crown of the Reunited Kingdom at the army’s request. This is set; alternatives exist only as far as your own fate, Prince. Option number one: you abdicate the throne (remember that yours is a dynasty of Stewards, rather than Kings!) and leave Minas Tirith to become a prince of one of the lands of Gondor; I think that Ithilien will suit you just fine. Option number two: you refuse, but then I will not treat you – whatever for? – and will assume the crown after your imminent demise. By the way, nobody but me knows that you’re still alive; the funeral is set for today, and I will simply let it proceed. After a few hours you’ll hear the tombstone seal your family crypt… I’m sure your imagination can fill in the rest. Do you understand, Faramir?”
The prince’s fingers were silent. He had always had the cool courage of a philosopher, but the idea of being buried alive can instill crushing dread into any soul.
“Oh no, this won’t do at all. If you don’t give me a clear answer in half a minute, I’ll leave, and in a couple of hours, when the
‘No’
“No – meaning yes? You agree to become Prince of Ithilien?”
‘Yes’
“We have a mutual understanding, then; your word is quite sufficient – so far. Some time from now you’ll regain your ability to speak, and I will visit you with Prince Imrahil, who is the temporary regent of the town and country after the passing of Denethor. By then Imrahil will have examined my royal credentials and will confirm them to you; you, in turn, will confirm your decision to resign as Steward of Gondor and move to Ithilien. The entire Gondor knows of the Prince’s nobility and his friendship with you, so I expect that the people will duly accept his announcement. Do you agree? Answer: yes or no?!”
‘Yes’
“By the way, I’ll answer your unspoken question: why don’t I do away with you, option two being both simple and reliable? I’m being quite pragmatic here: an alive, abdicated Faramir in Ithilien is harmless, whereas his dead body in a crypt of the Stewards of Gondor would no doubt spawn a legion of pretenders – false Faramirs. Oh, and another thing: I’m certain that you would not go against your given word, but just in case, bear this in mind: no one but me in the entire Middle Earth can heal you, and this healing will take a long time yet and can take unexpected turns… do you understand me?”
‘Yes’ (What’s not to understand? A simple poisoning would be the least of his worries; what if he were turned into a vegetable, to drool and soil himself for the rest of his life?)
“Excellent! I’ll say just one more thing in conclusion, because I believe that it’s important to you…” To the prince’s considerable amazement, there was genuine emotion in Aragorn’s voice now. “I promise to rule Gondor in such a way that you, Faramir, will never have a single occasion to think that you would have done it better. I promise that the Reunited Kingdom will prosper and flourish like never before. And I also promise that the story of the King and the Steward will be so treated in all the chronicles as to glorify you forever. Now drink this and sleep.” He came back to conscience still in the thrall of darkness and speechlessness, but the terrible cold had retreated to the location of the wound, and – happiness! – he could feel pain and could even move a little. There were voices nearby, but they fell silent… And then She appeared.
Chapter 21
First there was only her hand – small but unwomanly strong; the hand of a rider and a swordswoman, as he immediately determined. The girl did not possess the habits of a real nurse, but it was obvious that treating the wounded was nothing new to her. Why is she doing everything one-handed, though – an injury of her own, perhaps? He tried estimating her height from how far she could reach sitting on the edge of his bed – it worked out to about five and a half feet. Once he was incredibly lucky: she leaned over him, and her silky hair brushed the prince’s face. Thus he learned that she was not wearing her hair up (that meant a woman of the North, from Rohan); but most important was that now he would never confuse this smell with any other, an aroma like that of a steppe breeze, mixing the dry heat of the sun-kissed earth with the pungent refreshing smell of sagebrush.
In the meantime Aragorn’s medicine was working; the very next day he could speak his first words, which were, unsurprisingly: “What’s your name?”
“Eowyn.”
Eowyn. Like the sound of a bell – not a regular brass bell, but one of those porcelain bells that are sometimes brought from the Far East. Yes, the voice fit her owner quite well – at least it fit the image he had put together in his mind.
“So what’s the matter with your left arm, Eowyn?”
“Oh, you can see already?!”
“Alas, no; this is just a conclusion I’ve reached in my musings.”
“Really? Explain!”
He described her appearance as he had put it together from the scraps of information he had.
“That’s amazing!” she exclaimed. “All right, tell me – what kind of eyes do I have?”
“Most certainly large and wide-set.”
“No, I mean the color?”
“The color, hmm… Green!”
“I’ve believed you!” there was genuine disappointment in the girl’s voice, “but you must’ve simply seen me somewhere before.” “I swear by anything, Eowyn, I’ve simply named my favorite color. So I guessed right? But you still haven’t told me about your arm. Have you been wounded?”
“That’s only a scratch, believe me, especially compared to yours. It’s just that men have a habit of brushing us aside when dividing the spoils.”
Eowyn described the Battle of Pelennor Field clearly and crisply, like a professional warrior, all the while taking care of him, now giving him medicine, then changing the dressing on the wound. It seemed to Faramir that she radiated some kind of special warmth; it was this warmth, rather than medicines, that chased away the deathly chill tormenting his body. But when, moved by gratitude, he covered Eowyn’s hand with his, she took it away politely but firmly and left her charge, saying: “This is quite unnecessary, Prince,” and instructing him to ask for her should a real need arise. Saddened by this strange rebuff, he dozed (this was real sleep now, healing and refreshing), and upon awakening heard the tail end of a conversation, recognizing Eowyn as one of the participants and Aragorn – much to his surprise – as the other.
“…so you’ll have to go to Ithilien with him.”
“But why, Ari? You know that I can’t be without you now.”
“It’s necessary, dear. It won’t be for very long – three weeks, perhaps a month.”
“That is very long, but I will do what you need, don’t worry. You want me to be by his side?”
“Yes, you will complete his treatment, you’re good at it. Plus you will check out how he does in the new place.”
