Post by Admin on Jan 1, 2021 18:02:43 GMT
Author: Linda Hoyland
Ranking: 1st place
Summary: During a visit to the remoter reaches of his kingdom, Aragorn desires to learn what his subjects really think of him.
Rating: PG
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, OCS.
Warnings: Mention of injuries and blood.
A/N – I borrowed the characters from Tolkien and make no money from this story. A few words are quoted directly from “The Lord of the Rings.”
Aragorn tried not to let his smile falter and to look suitably attentive while yet more local dignities were introduced to him. Beside him, Faramir appeared genuinely interested in the fawning sentiments each one expressed. The King envied his Steward his skills. Growing up in Rivendell had taught him many things, but how to look engaged as the dozenth person that day declared it was the greatest honour of his life to meet him, was not one of them.
He was on a short tour of the remote provinces of Gondor with his Steward. Arwen had remained behind to care for their infant daughter. He wondered idly if he should start including Eldarion in more boring court duties to get the lad used to it. He felt frustrated. He was here to meet the ordinary people too, not just a succession of minor lords and officials. On the morrow, he would process through the town before a grand banquet was held in his honour.
At long last the greetings were concluded and their host turned to him. “Would you and the Lord Steward Prince Faramir care for refreshment, my Lord King, or do you wish to rest?”
A sudden idea came to Aragorn. He smiled. “We should like to rest and do not wish to be disturbed, my lord,” he said.
Faramir gave him a quizzical look before resuming his expression of polite interest.
As soon as the two were alone, Aragorn began to rummage through the clothing he had brought with him. “I wish to mingle amongst the local people here unnoticed,” he said, starting to change into the plain dark tunic and breeches he had selected.
“I will come with you,” said Faramir. He was already pulling off the silver- embroidered tunic he was wearing.
“Let us go to the local tavern for a bite and a tankard of ale,” said the King. “It should be easy enough to get into conversation with the other customers and learn about how contented or otherwise the folk in this town are.”
Once they were ready, Aragorn selected two trusted guards and instructed them to change out of their uniforms into ordinary clothing. A third guard he tasked in telling their host they had gone for a walk if they were missed.
When they had left the castle where they were staying, Aragorn bade the guards to follow at a discrete distance once they reached the town's main street. They soon came upon a tavern prosaically called “The Old Inn.” It did indeed look ancient, being built of weathered stone.
There were some deserted tables outside. Aragorn bade the Guards remain there and left them some coins for a pint of ale each while he and Faramir went inside.
There were about a dozen or so customers seated at weathered wooden tables in the taproom. Aragorn selected one by the fireplace and he and Faramir sat down. The innkeeper soon bustled over to them and asked the two men what they wanted.
“Two pints of your best ale, please, along with some cold meats and cheeses and crusty bread if you have any,” Aragorn told him.
“I'll bring it shortly, sirs,” said the innkeeper. “Business is fairly quiet today. Folk are staying indoors, I think it's what with these royal visitors and all.”
“And why is that?” Aragorn asked in a tone denoting only minor curiosity. “Do folk around here not like their King?”
“Well, they've prospered well enough since 'e came to the throne,” said the innkeeper. “My tavern gets more customers for a start and few folk go 'ungry nowadays, But the King's a living legend ain't 'e? Folk say he's mighty powerful and commands an army of ghosts and they don't want to risk meeting the likes of them.”
Aragorn struggled to keep a straight face while Faramir developed a sudden cough.
“The ghostly army were dismissed once their task was fulfilled,” he said. “The King's attendants are all living men.”
“And 'ow might you know that?” asked the innkeeper.
“I was there when he rode into town and all his attendants looked very much alive,” Aragorn replied. He turned to Faramir. “Wasn't that so, my friend?”
Faramir nodded between coughs.
“Your friend needs to see an 'ealer,” said the innkeeper. “I just reckon dead folk should stay dead, especially my wife's sister. 'ad a temper fit to curdle the milk, she did. I don't want no King bringing 'er back again. It ain't natural, it ain't.”
“Even the King cannot raise the dead,” said Aragorn.
“Well, 'e brought Lord Faramir back to life, everyone says so,” the innkeeper replied. “The Black Breath killed 'im and the King brought 'im back to life. 'aven't you 'eard the tale?”
“ I have, but Lord Faramir was not dead,” said Aragorn. “He was gravely ill but still alive.”
“I know what folks say,” said the innkeeper. “And what could a fellow like you know about it? But I can't stand 'ere talking all day. I'll fetch your order.”
Faramir's coughing increased before gradually subsiding. He grinned at his friend.
“You should see a healer about that cough, my friend,” Aragorn said solemnly.
“I am doing,” Faramir replied and laughed. Aragorn joined in.
At the next table, several men who looked like farmers or farm labourers from their clothing and muddy boots, were deep in conversation.
“I'm taking my family to see the procession tomorrow,” said one, a large fellow with a scar on his face. “I want my children to see the man who can ride a dragon.”
“I thought 'e slew it,” said a sandy haired man, who sat next to him.
“With the sword 'e forged himself with his bare hands,” said a small wiry man.
“Wouldn't 'e get burned?” asked another member of the group, a burly fellow with a bushy beard.
“'e's a legend,” said the small man. “They don't get burned like we do.”
“I don't know if I want to see the King,” said a wizened greybeard. “Not if 'e's surrounded by an army of ghosts! At my age death is near enough as it is.”
“I reckon I don't want to risk meeting such a fearsome and powerful man,” said the burly fellow. “What if I don't bow low enough? 'e might have my head!”
Aragorn and Faramir listened with a mixture of amusement and horror. Aragorn itched to get up and tell them the truth, but he desired neither to reveal himself nor to be ignored as the innkeeper had ignored his attempts to reveal the truth.
Just then, the innkeeper reappeared balancing a tray with two pints of ale and a large platter with a crusty loaf, a pat of creamy butter and a selection of cold meats and cheeses.
King and Steward tucked in, enjoying the simple yet delicious fare and finding the ale surprisingly good. The conversation at the next table turned to talk about crops and the prospects of a good harvest. It seemed that crops grew well and food was plentiful. When one of the farmers spoke of setting aside a portion for the poor, Aragorn smiled approvingly.
He helped himself to a delicious tasting cheese and turned his attention to the next table. The men sitting there were better dressed than the farmers and had less pronounced country accents, leaving Aragorn to surmise they were most likely tradesmen.
“ My taxes have increased during Lord Denethor's rule,”said one, a fellow with a bushy moustache.
“So you won't be going to the procession tomorrow then, father? “ said a beardless youth.
“I didn't say that, son. I reckon the King needs the money for rebuilding. The roads have improved which is good for trade.”
“I'd have liked to see the Queen,” said the youth. “Even though folk say her Grandmother's a witch!”
Aragorn tensed at the boy's words and gripped the knife he was using to cut the cheese tightly.
“Maybe the Queen's a witch too?” the older man mused. “They say her beauty puts a spell on every man who beholds her and she is terrible as the night.”
Aragorn's knuckles turned white and his gaze hardened. Faramir gripped his arm. “They mean no harm, “ he whispered urgently. “Do not give our disguise away!”
“They are insulting my lady!” Aragorn hissed. “Would you listen idly while they insulted yours?”
Before Faramir could answer, a third man at the table, who looked much older than the other two, joined in the conversation. “I can't say I believe in witches,” he said. “And there are strangers here tonight. What if they are servants of the King? I've heard he is a just but stern man. Surely, though, he would have your head if you insulted the Queen.”
“Punch his nose more likely,” Aragorn muttered under his breath.
“Would that I could behold such beauty!” said the youth. “Maybe one day I will travel to the White City and see her.”
“You had better not tell Mistress Haleth the true reason you wish to visit Minas Tirith,” said the man with the moustache.
The youth flushed. The older man took pity on him and started speculating if the royal visit would be good for trade.
Aragorn and Faramir had almost finished their meal when the innkeeper came to collect the plates from the next table. One slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. He bent to retrieve it, but caught his foot on a bar stool and went sprawling. A shard of pottery pierced his arm leaving a deep wound and blood gushed forth.
A woman came running in from the back on hearing the commotion and started to scream.
Aragorn leapt forward and pressed his fingers firmly on the wound to stop the flow of blood. “Lift your arm above your head!” he commanded.
“'e'll die for certain,” said the bearded man glumly. “One of my workers was bleeding like that last year and 'e bled out before we could get the 'ealer!”
“Don't leave me, Maglor!”cried the woman, kneeling at his feet and getting covered in blood.
“He will recover if you do exactly as I say,” Aragorn said in a commanding tone.
“And who might you be?” asked the man with the moustache.
“A healer,” said Aragorn. “Fetch me towels quickly, mistress if you would help your husband!”
With a mighty effort the woman managed to compose herself and hurried off.
Faramir pulled off his tunic and handed it to Aragorn, who pressed the fabric as a pad firmly against the wound.
The customers crowded around offering unhelpful advice. One of the merchants saw the blood and dropped in a dead faint.
“My friend is ill,” said his companion. “Help him!”
Aragorn barely glanced up. “Take him to a quiet corner away from the sight of blood. Give him some water when he comes round.” He applied pressure with a towel the woman had given him to stop the bleeding.
The man, who had swooned, was already starting to regain consciousness as his friend and another man half dragged, half carried him to the far corner of the room.
The other customers pressed in closer, all wanting a good view of what was going on.
“You're wasting your time,” said one.
“Tie something tightly round his arm,” said another. “That worked for my kinsman though he lost his hand.”
The innkeeper looked even paler. “'ow can I work if I've only one 'and? Two are scarcely enough for this job!”
“My kinsman has to rely on the charity the King provides for the poor. Drove him to the depths of despair it did, losing his hand!”
“Go home all of you!” Faramir bellowed in his most commanding tone. “The healer needs room to work and your chatter is not helping either. If you want a spectacle, come and see the procession tomorrow.”
The men backed away looking somewhat alarmed by his fierce tone. One by one they filed through the doorway, the man who fainted supported on his friend's arm.
Aragorn cautiously removed the towel from the wound and observed the bleeding had slowed to a slow trickle. “Good”, he said. “It does not look as if any major blood vessel is damaged as it is not spurting and the bleeding has slowed. It does need stitching, though.”
Maglor looked both relieved and anxious.
“I am a skilled healer,” said Aragorn. “It should not cause too much pain and I will give you a draught to ease you. Is there another room where you could lie down?”
“There is a couch in our back room,” said his wife. “Luckily our children are staying with their Grandmother tonight.”
Aragorn and Faramir helped the innkeeper to the couch. Aragorn told his wife to bring some hot water. He retrieved the pouch of healing supplies he always kept on his person and took out some pain relieving syrup, ointment to prevent infection, bandages, and a needle and thread.
Meanwhile Faramir asked for a bucket of water and a brush and went to clean up the mess in the dining room.
Aragorn gave Maglor a few drops of the syrup then cleaned, stitched, salved and bandaged the wound. “There,” he said at last. “You need to rest now and try not to use your arm too much until it is healed. I will leave you some salve and bandages. You must keep the wound clean and dry and if your arm swells or becomes red, see a healer at once. I think it should heal cleanly, though.”
“Thank you, Master? 'ow can I ever repay you?”
“You can call me Strider. If, you are well enough you can watch the procession tomorrow and afterwards spread the word around that the King has killed no dragons, has no ghostly army, cannot bare- handedly forge weapons and is only fierce to his enemies.”
“You know the King then, Master Strider?”
“You could say I know him well.”
“As do I,” said Faramir. “He is a decent enough fellow who does not desire that the ordinary folk should fear him.”
“I expect tomorrow's procession will go down in legend in this town,” said Maglor. “And your amazing skills will become part of the lore of my inn.”
“It was not a serious wound,” said Aragorn. “I have seen far worse. Now we will pay for our supper and be on our way.”
“You have no need to pay,” said the innkeeper's wife. “We should pay you!”
“I insist,” said Aragorn. He gave her some coins and moved towards the doorway.
Faramir looked at his arms and realised he was still in his shirtsleeves. His tunic was ruined. “Have you an old tunic I could wear?” he asked.
“I will fetch one,” said the innkeeper's wife. She bustled off and soon appeared with a worn but clean garment. Faramir slipped it over his head. It was very baggy on him, but he was decently enough clad to walk the streets.
“Thank you,” he said, slipping a gold coin in the woman's hand. She gaped in amazement. “Use it to hire some help until your husband is fully recovered,” he said, then quickly followed Aragorn out of the door.
“So I'm just a 'decent enough fellow'?” said Aragorn as they walked back to the castle, the two guards following behind.
“Would you have me say the King is a lord among men, the greatest that now is, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor?” Faramir replied.
Aragorn laughed. “I did but jest. Valar forbid that any more stories grow up surrounding me!”
“You have already become a legend in this town by saving their innkeeper,” said Faramir.
“He was in no grave danger,” said Aragorn. “Common sense would suffice to save him. His foolish customers simply assumed the worst.”
“I wonder if any of them will come to the procession on the morrow?” Faramir mused.
“ We shall see. I shall keep a lookout for them,” said the King.
0000
Rather to Aragorn's surprise, the streets were lined with spectators the next day. It seemed that whatever strange tales were told concerning him that people's curiosity was greater than their apprehension. He was dressed in his most splendid attire, a tunic and trousers in black velvet with the emblem of the White Tree embroidered in silver thread adorning his tunic. A white mantel trimmed with ermine was draped around his shoulders and pinned with the Elessar brooch while the Elendilmir adorned his brow. He sat astride a great warhorse as did Faramir, who was also ornately attired. Some of his guards marched in front of him, while others rode behind together with the local dignities. Aragorn smiled as he passed the crowds who began to cheer, “Long live the King!, hooray for King Elessar!”
Aragorn slowed his horse as he passed the inn. There on the steps, stood the innkeeper and his wife surrounded by their customers of the night before. They all regarded him with puzzled expressions and muttered amongst themselves. Aragorn halted for a brief instant, grinned at them and waved. He doubted he would ever forget their dumbfounded expressions.
“A new legend is born,” murmured Faramir as they went on their way.
Ranking: 1st place
Summary: During a visit to the remoter reaches of his kingdom, Aragorn desires to learn what his subjects really think of him.
Rating: PG
Characters: Aragorn, Faramir, OCS.
Warnings: Mention of injuries and blood.
A/N – I borrowed the characters from Tolkien and make no money from this story. A few words are quoted directly from “The Lord of the Rings.”
Aragorn tried not to let his smile falter and to look suitably attentive while yet more local dignities were introduced to him. Beside him, Faramir appeared genuinely interested in the fawning sentiments each one expressed. The King envied his Steward his skills. Growing up in Rivendell had taught him many things, but how to look engaged as the dozenth person that day declared it was the greatest honour of his life to meet him, was not one of them.
He was on a short tour of the remote provinces of Gondor with his Steward. Arwen had remained behind to care for their infant daughter. He wondered idly if he should start including Eldarion in more boring court duties to get the lad used to it. He felt frustrated. He was here to meet the ordinary people too, not just a succession of minor lords and officials. On the morrow, he would process through the town before a grand banquet was held in his honour.
At long last the greetings were concluded and their host turned to him. “Would you and the Lord Steward Prince Faramir care for refreshment, my Lord King, or do you wish to rest?”
A sudden idea came to Aragorn. He smiled. “We should like to rest and do not wish to be disturbed, my lord,” he said.
Faramir gave him a quizzical look before resuming his expression of polite interest.
As soon as the two were alone, Aragorn began to rummage through the clothing he had brought with him. “I wish to mingle amongst the local people here unnoticed,” he said, starting to change into the plain dark tunic and breeches he had selected.
“I will come with you,” said Faramir. He was already pulling off the silver- embroidered tunic he was wearing.
“Let us go to the local tavern for a bite and a tankard of ale,” said the King. “It should be easy enough to get into conversation with the other customers and learn about how contented or otherwise the folk in this town are.”
Once they were ready, Aragorn selected two trusted guards and instructed them to change out of their uniforms into ordinary clothing. A third guard he tasked in telling their host they had gone for a walk if they were missed.
When they had left the castle where they were staying, Aragorn bade the guards to follow at a discrete distance once they reached the town's main street. They soon came upon a tavern prosaically called “The Old Inn.” It did indeed look ancient, being built of weathered stone.
There were some deserted tables outside. Aragorn bade the Guards remain there and left them some coins for a pint of ale each while he and Faramir went inside.
There were about a dozen or so customers seated at weathered wooden tables in the taproom. Aragorn selected one by the fireplace and he and Faramir sat down. The innkeeper soon bustled over to them and asked the two men what they wanted.
“Two pints of your best ale, please, along with some cold meats and cheeses and crusty bread if you have any,” Aragorn told him.
“I'll bring it shortly, sirs,” said the innkeeper. “Business is fairly quiet today. Folk are staying indoors, I think it's what with these royal visitors and all.”
“And why is that?” Aragorn asked in a tone denoting only minor curiosity. “Do folk around here not like their King?”
“Well, they've prospered well enough since 'e came to the throne,” said the innkeeper. “My tavern gets more customers for a start and few folk go 'ungry nowadays, But the King's a living legend ain't 'e? Folk say he's mighty powerful and commands an army of ghosts and they don't want to risk meeting the likes of them.”
Aragorn struggled to keep a straight face while Faramir developed a sudden cough.
“The ghostly army were dismissed once their task was fulfilled,” he said. “The King's attendants are all living men.”
“And 'ow might you know that?” asked the innkeeper.
“I was there when he rode into town and all his attendants looked very much alive,” Aragorn replied. He turned to Faramir. “Wasn't that so, my friend?”
Faramir nodded between coughs.
“Your friend needs to see an 'ealer,” said the innkeeper. “I just reckon dead folk should stay dead, especially my wife's sister. 'ad a temper fit to curdle the milk, she did. I don't want no King bringing 'er back again. It ain't natural, it ain't.”
“Even the King cannot raise the dead,” said Aragorn.
“Well, 'e brought Lord Faramir back to life, everyone says so,” the innkeeper replied. “The Black Breath killed 'im and the King brought 'im back to life. 'aven't you 'eard the tale?”
“ I have, but Lord Faramir was not dead,” said Aragorn. “He was gravely ill but still alive.”
“I know what folks say,” said the innkeeper. “And what could a fellow like you know about it? But I can't stand 'ere talking all day. I'll fetch your order.”
Faramir's coughing increased before gradually subsiding. He grinned at his friend.
“You should see a healer about that cough, my friend,” Aragorn said solemnly.
“I am doing,” Faramir replied and laughed. Aragorn joined in.
At the next table, several men who looked like farmers or farm labourers from their clothing and muddy boots, were deep in conversation.
“I'm taking my family to see the procession tomorrow,” said one, a large fellow with a scar on his face. “I want my children to see the man who can ride a dragon.”
“I thought 'e slew it,” said a sandy haired man, who sat next to him.
“With the sword 'e forged himself with his bare hands,” said a small wiry man.
“Wouldn't 'e get burned?” asked another member of the group, a burly fellow with a bushy beard.
“'e's a legend,” said the small man. “They don't get burned like we do.”
“I don't know if I want to see the King,” said a wizened greybeard. “Not if 'e's surrounded by an army of ghosts! At my age death is near enough as it is.”
“I reckon I don't want to risk meeting such a fearsome and powerful man,” said the burly fellow. “What if I don't bow low enough? 'e might have my head!”
Aragorn and Faramir listened with a mixture of amusement and horror. Aragorn itched to get up and tell them the truth, but he desired neither to reveal himself nor to be ignored as the innkeeper had ignored his attempts to reveal the truth.
Just then, the innkeeper reappeared balancing a tray with two pints of ale and a large platter with a crusty loaf, a pat of creamy butter and a selection of cold meats and cheeses.
King and Steward tucked in, enjoying the simple yet delicious fare and finding the ale surprisingly good. The conversation at the next table turned to talk about crops and the prospects of a good harvest. It seemed that crops grew well and food was plentiful. When one of the farmers spoke of setting aside a portion for the poor, Aragorn smiled approvingly.
He helped himself to a delicious tasting cheese and turned his attention to the next table. The men sitting there were better dressed than the farmers and had less pronounced country accents, leaving Aragorn to surmise they were most likely tradesmen.
“ My taxes have increased during Lord Denethor's rule,”said one, a fellow with a bushy moustache.
“So you won't be going to the procession tomorrow then, father? “ said a beardless youth.
“I didn't say that, son. I reckon the King needs the money for rebuilding. The roads have improved which is good for trade.”
“I'd have liked to see the Queen,” said the youth. “Even though folk say her Grandmother's a witch!”
Aragorn tensed at the boy's words and gripped the knife he was using to cut the cheese tightly.
“Maybe the Queen's a witch too?” the older man mused. “They say her beauty puts a spell on every man who beholds her and she is terrible as the night.”
Aragorn's knuckles turned white and his gaze hardened. Faramir gripped his arm. “They mean no harm, “ he whispered urgently. “Do not give our disguise away!”
“They are insulting my lady!” Aragorn hissed. “Would you listen idly while they insulted yours?”
Before Faramir could answer, a third man at the table, who looked much older than the other two, joined in the conversation. “I can't say I believe in witches,” he said. “And there are strangers here tonight. What if they are servants of the King? I've heard he is a just but stern man. Surely, though, he would have your head if you insulted the Queen.”
“Punch his nose more likely,” Aragorn muttered under his breath.
“Would that I could behold such beauty!” said the youth. “Maybe one day I will travel to the White City and see her.”
“You had better not tell Mistress Haleth the true reason you wish to visit Minas Tirith,” said the man with the moustache.
The youth flushed. The older man took pity on him and started speculating if the royal visit would be good for trade.
Aragorn and Faramir had almost finished their meal when the innkeeper came to collect the plates from the next table. One slipped from his hand and shattered on the floor. He bent to retrieve it, but caught his foot on a bar stool and went sprawling. A shard of pottery pierced his arm leaving a deep wound and blood gushed forth.
A woman came running in from the back on hearing the commotion and started to scream.
Aragorn leapt forward and pressed his fingers firmly on the wound to stop the flow of blood. “Lift your arm above your head!” he commanded.
“'e'll die for certain,” said the bearded man glumly. “One of my workers was bleeding like that last year and 'e bled out before we could get the 'ealer!”
“Don't leave me, Maglor!”cried the woman, kneeling at his feet and getting covered in blood.
“He will recover if you do exactly as I say,” Aragorn said in a commanding tone.
“And who might you be?” asked the man with the moustache.
“A healer,” said Aragorn. “Fetch me towels quickly, mistress if you would help your husband!”
With a mighty effort the woman managed to compose herself and hurried off.
Faramir pulled off his tunic and handed it to Aragorn, who pressed the fabric as a pad firmly against the wound.
The customers crowded around offering unhelpful advice. One of the merchants saw the blood and dropped in a dead faint.
“My friend is ill,” said his companion. “Help him!”
Aragorn barely glanced up. “Take him to a quiet corner away from the sight of blood. Give him some water when he comes round.” He applied pressure with a towel the woman had given him to stop the bleeding.
The man, who had swooned, was already starting to regain consciousness as his friend and another man half dragged, half carried him to the far corner of the room.
The other customers pressed in closer, all wanting a good view of what was going on.
“You're wasting your time,” said one.
“Tie something tightly round his arm,” said another. “That worked for my kinsman though he lost his hand.”
The innkeeper looked even paler. “'ow can I work if I've only one 'and? Two are scarcely enough for this job!”
“My kinsman has to rely on the charity the King provides for the poor. Drove him to the depths of despair it did, losing his hand!”
“Go home all of you!” Faramir bellowed in his most commanding tone. “The healer needs room to work and your chatter is not helping either. If you want a spectacle, come and see the procession tomorrow.”
The men backed away looking somewhat alarmed by his fierce tone. One by one they filed through the doorway, the man who fainted supported on his friend's arm.
Aragorn cautiously removed the towel from the wound and observed the bleeding had slowed to a slow trickle. “Good”, he said. “It does not look as if any major blood vessel is damaged as it is not spurting and the bleeding has slowed. It does need stitching, though.”
Maglor looked both relieved and anxious.
“I am a skilled healer,” said Aragorn. “It should not cause too much pain and I will give you a draught to ease you. Is there another room where you could lie down?”
“There is a couch in our back room,” said his wife. “Luckily our children are staying with their Grandmother tonight.”
Aragorn and Faramir helped the innkeeper to the couch. Aragorn told his wife to bring some hot water. He retrieved the pouch of healing supplies he always kept on his person and took out some pain relieving syrup, ointment to prevent infection, bandages, and a needle and thread.
Meanwhile Faramir asked for a bucket of water and a brush and went to clean up the mess in the dining room.
Aragorn gave Maglor a few drops of the syrup then cleaned, stitched, salved and bandaged the wound. “There,” he said at last. “You need to rest now and try not to use your arm too much until it is healed. I will leave you some salve and bandages. You must keep the wound clean and dry and if your arm swells or becomes red, see a healer at once. I think it should heal cleanly, though.”
“Thank you, Master? 'ow can I ever repay you?”
“You can call me Strider. If, you are well enough you can watch the procession tomorrow and afterwards spread the word around that the King has killed no dragons, has no ghostly army, cannot bare- handedly forge weapons and is only fierce to his enemies.”
“You know the King then, Master Strider?”
“You could say I know him well.”
“As do I,” said Faramir. “He is a decent enough fellow who does not desire that the ordinary folk should fear him.”
“I expect tomorrow's procession will go down in legend in this town,” said Maglor. “And your amazing skills will become part of the lore of my inn.”
“It was not a serious wound,” said Aragorn. “I have seen far worse. Now we will pay for our supper and be on our way.”
“You have no need to pay,” said the innkeeper's wife. “We should pay you!”
“I insist,” said Aragorn. He gave her some coins and moved towards the doorway.
Faramir looked at his arms and realised he was still in his shirtsleeves. His tunic was ruined. “Have you an old tunic I could wear?” he asked.
“I will fetch one,” said the innkeeper's wife. She bustled off and soon appeared with a worn but clean garment. Faramir slipped it over his head. It was very baggy on him, but he was decently enough clad to walk the streets.
“Thank you,” he said, slipping a gold coin in the woman's hand. She gaped in amazement. “Use it to hire some help until your husband is fully recovered,” he said, then quickly followed Aragorn out of the door.
“So I'm just a 'decent enough fellow'?” said Aragorn as they walked back to the castle, the two guards following behind.
“Would you have me say the King is a lord among men, the greatest that now is, victorious in battle, whose hands bring healing, the Elfstone, Elessar of the line of Valandil, Isildur’s son, Elendil’s son of Númenor?” Faramir replied.
Aragorn laughed. “I did but jest. Valar forbid that any more stories grow up surrounding me!”
“You have already become a legend in this town by saving their innkeeper,” said Faramir.
“He was in no grave danger,” said Aragorn. “Common sense would suffice to save him. His foolish customers simply assumed the worst.”
“I wonder if any of them will come to the procession on the morrow?” Faramir mused.
“ We shall see. I shall keep a lookout for them,” said the King.
0000
Rather to Aragorn's surprise, the streets were lined with spectators the next day. It seemed that whatever strange tales were told concerning him that people's curiosity was greater than their apprehension. He was dressed in his most splendid attire, a tunic and trousers in black velvet with the emblem of the White Tree embroidered in silver thread adorning his tunic. A white mantel trimmed with ermine was draped around his shoulders and pinned with the Elessar brooch while the Elendilmir adorned his brow. He sat astride a great warhorse as did Faramir, who was also ornately attired. Some of his guards marched in front of him, while others rode behind together with the local dignities. Aragorn smiled as he passed the crowds who began to cheer, “Long live the King!, hooray for King Elessar!”
Aragorn slowed his horse as he passed the inn. There on the steps, stood the innkeeper and his wife surrounded by their customers of the night before. They all regarded him with puzzled expressions and muttered amongst themselves. Aragorn halted for a brief instant, grinned at them and waved. He doubted he would ever forget their dumbfounded expressions.
“A new legend is born,” murmured Faramir as they went on their way.