The characters are the property of the Tolkien Estate.
Cold Comfort
Éowyn opened the jar of honey and placed it on the bedside table. “You need to hold him again,” she instructed Faramir after washing her hands again. Plunging her fingers into the jar, she began to smear the honey thickly across Aragorn’s lacerated back. "Honey is an old remedy of the Mark. It prevents infection from developing."
Aragorn bit back a cry and clutched at Faramir’s restraining hands. Éowyn moved round the bed and smeared an equally thick layer of honey on Aragorn’s other wounds. His Healer’s knowledge helped him endure it patiently, a sharp intake of breath was the sole indicator of the agony he was enduring.
Finally, Éowyn unbound the arrow wound and smothered it with the sticky liquid. This time, Aragorn could no longer contain his cries of distress. He almost crushed Faramir’s hands in his agony.
Éowyn washed her hands again, then folded strips torn from the old sheets, to make soft cloth pads. She pressed them against Aragorn’s many wounds. “Can you lift him?” she asked Faramir, “I need to bandage him now.”
The Steward braced himself against the bed and lifted Aragorn as gently as possible, while Éowyn secured the pads in place. Then while Faramir still supported the King in his arms, she peeled off the bloodied bed linens and replaced them with clean ones.
Faramir’s throbbing arms lowered the King back on the bed. Éowyn covered Aragorn with a sheet of fine linen, and several blankets. She placed a pillow under his head and tucked the covers under his chin, Moving away from the bed, she was forced to turn aside, not wanting to see the tears of pain that ran down the King’s face.
Faramir squeezed his lord’s hand in sympathy. Aragorn’s face was contorted with pain and an occasional low moan escaped his lips. Mercifully, his features relaxed when either unconsciousness or sleep eventually overcame him.
“We have done all we can for the King.” Éowyn said firmly. “It is your turn now, Faramir, to have your wounds tended. I only wish I had some sort of pain relief to give you.”
Faramir was painfully self-conscious about his many scars and frame that his father had denounced as ‘puny’, which until now, he had managed to conceal from Éowyn. He had little choice but to let her see his wounds. He knew he could not afford to neglect his own injuries when the King might have need of him. He tried to lift his arms to remove his torn and bloodied tunic, he found they refused to obey him, the damaged muscles protesting at being hoisted above his head again.
Seeing his plight, Éowyn took up the knife she had used to remove the King’s clothing. Quickly she cut away Faramir’s torn tunic and shirt, and pulled the shreds of cloth away from his body. “No!” she gasped when she saw the cut on his arm and the cruel welts disfiguring his back. “You must be in so much pain, why didn’t you let me tend you first?”
“The King’s need was far greater.” Faramir said, looking across at the still form on the bed. Then the realisation hit him, had it not been for Aragorn, his injuries would be those the King was enduring now. He shuddered, and no longer able to maintain his iron self control, burst into tears.
Éowyn impulsively held her husband close for a few moments and tried to comfort him. When he had regained some of his composure, she picked up a cloth to bathe his wounds. “What happened exactly?” she asked in a matter of fact tone.
“We accepted a drink from an old woman which turned out be drugged. Too late, we realised our folly and collapsed unconscious. We regained our senses at the place where you found us.” he told her, wiping his face with his hand. “There were two men, brothers in law named Fennas and Calardan. They blamed the King and myself for the deaths of their kinsfolk and wanted to make us suffer to avenge them.” Faramir swallowed hard. “They had a whip and used it on me and then the King…”His voice faltered.
Éowyn paused in her ministrations. “You will feel better if you tell me,” she coaxed gently.
“The King told them to leave me be. So they started beating him instead. They told him, he had but to say the word, and they would leave him alone and return to beating me. He remained silent. I ordered them to let him go but they would not listen. One of them cut my arm, after tying me to a tree, but compared with what the King endured, it was nothing!” Faramir gave her only the bare facts, and did not pause for breath as he spoke lest he was unable to continue. Looking towards the still form on the bed, he said, “That ‘hypocrite’ as you recently called him, was willing to give his life just to spare me pain! I can hardly bear to look at him knowing I should be suffering rather than he! Why could I not spare him? Why was I not strong enough to help him?”
Faramir started to sob again. Éowyn soothed him by stroking his hair and murmuring words of comfort. Her eyes kept straying towards where Aragorn lay. She wondered if she had somehow misjudged him. There was no question, though, that he had tricked her into a loveless marriage, of which Faramir was as much a victim as she. Such thoughts were too painful to dwell upon. She focused her attention instead on Faramir’s wounds, cleansing his back so vigorously that he cried out. “It is almost done,” she said, wiping away the blood. Then she saw the old scars and gasped. “You’ve been flogged before!” she exclaimed in horror.
Faramir recalled the madness in his father’s eyes when he had told Denethor that he had let Frodo and Sam continue their journey. The palantír had changed him from a cold, but fair and honourable man into a stranger that at times his sons could hardly recognise
Éowyn was looking directly at him, her eyes demanding an answer.
“My father was a hard man, and I could never please him, especially after he took to using the palantír,” he said simply. “I failed to bring him the Ring, so I was punished with a horsewhip.” He tried to shrug but the movement sent waves of pain through his bruised shoulders. He saw the pity he both feared and expected in his wife’s eyes.
“I’m sorry,” she said gently. “I scarcely knew my father at all. Théoden King was kind to my brother and me, at least until Grima’s evil influence clouded his mind.
She picked up the honey jar and smeared her hands with the thick, sticky liquid.
Faramir felt the honey sting and bit back a cry as she applied a generous amount to his back.
Éowyn then washed her hands and applied a bandage before turning her attentions to the cut his arm and his bruised and bloodied shoulders.
She started to apply a salve. Had the circumstances been different, Faramir would have thrilled at the rare pleasure of her closeness and touch. Such was his pain, though; he wished fervently that a Healer like Aragorn were tending him, his touch being far gentler than his wife’s rough, though well meaning ministrations. He would gladly welcome her touch in the bedchamber, but she lacked the hands of a naturally gifted healer. He thought back to his first meetings with Aragorn in the Houses of Healing, the King’s kindness and his own shame that his King should have seen him thus. Why had he continued to fear the man and even refused the offer of Elven remedies to fade the old wounds? It all seemed so foolish now.
“I’ll tend the hurts on your legs now,” Éowyn said briskly. “You’ll need to take off your breeches.”
Faramir flushed scarlet, wishing he could be more comfortable with his wife, who was still a stranger to him. “I have but bruises on my legs. There is no need to bother you with them!” he protested, a note of rising panic in his voice.
“I am your wife!” Éowyn said, a hint of sarcasm in her voice.
Looking wretched, Faramir reluctantly started to unfasten his breeches.
“If you just need some salve, you can apply that yourself. I will fetch some fresh clothes after I’ve helped you with your boots.” Éowyn said, taking unexpected pity on him. “I will return soon, if you need more help.”
Faramir heaved a sigh of relief when she left. He turned away from the bed and peeled off the remainder of his clothing. He found his legs were sore, but not too badly injured. Hastily he bathed the hurts and rubbed on the salve. He just managed to drape a towel round his hips when Éowyn returned with a bundle of clean clothing.
“Do you need any help?” she asked.
Faramir shook his head. “These hurts are but slight,” he answered.
“Be sure to tell me if they get worse,” Éowyn admonished. “Let me help you with your shirt. I will leave you to finish dressing, while I request the servants to prepare some food for us.”
The soft linen shirt felt pleasant to his skin and he was pleased she had chosen a lightweight woollen tunic for him to wear. He sat meekly on the chair while she eased them over his head. To his surprise and delight she kissed him on the lips before leaving the room. A surge of pleasure spread through his body at this unexpected show of affection. Her reactions to his injuries suggested that maybe she cared for him after all. In any other circumstances, Faramir would have been overjoyed. However, the throbbing pain in his back and shoulders and the King’s serious condition, drove all other considerations from his mind. He found it easy enough to pull on the linen drawers and thick cloth breeches. His boots and stockings were a different matter; he was forced to sit barefoot until Éowyn returned with food and drink for him.
He drank greedily. However, the bread and meat felt like sawdust in his mouth and he could only manage to eat a little fruit.
Éowyn anxiously studied her husband’s drawn and tear stained features, thinking how much she could have loved him, had only she not been so deceived. Political unions were usual amongst her class. Had her marriage been presented as such from the start, she would have accepted it, given that Faramir was attractive, and a union to cement the alliance between Rohan and Gondor made perfect sense. Yet, to have been tricked into thinking he loved her, only to learn that Aragorn had decreed the marriage to rid himself of a potential embarrassment prior to Arwen’s arrival, still enraged her. She hated the King; yet, he had unselfishly endured pain beyond imagining in trying to spare Faramir. The man was an enigma. Unable to wrestle with her troubled thoughts any longer, she went outside to see how Windfola was faring.
Faramir maintained his vigil with the King, trying his best to attend to him when he briefly awoke and needed his assistance to answer nature’s call, notwithstanding their mutual discomfort. Despite Éowyn’s predictions, his reverence for his King was not lessened by such mundane and unpleasant tasks.
By the time the sun set, Éowyn had returned to Aragorn’s bedside, where she sat with her husband, maintaining a vigil over the wounded King. They said very little, Faramir feeling too distressed after his ordeal, while Éowyn was too irate at being forced to care for the King and somewhat troubled by her earlier speculations. Had he been any other man on Middle- earth, she would have helped him gladly. Not this wretched man, though, who had caused her nothing but turmoil since she first laid eyes on him.
000
Several hours elapsed, and Éowyn decided that she had better check Aragorn’s bandages before retiring to bed. Faramir was asleep on the chair after struggling vainly to keep his eyes open. Much to her annoyance, the dressings covering Aragorn’s back were heavily stained. She concluded it was better to change them now, in case they soaked through on to the bed linen overnight. “ Wake up! I need you to help me change the King’s bandages.” she told Faramir, rousing him from an uneasy doze.
“Could it not wait until morning? He seems to be resting peacefully, and sleep is a great healer.” Faramir replied once he was sufficiently awake.
“So you are the Healer now! Maybe you should do it?” she retorted, in truth she would rather have doing anything, save tending this particular wounded man.
Faramir deemed it best to say nothing. He was in too much pain to argue. Sleeping in the uncomfortable chair had only served to intensify the throbbing in his back and shoulders.
Éowyn summoned a servant and asked her to fetch water and clean linen. As soon as they were brought, she impatiently pulled down the covers to begin her task. “Hold him down!” she instructed Faramir.
“I will awaken him first so he will know what is happening.” he insisted. He gently squeezed Aragorn’s hand and called him. “My lord, wake up! It is time to change your bandages!”
Aragorn’s only response was to groan and murmur; “Water!”
Faramir filled a cup and lifted it to Aragorn’s lips. He gently supported his lord’s head while Aragorn sipped the drink. Éowyn stood by the bed, arms akimbo, waiting impatiently to proceed. Satisfied that Aragorn had drunk his fill, Faramir put down the cup and clasped the King’s hands, feeling them tighten round his own in expectation of the inevitable pain that was coming.
Éowyn determinedly pulled the blankets further down and started to unwrap the bandages, beginning with those covering the lacerations on Aragorn’s back. The first one came away easily enough, but the second refused to yield to a gentle tug. It was stuck. She tugged harder. Still it refused to yield. Exasperated, she snatched at it with all her strength. This time the bandage came free, and with it fragments of Aragorn’s lacerated skin and flesh beneath. The King arched in agony and gave a piercing scream of pain and shock, almost crushing Faramir’s hands in his distress.
“Éowyn! What have you done? Are you trying to kill him?” Faramir cried.
His wife grabbed a cloth to staunch the now copious flow of blood from the King’s wounds. The Steward swallowed hard to control a sudden wave of nausea at the sight of the deep and gory laceration on Aragorn’s back.
“I forgot to soak it.” There was panic in Éowyn’s voice.
Faramir could hardly bear to look at Aragorn’s face, so great was the pain in his eyes. The King was gasping and trying unsuccessfully to hold back the tears of pain. Sweat poured from his brow. “It will soon be over then you can rest.” Faramir said with a calmness he did not feel. “Peace, sire! Just grasp my hands. I will not leave you.”
Aragorn managed somehow to give him a faint smile.
Éowyn finally succeeded in staunching the bleeding. She soaked the other bandages with lukewarm water. After waiting a few moments, they came away easily. Then, a little more gently than before, she bathed the wounds, applied more honey and bound them again.
Faramir held Aragorn’s hands until he fell asleep. Only then did he rebuke Éowyn. “Could you not you have been more careful?” he chided, careful to keep his voice low. “His pain will be worst than ever now!”
“It was an accident,” she replied rather sulkily. “I did not think they would stick like that so soon. Maybe, we should stay with him a while longer.” she added, in an attempt to pacify her husband.
Faramir nodded curtly, saying no more for fear of disturbing Aragorn. He regarded Éowyn with an expression of great sorrow mixed with fury burning in his grey eyes.
Aragorn did not awaken again though he twitched and moaned frequently in his sleep. After an hour or so had passed, Éowyn suggested they retire to bed.
Faramir shook his head. “The King should not be left,” he said. “What if he should wake and need something?”
“One of the maids could sit with him.” she replied.
“I will not leave my King.” Faramir said firmly. “I can sleep on the chair here.”
“Do as you wish.” she shrugged, although her eyes showed concern. “Though, do not forget you are injured too. If you must stay here, why not sleep here on the bed? It is large enough.”
Faramir shook his head vehemently.
You must have shared with wounded comrades before, surely?” Éowyn asked somewhat incredulously.
“Of course I have done on many occasions, but never with a living legend who is my liege lord. I might somehow aggravate his wounds!” the Steward protested.
“How could you in a bed this size?” Éowyn retorted. “If you wish to be uncomfortable, though, I will leave you to it. Don’t let the fire burn too low and if you are in pain, call me. Goodnight!”
Fearing she might soften if she lingered, she swept out of the room without a second glance. Faramir stared after her for a few moments and then resumed his vigil over the King.
000
Aragorn seemed to grow more restless over the next few hours but did not awaken. Faramir watched him anxiously but as time passed, sleep overcame his desire to be vigilant. He woke suddenly with a start, roused by a loud moan from the bed. He was on his feet within seconds. “Sire?” he whispered.
Aragorn’s eyes were open, but he seemed unaware either of Faramir or his surroundings. His eyes were wide with some terror. Much to Faramir’s alarm, he was shaking convulsively, breathing with ragged and shallow gasps.
The Steward placed a tentative hand on his lord’s brow and found the skin was cold, clammy, and drenched with sweat. He struggled to hold back the panic that threatened to engulf him. “I will be back soon,” he told the unresponsive Aragorn. He left the room and hurried to Éowyn’s chamber. “Éowyn!” he cried, banging on the door before entering.
“What is it?” she asked sleepily, reaching for her robe.
“I think the King is dying!” Faramir cried
TBC
If you are interested in why Éowyn uses honey to treat Aragorn and Faramir’s wounds, this link provides interesting information. http:www.chm.bris.ac.uk/webprojects2001/wyatt/medicinal.htm