Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Authors' Note: This is the final part of a trilogy started with Come to Harm and continuing in Made to Suffer, so if you haven't read those it might be better if you do so first. They are both available on ff.net. As with the previous two stories it is AU, and blends elements of the movie with elements of the books. If you have read the previous stories, or just don't want to, here is the beginning of the end, but will our beloved Steward triumph? Only one way to find out, read on.........

Chapter One

Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, lay uneasy in his wide bed. The land was at peace; the Steward's apartments in the Citadel of Minas Tirith were quiet under a full moon. His wife curled warmly against him this soft spring night, her stomach burgeoning with precious new life. Their children slept deeply in adjacent rooms. But Faramir's mind wandered in troubled dreams.

He found himself watching a procession that headed slowly and sorrowfully towards Rath Dinen. He moved closer and saw that his father led the crowd of mourners.

"My beloved son is dead" Denethor replied, tears pouring down his haggard face. He gestured towards a bier carried by the Guard.

Faramir thought it must be Boromir, since their father was so sorrowful. But instead, he beheld his own body on the bier, lifeless and clad as Captain-General and High Warden of the White Tower, as it might have been on that terrible day of fire and battle eighteen years ago.

Yet as Faramir watched, the scene before him blurred and changed. The grieving father was not Denethor, it was Aragorn! Faramir watched, horrified, as his King and friend stood on a hill beside a fresh burial mound. Aragorn sank to his knees, hiding his face in his hands as his shoulders bent in despair. Arwen was there too, shrouded in veils and clinging to her Lord. They looked unbearably weary.

"My beloved son is dead" Aragorn said, desolation in his eyes. "He never awakened from Saruman's accursed trance, but faded, then died. My daughters are twain, born but minutes apart, their faces identical. I fear that their sons will vie for the crown, and rend the land in Kin-strife like ravening wolves after I am gone."

"How can this be, my King? Eldarion still lives." Faramir asked, but the King looked at him no more.

Then Faramir stood alone, surrounded by smoke and flames, he could not tell in what place. Gandalf appeared, wearing his grey robes; and said to him "You must find the stone that Saruman lost. Though you have reason to fear it, you must undo the evil work in which the stone was used. Go in haste, for very soon the stone shall be taken by less worthy hands."

The flames receded, replaced by darkness. Faramir awoke, trembling, skin heated and heart cold with fear.

Journey

The hot wind blew across the plains, causing the dust to rise in suffocating clouds. Although it was still only spring in Gondor, the heat rolled off Mordor’s plain as if it were Midsummer. Faramir sighed and decided that even now, years after Sauron's fall, Mordor still was the worst place in all Middle Earth. Although Faramir frequently visited the city that had earned the bitter name of Minas Morgul during his ongoing work to reclaim it, he rarely had occasion to travel beyond the Ephel Duath. He had certainly found his brief stay on the site of the Dark Lord's former capital to be an uncomfortable one. And now a dream had called him back. Was it a true foretelling, some shadow of Saruman's cursed influence still hovering in his mind, or just an ordinary, if vivid, dream?

Faramir was almost completely healed now from the injuries taken in the stone tower erected by Saruman amidst the wreckage of Barad-dur. Another scar had been added to the collection he had accumulated over the years. And the wound he had taken in his thigh caused him to limp if he did not concentrate hard when he walked.

He stood now on the plains of Mordor regarding Saruman’s tower. The black stone structure where Faramir had spent two long days last autumn was intact on the exterior, but its wooden staircase and furniture were gone, gutted by the fire that had scourged the tower. Yet, Saruman the White had bequeathed a far more ruinous legacy from his last gambit than a burnt tower: Eldarion, heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor, lay unmoving and unseeing in Minas Tirith. The boy had never awakened from the strange trance in which Saruman had placed him.

Seven years ago, Faramir had discovered to his horror that Saruman and his lackey, Wormtongue, still lived. They had waylaid him as he journeyed home from the White City. Saruman had worked a terrible spell on him, one that Faramir had now begun to remember in scraps of memories of an all- encircling voice and a small green object in a clawlike hand. A few weeks later, Faramir, Steward of Gondor had suddenly, without knowing why, publicly attacked his King. Aragorn and Legolas had found Wormtongue and learned the truth behind Faramir‘s supposed treason. The King, ever generous, had pardoned Faramir and asked him to take up his office once more. Faramir, believing his honour was forfeit, exiled himself to a quiet life in Emyn Arnen with his family.

Last autumn, Faramir had finally decided to reclaim his honour. He had conscripted Wormtongue and travelled into this darkened land with him, and found that Saruman had erected a new tower on the site of Sauron's stronghold. The wizard had recaptured him, and attempted to suborn Faramir’s allegiance with his words rather than the shining green tool that Faramir had seen him use before. Saruman, still formidable despite his lack of magic power, now planned to kill the King and replace him with Eldarion, the king’s young son, who he had waylaid and enthralled. While Aragorn, Eowyn and various troops battled Saruman’s Uruk-Hai, Faramir had escaped with Eldarion, who Saruman had entranced in sleep after the boy’s brief awakening. After the battle, Aragorn had decreed that the region surrounding Saruman’s tower should be regularly patrolled by Rangers, and had arranged for a garrison to be built nearby.

Eldarion's plight was the reason why Faramir had journeyed back to the lands surrounding Barad-dur. The King had publicly thanked him for bringing the young prince out of the burning tower alive; the Queen had embraced Faramir in gratitude. But Faramir felt the cold hand of guilt clutch at his heart whenever he thought of Aragorn's only son lying still, heart beating but eyes shut, never waking. He had vowed to save Eldarion when they had both been captive in Saruman's hands; and the boy was still lost. The victory over Saruman was a bitter one, and his own honour was not fully restored. As long as Eldarion slept entranced, Faramir’s duty to protect the future of Gondor was unfulfilled.

Faramir looked down at the ring on his finger. His father had worn the silver ring of Stewardship, and his father Ecthelion before him, and so on all the way back through his line to Mardil the First Ruling Steward. Faramir had been reinstated as Steward of Gondor by the King. There was so much for him to do, from the White City to Ithilien and beyond. Once he had recovered from his wounds he had thrown himself into his duties through the winter in Minas Tirith with great vigour and no little effect. He had hoped that the King would heal his son, as Aragorn had healed Faramir and Eowyn and hundreds of other folk over the years. But the King had had not been able to rouse the boy. Eldarion continued to slumber, able to swallow just enough liquid to keep him alive.

Faramir had come alone, save for Wormtongue, on his previous foray into the land that had once been Sauron‘s stronghold. But he had been followed by Beregond and Eowyn. Brave Beregond been cut down by the Uruk-hai who had surrounded them and captured Faramir at Saruman’s command.

After Faramir had awakened from his peculiar dream four days past, it had taken him two days to persuade the King to allow his Steward to lead this particular Ranger patrol. It had taken far more persuasion for Faramir’s lady to end her protests at her husband’s decision to return to Mordor. Eowyn was expecting their seventh child in a few months; and Eowyn was even more passionate in her convictions when pregnant than in her normal physical condition. Faramir winced at the memory of her rage. She had feared that the child might be born fatherless if the wizard or any of his Uruk-Hai still skulked about in the vicinity of the ruined tower. Harsh words, Rohirric curses, and crockery had been thrown in Faramir’s direction.

But not even the anger of his beloved wife could keep Faramir from this errand. The strange dream had solidified his conviction that the object Faramir dimly remembered, whose green glow had come from the room where Saruman had entranced Eldarion, was the key to releasing the King’s son from his unnatural sleep. And Faramir remembered how a green light had trailed out of Saruman’s garments as the wizard had fallen from the tower before his eyes. The thing had to have fallen from the wizard’s pocket, fallen into the chasm below. A search by the King’s soldiers had found neither the wizard’s body nor any of his tools, but they had not had the advantage of seeing the direction in which the wizard had fallen.

“Father!” A young and quite insistent voice startled Faramir from his thoughts.

Faramir looked up to see his son, Cirion riding towards him at full tilt. Cirion did everything at top speed and he only just managed to rein Arrow, his like-minded colt, to a stop in front of his father without knocking him over.

“There’s a mound over there full of bones and ashes and. . .” Cirion started to exclaim.

As he spoke, the chestnut colt nervously skittered. Faramir reached out and took hold of Arrow’s bridle. He gently stroked the young animal‘s nose to calm him.

Faramir smiled at his son and wondered, not for the first time, where the boy got his indomitably high spirits.

“Those must be the remnants of the dead Uruk-Hai that were burned after the battle,” he informed the boy. Cirion's eyes widened even more at the thought. Although Faramir had been present at the end of the battle, he had been unconscious and so was as ignorant as his son of its aftermath.

Cirion jumped down from his horse. “I wish I could have seen them!” he enthused. “But there will be some live ones around somewhere, won’t there?”

Faramir smiled. “Keep your eyes open, Ciri,” he said. “And your sword close. You never know what might be out there.” His allowed his smile to fade. “How many times have I told you to look after your colt?” he said, running his hand over the colt’s sweaty body. “You waste his strength, so he may not have his speed when you really need it.”

Cirion shook his head. “The faster we go, the more strength he finds, father. I truly believe he will never let me down. Arrow is the greatest horse, ever!”

“I will not argue the point with you, son. Your mother or uncle are better able to discuss the colt's bloodline with you.”

Faramir clasped his son on the back and they walked together back to the camp, where the patrol was quietly preparing the evening meal. Cirion was chattering with excitement, he had not really stopped talking since Faramir had told him he could come on this mission.

Faramir remembered with great fondness the look on his son’s face when he had relented and told him to be ready to leave. Before that they had had their ‘second son’ conversation. It was one of Cirion’s favourite subjects and always began in the same way.

“It’s not fair!” Cirion had pronounced solemnly after bursting into the Steward’s Chamber in the Citadel.

Faramir slowly put down the report he had been reading and regarded his son. As usual, Cirion was unable to stand still and was bouncing on the spot.

Cirion had stopped, his mouth open. That was not his father’s normal response. He had twisted his features in contemplation for at least half a second before plunging onwards.

“Elboron gets to do everything! It’s not fair. I can outfight and out- ride him! He practices for hours with the bow; but I can hit the target every time straight away. The only reason he gets to have fun is because he is firstborn. It’s not fair!”

Faramir waited patiently for the storm in the form of an eleven-year-old boy to subside. Then he had stood up and moved around the front of his table. He leaned back and regarded his son.

“I was in the stables. I heard two lads talking. They said you were going to Mordor and you were taking your son. . .”

“You’ll take Elboron because he is oldest!” Cirion finished, his face flushing.

“Elboron will be Steward one day,” Faramir said. “He is oldest and he must learn the way of things. He leads and it is no easy path to follow, Ciri. But you,” he leaned forward and tousled the boy’s unruly mop of red-gold hair. “You are my son too and I love you every bit as much as your brother. Do not forget that I know a little of what is means to be a second son.”

Faramir raised his hand. “Enough!” he said firmly. “The reason I would take Bron is because he is not here in my office diverting me from important work with his whining. He accepts my decision and would not try to unduly influence it. He has learned that to be a good soldier it is not enough to shoot straight and ride well. You must follow orders too.”

Cirion’s face flushed even brighter and his pale scar was accentuated against the scarlet cheek. His head went down.

Faramir could not help but be moved by Cirion’s over dramatic reaction. He stifled a smile as he thought it disloyal at this particular moment. The boy wore his heart on his sleeve and made the jump from the peaks of exhilaration to the depths of despair in an instance and for all to see. Faramir shook his head, although his second son resembled him physically, Cirion’s temperament was not exactly that of a traditional young Man of Numenor. Cirion reminded both his parents of his uncle Eomer; who Eowyn remembered as being an untamed whirlwind as a boy. Faramir smiled at the whims of fate that had brought this irrepressible child into a House known for reserved self-control. The question “Cirion did WHAT?” was a favourite refrain in the Steward’s household.

The differences in his two elder boys’ approach to life never failed to amaze Faramir, particularly because he had gone out of his way, although Cirion would argue otherwise, to raise them with similar affection and discipline. Elboron was wise far beyond his years. Bron, as he was often called by his family, would think things through and worry over every conceivable outcome before he acted, minutely dissecting the problem and logically finding his solution. He had a natural ability to read the hearts of others. He worked hard to master new problems and skills, for he was rarely satisfied with doing anything by halves.

Cirion, on the other hand, was an impulsive creature who always acted before he thought and then relied on his quick tongue and winning smile to extricate himself from any trouble he found himself in. He loved to argue, taking great delight in choosing a contradictory point of view and arguing it to the end when he had little concept of and even less interest in the actual issue. Though he was physically slighter than Elboron, who had the stature and power of both his mighty uncles, had been at his age, Cirion was a born warrior. His natural prowess and agility were phenomenal for so young a boy. He needed little practice and indeed if he found something he could not master, he lost interest in it almost immediately, preferring to concentrate on the things in which he excelled.

For all their differences the boys loved each other deeply and it was very rare to find them arguing. Elboron indulged Cirion’s wishes far too often.

When he saw them together Faramir felt an immense rush of pride but also something else. He had heard older Gondorians remark that the two brothers reminded them of Boromir and himself all those years ago. And though the thought brought Faramir comfort it also brought him the pain of a loss long borne but still felt.

Cirion still stood before him with his head down and his hair falling over his face. He looked up, blue-grey eyes pleading for his father‘s attention.

Faramir sighed. “Do not think you can persuade me with those sad eyes as you do everyone else, Cirion! You are too young to know what real sorrow is.” His tone however was warm and his son detected hope there.

Playing the dutiful son, Cirion said. “No, father. I know you are far too shrewd for that.”

“Bron is going to Rohan in the summer. It would only be fair,” Cirion mumbled.

“You know nothing of what is 'fair',” Faramir said. “You define the word as something that benefits you.”

Faramir snorted in mock disgust. “Now go and leave me to do some proper work,” Faramir said.

Faramir nodded wearily. “Yes. Although unless you let me finish this for the King, even I won’t be going.”

The shriek of joy must have been heard throughout all seven levels of Minas Tirith; and Cirion had not stopped talking since. Elboron had pleaded with his father to leave as soon as possible to spare everyone else his little brother’s annoying chatter.

As they walked across the dusty plains of Mordor, Cirion was keeping up the barrage relentlessly. Faramir listened with half an ear as he thought once more of Saruman the White, but Cirion did not seem to notice.

“It’s not fair!” he said finally, pulling his father back from his reverie.

“When Bron came there was a war going on,” Cirion moaned. “He got to fight. Now there’s only dead bones and dust!”

Faramir smiled broadly and grasped his son's shoulder. “How could it not be?” he asked. “Come on, let us eat!”

Cirion sneezed loudly. Faramir was not surprised; his own nose had been tingling for most of the day, an annoying effect of the dust surrounding them. Faramir and his young son had spent the hours since the early morning investigating every nook and cranny in the tunnels and fissures beneath the plains surrounding Barad-dur.

Earlier in the day Faramir sent the Rangers off to scout the perimeter of Mount Doom and beyond, which allowed him the time to continue exploring the tunnels used first by Sauron's forces, then by Saruman.

Cirion had accompanied him and was having a marvellous time investigating the rubbish that the Uruk-hai had left behind. He kept disappearing into rooms and ditches, from which Faramir would hear scrabbling and then an exclamation. His son would re-appear holding some particularly nasty torture instrument or weapon, thumbscrews and metal-tipped whips and the like.

“Look at this!” he would say, eyes flashing with glee. “What do you think it does?”

Faramir frowned. “I would rather not think about it at all,” he replied, preferring not to contemplate the certainty that if he had remained Saruman's captive, he might have gained personal knowledge of the damage that such tools could cause to flesh and bone. He really should have a talk with the boy about what those tools, and even weapons, could do to real people. Cirion did not yet understand the consequences of violence; and would have to learn never to casually inflict pain or take life. But Ciri was so young; not even 12 years old; he hated to dampen the lad's high spirits, especially while they tarried in this wasteland. The matter could wait until they returned to Minas Tirith.

“This place is great!” Cirion exclaimed and scurried off into the next room.

Faramir sighed and took a long swig from his water flask. It was another hot day made even less bearable by the tunnels which seemed to magnify the heat. He had already stripped off his cloak and undone the top laces of the leather tunic that covered much of his shirt and leggings. He still felt hot, thirsty, and very frustrated. But he was in Mordor, and had seen too many orcs during his last visit to readily remove all protection.

What was he doing here? He asked himself again. Why did he expect to find something that the King’s men had missed in their sweep of the area after the battle? Why was he so sure that there was something to find? Was he wise to trust in a dream?

The answer had to be yes. Faramir had experienced strange dreams before that foretold future events or revealed some aspect of the past. His dream of a few nights earlier had been very specific that he must return here and look for that cursed stone. While it was possible that the dream could have been just a random collection of voices cast into his sleep by his own mind, it could also be a true vision of the future.

They had started the search in the fissure below the tower. Faramir had looked up to see the remains of Saruman's tower rising skyward above him. He smiled grimly, remembering the moments when he had hung from the distant rail some three hundred feet above with only the strength of his shoulders and arms keeping him alive. He also recalled watching, even while he dangled precariously by his arms, the satisfying sight of Saruman the White falling to his death. Saruman must have landed exactly where Faramir had stood, or at a point very close to it, but there was no sign of the wizard's presence. Faramir knew that Aragorn had deployed Rangers to search the tunnels the same day that Saruman had fallen. They had found no trace of the wizard's body.

Faramir had broadened his search as he moved away from the tower, but to no avail. Soon the little light that leaked through the clouds would start to wane from the tunnel's entrance, and then the shine from the torches set in the walls would be the only light by which they could see.

He began to walk purposefully along the tunnel. Saruman had to be dead. He had seen him fall and no man could survive that. Faramir stopped; Saruman was no man, of course. He was an Istar. Gandalf had survived a far worse fall in Moria when he had fought the balrog. If Saruman was indeed dead, then why had no body been found? And if he was dead, how could his spell still bind Eldarion? Would not a spell die with the wizard that had created it? And how had Saruman created such spells at all when his magic had been lost during the War of the Ring? So many questions, and no answers! Not for the first time, he longed to lay eyes on Mithrandir, his old friend and teacher. But he would have to be content with Mithrandir's voice in his dream. Faramir shivered despite the heat. He could almost hear Saruman’s arrogant laughter bouncing off the rocks and mocking him.

He could find no answers, only more questions. Faramir wondered uncomfortably if Saruman had planned to so bewilder him. Faramir shook his head with irritation. For someone who had been dead for over six months, Saruman continued to exert an unwelcome influence over his actions and thoughts.

Faramir reconsidered the strange dreams he had had, from his convalescence to the exhausting vision that had finally brought him back here. He had lain close to death in the Houses of Healing following his last journey to Mordor. The wound in his left thigh, inflicted with an Uruk dagger by that treacherous snake Wormtongue, had not healed properly. The healers believed that the knife had been coated with some unknown foul orcish brew that had caused an unanticipated and troubling infection. Eventually, through the skill of the Healers, no little luck and his own powers of endurance, Faramir had survived. The Healers had told him that he would never completely regain the strength he had possessed before the battle. Faramir refused to believe it.

When was a dream more than a dream? He could swear that his dream of a few days past held signs of a terrible future that he must avert. The strange substitution of Aragorn for Denethor in his dream made his blood run cold, and he could not bring himself to ponder it further. In contrast, the dreams he had dreamt while recovering last autumn had seemed more like the usual fancies of sleep. Except that the repeated image of Saruman crying out, like a demented crow, "Look for me in Eldarion's eyes, I will be there," echoed the last words of the late and unlamented White Hand as Faramir had heard them himself.

The wizard’s voice echoed around Faramir’s head once more. The Steward was suddenly overwhelmed by a wave of heat; and wondered if the air could be any less close inside the Sammath Naur itself. His legs began to buckle. But if two exhausted hobbits could brave the Crack of Doom, he could bear up in this deserted tunnel.

Faramir continued to walk, and then came out of the tunnel into the broader fissure directly below the tower, to stand again in the huge ditch towards which Saruman had fallen where he had begun his search earlier. The fissure was a large one, perhaps thirty feet deep and one to three feet wide, extending nearly halfway around Saruman's tower and connecting to most of the tunnels. The Rangers had left several ladders against various points along its walls for easy egress. He forced himself against the uneven wall for support , closing his eyes, and brought his hand up to his head to rub the point where a headache was beginning to fester. At least the air was less close out here, even if the dust stung his eyes a bit more.

"Faramir,” he chided himself; "You have become entirely too old and soft if you are fretting so much over dust."

He eased himself down into a squatting position, and wearily scanned the dirt and rocks of various sizes all about him. Suddenly he noticed something small and light, a few inches to his left, under the shadow of the fissure's wall, which slanted at that point. He bent down and examined a corner between some small rocks on the ground and a slight curve in the fissure's wall. Faramir's heart beat faster as he saw a torn patch of dirty white linen, less than a finger's length, caught under one of the rocks. Saruman had worn white robes; less than totally clean, he had noted during their confrontation. The Rangers who had searched the tunnels did not wear white; their shirts were darker in colour. Faramir looked closer and almost shouted in excitement. There were several strands of long, white hair beside the patch of cloth. He picked up the strands carefully and examined them closely. The strands were tinged with blood! Could they have been dislodged from Saruman's head when he fell? He would have to find out the name and age of every Ranger who had searched this part of the tunnel, and see if any of them had been an older man with a head wound.

Faramir's attention thus engaged, it was a complete shock when someone who was not his son nearly tripped over him. Taken off balance, Faramir fell to the floor as the figure wrestled past him with a swirl of a dark cloak and then turned back into the tunnel from where Faramir had come.

Faramir pulled himself upright and unsheathed his dagger, his fighting instincts fully aroused and in play. One thought rushed through his head.

Faramir followed, cursing the sudden pain shooting up his left leg. Too slow, too slow! His boy needed him! He bit back the warning shout that was almost on his lips. If he shouted, Cirion would be more likely to leave whichever room he was currently exploring and walk straight into the stranger, who had disappeared around a bend in the tunnel. He staggered up the tunnel and rounded the bend. The sight he saw there forced the cry he had managed to suppress moments before out of his mouth.

Faramir’s son had obviously left the room he had been in just moments before the stranger had arrived at the same point. They had collided and Cirion, being the smaller of the two, had been knocked off-balance and fallen. As the scene came into Faramir’s view the stranger punched Cirion to the ground and continued to run. But to Faramir's surprise and trepidation, his son bounced back onto his feet, eyes following his assailant, and his hand already seeking the dagger at his belt.

Cirion withdrew the knife and threw it in one fluid movement. The lad was good, his father had not seen such deadly speed and grace in a child of his age...well, since Boromir had been young. The dagger flew fast and embedded itself deep into the back of the intruder who emitted a surprised grunt and fell forwards in a heap.

Faramir rushed passed his son, who was standing shocked and motionless, staring at the crumpled figure.

Faramir closed the distance and kneeling stiffly lifted and turned the body over. He found himself looking into a pain-filled face with quickly fading pale golden skin, with a drop of blood running down the side of the mouth. The man's dying eyes, dark and agonized, stared up at the Steward of Gondor.

The man wore nondescript dark clothing, under a dark blue hooded cloak fastened with a small badge of silver in the shape of a five-pointed star, with a turquoise in the centre. It looked like an emblem, but Faramir did not recognize it. He was middle-aged, with dark hair and two tattoos in the shape of an unknown rune, one on each cheek. When he spoke he did so in the common tongue, with a clipped accent that differed noticeably from the softer speech of the Haradrim. He looked like he could be an Easterling. Turquoise stones were frequently imported to and from the East by the Haradrim.

“Faramir, Steward of Gondor?” he managed to articulate through gritted teeth.

The man’s body stiffened in his arms and he groaned weakly. Much to Faramir’s surprise, the man’s face broke into a bitter smile.

The man licked his dry lips and his smile widened. “There is no more to say.”

The stranger began to laugh hysterically. The laugh became a cough as his body tensed. Then he groaned softly and relaxed as the life left him.

“Is he. . . I didn’t mean . . .” Cirion began. “He just took me by surprise, he hit me and I wasn’t thinking. ”

Faramir sighed as he gently placed the body onto the ground. Riddles again! He slowly began to search through their assailant's robe and belt. He would normally disdain to rob the dead, but he did not seek so much to rob the dead man but to glean some clue as to his identity and purpose.

The words from his dream echoed in his mind, “You will find the stone that Saruman lost. Go in haste, for very soon the Stone shall be taken by less worthy hands.”

Suddenly Faramir’s long probing fingers curled over something round and hard secreted deep in the man’s robe. He pulled it out quickly and saw that he held the clear green stone that Saruman had used to bespell both Eldarion and himself.

The Steward felt an uncontrollable surge of triumph roar through and almost unman him, but a quiet sob from behind brought him back to more immediate concerns. Faramir rose, then moved to embrace his son. As he took the boy’s seemingly small and fragile body into his arms, Faramir felt Cirion begin to shiver.

“I didn’t. . .” Cirion began to say but his pale face grimaced with the import of what he had done and his remaining words were lost as he began to sob softly.

“Shush, my son,” Faramir said pulling Cirion to him more tightly. “We will talk of this later. Do not be afraid to let your tears fall.”

As he held the boy to his chest Cirion’s sobs became more violent, but Faramir managed to look over the boy’s head at the object he had found on the body of the stranger. His heart lurched as he saw the brilliant stone, shining malignantly in the gloom of the tunnel. He remembered the thing! He had seen it, sought in vain to evade it. He remembered his own frantic, pained heartbeat and a wizard's purring voice echoing through a small cave in Ithilien seven years ago. He had seen that stone in Saruman's hand; felt its glow almost palpably as a cold hand clenching tight around him, blocking out all conscious thought and hope.

Again the words of his dream came back to him, “Find the stone....Though you have reason to fear it, you shall master your fear and undo the evil work in which the stone was used.”

Gulping, Faramir pulled his eyes from the stone. He put the wizard's tool into the pouch on his belt and repulsed the evil memories it brought.

Cirion was feeling the agony of his first kill; his boy needed Faramir's support now.

Apprehension

Faramir silently eased his way into the small railed balcony above the Tower Hall. Few people ever looked up this far from the Hall when the Great Council sat in its quarterly session; all eyes were on each other or the King. And if he positioned himself in the right distance from the rail, the overhang of the next floor would shadow him from any eyes that did look up from the Hall. He had hidden up here as a child. As far as he knew, no one else was aware of the hidden entrance way as far as he knew. Faramir had discovered it one day when playing hide-and-seek with Boromir and kept it a closely guarded secret even from his brother. Many were the times he had climbed up here seeking to read when he could find no other peaceful retreat.

But this place held other memories too. Faramir remembered watching his father masterfully manipulate the dealings of the Council below. His relationship with his father could be described as ambivalent at best, particularly in its later years, but Faramir had always respected the last ruling Steward of Gondor. One of the reasons for this he had witnessed frequently from this very spot. It was the shrewd way Denethor had influenced and compelled the Council to his way of thinking. It was very rare for the ruling Steward to lose an argument especially one of import and that was especially so in this chamber. Denethor had known every member of the council as intimately as a minstrel would know the strings of his own harp.

As a young boy, Faramir had sat here entranced by the spectacle before him. How could he fail to be impressed by such artistry? He remembered how he had felt a rush of excitement as he watched his father's seemingly effortless domination of each situation. It was a spectacle he found far more interesting than anything he could imagine on a battlefield. This was the arena the second son of the Steward had felt drawn to, had wished to master as well as his father before him.

Denethor had allowed him to sit at Council during Faramir's eighteenth summer; and had given him leave to speak for his father. Thrilled by the opportunity, Faramir had bent his mind to the task of learning all he could to better serve his father's interests. He had started to learn diplomacy, and found it to be a game as vicious as any battlefield, though far more bloodless. Faramir had spoken with respectful confidence, and had begun to see the heads of older and wiser men turn in his direction. He remembered wistfully the sheer joy he had felt when, leaving the Council chambers after thanking his uncle and two other allies for their support of the Steward, Faramir had overheard Forlong of Lossarnach praise him to his father. Forlong, a bluff old veteran of battlefield and Council table, had told the Steward what a credit to him Faramir was, and how it appeared that Faramir could eventually dominate the Council as his brother dominated the battlefield. Then, Faramir had heard ice in his father's voice as Denethor replied that Boromir would soon return to take his proper place at Council as the Steward's Heir. That night, as they supped together, his father had told Faramir that his service at Council was no longer required, that he should return to the Guard. Faramir did not reappear in Council for several years, until he came there by right as Captain of the Ithilien Rangers.

Strange, the workings of fate, Faramir mused. Boromir had endured his attendance at Council as a torturous but necessary duty. He had often told Faramir how, when he became Steward, he would lead Gondor's army and gladly rely on Faramir to lead the Council in his name. They had joked about the prospect, carefully skirting around the fact that their father would have to die first. Boromir had insisted that Faramir's reports to him should never exceed one page; Faramir reminding him that Boromir exerted far more forceful a presence than he did and so should attend his own future Council. Faramir had laughed as he promised to "sound out the long words" to him in private, knowing full well that Boromir was just as able to read and articulate as he was, just less patient with the petty details haggled over at the table of power.

Had his father hated him that much, to remove him from Council after he had begun to feel at ease there, Faramir wondered. It was incomprehensible that Denethor would have been jealous of him. For all the skill he had begun to possess, Faramir had been very young and awkward compared to his masterful father. And now, against the natural order of the world he had known in his youth, he was Steward in the place that Denethor had held, the place that Boromir should have inherited. Sometimes the change in circumstance still surprised him.

A rueful smile crossed the current Steward’s lips as he remembered how easy his father had made it seem. Having latterly taken his rightful place as Steward in the Council chamber, Faramir now realized through personal experience that getting the Councillors to agree was no simple matter. How he wished he could have been allowed the opportunity to learn from his father, to practice and refine his talents, so that now he could serve Gondor better. Despite the passage of years, he was still occasionally troubled by bitterness towards the father for whom he would have died, the father who had tried to kill him. Pushing that useless rancour from his mind, Faramir focused his attention on to the session below.

They were men that Faramir knew well: Aradan, a wealthy merchant from the White City and Lord Maethor, a retired soldier and landholder from Cair Arthos. Each loathed the other and rarely missed an opportunity to express their hatred. The current argument concerned a proposal to expand Gondor’s army to counter a possible threat from the East.

The two men were glaring at each other across the Council chamber. Aradan was red in the face and already wheezing through his double chins while the lean and muscled Maethor eyed him calmly with cold blue eyes. They would soon start spitting venom at each other if allowed the chance to escalate their feud.

Faramir switched his glance to his Lord. King Elessar Telcontar sat high on the throne looking down on the Council. He wore a light silver-brocaded grey robe over a deep blue silk tunic emblazoned with the White Tree, black leggings and boots. A silver circlet with a small and brilliant white star of mithril crowned the King‘s brow. Such was his usual concession to the formality of the Great Council. Elessar possessed the strength and aspect of a man in his prime, rather than the frailty that many men would show at the age of one hundred and five. But today he looked unusually tired and disinterested. Faramir’s heart went out to the man he revered above all others. Aragorn was his King, the Lord of Gondor to whom Faramir had sworn allegiance. He would never forget how the King reached deep into Shadow to save his life. In Aragorn's place, another man could have easily dismissed Faramir after the coronation. Instead, Aragorn had invested him with the Stewardship as a hereditary office, and also given Faramir his beloved Ithilien as a Princedom. He had made Faramir effectively the second most powerful man in Gondor. But far more valuable, beyond titles or power, were the King's priceless gifts to Faramir of his trust, his kindness and his friendship.

Faramir wanted to be able to repay at least some small part of the tremendous debt he owed his King. Guilt stabbed at him, for neither the first time nor the last. He had freed himself from Saruman’s hold, at least he prayed that he had; but not Eldarion, who he had sworn to help. Although he had managed to save Eldarion’s life, Faramir had not been able to release the King's son from Saruman’s vile spell.

The King‘s concern over his son‘s condition was beginning to show. For the last six months, Aragorn had veiled his own pain, and continued to rule with the dignity and power he had always shown. He had revealed hints of his sorrow only to those closest to him, in whose number Faramir had been privileged to include himself. But Aragorn’s demeanour today, the care that lowered his proud head, was an unusually clear betrayal of the King’s private sorrow. Faramir knew full well how private sorrows could slowly ravage the heart of those in positions of power; from Captains to Stewards to Kings.

Worriedly Faramir wondered he had been wrong to leave his King and friend at this time. Aragorn needed him now more than ever. If Faramir had not gone to Mordor on the inspiration of a dream, he might have presided over the entire Council session and spared Aragorn at least some aggravation. Yet the Great Council rarely lasted less than four days; and the first day was usually limited to summations of events since the last session, and the inevitable posturing of the more ambitious and contentious Council members.

Faramir waited now for the King to intervene in the current impasse but it was not the King’s voice that echoed firmly around the chamber. Instead it was a voice more familiar still to Faramir for he had heard this voice since its first newborn cry, heard it through boyhood and heard it now as it had deepened in to the voice of a man. Faramir lurched forward at the sound, for it was Elboron who spoke.

Elboron. . . his fifteen-year-old son. Elboron. . . who was in the chamber only as Second for his absent father. Elboron . . . who Faramir had briefed to simply listen and learn from the experience.

Stilling his sense of shock and subsequent worry, Faramir forced himself to listen to his son’s words. They came out in a strong voice, although Faramir could sense the nervousness behind them, he doubted very much that anyone else in the room would be able to perceive his son’s discomfort. To all others, Elboron appeared confident and relaxed as if he had played this role many times in the past.

“My Lords,” he began. “No one doubts your loyalty to our liege-lord or the Kingdom itself. However, your arguments have been made many times already today. We all value your contribution to the debate, but alas, time is not on our side. We must resolve this issue now, for the sake of the realm.”

Faramir held his breath as the two opponents assessed his son’s reasonable words. Though both eventually nodded, neither seemed prepared to retreat back to their seats.

Undeterred, Elboron continued, “My Lord Aradan,” he addressed the red-faced merchant directly. “The Council thanks you for your contribution. Have you aught else to add?”

Aradan puffed and ran a wrinkled handkerchief over his wet brow. He looked towards the King who had lifted his head from his hand and was eyeing the merchant coldly.

“My Lord,” Elboron cut in. “Your words have been noted. The time is passed for reiteration. Please take your seat.”

Aradan hesitated for a second as if to say more but much to Faramir’s relief, obviously thought better of it, shrugged his shoulders once and sat down.

“And you, Lord Maethor?” Elboron continued. “Will you take your seat for the tally to proceed, please.” It was an order rather than a question.

Faramir let out the breath he had been holding in admiration at the adroit way his son has handled the situation. Realizing he was clutching the marble rail in front of him so tightly that his hands had lost all colour, he forced himself to let go.

Maethor, Faramir knew, was too much the old soldier to question such direct authority. Elboron had seen that the merchant was the key and in dealing with him first he had resolved the conflict completely.

Where did he learn to read men’s hearts in such a subtle way? Faramir asked himself.

The King cleared his throat. He was staring at Elboron too, his eyes shining with gratitude and he nodded his head in recognition of the action.

“Thank you, Elboron of Ithilien,” he said. “You are indeed your father’s son.”

Elboron inclined his head slightly as his cheeks coloured. “With your leave, my Lord, we shall now hold a tally of their men and goods pledged to the realm‘s defence.”

“Of course.” King Elessar responded. “But first it is late, we have talked the day away my Lords. I call a recess until noon the day after tomorrow so this Council may more fully ponder Gondor’s need.” He stood, as did all the Councillors.

Faramir thought he could detect a slight slump in his monarch’s normally erect gait, as Aragorn made his way to the exit.

The King of Arnor and Gondor stormed into his blessedly quiet study in his own House and shut the heavy brass-inlaid wooden door. He stripped off the robe and threw it over the chest of drawers, then happily changed the opulent silken tunic for one of his favourite dark red linen shirts from the closet. He removed the circlet of rank from his brow and twirled it idly around his forefinger. Each new occasion that he had to don his formal robes and sit through a formal Council seemed to wear him down further. After all that had been sacrificed, all the lives lost to bring Gondor to the prosperity and relative peace it now enjoyed, could not the men who purported to guide him in the realm's interests find any better way to help than turning his Council into a nest of chattering magpies?

Today had been no exception. War was brewing in the East; or so his scouts reported. Small, scattered troops of Easterlings which included orcs and mercenaries had been seen lurking east of Lake Nurnen, near the villages and farms of Sauron’s former slaves. No battle or even bloodshed had yet occurred. But as King he needed to prepare the realm’s defences, yet those fools in the Council would argue and hesitate about the way he would raise the money to do so. Gondor’s army would not be left bereft of armoury or supplies, not while he was King!

Aragorn had tripled the size of the standing army, Guard and cavalry combined, during his reign, but it would not be enough for a foray to the east. Thankfully, he could always count on Eomer. The Lord of the Mark's eagerness for battle had not dimmed in seventeen years. Eomer was still a mighty warhorse, and would bring at least two thousand equally enthusiastic Rohirrim. But Aragorn wanted his reunited Kingdom to have its own strength of arms. He would never forget how, during the War of the Ring and the years preceding it, Boromir and Faramir had led forces caught between the overwhelming might of Saruman and Sauron and their allies. Denethor’s sons had valiantly led skirmishes and battles that cost hundreds of good men’s lives and would have ended in Gondor's defeat. Sauron was gone forever. Yet it would take many years before a King of Gondor could be sure that the Haradrim and the Easterlings and the Corsairs would truly embrace the peace he had tried to offer them. And Men being what they were, treaties could always be broken.

Aragorn tried to calm his turbulent thoughts. He knew that his current frame of mind, although not improved by today‘s session, was not caused by the chatter heard in Council. He flexed his fingers. His hands held the re-forged Sword of Elendil and the rule of the greatest kingdom of Men to exist since the fall of Numenor. His hands were the hands of a healer; he had proved that many times on the bodies of hundreds of sick and injured people over nearly eighty years. Yet the one person he could not heal was the one person he had to heal, for the sake of the realm and for his own and Arwen's sake. But he could not reach his sleeping heir. What good were his powerful hands now?

For three months following Eldarion's return, Aragorn had visited the boy's bedside every day. He had tried everything he knew to waken his son. His own foster-brothers, the boy's uncles, had tried to heal him, as had Arwen herself, again and again. The best of Gondor's healers fared no better. And then Aragorn had stopped visiting the boy. He could not continue coming to Eldarion every day, seeing his only son grow thinner, weaker, despite the sugared water and broth he was able to swallow in his strange trance. He knew not how Arwen endured her visits. She managed to do so faithfully; singing to Eldarion, talking to him, turning him, massaging his limbs. She left trusted nurses and healers there with the boy in her absence so that Eldarion was never alone. It hurt his lady that he could not bring himself to regularly visit the boy anymore; and her eyes sometimes grew hard as she looked at Aragorn. He could not blame her for it, but he could rarely force himself to return to that room and look on the evidence of his failure.

With every day Aragorn's desperation grew. The thought of his son’s pale, slack-jawed face horrified him. How could he concentrate on governing a Kingdom, how could he make the necessary preparations for war, if he could not even revive his own heir?

The door opened before him with a quiet click. Pulling himself from his self-doubt and despair Aragorn looked up.

Aragorn forced a smile. “Of course!” he replied, his voice a little too loud with enforced cheer.

Faramir entered the room and moved forwards. The King noted the stiffness in his Steward’s gait. The Prince of Ithilien was covered in dust and grime from his journey but his blue eyes shone brightly through his smudged face.

Aragorn indicated that Faramir should sit, then filled a flagon with the ale from the bottle of Shire fourteen-twenty on his table and passed it to him. It was a ritual they had observed many times after a session of full Council. Faramir’s visits to his sanctuary after Council were a welcome element of the routine of governance. The Steward and the King had often conferred here after a session either of the Great Council or the smaller and more frequent councils called on a less formal schedule. Though in truth Faramir was usually more at ease than he was today, bickering Council members never seemed to particularly bother his Steward.

“Faramir,” Aragorn admonished. “You should see to your Lady first, especially in her current condition.”

The King noted the reaction. Even worn from his journey, Faramir was still strung as tight as his bow.

“As far as I am aware she has been most well during your absence,” Aragorn said quickly trying to allay any unneeded worry.

The Steward eased himself slowly into a chair with a sigh. “I sent Cirion to report,” he said, forcing a smile but Aragorn detected the veiled pain behind his voice.

Faramir made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “My leg stiffens a trifle when I ride any distance, that is all.” But his other hand rested firmly on his left thigh, close to his wound as if to support the leg.

Aragorn chose not to pursue the point. He wondered again if he could have healed Faramir if he had worked on him personally in the days following Saruman's death rather than handing the injured, unconscious Steward over to the Healers. Aragorn had been consumed with worry for Eldarion; he had poured all his strength into attempts to revive the boy, and had not thought Faramir's wound serious enough for his attention. It was not until weeks had passed that the damage caused by the poison in the wound had become apparent. Faramir had seemed more worried about Eldarion than his own discomfort; and had never asked for Aragorn's help or reproached him for not offering it.

Aragorn realized that Faramir had not come here today, before even stopping to wash his face, to discuss recalcitrant members of the Council.

The King understood that Faramir was almost as concerned about Eldarion as he was himself. They had spent long hours discussing all that the Steward had managed to learn during his captivity and escape from Saruman‘s tower. Aragorn had given his Steward leave to return to that tower last week with some reluctance. His first instinct had been to keep those he loved from going anywhere within twenty miles of that fell and cursed place. Including Faramir, who had suffered considerably at Saruman’s hands before courageously risking his own life to destroy the wizard. Finally, after Faramir had revealed his dream of a magical stone to be found near the tower, Aragorn had agreed to let his friend return there.

And Faramir was here now, his eyes blazing so brightly. Aragorn felt a faint remnant of hope suddenly stir deep inside him. Could their fortune finally have changed?

Faramir nodded slowly and told his King all that happened in Mordor. As he finished he took the green stone from the pouch on his belt and held it between his thumb and forefinger, eyes widening as he pondered it.

Aragorn sat back in his chair and sighed. “More questions,” he muttered. “But no answers.”

“Possible answers” Faramir challenged. “I did find a patch of what was probably Saruman’s clothing, and the strands of bloodied white hair. None of the Rangers who searched the area since the day Saruman fell had either long white hair or a head wound; I made sure to check with Damrod at the garrison before I returned. Although I could not find either the cloth or the strands of hair after we were surprised by the Easterling; I am certain of having seen both. We might well be able to assume, finally, that Saruman is dead. If he indeed lay there, on the ground, he would have fallen too far to have survived.”

Aragorn reached out for the stone and Faramir, almost reluctantly, passed it across to him. Aragorn examined it carefully. It was a pretty green stone, to Aragorn’s eye nothing more and nothing less. It betrayed no magic, no power to the King who had wielded two palantiri and the Elfstone from which he took his royal name.

Faramir’s eyes glittered. “The Easterling gave his life to find it. I saw it in Ithilien, again on the stairs when Saruman threatened Prince Eldarion and when the wizard fell from the tower, I saw it fall too. It is the same stone, can you not feel it?”

Faramir stood up. “There is a power,” he began, licking his lips excitedly and beginning to pace, his earlier weariness vanished. “Some connection to Saruman there. I can almost hear his voice inside it. Remember the words of my dream, ‘You must find the stone that Saruman lost...you must undo the evil work in which the stone was used. Go in haste, for very soon the stone shall be taken by less worthy hands.’ And I saw that strange green glow come from the room where Saruman took Eldarion, before the boy fell into this strange sleep. This has to be what he used to enthral the boy! And there must also be a way to use this stone to awaken him!”

Faramir came to a stop in front of his King. He held his hand out. Aragorn looked at the stone once more and said: “I would like Arwen to see it. And our brothers, when they return from Imladris. Perhaps they will sense something that I cannot.”

Faramir nodded impatiently but still held out his hand. “I will keep it until then,” he said quickly.

There was something in Faramir’s eyes that Aragorn found faintly disconcerting. Finally he shrugged and placed the stone on the Steward’s outstretched and demanding hand.

Faramir’s long slender fingers closed around the stone instantly and he returned it to his pouch.

Aragorn opened his mouth to speak but at that moment there was a loud knock on the door.

A page entered at the King’s order. “My King, the Queen sends word that dinner will be served shortly.”

“We need to talk at more length, Faramir,” he said as he moved passed the other man. “Will you dine with us?”

“I thank you, my Lord, but I long to see my wife and family. I would go home to them,” Faramir replied.

Aragorn smiled. “Of course. Go home and rest now. Come to me tomorrow morning. And take some rest, I will need you ready when Council meets again.”

The King turned back to him as he reached the door. “I forgot to ask,” he said. “How does Cirion fare after his first kill?”

“He was shocked but we have discussed it fully. He had a good lesson in the responsibility of wielding weapons of war, though it came earlier than I had planned,” Faramir replied.

Aragorn nodded. “You are fortunate in your sons,” he said pensively. His face contorted suddenly into an achingly sad expression. Faramir knew he was thinking of his own son.

“We will release Eldarion,” Faramir said firmly, determined to support his friend. “There must be a way; we have only to find it.”

The King rubbed his chin and looked back at Faramir. He managed a tentative smile, but it was belied by the bleakness in his eyes. Then he rose and with a murmured farewell, left the room.

Faramir lingered in the silent chamber for a few moments. His attention was drawn back to his pouch, and then the green stone lay once more in his hands. It twinkled malevolently in the glow of the sputtering candles. Faramir’s heart was clutched by a sudden sense of foreboding.

In the silence Faramir heard the echo of Saruman's last threat. The Steward shuddered involuntarily. The stone might hold the answer to all the riddles. Yet how could Saruman's weapon be used for good purpose when it had previously inflicted such pain and sorrow?

Hurriedly Faramir returned the green stone back to his pouch. He could no longer bring himself to consider the problem further; for he knew he would find no answer this night. He felt tired and dirty from the journey and he suddenly craved his wife's presence above all else. Faramir stood up from the chair and limped home as speedily as he could.

Storm Clouds

Faramir looked out at the lights of the White City, flickering beautifully in the close, humid night. He was standing on the balcony to his study in the Citadel as below him Minas Tirith prepared for night. He had missed its majestic beauty during his seven years of self-imposed exile. Even now, the sight of the moonlit White City spread below him, donning lamp- fire like a queen decking herself in jewels, caused his heart to lurch in his chest. He and so many others had sacrificed much for this city, the fair heart of Gondor.

The night was a dark one. He watched as the storm clouds rolled along the valley of the Anduin. The rumble of thunder echoed in the distance and he could see lightning flashing across the sky above Osgiliath. And before him the City shimmering in the humidity, the air heavy and close, waited as if held in a moment of timeless anticipation. The storm was coming.

Faramir sighed deeply. Despite his fatigue, he had left Eowyn in their bed a few hours earlier, unable to fall asleep. After leaving the King, he had happily reunited with his four youngest children, playing with them and hearing their adventures during the past four days of his absence. The littlest children, two-year-old Melethron and four-year-old Eirien, had been easily put to bed. Aldor, a curious seven-year-old, and Celairiel, the most stubborn of their children even at nine, had followed with more resistance and longer stories from their father. Eowyn had eventually decided that she too was tired enough to retire. Faramir had left her embrace reluctantly, fearing that he would awaken her with his tossing and turning. So he had dressed, and returned to his study while the storm clouds gathered outside and his frustration grew. There had to be answers to his many questions and he had to find them soon.

A loud crack of thunder caused him to start. It was raining already on the Pelennor. He remembered the agonizing retreat across that plain after the expedition to the Causeway Forts. The sheer magnitude of the Enemy's numbers had dimmed his hopes as he sought to hold what remained of his men together, but there was nothing to do but keep fighting, trying to bring them home. And then had come the hideous shrieking of the Nazgul as they swooped down upon the beleaguered horsemen; Faramir would never forget that sound as long as he lived. The Steward knew well the taste of fear and while he had learned to overcome it, he found himself desperately wishing that he would never have to experience it again.

He was tired and desired nothing more than to grow old with his beloved Eowyn and their children, taking pleasure in their family and in the prosperity of their lands. But the storm clouds were massing. Gondor would call once more, she was calling even now, she would demand his all and Faramir would give it as he always had.

A large raindrop fell on the balcony before him and then another. The sky was lit for one blazing moment with a flash of white lightning and seconds later the air rumbled with a blast of thunder more powerful than all the trumpets of his beloved homeland.

Faramir remembered that he had left some dispatches from the White Company in the King's study. Curse it, in order to calculate the numbers of men he could pledge to the King he did need another look at them. Tonight. He hurried out of his rooms and down the steps to the first floor. As he walked, his stiff leg making a faster pace impossible, he passed the door that had once opened on his father's personal quarters. Faramir had never been able to bring himself to use the room, and had turned it into a secondary library of documents from the days of Denethor and Ecthelion. He rarely entered the chamber. But he heard a sound coming from behind the closed door. Pausing, he tried to discern what it was. Had the servants left a window open the last time they cleaned there, drawing in the cry of the storm? No, that noise was not the wind. There it came again, more like a sound from a human throat, a moan, or a quiet laugh, perhaps a whistle.

He backed away, momentarily feeling almost....frightened. Could his father's presence have somehow returned there to lament? No. What a foolish notion. He was the Steward of Gondor, not some ignorant bumpkin who quailed at the thought of the Dead returning. Besides, the last time the Dead had returned, they had come at the King's bidding, and had helped defeat the Enemy. And then the Dead had been most glad to leave, or so went the tale.

He looked below the closed door; and saw a pale light. Ah, perhaps some page or squire was playing a game, or a soldier had brought a girl inside the rarely used room for...private pursuits. This would not do. Let them find some closet; this chamber, where his parents had once lain and he himself had been born, was still part of his House.

Fumbling with the small set of keys that rarely left his person when he stayed in the City, Faramir knocked on the door, and tried to open it. When it did not yield, he used the key. Then he stood on the threshold in stunned surprise.

A man was in the room, hunched in the chair, his hands covering the lower part of his face. By the light of the two candles burning on the small table, Faramir could see that the man was Aragorn.

The King stared back at him with sudden surprise that almost matched Faramir's own shock. Faramir shut the door behind him.

Aragorn slowly dropped his hands and leaned back into the chair. Faramir had never seen his King in this condition; eyes red, his face, usually so calm and grave, now streaked with tears. Faramir moved quietly toward him, then carefully eased himself down cross-legged onto the floor before the seated King.

Aragorn lifted one corner of his mouth in a half-smile, and extended a flask towards Faramir. "Some water? You look like you have seen the Dead."

"Nay, my lord. It is just that I never expected to find you here, alone, in this room."

"Do you know, that when you walked in just now, you put me in mind of your grandfather? You favour Ecthelion far more than Denethor."

Faramir normally would have encouraged Aragorn to remember his youth in the White City as Ecthelion's favoured captain Thorongil. But they were not sitting beside a warm fire in Emyn Arnen, or with the Queen and Eowyn in the King's House. Aragorn had been weeping alone here in Denethor's old room, and Faramir needed to know more, so he could be of help to him. "So my Uncle Imrahil has told me" he replied. "But that does not explain why you are here alone, in this state."

"I meant no disrespect to your father, Faramir. I have come here a few times of late, when I craved solitude. It is one of the few chambers where no one would look for me, and where no one comes, at least not very often...I.. needed," Aragorn paused, and looked down to meet Faramir's steady gaze. "A place where all eyes were not on me. I cannot have them see the King so...weary. Not even Arwen, I have burdened her enough with useless tears. I long to run, to ride away into the mountains, but I am King here and cannot leave so easily, and not now. ."

"My lord, the entire Citadel is yours. You may come to this room whenever you feel the need. And here, now, let yourself be Aragorn, leave the King outside the door. I am always your friend. We Rangers must look after each other in this city of stone, as Legolas calls it. "

"Rangers." Aragorn emitted a short laugh that was almost a sob. "Going my own way in the wild places, never having more than a few pieces of clothing to call my own, and a horse if I was lucky. Right now, I miss it. I have all that my forefathers were due, the crown of Gondor, the South and North Kingdoms under my hand. I hold the Sceptre of Annuminas, and eminence over all the lands of the West. I am the Heir of Elendil. I am husband to the most beautiful and loving lady in all the world..." his hands shook and he clenched them into fists. "And for all that power and wealth and love, my heir still sleeps. I cannot wake him, Faramir!" Aragorn's face twisted, and he growled and, in anger, struck the table with his fist.

"But there is still time. Eldarion is alive, just sleeping. We will find a way to revive him." Faramir assured him. He was still amazed to see his King, who had always been master of himself and all around him, come so undone.

"I thought I could rouse him. I never thought that after six months, Eldarion would still lie in this unnatural sleep. My foster-brothers and the Healers have told me that he grows weaker, Faramir. He continues to lose weight, because he can consume so little nourishment. There are only so many more weeks before he fades and dies. If he dies; I do know what will befall this land when I pass away from it." Abruptly, Aragorn rose, and commenced pacing like a caged animal.

"My daughters are twin-born, and there is no difference in their features. We did not differentiate them with ribbons on their wrists until two days after they were born; for Arwen's labour was difficult, and we despaired of the younger babe's life as well as that of her mother. To this day, no one is certain whether Nimloth or Rian was born first. I fear great trouble from their sons should I die without another heir."

"But Aragorn..." Faramir began, somewhat embarrassed. Then he continued, quietly. "Surely it is too soon to worry about the actions of your daughters' sons; the twins are but little maids still, not even two years of age. Perhaps you and Arwen will have another son."

Aragorn stood by the window, his back to Faramir. "That is not likely." he said in a flat voice. He turned again, his face troubled. "This land could face Kin-strife again if Eldarion dies."

Faramir remembered what he had heard the King say in his dream; and was chilled, though not surprised, at Aragorn's words.

"Do you know what I thought today, as I watched your son in Council?" Aragorn asked. "Elboron is such a fine lad, strong, brave, and honourable, with a mind as sharp as yours. I played a game with myself. I pretended, for an instant, that he was my firstborn, my son. That he would inherit Gondor one day, and I could rest easy knowing all that we strove and worked for would pass to Elboron and prosper in his hands. But then I remembered, Elboron is yours. And that my heir lies unmoving on his bed. And despite all the times I have sat at his bedside, held his hand and called for him, sent my spirit forth to heal him as I have healed hundreds of those that needed it, I cannot wake him. I cannot help Eldarion at all!"

He trembled like a storm-beset tree, rasping out sobbing breaths that he tried to stifle. Faramir rose stiffly and moved to Aragorn's side as quickly as he could. When he reached Aragorn, he took the older man and led him back to the chair, gently pressing him down into it. Then Faramir took up the flask that had been laid on the table, opened it, and placed it back in Aragorn's hand, nodding approvingly as Aragorn drank from it. He did not know whether to be glad or sorry that the flask held nothing stronger than water.

"How did Elladan and Elrohir fare when they tried to heal the boy?" Faramir asked, frowning as he remembered the warnings heard in his dream. Sometimes dreams conveyed truth and other times they were just random flotsam spewed up by sleeping minds. "You have said that their skill exceeds yours, although I do not believe it."

Aragorn smiled sadly at him. "They have tried on several occasions. Once, they worked with me to try to bring him back. But we cannot find him. Though my brothers swear that they can discern his presence, just beyond reach, I cannot even sense him when I try to find him. If not for Elladan and Elrohir's certainty that Eldarion still survives, I would believe that Saruman had taken his spirit with him into death."

"No, Aragorn, no!" Faramir exclaimed. "You must believe that Eldarion still lives! The wizard's last words to me, as he started to fall, were to look for him in Eldarion's eyes, he would be there. If Eldarion were so bound to Saruman that Saruman's fate would be his, then the wizard would surely have told me so when he tried to convince me to help him back into the tower. And, when Saruman was about to fall to his certain death, he would have exulted that he was taking the lad with him. But he did not."

"Then should I fear, that if I succeed in waking Eldarion, he will come back to life as the pawn of Saruman the White, the wizard's evil imprinted on his young mind?" Aragorn asked in a dull voice.

"No, I do not believe it!" Faramir exclaimed. "The wizard bespelled me, after all, and bent my mind to the point where...I tried to harm you, yet you stood by me in that dark time and told me that you still trusted me. And since then, the only trace of Saruman in my mind has been in my dreams, and only rarely. If he had any power over me, he would have exerted it in the tower last year, rather than resorting to duress, then offers of alliance along with threats, to try to alter my allegiance. I did nothing in that tower, or even in coming to it, that was of Saruman's desire. I know that now. So will it be for Eldarion when he awakens."

Strangely, the words that Faramir intended to kindle hope seemed to sadden Aragorn even more. He looked closely at Faramir. "But you, Faramir, you have always been strong. I knew it from the moment I first saw you, struggling in the grip of the Shadow, yet still fighting the darkness, days after you were felled by the Black Breath and the Southron arrow. You were always a good and dutiful son to your father; and no one could have fought harder against the Enemy's overwhelming might. While my heir..."

He paused, to continue in a low, almost hushed voice. "My heir is wayward. He fears to learn the ways of war, the things he must master as the future King. I could not make him see, or understand. He would hang his head and leave my sight as soon as he could, to engage in more base and frivolous pursuits. And I did not try to stop him. I should never have allowed him to leave for Rohan, I should have made him stay and learn what he must learn, even if it was painful for me to see my heir behave in such a weakling fashion. If I had, Eldarion would be awake now; he never would have fallen into Saruman's hands." Tears brimmed again in Aragorn's eyes.

Faramir tried to discipline his thoughts, to summon the exact words that could best help his friend and King. For now, Aragorn reminded him uncomfortably of Denethor, and he knew that Aragorn was a better and wiser man than the late Steward of Gondor.

"You could not protect him always," Faramir replied. "Sooner or later, Eldarion would have left the City on his own. Saruman planned to capture your heir; he would have waited a year or more to take him." Faramir stopped briefly, feeling somewhat awkward in offering personal advice to the King. But he was father to more children than the King; and his oldest had already passed Eldarion's age by almost two years. And Faramir had faced peril at Eldarion's side; Aragorn had not.

"If you had seen your son in Saruman's tower, you would not have called him 'weakling'" Faramir said earnestly. "It is true that he feared to take up arms; he confessed it to me himself. But Eldarion stood at my back when we faced first two Uruk-Hai, then many more. He fought one of the Uruks at my bidding, unarmed. How many other untried boys would have faced such a formidable foe with nothing but courage and their bare hands? And when I could fight no more, Eldarion cried out his defiance to the wizard, commanding him to leave me be, despite the pain of his own injury. You would have been proud of your son, Aragorn. I know that I was."

Aragorn smiled gravely, a light kindled once more in his tear-filled eyes, reminding Faramir of the sun itself breaking through clouds. "Faramir" he said softly, clasping the younger man's shoulder. "I never thought I would hear my son praised as a worthy fighter. Thank you. I pray that he will hear you repeat those words to him if...when he wakes."

Then Aragorn stood up, slowly, pushing down slightly on Faramir's shoulder as he rose, and released him. He stood up all the way, then squared his own shoulders and proudly lifted his head. The King had returned.

"Come, mellon nin; let us return to our duties, and then our own hearths. We are surely both missed," Aragorn said, and led the way toward the door. Faramir blew out the candle and followed, shutting the door once more behind him.

A half-hour later, Faramir had finally returned to his hall and was poking the fire into life. He had accompanied Aragorn back to the King's House and retrieved his dispatches from the chest in his Lord's study. The journey had not been long enough to soak his clothes; but the storm had brought a chill to the air.

The outer door slammed; and Faramir heard a loud voice curse in Rohirric. Faramir looked up to see Elboron stomp into the hall, shedding his sodden cloak and trying to dry his long, thoroughly drenched blond hair with it. Seeing Faramir, Elboron smiled widely at his father.

“Made it home before I got too wet!” he said. “There's a mighty storm out there tonight. Thank you again for having me seconded to Council as your aide, else I would probably be soaking on Guard duty tonight!”

“It was the King's idea; and not ordered so that you could avoid Guard duty,” Faramir stated wryly. “And I see you have still managed to get wet. Come here to the fire and warm yourself.”

Elboron nodded. “Of course, father,” he replied. “I thought you would be abed long ago after the rigors of your journey, or I would have returned sooner.”

Faramir poured two glasses of miruvor. He passed a goblet to his son, then took a long slow swallow of the smooth cordial and asked: “Where have you been?”

“My friend, Hador received his first posting. He leaves tomorrow morning. We had but a few drinks to send him on his way.”

Elboron had brought home the smoky scent of the taverns with him. The older man remembered many such carefree nights from his youth. He smiled indulgently at the bright light of life that shone so strongly in his son’s blue eyes and the high colour on Bron's cheeks. 'My son continues on the path I once walked' Faramir mused. 'I hope the road will be easier for him. Fathers and sons, where does one end and the other begin?'

“And I trust you gave him a good farewell?” Faramir asked lightly, shaking himself out of his reverie.

Elboron nodded. “I don’t think he will forget it for a while. The memory of it will keep him warm on the cold nights in Arnor next winter!”

Faramir smiled as he looked into the liquid he swirled around his glass and his eyes suddenly became focused on something that only they saw. Elboron waited patiently, aware of his father’s mannerisms, he knew that the Steward would speak when ready.

“My father used to say to me,” Faramir finally began and Elboron leaned forward to hear, for it was not often that his grandfather was mentioned and particularly not in the wistful tone Faramir now used.

As a child Elboron had asked his father often about the twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor, his never-known grandfather. But the twenty-seventh Steward had made it clear that he did not wish to be reminded of the late Lord Denethor, so Elboron had learned quickly not to ask. Instead, his father had regaled him with stories of his heroic uncle Boromir, or told him tales from the history of Gondor and the fabled realm of Numenor. Despite Elboron's keen interest in the history of the land he would one day help govern, or perhaps because of it, Elboron wished to know more about his paternal grandfather. Strange, even appalling rumours of Denethor's last days still persisted. Elboron hated having a source of crucial information denied him. But his father, normally the font of knowledge on ancestors dating back to First Steward Hurin, would swiftly change the subject when his children raised personal questions about Denethor. Persistence would only cause his father to withdraw coolly and completely into himself.

However as Faramir finished his sentence, Elboron realized with disappointment, he was to learn little more of Denethor tonight. His father was in fact revisiting well trod ground.

“You have responsibilities. You bear a valuable seed. You should be careful where you plant it!” Faramir finished abruptly.

Elboron smiled. “Not again!” He moaned playfully. “I assure you, Sir,” he said more seriously. “I have done no planting as yet and when I do, I shall be very much aware of my responsibilities!”

Faramir looked at him appraisingly. “I believe you, but your mother feels I would neglect my duty as a father if I did not repeatedly bring such matters to your attention!” He said by way of explanation, then continued on a completely different subject, “Elboron, I saw you in Council today. I was most impressed.”

Faramir smiled. Then his face became more serious as he asked, “Where did you learn to read men so clearly? You are young to be so wise.”

Elboron shrugged. “I did what I always do in such circumstances,” he said, “I asked myself what you would have done and then followed it as best I could!”

Faramir raised his eyebrows, then smiled again. “The King was right in seconding you to me as the Steward's aide. You are more than ready for the task, Bron."

Faramir stood up and moved back to the window. The pain in his leg refused to be alleviated by a simple stretch. The rain surged down now, forming small rivers that meandered down the cobbled streets to the City’s lower levels.

“The drains will never cope with such a torrent!” he muttered softly. Since he had returned to his role as Steward much of his time had been spent with the architects and engineers of the City making plans to repair and rebuild the City’s most decrepit systems. Last summer the sewage system had been particularly unsatisfactory. Faramir had hoped to resolve the problems before the people suffered similarly this year. But the rain was coming down so fast, and the repairs were only half complete; he could see his desire for a swift completion may have been an unattainable target. And if war with the Easterlings was coming within the next year, the renovation might have to wait even longer to finish, or the work stalled indefinitely. Could not the Easterlings have waited another few years to renew their enmity? War would kill many sons of Gondor; but damaged sewers could spread disease and also take lives. Somehow, he would see the work continue, war or no war.

Faramir opened his mouth to speak again, but the words never came. Over the drumming of the rain and the now distant rolls of thunder as the storm moved away, a terrifying sound reached their ears and brought dread to their hearts.

Authors Note: Arwen's conjecture that Faramir might be a descendant of Elrond's brother Elros is inspired by a mention, in THE HISTORY OF MIDDLE- EARTH v.12: The Peoples of Middle-Earth, of Faramir's house, the Hurinionath, descending from royalty. "the Hurinionath were not in t he direct line of descent from Elendil, [but] they were ultimately of royal origin." Legolas hailed Faramir's uncle, Prince Imrahil of Dol Amroth, as having elven-blood, in ROTK.

Eowyn’s piercing scream had awakened the entire household. Children and servants rushed about everywhere in varying states of both distress and undress, all milling around in the corridors.

The only person who seemed free from the confusion was the Steward himself. Faramir had quelled his own fear and had reverted to his role as Captain. His eyes were steely blue and calm, his voice controlled as he quietly gave his orders.

“Cirion, run to the Houses of Healing and bring the Warden. Wear a cloak, it's raining hard!” His second son nodded, then skidded across the hallway and took the stairs two steps at a time, dressing as he ran.

“Elboron, take charge of the children. Celairiel, be a good girl and obey your brother. Aldor, you and Melethron go with them. Do not fear, your mother will be fine. Stay together.”

Faramir gripped his elder son’s shoulder. “Look after the little ones, Bron, take them to their nurse and make sure they go back to sleep.” he whispered. “I will see to your mother.”

Elboron nodded. He gathered up his smallest sister, Eirien, in his arms and holding on to Celairiel, he moved down the corridor. Aldor, trying to be grown-up at seven years of age took Melethron, who was still learning to walk, by the hand, and sleepily shuffled after them.

Faramir ran his hand through his hair as he watched them. Then with a gulp, he entered the bedchamber.

Faramir hesitated as his eyes took in the scene before him. A candle had been lit and was flickering weakly, throwing dark forbidding shadows in the corners of the room. Faramir’s eyes were drawn to a wet, dark stain on the floor next to the doorway through to the bathroom. He forced himself to look away.

Hiril, Eowyn's attendant, was leaning over a figure lying on the bed. Faramir’s legs suddenly felt weak and he had to concentrate to walk himself further into the room. His heart hammered in his chest and his mouth dried as he looked at his wife’s prone form curled tautly under the pale linen sheet.

Eowyn’s face was pale, her fair features twisted with pain and her eyes tightly closed.

Faramir glanced at Hiril. “Fetch something to clean her with,” he said hoarsely. "Put some water on the fire to heat it. Soap, too."

Hiril moved away to comply, her face twisted with concern. Faramir sat on the bed beside his lady and stroked her forehead.

“It hurts, Faramir,” she said softly, trying to move her hand down to her stomach area.

Faramir took hold of both her hands; and, raising them to his mouth, he kissed them softly.

“Shush, my love. The healers will be here soon,” he murmured. "Hold on, I am here. I am with you."

Eowyn’s eyes widened and her body convulsed. She gasped as the pain rushed through her.

“The child...Faramir, I fear I will lose it!” she groaned as her body relaxed again.

Faramir tried to calm her. “No, all will be well.” Words were not enough, but they were all he had for his wife now.

“This has never happened before, Faramir!” Eowyn snapped. “I am only six months gone. The babe is too young, he cannot be birthed now.”

She tried to sit up but he eased her back to the bed with gentle firmness. He slipped off the bed and knelt beside her, so his face was at the same level as hers.

“Peace, Eowyn,” he whispered. “I know it is hard but try to stay calm. Think of...Think of riding Steelsheen through the forest at home.”

Faramir brushed the hair from her face and was worried when he noticed how moist and cool her skin felt. Trying to recall the little he had learned about matters pertaining to pregnancy, he wondered if he should fetch her something to drink. Eowyn had always been strong and radiantly healthy during her pregnancies. It had been a joke between them that he had been more worried about her condition than she had ever been even though she carried new life. Eowyn had fretted about the mares' pregnancies, but had never shown much concern, beyond taking simple precautions and eating more carefully, for herself while she was with child.

Faramir had comforted injured, even dying men, before. It was a painful task he had mastered as a leader of Rangers and then other soldiers to whom he owed a commander's concern. He had learned to support his men to the best of his ability when they suffered. But when it was his beloved Eowyn who cried in pain before him, his fear threatened to overwhelm him. He bit down the panic as Eowyn’s body tensed in contraction once more.

Then she let out another scream and grabbed Faramir's hand in an achingly strong grip. He put his other hand over hers. "Hold on, dearest girl," he said, looking into her wide eyes; "Help is coming!"

Suddenly the room was invaded by a confusing throng of people. Their incursion took on an almost dreamlike quality. Faramir found he was being prised from his wife, lifted to his feet and eased slowly backwards. He looked and saw that it was the King who had moved him. He wanted to stay with Eowyn and hold her but Aragorn's strong hands were directing him back to the door.

"Let me help her, mellon nin" his King asked him. Faramir felt a surge of hope. Those hands were the strongest hands in the world; and had pulled him and Eowyn back from the dark brink of death. Surely those hands would heal Eowyn now! She was not entranced by a wizard, it was a human ailment; and the King had healed far worse.

"Please, save them, Aragorn" Faramir whispered. "But, if...if there comes a choice, and Eowyn cannot make it, you must save her first, do not risk her life for the child's."

Faramir was aware of shadows in his vision as Aragorn took his place at the bedside. But Eowyn's strained face remained the centre of his world.

Then the door shut in front of him with an abrupt bang. He stood there for a moment, his hands that had been holding hers still hanging in the air before him.

He gulped. Vague sounds came from behind the door but nothing he could make out.

“Will Mother be all right?” Cirion stood beside him, his face mirroring the stunned shock that his father felt.

The breath that Faramir released was ragged. “Of course she will be, Ciri,” he said hoping his voice did not reveal the terror in his heart.

Faramir had just returned to their antechamber after escorting Cirion to his room and watching him fall asleep, when the door to the bedroom opened. Aragorn, his eyes strangely angry, his face exhausted, came forth from the room.

"It is alright, Faramir. Eowyn and the child still live... I...forgive me; I could do nothing. The healers are with her, they...She will be well, you must trust them." And Aragorn moved away, out of the room, almost tripping in his haste to leave.

Faramir's blood ran cold. He had never seen his King retreat in such obvious alarm. Aragorn was obviously not himself. Whether this was but a temporary aberration in Aragorn's behaviour or an indication of a deeper sorrow, such as that which they had spoken of earlier that evening, Faramir could not tell. Perhaps the King was just fatigued. But Faramir could do nothing for him now; his first duty lay here, as did his heart.

“I came as soon as I heard,” said Arwen Undomiel from the threshold of the Steward’s study. “How is she?” The fabled Evenstar looked, as always, beautiful, a tall woman carrying the grace of the Eldar in her face and bearing. She wore a simple dress of pale blue, bound with a silver girdle. Faramir, who had spent the last several hours falling in and out of uneasy slumber, suddenly felt very mortal and very ordinary and definitely in no mood to host the Queen of Arnor and Gondor.

"She is better this morning, my lady" Faramir answered, nodding stiffly. “Please...Sit down.”

She looked at him with sympathy as she did so. It was mid-morning. He was pale and drawn, his clothes crumpled and his hair unkempt. She doubted he had slept at all the previous night. Behind him on the desk she saw a tray that held his untouched breakfast.

“I did not expect you,” he said too curtly. “Given your son's...indisposition.”

“My duty to Eldarion does not replace the love I bear for my friends,” her voice was soothing and calm. "Eowyn and I are as sisters, for we both came to high estate in Gondor from different lands; and we have always tried to help each other. And I know well the love that my Lord has for you. It would please us both if you would call me by my name. We have known each other for too many years to stand on such ceremony. Now, tell me what I may do for Eowyn, and the children, and you."

He sighed and ran a careless hand through his red-gold hair. For all Faramir's years as a Man, and his considerable knowledge, Arwen was many times his elder and he seemed as but a troubled youth to her at that moment. She felt a yearning to take him in her arms as she would her own son if he would but wake, or her brothers.

“The Warden left; I do not know, perhaps an hour ago” Faramir’s voice was dull. “The midwife is still upstairs. The Warden said all was well, the pains have stopped and Eowyn sleeps soundly. She needs to stay abed.”

Faramir was agitatedly worrying his fingers as he moved to stand by the window. “It is hard to tell,” he said finally, his eyes fixed on some far away point. “The longer the babe stays within, the better the chances, so they tell me.”

Arwen nodded. “If the pains have stopped, there is still hope. Do not fear, you are both strong enough to survive this. Have you seen her?”

He nodded. “I left her but a while ago. She is sleeping. They gave her a little wine, and some water; and it seemed to help.”

She stood up and moved to his side. Although they had known each other for many years, Faramir Denethorion was still something of a puzzle to Arwen. The man had always been polite and respectful, and unfailingly kind to her. Yet the personal pride and dignity that was as inborn in the oldest families of Gondor as it was in the line of Luthien cloaked Faramir like a second skin. She had only seen glimpses of the warmth beneath it. Arwen esteemed the Steward of Gondor for his devotion to her husband, but she had never exchanged more than a few words with him, despite having spent much time with Eowyn and the children. She suspected that if she were to embrace him now she would embarrass him and break the bond she wished instead to forge. So she contented herself with a simple question, “And how are you, Faramir?”

He looked at her. For a moment his eyes betrayed shock at her nearness, as if he had been unaware of her movement and was unsure how she came to be so physically close to him. Then he looked away, instantly masking his feelings, as she knew he would. Raising his eyes to hers once more, he presented a quiet smile.

She regarded him. She knew he would reveal no more to her. Undeterred, she used another approach.

“Aragorn told me of your trip to Mordor, of the green stone that you found there.”

Arwen sighed. Why was he so difficult to reach? Most other mortals were only too willing to unburden all their problems to her particularly at a time such as this, but suffering seemed only to heighten Faramir’s reserve. She reminded herself that this was no ordinary man before her. This was the Steward of Gondor, in whose veins the blood of Westernesse ran strong and true. He might even be her own distant kin if the tales of the Hurinionath's descent from her uncle Elros were truthfully told. And both she and Legolas had noticed signs of elven heritage in Faramir and his Dol Amroth kindred. More than that, this was a man who had spent a good part of his life concealing his strongest emotions. Aragorn had won the Steward's trust and comradeship; partially through the bond forged when Aragorn saved the younger man from the Shadow, but mostly through Aragorn's determination to befriend the brother of Boromir the Bold.

“I have thought on my son’s condition for a long time, as you have." Arwen continued. “Eldarion's unnatural sleep seems to me like a map of a strange country; we do not know where we are going, and we are losing our way. Could that strange stone give us the direction we need? I would speak frankly with you; for you were the last to see my child awake in Saruman's fortress."

Faramir held her in his unwavering gaze for a long time. A wise, ancient spirit seemed to gaze out from those blue eyes, reminiscent of Gandalf and the high lords of the Eldar she had known in the days of her youth. Standing there, Arwen Undomiel felt suddenly vulnerable and unsure; how dare he judge her! Yet she had invited him to be honest and had no right to resent his appraisal.

The Steward finally pulled his eyes away and let out another deep sigh. He nodded slowly as if he had come to a decision. Slowly, he opened the pouch on his belt and withdrew a round, clear green stone.

“I fear,” Faramir began, “that this stone might still have some connection to Saruman. Yet I believe that somehow it will serve to aid in Eldarion's recovery. But I know not how. And I almost fear to delve too deeply into whatever mysteries it may hold; for this stone once ensnared me as well as your son."

Arwen held his gaze. At last, Faramir was able to confide in her. She knew that such trust did not come easily to him, and she hoped that she would be able to fulfil the faith he was putting in her.

"I have some experience with stones that hold power," Arwen said. "I bore the Elfstone that our King has taken as his title and symbol, for many years. And my father..."

"The bearer of Vilya, the Ring of Air, mightiest of the Three" Faramir finished for her, then blushed. "Pardon me, my lady." He extended the green stone to her; and Arwen took it.

"No offence taken, Faramir. You have a good memory for Elven lore." She held the stone between thumb and forefinger, turning it in the light that streamed through the window.

After awhile, Arwen looked again on Faramir. "This is plainly no ordinary stone. There is some ancient power within it. Not a power such as that which resided in the Three Rings, or the One, but something of lesser strength. Yet I cannot discern exactly what sort; and it seems to me that I should be able to do so. The stone seems familiar, as if I have known it before." A frown creased the perfection of her brow. She shook her head and her hair fell beautifully about her shoulders.

She gave the stone back to Faramir with a sad smile. "At least it is something. My brothers might be able to tell us more of this stone."

"My lord..." Hiril's voice called from the entrance. Hiril, a dark-haired and diminutive young woman, peered into the study.

"You have not touched your breakfast, lord; what would my lady say!" Hiril declared. She swept into the study with her usual air of peremptory confidence, and seized the offending breakfast tray. "And the Queen here to visit, and no one told me! I shall fetch some tea. My lord, Lady Eowyn has awakened and calls for you."

Faramir pulled himself to his feet. "Pray excuse me, my Queen," he began, then looked again at Arwen. She seemed suddenly to be as tired and lost as he had felt. And he remembered how she had come here in friendship when her own heart must break every day at the sight of her unconscious son. "My lady...Arwen, would you come with me; I am sure that Eowyn would be most glad to see you."

Discovery

“I am well, my husband,” Eowyn breathed. A tired but beautiful smile brightened her pale face and clutched at Faramir’s heart.

He sat on the bed beside her, winding her hair around his hand, his eyes drinking in her presence like a thirsty man.

“Faramir,” Eowyn chuckled. “All is well. You heard the midwife and the Warden; I just need to rest. I have had no more contractions or pain and I feel much better.”

He nodded slowly, then bent down to put his cheek against hers, unwinding her hair in a pale blonde curtain around their faces. “I know,” he breathed, “I heard what they said but.....”

She snorted. “And how long will this ‘making certain' take?” she asked. “You surely don’t propose to sit there like a lovesick youth for the next three months, do you?”

He looked hurt but his eyes glowed as he replied, “That was the strategy I thought to employ. Does my lady object?”

She reached across and ran her hand lovingly down the side of his face. Truly, it had changed little in the years since they had wed. “I wish you could stay by me all day,” she said dreamily, remembering how they first had met during their recuperation in the Houses of Healing. They both had many more responsibilities now than those war-weary young people who had clung to each other as the Shadow surged up before them one last time. “You are Lord Steward of Gondor, your duty awaits you.”

Faramir sighed. “Aye, I am,” he muttered, standing up. “And it does. You are truly well?”

Eowyn nodded somewhat impatiently. “Yes I am and I will be so until you return this evening. Now please go and do something useful!”

He nodded. Since his conversation with the King had shown him the depth of Aragorn’s suffering, Faramir had become even more anxious than before to solve the puzzle of the green stone. It was only Eowyn’s indisposition that had delayed him thus far. And some work still remained to properly prepare for the Council session on the morrow.

Now he bent forward and kissed her mouth, then her cheeks and her brow. He placed his hand very gently on the bump of her stomach under the bed covers. Then Faramir let out his breath slowly and moved away.

“I will go to the library,” he said. “But if anything happens, if you are even afeared that something might happen, send word to me immediately.”

She snorted again. “Nothing will happen!” she said firmly. “Bring me something to read. I must have something of greater interest than the children's mischief to ease my confinement.” Mother of Stars, the dear man was more broody than any war-mare, hen, or even Rana, the hound bitch who had insisted on delivering her litter at the foot of their bed. Well, as she remembered from having borne her six children; there was one cure for that, and she would be glad to undertake it as soon as this seventh pregnancy was over and the babe safely delivered! Eowyn smiled. She would not trade these sixteen years for anything. She was encumbered by many more duties than that cold young shieldmaiden had known, but there was more love and laughter in her life than she had ever thought possible to have.

The man responsible for much of her happiness paused on his way to the door and turned. “Really? A book of love poetry perhaps?”

She pulled a face. “You know me better than that, Faramir,” she replied. “If I read anything it must be about war and honour. Bring me the History of Gondolin and Ecthelion's treatise on the Last Alliance. The only kind of love poetry I want is in your arms; and it is too soon for that.”

Faramir arched his eyebrows and shook his head sadly. “All these years of teaching you the finest Adunaic courtship verses, and you still crave tales of carnage!” he teased as he retreated out of the door. He shut it just as the pillow that his beloved wife threw at him, hit the place he had previously stood.

The voice pulled Faramir's attention from History of the Seeing Stones, the scroll whose words he was eagerly devouring.

Faramir looked up and saw the stern face of Belecthor, the chief Librarian of Minas Tirith, staring at him with concern.

“What is it?” Fear suddenly clutched at Faramir as his mind left the history of the seven palantiri and returned to the actual world of the Fourth Age. “Word from my wife?”

"Nay, my lord; I just thought you might like some tea." It is past four; I was going to get something to eat for myself.

Faramir looked at him blankly. “It’s what time?” he said. “I’ve been here for six hours?”

The Librarian chuckled. “Yes, my lord. Just like the old days. I remember when the Lord Denethor had to send his guards down here to take you home when you were but a lad. I do believe you would have spent almost every day down in our most dusty corners, if he had allowed it.”

“One lifetime would not be enough to savour all the treasures you keep here,” Faramir said, glancing from wall to wall and all the documents arrayed between them.

He sighed wistfully. He could not revere the halls of the Valar more than this relatively small and silent part of Minas Tirith. When he had lived most of the year at Henneth Annun, fighting to secure the wilds of Ithilien, he had dreamt of the peace and quiet of the Library, of spending every day there if the Enemy was ever defeated. But now he ruefully accepted that the life of a solitary scholar, while tempting, did not include Eowyn or their children and hence would be a miserly and miserable existence. Still, he felt a small thrill of pride that as Steward of Gondor he had helped to add to the precious knowledge stored in this ancient edifice.

“Oh, yes,” Faramir said. "I would welcome some tea, or whatever you are having.”

"I will bring you tea, then, my lord. I am sure you know to be very careful not to spill it on any of our texts."

Faramir rubbed his chin thoughtfully. He had found no further information on the stone of Saruman. Feeling stiff, he stood up and stretched in a pleasant shaft of sunlight pouring in from the green glass of the window. He looked out through the opening, which glowed from the light that shone through it. Green glass, glowing....Faramir remembered the glow of a green stone shining like the clearest glass; the King's Elfstone. And Arwen had said that Saruman's stone felt familiar to her. Could it be....?

Faramir nearly tripped over two tables and a chair in his haste to reach a very room. Seventeen years ago, learning that the high-Elves were preparing to leave Middle-Earth forever, Faramir had pleaded with Master Elrond and the Lady Galadriel to send some of their histories and texts on medicinal lore to the Library on loan so they could be copied by the scribes before the Eldar's departure. He had been delighted by their assent. Over a hundred works from the Elves' archives had been loaned to Minas Tirith, and returned without incident before the Eldar had taken ship to the West. Faramir had happily presided over the venture; and had read many of the writings before they were made available to the scholars of Minas Tirith. Now he hurried into a small reading chamber where the public copies of the Rivendell Texts resided. Which shelf? Ah, yes, on the second shelf, he could see the golden, beautifully lettered title in Sindarin on the leather-bound text: Lhîw e-Faer, 'Sickness of the Spirit'. There it was, the book that contained much of the knowledge of Elrond Peredhil himself about the healing of troubled minds. He reached for the book.

And staggered, because his head hit something hard as he had bent to seize the book; namely another man's brow. His hand closing on the book, Faramir blinked at a tall, broad-faced man with grey hair and a deep blue cloak, who had evidently been trying to get either the Lhiw e-Faer or another text on the same shelf.

"Please forgive me, good sir; I had not seen you" Faramir explained, hoping he had not hurt the elderly gentleman.

To Faramir's surprise, the old man made a very rude noise and grinned. He had keen blue eyes, which he fixed on Faramir as he rubbed his head. "Do not fret, Lord Steward; I have a very hard head. And so do you, as my old friend Curumo found out to his sorrow!"

"Curumo?" That was the Quenya name by which Saruman had once been called. "How do you know Saruman?" Faramir shot back suspiciously.

Other people in the library were beginning to turn and look at them in annoyance, irked by the raised voices of Faramir and the old man.

"Later, Lord Steward. You have some reading to do." The old man replied, backing away toward the door. "And you are in the right place to do it!"

"Here you are, my lord" interrupted Belecthor, who came into the room as the stranger left it, bearing a steaming cup of tea. Faramir nearly knocked him down in his haste to see where the old man had gone. By the time he had thanked the Librarian and passed by him through the door to seek the old man in blue; the stranger was gone.

Faramir knew he would not have the time to chase through the entire library in search of the old man in the blue cloak and continue seeking the clues he believed he was nearing in his search for more knowledge of Saruman's stone. Besides, the old fellow had very deliberately dropped cryptic, self- important hints of greater knowledge and a connection to Saruman. Faramir knew that he would not need to seek him out. The mysterious old man would either return to pester him, or let him know where he could be found. Meanwhile, he still had a mystery to unravel. He was close now, so close!

He returned to the room of the Rivendell Texts; and sat down at the table with the book he had kept in his hand. He had to force himself not to turn the pages as fast as he wanted to, for fear he might tear them, and his hands shook with impatience.

Finally, he found the chapter he had vaguely remembered, having read it once or twice before. Faramir had been naturally curious about the stone that had helped the King heal him. He had learned that though Aragorn had been a skilled healer before the War of the Ring, using herbs and knowledge, he had only been able to save those afflicted by the Nazgul's Black Breath when he used the Elfstone in combination with the athelas. And the Elfstone had come to Aragorn from the Lady Galadriel; who had originally passed it to her daughter Celebrian, from whose hands it had, for an unknown time, gone to Arwen herself. Yet, who had fashioned the Elfstone; was it Enerdhil of Gondolin or Celebrimbor of Eregion?

"It is not known to us whether the Elessar, the Stone of Renewal made by Celebrimbor of Eregion, might be used for the healing of a troubled mind. The Lady entreated the Master-Smith to craft it for her, because she yearned for trees and grass that do not die. The Lady has foreseen that the stone shall pass to one who will use it to heal many hurts, the King of Men who is to come. To our sorrow, at least one other stone of minor healing virtue, and countless other treasures, were lost to us in the Fall of Eregion."

Celebrimbor had made the Elfstone! And this book mentioned the possibility of other stones, just as he had begun to think, or remember! Faramir stifled a cry of excitement. During the months that Elboron, then Faramir himself, had searched the archives for histories of Saruman, and poured over lists of the contents of Saruman's pilfered hoard in Orthanc, they had not thought to search the Rivendell Texts. For surely a tool as malign as the stone of Saruman had naught to do with the kindly Master Elrond and the refuge he had made in Imladris. Yet Faramir’s conversation with Arwen had sparked a theory that perhaps there could be some distant connection between the King's Elfstone, once worn by Arwen and her mother and the Lady before her, and Saruman's green horror.

Faramir returned to the shelf, and perused the titles of the books and scrolls. There! He seized the scroll entitled Curu Eregion,'Works of Eregion', and unrolled it. The writing was smaller; the Sindarin a somewhat more archaic form than that of the Lhiw-e-Faer. Finally, he found the passages he had only perused briefly in earlier years.

"For Celebrimbor, son of Curufin and Lord of the Mirdain, set himself also the task of crafting a most fair green stone for the Lady Galadriel, who he held in high esteem. The Lady had wanted grass and trees that did not wither. So Celebrimbor and the Gwaith-i-Mirdain wrought the Stone of Renewal to fortify the beauty of Lorien against the ravages of time and sorrow through the Lady's use of it.
Celebrimbor was most pleased by the Stone of Renewal, and, it is said, tried to make another stone of similar power. For the Dark Lord, hiding himself and his true purpose under the name of Annatar, had offered to instruct the Mirdain in ring-craft near the year 1240 of the Second Age. Elrond and Gil-galad both urged the Mirdain to reject the offer of the stranger. When they beseeched Celebrimbor, they saw that he held a green stone, smaller than his gift to Galadriel, but possessed of similar clarity and brilliance. Celebrimbor said that the stone helped to calm an unquiet mind, and that he hoped to fashion stones and objects of greater power through the knowledge he would gain from the stranger who called himself the Lord of Gifts. Gil-galad it was who took the stone in his hand at Celebrimbor's invitation, and called the green jewel The Stone of Silence, saying that silence could come as a blessing to the troubled and the weary.
No one ever saw this Stone of Silence after the Dark Lord betrayed and killed Celebrimbor and then despoiled Eregion. It is very likely lost forever, or broken by the hosts of the Shadow. "

Faramir grinned in sudden exultation. Here it was, the only clue he had yet found to the history of the stone!

He sat down at the table, putting the scroll carefully on the table beside the book. Taking out the green stone that he had found in Mordor from his pouch, he lifted it and turned it over in his hand.

"Could it be true?" he asked himself, then silently addressing the stone itself. "Are you this Sarn-e-Din, Stone of Silence? You have caused such sorrow for a small green stone, bringing low a Steward and a young prince. Were you first made to help rather than hurt? And did the mighty Gil- galad, the High King of the Noldor, once hold you in his hands, as I hold you now?"

Faramir sighed, still fearing to look too deeply into the stone. If this thing truly was the lost Sarn e-Dín, made alike in purpose, if lesser in power, to the King's own Elfstone, how could the stone have become so cruel an instrument, able to quell a man's will and render it prey to a wizard's evil design? He remembered Gandalf's words in his dream: ". . . you must undo the evil work in which the stone was used." In the dream, the stone had never been called the Stone of Saruman. And the dream mentioned the stone having been "used" for evil, not made for it, or eternally bound to it.

If this stone had once been made to heal, rather than harm, and later used by a corrupt wizard for evil....could the stone somehow be made to heal once again, and so restore Eldarion? Especially if it truly was the Sarn-e- Din, made by the same hands that had crafted the Sarn-en-Eden, the Stone of Renewal that was now the King's own Elfstone?

It was just a theory. But the pieces finally, after so long, now began to fit some kind of recognizable, if far-flung, pattern. Faramir returned the stone to the pouch on his belt, and took up the scroll and the book. He would look at them both later, in his house. He felt weary, his left leg was stiff as a mounting block; he still had some work to do in preparation for the Council session on the morrow. And he had to bring home the scrolls that Eowyn had requested. He sipped the tea that Belecthor had left him. It had cooled while he had pored over the history of the two stones.

After bidding farewell to Belecthor and gaining his permission to take several texts from the Library, Faramir left the wondrous storehouse of knowledge, burdened by three scrolls for Eowyn, the two Rivendell texts he had rediscovered, and the book of Sindarin nursery rhymes requested for his youngest children by their tutor. As an honorary Archivist and official Patron, Faramir was one of the very few people in Gondor allowed to remove documents from the Library, which he found to be one of the greatest privileges imaginable. Now, stumbling through the door with an armful of scrolls and books, Faramir wondered if he should have availed himself of the Librarian's offer to send an apprentice along to help him carry the precious texts.

Faramir made his way out of the library and walked through the courtyard towards the main thoroughfare which would take him back up to the Citadel.

It was indeed still warm outside. The sun was starting on her journey towards night; the bright blue sky had not yet paled. Although the courtyard was empty the babble and rush of the City floated across it towards Faramir. The noise was somewhat disconcerting after the hushed quiet that held sway in the archives, an effect he had always noticed after visiting the Library.

A cheery voice boomed out behind him. Faramir turned, peering over the tower of paperwork that lurched precariously in his arms.

He was irritated, but not completely surprised to see the blue-cloaked fellow from the room of the Rivendell Texts.

The stranger was an unusual sort of person. He appeared to be an old man of some seventy years or more. Yet his keen blue eyes were clear, and most sharply focussed on Faramir. He wore a sky-blue robe with several pockets, and an indigo cloak over it. His red-cheeked, beardless face was broad and capped by short, curly grey hair. Faramir noticed that the man was of stocky build, and at least a head shorter in stature than himself.

Faramir shook his head as if to free it from the man’s disconcerting stare. As he did so one of the scrolls that he was sure he held firmly, inexplicably fell to the floor to be followed in quick succession by the rest of the documents in his arms.

The old man was surprisingly nimble on his feet and bent to retrieve the scrolls while Faramir still stood immobile with vacant arms.

The stranger looked up at him, blue eyes shining brightly with something that could have been mischief. “Indeed,” he appeared very amused with the whole episode.

He picked up the Lhiw-e-Faer and read its title as he handed it back to the Steward. “An interest in Elvish headache remedies?” he mused. "You are not suffering a migraine, are you, my lord?"

Faramir felt himself flush as he grabbed back the scroll. He wanted to be irritated with the impudence of this man but could not summon up enough ire. There was something familiar about the stranger, the wisdom in his eyes, the old man's air of leashed power.

“No...not yet.” Faramir said, with a pointed look at the old man as he gathered up the documents once more.

“Let me help you carry them home,” the man said. “I was going that way myself.”

He took one step and the scrolls toppled again. Faramir cursed, feeling his colour deepen even more.

Behind him he heard a stifled laugh and he scowled as the stranger appeared at his elbow again.

“I had heard you were an obstinate one, Arandur,” the man laughed. “At least I have proved that! I always enjoy a good joke, made infinitely better when it is played on one of such high rank and station as yourself!” With that the man bowed low.

Faramir snorted. “I think I am missing something here. Why do you call me Arandur?” he said trying to sound indignant but suspecting that he was failing.

“Arandur is the ancient Steward's title, and as you well know it means ‘King's Servant’. It fits you, son; since you have the face of a wise counsellor, the air of high nobility, and the Steward's Ring on your finger!”

The man’s eyes gleamed even more and his eyebrows rose. He lifted his hand. The scroll containing Ecthelion's Treatise rose from the pile, hovered in the air for a full minute and then, as the man let his hand fall, it fell gently back to the ground.

Faramir’s mouth fell open. He cocked his head, scratched it and his eyes narrowed as they went from the man to the scroll and back again.

Faramir moved forward and tapped the suspect scroll with his foot. “A bird inside?” he offered.

The man guffawed. “I thought you were a man of intellect!” he chortled. “Is that the best you can do?”

The man wheezed and gulped in some air. “Honest, if dense,” he finally managed to articulate.

Faramir stood uncomfortably in the courtyard as the strange man dissolved into fits of laughter, soon tears were rolling down his reddening cheeks. The laughter grew louder and though he felt he should be insulted by it, Faramir found it so infectious that he began to smile. Before doing so though he glanced around the courtyard first, to ensure that no one else witnessed such a ridiculous exchange.

Finally the stranger sniffed and managed to control his laughter, long enough to say one word.

Between guffaws the man said. “I once heard you called a wizard’s pupil. Olorin didn’t teach you much, did he?”

Faramir sighed softly and looked away as the laughter rolled on again. Finally he bent and began to pick up the biggest of his books. “I have no more time for this nonsense,” he muttered.

Immediately the chortling stopped. Faramir looked up to see the old man, red faced and tear stained, regarding him intently.

“I can’t include patience as one of your qualities, then?” he said. His eyes were twinkling again. The book that was in Faramir’s hands inexplicably slid from his grip and flew through the air straight into the man’s outstretched hand.

“So you are some kind of conjurer, skilled at slight-of-hand!” Faramir snorted in disgust. “That does not make you a wizard.”

The man suddenly appeared to be larger in size and dignity. “It might make me a wizard, but such simple trickery has no value, you are right. It certainly does not make me Istari!” he said.

“Istari!” Faramir’s eyes narrowed. “Who are you? And why do I feel like you have been testing me as you tease me? And, since Mithrandir did not hide his other names from me, how do you know him?”

The man’s smile was warm but his voice serious. “At last a glimpse of the true eminence that the Steward keeps so well guarded from those he does not trust and they are many. I begin to see the quality of which I was told.”

He lifted both his hands into the air and all the discarded documents leapt upwards to come down in perfect order on to Faramir’s quickly outstretched arms.

“They will not fall,” the man said. “My simple 'conjuring' will hold them until you get home.”

The beaming smile was back. “No, indeed, I have not,” he agreed. “Nor will I here and now. I must speak with the King, but I am informed that I must get through his Steward first. I sought you out to learn more about you. For though I have heard much of Faramir of Gondor, experience has taught me that I must make my own judgements of my friends and my enemies.”

The smile turned pensive. “I would not presume, my Lord Steward, but I would hope you will count me among your friends.” His eyes burned even brighter as he continued, “And please forgive my pranks at your expense, but humour can be an effective tool when one needs to read the hearts of men.”

“No offence taken,” Faramir said. “Will you attend me at my office tomorrow morning so we may discuss what it is you have to tell the King?”

“No I did not.” The man’s eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief once more. “Until the morn then.”

Faramir watched, his arms full of books, feeling a tingle of excitement mixed with apprehension as the man turned with a whirl of his long blue robes and left the courtyard. There was something in the stranger's piercing eyes that Faramir found comfortingly familiar.

As he reached the gate to the main road outside, the man turned back. “By the way, Lord Steward, I hear you have brought home a little green keepsake from your recent journey to Mordor. Do not let it out of your sight!"

Before Faramir could even express his surprise at the old man's knowledge, the irritating and enigmatic stranger had disappeared into the throng of people wending their way homeward through the street.

Authors' Notes: Adunaic is the language of lost Numenor, not in general usage during the time our story takes place. All documents (treatises, histories, scrolls, etc.) are of our making rather than Tolkien's. Curumo was indeed Saruman's Quenya name; as "Olorin" was Gandalf's. Arandur is the Quenya word meaning "King's Servant", which translates as "Steward"; from the Seal of the Stewards of Gondor.

We have invented the term 'Stone of Renewal' for the Elfstone from which Aragorn took his royal name Elessar. There are several explanations given for the Elfstone's origin in Tolkien's UNFINISHED TALES, one of them being that it was made by Celebrimbor at Galadriel's request because she wanted grasses and trees that would not die, and later given by her to her daughter Celebrian and then from Celebrian to Arwen. Galadriel gave the Elfstone to Aragorn as a lovely parting gift when the Fellowship left Lorien in THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE RING. The so-called Stone of Silence is actually our invention rather than Tolkien's, so don't blame him or Christopher Tolkien for it. And to Ithildin, our Sindarin interpretor from the HASA Resources Forum (http:www.henneth-annun.net to join HASA); our most grateful Thanks for the titles of the crucial texts that Faramir found in the Rivendell archive; as well as the Sindarin names for the Stone of Renewal and the Stone of Silence. Any errors are ours, not hers.

Faramir tensed in his chair, behind the table at the back of the large Steward's Chamber, where he held audience and kept most of his important documents. He had finished his preparations for today's session of the Great Council, and sent the summaries of his reports to the King by messenger late last night. Eowyn continued to feel well, though restive at her continued confinement.

The day was off to an auspicious start. Still, it would not hurt to read the reports again. If Maethor and Aradan exchanged more crossfire in Council, Faramir wanted to quickly end it. And he hoped he could advance his plans for the repairs to the sewers with the cooperation of the City Fathers who would be in attendance today. The progress of the continued clearing of Minas Morgul would probably be raised as well.

And most important of all were the words that Faramir would have with the King after Council. He could hardly wait to tell Aragorn of what he had found in the Library; the possibility that Saruman's green stone could actually be Celebrimbor's Sarn e-Dín, the lost Stone of Silence.

"My lord" said Gildor, Faramir's secretary, from the doorway; "There is a...personage...to see you. He will not give his name; and says you invited him to attend you here."

"Hmm?" Faramir started to wrest his eyes from the papers he was attempting to organize.

"Hullo, good morrow!" boomed out an unfortunately familiar voice as the old blue-cloaked busybody who had accosted him in the Library the day before pushed past the surprised secretary and strode into the Chamber.

"Peace, Gildor," said Faramir. Hisindignant secretary looked like he was about to call the Guards. "He is indeed invited; and you may leave us alone."

"Very well,” huffed Gildor, a good man, but occasionally too concerned with protocol.

The old man sprawled lazily in one of the least comfortable wooden chairs in the Chamber.

"What a wondrous view," Faramir's visitor began to prattle. "Sitting here atop the Hill of Guard like a falcon in a mountaintop nest..."

Faramir had no desire to exchange more small talk from a mysterious man who knew Saruman's Quenya name. He sat back in his chair and levelled a mildly searching gaze on the stranger. "Forgive me, stranger; but I have scarce time for pleasantries. My King and Council await me; and I still have work to do. Tell me why you are here, and what you seek. You may begin by giving me your name." It was not a request.

The old fellow smiled pleasantly and said: "Very well, Lord Faramir. I am called Pallando the Blue."

Faramir raised his eyebrows to veil his surprise. He should have guessed! Aloud, he countered "Of the Ithryn Luin, the Blue Wizards, late of the Istari? You are a long way from the East."

"I am not originally of the East. And yes, my friend Alatar and I have been called the Ithryn Luin. You, my young lord, have indeed learned well from Mithrandir. You are in truth a wizard's pupil!"

"Waste not my time with flattery," Faramir replied. "If you are truly Pallando the Blue, then I would gladly learn more from you. But I see no great evidence as yet. Can you prove your claim? I have no trust in any wizard other than Mithrandir."

Pallando grinned. "And you are certainly discerning, a worthwhile trait in a leader of men and Counsellor to the King. Tell me; do you know from where your friend Mithrandir came?"

Faramir saw no reason to reveal his old teacher's secrets. "A place very far from here; where he was far more than a man. Whence come you?"

"Make yourself comfortable, Faramir of Gondor" replied the stranger who called himself Pallando. For once, he was not grinning or smiling. His face was grave, his blue eyes far away.

“I would have your word, Steward, that all I say to you will remain a secret to be shared only with your King. For the ways of the Istari are not for the ears of mortal men.”

Pallando nodded before he continued. His voice fell as it intoned, “After the Fall of Númenor, and the remaking of Arda, the Council of the Valar, was resolved to send out emissaries to Middle-earth. Some two thousand years ago, five such emissaries landed at the Grey Havens. These five were neither of the race of Men nor of the Eldar, but were the servants of Valar themselves, called the Maiar. We came to Middle-earth as the order of Wizards, the Istari: Saruman, Mithrandir, Radagast, Alatar and I. Though we were not blood-kin, we formed a brotherhood of purpose and power.”

“The Valar had sent us to help the folk of the West withstand Sauron, and eventually unite to defeat him. We were forbidden to set the powers of the Maiar directly against Sauron, or to dominate the peoples of Middle-earth. But we were allowed to use the light of the Maiar against Sauron's lesser emissaries and others of greater than mortal essence, as well you know, Faramir." Pallando leaned forward slightly and turned a piercing gaze on the Steward of Gondor.

The Steward, who had withstood the sharpest gaze possible, that of his predecessor, began to hope that Pallando might be telling the truth. Faramir knew that Mithrandir had been a servant to the Valar themselves in the Blessed Realm; and that the light that Mithrandir had used to save him and his men from the Nazgul's onslaught had been the very fire of the Maiar. Mithrandir had revealed that truth, and a few others, to him before their final parting. Faramir would cherish those words forever as the greatest of treasures; for no other Man but Aragorn had been so privy to Mithrandir's secrets

Pallando continued his story: "Aulë, the Smith, sent his servant Curumo, who was held to be the most powerful of the Istari, and the chief of the order. You knew him as Saruman, and his Sindarin name was Curunir; both names meaning Man of Skill, for he was indeed most wise and cunning in craft. You probably know that the Istari revealed their true names to few, but used the many names that were given to them." Pallando smiled briefly. "I will use the names by which they are best known to you, though it matters not to Mithrandir or Saruman anymore."

Faramir felt as if he were a youth again, walking with Mithrandir. Mithrandir had told him something of what this other wizard now spoke. Pallando’s words made him miss his old teacher all the more.

"Saruman was later made the head of the White Council, meant to lead Elves and Men against the rising darkness brought by Sauron to Mirkwood. One of your ancestors gave him the keys of Orthanc, the mighty guard tower of Isengard.

“That was Beren, the nineteenth Steward”, the present Steward cut in, remembering his own land’s history.

Pallando nodded. "Second to Saruman in power and yet his superior in wisdom was our old friend Olórinwho was later called Gandalf and Mithrandir, and other names as well. Mithrandir was selected as an envoy by his master, Manwe Sulimo; Lord of the Air, whom he had served along with Nienna the Sorrowful. Mithrandir was a dreamer; and he often gave visions to the Eldar in Valinor when he walked unseen among them.”

"Mithrandir was wiser than Saruman even at the beginning?" Faramir wondered. "Or did he grow in wisdom during his wanderings?"

Pallando smiled wistfully. "I remember the two of them, during our journey from the West to these shores. It was a strange and yet wondrous time for us. We had never known such limited forms before, to be more than mortal, but still bound to bodies that could know pain and hurt, even death. To feel chill from the rain, or unease from the fog, that was new to us all. Poor Radagast was sick most of the time, yet took great delight at the new animals he saw in the skies and the seas. Mithrandir stayed close to Saruman; I think he admired him greatly, and took heed of his counsel. They played games of skill, not unlike Chess or Hawks and Magpies. It must have greatly saddened Mithrandir when Saruman finally broke faith with our masters. To answer your question, Mithrandir was always as wise, if not wiser than Saruman. Yet your Grey Pilgrim did not even hold himself to be Saruman‘s equal until the War of the Ring proved otherwise."

"Did not the Elves gift him, rather than Saruman, with the Ring of Fire in token of his great wisdom, when first the Istari arrived?" Faramir pressed, fascinated by this glimpse of a younger Mithrandir.

The wistful smile stretched to a grin that broadened the wizard's face. "You should have seen Saruman's expression when Cirdan took Mithrandir aside after we'd disembarked at the Havens! Saruman's long face dropped until I thought it would hit the ground! Cirdan was as full of himself as all of us put together. And he left Saruman high and dry to go tug at Mithrandir's elbow! We could not know exactly what passed between them, for they revealed nothing. But a high-Elf had given Mithrandir special attention over Saruman, and the Man of Skill was most sorely vexed. Saruman never forgot that moment. His disdain for our Grey brother began from that time. He often taunted Mithrandir in later years. Especially after Galadriel stuck that pretty chin of hers out at Saruman and called for Mithrandir to head the White Council, bless the dear girl. Mithrandir refused, and Saruman became head of the Council for many generations of Men. Yet Mithrandir was always most beloved by the Elves, beginning with Cirdan at the Havens. The Shipwright saw instantly that Mithrandir had kindness of heart as well as the wisdom to best handle one of the three great Rings. So it was to Mithrandir that Cirdan gave Narya.”

Reluctantly, Faramir pulled his attention back from Pallando's story. He had not the luxury of hearing as much as he wished, no longer being the lonely boy who had so thrilled to Mithrandir's tales. Yet part of the boy still remained within him, and craved more knowledge. He cleared his throat, then queried: "And how did you arrive in the brotherhood of the Istari?"

"By chance, rather than any great skill or wisdom of my own." Pallando replied ruefully. "Orome the Huntsman sent his servant Alatar as his envoy in our mission. I also served Orome, and was Alatar's closest friend. Alatar refused to go unless I were allowed to join the order. And so I went on the ship, well pleased to be part of such a great adventure. Alatar and I both took the colour and title of Blue Wizards, the Ithryn Luin, in token of our friendship."

"What were your names of old?" Faramir inquired, noticing what Pallando had not said of himself and his so-called brother.

"I was known as Rómestámo" recalled the Blue Wizard; "Which means East-Helper, a most ironic translation, as it turned out. As for Alatar, I will not reveal his earlier name; or that of Radagast the Brown, for they still inhabit these shores and have not given me leave to tell all their secrets. Hmm, I grow thirsty after all this talk. May I have something to drink, Steward?"

Gildor had left a pitcher of water on Faramir's table; it was still quite cool. Faramir filled a glass and handed it to the wizard.

Pallando drained the glass in two long gulps, then smacked his lips. That is better. You are a good listener, Steward,” he said.

Faramir smiled. “It is easy to listen to such a story but I still do not understand why you tell me it. Nor how you fit in; and what this all has to do with that green object I found in Mordor. And if you were such a close friend to Alatar, then where is he now?"

"It is a rather sad tale." He replied soberly. "Saruman sent Alatar and I to the East not long after our arrival in Middle-earth. His strategy was that we should establish ourselves among the Easterlings, whose tribes included many of the deluded folk who were prey to Sauron's blandishments. He ordered us to persuade the chiefs of the Easterling tribes trust and heed us, so that we could weaken them over the course of many generations. Our task was to sow discord and corruption among the tribes, and thus diminish their efforts to conquer the lands of the West for Sauron."

"You are an honourable man, Lord Steward. You resisted the temptation to seize the Ring from the halflings. Can you understand what it is like to live among people for hundreds of years and lie to them, trick them, all for a purpose that grew harder and harder to remember? To see them go forth and spend their sons' lives in battles that we were ordered to encourage, as long as we could assure that they would eventually lose the wars? And did you know that some of the Tribes often sacrificed their firstborn sons to Sauron, not even full-grown men, but babies? Especially if times were hard. Which they often were. Yet we obeyed Saruman's orders, and allowed the sacrifices to continue."

He paused to snort like an angry mule. "We did our work well. The Easterlings' attacks on Gondor in times before the War of the Ring never brought the tribes' full strength into play, thanks to our influence. Without our manipulations, the Easterlings' attacks would have been far more deadly and might well have conquered your entire realm."

"Though there were many Easterlings who rejoiced in the opportunity to slaughter in Sauron's name, there were also many who tried to lead good lives, to raise their families with some measure of honour and peace. And we encouraged them to spend their sons in Sauron's cause as well. While Saruman and especially Mithrandir worked to unite the people of the West in common cause against Sauron, we continued to keep the tribes isolated, suspicious of each other, killing each other in petty disputes."

"The Easterlings have long been a deadly thorn in Gondor's side." Faramir interjected softly. He thought of the prince for whom he had been named. The first Faramir and his brother and father had fallen in battle with the Easterling Wainriders after nearly a hundred years of war. " And many brave sons of Gondor and Rohan fell to the Easterlings during the War of the Ring. What part did you and Alatar play in that tale? And you said that it mattered no more to Saruman what you called him? Is he really dead? I must know the truth of it, Pallando, one way or the other."

The wizard nodded. "I had grown weary of our deceit before the War began. Alatar and I reported our progress to the White Council shortly after Sauron quit his fortress of Dol Guldur and headed for the barren plains of Mordor. I said that I could no longer bear to curtail whatever progress the Men of the East made towards becoming more than insular savages. Alatar told the Council that it was not fair to treat the Easterlings in this way for so many years. But it availed us nothing in the end. The White Council decreed that we must continue as we had begun."

Pallando sighed again, his eyes far away. "I did not exactly respond with courage or dignity to the Council’s order," he mused. "I seem to recall several months drinking myself into a stupor in Rhosgobel with poor Radagast twittering about, trying to hearten me. He can drink like a fish, that Radagast. Mithrandir visited as well; and exhorted me to remain true to our mission. He said I could help the Easterlings best by working towards Sauron's destruction; that it would not be long now. Anyway, Alatar had returned to the East, continuing to do his duty to the Council, and encouraging the tribesmen to kill each other. I rejoined him eventually."

"What happened next?" asked Faramir, fascinated despite his urgent need to learn of Saruman's final fate. He had learned years ago that one does not easily interrupt a wizard's discourse.

Pallando snorted derisively. "We played our parts, and helped the Seven Tribes kill each other in petty squabbles. Then we watched their warriors march off to Mordor with our blessing. The Ring-bearer finally triumphed, as you well know, since we are both still alive. And Sauron fell, wafting away as a cloud of smelly smoke, I am told."

“Bit by bit, the few tribesmen and warlords who survived the triumph of the West trickled home to Rhun and the Steppes. The Tribes were devastated. Alatar and I despaired of finding a new purpose. We could not return to our home in the Undying Lands. We knew that we would be denied return; for I had become too fond of the ways of Men, and Alatar had become too bitter.”

“I wanted to help the tribesmen begin anew, try to build better lives for themselves without destroying their sons or pillaging Gondor to do so. And then who should appear on the doorstep of Alatar's tower, some four years after Sauron's fall but our erstwhile brother, Saruman. Without his staff or most of his powers but unfortunately with his poisonous tongue in good working order."

"Can you guess the rest of the story, Faramir?” Pallando’s eyes gazed fiercely at the Steward. “Saruman set himself to work on us. He said that we had been right all along; that it was cruel to have so poorly used the Easterlings. The more Saruman spoke, the more it seemed to Alatar that it was the Men of the West who were at fault, and the Elves, and Mithrandir, and the Valar themselves. Never mind that the strategy to continue the Easterlings' corruption had been of Saruman's making!"

Pallando paused briefly to take more water, then continued, his voice tightening. "Alatar grew more and more angry as he listened to Saruman. I personally found Saruman's voice more annoying than aching bones on a wet day, but my poor friend heeded his honeyed words. Saruman had brought some interesting toys from his hoard in Orthanc; including that green trinket you carry. Soon, Saruman and Alatar were putting their heads together in some grand design to assassinate the King of Gondor and so ripen the West for an Easterling invasion. Saruman then left to supposedly spy out the lay of the land in Gondor. He returned with the tale of how he used the Stone of Silence to master your mind and make you his personal weapon of choice against King Elessar; only somehow the whole scheme came crashing down about his ears. Saruman had obviously underestimated the strength of Men once more. I thought that Alatar held the same opinion. What I did not know is that they continued to work together. Alatar gave Saruman help and materials to build himself a tower in Mordor, from which they could eventually launch new devilry. I only learned of their plans last year. Alatar revealed all to me after your last adventure with Saruman. Alatar had apparently been lurking in those tunnels 'neath Saruman's tower, commanding the orcs; while Saruman entertained you and the King's son."

"Alatar told me that we would soon see all our dreams for the Easterlings come true; that he would lead them to a final victory over Gondor. I asked him what he had been drinking; then realized he was sober. We quarrelled. Then Alatar ordered me, his oldest friend, out of his sight. Knowing what utter havoc his so-called 'dreams' could wreak on the folk of East and West alike, I left to come here. I will not stand by and watch another cycle of destruction begin, with my friend deluding himself into becoming a lesser Sauron. Even if it means standing against him."

The wizard fell silent, gazing towards the clear glass window. Faramir took the opportunity to ask again: "A most illuminating story, Pallando. But I must still ask you, what of Saruman? Is he dead?"

Pallando looked closely at Faramir, beginning to smile again. "I still see some doubt in your eyes. Yes, my young friend. Curumo, called Saruman the White, is unquestionably dead. Probably the minute he hit the ground after you and Master Greenleaf contrived his fall. The Elf's arrow hit him in the lower back."

Faramir could not help a small sigh of great relief. It seemed almost certain that Pallando told the truth, at least in the matter of Saruman's fate.

"I am...most glad to hear this news, Pallando," Faramir replied. "Saruman has caused us much grief."

"Don't celebrate just yet," the wizard said grimly. "It is true that Saruman is dead. But his legacy lives, and will cause much more grief if it is not ended now."

"You will hear it all, young friend. But the King should hear it as well, for it concerns both his realm and his son. Can you take me to him now?"

Faramir nodded. “You have told me much, and for that I thank you. The King must hear your tidings even before he hears mine."

The Steward stood and moved away from the table. But he had forgotten about his stiff leg. As he stepped forward with his right leg and his full weight descended onto the other, excruciating pain rushed up his left thigh. Faramir’s leg buckled beneath him; and he fell to the ground.

Faramir found himself sitting awkwardly on the floor. Pallando knelt beside him, concern written across his coarse features.

Ignoring the helping hand that was offered, Faramir pulled himself back to his feet, annoyed with himself for such a display before a powerful wizard.

Pallando regarded him. “An old wound?” he asked. “My true art is not as a wizard but a healer. Let me tend the injury.”

Faramir sighed. “Not such an old wound,” he finally conceded when he saw the sympathy in the wizard's eyes. “I received it but six months ago in Saruman’s tower. The Healers inform me that this is as much as the injury will mend. Ordinarily it hardly troubles me. The leg just stiffens when I sit too long.”

“Perhaps later,” Faramir said. “But not now. There are more important matters at hand. Let us go to the King.”

Next Chapter: As if restless Easterlings were not trouble enough, our favourite wizard's pupil will face the perils of politics in the White Tower. Be there!

“My lord?” Faramir questioned, concerned by his reception and far more by the King's mood. Aragorn's deep blue-grey eyes were shadowed by lack of sleep; and he paced nervously about his Chamber of Audience. Faramir prayed that Aragorn's obvious irritation and fatigue would not make his lord snap during the long hours of the Great Council's session.

Ordinarily, the King strode into the Council with the air of a lord of Eagles; regal and calm, yet watchful. Faramir had often suspected that Arwen had much to do with Aragorn's composure on such occasions, for his lord enjoyed not the long byplay of governance, despite his considerable talent for it. Still, it would not hurt the Council to feel the crack of the royal whip when petty grievances threatened to drag on too long.

Aragorn glowered at him. “The Council sits in an hour. We need to discuss our most important concerns before we enter it; and I have to be arrayed in the usual foolishness, which they tell me must take longer today, because I have lost flesh and the cursed robes have to be altered!”

Faramir was not pleased to see that his King and friend was not only weary and unusually tense, but visibly thinner. Did the King not know how important his health was to the Realm, not to mention all who loved him?

“My King, I apologize for my tardiness" Faramir addressed the Lord of Gondor. I have been conferring with a very important visitor all morning. Someone who has news and may be able to help us with our riddles.”

Aragorn's eyes hadnot left his Steward since Faramir entered the room. But now as the younger man indicated his companion, the King shifted them to look at the stranger.

Aragorn looked closer at the stranger. He was no Elf, yet Elves were the only people east of the Blessed Realm to remember the time when Quenya was habitually spoken; and most of the Elves who had done so were gone. This visitor's garments were blue; as was the stone in the tip of his staff.

Aragorn felt a rush of excitement course through him. He leaned forward in his chair, shaking off the weariness of another sleepless night.

"My lord; the tailor and his assistants have returned. They await your pleasure," the lad reported breathlessly, somewhat frightened by the King's expression.

Aragorn turned a molten stare towards the boy. He opened his mouth to speak but Faramir, noting the King's barely restrained anger, was quicker.

“Thank you,” he said firmly to the boy. “Tell the tailor that the King shall be ready for his assistance in a few minutes." Faramir was grateful that he had put on his formal attire before Pallando's arrival; all he had needed to do was run a comb through his hair and throw on his black and silver robe, then seize his documents and the white rod of Stewardship. As Steward of Gondor, Faramir was expected to appear stately for the duration of the Great Council's traditional four sessions. As Lord of Gondor and Arnor, King Elessar Telcontar was expected to look resplendent. Not only resplendent, but wearing raiment from different parts of the Reunited Kingdom. Normally, Aragorn tolerated the chore with resignation. He had even joked sometimes with Faramir about preferring to face another Balrog than the ministrations of the royal tailor. This fit of sullen anger was new to the King. Faramir hoped that it would not last long.

The page nodded and made a hasty retreat. Faramir ignored the King’s annoyed stare, now levelled at him, and turned back to the wizard. Pallando watched the exchange with an amused expression on his face.

“I am sorry,” Faramir began, shouldering the blame in order to focus the King's attention on the Council instead of his imminent ordeal in the tailor's hands. “I had completely forgotten about the Council.”

Aragorn’s hand went to his head and he sighed. His voice, when it spoke, had lost all of its anger and was weary once more. “No, the Great Council convenes but once a year for these sessions. We both need to be there, Faramir,” he said.

Pallando laughed. “I can remember a time when we feared that an heir of Isildur would not even survive to one day plant his backside on Gondor's throne; and now you fret about enduring the trials of Kingship."

"Pallando..." Faramir said quietly and coldly. "You know very little about what the King has endured."

Aragorn stood. “It is alright, Faramir. I have been warned of this wizard's manner of speaking. I would hear your counsel, Pallando,” he began. “Can you wait for me here in my chambers until I am available? Please take your leisure. I shall return after Council is finished for the day.”

“I will do so,” Pallando’s aspect suddenly grew more serious. “But before you open this Council session, you should know that an army of ten thousand Easterlings and mercenaries now gathers and prepares to march on Gondor.”

"There might be more, depending on how many orcs and trolls Alatar's generals have managed to train in the last year," Pallando added. "Do you have anything to eat in here?"

Aragorn curled his mouth in a humourless smile. “Then it is even more important that we speak. You say that ten thousand Easterlings march on Gondor? Let us hope they will wait for my tailor to finish his alterations!"

He strode out of the chamber. Faramir leaned back against the King's table. He hoped that the rest of the day would bring no further surprises than an Easterling invasion led by a renegade wizard or Pallando's personal invasion of Minas Tirith, but anything could happen in a Great Council session. Nodding to Pallando, he followed his King. Given Aragorn's mood, the tailors might need some help!

Emptied of King and Steward, the chamber seemed to lose its lustre. Pallando sat in the chair vacated by the King, put his feet up on the table, and helped himself to an apple from the bowl in its centre.

The Council had been in session for over an hour, quarrelling over tariffs with great fervour. Faramir tried to remain calm. His head still rang with the news that an army ten thousand strong was marching towards Gondor! It was not the greatest number ever to threaten his land, but by all the stars, it was a number to take seriously! Aragorn had bid Faramir keep secret Pallando's sudden news, at least until the tally of the realm's armed forces could be given.

Finally they had reached the important part of the proceedings. Elboron gave his father a knowing and supportive glance as Faramir rose from the Steward's chair.

“My lords and friends,” he began. “We agreed during the last Session to retire and contemplate King Elessar's order to provide him with men for the Kingdom's army. It is now time for us to pledge men to defend the realm. Ithilien pledges 500 men of the White Company and 100 armed additional armed men.”

There was a ripple of applause from the Guild-masters and the City Marshal's deputation, men who had worked with Faramir in the rebuilding of Minas Tirith. Faramir returned to his Chair.

Prince Imrahil, newly arrived in the City, rose from his seat. He bowed to the King and held his nephew’s welcoming stare for a second before his voice boomed out over the chamber. “Dol Amroth pledges a company of 400 Swan Knights and 600 infantry for the King.”

And so it was that the Lords of Gondor stood one by one and pledged their men to their King. Elboron kept a running count. As the last man stood, Faramir glanced down to see that the total approached nine thousand men, including the Ithilien Rangers, the new royal army and other troops pledged by the King himself.

He looked over to the King sitting high on his throne. The royal tailor's work was well finished. Aragorn wore a black tunic covered by a dark red robe and a mantle of silver-grey with black and white tracery along its edges. The King's clear green elfstone glimmered at his collar. The Elendilmir,the mithril fillet worn by Aragorn's fathers for generations as rulers of Arnor, circled his brow like a strand of moonlight. He looked magnificent in his finery; as if he had worn it every day of his life. The King's face was serene and majestic as the statue of Isildur. Yet Faramir, who knew Aragorn fairly well, noticed tension in the hard set of his mouth. And the King was tired; too tired for Faramir's liking.

Faramir was so taken with his concern for the King that he listened with only half an ear to the final pledges. He only realised that something was wrong when he heard his son's sudden intake of surprised breath.

Faramir looked down at his son’s reckoning again. At the bottom of the evenly spaced column of figures, Elboron wrote a large round zero.

Faramir bit back his own gasp. Beside him the King leaned forward on his throne. The Tower hall turned cold and silent, all eyes in the Council turned to the last lord, who stood defiantly before them, bristling with anger.

It was Ingold, Lord of Pinnath Gelin, a normally quiet man some ten or twelve years older than Faramir. Ingold had never before hesitated in his duty to the King.

The other man turned his grey gaze toward the Steward and stared at him with such pure hatred that Faramir momentarily hesitated. What had he done to provoke such bitterness? He hardly knew Lord Ingold.

“Steward,” the man leapt on Faramir’s hesitancy, his words dripping with scorn. “I hardly think it appropriate that you should question my loyalty.”

Elboron shifted uncomfortably at his side. Faramir felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. There was something here that he did not understand.

But the man gave free rein to his obviously long controlled anger and talked over him. “Indeed I find it highly distasteful that you walk free behind our City's walls after what you have done!”

“You are speaking of history,” Aragorn addressed Ingold. “Things that are long in the past. You would do well to leave them there.”

“I speak of today!” Ingold retorted, his anger making him bold before his King. “I speak of the pain in my heart that will never leave me. The pain that increases as I witness this exhibition.” He nodded with derision towards Faramir. “Faramir sits there pledging his men, with his son at his side, his younger children all safe at home. Faramir's only action of note throughout his pitiful life was an attempt to kill the King he pledged to serve. And Faramir is rewarded with a place of honour and power! While I, who have ever been loyal to the crown, who pledged my men and arms whenever asked, who watched their broken bodies come home to their grieving families, what do I have now? There is no honour left when traitors sit at the King's side. I will send no more of my men to their deaths to secure a traitor's plans! ”

“Ingold!” King Elessar’s voice was uncharacteristically loud. “That is enough. May I remind you that this is theGreat Council of Gondor. It is no place for personal attacks of this nature!”

“By your leave, My King,” Faramir’s firm voice rang out through the Hall. “I would hear what the Lord of Pinnath Gelin would say of me.”

“’Tis not only I!” Ingold snapped, eyes hot with contempt. “I only voice concerns stated by many other Lords of Gondor outside this hall. It is my own hopelessness and fear that gives me strength to say such things inside the White Tower. I know very well the Council’s purpose.”

The King and his Steward exchanged a heated stare. Aragorn was aware of the unrest that Faramir’s reinstatement as Steward had caused among some of the nobles. Aragorn had hoped the younger man’s obvious commitment to his duty, along with his own support would allay the suspicions. He could not force Faramir's critics to see his true worth. And the only living witness to Faramir's courageous stand against Saruman in the tower last Spring was Eldarion, who slept on unaware of the complaints against the man who had saved his life. Eldarion . . . He must try again to wake the boy, so much depended on it. Aragorn forced himself to concentrate once more on the battle between Faramir and his accuser.

“I would hear what is said of me,” Faramir repeated simply. He had been in this position before. He could endure such contempt and prevail. He was well practised. His father had been a master in the art of censure, particularly in the last years of his life. Faramir had learned to shield himself from Denethor's excoriation, and often parry or even repel it.

The Steward reasoned that he must face the angry man's tirade, for it would do more harm to the King and ultimately to Gondor, if it was ignored. Wounds that were left to fester never improved of their own accord. No, it was better to treat the cause no matter how severe the immediate pain.

Faramir flashed an insistent look up to the King, then shook his head very slightly, signalling his resolve to hear and answer Ingold's charges.

Aragorn answered with a small incline of his chin, but his eyes still gave warning. “Very well,” he stated. “Continue Lord Ingold, but remember where you are.”

“Strange is it not,” began Ingold, who had taken the delay as time to gather his emotions. His voice was now cold and controlled. “That ten brave soldiers of Gondor rode out but seven short months past to escort the King's young son to to Rohan. Two of those gallant men were my fair sons Huor and Herion. Strong were their arms and their hearts proud. Brave sons of Gondor were they, my hope, my life. Who knows what became of them? From that day they left the White City, none has laid eyes on them.”

“I remember your sons and I grieve for them,” Faramir said. “As I honour all our valiant fallen warriors, including your elder brother and mine.”

“Do not cheapen their memory!” Ingold's voice rose in pitch, his control slipping. “It has been noted that the only one to return from Mordor unharmed was you, son of Denethor! The King's son lies senseless and no one can reach him. My sons and their comrades never came home. You have told us that Saruman the White was responsible for their deaths. But you, Faramir, a man who has already confessed to trying to kill the King at Saruman's command, you walked free from the wizard’s very grasp straight back into the Stewardship.”

“If I could, I surely would have brought Eldarion out hale as well as alive,” Faramir said softly. But the words of the embittered man touched him more painfully then he had thought possible. Had he not pondered the same doubts that Ingold now spoke?

“How was it then, traitor?” Ingold mocked. Behind him a number of other men appeared to nod in agreement. “It appears very simple to me.”

“Everything I have ever done I have done for Gondor,” Faramir said. “If you accuse me of what I think, I would ask what my motive would be?”

“Do not try to trap me with fair words. I am an honest man. I ask you a simple question that any loyal subject of our King could answer with ease. Where does your loyalty lie, Steward? Are you a traitor?”

Ingold snorted and a number of men around him actually guffawed. “Easy to say, Steward, but the facts belie your words and reveal your true intent. Those of us of this Council who remember the old times know the disdain in which your father held you. The Lord Denethor was a shrewd man who could read well the hearts of his inferiors. I begin to believe his assessment of you was more correct than even he imagined.”

“My father!” Faramir was losing his control. “Do not dare to mention him.”

“The truth hurts!” Ingold's bitterness was fast turning to victorious smugness.

Faramir shuddered. He fought down his fury, seeking still to resolve the question through logical argument. “If all you say is true, what is my motive? Why do I pledge my men in aid of my King?”

“You want to overthrow the King. You have ever coveted the power!” Ingold spat back. His companions shouting their agreement. “You were jealous of your brother Boromir when you thought he would be ruling Steward and now the King has returned and legitimately taken what you want. You will wait until the King marches out with his army and then you will seize control of Minas Tirith."

Faramir shook his head with shocked incredulity. How could anybody believe he could plan such base treachery? How could anyone think he would seek to take power that should not, could not ever be his? He had never been jealous of Boromir's place as the heir to the Stewardship, never thought of himself as a future Steward of Gondor even after he had realized that Boromir was gone forever. There had been no time for that! Faramir had been occupied with men to lead, the Enemy's unbeatable forces circling his people like wolves harrying rabbits, and the astonishing appearance of two small hobbits who carried the hope of his world on their fragile shoulders. Then he had returned to Minas Tirith, been sent out again to battle, and brought what remained of his men back from the Causeway Forts to make that last, desperate crossing of the Pelennor. And he had fallen. When he had awakened, gladdened at the return of Elendil's heir, he had learned that his father was dead, and he was now the Steward of a still imperilled realm. Since the day he had left the Houses of Healing to assume leadership in the King's absence, not even knowing how long the White City would stand but vowing to hold it as long as he yet breathed, Faramir had looked on the Stewardship as a duty. A welcome duty, but never a prize or a means to greater power.

And yet even as he thought it out, Faramir could see clearly that the events of the last seven months could be seen in such an unforgiving light, particularly by a man driven to bitterness by his own loss. Ingold had lost two sons, lost for no good reason, fine young men just a few years older than Elboron. Neither of the young men's bodies had even been returned for proper burial. How would he feel if Elboron and Cirion were taken from him in such a way? And the evidence of his own treachery of seven years ago was undeniable. Even if his had not been the will behind that treachery, his hands had held the dagger that had drawn his King's blood. Of course there would be some who would still believe him to be a traitor, particularly a man whose own loyalty had cost him two sons.

All these thoughts chased across his mind in the moments following Ingold's accusation of treachery. Before Faramir could even begin to frame a response, his son leapt to his feet, quivering with rage.

“You lie!” Elboron spat, looking very much like Boromir advancing on an unlucky orc. “I will kill any man who questions my father’s honour so!”

Ingold laughed without mirth. “At least the boy has enough fight in him to argue. What say you Steward? Does your silence not betray your guilt? Are you prepared to hide behind your young son’s declarations and the protection of his unblooded sword?”

"My son's sword is not unblooded" Faramir replied. "He faced Saruman's Uruk-hai last year in his first battle and killed, as a soldier of the Guard. My silence came in memory of all who I too, have lost; a father and brother whose power I never coveted. And I do not forget what Saruman the White drove me to do. If there were any way to change the past, change the day when fate delivered me into his power all those years ago, I would buy it with my life. I did not surrender to his will without struggle or pain. "

"Was that the first or the second time that fate delivered you to him?" The merchant Aradan, predictably, chimed in from behind Ingold's elbow. "If you endured such torment at Saruman's hands, why did you return to him last year?"

"Because I sought to take back from him what he had stolen from me" Faramir answered in utter truth and some ire. "That is why I sought the White Wizard. Think, my lords! If I had truly desired to overthrow the King, then I would have not have risked my life to kill Saruman, I would have sat back in the comfort the wizard offered me if I joined him, and let those plans proceed as the wizard willed. And the King would not be here now! I would be Steward and ruling in Eldarion's name, and Saruman would be lurking about the Citadel. Think you, my Lords, that I would have lost the full use of my leg in battle against Saruman's Uruk-hai, if I were in league with him?" Faramir hated to mention his wound, but it was a valid point of argument, and he had few other tangible proofs of his loyalty.

"And how do we know that the wizard is not lurking about the Citadel, or in the City, or hiding in Emyn Arnen" challenged Ingold. "Your word, I suppose? Bah! I know how your father used to call you a 'wizard's pupil'! I think you are still a wizard's pupil, you have just changed wizards!

“What can he say?” Aradan spoke again. “Faramir must think us fools that he could cozen this Council with flamboyant words. He should be chained in the dungeons, not first under the King in this Hall!”

“My nephew has ever been loyal!” Imrahil raised his deep voice above the tumult, trying to be heard.

"I did not see you, Lord Ingold, or you, Master Aradan, bringing the King's son out alive from Saruman's tower through fire and peril" shouted Bergil, son of Beregond, second-in-command of the Ithilien Rangers. Bergil attended Council in place of Captain Anborn, who now commanded the garrison in Mordor. "Lord Faramir has served Gondor since he was a child. He is innocent and loyal!"

Faramir cleared his throat and shot a cool stare at his challengers. "My Lords, I will remind you that were it not for the leadership of Mithrandir, the wizard who tutored me with my father's full knowledge and consent, this City would probably have fallen before the Rohirrim and Elessar could arrive to succour it. I have suffered for Gondor, as has Ingold and many others here today. I would die for our realm and our King. Anyone who believes otherwise should prove it or cease to trouble the Council with such divisive calumny."

Everyone in the Council seemed to rise and spit out accusations or counter them. Faramir supposed he should be grateful that so many men supported him. He sat back, and waited for the storm to pass.

Imrahil and Elboron were both on their feet. Faramir's son was shouting across the room, standing as if on the verge of battle, fists clenched. While Prince Imrahil was more controlled in his protestations, he was no less committed to his argument than his younger kinsman. Others stood and argued back, emotions rising like a bitter winter wind.

Unfortunately, the storm of anger was fast rising rather than diminishing. Faramir looked up at the King, surprised that Aragorn had not responded to the noise. The King was talking, or trying to talk, to a young man wearing the garb, stained now with mud and old blood, of a messenger from the Ithilien Rangers.

Faramir had put up with just about enough. It was time to bring the pack to heel!

He stood up suddenly; raised the white rod of his Stewardship high above his head,then rammed it down on the back of his stone chair. The resulting sound rang as loud as he had expected.

"Enough!" Faramir said sharply and quickly as the shouts stopped in momentary surprise. "Cease this clamourat once! Can you not see that the King is trying to hear a messenger amidst this appalling din?"

The angry voices began to slow, giving way to less certain grumblings and angry words. Better, but still not good enough, thought Faramir.

“Silence!” came a roar from the King that rumbled around the room. All men stopped and turned towards their sovereign; voices quelled by the undoubted command in his voice.

The King let out a ragged breath. His pale face coloured with anger. One hand slowly pressed the parchment he had obviously just read into a crumpled ball. Aragorn's other hand rested on the shoulder of the weary, bloodstained young messenger.

The King’s eyes shone bright; but his voice was unmistakeably strained as he said. “The garrison in Mordor has been attacked by a force of more than three times its number. This young man rode hard to bring us word. Captain Anborn identified the invaders as Easterlings.”

Faramir's indignation at the accusations of treachery vanished in the wake of sudden alarm for the Rangers who had once been his own command. His leg wobbled, throwing off his balance. He sat down heavily back into his chair, cursing the weakness that he could not control.

The King’s words echoed around the suddenly still Chamber. The silence lasted for a single heartbeat. Then the Council fell into chaos once more.

Authors' Note: Ingold appeared in the book ROTK, in the Minas Tirith chapter, supervising repairs of the Rammas Echor (you know, the out-wall surrounding the Pelennor). For the purposes of our story, we have made him the younger brother and heir of Hirluin the Fair, who died on the Pelennor (The Battle of the Pelennor Fields); since no children of Hirluin are mentioned.

The writing was unmistakably that of Anborn, Captain of the Ithilien Rangers currently stationed at the new garrison the King had established in Mordor. Faramir remembered Anborn’s spidery hand from many such dispatches he had received down the years. He re-read the words on the crumpled paper he had snatched from Aragorn’s hand as they left the Council Chamber. The hastily scrawled letters seemed to waiver as his eyes began to water.

He sniffed back the tears of anger and raised his eyes to the King who was standing by the window of the Steward's Chamber, staring out at the White City below them.

“My King,” Faramir began, “I request leave to take the White Company to Mordor and right this wrong.” His voice was firm, only hinting of the barely controlled anger that swelled his heart.

Aragorn turned to regard him, his eyes gentle with sympathy. “And I must deny your request, Lord Steward.”

Faramir flinched as if he had been struck. “I was with them in Mordor only a few days ago. I know that the Rangers are yours to command now. Even so, many of them are my comrades, men I have served with and captained in the darkest of times, or their sons and brothers. Please, my lord,” he began.

“I know,” Aragorn said. “And for that reason as well as others, it cannot be you, Faramir.”

“The King is right,” Imrahil’s reasonable voice came from behind the Steward. “You carry too much, nephew, you always have. Let another ride to Mordor.” As he spoke the older man laid a supportive hand on the Steward’s trembling shoulder.

Faramir stepped forward, shrugging off his uncle’s support as his anger grew. “It should be me!” he repeated, his eyes locked on the King.

Aragon sighed. Slowly he moved across to one of the chairs and sat down. Finally he spoke, slowly and sadly. “Faramir, you must know that I value your words as much as I value your strength. I missed your wise counsel when you were in exile. But on this occasion, my friend, you are wrong. You have let your anger cloud your mind. I know how you yearn to avenge the fallen Rangers. Yet there are any number of reasons why I cannot send you, chief among which is the fact that we do not know to where the Easterling invaders have retreated. It was apparently a fairly small force. Anborn guessed eight hundred men, and of those perhaps a hundred on horse. They could be anywhere in Mordor by now, or poised to attack other parts of the Kingdom.

“My lord, I would not stay here in safety and do nothing,” Faramir declared. “The Rangers are almost all of Ithilien. I have a duty to them.”

“And what about your duty to your King?” The sympathy in Aragorn’s eyes faded into weariness as he leaned forward towards his Steward. “I cannot afford to let you go, not now. There are many Captains in Gondor who can aid the Rangers. But I have only one Steward and I need you here with me now. ”

Something festered in Faramir’s mind, something he did not truly believe but still a point that had to be raised. He must clarify his position with the King. “This has naught to do with Ingold's accusations?” he asked, the anger gone from his voice.

“I would be honest with you, Faramir,” Aragorn said. “It is true that today’s Council session has shadowed your reputation with a few men who know you not well. I trust you implicitly, as I always have. No embittered lordling could ever lessen my faith in you. But I shall not place you in a position where you would have to fight our own people along with our foes. We both know how rumours spread in an army, how even groundless slurs can sway a simple soldier’s mind. We must find a way to refute Ingold’s accusations once and for all. Until then, I will not place you at further risk.” His tired face brightened a little as he finished, “A knife between the shoulder blades is no fitting end for a Steward of mine!”

“Then we are agreed?” Aragorn said as he stood and moved to grip Faramir’s shoulder in a familiar gesture of comradeship.

“Then with your leave, he shall lead a counter-offensive to reinforce the garrison in Mordor, with a hundred of your knights and a thousand of my own Tower Guard. I shall convey orders to him tonight; and ask that he leave early on the morrow. I would have you bide here, Imrahil; for we will need to take less formal counsels soon.” Aragorn commanded in a voice that brooked little argument. He turned back to Faramir as Imrahil left the room to seek his son. “Where is that wizard?”

“Pallando?” Faramir had completely forgotten about the promised audience with the Istar. “Presumably in your Chamber of Audience, where we left him, my lord.”

Aragorn’s face tightened into a clipped smile. “It was probably said at one time or another that wizards are hard to lose. Let us repair to my Chamber and hope that our blue-cloaked friend is still in it.”

Pallando was indeed still in the King's Chamber. He was actually sprawled in the King's chair, reading one of the King's books, his feet on the King's fine oaken table. As were the remnants of a meat-pie, cheese, figs, on the King's fine silver plates, along with a glass of wine.

“Hail, King of the West!” Pallando greeted his host, rising briskly. “And thank you for a most excellent sampling of Minas Tirith victuals. And good afternoon to you, my young friend Faramir. How went your Council session?”

“Well enough.” Faramir replied curtly. “Your Easterling friends have already struck at the Men of Gondor. Ourgarrison in Mordor has been attacked.”

Turning to Aragorn, Faramir continued: “Yet before we come to that, I would, with your permission, my lord, call the Queen so that she might hear with you what Pallando and I know of Saruman’s stone.”

Aragorn sent first for the Queen and second for refreshment. Servants rushed in and cleared the remnants of Pallando’s feast from the table, then brought in wine and goblets.

Arwen arrived as the servants carried in platters of cheese and bread and fruit. As always, Arwen came gracefully into the room, the epitome of elven grace. Faramir observed a new hardness in the set of her perfect mouth, and a weariness in her blue eyes that matched the fatigue in Aragorn‘s face. But to one who did not see her frequently, the Queen would look like a vision out of legends, Luthien reborn.

Pallando whistled softly. Then bowed. “Forgive me, Lady Evenstar,” he spoke gently. “Your beauty is much praised in the East; where you are confused with the Star-Kindler herself. Yet words scarcely do you justice. Thou art indeed the fairest daughter of the Eldar. I am Pallando the Blue, at your service.” He bowed, seemingly with true humility.

“You are one of the two lost Istari?” Arwen replied, looking on the Blue Wizard with more than a little wonderment herself. “Have you come to help my son?”

“We shall see.” Aragorn said tightly. “Faramir, would you tell my lady and I of your new discoveries concerning Saruman’s stone?”

Faramir brought forth the documents from the Library, and spread them out for the King and Queen to inspect. He told them of what he had learned from the records.

“Then the stone that ensorcelled my son is not of Saruman’s making at all!” Arwen surmised. “It is the Sarn e-Dín, the Stone of Silence, of which my father spoke on several occasions. We thought it lost forever.”

Aragorn cleared his throat after nibbling a few grapes. “This information is no doubt of great interest to the lore-masters, but how can it help free my heir? Even if the son of Feanor and his jewel-smiths crafted the Stone, it was Saruman who used it to fell purpose.”

“Exactly!” declared Pallando quite loudly. “And Curumo, who you call Saruman, is dead. He can no longer exert any new influence over those he once enthralled with it. The boy still sleeps, because that was the last action that Saruman used the stone to accomplish, but once he wakes, he will never return to this prolonged and unnatural rest. Just as Faramir will never again think of harming the King, or of carrying out any other mischief that Saruman might have conceived.”

“Most definitely, my lady,” Pallando assured Arwen. “He will not trouble you and yours again.”

“What happened to his body? My men searched for it but found it not.” Aragorn asked.

“Alatar had hidden in the tunnels beneath Saruman’s tower throughout your assault. He and Saruman had planned to take your son to the East if the battle went against them, or to Minas Tirith if Saruman’s plan worked and you were slain. Alatar saw Saruman fall to the elf’s arrow after Faramir forced him off the balcony. He found Saruman; who was dead as he hit the ground; and took him away, along with the surviving Uruk-hai. And we buried Saruman, who had once been our brother and leader Curumo, east of Mordor. It was then that Alatar told me of this wretched plan he and Saruman had concocted; to conquer Gondor by force of arms if they could not gain entry to it by killing Elessar and suborning his son. He knows of the Stone of Silence; and had tried, in the brief time he had in the tunnels, to find it after Saruman’s death. As I told young Faramir here, I have come to try to prevent more useless spilling of the blood of the sons of the East and West. And to help revive the Heir of Gondor. If Faramir had not found the Stone of Silence, waking the boy would be a near-impossible task. It still will be a tricky business.”

“But my son can be revived?” Arwen asked, her eyes large in her pale face. “How?”

Pallando replenished the goblet he had already drained. “You have at your disposal the two known healing Stones created by Celebrimbor. One is King Elessar’s famous Stone of Renewal, the Elfstone that you, my lady, wore and your mother and Lady Galadriel before her. The Elfstone was made to help the sick and the injured. Such isits power that the Heir of Isildur could even use the Elfstone to call forth those poor souls afflicted by the Nazgûl's Black Breath, for which there was no other known remedy. The smaller stone, the Stone of Silence, was made to calm a weary or troubled mind. It was not made to enable its bearer to ride roughshod over the will of another; simply for the bearer to guide another, willingly, to a peaceful sleep or merely a more restful mood. Saruman twisted the stone’s purpose so he could force his will on the mind of a confused person. That is how he originally caught up your mind, Faramir, from what he told Alatar, you were injured and unwary when he enthralled you with it. He caught you off guard. The important thread in this tapestry is that these two stones might well be made to work in concert and bring about Eldarion’s waking.”

“Saruman’s influence on the Stone of Silence need not be permanent, now that he is gone. I must examine the stone and make sure that all evil purpose is removed. We know not whether the stone was touched by Sauron, or exactly how it came to Saruman. But I believe I can return the stone to its original state. And then, Faramir will bear it and Elessar will use his Elfstone. Together, you can use the stones to awaken the boy. That is, if you are both willing.”

Faramir quelled a sudden chill of purest terror. The thought of any further use of Saruman’s stone, no matter who its maker had been, was most unsettling. He still remembered the green fire of the stone in Saruman’s hands, like a spear of light. He would never forget the head-stabbing pain when Saruman seemed to carve words into him as his mind scrabbled like a trapped animal. Yet he had defied Saruman when last they had met and resisted the White Wizard’s further influence. He could do it again, if that were the only way to awaken his King’s son. Aloud, Faramir said quietly: “I am willing to try.”

“But I am most assuredly not willing!” Aragorn declared, rising to his feet. “You would have Faramir wield that cursed stone, the very tool that Saruman used to turn him traitor against his will? Why can you not be the one to wield it? Or me. If anyone should harness the power of both the stones, it should be me.”

“With respect, Son of Arathorn, you may be the King, but you are not the master of the Sarn e-Dín.” Pallando answered. “I doubt that both stones could be used by one person at the same time, at least to good effect. They are powerful, together perhaps even more so. The Stone of Silence’s use on both Faramir and Eldarion may create a sort of binding between them. I think Faramir can help you find your son, if you both seek him while wearing the stones. And Faramir has shown himself resistant to Saruman’s influence once he bent his own considerable will against the White Hand. Do you not know your Steward's quality?”

Aragorn moved lightning-swift to Faramir’s side and gripped his shoulder, standing between Faramir and Pallando. He glared at the Blue Wizard. “It is precisely because I do know Faramir’s quality that I refuse to put him or my heir at further risk, wizard! Faramir is the most loyal man in all my Realm. He was my strong right arm in the ruling of this land for the years after the War of the Ring. Then Saruman came and used that stone to enthrall him, to turn him, unwilling and unknowing, into a foresworn traitor! Saruman’s stone nearly drove Faramir mad. It broke his valiant heart! Even now, when he has taken up the Stewardship again, he is robbed of the full trust that he deserves, because of what Saruman did to him through the stone. And you propose to not only make him wield this stone, but allow it to be brought to bear on my only son? I think not!”

Faramir turned in Aragorn’s grasp and sought his King’s angry eyes. “My lord, for my part, I would try to wield the Stone of Silence. It is not without danger, a danger I understand better than any of you. But I believe I can resist any further trick of Saruman if I remain on my guard. Eldarion’s awakening is worth the risk.”

The King released Faramir, but stood between him and Pallando as if he would guard him from the wizard. “No, Faramir, it is not worth that risk!” Aragorn said painfully, ignoring Arwen’s sharp intake of breath. “If we use the same stone to awaken him that Saruman used to enthrall Eldarion, then how long will it be until my heir turns on me and drives a knife through my heart? A few months, perhaps a year or more? How could I ever trust him, not knowing under whose command he is?”

“You have trusted me, my lord, after I attacked you, long before I confronted Saruman and found myself free of his influence,” Faramir countered. “Or so you have said, and I know that you would not lie to me.”

“I would trust you with my life, Faramir,” Aragorn replied. “But you are a man grown and hardened; while Eldarion is a trusting child still. The risk that he be overwhelmed by whatever remnant of Saruman’s will lies in that stone is too great. Let us keep Saruman’s stone in reserve. My foster-brothers, who exceed my own knowledge of lore and healing arts, will return from Imladris. I would have their counsel in this matter. Meanwhile, let Eldarion continue to sleep. For we have a war to win that cannot wait; the Easterlings could over-run at least our borders and outer provinces, and perhaps cause much damage to the White City itself."

“Let Eldarion sleep?” queried a voice as cold as winter frost. Faramir was surprised to realize that the voice was Arwen’s. He had never heard the Queen speak in any but the most dulcet tones.

“You propose to let our son continue his unnatural sleep, my husband?” Arwen continued. The glance she gave Aragorn was not a gentle one.

“Yes, until Elladan and Elrohir return. They will probably have found another way to heal him, one that is less...”

Arwen interrupted her husband. “My brothers departed for Imladris but three weeks past. They would have only just arrived. And even if they found a cure for Eldarion within a week of their arrival, it will take them another month to bring it to us. I doubt that Eldarion can wait that long.”

“No, my lady, surely his condition is not yet that grave...” Aragorn argued.

“And how would you know?” Arwen cried. “You can hardly stand to look at him! That is, when you visit your son at all, which is barely once every ten days. I see him every day and every day I consult his nurses and Healers. Did you know that he swallows less and less of the sugar-water now, and hardly any broth, even when it is my hand that feeds him? He consumes less than a sickened fledgling. Have you not seen how much thinner he is? Estel, he is beginning to die! Surely his life is worth the risk of using the two stones!”

“More people will die sooner than my heir if I do not march against the Easterlings!” Aragorn said defensively, his pale face assuming the stubborn look that Faramir knew boded ill for further dissent. “I have a responsibility to my people; I am their King!”

“You have a responsibility to your son and to me as well, my husband!” Arwen shot back. “But I think you would much rather go ride off to lead the Men of the West into battle than fight for Eldarion at home!”

“Arwen, please...” Aragorn was losing ground. “My lady, you knew what my life was like, that the fight against Sauron came first, as does the needs of the Realm, before our own happiness. You waited for me all those years without complaint.”

“I was not a mother during those years. I did not have to watch my child lying in this false sleep that takes his strength, his life from him. If I had, I would have taken the One Ring and ridden, walked, crawled through Mordor itself to throw the Ring into the fires of Orodruin, despite the risk that the Ring could overthrow my will, if that is what it took to save my son.”

Trembling with anger, Arwen shook her head vehemently, sending her hair flying like a raven banner in a heavy wind. “So take your armies to the East and defend the Reunited Kingdom, Elessar. Leave me behind in this city of pitiless stone, to watch my child fade. He shall be dead by the time you win your victory. And my heart shall die with him!”

Aragorn reached out towards his lady. Her eyes burned with anger and unshed tears as she spurned his touch. Then she strode from the Chamber without a backward glance.

The King of Gondor and Arnor sat down heavily. He wore the same look of shocked surprise that Faramir had seen on the faces of men suddenly mortally wounded in battle.

Faramir had not known that Eldarion’s plight was so grave as to so destroy his parents’ hearts. Their love was a thing of song and story, a harmony of the proudest lines of Elves and Men. He had thought that love unassailable by discord. Yet it seemed that Aragorn and Arwen were mortal after all. Quietly, he poured wine into a goblet and brought it to Aragorn. His King took the goblet and poured half its contents down his throat in one gulp.

“How did this stone ever come into Saruman’s evil hands?” Faramir asked Pallando, wishing to give Aragorn time to recover.

“Saruman the White was a thieving jackdaw as well as a wizard,” Pallando chuckled. “He liked pretty things of great antiquity. He boasted of having squirreled away the chain that had held the One Ring around Isildur’s neck, as well as the Elendilmir that crowned your King‘s ancestors, behind lock and key in Orthanc. But he never told us how he had come to have a stone of Celebrimbor’s making. There were Men among the ranks of Sauron’s forces when Eregion was sacked; perhaps Saruman found it later in the hands of some greedy Easterling. Or Sauron might have taken the Stone of Silence. Though if he had found a use for it, he would never have let Saruman have it. I do not think we shall ever have the truth of it. Yet fear not, the Sarn e-Dín will tell me at least the secret of whose will turned it from a healer’s tool into such a cruel instrument. That is, should you allow me to explore the stone. I could only do so if it is worn by someone on whom it has been used. And that would be you, Faramir.”

“I grow weary of this cursed stone!” Aragorn declared. “Pallando, why have you come here at this time, when we stand on the brink of war with the people with whom you have long dwelt? And why are you so eager to endanger my son?”

Pallando’s smile faded. “I would not endanger the boy,” he said. “But I know of no other way to try to awaken him, and the lad‘s time grows short. Saruman‘s misuse has made that trinket a powerful weapon in a wizard‘s hands. Alatar knows of its power and he wants it for his own use. He knows it was last seen at Saruman’s tower in Mordor. That is why the garrison in Mordor was attacked. “

“As for why I came at this time. . .“ Pallando continued. “I come to end a war that is now beginning. A needless, bloody war which will rob both Gondor and Rhun of their sons. A war which must be stopped as soon as possible. I will give you knowledge of the Easterlings’ forces and tactics. In return, I ask you to be generous in the victory you will have. Leave the Easterling tribes with as much pride and dignity and wealth as you can. And I ask you to spare the life of the leader of the Easterlings, he is dear to me.”

Remembering their previous conversation, Faramir said, “Alatar? He who conspired with Saruman to bring this woe upon the King‘s house?”

“Yes, Alatar. I might be able to bring him back to the light, or at least as much of him as I can reach. Now that our great Enemy has fallen, the divisions between light and darkness are no longer as clear. I will not allow Alatar to continue to threaten the fragile peace of this Middle-earth, for too much has been sacrificed for it. And too many.”

The King sighed. “I will confer further with you on the matter of the Easterling threat, Pallando. But for now, let there be no more talk of the stone. Faramir, I charge you to keep it safe.”

“Of course, my lord.” Faramir answered. He had not given up his belief that Pallando was right, that the Stone of Silence would have to be used to awaken Eldarion. But for now, the King’s patience was exhausted. Further argument would have to wait at least a little longer. Yet there was one question he needed to ask Aragorn.

“Hmm? Yes, very well.” The King motioned for Pallando to stay in his seat, and left the Chamber, shutting the door behind him. Faramir followed his lord, bearing with him the book and scroll from the Library.

“Aragorn, you said this morning that you had heard of Pallando,” said Faramir, when they had walked several paces into the deserted hall. “How had you learned of him?”

The King smiled wistfully. “Gandalf himself told me of the Blue Wizards. He gave me much good counsel between the end of the War and his departure for the Blessed Realm. He told me that Pallando was worthy of my trust, that he had a good heart as well as the appetite of a hobbit on the march. “

“Gandalf was less sure of Alatar. He felt that Alatar‘s guilt over the treatment of the Easterlings could drive him to anger and war with the Men of the West. Yet he also believed that if anyone could keep Alatar’s rage in check, it would be Pallando. The two have apparently been fast friends since before the light of the Two Trees was lost.” Aragorn leaned against the wall. “I shall weigh Pallando’s worth myself. We have much labour before us, to prepare to go to war. We must march as soon as possible. And our borders must be protected before we do so. Rohan must be called. Prepare the order for the lighting of the beacons; I will meet you here in two hours to seal the command. And then you must take some rest, Faramir. These are evil times; and all our strength will be needed to come through them.”

Dismissed, Faramir left with a heavy heart. The imminent war was a matter of great and urgent import, but so was Eldarion’s life. Would Aragorn really leave for the East with his son in such straits? And if he did, and the lad died, would the Queen ever forgive him? Would Aragorn ever forgive himself?

TBC

Coming in Ch. 11 - new dreams, old memories. When logic fails, Faramir tries a leap of faith.

Elphir, Prince Imrahil’s “second”, is also his oldest son. See The Peoples of Middle-earth (The History of Middle-earth vol 12, I VII The Line of Dol Amroth).

The “Star-Kindler” to whom Pallando compares Arwen, is Varda, also called Elbereth, the Valar’s Queen of the Stars.

The Sarn e-Dín is the Sindarin name for Stone of Silence, which is what Gil-Galad once called the stone made by Celebrimbor and later acquired and misused by Saruman. See chapter 7 for more details. But don't blame Tolkien; because this stone and its original name and purpose, is conceived by us for this set of stories.

Saruman's habit of filching heirlooms, including the chain that held the Ring around Isildur's neck and the original Elendilmir, is documented in UNFINISHED TALES (by J.R.R. Tolkien and edited by Christopher Tolkien), see Disaster of the Gladden Fields: The sources of the legend of Isildur's death. It was Tolkien who first referred to Saruman as a "jackdaw".

Thanks for taking the time to read and review this story. The bad news is there will now be an intermission of about three weeks because I have a date with Mickey Mouse in Orlando! The good news is the rest of this story has been drafted so we will be continuing once I return. Look for a new post around 7 August; please be patient until then!

It is some time since we have posted, so here is a recap on what has gone before:

This is the third and last in a Fourth Age trilogy that began in COME TO HARM and continued in MADE TO SUFFER (both available on ff.net). It’s AU (Alternate Universe) because Saruman and Wormtongue, everyone’s favourite Evil Odd Couple, did not die in the Shire. They lived on to cause Faramir and Aragorn much pain. This story, HOME TO HEAL, began in April of year 16 of the Fourth Age, six months after MADE TO SUFFER ended with the fall of Saruman after the wizard had enthralled Eldarion, 13-year-old son of King Elessar, and placed the boy in a mysterious sleep.

Faramir had a dream that exhorted him to find the green stone that Saruman had previously used on him and Eldarion. Faramir travelled to the wizard’s tower in Mordor with his impulsive second son Cirion and found the bauble while fending off an Easterling assassin. Aragorn, who is increasingly depressed over his inability to heal Eldarion, was unimpressed. The King is tired and, losing hope, he comes occasionally to sit alone in Denethor’s old chamber, as Faramir learns when he finds Aragorn there one night. Eowyn, six months pregnant, nearly has a miscarriage which Aragorn is unable to heal; but the healers stop the process and prescribe bed rest until the child is born.

Faramir researches green elfstones and finds that Aragorn’s Elessar stone had a ‘little brother’, also made by Celebrimbor, called the Stone of Silence, and made to calm troubled minds, a sort of Elven version of Prozac! Faramir believes that the green stone used by Saruman is in fact the long-lost Stone of Silence. A mysterious man in blue turns up and reveals himself as Pallando the Blue, one of the two Blue Wizards sent to the East. Pallando tells Faramir the sad history of himself and his friend Alatar, the other Blue Wizard, and how Saruman ordered them to corrupt and weaken the Easterling tribes for centuries. Both Blues got tired of it; but carried out their orders. Saruman came East after the War of the Ring and persuaded the moody Alatar to avenge the Easterlings’ sufferings by helping Saruman overthrow King Elessar. Alatar helped Saruman entrench himself in Mordor, and later removed Saruman’s body after Faramir enabled Legolas to kill the White Wizard. Pallando wants to stop the Easterling assault that Alatar is now preparing on Gondor.

As if all this was not enough cause for concern, Ingold, a lord embittered by the loss of his sons, accuses Faramir of treachery in Council. Faramir throws down the gauntlet of ‘put up or shut up’, stalling his critics, when Aragorn gets word from a messenger that the Rangers’ outpost in Mordor has been attacked by Easterlings. Later, Aragorn and Faramir debrief Pallando about the Easterling threat and his knowledge of the Stone of Silence. Pallando offers a way to revive the sleeping Eldarion, by having Faramir and Aragorn use the two Elfstones together to heal him. Aragorn angrily rejects the idea, fearing to expose Faramir and Eldarion to further influence of the stone Saruman used to harm them. Arwen, who was present, became angry at Aragorn. She spends more time with Eldarion and knows he is very weak and cannot last much longer. Faramir is worried, knowing that Eldarion’s time is running out...

Faramir, Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, again lay uneasy in his wide bed, his mind wandering in troubled dreams once more.

He saw his King sitting beside the bed of his sleep-enthralled son. The King’s head was down, his shoulders slumped and his eyes dull.

“My beloved son is dying,” Aragorn said. "My line will end in ash and smoke.” The King's face was, it occurred to the dreamer, more deathlike than his son‘s.

Faramir tried to reach out to comfort the distraught man. While he stretched out his hand, the scene before him blurred, as when a hand stirs a pool of still water and displaces what is there reflected. The figures changed and he saw his own father sitting in Aragorn’s place. The figure on the bed was no longer that of the King's young son. Instead, Faramir saw his own face, wan and nearly lifeless. Outside the chamber, fires licked at the walls, and at the pale branches of the White Tree.

“No!” Faramir shouted pulling himself from the dreamed past back to the present. He was sitting up in his bed, his shuddering body soaked in sweat.

He shook his head, trying to rid it of his last terrifying vision. Then he turned to his wife. “I must leave,” he said with a reassuring smile.

Eowyn's eyes werevery heavy. She had to fight to keep them open and focused on her husband. “But it’s the middle of the night” she yawned. “Where do you go?”

“Just outside. I will not leave the Citadel. Rest, dearest girl," he said, and kissed her cheek. "I will return soon.” Eowyn needed to sleep; he would not burden her with such a strange presentiment. Thankfully, she was too tired to protest.

Eowyn had already drifted back to sleep by the time Faramir pulled on his boots and left their bedchamber.

As he walked the deserted Citadel in the warm night air, he nodded to the guards. Faramir’s thoughts returned to the meeting with Pallando the day before. The wizard had offered them a way forward that Faramir had been prepared to take. But Aragorn had dismissed the offer, worried that it was fraught with too high a risk.

And now he'd had another cursed dream, similar to the one leading him to find the stone that had brought them all to this pass.

Faramir had always possessed an introspective nature. He often played out previous events in his mind, to see how they would differ if the principals or the circumstances changed. Any good commander or chess player did the same. He had thought through many of his own old battles to try to see if he could have conducted them with more skill, so that more of his men could have lived. He had often pondered what would have happened differently if he had gone to Imladris in Boromir's stead. But the central battle of his life had been the conflict of love and pain waged with his father. A faint, distorted memory of his father's face, wreathed in flame, still lingered at the back of Faramir's mind. Sometimes he feared the memory would haunt him forever, and shadow his sons and their children's children. He could not banish it, and he had tried.

Imrahil and later Eowyn had praised him for forgiving Denethor and moving on with his life after learning the full extent of his father's madness. Truth be told, Faramir had merely avoided the matter altogether. He had done his best to forget that his father had abandoned his duty, then tried to burn him alive and, after also threatening Faramir with a knife, had set himself afire. There had been so much else to think on, to do, the preparation of the City and the realm for the King's rule. His love for Eowyn swiftly became the ruling passion in his mind, not his sad memories of the father who had nearly killed him. . . Faramir had never spoken of his father to his own children. And the time was coming when he would have to do so. Bron and Ciri were old enough to understand. They already heard rumours of the twenty-sixth Steward's terrible death. But what would he tell them? How could he make the boys understand why their grandfather had fallen so far, when he did not fully understand it himself?

Telling his oldest children of his father would have to wait. The dream, and the one he had had several nights before, carried a fell warning. In the first dream, Denethor and Faramir, who was dying on the day of the battle of the Pelennor, had transformed into Aragorn and Eldarion. This night the dream had reversed, changing the sorrowful Aragorn and his dying son into the twenty-sixth Steward and Faramir himself, also dying. And the White Tree burned.

A father's loss of a son, the loss of hope. . . It had happened before. And the fire. Faramir shivered in the soft air of the spring night as his heart began to race. It could not happen again! Not to his King, his lord. Not to Aragorn. And the boy, still so young, most of his life ahead of him. Yet there were already signs that Aragorn was losing his strength and purpose as his son's life waned: the King's fatigue, the quarrel with his beloved Arwen, his inability to heal Eowyn earlier. And Aragorn’s apparent habit of closeting himself in the room that had once been Denethor's chamber. Aragorn could never fall into madness, his mind was far too strong. But Faramir was not going to let Aragorn fall anywhere, not if he could help it by word or act. He knew all too well how despair could eat away at the hearts of Men...

Faramir was not sure where he was going but one thought rang continually around his head: I will not let it happen again!

He found himself at the wall that rimmed the Citadel. And he saw that he was not alone. Arwen stood there, cloaked in grey, looking up at the stars.

Faramir moved to join her, and looked at the stars himself. They shone brightly in the cloudless vault of the heavens. He waited a few moments, then spoke: "My lady. . . Arwen, how came you here? Where are your maids, or at least a guard?"

She pulled her gaze from the sky and looked at him, rather coolly, but with a certain amusement. "Faramir Denethorion, I am still Elf enough to go my own way unseen by prying eyes when I wish. They think me shuttered in our chamber, crying myself to sleep."

"There is no shame in tears; and you certainly have cause to shed them. I know that I would weep were a child of mine so ill. Should you not be. . . resting? And where is the King?"

"I know not where Estel is. Nor do I care. And what good would resting, or crying do? I have cried a thousand tears, and Eldarion still sleeps. My tears and my slumber help him not at all. It is Eowyn who needs rest for her own sake and that of the child she carries. Estel. . . I need have no worries of that sort." She shook her head in a slight, graceful motion and her eyes softened. "Eowyn is still well, is she not? I saw her this afternoon, and she seemed in good humour."

"Most of the time she holds good spirits," Faramir replied. "She begins to be frustrated by having to stay abed. I fear she may start throwing the crockery at the servants if they cosset her much more."

He wondered at Arwen's reference to her husband's name at the same time that she implied there was no chance for her to have another child. If her words signified what he thought they did, then the already sorely burdened King had yet another care to shoulder. But he could delve no further into that matter; it was not his place.

"I am glad. Eowyn is a wonderful mother, and I know you will both take great joy in the birth of this child," Arwen answered with a small smile. Then she looked again on the stars. Faramir followed the direction of her gaze.

"It still amazes me, even after eighteen years have passed, to see the stars undimmed by our Enemy's darkness." Faramir said. "For so long, we would look to the heavens in vain for the light of the stars, for the sky would be darkened, or burn with the fires of Mount Doom."

Arwen smiled wistfully. "When I was a child, my father would show me the stars, and tell me their tales. And at the end of it, he would point to Eärendil , and say: Look, my little one, Eärendil the Mariner, my father and your grandfather! He will always watch over you. I thought of Eärendil as my special star; my father's father who would always guide me. I come out here and look to him when my heart is troubled. He is set now, but he will return in the morning.”

Faramir could not help grin as he spoke: “My grandfather Adrahil taught Boromir and I the lore of the stars. He would have been delighted to have the Mariner’s own grand-daughter come to be the Queen of Gondor. And meeting your father, Master Elrond, would have pleased him greatly, as it did me.”

The Evenstar’s brilliant eyes dimmed. “I miss my father more than I can say,” she said softly. “I would do anything to have his counsel now, but that is impossible. He is with his parents now in the Blessed Realm, and my mother too. I will never, ever see him again. Our parting will last beyond the circles of the world. This is the only path I can find to him. I watch my grandfather‘s course across the sky and ask him to greet my father for me when he sets.”

Faramir put his hand on Arwen’s slender shoulder. In the past, he never would have dared such a touch. But he had seen that though vastly his elder in years, the Queen was as much flesh and blood as he was, or Eowyn, or any mortal. Tonight she was sad and lonely and needed a friend, not a King‘s Servant. “When this present crisis passes, you and Aragorn should take some time away from the cares of state. You are always welcome at Emyn Arnen. Or perhaps go to Imladris and see your other grandfather, the Lord Celeborn.”

“Shall this crisis pass?” Arwen asked. “I know not, not anymore. Pallando‘s solution does carry risk; but it could work. I do not think there is any other way to save Eldarion. Yet Estel is set against the idea. I fear he is losing the courage to try, to dare, the boldness that once was his. Strange that someone once named for hope should now lose it. I fear for us all.”

Hope, fear, the courage to dare. . . The seeds of memory began to quicken in Faramir’s mind. “Fear not.”

“The King is Gondor‘s pride, its centre.” Faramir explained, his voice rising with excitement. “If he loses hope, then so do we all. We have to make him see. We have to show him that he can dare do this thing. Aragorn must believe that he and the Elfstone he bears are stronger than any trick of Saruman.”

“We shall show him by example,” Faramir continued, the idea taking hold of him. “We have to show him that a lesser man dare face his fear and conquer it. Then so may he who is first in Gondor rekindle his strength.”

“But how, Faramir?” She asked again, more urgently, catching Faramir’s excitement. “And who?”

He smiled, warmed by the sudden fire of hope. “Trust me. It will take perhaps a few hours. I must find the King.”

“He said something about trying once more to heal Eldarion,” Arwen said. “Faramir, he was angry and desperate. I pray that you succeed in persuading him, for we cannot go on in this way. And we cannot lose our son.”

Faramir took Arwen‘s cool hands in his own and pressed them warmly. Her hands were delicate but quite strong. “Believe me, my lady; I will do all I can to assure that you do not lose him. I shall go to Aragorn now. Will you return to the King’s House with me?”

“No. I am safe out here.” Arwen guessed his concern and gestured towards the distant guards who circled the White Tree. ‘I find it quite comfortable. I will await Eärendil's return. Then I must see to my son.”

Faramir bowed his head. As he turned to leave, he saw Arwen lift her head once more to the stars, her eyes bright and shining under the moon’s silver gleam.

Faramir entered the King’s House, the ancient home of Gondor's true lords. He tried to quiet the turmoil of his thoughts, and managed to slow the frantic pace of his heart. He was, however, unprepared for the sight that met his eyes in Eldarion’s chamber. It came so close to the scene in his dream. He fought down an involuntary shudder at the sight of Eldarion's thin, weakened form under a light blanket, and looked instead upon his King.

Aragorn sat beside his son, his face as pale as Eldarion’s. He barely lifted his head as Faramir entered.

Aragorn sighed, a deep heart-wrenching sound that seemed to rise from the bottom of his soul. “He falters, Faramir,” he said in a dull voice. “As we all do. I tried once more to heal him. And once more, I cannot reach him. He is nearly spent.”

“My King, I have thought long on Eldarion‘s affliction," Faramir said earnestly. “I understand your sorrow and your anger. Were one of my children so endangered, I would be beset with woe. So I cannot understand why you will not even consider the Blue Wizard’s proposal.”

“Then when, my lord?” Faramir asked gently. “Your son has little time left, and we will soon be busied in preparations for war.”

He moved to sit down at the other side of the bed. “Aragorn,” he tried again, searching for the right words. “You are the Heir of Elendil and Isildur. More than that, you have been friend and. . . brother to me since you gave me back my life. You drove back the darkness and rekindled light for us all. You are our hope, our King, the living heart of our realm. I cannot imagine what will happen to Gondor if you continue to ‘falter‘.” Faramir prayed that Aragorn would understand what he could not say. He gave the King the fealty of a vassal and Steward. He also gave Aragorn the devotion he had once given to Boromir and their father. But he would not speak of foolish, impossible wishes concerning fathers and sons. Some things were private and would so remain. Besides, Aragorn was already over-burdened with obligations and sorrows.

Aragorn stood up. “Faramir, I cannot risk using that stone, there is too much to lose.”

“There is your son to lose!” Faramir pressed. “We cannot let him slip away from this entranced sleep to true death.”

“Today, after Council, I was resolved to ride to Mordor, although it was neither my place nor my battle. I listened to you not only because you are my King but because I respect your wisdom,” Faramir paused.

Aragorn shook his head. “I have always harkened to your words, Faramir, for they are usually well worth heeding. But on this occasion I will not hazard Eldarion’s life.”

“But in doing nothing you gamble his survival. The lad cannot live much longer in this sorry state. I believe with all my heart that we must try Pallando‘s method, for the sake of both your son and your Kingdom. I am willing to risk everything, all I am, by bearing the very stone that Saruman used to bend me to his will, for the chance of reviving Eldarion. What can I do to convince you?”

“There is nothing you can do,” the King grasped the headboard and shook it, sending a tremor through the bed and the boy who slept upon it. “I have tried everything I know, what is there left for me now? How can I come here, see my son lying here so helpless and not be able to aid him. My healing hands are worthless. If there is hope, I do not see it.”

“I do not believe you, my lord,” Faramir’s voice was intentionally harsh. He had tried all he could to change Aragorn’s mind, now he knew he had only one path left and he had to use it. Reason had failed, desperation loomed, an act of faith was all he had left to give. And a challenge.

Aragorn’s head snapped up as he noted the other’s change in tone. “What do you mean?” he said.

Faramir held his questioning stare. “I mean that the King that I follow, the man that I respect above all others, will never give up hope. His very name means hope.”

“That was Estel, a young and sheltered boy. King Elessar has learned that hope is a fickle acquaintance.”

Faramir rose. “I will prove that it still remains nigh, my King. I will confront my fear. You will see that if I can do so, you can face yours and bring back hope to us all.”

“Confront your fear?” The King’s eyes burned in the lamplight. “What do you mean, Faramir?”

"You never had a brother close to you in age, my lord." Faramir said quietly. "When Boromir and I were children, he took special care of me after our mother perished. Denethor buried himself in his work and did not have much time for us, but Boromir was always there for me. He taught me to swim, to ride." Faramir smiled, remembering those long-gone days before the Shadowdominated their lives.

"I had something of a nervous nature in the year following our mother‘s death," Faramir recalled. "Boromir devised a game to hearten me, when I feared to get back up on the first horse that threw me, or sleep in my own bed the night after having a bad dream. He said that reason could not always solve a problem. And then he would grin and say 'I double-dare you.' Boromir challenged me; by doing something risky or something he had feared, in return for my promise to get back on the horse. I remember Boromir deliberately requesting that Father hear him recite his lessons. And his running past the guards to do a handstand on the King’s throne. So I remounted the horse. I rode that big, ill-tempered beast and made him mine, and never feared him or any other horse again. I might have done so on my own, but it would have taken many more weeks for me to find the courage, and earned more of our father's scorn."

Faramir gulped. “A long time ago, just after you made me Steward, you gave me leave to do something I could not bear to do. I have always refused the chance when you offered it to me over the years. I refused because I fear this thing more than almost any other task that you could name. The very thought of it freezes the blood in my veins. Indeed I swore to myself that I would never do this thing.”

As he spoke he moved closer to his King until they stood within inches of each other in the middle of the room. Their eyes locked together.

“But do it I shall, if you promise me, should I succeed and face what I fear and reach beyond it, you will join me in healing Eldarion with the two stones. The stakes are now far higher than a child's fear of a horse; but we are running out of time and more reasoned ways of persuasion. I believe that Pallando offers the only hope for your son." Faramir smiled in a reckless way that reminded Aragorn of Boromir, but his Steward's gaze was sombre. "I double-dare you, my lord."

Aragorn shook his head and made to move away but Faramir’s hand shot out to hold him back.

“You do not ask it of me, my King; I offer it willingly. My word is my bond, as you well know; and I have said I will do whatever it takes.”

Aragorn looked away from his Steward’s uncompromising stare. He felt suddenly humbled bythe faith he saw inthose blue eyes.

“Very well,” he said, so quietly that Faramir had to strain to hear the words. Then the King clutched his Steward to him in a sincere embrace. “Prove to me there is still hope, Faramir.”

The younger man nodded. “Take me to it now, my King,” he said, his voice breaking with emotion.

Faramir nodded. “While I yet have the courage.” He smiled grimly, “I have long dreaded this day and must face the thing now. Take me to the palantir that drove my father mad!”

AUTHORS’ NOTES: We have used poetic license with the sighting of Eärendil, the Evening and Morning Star of Middle-Earth. Tolkien based the star on Venus, which disappears a few hours after sunset and rises a certain time before sunrise, subject to the Earth’s rotation and the viewer’s geographic location.

The notion that Prince Adrahil of Dol Amroth, father of Imrahil and Finduilas and grandfather to Faramir, first taught Faramir the lore of the stars, is not ours - we took it from Altariel’s wonderful story THE EAGLE AND THE SWAN at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/1353023/1/. Altariel was in turn inspired by Starlight’s tale EARENDIL at http://www.fanfiction.net/s/1605391/1/, which was, as far as we know, the first to have Adrahil teach his young grandson about the stars. Neither Altariel or Starlight should be held accountable for our mistakes!

The resemblance of lines in Faramir’s dream sequence to Denethor’s words in RETURN OF THE KING (The Siege of Gondor and The Pyre of Denethor) is entirely non-coincidental. Aragorn's description of his son - "he is nearly spent" - comes from the same words he said of Faramir in The Houses of Healing, also in RETURN OF THE KING. It’s a good thing that this story is written for the pleasure of its authors and readers; no one derives any profit from it, and most of the characters belong to the Tolkien Estate.. . honest!

Next Chapter: Faramir takes on the palantir. Kids, don't try this at home! Especially not on a full stomach...

Co-authored by Raksha; this story is AU and blends LOTR movie-verse and books.

Thank you everybody for your wonderful reviews and comments, we appreciate them enormously.

Authors' Notes: The Anor-stone is a term for the palantir of Minas Tirith; originally there were seven palantiri, called Stones, or Seeing Stones; and referred to individually by the names of their locations, such as the Orthanc-stone. The palantir set in the White Tower of Minas Tirith is called the Anor-stone because Minas Tirith was originally named Minas Anor.

"Faramir, you must remember that it was not precisely the palantir that drove your father mad," Aragorn said as he led the way up the stairs that wound up to the top of the White Tower, the highest point of Minas Tirith. "The palantir is only a tool. The visions that Sauron sent through it to your father were deceptive. Denethor was strong enough to resist his evil for many years. He despaired only after Boromir‘s death and your own injury, and was finally goaded into that final madness by the images Sauron showed him. "

"So I have been told." Faramir replied, his stiff leg forcing him to move more slowly than he would have liked. Now that he had sworn to gaze into the palantir, he wanted to accomplish the deed as soon as possible. Mithrandir had told him something of the palantir’s role in his father's decline. Faramir had read the scrolls and tablets, handed down from his longfathers, which provided some knowledge of the Anor-stone‘s use. He had prayed that he would never have to put them into practice. Aloud, he said: "I have seen the instructions, my lord. I wanted to be ready, in case it became necessary that the palantir be surveyed in your absence. Thankfully, we never came to such a pass during those times that you journeyed forth and I remained in the City."

"But the instructions will not prepare you for the first thing that you will see," Aragorn said quietly, pausing to look down at Faramir. "It will trouble you. It troubled me and I was not his son."

"Does my father's ghost haunt the Anor-stone, then?" Faramir asked. Mithrandir had implied that there was something in the palantir that had not been there before Denethor's death. "He could not kill me while he lived," he continued, with a mirthless chuckle. "I doubt he will accomplish it now, when he is dead."

"No, not a ghost". Aragorn gave him a long look that was both gentle and searching. "Your father is at peace in the halls of Mandos. It is more of an echo of his presence, not your father himself. It must be swept aside to use the palantir properly, but ‘tis no easy task to accomplish. . ." He stopped. Faramir beheld the unusual sight of the King of Arnor and Gondor turning pink with embarrassment. "Forgive me, mellon-nin, I did not mean to say that anything of your father's should be swept away. I would have gladly held him in honour as my Steward, had he lived and agreed to it."

"There is nothing to forgive, my lord," Faramir replied. "You have preserved the best of Denethor's Stewardship in continuing the care he had for Gondor."

"And in you, Faramir. You must never forget; you were the best legacy he could have left this realm."

Faramir looked down, feeling rather embarrassed himself. This was a night for unusual occurrences. While he was creeping up the stairway to look into his father's secret device, the lord who had replaced Denethor as ruler was praising him. He half-expected to hear the deep, commanding voice of the twenty-sixth Steward of Gondor asking Faramir what he thought he was doing there.

"Thank you, my lord" Faramir replied. For one fey moment, Faramir could not tell to which lord he spoke; the last ruling Steward or the returned King.

"Faramir, are you sure you wish to proceed?" the King asked. "You need not do this. You have already proved your courage to me many times."

"I gave you my word; and I will keep it. Boromir taught me that a dare must be upheld when asked. Take me to the Seeing Stone."

"If you are sure, then. . ." Aragorn answered and took step once more. "I signaled the guards to evacuate the Tower in preparation for our inspection."

The concern in the King's voice made the hair on the back of Faramir's neck prickle. It also made him want to flee down the stairs and then as far away from the palantir as he could go. Instead, he squared his shoulders and resumed the climb.

The staircase reached the summit. The King and the Steward climbed into the Chamber of Guard, the highest room in the tower as far as most men knew. Aragorn located the secret door behind thepainting depicting the nine ships of Elendil and his sons escaping the Downfall of Numenor. He opened the door, stood back, and gestured for Faramir to precede him. Faramir ascended the small flight of stairs, and unlocked the second door at its height, and stepped through it, Aragorn a silent sure presence at his back. Now there was no barrier between Faramir and what he had come toconfront.

Faramir advanced into the small chamber. In its center stood a heavy table of marble and stone on which was inset a globe of dense, gleaming black material. The globe was the size of a large melon. It looked crystalline, but was darker than any crystal Faramir had ever seen. A red light flickered in its obsidian heart.

He paused at a point about a foot from the table's edge, then took a deep breath and stared into the Stone of Anor. For a few moments, nothing happened. Then the air around the stone seemed to chill slightly. The light at its center brightened. The stone appeared to grow larger and larger, until it occupied most of Faramir's field of vision. The red-gold light flashed and coalesced into a small fire. Flames leapt up and filled his sight. Behind them, he saw a pair of hands, the trembling hands of an old man. He knew whose hands they were even before sighting the Steward's Ring on one thin finger, shining hideously as it reflected the glow of the fire.

The hands began to burn, the flesh curling and the hands crumpling like old parchment. Faramir thought he might die of the horror of it. But he did not. He held onto both the palantir and his resolve. And he prayed that whatever conceit had ruled his father's mind at the time this echo was embedded in the stone it had dulled the pain of the fire. "If I could have spared you this end, I surely would," he said to the father who had sent him across the Pelennor that last time. The image of Denethor's burning hands changed to that of his father's head and shoulders, mercifully still whole, pride and sorrow etched on the cold planes of his face.

"See me, father" Faramir entreated, whether aloud or to the figure before him he did not know. Since he had been a boy, he had silently said the same words, while watching Denethor gift his golden brother with praise and unstinting love. Boromir had always deserved their father's regard; Faramir would never have begrudged it to the big brother he adored. But he could not help wanting a portionthat was his alone.

"See me, father" Faramir called again in his thoughts. "Gondor is safe. The realm you protected has flourished. The White City did not fall. I am its Steward, and your grandson will be Steward someday, and so on until the end of our line." The vision in the palantir was a reflection of Denethor rather than the true Steward. But these words were the closest Faramir would ever come to the farewell he had been unable to give his father. The figure in the palantir turned, and Faramir looked directly into his father's proud gaze one last time. "See me, Father; I am here!” he cried silently. The flames roared up again, as if to ring them both once more. Faramir could not truly tell where he was, in the secret chamber atop the White Tower in the spring of year 16 of the Fourth Age, or in Rath Dinen on March 15, 3019. Faramir had been unconscious throughout that terrible day. Yet he still recalled a brief moment when he had awakened to see his father and call for him.

"Do not take my son from me!" Denethor seemed now to plead. "He calls for me. . ." And Faramir knew, in a strange connection to a dead man's memory, that his father had seen him at the end. The love and sorrow in Denethor's falcon eyes resounded in the twenty-sixth's Steward's voice. Was it a memory or the vision of a memory that spoke to him? He could not tell, and it hurt to think on it. But he had heard his father's voice from somewhere...

Be at peace, Father, Faramir told the memory. His own heart was far from peaceful, but he knew that he had to move on from this moment. Then he watched, his hands clenching into painfully tight fists, as the flames and smoke veiled, then consumed, the remnant of his father.

Faramir forced himself to continue watching. He knew that the palantir held more than a single memory of one Steward's death. He looked deep into the flames and something deep and cold within him told them to still. The fire died. Faramir moved back a bit, as the scene changed. He viewed his father's fearsome last vision; that of the black-sailed Corsair fleet coming up the Anduin. Denethor believed that those ships brought a final invasion to the beleaguered City; but they had actually ferried the returned King to end the Enemy's siege. More scenes passed before Faramir's eyes: Mithrandir and the Rohirrim meeting Aragorn at Helm's Deep, and, earlier, Boromir on the Great West Road as he began his last journey. His eyes burned with tears at the sight of his lost brother,riding bravely into the destiny that would take him from all who loved him. Faramir quelled the sorrow rising in his heart. Now was not the time to falter!

He reached again from within himself, and willed order upon the chaotic processions from the past. The stone cleared. Faramir drew back again, standing perhaps a foot and a half from the stone, the better to seek the southeast. He would have what knowledge the Anor-stone could give him of his own land, beginning with Emyn Arnen. He perceived a forest covering rolling hills and a village, then a great house of white stone, surrounded by tall trees and gardens just waking to bloom. It was his home, Tham Fain, “White Hall” in the common tongue. He could see figures; real people! He took another step back, since it was easier to make them out when he physically moved away from the stone. Two guards in the livery of Faramir's White Company circled the gardens. He wished he could return home now with Eowyn and the children. He wondered if his father would have been happy to retire there. Probably not. Denethor would have taken scant pleasure in the proximity of six lively children running at large rather than tiptoeing with downcast heads through the corridors. He might not have appreciated their beautiful Rohirric mother who never failed to speak her mind. Yet Faramir could not imagine his proud, obdurate father serving Aragorn as Steward or living in the City of which he was no longer Lord. The notion that even if his father had survived the War of the Ring, there would be no place for him in the new world that Faramir loved, hit him like a blow.

Now the world within the palantir seemed to buck beneath his very hands as he sought other sights. It felt rather like he was handling the tiller in one of his uncle's pleasure-boats in a storm; but the pictures did shift as Faramir surveyed other parts of Ithilien. He looked down upon the stream that traced a silver ribbon from the Anduin, just above Cair Andros in his sight, and followed it like an airborne raven to Henneth Annun. He could not see beyond the Window of the Sunset into the cave, there was too little, or no light within the refuge. He looked slightly southward, to Eryn Gelair, Legolas’ forest domain. A few of the elves were awake, dancing on the Field of Cormallen in the glow of lamps and moonlight...Dancing and perhaps other couplings under the trees...He pulled his sight farther south, to Minas Ithil, the stronghold he was helping the King reclaim from Sauron's long grasp. The ruined fortress slumbered peacefully under the moon for which he had renamed it. All was well. His land appeared to be safe, unthreatened by Easterlings or any other invaders. His field of vision lurched, as a wave of exhaustion broke through him. Time to retreat, Faramir resolved, return to the world of actual sight and touch. He would have to disengage from the palantir's grip.

Faramir lowered his eyes and stepped back, and back again, almost stumbling. The sights of past and present reeled around him. He could not attest which were memories of visions and which visions were new. There was an appalling wrench, then he found himself looking up at a vaulted ceiling. Faramir's knees buckled; his arms flailed uselessly. His strength was gone and he was falling....But strong arms caught him, guided him back several steps, and eased him down slowly against a wall. The table with the palantir set within it stood above him. The King was with him, holding him as a father holds a son.

"Easy, Faramir. Try to take some water." Aragorn said a few long moments later, and pressed the flask to Faramir's mouth. The water tasted good, even if his hand so trembled as he took it that Aragorn had to help him hold the flask. The room was still rolling; though he was not on a boat.

"The first time is exhausting," Aragorn said in a matter-of-fact voice, as Faramir gulped down more water. “I never told anyone, but after I used the Stone of Orthanc for the first time, I threw up and could not keep solid food down for two days. Do you need to be sick?"

"No..." Faramir breathed. "I am well...That is, I will be...when the room stops spinning." He had to close his eyes; they stung with sudden weariness.

"I saw it all! I saw...him, my father, his hands, his face, in the fire. Then I made it change, and looked at Ithilien. It seemed peaceful there. Emyn Arnen was quiet and to the north, the elves were dancing." He opened his aching eyes, wishing to avoid the dark visions roiling behind them.

"You saw the vision of your father's hands? Ah, Faramir, I had hoped you would be spared that sight." He rubbed Faramir's forehead with two fingertips, in a circular motion. "Just stay still."

Under other circumstances, if he were injured and the King were comforting him, as he had long ago in bringing him back to a world that no longer held his father, Faramir would gladly welcome such paternal solicitude from Aragorn. But the knowledge that his King did see him gave him little ease. As much as Faramir found such comfort to ease his tired spirit, as much as he had wished that Aragorn could truly be his father, he knew that he was Denethor‘s son. Denethor had never given him so much of himself. Denethor had rarely seen Faramir, either when Boromir was present or when his brother was gone. For too long a time, especially that last year, Faramir had tried to love his father enough for the both of them. Faramir knew now, from having beheld his father's dying mind and his eyes, preserved in the palantir, that his father had died with just enough love towards his second son in his broken old heart to see him at last and try to take him into a shared death. That was all he could remember receiving from his father; just enough love, measured out in small dollops, just enough, 'sufficient' as the meaning of Faramir's name. And he would have to be content with that for the rest of his life. The chance that his father could see him for a time longer than that last day was gone, gone forever.

The pain was too much. He could no longer fight back the tears. This old grief should not hurt him like this, after many years had passed, but it did. Faramir wept, his body shuddering with successive waves of sorrow. If Aragorn had not held him, Faramir would have surely sprawled weeping on the cold floor. He did not think he could speak, it was taking all his strength merely to breathe. But then the words started to tumble out of his mouth, as if a stranger was saying them.

"Fathers and sons...I have been told how my grandfather did not care for my father, or at least could not give him what he needed. I believe that my father had some love for me at the last, but it had dried up inside him in his sorrow and he could not, would not see me to show it. We had grown so far apart. It started slowly, when I began to have my own opinions, he thought I took them all from Mithrandir and had become his puppet; and I did not know how to convince him otherwise. And we ended so badly...we could not even unite in grief when we knew that Boromir was lost to us. Perhaps I did not reach towards him hard enough. Perhaps there was no bridge long enough to span the gulf between us...My lord, please forgive me; but I know too well how such a divide may start with what seem to be small resentments. Your son...deserves to be seen...as himself, as well as the heir to Gondor. You can still reach him before he turns away." Then Faramir realized again that he could never reach Denethor; even if Eldarion was restored to health and his father's love. And the tears drowned out all words.

Finally, the pain subsided enough for him to stop crying and master himself once more. Faramir felt drained of thought and strength, as he had on surviving many battles. He was too weary to be abashed at having wept in Aragorn's arms like a child.

Aragorn gave Faramir another of those soft but searching looks of his; he could read the truth in men's hearts as well as Denethor or Faramir himself. "Faramir" the king said quietly. "You can still surprise me."

"My lord," Faramir asked hoarsely, while moving himself up so he sat shoulder-to-shoulder with the King, "By any chance, would you have something stronger than water on your person?"

Aragorn opened his belt pouch, and withdrew a smaller flask than the one that had held the water. "Miruvor is an excellent restorative for strength expended in attempts to heal...or the use of a palantir," he said, handing it to Faramir. The Steward gratefully quaffed the Elven cordial. A bit too sweet for his taste, but it certainly felt good at this moment.

"If you choose to look again into the Anor-stone, it will be easier," Aragorn said. "You probably will not see anything of your father's last moments, and the experience will be less wearying. Still, I am always careful, if I know I need to survey from either the Anor-stone or the Orthanc-stone, not to eat much before I look into it." He took some miruvor from the flask that Faramir proffered, then handed it back. "Take a little more, Faramir. You are still too pale."

"I will use the palantir again, another time. You need to be able to trust your Steward to watch the approaches to the City when you cannot." Faramir vowed, after a last sip of the cordial.

"Fathers and sons..." Faramir mused again. “...They have such power over each other." The words that had escaped from the depths of his own sorrow had given him an opening that he would not waste. It did not really matter that Eldarion's restorationto his fatherwould not change Faramir’s own past; it had to be attempted, for the sake of the King as well as the boy. "It is sad that you never had the chance to know your father. Was Elrond good to you? He seemed to be a most wise and gentle lord."

"He was the only father I remember. I still miss him." Aragorn answered softly. "Yes, he was very good to me."

"He would have doubtless been proud of his grandson. Do you remember the day Eldarion was born?"

"Indeed not," Faramir continued. "We had to cut the hunting trip short; and Eomer was most displeased that he missed his chance to slay a buck. We both feared that you would hurt yourself or Roheryn, so great was your haste to return to Minas Tirith."

"When we came home, we all sat and waited for hours until Eldarion was born. And he was a most beautiful babe, shining as if with the light of the Eldar, not red-faced and wrinkled as most mortal children are. I never told you that Eowyn was jealous; for despite Bron's having been a fine healthy boy, he was neither as fair nor as strong as your son at his birth."

Aragorn visibly relaxed, years of care seeming to leave his brow. He smiled as he remembered. "He looked like his mother. He still does."

"You were so pleased with him," Faramir reminded him. "You laughed with joy when he lifted his head only an hour after his birth, and later, when he opened his eyes and looked at you. Eomer couldn't stop laughing; he said you must have never seen a baby before. Are you ready to try to bring Eldarion back to the life he deserves?"

Aragorn sighed, then nodded. "I accepted your challenge. I cannot think of any other, safer or more reasonable way to revive him. Think you that Pallando can be trusted with my son's life? Gandalf told me that the Blue Wizards were most loyal to each other above all else, but that Pallando would help me if I ever needed it."

Faramir thought back on his short acquaintance with the boisterous wizard from the East, all that Pallando had said and the things he had not said. "I think he has his own plan for the future, and that Eldarion's welfare is part of that plan. I do believe that he truly wants peace between Gondor and the Easterlings, at least for now. It will be me, not Pallando, holding the stone that Saruman used. I know no more than you of the method Pallando described. Yet it put me in mind of how you healed me, and Eowyn, and all those others who suffered from the Black Shadow. I know that you can accomplish it. You healed us; you made our entire Realm whole again. You can bring back one lost boy." He handed the flask back to Aragorn.

Aragorn finished the miruvor, then looked again at Faramir. "I had never thought that I could become to Eldarion what Denethor became to you."

"Nay, my lord; you are stronger than Denethor," Faramir assured him. "You would never go mad and try to hurt your son, even out of twisted love. I meant that the disappointment you seem to feel in Eldarion can easily turn to bitterness, bit by bit. You both deserve better than to turn away from each other and never really understand why. Eldarion is a good boy."

"I would never lie to you." Faramir replied. "An untried lad who fears to fight, but manages to keep his wits about him when facing an Uruk-hai attack without a weapon, that is the kind of boy who will be able to conquer his fears and be a great King. He is still very young, Aragorn. I was frightened of fighting and battles too at that age. I nearly got Boromir and myself killed in my first skirmish, and only managed to strike at the enemy out of sheer instinct to survive. But Boromir was patient with my weakness; so that I could go on, and fight again, and improve my skills. And though I never loved war as some fighters do, I was able to do my part in defending this Realm. Boromir never forgot that I was his brother, who he loved, as well as a Guard, and later a Captain of Gondor."

Aragorn sighed again. "I have seen what a good father you are, Faramir. Your children adore you; and Elboron and Cirion are strong, brave lads who will surely grow to be fine men. You truly believe that I have been too hard on my boy?"

"It is not that you are too hard on Eldarion. You are our King; and the Realm has ever been your first care, above the duties of a husband and father. Heirs to kingdoms and princedoms, indeed any lordship, must be taught to become strong yet honorable men. But you have tried so hard to make Eldarion into a perfect young prince that I believe you have stopped seeing that he is also your son. Eldarion is only now leaving childhood, a thirteen-year-old boy raised in a land secure in the peace and hope that you fought to give us. He is not the Sword of Elendil to be hammered and re-forged into a warrior's tool."

Unexpectedly, the King chuckled. Reaching out his arm behind Faramir's neck, he gripped the younger man's shoulder. "Faramir, you do give me hope. I can try to see all of him. I truly do want to see my son...it is just that I am not sure I know where to look.”

"I know that you have never stopped loving him. Just make sure that Eldarion knows it as well, even when you have to be stern with him or punish him. And do not expect him to be as you were at his age, at least not in all respects. The poor lad is probably daunted enough to be the son of the greatest King this realm has ever known."

"I prefer to write of those who have gone before us, my lord. You are still writing your own legend upon the world."

Faramir noticed that the floor was flat under him and the room only seemed to wobble a little. He supposed he had better start to move, or he would surely lose all dignity and fall asleep on the King's shoulder. Eowyn's shoulder, and their warm bed under her, would please him far more. The moon had not yet set, there was still time to go home and sleep for a few hours. Surely Aragorn needed his rest as well.

"Very well. Let us leave this place." The King returned the empty flask to his belt pouch. He rose up easily in a fluid stretch, and held out his hand to Faramir. The Steward stood up with somewhat less grace and more effort, grateful for the King's assistance. The floor still did not feel as solid under Faramir's feet as he would have preferred.

TBC - In Chapter 13, where it is proven that Faramir's route to Eowyn and their warm bed is neither simple nor painless.

MORE AUTHORS' NOTES: The Sindarin names for Faramir's home in Emyn Arnen and Legolas' domain in northern Ithilien are of our own invention; with the help of Ithildin, our friendly Sindarin interpreter at HASA. Tham Fain means White Hall; and Eryn Gelair means Bright (or Brilliant) Wood.

Unlike Faramir, we found most of our information on the palantir of Minas Tirith, and the other Seeing Stones, in one place - "The Palantiri", in Tolkien's UNFINISHED TALES. It's about as easy to figure out as how to use a palantir in the first place, but we did our best to figure out the details; and unlike our poor Steward, we didn't feel sick afterward.

Minas Ithil, the city Faramir renamed and is helping Aragorn restore, was formerly Minas Morgul, the stronghold of the Nazgûl. But before that, it was Minas Ithil, Tower of the Moon, an outpost of Gondor, captured by the Nazgûl in 2002 of the Third Age. In ROTK (the book), King Elessar swore to destroy the place before it could be “made clean”; it was implied that one reason he ordered Faramir to live in Emyn Arnen was so that Faramir could take charge of guarding and clearing out the Morgul Vale.

WARNING – There is adult content within this chapter with a little ‘implied sexuality’; nothing too graphic but if you don’t like, don’t read.

The King had insisted that Faramir hold onto his shoulder and walk behind him as they descended the long, winding staircase. Faramir obeyed, since he was starting to feel dazed again. The length and narrow width of the stairs concerned him less than the heavy, stuffy air around them. They reached the level of the conference chambers, then took the small staircase on the left to the Tower Hall. Just in time. "Please go on, my lord," Faramir said. "I will join you...in just a moment."

Aragorn's eyes held sympathy as he nodded and continued across the Hall and out the door.

Faramir noted grimly that the King left him not a minute too soon. He tried to run, hoping he could reach his chair. If he could bide there for a minute or two, he might allay the misery churning in both head and stomach. He made it as far as the statue of King Meneldil before his dinner came back up and out onto the floor. Thankfully he managed to avoid retching on the pedestal, while leaning on it for support.

Faramir struggled to regain his balance. The hall could not really be spinning around him! He wiped his face with a kerchief, then began to head slowly towards the double doors of the hall‘s main entrance. He was beginning to feel far older than his fifty-two years. His head felt strangely thick. All his senses were so dulled that he never noticed the movement behind him until something hard struck the back of his head. The shock of it chased away all other discomfort. His legs weakened; and he pitched forward onto the polished marble floor.

Aragorn sighed deeply in the cool night air. He thought back to the first time he had used a palantir. He had challenged Sauron himself through the Orthanc-stone. He had survived the contest unbowed but physically exhausted and sickened. Yet he suspected that it had been easier for him to face the Enemy than it had been for his friend to look into the Anor-Stone and see his father burning in the flames that had nearly claimed Faramir's own life. The act had only strengthened Aragorn’s respect for his Steward. He was also aware of the chagrin Faramir had felt at the weakness caused by the palantir's usage. The King stood by the open door and waited, to allow the younger man time to compose himself once more.

He was beginning to wonder if Faramir might be sicker than he had let on, when he heard what sounded like a stifled cry from within the Tower Hall. He opened the doors and peered inside the hall. To his horror, he saw a strange man in a dark blue hooded cloak astride Faramir's weakly struggling form, pinning him with a knee pressed into the Steward’s ribcage. The stranger was using one hand to shove Faramir's head against the floor while searching through the Steward's outer garments with the other.

The hooded man lifted his head. Hesitation showed on his face as he beheld the King of Gondor bearing down on him with anger burning in his eyes and his hand on his sword-hilt.

The intruder rose to his feet and began to move swiftly towards the North door on the other side of the Hall. Aragorn stopped at Faramir‘s side.

The Steward’s face was pale and bruised, but his blue eyes opened and blearily focused on the King.

Aragorn nodded once and then bounded off down the corridor after the fast retreating blue figure. It was a long time since the King had needed to run at full speed. Yet he had always been fleet of foot; and the distance between him and his quarry lessened in moments. The man in blue turned a corner and ran head first into two guardsmen who were answering their King’s command.

The three men fell in a tangled heap on the floor before Aragorn, who slid to a stop. The stranger was quicker than the guards and leapt to his feet. But the soldiers had been joined by other guardsmen who ran in from all the doors. They now circled the stranger and barred him from further retreat.

“What were you doing to my Steward?” he asked. He unsheathed Hathol túr,the new blade fashioned for him in a joint effort by Legolas and Gimli. Anduril hung in his own chamber, preserved against greater need. Just as well, the Flame of the West was too noble and storieda blade to sully on a cowardly assassin!

Narrow black eyes flashed dangerously as Faramir’s attacker pulled a bloodstained scimitar from his belt.

“Easy,” Aragorn commanded his men. They stood now in the corridor in a semi circle around the stranger, each with their swords ready.

“Drop your weapons,” Aragorn commanded with an explicatory motion. "Or I will kill you where you stand."

Shouting an incomprehensible war cry, the stranger threw himself at the King, scimitar slashing down in a swift clean motion. Seeing the move, Aragorn stepped to the right and drove Hathol túr into his assailant‘s heart. The blue figure let out a stunned gasp and then fell to the floor. He twitched for a few seconds, then ceased to breathe.

The King knelt beside the body. He wiped the blood from his blade on the dark blue cloak that shrouded the man, and sheathed the sword. Then he reached forward and removed the dead man's hood. He had been a fairly young man; with black hair, dark eyes, dark skin and a wide-cheeked face marred by tattoos. Aragorn had fought many warriors of similar cast; this man had been an Easterling. The dead man’s only emblem was a small silver star with a turquoise at its centre, used to fasten his cloak. Aragorn removed the clasp; he would show it to Faramir anon.

Aragorn raised his eyes. The circle of guards had parted to reveal, leaning against the wall for support and his hand trying desperately to slow the blood that oozed from the back of his head, the very pale aspect of his Steward.

There was no doubting the strain on the Steward’s face. Faramir nodded slowly, and, it seemed to Aragorn’s practiced eye, painfully. “Does he have the stone?” Faramir repeated urgently.

Aragorn’s eyes widened in understanding. He turned back to the body and combed through the stranger’s clothes. He could feel his panic rising as he found nothing but then his eyes fell onto the man’s left hand. He prised apart the dead man’s fingers to reveal the treasure that they had sought to withhold even in death. Aragorn gulped as he lifted the green stone and held it up.

“Is this what you mean?” he asked, rolling the Stone of Silence between his thumb and forefinger. Then he placed it in the pouch on his own belt. “It shall be safer in my care,” he muttered. “At least until the morrow.”

Aragorn stood. “Take him away and have him buried,” he commanded the guards, and moved to put a supportive arm around Faramir. “I think, my dear Steward, we must have the Healers see to your head. That is a nasty cut and one you could least afford given your activities earlier this night. Perhaps we should consider the possibility of arranging adjoining rooms for you and Eowyn at the Houses of Healing while we are there."

Faramir smiled grimly at the King's words. He hoped that Aragorn was jesting. He accepted the King’s help and together they walked slowly through the hall, as weariness broke over Faramir like a wave.

The first cock had crowed and Earendil had arisen to herald the new day when Faramir finally climbed into bed beside his wife.

She moved closer and curled her body into his embrace. “You’re cold,” she purred softly.

He sighed. Actually, he felt rather warm; and had declined to wear a nightshirt. His head still throbbed from the flat of the Easterling’s blade. Mercifully, the sickness seemed to have ebbed. Though the King had ordered him to take rest, the events of the night continued to trouble him.

He thought again of the Easterling. The man must have gone into the Tower while he and Aragorn were in the palantir chamber during the guards’ absence. The Easterling had attacked him specifically; he had to have known that Faramir held the green stone. Could Pallando have played them false? No. Had Pallando wanted the stone, he possessed the power to have taken it from Faramir during their first meeting, when they walked alone from the Library. It was likely to be Alatar who was behind this attempt, and the attempt in the tunnels in Mordor, to find Saruman's stone. Aragorn had shown Faramir the badge that the assassin had worn. It was of the same design as the emblem borne by the man who had attacked Faramir in the tunnels. Was there something he was missing, some important piece of the puzzle? Wearily Faramir fingered his head wound, realizing how close he had come to death this night.

If he had fallen in the Tower Hall, then he would not be here, beside his Eowyn, and the child she carried would never know its father. A sudden tear pricked Faramir’s eye at the thought. He had not given much thought to this child; he had been more concerned with Eowyn. But something told him that the child would be born, alive and whole, and Eowyn would come through its birth in good health. He wondered whether it would be another strong boy or a pretty little girl. He did not particularly care whether this babe would be son or daughter. They all went through the same patterns of learning to talk, taking their first steps, riding in Eowyn's arms and then her lap before they could walk, mastering horses on their own, running through the gardens, climbing trees, skinning knees, learning their letters or bedeviling their tutors. The childhood ailments, the dirt they brought in, the noise. . . He smiled absurdly, suddenly impatient for it all to begin again with this new child.

"What will you be, little one?" Faramir asked silently. "Whatever you are, whoever you become, I promise, your fatherwill always see you."

He looked down at his lady. He was unable to suppress the fond smile that arose whenever he beheld her awaken. Eowyn always looked winsome when she waked, cheeks pink and eyes still soft with sleep. He caressed her face, moving his hand down her cheekbone towards her soft lips. A shame it was that he was exhausted and she needed to refrain from exertion.

Suddenly her blue eyes brightened. She pulled herself up, with difficulty because of the bulk of her abdomen. “Faramir,” she said. “There’s a bandage around your head!”

“What has happened?” Sleep left her glistening eyes, to be replaced by sword-keen concern.

He then went on to recount the events of the night in full. Eowyn buried her head deep into his chest as she listened intently to Faramir’s melodious voice.

When he had ended his tale, she sat up, put her hands on Faramir’s shoulders, and kissed him long and fiercely. “Faron nîn. . .” Eowyn murmured. “Faron thalion nîn.”

Eowyn only used that particular endearment when she was deeply moved. Faramir’s heart swelled. So did another part of his body. He stretched his legs, then invoked the memory of Dame Ioreth approaching him in the Houses of Healing bearing one of her ghastly tisanes and a determined look on her kind and very weathered visage. That was better. There was no sense in beginning a dance he could not finish. He felt rather guilty at even thinking of pleasure while his lady was unable to partake of it, burdened as she was with his child.

“Thou art the bravest husband I could ever have!” Eowyn continued, in the familiar mode of Westron.

She muttered something in Rohirric under her breath, hit him lightly on his arm with a balled fist, and stated "If I had five, six, ten husbands; and all were Kings of Gondor or Rohan, you would still be the bravest and the best."

He smiled appreciatively but it turned into a very wide yawn. “As long as I do not have to battle them all for you today. I am tired,” he said.

“I cannot,” he said with a hint of desperation. “It will not come. The King and I will meet in the late morning. We mean to use the two stones to revive Eldarion. That leaves me not many hours to sleep. Yet I fear that Aragorn will take no rest; and he needs it far more than I do.”

Eowyn moved away from him but her eyes gleamed with mischief. “Let Arwen look to Aragorn. You are mine to attend. Turn over and lie down,” she commanded.

Faramir arched his eyebrows in question but did as he was bid, stretching out on his belly. Eowyn moved astride him, appreciating as always the supple grace of his body. Though hurt by this night‘s cowardly attack, her lord was still most fair in face and form. She had missed their joining these last few weeks. And now the Healers had decreed there would be no more until she had recovered from the child’s birth.

“Are you allowed to do this?” Faramir mumbled through the pillows. “Does it constitute bed rest?”

Eowyn bent down to whisper in his ear. “I am still abed, am I not?” She leaned down and licked his earlobe in a delightfully wanton manner.

Eowyn proceeded to give her husband the most wonderful back rub he had ever known. Her hands, which could wield a sword or train a stubborn colt, were strong yet so soft, Faramir noted sleepily. She massaged his tight, knotted muscles and felt the tension flow out of his body as he finally relaxed. By the time she rolled off his back, Faramir was snoring lightly. Eowyn lay beside him, one arm protecting the bulge in her belly and the other pillowing her head on her husband‘s strong shoulder.

TBC - Faramir goes from frying pan to fire for Eldarion's sake in Chapter. 14. Don’t expect the chapter to post before September 7; Labor Day is coming up in the USA.

MORE AUTHORS‘ NOTES - Hathol túr, the name of Aragorn’s new sword, is Sindarin for blade of victory or victory blade. We helped the King name it, with some excellent advice from Berzerker prime of HASA...Faron means hunter in Sindarin; which makes it an appropriate nickname for Faramir. Faron thalion nin means my brave (actually thalion = dauntless man or hero) hunter in Sindarin. Ithildin, another talented Sindarin scholar at HASA, helped us figure that out.

Semi-obligatory AUTHORS’ NOTES: Curumo, the original Quenya name of Saruman, is occasionally used in reference to the dear departed White Hand...And the Elvish (specifically Quenya) name of Aragorn’s green elfstone, not seen in the movie, is Elessar, which is also his royal name. To make matters more confusing, “Elfstone” and “Elessar” are used interchangeably in the books for Aragorn, his royal title, and the stone itself. Aragorn’s official name is “King Elessar Telcontar”. That’s the short version anyway.

Apologies: we have noticed in recent chapters that some words have run together after the text has been posted. We didn't write them that way! Must be orcs on the Internet!

Faramir hoped that the Queen’s servants would speed the stirring of the fire in the hearth. They had not laid enough kindling. He could set a proper fire faster himself, and so could the King. He kept silent. They were not his servants to command; and this was the King’s House, not his. The room felt oddly cool for an April morning, especially after the warmth of the previous night. Faramir found the chill unpleasant as he sat silently beside Eldarion's bed, then chided himself for becoming quite the whining beldame. The weather was really the least of his concerns.

Faramir had slept deeply for a few blessed hours, thanks to Eowyn's wonderful hands. He had awakened with renewed resolve to help Aragorn revive Eldarion. He had also awakened with continued tenderness in the back of his head, thanks to the Easterling's blow. He had removed the bandage as he walked to the King's Quarters. It gave no more help; and he would not call attention to such a minor injury before the parents of the unconscious boy.

When he had entered Eldarion‘s bedchamber, Faramir had caught a worried look in Aragorn’s eyes. Glimpsing his own reflection in the silver ewer atop the table, he had been somewhat surprised at the toll taken by the long night's events. His haggard face would frighten children. It did not matter; he was still strong enough in mind and body for the task that lay before them.

So, when his King had asked him whether he was able to proceed, Faramir had resolutely pledged his aid.

He sat now waiting. Arwen sat on the other side of the bed, humming softly and stroking her son’s cheek. She appeared far more serene than the sorely troubled lady he had seen on the previous day and night. The King stood at the window, both the healing stones visible in his hands. He was talking with Pallando, searching for further assurance. Faramir did not doubt that his King would attempt Pallando's method of using the two stones to awaken Eldarion. But, like any father, Aragorn would prefer a less dangerous way to save his son.

Finally the King nodded curtly and moved to stand by Arwen. He bent and whispered in her ear.

"You must leave now, my lady; and go to safety with our daughters. If this effort we make today does not go well, if we fall to some wizard's trick, then you must be free to fight whatever evil may come. Word will reach you soon, no matter what happens."

The Queen nodded. She rose, with one last lingering look at her son, gave Aragorn a rueful stare and a quick kiss, and left the room. Her servants followed, leaving a weakly sputtering fire behind the grate of the hearth.

"Before we begin," Aragorn said, fixing Pallando with a challenging stare; "You should know that if Faramir and I do not walk out of this chamber as our own free selves, I have left orders that shall send death to the East, and in particular to your friend Alatar."

"You would make an excellent horse trader, King of the West." Pallando replied. The wizard's answer failed to amuse Faramir.

“Aye, my lord,” the Steward of Gondor answered purposefully. “I am ready.” The fateful green stone was now set in a circular brooch wrought of silver. Arwen's work, no doubt. She would have the skill and the means to so attach it in the few hours since Aragorn had pulled the jewel from the dead Easterling's hand.

"Take up the Stone of Silence, Faramir." directed Pallando. "Hold it in your hand a moment."

Faramir obeyed, taking the stone from Aragorn’s hand. He felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle as memories arose, unbidden, of the horror this green stone had caused, to him, his family, his King, and his King's son. This day would end it, he vowed. He would see Eldarion awakened, no matter what the cost. He had to believe the Blue Wizard's words, but doubt still troubled him.

"First, before we use this very special little bauble, we must erase all trace of any fell influence that came on it after it was taken from its maker in the Fall of Eregion," Pallando explained. "As I have told you before, this stone was made by Celebrimbor, master Jewel-smith of Eregion, to calm a weary mind, not to ensnare the unwary. I know that Curumo, who you call Saruman, twisted the stone's original purpose to his own ends. What we do not know is how, or from whom, Curumo obtained it. If Sauron held the stone, we must know if he also turned the stone to his evil purpose. Do not fear; it will not take long. Lord King, stand in readiness now. Look into your Elfstone, the Elessar, and think hard on how well you have used it. And while you do so, hold your son."

The King sat carefully on his son's bed and lifted the boy to a sitting position against his shoulder. Eldarion's head lolled to one side and his eyes fluttered briefly, but did not open. Faramir noticed with a pang that the boy had been recently bathed and dressed in fresh garments. His black hair was freshly cut, and damp. But the care did not disguise the lad's sadly weakened condition. He was so very thin now, a shadow of the healthy youngster Faramir had last seen in Saruman's tower.

“Then let us begin,” the King said softly. He held his son with his left arm and the Elfstone in his right hand. The King’s stone was also green, somewhat larger and more brilliant than the Stone of Silence, and set into a silver brooch shaped like an eagle with flared wings. Faramir remembered that another of Aragorn’s names had been Thorongil, the Eagle of the Star. ‘Valar protect them both,’ he prayed; fearing for the eagle king and his spellbound fledgling.

“Faramir, you must now look into the Stone of Silence,” Pallando said gently. There was warmth in his voice; but Faramir felt only sudden cold.

Faramir could feel his apprehension rise. He glanced at Aragorn who now stared at the Elfstone from which he had taken the greatest of his names. Shaking his head, Faramir looked into the green depths of the Stone of Silence. His head began to ache and he shook it in a vain attempt to clear it.

“Steward!” Pallando’s voice hissed close to his ear. “You must not fight this. Let yourself go. It is not Curumo himself who awaits you in the Stone, only the fear of what he did to you. This trinket is not Sauron's Ring or even any Ring of Power. This stone is a far more rudimentary tool that cannot ensnare anyone without the will of a living man to wield it. "

Faramir licked his lips. Now that the time had come, his heart recoiled from communion with the stone. He felt cornered like a fox at bay. Then the stone's brilliant facets seemed to separate, and he saw a vision that caused him to gasp in shock. He dropped the stone, lurched to his feet; and stumbled out of the room and into the corridor. Aragorn stared at him in bewilderment and Pallando cursed loudly.

Out in the corridor and breathing deeply, Faramir assumed his now tediously familiar pose of leaning against the wall to support himself.

“I expect too much of you,” Aragorn’s sad voice came from behind him. “Always you have done what I have asked. But this time, this peril, Saruman’s legacy...it is more than I should ever have allowed you to try.”

Faramir took a deep breath and turned towards his King. But he could not bear to lift his eyes to those of Aragorn.

Aragorn raised his hands to stop him. “You have done enough, Faramir. This is my burden. I hold both stones. I will use them to revive my son, alone.”

“And you will fail!” cried Pallando, from where he stood in the doorway regarding them.

Aragorn stiffened, and answered with chill anger: "You said that the stone could not ensnare Faramir; that the White Wizard did not linger inside it! Does Saruman still reach out to trap him? We should leave Faramir out of this! My Steward has suffered enough pain from that cursed stone!

“Your Steward is the key, Elessar! He was the one who was first enthralled by the stone, and he was the one to defy Saruman's hold. Saruman put his own considerable will and power into this stone, ere he lost all the greatness that had been his. I cannot remove that power unless the stone is borne by a person on who it has been used, or if the stone is employed again to seize another mind. Eldarion's soul is too faraway to kindle the stone if we were to put it on him. And I doubt that you would permit me to enslave some other person's mind with the stone, even for the purposes of using it to free another. Nor do I wish to be a slave-master. Faramir must bear the Stone of Silence. And the stone must be cleansed of all evil before you can use it to free your son. I know of no other way to revive the boy.” His voice gentled. “Faramir, was it Saruman you saw? What caused you to draw away?”

Faramir looked away from two pairs of enquiring eyes. Pallando moved to stand beside the King.

Faramir nodded slowly. He ran his hand through his hair. “Saruman,” he said softly. “Saruman looked back at me!”

Pallando let out his breath slowly. “Well, that is interesting!” he breathed. “The old buzzard's spell was stronger than I thought. I did not believe there would be that much left of Curumo's intent to survive in the stone.” He shook his head not even trying to conceal his obvious appreciation.

“Saruman is dead!” Aragorn snapped impatiently. He turned to the Blue Wizard. “Is he not?”

Pallando chuckled. “Most definitely,” he replied. “We Istari know these things. That, and I helped Alatar bury him, he was our brother once before we left Home...” His blue eyes stared uncompromisingly at Faramir. “He really sank his hook deep into your heart, didn't he, my friend!”

Faramir felt his resolve return in force. His voice was glacial but strong with purpose. “No, he did not,” he said, unsure whether he was trying to persuade the others or himself. “I let him hold sway over me for seven years. I let him have that power and many suffered because of it, not least my King. But I confronted him. I made him reveal that he had no magic left, just his honeyed words and objects like this. He failed to renew his hold on me. I survived and Saruman died. I will not let him haunt me. Not now and not ever again.”

“No, Faramir,” he said. “You shall risk no further danger for my son‘s sake. I cannot let you do it.”

Their eyes met. Faramir held Aragorn’s gaze for a long second. Then his face broke into a tired smile. “I bid you try to stop me, my King!” he said grimly.

“You are certain?” Aragorn pressed. Slowly, almost reluctantly, he released his grip on Faramir's shoulder.

“I will not be defeated by a foresworn and corrupted wizard!” Faramir stated proudly. “I am Lord of the House of Húrin. My ancestors held Gondor for nigh a thousand years. Eldarion is the hope of Gondor’s future, and must be saved! It would take more than the image of the White Hand to weaken my resolve. It was a shock to see him there; that is all. This time I am ready for him!” So saying, the Steward strode back into the Prince’s room.

Aragorn stared at Pallando. The Wizard raised his heavy gray eyebrows. “You have a brave servant there, King of Gondor, a credit to his line. You are not contemplating spurning his assistance are you?”

“He is no servant,” Aragorn answered. Faramir is my friend; more than that, he has been as dear as the closest of kin to me. I would not have him suffer more.”

Pallando snorted. “Faramir is Arandur, the King's Servant. Such is the essence of the Steward’s office. At least you do not expect him to manage the royal stables as his distant ancestors before Húrin might have done. Will he not suffer more if you stop him now? He is intent on restoring that boy to life, and to you. Now he has been so close to helping you and failed, what will it do to him to deny him the chance to redeem himself?”

“Not from you, King Elessar, but he believes that his duty to help your son is unfulfilled! You know that Faramir is a man of honour. He has never fully forgiven himself for the attack he made on you under Curumo's influence. This is Faramir's last chance to make it up to you by ending Curumo's legacy. You must go on, not only for your son's sake but now also for Faramir. If you stop here, you might as well plunge your dagger into Faramir’s heart, for you will lose forever the man he is!”

The King and the Steward took up their positions once more. Aragorn did not like the look of grey fatigue on his friend's face, but he trusted that Faramir knew his own limits well enough to weather the rigors of the task that awaited them. Sighing, he returned to Eldarion's bed and held the boy while concentrating on the Elfstone. Aragorn thought back on all the times he had used the jewel, the struggle, the joy he felt in rekindling the life force of the sick and the injured. Faramir had been the first one he had used the Elfstone to heal. The retrieval of the dying Steward from the Shadow’s grip had been a sore trial indeed, but one of the most satisfying victories of his life. For the hands of a King should be the hands of a healer as well as the hands of a warrior. In awakening under his touch and hailing him as King, Faramir had given him a singular grace that had lifted Aragorn’s battle-weary spirit. Aragorn suddenly smiled. He remembered Faramir’s words last night about fathers and sons and the power they held over each other.

The King of Arnor and Gondor looked at his Elfstone, the first man he had ever healed with it, and the son he must heal with the stone today. A circle of past and present and future linked them, and would bring them all home.

They were ready. Aragorn held Eldarion in his right arm and the Elfstone in his left hand, his determined gaze focused on the green stone that was the gift of Galadriel and Arwen. Pallando stood slightly behind the King. A bowl of water stood on the table beside Eldarion's bed, sprigs of kingsfoil laid on it, ready to be used at the appropriate time.

Faramir looked once at the Elfstone with which the King had once saved his life and soul, then considered the green stone he held in his own hand. They are linked, he thought; both were originally made to heal, not to harm, by an elf strong enough to defy Sauron himself. Sauron never conquered Celebrimbor's spirit, only his mortal body. Strange it was that the two stones alike in original purpose now returned to close proximity. The Elfstone that had healed Faramir now lay in his King's hand. The stone that had harmed Faramir, his King, and the King's innocent son, glimmered coolly in a silver circle on Faramir's palm. The stones held power, he finally understood, but that power could only be wielded through the hands and hearts of the stones' bearers. Somehow, he would use this tool to help Aragorn heal the boy. Taking a deep breath, Faramir bore down on the Stone of Celebrimbor with all the concentration he could muster.

The echo of Saruman's malevolence was still there. This time, the wizard’s shadowy presence did not scare him. It was far less grievous than what he had seen in the palantir. He glimpsed Saruman's cruel visage. The wizard’s voice whispered in Quenya, words scrabbling like a cat clawing a tree: something about listening only to his voice, obeying only his will. Faramir suddenly remembered hearing the exact same words before, in the cave in Ithilien, when he had first been held and ensorcelled by Saruman. No more, he resolved grimly; I have the advantage now. For all Saruman's vaunted skill, he was defeated and dead and would never hurt anyone again.

Pallando was talking to him. Faramir heard, as from a distance, the Blue Wizard's excited voice: "That's right, my lord Steward. Now, attach it to your clothing, near your heart, and we will continue."

"Mithrandir, you had better have been right." Faramir thought to himself as he followed Pallando's instruction. He had trusted Mithrandir with his life...just as Mithrandir had once trusted Saruman. That trust had cost the Grey Pilgrim and the Kingdoms of the West dearly. Could Mithrandir have been wrong to put his faith in Pallando?

Faramir suddenly smiled, remembering his father's accusation, long ago. He was most certainly a wizard's pupil this day. And yet, his father had come to worse harm by trusting an ancient stone devised by the grandfather of the elf who had made the stone that Faramir now bore. Perhaps that had happened because Denethor had relied too much on the stone and not enough on his true perception of the actual world. Faramir had not loved and trusted Mithrandir because of his staff or his ring or even his wondrous fireworks. The wizard’s tools and powers had been mighty in the fight against the Shadow, had saved many lives, including those of his own men and himself. But it was Mithrandir's kindness and knowledge that had drawn Faramir to the Grey Pilgrim.

Pallando was not Mithrandir. Still, Faramir's instincts had told him that Pallando wished to save Eldarion, and they still did. Faramir took the stone and fastened it to his tunic an inch or so above his heart. Straightening, he looked expectantly at Pallando, awaiting the next step on this strange path.

The wizard took up his long cedarwood staff, tipped with a deep blue stone. He smiled gently, stepped back and pointed it directly at Faramir.

"This may sting a little" the Blue Wizard said. Then a fierce blue light surged out of the staff and into Faramir, stabbing him like a spear of fire.

TBC in Chapter 15, where we find that although not all those who wander are lost, some of them really could use a guide.

Authors' Notes: Pallando usually refers to Saruman by the latter's Quenya name, Curumo. Tham Fain is Faramir's home in Ithilien.

As the strange blue light speared his heart, Faramir lost the ability to move. He could do nothing to stop the frightful pain as it spread, burning throughout his sinews. Somewhere, a deep voice roared in an ancient tongue: "I name you bane! I cast you out, shadow of Curumo's evil!"

Faramir sensed rather than saw that he was wreathed in the blue light, as if he were on fire. The blue flames scoured his body and mind and the stone as well.

An unknowable time passed. He held back the screams that welled up in his throat. Finally, pain and light dimmed. The flames retreated, leaving Faramir whole again. And not burned at all. He lay on the floor, without any recollection of having fallen. His lower lip felt sore. Licking it, he tasted the tang of his own blood.

Pallando was staring down at him in an owlish fashion. Extending his arm, he asked "That was not so bad, was it?" And, without waiting for an answer, pulled Faramir to his unsteady feet.

Faramir was still not entirely capable of putting words together in a proper fashion. Standing up was hard enough. Better to sit a moment in the chair than fall down again. Faramir was growing very tired of falling down, having done so too often in but the last day and night.

"He'll be fine." The wizard chirped. "I told you that I had to ascertain what traces of Saruman and possibly Sauron remained in the stone before we proceed further. I have just completed my examination."

"I cast out all trace of Curumo from this little elf-trinket. There was no evidence that Sauron ever fiddled with the Stone of Silence, but I had to make sure. It is once again as Celebrimbor fashioned it, a stone to aid in the easing of a tired mind rather than a tool to dominate a mind unwilling. Since you were my link to the stone, Faramir, I spied you out while I cleared the stone. You may be pleased to know that you were free of any taint of Curumo's evil before I ever looked into you. You apparently learned well how to fortify your soul against his intrusion, my young friend."

Faramir felt neither young nor particularly friendly towards the wizard, but Pallando's verdict was very welcome. "Shall we get on with rest of it, then?" he asked.

"Good lad!" Pallando said approvingly, beaming down at the disgruntled Steward. The wizard was talking to him the way that Faramir sometimes talked to the house-dogs in Tham Fain. Faramir hoped that Pallando was not going to ruffle his hair. Because if he did, then Faramir would seize the Blue Wizard by his blue collar and heave him bodily from the room! He was in no mood to countenance such familiarity from someone he hardly knew.

"Now, Lord Faramir, we begin the real work" Pallando announced. "Go and sit near the boy, and take his hand. King Elessar, now you can wear the Elfstone, but please continue to hold your son's other hand. I know you are impatient, but bide a moment."

Faramir stood up, then carried the chair to Eldarion's bedside. Seeing that Aragorn was having some difficulty pinning the Elfstone to his collar one-handed, Faramir reached out and finished the chore. The King's stone felt strangely warm to his touch. Did it....glow? The King looked up at Faramir, surprise in his eyes. He had felt it, or seen it, too.

"Do not fear, my young friends." Pallando said. "The Stone of Silence and the Stone of Renewal are kin; and can now work in concert. Faramir, you shall begin it, by entering a healer's trance. Close your eyes, and use the stone you bear to take the King to his son. You will know when the time is right to return."

Faramir closed his eyes, feeling his breathing slow, then took Eldarion's hand in his. What should he do now? Though Faramir could staunch a wound and bandage it, he had not the King's gift of healing hands.

"You have it in you to be a healer, if not in quite the same way as Elessar." Pallando told him. "You always yearned to right was wrong, to mend what was broken; and as Steward you have indeed done so. You also bear the heart of a seeker, for the trail of Sauron's allies, for knowledge, or the truth of any matter. So Gandalf told me. You were very dear to him."

Faramir smiled, warmed by the memory of Mithrandir's trust. He had seen Aragorn initiate a trance through which he would call a suffering or unconscious person back to health. By all accounts and indeed his own memory of a time out of mind, that was how the King had healed him, too. He wondered what the Elessar stone had to do with the working of the trance, for Arwen's father and brothers, healers all, had not needed elfstones to do the same thing. Of course the Lord Elrond and his sons were Elves, and had a great measure of such power. He could ask Aragorn, but somehow it was important that he counsel the King rather than the reverse, and take the lead as they began this journey.

"I keep this City; I hold Gondor for my King," he declared, "I am Steward, Defender, and I would be Mender. And I will use this healer's stone to seek my King's son."

Faramir let down his guard and gave himself over to the stone, willing it to take him to where he needed to go, to find the boy whose hand he held. For awhile he felt nothing out of the ordinary. Then he was moving; or part of him, since his feet seemed to stay on the ground. It was as if he were suddenly wind-borne, and adrift in a great green-shining sea. He was leaving all he knew to be solid and real. Yet he was not alone! The King stood with him, or at least he could feel Aragorn's presence as if their hands held the same line of rope on a storm-tossed deck. Faramir glimpsed, very briefly, a tall, silver-haired Elf with a grave face, who seemed to look back at him with a wise but kindly gaze.

His awareness shifted once more. He could see very little, but had the impression of being on an endless, mist-shrouded plain under sunless grey skies. Faramir noticed that he no longer felt any weakness, or pain or fatigue, there was very little physical sensation at all. Yet he detected a sense of heat and strength emanating from the Stone of Silence that was still placed above his heart. His clothes had altered; he was once more wearing the simple garments of a Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, though his cloak seemed well-made rather than tattered.

"You have come a great distance, yet not really all that far, mellon-nin," said Aragorn, who stood behind him.

"I think so. We have been...here...before." Faramir replied. He was not at all sure where "here" was, but he knew he had once been lost in it. He remembered his weariness as he had tried to fend off horrible wraiths and distortions, under a Shadow he could not escape, in this strange landscape that was not of any true earth, but outside it. Then his King had come and given him hope; recalled him to light and life...

"True. It is strange to see you here. I have only worked with my Elven brethren and father in this place before, never another mortal Man. But it is good that you are with me; you belong at my side. I think you were destined to come here in hope instead of shadow." Aragorn smiled. He was attired much as Faramir remembered from that time of pain and darkness; in a grey cloak over elven-mail, seeming as much Elf as Dúnedain. The star of Elendil gleamed in its circlet around the King's brow. And the Elessar, the Stone of Renewal, shone brightest of all on the King's breast.

"Are these our true selves, or the way we perceive ourselves to be?" wondered Faramir.

"And this plain outside of the world...It is a waiting-place of sorts, is it not?" Faramir inquired, trying to comprehend the incomprehensible. "Between the light and the darkness, the waking and the sleeping of souls." He was minded of the bridge of Osgiliath, for which he and Boromir had fought so long and at such cost, long ago.

"Wizard's pupil, indeed!" Aragorn answered. "You might have come far in the healing arts under Elrond's tutelage. He taught me to forge a gateway to the soul of the injured or the ill, and then help the stricken one return to waking life. The powers of Shadow can drag a soul down to terrible darkness or just to a place without form or light, where the soul becomes lost and the body then succumbs."

"I remember," said Faramir. He shuddered to think of Eldarion sundered from the world on a wizard's whim, abandoned in this cheerless place bereft of warmth or hope. There would be other times to ponder the intricacies of this amazing journey. Right now, they must both bring their minds to bear on the task at hand, finding the lost boy. If they truly stood now in a passage of their own creation, then only the constancy of their will could assure that path's continuance and the fragile existence of the boy to which it must lead.

Faramir remembered that he was supposed to find the way... And recalled again the words of his dream: "The guided shall become the guide."

"Aragorn, you must think of Eldarion now." Faramir counselled his friend. For surely a father's love would point the way to his lost son. "Think of his birth, and the day you first saw him walk. Remember the first time he called out to you, and the first time he rode a horse. Think of all you have planned for him; and all that you hope he will be. See the boy that was, and the boy that is waiting for you. See all of him. Come, and let us find him."

Time slipped away as they moved through the pallid world. There was no sun or moon or stars to give direction, only the pull of the heart. Faramir knew that Eldarion was out there, somewhere, but could not glean the boy's location. He glanced at Aragorn, and was heartened to see that his friend's face had a familiar look. Aragorn's eyes were narrowed, his face thrust slightly forward; like a Ranger following a trail. Faramir had seen that look on his own men many a time, had felt the keen excitement of such a hunt himself. "You know he is in this place, do you not?"

Aragorn smiled thinly, his entire body taut with eagerness. And something else. Hope. "Yes, I can finally feel Eldarion's presence in this world. He is not dead! But he is still far from us, too far for him to hear my call."

They continued, Faramir walking slightly ahead of Aragorn. Suddenly, Aragorn began to sing in a low voice:

It was the Lay of Luthien, one of the Queen's favourite songs. Remembering days of feasting and revelry at the King's table, when songs had flowed like wine, Faramir instinctively joined in on the second verse. Though his tone lacked the smoothness of the King's trained voice, he was a passable singer. Words always had power. Perhaps this song's fair words could somehow help find the last, lost son of Beren and Luthien's line.

They sang the many verses together, celebrating the glory of the fairest of all Elves, Luthien, whose beauty was born again in Gondor's own queen, and the undying love that Luthien shared with the mortal Beren. It seemed to Faramir that Aragorn grew stronger with every verse, not just in the timbre of his voice, but in his determination.

"It is Eldarion's favourite song," Aragorn said quietly after they had sung the last word. "Arwen and I used it as a lullaby; when he was a babe and cross with teething pains; and his nurse could not quiet him." Aragorn laughed. "He never tired of it, though we both did, after repeating the song five or more times!"

The air took on a brighter aspect. Glints of gold shone through the grey mist. Faramir turned and gazed ahead, then looked harder. In the distance, he could see a tower. The structure was formed in the shape of the White Tower, but black as Saruman's tower in Mordor.

Faramir paused. He still could not feel the presence of the boy they had come here to find. But for the first time, the King could now sense his son's whereabouts himself. He had guided Aragorn, but somehow, Faramir knew that he had taken his friend as far as he could. The time had come for Aragorn to continue alone, and bring back his son.

"Eldarion! Hear my voice, my son! Your father loves you. Come back, come back to the light." The grey vale resounded with the tremendous power of the King's voice. Faramir remembered it well; and his own spirit rose to hear the King call his lost son home.

But he felt a distance grow and swell between them. Faramir was pulled away from the King. No matter; he was no longer needed. "You must go on alone now" he told Aragorn, not sure whether his friend heard him. "Keep calling him; Eldarion will hear you."

And then Faramir was twisted in a strange, wild wind. Time and space folded around him; the star on Aragorn's brow flashed and turned green; and Faramir fell between sky and a shimmering green sea.

Faramir opened his eyes in the bedchamber where Eldarion still lay in his father's arms. The green of Aragorn's Elfstone, which first filled Faramir's eyes, receded as proper perspective was restored. But O, Elbereth, the King was so pale, his face all greyed with fatigue. Had Aragorn expended that much strength in healing him? Faramir wondered. If so, how had Aragorn managed to continue for hours, healing Eowyn and Merry and so many others? He grasped his lord's wrist with a shaky hand, and was relieved to find a steady pulse. He would have to be patient. The King would return.

As for himself, Faramir was hopeful, somewhat numb, and very thirsty. He helped himself to some water from the pitcher on the table, almost tripping over Pallando, who was snoring face down on the table, in the process of getting a cup.

How long had he walked with Aragorn in that strange otherworld? By the degree of light in the now sun-drenched room, it had been at least an hour since they had been . . .gone.

Suddenly there was a sound of movement from the bed. Aragorn opened his eyes. "Can you bring the kingsfoil and the bowl over here?" he asked, smiling. "We are almost at the end of our road and I will hold him until we have reached it."

Speechless with excitement, Faramir took up the bowl of steaming water and the herbs, and carried them to Aragorn. He watched patiently as Aragorn took first the athelas, breathed on the herbs, and crushed them with the ease of long practice, into the bowl. A sweet scent tingled strongly, pervading the heavy air throughout the chamber with the smell of spring, of joy and rebirth. Faramir pushed the bowl slightly closer to Eldarion, feeling his own heart lighten.

"Return to me, Eldarion!" Aragorn called with confidence and love. "Walk no more in the shadows, my son, but awake!"

One, two, three, four, five long seconds passed. Faramir held his breath. And then, Eldarion's slack face tightened, he stirred, moaned like a very tired child, and opened his eyes.

"My Lord. . . Faramir?" Eldarion said faintly as he beheld the Steward. He lifted his head; and twisted to see whose arms encircled him. "Father?!" the boy exclaimed.

Aragorn released his hold. Eldarion turned and gazed intently at his father. Slowly, the boy raised his hand to his father's face. "I dreamt of you" he said, his voice soft with wonder. "You came to find me, Father. I did not think you would, but you called me home."

"I will always find you, my son." Aragorn answered, his eyes filling with tears of joy. "And I will never let you go so far from me again."

The notion of Faramir as a mender of the broken or hurt was inspired by nrink nrink's excellent story THE PHRYGIAN FLUTE, on fan fiction . net.

Aragorn's exhortation "Walk no more in the shadows...but awake!" is the same he gave to Faramir after healing him in The Houses of Healing, ROTK, minus "my son".

Finally, HAPPY BIRTHDAY to David Wenham on September 21! You're an inspiration mate!

There should be bells ringing, Faramir mused. Perhaps Aragorn awaited Arwen's return to send out the order. Aragorn had already sent word of their success to Imrahil, and summoned the Queen, who had been taken with their daughters to a safe retreat in the mountains. The King could not stop smiling, nay, grinning as he had when Eldarion had been born. The boy was alive and very much awake. Faramir had sent for food; Aragorn now attacked a loaf of bread and a slab of cheese with the appetite of two starved hobbits. Eldarion ate as well, but far less. The boy's stomach had shrunk; too much food loaded into it at once would only sicken him.

Faramir drowsily observed the King and his son for a few minutes. Then he rose and made his way past the snoring wizard to sit in the chair nearest to the partially opened window, eager to feel the fresh breeze. The day-heat had grown in the last hour or two. His head wound throbbed once more and his leg stiffened painfully.

Faramir closed his eyes and rested his thundering head in his hands, fighting back the sick feeling in his stomach. He could finally shed the burden of care he had carried for months, the nagging guilt that he had not wholly fulfilled his vow to save Eldarion. The reunion of Aragorn and his son truly was a welcome sight. He would be even happier to watch them after he had slept for perhaps a week or more.

"Faramir, will you not break fast with us?" Aragorn asked cheerfully as he started to eat his way through a large cluster of grapes. "Healing drains the strength, you must replenish yours. Hmm, son, take some more broth," he urged Eldarion, who smiled at the Steward. The boy had scarcely had the chance to greet Faramir before his father had begun fussing at him to eat lightly and drink as much as possible. "These grapes are especially good," Aragorn observed, tearing the cluster in two and offering one half to Faramir.

The thought of eating made Faramir even more ill. "No thank you," he answered quietly.

With a grunt and a snore, Pallando awoke at the commotion. His eyes gleamed at the sight of Eldarion and his smile lit the whole of his broad face.

Aragorn let out a long breath. “No thanks to you, wizard!” he said. “You slept through the whole experience. Leaving myself and Faramir to shoulder the responsibility!”

Pallando guffawed loudly. “Ever is the strategist so treated!” he retorted, eyes shining. “It is far harder to see the way than merely follow it! I stayed, did I not? I knew that you fine hunters were well on the lad’s track. And had you failed, you would have let me know, whether I waked or slept. Besides, I had to oversee the heating of the water for your athelas concoction. And there was the little matter of evicting the residue of Master Saruman, as you call him, from the Stone of Silence."

Aragorn frowned. “Judging by the look of my Steward after he merely followed your way, I think you obviously took an easier path!”

Faramir felt his face colour. He stood stiffly before saying “I shall leave you now, my lord, and Eldarion. It is truly good to see you both together again; but I am needed no more here.”

“Not so hastily,” Aragorn said, rising to his feet. “Faramir, I am in your debt for my boy's rescue and now his recall to waking life. You have more right than any man to rejoice with us here. You have my gratitude forever, and that of my House.”

Faramir inclined his head. “My lord honours me," he replied. He would do it all again ten times over; and hoped the King knew it.

"Not enough," Aragorn responded. "The first name that I remember was Estel, for Hope; yet I was losing mine. But you refused to let me abandon it." He moved forward and pulled Faramir to him. "I will never forget that, mellon nîn. You have been as a brother to me for many years; and now you have helped bring my son home to me."

Faramir accepted the embrace but when the King’s strong arms released him, he stumbled and it was only the strength of his will that held him upright.

Pallando snorted. “Maybe you can begin to thank your Steward by relieving him of his current pain, King Elessar,” he proposed, then helped himself to bread and cheese from the King's platter.

"Hush, Faramir; I knowthat you suffer," Aragorn contradicted. "I still bear the Elfstone. Let me see what I can do about the blow you took to your head."

"Father, could you heal Lord Faramir's leg?" Eldarion asked. "He was hurt protecting me from that evil little man in black, the wizard's lackey."

"My young lord, I do not think your father can cure all ills. And he needs to replenish his strength as well," Faramir replied, smiling at the prince so the boy would not think that he held him to any blame.

Aragorn raised his hand to silence him. “Nonsense!” Aragorn interjected. “I am King of the West, or so the minstrels keep singing, not a tired out old man. I feel quite fit again and could easily take on a hundred orcs. You would not refuse me, would you, Faramir?

Faramir sighed, feeling absurdly, pleased by Aragorn's concern for him. Few men could refuse Aragorn in this mood, the King's force of character was too formidable at full strength. He was too tired to resist. "Very well."

Minutes later, Faramir found himself lying on the bed recently vacated by Eldarion, his tunic loosened and his legs stripped down to his smallclothes. The boy stood by the window, looking out on his city in the spring sunshine.

Faramir still wore the healing stone and Aragorn the other. The bowl of athelas had been refreshed and its scent of mountain air engulfed the room, cooling and chasing away the day’s heat.

“I can stay awake, if that will help. . .” Faramir heard himself say but his voice was distant. He barely heard Pallando’s guffawed response as his senses were engulfed in a sensation of utter peace. For a moment that stretched out wondrously, he simply existed, free from pain, free from worry, and free from doubt. A blissful warmth heated his brow like the touch of the Sun herself, flowing down his skull to his collarbone.

Aragorn ran his healing hands first over Faramir’s recent head wound and then down to his left thigh. Pallando stood behind the King, trying to look over his shoulder.

“I have healed what damage remained from the blow he took on his head last night,” Aragorn murmured. “But the wound in his leg is older and more resistant. I fear that a remnant of foul orcish poison still lingers in his blood.”

The wizard moved forward, lifting his staff. “Let me try to draw off the poison; then you may heal what is left.”

Aragorn nodded and moved to stand by Faramir’s head. He reached out and took hold of his Steward’s hand, grasping it tightly.

The blue wizard muttered a chant so quietly that Aragorn could not pick up the words, though they seemed to be Quenya. Pallando touched the top of his staff to Faramir’s thigh. As soon the blue stone in the wizard's staff touched the scar marking the wound, Faramir’s body tensed. He let out a sudden groan but his eyes did not open.

As Aragorn watched the area around the wound began to change colour slowly. It changed from the shade of darkened flesh to an ugly dark green, the tint of a wound not cleaned and gone bad. Aragorn was glad of the athelas scent which lessened the unwholesome smell emanating from the wound.

Pallando continued to chant, Faramir’s body was still taut although his eyes remained shut.

The green glow around the wound seemed to take substance. Aragorn noticed that his Elfstone felt warm on his breast, even through his clothing; a sign that the stone was exerting a healing force on Faramir's damaged leg. He squinted and realized that the glow was forming into a wispy smoke rising from the wound. As he watched the smoke increased in volume and threatened to infect the whole room with its pestilence. But when the smoke touched the tip of the wizard's staff, it thinned, then disappeared altogether. More mist hissed out from the wound only to be absorbed. Very soon the staff itself began to glow dully.

As Aragorn watched the colour of the wound was completely taken up into the smoke until all that remained was the red-brown of the original scar. Pallando stopped his chant and opened his eyes. He smiled as his staff took up the last of the pestilential smoke. Faramir’s body suddenly relaxed completely and he let out a soft, contented sigh.

“’Tis done,” Pallando declared. “’Twas an old poison; of Saruman’s brewing no doubt, but easily cleansed by one who knows its form. I will write out its composition for your Healers, and also how best to counter it in new-made wounds. Your soldiery and allies might well face the same substance on the blades of the East.”

Faramir awoke some time later feeling more refreshed than he had been in a long time. As he opened his eyes he saw the face of his King beamingdown at him. And bells were ringing! Not in his head, the bells of the City, tolling the joyful tidings of its prince’s awakening as they had once tolled the news of his birth.

Faramir ran his hand through his hair, amazed to find the swelling had reduced, and the pain of the wound almost gone! “I feel exceptionally well!” he said in a somewhat surprised voice. Gingerly he sat up and placed his feet on the floor, expecting the familiar rush of pain and dizziness. It came not!

“Good!” King exclaimed. “I need a fully fit Steward now more than ever!” he said. "You should not over-strain that leg for at least a few days. That means keeping the leg still and raised when possible, Faramir, and not letting the children ride piggyback or chasing Cirion anywhere! I would see you eat something now. Take an apple; or some grapes; before Pallando eats them all."

“Thank you, my King.” Faramir pulled his socks back onto his legs, then his trousers and his boots. With some hesitation, he tested his left leg by shifting his full weight onto it. His leg held firm. He walked to the table and took the cluster of grapes that the King had offered to him. His left leg felt only slightly stiff, like a new pair of boots, but now almost as strong as his right, as if Wormtongue had never stabbed him with an orc‘s dagger.

Pallando laughed. “Sometimes it is only when the pain is removed that we realize its true strength,” he said. “Believe it, Faramir, you are healed, the pain is gone . . . until the next time you decide to field a poisoned enemy blade in your thigh.”

“And that may be soon,” Aragorn said curtly moving on. “For now we must pit some strength against the Easterlings before they strike closer than Mordor. I will call a Council for this evening, we must make further plans. You are well enough to attend, Faramir?”

“Of course, my King,” Faramir replied between mouthfuls of grapes. They were good indeed! “You have spent more of your strength than I did; and I hope you will take some rest as soon as you can.”

Aragorn smiled. “This day my heart overflows with joy. Waking my son has been all the healing I should ever need!”

The door opened suddenly. Faramir heard a surprised gasp and looked over to see the Queen standing at the room's entrance, flanked by a nursemaid carrying her twin daughters. Her eyes were wide and almost frightened. She looked as if she had forgotten how to breathe. Then Arwen Undomiel fairly flew across the floor as fast as Faramir had ever seen a true Elf move. She reached Eldarion in but a few heartbeats; and pulled him into her arms.

"Pen dithen nín. Pen dithen nín. . ." Arwen murmured, her words punctuated by soft sobs. "Oh, my eaglet, thou hast awakened."

Faramir heard Eldarion murmur a reply into his mother's shoulder. Aragorn moved to the window and put his arms around his wife and son, holding them close against him. His lips grazed Arwen's forehead, and she turned her face to smile tearfully at Aragorn. "You have done it, my lord" she said softly. "I knew you could save him. I am so proud of you."

Aragorn grinned almost boyishly. "In truth, my lady; I could not have done so without Faramir's help. He showed me the way."

"It was you who found Eldarion on that strange road; and you who brought him home." Faramir added. Faramir had not seen the King look so joyous and confident in years; Aragorn's renewed strength heartened him.

Eldarion pulled back from his parents' hold, an abashed look on his pale face. Faramir knew that boys of his age did not relish prolonged hugs. The lad's balance seemed precarious. Eldarion tottered on suddenly unsteady legs. He would have fallen if not for his mother's strong grip. Aragorn swung around, picked him up bodily, and carried the boy back to his bed.

"It is all right, Father," Eldarion said quickly, blushing. "Put me down. What will Lord Faramir think?"

"Lord Faramir thinks you should let your father cosset you, if as much for his health as for yours." Faramir answered. The boy still looked sickly; and he did not move well.

"Fear not," Aragorn said as he examined one of his son's thin legs. "Merely a weakness in the muscles from his lying so long in sleep and then suddenly coming awake and standing up again. My lady, had you not made sure that his limbs were pummelled every day, to help the blood continue to flow properly, he might not have stood at all. Eldarion, we. . . you shall have to build up your strength again slowly with a proper regimen."

"Anything to get me back on my feet. I feel like I have slept for months!" Eldarion declared. His parents looked at each other, not at the boy.

"What is wrong?" Eldarion asked suspiciously. Then he spied his small sisters, who now regarded him solemnly from behind their nursemaid's skirts. "Nimloth? Rian? But they are so big now! And their hair is much longer. Father, you just said I lay long in sleep. How long? I heard you in the dark, but surely not that much time has passed since the wizard attended to my arm and made me look at his green stone. It has been more than a week. . .?"

Arwen sat lightly on her son’s bed. “Yes. You have indeed slept for months, six months and some days.” She touched the boy’s suddenly shocked face. “But fear not. It is as if you had a very long rest.”

“You will mend, ion nîn,” Aragorn joined her in reassuring Eldarion. “You lost a little weight, which you will completely recover. We will see you strong again.”

“I told your father of your courage when you fought the Uruk-hai guards at my side,” Faramir told his friend’s son. “You are already far stronger than you know.

“Thank you, Lord Faramir. And my lady Mother, my Lord Father. . .” Eldarion nearly stuttered over the formal phrases, then reached out and clasped his parents’ hands with a sigh. “Adar, Naneth. Thank you. Now, can my sisters come to me for a proper greeting?”

Under Arwen’s watchful eyes, the 16-month-old twins stepped lightlyto their brother’s bedside, hand in hand. Faramir had not seen them in several weeks; and noted that they were tall for their age, and quite graceful for such young children. They had black hair, their father’s deep blue-grey eyes and their mother’s more delicate nose and chin.

These moments, so long awaited, belonged to Aragorn and his reunited family, Faramir realized. It was time for him to return to his own hearth. He suddenly yearned fiercely for the sight of his own children. He wanted to embrace them, to let them know that as much as he cared for his friend’s son and daughters, his family came first in his regard, if not always in his duty.

“My lord, my lady, I shall take my leave . . .” Faramir began, then smiled. Sometimes the lines between friendship and rank seemed unnecessary. Had not the King embraced him and called him friend and brother? “My friends, I rejoice at Eldarion’s awakening. This is a great day for Gondor, indeed for us all.”

Aragorn grinned from his seat. He held one of the little girls; while the other was sitting on Eldarion’s bed, giggling as the boy played some kind of finger game with her. Arwen smiled gratefully up at Faramir, her face tear-stained but aglow with joy.

“Yes, it is a great day.” Aragorn affirmed. “And the morrow shall be, if not greater still, then still a day of great import. Can you call the Great Council to meet tomorrow morning at the third bell, Faramir? I would put the accusations against you to rest with Eldarion’s testimony of his captivity. But Eldarion needs a day to recover before I bring him before the Council.”

“Father, you need not wait,” the boy protested. “I can testify tonight, ‘tis no hardship.”

“I speak as a Healer as well as your father, ion-nîn,” Aragorn answered, gently squeezing Eldarion’s hand. “You must take some rest. Standing before Council is hard work; and I will need you to be strong. We will go out later and walk a bit around the Citadel. Tomorrow, the entire City and Lords and Captains from throughout the Realm shall see you and share our joy. And Faramir,” Aragorn added with another ingratiating grin; “Please join us tomorrow evening, after Council, for dinner. Bring Eowyn if she can be carried by litter and feels well enough to leave her bed.”

“I will gladly dine with you. Eowyn shall come if she is able. And I shall see that the Council is called,” Faramir promised. “Should you have other need of me, leave word with Gildor. Come, Pallando!” He addressed the blue wizard, who was still nibbling cheese from the King’s plate. “Let us give the prince and his family their privacy.”

Leaving the Stone of Silence in Aragorn’s hand, for he knew the King would guard it well, Faramir left the room. Pallando followed with a wistful look at the fruit and bread still uneaten on the table.

Faramir took the wizard with him to the Steward’s Chamber in the White Tower. There, while Pallando fidgeted, Faramir penned the summons to the third session of the Great Council. He bade his secretary Gildor have the scribes make copies to be stamped with the Steward’s Seal, and sent to all the necessary lords, captains, guild-masters and officials. Then Pallando’s stomach rumbled loudly; and the wizard spoke of unsatisfied hunger.

Faramir led the wizard down through the City to the third circle. They partook of nuncheon at The Blue Parrot, a public house Faramir had long favoured for its excellent fare and the anonymity afforded by its location, which attracted university scholars and masters. Today the normally quiet serving women chattered loudly about the awakening of the King’s son. Indeed, Eldarion’s recovery seemed to be the chief topic of discussion in the busy eatery. Young men and greybeards alike were toasting the prince’s health and wondering what had ailed the boy. Pallando looked quite pleased with himself as he demolished an entire roast chicken.

After the meal, Steward and wizard returned to the Citadel, where the King had called his chief captains for a war council. Aragorn had wanted Pallando introduced as an advisor on Easterling matters before word of a new wizard’s influence caused undue suspicion. As Faramir studied the maps of the Eastern lands that Pallando had drawn and now spread before them, he was disturbed by how little they knew of what lay east of the Sea of Rhûn. The most recent intelligence was gleaned by the King himself during Aragorn’s travels to the far East nearly sixty years past; too little and too long ago, though better than none at all. Rhûn and Khand should not have remained a disregarded and distant mystery for so long. Faramir was glad that he had pulled the White Company back from Ithilien’s eastern borders and stationed most of them around Tham Fain and the villages below it. But he felt a prickle of concern mingled with the feeling of relief. Perhaps he should ride back to Emyn Arnen the day after tomorrow, to personally check the defences.

The sun was descending as Faramir made his way home to the Steward’s House.Though tired, he could not recall many days as well-spent as had been this one. Then he opened the door of the main hall to a vision of beauty and joy: Eowyn stood before the hearth, clad in a gown of white and a golden circlet around her alabaster brow, her arms held wide in welcome. Behind her, their children awaited, similarly attired in fair raiment.

“Come in, my lord,” said his white lady; clasping Faramir’s hands with a glowing smile.

“The Healers told me today that I could move about for a short time every day in my home and gardens, as long as I did not grow weary. And I am glad of it; I feared I would lose my reason were I confined longer in my bed. Now sit you down, for I have heard report of your deeds this day, and would hear more.”

“Please, Father, tell us what happened,” implored Celairiel, his older daughter, tossing her pale blond braids as she pushed ahead and threw herself on Faramir‘s chest. “We heard that you saved Eldarion!”

“Is he really awake?” Cirion queried, racing forward to press against Faramir‘s side. Soon the children were trying to embrace him, even little Melethron, who toddled up and grappled Faramir’s right knee, nearly throwing him off-balance. Eirien pulled on his sleeve, her signal that she wanted her father to pick her up in his arms. Which he did, for he could rarely refuse his quiet, curly-haired smallest girl anything. Thankfully, Elboron had the presence of mind to merely grip Faramir’s shoulder in a respectful and affectionate gesture. A hug from his tall heir could easily knock him down at this point, Faramir realized.

“Children!” Eowyn exclaimed, bending low to pry Melethron from his father’s leg. “Give your father some room, let him sit down before you assail him so.” Disengaging their youngest child took some effort; Melethron was quite hardy for a two-year-old. Faramir did not really mind, since he got a splendid view of his wife’s bosom as she bent down; some of the changes wrought to her body by the pregnancy were delightful. But he was glad to see that she took Melethron by the hand instead of lifting him. He did not want Eowyn lifting anything as heavy as their sturdy little son while she was so far gone with child. Faramir happily reached out his arms to encircle his wife and children.

Soon Faramir found himself seated on the sofa, his daughters sitting closest against him and Melethron on his lap, with Cirion and Aldor flanking the girls. He rested his left leg on a stool as Aragorn had instructed. Elboron brought him a goblet of Dorwinion wine. Faramir regaled his family with the tale of Eldarion’s awakening, at least as much as was prudent to reveal.

Later, having finished a sumptuous repast of venison ribs in wine sauce with buttered peas, begun with a good warming stew and ended with cheese, seed cakes and brandied pears, Faramir was nearly ready to end the long day. Though weary, he brought out his harp when the children clamoured for it. Faramir was in no mood for anything sombre or over-long. He chose the children’s favourite tune: the delightful Troll Song brought by Sam Gamgee from the Shire. He played the melody and sang the rollicking song with Celairiel and Elboron, the most musically gifted of the children. Too tired for even a game of draughts, Faramir watched as Eowyn and Cirion fought for supremacy. He noted that Cirion had improved his game; it would soon be time to teach him the strategies of chess as he had taught Elboron three years ago. The younger children played knucklebones, Aldor narrowly defeating Celairiel. After sending all the children but Elboron to their beds, he and Eowyn repaired to their own chamber. Faramir was replete with good food and contentment. The Realm was whole again, the prince fully restored to his father. Lying down beside Eowyn, adjusting his arms so that she could comfortably rest in them, Faramir knew himself to be the most fortunate man in Gondor.

The sleeper stirred restlessly, his breathing punctuated by whimpers and angry grunts. Was this a nightmare, or was it real?

He found himself outside his home in Emyn Arnen, at the stable, surrounded by smoke and heavy flames. He heard the terrible screams that only frightened horses could make. The horses were in danger! And there were other screams, from people, servants and grooms who he knew well! He heard the shouts of angry men who cried orders in an unknown tongue. He glimpsed armed men, strangers, seizing Steelsheen as the pregnant mare fled the rising flames. What could he do, how could he stop the fires?

The flames reared up around him like a living, burning wall. A stranger walked through the fire: a man taller than any he had ever seen, even the King, robed in blue and white-haired, with cold eyes.

"I shall cast down your house, son of Gondor," the stranger told him. "You should not have interfered with my design. "I will take the White Lady as I take her mare; and death shall take others who you love."

The stranger in blue gestured, and the sleeper gasped at the sight of a marsh filled with the bodies of men of the White Company and Ithilien Rangers. A huge, monstrous shadow reared up beyond the smoke and fire and roared.

Then the blue-robed man disappeared, leaving the fiery wall, and beyond it the shadow of the monster, and the sight, now far away, of the battlefield. The flames parted suddenly, and lowered, vanishing entirely to reveal someone the sleeper knew - Pippin Took, Knight of Gondor!

Pippin grinned at him. "The thing to remember about monsters is that you must get them before they get you. If I can do it, anyone can!"

But the flames rose up again, blocking Pippin from his sight. He was alone, and the horses and people still screamed . . .

. . . And Cirion awakened to cool darkness, on his bed in his father's House in Minas Tirith. He was safe, but sweating and shaking, his heart pounding like a battle-drum. For the first time in his life, he knew the taste of terror.

______________________________________________________________________________________

Branwyn, annmarwalk, and Berzerker prime, of HASA, for their help in determining appropriate after-dinner games for the Steward’s family. If you’re interested in stories where Faramir actually does play chess, THE KING IS DEAD and BLACK CAPTAIN are highly recommended (by Altariel, at fan fiction. net) And thanks also to Lady

Branwyn for assistance in picking out dessert and last-minute tips on Gondorian footwear!

The "nuncheon" that Faramir and Pallando eat is a word for the meal taken in Gondor around noon, according to Beregond, who was telling hungry Pippin when they could eat in the chapter ‘Minas Tirith’ of ROTK. Nuncheon doesn't seem to be a real word, but we won't tell JRRT or Pippin if you don't.

Tham Fain is the home of Faramir and Eowyn in Ithilien, or at least the name we created for it.

AUTHORS' NOTES: Sorry this chapter is late. On the plus side, the chapter is twice as long as our usual chapters; so enjoy it!

SUMMARY OF STORY SO FAR: Aragorn awakened Eldarion from his entranced sleep, with Faramir’s help, in Chapter 15. In Chapter 16, Aragorn and the Blue Wizard Pallando healed Faramir’s damaged leg; and everyone ate and celebrated. Faramir had a happy evening at home with Eowyn and all the kids. The chapter ended with Cirion, Faramir’s 11-year-old second son, having a very scary dream.

Tham Fain, a.k.a. The White Hall, is our name for Faramir and Eowyn's home in Emyn Arnen.

Cirion sat crouched over the table, his chin resting on his hands, when the Steward entered the hall for the tea with which he usually started the day. The boy looked nervous, almost . . . haunted. The attitude was unusual for his second-born, who rarely thought of things beyond the moment. Even more unusual was the plate of untouched pastries in front of him. Cirion refusing to eat sweetmeat?

"Cirion, if your face were any longer, I fear your jaw would fall off," Faramir said evenly, sitting down next to his son.

"What troubles you, my son?" Faramir asked softly. He took Cirion's chin between his thumb and forefinger and gently lifted the boy's face up to meet his eyes. He had little time to spare before this session of the Great Council began. But he could not refrain from asking.

"I. . . Father, I had a dream. It was bad. I think it was a portent, like the dream of Imladris sent to you and Uncle Boromir." Cirion answered in a strained, urgent voice.

Faramir schooled his face to patience. The riddle-dream of Imladris was common knowledge in Gondor, as a vision that had called Boromir to his destiny in the storied Fellowship. But Faramir had been careful never to reveal the dreams of the wave sundering Numenor; it was a heavy enough burden for him to carry without causing another to endure it through his suggestion. If one of his children inherited the unwelcome gift of dreams telling the past or future, that power would manifest without help from him. Cirion was a most unlikely recipient of the gift, being headstrong rather than contemplative. Still, the lad had a good mind when he slowed down enough to actually use it.

"I dreamt of fire, and danger at home. Father, the stables were in flames, and then there was an evil man, and a great shadow, I think it was a monster, and Uncle Pippin was there to hearten me. And there were armed men, speaking a tongue I had never heard . . . and they took Steelsheen. . ."

Faramir rejoiced to himself; the boy's description sounded very much like a typical nightmare, lacking clear instruction or the evocation of a single tragedy. Cirion was obviously disturbed by the dream; he was quite fond of Steelsheen, Eowyn's favorite mare. Faramir was rather fond of the big grey mare himself; she had great stamina and a gentle temper. Aloud he said: "It was an evil dream, Cirion, but it does not sound like a portent. You killed a man but a week past. It will probably not be the only time you take a life, but you are very young to have done so. Such an experience can cast a brief shadow on the soul, a shadow that pervades one‘s dreams in different forms."

"Many dreams seem real, even when they show things that could not or would not ever come to pass. A month ago, I dreamt that your Uncle Eomer was riding that big Mearas stallion of his through the Library, and Master Belecthor waxed most wroth with him. It seemed as if I were there. Of course it was merely a dream, not a foreboding. Eomer-King is a great rider, but he has no love for libraries, and would surely never ride through one!"

"We will speak later of your dream if it still troubles you, Cirion," his father said. "But I must leave for Council now."

Minutes later, Faramir perused documents in the Steward's Chamber. Today's session of the Great Council would not be the last. But it might be the most important session, especially with the peril of the Easterlings ahead. Faramir's honour had been questioned; and by the Valar, today would see the charge refuted! He had decided to don more formal attire. After assuring that the Steward’s garb would not rival the King’s, Faramir's wardrobe-master had laid out the finery that he now wore: a formal black Robe of State made of velvet with furred sleeves, a gray leather doublet engraved with the white tree, and a high-collared blue silk tunic, over trousers and new black boots. Today his garb must be a Steward‘s, he would wear the moon-crown of Ithilien for the next and final session.

"Faramir?" A familiar voice called. Faramir looked up to see Aragorn sweep into the Chamber. His lord and friend looked splendid this morn; wearing the Elendilmir and a flowing blue cloak, over chain mail that partially covered a silver tunic and black linen shirt beneath it. Anduril was sheathed at his side, the Elessar stone gleamed on his breast. Aragorn stood tall and proud, filled with restless energy. Yet he still looked more weary than Faramir would like.

"Good day, my lord," Faramir greeted him. "Did you sleep well? Or should I ask, did you sleep at all?"

Aragorn smiled. "Nay, not this night. We had an excellent repast, and Arwen and Eldarion and I talked long into the night. When my son finally fell asleep, I stayed by him and watched his slumber. In truth, I had some fear that he would not awaken, that he would lapse again into that cursed sleep."

Aragorn's smile broadened. "Yes, he is well. The tailors have ensnared him, though; and are arguing with Arwen as to which raiment suits him best. The poor lad has lost much flesh; he was measured for new clothing yesterday afternoon. He still needs rest and care, but I am confident that he will recover. He is most anxious to speak before Council today."

Aragorn frowned at him and made a snorting, coughing sound in his throat. "Fara-mir" he said sternly, drawing out the name; "Save the title for occasions of ceremony. We have journeyed through enough darkness together."

“It almost makes me laugh,” Aragorn said, a faraway look in his deep eyes. “When I look at all this finery that I am told I must wear for the Great Council, I remember that first time I sat in a Council where I was given the respect of my lordship, if not yet the actual title. It was the day after the Battle of the Pelennor. I came up from my tents on the field; still travel-stained and weary, and badly needing a bath, looking like a vagabond rather than a King. Yet sometimes I feel like that was a more important Council than all that I have led during my reign, as meanly clad as I was.”

“Ah, but I knew you were our lost King the moment I laid eyes upon you on waking,” Faramir countered. “You did look battle-worn; I think your garb was still stained with the blood of our foes. But I could see the kingship in your face, and feel it in the grip of your hand. And it shone in your spirit, when you found me in that shadow-realm. You could have walked into Minas Tirith naked and you would still have been our King. Though perhaps,” Faramir noted wryly. “It was advisable to hold the Ring of Barahir and the Elessar stone as true tokens of Isildur’s Heir.”

Aragorn flashed a mischievous grin, and replied: “Perhaps I should come into this Council wearing naught but the Ring of Barahir, and bearing the Sceptre of Annúminas in one hand and the Elfstone in the other! That would set all those tongues to wagging, no doubt!!”

The King and the Steward laughed like truant schoolboys. There was no strain in the King’s outburst, only humour that had been sorely lacking, Faramir noted even as he shook with mirth. Finally, Aragorn straightened, wiped his eyes, and sobered. “I suppose that in these days of lesser perils, I have a duty to make such a grand appearance before the Great Council. I hope my son is more gentle with the tailors than I have been.”

“Fear not that you are any less a King when you yield to the demands of ceremony, Aragorn.” Faramir reminded him. “Though most of our most important decisions have been made in smaller counsels, the Great Council has helped rebuild the Reunited Kingdom. We need no longer fear the Shadow’s overwhelming force, nor the Nazgûl, nor even the Enemy’s armies of men come to ravage our homes. Yet the work of securing a just and prosperous reign will always be needful. Your appearance as the richly apparelled Lord of our Great Council is essential to that work. You are the cynosure of men’s eyes as you are the hope and centre of the Kingdom. Unless you would like me to introduce a new law, that all who attend the Great Council of Gondor, from banner-bearers to the King, must be clad only in Rangers’ garb and comfortable old boots?” Faramir finished with a laugh.

“Hmm; that would make for some entertainment” Aragorn answered. “Can you not see fat Aradan wearing a Ranger’s muddy boots, or even Hurin, ever-dignified, entering the Tower Hall bedecked in scuffed leathers and a patched shirt? I cannot count the number of times I sowed up that old red shirt that served me so well.”

Faramir smiled, remembering how he had learned to count sewing, once dismissed as women’s work, as one of the most valuable skills for a Ranger. The mending of rips helped keep a Ranger’s clothing in one piece and thus kept the Ranger warm.

Aragorn’s own smile faded. “Those were good days. But you are right, these are better times. Faramir, you know that I mean to put an end to Lord Ingold‘s charges during this day‘s Session.”

“Of course. My honour must be restored, and all accusations put to rest, for the authority of my Stewardship to be affirmed.”

“I might have to seem more stern than I would want to, as I deal with you today in Council,” Aragorn continued, frowning slightly. “If that happens, you must trust me.”

“Of course.” Faramir repeated. He was confused and somewhat alarmed, though of course he did not allow his face to reflect his concern. Surely Aragorn knew that Faramir was at his disposal, for good or ill.

"Father!" Faramir heard Elboron call. Faramir leapt forward, running for the door. There was fear in his son’s voice!

Elboron charged into the Chamber, trailed by Imrahil. The faces of Faramir’s uncle and son both revealed barely contained sorrow.

“Oh…have no fear on that score, Father, she is well, at least as far as I know” Bron replied. “But Father, there are ill tidings from Tham Fain.”

“Messengers from the White Company have only just arrived at the gate, Faramir,” explained Imrahil; “Your home was attacked before dawn this day.”

Faramir ignored a stab of mingled rage and fear. “Tell me all that you know, Uncle,” he requested.

“Tham Fain was attacked about an hour before dawn, by a force of over three hundred men, apparently at least half of which were horsemen. They set the stables afire, and while your seneschal and the household guards and staff tried to save the horses and quell the flames, others, on foot, stormed the White Hall itself. They ransacked your library, Faramir; and the bedchambers. The White Company rallied and drove the invaders away.”

Faramir reached for his sword, then remembered he was not wearing one. “Are Tham Fain and the villages secure? Were the attackers Easterlings? How many of my people are dead? What was the damage? And who brought the word,” he asked, straining to keep his voice even. Rage would not help his people now, more information would; so that he could quickly plan what to do!

“Your lieutenant Borlas believed that they were Easterlings; at least so said the two riders he sent,” Imrahil said more gently, touching Faramir’s shoulder. “The stable is destroyed, but the White Hall is mostly intact, as are the other outbuildings. One of the villages was attacked, but it seems to have been a diversion. No villagers’ lives were lost. The White Company lost five men, and some thirty are wounded, including Acting-Captain Pelendur. Your Seneschal, Baran, was also hurt; he strove to defend the Hall. Two grooms died in the fire, trying to save the horses. And the Easterlings killed a young stable-boy, they said his name was Tuor. The lad evidently meant to stop them taking Eowyn’s broodmare. The riders left before the final count of the dead and wounded was made. But Pelendur told them to tell you that Tham Fain and the villages seem to be safe for the moment.”

Faramir’s heart beat faster. Tuor had been Cirion’s playmate when they were small, an orphan who loved horses. Faramir remembered a dark-eyed boy with a skilful touch for foals and fiery stallions alike. He had been almost as joyful as Eowyn over the prospect of Steelsheen’s first foal. The Easterlings had killed him! And they had stolen a broodmare. Cirion's dream had been a portent! He would have to talk to Ciri later. “Did they violate any of the women, or carry them off?” He had to ask.

“No. But the riders, Marach and Folcwine, said that the Easterlings had attacked a woman, Folcwine’s sister, the cook Eowyn brought from Edoras a few years ago. They tried to drag her off, but the White Guards saved her.”

“Ardith is pregnant,” Faramir remembered. The cook's husband was the blacksmith, a quiet man with a club foot. Had he survived the attack, or fallen to an Easterling blade? “She is the only fair-haired, pregnant woman at Tham Fain, other than Eowyn, who of course is here. Ardith is also of Rohan.” He found it hard to talk, he was becoming so angry. He had to get away, speak to Marach and Folcwine, two of the Company’s fastest riders, good men, both of them. He could hardly believe that while he had been sleeping soundly, on a full stomach, his home had been attacked, his people harried and hurt and killed! Why, for what purpose?

Then he remembered something else his uncle had said. The Easterlings had ransacked his library. They were looking for something. Their purpose may not have just been to carry off Eowyn. Aloud, he said “I think they must have been seeking the Stone of Silence. And Eowyn too. They would have taken her, if she had been there.” He turned quickly to Aragorn. “I need more guards for the Steward’s House here in the City. And I beg leave from today’s Council session. I will leave for Emyn Arnen as soon as I have heard my messengers’ reports.”

“No, Faramir.” The voice gainsaying him was Aragorn’s. “I will post more guards to the House; to protect you all here. But I need you to come to this Council before you return to Tham Fain.”

“I must go!” Faramir challenged his friend and lord. “This time I cannot stay. My people have been hurt, my home attacked. I must return.”

“And you will, Faramir,” Aragorn answered firmly. “But it seems like the White Company has restored order. None of your people should suffer further peril if you leave two or three hours later. By now the Easterlings who attacked your home know that neither the Stone nor Eowyn is in it, they will leave it alone. I will send some of the healers from the Houses of Healing, escorted by the Tower Guard, to Tham Fain, with word that you will come later this day.

“No!” Faramir snapped, feeling anger boil up within him. “I cannot dally in Council while my people weep and mourn their dead uncomforted. Can you not direct this session yourself?”

Elboron gulped, his wide eyes darting from his King to his father. Faramir steadied his voice. “With respect, my lord, I ask your leave to go. The people of Ithilien need their prince. I am honour-bound to hasten to their aid.”

“Listen to me, mellon nîn” Aragorn replied. “Your honour has been questioned, in public, before all the powers in the realm. You need to take it back, and the time for that is now. Today. The danger to Emyn Arnen is past. Were you to ride there now, you could not restore the blood that has been shed, the lives that were lost. But you could forestall the chance we have to erase the stain on your honour.”

“If all is well in Emyn Arnen, I will gladly come to the next session of the Great Council, ‘tis but two or three days from now.” Faramir countered. “If Eldarion testifies then, rather then now, then surely I can put the rumours of treachery to rest.”

“But not as thoroughly as if you come to Council today,” Aragorn pressed. He approached Faramir and looked down from his slightly greater height at his friend and Steward. “Faramir,” he said earnestly, “I will not command you in this matter. But I ask you to heed my words. Today, the Citadel, indeed the entire City, is aflame with excitement over the news of Eldarion’s awakening. And the names on everyone’s lips, from the street-sweepers to the Lords of the fiefs, are Eldarion’s and mine and yours, Faramir. Legends are building, of how the Steward of Gondor, who was a wizard’s pupil, used magic to save the King’s son. They call you ‘Faramir the Wise’! Now is the time for you to come forth in Council as Eldarion tells the truth of his tale. If you wait until the next session, you will not ride the swell of that wave of glory to the affirmation you deserve. Instead, you will come after the wave has crested and fallen. I would still call Eldarion to testify, but there would be those who would wonder why you hid from the Council’s scrutiny on the day you should have borne it, why you rode away on the morning of your triumph, and they will cast new doubt upon you, regardless of the truth of Emyn Arnen’s need.”

“The King speaks truly, Faramir,” said Imrahil, his blue eyes sorrowful but calm. “If your people were still under attack, you would be right to go within the hour. But if help can be sent in haste, it matters not if you return with it or wait a few more hours, as long as Emyn Arnen is succoured. “

Faramir considered their words, trying to cool his rage. Imrahil was a seasoned diplomat and a valiant Captain. Long had he held his place at the tables of power under Denethor’s rule as well as the King’s Great Council and the smaller counsels held throughout the year. And Aragorn . . . When had that warrior, the quiet Ranger come out of the North bearing the Sword of Elendil, become such a polished and skilful leader of men? Ah, but the leader had always been there. The King had merely needed time and trial to bring him out.

“You are both right, my lords,” he ceded. “But I would not buy back my reputation with the coin of my people’s need.”

Aragorn made a strangled, impatient noise in his throat. “Faramir, if you fail to regain your honour and reputation at Council, you will hurt your people through the omission. True, your people in Emyn Arnen would see you a few hours earlier this day. But in the future, other princes and lords might come to view you with suspicion, mistrust, and be less inclined to treat with you in commerce that could otherwise benefit Ithilien’s future prosperity.”

“Nephew, I love you dearly,” Imrahil said, his voice exasperated. “But you are playing the fool rather than the wise man I know you to be. Listen to your King, and take the bitter with the sweet. Your people will be all the better for having their Prince’s honour restored, and we will not let them suffer any further harm in the few hours’ delay you must take.”

Faramir sighed. “Very well, my lords” he agreed. “I yield to the wisdom of my elders.” He was amused to see Aragorn and Imrahil exchange a startled glance at the word “elders”. Then, serious once more, he stated, “I agree to wait, provided that aid is sent to Emyn Arnen at once. And before I go to Council, I will see my riders. Also, I insist that you release me from Council at the earliest moment possible, my King. I trust you to know when the time will be right.”

“Well done, Faramir,” Aragorn answered. “I will keep you no longer than is necessary.”

“Elboron,” Faramir said, turning to his anxious son. “Where are Folcwine and Marach now?”

“Here in the Tower, in the guardroom. They came first to the House. I thought it wiser to bring them here, to avoid fretting Mother, and sequester them from the lords and officials gathering for Council.”

“You did well, my son,” Faramir continued, pleased that Elboron had prevented a possible panic. “Go to them, see that they have refreshment, and a place to rest, and that their horses are properly cared for in the stables. Tell them I will come speak to them shortly.”

When the boy had cleared the door and was off down the corridor, Faramir asked Imrahil: “Uncle, is there any other news? Was there any incursion to other parts of Ithilien or Gondor?”

“Happily, no.” Imrahil answered. “But Elphir and his men would not yet have arrived at the outpost in Mordor. I am surprised that his force did not come upon the Easterlings who attacked your home. But there is now more than one good road from Gondor through the Ephel Duath into Mordor, thanks to the industry fostered by you and the King, nephew. “

“That is well. We shall have to go east sooner than I had hoped,” said the King, his mild tone belying the strong resolve in his grave face. “I have had more than enough of Easterlings trespassing on our lands, hurting our people. It is good that we lit the beacons; I expect the Rohirrim within a few days. Now, my lords, let us attend to matters here at hand . . .”

As the third bell of the day began to toll, Faramir quickened his pace. In the past hour, he and Aragorn sent out a hundred of the King’s own soldiery with healers and wagons of supplies to Tham Fain. He had debriefed Marach and Folcwine and seen them fed before they insisted on returning to the White Hall. Thankfully, they had taken no wounds; but they insisted on returning with the King’s men. Faramir had arranged for the weary White Guards to ride back on fresh horses, and given them dispatches for Acting-Captain Pelendur. They had seen young Tuor and others cut down without mercy. And Steelsheen, the pride of Eowyn’s stable; was taken. Folcwine reported that the silver-grey pregnant mare was seized and bridled by the Easterling captain. Faramir rejoiced that it had been the mare, rather than the pregnant woman, Folcwine’s sister, who had been carried off, but Eowyn would grieve for Steelsheen, even while gladdened that Ardith was safe. He did not want to think about the dead whose names he had not yet learned, or how many horses had perished in the fire. He would know soon enough.

Was it truly just three short days ago that he had come to Council, Faramir wondered as he strode into the Tower Hall, bearing the white rod of Stewardship and flanked by Elboron. So much had happened. At least and at long last, Eldarion was restored to health! Faramir pushed away the unwelcome thought that another child and others of his people had paid with their lives for the prince’s awakening; since the Easterlings had attacked Tham Fain to find the Stone that Faramir had used to help revive Eldarion. In truth, if Alatar was leading the Easterlings and planning their campaign against Gondor, then Faramir’s possession of the Stone of Silence might not have caused the attack. Alatar might have wanted to avenge Saruman’s death. Were that the case, Legolas might be in danger. Aragorn had said that the elves of Eryn Gelair had been warned of the Easterlings’ attacks; and he had already summoned Legolas to Minas Tirith for counsel.

The events of the last few days certainly made the absurd accusations of Ingold and Aradan seem more petty. Faramir felt suddenly stifled by the press of the crowd of people pouring into the Hall. The looks, some supporting and some venomous, that were thrown towards him, seemed of no greater import than the buzzing of insects. He calmed himself, then stood before his Chair and called the noisy crowd to silence as he officially opened this session of the Great Council. Then he sat in the Chair, and awaited the King’s pleasure.

“Lords, officers and guildsmen of the Reunited Kingdom!” Aragorn’s voice rang out loud and true around the chamber. Restless murmurs ceased as heads turned toward the King. “Our realm has been attacked. We come here with plans to defend our borders and to repel our enemies, that neither the White City nor any other part of our lands shall fall. But first there is another matter to whose resolution I would direct the Council‘s attention. My son, Eldarion, prince of the house of Telcontar and heir to the throne of Gondor and Arnor has recovered from his recent illness to join us this day. Eldarion,” Aragorn raised his voice to call, in a commanding but loving voice, “Come now before the Great Council!”

It was Elboron, Faramir noticed with wry amusement, who opened the doors at his King’s call. Eldarion stood tall between them, clad simply in a white mantle and pale blue silk velvet tunic emblazoned with the white tree over a white shirt, dark leggings and boots. The boy had more colour in his face today, yet still looked sickly and thin. But he held his head high and walked proudly across the Hall.

It seemed to Faramir that the Council cried out in one single voice of unrestrained joy as the heir to the Reunited Kingdom came through their ranks to kneel to his father.

The King beckoned, and rose from the throne. Eldarion ascended. While the sound of applause filled the Tower Hall, Aragorn embraced Eldarion. The King then turned the prince to face his people. Eldarion coloured, but smiled gravely, inclined his head in acknowledgment, then lifted his chin slightly, very much like his father, as he raised his head. The Council continued to cheer, while Eldarion sat down upon the floor of the dais, beside the throne that his father claimed once more. The King’s eyes shone with joy and pride in his son. Aragorn looked young again, and stronger than Faramir had seen him in years.

Aragorn waited until the applause had quieted before he spoke again: “I thank you for your good will, my lords and friends. We come now to a matter quite urgent. The loyalty of my Steward, Lord Faramir, son of Denethor, was questioned during the last session of this Council.”

It was Faramir’s turn to feel the scrutiny of the assembled Great Council. He disregarded the murmurs that arose, twittering of indignation or bitter rancor or mere curiosity.

“I cannot have the reputation of my Steward so compromised, especially now, as the shadow of war darkens our realm once more.” Aragorn continued. “Many accusations were raised which at the time could not be proven. Before we proceed further, I wish to resolve this question once and for all.”

“My Lord King . . .” Faramir was on his feet. He would defend his own honour, not sit by idly while others decided his guilt or innocence!

“Be quiet, Faramir!” the King hissed, surprising his Steward with the sharpness of his command. Then Aragorn turned blazing eyes toward the lower end of the Hall. “Lord Ingold,” he began. “Since you were first to accuse Lord Faramir, what say you to the resolution that I propose?”

Ingold stood somewhat hesitantly. “My Lord I have only ever had the welfare of Gondor and indeed your own person in my mind. If you can prove to this Council’s satisfaction that my accusations are unfounded, I will willingly withdraw them.”

“Steward, you have proclaimed your innocence,” Aragorn cut him off once more. “But until now, your arguments carried little actual proof other than your word.”

“Aye but . . .” Faramir could almost feel the hairs on the back of his neck bristle. What was the King doing? Why was he speaking to him in such a way, as if Faramir were a foolish child? A seed of doubt began to grow in his mind even while Faramir controlled his face and held his words unspoken. He looked up at his King.

The King returned his gaze coolly, without even a glint of humour or warmth. “Now my son is safe. He was held captive in Saruman‘s lair; he will tell us what he saw pass between the White Wizard and Lord Faramir! Eldarion, give us your testimony.”

The seed of doubt came to full bloom in Faramir’s mind. What if Eldarion was not free of the wizard? What if he had lied in his account to the King? But surely Aragorn knew how much Faramir had given to restore the boy to him.

No. That way lay worse danger. If he lost faith in his King, there would be little left to him. He remembered what the King had said before the news of the attack on Tham Fain had darkened the day. He had told Faramir to trust him.

Eldarion slowly rose to his feet, his voice hesitant but gaining in strength as he spoke.

“My lords, my father has asked me to tell the truth of what the White Wizard did to me, and how Lord Faramir was involved, some six months ago. This I will do on my honour as heir to the Reunited Kingdom of Gondor and Arnor.”

Eldarion took a deep breath before continuing. “I regret to say that I was attacked, as I journeyed towards Rohan, by what a troop of some fifty monsters I now know were Uruk-hai. They surrounded us, striking down my escort without mercy.” He lowered his head a moment, his young face suddenly pale and sorrowful. “We were outnumbered; and the ten brave men who rode with me were killed as I watched. I was of little help, for my skill at arms was far less than theirs, and I was frightened. I struck blindly through tears as I watched my guards die. The Uruk-hai came and bound me, and I swooned away in terror.”

The prince’s voice deepened as he continued, in the sudden way of young boys becoming men. “But know, Lord Ingold, and others whose sons rode with me, your sons fought bravely and well. There were just too many of the Uruk-hai. “ His voice rose again, changing to a childishly high timbre as he went on with his account: “When I awakened, I was held by a tall man with a long white beard and flowing white robes. He said he was a wizard, and that he had saved me from the orcs and now commanded them through his power. At first, I thought he must be Mithrandir, of whom I have heard many a tale, for he also wore white, and I was reassured. He had a sweet and kindly voice. But he would not let me go when I asked; and then there came a green glow that hurt my eyes and my heart and mind, and I knew no more.”

Eldarion swallowed hard, then raised his head to look out over the men of the Council, who now sat rapt, waiting on his words. “When I awoke, I was standing in a different room. Lord Faramir was there, bound hand and foot. There were two Uruk-hai monsters there, guarding us. It was Lord Faramir who helped me. Though he was a captive too, he had no fear, and told me that we would escape. He gave me courage. I untied his feet; and together we fought the Uruk-hai, though he did most of the fighting and I…” He blushed, and then spoke again, more carefully. “Well, I did my best, but it was Lord Faramir who battled his way down the stairs against a dozen Uruk-hai who came to stop us. He shielded me as best he could. Saruman’s lackey seized me then, and threatened my life. The wizard could not gainsay him. Lord Faramir fought the man, and saved me again, though he was wounded and finally overcome. Lord Faramir is no traitor, my lords! He risked his life to save me. The White Wizard held no sway over him. I fear to think what would have befallen me had Lord Faramir not been there.”

Faramir gulped and gripped the sides of the Steward’s Chair. He was vaguely aware of Elboron jumping up in excitement, then squeezing his own shoulders. A murmur of approval rose from around the entire Hall, until the King’s voice stilled it to silence.

“Thank you, my son.” Said the King, his eyes resting coolly on Ingold. “What say you now, Lord Ingold?”

Ingold looked up; his face ashen. “If the prince says that Faramir is no traitor, then so be it. He was there, I was not. I withdraw my accusation.” Despite the trouble the man had caused him, Faramir felt a pang of sympathy for the lord of Pinnath Gelin. Faramir had four fine boys in his house; Ingold’s sons were spent. He remembered that Ingold had lost his wife a few years earlier as well; and there was a small daughter who was fostered with her late mother’s kin. Perhaps Ingold would take some solace in the little maid; Faramir had good cause to know that daughters brought much joy to their fathers.

“Would anyone else care to renew the charge against Lord Faramir?” Asked the King, surveying the Hall. No one answered.

The King nodded slowly. “Very well, the matter is settled.” Rising, he declared: “I call Lord Faramir to present himself to me now.” Faramir stood, and watched in surprise as the King arose and, with the prince, descended from the dais to stand on the last step.

Faramir left his own chair and turned to face his lord. Aragorn’s eyes glowed once more, and his stern face relaxed as he beckoned.

The Steward knelt before his King. Aragorn smiled. “Faramir, Lord Steward of Gondor and Prince of Ithilien, accept my thanks for your service to my Kingdom and my son. Let all men know that it was Lord Faramir who searched for, and found, an ancient Elvish remedy that we used to restore Eldarion to health.”

Ah. So the King did announce Faramir’s role in the prince’s recovery, noted the Steward. Hardly necessary, but Aragorn had said something of rumours growing, so Faramir supposed some kind of explanation was needed. They had spoken of how much should be disclosed of the tale of the two Stones. Their use of the same Stone with which Saruman had enthralled Faramir could have sown fear and suspicion in Council and indeed across the Reunited Kingdom. The King was not being wholly frank with the Council, but he told no lies either. Faramir despised falsehoods; so he had often been forced to use evasion and omission to conceal secrets that must be kept. Thankfully, Pallando knew how to hold his tongue on at least some matters. Now, Faramir noticed Eldarion left his father’s side to go to a page wearing the King’s livery, and take something from the lad.

Eldarion returned to his father, bearing in his hands a long sword encased in a scabbard and attached to a sword-belt. The boy grinned at Faramir, and gave the sword to Aragorn.

Aragorn held out the blade at arm‘s length. “I give thee a new blade, in place of the one that thou lost, protecting my son in Saruman’s tower.”

Raising his eyes, Faramir lifted his hands as onto them the King placed the weapon's length.

A large moonstone gleamed in the pommel, etched on one side with the emblem of Ithilien and on the other side with the three-starred Arandur sigil of the Stewards of Gondor. The scabbard was fair to behold: wood covered with rich leather which was tooled with designs entwining the tree of Gondor and the moon of Ithilien, and studded with small green stones cut in the shape of leaves. Green leaves? Could Legolas have crafted the scabbard?, Faramir wondered. It certainly looked Elvish-fair. Although Faramir could not see the blade, it seemed to be well balanced.

“This sword is called Beriol chathol, Defender. It was forged by Gimli, Lord of Aglarond, and Legolas, Lord of Eryn Gelair. May thy sword arm always be strong in the defence of Gondor, my Steward and friend,” Aragorn proclaimed. “Arise!”

Faramir stood up, returning the sword to Eldarion’s outstretched hand. By law, only the King and the Guards could bear swords into Council. Aragorn clasped Faramir’s shoulders and drew him close in a brief embrace.

The Council erupted once again in loud cheers, drowning out the reply that Faramir wanted to make. He could scarcely believe how the King was favouring him before all the Lords of the realm. Faramir found that his own eyes were filling up with tears of pent emotion, sorrow and relief and gratitude all mixed together.

“My lord,” he managed to say; “You give me too much honour. The sword is a princely gift.” He tried to suppress a sudden surge of acquisitive pride. He could not help recalling that the sword given him by his father when he came of age had neither a distinguished history nor any particular beauty, having been made for a cousin who had sickened and died before being able to wield it. Denethor had told him that he would give him a sword of greater history when Faramir would earn it, like the sword of great-grandfather Turgon that Boromir proudly bore. He had been thrilled to have his father give him a sword at all, to entrust him with a small part in the defense of Gondor. Denethor had never deemed him worthy of a finer blade. But the King had arranged that this sword, this Defender, be made especially for him, as if he were a hero of old! Faramir realized he was smiling widely, and instantly smoothed his countenance. He was the Steward of Gondor, not a giddy child!

“I had it made a few months past,” Aragorn said, as if reading Faramir’s heart; “I would have presented it to you on your birthday; but as we are going soon to war, I thought to give it to you this day. And Faramir, it is not too much honour. You have twice saved my son; a princely gift is but a mere token of gratitude for a prince’s life. Also, you are a prince yourself now, and will use this blade to defend Ithilien as well as Gondor.”

Faramir was unable to reply, words would not form in his mouth, so he simply accepted the embrace as his heart swelled in his chest.

Finally, they moved apart. Aragorn still held Faramir’s shoulders in a friendly but firm grip.

“You understand,” Aragorn whispered. “It was important for both you and Eldarion that his testimony was publicly given, and that I showed you no special friendship until the accusation was withdrawn. I have never doubted you, Faramir.”

Aragorn released Faramir’s shoulders, and the Steward stepped free, bowing his head respectfully. “I thank you, my lord and King,” Faramir answered loud enough for the entire Council to hear. “The sword shall be treasured by me and my house, and shall ever be justly used to protect Gondor.”

“Bide a moment,” Aragorn commanded quietly as Faramir began to return to the Steward’s Chair. “We shall all have need of swords anon, my lords and friends, for war is coming. We heard word this morning, shortly before this session began, of an Easterling assault upon Ithilien, in the hills of Emyn Arnen, within sight of this City. They were driven off, after they had burned the stables, slain at least one young lad and others, and tried to carry off a woman who was heavy with child.”

Murmurs of outrage and fear swelled into an outpour of angry questions. Aragorn raised his hand to enforce silence, and said: “We shall see no more of these attacks, but shall take war back to those who made it. Before I tell you of our preparations, I would release the Lord Faramir from further attendance here. It was his home that was attacked before dawn this day; and he must see to his people’s welfare.”

Faramir bowed to the King, accepted the sword that Eldarion pressed into his hand, and, leaving Elboron to be his eyes and ears, walked out of the Tower Hall. Every member of Council rose as the Steward passed.

Faramir returned to his chamber in the Steward’s House, having been told that Eowyn awaited him there. He had summoned his armourer before Council had begun, and arranged for the delivery of what he would need. He threw open the doors of his bedchamber, pulled off his finery until he was clad only in trousers and boots, and opened the closet to look for a more reasonable shirt.

“Faramir?” It was Eowyn’s voice. She came in from the balcony, her cheeks reddened from the brisk wind. Her eyes were reddened as well, from more than exposure to the wind. “You have heard the news, have you not? Elboron said he would find you before the Council began.”

Faramir slowed his step, took a deep breath and crossed to her. “Are you well, my dear? I hope the ill tidings did not distress you over-much?” She looked in good health, but it was hard to forget that she had nearly lost their child, and come close to grave harm herself, just a few days ago. “Perhaps you should return to your bed?”

“Don’t be such an old lady!” Eowyn retorted, punching him lightly in the shoulder. “I am quite well, just angered and so. . . cumbersome! This child inside me has determined that I stay quiet and wait helplessly after our home was attacked! They will not even tell me who was slain, for fear that I might swoon away in horror like some delicate maiden of Gondor who has never seen men die. All I know is that the stables were set afire, and my Steelsheen was stolen. I wish to ride with you and avenge our people.”

Her husband sighed. Eowyn‘s angry mood grated on his own raw nerves. Still, he understood her ire; Tham Fain was her home too. “Sit down and I will tell you all that I know.”

Scowling so fiercely that she suddenly had a look of Eomer, Eowyn sat on one of the chairs. While donning a fresh shirt, a tunic suitable for travel, and older, more serviceable boots, Faramir recounted the news he had heard from the two White Guards. “And then, though I sorely desired to speed to Emyn Arnen, I spent an hour cooling my heels in Council as Eldarion revealed the truth of my dealings with Saruman,” he finished. “I would have preferred to be on my way home, but Aragorn was right, my presence was needful. I can leave knowing that the King is no longer burdened by a Steward whose reputation is compromised, and that the honour of Ithilien’s prince is fully restored. Sometimes we cannot do what we want as soon as we wish it. I would not risk your presence in Emyn Arnen until we know there is no danger that the Easterlings are lying in wait for us. They were sent to find you as well as the Stone of Silence.”

Eowyn folded her arms over her round belly. “I do not fear the Easterlings. They are cowards!”

“I know.” Faramir replied. “But I do fear them. I fear that they could take you. The thought of you being seized and carried off, as they nearly bore away Ardith, fills me with fear. For you and the babe would surely not survive it, to say the least of your being taken captive for an unknown purpose. And if I lost you, my lady, I fear I would lose myself as well.”

He crossed to her and stood above her, reaching for her hand. She looked up at him, softening, and let him take it. Faramir pressed her small, strong fingers between his own. “You must be strong for me here. I promise that I will bring you home as soon as it is safe, perhaps quite soon. Our people need to see their Princess as well as their Prince.”

“You have a smooth tongue, Son of Gondor,” Eowyn replied. “But I suppose your arguments have some merit. Sometimes I like not the lot of a Princess.”

“Sometimes I like not the lot of a Prince,” Faramir agreed. “I know when to choose my battles and when to retreat. You, my White Lady, have so strong a spirit that retreat, or restraint, is the last choice you would make.” He looked down upon her upturned face. “It is one of the things I love most about you. Yet I ask you to remember that your life has immeasurable value, beyond that of the mother of my children or Princess of Ithilien.”

“Very well.” She agreed; “You are a wizard with words, yet you always have truth behind them. Do you know what they are calling you since you helped awaken Eldarion? They speak of the good counsel of Faramir the Wise.”

Faramir felt his own cheeks redden as he blushed. “I believe Aragorn mentioned something about that. It is merely idle talk.” Worthless chatter, and perhaps some flattery. Yet he wondered what his father might say about such praise; and wished that Denethor could hear it given to his second son.

“What is this?” Eowyn’s pleased voice cut into his melancholy thoughts. She gazed at the bed, and the King’s gift that he had placed upon it.

Faramir felt again the childish joy he had known when Aragorn gave him the sword. “The King had it made for me; and presented it to me in Council today. Its name is Defender.”

“Really?” Eowyn grinned. “In Council, before all the lords of the Realm?”

“And one that was long overdue!” Eowyn looked up expectantly, her eyes shining. “Well?”

“Well, what?” Faramir wondered what she was getting at, for Eowyn was practically bouncing out of the chair in excitement.

“Are you not going to take the sword out of the scabbard and try it, or at least look at it?” Eowyn pressed.

Eowyn was indeed a fair judge of weaponry, and she did desire to see the blade. He took up the sword, and slid it free of the beautiful scabbard. He noted that the scabbard’s throat was gilded in silver to prevent wear. The dark new leather sword-belt was inlaid with a design of stars and leaves. No effort had been spared to make a superb sword and scabbard and belt - for him!

“Oh, what a fair blade!” Eowyn started to rise, but Faramir motioned for her to stay in the chair. Moving to the farthest end of the room from the door, he tried first a two-handed grip in the basic ‘dragon guard’ posture that Boromir had been the first to teach him with a wooden sword so long ago. The blade was a hand-and-a-halfsword, made to be wielded by either one or both hands. He swung it down, towards the window, shifting to a one-handed grip; and noted the smooth extension, the easy fit of the long leather-wrapped hilt in his hand. As much as he could tell by the limited practice afforded him in such close quarters, it was a fair blade indeed, well-appointed and perfectly balanced. He would prefer to mount the sword on the wall of his White Hall to be admired as an heirloom of his House. But Faramir knew that he would soon have to use it to kill other men.

Faramir lowered the blade, and approached his wife. Eowyn stood up, smiling softly, and moved clear of the chair. He came round behind her, put one arm lightly across her breast, and slowly raised the sword before her with the other hand.

“It says ‘I am named Beriol chathol. I defend Gondor,” Eowyn said, reading the Sindarin inscription on the blade. “Legolas and Gimli made me, for Faramir’s hand."

Eowyn was justly proud of her ability to speak and read Sindarin. She had first learned the tongue in her uncle's household and had since improved her usage. Eowyn had a quick mind, Faramir noted fondly; his own command of Rohirric was not quite as good. Now Eowyn tapped the shining moonstone in the pommel with a respectful finger, and brought her hands up to rest over those of her husband. “A remarkable blade. The sword of Faramir. I cannot wait to try it out after this child is come.”

“Sparring, my dear? But it is too long for your arms. I will match it against your sword, though.”

“I did not mean swordplay, Faramir,” She whispered, turning and pulling his head down to hers. “I meant . . your own sword, which is long indeed, but never too long for me.”

Faramir kissed his wife, partly to hide the heated blush that her words brought to his cheeks, and mostly because he could not stop himself, having her so close and attentive and warm in his arms. But finally, after a moment he wished could last forever, he pulled away with a sigh; and slid the sword back into the scabbard.

He looked at his armour and weapons, spread neatly on a blanket atop the bed, and reached out towards the equipment.

Quietly, Eowyn slipped ahead of him and took up a quilted surcoat. “Let me arm you.” She had done so before, being a daughter of kings and skilled at the chore.

Faramir stood straight as Eowyn girded him in armour fit for a short journey and possible battle. She placed the heavily padded surcoat over Faramir's tunic and tied the lacings down its front, then continued her task. The moon and tree sigil etched into his black leather cuirass and vambraces marked him as Prince of Ithilien; this was a mission of relief, not a Council gathering, so there was no need to bother with the moon-crown. Leather greaves protected his legs, pauldrons of steel and boiled leather covered his shoulders. She buckled on the new sword-belt, then draped his gray velvet cloak, over his shoulders and fastened the silver clasps. Taking up Faramir's mail shirt, she folded it into the leather case that he would bear behind his saddle, for use if needed. Finally, Eowyn slung the quiver of arrows over Faramir’s shoulder.

Eowyn stepped back, then took up the sword and handed it gravely to Faramir. “Here is your sword, my lord” she said quietly, all trace of naughtiness gone from her voice.

“I bear it in your service, my lady, and in the service of Gondor” He answered, taking the sword and setting it in the belt. “I will carry it today to defend Ithilien,” he swore, kissing Eowyn’s hands. “Walk with me to the door, my escort will come soon with Daisy. He weathered the trip to Mordor well. I hope to return tomorrow; and will send word as soon as I can.” Faramir knew now that he would have to go to war when the King marched against Alatar, for he would be honour-bound to avenge the innocent lives of his people so carelessly taken by the Blue Wizard’s minions, and to end the threat of Easterling conquest. Eowyn knew it too, or would soon realize it.

Taking his short bow in his left arm, and Eowyn’s hand in his right, Faramir walked down the stairs with his lady, and to the door. Ithilien’s need called him, but he would always return to her.

AUTHORS’ NOTES II: Thanks to Branwyn and her husband for help with arms, armour, and consultation on the Steward’s civilian wardrobe . . .Check out her story BY THE LIGHT OF EARENDIL’S STAR, elsewhere on this site, for a cracking good read!

Thanks also to Berzerker Prime, of the HASA language resource forums, for finding the Sindarin name for Faramir's new sword. Technically, Beriol Chathol means "Protecting Blade", or "Blade that protects"; since there isn't a Sindarin word meaning 'defend'. But we, and Faramir, just call it Defender. Here endeth the lesson!

AUTHORS’ NOTES: The good news is that this story will be finished. The bad news is that Real Life is taking up a lot more of both authors’ time, so chapters cannot be finished and posted as fast as we once did.

A big Thank-You to all of our readers for hanging in this far, especially those who take the time to review!

What Has Gone Before: Faramir used the Stone of Silence, the same elf-forged green stone with which Saruman once ensorcelled him, to help Aragorn awaken Eldarion from Saruman’s spell-induced sleep. Aragorn was so invigorated by his son’s restoration that he also healed Faramir’s damaged leg, with the help of the wizard Pallando the Blue.

All of Minas Tirith rejoiced at the revival of the King’s son. While Faramir was getting some well-deserved rest, his second son Cirion had a nightmare that their home in Emyn Arnen was attacked and a tall white-haired man made threats. The next day, Faramir learned that Cirion’s dream had come true; Emyn Arnen was attacked by Easterlings who ransacked the White Hall, killed a few people, and made off with Eowyn’s favorite broodmare. Aragorn persuaded Faramir to come to Council and get his name cleared before rushing back to Emyn Arnen. Eldarion’s account of having been taken captive by Saruman and Faramir’s heroism put to rest all suspicions of Faramir’s treachery. Aragorn gave Faramir a shiny new sword named Defender, which touched Faramir and really impressed Eowyn. Then Faramir left to check out the damage to his home, as Gondor and Ithilien prepare for war against the Easterlings and the mysterious wizard, Alatar the Blue, who has stirred them to attack the Kingdoms of the West.

“And so, my friend, Gondor must go to war once more.” Faramir stood in the glade where Beregond had been buried after his body had been carried back from Mordor the previous autumn. The loyal captain of the White company had been laid to rest here with great honour by the King. Faramir had been too badly hurt to leave his bed in the Houses of Healing; and so had been unable to attend the ceremony. The Steward still regretted that he had not fulfilled the promise he had given Beregond, as his friend died in his arms, that he would bring him home. He had therefore made a second vow to himself that he would attend the captain’s grave whenever he was in Emyn Arnen.

A light spring rain drizzled down from the sky, coating the trees with water, trickling new life into branch and bud and dry winter grass. Faramir found the cool of the forest a welcome change from the strength-sapping heat of Minas Tirith. Though he wore the hood of his cloak to cover his head, the rain did not bother him. He had endured far worse soakings and storms than this mild downpour.

Faramir focused on the mound before him, covered with lilies of the valley and surrounded by white stones. One long gray stone at was etched with the runes that signified Beregond, son of Baranor, Captain of the White Company. He squatted next by the stone and touched it as he continued. “How I wish you were still here to guard my back, Beregond. You were the most loyal captain; and a most true friend.”

Faramir rose with a long sigh. A drop of rain landed on his nose and he rubbed it away absently, his mind still musing elsewhere. “Soon I shall take your sons with mine as we ride into danger. It all seems to come down to lineage, my friend, fathers and sons. Because you defied my father, I lived to have sons myself. I once found it hard to do a son‘s duty, but now I know how much more arduous it is to be a father. I promise you that I will watch over your sons as I watch over my own, and bring Bergil and Borlas home. Wait for me beyond the Halls of Mandos, Beregond; for you and I and Boromir shall be eternal brothers."

Faramir lingered a few minutes longer, savoring the tranquility of the glade. Once he left the quiet junipers and oaks, he would know little peace until a war had been fought.

The last three days had been filled with industry fueled by need. The settlements of Emyn Arnen were devastated by enemies who came under cover of darkness and left a trail of grief in their wake.

Thirty of Faramir’s own people had died: nine White Guards, three grooms, his seneschal Baran, the stable-boy Tuor, two kitchen maids, and others old and young. As Faramir feared, the blacksmith had been cut down as he strove to defend his pregnant wife, Ardith. Faramir had sworn that Ardith and her unborn child would have shelter and employment from him for all of their days. Anborn‘s younger brother Halmir had fallen in the fight at Nan Galen, the village through which the Easterlings had come. Homes and livestock had been lost. Sixty people had suffered injury. Pelendur, acting-Captain of the White Company, had come close to death and would not be able to fight again for many weeks, if at all. The Easterlings had seemingly divided their force to distract most of the Company while they attacked Tham Fain; then scrambled over the walls that girded the great house.

The Easterlings had fired some of the wooden outbuildings in order to cover their escape. The burned buildings included stables housing a number of the fine horses that Eowyn had bred and loved. Most of the herd had been out to pasture, but two mares late in foal had perished in the fire along with a number of older, slower horses. Windfola had been led out to safety by young Tuor before the stable-boy was slain. The pride of Eowyn’s herd, her favorite mare, Steelsheen, granddaughter of Shadowfax, had evidently survived the fire. The pregnant mare had been seen alive, being led away by the Easterlings’ blood-soaked captain. A merciful rainfall had doused the fire before it spread to the orchards.

Tham Fain, Faramir and Eowyn’s White Hall, had been ransacked. The Easterlings had almost certainly come for the Stone of Silence; they had pillaged much of the interior to find it. Furniture was overturned or broken beyond repair, paintings and tapestries destroyed. Faramir’s library had been ransacked, the shelves toppled and his beloved books strewn all over the floor. Even the children’s toys had been squashed underfoot. The house-dogs had not been spared. All had been killed, from the old lame dog to the children’s frisky puppy and his dam, who had been Faramir‘s hunting companion. Faramir felt a twinge of guilt that he grieved for the dogs when too many of his people had been hurt or slain.

Eowyn would rage over the loss of her horses. The children would mourn the killing of the dogs. And they all would weep for the people who had been slain.

Faramir was angry. The villagers and his own servants had come to Emyn Arnen to build peaceful new lives after the terror of Mordor had ended. They had deserved prosperity in return for their hard work; and instead they had been attacked, hurt and killed. Faramir had always hated above all things to kill for the sake of killing; but these deaths demanded vengeance. As Prince of Ithilien, the dead were his and no other's to avenge.

Faramir had set himself quickly to his tasks. He had officiated at funerals, done his best to comfort all the slain ones‘ living kin and assure them that they would be sheltered until permanent homes could be found, converted the great hall of his home, once it had been cleaned, into a place of healing, and had begun the reconstruction of the burned buildings. He ordered that temporary fortifications be built to protect the five villages of Emyn Arnen, and had farmers and vintners who dwelled farther afield summoned back into the hills for their own safety. But his hard work in the four days since the attack did not lessen Faramir’s restless anger. He had allowed his land to be invaded and his people to suffer.

He had sent scouts throughout the surrounding forests and beyond for some sign of where the enemy had gone. Tracks indicated that most of the attackers had quickly fled eastward, where Faramir knew their army waited beyond the Ephel Duath. Yet there were other signs, footprints and recently quelled fires, told Faramir that a small group of Easterlings had hidden, on foot, in the forest below the hills as late as yestereve. Damrod, who commanded the White Company’s Scouts, had tried to attach a squadron to Faramir’s own person every time Faramir stepped foot out of Tham Fain, but Faramir had balked. Members of the White Company were better employed fortifying the White Hall and the villages, and searching for the Easterling stragglers, than shepherding him.

There was no more time to linger at Beregond’s grave, Faramir reminded himself.

As he rose, the sound of a large number of birds flying up quickly from the trees caught his ear. It was sudden, too sudden! Faramir whirled around, hand on his sword, to see perhaps a hundred jays and sparrows erupt into the sky, filling the air with their cries. He also saw a man, clad in skins and leathers and studded vambraces, running at him, brandishing a good-sized axe in his right hand - an Easterling!

Faramir had Defender raised above his head before the axe-man reached him. He sidestepped quickly as his attacker brought down the weapon, landing a quick blow to the man’s upper back with the edge of the blade as the axe-man passed him. The momentum of the Easterling’s swing had pulled him forward; and Faramir moved back as the warrior rolled away and came up with the axe in his massive hand. Faramir had just enough time to note that the axe seemed the same type that the Easterlings had borne before the Enemy’s downfall--with a shaft of nearly three feet and a heavy blade more suited for cleaving than for throwing. He switched to a one-handed grip on his sword and brought forth his dagger in his other hand.

“Avsheku torsa!” Faramir cried, returning to a guard position and circling the man. He had learned a few phrases of Akkadi, a tongue common to the Eastern lands, from Pallando during the meal they had shared after Eldarion awakened. “Avsheku torsa, u ba-kairi!” Hopefully he had just said End battle and you will live!

His attacker cocked his head and growled. Faramir wondered whether he had offered quarter or had just declared that the axe-man liked to wear women’s clothing. Pallando had merrily recalled several Akkadi insults between draughts of ale; and Faramir had tried not to confuse them with the more important phrases he had wanted to learn.

The Easterling charged again, raising the single-bladed axe high above his head, preparatory to bringing it down upon Faramir’s bare head. It was too late to try to take his foe alive, as he would have preferred, Faramir realized. He was alone here, easy prey if other Easterlings soon came in force. Time to end it! Faramir lunged straight at the man’s upper body, chopping the man’s forearm with Defender to throw off the axe’s downward path and following the stroke with a short dagger-stab to the poorly armored inch between collarbone and the base of the neck.

Blood spurted from the wound. Faramir pulled out the dagger from the writhing man, then twisted quickly as the axe shuddered down upon him, loosed at last from the Easterling‘s dying grip. Not quickly enough! The axe bit into his right shoulder, causing Faramir to grunt with pain.

Fortunately, the steel edge of his pauldron bore the brunt of the stroke. Faramir could still use his arm and shoulder, though both ached fiercely. He staggered back, panting, and watched the man who would have killed him gurgle out his last, desperate breath.

Suddenly feeling all of his fifty-two years, Faramir sank down on the wet grass beside his assailant.

“It has been a long time since I have killed a man” he said silently to the Easterling. “And a long way for you to come and die for no good reason.” Sighing, he reached out and closed the man’s staring eyes. It would not be long before he would have to kill many more.

Faramir stood up again somewhat stiffly, and wiped the sword and dagger on his cloak. He sheathed both blades, then blew three swift notes on his horn.

A horn called back in answer, from a league or so away. A few minutes later, ten green-garbed Scouts flew out of the woods, led by Morfin, son of the retired Ranger Mablung and one of Faramir’s most determined watchdogs.

“My lord!” The curly-haired lieutenant called, hurrying to Faramir’s side. “What has happened? We heard your call. Ah, you bleed!”

“Nay, I am well, Morfin” Faramir answered, embarrassed by the concern from a young man not yet born when he had first patrolled Ithilien. “The blood is not mine.” He gestured toward the fallen Easterling. “Bear his body away for burial with his countrymen.”

He moved to follow as the Scouts busied themselves with wrapping the body, then stumbled. He was still tired from the fight, brief as it had been.

Then Morfin reappeared, and took Faramir’s elbow, an especially irksome look of worry on his face. “My lord, you are weary. Let me call for a horse to bring you home.”

“Morfin, you are my lieutenant, not my nursemaid,” he reminded the youngster. “I am well! Save your clucking for those who are truly hurt.”

Morfin smiled, respectfully but absolutely unrepentantly. “My lord, if you are hurt, not only do I answer to my duty as your liege-man and officer, but I answer to Commander Damrod, who bade me follow you this day, to my father, who bade me look to you always, and to the Lady herself, who bade us bring you back to her whole or face her wrath. And I would rather fight a hundred Easterlings single-handed than face the wrath of Eowyn Wraithbane!”

Faramir could not help but laugh. “So would I, young Morfin. But let us pray that it is only fifty Easterlings, or less, if we fight alone.”

The Scouts moved out of the meadow, to the twittering of birdsong. The rain had ceased; and the rising day-heat promised a warmer day in later hours. Faramir suffered his men to surround him, keeping step as they hurried through the wood. He would see to his bruised shoulder later. He would have to train himself up to greater speed and fitness. Not so long ago he would have moved too fast for the blade of the axe to touch him at all as its wielder flailed about in death-throes. It had been months since he had faced a soldier’s routine and a soldier’s battleground, and that after years of peace. As Prince and Captain, he must be an exemplar, not a burden. After all, it was more his duty to protect all his men than it was theirs to play the mother hen with him. Especially these eager lads of barely twenty-five years, who had seen occasional skirmishes but little of real war.

“We would have reached you earlier” Morfin said at Faramir’s elbow. “But we surprised yon Easterling’s fellows. There were only ten of them.”

“Eldacar and Tarcil were wounded, but not gravely. I sent them back to the garrison. We tried to take prisoners; but the Easterlings fought like cornered Orcs and would not yield. Those that survived managed to take some poison they had on their person, before we could stop them.”

Faramir fought down the urge to smile. Morfin had only seen orcs once in his young life; when the White Company had fought a band of orcs who were trying to pillage the farmlands. The young bowman had been very quickly wounded and taken from danger, and gained more attention from the village girls than actual experience in battling orcs. If Faramir had his way, all such invaders would stay far from Gondor’s borders and Morfin would use his notable skills with a bow to hunt game in the abundant forests. But he knew that complete peace would not come for many years.

The Scouts and Faramir walked swiftly and silently through the wood. Then the clatter of hoof-beats brought them to instant alert. Fortunately, the five riders who came out of the forest were White Guards, with Borlas, son of Beregond, at their head.

“My lord, we heard your horn” said Borlas, a tall, dark-eyed young man of twenty-two with his father’s air of quiet strength. “Is all well? Lord Faramir, there is blood on your face! Are you hurt?”

“I am quite well, Borlas” Faramir answered. Did he appear so decrepit that boys he remembered as swaddled babes now wished to pamper him? He should probably be grateful that they were not trying to shove him into a cushioned chair with a shawl and a cup of honeyed tea! “I had an argument with an Easterling”, he continued, gesturing at the cloak-shrouded body carried by the most burly Scout. “He insisted on finishing it with his axe; so I had to finish him.”

Borlas smiled and chuckled appreciatively. The tense faces of the other Guards and Scouts lightened, as Faramir had intended.

“My lord, the King has sent word to you” Borlas announced, handing Faramir a sealed roll of parchment.

An hour later, Faramir set forth from Emyn Arnen, a rider having preceded him to announce his return, as Aragorn had requested. The King had asked that Faramir return to the City if he were able, there to speak further of the preparations for war. Legolas and Gimli had apparently arrived in force and the Rohirrim were on the march.

Faramir and his White Guard escort rode over the rebuilt bridge from Osgiliath to the Rammas Echor. The new bridge below Osgiliath would have quickened the trip to the City; but Faramir wished a quick inspection of the garrison, which stood now in excellent readiness. He could not help be reminded, as they crossed, of that terrible night so long ago, when he and Boromir had battled on this very bridge; and his brother’s relentless courage. Although whole days could sometimes pass when he did not think of Boromir, the joyous memories and the sorrow of the loss never truly left him.

They passed through the gate of the Rammas Echor and began the final leg of the journey down the main road through the townlands on the Pelennor. Faramir slowed the pace; hearing a horn-call in the distance. Squinting in the mid-day sunshine, he discerned a party of horsemen riding to meet them. That particular sequence of notes was the King’s own, no one else would use it.

Hoping all was well, Faramir resumed the ride, urging his mare to a trot. His big warhorse, the incongruously named Daisy, had been left in Ithilien in preparation for the long march that they would soon undertake.

Three riders broke from the King’s party and raced ahead on the road, which had cleared of other riders and wains at the sound of the horn. For a few minutes, the black, white and bay horses kept apace in a gallop, then two took the lead. Faramir recognized Aragorn even as the King pulled past the other rider and rode towards him, leaning into his mount’s neck and giving the black horse its head in a seemingly effortless gallop.

Faramir’s concerned waned as the King neared him. For Aragorn was smiling, nay, grinning, while he slowed the black horse to a canter, then a trot, and approached the Steward’s party. Half a horse-length behind him rode Legolas on a white steed that he commanded by the touch of his hands, without saddle or bridle. The elf-lord of Eryn Gelair looked as if he was fresh from a short walk around the Citadel, his fair hair smooth, his garments fresh, and his smile untroubled. The King of Gondor and Arnor was wind-tossed, his hair streaming out under the silver circlet on his brow.

“Faramir!” Aragorn cried, laughing, barely winded by his exertion. “I greet you here, my friend. The Tower Hall is stifling this day; and it has been too long since I had a good ride.”

“Well met, Faramir” Legolas spoke more in more decorous tones. “Though I would it were for a less fell purpose.”

“How fares Emyn Arnen?” Aragorn asked, his face smoothing. “Your message of yestereve indicated that the hills at least are clear of Easterlings. I thought you could be spared to return to the City for our counsels.”

“Gimli has come from Aglarond as well” said Legolas with a light smile; “though he preferred to avoid meeting you on the back of a horse.”

“Hail, Legolas” Faramir smiled at the Lord of Eryn Gelair. “I do remember how Gimli prefers to use his own legs. My lord,” he turned to Aragorn; “ Emyn Arnen is indeed secured. There was but one party of Easterlings found; and they all died rather than surrender.”

Aragorn frowned. “You are blood-stained, Faramir. “Did you think to rest your newly healed leg by hunting Easterners?”

Several subdued chuckles were heard from Faramir’s Guard; as well as murmurs about Faramir’s superior hunting skills. “Lord Faramir killed a mighty Eastern axe-man, Lord King” Borlas announced unasked.

Faramir shot a warning glance at Beregond’s son; and Borlas had the grace to look ashamed at his impertinence. Faramir and Aragorn were both about to speak, when another rider trotted up to them. It was Eldarion. Faramir recognized the lad’s mount as the bay he had seen under the third rider who had broken from the King’s party. Faramir was concerned when he noticed the boy was struggling for breath; though Eldarion’s steed, a fine young mare, showed no sign of fatigue. At least the lad seemed in good spirits: he was smiling; and his face was red from exertion.

“Hello, Eldarion” Faramir hailed the young prince. “It is good to see you riding again.” He was rewarded by a rather sheepish grin from Eldarion, before the boy nodded to him, still breathing too heavily for normal speech. Faramir knew better than to ask him how he felt; lads of Eldarion’s age embarrassed easily.

“That was a good ride, though a bit short” said Aragorn. “Come, my friends, let us turn back to the City. Faramir, please ride beside me; I would apprise you of plans made while you tended to Emyn Arnen.”

The White Guards formed up to the rear of the Tower Guards, Eldarion and Legolas. Aragorn and Faramir rode slowly a few horse-lengths ahead of their escort.

“I rejoice to see you and Eldarion spending more time together” Faramir said. “I have not seen him ride out with you to meet anyone in years.”

Aragorn frowned slightly. “In truth, mellon-nîn; he rode out with me today because he wished to see you.”

“Surely not! That is a boy who is most happy to ride with his father.” Faramir remembered all too well how a father could harbor resentment towards a son who turned to another elder for counsel. Aragorn had never been miserly with his children’s affections; but it was best to let him know that Faramir would not try to usurp Aragorn’s place with his only son. Especially not now, when Aragorn was trying to forge a stronger bond with the boy.

“Be easy, Faramir” Aragorn said, smiling ruefully. “I am very proud of my boy; he has foresworn his former slothful ways. Today, though he was tired from sword practice this morning, he heard that I was going to ride out and meet you; and begged me let him come. He admires you greatly.”

Aragorn glanced back at his son, who rode beside Legolas. “I do not mind; in fact I am pleased that he reveres you. Eldarion is most anxious to spend time with me, to learn from me. I am overjoyed, do not mistake me. But I cannot be with him as much as I would like. I cannot spare the time now, as we must prepare for this war. I am fortunate to find but a few minutes each day other than during a meal to spend with my boy. And I still worry for him, Faramir. If you could help him, I would be most grateful. Or just listen if he comes to you for counsel.”

“Of course I will gladly help Eldarion, should he need it” Faramir assured Aragorn. “But what may I do for him? He is well, is he not?”

“Yes, but he is not regaining his strength as fast as I had hoped. He is trying hard. Too hard, I think; he tires quickly. He begs the arms-master for more time; and Hallagon is as busy as I am these days with the arming of the Guards. The friends he had are either home with their fathers or uninterested in training with him, preferring to sport in the taverns. I only know what has happened because Eldarion told his mother; he was ashamed to tell me.”

“Sometimes boys his age find it hard to talk to their fathers.” Faramir mused, remembering how Elboron had kept silent about his worries that his voice would never change. Lads of that age were shy, wary creatures, their bodies surging towards manhood yet their hearts still boyish and uncertain. “But it is good that he wants to please you. Have you told him how proud you are of him?”

“Yes, more than once. I think something else is driving him; yet I know not what.”

“I do not think you should press him” Faramir suggested. It still felt odd to advise Aragorn in such matters. He was hardly an authority on fatherhood. He had been rather afraid of that duty before Elboron’s birth. That fear had lasted until Faramir had held his child for the first time. He had then realized that he would not only die to protect the tiny babe, but he would live to rear him. Faramir had been very fortunate. The children had been healthy, their mother strong and clever. He had often felt, like a shield at his back, the echo of his brother’s encouragement during Faramir’s own childhood. So he had managed to become the father his sons and daughters deserved.

“You are probably right” Aragorn spoke again. “But I wish Eldarion to strengthen before he joins us on the campaign against the Easterlings. It will be a long march; better for him if he begins it on an equal footing with the other lads, or close to it.”

“Eldarion comes with us?” Faramir was shocked. “You would risk yourself and your heir in the same war, where Reunited Kingdom could lose both of you? We already risk leaving Gondor leaderless by both of us going forth on the same perilous venture.”

“Imrahil stands ready to assume command in our absence, as he has before.” Aragorn replied.“ He looked once more upon his son.

“He begged me to let him come, Faramir” Aragorn said quietly and proudly. “He said he had to prove himself; and he could not stay safe in Minas Tirith when other lords’ sons rode to war. I thought on his words; and he does speak truly. Also, it is entirely possible that while we ride eastward, Alatar could send forces to attack the City, or Ithilien, in hopes of capturing our families. I will leave hundreds of Guards behind, and I know you will leave Ithilien defended; but Eldarion might be safer surrounded by the armies of Gondor, Rohan and our elven and dwarven allies, at least until the battle joins. The other pages and younger esquires will at least be guarded during the battle. And should we lose, Eldarion will face great danger whether he is in the tents behind the rear guard, or in the Citadel with his mother. So I will take my son with me; at least for the term of the campaign.” Aragorn’s tone brooked no argument.

“I named an heir after Eldarion” Aragorn continued. “By Arwen and the midwife’s best recollection, Rian preceded Nimloth into the world by an hour. Council has now declared Rian as Eldarion’s heir until he sires children of his own, and pledged to uphold her claim. She and Nimloth will continue my line should Eldarion and I fall. But I intend to defeat Alatar and his army, and return with my son.”

“As do I” Faramir agreed. He would take Elboron and Cirion to war with him; Bron as his aide and Ciri as his page. If none of them returned, Aldor, a grave and studious child of six, would become Prince of Ithilien and Steward of Gondor in Faramir’s place. Though of course, Eowyn would rule Ithilien in their son’s name until Aldor came of age; and Imrahil would similarly hold the Stewardship. Pushing aside such necessary but melancholy concerns, Faramir spoke again: “I will talk to Eldarion, try to draw him out, before we all ride out eastward. And when shall we leave? What strength of arms do we take, and what shall be left to defend Gondor? Tell me all that I have missed these last days.”

“We have word that Eomer has departed Dunharrow with a mighty force of Rohirrim, some eight thousand strong” Aragorn answered. “They should arrive in two or three days; they wish not to tire the horses before the journey. The Tower Guard is ready; the lords of the fiefs have called forth their troops; Legolas brings three hundred elves from Eryn Gelair, and Gimli has brought a like number of stout dwarves. I expect a force of Dunedain from the North to arrive tomorrow. Erchirion prepares the fleet to patrol the southern waters, lest the Umbari seek to take advantage of our departure. And I called a council today, with Pallando. The wizard still has much to tell us of the land where we will fight, and the weapons and armies we will face. We are still deciding what force to leave behind to protect the City and the garrisons, but the lords have already withheld what was judged needful to guard their own lands .”

“I hope you will rest your leg this night, Faramir” Aragorn added, with a stern look. “I will need all my captains in full strength before we ride out to the East.”

“As my lord and healer wishes” Faramir ceded. “I shall try to rest. But my leg truly is better, thanks to your help. I cannot tell the difference between it and the other anymore. Will this day’s meeting be another session of the Great Council?”

Aragorn gave a less than kingly snort. “I held the final session yesterday. We are thankfully done with such panoply for another year. I must tell you, though, Faramir; Elboron spoke most well in your place at the Great Council. He convinced the City Fathers to begin working in concert with the Guild Masters to continue the plans for the repairs to the sewers; with luck they shall start work in a few weeks, for the work will be easier with some of the people gone to war. They were all most impressed by Elboron’s bearing and skill at discourse.”

Faramir found himself smiling broadly. “My thanks for such praise. Elboron knows that I believe the work on the sewers, though difficult, must be undertaken soon to prevent outbreaks of pestilence in the future.”

“That is exactly what he said. You have a fine son, Faramir. Elboron is a credit to his sires; and one day he and my son will stand forth in Council together in our place. I hope Eldarion will cast as good a reflection on his father as Elboron does on his. Meanwhile, I would have you bring Elboron with you to our war-council this day, in my Chamber of Audience at the eighth hour; as I shall bring my son. I have called the captains, and Legolas and Gimli, and Pallando, as I said.”

“I will bring Elboron.” Faramir replied, “And be assured, Aragorn; Eldarion is most definitely his father’s son, though much younger and far less grim.”

“And more handsome!” Aragorn said, grinning. “Thanks to you, I will be able to watch him continue to grow. But I am not yet ready for my dotage. Come, let us race!”

Faramir laughed, and called to Legolas to join them. The King of Gondor, the Steward, and the Lord of Eryn Gelair quickly turned their horses to form a line, then shot for the Great Gate like three arrows from a longbow.

The afternoon sun rode high in the sky, shimmering through the haze above the City. The pleasant breeze he had felt on the Pelennor had ebbed. Faramir stood in the shade and watched his two eldest sons sparring across the practice ground on the sixth circle. Eowyn had told him where to find the boys.

Elboron towered over his little brother from the vantage point of four additional years and the tall, powerful frame he had inherited from Boromir and Eomer. Cirion awaited the changes to his still childish body which would hopefully fill him out, raise his height, and give him strength. In a straight swordfight, Elboron would have dispatched his brother easily, since the reach of his sword arm was far superior. But this was not a straight fight. Elboron had brought his brother here to distract him from news of the attack on Emyn Arnen; and he hoped to raise Cirion’s confidence rather than weaken it. So he let his younger brother come to him, giving ground and teaching quietly as he did so. Cirion was a mass of wild hair and flashing sword, desperately pushing forward with great determination.

Faramir stood and watched, unable to suppress the memory of a similar hot, still day when he had fought as Cirion did and Boromir had played the teacher’s role that Elboron filled so ably now. Cirion and Elboron sparred with un-edged swords like the ones that he and Boromir had used, lightweight blades made specifically for the training of the Steward’s sons. Faramir wondered if the swords in his sons’ hands today might be the very same blades that he and Boromir had used all those years ago.

“Fathers and sons,” Faramir muttered to himself, his right hand moving to touch his other arm above the elbow. Boromir had unintentionally struck him hard enough to inflict a clean flesh wound, despite the sword’s being blunt. Faramir had been distracted by the sound of their father clearing his throat behind them, and had not seen Boromir’s stroke quickly enough to block or dodge it. Pain had flared and blood had flowed. Surprised, ten-year-old Faramir had been unable to stop his eyes from welling up with tears. What he remembered most vividly was the disdain in the Steward’s eyes when he beheld his younger son’s show of emotion. The wound was long healed and no scar remained. Yet the pain of the memory still stung Faramir worse than the bite of Boromir‘s sword; as had their father‘s moment of scorn all those years ago. Such was the strength of the chain that bound sons to fathers and fathers to sons.

Unwilling to relive the scene in a different role, Faramir waited quietly as the fight continued. Bron had begun to master the use of a hand-and-a-half sword, and was quite skilled with the short sword he had wielded in the battle at Saruman‘s tower last Fall. Cirion could only best Elboron in a fight without rules. On a real battlefield, the younger boy might be able, with luck, to bring his considerable agility into play. And even at the age of eleven years, Cirion was a relentless fighter with knife and bow even at his young age. As a swordsman, he was still no match for his taller brother. Faramir sighed, knowing that soon his boys would see real battle. Behind the lines with the other pages, guarded by more seasoned soldiers, Cirion should be safe. But he would see the carnage of war as gaping wounds on the bodies of friends and possibly kin, not just cuts on a practice field. And Elboron would fight as a man and warrior. Faramir recalled wistfully the days when Bron and Ciri battled with their toy soldiers, safe by his hearth, damage limited to wooden knights and horses. Not for the first time nor for the last, Faramir wished that he could halt the march of time.

“Move your feet more, Ciri,” Elboron advised. “Follow through quicker!” Faramir could tell that Cirion was allowing his temper to slow his footwork, which was usually quite fast.

Cirion attacked again. Elboron stepped deftly to the side, rolling his wrist so that the point of the sword drew back in in a circular motion as Cirion’s blade drove towards his brother. Elboron continued the stroke, bringing his blade downward in a push against the other side of Cirion’s blade. The force of Elboron's parry knocked the younger boy’s sword from his grasp. It fell to the ground with a dull thud.

“Good?” the younger boy responded with dejection. “I fell for an easy trick!

“Don’t be discouraged, Ciri,” Faramir said. Two red and sweating faces turned towards him as he stepped forward to stand between his sons. “Sword-work is not learned in a day or even a year. You are making good progress.”

Cirion continued to look unconvinced. “I would make faster progress, if Bron sparred with me once a day instead of once a week.”

“I have told you, brother, I have not the time, especially now. How goes it at home, Father?” Elboron asked, carefully wiping his blade on a linen towel before sheathing it.

Faramir looked carefully at his sons, marking Cirion’s narrowed eyes, pout, and slightly hunched shoulders. The boy was angry and worried, and, being Cirion, craved the release of activity, preferably one that involved breakneck motion. An idea began to take shape in Faramir’s mind. “The White Hall is burdened with our wounded for now, but we will survive the blow the Easterlings dealt us. The hills are secured, and the villages did not take much harm. Elboron, you must go home and change; the King requests you attend our war-council later today. I will join you soon.”

Elboron threw a glance at his younger brother, whose pout had deepened at mention of the war, and then looked back to his father.

Faramir watched him leave and then turned back to the boy beside him. “You look hot, Ciri,” he said. “Come let us sit in the shade for a while and share some water.”

Cirion said nothing but followed his father to sit beneath one of the bay trees bordering the practice area. As he walked he dragged his sword through the dirt behind him. Faramir gave him a pointed look, prompting the boy to pick up the blade, wipe it on the towel that Elboron had dropped, and then sheathe it. Normally, Cirion took good care of the weapons he used, far better care in fact than he took of his clothes or footwear.

They sat quietly for a while, Faramir passing his water-skin to his son. As the silence continued, Cirion began to fidget. Finally he said, “Did Mother ask you to speak to me?”

“She is worried for you” Faramir responded, remembering Eowyn‘s words when he returned to their apartments two hours ago.

“Your mother has a strange notion that you blame yourself for the raid on Emyn Arnen. She seems to think that you believe I will blame you for it also,” Faramir said.

Cirion’s troubled blue eyes looked up at his father for the first time. “Do you not? They only attacked us after I killed that Easterling ”

Faramir sighed. Would that he could keep Cirion a heedless boy, rather than speak to him of killing and war! “When you fight as a soldier, Ciri, you quickly learn that you cannot afford to stop and ponder the outcome of past action during a battle. During even the easiest of skirmishes, you must bear down entirely on the immediate fight. You do not have time to worry as an orc raises his pike to slice open your gut. Your life and those of your comrades will depend on your thinking quickly of two things: how to survive and how to win. Strategy and tactics are important, but sometimes you have to follow your instincts. That’s what you did in the tunnel at Mordor, my son. Your speed in slaying the Easterling might have saved both of our lives, as well as the life of our future King.”

Cirion pouted. “But if I had not killed the Easterling, maybe they would not have attacked Emyn Arnen.”

“Perhaps,” Faramir agreed. “But if you had not killed him, we would not have retrieved the stone that has saved Eldarion. To find it, we may have had to go to war with the Easterlings anyway. I doubt very much that Eldarion could have survived the wait; he was already fading when the King and I finally used the Stone of Silence to awaken him.” Faramir sighed deeply. “What is done is done, and past. You cannot alter the past, Ciri, you have to simply make the best of whatever has occurred. It is never easy and sometimes it is not fair but that is part of growing to manhood. The child looks always for things that are easily seen and defined; it is night or it is day, but the man must walk in the grey watches of the dawn or twilight when things are not as clear, and he must still look to do what is right. When you understand that lesson you take another step on the path leading you to be a man and a warrior.”

Cirion nodded slowly. “I think I understand,” he said softly. He looked away from his father, licking his lips nervously. “But my dream…” he continued haltingly. “Are you sure it did not cause the attack? I heard Tuor cry out in the dream, and now he is slain, and Baran, and all the others.”

Faramir gazed at his son, remembering how he had once asked Boromir a similar question; following their aunt’s death a week after he had seen her slip and fall in a dream. He had thought that the more thoughtful Elboron would be the one to inherit his dreams of past and future; yet his eldest son’s dreams were mercifully ordinary. How could it be that this whirlwind of a boy, who hardly lay still or stopped talking long enough to truly sleep, could see the future in his dreams? And would he one day see the dreadful wave that consumed the island of their longfathers?

“Nay, fear not, little one” Faramir answered, echoing Boromir’s words of forty years before. “The Easterlings would have raided our home and slain our people whether you dreamed of it or not.” He placed a comforting hand on his son’s shoulder, and felt Cirion lean against him as the boy had not done in over a year. He wished he could spare Cirion this burden, borne down through the blood of Dol Amroth that flowed through Eowyn’s veins as well as his own. And he wondered if the new heir to the House of Eorl, Eomer and Lothiriel’s infant son Elfwine, would one day dream of things to come.

Cirion gulped. “I saw flames in my dream,” he said softly, “In Emyn Arnen. And I saw a man I had never seen before, very tall, with white hair and an evil look! He said he would cast down my house and take the White Lady…take Mother…as he took her mare!”

“No one is going to take your mother, my son” Faramir assured the boy. He wondered at the fearsome stranger in his son’s dream. He would ask Pallando about the appearance of their adversary, the wizard Alatar. But he said nothing of that to Cirion. “And that was what made you decide that the attack was your fault?” he asked his son gently.

Faramir reached across and hugged his son to him. “It was not your fault, Ciri,” he said, letting the boy’s head rest buried in his chest and slowly stroking his hair. “This strange dreaming is a trait that runs in our family, that is all. It came from our Elvish ancestress, the Lady Mithrellas, the mother of the first prince of Dol Amroth, or so 'tis said. Your mother has some of that blood as well, from her grandmother, who was kin to Uncle Imrahil. You might have more dreams, of the past as well as the future.”

Cirion lifted his head. “Will those dreams of the future all come true?” he asked.

Faramir sighed. “Sometimes they do reveal the future. Sometimes they show only what might come to pass, warnings of dangers that can be prevented. I do know for certain that you must not consider yourself at all responsible for the attack on Emyn Arnen. I most certainly do not!”

Despite himself Faramir smiled. “Is that what this fuss was all about?” he breathed. “You feared I would be so wroth with you I would keep you from your first battle! And I believed you had developed a guilty conscience!”

“I did feel guilty!” Cirion argued. “But I felt more fearful that I would miss the battle!”

“Cirion!” Faramir said, shaking his head. Cirion’s words and face had revealed that the boy had thought himself to blame for the Easterling attack. This new ploy of missing the battle was a mask to cover unaccustomed deep emotions. So be it, Faramir was not about to reveal to his son that he had found what Cirion had sought to hide. Such discretion was one of the skills he had mastered in guiding the Great Council and raising children.

He pulled him close again but Cirion began to wriggle. “Father,” he said pulling away. “Someone might see us!”

Faramir released him. “Then we are agreed?” he said. “The attack was not your fault, and you will ride with me as my page?”

Cirion nodded as he stood up. As far as he was concerned the conversation was now over; his guilt forgotten; and he had better things to do than linger in the shade being hugged by his father!

But Faramir was not yet finished with Cirion. He had to propose the idea that had struck him a few minutes ago. “Cirion, I have a favor I would ask of you, concerning a matter of state.”

Cirion dropped his lower jaw in wonder. A matter of state! His father had never wanted a favor from him; it was always Elboron who was asked to help with important tasks. “Yes, Father?” he asked excitedly.

“You know that Eldarion was ill for many months, and has just recently been restored to us.”

“Of course, Father!” Cirion replied. “You saved him with the Stone of Silence, as you told us.”

“In truth, the King saved him, with my help. But it seems that even a week later, Eldarion still has not recovered as well as he should. His father worries for him, and so do I. Eldarion is the heir to the throne of Arnor and Gondor; if he appears ill in public, our enemies might assume that there is a grave weakness in the house of Telcontar. So we must help Eldarion regain his strength as soon as possible; for it is planned that he ride with us along with the others Lords’ sons, including you and Bron.”

“You have known Eldarion all your life. He wants to advance his skill with the sword and other weapons. More than that, he needs to run and ride every day. Neither the King nor the arms-master can spare the time to work with him; they are busied with the preparations for the war. We need someone who knows Eldarion, someone who is quick and strong and also young, and can both teach him and play games with him, help his limbs grow strong again. I can think of no one better than you to trust with the health of our future King.”

Cirion’s eyes grew large again. “Me?” He squawked. “This is new! Mother won’t let me touch the glass goblets because she fears I’ll let them drop and break. You want me to be nursemaid to the King’s son?”

“Not a nursemaid, Ciri. Be Eldarion’s friend and comrade. It will be more play than work.”

Cirion stood up very straight and grinned. “You mean you truly wish me to run foot-races, spar with wooden swords, go out riding, with Eldarion? Sport with him for hours every day and not worry about breaking anything or missing lessons?”

“You will take pleasure, I am certain.” Faramir grinned back, and started to walk back toward the Citadel with Cirion at his side. “But you must also be patient and a little careful. Try not to let Eldarion become discouraged when you outdo him. You must push him to keep pace with you without breaking his spirit. And, I trust, without breaking his bones, Cirion.”

Faramir subdued an urge to sputter. “There is perhaps a certain similarity between the tasks; though Eldarion’s line is greater than even that of Arrow’s Mearas lineage.”

“Not that much greater” insisted Cirion, sticking out his chest and strutting at Faramir’s side. “Arrow is three-parts Mearas, sired by Brego out of Snowmane’s daughter Greycloud; whose dam was…”

“Leave off, I pray you” Faramir entreated, laughing. “Or we shall be here all day; and I must go confer with the King. But what shall I tell Eldarion if he asks me why you want to sport with him? He would feel distressed if he believes you befriend him at my command.”

“Hmmm.” Cirion furrowed his brow. “You could tell him that my other friends are going to war and are too busy to play, as is my brother. It would not be a lie; I know that you hate falsehoods.”

His second son turned red and squirmed, smiling up at Faramir. “ Can I go on ahead, Father? It is almost time for the nuncheon and I’m hungry.”

“Certainly. I will see you later” Faramir replied. “And remember what you have promised me this day.“ He watched the boy turn and run, fast as a red fox, up the roadway toward the distant first circle and the Citadel where his meal awaited. Eldarion would be hard-pressed indeed to catch Cirion; and would strengthen his laggard muscles as he tried.

As Faramir watched Cirion run, he felt again the earlier sense of Boromir’s memory, so strongly that it was almost a beloved presence. A breeze came up and furled his cloak.

“Boromir, my brother,” he whispered to the wind. “Thank you for teaching me the words a father should say, so I may pass them on to my own sons.”

Branwyn and her martial-artist husband helped enormously with the fight scenes in this chapter - thanx much!

The language Akkadi, and the words Faramir spoke in that tongue, are an invention of the authors, so don’t blame JRRT for them. We took the name Akkadi from the Akkadian land and languages of ancient Mesopotamia in our own world.

Erchirion, who is currently in charge of the fleet of Gondor, is Faramir’s cousin and the second son of Prince Imrahil, mentioned in History of Middle-Earth vol. 10 “The Peoples of Middle-Earth“.

The Elf Lady Mithrellas who Faramir mentions as being the foremother of the Dol Amroth line is not mentioned specifically in LOTR. Legolas pegs Prince Imrahil as having elven-blood in his veins when he first meets him in The Last Debate in ROTK (the book!). It is said, in History of Middle-Earth vol. 10 “The Peoples of Middle-Earth“, that there was an elf-lady, Mithrellas, who became lost in the woods of Belfalas and was sheltered by Imrahil’s distant ancestor, Imrazor the Numenorean, with whom she had twins, a boy and a girl, before vanishing. JRRT did not credit the Dol Amroth line as the source of Faramir’s unusual dreams, but other fan fiction writers have done so (notably Isabeau of Greenlea, whose stories can be found on this site, and who has given us permission to use an idea quite similar to her own) and it seems a reasonable extrapolation. Eowyn’s grandmother (the wife of King Thengel of Rohan) is identified as Morwen of Lossarnach in Appendix A of ROTK; and further specified to be distant kin to Prince Imrahil in Unfinished Tales.

Coming Up In Future Chapters: Two words that strike terror, or at least exasperation and some irritation, into the heart of Faramir - Éomer King! Or, guess who’s coming to dinner with several thousand comrades? Will there be enough food for the Rohirrim and Pallando? Not to mention new ways for Cirion to get into trouble…

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