He felt the dampness spread over the fabric of his shirt.
And while a part of him ached at the cause of that, another part of
him could feel nothing but relief that finally the grief had been released.
He stayed still, completely still, as silent tears soaked into his tunic.
He neither tightened nor loosened his hold on the slender figure in
his arms. He just stayed still. The hands of a king, it was said, were
the hands of a healer. So he used those hands in the hope of providing
that healing.
The days after the war of the ring were not just happiness
and languor. When things had settled down somewhat, came a time for
introspection. The euphoria died down, and other feelings came to the
fore. It seemed life returned to normal where barely a few weeks ago,
all had seemed on the brink of destruction.
There was a great deal of work involved not just for Aragorn
as the king, but also for many around him. Faramir, as his steward helped
greatly, but he too, was new to what he did. Running a kingdom could
be heavy work.
But long hours spent awake instead of asleep were not what
a kingdom in recovery needed, nor tired men with minds distracted by
thoughts of other matters. His steward’s cure was to work so much
as to prevent his thoughts straying elsewhere for his thoughts were
sorrowful, and it was a time to rejoice.
In a time of victory - no one, he thought, would wish to
see grief. Besides, he knew not how to grieve.
The king watched silently for a few days. He was no less
a reader of other men’s faces than his steward. And in that face
he could read strain and withheld pain. He watched as each night the
younger man walked restlessly for longer and longer hours through the
gardens. He had seen him there earlier, but with his lady, and it had
seemed that in her recovery, the steward’s ailment had been hidden.
Now she had returned home, and it came back to the surface. Grief laced
the aching eyes, but tears he had seen none.
Faramir was young still, and of a line of men who lived long,
not as long as the kings, but long nevertheless. If he did not relinquish
his burden then, he would carry it for years. And Aragorn who would
live for more years would be forced to watch him struggle under its
weight.
He strode out into the garden. The hour was late. The younger
man stood by a wall, his drawn face pale in the moonlight, each furrow
and crease standing out in his unhappiness.
“There were shadows,” it was a whisper, barely
audible, “And I thought I was all alone. And then you came.”
He helped him into the bed, as one would a very young child,
with great love and care. Tenderly he grasped his hand, and bade him
sleep peacefully. Grey eyes beheld him painfully; eyes touched with
despair and unhappiness. They had lacked hope once. Now, they lacked
peace too.
He stayed by the bedside a second more, and then, with purposeful
motions removed his boots and lowered himself against the upraised pillows.
He pulled the unresisting body into his arms and held him close.
“You grieve still,” it was a mere statement.
There was no response.
“You helped others overcome their sorrow but who helps
you with yours?”
He was sure if the other man could, he would have moved
away, but he could not.
“Mourn them, my lord steward, for they deserve it.
Shed your tears, as you have not done earlier. There is none to see
you here, save I.”
The dark head nestled against his shoulder, unmoving, save
for the barely visible rise and fall of the chest.
“Let out your sorrow,” he commanded softly.
He pulled him closer still, letting the tired head rest against
his chest. The eyes were closed, dark lashes lining a worn face. Soft,
almost silent breaths hit him at regular intervals; warm currents of
air that comforted him and made him yearn to return some of that comfort.
"You are alone no more," he whispered gently.
The tear trickled out from behind closed eyes, wetting the
lashes, down a cheek and fell onto the king's tunic.
-finis-
