Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of Tolkien Enterprises. The following is a work of fiction intended only for entertainment.

Prologue: In Which the Wanderer’s Doom is Foretold

The birds wheeling high over the towers cried out their greetings, their shrill cries piercing the calm of the blue sky and echoing off the stones. One circled down to a window opened wide to the morning and fluttered briefly before the dark-haired woman with star-bright eyes who leaned against the sill before darting back to join its fellows.

The woman smiled and reached up to brush back an errant wing of hair but she stopped when a warm hand smoothed away the wisp and cupped her cheek.

“Undomíel.”

Arwen Undomíel sighed and turned into the warmth of her husband. “Estel.”

Aragorn drew her close and kissed her temple. “They will be here soon.” He stepped back and regarded her, his eyes grave. “Are you certain of this?”

She nodded. “It must be so.” She walked into the room and settled into a chair drawn before the fire, smoothing her skirts.

Aragorn frowned and followed her into their sitting room. He moved to the great table in the middle of the room, on which a jug of wine and cups stood. Pouring out the wine, he looked up at the knock upon the door, his countenance lightening as he beheld the two graceful figures that entered. “Elladan, Elrohir, you are welcome.”

“We would not dare ignore so weighty a matter as a call from the King and Queen of Gondor.” Elrohir’s light laughter echoed about the room as the twins greeted their sister and one-time foster brother. “Though we arrived late last night my curiosity would not allow me to rest further than was polite this morning.”

“Indeed, why the urgency?” Elladan queried, seating himself at the table and accepting a cup of wine. “We made haste from Imladris, though we did not know the reason.”

Aragorn carried a cup of wine to his wife and remained leaning against the fireplace. His face was stern as he said, “Arwen has suggested I take counsel with you, as men of war, on a matter on which she and I cannot agree but which must be decided soon.

“When I became king of Gondor I negotiated peace with Harad. I hoped that it would hold, but alas, it was always a fragile peace and has come undone even sooner than I had feared. I am already in consultation with Éomer of the Mark, for war returns to Gondor.”

“We had heard whispers of such even in Imladris,” Elladan answered. No more levity could be seen in the faces of the sons of Elrond; once more they were the grim warriors that had ridden ceaselessly against the orcs for so many years.

Aragorn nodded. “Soon I must ride out and in my absence my Steward is to guide the city, as has always been done. But Arwen advises me otherwise.”

“Sister?” Elrohir said. “What have you seen?”

Arwen did not turn from her contemplation of the fire. “I have seen many things but only a few are yet clear to me.”

“Then what was your advice?” Elrohir asked.

“Send Faramir to the far southern reaches of Harad,” she replied. “Not as a warrior but as an emissary, to speak with the chieftains of the tribes who roam there. The tribes of southern Harad are not united in their animosity to the West and may be won over.”

Aragorn shook his head. “He is not like his brother Boromir, who traveled often on behalf of his father. He has spent his whole life in Gondor and is more firmly rooted therein than perhaps any other man, and despite his great learning is not well-versed in other lands and peoples. What manner of emissary would he be? Do you not remember his misconceptions about the elves?”

A small smile curved Arwen’s lips. “My grandmother Galadriel was amused that he should have thought her people either imaginary or frightful but allowed that his mistake was useful to her. His ignorance does not matter. He handsomely admitted his error, Estel, and more importantly he has been more than welcoming to me.”

“And both Legolas and Gimli speak well of him,” Elrohir added. “Your Steward is a man of courtesy and quick to learn.”

“Faramir is a true son of Gondor.” Arwen nodded slowly. “The time of trial for Gondor is not yet over and not only trial by arms will be needed. Frodo taught us that.”

“For shame, Estel,” Elladan chided. “Despite all these years you still forget of whom you speak. We may all be the children of Elrond but Arwen also dwelt many years in Lothlórien. The granddaughter of Galadriel and Celeborn sees farther and more clearly than we do.”

“Not so far or as clearly as I would wish, Elladan,” Arwen murmured. “I cannot see the end of Faramir’s doom or even a great part of it. And much of what I see is yet strange to me.”

Elrohir shrugged. “The clouds before the future- that is the gift of this Age, sister.”

Aragorn sighed and pressed a hand to his brow. “You know it is not that I disbelieve or distrust Arwen. I know that Gondor will be safe while king and Steward are gone. But you ask me to suspend an ancient law of Gondor and part a man from his young family for a dangerous and uncertain quest in enemy lands- a good and gentle man who has already suffered greatly for his city. And his wife- her healing has only begun as well. This troubles my heart.”

Arwen nodded but her face and voice were implacable. “Nonetheless, he must go to Harad.”

She rose from her chair and moved back to the great window. She leaned into the breeze, gazing at the endless expanses that stretched out to the south below her.

Aragorn watched her. “Why, beloved?” he asked softly. “Why must he be the one to go?”

The daughter of Elrond did not answer while she watched the people below and the birds above. Finally she turned to him and Aragorn saw the light in her grey eyes- eyes bright with the wisdom of an Age that had not yet passed into memory.

“He dreams of Núménor,” she replied.

A/N: This story, which is loosely based on Homer’s Odyssey, is in response to a challenge at Emyn Arnen. There is no need to read that immortal classic in order to understand this story other than to amuse yourself picking out what I have ‘borrowed’ and what is original. I am following book canon so please don’t expect to see any of Odysseus in Faramir, though (they are two almost diametrically dissimilar men!)

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of Tolkien Enterprises. The following is a work of fiction intended only for entertainment.

Book 1: In Which the Wanderer Returns Home

Green.

It was not the frantic activity of the docks that transfixed the dusty traveler as he debarked from the ship, so that he stood barring the path while other impatient travelers jostled past him.

No, it was the greenness of the land around him, so different from the yellows and browns of the sere earth he had wandered for the past ten years, which held him. All the days the boat had plowed up the Anduin he had stayed on deck, staring out at the banks passing slowly by. Now that he stood upon those shores, though aware of the ever present smell and rush of the river, it was the vibrant earth beneath his feet that told the traveler that he was back in Ithilien at last. He looked down at the muddy stones upon which he stood and smiled behind the thick black beard and whiskers that fell to below his chest; only the crinkling of his eyes that deepened the lines at their corners betrayed him.

Rousing himself, he studied his surroundings. The size and activity of the docks astonished him. Though Osgiliath would always be a ruin, it occupied a desirable point on the river near Minas Tirith, so soon after the end of the Ring War King Elessar, on the advice of his Steward, had ordered the construction of a commercial port for rapid movement of goods to and from the White City. To the traveler it looked to have been a wise decision. He wondered how much else had changed and how difficult it would be to adjust. It had been a long time.

But there was time to explore these questions later. He had other more important and eagerly anticipated matters with which to reacquaint himself. The tall dark man gathered together his shabby robes that had long since faded from their original rich tones and picked up his small bundle before making his way through the crowds.

He ignored the looks the Gondorians gave his clothing, dark hair and bronzed skin. All declared him to be of Harad and few Haradrim other than the occasional trader were seen this far in Ithilien. The looks were not friendly, for the renewing of peace with Harad had been costly, but it was peace nonetheless and he was grateful that the people were not overtly hostile.

He did not correct their misconceptions for he had little time or wish to exchange words with anyone. He had other obligations that he had delayed too long. When the peace Elessar had made soon after the end of the Ring War had failed, he had exerted all his efforts at his king’s express bidding. Now the agreement forged four years past seemed to be holding. But all told it had taken nearly ten years of his life; he considered he had done his duty and far more, and it was at an end at last. He would ride to report to the king, but not today. Today above all else he wanted to go home, to that radiant house that he had built upon the hill, where the scented wind blew through the courtyard and dappled sunshine spilled upon the flagstones. Home, where waited his greatest treasures.

Their sweet young faces laughed in his memory though he knew that they would scarcely be the same; his son would now be a young man of fourteen, his two daughters young ladies but one and two years younger. He felt again the grief that he had not been the father to them in their youth that he had always sworn he would be to his children. He prayed that they had never needed him in the night and that their tears had never gone unsoothed. He comforted himself that his wife would have seen to them.

His wife- oh, to see his wife again, to feel her warm skin beneath his hands, to bury himself in the heady scent of orange oils and pine from hair which glittered like struck gold in the sunlight.

He took a deep breath; now was not the time to dream of his lovely wife, not while he was yet so far from her, shabby and unwashed.

His hand rose to touch his chest. Beneath the concealing cloth he caressed the familiar smoothness of the golden band he wore suspended about his neck and that had served as his talisman for all the years he had been away from home and family. My gratitude forever for helping to keep me safe, he thought. Soon we shall be back where we belong.

At last he was free of the docks and the crowds. But he had a long journey before him on foot, and the sight of an alehouse close by fired a great thirst for the local ale; not of a quality to rival the brew of the Shire but welcome enough. He yet had a few pieces of silver in his bundle that would buy him a cup or two. He had taken a few steps toward the noisy building when his attention was caught by a man simply dressed in serviceable clothes but with the erect bearing of a trained soldier. The tall man was frowning as he made his way through the yard toward the stables, a small bag of grain over his shoulder. The traveler raised his brows, then grinned and followed with silent steps.

The tall man had just reached the stables attached to the alehouse when the traveler laid his hand on his arm. With a start the man turned, and gazed into clear grey eyes that did not waver but looked deep into his heart. Suddenly those eyes narrowed, the corners crinkling with laughter, and the man caught his breath.

“Faramir!” he whispered.

The traveler laughed quietly. “Even after ten years you still have keen eyes and slow ears, Beregond.”

“My lord, can it truly be you?” Beregond reached out a hand then stopped, as if still in wonder.

Faramir nodded and made to grasp Beregond’s arm in greeting, but to his surprise Beregond seized him and dragged him into the depths of the stables. They halted when they reached a quiet corner where they would not be overheard. Beregond turned to his prince and whispered, “My lord, where have you been all these years? The rags you wear- how gaunt you are! Did you suffer so?”

Faramir laughed and held up a hand. “Softly, good friend! Although I have had my trials, I am now well and more than pleased to be once more in fair Ithilien. I have many tales and you shall hear them, but they may wait for better times. First I would go back to Emyn Arnen, to meet my children. And Éowyn. Tell me, is my White Lady well and as fair as ever?”

He grinned, but his grin slowly faded as Beregond did not respond in kind but stood staring at him with troubled eyes. Faramir frowned to see the deep lines of care in the other’s face. “Tell me, Beregond,” he ordered quietly. “How is my family? Do Ithilien and the White City fare well?”

Beregond sighed. “I cannot be less than blunt. Gondor does well but alas, it is a sorry homecoming for you, my lord. You cannot go openly back to Emyn Arnen. It has been ten years and all is not as you left it.”

Faramir blinked. Did I hear him correctly? As he stared at the other man he noted that Beregond wore no sign of the livery of the White Company. Glancing at the horse he noticed it bore the plainest tack.

“I am forbidden to return to my home?” he asked slowly. “Is this by order of the king?”

“The full tale, as I know it, is complicated.” Beregond took a deep breath, but Faramir raised a hand to forestall him.

“If it is so serious we cannot talk here. Come, I will forego my ale; let us begin our walk toward home, until we reach a quieter place where we may speak freely.”

Beregond looked down. “My lord, the prince’s hall in Emyn Arnen is no longer truly my home. I no longer command the White Company and have retired to a small holding some hours’ ride from the hall. I came to pick up the seed for the spring planting.” He gestured at the bag of grain lying at his feet where he had dropped it. With a faint smile he added, “I fear I am an indifferent farmer.”

Faramir’s eyes narrowed but his voice remained calm. “Your tale promises to be ever more of interest. But know this, Beregond son of Baranor, you shall call my hall home so long as Faramir son of Denethor is lord of this land.”

But Beregond only shook his head. “Hear me first, then decide.” He swiftly prepared his horse and brought it out. The two men set out on food towards the dwelling of the prince, the horse plodding behind.

They spoke of common things as they walked the dusty road, though at his companion’s earnest entreaty Faramir fell silent whenever they met other travelers. But he listened keenly as Beregond exchanged greetings and whatever news the others wished to share. There was little of immediate interest, though he stored away even the idle gossip he heard. It was he, a supposed man of Harad, who excited the most comment and Beregond was forced to hurry them past while mumbling vague words that failed to satisfy even the least curious.

“This will not do,” Faramir said after the third such meeting, “for otherwise foolish rumor will fly forth and delay us before we reach my hall.” He frowned. “I would declare myself openly, yet your cautions fill me with unease.”

“An ill notion indeed!” Beregond exclaimed.

“I am who I am, Beregond. I will not lie to my people.”

Beregond shrugged. “Then I will do so.” He held out his hands when Faramir cocked an eyebrow at him, his own face serious. “My lord, I slew an honest man on hallowed ground for you. Do you think I would stumble over a lie that would keep you safe?”

Faramir was silent and Beregond continued earnestly, “If not for your own then restrain yourself for the sake of your family, for at least a little while.”

They walked on in silence and then at last Faramir sighed. “Well, all men must judge their own honor and live with it. Until I know better what transpires I will do as you advise and stay silent. Yet I beg you, Beregond, do not cheapen your own honor in striving to save mine, for in that way we are both lost.”

Beregond smiled. “In that I will obey you, my lord.”

“For the meantime, speak nothing but the truth: that you met me at the docks by chance and are escorting me to the prince’s hall to seek audience with his lady.”

The terse explanation held them for the rest of the encounters. Finally the road cleared of people and they were left to continue alone through the thickets. The road was easy and they did not stop until they were well inland and the sun had begun to sink in the sky. The pair settled under the boughs of a large tree after taking their packs from the horse and releasing him to graze. They ate and drank in silence about the fire they built, and then Faramir looked at his companion.

“Now tell me your tale. All of it; do not hold back to spare me, or any other.”

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of Tolkien Enterprises. The following is a work of fiction intended only for entertainment.

Book 2: In Which the Wanderer’s Trials are Revealed

Beregond nodded. “It is a tale long in the making. All was well for the first two years after you rode away to Far Harad on King Elessar’s bidding. News was good from all: the Haradrim fell back over the Poros before King Elessar and Éomer King while you parlayed with the chieftains of the south. We had messages from you often and were cheered by the success you had in building faith with those fierce men of the deserts. The princess was certain that you would be home soon.

“We were disappointed but not overly concerned when you stayed on at the bidding of the king. The chieftains would deal with no one else but you. But then slowly news from you became few and far between, and what we heard was troubling. Your messages became terse and impersonal and seemed but flimsy excuses to remain in Far Harad.

“Four years ago, all messages from you ended, even as we heard of the peace agreed upon between Gondor and Harad. We waited while the soldiers returned, while the Haradrim ambassadors came and went and men of Harad freely walked the streets of Minas Tirith. All these years as things grew tranquil between the two lands we heard nothing of you.

“Then the rumors began. At first they were whispers only but they quickly spread until they were spoken openly in the cities- wild tales that spoke of how your heart had turned to Harad as easily as you had learned to speak their tongues, of how you had found life there much to your liking, of how you had been won by the great honors and wealth and gifts, including many beautiful women, showered on you by the chieftains. There were other tales, too- grim ones that said you had indeed become one with the desert, your bones bleached white by the sun.

“The princess at first only laughed when she heard the stories, but as the years stretched on she grew silent and finally hard and cold. By then no one dared speak of you in the halls of your house.

“As the murmurs that you would not return grew stronger, men seeking the favor of the princess appeared at the gates of the house: strong men of Gondor, men of standing and property, who came to offer themselves to a lady who was thought to be as one widowed. And the princess opened the doors to them and welcomed them within. Although she has held Ithilien well it is said by many that she has the desire for a strong lord to aid her against the dregs of Mordor that yet cause trouble on the borders, and will petition the king for such. So now your halls are filled with those who would step into your place; every night now they come to dine and carouse and display themselves, not departing until the dawn. For four years they have waited for the princess to make her choice. Until now she has not done so, saying only that she has things to be finished first, but Elboron’s majority approaches and I fear she is being pressed for a decision.”

Faramir listened without comment as Beregond finished, merely turning a small stone over between his fingers, though his eyes had narrowed when he had heard about the suitors. At last he asked in a quiet voice, “And what does Elessar say of this?”

“The king has remained strangely silent,” Beregond replied. “All he has said is that he knows the princess to be a wise woman and will honor whatever choice she makes. So too does the queen hold her own counsel on this. Neither will permit discussion of the matter.”

“So does the king also believe me lost to the pleasures or the sands of Harad?” Faramir murmured. “Could he and the queen truly believe me dead? I would have thought that Arwen at least might have perceived my fate. I do not understand this.”

Beregond sighed. “Whatever they think, because the king will not speak people say his words for him. Some say the king walks in hope. Others say he prefers to think you dead or exiled rather than the betrayer you are and wishes to bury your memory.”

With a muttered curse Faramir flung the stone at a tree. Beregond watched in silent sympathy as the other man squatted upon his haunches, head bowed into his hands.

“How can this be?” he whispered, and Beregond looked away from the anguish in his lord’s face. “My life has belonged to Gondor since my birth— how would any think that I would stray?”

After a moment Faramir sighed and looked back up, his face composed once more. “So my labors are not yet ended. It cannot be helped. I have not fought to return for ten years in order to meekly yield to lies.” His mouth twisted. “Or to retreat before my wife’s anger, however justified she might be.”

“None of us wished to believe you would not return, my lord, and most wait still in Ithilien. So too do your uncle in Dol Amroth and cousin in Rohan. But many of those in Gondor and other surrounding lands who do not know you- they saw a reason why you did not return as the traders of Harad began to arrive bearing precious goods.”

“Rumor, always rumor. Will truth never endure?” Faramir groaned.

Beregond looked at the other man. “Will you not tell me at last what happened?”

“Ill-luck and treachery happened.” Faramir ran his hand over his eyes. “For many weary years I rode between the tribes bandying words with the chieftains, none of whom trusted each other much. The negotiations were delicate, Beregond, and I could not afford the distractions of pining for my home and family.

“I cannot deny that I did not object overmuch to staying longer, at first. They are a strange and marvelous people in a strange and marvelous land, Beregond. They do not work the land but move with their herds as their desires take them and perforce I went with them. Yet the longer I lived amongst them and the more they welcomed me into their lives, the more I was filled with longing for my own family.

“Since I was always moving I kept contact with only one man and I would meet with him at times to give him messages to carry back to Gondor. I thought I could trust him for he had served faithfully under Boromir and later with myself for many years. Damn Artholas!”

Beregond cast his master a surprised look. “Indeed, my lord, it was Artholas of Lossernach who came to tell us you had failed to meet him and he had been unable to find you. He has faithfully brought what scant news he did find of you to the princess and continues to serve her well.”

“He is here?” Faramir sprang to his feet.

Beregond started at the vehemence of the other man’s voice. “He visits Emyn Arnen often. The princess listens to much of his advice and it was he who rode with the White Company against those orcs that continued to attack Ithilien.”

“A good friend, would you say?” Faramir’s face was hard. “It was Artholas who continued to bid me stay yet another year in Far Harad, as he claimed by order of the king. And so I did, again and again, until my yearning for my home could not be borne any longer. The night I bid farewell to the chieftains and turned toward home I rode to where I was to join Artholas but was there attacked by ruffians and sorely wounded and left for dead. It was only chance that friendly strangers found me and aided me. It took me many days before I could rise, and I spent yet more days helping my benefactors rebuild their ruined home in gratitude for their kindness. Finally I was able to leave.

“But an easy way home was denied me. Men continued to pursue me; we fought, I slew them. They grew fewer in number over time but did not stop, so I was forced to a hard decision: I left Faramir of Gondor in the sands and became a lowly vagabond.

“I had lost contact with Artholas. But he was my sole tie to the west so I sought to reach him. Fortunately, I did not succeed.”

Faramir stared at Beregond, his grey eyes hard. “It was not until later that I discovered the truth: that it had been Artholas who had betrayed me to what he had hoped would be an anonymous death. I had the information from one of the gutter rats he had set upon me.

“I cannot guess what or when he began to manipulate what passed between myself and Gondor. I swear to you the messages I gave to him to send were neither cold nor impersonal nor infrequent.” Faramir rubbed his eyes and leaned against a tree. “At least I am quite sure that his betrayal involved me only and not Gondor- wherever I traveled I heard approval for the friendship between our countries and above all the peace has held all these years.

“For more years I evaded any pursuers- hiding, running, begging. I sold all that I could, and when I had no more I labored with my hands. I built roads and broke ruins for their stone. I tended sheep and goats and slaughtered them for another man’s table. I picked up coin where I could and made my way northwards, ever holding to the guise of a simple man of the tribes. Finally I made it to Poros and bought passage to Ithilien. The rest of the story you know.”

Beregond had listened in astonishment and growing anger. When Faramir had finished the former captain frowned and growled, “That betrayer- and yet he is accounted a goodly man, whom few hold him to blame for not defending your name when the rumors began. It has always angered me that he did not since he could have done much to suppress the rumors, but now I know why.”

“My life has always belonged to Gondor.” Faramir gave a short mirthless laugh. “And yet I would be false now? People’s memories seem to be short.”

“As I said Artholas has never denied or scorned any of the rumors and many wondered on the reason that so highly regarded a man would not defend you.” Beregond shook his head. “I cannot believe that such a man could turn on his friend and captain so.”

Faramir glanced at him, his grey eyes keen and steady. “It may not have been the gleam of a Ring, but nonetheless it was the desire for warm bright gold that drew him, was it not?”

Reluctantly Beregond nodded. “He is often in Emyn Arnen and clearly it is for the princess’ company. He was the first and is still the most persistent of her suitors.”

“And the most favored?” Faramir asked quietly.

“I will not believe it of her,” came Beregond’s simple response. “The princess does not play games. I have faith in her.”

“So too did I. It was what had kept me all these years.” He sighed deeply and stared at the ground. “You see loyalty so simply, Beregond. Once I did as well, but now I see nothing clearly. How could I have been so deceived in Artholas? I, who am accounted a man in whom the blood of Westernesse flows deeply?”

“You had trusted him for many years,” Beregond replied, “and his love for Boromir was very great. I would swear that his loyalty to Boromir, and to you, was true at the beginning.”

Faramir nodded, wearily dropping his head back to rest upon the trunk of the tree.

Beregond continued, “But perhaps, as the years passed and you could not return, he listened to an evil whisper in his heart and succumbed. He had served the princess well in your absence. Perhaps he looked upon your wife and your hall and began to covet them, telling himself that he deserved them after all his efforts.”

“How has he hidden himself even from Elessar and Arwen?”

“They too favored him and perhaps did not look deeply in his heart. But I have noticed that since he did his evil deeds he spends little time in Minas Tirith; when he is not in Emyn Arnen he is back on his father’s estates in Lossarnach, claiming to attend his sickly sire. In any case he is a brave and well-spoken man, my lord, one easy to believe.”

How did it happen that we all allowed this to pass? Faramir wondered. Perhaps we were too swift to accept that the evil of Sauron had passed. And you, Éowyn, what lies in your heart?

Faramir did not wish to believe ill of Éowyn. He was shamed at the darkness of his thoughts and desired above all to seek out her heart, but he was weary to the soul and his will was weak. Despite himself he thought of his golden wife and his false friend and wondered.

Willing himself to calm he looked at his friend. “And what of yourself? How came Beregond, loyal captain of the While Company, to this pass?”

“I was the last faithful hound turned out from the house,” Beregond replied quietly. “The princess did not disband the White Company; one by one she pensioned my men generously and replaced us until I alone remained at my post. Then she summoned me and gave me a modest yet fruitful holding. It was a very handsome gift, but I told her I wished to stay in her service. She said only that it could not be.”

“So there are ruffians now in charge of my house?” Faramir asked in resignation but his former captain’s response surprised him.

“You need not fear for the safety of your household. The Company is strong and loyal and its captain, Menelmir, is a good and honest man. It is only that they answer only to the princess, and most will be as strangers to you.”

“Indeed. As it seems may be said for my wife.” He was unable to keep the tinge of sorrow from his voice. “And what of Elboron? And my daughters?”

“Elboron is fostered with the Lord Legolas in northern Ithilien, while Gwenél and Morwen are in the keeping of Queen Arwen, for the past three years.”

Faramir drew a sharp breath. “So I am to be parted from them for some time more. Why did Éowyn send them away?”

Beregond shrugged. “The princess does not confide in anyone, but I believe Elboron was sent to Prince Legolas so that he might be well protected but still be raised in Ithilien. The little princesses were safest in Minas Tirith. They were nearly of an age when they would have been vulnerable to unscrupulous men.”

“It would seem that my wise lady has cleared the way to her satisfaction,” Faramir murmured. “So this is what I face.” He settled back against the bole of the tree and bowed his head, frowning a little.

They sat in silence, Beregond gazing watchfully about him as Faramir remained deep in thought. Suddenly the prince looked up at the other. “Beregond, are you allowed to return to my hall? Or are you forbidden entry?”

“The princess has encouraged me to stay at my holding but she will not forbid me outright to return.”

“Good,” Faramir replied with a satisfied nod. “I will need your aid for I will not be able to move freely and indeed wish to avoid most of the people save Éowyn and Elboron, once we reach him.”

Beregond looked down at his hands. “That is another matter you must know. By orders of the princess I am not to escort Elboron or even serve him in any way.”

Faramir felt a fresh shock at the unexpected callousness of his wife. Who is this stranger to whom I am returning? “I am sorry,” he said softly, aware of the hurt such an order had caused his faithful guard. “But if he was with the elves he would not have needed you much. Now that I have returned it is fortunate that my captain is here to aid me.” He nodded as Beregond gave a small bow. “As I have said I did not endure what I did to slink tamely away. I will not leave a soiled reputation to be the inheritance of my children. I must return to Éowyn, and from there seek audience with the king. Whatever my fate, I am Steward and must fulfill my duty.”

“Then softly it must be. Artholas is a powerful man who may seek to stop you if he knew you were here. Ah, that you are forced to sneak into your own home, when celebrations should be held instead!” Beregond shook his head.

Faramir shrugged. “I am not a man for such in any case.”

Beregond looked at his prince. “Do not think too harshly of the princess. I do not know the reason for her decisions but she has ruled Ithilien well in your stead. I bear her no grudges. And do not fear for Elboron- I may not be allowed to serve him but by her desire Bergil always accompanies him.”

Faramir sighed and gave a faint smile. “If your young rascal has grown to be like his father I shall have no worries. But come! There is much planning to be done before I am ready to return home.”

They built up the fire and continued to speak long into the night; they shared some few fond memories but mostly they considered the details for the unobtrusive entry of the Prince of Ithilien to his home.

Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all characters therein are the property of Tolkien Enterprises. The following is a work of fiction intended only for entertainment.

Book 3: In Which the Wanderer Sets His Plans

“Well?”

Despite the lateness of the hour at which they had retired both had arisen with the dawn; the sun was still barely over the horizon as Beregond studied Faramir striding a few paces. “Stoop a bit more, my lord, to disguise your height and bearing- they speak too strongly of Gondorian soldiery. Limp, not so much that you may forget yourself and rouse suspicion, but just a little, that men may think you weary and weak.”

“Very well,” Faramir agreed with a sigh. “So I must adopt once more the semblance of the vagabond of Harad that I had shed when I debarked in Osgiliath. I was glad to be a man of Gondor once more; it is hard to resume the old guise.”

“Well, I am sorry for it but it must be,” Beregond said firmly. “At least until we know more.”

“Peace, Beregond, you have persuaded me. I will be guided by you in this matter and do not fear, the custom will return to me.” Faramir sat upon the ground and looked up at his friend. “You are alarmingly gifted in subterfuge,” he noted with a small smile. “Surely I did not know this before I left.”

The former captain of the White Company laughed softly. “It comes with the raising of a rascal. Bergil has guile better suited for the back streets of Minas Tirith than the hills of Ithilien and often feels the need to exercise it. I was forced to learn his tricks if I were not to be overmastered.”

Faramir shook his head, still grinning. “I fear what he is teaching Elboron, then. But Legolas is there to temper their enthusiasms.” His smile faded. “It will be difficult to reach Elboron without alerting Legolas, something I do not wish to do yet. Legolas would surely go to the king at once but I would not have Elessar involved in the settling of my lands, nor do I wish to alarm him unduly with an Ithilien in turmoil.”

“Especially if he were to immediately cast you into chains,” Beregond dryly noted.

Faramir grinned. “Elessar would not do so but I grant it would be difficult to prove my innocence while trussed like a goose. I wish I knew more of the king’s thoughts.”

“Perhaps I may ride to the city and present your story? He knows that I may be rash but honest.”

“Rash indeed! It would be death for you to set foot in Minas Tirith.”

“It would not come to that. I would merely ask a trusted old comrade to arrange for an audience outside the city.”

“Perhaps, but I dislike the thought of sending a friend into danger so blindly. I had enough of that during the war with Sauron.” Faramir scratched his chin and swore gently. “I shall never again dismiss so casually any opportunity for a hot bath and shave again.”

“But it was fortunate indeed that your cheek had not seen a blade for so long.” Beregond studied the other’s face and shook his head wonderingly. “And that Faramir of Gondor preferred to be a clean-shaven man and not a shaggy wild man of the desert.”

“So despite your scoldings I will pass?” Faramir stood and grinned.

A smile broke out on Beregond’s face and he embraced Faramir. “You will. Yet despite the beard and foreign clothing, and the skin burned brown by fierce southern suns, I would always know those eyes. You must take care not to look closely into another’s face, particularly the princess’s, else you betray yourself.”

Faramir gave a curt nod as he touched the long locks shading his eyes. “It would be best to avoid Artholas as well since he is familiar with my habits, although fortunately he has never seen me so overgrown.”

Suddenly Beregond exclaimed, “Ah, my wits have flown indeed! Have you no weapon?”

“A dagger,” Faramir replied, touching his side. “It is hidden yet easily reached when I need it.”

“A moment!” Beregond hurried to his horse and drew his bow and quiver. With a grin he held them forth. “Here, my lord. Will you not try your skill again?”

Faramir raised his brows, smiling as accepted the weapons. “It has been a long time since I last used a Gondorian bow- those of Harad are much shorter.” Glancing about he walked to the edge of the clearing and gazed thoughtfully at a distant tree as he strung the bow. Nocking an arrow to the string, he aimed at the tree, his muscles automatically flexing in his usual technique despite the long years of disuse. He breathed deeply and released, and then caught up and shot a second arrow. Shaking out his shoulders he tossed the bow back to Beregond.

Together the two men approached the tree, now adorned with two arrows barely a finger’s width apart. Beregond nodded. “Your skills have not gone rusty.”

Faramir smoothed the fletching on the arrows before pulling the shafts out of the tree and handing them to his friend. “My thanks for the memory, Beregond, but put them away for now. I have no use for such skills at the moment.”

His companion frowned. “Perhaps, but you would be safer with a sword, my lord. It will be difficult to defend yourself with such a small blade as the one you have.”

“And what poor vagabond would own such or be allowed to keep it?” Faramir shook his head. “Furthermore a well-armed man of Harad would both excite too much attention and be barred from the prince’s hall. I can carry neither sword nor bow.”

“That is true but surely we may find something better than a dagger.”

“What of this?” Faramir looked about and picked up a long stout stick. He swung it before him, judging the feel and strength of it. “If I were to trim this a bit it would serve as both cudgel and walking staff, such as what Mithrandir might have carried.”

Beregond eyed the staff with some dismay. “That is a lowly weapon.”

“I am now a lowly man,” Faramir reminded him sternly, “and do not forget it was by your own persuasion.”

“I ask your pardon, my lord.”

Faramir raised his hand. “Beregond, that is yet another thing. You cannot continue to address me that way. From now on you must accustom yourself to calling me-” For a long moment Faramir stared back at the road, eyes distant, and then an odd smile twisted his lips. Turning to Beregond, he gave the surprised man a fluid bow, his hands extended in a foreign gesture. When he spoke his voice was heavily accented and unrecognizable. “You may call me Anû ‘nBatân, gracious sir.”

Beregond blinked and tentatively spoke the unfamiliar name. He stared at the ragged stranger before him in wonder. “Suddenly it is as if I do not know you anymore. What manner of name is that?”

“It is Adûnaic, which is close enough to some of the older dialects of Harad that it will not raise suspicion. The name may be translated as ‘wanderer’. I thought it fitting.”

“What do you plan when we reach your hall, my- Anû ‘nBatân?”

His calm face did not betray his turmoil as Faramir replied, “Get me into the hall just before the serving of the night meal, amongst the common people who will be spending the night at the hall. After that, as soon as you can, arrange for my audience with Éowyn.”

“The princess does not receive many privately,” Beregond objected. “Even though we do not get many visitors from Harad, you will likely still need a ready tale for me to take to her.”

Faramir touched his chest. “That I have.”

Reaching into the neck of his robes he drew forth a thin leather string on which was suspended a gold ring delicately carved with a line of running horses, each horse nose to tail with the one that led it. Dropping the band into his upturned palm he studied it, feeling the warmth it had stolen from his body ebb away.

“How great a role rings have played in our lives.” He held out the ring, now lying cool and hard in the cup of his palm. “To any other who would ask say only that my business is with the princess. To her you will say that I am here to show an item to the Lady of Ithilien according to her husband’s wishes. She will not hesitate to summon me.”

Beregond glanced from the circlet to the other’s dispassionate face. “I did not know that you still possessed your wedding ring. I thought it lost with all else.”

“One by one I sold or bartered anything of value but held onto this alone even when I was near starving. Indeed I should have discarded it for it would have betrayed me instantly but that was and is the one thing I could never do.” Faramir’s low voice was distant. “And when those who tended me while I lay wounded proved to be honest folk and returned it to me I thanked the Valar that I still had the talisman that would bring me safely home.” He dropped the ring back behind its concealing folds. “I wonder to what grief it truly brought me back. But come, it is time we leave.”

Beregond readied the horse and the pair continued their journey. For the first few hours Faramir trimmed his staff and practiced his stride and speech until he was comfortable with his guise, while Beregond took care to repeat the assumed name often during their conversation in order to grow at ease with it.

They had traveled for some hours on the deserted road when the sound of horses rapidly approaching from behind alerted them. Turning back they saw three lathered horses being whipped without mercy to hurry them towards the two travelers.

“You!” one of them called, staring at Beregond.

“Do you know them?” Faramir asked quietly, his eyes alert beneath their concealing locks and headwrap.

“I do not,” Beregond whispered in return, “but it seems they may know me, though not as friends.” He raised his voice. “Do you hail us? What would you have of me?”

The men dismounted. As they walked forward they examined Beregond and then glanced at each other. One nodded before turning his attention to the shabby figure standing to the side.

“You are far from home, man of Harad.”

“I am a traveler, gracious sir,” Faramir murmured in his heavily accented voice. He bent his head and bowed to them but all the while watched keenly.

“What do you want of us?” Beregond demanded. “Speak!”

Without answer the men advanced. Two moved towards Beregond while the third walked swiftly towards Faramir, who abruptly frowned and drew himself up to his full height.

“Did you not hear my friend?” he asked, his voice stern and clear. “If you have no honest business with us then begone and leave us to ours.”

Faramir’s opponent checked a moment, as if puzzled at the change in Faramir’s voice and demeanor, but then freed his sword with an ease that spoke of long training. Metal rang nearby as Beregond drew his sword simultaneously with his attackers.

Faramir shifted his feet beneath his concealing robes and adjusted his grip on his staff.

His attacker’s face was impassive as he thrust his sword forth. The stroke was careless as if he were expecting an untutored victim and Faramir swiftly took advantage of his longer reach, jabbing the man hard in the stomach with the head of his staff. As the man choked and doubled over Faramir struck him across the back of the knees. With a pained roar the man twisted and lunged forward, his sword ripping through the shabby robes as Faramir leaped back. The prince dropped his staff and snarled the blade in twists of cloth, while pulling forth his dagger with his free hand. He dragged the other man forward and drove the thin blade into his neck.

The man collapsed. Taking only the time to fling the body to the ground and wrest away the sword from the dead hand Faramir leaped to aid Beregond, who was hard pressed by the two remaining assailants. With a shout one turned to face the unexpected threat. Faramir blocked the sword blow, relieved that although he had slowed somewhat from lack of practice he still possessed his skills. Together he and Beregond forced their assailants back.

The end came with shocking swiftness. Beregond’s opponent, tiring, tripped and Beregond struck. The blade slashed a deep cut into the man’s thigh that spurted blood. The man cried out and staggered back. Clutching at the wound he turned to run, but after a few steps his leg collapsed beneath him and he fell face down into the dust of the road.

The last assailant half-turned at his comrade’s cry and Faramir drove his sword into his belly. With a choked gasp he too crumpled to the road.

The sudden silence surrounded them. Breathing hard, Beregond stared at his companion and mimicked, “’Begone and leave us to ours’, my lord? You did not keep your guise so very long.”

“’My lord’?” Faramir retorted.

Beregond shrugged and glanced down at the bodies. “Well, we have our answer as to whether eyes lay upon the road to Emyn Arnen. Never had I thought that they would follow me.”

Faramir’s face was grave as he wiped the sweat from his face. “We also have our answer as to the dangers you would face upon the road to Minas Tirith. Your friends would not have heard from you again. Even now, had you been alone as these three had thought they would have been enough to ensure you did not reach the city.”

Beregond bent to inspect the bodies. “Mercenaries. Surely these are Artholas’ men but he thinks you dead. Why, then, does he still set his spies upon the road?”

“He cannot have been sure that someone else who knew me would not take it in his mind to come to Ithilien and Gondor with uncomfortable news.” Faramir shook his head. “Such a man cannot have rested well all these nights past, ever waiting in fear of a visit that might or might not happen.”

“A sleep well-earned, then,” Beregond retorted with a hint of satisfaction. “You still fight well, my- Anû ‘nBatân, even with but a stick.”

Faramir quirked an eyebrow at his friend. “I did not defend myself with a sword these past four years either. Do not fear for me, you have seen that I can handle a staff as needed. I am sorry I could not hold back my sword blows. That one might have confirmed his master’s identity to Elessar.”

Beregond shrugged. “There is no worth in such regrets. We must conceal the bodies and drive away the horses, to delay the news of this ambush for as long as we may.”

“And wash ourselves as well we might,” Faramir added, brushing at the drying spots of blood on his clothes.

The two men found nothing of interest on the attackers. They quickly dragged the bodies beyond the road and concealed them deep in the brush. After the distasteful task had been done they set the horses free and threw the harnesses and weapons into the brush as well. At last they collected Faramir’s staff and went off in search of a stream, before continuing their journey home.

There were no further hostile encounters for the remainder of their journey but both men remained wary until they cleared the trees and reached a series of homesteads. Faramir observed the passing farms with interest. “The lands and people look prosperous,” he commented at last. “Éowyn has done well.”

The last night of their journey they spent on the outskirts of a small forest. The evening was clear and cool, the stars burning steadily above them. Faramir began removing the horse’s tackle while Beregond busied himself building the fire.

“Tomorrow we will reach the house,” he said, giving the horse a gentle pat to urge it to graze. “If I recall we should enter late in the day, just before the evening meal is served. There is usually a great deal of confusion as those who wish to pass the night rush to enter and we will face less scrutiny.”

Beregond nodded but said nothing as he fed small branches to the fire.

Faramir eyed him thoughtfully. “My friend, what disturbs you?”

Beregond frowned and bit his lip. “You are right that Ithilien has prospered under the princess’ care. But, as for your house…” He glanced at the other. “It is different from when you left, and that too is the princess’ doing. And Artholas may well be there.”

“So I shall see myself,” Faramir answered calmly. “Be at ease. Tomorrow will take care of itself.”

Despite his reassuring words Faramir brooded over what he would find on the morrow. Unable to sleep, on an impulse he rose, careful not to disturb Beregond, and slipped silently deeper into the woods. He sighed, enjoying the presence and scents of the great trees that had once been so familiar to him. For a while he simply meandered along, picking out a path as he once more tested those skills that had served him well in his ranger days. He stopped before a huge oak and grasped one of the low hanging branches. Swinging himself up he vaulted onto a higher branch and then climbed up to a comfortable perch that faced the way they would pass.

Settling his back against the trunk he gazed out. Nestled in the night before him, amongst those green hills, lay his home. Where his enigmatic wife lived.

He tugged out the ring and studied it again, rubbing his thumb gently over the pattern. The engraving had been worn down from the years but the pale moonlight still picked out the unbroken line of horses, forever circling without end.

“Your ring- give it to me.”

“Oh? Do you cast me off after but a day of marriage, Éowyn?”

“Foolishness.” Her voice was tart, but belied by the smile that curved her lips. Her face turned grave as she looked at the ring he placed in her hand. “Hail the horse.”

“Of course. It is the sign of your house- the White Horse on the Green.”

“Horses are precious to the people of Rohan. I thought of them as I had this made for you. They run where the wind goes- proud, unfettered, free.” Her finger traced the endless line of horses racing across the surface of the ring. “No matter where they begin, though, they always turn their heads toward home, where they know there will be comfort and safety.”

Her gaze was intent as she held up the ring. Faramir closed his hand over her fingers and rested his forehead against hers. “You honor me, Éowyn.”

Faramir smiled and brought the ring to his lips before dropping it back inside his robes. He clambered down the tree and made his way back to the dim light of the banked fire.

He did not need to look into his wife’s heart. He already knew it.

A/N: "Anû ‘nBatân" literally translates as "man of the road" (source: The Ardalambion- any grammatical mistakes are mine!)

Book 4                        In Which the Wanderer Reveals His Dream

Drowsy birdsong…the rustling of the night breeze through the great oak tree in the courtyard that Legolas had coaxed into health…Éowyn’s pale gown glimmering as she paced the flagstones… himself ambling in her wake, stirred with wine and starlight and the teasing hint of orange and pine…

Pale yellow walls as warm as summer and half-hidden with falls of flowers – that memory had comforted him during the long nights of his exile. Now, staring about the chaotic courtyard heavy with the aroma of the stables, Faramir felt as if those memories had been but dreams born of the desert.

In the gathering twilight curses vied with shouts as grooms led horses bearing the caparisons of many different houses and slovenly boys scurried through heaps of rubbish that Faramir’s fellow foot travelers dodged with oaths. Discordant yelps punctuated snarls as dogs scrabbled amongst scraps and kicks that were dealt with equal impartiality. Plantings still clustered against the walls but the blooms were spindly, ravaged by the depredations of too many horses. Disorder reigned in the once-gracious courtyard.

Despite Beregond’s warnings he had allowed himself to keep faith during the long trek. His heart had warmed at the sight of the well-tended holdings they passed. At his first far-off glimpse of his house silhouetted by the late afternoon sun, he had laughed with joy. What greeted him upon his entrance into the compound, however –

“What madness is this?” Faramir demanded, staring up at Beregond. Before they had come within sight of the house he had insisted that his friend ride, for the two to walk together would have seemed odd.

Beregond’s face was stern as he dismounted and said, “I bid you welcome, Anû ‘nBatân of Harad, to the halls of the Prince of Ithilien, gone these past ten years.”

Faramir leaned on his staff as he frowned at the dirty courtyard, ignoring the stir his presence caused. Little remained of the fine walkways where he and Éowyn had promenaded and played with their children.  “How is this possible? Éowyn spent many hours in the planning of this yard and was justly proud of its beauty.”

“Do not show your outrage so clearly,” Beregond replied. “Now do you see why you must be prudent? Too much has changed, and there are too many unknown ears and too few friends.”

Faramir waved away the admonition. “I will not be hasty, yet I warn you that after seeing this I will break my silence sooner than later.”

“Gently! This cannot last now that you have returned.”

Faramir smiled grimly behind his beard. “No. It will not.”

Beregond beckoned to a stable lad and handed him his horse. “Now follow me, F – friend. You must be weary and night approaches.”

Faramir recognized few faces as Beregond led him through the throng. He sensed a great deal of guarded curiosity and some hostility at the presence of a Harad but no one openly challenged them as Beregond, grim-faced, strode toward the doorway until a tall dark-haired man bearing the arms of the White Company appeared from within. The soldier nodded gravely. “Beregond.”

“Greetings, Menelmir,” Beregond replied. “I bring a traveler I met on the road. As you see he has travelled far and wishes to pass the night within the hall before he continues on his way.”

Faramir bowed before rising to meet the captain’s searching gaze. Menelmir was more youthful than he had expected but it was the vague familiarity of his face that puzzled him, for the man was too young to have been a recruit sent to his command in Ithilien or even to have been a soldier in Gondor ten years before.

Menelmir looked at him in silence for a while. “Men of Harad are few here. Yet the Lady of Ithilien turns away no weary traveler,” he said at last. “In her name, enter and rest. You are safe here.” He nodded at the two men as they stepped past him.

Faramir cast a glance back. His eyes met Menelmir’s for a moment longer before the latter proceeded into the courtyard. Still puzzling over the frisson of recognition he commented, “A man of substance, though young for his responsibilities, and not overly trusting.”

“He arrived from Minas Tirith and after a private audience with the princess he was assigned to the White Company. A week later the princess pensioned me and I was still on the road to my new home when I heard she had named him captain,” Beregond answered with a sigh. “But I hold him no ill will. He is the one I would have chosen anyway to succeed me and has proven himself most capable despite his youth. A good-natured man and loyal though not given to idle conversation.”

After the noise of the courtyard the relative peace of the main hall was a relief. Beregond gestured to a distant table at which other dust-weary figures were gathered. “Sit, traveler, with others such as yourself, and rest until the meal is ready.”

“I thank you,” Faramir answered. Smiling, he added, “Gracious sir.”

Beregond smiled a little in return and lowered his voice. “Gracious indeed! Do you know, Faramir, how easily you have reverted to the ways and speech of the Haradrim? I would not recognize you save for your words, so pay heed to what you say.” He turned to find those friends of his from whom he could discreetly gather useful news.

Faramir set his staff against the wall before nodding a greeting to the others seated at the table. He was answered with hard glares and with a mental shrug he sank onto the end of a bench. Automatically his hands settled deep beneath the folds of his robe and his fingers played with the familiar shape of his ring.

The men of Harad were considerably less welcome in Ithilien than in the rest of Gondor and as such his movements about the house would be severely curtailed. He sighed. He had not realized how exhausting the decision to remain hidden in his own home, however temporarily, was proving to be. I am not a man given to deception, he thought. Beregond’s reasoning is sound but it has been too long since Faramir of Ithilien stood as master in this hall. Above all he resented that his first sight of his home after ten years had been sullied in this way, as would be the first meeting with his wife and children.

He drew a deep breath. Brooding had never been useful in his experience, or wise. Automatically he began practicing the techniques he had always used to relax when preparing to shoot his bow. The routine took longer than usual as he was careful not to betray his actions but by the end his head was clearer.

Despite his dislike of his situation he gazed about him in pleasure, at last releasing some of his rigid control upon his emotions. Unlike the courtyard the hall was as he remembered it, filling with the familiar bustle that preceded each evening meal – tables and benches dragged into place, candles lit, sleepy dogs chased away. He smiled to himself as a serving woman scolded a boy who was too slow with the firewood, her complaints warring with his impertinent retorts.

Members of the White Company were stationed throughout the hall. Relaxed though watchful, they looked at him often but did not approach. In his turn Faramir observed them keenly, pleased at their discipline. Clearly Beregond had not exaggerated about Menelmir’s abilities.

He examined the hall carefully and satisfied himself that the stonework was as sound as when he had left, just as the passages through which he had passed had been. Despite her declared rejection of martial ways Éowyn had always viewed the safety of her home as paramount. Which, he thought, made it all the more puzzling that she had allowed such lax practices as he had seen outside to happen.

His gaze fell on the tapestries that warmed the severe lines of stone. He recognized those that Éowyn had brought with her from Rohan but many others were unfamiliar, though he could still easily see her hand in the fine work and bold themes. He studied the vivid images, smiling.

“Why are you so surprised, Faramir? The women of Rohan are renowned for their needlework.”

“I had not thought it an art to your taste.” He admired the swift grace of her hands as she stitched, her needle winking in the firelight.

“The winter nights were long in Meduseld and I have never been one for idle hands. It is soothing work that exercises the mind yet also frees it for much thought.” A shadow seemed to pass over her face before she smiled again. “The smiths at Meduseld grumbled mightily when I scorned the usual horn and bone and insisted that they craft me the finest needles they could.”

The needle stabbed the wool and stilled as Éowyn flung back her head, her gaze bright with challenge. “Give me any length of steel and I shall conquer with it.”

“Shameful, that it is. Making merry as bold as you please, and more than free with Lord Faramir’s goods. Shameful how our lady allows those men here.”

“Allow, you say? Nay, don’t you know how she urged them to tarry, those bold ones who first approached her with their offers? That was enough to fire the others, ‘til now there isn’t a bright-eyed fellow in all of Gondor or Ithilien who isn’t warming his seat at Lady Éowyn’s table.”

“Will she be down tonight? I hear she prefers to spend her nights stitching in her rooms.”

“She does but she never fails to attend the hall for the evening meal.”

Faramir slid his glance at the two peasant women sitting near him. Their work-roughened fingers busily knotted yarn as they gossiped in low voices.

The second woman continued, “And is it such a surprise that men flock here? There’s still dark things come out of Mordor time and again and Lady Éowyn is hard pressed to send enough soldiers when and where they are needed.

“A pity that the scars of the wars have not yet healed. Éomer of Rohan does what he can but he and King Elessar have their own great duties.” She sniffed. “I do say Elessar should be grateful that Gondor has been left at peace with the most bothersome of sharp-eyed lads all here and as some thanks sent aid to our lady.”

“And she so proud, you think she would accept? You know that the king has said that he honors the wisdom of Faramir, who left his wife as regent while Elboron is not yet grown.”

“Wise our lord had always been but even he could not foresee his future and Éowyn is but a lone woman with great burdens. So it is not so odd that she eyes what may be of aid to her at home. Fine examples, some of those knights. It’s a strong man we’re needing to keep us safe even now with Elboron away with the elves– a sturdy man such as the one we had.”

“True, true. She may be but a woman as cold as the northlands that birthed her but perhaps she is at last looking to heat her blood again.”

“Bah, fish warmed twice is what she’ll be dining on with any of that lot, after what she’s had with Lord Faramir.” The second woman grinned. “But good enough when you’ve gone hungry a while, eh?”

“Ah, stop, you sly girl, you’ve made me drop a knot!”

The two sniggered and Faramir’s mouth tightened. At that moment a commotion at the entrance caught his attention and he turned to observe several approaching groups of laughing men, obviously arriving from some outdoor entertainment. His eyes narrowed.

So here they are, he thought. A sizeable lot.

He recognized many as men of property and standing, yet with the ambition to add to what they had. Others he thought of poor prospects and disturbingly young – closer to Elboron’s age than was comfortable. He glanced about the great hall again. Ithilien and this house at Emyn Arnen were fair and no doubt a great temptation. And of course, there was Éowyn herself.

A latecomer arrived and Faramir’s gaze sharpened. He studied the well-dressed noble who strode with such confidence into the hall. Dark-haired and blue eyed, he was still as tall and fair to look upon as on the last day they had met years before.

“Your patience is endless.” His friend smiled briefly before squinting up at the sky. “I would be ecstatic to be free of this dreary land.”

“I cannot agree with you other than, yes, my heart yearns for the green hills that cannot be found here.” Faramir laughed as he reached into the leaves above him and plucked a golden globe that he tossed to the other. “My thanks for arriving so quickly.”

“Your message urged haste, Faramir.”

“The sooner this last packet reaches Elessar the sooner I may leave.”

“Ah. I – see. Well, this is happy news but I vow this is a strange spot to meet.”

“This happiest of news called for a special place – here, amidst a scent that sings of my home.”

His companion sniffed the air curiously. “What scent?”

“Oranges.”

“Oranges!” the other exclaimed. He stared at the fruit in his hand. “Why would oranges remind you of Ithilien and not Harad?”

Faramir only smiled and handed him the packet.

Artholas of Lossarnach.

His face was familiar, guileless – the face of one who had been devoted to Boromir and who had also once served himself faithfully – but Faramir had no difficult now seeing the pride and discontent that simmered beneath the open countenance. Each time Artholas smiled and glanced around covetousness gleamed in his eyes; he was a man too comfortable in a house that was not his. Yet, as Faramir truly looked at him, he also saw the weariness born of shame over the betrayal of a friend and the countless sleepless nights spent waging losing battles with his greed. He shuddered at the darkness he saw and his anger was washed away by a wave of pity for the ruin of a good man.

The great room filled as the suitors threw themselves into their chairs and called loudly for wine. Some grumbled at the lateness of the hour and shouted at the servants to hurry with the meat even though custom dictated that the meal would not start until the lady of the house arrived to preside at the high table or otherwise gave leave. Faramir’s heart lightened as he noted the servants’ annoyance. He watched Artholas settle into the chair beside Éowyn’s – not the one reserved for the master of the house – and join in conversation with his companions.

Yet more people he did not recognize wandered in and the great hall rang with conversation while musicians played softly. Several young women joined the men at the tables with such easy greetings that Faramir’s eyebrows arched in astonishment that Éowyn had permitted such women into her house. He was distracted, however, when a little page appeared in the archway leading to the family’s private quarters.

The clamor died down as the boy stood before the doorway. Faramir’s stomach tensed in anticipation, He rose with the others as the page announced, “Éowyn, princess of Ithilien.”

She entered the hall immediately upon the page’s announcement, trailed by her women and Menelmir, and for one dizzying moment he felt as if time had spun back to the early years of their marriage. Heedless of his circumstances and Beregond’s worried regard, he did not bow with the others but leaned forward and studied her intently.

The years seemed not to have touched Éowyn. The slightly arrogant tilt of her head, the tall slender figure in white wool embroidered at neck and hem with green leaves, the hair kissed into radiance by the candlelight ­– she was the White Lady he had borne in his memories.

Her gaze swept the hall and fell upon him. She checked briefly while a faint frown creased her brow but no recognition brightened her eyes. Faramir sighed and offered her a courteous bow. After a moment she turned her head away and continued toward the high table, nodding at Artholas with a few words. Faramir saw no particular warmth in her attitude but noted how intimately the man smiled as he bent toward her to speak. Then to Faramir’s surprise Éowyn gestured to her women before turning and walking the length of the hall, accompanied only by Menelmir, toward where he stood.

Beregond appeared beside him. “Avert your eyes!” he whispered urgently.

Faramir frowned but recalled their conversations and reluctantly complied.

Éowyn stopped before the ragged traveler who stood with bowed head. She studied him for a moment before looking at the man beside him. “Beregond.”

Just a simple word but Faramir felt his body respond to the timbre of her beloved voice. She had always had that effect on him and he fought the intense desire to step forward and take her in his arms, to kiss her and lose himself in her clear grey gaze.

“Beregond, you are welcome, if unexpected.” The low cool voice betrayed little of Éowyn’s feelings. “Will you tell me of this stranger who accompanied you here?”

Menelmir had not wasted time in informing her of their arrival, Faramir mused as he glanced at the young captain standing behind Éowyn.

Beregond bowed. “His name is Anû ‘nBatân and he hails from the southern reaches of Harad.” Hesitating a little he added, “He stops only to break his journey for the night before moving on.”

Éowyn looked again at her disguised husband. “It has been many months since a man of Harad last visited Ithilien. Why do you come here?” Abruptly she asked, “Did you know Faramir?”

Faramir slowly bowed his head. “Yes, Éowyn daughter of Eómund,” he murmured, ignoring Beregond’s stifled gasp.

Astounded cries greeted his words and the news passed swiftly through the room. Faramir straightened and allowed himself a quick, keen glance into his wife’s face.

At first he marveled anew at how little changed she seemed. But the memory of her smile as he had bidden her and the children farewell before the gates of the house was belied by the rigid discipline in her expression now. Even his startling answer only earned a faint furrow between her brows. She reminded him of how she had been during the early days of their acquaintance: fiercely contained like the cold-eyed shieldmaidens depicted in the tapestries she had brought from Rohan, women fierce and proud in their devotion to the protection of hearth and hall. How had those stern women of legend dealt with errant husbands? None knew better than he the storminess of his wild northern bride’s heart beneath her regal façade.

Our hearth and our home, my Éowyn. But we have been parted for longer than we were together; will we be as strangers? Sorrow burned his throat at the barrenness of their reunion. I should be holding her close in the privacy of our chamber and renewing the promises of our marriage, not skulking in the guise of a stranger. I should be enjoying the laughter of my children in my own garden, not wondering how they fare in the care of others.

Faramir glanced at Artholas. The man watched him with hooded eyes, alert and thoughtful but not yet suspicious. Faramir’s attention returned to Éowyn when she spoke.

“Anû ‘nBatân of Harad, I bid you welcome to the prince of Ithilien’s halls. Tomorrow I will have you summoned so that we may have private conversation.”

Pleased that he had the desired audience so quickly, Faramir bowed again. “You are generous, Éowyn of Ithilien. I –” He tensed, leaning forward towards her.

The scent of her – the light touch of lavender, such as might have been scattered between her garments in her clothes press for storage through the winter, skirled through the air, carried by the warmth of her skin.

Perfectly ordinary. And wrong.

Unfamiliar.

“Anû ‘nBatân?” Her voice was questioning but she did not lean away from him.

He recovered as Beregond’s tight grip on his arm drew him back. “It is nothing,” he muttered.

Éowyn frowned a little before turning to return to the high table, accompanied by the silent Menelmir. Faramir settled back onto the bench amidst the renewed noise of supper being set out. Unconsciously he sniffed again.

“Pine, Faramir? In my hair rinse? An odd request! You have always expressed a great liking for the orange oils you gave me. Why do you wish me to add pine?”

“Orange is the fragrance of far-off lands bathed in unending sunshine. Pine is the scent of Ithilien where the forests lie dark and fragrant amidst the fresh greenery. Éowyn, on those winter nights we sit together before our fires I would breathe deeply of both woods and sunlight and thus banish the cold.”

She was silent before she turned her face into his cheek. “Then I will have the apothecary concoct such a blend. Summer forever, a scent to find favor–” he felt her lips curve into a smile,“–with both man and horse. Ah, do you laugh?”

“My lord?”

He did not chastise Beregond for his softly spoken words. “It is as if I have ventured into another man’s house,” he sighed. “This place, my wife– it is not how it should be.”

Beregond straightened from where he bent close to Faramir under the guise of adjusting his boot. As he turned away he dropped his hand to his friend’s shoulder and gave a brief but fierce squeeze.

Faramir sighed again. For twenty years hope had supported him during the defence of Ithilien against Sauron; for ten years more faith had strengthened him. He still believed with all his heart in his wife but he could not deny his disappointment with their meeting.

The food arrived from the kitchens and Faramir’s stomach growled, forcing away his despondent thoughts. The dishes brought to the table were simple but filling. His people’s farms obviously produced well but he was displeased at the lavish quantities being served at the suitors’ tables. His eye often met that of Artholas, whose attentions were focused on Éowyn but who also looked at Faramir at times with a grim set to his jaw. He showed no recognition of his former friend, only unease over the presence of a southerner who had somehow known Faramir. Faramir wondered how long it would be until Artholas sought him out.

Éowyn held herself aloof, dining sparingly, but ever and again her gallants appealed for her attention. Once upon a time she would have scorned such impertinence but now Faramir noted how intently she listened to the conversations around her without appearing to do so. She smiled a little for Artholas but more often than not her gaze strayed down the hall to where the supposed man of Harad ate his dinner.

Despite the situation it was the most pleasant evening he had spent in years. Faramir savored the warmth and good food and listened to the efforts of the musicians who strolled the hall, even though their attempts at making themselves heard grew ever more futile as the evening progressed.

“Are there no new songs to be played? No new tales?” a voice suddenly complained, interrupting a red-faced jongleur in the middle of a song. “You! Man of Harad! Surely you have stories to amuse us with?”

Other voices took up the cry and Faramir studied the drunken young knight who had called to him. He pushed aside thoughts of his ruined homecoming, his frustration, his longing. All night the house that he had built had been drawing forth their shared memories. Soon enough they would begin again but now was the time for him to draw on those remembrances that were his alone and begin to bring himself – all of himself – back into his house.

He smiled a little and then rose, smoothing his beard as he did. “To please the Lady of Ithilien, and in honor of the friendship between Gondor and Harad.” He stepped out to the centre of the hall and bowed to Éowyn. He paused a long moment, head bent in thought before he looked steadily at the expectant faces before him. “I will share some of the marvels I have seen and heard of. Do not disbelieve what I tell you, for although the Third Age has passed all has not yet gone.”

He began slowly, drawing on remembrances of evenings around the campfires during which his Haradrim hosts had schooled him in their stylized art of storytelling. He, who had so loved the silent treasures to be found in the dignified libraries at Minas Tirith, had been humbled by the tale weavers of Harad – men whose artistry in memory and the telling was a gift as enduring as the bound pages with which he had grown up.

Into the silence he spoke –

– of wizened old men who mumbled fortunes while anointing fresh pigeons’ blood upon the bones of their fathers – bones so highly polished that once freed from their ancient wrappings they gleamed jewel-bright –

– of grim journeys escorting priceless spices thorough the ruins of great cities, as the cries of those comrades snatched away by unseen terrors were smothered within the rain-sodden jungles –

– of women who stupefied men with their unearthly beauty so they were little more than fawning beasts fit only to abuse and torment –

– of exotic plants whose blooms, plump and sweet, trapped men’s minds within themselves at the first taste and drove such mad men to barter even their souls without regret –

– of tribes who worshipped beasts and regarded the world with wondering eyes untouched by any memory of the Valar ­–

– of the haunting singing of desert women veiled by silken curtains beneath the sultry night; of music that cried for home and those most beloved, that pierced a man’s heart with such intense yearning for his own distant land that he was nearly drawn to cast aside his honor and duty –

– and he saw reflected in his listeners’ eyes the fears and glories of a foreign land come alive.

Softly, then, Faramir began to sing. He sang of a young girl at play with her handmaidens beneath the sycamores in the gardens of her father’s house; of a tired carter switching his equally exhausted mule as they hauled a wagon through dusty streets; of the rhythmic caroling of the merchants in the bazaars as they sat behind chest-high piles of colors and scents and textures; of bright-eyed women gossiping as they drew water at a common well – foreign scenes but nonetheless as familiar to those who listened as the air they breathed.

It was not until the candles had burned low that Faramir ended his song. Gazing into the rapt faces he said quietly, “I give you Harad – neither to be feared nor hated for all its strangeness but at heart as like to Gondor as a man to his brother, if you would but look beyond the trappings. Hail the friendship of Gondor and Harad, and may it endure until the world is at last unmade.” He bowed to the high table.

In the silence Éowyn rose and looked at him, her grey eyes bright. “I thank you for the gift of your tales, Anû ‘nBatân of Harad. You have entertained us well and I bid you continue to partake of the hospitality of this house.”

Across the length of the hall Faramir smiled at her.

Everyone rose as Éowyn departed accompanied by her ladies and Menelmir, then returned to their entertainments. Faramir made his way back to his bench, nodding thanks for the compliments shouted at him but politely declining the offered coin.

“Is it real? Is it true?” One of the two gossips he had overheard earlier stood before him with mouth slightly agape, her poor rough hands clutched together.

He nodded and she sighed before she turned away without another word.

Faramir smiled to himself as he settled back upon his bench. The seed of friendship had been sown at last even here in the stubborn soil of Ithilien. Elessar’s hopes were not in vain.

He had discovered some joy for himself as well. Éowyn’s sternness at first had grieved him but she had listened to his song intently and by the end her heart had seemed lightened, to his gladness. Even Artholas had not remained untouched. He had watched with lowered brows, although Faramir thought it likely due more to his dislike of Harad that to any growing suspicion. There had been a moment while Faramir spoke that the man had stirred and frowned, as if searching for a memory; but Menelmir, bending to speak to Éowyn, had upset Artholas’ wine onto his sleeve and in the ensuing flurry Artholas had seemed to forget the moment. Yet Faramir hoped that conscience had pricked his heart or mercy would not find him at the time of reckoning.

The bench shifted and Faramir looked up as Beregond settled beside him. His corner of the hall was emptying as the other travelers sought warm nooks in which to spend the night; for the moment they were alone and in no danger of being overheard. Faramir eyed his henchman. “You are deep in thought.”

“I am thinking that at least some of the rumors about Faramir of Ithilien’s straying heart indeed had merit.”

Faramir glanced at him sharply but Beregond’s eyes did not waver as he continued, “When Anû ‘nBatân told his tales— there was such love for the land of Harad in his voice, a fervor that brought life to his stories.” He turned his head to study the far wall. “Forgive me. I was angry at you but at last I begin to understand why you tarried there.”

Faramir rested his hands upon his thighs. He replied in a low voice, “I have been a man of Ithilien for over thirty years; it is here my heart lies. Do not forget that.

“Yet I do not deny that Harad filled a part of my heart as well when I arrived there. I did not expect it; but it is a marvelous land full of worthy peoples, Beregond, beyond my telling, and I was then even more determined to do what I could to ensure Gondor and Harad would become brothers again as Elessar wished. Whether by negotiating with stubborn chieftains or spinning tales for drunken knights it has not yet ended and so those ten long years continue into tonight.”

His voice grew sad. “Yet how hard for those who must wait, as hard as it was for myself. I paid the price easily enough during the years against Sauron – those dear to me were all men of war and we all understood the matter. But my wife and my children – I will not let their sacrifice be wasted by not finishing this.”

“Let your heart be at peace, my lord,” Beregond murmured. “You ease the way for Elboron. And do you think one who had been a Shieldmaiden of Rohan and a daughter of kings would falter at this?”

Faramir frowned and nodded at the suitors, who were at last stirring themselves to call for their horses and men. “You do not see the whole. Do you not see how Éowyn takes no pleasure in their company yet must suffer them? To be so plagued again, in her own home, is not to be borne.” He gestured at Artholas’s back as the man left the hall.

“Softly, Faramir. What is done is past and all that we may do is judge by what is to come. That no man may predict.”

Faramir shook his head. “Enough. Tell me, Beregond, what say your friends?”

Beregond frowned. “I did not find them. I was told that Menelmir had sent them away from Emyn Arnen on unknown errands not long before I came to the barracks. Those remaining knew little enough, other than it has been more quiet of late, as if all wait for what the princess will do.”

“Will do?”

“So much talk amongst the maids. They say the princess has been laboring long on a secret tapestry that will soon be finished. When she is done, some say she will ask Elessar to approve a new lord. Others say that she will return to Rohan after seeing Elboron in place. There are other sillier rumors that I will not bother to speak. Some of the soldiers returning from patrol may know more but I cannot ask them until the morning.”

Faramir frowned at the delay. “Find them at dawn –“ he began but broke off as he noticed the small page trot into the hall and wind his way between sleepy men and dogs.

The boy stopped before him. In his piping voice he announced, “The princess gives you greetings, stranger, and bids you attend her in her solar.” He turned smartly and began retracing his route but stopped when he realized that Faramir had not yet risen.

“So Éowyn wishes to speak to me tonight instead?” Faramir murmured. “Decisive. In that she has not changed.”

“Take care!” Beregond whispered. “The princess will have many questions perilous to answer. She will wish to know who you are and where you have been.”

Faramir sighed and tipped his head back to stare at the ceiling.  

“I dream of it often of late.”

“Ah. And do you know what it means?”

He glanced at his companion as she strolled along the garden paths beside him. “Once it meant darkness inescapable. But now–” He frowned thoughtfully. “The wind and waves roar but I know neither fear nor despair as I watch that great green wall rush toward me–  only wonder at where it shall bear me. I had thought the dream had ended with the fall of Sauron but in the past month it has returned, and ever more vivid. Arwen, why do I still dream, and why has it changed? And why, despite my wonder, does my heart feel so heavy and disquieted?” He glanced at her again, his grey gaze keen and sharp.

The sounds of the garden rose and fell about them as the Queen of Gondor remained silent. Finally she replied, “Water is true only to itself; as kind as it is cruel, shaping and building even as it destroys. So my father taught me as we watched the falls work the cliffs about Imladris with a strength that he could not gainsay, even should he have wished it. But he also showed me that to understand the water’s way is to have power over it, so that even the mighty Bruinen might be coaxed to follow a path of his choosing.”

She bent to stroke the tall blooms scattered in the grass by the path, and then straightened to smile at him, her fair face grave yet kind. “All things are not yet clear to me, so I say only this to you: remember who you are, Faramir, and who are your friends, and then you need fear nothing casting you asunder from that which you hold most dear. Keep faith, my friend.”

He smiled and offered her his arm and together they strolled back to the shaded arbor where Elessar and Éowyn awaited them.

Faramir rose and smiled gently at his friend. “And perhaps that is not so evil a thing to remember.” He nodded at the small page and fell into step behind him.