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Arwen’s fingers were calloused.
Her hands combed gently through Aragorn’s hair, over his neck, through the stubble that he had long ago decided suited him. She skimmed her long, well-kept nails over his skin, goosebumps trailing in their wake. They lay on a cushioned chaise in their shared bedroom, his head on her breast, his own lanky frame curled low against her. They were separated only by their thin sleeping robes. Aragorn could feel the curve of her breast against his cheek.
“... Oh, meleth, you are so sleepy.” she giggled. “You melted right against me.”
“I am… a little tired,” Aragorn admitted. “But I am still awake if you need me to be.”
“You try too hard.” Arwen shook her head. “One day, you will collapse, and then where will Gondor be?”
“In the capable hands of its queen.” Aragorn smiled up at her.
Arwen tweaked his nose. “You flirt too much.”
“No such thing. You are my wife.”
Arwen ruffled his hair.
The door swung open, making them jump. Aragorn tumbled from the sofa, quickly reaching to cover himself before his sleep robe fell open all the way. Arwen crossed her arms across her breasts. “Faramir!”
Faramir’s normally gentle face was marred by stress and pain. He was cradling a limp figure in his arms, golden hair trailing almost to the floor. “My lord and lady! I apologize for the inconvenience, but we were walking and her legs just… gave out from under her and I caught her but… but I cannot wake her… she is burning…” His voice cracked.
“Oh, dear.” Aragorn rose, crossing over to Faramir. Eowyn’s face, pale and round as the moon, gazed up at him from Faramir’s arms. He lay a hand on her forehead. “The poor thing’s full of fever.”
“Is she going to perish? Please, tell me anything but that!”
Aragorn studied Faramir’s face, his tears jeweling as silver as his eyes. “She is a strong girl. It will take more than a little fever to fall her. Here, let me take her. We will bring her to the sickrooms and put her to bed. A little rest and she will be fine.”
Faramir swallowed painfully, his adam’s apple bobbing. “... Of course.” He extended her to Aragorn, who gently took her in his arms. She whimpered, her voice rough and painful.
“Shh, shh, my lady,” Faramir whispered, stroking her cheek.
“Come,” Aragorn ordered.
They ran down the back stairway to the tiny hallway containing the sickrooms. Eowyn lay still in Aragorn’s arms. Her chest rattled slightly when she drew breath. She seemed so tiny and vulnerable it drew pity in Aragorn’s heart, despite the fact that he knew she would hate it.
The sickroom was small and warm, but not stuffy. He lay Eowyn down on the soft mattress. She curled into the soft fur mat that dressed the bed, shivering. Faramir grabbed a folded, thickly knitted blanket off of a small chair that had a few blankets folded on it and draped it over Eowyn’s body, tucking her in.
Aragorn took a small sachet and put it under Eowyn’s reddened nose. She sniffled, gasped, sneezed, then jolted, her eyes opening slightly. “Uncle!”
Faramir held her hand in his. “Eowyn, sweet!” He kissed her knuckles. “I thought you had perished right before me!”
A low sob escaped her lips. “Where is my uncle? Where is Lord Theoden? I saw him in the gardens, he was healthy again, laughing and happy, and… no… no…” Her eyes closed. “He is lost, lost to the world, now, and I could not save him… I abandoned my people… disobeyed orders… and I still could not save him…”
Faramir lay his hand on her cheek. “You did your best,” he whispered. “War makes corpses of us all. It was not your fault.”
“Theoden… and Theodred… gone… Eomer still walks. I could not see him. I saw Theoden and Theodred and Mama and Papa all together, but I could not see him.” More tears poured down her cheeks. “I want to see him. I want to see him again. Please, he does not deserve to be wounded or imprisoned or… cast out. He is good at heart. Please.”
Faramir squeezed her hand. “He is well and safe in Rohan, not too far away at all, and he is happily wed, and living well.”
“Well,” Eowyn mumbled, looking up at the ceiling. “Well and safe. I did not see him in the gardens.”
“... We were alone in the gardens,” Faramir murmured. “There was no one else.”
“... But… I saw them… alive… hale… healthy…”
“I know,” Faramir whispered. “I know.”
Aragorn lay the back of his hand on her forehead. His eyes widened slightly.
“... Is it bad?” Faramir whispered.
“... She is warmer than before. Take her blanket off. How heavy is her dress?”
“‘Tis a summer dress, so… not heavy at all,” Faramir murmured. He pulled the blanket down to her hips. She whimpered, shivering slightly.
Aragorn pursed his lips. “Faramir, get me the draught labeled Ague from the middle left cabinet . It’s the purplish ones with the black seeds. It smells like dirt and river water--you can usually smell it through the cork.”
The door squeaked slightly when Faramir opened it, carefully picking over the small bottles, packets and other bits and bobs that lined the shelves. He pulled a small spherical bottle from the back, sniffed it and stifled a cough. “Is this it?”
Aragorn looked up. “Yes.”
Faramir knelt beside Eowyn’s bedside. “Are you still awake, my dear?”
“Mmmm.” She opened her mouth slightly.
“Give her all of it,” Aragorn instructed.
Faramir put the bottle to her lips. Eowyn took a small sip. She scowled slightly before she drank the bottle down. Her lips moved aimlessly for a moment. “... It is so dark… and cold… where is Lord Theoden? Where is Eomer? Faramir?”
“I am here,” Faramir begged. “Please, come back to me. I need you. From the bottom of my heart, I need you. ”
“Merry? Merry, I thought you at least would be my guiding light. I can hear you talking, laughing. Pippin, too. I can hear Pippin. Where are you, Merry? Pippin?” Eowyn’s eyes moved behind their closed lids. She coughed. “... Where are my little warriors?”
“They have gone back to the Shire,” Aragorn nodded. “They write now and again, they are quite safe.”
“No one to lead me from the darkness,” she murmured. “No one to light the way.”
“I am here!” Faramir begged. “Am I not good enough?”
“Where are you? Faramir? Husband? Lover?”
Faramir squeezed her hand as tightly as he could. “Here, I am here, open your eyes and see…”
Aragorn lay a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Do not take it to heart. She knows not what she says--her fever takes her beyond rationality.” He touched Eowyn’s eyelids, focusing his Elven-healing magic into her. “My good lady, there is no evil here, no darkness except for the natural dusk of a summer night.” He squeezed Faramir’s shoulder. “Lay your hands on her.”
Faramir set his hands on her, one on her shoulder, one on her cheek.
“Call to her.”
“... Eowyn? Eowyn, sister, daughter, and niece of kings? Eowyn, shieldmaiden of Rohan? Eowyn, lady of Gondor? Eowyn…” His voice broke and he swallowed. “... Eowyn, my wife?”
“... Faramir,” she murmured.
“... Yes, it is your Faramir. I love you, Eowyn of Rohan, and I have since the day I met you in the halls of healing. If you love me, come to me, and if my love is not enough for you, at least heed your King!”
“Come, Eowyn, maid of Gondor and Rohan!” Aragorn commanded.
Eowyn gasped. She opened her eyes a small crack. “... My husband… and my King?”
“Yes,” Aragorn said, withdrawing his hand. “How are you feeling?”
“... Why do I ache?”
“You are full of fever, my lady. Naught that you cannot wait out, but you were falling into delusions and getting warmer by the second, so I used an elven-cure--do you remember drinking from a vial?”
“... My mouth tastes of river mud.”
“‘Tis the medicine.” Aragorn smiled, benevolence tracing his regal face. “Faramir, fetch some water, if you will.”
“Yes, my lord.” Faramir stood up and ran from the room, one fist balled in his robes.
Aragorn patted Eowyn’s shoulder. “Rest now. Here, you are safe. You are still very sick.”
She curled up on her side and closed her eyes. “Mhm.”
Faramir ran back a moment later with a cup. “I fetched water!” He knelt by Eowyn’s bed, pulling her into his arms, sitting her up. He raised the glass to her lips and she drank, limp against him.
“... Will she be okay now?” Faramir said as he lay Eowyn down, wrapping her in the blankets, gently rubbing her shoulders.
“She just needs to sleep. The fever needs time to run its course. The best medicine now is rest.”
“I will not leave her,” Faramir said stubbornly. “You could not make me leave except by pain of death.”
Aragorn smiled. “And I am not forcing you to. Stay with her tonight. She will get better faster with you by her side, just as she did in the Houses of Healing.”
For a moment, Aragorn thought Faramir was about to jump into his arms, he looked so relieved, so brokenly ecstatic. “Thank you, my King. I owe you all my service, all my love.”
“‘Tis not a problem. Shall I have a servant bring you something to sleep on, a mat or pallet?”
“... I will be fine without one.”
Aragorn pretended he did not know that that meant Faramir had no plans to sleep. “Rouse a servant if you change your mind. That is an order. Do not feel undeserving of one.”
Faramir swallowed. His lip quivered slightly. “... Thank you, again.”
Aragorn scanned him. “... Are you well?”
Faramir stared at the ground for a long time. Finally, he let out a deep breath. “... Eowyn is all I have.”
“... Continue.”
“... My mother is dead. Boromir is dead. My father is dead, and he never loved me, anyway--’twas because I was not Boromir. Pippin, who was like a brother to me, if only for a moment, has gone back to the Shire, as have Merry and Sam, and Frodo is beyond all human reach. Gandalf has gone with Frodo. And so many of my men are dead. Without her, I am very alone.” He swallowed, casting desperate eyes to Aragorn. “Is this how it was meant to be? Am I Faramir, the lonely, undeserving lesser son of a good man?”
Aragorn was quiet for a long time. When he did speak, he picked his words carefully. “... You are Faramir, the goodly son of a man twisted. His treatment of you at the end was not your fault.” He lay a hand on Faramir’s shoulder. “Wickedness is pervasive, and it struck your house most intimately, and you most of all. It worked through your father in terrible ways, turning him against his own flesh and blood. You are not Faramir, undeserving, lesser son of Denethor. You are Faramir, kind and intelligent son of Gondor.”
That did cause Faramir to throw his arms around Aragorn. It was not until he started shaking badly against Aragorn’s chest did Aragorn realize that Faramir was sobbing so heavily he couldn’t draw breath. “Oh, easy, easy, it is all well now.”
“I am so… my lo-ord, I am so-o…” A hiccup cut him off.
I bet Boromir would have let him cry. “... You know, Mithrandir once told me… well, he had a saying of… something like ‘weep if you must, for healing comes through grieving first,’ and… well, emotional injury is a bit beyond my purview, but I believe wisdom lives in those words, so… cry if you must, I will not restrict you.”
Faramir pressed his face more closely into Aragorn’s shoulder. His breath came in deep wheezing gulps; his tears stained Aragorn’s red silk sleeping robe. Aragorn awkwardly patted his back, letting out a small sigh of relief when he saw that Eowyn seemed to be asleep. Seeing your lover cry is not conducive to recovery.
It was a few moments before Faramir pulled away, his eyes reddened and glassy. He was shivering.
Pity flickered in Aragorn’s breast. “... I will rouse a servant and get a blanket for you, and a sleeping-mat.”
“I will sleep in her bed, by her side.” An I made a mistake sort of expression flickered over his face before he spoke again. “If I am allowed, my lord.”
“I will not forbid you from laying by her side, if you are set on doing it. However, I will suggest that you take care with it. It would not be good if you came down sick as well.” Aragorn clamped his hands down on Faramir’s shoulders. “We men have a tendency to go against our own well being for the sake of making our women--or elleths, as it may be--happier. Do not hurt yourself giving in to this urge. Eowyn will be happy as long as you are in the room. You do not need to be sharing her breath to bring her comfort.”
Faramir studied him. There were words on the tip of his tongue, Aragorn could tell, but they never came. “I suppose, my lord.”
“Good.” Aragorn patted Faramir’s shoulders. “I am going back to my wife and my bed. Eowyn is sleeping now, but fevers bring strange dreams. Do not fear if she wakes confused or frightened. She is not dying. Just remind her where she is, and that she is safe, and she will probably settle then. Fetch me if she gets hotter, or if she begins to regurgitate the draught from earlier.”
“Yes, my lord. I can do that.”
“Goodnight, Faramir. I will give you one last request. Please, care for yourself, as well as Eowyn. You are not undeserving of care. Understand?”
“I understand.” Faramir’s voice was faint. “Goodnight, my lord.”
Aragorn nodded. He stood up, silently gliding from the room. He shut the door behind him, leaving Faramir to his thoughts.
It was only once he was in the quiet stairwell alone that he realized how tired he was. He felt worn and achy, like all his Elven-blood had been drained from his body and left only his Mannish parts, old and crumbling without the Elf to sustain their advanced age. It surprised him that he stayed on his feet long enough to get to the top of the stairs and bump into something soft yet unyielding. He stumbled, and a firm hand came up to hold him. “Whoa, there, mellon-nin.”
“... Legolas? What are you doing awake?”
Aragorn could just barely see Legolas’s lips curl into a smile in the dim candlelight. “There are falling stars in the sky. My lady and I were watching them. Would you like to partake?”
“... I am very tired, but perhaps I could manage.” A wan smile traced his lips. “Lead me.”
Legolas beckoned to him, holding his candle. “Come, my king!” He popped a hatch in the ceiling and brought down a wooden ladder. “Careful, it creaks a bit.”
“I will have someone replace it come morning.” Aragorn hauled himself up after Legolas, who had scrambled gaily up with the grace of a squirrel. Arwen was standing on the roof, the falling stars tracing themselves in her sleek dark hair. She seemed to shine in the starlight, her silvery sleeping robe only making her seem brighter. She almost outshone the shooting stars themselves, which stunned him, as the shooting stars took Aragorn’s breath away. Hundreds of silver jewels poured through the hands of Varda and disappeared somewhere behind the mountains.
“Legolas? Is that you?” she asked.
“And Aragorn.” He walked over to her, putting an arm around her waist. She was slender and soft as a willow against him, and he could smell her scent, like maple and cinnamon.
Legolas walked to the edge of the roof. “... All the little lights. Minas Tirith’s lights, the little lamps and candles its people use to drive away the night. Varda Elbereth’s lights, the ones she has blessed my people with since ancient times.” Legolas gave a wistful sigh. “It was terribly difficult to see stars in Mirkwood. We used to help each other climb the tallest trees, just to see the stars above. Have you ever been sixty or seventy feet in a tree? Wind whipping you about like you weigh only as much as a butterfly? It makes a creaky wooden ladder seem like nothing. My father used to carry me up tied to his back. I was a grown lad of thirty or so before he would let me climb alone.”
“... I miss my father,” Arwen said, her voice suddenly small. “He… he is not happy that I did not go to the Havens with him.”
“Your father loves you,” Aragorn soothed. “His anger comes from pain, a selfish pain, but a pain nonetheless.”
“... I know. He is not cruel, nor is he unloving. I just… I wish I could have had you and him as well.” She took a deep breath. “Enough of me, I am fine. How is Eowyn, the dear maid?”
Aragorn squeezed her a bit tighter. “Fevered to her poor bones, but she will recover. Faramir will not leave her side.”
“... What a good husband he is.”
Aragorn nodded. “‘Tis.” He studied the sky, watched as a few more shooting stars fell down. “Make a wish, if you will, and Varda shall grant it.”
Arwen leaned her head against his chest. Legolas closed his eyes and sighed. Aragorn focused on the air, the smell of it, faint smoke and stone and the weighty sweetness of summer. He thought of Eowyn, sleeping fitfully and feverish on a pallet downstairs. He thought of Faramir, pained in his heart but keeping it all inside, all the time, until one compliment shattered him. He thought of Arwen, snug in his arms, and Legolas, faithfully by his side, both having left everyone they had known and sacrificed all they loved just to be with him. He thought of Gimli, who made the long journey from Erebor to Gondor no less than four times a year just so that he could have a family in both. Humility filled his chest, along with a thick, sticky thankfulness.
I wish for the speedy recovery of Eowyn, the emotional healing of Faramir, the wellness and happiness of Arwen and Legolas and Gimli, the safety of Elladan and Elrohir, who will hunt Orcs until all are dead, the healing of Elrond and Frodo in Valinor, the health of Merry and Pippin and Sam in the Shire, and the happiness of Eomer back in Rohan. I wish for happiness and health and a thousand nights like this one, so we can stand and watch shooting stars together.
Aragorn let out a breath and opened his eyes. One final shooting star streaked across the sky and winked out.