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CHAPTER 11:  HEALING AND HURT

Aragorn watched the Great Gates of Minas Tirith close slowly on the backs of the elf riders, their diminishing figures becoming a blur of movement as they turned their swift elvish steeds toward Ithilien in the last rays of the setting sun. Even as the faint glint of Legolas’ golden hair was lost to the view of the Numenorian king on the balcony of his citadel, the Great Gates clanged shut.

To Aragorn, standing in a stupor seven levels above, the faint clang sounded like a death knell on the friendship he treasured most.

When he finally remembered how to breathe, Aragorn turned despairing eyes to his wife, his body poised for flight, and his mouth tried to form the words he wanted to say. They did not need to be, for Arwen knew and understood. She understood, but the caring wife in her could not stop her from murmuring in a quivering voice: “It will be a long ride. Perhaps a bite to ease your hunger and thirst first?” 

“His were not,” came the short, strangled reply. A quick squeeze of her hand, a tearful smile from her, and he was running.

The king would have walked, but the friend tore off, flinging decorum to the stone walls lined with various insignia that proclaimed his status. He raced like one possessed past bewildered servants and startled guards, footfalls echoing down the long corridors and long legs leaping dangerously over stone steps three at a time towards the stables, carelessly ignoring shocked figures caught in the wind of his passing.

A lone stable boy was just closing the doors.

“Get my horse!”

Aragorn’s loud command came so suddenly that the boy felt his body jump out of its skin, wondering if the twain would ever meet again. It took the befuddled lad a few moments to be convinced that this was his king and not a demon visited upon him. He barely managed a hesitant “S - S - Sire?” before the desperate king steered him quickly towards the doors, yanked them open himself, and repeated his command. Holding a lamp in one shaking hand, the lad walked in, the king right behind him. The horses snorted and snickered in their stalls.

But even as Aragorn reached his horse and the stable boy went to retrieve the saddle, they heard the voice of the Steward calling urgently: “Elessar!”

A moment later, Faramir rushed in, flushed and flustered, but relieved to see his king.

“My lord, please – ” he panted, a pleading look in his eyes.

“Faramir, how – ?”

“The guards alerted me... nay, half the servants alerted me! Is something amiss? Where are you going?”

Aragorn realized that the Steward could not have spoken to Arwen yet. “Faramir, he has only just left, I cannot let him go without… ” he was suddenly at a loss for words. The stable lad was bringing the saddle over now.

Slowing his breathing, Faramir furrowed his brows for a moment but then began to understand. He walked over and touched Aragorn’s elbow lightly, motioning him to the outside of the stables. Aragorn stood unmoving, knowing instinctively, even without Faramir saying a word, that this was going to be one of those wretched moments when he would be expected to struggle between duty and desire. He followed the Steward reluctantly but did not stop the stable boy from saddling his horse.

When the cool breeze of early night was on their faces, a discreet distance from the open doors of the stables, Faramir turned to his king and took a deep breath before he spoke. Even in the gathering dark, Aragorn could see the concern in his face.

“Elessar, I know how much you wish to ride after him at this moment, but – I beg you to reconsider.”

“It is something I dearly wish to set right, Faramir,” the king said quietly and not a little firmly.

“There is much to set right, my lord, but nothing is more urgent at this time than your safety and what it would mean for Gondor should something befall you. Even if you left now, you would have to ride all the way to Ithilien before you caught up. With things as uncertain as they are…”   

“I will take an escort then,” Aragorn argued.

“We do not yet know the full purpose of your enemy, Elessar. We do not even know who your enemy is!” Faramir countered. “If indeed they were determined enough to wait till the queen and the prince had left the safety of the city walls, who is to say they do not lie in wait for you now? Even an escort may be nothing more than a deterrent. It may not be enough.”

Aragorn gritted his teeth and his foot lashed out in a most unkingly manner at a wooden water trough nearby. The sound sent a nearby squirrel scurrying up a tree.

“I am King of Gondor and the Northern Lands,” Aragorn declared fiercely, his eyes locked on Faramir’s, surprising him. “Shall I be held captive within my own walls?”

Faramir was silent for a few breaths, and his eyes did not blink or waver from their gaze. He knew his king was speaking from exasperation, not arrogance. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle.

“Nay, my lord, but as King of Gondor and the White City, you are duty-bound to defend them from whatever malice threatens them. As far as we know at this moment, there is a malice that has threatened your family. If any of you are taken hostage, what will be the fate of the City and Gondor?”

Aragorn’s breath caught in his chest, and it seemed to him that the silence and darkness pressed on him like a solid mass. Ithil the moon was rising early from behind a line of hills, and Aragorn saw in his mind images from the Quest when that same moon had shone over them: an elf, a man and a dwarf running across the plains of Rohan, fuelled only by hope and loyalty to their friends; a Ranger and an elf standing watch together, battling orcs and wargs side by side, giving each other strength and comfort; sounds of mirth shared as they rejoiced in peaceful times; many moments of cheerful laughter and even more moments of quiet joy when speech was not needed. And now there was an image of that beloved elf riding beneath that moon, riding away from him. He squeezed his eyes shut and choked back a cry.

His mind told him to listen to the wisdom of his Steward’s words, but his heart was tempted to follow an errant path.

Nay, it is not wisdom, but duty that guides his words, Aragorn thought. For who in all wisdom can say that the value of a city, or a kingdom, is greater than the heart of a loved one? 

Unconsciously, Aragorn sighed. Yet mine is not the freedom to choose. That freedom was bound when upon my head was placed the Crown of Gondor.

“Must I always sacrifice what my heart desires for what the throne dictates?” he lamented, barely above a whisper.

“Nay, not always,” came the quiet reply. Aragorn looked up and realized he had spoken aloud. On the face of his Steward was an expression of gentle understanding but also of wistfulness and painful memories. Faramir turned away as if ashamed.

“Not always, Elessar,” he repeated. “Believe me when I say I know the turmoil in your heart, for you have been king for ten years, but I had been the son of the Steward for twice that, and longer. I have tasted the weight of duty and the grief of sacrifice, having to choose between them and the sweetness of free will more times than I care to remember. Oft did I desire to flee the caustic tongue of my father and lord, and fly from the devastation left by battle after battle against the Dark Lord as we held him at bay, but duty held me and made me drink still from that cup of bitterness.”

Aragorn felt strangely embarrassed that he was witness to such naked thoughts from a man who had served him faithfully for ten years. Yet he felt honored by the honest words from the man of Gondor, who continued to face away from him, his hair lifting gently in the breeze.

“And yet I will not say that I had not freedom all those years,” Faramir continued, still not looking at Aragorn, “for I learnt that there are times when one can set aside the sword, or scepter, or crown – whichever we wear, according to our lineage – and follow the heart.”

He turned around now. “But the times have to be the right times. They may be too few and too slow in coming, but they are there, they will be there.”

Aragorn could only be amazed at his Steward as he continued to bare his thoughts. He was too enraptured to notice that it was very quiet in the stables or to wonder what was happening with his horse.

“You will be the greatest of our kings, my lord. We all see it in you, your nobility and your strength. The light of Eärendil is in you. My father, though he had my fealty, will seem but a shadow in your light when your full reign has come to pass.

“Yet the greatest of kings can be bowed by care. I was more fortunate than you, Elessar, for I had a father and an older brother who bore much of the weight of the kingdom. You, however, are alone. Alone, you bore the destiny of a long line of kings, alone you still are on your throne, for your own heir is still but a child. The load I carried as son of Denethor is but a bale of straw compared to the stone walls and problems of every city and every province you carry on your shoulders now and will have to bear in the years to come.

“That is why I have pledged to serve you and aid you where I can. When the weight of your burdens bends you, I shall try to hold you up, and when doubt blinds you, I shall try to act as your eyes.

“You are newly returned from a long, tiring tour and perhaps cannot see what I do. Let me act as your eyes now, this night. I know not what dangers lie outside these walls, or indeed whether any lie in wait, but in ignorance, it is better to heed caution.” 

Aragorn’s eyes were now moist and he was glad for the cover of night. What Faramir had said, he already knew and had already accepted since the day Gandalf placed the crown on his head. But it comforted him to know how much Faramir understood, and that he was willing to help him face his kingship.

As if reading his thoughts, the Steward added, “Legolas is also well aware of the price of running a realm. He sees much and knows your heart, and for that reason, he has stood by you without complaint. You know Legolas better than I, Elessar; surely you know he would not want you to ride out in the dark either; he would not forgive himself if anything happened to you because of it. Set things right with him when the time is ripe.

“I cannot restrain you, my lord, but as your Steward, I beg you not to ride out tonight. Give me two days to find out what we can from the prisoner; I expect he will yield to his hunger and thirst and cold by then. We may get new counsel at that time.”

Aragorn gazed at his Steward with new respect and appreciation, moved beyond expectation. After that speech, so impassioned yet delivered so calmly, how could he not defer the desire of his heart once more? For ten years, he had always placed the welfare of his kingdom first, and for tonight at least, he had to do so again, however much he wished to ride after his friend. Faramir was right, it would be prudent to wait to hear what the prisoner could reveal first. 

He only hoped that although he remained within the city walls tonight, the elf would sense the depth of his remorse and know why he could not go where he truly desired. He ran a hand through his already tousled hair.  

Somewhere, a nightingale began its singing, and brought him to awareness that Faramir was waiting for his answer. Aragorn gripped the shoulder of the faithful man of Gondor warmly, and smiled in the faint moonlight.

“Long have I known that power cannot ride alone, for responsibility will always be its companion. This is clear to me, Faramir, yet when my heart is sore from many trials, my eyes may fail to see, as you say. I thank you for reminding me tonight, and I say to you, that if I had not answered the call of my destiny, yet would Gondor have a great and wise king in you, my friend.”

To this last remark, Faramir only shook his head and said, “Time will prove that Gondor’s greatest king has come to the throne at the right time.”

“Whether or not that is true remains to be seen,” Aragorn replied. “As does the wisdom of this decision to delay going to Legolas, for my heart still draws me there. Yet I will heed your counsel tonight, Faramir, and I will wait two days as you propose.”  

I hope you, too, will wait, my friend, he added silently, seeing again the image of the elf riding beneath the moon to Ithilien.  

“Sire?” A soft voice broke the lull in the conversation, and both the King and Steward were suddenly aware that the stable lad had been waiting patiently by the stable doors, the lamp in one hand and the reins of Aragorn’s horse in the other. The two men looked at each and could not hold back smiles, but while one was of relief, the other was tinged with sadness.

The youth and vitality of children – human or elvenkind – and their ability to overcome ailments quickly is a remarkable thing to witness, Arwen thought to herself over the next two days as her son recovered astonishingly well from the poison of the dart. Perhaps the amount of poison was really too small to do much damage aside from rendering the child unconscious, perhaps it was the healer’s treatment that successfully purged the poison, or perhaps it was the child’s strong constitution, but whatever it was, Eldarion was asking for his favourite dessert by the following evening after he awoke, and was back in his own room that night. The next morning found him ready for a game of chess with his father.

His parents were delighted with his recovery and spent as much time with him as he could, remembering the anguish they had gone through before they were certain they would see his smile and hear his voice again. Although the child was still tired sooner than usual, his color had returned, and he was clearly as cheerful as ever.

Arwen wished her husband were doing as well, however. Despite his pleasure in Eldarion’s recovery, he was snowed under by paperwork that had piled up and by court matters that had been awaiting immediate deliberation upon his return. He was also still concerned about the city’s defenses, afraid of a second attempt on his son. Faramir sought to reassure him as much as he could, pointing out the attack had taken place in Ithilien, not the White City.

Patiently and anxiously, as he had promised Faramir, he also awaited results of the interrogation taking place in the dungeons below. By the end of this day, he had to get some answers.

He faced his responsibilities with stoicism, but Arwen knew that a feeling of unrest hung like a cloud over his head, and she knew why. Always, at the back of his mind, was what lay unresolved between him and Legolas. Arwen knew he would have ridden off to see the elf that night if Faramir had not stopped him, but his regal duties had to be settled first. Eldarion, too, needed his father’s presence; it was just as well Aragorn did not leave so soon after his recovery.

Some desires of a king’s heart have to be deferred, Aragorn reminded himself again and again, when desires have to bow to duty. Even when the king never wished to be king. 

He had considered sending off a rider with a message for Legolas the very morning after Faramir had delayed him, but dismissed it almost immediately when he realized what an insult that would be. His friend deserved better, much better, than a piece of parchment. He deserved a personal apology.

Even as he sat in his office trying to ward off thoughts of his elf friend to focus on the papers arrayed before him, a guard approached him and bowed.

“Sire,” he said, “Hamille of Ithilien requests an audience with you.”

Aragorn brightened a little at that statement. At the king’s nod, the tall, dark-haired Sylvan elf stepped into the room, his light footsteps making no sound on the rich carpet. Aragorn stood to receive him, his hands straightening his tunic from sheer habit. As usual, they greeted each other with their hands on their chests and a slight inclination of their heads.

“Mae govannen, Hamille,” the king said graciously and with a genuine smile. “It is good to see you.”

Hamille, looking groomed and poised as elves would be, returned the greeting with a smile as well, but Aragorn noted that the smile did not quite reach his eyes. His speech, however, was as polite as it ever was, betraying nothing amiss. 

“King Elessar, I come on behalf of my kin who have been convalescing under your roof,” his fair elvish voice spoke in Sindarin. “Please receive our gratitude for the kind attention of your healers. We return to Ithilien today.”

“You are most welcome to stay longer,” Aragorn responded in the same language with which he was totally at home, and his heartfelt tone of hospitality softened the elf’s own expression a little, “although I understand you must be anxious to return home.”

When the elf nodded and made as if to take his leave, Aragorn quickly delayed him. “Wait, Hamille. It is I who should thank you and your kin for what you did for my wife and child. You have my deep gratitude and my condolences over the brave elves you lost.”

“My lord, you have already expressed this,” Hamille reminded him, remembering the visit the king had paid the recuperating elves just the day before. “It was our duty and our honor.”

“No, not your duty, and noble was your act,” Aragorn countered.

“It was an honor to defend the queen and the prince,” Hamille stated in return, “and it was our duty to Prince Legolas.” At the mention of that name, a hint of hardness, almost imperceptible, seemed to enter the elf’s eyes again. “Whatever and whomever he chooses to protect, we are behind him, regardless of the cost.” Hamille knew he sounded less gracious than he usually was and that Legolas would be most displeased to hear it, but he could not forget what he had heard in the healing room that evening.

Aragorn felt his guilt increase at that declaration and briefly wondered if there was an underlying meaning to Hamille’s words. Had Legolas spoken of the incident in the healing room to the elves? But just as soon as that thought entered his mind, he banished it; it was not in Legolas’ nature to share his hurt with anyone. Whatever it was Hamille meant, Aragorn thought, he had no right to pry, and he did not really want to, for no one needed to remind him of the pain he already felt.  He only wished he could talk to Legolas that very instant. 

He half-determined to ask Hamille to deliver a note for him, but quickly realized that it was no substitute for a personal meeting; it seemed demeaning somehow. So he asked instead that the elf convey his respects to the elf prince. After debating for a moment, he added, “Please tell him I am grateful to him, and that – and that I will meet with him as soon as I can.” Then, in a softer voice: “Tell him I truly wish to.”

“I will,” Hamille replied, and with a slight bow, turned to leave. Arwen came in just then, carrying a covered basket.

“Hamille, I heard you had come in here,” the queen said, casting a brief smile at her husband as well. “I am glad to have to caught you before you left.”

“My lady,” Hamille greeted her, inclining his head.

“Please tell Legolas that Eldarion has awakened and is recovering well,” she said. “He will want to know.”

“Aye, he certainly will, and the news will do much to lift his spirits. It will please him to know that you are certain of it yourself.”

“Hannon le, Hamille, and please give him these,” she handed him the basket. “There should be enough to share, but he will enjoy them most. Please,” she whispered in a conspirational tone, “make certain he eats.” 

Hamille smiled, accepted the basket without asking about the contents, and left.

Later, as Aragorn sat watching Eldarion eat his third blueberry tart after lunch, a smile touched his face. He and Legolas shared a love for blueberry tarts as well, and he knew, without asking, what had been in the basket Arwen gave Hamille.

Aragorn silently thanked the Valar for restoring his son’s health and for how well he was recovering. He himself had eaten little, mulling over the matters he needed to discuss with his Ministers later that afternoon, and wondering how soon he could settle affairs of state, and how soon it would be all right to leave Eldarion so that he could ride to Ithilien.

Legolas, he sighed. I wish I could talk to you now, mellon nin. But soon, I hope, soon.

“Legolas?” Eldarion said the name through lips covered in sticky blueberry topping. Aragorn realized then that he must have said the name aloud.

The child seemed to remember something and stopped eating. Arwen looked at him, slightly puzzled. He leant close to whispered into his mother’s ear, “Is Legolas still hurt? I did not like to see it.” His eyes were wide, and a hint of moisture laced them.

Arwen swallowed as she realized that Eldarion was envisioning the blood he had seen dripping from the elf’s shoulder in the talan. She quickly wrapped an arm around the child and placed her forehead against his.

“No, darling. It has been taken care off. He is all right now,” she said soothingly.

“They hurt him,” the child stated in a small voice, dropping his eyes.

Arwen caught Aragorn looking at his son with a puzzled expression and decided she would have to explain later. “Yes, they did. But the healers treated it like they took care of you. His shoulder is mending, and he will be happy to know you are better too.” 

“Will he come here soon? I – I do not want to go there,” the child whispered, burying his face in his mother’s dress and staining it with the stickiness on his lips. “Not yet.”

His parents exchanged a look. They had not foreseen that the experience in Ithilien might have left the child with an unpleasant impression of the place itself. They would have to help him overcome that fear eventually. He had elvish blood in him, and he too should feel at home in friendly woods.

“He will come when he can, darling,” Arwen whispered back. “But you have to get well first. You will need your strength to handle your bow when he teaches you to shoot again.”

Those words brought a lump to Aragorn’s throat. He was reminded again just how much Legolas meant to his whole family, and his feeling of remorse deepened. Eldarion seemed consoled by his mother’s assurances and returned to his unfinished tart, quickly devouring what was left and leaving the table to have his hands and face washed.

Arwen turned to her husband to answer the question she knew was on his tongue.

“He was wounded in his shoulder, Estel,” she explained simply. “Eldarion saw it.”

“Was it deep? How did I not see it?” The king’s eyes were filled with concern now.

“It was bandaged and – ” Arwen narrowed her eyes as she tried to recall what she had seen that night, “and I think he had changed his tunic. The one he was wearing was… it was torn, and… it was… stained.” She did not have to say what with; Aragorn knew.

Horror gripped him then as he recalled vaguely where his hand had carelessly clutched Legolas that night. Had the elf shown pain? How had his own eyes missed it? Aragorn looked at Arwen with pleading eyes as he gasped his question.

“Arwen, did I – ?   I did not – ? Did I… add to his pain?”

Arwen considered her response. She did not want to make her husband feel worse than he already did, but she could not lie, so she said softly, “You did not know, and he would not hold it against you.”

Aragorn moaned and buried his face in his hands. He never thought he could hate himself as much as he did then. Legolas, forgive me, forgive me, he begged silently, his breath strangled in his throat. He was barely aware of Arwen’s caresses as they tried to remove the feeling of sorrow that would not leave him.

I will wait till the end of today as I promised, Faramir, he determined silently, but whether or not the prisoner talks, I shall leave for Ithilien tomorrow. This time, nothing will stop me.