III

He remembered being stripped of wet clothes and wrapped in warm robes and blankets. He remembered low lights that were vaguely familiar. He remembered hearing voices, indistinct, knowing they were talking about him, wanting to answer their queries, but lacking the strength to do so.

He remembered shivering, then sweating, then shivering again. He remembered swirling dizziness and nausea followed by gut-clenching retching. He remembered a mouth dry as dust and lips that cracked, and then he remembered cool liquid that soothed his parched throat and a second one that tasted vile but seeped warmth into every part of him.

He remembered a hand, a tender hand with slender fingers, that mopped his brow and stroked his temples. He remembered a beautiful face, gazing at him with tears in her eyes. He remembered whispered endearments and soothing phrases.

But when Faramir crawled out of the abyss he'd fallen into, he could not remember how he'd gotten here.

He lay still, listening to his own breathing, daring to open his eyes and look around the small chamber. It was a room in the Houses of Healing, he recognized that much. And he remembered his injuries in Ithilien, though how he'd actually come by him was still gone.

Now, apparently, so was the journey from Ithilien to Minas Tirith. He had vague recollections of going to sleep, Eowyn at his side, content in the knowledge that tomorrow they were going home. Now here he was, but without any memory of having traveled here. Had he ridden? Had they had to carry him? He was certain the King had some part in it, but he couldn't remember what.

He lay back with a sigh. How much time had he lost this time? How much more of his life would vanish before he was finally himself again?

A door opened and a woman looked inside. She was a stranger to him, plain, but with a warm, sensible face. She saw him looking at her and her eyes widened. "You're awake!" she exclaimed, a smile tranforming her plain face. "I will tell the Warden." She disappeared and Faramir twisted to get his good arm under him in order to sit up further against the pillows. Beyond a lingering fatigue, he felt better than he remembered feeling in quite some time.

In a moment, the door opened again and the Warden came in, accompanied by the woman.

"My Lord Steward, welcome back," he said. Together the two of them settled him higher in the bed and the healer commenced a quick examination, inspecting Faramir's eyes, touching his forehead, his cheek, sliding hands up and down his neck and throat, touching the back of his head where the lump, though less painful, was still making its presence known. "How do you feel?"

"Better, I think," Faramir answered honestly. He felt better than he had in Henneth Annun, and honestly couldn't remember how he'd felt when he arrived in Minas Tirith. "Tired still."

"Well, your fever appears to be gone, hopefully for good this time," the healer answered, pressing a hand against Faramir's forehead again. "Do you still have a headache?"

"Only a little one," Faramir answered. "Thirsty."

The woman poured a glass and held it for him as he sipped. He wanted to hold his own glass, but didn't feel like making a fuss. It wasn't worth it. He nodded when he was done and she took the glass away.

The healer, meanwhile was prodding Faramir's wrist with gentle fingers. "How does your shoulder feel?"

"All right."

"Aye, it would, what with your not using it. Once you've been up and about, then we'll see."

Suddenly, it hit Faramir what was missing. "Where is Eowyn?" he asked. "Where is my wife?"

"Resting," the healer told him. "She barely left your side for three days while the fever raged."

"Three days. Is that how long I've been here?"

"Aye. You were in a pretty rough state when they brought you in. A couple of times I thought we were going to lose you. But the King is a mighty healer. He refused to give up on you. Him and your lady wife, one of them was with you constantly, until last night when the fever broke."

Faramir managed a smile. He ought to be used by now to people telling him things that happened to him without any recollection of his own, but it was still a peculiar sensation.

The healer was still speaking. "I've sent word to the King; he'll want to know you're awake."

"Thank you."

The healer unwrapped his leg, examining the wound. The skin around it was discolored, but it didn't look infected. He finished his examination. "Well, you've still got a bit of recovering ahead of you, but you look to be on the mend."

"When can I go home?"

"Oh, not for a few days yet, I should think. Give yourself time to rest, give your body time to recover. You've had quite an ordeal, my lord, especially coming so soon after your previous bout...." The words sputtered and the healer looked away evasively. No one liked to talk about that time and Faramir's brush with darkness then.

"What day is it?" he asked to change the subject.

"It's a Thursday, my lord, Thursday, October 22nd."

Faramir nodded. The last day he remembered clearly was September 17th. Other than scattered memories after his fall, he'd basically lost an entire month. In that month, he had married and gone to war and been injured and been near death. And none of it was known to him personally, except for the part about feeling very ill.

"Thank you," he managed, and the healer finished his examination and they left him alone. He sighed, closing his eyes again. He might not be fevered any longer, but he was far from well.

He drifted for a time until he heard the door open and someone come in. He opened his eyes. The King was studying him intently. When he saw Faramir looking at him, he smiled.

"You do know how to make the most of an illness, brother," he said wryly.

"I've never believed in half-measures," Faramir answered the jibe and Aragorn chuckled.

"How do you fare?" he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed. He took Faramir's hand and with his other hand stroked over Faramir's forehead, cheeks and neck, no doubt feeling for fever.

"Still very tired. As it even to lift my head is an effort. But at least that head is somewhat clearer. Aragorn–"

"What is it?"

"I've lost more time."

"What have you lost?"

"I remember planning to set out from Henneth Annun in the morning. And then I know nothing else until I woke up a few minutes ago."

"You remember nothing?"

"Fleeting images, as always. But I can't be certain whether they are real or just the fancy of a fevered brain. I seem to remember some very horrific things, and I am sure they were merely nightmares brought on by fever."

"Yes," Aragorn nodded, "you were delirious for a time, when the fever was at its worst."

Faramir's eyes slid closed with a groan. "Did I say or do anything I should know about?" He opened his eyes. "Did I say anything to hurt Eowyn?"

Aragorn shook his head and wrapped both hands around his. "It was mostly disjointed words. Occasionally there were things that would start to make sense, but then it would be gone. You cried out for Boromir. And once you cried for your father. That is all."

"And Eowyn. Did I know her?"

"You recognized no one."

Faramir turned his head away, miserably. He couldn't seem to stop hurting the one he should most love.

"Faramir," Aragorn interrupted his moody musing. "She does not blame you. She loves you. You must stop these self-recriminations, they do no one any good, least of all you. You need your strength to get well, not to waste it on unfounded anxieties."

"I cannot remember my wedding day," he said. "That is hardly unfounded."

Aragorn stroked a hand from forehead to jaw, repeating the action to soothe Faramir. "No, that is a side-effect of your injury and your illness. What is unfounded is your fear that you have wounded your lady in some way. She is no simple child; she is an intelligent woman who makes her own decisions, forms her own opinions. And her opinion of you has only strengthened in these difficult days."

"How could it?" he insisted.

"Because she loves you. And that is all that matters," Aragorn said simply. "Shall I call her? Let you see for yourself that she is true?"

Faramir desperately wanted to see her. But he shook his head. "If she has just gone to get some rest I would not have her disturbed. I have sat at a sickbed before, it is very wearying." He took a deep breath, feeling his anxiety replaced by bone-numbing fatigue. "I'm still so tired...." he mumbled, his eyes sliding shut.

"You should rest," Aragorn said. "When you wake, perhaps your mind will be a little clearer, unburdened by your fatigue."

"Mmm," Faramir sighed, then he opened his eyes again. "How stands Ithilien?"

"Beregond and Holdane have the Rangers and the supplemental guards and continue to patrol the borderlands. The invasion we feared was more like a small guerrilla force, but they have been routed out and destroyed. Gondor has no friend in Rhun, but at least for the moment, war has been avoided."

"Good," Faramir nodded. He looked at the king. "Was...was I any use?"

Aragorn smiled, his thumb massaging Faramir's temple. "You are always of use," he said. "But to answer specifically, yes. There were several places in the high hills that neither Beregond nor his company knew about. You were able to lead a raid there and quash several cells of Easterlings. Your knowledge of the region was invaluable. So in spite of everything, brother, your being in Ithilien was very advantageous. We made the right decision in having you go."

"Well, that's good to know, at any rate," Faramir murmured, his eyes closing again.

"Rest, brother," Aragorn soothed, stroking Faramir's hair. "Rest and recover your strength. All will be well."

Out of nowhere, the Easterlings attacked, and Eowyn was by herself in the woods north of Henneth Annun, picking herbs that Lord Aragorn had asked her for. He tried to find her, but his path was blocked by kohl-eyed masked rebels of Rhun who ran past him, blocking his path. They did not attack him, they simply ploughed past, heading for something behind him. He turned around and saw the King surrounded by Easterling fighters, attempting to battle them off single-handed while all around him, Rangers lay dead or dying. He took a step toward him, to go to his King's aid, when he heard a scream and spun around again. An Easterling soldier had Eowyn in his grasp, pawing at her body as she struggled helplessly against him....

"Eowyn!" Faramir awoke with a gasp.

"My love?" His wife looked up from her book. He stared at her, wide-eyed, still in the grip of the dream. His chest heaved and he felt bile rising in his throat. "Faramir, what is wrong?" she asked, concerned.

The paralysis of his nightmare finally departed and he exhaled, part sigh, part sob. "Eowyn...."

She sat on the side of the bed and gathered him into her arms. He held on, trembling, unable to stop the tears. "Shh, my love, it's all right. It's all right, everything will be all right," she soothed. "It was just a dream, it's over now. You're safe."

"I... You.... I...." he tried, but there were no words, only overwhelming emotion. But as she held him, as she comforted him, the fear eased and the knives he felt whenever he took a breath went away. Eventually, his breathing steadied and he sighed, raising his head. "I'm sorry."

"Shh, it's all right," she whispered, smoothing his hair. "That must have been some dream."

He nodded and swallowed against the acid in his mouth. "We were under attack. Everyone else was dead or dying. The King was surrounded and you were...." he felt the bile rise again. "You were–"

"Shhh," she soothed. "It doesn't matter."

"I couldn't save you," he whispered. "I couldn't save either of you." He felt himself start to shake again as the vivid dream returned to him and pinched his eyes shut.

"Shhh," she soothed again. "It was a dream, love. Not reality. Faramir, look at me." She turned his head and he forced his eyes open. She was gazing at him, her face showing worry and love. "Here is your reality, love. I am with you and all is well. Hush, now."

He gazed at her for a long time, drinking her in. Then he clutched at her, kissing her as if his life depended on it. Perhaps it did.

Eventually, the panic receded and he raised his head. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

"No more," she murmured. "Just relax."

She eased him back in the bed, stroking his hair, his temple, her thumb drawing between his brows, easing the tension there. He closed his eyes, reveling in her touch. He knew the nightmare had been simply that: wild conjurings by a mind too recently fevered. But the vividness refused to let him go. And when she withdrew, he caught her hand, holding her. "Don't go," he said, hearing the panic in his voice.

"I'm not going far, just–" she began, then stroked his cheek again and chuckled. "Oh, why not? Let's shock the Warden." She lifted the blanket and slid into the narrow sick-bed with him, gathering him into her arms again. He held onto her as if she were his lifeline. Which she probably was. She pressed little kisses to his hair, his forehead, his eyelids, his temples. She murmured meaningless endearments to him; he didn't care what she said, it was simply the sound of her voice he clung to.

Until eventually the panic receded entirely, pushed away by her pervasive love.

"I'm s–" he began but she put a finger on his lips.

"Shh, no more," she soothed. "Rest, love."

There was nothing else for it but to do as she said.

Chapter 4
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