These characters all belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. : Bible, Luke 12:2...

Chapter Forty-Five – Nothing is covered up.

Nothing is covered up that will not be uncovered, and nothing secret that will not become known. : Bible, Luke 12:2...

For a moment, both men regarded the tub of steaming water. It was very different to what they were accustomed to in Minas Tirith, where the vast sunken baths would easily accommodate several people. Yet, compared with the small basins of water they had been compelled to use in the cave, it was sheer luxury.

“You should bathe first, Faramir,” Aragorn said, as soon as they were alone. He hoped that once Faramir undressed, he might have some answers to his Steward’s puzzling behaviour.

“No, you must go first, sire,” Faramir insisted.

“But the water will get cold while you are helping me,” Aragorn protested.

“And your wounds could easily become infected from my grime!” Faramir retorted. “As a healer you should know that! So come on, let me help you undress.”

“Very well,” Aragorn sighed, resigning himself to the inevitable. “I wish you did not have to bathe me.”

“I can fetch Éowyn, the Queen and Mistress Bereth if you would prefer their assistance,” retorted Faramir tartly.

“You know that your help is the lesser evil,” Aragorn conceded miserably. “I forbid you to fetch the ladies!”

“You know I would not. You will soon be well enough to do it yourself, now that you have Éowyn and your lady to tend you,” Faramir soothed, inwardly berating himself for his lack of compassion towards a sick and vulnerable man. He unlaced Aragorn’s tunic and lifted it over his head, followed by his shirt.

The King was so frail that already he was starting to shiver, despite the warmth from the stove. Faramir wanted to get him in the warm water quickly. He struggled to remove Aragorn’s blood caked bandages.

“Leave the bandages to soak off,” Aragorn told him.

“I remember you did that for me only a few months ago,” Faramir replied, removing the last of the King’s clothing. As tactfully as possible he eased Aragorn’s long limbs into the cramped tub. The King had to bend his knees in order to sit down. “I only wish I had some healing powers like yours, then I could ease your pain!” Faramir bit his lip as he spoke, all too aware that he had inflicted some of that agony.

“Do you really?” Aragorn said frostily. He was forced to concentrate on biting back a cry of pain when the water stung his raw wounds. If he cried out, Éowyn would most likely come rushing in to see what was the matter. He presumed Arwen was occupied with Eldarion as he could hear him crying.

Faramir picked up a washcloth and handed another to Aragorn. ”If you are able to, maybe you would like to wash where you can reach, while I bathe your back and wash your hair,” he said.

Aragorn nodded, grateful for his Steward’s tact in trying to preserve some dignity for him. Faramir washed his lord’s hair, while the bandages soaked free and then unwound them. Some of the older wounds were revealed as partially healed, but the one on his waist started to bleed afresh, as did those on his chest and arms.

“I told you, you should have bathed first!” Aragorn said ruefully, regarding the fast reddening hue of the water.

“I have bathed in far worse,” Faramir replied, remembering his days in the army when they would draw lots for who would have the first use of the bath, a small tub much like this one. During a lull in the fighting, it would be filled with heated water and concealed behind a makeshift screen. Often when it came to his turn, the water appeared about as appealing a muddy puddle!

The Steward gently bathed Aragorn’s wounds as best he could, and then scrubbed his lord’s back and legs more vigorously. Satisfied he had done the best he could, Faramir lifted Aragorn out of the tub and wrapped him in a thick towel. “I will get you dried and ready for Éowyn and your lady to tend your wounds, then come back and have my own bath,” he said.

“You will be needed, so you had better bathe first,” Aragorn insisted, flinching despite Faramir’s best efforts not to aggravate his wounds while drying him. The white towel was now covered in scarlet blotches.

Faramir sighed inwardly, having hoped for a leisurely soak in private. However, he could hardly complain, his plight being as little compared to the King’s.

“Have no fear, I will stay for as long as you have need of me,” Faramir replied, gripping one of Aragorn’s cold hands in a gesture of reassurance. The other, where the fingers had been broken, lay limp and useless. At least, the wounds now appeared to have almost stopped bleeding. He swathed Aragorn in dry towels, grateful that Éowyn had provided sufficient. He then settled the King on a chair nearer the stove. Turning away from Aragorn, Faramir began to quickly undress, unaware that he was being scrutinized intently. He had just removed his tunic and shirt when Aragorn’s voice startled him.

“Turn around, please, and come here!”

Somewhat alarmed, Faramir hastened to do as he was bidden. “Do you feel unwell, my lord?” he enquired anxiously.

“Lift your arms!” Aragorn ordered, studying his Steward intently.

Never had Faramir expected to feel self-conscious at his lack of scars, but he did so now. He shivered uncomfortably, involuntarily recalling an unpleasant memory from his youth when his father had compared him unfavourably with Boromir.

“I needed to see if you too had been put to torment. That would have accounted for your conduct.” The King’s tone was almost disappointed.

“No man raised his hand against me. I acted of my own free will,” Faramir said quietly, unable to meet Aragorn’s gaze. “I am sorry, I had no other choice.”

“No choice, but to continue to torment me, even when no others were present?” Aragorn’s voice was like ice.

“No, my lord.” How could he ever explain that had he let the traitor’s mask slip even for a moment, he did not know if he would have had the strength to don it again?

“You reminded me very much of your father,” Aragorn said cryptically.

“I am sorry, I had no choice,” Faramir repeated. He was shivering uncontrollably now. He could make no excuses for his conduct, nor would he burden a sick man with his guilt and remorse. All that mattered now was to restore Aragorn to health and his rightful place on the throne of Gondor.

“You had better have your bath,” Aragorn said morosely. He stared fixedly at the floor and did not look up again until Faramir had finished bathing and was almost dressed again.

The Steward was just pulling on his clean shirt when Éowyn’s voice called, “How are you getting on?”

“We are almost ready,” Faramir replied, picking up his tunic.

“I will lay out my healing supplies in the bedroom,” she called back.” Bereth has changed the bed linens and laid towels across the bed in readiness. Elbeth is still playing with the cats outside. I will tell her to go with Bereth to the barn. But don’t be too long, we are waiting!”

“We are coming!” Fastening his tunic as he spoke, Faramir helped Aragorn up from the chair and they slowly made their way into the bedroom.

Arwen was waiting by the side the bed when they came through the door. She helped Faramir lay the King down with a pillow under his head. Her eyes widened at the sight of the blood stained towels covering him.

The Steward then stood back a little while Arwen sat beside her husband and clasped his hand. The fire burned high in the grate, making the room comfortably warm.

“This will only distress you, vanimelda,” Aragorn told her gently. “You are not accustomed to the hurts of mortals and how slowly our wounds heal. It would be best if you stayed in the other room with our son.”

Arwen shook her head. “Permit to stay with you, Estel, I need to know what ails you. I would help tend your wounds,” she replied. “Eldarion and Elestelle are sleeping at present.”

“Very well, you may stay for a while. Though I much prefer you did not have to see me thus!” Aragorn replied. There was a catch in his voice.

“I am your wife for good or ill!” Arwen said staunchly, stroking his hair back from his face tenderly and suddenly noticing the missing clumps. “What happened to your hair, my love?”

“Hanna found it amusing to tear out clumps of my hair and beard,” Aragorn replied bleakly.

“That is why we shaved before we came here,” Faramir added. “Hanna’s cruelty gave the King too distinctive an appearance.” He swallowed hard, remembering his first glimpse of Aragorn in the cellar.

Just then, Éowyn bustled in laden with bandages.

The King shuddered.

 “Well, let me see what I can do for you,” Éowyn said briskly. She would have pulled aside the towels without further preamble; but noticing Aragorn’s look of abject misery, Faramir interrupted.

“Let me arrange the towels first,” he suggested.

Éowyn nodded and stood back, busying herself at the bedside table with her back to the King. Faramir wound one of the towels around Aragorn’s hips in attempt to preserve some shreds of dignity for him. He removed the others.

The women cried out in dismay. Faramir moved to comfort his wife. Truth to tell, the sight of Aragorn’s wounds still sickened him, though he knew he should have become accustomed by now. How could the Valar have permitted such a good and gracious man to be used so ill?

Arwen gazed in dismay at the harrowing sight of her husband’s maimed and wasted frame, taking in everything from the wounds on his wrists and ankles, his swollen hands and feet to the brand on his shoulder and raw wounds on his chest, inner arms and belly. Bruises of various hues covered almost every inch of his body. “Whatever did they do to you, Estel?” she whispered, her voice cracked with anguish.

“Each time I refused to sign a document authorising the marriage of our son and Elbeth, they took a patch of skin from me,” Aragorn told her, his eyes full of sorrow at causing her such pain. Shaking, he fought against the urge to defensively cross his arms to hide his disfigured body. The brand stood out livid against his skin

Faramir stared at the floor unable to meet their eyes.

Aragorn steeled himself to look at his wife; afraid he would see revulsion in her usually loving eyes. She did not usually see him thus uncovered, even when he was healthy. In the past, she had constantly reassured him that she was not disappointed by his lack of Elven perfection. Yet how could her beauty stomach such ugliness as now marred him?