II

When he woke again, Faramir seemed to be alone. He turned his head to the side and saw Eowyn curled up next to his pallet, sleeping. Not alone then. Good. He watched her for several minutes, watched her breathing, took in the golden reflection of the firelight on her beautiful hair. How had he gotten so lucky as to have this woman, this magnificent woman, be his own?

Then the reason for his waking made itself known to him and he grimaced. He hadn't been up since he'd fallen and was unsure he could manage it. But he refused to be tended like an infant, determined to manage it himself. Nothing could be too terrible if he could still stand and piss on his own.

He twisted until he could get his good arm under him, then levered himself upright. He sat for awhile, waiting for his head to stop spinning, waiting for everything to settle down. Then he eased his legs out from under the blanket, pausing again before he attempted to get to his feet.

"Are you going somewhere, my lord Steward?" The King was standing in the mouth of the chamber, arms folded across his chest, gazing at Faramir.

Faramir looked up guiltily, then looked away and sighed. "I have pressing needs outside," he said.

Aragorn made no reply, simply stepped over to him and assisted him to his feet. The King walked him to the spot outside the cave they used for such things, and waited patiently while Faramir took care of his needs, grateful he didn't need assistance with that as well, though fastening his trousers singlehanded almost proved to be his undoing.

Once he was done, Aragorn helped him back inside, assisting him back to his pallet.

Eowyn was awake and sitting up, and she helped settle him. Even after the very short trip, Faramir was exhausted and it felt good to lie down again.

"How are you feeling?" Aragorn asked.

"A little better," Faramir answered. "A little less dizzy but still very tired. And strangely, starving."

Aragorn smiled. "That is something we can help with." He called to one of the other men to bring food. "And your memories?" he asked.

Faramir shook his head. "Nothing. It's as if.... As if I simply didn't exist for the past month. In my mind, I should still be in Gondor, planning my wedding and waiting for your return." He looked sadly at Eowyn. "I'm sorry, love."

She looked down, but not before he saw the glitter in her eyes. But when she looked at him again, she was smiling, even through the tears. "What matters is that you will get better, my love. That's all I care about. We can make more memories. To be honest," she laughed softly, "it was a very short wedding, not at all the sort of thing a girl dreams of. Perhaps we can do it again, properly this time."

He smiled at her, absolutely awed by her compassion and bravery. "I think I'd like that," he said.

"At the very least," Aragorn added, taking a bowl of stew from one of the soldiers and handing it to Faramir, "you must be feasted properly. Our continued relations with Rohan require it."

Faramir sat up and looked at the stew, then at his bride. "You didn't make this, did you?" he asked with a wry grin.

She opened her mouth in surprise, but her eyes were laughing. "Oh, that you remember, but not our wedding night?" It was good to see her smile, to be able to tease her and know she'd give back as good as she got. She didn't deserve all the bad things that had happened to her.

"Rest assured," Aragorn said, "this comes from the men, not from the lady Eowyn." He grinned at her. "Your lady has many fine and admirable qualities, my lord, but alas, cooking is not one of them."

"Why didn't anyone tell me how bad it was?" she exclaimed, laughing.

"I wouldn't have inflicted it on you had I known."

"Surely, it wasn't that bad?" Faramir asked, starting in on his stew. It was hot and it warmed him.

"I'm afraid it really was," she said. "I tried some myself, but then I was too embarrassed to say anything. And Lord Aragorn sat there with this long-suffering look on his face and pretended to like it."

Faramir watched them laughing together, a shared history he didn't have with her. Not only that, but he couldn't remember a significant portion of the history he did have with her. But strangely, he felt none of the jealousy or pain he used to feel when thinking of them together. Perhaps because she'd proved her devotion to him simply by being here in his time of need. Perhaps because the King had saved his life–again. Or perhaps it was that he knew now that she truly was his. He might not remember their wedding, but the ring she wore on her finger left no doubt that Eowyn belonged to Faramir. And he belonged to her.

He looked down at his bare hands, then back at Eowyn. "Do I wear your ring?" he asked. It was odd how he was starting to be able to ask questions like this without flinching. His lack of memories was becoming a part of who he was.

Eowyn frowned. "You had a ring that I gave you at our wedding. I do not know what became of it."

"I can answer that," Aragorn answered. "Our third day here we engaged our enemy at dawn and fought them hand-to-hand. The ring slipped off your finger in the skirmish. You found it again, but vowed to never wear it in the field, for fear of losing it. You'll find it in the pocket of your tunic." He handed the garment to Faramir, who rummaged through his pockets until he found it. He pulled it out and slipped it on his finger, and it felt like it had always been there. He gazed at his hand, at the way the intricate gold carvings on the Rohirric band caught the light.

"It is of Rohan," he murmured, then looked at Eowyn. "Like my bride."

She smiled and blushed. "And mine is of Gondor." She held out her hand to him.

He held her hand and studied the ring; he remembered buying it for her, shortly after he'd returned to Gondor. Its delicate pattern had appealed to him and reminded him of her. He entwined his fingers with hers.

"With these tokens, we need nothing else," he murmured. For a long moment they gazed at each other, looks of love passing between them. Then the moment ended. She dropped her eyes and let go of his hand. "You should eat," she said.

He ate a bit more of his stew, but found his hunger had left him after only a few mouthsful. "When will we return to Minas Tirith?" he asked instead.

"As soon as you are strong enough," Aragorn told him. "But lest you fear this has been an idle time, the men have been using it to secure the area and make sure the Easterling threat has been eradicated."

"And has it been?" Faramir asked.

"For the moment. We have no doubts they will try again. There is too much hatred there for us to dwell in peace, unfortunately. But they received a rout; they will not be anxious to tangle with Gondor again too quickly."

"Can we leave tomorrow?"

"Do you feel up to it?" Aragorn asked.

"Not up to a long hike, no, but I imagine I can sit a horse, as long as I don't have to do anything too strenuous."

"Then we will plan on it," Aragorn nodded and stood. "I will leave you to finish eating."

"No, I'm done." Faramir handed the bowl back to him. At his questioning look, he explained, "Not as hungry as I thought I was. But I'm fine. Just tired."

"Then you should rest; tomorrow will be difficult for you, I have no doubt." So saying, he left the small cave chamber, leaving them alone.

They gazed at each other for a long moment, feeling an awkwardness between them he hadn't felt in a very long time. He raised his arm to her and she moved to him, sitting on his pallet and taking him in her arms. His arm went around her and he rested his head on her shoulder. His broken wrist, which had rested in his lap, she picked up tenderly, holding it in her hand before she set it in her own lap. She kissed his hair and stroked his shoulder. It felt so good, simply holding her, being held by her. Not talking, no sorrow, no worries. Just themselves.

Faramir felt himself start to drift to sleep and raised his head. "I need to sleep. Will you stay with me?"

She stroked a hand down the side of his face. "Always."

The morning dawned cloudy with autumn rains threatening.

"Are you sure you're up to this?" Aragorn asked as he came in to check on Faramir. "We do not need to go today."

Faramir shook his head. "I am more than ready to be home. I'll be fine."

Aragorn stroked a hand over his forehead and frowned. "How are you feeling?"

"No worse than yesterday. I will be fine," Faramir insisted.

"The fever still lingers," Aragorn said. "You are warmer than you were yesterday."

"My lord, I am returning to Minas Tirith today," Faramir insisted, "if I have to crawl to get there."

Aragorn just stared at him for a moment. "Then let us away."

He helped Faramir to his feet. Eowyn had already helped him with his boots and his tunic. He would forego his leather jerkin, so the only other thing he needed was his cloak. And this the King picked up and set about Faramir's shoulders, tying it at the neck.

"Ready, my Lord Steward?"

"Ready, my Liege," Faramir nodded. Keeping a hand under Faramir's arm, the King escorted him to the waiting horses.

The first challenge came as he approached the horse. He was used to mounting from the left, but his left leg wouldn't support him as he tried to swing up into the saddle. Mounting from the right was awkward, and from the right it should have been his left hand that held the reins. But since that was impossible, he attempted to do it with the reins in his right hand, but couldn't get the correct leverage. Ultimately, two of the rangers helped get him into his saddle, and once he was there, a wave of dizziness rolled over him and he held on tight.

"My Lord?" the nearest ranger began.

Faramir opened his eyes. "I'm all right." He looked around the gathering; everyone was mounted and waiting for him. "Let's go."

Aragorn nodded and with a flick of his wrist, urged his mount forward. The rest of the troop moved out, Eowyn and Faramir fell into line with them.

She looked at him, concerned. "You are pale," she told him.

"I'll be fine," he dismissed and hoped he sounded more confident than he felt. The horse was a new one for him, his own mount having been killed in the ambush, and he was having a hard time finding his seat. Every step jarred his shoulder, despite his arm being strapped to his body for the journey. His leg was weak enough that posting was very nearly impossible. And the dizziness didn't abate. But he had had enough of Henneth Annun, peaceful though the spot might be. He wanted to sleep in a real bed, and wash himself properly. And eat good food. But mostly, he wanted to take his wife home and start on making new memories with her.

He managed well enough until the rain started. But then the cold sting, even through his hooded cloak, seemed to sap what little strength he had left. He closed his eyes, grateful his horse was steady and dependable. The dizziness got worse, bringing with it wild fantasies–nothing he could even describe, but strange, disjointed images and sounds he was helpless to identify. It seemed to him that he was traveling over some alien terrain, heading somewhere indescribable, and a feeling of panic washed over him.

He opened his eyes with a gasp and found himself slumped over the horse's withers, the party stopped and the King dismounted and at his side.

Aragorn touched the side of his face worriedly. "The fever is worsening," he said, though Faramir got the impression it was not said to him. "He will not make it at this rate."

"I'll be all right," Faramir insisted, pushing himself upright in the saddle again. The movement caused him to wince in pain and another wave of dizziness swamped him.

"Not if you fall from your saddle," Aragorn said wryly. "We will send a rider ahead and have them send a boat to Cair Andros. We can make our way there instead and take the boat down the river to Minas Tirith."

"That will take at least another day," Faramir shook his head. "I'd rather push on through."

"It isn't a matter of you pushing anywhere, Prince Faramir," Aragorn said sternly, and his use of Faramir's title was proof of his irritation. "You will do no one any good, least of all yourself, if you fall from your horse. You are not up to making this ride yet. I should not have let you begin until the fever was gone."

"Cannot one of us assist him?" That was Eowyn. "When one of our Riders is injured, another Rider will take him on his horse, to keep him safe until they can reach safety. Carrying him in a litter will take too long, and if we really are so far from Cair Andros that there will be even more delay, we should not take that road; if Faramir's fever has returned, we should get him to Minas Tirith and the healers as soon as possible."

Aragorn frowned and looked from Eowyn to Faramir to the rangers and back again. He sighed. "Get him off his horse and onto Brego," he said.

Faramir let the soldiers manhandle him off of his mount and onto the King's stallion. Aragorn then mounted behind him, pulling him back against his body, an arm locked around him. For Faramir's part, though he resented the notion that he could not ride into Minas Tirith under his own power, simply having the King's strong presence at his back made him feel immeasurably better.

"Hold on, my brother," Aragorn murmured in his ear, "this will not be comfortable." Then he raised his voice. "We ride to Minas Tirith. Quickly now." He kicked Brego forward and they took off at a fast canter.

It was a peculiar sensation, feeling the horse beneath him and yet having no control over the beast. And even though the King had his arm clamped around Faramir's body, supporting the injured arm even more, the jostling was still very nearly excruciating. He closed his eyes against the pain, biting his lip to keep from crying out. The headache worsened along with the dizziness, and Faramir was positive if he opened his eyes, all he'd see was a spinning vortex and he would be lost. So he resolutely kept his eyes shut, holding onto the saddle's pommel with his good hand, his fingers digging into the leather. He didn't know at what point he ceased to be aware of his surroundings, nor when his head fell back onto Aragorn's shoulder. He thought he heard his lord tell him something, but he couldn't understand the words. Everything reduced to the pain in his head, the hot flush of his skin, and the jarring of the road....

The slowing rhythm of the horse brought Faramir to wakefulness and he struggled to open his eyes. They were entering the main gate of Minas Tirith, clattering into the central courtyard. As soon as the horse stopped, Faramir was removed from it and carefully transferred onto a waiting stretcher.

He looked around. How had he gotten here? The last thing he remembered.... "Where are.... How...?"

"Easy, my lord Steward," the King said. "Hurry, get him to the Warden," he told the soldiers who bore the stretcher. "Tell him I shall be there directly."

"My lord, what...?" Faramir started to question, but the men started off and he let his head fall back with a sigh. He was too tired, too wet, and too in pain to give his present predicament much thought. He was in Minas Tirith, therefore, he was safe. That would do for now.

Chapter 3
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