Chapter 1 - Harm

It was late.

Faramir's horse snorted as the snow began to fall. It was wet sleet, half way between snow and rain - the first sign of winter's approach was as early as it was unexpected. Faramir leant forward and patted the horse's neck encouragingly.

He pulled his cloak about himself as the freezing wind shivered through him. He looked up to the darkening sky. Away to the west it was still brilliant blue as the day lingered, but the rolling dark clouds had chased the light from the rest of the sky. Not only were they the clouds of night, Faramir could sense they were also full of snow.

On either side of the road, the trees of Ithilien still held on to the last remains of the orange and gold leaves of autumn but the snow was settling on them, turning them to white.

Faramir cursed under his breath. He had known that he had dwelt too long in Minas Tirith, but his duty to his King was too important to shirk. There had been hard bargaining in the council chamber followed by a number of issues which he, as Steward of the City, had to adjudicate on in the lower courts. And all the while precious time had slipped away, and the winter had snuck up on him.

He sniffed and forced his horse on at a careless pace for the conditions. He would not normally display such recklessness, but he had been away from his home for too long. Now all he wished was to kick off his boots at his own hearth with his family.

He had bid farewell to the King as he pushed his papers messily and with uncharacteristic quickness into his bag. The King had rolled his eyes.

"Stay at least for tonight," the King had said, but his voice had been gentle. He had nodded in quiet acceptance when Faramir had responded.

"Nay Sire, I have completed my duties. I must away. Eowyn has done without me for too long."

The King had grasped his shoulder and hugged him close. "As ever, my steward, you have fulfilled your duties to great effect as only you could. The city will miss you as will I."

Faramir had smiled. "Thank you, Sire, although I am sure that you exaggerate my worth. Anyway the City and you need only miss me for a few months. I shall return after the snows. Have no fear."

The King had finally let go of the younger man. "Go with haste, Lord Faramir, and give my wishes to your family."

But it had been half way through the afternoon before Faramir had finally exited the gates of the beautiful city. The smell of snow was on the wind, but he ignored it. Already he had spent a week longer than he had promised away from his beloved Eowyn, and he was determined to get to her as soon as he could. He pointed his horse toward home and spurred it onwards.

As the darkness of the night settled over the fast whitening landscape, Faramir knew he should stop. The horse was tired and would find it more difficult to keep his footing in the worsening conditions, still Faramir pushed him onward. He whispered soft words of encouragement to him and even sang a few elfin melodies.

The sleet had graduated into real snow. It rested on his shoulders, Faramir pulled the hood of his cloak even tighter over his head. He was shivering uncontrollably. He allowed the horse to slow but refused to stop. He knew the road well and planned to stop at the crop of caves further up the valley. There they would at least have shelter from the wind.

As he rode his thoughts turned to the welcome he would receive when he finally made it home. He knew that Eowyn would wrinkle her nose in mock anger when she saw him. She would have some cutting remark about his lateness which he would ignore as he swept her up in his arms and kissed the frown until she could hold it no longer.

Elboron would be there, pulling at his tunic sleeves, desperate to show his father how well his sword skills had improved, and wishing to tell him of the latest story he had read. Little Cirion would be there, tottering on chubby legs and chattering endlessly in a language that only his mother seemed fully able to understand. Faramir would lift him high in the air, and the little boy would giggle uncontrollably. When he thought of his youngest son, that outrageous giggle was always the first thing that came to Faramir's mind.

Despite the freezing weather, Faramir smiled at the thought of what awaited him. He could be there with them this time tomorrow if the weather would just let him. It could snow until the summer as long as it let him pass first!

******************************************************

"It's freezing!" Wormtongue whined again. "You're supposed to be a wizard! Can't you at least make fire?"

His companion held him with his customary withering gaze. "Of course I can make fire!" he snapped. "But I have no need of it, and so you shall suffer!"

The pathetic creature snivelled and pushed himself back into the darkness of the cave to mutter dejectedly. His companion was an imposing figure as he sat at the cave's mouth. Although his clothes were now rags, they had obviously once been of the highest quality. He was tall even when seated and thin, and his white hair and beard hung straight down to well below his shoulders. He had the air of one who was used to being respected, but more than that it appeared that he was not quite of this world. The snow that blew in from the storm outside did not fall on him in fact it left a distance around him, so he sat in a dry, untouched circle.

He closed his eyes and sent out his spirit. It was hard for one who had once been so powerful to realise that he must learn anew the skills he had once taken for granted. But Saruman was nothing if not patient. He had suffered a grievous blow, it was true. He was still forced to wander like a nomad, but slowly, very slowly he was beginning to regain the power that had been stolen from him. Once it was fully gathered, his patience would be rewarded. Those who had treated him with such little respect would feel the full force of his vengeance.

"Shut up you snivelling worm!" he hissed. "Someone is coming."

Wormtongue lifted his head and licked his lips hungrily. He crawled to his master's side and peered out into the blankness of the storm.

"Who?" he asked.

In a swirl of robes, Saruman stood up. "Get your bow," he commanded, "For what good it will do us."

Wormtongue cackled. "My bow," he muttered. "Yes I'll bring him down, and then we'll have food!"

Saruman clasped hold of the smaller frame and squeezed it painfully. "Do exactly as I say," he commanded. "For I will rip the life out of you if you fail me again!"

Wormtongue could not hold the other's masterful stare and simply whined in terror.

******************************************************

Visibility was getting worse and the snow got deeper as Faramir climbed upwards from the valley floor. He began to worry that he wouldn't even to be able to make it to the caves he was heading for.

His horse was picking its way through a particularly deep drift, Faramir was just coming to the decision that he was going to have to dismount when the horse suddenly shied away to the left.

Taken by surprise, half frozen and his senses dulled by the wind and the snow Faramir fought to control the horse. It reared onto its hind legs and began to slip crazily.

Faramir shouted over the roar of the wind to try to calm the frenzied horse.

Because his attention completely taken on quieting his horse, he did not see two dark shapes moving through the trees toward him. The first time he became aware of them was when the arrow hit him in his left shoulder.

He gasped with both pain and surprise. His horse whined and reared once more. This time Faramir could not hold his seat, he fell backwards into the drift. He landed with a bump that jerked the breath from his body. Blackness took him.

"Stop the horse!" Saruman screamed as he strode through the snow to the point where the rider had fallen.

Wormtongue threw himself towards the horse but it was thoroughly spooked. Galloping blindly it rushed away and was soon lost in the storm.

Wormtongue fell to his knees in the snow, his eyes never leaving the last point he had seen the horse. "No, no, no," he kept muttering disconsolately.

His master's voice, booming through the storm, pulled him from his miserable reverie. He stood up and scuttled towards the sound. Saruman was standing over the form of the unconscious rider. Wormtongue might have been mistaken because of the noise of the storm, but he thought his master was chuckling to himself.

"Has he got any food?" Wormtongue asked, about to move forward to search the body.

Saruman stretched out his long arm to stop him. "This is far more important that food!" he said. "Look at him."

Wormtongue looked at the face of the unconscious man. He was young and handsome, his reddish blonde hair the same colour as the growth of stubble around his face. Wormtongue was mesmerised by the trickle of blood dripping lazily from the side on the mouth. He licked his own lips hungrily and felt his empty stomach groan.

"Don't you recognise him?" Saruman pushed.

Wormtongue looked again. There was something vaguely familiar to him, but his thoughts were overcome by a feeling of revulsion as he realised this man was everything he was not.

Saruman laughed and kicked the man roughly. The man groaned weakly.

"Still alive then, that's good!" He turned to Wormtongue. "Let's make sure we keep it that way."

"Who is he?" Wormtongue asked.

Saruman could not hide the satisfaction in his voice as he said, "Worm meet Lord Faramir, Steward of Gondor!"

Wormtongue's mouth fell open in shock. He looked from his master to the man on the ground and back again, his tongue flicking in and out of his mouth.

Finally he hissed, "That is the husband of Eowyn?"

Saruman laughed. "Yes, I'd quite forgotten you had a shine for her, didn't you? Well he has what you yearned for, Worm. Is he not lucky to have fallen into our company on a night such as this?"

Suddenly Wormtongue did not feel quite so cold or hungry. He looked down at the helpless man below him bleeding on to the white snow, and he began to laugh.

"How fortunate indeed," he chuckled. "For without us he might have come to harm!"

 Chapter 2 - Missing

Where was he?

The thought ran around her head once more. She had lost count of the number of times she had thought it over the past few days.

"Mama!"

Eowyn looked across at where Cirion was playing in the snow. He had sat down in a particularly deep drift that the men had made when they cleared the courtyard, and he was now struggling to stand up again.

"Wait a minute, Bron," Eowyn said to her elder son who was making ready to attack her with his wooden sword. She rushed to where the baby sat.

With warm words of comfort she lifted the toddler to his feet and brushed him off.

"Do you want to go in where it's warm?" she asked, kneeling so she was nearer the little one's height.

Cirion pouted and shook his head. "Like snow," he said.

Eowyn smiled. "All right, just a few more minutes then."

She moved back to Elboron who had waited patiently. Bending she picked up her own wooden sword.

"Okay. Again," she said. "And use your feet more. Feel the ground with your toes as you go forward. Check if it's slippery."

Elboron attacked. Although he was half her size, he was already accomplished with a sword, and he moved forward with great vigour.

Eowyn gave ground trying to concentrate on the fight, but her mind turned back to her worries over Faramir.

The Steward had sent Anborn back from the White City ten days ago to be with his family. The Captain of the Rangers had told her that Faramir had promised he would be home within the week. And then there had been that awful early snowstorm. Even if he had set out after that he should have already been home. So where was he?

She gasped as Elboron's sword hit her painfully on the knuckles.

"Sorry," he shrieked, and dropping his sword he rushed to hug her better.

"Mama!" Cirion's voice came again.

Eowyn looked down at her battered knuckles, made more painful by the cold.

"I didn't mean it," Elboron began.

"Mama!"

Feeling suddenly trapped Eowyn muttered a curse.

"What now?" she snapped turning towards Cirion, expecting him to be helpless in a drift once more.

But the toddler was standing proudly pointing back towards the gates.

"Daiseeeee!" he shouted.

Eowyn followed his gaze. There was indeed a commotion at the gate. She squinted as the winter sun reflected brightly making it difficult to pick out what was happening.

Then her heart went cold, there was a horrific drumming in her ears. She began to run.

"Look after your brother Bron," she called over her shoulder as she moved towards the gate.

In front of her she could see the guards separate. Beregond began to walk towards her, his face set in a grim expression. Behind him he led Faramir's horse, Daisy. It was sweating, distressed and rider- less.

As she ran to him, the memory of happier times flicked unbidden into her head. The look of pleasure on Faramir's face when her brother Eomer King had presented him with the beautiful fearsome stallion. The disbelief that had replaced the pleasure when, on allowing his eldest son to name the horse, Elboron had proclaimed it 'Daisy.'

"Daisy!" Faramir had protested. "He is a horse for war. I can't call him Daisy!"

Eowyn had giggled. "What your father means Bron is he can't ride a horse called Daisy!"

Elboron had pouted. "Why?"

Faramir had flushed and looked uncomfortable. "It's a man thing," he had mumbled defensively. "Think of all the brave horses we read about in the olden tales. Surely one of those had a name you admired?"

Eowyn had grinned. Her eyes had met her husband's, where she had read his defence, 'You can't blame me for trying!'

But Elboron had snorted stubbornly. "His name is Daisy," he had pronounced.

A look of grim resignation crossed Faramir's face as Eowyn held in her laughter. He had raised his arms in defeat, and Daisy had been named.

How stupid that such a memory should surface now. Eowyn pushed it from her mind as Beregond and the horse stopped in front of her.

"Where is he?" she asked.

Beregond grimaced. "There is no sign of him, my lady. The saddlebags are full of his papers and the food for the journey. His bow is here but not his sword. The horse is in some distress. "

As he spoke she moved forward and gently soothed the horse. "Peace, Daisy," she whispered. "Would that you could tell me what has happened."

She circled the horse slowly her eyes taking in all evidence. "He is not injured, just tired," she said as she came to a stop back in front of the captain.

"What think you happened, Beregond?" she asked.

The soldier snorted. "It looks like for whatever reason the Lord Faramir was thrown from his back."

Eowyn nodded although she knew she shared the man's disquiet over this theory. Faramir was an accomplished horseman. He had been traversing a road he knew well. It seemed incomprehensible that he would simply fall off his horse. Still the storm had been bad and the ground slippery.

"And now he lies out there somewhere alone," she said, looking back to the south down the road. "What if he has come to harm?"

"I shall call out the men," Beregond said. "He will not lie out there alone for long. We will find him, my lady."

"Where is daddy?"

They turned to see both boys had made their way to them. They were now standing staring with puzzled looks on their faces.

"Do that ,Captain!" Eowyn moved to gather both her sons up in her arms. "Come it is time for baths!" she said.

"But where is daddy?" Elboron asked again.

"He will be here soon." Eowyn said steering them away toward the main house.

Beregond could hear the elder boy continuing to question his mother as he turned toward the stables. Anxiety forced him to move quickly. He couldn't stand the thought of Lord Faramir suffering any more. Not after all he had gone through.

*****************************************************

"At last your incompetence with a bow has served us well!" Saruman muttered as he leaned over Faramir.

Wormtongue sat at the back of the cave. He was wet, tired and cold having been forced to drag the inert form of the Steward of Gondor back up the hill. He had not been gentle. Faramir had groaned often. Wormtongue had chuckled at the other's distress, but now he felt envious of the man. For Saruman had seen fit to light a fire with his magic which now flamed welcomingly beside Wormtongue. The wizard never lit a fire when there was just the two of them.

"You winged him only," Saruman continued.

He took the arrow shaft in his hand and pulled it out callously. Faramir's body jerked up from the floor as he screamed in agony. Saruman pushed him back down, dousing the violent scarlet eruption that burst forth from the wound in the Steward's shoulder.

"I was aiming for his heart," Wormtongue muttered.

Saruman stopped his work, his ensanguined cloth dripping blood onto the floor beside him. He locked Wormtongue with a contemptuous stare. "Indeed," he said.

Below him Faramir's body had begun to shudder uncontrollably. He was groaning weakly.

Wormtongue eyed him suspiciously. "He makes enough of it!"

Saruman turned back to the patient. "He is a pampered city boy. I remember him from his childhood, desperate for any recognition, desperate for a kind word and eager to please any one who would give him one. That is what Gandalf the grey-fool picked up on of course. Massaged his ego, made him think he was actually worth something, and gave him the attention he so craved. His father and I knew the real truth. The second son of a Steward should just do what tradition dictates; go off and die violently but insignificantly in a war. Not outlive his betters and actually inherit the whole thing!"

As he spoke he roughly dressed the wound after discarding the arrow.

Wormtongue moved forward to look down on the face of the man. It was pale as parchment, the eyes tightly shut and the mouth grimacing with pain. Wormtongue loathed the beauty that was still obviously there.

"It is shock, that's all," Saruman continued as he broke a ball of pungent herbs under Faramir's nose. The scent seemed to ease him. He gulped in long gulps of air before lying back still oblivious to all. "He just needs to sleep it off."

Saruman stood up and moved back to the fire. Wormtongue watched him with bright inquisitive eyes.

"What will you do with him?"

Saruman laughed. "We have dwelt too long in the wilderness, scraping a bitter living while our enemies have grown soft and secure in their power. They think us defeated. They think us dead. What a shock we will give them. We will deal them a deadly blow, made all the more grievous because it appears to come from one of their own."

He looked over his shoulder to where Faramir lay motionless. Then he looked back into his own lap. Wormtongue peered and caught the sight of something small and green shimmering malignantly in the firelight before Saruman covered it.

"Although the great ring is gone yet still are there weapons on this earth that can change a man's will. Weapons that alter his perception so he appreciates another point of view, re-evaluates his loyalties and acts in a way others would not believe possible. Lord Faramir chose the wrong night to go out riding alone. The whole of Middle Earth, not just his pathetic existence, shall be transformed because of it."

 Chapter 3 - Weaving

“There is no sign of him at the river bank as far as we can tell, Sir,” the Ranger reported.

Beregond nodded in response and turned away so his men did not see the disappointment etch his features.

It was not surprisingly there was no sign. It had snowed heavily again during the night and was trying to do so again. Any telltale signs that Faramir had passed this way would have been thoroughly covered.

It was two days since Lord Faramir’s horse had returned alone, and they had begun to search for the missing Steward. Every time Beregond closed his eyes he saw the haunting expression on Lady Eowyn’s face, so fragile and yet so regal. As she had stood by the gate wishing them luck. He could not, would not, give up the search until he had found their beloved Captain.

He turned back to his men who watched him expectantly. They were cold and wet, all in need of a big meal and a dry bed, but there had been not one complaint, nor would there be. All knew whom they searched for and none would give up the hope that they would find him.

But hope was dwindling, and Beregond knew it. Even if he had survived the fall, Lord Faramir had been out in these bitter conditions for too long. If he was injured he would surely have died of exposure. If not then why hadn’t they found him struggling along the path trying to make his way home?

“All right,” he growled. “Rest’s over. We go back to where the road skirts the river and start again. We must have missed something.”

Pulling his hood tightly about him to block out the bitter wind, Beregond followed the others. He refused to think of what might have happened and instead concentrated on finding the smallest evidence that his Lord hadn’t simply fallen off the face of the earth.

******************************************************

Faramir spluttered. Rough arms held him strongly as he tried to move away from the liquid pouring from the cup pressed to his lips. The liquid tasted horrible, but he was unable to stop it filling his mouth, and overflowing down his chin.

“Swallow,” a voice near him breathed.

Faramir fought against it, shaking his head weakly, but too soon he was overwhelmed and forced to swallow. The vile liquid ran down his throat, burning as it went. He could feel it all the way into his stomach where it seemed to gather in a sticky pool.

“More,” the voice commanded.

“No,” Faramir tried to protest, but the rushing liquid drowned his voice.

Again he tried to pull away, but the arms around him held him firmly. He felt so weak and tired. There was, in truth, little fight in him.

Faramir had woken only moments before as the evil brew was being poured into his mouth. Panic rushed through him. He was disorientated and powerless. His mind wanted to stop the humiliation that was being forced on to him. He needed to get his bearings, to comprehend what was happening to him. However, he feared he would drown if he didn’t concentrate as fully as he could on surviving the next few moments. Aware that he could do nothing to stop it, he decided his best course of action was to get it over with as quickly as possible. He stopped fighting the hands that held him and grimly started to drink the liquid.

“At last he sees sense,” muttered the voice.

Finally it was over. The hands let go, and Faramir fell onto his side in the dirt, retching loudly as the foul liquid threatened to make a return appearance.

“Shut up,” Came an insidious whisper in his ear. “You should be pleased we spared some of our precious grog to get you better!”

Faramir breathed heavily, trying desperately to control the spasms in his stomach. He managed to pull himself to a sitting position. He peered into the darkness, trying to work out where he was. However, his eyes had difficulty settling into focus, and they weren’t helped by the lack of light. Judging from the hard stone at his back and the dirt on the ground, he was in some sort of a cave. He tried to remember what had befallen him, but his thoughts, just like his eyes refused to focus properly. Overlying them all was a thundering headache.

He closed his eyes again and gulped in some air, hoping that would quell his nausea. He felt himself drifting off into blackness again, but he sensed movement approaching him. He became aware of two shapes moving towards him. One was tall and thin, the other shorter and squatter. Faramir blinked to try to see their faces, but their features were lost in the shadows.

“Feel better?” the first voice asked him sternly. It came from the taller of the two.

Faramir nodded slowly although the grog had made him nauseous, he had to admit that the strength did seem to be returning to his limbs. His mind however frighteningly foggy.

“Who are you?” His voice was strangely weak and distant.

The taller man knelt down beside him. His face was still out of the light, but Faramir caught a sense of recognition there. He had the feeling he had met this man before.

“Doesn’t matter,” the commanding voice said. “What matters is we saved you from the storm. Now you owe us.”

There was an unmistakeable threat behind the words, and Faramir felt his unease grow. Unintentionally he moved away from the figure, but the bare stone of the cave was at his back. He had nowhere to go.

Keeping his voice as calm as he could, he said, “What do you want from me?”

There was an evil chuckle. Faramir became aware of the second figure creeping up on his other side. Faramir started at the sight of such a pathetic creature clothed in black ripped robes, face pale and dark eyes staring at him greedily.

Panicking Faramir tried to sit up. The arm of the taller man shot out and hit him on the shoulder. Violent pain rushed through him then, and Faramir gasped as he fell backwards.

“You were wounded,” the voice said with no trace of sympathy. “Not much of a wound for a warrior like you. It’s healing now, but it wouldn’t take much to open it again.”

Faramir glanced down at his shoulder and gulped as he saw new, fresh blood seeping onto his once white shirt. He shivered.

“See, you hurt easily,” said the voice. “You should be careful.”

Faramir licked his lips nervously. “Is it my purse you want?” he asked. “I....”

“Oh that would be easy wouldn’t it? Buy us off will you? How easy for the rich man to pay off his debts. I am offended.”

“I meant no offence,” Faramir snapped, feeling his fear turning to annoyance. “I thank you for your intervention after my ...eh...accident. I ask only how I can repay you.”

“Ever the gentleman!” scoffed the voice.

The other man began to giggle maniacally.

“Look....” Faramir took a deep breath and tried to start again.

“I am told you resisted the call of the one ring,” the voice said.

“What?” Faramir gasped, as the dread that had been lurking in the depths of his mind suddenly rushed forward. “Who are you?” he demanded again, this time with as much anger as he could generate.

The smaller shape’s surprisingly strong arms were around his upper body again forcing him back. Faramir tried to struggle.

“I wonder if you can readily resist my evil?” the voice said. As it spoke the features of its owner were suddenly revealed. The wizard had lit the top of his staff and the cave was bathed in bright light.

“Saruman!” Faramir gasped.

His shock made him stronger, and he burst upwards, surprising the other man who held him. He had every intention of fighting his way out with his injured shoulder and his throbbing head if he needed to. But a quick glance about told him the smaller man was sprawled on the floor in front of him. The opening to the cave was just beyond. Instead of making for it immediately, Faramir glanced back to where the wizard sat regarding him quietly. That was his undoing.

Saruman stood up to his full height and something green and bright sparkled in his hands deep within the fold of his robe. The green light flashed out across the space between him and the Steward. As soon as the light hit his retinas Faramir stopped, as if turned to stone.

Wormtongue picked himself up. He moved toward Faramir’s statue-like form.

“What happened?” he asked in awe as he stretched out, poking the oblivious Steward.

“There are some things in nature stronger than a mere man’s will. I just introduced one to the Lord Faramir.” Saruman moved forward. He passed his hand in front of Faramir’s glazed eyes. The young man blinked and then looked expectantly at the wizard.

“Give me your purse,” the wizard commanded.

Wormtongue drew in an impressed gasp as the Steward of Gondor slipped the beautifully stitched purse from his belt. He handed it to Saruman without a word.

Saruman weighed it in his hand, whistled through his teeth and then tucked it away in the folds of his cloak. “How goes it in Minas Tirith?” he asked calmly.

Faramir shrugged nonchalantly, but his voice was strangely emotionless and distant as he answered. “All is well. The King has returned. His Kingdom prospers.”

“And you Steward, where do you ride to alone and in such a hurry that you brave the storm?”

An ingenuous smile broadened Faramir’s full mouth. “I am going home to my Eowyn for the winter.”

Wormtongue let out a sharp jealous breath. “You are not worthy of her,” he muttered.

Faramir tilted his head to one side as if unaware where the voice had come from. “No, I am not,” he agreed.

“Enough of this!” Saruman roared.

Faramir looked genuinely frightened and lowered his head in deference.

“Sit down!” Saruman ordered.

Faramir instantly sat down, his head bowed.

Wormtongue regarded the scene with incredulous eyes. “What have you done to him?” he repeated.

“Nature abhors a vacuum, Worm, it must fill it with something, Saruman began. “In destroying Sauron those fools threw the world out of balance. It is down to us to right that wrong, for how can good exist without evil?”

Once long ago Wormtongue had possessed the mental capacity to grasp such concepts but not now. His mind was too overpowered and mangled through years of abuse. He stood and stared at his master, his tongue protruding slightly.

Saruman shook his head. “How do I stay sane?” he muttered. “Go and find food, Worm. I need time alone with the Lord Steward so I can explain what I would have him do. I only put him under with a very quick short-lived spell. I need to make sure my influence will be of a more permanent nature. It will take time for this enchantment is a complex and pain- filled web to weave.”

“Yes, master.”

Wormtongue turned to leave but glanced back. “Master?” he said.

“What, Worm?”

“When you have finished with him, can I have the pretty boy for my own?”

“We shall see how much is left of him when I am done.”

Wormtongue nodded and left. When he looked back the whole cave seemed to be bathed in the mysterious green light. He stopped as the clear winter air was pierced by a horrifying human scream. Wormtongue could not stifle the shiver that ran the length of his spine. He knew it was nothing to do with the freezing winter temperature.

Chapter 4 - Found

It was two weeks since his horse had come back alone. Two weeks since Beregond had started his daily searches, and two weeks since Lady Eowyn’s pale face had watched him and his men leave.

This morning she stood by the gate as she had done for every morning of those two weeks, but for the first time, Beregond had noticed there was no twinkle in her eyes. Surely she hadn’t given up?

Beregond refused to believe it. Gritting his teeth grimly, he spurred his horse gently down the road back to the agreed meeting place. He had scald down his force to just six men, the best trackers the Rangers of Ithilien could boost for he knew that there were other duties that the rest of the men should fulfil. He would however not give up his search, not if it took all winter; he was determined to find at least one trace.

Lady Eowyn supported him in this, ever positive and ever hopeful, but his wife Maura had sat with the lady the night before. It had become their custom to sit with her in the hours after the children were abed, when the fear had chance to really catch hold and take away Eowyn’s immense courage.

Maura had not returned to Beregond until just before he had left. They had exchanged full words, but those they had had chilled him to the core.

“Her Ladyship wept all night,” Maura began. “I could not leave her. It was as if her heart had broken at last. She cannot bear it anymore. She must find out what has become of him for it is the not knowing that is killing her. She kept saying, ‘He sent Anborn home to be with his family. Why did he not come home to his?’ How could I answer her.”

“And then she said that she felt their love was so strong she would know if something happened to him. She should have been able to feel it if he had come to harm, but she felt nothing.”

Maura had clasped hold of Beregond’s arm. “I believe that it would be better if you were to bring his body home, although the horror would be beyond imagining, than for you to return again empty handed. If you cannot do that then maybe you should not go at all, my husband.”

Beregond had growled and pulled away from his wife’s touch. “You know I must go,” he had muttered, his voice hoarse. “I have made the promise. Besides I am not strong enough to stay here and wait.”

He banged his fists frustratedly on the wooden table in front of him. “I helped save him before. I spilled innocent blood to keep him safe. I pray only that I be given the chance to do so again.”

“But if she has given up. If she is prepared to let him go and face the future without him, then so must you.”

“No!” Beregond could feel his grief so very close to the surface. “Understand woman I cannot, not yet.”

Maura heard the catch of desperation in his voice, saw the glint of horror in his eye and moved to embrace him.

“I meant no harm, Beregond,” she whispered. “It’s just...”

“I know,” he sniffed. “You speak with great wisdom, but I am not yet ready to believe he is gone. Give me this time I pray Maura.”

She smiled. “Of course.”

He bent and kissed her, and then he left her standing in the kitchen as she had every day for the last two weeks.

He sighed and glanced up at the sky. It had been a beautiful winter day. The sky above was still brilliant in its blue although it was beginning to darken. Beregond judged they had only two hours left before sunset. It was time to turn for home, but he did so with great guilt, as the memory of his wife’s words of the morning underlined his failure once more.

He whistled, a shrill sound that broke the stillness of the glade in which he sat. Within minutes his men had returned. None of them met his eye. All walked to their waiting mounts with heads down and shoulders slumped. No one spoke.

Maura was right of course, Beregond realised. This daily ritual was doing no good. He was being selfish and unreasonable to expect his men to go through it, just to ease his own breaking heart. It was like constantly re- opening a wound instead of letting it heal. They needed to move on. The Lord Faramir was not coming home and they all needed to accept it.

He turned his horse back to the road, and as he did so he glimpsed movement through the trees to his left. He turned back, peering into the area where the trees were more densely packed and the bright winter sun could not penetrate. There was something there his senses told him, something too big to be a bird.

“What is that?” he asked.

As one the rest of the men turned to peer into the trees.

“Where?” one muttered.

Beregond slipped off his horse into the snow. He began to walk towards the shadow. His men followed, save one who remained with the horses.

As they got nearer they could see the shadow began to take shape. It was walking on two legs. It looked like a man although it was shambling more like the movement of a bear. As they drew nearer it fell to the ground.

Beregond was running now. His heart was beating a terrific drum-like tattoo in his chest. Around his head a litany was running. ‘Oh please let it be him, oh please...’

He reached the figure that had fallen head first into the snow. It was wearing only light breeches and a white grubby shirt.

Beregond cursed as he fell to his knees beside it in the snow.

His men gathered around them both as Beregond gently gathered up the inert form and rolled it over.

“My Lord!” he wept as his eyes fell on Faramir’s pale face.

Faramir’s grey eyes opened but rolled uncontrolled in his head. He was shivering violently and gulping in air.

One of the men placed his cloak over him, and Beregond shifted his position to ensure it covered all of the Steward’s freezing body. As he tucked it around the shuddering form, Beregond noticed the shoulder wound surrounded by dried blood as well as the fact that Faramir had no boots on.

“My Lord,what have they done to you?” he whispered.

Faramir managed to stop his eyes from rolling long enough to focus on his captain. He smiled weakly. “Beregond,” he whispered as his teeth chattered fiercely, “I am so cold.”

“Aye, there are icicles on your nose!” Beregond muttered, “Time we got you home and warmed up a little.”

He stood up and carried Faramir to the horses. He was surprised how light and insubstantial the Steward’s body was. Tenderly he placed the violently shivering man before him on the saddle. Faramir was drifting in out of consciousness, but his body, anxious for any heat, nestled into Beregond’s larger frame snugly.

“Come on, boys,” Beregond said to the now considerably brighter Rangers. “Let’s get this man home to where he belongs!”

So relieved were the men of Ithilien that none threw a final glance over their shoulders. If they had done they may have glimpsed two further shadows lingering in the trees watching them.

“So it is done,” Saruman said as he turned away. “I have returned the Lord Steward, not completely untainted but alive at least, to his good lady wife for now.”

At his side Wormtongue growled.

“Think yourself lucky, Worm,” Saruman continued. “You have got new boots and a new cloak out of him already. And by the time I have finished with him, you will have everything that he holds dear.”

Wormtongue looked up from the collar of what had once been Faramir’s cloak. He had been caressing it lovingly. “Everything?” he asked.

Saruman smiled, obviously pleased with his plans. “Everything that you desire!” he promised with a satisfied chuckle. “Come now we have money let’s find some better lodging that that draughty cave.”

Wormtongue guffawed with pleasure. “I thought you’d never offer,” he muttered.

Chapter 5 - Surviving

Eowyn sighed softly as she watched her younger son sleeping contentedly in the bed before her. He looked so safe and so innocent, as if nothing could affect him. But she remembered the look of pain that had dulled his eyes when his father had shouted at him earlier.

It was out of character for Faramir to react in such a way, particularly bearing in mind his own history when all Cirion had wanted was a little attention. Such incidents had become increasingly common over this winter.

Eowyn reached out and gently stroked Cirion’s chin. “Your father loves you dearly,little one, only he forgets himself a little. Forgive him, Ciri, for he under a lot of pressure.”

She lingered for a few more minutes listening to the child’s breathing, making sure it was deep and rhythmic and there was no sign of the sobbing that had been the child’s heart-breaking reaction to his father’s rebuff.

This was not the first night she had chosen to stay in her children’s bedroom rather than spend time alone with her husband. He had changed not only in his sudden lack of patience with his children, but he was preoccupied and bad tempered with everyone and worse still the nightmares he had suffered just after the end of the war of the ring had returned to haunt him.

She remembered back to the day that Beregond had brought Faramir home, cold and trembling but mercifully alive. Her heart had soared then as she had taken him in her arms and cried tears of thankfulness.

It had been hard over the following weeks, she had stayed constantly by his bedside and nursed him back to health, but she had been floating on a cloud of pure relief. She had feared the worse that she had lost him. She had almost given up hope, but he had returned to her and nothing would dent her happiness.

Such was her positive attitude that she overlooked the changes that Faramir began to exhibit in his behaviour for a long time, excusing them or finding other explanations for his lapses. It was only recently that she had allowed herself to see the truth and with the realisation came new and terrifying worries.

He had begun to suffer frighteningly intense headaches. They came crashing over him for no apparent reason, bringing blinding flashing lights in his vision, fever and vomiting spells with them. The only solace he could find was to lie in a darkened room and sleep them off. Such attacks were becoming more regular.

She had confronted him with her fears about his strange behaviour the night before. His reaction had been that which she would have expected from the ‘old’ Faramir. He had agreed with her completely, apologised profusely, blamed his preoccupation on the work the King had given him and promised that he would change. She had almost believed him especially when he had taken her up in his arms and kissed her passionately. The warm light of love appeared to have returned to his eye, but then the next day he had reverted, and she felt the cold fingers of fear clasping at her heart once more.

Now as she stood and pondered, she knew this had all originated from his last journey back from Minas Tirith. There were still too many questions left unanswered. He still maintained that he had left the white city only three days before Beregond found him, which she knew was impossible since his horse had arrived home a full two weeks before him. He remembered nothing of the storm, could come up with little explanation of how he came to be wandering in the woods with no boots and wearing only his shirt and leggings, or for that matter, how he had an obviously treated and healing arrow wound in his shoulder. He simply said he must have been attacked and robbed on the road, bumped his head, blacked out and been left for dead.

At his explanation Eowyn had glanced at Beregond and saw the scepticism in the old soldier’s eyes. Gently they had tried to push Faramir to reveal more on numerous occasions since,but he had become reticent and angry accusing them of not believing him. He had become so agitated that they had agreed not to raise the subject any more but there were too many questions that remained unanswered. Eowyn felt uncomfortable in questioning him further. She perceived but could not understand why Faramir’s eyes appeared to be tinged with guilt whenever the subject was raised.

Now she lingered because she did not want to face him again so soon after the night before. She did not know what to say to him anymore, did not trust herself not to incite some anger in him. She wanted so much to help him, but it felt like there was some invisible barrier that had come between then. He seemed unable to take pleasure in anything. Even her embrace and love left him untouched and distant.

She recalled the news that she had kept from him until he recovered and broken to him days before. She thought that at least information that she was with child once more would move him. She remembered his reaction vividly, so different from the tears and hope that had accompanied the news of Elboron’s coming and the quiet determination that he could love a second child just as much as his firstborn which he had articulated so eloquently to her when she had told him of her second pregnancy. Both times he could not hide the passion and wonder that the promise of new life had brought him. This time she had looked for it, hoping that it would pull him from this strange depressed state he had fallen into. He had nodded slowly, and his mouth had smiled, but his eyes remained distant and dull.

“I hope it is a girl for you,” he had said.

She had taken his hands in hers and noticed that they trembled slightly.

“I don’t care,” she had responded. “As long as it brings you happiness.”

He had gulped then. “I am sorry, Eowyn,” he had said pulling his hand from her and running it nervously through his hair. “I am happy. It’s just.....”

He had stopped, the intensity of his stare suddenly withering away into blandness. Too often recently his attempts to analyse his feelings ended in such a feeble response.

She longed for him to open up to her, but she saw every time she tried to push him the gulf between them seemed to increase. He closed himself off to her,and her heart wept that their relationship could have degenerated to this.

“I’m sorry,” he repeated moving away from her back to his desk. “I am preoccupied with the wording on this treaty the King has given me to write.”

“Let me help,” she had tried. “I still can’t believe that the King is even contemplating a treaty with the Harad.”

“Anything that stops the killing has to be good,” Faramir said.

The light had reflected brightly in his eyes, for a moment she had seen the sympathetic, caring man she had married and still loved so very deeply, but then his face had crumpled into a frown as he continued almost pompously.

“The King has given this duty to me. It’s my responsibility and I have to finish it. Besides isn’t that the baby crying?”

And so saying he had dismissed her. Eowyn had wanted to stay and talk but she feared to do so. He had not mentioned her pregnancy again. He, who had been such a committed father and attentive lover, was now something so terrifyingly different.

Eowyn felt so utterly alone. She had confided in Maura in a moment of weak desperation when she thought she had lost Faramir, but the memory of that embarrassed her greatly. She could not speak of these new, darker fears not to Maura wife of her husband’s captain. She found herself praying for the winter to end. She wanted to return to Minas Tirith. There she had friends who would understand and help her through this crisis. They would see the truth of it and make her understand that there really was no problem with Faramir. It was all in her own imagination.

Sighing softly again she left the children’s room and went to their sleeping chamber. She was surprised to find Faramir was already there, lying quietly on the bed, waiting for her. She was surprised because he had developed the habit of working late in the study and not coming to bed until she was asleep.

“Hello,” he said softly.

“Hello,” she responded. “Not working late?”

He looked shamefaced. “I am sorry, Eowyn,” he began. “I know I haven’t been myself lately. Things seem to be weighing heavily on me as they never did in the past. I shout, I get angry.” He flexed his hands frustratedly as he spoke. “But most of all I neglect those who are most important to me.”

She moved toward him and sat down.

“I worry for you,” she said. “What can I do to make it right?”

“I am so lucky. I have so much to be grateful for. You can do no more than you do, my lady.” Gently, almost shyly, he stroked her cheek. “You are so much more than I ever dreamt of. So much more than I deserve....”

“Ssssh, my husband,” she whispered as she nestled her head into his body.

But he would not be silenced. The words rushed out of him. “I have so much. You give me everything I desire, and you are the woman of my dreams. Why is it so hard for me to live this? To love you?”

She hugged him to her then as the tears began to roll silently down his cheeks.

“Faramir my love, I do not know why you feel so. I do not know what I can do to ease your pain, but I do know that this is just a passing moment and one not altogether unexpected bearing in mind all that you have suffered. This uncertainty and lack of confidence will pass. What will not pass is the love that we bear each other. That is stronger than any momentary pain, and it will survive this, as you will live through this. You,who had the courage to ride before the nazgul, do not give up hope, not now.”

He clutched her to him, and she returned the embrace.

“I love you so very much, Eowyn,” he whispered.

“I know,” she replied. “Promise me one thing.”

He lifted his head. “What?” he asked, his eyebrows arching quizzically.

“Go to the Healers in Minas Tirith in the spring. Tell them everything because your headaches are something new and worry me greatly.”

He nodded with resignation, and the look of sheer anxiety that enveloped his face almost made her heart break.

They had held each other close for a long time. Finally Faramir fell asleep, and Eowyn continued to hold him as he snored softly until she too drifted off to sleep.

His scream awoke her some hours later. She sat up disorientated and scared. He was bolt upright beside her, the sweat dripping off him and his eyes staring wildly.

“Faramir,” she said, reaching out to hold him.

He turned to her. “Eowyn,” he hissed desperately. “What is wrong with me?”

“It was the nightmare again?”

He nodded. “I feel like the darkness is all around me. I am more frightened than I ever have been because now I have so much more to lose.”

“We will seek out help for you.” She clutched hold of his shoulders. “We don’t need to face this alone, there are people who can help us, Faramir. We just need to hold on till the spring. Then we can go to Minas Tirith and find help. Promise me you can find the strength to get us there.”

He smiled an infinitely poignant expression. “You have enough strength for all of us, Eowyn, you always have had. I will do what I can, I promise.”

“How long until the snows melt?” she asked.

“Not long,” he said in a dreamy voice. He turned back to her his eyes suddenly wide with intensity. “I am sorry this winter has not been how I had hoped.”

“Stop it now,” she said. “I don’t want to hear any more apologising. Let’s just look forward to the springtime.”

He nodded. “In the springtime all will be well,” he agreed and reaching forward he pulled her down to a long, passionate embrace.

  Chapter 6 - Meeting

The view across the Pelennor Fields never failed to catch Eowyn’s breath. She stood on the walls of the White City with Cirion in her arms pointing out the sights. Cirion was not as impressed as his mother by the view and was instead trying to climb down over her shoulder.

“Ciri,” Eowyn chided softly. “If you want to go down all you have to do is ask.”

Turning she deposited the babe on the ground and watched him toddle towards the grassy area in front of the white tree.

“Don’t touch the tree!” she called.

“I fought too many wars to keep this place sacred and you let that ruffian run wild here!”

She turned to see Faramir approaching. He stood beside her by the wall. He looked out over the plains.

“It does my heart good to be here once more,” he breathed as the wind gently played with his hair.

“How is the King?” Eowyn asked.

“He is fine. Wishing he could go out and hunt some orc, I think, instead of staying here having to prepare for the celebrations.”

“And the treaty?”

Faramir looked away from her gaze. He shuffled his feet nervously. “Osgiliath glows in the sunshine once more,” he said wistfully as he stared out to where the new city grew from the ruins of the old.

Eowyn pouted. “Faramir, I want no false modesty, what did he think about your work? You spent long enough working on it.”

Behind them Cirion fell and began to cry. Eowyn thought she detected relief in her husband’s eyes as he quickly moved to pick up his son.

Lifting the crying child into his arms, Faramir comforted him until the tears stopped.

“There is a reception tonight,” Faramir said. “The King expressly asked that you attend. Your brother will be there and all the others.”

“Do you want to go?” Eowyn asked as he passed the now quiet child back to her.

He looked away shrugging. “I think I have to.”

“And when will you go to the Houses of Healing?” she asked.

“Where is Elboron?” Faramir asked.

“He is down at the Military School, you remember?”

Faramir rubbed his forehead.

“Are you getting a headache again?” she asked with concern.

“It’s nothing.”

She reached out to him then, and he saw the worry in her eyes. “Please Faramir, you promised!”

A shadow passed across his face dark and deep as his eyes flashed angrily. He lifted his hand to push her away, but something stopped him. He stood with his hand in mid air for a moment, and then he gulped in a long breath.

Moving his hand he pushed it through his hair guiltily. He turned back to where Eowyn stood her hands full of squirming baby.

“I know I promised. Go back to our lodgings, get ready for tonight Eowyn, and I will get Elboron. I swear to you I will go to the Healers before we leave.”

She nodded, her eyes holding his to seal his vow. “That is enough for me.”

As she began to walk away, he called to her. “Eowyn, wear your finest dress. You will be the most beautiful woman tonight.”

She smiled weakly and turned away so he did not see the tears that threatened to roll down her face.

******************************************************

“Sister!” Eomer’s voice boomed across the room, and he arrived at Eowyn’s side only moments later, picking up his sister and enveloping her in a crushing embrace.

“Put me down, you big oaf!” She laughed. “You’re a King now. Start acting like one!”

“And you’re a wife and mother now. Where are my nephews and your husband, for I hear he has hit the mark once more. I knew he was good with a bow but that’s not the only target he seems to hit with regularity!”

She thumped him playfully. “Is that your unsophisticated, heathen way of giving me congratulations over my pregnancy?”

“Unsophisticated! Since when have you thought of the Rohirrim as heathen, sister dear? Where is the Steward that I may inform him he is filling his wife’s head with lies and untruths and turning you into a woman of Gondor! How I weep for the Shieldmaiden you once were,” he boomed.

“Peace, Eomer-King,” said King Elessar as he appeared to Eowyn’s left. “Although your sister spent a life time enduring your humour, the rest of the Court of Gondor have somewhat more delicate sensibilities.”

Eomer turned to fix his King with his uncompromising stare. “King Elessar, you begin to sound like a true politician!”

He moved forward,and they embraced each other in a brotherly hug, “I will take that as a compliment, Eomer, although I am not entirely sure that is how it was meant!” Aragorn muttered.

Eomer simply smiled wider. “I cannot conceive what you mean.” He cast a knowing glance toward his sister. “As a lowly vassel from one of your least sophisticated realms, one could even call it heathen, I know nothing of the complexities of court politics.”

Despite herself Eowyn found she was sticking her tongue out at her brother. She managed to withdraw it before the King turned to see her. Eomer shamelessly rolled his eyes and smiled glibly.

They were in the informal meeting rooms where they had retired following the formal banquet, which had lasted for most of the evening. At the meal, the atmosphere had been distinctly starchy but now the King had invited his dearest friends to this rather exclusive get together, most appeared to be more relaxed.

As if to underline this, Eomer grabbed Legolas and Gimli in quick succession with one of his famous bear hugs. “Where is the ale?” his voice boomed.

“You are well, lady?” Aragorn asked Eowyn as the others moved away towards the drink.

Eowyn curtsied. “Yes, thank you, Sire,” she replied, not daring to meet his eye in case he perceived the pain that lingered there.

“Faramir informs me that you are awaiting another happy event. My congratulations to you.”

She inclined her head shyly. “Thank you, Sire.”

She always felt ill at ease in the King’s presence, bearing in mind their previous relationship. She glanced toward the doors wishing her husband would return soon. He had felt unwell after the meal and had excused himself to take a little air, but he should have come back by now.

Although there was no sign of Faramir, her brother appeared back at her shoulder a brimming pot of ale clutched in his hand. Behind him Eowyn saw Legolas staring intently out of the window into the courtyard below.

“Where is the Queen?” Eomer asked the King direct as ever.

Aragorn smiled. “She went to check on Eldarion. A mother is never really well satisfied when she is away from her baby as Lady Eowyn would understand. “

Eowyn smiled but could find nothing to say.

“How was winter in the wilds of Ithilien?” Eomer asked.

“It was cold,” Eowyn snapped back. “But no colder than I recall Eldoras to be, brother.”

“And at least there you had the Steward to keep you warm, eh sister? Where is he anyway? I haven’t had chance to greet him properly yet.”

“His ribs are still bruised since the last time you gave him one of your hugs!” Eowyn retorted. “And for your information, he was most busy over the winter completing an important treaty for the King!”

Eowyn felt herself redden. What was it about her brother that made her regress to the little sister she had once been? Why couldn’t she control it? What would the King think of her?

She glanced at him meaning to apologise, but the look on his face stopped her.

“What treaty is that, my lady?” he asked mildly.

She bit her lip nervously, not quite sure what he wanted her to say, but he seemed genuinely puzzled.

Finally she decided to come clean. “The treaty for the Harad my lord,” she said. “Lord Faramir spent most of the winter working on it.”

King Elessar cocked his head to one side and regarded her intently.

“Treaty with the Harad!” Eomer boomed. “He’s been having you on, sister!”

Eowyn felt her colour deepening. “What?” she whispered.

The King gazed at her with sympathy. “I think you must be mistaken, my lady. I don’t know what Faramir has told you, but I have no intention of signing a treaty with the Harad. In fact, after the celebrations tomorrow, as they continue to raid our settlements, I have called a counsel to discuss how we can best deal with them.”

Eowyn’s mouth fell open. She felt tears of embarrassment prickle her eyes. How could there be no treaty? What had Faramir been doing for all those hours in his study if not writing the treaty? Why had he lied to her? As she thought on it, she realised that she had never actually seen him working on the treaty. Whenever she had entered his study he appeared to be simply sitting at his desk staring into space. Why would he do that?

She gulped. “Oh, I am so sorry. I must have misunderstood, Sire. How silly of me.” Words fell forth from her mouth as both the King and her brother stared at her as if she was mad. “You mentioned mothers and their children, lord. I do believe it’s time for me to check on mine!”

She curtsied again and retreated.

Eomer and Aragorn exchanged bewildered glances. “What was that all about?” the King asked.

Eomer shrugged. “It seems that not only has he decided not to grace us with his presence tonight, but also your Steward hasn’t been too honest with his wife.”

“Treaty with the Harad.” Aragorn shook his head. “Although I know Faramir wishes for peace as much as any man, I know he is aware of their continuing hostility and resistance to our advances. I have not asked him to write any treaty. I wish we were at that stage.”

Eomer finished his drink. “If he is playing her false, I will flay him alive!”

“Faramir! I could not believe that.” Aragorn found he was shocked at the very thought.

Eomer sniffed. “You’re right, of course, Sire. Faramir is the last man I would think that of. He’s the sort that makes it impossible for the rest of us to live up to his standard.” He burped loudly. “I need more beer!” he said and moved for a refill.

Legolas had felt something disquieting itching at his conscience all day. It had become suddenly more pronounced, which is why he had moved toward the window. It was dark outside, but the courtyard was brilliantly lit so the elf could quite clearly see Lord Faramir leaning against a far wall. The Steward was alone, his shoulders slumped and head down. When they had met earlier, Legolas had noted the paleness of his face and the dark lines betraying lack of sleep beneath the Steward’s eyes. He was about to turn away when a second figure entered the courtyard.

This figure was tall and straight, appearing to glide across the ground. Legolas peered at the figure, but even his elfin eyes could not see past the black cloak that obscured its features. Gracefully it moved to where Faramir stood. It was not until the figure reached him that Faramir lifted his head, still he never looked at the figure but cocked his head as if listening intently.

Legolas felt his sense of disquiet grow into something more, but he could not see anything particularly suspicious. Faramir had been born and raised in this city. That he would meet someone like this was not unreasonable, even if it did appear a little odd that the other wanted to keep his identity secret.

“Legolas!” Gimli’s voice growled from close to the bar. “Do you want a drink?”

The elf glanced toward him and raised a hand for silence. As he looked back, he thought he glimpsed a green light that flashed in the figure’s dark cloak and was gone.

Faramir changed position slightly to stare intently at where the green light appeared.

As Gimli came up behind Legolas, the dark figure acquiesced into the shadows, leaving the Steward alone. Faramir seemed to shake his head to clear it, and then stood away from the wall.

“Who is that?” Gimli asked as he pressed a goblet of wine into Legolas’ hand.

“Lord Faramir,” Legolas replied.

“What’s the laddie doing down there? Doesn’t he know the party’s up here?”

“I don’t know,” Legolas replied. “But I don’t like it.”

Gimli guffawed. “You elves see conspiracies everywhere, Legolas! Young Faramir is probably the worse for drink.”

“I watched him at the meal.” Legolas said. “He drank and ate very little.”

“Then he’s probably just worried about the ceremony tomorrow. He’s a deep one that one, and he has a big part to play now he’s Steward.”

Faramir was walking slowly across the lawn as if deep in thought.

Legolas snorted. “Yes, I suppose you’re right,” he conceded and downed the goblet. “Now where is the table that I may drink you under it?”

Gimli laughed. “That’s the spirit!”

 Chapter 7 - Awakening

Grima Wormtongue closed his eyes at the memory of the day before. He had watched hidden in the anonymity of the crowd as the Steward and Lady of Ithilien had arrived at Minas Tirith.

As he stood Wormtongue remembered a similar moment years before when he had seen Eowyn’s mother for the first time. He had been a simple Rider of Rohan then, but the beauty of the woman had made a lasting impression on him. All other women in his life had been measured against that vision of loveliness, and all had been found wanting save the one he now beheld.

Eowyn was even lovelier than he remembered from the last time he had seen her many years before at Edoras. She simply took his breath away, and he stood transfixed as she smiled sweetly but frostily at the people in the crowd. She had the look of her mother Theodwyn then, the look that had entrapped his heart and made him promise himself that he would have her. He had failed in his vow, and that had caused his life to veer off into another direction. Suddenly it seemed a devastating blow to him. He found himself uncharacteristically pondering on what would have changed if he had taken Eowyn’s mother for his wife. He gulped and pulled away as his thoughts scared him.

Memories of his final days in the Edoras Court with Theodin King came back to him then. He remembered the clutching of lust at his innards whenever he saw Eowyn. If not the mother then the daughter would have satisfied him, but she too had been stolen away from him. He clenched his fist. He would have her eventually. He would taste the sweetness of her chill beauty.

Forcing his eyes to look away from her, he focused on the man who rode by her side. Faramir looked pallid and sallow, his head down; he seemed unaware of the crowd. As he passed close by to Wormtongue and his master, however, he raised his head and stared straight at Saruman whose features were covered by his hood.

Wormtongue watched the interaction with interest. He knew Saruman had worried that his hold over the Steward would not last over the separation of the winter. Wormtongue could hear the words of the spell his master muttered, and he noted that Faramir inclined his head slightly in deference.

Saruman chuckled. “I have you still,” he muttered.

Wormtongue closed his eyes at the memory of yesterday. His mouth went dry whenever he thought about her. In the recent past, his world had been so colourless, so lacking in beauty, that he had come to believe it had never really existed at all. Now he could not deny that the purity of her presence had touched him deep inside in a place he had long thought dead.

Muttering to himself he made his way along the busy street. It was early morning, and the whole population of the city seemed to be eager to finish their business before the celebrations started that afternoon. It was a bright but chilly spring morning. Wormtongue pulled his cloak about him. He did not like this one as much as the one he had stolen from Faramir, but it had been cheaper and the extra money he had got from selling the Steward’s cloak he had used to buy better britches too.

He was on his way to the pawnbroker now, secreted in the folds of his cloak was Faramir’s sword also stolen from the Steward when he lay helpless in the woods. Saruman had commanded him not to get rid of the sword since it was of such a recognisable design that someone might get suspicious, but Wormtongue wanted the money for a new doublet to wear for the celebrations. His normal complete submission to his master’s will had been rocked by his thoughts of Eowyn. He wanted to look as nice as he could for her when their plan was realised later in the day. He had even washed his hair earlier for the first time in months.

With a shaking hand, he had taken the sword the night before while his master was away meeting Faramir to reinforce his plan in the Steward’s unconscious psyche. Now he hurried along, anxious to complete his own little plan before the shops closed at lunchtime.

He entered the pawnbroker’s store. It was the same man who had served him last time, and he greeted Wormtongue with a friendly word. Wormtongue placed the sword on the counter and watched, his tongue flicking uncontrollably in and out as the man lifted it from its scabbard.

“’Tis a beautiful weapon,” the pawnbroker murmured as he ran his eyes along its gleaming length. “Where did you come by it, Sir?”

“What does it matter?” Wormtongue snapped. “How much will you give me for it?”

Two more customers entered the shop behind Wormtongue

The pawnbroker sniffed. “It matters,” he replied. “For as I told you last time I do not deal in stolen goods.”

“Stolen!” Wormtongue shrieked, and then he smiled his slimiest smile. “I can assure you it is mine to keep or pawn as I see fit.”

“It is engraved with the arms of the House of Stewards,” the pawnbroker said. “Such beautiful workmanship is worth a lot. This sword should be wielded by one of noble birth.”

He looked down his nose at Wormtongue indicating his opinion that his customer was anything but of noble birth.

Wormtongue was used to such comments and ignored it completely his mind focused on the money. “So what will you give me for it?” he pressed.

The pawnbroker shook his head. Wormtongue became aware that the two other customers had moved up close behind him. He felt suddenly trapped particularly as a hand was place roughly on his shoulder.

“You are under arrest!” came a gruff voice.

Wormtongue spun around to see the other customers were in fact two members of the City Guard. He spluttered and began to squirm.

“I have done nothing wrong!”

“That cloak you brought me last week,” the pawnbroker said. “My wife was suspicious. As her sister is head seamstress at court, we showed it to her, and she recognised it as her own work. She made it for Lord Faramir two winters ago. And if I’m not mistaken this is his sword, the very sword he wielded so bravely in the War of the Ring. How dare you come into my shop and seek to make profit out of the Steward’s loss!”

Wormtongue had begun to shiver. “I don’t now what you’re talking about!” he whined. “I came by these things in good faith!”

The guardsmen laughed. “You’ll have to come up with better than that, maggot! A couple of days in the city dungeons may improve your story. We’ll let you stew until the rest of us have enjoyed the celebrations. Then we will make enquiries to the Lord Faramir.”

“Let me go!” Wormtongue screamed, but they ignored him and pulled him off.

******************************************************

Eowyn awoke to the sound of retching. Pulling her gown about her she moved through to the bathroom. There she saw her husband sitting on the floor, a bowl in his lap full of the meagre contents of his stomach, his face ashen.

“Faramir!” she soothed as she knelt beside him. “It’s supposed to me with morning sickness!”

He looked up at her, and for a second she saw a rueful smile brighten his face, but it was instantly chased away by despair.

“I cannot do this,” he moaned.

“Do what?” she asked as she lifted the bowl and disposed of its contents.

“Today...... the ceremony......any of it,” he replied hopelessly.

“But you must,” she said trying to keep the shock at his incapacity from her voice. “You are the Steward. I never thought I would have to remind you of your duty Faramir.”

He stood up slowly and made his way to the sink where he stood unsteadily leaning over the bowl.

He had not returned until very the previous night. She had wanted to ask him about the treaty, but he had not come home. Now she could see that he was in no state to explain anything to her - it would just have to wait. So she pushed her concerns to the back of her mind and bore the weight of them herself as if they were too insignificant to burden him. Instead she let practicality rule her. What was important was that Faramir performed his duties that afternoon. All else must take second place behind that, and she must do whatever it took to ensure he fulfilled his duty.

“Faramir,” she said firmly but not ungently. “You need to pull yourself together. Let’s concentrate on what is achievable; there will be plenty of time later to plan for what is not. You have to set your mind to do it, once you do that nothing can stop you, this I know.”

He looked up at her his eyes wide with tears. “I cannot,” he said. “Something is wrong. I can’t...”

She took hold of him by the shoulders as if to instill some of her strength into his diminished spirit.

“Faramir, my love, you have to do this.”

“But....”

“No there can be no buts.” His reluctance chilled her to the marrow. What could it be that was having such an effect on him? But she refused to be swayed. “Do you feel sick still?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“Wash your face with the cold water,” she instructed using the tone of voice she normally reserved for the times when her sons were being particularly difficult.

He complied and splashed the water around his neck and hair.

“Better?” she asked.

He nodded.

“I won’t call for your page darling. The fewer people that know of this the better. Will you let me help you dress?”

He nodded again as they moved back through to the bedroom. He sat on the bed as she fussed around him. Finally she stood back and regarded him.

“That’s better,” she breathed. “Now you look the part. My but you are so handsome!”

He smiled weakly at her. She thought he was going to protest again, but he seemed to have lost his fear for now. She bent and kissed him.

“You can do this, Faramir,” she said. “Just get through today, and then we can find help. Tomorrow morning we will go to the Healers, won’t we?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “Thank you for being here, Eowyn.”

“You know I always will be, my love. I would forgive you anything, for I know the worth of your heart. We will overcome this.”

He gulped, his eyes still cloudy with tears. “You need to get ready.”

“I know,” she smiled. “But I am only a bit player in this, you have a main part, my dear.”

“I won’t let you down, Eowyn,” he promised his voice etched with sincerity.

“I know you won’t. Now you will be all right?”

He nodded. “I think so.” Then his voice was noticeably stronger and his smile wider. “Of course I will be. I need some air.”

He strode purposefully out of the room, no hint of the lack of confidence he had shown only minutes previously.

She watched him go and couldn’t help thinking which of the two men she had just witnessed in his body was her actual husband. It gave her no comfort to realise that neither was the man she had married. She wished with all her heart that the wise, considerate but confident Faramir would return

  Chapter 8 - Crisis

King Elessar silently sighed. The ceremony had passed surprisingly well and was now almost over. It had not been his decision to go to such lengths, but the Council had overruled him, and he had finally agreed. And now he knew this festival would become tradition; a celebration every five years when all the peoples of Middle Earth came to swear allegiance to their King in the White City. His culture, his new society needed its tradition, and even if he personally did not feel the need for such a pretentious and time wasting event as this, he could understand that his people did. Having been so long without a King, it was only natural that now he was back in residence that they would want to honour him.

He glanced upwards through the windows high above to the outside and saw the beautiful day. He wished he could throw off his formal robes, get on his horse and simply ride, but that life was lost to him. As if she read his thoughts, Queen Arwen, who was sitting on the throne next him leaned across and whispered.

“Nearly over, my love. Only the people of Gondor are left to swear fealty.”

Aragorn nodded. It was true he had received the oaths of loyalty from representatives of all the free peoples, some of them his friends and all his subjects. Over to his left, he saw Merry and Pippin, the Shire representatives, sitting proudly, and behind them were Legolas and Gimli. Eomer sat over to the right. Aragorn gazed down at the array of excited people before him, all dressed in their finery, pressed in to the hall and on the balconies above, all straining to see. Many others he knew filled the courtyard outside. It was as if the whole world had come to pay him fealty. Aragorn could not stop the shudder that such a thought brought him.

He pulled his thoughts back as a lone figure began the long walk from the back of the hall. There was a rustle and whispers from the gathered thong as they turned to see the last oath taker.

Faramir gulped. He had done something like this before as the son of the Steward. Although he had not been brought up to rule, he had taken part in the ceremonial life of Minas Tirith, so why did he feel like he did? Why was there a coldness in the pit of his stomach, and why did his legs feel they lacked the strength to carry him up the aisle to his King?

Aragorn sat patiently on his throne, and eyed his Steward with critical discernment as he approached. He noted that Faramir looked tired and very pale. His beautiful ceremonial robes seem to hang off his frame as if he had but borrowed them from someone bigger. A muscle flexed nervously at the side of his face, and his eyes, so bright and intelligent which normally gazed around the room missing nothing, stayed fixed on the floor.

Aragorn esteemed his Steward highly. He knew more about Faramir’s family circumstances than he dare tell the young man, and he had learned of his self-sacrificing bravery in the war of the ring. All of that would have won Aragorn’s respect, but what mattered more to him was that over the years since the war that respect had blossomed into a mutual friendship. Aragorn had found Faramir possessed a quick and intelligent mind that was wise beyond his years. He was also patient and empathetic, and above all else loyal with a keen sense of duty. Aragorn had come to love his young Steward for his warmth and commitment as much as for his logical mind and innovative approach to seemingly insurmountable problems.

As Aragorn watched Faramir approach on what should have been one of the proudest moments of his life, the King perceived that there was something not quite right. He remembered the strange conversation with Lady Eowyn and made a mental note that he needed to take some time alone with his Steward after all this fuss was over. They had spent much time together in the first months of his reign when Faramir had patiently explained the duties the King would be expected to perform, and Aragorn had slowly drawn out from the younger man the pain he felt but hid so deep following his own tragedy. Aragorn hoped he filled a little part of the terrific void that Faramir felt over the loss of his beloved elder brother, Boromir. Not for the first time, Aragorn wished that the price of victory had not been so high.

Following the Steward’s wedding and subsequent move to Ithilien with his growing family, Aragorn had noted that Faramir seemed to have overcome his heartbreak and found well deserved happiness. It was naïve, Aragorn realised as he thought on it now, for him to assume that Faramir could exist in such blissful happiness forever. Never-the-less the obvious decline in the younger man over the winter was quite startling. Something was wrong. Aragorn cared enough to note it and promise himself he would broach the subject with his Steward as soon as he was able.

Faramir was fighting his own personal battle as he continued his walk up the aisle. He could feel every eye on him. It wasn’t hard, he kept telling himself. All he had to do was walk, kneel, speak the familiar words, kiss the ring and then step back. Why did it fill him with such dread that it was all he could do to keep from turning and running from the massive hall? His heart was beating deafeningly in his chest, and his throat was dry. The thought kept spinning around his head that he was missing something important.

His instinct told him that there was great danger very close but he could find nothing to evidence it. So drawing on his sense of duty and his love for both Gondor and the man who now ruled his country, he forced himself to continue walking.

Eowyn sat close to the two hobbits. Cirion was in her arms, having fallen asleep. Elboron had spent most of the ceremony reading the book he had managed to sneak in but now sat up proudly watching his father. Eowyn felt a rush of panic when she saw how pale her husband looked and how slowly he walked as if each step brought him great pain. She wondered how many other people in the hall could sense the disquiet in him, or was she just being too sensitive? Again the questions tormented, her but she forced them from her mind with the knowledge that it would soon be over, and they could finally confront their fears.

The hall was suddenly quiet, as everyone appeared to be holding their breath. The people of Gondor had suffered so much for so long, absorbing the hammer thrusts of the menace from Mordor. For them the place at the end of the ceremony as last in the oath taking was that of the highest honour and paid tribute to their courageous fortitude. That the oath should be given by the Steward of the City, the Lord Faramir who had personally suffered so much and given his all in defence of Gondor and was a well loved popular figure, made this point in the ceremony all the more poignant.

The Lord Steward finally reached the end of his stressful walk. He stood before the King, and the people waited in expectation. The King stood, his face beaming with a smile, his arms wide in welcome, but the smile froze on his lips, for what happened next was horrifyingly unexpected.

For a split second the whole hall seemed to be bathed in a blindingly green light, the source of which came from someone in the public galleries. It shown down from the balcony behind the King, and it was focused on to the Steward. The moment that the light touched his grey eyes a shiver ran through Faramir. Aragorn who was looking into his face saw them glaze over.

“Faramir!” he hissed.

But the Steward was moving forwards so quickly it was all Aragorn could do to lift his hands to defend himself as he perceived the flash of the dagger in his attacker’s hand.

Time seemed to slow as the whole of the hall looked on in horror. Faramir’s momentum knocked the King over, and he was above Aragorn with a clear strike. But then he hesitated. As he lay helpless Aragorn was morbidly fascinated by the emotions that flashed over the younger man’s face. It was almost as if he could see the mighty battle taking place in Faramir’s conscience. The dagger held high in the air was shaking violently.

“Faramir,” Aragorn whispered

Faramir’s hesitation proved critical as Legolas ever wary forced his way past the gaping guards and threw himself at the Steward’s back. As he fell Faramir finally brought the knife down, and it stabbed deep into the King’s shoulder as Aragorn threw himself to the side to try to avoid the thrust.

The green light vanished. Time re-engaged. Somebody screamed as the crowd rushed forward. Orders were being shouted as the guards belatedly moved to protect the King.

Legolas still held on to Faramir. Arwen leapt from her throne to comfort Aragorn who was sitting on the step staring at the dagger hilt protruding from his shoulder with a look of extreme surprise on his face.

“What the?” came Gimli’s voice as he forced his way through the quickly forming circle of guards.

Slowly Legolas stood up, and pulled Faramir to his feet. The Steward looked stunned and bewildered, almost like a little boy lost and searching for comfort.

Aragorn let Arwen help him up. Behind them the crowd was beginning to get angry as the import of what they had witnessed began to bite.

“Get the people out of here,” Aragorn ordered the nearest captain who rushed to obey.

Aragorn turned to his Steward. “What were you doing, Faramir?” he asked.

Faramir gulped and shook his head slowly. “I don’t know,” he murmured.

“You know I will have no choice in this,” Aragorn continued.

Faramir nodded, his head down to the floor. He refused to meet his King’s eyes.

Aragorn signalled to the Guard captain. “Take him away.”

“To the cells?” asked the captain incredulously.

“For now and guard him well.”

“Aragorn,” Arwen said. “You have a serious wound, you need treatment.”

As his Steward was marched past him, Aragorn reached out a hand and clasped the younger man on the shoulder stopping him. He moved his hand under Faramir’s chin and lifted his head so their eyes met.

“I will know what has happened here, Faramir. You will tell me. I promise you.”

Faramir gulped as his eyes filled with tears. “I am sorry, my Lord,” he whispered and then pushed past.

Aragorn watched him leave as the others moved closer to their King as if to protect him from further harm.

“The healers,” Arwen pressed.

Aragorn nodded. “Legolas,” he said. “See to Eowyn and the children. I would speak with her to our private rooms.”

Legolas nodded and moved away as Aragorn turned and allowed Arwen to guide him towards the back entrance. He suddenly felt weak and very tired.

*****************************************************

Saruman allowed himself to be maneouvered with the rest of the crowd into the bright spring sunshine. He felt strangely elated and had to work to stop a smile from running across his lips. Around him the crowd twittered and cursed at the horror.

As he made his way back down the City’s rings Saruman’s mind was working on his options. True it would have been better if the King had died, but that would have been too good to be true, bearing in mind the incompetence of the Steward. Although Faramir had failed, he had done enough to rip the Kingdom apart. After all in front of so many people, how could the Steward possibly plead his innocence? And now the populace could see the nature of the corruption of those that ruled them. Now as the whole thing tottered, Saruman knew he must make his advantage pay. He needed to be decisive and clever to rush in and pick up the pieces of power as Elessar’s pathetic kingdom crumbled.

He had to find Wormtongue - where had that fool got to when he was really needed?

 Chapter 9 - Madness

Madness ran in his family.

He had lost his mother to the call of the sea, his father had gone mad over a stone and his brother a ring. Was there any real surprise that the curse would come to claim him, too?

Faramir sat on the bed in the meagre cell and banged his head softly on the cold wall behind him as the thoughts bubbled and boiled.

That the time would come should never have been in doubt but that his fall should be so public and so treacherous. He closed his eyes to stop the tears that formed there from running down his grubby cheeks again.

Why had he done it? He had suffered it was true, but no more than any other, and he had survived. His life had the potential to be truly blessed with the beautiful woman he loved, their gorgeous children in Ithilien and a position of respect and true power at court. Why had he thrown it all away? Why had he betrayed them all?

His thoughts went back as they had on numerous occasions that night to the instant he stood before the King. He knew what he had been about to do but he couldn’t stop himself as his hand ran along the hilt of the dagger at his belt. The King was smiling at him warmly. How could he have thrown that trust away?

Faramir stood up abruptly and began pacing the room. His father had known. His father had seen all those years ago that his youngest son had the heart of a traitor. Denethor had known that he would betray everything, and for what? Faramir’s logical mind crucified itself as it retraced his actions desperate to find some reason, some explanation for his actions.

As he stood before the King, he had had a frightening flashback, it was true. In that instant he had been standing on the Bridge at Osgiliath as it burned all around him, but it was not that easy. He would not allow himself the comfort of blaming a memory. Faramir had known what he was doing as he drew the knife. Although the battle noise had raged in his head, he had known that it was the King and no orc he was about to kill. He had tried to stop the thrust, he had even made himself hesitate, but the overwhelming compulsion had taken him.

He smashed the wall with uncharacteristic fury, or was it uncharacteristic? Hadn’t he always been this way? Hadn’t he just fooled himself that he did not like to fight, that he preferred more scholarly pursuits because he knew he would always be second best to his brother when it came to war? Hadn’t he built a wall of pseudo wisdom and control around himself because he feared the deep anger that dwelt deep in his inner being?

Hadn’t this madness always been there watching and waiting? He had channelled it into the fight during the war of the ring when he had been able to disguise it as a force for good, but when that avenue was closed to him, hadn’t it always been the case that it would fester deep inside getting stronger and stronger until one day it would overcome his feeble attempts to control it?

How he had fooled them all. They all thought him dependable and dedicated to his role as Steward. How stupid they must feel now that the true blackness of his heart had been revealed. And of course, he saw with perfect clarity that the one he had fooled most completely was himself. He should have listened to his father, he had known the truth, and he had known his second son’s true quality.

He gazed up through the bars at the window above him. The sky was slowly turning from the deep night hue to the grey of dawn. A new day was coming, a day of more pain and failure.

He slumped back down on the bed as his memories raced crazily. He remembered the ring and how it had called to him. He had been stupid enough to believe that he had had the strength to resist its lure. He snorted at the thought that he could have been so misguided. He had believed he was a good man, a reasonable man, that his motives were just and wise. Now he looked back on the brittle façade that he had hidden behind for so many years and saw how easily it had been smashed to pieces. All foolish thoughts of goodness and honour had been ripped away. Now he knew what he was and so did everyone else.

He shivered although the cell was not cold. He had finally been revealed before his peers. He had not been able to keep his weakness hidden any longer. How they must hate him now. All those people who had put their faith in him, all those people who had been deceived by the elaborate mask he had hidden behind. He had betrayed them all.

Still his mind sought explanation and returned to the thought ‘Why did I do it?’

For numerous times that night the answer hit him with the pain of an arrow point; ‘because you are mad.’ There was no other possible explanation, no reason that he should try to kill the man he most respected in the whole world. He, who had been praised for his intellect and insight, could surely grasp that simple concept.

There was no escape, no place he could find to hide from this overwhelming truth. And why should he escape it? He had fallen so shamefully low, behaved with such despicable evil, wasn’t this torment all he really deserved.

“Mad,” he said out loud, his voice gravelled by torment. “Mad, mad, mad, mad, mad.”

He repeated the word and again, although not as gently this time, banged the back of his head on the wall behind.

As the spring sun rose over the White City, Faramir found no comfort in the shaft of light that speared into his cell. He was dirty, tainted and unclean, never again would he feel pure enough to embrace the cold integrity of such light.

Instead he pushed it out of his mind and allowed his thoughts to rampage back to the beginning of the circle once more.

Madness ran in his family.............................................................

 Chapter 10 - Untangling

The King sighed, deeply troubled, but he forced his face to remain neutral as the young woman entered. He had dreaded this audience, but Aragorn had learned nothing in his life if not to face fear full on.

The Lady Eowyn walked slowly towards him and curtsied. He signalled for her to rise and take a seat. He regarded her for a long moment. Her hair was not brushed, her face streaked with tears and her eyes red-rimmed, but still she held herself with great dignity and control.

“Are the children cared for, my lady?” he asked.

For the first time she looked up, and their eyes met. He could see the desperation so very close to the surface, but he could also see the iron will that held it so firmly in check. She was indeed still the courageous shieldmaiden, he remembered.

She nodded. Her voice was calm with no trace of emotion as she said, “I have left them in the outer chambers with Pippin and Merry. They enjoy each other’s company very much.”

Aragorn nodded. “Can we get you anything?” he asked.

She shook her head. “I am fine.” But the sudden quiver in her voice betrayed that she was anything but.

He waited for a few seconds as she found her composure once more.

“I wish to discuss the events of yesterday with you if you feel able to do so. There is much that I do not understand.”

She nodded again, bit her lip and looked away.

“My lady, we are all friends here as you know. We have spoken long of yesterday’s events, and I have learned much, but there is still more I have to know before I can make a decision on how to proceed.”

She was looking down now her shoulders shaking slightly. Aragorn reached forward to her and taking her hands he pulled her close to him.

“Let it out, my lady,” he whispered in her ear. “There is no shame in tears when they come from the heart.”

She sniffed and pulled away from him. “Thank you, my lord,” she responded, but her voice was stronger now. “But tears will not help me or mine now.”

“Indeed, but they may ease your broken heart, my lady.”

Her eyes lifted to his and implored him. “Please, my lord, let us not dwell on my heart, for I fear I will be overcome. Let us talk of what we can do and what must be.”

He nodded understanding her need to focus on practicalities. It was the only way he could see a way through this horrifically tangled web that stretched out before him.

He cleared his throat wondering were to begin. “I need you to tell me what happened over the winter, for even before the incident yesterday, we had all perceived a change in Faramir.”

And so Eowyn told them all that had happened over the winter months; her husband’s disappearance, the change in his behaviour, his sudden debilitating illnesses, the false explanations of the treaty with the Harad (at which she felt her colour rise) and lastly his inability to function the previous morning.

They sat and listened. Gimli on the chair nearest the fire would grunt at intervals. Eomer, her brother, at the other side of the table would shake his head and avoid her eyes and Legolas who moved to sit beside her, resting a comforting hand chastely on her shoulder and enveloping her in the wide safety of his unblinking gaze. Next to the King, Arwen sat her face unreadable as she listened intently.

“I think he was trying to tell me yesterday morning.” Eowyn finished. “And yet I would not listen. I was too full and proud about his part in the ceremony. I told him it was his duty to go, but now I remember the look in his eye....”

She stopped shaking her head.

“Lady Eowyn,” said the Queen. “Whatever the reasons and explanations for this, I can assure you that the fault is not yours. You did only what you thought was right.”

“If he was trying to tell you something, I do not believe he fully understood its import himself, for if he had he would not have been swayed by your words, Eowyn,” Legolas said.

“Indeed not,” agreed the King.

He stood up and moved to the window. It was only then that Eowyn noted his arm in the sling.

She gasped. “Sire, I am so sorry. I sit here drowning in my own self pity and forget who truly suffered yesterday. What must you think of me? How is your wound?”

Aragorn smiled sadly. “I will mend soon enough. It is the wound to my Kingdom which we must seek to heal now.”

He looked out of the window. “I remember the look on Faramir’s face,” he mused. “I looked into his eyes, and it was not my Steward who looked back at me.”

“What do you mean?” said Eowyn.

The King turned back to her. “Both my wife and Legolas have sensed a malevolent presence in the City for the last few days. Two nights ago Legolas saw your husband walking with a hooded man in the gardens.”

“Faramir’s demeanour was very strange,” Legolas said. “And there was an evil scent on the air.”

“Think you that Faramir is involved in some kind of plot?” Eowyn asked, her eyes shining brightly now.

“There is more,” the King continued, “that your story has now confirmed. I remember well the day Faramir left Minas Tirith last winter. He was civil and patient with me, but I knew he longed to be away. He felt guilty that he had overstayed here and that his duty to me had forced him to break a promise he made to you, Eowyn. I did not want him to leave, although I perceived his urgency because there was the smell of snow in the air. Still he would not be swayed and left that very afternoon. Within three hours of him leaving, the first snow storm of the winter turned the Pelennor Fields white, and I felt a strange worry that my much-loved Steward would come to harm.”

Eowyn stared at him. “I remember that storm, too,” she said. “It was a whole two weeks before Faramir came home. Where was he?”

The King sat down again. “He would not say?”

Eowyn shook her head. “Beregond and I asked and asked, for we knew he had been out alone in the woods for longer than he said. He would not answer. He became distressed and angry, frustrated even when we asked, and so because we had him home and safe, we stopped asking him. Looking back on it now, I do not think Faramir knew where he had been.”

“But still,” mused the King, “it appears that the answer is the key to solving this riddle. I wonder if he would be able to tell me.”

“There is more, Sire,” Eomer’s voice boomed out. “This morning before I came here, I stopped at the prison.”

“Did you see him?” Eowyn asked, her heart leaping.

“No, I did not, for when I got there I did not trust myself,” Eomer confessed as he flexed his hands. His eyes looked away guiltily from his sister’s entreating stare. “But I checked with the Captain there that everything fared well. The Captain told me there is another in the prison connected to the Lord Steward.”

The King sat forward with interest.

“A man was arrested yesterday trying to pawn Faramir’s sword. He had earlier sold a cloak of Faramir’s to the same pawn broker.”

“Faramir lost both his cloak and his sword in the woods,” Eowyn gasped.

Aragorn stood up. “I think the answers we seek will be found in the prison. I will go and talk with this man.”

“My Lord,” Eowyn began.

He moved to her and took both her hands in his. “I know what you would ask, my lady, and it breaks my heart to refuse. But I say to you wait just a short time, and I will return your husband to you, for I know that such a reunion should not take place in the city goal.”

Arwen moved forward too. “Come, my sister,” she said softly. “Let us play the dutiful mothers and watch over our children while the men save the day.”

Eowyn opened her mouth to argue but a sudden vision of her husband pale and defeated in a prison cell stopped her. She suddenly felt very tired and welcomed the supporting arms of the Queen.

She nodded. “Give him my love, Sire,” was all she could say.

The King smiled reassuringly at her. “Of course,” he replied.

Chapter 11 - Confession

“We need to limit the damage,” Faramir began. “I will confess to everything. You strip me of my title, punish me and then the Kingdom can move on. It will soon be forgotten.”

The King held his Steward in a long unwavering stare. He had thought to find Faramir contrite and suffering, and that would have almost been easier to bear than the man he confronted now. For the Steward was animated, his eyes burning brightly in the dull prison light as he sat behind the table and held his King’s questioning stare.

Behind Aragorn sat Legolas watching silently. The rest of the room was empty as no one else felt strong enough to participate in this audience.

“Punish you?” Aragorn repeated.

Faramir nodded earnestly “I guess a public hanging for high treason,” he answered too blithely.

It was then that Aragorn realised what was happening. Who knew what agonies Faramir must have suffered during the long black night when he wrestled with his demons in the cell nearby? It was obvious from the profound black shadows under his burning eyes that he certainly had not slept. But by conscious process or simply by reverting to the one thing that had saved him through the horrors of his child and early manhood Faramir had devised a strategy to cope. He was reasoning and reacting as the Steward of Gondor. He had taken his personal involvement out of the equation. The fact that the traitor he was so easily discussing suffering the death penalty was himself was something that he completely refused to register. He had grounded himself in the one tactic that had kept him safe throughout his life; his duty.

Aragorn felt his stomach turn over at the insight. ‘Faramir, my Faramir’ he thought, ‘the loyal Steward even to the end. What brought you to this?’

As if hearing his King’s thoughts Faramir stopped talking. He reached across the table and gently took hold of the King’s hand. Their eyes met.

“It is the only way I can live with this,” he confessed softly. “I do not know why I did it. I can give you no explanations or reasons but I know that if I sit here and think on it any more, it will drive me truly insane. So I fight this in the only way I know how. I fight it in the way I have been taught, and I fight it with one hope that Gondor will endure, that my treachery will come to naught.”

“Faramir,” the King responded. “I will not lose you. I will not let any man touch you. You are worth so much more than this.”

Faramir pulled his hands away. “The law is the law,” he said softly. “And even the King must abide by it. You must keep your distance, Sire. You cannot be seen to be prejudiced in this for that really would foretell the end of Gondor.”

He stood up and moved towards the far wall as if to action his words. “There was a crowd earlier,” he said his voice dreamy. “I heard them shouting, baying for my blood. How quickly things change. How easily integrity and reputation is lost.”

“Ruffians, fools!” the King said dismissively. “They do not understand.”

Faramir’s eyes were infinitely sad as he said, “They are your subjects, Sire, and they understand very well. I have done wrong. Gondor expects retribution. She must not be denied. or the passion and the courage that put you on the throne will turn against you. And I am the last person who would want to be remembered as the reason Gondor fell. I have faced death for Gondor many times. To do so once more would not be so hard.”

The King stood up and rushed to embrace his Steward. “All that you have said, Faramir, proves to me you are too good to lose. I will not let you go. Gondor needs you alive as her Steward, and if she does not see that then she is not worth saving.”

“Never say it, Sire,” Faramir said calmly. “Gondor is all; for if she is not then all I have suffered has been for naught, and I do not think I could bear that thought at this time. Save me if you can, but I beg you do nothing to put your Kingdom in jeopardy, for I am not worth that.”

They left him then the guard returning him to his cell. The King had wanted to plead with his Steward for the good of his wife and young family what effect would this ‘damage limitation’ have on them, but he could see from the flash of his eyes to the shaking of his hands how tenuous Faramir’s grip on his sanity was. To mention those he loved so dearly now would surely unman him completely. Even so the last glimpse Aragorn had before the heavy door slammed shut Faramir was sitting on the bed, his shoulders drooped and his head in his hands. His hair obscured his features, but the King could tell he had exhausted his strength, and he was sobbing silently.

“What good is being a King,” Aragorn hissed to Legolas as the guard took them down the corridor to the next cell. “If you can’t save your friends?”

Legolas shrugged. “I think you know the answer to that,” he replied softly.

“It’s just down here, Sire,” the guard said. “I put the Lord Faramir in the best cell we have. Gets the sun in the morning, makes it more homely like. Begging your pardon, Sire, but I didn’t want to put him in a cell at all. You see I fought beside him at Osgiliath, and I know the strength of his heart. I said as much to him, and do you know what he said back? He said, ‘Do not worry on my account, Captain, cells are for traitors and that I most certainly am.’ But I remember Osgiliath, and I don’t reckon he could ever be a traitor. Ah, now here we are.”

“I do not do this to save my own skin even though I know that is what you think, but know this I, of all people, know how worthless I am. I do this for one small token of kindness from the Lady Eowyn, for I do believe that could cleanse my weary heart and make me whole again.”

“You are not serious!” hissed Legolas.

Aragorn raised his hand to silence the elf. His initial thought over the pious wrench that sat before him had been exactly the same, but he forced himself to stop and look more deeply into Wormtongue’s words and the sentiments behind them.

His shock from the revelation about the identity of the man caught pawning Faramir’s belongings was still raw. Aragorn had not been able to withhold the gasp as he entered the cell and saw Wormtongue gazing at him.

“Welcome, Sire,” Wormtongue had whined. “Although as I am here at your pleasure, I am not sure it shouldn’t be you welcoming me!” He tongue darted nervously, but his eyes were bright and challenging.

“I thought you dead,” Aragorn had answered. “You and your Master.”

Wormtongue had smiled “Oh no, Sire. It would take more than a weak hobbit’s thrust to kill the greatest wizard that ever lived.”

“That is a matter of opinion,” Legolas had muttered.

“Then Saruman still lives?” Aragorn had asked.

“Oh yes, Sire,” Wormtongue’s smile had been acidic. “He is in your lovely City even as we speak.”

“Then the evil I have sensed has a name,” Legolas said.

“Evil? Master Elf,” Wormtongue had answered. “Doesn’t that rather depend on what side you are on?”

“We are not here to talk philosophy!” Aragorn had cut in angrily. “You will tell me everything you know.”

And so now Wormtongue was offering his information at a price. Aragorn closed his eyes and rubbed a pulsing pain that was growing in the centre of his forehead.

He contemplated the offer. Eowyn would want to rip Wormtongue to pieces, he knew, not only for his part in the events of the last few days but also for the lingering hurt of what he had done at Edoras. But Aragorn remembered Wormtongue. Once long ago he had been a proud Rider of Rohan, he had been corrupted by the deceit of Suraman, it was true, but as Aragorn put the pieces of this puzzle together, he saw that the wretch before him was not the only one to suffer such a fate. His loyal and wise Steward had fallen under a similar spell, and if Faramir could not resist it what chance had Grima, Rider of Rohan ever had? To have deteriorated to this thing before him, he who had once been a man, surely he deserved pity not punishment.

“I cannot speak for the Lady Eowyn,” Aragorn answered finally. “But I do speak for my Kingdom. Tell us what you know, and I shall ensure that you receive fair justice from Gondor.”

Wormtongue laughed a brittle, humourless sound that reverberated around the cell. “Justice from Gondor! You should keep that for your treacherous Steward! Let him burn finally.”

Aragorn surged forward, his anger boiling through his veins, but Wormtongue was out of his range and just laughed louder.

“I had heard your sense of humour was lacking,” he muttered as he shook his head slowly. Then he brought his eyes back up to gaze at the King. “Seriously I have had some time to review my situation. I have to agree that I have not acted as nobly as I may have liked, and Saruman’s defeat had a devastating effect on me. It quite took my conviction for a while, but I find myself recovering. I thank you for the time in here, that I have been able to get my head together and plan for the future.”

Aragorn snorted and forced himself to relax. “Go on,” he prompted patiently.

“It has not been easy for me,” Wormtongue continued, ignoring the sharp intake of incredulous breath from Legolas. “In truth wandering the earth, with no place to call my own, and at Saruman’s beck and call has had a detrimental effect on me. Now I see that as a man grows old, he needs to settle down with the love of a good woman.”

Legolas stared his eyes wide with disbelief, but Aragorn kept his tone neutral as he said:

“We understand what you say and all you have suffered; you need not dwell on it. What are you asking for?”

Wormtongue smiled. “So we come to it. I would have the hand of a fair maiden; one whose beauty is as fair and cold as the snow of deepest winter.” He laughed again. “That I would have, but I know that is not yours to give, all powerful King! So instead I will ask for safe passage, a little land in a far corner of Gondor, a little gold to get me started and more than a little peace to go about my business. You would not hear from me again. I would even swear fealty to you.”

Aragorn held his stare for long minutes, his eyes incisive and perceptive. Wormtongue eventually looked away.

“It is not too much to ask for information that can save your Steward’s worthless hide,” he hissed.

“Don’t listen to him,” Legolas said. “He has ever been false. Why should we believe a word he says? He deserves his punishment.”

Aragorn nodded in recognition of the elf’s words, but he continued to stare at Wormtongue.

Finally he said, “So be it, but if you once more break the faith I put in you, my retribution will be swift and strong. There will be no place on all of this earth that you will escape it.”

Wormtongue nodded. “You are indeed a virtuous and forgiving monarch.” There was no hint of a sneer in his voice.

“So tell me now the information for which you have bought you future and sold your honour,” Aragorn said. “What did Saruman do to Faramir?”

“He said for those who have suffered great personal torment, the scars will never heal; that no matter how deep they are buried and how strong the person, a skilled manipulator can reach them and use them. The skill is in taking the subject’s inner-most fears and using them to influence the behaviour of the individual. Saruman said he had found plenty of material to work with in your Steward.”

Aragorn shuddered but remained silent as Wormtongue completed his story.

“The stone?” Legolas asked after Wormtongue appeared to have finished. “What was it?”

“I don’t know, elf,” Wormtongue cleared. “It could have been a slither of the palantir, it could be something else. I only know that it was filled by an ancient and deep power, and that once you look into it, you are enslaved.”

“Saruman is still in Minas Tirith?” Aragorn asked.

Wormtongue shrugged. “I know not. I thought I heard his voice leading the chants of the lynch mob yesterday, but I have not seen him since you threw me in here. I pray that you find him and deal him some ‘justice from Gondor’ quickly, for none of us are safe now.”

 Chapter 12 - Home

“I have fallen below the standard expected of one of my station. I shall resign my Stewardship and retire to Ithilien to live out my days in disgrace. I shall never return to Minas Tirith.”

The King and his Steward were standing together in the courtyard close to the white tree. Behind them stood a small group of people namely the Steward’s family and many of his friends waiting patiently.

Aragorn had known this moment would come. His Steward had made him aware of his decision some days ago, but the King had hoped that his arguments would have been able to dissuade Faramir from his course. His opening words had revealed to the King that his hopes had not been realised. Undeterred Aragorn resolved to continue to argue.

“You fell below your own unachievable standards, Faramir, and then only because you were subject to an evil enchantment. You are not to blame here. There is no disgrace, and I forgive you the small scratch you gave me - it was nothing. I came to no harm.”

“I treasure your forgiveness, Sire, and it makes my heart a little less heavy, but you forgive me as my friend, not my King.” Faramir’s voice was even and completely lacking in emotion as he continued, “As the King you must see I cannot continue in my role, cannot continue to be part of the governorship of Gondor. Not after what I have done.”

“Gondor needs you, Faramir. I need you!”

Faramir had a pained look on his face. “There are others not tainted with the stain I bear. Others who are loyal and capable waiting to take my place. They will do just as good a job as me, and they carry none of my accompanying guilt. I cannot remain here, for although you say you would trust me with your life, I cannot trust myself. Saruman has not been found, my curse has not been lifted, and I cannot allow aught else to harm you, not when it is within my gift to stop it.”

Aragorn sighed. “I can see by the set of your jaw you are resolved in this. Know that if I thought I could persuade you to change your mind, I would do what ever it took. As it stands I will grudgingly accept what you say. I am a patient man, and I can wait. Also know this; the office of Steward was given to you and to your heirs for as long as my line shall last, and I will give it to no other. I shall keep the white rod until you feel able to lift it once more, and if not you, dearest Faramir, then it shall be Elboron’s when he comes of age.”

There were tears in Faramir’s eyes as he embraced his King. “Thank you, Sire,” he whispered and then pulling away he moved to his horse.

Eowyn moved forward and curtsied.

“I hear that you met with Grima,” the King began. “I will not ask for details of what passed between you, but is it concluded?”

Eowyn sighed. “In truth, I know not. He asked for my forgiveness, and I eventually gave it with reservation. He seemed much changed, but my heart will not trust him. He has caused too much harm for me and mine.”

Aragorn nodded. He pulled her closer and embraced her.

“Look after my Steward,” he said quietly so his voice did not carry to the others.

“Of course, my Lord.”

“There is a place for you in my court always, Lady Eowyn.”

“Thank you, Sire, but my place is with my husband,” Eowyn smiled sadly.

Aragorn nodded. “He is so noble, and this has hurt him so deeply. I pray that in time his heart will heal, and he will see his way to come back to us.”

“He is proud and stubborn, but I would not change him, and I think neither would you for in changing him we risk losing the value we both know he possesses. I will join in your prayers. My heart beats for the day he feels able to return to the city he loves and the job he was born to do. In the meantime I will do what I can to sustain him through this difficult time.”

She turned regally away and mounted her horse slowly. For the first time Aragorn noted that her pregnancy was visible in the slight thickening of her waist. He feared for the child, but he feared for its father more.

Arwen, as if sensing his disquiet, moved to support him.

“You have done all you can, Elessar,” she murmured. “Faramir’s heart has always been happiest in Ithilien. Let him go now with his family, for they are dearest to him, and they alone have the power to free him from this harm.”

Aragorn nodded and took hold of his wife’s hand. They watched as the small family along with a company of protective Rangers left the courtyard and began its journey homeward to Ithilien.

“I will miss him,” Aragorn muttered.

“So will we all,” said Arwen. “But let us believe that Faramir will find his relief and come home in the fullness of time.”

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The messenger of Gondor sat in the dirt. His eyes were glazed with a faraway expression. Saruman turned away from him, as his mind evaluated all the information he had acquired from the hypnotised man.

The wizard shook his head slowly. “Not executing him!” he muttered. “Elessar, you show your weakness and weakness is not acceptable for a King.”

Saruman climbed on to the saddle of the messenger’s horse. Leaving the man still dazed and confused by the roadside, he pointed the horse down the road and set off.

He had left Gondor the previous day, when he realised his plan had not come to the conclusion he had hoped. However the news he had just gleaned had made him feel happier. Although he had not succeeded in killing the King, he had come close, that would have caused Elessar to question himself, put a doubt in the man’s arrogant assumption of invincibility. What was more, he had managed to break the dangerous and developing relationship between the King and his Steward. He had seen enough of the developments in Minas Tirith in his stay there to see that partnership had been particularly potent and effective. Now at least with Faramir out of the picture, the potential for progress had been reduced.

Saruman’s thoughts turned to the ex-Steward then.

“Retiring to Ithilien!” he said. “Away from the protection of Minas Tirith and the King, and with such a heavy burden to bear. How will you live with yourself, my little cuckoo? What can you do to wash away the stain of your treachery? Oh I know what sort of a man you are, Faramir. You will put on a brave face, bury yourself in the love of your pathetic family, but at night, when the darkness comes, your fears will fester. You know what I have opened in your heart cannot be easily mended, and you know I still hold the power over you. I will call you back to me, of course. You are too important a pawn for me not to use again, but not yet. My power over you will grow with each passing day that I do not use it, for it is the fear of the unknown that traps your logical, analytical mind. What you cannot understand you fear, and the more you struggle to understand it, the greater your fear will grow. Until when I finally call you to me, my power over you will be infinitely stronger and ultimately devastating.”

He chuckled to himself. He was a patient man who enjoyed the expectation more than the fulfillment. He was also pragmatic enough to change his plans according to circumstance and he could wait. Time was his collaborator in this venture.

He knew he must find a base; somewhere he could begin again to marshal his thoughts and find new minions. He still did not know what had become of Wormtongue, but he knew the worm would return to him eventually.

So he turned his horse towards his lair of old. To Isengard he would go. The waters would have receded, and the damned ents may have left. And if not there were many other places in this world that held enough evil and deceit for him to call them home.

With an excited but patient heart, the old wizard rode on, his plans raced around his head, taking shape and promising harm.

        The End