My Sword Weeps
by Agape4Rivendell
Chapter 46: Friends Reunited
“Thorongil!” He heard the name repeated.
A half-smile lit Aragorn’s face as the owner of the voice moved
forward. “Dervorin?”
"'Tis I, Captain. Begging your pardon, but we were wondering where you
went off to!”
“'Twas not here, my friend,” Aragorn looked at the men behind Dervorin.
“Are these men with you?”
“Aye. And Captain Durahil. Did you know of him?”
“I did not.” His eyes closed wearily.
Dervorin was kneeling by his side instantly. “Are you hurt, Captain?”
He motioned to a man who nodded and ran from the cave. “We have a
healer with us. I have sent for him.”
“I am not hurt, just weary.”
At that moment, Aragorn reached a hand out, clutched the man’s
shoulder in a vice-like grip, and whispered in his ear, “When you were
under my command, you were loyal to the Stewards of Gondor. Are you
still?”
The man tried to pull back, surprise evident in his face as Aragorn
held him close. Aragorn loosed his grip; a deep pain flitted across his
face; he closed his eyes.
“Which Steward do you speak of?” the man asked coldly as he jerked away
from his former captain.
Aragorn’s eyes opened in surprise. “There is more than one?”
Dervorin stood. “I think it is time to call for my captain.” The
stiffness in the man’s back brought a moistness to Aragorn’s eyes. This
man had been his own aide many years ago – what? Eleven years now? A
trusted aide. ‘Now,’ Aragorn wondered, ‘where does his fealty lie?’
He pulled Faramir a little closer. Watching from half-closed eyes,
he saw Dervorin turn away from him and speak to his men. Logs were
placed on the fire, the Orcs’ bodies were dragged out. As a man moved
towards the other body, he cried out in horror. Dervorin moved forward,
stared, then turned away. Two soldiers carried the remains away.
Dervorin moved to stand before Aragorn. “Who was that?”
“I do not know,” Aragorn replied. “I found him in the same state
when I entered the cave.” He saw the haunted look in the man’s eyes and
continued, “He appears to have died defending those who were with him.”
“And who was with him?”
Aragorn did not answer. A moment later, more solders of Gondor
entered the cave. One or two he recognized from old campaigns; most, he
did not. A young man was last to enter. He took a quick look around,
then motioned to Dervorin. They spoke for a few moments, then Dervorin
left. The young man strode forward and came to stand before Aragorn.
“I am told you are the great Thorongil?”
The voice was neither cold nor threatening, but Aragorn was hard put to
discern what menace, if any, it held. He nodded.
“What have you there?” And he pointed to the body wrapped firmly in
blankets.
Aragorn pulled Faramir closer. What could he do or say? He could not
give away the boy’s identify until he was certain of the men’s loyalty
to Denethor. “A boy, a friend. He has been hurt.”
The captain’s eyebrow rose. “We have a healer with us. He has been sent
for. And this man?”
“He was here, as you see him, lying senseless, when I entered the
cave.”
“Do you know who he is?”
“I believe he is a Rohir.”
Durahil’s eyebrow lifted again.
“And your name?” Aragorn asked with what strength he could muster.
“I am Durahil, Captain of Amon Dín, Knight in the service of
Denethor, Steward of Gondor and Captain-general of the Citadel,” the
man challenged.
Aragorn smiled. “And I am, as Dervorin has obviously told you,
Thorongil, late in the service of Ecthelion, son of Turgon, Steward of
Gondor. I served beside the Lord Denethor and am indebted to him for my
life – many times over.”
“As the Lord Denethor was to you!” Dervorin said with fervor.
Aragorn smiled as the man stepped back into the cave in time to hear
his last words.
“Thorongil!” Another voice called out.
Siriondil stood behind Dervorin, his mouth open and his eyes wide.
Aragorn cried out in joy, “Siriondil!”
The Master Healer of Gondor ran the few steps that separated them and
knelt, taking Aragorn’s hand in his. “You have been sorely missed, my
captain. Now you return!” His voice broke with emotion. “All of Gondor
will rejoice.”
Aragorn’s brow furrowed, but he said nothing. Instead, he pulled
Siriondil a little closer. “I know you, friend. I know your heart. I
came back to Gondor to help. Next to me lies Éomund, Chief
Marshal of
the Mark. He has two wounds that need your attention: one to his head
is not grievous, but it must have bled profusely. The other injury is
more severe; his calf has a deep slash in it. My companion,” his eyes
suddenly looked about wildly. He took a deep breath; Elladan could take
care of himself. He pushed thoughts of concern away from him.
Éomund
must be cared for.
Looking up, he swore to himself. He saw Durahil’s eyes widen when
Aragorn claimed a companion was with him. The captain immediately
called Dervorin to his side. After a moment’s whispered words, the aide
left the cave.
Siriondil smiled at Aragorn’s discomfiture. “These are good men. They
are to be trusted. Now, let me look at Éomund.”
Aragorn looked across the cave at Durahil. The captain might be
young, but Aragorn noted he was cautious. One of the soldiers brought
out cooking utensils and began to prepare a meal. Aragorn leaned back.
Faramir had not stirred. Elladan was nowhere to be seen; Aragorn
wondered what Elrohir was thinking at this moment. The strain he must
be under was great. To have both of his brothers missing and not a word
from either. Elladan and he would be soundly chastised, when Elrohir
found them!
“Thorongil!”
He almost jumped as he recognized the voice.
“Indis!”
She ran to his side, Sobbing, she held him. He stroked her hair.
“Denethor is dead,” she choked out between sobs. “So is Boromir.
And Orcs have killed Faramir.” Her sobs turned into great moans as she
shuddered violently against him.
“Nay, Indis,” Aragorn said in
the old tongue. “Faramir yet lives.
He lies here in my arms.”
He moved the coverlet that hid Faramir’s face and felt her hot tears on
his hands as she leaned over, sobbing wildly, and kissed the boy’s
forehead in joy.
“He is cool to the touch!” she
said in amaze.
“How did this happen, Indis? Who
would hurt this little one?”
Durahil interrupted them. “We have salted pork broth here. Take some.
It will give you both strength.” He handed a cup to Indis, then one to
Aragorn.
“Stay with us,” Indis invited the knight. “Captain Thorongil is the
greatest friend Lord Denethor ever had. I would that you would be
friends. Thorongil,” she turned back to him, “when you return to the
City, we will have a feast, we will…”
He held up his hand to stay her. “I wish to hear of my friend and
how he died. Tell me what has been happening in Gondor. I know very
little.”
“I too would like to hear, if I may,” Durahil said. “Not much is
known at the further outposts. Rumours carried most of my knowledge.”
She sat down on Faramir’s left side and took her nephew’s hand in
her own. She began to speak, stroking his hand as she told of all that
had transpired. When at last she finished, she lay back on the ground,
put her arm over her face, and wept bitterly. Aragorn’s eyes, as well
as Durahil’s, were also wet. The cave had grown strangely silent as all
listened to the tale of treason, treachery and murder.
