Aragorn knew he had little time left.
“Faramir?” he called out as he moved through the thick
mist swirling around him. He ignored the dampness permeating through
his clothing and tried instead to adjust his eyes to the gathering darkness.
“Faramir?” he called out again, his unease increasing by
the minute as the response he desired showed no sign of coming.
The fog intensified and for a moment Aragorn wondered where he was
wandering. He thought it might be through Minas Tirith. He’d thought
he knew the city as well as he knew Imladris, but now it seemed a confusing
maze to him. He thought he saw the outline of a building. *Somewhere
near the courtyard, perhaps, outside of the citadel. Or was it the Silent
Street?*
There was still no response.
He realised for the first time, how silent his surroundings were. There
was not a sound to be heard, nothing to indicate where the young Steward
might be. He wondered where to go, which direction to move in for he
could see nothing now.
He hoped he was not too late. Perhaps he should have arrived earlier,
he thought desperately, as he recalled Faramir’s pale and weary
visage and the stillness of his fever-wracked body. There was much he
had read in that glimpse of the Steward, much that he found he cared
for. He had felt the heat radiate off him as his hands had come in touch
with the sweat-soaked skin. Faramir had been ailing so for far too long
as none had known a remedy. He called out yet again, urgently.
A blurry shape came into view some distance away. Aragorn had not to
look any closer to know he had found him. He let out a relieved sigh.
There was still time. It was not too late. He could see Faramir clearly
now, the fine features distorted in pain and despair. He beckoned him
closer hoping he could offer him at least some measure of comfort.
But Faramir stayed where he was. Something akin to an unhappy smile
flitted across his tired countenance. Aragorn felt the cold return and
fresh tendrils of fog floated between them.
“Come, Faramir,” he called out, stepping forward, “You
have fought so far, I would not lose you now.”
The younger man shook his head slowly. And Aragorn watched in horror
through the thinning fog around them as Faramir’s silhouette became
a blur yet again before vanishing completely.
Aragorn stood where he was ignoring the intense cold, unwilling to
move.
“I would not lose you,” he said again, softly and desperately,
despite knowing there was no one to hear him.
He stood there till the mist cleared completely.
“Faramir!” he called out again, but this time he knew it
was to no avail. The Steward was nowhere to be seen.
He had been too late.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. *Imrahil,* he thought dully,
*or perhaps Mithrandir.*
“Aragorn!”
The king opened his eyes slowly to the sight of his steward leaning
over him, his grey eyes tinged with just a hint of concern, his hands
on Aragorn’s shoulders. Behind him, the early sun streamed in
through the open windows of his bedchamber.
“You were dreaming,” Faramir said quietly, moving back
a little as Aragorn sat up.
The king nodded silently. Faramir rose off the bed and stood by, his
features radiating open concern now. Aragorn said nothing as he pushed
the bedcovers away and swinging his feet off the bed, rose.
“You called -,” Faramir started slowly but stopped as Aragorn
cupped his chin and capturing his lips in a deep kiss, pulled him into
a close embrace.
*I would not lose you.*
The End
