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Beregond answered Aragorn’s knock. “The King is here to see you, my lord!” he announced happily, and opened the door with a bow. Faramir’s face brightened, and he immediately tried to rise.
“Be easy!” Aragorn said, crossing the room at three strides to stay him. “No need to rise; you are still healing.”
“I have no delusions about standing,” Faramir laughed, “But I can sit up for you, my lord.” Leaning carefully on his good arm, he leveraged himself upright and scooted back, obviously trembling. Beregond hurried to rearrange the pillows for him.
“My thanks,” said Faramir as he relaxed against them, cradling his injured arm. He let go of his arm to gesture to a chair. “Please, have a seat, my lord.”
Aragorn pulled it to the bedside and sat down. He was relieved to rest himself; he still had sore muscles from the battle, and he was functioning on about two hours of sleep.
“I appreciate your courtesy,” he said, smiling at the young man, “But I am, as yet, no one’s lord.”
Faramir smiled, warmly despite the sorrow at the edges of his eyes. “You are my lord.”
Aragorn smiled. He had been too weary the night before to feel anything fully, but his heart was touched by the repetition of Faramir’s devotion in broad daylight. “Lord Faramir,” he said, “You have welcomed me more warmly than I could have imagined.”
“As I should. We have waited a thousand years. We are a dying nation, and you have given us so much life already.” Faramir’s tone and smile did not falter at the mention of such despair. “What can I give you in return, less than my fealty and every service in my power?”
“I am very grateful,” said Aragorn.
Faramir smiled cheekily. “And have I a chance to earn more of your gratitude today?”
“I came to speak with you of the plans of the commanders,” said Aragorn, returning the smile, “And to ask how you fare. I see you have strength to sit up, but elsewise, how do you feel?”
“I am still too weak to stand unaided, but much stronger than I was last night. And I am at ease; I have been able to eat and sleep well. I hope I shall be able to fight within seven days.”
“I hope you shall not have need for at least ten days,” said Aragorn. He paused, thinking how to open the subject in the least alarming way. “May I speak with you alone?”
“Certainly,” said Faramir, nodding to his guard. The man slipped out, and Faramir turned attentively to Aragorn.
“Mithrandir told me that you met Frodo in Ithilien and know of his quest?”
“I do.”
“He also told me that you know how hopelessly overmatched we are in strength of arms.”
“That I have known for many years.”
Aragorn nodded. “Frodo holds our only real hope, and his only hope of success is to pass through unnoticed. By now, the only way we can help him is to divert the Enemy’s attention. This has been the motive of the war-council I held this morning with Mithrandir, Prince Imrahil, Éomer King, and the sons of Elrond.”
“Elrond has sons here?” Faramir asked, eyes lighting up suddenly.
“They came from Imladris with my kinsmen to make war on the Enemy.”
“I can hardly believe that the sons of Elrond Halfelven are here,” he said, shaking his head in wonder; then it faded, and his tone became heavy again. “But as to your plan, I cannot say that I am happy to see all of you gone on such a perilous mission. Still, in the hours which have passed since my kinsman visited me, I have come to agree with your policy. To hold back now, when we could help, would be a surrender.” His eyes, fixed grimly on the window, turned toward Aragorn with a spark of mischief.
Aragorn smiled. “I take it you have already heard all the particulars of our plan?”
“I have: ‘Well, Faramir, the day after tomorrow we march on the Black Gate with seven thousand men. And before you object to such nonsense, let me explain our reasons…’”
“And did the Prince tell you about the four thousand men marching up from South Gondor, to arrive soon after we set out?”
“He did.”
“And did he tell you the composition of the seven thousand?”
“Certainly.”
“And the three thousand Rohirrim defending the road to Anorien?”
“He seemed to think that vital information,” said Faramir, then became grave. “My lord, I have a request.”
“What is it?”
“If you are to pass through Ithilien, please take my rangers with you. They know the country and will watch over your army.”
“Gladly, and I shall not use them carelessly.”
“I thank you,” said Faramir with a bittersweet but relieved smile. “They are quartered in an empty storehouse just north of the gate to the third circle. Ask for Mablung; he leads in my absence.”
“I thank you, my lord Steward. Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Faramir hesitated, then looked him earnestly in the eye. “Can you tell me how my brother died? Master Peregrin has told me how Boromir defended him and his kinsman, but he did not hear my brother’s last words. He thought you might have.”
“I did.” Aragorn sighed. “The Company was in chaos that morning; everyone but your brother had scattered to look for Frodo. I was seeking news at the very summit of Amon Hen when I heard his horn. He was near the shore, and about a mile northward. I ran down as swiftly as I could, but I was far too late. His enemies were gone. They had shot him with many arrows, and I found him sitting against a tree, his sword-hilt still in hand.”
Faramir smiled faintly.
“He was dying; we both knew. His first words to me were, I tried to take the Ring from Frodo. I am sorry. I have paid. He then reported that the orcs had bound and carried off the hobbits, and asked me to save Gondor, because he had failed.”
Faramir had shut his eyes, seemingly holding back tears.
“But as I told him then, he had not failed. Once the Ring has a hold on a man’s heart, it is nearly impossible to cast off; and yet Boromir, after yielding to it, had repented. He died smiling, with my blessing… and, Valar help us, my promise to prevent Gondor’s fall.”
Faramir opened his eyes; they were wet, but he smiled. “I thank you, lord. I learned a little of the conflict from Frodo, but he would hardly speak of it to me, and could not have told me the ending if he had wished to. You have given me great comfort.”
Aragorn relaxed.
“How do you fare, my lord?” asked Faramir. “I hear rumours that you spent half the night healing people all over the City.”
“At least half,” Aragorn laughed wryly. “I hope to sleep ten hours tonight.”
“Then I would not detain you any longer. May your sleep be long and sweet.”
Aragorn rose.
Faramir looked up at him, grief and love mingled in his eyes. “Fare well, my lord king.”
“Farewell, lord Faramir,” said Aragorn, leaning down to kiss the young man’s brow. “Look after yourself and the people. However matters go at the Black Gate, I know that Gondor is in good hands.”
“I will, my lord,” Faramir said thickly.
“Shall I send your guard back in?”
Faramir nodded, and Aragorn turned and left the room.