The Strength and Truth of Men by Raiyana

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The House of Healing

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Corsairs who were not corsairs, on ships freed by the dead. Imrahil shook himself. Even the infrequent Sight that ran in his line could not have prepared him for the sight of the dead meting death to the living. He shifted on his horse. What manner of man was this Aragorn who had claimed the forsworn of Isildur? 

Éomer, now King, rode beside him in stern silence, grief for his late uncle and years of worry carved in the lines upon his face. A grim King for a grim time, but perhaps he would stand Rohan in better stead than it had suffered in years before; some hope, there, amid the horror of war around them. The air still echoed with the screams of the dying. 

The Gates loomed before them, broken open to reveal the chaos within. Where was Denethor? Surely Mithrandir’s urgent issue could not have kept the Steward from his duties to his people?

“Behold the Sun setting in a great fire!” Aragorn exclaimed, his face to the west. 

Imrahil, too, saw fire – and smoke, rising from lower and upper levels – but it was little comfort. How many had been lost to the Enemy this day? How many laments would be sung for them until no singers remained? They had won the day, yes, but the strength of Mordor had been barely tested, if Denethor’s spies could be trusted.

“It is a sign of the end and fall of many things, and a change in the tides of the world,” Aragorn continued, giving his words the weight of a crowned ruler. 

Imrahil half expected him to declare himself King in that very moment, stepping into the city as its conqueror. 

“But this City and realm has rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long years,”Aragorn said, “and I fear that if I enter it unbidden, then doubt and debate may arise, which should not be while this war is fought.” 

At least he had some sense; additional turmoil would only weaken them further. Imrahil breathed a light sigh of relief. 

“I will not enter in, nor make any claim, until it be seen whether we or Mordor shall prevail.” Aragorn nodded to himself, waving a hand at one of the grey-clad men who had travelled with him. “We shall pitch tents upon the field, and here I will await the welcome of the Lord of the City.”

Denethor would eat him alive. Imrahil nodded, preparing to enter the city alone; Denethor needed his reports, surely, wherever he was. Beyond the gates, Húrin nodded sombrely at him, a gesture Imrahil returned, pleased to see the apparent good health of his old acquaintance. 

Beside him, Éomer seemed to come awake, staring at Aragorn with a questioning look on his face. “But you have raised the banner of the Kings and displayed the tokens of Elendil’s House,” he said, gesturing at the cloth snapping in the wind that Imrahil had seen so briefly as it was unrolled against the wooden planks of what he now knew to be a ship in Pelargir. “Will you suffer these to be challenged?”

“No,” said Aragorn. For a moment, Imrahil truly wished Denethor had met them at the gate, if only to witness what might have passed between them. “But I deem the time unripe; and I have no mind for strife except with our Enemy and his servants.”

That deserved some reward, at least, even if he could not quite force himself to forget the sight of Pelargir overrun by the dead following in Aragorn’s wake to properly appreciate the fulfilment of the ancient prophecies. “Your words, lord, are wise,” he said, the first he had spoken directly to Aragorn since he was introduced, “if one who is a kinsman of the Lord Denethor may counsel you in this matter.”

Aragorn nodded, and Imrahil felt a light resentment at the implied permission; clearly this would-be King who would suffer no challenger to his rule, already acted as though he had been crowned and enthroned for a score years. 

Just who was this ‘mere Ranger’?

“Denethor is strong-willed and proud, but old; and his mood has been strange since his son was stricken down,” Imrahil continued, hoping that Boromir had made it to Faramir’s bed before the boy expired. Perhaps he might even have found some healing for his own hurts, even if he never had had a mind for himself if others were suffering. So like his mother, that boy. Imrahil shook himself, forcing his attention back to the group lingering at the gate like beggars at the door. The image did not sit well. “I would not have you remain like a beggar at the door.” Denethor would simply have to forgive him – he could put the man up with ease in his own house, had already offered such to Éomer, and old Mistress Derneth would simply have to cope with the influx of visitors. At least Ivriniel had remained in Dol Amroth, safe in her tower as Lothíriel ran the city around her.

“Not a beggar,” said Aragorn. “Say a captain of the Rangers, who are unused to cities and houses of stone.” 

Imrahil frowned, but the banner was already being furled once more, and the Star of the North Kingdom given to the keeping of a pair of Elves so similar they must be twins, something in their faces echoes in Aragorn’s that suggested kinship. 

“Then I offer you my hospitality, Éomer King, and my company to see the Steward and your Uncle,” Imrahil said, nodding once in farewell to Aragorn before they set off, the horses picking their way through the bustle and throngs of people. Imrahil kept a calm look on his face, greeting a few merchants and nobles he recognised in passing, though he merely waved off Duinhir’s offer of a drink, giving him condolences on the death of his sons. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, too aware that Duinhir’s grief was beyond his understanding; both sons lost, and his line ended, while Imrahil had lost none of his children. Denethor would have had words to say, perhaps; he had always possessed the skill, and even if Boromir had returned like a hero out of legend, still Denethor – and the city itself – had believed him dead and the line of Stewards at its end with Faramir dying.

Of course, he mused, feeling a strange twist of humour at the thought, now the line of Stewards would be ended, too, if rather at its triumphant conclusion of its long duty. 

“One more level,” Imrahil said, guiding his horse ever upwards. “Denethor will be in the Hall of the Tower of Ecthelion, and if your Uncle is not there, he will know where his bier has been set.” 

Éomer nodded grimly, his horse following closely, the big grey dancing lightly along the cobbles even though it had to be as tired as its rider. 

“When you have seen him, and given him honour,” Imrahil offered kindly. Éomer looked so young, so lost, and Imrahil could not help but think of what Elphir might have looked like in his stead. He hoped someone would have offered him the same kindness if the situation had been reversed. “I will take you to my house and you may have some hours of rest. There will be a council, certainly, but… it will keep a while.”

The guard at the door opened it swiftly, a bow of respect to Imrahil as they passed, though he did not know to offer Éomer the deference due a visiting King. Imrahil frowned, deciding to ensure that his own servants spread Éomer’s description across the city.

The dais holding the throne and Denethor’s chair was empty, though the hall was not. 

Before the dais, laid to the highest honour, was Théoden on his bed of state. 

“Well met Théoden, King of the Mark,” Imrahil said quietly. “My thanks to thee.”

Torches burned brightly, set around the bed – twelve of them, one for each of the moons in the year, and Imrahil knew the touch of the Senechal on it, recognising a few faces among the twelve guards as those of the Steward’s household, knights sworn to his service. Half of the twelve were in green – he recognised only the one who had spoken when he met the train on the field – and that was as it should be, too. 

Éomer said nothing, though tears glittered on his face as he looked at the calm serenity of the late King; the great cloth of gold drawn up to his breast, hiding his injuries from view. Upon the cloth had been laid his unsheathed sword, and at his feet his shield. Beneath him, the bed carried the green colour of Rohan, as though he lay on a field of grass, the white hangings like clouds upon the summer skies. The light of the torches shimmered in his white hair like sun in the spray of a fountain, but his face was fair and young, save that a peace lay on it beyond the reach of youth; and it seemed that he slept.

 

“Where is the Steward?” Imrahil asked of nobody, looking at the empty throne and the empty chair beside him. Soon, one would be filled and the other removed; an almost unimaginable sight for one who had never known different. The words broke the calm silence that had come over them as they honoured the fallen King. “And where is Mithrandir?” 

“The Steward of Gondor is in the Houses of Healing.” 

Ah, then he knew that Boromir lived and had gone there, Imrahil thought, with a small smile. He did not recognise the guard who had spoken, but he nodded his thanks to the man. 

Beside him, Éomer stirred, something hard and angry in his eyes. “But where is the Lady Éowyn, my sister; for surely she should be lying beside the king, and in no less honour? Where have they bestowed her?”

Imrahil felt a chill stab of guilt. Had no one told him? “But Lady Éowyn was yet living when they bore her hither. Did you not know? I met them myself and sent her for the Houses of Healing alongside my nephew.”

When he smiled like that, the young King of Rohan was beautiful, Imrahil thought, feeling almost foolish for the notion, though he also felt certain that many a young lady would be vying for the Queen’s Crown if times had not been so very dire. He sighed. Would there be a Queen’s crown to give? He wondered as he followed Éomer’s swift steps out of the Hall and into the starry night outside, filling his lungs with the balmy scent of the blooming courtyard.

 

“This way,” Imrahil called, when Éomer made to head for the stable where they had left their horses. “The Houses of Healing are on this level.”

As they drew level with the door, they nearly bumped into another pair of visitors. Imrahil stopped to let them precede, but then realised they had found at least part of their quarry. “Mithrandir!” he smiled at the wizard – Denethor might never have liked the man, but Imrahil was of the opinion that it did no harm to offer cordiality at the very least; wizards could be mercurial beings, his old governess had said, telling fantastical tales of years and wars and lands gone by, of dragons and brave knights and cunning wizards. Mithrandir had never quite measured up to those sorts of wizards, dressed in his grey drab robes – the white was rather more suitable, though perhaps not quite so well-suited to the long roads he travelled – but Imrahil was a cautious man. “We seek the Steward,  and men say that he is in this House. Has Faramir worsened greatly?”

“And the Lady Éowyn, where is she?” Éomer added swiftly. “Does my sister live?”

“She lies within and is not dead, but is near death,” Mithrandir admitted, his face grave. “But the Lord Faramir was wounded by an evil dart, as you have heard, and Boromir is now the Steward; for Denethor has departed, and his house is in ashes.”

“Ashes?” Éomer asked, though his face gave away the urge to push the wizard and the worry over Denethor’s death aside and seek his sister within. 

“So victory is shorn of gladness, and it is bitter bought, if both Gondor and Rohan are in one day bereft of their lords,” Imrahil said, closing his eyes and offering a silent prayer for the departed soul of his brother by law. “But Boromir is returned to us, and Éomer rules the Rohirrim. There is yet cause for some hope, I say.”

“Boromir’s wounds are not too grave,” Mithrandir said carefully. “Though he has spoken little of the responsibility of the city.”

“And would Aragorn claim it, now he must not deal with my brother but his own comrade?” Imrahil asked. “For I have seen him before, if under a different name, and Thorongil was one with whom Denethor clashed most fearsomely. Who shall rule the City meanwhile? Shall we send now for Lord Aragorn?” The sarcasm may have been a bit too obvious, but Imrahil had little wish to add to Boromir’s burdens. His father was lost, and his brother may yet be – would he now lose his birthright also?

The cloaked man beside Mithrandir barked a light laugh. “He has come,” he said, “though he did not think you recalled so well the face of Thorongil, Prince Imrahil.” And he moved into the puddle of light cast by the lantern at the door, and revealed his face beneath its grey hood. At his throat, a green stone shimmered, and above it, grey eyes did likewise, though with displeasure or mirth, Imrahil could not say. “I have come because Gandalf begs me to do so,” he said. “But for the present I am but the Captain of the Dúnedain of Arnor; and if Boromir will not, the Lord of Dol Amroth shall rule the City.” 

Imrahil accepted the rebuke silently. Perhaps Aragorn would turn out to know more of their customs than he had expected before recognising his face; he had believed him the son of that old general, and it was strange to think of how little he had changed in the years that had spent Imrahil’s first youth and seen him into middle aged, but carved no new lines in Aragorn’s face. 

“But,” Aragorn continued, and it sounded like an order. “It is my counsel that Gandalf should rule us all in the days to follow and in our dealings with the Enemy.”

Imrahil bowed his head in acceptance of that, too, echoed by Éomer who also seemed to have no real words with which to object, even if Imrahil knew that the idea of handing the rule of Gondor to a wizard would be met wit heaven more scorn and disbelief than the thought of giving it to the King returned. 

“Let us not stay at the door, for the time is urgent,” Mithrandir said. “For it is only in the coming of Aragorn that any hope remains for the sick that lie in the House.” He paused, letting Aragorn precede him. “The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known.”

 

The first person Imrahil saw when they were led to Faramir’s bed was Boromir, silent and still as a statue, only his eyes burning with grief as he stared at his silent brother, one pale hand clutched in his own as though he could lend Faramir some strength if only he held on tight enough. 

“Aragorn,” he said, lifting his head and nodding once in greeting. “Éomer. Uncle.”

Imrahil moved swiftly, rounding the foot of the bed to stand by Boromir’s shoulder. 

“My grief with thee,” Éomer said quietly. 

“Éowyn is over there,” Boromir said, gesturing two beds down. “And poor darling Merry… I asked him not to come…” He turned his head, looking at the small figure in the bed. Imrahil had taken the patient for a little boy, but he could not be; there were tales of persian among the men. “But he was always braver than most. They are discussing whether taking his arm may halt what sickness lies upon him – it is cold as ice to the touch.”

“Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me,’” Aragorn said, bending over Faramir for a moment before moving to Éowyn; Éomer had taken her hand in a mirror of Boromir, poised as though he, too, intended to sit there until his sibling either improved or expired. “Would that Elrond were here,” Aragorn sighed, touching her forehead, “for he is the eldest of all our race, and has the greater power.”

“First you must rest, surely,” Éomer said, though the words cost him, Imrahil was sure. His knuckles had turned white with the strength of his grip. “You are weary, my friend –  at least eat a little?”

“Nay,” Aragorn said, straightening from Merry’s bedside and casting aside his own weariness. “For these three, and most soon for Faramir, time is running out. All speed is needed.” He turned to Ioreth, “You have stores in this House of the herbs of healing?’

“Yes, lord,” she answered; “but not enough, I reckon, for all that will need them. But I am sure I do not know where we shall find more; for all things are amiss in these dreadful days, what with fires and burnings, and the lads that run errands so few, and all the roads blocked. Why, it is days out of count since ever a carrier came in from Lossarnach to the market! But we do our best in this House with what we have, as I am sure your lordship will know.”

“I will judge that when I see,” Aragorn said, looking at the array of remedies that had presumably already been tried. “One thing also is short, time for speech. Have you athelas?”

Imrahil had to admit himself a little impressed at that point. Not many men had courage to stand against Ioreth in her own House. 

“I do not know, I am sure, lord,” she answered curtly, “at least not by that name. I will go and ask the herb-master; he knows all the old names.”

“He needs kingsfoil, Ioreth,” Boromir interjected, looking like he could be persuaded to hope when he looked up from Faramir’s barely moving chest.

’‘Oh that! ‘Well, if your lordship had named it at first I could have told you,” Iroeth said, aiming her words entirely at Boromir. “No, we have none of it, I am sure. Why, I have never heard that it had any great virtue; and indeed I have often said to my sisters when we came upon it growing in the woods: ‘kingsfoil’, I said, ‘’tis a strange name, and I wonder why ’tis called so; for if I were a king, I would have plants more bright in my garden’. Still it smells sweet when bruised, does it not? If sweet is the right word: wholesome, maybe, is nearer.”

“Wholesome verily,” said Aragorn.”‘And now, dame, if you love the Lord Faramir, run as quick as your tongue and get me kingsfoil, if there is a leaf in the City.”

“And if not,” Gandalf said, “I will ride to Lossarnach with Ioreth behind me, and she shall take me to the woods, but not to her sisters. And Shadowfax shall show her the meaning of haste.”

“Bring me hot water in preparation,” Aragorn ordered, taking up Faramir’s free hand and putting one of his own on his brow. It was drenched with sweat; but Faramir did not move or make any sign, and seemed hardly to breathe. “He is nearly spent,” he murmured, looking across the bed to Boromir’s drawn face. “Lend him your strength, Boromir – he will hear you better than he might my voice. Tell him a story.” 

“I have done naught else,” Boromir replied wryly, “but I shall find another tale for him, as ever.” He turned back to Faramir’s pale face. “Do you remember when you were small, and you stole Elphir’s corsair hat, brother?” The story spun out from there, of boyhood squabbles between cousins and neverending summers and the blue waters of Dol Amroth, and Imrahil could almost see the echo of his sister watching over her boys, giving them her love for the sea. She had looked much like Faramir did now before she passed, sun-browned skin turned pale with weariness, dark hair turned lank with sweat and rank with despair. 

“This illness comes not from the wound,” Aragorn said,face turned to Mithrandir as he revealed the wound. It was well on the way to healing, Imrahil could tell. “Had he been smitten by some dart of the Nazgûl, as you thought, he would have died that night. This hurt was given by some Southron arrow, I would guess. Who drew it forth? Was it kept?”

“I drew it forth,” Imrahil replied, “and staunched the wound. But I did not keep the arrow, for we had much to do. It was, as I remember, just such a dart as the Southrons use. Yet I believed that it came from the Shadows above, for else his fever and sickness were not to be understood; since the wound was not deep or vital.” Again, he was struck by the similarity to Finduilas. Then, too, Boromir had sat by the bedside, telling stories of his exploits and mischief in an effort to make his mother smile despite her fatigue. Had the mother’s illness been visited upon the son? “How else do you read the matter?” 

“Weariness, grief for his father’s mood, a wound, and over all the Black Breath,” said Aragorn, raising one finger after the other. “He is a man of staunch will, for already he had come close under the Shadow before ever he rode to battle on the out-walls. Slowly the dark must have crept on him, even as he fought and strove to hold his outpost. Would that I could have been here sooner!”

“You will heal him, Aragorn.” Boromir might never have been born to be a King, but he had always been a commander of men and the words rung with the command of one who would brook no outcome but obedience to his request. Imrahil hid a smile behind his hand. “And I will call him back to me.” A strange added grief lay over the words, and Imrahil wondered if he was not alone in looking at Faramir and seeing Finduilas; Boromir had been more than old enough to remember the sight. He put his hand on his nephews shoulder in silent support. 

Please sister, do not call on your son just yet.

Aragorn did not respond though he bowed his head once in acquiescence.