Chapter 11

 

 

The thick, white mist surrounded him as he walked uncertainly toward the beacon of light shining far into the distance. He raised his arm before him, letting it guide his way. Voices whispered around him, faces and images flashed before his eyes. He stumbled and invisible hands lifted him to his feet. There was no pain, no injury, only memory. He was well  again– mostly.

 

“Where am I?” Came the uncertain question.

 

“In the Halls of Mandos.”

 

“You walk the long path to your forefathers.”

 

“They have longed to see you.”

 

“We have longed to see you.”

 

“You walk the path of the dead to life beyond the world.”

 

“As does everyone when their lives have come to an end.”

 

And end? Aragorn’s mind whirled and his steps faltered.

 

Voice after voice answered his question, each answer different than the first. His eyes narrowed in confusion and as the light hummed brighter, a searing pain lanced through his chest and he collapsed with a loud cry. He reached toward the light, a mere short distance away, but was unable to touch it for it seemed to burn far out of his reach.

 

Then, the voices changed. He could feel the weight of their minds, pressing him, pushing him away. Away from the light. Away from peace. Away from them.

 

“It is not his time.”

 

“It is unavoidable.”

 

“It cannot be.”

 

“He cannot stay.”

 

“He is not welcome.”

 

“Not yet, my son.”

 

“We will be waiting for you when it is your time.” Came the final voice.

 

He screamed in pain as the voices slammed into his head with the force of an avalanche, sending him spiraling back to the conscious world with an ear splitting scream that shook the very foundations of the non-corporeal world that refused to welcome him.

 

Aragorn’s chest heaved as he drew a large breath, expanding his bruised and battered lungs to the near breaking point. He groaned as the pain returned tenfold and lifted shaking hands to his chest, clutching it as if the gesture would stop the pain that burned red hot beneath his skin.

 

A servant dropped the vase of fragrant flowers she was about to set on the table next to the bed, eyes wide with shock and fear. She backed into the wall, screaming and rushed out of the room, leaving the barely conscious man alone and gasping for air.

 

Imrahil rushed in and came to an immediate halt just inside the door.  The frightened servant, who had been a witness to Aragorn’s miraculous return to life, hid behind the Prince’ shoulder and pointed toward the bed.

 

When he glanced down at the gasping figure, his eyes widened, and his jaw fell slack. Aragorn had died. He was supposed to be –

 

“How can this be?” Imrahil stepped toward his King, but not before imploring the young woman hiding behind him to fetch one of the Elven Lords currently tending to the Queen. She happily left the room on her errand, convinced that she had seen a very real ghost.  “You. You-”

 

Imrahil was still gaping at Aragorn when Elladan came running through the door and skidded to a halt before nearly knocking the Prince of Dol Amroth off his feet. “What is going-” Elladan’s eyes widened and he stood in momentary shock, eyes straining to believe what they were showing him. After a moment of indecision, he rushed to his brother’s side. “What’s happened? How? How is this-”

 

“It burns,” Aragorn gritted through clenched teeth. He clutched his chest and heaved another breath, as if it were going to be his last.

 

“Valar how has this happened!?” Elladan flattened his hand against Aragorn’s chest, amazed to find the relatively smooth breathing resonating through his lungs. He reached for a mug of water and placed it at Aragorn’s lips. The man hungrily drained the contents and glanced at his brother, eyes pleading for more of the cool liquid.

“No more, brother.” Elladan pulled away the covers and examined the man closely, poking and prodding at broken bones as Aragorn hissed in pain.  “You were dead, Estel.” Elladan finally whispered. He checked and re-checked Aragorn’s injuries and was unbelievably satisfied that his brother was indeed alive and breathing. “I felt your heart stop myself.” The only change in Aragorn was that his breath came easier and his fever had broken. Otherwise, the King still had injuries very severe.

 

Aragorn nodded slowly and opened a suddenly dry mouth to speak. “They didn’t want me. Said it wasn’t my time. Sent me back.”

 

Elladan stared and then slowly closed his eyes. The Valar had heard their frantic prayers. Now Elladan prayed they’d hear one more.

 

“Arwen?” Aragorn asked, sinking into the cushions of the bed when what little strength he had gained vanished.

 

Elladan gulped, eyes downcast. There would be no way the elf could explain what happened to his wife without upsetting Aragorn, so he chose an easy answer.  One that would have to suffice until Aragorn was well enough to handle the news. “She is sleeping in another chamber.”

 

Aragorn, too distracted by his own discomfort, did not question the slightly delayed response and settled into the cushions, wincing as injured muscles protested at the movement. Elladan quickly mixed some herbs into another mug of water and bade his brother to drink. Soon, Aragorn had slipped into a dreamless drug-induced slumber.

 

Elladan sighed heavily, rubbing his face with tired hands. His mind raced with how he would tell his foster-brother the news that could very well break the strong and resolute King of the Reunited Kingdom.

 

“Shall I send for Lord Celeborn?” Imrahil asked quietly. He could read the emotions playing across the elf’s face and sought to ease the suffering, if but a little.

 

“Yes. If he is- finished with his work.”

 

Imrahil nodded and exhaled a deep, relieved breath. His King was alive. How, he could only guess. But, when he learned of Arwen’s fate, the Prince of Dol Amroth feared that the man would slip into failing health once again.

 

 

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Celeborn sat beside his granddaughter, her small hands encased tightly in his own. Her face was white, pale, deathly so. The room was filled with the stench of death, and Celeborn could barely stand the sight of such a closed–in, confining chamber. Even the vases of blooming flowers that had been placed around the room did nothing to hide the stench of death. His eyes were red and his face was stained with dried tears.  When Cirdan laid a comforting hand on his friend’s shoulder, Celeborn shook his head. The elf was clearly in a state of shock at everything that had happened in the last few hours.

 

Aragorn seemingly returning from the dead had not eased the pain of loss that Celeborn felt when he stared down at his unmoving granddaughter. He choked back another sob and Cirdan embraced his friend wordlessly. Death was not something elves, even in their unlimited years, would ever easily accept. And the death of one so innocent, made the heartbreak and sadness of the loss even greater.

 

“He keeps asking for her,” Cirdan whispered after a few moments of silence. “What do you want me to tell him?”

 

Celeborn heaved a heavy sigh. “It can’t be this way. It shouldn’t be this way.”

 

Cirdan closed his eyes, his own tears pooling beneath the closed lids. “I know, my friend. I know. But we must give him an answer.”

 

“I will tell him,” Celeborn carefully, reverently placed his daughters hands on the bed and stood. “It is my duty.”

 

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The door flew open and a guard rushed to Imrahil’s side. “Riders approach bearing the standard of the King.” Imrahil glanced up from the table, the parchment he had been reading forgotten as he launched himself to his feet and followed the guard out of the building.

 

They stood silently, watching as the riders closed the distance between them quickly. Banners bearing the white tree and the royal signet flapped in the breeze and Imrahil winced when he noticed Faramir at the head of the troupe.

 

“Aiya, that man should have remained in the City!” Imrahil scowled. “With the bad luck that has befallen us on our return from the North, he may regret coming himself.”

 

A few more anxious minutes passed until the small troupe, consisting of Citadel guards and Ithilian Rangers, raced through the streets.

 

“Ill tidings have fallen on the wind, my friend,” Faramir dismounted his steed nearly before he’d come to a halt before Imrahil. “What has happened? Your letter was vague. The King?”

 

Imrahil held up a silencing hand. “In time.” He glanced around at the people who had begun to appear out of their homes; watching and listening. Their curiosity growing even more now that the acting ruler of Gondor (until the King’s return from the North) had arrived.  They’d been shunned from nearing the sick house since the sick had been brought ashore from the Elven ship, and no news could be discerned from any of the local women Imrahil had taken in as temporary servants. “Please, follow me. I have set up an office. There we can discuss all that has happened.”

 

Faramir’s eyes narrowed as he was led into the sick house and up the steps to the office Imrahil had set up in the days following their arrival.

 

“Where is the King?” Faramir asked as soon as the door shut and the men were alone. His eyes shone with a concern for the welfare of Aragorn matched only by that of the King’s own kin.

 

“Resting and recovering from a series of very severe injuries.” Imrahil sat behind the desk with a heavy sigh. “There is much to tell you. Sit down. We’ll be here for a while.”

 

As if on cue, a tray of bread, cheese and wine was set before them and the maid scurried out when she noticed the men had ceased their talking when she’d entered the room.

 

“Tell me everything,” Faramir said, eyes narrowing. “Leave nothing out.”

 

“A long story it will be, my friend.”

 

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Faramir held his head in his hands, eyes closed, struggling frantically to absorb everything that had transpired since the King had left the protected walls of the White City. It was nearly more than he could bear in one sitting. So much had happened in a few short months. And now, nearly within sight of their home, tragedy had struck again. Faramir’s head was swimming and his eyes were wet with unshed tears. When he looked up at Imrahil, he noticed that the man had shed his own during the telling of the tale.

 

“I’m never letting him set foot outside of the Citadel again.” The Steward sighed, fists clenched. “I don’t care how restless he becomes within the City walls.”

 

“I think I shall retire. When we have returned safely to the White City and life returns to normal.” Imrahil nodded, understanding Faramir’s frustration. “I have grown more grey hair in the last few weeks, than in my entire lifetime – including the raising of Lothoriel, and my sons which, to date, I thought of as my greatest challenge!”

 

“He will need our help to adjust.” Faramir’s voice dropped, thinking of the news that he hoped would not be his to bear to his friend and King. 

 

“Yes.”

 

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“Why have I not seen Arwen?” Aragorn asked, directing a very pointed look at his Steward and refusing to look away until he got an answer. “Is she not well?”

 

“I believe that question is best answered by Lord Celeborn, My Lord,” Faramir said, meeting his King’s gaze. Faramir knew if he looked away, Aragorn could read him as easily as he could a book of ancient runes. By staring unfalteringly at his King, he’d buy some more time until Celeborn could be torn away from his other duties.

 

“Why is that?”

 

Faramir could see he was becoming agitated and the Steward knew he would not be able to dissuade his King indefinitely. “I will fetch him. It is better that he-”

 

“Where. Is. My. Wife?” Aragorn asked slowly, eyes boring into and through his Steward.  As he tried to sit up in the bed, broken ribs and bruised muscles complained at the movement and Aragorn hissed back a groan of pain.

 

Faramir hesitated and Aragorn felt his heart plummet into his stomach. His face softened and his breath caught. He could barely voice the words as he stared, unblinking, at his friend. “Dead?”

 

Before Faramir could answer, Celeborn walked through the doors and immediately broke the tension that hung between the two men.

 

“Where is she?” Aragorn asked immediately, before Celeborn had taken even two steps into the room.

 

Celeborn gazed at his grandson with sad eyes, took a deep breath, and strode silently to the edge of the bed. He pulled over a nearby chair and sat slowly, stiffly into it. He set his hand on Aragorn’s and squeezed it gently. As the Lord of Lothlorien began to speak, Aragorn swallowed nervously.

 

Faramir took a seat on the opposite side of the bed, his insides twisting at the news Celeborn was about to give his King.

 

“No.” Aragorn whispered, closing his eyes against the tears that welled immediately beneath the lids. “No.” His hands tightly clutched the bed sheets as he shook his head against his grandfather’s words.

 

Faramir turned away when Celeborn gave Aragorn the news. The anguish he saw reflected in the eyes of his King, caused a tremor to race down his spine,  and  Faramir decided that if he never had to witness such a sight again in his lifetime it would be too soon.