragorn was settled with a canteen in his hand.

Aragorn nodded.  "Take your rest in two hours’ time," he instructed, "Once of us will take your place."

Beregond frowned but bowed.  "As my lord commands."

Aragorn stared after him as he departed.  "He is a touch . . . overly-deferential, isn't he?"

"Not really," Faramir said, as a knowing gleam crept into his eyes, "But, I imagine it's rather disorienting for you.  Especially since I don't think you realize what Age this is."

Aragorn picked his head up and stared at Faramir.  "The Third, of course," he said, "I think I would have remembered the passing of an Age."

"Apparently not," Faramir said evenly, "In fairness, that was quite a knock you took to the head."

Aragorn sank back against the stone.  An Age had passed, apparently.  "How did you know?" he asked weakly, "That . . ."

"That you were not quite yourself?  You did an impressive job of covering, my friend."  Faramir suddenly sobered.  "Until you spoke of Halbarad."

A pang suddenly struck Aragorn.  He closed his eyes and nodded slowly.  "Because Halbarad is dead."

"I'm afraid so," Faramir said in a low voice.  Faramir, younger son of Denethor.  That was why the name seemed so familiar.

Without the barrier of his preconceptions to muddle things, memory slowly began to return, though in a dizzying, disjointed fashion.  "He called me 'Sire'," he said slowly, "Because this is Gondor.  And I am king now."

"Well, that's a step in the right direction," Faramir said after a beat.  "Where did you think you were?"

"In Eriador, still among my kin."  He smiled.  "In fairness, you would make quite the Ranger."

Faramir smiled back, but the expression was still a bit guarded.  "In fairness, I already have."

Aragorn looked away as a few more pieces fell into place.  "Yes.  You were an Ithilien Ranger before . . . before you became my Steward."

Relief washed across Faramir's face.  "You begin to remember."

Aragorn did not smile.  The trickle of returning memories had become a flood.  Yes, Faramir was Steward . . . because Denethor was dead and Boromir was dead.  Gandalf was gone across the sea.  Elrond as well.  And . . .

He opened his eyes and picked his head up so quickly that his headache pounded a complaint.  "I am King, now," he said, "And my Queen is . . . ?"

Faramir's eyebrows shot up.  "The lady Arwen Undómiel," he said, "Fairest of those who now walk the earth, unless it were my own dear wife.  Surely you did not forget your lady?"

"No," Aragorn said, leaning back with a broad grin, "But I wanted to be sure that that memory was not some figment of wishful thought."  He took a sip of water and let out a contented sigh.  Memory was returning and all was right with the world.  Or, at least as right as it could be while he was trapped on a flooded hillside with multiple wounds.

There was just one thing he'd yet neglected.  He reached up and carefully unwound the bandage from around his head.  "Can you fetch my pack?"  Faramir did, and as Aragorn's hands closed on the fine leather, he remembered packing it and lamenting that the worn, tattered pack that he'd borne from Eriador was no longer fit for use.

He easily found a small mirror of scratched brass.  Lifting it, he examined the cut in his scalp.  "You did well to tend this," he told Faramir, "But I fear it must be stitched."

Faramir paled again, but he dutifully wiped the cut clean and accepted thread and a curved needle.

Aragorn managed not to flinch when the needle cut through his flesh.  Faramir did not.  The younger man's hands trembled as he pulled the stitch tight and knotted it.

Aragorn sighed.  "Give the needle to me, mellon-nín."

Faramir swallowed.  "It's no trouble," he lied, "I can stitch it."

"But, it pains you."

Faramir did not respond.  Aragorn gently took the needle and thread from him and offered him the mirror.  "Hold this for me."  Slowly and a bit awkwardly, he began to stitch his own scalp.

Outside, rain drove down and flood waters rushed and doubtless hundreds of Gondorians searched frantically for their rulers.  But, within, Aragorn was safe and whole and had a friend beside him.  And all was right with the world.

Fin