These Characters are the property of the Estate of J. R. R Tolkien and New Line Cinema. This story has been written for pleasure and no profit has or will be made from it.

To err is human, to forgive divine.

Alexander Pope (1688 - 1744)

“Whatever is the matter?” Faramir exclaimed.

Aragorn rushed round the bed to his brother king’s side.

“That ointment!” Éomer groaned, “I thought I would save you the trouble of applying it. I had no idea it would feel like salt rubbed in a raw wound!”

Aragorn bent over him to see and struggled to repress a laugh. Éomer appeared to have smeared half the contents of the pot of ointment across his chest, which now he was clutching in agony.

Aragorn grabbed a towel and dipped it in the basin of water he had been using to wash his hands in. He spread it across Éomer’s chest and started to rub off most of the ointment with a corner of it. “You should only use a tiny amount,” he explained, “No great harm is done though, you will just feel rather sore for a few hours.” After removing the wet towel, he held his hands a few inches above Éomer’s chest, using his healing powers to ease him.

“What are you doing?” Éomer asked curiously, a contented sigh escaping him as the pain ebbed away. “It feels wonderful!”

“Just a little Elven healing!” Aragorn grinned. “That is, if you do not want me to stop immediately as you say you object to my unorthodox methods?”

Éomer looked sheepish. “ Please do not stop, I was wrong, it is most effective! You are a brave man indeed to endure that agonizing ointment, Faramir!” he said at last.

Faramir smiled. “I have become accustomed to it,” he said enigmatically. “Will you dine with Éowyn and me tomorrow? We would like to introduce you to your niece.”

“I would be happy to,” Éomer replied,” With a father like you and Éowyn as her mother, I am certain, she will grow up to become the bravest of shield maidens!”

The three men chuckled together contentedly.

***

Later, Faramir was resting after the ordeal of his treatment, Éowyn was contentedly cuddling Elestelle, Éomer was dictating a letter to Lothiriel with the aid of a scribe and Aragorn had decided to spend a quiet evening with Arwen and his son.

They had just finished dining when a servant came to inform Aragorn that the Chief Warder from the City Prison wished to speak to him on a matter of some urgency. “Let him come in,” Aragorn sighed; he had so been looking forward to enjoying some uninterrupted time with his family; his duty always had to come first, however.

Since Faramir’s arrest, all the warders at the prison had been sacked and replaced with former soldiers of good character. The prison was now run with military efficiency making it most unlikely that anyone else would ever suffer an ordeal like Faramir had.

The cells now had clean straw and only contained one prisoner each. Punishments now had to be carried out publicly and only when properly authorised by the Court. The prison was also inspected at regular intervals by senior officers, to ensure that all was running smoothly. As the Chief Warder entered, Aragorn wondered whatever could have gone wrong now.

“My lord, forgive me for disturbing you, but I bring news I believe you would wish to hear!” the Warder began, bowing deeply as he spoke.

“What is it?” Aragorn asked.

“The drunkard, Agond, who is currently in my custody for attacking Lord Faramir, collapsed about an hour ago,” he replied. “I am no healer, but I think that he is dying. He is spitting up blood and his skin is a curious colour. I have not come on account of his imminent demise, though, for who would mourn such as him? However, since you have expressed a keen interest in the case and he has asked to see you, I felt you should be informed. I also await your orders on what I should do with him. Do you wish me to summon a Healer?

“Have him taken to the Houses of Healing under Master Aedred’s care and kept under close guard,” Aragorn pronounced, “I will come as soon as he has been moved. Inform me when my orders have been carried out.”

As soon as the Chief Warder had left, Arwen rose from her chair and came to put her arms around her husband, “ I know how difficult this is for you, beloved, yet I know you will do what is right,” she said.

“At least I do not have to go the prison,” Aragorn replied. “What happened to Faramir there haunts me still!”

She kissed him tenderly and remained by his side until a servant brought a message summoning the King to the Houses of Healing.

Accompanied by his guards, Aragorn made his way down to the Sixth Level, where he was greeted by Tarostar and taken to a small room, where a man lay on a bed covered by a sheet. His eyes were closed and he appeared to be either sleeping or unconscious.

Guards stood either side of him, one of which was arguing with Aedred over the treatment of the prisoner.

“What ails him?” Aragorn asked the Healer, reluctant to look at the man on the bed.

“Drinking disease, my lord,” Aedred replied, “He will not last the night it is so far advanced. I wish to give him poppy juice but the guards say that is a luxury forbidden to prisoners.”

“You are certain he is dying?”

Aedred pulled back the sheet to reveal his naked patient. “ See with your own eyes, my lord!” he replied. “The guards said not to give him any clothing and just one sheet in case he tries to escape. Not that this poor man will be going anywhere!”

The prisoner finally opened his eyes, groaned and vainly tried to cover himself with his arms. It was obvious that Aedred’s diagnoses was correct, as he was painfully thin, his skin was a vivid yellow hue and his belly grotesquely swollen.

For the first time ever in his life, Aragorn could not bring himself to ease the man. Faramir’s anguish from what he had been forced to do to him earlier that day, was still too fresh in his mind. He recalled the Steward’s injured body, so badly bruised that hardly an inch of undamaged flesh remained. He had over the years often helped wounded foes after a battle, but that was different, for they had fought bravely and with honour, however misguided their allegiances. He nodded curtly for Aedred to re-cover the man and backed further away from the bed. Much to his shame he could not trust himself in this evildoer’s vicinity.

“Sire?” Agond muttered, “Are you the King?”

“I am,” Aragorn replied coldly, “You wished to see me?”

“Wanted to ask you something afore I die. They say Lord Faramir weren’t no traitor after all? Is that true?” The words emerged as a harsh whisper, forcing Aragorn to reluctantly move nearer to the bed.

Agond coughed and there was blood on his lips. Aedred moved to the bedside, wiped his mouth, and offered him a sip of water.

“Lord Faramir was never a traitor. You did him a most grievous wrong!” Aragorn replied sternly.

“Tell ‘im then, I’m sorry. I don’t ‘old with no traitors I don’t and the warder ‘e said that ‘e was one and it made me angry, me being a soldier once in Gondor’s army and fighting against traitors! I knows I’m dying and t I deserve to. But I wanted to say I was sorry I did!”

Aragorn felt a sudden surge of anger mixed with compassion. He realised that this wretch, was in his own way, another of Mahrod’s victims. “I will tell the Lord Steward what you have said, you have my word,” he said quietly.

“You’re a good man, you is, my lord, I’m sorry I’m not dressed proper nor able to bow to you and all.” Agond coughed again and closed his eyes, exhausted with the effort of speaking.

Aragorn swallowed hard to overcome his revulsion and placed a fleeting hand on the man’s head. “Be at peace!” he intoned softly.

Agond smiled and lapsed again into unconsciousness.

“Give him some warm blankets, and if he should wake again, poppy juice and a nightshirt to wear,” he instructed Aedred, ”Now, could you take me somewhere where I can wash my hands, please?”

When Aragorn returned to the Citadel he went first to Faramir’s rooms, feeling he deserved to know what had transpired.

Aragorn sat beside Faramir on the couch where he lay resting and clasping his Steward’s hands, told him what had happened. Hardest to relate, was that he had given Agond his blessing, however reluctantly. He feared he might have somehow betrayed Faramir by so doing.

“I forgive him,” Faramir said simply, lifting his downcast eyes and looking straight at his King.

“You have a noble heart indeed, my friend!” Aragorn replied, amazed at Faramir’s generosity of spirit. He had suffered so much at the hands of so many and yet could still forgive.

“How are your wounds?” Aragorn asked him, having already noted his friend’s pulse was strong and steady.

“Much better, the pain has eased greatly, thanks to all you have done for me!” Faramir told him, “Today cannot have been easy for you either. I shall sleep well tonight knowing that Éomer is reconciled with us both and you have tended my hurts.”

“Be thou blessed!” Aragorn placed his hands on Faramir’s head. He sensed a new tranquillity within him as well as an abundance of love, faith and gratitude.

He could only hope that such faith was justified and the painful treatment would have indeed cured his Steward and friend. He kissed him on the brow and bade him goodnight. He returned then to his own apartments to seek solace in Arwen's comforting embrace.

TBC

A/N Agond is suffering from cirrhosis of the liver.