Chapter 2 -- Hands of the King

At Gandalf’s bidding Aragorn had come into the city.  Under the grey cloak of Lorien he slipped past what remained of the main gate, broken by Grond, hinges hanging. He must answer this call, this urgent need.  Nothing else mattered at this moment.  He entered the Houses of Healing full of purpose and was greeted by joy, “Strider!” exclaimed a small bundle of energy dressed in the Sable and Silver. Pippin. The joy he felt in seeing the youngest Hobbit spread through his body like a warm glow.  He laughed and clasped Pippin’s hand, “So good it is to see you Master Pippin, Guard of the Citadel, I see. Lead on.”

Seeing the injured laid upon the beds was a sobering sight and Gandalf told him of the work of the watchers, watching and listening as the Black Shadow fell upon its victims. He had seen its work before, Frodo on Weathertop came to mind.  It was a terrible affliction.

He went to Faramir's bedside; the young Steward was still as the grave, only a very slight breath indicated body and soul were still knit though the ends were fraying strand by strand. A light linen lay across his body, his face ashen and a sheen of fever evident.  Aragorn knelt by his bed and grasped one of Faramir’s hands, it had a fell chill about it. He placed his other hand upon the young Steward’s brow and closed his eyes and saw only a grey mist within his mind’s eye. Opening his eyes and removing his hand, “He is almost spent.  It is the Black Shadow that grips his heart.” He questioned the healers present, “Have you Athelas?” Seeing puzzlement, he inwardly sighed, “it is also known as Kingsfoil in the Common Tongue.” Light broke upon the nearest healer’s face, “Oh, but that is a weed!”  Again Aragorn paused and prayed to the Valar for patience in this moment and slipped a look of entreaty to Gandalf who stood close by. Gandalf responded, “Well go and fetch what can be had in the City, be quick.” Aragorn looked his thanks at the wizard whom he had known since he was a very small child living in Imladris and turned back to Faramir to do what he could until the healing herb could be located.

He again placed his hand on Faramir’s brow and closed his eyes murmuring Sindarin words of healing.  He entered the grey mist in search of the young man’s essence.  He could feel it, but it was very weak. “Faramir!” he called through the mist searching for the young man. Ghostly voices called back to him in a mockery of his own voice.  Everything had been leeched of colour, everything appearing dim, ephemeral, not real.  They called him this way and that and had him tracing circles for seeming hours as time lost all meaning in this place of shadows, hours futilely spent as they whispered his own doubts back at him. He persevered, straining in his mind’s eye for any sign of the young Steward.  At length he saw a figure huddled, knees drawn up, hands over his ears, rocking back and forth.  As Aragorn approached he could heard a very soft but incessant whimper, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I am so sorry.”  Cruel laughter echoed all around them and as Aragorn approached he saw a shadow moving as if it were a living thing.  A hand flicked to beat away the encroaching shadow, only to have another take up the foul business of torment.   Aragorn drew closer trying to ignore his own demons that were whispering into his soul.  When he was just a few feet away he thought he saw through the eerie half light of shadow Faramir’s dark blonde hair.  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry” he heard the words intoned constantly.  Aragorn knelt in front of the rocking form and placed one hand upon a forearm asking “Faramir?” gently.  The head jerked up and Aragorn beheld unseeing eyes of such pain and torment.  Aragorn sent a quick prayer of thanksgiving to the Valar.  His eyes in this grey enshadowed place had not deceived him.  It was indeed Faramir, who struggle to break free of the gentle hand. 

Aragorn grabbed both sides of Faramir’s head, shouting “Look at me! See me!! Faramir!  I have come to take you home!” Then through fear and pain the wretched figure shouted, “I have no home, I destroyed the only home I had. There is nothing……” the voice trailed and the incessant “I’m sorry” began again.  Aragorn again shouted, “Look at me, Listen to me!” he grabbed Faramir in a fierce hug, kissing the top of his forehead.  “You are loved and needed. You must come back to me now.” At length the incessant litany of “sorry” slowed and Aragorn pulled back to place his hands once again on Faramir’s cheeks and kissed his forehead and saw life slowly returning to the light blue eyes.  At that Aragorn felt a tug on his inner senses.  “I will return.  Trust in that.  I will not forsake you!”  Faramir nodded staring longingly into the grey eyes of a healer taking what solace he could. At that he withdrew, assuring Faramir all would be well and to be strong for just a while longer. 

Aragorn looked up and there was Bergil, Beregond’s son holding out six leaves.  Thanking the Valar for the third time that hour, Aragorn took two of the leaves and rolled them in his hands crushing them.  At once it seemed that the air was filled with fragrant essence, a joyous life-giving force, renewing and replenishing the spirits of all, reminding each of peaceful joyful times past.  It was little known in these latter times the cleansing wholesomeness that existed within the leaf of Aethlas, but much had been lost in these times.  Aragorn quickly placed the crushed leaves within a ceramic bowl of steaming water and placed it near Faramir’s tormented visage. 

Within the grey mist Faramir waited and as he watched, the mist began to dissipate and the sun started to shine upon a green meadow.  In the near distance he saw the White Tower of Ecthelion shining as a beacon, undaunted, undeterred, undamaged.  The White City beckoned to him.  He could hear the clear ringing of the silver trumpets calling him home.  He stood and ran, joyously free, home to his City. And there, as he had promised was Aragorn, arms outstretched, the ring of Barahir gently glowing, Faramir gratefully, joyously, ran into the arms of his King.

Faramir opened his eyes, free of the grey mist that had enshrouded him for so long, and looked into the smiling grey eyes of his King, “My Lord, you called me. I come.  What does the King command?”*

Aragorn looked into the light blue eyes of this good man and said, “Walk no more in the shadows, but awake! You are weary.  Rest awhile, take food and be ready when I return.”*

Faramir, with a new found joy filling his duty bound heart, avowed, “I will, Lord. For who would lie idle when the King has returned.”*

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A/N: * denotes quote from ROTK book.

        ** denotes quote from ROTK film.