Outmatch

Chapter Two: The Florence Nightingale Syndrome

*Disclaimer: I do not own, nor am I making any money off of Lord of the Rings.


Then the Ranger rose in his stirrups and cried aloud in a triumphant voice.

Thrice he cried. Thrice the great ram boomed. And suddenly, upon the last stroke the Gate of Gondor broke. As if stricken by some blasting spell it burst asunder: there was a flash of searing lightning, and the doors tumbled in riven fragments to the ground.

In rode Aragorn, the Lord of the Dunedain. A great dark shape against the fires beyond he loomed up, grown to a vast menace. In rode the Lord of the Dunedain, under the archway that no enemy ever yet had passed, and all fled before his face.

All save one. There waiting, silent and still in the space before the Gate, stood Boromir son of Denethor. “You cannot enter here!” he shouted.

The rider flung back his dark green hood and said, “Fool! This is my hour. Do you not know defeat when you see it?”

Then Aragorn hurled a heavy spear at the soldier with such accuracy that Boromir, concentrating on leaping out of the way, did not notice the clatter of hooves on the street until he felt the horse smash him to the ground. Reeling, Boromir hastened to his feet, still loosely grasping his sword only to find that Aragorn had dismounted and was now advancing with Anduril. Anduril, also named Flame of the West.

“Dare you use that sword for evil work?” Boromir eyed the ranger warily. He had heard many dark rumors of this ranger from the North.

“Dare you question my right to use it?” the ranger challenged. “You are a son of Denethor, are you not? You must be Boromir. I have heard much of you."

Boromir drew himself up, his shield and sword ready. "My people will not fail."

A smile. "Do you not mean our people?"

With a cry of rage Boromir attacked, fighting for his father and his city with the renowned valor of the Lord of the Tower of Guard. A lesser man would have fallen quickly under his sword, but Aragorn was no mere ranger. Boromir soon found himself falling back until suddenly he felt the terrible, glittering sting of Anduril. He stood stricken, looking down at the bright sword that was lodged firmly in his stomach. Then he glanced up at Aragorn.

The ranger looked strangely sad. He grasped Boromir by the shoulder, much like a brother would, and then shoved Anduril through to the hilt. Aragorn leaned forward and kissed Boromir’s shaking brow, then savagely withdrew the blade from the man’s body. “No longer will they look for you from the White Tower.”

Boromor son of Denethor lay dying before the Gate he had desperately hoped to defend. The horn of Gondor, passed to each heir of the Stewardship, lay cloven in two from the struggle. Aragorn picked up the pieces of the horn as his army of Rohirrim swarmed through the broken Gate and swept past him. Only the first level
breeched, but the war was already won. What was left of Gondor’s great army had no one now to lead them, and nowhere to flee.

He turned his gaze skywards.

***
The door opened. At the far end of the great hall upon a dais of many steps was set a high throne under a canopy of marble shaped like a crowned helm. But the throne was empty. At the foot of the dais, upon the lowest step which was broad and deep, there was a stone chair, black and unadorned, and on it sat an old man gazing at his lap. In his hand was a white rod with a golden knob. He did not look up. They paced the long floor towards him, until they stood three paces from his footstool. Then Saruman spoke. Mocking.

“Hail, Lord and Steward of Minas Tirith, Denethor son of Ecthelion!”

The Steward raised his head, regarding the dark stranger and the White Wizard. “Lord Aragorn. And his wizard. You have come for your throne? There it is.” The old man gestured to the dais. “Rule over your dead city in good health, my King. Your Steward begs leave to surrender his office.”

Aragorn stepped forward, smiling. “I accept your office gladly. You destroyed your own city when you refused me. And now it has cost you the best loved of your sons.”

He threw the cloven horn at Denethor’s feet, and for the first time the old man stirred. Sinking to the floor, he clutched the shards to him and cried out, “Boromor! Say not that he has fallen!”

“Take some comfort, my lord. He died for you, and soon you will join him.” Aragorn gestured to Eomer of Rohan, who stood just inside the door. “The Lord Steward will remain in his rooms until the city is in order. Then he will be executed for his treachery.”

“Do not forget Denethor‘s other son, called Faramir,” Saruman remarked. “We have nothing to fear from him, he is not his brother or father. But he must be found and dealt with.”

“My lord, I received word that Faramir was wounded in Osgiliath,” Eomer said, coming further inside.

And Aragorn took Eomer with him in search of the Houses of Healing, and found the young man lying stricken on a pallet. Thus Aragorn for the first time beheld Faramir, heir to the Steward of Gondor. He looked very much like Boromir, though slighter in build. He lay in a fevered sleep, his breathing labored and his hair damp upon his brow.

“How badly was he wounded?” Aragorn asked the warden.

“He took a poisoned arrow in Osgiliath. We have done all we can, but he is dying.”

Indeed Faramir was dying. If Aragorn did not kill him then the poison would soon accomplish the task. The Dunedain looked on Faramir for a moment, then said, “Have you any athelas in your stores? Kingsfoil?” The warden nodded, his eyes darting between Aragorn and Faramir. “Then if you love the Lord Faramir, bring it to me.” He knelt beside Faramir and held a hand upon his brow, then remembered Eomer. “I will remain here awhile. Take your riders and the Southrons to secure the city, then report back to me once it has been done.”

Eomer glanced curiously at Faramir, then bowed and left the room.

Now Aragorn knelt beside Faramir, and held a hand upon his brow. Ever and anon he called the name of Faramir. The warden returned with the athelas, and Aragorn crushed the leaves and cast them into bowls of steaming water.

Suddenly Faramir stirred, and he opened his eyes, and he looked on Aragorn who bent over him, and a light of knowledge was kindled in his eyes.

And he spoke softly. "My lord, you called me. I come. What does the king command?"

***

"Gondor's Houses of Healing have always been renowned, but I had no idea it was a place of miracles."

Sitting in the library, Aragorn glanced up at the White Wizard. "What do you mean?"

"The recovery of the Lord Faramir is very remarkable. I heard he was on the brink of death, with poison in his veins."

"He was."

Saruman stopped pacing and regarded Aragorn. "What I want to know is, why did you tax yourself in healing him? You know we cannot let him live."

Aragorn defiantly held his gaze for a moment, then looked away.

"He is very pretty, I will give you that much," Saruman said smoothly, stepping close to Aragorn and running a hand across his shoulder. "But there are many boys and men in this city, many of them prettier than the younger son of Denethor. I will drag them from their mothers and wives, parade them naked past the White Tree for you. Anything you desire. But do not let Faramir live."

Aragorn clenched his fists, bracing himself against the spell within that voice. "I have killed Boromir, the stronger son. Denethor will be executed tomorrow morning. You said so yourself, Faramir is no threat to us ..."

"I said he is weak, but he will be last in the line of Ruling Stewards and that makes him a threat."

"The beginning of my reign will have seen enough bloodshed once Denethor is dead. It will be a sign of good faith if I let one of his sons live." Aragorn sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "Anyway, without Faramir in our possession we will soon have scores of imposters knocking on our gates, claiming to be the last living Steward of Gondor. There will never be peace in the city if we let that happen. We have brought these people enough unrest as it is, and with the darkness in Mordor growing more powerful ..."

"Do you regret attacking Denethor, my child? You know it was the only way to claim your rightful place."

"Was it?" Aragorn winced as he felt those long fingernails scrape against his neck.

"Denethor was proud, unrelenting. He never would have given up his rule."

Saruman's voice was rich and soothing, and almost against his will, Aragorn felt himself warmed by it. "Yes ... yes, of course." He closed his eyes, and felt the faintest brush of lips against his neck.

"You did what was necessary, for the good of Gondor."

"I will bring them such a Golden Age."

"Yes, an Age like no other Middle Earth has ever seen." A smile in the voice now. "And now you understand that Denethor and his sons must die. All of them."

Aragorn stiffened, and struggled to lift himself from the wizard's spell. "Not Faramir."

Pale bony fingers dug hard into Aragorn's shoulders. "Why do you defy me on this? Not for politics. This young man has thrown some enchantment on you. He has the Numenorean blood in him, like his father."

"No enchantment. I want ... I want to be merciful. I do not wish to be a tryrant."

Saruman released his shoulders and knelt before him, looking into Aragorn's eyes. Then the wizard said softly, "I almost believe you. You do want to show these people mercy, but that is not the reason why you covet Faramir son of Denethor." Rising to his feet, the wizard added, "Very well, keep him. But he will be slave. He cannot be allowed free access to the city. Now we must speak of your marriage."

Aragorn cast him a wary glance. "Marriage?"

"Yes, you will need heirs. Elrond Half-Elven of Rivendell has a suitable daughter, and your blood mixed with hers will produce an unbreakable line of kings."

"The elves will be leaving these shores soon, and the Lord Elrond would not part with his only daughter."

Saruman gave Aragorn one of his rare smiles. "Never fear about that. I have something that Elrond will want, something worth more than any number of daughters. She will be ours."

Aragorn nodded, already losing interest, for though he had met the young man just that once, his thoughts were ever turning towards Faramir these days.

to be continued