The houses of healing

Aragorn had refused to enter the gates of the white city. He did not want to offend the line of the stewards by doing so. The Prince Imharil of Dol Amroth, uncle to Boromir and Faramir, had bowed to his wisdom. Now was not the time to claim any kingship over the butchered people of Gondor; if middle earth stood a chance to win this battle, unity was mandatory.

Late in the evening, Prince Imrahil, his remaining swan knights and King Eomer had eventually left the company of the rangers. As night settled in camp, Aragorn had summarily bathed and sat down on a boulder on the outskirts of the city, exhausted but unwilling to close his eyes for fear of the nightmare that might plague him. It was then, in this moment of loneliness, that Frances came to seek him. She had seen Legolas on the field now and again. Still working, still digging graves, still roaming the desolation to find a poor soul to be saved. And Gimli, his ever-truthful companion, would not leave him to it. Bless the dwarf for being so stubbornly faithful.

As she approached him, her boots crunching on the gravels, Aragorn turned to her. His voice was weary, his eyes distant in the darkness of the night.

"I fought for twenty-three years under Echtelion's rule, the steward's father. They knew me as Thorongil, captain of Gondor. I loved the steward, a wise man, and with my help, we fought the corsairs of Umbar that threatened the bay of Belfalas. But Denethor had nothing but scorn for me, and I was needed elsewhere. Echtelion died four years after my leaving Gondor. Hence came the rule of Denethor,"

Frances nodded. She understood now, the distrust of Boromir towards the rightful heir of Gondor. And what more could she say? Echtelion was Boromir's grandfather, and Aragorn in his twenties at the time. The gap of generations was quite disturbing from her point of view. Understanding the lifespan of a descendant of Númenor was, by all means, out of her reach.

There was no doubt that Aragorn knew this city well, and his wary grey eyes told her of how much he would have loved to be inside and claim his birthright. After all, it was his realm, and he longed for a peaceful life in the white halls. What she didn't know though was that the contemplation of the white tower brought him a little hope, the hope than one day he would be able to rule, and that his queen would be by his side.

Frances' thoughts couldn't be further away than his. The dying ranger's face kept flashing before her eyes, begging her to save him from his fate. Shuddering, she angled closer to Aragorn, seeking his soothing presence.

"Would you tell me his name?" she blurted out.

Aragorn's eyes turned to her, eyebrows lifted in surprise. Frances released a shaky breath before adding:

"Halbarad's son. I did not even know his name, yet held his hand as he bled to death."

A lone tear escaped Frances' eyes, running over her cheek and losing itself in the folds of her cloak. Some of the ranger's blood was still here, embedded in the fabric. Aragorn nodded, deep in thought as he recalled older memories.

"Erbaran was his name, for he was born with a crown of brown hair. I witnessed his first breath in Rivendell, not fifty years ago. A strong lad, with a stout voice."

Aragorn's lips quirked upwards at the memory of the wailing child. Halbarad had begged him to share his rooms after the birth of his son, attempting to escape the loud cries of his firstborn. A gasp called him back to reality.

"Do you mean that he was nearly fifty of age?"

"Forty-eight, if I recall properly."

"Wow. I never would have guessed. He seemed so young…"

Now she sounded like Eowyn, gaping in awe at Aragorn's age. Frances made a face; she hated herself for it! The Grey Company was Dunedain. By all means, she should have realised that the men were much older than they looked.

"He was, by our standards at least. Young in mind and in body, for we live three times as much as lesser men. Such is the blessing of Elros' blood."

Lesser men. The use of this word should have sent all alarms ringing in her mind, but there was not an ounce of pride or malice in Aragorn's words. Only the truth of middle earth. Noble families, elvish blood and Numenoreans fought together for the greater good. War did not allow them to bicker amongst themselves.

Aragorn, though, was still recalling his younger years with Halbarad. For once, his unguarded features showed the grief hidden behind the leader. Frances pried a little more, hoping that he would express it rather than bottling it all.

"I had no idea you were so close," she said softly.

Her hand came to rest on his arm in a gesture of comfort. Soon enough, Aragorn's calloused fingers overlaid hers.

"His father was barely a few years older than I was, and a childhood friend. I am much grieved at their passing."

Frances sighed. Regret. So much regret that her heart seemed ready to bust. How could she convey how sorry she was?

"So am I. I wish I could have fought. Maybe I could have saved one of them?"

"Or I might have to bury you as well."

"But …?"

Aragorn stared at her for a while, effectively interrupting Frances' protest. Sadness washed over him as he finally understood her line of thoughts. She was too young to have witnessed such hardships. Too inexperienced to handle the harshness of war. Lost in a loop of 'what if', he knew that it could claim her sanity. He had been there before, as a young man, when friends and comrades had fallen beside him.

"Nay Frances, do not let your thoughts go this way. You have made the wisest of choices and were not fit for battle. Had you fought beside them, Halbarad and his son would have died to protect you."

Dejected, the young lady let her head hang, tears falling down her face.

"But it is so cruel for death to take both father and son."

"Cruel indeed. My only comfort is that they died with honour and will rest eternally together. And thanks to you, Erbaran did no die alone."

Frances sniffed, unable to stop the flow of tears that fell upon her cheeks. Something tugged at her sleeve, and very soon, Aragorn had engulfed her into a tight hug. For his sake or for hers, it did not matter, for the embrace brought both of them some measure of comfort. Eventually, the ranger released her and, seeking her gaze, lifted her chin up.

"You know, Erbaran had taken quite a liking to you. I suspect this is the reason why it irked his father so."

Frances let out a mirthless laugh.

"Yes. Look what good it did to him."

"I wish his end had not come so soon. But I am sure that your presence soothed him enough to go in peace."

Frances stared at the ground, her stomach uneasy. The last words of the ranger came back to her. He had talked about being a good husband. Did he mean …? Certainly not …? Aragorn seemed to catch her confusion, for he added:

"You cannot blame him for not ignoring that your heart belonged to another."

"No. Of course not. He couldn't have known."

During the entire time they had spent with the Grey Company, Legolas had been more than distant. None of the rangers could have known of their closeness, not when it was blatantly discarded like a mere mood swing. The souvenir of the elf's aloofness, his cold indifference still pinched her heart. Someday, she would have to ask what had caused him to distance him so.

"I have not understood any of it either, my friend," she silently stated. "Have you?"

Aragorn nodded, a pensive frown marring his features.

"I might have. But you will have to ask for yourself for I cannot speak in his name."

"I dare not. I am too afraid that he will remember the reasons for his behaviour, and that he would start anew."

A chuckle escaped the ranger, his grey eyes sparkling with laughter. It was not much, but his entire face seemed to lighten for a little while. Then, he turned serious again.

"Fear not, Frances. Legolas has made his choice clear now. But have you?"

Frances' breath caught in her throat. Like a deer in the headlights, she froze, her heart rate increasing at once.

"I … I do not feel like I have a choice. My heart has chosen before my mind could even protest."

Aragorn's hand rested on her shoulder, his fingers massaging her absently.

"You do. You are free to decide whether to act upon those feelings or not. As long as the Feä bond is not complete, you can still decide to walk away. And even then, your mind is still yours."

"Feä bond? How does it come to pass?"

The ranger's hand suddenly retracted, his eyes contemplating the floor with interest. How had he come to give the father's talk? And how come she didn't know of it? Of course she wouldn't, she had not been raised among elven folk! Well, here was a dire predicament. Should he be the one to break the news to the young lady?

Fortunately, a Gondorian guard approached them at a fast pace. Aragorn turned to him, acknowledging the man with a nod.

"My lord, Mithrandir asks for you in the houses of healing, the steward's life is in great danger."

At once, the healer in him rose to the surface, assessing the situation. The guard was panting, having probably run all the way down the sixth levels of Minas Tirith in full gear. The white tree on his breastplate shone, cleaner than any of them. A guard from the houses of healing. The summon was urgent indeed. Aragorn grabbed his cloak, and turned to Frances.

"Come," he said, "if I must penetrate those walls despite my beliefs, you must come to see the magnificence of the city by yourself."

Then he turned to the guard, and his voice was calm and noble as he addressed him:

"I will come. Lead the way."

Limping behind the two men, the young lady contemplated the surroundings as they made their way up. So many parts of the city were destroyed that she felt like crying. Splendid arches had been cast down by boulders, and the fine carvings of the halls were darkened by remains of burning oil and coals. As they went up though, more and more parts stayed intact, and she couldn't help but feel impressed by the colossal piece of work that represented the pathways as well as the gates that blocked every level.

If she counted right, the houses of healing stood on the sixth circle. It was a long way up, especially with a stiff leg, but Frances refused to back down. Step after step, following Aragorn's great strides, she climbed. In the end though, her breath was so short that she nearly toppled over.

"Let us halt for a second," said Aragorn, seeing the exhaustion on her face.

Hands resting on her thighs, the young lady protested heartily between pants.

"Oh. Do not stop on my account. The Steward needs you."

Aragorn's stern gaze met hers, and she stared back. But she knew. In this instant, she knew that nothing in the world would push him to leave her behind once more. After the abandonment in the fields of Rohan, no circumstance would be enough to push him to this extremity. The ranger approached her, intent on pleading his case, jaw set in a determined expression.

"I will not…"

A shining form materialised before them before the argument could escalate.

"Gandalf!", exclaimed Frances.

The young lady sighed in relief, delighted to see the wizard anew after this gloomy day.

"Make haste," he responded, dismissing the guard in with one pointed look, "for your skills are needed."

The old man spared one look to the panting girl and, muttering under his breath, he touched her head. Tingles ran down Frances' body, coursing from her core to the very tip of her toes. The pain eased away, a second wind suddenly filling her with renewed energy. She would badly need it, and thanked the wizard profusely. Gandalf nodded and strode out to pass a winter garden that provided a great view over the city.

Even with the spell, Frances struggled to follow. The hour was not to complain, though, and Aragorn made sure she was still in his line of sight. The little company passed several corridors before penetrating in a complex of buildings with high windows overlooking east. Before the gate of the houses, they found Prince Imrahil and King Eomer who enquired about the Steward's health and the lady Eowyn.

Gandalf's words were gloomy, but a little hope warmed their hearts when they heard that Eowyn had not died as they believed. A shiver ran down her spine as he told them that the steward had burnt with his house and that the newly appointed one was near death. Something dark was operating on the other side of those doors, and time was pressing. The words of the wizard resonated into her mind as Aragorn uncovered his head, and she understood why the healers had sent for the heir of Isildur.

" … for it is only in the coming of Aragorn that hope remains for the sick that lie in the House. Thus spoke Ioreth, wise woman of Gondor. The hands of the king are the hands of a healer, and so shall the rightful king be known."