These characters belong to the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien. This story was written for pleasure and not for financial gain.

Ride a cock-horse to Banbury Cross,
To see a fine lady upon a white horse;
With rings on her fingers and bells on her toes
She shall have music wherever she goes. -Traditional nursery rhyme

Faramir steeled himself for the uncomfortable task ahead. He was no trained Healer and had found it hard enough to tend the King when Aragorn was unaware of what was happening. He picked up a blanket ready to cover his lord with and stood fingering it uneasily. “I need to undress you to bathe you and tend to your wounds,” he said, wishing more than ever that a more suitable carer were here. “Do you need the chamber pot?”

The King nodded reluctantly, regarding his Steward with an expression reminiscent of a trapped animal poised between fight and flight, while all too aware that he was unable to chose either of these options.

Somehow, he had managed to retain some vestiges of dignity during his captivity; most likely because his captors still held him in some awe. He had also been alone for most of time and mercifully able to use the bucket to answer nature's calls in private. Now he required assistance even for that.

Faramir tactfully averted his eyes, all too aware that Aragorn found it greatly humiliating to rely on one of his tormentors for assistance in such intimate matters. When Faramir had cared for him at the Hunting Lodge, he had trusted him, which had made it all so much easier to bear.

He now had to endure the trials of having his clothing removed, albeit under a blanket, being bathed like an infant and then rubbed with something that smelt much like the salve Arwen and the nanny used for Eldarion's napkin rash! Then came more salves, this time something made with comfrey and arnica according to the smell of it.

Faramir's touch was far from gentle. It was impossible to tell whether this was from embarrassment, or a desire to cause him further pain. His Steward’s expression of abject misery suggested the former. From his expression; it would be difficult to decide which of them was the more uncomfortable.

Aragorn hated his own weakness; in not even being able to bathe himself and apply the salves. Simply raising his head required considerable effort.

He fell back against the pillow and closed his eyes. To his relief, he finally felt clean underwear being drawn over his hips. He shivered with cold as the covering blanket was removed. Faramir laid warm covers over his legs. His ordeal was far from over, however now Faramir turned his attentions to the wounds on his upper body

The King forced himself to open his eyes and see clearly for the first time what damage had been done to him. The bandages were heavily stained and had stuck to his skin. He tensed in the anticipation of having them roughly pulled off. Instead, Faramir dabbed them with warm water and soaked them off quite gently.

He was shocked at what was finally revealed, despite his all too vivid memories of the pain combined with his Healer's knowledge and experience. There was hardly an inch of normal skin visible on his arms; chest and belly, so numerous were the cuts, bruises and patches of flesh, from where the skin had been brutally torn. The wounds still oozed but the worst of the infection seemed to have subsided. On his shoulder was burned the mark, which identified Dervorin’s cattle, a truly humiliating disfigurement.

When Faramir started to bathe his wounds, he closed his eyes, biting his lips to stop himself from crying out. They were extremely painful.

“What should I put on them?” Faramir asked.

“Honey if you have any,” Aragorn replied through clenched teeth, hoping he could endure the pain.

“It will sting.” Faramir warned somewhat unnecessarily. Had the man forgotten he had been a Healer long before he was even conceived?

“I know that,” Aragorn replied wearily, “The butcher did a lot of damage.” He shuddered to recall the memories of the knife cruelly teasing his flesh. He shivered again.

“Which was he?” Faramir enquired, picking up the honey, knowing he must do this quickly before the King became chilled.

“A servant, a big, burly man, who delighted in telling me what his old trade was, whenever he skinned me!” Aragorn replied,” He was once one of your father's executioners and an expert in causing lingering pain and enjoying it.”

“I killed him in cold blood during our escape.” Faramir's tone was devoid of expression.

Aragorn found himself wondering if the Steward regretted the deed. or simply the manner of its execution. Had the man been one of his accomplices, a friend even?

Faramir began to smear generous amounts of honey to the raw patches disfiguring Aragorn’s chest, belly and arms. Aragorn’s pain now became so severe that he was incapable even of rational thought. He was no longer able to repress his cries of agony. He was sweating now, despite the chill damp of the cave. Silent tears of distress rolled down his cheeks. He yearned for Arwen's comforting presence. Yet if she were beside him, how could he permit to see him thus? Once he could have turned to Faramir for solace but no longer. The Steward's very touch revolted him now.

Faramir hated himself for having to inflict such pain on his lord, needful though it was. He wanted nothing more than enfold him in a comforting embrace. He knew though, his right to do that had been lost the moment he had denounced his King before the Council. Unable to look Aragorn in the eye, he concentrated on bandaging his wounds, noting how he recoiled, when he momentarily lifted him to wind the bandages round his body. When Aragorn started to shiver again, he tucked the warm pelt around him.

“I have almost finished,” he said, tying the bandages in place. He suddenly froze when he came to the brand mark on Aragorn's shoulder.

“What should I put on that?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Calendula or comfrey salve,” Aragorn murmured, conscious of little else but his pain wracked body. He wanted to ask Faramir why he had carried out such a cruel act. However, the pain made conversation an ordeal, especially when the answers might cause even more anguish, if they were even forthcoming.

Faramir did as he was bidden, unsure whether or not to be relieved that an explanation for actions would have to wait. He slipped a clean shirt over Aragorn's head. After giving him more rose hip tea and poppy juice, drew the covers tightly round his King, who despite the blazing fire, still shivered. He gently smoothed back his lord’s hair, which was drenched with sweat from the ordeal. “Rest now and get well!” he said gently. He wanted so much to place a kiss on his brow, but the way his King flinched away from his touch made such a gesture almost unthinkable.

Painful though it was, he would have to accept that his only relationship with Aragorn now was that of subject and King. No longer, could he look on him as father, friend, mentor and brother. He had known that in his heart since the day he had agreed to Arwen's plan. His only task now was to restore the King to his wife and to his throne.

He sat and waited until Aragorn fell into an uneasy sleep, then called for Elbeth to come back in. He told her to sit with Aragorn while he prepared the rabbit for their meal and washed Aragorn’s and his clothing.

With Elbeth’s help, he prepared a stew for them both and some broth for Aragorn. His niece was surprisingly quiet. She was careful not to wake the sick man, whom Faramir allowed to sleep until they had eaten their meal.

“Will Strider be hungry?” Elbeth asked, scraping her plate clean.

“You may awaken the King and see,” he replied, wishing she would address him a little more respectfully.

Aragorn's eyes were wide with fear when he opened them. When he saw Elbeth, however, he visibly relaxed and smiled faintly.

“Are you hungry, Strider?” Elbeth asked. “We’ve some very nice food. I helped Uncle Faramir make it and it really tastes good!”

Aragorn lifted his head then looked at his bandaged hands that lay limply on the coverlet and shook his head.

“I will feed you, Strider. Don't worry!” Elbeth said cheerfully.

Faramir fetched the bowl and spoon. He helped the King to sit up, propping him with pillows. Elbeth then sat beside him and spooned the broth into Aragorn's mouth. He was obviously hungry and devoured it greedily, which gladdened Faramir’s aching heart. The Steward was greatly frustrated at his own limitations. Aragorn had done to help him in the past.

Elbeth chattered cheerfully all the while she fed her friend, telling him what fun it was camping out with him and Uncle Faramir and did he know that snow was for playing with?

Faramir could not help smiling.

Once Aragorn had settled back to sleep, they dared to go outside. Elbeth helped him wash the dishes in the stream. On the way back, as they trudged through the now almost melted snow; she stopped to pat the horses.

“Can I have a ride?” she asked.

“Do you know how?” Faramir was surprised at this request.

“The charcoal burners would give me a ride on their horse when I lived with grandma,” she explained, “Then the Lord of Lamedon said I had to learn to ride for when I’m Queen, but he only let me ride a pony!” she added scornfully.

“We had better see if the King needs anything first,” Faramir cautioned, deciding against going into the reasons why she could not be Queen just now.

Aragorn was still sound asleep after his meal and a further dose of poppy juice, so Faramir dared to leave him and grant Elbeth her wish. The child was being very good and deserved a reward after all.

He saddled the placid Zachus and lifted Elbeth on him, wincing at the pain in his back as he did so. Obviously, he had damaged himself when lifting Aragorn. He had once done something similar while lifting heavy sacks of supplies had at Hennun Annûn and had been advised by the Healer to rest. Such a luxury was out of the question here.

Elbeth immediately took up the reins and urged the horse to walk. Faramir walked beside them, his arms firmly about her waist.

“Let go Uncle Faramir!” she said sternly, ”I know what to do!”

Somewhat reluctantly, he released her and stepped back. Much to his surprise, she guided the bay confidently along the path, urging him to a canter. She laughed happily while the horse smoothly carried her along, her dark hair blowing in the breeze.

It seemed Elbeth had inherited Boromir’s early prowess on horseback. Faramir had been slow to become a confident rider, though his skills had eventually surpassed those of his elder brother. However, until he learned sufficient equestrian skills, he had been the subject of many cruel jibes from his father when he was Elbeth’s age.

Faramir had images of her galloping the day away and exhausting poor Zachus, had he not told her it was time to go back inside.

TBC