The characters are the property of the Tolkien estate. No profit has been, nor will be made from this story.
Painful Experiences
Éowyn sat brooding for some time after the men left. She was furious at being made to stay in this deserted place, with only a King she despised and a husband who shunned her for company.
Idly, she glanced out of the window. The bright sunlight gave the surrounding forest an inviting rather than forbidding appearance. Her spirits lightened at the realisation she had a perfect opportunity to engage in her favourite pastime.
Éowyn hastened outside and saddled her stallion. Windfola neighed joyfully in greeting, and tossed his proud head, eager for a gallop with his mistress. As was her custom, when riding alone, rather than because Faramir’s had told her to, Éowyn secured her sword at her side.
Allowing Windfola his head, Éowyn followed the only track leading into the forest. Lost in thought, she passed the place where Aragorn and Faramir had stopped to admire the view and the charcoal burners’ huts without even noticing.
The sight the two familiar horses still saddled and bridled jolted her out of her daydreams. Éowyn regarded them with a mixture of surprise and alarm. Faramir and the King, for all their faults, were devoted to their mounts. They would never willingly abandon them.
Roheryn neighed and indicated that he wanted her to follow. Éowyn admired the great war stallion’s intelligence and trusted his instincts. Drawing her sword, she followed where the horse led. Suddenly, she heard shouts and screams. She galloped towards the source of the sound, drawing her sword as she went.
Rounding a bend in the track, a horrific sight met her eyes. Éowyn beheld Faramir tied to a tree. A man brandishing a whip was threatening him. A second man, wielding a bow, stood beside the first. She could hear them boasting about how much pain they intended to cause Faramir.
Éowyn had not felt such fury since she had slain the Witch King. She was angry with Faramir for marrying her without love, and shunning her bed, but how dare those ruffians attack such a gentle and kind- natured man?
Using surprise as an advantage, she urged Windfola into a gallop and lashed out at Fennas, just as he raised the whip to strike Faramir. The sword caught his throat, piercing a main artery. Fennas swayed, making a gurgling sound, before falling lifeless to the ground.
Calardan tried to draw his bow, but Roheryn reared up at him, trampling him to the ground with his powerful hooves. The man screamed and tried to escape from the thrashing hooves crushing him, but in vain.
Éowyn leapt from her mount and rushed to Faramir’s side, quickly cutting through the ropes that secured him. She supported him, preventing him from falling when the bonds were loosened. “How dare they hurt you, husband!” she cried.
Any doubts Faramir harboured, that his wife still loved the King rather than him, vanished at that moment when he saw the love and concern in her eyes. The surge of elation he felt was swiftly quelled by his concern for Aragorn. “My hurts are but slight,” he said, trying to flex his arms, which felt as if they had been torn from their sockets. “I fear they have killed the King, though! Please see how he fares!”
Éowyn hastened to where Aragorn was secured. Faramir stumbled along behind her. Faramir feared they were too late as he helped his wife cut the ropes. A wave of guilt swept over him. As Steward, he ought to have been able to protect his lord! Aragorn’s head lolled lifelessly to one side. The arrow protruded from his chest, and his many open wounds oozed blood. His bonds severed, Aragorn sank limply to the ground. Hindered by his injuries, Faramir was unable to support him. Much to his Steward’s relief, when Aragorn hit the ground, he moaned and curled into a ball, as if trying to ward off further blows.
Faramir sank to his knees, trying to cradle the King in his arms. “He is alive! Help him, Éowyn please! You are trained in healing arts,” he begged. He feared though, all they could do was to make the King’s last moments more comfortable.
Éowyn stood looking down at Aragorn with an unreadable expression, unpleasantly reminiscent of that of a cat, which had just captured a particularly stubborn rodent.
“Leave me, Faramir, save yourself!” Aragorn murmured before losing consciousness again.
Éowyn’s expression suddenly softened. “Can you help me get him on the horse?” she asked. “I have nothing here with which to bind his wounds.”
Faramir nodded. “ I can do what I must. How badly is the King injured?”
“I cannot tell until I’ve examined him.” Éowyn replied. ”His wounds are not bleeding profusely, which is good sign, but if the arrow has pierced his lung, I fear he has little chance of surviving. I am more concerned about your hurts, though, my lord.”
“I have a few lashes, cuts and bruises, nothing worse. Do not worry about me. The King needs your help far more,” Faramir insisted. ”Let us get him back to the Hunting Lodge if it is safe to move him.”
“We have no choice,” said Éowyn. She led Windfola to where Aragorn lay and murmured in his ear. The well-schooled horse sank to his knees beside the King. Éowyn and Faramir lifted Aragorn across his back.
“You mount behind the King and see he doesn’t fall,” said Éowyn, easing the limp body into the saddle. “I’ll ride Iavas and Roheryn can follow.
“What about the bodies?” Faramir asked.
“Let the wolves devour them!” Éowyn snapped. “They do not deserve a grave.”
Faramir held on to Aragorn as best he could, trying his best to prevent him from sliding off the horse. Aragorn moaned softly but seemed unaware of his surroundings. The ride, though but a short distance, felt endless.
When they finally reached the Hunting Lodge, Éowyn helped Faramir lift Aragorn from the saddle. She shouted to the Housekeeper to fetch towels,old sheets and hot water.
They half dragged, half carried the semi conscious Aragorn to his bedroom, and laid him of the huge bed. A fire was already burning in the grate and the lamps were lit against the gathering dusk of the late afternoon.
Éowyn only now noticed Faramir’s torn clothing. The lashes from the whip appeared like scarlet ribbons, visible where his clothing had been shredded. “I shall tend you first, my husband,” she said firmly, her eyes brimming with concern.
Faramir shook his head though touched by her obvious distress. “They treated the King far more cruelly. My hurts are slight compared with what they did to him.”
Éowyn nodded reluctantly. At that moment, one of the maids arrived with the water,sheets and towels. Éowyn took them from the girl at the door, rather than letting her enter the room and gape at the stricken King. Frowning, she placed the bowls by the bed and washed her hands, sizing up the King’s condition as she did so. Her frown deepened. “You must let me see your hurts if I’m to help you.” she said firmly, trying to rouse Aragorn.
Aragorn instinctively curled up, his hands clutching his wounded body as if expecting further mistreatment.
Faramir moved nearer and gently gripped the King’s hands. “Please my lord.” he begged. “Let us aid you, I beg of you!”
Aragorn opened his eyes, their expression one of pain and confusion. He groaned again, but made no further attempt to resist their ministrations when they touched him.
Faramir gently prised his clutching hands away, as he moved to assist Éowyn.
“That arrow must be removed first.” Éowyn announced “We need to turn him on his back.”
Aragorn groaned in agony at the pressure of the mattress against his wounds.
“I’d better get a knife,” Éowyn said, calling to the servant, whom she had instructed to wait outside the door. “It will have to be cut out.”
Faramir knew the arrow must be removed, but wondered how much more Aragorn could endure. He feared he must be very close to death already. The Steward noticed for the first time, that the King was wearing what remained of a silk shirt. “You should try pulling it out first,” he said. I will him.”
“I will tear the flesh further if I do that!” Éowyn protested. “One should never pull out an arrow.”
“Just try, I have a feeling it might work,” Faramir urged. He gripped Aragorn’s arms and held them He could not bring himself to look at the stricken King’s face as Aragorn cried out in agony.
Éowyn took hold of the arrow and almost fell backwards it came away so easily. She stared in amazement at the discarded arrow, now lying on the floor. Hastily, she grabbed a towel and pressed it over the wound to staunch the bleeding.
“Arrows can come out easily if the victim is wearing a silk shirt, ” Faramir explained, The Easterlings are hard to best in battle, for they take little hurt from our arrow unless a vital organ is pierced. Silk so strong that it protects the flesh from being torn.”
“He is not bleeding from the mouth and this blood o isn’t pink or frothy, so I don’t think his lung was pieced,” Éowyn pronounced as the bleeding started to slow. “It appears to be just a flesh wound to the shoulder, which should heal cleanly enough.” She secured a makeshift bandage, and then sighed at the prospect of tending the many wounds covering Aragorn’s bloodied and battered form. “I hardly know where to start,” she murmured, picking up a knife. “Help me get these rags off him so I can see the rest of his hurts properly.” She started to cut off the remainder of his clothing and pulled the rags away from the injured flesh.
Faramir grabbed one of the towels and placed it over the King’s hips in an attempt to preserve some dignity for his lord.
“I have seen plenty of unclothed males in my time.” she said with wry amusement, much to Faramir’s shocked surprise. “Your Gondorian women are very sheltered compared with those of the Mark!”
Aragorn felt he was having a nightmare; his whole body throbbed with pain, varying in intensity according to where he was being prodded. He had often been wounded in battle, but this pain seemed far worst. Mocking voices echoed round his confused brain, followed by an unpleasant sensation that he was lying naked on a bed under the harsh scrutiny of Lady Éowyn’s gaze. He forced himself to open his eyes to dispel the vision, only to see her blonde hair and grey eyes hovering above him. He closed his eyes again, for even Arwen had never seen him thus. They always changed into their night attire in their dressing rooms and blew out the bedside candles as soon as they had got into bed. And where was Arwen? Where was he for that matter? He tried to speak, but the pain was too great to allow him to utter any other sound than a high-pitched moan.
Faramir reached out and clasped Aragorn’s hand. “You are safe at the Hunting Lodge now, my King.” he said soothingly.
“Come on, help me move him on his side,” Éowyn ordered impatiently. ”The sooner we get this over with, the better.” She pulled away the last shreds of Aragorn’s ruined clothing and expertly examined him, pressing her fingers down none too gently to check for broken bones. Once she would have delighted in touching Aragorn’s flesh. Now, she felt only revulsion. “I can’t find any fractures,” she said at last. “There are countless wounds, but none of them seem very deep.”
“Will he live?” Faramir asked her. “Can you save him?”
“His heart still beats strongly, so he may yet recover. That is; so long he can endure the pain and does not develop any serious infection,” she replied. “Each wound is not dangerous of itself, but there are so very many. I can but clean and bandage them and hope for the best.”
Éowyn called for the servants and ordered them to bring more hot water, cloths, and salt. Settling herself on the edge of the bed, she held up a lamp to better examine the cruel lash marks crisscrossing Aragorn’s back. “I will start by cleaning these.” she said “They will be the hardest to treat, as there are fragments of bark and even small insects in them. I fear infection is inevitable.”
Faramir shuddered, remembering the men flinging the King against the ash tree and his agonised cry when the rough bark jarred the torn flesh.
Adding some salt to the hot water, Éowyn placed the cloth on Aragorn’s back to start the cleansing, rubbing the lacerated flesh much as if she were scouring a cooking pot.
Aragorn struggled and cried out as the pain intensified.
“Hold him still!” Éowyn instructed Faramir. “This must be done and quickly.”
“Please be gentle.” Faramir pleaded.
“I can always get one of the maids to tend his wounds if you prefer!” she retorted tartly.
Faramir moved round to the other side of the bed preparing to secure Aragorn. The King’s eyes flickered open again. The Steward had always found it hard to meet his gaze, so piercing, and yet so compassionate. Now those same eyes were dulled with pain, fear and bewilderment. Impulsively, he held out his hands to the King. “ Éowyn needs to clean your wounds, you must be still, my lord,” he said, offering his hands in a gesture of comfort. Somewhat to his surprise, Aragorn reached out and gripped them. Faramir nodded to Éowyn to proceed.
Aragorn moaned softly but ceased struggling while Éowyn bathed and cleaned and extracted the fragments of bark from the raw wounds. His grip on Faramir’s hands tightened to the extent that Faramir almost cried out at the bone-crushing grip.
Aragorn made no further sound but silent tears rolled down his cheeks.
“That’s done!” Éowyn said at last. Aragorn loosened his grip and Faramir gave an audible sign of relief.
“So sorry… hurt you.” Aragorn whispered faintly.
“It is nothing, my lord,” Faramir replied, blinking back tears of his own. He forced himself to concentrate on wiping Aragorn’s face.
Éowyn called for more water and moved round the other side of the bed. Faramir rose to his feet giving her room to work. She thoroughly cleaned the shallow but jagged gashes disfiguring Aragorn’s chest and belly. “I need honey now, “she said.
Faramir, startled, moved back towards the bed. “Don’t you want some bread as well?” he asked, puzzled how she could eat at a time like this. He anxiously studied Aragorn, who lay panting slightly as Éowyn tended the gashes on his legs. The wounds covering his body were still bleeding sluggishly but looked clean.
“She knows what she is doing.” Aragorn’s tone was more lucid now.
“I’m glad you approve, my lord!” she answered tartly. “I will finish bathing you now.” She made as if to lift the towel covering him, then changed her mind when she saw the distress in his eyes.
“On second thoughts, my husband can bathe you, while I fetch the things I need. Unless you would rather I fetch one of the serving girls? Éowyn added. “I cannot do everything!”
“I will do it,” Faramir said. He looked somewhat uncomfortable.
Alone with the King, Faramir felt even more ill at ease and wondered where he had found the audacity to clasp his lord’s hands and wipe his tears away earlier. He would never have dared to do such a thing for his father, let alone help tend his wounds or bathe him. And Aragorn was not Denethor, Ruling Steward of Gondor, but the High King himself: a figure out of legend, the heir of Elendil wielding the Sword that was Broken and bringing healing in his hands. He picked up the cloth then hesitated, looking down at the injured man on the bed.
“I am sorry you should have to bathe me, but do it if you would, before your lady returns,” Aragorn whispered. “I neither bite nor eat my Stewards for nuncheon,” he added, amazingly with a touch of his old dry humour.
Faramir suddenly recalled when he first met Aragorn, and how the then Ranger, had fought against his own weariness to save his life. Feeling ashamed of his own reluctance, he picked up the bowl and began cleansing the blood and sweat from Aragorn’s face.
“It is my honour to serve you, my lord,” he said, hoping his customary formality would help make this far from dignified situation easier to endure.
“Please call me by my name. As you can see now, I am a man like any other!” Aragorn said softly as Faramir dried his face and started on his arms, noting as he did so, that the shoulders looked bruised and distended where the King’s arms had been stretched, while the wrists were red and raw from the where the ropes had bitten. He imagined his own body would look little better once there was time to investigate.
“As you wish, sire.” Faramir replied inadvertently disobeying the request immediately.
Aragorn said nothing; exhausted from the brief conversation. The pain from the wounds seemed to increase with every moment.
“Would you like us to try and fetch the Queen? She would be of comfort to you.” Faramir asked.
“No! I forbid it!” Aragorn shook his head and spoke with all the strength he could muster. Now consciousness had returned to him, he was all too aware how gravely hurt he was. Nothing would have comforted him more than to have Arwen beside him, but the risk was too great. “It would distress her too much to see me thus, and I would not risk our child by having her travel. I see how my hurts distress you, who were a soldier and she is not even accustomed to mortal pain and weakness. You are beside me, so I am not alone. Promise me you will not send for her!”
“I promise,” Faramir could see the wisdom behind the King’s words. He realised what the shock of seeing her husband so cruelly hurt could do to the gentle Elf, although he wished someone better qualified than himself could comfort Aragorn. “I will not leave you,” Faramir added.
He continued cleaning the blood and grime away methodically, but hesitated when he reached the towel covering his hips.
“Please do it, Faramir, rather you than your wife or a serving maid,” Aragorn said ruefully. “Alas I am too weak to help myself.”
Despite the Aragorn’s words, Faramir felt he was committing almost a sacrilege to see the high King unclothed. Aragorn might appear the same as any other man, but he was not just any Man, but the greatest that now lived. To the Steward’s relief, he did not uncover any further injuries apart from a few bruises. Once Aragorn was washed and dried from head to toe, Faramir took up a clean towel and wound it round Aragorn’s hips fastening it like a loincloth.
“Thirsty.” Aragorn murmured. He sounded too exhausted to speak.
Faramir filled a cup with some of the clean boiled water and supported the King’s head as he drank. Aragorn managed to swallow several mouthfuls.
Éowyn returned just as Faramir was replacing the cup on the table.
“You look as if you just climbed Orodruin!” she exclaimed, seeing her husband’s expression.
“That was the High King, you just told me to care for!” Faramir replied. ”I have often helped look after my men when they were injured, but they were not figures out of legend!”
“After a few days of bathing, changing bandages and dealing with him when he needs the privy, I doubt you will be so awestruck!” she commented wryly. “My brother might well be King of the Riddermark now, but he still gets wet if he falls in horse trough!” She placed the pot of honey on a table by the bed before beginning to tear the sheets into strips. Faramir helped her, wishing his arms and shoulders did not ache so much, not to mention the dull throbbing in his back.
TBC
A/N
It is a known fact about silk shirts providing some protection from arrow wounds. They were worn by Ghenhis Khan's warriors.